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Jimmy stood back, satisfied, as one of the Crossing's great towers collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Stone shattered, timber splintered, and a full quarter of the arched bridge gave way beneath the weight of the falling structure.
He bent his knees, drove his weight into the weakened supports, and brought down one side completely. The other side would follow soon enough.
…
Jimmy was gone by the time the dust began to settle.
Walder stared at the twin towers reduced to rubble and the bridge torn apart before his eyes. He looked as if he might weep. Years of pride and strategy lay broken in the river below.
Roose approached him, brows drawn tight. "Robb may not be dead," he said quietly. "Some claim they saw a massive shadow rise into the night sky."
"No!" Walder snapped. "He burned in the hall. Burned to ash. There's nothing left of him."
Robb had to be dead. He had to be. If the boy still lived, then this entire scheme would become a farce.
Walder had broken guest right to curry favor with the Lannisters, only to see two wolves slip through his trap at the final moment.
What would the realm say? Was Walder Frey too slow to spring his snare? That he couldn't even hold the prey already in his grasp?
If Robb resurfaced later, it would be a pretender. It had to be. An impostor wearing the Stark name.
Rage pushed Walder to the edge of collapse. And that knight the so-called Smiling Knight of the Tree who was he?
Fire could not kill him. He had slaughtered a company of heavy infantry alone. And in the space of minutes, he had brought down two massive towers and shattered the bridge itself.
What kind of man could do that?
Still, it wasn't all lost.
The entire Northern host lay dead at the Crossing. That fact brought both Walder Frey and Roose Bolton a measure of grim comfort.
There would be no immediate vengeance. The North's armies had died here.
They had marched south in their tens of thousands. Now, of those truly loyal to House Stark, barely three thousand remained and those corpses lay scattered beneath the walls.
Winterfell had already been ravaged by the Ironborn. Now, with Roose Bolton newly declared Warden of the North, he would have to return and silence dissent. The North would bleed again before it bent the knee.
After devastation like this, it would take at least five years to raise another proper army assuming Roose did nothing to interfere.
And would Roose Bolton ever allow it?
Walder cast him a sidelong glance.
If Robb had escaped, Walder's loss would be one of pride, nothing more. For the North to strike at House Frey, they would first have to deal with the Dreadfort. And had the Dreadfort ever truly been conquered? It had not.
If Robb lived, Roose Bolton would never sleep easily again. And as long as Roose held the North, Robb would be forced into hiding.
In truth, it was Bolton who should be afraid.
If Robb Stark returned to the North, he would turn it into a nightmare for its new ruler.
As for Walder Frey, he now styled himself Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun, sat in his dungeons.
Brynden Tully the Blackfish—had long since distanced himself from House Tully's leadership. Walder held the only true Tully claimant in chains.
If Brynden ransomed Edmure, Walder could easily pressure the fool into surrendering Riverrun under Lannister and Frey coercion. Once that happened, the last stronghold of the Riverlands would bear the Frey name.
A pride of lions led by a sheep is no threat at all. Edmure was that sheep.
If Brynden refused to ransom him, he would brand himself a traitor to his own blood. A divided house would fracture from within. Riverrun would fall without a siege.
No matter how he calculated it, Walder stood to gain.
The anger in his chest eased slightly. He looked again at Roose Bolton, and for the first time that night, there was something almost like pity in his eyes.
Compared to his own secure hold over the Riverlands, Roose's new crown in the North looked less like a prize and more like a curse.
"Yes, Robb Stark burned to ash," Walder declared. "You and I will send word to the king and to Lord Tywin at once. Now, if you'll excuse me, there is much to settle in the North."
Roose had clearly understood the meaning behind Walder's earlier look. He wasted no time making his departure. The North required careful handling now.
After the Red, no man would ever again feel easy at a feast.
Once, the ancient rite of guest right had been sacred. Share bread and salt, and your host was bound to your protection.
Walder had shattered that covenant.
From this day forward, any feast hosted by House Frey would likely be attended only by Freys, and Walder himself would never again dare dine beneath another man's roof.
…
Jimmy reached the place where Horus had concealed the survivors.
The fierce young warrior Daisy, they called her still gripped a small dining knife in one hand. The wineskin she had held earlier was gone; in its place, she clutched a rock, ready to throw.
Catelyn Stark and Talisa Maegyr supported Robb between them. Sweat beaded across his pale face, and his breath came shallow and uneven.
The instant Jimmy stepped inside, a stone flew toward him.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, sir," Daisy stammered. "I didn't know it was you."
"Forgive her," Robb said through clenched teeth. "You have our thanks. The North will never—"
Jimmy waved him off.
"Save it, You can thank me later. We need to move. This place isn't safe."
Under the cover of night, Horus lifted into the sky and flew toward the waters of Ironman's Bay.
By the following morning, Jimmy had found a secluded island. There, he operated on Robb, stitching the wounds cleanly before they set sail once more aboard Jimmy's wooden sloop, the vessel drawn steadily forward by Horus overhead.
Jimmy stood at the stern with a fishing rod, casting his line into the sea. He hummed an odd little tune under his breath.
"The first wolf falls ill, the second comes to tend, The third fetches medicine, the fourth stirs the blend. The fifth wolf dies, the sixth bears him away, the seventh digs the grave at break of day. The eighth lays him down, the ninth weeps alone, the tenth asks why he cries in such a tone. 'Because the fifth wolf's gone,' he says at last, 'And some goodbyes are never meant to pass.'"
Daisy stood beside him, studying his youthful face, listening to the strange lullaby.
"Ser Smiling Knight," she asked quietly, "where are you taking us?"
Jimmy glanced at her.
"Does it matter? Do you have somewhere else to go? Can you return to the North?"
He reeled the line in slightly, eyes on the horizon.
"Roose Bolton has betrayed you, Winterfell has been burned to the ground. The bannermen loyal to House Stark were butchered at the Twins."
"You could go back, perhaps But what about Robb? How does he return? How does he stand before the lords who lost sons? Before the wives who lost husbands? Before the mothers who demand to know where their boys lie buried?"
"And if Robb stays away, those lords remain alive. The moment he sets foot in the North, Bolton will hunt every last one of them."
"Unless," Jimmy added calmly, "you believe you can raise an army overnight. March on the Dreadfort. Crush Roose Bolton and take his seat."
He looked at her directly.
"Is that possible?"
"War isn't fought with courage alone. It takes grain. Men. Steel. Horses."
"How much of that does the North have left?"
"Bolton may be a viper, but the Dreadfort's strength is real. Winterfell has never conquered it. Do you think farmers who've just put down their plows can defeat a fortress that still stands intact?"
Daisy had no answer. His words settled heavily in the air.
Catelyn stepped out onto the deck.
"Daisy," she said gently, "do not dream of returning. The Smiling Knight speaks the truth. For now, we must disappear. We wait. We endure. When the time is right, we rise."
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