Chapter Eighty Three: Finality

"Be safe out there," Ellyn beseeched him, kneeling to his level and looking him in the eyes.

"I promise you I have every intention of coming back, and the gods have mercy on me if I do not," Tyrion assured his wife. He told her true; he did not plan to die today. The day I die will be a day when we're both well into our eighties, surrounded by our grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

The beautiful giantess smiled at her dwarf husband and kissed him softly on both cheeks and the forehead, followed by a peck on the lips. If by chance I do die, this instant will be in my last thoughts.

"One more for good luck?" Tyrion proposed with a wry grin.

Ellyn indulged him and gave him a longer, more passionate kiss on the lips. Now that is more like it. When she finally pulled away, she gazed into his eyes and said "Hope that'll suffice. You'll need all the luck you can get."

You do not jest, my dear. He just continued grinning and commented "I have faith in your brother and his ability to lead. If there is one man who can get us through this fiasco, it is he."

Ellyn lightly nodded her head, saying "You are absolutely right. Even so… please take care of yourself."

"I shall," was all Tyrion said in response. I am not the type to sacrifice himself, especially if that sacrifice ends up being in vain.

Tyrion was not the only person there who was sharing a tender exchange with his significant other. All around them, other couples who were doing the same. This may be their last opportunity.

Tyrion's oldest nephew, Prince Jasper Baratheon, was affectionately embracing Sansa Stark at the gate. His next eldest nephew, Rickard Clegane, was nearby with the other Stark sister, Arya. The two of them appeared to have their lips touching. Tyrion smirked at the sight. Princess Elia Martell may have given Rick his first kiss, but at least he was able to give Arya hers.

On the subject of Elia Martell, her children and their half-brother and aunt were about to mount their dragons. Before that, however, they each had an intimate moment with their own lovers. Aegon was cooing sweetly into the ear of his new wife, Talisa Maegyr. Rhaenys was wrapped in a tight hug by her intended, Willas Tyrell. Just a few feet away, Jon and Daenerys were kissing furiously, as though their lives depended on that very act. Tyrion could only chuckle at the two of them.

As Tyrion gazed around the vicinity, he recognized several more pairings. He saw Allard Seaworth with Lady Melisandre. Prince Oberyn Martell with Ellaria Sand. Ser Edmure Tully with Lady Asha Tully. Ser Barristan Selmy with Lady Ashara Dayne.

There was also Lord Jorah Mormont, Lord Sandor Clegane, and Lord Gregor Clegane with their wives Lady Nymeria, Lady Obara, and Lady Dacey respectively. Of course, those ladies would actually be joining the battle alongside their husbands. Still, that did not mean they could not have a moment of their own. It could be regarded as a taste of what awaited them once the fighting was over. Love is always a good incentive for guaranteeing one's survival.

Once everyone was finished with these exchanges of affection, they all went their separate ways. The Targaryens climbed onto the backs of their dragons, and they hastily took to the sky. Everyone else either retreated behind the concrete wall along the northern border of Moat Cailin or mounted their horses and headed out the wall's gate. When the latter group was assembled in the lands north of the wall, the gate's portcullis was lowered and locked into place. There will be no retreating, regrouping, or recovering this time, he noted.

Several hundred feet to the north, the wall of fire continued to burn. Alas, the flames were considerably smaller than when they first began to rage. At a glance, Tyrion could tell it would not be very long before they were extinguished.

The Mountain had estimated that the wall of fire would bring them up to twelve hours of respite, but he had claimed it would almost certainly be less. It ultimately turned out to be ten and a-half hours. The Others had let them alone from dawn until past dusk. Still ample time to heal our wounded, regain our strength, and ready ourselves for whatever fate has in store for us. Tyrion had contemplated getting drunk at one point. He had treated himself to a few glasses of wine earlier that afternoon, but he was going into battle totally sober.

Tyrion and most of the Westerlords had not participated in the first round of the battle. Their numbers had been devastated at the Wall, whereas the Northmen and the Royal Army had suffered heavy losses at Winterfell. As such, the majority of the remnants of those three forces had remained in Moat Cailin in the event that the perimeter was breached by the Army of the Dead. That was not the case this time. This time, every able-bodied person able to wave a stick would be partaking in the battle.

Tyrion had waved loads of sticks in his life. He also had plenty of experience with swords, axes, and crossbows. Still, he was hardly what could be classified as "able-bodied." For that reason, he was somewhat reluctant to take up arms. Initially, he had not even wanted to join the fighting at all. That was not because he was a coward or anything of the sort; he had simply believed the presence of a dwarf would only deter the larger, stronger units.

His wife's brother had convinced him otherwise. Lord Gregor had argued that it would boost the morale of the Westerlords significantly if their Lord Paramount was among them. Tyrion could not deny the logic in his brother-by-law's words.

However, he did not believe he should be the one to lead the Westerlords. That was mainly due to his lack of field experience. The only real battle I've ever been in is the Pentoshi Bloodbath, and there were hardly any horses there. Except for the ones who knocked Ellyn off her feet. At any rate, the Mountain had agreed with the Imp on that point, and as such, he had given provisional command of the westermen's column to Tyrion's uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister.

Tyrion gripped his axe tightly in one hand, balancing it on his shoulder. He held onto his reins with his other hand as his horse trotted forward. He rode in-between his father's younger brothers, Ser Kevan and Ser Gerion. Tyrion's uncles had already engaged the Others in combat once before. Uncle Kevan had fought them weeks ago at the Wall; Uncle Gerion had fought them all through last night. Now it's my turn, at long last. Tyrion did not know whether it was more appropriate to be excited or afraid.

Soon, they reached the wall of fire. By now, it was only a few feet high. That was just high enough to repel the White Walkers, the human-sized wights, and most of the animal ones. It would have been insufficient to keep away the reanimated giants and mammoths, though. Thankfully, those enormous beasts were no longer a threat. At Lord Gregor's behest, the Targaryens and their dragons had dealt with them hours ago. Now all the undead mammoths had been reduced to ash, and the only giants left were the ones on the side of the living, such as Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun. And, some would argue, the Cleganes. We are still outnumbered forty or fifty to one, but at least we needn't fear another stampede.

The wall of fire ran from the Bite all the way to the Saltspear. Neither of those bodies of water had frozen over yet, so there was no way anyone could have gone around it. This space was a considerable distance to be sure, but from what Tyrion could see, the flames had not gone out anywhere between the lake and the river. If it had, we would have known of it by now. Nonetheless, the flames were rapidly becoming smaller and weaker. Any minute now…

The combined Westerosi and Essosi forces were large enough to spread across the whole of that distance. At the very least, we can ensure none of them will get past us. When Tyrion was almost within spitting distance of the wall of fire, he could vaguely see the foe standing on the other side. They were almost as close to the wall, and they seemed just as invested in watching it. They're waiting for it to go out, Tyrion realized. Just as we are.

