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The next morning, the square in the West District of the Twins was no longer a place of trade; it was a theater of blood.
Soldiers in Karstark and Mallister plate formed a rigid iron perimeter, their spears held level to hold back the tide of humanity. The outer perimeter was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a mosaic of the Crossing's residents: mud-flecked farmers, haggard merchants, fishermen smelling of the Green Fork, and even tavern girls in their morning shawls. They filled every inch of the square, spilling into the side alleys and perching on the sharp-peaked rooftops like crows, bottles of cheap ale in hand.
They had come to watch the end of an era. The Freys, who had squeezed the life out of this river for six hundred years, were being brought to the block by the boy-king from the North.
Eddard stood on the raised wooden platform, a parchment scroll in his right hand and a tin megaphone in his left. He recited the crimes of Lord Walder and his kin with a voice amplified by his enhanced lungs, but the crowd barely listened. The legalities of treason and broken guest rights were abstract concepts to them. They were here for the visceral reality of a high lord being executed by an even nobler one.
A line of bound Freys was dragged onto the platform. At the center was Lord Walder. His mouth was stuffed with a dirty rag to silence the vile obscenities he had been spewing since his strength returned. Even now, his watery eyes bulged with a frantic, impotent rage, his face a map of ninety years of spite.
Robb Stark stood waiting. He held Heartbreaker, the Valyrian steel greatsword Eddard had taken from Tarly. The smoke-patterned blade shimmered under the pale morning sun. Robb's expression was a mask of granite, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of longing. Eddard knew what he was thinking. Robb missed Ice, the Stark ancestral blade that currently sat in Tywin Lannister's vault.
"I, Robb of the House Stark, King of the North and the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, hereby sentence you to death in my own name," Robb proclaimed.
He didn't wait for a reply. The Valyrian steel rose and fell with a terrifying, silent grace.
Thwack.
Walder Frey's head left his shoulders before the crowd could even gasp. A puddle of dark, thick blood began to seep through the gaps in the wooden planks. The execution was clean, swift, and absolute, a single strike that surpassed the efficiency of any battle-axe.
"That's Lord Walder!" a voice shouted from the crowd. "Look at him! Died like a weasel in a trap!"
"About damn time!" another yelled. "My father paid that man a toll every day of his life just to sell fish!"
Robb didn't stop. He moved down the line. Each flash of the sword drew a new commotion as the crowd identified the victims. Black Walder, Bastard Walder, and the other primary conspirators followed their patriarch into the dark. Sixteen heads fell in total. With each stroke, Robb's expression grew grimmer, the gloom in his blue eyes deepening until they looked like pools of storm-water.
Eddard tucked his scroll away and stepped closer as the final body was dragged away. "Shall I take over, Robb? You've done enough for one morning."
"No," Robb said, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. "My father said the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It is the way of the First Men."
Robb wiped the blade with a linen cloth, but the Valyrian steel was already bright and pristine, as if it refused to hold the stain of Frey blood. Eddard took the sword back and sheathed it, casually tossing the bloody cloth over Walder Frey's lifeless, staring face.
"Robb, the world is only going to get bloodier," Eddard said as they walked down the stairs. "You can't carry every execution on your own shoulders."
"Tradition is the only thing keeping us together, Ned," Robb replied with a weary half-smile. "The North follows the ancient ways. The Riverlands follow the Andals. If I want to rule both, I must be the bridge."
He paused, his gaze turning north. "I set off this afternoon. According to your scouts, Roose Bolton is making for the Dreadfort. The Reeds haven't stopped him yet, likely they're too busy with the Ironborn at Moat Cailin. If the 'Old Flayer' gathers his strength, Winterfell is in danger. I must be there."
The two men walked through the bustling streets, their guards - Littlejon Umber and Dacey Mormont keeping a respectful distance.
"When you return," Eddard advised, slipping back into his role as Hand, "spend time gathering the minor houses. Don't rush into the Dreadfort's jaws. Roose has likely allied with the Krakens. They'll try to lure you out into the bogs while the Ironborn hit your rear."
Robb nodded solemnly. "I was too hasty last time. I won't make that mistake again. I'll consolidate at Winterfell first."
"And keep an eye on Lady Barbrey of Barrowton," Eddard added. "She hates the Starks with a passion that gold won't fix."
