Chapter 157 — Skin Him!
On the shores of Gods Eye Lake, the storm still raged.
The rain fell like punishment, hammering the earth into a churning swamp of water and mud.
And in that curtain of gray, the white cloak advanced.
The moment the Mountain saw the lone Kingsguard figure walking forward with sword in hand, his heart tightened—so hard that even he didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late.
He reined in his horse.
His pace slowed.
Then slower still.
And then… he actually began to back up, inch by inch, until his massive frame was swallowed by the press of men behind him—like hiding inside the herd restored a sliver of safety.
That sword.
Even though the bastard now carried two, the Mountain remembered very clearly:
Outside the Great Sept of Baelor—
that freakishly strong Kingsguard commander had held a greatsword the same color as his armor… and flipped him off his horse like he weighed nothing.
Gregor Clegane was born for war.
And because of that, he understood what it meant.
A man on foot—meeting a mounted charge head-on—
not only holding the line, but winning in raw strength…
And the mounted opponent wasn't some hedge knight.
It was him.
For someone like Gregor—who'd been bigger than grown men since childhood, who could beat adults at ten years old—this was the first time in his life he'd tasted something like fear.
Too arrogant, Lance Lot…
Watching the Kingsguard commander ride ahead—so far ahead that even the nearest royal knight lagged twenty paces behind—Gregor's lips peeled into a cruel grin.
This time…
He wouldn't face him alone.
"KILL!"
Gregor bellowed, lifting his voice so his men could hear through the rain.
"For House Bolton's glory! For the North! For Lord Rickard Stark!"
"Kill them all!"
The "Bolton" riders answered with savage enthusiasm.
"For House Bolton's glory!"
"For the North!"
More than two hundred riders whipped their horses into a gallop and surged forward as one, launching a full charge at the lone white knight.
Gregor let them fly past him.
His pace slowed more…
until he nearly stopped entirely.
Tywin Lannister's cold words echoed in his skull.
"You are Lannister steel. Not a fool."
"Only the living are useful."
Gregor lowered his visor.
Rain streamed over the iron plates, hiding his face.
He was almost certain the Kingsguard commander had already seen him.
But that didn't matter.
If that man died here… none of it mattered.
---
Two hundred warhorses thundered across soaked grassland.
The sound of hooves striking shallow floodwater almost swallowed the storm itself.
The riders screamed in joy, drunk on the confidence of numbers.
One man, one horse—
daring to face two hundred—
Across the Seven Kingdoms, you couldn't find a bigger idiot.
"OHHHHH—!!!"
The front riders let out manic howls as they accelerated.
Spears leveled forward.
Axes raised high.
They could already imagine it—
That white-cloaked fool torn apart, hacked into pieces, trampled into red paste beneath iron hooves.
But reality has a way of slapping arrogance straight into the dirt.
HARD.
—CLANG!
—CRACK!
—SPLURT, SPLURT!
Lance lifted his left-hand weapon—the enormous milk-white greatsword—
And swung.
A simple sweep.
Nothing fancy.
Just pure brutality.
In the same instant, several spear shafts snapped like reeds.
The blade's width carried monstrous force, and the meteor-forged edge carved without hesitation—
The lead spearman's grip exploded open…
…and his body was cut clean in half.
At the same time, Lance's right-hand blade—Valyrian steel—thrust forward.
So fast no one even saw the arc.
Two axe-men didn't even have time to blink before their throats opened—
Boiling blood gushing into the rain.
One exchange.
Two swings.
Three dead.
And that—
was only the beginning.
---
Lance plunged into the charge alone.
Like a blade falling into flesh.
The black sword and the white sword moved together, rising and falling—
Dawn tearing through night, harvesting lives with every stroke.
The men around him finally felt it.
Their attacks weren't being "blocked."
They were being dismissed—
like toddlers swinging fists at a grown man.
Their battle formations—built by veteran experience—were shattered in seconds, reduced to chaos by the most efficient violence imaginable.