Tyrion soon heard Gregor Clegane exclaim "Form ranks!"

"Form ranks!" Uncle Kevan and many others repeated the Mountain's command.

In response, Tyrion and all the other riders swiftly moved their horses into orderly rows. Once they were all in position, Gregor shouted "Long-range, at the ready!"

The entirety of the second and third rows was composed of archers, crossbowmen, longbowmen, and javelin-throwers. Every single one of them drew an arrow, a bolt, or a javelin. A few of those projectiles were tipped with Valyrian steel. A larger number of the projectiles were tipped with obsidian. The rest, which comprised the majority, were simply made of ordinary steel or iron. The wielders of those particular projectiles lit their tips afire with torches.

"Aim only for the White Walker!" Gregor called out. The long-range units acknowledged that order, but no one prepared to fire just yet. Right now, with the complete lack of sunlight and the small radius of visibility provided by the wall of fire, they could just barely differentiate the White Walkers from the wights. Let us hope too many of them do not go for the same target.

Before long, the wall of fire shrank in size to only about a foot tall. Soon the flames were barely even noticeable. That was when the Army of the Dead finally continued marching south. Tightening his grip on his axe, Tyrion took in a deep breath. Steady, he thought. Do not lose your composure.

"Release!" Gregor announced.

The long-range combatants fired a volley of projectiles into the approaching undead horde. Tyrion could only see where the ones in his immediate surroundings landed. For the most part, he was pleased by the results. More than half the projectiles hit the Others. Some of the White Walkers were hit by multiple projectiles, but most of them were only struck by one or two. In any case, all the projectiles ended up in something other than the ground.

By the end of the volley, well over ten thousand wights must have crumbled into piles of bones. This effectively destroyed the Army of the Dead's vanguard, and it left them severely disorganized. This would be the ideal time for us to advance.

Apparently, Lord Gregor thought the same. He raised his greatsword Summit into the air and yelled at the top of his voice "Charge!"

All along the lengthy column, thousands of soldiers held up their weapons and started yelling, as well. Tyrion threw up his axe and added his own voice to theirs. I always wanted to do this at least once before I died. He found the experience as exhilarating as he believed it to be, but he was hoping he would never have to do it again after today. To him, once was enough.

A moment later, Lord Gregor Clegane galloped ahead on his massive destrier. Lady Dacey Clegane, Rickard Clegane, and the other Legionnaires promptly followed him. Lord Eddard Stark, Benjen Stark, Robb Stark, Lord Jorah Mormont, Lady Nymeria Mormont, and the other Northmen proceeded forward. After that, Lord Tyrion Lannister, his uncles, Lord Sandor Clegane, Lady Obara Clegane, and the other Westerlords made their way forward, as well.

Tyrion did not know who advanced after he and his bannermen did. He did not bother to look back to see. He was much more focused on what lay to his front than to his rear. It's no concern of mine, anyway. Regardless of what order we advance in, there are only three ways this will end for us all. In plainer terms, they would all be alive, dead, or somewhere in the middle. Needless to say, Tyrion preferred the first option, but if he had to choose between the second and third options, he firmly believed death was still better than undeath. I'm sure we could all agree on that much.

Lord Gregor was the first to reach the undead host. When he was upon them, he gave a mighty swing of Summit. He lopped off the heads of four wights and one White Walker. Another dozen wights collapsed as a result.

From the Saltspear to the Bite, thousands of horses broke through the front lines of the Army of the Dead. Over the next minute, countless wights were trampled underfoot. Of course, none of those ridden over were actually killed, but nearly all of them would not get up ever again. With any luck, their king will reveal himself before they try to arise.

The living forces managed to dash through about fifty or sixty rows into the undead forces. By the time they were that deep into the Army of the Dead, their horses no longer had the minimum momentum required to sustain the charge. Thus, they had to slow their pace to a trot and rely solely on the weapons they carried.

Tyrion made good use of his axe. It, too, was made of Valyrian steel. His wife's family had gifted it to him on his twentieth nameday. It had already tasted blood before today; Tyrion had used it during the Pentoshi Bloodbath. Thus, he knew how deadly it could be against the living. Time to finally put this thing to use against its intended prey.

He waved his axe at the closest wight, sinking the blade into the side of its head. Before the wight even had a chance to drop to the ground, Tyrion withdrew his axe and hastily swung around. He buried it in the chest of a nearby White Walker. Immediately, the Other gave a shrill shriek and shattered into a mound of fragments.

As he looked around for another target, Tyrion spotted the dragons flying overhead. At the moment, they and their riders were merely gliding through the sky and monitoring the activity below them. The Targaryens had orders to provide back-up from above if and when the Others threatened to overtake the grounded units. Luckily, the living were able to keep the undead at bay. For now, at any rate.

Tyrion was partly tempted to propose that they simply let the dragons loose on the Army of the Dead, but he knew the battle could not be won through such effortless and straightforward means. It is never that easy. According to Lord Gregor, Lady Melisandre, and Mollander, it was possible the dragon's ability to breathe fire was not inexhaustible. And even if it was, they argued, the dragons and their riders were still vulnerable to attacks from the ground. They claimed the Night's King was more than just a figurehead ruler. He also happened to be the deadliest individual in the entirety of the undead host. He could bring down and reanimate anyone and anything, including dragons. Despite the fact those mythical creatures were supposedly fire incarnate.

I suppose it's for the best that the Targaryens limit their involvement in this battle, anyway, Tyrion debated in his mind, slicing down another wight with his axe. If the four of them singlehandedly eliminate the Army of the Dead, the whole of Westeros will be in their debt. That would be painstakingly awkward, considering how the realm has treated the Targaryen name since Jaime killed the Mad King.

"Dig into them!" Gregor Clegane called out, delivering an underhand swipe to another White Walker, "Don't let them gain any ground on us!"

Tyrion and the rest of his living allies were most eager to execute that command. I, for one, refuse to give even an inch of land to these undead bastards.

Tyrion was careful not to let his mind wander too much. If he ended up distracting himself, he would risk getting caught unawares. Therefore, he kept his focus principally on the present, and he split his attention equally between his allies and his enemies within about twenty feet of him.

"Disperse!" Uncle Kevan shouted very abruptly, "Quickly!"

