The Red Dragon
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26. Screams
🕑 Added 2025-04-06 18:20:55 +0000 UTCDaeron POV
Daeron sat in silence as the great hall swelled with people. Lords from the North and the Vale had gathered, their armor bloodied, their expressions grim. He noted the dried crimson smears clinging to the chainmail of Northern lords more than those of the Vale. A quiet observation—tucked away for later.
He leaned back on the cold, unyielding throne and asked, “What of the Freys inside the keep? I doubt we managed to rid ourselves of them in a single day.”
Laughter followed—bitter and humorless—before the crowd parted to reveal Lady Dacey Mormont, blood-slicked and battle-worn. Lords stepped aside as she strode forward, her presence like a blade drawn in the silence.
“I can't speak for the ones outside the walls, Your Grace,” she said, voice rough from shouting war cries. “But within them? I doubt you'd need more than one hand to count the surviving male Freys. The women and children were spared, as you commanded.”
Her tone shifted—lowered, almost reluctant. “Though... I didn’t find the one I wanted. He fled to Riverrun.”
Daeron heard the edge in her voice, and so did the other lords. He let the moment hang before speaking, “First, I commend you all for honoring my command. Sparing the innocent, even of a house as disgraced as the Freys, matters. The South will hear of what happened here soon enough, and I do not intend to lose their support.”
He shifted forward. “Second—was Olyver Frey found? The boy who squired for my brother. From what I've gathered, he wasn’t present during the betrayal. And what of Roslin, Edmure Tully’s wife?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” said Lord Royce, stepping forward. “We found Lord Olyver locked in his chambers—from the outside. He was a prisoner, it seems. As for Lady Roslin, she was with the other women of House Frey. She’s being held separately until her fate is decided.”
Daeron nodded, already weighing the political cost of every future decision. Killing Roslin and her unborn child would burn the bridge to the Blackfish, a seasoned commander he needed if the Riverlands were to be brought fully under his banner.
He couldn't understand how the authors of the sacred texts—those old tales of kings and dragons—snuffed out noble houses without consequence. But here, in the truth of things, power and legacy ruled men's hearts. Nobles would rather die than lose their keeps. And if they feared Daeron, dragon or no, as a king who destroyed houses rather than ruled them—they would turn against him the moment they could.
And he couldn’t win alone. Bran had made that clear.
“Your Grace,” said Master Glover cautiously, “what fate awaits Olyver and Roslin?”
Daeron exhaled slowly. “Olyver shall not be executed like his kin. But he will never again bear the name Frey—none of them will. All surviving Freys, women and children included, shall live as peasants, stripped of lands, titles, and name. If any among them dares rise in rebellion or attempts to reclaim the Twins, they will all be put to the sword. This is their final mercy.”
He paused before continuing. “As for Lady Roslin... her fate remains undecided. She will remain under guard until we reach Riverrun. Then, I will choose what is to be done.”
Murmurs rose—some nods of agreement, others twisted in displeasure or cold indifference. Daeron scanned the hall. Among the scowls, he found a few faces twisted in rage, eyes darting toward the exits. He would not be surprised if some sought to finish what he had chosen not to.
A voice broke through the silence, raspy with desperation. “Mercy, Your Grace. Many Freys were kept in the dark. They condemned the Red Wedding. Let them live here—rule under your banner—”
The voice belonged to Walder Frey, on his knees, hands trembling.
The lords erupted in fury—shouts and curses echoed against the stone walls. Daeron raised a hand, and silence returned like a sword drawn across the throat.
“You speak of mercy now,” Daeron said coldly, stepping down from the throne, “but where was yours when you spilled blood under the guise of bread and salt? Innocents died that night. Do you think of yourself as different? You think me a fool?”
He brought his boot down on Walder's hand with a crunch. The man howled.
“Take him,” Daeron ordered, and two guards stepped forward, hauling the old man away as some lords spat on him, others straining against their self-control.
When the doors closed behind the traitor, Daeron turned back to the assembly.
“Lady Mormont. Lord Glover. I want every Frey corpse impaled on spears and lined along the moat surrounding the Twins. Will you see it done?”
Though framed as a question, it carried no room for refusal. Both nodded grimly.
Daeron ignored the disapproving glances. The time for mercy had ended.
“Your Grace,” spoke a Northern captain hesitantly, “there was one more thing. A woman—dressed in servant garb—was seen killing Freys on the western side of the keep before we breached the gates. I’ve sent two of my men to search for her. They say they saw her face clearly.”
Just then, Daeron's eyes locked onto a figure slipping quietly out of the hall.
He didn’t move, didn’t shout—only watched. That one moment told him all he needed to know.
So she was here.
And the question now wasn’t who she was.
It was: Why was she hiding from him?
Or perhaps... was she hunting?
{Line Break}
Third-person POV
The woods behind the Twins stood solemn and dark, bare trees rising like spears into a grey sky. No birds sang. The wind had stilled as though the land itself held its breath.
They passed the moat before entering the trees—where the speared bodies of Frey kin stood sentinel, impaled on towering stakes. Each corpse was stripped of arms and banners, rusted mail frozen stiff on the limbs, their slack jaws gaping at the sky as if forever screaming into the afterlife.
Ser Rodrik Ryswell’s horse reared at the stench. Lord Stout turned a shade paler than the snow beneath his boots. Young Lord Tallhart muttered, “The old gods won’t know what to make of this.”
