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25. 'Kill them all'
🕑 Added 2025-03-28 18:46:50 +0000 UTCDaeron POV
"I speak for the whole North, my King," Lady Mormont declared, her voice fierce with unshaken conviction. "We have no quarrel with your decision. In fact, we welcome it. I’d like to see that old weasel’s face when we break into his keep and put an end to his miserable, treacherous life—along with his whole cursed line."
Her eyes gleamed with wild ferocity, the kind only a Northman could summon, and Daeron saw the same hunger reflected in the faces of the other northern lords. Their nods were sharp, resolute. The Vale lords, however, were split—one faction remained silent, indifferent to the bloodshed ahead, while another looked uneasy. But their disapproval mattered little to Daeron. They were few, and he would not alter his course for them.
"Very well," Daeron said, his voice calm but commanding. "I trust you all understand what must be done. I expect discipline, not recklessness."
Heads shook in denial of impulsiveness, and Daeron chose to grant them the benefit of the doubt—for now. "Then let us not delay any longer. It is past time we sent the Freys to the Gods for judgment. I’m sure the dead wait eagerly for the weasel and his kin, eager to punish them for breaking sacred laws."
A roar of approval erupted from the Northmen and Vale knights alike, steel-clad fists striking armor, the sound carrying through the dawn-lit camp. As the lords made way for him to exit, Daeron strode forward, purpose in every step.
Ser Arthur Dayne fell into step beside him, silent until they neared the clearing where Caraxes lay awake, his serpentine eyes locked in the direction of the Twins. Only then did Arthur speak, his voice low and tight.
"I would still advise against this, Your Grace." His frown deepened, betraying rare concern. "It takes only one lucky arrow. And there will be many loosed from those walls."
Daeron sighed but did not slow. "What do you think will happen when those archers see Caraxes for the first time, Ser Arthur?"
Arthur said nothing because he already knew the answer—fear.
"They will freeze," Daeron said, smirking. "And that is all the time I need."
He turned then, fixing Arthur with a look brimming with confidence. "You, of all men, should know this won’t take long."
Caraxes rumbled, lowering his massive forelimb to the ground as Daeron approached. His scales gleamed even in the faint light, a harbinger of the storm to come. The sun had yet to fully rise, but it would soon witness what was to be done.
And by then, the Twins would burn.
----{Line Break}-----
The morning air was crisp with the promise of bloodshed as Caraxes soared through the dim sky, his crimson wings casting long shadows over the river below. The Freys had no warning, no inkling that death came for them in the form of dragon fire and steel.
Daeron Targaryen sat atop the Blood Wyrm, his gaze locked on the eastern keep of the Twins. His plan was precise—melt a section of the wall just enough for his forces to storm through without causing the entire structure to collapse. The Northerners would not tolerate an easy massacre from above. They wanted their vengeance carved in blood and steel, not gifted by dragon fire.
He took a deep breath and gave the command.
"Dracarys!"
Caraxes roared, his fire a river of molten death that slammed into the stonework below. The ramparts glowed a searing orange, heat radiating outward as men atop the walls shrieked, their bodies engulfed in flame before they could even react. The air reeked of charred flesh and burning wood as the wall buckled, glowing cracks spidering through the rock.
Then it gave way.
A thunderous crash shook the battlefield as molten stone and debris collapsed inward, opening a gaping wound in the side of the keep. Dust and smoke billowed outward, obscuring the entrance. The horns sounded, not from their side, but from the keep itself. The entire structure seemed to come alive as people began to run left and right like headless chickens. From above, Daeron could see everything as Caraxes circled the keep, releasing long, drawn-out roars.
Daeron’s soldiers, stationed at the riverbanks, let out a victorious roar. The way was open.
Or so they thought.
As the dust settled, they realized that the collapse had not extended outward enough—though it hadn't completely collapsed inward, either. Jagged stones and fallen beams filled the moat, making it impassable for the large number of men.
Not good enough.
He muttered curses under his breath. If he kept using Caraxes, the destruction would be too severe and uncontrollable, just like this time. The structure was too unstable for his men to storm through safely. The only option left was the reckless one.
He would have to open the gates himself.
He unbuckled his saddle strap and steadied his stance. Beneath him, Caraxes let out a questioning growl, sensing his intent.
“Oh, this,” Daeron murmured, a smirk of anticipation playing on his lips. “Just a small replay of what your previous rider and my ancestor did. Unlike him, however, I have no intention of dying here.”
Then he leaped.
The wind howled around him as the world blurred. The fall was dizzying, the ground rushing toward him at terrifying speed. He twisted midair, angling his descent toward the battlements near the gatehouse.
He landed hard.
The impact sent a shockwave through his legs, his boots slamming against the stone with force enough to jar his bones. He rolled with the momentum, rising to his feet just as the first Freys spotted him.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Freys soldiers before him looked at him in disbelief. But that soon changed when Caraxes was out of sight as they seemed to find their wit when the dragon was out of sight.
Then came the shouts.
"He's alone and vulnerable here! Kill him!"
The first soldier rushed him, blade raised. Daeron sidestepped smoothly, his sword flashing as he cut deep into the man’s side. The man fell, screaming, but more were coming.
A lot more.
