Robb
He was winning battles but losing the war. The Westerlands were plundered, and yet the North had fallen. Casterly Rock had no hope of defending itself, and yet he had marched east not further west. Winterfell had fallen and Casterly Rock remained standing. His brothers were slain by his best friend, and his mother had freed the Kingslayer. Robett Glover and Ser Hellman Tallhart had marched south and had been broken by Randyll Tarly's host at Duskendale, Robett had been a prisoner of war but Robb had traded Willem and Martyn Lannister for the man, and they had received word that Robett had boarded a ship bound for White Harbour. His campaign was falling around him, with Winterfell fallen and Ironborn in Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte, and the Lannisters and Tyrells having a secure holding of King's Landing, he knew he was trapped. March north and the Riverlands would bleed, march north and his northmen would not wish to leave their lands undefended. Remain in the Riverlands and the North would continue to bleed. He knew as King in the North, that by proxy he had to march back north, he had to reclaim the north and hope and pray that the Lannisters left the Riverlands alone, though he highly doubted that they would.
The only bright spots in an otherwise gloomy few weeks for Robb had been the birth of his and Alys's daughter Shiera. Shiera had Alys's long face and brown hair, but she had his Tully blue eyes. She was the light in the darkness, her smiles, her gurgles they were what kept Robb going through the dark times, they had even been enough to convince Lord Rickard not to kill the Lannister prisoners they still had when they had come back to Riverrun. Before they had left the Crag though, the Westerlings had become part of the Kingdom of the North, Lady Jeyne Westerling having married the Smalljon, much to her mother's apparent disdain but to the Greatjon's joy. With them they brought fifty men, a few of them knights. Riverrun was filled with gloom and despair when Robb and the northmen had arrived back. His uncle Edmure had destroyed the Lannister host that had thought to march west, but it had not been Tywin Lannister leading them, no it had been a small host led by Ser Armory Loch, and used as a distraction as Lord Lannister joined the rest of his strength with that of the Tyrells and destroyed Stannis Baratheon on the Blackwater.
His mother was a shade of the woman she had been before the king had come to Winterfell all those years ago. She constantly had a haunted look in her face, a look he had seen all too often on Lord Karstark's face whilst they had been in the Westerlands. He could not even muster any anger at her actions, for he understood them all too well, he knew she wanted Sansa and Arya back safe with them, he wanted the same thing too. Hell if something were to happen to Shiera now, he knew he would tear the earth apart looking for some way to get her back. With Bran dead, and there being no response from King's Landing, the Freys had come knocking on Riverrun's doors to once more claim one of Robb's kin for a marriage. This time his uncle Edmure would be marrying one of Lord Walder's daughters by the name of Roslin. His uncle had been petulant and had asked much later when the Freys had gone back to the Twins, as to why he could not choose his own bride. Robb had not had the patience nor the will to chastise his uncle, instead that task had fallen to his great uncle the Blackfish, who had reminded Edmure that he was the Lord of Riverrun now with Lord Hoster's death, and it was up to him to do his duty to his family.
Before they had marched, Robb had written his will, which stated that in the event of his death, Alys and their daughter were to be taken to the Wall and see that Jon took care of them. He had legitimised his cousin and named him Stark, he hoped that should anything happen to him that Jon would take care of Alys and Shiera to the best of his ability and would try and make sure no harm befell them. He had trusted Theon, and Theon had betrayed that trust, but Jon was family, the blood of the Starks and the First Men flowed through his cousin's veins, Jon was honourable to a fault and Robb knew exceptionally protective when it came to family, so he was confident that his cousin would protect Alys and Shiera. He had had his lords and lady bannermen affix their seals to the letter that contained his will, and had told Lord Karstark, his uncle Edmure and the Blackfish the true contents of the will upon finishing with the rest of his bannermen, Lord Karstark had a spare copy of the will, should anything go awry, he kept the main copy on his person though he knew to give it to Alys before they entered the Twins for Edmure's wedding.
The Westerlings had deigned to stay in Riverrun and not venture north for the wedding, though Ser Raynald the heir to the Crag would be accompanying Robb to the Twins. Ser Gawen had been freed from his cell in Riverrun and would remain with his wife, and three younger children. Though there was something about the Westerlings that Robb was not too sure about, there was something there that he did not like, he knew Greywind felt it as well for his wolf always growled whenever one of the Westerlings accept for Ser Raynald were near. Robb had been tempted to just let Greywind have his way with them, but he knew that as King he could not do so, he would have to wait for the wedding and the Ironborn to be dealt with before he could deal with the Westerlings.
One piece of good news that they had received before arriving at the Twins was that Balon Greyjoy had died and that there was likely going to be a succession dispute in the Iron Islands with his daughter and two of his brothers both claiming the Seastone Chair. Roose Bolton had told them that Moat Cailin had been left sparsely defended, this Robb felt would make it slightly easier to retake the Moat and the North, there were secret passageways that could allow an army south of the neck to navigate round and have easier access to the Moat or completely avoid it, but for those passageways to become available to them, you would need the alliance of the Cranongmen, something Robb was confident of having.
Their journey north to the Twins was delayed by rain and by floods. At Hag's Mire Lord Glover, Mallister and Lady Mormont left them and made their way to their boats that would help them find Greywater Watch. At Oldstones they camped for a few days to gain some respite, and Robb spent some time with his wife and daughter. It was there that he decided that it would be safer for Alys and Shiera not to be actually in the Twins when the wedding took place. For as he told his wife, his mother and his good father. "There is something strange going on, the Westerlings submitted too easily and with Duskendale, I'm not sure what it is but I do not think all is as it seems here. Alys my love, I know you will likely argue with what I am about to say, but I do not wish for you or for Lord Karstark to enter the hall when my uncle's wedding takes place."
"Why?" Lord Karstark asked, though Robb knew that his wife had more than likely figured out why.
"Because Lord Walder accepted Edmure's marriage far to easily. I would have expected that he demand something more from me. I am worried that should he see Alys and Shiera in the hall during the wedding he will demand more, or perhaps hold us hostage to his own mad sense of right and wrong. That is why I want you Lord Karstark to take fifty of your best men along with Ned Wull and Owen Norrey and Olyvar Frey and set up camp to the West of the Twins, within range but not close enough that should something go awry they'll, take you out. Should anything look amiss to you during the night and the day, ride north, ride for Greywater Watch, should you find the Watch give them the Will, they will help you to the Wall."
"Very Well then." Lord Karstark said and then he got up and left.
"Do you truly believe that something could happen to you Robb?" His wife asked.
"I do not know my love. Walder Frey is a strange and peculiar man. I do not want to take any chances, nor do I want to risk you or Shiera." He replied.
"You are right Robb, Walder Frey is a prickly man. Something is awry here." His mother replied, with that haunted look still in her eyes. Since they had received word that Sansa had married Tyrion, it seemed that all hope of ever getting his sisters back had died up.
Three weeks after they had departed from Riverrun, they arrived at the Twins. Alys, Shiera with their guards had set up camp west of the Water Tower in the woods where noise travelled, Robb had sent Greywind off to them when it became apparent that something was awry. Greywind had lunged at one of the Freys sent to escort them into the Twins and so Robb had allowed him to be led into the woods, by Owen Norrey, saying that he would more than likely be safe there.
Then the wedding had begun. The drums were pounding, pounding, pounding, and her head with them. Pipes wailed and flutes trilled from the musicians' gallery at the foot of the hall; fiddles screeched, horns blew, the skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The sounds echoed off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and shouted at one another below. Walder Frey must be deaf as a stone to call this music. Robb sipped a cup of wine and watched Jinglebell prance to the sounds of "Alysanne." At least he thought it was meant to be "Alysanne." With these players, it might as easily have been "The Bear and the Maiden Fair."
Outside the rain still fell, but within the Twins the air was thick and hot. A fire roared in the hearth and rows of torches burned smokily from iron sconces on the walls. Yet most of the heat came off the bodies of the wedding guests, jammed in so thick along the benches that every man who tried to lift his cup poked his neighbour in the ribs.
