Author's Note:
Fine, fine, here you people go, some real action starts now. I wrote an extra-long chapter this time as well, so I hope y'all are happy.
[The Twins, The Green Fork, First Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC]
The mist came early that morning, rising slow and low from the Green Fork as if the river itself meant to swallow the world in silence, and Dorren stood at the edge of the camp with one hand resting against Shadow's neck, feeling the tension in the wolf long before any horn sounded or blade was drawn.
It was wrong.
Not the cold, nor the quiet, nor even the looming presence of the Twins across the water, but something beneath it all, something that prickled at the edge of his senses like a warning he could not yet name, a feeling that sat heavy in his gut and refused to ease.
Shadow paced.
Not wildly, not panicked, but restless in a way that made Dorren's jaw tighten, the wolf's ears flicking at sounds too distant for men to hear, his head turning toward the towers again and again, his lips pulling back just slightly as a low growl rumbled deep in his chest.
"They're still watching," Robb said beside him, his voice low, his breath visible in the cold air.
"Aye," Jon answered, arms folded, Ghost seated at his side, still as stone but no less alert. "But they've been watching since we arrived."
"That's not it," Dorren said quietly, his eyes fixed on the walls. "They're not just watching us."
Robb glanced at him. "Then what?"
Dorren did not answer immediately.
He could not.
Because the truth was, he did not know.
Well, it wasn't long before he finally got his answer to all the tension.
The first horn shattered the morning.
It came from the Twins, sharp and sudden, cutting through the mist like a blade, followed almost immediately by a second, then a third, until the sound echoed across the water and through the camp with a force that left no room for doubt.
"Shields!" someone shouted.
Dorren's head snapped up.
Shadow's growl deepened.
And then—
The arrows came.
They fell not in scattered volleys, not in panicked release, but in tight, disciplined arcs that cut through the mist with deadly precision, striking where men stood thickest, where banners rose highest, where officers rode and shouted orders.
A man beside Dorren went down with a shaft through his throat before he could even cry out.
Another staggered back, clutching his side.
Horses screamed.
"Shields up!" Jon barked, already moving, dragging a man into cover as another volley darkened the sky.
Dorren moved with him, instinct taking hold as he grabbed a nearby shield and shoved it into the hands of a younger recruit who stood frozen in place.
"Move!" he snapped. "Get behind the line, or you'll die where you stand!"
The camp erupted into motion.
Men scrambled, cursed, shouted, but it was not the chaos the Freys might have hoped for.
The North did not break.
The Greycloaks moved first, veterans snapping into formation with practiced efficiency, shields rising in a unified wall as arrows struck and glanced off wood and iron, while the Winter Guard surged into position behind them, orders already being shouted down the lines.
"Archers forward!"
"Hold the ranks!"
"Cavalry, back from the line!"
Dorren's eyes flicked back to the Twins.
Through the thinning mist, he could see them now.
The walls lined with men.
Crossbows raised.
Archers already drawing again.
They had been ready before the horn ever sounded.
"This was planned," he muttered.
Jon heard him.
"Aye," he said grimly. "No question of that now."
But even as he spoke, something else caught Dorren's attention.
Smoke.
Thin at first, barely visible against the pale morning sky, rising not from the camp, but from within the walls themselves.
Dorren frowned.
"What in the—"
A shout echoed from the towers.
Not a command, or even orders, but pure confusion.
Then another.
And another.
Dorren's grip tightened on his sword.
"Do you see that?" Robb asked.
"I do," Jon said, narrowing his eyes.
Dorren did not answer.
Because in that moment, something shifted.
Not in the camp.
In the castle.
Shadow saw it first.
Dorren did not even realize he had slipped into the wolf's sight until the world changed, the mist sharpening into something clearer, closer, the smells stronger, the sounds sharper.
Stone.
Oil.
Fear.
Shadow moved low along the base of the wall, unseen, his dark form blending into the reeds and mud as his gaze lifted toward the parapets.
Men were shouting.
Not at the North.
At each other.
And then—
Movement.
Small.
Fast.
Gone in a blink.
Shadow's head turned.
There.
A figure darting between shadows along the inner walkway, cloaked not in cloth but in reeds and mud, his form low, his movements quick and deliberate as he struck a man from behind, dragging him down without a sound before slipping away again.
Another.
And another.
Dorren's breath caught as he saw them.
Crannogmen, no doubt, and from the looks of it, they were fast at work.
He snapped back to himself, his heart hammering.
"They're in the walls," he said, his voice low but urgent.
