Chapter 293: King of Injustice

Chapter 293: Chapter 278: King of Injustice

The main hall of The Twins was rarely lit with so many candles and torches, attempting to dispel the damp cold of the Green Fork with light and noise.

The long tables were filled with food: smoked meat, charred bread, and barrels of ale and wine. The aroma mingled with the sound of voices, rising in the stone hall.

Musicians sat in the corner gallery on the second floor, their fiddle and flute melodies drawn out long and sluggish.

The notes wound through the air like a thick gloom, hanging over the clamor.

Three rounds of drinks had passed.

People’s tongues were loosened by alcohol, and the conversation drifted from cautious pleasantries to memories of past glories.

“Remember back then, we followed The Young Wolf south from the North!” a flushed Northern lord waved his goblet. “That was a thrill! We beat the snarling Lannister lions until they howled!”

“That’s right!” Another slammed the table. “I personally cut off three Lannister heads!”

After a brief burst of noise, the atmosphere suddenly sank.

A voice filled with irrepressible grief and anger spoke up: “But ever since we faced the Targaryen, everything changed! Why can’t we win anymore?”

“Yeah, why can’t we win…” murmurs of agreement rose up.

Robb sat at the high table, listening to this drunken talk.

He picked up his silver-inlaid goblet and drained the dark red wine inside.

The fine wine slid down his throat, bringing only bitterness.

He muttered to himself, his gaze sweeping across the hall.

Those who had truly fought by his side—Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Wyman Manderly—these faces had already vanished forever on the battlefields of The Riverlands or the fall of Riverrun.

Those who remained were mostly the minor lords of The Riverlands who had joined later, or the Northern vassals who followed Bolton.

He downed another cup of wine.

Perhaps, insisting on marching south and facing the Targaryen was a mistake from the start.

At Riverrun, his mother, his uncle, Jeyne… were they still alive? He dared not think too deeply.

He could not go on like this.

Using this opportunity Bolton had secured, he would rally the remnants of his army and go home.

Drive out the Ironborn, retake Winterfell. As for the Targaryen and the iron throne in the south, let them go to the White Walkers.

Just as he was tormented by regret and resolve, a deliberately loud burst of music interrupted the gloom in the hall.

Everyone’s eyes turned toward the entrance.

A squad of House Frey guards marched in, lining up on both sides.

Walder Frey’s hunched, aged figure, leaning on his cane, walked in step by step.

His hands, withered like chicken claws, held onto a veiled bride wearing a magnificent wedding gown.

Walder Frey’s cloudy eyes swept across the hall, lingering deliberately on Robb for a moment.

There was almost undisguised provocation and mockery in that gaze.

He led the bride slowly toward Roose Bolton, who stood before the main seat.

There was no elaborate ceremony.

Walder Frey simply placed the bride’s hand gently into the open, pale, and bony palm of Roose Bolton.

Roose Bolton took the bride’s hand, slowly turned, and faced the people in the hall.

There was no expression on his face, still the same near-sickly pallor and calm.

His gaze slowly swept across the faces below, and finally, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to the lords who had already been briefed or were the core of his eight thousand troops.

The atmosphere was already well-prepared.

For Robb Stark, he only needed a reason, an excuse.

Even if this excuse was as clumsy and stiff as a child’s lie, or even contradictory, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the sword in hand, that blood was about to be spilled, and that from now on, the North would be Bolton’s North.

“Your Grace.” Roose Bolton spoke, his voice cutting through the noise of the hall, clearly reaching everyone’s ears.

“We are honored by your presence, Your Grace. At this auspicious time, would you please step forward and bestow a blessing upon me and my bride?”

Robb shook off his chaotic thoughts.

He looked at Roose Bolton, this loyal subject who had endured humiliation to buy time for him and the North.

He took a deep breath and stood up.

Under the overt and covert gazes of everyone, he walked to Roose Bolton and the bride.

The bride stood quietly, veil lowered, unmoving.

“In the name of House Stark, by the old gods and the new…” Robb’s voice was somewhat hoarse, but he tried to maintain clarity and solemnity.