Even on the dais they were closer than Robb would have liked. He had been placed between Ser Ryman Frey and Roose Bolton, and had gotten a good noseful of both. Ser Ryman drank as if Westeros was about to run short of wine, and sweated it all out under his arms. He had bathed in lemonwater, she judged, but no lemon could mask so much sour sweat. Roose Bolton had a sweeter smell to him, yet no more pleasant. He sipped hippocras in preference to wine or mead, and ate but little.
Robb could not fault him for his lack of appetite. The wedding feast began with a thin leek soup, followed by a salad of green beans, onions, and beets, river pike poached in almond milk, mounds of mashed turnips that were cold before they reached the table, jellied calves' brains, and a leche of stringy beef. It was poor fare to set before a king, and the calves' brains turned Catelyn's stomach.
You would never guess Edmure complained of Roslin all the way from Riverrun to the Twins. Husband and wife ate from a single plate, drank from a single cup, and exchanged chaste kisses between sips. Most of the dishes Edmure waved away. He could not blame him for that.
Poor Roslin's smile had a fixed quality to it, as if someone had sewn it onto her face. Well, she is a maid wedded, but the bedding's yet to come. "At the wedding feast I hope you will not refuse to dance with my daughters," Walder Frey had said. "It would please an old man's heart." His heart should be well pleased, then; Robb had done his duty like a king. He had danced with each of the girls, with Edmure's bride and the eighth Lady Frey, with the widow Ami and Roose Bolton's wife Fat Walda, with the pimply twins Serra and Sarra, even with Shirei, Lord Walder's youngest, who must have been all of six. Robb wondered whether the Lord of the Crossing would be satisfied, or if he would find cause for complaint in all the other daughters and granddaughters who had not had a turn with the king. "Your sisters dance very well," he said to Ser Ryman Frey, trying to be pleasant.
"They're aunts and cousins." Ser Ryman drank a swallow of wine, the sweat trickling down his cheek into his beard.
A sour man, and in his cups, Robb thought. The Late Lord Frey might be niggardly when it came to feeding his guests, but he did not stint on the drink. The ale, wine, and mead were flowing as fast as the river outside. The Greatjon was already roaring drunk. Lord Walder's son Merrett was matching him cup for cup, but Ser Whalen Frey had passed out trying to keep up with the two of them. Nothing had seemed out of place, not yet and yet he could not stop the sense of foreboding that seemed to engulf him. His mother was sat next to him on is right, and she too seemed to be weary of the surroundings.
Everyone thought my lord would choose Fair Walda," Lady Walda Bolton told Ser Wendel, shouting to be heard above the music. Fat Walda was a round pink butterball of a girl with watery blue eyes, limp yellow hair, and a huge bosom, yet her voice was a fluttering squeak. It was hard to picture her in the Dreadfort in her pink lace and cape of vair. "My lord grandfather offered Roose his bride's weight in silver as a dowry, though, so my lord of Bolton picked me." The girl's chins jiggled when she laughed. "I weigh six stone more than Fair Walda, but that was the first time I was glad of it. I'm Lady Bolton now and my cousin's still a maid, and she'll be nineteen soon, poor thing."
The Lord of the Dreadfort paid the chatter no mind, Robb saw. Sometimes he tasted a bite of this, a spoon of that, tearing bread from the loaf with short strong fingers, but the meal could not distract him. Bolton had made a toast to Lord Walder's grandsons when the wedding feast began, pointedly mentioning that Walder and Walder were in the care of his bastard son. Something was going on in the man's head, what it was though he knew not.
Above the din came a sudden snarling as two dogs fell upon each other over a scrap of meat. They rolled across the floor, snapping and biting, as a howl of mirth went up. Someone doused them with a flagon of ale and they broke apart. One limped toward the dais. Lord Walder's toothless mouth opened in a bark of laughter as the dripping wet dog shook ale and hair all over three of his grandsons.
The sight of the dogs made, Robb think of Greywind in the woods with Alys, Shiera and Lord Rickard. He hoped they would be safe and that this wedding could be done. Beside him his mother sighed. Robb looked at her questioningly, but she merely nodded her head and Robb asked no questions. She had become more melancholy as the days had gone on his mother had, he hoped that she could find some happiness when they returned home.
The Greatjon had drunk another of Lord Walder's brood under the table, Petyr Pimple this time. The lad has a third his capacity, what did he expect? Lord Umber wiped his mouth, stood, and began to sing. "A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown and covered with hair!" His voice was not at all bad, though somewhat thick from drink. Unfortunately the fiddlers and drummers and flutists up above were playing "Flowers of Spring," which suited the words of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" as well as snails might suit a bowl of porridge. Even poor Jinglebell covered his ears at the cacophony.
"A few more hours and this farce is done, Mother," he said in a low voice, as the Greatjon sang of the maid with honey in her hair. "Black Walder's been mild as a lamb for once. And Uncle Edmure seems well content in his bride."
"Would you care for a dance, Mother?"
"Thank you, but no." His mother replied. "No doubt one of Lord Walder's daughters would be pleased to partner you."
"Oh, no doubt." His smile was resigned. They would all try and get into his good books no doubt.
As he danced with Dacey Mormont he took some time to look about the hall. Edmure was kissing Roslin and squeezing her hand. Elsewhere in the hall, Ser Marq Piper and Ser Danwell Frey played a drinking game, Lame Lothar said something amusing to Ser Hosteen, one of the younger Freys juggled three daggers for a group of giggly girls, and Jinglebell sat on the floor sucking wine off his fingers. The servers were bringing out huge silver platters piled high with cuts of juicy pink lamb, the most appetizing dish they'd seen all evening.
Seated betwixt his black oak towers, the Lord of the Crossing clapped his spotted hands together. The noise they made was so faint that even those on the dais scarce heard it, but Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen saw and began to pound their cups on the table. Lame Lothar joined them, then Marq Piper and Ser Danwell and Ser Raymund. Half the guests were soon pounding. Finally even the mob of musicians in the gallery took note. The piping, drumming, and fiddling trailed off into quiet.
"Your Grace," Lord Walder called out to Robb, "the septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been said, and Lord Edmure's wrapped my sweetling in a fish cloak, but they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath, heh, and a wedding needs bedding. What does my sire say? Is it meet that we should bed them?"
Robb raised a hand. "if you think the time is meet, Lord Walder, by all means let us bed them."
A roar of approval greeted his pronouncement. Up in the gallery the musicians took up their pipes and horns and fiddles again, and began to play "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown." Jinglebell hopped from foot to foot, his own crown ringing. "I hear Tully men have trout between their legs instead of cocks," Alyx Frey called out boldly. "Does it take a worm to make them rise?" To which Ser Marq Piper threw back, "I hear that Frey women have two gates in place of one!" and Alyx said, "Aye, but both are closed and barred to little things like you!" A gust of laughter followed, until Patrek Mallister climbed up onto a table to propose a toast to Edmure's one-eyed fish. "And a mighty pike it is!" he proclaimed. "Nay, I'll wager it's a minnow," Fat Walda Bolton shouted out from Catelyn's side. Then the general cry of "Bed them! Bed them!" went up again.
The guests swarmed the dais, the drunkest in the forefront as ever. The men and boys surrounded Roslin and lifted her into the air whilst the maids and mothers in the hall pulled Edmure to his feet and began tugging at his clothing. He was laughing and shouting bawdy jokes back at them, though the music was too loud for Catelyn to hear. She heard the Greatjon, though. "Give this little bride to me," he bellowed as he shoved through the other men and threw Roslin over one shoulder. "Look at this little thing! No meat on her at all!"
As he watched the bride and groom get carried away, he made to walk back to his seat, but when he saw Edwyn Frey push his mother away, and then saw her slap him, he felt his anger stir and he made to move towards them, but then felt something pierce him in the back. He looked down to see a quarrel jutting out of his rib, a second quarrel buried itself in his leg, then a third buried itself in his chest, and he staggered to the floor. Robin Flint was ringed by Freys, their daggers rising and falling. Ser Wendel Manderly rose ponderously to his feet, holding his leg of lamb. A quarrel went in his open mouth and came out the back of his neck. Ser Wendel crashed forward, knocking the table off its trestles and sending cups, flagons, trenchers, platters, turnips, beets, and wine bouncing, spilling, and sliding across the floor.
