The host commanded by Ser Gregor Clegane—better known as the Mountain—formed the core of the Lannister field army's shock troops. These were no common levies, but armored veterans from the Westerlands: brutal, disciplined, and trained in the ruthless doctrine of House Lannister. The Mountain himself, though ostensibly a bannerman of Tywin Lannister, rarely mingled with the rest. He lived mostly at the grim fortress of Clegane's Keep near the Silverhill mines, and was more dog than man in Tywin's service. In truth, even his own soldiers feared him, and few were loyal beyond obedience.
Thus, when battle began, the Westerlands soldiers operated in tight trios, trained in coordinated formation tactics, while the Mountain moved like a lone beast. Only two men—Dunsen and Polliver, his personal brutes—remained close to him, covering his flanks.
Originally, Arthur had planned to face Clegane and his two henchmen alone, leaving the Westerlands soldiers to be handled by his mercenaries. But the deep hatred the Dornishmen held for Gregor Clegane—who had raped and murdered Princess Elia Martell during the Sack of King's Landing—boiled over. Five Dornish spearmen insisted on joining him, unshaken by fear. So Arthur, with five Dornish warriors, faced off against the Mountain, Dunsen, and Polliver.
Anguy, the sharpshooter and former Brotherhood without Banners archer, remained mounted on the perimeter, acting both as long-range support and overseer. He had been entrusted with the eight reserve quivers—160 arrows in total. His accuracy was unmatched, and in open terrain, he could thin the enemy ranks before they ever reached melee.
Arthur knew his primary force, the Blood Troupe, were hardened sellswords from the Free Cities. Their allegiance was not to banners or oaths, but to the weight of gold. They would not willingly die in a lost cause. That's why Anguy's oversight was essential—not just to kill enemies, but to keep the mercenaries from bolting.
Arthur advanced, clad in his new gold-inlaid plate forged by Tobho Mott. In his right hand he held a short-handled warhammer for close-quarters control, and in his left, the greatsword New Moon. The Mountain raised his massive two-handed greatsword, nearly the length of a man.
Clegane's armor was layered: ringmail beneath a coat of plates, reinforced with greaves and pauldrons. This extra chainmail limited his mobility somewhat, but it mattered little. Defense had never been his concern. With overwhelming size and monstrous strength, Gregor swung his sword with the fury of a siege ram—favoring brute force over finesse.
In the opening exchanges, Polliver was the only one of Clegane's trio to take a wound—a shallow stab to the thigh from a quick-thinking Dornishman. Dunsen remained unscathed. On Arthur's side, the cost came quick. One of the Dornish spearmen lunged too boldly, attempting to run the Mountain through in a single charge. But Gregor met him with a cleaving diagonal slash that split him from the shoulder to the opposite thigh. The spearman collapsed in two parts, eyes still locked on his killer, blazing with defiance.
The hatred on both sides was palpable.
Arthur's blood surged with the fallen man's courage. That spearman had died a hero. And Arthur, stronger by far, realized he could not stand behind others. He bellowed a war cry and charged, swinging his hammer to intercept the Mountain's overhead strike. Steel rang against steel, sparks flying as Arthur braced the hammer with both arms.
Then, turning the momentum, Arthur twisted and used New Moon to unleash a horizontal slash that Dunsen barely deflected. Arthur's raw strength knocked him back two paces. Before Dunsen could recover, a Dornishman lunged in and drove a spear through his calf. Dunsen screamed in agony.
Even so, Arthur could not overpower the Mountain directly. With both hands gripping his greatsword, Gregor forced Arthur to deflect blow after blow, pushing the young lord back with sheer might. One crushing strike slid down Arthur's hammer shaft, angling toward his arm. Sparks lit the air as the Mountain's blade glanced off his pauldron, denting the armor badly.
But Arthur was quicker. He spun low, slashing New Moon into the joint between Clegane's right thigh and knee. The steel didn't pierce the plate, but the kinetic shock transmitted through the armor. The Mountain's balance faltered. A Dornish spearman seized the chance, stabbing the back of his knee. Gregor grunted, stumbling to one knee.
Arthur rotated behind him and smashed his warhammer into the rear of the Mountain's squared helm. Though the blow didn't crush the helmet, it jarred Gregor's senses, dazing the giant.
"Keep at it!" Arthur roared. "Like this!"
Though Arthur was a full head shorter, he used his agility and teamwork to wear the Mountain down. He didn't need a giant warhammer to kill him—just coordination and persistence. It would be a death of a thousand bruises.
"You think you've won?" the Mountain growled, rising with one hand on his knee. "I'll gut you yet."
Meanwhile, the larger battle raged. The Blood Troupe, in one-on-one duels, matched the Westerlands soldiers well. But they were outnumbered two to one. Without Anguy's pinpoint shots picking off any soldier trying to flee or flank, the sellswords might have already broken. Still, the field was thinning. Forty of Arthur's men fought eighty of the Mountain's.
By this point, it had dwindled to seventeen mercenaries standing against forty-two Lannister-aligned foes. The dead were mostly mercenary veterans—former Free City sellswords and exiles from the Disputed Lands. Still, Arthur felt no guilt. This was war.
The Mountain noticed the momentum shifting and bellowed, "Drive those Dornish pigs away! I want to face this Riverlands pup alone!"
Arthur's instincts flared. That meant reinforcements were on the way. He had to act quickly.
He stepped in, parrying a wild overhead strike that left a dent in his left vambrace. Ignoring the pain, he smashed his hammer into Dunsen's gut, cracking ribs through armor.
"Finish him!" Arthur shouted.
The Dornishmen understood. One darted around and thrust his spear deep into Dunsen's back. He dropped, gurgling blood.
