Chapter 13: The Day of the Reckoning
The cell was cold, damp, and dark.
Over the past year and a half, Catelyn Tully, widow of Stark, had learned to hate. But she had never hated as much as when she saw the man slowly descending the stairs, leaning on one of his nephews like a crutch, to visit her.
Walder Frey was ninety years old and grew more wrinkled every day, but he never seemed to decide to die. That day, the devilish man had a sadistic smile on his face, as if he were taking particular pleasure in what he was about to say or do. In his free hand, he held a scroll.
"What are you here for? To mock me?"
"Indeed, yes, Lady Stark," he replied in an irreverent tone. "Ever since we brought you to the walls to show you to your uncle, his troops have vanished. Taking you into custody was a wise choice."
Catelyn stood up and spat in his face through the bars.
"You scoundrel! I asked you for bread and salt! You... you violated the ancient laws of hospitality just to capture me! You've defied everything sacred! Men and gods will not forget this!"
"Oh, but I haven't done you any harm... not yet, at least," he remarked, wiping his face with one hand. "And I will continue not to harm you, as long as your son, the Young Wolf, stays away from here. In fact, it seems he has forgotten about you."
Catelyn stepped closer to the bars, extending an arm to try to claw his eyes out, but she was just slightly too far away.
"My son will have your head. My son is the KING!"
"Wrong, Lady Stark: Stannis Baratheon is the rightful king. And when I learned of this, as a loyal subject, I couldn't help but side with him..."
"My father was always right about you! The Late Lord, he called you! I bet even at the Trident you arrived late because you wanted to support Rhaegar, not Ned and Robert!"
"Who knows... I think you'll never satisfy that curiosity of yours, Lady Catelyn. In the meantime, I'll satisfy another of your curiosities: the reason for my presence here. Alas, it saddens me to give you such tragic news, but... your sister is dead. I wanted you to hear it from me."
"Dead? Lysa dead? How?"
"It seems the poor madwoman killed herself by throwing herself from the Moon Door. Isn't it ironic? She made so many people fly through that door to amuse her little boy, and in the end, she went flying herself."
Catelyn sat down, bewildered.
How was it possible that Lysa had taken her own life? She cared about her son more than anything. She would never have left him alone.
And yet... why did she feel nothing?
Was it because she had realized, deep down, that her sister was indeed mad?
Because the last time they had seen each other, after letting the Imp escape, Lysa had threatened to throw her out the Moon Door for suggesting her son be raised at Winterfell with his cousins?
Or was she simply becoming numb, piece by piece?
"And so," Walder continued, casting her a cruel look, "I want you to know: no one is coming to your rescue. Soon, Stannis Baratheon and Roose Bolton will defeat your son, and my grandsons will sit at Riverrun as the supreme lords of the Trident."
He left, chuckling, while Catelyn seethed with rage.
The Twins were a peculiar castle. As the name suggested, two large towers, surrounded by walls, rose above the keep of a fortress, one on each bank of the river, connected by a bridge—the only way to cross that river for hundreds of miles. It made no sense for anyone to be able to pass beneath the bridge by boat, so heavy iron grates descended from the stone edge to several meters below the water level, allowing fish to pass but blocking anything larger than a pig.
The problem lay in the Moat Cailin marshes farther north: from there, across the Neck, pieces of mangrove often broke off—ghastly tangles of vines, sometimes as small as a palm, other times as large as a cart—and floated down the river, eventually getting stuck in the grates. When this happened, the guards on duty at the towers—each tower had many arrow slits, including ones facing downward—would sooner or later notice, curse the inconvenience, and call someone to lean out with long poles to untangle the mess.
That night, on a moonless evening, three or four large bundles of mangrove had become stuck in the grates, and the sentinels on both sides went to summon the servants. The arrow slits near the grates, close to the water, were quite large—large enough for someone to lean out and work—bigger than those on the other sides, since no one could attack them from the river.
From within the mangrove bundles, four grappling hooks were thrown upward, hooking onto a window in each tower and two more in the center of the bridge.
Along the ropes attached to the hooks, four small dark figures for each rope silently climbed the wall.
Those near the windows quickly slipped into the guard posts just before the sentinels returned with the servants.
Those who climbed onto the bridge did so carefully, avoiding the guards patrolling back and forth in the near-total darkness... but as soon as they were all safely on the stone, the small men clad in furs crouched, waited for the sentinels to turn their backs... and before they could spot them, they shot them down with arrows from the small bows slung over their shoulders, felling them silently.
Meanwhile, those who had entered the guard posts waited for the return of the sentinel and the servant with the pole, pressing themselves against the wall as the doors reopened. Then they leapt on them, slitting their throats with knives. Taking the keys from the sentinels, they cautiously entered the dark corridors.
It took some time—and they certainly had to kill other guards with poisoned arrows—before both groups reached the large gates on either side of the bridge, one in the east tower and the other in the west.
The west tower was first, and they quietly opened not the massive gate for troops but the smaller guard door, finding four companions waiting.
Those on the east side, seeing this, made animal-like noises with their mouths to signal a delay, and five tense minutes later, their door also opened, giving the all-clear signal to their comrades.
Then, two small men—one on each end of the bridge—lit tiny torches with flint, waved them three times over their heads, and threw them into the river simultaneously.
At that signal, twenty boats filled with other small men, a mile to the north, silently slid into the water and began paddling southward.
A couple of days later, Robb Stark, along with a good part of his troops, waited anxiously on the eastern bank of the river near Sweetwillow. The King sat with one foot on a rock, nervously gazing northward. Smalljon and Dacey, as always, stood by his side.
"Sire, do you really believe that..." Dacey began to ask.
"I'm sure of it. They must," the King replied impatiently.
And twenty minutes later, his patience was rewarded. At first, it was one. Then two, then four. Finally, twenty dark dots in the distance grew larger as they approached, transforming into rowing boats carried by the current.
"There they are!"
Robb's enthusiasm spread into a confused cheer from his troops. But the King wouldn't cheer. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He had to be certain. He had to see it with his own eyes.
The first boat began to row toward their shore, and as it got closer, Robb was sure. Sitting among the small men with long beards and dressed in furs—the Crannogmen of the Neck—was his mother.
Catelyn Stark disembarked from the boat, slightly stiff from the long journey, and her son rushed to her. In the past, he had avoided embracing her in public, but at that moment, he didn't care at all.
"Mother! Mother, you're… safe. Thank the gods."
Catelyn looked at him as if she couldn't believe it herself, cupped his face in her hands, and then returned the embrace.
"Robb, I… yes, I'm fine. Don't worry. It's all over."
"I should have realized sooner. I should have..."
"There's nothing to apologize for, Robb. It was naïve of me to trust that snake."
"Where is he?" His tone was chilling.
As the boats docked, the men disembarked, roughly escorting the prisoners they had captured. Most of them were women and children, bound with their arms behind their backs.
From a boat in the center of the convoy, an old man disembarked, escorted by a small Crannogman with a long beard.
"Robb, allow me to introduce Howland Reed, my savior. Your father's best friend."
The man bowed. "It's an honor to meet you, my King. I loved your father as though he were my own brother."
"And I will never be able to thank you enough for what you've done, my Lord, I assure you," Robb replied, then cast a look of deep disgust at the old man, who had collapsed to his knees, unable to stand on his own.
"Walder Frey," Robb said, as if just uttering the name disgusted him. He realized it was the first time he had seen him in person. The old man raised his head to look at him, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.
"My servants… my guards… you…"
Robb struck him with a backhanded slap, making him spit blood.
"This man had the escorts I sent with me murdered, Robb," said Catelyn venomously. "Among them was the third son of Lord Blackwood. AFTER we had requested bread and salt. He VIOLATED HOSPITALITY to capture me. He killed men he had sworn to feed and protect. He broke all the laws of gods and men. And he placed their heads to decorate his battlements."
"Don't worry, Mother. This pig will pay," Robb promised.
