Catelyn felt the blood in her veins turn to ice.
She glanced at the faint, knowing smile on Roose Bolton's face beside her, then pulled back his sleeve—and her pupils constricted in horror.
Armor.
She shot to her feet, knocking over the goblet before her.
"Robb!"
Every head in the hall turned toward her. The laughter and music died at once, leaving only shocked silence as all eyes fell upon the distraught Lady Catelyn.
Old Walder Frey rose slowly from his seat. The false smile vanished from his shriveled face, replaced by venomous hatred and cruel delight.
He raised his hand.
"Now!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The doors and windows of the hall slammed shut and were barred in an instant.
"Seize that bitch!" Old Walder barked, pointing toward Jeyne Westerling, whose face had turned deathly pale as she clutched at her abdomen.
Several burly men, dressed as attendants, lunged toward her corner.
Greatjon Umber roared, swinging a bench to knock one down, but more Frey soldiers poured in through the side doors.
"Protect His Grace!"
"It's a trap!"
The Northern lords and guards drew their swords—but it was too late.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The shrill hiss of arrows tore through the air from the dark galleries above.
Thud! "Aagh!"
Robb's loyal guards—men like Ser Wendel Manderly—were struck down in an instant, their bodies pierced by crossbow bolts. Blood sprayed like fountains across the feast hall.
One bolt grazed Robb's shoulder, ripping through flesh and scattering blood. He groaned in pain as he staggered back.
Catelyn's heart shattered as she saw her son struck. She screamed, trying to reach him, but chaos and steel blocked her path.
The great hall had become a slaughterhouse.
Unarmed nobles and soldiers of the North and the Riverlands were cut down where they stood, falling beneath volleys of bolts and blades.
From a side door burst soldiers bearing the pink flayed man of the Dreadfort.
The Dreadfort men moved swiftly, driving the surviving Northerners back and surrounding them, cold steel pressing against their throats until they surrendered.
Roose Bolton stepped into the center of the hall, his boots splashing through blood. His pale eyes were calm as they swept over Robb—bleeding, encircled—and Catelyn.
He paced slowly, gaze flicking across the Northern lords forced to their knees beneath drawn swords: Lady Dacey Mormont, Galbart Glover, and others, their faces tight with fury and despair.
When Robb had clashed with the Reach at Lannisport and both sides lay broken, the balance of the Seven Kingdoms had already begun to tip toward the Lannisters.
Roose Bolton had wasted no time turning to Tywin's side.
He raised his voice.
"Lords of the North, look upon your king! He led you south to protect a bastard Targaryen, taking your sons, your brothers, your fathers—and burying them in southern soil! For a woman of the Westerlands, he broke his sacred vows to House Frey. For the sake of honor, he executed Lord Karstark, who only sought vengeance for his son. And now, he and his foolish mother have led you all into Lord Frey's slaughterhouse.
Do you wish to live?"
The surviving Northern lords stood silent, eyes darting between Robb and the ring of Frey soldiers and Bolton flayers surrounding them.
Roose Bolton smiled thinly. "It's simple. Step forward—each of you. Take your sword or dagger and strike your king. It need not be fatal, but there must be blood. Use your king's blood to cleanse the sins you committed by following him. Buy your lives with it—and earn the mercy of Lord Frey and Lord Tywin."
"No!"
Catelyn's scream tore through the hall. She struggled against the soldiers restraining her, her voice raw with fury. "Roose Bolton! You treacherous beast! The gods will damn you!"
Bolton ignored her. His pale gaze swept the kneeling lords. "Who will go first? Show me your repentance."
Silence fell—thick, suffocating, endless.
"I will."
A voice filled with venom broke the stillness.
Galbart Glover, Lord of Deepwood Motte, stepped forward.
His brother and heir, Robett Glover, had been captured by a sellsword company during the southern war, his fate unknown. His hatred for Robb had long since turned to poison.
Drawing a dagger, Galbart strode toward Robb, who knelt restrained, unable to move. His eyes burned with the fire of vengeance.
"Galbart! No!" Catelyn screamed in despair.
Galbart Glover stepped before Robb and, without hesitation, drove his dagger deep into Robb's abdomen.
"Gah!" Robb's body jerked violently, blood instantly blooming across his leather armor in dark crimson. He bit hard on his lip, refusing to cry out, his eyes locked on Glover's face.
Then came the second. And the third.
Blow after blow rained down.
Blades and daggers pierced Robb's body one after another. Blood soaked through his tunic and trousers, running down his legs to pool beneath his feet in a blinding, scarlet puddle. His complexion turned ashen, his breath quick and ragged.
Each stab was met with one of Catelyn's screams—raw, broken, almost inhuman.
When the butchery ceased, Roose Bolton surveyed the carnage. Only a few Northern lords remained who had refused to strike their king.
"Send the uncooperative ones to Duskendale," he ordered coolly. "I'm sure Great Lord Tywin will see them well taken care of."
Then he drew the dagger from his belt and stepped forward, blood pooling around his boots. His pale eyes looked down coldly at the dying Young Wolf.
His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet every word carried to Robb and Catelyn's ears. "For the future of the North. And for the future of House Bolton."
With that, he plunged the dagger straight into Robb's heart.
Robb's body convulsed, his pupils dilating as the last trace of life fled from his eyes.
The King in the North—the Young Wolf—was dead.
Bolton withdrew the blade, letting Robb's lifeless body collapse to the floor.
He turned toward Catelyn Tully, who was already trembling, her face ghostly pale.
"Oh, and my lady..." he said calmly. "That child you lost years ago? That was me. I had a little something slipped into your food. Now all your sons are dead. You may go and join your husband in peace."
Catelyn's mind shattered. She let out a piercing, grief-stricken wail. "Why? Why would you do this?"
Bolton's voice was cold as steel. "Because your husband, Eddard Stark, took my only heir from me. When I learned that Domeric had died across the Narrow Sea, I swore House Stark would pay the price."
Before she could speak again, Bolton gave a slight nod to a Frey soldier nearby.
The man stepped forward with a cruel grin, his dagger flashing as it slashed across Catelyn's throat.
Blood gushed forth—dark and heavy—like a belated rain, staining the cold stone floors of the Twins.
...
Meanwhile, in the bridal tower at the far end of the castle, Edmure's palms were slick with sweat.
He sat nervously across from Roslin, who perched on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting at the hem of her gown. In the flickering candlelight, her neck looked slender and pale as a swan's.
He took a deep breath, trying to speak, to ease the tension.
Thud. Thud.
Two heavy thumps echoed from outside the door, like bodies hitting the floor.
Edmure froze. "Who's there?"
The door burst open.
The two Frey guards who should have been standing outside lay sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from their throats.
A "man" stood in the doorway.
An Eastern-faced man, sword in hand, a faint smile curling his lips.
It was Chai Yiq—who had infiltrated the Twins.
Before Edmure could react, Chai Yiq struck him sharply at the neck. Edmure collapsed to the floor without a sound.
Chai Yiq's gaze shifted to Roslin, her wide light-brown eyes filled with terror. She raised her sword. "Stay quiet and come with me if you want to live."
Roslin froze, too frightened to speak.
Chai Yiq frowned, then struck her swiftly on the side of the neck, knocking her unconscious.
She lifted both her and Edmure over her shoulders and slipped into the shadows of the chaotic castle—vanishing as though she had never been there at all.