Walder Frey, with his raspy and mocking voice, leaned toward Robb, holding a goblet in his decrepit hand.
—Tell me, boy, —he said with a toothless grin—, where are your sisters? And your wife? I would have liked to see them enjoy the celebration.
Robb, still on guard, forced a smile and shook his head.
—They ate something bad, and I had to send them back to the camp, my lord.
The old Frey clicked his tongue in feigned disappointment, but his beady eyes gleamed with something more than mere annoyance. Robb didn't notice, but to his right, Roose Bolton cast a discreet glance at his host and gave the faintest of nods. Walder Frey didn't respond, but his smile returned.
The feast continued. Men drank, laughed, and toasted to the victory they believed was near. Robb, though tension still lingered in his shoulders, began to relax. Perhaps Edward had been nothing but a fraud or a paranoid fanatic. Everything seemed fine.
Until the music changed.
The first notes of The Rains of Castamere rose in the hall. A sinister melody that dragged an uncomfortable silence among the Northerners. Robb felt the shift in the air, how the faces of the Frey's and Bolton's turned expressionless.
Then the massacre began.
Suddenly, the doors to the hall slammed shut, and the sound of steel being drawn filled the room. Frey and Bolton men pulled daggers, swords, and crossbows hidden beneath their clothes and attacked mercilessly. For every Stark bannerman, there were three or four enemies ready to slit their throats.
Robb's first man fell with an arrow through the eye before he could even react. Another was stabbed in the back while drinking. Even Edmure and Roslin were struck by bolts. Robb was hit in the shoulder and back, but the wounds didn't seem fatal.
But the Northerners did not fall without a fight.
Thanks to Edward's warning, Robb and his men had hidden daggers in their boots and reacted swiftly. The banquet turned into a bloodbath. The Starks fought desperately, killing several of their attackers, but they were caught in a trap. One by one, they fell.
Robb, covered in enemy blood, fought with fury, his dagger finding throats and bellies, but as his men were reduced to a handful, the battle became hopeless.
A scream stopped him.
—Surrender, or your mother dies!
Catelyn Stark was on the ground, held by two Frey soldiers, her hair disheveled and her eyes wild. The blade of a dagger glinted at her throat.
—STOP! —Robb roared, panting, his chest rising and falling frantically, wounded and exhausted. His men dropped their weapons, defeated.
Walder Frey sighed, still seated at the head of the feast table, as if the resistance had been a minor inconvenience.
—I had hoped it would be easier —he said, shrugging.—I lost several of my sons, but oh well... I can always make more.
Robb spat on the floor and locked eyes with Roose Bolton.
—You're a traitor.
The man in armor, draped in a cloak of flayed skin, looked at him without emotion.
—You're a foolish boy, —he replied calmly—. You don't understand the sacrifices war demands.
Walder Frey cackled.
—It's a shame your sisters aren't here. But no matter, I'll send a party to find them.
—We could kill them —Roose suggested indifferently.—Or marry them to my sons to ease the annexation of Winterfell.
—You damned bastards! —Robb roared.
Roose ignored the young king's fury and slowly unsheathed his sword, preparing to slit Catelyn's throat.
But then, a piercing scream tore through the hall.
The candles extinguished all at once, plunging the hall into a chilling gloom. They could still see, but the darkness seemed to have come alive.
Another scream rose from the crowd. A Frey man at the back of the hall had vanished. No body. No blood. He had simply disappeared.
The soldiers tensed, weapons ready, but unable to find an enemy.
A shadow slid swiftly between them, too fast for the human eye to follow.
Another scream. This time, a Frey soldier fell to his knees with a gaping hole in his chest, a dagger driven through his heart.
—What the hell is this?! —shouted one of the Frey's.
Before anyone could answer, at the other end of the hall, another soldier groaned and collapsed, his throat sliced open.
Walder Frey and Roose Bolton grouped near the prisoners, glancing frantically around.
—It's the punishment for breaking guest right —Catelyn whispered, her voice caught between despair and madness.
Roose struck her with the back of his hand, silencing her.
The deaths continued, each swifter, each crueler than the last.
Then, the horror became clear.
From the ceiling, something fell heavily onto the central table. It was a body. A Frey man—but headless.
The skull rolled across the table, stopping in front of Walder Frey.
And then, everyone heard it.
Footsteps. Calm, deliberate, rhythmic steps.
The sound of someone walking slowly over stone, with composure, with absolute certainty.
The last of the Frey and Bolton men felt cold sweat slide down their spines.
The hall's dimness grew more suffocating with every second that passed. Edward advanced with an unsettling calm, the faint trickle of blood slipping from the corner of his lips the only sign of the carnage he had unleashed in the dark corners of the fortress. Those present felt a chill crawl up their backs—not just fear, but something more primal, a certainty that this man was not a man.
Roose Bolton, still holding his dagger against Catelyn Stark's throat, tried to cling to reason.
—Identify yourself —he commanded tensely, never taking his eyes off Edward's every move.
But Edward ignored him entirely. His red eyes locked onto Robb Stark with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, as if scolding a particularly stubborn child.