The Freys had been sent ahead as the vanguard of Stannis' troops. And it wasn't hard for them to see that their patriarch, Lord Walder, was tied to a large wooden gallows in the center of the plain, wearing nothing but a nightshirt.
Similarly, the women and children of their house—wives, sons, daughters, cousins, uncles, and aunts—were locked in a wooden pen nearby, surrounded by archers.
Ryman swallowed. "What do we do, Lothar?"
Lothar replied coldly, "What do you think we do? We've gone too far to turn back now."
"But our families…"
"The Young Wolf barks but doesn't bite," said Black Walder dismissively. "He didn't kill Lord Bracken's daughters, and he won't kill ours either. He cares too much about his damned honor. Trust me, it's all for show."
"But he might still kill the patriarch."
Lothar sneered. "Why, Ryman? Were you eager to wait for a few more years before inheriting?"
Robb stood beside Walder—held upright by ropes binding his wrists—and watched the spectacle of the Frey vanguard responding to their signals by waving a black banner to say "NO."
He personally lifted Walder Frey's chin, forcing him to look up.
"Look. I want you to see it clearly: those are your sons and grandsons, Lord Walder... refusing to surrender. In other words, none of them give a damn about you.
They've probably had enough of putting up with you, more than the rest of us. Or maybe they've simply grown tired of waiting for you to do them the favor of dying."
"CURSE YOU, ROBB STARK! I WILL SEE YOU DEAD! STANNIS AND LORD BOLTON WILL DESTROY YOU!"
"No, I will see you dead, you old fool, and very soon.
But don't worry, whoever wins the next battle... you will lose.
Everything you've done in your miserable life—every trick, every cowardice, every betrayal, every deceit—was for your family.
Well, there they are, your family. A bunch of vile, loathsome creatures who would sell their own mothers for a bowl of soup. Then again, a clan spawned by someone like you couldn't turn out any differently. This is what you've always wanted: enjoy it."
"YOU'RE NOT A REAL KING! YOU'RE NOTHING! YOU BROKE THE PACT WITH MY GRANDDAUGHTER!"
"Come to think of it, old Walder, you've done nothing in your life but misuse your tongue and misuse your cock. In both cases, with truly disappointing results. Perhaps the gods played a trick on you. Maybe they put one where the other was supposed to be. Maybe they swapped them. I'm eager to correct that mistake"
"Men," he commanded, and two executioners stepped forward. "Rip the tongue out of this old donkey. I've grown tired of hearing him babble. And after, feed it to the dogs."
"WHAT? NOOO—UMGHMPHH!"
"And then," Robb added coldly, "castrate him.
Castrate him, and then shove his own cock into his mouth.
That way, I won't even hear his pathetic little screams afterward."
"Yes, my King, but that way... he'll bleed to death."
"Then let him die. I want his sons over there to see it."
What came to be known as the Second Battle of the Trident took place shortly thereafter, slightly further south in the open fields near the Crossroads Inn.
Stannis believed it was a sign of destiny: it was where his brother had defeated and killed Rhaegar to claim the throne.
"Here, everything begins… or everything ends. It's all in the hands of the gods."
Robb, meanwhile, moved around his base camp, overseeing the preparations and resolute to end things once and for all.
By mere chance, he came across Loras Tyrell, who was cleaning a suit of armor and oiling its joints.
"And where did that come from?" his king asked. "I don't believe it's yours."
"It isn't," the young knight replied. "It was his. I had sworn to use it, but… it was too big for me. Now that we've had some respite, I had a blacksmith down in the village fit it for me. One way or another, everything ends today. It felt right to wear it… for closure."
Robb nodded in understanding, which Loras appreciated. Both knew the weight of revenge.
The site of the battle wasn't far from the old inn where Tyrion had been captured by Catelyn some time before (an inn that Tywin Lannister later burned down). It was at the crossroads of the King's Road, running north to south, the River Road to the west, and the High Road to the east, toward the Vale.
A wide, rocky plain stretched between the river and the mountains, occasionally grassy on the left side near the Trident, which began just a bit farther south at the confluence of the Tumblestone, Blue Fork, and Green Fork.
Scattered rocks rose here and there, and only two woods broke the monotony of the terrain—one at the base of the mountains, the other stretching across the King's Road and extending to the river.
Robb had just around forty thousand men, having lost very few during the months of guerrilla warfare and leaving only five hundred at Riverrun and another five hundred at Harrenhal.
Stannis still held a slight numerical advantage, though it was now less pronounced.
Three thousand of his men had been killed during the guerrilla fighting, and almost none had been lost in his efforts to destroy the Faith Militant.
Moreover, seven thousand of his troops had fallen prisoner, and another sixteen thousand had deserted after the septons' executions, leaving him outnumbered for the first time since Renly's death.
However, thanks to conscripts from the Crownlands he had forced into service, he once again held an edge of about seven or eight thousand men, commanding just under fifty thousand soldiers, around forty-eight thousand.
Robb was determined to end the conflict once and for all. The position was not disadvantageous, and the enemy approached by mid-morning.
Most of the Allied officers and even the soldiers had grown accustomed to fighting together, doing so with efficiency and cohesion.
Morale was not low: with part of their enemies dealt with, the men felt they had turned a corner and believed they could win.
While waiting for Stannis's armies to meet them, Robb turned to his uncle, Edmure Tully, standing beside him.
"Nervous, Uncle?"
"Relieved, actually. One way or another, this ends today."
"You doubt we'll manage?"
"Not at all, Sire. I realize we've done everything we needed to turn the tide in our favor… so I know we'll succeed.
Robb, I… I know this might sound strange, but I feel like I've witnessed something monumental. I'm seeing history unfold in real time. And I have to admit… in doing so, I've realized my own weaknesses.
I've made a lot of mistakes—during the first phase when the Lannisters invaded, splitting my forces and letting us be soundly defeated; and after your first victory over Jaime, when sending the lords home led many to their deaths… like young Darry, who was killed by the Mountain… now his ancient house is extinct."
"We all make mistakes; I guess we can only learn from them so we don't make them again."
"True…"
Stannis had not fought the Young Wolf for nothing: he was determined to avoid falling into further traps. He was also aware of the value of many commanders on his opponent's side, such as Randyll Tarly and Brynden Tully, among others.
He sought Roose Bolton's advice on how best to deploy the fresh Crownlands troops. The Lord of the Dreadfort suggested sending them forward first, to the slaughter, as punishment for their wavering loyalty, and using them to test Robb Stark's plan before employing his own veterans for a final assault once the strategy was clear.
But this time, the King ignored him. It seemed a pointless waste of resources, and he feared—as had almost happened to him at the Gods Eye and as had later befallen his enemy—that easily routed troops might turn and flee, crushing their own ranks or impeding their movement.
Thus, he did the opposite, placing the recruits in the rear as a reserve to attack at the right moment, while using his veterans to anchor the main battle lines.
The Freys, to their great frustration, were placed almost at the forefront, under the pretense that they were seasoned warriors familiar with the enemy. The actual reason was to make sure they wouldn't desert, given their families were hostages.
Roose Bolton and Rodrik Ryswell commanded two wings of cavalry, positioned on the right and left flanks, respectively.
The King himself, along with Justin Massey—who had performed well during the guerrilla fighting—commanded two of the main infantry battalions in the center.
Archers, shielded on all sides by light infantry, were placed on the flanks behind the cavalry to provide support and open gaps for the horsemen to exploit.
Robb, meanwhile, had reunited the forces that had been divided for so long, and he intended to use the terrain to his advantage, as was his habit.
The battle took place on a plain between two woods: one crossed by the King's Road before reaching the village of Sweetwillow, with the river on the left; the other at the base of the mountains to the right.
His troops were partially concealed by the rocky ground, and during the enemy's advance, a signal was given.
Two cavalry columns, much larger in number, launched their attack: one, led by the Greatjon, charged Roose Bolton's unit; the other, commanded by Garlan Tyrell, engaged Rodrik Ryswell.
The purpose of this double assault, mirroring the enemy's formation, was to disrupt Stannis's strategy. His cavalry, less numerous, was meant to coordinate with the archers, who in turn needed to be protected from enemy attacks but were expected to face infantry, not cavalry, which was less vulnerable.
