Riverrun, in the Great Hall.
The music was pleasant, but there was an indescribable falseness and strangeness to it.
The bards were playing a cheerful wedding tune, but to Edmure Tully's ears, every note sounded like a funeral dirge.
He sat at the high table, his fine doublet constricting him like a prisoner's garb.
Roslin Frey.
A beautiful girl, but as skittish as a frightened bird. Her head hung low, afraid to look at anyone, mechanically nibbling small bites of food from her plate.
Edmure's gaze drifted past the Frey family members—toasting each other with fake smiles plastered on their faces—and finally landed on the culprit of it all.
Lysa Arryn. She was acting like the mistress of the house, holding a wine goblet, soaking in the flattery of the Freys.
Her face, twisted slightly by paranoia, flushed with a sickly excitement.
Suddenly!
BOOM—!
The massive oak-and-iron doors of the Great Hall were smashed open by brute force from the outside!
The thunderous noise instantly drowned out the music and chatter!
The entire hall fell silent in a heartbeat.
Everyone froze, stunned by the sudden intrusion, their eyes snapping to the entrance.
Who was it?
Who had the balls to crash a wedding feast hosted by Walder Frey and Lysa Arryn?!
Standing in the doorway, backlit by the outside light, were several silhouettes.
The two figures at the front made the pupils of everyone in the room shrink instantly!
Ned Stark!
He wore blackened leather armor under a grey cloak embroidered with the direwolf sigil.
His face, rugged and grim, looked like it was carved from granite in the torchlight.
His hand rested firmly on the hilt of the massive Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice.
And beside him stood a woman.
Catelyn Tully!
She had returned.
Returned to the castle of her birth.
But there was no joy of homecoming on her face, only a chilling, murderous resolve.
Those Tully blue eyes were now like two blocks of ancient ice, locked dead onto the woman sitting at the high table.
Her sister, Lysa Arryn.
Behind them stood eight towering Northern guards, also draped in direwolf cloaks.
They stood silently, hands on their sword hilts, like seven mute statues radiating a suffocating pressure.
Ten people in total.
Just like that, they had barged into a dragon's den filled with hundreds of Frey soldiers.
"Sister?"
Lysa Arryn was the first to react.
She looked at Catelyn's cold face, panic flashing in her eyes for a second, quickly replaced by extreme malice and wild joy.
Walking right into the trap!
This was the best gift the Seven could have given her!
She was worried about how to deal with Robb, and here his parents were, delivering themselves to her doorstep!
"Ned Stark! Catelyn Tully!"
Walder Frey's ancient, rasping voice rang out.
He squinted his rat-like eyes and let out a wheezing chuckle.
"What wind blows the King and Queen of the North to my little Riverrun?"
His words dripped with undisguised mockery.
Ned Stark ignored him.
He and Catelyn walked with steady steps, advancing toward the high table.
The surrounding Frey soldiers instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons, but not a single one dared to step forward to stop them.
Ned Stark's aura was too strong.
It was a killing intent honed in mountains of corpses and seas of blood, the authority of a man who had ruled for decades.
Edmure Tully looked at his sister, his lips moving to speak, but no sound came out.
He knew they were here to save him.
But there were only a few of them.
"Halt!"
A Frey knight—one of Walder's many sons—summoned his courage, drew his sword, and blocked their path.
"This is Riverrun! Not your Winterfell!"
Ned didn't even pause.
He didn't even glance at the knight.
It was Catelyn behind him who spoke, her voice cold as steel.
"Riverrun is the castle of House Tully."
"Do I, Catelyn Tully, need a Frey's permission to walk in my own home?"
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was like a slap across the face of every Frey in the room!
The knight's face turned purple. With a roar, he raised his sword to strike!
However, his sword stopped halfway, unable to move an inch.
A hand—gloved in black leather—had grabbed his wrist.
It was one of the guards behind Ned Stark.
The guard simply squeezed.
CRACK!
The sickening sound of breaking bone echoed through the hall!
The knight let out a piercing scream, his longsword clattering to the floor.
The hall fell into dead silence again.
