## **Chapter 8: Mountain-Slayer** [1]
**15th Day of the 3rd Moon, 287 AC**
**Crofter Hamlet North of Last Hearth **
**Vaelen's POV**
The ache in my chest had grown fierce over the past four straight days, a deep burning sensation that clawed its way up into my lungs with every breath I managed to draw, sharp enough to make the edges of the world blur and force me to measure each step with gritted care just to keep the wheezing from rattling too loud in my throat. The crimson shard pressed hot against my skin under the tunic, pulsing with a steady warning that armed men moved close somewhere on these northern roads—shadows carrying steel that hungered for blood and coin during the hard winter gripping the land like iron fingers sunk deep into frozen soil. I walked slow beside the lead mule pulling our heaviest wagon, my boots crunching through the snow as I tried to steady my breathing, the black veins of the Solvarin curse snaking thick now across my neck and chest with faint cracks even creeping up toward my forehead like fissures spreading through old forge iron on the verge of shattering under the hammer's final blow. Every hour or so, I coughed up flecks of blood into a ragged cloth tucked in my sleeve, wiping it away hasty before the boy could catch sight of how badly it poured these days—forty years old already, and the curse dragged me down faster than most Solvarins who scraped by to thirty-five if the roads stayed kind enough, closer to thirty more often when those same veins clogged the heart shut like frozen pipes bursting in the spring thaw. I had stretched my time longer by skipping the heavy fights in my early years, saving the blood-gift only for true threats where smallfolk lives truly hung in the balance; light heals on road cuts from scrapes cost little of that shaved life in return, but the deep burns from old wounds had eaten away five extra years just lately. Two months left at most before my heart gave out that final thud, every dawn whispering it closer, and the heaviest weight of all that settled right on Raen as he watched me with those sharp eyes of his constant these days.
Raen drove the lead wagon steady just ahead of me, holding the reins loose in his calloused hands—the lad had turned thirteen under the last full moon, grown wiry and strong from years of hauling firewood and mending busted wheels along endless trails, with seventeen kills already notched under his belt from scraps with Ironborn reavers and shadowcats that tested young steel before its time. The worry for him gnawed at me constant now, worse even than the creeping veins themselves; the boy had grown up too fast sleeping rough under wagons with a sword always kept close at hand, and he had already refused lordly banners twice when hedge knights came flashing gold for a strong young arm—"Wagons and smallfolk come first, ser, no banners will pull me from the road." He proved too good a lad for the curse that waited ahead of him, the shard passing soon enough to chew through his years with the same brutal toll it took on mine. Our three wagons rolled up to the edge of the village now, the lead one hauling my anvil and hammers that gathered more dust than honest work these lean times, the middle one sagging heavy under salt meat enough to feed our twenty-eight refugees trudging behind us along with the village folk—132 souls in total when you counted the kids and elders huddled against the cold. The rear wagon carried Mara and her crofter families, their bundles of wool ready to trade for whatever might stretch the winter pots out a little longer through the remaining freeze.
