[A/N: Chapter slightly edited to correct issues.]
Father and son peered over a creased map.
Olyvar would have chosen anywhere else but this cursed place, but his father had insisted on the Great Hall where his King had been murdered. Lord Frey complained of his old bones, but Olyvar suspected his father wished to test his loyalty, and he still needed his father's help for one last task.
The Lord of the Crossing was already ancient when Olyvar last saw him. In Olvyar's absence he had seemed to grow even older. However he may have heh, heh'ed during the Red Wedding, he wasn't laughing for much longer after that. First were the rumours from Darry, of a sellsword company wielding Myrish crossbows destroying the Mountains' Men in an ambush. Then came the breaking of the siege of Riverrun. Hounded by ambushes in the day and raids in the night, what remained of Frey's host had just retreated within sight of the Twins' towers when an elaborate scroll landed on Walder's desk bearing three wax seals. The Hand of the King's, flanked by the lion of Lannister and rose of Tyrell. Lord Frey had called his and Bolton's men to a feast and cracked open the seals before them, gleefully expecting lands and titles and riches from Tywin Lannister now that House Stark was gone.
But the letter did not bear Tywin's handwriting. King's Landing is ours. You morons are fucked, it said in a child's scrawls. Two more sigils flanked the message. On the left was a white-headed eagle with its talons outstretched. And on the right was the snarling direwolf of Stark. Lord Walder tried to pass it as a joke, Roslin had told Olyvar in hushed whispers when she welcomed him and Perwyn into the Twins. His men had thought otherwise. Nearly half of House Frey streamed of the Twins that day. They began to return a few days later, first in large companies, then in small ragged groups, then clumps of wounded men limping through the gates. The rest never returned at all.
Lord Walder Frey had never been the same ever since. He spent most of his days taking counsel with Lord Bolton, over lists and maps and the few messages that flew between the Twins and the Dreadfort. It had taken Olyvar two weeks to seek an audience with his father, but tonight Lord Frey summoned him to the Great Hall on account of his adventures in the south.
"Roose means to force his way through the Neck, heh," Walder chuckled. "He said the Young Wolf had a plan to take Moat Cailin from the Ironborn. Not that it'll do him much good. Manderly already holds the eastern banks of the White Knife and the wolves are baying for his blood. So he's stuck with me whether he likes it or not, heh."
"They're baying for our blood too," Olyvar reminded his father. "Wolf and trout alike, along with all their bannermen. The Mallisters are raising a host at Seagard armed with Alexandria's guns, and I don't think they means to use it against the Ironmen."
Lord Frey frowned. "Roslin told me you were in King's Landing when the Alexandrians and Northmen took it with their guns."
"Aye, and I escaped by the skin of my teeth. The wolves searched every house for any Frey they could get their hands on. If it weren't for Uncle Gyles… my head would be mounted upon the Red Keep's gatehouse by now." Olyvar shuddered. "I found Perwyn at Duskendale, and we fled to Alexandria where we worked under false names, until we could save up enough coin to make the journey home."
His actual journey had been far less dramatic. They left on a Crownlander riverboat to Alexandria, where they stayed two nights before the Alexandrian regent and his guardsmen escorted them across the Trident. Alexandrian control beyond the God's Eye was still tenuous at best, and the Frey name had come with its extra perils ever since the Red Wedding. Fly Rosby's banners, Ezekiel had cautioned them when they parted. He had also given them a gun and sixty rounds of ammunition in case they ran into any foes on the way north.
"Alexandria? Mayhaps it's safest where it's the most dangerous, heh. Now tell me more about these guns of theirs."
"Twenty of them were enough to take King's Landing. The Alexandrians had surprise on their side, but King's Landing would have fallen sooner or later anyway. I was there, Father, when the Alexandrians started opening fire. Ser Meryn was the first to charge, and he died with seven gaping holes in his chest. The goldcloaks Tywin held in reserve for ambushing the Alexandrians didn't fare much better. A hundred men were gone in ten seconds."
"The Grey Wedding," Walder mused. "I wonder where they got the idea from, heh."
"The Starks wonder too. And before long they will wonder before our gates with Alexandrian guns in their hands," advised Olyvar. Truth be told, Olyvar didn't know how much use those guns would be when the gates are shut and the portcullis raised. But Father didn't know either, and the Alexandrians had machines that could fly.