Tyrion was somewhat bewildered by that order, as well as the abruptness of it. Disperse? Why? The rank is holding just fine.

In spite of that, the westermen hastened to comply with Ser Kevan's decree. They systematically spread out, putting a decent amount of space between themselves and their closest neighbors. Tyrion did the same, though he felt much less comfortable being so far apart from his fellow soldiers.

In addition to his Valyrian steel axe, Tyrion also carried a dagger made of obsidian on his belt. Holding onto his axe with his right hand, he swiftly drew the dragonglass weapon with his left so that he was doubly armed. He smirked and taunted the adjacent foes with "Come at me, you bloody pests!"

The Others were quick to respond. Quicker than Tyrion would have liked. Oh, well. It's just as they say; we can't choose our enemies. He plunged his dagger into the forehead of a wight to his left. At the exact same time, he sank his axe into the shoulder of a White Walker to his right. The former crumbled; the latter shattered. Before Tyrion could even catch his breath, he withdrew both his weapons and found them some new targets.

While he busied himself with dispatching the undead nearest to him, Tyrion took a moment to check up on his bannermen. He gazed around at his surroundings, and he soon noticed that almost all of them were having an easier time of keeping the enemy away than he.

Of course, they are, he thought bitterly. They've got longer arms and, therefore, more reach than I.

Most of Tyrion's bannermen ranged in height from five and a-half to six and a-half feet. The shortest one was just an inch or two over five feet. The Imp was only slightly closer to five feet than four. It was believed that a person's height was approximately equivalent to the span of their arms. Furthermore, Tyrion carried a dagger and an axe, whilst many of his vassals were armed with longer weapons, such as spears and longswords. It appears I must allow these lifeless cretins to get much closer to me than my men do. But he did not let that discourage him. If anything, he just viewed it as an extra challenge.

For a while, Tyrion was able to hold his own against the wights. At one point, he even felt as though he would be able to stand his ground against them for the foreseeable future. Before very long, however, he began to realize just how ferocious they could be. Especially when they crowded around a particular victim.

Soon, Tyrion found himself surrounded on all sides by an ever-increasing number of wights. He tried his hardest to keep track of them all, but there were more than even he could count. Before he knew what was going on, the undead were frenziedly clawing at his horse, who was so spooked that she was threatening to throw the dwarf off. Shit! Shit! Shit!

All of a sudden, Tyrion was grabbed from behind by a White Walker and pulled backward. He tumbled out of his saddle and fell to the ground. He landed roughly on his back, dropping his axe in the process. Thankfully, he still managed to keep a firm grip on his dagger. When the Other moved to seize him again, he thrust the obsidian blade into its midsection. The White Walker hollered in agony and broke apart. As a gust of wind carried its remains away, Tyrion slashed at an incoming wight. He practically took off its head.

Tyrion's next goal was to recover his axe. Luckily, he found it within arm's length of where he landed. After he recovered the Valyrian steel weapon, he focused on returning to his horse. Alas, that soon became impossible. Now that she was without her rider, she was utterly without direction. She was a smart mare, but she could not evade the undead indefinitely.

Tyrion Lannister watched in sadness as his horse was overwhelmed. But he had no time to grieve for her. Instead, he focused on preventing himself from meeting the same end. Laying here sprawled across the ground, someone as small as he was just as liable to be trodden over by horses as he was to be incapacitated by the undead.

Tyrion endeavored to put some space between himself and the wights. That was easier in theory than in practice; they were literally everywhere. Every time he looked in a different direction, more and more of them seemed to appear as if out of nowhere.

Amidst the turmoil, Tyrion managed to regain his feet. As soon as he was standing upright, a nearby Other came at him. He hastily dodged the attack and buried his axe in its chest, causing it to falter and collapse. He then slashed at the lower bodies of the surrounding wights. Several of them had their legs amputated, thus neutralizing them as a threat.

Over the next few minutes, Tyrion constantly hacked at any wight or White Walker that came anywhere close to him. For the most part, he was focused on staying alive. But whenever possible, he tried to push forward into the undead host. He had to show his men that even on his feet, he was a capable fighter, and that he could maintain the column's advance. Unlike the Dothraki, I am not hopeless once I've dismounted. Of course, it was very likely his men were too preoccupied with their own skirmishes to pay any attention to him. If so, I'll simply continue the fight for my own sake. While the Imp had his pride like the rest of the lions, his own survival was still of greatest importance to him.

Occasionally, the Targaryens dove down from the clouds, and Eliaxes, Draegar, and Ygrenyon each expelled a stream of fire onto the undead host below. Every time they did this, the dragons managed to put up a small wall of fire, which bought everyone on the ground enough time to deal with the wights and White Walkers in their immediate proximity. Once the flames subsided, they engaged the Army of the Dead in full strength once more. We've managed to form some manner of routine from all this.

Tyrion did not know how long he managed to resist the undead after he was knocked off his horse. Has it been five minutes? Ten? Twenty? More? In any case, he was fairly certain it had been less than a half-hour. Unfortunately, soon after he had this thought, he inexplicably found himself a favored target of the Others. They were relentlessly swarming around him, as though they had taken a special interest in him. Well, I am an interesting fellow. But this is hardly the type of mass I would wish to be affiliated with.

Tyrion wondered if the Others were intelligent enough to identify the highest-ranking nobles in the living army. Based on Benjen Stark and Thoros of Myr's account of the battle at the Fist of the First Men, the Night's King had managed to isolate Lord Beric Dondarrion, Mance Rayder, and Lord Commander Jeor Mormont as the leaders of that task force. That was how he was able to pick them off and eliminate each one of them in turn.

It was different in Tyrion's case, however. While he was the Lord Paramount of the Westerlords, he was not the one commanding the westermen forces. That was Uncle Kevan's responsibility. So, why are they coming for me?

Then a potential solution occurred to him. It was conjectured by Bran Stark and the source holders that the Army of the Dead functioned through a type of hive mind. In other words, everything each member knew, the horde knew, and everything the horde knew, each member knew.

Although the battle appeared to be going well so far, Tyrion did not doubt that at least some of his allies must have already fallen. He could quite clearly recall seeing a few other men getting pulled down from their horses. Unlike Tyrion, nearly all of them had not been lucky enough to get back up. In all likelihood, some of his own men were among the casualties. If so, his slain bannermen may have already gotten back up and joined the fighting on the enemy side. They could have already told their new allies of my significance in the Westerlands, he realized.

Whatever the case, Tyrion was not about to go down quietly. If the Others were so determined to slaughter him, he would put up a valiant fight. They might be under the impression that just because I am small, I will go down easily. What fools. Then again, this is hardly the first time someone's underestimated me because of my size. Even now, he enjoyed putting such individuals in their place.

