Although Old York was merely a "witness," he still felt the joy of a man who had nurtured something and seen it flourish.
In the beginning, Jon had only Old York and Tommen at his side—perhaps a few Winterfell officers at most. Whenever meetings were held, the tent always felt empty.
Now, everything had changed.
Jon's war tent was crowded with people: leaders of the mountain clans, noble knights Jon had rescued at the Battle of the Green Fork, and more.
When Jon entered, all of them rose and saluted. Only after he took his seat at the head of the table did the others dare sit down.
Through it all, Sola's bright blue eyes never once left him.
After settling, Jon turned to Old York.
"Are all the armors Robb gave us ready?"
"They're ready, my lord. The tribal warriors can be re-equipped tomorrow."
Old York signaled an attendant, who entered wearing captured Lannister armor for everyone to inspect.
To the noble knights, the armor looked ordinary enough. But to the tribal warriors, it was dazzling. They were delighted.
Jon now commanded nearly 3,500 men. With so many mouths, most of the 3,000 sets of armor Robb had sent were already spoken for.
"Lord Jon, are we going to war?" Harken asked.
He had long since accepted Jon's position as his leader. As for the dragon eggs atop the mountain—he had already let go of them. Jon's claim was unquestioned. Even if Harken could not touch those eggs himself, they were Jon's by right.
The elders were correct: their people had been driven to the mountains. If Jon could one day lead them to a safe plain where they might live, nothing else mattered.
"Yes," Jon answered, "but not yet."
He spread a topographical map of Darry City and its surrounding land across the table. Pointing at key spots, he explained:
"I want fortifications here, here, and here. Set ambushes and traps."
The plan was complex, but Jon's clarity of explanation made sure even these clan-born officers could grasp it.
Since it was certain the Mountain would attack Darry City, Jon had decided to lay a trap. His target was clear: kill Gregor Clegane.
If Jon succeeded, then in any future decisive battle against the Westerlands army, he would not have to account for that stat monster.
---
Meanwhile, the Westerlands camp simmered with unease. The banners of its lords drooped low.
Tywin's pretext for war had been to avenge Tyrion and punish Catelyn's rash act of taking him. But the soldiers cared nothing for justice. They had enjoyed plunder, fire, and blood in the Riverlands—until recently.
Rumors spread: Jaime was captured. The Northern army held the line unbroken.
Robb, Renly, and even Stannis had declared themselves kings.
Stannis on Dragonstone was distant enough to ignore—for now. But Renly, allied with Highgarden, was marching with a hundred thousand men.
Fear gnawed at the soldiers. Many longed to retreat home to the Westerlands. Westward lay the Sunset Sea, eastward the weak Riverlands, southward the Reach—less inclined to fight. If they held Golden Tooth, the Westerlands' gate, they would be safe.
It was then a massive figure strode through the camp: Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.
Tywin's sharpest spear.
The soldiers knew his presence meant Tywin had given an order. But the Mountain was not one for words—only killing. No man dared ask. They could only watch him march back toward his own camp.
Even the Westerlands lords sent spies to watch him. For them, war might be duty. For Tywin, it was vengeance. But for Gregor, war was pleasure.
He loved killing.
Other men killed when unhappy; Gregor became unhappy if he did not kill.
And Tywin—cold, pragmatic Tywin—favored him. A cruel sword, but an effective one.
The Mountain had led the vanguard of raiders in the Riverlands. Now, all eyes turned to Tywin's tent.
Soon, word spread: Gregor had left with five hundred heavily armored knights and three hundred retainers.
"He's taking the heavy cavalry?" lords murmured. "Tywin must be planning something critical."
"Heavies like those are worth five thousand common men on the battlefield."
Heavy cavalry were the tanks of this age—unstoppable unless dragons returned. Jon's earlier water ambush had been an exception, almost inconceivable to most.
As Gregor rode out, the soldiers' tension thickened.
His camp was always the quietest of all, especially when he was present. No one dared make a sound. Once, he had killed an attendant simply for snoring too loudly.
When he entered, men froze. The air itself seemed heavier.
Gregor summoned his officers. His pockmarked squire offered a cup of poppy milk. Few knew the Mountain suffered constant headaches. Noise worsened them. Only killing—or the numbing balm of the milk—brought relief.
Draining the cup, Gregor gave his orders.
"Prepare the heavy troops. We march on Darry City. Darry and Stone Hedge must be ours."
"Yes, my lord."
Fear drove the officers to swift obedience.
Gregor's cruelty was infamous even in his own halls. Maids disappeared without explanation. Blood stained his shadow.
Now, he looked north. He knew who had humiliated him at the river, splattering mud across his armored face.
Eddard Stark's bastard.
That day, his heavy cavalry should have crushed their foes. Instead, Jon had turned the tide.
Gregor had begged Tywin since then: if the chance arose, he must face Jon Snow himself.
The realm's chaos mattered little to him. All that mattered was revenge.
And only Jon's blood could ease his pain.
Two men, bound by old grudges, were sharpening their blades—preparing to meet.
--
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