M'lord Tywin,
I know not what sort of creature that Stark has deemed fit to grant a lordship, but I can tell you with the utmost certainty that Lord Steven Rogers is no human man. This may seem an outrageous claim, but what I've seen of him in battle surpasses all human limitation and common sense.
But I shall return to the beginning. Ser Gregor was leading his men in a foraging mission as directed and with his usual vigor. We had just finished disciplining an uncooperative village when we were beset by Rogers and his personal retinue, a group I now know to be called the 'Commandos'. They were outnumbered by the Mountain's Men, but were on the whole superior fighters, and managed to kill several of ours without loss.
The battle did not last long though, as it seemed that Rogers was more interested in seeking battle with Ser Gregor than he was with defeating our force. My master too, seemed to be more interested in punishing Rogers for the indignity of his defeat in the Tourny of the Hand than he was at slaughtering his men.
The battle stilled as the two found one another on the field. Ser Gregor was mounted on his mightiest charger, a vicious, uncut beast the size of a bull oxen. Rogers on the other hand was unmounted, but completely unphased as Ser Gregor charged him.
I can and will say with all frankness and honesty that I believe that a lance charge from Ser Gregor would have been great enough to pierce even the heart of one of the dragons of yore. While most men, most sane men, would have fled or attempted to remove themselves from Ser Gregor's path, Rogers simply braced himself and lifted his shield to receive the blow.
At this moment it would have been safe to say that all combat stopped, and all eyes turned to watch the fool die. But die he did not. Against all, against all sense in this world Rogers received the charge with the sureness of a castle wall. His feet moved not an inch when Clegane's lance struck. By all rights his shield should have been pierced clear through, yet only a gouge in the paint marred the place where the spear point had struck.
Ser Gregor on the other hand was thrown bodily from his mount as if he'd foolishly charged a stone fortification. The maddened beast he rode continued forward, only to have his neck broken by single swing from Roger's shield.
The northern lord then cast off his helmet as he walked forward, his face twisted into a mask of fury that will haunt my dreams until the Stranger claims me.
Ser Gregor was slow to recover from the shock, and by the time he'd risen to his feet and drawn his blade, Rogers had already reached him. My master attempted to cleave the man in twine with a two handed strike of his sword, but Rogers parried it with his own and twisted it from his grip with the ease one would disarm a beardless squire holding true steel for the first time in his life. Then he threw his shield and arms to the side and lay into Ser Gregor with fists.
There is no point in giving a detailed description of the slaughter that followed, but I will say that the Mountain who Rides was completely helpless before the onslaught. The few blows he managed to loose were dodged or blocked as if they were naught but the frantic strikes of a desperate peasant lass while Rogers beat him like a disobedient mule.
Each blow landed with the force of a warhammer. This is no exaggeration for I've seen what is left of my master's armor. Where each strike connected there is deep dent, as if it had been struck with a great maul formed into the shape of a fist and not a human hand. When this was over, my master lay on the earth broken, bloody, and unmoving, while Rogers stood above him still furious but seemingly not even winded.
Slowly, he turned his eyes to the assembled men as he lifted his shield. I shall never forget them. They were like two glowing coals of rage that sapped the very breath from my lungs.
Then he lifted his shield and brought it down upon Ser Gregor's neck. The strike severed plate, chain, and bone with with the ease of flesh. With quivering hand he withdrew my master's smashed head from his broken helmet and held it aloft, literally shaking with anger.
The Warrior or the Stranger I know not, but in that moment it was as if we were looking upon the visage of an angry god. The men routed in that moment, fleeing for their lives. Those who were slow were cut down. Those who were fast were hunted like animals, relentlessly. There was no mercy. No hesitation.
I was spared only because of my age, and because that in my terror I had dropped my blade. And it was Rogers himself who granted me clemency, but even now there is talk of sending me north to the wall for simply being associated with the Mountain and his men.
While I doubt you will heed the words of a petty squire, know this m'lord. Lord Steven Rogers is no mere man. I know not what he is, but I would rather stand against Aegon the Conqueror upon the back of the Black Dread then ever face him in battle again. At least then my death would be swift.
Joss Stilwood, Former Squire to the Late Ser Gregor Clegane