GOT: The Great — Chapter 295 - The Skin of House Frey

People lined both sides of the bridge.

From one end to the other, wooden poles stood one after another, each with a Frey man bound to it.

Stripped naked, skin peeled away in one full sheet, exposing the dark red muscle and pale yellow fat underneath. The muscle fibers trembled faintly in the river wind.

Lady Stoneheart complained that there were no flies in winter. The flayed Freys would have been covered in them.

The dozen or so Bolton prisoners worked from morning until nightfall, then from nightfall until the following dawn, without stopping.

There were too many men bound to the poles.

House Frey had nothing if not numbers.

Walder Frey had more than thirty sons, more than fifty grandsons, and on top of that cadet branches, bastards, and distant nephews, enough to fill the entire bridge.

There were only a dozen or so knives. They had to go one by one, finish one, move to the next, like hanging pigs in a slaughterhouse.

The one currently being flayed screamed the loudest.

The flaying knife drew down from the back of the neck and pulled along the spine, and as skin separated from flesh it made a sound like tearing silk.

The man being flayed twisted with everything he had, but the ropes were bound too tight, wrists and ankles had already cut into the flesh, and the more he struggled the more blood seeped out.

He screamed until his voice split. After that, opening his mouth produced only a hiss of air leaking from his throat.

"Please. Just make it quick." A fat man's knees wouldn't stop shaking when they tied him to the pole. He could barely stay upright.

The moment the flayer raised the knife, he started wailing. "I'll pay! I've got a private stash — not in the treasury! Half a chest of gold dragons under my bed! Real gold, all of it! Go look, go and look and you'll see! Please, go look first."

Someone among the men waiting their turn cursed at him. "Grow a spine. We're all dying anyway."

"Shut your mouth! You haven't gotten there yet! When you do, you'll cry too!" The fat man twisted his head and shouted back.

The flayer ignored them and drew the knife down.

A bald man of about forty was bound to the pole. He spent the whole time grinding his teeth and cursing.

"Can't you just make it quick. Maybe I'll curse you a little less when I get to the other side."

The flayer paused and glanced back at Lady Stoneheart.

Lady Stoneheart stood three steps away, a dagger clenched in her hand, and said nothing. The flayer continued.

There was also an old man muttering the whole time. "I said all along we shouldn't have crossed the Starks. I said it. None of you listened."

Someone nearby shouted at him to shut up, so he switched to muttering under his breath, lips trembling over and over with the same words.

Two of them looked young, about sixteen or seventeen. One kept shaking. The other scolded him. "Stop shaking. The more you shake, the happier they get."

The shaking one said, "I can't help it." Then he retched and vomited.

Lady Stoneheart walked the bridge and watched.

She did not smile. She did not weep. She only watched, her expression calm. Or rather, her face — crumbling and rotted as it now was, made it near impossible to read any expression at all.

But it showed in her gait: the unhurried step of someone whose great vengeance had finally been paid.

One young Frey, as they were tying him to the pole, called out toward her. "Lady Catelyn! I wasn't at the Red Wedding! I was only twelve! I didn't know anything."

Lady Stoneheart did not answer him.

She only watched, waiting for the flayer to draw the first cut.

When the boy's scream rang out, she slowly raised the dagger before his eyes and drew it across his throat, putting an end to his suffering.

Walder Frey was bound to the center pole, his skin only half peeled.

Flayed from the back down to the waist, the upper half still hanging there like a torn old robe, everything below the waist bare muscle and fascia.

He had died partway through. A man of over ninety, his heart couldn't take it. The flayer was rather displeased when he untied him from the pole.

Lady Stoneheart had watched the entire process from beginning to end.

"All the others are still kicking, and this old wretch gives out. Barely made it to the waist," the prisoner said. "My lady, you must speak for me and tell King Drogo not to punish me."

Lady Stoneheart gave a small nod.

Only then did the prisoner relax. He gave the half-peeled skin a shake and draped it over the railing beside him to air out, the half-skin wrinkled and covered in age spots.

As it turned out, people had already started jumping into the river before Drogon's dragonfire had even burned open the gates of the Twins.

The west tower was the first to crack. A figure suddenly tumbled out of a window and crashed into the river, throwing up a great plume of water.

Then a second, a third, they came popping out the windows one after another like dumplings dropping into a pot, hitting the water in a rapid series of splashes.

A tall thin man jumped from the battlements. He let out a scream in midair, the cry trailing from the top of the tower all the way down to the river's surface, where a SPLASH cut it off.

He thrashed in the water, arms flailing, and just as he broke the surface, a White Harbor skiff was already there.

