His skull throbbed as if it would split apart!
The sounds of slaughter rolling down from the north grew more unbearable with every passing hour.
Had it not been for Lord Tywin's strict orders, Ser Gregor Clegane would already have charged across the Tumblestone.
There was blood over there, burning tents, the pure joy of killing. The bloodthirsty knight would have paid any price to reach that battlefield.
But the lord had given him a clear task.
Tywin had declared that the Riverrun garrison would sooner or later try to destroy the main camp's siege engines, hoping to draw the lion reserve away from their northern comrades.
Gregor Clegane had been ordered to guard the trebuchets and siege towers—and not merely guard them. He was to lead the finest troops straight into Riverrun, burn and slaughter, finish the "trout" on the bank, then storm their nest.
The instructions were crystal clear and not to be questioned.
Yet why were those garrison troops still cowering inside?
Fucking waiting.
Only cowards hid behind walls. True warriors met the enemy with steel in hand.
"Lord Blackwood begs for reinforcements…" A panting, red-faced messenger interrupted his thoughts.
"Get out." The Mountain could not be bothered to hear another word. He wanted to cut the boy down, but the lad's fine clothes marked him as a minor noble. "Go find Lord Lefford, you milk-suckling whelp."
"But—"
"Get—out!"
Lord Tywin had assigned every man his role.
Gregor Clegane's role was to deal with Riverrun.
Adam Marbrand, Crakehall, and Brax were holding the northern camp; others guarded the fords… The castle towers kept raining arrows and stones, but Lannister boats and rafts stayed well beyond the walls.
Reinforcements were slow, true, yet better than being driven into the river to feed the fish.
The fighting on the far bank continued. He ached to cross with his men, but he could not disobey.
Lord Tywin had placed the finest killers under his command and issued a death-order. It could not be broken.
At last there was movement inside the castle.
For the first time that day the Mountain's face showed satisfaction. Horns sounded in succession, and then the great gates of Riverrun began to open.
Lord Tywin had given him one more task.
The men he had sent were to act now.
Itch had been told exactly what to do: kill the captive Edmure Tully, drag the corpse out, cut the ropes, shove a sword into his hand, and make it look as if the "trout" had been rescued but failed to escape.
Gregor cared nothing for why the lord wanted it done. He did not need to know.
The lord had simply ordered him to find someone to handle the dirty work. That was all.
Killing pigs was always a job for Itch. One hundred golden dragons was more than enough to make the man eager.
Right now, however, Gregor cared far more about the slowly opening gates.
They meant slaughter. They meant everything he craved—shattered limbs, rivers of blood, agonized moans, the light dying in strangers' eyes.
Soon he would feel alive again. The cursed headache would fade for a while.
"The Tully whelps have finally found a little courage!" the Mountain roared, already tasting the coming butchery. "We flattened them twice before—today we finish the trout for good!"
Lord Tywin had never said to spare the traitors' families.
Let the trout and the crows come closer.
Let them stick their heads out of their stone shell…
First rider, second, tenth.
At last! Tully banners, Blackwood banners, and a dozen other ragged standards.
Gregor gripped the monstrous greatsword tighter. The blade already smelled blood and seemed to cheer.
The distance between castle and camp was short. The show was about to begin.
"Anyone who runs, I kill first!"
Every soldier behind him knew it was no empty threat.
He had taught this rabble the rules with his own two hands, and Ser Clegane was always ready to give another lesson.
Even though today's men were not his personal command, every soul in the army would soon learn his methods.
"Form up!"
Spearmen and shield-bearers advanced. Gregor and the knights stayed in the rear.
Their moment would come once the Tully horses tired.
Most of those mounts were second-rate anyway; the good ones had died or been captured in earlier battles. No wonder the cavalry charge was so feeble—it could never break a prepared line.
Of course, some spearmen fell here and there, but he did not care.
The purpose was achieved: the garrison was pinned down and would soon be wiped out.
Gregor smiled with satisfaction as he lopped off a horse's head with one stroke.
