By the time the rising sun cast its light across the water, the assault on the Twins had already ended in complete success.
House Frey's twin-tower banner had been thrown to the ground. Their sigil, the blue twin towers linked by a bridge on a silver-white field, had once been the pride of House Frey, but times had changed.
Now flying over the walls of the Twins was a quartered banner on a golden field, the stag and the dragon looking down on the world. The sounds of fighting within the castle had mostly died away. The heavy oak-and-iron gates of the western castle had been battered and burned nearly beyond recognition, leaving only the rough shape of a gate and blackened ash.
Ser Mychel, the young knight from the Vale, and the heir to Grafton were in control of the western castle. Seagard's men were guarding the Water Tower and the arched bridge, while the Crackclaw men under Ser Boggs were suppressing the eastern castle.
From this day on, the Crossing would no longer be Riverrun's strongest bannerman. Lord Walder had done everything he could to keep the Twins clear of the storm of war. During the Usurper's War more than a decade ago, and again in the second war in the Riverlands, the Twins had grown used to standing apart. In the end, though, all his scheming had come to nothing.
Many Freys had died. The most notable were Black Walder, Hosteen Frey who had guarded the west, and Ser Danwell Frey who had guarded the east. Their heads had been mounted on spearpoints in the middle of the square, a ghastly sight still giving off the smell of blood. It was a bloody age.
At the same time, Lord Walder, his heir Stevron, the bastard Ronel Rivers who had guarded the Water Tower, and the rest of the Walders had all been imprisoned. They truly were a whole nest of weasels.
At the same time, Lord Walder, his heir Stevron, the bastard Ronel Rivers who had guarded the Water Tower, and the rest of the Walders had all been imprisoned. They truly were a whole nest of weasels.
The Frey soldiers in blue ringmail and silver cloaks stood in lines, laying down their weapons and stripping off their armor. Cowed by fear of violence and steel, they gathered one by one in the square and knelt in surrender. Most of House Frey's elite soldiers had also been slaughtered, especially the knights, mounted archers, lancer cavalry, and free riders.
Gendry, Ser Barristan, Bronze Yohn, and the others had already gathered in the square of the western castle at the Twins, every face bright with a smile. The battle had been hard, but the victory was all the sweeter for it.
Though most people despised House Frey for what they were, the Twins was still one of the strongest fortresses in the Riverlands, and House Frey's strength was formidable. After the decline of House Whent, they had quietly become the strongest vassal house in the region.
"Prince, we've taken both the eastern and western castles of the Twins. We've also seized the large camp near the eastern castle. Most of the levied farmers have already run off, and some of the sellswords and free knights have surrendered to us," Lord Jason Mallister said excitedly.
"Lord Jason, that whole nest of weasels in the Twins is now under your charge. That includes House Frey's steward and maester as well."
"As you command." Jason nodded. "I'll post men to guard them closely. I'll treat the Freys with the dignity due noble captives. No one is to approach those weasels, but no one is to humiliate them either."
"Lord Yohn, you're in charge of cleaning up the Twins. The gates, the bloodstains. And all the defeated soldiers who fell to their deaths or drowned, burn them all."
"As you command."
"Ser Boggs, you're responsible for restoring order in the Twins. Those who burn, kill, and plunder are no true knights."
"As you command."
The knights under Gendry's command were already the elite of the army. Their quality, and the cost of their training, set them above the infantry. Their discipline was naturally far better than that of the ordinary levies. Very few of those knights had done anything wrong. The real problem lay with the sellswords and free knights from the east-bank camp at the Twins. They had taken advantage of the chaos to loot, and committed no small number of crimes in the eastern castle.
Ser Barristan brushed the dust from his white cloak and said with contempt, "Lord Walder hoarded soldiers and grain for so long, yet he never once fought a real battle head-on. Lord Walder is more merchant than lord."
"Plan first, move after. That's the Frey way of surviving," Lord Jason said with a sigh. And it was precisely because of that way of survival, and the wealth they had accumulated, that the Freys had become one of the foremost great bannermen of the Riverlands.
"There's still one man missing," Lord Jason said, lowering his voice.
"Who?"
"Bastard Walder. He's Lord Walder's eldest bastard son, and he's known for his martial skill."
"Search everywhere. We must find him," Ser Barristan said grimly.
"I already found him," Anguy said excitedly. He came over with several Gold Cloaks, his men escorting a somewhat plump middle-aged man toward Gendry and the others. The prisoner wore no armor, only House Frey's distinctive silver-gray cloak.
