Chapter XV
The Riverlands
Hundreds of horses' hooves trotted down the roads of the Riverlands. The breeze swept through the boughs of the trees above them. The sun had just sunk beneath a distant line of hills which rolled to the west. Day was failing quickly, and the grey half-light of dusk was darkening amongst the woods on either side of the road. Still Isildur pressed the pace, leading his men onwards, pushing the pace as fast as he could without wearing out the horses. Fleetfoot was streaked with sweat, but held his head proudly and pressed on as if tireless.
Isildur's helmet hung from its chinstrap on the saddle. It clattered against the saddle and Isildur's thigh as he rode. His head was bare, and the cool air of the evening felt refreshing upon his sweat-damp brow. It felt good to be out of the city. Riding at the head of soldiers on a just errand, with a swift horse beneath him and the wind on his face, that was what Isildur had missed. This was the way he had been meant to live.
They were a day out of King's Landing. They had ridden hard, covering as many miles in that first day as their horses could handle. Smallfolk watched the company with wide eyes as they cantered or trotted down the road. Ever Isildur was in the lead, and the banners flew behind him, and Beric Dondarrion and the red priest Thoros riding hard on his flanks. They rode late into the night that first day, and then stole a few hours of sleep and rest beneath trees at the side of the road. Isildur had woken them before dawn on the second day and he pressed the pace relentlessly.
They rode along the Gold Road, which marched away from King's Landing towards the west, keeping the Blackwater at its left. The land rose and fell in gentle, sweeping hills and broad sunlit valleys. Hedges partitioned the meadows into a patchwork of farmers' fields. Here and there were small woods and stands of trees, with oak and elm, birch and yew. Small streams and creeks filled the land with the music of water tumbling over rocks. Away to the south, the Blackwater glinted like a silver ribbon.
Isildur held up a hand. He drew back on the reins, slowing Fleetfoot to a trot and then a walk. The horse knickered softly. Behind him, the company came to a halt.
"Master Willem!" Isildur called out.
A leather-skinned, sparse-haired man with a rocky brow and a squint in his eyes rode forward from the column. He wore the gambeson of the King's Host and carried a heavy crossbow on his back.
"Yes milord?" Master Willem said. He was a riverman by birth, and had traveled widely in the south.
Isildur glanced at the rest of the company. Heads were nodding. They looked ready for a rest.
"We shall make camp soon, know you any suitable place?" Isildur asked. Willem scratched behind his ear, almost like a dog beset by fleas.
"There ought to be a brook running through a hollow just a little ways ahead of us, if you follow me, milord. Good water and down and out of the wind," the soldier said.
"Very well then, lead on," Isildur commanded.
Willem led them through the gathering gloom. Their banners were furled now and a veil of clouds lay over moon and stars. There was not a sound, and the company passed like shadows in the half-light.
The road here was a dirt track, with twin ruts worn down by the passage of carts. It ran through the woods and over a small lip of land, and then cut back and forth down into the hollow. The slope on either side of them were covered in tall beeches and rowans, and the floor beneath them was full of leafy ferns. The overhanging branches of the trees formed a bower above Isildur's head.
At the bottom, a small stream ran across a rocky riverbed next to a broad lawn of wild grasses and flowers. A study wooden bridge spanned the brook.
Isildur looked over it all and nodded approvingly. The good riverman had not lied, it was a good place to make camp.
Gratefully, the men dismounted and set about their tasks. They spread out across the lawn, and the meadow on the opposite side of the bridge as well. Some men set off into the trees to find wood for fires and shelters, but Isildur ordered them to take only fallen lumber and touch no living trees. Some men had even brought modest tents along, and retrieved them from the packhorses to make camp. Isildur himself needed no such tent, he was content to sleep in the open air, though he wished the clouds would clear away and show the beauty of the stars. It was too long since he had slept beneath the stars.
They still had ample provisions from King's Landing. Soon bright fires blazed in the hollow, and the succulent smell of roasting meats arose and filled the air. They had smoked fish and salted pork, dried fruits, hardtack, and enough vegetables and flour and fresh water from the river to make a hearty stew.
The warmth of the fire hit Isildur's face. The heat of wine burned in his belly. Skewers of meat above the flames sizzled enticingly, dripping with grease. The smoke of his pipe was a wreath around his head. Sitting upon a log next to the fire, he stretched out his long legs and let the heat warm them. Beside him sat Cirion, and Belegorn and Brandir and Magor sat on the other side of the captain, and they passed around the wineskin between them. The air was full of the sounds of laughter and song, and the men sang in many voices:
Merry it is while summer does last!
With birds in song!
Now threatens winter blasts!
And tempests strong!
Merry it is while summer does last!
Winter be not long!
All around them, man-shapes moved in the dark, silhouetted in the firelight. Somewhere, somebody was playing a flute to the tune of the song. Around Isildur's fire though, the laughter was the loudest, for there stood of Thoros of Myr.
"Yes, it was in Lys that it happened, oh to be in the pleasure-houses of Lys," he said over-dramatically, casting a hand upon his head in an actor's gesture of grief.
"Get to it you damn priest!" shouted the big sellsword whom some called Little Thom. He was a large, boisterous man with iron-grey hair and beard shot through with black.
"Ah yes, the tale, my tale begs to be told, but first I must ask all of ye a question? What is that which vexes all men?"
"Money?" said Anguy the Bowman, to appreciative laughter.
Isildur recalled the red-haired boy from the Hand's tournament, for he had come second only to Huor the housecarl and the Numenorean steelbow. Isildur frowned. He wished he had brought Huor with him, the ranger was a good man, a deft hand upon the bow and crafty in the wilds. Huor and his brother Tuor were riding north with Mablung in search of Tyrion Lannister.
"Nay, though this thing often vexes men with how much of his money it spends! No my friends, I speak of the fairer breed, women!" proclaimed Thoros. There were chuckles and groans and rolled eyes around the fire.
"You know Thoros, you're an awful priest," said Beric Dondarrion with a humoured smile.
"Never said I was anything else," grinned Thoros of Myr.
"You red priests ain't s'posed to drink and sing and fuck like the rest of us, s'posed to be all proper-like, like the septons," said a squire of Beric's retinue, standing somewhere in the dark.
"And how many red priests do you know?" laughed Thoros. "We all worship the Lord of Light in our own ways. He is a god of life and warmth, and I live life to praise him," he winked.
Thoros was a merry companion, but something about him made Isildur uneasy. There were tales that red priests like him worshipped fire and shadow, and that reminded Isildur of things he would prefer to leave forgotten. Too well did he recall the black column of smoke ever rising above Armenelos in the days of Ar-Pharazon.
"Well go on then Thoros, what was this woman that got you banished from Lys?" said Little Thom.
"Ah her name, like music on my ears, her name was Livia," said Thoros. "She was the eldest daughter of one of the magisters of Lys, a very powerful and rich man, but of all his treasures she was the most precious. I was much younger then, new-made Priest of the Lord of Light, and the High Priest of Myr had sent me to Lys for my first ministry. I was young and full of fire,"
"Fire in his loins no doubt," said Beric Dondarrion.
