Ser Gregor of the House Clegane was in a very good mood seconds before his death.
Only days ago, his men fell upon the unprepared Northmen who were fording the Trident. The wolves fought stoutly, they at least deserved that, but it made no difference in the end, for no man could ever withstand Ser Gregor. The Mountain's Men took more than a thousand prisoners that day.
And now, it seemed as if more men were hoping for their early demise.
The enemy host was arrayed in a single thin line on top of a nearby hill, a few dozen men holding forth heavy wooden clubs as if they were spears. All of them were on foot, save horsemen so few that Gregor could count with two hands. An unfamiliar banner unfurled over their line, red stripes alternating with white, a blue square in the corner. Gregor had killed his maester before ever learning the laws of heraldry that governed the use of arms throughout the Seven Kingdoms, yet even he knew that this flag broke every single one of them.
A lone horseman emerged from the enemy line. Only a fool, or a lunatic, would dare face the Mountain that Rides in single combat. Or perhaps both.
Ser Gregor would deal with this rider himself. Signaling for his men to hold back, he roared in laughter as his opponent rode closer. The foe was wearing nothing but strange garbs that wouldn't even slow down a glancing sword blow. Instead of lance, or even a sword, the small rider held a tiny… dagger? in his hand. A child. Barely a squire, by the looks of him. Is this a mummer's farce? Gregor spurred his horse forwards, seeking to put a quick end to this dim-witted child.
Faint whiffs of smoke drifted from the metal thing in the rider's hand.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Three little holes, one in each dog embroidered on Gregor's yellow surcoat. Massive mail fists clutched feebly at the reins. Then the giant tumbled off his horse, armour clanging as he crushed the lush, dew-covered grass. He tried to reach for his greatsword, but try as he might, it was nowhere to be found.
"Don't bother," the rider hollored, now close enough that Gregor could see and hear him clearly. The boy, and it was indeed no more than a boy, flicked his wide-brimmed hat upwards and wheeled his horse around.
The Mountain that Rides, they had called him. Brought down by a ten-year-old.
The boy deftly dismounted, the small metal piece still in one hand, as he struggled to lift Gregor's dropped war-lance with the other. "Any last words?" The boy asked, flicking openGregor's visor helm with the tip of the lance. Gregor's eyes widened in shock and torment, round as saucers, before they rolled back into his head.
"Mmmmmph… mmmmph…." Blood gushed out of Gregor's mouth, staining his surcoat before pooling underneath him. Suddenly there was a loud bang by the side of his temple, then another. Then came the piercing pain ripping again and again through his skull, like waves crashing into rocky cliffs, but it was soon fading, fading away… away it went, like the piece of jagged skull-bone flying towards the sky. A thin trickle of whitey-grey seeped into his eyes, blurring his vanquisher's face as the boy loomed over him, pointing the small piece of iron and wood right at his face.
Fuck, Gregor thought.
The boy's finger twitched.
The Mountain's fingers twitched too. Then he was still.
...
"Dammit Carl! Don't you ever listen?" Rick yelled as his son rode down the hill, but cheers erupting from the Alexandrians drowned out his cries. They cheered even louder when Carl brought down the giant knight that led the brigands.
The Mountain's men were less appreciative. Some fled once they saw their leader fall, running as fast as their legs could carry them. More stood where they were, perhaps unsure of what to do next. But the Lannister cavalry was not so intent on giving up just yet. With the sounding of horns, they charged. Even from here, Rick could hear the thundering of hooves, hundreds of horsemen heading straight towards the young rider.
"Mow them down! Mow them down!" an Alexandrian shouted. Then another. Every face now turned towards Rick as his militia awaited his next orders.
