Jon's sharp gaze never left the combatants in the arena, but his mind was racing. He turned suddenly to his father, his voice low, almost drowned by the sounds of the battle unfolding before them. "Father," he whispered urgently, "I've just realized something—the sword Harry wields... it's not Ignis."
Ned Stark, standing firm and resolute beside his son, narrowed his eyes as he glanced at the weapon Harry held in his hand. The long blade gleamed in the sunlight, catching the eye with its brilliance. Recognition flickered in Ned's eyes, and for a brief moment, his features softened with the weight of understanding. His voice, low and somber, rumbled through the air. "That's the Sword of Gryffindor," he murmured, as though the very name carried a weight of legend. "Harry showed it to me once, long ago... before he came to us, before we truly knew him."
Jon's brow furrowed in confusion, his mind still struggling to catch up with the sudden revelation. "The Sword of Gryffindor?" he echoed, his voice edged with curiosity. "What makes it so special?"
Ned's eyes remained locked on the arena, his focus unwavering even as the sounds of combat grew louder. "It's a blade of legend," he continued, his voice filled with a quiet reverence. "Forged in the fires of the Goblin Wars, imbued with magic that makes it more than just a weapon. It grows stronger with each victory—absorbs the essence of those it vanquishes. Harry wielded it against the Basilisk, when he was but a boy." His words were heavy, like the weight of a secret too long hidden.
Jon's gaze flickered from his father's stern face to the arena, the meaning of Ned's words slowly sinking in. A glimmer of understanding ignited in his chest. "Then..." he trailed off, his voice gaining strength as realization settled over him. "The Mountain is facing something far worse than he knows. If that sword is as powerful as you say... it'll be his undoing."
Just as the words left Jon's lips, a shadow fell over them, and Dany appeared by their side. Her presence was like a storm on the horizon—impossible to ignore. Her true features under a glamour, her long, flowing blonde hair framed her face, and the fire in her blue eyes burned bright with resolve. She moved with the grace of a dragoness, her every step deliberate and fierce.
Her gaze was fixed unwaveringly on Harry, her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw set. Her voice rang out, sharp and determined, cutting through the murmurs around them. "Harry will not draw that sword until the very end," she declared, her words like a promise laced with steel. The faintest trace of her French accent slipped through, adding weight to her words. "He will let the Mountain waste every ounce of his strength, until the beast is completely subdued, humiliated, and broken. Only then will he draw the sword."
Jon's brow furrowed as he met Dany's gaze, understanding her unspoken resolve. "And when he does?" he asked quietly, his voice edged with a hint of caution. "What happens then?"
Dany's expression didn't waver. "Then he will strike," she said firmly, "and the Mountain will know a death far worse than any other. A death not swift and merciful like the Basilisk venom. No, Clegane must suffer for his crimes—his brutality, his cruelty. He will feel every moment of his end."
Her words hung in the air, a declaration of vengeance as much as strategy. The fire that burned within her seemed to sear through the very air itself. Jon couldn't help but admire her strength—how resolute she was in her belief that Clegane deserved nothing less than agony.
Ned, standing stoically by their side, spoke with a quiet, brooding understanding. "Harry will make sure that justice is done, as he always does," he said softly, his voice full of the weight of experience. "But the Sword of Gryffindor... it's more than a weapon, Jon. It's a part of who Harry is. A part of the legacy he carries. That venom, the Basilisk venom... it's the strongest poison there is. It will destroy Clegane's body from the inside out, not in a quick death, but in a slow, agonizing end."
Jon turned his gaze back to the arena, his thoughts swirling. "Then the Mountain won't just be defeated," he murmured, as if the weight of it all had finally clicked into place. "He will be broken. Completely."
Dany's eyes flickered toward the arena, where the Mountain was growing increasingly desperate with each swing of his massive sword, each miss, each wasted effort. "And that is exactly what he deserves," she said, her voice cold and unyielding. "No mercy. Not for him."
