The Great Hall of the Twins was a cemetery of silk and steel.
The silence that followed the final scream was heavy, thick with the iron-sweet scent of fresh blood and the cloying aroma of spilled Arbor Gold. Torches flickered in their wall sconces, casting long, dancing shadows over the bodies of Ryman, Hosteen, and Tytos Frey. The "Late" Lord Walder remained slumped in his high chair, his watery eyes darting with frantic, helpless energy, a silent prisoner within his own paralyzed skin.
Eddard stood atop the high platform, his chest heaving under his black plate armor. He didn't look like a second son of Karhold anymore; he looked like a predator that had just finished a necessary slaughter. Lightning still crackled faintly along the edges of his gauntlets, a lingering residue of the [Thunderbolt] that had cleared the gallery.
"Dita," Eddard called out, his voice rasping from the ozone and the exertion. "Report."
Dita Calandre stepped over a shattered trestle table, her boots splashing in a pool of dark wine. Her grizzled face was splattered with red, but her eyes were bright with a cold, predatory focus.
"The hall is secure, My Lord," she said, nodding toward the bound survivors being herded toward the side doors. "Abel and Matthew have taken the rookery. They caught the Maester's assistant trying to release three ravens. One was headed for the Ruby Ford, one for King's Landing, and one for the Dreadfort. All three birds have been... grounded."
Eddard's jaw tightened. The Bolton bird was the one that mattered most. Roose was already moving his pieces, even before the "official" betrayal had been scheduled to begin.
"The East Bank?" Eddard asked, turning his gaze toward the narrow windows.
As if in answer, three bright bursts of orange light flared against the dark southern sky, signal fires from across the river.
"Karas and Lando have taken the gatehouse on the other side," Dita confirmed. "The Frey garrison over there surrendered the moment they saw the 'First Heir' Lyman being used as a projectile through the front doors here. They've locked down the drawbridge mechanism. The Twins are ours, West to East."
Eddard let out a long, shaky breath. He felt the mental strain of the magic usage beginning to weigh on him. He checked the [System] interface in the corner of his vision.
[Battle Results: Victory at the Twins.]
[Soul Power Gained: 215 SP (Includes bonus for High-Value Targets).]
[Current Total: 312 SP.]
The haul was massive, but the cost was becoming clear. He looked down at the floor, where five of his own Karstark men were being laid out by their comrades. They had died in the initial rush, skewered by Frey pikes or caught by a lucky crossbow bolt before he could take out the gallery.
Five more families to compensate, Eddard thought grimly. Five more names for the Wall of Remembrance.
"McKen," Eddard ordered, pointing to the trembling Frey women and the younger children cowering in the corners of the hall. "Take them to the guest chambers in the Crying Tower. Double the guard. If any Frey male older than twelve so much as looks at a kitchen knife, put him in the Cold Cells. Matthew, find the castle keys. I want every weapon locker and grain store under Karstark seal by midnight."
As his men scrambled to execute his orders, Eddard walked to the edge of the high platform. He looked down at the massive oak doors that had been chained shut by the Freys to trap him. Now, those same chains served to keep the world out.
He felt like a man standing on a crumbling cliff. He had seized the most strategic bridge in Westeros, but he was holding it with fewer than four hundred men. Walder Frey had hundreds of knights and thousands of levies scattered in the surrounding villages. And according to the old man's boasting, Randyll Tarly and Roose Bolton were already marching this way with ten thousand.
The "Red Wedding" hadn't just been a betrayal; it was a coordinated military pincer. Tywin Lannister had offered Walder everything he ever wanted, legitimacy, gold, and a marriage into the royal family just to cut the North's throat while it was busy fighting for honor.
Eddard looked at Walder Frey. The old man's mouth was agape, a string of drool hanging from his chin. The effect of [Weakness] would last for half an hour, but for a man of ninety, the shock alone might be enough to stop his heart.
"You really thought the Lion would protect you, didn't you, Walder?" Eddard whispered, leaning over the paralyzed lord. "Tywin Lannister doesn't have allies; he has tools. And tools get discarded the moment they lose their edge."
Eddard pulled a blood-stained linen cloth from the table and began to wipe the gore from his face. He felt a sharp hunger gnawing at his gut. He hadn't eaten since noon, and the adrenaline of the fight was fading, leaving him hollow and cold.
He looked at the feast. The roast lamb, the honeyed cakes, the spiced wine. It was a king's ransom of food, all of it potentially laced with the same rot that lived in the hearts of its hosts.
"Scholar Bennett," Eddard called out, his voice echoing in the rafters.
In the shadows behind a cluster of wine barrels, a plump man in grey robes trembled. The Maester of the Twins was as pale as a ghost, his silver chain clinking as he shook. He had witnessed the lightning. He had seen the Young Master of Karstark turn into a sorcerer from the dark tales of the Age of Heroes.
"Come here, Scholar," Eddard said, his tone deceptively soft. "I believe you and I have some reading to do."
He walked to the lord's table, shoving a silver platter of fruit aside to make room. He knew that in the drawer of that very table, the gears of the conspiracy were written in ink.
"Abel, bring me the lantern," Eddard commanded. "And Dita, bring a chair. Our 'guest' looks like he's about to faint, and I need him conscious for the interrogation."
He looked at the Maester, who was stumbling forward, his eyes fixed on the floor to avoid the sight of his former masters' corpses.
"Don't look so tragic, Bennett," Eddard said, picking up a roasted lamb leg that had miraculously survived the brawl. "The Freys were going to murder twenty thousand men in their sleep tonight. I've simply accelerated the payment of their debt."
He handed the lamb leg to the Maester.
"Now, eat. And then, you're going to tell me exactly what the Old Lion promised this weasel in exchange for my King's head."
The Maester's hands shook as he accepted the meat. Eddard sat back in a chair that wasn't his, in a hall he had taken by force, and felt the weight of the crown he was trying to save.
He had changed the history of Westeros tonight. He had broken the Frey's back and exposed the Leech. But as the sound of distant fighting on the East Bank finally died down, he knew the real war was only just beginning. Ten thousand men were coming for this bridge, and he was the only thing standing in their way.
"Winter is coming, Scholar," Eddard said, the blue light of his magic flickering one last time in his pupils. "But tonight, the storm is me."