Chapter 30

“M’lord, please have ... mercy,” the unfortunate soul being buggered by Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, begged him to go easier.

This only prompted him to get rougher still ... buggering Decran Hill as punishment for him losing Ashlyh Waters. The Mountain didn’t care for the bastard too much that way, certainly didn’t fancy him. Nevertheless, he wanted to teach him a lesson and make an example of him ... that even a high officer can be punished if he failed a Clegane. The actual effect was to make Decran have no small amount of sympathy for his former captive. If this was what she endured, no wonder she took the first opportunity to abscond.

Unknown to the Mountain, the men’s loyalty was largely ... and perhaps some furtively, far more to Decran at this point than it was to him. Everyone knew Ser Gregor’s reputation as it was, so they feared him greatly, but they had no love for the man. The more they saw of Decran, the more convinced that they were that it was the Westerlands bastard who looked out for them, not the Mountain That Rides. It was Decran that they respected and trusted ... most of them simply hoped to keep out of the Mountain’s and not anger him.

The message that most of them got out of this was that even the most loyal officers could be hurt and humiliated by the Mountain if it suited his ill temper. None of them were safe under the Mountain’s auspices, not unless Decran protected them. That was far less likely now that he had been taught not to risk the displeasure of Ser Gregor. None of them were safe until Clegane was removed ... then they could survive. He was a burden around their necks, not their savior at all.

That was the nasty mood going on, a buzz among the ranks of idle sellswords impatiently waiting for women they had yet to enjoy, when they heard the hooves of horses approach them. They didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be good. There was but one knight in their own host and that was Ser Gregor himself. The sound of horses and riders at this distance could only be hostile, at least from their own experience.

The next sound was that of shields clashing against armor and the steady tread of infantry. They heard spears thud against the ground and knew the significance. This wasn’t some smallish force. This was the army of Grey Worm, the Master of War and Lord of the Dreadfort, the Captain of the Unsullied himself. There was no other force of such size nearby and everyone knew it. The sight of torches only confirmed this, as the first sentries saw the Dothraki and the Unsullied reach their posts.

What followed wasn’t a battle. It was a hot mess of panic, terror, slaughter, mayhem, and sheer confusion. It wasn’t organized enough to be a proper, pitched battle. This made the Goldroad debacle seem structured by comparison. The sentries mostly either fled or died before they could surrender. Ser Gregor pulled out of Decran and put on his breeches, turning to issue a command to the bastard, only to see the empty space where he was. Decran had deserted, too.

Sure, he had to limp away, but he left with preternatural speed. Not daring to sit a horse, Decran Hill rushed toward the enemy and put up his hands. It was a clear gesture of surrender. He was cut down, anyway, without even a chance to speak. The Dothraki rider who sliced through his neck had no use for a man who clearly let another man mount him like a stallion. There was no other explanation for that limp, was there?

It was for the best ... at least Decran was spared Ashlyh’s revenge. So were most of the others, the vast majority of the sellswords scattering to the winds. The unlucky were trampled underfoot by their own comrades in their haste to escape such a force. The hastily mustered host of various deserters turned sellswords from the Westerlands that Decran had raised with amazing efficiency melted away with undignified haste, leaving a mostly empty camp. There was no glory left at all, least of all for Ser Gregor Clegane.

Maybe twenty or thirty odd men were either too slow, too wounded, or too drunk to escape in time and avoid captivity now. They were gathered by the Unsullied rather than the Dothraki, as the latter tended not to take prisoners very much ... well, not male ones, anyway. Unarmed and now under close guard by the Unsullied assigned to them by Grey Worm himself, they watched as Ser Gregor Clegane stood alone against the whole army.