In this moment of extreme tension, Edmure Tully finally found his courage and stood up.
"Stop!"
He walked up to Ned and Catelyn.
His squire held a plate with bread and salt.
"Brother, sister," Edmure's voice trembled, but he insisted on completing the Tully hospitality.
"Please, partake of bread and salt."
Ned Stark took a piece of bread, dipped it in the salt, and ate it.
Catelyn did the same.
Guest Right.
In Westeros, this was an ancient law more sacred than the decrees of kings.
Once a host offers bread and salt to a guest, a pact of peace is sealed.
Under the same roof, the host cannot harm the guest, and the guest cannot harm the host.
Anyone who violates Guest Right, be they king or peasant, is seen as forsaking the gods, cursed and spat upon by all, doomed for eternity.
When Ned and Catelyn ate the bread, Walder Frey and Lysa Arryn's faces turned ugly.
They didn't expect the useless Edmure to have the guts to pull this move right now.
Now, even if they wanted to make a move, they needed a foolproof excuse.
"Alright. Now, we can talk."
Catelyn's gaze landed on Lysa again.
"Lysa," her voice held no sisterly affection, only cold interrogation.
"What exactly are you trying to do?"
"What am I doing?"
Lysa laughed shrilly, as if she had heard the world's biggest joke.
"Sister, are you asking me?"
"Your precious son-in-law, that savage bastard Lynn, marched his army in, trampled my Vale, and imprisoned my son!"
"And you have the gall to ask me what I'm doing?!"
"I am taking revenge! Obviously!"
Her voice became hysterical.
"I will make Robb, make Lynn, make every single Stark pay the price!"
"So, you plan to drag the entire Riverlands into the fires of war?"
Catelyn's tone was full of contempt.
"Shut up!"
Stung, Lysa jumped up, pointing a finger at Catelyn's nose and screaming.
"What right do you have to lecture me?!"
"I will ask you only once," Catelyn remained unmoved, her voice terrifyingly calm.
"Robb's army is just south of the Twins."
"Will you surrender or not?"
"If you don't surrender, Lynn and Robb's armies will be at the gates of Riverrun by tomorrow."
"Are you threatening me?"
Lysa laughed until tears nearly came to her eyes.
She looked around the hall at the hundreds of fully armed Frey soldiers, her face filled with fearless madness.
"Sister, open your eyes and see whose territory this is!"
"Do you think just because you few people ate some stale bread, you can boss me around here?"
Ned Stark finally spoke.
"We are not here to negotiate with you."
His voice was deep, filled with undeniable authority.
"We are here to notify you."
"Surrender immediately. Beg Lord Lynn for forgiveness."
"Or bear the consequences."
Lysa's smile froze on her face.
Looking into Ned's deep grey eyes, she felt a chill.
But soon, that chill was replaced by deeper malice and madness.
Beg for forgiveness?
Beg that bastard who ruined everything for forgiveness?
Dream on!
Her original plan was to use poison at tonight's feast to kill the disobedient Tullys and take full control of Riverrun.
But now, these two Stark idiots had delivered themselves to her!
Kill them!
If she killed Ned and Catelyn, Robb would be headless, and the North would fall into chaos!
Then she would unite with the Iron Islands, attack from north and south, and that Lynn would die no matter how strong he was!
Guest Right?
Fuck Guest Right!
Guest Right is shit!
As long as she did it cleanly and pinned the blame on the Starks starting the fight, who could touch her?
A crazy, vicious plan formed instantly in Lysa's mind.
A smile appeared on her face again.
But this time, there was something creepily eerie about it.
"Alright, sister, brother-in-law," she sat back down, picking up her wine goblet as if her hysterical outburst had never happened.
"Let's not talk about this now."
"You've come a long way. You must be tired."
"Whatever business we have, we sisters can discuss it slowly after the feast."
She gave Walder Frey a look that only the two of them understood.
Walder Frey's wrinkled old face crinkled into a grotesque smile.
"Right, right! Drink first! Watch the dancing first!"
He clapped his withered hands and shouted at the band.
"Music! Music! Play that song... The Rains of Castamere!"