Polliver, though mean and brutal, was no more skilled than any seasoned Westerlands soldier. With Dunsen dead and Arthur pressing forward, the five-on-three melee became five-on-two, and then five-on-one. Polliver was cut down within seconds.
The Mountain roared and slashed wide to hold them off, but the tide had turned. With no one guarding his flanks, he was surrounded.
Another spear struck his thigh. Then another jabbed into his shoulder. He sank to one knee again.
Arthur came in hard, repeating the tactic. He twisted his body, putting his full weight behind a downward hammer strike that slammed the back of the Mountain's helmet again.
This time, Gregor swayed where he knelt, staggering under the blow.
No!" Sweet-voiced Raff yelled from the rear.
Raff the Sweetling, another brutal killer in the Mountain's retinue, idolized Clegane with a disturbing fervor and couldn't bear to see his commander injured.
Rather than pressing the attack on Sheer village, he turned his fifty remaining Westermen toward the center of the battlefield, rushing to reinforce the Mountain.
Arthur's side was now in dire straits.
Having noticed Dunsen and Polliver—his brutal but loyal thugs—lying dead in the mud, the Mountain growled low through his helm, his voice grinding like iron on stone.
"I swear… you won't die easy," he said, glaring at Arthur. "You especially, Bracken. I'll split you open so wide your hammer could fit in your bloody arse."
The Mountain may not have cared for most of his men, but he took a sick pleasure in destroying anyone who dared defy him. In that moment, he wanted to impale the spears of the Dornishmen straight through the guts—and worse—of Arthur's soldiers.
Arthur's remaining force still held some mobility thanks to the Blood Troupe's cavalry, but with the arrival of Raff's fifty-two, they were completely outnumbered.
Before long, only five mounted veterans of the Blood Troupe, four Dornish spearmen, Anguy, and Arthur remained standing.
Against them stood seventy-nine Westermen.
"Lord Arthur, if this keeps up… we might have to pull back," shouted Wag Huot, leader of the Blood Troupe, from a short distance away.
His tone was pragmatic rather than panicked. He didn't mourn his dead—after all, their pay now belonged to him—but even he thought Arthur was being reckless by fighting on.
If it hadn't been for Anguy picking off foes from horseback, Wag would have abandoned the fight long ago.
Arthur, for his part, was close to his limit. Had he not been locked in combat with Gregor Clegane, he might've already gone to cut a path through the Westermen with his warhammer.
But each round with the Mountain took a toll.
The Mountain sensed it too. He raised his greatsword high and bellowed, "Finish them! There's only a handful left!"
The remaining seventy-eight Westermen surged toward Arthur and the others like a tide of steel and blood.
It looked like the end.
But then—
A distant voice rang out over the din:
"Hold fast, friend! House Darry rides to your aid!"
"And House Piper too!" another called.
The thunder of hooves followed.
Dozens of riders stormed into the fray from the east, smashing into the Westermen's flank.
A youthful knight with a fox sigil on his surcoat—Marq Piper—rode past Arthur, shouting, "Well fought, warrior!" before cleaving down a Lannister soldier.
At the same time, the gates of Sheer village burst open.
Farmers, furious and armed with axes, pitchforks, and broken tools, poured out in defense of their homes.
"Stand with us, lords and knights!" one shouted.
The battlefield turned to chaos.
The newly arrived Riverlands cavalry, more mobile than the heavily armored Lannister troops, cut swaths through the enemy. The villagers, too numerous to ignore, forced the Westermen into scattered skirmishes.
The tide had turned.
Realizing the danger, the Mountain bellowed, "Fall back! Retreat!"
His men began a desperate withdrawal, but not before twenty-one more corpses were left behind.
Fifty-eight of Gregor's force managed to flee northward.
Though the Riverlands knights gave brief chase, they were too few to risk overextending.
As Arthur removed his helm, Marq Piper pulled up beside him and exclaimed, "Seven hells—Arthur Bracken! No wonder you held your ground against the Mountain!"
Then he turned to the others, proudly pointing toward Arthur.
A stout, grey-bearded knight dismounted and approached.
"I've heard tales of you, my lord. A just man in unjust times."
Marq dismounted as well and rushed to Arthur's side.
"This is Lord Raymun Darry, of Darry."
Another rider approached—tall, weathered, with the red raven of House Vance on his tabard.
"Karyl Vance, heir to Atranta," Marq said.
"I heard you won Lord Stark's tourney, but never expected to meet you here. Fate's a strange thing."
The lords offered sincere praise for Arthur's stand against the Mountain.
Arthur appreciated the compliments, but wasted no time.
"What brings you all here?" he asked, cutting to the matter at hand.
Marq gave an apologetic smile.
"Riverrun received word of Gregor Clegane's atrocities," he explained.
"Lord Hoster, though gravely ill, demanded action. We rode out to confront the Westermen and gather testimony to present to the Iron Throne. We meant to intercept the Mountain… didn't know we'd find you already fighting him."
He pointed toward the villagers and a handful of wounded survivors being tended nearby.
"They can speak to his crimes. We're headed to King's Landing with them, to seek justice."
Then, Marq turned to Arthur with an inviting gesture.
"You should ride with us. With your testimony—and your name—the realm will have to listen."
Arthur curled his lip.
If King Robert were still alive, an alliance of Tully, Stark, Arryn, and Baratheon might've crushed Lannister resistance, and Hoster's mission would've had meaning.
But that alliance was fracturing. Justice from the Iron Throne now seemed a hollow dream.
"I won't go," Arthur said coldly.
"Gregor Clegane's still at large. I intend to hunt him until he can't butcher another soul. But I'll need men."
He made his request.
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