Steffon
The wind howled through the courtyards of the Twins with a mournful fury, echoing off the cold stone walls that bridged the river below. It was a sharp northern gust, one that did not belong here in this uneasy place, and it tore at the banners of grey and blue until they snapped and rippled as if they might tear free. The Twins was meant to be a fortress, solid and imposing, yet tonight the wind seemed determined to break its silence, rattling windows and sending an unsettling chill through every archway. In this den of weasels and traitors, the foreign wind was a warning.
The air within the halls hung thick with the scent of roasted boar, seasoned too heavily and turned on the spit for too long, its fat crackling in the fire. Stale wine blended into that heavy aroma, sour on the tongue and cloying in the nose, and both mingled with the musky sweat of men who reveled in feigned fellowship. Their laughter resounded off the high ceiling, echoing in a hollow fashion, as if the stone itself recognized the false peace at the heart of this gathering. They ate, drank, and jested, bellies full of meat and treachery, their voices rough with hollow mirth.
Steffon Stark sat among them at the long wooden table, a tarnished metal goblet in his hand that caught the flicker of the torchlight, though he made no move to lift it to his lips. His fingers curled around the cup, thumb tracing the rim in a slow, deliberate circle, as though he might find a hidden blade's edge there. He had abandoned any pretense of enjoyment long ago; the dry, stringy boar and overly bitter wine only served to deepen his unease. But it was more than the poor feast that soured his stomach. There was a weight pressing down on him, like a storm about to break, something he could not see yet felt in every breath. It lurked in the dark corners of the hall, behind the laughter that rang too loud and the smiles that never touched the eyes of their hosts.
It was something else.
Something wrong.
Something in the air.
A shadow in the room. A whisper in the walls.
From the moment, Steffon had walked beneath the high portcullis of the Twins, a heavy dread had settled over him. At first, it was just a faint unease, a prickle at the back of his neck, but over the course of this interminable feast, it had grown and twisted into a shrieking alarm in his mind.
He could almost hear the voice of his father, Eddard Stark, a memory that rose unbidden: Listen to your gut, boy. Your blood knows what your mind does not. Now, his blood pounded in his veins, each heartbeat a warning he could not ignore. His instincts clawed at him, urging him to stand, to leave, to do anything but sit there waiting for whatever lurked in the shadows of this accursed hall.
His blood was screaming.
From his seat, he glanced down the length of the table, past half-eaten trenchers and dribbling pitchers of wine, to where Robb Stark sat at the head.
The King in the North wore an expression of uneasy courtesy, a small, strained smile for the men around him. Talia, his young bride, was at his side, her posture upright yet tense, as if aware that every eye—friendly or not—was upon her. Robb's shoulders sagged beneath the invisible weight of a kingdom's fate, the burden reflected in the dark smudges under his eyes. He looked as though he had not slept in weeks, and when he turned to speak to Talia, the movement was slow, as if each gesture required more effort than he could spare.
Across the table, Catelyn Stark sat with her back straight, hands around the stem of her goblet in a grip that spoke of barely concealed anxiety. She did not raise the cup to her lips; instead, she surveyed the room with the cool wariness of someone who had survived battles and betrayals before. Her gaze swept over every face, never resting too long on any one man, and Steffon knew she was remembering old lessons learned in hard times. She had witnessed destruction come swiftly to houses that thought themselves secure. Walder Frey's so-called "goodwill" had not convinced her; the glint in her eyes said she trusted it no more than she would a viper in a child's cradle.
Steffon felt the same mistrust shivering across his shoulders. The walls of the Twins might have been plastered with Frey sigils and hung with banners to celebrate the union, but the atmosphere rang false to the core. In the distance, somewhere beyond the firelight, the wind kept howling, as if trying to warn them all of what lay hidden in the stillness. Steffon's thumb found the rim of his goblet again, tapping a silent, nervous rhythm. His father's words echoed over and over: Listen to your gut, boy.
And neither did Steffon trust Walder Frey.
Not tonight.
Three nights earlier, when the Starks first rode through the gates of the Twins, Walder Frey had held a welcoming feast to mark their arrival. Long tables were laid with mismatched platters of food and jugs of sour wine, the din of forced merriment pulsing beneath the high ceilings. Steffon Stark had taken his place among the guests, but his heart was not in the revelry. He felt the weight of every glance his hosts cast upon him and his kin. The whispers in the corridors, the uncertain tension in the air—none of it boded well.
