A/N:Enjoy the chapter!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Baratheon/Tyrell Camp, The Reach
The sun had not yet broken the horizon; it was merely a suggestion of grey bleeding into the black of the eastern sky. The world was suspended in that cold, colourless hour of first light, where shapes were indistinct and the mist clung to the ground like wet wool.
Ghost padded silently beside Jon as they rode to the encampment, a white shadow moving through the long grass, his red eyes fixed forward. Behind them rode the strangest company the Kingsroad had ever seen.
Han Solo looked utterly miserable. He sat his horse with the posture of a man sitting on a bag of rocks, constantly shifting his weight and muttering curses that Jon suspected were blasphemous in several languages. Beside him, Leia Organa rode with a natural, rigid grace, her back straight and her eyes scanning the horizon with the intensity of a hawk hunting field mice.
And then there was Prince Chewbacca.
The Wookie, a race Jon still struggled to wrap his mind around, rode a massive black destrier that Jon had liberated from the Tyrell stables. The visor of his great helm was closed, hiding the shaggy face, but nothing could hide the sheer, terrifying bulk of him.
"So let me get this straight," Han said, breaking the silence. He adjusted his vest, wincing as the horse trotted over a rut. "The old King kicks the bucket. His wife blames your father for it. She puts her bastard son on the throne, and now the two uncles that are not really uncles are fighting over the crown?"
"It is a broken kingdom," Jon said, his voice raspy. "But that is only half of it."
"And the rest?" Han pressed, trying to fit the pieces of this feudal puzzle together. "Your father is preparing for war in at this... White Harbor place? And your brother is... where? Off the map entirely?"
"My father holds the North," Jon said. "He prepares for winter. And Robb is beyond the Wall. Fighting the real war."
Han shook his head, looking incredulous. "So let me get this right. The South is eating itself alive over a metal chair, your dad is locked down in a port city waiting for the inevitable, and your brother is running around in the snow fighting ice zombies?"
"That is... a crude summary," Jon said, rubbing his eyes. "But accurate."
"Sounds like a Hutt family reunion gone wrong," Han muttered. "And this Tywin Lannister? You say he's the money?"
"He is the Hand of the King," Jon said. "And the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms. But his mines are running dry, or so the rumors say. He holds the capital, but he is surrounded."
"He's cut off from his supply lines," Han said, nodding as if he were looking at a nav-computer. "That makes him desperate. And desperation makes people stupid. That's a target, kid. You hit his wallet, you hit his pride, and he'll fold."
Jon shook his head. "Tywin Lannister does not fold. He is not a gambler who bluffs on a bad hand. He is a man who burns the table if he thinks he might lose. A cornered lion is more dangerous than a roaming one. He uses fear as a weapon, same as steel. If we push him too hard without the strength to finish it, he will do everything in his power to try and exterminate us."
Han looked at Jon, a flicker of respect crossing his weary face. "You know your enemy. That's good. Usually, the people I work with just shoot first and ask questions later."
Leia let out a most un-royal snort.
"That sounds like a short life," Jon observed, though it feels like he missed something.
"It has its moments."
The horses plodded on. The sprawling encampment of the Reach army began to rise from the morning mist ahead of them, a city of silk and canvas stretching for miles.
Han groaned, rubbing his thigh. "I hate these things. They're unpredictable. They smell. And they have moods. Give me a ship any day. Ships don't have moods. You kick the hyperdrive, she goes."
"Unless the motivator is blown," Leia pointed out dryly.
"That happened one time," Han shot back. He looked up at the sky, squinting against the rising sun. "I just hope the kid brings my baby back without a scratch. If I see one ding on that hull, I'm charging him double."
Jon felt his stomach drop. He pulled his reins, slowing his horse. He turned in the saddle, horror dawning on his face.
"He took an infant?" Jon whispered, his voice trembling. "Into battle? Beyond the Wall?"
Han blinked. He looked at Jon, then at Leia.
Leia let out a laugh, a bright, sharp sound that cut through the morning air.
"Not a child, Jon," Leia said, smiling. "The ship. The Millennium Falcon. Han calls it his baby."
"Oh." Jon let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He felt foolish, but the relief was palpable. "I thought... Master Luke is powerful, but a babe in the snow..."
"He loves that ship more than he loves me sometimes," Leia teased.
"Hey," Han protested, though he didn't deny it. "She's fast. She's reliable. And she's saved our skins more times than I can count. In my line of work, survival is the only currency that matters. You take care of your ride, she takes care of you."
