Karas Snow had always believed his life would be measured in pints of ale and the company of tavern girls. He was a bastard of a fallen house, a man with no inheritance and a penchant for trouble. Before a battle, he'd be at a brothel. After a battle, he'd be at a brothel. Between battles? You could guess.
But tonight, the debauched bastard was doing something much less comfortable.
Splash.
Karas dove into the freezing, dark waters of the Green Fork from a toilet chute. The river was wide here, but the floodwaters had receded into a deceptive calm. He cursed the city guards under his breath, those Frey idiots had locked the inner gates, thinking they could trap the Karstarks on the West Bank.
Karas swam with the desperation of a man who knew his master was walking into a slaughterhouse. He moved under the bridge, hugging the massive stone pillars for cover. By the time he reached the East Bank, his lungs were burning and his skin was numb, but he didn't stop. He pulled on his boots, which were tied to his waist, and sprinted for the gatehouse.
On the East Bank, Lando, who was still hobbling from a broken leg was waiting. He spotted Karas's dripping silhouette in the fading twilight.
"Open the gate!" Karas wheezed, loud enough for Lando to hear but low enough to avoid the Frey sentries. "I went to see a girl and her father chased me out! Let me in before I freeze to death!"
The Frey guards on the wall, including "Pimple-face" Petyr, let out a roar of laughter. Petyr, a man whose only joy was seeing others fail at love, waved his hand. "Let the hero in! I want to hear the rest of that story!"
The drawbridge creaked open. Karas darted inside, but as he passed Lando, his eyes weren't laughing. "The Young Master is at the feast," he whispered. "Ready the men. The second the signal goes up, we take this bank."
West Bank.
Eddard stood in his tent, the firelight reflecting off his freshly polished plate armor. To anyone else, it looked like a formal surcoat with a sunburst star, but beneath the linen was heavy chainmail and boiled leather. This wasn't a banquet outfit; it was a suit for a siege.
He stepped outside. Five men stood waiting: Dita Calandre, Paine, McKen, Matthew, and Abel.
They were no longer mere soldiers. Through constant battle and Eddard's systemic influence, they had evolved into [Bloodthirsty Wolfguards]. They stood taller than ordinary men, their muscles bulging with a 70% strength bonus. Each carried a massive battle-axe and a shield, hidden beneath wide black cloaks.
"Doren is in the back, gagged and bound," Eddard said, his voice cold. "He'll live for now. The rest of the men are ready. The moment we enter the hall, they take the gates."
Eddard took a lantern from Abel, the flame illuminating the iron-willed look in his eyes. He didn't wait for an invite. He walked straight toward the Great Hall of the Twins.
The night was pitch black, lit only by the flickering torches of the Frey patrols. They saw Eddard and his "honor guard" and simply pointed the way, unaware that they were looking at the men who were about to dismantle their house.
Halfway there, they ran into Ser Lyman Frey.
"Lord Eddard!" Lyman squeaked, his belly wobbling under his silk tunic. "I was just coming to get you! The Great Hall is-"
Lyman's words died in his throat as Eddard stepped into the torchlight. He finally saw the armor. He saw the cold, predatory gaze of the Wolfguards.
Before Lyman could scream, Eddard's dagger was at his throat. Abel and Dita moved in a blur, snapping the necks of Lyman's two guards before they could even reach for their swords.
"Lead us in, Lyman," Eddard whispered, his face inches from the Frey heir. "Keep your mouth shut, keep your hands visible, and you might live to see tomorrow. Try anything else, and I'll take your head before your great-grandfather can blink."
Lyman nodded frantically, sweat pouring down his face.
The doors to the Great Hall were massive, carved from dark oak. As Lyman, shaking like a leaf, approached with Eddard "embracing" him like an old friend, the guards didn't question it. They pulled the doors open.
The hall was a sea of light. Hundreds of candles and torches illuminated a feast that looked like a king's ransom. Walder Frey sat on his ebony high chair, surrounded by his brood, Black Walder, Ryman, Edwyn, and a dozen others. Musicians on the balcony were playing a slow, haunting melody.
Eddard walked in, his Wolfguards fanning out behind him. He could feel the eyes of every Frey in the room on him. They were waiting for him to sit. They were waiting for the toast.
SLAM.
The massive oak doors behind them swung shut. Eddard heard the heavy rattle of iron chains being looped through the handles. The lock clicked.
The music stopped.
Walder Frey leaned forward, his toothless mouth twisting into a grin that looked like a scar. "Young Master Aed. You're late. But don't worry... we've been waiting for you."
Eddard didn't move. He reached into the System, his eyes beginning to glow with a faint, dark aura. He had Weakness ready to fire.
"The waiting is over, Walder," Eddard said, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Let's see who's really on the menu tonight."