Sergio's failed attempt to ford the river had cost Jon's small party two horses and most of their supplies. With six grown men and only five mounts, they could never hope to catch the Northern host, which had a days-long head start. Jon decided to hold at Fairmarket for a day. He handed two gold dragons to Sergio, instructing him to find fresh mounts and adequate supplies.
"If there's coin left over," Jon added, "let the men have a warm meal and a dry bed for a night." It was a meager compensation for the misery they had endured in the rain-slicked mud of the Riverlands, but it was all he could offer.
The next morning, Sergio stood outside the inn's stable, proudly holding the reins of a sturdy chestnut garron. Behind it stood a tall mule laden with bulging sacks.
"Look at this beauty, Lord Jon," Sergio boasted. "A bargain at one dragon and eleven moons. I never expected to find a Northern-bred horse this far south."
Jon recognized the animal instantly. It was a sturdy beast of the winter-lands. He suspected some deserting soldier had sold it to buy a new life, but he kept the thought to himself. "Well done, Sergio. She'll serve us well. We move."
For the next eight days, the rain was a relentless curtain of grey. They eventually reached Oldstones, camping on the hill overlooking the Blue Fork. Once the seat of the ancient Kings of the Rivers and Hills, the castle was now nothing but foundations. The local villagers had long ago scavenged the stone for their own barns and septs.
In the center of what was once the courtyard lay a massive, carved sepulcher, half-hidden by waist-high brown grass and ash trees. The king's likeness on the lid was worn smooth by centuries of wind and water. His face was a blur of stone, a crown just barely visible above sightless eyes. His hands were folded over a stone warhammer, the runes once etched into the head now lost to time. Lichen and wild roses crawled from the king's feet to his chest.
The company found shelter beneath a few standing walls. At dusk, the rain finally eased. Jon used dry wood from the mule's pack to start a fire, brewing a thick mash of salt-beef, cheese, and corn. The warmth brought the first smiles to their faces in days.
"What was this place called?" Jon asked, stirring the pot.
Rand Carlton took a bowl, nodding toward the sepulcher. "Oldstones, the locals call it. Doubtless it had a name of glory when the kings still sat here."
"Which king?" Jon pressed.
Rand shrugged, looking at the others. No one had an answer. "Who knows? That was thousands of years ago. Only the Maesters with their dusty books could tell you."
Jon nodded. "My teacher once said that stone statues do not make a king live forever. Only the things he did for the people can do that."
"A wise man, your teacher," Wade noted.
"He is more than wise," Jon said, his voice full of quiet pride. "He is a warrior, a commander, a smith, even a cook. It seems there is nothing in this world he does not know."
"Then you must have learned a great deal from him," Rand said.
Jon's expression clouded. "Not enough. I wasn't at his side nearly long enough."
An older soldier named Charlie sighed. "A pity, Lord Jon. You're young. When you get to my age, you'll realize how rare it is to find a man who will actually teach you when your mind is still sharp enough to catch it."
Jon went silent, feeling the familiar sting of guilt. He prayed that when he finally returned to the monastery, Aldric wouldn't view his departure as an act of betrayal.
Day after day, the mire swallowed them. The Seven Springs were a labyrinth of creeks, and the Hag's Mire was a graveyard of green, stagnant pools waiting to drown the careless. Hooves sank into the muck with a sound like a hungry babe at the breast.
"This road is a curse!" Sergio groaned, hauling on his horse's bridle.
"We're lucky we're a small party," Rand called out from the front. He pointed to a line of abandoned wagons half-submerged in the swamp. "The King's host must have lost half their baggage here. These are Northern carts."
Jon recognized them—the same style of wagon he had seen in the supply trains back at Oxcross. They sat empty now, rotting in the mud.
"How much further to the Twins, Ser Rand?" Jon asked.
"Two days once we clear the mire," Rand wheezed. "Maybe we'll catch the tail end of the feast."
"A wedding without a groom is no wedding at all," Wade laughed. "Lord Edmure wouldn't leave the King behind. If they were delayed by the mud, the wedding was delayed too."
Three days later, the roar of the Green Fork reached them—a low, predatory growl like a Great Beast. The river was swollen, twice as wide as it had been when Robb first crossed it to win his crown.
As they entered the Frey lands, they were questioned by outriders several times. Thanks to the veterans' knowledge of the local passwords and customs, they passed through the checkpoints and reached the outskirts of the Twin Castles by twilight.