Not yet. Carl was still too close to the enemy. Every now and then, one of the Mountain's men tumbled from his horse, but another horse and rider simply took his place in the formation, and Rick knew that the Mountain had far more cavalrymen than Carl had bullets. The boy was getting further away now…
The cavalry charge slowed down. Maybe they were getting tired, Rick thought, or maybe Carl had a trick up his sleeve. Rick didn't know what it was, but he had a good guess, judging from the clumps of fallen horses and men where there would have been individual cavalrymen littering the ground.
With a curt nod from Rick, all hell broke loose.
The mounted knights fell first. The standard bearers in the infantry followed them not long after. Then the captains, undoubtedly wearing Lannister's gold-embroidered helms and lion-crested cuirasses Vargo described on the way to the battle, bright crimson of their blood melding into the crimson of their banners. Row upon row of soldiers were scythed down, as if they were wheat stalks during a harvest. Some simply flopped onto the ground with mangled flesh and bone. Others were impaled onto their comrades' spears as men fell left and right. Still others were frozen in fear, or turned to flee, only to crash into their neighbors in this battlefield-turned-hell.
Rick swore he could hear the shrieks of the dying, even over the sound of a dozen rifles going off right next to him.
Seeing Rick's raised fist, the Alexandrian riflemen slowly ceased fire. "What are you waiting for?" he asked Urswyck, whose face had turned sheet white. "Remember I want them alive! Go! Go!"
Mounted on their zorses, the Brave Companions sprang forth from their concealment behind the hill. Yet another cheer went up as the mercenaries drew swords and pursued their now routing foe.
"Gimme that," Rick snatched a megaphone from Dwight's hand. "Go after Urswyck and his guys. Make sure they take prisoners." Dwight leapt onto his horse and rode down the hill after Vargo's men, the Alexandrian cavalry right on his heels.
"Drop your weapons! Your lives will be spared!" Rick bellowed into the megaphone. The mounted Alexandrians took up his cry, shouting themselves hoarse as they rounded up the fleeing Mountain's Men. Many of them had begun already running back up the road once the Mountain fell, but now the whole host was put to rout, and the Brave Companions were relentless in their pursuit.
Rick looked at his watch. The battle had barely lasted five minutes, and the mopup five more.
"Rick Grimes! Rick Grimes!" The Alexandrians cheered, gathering around Rick as their cavalry returned.
Carl rode ahead of the horsemen. The boy hefted a spear with a tattered yellow piece of cloth draped over it, bearing the same three black dogs that were painted on the huge oaken shield strapped to the side of his horse. Blood dripped off the shield's rim, as red as many of the Alexandrians' swords.
"Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down," Carl hummed as he swang his leg around the horse's back.
"What?" Rick asked.
"Oh," Carl replied. "Nothing." He lowered himself to the ground, planted the spear into the ground, and ran towards Rick. "Just that they got Rick rolled." The boy gestured towards the many small figures dotted on the sprawling fields below. Some were moving. More were not.
Rick threw his arms around his son. "I told you not to ride off before the battle began -"
"Excuse me, Rick, but can I go down there and try help the wounded?" Harlan Carson asked. The doctor reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a few strips of white cloth. "I'll do my best, but it's far easier to take a life than to save one."
"Sure. Keep an eye on the dead, make sure they aren't turning. And if they do, send a messenger to me after dealing with them as usual," Rick replied, noticing the small party of horsemen riding up the hill. Rick recognised Urswyck, but not the rotund horseman next to him who wore a mermaid-embroidered surcoat.
"Lord Rickard, this is Ser Wylis Manderly, heir to White Harbor and commander of the Northmen." Urswyck announced when the party finally reached the hilltop. "Ser Wylis, you are speaking to Lord Rickard Grimes of Alexandria."
"Call me Rick." The sheriff extended his hand. "I hope my men and our Brave Companion allies have been treating yours well."
Wylis firmly gripped Rick's hand. "Very well, my lord, and all thanks to you. My men were barely able to conceal their glee at their captors suddenly becoming their captives. The Mountain's death also brought about much relief… all thanks to your squire. Or is he your page?"
