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[A.N: I think I didn't do the description of the green men justice, so I included an image of what I think they looked like in the paragraph comment.]
Chapter 67
Robb Stark
The wind screamed through the mountain pass, sharp as flint and carrying the reek of smoke and blood from far below. The peaks loomed jagged and colorless against the bruised sky, their shadows spilling down into the ravines where men and beasts alike trudged in ragged silence. The Painted Dogs had returned from the lowlands, and the trail behind them was marked with ruin.
They came in twos and threes, half-naked beneath their patchwork hides, their faces daubed with crimson and ash. Smoke-stained steel caught what little light bled through the clouds, and the air was thick with the stench of sweat, soot, and unwashed bodies. Laughter rose from them in bursts—harsh, barking sounds that echoed off the cliffs like the baying of wolves.
Behind them stumbled the captives: a score of villagers bound in hemp and leather, their feet torn to ribbons by the stones. The weak were dragged by their hair or shoved with spearbutts when they faltered, and those who fell did not rise again. One corpse already hung limp from a pole carried between two clansmen, its arms bound wide as if in mockery of wings.
Near the rear of the column, a Painted Dog with ochre smeared thick across his chest yanked a woman along by a rope knotted round her wrists. Her feet slipped on the stones, bleeding and raw.
"Up!" he barked, the word rough and guttural. "Walk, soft thing! No walk, I drag!"
She whimpered as the rope jerked her forward, a thin sound lost in the wind. He gave a low, rasping laugh, half growl, half breath.
"Ha! Cry now? Cry loud. Mountains like that." He leaned close, teeth yellow and broken. "We make you sing more, soon."
Her eyes flinched from his, wide and wet, her voice cracking between sobs. "Please… no more…"
The clansman only chuckled, a coarse, barking noise that echoed off the cliffs. He shoved her on, her steps stumbling as the Painted Dogs' laughter carried down the pass—harsh, hungry, and inhuman.
The others jeered as the clansman dragged her toward the cleft in the rock that served as their den.
High above, carrion birds circled the mountain air, tracing slow spirals over the Painted Dogs' trail. The stormclouds were gathering again.
The Painted Dogs had never been the smallest of the mountain clans, nor the loudest. They kept to their own ridges and fought when they had to, nothing more. But when the Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and Burned Men marched off to fight in the Lannister wars, they left their lands bare.
The Dogs moved in quick. They took the empty dens, the game runs, and the hidden paths that once belonged to others.
Down below, the villages near the foothills began to breathe easier. No more raids meant no more burned barns or missing children. The lords pulled their men back to their fields, the watchfires went cold, and life crept back to something like peace.
That peace didn't last. The Dogs waited until the walls were thin and the weapons were rusting, then came down from the peaks again. They took what they wanted and left what they didn't to the crows.
By the time word spread that the Painted Dogs were back, half the border villages were already gone.
A few of the captives were herded into the clearing before the den, forced to their knees among packs of snarling hounds. Smoke from the cook-fires stung the air, carrying the heavy stink of blood and wet fur.
At the center, a septon in torn robes lifted his head. His face was streaked with ash, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Spittle clung to his beard as he shouted over the laughter of the clansmen.
"Blasphemers!" he cried. "Thieves and murderers! You think the mountains hide you from the eyes of the Seven? Their fire will find you—each and every one! You'll choke on your own filth before the Mother grants you mercy!"
A few of the Dogs hooted at the noise, tossing scraps of bone at his feet. The septon only grew louder, his voice cracking into a near-scream.
"The Warrior will break your swords! The Father will judge your souls! Even the Stranger turns His face from your kind—beasts wearing men's skin!"
The nearest clansman stepped forward, the paint on his cheek flaking with the stretch of his grin. He studied the septon for a heartbeat, as though deciding whether he truly believed in the gods he named. Then, without a word, his hand flashed.