The three of them stood in silence for a moment, their eyes trained on the battle, each of them contemplating the gravity of what was to come. In the arena, the Mountain's fury was beginning to show signs of breaking—his attacks more wild, his movements less controlled. Meanwhile, Harry moved with effortless grace, continuing his dance of evasion, a quiet predator biding his time.
Jon's eyes narrowed, his voice quiet but full of certainty. "It's only a matter of time."
Ned's eyes remained fixed on Harry, his expression unreadable but filled with a deep, abiding trust in his son's strength. "Indeed. Harry will see this through. And when the time comes, Clegane will know the true meaning of justice."
And Dany, standing tall beside them, added with quiet finality, "A justice that cannot be denied."
—
The Mountain's roar echoed through the arena as he swung his sword with a brutal, unfathomable force, the massive blade descending with a violent, unrelenting arc toward Harry. The ground beneath their feet trembled from the sheer weight of the strike. Harry, with the Sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in his hands, met the blow head-on, the sound of steel meeting steel filling the air with a deafening clang.
The impact sent a shockwave through the arena, the force of it so intense that the spectators felt the vibrations in their bones. The Sword of Gryffindor, gleaming with a red and gold brilliance, held firm against the Mountain's strike. But just as quickly as it connected, the Mountain's colossal sword shattered with a horrific crack, the sound like a thunderclap that stunned the crowd into stunned silence.
A rain of shards erupted from the splintered blade, glittering in the sunlight like deadly confetti. The pieces flew in every direction, spinning through the air in an almost surreal spectacle as the weight of the Mountain's weapon was torn apart in a single, cataclysmic moment. It was as if time itself had slowed, and for a heartbeat, nothing else mattered but the rain of destruction that cascaded from the broken weapon.
Gregor Clegane stood still, his massive body heaving with ragged breaths, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and fury. His hands clenched the shattered remnants of his once-legendary sword, the hilt reduced to jagged pieces of metal that seemed insignificant in his gargantuan grip. The Mountain's mouth twisted in an unholy snarl as he surveyed the remains of his blade, his furious gaze shifting toward Harry.
"Impossible!" Clegane bellowed, his voice like the roar of a beast, the words laced with raw hatred. His fury seemed to double, his face twisting into a grotesque mask of rage as he threw the broken hilt aside. His massive fists clenched and unclenched, the desire to crush his foe nearly overwhelming him. He turned to face Harry, his anger only fueling his monstrous presence.
"You think you can stop me, boy?" Clegane growled, his voice thick with venom. "I will break you like I broke the rest!"
But Harry stood unmoving, the Sword of Gryffindor still in his hand, its blade glowing faintly as if it had absorbed the force of the Mountain's assault and now hungered for more. His calm demeanor was in stark contrast to the fury of the beast before him. He didn't speak, but his stance was one of quiet confidence, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
From the stands, there was a stunned silence. The Lannisters, who had once thought this trial to be a formality, now watched in shocked disbelief. Tyrion Lannister's lips parted in silent amazement as he scanned the arena, his eyes locked on the shattered remnants of the Mountain's sword. Even Tywin, sitting in the royal box with his cold, calculating gaze, seemed to pause, his usual composure rattled for just a moment.
Across the arena, Harry's supporters erupted into a cacophony of cheers, their voices rising in a unified roar of triumph. But the sound of victory was drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd as they beheld the scene unfolding before them. The Mountain, the most fearsome of fighters, stood defeated—not by force of arms, but by a weapon far greater than anything he had ever known.
The sheer power of the moment reverberated through the arena, and for a long, suspended second, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. The shattered blade, a symbol of Clegane's unmatched strength, lay broken and useless on the ground, nothing more than a pile of twisted, fragmented steel.
A shocked murmur spread through the crowd as they tried to process the impossibility of what had just occurred. Clegane, the unrelenting giant, reduced to a brute without a weapon, his rage and pride shattered in an instant.
Harry's supporters could hardly believe their eyes. The impossible had just been made reality—Gregor Clegane had been bested, not by brute strength, but by skill, magic, and a weapon of legend.