A soldier at the bow drove a spear into his back and yanked it upward. Blood jetted from the hole.

Someone was stroking hard downstream, armor already shed, nothing left but a waterlogged linen undershirt, dead-heavy with water.

The skiff gave chase. A paddle came down on the back of his head, a dull CRACK, and his head sank into the water and never came back up.

Another man floated on his back with a dagger raised, shouting "I surrender." An arrow flew in and took him square in the wrist. The dagger dropped into the water. A second arrow took him square in the throat.

The skiffs wove back and forth across the river, spears at the bow plunging down and pulling up, pulling up and plunging down.

One soldier, chasing someone, slipped and nearly went into the water himself. A crewmate at the stern grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him back.

Most of the Freys who jumped didn't make it. A few drifted downstream into a reed marsh, clung to the roots, and hid for most of the day, only crawling ashore after dark.

They hadn't gotten far before the outer patrol cavalry swept them up. They were brought back before dawn.

Some were simply killed by the cold of the winter river.

When Drogon's dragonfire hit the gates, the iron plating first glowed red, then white, then began to drip, molten iron ticking down onto the stone paving in front of the gate.

The wood inside burned and cracked and popped, sparks shooting out through the gaps.

In fewer than 20 breaths, the entire gate collapsed inward. The hinges blew out of their stone housings, the still-burning wooden frame crashed down onto the flagstones in the gateway, bounced once, and the flames rushed outward in both directions to reveal a scorched black opening still trailing smoke.

Drogo was the first one through. He drew Stannis Baratheon's counterfeit Lightbringer, and the blade threw off a brilliant light that cut through the murk of the burning castle.

Through the smoke he spotted a knight bearing down on him with a leveled spear. He swung, the blade glanced off the helmet and sent sparks flying into his face.

The knight staggered back 2 steps and dropped his spear. Drogo followed with another stroke, splitting into his neck. The man spun once and went down on his knees.

Another man drove a spear at him. Drogo stepped aside, let his sword slide along the shaft, and opened his throat.

That knight, as he fell, reached out and grabbed his cloak, tearing away a strip of cloth.

White Harbor infantry surged in behind him. In the great hall, in the narrow corridors, the clang and ring of steel meeting House Frey's garrison filled the air.

A Frey knight came charging on horseback, spear leveled, hooves striking sparks off the flagstones.

Drogo sidestepped the spear point and brought his sword down on the horse's leg. The horse pitched forward and the rider flew over its head, crashing onto the flagstones. His helmet rolled several feet away.

He struggled to get up, hands scrambling across the ground for his sword. Drogo stepped up, planted a foot on his chest, and brought the blade down. Blood spattered across the floor.

More men came rushing down a side staircase.

Drogo turned and blocked, swords crashed together, he flicked his wrist and wrenched the opponent's blade from his grip, then drove his own blade into the man's gut on the back stroke and dragged it upward. The man doubled over and went down, intestines pushing through the wound, still steaming.

When the fighting was done, he sat in Walder Frey's seat and watched the White Harbor soldiers carry things out of the storerooms.

Gold coins filled more than thirty chests. Silverware was stacked against an entire wall. Jewels were packed in velvet pouches. Copper coins were hauled out in baskets, one basket after another, a procession that seemed to have no end.

"These toll collectors," Drogo said, grabbing a fistful of gold coins from a chest and holding them up to the light. "Richer than anyone."

Lady Stoneheart said: "Do you know how they piled it up."

"Back when Rhaegar was fighting Robert Baratheon at the Trident — if Rhaegar had won, Walder Frey would have marched his army north, helped House Targaryen slaughter the Stark remnants, and collected another round of bridge tolls on the way."

"As it turned out, Rhaegar lost. So he marched his army to the Trident and joined the side that had already won."

"Never fought a single battle, and collected his toll anyway. The War of the Five Kings was the same — when Robb marched south, he opened the bridge, on the condition of a marriage to his daughter."

"When Robb broke the betrothal, he killed them all at the Red Wedding, then turned around and presented his services to Tywin Lannister."

"From beginning to end, he sat inside his castle, backed whoever was winning, collected his payment when it was done. Hundreds of years without a single hard battle. That's how all this piled up."

Drogo loosened his fingers. The gold coins cascaded back into the chest with a clatter.

"They kept my money safe for hundreds of years. I'll gladly take it."

Drogo walked from the main keep out onto the bridge. The sky was nearly dark. Lady Stoneheart was still there, the prisoners were still at work, and a few of the Freys on the poles were still moaning.

➤ Next: I Warned You Not to Trust Me