Ned

When Brynden had clued them into the secret passages below the Twins, Ned had been overjoyed—so long as the distraction up front worked and the Frey forced remained occupied, it looked as though the prisoners would be freed and Walder Frey would be dead without any major loss of Northern lives.

Of course, Brynden had neglected to mention that, to traverse the tunnels would involve them walking through half a mile of shitty water, an omission he was no doubt quietly enjoying atop his horse way up above.

So there they were—Ned, Lyanna, Lyonel, Dacey, Patrek, and half-a-dozen men at arms—splashing silently through the bowels of the Twins, a dim brand illuminating their passage.

'If there ever comes a day where I don't reek of shit,' Lyonel said, his elbow covering his nose, 'I'll join a bloody sept.'

'Can't imagine you being a Septon, Lyonel. You're a bit too interested in…well, anything interesting, really,' Lyanna whispered.

'Oh, I know. Luckily, there'll never be a day where I don't stink, not after this,' Lyonel said. 'Still, can you imagine? Septon Lyonel, the scourge of naughty children and heathens everywhere.'

'There's no chance you'd be as bad as Septa Mordane, Lyonel,' Ned said, fondly remembering the time before everything, quite frankly, had gone to shit. 'She was in charge of my girls, and I doubt I've ever met a more domineering woman. That includes Maege, Dacey.'

'Gods,' the heir to Bear Island whispered. 'I doubt my mother would be too happy to hear her reputation's been ruined by some Southerner, let alone a Septa.'

'We're here.' Patrek spoke at last, clutching the rough map he'd been given by Brynden, and looking up to the thin shaft of light. 'According to the Blackfish, this is where they dump the shit of the prisoners. I'm guessing that they'll be close by.'

Lyonel chuckled. 'Most likely. I can't imagine anyone wanting to carry buckets of shit through the castle—seems as though it'd be a step to far for even Lord Frey.'

A number of the men-at-arms pushed upwards with their spears, slowly but surely forcing the wooden slat above them to open up so they might climb up. Lyonel vaulted up, immediately lowering a hand to help the others up, lifting them effortlessly until they were all up, stinking and stained but very much within the castle.

Unfortunately they weren't alone. A Frey guard had turned the corner, both hands clasped around a bucket. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, before he fell backward, a knife in his throat and the contents of the bucket spilling over him.

'You wanker!' Lyonel hissed, giving Lyanna a soft punch in the arm as she bent over to yank it out. 'Gods, now my lovely knife is covered in shit!'

Lyanna scoffed, wiping the knife on the cloth of her already ruined tunic before shoving it back into his sword belt she'd stolen it from moments before. 'It'll clean off, Lyonel. Don't be such a girl.'

'I object to that,' Dacey cut in. 'Speaking as a girl, I'd never whine like he is.'

Lyonel flashed her a smile. 'Where to now, then?'

'The guard was carrying a bucket of, uh…waste. I'd wager that he'd be coming from the dungeons. Since he came from that direction,' Ned said, pointing to the corner from which the man had just emerged, 'I reckon the prisoners will be that way.' With that, he moved, staying low but walking quickly, all the others following suit. They moved down the winding spiral staircase, hugging the wall.

As they reached the cells, they struck, hitting the guards with everything they had. When they'd entered, there'd been three guards; now there were three corpses, the blood slowly pooling into the corner of the barred cells that lined the walls.

'Dacey?' came an incredulous voice from the shadows, low and husky, hoarse from disuse but still underlined with iron. 'Can that really be you?'

'Jon!' Dacey ran to one of the corpses, tearing the keys from the weak leather belt and hurtling toward the nearest cell, yanking the lock open with a vicious twist. 'Hello, you great aurochs.'

Jon Umber rose and left the cell, two dozen or so following him, impossibly spilling out of a space that was logically too small for all of them to have inhabited. Ever the giant, he towered over Ned and his companions, a grin spreading out as he saw all who were there. He was missing an eye, Ned noticed, and his cheeks were thin and gaunt, a far cry from his prior robustness. 'Mallister, you old dog! I take it my distraction allowed you to escape?'