In the silence that followed, the whole arena was left in stunned awe, their collective gaze locked on the broken remains of the Mountain's blade. The arena had never seen such a moment before. And in that single, breathtaking instant, the very fate of the trial seemed to hang in the balance.
—
The tension in the stands was palpable as the shattered remnants of the Mountain's sword fell to the ground. The once-mighty weapon, a symbol of brute force, now lay broken and useless. A murmur of disbelief rippled through the various factions in the crowd, each one reacting in their own way.
Oberyn Martell leaned in close to Ellaria, his voice low but tinged with admiration. His dark eyes never left the scene unfolding below them. "It seems Clegane's sword is not the only thing that has broken today," he remarked, his lips curling into a half-smile. There was a hint of something deeper in his gaze, a complex mix of recognition and resentment. His fingers twitched as he thought of the blade that had killed his sister, Elia. "That sword... the same one he used to slaughter my sister, Elia." His voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. "And now it lies in ruins. The irony does not escape me."
Ellaria Sand nodded, her own eyes cold and calculating as she took in the arena. "Indeed, it seems fate has decided to make a spectacle of Clegane today. Peverell's weapon was not just a tool, but a message, Oberyn."
Obara Sand, standing behind her siblings, let out a low chuckle. Her lips curled into a smirk, an expression that was both sardonic and satisfied. "The Mountain has always relied on brute strength. To see his sword shattered like that—it's a testament to the power of Peverell's blade, yes, but also a reminder that strength alone can be brought to its knees."
Nymeria Sand's sharp eyes glinted as she observed the spectacle. She was always quick to read a situation. "It's not just strength that has been shattered. It's his pride. He's known for his ruthlessness, but Peverell is showing him that his power is not invincible. The finesse of that blade turned the tide—just as we expected."
Tyene Sand, standing next to her sisters, couldn't suppress a sly smile. She loved the intricacies of power plays. "Ah, yes. The Mountain's pride. I wonder how long it will take him to admit that he's no longer the apex predator in this arena," she mused, her voice a melodic yet cutting whisper.
Margaery Tyrell, seated next to her grandmother Olenna, leaned toward the older woman, her voice a mix of awe and concern. "Grandmother, did you see that? Clegane's sword... it shattered so easily. One strike."
Olenna Tyrell, her eyes gleaming with something approaching rare amusement, gave a small, satisfied laugh. "Yes, my dear, I did see. And I daresay Peverell's little display has surprised us all. It seems he is not merely a pretty face, but a true fighter, after all." She chuckled to herself, eyes glinting with a knowing look. "We may have underestimated him, but I suspect that will be a mistake we won't make again."
Willas Tyrell, a more reserved member of the family, furrowed his brow as he studied the scene below. "The Mountain's pride was never in the blade itself. It was in his strength, his size, his sheer power. Losing that sword so decisively, though, is a significant blow. It shakes the very foundation of his reputation."
Garlan Tyrell, his face serious, leaned in slightly toward his brother. "Indeed, but let's not forget that Gregor Clegane is still a beast. One broken sword does not remove the danger that he poses. He'll find another way to strike. The fight is far from over."
Across from them, Tywin Lannister's face darkened, his expression cold as he muttered under his breath to his brother, Kevan. "This is an unexpected setback. That sword was meant to be a symbol of Clegane's might. Now, it lies shattered like a common piece of scrap." His voice was thick with restrained anger, his hands gripping the armrest of his seat with a white-knuckled intensity.
Kevan Lannister, ever the pragmatic member of the Lannister family, kept his voice level and calm. "We have seen the Mountain overcome greater challenges, my lord. Let us not make the mistake of assuming this is the end of the fight." His eyes, though concerned, were still calculating as they tracked the unfolding battle. "The man may have lost his blade, but he hasn't lost his brutal strength or his rage. That is something to remember."
Tygett Lannister, seated next to Kevan, remained stoic, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "Kevan is right. The Mountain is not a man who bows to defeat easily. If anything, he will be even more dangerous now."
