The Mountain's movements were broad and powerful.
Each swing of his dull but massive greatsword sliced through the air with a piercing whistle, and if you were close enough, you could even smell the blood soaked into the blade.
Clang!
Their swords clashed. The immense force from the blow traveled through Jon's sword, numbing both of his forearms.
And this was after the Mountain had already spent most of his stamina.
Jon chose to dodge and conserve his strength, waiting for the giant to tire himself out completely.
Both armies watched in near silence. Jon's soldiers and nobles barely dared to breathe—none wanted to distract him. The Mountain's men, too, were quiet, for their commander despised noise, and any sound only worsened the throbbing pain from his injured eye.
Because Jon's forces had already gained control of the battlefield, clearing the area had gone quickly.
When the soldiers in the distance heard that their commander was dueling the enemy's leader, they rushed closer.
"Can our lord really defeat that monster?"
"Of course! Our lord is the only one in a hundred years to climb Hidden Fire Peak!"
Even without seeing the fight clearly, Jon's men had absolute faith in him.
Thud!
The Mountain's sword missed its mark again, slamming into the ground and sending up a cloud of dust.
Jon seized the moment—he kicked a rock toward the Mountain, striking him squarely on the forehead.
"Is that all you've got?" Jon taunted, his voice calm but sharp. "If that's it, I might as well send word to Dorne right now—they'll pay handsomely for you."
His tone was deliberate—provocation to enrage the beast.
The Mountain's skill was impressive only in brute power. His enormous size and monstrous strength amplified his swordsmanship, but beyond that, there was little finesse.
Jon, already far beyond ordinary warriors, found it almost disappointing.
Since becoming a Sword Saint, few in Westeros could even hope to challenge him.
Still, this was a world that held true magic—and Jon never let his guard down.
"The Mountain's running out of stamina!" Martin said excitedly from the sidelines.
"Even if he were at full strength, he wouldn't match our lord," Old York replied confidently. His faith in Jon had not only returned—it had grown stronger than ever.
Old York could tell that Jon wasn't merely defending. His movements were measured, deliberate—he was testing his opponent.
Even from a distance, with his keen eyes, Old York noticed Jon speaking throughout the fight.
Talking during a high-intensity duel disrupted one's breathing. That Jon could converse so casually meant he wasn't fighting seriously at all.
Realizing this, Sola's tension eased, though her heart still pounded.
"Jon isn't… trying to recruit that man, is he?" Harken muttered, half-joking but half-serious. "A brute like that would be terrifying on the battlefield."
Since leaving the Mountains of the Moon, Harken had learned humility. His own strength was respectable—but compared to Jon or the Mountain, it was nothing.
Still, his words stirred unease in Martin's heart.
The Mountain had slaughtered countless innocents—and killed Ser Raymon, Martin's own uncle. If Jon truly spared this monster, Martin would never have his revenge.
But The Mountain hadn't been defeated by Martin. He had no right to demand vengeance. The thought frustrated him deeply.
Then—
"Ah!"
A scream ripped through the air.
Jon's sword flashed once—and The Mountain's sword arm was severed cleanly.
The giant howled in agony, clutching the stump of his arm, blood gushing like a fountain.
Scarlet spray splattered across his face, making him look even more grotesque—a demon drenched in his own blood.
For any swordsman, that wound was the end.
The soldiers of the Westerlands looked on in horror and despair. Their commander—their unstoppable titan—had fallen.
The Mountain collapsed to his knees, his voice cracking with pain. "I surrender! Please—spare me!"
Jon's soldiers erupted in cheers. Their commander's victory meant the battle was truly over. They would live—and their morale soared to the heavens.
At the same time, their eyes burned with awe. To them, Jon wasn't just a leader—he was invincible.
Jon stepped past the kneeling giant, his expression cold and steady.
Facing the remaining enemy soldiers, he declared, "Lay down your weapons. Remove your armor. Surrender now."
Seeing their commander begging for mercy, the soldiers of the Westerlands hesitated only a moment—then threw down their weapons.
With a clatter, Jon's men surged forward to disarm them.
The second wave of soldiers began stripping away their armor. Those steel plates—costly and rare—would soon form the foundation of Jon's own heavy-armored legion.
"Victory?"
For a moment, even Jon's officers seemed stunned by the sudden end. Then realization struck—and cheers erupted.
Laughter, shouting, and celebration filled the air.
The mountain tribesmen began dancing wildly, stamping their feet and howling in joy.
Sola's gaze lingered on Jon. Her admiration had reached something close to reverence. In her heart, Jon had become a being beyond mortal limits—strong, unshakable, divine.
But then—
Without warning, the Mountain moved.
The man who had been kneeling, begging for mercy—suddenly lunged.
"Jon!"
"My lord!"
"My lord, behind you!"
The shouts of horror came too late.
The Northern nobles froze in terror. The soldiers stopped stripping armor, their faces white with shock.
Jon stood with his back to the charging giant—completely exposed.
Even without a weapon, the Mountain's sheer mass and strength could crush him.
For a heartbeat, everyone was frozen.
Then—
The Mountain's body stiffened. His eyes widened in disbelief.
A blood-stained blade jutted from his throat, its tip emerging through the back of his neck.
Jon turned, his expression icy.
"God's Perspective—did you think I was joking?"
The Mountain's one remaining eye flickered with confusion and terror.
He couldn't comprehend it. How had Jon, standing with his back turned, reacted faster than he could strike?
He would never know.
As his life faded, flashes of his past flickered before him—screaming faces, burning houses, victims of his brutality.
Then, darkness.
Jon shoved the giant's corpse aside with a heavy push.
"What? Did you think a cripple like you could harm me?" he said coldly.
Even though Jon stood unharmed, those who witnessed it could not shake the chill down their spines.
That final counterattack—no one else could have pulled it off.
Even the surrendered soldiers, now kneeling in the dirt, felt their will to resist dissolve entirely.
Jon had planned it perfectly.
If the Mountain hadn't attacked, Jon would have imprisoned him and later sold him to House Martell.
But because he did attack, Jon's response now cemented his image as a flawless warrior.
The result was absolute.
To his own soldiers, Jon Snow had become a living god.
And to his enemies—he was terror itself.
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