Leading the way were Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, and Lord Gawen, followed closely by their band of outlaws.
At the front rode the cavalry officers.
There was Raff Clegane, the knight who had trained the entirety of the Westerlands' noble generals in the art of battlefield signaling and cavalry coordination. In just over a month, his reputation, prestige, and noble connections had soared.
Then came the executioner, Dunsen Clegane, a fearsome swordsman second only to the Mountain in the entire legion. None could rival his martial prowess.
Behind him rode the twitchy, fanatical organ enthusiast, Polliver Clegane. Bald and towering, he had a simple mind and wild eyes. Moments ago, the Mountain had slain four knights of House Marbrand with just four strokes of his greatsword, silencing the northern nobles in fear. The spectacle had left Polliver's blood boiling with excitement, he was already itching to collect some "artifacts" for his grotesque collection.
Next was Chiswick, whose massive bull-helm made his already large head appear even more exaggerated. With his top-heavy appearance, one could almost fear he might fall off his horse from the sheer weight of it. In truth, his neck was thick and shoulders broad, but compared to his enormous helmet, everything below seemed disproportionately small.
Amidst this band of beasts rode Julie Clegane, adopted daughter of the Mountain, standing out like a rose among thorns. Her figure was slender and elegant. Both her armor and weapons were custom-made to fit her perfectly. Some were lucky to have one good father, Julie had two. Her father, Ser Gregor, had just demonstrated overwhelming strength in front of the great lords with his unmatched greatsword, leaving Julie in wordless awe of him.
This made her believe she, too, could act with impunity.
Unconsciously, the girl had begun to adopt her father's brutal dominance and ruthless efficiency.
Behind them, the cavalry was still reeling from the emotional impact of the Mountain's slaughter. Within their ranks were death row inmates hiding under false names, desperate criminals with nowhere else to turn, fallen hedge knights, native peasants from the local lands, strong miners, and young men from nearby villages. The Mountain's blood-drenched example had infused them all with a bestial aggression, hardening their hearts, sharpening their cruelty, and subtly transforming them into more ferocious creatures.
When a lion leads sheep, even the sheep become lions.
But when sheep lead lions, the lions turn to sheep.
The Mountain possessed a fearsome charisma, his presence alone could make followers devote themselves to him completely and awaken the beast within them.
Along the ten-mile stretch of royal road, their warhorses thundered. The three-dog banner flapped in the wind, and travelers scattered at the sight of it, pulling their carts to the roadside in haste. As the cavalry charged past, all heads lowered, eyes averted, gazing only at the tips of their own shoes. Whether knight or lord, all gave way in silence.
The Mountain reined his horse at the Lion's Mouth Gate of Casterly Rock.
Waiting by the roadside, still looking pale, was "Foulmouth," mounted and ready.
Chiswick rode out of the formation and joined Foulmouth. The two bowed to the Mountain, then spurred their horses along the coastal road.
Per the Mountain's earlier orders, now that Chiswick's wedding was over, his task was to head to Lannisport to gather old comrades and officially form his own mercenary company: The Clegane Warblades.
Several of his brothers, once death row inmates in Lannisport's dungeons, had already been released before the Mountain's wedding. As condemned men with terrible reputations and civilian status, not a knight among them, they had not been invited to the grand wedding held by Lord Tywin for the Mountain and Lady Jeyne. Chiswick had kept them away from the event deliberately.
Lord Auren's hopes of persuading Chiswick to subdue a pair of pirate ships might now be in vain. During breakfast, Jeyne had skillfully maneuvered Lord Tywin into voicing his support for the establishment of a Clegane mercenary company in Lannisport. Since it came from the Lord's own mouth, it carried far more weight than a casual suggestion.
A king and a beggar may say the same words, but the outcome they produce is worlds apart.
Lord Auren now felt like he had walked into a trap. Going forward, perhaps the one he should be most wary of was Lady Jeyne, whose grandmother in Lannisport was famed as a witch who could glimpse fragments of the future through blood.
He suspected that the idea to form a mercenary company in Lannisport had come from Jeyne, and that it had emerged so suddenly, it must have been deliberate. He suspected Jeyne's motives, perhaps retaliation for his secret attempts to sway the Lord's opinion.
═══════✧❁✧═══════
In Lord Tywin's Study
When the Mountain entered, Maester Harry felt as though the room had grown smaller.
Lord Tywin sat at his desk, staring him down.
"Any dead?"
"Four."
Lord Tywin's face remained blank, though a warning glint flickered in his eyes. Yet Maester Harry knew the truth, deep down, the Lord was likely pleased. The Mountain could commit all manner of atrocities and make countless enemies, but as long as he kept doing so, no matter how capable or intelligent he was, or how many brilliant inventions he produced, the Lord would never truly fear him. But if he ever stopped his brutality, began making friends and winning public support, then his death would be inevitable.
"Who?"
"Four little rabbits."
Lord Tywin stared at him, lips pressed tight.
The Mountain shifted uncomfortably for the first time and murmured awkwardly, "I was wrong, Father."
Lord Tywin's expression softened slightly.
"I'll remind you again: unauthorized coin-minting is against the law."
"I know," the Mountain replied with a casual shrug.
Lord Tywin was silent again. No one could guess what he was thinking. At last, he glanced at the maester and said, "I had no knowledge of your private minting."
"Understood."
"You'll need troops to protect the place. No one must be allowed to enter."
"I'll have men."
"How much money do you need?"
The Mountain knew Lord Tywin was not a generous man.
"Just grant me two hundred gold dragons as a reward for my inventions. Once I head north, I may need to fight some vicious battles to establish control over the area and prevent anyone from intruding. But I promise, no nobles will die. I'll just kill their cats, dogs, and rabbits."
"Very well."
"Father, I heard the Iron Islands have raised the price of iron ore again."
"They have. It's a thorny issue."
"Great Wyk is full of iron. Why don't we just take it? The islands aren't far from the Westerlands."
"We cannot defeat Balon Greyjoy at sea."
"Then let's not fight at sea. Give me troops. I'll go at night. Land battles only. I'll destroy the ironborn!"
Another long silence.
Lord Tywin finally said, "These are peaceful times. Ten years ago, during Balon's rebellion, we crushed him and seized the Iron Islands. I urged the king to wipe out House Greyjoy, but he refused."
"Yes, peaceful times," the Mountain repeated indifferently.
But he knew better.
Ever since Lord Tywin's daughter, Cersei, committed incest with her brother Jaime and bore three children, all while the king wore three metaphorical green hats, and Lord Jon Arryn was poisoned while investigating, the so-called peace of the Seven Kingdoms had already come to an end. Even if Littlefinger had never stirred the pot, the seeds Jaime had planted in Cersei's womb were seeds of chaos. Over the past decade, those seeds had taken root and grown into a towering tree.
Once a scandal is known to one person, it won't be long before it spreads to two, then three.
The truth cannot be hidden forever. It's only a matter of time.
"Father, aside from praying to the Seven, perhaps we should also consult the witch," the Mountain suggested.
In this deeply superstitious and devout age, a seer's prophecy carried immense power…
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