LUCAS BLACKWOOD
It had been a full month since the Princess joined them, and everything had run smoother—quieter raids, cleaner exits, fewer screams in the dark. Even now, with the mission to hunt the Mountain, she kept their movements sharp.
He wouldn't say it aloud, but he liked this kind of war.
He admired the Princess—not with a man's longing for a woman, but the way one might behold a myth finally made flesh. Also there was something fascinating about the princess' birds. They answered like Robb's direwolf did—without signal, without sound. A snap of wings where a glance landed. It thrilled him, though he tried not to show it. Others might call it training—YiTish discipline, nothing more. That was the logical answer. But Lucas knew better.
Blackwoods had always known strange things. Magic never truly left their lands, not completely. The old gods still whispered through the heart trees, still moved in the spaces between heartbeats. He'd trained his whole life to strike from shadow, to become one with the darkness. But with the Princess beside them, it no longer felt like mere shadow work. It felt like art.
The direwolves finding their way to the Stark children had been a gift from the old gods—he was certain of it. He didn't know what gods the Princess served, but it was clear she possessed that same gift, whatever name it carried in her homeland. The ability to command creatures without words, to share consciousness across species. Sacred work.
The Yi Tish didn't just aid their raids—they complemented them perfectly. Shadows moving with shadows. One house born from night, the other trained in its deepest secrets.
And he knew they were holding back.
Each raid they conducted followed the same pattern—loud enough to give enemies time to arm themselves, honorable enough to satisfy Stark sensibilities. But Lihua moved differently when she thought no one was watching. Her, and those two silent blades who flanked her—they could have killed every sentry before a single sword cleared its sheath.
They were following the Northern honor code, though Lihua had once told him their current methods were unnecessarily risky. He couldn't disagree.
Honestly, he suspected it was only the later generations of Starks who clung so tightly to rigid honor. A house didn't survive eight thousand years in the North with completely clean hands. The old Kings of Winter had been pragmatists first, idealists second.
He didn't mind sneaky tactics—other houses might sneer at such methods, but not the Blackwoods. After all, they'd been feuding with the Brackens since the dawn of the First Men. Honor had long since adapted to necessity when survival was at stake.
House Blackwood had fought from shadows since before the Targaryens ever set foot on Westerosi soil. This—raiding at night, vanishing like morning mist—this was their ancestral way of war.
And the Yi Tish? They weren't a clash of competing styles. They were perfect rhythm.
Their main objective was capturing Gregor Clegane alive, and Lucas understood the man's reputation for lawlessness and casual brutality. If they were going to take the Mountain breathing, they'd need methods beyond conventional warfare. Poisoning water sources, dart traps, pressure point techniques—whatever worked with minimal casualties on their side.
The Princess, though foreign-born, still honored Westerosi codes of conduct. But Lihua—her right hand—was something else entirely. Not merely a bodyguard or simple advisor. Something deeper.
That had struck him as odd initially, until he learned more about Yi Tish customs. In their empire, a royal's teachers were revered figures. Not dismissed once lessons ended, but kept close throughout life. Trusted. Honored. Consulted. He saw it now—how the Princess deferred to Lihua during field operations like a student to a beloved master.
When they were marching or conducting raids, Lihua took tactical command. The Princess offered no protest, no correction. She trusted her mentor's judgment completely.
But once they made camp, the shift was unmistakable. Strategic orders came from the Princess. Final decisions rested with imperial authority.
It wasn't confusion—it was discipline running so deep it required no spoken acknowledgment.
The mission's danger had prompted pulling Gao Shan from the other raiding team to provide additional protection for the Princess. The man was barely a few years older than Lucas himself, but clearly Lihua's chosen protégé. Lucas got along well with him—Gao Shan was more sociable and relaxed than the other Yi Tish soldiers—but he recognized the deadly imperial training behind that amiable personality.
The scout returned after a day's stake out in the Lannister outpost Cloveredge.
The next day just as the sun was clearing the night skies, they went into positions. And as protocol, they had to make a loud enough noise that their enemies have a chance to defend themselves. Robb Stark's honour code in action, though the Princess found a way around it. YiTish soldiers first, hard and fast. The Lannister may draw their swords and shields up but the YiTish would strike before they could swing it.
He led the Blackwood archers to cover the rest of their team. There were shouting and chaos and the Lannister soldiers scrambled on their feet. Not long after, someone waved a white flag and the Princess ordered them to stop and secure those that surrendered. The princess had just begun interrogating the captain when it happened. Hoofbeats. Then the Mountain—Gregor Clegane—charging through his own men like they were weeds.
No time to plan. No signal. Lihua and Gao Shan were already moving.
Lucas didn't panic, but the Mountain and his men were on horseback, tearing through even their own. Fuck.
He didn't wait for orders. "Kill the rest!" he shouted as he plunged forward. "We only need the Mountain!"
A Lannister came at him with a hammer—Lucas ducked low and drove his blade up beneath the man's chin. Blood sprayed, warm and close.
Another rider galloped past, slashing down at a YiTish scout. Lucas twisted, slashed at the horse's flank, then brought the soldier down when the beast reared.