**Raen's POV**
I scanned the village square careful as the wagons creaked to a halt, taking in the kids kicking up snow into ragged drifts while they laughed through chapped lips, the women hauling iced-over water buckets from the pump with scarves pulled tight over their faces red from the wind's bite, and the men swinging axes steady into firewood stacks that sent faint trails of smoke curling up into the midday chill hanging thick in the air. Dad coughed wet and ragged into his rag again as he tied off the lead mule, and a memory from the Wolfswood clearing flashed unbidden through my head—the embers of last winter's fire still glowing low when Vaelen wrapped a steady hand around my shoulder after that shadowcat kill, his gravel voice calm as always: "Roads take fathers early sometimes, lad, but the smallfolk keep breathing because men like us stand the line for them. The curse comes with the shard when your time arrives; measure your steel careful, not your years—promise me wagons and smallfolk always come first, no matter what pulls at you." I shoved the memory down hard past the thick knot rising in my throat; Dad had started wheezing too heavy lately, those veins running black as crow feathers across his skin, and the thought of losing him twisted sharp in my gut—not here, not to some pack of tax-collecting dogs riding north through the snow. Then nine riders crested the south trail on heavy warhorses snorting thick clouds of steam, crimson Lannister cloaks hanging dirty and crusted with road salt from their shoulders, the grim raven banner flapping at their head—Ser Gregor Clegane himself, the Mountain come calling. Village faces drained pale as skim milk in an instant; women scooped up their shrieking kids and bolted for house doors, slamming them shut with muffled thuds that echoed off the iced walls, while men dropped their axes quiet to snatch up scythes and flails instead, gripping them low and still like they hoped the shadows might swallow such a threat whole. No one raised a yell or bolted wild into the open—northern smallfolk knew better than to stir a beast like that into a frenzy. The elder near the pump whispered hoarse to Dad as he finished with the mule, "The Mountain's here for Tywin's tax again—Deepwood Motte already stripped us plenty this winter, and we're dead certain if they want more than our bellies can spare." Most folk backed away slow toward the walls now, eyes fixed hard on the frozen ground, while a few slipped behind half-open doors to watch the riders through narrow cracks.
I jumped down from the wagon seat feeling tense as a strung bowstring, my hand hovering near the hilt of my sword. "Nine heavy horses there, Dad—Lannister tax men for sure. We circle the wagons into a tight laager if they push to fight?" Dad gripped my shoulder firm with those wolf-sharp eyes of his, his gravel voice coming out faint but steady: "Aye, boy—those might be your roads to hold now if mine end up cut short today." I swallowed down a knot the size of my fist; just last full moon by the fire, he had promised me those old Wolfswood tales after winter broke proper, boyish dreams of shared home clearings and father-son roads stretching endless ahead. That promise lay heavy in my chest now, like a stone too big to shift.
**Vaelen's POV**
Gregor heaved himself down from his destrier right in the center of the square, standing easy eight feet tall in full plate armor scarred deep from old brawls and battles, his greathelm hiding whatever burned ruin lay underneath, greatsword slung casual across one massive shoulder like a woodsman's maul after a long day felling trees. His eight Lannister men-at-arms fanned out behind him in red tabards over good steel mail, Tywin's tax collectors riding north to squeeze every last coin from the Rebellion's leavings. He bellowed through the slits of his helm, voice grinding like boulders tumbling down a ravine: "Lord Tywin's tax comes due! Hand over all your food stores, every horse worth the riding, and every woman from fourteen to forty for salt wives—king's peace under Robert Baratheon, or you'll feed the crows instead!" The village held tomb-quiet with no one stepping forward bearing sacks or daughters, just a couple of men glancing sidelong at each other before dropping their eyes back to the snow. The elder muttered low under his breath near me, "Deepwood Motte stripped us plenty already this winter—nothing left now but bark to chew and prayers to mutter."
I pushed forward steady to block the mouth of the square, coughing up more blood into my rag and wiping it hasty on my sleeve before letting my sword hang loose at my left hip and the dagger stay snug in my boot. The shard scorched hotter against my chest now, screaming close-threat warning. "Glover lands have already paid heavy to Deepwood Motte this season. This village feeds its own hungry smallfolk through the winter—keep your horses pointed south, ser, since roads run both ways for men who listen." I kept my voice even gravel despite the wheeze clawing at my lungs, with Raen planted solid to my right and his hand firm on his sword hilt. "You anchor the center line, Dad. I'll cover the right flank by the wagons and keep Mara's folk shooting clean." The boy sounded ready as any grown man twice his years, pride swelling bright in my chest even as fear twisted deeper for the curse waiting to claim him the same way. Crofters hung back at their windows now with spears gripped loose but eyes hard and steady, Mara clutching her axe on the rear wagon seat without raising a yell, Torren's son holding his edge horse quiet with reins pulled tight.
