Vandal55: Robb'll talk if he's offered the right incentives, ultimately he needs someone in the south to recognise him as King otherwise he'll be at war forever. From the Lannister/Tyrell perspective, losing to Robb is not going to cost them as much as losing to Stannis, so if their situation is that bad, it might be worth giving Robb everything. Just remember, Robb doesn't know how bad the situation in King's Landing is. As to why Loren doesn't abandon Joffrey, it's because he believes that Joffrey is the rightful king, he's not just going to sell him out because he's losing, that's not how Loren operates.
Bovragor: Coming up shortly, I'm wrapping up this book now, I believe it's just one chapter left for Lyonel, Shireen, Robb and another Tristan to go. Then we're on to the next one.
Tristan's path east had taken him along the line of the Trident, through lands ruined by war until he reached Harrenhal. His mother had provided thirty men of the Riverrun garrison to ride at his side. On the way he stopped at Acorn Hall, the seat of House Smallwood, where Lady Ravella had heard of his task, and pledged two knights and three archers to join him. After that he turned north, riding hard for Stone HEdge, the seat of House Bracken. Lord Bracken's wife had not been willing to part with any of her garrison, not with House Blackwood eyeing their lands with a glutton's greed. Never mind that both Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood were in the south with Robb. But when he'd told her that he hunted the Mountain, she'd parted with a score of freeriders. The Mountain had raped one of her stepdaughters when he'd taken the castle early in the war, and all the Bracken daughters wanted his head.
Riding east, he encountered a trio of knights that were hunting down a band of brigands, but when offered the chance of the Mountain, they readily joined his steadily growing warband. He'd sent a raven to Harrenhal when he left Riverrun, requesting they be on the lookout for the Mountain and have some support ready to join him. The commander, Ser Kyle Condon, had no news for him, but prepared a hundred men to join Tristan's hunt, a full quarter of his garrison. He hadn't realised how much Robb had needed to thin out the Riverlands to correct Tristan's error. Now that chicken was coming home to roost, with fire and sword. But he had no news to share. He'd sent scouts out south and east to see if they could find any sign of the Mountain, but there were no certain signs. Had he been wrong? No, the Mountain was coming, he just hadn't reached Harrenhal yet.
So he departed Harrenhal, making for Saltpans. Harrenhal bore the scars from the war, but they were old scars, not newly made. They septon who spoke for the people there, told him that they had seen no riders or raiders pass them for months. He thanked them and turned south. There was only one major location left.
That was how he found himself at Maidenpool, where he had quickly added his men to the garrison. It would be the centre of his hunt, whatever it took, he would not allow the Mountain to continue his pillaging unchallenged. Because here, there was plenty of evidence of the Mountain's proximity.
"The scouts will be back soon," Dom said, walking just behind him as they made for the bridge leading from the castle to the town. "We'll have an idea of where the Mountain is before long."
"Four villages Dom," he replied, thinking back to the blackened timbers and scorched flesh. "Four villages burned and we still have no idea where he is."
"We know he hasn't gone far, if he had, we'd have received word from other castles, just as you instructed."
Tristan nodded at the mail clad guards who stood on the bridge spanning the moat between the castle and the town. Twelve of them in all, holding spears with leaf shaped heads. He was surprised so many were on this one gate, four was more than sufficient to guard it, and with half the guardsmen in the Reach with Robb, every man was needed more than ever. He would have to have another talk with Lord Mooton about that. But he suspected he already knew the answer. The refugees. It would always be the refugees I give them my food should I also give them my castle?
The refugees had come ever since the Mountain had arrived in the Riverlands again, bringing what few belongings they could, desperate for the safety of Maidenpool's pink tinged walls. Before Tristan had arrived, there had been daily brawls between different groups, while Lord Mooton barely did anything to maintain order, claiming a lack of men. Tristand had been able to stabilise the situation in the streets, but unless things changed, blood would flow again.