He heard his mother scream but could not reply, blood was filling his mouth. The Smalljon bludgeoned Ser Raymund Frey across the face with a leg of mutton. But when he reached for his swordbelt a crossbow bolt drove him to his knees. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws. She saw Lucas Blackwood cut down by Ser Hosteen Frey. One of the Vances was hamstrung by Black Walder as he was wrestling with Ser Harys Haigh. And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours. The crossbows took Donnel Locke. When had they begun playing the Rains of Castamere? Robb thought. The Smalljon had thrown a table over him by that point though and so Robb's vision was obscured.
"Mercy!" Catelyn cried, but horns and drums and the clash of steel smothered her plea. Ser Ryman buried the head of his axe in Dacey's stomach. By then men were pouring in the other doors as well, mailed men in shaggy fur cloaks with steel in their hands. Northmen! From where he lay on the floor he took them for rescue for half a heartbeat, till one of them struck the Smalljon's head off with two huge blows of his axe. Hope blew out like a candle in a storm.
In the midst of slaughter, the Lord of the Crossing sat on his carved oaken throne, watching greedily. Robb threw the table away and struggled to his feet, arrows protruding from his body, and blood pouring from his wounds. Lord Walder raised a hand, and the music stopped, all but one drum. "Heh," Lord Walder cackled at Robb, "the King in the North arises. Seems we killed some of your men, Your Grace. Oh, but I'll make you an apology, that will mend them all again, heh."
Robb saw his mother grab JinglebellLord Walder!" she shouted. "LORD WALDER!" The drum beat slow and sonorous, doom boom doom. "Enough," said Catelyn. "Enough, I say. You have repaid betrayal with betrayal, let it end." When she pressed her dagger to Jinglebell's throat, the memory of Bran's sickroom came back to her, with the feel of steel at her own throat. The drum went boom boom boom boom boom doom. "Please," she said. "He is my son. My first son and my last. Let him go. Let him go and I swear we will forget this . . . forget all you've done here. I swear it by the old gods and new, we . . . we will take no vengeance . . . "
Lord Walder peered at her in mistrust. "Only a fool would believe such blather. D'you take me for a fool, my lady?"
"I take you for a father. Keep me for a hostage, Edmure as well if you haven't killed him. But let Robb go."
"No," his voice was a whisper now so very faint. "Mother no..."
"Yes. Robb, get up. Get up and walk out, please, please. Save yourself . . . if not for me, for Alys, for Shiera." His mother begged of him tears in her eyes.
"Alys... Shiera?" he grabbed the edge of a table and forced himself to stand. "Mother, Greywind..."
"Go to him. Now. Robb, walk out of here."
Lord Walder snorted. "And why would I let him do that?"
His mother pressed the blade deeper into Jinglebell's throat. The lackwit rolled his eyes at her in mute appeal. A foul stench assailed her nose, but she paid it no more mind than she did the sullen ceaseless pounding of that drum, boom doom boom doom boom doom. Ser Ryman and Black Walder were circling round her back, Robb was about to shout out a warning to he when she spoke once more. "On my honour as a Tully," she told Lord Walder, "on my honour as a Stark, I will trade your boy's life for Robb's. A son for a son." Her hand shook so badly she was ringing Jinglebell's head.
Boom, the drum sounded, boom doom boom doom. The old man's lips went in and out. The knife trembled in Catelyn's hand, slippery with sweat. "A son for a son, heh," he repeated. "But that's a grandson . . . and he never was much use."
Roose Bolton walked up to him then, a knife in hand, Robb leaned forward thinking to use his support. Bolton leaned in and whispered in that deceitfully soft voice of his, "Jaime Lannister sends his regards." Then Robb felt the cold steel being plunged into his chest, he felt the blood pour out of him, he heard his mother screaming, he heard the howling of Greywind far in the woods. But before the Young Wolf died, there was one name on his lips. "Alys..." Then the King in the North died.
Tyrion
He had come to King's Landing as Hand of the King, acting in his father's stead. He had done all he could during the battle of the Green Fork. He had brought the mountain clans with him, and had put them to use in the city. He had done all he could to keep King's Landing functioning despite the barraging of the Roseroad and the diminishing supplies in the city. He had done all he could to limit the damage of Joffrey and Cersei's follies and impulses. He had agreed to a betrothal between Myrcella and Prince Trystane Martell to bring Dorne closer to the Iron Throne, in exchange he would give them the men responsible for Princess Elia and her children's deaths. How he knew not, but he was a Lannister, and a Lannister always paid their debts, as Jonos Slynt, Maester Pycelle had all found out.
Then Stannis had attacked. The Battle of the Blackwater may have lasted one day in terms of fighting and such, but the preparation that went into it, the setting up of the Wildfire, the sending of the wildlings from the Vale into the Kingswood, the multiple fallback options that Tyrion had come up with should the city fall, all of that had taken weeks. The battle itself had seemed to be going their way, the wildfire took care of most of Stannis Baratheon's ships, Tyrion had watched them burn, had watched as the green flames engulfed the ships, the men and the water and formed shapes like a dragon rising out of the ashes. Stannis Baratheon's fleet had burned and yet the man had somehow managed to get ashore with some of his men. The fighting was fierce and at point it did look as if Stannis and his men might breach the city walls, and Tyrion had felt the pit of despair open up like a cathartic wound and almost swallow him whole. Then had come the attempt on his life. Ser Mandon Moore, a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to defend the royal family had tried to kill him. Had almost succeeded had it not been for Pod, Tyrion's squire and the boy's almost inhuman reactions.
Tyrion had woken up days later in a bed not in the Tower of the Hand, but in a dim room in Maegor's Holdfast. By some miracle, his father and the Tyrells had come to save the city with close to 80,000 men and had taken Stannis in the rear, destroying what was left of the man's host and forcing him to retreat. Tywin Lannister had been regaled as a hero for weeks afterwards, and Tyrion had lain on his sickbed fuming. He of course received little to none of the credit and none of the rewards that should truly have been his as the man who had deigned to use the Wildfire for a proper purpose. And of course the one time he had tried to claim any reward, though it was his by right, his father had outright refused him and had humiliated him. Tyrion had asked for nothing since then, and then he had been promoted to the position of Maester of Coin in Littlefinger's absence. Tyrion had been so close to piecing together all the events that had led to his kidnapping when the man had gone to the Vale, and of course now they had no word for him, and the one piece of conclusive evidence that would have had even Littlefinger flustered had died on the Blackwater, in the form of Ser Mandon Moore.
News of the fall of Winterfell had been well received by Joffrey, as had the deaths of the two little Stark boys. It had fallen to Tyrion to tell Sansa the news. She had not wept, but there had been such sorrow in her eyes, it had broken Tyrion's heart. No girl should have suffer so much pain and suffering as the Stark girl had had to. Then his father had informed him that the Tyrells were scheming to marry Sansa to Willas, the crippled heir to Highgarden, Tyrion had been so close to suggesting that they should let it happen, but then his father had told him that he was to marry Sansa instead. His father was adamant that Sansa Stark was the key to the north, at the time he had not known how, the boy was winning all the battles he had fought and his wife had just given birth to a girl. And so he had married Sansa Stark in the Sept of Baelor, though neither of them was happy with the arrangement they made do. The worst thing was that Tyrion did actually desire his little wife, she was gorgeous and lovely to look upon, but she was terrified of him and after her treatment at the hands of Joff and Cersei, he could not truly blame her.