Jon looked at him sharply. "What?"
"The crannogmen," Dorren said. "They're already inside."
Robb's eyes widened. "Inside?"
"Aye," Dorren said, his gaze snapping back to the towers as another plume of smoke rose. "And they're not waiting."
As if to prove the point, a loud crack echoed from the gatehouse, followed by a shout that turned into a scream.
Then another.
And then, as if on cue, the grinding sound of wood and iron.
The gate began to rise.
Slowly at first, uneven, as though something within resisted it, then with growing force as whatever held it in place gave way under pressure from within.
"Gods," Robb breathed.
"They're opening it," Jon said.
Dorren felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
"This wasn't a reaction," he said. "This was the plan."
The horn sounded again.
But this time—
It was the North answering.
"Forward march, root the bastards out of their yard and keep!" The booming voice of Ser Desmond rose over the shouts.
The command rang out clear and strong, carrying across the field as the shield wall began to move, slow at first, then with gathering momentum as men advanced toward the bridge, arrows still falling but no longer unchecked, Northern archers returning fire with deadly accuracy as the distance closed.
Ser Bryndan Tully was among them, loosing arrow after arrow, his aim proving true as man after man fell, pierced by his arrows.
Dorren moved with them, Shadow at his side, the wolf's presence steadying in the chaos as they advanced step by step, shields locked, blades ready.
Ahead, the gate was rising higher.
Not fully, or even cleanly, but it rose just enough.
And through the opening—
He saw them.
Crannogmen, slipping through the shadows of the gatehouse, striking at the mechanisms, at the men trying to stop them, their movements swift and efficient, their presence turning order into confusion.
"They've lost control of it," Jon said, almost disbelieving.
"No," Dorren replied. "It's been taken from them, control was never theirs."
Then Alaric moved.
Dorren did not see where he came from at first, only the shift in the line, the way men straightened, the way the movement sharpened as if drawn into a single purpose.
Then he was there.
Mounted.
Ice across his back, spear in hand.
His gaze fixed not on the walls, not on the men upon them, but on the opening gate.
"Push!" he called, his voice carrying above the din without effort. "Hold the line and push, show these whoresons what true fighting men look like!"
The response was immediate.
The North surged forward.
Not recklessly.
Not blindly.
But with purpose.
Dorren felt it then, fully, the realization settling into place with a clarity that left no room for doubt.
The Freys had chosen a side, and they thought they had chosen the battlefield.
But they were not fighting on their terms.
Not anymore.
"Dorren!" Robb shouted. "With me!"
He nodded, breaking into a run as the line gave way to a charge, men pouring toward the bridge as the distance closed, arrows still falling but fewer now, the return fire taking its toll on the walls.
The first clash came at the base of the gate.
Frey men, scrambling to hold the line, to push it shut, to regain control, met the North in a brutal collision of steel and flesh, the sound of it sharp and immediate as spears and swords struck shields and men cried out.
Dorren moved through it without hesitation, his blade finding a gap beneath a man's guard, his shoulder slamming into another as Shadow lunged past him, dragging a third down in a flurry of teeth and fury.
"Hold!" a Frey shouted, the characteristic weasel look their house was known for being evident that he was one of Lord Walders' progeny.
"Push them back!"
But the command lacked strength.
Lacked certainty.
Because behind them… The gate was still rising.
Alaric reached it first.
Dorren saw him then, clear through the chaos, his horse driving forward through the opening as the last resistance at the threshold broke beneath the weight of the charge, amidst the fighting he mustve either lost his spear or it shattered, for his blade was drawn now, Ice catching the light as it came down in a single, decisive strike that sent a Frey man crumpling to the ground.
"Inside!" he called. "Drive them from the yard!"
The North answered.
They poured through the gate.
And the Twins began to fall.
Dorren crossed the threshold with them, and the shift was immediate as the battle moved from open ground to confined space. The yard beyond was a chaos of shouting men, smoke, and movement as crannogmen slipped through the edges of the fight, striking and vanishing, their presence turning every corner into uncertainty.
"They're everywhere," Robb said, breathless as he came up beside him.
Dorren shook his head.
"Aye," he said. "Thanks to them, we're making fast progress into the keep."
Above them, the towers burned.
Not fully, not yet, but enough to choke the air with smoke and break the cohesion of the defense, the Freys falling back in disarray as the North pressed forward, step by step, taking ground that had seemed unassailable only hours before.
Dorren paused for a moment, just long enough to take it in.
The walls.
The fire.