No time for finesse. Every second bought Lihua and Gao Shan room to breathe.
Then he saw them—the Lannister men they'd rounded up earlier. Supposed prisoners. Fighting. Armed.
His stomach dropped. "Trap," he spat under his breath. "Fucking trap."
A sword caught his shoulder, skimming the edge of his leathers. He grunted, kicked the attacker back, and stabbed twice into exposed ribs.
The YiTish weren't just fighting. They were clearing space with exact, fluid coordination. Two on one, always. One circled wide while the other darted in for the kill. They didn't waste energy. They didn't waste motion.
Lucas fell into rhythm—strike, duck, cut low. When a man grabbed at his cloak, he spun and drove his elbow into the bastard's throat, then gutted him.
Arrows fell from behind—Blackwood archers, still supporting. Good. They were holding.
He glanced up just in time to see a YiTish soldier get crushed beneath a Lannister horse. Another scout pulled him out by the collar, too late to save him.
They were outnumbered. No formations. Just kill fast. Kill smart.
But they were winning. The initial chaos had thinned—the worst of the charge was over. YiTish blades moved like water, his own men adapting fast.
He'd brought down three himself. For a heartbeat, he stopped then assessed.
That was when he saw her. The Princess was down—collapsed on the ground, blood trailing from her temple, pooling into the dirt. She wasn't moving.
Something cold slammed into his gut, but his eyes kept moving. Lihua was off her feet—not fallen, but lifted. The Mountain had her in one massive hand, fingers locked around her neck. In the other, Gao Shan hung limp, blood soaking through the back of his armour.
Lucas started to raise his bow, but the Mountain struck first. Gao Shan was hurled across the clearing like a sack of dirt, crashing into the ground with bone-snapping force. The man rolled, hit a rise in the earth, and somehow landed upright, one arm hugging his ribs, legs trembling beneath him.
Lihua didn't cry out. She coiled her legs on Clegane's arm then one hand extended, and something flashed from her sleeve—small, silver, and fast—fired straight into the gap beneath the Mountain's arm. The darts sank deep.
Gregor Clegane bellowed, the kind of sound that shook through the ribs.
Lucas didn't wait. He loosed his arrow. It punched into the thick side of the Mountain's neck, blood gushing around the shaft. But the bastard still didn't fall.
Fuck. If Lihua dies, the Princess dies with her.
Then something shifted. The roar cut off. The Mountain stopped mid-breath. His entire body stiffened. Arms raised. Shoulders locked. Like a creature caught mid-transformation and frozen in place.
Lihua slipped free. Her body dropped fast, landed rough. She rolled with it, planted a knee in the dirt, and pushed herself upright without pause. Her sword was already drawn as she surged forward.
She struck at his arm—once, twice—slicing into the joint until blood sprayed in thick arcs. The muscles gave way. Still, he didn't move. The mountain roared but still couldn't move. His eyes bulging with fury, but his body remained locked in place.
Lihua shifted angles, brought the blade down again on the opposite side. The tendons snapped beneath the edge, and the limb sagged grotesquely.
Gao Shan reached her, hands already working, binding the wounds with swift, efficient movement.
Lucas watched them work—frozen for only another second—before instinct jolted his body back into motion. He turned and ran toward the Princess, skidding to his knees beside her still form. Blood matted her dark hair, but he quickly found the source and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. Her breathing remained steady, which he took as an encouraging sign.
Lihua appeared beside him, her face streaked with blood and dirt. "How is she?" she asked in accented Common Tongue.
"Breathing steady. Head wound stopped bleeding," he reported quickly. "Unconscious but stable."
She nodded curtly, then gestured for their healer to take over treatment.
Lucas looked around at the aftermath. They'd suffered fewer losses than expected—both Yi Tish and Blackwood forces had fought with disciplined efficiency. The remaining living enemies were being rounded up along with those who had falsely surrendered during the initial assault.
That's when he saw Lihua make a sharp hand signal to Gao Shan. Both warriors moved to where the paralyzed Mountain stood frozen, and methodically hacked through his ankle tendons with clinical precision. A healer immediately moved to treat the severed tendons—keeping him alive but permanently crippled.
Then the two began systematically beheading every captured Lannister soldier.
He didn't stop her. He couldn't. Something had shifted when the Princess fell. The line between mercy and vengeance was gone—and none of his men questioned it. Lucas could only watch as even the pleading younger men were dispatched with swift, merciless efficiency. No trial, no quarter, no hesitation.
Gao Shan barked orders in their flowing language, and other Yi Tish soldiers began gathering the corpses. His own men helped, recognizing the grim necessity. The bodies were soon tied to wooden poles, heads displayed on a makeshift beam beneath a white flag that now served as mocking banner.
Lihua approached him, her armor still bloody, her eyes holding the cold fire of imperial authority.
We take the Princess and that thing back to camp," she said—no room for refusal.
With the Princess unconscious, Lihua didn't just lead. She ruled. The executions weren't impulse. They were verdict.
The honor code had drawn blood.
Now the YiTish would draw theirs.
No, Lucas realized with crystalline clarity. The YiTish were finished following Westerosi rules.