But none dared raise their voices above a whisper—not in Daeron’s presence.
He strode ahead, armored in black that shimmered like polished obsidian. A blood-red cloak rippled behind him, and across his chestplate snarled a dragon wrought in silver and garnet. In one hand, he held a curved knife. In the other, he dragged Walder Frey like a sack of rotted grain.
The old man’s face was mottled and bruised, a grotesque shadow of the Lord of the Crossing. No crown. No pride. Just a gag stuffed in his mouth—and terror in his eyes.
There was no godswood at the Twins, so Daeron had chosen the grove instead—a ring of trees twisted by time, shaped like a forgotten altar. Stakes had been driven deep into the earth, forming a crude wooden crossbar between them. Its purpose was unmistakable.
A cold gust stirred the branches. Somewhere above, a raven cawed once—and then fell silent.
“I asked for no godswood,” Daeron said aloud, his voice clear as tolling iron. “So the old gods may not witness this justice. But let the old blood of the North and the Vale see—and remember.”
Two Stark bannermen stepped forward. They hoisted Walder upright and bound him to the frame—arms spread, chest forward, back bared to the wind. His wrinkled skin shivered beneath the cold touch of northern air.
The lords who had ridden under Daeron’s banner—those who had bent the knee after he threatened them—stood at the edge of the clearing.
Lord Wyman Manderly watched in silence, his hands resting heavily over his belly. Ser Maron Sunderland of the Vale gripped his sword hilt, knuckles white. The Knight of Ninestars whispered a prayer beneath his breath. Even Lord Karstark, hardened by war and betrayal, shifted uneasily where he stood.
None of them knew how Walder Frey would leave this world.
Daeron stepped forward. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms thick with coiled strength. The dagger gleamed in the grey light.
“Let this punishment be remembered,” he said, voice calm and unwavering. “This is not cruelty. This is justice—the price of treason. Not against any one king, but against the gods themselves—for breaking sacred guest right.”
He reached forward and removed the gag. Walder coughed, wheezed, blood bubbling from a tongue he’d bitten in fear. His voice came out as a rasp. “Mercy… please…”
Daeron did not answer.
The blade descended.
It bit into flesh, parting it from bone with a surgeon’s precision and a butcher’s strength. Blood poured freely. Walder screamed—high, shrill, animalistic. The sound tore through the grove.
One of the squires turned and vomited into the snow.
Still, Daeron worked. He carved deeper, down to the spine. The strength in his arms was unnatural—a gift, all knew, bestowed by gods. Each motion was deliberate, efficient. He cracked the ribs outward one by one, slow and unrelenting, until the chest lay open like the jaws of a dragon.
The sound was like kindling snapping in a hearth.
Next came the lungs. Daeron pulled them free and draped them across the exposed ribs, forming grotesque wings. They pulsed with every ragged breath—trembling like a dying bird—until, at last, they stilled.
Walder Frey was dead.
Silence followed, Deeper than any storm.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Even the ravens above held their tongues.
Daeron stepped back, arms red to the elbow.
“Let all who watch remember,” he said, voice soft and cold. “This is justice for the Red Wedding. For betrayal. For guest right, broken beneath a roof sworn to protect.”
He turned and walked away.
Behind him, Walder Frey hung like an unholy effigy—an old man given wings by blood and judgment.
And every man present left the grove changed.
They called it the Weasel's Mutilation from that day on.
And none ever forgot.
{Line Break}
Daeron checked the last of the items he would need for the ritual at Old Wyk. It had been only a day since the Twins fell, and the memory of what he did to Walder Frey still lingered like smoke in the air. Now, as the war council gathered, it was time to decide their next move.
The conversation started with strategy. But it didn’t take long for one of the Vale lords to rise and ask the question everyone else had been thinking:
“Who will rule the Twins now?”
That single question shattered the room’s fragile order. In an instant, voices erupted—dozens of lords arguing, shouting over one another, demanding rights, claiming blood ties or past grievances. Everyone had a claim. Everyone, except a silent few, hungered for a keep that wasn’t theirs.
Daeron didn’t speak. He sat back and watched them tear into one another with morbid curiosity. They had witnessed what he’d done to Walder. They had watched the weasel's Mutilation in those cold woods. And yet, ambition still drove them.
Still, they feared him. That much was clear the moment he stood.
“Stop.” Only one word—calm, measured, final.
Silence fell like a blade. Even the boldest lords swallowed their voices and sat down without protest.
Daeron’s gaze swept over them. “The matter of the Twins will be settled when I take King’s Landing and sit the Iron Throne. Not before. And it will go to one who has proven loyal in the fire to come—not those who squabble in its ashes.”
Murmurs followed. Muted. No one dared speak above a whisper.
The council resumed, but with caution now. Their voices were quieter.
It took Daeron the rest of the day to hear all the reports—supplies gathered, gold taken, losses counted. When the final steward left his tent, Daeron leaned back, every muscle taut with weariness. Victory had come swiftly, but command was a heavier burden than war.
After a few hours of sleep, he rose in darkness. The sun had yet to rise. The sky was still a shroud of stars.
He checked his preparations again—ritual components. Everything was where it needed to be.
Arthur had tried to protest when he said he was flying Caraxes alone, but Daeron had been firm. He claimed it was just a flight around the area—to keep freshan up and to think clearly about the next move.
He lied.
Daeron stepped through the gates of the Twins in silence, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