"I was filled with the fire of the Lord, so eager to do His work, but alas the pleasures of the flesh did tempt me greatly, and Lys is so full of pleasures," Thoros stopped and grinned. "She often came to the temple, such a pious girl, a sweet young thing near my own age. Soft skin like fresh cream, hair the colour of honey, eyes that Lysene blue, a pleasantly plump, slender girl. Idolatrous it might be, but oh did I learn why the Lysenes worship a love goddess,"
"So what did you do? A swift fuck on the altar?" asked Anguy.
"Of course not! What sort of blasphemer do you take me for?" said Thoros.
"A blasphemer in priest's clothes," said Anguy.
"Well, it did not take long for the lovely Livia to get her eyes on the fine young new priest, and one day she asks me if I might assist her with some private education in the ways of the Lord of Light. Of course my concern was wholly for the well-being of her soul so I graciously accepted," Thoros explained.
There were chuckles around the campfire.
"Yes, 'the well-being of her soul', them's lovely words for wanting to get your cock wet," laughed Little Thom, taking a swig of wine.
"On my honour as a priest, I tell you that when I went to her manse, I had no intentions of laying a hand upon her," said Thoros solemnly. "But, however, she was rather intent on getting her hands on me,"
"And you didn't help her along at all?" said Beric, eyebrow raised skeptically.
"Why of course not! I may have… Dropped a few suggestions, maybe, perhaps, but nothing more!" said Thoros with mock-innocence.
"So I take it you deflowered the poor girl?" Beric asked.
"Well, no. It turned out dear sweet Livia was rather less pious than I thought," Thoros grinned again. "She was quite eager. But oh now I must come to it, my great shame,"
"You mean other than the drinking and the fighting and the whoring?" said Little Thom.
"Well I'm not ashamed of those things," laughed Thoros, and he took a long drink. "My great shame now, that is something that haunts a man,"
He paused and cast a long look around the faces of the men. The firelight gleamed in his eyes.
"We were in her chambers, I was on my back and she was doing things to me that only the pleasure-houses of Lys could have taught. Her kisses were sweet as summerwine, her fingers were quick and skilled and soon I lay as naked as the day I was born. Then she stood before me and began to undress. Remember I was just a young man then, youngest of my father's sons, and I had never been with a woman before. She had this great big bosoms, sweet and ripe, and that soft, creamy skin, that sweetness between her legs. She was standing there, the light of candles playing upon her skin. She was eager and ready for me, and I for her. I looked at her, she looked at me with lusty Lysene eyes, I looked down to my cock, hard as castle-forged steel it was, and then I looked back at her… And it was too late,"
There was a moment of quiet, and then comprehension dawned upon them. The men howled with laughter, wiping away tears of mirth, laughing till their sides hurt. Even Isildur managed a smile.
"You know I hear the maesters have a salve for that now!" guffawed Little Thom, slapping his knee merrily.
"And the girl had you exiled for that?" laughed Anguy.
"No young bowman, that was not why I cannot return," said Thoros "For that was when her father walked in. She thought he would be away at the city council all night, but he had made the time to go home to see his daughter, and found her… Indisposed. Luckily for me, he did not dare to harm a servant of the Lord, and so I escaped my manhood intact, back to the High Priest of Myr,"
"And he sent you to us?" asked Isildur finally. Thoros looked up at Isildur, who had sat silent, half in the light of the fire and half in the shadows of the night.
"Yes my lord, they had hoped that Westeros' winters might cool my appetites, but I still burn with the fire of the Lord of Light," he said, winking to the other men. There were snickers.
"Isildur is my name, you may call me that," said Isildur.
"Very well, Isildur," said Thoros, raising his wine skin as if in toast and then taking a deep drink.
"I was surprised when you asked Lord Beric to accompany us," Isildur said.
"You're a dangerous sort, Isildur, and I like dangerous sorts," replied Thoros. The red priest sat down on a stump near to the Lord of Minas Ithil and his black-clad housecarls. The others around the fire fell into conversations of their own.
"Is that why you are a priest of your red god?" Isildur's voice was that of a question asked carelessly, easily, but he watched Thoros keenly. The portly priest only smiled and answered in good humour.
"I'm a priest of the Lord of Light 'cause I was my father's eighth child and he had no use for me," He paused to raise his wine skin again. "So now I give my life to piety and to prayer," and he drank deeply.
"Is that what your god commands?" Isildur replied.
"No one really knows what the gods command, now do they?" said Thoros.
"There is only one God," said Isildur, sterner and sooner than he intended. Internally he cursed his hasty words. Thoros stopped and looked at him strangely, and then leaned in and sat a little closer to Isildur.
"There is indeed not gods, but God, and do you know His name?" Thoros said in a low voice.
"Perhaps, but unlearned am I in the lore of the East. What can you tell me of your red god?" said the son of Elendil. A small smile lit Thoros' face.
"He is R'hllor, the Lord of Light, God of Flame and Shadow, the Heart of Fire," he said in a solemn chant. Isildur grimaced. He narrowed his eyes and they gleamed, dark and hard, with a twinkle of the fire in their grey depths.
"Of course that's just what the high priests tell us, translating from some old musty holy books from Asshai I've never even seen. What do they say of your god in Gondor?" Thoros said with sudden levity.
"He is," was all Isildur told him.
"Well that's not much to go on, now is it?"
"It is enough," Isildur said. "Tell me, Thoros, how can your Lord of Light be a god of light and of shadow also?"
"Some priests of my order revere the Flames, others worship the Shadows," replied Thoros.
"Which do you?" asked the Lord of Minas Ithil, more sharply than he intended.
"The shadow-priests, they say that darkness came before the light, that when there is no light there is still darkness, that before a child is born it is formed in darkness and when men die they go back to darkness, and so darkness is sacred. Yet I say unto them: Piss on that. The night is dark and full of terrors. Our god is the Lord of Light, darkness can't exist without light, and it is light we worship, light and warmth and life," said Thoros, with a seriousness Isildur had not expected from him.
"Flames may bring life, but death also," replied Isildur darkly. Thoros laughed at that, a cry and jolly laugh. For that Isildur did not blame him, for Thoros did not, could not, know of what Isildur had seen.
"Aye, and man can create life but kill also, can he not?" said Thoros. "I am curious what they teach you of your god in Gondor. We have heard that you have one God, much as we do, but little of your lore comes out of your country,"
"He is not just our god, he is your God also, God of us all," said Isildur.
"Does He have a name, your one god?" Thoros asked.
"Eru, Iluvatar, the One, the All-Father," Isildur answered.
"Lovely titles, is he a god of fire also?" said the red priest of R'hllor. Isildur shook his head sternly.
"He is the God of all things, nature is His creation and we are His children,"
"I suppose we would be if He is the All-Father. Who can really say whose "One God" is the right one? The northmen worship the trees and the rocks, the southrons worship rainbows, I worship the fires. The only way we'll know is after we are dead, and I've never heard a tale from a dead man," replied Thoros.