The heavily armored columns struck their targets like a hammer. The Greatjon himself sought to kill Roose Bolton with his massive sword but only managed to slay his horse, sending him crashing to the ground, where he was narrowly rescued by his men.
Meanwhile, Stannis's cavalry, realizing their predicament, turned to reposition themselves behind pikemen rushing to their aid. However, in turning back, they ended up blocking the very archers and crossbowmen they were meant to shield, preventing them from firing without risking their own comrades.
Shortly after, these archers were reached by enemy riders who cut them to pieces. The men on horseback overran them, killed as many as they could along their path, and then… seeing themselves reached by pikemen, they turned back and retreated, in an arc, both on one side and the other, showing admirable coordination.
Stannis: "It is clear they have fought together and learned to work as one... MEN! Do not chase them too far! It is surely another trap!"
Indeed, the two cavalry columns, having fulfilled their task (Garlan had faced and wounded Rodrik Ryswell, who fell into the water and drowned), allowed themselves to be pursued by the pikemen, who broke their ranks to give chase... only to be surprised by two large battalions of archers from the Riverlands, who had been hidden in the woods, of all places, and who emerged to cover their comrades' retreat, showering the enemy with a barrage of arrows in two different directions, striking both the flanks and the center of the opposing formation, which could not retaliate since their own archers had just been annihilated.
After several men fell, the loyalist army regrouped: the infantry stopped wielding their pikes two-handed, as was customary when facing cavalry, halted, and re-formed their ranks, erecting an ever-effective shield wall to minimize the damage. Once the volleys ceased, the archers returned to the woods.
Justin Massey approached his King: "Sire, I fear those units might torment us again; it would be better to flush them out of there. We could try burning the woods, as they did at the God's Eye."
Stannis sniffed the wind, then said: "Better not; today the wind blows from the northwest to the southeast; the smoke would blow back on us.
Besides, we don't need to make them retreat—we need to force them out into the open to confront them. As long as they use the terrain to stay hidden, they'll ambush us: we need a way to lure them out in the open.
Order the infantry to advance, but watch out for those rocky formations ahead: divide the vanguard into multiple platoons of a hundred men each and coordinate them."
In this way, however, the vanguard could not properly utilize the shield wall nor fight with long spears, which would be cumbersome; they were soon attacked by other formations of infantry—northerners and men of the Reach—who engaged them in fierce hand-to-hand combat.
The remaining royal cavalry was gathered and ordered to skirt the rocks on the right side and strike the enemy from behind.
Yet, as they moved to do so, they were assaulted by formations of pikemen with long spears, who also emerged from the forest, surprising them and inflicting heavy damage, preventing them from reaching their target.
"They are countering us move for move," Justin Massey groaned.
"The Young Wolf has shown himself skilled many times in tactics, but he won't think he's the only one!" Stannis growled.
Then he sounded the retreat.
His men, in good order, began to withdraw (while much of his vanguard, including the Freys, was being slaughtered), slowly but unmistakably...
… and then the Allies emerged from the forest and attacked head-on.
The infantry, composed of three large divisions led by Robb, the Blackfish, and Randyll Tarly, advanced boldly, even charging on foot (despite taking some losses while exposed to the surviving crossbowmen), ultimately engaging the enemy head-on: shield wall against shield wall, long spears against long spears.
Yet, the strongest assault units, wielding massive axes and iron maces, began to carve a path through the thicket of enemy spears, shielded by their comrades, and after breaking through the first lines, fierce hand-to-hand combat erupted.
Some men swore they saw Grey Wind leap over the spears and slash two men's throats in quick succession.
Stannis's troops continued to fall back... and that's when the trap was sprung.
While retreating, the King had his center pull back, advancing the wings simultaneously, bolstered on both sides by his rear guard of recruits, split into two flanks and advancing, concealed from view by their comrades.
Until Robb Stark's infantry found themselves practically surrounded on three sides, with Stannis's army forming a wide arc, similar in shape to a half moon, threatening to close in a sinister embrace...
Robb Stark himself gave the order to form a circular formation, lowering spears in all directions to hinder the enemy's advance…
Stannis Baratheon smirked.
Who was the better strategist now?
Yet neither Robb nor his commanders seemed perturbed.
Roose Bolton, carried by two of his men, cast a glance at his former liege lord.
And he suddendly had an epiphany.
"No! Stop! It's a trick! They planned to get surrounded! Check the…"
At that moment, archers led by Theon Greyjoy emerged from the forest once again. They began a dense volley of arrows onto the enemy units now facing away, presenting excellent targets. When some of the sergeants noticed, they scrambled to redeploy divisions, form new shield walls, and advance on them, pikes at the ready... determined to chase them into the woods and eliminate them if necessary…
And now it was Robb's turn to smirk.
The cavalry, which had retreated and hidden behind the forest near their camp, had made a wide circuit, re-emerging at just that moment.
Splitting into two branches, in a "Y" shape, they plunged into Stannis's forces like a knife through butter, striking in two directions, right and left, always from the outside, creating a second encirclement and targeting the recruits on the outer flanks.
Now the King's lines, having stretched to encircle their enemy, had become thinner and less deep, effectively nullifying their numerical advantage, as they could not bring their strength to bear at a single point for a decisive impact.
The northern cavalry encircled the loyalist infantry on the forest side, while their Tyrell counterparts broke the encirclement on the river side.
Particularly terrifying for the already-surprised men was the appearance of a warrior in green armor, with a helmet adorned with stag antlers.
"It's Renly! RENLY BARATHEON COME BACK TO LIFE!"
"He's come to help Robb Stark! He is the true King!"
"It's his ghost! He's come to make his brother pay for murdering him!"
"We'll all end up in the Seven Hells! We should never have followed Stannis, the kinslayer!"
The knight with the stag antlers, beyond the terror he inspired, fought as if possessed, swinging blows left and right, mowing down men like stalks of wheat.
Once the enemy formations were broken, Robb's infantry, which had been "surrounded," found itself in an excellent position to counterattack.
They did so with renewed vigor, leveraging the greater pressure against the now-thinned enemy lines and taking advantage of the morale boost caused by the reversal of fortune.
Stannis began grinding his teeth, his face green with rage, and was forced to order his troops to retreat, as they were truly being slaughtered this time.
His intention was to abandon the two "wings," now lost, and try to regroup his central formations for a counterattack with sheer numerical force.
However, the enemy continued to press them relentlessly.
"Careful, Robb, don't give him a moment's rest," shouted Blackfish. "If he manages to counterattack, he'll try to pivot left to push the Tyrell cavalry into the river!"
"Tsk! And I'd keep an eye on those pikemen near the forest," Randyll Tarly echoed.
Indeed, the pikemen who had pursued Theon's archers realized they had made a mistake, leaving their flank exposed to enemy attacks.
Fixing their formation didn't take long, though: they formed two thinner lines—a shield wall facing the forest to defend against the archers and another facing the battlefield to protect themselves as they advanced with lowered lances, intending to strike the Greatjon's cavalry from behind as they tore through the Crownlands recruits.
They had already engaged the enemy—with some consternation among their commanders—when, in the distance, the sound of trumpets and approaching hoofbeats echoed, and the ground began to tremble.
Robb smiled. "They're here."
And indeed, they arrived soon after.
Emerging to the right from the high road leading through the mountains, the Knights of the Vale had arrived.
They were magnificent: the most powerful cavalry force in the Seven Kingdoms and the best equipped. Eight thousand knights, elite forces mounted on imposing white and gray warhorses with long bardings.
Their riders wore chainmail, plate armor, small round or triangular shields, and, as they approached, they lowered their long lances for the charge. All carried swords at their waists as secondary weapons, and some also bore one-handed axes or maces.
They descended like an unstoppable river of flesh, steel, lances, and banners bearing the sigils of their noble houses, crashing into the rear of Stannis Baratheon's main army.
Men who weren't impaled by the lances were trampled by the galloping horses.