"Wylis, this is my son Coral," the sheriff drawled.
"A brave warrior, and one of your own blood too. Mayhaps the Mountain never thought of meeting the Stranger at the hands of a boy half his size. Carl, this wasn't your first kill, was it?"
"No, it wasn't," Rick answered for his son. "Carl had to grow up far too quickly when things fell apart. But I thought those days were behind us, and he hasn't had to kill for years now. Until today."
Wylis looked at father and son quizzically. "Pardon me, my lords, but where are you from? Your complexion is the same as ours, as are your names, and you use the Common Tongue. Yet you wear strange garments and bear strange arms, and your speech is one that I've never heard before. I've never heard of an Alexandria either... " Suddenly the man's eyes lit up. "Brandon the Shipwright! Did you and your people return from over the Sunset Sea?"
This is gonna be hard to answer, Rick thought. How could he even begin to explain, when the Alexandrians themselves were still struggling to figure out what happened? "Alexandria is in the middle of the God's Eye, where the Isle of Faces once stood." Wylis's eyes widened. Rick took a deep breath. "But we are not of it. We come from another world far, far away, one that was ruined when the dead rose to devour the living. Our communities just… appeared in your world one day, and here we are. We hope to one day rebuild what little remains of our civilization."
"I have no cause to distrust your story yet, not when you bear arms the dragonlords would have paid their weight in Valyrian Steel for. But the Seven's ways must have been very strange indeed… one day I'll need to see this Alexandria for myself." Ser Wylis muttered. "Your son is very brave, and you must be pleased to have more than a worthy heir -"
"Carl will need to make his own way in this world," Rick interrupted the knight.
"Apologies, my lord. I shouldn't have assumed he was your firstborn," Wylis replied smoothly.
"He is, but he won't be Alexandria's next leader just because I am. I'm sure you do things your own way, but our children don't just inherit their parents' ranks. We're better than that," Rick said. "Vargo Hoat and his men may call me a 'lord', and you northmen may do so too, but everyone is equal in our community. I'm not a lord in the same way you claim to be."
"Ah, so you select your lords like the Braavosi then? Or even like the Wildlings?" Wylis observed. "Nevertheless you will be made a proper Lord when King Robb hears about this. Harrenhal, perhaps, unless Vargo wishes to contest it? Or even King's Landing, when the King finally deals with those who so cruelly slew his father? King Robb surely has a great need for more swords."
"I have no interest in lordship, and we will consider fighting alongside your King Robb as his ally, not his vassal -"
"Oh, you must be quite hungry by now. Ser Wylis, do you want some of our bread? It isn't exactly fresh, but not too stale either." Carl fished out a paper-wrapped baguette from his satchel. Even before the baguette completely emerged from the bag, the rotund mansnatched it from Carl's hand and crammed it down his gullet. "Pardon my manners… mumph.. my lords. The Mountain has been starving us."
"Sure doesn't look like it. You're still as round as a ball!" Carl jested, averting from Rick's dagger-like gaze, but Ser Wylis himself was far from perturbed. "Right you are," he chuckled, "Round as a ball and, thanks to you, not missing any vital bits."
Carl did not laugh, his one eye suddenly looking down at the ground.
"Are you going to joke about my hand too?" Rick slowly raised his right stump. Just like Carl's eye socket, it was a testament of the savage past when civilisation gave way to barbarism, when the strong preyed on the weak. Rick laughed lightheartedly, following Carl and Wylis' lead. But civilization will never fall again. Never, ever again.
"Wait, hold on a second," Carl suddenly produced a small shaker from his satchel. The boy shook the shaker once. Several small crystals of salt tumbled onto the small piece of bread still in Wylis' hand. "I offer guest rights, On behalf of us Alexandrians to all the Northmen you command, unless dad wishes it be otherwise."
Rick stood there, confused.
"Guest rights," Carl whispered. "We need to offer them hospitality."
