Kill the Boy 26
- Whitewoods -
The courtyard was filled, thousands had gathered to watch the execution. It was so packed that many in the back wondered how it would be possible for Lord Snow to clear a space to do the deed. Those in the front watched with rapt attention the small circle of space that was open.
The Mountain stood, as strongly as he could with an arrow still sticking out of his leg. The giant man hadn't had either of his wounds treated, the knife wound in his side bleeding a red stream down his leg and past the arrow that none had bothered to remove.
Like a caged animal, his head shifted from one face to another, moving from person to person. He was looking for somebody, yet none knew who. Even here: beaten, tied by his hands and feet, bleeding, and soon to be without a head, the Mountain that Rides was the most fearsome man that many had ever seen.
Gered Lannister was the only one brave enough to approach him. The lion's golden hair shone with the wet of melted snow as he strode forward, and set a stump before the massive Clegane. Once it is settled, he looks up at the big man and asks, "Why would Lord Tywin send you to kill the Starks?"
"Tywin's dead," Gregor chuckles, and that sets off a thunder of murmurs. Most surprised were the people who had come from the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister had been immortal, unbeatable even! To hear that he was dead was nearly incomprehensible.
Gered raises a hand for silence, and slowly the muttering dies down to a low roar. He narrows his eyes at the Mountain and asks, "Who would dare kill Lord Tywin, surely not you? You have been his loyal mutt for decades."
"Not me," Gregor laughs, "It was that tasty cunt daughter of his."
"Lady Cersei?" Gered rears back, shocked now. The thunder of talking returns as the people assembled learn the assassin's name in waves, "Why would she incite war?"
"Her stupid runt Joffrey's dead, arranged by Lord Tywin, she didn't like that."
Silence falls again, this time for a different reason than shock.
"Then she has incited war for nothing," Comes the voice of Robb Stark from the entrance to the Keep. Eyes turn and they see him standing as strongly as he can, his newly stumped hand wrapped in gauze and held against his chest.
Standing beside him are Jon Snow, Lady Ygritte, and a platinum haired woman that only a few knew as Daenerys Targaryen at this point. Beside the humans stride the two massive direwolves, Ghost and Grey Wind.
Atop the wolves… Dragons.
Whispers break out again, and this time it is Jon Snow who raises a hand. Silence falls again as he leads the way through an avenue made by the parting audience towards the Mountain. He stops in front of Clegane, and the two look at each other. Neither had met before, and neither was impressed.
"Ser Gregor Clegane, you have attacked Robb, of the House Stark, and left him grievously wounded from the assault," Jon tells the knight, "Witnesses also claim that you slew a young girl and a horse before attracting Lord Stark's attention."
"I demand Trial by Combat," the Mountain growls down at the boy.
"Trial by Combat is reserved for those whose guilt remains in question," Jon tells him, not really caring if he's right in this or not. He doesn't know southern customs and he doesn't care, "Assembled around you are thousands who can speak of your attack on the girl, and Robb beside me knows the truth of your attack."
Robb nods solemnly beside Jon.
"You are guilty," Jon tells the Mountain, "But you are still left with two choices."
The noise that had been growing steadily since the start of their confrontation, ceases. It wasn't possible that Lord Snow meant to spare the madman, was it?
"Two?" Gregor asks, looking down at the stump at his feet, "It looks fairly certain which you've chosen already."
"I'd rather cut your head off now, aye," Jon agrees, "But there are more ways than one to execute a man in the North."
"Oh, and what's that?"
"You have the choice to take the Black, Ser Clegane," Jon tells him, "Wildlings that refused to join their fellows on the journey to Whitewoods are still beyond the wall and amassing their numbers. The Night's Watch needs men, and you are one of the deadliest in the realm."
"Jon?" Daenerys looks to him, shocked, "this is the man responsible for the murder of your siblings, of… Robb?"
Her eyes turn to Robb, who had put his good hand on her shoulder, "He is right, Daenerys, any man may take the Black, if they so choose."