As the fragments of Clegane's sword littered the ground, the arena itself seemed to hold its collective breath. The air was thick with a stunned silence, broken only by the murmurs of the crowd trying to process what had just happened. The Mountain—once thought invincible—had been struck a blow not just to his sword, but to his very image as an unstoppable force.
For a moment, it seemed like the world had shifted, the power dynamics in the arena forever changed. The once-celebrated strength of the Mountain now lay in ruins, and the balance of the fight seemed uncertain. The eyes of the crowd turned toward Harry, the wielder of the Sword of Gryffindor, as the figure who had just toppled the seemingly invincible Mountain. The shattered sword spoke volumes, and the crowd's energy surged—some in disbelief, others in awe.
But for those watching with sharp eyes, it was clear: the end was not yet near. The Mountain's fury had only just begun.
—
King Robert Baratheon sat like an immovable mountain upon his throne, his vast frame seeming to swallow the space around him. His hands were gripping the armrests with such force that the wood creaked in protest, his knuckles pale from the tension. His eyes, bloodshot and narrowed, never left the arena where the Mountain's sword had shattered into a thousand pieces. His brow furrowed deeply, a scowl etched across his rugged, weathered face. The sight of Clegane's once-imposing weapon lying in ruins sent a wave of frustration crashing over him, though he kept his rage in check—for now.
Beside him, Queen Cersei's face had gone from ivory stillness to a storm of disbelief. The very elegance that usually defined her had cracked like a porcelain doll under pressure. Her eyes, wide with growing horror, flicked between the shattered sword and the victorious figure of Peverell standing in the arena, sword gleaming in his hand. Her hand gripped the armrest of her chair tightly, her nails digging into the wood as though it might provide some semblance of control over the chaos that was unfolding.
"By the gods…" Cersei breathed, her voice a low hiss, barely above a whisper as she leaned toward Jaime, who stood next to her. Her usually smooth composure was nowhere to be found, her voice thick with a mix of disbelief and growing panic. "That… that was supposed to be the Mountain's moment. How could he lose like this?" Her words were sharp, cutting through the air with the same venom that had made her one of the most feared figures in the realm.
Jaime Lannister, ever the calm and collected one, turned to look at his sister, his face a mirror of her unease, though he kept his tone measured. "You knew the risk, Cersei," he said, his voice almost a growl. "The Mountain has always relied on his brute strength, but Peverell is no simple warrior. He's no match for Clegane in sheer size, but he's proven time and again that he's not to be underestimated." His eyes never left the arena, where the broken remnants of the sword continued to gleam in the sunlight, symbolizing the brutal turn of events. "This wasn't just about muscle. It was about skill, something Clegane has never had much of."
Cersei's lips tightened, and she shot a venomous glance toward her brother. "Do not patronize me, Jaime," she snapped, her voice edged with cold fury. "This was supposed to be the victory that solidified our power. My champion was to crush Peverell and his so-called 'luck.' Instead, he has humiliated us."
Robert's booming voice cut through the tension between the siblings, his tone deep and rumbling with authority. "Enough, both of you," he barked, his gaze now turning toward the Lannisters, his face red with barely suppressed frustration. "Cersei, Jaime, keep your tongues in check." He stood suddenly, his immense frame towering over the smaller figures of the Lannisters, his eyes burning with a ferocity that matched the wildness of his spirit. "I've fought in battles, I've killed men with my bare hands, but what I've just seen..." He paused, his fists clenched at his sides. "Peverell's not just some lucky boy. He's a force. And Clegane?" Robert shook his head, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Mountain was always all bark and no bite."
Cersei's face twisted in frustration, but she kept her mouth shut, for the moment. Her mind raced, calculating the ways in which this defeat could be spun, how she could regain control of the narrative. But deep down, the ache of helplessness gnawed at her. This wasn't part of the plan.
Jaime stepped forward slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but his expression remained focused, his eyes never leaving the arena. "You're right, Your Grace ," he said, the words laced with a hint of grudging respect. "Peverell has proven himself more than just a champion of luck. Clegane's strength is nothing without strategy, and today he learned that the hard way."