Gregor barked a laugh through his helm that shook fresh snow from nearby roofs. "Tywin's tax trumps Glovers and their deepwoods alike. Pay up now or swing for it." He spurred his warhorse straight at the elder crofter who waved a trembling hand up front. "Deepwood taxes paid already, ser—winter's left us scraped to bone!" The greatsword whipped down casual and cleaved the man waist-deep in a spray of guts that steamed hot against the snow, hooves pounding the bottom half to red ruin with the skull cracking wet under iron-shod weight. Women inside the nearest houses screamed muffled through their shutters, kids' wails piercing sharp after, while men gripped their tools white-knuckled but held their line—no one broke for the open ground. "Tax paid in blood now!" His men roared back, "Mountain! Tywin's hammer crushes all!" A crofter in his forties stepped shaking forward clutching a grease-stained ledger desperate. "Lord Glover's own records show—" Gregor backhanded him casual with one gauntlet, caving the face in like wet parchment, teeth scattering twelve feet across the snow as the man dropped twitching with brains leaking pink into the white drifts. A woman bolted for her house door with an infant clutched tight—Gregor's hooves pulped both skulls flat in one stride, the wet splat echoing off the walls. The square went tomb-dead quiet after the first screams faded, faint smoke wisping from houses as folk barred their doors desperate and tight. The elder shuffled back to the longhouse wall whispering old gods prayers frantic under his breath. Gregor shouldered into the nearest house door, splintering the wood inward; he grabbed a woman by the hair mid-scream and smashed her skull against the stone lintel with a crunch that sprayed blood in an arc across the fresh snow. No one else stirred from hiding after that. The house stayed shut tight. "Tax collection proper starts now." He kicked over an oil lantern into the thatch roof—flames whooshed up the gables hungry and fast.
I planted myself firm at the longhouse door, heavy oak barring a hundred souls inside already—women herding kids to back rooms, elders barricading shutters with benches and barrels. Longsword out two-handed now in high guard position despite the thunder rolling in my chest. "Raen, circle the wagons quick into a laager tight wheel-to-wheel like those Hussite rings we drilled on the road—put refugees and Mara's kin in the center with spears poking out the gaps, loose arrows only at the horses first to break their charges!" Raen nodded sharp and bolted off shouting orders clear as any captain while the crofters scrambled with ropes to chain the wagons close per our old road drills. **The wagons locked into a ring fast as crofters stabbed hooks at pony legs through the slits and Mara's arrows punched destrier hocks to spill riders screaming into the snow.**
**Raen's POV**
Dad's speed burned double as Gregor's horse thundered toward the center—Dad sidestepped the churning hooves through the slush and stabbed precise into the leg plate gap where the hamstring tendon ran, a pop-wet sound as it parted clean, the horse screaming in rear collapse into the drifts while Gregor pitched heavy but rolled back up snarling through his helm. Dad blocked two men-at-arms lunging with spears desperate, steel ringing out high sparks in the cold air. Gregor vaulted free with weight that quaked the snow; he snatched a twelve-year-old boy bolting scared from a side hut and crushed the skull casual between his gauntlets—brains spraying in a hot arc. The greatsword carved a crofter woman peeking from the longhouse flank shoulder to waist, her body splitting in half with a ragged scream as the halves flopped steaming into the snow. I broke from the wagon line desperate, thrusting my sword at Gregor's stirrup gap—steel sparked useless off the plate as the horse reared and kicked me flat into the snow windless with chest fire burning. "Dad!" The world slowed to a crawl as Vaelen rolled inside the gauntlet crater alone, his black veins sizzling louder than the ring of steel on steel. On the flank, I parried the first spear clean over the mule backs and lunged throat-deep into the gap—the man gurgled red as he fell protecting Mara's wagon direct. A second mace arced overhead in a killing blow; I ducked low into a snow-dive and slashed the hamstring to drop him hobbling for crofter spears to finish. An arrow grazed my shoulder bloody and black veins knit it shut fast with a faint sizzle, costing me three days of life shaved off in that instant. "Hold the center firm, Dad—the flank stays locked!" My voice cracked for the first time ever on the road, the helpless burn worse than any Ironborn kill; the boy who hamstringed reavers couldn't reach Dad hoisted in the air.