Isildur stopped and memory took him. The great, dark wave that towered above Holy Meneltarma. The lands breaking and tumbling into the abyss. Lightning smote down the Black Temple of the Enemy. All the proud towers and halls of the Kings of Numenor laid to waste. Fire and stone fell from the sky. The screaming, the screaming of all the folk of Elros, fleeing men and women and children in arms. The seas, dark as the night sky. The great dark wave crashing down and drowning it all. He had seen the wrath of the One, and when he closed his eyes he could see it still, as if it were burned in his memory itself.
"No Thoros, there is one God, one God of all. Trust not in creatures of fire and shadow that call themselves gods, they will deceive you to ruin and despair,"
The leaves and the grasses were silvered with dew that gleamed in the dawn the next day. A grey mist lay over the land and the forests all around, pierced through with beams of pale sunlight. Birds were singing and the brook still babbled over its rocky bed.
Isildur was the first to arise. He stood, wrapped in his grey cloak, his pipe smoking. He strode about camp and roused the men, shaking them from sleep. There were grumbles and groans as the soldiers stretched and donned their clothes and armour. Their horses stood, swishing their tales in the morning light.
A quick breakfast they ate at the lawn beside the brook. The men fried up some of the smoked fish they had brought along, and ate it with biscuits of hardtack. They refilled their water skins and bottles from the river, and then mounted for another day's ride.
At a trot, Isildur led them across the bridge, and then up the opposite slope and out of the hollow. The sun was climbing and the clear blue sky promised another day of hot, muggy weather.
Coming out of the hollow, they found themselves riding through a broad land of low rising ridges and wide valleys, covered in hedgerows as old as the Iron Throne itself. As far as they could see there were fields of barley and grain, and the land was covered in small homesteads. Isildur commanded the banners unfurled, and they streamed above his head, black and white, purple and gold, catching the wind as their pace increased.
They held their westward course on the Goldroad for another four days of hard riding beneath a baking sun, until the road turned southwest to cross the Blackwater.
Isildur reined Fleetfoot up at the crossroads. The Blackwater here flowed deep and swift, and an arched stone bridge sprung across it, spanning the rocky bank. Behind him, the company rumbled to a halt. The road forked ahead, one path leading to the southwest, another to the northwest.
Beric Dondarrion and Cirion trotted up beside Isildur.
"The south road would take us to Clegane's keep," said Beric.
"Aye, and close to Casterly Rock too," added Cirion darkly.
"If Clegane is even there, which I doubt. He is somewhere along the marches of the Westerlands I would guess. Where is the town of Sherrer?" asked Isildur. The captain of his housecarls called out for Willem. Dutifully, the old riverman rode up on his swaybacked hackney. Cirion repeated the question.
"Up 'round Pinkmaiden milord, a good few days ride up that way. Some of my lads are from that stretch, they'd know it better than I," said Willem.
"Good, send your men forward then, we will head for Sherrer and from there see what signs there may be," replied Isildur.
With the rivermen guiding them, the company rode on, now pushing to great speed on their northward ride. Every day they rose early, and they rode and rode until night gathered around them. In the open air, beneath the stars and the moon he loved so well, Isildur would throw himself into sleep and then rise again at first light to carry on the journey. The weather remained fair, with only brief rains and long hours of clear sun.
His mind was troubled, even though their fared well upon the road. Long into every night he pondered the tidings of war that Yoren had brought. He bore the standards of King Robert and of Gondor with him for more than just vanity. An attack upon the King's banner would be like unto an attack on the king himself, and it would declare Tywin and the Lannisters to be traitors and enemies of the Crown. Yet looking around in the gloom of the evening's camp, looking at the hundred and fifty men that had followed Isildur on this task, he could not help but feel that knowing the King would crush Tywin would be cold comfort if they were set upon and overwhelmed.
He blew out a stream of smoke, his breast stewing with dark thoughts and fears. His housecarls, Cirion and Belegorn, Brandir and Magor, Hador and Damrod, Anborn and Borondir and all the rest, they had sworn fealty and service to Isildur, even in their deaths. Beric Dondarrion was a good man, a brave man, had he followed Isildur to his death? And Thoros? Little Thom and Anguy and Willem? What would become of them if Tywin was a traitor truly?
Much must be risked in war, Isildur thought sadly, remembering Ned's words in the hall.
He arose from the fallen tree upon which he had sat. Fires flickered and the men drank and laughed and sang as if they rode towards nothing more than a summer tourney. Isildur alone, it seemed, was in a grimmer state of mind.
Wrapping himself in his grey cloak, he passed amongst the men silently. Some eyes glanced up to see him, and he smiled and nodded towards the soldiers.
Tied to the picket lines, Fleetfoot pricked his ears as his master approached. The horse whickered softly. Like a Dunadan amongst Andals, Isildur's horse stood taller and prouder than the others around it. Thick and dark was his mane and bay was his coat.
"Hail friend," Isildur said in the Elven tongue. He reached out and rubbed Fleetfoot's nose, scratching along his jaw, patting him on his strong neck. The horse looked back at him with knowing eyes.
"Long has it been since we have ridden in the fair fields and streams of Ithilien, but we cannot return yet," he said. Isildur reached into a nearby feedbag and grabbed a handful of oats. His horse ate them out of his hand.
"We must go to war again, my friend," Isildur spoke, softly, sadly, stroking Fleetfoot's neck. The noble animal stared at him, and then tossed its head and swished its mane, as if to say "Let our enemies come, gladly shall I meet them."
Isildur smiled and turned away. He started back towards the light of the campfires. In the dark, suddenly a shape loomed. The shape tripped and knocked into Isildur. The Lord of Minas Ithil stumbled back. A familiar voice swore lowly. The shape looked up at Isildur and for a moment the light of the moon fell upon a face. Dark blue eyes and short black hair, a strong jaw. The eyes widened in recognition. Isildur's arm flew out and he grabbed the boy by the arm in a hard grip.
"Let go of me!" Gendry protested.
Isildur dragged him away from the camp, into the shadows of the trees, and he threw the boy against a tree trunk. Gendry grunted as he hit the tree, then he stood and squared his shoulders, facing off with Isildur.
"What are you doing here?" Isildur said, voice low and hard.
"I think I ought to be asking the questions, milord," said Gendry defiantly.
"Do you now? You presume to question me?" replied Isildur. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles went white.
Fool! Stupid, young fool! He thought.
"I'm owed some answers, ain't I?" said Gendry.
"You would have gotten them if you had waited like I told you, you daft boy!" said Isildur angrily.
"Don't call me a boy," Gendry snapped.
"A boy you are, and a foolish one at that," Isildur replied. "Do you know who I am hunting?"
"Gregor Clegane?"
"Aye, the Troll that Walks in the Day. He's more beast than man, he and all of his men are orcs in the shapes of men, and orc-work is what they do. I ordered you to stay behind to keep you out of danger and you come seeking it!" said Isildur, voice stern and urgent.