Despite Tyrion's never-ending string of witty thoughts and optimism, there was still only so much he could do to repel the ever-growing wave of the undead. There must be some end to them. Indeed, there was an end to the horde, but it was far beyond his field of vision. Soon, their persistence was beginning to take a toll on his endurance.

Just when Tyrion felt he was on the verge of reaching his tolerance threshold, he felt someone grab him from behind. The next thing he knew, he was physically lifted into the air, and he was placed on a saddle. A rather large saddle, he quickly noted. It currently held another occupant, yet there was still adequate room for him.

Tyrion peered over his shoulder, and he promptly recognized the towering stature and benign countenance of his brother-by-law.

"Are you alright, Tyrion?" the Mountain asked in concern. He sounds genuinely worried.

The Imp merely grinned and nodded his head, saying "You got to me just in time, Gregor."

Lord Gregor Clegane grinned back and remarked "That's good. I won't have you dying on me. My sister would bludgeon me if I let that happen."

"I bet she would," Tyrion muttered in amusement. He was willing to wager Gregor was merely jesting. Tyrion certainly was. I've never known Ellyn to be violent towards her family. Besides, as strong as she may be, if ever she did try to bludgeon her brother, the worst she could do is bruise him. Still, it never hurts to deflate a tense situation by inserting a little humor.

Once Tyrion regained his bearings, Gregor instructed them "Take the reins."

Tyrion nodded and sheathed his dagger so that his left hand was free. After grasping ahold of the reins to the Mountain's huge destrier, Lord Gregor lightly placed a hand on his shoulder and told him "Now, hold on tight. You and I are going to see the rest of this battle through together."

"Aye," Tyrion acknowledged. A dwarf and a giant sharing a mount? That's a rather fine idea. I would say he and I average out to two regular-sized men.

Tyrion steered the horse towards the vast horde of undead and urged him forward. As they reentered the fray, he announced to his saddle partner "I'll take the left side. The right is all yours."

"Very well," Gregor remarked. He then took summit by both hands and mightily waved it to the right of the horse. He sliced apart a dozen or so wights. He even sent a few of them flying; that's how powerful his blow was. Meanwhile, Tyrion slammed his axe into the head of a White Walker to the horse's left. He managed to annihilate even more wights with that one swing.

As the Imp and the Mountain searched for new targets, the dragons paid them another visit. Once again, Eliaxes, Draegar, and Ygrenyon launched another round of flames into the front lines of the Army of the Dead, transforming yet another row of the Night's King's warriors to scorched powder in a matter of seconds. This time, however, they did not leave a wall of fire behind. Could we have reached a patch of grass that was already burnt in last night's battle?

Tyrion anticipated that the loss of the walls of fire would turn out to be a detriment on the part of the living army. He soon realized just how much of a detriment it truly was. Now they were unable to separate smaller sections of wights and White Walkers from the bulk of the Army of the Dead. The most they could hope for now was for the dragon fire to give them a momentary breather.

In spite of this setback, Tyrion and Gregor were able to cope with the ongoing onslaught of the Others. Unfortunately, others in their ranks were not able to adjust so well.

The Riverlords' column was due west of the Westerlords'. The most prevalent banners were the ones which displayed the twin towers of House Frey. Tyrion could see Ser Aenys Frey fighting alongside his son Ser Rhaegar Frey. They're both weasels who are named after dragons. Let us see which animal's spirit they possess. It turned out the two Freys were not as formidable as their namesakes. Father and son were ultimately overtaken by a large group of Others and their subservient wights.

By now, the undead were threatening to surround Gregor and Tyrion's horse once again. Luckily, they managed to clear away these new adversaries. Tyrion then looked off in the opposite direction, wondering how that side was faring. Due east of the Northmen, the Reachmen were unremittingly tearing into the Army of the Dead. They were led by their Lord Paramount, Mace Tyrell, his sons Willas and Garlan, and his most fearless vassal, Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.

Lord Randyll made for an impressive sight, brandishing his house's ancestral greatsword, Heartsbane. He was almost as deadly and fearsome with his own Valyrian steel blade as Lord Gregor was with Summit. Whenever a White Walker or a wight came anywhere close to him, he cut it down swiftly and remorselessly. He hardly ever seemed to tire or hesitate. I can see why Samwell doesn't get along with his lord father. He doesn't strike me as the type of man who would make good company.

All the same, Tyrion was grateful to have robust and formidable warriors like Randyll Tarly fighting on his side. Alas, even the Lord of Horn Hill's defense was not unassailable. At one point, while Lord Randyll was occupied with a large party of wights, one Other armed with an abnormally long spear approached him from a blind spot. Tyrion would have attempted to warn him, but the Reachman was too far and there was too much noise for him to be heard. Once the Other got close enough to Lord Randyll's horse, it thrust its weapon upward. The spearhead disappeared into Lord Randyll's upper back and reappeared out the front side of his throat. The Lord of Horn Hill briefly froze in place. Then he released his grip on Heartsbane and toppled out of his saddle.

There goes one of our strongest fighters, Tyrion thought grimly. He hastily returned his attention to his immediate surroundings, as he and Gregor were in danger of being encircled yet again. While he was fending off this latest wave of the undead, he came to witness something just as terrible as what he just saw, if not more so.

Less than fifty feet ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of Lewys Lydden, the lord of Deep Den and the maternal grandfather of his wife and her brothers. Although Lord Lewys was by all accounts an elderly man, he was still capable of leading his retainers and wielding a sword. Up until now, he had managed to fight back the wights. But apparently, his age was finally surmounting his experience.

Right when Tyrion's gaze fell upon the old head of House Lydden, four wights simultaneously attacked Lord Lewys from different angles. One of them clubbed him in the back with a mace; the other three plunged blades of varying lengths into his torso. Lewys Lydden began convulsing erratically, and he slumped over in his seat. Even from this far away, Tyrion could tell he was gone before he even landed on the ground.

Tyrion had not exhausted his own stamina or fortitude just yet. Even so, he was beginning to lose hope. His allies were dropping like flies, and the only ones who ever got back up were those who displayed a pair of cold, blue eyes when they did. We may need to rethink our strategy.

"Gregor, I do not know how much longer we can carry on with this endeavor," Tyrion told his brother-by-law, pulling his axe from the neck of an Other, "Our units are being cut down too quickly. At this rate, we'll all be dead before we get anywhere close to the Night's King."