Jon felt a knot tightening in his stomach. He should have been excited to see Robb, but a persistent sense of dread nagged at him. He cast Purify on himself, thinking it was the lingering chill of the swamp, but the anxiety remained. He vaguely remembered a nightmare from the night before—dark and fragmented—that left him feeling hollow. He had felt this once before, months ago, just before Aldric brought word of his father's execution.
An ill omen, he thought.
But as he looked ahead, there were only gates and a river between him and his brother. What danger could there be in the middle of Robb's own army?
Then came the music. Over the roar of the river, the thumping of drums, the bray of horns, and the shrill scream of pipes drifted through the mist.
"The wedding's done," Rand said, his mouth watering. "But the feast is in full swing. Keep an eye out for a roasted pig's leg for me, boys."
"That pig's leg will be your bride tonight, Rand," Wade teased.
The road turned west, passing through a rain-lashed cornfield before cresting a ridge. The Twins finally came into view.
Thousands of horses and men were clustered around three massive pavilions—vast canvas halls standing before the castle gates. Robb had set his camp on the higher, drier ground, but the Green Fork had already begun to lap at the edges of the furthest tents.
As they drew closer, the music from the castle became a cacophony. It didn't sound like a celebration; it sounded like a battle. The tunes from the two different keeps clashed in a jarring, violent discordance.
"Seven hells, that's hideous," Rand muttered. "If I were Lord Frey, I'd hang the lot of them for playing such rot."
"Walder Frey is half-blind," Sergio joked. "I suppose no one told him his ears were rotting too."
Jon wished for daylight. In the gloom and the mist, the banners were unrecognizable—heavy, wet rags that might have been the Stark Direwolf or the Bolton Flayed Man for all he could tell.
A ring of wagons formed a crude wooden wall around the pavilions. A sentry blocked their path, his lantern illuminating a pale red cloak spattered with what looked like dried blood. On his chest was the sigil of the Dreadfort.
"Who are you? State your business," the Bolton captain barked.
Jon pulled out the scroll from Queen Jeyne. "I carry a letter from Queen Jeyne for the King."
The captain reached for it, but Jon pulled back. "For the King's hand only."
The Bolton riders shifted restlessly, their eyes cold. The captain held up a hand to steady them. "You may enter the camp, but the castle is sealed for the night. No one in, no one out. And mind the rules: no steel or mail within the feast area. Strip your armor."
Rand looked at Jon. "Should we eat first?"
"No," Jon said, his pulse racing with a sudden, sharp alarm. "We finish the task. I'm sure the gate-guards will open for the Queen's word."
They stripped their mail and leather under the captain's watchful eye, bundling their swords and armor onto their saddles.
They rode past the glowing pavilions. Their hooves left deep gouges in the wet clay as they moved into the darkness toward the river. Ahead, the black stone bridge of the Twins loomed, torches flickering on the battlements like dying stars.
"The gates aren't closed," Sergio noted suddenly.
The iron portcullis was rising; the drawbridge was groaning as it settled across the moat. Jon felt a surge of relief—he could see his brother soon.
Then, the floodgates opened.
A torrent of heavy cavalry erupted from the gatehouse—a river of steel and fire. The thunder of hooves was almost drowned out by the deafening drums within the walls. Men and horses were clad in full plate. One in ten held a torch; the rest gripped heavy, long-handled axes—wide, cruel blades meant for shearing through bone.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. It was a thin, piercing sound, full of a primal rage and sorrow that cut through the music and the rain. It made Jon shiver to his marrow.
More riders poured out, four abreast—knights, squires, and freeriders.
Jon looked back at the pavilions. One had already collapsed. Flames began to lick at the wet canvas. Then, a volley of fire-arrows arced through the night, trailing brilliant gold streaks. The second and third tents erupted in roaring fire. Screams—high, thin, and desperate—tore through the air.
Jon froze. This wasn't a feast. This was a slaughter.
Orange light flickered off the armor of the riders as they splashed through the rising river-water at the end of the drawbridge. The music from the two keeps finally found a terrifying harmony.
"I know that song," Jon whispered. He had heard Lennar sing it in the barracks.
And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?
Nearby, Frey riders were hacking at a group of carters. A large man managed to fend off three attackers, knocked his own son unconscious with an axe, and threw the boy over a horse before galloping past Jon in a blur of mud.
Jon didn't have time to wonder why the man looked familiar. A dozen Frey riders were bearing down on his party.
Battle instinct took over. Jon reached for his belt, but his sword was bundled behind his saddle. "Formation! Now! To arms!"
Rand Carlton turned, his face a mask of confusion. "Battle? With who—"
He never finished the sentence. A Frey blade whistled through the air, shearing through Rand's unprotected neck. His head spun away into the dark, eyes wide with a shock that would never fade.
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