They passed the Stinking Goose and wound down the street towards the walls, entering the area of town the residents called the Gutter.
Here was where the refugees gathered. Huddled in family groups beneath tattered cloaks and holey bedsheets, casting suspicious eyes at each other. A child saw him cast his eyes and hid the stump of an apple core under his shirt, wiping the dribble of juice from his lips. The stench of decay and desperate living was everywhere. Most were huddled under the wall, which provided some shelter from the wind and the cold, but some were in alleys or against inner buildings. They had been in the harbour, but now that had been closed to them, forced out by the hired men of the fishermen and traders. Tristan hadn't the men to risk a battle with them and force open the harbour. And what then, force the refugees to move once again? The only thing he could possibly do was defeat the Mountain and let them return to their villages, rebuild whatever they could from the destruction. They all shied away when Tris, Dom and their guards passed by. The fish caught out in the bay rarely made their way down here. Every night he went into the surrounding woods with Shield, looking for traces of the mountain or animals that could fill a few bellies, dragging them back to the castle where his men waited to share what little could be carved from the thin carcasses.
Tristan approached a man lying by the side of the street. The body was caked in mud, and dried blood mottled the hair around his left temple and the cobbles beneath where he lay. Maggots were forming around the wound, how long had he been here? Long enough to be cold, stiff, infested and, saddest of all, forgotten.
"Anything?" Dom asked.
Tristan shook his head. "Dead." Had it been foul play, a slip and fall. Likely no one would ever know. "Take the body," he commanded his guards, "bring him to the grave." A mass grave had been dug outside the town walls to be filled with the dead. They would likely be digging another soon. As two guards hefted the body, Tristan and Domeric ascended the steps leading up to the walls. "Anything?" He asked the nearest guard on the watch.
"Nothing, Prince Tristan," the guard replied. The watchers were spread thin along the wall, one every fifty paces, if not fewer.
He nodded, looking down on the outskirts of the town. A few ramshackle huts, half gutted by flame, remained outside the walls, with some of the refugees taking their chances in them. More villagers were returning, hunters with a few meagre scraps of meat. Others with wood for fires or scavengers hunting for something, anything that might lighten their existence even a little. Some were gathering pine needles, which, when boiled in water and mixed with flour, made a hot broth that was thin, but spread out further than a loaf of bread. It was vile, but it was something.
His eyes were drawn to something winding its way down the road. "Is that, people?" He asked, squinting. Sure enough, as it drew into his eyesight, he saw heads bobbing along just above a line of hedges. He smiled, it must be the scouts. Then he frowned. Were his scouts that tall? And why were they moving up and down, were they jumping like rabbits. He had walked past those hedges, they were taller than he was, and he wasn't that short. He paled. "Gods no." He leant out over the wall. "Everyone inside the walls now!" He turned to the guard, "sound the bells."
"Tris, what's…" Dom's voice faded as he saw it. The heads, the height, the hanging threads of sinew and muscle dripping from the necks and the wooden shafts of spears driven into the base of the skulls.
"Ring the bells, everyone inside!"
It took moments for his call to spread, moments more for it to be understood, minutes before those outside the walls were swarming for the gate, screaming in terror as the bobbing heads got closer and closer. "Dom, make sure as many people as possible get inside," he said.
Dom nodded and sprinted for the gatehouse to take command. "Elmar, run to the castle, tell Lord Mooton we're under attack." Elmar and one of Lord Mooton's guards ran for the castle.
As the ringing of bells drowned out the screams, Tristan saw the moving stream of heads gather speed. They knew they were made, they were going to try and rush the walls. Alongside them came mounted men, streaming along the path. At the fore of the attack, a giant. "He's here," Tristan whispered. The Mountain that Rides. He leant out over the battlements. "Everyone run!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. Those outside ran faster, those inside started running. Refugees gathered their children and raced into the maze of streets that made up Maidenpool, shopkeeps abandoned their stalls and ran or slammed shut their doors in vain hope.
