The next morning, the West District square was alive with anticipation. People from every corner of the city had gathered, spilling into every available space. Soldiers, armored and disciplined, formed a solid inner ring around the execution platform, their eyes scanning the crowd to maintain order. Beyond them, the streets were packed with farmers, cooks, vendors, fishermen, and townsfolk of all trades, jostling for a glimpse of the spectacle.
Even the rooftops were crowded. Anyone who could climb higher had, and from their vantage points, they peered down with eager eyes and bottles of wine in hand, murmuring among themselves. They had come to witness history: the high-and-mighty Freys, infamous throughout the Riverlands, about to meet their end at the hands of the young King from the North.
Eddard Stark, standing near the platform, held a parchment scroll in one hand and a tin horn in the other. He attempted to recite the crimes of Lord Walder and his brood, but the noise of the crowd overwhelmed his voice. No one cared for the legal formalities or the details of the charges. They wanted the drama, the spectacle of the mighty brought low, and the satisfaction of justice carried out by a worthy hand.
Soldiers dragged the bound Freys onto the raised platform. Lord Walder, gagged with coarse rags, cursed incessantly in his hoarse, toothless voice, having spent the night in the black cells venting his rage. Despite the pain in his throat, he continued to spew obscenities, as if his defiance alone could save him.
Robb Stark gripped his sword, the fabled "Heartbreaker," its Valyrian steel gleaming in the morning sun. For a brief moment, he thought of the Stark family's ancestral sword, "Ice." Perhaps, he mused, he should have asked Eddard to recover it before departing for the Riverlands. There were many swords in the dungeons of Riverrun alone—countless counts, knights, and men—but none carried the symbolic weight of his family's honor.
"I, Robb of Stark, King of the North, King of the Trident, and Lord of Winterfell, hereby sentence you to death in my own name," he declared, his voice echoing across the square.
The executions were swift and merciless. Each swing of Heartbreaker brought a head to the ground, blood spilling in neat, crimson arcs across the wooden platform. The efficiency of the Valyrian steel blade made the acts almost clinical—better than any battle-axe, precise and decisive. Every head that fell elicited a ripple through the crowd, followed by murmurs and recognition.
"That's Lord Walder! I saw him once from afar—like a weasel!" a man shouted.
"That's Black Ward! He had an affair with Innis's neighbor. I heard screams all night while poor Innis could only cry outside her door," another added.
"That's Bastard Walder, surnamed River, one of the Old Bastard's eldest sons," someone else muttered.
Amid the chatter, Robb's face darkened, his expression increasingly grim. Sixteen heads fell in quick succession, each death amplifying the weight in his chest. The grim reality of leadership pressed down on him with every swing, the cold, unflinching responsibility of judgment settling over him.
Eddard stepped closer, tucking the scroll into his tunic. "Shall I take over?" he whispered.
"No. My father always said that the one who pronounces the death sentence must carry it out personally," Robb replied without hesitation.
He stepped to the next Frey, Heartbreaker raised once more, and the grim ritual continued until the last prisoner had met his end.
As the crowd began to disperse, Eddard wiped Heartbreaker with a linen cloth, sheathing the longsword and draping the cloth over Walder Frey's pale, unwilling face. "Robb," he said softly, "you cannot always do this yourself. The world is filled with chaos, and there will always be more heads to fall."
Robb forced a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "It is tradition," he said. "The Starks carry the blood of the First Men. We honor it. The Riverlands, however, follow the Andal way—you will have your hands free in the future."
Eddard chuckled softly. "Unless the cost of my magic changes, I suspect I will still be personally delivering justice when necessary." He did not voice this aloud. Tradition had its weight, and Stark honor its price.
Robb's smile became genuine as he descended from the platform. "Eddard, now that this matter is settled, I must depart for the North this afternoon. According to the information you provided, Roose Bolton is likely returning to the Dreadfort. The Reed forces haven't received confirmation yet, and under threat from the Ironborn, they likely won't intervene. Perhaps Old Flayer will even gather more strength along the way. Speed is critical."
The streets had begun to clear as spectators hurried home, leaving a path for the lords and soldiers to move through. Little Jon and Daisy Mormont, charged with guarding, positioned themselves strategically a few paces behind. Eddard followed closely, offering counsel.