Jon nodded slowly. He spoke of the vessel as a knight might speak of a favored courser, or a father of a child. It was a bond of survival. That, Jon understood. You protect what keeps you alive.
They reached the outer perimeter of the camp. The festive atmosphere of the tourney had evaporated overnight, replaced by the grim bustle of an army preparing to march. Carts were being loaded, tents struck, and armor polished for war rather than sport.
The road ahead was blocked by a wooden barricade manned by a dozen guards. They wore green surcoats emblazoned with a red apple. House Fossoway of Cider Hall.
A knight stood in the center of the road, leaning on his sword. He was a broad man with a thick neck and a face that looked as if it had been carved from dough. Ser Elwood Fossoway. Even Jon knew him, by reputation, and not just because he was pious, loud. He held a deep, abiding contempt for anything that didn't come from the Reach.
Ser Elwood looked up as they approached. His eyes narrowed when they landed on Jon.
"Halt!" Elwood barked.
Jon reined in his garron. "Ser Elwood. We are returning to our tents."
Elwood sneered. He looked Jon up and down, taking in the travel-stained leathers and the lack of a proper retinue.
"The Bastard returns," Elwood said, his voice dripping with scorn. "And on horseback? I thought you wolves preferred to skulk in the woods." He looked past Jon, eyeing Han and Leia with open disdain. "And you've brought stragglers. Camp followers? We have enough whores in the baggage train, Snow."
Jon felt the heat rise in his neck, but he kept his face impassive. "These are my kin. Distant cousins from the North. They are my guests so they are guests of the King."
"Kin?" Elwood laughed, the sound sharp and brittle in the morning air. "They look like beggars. That one doesn't even have a house sigil." He pointed a gloved finger at Han's vest, sneering at the worn fabric. "And the woman... she has the look of a foreign bedwarmer. Too fine for a bastard's purse, perhaps, but clearly no lady of the court."
Leia rode her horse forward a step, her movement precise and controlled. Her chin lifted, and for a moment, the dust and worn leather seemed only to enhance her bearing, lending her an authority that rivaled even Margaery Tyrell's golden grace. She sat her mount not merely as a highborn lady, but as a queen who had forged her crown in fire rather than silk.
"Good Ser," Leia said, her voice cool and diplomatic. "We are weary from the road. If you would kindly let us pass, we shall trouble you no further."
Elwood's face darkened. He did not like being addressed by women he considered beneath him.
"Silence, woman," Elwood snapped. "Know your place. You speak when a knight gives you leave."
The air around them seemed to freeze.
Han didn't say a word. His expression went flat. His right hand dropped from the reins and hovered near his hip, fingers curling toward the heavy blaster holstered there. His body tension shifted from uncomfortable rider to coiled viper.
"Careful, Ser," Jon said. His voice was not loud, but it carried the sudden, freezing chill of a northern wind. "You speak of my kin."
Jon leaned forward in his saddle, his grey eyes hard as flint. "To insult them is to insult House Stark. Is that a quarrel you wish to seek this morning?"
Elwood bristled at the interruption, his hand going to his own sword hilt. "You threaten me, Bastard?"
"I am giving you fair warning," Jon said, his hand resting conspicuously on his sword's pommel. "Now, stand aside... before I make you."
Before Elwood could escalate, his horse suddenly danced sideways, whinnying in terror. The other horses at the barricade began to stamp and pull at their bits.
A shadow fell over Elwood.
Chewbacca urged the black destrier forward. The massive warhorse, chosen for its strength and temper, seemed small beneath the armored giant. The rusted plate mail Luke had scavenged groaned with the movement. The great helm turned slowly, the dark slit of the visor fixing on Elwood.
Elwood looked up. And up. His face went slack.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?" Elwood whispered, stepping back.
Han seized the moment. He urged his horse around Jon's flank, his smuggler's grin firmly in place.
"That," Han declared, his voice booming with the confidence of a man selling ice to a wildling, "is Sir Bacca. Of House Solo. From the island of Skagos."
Elwood blinked. "Skagos? The cannibal isle?"
"The very same," Han said cheerfully. Jon caught the smuggler's eye—Han had remembered the cover story Jon had briefed him on. "Rough place. Terrible food. But they grow 'em big, don't they?"
Elwood stared at the armored mountain. The reputation of Skagos was a dark legend in the South, a place of unicorns and men who ate human flesh. It was just plausible enough to be terrifying.
