It is night in the Riverlands. Ned Stark sits alone in the forest atop a moss-covered boulder, the sounds of his men at camp muffled in the distance. An extinguished torch lies stabbed into the earth beside him as he sits upon a cold, moss-covered rock, staring into the darkness. The trees surrounding him are black silhouettes, silent save for the somber, creaking song they whisper as they sway in the night wind.
He listens to the trees and to the wind that moves them and prays for guidance. But these trees sing a different song than the weirwoods, and their groans have no answers for him. If the old gods still hold power here in this land, they will not reveal it to him now. He wishes, for a moment, that he could call upon Catelyn's gods – The Seven. But for all the lectures of the septons he had sat through by her side, they were still foreign to him; he had never heard their voice nor felt their blessing. He hopes that somewhere far afield, she is praying to them for him. Praying for justice and for his return to her side.
He longs to see her again, to feel her, to hear her voice. To gather around the table with their children, surrounded by friends. To be free from the cursed iron pin upon his chest. But he knows his duty is far from done. Even once The Mountain has face the king's justice, he must then deal with the Lannisters, and the conspiracy that had killed Jon Arryn. Although, if Gladden Wylde's missive is to believed, that conspiracy has already been unveiled. Perhaps, by the time he returns to the city, it will all be over. All will be made right and he may return to Winterfell safely assured that the king's reign will persist unthreatened.
But staring into the dark, he fears that will not be the case. And the shrill 'preet' of a passing nighthawk seems to agree. Your battles will never be over. That was what Ashara had warned him, that last night in the Palestone Sword. She had wanted him to run away with her, to leave behind their responsibilities and start a new life across the sea. But he could not forsake his honor then any more than he could now. He had sworn – to Robert, to Catelyn, to Lyanna… So many vows, so many duties. She was right. They had never ended. And she had left her own life behind. Forever.
Ned shakes the memory from his head. He thought it had been vanquished, had lived what seemed a lifetime without thinking of his first love. It had been a lifetime, in truth, for the man who returned to Winterfell with the babe Jon Snow in his arms was not the same man who had first rode south to find his sister at the Tower of Joy. That Ned, the second son, had died with Ashara. Lord Stark returned. So why now did she trouble him again?
It was the boy. Edric Dayne, a lord himself yet still a boy, squire to Beric Dondarrion. Her nephew. He had her eyes, though not quite purple, as hers had been, but her spirit was there. And that spirit had breathed back life into dead memories. As soon as this is over, he swears, whether I return home or not, the boy must go back to the Marches with his sworn lord. And may he take the ghost he carries with him.
A stray leaf floating down from the canopy above strikes his face. Ned swipes it away and rises, his meditation over, left with no more answers than when he began. His eyes accustomed to the dark, he leaves the dead torch behind, picking his way through the gnarled roots and underbrush until the lights of his camp reemerge. Edric is sitting in the tall grass, in the shadowy space where the night meets the glow of the fires, waiting upon him.
"Where is Lord Beric?" Ned asks. You should be with him, you are his ward, not mine.
"Abed in his bunk. And not drunk, as you willed, my lord."
No easy task, I am sure, Ned thinks. The Marcher lord had grown despondent since their first battle, the bravado of a tourney champion melting away to a wine-addled terror egged on by the doom prophesied by his companion, the red priest. "You should get rest as well," Ned sends the boy on his way.
"Is there anything you need, my lord?"
"No." Not that you can provide. Ned waits until the squire concedes and retreats to his own tent before turning towards the heart of the tent and the brightest fire. The one belonging to Thoros of Myr. Ned finds the man cross-legged in the dirt, so close to the flames that embers have begun to glow on the fringe of his faded red robes. Sweat glistens on his bald, olive head. An empty wineskin lies beside him.
"What do you want, my lord?" he asks, his voice low and gravely, without looking away. "I have shared no visions with the men. They will not desert you, no matter how doomed they may be."
"Then tell me." Ned comes to a stop beside him. "What do your flames tell you?"
"What do they tell you, Lord Stark?" Thoros looks up, stifling a drunken belch. The sparks reflect in his dark eyes. "I am but a messenger, and a reluctant one at that. Ask them yourself."