The boy who tumbled to the ground never had time to regret wearing the trout surcoat before the second blow split his skull.
Then the Mountain hurled himself at the surrounding enemies in a whirlwind of steel. His monstrous strength tore through mail, crushed plate; the fishermen and farm boys stood no chance.
One unlucky fool who charged him was smashed in the face with a shield and finished by the men behind.
The headache eased.
He could look around and enjoy the sight. The Tully army had failed to break into the camp; his troops held them fast outside.
Cavalry that had lost its momentum was nothing but meat on the hook for the bloodthirsty hound.
Gregor gladly sank into the familiar, beloved reek of blood. Every swing, every corpse, made the pain grow fainter.
When you gutted a trout with your own hands, what was a headache?
When you smashed some stupid crow's skull like a ripe melon, the pain meant nothing.
From the excited shouts of the knights he could tell they too were drunk on blood and victory.
"Stop wasting time! Charge in and burn their towers!" roared a knight on a black horse whose armor bore a black crow. "Move!"
The voice was loud, the horse fine, and the sigil unmistakable—Tytos Blackwood, the stubborn old bone that had forced Riverrun to be besieged.
It was he who had led Edmure Tully's broken remnants inside the walls. It was he who had refused Lord Tywin's generous surrender terms.
One thought flashed through Gregor's mind: kill Blackwood and the rabble would scatter!
He charged forward, sword sweeping. The first man fell, the second. Anyone who tried to block him was shoved aside by his shield.
Blows rained on Gregor, but none could pierce his heavy plate. Any fool who dared challenge him paid the price.
At last only one trembling militiaman stood before him, clutching a nearly useless spear with both hands.
"Careful, m'lord—"
The shout died in the man's throat as Clegane's sword punched straight through his chest. Leather armor was no match for the finest Westerlands steel.
"Clegane!"
Lord Blackwood lacked neither courage nor skill. He spurred straight at him, sword raised to cleave the helm.
The Mountain sidestepped with shocking speed, then brought his own blade down on the horse's foreleg with all his strength. Bone shattered.
The aging Blackwood leapt clear with a young man's agility. He did not run. He did not call for help.
He knew his sword was shorter, so he closed the distance at once, feinted, slipped sideways, and struck back—leaving only a shallow scratch on Gregor's huge helm.
The counter-blow came instantly.
The enraged Mountain slammed his shield into his opponent. Blackwood lost balance.
In the blink of an eye Tywin's champion was upon him.
Death arrived as a thunderous downward chop to the neck.
The blow was so savage it severed head from torso. The lifeless body dropped like a sack of useless meat.
"Blackwood is dead! He's dead!"
Clegane roared, lifting the defeated lord's head high in his left hand. "I, Gregor Clegane, killed him! Your lord is dead!"
Even the dullest man could tell friend from foe by the sudden roar.
The lion side erupted in ecstatic cheers:
"Dead!"
"Dead!"
"The crow is finished!"
"Hear that? That's the sound of victory!"
The riverlanders plunged into boundless panic.
"They killed him…"
"Our lord is dead…"
"We…"
"Run!"
Everything happened exactly as Gregor had foreseen.
The rear ranks of the Tully army broke first, then the whole host scattered like does chased by hounds.
And he—Gregor Clegane—was the most bloodthirsty hound of all, following the scent of terror to finish the hunt.
"Follow me! The castle is ours! Ours!"
The Mountain bellowed as he plunged into the fleeing mass.
The enemy was thick. The distance between camp and moat was short…
The headache vanished completely. Only cold clarity remained in his mind.
He had killed too few men today. He would make up the debt in full.
…
Another sword stroke, another soldier crashed to the ground.
Theon had lost count—whether this was the hundredth or the thousandth.
Yet the corpse gave him not even a second's respite before a new spearman was already pressing in.
The man's spearwork was skilled; he drove Theon back step by step. Every northerner still fighting retreated with him.
The golden-kraken shield he had carried was now useless wood.
It had blocked an axe earlier, then could bear no more. Theon had dropped it in pain.