"Why does he not speak?" Elwood demanded, trying to regain his authority.
"Vow of Silence," Jon said, cutting in smoothly before Han could invent something absurd. "A penance. The Old Gods are strict masters, Ser Elwood. He swore not to speak until he has atoned for the sins of his youth."
Elwood looked suspicious. He was a brute, but he wasn't entirely stupid. He looked at the rusted, mismatched armor. He looked at the size of the man inside it.
"I don't believe you," Elwood said. He drew his sword, the steel hissing against the scabbard. "Remove his helm. Prove he is a man and not some wildling monster you've dragged out of the woods."
He reached out with the tip of his sword, intending to lift the visor of the great helm.
It was a mistake.
A sound emerged from inside the helmet. It started as a low rumble in the chest, vibrating through the steel breastplate like a tectonic plate shifting deep underground. It rose in pitch and volume, a guttural, gargling growl that sounded like a bear drowning in gravel.
It was not a human sound. It was the sound of a predator that ate things larger than knights.
Elwood's horse screamed and reared, nearly throwing him. The guards at the barricade scrambled back, their spears wavering.
At the same moment, Ghost stepped out from behind Jon's horse. The direwolf didn't growl. He simply stared at Elwood, his red eyes burning like embers, his white teeth bared in a silent snarl.
The standoff hung on a razor's edge. Swords were half-drawn. Han's hand was on his blaster. Chewie was ready to tear arms out of sockets.
"Hold!"
The command cracked like a whip.
A white stallion trotted out from the camp, parting the terrified Fossoway guards. The rider was a vision of silver and gold armor, his cloak a cascade of fresh flowers.
Ser Loras Tyrell looked at the scene—the terrified guards, the snarling wolf, the giant in rusted armor—and his eyes landed on Jon.
He didn't look angry. He looked impressed.
"Stand down, Ser Elwood," Loras commanded, his voice cool.
"My lord!" Elwood stammered, fighting to control his horse. "These... these savages refused to identify themselves properly! That giant... he's a monster!"
"These are the King's guests," Loras said. He rode closer to Jon, offering a sharp, respectful nod. "And unless you want to test your sword against the man who bested me, Ser Elwood, I suggest you let them pass."
Elwood went pale. He looked at Jon, remembering the violence of the joust, the way Jon had unhorsed Horas Redwyne and Ser Hyle Hunt. He looked at the giant. He looked at the wolf.
He sheathed his sword.
"Open the gate," Elwood muttered to his men.
The barricade was dragged aside. Jon urged his horse forward, keeping his head high. Han and Leia followed, with Chewie bringing up the rear, his armored bulk forcing the guards to press themselves against the wood to avoid being crushed.
As Jon passed, Elwood leaned in.
"Filthy bastard," Elwood hissed, low enough that that he thought no one could hear.
Jon stiffened. His hand tightened on the reins. The insult was old, worn smooth by years of use, but today it stung. Today, knowing who he really was, knowing the lie he lived, it felt like a slap. He pulled his reins, ready to turn the horse, ready to draw his sword and show this southern knight what a bastard of the North could do.
Loras caught his eye.
The Knight of Flowers shook his head. It was a small movement, barely a twitch of the chin. He is not worth it.
Jon exhaled. He felt the anger coil in his gut, hot and heavy, but he pushed it down. He swallowed his pride, tasting bile.
He nodded to Loras and rode on.
They entered the main avenue of the camp. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke. Reach lords in silk doublets sat outside their pavilions, eating breakfast off silver platters while servants rushed to pack their belongings. It was a city of wealth moving to war.
Han rode up beside Jon. His face was dark with anger.
"Why did you take that?" Han demanded, his voice low and furious. "If you are the kid's apprentice, you could have cut him down before he cleared his scabbard."
Jon stared straight ahead, watching the ears of his horse twitch. "Because I am a bastard," he said dully. "In the Westeros, that is a stain that does not wash out and far worse here in the South. We are seen as creatures of lust and treachery. I have no claim, Ser Han. No voice. That is the way of this world."
"That's a load of poodoo," Han spat. "A man is what he makes himself, not what his old man did."
Leia rode up on Jon's other side. She looked around at the camp, at the knights preening in their armor, at the servants struggling with heavy chests while their masters drank wine.
"It isn't just unfair, Jon," Leia said. Her voice was calm, analytical, the voice of a woman who had dismantled governments. "It is inefficient."
