CHAPTER 89

Actor Tan Lu carried Arthur Bracken through a towering arched entryway nearly thirty feet high, passing beneath the scorched and sagging stonework of Harrenhal's King's Pyre Tower. Once the seat of Lord Whent, the tower had become half-ruin, half-refuge, serving as the makeshift Lord's Chambers of what was once the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

Though House Whent had declined since the Mad King's reign, their hospitality still bore the faded elegance of a noble house. Stable boys rushed forward, taking the reins of Arthur's destrier and those of his companions, a mixed force of Dornish sellswords, Riverlands cavalry, and the remnants of the Blood Troupe.

"I seek an audience with Lady Whent," Arthur said, handing a folded parchment to the steward—its broken seal bore the silver trout of House Tully.

The steward, a balding, narrow-eyed man with quick hands and quicker judgment, glanced briefly at the sigil before nodding. "No trouble, ser. The Lady has been quite starved for company."

Without bothering to read the parchment's content, he passed it back and turned on his heel, gesturing for two retainers to guide Arthur's group to a reception chamber.

Arthur recognized the space immediately—it was the same high-ceilinged hall he had entered months ago, before the war. It could hold a hundred men with ease, but it was far smaller than Harrenhal's famed audience chamber, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. That grand chamber, built to host thousands, now lay cold and hollow, far too vast for a dwindling household to maintain.

Presently, the steward returned, arm-in-arm with a frail, silver-haired woman draped in a faded blue gown. It was Lady Whent herself, once the proud mistress of the most fearsome fortress in Westeros. Now, age had hunched her shoulders and slowed her gait.

"It's you," she said, squinting slightly. "The young knight who defended me at the feast. What brings you back to this haunted place?"

Arthur noted how distant her gaze was—perhaps she no longer recalled his name. He decided to get to the point.

"Lady Whent, what are your thoughts on Lord Tywin dispatching two host armies into the Riverlands?"

She lowered herself with difficulty onto a carved oaken chair, then motioned for Arthur and his men to sit. "What do I think? I think I am an old woman with little left to lose. If Lord Tywin comes, I'll flee like any other peasant."

Her seat was set against the far wall, so Arthur dragged his own chair closer, rotating it to face her directly. His companions followed his lead, pulling their chairs into a semi-circle.

Lady Whent and her steward Richard blinked at the sudden reformation, but Arthur remained composed.

"If you abandon Harrenhal, the Riverlands south of the Red Fork and north of the Blackwater will be defenseless. There is no stronger holdfast between those rivers. Tywin's twenty thousand would have free reign."

"You expect me to make a stand?" she asked with dry laughter. "I've outlived five kings. I don't intend to die for a sixth."

Arthur leaned in. "I'm hunting Gregor Clegane—he's headed west. Once I drive him off, I'll rally men from Riverrun, Stone Hedge, and the Red Mill. We'll garrison Harrenhal together."

"Harrenhal's walls still stand," Arthur continued. "With four thousand men, we can hold this place against ten times our number. If we hold the line here and strip the countryside of supplies, Tywin's host will starve. We'll harass his foragers and strike at his baggage train."

Lady Whent chuckled again. "Rumor says Tywin has twenty thousand in the Golden Tooth. You have… what? Thirty or fifty? Forgive me, Ser Arthur, but numbers matter."

"Tywin has his legions. I have my allies," Arthur replied. "When I move against the Mountain again, I'll borrow more troops. And whether I return with an army or alone—I'll be here in three weeks to help hold this castle."

Richard, the steward, frowned. "You'll forgive me, my lady, but this concerns your life. If no army comes, do we die here?"

"I've already raised a thousand on my name alone," Arthur said. "Riverlanders rally behind justice. I'll return with more."

Lady Whent tilted her head. "You remind me of my brother, back when he still believed in oaths. Very well. We'll wait two or three weeks. Harrenhal still has guards—and the men from nearby Lord Harroway's Town can swell our numbers if need be."

Lord Harroway's Town, just east of Harrenhal on the God's Eye's largest harbor, had a permanent population of thousands and was still under Whent taxation. That income was all that kept Harrenhal alive.

Arthur stood, bowing. "When the scribes pen Harrenhal's history, you'll be remembered as the wisest of its keepers."

"Perhaps," she said, smiling faintly. "Would you stay for supper?"

He shook his head. "No. We've veered from Clegane's trail to come here. I must rejoin it before he burns another village."

They departed. Richard, watching them go, turned to his mistress. "Are you sure? We should make preparations."