'Aye, that it did. My thanks once again. I…I'm sorry, Jon. About your eye, and how I couldn't—'

The Greatjon waved it away. 'Don't be, you oaf. No point in all of us getting captured, and to tell the truth, I didn't have much use for eyesight in this bloody darkness. Anyhow, my uncle Mors pulled of the one-eyed look.' He looked over to Ned and Lyanna. 'I'd bet my other eye that you're Ned's lot. Don't tell me, it's uh…Arya? And you must be the bastard. I thought you were both dead.'

Ned smirked. 'Come on, Jon. Are you really telling me that you don't recognise an old friend?'

Realisation dawned on the face of the Lord of Last Hearth, colour draining even in the dim torchlight, his hands shaking as he tentatively reached out. He ran them slowly over Ned's face, as though making sure he wasn't some spectre, as a shaky smile slowly spread. 'N-ned?'

'Hello, Jon. It's good to see you.' They pulled each other into a hug, incredulous laughter ringing off the stone walls. 'I swear, I'll explain it all later.'

'We should move, Ned, if you want to get anywhere close to Walder,' Lyonel said.

'You're going after Walder fucking Frey?' the Greatjon asked, prising a sword from the stiff grip of one of the bodies on the floor.

'Aye,' Ned replied with a grin. 'Lord Mallister, can you send the signal?'

'It'd be my pleasure, Lord Stark. Just give me a few minutes and there'll be all seven hells knocking at the gates.'

'Excellent,' Ned said. 'Now, lets show that weasel that the North remembers.'

In the castle, a number of guards guarding the tallest precipice found themselves with their throats slit.

Above the castle, a burning arrow flew, rising high and falling in a graceful arc, landing two feet before Brynden Tully, who grinned and raised his sword. A cry rose throughout the thousand men behind him.

In the great hall, Lord Walder Frey sat, twenty of his sons and grandsons armed to the teeth surrounding him as the castle shook.

Lyonel

Through his life he'd killed scores of men, likely hundreds. Some had been good men, some had been bad men, but most had fallen somewhere between the two categories. As such, to fight a group of men who were so uniformly despicable was a rare joy.

When they entered the main hall, Lyonel was the first into the fray, driving his sword into the throat of a man who'd scarcely drawn his sword. As it clattered to the floor, Lyonel kicked it back, with one of the vengeful ex-prisoners ignoring their fatigue to exact some well-deserved revenge. Behind him, Dacey was shoving her sword through the fat neck of a middle-aged man, and Ned was engaged a plain-faced man, suffering a quick cut to his leg before returning the favour and slitting the man's throat, a grim smile appearing as the man fell. Lyonel cut and slashed, sliced and stabbed, dodged and ducked, and after what felt like either a minute or an hour the hall was clear. They'd had some losses, he could see, but they were far outweighed by those of their rivals. He'd never been a particularly pious man, but he almost felt as though the Warrior had been beside them.

Only one man remained amongst the corpses, too weak to prise himself out of his high-backed chair. Once likely to inspire or intimidate, its large, looming shape now only served to make Walder Frey look tinier and more pathetic than he already was. As they moved towards him and his body began to shake, Lyonel almost felt pity for the poor bastard, before remembering what he'd done to Robb, and once again basking in the anticipation for what was to come.

'Do you recognise me, Lord Walder?' Ned asked, his voice quiet and calm and utterly terrifying. 'I can see no reason why you would—after all, I was always where the fighting was, and you were never less than a few days behind. No matter. You killed my son, Lord Walder—not yourself, of course, but rather got Roose Bolton to do your dirty work. You killed my wife, had her throat slit by your son.' He gestured backwards, to the body of the man he'd dispatched mere moments ago. 'I'm going to kill you, Lord Walder. Know that. Not only did you break all the laws of gods and men, but you killed my fucking family!'

'Ed-Eddard Stark? N-n-no, it cannot be!' Walder screeched, his voice hoarse and scratchy. 'Y-you died! This can't be happening.'

'Oh, it's most definitely happening, Lord Frey.'