But for once in his miserable existence he resisted his more carnal urges and had not bedded her. Of course that had subjected him to much mockery amongst the court and particularly from his nephew, but as he now suspected that his not taking his rights may have spared Sansa from less pain than perhaps it should have. Word had come from the Twins of the deaths of Robb Stark and Catelyn Stark and several other prominent northmen and Riverlords during the wedding of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey. No word was made of Alys Stark or her and the Young Wolf's child, but his father did not seem overly concerned by that, for he had said that she would not survive for long not with a young babe and Ironborn in the North. Roose Bolton had been named Warden of North for the time being, and his bastard son would marry "Arya Stark" and become Lord of Winterfell until such a time that a child was born to him and Sansa. Tyrion had left to tell his wife the news, and found that she already knew. Her eyes were not red from the tears she had obviously been crying, Shae looked at him with an expression of such anger and shame he knew not what to say, nor did he know what words of comfort to give her.
Then the Dornishmen had come. Led by Prince Oberyn to claim the justice Tyrion had promised them and to take up the Dornish seat on the small council. Each day Prince Oberyn would ask him when justice would be given, and it took all of Tyrion's will power to not snap back that so long as his father lived, justice would never be given, Ser Gregor was too close to a pawn for Tywin Lannister to disperse with easily. Sansa, it seemed was cheered by the arrival of the Dornish contingent, for her cousin Jeyne Sand and the girl's mother Ashara Dayne had come with Prince Oberyn. The girl Tyrion had seen in Winterfell returned when Sansa was in the company of her cousin, she was all easy smiles and joyful laughs. Tyrion had been happy that his wife could find some joy in King's Landing, even if it came at a serious cost. Of course Joffrey had to ruin whatever happiness Sansa had. His fool of a nephew would always act the gentleman whenever he was with his betrothed Margaery Tyrell, but the one thing Sansa had confided in him was that Joffrey had turned into a complete monster when he was not with Margaery. He taunted Sansa and Jeyne, and she had told him that she had found Jeyne curled up in a ball one day in Sansa's old room crying her eyes out, bruises on her arms and neck, from what she would not say, though Tyrion had some sort of an idea, and he felt revulsion whenever he looked at his nephew now, and of course because the boy was King, he could get away with it. Tyrion made sure to provide Jeyne Sand with moon tea discreetly after Sansa had confided in him, it was the least he could do, though he did note that the Dornish contingent had gone from being relatively friendly to quite hostile, Lady Ashara, Lord Gargalen and Prince Oberyn especially. It was only a matter of time before something happened.
As such Tyrion was not sorry when Joffrey died. As far as he was concerned the boy had it coming. He was an arrogant, pompous ass, who was mean and would have been a worse king than Aerys the mad. And the only regret Tyrion had had was that he could not be the one to kill his cunt of a nephew himself and that the boy had died choking on pidegon pie, which Tyrion had had the misfortune to have had to have served him. That of course led to his sister accusing him of murder. Sansa had disappeared from the wedding and from King's Landing well before the bells of Baelor had tolled to signal Joffrey's death and he had a rough idea where she might be now, though he said not a word to his uncle Kevan nor his father or Lord Tyrell when questioned, though he suspected that Prince Oberyn knew where Sansa was as well.
His trial was a farce from beginning to end. : Ser Addam Marbrand waited at the door with six gold cloaks. He had nothing to say this morning, it seemed. Another good man who thinks me a kinslayer. Tyrion summoned all the dignity he could find and waddled down the steps. He could feel them all watching him as he crossed the yard; the guards on the walls, the grooms by the stables, the scullions and washerwomen and serving girls. Inside the throne room, knights and lordlings moved aside to let them through, and whispered to their ladies.
No sooner had Tyrion taken his place before the judges than another group of gold cloaks led in Shae.
A cold hand tightened round his heart. Varys betrayed her, he thought. Then he remembered. No. I betrayed her myself. I should have left her with Lollys. Of course they'd question Sansa's maids, I'd do the same. Tyrion rubbed at the slick scar where his nose had been, wondering why Cersei had bothered. Shae knows nothing that can hurt me.
"They plotted it together," she said, this girl he'd loved. "The Imp and Lady Sansa plotted it after the Young Wolf died. Sansa wanted revenge for her brother and Tyrion meant to have the throne. He was going to kill his sister next, and then his own lord father, so he could be Hand for Prince Tommen. But after a year or so, before Tommen got too old, he would have killed him too, so as to take the crown for his own head."
"How could you know all this?" demanded Prince Oberyn. "Why would the Imp pulge such plans to his wife's maid?"
"I overheard some, m'lord," said Shae, "and m'lady let things slip too. But most I had from his own lips. I wasn't only Lady Sansa's maid. I was his whore, all the time he was here in King's Landing. On the morning of the wedding, he dragged me down where they keep the dragon skulls and fucked me there with the monsters all around. And when I cried, he said I ought to be more grateful, that it wasn't every girl who got to be the king's whore. That was when he told me how he meant to be king. He said that poor boy Joffrey would never know his bride the way he was knowing me." She started sobbing then. "I never meant to be a whore, m'lords. I was to be married. A squire, he was, and a good brave boy, gentle born. But the Imp saw me at the Green Fork and put the boy I meant to marry in the front rank of the van, and after he was killed he sent his wildlings to bring me to his tent. Shagga, the big one, and Timett with the burned eye. He said if I didn't pleasure him, he'd give me to them, so I did. Then he brought me to the city, so I'd be close when he wanted me. He made me do such shameful things . . . "
Prince Oberyn looked curious. "What sorts of things?"
"Unspeakable things." As the tears rolled slowly down that pretty face, no doubt every man in the hall wanted to take Shae in his arms and comfort her. "With my mouth and . . . other parts, m'lord. All my parts. He used me every way there was, and . . . he used to make me tell him how big he was. My giant, I had to call him, my giant of Lannister."
Oswald Kettleblack was the first to laugh. Boros and Meryn joined in, then Cersei, Ser Loras, and more lords and ladies than he could count. The sudden gale of mirth made the rafters ring and shook the Iron Throne. "It's true," Shae protested. "My giant of Lannister." The laughter swelled twice as loud. Their mouths were twisted in merriment, their bellies shook. Some laughed so hard that snot flew from their nostrils.
I saved you all, Tyrion thought. I saved this vile city and all your worthless lives. There were hundreds in the throne room, every one of them laughing but his father. Or so it seemed. Even the Red Viper chortled, and Mace Tyrell looked like to bust a gut, but Lord Tywin Lannister sat between them as if made of stone, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Tyrion pushed forward. "MY LORDS!" he shouted. He had to shout, to have any hope of being heard.
His father raised a hand. Bit by bit, the hall grew silent.
"Get this lying whore out of my sight," said Tyrion, "and I will give you your confession."
Lord Tywin nodded, gestured. Shae looked half in terror as the gold cloaks formed up around her. Her eyes met Tyrion's as they marched her from the wall. Was it shame he saw there, or fear? He wondered what Cersei had promised her. You will get the gold or jewels, whatever it was you asked for, he thought as he watched her back recede, but before the moon has turned she'll have you entertaining the gold cloaks in their barracks.
Tyrion stared up at his father's hard green eyes with their flecks of cold bright gold. "Guilty," he said, "so guilty. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Lord Tywin said nothing. Mace Tyrell nodded. Prince Oberyn looked mildly disappointed. "You admit you poisoned the king?"
"Nothing of the sort," said Tyrion. "Of Joffrey's death I am innocent. I am guilty of a more monstrous crime." He took a step toward his father. "I was born. I lived. I am guilty of being a dwarf, I confess it. And no matter how many times my good father forgave me, I have persisted in my infamy."
"This is folly, Tyrion," declared Lord Tywin. "Speak to the matter at hand. You are not on trial for being a dwarf."
"That is where you err, my lord. I have been on trial for being a dwarf my entire life."
"Have you nothing to say in your defense?"
"Nothing but this: I did not do it. Yet now I wish I had." He turned to face the hall, that sea of pale faces. "I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here. You leave me no choice but to appeal to the gods. I demand trial by battle."
"Have you taken leave of your wits?" his father said.
"No, I've found them. I demand trial by battle!"
His sweet sister could not have been more pleased. "He has that right, my lords," she reminded the judges. "Let the gods judge. Ser Gregor Clegane will stand for Joffrey. He returned to the city the night before last, to put his sword at my service."