The Mountain, and the audience all around them, looks at the two Northern lords like they're mad. Those who had moved from the South fail to notice the approving nods from those who had been born and bred in the cold of the North.
It seemed to them that they had chosen the right man to lead them, a true northern lord.
- The End of the World -
Benjen Stark was a true northern lord, though he'd given up all titles when he took the Black. His men had respected him, he did his own dirty work and never called for daggers in the dark. He was an honest man, and he could spot a liar.
The Three-Eyed Raven was not a liar, but he was more cryptic than he needed to be. He told Benjen that a powerful greenseer was responsible for whatever happened to Jon when the King had come to Winterfell. He clearly knew who the greenseer had been, and who he was now, but all he would give were hints.
If there was a powerful seer south of the Wall, they needed to know so they could make use of the abilities. They needed to know when the dead would strike, and how strong their numbers would be. The Raven refused to look, because he claimed that the magic of the Night King was strong enough to sense him and act.
Discretion was the key to victory, at least until the war truly began.
For now, the only true participants in this war were the Wildings, the dead, and Benjen himself. He was somewhere between alive and dead, and closer to the White Walkers than he wished to contemplate. All he truly knew of his current condition was that the dead could not kill him.
It had come as a shock, especially as he pulled the sword that slew him from his heart. He'd used the blade to destroy the wight that had stabbed him, then looked to Leaf for an explanation. The Child of the Forest had nodded solemnly to him and explained, "You are born as the Others are, from firestone and death. The dead cannot claim you, only the living can do so."
"The Walkers can't kill me, then," Benjen nods, then sighs, "nor can I kill them."
"The dead are not beholden to this plight," Leaf tells him, waving her hand at the corpse he'd re-killed, "That which is dead will always seek to return to the abyss."
"So will I seek death as well?" Benjen asks.
Leaf tilts her head, "Is it not the way of the living to seek death, in one way or another? It will simply take you longer to get there. As it does for the Others."
"They seek death?" Benjen asks.
Leaf shrugs, "It is the guide to their actions, but they seek it in the living more than themselves. They are closer to the dead than you, and so they hate those who are not as close as they."
"They are angry, spiteful creations of the Children," The Raven tells him, later, "Dark reflections in some way. They were men once, jealous of the immortality that they could never achieve. But when they were given it, that jealousy turned in them, and their leader hated that which he once was all the more."
"The Night's King… the White Walkers were once men?" Benjen asks, horrified.
"Boys, more than men," he is told, "The oldest among their number were First Men who had been captured by the Children. Black magic was performed upon them to make them as they are now."
"And the younger Walkers?"
"Have you ever wondered why Craster only has daughters?"
"No."
The solemn nod makes Benjen all the more horrified for the indulgence that the Night's watch had allowed Caster. Now, more than ever, was he glad that the slovenly bastard was dead.
- Casterly Rock -
Amory Lorch was a slovenly bastard. Cersei was sure that he'd never had a bath, and then there were his manners. The wretch seemed to be under the impression that because she had bedded the Mountain, she would bed him as well.
She took great pleasure in disabusing him of that notion, and in his screams as his rats ate him alive. The drunken fool had failed her, again and again. He had allowed Joy Hill to escape, he had failed to recapture the main hall and the larder, and he had failed to assemble more than a dozen children.
These children, sons and daughters of the lords of the Westerlands, were her insurance for loyalty. They would serve her well in that regard, and their fathers now knew it. Only a dozen children had been sent before the fat King had sent out the warning to the Westerlands. Now Cersei had Casterly Rock, Lannisport, and a dozen of the closest castles. The rest knew she was not Tywin, and that they had come very close to giving their children to the woman who killed him.
It was civil war in the Westerlands, those who were loyal to her or those loyal to her dwarf brother and their king. She didn't care that those loyal to her were that way mostly because she had their children. She didn't care that Tyrion had tried to reason with her.