When he excused himself that night, feigning weariness, few questioned him. Perhaps they thought him merely ill at ease in this foreign stronghold, or simply exhausted from the journey. But as soon as he set foot in his chamber, he knew there would be no rest. Lantern light flickered against the cold stone walls, chasing shadows into corners; Steffon's mind was equally restless, his thoughts slipping back to the wariness he had felt at the feast.
He wasted no time. His sworn shield, Jacks—a tall, stoic man who had pledged himself to Steffon after Eddard Stark's death—was summoned at once. The moment Jacks entered, Steffon could see the unspoken question in his eyes, though he voiced no words. He did not need to. Steffon handed him a small scrap of parchment bearing a few terse lines:
"Come. Two thousand. Armed. No banners. Wait at the river."
There was no room for niceties. Brevity was necessary; any more detail could endanger them both, or betray their intentions if intercepted. Jacks read the message without so much as a blink, then folded the parchment and tucked it securely within his cloak. His silence spoke volumes. He did not ask why, did not press Steffon for explanations. His loyalty was iron—born of deep regret and the sense of duty he had carried ever since his escape from King's Landing. After Eddard's death, Jacks had sworn an oath: he would serve Steffon to his last breath, to make amends for failing the man he had once served.
(*Jacks was a part of Eddard's guard, during his stay in King's Landing, as Hand of the King. According to the ASIANF, he was part of a prisoner's exchange, which returned him into the service of the Starks*)
Under the cover of darkness, they made their way through the winding corridors and past the sentries. Moonlight glinted on Jacks's armor, hastily dulled with soot to avoid catching any torchlight. He slipped beyond the gates, leading a single horse saddled for speed, muffling the animal's hooves with layered cloth. Neither man spoke; the only sound was the distant rush of the river against the castle's foundations.
In moments, Jacks was gone—into the blackness of the night, riding for Riverrun where a portion of the Northern forces had gathered. Steffon watched from a narrow window slit until the faint echo of hooves vanished into silence. His heart thundered in his chest, and though the night air was cold enough to sting his lungs, sweat beaded along his brow.
He could not say with certainty why the foreboding clung to him so fiercely. He had no solid proof that Walder Frey planned to betray them, only a clawing certainty he could not dispel. But certainty was enough. Steffon refused to place his faith—or the lives of his family—on the dubious honor of a man like Walder Frey. If his instincts were wrong, then two thousand armed Northmen might prove an unnecessary precaution. If they were right…well, he would at least not be caught unprepared.
He paced the length of his chamber for hours, sleep impossible, the shadows on the walls twisting like half-formed nightmares. By dawn, he was as grim-faced and exhausted as he had claimed to be the night before, but he held fast to the knowledge that Jacks would bring reinforcements. He would not risk his brother's life, nor his mother's, nor any of the Starks' lives, for the sake of politeness or pride. Not in the Twins, not in the domain of a man who had no honor to lose.
His attention was abruptly drawn to one of the Freys—Edwyn, if his memory served correctly—when the man shoved Dacey Mormont away with enough force to send her stumbling. The fierce daughter of House Mormont recovered her footing, eyes flashing with anger, but even before she could retaliate or protest, Steffon saw several Northern men push away from their seats. They were bristling at the insult, hands hovering near sword hilts. An uneasy hush swept the hall as the tension mounted.
In the midst of that sudden silence, the music changed. No gentle harp or celebratory drumbeats, but a cold, familiar melody that grated on Steffon's nerves: The Rains of Castamere.
A chill crawled up his spine as Edwyn Frey bolted toward the great doors at the far end of the hall, his footsteps echoing ominously on the stone floor. Steffon's mother, Catelyn, moved after him with a swiftness born of desperation; she had read the danger in the air just as surely as he had. Sensing his worst fears clawing their way into reality, Steffon rose from his seat, every muscle taut with dread. He ignored Smalljon's questioning stare from beside him, barely aware of how the burly Northman's face had darkened with sudden understanding.
The very atmosphere around them changed. It felt as if a gust of freezing wind had swept across the tables, making the torches flicker and dance. Light and shadow skittered on the walls, and time seemed to stretch into a single, aching moment in which everyone held their breath.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then a strangled gasp tore from Catelyn's throat.
