Far from the lush gardens of Lys and the wide water of the Summer Sea, a cool autumn wind blows through the forests of the Riverlands, shaking free the first few withered leaves of the season and turn them to dancing in the open air. Below them, eyes focused firmly on the ground, Theon Greyjoy stalks into the tall, whispering grass of a peaceful clearing, bow drawn. He treads carefully, hunched over at his waist, breath held tight in his throat so as not to disturb the grazing deer on the far side of the field.
Ser Karyl Vance had warned their party to hunt light game. They needed to travel fast, he said, couldn't take on any extra load. But Theon wasn't about to waste his time chasing after quail or rabbits. He had learned to hunt in the North, taking larger trophies than any of these southern knights had ever seen. And besides, he had lost his patience taking orders from their brooding leader, coddling their treacherous prisoner the way he was. If Theon had his way, bloody pieces of Addam Marbrand would already be on their way to Lord Tywin.
Once he returns to camp with a whole deer, Theon thinks, then the other men will see who really deserved to be in command. And when they returned to Stone Hedge victorious, the credit and the praise would go to him, not some waifish lordling who barely knew Lord Eddard. I should have been there, he thinks, as he has time and again these past weeks. If Ned had taken him to the capital, ridden with him to battle instead of these untested, soft southern knights, he wouldn't be dead, his corpse carried off and defiled by Lannister savages. At least, that is how Theon imagines it. When he places the Mountain's skull at Robb's feet, and Ice beside it, all men of the North and South will see what a great man he is. Even his own father. He smiles as he pulls the bowstring back.
The deer's head shoots upright, scanning the field. Theon freezes in place. Men approaching. Those damn fools in their clattering plate, no doubt, bumbling through the forest. No time to waste. His bowstring twangs taut. Before the deer has a chance to realize its true danger, it is falling into the grass, an arrow in its neck.
"Ha!" Theon stands to his full height proudly, dispensing with caution as he marches through the grass to inspect his prey. But the men crashing through the woods toward him are getting nearer, and not slowing down. He scowls, turning to squint into the shade of the forest for the approaching nuisance. He can see shapes coming into view through the underbrush – three men ahorse, riding recklessly at full charge, under no banner. Slowly, the realization dawns on him, sliding up his spine and into his brain with an icy chill. These are not his companions. The Mountain's men have found them.
Leaving the deer where it fell, Theon whips a fresh arrow out of his quiver and drops to one knee in a battle stance. If the marauders have seen him, they give no sign of it. He levels his arrow at their leader and waits, holding his arm steady as the pounding hooves shake the earth beneath him.
"For Ned!" Theon's shout cuts through the crisp air as the first horse careens into the clearing. Before the leading rider can react, the arrow is buried in his chest. He topples down from the saddle with a thud. Theon leaps out of the path of the manic horse as it rears out of control, his hand already reaching for another arrow. The two remaining riders break off from their paths, circling back to face him. Theon makes a flash judgement of his foes – both helmless, in unmarked leather and rags over light mail; the man to the left wields a flail, to the right, a bow. The bow can reach him first.
Before the rival archer has a chance to stop his horse and draw, Theon has already loosed his next arrow – he feels a rush of pride as it lands squarely in the man's eye. The horse tears off into the woods, its slain rider still tangled in the reins. The last raider wastes no time in charging. Behind him, Theon hears the approaching hooves and the flail spinning in a deadly loop. Tossing his bow aside, he draws the sword from his sheath with a flourish, spinning on his heels to face the last foe.
This raider – a hard-faced, scarred brute with patchy hair and dark eyes, makes his charge, kicking sharply into the sides of his horse to bid it faster and faster, the spiked ball whipping into the same frenzied pace as it spirals through the air. But Theon does not flinch. He locks eyes with the flail, tracing its path as it draws closer and closer. At the last moment, he shifts, feet still firm on the ground but out of the path of the attack. He feels the wind rush by his face and then the clatter of steel as the ball slams into his sword instead of his head. Steeling his grip as the chain wraps around his blade, he pulls with all his might, dragging the shocked rider out of his saddle to the ground with a crash.
The force of the fall tears Theon's arm back hard, sending a jolt of pain through his shoulder, but, grimacing, he tugs back, breaking his blade free of the tangled flail as the raider rolls away from him in the trampled grass.
"Give me your name!" Theon demands, keeping his sword trained on the man as he picks himself up. "Where is the Mountain?"
"My name's no good to a dead man," the raider spits through bloodied teeth. "And you'll see the Mountain when I show him your head!"
Theon smirks and jumps backward out of the way as the man rushes him, swinging the flail wildly, but only managing to smash and crush the heads of grass, sending seeds exploding into open air. Rash and untrained, Theon thinks, watching the villain's crude form and uncertain movements with mild amusement. These are the dogs that gave the Riverlands such trouble? Lord Tywin will wish he had sent real knights.
"The Young Wolf is merciful! Answer me and I'll spare your life!" Theon lies from a safe distance. But the raider only grunts, shifting his shoulders, hunched over, poised to strike.
"Die, riverdog!"