'P-please, don't kill me! It wasn't my fault! H-he broke his oath! Your son—'

'—Was a boy! He was a child, and you butchered him!' Ned bellowed, the supposed wolf blood of House Stark on full display. 'An eye for an eye—you killed my son, I killed yours. But there is one more life that will be taken tonight!'

'M-mercy!'

'You dare to beg me for mercy?'

'N-no, I would never, I—' The last words of Walder Frey were cut off as Ned Stark's longsword slowly slid into his throat, a blood-soaked gargle sputtering from his lips as he slowly fell to the ground, shaking and spasming as he hit the stone.

All were silent, the bloodlust and energy of battle wearing off pushing them into silence.

'What now?' Lyonel's word were brief but seemed to echo off the walls, the implications and uncertainty reverberating. Again, no-one spoke.

'I…I believe I might be able to help,' came the quiet voice of one of the prisoners. He was lanky, with mousy brown hair and the tell-tale weak chin of the Freys.

'Olyvar?' Dacey asked. 'Gods, I hadn't seen you there. What were you doing in a cell?'

'My father,' he spat, 'thought me too loyal to the Starks and locked me up before the wedding. I suppose he simply didn't see fit to let me out afterward.'

'You know him, Dacey?' Ned asked.

'Aye. He was your son's squire for a time.'

'Do you trust him?'

'Aye.'

'Very well then,' Ned acquiesced. 'What's your plan?'

The young Frey—Olyvar, apparently—wrung his hands, suddenly unsure at speaking in front of such a group. 'My…many of my brothers and uncles will have died today, but it's still unlikely I'd be the one to inherit the Twins. But there's a chance I can convince whoever's in charge to surrender the castle. They'll be shaken at the death of my father and will be unsure how to proceed. I…I think it's our best chance.'

'Very well,' Ned responded. 'Do it quickly, before any more lives are lost. You, go with him.'

The three surviving men-at-arms sprang into action, following the boy through a side door and down a spiral staircase, their footsteps slowly fading as Lyonel looked around. Ned had sat down in the chair with Walder Frey at his feet, his head in his hands and his breath shaky. 'You are avenged, Cat. They're all dead,' he muttered to himself, seemingly unaware that anyone else could hear him. Lyanna shot Lyonel a worried look, motioning for him to leave as she walked over to her brother and put a hand on his shoulder.

By the time he reached the courtyard, much of the carnage was winding down. He could see a number of kneeling Frey soldiers, tied up and disarmed but ultimately unscathed. Then again, Lyonel could also see the growing pile of corpses in one corner, and it was clear once again that this conquest was not bloodless, no matter how well the plan had been executed.

'Alright, lad?' Brynden Tully asked him, stepping next to him and wrinkling his nose. 'Gods, you reek.'

'Aye, that I do, thanks to your bloody idea to wade through shit,' Lyonel said, now noticing the wide berth he was being given by all soldiers in the courtyard.

'It worked though?'

'It did,' Lyonel admitted grudgingly. 'The prisoners are free and Walder is dead, slain by Ned's own hand.'

The Blackfish smiled, a strange mistiness entering his eyes. 'Thank you. I'm not sure it means much at all, but I'm sure Cat will rest more easily knowing that Walder fucking Frey will never hurt anyone's son ever again. Now,' he continued. 'For the love of the seven, please, have a bath.'

He stepped out of the room he was occupying, mercifully free from the cloud of shit that had surrounded him since he'd stepped into that bloody sewer, the blood and piss and whatever else washed out at last. His yellow surcoat was currently in the hearth, and the boiled leather he was now wearing was—in comparison to the mail and plate he'd ridden from Winterfell wearing—likely the most comfortable clothing he'd worn since he'd returned.

'Lady Dacey, Lord Jon,' Lyonel said, sitting across from the two Northerners who were currently stuffing their faces.

The Lord of Last Hearth looked at him suspiciously. 'So, uh, you're one of them who, uh…returned?'

'That's correct. Lyonel Baratheon, at your service.' He stuck out a hand.

'The Lyonel Baratheon? The Laugh—'

'Aye.'

The Greatjon stopped eating for a moment, looking over to Dacey, his confusion evident. 'How is it that all of this isn't confusing you? It doesn't make a bloody lick of sense!'