"What danger? All you did was take me away from all the home and all the family and I've known and for what? You ain't told me nothing!" the armourer's apprentice shot back at him. "I'd like to know what all this is for! What am I in danger from? Seven Hells, what do you want?"
In that moment, with his eyes of blue eye blazing with anger like fires, his jaw set stubbornly, that grim look on his face, Gendry looked like Robert Baratheon come again. Isildur thought back on a spring years ago, a false spring. He thought back on Robert as a young man, eighteen years of age, tall, lean and triumphant on the field at the tourney of Harrenhal. Uncanny was the resemblance between Gendry and his father, in face and in spirit, so Isildur judged.
He sighed deeply and frowned. He knew he had wronged his friend's son, King Robert's own blood. He knew there was much he had to make up for.
"You are your father's son, truly," Isildur said.
"My… my father?" said Gendry, taken aback. He paused in surprise. The air was cool, the forest quiet around them but for the sounds of crackling fires and the men singing some bawdy song.
"Aye, your father," said Isildur.
"You knew my father?" asked the boy tentatively.
"I know your father," Isildur answered. Gendry's face was pale with shock and surprise, the question clear in his eyes. The son of Elendil grimaced, unsure of where to begin.
"Gendry, you are the bastard son of our King, Robert Baratheon," he said at last. For a moment Gendry stared at him as if he had not heard what Isildur had said.
"That… That can't be. You lie," Gendry said, almost accusingly.
"I do not, you are your father's son, and your father is Robert Baratheon," replied Isildur.
"No, my father was a sailor or a sellsword or some damn thing, he couldn't be the King, that just can't be," said Gendry, shaking his head. "I'm not a King's son, kings don't fuck tavern girls,"
"I have known your father since he was your own age. You have his eyes, his face, his hair, even his voice," Isildur paused and smiled slightly "Even his stubbornness,"
Gendry leaned back against the tree trunk. He stared at Isildur wordlessly, still shaking his head.
"This can't… But then… If what you say is true, was it my-my father who ordered you to find me? What does he want?" he said at last, questioningly.
Isildur frowned and shook his head.
"No, Robert does not know of you, nor did I until Lord Stannis told me of you,"
Gendry narrowed his eyes.
"Then what do you want with me? I'm a bastard and I'm not gonna make trouble for anyone,"
This was not how Isildur had intended to tell Gendry the truth, but he knew there was nothing for it now. He had to tell Gendry all of it.
"It's not that Gendry. The Queen's children, the princes and the princess, they are not the King's," Isildur explained.
"But I'm a bastard-" Gendry began to say again.
"No, it's not that. We need to prove the Queen's infidelity. She plots to usurp the Throne. We need to prove that her children are not Robert's, to bring her to justice for her crimes," said Isildur. "To look at you, there can be no doubt that you are Robert's son. We need to show Robert that you are what his children should look like, to show him that the princes and princess are not his heirs,"
"So is that all I am? Just proof? Just a playing piece in this game of thrones?" spat Gendry angrily. Isildur regarded the armourer's boy with sad grey eyes.
He speaks truthfully, gravely have I wronged this boy, he thought.
"Gendry, I know I have done you wrong. When all this is over, I will introduce you to your father. Whatever his flaws may be, he loves his children. You will lack for nothing, I swear it. From a home you were taken, a home you will be given," Isildur said.
"Why did you take me from Master Mott then? That was my home," Gendry said darkly, scowling.
"The Queen has eyes everywhere, and she knows that Robert has many children out of wedlock, if she discovered you… She is perilous," Isildur let the implication hang in the air.
"I never saw sign nor heard sound of any of you highborn till Lord Stannis and the old Hand started all this mess," replied Gendry.
"If I could have left you to live in peace, I would have. But we need you Gendry, we need your help, your father needs your help," said Isildur.
"My father? My father?" Gendry said with a dry, bitter laugh. "My father was Tobho Mott, what do I owe Robert Baratheon?"
"Be not too eager to pass judgement in anger. You ought to meet Robert, he is very much like you, he is a good man, and he would be happy to know he has sired a son tall and strong," Isildur said. "Will you help us Gendry?"
"And if I don't?" said Gendry.
"A false king shall take the Iron Throne, the Queen's puppet, and I must oppose that. War will engulf us all, the Realm shall bleed," There was no lie, no exaggeration, no pretensions in Isildur's voice. He spoke the truth, clear, hard and cold.
Gendry looked down at his feet. He slumped, like he felt the vast weight of the burden bestowed upon him by accident of birth. When he looked back up at Isildur, his dark blue Baratheon eyes were like wells of deep thought.
"I will help you. Hells, I ought to hate you, but it would take an idiot to not hear that you speak true and mean well," said Gendry at last. "To help the Realm, I will help you, and perhaps when it's all over I will meet this father of mine,"
"You have my gratitude Gendry, truly," Isildur said, nodding. He reached out and clasped Gendry by the shoulder.
"What happens now?" asked the boy when Isildur released him. The Lord of Minas Ithil rubbed his brow.
"I can spare no man to guard you, nor can you ride all the miles back to King's Landing alone… For now, you will ride with us. Stay close to my housecarls, and if battle comes and things go ill, you are to flee. Do you understand? Do not stay to be slain, save yourself," Isildur said sternly, giving Gendry a hard look. The boy had been disobedient before, but Isildur would not have him stay in a fight that was not his own. Gendry nodded and said nothing.
"Go now, and speak of this to no one," he told the armourer's apprentice. Gendry nodded and began to walk back towards the camp, but as he stood silhouetted in the distant light of the fire, he paused. He turned back towards Isildur for a moment.
"Thank you," he said softly "For telling me about my father,"
Then he walked away without a glance back.
For the next four days, they rode hard underneath a dreary grey sky. They followed the river valley of the Blackwater Rush, north and west, till they crossed its northern fork at a wooden bridge. The road was full of people, men and women and whole families with children in arms. With their meagre possessions in handcarts or carried on their backs, they were heading east. There was news amongst them of raiders and burnt villages along the marches, and they were fleeing from the onset of war. At the sight of every man, woman and children dispossessed of lands and homes, Isildur's mood grew blacker and his anger smouldered within him.
Cresting a wooded hill on the fourth day, Isildur was met with a familiar sight, though he had not seen it in years. Below them spread a town, with many thatched roofs of hovels and houses. It was ringed with stout walls of timber and stone, and upon a hill sat a tall sept with a spire of a bell-tower. Below that sept sat a small holdfast, almost too small for the size of the prosperous market-town around it. The roads were unpaved, yet there were full of a traffic of men and animals. All the roads in the country for miles around ran towards the town square, like the cogs on a great wheel.
"Stoney Sept, long has it been since I last was here," said Isildur to Beric Dondarrion, who sat leaning upon the pommel of his saddle.
They stopped there until the sept bell rang out the second hour of the afternoon, and they took fresh provisions, reshod their horses, and rested for some time. Though the men would have wished to spend the night in taverns, Isildur pushed them on.
