Boromir

Soon it was, that around Boromir were death steel and broken branches. Nothing moved afore him save the troll-man. The boy on his chest clinging ever tighter, but thankfully now stilled – the little one must have feared the monster greatly and trusted himself behind the nearest shield he could. Boromir was not one to break trust so easily. The Heir to the Stewardship of the Realm of Men did what his house had long ago sworn to, defend the children of Gondor from the Enemy. Arnor was still Gondor, forgotten or no.

And so it began.

It was not a dance, or even a brawl. It was hacking and clubbing, bashing and breaking. Woodsmen felling lumber did so with more grace than the two fighters seeking to end each other. Both were evenly matched, in strength if not in height. Plate and greatsword ere shield and blade. The greatsword of the troll-man could not pass the shield of the scion of the House of Hurin. But likewise the sword arm of the Captain-General could not mar the plate of the troll. Angmar was fell yet strong.

The roars of the beast-man were thunder. Boromir knew of orc-cries. Used to break and cower, made of foulness and fear. They were death and darkness given form. The commands of the Exiled kingdom, in the true tongue of their forefathers sprang from his lips. Like a candle in the darkness it grew, enflaming the hearts of the true and washing away the gloom. Voices added to the song of battle, counter and tenor. And so melody was given to the rhythm of blade and crash of shield. But this was no orcish voice he fought against. Truly it was a man. The voice of the Eldar and the songs of the Fallen held no sway against men not under the Enemy. For Angmar had long been sundered from his grasp. And on they fought. Like a mountain, the great man was immovable and unrelenting. But Boromir was of the people who ever loved the Sea. And the Sea crumbled even the greatest mountain. For was it not Eärendil that cast down Thangorodrim from Vingilótë, ere the roar of strife and blood?

Again the death-blade of the man swung, Again Boromir and his charge were shielded.

But Boromir had run through Ithilien, then killed a dozen orc before being cast to this Arnorian wood. Half a dozen orc-men again fell beneath his blade even as he bore this child-weight. He was wearied, the large man was fresh. The din of steel-on-steel echoed again through the wood, joining the chorus of their voices. The song was lound. But its tune grew shorter. Boromir needed a thanagil to hold this. Even the least men of the remnants of Arnor would be as welcome as a legion of Tower Guard. The true blood of Numenor was strong, but even Isildur was felled by the sword. And this man was stronger than any orc. Boromir wrenched his foot up, and once more, the man was thrust back.

Now the tall man became enraged, and bellowed in a glutaral voice – a tongue of Angmar no doubt – causing the child weight to flinch. He clung tighter to Boromir, his fear of the man ready. In fury, the song began anew. Once more the mountain crashed. Again the sea rose to meet it. The blood of Numenor was strong once. But even strength must falter. And though Minas Tirith armoured her sons, it was no dwarf-steel they bore.

And lo! his shield was cloven. His sword-arm grew weary. The child on his chest grew heavier, yet his blood sung evermore for battle. He cast aside his shield. Secured the child with his free arm. The boy could not see what had happened, but the weight of the blow must have shook him, he flinched once more as it struck.

The Captain of Men prayed to Iluvatar. Each prayer as his sword cast aside the death-blade once more.

For strength.

For a merciful end for the boy.

And lastly, for protection of his people.

His last thought was of a white tree in bloom.

Gendry

Gendry was an armourers apprentice. He wanted very little in his life. Mayhap his own shop in time. But the death of King Robert changed all that. Suddenly Master Mott gave him to a Black Crow, no word or reason, just another task for him to complete.

It wasn't for him to complain of his life. He knew he lived far better than the rags of Flea Bottom. Few could say they travelled North, or had two meals a day so this was still a good life. Though his 'brothers' were less than the slag off a forge. Save little Arry mayhap, though he was small enough to feed a rat, as his master would oft say. Gendry knew that everyone was small at some point, and if Arry were to be his brother, well it wouldn't be the worst. He liked little Arry, fierceness and insults and all.

But now he was wrapped around the not-dead Lord Stark. When he was killing quick as blinking. Which was the queerest thing Gendry had seen. Mayhap the Seven were annoyed at King Joffrey for bloodying Their Sept? And they sent Lord Stark back for payment. Aye that was most like the case.

Now the Lord Stark was between the Mountain and the whore, with little Arry clinging to him like shit to a beggar. He fought like the Warrior. Shouting strange words though. Gendry knew tell of the Mountain, and facing that down was brave and stupid some. But Lord Stark was a Lord, the Mountain was barely a landed knight, so maybe it wasn't stupid. And maybe he was shouting Northern. Everyone knew northerners were a weird lot.

Arry was stupid though, clinging to the Lord Stark like that, everyone knew Lords killed for less than a look. If the Mountain didn't kill him, then the Seven-sent Lord Stark would. Everyone knew you stayed away from Lords. Specially if you were pretty. But that didn't matter, his littlest new Brother was about to be killed, along with Lord Stark (again!). And Gendry knew he was the only brother that he liked anyhow.

Well Master Mott did always call Gendry stupid stubborn. Like a bull.

Arya

Arya knew her father would never truly leave her. She knew stupid Joffrey wouldn't truly cut his head off. The last king died after killing a Stark. But that didn't matter. She was safe with him. She knew she would be. He kept shouting those strange words though. It Didn't Matter. He was alive. And he was fighting for her. That Mattered.

She heard the Mountain. She was scared of his voice almost as much as the Tickler's. He was going to kill father for true he shouted, and more. She couldn't help it, she flinched at that. Distracting father. She was so so stupid. She buried her head further into Father's neck. Like she used to do with nightmares. She felt every strike. Arya never thought she'd pity a sword, but if this is what her training swords felt like, she was sorrier than ever.

No, she was sorrier for shouting at Father before -

She felt tears come again.

No no stupid, don't distract him more. Stupid sheep.

It Didn't Matter.

Then she felt something big. She couldn't help it, she flinched again. Stupid. Then more strange words. Mayhap they were Old Tongue. Then another roar. That was a different person. Did Jory come to help her too? Or Fat Tom? She knew Northerners couldn't be killed by stupid Lannister guards. They were Direwolves, not sheep. Except for her. Suddenly father was moving again, toward the Mountain.

No, no, he's scary Please make him go away.

She felt mayhap father swinging his sword again.

Crash, clunk krkk thuk

And now it was quiet.

"M'lord Stark." that was Gendry "Seven blessings upon you. Arry is only little, please don't hurt him, he didn't know what he were doing m'lord. He didn't mean to get in your way. He were just scared m'lord."

Wait, why would father hurt her?

And why did Gendry sound so scared?