Chapter 26: The Viper's Nest Purged: A Kingdom Forged in Fear
The march from the incandescent ruin of King's Landing back towards the Riverlands was a passage through a world stunned into terrified silence. Robb Stark, the King of Ash and Light, rode at the head of an army that was no longer merely loyal, but prostrate in its devotion, a devotion born of unimaginable power and existential dread. They had witnessed the death of a city, the erasure of a skyline, the unmaking of the world as they knew it, all by the will of the crowned figure who rode before them, Rhitta now a constant, terrifying presence upon his back, its golden head seeming to smolder with the embers of a dying star even under cloudy skies.
Catelyn Stark was a broken woman. She rode in a litter, tended by Maester Vyman, her eyes vacant, her spirit shattered by the apocalyptic horror her son had unleashed upon the capital, and by the terrible, unspoken sacrifice of her daughter Sansa within its fiery embrace. She had seen gods and monsters in her life, but her son, Robb, had become something that transcended both, something for which there were no prayers, no comforting scriptures.
As they neared Riverrun, a grim discovery awaited. A unit of Robb's most trusted outriders, the grizzled Northmen under Hallis Mollen who had been tasked with deep reconnaissance and shadowing Roose Bolton's movements, intercepted a clandestine meeting. It was not a Lannister courier they caught this time, but one of Walder Frey's innumerable, weaselly sons attempting to deliver sealed messages to a rider sworn to House Bolton. The Freys, it seemed, had grown impatient or fearful in the wake of Robb's earlier victories and King's Landing's destruction, and were attempting to accelerate their treacherous plans.
The captured messages, penned in Tywin Lannister's precise hand before his demise in King's Landing, and countersigned with the seals of Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, laid bare the full, horrifying extent of their treason. It was all there: the meticulous planning for a feast at the Twins, the assassins, the Bolton men hidden nearby, the specific Northern and Riverland lords to be targeted for elimination alongside Robb and his mother. The price: Roose Bolton to be Warden of the North under the Iron Throne, Walder Frey to be Lord Paramount of the Trident, his house showered with titles and lands. It was the Red Wedding, codified in ink and sealed with treachery.
When the letters were brought to Robb Stark in his command tent outside Riverrun, he read them in silence, the only sound the rustle of parchment in his steady hands. The sun was high, bathing the tent in its golden light, and within Robb, its power was a calm, fathomless ocean. The cold fury he had felt after his father's murder, the terrible grief that had fueled the destruction of King's Landing, had now settled into something far more dangerous: an absolute, passionless certainty.
He summoned his inner council – the Blackfish, Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister. Edmure Tully joined them, his face pale with apprehension. Catelyn was not present; she was beyond such councils now.
Without a word, Robb passed the letters to Brynden Tully. The Blackfish read them, his weathered face hardening into a mask of granite. He then passed them to the Greatjon, whose initial disbelief turned into a bellowing, profane rage that shook the tent. One by one, they read, their reactions a mixture of horrified outrage and a chilling understanding of how close they had all come to utter annihilation.
"Traitors!" the Greatjon roared, slamming his fist onto the map table. "Vipers in our midst! They would have butchered us like hogs at a feast! While we bled for them against the Lannisters!"
"Guest right," Maege Mormont whispered, her voice hoarse with disgust. "To break it so vilely… there is no curse deep enough."
Robb Stark let them speak, his sun-bright eyes watching them, unblinking. When their initial fury had somewhat subsided, he finally spoke, his voice as calm and implacable as a glacier.
"House Frey and House Bolton," he stated, "have chosen their fate. They sought to drown the wolf in a river of blood. Instead, they will find themselves consumed by a sun they could not comprehend."
He looked at each of them. "There will be no trials. Their treason is self-evident, their doom already sealed by their own hands. We will march on the Twins first. Then, the Dreadfort. These houses will be expunged. Their lines ended. Their keeps will become ruins, monuments to the price of treachery against the North and its King. Let all Westeros learn this lesson, and learn it well."