Lady Whent sighed. "If I can't place hope in one brave man, what hope do I have left at all? Tywin's army won't reach us overnight. If need be—we run."

While in Harrenhal, Arthur used Horas Piper's seal to recruit twenty-one stragglers from various Riverland houses. These men had been headed to Riverrun but had no provisions. Now under Arthur's banner, they brought his total to fifty-four fighters.

With superior numbers at last, Arthur pushed westward along the Red Fork to resume his hunt for Ser Gregor Clegane.

Three and a half days later, they caught up to him again.

This time, the fight was different.

Arthur's forces engaged the Mountain's band in open terrain. The Mountain met Arthur in single combat again—his blade swung like a siege weapon, but Arthur's agility and endurance wore him down.

"Seven Hells," Clegane bellowed, his patience gone. "Don't you ever tire?"

"I'll die on my feet before I let you live another day," Arthur snarled, slamming his hammer into Clegane's leg armor once more. The steel had begun to warp under repeated blows.

"Enough! Fall back!" Clegane roared. It had become his most familiar command in the past week.

This time, though, there was no one left to answer him.

Of the Mountain's original thirty-plus men, only seven or eight remained. Polliver had been killed. Raff the Sweetling was wounded and missing.

Arthur pressed forward, but Clegane surged back through the lines, knocking over soldiers and scrambling for his horse.

On Arthur's side, twenty-eight still stood.

"We're done chasing—for now," Arthur said. "Find a boat. We're crossing the river."

A cavalryman from Maidenpool asked, "You're not going after him?"

"He can't torch villages with eight men," Arthur said. "And my hammer can't breach his armor—not yet. My real hammer's back at the Red Mill."

His massive warhammer, forged by Tobho Mott, had been left behind when they departed in haste. If he was to kill the Mountain, he would need it.

They found small fishing boats near the Red Fork's banks. A fisherman recognized Arthur's Tully seal and offered to summon others.

Arthur left ten to watch the horses. The rest crossed north.

When they reached the ferry town near his lands, peasants came out in droves to greet him. Many had already fled across the river from the Mountain's path of destruction.

Arthur was met by Jace, the village headman. "My lord—you've returned at last. Outsiders are arriving by the dozens. I can't manage them all."

"Ox carts," Arthur ordered. "Now. My men are exhausted."

Jace obeyed, and within the hour, Arthur entered the Red Mill village. His town—built months ago—was now too small. Refugees filled tents outside the walls. Thousands had arrived already. More were coming.

Though this bank of the Red Fork had been spared the worst of the war, the influx of mouths meant chaos was coming.

Then a shout rang out.

"It's Lord Bracken!"

"Did he slay the Mountain?"

"Can we go home now?"

The ox cart stopped as the crowd pressed in. Arthur stood and raised both hands to quiet them.

"I have slain over 120 of his men. He fled with only a few left. I failed to take his head—but not for long."

He met their eyes. "I swear this: I will return with a hammer that can split his skull. I will see justice done—for every life he's taken."

The crowd fell silent, then erupted into cheers.

Arthur Bracken sat down again, and the cart rolled forward—toward his village, his people, and the war still to come.

People began to cheer quietly, but their voices were drowned out by Arthur's booming declaration.

"But you can't go home yet. Tywin Lannister's army is watching from across the river like vultures. It's not safe south of the Red Fork. Staying on the northern bank may be harsh, but it will save your lives."

As he spoke, Arthur raised his hand, signaling the crowd to part and make way for him. The peasants, pacified by his authority and reassured by his strength, stepped aside. Arthur passed through them and entered the main encampment before returning to the family stronghold.

Word of Arthur's return spread quickly, and a dozen notable figures gathered in the hall to meet him. Among them were Castellan Amber, several village elders, Dickon Tarly, the Blood Troupe's leader Ange, the Qohorik mercenary captain Wager Huot, and both Bill and Kerry, captains of the Riverlands sellswords. Their presence made the modest war council chamber feel stifling.

Amber, serving as acting steward in Arthur's absence, began his report. With the new village's construction finished, Maester Benjin—sent by House Whent from Acorn Hall—had departed, and the hundred men who had once supported Stone Hedge's defense had been summoned by Lord Hoster Tully to Riverrun. The Red Mill's lands now held around 6,000 people. The original 2,000 had been joined by displaced farmers fleeing the pillaged south bank.

Luckily, many refugees brought what food and livestock they could carry, so supplies remained stable for now. Before leaving, Amber had selected 200 strong-bodied men for basic drills, but training had stalled after Javier and the men of Stone Hedge departed.