"Upon your return," he advised, "gather your forces before engaging. Do not attack blindly. Old Flayer may have allied with the Ironborn. They could lure you out while simultaneously attacking Winterfell."
Robb nodded, visibly moved by the counsel. "I understand. Last time, I acted too hastily. Now, I will build a strong army and strike decisively against both the Ironborn and Bolton."
Eddard continued, "Also, watch Lady Barbrey of Barrowton. Her attitude toward the Starks is hostile, even hateful."
"I know, but I don't understand why," Robb admitted, scratching his long beard in confusion.
Eddard explained patiently. "Originally, Lady Barbrey intended to marry your uncle, and they were close. But Rickard Stark became engaged to Catelyn Tully, and fate intervened. Brandon Stark and Lord Rickard died in King's Landing. To resist the Mad King, your father married Catelyn on Jon Arryn's advice. Understandably, Lady Barbrey harbored resentment toward Winterfell, which explains the lack of soldiers from Barrowton and Riverrun during the war."
Robb absorbed the information, eyes serious. "Then how do we regain their loyalty?"
"There's not much to be done with Ryswell," Eddard admitted. "Lord Rodrik's daughter married a Bolton. Lady Bethany and her son Dominic are dead, which is fortunate. You might consider a marriage alliance—yourself, Arya, or Rickon. That could restore Riverrun's allegiance."
Robb sighed. "Bran won't do. A cripple would be an insult, unless he dies, and Winterfell's leadership passes to him."
Eddard, unaware of Robb's expression, continued, "Barrowton is trickier. Lady Barbrey has no heirs. I have two options for you. First, support a collateral branch of the Dustin family to secure inheritance. It will likely require a battle. Second…"
Robb shook his head. "No. Tell me only what doesn't involve bloodshed."
Eddard nodded. "Then send Lady Barbrey a letter promising that after the war, you will retrieve Lord Dustin's remains and return them to Barrowton. Howland Reed knows the location. This could soften her resentment, though I cannot guarantee it will secure her loyalty."
Robb nodded, resolute. "Understood."
Eddard smiled. "Would you like me to reach out to Dorne for mercenaries? Prince Martell might be persuaded to lend troops, for a price."
Robb blinked. "Dorne? I almost forgot about them. They're allied by marriage to the Iron Throne. Why would they help us?"
Eddard's eyes scanned the street, calm and calculating. "Martell's hatred for the Lannisters remains. The North and Riverlands have no quarrel with Dorne. We could hire troops to fight the Ironborn, disguising them as mercenaries from Essos if necessary. The alliance is mutually beneficial."
Robb considered the plan, then asked, "What's the price?"
Eddard raised an eyebrow. "Gold, and perhaps a promise of future support if Dorne engages the Westerlands. Nothing more."
Robb's eyes flashed with determination. "Once the Ironborn and Bolton are dealt with, I will march south to avenge my father. Cersei, Joffrey, and Little Devil will know the wrath of the North. Winter is Coming."
At that moment, chaos erupted. A roar shattered the air. Men with hostile intent pushed through the crowd, their weapons flashing, eyes blazing with hatred.
Eddard's hand instinctively drew Heartbreaker. In a few swift, precise movements, he cut down the nearest assassin, blood and intestines spilling across the cobblestones. He pivoted, slicing two more attackers, before a soldier's spear dispatched the last standing threat. Little Jon and Daisy Mormont intercepted additional assailants, while soldiers cleared the rest.
Robb's cold eyes surveyed the carnage. "Old Frey's bastards," he muttered. "Lord Walder sired too many. There could be more lurking. Let's return to the tower quickly."
Eddard led the way, Heartbreaker ready, shielding Robb as they moved. The crowd had fled in terror, the streets silent but for their footsteps.
"Regarding Dorne," Robb said, his tone returning to business, "carry out your plan and report the result."
"Understood," Eddard replied with a nod.
"And one more thing," Robb added, pausing. "Ser Brynden will block the Ruby Ford. Soon, your father will arrive with ten thousand infantry. Deal with the escaped Reach army before they return to King's Landing."
"No problem. Leave it to me," Eddard replied with a firm smile.
With that, the two strategists continued, planning, advising, and preparing for the battles yet to come. The Riverlands had been secured—for now—but the war for the North and beyond was far from over.
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