"We have hostages," Walder argued. "They would not storm the Twins so easily as long as Umber is here. And the Twins are strong, Olyvar. We have more than enough food for a siege."
Olyvar shook his head. "You'd better guard the hostages yourself then, every day and every night without sleep. For all it takes are pardons for the dungeon guards, and perhaps some gold for them to sell out the rest of us. Much of the Twins are at each other's throats as it is, and Roose may be all drinks and smiles at your hall, but I think he prefers your skin to be flayed than his."
"And you'll need to fight the boy with one eye for the hostages, the one who took King's Landing. The Mountain couldn't defeat him, the Kingsguard couldn't defeat him, all the goldcloaks of King's Landing couldn't defeat him," Olyvar continued. "And you know just as well as I do that the Twins' defenses are not as impenetrable as they seem to be. The Alexandrians have many tricks up their sleeves, some of which even Perwyn and I haven't seen yet."
"Mayhaps," Walder Frey grunted. "What do you propose then, if not hostages?"
Olyvar whispered into his father's ear.
A small iron gun rested in Olyvar's open hand.
The gun was larger than the palm it rested on, though not by much; it was even smaller than some of the one-handed crossbows sold by the Free Cities. Yet this Alexandrian gun was far more dangerous than its unassuming size would seem. First made in the one thousand and nine hundred and eleventh year of the Alexandrian calendar, the gun's design was more than a century old, not even close to the best weapons the outworlders could field. The Alexandrians had even better guns, and before long the Twins would get more than a taste of Alexandria's finest lead.
But the perpetrators of the Red Wedding did not wish to wait. They crowded around Olyvar, eager to catch a glimpse of the unfamiliar weapon.
"This?" Black Walder asked suspiciously. "This 'gun' slew the Mountain during the Battle of Darry?"
Roose's voice was as cold as his ghost-grey eyes. "Many great men are felled by small things. Was the Young Wolf not killed by a small dagger to the heart?" he asked. Yes, yes he was, the king whom Olyvar had fought to defend, the king whom Olyvar couldn't save in his hour of need. But he won't be the last. The Stranger once again crept close in this hall of blood, so close that Olyvar could almost feel his dark mantle sweep past.
"The Young Wolf was not wearing armor at the Red Wedding, but the Mountain was arrayed in full plate for battle," Lame Lothar argued. "So how was it that a small child could have killed a warrior who defied all of Ned Stark's knights?"
"By shooting the Mountain, of course. Mayhaps I'll show you how this weapon works in a moment, so that we can use it to smite our foes. Then I will have our blacksmiths make as many of these as they can before the Starks arrive." Make parts that looked like the Alexandrian gun, instead of the arrowheads and spears and swords that they should have been making. Olyvar would bet a million dragons against anyone who claimed those parts could fit without the Alexandrians' help. And even if they did, the Twins had no alchemists who could devise the grains of powder that fuelled this gun, nor blacksmiths skilled enough to make the thin bronze cups that held the powder in place.
"And I will set my own blacksmiths to the task," Bolton promised. "I-"
"Mayhaps," Lord Frey spoke from his high chair. "But I will like to see how these weapons work. Olyvar, the honor is yours."
"Gladly." Olyvar lifted the gun and pulled at the trigger.
At the back of Olyvar's gun, a hammer swung upwards and forwards, crashing into a blunt needle-like pin and driving it forwards until the pin struck a small metal cup. A flash erupted from the cup, consuming the finely ground powder that sat in front of it, until the small explosion reached a conical metal dart and threw it towards its target, as if it mustered all the might of those wildfires at the Blackwater.
Roose Bolton toppled forwards, blood spurting out of the small hole neatly drilled through his heart. The Lord of the Dreadfort was no more.
"Traitor!" A Bolton man shouted. He had just placed his hand on his sword-hilt when a crossbow bolt took him between the eyes. Another bolt tore through the neck of the man standing next to him. More crossbows peeked out from behind the pillars, over the railings of the gallery. Twang, twang, twang, the crossbows sang.
Yet the Boltons were not as easily slain as Robb's men three months ago. Many a bolt tore through the thin pink coat of the flayed man, only to be stopped dead in its tracks by the chainmail beneath. "Our blades are sharp!" the Boltons shouted in desperation. And their blades were sharp indeed, sharp enough to slice the flesh of those unfortunate Frey crossbowmen in their way. Olyvar had proposed to his father that only those truly loyal should be used lest Bolton catch wind of the ruse beforehand. Men loyal to none other than the Lord of the Crossing himself, men who were brave enough to slaughter Stark's men during the Red Wedding, men who could have defended against the siege to come had they stayed alive.