“I, Robb Stark, King in the North and The Trident, bless Lord Roose Bolton and Lady Frey on their marriage. May your union bring peace and stability to this war-torn land.”

Roose Bolton nodded slightly: “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Then he stepped forward, making a gesture to embrace.

Robb also opened his arms.

The moment their bodies came close, Robb’s pupils contracted sharply!

A cold, sharp, bone-deep pain exploded from under his left ribs!

“Ugh—!”

Robb grunted, using all his strength to shove the close-standing Roose Bolton away.

He staggered back a few steps, his left hand clutching his abdomen tightly, warm, viscous liquid surging through his fingers.

He looked down, staring at the spot in disbelief.

A dagger was almost completely buried in his body, with only the short hilt remaining outside.

He raised his head and looked at Roose Bolton.

The man still stood there, his expression terrifyingly calm.

In his pale eyes, there was no longer any of the past obedience, only cold indifference.

“You… you…” Robb opened his mouth, the intense pain making his vision go black, breathing suddenly difficult.

He could not form a complete sentence, only staring fixedly at Bolton, his blue eyes filled with shock, anger, and a bone-chilling coldness of being betrayed by the person he trusted most.

In the hall, there was a deathly silence.

The music had stopped completely, though no one knew when.

Only the crackle of torches and Robb’s suppressed, painful wheezing remained.

The next second, an uproar and commotion erupted. But not everyone was shocked.

A portion of the lords, mainly the Northern nobles who belonged to Bolton’s command, and a few Riverlands lords who had been in cahoots with Bolton, just sat silently, expressionless.

But the many lords who had gathered at The Twins later were completely stunned.

“Roose Bolton! How dare you—” A young knight loyal to House Stark stood up abruptly, hand reaching for his sword hilt.

He didn’t get to finish.

Roose Bolton didn’t even look at him, just lightly raised his hand.

“Swish—thud!”

A crossbow bolt shot out from the shadows of the second-floor gallery, accurately piercing the young knight’s throat.

He grabbed his neck, making gurgling sounds, blood spurting from between his fingers, then crashed heavily onto the dining table in front, shattering cups and plates.

Meanwhile, the doors around the hall were kicked open.

Fully armed Soldiers, who had been lying in ambush, poured in like a tide, instantly controlling all exits of the hall, their cold blades and crossbows pointed at every guest present.

Only then did Roose Bolton speak slowly, his voice not loud, but clearly drowning out all the commotion: “Everyone, please be quiet.”

He took two steps forward, avoiding the pool of blood spreading from under Robb, his gaze sweeping across faces that were terrified, angry, or bewildered.

“The Targaryen are outsiders. A foreign army from across the Narrow Sea, invading the homeland of Westeros.”

“Not far from here, at the place of kneeling, the former King of the North, Torrhen Stark, knelt to Aegon the Conqueror and offered his crown to preserve his family.”

“House Stark has always had a tradition of kneeling to the strong and the invaders.”

He paused, his gaze falling on Robb, who was gasping for breath and trying to gather strength, his tone suddenly turning “heartbroken”:

“And now, our King Robb seems to be repeating the mistakes of his ancestors, and even worse.”

“He intends to surrender to that rebel and false king, Aegon Targaryen, who invaded Westeros with a foreign army!”

The hall was deathly silent.

“You are lying!” another lord couldn’t help but shout, but his voice sounded weak against the reflection of the surrounding Soldiers’ swords.

Roose Bolton didn’t even look at him, continuing in that flat tone: “I know this is hard to accept. But please think, why did we win repeatedly against the Lannister, yet suffer disastrous defeats as soon as we encountered the Targaryen?”

“Why did King Robb insist on staying in The Riverlands, ignoring our homeland in the North being ravaged by the Ironborn?”

“I, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, although loyal to Stark for generations, can only act for the greater good in the face of this betrayal of the North.”

“You… nonsense…” Robb finally struggled, squeezing out a few words from the intense pain, blood spilling from the corners of his mouth.

He wanted to argue, to rebuke, but the wound in his lungs made every breath feel like a knife cut.

