Hunting has never been easy for true hunters.
They must carry heavy gear through freezing woods, set traps in silence, endure cold winds and snow, eat tasteless dry rations, and wait endless hours for prey that might never appear.
Even then, success is uncertain. For even the most skilled hunter, the odds of each hunt rarely exceed fifty percent.
But for nobles, hunting is a pleasure.
They have their own preserves—vast, fenced-off lands where servants and dogs do most of the work. The Wolfswood serves House Stark, and the Kingswood belongs to kings.
Before the noble riders arrive, servants drive deer and wolves into the open. Hounds give chase while the lords and ladies follow leisurely on horseback, sipping wine, drawing bows, and loosing arrows from comfort.
For commoners, hunting is a game of survival—an assassin's trade. For nobles, it is sport—a game of shooting.
There is a world of difference between the two.
Now, Jon felt like one of those nobles.
His army had surrounded the Mountain's remaining troops. Under his command, the enemy scattered like panicked beasts, exhausting themselves as they fled.
The Mountain and his men, trapped within the tightening ring, could feel their armor turn from protection into burden. The weight that once made them invincible now dragged at their limbs.
They could manage one last charge, one final desperate move. After that—they would be prey, helpless before the hunter's spear.
The Mountain leaned on his greatsword, panting heavily. In the morning sun, he could see Jon's troops closing in, step by steady step.
He knew that by today's end, he would either die here—or be captured.
His massive frame gave him a higher vantage point than most men, and he used it to scan the field. To his surprise, Jon's army didn't seem as large as he had imagined. His brow furrowed in confusion, but he was too exhausted to think clearly.
When Jon's encirclement was complete, Martin finally arrived with his men.
Around Jon stood all the officers and tribal leaders—united in the glow of victory. Together, they had crushed one of the most feared forces in the Seven Kingdoms.
For the first time, they looked like a single army—strong, disciplined, and proud.
"Lord Jon," Martin said, pushing his way to the front, his tone filled with apology, respect, and gratitude.
Jon didn't look at him. Instead, he turned to a nearby messenger.
"Go tell the Mountain," he said calmly, "that I want to duel him. If he wins, I'll let him go."
"My lord?"
"My lord, you don't have to!"
"My lord, please don't take such a risk!"
The protest came from every direction.
The Mountain was already finished—his men could be worn down until none remained. There was no need to endanger himself.
Those who had seen Gregor Clegane fight at the Green Fork still remembered the terror of that day. Even after Jon had shot out his eye, even after he fell from his horse, the monster had risen again to fight.
Old York, though he had seen Jon's incredible skill, still couldn't bear the risk. He too tried to dissuade him.
Jon, however, understood their concern.
Through this victory, his army had become a true fighting force. But unity was fragile. Soon he would have to merge House Darry's soldiers into his command, turning them into mid-level officers to replace the tribal captains he'd elevated temporarily.
That change would bring resentment.
To make it work, he needed greater prestige—something undeniable.
Defeating the Mountain in single combat would give him exactly that.
Besides, Gregor was already spent. Jon was confident he could kill him quickly.
And there was another reason—time. Darry City was only a day or two's march from Tywin's lines. The longer he delayed, the greater the danger of reinforcements.
"I've decided," Jon said flatly. "No more arguments." He looked at the messenger again. "Go. Tell him I'll duel him."
The messenger—a warrior from the Howling Mountain tribe—nodded eagerly. He had heard of Jon's legendary conquest of Hidden Fire Peak and believed without doubt that his lord could fell the monster.
He rode forward to the front of the Mountain's battered line.
"My lord!" cried Scarface, his voice trembling between shock and relief. "That bastard wants to duel you!"
Gregor's brows knitted together. The pain in his ruined eye pulsed, making it hard to focus.
His swollen face—already huge—looked grotesque now, his helmet useless. The pain was like fuel, fanning his rage.
If Jon Snow wanted a duel, then a duel he would have.
Jon and the Mountain stepped into the no-man's-land between the armies.
Jon's height barely reached the other man's chest.
In his youth, shame and hardship as a bastard had left Jon lean and underfed, stunting his growth. Yet, at not quite sixteen, he still had time—both his parents had been tall. He believed he would catch up in time.
But now, standing face-to-face, the contrast was absurd.
The Mountain's men grinned confidently. "This will be quick," one muttered.
Sola, who always believed Jon capable of anything, still held her breath. Her hands clasped tightly at her chest—this time, she could not protect him.
The Mountain's voice was rough. "If I beat you, you'll let me go?" His expression twisted into a snarl. "I might just kill you instead."
Jon didn't reply. He only smiled faintly at the sight of the giant's swollen, bloodied face.
Gregor scowled. "What are you laughing at?"
"I plan to capture you alive," Jon said evenly, "and sell you to House Martell. You raped Elia. You killed her son. They'll pay a fine price for the chance to make you suffer."
The Mountain's face darkened.
He knew, then, that there would be no escape. His best hope now was to die here—taking Jon Snow with him.
He roared, lifting his greatsword high, and charged.
The White Wolf had caught his prey.
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