The slap cracked across the clearing like a whip. The septon toppled sideways into the mud, his breath snatched from him. The Painted Dogs roared with laughter, a harsh, barking chorus that drowned out his groan.
The clansman wiped his hand on the septon's robe and spat. "No gods here," he muttered, turning away. "Only—"
A sharp thwick split the air, and a shaft sprouted from his throat. He gagged, blood bubbling past cracked lips, and crumpled into the mud.
For half a heartbeat, the clearing froze. Even the hounds went still, ears flat, hackles bristling. Then came another arrow, and another—each one finding a mark. One man dropped his torch; another screamed as the flame caught his hair.
"What—what's that?!" someone shouted.
"Arrows! Arrows from the trees!"
"Shields up! Shields—!"
The first Dogs dropped before they knew what hit them. The men in green came out of the trees fast, cutting low and hard. Arrows hissed past and found throats, shoulders, backs. The air filled with the sound of steel and men yelling, then choking.
Robb led them through the mess. He moved without hurry, each strike clean and sure. Ice cut through leather and bone all the same.
The Dogs broke quick. Some ran, some swung wide and died where they stood. The green cloaks closed in, silent but for the crunch of boots and the scrape of steel.
When it was done, the clearing stank of smoke and blood. The wind was the only thing still moving.
A wounded Dog tried to crawl away, dragging himself through the mud. One of the green men walked up behind him and drove a spear into his back. The man went still without a sound.
Robb watched, then turned toward the captives. The green men were cutting ropes, steadying those who could still stand. Smoke hung close to the ground.
The septon came forward, his robe torn and his face bruised. He dropped to his knees in front of Robb, words spilling out between breaths.
"Mercy of the Seven," he said. "You've saved us, my lord. The gods sent you to us."
Robb studied him for a moment. "You're the one they listened to?"
The septon nodded. "Aye, I tried to keep them calm. To pray."
"Then get them on their feet," Robb said.
The septon bowed his head and began calling out to the others, helping them up one by one. Around them, the green men moved through the bodies, pulling their arrows free and checking for movement. The wind picked up through the pass, carrying the smell of blood down the slopes.
The septon moved through the clearing, helping the captives to their feet. His hands shook, and he kept whispering prayers between breaths. The survivors clung to him, too frightened to look anywhere else.
Most of them kept their eyes on the green men. The cloaks, the painted helms, the silence—it all made them uneasy. Some stepped back when one passed close. None spoke.
Robb watched for a moment, then called out, "Septon."
The man turned, wiping dirt and blood from his face. He limped when he came forward.
"You're hurt," Robb said.
The septon started to speak, but Robb placed a hand on his shoulder. The man tensed, then gasped as the pain faded from his ribs and the swelling along his face went down. His breath caught.
"My lord… what—"
Robb lowered his hand. "Get the wounded together," he said. "All of them."
The septon nodded quickly and turned away, shouting hoarsely for the others to come closer. The villagers obeyed, slow and unsure, still looking at the green men out of the corners of their eyes.
The wounded were brought to the middle of the clearing. Some leaned on others; some were carried. Most were quiet at first, still shaking from fear and cold.
Robb set his sword down and knelt beside the first man. A long cut ran across his ribs. Robb pressed a hand over it.
The noise around him fell away. The air felt thick and still. A slow pull moved through his arm, cold and steady. The man's breathing eased, and the bleeding stopped.
He went to the next, then the next. Burns, broken legs, torn flesh. Each time it was the same—pain fading, color returning, quiet turning to voices again.
By the time he stood, the clearing was no longer silent.
"Seven bless you, my lord!" someone cried.
"Gods be good—he's healed me!" shouted another.
A woman clutched her child to her chest, sobbing, "He's walking! He's walking again!"
More voices rose—hoarse, uneven, full of relief. The septon fell to his knees, tears cutting through the grime on his face.
Robb picked up his sword. "See that everyone can stand," he said.