The Mountain cleared the hedges, roaring like a devil, his greatsword held aloft, one handed, as behind him, his host spread out. Hundreds of men, maybe thousands, roaring their fury at the pink walls before them. They brandished their grisly totems before them, severed heads staring, some were older, with flesh eaten from their cheeks, sunken eyed and with shriveled tongues. Others were fresher, some wearing leather caps and helms. His scouts.
Men along the walls started hurrying for their location, but they came in a trickle, so thinly spread were they. They wouldn't get here in time, the Mountain had come prepared for an attack, ladders were being hoisted by his men, as others stepped forward with bows, crossbows and axes. They'd stopped their charge, which meant that gate would be shut.
"Get down," he ordered and ducked below the battlements. His guards did as he had. One was too slow and was sent flying from the wall, a spear lodged in his chest. Other missiles clattered off the walls or arced over them to rain down on the streets below. An axe buried itself in a small girl's back, her mother tried to lift her but a bolt took her in the throat. One of his guards swore and got to his feet, launching his spear back at the Mountain's men. Before he could duck back down, a rock struck him on the helmet and he staggered for a step. But when he reached out, the man fell over the battlements with a crash. More arrows, stones, spears and axes rained on the cobbles below. His men were still huddled behind the battlements, not daring to get up. The warcries were getting closer. The enemy were advancing on the walls. Shit, there weren't enough of them. "Abandon the walls, get into the city, now!"
His men didn't need telling twice and, still doubled over, raced for the steps leading down to the streets below, repeating his order at the top of their lungs. In the courtyard below the walls they joined with men from the gatehouse who Dom was leading out. But beyond that, they were uncertain. He had to act now, or else they would down arms and look to their own lives. "Men, we're splitting u- look out!" The hail of death had paused, only to be replaced by a fouler downpour. The spears bearing the severed heads were launched over the walls, pulping the foul trophies to mush on the cobbles. "Look at me!" He screamed and the guards pulled their attention away from the heads. "You lot, go with Domeric," he said, indicating roughly half of he guards. "You are going back to the castle, rally with the forces there, prepare a counterattack. Dom, don't let me down. The rest of you, with me, we're going to the docks, we'll save as many of the people there as we can."
Dom fixed him with a pale stare. "Alright," he said, stepping forward and embracing Tristan tightly. "Don't you dare die."
"Or you," Tristan replied.
"You men, with me,!" Dom said, leading his men down the main street towards the castle.
"The rest of you with me," Tristan roared, leading the men in the direction of the city docks, just as the first of the Mountain's men vaulted the battlements, eyes wide and bloodthirsty. More joined him and made for the gatehouse, they had minutes before they forced the gates open. "Hurry!"
They sprinted down the streets, past the dead and the dying. One reached out to him, his grey hair matter and face gaunt. Tristan ignored him, he had to focus on the living, and the living were streaming towards the castle and the docks.
The crowds were forming at a bottleneck in the streets, the great mass of bodies pressed together. A soldier stood atop a building, trying to direct them his mail coif ascew and his tabard grimy. "Lord Mooton is going to close the castle gates, you have to get tto the docks!" He screamed, gesturing with his spear. "Don't go for the castle, go for th-" his words turned into a wet gurgle as, with a whoosh, a crossbow bolt shot through the air and punched through his chest. He staggered before falling into the crowd.
Tristan spun as the crowd screamed and scattered, running in all directions. The offending crossbowman was on top of the walls, his weapon splayed between his legs as he reloaded. Either side of him, the Mountain's marauders were swarming over the walls. How many of them were there.
"Get these people to the docks!" He ordered. His men started shepherding the terrified people towards the docks. His sword hand twitched, but he had to keep moving.