Lord Tywin's face was so dark that for half a heartbeat Tyrion wondered if he'd drunk some poisoned wine as well. He slammed his fist down on the table, too angry to speak. It was Mace Tyrell who turned to Tyrion and asked the question. "Do you have a champion to defend your innocence?"
"He does, my lord." Prince Oberyn of Dorne rose to his feet. "The dwarf has quite convinced me."
The uproar was deafening. Tyrion took especial pleasure in the sudden doubt he glimpsed in Cersei's eyes. It took a hundred gold cloaks pounding the butts of their spears against the floor to quiet the throne room again. By then Lord Tywin Lannister had recovered himself. "Let the issue be decided on the morrow," he declared in iron tones. "I wash my hands of it." He gave his dwarf son a cold angry look, then strode from the hall, out the king's door behind the Iron Throne, his brother Kevan at his side.
Later, back in his tower cell, Tyrion poured himself a cup of wine and sent Podrick Payne off for cheese, bread, and olives. He doubted whether he could keep down anything heavier just now. Did you think I would go meekly, Father? he asked the shadow his candles etched upon the wall. I have too much of you in me for that. He felt strangely at peace, now that he had snatched the power of life and death from his father's hands and placed it in the hands of the gods. Assuming there are gods, and they give a mummer's fart. If not, then I'm in Dornish hands. No matter what happened, Tyrion had the satisfaction of knowing that he'd kicked Lord Tywin's plans to splinters. If Prince Oberyn won, it would further inflame Highgarden against the Dornish; Mace Tyrell would see the man who crippled his son helping the dwarf who almost poisoned his daughter to escape his rightful punishment. And if the Mountain triumphed, Doran Martell might well demand to know why his brother had been served with death instead of the justice Tyrion had promised him. Dorne might crown Myrcella after all.
It was almost worth dying to know all the trouble he'd made. Will you come to see the end, Shae? Will you stand there with the rest, watching as Ser Ilyn lops my ugly head off? Will you miss your giant of Lannister when he's dead? He drained his wine, flung the cup aside, and sang lustily.
He rode through the streets of the city,
down from his hill on high,
O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,
he rode to a woman's sigh.
For she was his secret treasure,
she was his shame and his bliss.
And a chain and a keep are nothing,
compared to a woman's kiss.
Ser Kevan did not visit him that night. He was probably with Lord Tywin, trying to placate the Tyrells. I have seen the last of that uncle, I fear. He poured another cup of wine. A pity he'd had Symon Silver Tongue killed before learning all the words of that song. It wasn't a bad song, if truth be told. Especially compared to the ones that would be written about him henceforth. "For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman's hands are warm," he sang. Perhaps he should write the other verses himself. If he lived so long.
That night, surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister slept long and deep. He rose at first light, well rested and with a hearty appetite, and broke his fast on fried bread, blood sausage, applecakes, and a double helping of eggs cooked with onions and fiery Dornish peppers. Then he begged leave of his guards to attend his champion. Ser Addam gave his consent.
Tyrion found Prince Oberyn drinking a cup of red wine as he donned his armor. He was attended by four of his younger Dornish lordlings. "Good morrow to you, my lord," the prince said. "Will you take a cup of wine?"
"Should you be drinking before battle?"
"I always drink before battle."
"That could get you killed. Worse, it could get me killed."
Prince Oberyn laughed. "The gods defend the innocent. You are innocent, I trust?"
"Only of killing Joffrey," Tyrion admitted. "I do hope you know what you are about to face. Gregor Clegane is—"
"—large? So I have heard."
"He is almost eight feet tall and must weigh thirty stone, all of it muscle. He fights with a two-handed greatsword, but needs only one hand to wield it. He has been known to cut men in half with a single blow. His armor is so heavy that no lesser man could bear the weight, let alone move in it."
Prince Oberyn was unimpressed. "I have killed large men before. The trick is to get them off their feet. Once they go down, they're dead." The Dornishman sounded so blithely confident that Tyrion felt almost reassured, until he turned and said, "Daemon, my spear!" Ser Daemon tossed it to him, and the Red Viper snatched it from the air.
"You mean to face the Mountain with a spear?" That made Tyrion uneasy all over again. In battle, ranks of massed spears made for a formidable front, but single combat against a skilled swordsman was a very different matter.
"We are fond of spears in Dorne. Besides, it is the only way to counter his reach. Have a look, Lord Imp, but see you do not touch." The spear was turned ash eight feet long, the shaft smooth, thick, and heavy. The last two feet of that was steel: a slender leaf-shaped spearhead narrowing to a wicked spike. The edges looked sharp enough to shave with. When Oberyn spun the haft between the palms of his hand, they glistened black. Oil? Or poison? Tyrion decided that he would sooner not know. "I hope you are good with that," he said doubtfully.
"You will have no cause for complaint. Though Ser Gregor may. However thick his plate, there will be gaps at the joints. Inside the elbow and knee, beneath the arms . . . I will find a place to tickle him, I promise you." He set the spear aside. "It is said that a Lannister always pays his debts. Perhaps you will return to Sunspear with me when the day's bloodletting is done. My brother Doran would be most pleased to meet the rightful heir to Casterly Rock . . . especially if he brought his lovely wife, the Lady of Winterfell."
Does the snake think I have Sansa squirreled away somewhere, like a nut I'm hoarding for winter? If so, Tyrion was not about to disabuse him. "A trip to Dorne might be very pleasant, now that I reflect on it."
"Plan on a lengthy visit." Prince Oberyn sipped his wine. "You and Doran have many matters of mutual interest to discuss. Music, trade, history, wine, the dwarf's penny . . . the laws of inheritance and succession. No doubt an uncle's counsel would be of benefit to Queen Myrcella in the trying times ahead."
If Varys had his little birds listening, Oberyn was giving them a ripe earful. "I believe I will have that cup of wine," said Tyrion. Queen Myrcella? It would have been more tempting if only he did have Sansa tucked beneath his cloak. If she declared for Myrcella over Tommen, would the north follow? What the Red Viper was hinting at was treason. Could Tyrion truly take up arms against Tommen, against his own father? Cersei would spit blood. It might be worth it for that alone.
"Do you recall the tale I told you of our first meeting, Imp?" Prince Oberyn asked, as the Bastard of Godsgrace knelt before him to fasten his greaves. "It was not for your tail alone that my sister and I came to Casterly Rock. We were on a quest of sorts. A quest that took us to Starfall, the Arbor, Oldtown, the Shield Islands, Crakehall, and finally Casterly Rock . . . but our true destination was marriage. Doran was betrothed to Lady Mellario of Norvos, so he had been left behind as castellan of Sunspear. My sister and I were yet unpromised.
"Elia found it all exciting. She was of that age, and her delicate health had never permitted her much travel. I preferred to amuse myself by mocking my sister's suitors. There was Little Lord Lazyeye, Squire Squishlips, one I named the Whale That Walks, that sort of thing. The only one who was even halfway presentable was young Baelor Hightower. A pretty lad, and my sister was half in love with him until he had the misfortune to fart once in our presence. I promptly named him Baelor Breakwind, and after that Elia couldn't look at him without laughing. I was a monstrous young fellow, someone should have sliced out my vile tongue."
Yes, Tyrion agreed silently. Baelor Hightower was no longer young, but he remained Lord Leyton's heir; wealthy, handsome, and a knight of splendid repute. Baelor Brightsmile, they called him now. Had Elia wed him in place of Rhaegar Targaryen, she might be in Oldtown with her children growing tall around her. He wondered how many lives had been snuffed out by that fart.
"Lannisport was the end of our voyage," Prince Oberyn went on, as Ser Arron Qorgyle helped him into a padded leather tunic and began lacing it up the back. "Were you aware that our mothers knew each other of old?"
"They had been at court together as girls, I seem to recall. Companions to Princess Rhaella?"
