The Mountain's army lived up to its reputation as a heavy-armored force—everywhere they advanced, the ground itself seemed to flatten beneath their boots.
Such soldiers were monsters of war. Even four or five of them could shift the tide of a tribal skirmish; four or five hundred were an unstoppable storm.
The clan warriors in Jon's ranks, though hardened by the mountains, couldn't help but feel their hearts tighten.
When the Mountain bellowed, demanding, "Who is Jon Snow?", their hands instinctively clenched around their spears. Doubt flickered across their eyes—could their weapons even pierce that steel?
Jon sensed their unease. He raised his hand.
In an instant, torches blazed to life across the hills and fields, transforming the darkness into a sea of flickering fire.
The Mountain turned his head. The countless lights made his vision swim for a moment.
Judging by the torches alone, it looked like two or three thousand men surrounded him.
But if he could have looked closer, he would have seen the truth—many soldiers carried not one torch, but three. One strapped to their backs, two in their hands. The illusion of vast numbers was complete.
Even though Jon's own men knew the trick, the sheer sight of it filled them with courage. Their fear ebbed away, replaced by the rising heat of shared defiance.
Jon ordered the Howling Mountain warriors to shout confusing, meaningless commands—loud and chaotic. The echo of their voices carried over the fields, convincing the Mountain that he faced an army many times larger than it was.
But Gregor Clegane was not a man easily frightened. He reined in his massive warhorse and roared again, voice booming like thunder:
"Who is Jon Snow?!"
Jon still hadn't moved, but the men around him grew tense.
"My lord," Old York said urgently, "though your martial skill is unmatched, this Mountain… he's no ordinary man."
"Jon, be careful," Sola added quickly.
Jon turned slightly toward her. "Use titles when working," he said calmly. Calling him by name could raise suspicion.
"Ah?" Sola blinked, confused—but before she could reply, Jon spurred his horse forward.
"I am Jon Snow," he shouted, "the one sent by the gods to claim your life!"
The Mountain narrowed his eyes. The man before him was not tall—no one ever was beside him—but his tone carried an edge of steel.
Gregor grinned, baring his yellow teeth. "By you?"
Before anyone could react, he dug his spurs into his horse. The great beast screamed and surged forward, charging like an avalanche.
The distance between them was barely thirty or forty meters.
At that range, Jon had only moments to act.
If he fled, he might live—but his retreat would shatter his army's morale. If he stood and failed, the Mountain's spear would impale him, and his men would crumble.
No one expected such a massive warrior to charge so suddenly.
"Run, my lord!" someone shouted behind him.
Jon didn't move. He seemed frozen—calm, almost still—as the thunder of hooves drew closer.
At ten meters, Jon could see the Mountain's face clearly. His cruel eyes burned. He wore no helmet.
Then, Jon dropped his spear. In one fluid motion, he raised his bow—light, small, meant for speed—and drew an arrow.
Everyone watching thought he had lost his mind. To fire a light bow at a charging, armored knight from ten paces? Madness.
The battlefield fell silent.
Swoosh—
The arrow sang through the air, sharp as tearing silk.
Boom—
The Mountain crashed down, thrown from his horse less than ten meters from Jon.
For a moment, no one moved. Both armies stared, unable to believe what they had seen.
It was like watching a man stop a charging war elephant with a single stone.
Then, the clan warriors erupted.
"Kill him!" they roared, surging forward like wolves scenting blood.
Everyone knew this was no ordinary soldier—this was a noble, a monster of war. If they slew him, Jon would surely reward them richly.
They also knew the weakness of heavy cavalry: once fallen, they struggled to rise.
But as they closed in, the Mountain moved.
With a brutal sweep of his spear, he smashed the front line aside, scattering men like leaves. He rose to his feet—blood pouring from his face, an arrow jutting from his eye socket.
Half-blinded, he was even more terrifying.
The nearest clan warriors froze in horror at his monstrous visage.
Behind him, his heavy troops pressed forward, trampling and crushing everything in their path.
This was the power of heavy armor—unstoppable once in motion.
Jon's eyes narrowed. Even with an arrow buried in his skull, the Mountain fought on, swinging his weapon with inhuman strength. Seven, eight men fell in an instant.
A born killer, Jon thought grimly. His pain tolerance… unbelievable.
The Mountain seemed to enter a frenzy, his blood boiling, his body trembling with rage.
But Jon had prepared for this moment.
He raised his hand—signal given.
The next group of warriors stepped forward.
Because of Jon's earlier shot, their fear had lessened. They braced themselves as the heavy troops thundered closer.
Thirty paces.
Twenty.
Ten.
Then, they threw their fishing nets.
The Mountain's men had never seen such a tactic.
The nets tangled around legs and weapons, dragging down the front ranks. Dozens stumbled, falling hard into the mud.
The sight almost looked ridiculous—but it worked. The trapped soldiers snarled and cursed, their advance faltering.
The clan warriors laughed as they fell back, exactly as planned.
In their place, a new line formed—two hundred veterans, scarred men who had fought beside Jon since the Battle of the Green Fork.
They were the same mountain veterans who had followed him into the Mountains of the Moon, the same men who had cut out their tongues to keep the secret of the dragon eggs.
They now stood in silence, ready to give their lives.
This was Jon's Vanguard Camp—his final trap.
Their task was simple and terrible: to draw the Mountain's armored troops into the swampy gro
und behind them, where wildfire jars lay buried beneath the mud.
Everything—victory or annihilation—now depended on this one strike.
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