Steffon snapped his head around and saw two crossbow bolts flash through the torchlight, glimmering with cruel intent. The heavy steel tips struck Robb Stark—one embedding in his leg, the other ripping into his shoulder. Robb's new wife, Talia, let out a piercing scream, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Smalljon Umber reacted before anyone else could, leaping to his feet and hurling the heavy wooden table onto its side. Platters of half-eaten meat and spilled wine went crashing to the floor, but the upended table offered some semblance of cover. A heartbeat later, men in Frey colors sprang from their seats around the hall, daggers and swords glinting as they rushed forward.
Chaos erupted.
Arrows rained down from hidden balconies above, the first volley tearing into unsuspecting Stark men before they could even draw their weapons. Some were struck in the back; others collapsed face-first onto platters of food. A second volley followed almost instantly, the sharp quarrels slamming into tables and the rush-strewn floor, pinning men where they fell. Goblets and trenchers went flying, their contents splashing across the stone in a grotesque mix of wine and blood.
Robin Flint was set upon by a dozen Frey men as if he were an animal to be butchered, their blades flashing in vicious arcs. Wendel Manderley fell silent and still when a quarrel caught him through the mouth, the fletching quivering between his lifeless lips. Smalljon, trying to unsheathe his sword for a counterattack, staggered under the force of multiple arrows that struck his chest and shoulders. He dropped to one knee, teeth bared in pain. Nearby, Lucas Blackwood was cut down in a single savage stroke.
A barrage of arrows hammered into the Locke heir, and then into more men beyond, each shaft claiming another life. Steffon's gaze darted frantically around the carnage, catching sight of Dacey Mormont, once so proud and imposing, now run through the stomach with a brutal axe strike that left her gasping, blood soaking her leathers.
Then he saw Talia, tears streaming down her face, clutching Robb's hand in terror. Robb himself was pale, struggling to keep his eyes open, searching desperately for a weapon—anything—to defend his wife, his family, his kingdom. Blood seeped from his wounds, staining his tunic and pooling at his feet.
All around them, blood splattered across the remains of the feast, spattering onto cold cuts of pork and stale bread, dripping into half-filled cups, and pooling in the straw and rushes underfoot. The rich aroma of roasting meat that had once filled the air was swallowed by the reek of fresh gore and death.
It was an ambush. A slaughter.
It was treason.
And in that moment, something within Steffon snapped.
He did not think. There was no time for thoughts, only instinct. The shock of it all—of the carnage unfolding around him—had barely registered in his mind before his body reacted. The battle was already upon him, a maelstrom of death and betrayal. In the haze of chaos, Steffon realized, with a strange detachment, that his own body was pierced with arrows. Their cruel iron tips had ripped through his flesh, a dull pain pulsing across him as the cold numbness of battle washed over him. He was numb. But he moved. Something deep within surged to the fore—the training, the bloodline, the instincts of a warrior born.
His sword found its way into his grip as though it had always belonged there. It was only when he swung it that the pain became truly apparent, but even that was secondary to the rage pushing him forward. A Frey guard appeared beside him, blade half-drawn, intent on finishing Smalljon Umber.
But before the man could do so much as blink, Steffon's sword flashed out with blinding speed. The blade slid effortlessly under the guard's chin and into his throat, cutting through flesh and bone with a sickening wet sound. The Frey gasped for a moment, choking on his own blood, eyes wide with disbelief before his body crumpled.
Steffon yanked his sword free in one swift motion, the steel singing through the air as it tore through another man's stomach. He felt the resistance of flesh being split, the ripping of sinew, the warm gush of blood spurting across him. His blade continued its grim work, hacking down the enemy before him. The Frey staggered back, the gruesome wound too much for him to bear. His hands pressed fruitlessly to his disemboweled stomach, his face twisted in an open, silent scream. The man succumbed to his wounds, crumpling in a heap, but Steffon did not stop.
He turned without hesitation, his sword crashing through another traitor—a Frey loyalist—his blade sinking deep into the man's side. With each strike, Steffon felt the satisfying crunch of bone, the wetness of blood staining his hands as it splattered across his face, and still he did not relent. The chaos around him was unrelenting.
A dagger whistled through the air, aimed at his side. Steffon's reflexes, honed over years of combat, brought his hand up to seize the wrist mid-arc. The traitor's face twisted in shock, but Steffon twisted harder, his own grip like iron as he felt the satisfying snap of bone. Before the man could scream, Steffon's knee was in his chest, crushing the wind from him, and then—swiftly—his sword had buried itself in the man's face.
