Those who had never truly faced Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain, on the battlefield often misjudged the length of his greatsword.
The length of the sword, combined with the reach of his arms, gave him a range more than twice that of a typical two-handed sword.
A one-handed sword is usually about one meter long, often referred to as a shortsword or dueling sword. The most commonly used dueling swords are roughly seventy centimeters in length. Once a one-handed sword exceeds a meter, it becomes unwieldy in close combat due to the increased time it takes to draw and maneuver such a long blade.
A two-handed sword ranges from 1.3 to 1.5 meters in length, twice as wide and more than twice as heavy as a one-handed sword. These are typically called greatswords.
But a greatsword is still nothing compared to a greatsword of war, often called a heavy sword, wider than a man's hand and even heavier. Measuring about 1.5 meters long, it's typically carried strapped across the back, with the hilt protruding over the shoulder rather than hanging from a belt.
These swords are monstrously heavy and require immense strength to wield effectively. They're better suited for ground combat than mounted warfare. Cavalry, for practical reasons, favor one-handed swords. Only those with extraordinary martial skill might use a two-handed sword from horseback.
The Mountain's sword, however, was heavier than even the heaviest of greatswords, over twice the weight of a standard one. Its blade was wider than the spread of two adult hands, nearly ten times the weight of a shortsword, and longer than any conventional greatsword in Westeros. With his massive arms and strength, Ser Gregor wielded it single-handedly, giving him a range of attack at least three times that of a one-handed sword, twice that of a normal two-handed blade.
When knights armed with traditional weapons tried to engage the Mountain, they often found themselves still out of striking distance, yet already within his reach.
This discrepancy created deadly miscalculations.
Knights, trained in infantry and cavalry combat, were deeply familiar with the distance of a sword's reach. But none had ever trained against a monster like the Mountain, wielding a blade of such unprecedented length and weight.
Thus, in real battle, their instincts betrayed them.
Believing they were still safe, they found his blade already whistling toward them, swift, overwhelming, and unstoppable.
For most knights, the worst-case outcome in combat was a swift decapitation.
But to face Ser Gregor Clegane was to face a slaughtering god. One sideways sweep of his blade could shear a man in half. A vertical strike could cleave through both rider and horse.
His brute strength, his bloodlust, his mercilessness, none of it was truly understood by the pampered nobles who treated tales of him as grim tavern stories or exaggerated battlefield legend.
After all, the Westerlands had seen peace for sixteen years. Though noble skirmishes and border conflicts persisted, Ser Gregor's atrocities were usually confined to the lawless fringes, targeting the peasants and knights of rival lords. Very few knights from the Westerlands had ever truly crossed swords with him, and even fewer had lived to tell of it.
His most infamous deeds, committed during the sack of King's Landing sixteen years ago, raping and killing Princess Elia Martell, smashing her infant son against a wall, had faded from public memory with time.
To Addam Marbrand, the young hero raised in the shadow of Tywin Lannister himself, the Mountain was just another brute, no matter the rumors. He laughed off the stories, proud and dismissive.
He had reason to be bold. As a boy, he'd grown up beside the mighty Lord Tywin, which instilled in him a strong, perhaps blind, sense of superiority. Gregor Clegane had never crossed paths with him personally. And besides, the Marbrands were kin to the Lannisters, Tywin's mother had been a Marbrand.
But fearlessness often walks hand in hand with ignorance.
In a matter of seconds, the Mountain had already turned two of House Marbrand's knights into unrecognizable corpses, limbs hacked apart, blood soaking the earth.
He began by striking down Addam's horse, then brought his blade down in a single blow that split a bold knight and his mount clean in two.
A rain of blood filled the air. The metallic stench turned my stomach.
The next two knights hesitated for only a heartbeat, long enough.
The Mountain jabbed his spurs deep into his horse's flanks, drawing blood. The beast, screaming in pain, charged forward.
With a diagonal sweep, he brought his greatsword across one knight's desperate defense. Though the knight dodged, the sheer length of the sword, combined with Gregor's reach and tree-trunk arms, covered an impossibly wide arc.
The sword bit into the knight's left shoulder, sliced down diagonally through his chest, and exited from the right side of his waist.
One half of the man, with a twisted expression of horror still etched on his face, flew through the air. The other half, grotesquely gushing blood, remained seated on the saddle, held upright only by the stirrups. His entrails spilled out in a steaming heap.
The remaining knights and squires went pale, their courage shattered. Even the warhorses trembled, some losing their footing and tossing their riders to the ground.
Addam Marbrand himself was visibly shaking.
He had never witnessed such monstrous brutality in his life.
Only one knight remained. His sword was raised in a trembling defensive posture, sweat pouring down his face and neck. His skin was as pale as death.
The Mountain reversed his grip and brought the flat of his blade crashing down like a warhammer.
Crack!
The blow crushed the knight's chest inward with a sickening thud. Bones snapped like twigs. The man was launched into the air like a rag doll, blood gushing from his mouth mid-flight as shards of rib pierced his heart.
Boom!
He landed lifeless in the muddy rice fields by the roadside.
The Mountain's sword dripped crimson as he strode toward Addam Marbrand, looming like a wrathful god of war.
"What do you think you're doing, Mountain?!" barked Lord Marbrand, his voice shaky.
The Mountain shot him a glare. The lord gasped as though punched in the chest, his face turning blue and purple from the pressure of unspoken terror.
Gregor turned to the gathered northern lords.
"Listen closely," he said coldly. "I'm no longer offering to buy back my family's lands at the original price. You've made enough over the years. It's time to return every parcel of land and every soul upon it to House Clegane, unconditionally. I'm giving you one month. After that, anyone who doesn't comply… I'll pay you a personal visit."
Not a single lord spoke. Their eyes brimmed with terror.
"Lord Marbrand, Casterly Rock is just over there. Lord Tywin is there. You're welcome to complain to him, anytime. But I'll tell you this: Lord Tywin is not pleased with your greedy schemes, your arrogance, your bullying. Now, brothers! Let's ride!"
"Hah!"
Eighty-six mounted warriors roared like a thousand.
Thud-thud-thud!
Thud-thud-thud!
Hooves pounded the road like rolling thunder as the Clegane cavalry, led by Ser Gregor and Lord Gawen, thundered past the stunned and silent Marbrands, vanishing into the distance.
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