The heir to Bear Island shrugged. 'I suppose the element of surprise wore off after I met Brandon Stark for the first time in 20 years.'

'Brandon's alive?'

'It's touch-and-go right now, but aye, he's alive for the moment. Or at least, he was when we left Winterfell,' Dacey said, her mouth still full.

'I'm sorry to interrupt,' Lyonel cut in, 'but I was wondering if either of you knew where I might find Ned?'

The two northerners looked at each other, silent for a moment before Jon spoke. 'Some man rode through the gates, all grim and dirty, looking for whoever was in charge. Ned recognised him and followed him immediately. Harlan, I think his name was?'

'The Blackfish went too. I couldn't make out much of what they were saying, but he went white as a sheet, that much I could see,' Dacey said. 'This was the note he carried. Ned gave it to me to make sure no-one else found it.' She handed over a scrap of parchment, the ink on it smeared but still just about legible. The handwriting was strange—it was the elegant cursive of a highborn, but jagged and sparse as though being written with the wrong hand.

A mile North of the Twins, it read, you'll find the truth about Catelyn Stark.

The Heart of Stone

How dare they?

She'd been here for months, for years, watching, waiting, hanging any who came close as she inched towards her goal. And then these people had swept in, stormed through and trampled the Freys, pulling them out, root and stem. What did they know of the evil of the Freys, of the suffering they'd inflicted and the pain they'd caused? She wasn't sure how much pain Walder Frey had felt before he'd died, but she was willing to bet whatever was left of her life that it hadn't been anywhere near enough.

How dare they?

A rustle came from close by and her men circled her, their swords pointed outward. Fools, the lot of them—they might be of some use, provided they were attacked by a group of children armed with sticks rather than any kind of actual threat.

'It's me, my lady,' Harwin said, stepping from the shadows, dirt streaked on his cheekbone. 'I've brought the leaders, but…it's different to how you thought it'd be, milady.'

She simply stared at him, not caring for excuses—none had suffered as she had, and she would punish those who'd stolen her revenge from her. Lady Stoneheart turned around, obscuring her face from any who might wander in. She'd hear out these outsiders, whoever they were, but in all likelihood would have them hanging from the branches of a tree by midnight.

'You said you had the truth about Cat. Now tell us. What do you know?' The voice was one she recognised, hard and unrelenting, although she—or at least, who she used to be—always remembered it as being filled with warmth. Now it was stripped of all that warmth; it was cold and it was tired, and it was far from the voice that Brynden Tully had ever had. This was not the man who'd told herself and Lysa bedtime stories as children, but was rather the Blackfish speaking, the iron commander and knight of the Bloody Gate, who'd killed scores of men and would likely kill scores more. 'I asked you, what do you know!?'

The figure that was once Catelyn Stark turned around, her face still obscured by her hood. Slowly, she looked up, the mottled white flesh stretching up, exposing the hole in her windpipe. Her hand lifted to her throat, blocking all outside interference as two words—if they could be called that, for they were scarcely more than croaks—gradually rattled out.

'Hello…Uncle.'

Harwin was not needed to translate for once—the look of horror on Brynden's face said everything—he knew exactly who she was.

'G-gods…Cat? Can that really be you?' Tears were brimming in his eyes, and once upon a time, she would've felt warmth, relief, anything at a reunion such as this.

Now, she felt nothing but cold indifference, any attempt to crack the cold stone of her heart laying defeated. Cold indifference, that was rapidly heating up to a burning fury as she saw him.

The bastard. He'd grown, she could see—no longer the boy she'd been so worried about as he ran around with Robb and Arya, but rather a man, a man who was the mirror image of her darling Ned, complete with the look of confusion he had as he stared at her. Gods, it was as though she was looking at Ned himself. One thing about death, she'd thought, was that she'd at least be free from the humiliation the bastard represented every day of her life, living proof that Ned had loved another woman. She'd been wrong. It burned hotter and brighter than ever before, and before she knew what she was doing she was running at him.