No one argued. No one pleaded for mercy. They had seen what their King could do. And they knew, with a certainty that chilled them to the marrow, that his judgment, once passed, was as absolute as the sunrise. Tony Volante's methods for dealing with traitors were swift and final; Escanor's pride would suffer no such insult to go unpunished.
The march on the Twins was swift. Robb took with him his most loyal Northmen and a core of Riverland knights whose own houses had suffered from Frey opportunism over the decades. The bulk of the army remained encamped near Riverrun, a necessary precaution, though against whom, no one was quite sure anymore.
Lord Walder Frey, an ancient, lecherous spider in his twin castles astride the Green Fork, had undoubtedly heard of King's Landing's fate. When Robb Stark's vanguard, led by the Greatjon Umber, appeared before the Twins, their direwolf banners stark against the sky, a wave of panic consumed the Frey household. Envoys were hastily dispatched, a motley collection of Frey sons and grandsons, bearing offers of gold, hostages, eternal fealty, anything to appease the terrifying King who approached.
Robb met them a mile from the bridge, Rhitta in his hand, its golden head already beginning to glow as the sun climbed. He listened to their desperate, fawning pleas in silence.
"Your father, Walder Frey," Robb said when they had finished, his voice devoid of inflection, "conspired with Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister to murder me, my mother, and my loyal bannermen at a feast, under his own roof, in violation of guest right and every law of gods and men." He held up the captured letters. "His treason is known. His doom is sealed."
The Frey envoys turned ashen. Some began to weep, others to babble incoherently.
"Return to your den of vipers," Robb commanded. "Tell Walder Frey that the King in the North has come to collect his toll. A toll of blood and fire."
He gave them no chance to reply, turning his back and striding towards the Twins, his Northmen fanning out behind him.
The battle for the Twins, if it could be called such, was a foregone conclusion. The Frey garrison, though numerous, was terrified, their morale shattered before the first blow was struck. Robb did not bother with siege engines. As he approached the eastern castle, he raised Rhitta. The axe blazed. With three precise, devastating blasts of pure solar energy, he shattered the main gates and two of the flanking towers, the stone running like molten wax.
Through the smoking breaches, the Greatjon Umber led the charge, his Northmen roaring like winter wolves. The Freys within fought with the desperation of trapped rats, but they were overwhelmed.
Robb Stark did not participate directly in the slaughter within the castle. He stood on the bridge, Rhitta planted before him, a silent, terrible sentinel, ensuring no Frey of fighting age escaped. His orders had been explicit: the Frey line was to end. Walder Frey himself, along with his most prominent sons and grandsons, the architects of the planned betrayal, were dragged before him.
The old Lord of the Crossing, his usual sneer replaced by abject terror, groveled at Robb's feet. "Mercy, Your Grace! A misunderstanding! I am an old man… loyal… always loyal…"
Robb looked down at him, his sun-bright eyes holding no pity, only the cold light of judgment. "You have befouled your house, your name, and your honor for generations to come, Walder Frey. There is no mercy for those who feast on treachery."
He raised Rhitta. One by one, the chief conspirators of House Frey met their end, their deaths swift, brutal, and undeniable. The remaining Frey men of fighting age were hunted down within the castle walls. Women who might carry Frey heirs were… dealt with, their potential to continue the treacherous line extinguished with ruthless finality. Younger children, those too young to truly bear the stain of their house's crimes, were stripped of the Frey name and scattered amongst loyal Northern and Riverland houses, to be raised as commoners, their heritage forgotten, their bloodline effectively ended. It was a brutal, chilling efficiency, Tony Volante ensuring no loose ends, no future vendettas.
When it was done, Robb commanded the Twins themselves to be unmade. Not with the apocalyptic fury he had unleashed on Casterly Rock or King's Landing, but with targeted blasts from Rhitta that shattered the bridge, collapsed the main keeps, and left the twin castles as smoldering, uninhabitable ruins, a grim warning astride the Green Fork. The river itself seemed to flow darker past the wreckage.
The news of the Twins' destruction and the extermination of House Frey sent a fresh wave of terror through Westeros. This was not war; this was a purge, carried out with divine, implacable wrath.