At first, Gregor Clegane gave no reply. Instead, he focused on pushing back the wights and White Walkers within reach of his greatsword. Once the Mountain and the Imp had some space to breathe again, the former looked down at the latter and stated "Oh, I wouldn't be too certain of that, Tyrion. Perhaps we're closer to the battle's end/accomplishing our objective than you thought."

The dwarf was perplexed. He turned to face the giant and asked, "How do you mean?"

Lord Gregor simply smirked and gestured to the north with Summit, saying "See for yourself."

Tyrion turned back around and followed the huge Valyrian steel weapon until he saw what its tip was pointing towards. It was then that he realized precisely what Gregor Clegane was talking about.

About half a mile to the north, there was a small group of Others. They were marching south alongside the rest of the Army of the Dead. However, there was about twenty feet of empty space around them in all directions. No wights or other White Walkers dared to set foot inside that area.

Tyrion soon discovered why. There was one individual who stood at the very center of that group. The other Others stood in very close proximity to that individual, as though they were protecting him.

Tyrion now shared Gregor's smirk. He drily commented "It would seem our rival is not hiding in plain sight anymore."

"Indeed," Gregor concurred, maintaining his smirk, "A huge mistake on his part."

The Mountain held onto Summit in one hand. With the other, he reached around his horse and pulled out a warhorn. He brought it up to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew into it once. It resounded loudly around the entire field. Tyrion knew that was the signal for the Targaryens to rally to Lord Gregor.

A few seconds later, the dragons emerged from the clouds and soared directly towards the horn's origin point. All three of them were soon in the air over Tyrion and Gregor's heads. Ygrenyon was the only one who could get close enough for the rider to talk to them, due to his master's ability to warg into his mind and control his actions. Aegon and Daenerys hovered about twice as high overhead atop Eliaxes and Draegar respectively.

As she held onto her younger brother to keep him secure, Rhaenys called out to Gregor "Have you seen him, my lord?"

"Yes, I have, Rhae," Gregor informed her candidly. Turning his head and pointing with Summit again, he pronounced "He's right over there."

Rhaenys looked in the direction he specified, and she squinted her eyes to get a better view of the land. A moment later, she declared "I see him."

"Good," Gregor remarked. He then grinned wickedly and told her "Torch him."

The eldest Targaryen gave an evil smile and said maliciously "With pleasure, my lord."

Ygrenyon took to the skies once more; Eliaxes and Draegar followed soon after. Together, the three dragons and the four Targaryens made their way towards the secluded group of Others. Once they were directly above the Night's King, they unleashed three streams of fire at him and his bodyguards.

Tyrion grunted in satisfaction when he saw the Night's King's entire party become engulfed in flames. Many of his allies began cheering at the welcoming sight. As for Gregor, he could just chuckle, as though he was amused.

Unfortunately, the Imp's pleasure was short-lived. He noticed the Army of the Dead was still coming south in full force, despite what the dragons were doing to their leader.

Tyrion muttered softly "Gregor, if the Night's King revived the entire Army of the Dead… shouldn't the rest of them be doubling over by now?"

"Yes, they should…" Gregor muttered in agreement. He sounded just as bewildered. "What is going on?"

Eventually, the dragons ceased their assault and withdrew. The flames on the ground continued to rage for another minute or so. When they finally went out, Tyrion was confronted with an extremely unsettling discovery.

Only half the Others had been turned to powder. The other half were still on their feet, whole and unharmed. The Night's King was in the latter.

Tyrion furrowed his brow. Are you fucking kidding me?!

"How in the Seven Hells is he still standing?" Tyrion snapped, "How are any of them?"

"I do not know," Gregor confessed drearily. Letting out a heavy sigh, he proclaimed "But this new development changes nothing. Our objective is the same; we simply need to employ a new tactic."

Count on him to have a backup plan, Tyrion thought. That alone made him feel a little better. He enquired "What do you propose?"

"We could try shooting the Night's King with a flaming arrow, or an arrow tipped with obsidian or Valyrian steel," Gregor thought aloud, "But he's too far away for a clear shot, and his remaining bodyguards will most definitely attempt to shield him. In addition to that, until we know how he survived the dragon fire, that approach may yield the same dismal result as before. Therefore, our only other choice is to face him directly."

Tyrion understood what Gregor was entailing. He did not like the idea, but as of now, it was their only feasible option. The dwarf resolutely declared "If we must take the fight to him, then so be it."

Gregor nodded in approval of that statement, and then he took up his horn again. This time, he blew twice. The first blow was like the one from earlier. The second blow was longer and lower in pitch. As Tyrion was well-aware, the latter was the signal for the cavalry to rally to him.

Although the blow could be heard all throughout the field, only about a hundred riders were able to heed it. Everyone else was too busy fending off the undead or preventing them from advancing any further south.

When the dragons were hovering over their heads and the hundred aforementioned riders were gathered around Tyrion and Gregor's horse, the Mountain announced, "Stand strong! The Night's King is within sight! The only thing between him and us is scores of undead! Concentrate all your efforts on breaking through their ranks and reaching him! We end him, and we end them all!"

The hundred riders collectively raised their weapons and yelled energetically. The Targaryens added their own voices to the din. Tyrion could sense their enthusiasm. Well, why shouldn't they be excited? Victory is practically within their grasp already. Of course, they would have to work for that victory first. And we shall.

Raising Summit up high, Gregor Clegane shouted "Forward all!"

The Mountain's massive destrier galloped forward, followed close behind by the hundred riders. They all but tore through the ranks of the Army of the Dead, crushing White Walker and wight alike in their venture to reach the party of Others.

Before the living were even halfway to the Night's King, they received some unexpected aid. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun and his fellow giants sprinted ahead of Gregor. They appeared to be led by the father direwolf, whose eyes were a solid white. That must be Bran's doing, Tyrion supposed. The massive wolf and the giants then mowed down scores of the undead. Their rampage may have seemed impulsive and uncoordinated at first glance, but Tyrion looked again, and he realized the overgrown creatures were essentially clearing a path for him, Gregor, and the other riders.

The Targaryens and their dragons provided additional support by swiftly and decisively burning all other wights and White Walkers within fifty feet of the group of Others. This effectively left them without reinforcements. For the time being, that is.

Due to the intervention of the dragons, the giants, and the father direwolf, almost all the hundred riders in Tyrion's present company lived to reach the Night's King's party. However, once they got to their destination, the situation escalated.

When the dragons were about to retreat back above the clouds, a spear abruptly jettisoned into the air. It just barely missed Ygrenyon's torso, but it managed to pierce his wing. The black and red dragon screeched in pain and flapped frantically in a desperate bid to remain in the air. By some miracle, Jon and Rhaenys managed to stay on his back.