Jon looked at her, surprised by the word.
"The Empire made the same mistake," Leia continued. "They promoted Moffs and Admirals based on loyalty and pedigree rather than skill. They filled their ranks with yes-men and sons of important families. It creates rot. It makes the system brittle."
She gestured to a group of knights laughing as a squire struggled to saddle a horse.
"That is why they lost," Leia said. "And that is why this world is bleeding. Because you let small men like that knight hold power over capable men like you simply because of a name."
Jon stared at her. He had always viewed his bastardy as a stain on his soul, a personal failing he had to atone for. He had accepted the shame as his due.
But Leia didn't see a moral failing. She saw a broken system. She saw a waste of resources.
"You don't fix it by obeying them," Leia added softly. "You fix it by proving them obsolete."
The words struck Jon harder than any lance. He looked ahead, his mind reeling. Obsolete.
They left the colorful, silken tents of the Reach and crossed an invisible line. The noise dropped. The tents became grey and brown, practical wool canvas staked tight against the wind.
The Stark encampment. The banner of the Direwolf snapped in the breeze, stark and grey against the blue sky.
A man stepped out from the tent. Jory Cassel looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his tunic was stained with dust. But when he saw Jon, his face broke into a relieved smile.
"Jon!" Jory called out. He hurried over, grabbing Jon's bridle. "We were worried. Margaery Tyrell's maids were asking questions. We said you were hunting, but..."
Jory trailed off. He scanned the group, his eyes darting from Han to Leia to the armored giant. He looked behind them, searching the road.
"Where is the she-wolf?" Jory asked.
"She rides with Master Luke," Jon said quickly, dismounting. "He has gone ahead to... scout. These are his kin. They will be staying with us until he returns."
Jory looked at the motley crew. He eyed Han's scruffy vest, Leia's strange white clothes, and the rusted, hulking form of Chewbacca. He looked skeptical, but he trusted Jon.
"Kin," Jory repeated, clearly doubting it. "Well. They look hungry. We have stew on the fire. It's not the fancy fare they're serving over there, but it's hot."
A sound erupted from inside the rusted breastplate of the giant. It was a low, rumbling growl, like a boulder rolling down a hill, but it wasn't a threat. It was the sound of a stomach the size of a beer keg demanding sustenance.
Jory flinched, his hand flying to his sword pommel. "Gods be good, what was that?"
Han patted the armored leg of the Wookiee. He grinned at Jory.
"That means 'Yes, please,'" Han said. "Feed him first, pal. Or he starts looking at the horses differently."
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Near The Twins, The Riverlands
The rain hammered against the command tent, a relentless drumming that drowned out the distant rumble of thunder. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool, wet leather, and the acrid smoke of a brazier fighting a losing battle against the chill.
Eddard Stark stood over the map table. His gloves were wet, leaving dark stains on the parchment where the Riverlands lay sprawled in ink and regret.
The tent flap swept open, admitting a gust of cold rain and a massive figure.
"Lord Stark," Ser Wylis Manderly said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. The Heir to White Harbor was a large man, broad of belly and thick of neck, with a magnificent walrus mustache that was currently dripping water onto his breastplate. "The reports are confirmed."
Wylis moved to the table, accepting a goblet of warmed wine from a steward.
"Ser Edmure has taken the bait," Wylis continued, wiping foam from his mustache. "He chases the Mountain near the Mummer's Ford. Gregor Clegane burns a village, waits for the Tully banners, and then rides for the next holdfast. He is leading Edmure further and further west."
"And the Lannister hosts?" Ned asked.
"Tywin Lannister remains in King's Landing, securing the throne for his grandson," Wylis reported. "But the Kingslayer has ridden out. Ser Jaime took five thousand horse from the capital. He is not marching to meet Edmure in the field, my lord. He is burning the eastern river road."
Ned stared at the map. He saw the disaster unfolding.
"Edmure is in the west," Ned realized, his finger tracing the Red Fork. "He has taken the strength of Riverrun to hunt the Mountain. And now Jaime Lannister is behind him."
"Cutting him off from his own castle," Galbart Glover finished grimly. "If Edmure turns back now, the Mountain will strike his rear. If he presses on, Jaime will take Riverrun before Edmure can return."
"We cannot blame Edmure for riding out," Maege Mormont growled from the shadows. Her bear-skin cloak steamed in the warmth. "The Mountain is butchering his smallfolk. No lord can sit by and watch his lands burn."