Arthur turned to Dickon and Bill. "The task of raising and drilling a new levy falls to you two. Dickon, you've trained in Horn Hill. Bill, you've led men through three campaigns. Between you, I want soldiers worth their salt."

"Understood, Lord Bracken," Dickon replied.

"As you command," added Bill.

Arthur now possessed over 800 sets of armor—some from Tobho Mott, others scavenged from skirmishes. That was enough to outfit a small host. The Riverlands, second only to the Reach in population and grain, had manpower to spare.

"Amber," Arthur said, turning back to the steward, "gather farm tools from the smallfolk. Have our smiths melt them down into spearheads and kettle helms. Anyone without full plate will train with spear and shield. We'll teach them tight formations and discipline."

"At once, my lord," Amber nodded.

After the meeting, Arthur called for his weapons. His warhammer—crafted by Tobho Mott—and his golden guandao were heavy even by the standards of knights, but he bore them easily. His red courser, Red Hare, had already been ferried across the Red Fork by Amber. The great destrier wore gilded barding and was strong enough to carry both its master and the enormous hammer.

Ange had assembled nearly thirty members of the Blood Troupe. Arthur took twenty of them to hunt the Mountain. Wager Huot, cold-eyed and pragmatic, offered no protest. For each fallen sellsword, he would earn fifteen gold dragons per their contract. With Arthur now replenishing the two hundred dragons lost before, Wager considered him a reliable employer—and well worth the cost.

…

Eight days later, at a windswept stretch of riverbank near the village called Mummer's Ford, known locally as Amphitheater Beach, scouts brought grim news.

"The battle's ahead," reported a rider from the City of Rest. "Ser Gregor's host and Ser Amory's outriders are already clashing with Lord Beric's men."

He was one of the original 53 lent to Arthur by Ser Mark Piper and Ser Raymond Darry weeks earlier. After over a dozen bloody skirmishes, only a few of that number remained. Knowing the terrain well, they'd been sent scouting and finally found the westermen vanguard.

The report was dire. After rejoining Tywin's army at Harrenhal, the Mountain had been reinforced with another 150 men. Ser Amory Lorch led a separate company of a hundred, sent to encircle Beric's force. Lord Beric had only about 120 men—Knights, Riverlanders, Stormlanders, and even a few from King's Landing—tasked by Eddard Stark to bring justice to the war-torn countryside. They were surrounded.

"Ange, strike their flank!" Arthur commanded. "The rest of you, with me!"

He charged with forty-six riders at his back. The battle was already raging on the banks of the Red Fork, near the ruined village.

The Mountain towered above all—unyielding, terrifying, drenched in gore. His greatsword cleaved men apart with single swings, red and black blood painting the steel. Even among the brave knights sent by Ned Stark, none could match him.

Beric Dondarrion, Raymond Darry, and Thoros of Myr stood surrounded, their backs against one another. The scarlet cloaks of the Lannister host closed in like a tide. This time, Tywin Lannister's men hadn't bothered to wear disguises—they fought under lion banners.

Just as hope began to fade, a thunderous voice rang out:

"Ser Darry! Marco! Hold fast! I am Arthur Bracken!"

In one motion, he swung his golden guandao, cleaving a Lannister soldier in half. Red Hare charged forward, trampling men beneath hooves. The Mountain turned, just in time to be knocked backward by the massive destrier.

Arthur dismounted in a fluid movement and drew his warhammer. He swung with brutal force, landing a crushing blow to Gregor Clegane's left foot.

The Mountain bellowed in pain and fury. His enormous blade descended toward Arthur, but Arthur ignored it, driving the hammer into Clegane's shin again and again.

Clegane stumbled back, losing balance. Arthur pressed forward, battering his calves, knees, and ironclad boots. Though the Mountain was taller and broader, Arthur's relentless attacks kept him off balance.

Seven, eight times the hammer landed—until finally the Mountain fell.

Arthur took two steps, raised his hammer high, and struck the back of Gregor's helm. It rang out like a bell. Again and again, he struck. The square helm buckled and split.

"HUH—HAAH—HOO!"

The hammer fell five, six more times. Blood and brain leaked from beneath the steel. Gregor twitched, but did not rise.

Arthur struck again. Ten times. A dozen. Until the helmet was flattened like a tin cup and the Mountain lay still, silent at last.

Only then did Arthur stop. He turned to the men of the Law, raised his hammer, and shouted:

"To me! Hold the line!"

The Lord of the Red Mill had slain the Devil of the West. Now he turned to finish the fight.

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