Chapter 22 : Mountain Clan Tribe

Three men had died. The enemy attacked day and night, and they lost three horses along the way. They had hoped to stop and rest, but there was no time.

Their fallen comrades were exchanged for the lives of fourteen mountain tribesmen—skinny as kindling, their weapons little more than sticks, wooden hammers, and rusted sickles.

Catelyn stared at the battlefield in a daze, her gaze falling on a boy no older than Robb. His clothes were soaked in blood, as if painted with red flowers. He had called him a Lannister lackey—this child wielding two swords like a storm, cutting down five of the mountain clansmen on his own.

Now, he wandered the battlefield, picking through the dead. He found a helmet, placed it on his head, then tossed it to the dwarf when it didn't fit. He scavenged a set of armor for himself, grabbed a bow and a handful of arrows.

"Lady Stark, we must leave immediately," a knight urged. "The enemy will return."

Catelyn's eyes lingered on the fallen. They had fought with honor. They deserved a proper burial, not to be left for crows and scavengers.

But before she could speak, the sellsword Bronn scoffed.

"Do as you like," he said, "but Chiggen and I aren't lifting a damn finger."

Ser Rodrik, wounded and pale, tried to reason with her.

Nearby, Cole and the others were burying Jack. The poor boy had fought the hardest—he stood out, and it had cost him his life.

With no other choice, they pressed on. Catelyn rode in the center of the group. Tyrion trotted up beside her, speaking in that sharp, knowing tone of his. Meanwhile, Cole quietly re-sheathed his weapon. Tyrion, too, had armed himself with a dagger and an axe. They no longer looked like prisoners.

As they traveled, Cole noticed that Lady Stark kept watching him.

That night, while keeping watch with a knight, he saw her stir. She had seemed to be asleep, but now she rose and walked over to him.

Tyrion cracked one eye open in the darkness, though he remained still. No one could truly sleep under these circumstances.

Cole spared her a glance before continuing to wipe his sword.

"You look about the same age as my Robb," Catelyn said softly. "He is my eldest son."

"I saw him at Winterfell, Lady Stark."

Catelyn's expression softened at the mention of her children. Cole had seen that same look before—in the eyes of a farm girl named Laurie.

"Bran is the most restless of all my children," she murmured. "I can't forget the way he looked, lying helpless in that bed—so small, so fragile. He's only seven. He should be riding a horse, swinging a sword."

Sadness clouded her face.

"He's awake," Cole said. "Jon was happy about it for days at the Wall."

At the mention of Jon Snow, Catelyn's expression stiffened. She clearly had no desire to discuss the bastard.

"You're not a brother of the Night's Watch?" she asked.

Cole shook his head. "No, the Night's Watch doesn't meddle in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Are you a knight then, boy?"

The question caught Cole off guard.

He wasn't a knight. No lord had ever tapped his shoulder with a sword or spoken the sacred vows over him.

"Not really," he admitted after a moment.

"My husband is Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Hand of the King, and a close friend of His Majesty," Catelyn said. "He values young men with promise. If you wish it, I can see to it that he knights you."

Cole blinked, only now realizing that she was trying to win him over.

"Lady Stark," he said slowly, "I may not be a knight, but I do know what honor is. I was hired by the Lannisters, and I won't betray them. Jon is my friend, and you are his lady. I don't wish to fight you.

"But, my lady… I truly believe there has been a misunderstanding between you and Tyrion."

Then, without warning—

Cole froze, then suddenly shouted:

"ENEMY ATTACK!"

He shoved Catelyn aside, his sword flashing in the firelight just in time to meet a wooden axe swinging for her head.

Steel bit through splintering wood, sending half the shattered handle flying into Catelyn's side.

With a sharp cry, the attacker staggered.

Cole stepped forward and, in one swift motion, brought his blade down. The man fell to the ground, howling in agony.

"Lady Stark, protect yourself!" Cole shouted before plunging into the fray, his sword cutting into the enemy ranks.

A mounted warrior charged at him, raising a heavy hammer aimed straight for his head.

The man swung—only to feel a jarring impact, as if he had struck something, but with no resistance.

Then, suddenly, he was yanked from the saddle, his body wrenched down as if caught in a whirlpool. Only when he hit the ground did he realize—the plain-looking swordsman had pulled him off his horse.

A cold sensation spread across his throat. A heartbeat later, blood spurted, and the world around him spun as he fell into darkness.

Cole shoved the lifeless body aside, seized the reins of the riderless horse, and steadied it. With a swift motion, he mounted and spurred the beast forward, charging into battle once more.

Two mountain clansmen on horseback flanked him from the front, their wooden spears thrusting like lances.

Cole could control himself, but he wasn't as skilled at maneuvering a horse.

One of the spears plunged into his horse's neck. The animal let out a shrill scream before collapsing, throwing Cole to the ground. His riding skills, regrettably, left much to be desired.

The second rider coordinated his attack, driving his spear down at Cole as he hit the dirt.

Rolling to the side, Cole narrowly dodged the strike. He twisted upright—only to come face to face with the charging horse.

With no time to retrieve his fallen sword, Cole reached out and grabbed the horse's head. The beast reared back with a terrified shriek, lost its footing, and flipped over with a thunderous crash.

Cole stumbled back several feet, his boots scraping against the rough ground. A sharp pain shot through his arm—it was bent at an unnatural angle. With a grimace, he gritted his teeth, grasped his limb, and wrenched it back into place with a sickening crack.

The pain was unbearable, but at least his arm was functional again.

Cole wasted no time. He stepped over to the mountain clansman trapped beneath the fallen horse. The man's eyes were wide with terror, his mouth forming desperate pleas.

Cole picked up his sword—and silenced him with a single strike.

The last remaining rider swayed nervously in his saddle. Fear had taken hold.

Cole took a step forward. The mountain warrior yanked at his reins, backing his horse away.

Then, in an instant, Cole lunged.

Panicked, the man wheeled his horse around and fled.

With the enemy cavalry scattered, the battle was finally over. Cole dispatched two more wounded clansmen before the battlefield fell silent.

Yet, even in victory, chaos remained.

Corpses littered the ground. The air was thick with the stench of blood and the cries of the dying.

As Cole walked past a mountain warrior groaning on the ground, he put an end to his suffering with a swift blade.

Scanning the aftermath, he noticed fewer people standing. Blood trickled from the shoulder of Tyrion's younger brother, Morrec.

"Bronn… help me," Chiggen, another mercenary, gasped, clutching a deep wound.

Without hesitation, Bronn drove his sword into him.

Both Tyrion and Cole stiffened at the sight, their eyes widening in shock.

As if sensing their gaze, Bronn merely shrugged. "He wouldn't have survived anyway. I was doing him a favor."

Morrec, wounded and fearful, turned to his master with pleading eyes.

Tyrion met his gaze and, after a brief pause, spoke.

"I will not abandon you," he declared, his voice firm. "On the honor of House Lannister."