Only then did they understand:
This wasn't combat.
This was not a fight.
This was—
slaughter.
---
As Lance drove deeper into the enemy mass, Eddard Stark and Jaime Lannister followed, leading more than twenty riders into the flank.
Eddard barely parried an incoming strike and tried to counter—
but his peripheral vision caught Lance again.
That flawless killing.
The man didn't look faster than a normal swordsman—
but every strike meant death.
No wasted motion.
No flourish.
No show.
Just precision so efficient it felt obscene.
Eddard had always known Lance was strong.
But only on a real battlefield did he finally understand—
how vast the difference between men could truly be.
Jaime understood too.
He'd just completed a clean, beautiful spinning slash, taking an enemy's leg—
and for one heartbeat, he felt proud.
Then he saw Lance.
And the pride shattered.
Jaime's worldview cracked like glass.
A man could be this strong?
A man could be this strong?!
How?!
Why?!
Watching the white cloak crash through bodies, the paired blades throwing blood into the rain—
watching hardened leather and steel plate split like paper—
Jaime didn't feel like he was following a knight.
He felt like he was witnessing a war god walking among men.
A manifestation of the Warrior himself.
—A god in armor.
Jaime swallowed hard.
And without meaning to—
the boy slowed.
Just for a second.
And that was enough.
An enemy seized the opening perfectly.
A warhammer swung—
and smashed into Jaime's breastplate with a dull, crushing thud.
The hit destroyed his focus.
The world blinked black.
Jaime toppled from the saddle and crashed into the mud.
At the edge of the battlefield, Gregor Clegane's eyes were drawn to a flash of gold in the storm.
He lifted his head.
And saw—
Jaime Lannister falling.
"Jaime Lannister!"
Gregor's breath turned sharp.
The cruel grin returned.
The Mountain's head rang with a loud buzz.
He recognized him instantly—
Tywin Lannister's eldest son.
The heir to Casterly Rock.
Jaime Lannister.
Why is he here?!
How is he here?!
Gregor's simple brain couldn't supply answers, but the instinct buried in his blood screamed one command:
Move. Now.
Without hesitation, he slammed his heels into his horse.
His mount surged forward like an out-of-control siege ram, smashing through friend and foe alike, charging straight toward Jaime's position.
Jaime, half-dazed, struggled up from the mud—only then remembering he was on a battlefield.
He clutched his sword—
but in the chaos, some rider's horse clipped him again and sent him crashing back down.
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog.
Then he looked up.
An enemy was already above him, grinning like a demon, blade raised—
swinging down toward Jaime's neck.
"Get lost!"
A thunderous roar tore across the battlefield.
A massive greatsword swept through the rain with terrifying wind pressure—
CRACK!
The attacker didn't even have time to react.
He was severed at the waist in a single blow.
Before Jaime could even breathe, another enemy lunging toward him was smashed backward by a reverse elbow—
his skull bursting like rotten fruit.
Jaime froze, stunned by the sudden, grotesque rescue.
Then he slowly lifted his gaze to the "savior."
"C… Clegane…?"
That body was unmistakable.
That sword was unmistakable.
And Jaime's green eyes widened in disbelief.
The same questions exploded in his mind—
The Mountain…?
How is he here?!
Why is he here?!
---
Gregor's heart dropped the moment Jaime spoke his name.
He wasn't smart… but he wasn't completely stupid either.
If his identity was exposed right now, Tywin's plan would collapse.
He yanked the reins hard, twisting his horse around, trying to leave immediately.
But—
too late.
The moment Gregor turned, a clean streak of white appeared directly in his escape route—
charging toward him.
Lance Lot.
Gregor clenched his teeth so hard they nearly splintered.
That memory surged back—
the day he'd been knocked off his horse like a child.
"I… I'm the invincible one!!!"
He crushed fear into madness.
The sickness in his skull flipped terror into bloodlust.
With a savage howl, Gregor raised his oversized greatsword and launched into a counter-charge—
straight at Lance.