Cersei's eyes flicked to her brother, her face contorting with barely-contained anger. "You always had a soft spot for underdogs," she muttered, her words sharp and venomous. "This was supposed to be my victory, my moment."
Robert's lips curled into a grim smile. "Your victory? Cersei, when will you learn?" His voice was rough but tinged with a rueful sort of humor. "There's no 'my moment' in the arena. Only the strong and the cunning walk away from this kind of thing." He gestured toward the arena, his tone a mixture of admiration and growing wariness. "And right now, Peverell has outplayed you. The Mountain's broken sword proves that."
Cersei's eyes narrowed, her composure slowly reassembling itself like a shattered mirror piecing itself back together. "This is far from over," she muttered, though there was a flicker of doubt behind her words. "Clegane is far from finished."
"Perhaps," Robert growled, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "But that bastard has been humbled. And that's something I never thought I'd see." His voice softened, a touch of sadness in it now, though his eyes still gleamed with a hunter's thrill. "The Mountain's pride has always been his sword. That's gone now. And the people are watching."
Cersei stood stiffly, her gaze fixed firmly on the arena, calculating her next move. The broken pieces of Clegane's blade littered the ground like the shattered fragments of her carefully laid plans. She had no intention of allowing this defeat to define her—there was always another game to play, another move to make. But as the reality of her champion's loss sank in, her mind began working overtime to find a way to turn this misfortune to her advantage.
The silence in the stands, punctuated only by the low murmurs of the crowd, hung heavy in the air. This wasn't just a battle of champions; it was a battle of legacies, of power, and of control. And for the first time in a long while, Robert Baratheon felt the bitter sting of uncertainty creeping in at the edges of his confidence.
—
The atmosphere in the arena shifted as Gregor Clegane, his rage now a living, breathing thing, cast the shattered remnants of his once-feared sword aside. With a roar that echoed through the stands, the Mountain surged forward like a storm unleashed. His massive fists clenched, veins bulging in his neck, the fury of a beast unchained. "I will crush you, boy!" he bellowed, his voice like the grinding of stone, as he barreled toward Harry with all the power of a rampaging bull.
In stark contrast, Harry stood as calm and unflappable as ever, his posture relaxed, yet his eyes sharp with focus. The Sword of Gryffindor, its gleaming blade still humming with magical energy, was sheathed with an elegant flick of his wrist. His hands, now free, rested by his sides—ready for whatever the Mountain would throw at him.
With a ground-shaking thud, Clegane's colossal form hurtled toward Harry, fists like battering rams. His first swing came with a force that could've shattered a castle wall, but Harry, with the ease of someone sidestepping a summer breeze, danced out of the way. The Mountain's fist tore through the air where Harry had been just a heartbeat ago, and a cloud of dust rose from the impact. His second blow came faster, but Harry was already several steps ahead, gliding to his left with the grace of a dancer.
"Stay still, you little bastard!" Clegane snarled, his voice a deep growl of pure malice. He swung again, this time with even more venom, his fists like hammers crashing down in a wild frenzy. But Harry, now almost a blur in the arena, continued to dodge effortlessly. Every movement was calculated, every sidestep a careful step towards wearing the Mountain down.
"You think you can run from me?" Clegane roared, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He swung a massive fist toward Harry's head, but Harry ducked low, letting the punch sail harmlessly over him. The crowd gasped in amazement as the Mountain's fury reached a new peak. His blows were becoming more desperate, more erratic, as his frustration grew.
Harry, however, was calm as ever, his expression almost amused. "You should try hitting me, Gregor," Harry quipped, his voice light but cutting, his feet moving with a fluid rhythm. "You might find it easier than throwing tantrums."
"Shut up!" Clegane's roar was deafening as he charged again, his anger now blinding him. His fists came faster, each swing more violent, the air crackling with the force of his blows. But with each attack, Harry was a step ahead, slipping away with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. He ducked and weaved, sidestepping the Mountain's devastating punches with precision that only years of training could explain.
