The wind howled, and the rain fell hard.
Westerland troops in patchwork cloaks and dark leather assaulted the stone outer wall of the village, obscured by the storm. They wore no crimson Lannister cloaks, but their distinctive lion-faced half-helms betrayed them. They weren't mere brigands; they were Lannister men in disguise, raiding under the command of Ser Gregor Clegane—the Mountain.
No one else in Westeros wore such helms but soldiers sworn to House Lannister.
Arthur Bracken stood before the village of Sheer. A heavy sense of fate settled over him—like destiny converging on this moment. It reminded him of Hodor's final stand at the door, his entire life culminating in one act of sacrifice.
Just over a month ago, Arthur had passed through Sheer on his way to King's Landing with Desmond, Patrick, and others. He'd fostered a weary red stallion there—tired, stubborn, but strong. At the time, Arthur had only recently crossed into this world. He'd burned with righteous zeal, believing his system made him invincible. He'd boasted of gods and prophecy as though they were stage plays, not truths. He'd spoken of justice, but he'd had no awe—no fear of the world's cruelty.
Now, after days hunting Ser Gregor through ash and blood, Arthur had begun to understand fear. Not the fear of death, but the fear of failing to save those who could not defend themselves. He was not omnipotent.
He'd arrived too late—again and again.
Over a dozen villages had been razed in the Mountain's path. Entire families butchered. Old men with white beards cleaved in half. Children flung into burning buildings. Women—mothers, daughters—defiled, flayed, dismembered.
Some villages had resisted. They'd paid dearly. Rows of male heads impaled on pikes lined the roads, mouths frozen in screams. Pregnant women disemboweled, their unborn children crushed. Naked corpses left to rot. In one village, a little girl's body had been nailed to a barn wall like a grotesque sigil.
The cruelty was deliberate. Not just murder—but a performance. The Mountain and his men found pleasure in it.
Even Varg, brutal leader of the infamous Blood Troupe, had said, "Compared to that monster, we're saints."
Arthur's rage boiled, but he no longer mistook it for divine purpose. He was back at Sheer now—maybe by chance, maybe by fate—but he was here.
"Fifteen years ago, they did the same to Princess Elia!" Anguy growled, voice shaking with fury.
His tone was low, but it carried pure hatred. The Dornish bowman clenched his fists. "The Mountain raped her, then crushed the babe—her baby—against a wall."
Elia Martell. A princess of Dorne, sister to Prince Oberyn. Slain during the sack of King's Landing, butchered by Ser Gregor himself.
"That was the princess of my people," Anguy whispered. "The woman we swore to protect."
Even Varg muttered, "The Mountain's not a man. No gods should have allowed him to be born."
[Mission: Save the Village of Sheer]
The familiar blue system screen blinked to life—but it no longer moved Arthur.
He no longer fought for points or experience. He fought because the people of Sheer had done nothing wrong. They were farmers, tradesmen, mothers, and children. They bore no banners, served no lords. And yet they had been marked for death—collateral in a war between nobles.
Arthur could not raise the dead of the past villages. But here—here he still had time.
He would not waste it.
He turned to his companions, raised his sword—New Moon—and pointed toward the enemy massing outside the walls.
"Ride with me," Arthur called, voice cutting through the storm. "Let's show them who we are."
[You will fight the enemy's 135 with a team of 47]
The odds were impossible. Nearly three to one.
But Arthur didn't flinch.
Nothing in life was guaranteed. Victory wasn't about certainty—it was about choice.
And doing nothing, watching Sheer burn—that was not an option.
He would not call himself just or righteous if he stood idle and let hundreds die.
So forty-seven men rode with him, cloaked in rain, thunder in their hearts. They charged the Mountain's force with steel and fury.
A scout from the Westerlands, squinting through the downpour, shouted: "My lord! They're coming!"
Gregor Clegane, standing tall in full armor—leather surcoat over blackened plate, greaves and chain mail soaked in mud—turned and spotted Arthur's charge.
He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the warrior with the warhammer who'd faced him weeks earlier in King's Landing.
"Only that many?" The Mountain laughed—a low, terrible sound. "They ride to die."
Then he barked orders.
"Notepad! Raff the Sweetling! Take fifty—keep smashing the village."
He pointed toward Sheer's gates.
"The rest of you—form up! With me!"
The Mountain led thirty-three men to intercept Arthur's charge. Eighty-three Lannister troops to their forty-seven.
They met in the muddy field just east of the village, rain streaming down helms, swords raised in the dark.
And with that, the battle began.