"Just so. It was my belief that the mothers had cooked up this plot between them. Squire Squishlips and his ilk and the various pimply young maidens who'd been paraded before me were the almonds before the feast, meant only to whet our appetites. The main course was to be served at Casterly Rock."
"Cersei and Jaime."
"Such a clever dwarf. Elia and I were older, to be sure. Your brother and sister could not have been more than eight or nine. Still, a difference of five or six years is little enough. And there was an empty cabin on our ship, a very nice cabin, such as might be kept for a person of high birth. As if it were intended that we take someone back to Sunspear. A young page, perhaps. Or a companion for Elia. Your lady mother meant to betroth Jaime to my sister, or Cersei to me. Perhaps both."
"Perhaps," said Tyrion, "but my father—"
"—ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but was ruled at home by his lady wife, or so my mother always said." Prince Oberyn raised his arms, so Lord Dagos Manwoody and the Bastard of Godsgrace could slip a chainmail byrnie down over his head. "At Oldtown we learned of your mother's death, and the monstrous child she had borne. We might have turned back there, but my mother chose to sail on. I told you of the welcome we found at Casterly Rock.
"What I did not tell you was that my mother waited as long as was decent, and then broached your father about our purpose. Years later, on her deathbed, she told me that Lord Tywin had refused us brusquely. His daughter was meant for Prince Rhaegar, he informed her. And when she asked for Jaime, to espouse Elia, he offered her you instead."
"Which offer she took for an outrage."
"It was. Even you can see that, surely?"
"Oh, surely." It all goes back and back, Tyrion thought, to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance on in our steads. "Well, Prince Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne, not Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock. So it would seem your mother won that tilt."
"She thought so," Prince Oberyn agreed, "but your father is not a man to forget such slights. He taught that lesson to Lord and Lady Tarbeck once, and to the Reynes of Castamere. And at King's Landing, he taught it to my sister. My helm, Dagos." Manwoody handed it to him; a high golden helm with a copper disk mounted on the brow, the sun of Dorne. The visor had been removed, Tyrion saw. "Elia and her children have waited long for justice." Prince Oberyn pulled on soft red leather gloves, and took up his spear again. "But this day they shall have it."
The outer ward had been chosen for the combat. Tyrion had to skip and run to keep up with Prince Oberyn's long strides. The snake is eager, he thought. Let us hope he is venomous as well. The day was grey and windy. The sun was struggling to break through the clouds, but Tyrion could no more have said who was going to win that fight than the one on which his life depended.
It looked as though a thousand people had come to see if he would live or die. They lined the castle wallwalks and elbowed one another on the steps of keeps and towers. They watched from the stable doors, from windows and bridges, from balconies and roofs. And the yard was packed with them, so many that the gold cloaks and the knights of the Kingsguard had to shove them back to make enough room for the fight. Some had dragged out chairs to watch more comfortably, while others perched on barrels. We should have done this in the Dragonpit, Tyrion thought sourly. We could have charged a penny a head and paid for Joffrey's wedding and funeral both. Some of the onlookers even had small children sitting on their shoulders, to get a better view. They shouted and pointed at the sight of Tyrion.
Cersei seemed half a child herself beside Ser Gregor. In his armor, the Mountain looked bigger than any man had any right to be. Beneath a long yellow surcoat bearing the three black dogs of Clegane, he wore heavy plate over chainmail, dull grey steel dinted and scarred in battle. Beneath that would be boiled leather and a layer of quilting. A flat-topped greathelm was bolted to his gorget, with breaths around the mouth and nose and a narrow slit for vision. The crest atop it was a stone fist.
If Ser Gregor was suffering from wounds, Tyrion could see no sign of it from across the yard. He looks as though he was chiseled out of rock, standing there. His greatsword was planted in the ground before him, six feet of scarred metal. Ser Gregor's huge hands, clad in gauntlets of lobstered steel, clasped the crosshilt to either side of the grip. Even Prince Oberyn's paramour paled at the sight of him. "You are going to fight that?" Ellaria Sand said in a hushed voice.
"I am going to kill that," her lover replied carelessly.
Tyrion had his own doubts, now that they stood on the brink. When he looked at Prince Oberyn, he found himself wishing he had Bronn defending him . . . or even better, Jaime. The Red Viper was lightly armored; greaves, vambraces, gorget, spaulder, steel codpiece. Elsewise Oberyn was clad in supple leather and flowing silks. Over his byrnie he wore his scales of gleaming copper, but mail and scale together would not give him a quarter the protection of Gregor's heavy plate. With its visor removed, the prince's helm was effectively no better than a halfhelm, lacking even a nasal. His round steel shield was brightly polished, and showed the sun-and-spear in red gold, yellow gold, white gold, and copper.
Dance around him until he's so tired he can hardly lift his arm, then put him on his back. The Red Viper seemed to have the same notion as Bronn. But the sellsword had been blunt about the risks of such tactics. I hope to seven hells that you know what you are doing, snake.
A platform had been erected beside the Tower of the Hand, halfway between the two champions. That was where Lord Tywin sat with his brother Ser Kevan. King Tommen was not in evidence; for that, at least, Tyrion was grateful.
Lord Tywin glanced briefly at his dwarf son, then lifted his hand. A dozen trumpeters blew a fanfare to quiet the crowd. The High Septon shuffled forward in his tall crystal crown, and prayed that the Father Above would help them in this judgment, and that the Warrior would lend his strength to the arm of the man whose cause was just. That would be me, Tyrion almost shouted, but they would only laugh, and he was sick unto death of laughter.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack brought Clegane his shield, a massive thing of heavy oak rimmed in black iron. As the Mountain slid his left arm through the straps, Tyrion saw that the hounds of Clegane had been painted over. This morning Ser Gregor bore the seven-pointed star the Andals had brought to Westeros when they crossed the narrow sea to overwhelm the First Men and their gods. Very pious of you, Cersei, but I doubt the gods will be impressed.
There were fifty yards between them. Prince Oberyn advanced quickly, Ser Gregor more ominously. The ground does not shake when he walks, Tyrion told himself. That is only my heart fluttering. When the two men were ten yards apart, the Red Viper stopped and called out, "Have they told you who I am?"
Ser Gregor grunted through his breaths. "Some dead man." He came on, inexorable.
The Dornishman slid sideways. "I am Oberyn Martell, a prince of Dorne," he said, as the Mountain turned to keep him in sight. "Princess Elia was my sister."
"Who?" asked Gregor Clegane.
Oberyn's long spear jabbed, but Ser Gregor took the point on his shield, shoved it aside, and bulled back at the prince, his great sword flashing. The Dornishman spun away untouched. The spear darted forward. Clegane slashed at it, Martell snapped it back, then thrust again. Metal screamed on metal as the spearhead slid off the Mountain's chest, slicing through the surcoat and leaving a long bright scratch on the steel beneath. "Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne," the Red Viper hissed. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
Ser Gregor grunted. He made a ponderous charge to hack at the Dornishman's head. Prince Oberyn avoided him easily. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
"Did you come to talk or to fight?"
"I came to hear you confess." The Red Viper landed a quick thrust on the Mountain's belly, to no effect. Gregor cut at him, and missed. The long spear lanced in above his sword. Like a serpent's tongue it flickered in and out, feinting low and landing high, jabbing at groin, shield, eyes. The Mountain makes for a big target, at the least, Tyrion thought. Prince Oberyn could scarcely miss, though none of his blows was penetrating Ser Gregor's heavy plate. The Dornishman kept circling, jabbing, then darting back again, forcing the bigger man to turn and turn again. Clegane is losing sight of him. The Mountain's helm had a narrow eyeslit, severely limiting his vision. Oberyn was making good use of that, and the length of his spear, and his quickness.
It went on that way for what seemed a long time. Back and forth they moved across the yard, and round and round in spirals, Ser Gregor slashing at the air while Oberyn's spear struck at arm, and leg, twice at his temple. Gregor's big wooden shield took its share of hits as well, until a dog's head peeped out from under the star, and elsewhere the raw oak showed through. Clegane would grunt from time to time, and once Tyrion heard him mutter a curse, but otherwise he fought in a sullen silence.