The Mountain's rage grew palpable. His heavy footfalls reverberated through the arena, the ground trembling with each step. His massive body surged forward, unrelenting in its pursuit. His next swing was so wild, so full of frustration, that it sent him spinning slightly off balance. Harry, with the slightest of smirks, danced to the side once more, leaving the Mountain to stumble forward.
"You think you're clever, boy?" Clegane growled, spitting on the ground as he staggered to regain his footing. His fists clenched tighter, the knuckles whitening with the effort to control his rage. "I'll break you!"
But Harry wasn't focused on breaking him; he was focused on one thing: exhausting him. The Mountain's wild swings were becoming increasingly erratic, his attacks growing sloppier with every passing second. He was no longer the methodical, brutal force of nature that had first entered the arena. Now, he was a man consumed by blind rage, unable to land a single blow.
Harry's movements were effortless, a graceful dance of dodges and feints, lulling Clegane into a false sense of certainty. The Mountain's massive body heaved with the effort of his own futile pursuit, and Harry, still light on his feet, effortlessly avoided each blow.
"Come on, Gregor," Harry teased, his voice a calm contrast to the storm of rage before him. "Is this all you've got? Your swings are getting slower."
The Mountain's fury was now at a breaking point. Each swing of his fists came slower than the last, his breathing heavier. He was beginning to tire, his once-mighty strength sapped by his own uncontrolled anger. With a final, desperate roar, Gregor Clegane lunged forward, his fist hurtling through the air in a final, wild attempt to land a blow. But Harry, ever the elusive shadow, danced out of the way with a slight pivot, watching the Mountain's momentum carry him forward, his massive form nearly stumbling over his own feet.
The crowd held its breath as Clegane flailed in a desperate, futile attempt to regain control. The rage that had once made him a terrifying force was now his undoing. Harry stood just out of reach, eyes locked on the Mountain as he let him exhaust himself further.
The storm raged on, but Harry was its calm center. He wasn't trying to win this fight yet; no, he was letting the Mountain burn himself out, each swing taking him closer to collapse. The battle had only just begun—but the Mountain's fury was running on empty.
—
The stands of the arena were electric with tension, and the reactions of the onlookers poured forth like a wave crashing against the shore. At the highborn seats, reactions were immediate, each one more vivid than the last.
Joffrey Baratheon, his face a mask of fury and disbelief, sat perched at the edge of his seat, his fingers curling into fists. His eyes, blazing with an intensity that bordered on madness, locked onto Harry with an almost palpable hatred. "How dare he?" Joffrey hissed, his voice filled with venom as he spat on the ground. His eyes never left Harry, as though the mere act of glaring could change the tide of the battle. "You think you can humiliate Gregor? I'll have you flayed for this, boy!" His words dripped with poison, each syllable twisted with his unyielding desire for control. His lips quivered with frustration, his royal composure shattered by the sight of the Mountain's futile rage.
Around him, the noble houses murmured amongst themselves, their voices low and tense, full of disbelief. The Tyrells exchanged wide-eyed glances, their usual air of grace slipping for a moment. Lady Olenna Tyrell, ever the sharp-eyed matriarch, leaned in close to her son Mace, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. "Well, it seems this boy has a bit more bite than I gave him credit for," she remarked, her voice laced with amused approval. "But I do wonder how long that will last against Gregor's... temper."
Mace Tyrell, looking a bit more perturbed than his mother, shifted uneasily in his seat. "A boy like that taking on the Mountain? What does it mean for us, Mother? Will the boy survive this?"
Olenna merely gave her son a look of exasperation. "Mace, the boy's a wizard, or some such nonsense. And even if he isn't, he has something Gregor doesn't: brains." She turned her gaze to the arena once more, her eyes twinkling with an amusement that was unmistakably mischievous.
In the Martell corner, things were far less reserved. Oberyn Martell, ever the lover of spectacle, couldn't hide the smirk creeping onto his face. "Ah, this is delicious, isn't it, my love?" he said, his voice low, but laced with a distinct tone of approval as he leaned toward Ellaria Sand. His eyes shone with a mix of admiration and dark amusement as he watched the Mountain tire himself out. "Gregor is an excellent example of why rage is often the most dangerous of enemies—he's so blind in it, he can't even land a blow." His fingers tapped against the armrest rhythmically, his focus unwavering as he watched the unfolding spectacle.
