[The Twins, The Green Fork, 4th Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC]
The hall was colder than it had any right to be.
Not from a lack of fire, for the hearths burned steadily along the walls and torches cast long, flickering light across stone still stained with the blood of the day before, but from something else, something heavier, something that lingered in the air like a held breath that had not yet been released.
Alaric Stark stood at the far end of the hall beneath the torn banners of House Frey.
They had not yet been taken down.
He had seen to that.
Let them remain, for now.
Let every man present look upon them and remember what house had ruled here… and what shall become of it.
Tempest and Cinder rested at either side of him, silent, watchful, their massive forms still as carved stone, their eyes moving slowly across the gathered hall as if weighing each soul present and finding none worth noting.
The North had filled the space.
Not in the manner of a feast, nor even in the restless murmur of a war council, but in quiet, deliberate presence, men standing shoulder to shoulder, cloaks still bearing the marks of battle, armor unpolished, blood not yet fully scrubbed away.
They had not come to celebrate.
They had come to witness.
Alaric let his gaze drift across them briefly.
Robb stood near the front, Grey Wind at his side, the young lordling's posture straight but not without tension, his eyes fixed ahead with a focus that spoke of understanding still forming.
Jon stood not far from him, Ghost seated beside him like pale judgment made flesh, his expression quieter, more measured, as if he already grasped more than he would ever say aloud.
Rodrik and Domeric stood together, close as brothers, their weapons sheathed but not far from hand, watching with the kind of stillness that developed in men who had already seen enough of war to know what followed it, despite their young age.
The Umbers were there as well.
Smalljon looked almost eager, though there was something tighter in his grin than usual, something forced.
Derrick stood beside him, arms folded, eyes narrowed slightly, saying nothing.
Good.
They would all learn something here.
And those who would not…
Would still remember.
Alaric's gaze moved past them.
There were absences.
Notable ones.
Ned was not present.
Nor were several of the more… measured lords of the North.
They had been given their orders before dawn.
To return to the outer camp.
To organize the crossing.
To prepare the host for movement.
It had been given plainly.
Without room for argument.
And Ned had understood.
He always did.
Alaric exhaled slowly.
He would not approve.
Not in the slightest, Ned had been raised surrounded by 'chivalrous' rhetoric and needless things like southron honor.
The only Honor Alaric knew was that of the North, of House Stark, the kind of honor that saw Theon "the Hungry Wolf" smash the host of the Andal warlord Argos Sevenstar, then go on to sail across the narrow sea and set settlement after settlement ablaze and lined the shores with Andal heads.
The kind of honor that saw his father in his first life, Rickon IV, King in the North, decimate rebel forces led by House Amber, and extinguish their house in the male line, and married off their daughters to his loyal bannermen.
Alaric himself, when he was Alaric I, King in the North, had done his own fair share of crushing revolts and slaughtering foes alike.
Nonetheless, Ned's approval was not required for what came next.
This was not a matter of honor.
It was a matter of ending something that had lingered too long.
The sound of boots echoed at the far end of the hall.
The Freys were brought in.
They came not as lords.
Not as bannermen.
Not even as prisoners of value.
They came as what they now were.
The remnants of a broken house.
They were stripped of arms, of adornment, of anything that might have marked them as more than what they stood as now, men and women alike herded forward under the watchful eyes of Greycloaks and Winter Guard.
Walder Frey was among them.
Old.
Bent.
But not quite broken.
Not yet, but soon.
His pale, watery eyes swept the hall as he was led forward, taking in the banners, the men, the wolves, and finally… Alaric.
Something flickered there.
Not fear, more so trepidation and unease.
Even something closer to calculation.
"Lord Stark," Walder said, his voice thin but still carrying, still attempting the weight of station, "I trust this… spectacle… means you intend to speak terms."
Alaric said nothing.
He simply watched him.
Watched as the old man tried to place himself back into a position that no longer existed.
Walder continued, mistaking silence for opportunity.
"You have taken the Twins, yes," he said, spreading his hands slightly, as if acknowledging an inconvenience rather than a defeat, "but a house such as mine is not so easily erased. There are arrangements to be made. Agreements. You will find that I am—"
"You mistake this for a negotiation, Frey," Alaric said, cutting off the weasel lord, surprise flashing through his eyes.
The words were not loud.
They did not need to be.
They cut through the hall cleanly, final as steel.
Walder stilled, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, words not coming out as the man seemed to have never been dismissed so easily before.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Alaric stepped forward.
One step.
Measured.
Controlled.
"You were not wronged," he said, his voice calm, steady, carrying to every corner of the hall. "You were not forgotten. You were not forced into the choice you made."
His gaze did not waver.
"You made your choice, Lord Weasel." The title of lord coming out with a snarl, not an ounce of respect having been afforded to the deposed 'late' Lord Walder Frey.
Walder's mouth tightened.
"You came to my gates," he said, a hint of bite returning to his voice, "you demanded—"
"I did not demand," Alaric said evenly. "I offered you the chance to stand where your oaths had already placed you."
A pause.
"And yet, like an utter and complete fool, you refused."
Walder's eyes narrowed.
"And for that, you would destroy an entire house?" he asked, his voice rising slightly. "For a slight? For pride?"
Alaric regarded him for a long moment.
Then, quietly…
"Aye, I would indeed."
The words settled like a weight.
"I have seen what comes of leaving rot uncut," he continued, his voice no louder, but somehow heavier. "I have seen what follows when men mistake mercy for weakness and are allowed to grow bold again in its shadow."