Not Oberyn Martell. "You raped her," he called, feinting. "You murdered her," he said, dodging a looping cut from Gregor's greatsword. "You killed her children," he shouted, slamming the spearpoint into the giant's throat, only to have it glance off the thick steel gorget with a screech.
"Oberyn is toying with him," said Ellaria Sand.
That is fool's play, thought Tyrion. "The Mountain is too bloody big to be any man's toy."
All around the yard, the throng of spectators was creeping in toward the two combatants, edging forward inch by inch to get a better view. The Kingsguard tried to keep them back, shoving at the gawkers forcefully with their big white shields, but there were hundreds of gawkers and only six of the men in white armor.
"You raped her." Prince Oberyn parried a savage cut with his spearhead. "You murdered her." He sent the spearpoint at Clegane's eyes, so fast the huge man flinched back. "You killed her children." The spear flickered sideways and down, scraping against the Mountain's breastplate. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." The spear was two feet longer than Ser Gregor's sword, more than enough to keep him at an awkward distance. He hacked at the shaft whenever Oberyn lunged at him, trying to lop off the spearhead, but he might as well have been trying to hack the wings off a fly. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." Gregor tried to bull rush, but Oberyn skipped aside and circled round his back. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
"Be quiet." Ser Gregor seemed to be moving a little slower, and his greatsword no longer rose quite so high as it had when the contest began. "Shut your bloody mouth."
"You raped her," the prince said, moving to the right.
"Enough!" Ser Gregor took two long strides and brought his sword down at Oberyn's head, but the Dornishman backstepped once more. "You murdered her," he said.
"SHUT UP!" Gregor charged headlong, right at the point of the spear, which slammed into his right breast then slid aside with a hideous steel shriek. Suddenly the Mountain was close enough to strike, his huge sword flashing in a steel blur. The crowd was screaming as well. Oberyn slipped the first blow and let go of the spear, useless now that Ser Gregor was inside it. The second cut the Dornishman caught on his shield. Metal met metal with an ear-splitting clang sending the Red Viper reeling. Ser Gregor followed, bellowing. He doesn't use words, he just roars like an animal, Tyrion thought. Oberyn's retreat became a headlong backward flight mere inches ahead of the greatsword as it slashed at his chest, his arms, his head.
The stable was behind him. Spectators screamed and shoved at each other to get out of the way. One stumbled into Oberyn's back. Ser Gregor hacked down with all his savage strength. The Red Viper threw himself sideways, rolling. The luckless stableboy behind him was not so quick. As his arm rose to protect his face, Gregor's sword took it off between elbow and shoulder. "Shut UP!" the Mountain howled at the stableboy's scream, and this time he swung the blade sideways, sending the top half of the lad's head across the yard in a spray of blood and brains. Hundreds of spectators suddenly seemed to lose all interest in the guilt or innocence of Tyrion Lannister, judging by the way they pushed and shoved at each other to escape the yard.
But the Red Viper of Dorne was back on his feet, his long spear in hand. "Elia," he called at Ser Gregor. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Now say her name."
The Mountain whirled. Helm, shield, sword, surcoat; he was spattered with gore from head to heels. "You talk too much," he grumbled. "You make my head hurt."
"I will hear you say it. She was Elia of Dorne."
The Mountain snorted contemptuously, and came on . . . and in that moment, the sun broke through the low clouds that had hidden the sky since dawn.
The sun of Dorne, Tyrion told himself, but it was Gregor Clegane who moved first to put the sun at his back. This is a dim and brutal man, but he has a warrior's instincts.
The Red Viper crouched, squinting, and sent his spear darting forward again. Ser Gregor hacked at it, but the thrust had only been a feint. Off balance, he stumbled forward a step.
Prince Oberyn tilted his dinted metal shield. A shaft of sunlight blazed blindingly off polished gold and copper, into the narrow slit of his foe's helm. Clegane lifted his own shield against the glare. Prince Oberyn's spear flashed like lightning and found the gap in the heavy plate, the joint under the arm. The point punched through mail and boiled leather. Gregor gave a choked grunt as the Dornishman twisted his spear and yanked it free. "Elia. Say it! Elia. Of Dorne!" He was circling, spear poised for another thrust. "Say it!"
Tyrion had his own prayer. Fall down and die, was how it went. Damn you, fall down and die! The blood trickling from the Mountain's armpit was his own now, and he must be bleeding even more heavily inside the breastplate. When he tried to take a step, one knee buckled. Tyrion thought he was going down.
Prince Oberyn had circled behind him. "ELIA OF DORNE!" he shouted. Ser Gregor started to turn, but too slow and too late. The spearhead went through the back of the knee this time, through the layers of chain and leather between the plates on thigh and calf. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed face first on the ground. His huge sword went flying from his hand. Slowly, ponderously, he rolled onto his back.
The Dornishman flung away his ruined shield, grasped the spear in both hands, and sauntered away. Behind him the Mountain let out a groan, and pushed himself onto an elbow. Oberyn whirled cat-quick, and ran at his fallen foe. "EEEEELLLLLLIIIIIAAAAA!" he screamed, as he drove the spear down with the whole weight of his body behind it. The crack of the ashwood shaft snapping was almost as sweet a sound as Cersei's wail of fury, and for an instant Prince Oberyn had wings. The snake has vaulted over the Mountain. Four feet of broken spear jutted from Clegane's belly as Prince Oberyn rolled, rose, and dusted himself off. He tossed aside the splintered spear and claimed his foe's greatsword. "If you die before you say her name, ser, I will hunt you through all seven hells," he promised.
Ser Gregor tried to rise, The broken spear had gone through him, and was pinning him to the ground. He wrapped both hands about the shaft, grunting, but could not pull it out. Beneath him was a spreading pool of red. "I am feeling more innocent by the instant," Tyrion told Ellaria Sand beside him.
Prince Oberyn moved closer. "Say the name!" He put a foot on the Mountain's chest and raised the greatsword with both hands. Whether he intended to hack off Gregor's head or shove the point through his eyeslit was something Tyrion would never know.
Clegane's hand shot up and grabbed the Dornishman behind the knee. The Red Viper brought down the greatsword in a wild slash, but he was off-balance, and the edge did no more than put another dent in the Mountain's vambrace. Then the sword was forgotten as Gregor's hand tightened and twisted, yanking the Dornishman down on top of him. They wrestled in the dust and blood, the broken spear wobbling back and forth. Tyrion saw with horror that the Mountain had wrapped one huge arm around the prince, drawing him tight against his chest, like a lover.
"Elia of Dorne," they all heard Ser Gregor say, when they were close enough to kiss. His deep voice boomed within the helm. "I killed her screaming whelp." He thrust his free hand into Oberyn's unprotected face, pushing steel fingers into his eyes. "Then I raped her." Clegane slammed his fist into the Dornishman's mouth, making splinters of his teeth. "Then I smashed her fucking head in. Like this." He never heard his father speak the words that condemned him. Perhaps no words were necessary. I put my life in the Red Viper's hands, and he dropped it. When he remembered, too late, that snakes had no hands, Tyrion began to laugh hysterically.
He was halfway down the serpentine steps before he realized that the gold cloaks were not taking him back to his tower room. "I've been consigned to the black cells," he said. They did not bother to answer. Why waste your breath on the dead?
That night he sat alone in his cell, waiting for death to come for him. He thought of his life, short as it had been, and of loves lost and gained. Shae, she had betrayed him in the end as he knew she would, Tysha no more than a whore paid to make him a man. He was surprised when he saw his brother Jaime enter the cell, a torch in his hand. "Jaime? Have you come to kill me?"
"No," his brother's voice was hoarse. "I've come to save you little brother."
Tyrion laughed. "How?"
"Varys."
"Of course, well then let us not delay." Tyrion said walking forward. Jaime's outstretched hand stopped him short though.
"Did you do it?" Jaime asked.
Tyrion turned his head up and looked at his brother with his mismatched eyes. "Did I do what brother? Kill the king? Or Kill your son?"
"Both."