He leaps into action, charging forward, swinging the flail high above his head with both hands. A foolish move, Theon almost laughs, the man's whole chest exposed. He slides out of the way, the ball tearing through air – a bit too close to comfort. But it doesn't matter anymore. He slashes out, slicing a jagged, deep cut through the raider's side. Blood bursts forth from the wound and the man's agape mouth as the flail drops to the ground, a trail of guts slipping free as he collapses on top of it.
"I'm not of these rivers. I am of the sea!" Theon stomps triumphantly toward his fallen foe, kicking the body over only to see with disappointment the man is already quite dead. I'll save that line for later, he thinks, hurrying back to retrieve his bow. He stops to listen for more approaching riders but hears none – not here at least. But they were riding on the attack. Just like he predicted, their mad captive had led the Mountain right to them.
Leaving the deer to rot alongside the fallen men, he rushes off into the forest, back towards the river.
The marauders have already found the camp by the time Theon comes charging out of the forest. Their tents are ablaze. A scattering of dead men lie littered on the ground, their blood draining down the bank to stain the river red. He stops, still partially hidden behind a towering oak tree, to draw his sword. Scanning the battlefield he counts a dozen raiders, half mounted, tearing apart the shoreline in search of any more knights to cut down. He recognizes some of the slain men – though he realizes now he had never bothered to learn most of their names.
"Theon!" A voice hisses to him from behind. He whips around, nearly lopping off the head of Ser Karyl, emerging from hiding behind him. The older knight looks worse for wear, the quartered arms of his surcoat stained with blood, though it does not seem to be his own.
"What happened?"
"What does it look like happened?" Marq Piper crashes out of the underbrush with much less grace than his companion. Behind him, he drags Addam Marbrand, bound and gagged and tied to Marq by a thick rope. "An ambush!"
"I killed three already," Theon smirks, ready to turn back to the battlefield. But Karyl grabs him by the shoulder before he can move.
"There's too many of them. We must fall back."
Theon is taken aback. For a moment, he cannot find the words to voice his dissent, but when they come, they spit back at Karyl with furious venom. "What do you mean, fall back?! Do you take me for a craven? I don't know what sort of knight you think you are, but I was not raised to run from a fight!"
"Listen to me!" Karyl forces Theon to look him in the eyes – cold and dark, devoid of fear. This is not cowardice, even he must admit, only pure rational instinct. But he is not dissuaded. "Remember the mission!"
"Our mission is to kill the Mountain!" Theon tears himself away. "He's right there!"
As if summoned by Theon's pointed sword, the demented war whoops of the raiders on the riverbank grow quiet as a massive horse pounds its hooves into view, carrying its hulking rider to the heart of the carnage. Theon has never met Ser Gregor Clegane. But he has no need to ask the name of the knight beneath this helm – the stories are all true. The largest man he has ever seen, somehow mounted atop a pitch-black horse of the Seven Hells – all muscle and barely controlled feral fury. Theon feels his hand begin to shake. And then the helm turns to look directly at him.
"Damn it all!" Marq curses, turning to flee, dragging Addam along behind him. But Theon does not wait to see if Karyl follows into retreat. The moment of truth is now. As the Mountain draws his sword with a low rumble of metallic thunder, he steps out from behind the tree to face his quarry.
"Winter has come for you, dog!" Theon shouts as the huge horse begins a charge, shaking the dirt. Theon plants his feet, determined not to yield.
"Theon, move!" Karyl shouts from somewhere in the distance, but he shuts him out. This is the moment, he thinks. It all comes down to this. A son of Pyke does not yield. He extracts the iron price.
But as the black horse and its dark rider draw near, the fear begins to set in. The hooves are deafening, drowning out all else, even the pounding of his own heart, flooding his ears and shaking his brain. The Mountain draws closer, closer, filling all of his vision until he can see nothing but the towering knight atop his demon steed, morphed into one singular monster crashing over him like a wave of flesh and steel.
"Die, monster!" Theon screams, swinging his sword up and high as the Mountain plunges into the woods, sending leaves and shattered branches raining down in his explosive path. As the world turns to a blur, he waits for the familiar sound of steel on steel, but it never comes. Instead, he is suddenly falling, down, down… It is only when he hits the ground that the pain begins.
Pain – searing, tearing, burning pain, worse than any he has ever felt, as if every muscle in his body has been set aflame and all that is left is pain. And screaming. Someone is screaming. Through the grog of shock and suffering, Theon realizes the scream is his own. And then there are hands on his shoulders, and the hands are pulling him and somehow he is moving, though he can feel nothing but the pain.
The last thing he remembers before the blackness fills his vision is of a strange, impossible thought – of his arm, left behind in the dirt, getting smaller and smaller and further away, unmoving as he is dragged backwards into the depths of the forest.
A/N: Thank you for reading! This story has woven on and taken longer than planned - a lot has happened in my life in the meantime - but I'm so grateful to everyone who's joined Edward, Sansa, and the rest of our heroes and villains for this journey! I look forward to a more regular publication schedule, now. As always, all questions, critiques, and assorted feedback are greatly appreciated in the comments below!