The Banquet Hall of the Twins was a cavern of flickering orange light. Dozens of torches had been jammed into the iron sconces along the walls, their smoke coiling like grey serpents against the high stone rafters.
Since the day it was built six centuries ago, this hall had never seen such a lavish waste of oil and wood. To the man being carried in by two Karstark guards, the sight was nothing short of a shameful extravagance.
Marquis Walder Frey, squinting through his cataracts, sniffed the air as the heavy oak doors groaned shut behind him. He caught the scent of the North immediately - the sharp, pungent tang of ale, the musk of wet dog, and the sour, unwashed stench of Northern sweat. It was the smell of barbarians. Crude, dirty, and utterly disgusting.
The soldiers deposited him into a chair placed in the dead center of the hall, a lonely island of wood surrounded by a sea of hostile eyes. Walder looked up toward the high platform.
Robb Stark sat in the ebony chair that usually belonged to the Lord of the Crossing. The torchlight played across his face, half-masking him in shadow. He looked older than sixteen. His jaw was set, his red-brown beard was matted with the dust of the road, and the bronze-and-iron crown of the Winter Kings seemed to weigh his head down until his chin rested on his hand. Beside him, Grey Wind loomed like a silent, grey mountain, his yellow eyes burning with a predatory glow that made even the hardiest men keep their distance.
Old Walder curled his thin, pale lips in a sneer. He wasn't afraid. He had survived five kings and a dozen wars. Only children use beasts to frighten old men, he thought.
The hall was packed. Every Northern lord of note was there: the Greatjon, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and the walrus-mustached Willis Manderly. They sat on the benches like judges in an ancient saga, their animal-hide cloaks draped over their shoulders.
Eddard Karstark stood below the raised platform. He held a small wooden hammer, tapping it rhythmicallly against a table. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The chaotic murmuring of the lords subsided into a heavy, expectant silence.
"Soldiers, thank you. You may step back," Eddard called out. He looked at Walder with a gaze that was neither angry nor pitying. It was the look of a man checking a ledger.
Old Walder chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Ha! Eddard Karstark. And you, little Wolf King. Are you planning to judge me here? In the hall where I have spent ninety years? In the castle my family has held for six centuries? Right where I courteously entertained you and your mother?"
He leaned forward, his toothless mouth agape. "I gave you my salt. I gave you my bridge. And this is how the North repays hospitality?"
"Marquis Walder," Eddard replied, his voice echoing in the rafters. "Whatever you have done in the past—whatever bridges you opened or bread you shared, it cannot absolve you of the crime of high treason. And as for your hospitality? I never tasted it. I walked into this hall in plate armor, and I was greeted by chains and crossbows. I haven't eaten a single scrap of Frey bread since I arrived."
Eddard reached into his surcoat and pulled out two scrolls, the parchment yellowed but the seals unmistakably vibrant.
"I have letters here," Eddard said, raising them high. "One from Roose Bolton. One from Tywin Lannister. Both addressed to you, Marquis. Both detailing the exact price of our heads."
He handed the scrolls to Abel, who began to pass them among the lords. The silence in the hall broke like a dam.
Galbart Glover read the Bolton letter and let out a strangled gasp before shoving it into the Greatjon's massive hands.
"DAMN YOU!" the Greatjon roared, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. He tried to stand, his muscles bulging as he looked at the ninety-year-old man in the center. "You son of a bitch! You took us for wild boars? You were going to slaughter us in our cups like we were nothing but meat for your table?!"
Smalljon Umber had to physically restrain his father from leaping over the table to strangle the old man.
Lady Maege Mormont finished the Tywin letter, her grey eyes flashing with a cold, murderous light. She passed the scroll to Willis Manderly. "Seven Gods," the Manderly heir whispered, his hands trembling. "To turn a sacred wedding into a charnel house... even the maggots in the earth have more honor than a Frey."
Walder Frey didn't flinch. He shook his heavy shackles, the iron clanking against the wood of his chair. "That means nothing! It shows they wanted to lure me, yes. A man lives ninety years, he sees a thousand temptations. Tywin Lannister writes to everyone. Roose Bolton is a neighbor. Receiving a letter is not a crime!"
He looked around the room, his voice rising into a hoarse shriek. "What matters is that you are all alive! Not a hair on your heads has been harmed! You are standing here, well-fed and armed, using a few pieces of paper to plot against your loyal ally! You want my bridge, so you manufacture a rebellion! I do not accept these charges, Eddard Karstark! It is all a delusion! A lie!"