"No."
Tyrion walked out of the cell, but Jaime did not follow. "Tyrion there's something you need to know."
He stopped, "Oh?"
"I am sorry brother. For all of this."
"You have nothing to apologise for Jaime." Tyrion said.
"I do," his brother whispered. Tyrion turned round and looked at his brother, his hero. Jaime swallowed and spoke then his voice hoarse once more. "About Tysha." Tyrion felt something inside of him tighten at her name. His brother went on. "She was never a whore brother. She was some girl we found on the road, but later after you married her, father made me swear to lie to you and tell you she was a whore."
Tyrion felt his heart break, Tysha, his love, his world, a lie, it was all a lie. He was angry now. "You lied to me Jaime. You did nothing when father ordered her raped and beaten. You could have stopped it, you could have stopped him. Why didn't you?"
Jaime didn't reply. Tyrion gave a harsh laugh. "Well then let me tell you something about our sister Jaime. You might think she's been faithful to you. But she hasn't. She's fucked Lancel, the Kettleblacks and Moonboy."
He walked out then, leaving Jaime behind in the darkness. He found Varys in the tunnels beneath the prison, and walked with him. He killed his father and Shae, he would have killed Varys too, except he needed the man to get him away from here.
In a dark haze he boarded a ship bound for Pentos, leaving Westeros and his family behind. Vowing revenge.
Alys
They had heard the sounds of fighting and screaming of the dying men all the way from the woods where they were camped. At first she worried that the Lannisters had snuck up on her husband and the Freys, but then Greywind had begun howling and Shiera had started crying and she knew with an iron certainty that the Lannisters were not attacking them, she could not explain how she knew, she just did. She ordered her father and his men as well as Owen Norrey to mount up their horses and ride, Greywind followed them.
As they rode through the woods, they saw fires being lit in the camps of the northmen; they saw men with the Two Towers of House Frey killing northmen indiscriminately. Then when she saw men with the flayed man of House Bolton walk into the hall she screamed. At the same time Greywind howled. Her father and Owen Norrey had to kick her horse into moving to stop her from riding toward the Twins, they were followed though by men from the crossing. One of Lord Walder's bastards followed them, with some 200 men. They lost them when they got into the Neck, the marshes and the woods swallowed them up and hid them from sight.
They kept riding for what seemed like days, but perhaps was only a few hours looking for the floating castle of Greywater Watch, but it was the cranongmen who found them, who brought them to the home of House Reed. It was there that they were reunited with Galbert Glover and Lady Mormont, it was there they learnt of the Red Wedding, of the treachery carried out by House Frey and House Bolton, of the death of her husband, her good mother and countless other northmen and Rivermen. It was there that they learnt of Roose Bolton being named Warden of the North; it was there that they learnt of how he and Walder Frey had conspired with Tywin Lannister to bring about the downfall of the Starks and the northmen. Throughout all of this Alys remained numb, her husband was dead, Greywind was dead, her brothers were dead- except for Harry, though he might very well soon be dead as well- the only thing that kept her sane was her daughter Shiera. Shiera was only a two months old and her father was dead, yet looking after her, protecting her, that became Alys's main role in the time they spent in Greywater Watch, she did not pay much attention when her father and Lords Reed, Glover and Lady Mormont discussed what to do next. She vaguely recalled them talking of how Moat Cailin was weakly defended but still difficult to take, and how there was a shorter way around it to get into the north proper that Lord Howland would show them, she remembered the discussions of whether or not to go to Castle Black still or to retreat to Karhold. Castle Black was decided upon when they learnt that Roose Bolton and his men would be marching north to deal with the Ironborn alongside men gathered together by Ramsay Snow, now Bolton.
They rode north hard and fast, and somehow with the luck of the gods managed to arrive in Castle Black with little to no trouble. They spent the journey riding during the late hours of the night and the early hours of the day, and as such it was an exhausting journey for Alys and Shiera, but they survived, and they arrived at Castle Black three weeks after she had last seen Robb alive, to find Jon Sand helping prepare the Night's Watch for an upcoming battle with the Wildlings. Jon saw to it that they were kept safe and secure during the battle with the Thenns, and afterwards spoke to them about Robb and his will, he was reluctant to act on it with the Wildlings still to come marching on the Wall at any day, and so discussions were kept secret between Alys, her lord father, Lord Glover and Lady Mormont. She knew Jon was an honourable man, and would more than likely be torn between wanting to honour his vows to the Watch and wanting to fulfil his cousin's last request, more so because she knew that Robb and Jon were more like brothers than cousins, Robb had told her so on many occasions.
Then the Wildlings had attacked in force, and Jon had had to command the Watch in its successful defence of the wall, only to be later arrested for crimes of desertion. He was eventually freed and sent to go and treat with Mance Rayder, but before he could do that, Stannis Baratheon brought his men from the south and destroyed the King Beyond the Walls host. After the battle, Alys had found herself, her father; Lord Glover, Lady Mormont and Jon sat in a room that had once served as accommodation for royalty, as they discussed what was to be done. By then Jon had been cleared of any wrongdoing and elections were being held to decide who the next Lord Commander should be, but Stannis wished to decide the future of the north. When presented with Robb's will the would be king had looked at it and grimaced and then had looked at Jon and told him that if he wished he could become Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, all he would have to do was marry Alys and get children on her. Alys knew Jon was conflicted but she was relieved when he agreed to do it, she would rather it be Jon than some southerner.
Once that was sorted and out of the way, Jon as Lord of Winterfell sent out ravens to the bannermen he could trust- House Dustin, Ryswell and Umber under Hothar Umber had declared for Roose Bolton, as had Hornwood, Cerwyn and Tallhart albeit reluctantly- her father, lord Glover, Lady Mormont had bent the knee to Stannis and recognised him as the rightful king and Jon as Lord of Winterfell. Then their wedding took place a week after that, and the mountain clans came in attendance as did Mors Umber and her great uncle Arnolf Karstark. Each brought with them some hundreds of men to add to Stannis's cause.
The day before they were due to set out for Last Hearth, Benjen Stark returned from beyond the wall bringing with him dire tidings, but no one seemed ready to pay attention to those tidings just yet, as Jon and Robb's uncle was elected the 998TH Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Alys was thankful though that Stannis had decided to leave his red woman back at Castle Black; there was something about her that deeply unnerved Alys.
Relations between herself and Jon were initially strained. She was still deeply in mourning over Robb, and of course she loved Robb deeply, that was not emotion that could simply be turned off. Jon himself was grieving for his cousins, and his uncle, and countless other things as well. Though that in itself did seem to help them both overcome their grief, as it enabled them to talk about the things that troubled them and get their burdens of their chests, and it helped she supposed that Jon and she had been friends before he had gone to take the black so he was not a complete stranger to her, nor she to him. Gradually their relationship changed from strained to one not of love, not yet, but one of fondness for one another, it helped as well that Jon seemed to completely dote on Shiera and Shiera seemed to love him.
When they reached Last Hearth, it was to the news that Roose Bolton had retaken Moat Cailin from the Ironborn with help from his bastard son and was currently making his way to Winterfell for the wedding of his bastard son to Arya Stark. That news had come as a complete shock to all of them, for they all thought Arya was dead or missing, and so they all believed that this Arya Stark was no more than an imposter, someone sent north by the Lannisters to make the Bolton's hold on the north more secure. It was also at Last Hearth that they received word from King's Landing of Joffrey Baratheon and Tywin Lannister's deaths and the escape of Tyrion Lannister. The Imp was accused of killing his nephew and his father, as was Sansa, but Alys and Jon both deeply doubted that Sansa would do such a thing, something that was strengthened when a raven came from Castle Black sent from Starfall originally which wrote that Jon's mother and Sister were safely back in Dorne along with a certain she wolf.
Then a few days later, Jon, King Stannis and her father and their men marched for Deepwood Motte to liberate it from the Ironborn, whilst she and Shiera remained in Last Hearth. The day they received the raven informing them of the liberation of Deepwood Motte, was the day Alys realised she was pregnant once more.