The scent of roasting meat drifted from behind as Tyrion sat beside the catapult, staring at The Twins swallowed in darkness. He disliked cities like this; they always felt damp and suffocating, much like Riverrun. Had Lord Hoster Tully suffered from endless rheumatism in such a place? And could the roaring river truly lull anyone to peaceful sleep at night?
Brienne stood at a distance while Sansa sat beside him.
"My lord, there's no need for such worry. Everyone believes this war is already won."
"Indeed, it is won," Tyrion agreed. "The people in The Twins will see our campfires, our smoke, and the banners of House Tyrell."
"This is where Robb and Mother lost their lives."
Sansa clasped his hand, looking toward Twin Towers Ford. "The North remembers."
Tyrion felt her nails digging into his skin. Maybe he should hold her. What was there to fear? He wasn't some cringing dwarf—gods witness—he was her betrothed.
He pulled her gently into his arms, and she did not resist.
An autumn wind swept down from the North, carrying a chill that brushed their faces, whispering through fallen leaves and distant murmurs. Was it the call of the Old Gods?
Before long, the clatter of footsteps sounded behind them. They quickly separated as Ser Brynden arrived with soldiers carrying large wooden barrels toward the catapult.
"Hope it doesn't blow up mid-air this time," Tyrion said with a laugh.
"At least leftovers are better than shit," Daven said. "The weasels will go mad when they see these scraps. Food from the Reach will last us two months. Two months… and the Reach will be snowed under."
"They'll understand surrender is their only path," Tyrion said. "Are the letters ready?"
"Ready." Blackfish pulled out a quiver, each arrow tied with a scroll containing the surrender terms Tyrion drafted and all the commanders approved.
It was the final offer: open the gates, lay down arms, and the soldiers could return home. Any Frey uninvolved in the Red Wedding would be treated with leniency. Crossing would remain under Frey rule. And once winter arrived, they could join the other Riverlands lords in receiving the Iron Throne's protection.
As the barrels were launched into the castle, Blackfish and his scouts moved under cover of night, firing the arrows into the city. By dawn, corpses hung from the walls of The Twins.
"They're wavering," Blackfish said, pointing at the bodies. "These must be the ones who wanted to surrender."
"But Lord Walder doesn't see it that way," Tyrion sighed. "Food will start running short in The Twins—first for the soldiers, then for the less important. Lord Walder himself won't suffer hunger, but his sons and grandsons might."
"They'd betray the Old Weasel?"
"Crooked beams make crooked houses," Tyrion said with a smirk. "Children follow their elders' example. His cunning and treachery may not pass to them all, but he has so many children—two or three are bound to pick it up."
"All Lannisters are liars," Blackfish joked. "If I were inside, I'd never open the gates."
"But you did open Riverrun," Tyrion replied. "If I'd agreed to marry one of the Old Weasel's daughters or granddaughters, he would've opened the gates too. But clearly, he doesn't have a girl better than Sansa."
The next day, more bodies hung from the walls.
The day after that, the number stopped increasing. And with each day that followed, fewer bodies appeared—taken down, buried… or…
...
"Have you heard the tale of Stannis holding Storm's End?" Tyrion asked Sansa one evening over supper.
"I have," Sansa said. "Lord Stannis Baratheon held Storm's End for a year, until the Battle of the Trident and the fall of King's Landing, when my father marched south and lifted the siege."
"Some men wanted to open the gates and surrender," Tyrion said, tearing at a piece of roast meat. "Stannis caught them and said, 'If you like Tyrells so much, we'll fling you out with the catapults.'"
"Lord Walder seems kinder than Lord Stannis, who only had them hanged."
"No, Stannis didn't do that," Tyrion said, mimicking his voice. "'Since we're starving enough to eat people, why waste such fine meat on Tyrells?'"
"Ugh!" Sansa nearly gagged, unable to fathom how her betrothed could still eat so eagerly.
"Of course they didn't eat them. Those traitors were locked in the dungeon until the war ended. What's wrong, Sansa?"
He patted her back gently.
"I hear that in the distant lands of Yi Ti, cannibalism is commonplace during wartime—no one pays it much mind. But raping women is a grave crime," Tyrion said with curiosity. "Yet here in Westeros, every soldier seems ready to violate women, while eating human flesh is treated as a sin cursed by the gods."
"Sansa, which do you think is the greater sin—eating a person, or letting soldiers take turns with her before killing her?"
"Enough, Tyrion. Don't ask me things like that," Sansa said with a frown. "Let me finish my supper."
...
At last, one dawn, the drawbridge of The Twins creaked open. Knights in twin-tower cloaks looked sickly and hollow-cheeked, and the soldiers bearing their sigils stumbled out. They threw their weapons to the ground and gathered before the gate. For a full half-hour, five hundred Frey soldiers streamed out—many from across the river, not just those within the castle. The heap of discarded weapons rose into a small mountain.
The last to emerge were the mounted commanders, followed by a large cluster of old and young. The women stood at the back—all of them, without question, Lord Walder Frey's daughters and granddaughters.
Tyrion rode forward, flanked by Ser Brynden Tully and Lord Aemon Frey, to receive their surrender.
The Frey leader was Walton Frey, with his two sons, a daughter, and Lame Lothar standing behind him. Walton was now first in line to inherit Crossing, and Lame Lothar had served as steward for twelve years. The two of them were the most powerful figures in The Twins after Walder Frey himself.
"My lord."
Walton Frey and Roso Frey knelt on one knee, the Freys behind them shaking with fear.
"Where is Lord Walder Frey?" Tyrion asked.
"My father is… asleep…" Walton began, but Lame Lothar cut in quickly, "My lord, Father has taken sweet sleep flowers and is resting deeply."
"These are all the Frey soldiers?" Tyrion asked.
"Yes, my lord," Lothar Frey answered quickly. "Originally we had a thousand, but due to food shortages, half were dismissed."
"Daven!" Tyrion shouted. "You will take charge of receiving the troops!"
He turned toward Uncle Emmon and the Blackfish. "Well then, my lords, let's head into the city."
...
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