A voice cut through the din of flight. "H-help!" He tried looking for the source of it, but there were so many people. "Help!" It cried again. There, a woman screaming from beneath a trapped wagon, a boy and a girl desperately trying to lift it. He ran over. The woman's eyes fixed on him. "Help, please, take my children away from here."
"No, we can lift it," the boy screamed, the girl was straining so hard, words were beyond it.
The woman ignored her children and looked at him, blue eyes glistening, pleading. "Please, my legs are crushed, take them."
He nodded, seizing the boy with his good hand and hoisting him over his shoulder. "Let me go!" The boy screamed, hammering on his back. Tristan ignored it, taking the girl around the waist and carrying her under his left arm.
"I'll protect them," he told the woman, turning and running towards the docks.
"Mother!" the girl screamed.
"Don't look, either of you," he said as they turned a corner racing for the docks.
The thugs at the docks might have been willing to fend of refugees for a few coppers, but they weren't going to fight an army, the flimsy palisades they had set up were unmanned and people were swarming into the docks. Fishermen were taking their boats out into the harbour, with their families and friends. One was so overcrowded it capsized. Tristan watched helpless as the men, women and children on it sank beneath the waves. He put the children, now limp down against a wall. "All guards, rally!" He ordered, drawing his sword. "We have to hold them here, it's our only chance!"
His guards and the soldiers that had happened to be at the docks rallied to the palisades at his order, firsta few, then a dozen, a score, more. They readied spears and swords, waiting behind the wooden stakes for the enemy to come.
Fires burst up deeper into the city, as the Mountain's men burned a path through. One of the paths burned towards the castle, another was coming for them. Tristan drew his sword, wishing for all he was worth that Shield was here.
A marauder turned the end of the street, roaring with laughter, carrying a great double headed axe. He spotted the thin palisade and cried out something. Quickly more warriors joined him, carrying iron and fire. They charged them. He heard one of his men mutter a prayer, the trickle of piss on stone. "Stand firm, I'm right here with you."
The warriors crashed into the palisade. The grate axe carved in the wood to within an inch of Tristan's face. He thrust his sword into the gap, feeling it puncture skin. The axeman fell, Tristan's sword in his throat. But the weight of his charge continued, and the warriors piled in behind, met by the thrusts of Tristan's guards, who speared them through the gaps in the palisade. But the enemy were too fast and struck too hard. Soon the palisades, only meant to keep out rabble, not armed men, began to collapse and suddenly his men were in a desperate fighting retreat.
All his training in one handed combat came to the fore as he fell into the dance of the sword. His blade lashed out, felling one foe, two, three before they started backing away, avoiding him.
His men were not so lucky. One fell beneath a flurry of blow, spitting defiance, another's plea for mercy was cut short by the club that caved in his face. One ran only to be taken in the back by a spinning axe.
Howling his rage, Tristan launched himself at the enemy, in a single cut, he scythed through one warrior's shins, who fell with a scream, leaving his boots standing behind him. He thrust up into the belly of the next warrior, before stepping in and cutting sideways viciously. Blood and guts vomitted onto the cobbles. Another warrior charged him, sword raised. But a few steps away he jerked back, an arrow through his face. He glared back at Tristan, stepping forward, not registering the mortal blow, before he finally died. Tristan twisted his head. Half a dozen riders were charging down the docks, free riders, bows in hand, loosing arrow after arrow against the attackers. The citizens, fleeing deeper into the docks, dove outof their way, one didn't make it and was trampled by the horses. "Push them back!" Tristan ordered, taking up his sword and cutting the head off a warrior who was driving back one of his spearmen. Another for turned to face him, but a guard stabbed him from behind with such force that the warrior's lung was suspended on the end of the spear.
The added strength of his Bracken freeriders was enough to steady his line. They created a thin line of scattered men, from harbour wall to storefront, and kept the enemy at bay. Still there were so many of them. "Keep fighting, we have to protect the people," he ordered, stabbing a marauder through the heart. They were driven back two buildings before they rallied and pushed the marauders back. They broke apart, both sides panting, staring, waiting. The enemy were gathered around the harbour entrance, a little over two dozen perhaps, and he barely had more than that. They had reaped a bloody toll, the enemy dead far outnumbered their own, especially around the palisade, but they couldn't hold forever.