The formation forced its way through, splitting the still large Baratheon army into two halves as they pushed their way through to the other side.
Robb adjusted his movements accordingly, halting his advance and ordering his infantry to spread out, allowing the reinforcements to pass through their ranks unharmed.
Then, as if following a prearranged signal, the knights continued their charge without apparent purpose to the end of the battlefield, before some of them veered sharply to the right.
They returned, executing a three-pronged attack from behind against the pikemen near the forest who had been assaulting Greatjon.
Horses aren't foolish enough to charge into a forest of leveled pikes, but the knights' lances were longer, lighter, and tipped with sharper steel.
Meanwhile, the shield wall began to tremble under the impact of Greatjon and his men, who had dismounted to fight on foot with swords, and weakened further under a relentless hail of arrows.
When the new allies arrived with their lances lowered and enhanced by greater kinetic force, the shield wall crumbled.
Similarly, on the opposite side, a second company led by Lyn Corbray, wielding Lady Forlorn, shimmering in the morning sun, came to Garlan Tyrell's aid near the river.
At the center of the charge, a commanding knight clad in bronze-plated armor engraved with runes over a steel breastplate lifted the visor of his helm, revealing penetrating eyes and a thick but well-groomed white beard.
"I presume you are 'Bronze' Yohn Royce. I recall we met a couple of years ago at Winterfell."
"And you must be Robb Stark. Your Grace, the Vale offers its apologies. Last time, during the Mad King's reign, we were the first to raise our banners. This time, we are the last to arrive."
"You will be forgiven, Ser Royce. But we still have work to do."
"With pleasure," replied the old warrior, who was clearly still enjoying himself. He lowered his visor and turned his horse to charge again.
Theon's archers, who had considered leaving the forest to attack Stannis's infantry from behind, moved just in time to avoid being trampled by the charging Vale knights.
Now they did the opposite, emerging on the other side, maneuvering around the enemy, and positioning themselves safely behind allied infantry and cavalry, ready to support the advance after being unable to shoot for fear of hitting their own allies.
Robb ordered his infantry to regroup into two larger divisions and charge each of the halves into which Stannis Baratheon's army had been split.
Meanwhile, on the flanks, Crownlands soldiers—dragged into this war against their will—began to throw down their weapons and surrender in masses, convincing also others, more experienced soldiers to follow suit.
Stannis's veterans, led by him and Justin Massey—almost all Stormlands infantry—proved to be much tougher opponents.
However, they were shaken by the collapse of their plan and the sudden appearance of new enemies. The specter of defeat loomed large on their faces.
A fierce volley of arrows broke their ranks further, heralding the final assault.
Amid the thick of battle, Robb noticed a young knight from the Vale clad in red and white armor fighting furiously, slashing with his sword and cutting down foes left and right: Mychel Redfort, heir to Lord Horton.
Randyll Tarly reached Justin Massey and gravely wounded him with his Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane.
A final encircling maneuver by Yohn Royce's column of knights finally made the last enemies understand the futility of further resistance.
Robb himself stepped forward and shouted, loud enough for all to hear, that he did not wish for a total massacre and that all who surrendered would be spared.
Despite Stannis Baratheon's protests, most of his men dropped their weapons, raised their arms, and chose life.
When it was all over, Robb, exhilarated, mounted his horse and proclaimed the end of the war.
Three enormous cheers echoed in response, shaking the ground all the way to the Vale of Arryn.
"LONG LIVE ROBB STARK!"
"LONG LIVE THE YOUNG WOLF!"
"LONG LIVE OUR NEW KING!"
As the battlefield was an indistinct cloud of dust, obscuring friends and foes, prisoners and victors alike, the commanders tried to gather and collect their thoughts, still charged with adrenaline from the triumph they had achieved.
Garlan approached Robb and congratulated him, to which Robb returned the compliments for his excellent work. The two brothers-in-law exchanged a brief embrace, and then the knight asked his King:
"But… the Knights of the Vale? How is this possible? Did you… know about their arrival? Is that why we positioned ourselves on this plain, so close to the road to the Eyrie? To lure Stannis Baratheon into a trap?"
Robb replied simply: "I was informed of their arrival. By a raven. But I tried to organize everything to win even without them. And I wanted to act quickly to catch Stannis off guard, otherwise, he would have holed up behind the walls of King's Landing, and it would have never ended."
As he walked away, the middle Tyrell brother felt genuine admiration for his King.
Robb Stark went to speak directly with Yohn Royce and the other Lords and commanders of the Vale to whom he owed the day, at least in part.
After the introductions and exchanges of compliments, Lord Horton Redfort, a short and stocky man with gray hair and beard, said to him:
"By the way, Your Grace. There may be someone you'd like to see. After all, it's thanks to her that we're here today."
Now it was Robb's turn to be surprised.
Slowly, advancing amidst the knights, as she had remained at the rear with her horse and arrived only now, accompanied by a beautiful young woman in her twenties holding the reins of spare horses, was a girl.
Robb, despite all the emotions of the day, felt faint.
It's not possible. I don't believe it. This isn't Winterfell. The gods aren't that merciful.
She had tears in her eyes as she looked at him, approaching and staring into his face.
It was Sansa. Older than the last time, but there was no doubt.
He ran to her as he was, in armor, dirty and sweaty.
They embraced in a moment that lasted an eternity. Both were crying like fountains, unconcerned with the world around them.
When they pulled apart, they both struggled to find words.
Then Robb said:
"Wait until I show you to our mother… she was nearly driven mad with worry… she's here at the camp, you know?"
"What? Our mother is here?"
"Yes, it's a long story, but… how is it possible?
How are you here?
And what do they mean it's all thanks to you?"
[AT THE EYRIE: A FEW DAYS EARLIER.]
In a room with uncomfortable stone benches arranged in a semicircle sat six Lords. Littlefinger was the seventh, standing at their center so that everyone could see and hear him equally.
For the first time in his life, the man with the goatee did not seem entirely at ease. He was aware that this would be a tough challenge.
The six Lords before him were Yohn Royce of the main Royce house, Anya Waynwood, Horton Redfort, Benedar Belmore, Gilwood Hunter, and Symond Templeton, all heads of their respective houses.
They had named themselves the Lords Declarant and had started rallying their troops in utter secrecy long before their Liege Lady's death. It was their intention to actually force her into a standoff and force her to declare for Robb.
But as they were planning this "betrayal" they were reached by the news of their Lady's suspicious death, that their new liege Lord claimed as suicide.
The Lord Declarants were not satisfied with this response and vowed to uncover the truth behind Lady Lysa Arryn's death at any cost and ensure that the governance of the Vale and its heir, the small Robert, were in capable hands.
To assert this principle, they had brought around six thousand knights to block the entrance to the Vale, preventing supplies from entering and people from leaving until they achieved what they wanted.
Among the most notable houses, only the Corbrays and the Graftons were absent, as they were the closest to Littlefinger, as well as the cadet Royces, who had recently been granted lands by his decree around the Moon Gate.
"My Lords," the man said patiently, "I understand your concerns, of course, but I assure you that—"
"What you assure us doesn't matter, Lord Baelish," barked Yohn Royce. "As you may have realized, we do not trust you."
"All we care about," added Anya Waynwood, "is the welfare of the Vale and of the rightful heir of Jon Arryn."
"And if it turns out that you were involved in your wife's death," Lord Redfort concluded, "well then…" —he made a throat-cutting gesture for emphasis.
Littlefinger sighed. He was confident he could handle this as always.
But this time, he couldn't be sure.
"Regardless," Lord Hunter continued, "we have no intention of putting you on trial based on mere suspicion. We will conduct a proper inquiry, and based on the results, we will make decisions. And we will start immediately."
"Let her in," said Symond Templeton.
Baelish's eyes widened.
He hadn't expected this.
In theory, no one knew she was also there.
The doors opened, and Alayne Stone, humble and contrite, wrapped in a large cloak, entered slowly into the room, keeping her gaze downcast.