"I do not serve your god, why should he answer me…"
"When your own gods do not?" Thoros laughs mirthlessly. "Now you know how I felt, all those years of silence. Wondering if it was ever really real. But now? Now it comes in a roar! Anyone can hear the Lord of Light, if they only listen."
Ned shakes his head, yet still feels drawn in. He stares for a long time, watching the dancing flames twist and bend, climb and fall, grow and shrink as the consume the charred wood that fuels them. He feels the heat on his face, but does not wipe his brow. He watches and watches, unsure of what he is looking for. But whatever it is, it never comes.
At last, shaking his head, Ned finally turns away, letting the cold night air relieve him. Opening his clenched fist, he realizes he has carried the leaf from the woods with him all this time. Here in the light, he sees that its green has faded, replaced with a burning red. The seasons are changing. Winter is coming. The priest looks up at him expectantly. "I see nothing but fire."
"Aye," Thoros watches him leave. "Exactly."
The next morning, a soft songbird wakes Ser Marq Piper from his slumber, face down in the grass, wet with morning dew. Rolling over, he squints at the sun shining through the thin fabric of the tent that he and Ser Karyl Vance have been confined to. Something is wrong. It's quiet. Too quiet he can hear the birds trilling their song of dawn. He coughs, and it rises a bitter taste him his mouth. He looks to Karyl, already awake, sitting on the edge of his cot with a dark look on his face.
"They're gone. A potion in our drinks to sleep undisturbed as they left in the night."
"No!" Marq rushes to rise, but aches rattle his whole body. "Why?"
"One less thing to worry about on the march as they crush Lord Stark."
"How many are left?" The big knight steadies himself, shaking his head clear. Karyl does not answer. "Not enough."
Before his companion can stop him, Marq storms out the front of his tent, wearing only his underclothes. There are two guards by the door, dressed in the same ragged disguises as all their captors. The first rushes to strike, but Marq catches the first punch in one hand and head-butts the guard, dropping him to the ground. The other has a spear, but Marq easily dodges and tears it free from the smaller man's grip, kicking him back into the tent.
"You get that one!" Marq shouts behind him, hurling the spear through the gut of the next guard to come running. Two more appear as he rushes to the dead man's side. Unable to pull the spear free from the body, he snaps the wooden staff in half and rolls underneath a high-swinging halberd. Slick in the wet grass, he stabs the jagged wood into the leg of his foe. With a scream, the man crumples and Marq stomps down hard on his throat as he hits the ground.
Picking up the fallen halberd, Marq spins around, looking for the second guard, but he has held back, sword drawn, now flanked by two archers, arrows notched and pulled back taught.
"Don't move, Piper," the knight orders.
"Do I know you?" Marq smirks, twisting the steel in his hands to get a better grip.
"Ser Loren Lanny! We tilted against each other at Lannisport!"
"Oh!" A dim look of recognition dawns on Marq's face. "You're one of the fake Lannisters! Didn't I break your arm?"
The western knight's face darkens. "It was but a sprain. But I'm like to break your own arm if you don't show some respect. Ser Addam wants you alive, but he didn't say anything about unharmed. Get on your knees!"
"Now why would I do that," Marq asks, glancing over Loren's shoulder, "when we've already killed all of your men?"
"What…" Loren blinks, confused. Before he can turn, an arrow whistles out from the woods and through the neck of the first archer. His own arrow is loosed wildly as he falls and the second bowman spins around, only for another arrow to split his face as Karyl steps out from behind a tree, bow in hand. Loren, panicked, rushes Marq, sword swinging wildly. The bigger knight parries with the shaft of his halberd, sending the sword sliding down into the dirt with a metallic zing. He pushes off Loren's chest and spins, swiping at his leg with the blunt end.
Loren trips, but steadies himself, and strikes again, then again, hitting the halberd with a ring and a spark each time. Watching, Karyl lowers his bow as the furious knight chases Marq around the clearing, exhausting himself trying to get within reach, while the longer weapon blocks his attacks at every turn. Finally, Marq grows bored of the struggle. He drops back, and Loren lunges over-eagerly. But Marq swings the halberd high and fast into the air, then brings it down hard on his foe's out-stretched arm. The sword hits the dirt.
