A man of about fifty with thin brown hair sat on a stool by the fireplace, tuning his harp. He wore a weathered green jerkin, with a dagger on his hip almost as sharp as his nose. He grinned a wide-mouthed grin at the comely serving girl half his age who sauntered by and refilled his flagon with thick dark beer, and she blushed and scurried away.
He plucked a few strings on his harp, nodded to himself, and began to play.
The smallfolk cried out, “The King, he’s dead!”
And the Queen she screamed and said, “Off with his head!”
As she looked at the dwarf in gold and red
And the Ogre looked on in the Hall.
“His guilt is most certain,” the council decides,
But the Imp called for combat by the Father who guides,
So Cersei called forth The Mountain That Rides,
And the Ogre too answered the call.
They met in the courtyard, The Mountain struck first,
But the Ogre disarmed him, and fortunes reversed,
In the audience the Queen she shrieked and cursed,
As The Mountain wept fountains of red.
The Mountain fought wildly, he screamed, he roared,
But faltered with each hit the Ogre scored,
The Ogre looked down and shouted, raising his sword,
“So judge the Seven,” and lopped off his head.
Across the courtyard Gregor’s head rolled,
And away walked the Ogre of Loringhold,
A house stands divided in red and gold,
When Kings and Mountains fall.
The bard would play the song half a dozen times more that night, and by the end the entire inn was joining in the singing of it.
“Some of the rhymes need work,” a man in a lemon-yellow cloak said to the singer after the fifth performance of When Kings and Mountains Fall. Tom Sevenstrings just grinned his wide-mouthed grin, and tuned his harp again.