"Oh, sure," Rick muttered. "As my son says."
"This we shall accept, Carl." With one large gulp, the noble knight finally vanquished what remained of the mighty bread loaf. "So where are you going now, Lord Grimes? If your castle is well-defended, King Robb has need of as many men as he can get, to help retake the North…"
"I don't know," Rick replied. "Right now, I need to make sure all the dead are properly disposed of. I'll see you at dinner when they're done setting up the tents."
"My men will also want to know what's going on. If you would excuse me, my lord, I'll meet you at tonight's feast." After a curt bow, Wylis and his guards left for the Northmen's encampment.
"We'll head downhill as well," Rick ordered. The Alexandrian leader climbed onto his horse and rode towards the battlefield.
As Rick's company drew closer, the first thing he noticed was the incredible stench. Though no Alexandrian fell today, or Brave Companions for that matter, the grasslands were strewn with the corpses of Westermen. Men sifted through the battlefield, picking up swords, armour, and other assorted war loot. Some had gone further afield to collect firewood for the night.
"Were there any walkers, doctor?" Rick asked when he finally found Harlan. The doctor was busy directing a group of Westermen prisoners in pit digging. Several Alexandrians stood nearby, patiently stabbing each corpse through the eye socket, before rolling them into the newly dug mass graves.
"No, and I'm sure that at least most of them wouldn't turn walker even if we left them alone." Harlan Carson kicked over one of the corpses. The skull was still intact, and putrid smells were already beginning to emanate, but there were absolutely no signs of re-animation. "There were hundreds of bodies just lying about. Given how long they've been out here for, some of the ones we still haven't stabbed in the head yet should have turned already. So the walker virus probably doesn't work in this world in the same way it did in ours."
"We'll get Eugene to look into this, but It's certainly gonna be convenient not having to deal with walker hordes in the future." Rick looked at his surroundings. "Have you seen Carl?"
The sun was fast setting when Rick finally found Carl among a group of injured Westerlanders, bandage in hand as he neatly dressed yet another wound. "Let Doctor Carson and the healers do the rest, son. Time to attend the feast." Carl obediently dropped the bandage and picked up a heavy wooden box. "What do you have there?" Rick asked.
"Oh, nothing. Just a little gift for Ser Wylis and his Northmen," Carl replied nonchalantly.
...
Rick still didn't know what was in the box when Ser Wylis started the toast before the feast. "To Lord Rickard Grimes, our host!"
"Rick Grimes!" The Alexandrians cheered. So did the Brave Companions, and the Northmen. Cup clanked against cup, followed by rough slurping. Rick waved at his allies and followers with one hand, even as he downed the cup's contents with the other. The red wine they took from Lannister shimmered with a light froth, and tasted richer than anything they brewed back in Alexandria.
"And to his brave son Carl!" Someone suddenly shouted. "Who brought down the Mountain that Rides!"
Laughter rose towards the skies. "Carl the Mountainslayer!" Wylis announced, and the cry rippled through the crowd. The warriors drank again, save one - more laughter erupted as a spark from the campfire leapt upwards, revealing Carl's face flushed as red as a ripe tomato. From the wine, or perhaps from sheer embarrassment.
"Mountainslayer? Seriously?" The boy whined.
"You earned it." Ser Wylis brusquely clapped Carl on the shoulder. "And now to our good King Robb!"
"To the Young Wolf!" The Northmen stood in their cratered armour and tattered coats, raising their cups high. The Alexandrians joined in, glasses in hand.
Carl lifted his glass of small beer and gulped half of it down in one go. "To our Northmen friends and the King in the North! But deeds matter more than words." He lifted a not-so-small wooden box and brought it next to the campfire. "Ser Wylis, a gift for your peoples, for the wrongs they had suffered."
Carl lifted the box's lid. The four sides fell away.
The Northmen cheered. The Alexandrians did not.