Ellaria Sand, ever quick to appreciate the nuances of a fight, chuckled, her voice carrying a sly edge. "I do enjoy watching Gregor flail like a mad bull. It's... entertaining, to say the least. But let's see if the boy has the endurance to keep him running in circles."
Obara Sand, sitting beside Ellaria, narrowed her eyes, lips curling into a rare, approving smile. "The Mountain thought he could destroy him in minutes, but the boy is making him look like a fool. That takes skill." Her eyes were as sharp as her words. "Let him tire out. If the boy can avoid Gregor's fists long enough, the Mountain will eventually collapse from his own temper."
Nymeria Sand, lounging beside Obara, didn't speak, but her piercing gaze never left the fight. She seemed lost in the fluidity of Harry's movements, her lips pressed into a tight smile. "It's rare to see such grace against brute force. It's almost... beautiful."
Tyene Sand, ever the provocateur, leaned forward, her voice thick with amusement as she observed the scene. "This is almost like a dance. Only one partner is a little more... angry," she teased with a mischievous grin. "I think I'll enjoy watching Gregor lose his strength before my very eyes."
The Tyrells were less open about their emotions, but the spectacle did not go unnoticed. Willas Tyrell, with his usual calm composure, exchanged a glance with his brother Garlan. "That boy's agility is extraordinary, don't you think?" he said softly, as if he were discussing the weather rather than a life-or-death battle. "To evade the Mountain with such ease... It seems like he may very well wear Gregor down."
Garlan's expression remained stoic, but the hint of a grin tugged at his lips. "Gregor's rage will be his undoing. The boy is no fool; he's just giving the Mountain enough rope to hang himself." His voice was steady, full of the quiet wisdom that often went unnoticed.
Margaery Tyrell, sitting next to her brothers, leaned in with a soft gasp. "How is he doing that?" she whispered, her eyes wide in wonder. "It's as if he knows exactly what the Mountain will do before he does it."
Alerie Tyrell, seated beside Margaery, raised an eyebrow. "It's more than that, Margaery. He's playing him, letting the Mountain exhaust himself. Watch. The boy has a plan."
But among all of them, one person seemed particularly pleased: Tywin Lannister. From his position high above the arena, he looked down on the contest with the cold, calculating gaze that had made him so feared across the Seven Kingdoms. His lips curled into a slight frown, a flicker of disapproval at how the Mountain's rage seemed to be turning against him. "A pity," he muttered to his brother Kevan, who stood beside him, his eyes steady. "Such a simpleton, that Gregor. I expected more."
Kevan Lannister, his face unreadable, glanced at Tywin. "Perhaps, but the boy is still at a disadvantage. Gregor has the strength to finish him—if he can catch him."
Tywin's eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze back to the arena, his voice low and calculated. "If he can catch him. And that is the problem, Kevan. That boy is no mere warrior. He's something else entirely."
And as the crowd roared and murmured with every twist and turn of the battle, the common folk were equally entranced. The lower tiers, filled with laborers, traders, and families from the poor districts, were caught in the thrall of the spectacle. Whispers ran like wildfire through the ranks of the spectators. "Did you see that? He just dodged the Mountain's fist like it was nothing!" one man exclaimed, his voice full of awe.
"Who is he? What's his name?" another asked, his tone full of reverence and curiosity.
"He's gonna win, he's gotta win!" a young woman screamed, clutching her friend's arm, her eyes wide with excitement.
Others, more skeptical, exchanged wary glances. "It's the Mountain. He'll tear that boy apart. You'll see."
But for now, the general consensus was that of disbelief and exhilaration. They were witnessing something unprecedented—a boy holding his ground against the terrifying Mountain, moving like the wind itself.
The arena held its collective breath, waiting, watching. Would the Mountain tire, or would he finally land a decisive blow? And would Hadrian Peverell prove to be the hero the crowd hoped for—or something altogether more dangerous?
---
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