As she passed before all of them and then sat on the stool prepared for her, she cast a fleeting glance at Petyr. He broke into a cold sweat.
Looking from one Lord to the other—as if unsure whom to address—the girl appeared timid and insecure, as though they might devour her at any moment.
"I… I don't know how I should behave," she began.
"Calm, girl, calm," said Symond Templeton. "I assure you, no one here wants to harm you."
Anya Waynwood did more. She leaned forward, took the girl's hand in hers in a motherly gesture, looked her in the eye, and said:
"Even more than that. No one here CAN harm you. Do you understand? You're safe. So feel absolutely free to tell the whole truth without fear. There will be no repercussions of any kind. We only want… for you to tell us what happened, leaving nothing out."
The girl had teary eyes, as if she were recalling something terrible.
She nodded, then turned to Littlefinger and said, "I'm sorry, Lord Baelish, but I'll have to be honest." He nodded and lowered his gaze.
She looked back at the Declarant Lords, as if unsure where to start.
"My Lords, I must begin with an uncomfortable truth.
Lord Baelish has lied to you."
Six pairs of ears perked up at that statement, hopeful.
"I AM NOT ACTUALLY HIS DAUGHTER."
"And… and then who would you be?" asked Lady Waynwood.
"I'm just a poor girl fleeing the war. My name isn't important, not for now.
Lord Baelish has been very kind to me; he had a debt to my family and promised them he would help me, educate me, and give me a position. And so he did.
I owe him everything," she added, giving him a warm, grateful smile.
"And… Lady Lysa, was she aware of this?" asked Lord Belmore, leaning forward.
"Oh, of course, my Lords. Didn't it seem strange to you that Lord Baelish would bring his illegitimate daughter to court while intending to court and marry his childhood love?
Wouldn't that have been an insult to her?
And didn't it seem odd that Lady Lysa agreed to it without objecting and even allowed that girl—someone she hardly knew—to manage her castle and learn many of its secrets?
Do you think she would have tolerated it if I had been a bastard? As you know… she was a very proud woman."
"Uhm… in fact, that does make more sense," reflected Yohn Royce.
"Even among the Starks, the presence of that Jon Snow in Winterfell caused embarrassment and anger in Lady Catelyn… and she was far more level-headed than our Lady, her sister, pardon my boldness."
"Oh, nothing to pardon, Lord Royce. We know you're right," smirked Lord Hunter.
"And then?" Lord Redfort pressed. "What happened that day?"
Alayne darkened.
"Right. That terrible day.
Forgive me, my Lords, but just thinking about it gives me shivers," the girl seemed on the verge of tears, evoking looks of sympathy from the Lords present.
"Well, Lady Lysa summoned me to the throne room alone. It seemed strange because she'd never done that before.
But then… she began yelling at me, saying she'd seen Lord Baelish kissing me."
"What? And was it true?" asked Anya Waynwood.
"Well, YES.
But… it was only a kiss on the cheek, an innocent gesture, like that of a father and daughter!" Alayne swore, tears in her eyes, the very image of wounded dignity.
"It had happened before, even in public; Lord Baelish had to appear affectionate to maintain the cover, but he has always behaved honorably toward me, I swear it, my Lords!"
"And… what did Lady Lysa say?" asked Templeton.
"She… forgive me, but I'm still shaken. She said HORRIBLE things to me.
She called me a harlot, accused me of being Lord Baelish's lover, of trying to take him from her… she seemed hysterical… I… I had never seen her like that," she concluded, with genuine astonishment.
Many of the Lords looked down, embarrassed.
"Well, in fact…" began Lord Horton.
"It's unpleasant to say, but Lady Lysa… never fully recovered after Lord Arryn's death… we could say she wasn't entirely stable in the head," ventured Lord Hunter.
"Just say she was mad!" barked Yohn Royce. "Just look at how she treated her son. She was still nursing him, and the boy is EIGHT years old!"
"And then, dear? What happened next?" asked Lady Waynwood.
Alayne suppressed a sob.
"And… and t-then she… she grabbed me by the hair and… dragged me to the ground and… threatened… threatened to throw me through the Moon Door!" she concluded before breaking into desperate sobs.
A series of shocked and ashamed expressions appeared on the faces of the Lords. They gave the girl a moment to collect herself.
"Let it all out, dear, don't worry," Lady Waynwood told her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Continue only when you feel ready."
"And… and after that," she continued, sniffling, "Lord Baelish entered the room. He told her to stop, asked her what she was doing, and when she shouted at him, he tried to calm her, assuring her he had always loved only her in his life.
When he said that… Lady Lysa let go of me, and I moved away from the abyss.
But shortly after… she burst into tears and told him it wasn't true, that everyone was against her, that everyone threatened her and her poor son, that the Lannisters had killed her husband and that she was no longer safe even in her own home.
She said that if even the only certainty in her life—her love for Lord Baelish—was taken away from her… then life wasn't worth living anymore."
The girl buried her face in her arms and continued to sob.
The Lords around her began to understand.
Alayne raised her beautiful face, red from crying, and forced herself to continue.
"And then… and then… Lord Baelish tried to calm her, took a step toward her to embrace her, but she…
…she said that if he took another step, she would throw herself down!
And so he stopped, and he tried to reason with her, begged her, but… then she… then she…"
Another bout of desperate crying interrupted her story.
The Lords exchanged glances, nodding and sighing deeply.
Then Lord Belmore addressed Petyr Baelish:
"My Lord, it seems we judged you too hastily. And unfairly, I might add."
"On behalf of everyone, our apologies," added Lord Templeton.
"My loyal Lords, you have no reason to apologize," said Lord Baelish, conciliatory. "I fully understand your concerns and your perspective.
In your place, I assure you, I would have acted the same way. You care about the Vale and Jon Arryn's heir as much as I cared about Lysa, so I completely understand how you must have felt.
However, I believe that, now that we've moved past this tragic incident, this is an ideal moment to establish new, fruitful relations for the future of the…"
Alayne began to sob louder now, almost angrily.
"It's my fault! IT'S ALL MY FAULT! Lysa Arryn died because of me!"
Again, Lady Waynwood tried to console her.
"Oh no, dear, don't say that. I assure you… no one blames you for this…"
"BUT I DO!" the girl insisted.
"If only… if only Lysa had known the truth… about me… she would never have acted that way."
Her demeanor had changed, and she was no longer as submissive as before.
"The truth… about you?" Yohn Royce asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, I believe this isn't the moment…" began Littlefinger
"Yes, the truth about me," concluded the dark-haired girl, drying her tears.
"Petyr wanted to tell her, but I was too scared.
I had seen that she hadn't even helped my family before, so I wasn't sure she would now. I feared… I feared that Lysa would sell me to Stannis Baratheon."
"And why… would she ever do such a thing?" Lord Hunter asked.
"And then Petyr—" Alayne had begun addressing both Lysa and Petyr by name, and the others had noticed it—"was trying to convince Lysa to rally the Vale in support of the Young Wolf, but she always refused. She was too scared for little Robert.
She said they would surely lose, and then he would be taken away from her. She didn't believe… that the Vale could triumph against the Lannisters… or Stannis Baratheon.
It's absurd… how can someone… not want to help even their own family?"
"Lord Baelish, is that true?" asked Lord Redfort suddenly.
"Well, I…"
Alayne stood up, solemn, dignified, and regal.
Lady Waynwood observed her and noticed that something about her had changed.
"My dear girl… but who are you, really?"
The girl turned her gaze to Yohn Royce.
"You've already met me, Lord Royce. It was a couple of years ago, maybe more.
You traveled to Winterfell to escort your third son, Waymar, to join the Night's Watch.
That time, you dueled both Ned Stark and Rodrik Cassel and defeated them both."
Yohn Royce's eyes widened, and he began to rise from his stool.
Alayne drew a bottle from under her cloak: it contained a frothy liquid. She held it above her head, threw her hair back, and poured its contents over her long, raven-black locks.
As the solvent flowed down, the dye dissolved, dripping onto the wide cloak…
Revealing a cascade of hair the color of sunlit copper.