Outside of Stoney Sept, they raced north across fields ripe with grain and wheat, beneath a rainy sky. The land was flat and grassy for many miles, until at last it began to rise and fall in rounded green hills once more. Soon they rose through patches of woodland as often as across meadows and farm fields. Five days from Stoney Sept, they travelled north and west towards the Mummer's Ford, and the forests around them grew larger and thicker and the trees grew taller and broader and the road grew grassy.
The sky above them was veiled with clouds, iron grey, with forebodings of more rain. The leaves of the trees were rustling and their branches were swaying to and fro in the wind. The company was dismounted, sitting beneath trees on either side of the road. Their horses grazed around them. Isildur sat on a large rock, grey cloak wrapped around him, hiding his black and silver mail and surcoat. His pipe was in his hands and he was smoking pensively, grey eyes distant to the world around him. He listened carefully. He could hear the leaves in the wind, the twittering of birds, the low conversations of the men around him, and in the far distance, the lightest rumour of the burbling of the Red Fork running.
I should have brought the palantir, he thought for a moment.
It is safer with Aratan, such a treasure cannot be lost, Isildur reminded himself.
"They ought to be back by now!" declared the loud voice of Little Thom, breaking Isildur's reverie. The son of Elendil looked up.
The sellsword was pacing back and forth across the road. He wore a tattered patchwork brown cloak, yet his plate and mail armour, though ugly and dented and of no fine make, was immaculate and well cared for. Above his shoulder peeked the hilt of his greatsword, a weapon so long that he could not even draw it that way but had to take the sheath off his back to free it.
"Patience," Isildur reminded him.
"Begging your pardon milord but I ain't the type to like all this sitting 'round on the edge of a fight. We should just go right at 'em!" said the burly mercenary.
"We do not know if they are there," said Beric Dondarrion, sitting next to Isildur. He ran a whetstone down the edge of his sword, inspecting the blade with a keen eye. "We will wait until the scouts return with news," he said.
Grumbling discontentedly, Little Thom stalked off, flexing his hands as if he longed to strike something.
"Strange companions Thoros brings along," commented Isildur.
"Little Thom? Aye, no knight is he, but a terror in battle," replied Beric.
"I suspect he is, but I worry of his discipline. He is a hot tempered man. Do all red priests associate with sellswords?" Isildur said.
"Thoros is a singular red priest," Beric laughed. "King Robert's own drinking-fellow, talks a lot perhaps, but there's no man in the Eight Kingdoms better to be watching your back,"
"I don't doubt his prowess, only his choice of companions," answered Isildur, casting a glance about the company.
Thoros of Myr had come along out of friendship to Beric and desire to see Clegane brought to justice, but many freeriders and sellswords had followed him in the hopes of a rich reward from the Hand of the King. They were a sturdy, lean lot, many with the look of hungry dogs about them. Swords and falchions, spears and axes they carried, and they were armoured in boiled leather and mail shirts, brigandines and bits of plate, yet Isildur could not guess their quality in battle. A few looked fat and too well fed for the sellsword's life, and some had a foul feeling about them and staring eyes to make the skin crawl. Still though, all had claimed they would follow Isildur to capture Gregor Clegane, and he knew he would need the help of every man. He wished he had more of his housecarls with him, his reliable and war-tested Numenoreans.
Little Thom did not have to wait long. Soon the scouts returned, marching down the road from the direction of the Ford. Isildur had sent ten men, a band of the rivermen led by two of his housecarls, Belegorn and Borondir. Yet thirteen returned, for they were followed by a man, a woman and a young boy. Their faces were smoke-blackened and their clothes were tattered and the boy sniffled and wept now and again. Borondir's face was dour.
"My lord, we checked the fords, and all the woods around them. There is no sign of the Troll or his men, but we met this family on the road," the housecarl said.
Isildur stood up and looked over the family, his grey eyes gentle.
"What are your names?" he asked softly.
"Ban, milord, and my wife is Tasie," the man said, eyes at the ground.
"And this is our son Cailan," the wife added. The boy brushed away tears with the back of his hand and looked at Isildur, jaw agape.
"Where are you from?" Isildur asked.
"Wendish Town, milord, but the raiders came…" said Tasie, voice choking in her throat.
"Where we come from ain't there no more, milord," finished Ban, voice full of burning anger. Isildur furrowed his brow and clenched his fists.
"Good people," he said "I am Isildur Elendilion, the Hand of the King, and the brigands who have done this will pay for their crimes,"
Their eyes widened, and then quickly they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.
"Thank you, milord, but we be plain simple folk, all we want is to live in peace," said Ban.
"Mama, he's Isildur!" said little Cailan, pulling on his mother's dress. "He's a giant!"
"We will give you food and coin from our baggage, you should travel east to the safer places of your people," Isildur said.
"We're heading to my father's village 'round Lord Harroway's Town," said Tasie.
"That is good, but I must know what you can tell me of these outlaws. Do you know which way they went?" Isildur asked.
"Mama, they say he can't be killed!" whispered Cailan insistently.
"No milord, didn't see them for long, we ran as soon as we could. They might still be sitting in our own homes, brazen as you like, for all we know," said Ban. Isildur nodded somberly.
"You have my sympathies for your loss, good master Ban. If you ever return to your village, may it be in happier times of peace!"
They provided the family with packs of food, and what warm clothes and cloaks they could spare, and a purse of gold and silver for which Ban fell down on his knees and thanked Isildur with the deepest gratitude.
The company then remounted and rode on at a canter for the Ford.
The Red Fork meandered, broad and slow and full of the silt and sand. The Mummer's Ford, so named for the many mummer's troupes that often traveled this way, was shallow enough that it barely came to the horse's knees as they rode across. Willow trees hung limbs low over the water, and birds sung innocently amongst their branches. Isildur stopped in the middle of the ford, the company still riding past, and he glanced left and right.
The thick foliage, the banks of the river, the narrowness of the road, Thoros was right: This was the perfect place for an ambush.
But there was none. No arrows flew, no swords shone, no spears were brandished, no one cried out. The silence seemed immense and an uneasy feeling crept down Isildur's neck. He trusted his scouts, yet somehow he felt like there were eyes upon him.
From the ford, they turned south and rode hard for Wendish Town, and another two days they rode through forest and field, always keeping their eyes on the distant lines of foothills that marched away to the west of them. They knew that mountains rose behind those foothills, still out of sight, and despite the countless leagues it felt as if they were somehow too close to Casterly Rock.
Finally, on the second day since the Ford, they came to a thick band of forest. One of the King's Host soldiers told them that Wendish Town lay on the other side, only a few miles distant down a narrow path through the forest, wide enough for three mounted men to ride abreast. Here Isildur called the halt, and again sent forward scouts. He disliked the narrowness of that path, and the thickness of the brush. Whatever lay ahead, he would not be taken unawares.
The bright sun beat down in relentless heat, and it was sinking into the first hour of the afternoon when the scouts returned.
"There's are watchers in the woods, my lord, a dozen men or more," Belegorn said, wiping sweat from his brow. Isildur, Thoros and Beric Dondarrion gathered around the scouts.
"A picquet line, Clegane is cannier than I thought," said Thoros, crossing his arms.
