By the time the rising sun shimmered across the river's surface, the assault on the Twins had already ended in decisive victory.
The twin-tower banner of House Frey, once proudly displayed atop the battlements, had been torn down and cast into the mud below. Its sigil — two blue towers upon a silver-white field connected by a bridge — had long symbolized vigilance and dominance over the Crossing. For generations, it had inspired respect and caution throughout the Riverlands.
Now it lay trampled beneath boots and stained with ash.
In its place flew a new standard: a quartered banner of gold, emblazoned with a crowned stag and a three-headed dragon gazing defiantly over the world. The wind caught the fabric, snapping it sharply above the conquered walls.
The sounds of battle had faded into scattered cries and the groans of the dying. Smoke drifted lazily from the charred remains of the West River Castle's heavy oak-and-iron gates. What had once been an imposing barrier was now nothing more than a blackened arch of smoldering timber and twisted metal.
The Crossing had fallen.
Ser Michel of the Vale, heir to House Grafton, had secured West River Castle with disciplined precision. At River Gate Tower and along the great stone bridge, Seaguard's forces stood guard, preventing any desperate escape attempts. Meanwhile, Ser Boros led the crabfeeders' hardened men through East Keep, suppressing the last pockets of resistance.
From this day forward, the Freys would no longer claim to be the strongest vassals of Riverrun.
Marquess Walder Frey had always prided himself on caution. During Robert's Rebellion and the subsequent conflicts in the Riverlands, he had maneuvered carefully, remaining neutral until the outcome was certain. He hoarded grain, coin, and soldiers, believing survival was the greatest victory.
But neutrality had not saved him from this storm.
Many members of House Frey lay dead in the courtyards and corridors of their ancestral stronghold. Among the most notable were Black Walder, Hosdton Frey — who had commanded the defense of West River — and Danwell Frey, guardian of East Keep. Their severed heads now rested upon spear points in the central square, grim reminders of a new order rising from bloodshed.
It was a brutal era, and mercy had grown scarce.
Marquess Walder himself, along with his heir Stefflon, Lornel Rivers — the bastard commander of River Gate Tower — and several other Freys, had been captured and thrown into confinement. The once-cunning patriarch now found himself powerless within his own castle.
Frey soldiers in blue ringmail and silver cloaks were disarmed and herded into the square. Under the watchful threat of sharpened steel, they knelt in surrender. Weapons clattered to the ground; armor was stripped away. Many of their finest knights and cavalry had already fallen. The elite strength of the Crossing had been shattered in a single dawn.
At the center of West River Square stood Gendry.
Beside him were Ser Barristan Selmy, Bronze Yohn Royce, and other commanders. Though their armor bore dents and their faces were streaked with soot, victory shone brightly in their expressions.
The Twins had been considered a first-rate stronghold. Its fall would echo throughout the Riverlands.
"Your Grace," Lord Jason Mallister reported, bowing slightly. "Both East and West Castles are secured. The barracks near East Keep have been taken. Most of the levied farmers fled at first light. A number of mercenaries and free knights have surrendered."
"Well done," Gendry replied evenly. "Lord Jason, the Frey prisoners are under your authority. Guard them strictly. They are noble captives and shall be treated as such — but none are to approach them without permission."
"As you command."
"Lord Yohn, see to the gates and clear the bodies. Burn the fallen, friend and foe alike. This place must be cleansed."
Bronze Yohn nodded solemnly.
"Ser Boros, restore order. Any man caught looting or harming innocents will answer to me."
The discipline among Gendry's knights remained firm. They were not common sellswords. Years of training and costly upkeep had shaped them into an elite force. Yet mercenaries and freeriders from the eastern camp had already taken advantage of chaos to plunder parts of East Keep.
Such behavior would not be tolerated.
Ser Barristan wiped dust from his white cloak and said quietly, "Walder Frey stockpiled coin and soldiers for decades, yet never fought openly. He was more merchant than lord."
"Caution built his power," Lord Jason admitted. "It also sealed his downfall."
After a pause, Jason lowered his voice. "One is missing."
"Who?" Gendry asked.
"Bastard Walder. The eldest bastard. A skilled fighter."
"Find him," Ser Barristan said sharply.
Moments later, Anguy appeared, leading several Gold Cloaks. Between them stumbled a plump, middle-aged man in silver-grey robes.
Rosso Frey — called Rosso the Cripple.
The twelfth son of Walder Frey, Rosso had long served as steward. His lame leg gave him his nickname, but his true weapon had always been his mind. Narrow-eyed and sharp-bearded, he possessed the calculating demeanor of a born survivor.