Seven pairs of eyes watched in astonishment as the transformation unfolded before them.
With a new gaze, one she turned to each of them in turn, the girl proclaimed in a loud voice:
"I am not Alayne Stone. I am, and have always been, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun.
Petyr Baelish took me away from King's Landing to protect me during the siege because he has always been a loyal friend to my family. He had to pretend to serve the Lannisters to survive.
And he brought me here… because he believed that, over time… he could convince Aunt Lysa to support my brother Robb Stark in the war… and that you would approve. But he wasn't sure that you would all have agreed, so we decided not to tell you… until we were certain.
Forgive me, my Lords. I am sure you can understand."
Six pairs of eyes turned to Petyr Baelish, who might have appeared embarrassed if his mouth hadn't been agape, contemplating Sansa.
"Lord Baelish," Anya Waynwood asked, "is what this girl says true?"
Littlefinger looked at Lady Waynwood, then Sansa, then back at Lady Waynwood, and again at Sansa.
On the redhead's beautiful face, turned toward him so that only he could see it, there was just the shadow of a smile. ]
The battlefield was partially obscured by the dust kicked up by the cavalry.
Entire fields were covered with dead, wounded, or surrendering men, kneeling and handing over their weapons to the victors.
Those who have never been in a battle believe that the AFTER is quieter than the DURING. It isn't.
And in all that chaos, Stannis Baratheon managed to evade pursuit, for a while.
However, he was injured in the lower back and could not walk properly.
After covering a few hundred meters, climbing a rocky hill, exhausted, he fell backward and found himself sitting on the ground, his back resting against a rock.
From there, he heard someone shouting his name.
Then he saw who it was, a man walking across the battlefield in green armor with a helmet adorned with antlers. Stannis thought he had seen a ghost.
My brother Renly?
"STAAANNISSS! WHERE ARE YOU, DAMNED MAN? DON'T HIDE FROM ME!"
The figure removed his helmet… revealing the curly brown hair of Loras Tyrell, flushed, sweaty, and furious, hunting like a bloodhound.
But then… Melisandre's prophecy… the one from months ago… Renly tearing apart my army… it wasn't true… but it wasn't false either… she had seen him…
Just as she had seen the Young Wolf defeating me… only it was always TODAY, not the other time…
Melisandre… she really could SEE the future, but… she couldn't interpret it correctly…
…And in some cases… she used this gift to convince me she had other powers… for instance, she predicted Balon Greyjoy's death and used it to persuade me that she had caused it herself… she manipulated me…
And I always thought… that if her magic worked… then she must have been telling the truth… I was both right and wrong…
Realizing how irredeemably foolish he had been, how much he had fought against destiny, thinking he could influence it only to be defeated by it, Stannis… found the entire thing comical.
And he did something unimaginable for him.
He started laughing, full-throated.
And that was how Brienne of Tarth found him.
The tall warrior had removed her helmet so that he could see her face, and her expression was murderous.
"And you… who would you be?"
"I am someone you took someone very dear from, Stannis Baratheon. And now you will pay."
"Woman, I've… fought wars… executed traitors… caused the deaths… of countless people… you'll need to be more specific…"
Brienne slapped him with her armored glove.
"I AM BRIENNE OF TARTH! THE DAUGHTER OF LORD SELWYN OF EVENFALL!
AND I WAS A GUARD OF YOUR BROTHER RENLY BARATHEON… WHOM YOU HAD ASSASSINATED USING DARK MAGIC!"
Stannis turned slowly to look at her, blood dripping from his mouth.
In her expression, there was more than pure hatred. There was... pain?
"You... loved him, Brienne of Tarth?"
"Y-yes..." the towering warrior replied, forcing back her tears.
"Then you... have lived for something... I didn't love much... in my life... I loved my daughter... and now she's gone... I cared for my brothers too, despite everything... but no one ever loved me... instead, everyone loved Renly... it was always like that... ever since we were kids... no matter what he did..."
"Then WHY? Why did you do it?"
"I could say... for the realm... or... for justice... or... because he would have had me killed otherwise... or because I needed his army... but the truth is... I did it for me... because, for once in my life... I wanted to come first..."
Brienne covered her eyes.
"You will be remembered as a horrible king."
"I'll be... dead... I don't give...a damn... anymore..."
Brienne drew her sword once more.
"Have you any last words?"
Stannis seemed to drift for a moment, then shook himself as if waking from a fever dream and spoke to Brienne frantically, grabbing her armor with one hand:
"YES... I... Brienne of Tarth... you must... warn Robb Stark... you must tell him... the Long Night... is coming... the Wall... the White Walkers... everything his family has believed in... for eight thousand years... IT'S ALL TRUE!"
Brienne was bewildered and confused.
"If that's true... if it's true... why did you fight him so fiercely? Why didn't you seek to join him from the start?"
Stannis seemed to consider this for the first time:
"Because... I'm just a fool... I suppose... I was made to believe... I was Azor Ahai... the Prince That Was Promised... but I failed... it must have been another lie... I always said... The King Is Alone... and now indeed... I miss Davos so much... while the Young Wolf... has so many people by his side... maybe he... maybe he really can save us all..."
Brienne felt a surge of wild rage.
"YOU ARE NO KING! YOU ARE JUST ANOTHER DAMNED FOOL!"
She positioned her sword at his left side, the tip pressed against the gap in his armor, and knelt.
At that moment, Loras saw them. He began running like a madman.
"Brienne! NO!"
"DIE!" she shouted, and drove the blade into his side, piercing him through and through, the point emerging on his right.
Stannis spat a gush of blood from his mouth, stared ahead... then his eyes turned glassy. His head slumped to the side.
Loras was too late. He threw his helmet to the ground in frustration, breaking one of the antlers. He tilted his face to the sky, arching backward, and let out a primal scream.
Brienne had leaned forward, still kneeling, and was sobbing.
The entire war had been one colossal, absurd, tragedy.
Loras confronted her.
"AGAIN! He slipped through my fingers AGAIN!"
The woman turned to him:
"He slipped through your fingers, Ser Loras, but not... through justice's."
The Tyrell knight glared at her with fiery eyes. He drew his sword and pointed it at her.
"Do you realize what you've just done, Brienne of Tarth?"
"I've delivered justice for Renly."
"YOU STOLE MY REVENGE!"
The woman stood tall and proud before him.
"And is that all you thought about, Ser Loras? Revenge? Do you think that is worthy of a true knight? A knight should serve the realm... protect the weak... not act out of selfish motives..."
Loras was shaken by her reprimand and blushed. He turned his gaze aside and began to weep.
"But... but I... LOVED HIM, BRIENNE... don't you understand? And now I'll never... see his eyes again... or his smile... hear his laughter... touch his skin..."
"I know. I LOVED HIM TOO."
Loras turned to look at her. He was shaken by the revelation. He must have been the only one who hadn't noticed.
"But, Ser Loras," Brienne continued, "EXACTLY BECAUSE you loved him... you should be glad that he was avenged... by someone who loved him JUST AS MUCH as you did... don't you think? And that it was done... for the right reasons."
"But I... I swore! I swore to avenge him! It was all I had left of him! And now... what sense does my life have? What do I have left?"
"Ser Loras. You have the memories of the time you spent with him. Precious memories of happiness... and love. Memories I never had. I never got to have them. You think... that I've beaten you in some sort of contest, but... you'd already won... in the only contest that truly mattered."
Loras lowered his sword, astonished.
"And I assure you," Brienne continued, "revenge tastes of bile. I find no joy in having achieved it. I only know it needed to be done.
If you had been the one to kill Stannis, your last memory of Renly would have been your sword piercing his brother... but he deserved better than that.
Don't tarnish his memory like this.
By the way... do you really want to be remembered for this? For being a kingslayer?
I knew a man... Jaime Lannister... who spent his whole life, wherever he went... haunted by people reminding him of what he had done... killing a king... and believe me, you... you don't want that life for yourself... but I, on the other hand, can accept it... I can bear that weight... because I am not a knight.
I am only a woman who loved Renly Baratheon.