The enemy charged again, bloody weapons raised.
Before the two groups met, a great howl made everyone pause, and then the screams. Three enemy archers had held back, readying their weapons by the palisade and, unprotected, Shield had torn into them, a great mass of bloody fur and fangs. He tore the throat out of one of them from behind. The other two turned, trying to ready their weapons, but Shield was too fast. He leapt through the air, his claw scything down the arm of one archer before his jaws closed around the other's head and snapped together with a wet crunch.
Trapped between Tristan's desperate soldiers and the unbridled ferocity of Shield, the Mountain's marauders were quickly cut down in a welter of blood.
"Prince Tristan!" One of the freeriders turned their horse to Tristan, as he stroked Shield's muzzle.
"What is it?" He asked.
"A message from the castle, my prince," the rider said. "The Mountain is leading the main attack on it, Lord Domeric requests your presence to help defeat him."
Tristan nodded. "I see. Is anyone coming?" He asked the men who had retaken the barricade?"
"Nothing that we can see, my prince," the Maidenpool guard said.
He turned back to the free rider. "Give me your horse, I'll go to the castle. You three remain here, help defend the docks."
"But we-"
"I'm not leaving the people here undefended. Hold the docks, I'll go deal with the Mountain."
Grudgingly, the freerider surrendered his horse and, Shield at his side, Tristan rode into the town.
The streets were clogged with smoke and death, homes were barricaded, the unlucky civilians who had been caught outside lay still on the red cobbles, or staggered around, blank eyed, broken. "Father?" A girl asked him as he rode passed. Gods she had to still be in the single digits, but her smoke was dirty with mud, and blood trickled down the inside of her legs.
He reigned up, Shield glancing around fangs bared, alert. "No child," gods he couldn't leave her here. He held out his hand. "Take it, I'll get you to safety."
She stared at his hand for too long. It took more coaxing, but eventually she slid her thin fingers into his gloved grip and he hoisted her up before him on the saddle. "I'm sorry if this hurts," he said, before spurring his horse into the town. As he approached the castle, he heard sounds of fighting, he drew his sword, working the horse's reins into his claw, using his forearm to keep the girl trapped against his torso. "Cover your ears," he warned her.
He turned quickly onto a wide street, scattered with individual melees, two, three, four fighters apiece. He saw one of the knights he picked up on the way here desperately try to fend off three marauders, putting his body between them and a cowering family. One of the marauders had lost his helm, so Tristan split his skull as he rode past. Shield tore the leg off another leaving the knight free to fight the third, but he couldn't wait, he moved on. Whenever a marauder got too close, he despatched them with quick cuts, never stopping.
He turned onto the main street where the battle was raging more intently, the guards carrying out a steady fighting retreat back to the castle walls as the Mountain's men pushed against them. Some were tossing torches into buildings that the residents had barricaded, laughing at the screams that emerged. He'd have to push through. Spurring his horse, he charged down the street, past the Mountain's men and his own soldiers.
He held the girl tightly as he weaved through the fighters, she winced with every bounce of the horse. "Nearly there," he told her as they cleared the fighting, back behind the safety of his own lines.
Clear of the battle, he dismounted. Wounded soldiers and civilians were fleeing for the castle, where guards, and some of his own men, were hurrying them across. He grabbed one retreating guard, he was clutching his arm to his chest, the hand twisted in all the wrong ways. "Take her and go," he said, pushing the girl into his arms. "Go with him, he'll get you to safety," he said. Before the girl could reply, the soldier had taken her and was pulling her towards the castle.