She would never let him have the Rock, he had helped destroy her family, helped kill her eldest son, and kept her youngest children from her! War was the only appropriate response to such things.
With that in mind, she had called her banners.
- King's Landing -
"Is she mad?" the King asks, looking between Myrcella and Varys.
The girl, cognizant that they were speaking of her moth, is reluctant to answer. The Spymaster, in sympathy for his apprentice, does, "It seems that way. News of Joffrey still living has yet to reach her; and it seems with his apparent demise she grows more unstable with each day."
"That can't be the only reason?" Robert asks, "She was always a bitch, and she was ruthlessly smart, how did she go from that to whatever the hell she's trying to play at now?"
He looks around the Small Council chamber, waiting for an answer. He spoke truly, as well; Cersei had never been as insane as her current actions seemed to indicate. Joy Hill's story told a terrifying tale that did not match with the woman they had all known for years.
The first to try and offer an answer is Stannis. He turns his eyes to Pycelle and asks, "How long is the Journey from King's Landing to Casterly Rock?"
Pycelle frowns, then says, "If one is truly quick, two weeks. That was a record, though, made by an over eager Gerion Lannister a few years before his failed adventure into the Doom."
"I doubt Lords Tywin or Baelish would have wanted her causing trouble on the journey," Stannis notes, "Perhaps they had her sedated."
"For so long," Pycelle looks sufficiently alarmed that the others take notice.
"I take it that isn't good?" Renly asks the maester, not quite seeing what his brother had.
"Indeed not, my lord," Pycelle shakes his head, "To keep one addled with any sedative for so long a period would have a lasting effect, even Milk of the Poppy."
"So when Baelish shipped lady Lannister home, she did not arrive as the same woman she was when she left?" Ser Barristan asks, he usually wasn't allowed to these meetings, but they were in a state of war, so Robert was making exceptions.
"Mayhaps," Pycelle nods, "There is no way to know until I or another maester is able to perform an examination of some kind."
"You can perform it on her corpse," Robert grunts, heedless of the wince this elicits in Myrcella and Tyrion. He glares at nothing, saying, "I fucked the Seven Kingdoms right proper when I married that bitch, didn't I?"
"You fucked the Kingdoms all on your own, Robert," Renly snorts, "We're still millions in debt, even with Tywin's death and Baelish's taxes finally paid in full. Thank you for making me Master of Coin, by the way."
Renly had been an easy choice, his ties with the Tyrells gave him access to their matriarch. Ollena Tyrell was many things, and among them was the heart of a banker. She knew how to manage money, and whenever Renly begged Loras for advice, all his lover had to do was parrot his grandmother. It wouldn't last forever, but until the only frugal son of Mace Tyrel, Willas, was back South, Robert's brother would have to do. For now, he just had to put up with it, and Sandor Clegane as master of laws.
"So it's war then?" The scarred Clegane asks, he frowns darkly, "Fuck war, this'll be a slaughter."
"You think it will be easy?" Tyrion asks the man.
"If that letter you received from that northern lord is right, my brother's up North," Sandor notes, recalling that Tyrion and the King had debated over the contents of that letter and the one from Ned Stark saying he'd received the same. The Hound smiles, "If that fucker isn't there, nothing's stopping Cersei's hostages from escaping but a bunch of cunts that think they're killers."
"The Mountain's men are formidable," Varys notes, "Dangerous killers with a reputation to match."
"Ha," Sandor spits a glob into his empty goblet, "Gobshite, those fuckers couldn't think their way out of an overturned wagon. Only reason they were any good at killing was because it was my brother telling them to do it."
"You think their reputation is exaggerated?" Renly asks.
"All reputations are exaggerated," Stannis tells his brother, "What Clegane is saying is that what truth there is exists because the Mountain was at the helm."
"Yer fucking right, that's what I'm saying," Sandor grins, "Little cunts'll piss themselves if they have to get in a real war."
"But like you said," Tyrion sighs, "This won't be a war, it'll be a slaughter."