A brightly armored contingent of troops patrolled the wilderness a dozen leagues east of Darry City.
The young man at their head listened to his scout's report in silence, his face expressionless, his eyes cold and thoughtful.
This was Jon.
From earlier reconnaissance, he already knew the roads and hidden paths around Darry that could be used for attack or retreat.
He didn't yet know the Mountain's exact numbers, but he knew one thing for certain—Gregor Clegane would come. And if the Mountain came, the Westerlands' heavy cavalry would surely ride with him.
To trap and destroy such a force would require meticulous planning.
Jon had prepared caltrops, wildfire jars, and earth-filled sandbags.
"My lord," Old York advised, "this path is narrow. If we scatter caltrops and dig hoof traps, we might delay the enemy. But the main road to the southwest—that is the true danger. If the Mountain brings his heavy horse like those we faced at the Green Fork, we will not be able to stop them alone."
Even the Northern host had struggled against them that day. Jon's current force, smaller and less trained, would fare worse.
But the tribal warriors, now clad in their newly issued armor, brimmed with reckless confidence. In their eyes, even fighting a dragon might not seem impossible.
"Have the wildfire jars buried," Jon ordered.
"A fire attack?" Old York frowned. "It's clever, but how will we ignite them?"
"I know!" Sola interjected brightly. "Jon means to set them alight with flaming arrows!"
Jon considered the suggestion and nodded.
"Yes, but luring the enemy here will be the true challenge," he said. What he did not voice was the cost—sacrifices would be required to bait the Mountain.
Jon still didn't fully trust the tribal warriors. He had seen firsthand the unstoppable charge of Gregor's heavy cavalry. If fear seized these men before the clash, his entire plan could collapse.
The only ones he truly trusted for such a task were the old veterans of the clans—men long inured to life and death.
Jon set the final battlefield along the southwest road. Two hundred veterans and a hundred tribesmen would serve as bait.
"The Mountain…" he murmured the name.
If he could somehow capture Gregor alive and turn him into a "Bio-Mountain," that would be best. But without such ability, the next best thing was to kill him and send his head—along with Amory's, whom he had already taken—to Sunspear.
House Martell would pay handsomely for vengeance. Both men had slain Martell kin, and Doran and the Red Viper alike dreamed of their deaths. Jon would need coin. Tens of thousands of mouths would not feed themselves.
---
That evening, cold moonlight washed over Darry's walls. A boy strolled along the battlements with his attendant.
Martin, the acting lord, was already asleep.
But young Lin Man, troubled by nightmares, could not rest. For days he had felt a growing sense of dread.
"Ser, it's cold outside," his attendant urged.
Lin Man nodded and turned to leave—then froze.
Far in the distance, armored riders advanced. Their plate gleamed cold in the moonlight. A flood of steel, surging straight toward Darry.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!" Lin Man's panicked cry joined the alarm bell as soldiers rushed to arms.
Martin woke to the clamor, pulling on his armor as men burst into his chamber.
"What is it? Who attacks?"
"My lord, unknown forces. Their armor is fine—heavy cavalry. The man leading them is huge, like a giant!"
A giant.
Martin's blood ran cold. He knew at once who had come.
The Mountain.
He remembered his uncle Raymun, cut down years ago when ordered by Lord Eddard to intercept Gregor. Betrayed by leaked information, Raymun had faced the Mountain unprepared. His sword arm severed, his body broken.
The Mountain was House Darry's nemesis.
Martin burned to avenge his uncle, but he knew the truth—he did not have the strength. All he could do was defend the castle.
Monde soon joined him, armed and grim. Together they looked down from the wall. Below, the Mountain's cavalry was already forming ranks, terrifying even to behold.
Darry's walls stood only six or seven meters high, average in thickness. Against this onslaught, they looked pitifully thin.
And then Martin saw something worse.
In front of the knights were commoners—disheveled, terrified, herded forward as human shields.
The memory of Jon's rebuke thundered in Martin's ears: "Do you want those commoners to suffer twice?!"
Guilt gnawed at him. But still he barked orders to strengthen the defense.
Then he froze.
"Wait—the southwest wall…"
Monde turned pale. He remembered too. The breach there had only been hastily patched with rammed earth. Against Gregor's cavalry, it would crumble like parchment.
Despair flooded them both.
Martin cursed himself for not heeding Jon's advice. Worse, he had brought Lin Man back into danger. How could he face Raymun in death if the boy was slain?
"We must hold!" Martin shouted, though his heart faltered. "Only if we hold may reinforcements come!"
"Fight to the death!" Monde echoed, drawing his sword high.
"Fight to the death!" the garrison replied from the walls, though their voices quavered with fear.
And outside, the Mountain's charge was ready to begin.
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