At this moment, Darry City could only be described as weak.
When they had first set out, their numbers had exceeded six hundred. But after the siege, and following the withdrawal of the Dreadfort's troops, Darry's battle-ready soldiers now numbered fewer than three hundred.
Three hundred men might have sufficed if they'd been well equipped—but their weapons and arrows were nearly spent. Worse, the city walls still hadn't been fully repaired.
And worst of all, the Mountain knew about the breach. He launched his assault there without hesitation.
The giant knight stood at the front, casually deflecting an arrow that flew toward him. Against the thick plate of his heavy cavalry, the defenders' scattered arrows were as useless as mosquito bites.
The Mountain didn't waste time demanding surrender. He attacked at once—proof that he was confident of victory. Everyone knew what that meant. Once the city fell, a massacre would follow.
Martin and Mond roared, trying to rally their men against the unstoppable advance.
But the rammed-earth patch on the wall gave way almost instantly. The heavy armored soldiers flooded into the breach like a tide of iron, overwhelming the defenders in moments.
From the parapet, Martin watched the waves of enemy soldiers surging through the streets below. His sword trembled in his grasp.
"Martin! What do we do now?!" Mond shouted. Three arrows had struck his chest, but his armor held. He could still fight—but barely.
"Get Lin Man out of here!" Martin shouted. "He must not die!"
"There's no way out! The city's surrounded!" Mond's voice cracked with despair. He was barely seventeen, still a boy, and the sight of the Mountain's army crushed the courage from him.
The two brothers, still atop the wall, could only watch as Gregor Clegane himself entered the city. Nearly two and a half meters tall, he looked less like a man than a beast of war. The enormous greatsword in his hands swung with horrifying strength, cutting down men as though reaping wheat.
Even knights dared not meet him head-on.
Despair swallowed Martin whole. Regret burned in his chest—he cursed himself for not listening to Jon, for dragging House Darry to its doom. A thousand years of lineage were ending in his hands.
Perhaps the only redemption left was to die in battle.
He wiped the blood from his sword and turned to face the enemy.
Then, a shout rose from behind him—
"My Lord! Look! The black banner with the white wolf—it's Lord Jon! Lord Jon has come to save us!"
Martin spun around. There, beyond the chaos, he saw it: a dark banner rippling against the night sky, the white wolf emblem gleaming like a flash of lightning.
"Lord Jon?!"
"It's really Jon, Martin—it's Jon!" Mond cried, tears spilling down his face.
A long, haunting howl pierced the night air—awooo—rolling across the battlefield like the voice of the North itself.
Gregor Clegane paused mid-slaughter, turning toward the sound.
"My lord," his squire stammered, "something's wrong! Northern reinforcements have arrived!"
"Reinforcements?!"
The Mountain scowled. Before marching, he'd sent scouts—none had reported enemy forces within ten miles. The Dreadfort archers had withdrawn days ago. How could reinforcements have slipped past unnoticed?
He clenched his teeth. I'll kill that scout when I return.
"What banner?" he demanded.
"The black banner with the white wolf—it's Jon Snow, the bastard's banner!"
"Jon Snow…"
Gregor's voice was low and cold. He could feel his pulse pounding behind his temples, his headache returning. Only blood would ease it.
The Westerlands' spies had already reported that Jon commanded barely a thousand men—mostly untrained, poorly armed. The Mountain had long wanted a rematch since that humiliating river ambush. Now, Jon had come to him.
He grinned savagely.
Gregor immediately ordered the men already inside the city to hold the defenders in place. He would lead the rest to crush Jon himself.
He mounted his massive warhorse, leading roughly four hundred heavy infantry and cavalry out through the southern gate, galloping toward the white wolf banner.
But as he neared, something felt wrong. Even in the darkness, his trained eye could gauge the scale of the opposing army by sound and light.
The howling voices and the countless torches flickering across the fields… this was no thousand men. There had to be five thousand.
Gregor's grin faltered.
Even with his heavy cavalry, a tenfold disadvantage was no small matter. For the first time in years, the butcher felt a flicker of unease.
Did someone leak my movements?
After all, Gregor himself had ambushed Eddard Stark's men using stolen intelligence. It was poetic justice, perhaps, but he didn't see it that way.
Without hesitation, he ordered the withdrawal of the soldiers still fighting in the city. He would break out through the main southwest road. The terrain there was open—perfect for a cavalry charge.
And there, right in the middle of that road, Jon's banner waited.
Gregor remembered sending scouts through that route days ago. There was no way Jon could have built fortifications in such a short time.
Inside Darry, the defenders felt their hearts lift as the enemy pulled away.
Martin exhaled shakily, tears of exhaustion stinging his eyes. Regret and despair were replaced by desperate gratitude.
If they lived through this night, he swore, he would never doubt Jon again.
"Mond!" he shouted. "Count the men still able to fight! Prepare to support Lord Jon at any moment!"
"There are two or three hundred who can still move!" Mond reported minutes later. "But the Mountain left men behind—we can't break through!"
"Even if we can't break out, we'll charge!" Martin roared, eyes blazing.
On the field, the Mountain's vanguard thundered toward Jon's lines.
Jon stood at the forefront, calm and unmoving, as the shadow of the Mountain loomed closer. His sheer size seemed to blot out th
e moonlight.
"Who is Jon Snow?" the Mountain growled, lifting his visor.
And the night held its breath.
Yearly access offer 50 percent and monthly offer 25 percent
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)