In the frozen halls of the Twins, where rivers rage and banners fly, The Young Wolf rides with hope, Robb Stark, King in the North, head held high. Beside him rides his pregnant queen, Talisa, gentle as a summer breeze, And his loyal bannermen, the Freys’ feast awaits beneath the swaying trees. Old Walder Frey, that slimy lord with a grin like a rusted blade, Welcomes them in with open arms, but the knives are already being laid. “More wine for the King!” they cheer, the music swells, a merry tune, But the strings hide the poison, the drums beat like an approaching doom. Catelyn Stark sits wary, her mother’s eyes sharp as Valyrian steel, She spots the doors bolt shut, feels the trap snap tight like a hunter’s wheel. Robb toasts to alliance, his direwolf banner proud in the firelight, Then the crossbows sing from the rafters—thwip-thwip—turning joy into endless night. Bolton’s blade twists deep in Robb’s gut, “The Lannisters send their regards,” cold and true, Blood sprays across the tables as the massacre rips the hall in two. Talisa screams, clutching her belly, but the knives find her and the unborn heir, Catelyn claws at Walder’s throat, desperate, feral, drowning in despair. The music turns frantic now, fiddles screech like dying crows, Bodies pile high, throats slit clean, the Red Wedding’s crimson river flows. Grey Wind howls outside, chained and butchered, head sewn on Robb’s lifeless frame, A mockery paraded through the camp, sealing the North’s eternal shame. In the chaos of betrayal, where guest-right shatters like fragile glass, The wolves are slaughtered, the old gods weep for the broken, blood-soaked mass. Yet whispers linger in the wind, a promise carved in ice and flame, “The North remembers,” they say, and vengeance will one day reclaim its name. The Red Wedding—where honor died, where trust was fed to hungry steel, A feast of death, a song of sorrow, that makes even the hardest hearts kneel. So raise your cup to fallen kings, to mothers fierce and sons laid low, In Westeros’ cruel game, the music plays on… but the wolves still know. Yeah… the North remembers. The drums fall silent… but the howl echoes.