The confusion.
And at the center of it all, standing tall, soaked in blood that was no doubt not his, was Alaric.
Calm.
Controlled.
Already directing the next movement as though this had never been in doubt.
Dorren exhaled slowly.
"They thought the walls would keep us out," he murmured.
Jon glanced at him.
Dorren's eyes returned to the battle.
"They never considered what was already inside."
And as the North surged deeper into the Twins, as steel rang and men shouted and the old stone fortress began to bend beneath the weight of something it had not been built to withstand.
Dorren understood.
This had never been about crossing.
Alaric had not come to pass the Twins.
He had come to take it.
The fighting continued to rage on, shields against shields, spears against spears, carnage all around.
The yard did not fall cleanly.
Dorren realized that within moments of crossing the threshold, as the first rush of momentum bled into something harsher, slower, and far more dangerous, for taking a gate and holding what lay beyond it were two very different things, and the Freys, for all their faults, had not survived this long by folding at the first sign of pressure.
"Form up!" someone shouted, though the voice was lost in the roar of steel and men.
They were too deep now.
Too exposed.
Arrows began to fall again, not from the outer walls this time, but from the inner parapets and walkways that ringed the yard, crossbows snapping in tight, disciplined bursts that cut into the Northern ranks from above, where no shield wall could fully protect them.
A man to Dorren's left jerked as a bolt punched through his shoulder, spinning him halfway around before he dropped, screaming.
Another took one through the neck.
"Get off the center!" Dorren shouted, grabbing Robb by the arm and dragging him toward the stone edge of the yard where the walls offered some cover. "Hug the walls, or you'll be cut down where you stand!"
Jon was already moving, Ghost at his side as he shoved men into a tighter formation, forcing them into something resembling order amid the chaos.
"Shields up! Close ranks!" he barked. "Don't give them open targets!"
The yard shifted.
Not calm.
But controlled enough to survive.
Still, the cost came quickly.
From above, stones began to fall.
Not great boulders for sieges, but chunks of broken masonry and whatever else the defenders could hurl down in haste, crashing into the mass below with bone-breaking force.
One struck a man square in the helm, dropping him instantly.
Another smashed against a shield, splintering it and the arm behind it alike.
"Gods damn them," Robb muttered, breath coming hard as he raised his shield against another incoming bolt.
Dorren wiped blood, his or another's, from his cheek and glanced upward.
"They're trying to pin us," he said. "Keep us here while they regroup."
"And then?" Robb asked.
Dorren's eyes hardened.
"Then they try to take it back."
The counterattack came sooner than expected.
A roar rose from the far side of the yard, cutting through the chaos as a knot of Frey men surged forward in tight formation, heavier armor, better discipline, their shields locked and spears braced as they drove toward the gate with clear intent.
"Drive them out!" one of them shouted. "Close the gate!"
"They're going for the breach!" Jon snapped.
Dorren felt it then.
The shift.
This was the moment.
If the Freys took the gate back, everything unraveled.
"Hold here!" Dorren shouted, stepping forward, Shadow at his side as the wolf's growl rose to match the oncoming charge. "Hold, or we're dead men!"
The collision was brutal.
No room for finesse.
No space for maneuver.
Just weight, momentum, and the raw force of men crashing into one another with killing intent.
Dorren's shield slammed into another, the impact jarring his arm to the shoulder as a spear glanced off the rim, scraping along his side before he shoved forward, driving his weight into the line.
"Push!" Robb shouted beside him.
"Push!"
Steel rang.
Men screamed.
Dorren thrust forward, his blade finding a gap beneath a raised arm, biting deep as the man staggered, but there was no time to watch him fall as another surged into his place, shield first, forcing Dorren back half a step.
They were giving ground.
Not much.
But enough.
"Back!" someone shouted behind him.
"No!" Jon roared. "Hold the line!"
The press tightened.
The Freys pushed harder.
And for a moment… just a moment
It began to turn.
Dorren barely saw the blade coming.
A flash of steel through the crush, low and fast, slipping past a raised shield and driving straight toward his ribs.
He twisted, but not fast enough.
The strike would have taken him.
Clean.
Final.
But it never landed.
Shadow hit the man first.
The wolf came from the side in a blur of black fur and bared teeth, slamming into the Frey soldier with enough force to knock him off balance, jaws closing around his forearm with a wet crunch that tore the weapon from his grip as the man screamed.
Dorren did not hesitate.
His blade came down once.
Hard.
Ending his would-be killer's life.
