- Mattias -
Mattias suddenly heard notification and couldn't help but inwardly smiled seeing how these two would help him conquer the land and rule it even better than before!
Swain and Darius came from Noxus, also known across Runeterra as the Noxian Empire, and are one of the main antagonists of the League of Legends universe.
They are a powerful, brutal, and fearsome expansionist empire whose cultural, political, and military influence is felt in all corners of the world.
Adamant followers of the philosophy of might makes right, Noxus is the most dominant empire on the continent Valoran and are constantly engaged in imperial warmongering across Runeterra.
Despite this, they hold a highly meritocratic culture where one's past or race means little, welcoming all so long as they are willing to fight for what they believe in.
Mattias agrees with this mindset since it removes the corrupt from halting the expansion of a country.
As they said it is better to be feared than loved if you cannot have both.
As for the [ Armament Magic ], Mattias smirk imagining how useful it would be for his future conquest.
[ Description: The user has the ability to use magic that revolves around weaponry and/or armor. The user has the ability to summon, manipulate, and create both normal and enchanted equipment of warfare out of magical power.
Users cannot create something beyond what they are capable of. Mortal weapons that are not enchanted can be made rather easily.
User need a basic understanding of the Armament they wish to create. ]
Mattias read the description and was satisfied since he could at least provide weaponry to his army. He could provide firearms as well!
However, he does not intend to give it to anyone, especially how people of Westeros don't have an understanding of firearms and can do more harm than good.
It is better to provide them what they are familiar with instead of something they need training to properly use.
In the future, he could provide it but for the time being he should settle on what can be used.
Meanwhile, the fires burned low and the wind carried the scent of iron and rain. Catelyn wiped her tears with a trembling hand, realizing how long she had allowed herself to weep.
"Forgive me, my lord," she murmured, voice raw and weary. "I should not show such weakness before the man who avenged my son."
Mattias shook his head, his expression softening ever so slightly. "You mistake grief for weakness, Lady Catelyn. Grief is proof you still have something human left to lose. It's the fools without it that I pity."
Catelyn gave a bitter smile, her voice quiet. "Then pity me not for long, my lord. There is little left of me to mourn."
Before Mattias could respond, a cry split the night.
"Mother!"
Both turned sharply toward the sound. Out from the darkness emerged a young girl, her short brown hair matted with dirt and blood, eyes wide with disbelief.
Beside her strode a man in worn armor, half his face marked by an ugly scar.
Mattias remembers the man was Sandor Clegane, brother of the mountain.
The other Arya Stark who looked a lot better than the T.V show. She looked like a cute tomboy girl. It's clear she's older than the books.
Catelyn froze, her lips parting as if afraid to believe her eyes.
"Arya…?" she whispered, the word a prayer and a curse all at once.
Arya ran forward, tears threatening to spill though her voice was fierce.
"Mother, I—I thought you were dead! I saw them—Robb—" Her voice broke.
Catelyn stumbled forward, clutching her daughter in her arms with a desperate strength.
"My sweet girl… Gods, you're alive. You're alive!"
Mattias watched in silence letting them enjoy their union.
The Hound, standing a few paces behind, grunted.
"She wouldn't listen, woman's got your stubbornness. Nearly got herself killed looking for you."
Catelyn looked up, meeting the Hound's scarred face.
"Then you have my thanks, Ser…?"
He snorted.
"Not 'Ser.' Never was. Name's Sandor. And don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."
Mattias stepped forward, his presence commanding yet calm.
"Regardless, you brought her here alive. That earns you more than most men tonight."
Sandor studied him, wary of the aura that seemed to bend the air around the armored figure.
"And who the bloody hell are you supposed to be?"
Mattias smiled faintly.
Time passed, and the stench of blood clung to the wind. The last of the Frey and Bolton traitors had been dragged screaming into judgment. The banners of House Stark and Tully—tattered, smoke-stained, and soaked in red—still fluttered against the pale dawn.
Men knelt among the bodies of their brothers, whispering names, saying their final prayers to gods who had never answered.
And then he came.
Mattias stepped onto the hill of corpses, the sun breaking behind his blackened armor. His voice carried over the moaning wind, strong and resonant—like a war drum wrapped in thunder.
"Men of the North! Sons of the Riverlands!"
Every head turned.
"You have been beaten, broken, and betrayed! You have buried your fathers, your brothers, your kings—and the world expects you to kneel!"
He gestured toward the horizon, where the ruins of the Twins smoldered faintly in the distance.
"They call you defeated. They say the wolf is dead and the river runs red forever. But I say—no. The wolf still hunts. The river still flows!"
The soldiers stirred, their grief igniting into anger.
"Look around you. This—this is what they left you. Ashes and chains. But what is forged in ruin cannot be broken again. The Frey believe their walls will save them. The Lannisters believe their gold will protect them. The Boltons believed their cruelty made them strong."
He raised his hand, metal creaking like thunder as his power shimmered faintly in the air.
"They were wrong. Strength does not come from birth, from crowns, or from fear. It comes from this—" he struck his fist to his chestplate, "—from will. From blood that will not yield."
He let the silence stretch, every eye fixed upon him.
"So march with me! March not as broken men—but as the storm that ends kings! We will take the Twins, and every stone soaked with Stark blood will remember your names! We will make the Frey choke on their own laughter, and the Lannister's golden lions tremble in their dens!"