"We might sweep them aside in a sudden onset," suggested Beric, though his voice betrayed his own doubts about that idea. They all glanced at the dense trees and bushes of the forest, and the road was very narrow.
"Did they wear any badges? What weapons did they carry?" Isildur asked.
"They dressed plainly, but we did not get close enough to count or get a good look at their arms. We came back lest we be discovered," Belegorn said.
"The Riverlords are probably searching for these outlaws themselves, one of their companies could be encamped ahead," said Lord Dondarrion.
"Or it could be Clegane's men," replied Thoros doubtfully, shaking his head.
"We have only one way of knowing for sure," said Isildur. "We ride up there and see if they are friend or foe,"
"It could be ugly if they are foes," Beric's expression was calm, but severe. He knew well the chances, and mischances, of war.
With doubt in his heart but also a strange gladness at the prospect of perhaps finally coming to grips with the foe, Isildur vaulted onto Fleetfoot's saddle. The gelding pawed the ground and snorted.
He pulled up the coif on his mail hauberk, and at his side was Cirion, acting as his master's squire for Ohtar had stayed behind with Aratan. Cirion checked and rechecked the fastenings upon Isildur's saddle, and snugged the straps on his coat of plates. He did this once, then again, then a third time till Isildur slapped him on the shoulder.
"Ready yourself, old friend, I'm no wet-eared knight of summer," Isildur jested, flashing a grin.
"Aye my lord," Cirion replied, smiling himself. He offered his hand and Isildur took it, clasping Cirion's forearm, their mailed arms rattling together.
The son of Elendil donned then his helm, mithril blazing in the sun. Its wing-shaped cheek guards fitted close over the hood of his hauberk, and above them rose wings from the high crest of the helmet. His shield was strapped to his saddle, where he could reach it easily, and at his side was his war horn. Isildur set his hand upon Narsil, feeling the comfortable leather of its great hilt, and he loosened it in its scabbard.
In a long column, in three by three, they rode into the forest. The banners were unfurled, Baratheon stag going at the front, and followed by the white tree and moon of Isildur and the lightning of Beric Dondarrion.
The men were quiet, and the air was still and stuffy within the woods. The trees seemed to loom over them on either side. No birds called out, no animals chattered, there was only the sound of the hooves tramping along the dirt path, and the banners hanging from their staves.
A man stood before them on the path when they had gone on for some time. He stood clad in hardened leather jerkin and plain clothes, a tall spear in hand, falchion at his side. His face was hard and he was unshaven.
"Who goes there?" he cried in a loud voice, which echoed through the woods. "Be you friend or foe?" he challenged them. Cirion trotted forth from the column before any others could speak.
"I am Cirion, housecarl of Lord Isildur, the Hand of the King. We ride in search of the outlaw Gregor, in the name of King Robert. Be you friend or foe? Answer swiftly!" he yelled back in a stern voice. A dappled ray of sunshine pierced the thick canopy of leaves and his helmet gleamed in it.
"The Hand of the King eh? That a fact?" said the sentry, a strange lilt in his voice.
"It is, now what is your answer?" demanded Cirion.
The man smiled then, a cold, cruel smile. He raised two fingers to his lips and blew out a sharp, loud whistle. Then, before any could stop him, he sprang away nimbly and disappeared in the brush.
Suddenly, all around them, bowstrings sang out and crossbows clattered. A storm of arrows and bolts flew out from the forests on either side.
Horses screamed. Men cried out in pain. Darts buzzed through the air. Men fell, some wounded, some dead. Horses reared and tossed their riders, arrows and bolts sticking from their flanks. Blood stained the green grass. Isildur wheeled his horse in the centre of the path. In the forests, he glimpsed fleeting figures in green and brown, bows in hand, fleeing. Fleetfoot whinnied amongst the cacophony of noise.
Then it was over. There was a moment of pained groans and sobs and horses crying in pain.
Ahead of them, a score of men burst from the trees on sturdy ponies of their own, and they galloped away. The air was rent with shrill, brazen blasts of a trumpet.
"That's them! That's the bastards! After the fuckers!" roared Little Thom. His mount, uninjured, sprang away across the wreckage of horseflesh and fallen soldiers. His sword was bare.
"No! Hold!" shouted Isildur, but he yelled in vain. Surprised and bloodied, and the battle-anger burning hot within them, many of the company still mounted rode off behind Little Thom and disappeared around the bend in a thundering gallop.
Isildur shook his head and cursed lowly, then wheeled Fleetfoot around. Behind him lay dozens of stricken horses, still flailing limbs in pain, churning and pitting the earth beneath them, eyes wild. There were men, many wounded and a few dead, with arrows piercing their sides and legs, throats and shoulders. Isildur breathed out a sigh of relief, spotting Gendry, face pale, shaking in fear but unharmed. Gendry caught Isildur's eye, and the Hand of the King mouthed the word 'run' silently.
"Lord Beric! Are you unharmed?" Isildur yelled out. The Lightning Lord of Blackhaven was still in his saddle, his great brown courser uninjured as well.
"Aye Lord Isildur," he said, pulling a greathelm on his head, which encased him with steel along with his plate and mail.
"Good. Thoros!" Isildur yelled.
"My horse is slain, but no dart has found its mark on me yet," replied Thoros, yelling from the rear of the column. His red robes were pierced through in many places, but he drummed his fingers on his breastplate, smiling grimly from beneath a nasal helm. His longsword was in hand.
Beric rode up to Isildur, picking his way amongst the dead and dying slowly.
"All goes ill, those damned sellswords raced off," said Isildur, words quick and sharp. He knew time was of the essence now.
"And those sentries will raise the alarm," said Beric.
"Aye, we must make haste. It's Clegane, I know it. He'll chew up Thom's men and then sweep into us in these damn woods," Isildur said.
The remnants of the company extracted themselves from amongst the wreckage as quickly as they could, and took what fresh mounts from the baggage were left unharmed. With Isildur at their head, they rode down after their companions.
They galloped headlong through the woods. Branches slapped and whipped at their faces and pulled at cloaks and clothing and banner. In the distance, they heard a growing clamour: Men shouting, men screaming, the thud of shield against shield and clash of blade against blade and the clatter of armour harness.
They burst from the tree line and were met with a broad field. A bowshot away from them, Wendish Town sat, a blackened, charred, burnt ruin. Its narrow streets were full of men, fighting, dying, shouting curses. From a sept tower in the centre of the town, crossbowmen shot down into the chaos. Somewhere, a trumpet was blowing above the noise of battle. The fighting was furious, the streets were filled with blood and entrails and the bodies of the slain. And at a glance, Isildur saw that his men were outnumbered thrice and more than thrice, and that Thom and the others were surrounded in the square.
Fluttering from atop a hall, Isildur spotted a yellow banner, covered in the three hounds of House Clegane.
"It's him! The Troll!" said Cirion, and he drew his sword, razor edging glinting in the sun.
"They have men enough to smother us up in their throngs," said Lord Beric, and he rested his lance back against his shoulder.