Tristan clutched his sword tightly and turned. The rider had said he was coming for the castle, so where was-
An almighty roar sounded from the battle line. Soldiers were churned up and scattered as the largest knight in Westeros barreled through them, his great sword bisecting men like a scythe passing through paper. Guts and entrails still hung from the blade as it arced through the air.
The Mountain butchered. Three men tried to charge him. He cut two of them down in one blow. The other tripped and fell, before he could scream or gasp, the Mountain's foot descended and crushed him.
Tristan knelt and closed his eyes.
Shield let out an almighty howl that seemed to shake the houses and cut across the din of battle. As soldiers on both sides broke apart and turned to him, Tristan got back to his feet.
He pointed his sword at the steel clad giant. The yellow tabard on his chest was ripped and torn, but he still saw the faint hint of the three dogs of Clegane. "Mountain, I will end you."
The Mountain glanced between Tristan and Shield, then laughed. "No, little wolf," he laughed behind his great helm. "You came to look for me, or so your scouts said as I ripped their eyes out. I saved you the trouble. Now I will end you. I will turn that," he gestured at Shield, "into my carpet and send the fragments of your skull to your brother."
The marauders laughed and cheered as the Mountain stepped forwards. "Everyone back," Tristan ordered. The defenders of Maidenpool needed no further instruction and hurried back to Tristan's position.
Just before he stepped forward, Shield growled and he turned. A horseman was racing from the castle down the street. Elmar? His squire pulled up and dismounted. "Prince Tristan," he bowed, out of breath.
"What are you doing here Elmar?" He should be in the castle, boys his age shouldn't be on the battlefield.
"Bringing you this, ser," he said, holding up Tristan's helmet.
Tristan glanced at the Mountain's great red sword. He bowed his head and Elmar fastened the helmet on. "Run back to the castle now," he said, patting Elmar's shoulder. "Go on."
Elmar looked like he wanted to object, but he nodded and remounted his horse. Tristan took the reins suddenly. "Is Dom in the castle?"
"Yes, my prince."
Tristan nodded, and spoke quietly. "Tell him to mount everyone they can get. After I kill this one, he's to lower the gate and charge out, it's our best chance of driving off his rabble." Elmar nodded and turned his horse back to Maidenpool's castle.
With Elmar safely away, Tristan turned back to the Mountain. He had taken three great strides forward and now waited for Tristan now. He couldn't see the Mountain's face, but he could picture a wide, ugly grin.
"You're really going to fight him, prince Tristan?" Above carrion birds cawed, already drawn to the bloodshed.
He nodded, smiling at the soldier, a smallwood man. "I am, it's why we came after all. If he's going to offer his head, I'll do him the courtesy of taking it." He turned away from his men and fixed his eyes on the Mountain. He matched the Mountain's advance, three strides. "I'm ready for you."
The words had barely escaped his lips when the Mountain charged. Tristan's eyes widened and he darted to the side. The Mountain's great downward stroke shattered the flagstones where Tristan had been standing. So fast.
Before Tristan could fully ready himself, the Mountain's blade swung in a side stroke. Tristan just got his blade up to protect his midriff, but the blow was so heavy he stumbled and fell to the ground, grunting in pain. Not looking where he was going, he got to his feet and darted to the side, to be still was to die. The Mountain came at him again, duck, dodge, deflect, Tristan couldn't get a single blow in as he was drive around. If he had both his hands. He dived to the side, the Mountain's blow still striking off the top of his helmet with a fear inducing clang. He pulled up just beside a disembodied soldier, so blood stained that he couldn't tell who he had fought for. The Mountain charged at him again, someone so big shouldn't be that fast. He dropped his sword and stuffed his hand into the open corpse.
As the Mountain closed it, Tristan hurled a handful of corpse bile, blood and meat at the Mountain's head, it spattered his helmet, gumming up the air holes and going into the visor. The Mountain staggered, roaring in disgust.
