The scene's atmosphere congealed, as if grouted solid. In that instant, both sides fell silent in tacit accord.
The people within the arched passage beneath the Dragon Gate had fear in their eyes—dread—and for that very reason an added surge of fury.
Everyone stared fixedly at the enemies outside.
As for beyond the arch, the Lannister host—arrayed in order and filling streets and alleys as far as one could see—
—they likewise kept cold eyes on Kal Stone standing in the Dragon Gate's passage, and on the wildlings he had brought.
Both sides gazed at one another across the empty space.
And between them stood those Lannister soldiers who had followed Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, and who by luck had survived the slaughter at the hands of both their own and the enemy.
Confronted with the sudden quiet all around, they had not yet come back to their senses from the fierce, sudden carnage before their eyes.
Madness had occupied their reason.
Scarlet covered everything in sight.
The wails of death seemed still at their ears.
Only as both sides rapidly disengaged did the soldiers who had been lucky enough to live—and were still on their feet—raise their weapons, swords drawn, looking about in bewilderment.
As for these men, a commander among the Lannister soldiers who had just come up in support from the two side streets tilted his head for a glance and, expressionless, waved a hand.
"Take them away."
His voice carried no ripple of emotion.
At his order, several well-drilled squads detached from the ranks and moved up at once.
They led these still-flustered, unadapted soldiers off the battlefield—already a river of blood—and back to the host's rear.
Not many had cleared their heads; some of the Lannister soldiers were still trapped in the life-and-death frenzy of moments ago.
When their own rushed at them, they moved to strike by instinct.
But a few shields rammed in and bowled them to the ground, and then, from beyond their confused line of sight, a few punches swung in—settling them down on the physical level.
For those barely still lucid, clarity returned to their eyes.
As for those who were not—knocked straight out—they were hoisted and dragged directly to the rear.
These men worked fast; one could even call it deft.
Kal stood at the very front of the two opposing masses, silently watching them tidy the field, making no unnecessary move.
His two-handed greatsword, soaked in fresh blood, stood planted before him. At his nostrils, the reek of blood saturated the air, like the smell of rust.
He looked at the severed limbs, the blood, the entrails, carpeting his entire field of view.
Lament and killing chill both hovered at his ears.
The wind blew. Drop by drop, nearly congealed blood ran along his hair, the hems of his clothes, the edges of his mail, dripped, and merged into the blackish blood on the ground that had soaked up to his feet.
Not many Lannister soldiers had survived that melee and were still able to stand and move—at a glance, perhaps only a few dozen.
Besides them, there were far more who were dead beyond doubt—or not quite dead yet.
Be it the corpses lying in piles, hollow-eyed and letting blood flow as their body heat turned cold, or the Lannister soldiers who had only fallen wounded—who had not died at once and could only let out pitiful wails—no one went to see to them anymore.
The heaps of bodies before their eyes had all become sacrifices to this desperate pass.
Gregor Clegane had brought roughly three hundred men, and now they had been thrown down here in an absurd fashion.
Together, they formed the hellish tableau before them.
This of course also included the few tribal warriors Kal had brought—but Kal had no way to bring them back now.
Because ahead of him, an even more brutal battle was still waiting.
Once the Lannisters had cleared away those soldiers who could still move, the atmosphere of standoff between the two sides grew even more grim.
Under the sunlight all was silent, yet the air felt as if a brief autumn chill had already set in.
The Lannister knight-commander gave the order.
The command flag swept, and the troops blocking the arch let out a single, unified shout—then, with a swish—a rank upon rank of long spears rose like a forest before Kal, their tips flashing cold, prickling the skin.
And not only the bristling spears: behind them, shields came up in tight lockstep, leaving no gaps.
The infantry phalanx assembled; their feet struck down—
[Bang!]
[Bang!]
Not exactly in step, not fast, but the army's formation, terrifying in momentum, advanced in a slow press, bringing with it the pressure of death.
Facing the renewal of battle, Kal rested a hand on his greatsword and looked back at the tribal warriors who had followed him here.
