"A storm?" Old Walder's cloudy eyes widened in disbelief. "Not Lannister. Not Stark. A storm? What nonsense is this?"
The chamber door had already been thrown wide open. Ser Stefflon Frey stood at the threshold, breath uneven, his face pale beneath the torchlight. He pointed urgently toward the narrow stairwell window overlooking the courtyard below.
"See for yourself, Father," Stefflon said grimly. "Come quickly."
Several Frey guards clustered behind him, their blue-steel ringmail and silver-grey cloaks no longer symbols of confidence but of quiet dread. Their composure had cracked.
No one paid attention to Lady Josana, who remained sitting upright in the bed. She was young, frail, and pale—wed to Marquess Walder Frey on his ninetieth nameday, more a political token than a wife.
"My lord," she pleaded softly, clutching the blanket to her chest, "please take me with you."
"Hide yourself," Stefflon said coldly, not even sparing her a glance. "Find somewhere secure."
In times of war, compassion was a luxury. Lady Josana's house was a minor knightly family sworn to House Frey. She held no leverage, no protection. Survival was her own burden.
Stefflon turned his focus entirely to his father.
Old Walder was dragged from his bed and hastily wrapped in a heavy night robe. The sounds from the city beyond the walls had grown unmistakable—steel clashing, men shouting, horns sounding across the river crossings.
And then the chant came clearly through the night air.
"Long live the storm!"
The words cut through Walder's confusion like a blade. His expression hardened.
He shuffled toward the window and peered down into the square below.
Gold cloaks.
The courtyard had been overrun.
The soldiers were disciplined, organized, and relentless. They moved like a tide of molten metal beneath the torches' glow. The stag sigil flashed in the firelight—gold upon black.
Gold. One of the colors of the crowned stag.
Field of Fire.
At their head stood a towering warrior whose presence demanded attention. Broad-shouldered and imposing, he seemed to wear antlers upon his helm, or perhaps it was merely the silhouette cast by torchlight. Either way, he looked like a figure torn from legend.
Old Walder's breath caught.
"The Mad Storm…" he muttered hoarsely, as though speaking the name of a ghost.
He had been born in 208 AC. He remembered the true Storm Lord.
Memories flooded him—green fields, roaring laughter, golden cloth cloaks adorned with crowned stags. Lyonel Baratheon, known to the smallfolk as the Mad Storm, had been one of the greatest warriors of his age. Loud, fierce, and beloved.
That laughter still echoed in Walder's fading mind.
"Yes," Stefflon said quietly. "It is him. Or someone wearing his legacy."
"Liars!" Walder spat. "Traitors! The brats of House Piper and those sellswords have betrayed us!"
"There's no time," Stefflon insisted, urging the guards forward. "We must move."
They hurried down the spiral staircase, boots thudding against stone.
Halfway down, they encountered a group of silver-grey robed soldiers charging upward, faces streaked with blood.
"Out of the way!" Old Walder barked. "Stand aside for your lord!"
"Retreat!" Stefflon suddenly shouted, realizing too late that something was wrong.
The soldiers looked up.
At their head stood Ser Marq Piper.
"Well," Marq said with a crooked grin, "it seems my luck hasn't abandoned me after all. A pleasure to see you again, Marquess Walder."
Though many of his men had scattered in search of greater targets, Marq had chosen wisely. He had waited until chaos engulfed the city, slipping past distracted guards and donning Frey colors. The disguise had carried him straight into the heart of the keep.
Steel rang in the narrow stairwell.
In the confined space, numbers meant little. Marq, younger and stronger, quickly overwhelmed Stefflon. The old knight staggered backward under the assault.
But the Frey guards pressed inward, forming a barrier to protect their lord.
Above them, thunder shook the castle gates.
The western gate had fallen.
The Gold Cloaks surged inside in perfect formation, dragging captives behind them. Longspears rose above the mass of soldiers, each bearing grisly trophies.
Severed heads.
Among them—Black Walder.
And Hosdton Frey.
Their blood still dripped onto the stone.
The golden-armored commander and a white-clad knight stood side by side like figures carved from legend. At their center was Gendry, bearing himself not as a blacksmith's son, but as something far greater.
Beside him stood Ser Barristan the Bold, unwavering and grim.
"My grandsons…" Stefflon whispered, his face draining of color. He collapsed to his knees in despair.
With Black Walder dead, the Freys had lost their fiercest commander.
The Gold Cloaks advanced.
The castle fell completely.
"You thieves! Usurpers!" Old Walder screamed from the stairs.
Gendry looked up calmly.
"Marquess Walder," he said evenly, "you declared yourself too late, as you always do. The Riverlands will not suffer hesitation any longer."
"You bastard!" Walder raged. "Blacksmith's whelp! Wild deer!"
"Enough," Gendry replied coolly. "Escort the Marquess."
Marq Piper's blade pressed against Walder's throat. The old man was forced back into his chambers, locked inside with his trembling young wife.
Below, Gendry turned to his commanders.
"Lord Yohn."
"I am here, Your Highness."
"Secure the castle. No looting. No harm to women or children. Once the East Keep falls, Earl Jason will take command."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Move."
The western stronghold was theirs. Now only the East Keep remained.
Outside, the arch bridge had become a slaughterhouse.
Seaguard soldiers had seized the western half, but the Freys held the eastern gate fiercely. The narrow passage was choked with corpses. Shields locked against spears. Arrows rained from the battlements above.
"Reinforcements!" Seaguard men cried as Gendry's host crossed the square in disciplined formation.
"Display the heads," Gendry ordered.
Two longspears rose high.
"Black Walder is dead!"
"Hosdton Frey is dead!"
The shout rippled across the bridge like a shockwave.
Frey morale faltered.
From the battlements, archers lowered their bows.
Ser Danwell Frey, commanding the defense, turned pale.
"If Black Walder is dead…" he whispered. "Then we are undone."
The war drums began again.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The Seaguard shield wall parted.
Through the opening charged Gendry and Ser Barristan, followed by Gold Cloaks, Vale knights, and hardened warriors from every corner of the Riverlands.
They struck like a storm breaking against cliffs.
Spears shattered. Shields splintered.
Gendry's blade—curved and foreign—moved in deadly arcs, cutting down resistance without pause. Barristan's sword flashed silver in the dawn's first light.
The Frey formation buckled.
Men stumbled backward, tripping over fallen comrades. Panic spread like wildfire.
More reinforcements poured through the gate, their armor flashing in gold, black, red, and blue.
The disciplined Vale cavalry cut through flanks with brutal precision.
The Gold Cloaks advanced relentlessly, a wave of steel and fury.
Ser Danwell tried to rally his men—but an arrow struck him squarely in the chest.
He fell without another word.
The eastern gate collapsed inward.
By sunrise, resistance had ended.
The Frey host scattered. Many threw down their weapons. Others fled toward the river only to find no escape.
The Two Castles had fallen.
Victory belonged to the storm.
Gendry stood amid the cheering soldiers. Blood stained his armor, but his gaze was steady.
"Victory!" the men roared.
"Victory!"
"Long live the storm!"
The chant rolled across the courtyard like thunder over water.
Though the cost had been heavy, they had taken one of the strongest river fortresses in Westeros.
A miracle, some would say.
Gendry raised his blade skyward.
The war was far from over.
But tonight, the storm had triumphed.
And the Riverlands would never be the same again.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)