It was a shame I didn't attend that wedding, Olyvar thought as his blade hacked at Roose's dead head. Mayhaps he could have done something about it, at least he would have died for his king.
He could still die for his new Queen today. Only a few Dreadfort men still stood when the doors burst open, and more men with shaggy furs on their mail swarmed into the hall, sharp blades in hand. There would be too many crossbowmen, Olyvar knew, and Bolton's soldiers in the hall would soon be slain. So Perwyn went to the dungeons where the hostages were held, and told the Karstark men there that the 'Twenty Good Men' were spotted lurking around The Twins, and Lords Bolton and Frey needed them to set up an ambush at the Great Hall and capture them alive. Five hundred gold dragons for the new queen, a thousand for the boy with one eye. However powerful the Northmen and their Alexandrian allies may be, there was only so much they could do when Lord Walder had taken the Northmen's queen and the Alexandrians' heir hostage.
Perwyn himself would guard the dungeons along with the men he and Olyvar had handpicked. Olyvar always thought his brother was a lousy guard.
The Karstarks' confusion did not last long. The sons of winter charged forwards and cut down the Frey men who were about to finish the Boltons off. Suddenly the tables turned, as Frey men used them as barricades against the new onslaught of rows. Chairs, cups, even forks and kitchen knives were thrown at the Northmen, but all it did was slow them down, and the few Frey men who drew their own blades were swiftly slain by the veterans of Robb Stark's wars. Olyvar still had his sword in his hand after cutting through Bolton's neck, but the gun would be of more use. Die, Olyvar mouthed silently as he raised his pistol. Die, you all, you traitors who killed our king. And he would not weep if a few Frey men got shot as well. He did not know what Queen Arya's court had in mind once the Twins were besieged, but he was sure it would almost be a mercy for Father's men to die today.
So anyway Olyvar started blasting. Bang! Bang! He was no Karl, Olyvar knew, but a gun was a gun, be it wielded by a Westerosi or Alexandrian. Many white suns were dyed red in the minute that followed, looking like eclipses against the black surcoats that bore those stained patterns. Finally the Northmen broke, and they threw down their swords, and fell on their knees and begged for mercy.
But no mercy would come today. Olyvar put away his gun and unsheathed his sword. There could yet be need for more gunfire on the long road south, and there would be no more bullets until they reached the Isle on the Lake. "We stand together!" he cried, waving his sword in the air.
"We stand together!" the Frey men dropped their crossbows and picked up the swords lying on the floor. Only a fifth of his father's men were still standing, Olyvar saw, their eyes stained red with bloodlust, save those on the balcony who let loose a final volley. Then the men in the Twins' coats charged, men in pale coats shrieked, men in sunburst coasts screamed as they fought fist against sword. And then all was silent, save for the tip-tap of blood dripping off swords and tables and chairs. Bolton blood, Karstark blood, Frey blood dripped onto the floors below, melting into the Stark blood that had stained those floors less than three months ago.
Ser Perwyn entered the hall, pike in hand. The Greatjon entered first, followed by Patrek Mallister and Marq Piper. The men neither smiled nor scowled, the manacles on their feet rattling as they walked. It did not take much for Olyvar to mount Bolton's head on the pike's tip, mouth still agape in shock and pain. "Behold the head of a kingslayer and a traitor," declared Olyvar. "Did you not see him slay the Young Wolf with his knife before your very own eyes? For craven Bolton had tricked Lord Frey into letting his men into the Twins before the Red Wedding, and taken our womenfolk hostage after we gave them bread and salt so that we have no choice but to follow his orders, and set his own crossbowmen to shoot at the Young Wolf in our very own colours!"
"What did craven Bolton do, my lord?" Perwyn asked Patrek Mallister suspiciously.
Patrek's face went blank. "Slew the Young Wolf with his knife before my very own eyes." That much was true at least, but the rest was not. "He tricked Lord Frey into letting his men into the Twins before the Red Wedding and took Lord Frey's womenfolk hostage."
"Did Lord Frey have any choice of his own?" Perwyn asked the Greatjon this time.