Inside the box lay a severed head with an ornate dagger embedded deep into the caved-in skull. Rick's jaw dropped. "Why?" He asked, "Why did you do that?"
Carl shrugged. "I cut the Mountain's head off to show his men that their leader was dead and they needed to surrender. Or should I have let more of them fight back so we had to shoot them too? Besides, the Northmen ought to have their prize."
"We're supposed to be civilized." Rick's face darkened, his tone icey. "We're supposed to show them the way, to be better than them."
"Civilized?" Urswyck spat. "What does the Mountain know of civility?"
"Dad, I don't like killing people or chopping heads off any more than you do." Carl's glass rattled in his hands. "I still have nightmares of the people I killed after all these years. But it was the fastest way to help end this battle, and more deserving people are now alive. Many of the Mountain's men gave up once I lifted up his head in front of them. Our cavalry or the Brave Companions would have killed more of them if they kept fighting. Some of ours might have died too."
"Breaking rank was one thing, but parading that head around?" Rick sighed. "Carl, what you did earlier today was really out of line. I thought I taught you better than that -"
"Don't be too harsh on your own son, my lord." Wylis lifted himself from his chair, swaddled over to the caved in skull, and slowly dumped his cup of wine all over it. "The Mountain's death was long overdue. He raped and murdered his way through the Riverlands, the Young Wolf's Riverlands, and his victims number beyond count. He would not have been merciful to Carl had the fight gone otherwise. You raised your son well."
A bald man in grey robes stood up. "Ser Wylis speaks truly, my lord. Everywhere in the Riverlands, the smallfolk pray to the Warrior for a brave man to stand against the Mountain, the Smith for a blade or bolt to strike down Tywin Lannister's mad dog, the Stranger for leading the vile… creature to the Seven Hells one day. The boy would make all the Seven proud."
Rick clutched at the police badge he once wore so many years ago. It was from a more civilized time, one when talking about beheading would certainly not be regarded as a virtue. Stabbing a walker through an eye was one thing, but Carl had desecrated a corpse to take a trophy! Evil as this man might be, Carl had gone too far. And there will be more wars to come, many Westerosi who would oppose the Alexandrians and their leader. What next? Civilized as the Alexandrians were, Rick now knew his very own son wouldn't shudder at the thought of openly displaying decapitated heads, nor would the Brave Companions, and the Northmen may even outright relish it. And there was much bad blood between the Starks and the Lannisters.
No, this would not do.
"You'll go to bed now," Rick dictated. "Without supper, I'm afraid. And don't even think of sneaking out and wandering around the camp."
"Even if the boy did wrong, any other man would have done the same with the Mountain, Lord Rickard," the bald man argued. "If the boy is to be sent to bed-"
"Ser...?" asked Rick. "You're often by Vargo's side, but your name escapes me."
"Septon, my lord. Septon Utt. But if you insist on sending the boy to bed without supper, may he have a few lemoncakes to fill his empty belly? The poor boy must be tired and starving after all the fighting today. Then mayhaps he would be in a better mood when I explain what he should have done," Utt suggested. "He might enjoy some teachings from the Seven-Pointed Star."
Rick rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "Thank you, Septon. Take him to his tent and make sure he stays there. I don't want any more mischief from him tonight."
Carl angrily grabbed one of the lemoncakes Utt offered and stuffed it into his mouth. "This is bullshit," he announced before stomping off into the night, followed by Utt with the remaining lemoncakes. Several of the Brave Companions broke into laughter.
"Don't do anything stupid, lad," Urswyck shouted after the two.
After the two departed, Rick reverently reassembled the box and placed its lid back on. "Wylis, I can't take it back after Carl had already gifted it to you Northmen," he grimaced. "But we Alexandrians - are you alright?"
"Had too much to eat," Wylis said, not looking too comfortable. "Excuse me, Lord Rickard." Flanked by four Manderly guards, wide Wylis disappeared into the darkness.