A battle axe swung at his head, but Steffon was already moving, ducking low, feeling the air rush above him. With a fluid motion, his blade stabbed upward, plunging into the chest of the man who had attempted to strike him down. He pulled his sword free with a brutal yank as the corpse crumpled to the floor, and without pause, he pivoted to face the next threat. A spear thrust toward his ribs—he sidestepped with ease, catching the spear shaft with his gloved hands.
The traitor holding it had barely registered that his weapon had been seized before he was crushed beneath Steffon's grip. With a sharp twist, the shaft was wrenched free and slammed through the man's throat in a single brutal strike. They came in waves—swarming, relentless, and without honor. The Freys were not the only traitors in this hall. Northmen who had once been his brothers in arms, Bolton dogs, Karstarks with their faces twisted into snarls—he saw them all for what they were. Traitors.
And he cut through them all. Their numbers seemed endless, but the firestorm inside him burned brighter with every strike. His sword was an extension of his will, moving like a blur as he hacked and slashed through the sea of men. His body seemed to move on its own, driven by the rhythm of violence and vengeance. Steffon became not just a man but a force, unstoppable, fierce—a storm made flesh. The blade was an extension of his thirst for justice. He was both consumed by it and born anew through it.
The sights and sounds bled together into a cacophony of shrieks, thudding bones, and the scent of blood and iron. He was a creature of death among the living. His mind was a whirlwind, a maelstrom of thoughts and desires as he tore through the throngs of enemies, wordlessly condemning each and every traitor that stood before him. And the Freys learned what the price of betrayal was. They knew fear.
Through the carnage, they saw them. Bodies littered the floor in a slick mosaic of blood and ruined finery. The torches on the walls sputtered, casting long, wavering shadows across the broken tables and shattered crockery. The air was thick with the metallic tang of fresh gore and the cries of the wounded. Amid all that, Steffon's gaze locked onto the figures he loved most just for a moment, struggling to survive this treacherous onslaught.
Robb was the first to catch his eye, the King in the North swaying unsteadily on his feet, a crimson stain spreading across his tunic. Blood dripped from a wound at his side, trailing down his leg. Yet, somehow, he managed to lift his sword in defiance, finding a pocket of air Steffon's rampage had created. Blades still flashed on every side, traitors focusing their attacks on the now deadly wounded Steffon—and Robb's heart twisted at the sight, his little brother perilously outnumbered.
Catelyn stood not far from Robb, her face ashen and her chest heaving with ragged breaths. Her hands trembled around the dagger she clutched, slick with the blood of the man she had just killed. Erwyn Frey—his lifeless eyes still wide in shock—lay sprawled near her feet, the door behind him bolted shut in cruel betrayal. Catelyn had stabbed him multiple times, each thrust an act of desperate fury. Now she looked at her son with a mixture of horror and stunned relief, her eyes flicking between Robb's bleeding form and Steffon's brutal display of violence.
At Robb's side, Talia clung to him, her once-fine dress soaked in blood—whether hers, Robb's, or that of their enemies, it was impossible to tell. Her expression wavered between stark terror and an awed disbelief. She watched as Steffon continued to carve his way through men—Frey, Bolton, Karstark—without pause, her face reflecting the sheer shock of witnessing a man she had known to be steady and composed unleash such lethal ferocity.
Scattered around them, Smalljon Umber and a half-dozen other Northern lords and men-at-arms fought to regain their footing. The initial horror of the ambush had left them dazed, but their instincts as Northmen—temper forged by war and harsh winters—drove them to rally. They started pushing back, hewing down the traitors nearest them. Smalljon himself sought to wade through the crush of enemies to reach Steffon's side, to relieve him just a little bit of the relentless attacks, but each step forward brought fresh attackers: Freys, Boltons, and Karstarks seemingly without end. The ring of steel on steel and the cries of dying men formed a grim chorus that echoed around the hall.
Robb suddenly lifted his head and locked eyes with Steffon's back, who returned to killing and fighting as much as his young body could allow him. For a moment, Robb felt as if he couldn't breathe. He had always known Steffon to be thoughtful, collected, the one who weighed every consequence before acting. The quiet, steady presence who balanced Robb's own hot-blooded impulses.
