Harrenhal
Arya Stark stood behind Tywin Lannister, the corners of her mouth slightly raised. Her mood was light, almost cheerful—for here in Harrenhal, she had heard a great many delightful things. Her brothers were winning glory on the battlefield, driving the Lannister armies into one defeat after another.
"You're saying your men were attacked by Robb Stark's host? And only a dozen of you made it out alive?"
Tywin's face darkened as he looked at the man before him—a grain officer he himself had sent into the Riverlands. The man claimed that their convoy had been ambushed on the return route, yet insisted it was Robb Stark's army who had done it. Tywin found that hard to believe. He had just received reports that Robb was still besieging the Crag.
Sensing the Lord's displeasure, the man hurriedly added,
"My lord! If it wasn't Robb Stark himself, then it must have been the White Wolf—Jon Snow! Yes, that's it. I remember now—the soldiers said the direwolf's eyes were red!"
Tywin frowned, sinking into thought. In his mind, Robb Stark had already become as grave a threat as Stannis Baratheon. If he did not find a way to stop him soon, the consequences could be disastrous.
Throughout the Riverlands, the local lords were breaking under the strain. Tywin's scorched-earth policy had left the lands barren—no food to reap, no men to recruit. Yet, of late, reports kept arriving of his foraging parties being ambushed—first near Stone Hedge, then around villages close to Harrenhal. Tywin could not discern the enemy's aim, but he knew one thing: he could not let this continue, or all his supply convoys around Harrenhal would be in peril.
"Enough. You may go. Gather your men and make ready—I'll have Ser Gregor Clegane lead you to hunt down those raiders."
After a moment's thought, Tywin dismissed him. The man was cowardly, yes, but at least he'd had the sense to return and report. That alone made him marginally useful—for now.
Then Tywin turned suddenly toward Arya. "Boy, have you heard the talk of the King in the North?"
"Yes, my lord," Arya lowered her head and replied meekly. "Folk in the Riverlands say there are three direwolves in the North. By day they lead their hosts to strike at the Lannisters; by night they take the shapes of giant wolves to hunt down wicked men. The White Wolf prowls beneath the moon, the Sea Wolf attacks along the Trident, and the Young Wolf leads his pack on the full moon to slay the cruel and unjust among your soldiers."
She spoke with trembling humility, though Tywin's sharp eyes still caught the faintest spark beneath her calm. But before he could dwell on it, another matter drew his attention—his hound had arrived.
Ser Gregor Clegane—Lord of House Clegane, the Mountain that Rides. A hulking man of monstrous strength and cruelty, his very name was enough to chill blood.
Tywin entrusted Ser Gregor with a thousand men and sent him to root out the northern raiders haunting the lands around Harrenhal. With Gregor's brute might, he had no doubt the task would be swiftly done. Their scouts reported the enemy numbered no more than five hundred.
Meanwhile, Jon Snow stood by the smoldering remains of a small village near the woods, overseeing the burning of bodies—peasants and soldiers alike, most of the latter wearing crimson lions on their armor.
Today, Jon looked different. Like Mako, he wore a hooded cloak, and the sword at his hip—Moonlight—was unwrapped, its blue hilt gleaming cold beneath the sun.
He gazed at the charred ruins and the lifeless women sprawled upon the ground. Fury simmered in his chest. At last he understood what Mako and Brynden had meant when they spoke of change.
For all its kings and crowns, the realm was still ruled by lords and masters—and their quarrels always brought ruin to the same people.
In times of peace, it was the smallfolk who toiled hardest. In times of war, it was still they who suffered most. To the lords, peasants were little more than livestock—kept when useful, slaughtered when not.
"The lord was right," Jon murmured, his voice low and bitter. "In prosperity, the smallfolk suffer most. In war, they suffer still more. This realm needs to change."
Resolve burned in him like steel in the forge. He would help Robb end this war—and then return to Skagos to hatch his dragon.
A sharp cry split the air—a falcon's scream. One of the wargs beside him blinked out of his trance and turned to Jon.
"Lord Snow! They're here. We can prepare to strike."
Ghost gave a low, warning growl. Jon raised his hand and called out,
"All units—take your positions. Wait for my signal to attack."
Ten minutes later, Ser Gregor Clegane arrived at the village with his personal guard and mounted knights. His hunting hounds barked madly toward the forest where Jon and Ghost stood alone.
Gregor's squire, Sweetmouth Raff, sneered.
"So you're the bastard White Wolf, eh? Where are your men? Run off and left you to die? Hah!"
Laughter rippled through the ranks. Every Lannister man wore the same mocking grin, seeing Jon as a dead man already.
