The Red Wedding

Chapter 65: The Red Wedding

299 AC - The Twins

The Great Hall of the Twins was alight with the glow of a thousand candles, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows along the walls. The banners of House Frey hung high, their twin towers draped in blue and grey. Beneath them, the banners of the Starks and the Tyrells stood proud, sigils of direwolves and golden roses waving in the hall's warm air.

Lord Walder Frey sat at the high table, his toothless mouth curled into something like a grin as he raised his goblet. His many sons and grandsons filled the seats beside him, their expressions carefully measured, though some could not hide their anticipation.

Robb Stark, King in the North, sat at the place of honor beside his queen—Margaery Tyrell, her belly rounded with child. She was resplendent in a gown of silver and green, her brown curls adorned with golden roses. She was smiling, speaking softly to Robb as the music played and the feast went on.

Catelyn Stark sat beside them, tense but composed. She had never trusted the Freys, and she trusted them even less now. The ale flowed too freely, the smiles were too wide, and the musicians seemed to play too loud, as if trying to drown out something else.

The feast was grand—venison cooked in rich gravy, spiced trout from the river, thick loaves of black bread. And wine, flowing endlessly, poured into golden cups that never seemed to empty.

Robb laughed with his lords. Greatjon Umber was already deep in his cups, bellowing about some old battle. Edmure Tully, the groom, was flushed and grinning, his new Frey wife quiet and demure beside him.

The hall was alive with celebration.

But outside, death waited.

Brynden Tully stepped out of the hall, the thick air of the feast lifting from his shoulders like a heavy cloak. He had drunk his fill, but his wits were sharp. He had spent too many years at war to let wine dull his instincts.

As he relieved himself against the stone wall of the keep, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned his head, half-expecting a Frey servant, but instead, he saw Ser Garlan Tyrell.

"Couldn't stand the smell of Freys any longer?" Brynden asked, shaking off the last of his ale.

Garlan smiled, but it was thin. "Something isn't right."

Brynden narrowed his eyes.

That was when they heard it.

A sudden shift in the music—a sharp note, a change in rhythm. The drums. Slow, deliberate, ominous.

Brynden turned back to Garlan. "We need to move."

Before the words had fully left his lips, the first screams rang out from the hall.

Inside the Great Hall, the Freys made their move.

The doors slammed shut. The musicians threw aside their instruments and drew daggers from their sleeves.

Steel flashed.

Bolton men turned on their neighbors, driving swords into backs. Freys dragged Northmen from their seats and opened their throats on the table. A foot of cold steel burst through the belly of the Smalljon, his goblet clattering to the floor.

The Merryweathers cut down the Meadow knights, blood spilling across the floor as the house of the Grassy Vale was slaughtered to the last man. The Footlys of Tumbleton cut down their supposed allies, their swords flashing red in the candlelight.

Robb Stark had risen to his feet, reaching for his sword, but he was unarmed.

Catelyn Stark turned to Walder Frey, her face contorted in fury. "You swore an oath—"

Walder cackled. "I swore you'd eat, I swore you'd drink. And you have. You'll thank me later for the mercy of a quick death."

Beside Robb, Margaery Tyrell clutched her belly, her face a mask of horror as she realized what was happening.

A dagger flashed.

Roose Bolton stood before Robb, his face calm, his voice almost soft. "The Lannisters send their regards."

The blade plunged into Robb's chest.

Margaery screamed as her husband staggered back, blood bubbling from his lips.

The room was chaos—steel on flesh, screams mixing with the sound of tearing meat and breaking bone.

Catelyn grabbed a dagger from the table and seized Walder Frey's young wife, pressing the blade to her throat. "Let him go!" she shrieked. "Let my son go or I'll cut her—"

Walder only smiled.

Catelyn slashed the girl's throat in desperation, blood spraying across the table.

And then a sword sliced into her from behind.

She fell to her knees, her hand clutching at her bleeding throat, her eyes wide with shock.

Robb fell beside her, unmoving.

The King in the North was dead.