But now?
Now Steffon was lost to a frenzy unlike anything they had witnessed. His sword was slick with blood, muscles coiled and covered in gore, arrows still jutting from his flesh. His face was a mask of cold fury, eyes narrowed with a savage intent that seemed to burn away all reason. He was rage itself.
And it terrified them.
Seeing the furious wolf charging forward, the Freys, Boltons, and Karstarks in the hall all shifted their focus to Steffon Stark—bloodied and already pierced by more than one arrow. He was a sight that both terrified and provoked them: a lone figure, drenched in gore, eyes blazing with unbridled rage, refusing to fall despite the injuries that would have felled any ordinary man. Their shouts mingled with the screams of the dying as they closed ranks, determined to bring this feral Stark down.
Then came the arrows. They cut through the air in deadly arcs. The first struck him square in the back, driving deep between his shoulder blades. The impact staggered him, but he gritted his teeth and remained on his feet. A second shaft buried itself in his thigh, causing his leg to buckle briefly, but he forced himself upright once more. Then a rapid succession of bolts followed—one tore into his chest, another slammed into his shoulder, a third pierced his gut. Each blow was punctuated by the sickening thud of steel on flesh, yet Steffon refused to collapse.
His teeth were clenched in a snarl, pain etched into every line of his face. He did not fall. Swords stabbed at him from either side, glinting with torchlight before biting into his ribs. Daggers slashed at his sides, blood pouring in rivulets. Still, he lurched forward, unstoppable, cutting through anyone who dared stand in his path. Every ounce of breath he had left became a roar in his ears, dulling all sense of fear or surrender.
Lord Bolton watched this spectacle with wide eyes, his usual cold sneer absent. His face had become a mask of stunned silence, his careful composure shattered by the brutal reality of Steffon's rampage. Even from a distance, Bolton's grip on his blade appeared to falter for a heartbeat.
And Walder Frey? The ancient lord, once so smug behind his crumbling walls, stood trembling. His features twisted in horror at the monstrous sight of this Stark who would not die. The smugness and cruelty that had animated him moments earlier drained from his face, replaced by a look akin to pure terror.
Locking eyes with Walder Frey across the hall, Steffon let his lips curl into a twisted grin. It was a bloody, broken smile, revealing both the depths of his pain and the cold promise of retribution. His body was a ruin of slashed flesh and embedded arrows, yet in that instant, his resolve was unshakable. With a final surge of adrenaline, he lunged toward Bolton, ignoring every blade still buried in him, every wound gushing red.
Bolton tried to withdraw, scrambling backward, but Steffon was too swift. In a single, decisive thrust, Steffon's sword found his throat, slicing through flesh and sinew. The traitorous lord's eyes stretched wide in disbelief, a wet gurgle escaping his lips as he dropped to his knees. Bright blood streamed down his pale skin, staining his fine garments. He choked on it, gaze frozen on Steffon as though unable to accept his own defeat.
With trembling effort, Steffon wrenched his sword free, blood spraying in an arc. Summoning the last reserve of strength from the depths of his battered body, he hurled the blade across the hall. It spun end over end with a whistling hiss until it found Walder Frey's skull. The old weasel stood there for the barest fraction of a heartbeat, eyes bulging, before toppling backward without so much as a scream.
Steffon Stark remained upright for a fleeting moment, framed by the carnage he had wrought. A ruin of steel and blood, he stood in a hall littered with corpses. The torches flickered over a landscape of death—overturned tables, shattered goblets, and rivers of red trailing between the flagstones. The acrid tang of gore and terror hung in the air as thickly as the smoke.
Then fresh blades plunged into his body from behind and both sides, their wielders seizing the moment of his distraction. Steel sank deep into his back, his sides, his ribs. He did not cry out. He did not beg for mercy. Instead, he simply exhaled, a final shuddering breath escaping his lips. His eyes slid shut, and he let the darkness take him as he collapsed to the blood-soaked floor.
At that very moment, the great doors of the Twins burst open, and hundreds of men swarmed inside—Steffon's reinforcements at last. Their thunderous battle cries filled the hall, echoing off the vaulted ceilings: Winter's Coming! Their voices were an avalanche of Northern might, charging to avenge their fallen and to save the living.
In those final seconds of consciousness, with the roar of his countrymen in his ears, Steffon had but one thought: his family—They are saved.
And the North Remembered.