The septon nodded quickly and started calling out names, moving through the crowd. The wounded turned toward Robb as he passed, some reaching out, others bowing their heads. He didn't slow.
Robb stood a while, watching the people gather themselves. The worst of the wounded were sitting up now, helped by those who could walk. The green men kept to the edges, quiet, wiping their blades and checking their bows.
He turned to the septon. "You know the way to the Eyrie?"
The man nodded. "Aye, my lord. The valley road runs east from here, down through Highpass."
"Good," Robb said. "The Painted Dogs are finished. You shouldn't find trouble on the way."
The septon looked at him, still unsure. "You're leaving us?"
Robb gave a short nod. "We have other matters."
He glanced over the crowd—men, women, children, all dirt-streaked and hollow-eyed. "Head for the nearest holdfast," he said. "Tell them the mountains are clear again."
The septon bowed his head. "We will, my lord. The Seven watch over you."
Robb didn't answer. He signaled to the green men, and they began to move. The villagers stepped aside as they passed, some whispering thanks, others only staring.
By the time the last of them turned back to the valley road, the men in green were already gone, their tracks fading into the pines.
***
Petyr Baelish
The sky over the Vale was pale and flat, streaked with thin gray clouds. The air was cold enough to bite at the nose, and every breath came out white. The road climbed in long curves, narrow and uneven, with a drop on one side that vanished into mist.
Far ahead, the Eyrie showed faint through the haze—a white shape high against the clouds, still far off but clear enough to see its towers catching what little light the morning gave.
The carriage moved slow, its wheels bumping over loose stones. Mud from the lower roads had dried in thick streaks along its sides. Around it rode nearly fifty guards, some in mail, others in plate, their helms plain but well-kept. Among them were several knights, their shields marked with different sigils. The sound of hooves and iron filled the narrow pass, echoing off the rock walls as they climbed toward the mountain stronghold.
A rider came up beside the carriage as it rounded a bend. His armor was plain steel, a narrow blue stripe running down one arm.
"My lord," Ser Byron Coldmere said. "The Eyrie's in sight."
Petyr turned his head slightly, looking out through the small window. The towers were clearer now, pale against the clouds.
"So it is," he said. His tone was quiet, almost thoughtful. "Best we keep pace."
Ser Byron gave a small nod and eased his horse back toward the front of the line. The column kept moving, the sound of hooves and wheels steady on the stone road.
The line of riders wound higher into the mist, the sound of hooves fading under the wind.
Inside the wheelhouse, Baelish was seething.
Musing on his plans, Petyr cursed his luck.
All of his schemes have unfolded perfectly, with none being the wise, Baelish had led Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon to uncovering the Lannister princelings' heritage. He got rid of Arryn, the one who would counsel a peaceful and bloodless resolution. He made the Starks believe the Lannisters responsible for the former Hand of the King's death. He orchestrated a conflict between the Lions and Wolves, and made sure that neither could stand the other by convincing Joffrey to execute Ned Stark.
It was from there that things began to go wrong.
For one, the Lannisters weren't as overwhelmingly strong as he predicted. Baelish was no martial man—the scar on his chest was proof of that, but from a numerical and logistical standpoint, the Lannisters controlled two of the nine major regions, the crownlands and the Westerlands, and had the advantage of initiative on their side.
Baelish had believed that with other contenders having at most two lord regions by their side, the different camps would be largely equal, making his influence on Lysa Arryn, and therefore the Vale, the decider to whom is going to win this war.
All he had to do was bide his time, and join the side that will bring him the most benefits. That same strategy had brought Tywin Lannister supremacy within the seven kingdoms, Petyr didn't see why it wouldn't go the same way for him.
But then Stannis had to assassinate his own brother, Dorne remained silent, and the Ironborn attacked the Westerlands.