Since you had his love in life, grant me the right to have been the one who loved him in death."
"And if you cannot accept that... then kill me. I don't care."
And with that, she lowered her head, offering her neck for the execution.
"After all," she added, "in this war I've seen so many horrible things... and if knights aren't supposed to protect the weak... then I have no interest in becoming one... or in being part of this world."
Loras was stunned by her attitude. Yet for a moment, anger surged within him again, and he considered doing it. He raised his sword, then caught his own reflection in the blade.
Who... who have I become? Who have I been these past months? I was ready to face the Starks... yet they weren't the ones... and now... did I really want to kill this woman? Was this what I was thinking of when I was... knighted? I was... betraying all my ideals. And... Brienne of Tarth... reminded me of them.
Then, however, his sword fell.
Twice, to be precise.
Slowly, with grace, on the flat.
Once on the right shoulder, once on the left shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.
In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
Then, the sword was held horizontally.
"In the name of the Mother, I ask you to defend the innocent."
Brienne raised her eyes, incredulous. A kaleidoscope of emotions flickered across her face and in her heart.
"Rise, Brienne of Tarth.
Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
Brienne... she didn't even know how. Her knees were like jelly.
But she stood.
"I... but why?"
Loras wore a completely different expression. Gentle, serene.
"Why? Because I was lost, Brienne... and you reminded me what I truly wanted to be. And for that, I thank you.
Being a knight isn't about how well you wield a sword… it's about what you hold in your heart. And it would have been a waste if someone like you had died here today."
By mid-afternoon, Robb Stark approached the spot where Roose Bolton was imprisoned, a satisfied look on his face.
Two stakes had been driven into the ground, forming an "X," and the Lord of the Dreadfort was tied to it by his arms, stripped to the waist.
Some of the executioners had flogged him a dozen times, just for their amusement.
About twenty meters away, bound hand and foot and seated on the ground, half a dozen of his most loyal followers were gathered, surrounded by armed guards.
The King addressed his former bannerman, who stared back at him with defiance, even now, blood dripping from his mouth.
"You won't hear me beg," he said, icy as the Wall.
"Oh, I never expected you to," Robb replied. "Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort doesn't appreciate begging, does he? However," he continued, lowering his voice and giving him a murderous glare, "I bet those poor souls you flayed alive in the Riverlands—my scouts, and those farmers—must have begged plenty; yet you showed them no mercy."
"Mercy is for the weak."
"Perhaps it is, which is why I'll have none for you.
But all your betrayals have amounted to nothing, Bolton. You thought you could supplant my family as the ruling house of the North, but you failed. You overreached.
There's a reason the Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years. And there's a reason why you Boltons... bent the knee. You should have kept your head bowed."
"Are you so certain of that, my lord?" he asked, oozing malice. "Because you might return to the North only to find... there's trouble at home."
For a moment, Robb looked shocked.
"Oh, you mean your little plan to turn the other houses against us?"
This time, it was Roose who was genuinely taken aback. Robb pulled out a scroll.
"I'll admit, it was a clever idea to have all the ravens intercepted to disrupt communications. For months, I didn't know my mother had been taken captive because of that.
But once Stannis had to return to King's Landing… we were able to send ravens again, and I contacted Howland Reed to rescue her.
It wasn't easy; as you know, his castle is hidden and impenetrable, and ravens can't find it. I had to send a raven to White Harbor, asking them to sail to the coast and then venture into the swamps to search for someone...
And my brother Bran had the same idea: realizing the ravens couldn't reach us, he sent a messenger to Moat Cailin, instructing them to enter the swamps and find Howland Reed, hoping he could bypass the Freys undetected, via the river.
The two plans ended up intersecting. So, not only did Reed return my mother to me as ordered, but he also delivered Bran's message."
He opened the scroll and unrolled it. It was quite long.
"I'll admit, your plan was well-conceived. We had warned Winterfell about some of our suspicions, like the Lady Dustin, but there was much more. That bastard of yours, Ramsay... he's cunning. Not as clever as he thinks, but cunning."
"Ramsay has been legitimized by the Iron Throne. The only bastard is your brother Jon."
Robb struck him with a powerful punch, snapping his head to the side and making him spit blood.
"Jon is a thousand times the man you could ever dream of being, Bolton. And anyway, your bastard was legitimized by an illegitimate king, so his recognition is invalid.
As I was saying, Bran took care to detail every part of Ramsay's plan... after foiling it about a week ago."
"That's impossible. You're lying."
"You think so? Listen to this: Dear Robb, etc., etc., skipping this part…
Then there's the part about the Karstarks… in the end, Cregan did the right thing, and, along with Mors and Hother Umber, he rescued Alys… safe and sound… Arnolf and Arthor were taken prisoner…
it's more than they deserve, but I'll send them to the Night's Watch, along with some of their loyalists...
...then, let's see… Kyle Condon got tricked by Jonelle Cerwyn, who captured him instead of betraying her brother…
...Lady Dustin tried to declare for the Boltons, but the other three brothers of Dumfryd, uncles of her late husband, took her prisoner…
I'm thinking of cutting out her tongue and sending her south to the Silent Sisters.
...now, let's see… ah, yes, the juiciest part…
You tried to get Leobald Tallhart to rebel against his brother and marry off his niece, Eddara, to the eldest son, Brandon... and do you know who foiled it?
His wife: you should have vetted her more carefully. Berena Hornwood couldn't stomach what you did to her aunt Donella and threatened to slit her husband's throat in his sleep if he dared to go along with your plan.
Finally, you tried your luck with the Glovers, but good Sybelle Locke refused to marry her daughter Erena to Larence Snow, the bastard of Hornwood, to legitimize him and rule Hornwood through him."
The Glover family is an honest one, and besides, Garbart is unmarried: Gawen, the son of Robett, would eventually become his heir anyway.
It seems you've been undone by a handful of Northern ladies, Bolton.
After all, that plan wasn't much. You thought you were much cleverer than you actually were. The truth is, eight thousand years of rule leave a mark.
My father Eddard was deeply loved, and The North Remembers: the men and women who knew him do not easily forget the good they received… and they are not easily corrupted.
Your Great Northern Conspiracy… turned against you.
The Boltons can be feared, but the Starks are also loved and respected: there's no comparison.
"Laugh if you want. Maybe you'll laugh less when you hear that Ramsay has hung the skins of your brothers on the walls of Winterfell."
"Oh, didn't I tell you? Ramsay is our prisoner as well."
Roose blinked in disbelief.
"Yep, their plan was to unite the forces of the Ryswells with those of the Glovers, Tallharts, Cerwyns, and Dustins, to attack Winterfell from the WEST… after luring Rodrik Cassel EAST with a false sighting… Ramsay himself was hiding in the Wolfswood, with six hundred men… daring, I'll admit…
Too bad Rickard and Roose Ryswell did lead their troops in among those of these other four houses… only to discover they were still loyal to the Starks.
So they surrendered, laid down their arms, and turned back, awaiting their fate… another idea from Bran…
...just like my brother thought to draw Rodrik Cassel away to flush out Ramsay, certain that, not seeing the allies coming, he would do something desperate… and so he did.
He attacked Winterfell with just his six hundred, only to be ambushed from behind by Cassel, who took a long detour to circle back.
In the end… you were ALSO been undone by a ten-year-old boy."
"I don't believe it. You're lying. Ramsay had a plan."
"Yes, in the stables some of your men started fires to distract us, but they were stopped by Hodor-you know Hodor? Tall, big, always repeats his name-and while our soldiers tore his army apart, Ramsay made his way toward Rodrik Cassel… and he seriously wounded him. He might never fight again. Actually, Master Luwin is not sure he will pull through."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"You'll be less glad to hear that Ramsay was captured. Cleos Cerwyn, just fourteen, shot him an arrow in the knee… then Marlon Manderly's soldiers, whose forces had joined with Cassel's, captured him, threatening to slit his throat if the others didn't surrender. He's our prisoner."
"Ramsay will survive, somehow. He's as tenacious with himself as he is… persuasive with others."