The two riders met head-on.
Even while charging, they cut down men around them like wheat—
until—
impact.
Gregor's sword came down from above like a falling tower, packed with such force it seemed to split the air itself, vibrating with a deep, roaring hum.
He had absolute confidence.
This strike—
even the finest knights in the world would not be able to take it head-on.
Its power was far greater than it had been in King's Landing.
But he wasn't facing "the world's finest knight."
He was facing Lance.
A black arc flashed.
The white-armored knight did not roar.
Did not shout.
He simply raised his sword in silence—
and blocked it.
Gregor didn't even have time to process the shock before—
white light slashed again.
CRACK!
The sound of bone breaking made teeth ache.
Gregor's horse screamed.
Then collapsed forward violently.
Gregor's massive body was launched into the mud like a wrecked battering ram.
His armor dragged him down.
He sank into the sludge, struggling helplessly.
And then—
the white cloak rode past.
A black Valyrian-steel blade carved through the air in a near-perfect horizontal line.
SHRRK—
The edge cut through metal greaves, sinew, and bone—
like butter.
"AAAAAAGHHHHHH—!!!"
Gregor Clegane screamed the most agonizing scream of his life.
Both of his lower legs were gone—cleanly severed below the knee.
Blood erupted like fountains, staining the rainwater red in seconds.
He tried to stand.
But what could half-thigh stumps possibly support?
The once-unstoppable Ser Gregor Clegane now flailed uselessly in blood-and-mud—
just like the "commoners" he'd once tortured for fun.
---
The slaughter didn't last long.
With the Mountain crippled and Lance's inhuman swordsmanship ripping through the enemy line, the battle ended almost as quickly as it began.
And then—
the rain stopped.
The field was ruin.
Corpses everywhere.
The wounded groaning.
Horses splashing through muck.
Lance reined his mount in and approached.
His white cloak hung heavy with water.
"Ser Lannister," he asked calmly, voice carrying a chill that made skin crawl.
"Do you know him?"
The question snapped Jaime awake.
He stood there like a broken puppet, staring down at the legless man in the mud—Tywin's hound—his eyes hollow.
"I… he's…"
"NO!!!"
Gregor roared with everything he had left, cutting him off.
"I DON'T KNOW HIM!"
"Lannister?" He spat a laugh full of blood and madness. "Hah—rats hiding under gold mines!"
"I'm… I'm Bolton's man!"
"For the North!"
He screamed it like a vow.
Not an ounce of betrayal in him.
Jaime trembled.
He stared into Gregor's bloodshot eyes—red with raw, suicidal determination—
and his throat closed like a fist had gripped it.
"I…"
He swallowed.
His lips shook.
No sound came.
Finally—under Lance's calm gaze—
Jaime forced himself to move.
He shook his head.
Slowly.
And the words that came out were barely a whisper:
"…I don't know him."
"Mm."
Lance didn't scold him.
Didn't rebuke him.
He simply chuckled softly.
He had seen the Mountain.
The Mountain knew that.
Yet Gregor still bit down on the lie so hard he'd die with it.
Meaning: he was certain Lance could never extract anything useful from him.
Meaning: there was no evidence to be found.
But it didn't matter.
Whether the raiders were Mountain men or someone else wasn't the important part.
The important part was—
"Since you don't know him."
Lance's voice remained calm—
but the cold within it was suffocating.
He turned his head.
Two knights were dragging a captive forward.
Roose Bolton.
Lance looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting into a thin, icy curve.
"To prove your innocence… and to satisfy my curiosity, Lord Bolton."
He extended one gloved finger toward the Mountain writhing in the mud.
"Show us the famous hereditary craft of the Dreadfort."
"I'm truly puzzled."
He smiled—barely.
"How does a man… have his skin removed whole?"
His eyes sharpened.
"And be careful."
"Make it perfect."
"Otherwise…"
His tone softened into something almost playful.
"…unpleasant things may happen."