Now his left hand held a shield bearing the white sun of Karhold—taken from a dead Karstark man-at-arms. The dead needed nothing; the living needed it to survive.
Theon fought with everything he had simply to keep that steel spearhead out of his body.
Hours ago—even years ago—he would have tried to shear the shaft, step inside, and drive his sword into the peasant's chest.
Now he lacked the strength or skill for such a graceful move.
Where was Robb?
Where was old Brynden?
Why did they not sound the horns and order retreat?
Retreat!
Theon no longer dared dream of victory.
The damned Lannister army had not broken. Instead it had swiftly reformed and launched a counter-attack fierce enough to make him curse his mother.
He had not seen a single western lord or knight, yet the nameless commanders behind the lines clearly knew their trade.
The northern charge had been unstoppable at first, but there were simply too many lions—so many.
A true slaughter had begun, and Theon could no longer tell whether they were the butchers or the lambs.
The spearhead suddenly stabbed at his left leg. Theon saw the wound coming—then help arrived from the side.
A morningstar smashed into the spearman's helm. The man staggered. Theon seized the opening, ended his pain with a quick thrust, then scrambled back into the line.
The rescuer wore Mormont bear-plate.
"Greyjoy, don't fall asleep in the middle of a fight!" the woman warrior barked in a hoarse voice—almost certainly Lady Maege Mormont. "I won't save you a second time!"
Theon had neither strength nor breath to answer. He simply stepped back and stole a moment's air.
Inhale—exhale—inhale.
They had taught him at Winterfell: a warrior who could not breathe was not far from death.
He looked up at the clear sky, meaning to pray to his dead foster father's gods, when his sharp hunter's eyes—honed around Winterfell—caught sight of the Tully banner falling from one of Riverrun's high towers.
Had he any strength left he would have cursed aloud.
What in seven hells was happening over there?!
The old lion was not only feeding reinforcements into the northern camp—he was launching an assault on the castle at the same time?
Had Casterly Rock conjured ten thousand armored men and knights out of thin air?
Lord Tywin could not pull knights from a chamber pot!
"It's the wind," Theon forced himself to believe. "Only the wind blowing the banner down from the tower. Nothing more."
His right arm burned with pain. Every swing felt like lifting a mountain, yet the battlefield never paused.
Another soldier fell. Another spear slammed into the shield with a screech.
"Lannister kill—" was all the Mormont woman managed before a warhammer crashed into her shoulder.
She toppled. A second blow to the head ended her life.
Her death bought Theon a heartbeat—and jolted him fully awake.
He sidestepped the hammer-man, smashed him with the Karhold shield, and the armored soldier lost balance and died.
The most dangerous seconds passed, but countless more lethal moments followed.
Swords still whistled. His body was spent; only instinct kept him alive.
Yet where were all these lions coming from?
By Theon's reckoning he should be at the very center of the fight. To his left should have been the riverlords.
Frey, Mallister, knights and soldiers.
Allies, not enemies!
Why were the lions pressing so hard, so relentlessly?
Another wave of reserves?
No—they looked nothing like fresh troops just ferried across the river.
The men Theon killed, and those still charging, all bore the marks of hard fighting—blood-soaked, armor dented.
Yet they kept coming, as if victory were already theirs.
Then a roar of rage and panic erupted inside the northern ranks, and Theon understood everything at once.
"The Freys have run!"
"They've abandoned us!"
"Run! They've all run!"
Theon could not speak. He gave only a wolf-like howl and swung with all his remaining strength at the next charging lion.
Damn the riverlanders—their veins ran with water! They had fled!
No wonder the Hoares had conquered them so easily. Damn them!
Now they had to retreat at once!
"Where is Robb?" someone shouted. A hundred voices took up the cry.
"Where is the Young Wolf?"
"Retreat! Sound the horns—retreat!"
"Wait for the order, you dogs!"
"Sound them! Sound the horns!"
"Help…"
Theon shouted nothing. He parried another knight's attack and stepped back, praying silently that the horns would sound soon.