"Oh, fuck, no," Gregor muttered heatedly, staring up at the wounded dragon. Tyrion shared his discomfort. The source holders' fear of exposing the dragons to danger wasn't unfounded, after all. This must be the type of misfortune they were hoping to avoid.

Less than a minute later, Ygrenyon reached the ground. He slammed against it quite hard. The force of his landing was so rough that Rhaenys and Jon were vaulted off his back. Jon managed to land on his chest unscathed, but Rhaenys hit her head when she touched ground. She laid very still after that.

"Rhae!" Jon yelled in worry and shock. He pulled himself off the ground and rushed to his sister's side. He shook her in effort to revive her. He was gentle with her at first, but then he was more forceful.

When Rhaenys did not respond, Jon could only stare at her. Then he slowly sat up and turned towards the group of Others. Tyrion saw the expression on his face. It was one of the utmost spite and loathing.

Jon swiftly got to his feet and drew Dark Sister. Tyrion half-expected him to charge blindly at the Night's King and his party. Thankfully, even when his mind was partially clouded by rage, he remained sensible enough not to do something so foolhardy. At least he has more sense than his father.

Gregor had already brought their horse to a halt. He gestured for their hundred companions to halt, as well. They stopped very close to where Ygrenyon had fallen. The black and red dragon groaned in pain as he examined his injured wing. Tyrion could hear Eliaxes and Draegar snarling overhead. They sounded furious and unhappy, as though they sympathized with their brother's pain and pitied him. He suspected they would have gone to Ygrenyon's aid if they could. Alas, Aegon and Daenerys would not allow them to approach him, lest the Night's King go after them next.

At any rate, there was still about sixty or seventy feet of empty space between Tyrion's company and the Night's King. Lady Dacey rode up beside her husband's destrier and asked him, "How shall we proceed, Gregor?"

"We shall dismount," the Mountain answered his wife. Tyrion was taken aback. Did I hear him right? Before the dwarf could ask such a question, Gregor provided an explanation for that command. He debated "Fighting on horseback only worked in our favor when the undead vastly outnumbered us. In order to fight a group of this size, we'll need to be on equal ground with them. Furthermore, if a stream of dragon fire didn't finish the Night's King off, another stampede certainly wouldn't, either."

"He has a point," Tyrion contended, glimpsing over at the Night's King's party, "From the look of things, our numbers appear to be about twice theirs. We may be able to fight them two-on-one."

"That is just what I had in mind," Gregor disclosed, "Now, come on. Dismount!"

The Mountain then climbed off the destrier. The other riders swiftly climbed off their own horses, as well. However, Tyrion was loath to follow along. After the incident from earlier when he was thrown off his mare, he was somewhat reluctant to fight on the ground again. Aside from that, he now had more confidence in his ability to fight whist mounted. If only I had my special saddle.

"Gregor, it may be better if I remain mounted," Tyrion told his brother-by-law. I'm as tall as any other man on a horse, anyway.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Gregor Clegane was very understanding. "Very well, Tyrion. Just be mindful of the horse. He can get a little unruly when I'm not around."

"He'll be in good hands," Tyrion asserted.

When everyone else was on their feet, Gregor called out "Form up!"

They all hastily moved into rows of about ten each. Tyrion was in the first row, between Lord Gregor and Uncle Gerion. Jon Targaryen was also in that room. He seems more determined than anyone else here. Once they were properly organized, the Mountain shouted "Advance!"

Everyone then marched – or, in Tyrion's case, trotted – north towards the Night's King and his bodyguards. Tyrion felt his heart beat a little faster with every step.

When they halved the distance between them and the foe, Tyrion noted something interesting. These White Walkers looked more black than white. It did not take long for him to realize why. His nephews noticed at around the same time.

"Are they wearing… obsidian?" Rickard queried.

"It appears they are," Jasper commented. Indeed, the Night's King and his bodyguards had dozens of dragonglass weapons hanging from all over their bodies. So much obsidian would have weighed down a living person. Evidently, the same restrictions did not apply to the undead. They could even be as strong as Lord Gregor.

"Ah, so that's how they survived the barrage of dragon fire," Gregor Clegane thought aloud.

"I would have thought dragon fire would be enough to melt even obsidian," Uncle Kevan presumed.

"All we know is that obsidian is solid fire," Gregor pointed out, "But we have no way of knowing what type of fire. It could actually be solid dragon fire."

"That makes perfect sense to me," Oberyn Martell stated. Me, as well.

"But how are they able to tolerate it?" Gerion disputed, "I thought obsidian was the bane of the undead."

"That's right," Gregor confirmed, "However, it's only lethal to them if it physically penetrates their bodies. I never said anything about it doing them harm if it merely touches their flesh."

"Why in the Seven Hells didn't you?" Sandor mumbled irately.

"I never considered they'd actually be smart enough to clad themselves in it," the Mountain confessed, "I mean, I knew the Night's King was more than a mere mindless savage. I would never have suspected he'd be this cunning."

"Well, it seems he is," Tyrion stated flatly. The brain may fail at death, but who's to say it cannot be restored, as well? He smirked and said cockily "Not that it matters very much in the long run. Is that not right, Gregor?"

"Quite so, Tyrion," the Mountain validated. "Regardless of how intelligent and clever the Night's King may be, he can still be killed, just like every other member of the Army of the Dead."

"Then let us do the realm a favor and rid it of him," Jon proposed through gritted teeth.

"Oh, we shall, Jon," Gregor assured his squire. After this, only one more word was spoken. It was uttered by the Mountain when they were less than thirty feet from the Others. He shouted "Attack!"

Everyone promptly raised their weapons and charged forward. Tyrion drove his heel into the side of Gregor's destrier and urged him forward. He held tightly to the reins so that he would not slide out of the saddle.

Up until now, the Night's King and his party had hardly done anything to acknowledge this new threat to their well-being. When Gregor and his party drew nearer, however, they finally reacted. Each Other brandished a weapon of his own, whereas the Night's King brought out two.

Unlike the White Walkers Tyrion had encountered thus far, these Others actually knew how to put up a decent fight. He discovered this when the two groups converged. When Gregor took a swing at the closest Other, his opponent almost effortlessly deflected the blow. His undead comrades proved just as adept with their own weapons.

But that was not the worst part. The worst part came when Tyrion came close enough to make out the faces of the Night's King's bodyguards. They were not the faces of strangers. They seemed familiar.

It soon dawned on him; he was looking at the faces of friends and allies who had died in battle against the Army of the Dead long ago.