Lame Lothar, Lord Frey's twelfth son, had served as his father's steward for twelve years. Lothar was a stout man, with narrowly set eyes, a pointed beard, and shoulder-length black curls. His nickname came from the crippled leg he had been born with. Aside from that disability, Lothar was clever, cunning, and silver-tongued.
"Hello, Young Lord Lothar," Anguy said. "You know what we want."
"I know." Fear showed on Lame Lothar's face. He had naturally seen the Frey heads in the square. "I'll hand over the ledgers. The very foundation of House Frey. Frey wealth, vassals, lands, population."
Ser Barristan was very pleased with Lothar's answer. That would make things much easier.
"But I have even more secrets to share with you," Lame Lothar said with a servile smile, speaking fawningly to Gendry. He had naturally recognized the man behind it all, the conqueror who drew every eye, the Triumphant One, the victor. He truly was handsome, yet he was also House Frey's nightmare.
"Say it here, Lothar," Gendry said, looking at him.
Lothar Frey's smile froze. He stammered, "It's more important than House Frey's ledgers and accounts. I can only tell the king."
"Here," Ser Barristan said. He stood not far from Gendry, calmly watching Lothar.
"It's House Frey's secret treasury, the wealth our house has accumulated over centuries. Somewhere in the dense woods near the Twins. Right..."
Lame Lothar spoke slowly. House Frey's secret treasury had indeed drawn almost everyone's attention. This was exactly the opening he had been waiting for.
"Die, bloodthirsty demon," Lame Lothar spat suddenly, looking at Gendry with a vicious glare, cold light flashing in his eyes.
A faint glint flashed in the sunlight, and Gendry suddenly felt that chill. The edge of an arrow.
On top of a tower several dozen yards away, diagonally ahead of the western square of the Twins, a gray figure appeared again. The assassin had been hiding carefully in the tower's shadows, tucked into the darkness. He had been as still and hard as stone, waiting at last for this chance. In the cold wind, as members of House Frey died one after another, no one knew how long he had been waiting.
He had likely chosen to strike while Lame Lothar was in their hands. This was Frey revenge. Not only did they look like weasels, they were just as vindictive.
"Bastard Walder?" Lord Jason cried out in shock. By the time they noticed, Bastard Walder's arrow was already flying at Gendry, faster than their vigilance could keep up with. Ser Barristan hurriedly raised his round shield, ready to block it.
Gendry saw the arrow streaking toward him, but he did not panic. He shifted a step backward, and the arrow missed him, driving deep into the ground instead.
Gendry marked Bastard Walder's position, snatched a short spear from a soldier's hand, and hurled it at once. Bastard Walder was not far from him. This was the chance Bastard Walder had gone to such lengths to find, and it was also the moment of his death.
"Protect the Prince!" Lord Jason shouted at once, and Anguy immediately moved to stand guard by Gendry's side.
Seeing the assassination fail, Bastard Walder could only sigh in despair. With that failure, House Frey was truly finished.
Whoosh!
Bastard Walder heard the wind and saw the short spear carve through the air in a perfect arc, shooting straight at him. He panicked, but the spear struck him cleanly, piercing through his chest. Blood poured out as the short spear hit with all the force of a thrown lance.
Thud!
Bastard Walder's corpse slid from the tower, dead beyond any doubt, blood spreading across the ground. His eyes were full of unwillingness. He was Walder's eldest bastard son, gray-haired, grim-faced, and likewise famed for his martial skill.
The soldiers rushed over and dragged Bastard Walder's body away. Bright red blood spread across the ground like a carpet.
"Cut off his head and put it on a spearpoint," Gendry said.
"Yes."
Gendry looked at "Lame" Lothar. Both Lothar's legs had gone limp as cotton. This had been his only chance. He had found the greatest courage he could muster for his house, but fate had not favored him.
"I hope there really is a secret Frey treasury. Otherwise..."
"Damn it, do you think we're here for decoration?" Anguy snarled, slapping Lothar hard across the face as he yanked back his bowstring. "We can slice off a weasel's ears, and its nose too."
The two Gold Cloaks holding Lothar glanced at him, then slammed their scabbards into his stomach twice. Tears and snot burst out of him at once, and the soldiers dragged him away for harsh interrogation.
Anguy mastered his anger, then set his longbow at Gendry's feet.
"Long live the Storm!"
"The fighting has only just begun. Let that little brat keep usurping the Red Keep and that Iron Throne for now," Lord Jason said. He too drew his longsword and knelt at Gendry's feet. "Long live the Storm!"
Bronze Yohn also stepped forward and came to Gendry's side.
"Long live the Storm."