Their gear could not compare at all with the Lannister host before them—just castoffs they had scrounged up by begging.
Though it was already far better than what they had used in the forests.
Even so, faced with the Lannister army, though fear lay in their hearts, none of them meant to take a single step back.
Sensing Kal's gaze, everyone's eyes, by instinct, fixed on the Warden of the East who had conquered them.
"We must win this battle—and I will always stand in front of you."
Kal's voice was low. He did not launch into a long speech; with simple words, he stated what came next.
Hearing Kal's words, looking at the lord to whom they had yielded—the same Kal Stone they had just seen charge out, only to turn back when danger came and save them—these clansmen, who knew nothing of any damned etiquette, answered by lifting high their blood-stained weapons and letting out loud, ragged long howls.
Their morale burned like fire.
They were not lacking!
Seeing no one shrink back, the corner of Kal's mouth tugged up—but on that face already dyed red with blood, all that showed was a flash of white teeth.
Then he turned to his only squire since becoming a knight: Jon Snow.
He was the youngest man present—indeed, not yet of age. Strictly speaking, he was still a child.
"Jon!" Kal shouted, face expressionless.
"Go tell Shagga and the others outside this: I'll hold the pressure inside the city for them—but they need to seize the gate fast and haul this damned iron portcullis up for me!"
Facing his knight's somewhat abrupt order, Jon paused, then lifted his gaze in surprise to look at Kal.
Then he looked around, and at once understood what his knight-lord meant.
"My lord Kal, choose someone else," Jon said, his voice ringing firm. "I'm no deserter!"
As he spoke, he raised that pale justice of his—the sword already notched in several places—his eyes steady and grave.
Though he was young, that was no reason for him to shrink back now.
Saying this, he pointed toward the battlefield they had only just withdrawn from.
"Also, the king's helm you entrusted to me just now—I accidentally left it out on the field, and I think it's my duty to find it and bring it back."
"That is my responsibility as your squire."
Jon was still breathing a little hard as he spoke, but compared to before he now looked much better. Seeing that the kid had walked to the very edge of death and come back still this brave, Hall—who, from the start of the war, had deliberately kept by Kal's side—couldn't help but laugh twice, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Good lad. When this damned war is over, I'll find you the most beautiful women in all of King's Landing's brothels, and have them drain you dry before they've got you swooning."
"Then I'll see if you've any strength left to talk big."
Though Hall was cursing with a grin, the admiration in his expression was plain to see.
Looking at that face still a touch young—Lord Eddard Stark's bastard, who showed no fear even before a scene like this—everyone who heard his words there in the archway beneath the Dragon Gate couldn't help but smile.
The tense air seemed to ease by a great deal.
Seeing Jon refuse him, and even spin such a well-rounded reason, Kal glanced at the space in his arms—indeed empty—and could only shake his head.
"I think if Lord Eddard Stark were here, he might be gratified."
"So stick close to me, boy—don't let my longsword end up with no shoulder to rest on."
Saying this, Kal chuckled as well.
The host pressed in, yet beneath the Dragon Gate's arch there was, instead, a scene of "harmony."
At the teasing around him, Jon Snow—who had just mustered the courage to declare he would not be a deserter—looked a little abashed; his face, patched black and red by mud and blood, showed it.
But his chest lifted even straighter.
He felt he had become a man; if Uncle Benjen knew, he would surely honor him with a few cups of Dornish red, rather than teasing him for sneaking drinks at feasts.
Seeing the morale fit for use, and hearing the footsteps outside draw nearer, Kal suddenly snapped up his right hand, cutting off the laughter in the arch.
The two-handed greatsword in his grip—about 1.8 m long—rose over his head,
"Then pass my orders to the rear," Kal bellowed. "As for now—let's send these damned bastards all to hell!"
Kal's voice boomed like a great bell, his fiery roar echoing through the Dragon Gate's archway.
And with his violent motion, the Mountain's head—once wrapped in a yellow hooded mantle—swayed a few times at his waist.
Its original color could no longer be made out—only black and red remained, streaked with a glaring yellow.
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