Her bones were brittle and hurt as she moved, and she was sure that blood and river water ran through her veins in equal measure, but for the moment she didn't care. She swung her hand, her skeletal fingers stretching out and the overgrown talons slicing into the bastards, raking down his left cheek. Blood spurted out, and as it hit her hand, she was convinced that it had been the first thing she'd truly felt since she'd watched Roose Bolton murder Robb, helpless to do anything.

Then her hands moved down to the throat, and she began to squeeze as hard as she could. The effort and strain were taking their toll on her fragile body, but she truly didn't care—whatever would happen, would happen, but it would all be fine as long as the bastard died. It wasn't fair that he should live, fleeing the vows he'd taken whilst her son was lying desecrated in an unmarked grave. His face was turning purple, she could see, and despite the fact that death was obviously near, he didn't fight back.

Rather, he uttered a single word, shouting with the last of the breath in his body.

'C…Cat!'

'I…I'm not sure I ever said, my lady, but…I'm sorry for your loss,' Ned said, clearly uncomfortable with the words coming out of his mouth.

Her husband—gods, that still felt strange to even think—was polite to a fault, that much was clear, no doubt conscious of the image that many southerners had of those from the North. They were sat on the dais at Riverrun, likely the only cold spot in a room so warm and full of merriment at the opportunity to escape from the woes of the outside world, even if just for one night. Her uncle and the septon were deep in their cups, currently engaged in an arm wrestle that had turned both their faces bright red with exertion.

'I'm sorry?' she replied.

'Brandon. I…I know you loved him, and I know that I'm not the, uh, ideal replacement. So again, I'm sorry for your loss, my lady.'

'Me? But he was your brother, my lord! If anything, I should be offering you condolences! Please, accept m—'

Her husband held up a hand, a small smile—bittersweet, but a smile nonetheless—playing at the corners of his mouth. 'Please, my lady. Please don't. When this is over, I shall weep for Brandon, and for my father, and maybe even for Lyanna too if that's what the situation calls for. It's not a pretty idea, but that's the truth of it. Brandon was your betrothed, and he had that way of making women love him, and it's only natural that you feel sorrow for his death. But…if I look back now, if I mourn, or get lost in the memories of those who won't come back, that takes me away from where the people who still need me are. The men who I fight alongside, the men and women of the north, those who are still under threat from the dragons…they don't need me to have mourned. It's for them, that I do not mourn. Not yet at least.' His eyes refocused and his cheeks turned a furious crimson. 'Gods, my lady, I'm sorry, I-I—I think it's the wine, I'm not used to such high-quality stuff—what is this, Arbor Gold—my apologies, I'm rambling, I—'

She laughed. 'Don't be silly, my lord. It is perfectly fine reasoning, and I am sure that Brandon would be proud of what you're doing. Besides,' she continued, taking another sip. 'The wine is rather strong, my lord.'

'Ned.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Please, my lady, call me Ned. When I hear you call me "my lord", I think of my father. Brandon was the heir and to think of myself as lord is, well…daunting to say the least. Not to mention, we're married—if you can't address your husband by their name, who can you do it to?'

'Very well, Ned. In that case, I insist you call me Catelyn. Wait, no. Cat.' She smiled at him, and for the first time he truly smiled back.

'I find that most agreeable,' he said. 'Perhaps you'd like to dance then, Cat?'

He hands released and she simply stared at the face below her, memorising every nook and cranny and minute detail. Of course it wasn't the bastard—there were laughter lines, there was less of the slenderness and more of the strength that had always been present in Ned's face.

A solitary tear rolled down her face, splashing down onto his cheek, mingling in with the blood and the dirt. And then she spoke—again, just two words, but they were all she needed.

'Leave…now.'

Were she still Catelyn Stark, she'd have been overjoyed to see her husband, and their reunion would've been the stuff of songs, as they'd ride into the sunset and never look back. But Catelyn was dead, bled out on the cold stone floors of the Twins, or drowned in the turbulent waters of the Green Fork. Whoever it was that Lord Dondarrion had given his life for was not Catelyn Stark in any way, shape, or form, and the presence of Eddard Stark would only derail her revenge—no, her justice—and she couldn't afford that. No matter what he'd achieved with the liberation of the Twins, there'd always be more Freys, more Boltons, more Lannisters to enter her noose. There'd always be more.

