Chapter 262 - Chapter 262

Chapter 262

Jon stood in the snow, staring at Catelyn's gray, rotting face.

He had been brought back by Melisandre himself. He knew at a glance what this woman had been through.

Tyrion Lannister looked horrified. "Can someone tell me what in seven hells is going on here?"

His eyes moved to Catelyn's withered face, a face now barely distinguishable from a wight's. "How are you — weren't you dead?"

Lady Stoneheart lifted her chin. From her sunken eye sockets, two clouded eyes fixed on Tyrion Lannister.

She opened her mouth. Her cracked lips parted with a dry, rasping sound, and this time the words came through clearer than before.

"Seize him."

Everyone heard it.

The Brotherhood Without Banners took a step forward.

The Mountain drew his sword and moved to Tyrion Lannister's side. The sole remaining Lannister knight drew his sword and took position on the other side.

Tyrion Lannister's mind moved fast. He looked at the Hound. "Sandor Clegane. Don't forget who your lord is."

"Fuck the Lannisters," the Hound said.

Tyrion Lannister didn't push it. He turned immediately to Bronn. "How much did Lady Catelyn pay you? I'll triple it."

Bronn drew his sword and stepped to Tyrion Lannister's side.

"I was a prisoner. Lady Catelyn wanted to hang me — because I won the trial by combat for you at the Eyrie."

"She had me on a rope. So I'll take the one who pays."

Jon saw where this was heading and moved at once, placing himself and the Night's Watch between the two groups.

He planted himself in the snow between Lady Stoneheart and Tyrion Lannister, his hand resting on his sword hilt. He did not draw it.

Lady Stoneheart's throat produced another low, garbled sound.

Thoros of Myr stood beside her, listened, then turned to Jon. "The lady says to seize the man who murdered your father and murdered your brother."

Jon looked at Lady Stoneheart.

"Tyrion Lannister had no part in any of that. That was Tywin Lannister's doing. House Frey's doing."

Tyrion Lannister cut in quickly. "When Bran fell from the tower, I knew nothing. The Red Wedding, I was completely in the dark."

He glanced up at Gregor Clegane beside him. "Fine. If you're determined to call me guilty, I demand a trial by combat."

"You ate my salt and bread," Jon said. "You have guest right."

He turned to Lady Stoneheart. "My lady, let him go. He is on his way back to King's Landing."

Lady Stoneheart's throat moved again. Thoros listened, then said, "Guest right does not apply to Lannisters."

The crowd began to shift.

The free folk had come to watch the wights burn. Now they pressed into a wider circle. Someone called out: "Get on with it. Fight, then burn the damn wights."

Tormund turned and pointed at the man with the hand that held his axe. The crowd went quiet. No one else said a word.

Lady Stoneheart rejected the request for trial by combat.

Her throat-sound was short and final. Thoros translated: "The lady does not accept requests from Lannisters."

Tyrion Lannister's eyes moved across the Brotherhood Without Banners, then back to the Mountain, Bronn, and the knight at his side.

"You have eleven fighting men. If this comes to blows, you may not win. We are only three, but Gregor..."

He glanced at the Hound. "Fine. Bronn can hold the Hound. While that's happening, Gregor and my knight can take your other ten. Rather than everyone bleeding for nothing, accept the trial by combat."

Bronn's voice came from his left. "They also have a Tyroshi called Daario Naharis. His skill is above mine."

Tyrion Lannister's eyebrow moved. He followed Bronn's gaze.

A man stood in the back row of the Brotherhood Without Banners. Two curved blades hung from his belt. His stance was loose, almost lazy. His skin was darker than anyone else present, and there was a faint, careless smile at the corner of his mouth. He didn't look like someone waiting to fight. He looked like someone who had wandered over to watch.

The Hound's voice came from the other side. "Let me be the champion."

Everyone looked at him.

"It's time," the Hound said. His gaze settled on the Mountain. "Past time, I settled things with him."

Lady Stoneheart turned her pale, rotting face toward him slowly. Her clouded eyes rested on the Hound for several long breaths.

Then a short sound came from her throat. Thoros listened and nodded. "The lady agrees to trial by combat."

The Hound walked toward the Mountain.

Thoros stepped in from the side. "Pray first."

The red priest raised one hand, palm up, and turned to the Brotherhood behind him. "Lord of Light, look upon us."

The Brotherhood answered together: "Lord of Light, defend us."

