The Mummer's ford was becoming a butcher's ground. Men screamed as the river ran red, banners trampled into the mud, steel ringing, and horses crying out as they fell. The air stank of blood and smoke and sweat, a stench carried on the mist that clung to the Riverlands like a shroud.
Beric Dondarrion swung his sword with weary fury, the purple lightning bolt of House Dondarrion dark with grime and blood across his surcoat. He had led six-score men from the Trident, answering Eddard Stark's command as Hand of the King—to bring the Mountain to heel for his crimes. Now half lay strewn about the ford, their cries swallowed by the roar of water and the laughter of men who knew no mercy.
Gregor Clegane loomed above them all, a mountain indeed, armored in plate as thick as a castle gate. His greatsword carved men in halves as easily as a butcher cleaved hogs. Around him, his riders hacked apart the smaller force, merciless as wolves tearing sheep.
Beric's horse had been slain beneath him, and now he fought afoot, his chest heaving, his sword arm shaking with the weight of each parry.
Then came the sound of hooves.
From the mist that curled about the riverbank came two riders, fast as storm winds, a great white beast racing before them, red eyes burning like coals. The hound's growl was heard even above the clang of steel.
Thoros of Myr, riding hard, muttered a curse between his teeth. "Fucking Gregor Clegane."
Jon Snow rode at his side, his cloak snapping behind him, hair wet against his brow. He had followed Ghost for days through the mists of the Riverlands, trailing the stink of death from the burned hamlet. And now, at last, he had found it—the source of the ruin, the beast that had done such butchery.
Ghost bounded ahead, silent as winter's breath, teeth bared. Men shouted and stumbled as the direwolf tore into them, his jaws closing on a knight's throat with a wet crunch.
Jon swung from the saddle without thought, Dark Sister whispering from its sheath, valyrian steel gleaming like night under the pale light of day. His boots sank into the churned mud as he advanced, his red eyes fixed upon the giant who carved through men as though they were straw.
Gregor Clegane.
The monster turned as Ghost's growl rolled low across the field, and for the first time, the Mountain's cold eyes met Jon's.
Their blades met with a sound that split the air, sparks leaping. Dark Sister was long and light yet strong as dragon bone, forged to dance through air and flesh alike. Gregor's greatsword was raw brute strength, each blow heavy enough to shatter shields.
The men around them faltered, the clash of two figures drawing every eye. Beric staggered back, his chest heaving, his eyes wide as he watched the boy move with a grace and certainty he had never seen in one so young.
Jon's strokes were precise, each cut flowing into the next, with smooth parries and measured sidesteps. It was the dance of the blade, a rhythm that made Gregor's brute strength seem clumsy. Still, each swing from the Mountain carried strength which Jon did not, and his hands shuddered with the force of his blows.
Thoros wheeled his horse nearer, cutting down a raider with a savage swing of his sword, his flaming brand of a blade leaving trails of light in the mist. "Hold on, lad!"
But Jon did not hear. His whole world was the giant before him, the hammering weight of his strokes, the smell of blood and sweat, the growl of Ghost as the direwolf tore through the Mountain's men.
The ford had become chaos, yet the tide shifted. Beric's men, seeing the direwolf among them and the white-haired swordsman who faced the Mountain without fear, found breath and strength again. They rallied to Thoros's cry, pressing hard against Gregor's raiders.
And still, the boy fought.
Jon slid past a downward stroke that would have cut him in two, his smoky blade lashing out to scrape across the Mountain's helm, sparks flying. Gregor bellowed, swatting at him as if he were no more than a fly, but Jon's footwork was sure, his movements polished by years of experience.
Beric swore aloud. Seven save us. Who is this boy?
Yet even as Jon pressed the Mountain back, the field was far from won. Men still screamed, still fell, and every breath was taken with blood in the air.
To the east, in the Eyrie, another man's fate had been rewritten.
Tyrion Lannister rode down the narrow mountain paths on a shaggy horse, Bronn at his side. The sellsword had blood on his cheek, but a grin on his lips.
"Well fought," Tyrion muttered, his hands trembling upon the reins, though he masked it with wine and wit. "Never thought my life would hang upon the swing of another man's sword."
Bronn spat, unconcerned. "Best hope it doesn't again. You've no knack for fighting, but you've a knack for living. That's worth more."
Tyrion smiled faintly, though his eyes were shadowed. The road south lay before him, twisting and uncertain, and it looked like the game his family played so well.
And in the Riverlands, the clash of steel rang on, and Jon Snow met the Mountain's blade with the black steel of Dark Sister, the song of war singing around them.