Yellow sand billowed across the land, the ridges burning red beneath the sun. Weeds choked the wasteland. A crow blinked its green eyes from a dead branch beside the road. Follow that road and it would lead straight to the Prince's Pass.
Caravans moved through the desolate stretch. Whether Stormlander or Dornish, every traveler wore a wrapped headscarf and a long robe, with hidden armor beneath. Beyond the pass lay Nightsong, a city overrun by bandits. During the Battle of the Blackwater Rush, the hedge knight Ser Philip Foote killed Lord Bryce Caron in single combat, ending the Caron line of Nightsong. After the war, the city was granted to Philip, who founded House Foote of Nightsong.
But Nightsong's bastard, Ser Ronnet Storm—Bryce's half-brother—claimed the title of Lord of Nightsong for himself. Their quarrel drew more and more hedge knights and wandering fighters until the balance finally broke with the arrival of a certain band.
Some said they were the king's own peacekeepers. Others claimed they were sellswords from across the Narrow Sea. More still whispered that their leader was a demon made flesh. He was as savage as he was bloodthirsty, and his body was monstrous—eight feet tall, arms as thick as young trees. In battle, he wore double-chainmail and plate so heavy most men couldn't even lift it.
He hid his face behind a flat-topped greathelm with only a breathing slit at the mouth and nose and a narrow visor cut beside the eyes. No crest adorned the helm. He carried a six-foot greatsword and a heavy oak shield banded in black iron, its original sigil scrubbed away with pitch.
Anyone who knew him recognized him instantly: the Mountain.
He became the terror of every caravan crossing the Prince's Pass. Stormlander or Dornish, none were spared his butchery.
Another caravan appeared from deeper within the pass. The Mountain's massive black stallion snorted and pawed the ground, sensing bloodshed was near. The Lannister beasts lay in wait on a low ridge, crouched silently like hunters with their prey already trapped.
The caravan guards were few. Aside from unarmed merchants and travelers, they had barely a dozen mounted men and thrice as many foot guards. The riders wore light armor, carrying lances, bows, quivers, and throwing spears. Most were farm boys who'd traded the plow for a dream of knighthood, only to end up easy meat.
The Mountain thundered forward first, and with his mount together weighed twice as much as any ordinary knight. His band of hired thugs charged after him, shouting as they stormed the caravan.
The travelers fled in all directions. The guards tried to shield them. One rider charged straight at the Mountain, but the Mountain's lance drove clean through the man's skull, not even breaking.
The rest of the horsemen scattered. No one dared face the armored giant—except for a single rider with a black scarf wrapped around his face.
He rode a true warhorse, not a pack mule or a farm beast. The Mountain was brutish, but he had a fighter's instinct. He knew a fine horse the moment he saw one, and a fine horse meant the rider was no common sellsword.
The black-scarved rider circled, lifted his lance, and pointed its tip at the Mountain—a challenge.
"He's mine!" the beast snarled at his pups. Slaughtering helpless travelers had long since grown dull; courage was the one thing that sharpened his savagery. "He's mine!" he roared again.
The thugs backed away, watching with anticipation. Their master stood like a tower, and the caravan knight before him looked like a dead tree beneath that tower.
How many passes could he last? One? Two? No more than three.
The Mountain yanked the reins and charged. His jousting lance was twice the length of any cavalry spear. His opponent showed no fear and charged straight toward him. Sand rose in clouds beneath pounding hooves. At the instant their mounts were about to collide, the caravan knight switched his lance to his left hand, gripped his horse with both knees, and veered sharply aside, slipping past the killing strike.
The thugs burst into laughter. The Mountain answered with rage.
"Coward!"
The crow blinked again. Its green eyes caught the glint of a thrown dagger buried deep in the neck of the Mountain's black stallion.
"Again!" the Mountain roared, his voice echoing through the pass. He wheeled his horse around, and the two riders charged one another once more.
The Mountain's stallion stumbled. The crow watched, hawk-sharp. Hooves tangled. The beast snorted in panic. The dagger was poisoned. But what venom could bring down such a massive animal so fast? This rider must be a master of poisons.
Their horses crossed paths again. The rider dodged the lance once more—this time with less difficulty. His spear shaft slammed against the Mountain's helm with a resounding crack. The blood-mad knight toppled from his saddle. His poor stallion managed only a few staggering steps before collapsing.
The rider's arms tingled with numbness. He alone turned his mount back for another pass.
The Mountain's rabble rushed in to drag their master away, but a volley of arrows rained down from behind the rider. The bandits abandoned their dead and scattered like starving dogs. The caravan's soldiers regrouped and steadied their line.
The rider urged his horse forward into one last charge. He leaned low and drove his spear deep into the Mountain's chest. The force of the gallop punched through plate and flesh alike, nailing the brute to the ground.
The rider pulled down the scarf covering his face.
It was Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper.
"Gregor Clegane, I've slain you countless times in my dreams, but none were as sweet as this."
"Bastard..." The mountain-like body rose and fell, and the blood spreading beneath him was more than what had spilled from the warhorse's corpse.
"Father, he won't survive." A young woman rode up beside the Red Viper. "Let me take his head. The beast's skull will make a splendid gift for all the kingdom." She snapped her whip, and the flat-topped helmet tumbled aside, exposing The Mountain's hideous face.
"Not so fast." Prince Martell pulled a short spear from his saddle. "This is for Elia and her daughter. Bloodthirsty beast, any last words?"
"Fuck you." The Mountain spat blood and foam.
Prince Martell hurled the spear, and it drove into The Mountain's eye socket like a serpent's fang.
"Cut off the head. Leave the carcass. This stinking heap of poisoned flesh will foul Dorne's soil," the Red Viper hissed, tongue flicking. "The beast's head will be a gift for my unborn son."
"Or perhaps we'll gain a new sister." More young women gathered around—the Sand Snakes.
"No. The gods tell me it will be a boy." The Red Viper swung down from his horse and circled his fallen foe, making sure he was truly dead. "He will take everything the Lion holds dear and shining."
At last, The Mountain stopped breathing. His life of sin came to an end.
The crows flew away.