All the knights rose. The commanders from the Riverlands, Crackclaw Point, and the Vale all rose as well, then placed their weapons at Gendry's feet. Longswords, spiked maces, longbows, and longspears.
All the soldiers stood, drew their swords, and dropped to one knee. Their voices surged into the sky. The Twins, where the flames of war had just died down, once again felt that passion and fire. The twin towers trembled beneath the storm of the stag's iron hooves.
"Triumph! Storm!"
"Triumph! Storm!"
"Triumph! Storm!"
Gendry's gaze swept across the crowd as he raised his warhammer. His golden cloak spread like a fertile field, and every sigil upon it seemed to come alive, the stag, the dragon. Gendry shouted, "Victory!"
"Victory!" everyone roared back. The soldiers brandished their weapons, and their voices seemed to tear apart the clouds overhead.
The old storm had passed, and a new storm had arrived.
...
Golden Tooth.
The severed limb burned with fierce pain. The Kingslayer felt agony coming from two places in his body, as if flames were licking at his flesh.
Jaime felt his fingers withering in the fire. Those fingers no longer belonged to him.
He had often been wounded, but he had never tasted pain like this. He kept thinking back to that moment, the flying arakh, too fast for the eye to follow.
That boy's face appeared before him again, that young man who looked so much like Renly yet possessed far greater martial prowess, staring at him coldly. He was the Mountain of Jaime's life.
Jaime wept again and again in his dreams. At last, he remembered the words of those prayers, words he had learned in childhood and never paid attention to. At last, he understood how his brother had felt, after spending a lifetime being cursed as a little monkey.
"Ser Jaime, I'm sorry. But your condition has reached the point where I have to act," the old maester said, looking at the young lord's body. Once he had been such a splendid lion. Now he had become a broken man.
The maester of Golden Tooth naturally dealt with wounds often enough, but the patient before him was the most exceptional and noble he had ever treated.
"Save it. Save my hand," Jaime pleaded in a weak murmur. He could not open his eyes. Fever and weakness had dragged him under, yet he still begged.
"I'm sorry, my lord." The old maester looked at Jaime's wound. "The flesh around it has already gone bad. It has to be cut away. The best option would be to take the whole arm."
"No! No," Jaime shouted. "Clean the wound, stitch the hand up, and let me try my luck."
"I can save the upper arm, starting from the elbow, but..."
"Do it and I'll kill you. If you dare cut off even a little."
"Very well." The old maester looked at Jaime. "I'll only treat the wound and leave the rest untouched. First boiling wine, and then... I'll bring you milk of the poppy. It's a little risky, but..."
"Do it," Jaime shouted.
The old maester began pouring on the wine, then had Jaime bound fast.
It was a brutal operation. Jaime drank strong liquor and screamed at the top of his lungs.
The blade went in again and again, and then boiling wine was poured over what remained of the wound. Jaime could not stop screaming.
When Jaime woke, he found that the maester had already sewn up his hand with needle and catgut.
"I'm sorry, Ser Jaime," the old maester sighed. "That was all I could do. I managed to leave some skin, but your palm is gone. Fortunately, the wrist joint is still there."
"Thank you," Jaime said. His mouth was full of blood, nothing but blood.
"My face," Jaime could not help asking.
"I'm sorry," the old maester said mournfully. "That handsome face of yours is gone. Fortunately, the blade did not cut to the bone. It only left a long wound across your face. But I fear that in the days to come, you will need a golden hand and a golden mask."
"Who did this to you?"
"A lost war," Ser Jaime said, affecting an easy tone. "Once I was the Kingslayer. Now I'm the Broken One."
"Was he a treacherous man?"
"No. He was just a ruthless warrior. I've simply grown old."
"Get some rest, Ser. Your wound will need regular treatment with boiling wine. And you must take care of yourself as well. Rest well and keep up your strength. You're too exhausted today. You should sleep."
"Take this. It may be of some use when the pain comes." The old maester placed a piece of weirwood in Jaime's hand for him to grip tightly.
Jaime was too tired, and sank back into dark dreams. He hoped he would find Cersei there. Fever and dreams, perhaps the contrast made everything feel so real.
"The young lord is too pitiful," Jaime heard one of the guards whisper softly. They admired him deeply, yet many of them had also died on the battlefields of the Riverlands. Jaime did not stop them from talking. What they said was true.
"No, it's that the enemy was too vicious. He ambushed our young lord."
"Who was that man? They say it was that schemer Gendry."
"That boy is truly vicious. Is Ser Jaime going to be crippled from now on?"
"Ah, he's so young. Robert was probably about that age too when he rose in rebellion."