Gregor's gauntlet clamped around Dad's throat like a vise and hoisted him two feet off the ground—ribs cracking with audible snaps, breath gone black. Dad drove the boot-dagger through the visor eye-slit six inches deep with a twist, blood squirting hot inside the steel. Veins flooded Dad's arm desperate and sealed the throat bruise with a sizzle amid the choke; they thickened sixty percent across his chest instant, heart laboring like sludge. Gregor dropped him roaring from the eye agony, Dad coughing up a blood fountain pink into the snow. Two weeks of life burned right there—Dad pushed back into guard desperate with the longhouse door solid and safe behind him, muffled sobs leaking faint. I carved clean work on the flank with all that road measure showing; Torren's son sheared a man's head axe-clean while shielding the refugees hunkered in the wagon center, and Mara split an archer's skull hatchet two-handed over the rail.
**Dad's curse went full blaze then with speed tripled and veins screaming.** The first man-at-arms lost his head clean before he reached the longhouse threshold, Dad's blade whispering through the neck mid-charge. The second destrier's hock parted clean—rider crushed screaming under the falling bulk against the chained wagons. The third helm got pommel-smashed with brains pulping instant. Dad aimed the fourth at a girl peeking desperate—groin slash fed straight into a waiting crofter spear thrust. Four dead in nine seconds flat, the village heart barricaded safe. Gregor heaved up bellowing and hurled his greatsword spinning Dad twenty feet back-first into the longhouse wall—wood splintered in a shower, shoulder popping free from the socket in agony. Black veins ground the bone back into place minute by slow minute amid coughs pink-frothed into the snow; one full month of life torched away. Dad crawled steady to his feet and back into guard position, the village breathing barricaded safe behind him. I throat-cut another raider shielding kids mid-wagon gap. "Dad, the line holds—press him hard!"
Gregor raised his greatsword for the final overhead smash that cratered the snow earth-quake where Dad rolled clean under the blade—Dad stabbed both hamstrings pop-pop wet to drop him kneeling at seven feet still roaring. Dad climbed up the plate back desperate two-handed and drove the longsword through backplate into ribs crunch-deep to the heart eighteen inches, black blood gushing torrent hot. Dad stood final guard between him and the longhouse door, blade locked hilt-deep.
Their eyes locked through the helm slit for one long breath—Gregor gurgled hate bubbling in his blood-drown. I froze ten feet off as the shard scorched my own chest sudden like an inheritance bite with nausea hot in my gut. No time to run—curse took Dad mid-glory.
Dad's heart thudded... thud slow... flatline silent as his chest caved inward final. He pitched forward onto Gregor into the snow-slush, their blades locked in a mutual grave. I staggered close with my sword dropping numb from my hand—Dad's eyes dulled through the slit stare, his chest still and skin cooling forge-fast with veins black total from head to toe. "No—roads first, Dad, get up for the wagons and smallfolk." I shook his shoulder hard with tears stinging salt in my throat and the lump shattering my voice. The shard burned in my own chest now, curse-transfer biting with nausea as faint itches started in my arm—first years shaved off at the start. Village safe, 132 souls still breathing—but the world cracked hollow with roads empty and no Dad's gravel-nod or fire-tales, Wolfswood promise broken sharp.
Mara clutched her axe white-knuckled and said low, "The wanderer held the line true." Kids wailed muffled from the longhouse; Torren's son retched into the snow on the side. I shoved the tears back hard: *"Wagons roll now. Strip the plate, bury Dad road-quick since the Lannisters stand broken—smallfolk first, always."* My voice came out gravel-echo of Dad's with hands steady as I lashed the greatsword to the rear mules and turned them. No banners, no lords—roads alone with curse-weight become my fight now. Wolfswood wolves howled faint north; shard cooled to warning. Vaelen's ghost-nod weighed heaviest in my chest like gold too heavy to carry.
**Darkness became mine now—but smallfolk would breathe.**