Now! He snatched up his sword and attacked. His first blow rang off the Mountain's sword hand, and then his helmet. Again and again, Tristan rained blows on the Mountain's helmet while he struggled to clear his vision.
Blind, the Mountain struck out with his right fist.
Tristan gasped, even in his armour, the breath was punched from his lungs and he fell to the floor, winded, his sword knocked from his grasp.
He struggled to pull in a breath, crawling towards his blade, casting glances back at the Mountain.
The giant had had enough of trying to clear his vision with armoured fingers, he raised his sword, and in an act of foolish bravado, used the blade to cut the helmet straps, yanking the helmet off and hurling it at Tristan. It struck his own helmet, knocking him onto his side, his eyes filled with white, his ears ringing.
He struggled to move, his arms wouldn't obey him, the Mountain stomped towards him, his footfalls heavy. "You're mine cunt!" He growled. His vision started to clear, he was looking up, blueness, sky, birds. His strength was coming back but the Mountain was too close. Time seemed to slow. His sword was too far away, he'd never make it. He needed…
His eye caught on one of the birds flying overhead. He closed his eyes.
Quickly, he asserted his control over the bird, forcing it's hungry soul down inside it's body as he took over its wings. He tucked them into his chest and dived, hurtling towards the ground, cawing at the top of his voice. There was still time, the Mountain was closing in, he was raising his sword. The bird's soul shrieked in protest but he held it down, spread his wings and extended his talons. They connected with the Mountain's now exposed head and tore bloody lines in his cheek.
He released the bird.
His vision back, Tristan scrambled for his sword snatching it up. The Mountain was batting away the bird, which now fled to the skies, but not in time, the Mountain's blade speared it and it let out an indignant death cry as the metal burst through it's breast.
But Tristan was already charging, his sword coming up in a vicious slash. The Mountain looked back. He tried to back away, he was too slow.
Tristan's sword seared through the Mountain's lower jaw. Bone and teeth scattered to the floor, the Mountain's tongue, with nowhere to rest fell onto his chest, slobbering blood and saliva down his armour. He charged forwards, out of range, turning to face the Mountain again.
As best as he could, the Mountain roared in fury. It was like losing his bottom jaw meant nothing. Tristan twisted his body, stepping to the side to avoid the Mountain's downward stroke meant to cleave him from gorget to groin. He turned his wrist and brought it across in a great cut.
The edge of his sword met the Mountain's nose, parting skin, muscle and bone, sliding through brain matter and splitting the rear of his skull before coming out the other side.
The Mountain staggered a few more steps, dropping his sword before falling forwards, the two halves of his head rolling apart like a split melon. He crashed to the ground and lay still.
Tristan breathed heavily in the silence. He turned his eyes on the Mountain's men, who looked on him in horror and fury. His own stared in wonder and awe.
"You… bastard!" One of the Mountain's men spat at him, stepping forward.
A warhorn sounded.
"Clear the streets!" Tristan ordered, ducking himself into the side of a building, glancing back at the castle.
A wedge of knights and riders, Domeric at their head, pink cloak flying behind him, lance lowering. His men, knowing the plan, ducked to the side, leaving an open path.
"Winterfell!" Domeric roared to the wind as his lance caught the unprepared marauders. He struck with such force that his lance punched through one marauder's head, ripping it from his body with and carrying it onwards. Screaming their rage and pain, the riders of Maidenpool, led by the finest horseman in the North, tore into the men who had attacked their city, carrying them in a great wave that went down the main streets all the way to the gate. There couldn't be more than fifty of them, but the rest of the garrison was charging out on foot. He even saw Lord Mooton in his gleaming armour leading them into the streets. The now leaderless marauders would be driven from the city.
Tristan sat down next to the Mountain's corpse, grey matter spilling from both halves of his split skull and Shield came over to him. He ran his fingers into the wolf's fur and just sat there as the defenders of Maidenpool exacted their vengeance. "We did it Shield," he said softly. "We ended the Mountain's reign of terror."