He recognized several of them. Lord Jeor Mormont. Theon Greyjoy. Lord Stannis Baratheon. King Robert Baratheon. Ser-

"No," Tyrion whispered, when he saw a face he had known all his life, "Gods, please; don't let it be so."

But it was so. He was up against the very man who had taught him everything he knew about warfare. The very man who had always stood up for him. The very man who had comforted him when no one else would.

"Gods, Jaime, why?" Tyrion muttered in despair. For the first time in a very long while, Tyrion felt helpless. Even if he's already dead, how could I kill my own brother?

"They're not our comrades!" Gregor called out as he parried blows with a White Walker who had once been Mance Rayder. Jon Targaryen fought alongside the Mountain. "Not anymore! The Night's King's just using them to waylay us! But you mustn't give in! Show him we are not so easily dissuaded!"

That announcement may have saved Tyrion's life. It enabled him to straighten out his mind. Jaime isn't dead, he reminded himself. Right now, he's worse than dead. It's my responsibility to remedy that issue.

Tyrion was determined to put Jaime at peace. He would not have anyone else doing it in his place. However, he did not believe he would be able to defeat Jaime. Tyrion could never have beaten Jaime in a duel in real life. Even though his brother was clumsier and less orderly in his current state, he was still a remarkable warrior.

Fortunately, he was able to think of a more practical solution. It was a longshot, but it was still a viable option. Tyrion cautiously rode closer to his undead brother. When he was within spitting distance of him, he steeled his nerves, and he flung his axe forward. It sank into the middle of Jaime's face.

Jaime Lannister faltered in his stance, and then he shattered into a mound of fragments. Tyrion did not know whether to be pleased or devastated by that outcome. May he finally rest in peace.

"Go for the faces!" Tyrion advised his companions, "That's their vulnerable spot!"

This information turned out to be quite useful. All around the Imp, his comrades were locked in their own duels. Thoros of Myr and Lady Dacey Clegane fought Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lord Jorah Mormont and Benjen Stark fought Lord Jeor Mormont. Robb Stark and Rickard Clegane fought Theon Greyjoy. Lord Eddard Stark and Prince Jasper Baratheon fought King Robert Baratheon. Is it obligation or conscience that drove them to their own particular targets?

For a while, the Night's King was without an opponent of his own. That changed when Lord Gregor Clegane managed to defeat Mance Rayder in single combat. Without even taking a moment to rest, he turned his attention toward the Night's King and moved against him. He was backed up by his squire.

Tyrion could only watch intently as Gregor Clegane and Jon Targaryen engaged the undead ruler. The Night's King was a surprisingly skilled swordsman. The obsidian dangling from his body protected him from their blows better than any conventional suit of armor would have.

They're going to need some more support, Tyrion decided. Unfortunately, everyone who could have helped was either dead, wounded, or preoccupied with their own skirmishes. Tyrion would have lent his own help, but he had discarded his axe, leaving him with only his dagger. How much use could a dwarf possibly be?

That was what he thought at first. That was what he had been told most of his life. But at that very moment, Tyrion came to a certain realization. Dwarf or not, I am still a citizen of the Seven Kingdoms. As such, I still have a duty to defend the realm from those who would seek to destroy it.

At that moment, Tyrion knew exactly what he needed to do. He took the reins of Gregor's destrier and cracked them once. The horse whinnied loudly, and then he broke into a gallop. Tyrion directed him straight towards the Night's King, who was too immersed in his duel with Gregor Clegane and Jon Targaryen to notice the Imp approaching.

The Mountain and his squire managed to get out of the destrier's path just in time, but by the time the Night's King noticed the charging horse, it was too late for him. The destrier rammed into the Night's King and sent him careening across the ground. He landed some fifteen or twenty feet away. For a moment, he laid flat on his back. However, he was quick to recover from the force of that impact. But someone else was even quicker.

Jon Targaryen took this opportunity to rush forward with Dark Sister in both hands. The moment the Night's King sat up and turned back towards the south, Rhaegar Targaryen's youngest child was upon him. Jon raised his Valyrian steel sword high over his head and thrust it forward with all his might.

Dark Sister sank directly into the center of the Night's King's face, right above his nose and between his eyes. The thrust of that blow was so powerful that half the blade reemerged out the backside of his head. Tyrion leaned forward when he saw this happen. He was very keen to see what would follow.

Initially, there was nothing. The Night's King gave off no movement, no sound, and no other sign of a sentient being. Then his mouth dropped open, and he produced the most dreadful noise Tyrion had ever heard in his life. It was like the death rattle of a banshee, only much, much shriller. Tyrion hastily covered his ears. Almost all his companions covered theirs, too. Including the ones who had still been in combat. Interestingly, the other White Walkers seemed to have lost all interest in fighting. They were merely standing idle at this time. The only person who did not cover his ears was Jon Targaryen. He kept both his hands clasped around the hilt of Dark Sister, which was still firmly planted in the Night's King's face.

Eventually, the Night's King stopped shrieked. He became totally silent then. A few seconds later, there was a bright flash of light. So bright that it threatened to blind everyone in the area. Tyrion moved his hands from his ears to his eyes, as did everyone else except Jon. What sorcery is this?

Tyrion did not know how long he kept his eyes covered, but he assumed it could not have been more than a minute or two. He then heard someone announce, "It's safe to look now."

The voice was Jon's. Tyrion tentatively removed his hands from his face. When he did, the Night's King was nowhere to be seen. It was like he had vanished without a trace. Moreover, all the remaining White Walkers in the vicinity were gone, as well.

That was not the extent of it. All around Tyrion, wights were falling apart, and White Walkers were turning to dust. It is as though the Others are systematically being erased from existence. He liked how he worded that thought. It sounded oddly poetic.

Ten minutes later, there was not a single wight or White Walker to be seen anywhere on the field. Just miles and miles of powder and bones.

"We did it," Tyrion muttered softly, "It's over."

By now, Jon Targaryen had finally lowered his sword. He was breathing very heavily. Despite the below-freezing temperatures, he was covered in sweat. He stared at Dark Sister for a while. He could hardly keep his hands steady. He ultimately turned to Tyrion, grinned, and stated "Yes, it is over, my lord. The Others are no more."

It took a while for those words to sink in. Once they finally did, though, that was when the cheering started in earnest. People were tossing their weapons into the air, hugging their comrades, slapping them on the back good-naturedly. Some were weeping in joy. As for Tyrion, he just smiled. It's done. Victory is ours.