Jon met their scorn with a grim, steady gaze. "I hear the wailing of the dead," he said softly, "their cries for vengeance against you wretches."
Gregor's deep, rasping voice boomed through his helm. "I don't care what northern ghosts you're listening to, bastard. When I catch you, I'll cut your ears off, then ram my sword up your arse till you scream your guts out. Call your men now—else I'll have no sport once I'm done with you. I'll feed every last one of them to my dogs."
Jon gave a slight bow, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"As you wish, Mountain. Let me show you what true death looks like."
He drew Moonlight and drove the blade into the earth. A blast of icy-blue energy burst forth, whipping into a storm of snow and wind that struck the Lannister line.
Gregor's warhorse reared and shrieked; the Mountain fought to steady it, but the beast began backing away, eyes rolling with terror.
Then the soldiers saw them—skeletal hands clawing up from the frozen earth, corpses dragging themselves out of the ground, half-rotted limbs reaching. Fire and frost swirled together in the storm, turning the field into a vision of the Seven Hells.
Curses and screams filled the air. Horses panicked, throwing riders. Gregor roared in rage and slammed his fist into his mount's skull, felling it instantly. Drawing his greatsword, he bellowed,
"So what if they're dead? I'll send them all back to the Seven Hells myself! Form ranks! Attack!"
A cold voice answered from the storm:
"Ser Gregor Clegane—you owe me a debt. My wife, my children… their blood calls for yours."
The words crept through the air like a curse. Gregor turned his head and saw him—a silver-haired, red-eyed man standing amidst the dead, a blue-glowing sword in his hand, a direwolf with crimson eyes at his feet.
Gregor stumbled back a step. The inside of his helm rang hollowly as he stammered,
"Impossible… you… you died here…!"
"Yes," the man said, his voice an unholy rasp. "I died here. But hatred pulled me from the seventh hell. My dear Ser Clegane—it's time to repay your debt."
The cold radiating from Jon's body made even the living soldiers recoil. Panic rippled through their ranks—just as he'd planned. Jon raised his hand, and the corpses lunged.
Then he himself charged, Moonlight flashing like a shard of ice.
Up close, the Mountain was terrifying. Jon had faced giants, but Gregor was a monster in human form—encased head to toe in blackened steel, sealed so tightly only the joints showed bare metal. A walking fortress.
His oak shield bore three black dogs on a yellow field; his two-handed sword he swung one-handed with ease.
Gregor roared and swung the blade, hacking madly, shouting,
"You're dead already! Dead! I'll kill you again! They all died by my hand—come on, bastard! Aaaah!"
The Mountain rampaged like a beast, striking friend and foe alike. Jon darted and wove through the chaos, light on his feet, striking only when he saw an opening. The wights tore through the Lannister ranks, breaking their formation. Horses screamed, soldiers scattered—half of them dying on the swords of their own comrades.
Then a horn sounded—sharp and clear. From the trees, Magnar of Thenn, Maeshdan, charged with his warriors in tight formation. They advanced relentlessly, cutting through the chaos.
Maeshdan raised his sword high, invoking a Blessing Rite. A shining angelic apparition appeared above him, its light driving fear into the Lannister hearts. The disordered host broke completely.
"Clang!"
Jon staggered back, struck by Gregor's shield. Though blood streaked his face, he fared far better than the Mountain—whose armor now smoked with blackened scorch marks. Jon had targeted every seam and joint, the air thick with the reek of burnt flesh.
Gregor's roars grew wilder, more bestial. Jon's expression stayed calm, his blade flickering with tongues of pale fire.
The Mountain charged like a bull, shield first. Jon raised Moonlight, unleashing another blizzard. The swirling snow blinded Gregor—his trick repeated. But this time, the Mountain raised his shield to guard his eyes and rushed forward.
They were close now—too close. Gregor's greatsword swept wide, missing by inches. He tried to retreat—but agony flared in his leg as Jon's blade sheared through his greave, slicing deep into flesh.
Blood spurted. Gregor fell to one knee. Another burst of icy wind slammed into him; frost crept up his armor, freezing him where he knelt.
Then the dead were upon him. Through the slit of his helm, he saw clawing hands, gnashing teeth. They tore at him, dragging him down. He screamed—a sound no human throat should make—then choked, then fell silent.
When the howling ceased, Jon strode forward, Moonlight in hand, to claim the Mountain's head.
But as he neared, the corpse lurched upright with a thunderous roar and hurled itself at him—
-------------------------
Fully Completed English PDF of this fan-fic on my Patreon shop if you want to support and own the full fan-fic in one go. Just grab the PDF and binge the entire story from start to finish!
Patreon.com/Ramzane