At Bitch's Pool, blood flowed freely as broken oars drifted upon the darkened water. The riverbank was littered with corpses—men of House Lannister, Lord Beric's followers, and the ambushing crabfeeder troops all lay tangled together in death. Banners had been trampled into the mud: the golden lion, the crowned stag, and the lightning bolt soaked in red.
It had been a brutal skirmish, but not one that unfolded according to Tywin Lannister's design.
Ser Gregor Clegane had slain Ser Gladden and his horse with a single terrible blow. Baron Rhaegar Mallister had been knocked into the river, where he drowned beneath the weight of his armor. Several of the king's soldiers, caught by panic, were also cut down in the chaos. Yet fortune turned when the crabfeeder warriors appeared like avenging spirits, crashing into the battlefield and carving through Ser Gregor's men until nearly all of them were slain.
"I brought a hundred and ten men," Lord Beric said softly, his voice heavy with grief, "and now half are dead. Two knights are gone, and Elin… Elin as well. Lord Eddard's captain of the guard."
Thoros of Myr knelt beside Elin's body, which lay pierced through by a longspear. He closed the dead man's eyes with trembling fingers.
"Fear not," Thoros said solemnly. "I will give him the words of the Lord of Light—and the kiss of fire."
The Red Viper wiped the blood from his spear and glanced toward Beric.
"You are kind, my lord," he said coolly, "but kindness alone cannot match Ser Gregor or Tywin Lannister. Lord Eddard was doomed the moment he moved openly."
Tywin's network of spies extended deep into King's Landing. House Lannister's power there was absolute. Sending so few men to capture the Mountain had been little more than a public execution.
Nearby, Ser Gregor Clegane lay bound on the ground, his massive body twitching violently. Blackened blood seeped from countless wounds.
"Stuff a boot in his mouth," the Red Viper ordered. "Before he bites off his own tongue."
A dead man's boot was forced between Ser Gregor's teeth. His armor was stripped away piece by piece—helmet, breastplate, gauntlets—until his greatsword lay discarded in the dirt.
Beneath the steel, the Mountain wore three layers of protection: battered plate armor, chainmail padded with thick cotton, and hardened leather beneath. Even stripped, he was monstrous—nearly eight feet tall, weighing close to thirty stone. His shoulders were broad, his arms like tree trunks, his physique terrifying even in defeat.
His body was riddled with wounds from the Red Viper's spear, blood flowing freely. The most horrifying injury was the deep puncture in his abdomen. His limbs had been bound with heavy flails, for ordinary rope would never have held him.
"I will take him back to King's Landing," Lord Beric said.
"The old king is dead," Count Raymon said gravely. "The new one has taken the throne. Lord Eddard has likely been arrested. Joffrey is no true king—and Tywin's grandson besides. You have fulfilled your duty to Eddard Stark."
The surviving soldiers exchanged fearful glances. With Robert dead and the Hand disgraced, they were already traitors in the eyes of the crown. Worse still, they had slaughtered Lannister men.
"I see now," Lord Beric said at last. "We will never swear ourselves to Tywin's butcher brat."
"Then perhaps you should read this," Count Raymon said, producing a sealed parchment. "Joffrey is not a grandson… but a son. The king's will names another heir—Lord Gendry, Across the Narrow Sea."
Beric unfolded the document with shaking hands. His breath caught.
"So that is the truth."
Thoros read it again and again, each word like thunder.
"If Eddard Stark and Ser Barristan stood by this," he said quietly, "then it must be true."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Beric said fiercely. "I swear myself to the rightful king."
"As do I," Thoros replied.
The remaining soldiers knelt, heads bowed before the will.
"In the name of the legitimate heir," Beric declared, "Ser Gregor Clegane will stand trial."
"Yes, my lord."
"The Riverlands cannot hold," Count Raymon warned. "Tywin's vengeance will be swift. You would do well to retreat to the Claw Peninsula."
Beric hesitated.
"We will not abandon the smallfolk," he said. "In King Robert's name—and Lord Eddard's—we will continue to fight."
The Red Viper saluted him.
"You are a true knight. Be careful."
"Prince Oberyn," Count Raymon said, his hands shaking, "may I strike him?"
"You may," the Red Viper said after a pause. "But leave his life for the king."
"For the children of House Targaryen," Raymon cried, slashing Ser Gregor's face.
"For King Robert!" Beric struck next.
"For the North!" Halwin screamed, driving his dagger into the Mountain's flesh.
Each blow was an answer to years of terror.
Soon after, they parted ways—some fleeing, some fighting on. The Red Viper and the crabfeeder troops returned to the Claw Peninsula with Ser Gregor in chains.
Far to the south, war had not yet reached the fertile lands of the Reach. At Highgarden, laughter still echoed through rose-filled gardens.
Lord Mace Tyrell studied the letters in his hand.
"Renly asks for troops. Joffrey demands loyalty. And now there is Robert's bastard across the sea."
Lady Olenna snorted.
"Your son is already dreaming of crowns."
Garlan spoke calmly of fractured loyalties and divided Stormlands. Willas analyzed tactics. Margaery listened quietly, thoughtful and observant.
Renly was charming, yes—but charm did not win wars.
"And this blacksmith king," Olenna mused, "has already slain giants."
When word arrived that Ser Gregor Clegane had fallen, even Highgarden felt the tremor.
"That mad dog is dead," Olenna said with satisfaction. "Many will drink tonight."
"Then the board has changed," Garlan said slowly.
"And so must we," Olenna replied.
Later, alone with her granddaughter, she spoke softly.
"If you wish to be queen, choose the best man. The one who will win."
Margaery smiled.
"I will watch him carefully."
"Observe him. Measure him," Olenna said.
"Then make him fall in love with you."
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