"Speed is our only hope, speed and shock," Isildur said, shaking his head. He had only little time to order his battle before Gregor's men saw the rest of the company. "WILLEM!" he yelled.
The grizzled old King's Host man rode up, face drawn. In his hand he held his crossbow, with the reins in the other hand. Isildur gathered up Beric and Thoros and Willem around him.
"Yhey cannot know our numbers are so few. Lord Beric, you take the right flank. Thoros, you have the left. I shall ride in the centre. Make for the square! And when you charge, roar like dragons! We must make them run!" he commanded. There was no time to argue, they nodded and rode off with their men to either side of Isildur.
"Willem, you take your men and you find a good tall building to shoot from," Isildur said.
"That sept tower would be the best place," replied the grizzled soldier, spitting out a wad of saliva on the ground.
"Aye, I'll try to clear it for you when I get there. Follow behind my men!" said Isildur "Now ride Willem, ride!"
The man of the King's Host nodded and galloped off to the rear of the column to get his men in order.
Isildur turned round and his forty housecarls sat mounted behind him, winged helmets all on their heads.
"Dirnaith!" he shouted out, voice powerful and clear.
The ground was flat and even from the edge of the trees to the streets of Wendish Town, and though narrow still, those streets were wider than the ones of Stoney Sept, for the town was unwalled. So his men drew up in a mounted wedge behind him, the tallest and strongest men at the front of the formation, and Isildur himself at their head. Their black mail shone, and broad black shields with the white tree upon them did they bear, and long bitter spears. To left and right, the men of House Dondarrion and the sellswords of Thoros of Myr formed dense ranks of their own, and behind came the soldiers of the King's Host with crossbows and short swords.
Isildur set his hand to Narsil and, with a silent prayer to Eru in his head, he drew forth his father's sword.
A white light like fire ran down its edges! Bright as a burning brand it shone!
"The Sword! The Sword" cried the housecarls of Isildur. "The Sword of Elendil shines for his heir!"
He took his war horn from his baldrick and handed it to Cirion. Isildur seized his shield, his bulwark of battle, war-tested, iron-bound and black as the night sky, and the tree and stars and moon glinted upon it.
He swept Narsil forward, and they charged.
Slowly they rode at first, gathering speed, then swiftly they sprang across the fields. As a breaker on a great wave rolls into the stony shore, so they charged upon the town. The foes looked up from butcher's work. Their faces paled, shock and fear taking them. Cirion blew out upon the war horn, and the men of House Clegane recoiled as if struck by a blow. The banners were floating in the wind of their speed. Narsil was shining with its white light, pale and terrible. Swiftly they charged, yet Isildur and Fleetfoot outpaced them and went before them, and none could overtake him.
Beric Dondarrion galloped to the right, black cloak billowing behind him, his shield slashed with lightning, and as he leveled his lance he roared:
"BLACKHAVEN!"
Thoros of Myr raced on the left, sword in hand, a wordless war-shout leaping from his throat.
Then Isildur and his housecarls shouted together, in one voice loud and powerful, and they roared out the ancient battle-cry of the Edain of the North, the words of Hurin and Turin of old:
"LACHO CALAD! DREGO MORN!" Flame Light! Flee Night!
And then they were upon their foes, like wolves springing amongst sheep. And their foes turned with a wailing cry, and they fled, and they were struck down and smote by blade or by warhorse's hooves, and they ran, and fell, and died. They were running, they were breaking. The swords of Isildur's men rose and fell, blood flying with every stroke.
Yet great were their numbers still, and Ser Gregor Clegane, the Troll that Walks in the Day, was amongst them. A great captain he was, and terrible to look upon: Towering over lesser men, limbs like tree-trunks, swinging a greatsword in one hand as easily as a child swings a stick. Not easily would he turn and flee, and his men rallied around him, and he drove them back upon Isildur's company. Not easily would he be brought to bay.
In the central streets of Wendish Town, the battle heaved and roared, a storm of steel, a tempest of hacking and stabbing and slaying. Through its heart rode Isildur, housecarls all about him, and the wrath of the Lord of Minas Ithil was revealed in its fury.
The enemies could not withstand his coming. They ran from his face, and the swords and axes of his housecarls rose and fell, striking down enemies by the dozen, left and right, or riding them to ruin beneath their pounding hooves. The men of Clegane's company were not even fighting back, they ran like rabbits before the stooping swift hawk.
Yet too many were the enemy's numbers still, and Isildur's own charge betrayed him. The streets narrowed further, the buildings loomed on either side, their speed slackened off, and finally the enemy's captains rallied them and turned them back to the fight.
Still the battle-fury was upon Isildur. Redness passed over his eyes. The world seemed to slow down, the sounds of battle became muted. Blows rained upon his shield, yet he heeded them not.
A spear point stabbed for his face, and he leaned back and turned it aside with a twist of his blade. Narsil swung down in a wide arc upon the spearman. There was a flash like fire as its edge bit and the helmet burst asunder with a spray of blood. The man fell dead with cloven skull.
He turned in the saddle and stabbed Narsil down into a bare face amongst the crowd. With skilful strokes he cut and slashed, and with every blow a foe was slain. Ever he pressed forward, and his housecarls behind him, pushing for the square that still lay ahead. The sept spire towered above them. Men died for every step, yet they pressed through and came to the square.
Fleetfoot screamed out in pain, and reared. Isildur fought to keep his seat. A crossbow bolt was embedded into the horse's throat. Then with a wet thud, another deadly dart burrowed into Fleetfoot's chest, and a third followed it. The horse fell, and Isildur fell with it, the world tumbling before his eyes, and he was thrown from the saddle.
Darkness flashed before his eyes. He lay on his back, and the sounds of battle all around him returned. Screams, shouts, curses, grunts, battle cries, the sickening sound of unarmoured bodies cut with steel. He tried to stand, but dizziness took him.
An ugly face appeared before his eyes. A hound was upon the man's jerkin. He smiled with only a few teeth and knelt his weight upon Isildur's chest and neck, driving breath out of him. Isildur gritted his teeth and reached for a weapon, but his fingers only brushed Narsil's hilt. A dagger was in the man's hand. Darkness swam up again before his eyes. He couldn't breathe.
Suddenly a blade erupted from the man's chest, short, ugly, doubled-edged and dripping with blood. The foeman did not cry out, only inhaled suddenly, then his eyes rolled up and someone tossed him aside.
Above Isildur stood Gendry, short sword in hand, and Isildur's housecarls were all amongst him with warding shields for their lord. He locked eyes with the son of Elendil and nodded briefly.
Just like his father, Isildur thought briefly, then he rose to his feet and grabbed Narsil from where it lay. There was no time to send the boy away. He gritted his teeth and strode back to the fighting, and Narsil flamed again in his charge.
Into the square he and his housecarls charged, and to the right appeared Beric Dondarrion, still amount, his men-at-arms all about him, and to the left came Thoros of Myr with sword and dagger, and they pushed and pressed and drove their enemy before them. Tall and strong were the dour-handed, stern-faced Dunedain, and with long arms they outreached Clegane's men-at-arms. Yet the foe would not break or rout, for Clegane had set his own lieutenants amongst his men there, and so they were caught between the hammer and the anvil, and no quarter was asked for, nor given.