Robb then turned his attention north, towards the Dreadfort. He sent a raven to Roose Bolton, a simple message: "Your King summons you to a council at the ruins of the Twins. Come alone, and unarmed, to plead your case. Or await my judgment at the Dreadfort."
Roose Bolton was no fool. He knew. He also knew that flight was likely impossible. Robb's outriders and the terror of his name would ensure no escape. Bolton, ever the pragmatist, ever the survivor, chose to face his doom with a semblance of dignity, or perhaps he still believed his cunning could save him. He arrived at the ruined Twins, as commanded, alone and unarmed.
Robb met him amidst the rubble, Rhitta leaning against a shattered parapet, its light a soft, dangerous hum.
"Lord Bolton," Robb said, his voice quiet. "You have read my letters of summons."
Roose Bolton's pale eyes met Robb's. There was no fear in them, only a cold, reptilian watchfulness. "I have, Your Grace. And I have come, as you commanded."
"You conspired with Walder Frey and Tywin Lannister to murder me and my loyal lords," Robb stated, not an accusation, but a simple fact. "Your letters prove it beyond doubt."
Bolton gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "Tywin Lannister was a powerful man. Walder Frey, ambitious. I made a calculated decision, Your Grace. A gamble. It seems I miscalculated."
"You did," Robb agreed. "Your house has preyed upon the North for centuries, Roose Bolton. Your flayed man banner is an emblem of terror and cruelty. Today, that legacy ends."
"And my son, Ramsay?" Bolton asked, his voice still a soft whisper. "He is… enthusiastic in his methods, but loyal to his blood."
"Your bastard whelp shares your doom," Robb said. "As does any who carry the Bolton name and ambition. The Dreadfort will fall. Your line will be extinguished. This is my judgment."
Roose Bolton nodded slowly, a strange, almost serene expression on his face. "A king's judgment is final. May I know… how?"
Robb gestured to Rhitta. "You will not suffer the flaying knife you so generously employed on others. Your end will be clean. And swift." He paused. "Unless you prefer to meet the sun?"
A flicker of something – perhaps the first true fear Roose Bolton had ever shown – passed through his pale eyes. "The axe will suffice, Your Grace."
Robb hefted Rhitta. The destruction of the Dreadfort itself was almost an afterthought, another task for his solar fire after its lord was dispatched. Ramsay Snow, who had been at the Dreadfort, met his end alongside its walls, consumed by a wrath he had so often inflicted on others. The flayed man banners were burned, the castle's grim stones pulled down and scattered.
When Robb Stark returned to Riverrun, he was no longer just the King in the North, or the King of Ash and Light. He was Robb the Undivided, Robb the Judge, Robb the Scourge of Traitors. His own lords, the Greatjon, Mallister, Maege Mormont, looked upon him with an awe that bordered on religious terror. He had purged the vipers from their midst with a finality that was absolute. His kingdom, forged in war and grief, was now further tempered by fear – fear of their enemies, but also, increasingly, fear of their own terrible, god-like King.
Catelyn Stark, when told of the fate of the Freys and Boltons, finally retreated into a silent, waking madness, her mind unable to bear the weight of her son's terrible justice.
Robb felt little. The acts had been necessary. Traitors were excised. His kingdom was secure from within. Tony Volante approved the cold, hard logic. Escanor acknowledged the fitting punishment for those who dared betray their rightful sovereign. But the boy who had loved his father's tales of honor and valor, the boy who had dreamed of being a just king, was now so deeply buried beneath layers of ash, iron, and sun-fire that Robb himself could scarcely recall his face.
He stood alone on the battlements of Riverrun, Rhitta a silent, glowing sentinel beside him, and looked out over a land that was now his, unequivocally, terrifyingly. The game of thrones was over. He had won. Or perhaps, he had simply burned the board and all the pieces with it. What remained now was to rule the silence that followed. And to listen for the stirring of older, colder enemies from the true North, the only challenge, perhaps, left worthy of his terrible, isolating power.