The so-called demon-hunting force that Eddard Stark dispatched to the Riverlands was never large. In total, it numbered only a little over a hundred men.
Lord Beric Dondarrion brought twenty knights of his own. Thoros of Myr came with another score, along with Ser Gladden Wylde and Baron Rhaegar Mallister, each commanding roughly twenty soldiers. Eddard Stark himself added thirty guards from House Stark to accompany the expedition. Lord Raymund Darry joined with twenty men of his household, while Ser Karyl Vance and Ser Marq Piper contributed several dozen attendants between them.
The task entrusted to Lord Beric was clear: track down Gregor Clegane, capture him alive if possible, and deliver him to King's Landing to face the king's judgment. Yet even at first glance, the force assigned to this mission seemed painfully inadequate for such a task.
More troubling still was the uncertainty within the group itself. Ser Karyl Vance of Wayfarer's Rest and Ser Marq Piper of Pinkmaiden were deeply distracted by the situation at home. Their fathers were preparing for battle below the Golden Tooth, and grim tidings arrived daily. At any moment, the two heirs might abandon the pursuit to return to their own lands.
Despite this, the small army departed King's Landing with determination. Their pace, however, was slow. They had to search constantly for signs of the Mountain's movements while also scrounging for food and supplies in a countryside already ravaged by fear.
The Riverlands were in chaos. With invasion looming from the west, most of the local lords had withdrawn to Riverrun to seek protection under House Tully. Villages lay abandoned. Peasants had either hidden within castle walls or fled eastward toward King's Landing, leaving behind empty fields and burned homes.
One evening, Lord Beric tilted his head skyward and frowned. "Look," he said, nudging Thoros of Myr, who was already half-drunk beside the campfire. "What do you make of that?"
Above them burned the Red Comet, blazing like a wound across the heavens.
Thoros squinted, then laughed. "The Red Comet," he declared. "It means we're close to finding that bastard, the Mountain. Blood and fire await him."
"I hope you're right," Beric replied. "I'd dearly like to bring good news back to Lord Eddard."
Lord Raymund Darry watched the two in silence, his expression grim. He quietly released a raven into the darkening sky. None of the others thought much of it; Darry's lands were nearby, and ravens were common tools of a river lord.
A few days later, near Pinkmaiden, the company broke apart. Ser Karyl Vance and Ser Marq Piper approached Beric with faces drawn tight with grief.
News had reached them from scattered survivors of the fighting below the Golden Tooth. The battle had begun in earnest. Old Lord Vance was dead, slain in combat, while Lord Piper had fled toward Riverrun in disarray. With their fathers fallen or defeated, the two young lords could no longer justify chasing Gregor Clegane.
"If not for that wine-red birthmark," Beric reflected silently, "Ser Karyl would have been a handsome man." Now his melancholy eyes were heavy with sorrow.
"We must return to Riverrun," Ser Karyl said quietly. "Our houses need us."
Beric did not stop them. With the Kingslayer loose in the Riverlands and Riverrun under threat, he understood their fear and helplessness.
Once they departed, Baron Rhaegar Mallister scowled. "How can Tywin Lannister be so ruthless? To let the Kingslayer butcher Riverlands men beneath the Golden Tooth—openly, without fear?"
"House Vance is no minor house," Ser Gladden Wylde added darkly. "They command more land and men than their liege. Jaime Lannister killing Lord Vance and besieging Riverrun is nothing short of treason."
"This mission is dangerous," Gladden continued, his voice uneasy. "Something must have gone terribly wrong in King's Landing for Tywin to act so boldly."
None of them yet knew the truth: the king was dead, and Eddard Stark was already doomed. Tywin Lannister's information was better—and his cruelty greater—than any of theirs.
"What are you afraid of?" Beric snapped. "I'll kill this butcher myself and deliver his head to Lord Eddard."
Thoros slammed back his wine and grinned. "If Tywin's dog is loose in the Riverlands, then I'll gladly help put it down."
Elin, the Northman who had replaced the slain Jory Cassel, snorted. "In the North, we don't fear wild dogs. We kill them."
Outnumbered by such confidence, Ser Gladden Wylde and Baron Mallister fell silent, though unease lingered. Lord Raymund Darry said nothing at all.
Beric suggested they search near Bitch's Pool and Sheepherd's Wash, places Gregor was known to haunt. Yet Lord Darry finally spoke, his voice calm but firm.
"We should wait," he said. "Crossing Bitch's Pool now is dangerous."
Beric flushed. "Are you questioning my command?"
"I want the Mountain dead more than anyone," Darry replied. "But Tywin knows our numbers. Gregor is no fool. We should wait for reinforcements."
"Reinforcements?" Elin scoffed. "Coward's talk."
"My raven will bring them," Darry said simply.
After tense debate, Thoros smoothed things over. They would camp for the night and cross in the morning.
That night, the Red Comet burned brighter than the moon. Few men slept well.
At dawn, the thunder of hooves shattered the camp's uneasy rest.
Three hundred riders emerged from the mist—black-armored, silent, ruthless. At their head rode a tall figure in a masked helm, carrying a long ash spear.
"I heard Tywin's dog was nearby," the masked man said. "I've come to kill it."
Lord Raymund exhaled in relief. Beric stared in shock. As daylight grew, he recognized sigils among the newcomers—Boggs, Crakehall, Braum, Hardy—houses long loyal to the dragon.
"You're traitors," Beric said hoarsely, drawing steel.
"We share an enemy," Darry whispered. "That is enough."
When battle came at Bitch's Pool, it came swiftly and brutally.
Gregor Clegane charged from the east bank like a force of nature, his greatsword cleaving men in half. His soldiers—rapists, butchers, killers—followed with savage glee.
But then the black-armored cavalry struck.
Crossbows sang. Horses screamed. Gregor's warhorse collapsed beneath him, riddled with bolts.
And then a voice rang out, sharp as venom.
"Your opponent is me, beast!"
The Red Viper stepped forward.
Oberyn Martell of Dorne.
Their duel was swift, terrible, and inevitable. Gregor's strength was monstrous, but Oberyn was speed and precision incarnate. His spear found the gaps in the Mountain's armor—beneath the arm, behind the knee.
"For my sister," Oberyn hissed. "For Elia."
At last, the spear drove deep, pinning Gregor to the earth. Blood pooled beneath him as the Mountain's strength failed.
Bound and broken, Gregor Clegane lay defeated.
The Riverlands were silent at last.
Yet no one there believed the war was truly over.
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