In the darkness of the dungeon, Walder had spent hours refining this defense. He had realized that he hadn't actually done anything yet, other than hire a Faceless Man and no one could prove that. To his legalistic mind, thinking about murder wasn't the same as committing it.
But he was facing Northmen. They didn't care for the "ifs" and "buts" of southern law.
"You speak of traps like a man who has never seen a hunter," the Greatjon spat. "Tywin Lannister doesn't write love letters to men who aren't already in his bed. If you hadn't opened the door, he wouldn't have walked in."
Eddard looked toward the high platform. Robb Stark remained motionless, his eyes like chips of blue ice, watching the old man as if he were a specimen.
"I have a witness, Marquis," Eddard said. "Bring in the Scholar of the Twins."
Scholar Bennett entered the hall with a cowering, hesitant step. His grey robes were still stained with the filth of the rookery, and his chubby face was pale with terror. He looked at the gathered lords and swallowed hard.
"Scholar Bennett," Eddard said encouragingly. "Tell the King about the ravens. Tell him about the negotiations between the Twins and King's Landing."
"Yes... yes, My Lord," Bennett stammered, avoiding Walder's venomous glare. "I have served House Frey for twenty years. Some months ago... after the Red Fork... the ravens became constant. The Lannister seal was everywhere. Lord Walder... he wrote to Lord Tywin. He demanded Riverrun for his son Aemon. He demanded to be named Governor of the Trident in exchange for... for the Young Wolf's head."
"SLANDER!" Walder roared, spit flying from his mouth. "He's a liar! Scholars are like whores, they'll say anything for a gold coin! You pig! You bird-loving freak! I'll have your tongue for this!"
As Walder's curses grew more erratic, a dark, elemental glint flashed in Eddard's eyes.
[Intermediate Magic: Weakness cast.]
Walder Frey's voice died in his throat. His face went grey, and his body suddenly turned to water. He slid from his chair, landing on the floor with a comical thump, face-down like a discarded sack of flour.
"Soldiers, help the Marquis up," Eddard said smoothly. "He is an old man. The weight of his guilt is clearly affecting his health."
The Karstark guards hoisted the limp, gasping Walder back into the chair.
"Your Majesty," Eddard turned to Robb. "Shall we hear from the first heir? Bring in Ser Lyman."
Lyman Frey was brought in, his once-massive belly now sagging from his time in the cells. He didn't even wait for a question. He looked at the Greatjon's axe and began to sob, spilling every detail of the planned massacre, the archers in the gallery, the poisoned wine, the signal from the musicians. He had been promised the Wall if he confessed, and he was determined to earn his black cloak.
By the time Lyman was finished, the hall was a riot of fury. "HANG THEM!" "BEHEAD THE LOT!" "SEND THEM TO THE OTHERS!"
Robb Stark stood up. He didn't reach for his sword. He picked up his crown and held it in both hands, looking at the bronze spikes.
"The crimes of House Frey have violated the laws of gods and men," Robb proclaimed, his voice cutting through the noise like a cold wind. "You insulted the alliance of the North. You plotted to murder your King under the protection of guest right. There is no mercy for such rot."
He looked at the paralyzed Walder. "By my authority as King of the North and the Trident, I declare House Frey's titles revoked. The Crossing is no longer yours. Every man who actively plotted this betrayal shall face the axe. I shall carry out the sentences myself."
Robb turned his gaze to Lyman. "Those passively involved - the wives, the younger sons shall be stripped of their names and sent to the Night's Watch to atone in the frost. Ser Lyman, for your honesty, you are spared the axe. You shall take the Black."
Walder Frey wanted to scream. He wanted to curse. But he could only move his eyes, staring with a hatred so pure it seemed to sizzle.
"Take them away," Eddard commanded. "The execution is at dawn."
The soldiers dragged the Freys out of the hall. The Northern lords began to disperse, talking loudly of justice and the march ahead.
Eddard turned to leave, his boots echoing on the stone, when a weary voice called out from the high seat.
"Eddard Karstark. Stay. I have things we must discuss. In private."
Eddard stopped. He found a chair near the platform and sat down, watching his King rub his eyes with the exhaustion of a man who had just killed a ghost.
"I'm listening, Robb," Eddard said softly.
[System Notification: Trial of the Crossing concluded.]
[Reputation with Northern Lords: +50 (Reverence).]
[World Event Triggered: The Fall of House Frey.]
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