"And that is why he will fall," Roose Bolton said softly. The Lord of the Dreadfort stood perfectly still, his pale eyes reflecting the dying embers of the brazier. "Tywin Lannister has turned your good-brother's virtue, Lord Stark. He knows Edmure is proud. He knows he is... sentimental. Tywin used the Mountain to pull Edmure's gaze west, so the Kingslayer could slide a dagger into his ribs from the east."
"It is not sentiment," Ned corrected him sharply. "It is duty. Edmure protects his people."
"Duty can be a heavy shroud," Roose countered, his voice soft as a shroud. "By saving the villages of the west, he has lost the war in the east."
Ned straightened, looking toward Ser Andar Royce. The Heir to Runestone looked older today, the weight of the looming war carving deep lines into his face.
"And the Vale?" Ned asked. "Still silence?"
"Worse than silence, my lord," Andar said, his voice tight with frustration. "A bird arrived from Runestone this morning. My father rode for the Bloody Gate himself. He demanded an audience with Lady Lysa, demanded that the Vale honor its alliances."
"And?"
"He was turned away," Andar said, crushing the parchment in his fist. "The Knight of the Gate would not even open the portcullis. He spoke from the battlements. He said Lady Lysa accepts no visitors and receives no ravens. The Eyrie is sealed tight as a tomb."
"It is not neutrality," Ned said. The realization settled in his gut like a stone. "It is hostility."
"My father saw him," Andar added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Standing beside the Knight of the Gate. He did not speak, but he smiled. Petyr Baelish."
Ned slammed his fist onto the table. "Littlefinger. He holds the Vale hostage without drawing a single sword for the Lannisters."
"If the Vale does not march," Andar said, "we cannot face both Jaime in the East and Tywin's levies gathering in the South."
"We cannot fight a war on two fronts," Ned said, looking at the Iron Core of the North. "Not without allies. We need the Knights of the Vale. But we cannot let Jaime Lannister run wild unchecked."
He drew his dagger and stabbed it into the map, severing the Kingsroad.
"We split the host," Ned declared.
The lords leaned in.
"Lord Bolton, Lady Maege and Lord Umber," Ned said, turning to the pale lord. "You will take the horse and four thousand swords. Ride south. Harass the Kingslayer. Do not engage him in a pitched battle. Hit his supply lines, bleed his outriders, slow his advance. Make him fear the night. Buy Edmure time to realize his mistake."
"And the main host?" Wylis Manderly asked.
"We march for the Bloody Gate," Ned said. "We will knock on Lysa Arryn's door so loudly that even Littlefinger cannot ignore it. We force the Vale to join this war."
"A bold stroke," Roose Bolton murmured. "But there is an obstacle." He pointed a pale finger at the crossing of the Green Fork. "Walder Frey."
"The Late Lord Frey," the Greatjon spat. "He'll not let us cross. Not without a toll that would bleed us dry."
"He has likely already been bought," Ser Wylis said. He shifted his weight, his armor creaking. Wylis was not as cynical as Roose, but he was a Manderly, and he understood the weight of gold. "Tywin Lannister sits on the treasury. Walder Frey would sell his own mother for a heavy enough purse. We cannot trust a parley, Lord Stark. If we walk into his castle, we may not walk out."
"We cannot siege him," Ned countered. "We don't have the time with Jaime Lannister on the move. We must cross now."
From the corner of the tent, a small voice spoke up.
"My lord?"
Ned turned. Daenerys Targaryen sat on a camp stool, wrapped in a heavy cloak of grey wool. She had been so quiet he had almost forgotten she was there, a habit she had learned quickly among the boisterous Northern lords.
"Your Grace?" Ned asked.
"You speak of this Lord Frey as a man without honor," she said, her violet eyes curious. "But does he not keep the Guest Right? In the stories... once you have eaten a man's bread and salt, you are safe."
A bitter chuckle rippled through the tent. It was Roose Bolton who answered her.
"Guest Right is sacred in the North, Your Grace," the Leech Lord said. "The Old Gods watch over it. But Walder Frey keeps the New Gods. And his true god is in his purse. He views oaths as transactional. He fences with vows. He will give you bread and salt, and then slit your throat if the price is right, claiming the bread was stale or the salt was not blessed."
"Then how do we cross?" Daenerys asked.
"We storm the gates!" the Greatjon roared.
"And lose a thousand men taking a bridge?" Ned shook his head. "No."