Most importantly, Robb Stark –the son of that damned man— managed a string of victories that left him with an impeachable reputation, and with the death of Edmure Tully, the last legitimate claim to the Riverlands.
That is mostly the Lannister's issue, but for Baelish, the problem was that the Lords of the Vale detest the Lannisters due to ,in part, their negative reputation and the alleged descent of Joffrey, and most importantly, the stellar reputation of Ned Stark and Jon Arryn, of which the former accused the Lannister of murdering the latter.
They loathed Stannis, for his crime of kinslaying and abandoning the religion of the seven, his alleged abandonment of Ned Stark, and consorting with an evil red witch from Essos.
That meant that, for all purposes, the only person the Valemen were willing to pledge to is Stark.
And we all know what Baelish thought of that idea.
As for Robb Stark's alleged rumors of blessings from the old and new gods, him uncovering the order of green men, and the restoration of Harrenhall? That is utter bullshit.
Merely the posturing of a child who thinks himself the conqueror writ in the shape of a stark king of old, much like Daeron the Young Dragon, talented in the matters of strategy and tactics –yet lacking any skill or measure concerning the more… indirect levers of power.
Thankfully, Baelish held much sway in the Vale, for one, Lysa would not deny his demands, and was woefully under his sway. Secondly, using many indirect means –mostly during his tenure in Gulltown—he'd controlled the flow of gold in the Vale, with many lord and lady owing him debts they cannot afford, all to preserve their luxurious lifestyles and so called 'reputation', which he then leveraged to secure more assets, and most importantly, their voices within the courts of the Vale, as nebulous as that term might be.
Finally, he'd secured blackmail, and the 'friendship' of many ambitious and influential people within this kingdom and beyond, chief of them being Lyn Corbray, who had a voracious appetite for merchandise of the… younger side.
With these factors at play, he was confident in uprooting all opposition within the Vale, making him Lord Paramount in all but name.
Glancing to the side and through the open shuttered window, Baelish glanced gleefully at the towers of the Eyrie piercing through the clouds.
With Sansa Stark gone, he had no reason to stay in Kingslanding, and so it was finally time. Time for decades of plans and schemes to unfold, and for all those who looked down on him to bow under him.
'At last.' He thought with fervor. 'The Mockingbird shall take flight."
And so it did.
The wheelhouse tilted hard to one side. The seat bucked, throwing him against the wall. A deep cracking sound tore through the air.
Baelish grabbed at the window frame, but his hand found only air. The world outside was no longer still. The ground was gone. The carriage hung in the air, its wheels spinning uselessly, the horses screaming somewhere below.
He felt the drop in his stomach. The noise around him blurred into shouts, snapping reins, the thunder of hooves turning to chaos.
The floor gave way.
For a heartbeat, he saw the sky through the window, gray and empty. Then came the sound of splintering wood and something heavy crashing down the slope.
The noise carried on for a time, a horse shrieking somewhere down the pass. Then it all began to fade.
Baelish lay half-pinned beneath a splintered beam. His head rang, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth. One arm didn't answer when he tried to move it. He turned his eyes instead.
The roof was gone. Above him, the sky hung open and pale, clouds dragging slow across it.
He drew a thin breath. Smoke and dust filled it.
Somewhere close, a horse kicked once against the harness, then stopped.
Baelish blinked, his vision swimming, the world turning gray at the edges. He forced another breath and stared up at the empty sky.
He felt something roll into his side. Feeling burning pain, he blearily turns around to glance at it.
Amid clouded vision, Baelish saw the decapitated head of Borys Coldmere staring back, with blood pooling under its eyes like the tears of a carved heart tree.
The clanking of boots echo, causing him to shift his vision upwards.
Baelish sees the figure of a man with hair red as blood, atop his head lay a bronze crown of seven prongs.
But his eyes, they were a cold blue that stared into his soul with cold, chilling hatred.
As the horror sank in, Petyr's eyes slipped shut, though his heart still hammered in his chest.