"Lord of Light, guide us through the darkness."

"Lord of Light, shine your bright face upon us."

"Kindle your holy flame for us, R'hllor," Thoros of Myr said, and pointed at Tyrion Lannister. "Reveal to us whether this man is true or false."

"If he is guilty, strike down his champion. If he is true, grant him strength. Lord of Light, give us your wisdom."

Tormund leaned toward Jon and dropped his voice. "These people are just as mad as the ones Stannis Baratheon brought."

Jon said nothing. His gaze rested on the empty stretch of snow between the two brothers. His arms were crossed over his chest, fingers curled beneath his sleeves.

Stannis had once been his most steadfast "ally" on the question of letting the wildlings through the Wall, but Stannis's reasons were not Jon's reasons.

Jon had done it to save lives. Stannis had done it to fill his ranks.

Stannis had arrived with his red priestess and that glowing sword in hand, and he had made every wildling kneel before him and swear fealty before they were allowed to cross.

That same day, Tormund and several other clan chiefs had given up their own sons as hostages.

Jon pulled his gaze back to the center of the field.

The Hound's hand closed around his hilt. He drew slowly. The blade slid from the scabbard with a long, low rasp of steel on steel.

The Mountain stood across from him. His greatsword was already out, pulled free from the snow. He held it two-handed, tip down, the weight of it pressing a shallow line into the white.

10 paces of wind and snow between them.

The Hound came in fast, sword rising from low.

The Mountain didn't move. His greatsword swung across. The two blades met in midair with a piercing CRASH of metal that rattled teeth.

The Hound was knocked back half a step. His boot carved a deep furrow into the frozen ground.

He found his footing and drove forward again, his longsword cutting in from the side, the tip raking toward the Mountain's ribs.

The Mountain took it on his left vambrace. The steel scored white. His body rolled half a step sideways with the impact.

"Is that all you've got?" the Mountain said.

The Hound answered with a raw, wordless snarl. His sword came down hard from above. The Mountain caught it with his blade flat, knee bending, boot grinding back through the snow.

The Brotherhood Without Banners started chanting. "Guilty, guilty, guilty —"

The Mountain shoved the Hound's sword clear and swept back horizontally.

The Hound twisted out of the way. The blade scraped across his left pauldron and left a shallow line in the steel.

He used the momentum of the sidestep and thrust, driving his point at the Mountain's throat. The rim of the visor caught the blade and turned it, just a thin white scratch across the iron.

The Mountain's gauntleted fist came back in a backhand punch to the Hound's breastplate. It landed like a battering ram. The breastplate caved. The Hound left his feet and slammed into the snow on his back, white spraying up around him.

He pushed himself off the ground. He bent and picked up his sword. He stood, and set his feet again.

Blood at the corner of his mouth. A thin line of dark red tracing down his chin, dripping onto the dented breastplate.

"Guilty, guilty, guilty —"

The Brotherhood's voices climbed louder.

The Hound charged again.

Harder now. More desperate. Like he was wringing out whatever he had left.

His sword swept up and hacked into the Mountain's left arm plate, gouging a dent into the steel.

The Mountain countered with a wide horizontal sweep. The Hound dropped low. The blade passed just above his head with a low whistle.

He used the crouch and surged forward, driving his longsword straight into the Mountain's midsection. It didn't punch through the plate, but the force made the Mountain grunt, his bulk rocking back.

The Mountain retreated half a step. His greatsword reversed and came back. The Hound couldn't clear it in time. The blade caught him across the right ribs, the plate buckling inward. His body lurched sideways and his boots punched a deep hole into the snow.

He was breathing hard. Blood still ran from his mouth. But his hand held the sword. He took one more step, his blade sweeping a tight arc in the air, the point driving toward the Mountain's chest.

The Mountain raised his greatsword.

It hung there for one instant.

Then it came down.

The blade came down at the junction of the Hound's shoulder and neck. The steel split open. The blade bit into flesh and bone and stopped there.

The Hound went still for a moment. His sword point slid across the Mountain's breastplate, dragging a thin white line. Then his body tilted forward and he went down into the snow.

The sword fell from his hand. Blood welled from the wound at his shoulder and neck and spread dark red across the white. The snow soaked it in, and thin wisps of steam rose where it touched.

The Mountain looked down at him. Beneath the visor, his breathing was slow and even.

The Hound lay face-down in the snow, his face between the blood and the cold.

He was dead.

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