The Mountain of Ice and Fire

Gregor charged out to meet a band of cavalry thundering towards him.

Both sides moved with great speed.

The cavalrymen, realizing their mistake too late, were struck with terror as Gregor's greatsword cleaved their captain in two.

A diagonal strike!

Half a shoulder, along with the attached head, went flying, blood spraying like rain.

The other half remained on horseback, carried past Gregor's warhorse.

That single strike broke the spirit of the remaining fourteen riders.

However, the speed of the oncoming horses was too great to allow for an immediate turn, and the two riders following closely behind could only manage a desperate, oblique pass.

Gregor spurred his horse forward, his greatsword sweeping horizontally.

One rider was cut in half at the waist.

Before the cavalry captain's airborne corpse could fall, the upper half of the second body flew backward.

The air instantly filled with the stench of blood.

A lance thrust violently towards Gregor's face from the left, wielded by the rider who was unable to turn back from his oblique charge.

Gregor's left hand snatched the lance, and with a light tug, the rider was pulled from his saddle by the immense force, losing his grip on the weapon. Gregor, using the momentum, thrust the lance downwards, impaling the rider's armor and pinning him to the ground.

A rider close behind swerved his horse to avoid Gregor, circling away, not daring to retrace his path, instead fleeing north.

Gregor yanked the lance free with his left hand and hurled it. The lance flew like an arrow, striking the fleeing rider squarely in the back with a sickening thud.

The lance pierced his back and protruded from his chest.

The lance carried the corpse over the horse's head and sent it crashing forward.

Such was the terror of his throw.

The remaining riders desperately reined in their horses, turning them around, but the maneuver proved too difficult for several, their horses rearing up and throwing them to the ground. The formation dissolved into chaos.

Gregor kicked his horse into a gallop, charging forward.

Against Gregor's furious assault, the time it took to turn a horse even halfway seemed agonizingly slow.

Boom!

Gregor's warhorse crashed into the disorganized enemy ranks.

The greatsword rose and fell, scattering limbs and torsos, several riders and their mounts cleaved in two.

The single-handed greatsword, swung with Gregor's arm and the angles of his body, had a greater reach than any lance.

By the time Sweetmouth Ralph and the others had completed their encircling maneuver, only three enemy riders remained.

Gregor blocked one side, and a single charge from Sweetmouth Ralph and his men was enough to cut down the remaining three riders.

Julie and Thomas Man only arrived after the battle was over.

"Fan formation!" Gregor roared.

And so, with Gregor as the tip of the spear, a fan-shaped cavalry formation spread out behind him.

Fan formations were suitable for hunting, while wedge formations were better for charging.

The riders sent to the other side of Clegane Keep to intercept those fleeing the castle found no panicked enemies spilling from the doors.

The back gate of Clegane Keep remained firmly shut.

They were waiting for those inside to open the gate and flee, so they could chase them down.

The sounds of fighting from the other side were strange, the thunder of hooves incessant, leaving them bewildered.

The experienced riders left four men and horses to guard the rear gate, while the rest, led by their captain, rode along the outer wall to investigate.

The stone keep itself did not occupy a large area, but the outer yard of Clegane Keep was vast, the stone walls blocking their view.

Suddenly, a rider emerged from around the corner of the castle wall, a giant of a man, like a mountain, the dreaded Mountain himself.

The cavalrymen were stunned for a moment.

The Mountain's warhorse, without needing instruction, surged forward.

The distance was too short.

Before the captain could draw his sword, the Mountain's blade came crashing down.

A single strike split him from the crown of his head, cleaving him in two.

His helmet and armor offered as much protection as paper.

The scene was too gruesome, and it happened too quickly.

Boom!

The remaining ten riders scattered like flies, desperately turning their horses to flee.

None dared to draw their swords and face Gregor.

They were utterly terrified!

Gregor's greatsword swung like a scythe, and the two leading riders, only halfway through their turn, their bodies barely rotated, were cut in half.

Killing men was as easy as chopping vegetables.

The riders on the edges, turning to flee obliquely, suddenly found themselves facing the enemy.

Sweetmouth Ralph, Scribble, Executioner Dunsen, Polliver, Julie and Thomas Man, along with the cook and servants, formed a fan, like a net stretched before them.

Julie and Thomas Man followed not far behind Gregor, close to the wall.

Dunsen roared and charged, his longsword a blur of motion.

A rider charged towards him.

These riders attacking Clegane Keep were indeed all mercenaries.

The armor and helmets of the mercenaries were noticeably inferior to those of the Sharatt family's knights.

Many of the mercenaries wore leather armor, not steel. Drinking and whoring were the hallmarks of a mercenary's life.

The mercenary's sword struck Dunsen's round shield, while Dunsen's longsword slashed into the mercenary's neck.

The neck, unprotected by a gorget, was vulnerable.