Robb frowned, scratching his beard. "I know she's cold, but I never understood why. My father only told me that Lord Dustin died at the Tower of Joy. Is that it?"
"It's deeper than that," Eddard explained. "Barbrey Ryswell was supposed to marry your uncle Brandon. They were... close. Very close. But your grandfather Rickard had 'Southron Ambitions.' He betrothed Brandon to Catelyn Tully instead. Barbrey became a widow six months after marrying William Dustin, and she blames your family for her lost love and her empty bed."
"Seven Gods," Robb muttered, stunned. "I never knew."
"There's more," Eddard said, though he chose his words carefully. "Your father left Lord William's bones in Dorne to keep a secret. For a Northerner, that is an unforgivable insult. She wants her husband's remains, and she wants the Starks to suffer for the slight."
"Then how do I fix it?" Robb asked, his eyes full of hope.
"For House Ryswell? Marriage," Eddard said. "Marry Arya or Rickon into their line once the war is over. It's the only way to bind them back to Winterfell. As for Barbrey... send a letter. Promise her that after the war, you will personally lead an expedition to find Lord Dustin's remains. Tell her Howland Reed knows the spot. It might not buy her love, but it will buy her neutrality."
Robb took a long breath. "I'll do it. I'll write the letter tonight."
They turned a corner, the crowd thinning as they approached the inner gate of the River Tower.
"One more thing, Robb," Eddard said. "Would you like a mercenary force from Dorne?"
Robb stopped in his tracks. "Dorne? They're marrying into the Iron Throne, Ned. Myrcella is already at Sunspear. Why would they help us?"
"The marriage is a leash, not an alliance," Eddard said, a predatory glint in his eye. "Doran Martell hates the Lannisters more than he loves peace. I've been... corresponding with him. I sent him the Mountain's head as a token of our 'friendship.' If we offer gold and a promise to support him when he eventually draws his sword against the West, he might send us a 'company of Essosi mercenaries' to help clear the Ironborn from our coasts."
Robb stared at him, genuinely impressed. "You sent the Mountain's head? Without telling me?"
"I'm your Hand, Robb. I handle the dirty work so you can keep your crown clean."
Robb laughed, a genuine sound that broke the morning's gloom. "Handle it then, Ned. If Dorne wants to play, let them."
Suddenly, the air was shattered by a scream.
"PAY WITH YOUR LIFE, TYRANT!"
Six men burst from the shadows of a merchant's stall. They were lean, desperate-looking men with the sharp features of the Frey line, Walder's unacknowledged bastards. They brandished short swords and daggers, their eyes wide with suicidal fury as they lunged at the King.
Eddard's reaction was instinctive, honed by the System's agility buffs. His hand blurred to his hip, and Heartbreaker was out before the first assassin could close the gap.
The Valyrian steel hummed. In a single, fluid horizontal arc, Eddard sliced open the belly of the lead man. Organs and blood spilled onto the cobblestones. Eddard didn't stop to watch him fall; he stepped past the corpse, a backhand swing severing the throat of the second. He moved like a whirlwind, his wrist twisting with a precision that turned the street into a butcher's shop. Within seconds, four men lay dead in the mud.
Littlejon and Dacey handled the rest, the Greatjon's son crushing a skull with his pommel while Dacey's mace ended the final attacker.
Robb stood with his longsword drawn, looking coldly at the bodies. "Frey bastards?"
"Likely," Eddard said, cleaning his blade. "Old Walder left a lot of them. I've been rooting them out, but some always hide in the cracks. Let's get inside before the rest of them find their nerve."
As they walked toward the tower, the panicked crowd fled the area. Robb's expression remained relaxed, the assassination attempt appearing as nothing more than a minor nuisance after facing Jaime Lannister.
"Talk to Dorne, Ned," Robb said as they reached the stairs. "And one last order: The Blackfish is blocking the Ruby Ford. Your father is arriving with ten thousand infantry in a few days. Before you join me in the North, I want you to intercept that Reach army. I don't want a single one of Tarly's men returning to King's Landing."
Eddard smiled, the blue light of his magic flickering faintly in his eyes. "No problem, Your Majesty. Leave the hunting to me."
[System Notification: Mission Received: The Hunter's End.]
[Target: Randyll Tarly's Vanguard / Matthus Rowan.]
[Reward: High-Tier Soul Essence / Unlocked 'River Overlord' Perk.]
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