—You really must possess a very special kind of stupidity to dismiss warnings about your own life as if they were air —he said sarcastically, clasping his hands behind his back. —If I didn't know it was impossible, I'd think my lord was wrong about the Starks. Maybe the North would be better off in the hands of another family.
Robb tensed, fury bubbling in his chest.
—At least —Edward continued with a slight shrug— you were smart enough to send your wife and sisters away. Some common sense remains in you.
Walder Frey swallowed hard before mustering the courage to ask:
—W-Who the hell are you…?
Edward smiled elegantly and bowed with mocking grace, without taking his eyes off Robb.
—Edward Drakul, my lord. A humble servant of Vlad Drakul Targaryen.
The name sparked a murmur of unease among the Frey and Bolton soldiers. Roose, who until then had maintained a mask of composure, furrowed his brow slightly.
—Why would the Impaler care about the Starks' wellbeing? —he asked coldly. —How did he learn of our plans?
Edward gave him a lazy smile.
—I am not obliged to tell you anything, Lord Bolton. I'm only here to get Robb Stark out alive. Nothing more.
The young king clenched his fists and stepped forward.
—What do you mean "only me"? You *have* to save my mother!
Edward vanished before their eyes. It was a blink. A flash of emptiness. And when he reappeared, he was comfortably seated at a nearby table, holding a wine goblet still clutched in the dead fingers of a Stark soldier.
—I don't "have" to do anything, —he replied calmly, swirling the cup slowly—. My lord only tasked me with protecting you, Robb Stark.
Robb felt his blood boil in his veins.
—But you saved my sisters…
Edward raised an eyebrow, as if it were irrelevant.
—Because they were in the hands of the Lannisters. Had they been prisoners of any other house, my lord wouldn't have bothered.
The indifference in his tone was the last straw for Roose Bolton.
—Enough of this useless talk! —he growled, pressing the dagger harder against Catelyn's throat—. Let us go or I'll kill you both! You're just one man and we are ten!
Edward blinked in surprise.
—Ten? —he repeated with a note of disbelief—. It's just you and Walder Frey.
Roose felt a chill crawl down his spine. With a sharp movement, he tapped the shoulder of one of his men. The body collapsed instantly, head tilting at an impossible angle. A second later, as if bound by an invisible thread, the rest of the Frey and Bolton soldiers dropped like puppets with cut strings, their heads rolling across the stone floor.
The air grew thick, laden with inescapable menace.
Roose, fighting back his fury and growing panic, pressed the dagger deeper into Catelyn's skin.
—If you're going to kill me, I'll take her with me!
Edward looked at him without a shred of emotion.
—Go ahead —he said simply—. It won't change a thing.
Walder Frey, frozen in horror, screamed:
—What the hell does the savage husband of that dragon whore want with this?
Edward fell silent. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
It wasn't the comment about Vlad. It was that last phrase that froze Edward's face into something cruel and ugly.
—That sentence just cost you your life… and the lives of everyone in the Twins —he whispered with icy calm.
Edward wasn't acting alone. He was transmitting everything to Vlad through their mental link. Vlad had been uncertain whether to spare the Frey's, but that insult to Daenerys tipped the scales: he now wanted their bloodline to end tonight.
Robb fell to his knees, desperate.
—Please… my mother…!
Edward didn't look at him.
Roose tried one last desperate act.
—I'm a noble! You can't kill me! I can offer you land, gold, titles…!
Edward scoffed.
—I'm not interested. I have orders.
The blade of Roose's dagger slid mercilessly across Catelyn's throat, and moments later, his own head fell too. Catelyn's last cry turned into a choking gurgle. Her body collapsed, and Robb caught her in his arms, his wail of grief echoing through the great hall.
Edward approached Walder Frey with a look of utter contempt and, in one clean, precise motion, drove his dagger into the old man's kidneys. Walder crumpled, convulsing as he died in spasms of agony.
Robb was still sobbing over his mother's body when Edward knelt beside him and whispered:
—Sleep.
The weight of compulsion fell upon him. Robb tried to resist, but his body wouldn't obey. His eyelids dropped.
Edward caught him before he hit the ground, lifted him with impossible ease, and walked out of the Twins… leaving behind that distasteful excuse for a wedding.
News of the Red Wedding spread swiftly across Westeros. The mere fact that Walder Frey had violated the guest right was scandal enough to send the tale racing like wildfire, but when it became known that Robb Stark had survived the ambush that claimed the lives of all his Bannerman present—and his mother—the North roared in fury.
They obviously couldn't afford another war, but they didn't need to. It's said that the day after the massacre, when Robb Stark sent men to assault the Twins, they found the gates open. There was no resistance.
They say every Frey, man or woman, was found impaled, their faces twisted in horror. At first, the other houses thought they were just tales, exaggerated by the common folk, but when witnesses arrived and confirmed the massacre, fear spread like fire in a dry forest. Everyone knew the Frey bloodline had been wiped out in a single night. And everyone knew who was responsible.
Because no one else in the world impaled their enemies.
Vlad Drakul Targaryen.
The Red Stallion, the Great Khal of the East, the Dragon's Father.
But above all… the Impaler.