A roar surged from the ranks—grief turned to fury, sorrow into fire.
"For the North!"
"For the Riverlands!"
"For King Robb!"
And then, finally—his voice rising above them all—
"For vengeance, and for the dawn of a new age! We are not the fallen—we are the reborn!"
The cry of a thousand men shook the air, and Mattias smiled beneath his helm.
He could have ended this war himself—but no, this was their reckoning. Their right to vengeance. And he would grant it.
- Frey -
The Great Hall of the Twins echoed with raucous laughter, the clinking of goblets, and the chatter of Freys by the dozen. Lord Walder Frey sat slouched upon his high seat, gnawing on a leg of mutton with greasy fingers, his thin lips twisted into a grin that never reached his cold eyes.
He seemed utterly unbothered by the death of his latest wife.
"A pity," he had muttered earlier, "but there's always another." To him, wives were as replaceable as the bread on his table.
Instead of mourning, he was already plotting—wondering how best to use Catelyn Stark's capture to bargain with the Boltons or the crown. His mood was one of smug satisfaction, the kind that came from believing the game was already won.
That is, until the doors burst open with a thunderous crash.
A young Frey soldier stumbled inside, pale and trembling, his armor spattered with blood.
"L-Lord Frey!" he gasped, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"We're— we're under attack! The northern banners— they're here!"
The hall fell into stunned silence.
Walder Frey froze mid-bite, his wrinkled face twitching as irritation overtook surprise.
"Under attack?" he croaked, spittle flying as he slammed his goblet down.
"Who dares attack me in my own hall?"
A shout cut the hall—then a shorter, sharper sound: the messenger's scream choked off as a blade sang through the air and found his throat. Wine sloshed from goblets. A fork clattered to the floor.
Silence dropped like a stone. Every head turned as one toward the dais. There, framed in moonlight and torch-glare, hovered a figure in armor the color of spilled blood—crimson plates so unnaturally pristine they seemed to drink the light.
A trimmed cloak snapped behind him like a banner in a wind that belonged only to him. He did not move with haste; he simply stood, and his presence made the hall hold its breath.
Walder Frey's grin died. His greedy, rheumy eyes widened until they were small black beads of disbelief.
"What devilry—?" he began, voice thin with sudden fear. He craned forward, searching for the trick, for the jest—anything to explain why a man in impossible mail now stood in his hall.
And then Catelyn Stark stepped up beside the crimson knight, chin lifted like a queen returned from hell. A slow, cruel smile twisted her lips—no longer the woman who had wept.
She looked down at the shuddering bodies, at the spilled blood, at the men who had laughed over a corpse, and her voice rang out, clear and terrible.
"Look at them," she said, the sarcasm sharp as a whetted blade.
"All these strong men, all this courage—so quickly eaten by cowardice."
Walder swallowed hard.
"Lady Stark," he wheezed, forcing a tone of false courtesy,
"what—what is the meaning of this insolence?"
Catelyn's smile widened as if tasting something sweet.
"Meaning?" she echoed.
"The meaning is simple, Lord Frey. Your house has feasted on treachery. You have sung at my son's dishonor. You have danced on a grave." She let the words sit, heavy and accusing.
"Today the House of Frey ends." Her voice did not tremble.
"None shall be spared—innocent or guilty—except you, Walder Frey. You will live to watch your kin undone. You will keep your eyes open while your house is unmade, so that the memory of each betrayal is etched into your heart."
Walder's face went an ugly shade of ashen; for the first time his voice lost its sneer and became small.
"You cannot— you will not—" he stammered.
Catelyn's laugh was a dry thing. "I can. I will. And tonight, the woods will remember why the wolf was mourned."
Around them, torches guttered as if the hall itself exhaled. The crimson knight watched, unreadable, while Walder Frey's house of jest and lechery began to crumble under the weight of Catelyn's declaration.
The massacre began in an instant.
Steel flashed; men screamed. Goblets toppled, meat spilled from overturned platters, and the air filled with the wet sound of blades biting flesh.
The great hall of the Twins, once deafened by laughter and drunken song, now echoed only with the chaos of slaughter—boots slipping on blood, steel clanging against steel, and the shrieks of those who realized too late that no one would be spared.
Walder Frey sat frozen in his high seat, his jowls trembling as crimson splattered across his feast. He could do nothing but glare at the woman standing before him, her hair wild, her eyes burning with unholy resolve.
"I should've killed you when I had the chance," he spat, voice thick with hatred and fear.
Catelyn tilted her head, her tone cruelly calm.
"And yet, you didn't. Your greed stayed your hand, Lord Frey. Your hunger for power, for recognition—it led you here. It was never my vengeance that doomed you. It was your own ambition."
Her words struck him like a blade. Walder's eyes bulged as he roared back.
"You and yours brought this upon yourselves! You broke guest right! You shamed my house! What came to you was justice!"
Catelyn's lips curved into a bitter, hollow smile.
"Justice?" she repeated softly, stepping closer as screams continued behind her.
"Justice is what you denied my son. Justice is what you mocked when you spilled my family's blood beneath your roof."
She leaned in, her voice now a whisper sharp enough to cut.
"Killing Robb and Edmure was no justice—it was cowardice wearing a crown."
And with that, she turned away, leaving Walder Frey to watch helplessly as the ruin of his house unfolded before his eyes.
In the end, when people tell the tale of the red wedding it will be overshadowed by the night called the Scarlet Purge.