Ned looked at her. He looked at the basket at her feet, where three dragons slept, growing larger and more dangerous with every passing day. He thought of the wagon sitting in the center of the camp, a reinforced cage of ironwood and steel, built by Manderly's shipwrights to transport "sensitive cargo."
Ned's face hardened into the mask of the Lord of Winterfell, the man who swung the sword.
"... we will burn his house down around his ears."
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The twin castles rose from the grey water of the Green Fork like two rotting teeth, connected by the stone bridge that was the source of House Frey's wealth and arrogance.
Ned rode at the head of the column, water streaming from the brim of his helm. He had not come alone. A man does not walk into a den of vipers without boots of steel. Fifty men rode with him, the hardiest veterans of the North.
To his right rode the Greatjon, massive and menacing, his greatsword strapped across his back. To his left was Roose Bolton, wrapped in pink and blood-red. Behind them rode Howland Reed, and Ser Wylis Manderly, whose massive warhorse struggled in the deep muck.
Surrounding the lords was a wall of shields. Stark sworn swords in grey chainmail rode knee-to-knee with Umber berserkers and the silent, mud-spattered spearmen of the Dreadfort. They kept their hands near their steel, their eyes scanning the arrow slits that peppered the castle walls.
And in the center of the formation, drawn by four heavy plow horses, rumbled the wagon.
It was a massive, boxy structure of dark ironwood reinforced with bands of steel. Heavy canvas draped over it to obscure the contents, but holes had been bored into the sides for air. A dozen Stark guards walked alongside the wheels, their spears held ready, forming a second perimeter around the precious cargo.
Walking beside the lead horse, head bowed against the driving rain, was a slight figure in an oversized oilskin cloak. Daenerys played the part of the mute handler well. She kept her eyes on the mud and her hands busy soothing the nervous horses, hidden safely within the ring of Northern steel.
They reached the northern gatehouse. The portcullis was down. The iron bars were black with rain. Crossbowmen lined the battlements, their weapons trained on the party below.
"Who approaches the Crossing?" a voice bellowed from the gatehouse.
"Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North!" the Greatjon roared back, his voice easily overpowering the storm. "Open your gates, you river-rats, or we'll pull them down!"
There was a pause, a muttered consultation above, and then the heavy grinding of chains. The portcullis jerked upward. The drawbridge descended with a wet slap against the mud.
"Ride," Ned commanded.
As they entered the inner courtyard, Ned felt the trap closing. The courtyard was packed. It was not filled with servants or stable hands but with Frey men-at-arms. Hundreds of them lined the walls, crowded the stables, and blocked the exits. They were silent, their eyes hard and calculating as they watched the fifty Northmen ride in.
The portcullis slammed shut behind them with a finality that echoed in Ned's bones. They were sealed in.
A man stepped forward to meet them. He was lean and balding, with the weak chin common to the Frey lineage. Ser Stevron Frey, Walder's heir. He bowed, but his eyes were mocking as he surveyed the armed escort.
"Lord Stark," Stevron said. "My father awaits you in the Great Hall. He is... eager to hear why you bring such a heavy guard to his doorstep."
"I bring an honor guard befitting the Warden of the North, Ser Stevron," Ned said, dismounting into the mud.
His men dismounted with him. The Stark captain barked orders, and the fifty Northmen formed a tight defensive square near the gate, bristling with spears. They would not be separated.
Stevron's eyes fell on the wagon in the center of the square. "And this? What cargo requires such security?"
"Tribute," Ned said shortly. "For my good-father, your overlord. Beasts from the far North."
Stevron stepped closer to the wagon, reaching for the canvas. "Let us see these beasts. My father loves a curiosity."
"I wouldn't," Roose Bolton said.
His voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the rain like a razor. Stevron froze, his hand inches from the fabric. He looked at the Lord of the Dreadfort. Roose smiled, a joyless curving of thin lips.
"They are hungry," Roose said softly. "And they do not distinguish between a handler and a Frey. Touch it, and you lose a hand."
As if on cue, a low, vibrating hiss emerged from the wagon. The heavy ironwood planks rattled. The horses harnessed to the wagon shied violently, their eyes rolling white.
Stevron snatched his hand back, paling.
"Keep it covered," Ned ordered the disguised Daenerys. She nodded once, keeping her hood low, and patted the flank of the lead horse.