For a heartbeat, he stood there, chest heaving, staring down at the body.
Then he reached out, gripping Shadow's neck.
"Good," he muttered. "Good, boy."
Shadow huffed, blood on his jaws, but his eyes were already scanning for the next threat.
There was always another.
"Dorren!"
He looked up.
Smalljon, who had just entered into the fray, struck a man down with his axe as he whipped around to show Dorren what he saw.
"The tower!"
Dorren followed his gaze.
To the left, a narrow stairwell entrance had been left partially exposed, its defenders pulled into the main push toward the gate, leaving it vulnerable.
"If we take that—" Jon began.
"They lose the height," Dorren finished.
Robb nodded sharply. "Then we take it."
The stairs were worse.
Worse than the yard.
Worse than the gate.
Because there was no room.
No space to breathe, to swing, to think.
Only stone, narrow and winding, slick already with blood as they forced their way upward step by step, shield to shield, blade to blade.
"Up!" Jon shouted. "Keep moving!"
The Freys above them fought like cornered animals, stabbing downward with spears and short blades, their advantage in position making every step costly.
A man ahead of Dorren slipped, his foot losing its place on blood-slick stone, and in that instant a blade found his throat, sending him tumbling back into those behind him.
"Stop him!" Robb snapped, grabbing the falling man and shoving him aside before he could take others with him.
Dorren pressed forward.
No room to swing.
So he stabbed.
Short.
Precise.
Again.
And again.
A man screamed as steel punched into his gut, collapsing backward into his fellows.
The line wavered.
Then surged.
They gained another step.
Then another.
"Don't stop!" Jon growled. "If we stop, we die here!"
The words rang true.
There was no retreat.
The only direction they could move was forward, it was either them or the frey guards.
When they broke through, it was sudden.
Violent.
The last defender at the top fell beneath a rush of blades, and then they were onto the walkway, the open air hitting them like a shock after the suffocating press of the stairs.
Dorren staggered forward, sucking in a breath as he looked out over the yard below.
The battle still raged.
But it had changed.
A horn tried to sound.
It cut off halfway.
Dorren turned.
Just in time to see it.
A Frey knight, richly armored, barking orders as he rallied men below, his voice carrying even through the din—
"Reform! Push them back to the—"
He never finished.
A shape moved behind him.
Low.
Fast.
Silent.
A crannogman.
Mud and reeds clinging to him like a second skin as he slipped from shadow to shadow, closing the distance in a heartbeat before his blade slid cleanly across the knight's throat.
Ser Lyonel Frey, second son of Ser Emmon Frey and the Old Lion's sister, Genna Lannister.
Dorren recognized him only after, from the armor, the bearing, the way men had been listening to him.
It did not matter.
He fell like any other.
The horn slipped from his grasp.
And the sound never came.
The crannogman did not linger.
He vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
Dorren let out a slow breath.
"They're cutting the head off the defense," he said.
Jon nodded grimly. "One piece at a time."
Below them, the Frey line faltered.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But shaken.
Orders failed to carry, men hesitated, and in that hesitation—
The North surged.
"Now!" Robb shouted. "Press them!"
From the walls, from the yard, from the gate itself, the Northern host pushed forward with renewed force, the momentum shifting fully now as the defenders began to give ground step by bloody step.
Dorren watched it happen.
Felt it.
The moment when a fight turned from a struggle into collapse.
"They're breaking," he said.
Jon did not smile.
"Aye," he said. "Now we make sure they don't stop running."
By the time Dorren made his way back down into the yard, the worst of it was over.
Not the fighting.
That still raged in pockets.
But the line had broken.
The Freys were falling back deeper into the Twins, abandoning the gate, the yard, the ground they could no longer hold.
Northern banners were rising.
Men were shouting.
Wounded cried out where they lay.
And through it all—
Alaric stood.
At the center.
Already giving orders for the next push, his voice steady, controlled, as though this had been no more than a step along a path he had already walked in his mind.
Dorren exhaled, slow and heavy.
"We've got it," Robb said, coming up beside him, his armor marked with blood and grime.
Dorren shook his head slightly.
"No," he said, looking toward the inner keep, where the fight was already beginning again. "We've got the gate and yard."
He rested a hand against Shadow once more, feeling the steady strength in the wolf beneath his palm.
His gaze lifted to the towers still held, to the stone that yet stood between them and full victory.
"This isn't done," he said quietly. They still had to wrest full control over this keep, and even after that, it wasn't over. There was still the bridge across the Green Fork and the second keep.
No, this fight was far from over