Gregor charged out just as a squad of cavalry thundered toward him.
Both sides were moving fast.
By the time the riders sensed something was wrong, it was already too late. The squad leader at the front was cleaved in two by Gregor's greatsword.
A diagonal slash.
Half a shoulder and a head flew into the air, blood spraying like rain.
The other half of the body, still upright in the saddle, passed by Gregor's warhorse in a blur.
That one strike shattered the courage of the remaining fourteen riders.
But with the momentum of a cavalry charge, they couldn't turn in time. Two of them, close behind, barely managed to veer off and passed Gregor at a slant.
Gregor spurred his horse forward and swept his sword sideways with his right hand.
Another rider was cut cleanly in half at the waist.
The first body hadn't even hit the ground before the top half of a second corpse flew backward through the air.
The air was instantly choked with the metallic scent of blood.
From the left, a spear lunged toward Gregor's face, a desperate attack from one of the riders who couldn't turn around.
Gregor snatched the spear with his left hand, gave it a slight tug, and the rider was yanked from his saddle by brute force, the spear slipping from his grip. Gregor drove the spear downward, piercing the man's armor and pinning him to the ground.
Another rider, right behind, managed to steer his horse just wide of Gregor, circled away, and fled north without daring to double back.
Gregor ripped the spear from the ground and hurled it like a javelin.
It shot through the air like an arrow, slamming into the fleeing rider's back, clean through from back to front.
The rider's corpse flew forward over his horse's head, impaled on the shaft.
Such power was terrifying to behold.
The remaining riders tried to rein in their mounts and turn, but in their panic, several yanked too hard. Their horses reared, toppling them to the ground. The formation disintegrated into chaos.
Gregor kicked his warhorse hard and charged.
In the time it took the enemy to turn halfway, Gregor was upon them.
Crash!
His warhorse plowed into their disordered ranks.
The greatsword rose and fell, sweeping and slashing, limbs flew, torsos split. Riders and horses alike were cut down.
Gregor wielded the massive sword with one hand, using the momentum of his charge and the angle of his body to extend his reach even farther than a lance.
By the time Raff Raff and the others completed their flanking maneuver, only three enemy riders remained.
Gregor blocked one side, and the rest closed in from the rear. In a single charge, they struck down all three, leaving them dead in the dirt.
Julie and Thomasson finally caught up, just in time to see the battle already finished.
"Fan formation!" Gregor barked.
At once, the riders fell in behind him, forming a fan-shaped cavalry line.
The fan formation was ideal for hunts; wedge formations were for frontal assaults.
On the other side of Clegane Keep, the enemy cavalry had not yet encountered any defenders bursting out in panic.
The back gate was shut tight.
They were waiting for someone inside to flee, so they could give chase.
But the sound of battle on the other side, the clashing of swords, the pounding of hooves, unnerved them.
Experienced riders left four men to guard the back gate while the rest, led by their captain, circled the outer stone walls to investigate.
Though the keep itself wasn't large, the Clegane courtyard was wide, with walls that blocked their view.
Then suddenly, from around the corner of the keep, a massive figure on horseback emerged, towering like a mountain. The infamous 'The Mountain' himself.
The riders froze for a heartbeat.
Gregor's horse didn't wait for orders, it charged the moment it saw enemies.
They were far too close.
The captain hadn't even unsheathed his sword before Gregor's blade came down like thunder.
One swing split him from crown to crotch.
Helmet and armor shredded like paper.
Too fast. Too brutal.
Crash!
The remaining ten riders scattered like flies, wheeling their horses to flee.
None dared face Gregor in combat.
Their hearts were already broken by fear.
Gregor's greatsword swept across like a butcher's cleaver.
Two riders who had just begun to turn were sliced in half before they could flee even a single step.
He cut down men like chopping vegetables.
The outermost riders veered off in a panic, only to find enemies ahead.
Raff, Scribe, Executioner Dunsen, Polliver, Julie and Thomasson, the cook and the servants, formed a wide fan, a net that blocked the path forward.
