The twenty-odd Frey guards stood frozen, their long-handled axes trembling in their hands. They stared at the scorched, twitching remains of the archers on the gallery, their hearts hammering against their ribs.
"CHARGE!" Walder's voice shrieked from the high seat. "Don't let him do it again! He's just a boy! KILL HIM!"
The guards roared back, a desperate, forced sound to summon their courage, but their boots didn't move. In the face of a man who could command the heavens, "bravery" was just a word for suicide.
"Move, you cowards!"
Black Walder shoved through the ranks, snatching a heavy axe from a guard's hand. His eyes were bloodshot and wild. "He's only one man! Follow me!"
He charged. Inspired by his desperation, the guards finally surged forward. Two of the faster ones tried to overtake Black Walder, hoping to end the threat before another bolt could fly.
THWIP. THWIP.
Paine and McKen, standing behind a flipped table, launched two javelins with pinpoint accuracy. The steel heads punched through the guards' breastplates like they were made of parchment, pinning them to the floor.
Eddard watched the remaining mass of steel coming toward him. He didn't reach for another bolt yet. Instead, he grabbed Ser Lyman Frey by the shoulder with his left hand and his plump waist with his right. Exerting the full force of his 3x strength multiplier, he hoisted the two-hundred-pound man into the air.
"To hell with you!" Eddard roared.
He launched Lyman Frey like a catapult projectile. The "First Heir" flew through the air in a blur of silk and terror, slamming into the center of the Frey charge. He crashed directly into Black Walder, the weight of the collision pinning his son to the floor and scattering the men around them like bowling pins.
The guards hesitated for a split second, seeing their "Wizard" use a human being as a weapon.
"SWISH. SWISH."
Eddard didn't give them a second to think. He raised both hands, and two more blue spheres of humming energy, [Thunderbolt] flew from his palms. They struck the clusters of guards trying to pick themselves up. Seven men were instantly engulfed in blue-white arcs, their bodies stiffening and collapsing as the electricity cooked them in their own armor.
Eddard stepped forward. He didn't even draw his axe yet. He grabbed the edge of a three-meter-long oak table, let out a grunt of effort, and swung the hundred-pound slab of wood like a club.
CRACK-BANG!
The heavy tabletop whistled through the air, catching three guards in the chest. Their ribs shattered with a sound like dry kindling. Eddard took another step, swung the table again to clear a path, and then heaved the entire thing into the remaining guards, crushing them against the wall.
Abel, Dita, and Matthew didn't stay behind the tables. They surged forward with their shields up, their [Bloodthirsty Wolfguard] strength allowing them to literally run through the survivors. They moved with a speed the Freys couldn't match, their axes descending in a rhythmic, brutal harvest.
Eddard stepped over a twitching guard, casually wiping a spray of blood from his visor. He walked toward the high platform, where Walder Frey was staring at the carnage with a face the color of curdled milk.
"How about it, Lord Walder?" Eddard asked, his voice calm amidst the screams. "Do you surrender? If you drop the act now, I might let you face a trial instead of the axe."
Eddard picked up a heavy Frey axe from the floor, testing its weight.
"Stop him!" Walder shrieked, his voice cracking. He tried to turn and flee toward the back exit, but as he stood up, he felt his world go grey.
[Intermediate Magic: Weakness cast.]
The old man's limbs turned to water. He collapsed back into his ebony chair, his mouth hanging open, his breath coming in shallow, terrified rasps. He was perfectly awake, perfectly aware, and completely unable to move a single finger.
The remaining Freys on the platform - Hosteen, Tytos, and Ryman drew their swords in a desperate final stand.
It was over in two minutes.
Hosteen Frey was split down the middle by a Karstark axe. Tytos Frey had his skull crushed by a shield-bash. Ryman Frey's head was separated from his body by Eddard's borrowed axe. The floor was no longer a banquet hall; it was a lake of red wine and redder blood.
The survivors, the women, the younger sons, and the distant cousins dropped their daggers and fell to their knees.
SLAM.
The iron-bound doors were kicked open from the outside. A squad of blood-soaked Karstark soldiers rushed in, led by a captain named Freya. He scanned the room, saw Eddard standing over the paralyzed Lord Walder, and gave a sharp, wolfish grin.
"Young Master! You're alive!"
"I'm fine, Freya," Eddard said, dropping the bloodied axe. "The castle?"
"It's ours, sir. Caught them in their cups. Most of them surrendered the moment we put steel to their throats. We lost five men and took care of over two hundred of theirs. The Twins belongs to the Sunburst now."
Eddard nodded. "Good. Take every Frey in this room, except the Marquis to the dungeon. Tie them in groups of ten. If they struggle, kill them."
Lyman Frey, still groaning on the floor, tried to stand. "I am a knight! I demand noble treatment!"
Dita Calandre didn't even look at him. She gave him a kick that sent him back into the dirt. "This is rebellion, you fat weasel. In the North, we don't treat traitors like nobles. We treat them like corpses waiting for a rope."
As the soldiers dragged the screaming Freys away, Eddard walked onto the high platform. He looked at the feast, the lamb legs, the fine wine, the honeyed cakes. He felt a sudden, sharp hunger.
He looked at Scholar Bennett, the Frey's personal Maester, who was standing in the corner looking like a ghost.
Eddard picked up a flask of wine and a plate of meat. He handed them to the Maester.
"Eat," Eddard commanded. "And drink. I want to make sure the hospitality in this room wasn't... poisoned."
The Maester's hands shook as he took the bread. Eddard watched him closely, waiting. He had a castle to run, a King to inform, and a "Leech" to hunt. He wasn't going to do it on an empty stomach.