ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Roose Bolton spoke quickly after that. Men said fear loosened tongues, but Arthur thought that gave fear too little credit. Fear did not loosen anything. It tore the lock off and threw the door open. The Lord of the Dreadfort told him everything he could think to give: Tywin’s promise, the Frey reward, the plan to end the Stark cause in one night, the marriages meant to bind Bolton and Frey power, and the assurances that King’s Landing would recognize the new order after the war.

Arthur listened without interrupting.

”Tywin wanted Robb Stark dead,” Roose said, his voice growing hoarse. ”He wanted the Stark family broken, and every lord loyal to them either dead or scattered. He promised me the North once the war ended. He promised Walder Frey the Riverlands. I can help you deal with the Lannisters. I can pledge loyalty. I know their plans, their contacts, the men who—”

Arthur watched him for a few seconds. No anger showed on his face. That seemed to frighten Roose more than shouting would have.

Then Arthur moved the sword away.

Relief crossed Roose Bolton’s face. Only a trace, but enough. The man thought he had survived by becoming useful. A very lordly mistake. Westeros had trained nobles to believe betrayal was a kind of currency, and that every throat could be spared if it still had secrets to sell.

”I promised not to kill you,” Arthur said.

A dozen arrows struck Roose Bolton from different angles.

The Lord of the Dreadfort jerked as the shafts punched through his chest, throat, and belly. His face froze in shock and fear, as if the world had broken a rule only he was allowed to use. He looked down at the arrowheads protruding from his body, tried to speak, and spat blood instead. Then he fell backward onto the blood-slick floor.

Arthur did not look at the corpse for long. He nodded to one of the Young Noble Warriors beside him.

The warrior stepped forward and severed Roose Bolton’s head with a clean stroke.

”I promised not to kill you,” Arthur said quietly, looking at the dead eyes. ”They did not.”

Walder Frey received less ceremony. Arthur walked to the old lord’s corpse and had his head taken as well. Two spears were found from the dead, and the heads of Walder Frey and Roose Bolton were driven onto their points. The hall was still full of killing, but the sight began to travel faster than any order. Men saw the old lord of the Twins and the lord of the Dreadfort raised above the floor, dripping red beneath torchlight.

The Freys began to break.

”Lannister,” Arthur whispered, and the name tasted like iron. ”You will pay for your arrogance.”

He turned toward the closed doors of the banquet hall.

Beyond them lay the rest of the Twins. More Freys. More Bolton men. More murder wearing the face of war. Arthur strode toward the doors with the two heads raised high, and the Young Noble Warriors followed him. Some had taken bows and crossbows from fallen men during the melee. Others still carried their greatswords. All of them looked ready to turn the castle into a memory that smelled of smoke.

The doors were kicked open.

Outside, Frey soldiers preparing to rush in found themselves staring at a wall of steel and blood. The first line did not even have time to understand what had happened before arrows and bolts struck them down. Dozens fell in the corridor, their bodies tangling the men behind them.

”Kill them all,” Arthur said. His voice was not loud, but every Battanian warrior heard it. ”Leave no one alive.”

The Young Noble Warriors put away their bows and crossbows, drew steel, and charged. Arthur walked at the front with the heads of Walder Frey and Roose Bolton raised above him. Every enemy who tried to block him was cut down under the swing of his sword. The battle spilled from the hall into the corridors, then into the courtyards, towers, stairways, and outer passages. The Twins had been built to control a river crossing. That night, it became a butcher’s maze.

As Arthur moved, he collected what could be taken: weapons, armor, purses, jewelry, loose coin, anything the system would accept. Every dead man became fuel. Every fallen guard became another number. The treasury panel flickered again and again.

[Obtained: 5,000 dinars]

[Obtained: 3,000 dinars]

[Obtained: 8,000 dinars]

He did not stop. Whenever the number rose enough, he recruited more soldiers. Young Noble Warriors, Volunteers, Young Wolf Warriors, anything useful enough to throw into the purge. Golden light flashed in corners, courtyards, stairwells, and abandoned chambers. More Battanian warriors appeared and joined the killing before the enemy could understand where they came from. It was not subtle. Subtlety had died under guest right.

On the other side of the castle, Kator received the order through the system. He had kept the five hundred recruits organized through the night, as Arthur had told him, armed and sober while the rest of the camp drowned itself in wine and wedding noise. When shouts of Frey betrayal rose from inside the walls, Kator did not wait for permission from any river lord, northern captain, or frightened survivor. He led the five hundred men toward the gate.

The Frey army had concentrated on slaughtering unsuspecting northern soldiers, especially the drunken cavalry. They were cutting down Stark officers, hunting survivors through the yards, and sealing exits. They had expected confusion. They had expected terror. They had not expected a fresh, prepared force outside the castle moving under orders.

Kator’s attack struck them in the flank like a knife under the ribs.

The five hundred recruits lacked experience, but they had equipment, formation, and the priceless advantage of knowing they were walking into battle instead of waking inside one. They slammed into the Frey lines with shields and spears, forcing the already chaotic battlefield to twist further. Northern and river soldiers still resisting saw them and began rallying toward the Battanian banner. A broken defense became a counterattack.

Inside the castle, Arthur’s force pushed outward. Outside, Kator pushed inward. The Frey men and Dreadfort soldiers found themselves trapped between two organized fires. They were mostly infantry, useful for ambush and murder against surprised cavalry, but far less impressive when forced into a proper fight against disciplined shield lines.

Then Arthur emerged from the castle carrying the heads.

”Lord Walder is dead!”

”Lord Bolton is dead!”

”Run!”

The cries spread everywhere. Once those words took root, the Frey morale collapsed completely. Some threw down weapons. Others fled toward towers, gates, cellars, or anywhere that promised a few more breaths. They were hunted down anyway. Not all by Battanians. Many northern survivors had found their anger by then, and the Freys had given them excellent reasons to use it.

The battle lasted from midnight until dawn.

When the first pale light touched the towers of the Twins, the castle had changed hands.