"Come," Ned said to his lords. He glanced at Howland Reed. The Crannogman gave a nearly imperceptible nod, his hand resting lightly on his bronze knife. He felt the malice in the air as surely as the damp. "Let us speak with Lord Walder."
Ned signaled his captain to hold the courtyard. Then he walked toward the doors of the Great Hall, flanked by the Greatjon, Roose, Wylis, and Howland. He could feel the eyes of the soldiers on his back. He could smell the treachery in the damp air.
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The Great Hall of the Twins was a cavernous, drafty chamber that smelled of old rushes, spilled wine, and damp dog. It was dimly lit, the torches sputtering in the drafts that whistled through the arrow slits.
At the far end, seated on a high seat of black oak carved to resemble two towers, sat Walder Frey.
He was a withered thing, a bundle of loose skin and spite wrapped in expensive wool. He looked like a vulture perched on a branch, waiting for something to die. His numerous sons, grandsons, and bastards lined the tables, a sullen audience to their patriarch's performance.
Ned strode down the center of the hall, his boots ringing on the stone. The Greatjon, Roose, Howland, and Wylis flanked him. Behind them, the Stark honor guard fanned out, their hands resting on sword hilts, their eyes scanning the gallery above.
Walder Frey squinted at them, his mouth working as if chewing on a piece of gristle.
"Heh," the old man cackled. "The Lord of Winterfell in my hall. And look at him, still dripping wet. You look like a drowned rat, Stark."
"Lord Walder," Ned said, his voice cold and hard as the Wall. He did not bow. "I come in the name of your liege lord, Hoster Tully. The Riverlands are at war. I require the Crossing to defend your lands."
"My lands?" Walder slapped his thigh, a dry, dusty sound. "Hoster Tully is a dying man who pisses himself in his bed. He is no liege of mine, not when he cannot even sit a horse. And his son? A fool chasing shadows in the west."
"Watch your tongue, Frey," the Greatjon rumbled, his hand tightening on his hilt. "Or I'll cut it out."
"In my own hall?" Walder sneered, though his eyes darted nervously to the fifty Stark swordsmen. "That would be a breach of the King's Peace, wouldn't it? And who is the King these days? Is it Joffrey? Is it Stannis? Or is it you, Lord Stark? You speak of defending the Riverlands, but you march with a rebel host."
"I march to secure justice," Ned said. "And I will pay the toll for the crossing, as is custom. A silver stag for every man, a copper for every hoof. You will have a chest of gold, Lord Walder. More than you would see in a year of peace."
"Gold?" Walder spat on the rushes. "I have gold. Tywin Lannister shits gold. Why should I take your coin when I could take your head? Tywin would pay a castle for it."
"Because if you try," Roose Bolton said, his voice soft and terrible, "we will kill you before your guards can draw a breath."
"And even if you succeed," Ser Wylis rumbled, stepping forward to stand beside the Lord of the Dreadfort. "There are twenty thousand Northmen camped outside your walls, Lord Walder. If Lord Stark does not walk out of this hall, they will not just breach your gates. They will pull these towers down stone by stone until House Frey is nothing but a memory. It would be the extinction of your entire line."
Walder flinched, but his greed quickly overcame his fear.
"Threats," the old man grumbled. "Always threats with you Starks. You want the bridge? Fine. But the price isn't gold. I want blood."
Walder pointed a bony finger at Ned.
"Your son. The Young Wolf. He will marry one of my girls. I will be generous and give him one of the pretty ones. And your eldest daughter... she'll marry my Perwyn. That is the toll, Stark. A marriage pact. Bind your frozen house to mine."
Ned stiffened. The arrogance of the man was breathtaking. A vassal dictating terms to a Warden.
"My son is the heir to Winterfell," Ned said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "He will not be bartered like a horse to a lord who fences with his oaths. And my daughter is a child. I will not trade my children's futures to buy a bridge."
"Very well. Tywin said you were stubborn. He warned me you wouldn't bend."
Walder's eyes glittered with malice.
"He also said you had a prize. A real prize. "
Ned didn't like the look on the old man's face.
"Give me the Targaryen girl," Walder Frey said.
The silence in the hall shattered. The Greatjon's hand flew to his sword. Roose Bolton went very still. Howland Reed shifted his weight, his hand dropping to his belt.
"I know she's with you," Walder cackled, enjoying the shock on Ned's face. "Tywin knows. Varys knows. Everyone knows, Stark! You drag the Mad King's spawn around like a pet. If you give her to me... well, maybe I'll let you cross."