The mercenary fell from his horse without a cry.

Sweetmouth Ralph, an expert horseman, had already overtaken the fleeing riders on the edge, beginning to close the trap.

The fan formation easily encircled the enemy, forcing them inward.

This band of riders, emerging from the stone walls, were already at a disadvantage.

At the same time, the four riders near the wall were quickly dispatched by Gregor, who killed two, while the last two fled along the wall. Gregor gave chase, cleaving the rearmost rider in the back.

As the rider fell from his horse, Gregor spotted the four riders guarding the back gate.

He spurred his horse forward, charging after the man desperately calling for help from the four riders, and with a light swing of his sword, sent his head flying. The rider's body remained firmly in the saddle, carrying the headless corpse into the ranks of the four gate guards.

The four riders cried out and fled.

Experienced, they fled west in unison, guided by the sounds.

To the west lay flatlands, and beyond, the famed Lannisport and the Sunset Sea.

Gregor did not utter a word, but kicked his horse, the steed snorting loudly and surging forward, quickly closing the distance. But Gregor could feel his horse's strength beginning to wane.

He was too heavy, his speed too great, and his repeated urging had pushed the horse to its limit.

A storm cannot last all day, and a violent charge drains strength, both for man and beast.

Gregor drew his short sword and hurled it. The blade struck the last rider in the back. This rider was fully armored, perhaps the reason for his slower speed, allowing Gregor to catch up.

The short sword struck the armor with a loud clang, the tip piercing the armor but only scratching the skin. But the force of the impact was tremendous, and the rider's back felt as if it had been struck by a hammer, sending him tumbling to the ground. Before he could rise, a flash of steel descended, and with a sickening sound, his head flew off.

The sound of hooves grew louder, and the three riders ahead glanced back in panic. "Scatter!" one mercenary shouted.

And so, the three mercenaries fled in three directions.

Gregor roared and gave chase to the mercenary on the left.

The mercenary on the left had the best chance of escape.

He was fleeing towards the lands of House Swyft, another great house of the Westerlands. If he could cross the narrow plain and enter the Swyft family's ancient forest, he would be difficult to catch. The edge of the forest marked the border, and beyond lay the Reach and the lands of House Tyrell.

The mercenaries in the center and on the right were fleeing deeper into the Westerlands. A straight path led to Lannisport, while a turn to the right led to the heart of the Westerlands, making escape difficult. And behind them, Sweetmouth Ralph and the others were in pursuit.

Gregor focused on the mercenary on the left, relentlessly chasing him. But the mercenary was desperate, his horse running as if aflame, growing ever faster, gradually increasing the distance.

Gregor's horse was a fine steed, but it was burdened by Gregor's weight and armor, several times heavier than a normal man. While the other horses carried a hundred pounds, his carried five hundred. Gregor could not hope to match the speed of a lightly burdened mercenary in a long chase.

Gregor sighed inwardly. If he had a javelin, the man would already be dead.

No, he needed to practice his archery after this battle.

With a bow in hand, he could kill such a fleeing target with a single arrow, instead of this exhausting chase. His horse was already tiring, while the other man was pushing his horse to its absolute limit in a desperate attempt to escape.

The mercenary cared nothing for his horse's life, only his own.

But Gregor had no intention of giving up.

He had given the order to kill them all, and he would do everything in his power to fulfill it.

As the mercenary fled further and further away, Gregor heard the sound of hooves behind him. He turned to see Julie galloping towards him on horseback.

"Father, quickly, take my horse!"

"Good!"

He had barely accepted this adopted daughter, and already she was proving useful in battle, crucially so.

Gregor usually traveled with three horses, and Julie was riding one of his own fine steeds.

Julie was light, and wore no armor, and the horse was full of energy and eager for battle.

Gregor and Julie exchanged horses on the run, and without needing any urging or the prick of spurs, the horse neighed and surged forward like an arrow.

In an instant, Gregor closed the distance between himself and the mercenary.

The mercenary spurred his horse desperately, the animal running to its absolute limit, but storms cannot last forever, and the horse's speed could not be sustained.

Julie shouted and cheered from behind, urging Gregor on.

Gregor rotated his wrist, the heavy greatsword feeling weightless in his hand, the blade swirling in a series of arcs. He whistled, catching up to the enemy, and with a light swing of his sword, cut the man in two, silencing his terrified pleas.

He claimed the rider's horse as his own.

Warhorses were valuable military assets, and training one was no easy task.

On the other side, Sweetmouth Ralph and the others had completed their pursuit as well, and returned with two heads impaled on their sword tips, held aloft. They also captured two horses, dragging the headless corpses behind them.

The sound of hooves grew louder, and Sweetmouth Ralph and the others roared: Ha! Ha ha ha! Ha!

All thirty mercenary cavalrymen who had attacked Clegane Keep were dead!