The Greatjon shook his head. "No. Lord Frey was just following his orders."
"What did craven Bolton do next?" Perwyn asked for a third time.
Marq Piper was quick to answer. "He set his own crossbowmen to shoot at the Young Wolf in Walder Frey's own colours."
"Good! Good! I am nothing but a Stark loyalist. I was always a Stark loyalist. Am I a Stark loyalist?" The Lord of the Crossing mimicked from his throne of oak.
"You are a Stark loyalist," the three men answered. "You were always a Stark loyalist. Whatever you say, Lord Frey."
"Mayhaps," Walder couldn't help but whisper. "How did you do that?" Frey asked when Perwyn approached.
"The Alexandrians have a medicine called sweetspeak," Perwyn explained. "Whoever drinks it will be put in a state of half-dreams for the next hour. Whatever others say, he will believe it to be true, even after that hour has ended. The Alexandrians had forgotten my parting gift when I left their service, so I took the liberty of taking my own."
"Can you show me how it works, brother?" Olyvar asked innocently. He looked around the hall. Black Walder had long since disappeared, and Lame Lothar too. Perhaps they made their way out from the servants' door when the fighting first began. Not that it mattered. All they needed to do now was convince Lord Walder Frey.
"Mayhaps." Perwyn pointed towards one of the younger servants now mopping the table. The boy had been orphaned by Tywin's devastation of the Riverlands, and hated all Lannisters and all those who aided them,the Frey brothers had secretly learned. All it took was a promise of employment in the Rosby lands for the boy's promise to help - whatever it took to free him from the Twins, and bring down Walder Frey while doing so.
Perwyn held up two fingers in his left hand, another two in his right. "How many fingers am I holding?" he asked the boy by his side.
"No, I was holding five fingers. Was I holding five fingers?" asked Perwyn.
The boy shook his head. "Four," he insisted.
Perwyn picked up a cup and poured wine into it. Then he slipped a thick white wafer from his sleeve and dropped it into the cup. Bubbles leapt from the wafer even as it shrank, spraying the table with drops of wine, until the wafer was no more. "Drink from this cup," Perwyn ordered. The boy looked around in hesitation, but Lord Frey repeated the order again and the boy drank.
Perwyn held up his fingers again, two on each hand. "How many fingers am I holding?"
"Five," the boy replied without a hint of hesitation. Bullshit, as the Alexandrians say. But Olyvar's father was bullshit too, and thought himself above being fooled by other men.
A wicked grin crept across Walder's face. "Seven bless the Alexandrians," he whispered. But he said out loud: "Perwyn, strike those chains off our guests. We have to pretend no more now that the Bolton traitors are dead."
And you will be too, Olyvar thought. He could have shot his father then and there, and none of his father's men would come to avenge their lord when they were few and he had a gun. But he would not be a kinslayer, he would not have his father's blood on his hands. So instead he turned to Perwyn. "You said sweetspeak only lasts for an hour."
His brother nodded. "Mayhaps- Father, I had given our guests drink when I freed them from our dungeons. But our guests are still thirsty." More cups of wine, more white wafers, and the hostages drank after they were told of their thirst. Then manacles and chains clanked off the hostages' feet.
"Mayhaps they should not stay so long at the Twins, lest our guests hear false rumors of our alleged treachery, or claim that we are keeping them here against their will," Olyvar suggested. "They should not stay so long in the Riverlands either. With your leave, Perwyn and I will take some of our boats and sail our guests down the Trident, to Harroway which the Alexandrians now control. Then we will make our way to King's Landing and take wine with the queen. She is but a child, and mayhaps she would see no cause to march against the Twins once we... assure her of our loyalty."
Walder Frey gave his assent. "Good. You will also give our guests parting gifts, as proof that guest right still holds true under our roof."
"The Young Wolf's bones should be enough, as well as Bolton's traitorous head," reassured Olyvar.
His father pointed at a box in the corner, far smaller than the man whose bones it now held. "There," the Lord of the Crossing declared. "The Young Wolf's bones, and his dog's too. Tywin wrote to have them thrown into the Trident, but he was a senile old fool, and now he's at the Wall and the Starks are back."
Olyvar nodded, and then took leave of his father. With his brother Perwyn and the hostages of the Red Wedding, and the head of Roose Bolton and the bones of his King, he walked out of the hall, head held high, where the Young Wolf and his men had died.