They cut their way through to what was left of Little Thom's men. The tall warrior swung his greatsword with both hands, or else wielded it half-sword to pierce armour, and the long blade was stained red.
Behind them, the men of the King's Host battered down the door of a tall three-storied tavern, and from its upper windows a deadly fire of crossbow bolts began to fall amongst Clegane's ranks.
The fighting waxed to a furious pitch, filling the ruins of Wendish Town with grunts, yelling, the clatter of steel on steel, till the square grew slick and muddy with piss and blood. Still Isildur's company fought on, the housecarls in the centre, broad shields lapped and locked, thrusting with spears and swords and hacking with axes.
Slowly their numbers were dwindling, for arrows and missiles fell like a killing rain from the sept tower above their heads, and the men of the Westerlands were bold and fierce and slew without mercy. They dragged Belegorn from the shield wall, and their axes hewed him cruelly. Magor was slain too, an arrow in his eye, and a spear took Anborn in the throat. Little Thom fell there in that bloodied square, fighting to exhaustion, a dozen wounds bleeding, but it took four men to kill him at last.
With a thud, an arrow embedded itself on the inside of Isildur's shield. He cursed, and then slipped away from a mace blow. He thrust Narsil beneath the arm of the knight, through the arm pit and deep into the man's chest. There was a gurgle of blood in the knight's throat as Isildur set a foot on his chest and pushed him away.
"Beric!" he yelled out above the din of battle. Cirion and his housecarls lapped their shields around their lord, forming a pocket within the battle left unfought.
"Yes!" shouted Beric Dondarrion. He had cast aside his own shield, hewn and scored beyond usefulness, and fought now with sword in one hand and dagger in the other.
"Take some men and clear the sept! Get those archers out of there!" Isildur said. The Lightning Lord nodded in understanding, and then raced off, gathering a conroi up about him as he did.
Isildur turned back and threw himself into the fight, cutting down one man and then another with the blows of Narsil, which no armour and no shield could withstand. He stabbed and cut, and beat and bore down all before him, and wherever he strode the enemy would not stand, for he was terrible to look upon in his wrath, and they fled from his face and from the burning look in his eyes.
Where is Clegane? he thought suddenly in the midst of the killing. He saw the banners and the badges of House Clegane, yet the Troll had not shown himself yet.
A bestial battle cry suddenly rent the air above the din of battle, and from a side street on the right charged Ser Gregor Clegane. All about him were his knights and men-at-arms, in plate harness, but he was the greatest amongst them. He towered above them all, sheathed in steel, an untouchable giant of immense strength and ferocity. He had taken his best fighters with them and, like a fist of steel, they struck Isildur's company from the right.
Lines shattered. Foemen poured into the gaps. The fighting grew more and more desperate, and Isildur knew he had been trapped. Yet for every man of his that died, two or three of Clegane's men fell hewn and slain, and still there was some hope that they might cut through. And he was Isildur, son of Elendil, and he was left unharmed, and Narsil was in his hand. He was the grim lord of a fierce people, and while he still had strength to fight he would not despair.
Ser Gregor pressed for Isildur's banner, his knights wielding sword and mace and poleax, and he was ever at the front, cutting his way through with his greatsword, or throwing men aside bodily. He pushed forward, driving for Isildur himself.
Then forward stood Cirion, the captain of the housecarls, with bright sword shining. He stood before the Troll that Walked in the Day, sword held in both hands, for his shield was rent and cut in many places. His dour face said "Not another step." He looked up at Clegane, for though tall the Dunadan was, the Troll was taller still.
Terrible was the clash of Gregor Clegane and Cirion son of Herion. The Troll swung his greatsword in two hands, every blow with such strength that it could shatter bones. Cirion slipped and dodged, but Gregor followed him doggedly, there was no space to move, no space to breath. They exchanged blows, they grappled and wrestled standing. Every time Cirion parried, the force was enough to drop him to his knees, yet he rose again and fought back with ferocity, raining blows upon Clegane, and grasping his blade in one hand and his hilt in the other he stabbed the tip of his sword through gaps in the enemy's harness. Gregor bled dark blood down his dark armour from a dozen wounds, yet he did not seem to notice.
With sudden surprising speed, Ser Gregor seized Cirion by the front of his surcoat, and he drove the pommel of his sword into the housecarl's face. With broken nose and bloody face, Cirion fell stunned by the force of the blow. Handing his sword to his squire, Gregor Clegane ripped a misericorde dagger from his belt, and seized Cirion by the wing of his helmet, dragging him upright and exposing his mail-clad throat.
"ISILDUR!" Gregor Clegane roared.
Isildur turned and saw the Mountain.
The misericorde stabbed downwards, punching through the mail, deep into Cirion's neck. Clegane ripped it out, and then tossed the Dunadan down face-first. Blood flowed freely from the fatal wound.
Thus was slain Cirion, loyal housecarl, faithful unto death.
Red burned the wrath in Isildur's chest. He tossed his shield aside and took up Narsil in both hands, white light gleaming deadly from its ancient blade. Snarling a wordless battle cry, he charged for Gregor Clegane, striking down all in his path.
The ranks of Clegane's men-at-arms closed up around their lord, and Isildur drove himself upon them. The first man, mail armoured, raised a poleax to block, but Narsil swung down in a wide arc. He cut through the haft, and Narsil carried through into the man's body, slicing apart mail and bone and flesh alike. The foe fell, body hanging apart, cloven from shoulder to hip.
A second cut separated a knight's head from his shoulders. The third blow thrust straight through a man's gut and left him bleeding to death. Yet still they stood, held perhaps caught between fear of their lord and fear of the son of Elendil.
Isildur beat and cut, hacked and thrust, and threw men aside, but he could not break through their ranks. His wrath betrayed him, he was alone now, his men still fighting behind him.
Something burst upon his head. A strike clapped down on his back. Spots of light clouded his vision, then another blow came down, and a third, beating him down to his knees. The last he saw was an armoured fist swinging for his face, then darkness took him.
Have I been slain? he thought, in utter blackness. He swam in darkness, beyond thought or time, hearing and seeing nothing, but in the distance he still heard the din of battle, growing dimmer with each passing moment.
Light returned slowly. He saw again.
He was laying on his back. All around him were bodies, hacked and hewn and pierced, dead and bloodied. Rough hands seized him suddenly and dragged him away. He tried to struggle, but his limbs felt leaden. He looked about. He spotted his banner on the ground, trodden into the muck and the mud, bodies in black surcoats and mail laying all around it. Next to them, the royal banner lay with its staff hacked in two. And all about them, hundreds of dead men in the livery of the Cleganes lay, their dark blood staining the ground.
Above him, he saw the yellow banner of House Clegane still fluttering. And then he heard the voice of Ser Gregor, like rocks being broken in some deep chasm:
"Send a rider to Lord Tywin. Isildur is ours,"
He passed into darkness again and heard no more.