The Dornish spearmen, unaccustomed to mounted combat, dismounted quickly and formed into tight ranks on foot before charging forward with short spears and round shields. They were desert warriors by tradition, trained to fight on sand and stone, not from horseback. Their agility on foot and discipline in skirmish formations gave them the edge in close combat.
The Blood Troupe, by contrast, had a mixed backbone—light cavalry, swordsmen, and halberdiers from the Free Cities. Though mercenaries, they moved like seasoned veterans. Their Qohorik leader Varg barked orders in Low Valyrian, aligning his infantry while the cavalry peeled to the flanks.
The Mountain's men—Lannister soldiers in disguise—rushed in on foot. Their ambush had been hastily prepared, and most hadn't had time to mount up. The torrential rain muddied the ground, slowing movement. Red cloaks were missing, but their Westerlands steel and lion-crested helms marked their allegiance clearly enough.
"Oi, isn't that Arthur Bracken?" a cruel voice called out. It was Polliver—one of Ser Gregor's most loyal lackeys—recognizing the golden armor through the downpour. "Where's your big hammer, eh?"
The comment earned a few chuckles from the other Lannister men. After all, Arthur's massive warhammer had gained notoriety during the tavern brawl in King's Landing and on the training grounds of the Red Keep. A single blow could shatter shields—and men.
Arthur smirked, his expression unreadable through the rain. "Do I need a giant hammer to deal with you?" he replied coolly.
In truth, the great warhammer had been stored at the Red Mill's forward camp, too unwieldy for fast engagements. But it didn't matter. Strapped to his back was New Moon, the custom greatsword forged by Tobho Mott, and in his hands were his secondary weapons: a short-handled hammer and his golden guandao, its curved blade gleaming faintly even in the gloom.
That was more than enough.
He stepped forward and raised his voice, projecting power. "Call off your men and stop the attack on Sheer. Surrender now and face justice—or I'll crush your skulls myself."
The Lannister forces hesitated for a breath, then parted slightly as Ser Gregor Clegane stepped forward. Clad in a mix of blackened steel and worn mail, the Mountain stood monstrous even without his helmet. Rain dripped from his pauldrons. His sword—nearly as tall as a man—was slung over his back.
Beside him stood Mo Shan, another Westerlands captain, whose muddy surcoat bore faded traces of House Lefford's colors. He scoffed, sneering at Arthur's defiant stance. "Justice? From a hedge lord? What gives you the right? Is your land even larger than a village square?"
Still issuing orders to his troops with curt gestures, Mo Shan kept his eyes locked on Arthur as they exchanged words.
Arthur dismounted, his boots splashing into the mud. He held New Moon in his left hand, and his small warhammer in his right. "Your crimes speak louder than any title," he said. "You've burned, pillaged, and butchered your way through the Riverlands. And fifteen years ago, you murdered Princess Elia Martell and her infant son."
"Oh, that's what this is about." Mo Shan let out a mocking laugh. "So you've come without your big hammer after all. I was worried for a moment."
Gregor growled something to him under his breath, then spoke aloud. "I follow Lord Tywin's orders. I do what he commands."
Arthur raised a gauntleted hand, gesturing for the Blood Troupe and the Dornish spearmen to maintain formation behind him. The rain had soaked through his cloak, but his golden armor still shimmered beneath the storm.
"Following orders isn't a shield for war crimes," he said.
The Mountain grunted. "Have you seen the sigil I wear?" He raised a mailed hand and tapped the snarling black dog of House Clegane. "I'm Lord Tywin's dog. He gave me lands—Harrenhal, now mine. He gave me gold and titles. So I do what he says."
His voice darkened. "And those villagers? They died quick. Clean. That's more than most get. That's mercy."
"Mercy?" Anguy stepped forward, unable to hold back. His Dornish accent was sharp with contempt. "You were knighted with sacred oil—anointed before gods and men. Do you even remember the three vows of knighthood? Protect the innocent, uphold justice, serve the realm?"
Gregor turned his head slightly, cracking his neck. "I honored all three. I ended their suffering with steel. I stayed loyal to my lord. I defended the glory of House Clegane. That's the truth of knighthood."
Arthur watched the Mountain's lines tighten, soldiers forming ranks behind their giant of a commander. It was almost time.
"You twist words like a butcher twists bone," Arthur said coldly. "But no lies or oaths will save you."
He turned his gaze to the battlefield, rain falling harder now, soaking every cloak and helm. Then he looked Ser Gregor Clegane dead in the eyes.
"For the crimes you have committed," he declared, voice rising above the storm, "I sentence you to death."
Without waiting for a reply, Arthur surged forward, leading the charge
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