"Oh, yes, very much so. Here's a description of his deeds: Ramsay is a real nightmare. The widow Hornwood starved to death… men skinned alive… I've heard stories of hunts with girls torn apart by hounds… and then… he tortured poor Jeyne Poole… who you found and sent back to the North somehow… until she went mad… pretending to be my sister Arya Stark and was planning on marrying her."
The Young Wolf was livid, a mix of contempt, rage, and disgust on his face.
Roose seemed quite proud of this idea. He commented, serene:
"Your Grace would have been pleased to know that the sister was found…"
Robb leaned toward the prisoner and hissed.
"And it was always him who poisoned Domeric, wasn't it? Your legitimate son… a good boy… Ramsay couldn't bear the thought of him inheriting instead of himself.
I imagine you weren't pleased to find out. But you kept it hidden… Ramsay was still your only heir… but you hoped to replace him… have more children with Walda Frey… who, however, is not pregnant at the moment…
What a shame… for you. With Domeric alive, your line could have survived… but now…"
"Do you think you can scare me, Stark? My house has spent a thousand years fighting yours," Roose reminded him, "my ancestors were Kings. They defeated your ancestors in battle, skinned them alive, and wore their skins."
"And you thought you could revive the tradition. Instead, you failed. You didn't live up to their reputation."
"I'm not afraid of you. You think you're a King, but you're not. Do whatever you want with me."
"Oh, I won't do anything to you, Roose Bolton. They, on the other hand…" he gestured with his thumb at the prisoners, "they're your closest men, aren't they? You've taught them… the family trade, so to speak."
"They're loyal men."
"Not really. I made them an offer, an hour ago. Be torn apart alive by Grey Wind and watch their own entrails spill onto the grass, or… earn a clean death by hanging.
But in exchange, do one thing for me first."
Roose widened his eyes in surprise. "You… you wouldn't dare…"
"Oh, I dare. Roose Bolton, I condemn you to be skinned alive… you will suffer the same fate your ancestors inflicted on mine—just as you wanted to remind me—and that you and your people inflicted on those poor souls in the Riverlands."
"You're mad! They'll never accept it!"
"Oh, yes, they will. Actually, they've ALREADY accepted.
And I'll tell you more: I sent a raven to Winterfell.
Marlon Manderly and Cassel's daughter, Beth… are very angry with Ramsay and… well… I suggested they make the same offer to his men.
Roose Bolton, I want you to know this: you thought you could overthrow the Starks and take the North.
Instead, both you and your bastard will die screaming… on the same day, in the same way, by the very system that is the symbol of your house… and your cursed line will be wiped out today, forever.
My line, on the other hand, will continue to rule the North in the future… when even the memory of you is gone."
Roose started to lose his usual calm.
"You… YOU'RE NOT A TRUE STARK, ROBB! In the North, WHO PRONOUNCES THE SENTENCE MUST WIELD THE SWORD!"
Robb approached the prisoner. "You're right. Everyone keeps reminding me. I'm half Tully, I married a Tyrell… but know this: I am more of a man of the North than you've ever been, Roose.
Would you like me to skin you MYSELF? I could, if you prefer… but I might make a mistake and cause your death too soon…
You see, my wife taught me, some time ago… the difference between the letter and the substance of mottos, customs, and oaths.
I'm not condemning you to death, Roose.
I'm condemning you to be skinned ALIVE.
If you survive the procedure, you'll be free to take your skin and leave."
"But if you should die, instead... well, that's none of my concern."
And he turned and walked away, leaving him there, while the guards cut the ropes from his men, helped them up, and put razors in their hands.
For the first time in his life, terror crept into Roose Bolton's eyes.
Seeing his executioners approach slowly, he began to sweat. Then he started to scream.
"What are you doing, damn you? How dare you? LEAVE! I AM YOUR LORD, DAMN!"
Then he regained some dignity and spoke again to Robb: "STARK! YOU WON'T HAVE THE SATISFACTION OF HEARING ME SCREAM!"
Robb replied: "Oh, I will, instead. But it doesn't matter, I have other things to do."
For the rest of the afternoon, Robb, true to his word, passed sentences and wielded swords.
Before the executions, he made sure to tell each of the condemned that he would not offer them the chance to take the black… but that he would offer it to their families, and that he would offer even better options to women and young children. Given that silent promise, none of the condemned requested to join the Night's Watch.
Robb decapitated Ryman Frey, then, with satisfaction, Lothar. Black Walder made a fuss, claiming Robb didn't have the courage to face him in battle, and Robb responded that if he were truly half as brave as he claimed, they wouldn't have lost the battle. With one swift blow, he took his head as well.
Rodrik Ryswell was dead, so it was his eldest son, Roger, the prisoner, who asked what would become of them.
Robb replied that both he and the third-born, named Roose, up in the North, would be sent to the Night's Watch… and the castle would go to the second son, Rickard… as long as he behaved well in the future. The new Lord then accepted his sentence and chose the black.
All the officers of both armies, his own and the enemy's, along with Lords and lower-ranking Knights, witnessed the executions (which included another half dozen Freys, while all the others were granted the chance to take the black).
As a backdrop, the horrifying screams of Roose Bolton could be heard, much to Harrion Karstark's satisfaction: the only surviving son of Rickard Karstark stood by and watched and enjoyed every minute of it.
When his former men had finished with him, they were covered in blood up to their elbows. Robb went to see them.
"We're done, my Lord. Uh... regarding the promise…"
"I remember it. Men! Take these butchers and cut off their hands!"
"What? But… you promised…"
"To have you die by hanging! And so it shall be. But before that, I will have your hands cut off. My first royal decree is that skinning people alive is a vile and barbaric act, which will henceforth be prohibited: I want it erased from the memory of the Seven Kingdoms, along with the House of Bolton. Proceed."
While the men with bloody stumps dangled from the gallows, Robb observed one younger man, who had not participated in the operations.
"I—I was with them, Your Grace… but I never skinned anyone... I just stood guard to make sure no one came... I was just watching!"
"Men! This one just watched! Hang him last, so he can continue to watch even now!"
Author's Note
If this chapter does not satisfy you, then nothing will.
But i was quite careful in not reeling in fanboyism for the sake of it: everything that happens has a clear and coherent explanation.
Catelyn is safe, despite what many of you predicted; but who knows, her fate might still be tragic...in the future.
I admit i was longing to have the Knights of the Vale arrive, much like in the Battle of the Bastards, but i wanted to set it up first.
Also, the battle would've been won by Robb's forces anyway, just with MUCH MORE bloodshed on both parts. It's better this way. Most people just surrendered and that's good for the future of the realm, that can be pacified more easily.
Many people...deserved to be punished and have been. I can hardly find a better way to end Walder and Roose, tbh.
Robb had to indulge himself a little. Finally showing to be a Wolf...against the deserving, not against the hostages.
That Ramsay has been defeated off screen might seem unsatisfying, but mind you:
1. it's what often happens in Martin's writing, too and
2. It's only plausible, given that his grand plan, like some of you noticed, amounted to not so much.
But i really wanted to show how Northern Houses are loyal, at the end of the day. In canon, they're plotting to overthrow the Boltons, even after the Starks are dead, so they couldn't be corrupted that easily here.
Sansa tricked Littlefinger. I'm really proud of this.
It's a halfway between what she does at the end of 4th season and at the end of 6th.
Only, that it makes more sense for her to basically force him to agree to go save Robb, with the alternative of telling the truth and losing his head.
The drawback is that now Littlefinger is safe and sound and stable as Lord of the Vale...but every other plan of his has failed miserably. The Great Houses he planned to overthrow are alive, well, and still ruling the Seven Kingdoms.
The fiction does not end here, though. If you notice, a lot of people were converging in that area in the past weeks.
Also, it's not just a "perfect happy ending". It's the beginning of a new voyage: Robb as King of the Seven Kingdoms, with, as we know, a lot of challenges to face.
But i'll dedicate some chapters to illustrate the consequences of these events and the first political acts, including the coronation