The line of veteran soldiers was like a wheat field struck by a flood when faced with the Mountain's charging heavy-armored troops.
The moment the two sides collided, Jon could hear the sharp, splintering crack of spears snapping in the veterans' hands. The sound was grating, a chorus of breaking wood and shattering hope.
Though the veterans fought with fearless resolve, their bravery could not bridge the gap in strength, armor, or weapons.
The Mountain's heavy cavalry included formation-breakers—knights wielding long lances and massive greatswords. They tore through Jon's front line like sharks ripping into flesh.
"Kill! Kill them all!"
The Mountain had risen again, his towering frame immediately visible above the chaos.
An arrow still jutted from his eye socket, blood streaking down his face until it was almost entirely red.
At first glance, he looked less like a man than a demon crawling up from the depths of hell.
"Seven Hells…"
"Mountain god…"
"Gods!"
Jon's soldiers uttered different cries depending on their faith—but all meant the same thing: terror. None had ever seen such a monstrous warrior.
They didn't know that years of milk of the poppy had dulled Gregor's nerves to pain. Losing an eye meant nothing to him.
But the blindness only drove him deeper into rage. He charged wildly, crushing anyone who dared to block his path, desperate to reach Jon and take his head.
The entire heavy-armored host followed him in blind fury, unaware that a trap waited ahead.
The veterans retreated step by step, defending as they withdrew. Jon watched, counting under his breath.
Fifty… eighty… one hundred thirty… one hundred seventy… two hundred ten…
When more than half of the Mountain's troops had entered the oil pit he'd prepared, Jon gave the signal.
Ambushers on both flanks moved to close the circle.
"Jon!" Sola shouted, handing him a longbow and a flaming arrow.
Jon took it silently, nocked the arrow, drew the string back, and loosed.
The arrow streaked across the night sky like a falling star.
Boom—
A massive orange-yellow fireball erupted among the Mountain's troops.
Wildfire and burning oil splashed across steel, clinging to armor and flesh alike. Within moments, the battlefield was a roaring inferno.
Soldiers screamed as their bodies became torches.
The Mountain's formation shattered. He struggled to rally his men, his one good eye burning with fury. Through the fire and smoke, he could still see Jon—standing calmly only a few dozen paces away.
Those few steps—steps he could normally cross in seconds—now seemed like an impossible gulf.
"Jon!"
The Mountain's bellow shook the air.
He knew that if he didn't retreat now, he and every man here would die.
These heavy troops were Tywin's elite—raised, trained, and equipped at enormous cost. To lose them would be to lose everything.
Grinding his teeth, the Mountain chose survival over pride.
He gathered what men he could—barely two hundred—and led them in a desperate charge westward.
Jon watched as the encirclement broke open under the sheer weight of the armored riders. His jaw tightened.
No matter how brilliant a commander's strategy was, he thought grimly, it still needed the right soldiers—and enough resources—to work.
If only he had such troops himself…
But soon, he would.
Jon's eyes gleamed. He coveted that heavy armor.
"Harken!" he called. "They're escaping west! Set up sandbag positions—don't let them cross!"
"Yes, my lord!"
The Mountain's armor was heavy, his men strong—but Jon's army had numbers. He could drown them with sheer manpower if needed.
Those suits of plate were worth any cost. He would claim them all.
Soon, the Mountain and his remnants broke through the outer line. Gasping for breath, Gregor drew in the cold air, trying to steady himself. But the pain in his head only grew sharper, pounding in his skull.
The howling voices in the distance made him twitch.
"My lord, those sound like the mountain clans!" his squire shouted.
"Mountain clans? Haven't they all joined us already?!" the Mountain barked.
The pockmarked attendant remembered Tyrion's words—"most" of the clans, not "all"—but wisely kept silent.
"Charge through!" Gregor roared.
Thinking was beyond him now. Only his brute instinct remained—to smash everything in his path.
But when they reached the western route, they found enemies already waiting.
The Mountain barely glanced at their light armor. "Crush them!" he shouted, leading the charge.
Yet as his horse thundered forward, he felt something strange beneath his feet.
The ground was uneven—soft and unstable, piled with sandbags. Each step stole strength from his mount and threw his formation into chaos.
Across the field, archers stood ready.
Gregor, with his long legs and massive frame, managed to stay upright—but his soldiers behind him stumbled and fell.
Their advance slowed to a crawl.
He pulled back again, regrouping what little was left of his men. His once-mighty force of five hundred was now barely two hundred—and shrinking.
The fallen were swarmed by Jon's warriors, their visors ripped open and daggers plunged through the gaps.
Gregor tried again and again to break free. But every escape path was the same—sandbags, traps, and arrows.
Even he was starting to pale. His heart pounded like a war drum. His breathing was heavy and ragged.
"My lord!" the pockmarked squire cried, pointing ahead. "The Northern soldiers—they're blocking every road!"
Gregor looked up and froze.
In the distance, more of Jon's men were hauling sandbags, reinforcing every path of retreat. No matter which direction he turned, walls of earth and spears rose to meet him.
It was as if Jon could see his every move.
His army was reduced to barely a hundred heavy soldiers—exhausted, broken, desperate.
Dawn crept across the horizon. With daylight would come total defeat.
The Mountain finally realized—Jon Snow had cornered him completely.
Jon, watching through his elevated vantage point, saw it too. The butcher of the Riverlands was trapped.
"Now," he murmured.
The order went out.
The Northern army surged forward, tightening the noose. Jon would not rest until Tywin's fiercest weapon was destroyed.
But just as he prepared the final strike, a new movement caught his eye. Through his strategic overview, he saw a small group—barely a hundred men—charging toward him from the distance.
At their head rode Martin.
Jon's brows rose slightly.
He's coming to reinforce me, Jon thought. Not bad. At least he's not the kind of fool who waits for rescue. A man like that… could be useful.
But this was no time for praise.
Without waiting for Martin's force to join him, Jon spurred his horse forward and led his army straight toward the Mountain's remaining troops.
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