"Is that another sprain?" Marq laughs, tossing aside the halberd and grabbing Loren by his injured arm. He pulls him close. "Now this, this is a break." Loren desperately tries to writhe free of the grasp, but Marq slams his arm down hard onto his raised knee with a sickening crack. Loren crumples into a ball of pain and defeat with an agonizing scream.
"Where have the others gone?" Karyl demands, kicking over their new prisoner.
"It doesn't matter, you're too late," Loren whimpers, clutching his broken arm to his chest.
"It does matter if you want to live," Karyl notches an arrow and takes aim at the crippled knight's chest. "I won't ask again. Do not think that golden hair of yours is worth too much to kill."
"How much is a Lanny worth, do you think?" Marq laughs. "A tenth of a Lannister?" He gives Loren a kick, and Karyl pulls his bowstring tighter.
"Stone Hedge! They've gone to meet the Mountain at Stone Hedge!"
Hours later, the sun has risen high in the sky over Stone Hedge. Ned stands in his tent as Harwyn helps him into his armor. He had not slept the night before, try as he might. But today would be a good day, no matter what Thoros may claim to see in his flames.
"I don't like it, m'lord, I still don't like it," Harwyn grumbles as he struggles to tighten Ned's breastplace, his thick, calloused fingers struggling to finesse the leather straps and hooks.
"Let me help," Edric Dayne insists. The boy has been following Ned around all morning, now lurking in the corner of the tent with his guardian, Ser Godric Sand. Harwyn steps back with a grunt, allowing the squire to do his work.
"Ser Gladden has no morals, that much is very true," Ned acknowledges. "But men like him serve only one cause – themselves. Why should he fight a losing battle. He will die on the field, hang as a traitor or take the black. Or he can exchange the Mountain for a chance at freedom. It is the rational move for him."
"Why not just chop off Clegane's head himself, then, and bring it to you in a pretty box?" Harwyn scowls.
"He knows Lord Stark is a man of honor," Edric insists as he tightens the final piece of armor into place. "He would never reward a murderer."
"Perhaps he knows you too well, m'lord," Harwyn shakes his head and stalks out of the tent.
"Let the commanders know I am ready for council!" Ned commands the brooding northman as he exits. Looking down, he sees Edric is still waiting expectantly by his side. "See to Lord Beric, you are still his squire, not mine."
The boy reluctantly leaves, his knight in tow, and Ned takes his seat at the head of his table, waiting for his council to arrive. He does not like this plan. The king's justice should not be executed through trickery and deception. But he has not the time for a siege nor the men for a battle. Too many lives have been needlessly lost already. The only sacrifice this victory requires is the honor of a man who already sold it away. If it will spare more needless loss of life, that is a sacrifice Ned is willing to make.
Stone Hedge is not a tall castle. The seat of House Bracken lies close to the ground, squat and ugly, yet formidable all the same. To a bird passing overhead, it would look like a wheel – the keep itself in the center, surrounded by the three circular stone walls that gave Stone Hedge its name. Each wall stands taller than the castle itself, rendering it invisible to all but the birds. For the smallfolk living in the now-smoldering village of Brackenton, their lord's home is naught but a wall of stern, unyielding grey stone.
There are four entrances to the outermost wall, one for each direction. Ned now sits atop his horse before the eastern gate as the sun begins its slow descent over the horizon, sending the stark shadow of the castle inching ever closer to the hooves of his loyal steed. He sits in his armor, but without Ice at his side. The huge Valyrian greatsword would have quickly dispeled any claims of truce. Even Harwyn had accepted that; though he had insisted Ned hide a long dagger in his belt all the same. He can sense it there now, accusing him of treachery. But on the evening wind, he can smell the cinders of the Mountain's handiwork, and they remind him of young Alyn's face, bloodied and confused, looking up to him for answers he could never give.
Madness, Ned shakes his head. All this death for what? As if in reply, the portcullis begins to rise, creaking open with the grind of heavy chains, like a yawning mouth heralded to sleep by the setting sun. In that moment, he is grateful for the dagger. Ned Stark is not a man to know fear. I have faced greater men than Gregor Clegane, he tells himself. The White Bull. The Sword of the Morning. But Howland Reed had been at his side then. And those foes had been knights, men of honor who had fought only for duty. Just like him. But Clegane was something else. The monsters of legend had all been slain ages ago, or trapped away behind The Wall. Today, the darkest creatures walked in human form. They had lost their humanity. Or perhaps, he thinks as the gate shudders to a halt, they were all too human. The Mountain That Rides. A hulking silhouette waiting for him.