"You know what we want," Anguy said coolly.
Rosso swallowed, glancing at the impaled heads in the square.
"I do," he replied nervously. "The account books — land, vassals, wealth, population. Everything."
Ser Barristan nodded approvingly.
"But," Rosso added quickly, forcing a smile toward Gendry, "I possess information far more valuable. The Frey family's secret treasury — wealth gathered for centuries. Hidden within the forests near the Twins."
Murmurs spread among the gathered soldiers.
"Speak," Gendry commanded.
Rosso hesitated.
"It is… information for the King alone."
"Speak here," Ser Barristan said firmly.
Rosso's eyes flickered. This was his final gamble.
"It lies—"
Suddenly his expression twisted with hatred.
"Die, bloodthirsty demon!"
A faint metallic glint flashed in the sunlight.
From the tower above the square, a grey-clad figure loosed an arrow.
"Bastard Walder!" Lord Jason shouted.
The arrow sliced through the air, swift and deadly.
Ser Barristan raised his shield — but Gendry had already moved.
He stepped back at the last instant. The arrow struck the ground where he had stood, quivering violently.
Without hesitation, Gendry seized a nearby short spear. His arm arced back and then forward in one fluid motion.
The spear flew.
Across the square, Bastard Walder barely had time to register the retaliation. The weapon struck him squarely in the chest, piercing through armor and bone. His body slammed against the tower wall before sliding downward, leaving a dark trail of blood.
He fell lifeless to the stone below.
The would-be avenger of House Frey died without glory.
"Cut off his head," Gendry ordered calmly. "Add it to the others."
Rosso collapsed as his last hope vanished.
"I hope this secret treasury exists," Gendry said coldly, looking down at him. "For your sake."
Anguy, furious at the attempt, struck Rosso hard.
The steward was dragged away for interrogation.
Then, unexpectedly, Anguy knelt and placed his longbow at Gendry's feet.
"Long live the Storm!"
Lord Jason followed, kneeling with his sword.
"Long live the Storm!"
Bronze Yohn stepped forward next.
One by one, commanders from the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Claw Peninsula knelt, laying their weapons before Gendry.
Finally, the soldiers joined them.
The square thundered with voices.
"Victor! Storm!"
"Victor! Storm!"
Gendry lifted his warhammer high. The golden stag and dragon on his robes shimmered in the morning light.
"Victory!" he shouted.
"Victory!" thousands roared in answer.
The Twins trembled beneath their unified cry.
The old storm had passed.
A greater one was coming.
Gold Tooth
Pain consumed Jaime Lannister.
Not the clean pain of a sword cut or broken rib — but a burning, relentless agony that clawed through his body.
His severed limb throbbed with fiery torment. Flames seemed to lick at the raw flesh. His fingers felt as though they were still there, curling and shriveling in phantom fire.
He had faced countless battles. He had never felt pain like this.
In fevered dreams, he saw the arakh descending — too fast to stop. He saw the face of the young warrior who struck him down: a boy who resembled Renly Baratheon, yet possessed a colder gaze and fiercer resolve.
Gendry.
Jaime wept in his delirium.
For the first time in his life, he remembered childhood prayers.
The Old Maester of Gold Tooth stood beside him, grave and careful.
"Ser Jaime," he said softly, "your wound has festered. The flesh has begun to rot. I must act."
"Save it," Jaime whispered. "Save my hand."
"I cannot. If I do nothing, the rot will spread. You will die."
"Then clean it. Stitch it. I'll take my chances."
The maester hesitated.
"I can preserve your arm to the elbow. Your wrist… perhaps. But your hand is beyond saving."
"If you cut more than that," Jaime rasped weakly, "I'll kill you."
In truth, he no longer possessed the strength.
The surgery began.
Boiling wine cleansed the wound.
Jaime screamed.
Steel sliced away ruined flesh. More boiling wine followed. He bit down until blood filled his mouth.
When he awoke, the hand was gone.
Stitched flesh closed what remained. His wrist survived — barely.
"My face?" Jaime asked hoarsely.
The maester sighed.
"A long scar remains. You will live. But you will need a golden hand… and perhaps a golden mask."
Jaime let out a hollow laugh.
"Once I was the Kingslayer," he murmured. "Now I am the Cripple."
"Rest," the maester urged. "You will need strength to survive what comes next."
Jaime closed his eyes again.
Outside the chamber, guards whispered.
"He was ambushed."
"They say the boy Gendry did it."
"He's ruthless."
Jaime heard them faintly through fevered haze.
No, he thought.
Not ruthless.
Just stronger.
The storm had claimed another victim.
And it was only beginning.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)