“Look, he cannot argue.” Roose Bolton’s voice carried a hint of cold pity, “Because this is the truth.”

He stopped looking at Robb and turned to the stunned crowd in the hall: “However, gentlemen, there is still hope for Westeros. I have already made contact with Lord Tywin Lannister.”

“Lord Lannister promises that in this time of crisis, we should set aside past grievances and fight together. He will help us drive away the Ironborn ravaging the North.”

“Now—” Roose Bolton’s voice suddenly turned cold, “It is time for you to declare your stance. Prove that you have nothing to do with this traitor who intends to collude with the Targaryen.”

He pointed to Robb, who was kneeling on the ground, pale from blood loss and suffocation.

“Come forward, each of you, and stab him once. Then I will believe that you are still warriors loyal to Westeros. Otherwise—” His cold gaze swept over everyone.

“I will have to treat you as accomplices of Robb Stark and dispose of you here as well.”

Deathly silence.

Everyone present knew that this rhetoric was full of holes and ridiculously far-fetched.

But no one dared to question it; in troubled times, survival is far more important than right or wrong.

To save their lives, they had no choice but to follow Bolton’s will and become his accomplices.

Finally, a minor lord from The Riverlands stood up. He was pale, his eyes flickering, and he drew his sword.

The blade trembled slightly in the firelight.

He shuffled step by step to Robb.

Robb barely raised his head, looking at this man, looking at someone who had once sworn allegiance to him loudly, someone he had provided protection for, even at the cost of facing the Targaryen.

The lord closed his eyes, as if to hide his guilt, or perhaps just to bolster his courage, and shouted:

“For The Riverlands!”

Then he stabbed his sword fiercely into Robb’s shoulder.

“Ugh—ah—!” Robb’s body shuddered violently.

The lord pulled out the sword and staggered back, the tip dripping with blood.

With the first, there came the second, the third.

“For the North!”

“For Westeros!”

“Kill the traitor!”

Shouts, some guilty, some fearful, some deliberately raised to bolster courage, accompanied by the dull sound of blades piercing flesh, rang out repeatedly in the hall.

One after another, lords and knights walked forward numbly or with twisted expressions, stabbing their weapons into the body of the young king who had once led them to glory.

One stab, two stabs, three stabs.

For survival, for their families, for that illusory greater good.

Robb could no longer feel much pain.

Cold and numbness spread through his limbs.

He fell onto the cold floor, the blood beneath him pooling into a large lake of dark red.

His vision became increasingly blurred; those twisted faces, those flashing blades, all gradually faded away.

He seemed to be back in Winterfell again, seeing his father sharpening Ice in the Godswood, seeing his brothers and sisters playing and chasing each other.

In the biting cold, only bone-chilling betrayal remained.

Finally, Walder Frey, leaning on his cane, walked trembling to Robb.

He looked at this young man with weak breath and unfocused eyes, a satisfied and venomous smile appearing on his withered, bark-like old face.

“Stark’s little wolf pup,” he whispered in a hoarse voice that only the two of them could hear, “Remember? How you and your mother humiliated my House Frey? I said, House Frey always pays its debts!”

Tremblingly, he drew a small, ornately decorated dagger from his waist, aimed it at Robb’s heart, and with all his might, stabbed it in.

The dagger went in to the hilt.

Robb Stark’s body twitched one last time.

Those once-bright blue eyes completely lost their luster, frozen in endless cold and pain.

The young King in the North, The Young Wolf, did not die on the battlefield of revenge, nor under the dragon wings of dragons.

He died at the hands of his vassals and allies, died in a murder called a wedding, died on the cold floor of the hall at The Twins, his blood soaking his shattered Direwolf cloak.

In the hall, deathly silence descended again.

Only the crackle of burning torches and the thick, inescapable smell of blood remained.

Roose Bolton looked at Robb’s corpse expressionlessly, then swept his gaze over the lords around who were numb, terrified, or relieved.

Deep in his pale eyes, there was only coldness.

“Clean this up.” He ordered calmly, as if everything that had just happened was merely an insignificant interlude at the banquet.

“The wedding continues.”

Creation is hard, cheer me up! VOTE for me!