Ned stared at the old man. How could Tywin Lannister know about Daenerys? The only answer that come to his mind was there was a mole. The gamble of secrecy was lost before it had even begun.
"I have no Targaryen girl," Ned said, his voice flat.
"Liar!" Walder laughed, a high, wheezing sound.
Walder raised his hand.
"I haven't given you bread and salt yet, have I?" Walder grinned. "Heh."
He snapped his fingers.
The trap.
On the upper gallery, the wooden shutters slammed open.
Ned looked up.
Crossbowmen. Dozens of them. The dark eyes of the quarrels pointed straight down into the killing ground where the Stark delegation stood.
"Kill them all!" Walder shrieked. "Save the head for Joffrey!"
"NOW!" Ned shouted.
The Greatjon didn't draw his sword. He reached under his cloak and pulled out a massive warhorn, banded in old bronze. He raised it to his lips and blew.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
In the courtyard, through the thick stone walls and the pounding rain, Daenerys Targaryen heard the call.
She didn't hesitate. She reached up to the iron lever on the side of the wagon, the one Manderly's smiths had shown her.
She pulled it.
The side of the wagon fell away with a crash of heavy timber.
"Fly!" Daenerys screamed in High Valyrian. "Sōvēs!"
Inside the dark wood, eyes opened. Eyes like molten steel. Eyes like bronze. And eyes like red coals in a pit of darkness.
They had been confined. They had been jostled. They were hungry, and they were angry.
And now, they smelled aggression.
Morghaes launched himself from the wagon bed, his wings snapping open with a sound like a cracking whip. He was larger than a horse now, his scales black as obsidian.
He flew straight for the stained-glass windows of the Great Hall.
Inside, the Northmen had drawn steel. Ned held Ice in a defensive guard, waiting for the bolts. The Stark guards raised their shields, forming a shield wall formation around their liege lord.
CRASH.
The great window behind the high table exploded inward.
A shower of colored glass—red, blue, green—rained down on the Frey sons at the high table. And through the hole came a nightmare.
Morghaes landed on the balcony, his talons gouging deep into the wood. He let out a shriek that made the Greatjon's horn sound like a whisper. It was the sound of a predator that had no equal.
The crossbowmen on the gallery stared in paralyzed horror.
Morghaes opened his maw and black fire washed over the gallery.
The fire hit the crossbowmen and turned them to ash in a heartbeat. Their screams were cut short as the air was sucked from their lungs. The wooden gallery caught instantly, the dry timber exploding into an inferno.
Burning men fell from the balcony, raining down onto the tables below.
"For the North!" the Greatjon roared, charging the Frey guards who stood gaping at the dragon.
The spell broke. The Northmen attacked.
Greatjon Umber was a whirlwind of steel. His greatsword sheared through spears and shields, carving a bloody path toward the dais. Ser Wylis Manderly, despite his bulk, fought with terrifying efficiency, his sword work brutal and direct. Roose Bolton moved with silence, his blade finding the gaps in armor with cold precision. Howland Reed kept to Ned's flank, taking out any Freys that got too close to Ned.
Ned fought his way forward, Ice singing its deadly song. He parried a spear thrust, the Valyrian steel slicing the wooden shaft in two, and cut the man down on the backswing.
But the true battle was above.
Morghaes hopped from the burning gallery to the rafters. He looked down at the chaos, his black scales gleaming in the firelight. He spotted the high seat. He spotted the little old man cowering under it.
The dragon hissed, smoke curling from his nostrils. He swooped down.
Walder Frey shrieked, a high, thin sound like a dying rabbit. He scrambled backward, trying to hide behind his chair, behind his sons, behind anything.
Morghaes landed on the high table. Plates and goblets scattered. He lowered his massive head, his red eyes fixing on Walder.
"No!" Walder squealed. "I yield! I yield!"
Ned stepped forward, Ice dripping red.
"Call them off!" Ned shouted over the roar of the fire and the screams of the dying. "Surrender, Walder, or I let him eat you!"
"I surrender!" Walder screamed. "Stop it! Make it stop!"
"Drop your steel!" Ned bellowed to the hall. "Or you all burn!"
The Frey guards looked at the burning gallery. They looked at the dragon perched on the high table, black fire dripping from its jaws. They looked at the Greatjon, who was covered in blood and laughing.
Clatter. Clang.
Swords dropped. Spears hit the floor.
The Twins had fallen.
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