Lady Stoneheart stood and walked away, the members of the Brotherhood trailing after her as she entered the darkness of the woods once again. They'd rest later, but for now they just needed to get away from the man on the floor, who was still staring desperately up at her as blood poured from his face.

No-one saw the tear that brimmed in her eye.

As they rode through the gates of the Twins an hour or so before dawn, they were accosted by Lyanna, dark rings under her eyes, and her hands shaking with nerves.

'Ned! Brynden! Gods, Ned, where have you been! Who did that to your face!? Quick, get inside, go to the maester!'

'No-one did it, Lya,' he murmured, drained, as he looked North with sadness in his eyes. 'She…it was no-one.'

A/N: Bonjour lads, another chapter is done for your reading pleasure-I know that a lot of you were looking forward to Walder Frey getting what he deserved and the first meeting between Ned and Lady Stoneheart (who, just to emphasise, is no longer Catelyn Stark), and I hope you like who I did it. If you didn't, know that I don't give a shit. This is my story, not yours.

As usual, feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and a massive thank you to all of you who already have. If it weren't for your support and feedback, chances are I'd have given up on this a while ago.

Tune in next time for the Wacky adventures of Aegon, Robb, Oberyn, and Arthur as they leave Dorne and head to Meereen.

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

MiguelGiuliano .co- Thank you, glad you enjoyed it! As for the guy that you call the OC, I hadn't planned for him to really be a character, but who knows? Maybe he'll pop up again.

Kingmanaena-Cheers! I'd have liked to have written a fight, but as I'm sure you've seen, I'm not the best at writing figt scenes. Glad you still enjoyed it though.

ficreader2011-Thank you!

DarthMaine-He probably wouldn't care that much to be honest-in all accounts of the aftermath of the tragedy at summerhall, it refers to Gerold as being young-that implies that they probably wouldn't be too close, but more like professional colleagues. To be honest, I reckon Dunk would be more disappointed at how low the Kingsguard has fallen. I don't think there'll be any more post-rebellion characters for now, although I do think that Tywin would have been very useful as a commander in the war against the dead. As for Barristan, he's still alive, as he is in the books, although Dany will be in Meereen, as she is in the show. Again, sorry for the weird mixture of canon.

King Of Yawns-Cheers, glad you liked the chapter! In terms of writing, there's no harm in trying again and again until your satisfied with the end result. As for the rest of it-Bezos was given 250 grand by his parents to bail himself out in the noughties, and has profited massively off the labour of badly treated and underpaid workers while denying them basic human rights (food, toilets, fair wages), Zuckerberg came from money and only had the reputation he had becasue his parents had payed tens of thousands of dollars for tutoring in coding before Harvard (and isn't exactly a role model anyway, given how he's trying to force native Hawaiians off their land just so he can have another mansion), and Buffett was the son of a US congressman. I'm not saying that they're not independently skilled, but they were able to prosper because they came from a position of privilege in an era of democracy, as opposed to the peasantry in a medieval feudal society, which was what the point was about. Still, glad you enjoyed the chapter!

TianYi-I'll say now, neither of them will be coming back-Rhaenyra would not be especially useful given the role she played in the Dance of the Dragons and how unpopular she'd been since, and quite frankly there are already too many bloody Aegons (the Conqueror, Young Griff (?), and Egg)-not to mention that none of the others would be of much use in the Long Night.

InfinityMask-Thank you! Really glad you've enjoyed it so far, and appreciate all the reviews. I'm not gonna answer all your questions, but here's a few answers-the Lann in the story is Lann the Clever (aka the one who nicked Casterly Rock), as I've played a bit fast and loose with dates and ages given how unreliable oral history is (as in, the three of them were all from the age of heroes). With Robert in King's Landing, you're absolutely right that people would notice-he was there for less than a day, with his hood up the entire time, and they still found him-still, he'd be younger than they'd expect, so most would just believe him to be one of Robert's bastards. As for Arya, she's still doing her thing across the narrow sea, but will appear in the future.