A monster in full armor, holding a lance.
The Mountain is in motion before Ned has a chance to realize that Harwyn was right. His massive horse pounds the earth like thunder, the curled metal fist at the end of his lance cutting through the air like a falcon in dive. Ned tries to turn out of the path, but he is too close to the gate, his horse's reactions to slow. He grits his teeth, careful not to bite off his tongue, and the crushing blow lands on his chest. For a moment, he is flying, the air escaping his lungs. And then, he slams down onto the earth.
Sudden pain rattles every inch of Ned's body, a deafening ringing echoing inside his helm. But he know he has to move. Wait and you die. A second spasm of pain shakes him as he rolls himself over. He can hear the hooves, feel the ground shake beneath them. He pushes himself back up, vision blurring, in time to see the Mountain returning for a second pass. He lurches out of the way, but not far enough. The lance tilts – a glancing blow to the left shoulder, sending him spinning.
Ned steadies himself, finding his balance as his skull continues to scream and his chest burn. He wrenches the dagger free from his belt and turns to face Stone Hedge once again. The Mountain is again framed by the gate, standing still in life, but split into two blurry apparitions by Ned's rattled eyes. The massive knight drops down from his horse with a thud. Two squires run out from behind the wall – one to take the steed, the other to give him his sword. Ned squints, trying to focus as Clegane draws his blade with a metallic hiss. There are cheers from atop the parapets. Why do they not come out? Ned looks up. My men… my men will be coming for me.
He turns back as the Mountain begins his next approach on foot. From atop the hill, he sees the horses begin to charge, led first, no doubt by Harwyn. Harwyn who had been so right. He was not the only one. You were right, too, Cat, he thinks. I was not made for this work. And then he hears the sound of battle. But it is from the wrong direction. As his vision clears, he sees a new host appear from the south, careening forth on a collision course with his own charge. To a man, they look a rabble. But above their heads fly noble banners. Marbrand. Crakehall. And Lannister.
So it's war, then, Ned thinks, then dashes to the right as Clegane's huge sword cuts through the air where he had stood moments before. No more pretending. Robert's great peace is over. You failed. You cannot stop it now. But even if he wanted to, there is nowhere to run.
"Surrender, Clegane!" he shouts, holding the dagger out before him, straight-armed and unyielding. "End this, and you may yet live." The Mountain turns slowly, his armor creaking as the shadow of the wall passes over them both, the sun dipping further into the west. Ned cannot glimpse the face beneath the helm, but within the cold steel void, he hears a single cruel laugh.
Without another sound, Clegane is in motion, a colossus of flesh and metal, both hands lifting his huge sword. Ned backs away without dropping his dagger. He dare not look for his men, but the sounds of war and death have collided and reached a fever pitch behind him. His eyes search for openings in his foes armor. He is big, but he is slow. If I can land the right blow…
He never gets to finish the thought. From the parapets, a crossbow's bolt, silenced by the outbreak of battle, slams into the gap where his arm meets his back. At once, every muscle in his arm goes limp. The dagger drops to the ground. And the Mountain is upon him.
"Whoever loosed that bolt is a dead man!" he roars, his voice like thunder, putting every ounce of his cursed strength into a single thrust. Ned feels the sword pierce his stomach, and feels no more. He is overwhelmed by a pain so loud all else becomes numbness. He knows he must have hit the dirt, but it feels as if he has never stopped falling.
The Mountain throws his sword on the ground in fury, his latest victim already forgotten in his rage at the man who had stolen his duel. And Ned is left alone, staring up through the slit in his helm, searching for a sky hidden from view by the towering wall above him. His mind slips through time, desperate to call out to those he loves for a final time! The children, Cat, protect the children! And Jon… Lyanna, I'm sorry…
The grey of the wall grows darker until it is black, wider until it is all that Ned can see. There is bile and blood rising, burning in his throat, but he does not feel.
The burning, Thoros. You said there would be burning.
And then – nothing more.