Julie and Thomasson took up the rear near the wall.
Dunsen let out a shout and charged, sword flashing like a flower in bloom.
One mercenary rode out to meet him.
As expected, all these attackers were mercenaries.
Their gear couldn't compare to that of the knightly Sarriott household. Many wore leather instead of steel.
For them, wine and brothels were the real glories of war.
The mercenary's sword slammed into Dunsen's round shield. Dunsen's blade sliced diagonally into the man's unprotected neck.
No scream, just a fall from the saddle.
At the flank, Raff had already circled to cut off the edge. The fan formation pressed inward.
This squad of mercenaries had put themselves at a geogRaffic disadvantage by riding along the wall.
At the same time, Gregor killed two of the four riders guarding the back gate. The last two fled along the wall.
Gregor pursued, catching the slower one with a sword to the back.
As the man fell, Gregor spotted the other four at the gate.
He kicked his horse into a gallop.
The fallen rider screamed for help from his comrades.
Gregor casually swung his sword, shhk!, the man's head flew off, yet his body stayed upright, riding headless into the four guards.
They shouted in panic and fled.
Veterans all, they ran west, the quickest escape.
To the west lay open plains, and beyond that, the coastal city of Lannisport and the Sunset Sea.
Gregor said nothing, just kicked his horse and chased.
But he could feel the animal flagging beneath him.
He was too heavy.
Pushing it to full speed over and over was taking its toll.
Violence burns bright but fast, man or beast, it can't last forever.
Gregor pulled a dagger and threw it. It hit the last rider square in the back. His armor was good, which had slowed him, but not enough.
Clang!
The dagger pierced through armor, barely breaking skin, but the impact knocked him from the saddle. Before he could rise, Gregor's sword whistled down, shhk!, off with his head.
Three riders remained.
Their hoofbeats faltered as they looked back in horror.
"Split up!" one yelled.
They fled in three different directions.
Gregor roared and chased the one to the left.
That rider had the best chance, if he crossed the narrow plain and entered the dense forests of House Swyft's territory, he'd be safe.
Beyond those woods lay the border, and beyond that, House Tyrell's lands in the Reach.
The other two were heading deeper into the Westerlands, toward Lannisport or the inland core. Escape would be far harder.
Raff and the others had already given chase.
Gregor was relentless.
But the mercenary he chased rode like his life depended on it, which it did. His horse flew like fire.
Gregor's mount was top-tier, but under his massive weight, even the best beast was at its limit.
He sighed.
If only he had a spear, that man would already be dead.
No, he had to train with a bow after this.
A single arrow would've ended this. No need to waste energy.
His horse was fading.
The mercenary had no such concern, he pushed his mount without mercy.
But Gregor didn't know how to give up.
He had given the order: Kill them all.
And he would see it done.
As the gap widened, hooves pounded behind him.
Gregor looked back.
Julie was galloping toward him.
"Father, quick, take my horse!"
"Good!"
This adopted daughter was finally proving useful, in a crucial moment, no less.
Julie rode one of Gregor's own three best horses. She was light, unarmored, the horse was still fresh and full of fight.
Gregor and Julie swapped mounts mid-stride.
The new horse didn't need urging, it whinnied and surged forward like an arrow.
Within moments, Gregor had closed the distance.
The mercenary kicked his heels, but his steed was spent.
Julie shouted behind, cheering him on.
Gregor twirled his massive blade with ease, sword flowers blooming in the air.
He whistled once.
Then he caught up.
The mercenary begged for his life, eyes wide with terror.
Gregor answered with a soft swing.
And cut him cleanly in two.
He claimed the man's horse as spoils.
Warhorses were precious. Training one took time and gold.
Meanwhile, Raff and the others finished their chase; two heads mounted on sword tips, held high in triumph.
They had captured two more steeds, dragging headless corpses behind.
The thunder of hooves, the roar of voices,
"Hoh! Hoh-ho-ho! Hoh!"
The thirty mercenary cavalry who had assaulted Clegane Keep,
All dead.
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