His eyes hardened.
"I will not see it again."
Walder opened his mouth to respond.
Alaric did not let him.
"This is not a trial," he said.
The words fell like a closing door.
"This is judgment."
The hall held its breath.
Alaric turned slightly, his voice carrying now not just to the Freys, but to every man present.
"All remaining adult men of House Frey," he said, "are to be executed."
There was no flourish.
No hesitation.
Just the words.
A ripple moved through the gathered Freys.
Voices rose, men yelled curses and profanities, and many begged, oh how they begged, such a dreadful sound that was.
"Their sons," Alaric continued, "those who have not yet reached their majority, will be given a choice."
His gaze swept over the younger faces.
"The Wall. The Citadel. Or the Faith."
A pause.
"They will serve the realm… or be removed from it."
The weight of that choice settled in.
"For the girls," he went on, "those yet unwed and beneath their majority, they are to be given to the Faith. To serve as septas… or to the Silent Sisters."
A quiet sob broke somewhere among them.
Alaric did not look toward it.
"And for the grown women of House Frey…"
Here, he paused.
Not for effect.
But because this mattered.
This would be remembered.
"They will be stripped of name, of claim, and of standing," he said at last. "They will not carry the name Frey again."
A murmur moved through the hall.
"They will be given in marriage," he continued, "to loyal houses of the North and Riverlands, any who ask shall have them, for their only use now is to serve as mere brood mares. They shall not stand as equals, nor as ladies of standing."
His voice did not change.
"As dependents. As reminders."
Walder's breath caught.
"You cannot—" he began.
"Oh, I can, and I just did, you still seem to have this odd notion of having even a sliver of control here, Walder," Alaric replied.
His gaze settled on him once more.
"House Frey ends today, screaming, crying, kicking, and soon, with heads rolling."
The words were not shouted.
They did not need to be.
"While your wretched bloodline will likely persist, your name shall not. House Frey will go down as just one of many Houses who stood in the way of the North and House Stark, vanquished by the direwolves' might."
The silence that followed was complete.
Then Walder laughed.
A thin, bitter sound.
"You think this makes you a king?" he said, his voice trembling now, though whether from age or anger, it was hard to say. "You think slaughter and theft—"
Alaric stepped forward again.
Ice was already in his hand.
He did not remember drawing it.
Walder saw it.
For the first time.
He understood.
"You—" he began.
The blade fell.
Clean.
Precise.
Walder Frey's head struck the stone before his body had finished collapsing.
The hall did not erupt, it stilled.
The very air of the hall seemed to have gone frozen.
Alaric turned.
"His heir," he said.
The men of the Winter Guard soon came forward, with Ser Stevron Frey in hand. The older man was weeping now, tears rolling uncontrollably.
Alaric took one look at him, something close to pity flashed across his face before he gripped Ice once again, readying the large valyrian steel greatsword.
Soon, after only another moment, the blade fell again.
Following Ser Stevron was his own eldest son, Ser Ryman, and after him, his eldest son, Edwyn Frey.
Four generations of House Frey.
Gone in moments.
Blood pooled across the stone.
Alaric did not wipe the blade.
"Carry out the rest," he said.
And only then did the hall move.
The executions began.
Not in frenzy.
Not in chaos.
But in order.
Winter Guard stepped forward.
Greycloaks followed.
Men were taken in groups.
Led out.
The sound of it came faintly from beyond the hall.
Steel met flesh.
Each swing of a blade was final, bringing House Frey further and further to its demise.
Alaric turned away from it.
It did not require his presence.
It did not require his attention.
It was already done.
"Ser Jory."
Jory Cassel stepped forward at once.
"My lord."
"Two thousand men will remain here, make sure to find a suitable commander to lead them, and have the men be sourced mostly from the other houses. I intend for my Greycloaks and Winter Guard to march beside me in the coming war," Alaric said. "Garrison the Twins. Both castles. The tower. I want full control of the crossing."
"It will be done, my lord."
"Rotate the wounded. No weak points."
"Aye."
Alaric's gaze shifted.
"Ser Desmond. Ser Ellard."
They stepped forward.
"You will send word to every holding that once answered to House Frey," he said. "Their lands now answer to Winterfell. They will provide levies. Supplies. And hostages as required."
Ser Desmond nodded. "And if they resist?"
Alaric's expression did not change.
"They will be reminded."
Ser Ellard gave a short, grim smile. "Aye. That they will."
"Dispatch riders immediately," Alaric continued. "I want banners raised within the fortnight."
"It will be done."
Alaric turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the hall once more.
The bodies had begun to thin.
The Freys were being removed.
One way or another.
The North remained, as it always has.
Watching.
Learning.
"We march south," he said.
The words cut through everything else.
"Riverrun still holds fast to their defenses," he continued. "Jaime Lannister still breathes. Tywin still moves."
His eyes hardened.
"This war is not finished."
A pause.
"Prepare the host. We move within two days."
Men nodded.
No cheers.
No boasts.
Just understanding.
Alaric turned then.
Tempest and Cinder rose with him.
He did not look back at the bodies.
Did not watch the end of House Frey.
He had already seen it.
Already decided it.
As he stepped from the hall, the cold air of the morning met him once more, the mist still clinging low to the river beyond.
Behind him, the sounds continued.
The war with the cowardly lions awaited.
And he would meet it head-on, as he always has.
Certain.
Unyielding.
And with the full weight of winter behind him.