The entire keep was mobilizing against him. Daeron could hear footsteps, dozens of guards pouring in from nearby corridors. Steel glinted in the daylight, spears lowered, shields raised. He was outnumbered.
But he had come knowing he would be. With a smirk, he readied himself as he gave in to a feeling of hunger for chaos and blood inside of him.
As the first wave charged, Daeron surged forward, ducking low to slip past the leading spearman. His blade lashed out, cutting a hamstring before he drove the point through another man’s throat. Blood sprayed, hot and wet, but he was already moving, parrying a downward strike and countering with a brutal elbow to the attacker’s face.
A sword came for his ribs—he twisted, feeling the air whistle past him as he barely avoided the killing blow. With a quick pivot, he slammed his shoulder into the swordsman, knocking him back before running him through.
They came at him in threes and fours, seeking to overwhelm him by sheer numbers.
It almost worked.
A shield bashed against his side, knocking him off balance. Another soldier swung his axe, missing Daeron’s head by a hair’s breadth as he barely managed to duck. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out, his sword catching the man under the arm, puncturing his lung.
But then another came.
And another.
For every one he felled, two more seemed to take their place. He was fast, deadly, but they had the advantage of sheer numbers. His arms burned from the constant movement, his breath coming in ragged bursts. A Frey lunged at him with a spear, and he had to twist awkwardly to avoid it, feeling the sting of exhaustion creeping in.
Then, a horn sounded.
Daeron’s forces had entered the keep.
A savage grin split his face as he made one final, desperate push toward the gate controls. He weaved through the chaos, parrying a strike before kicking a man down the staircase leading to the portcullis. He reached the winch, grabbing the lever with both hands and yanking it down with all his strength.
The heavy iron gate groaned, chains rattling as it began to rise.
Beyond the opening, he saw them—his army, their blades gleaming in the dawn light as they surged forward like a tidal wave. The Northerners had arrived. Daeron looked toward the rubble that he and Caraxes had caused. It seems a small group of men entered through that.
The Freys turned, their confidence breaking in an instant.
Daeron exhaled, shaking off his exhaustion as he raised his sword.
"Kill them all," he said.
And the slaughter began.
----{Line Break}-----
Daeron lounged upon the black oak chair—tall, massive, and imposing. Its high back was carved into the likeness of two towers joined by an arched bridge, the unmistakable sigil of House Frey. The seat of the Lord of the Crossing, now his.
The great hall was eerily silent, save for the occasional crackle of torches lining the stone walls. Blood pooled between the floorboards, the scent of iron thick in the air. Northern warriors joined by Vale men had already marched toward the western keep, eager to claim the other half of the Twins. Daeron had taken his time here, learning from trembling tongues that the seat of Walder Frey was in this very hall. So here he was, lounging in the old man's chair, covered in the blood of his kin and loyal soldiers, humming an old tune from a world long lost to him.
A sudden wet sensation brushed against his cheek.
One eyebrow arched, though his eyes remained shut. It wasn’t until the persistent warmth pressed against him again that he cracked them open, greeted by the sight of crimson-stained white fur. Ghost had attempted to lick the blood from his face—attempted being the key word, as it had only served to smear it further.
"Down, boy," Daeron murmured, his voice laced with amusement.
Ghost huffed but obeyed, stepping back with a soft whimper, his tail swaying in slight disappointment. Daeron sighed, running his bloodied fingers through the direwolf’s thick fur, darkening the pristine white with streaks of red.
"Where’s the pack?" he asked.
Ghost, who had been leaning into the scratches, opened his gleaming red eyes and glanced toward the great hall’s entrance.
Daeron’s lips curled slightly. "They let you come here? Alone?"
The direwolf tilted his head in response.
"That is surprising," Daeron mused. "They've barely left you alone since you became their leader."
The quiet between them was comfortable, but it didn’t last long. A heavy chorus of footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching the great doors. Daeron’s gaze shifted lazily toward the entrance, where Vale soldiers entered, flanking their lords.
They were dragging someone.
The two men at the front obscured the captive, but Daeron caught glimpses of frail limbs, slumped shoulders, and tattered robes. It was only when they stopped before him and yanked their prisoner upright that he got a full view of the man.
An old, withered creature. Balding, with a face like a weasel, sunken and twisted by age and fear.
Daeron’s smirk deepened.
"Look who we have here," he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. "Walder the Weasel."
The name hung in the air, thick with mockery.
Walder Frey trembled, but whether from rage, fear, or sheer weakness, Daeron neither knew nor cared.
"Believe me when I say this," Daeron continued, his voice now colder, sharper. "The North and I—excluding the Boltons, of course—have been most eager to meet you." He leaned forward slightly. "Let me have a good look at that treacherous face of yours."
Walder lifted his head.
The moment their eyes met, Daeron struck.
The back of his hand smashed into the old man’s face with a sickening crack. Blood splattered from Walder’s split lips, dribbling down his chin in thick globs. He staggered, coughing wetly, his frail body barely able to withstand the force of the blow.
More footsteps filled the hall as Northern and Vale lords filed in, watching as Walder Frey—Lord of the Crossing, breaker of guest right, a man who had thought himself Lord Paramount—stood swaying before them, broken and coughing up his own blood.