Jon was soon surrounded by dozens of his friends and allies. Rickard and his mother lifted him into the air and placed him on their shoulders. Soon after, Tyrion found himself lifted from the saddle of the destrier and placed on somebody else's shoulder. It turned out to be Gregor Clegane himself, who bore the biggest grin Tyrion had ever seen.

"You made this victory possible, Tyrion," the Mountain contended, "Congratulations."

"Oh, don't make me blush, Gregor," the Imp murmured slyly. "But I find myself in a veritable mood for celebrating. So, what say we head back to the moat?"

"I would be glad to oblige," Gregor said in approval, returning Summit to its scabbard, "But first, we must check up on our casualties. Namely…"

The Mountain rushed over to Ygrenyon and Rhaenys and checked up on them. Ygrenyon's wing had not suffered any irreparable damage, and it should have been able to mend itself with time. As far as Rhaenys was concerned, Tyrion had feared the worst, but it turned out she was still breathing.

"She's alive," Gregor professed, "She has a concussion, but she should be alright."

Indeed, when she hit her head, it was not enough to deliver a fatal blow or knock her out, but it was sufficient to stun her. Willas Tyrell hurried over to his intended and picked her up in his arms. He was very gentle with her. At the same time, Gregor used his horn to summon the dragons one last time. In response, Aegon and Daenerys swiftly reappeared. When they saw what had become of the battlefield, they quickly gathered what had happened.

While Eliaxes and Draegar tended to their brother, Aegon and Daenerys walked with the Cleganes and their other companions back to Moat Cailin. It was a rather long walk, but no one complained. What's there to complain about now?

On the way to the moat, Uncle Kevan gazed up at Tyrion from where he saw on the Mountain's shoulder, and he stated "Good work, Tyrion. If your father was still alive, I'm sure he would be proud."

Tyrion wanted to spit. I doubt that. Even if I was the one to deliver the killing blow to the Night's King, he likely wouldn't have even bothered to acknowledge my accomplishment. Tyrion had long ago stopped caring about what his father thought of him. When the truth of his father's involvement in the Pentoshi Bloodbath came out, he just cared even less.

Despite that, he was thankful for the praise. He gazed down at the old blond knight and remarked "I suppose so, Uncle."

Uncle Gerion appeared at Gregor's other side and stated "Hopefully, this will finally gain you the respect you deserve."

"Maybe," said Tyrion with a dismissive shrug, "We'll just have to wait and see, Uncle."

A little more than a half-hour later, they were all back inside the perimeter of Moat Cailin. Mollander and Gregor Clegane's men-at-arms opened the gate, and several women were there to greet their husbands, lovers, and betrotheds. Naturally, Ellyn was right at the front of the pack.

Gregor set the Imp back on his feet so that his sister could embrace him. Tyrion took his wife in a firm hug, savoring her strong yet delicate touch.

"So, what happens now?" Jon inquired, as Rickard and Lady Dacey placed him back on his feet. That's a good question. I know we talked about celebrating, but where would we even begin with that?

It was Lord Gregor who supplied a response. He stated, "Before we do anything else, I must beg your forgiveness, Tyrion."

The Imp raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why do you say that, Gregor?"

"There are two things I've done today that require your forgiveness," the Mountain clarified, "Firstly, without your consent, I used you as bait."

"What do you mean?" Tyrion asked in bewilderment, "The Night's King never got anywhere close to me. As far as I recall, he didn't even seem to notice me until the moment I knocked him on his arse."

"No, I did not use you as bait to lure in the Night's King," Gregor illuminated, "I did so to draw out a different kind of foe."

At that moment, Lord Gregor drew Summit from its scabbard and swung it through the air. He stopped when the edge was a mere six inches from Uncle Kevan's neck.

"What is the meaning of this?" the old blonde knight demanded.

"My focus may have been on the battle, but I heard you when you gave your units the order to disperse," Gregor recounted, keeping his greatsword level with Ser Kevan's neck, "There was no need for it. When you gave that order, your rank all but fell apart. The Westerlords were left wide-open and vulnerable. Tyrion most of all."

"I admit that was a foolish mistake on my part," Kevan stated plainly.

"That was not a mistake," Gregor countered, "You deliberately bungled that order. Just as I was hoping you would."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, Gregor," the blond knight claimed.

"Oh, I think you do," Greogr Clegane said cheekily, "Kevan Lannister is a renowned military officer. It is absolutely beneath him to allow his units to descend into such disarray. There is only one reason he would make such a careless error. He did so because he was counting on his dwarf nephew to be overwhelmed in the crossfire."

"Why would I ever wish for such a thing?" Ser Kevan asked.

"Simple," Gregor explicated, "As dysfunctional as House Lannister may be, I know for a fact that Kevan Lannister would never turn against his family. Unless, of course, he had reason to view them as obstacles to his own plans. Furthermore, since he is not a particularly ambitious individual by nature, there is only one reason he would even have any plans of his own."

Gregor Clegane slowly returned Summit to its scabbard. Once the greatsword was tucked away again, he gazed down at Tyrion and told him "Now, for the second thing I wish you to forgive me for."

The Mountain then looked back at Kevan Lannister, and he softly muttered "Seize him."

Polliver, Rafford, Shitmouth, Eggon, and the Tickler promptly stepped forward and grabbed ahold of the old blonde knight. He struggled in their grasp, but the younger men all had a firm grip on his arms, shoulders, and chest.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" he yelled angrily.

Tyrion was stunned by that outburst. I've never heard Uncle Kevan swear before. In fact, he was perhaps the one member of House Lannister who never uttered such coarse language. Even when Father died, and the Army of the Dead fell upon us, he did not resort to vulgarities. So, why, Tyrion wondered, was he making an exception now?

"Ser Kevan Lannister, you are under arrest," Gregor Clegane solemnly declared, folding his arms.

Uncle Kevan seemed indignant. As he had his hands bound behind his back, he sharply demanded "For what?"

"Where to begin?" Lord Gregor muttered sarcastically. He then scowled and spat "Arson, murder, conspiracy, destruction of Westerosi property, kinslaying… and, worst of all, exploiting your own prior knowledge of the World of Ice and Fire to accomplish those foul deeds."

The World of Ice and Fire? Does he mean the Known World? Tyrion had never heard it referred to by that name before. However, three other people there seemed to recognize the term. Those three were Lady Melisandre, Mollander, and Bran Stark.

"My lord…" Eddard Stark's second son said, gaping in astonishment, "Do you mean to say…?"

"Yes, Bran," the Mountain affirmed, giving a terse nod at the young boy. He slowly turned back to Uncle Kevan, and he proclaimed, "At long last, we have found the seventh one."