With a sudden and brutal move, Harry ducked low and drove his gauntleted fist into Clegane's left knee. The concealed Elder Wand, hidden within the folds of his armor, sparked with a violent, eerie magic as the Reductor Curse exploded from it. The impact was deafening—bone and sinew snapping under the weight of the curse with an unholy crack that echoed through the arena, mingling with the horrified gasps of the crowd.
Clegane's massive form staggered back, his gargantuan legs buckling under the force of the blow. The bone in his knee shattered with a grotesque sound, fragments of bone tearing through his skin as the leg bent at an unnatural angle. Blood spurted outward, splattering across the arena floor, painting the sand in a sickening pattern. The air was thick with the stench of iron and the twisted sounds of the Mountain's pain.
The crowd fell silent, the noise of their earlier jeering replaced with a stunned reverence, as they watched the mountain of a man struggle to keep his feet. A guttural roar, pure and animalistic, tore from Gregor's throat, the sound more of an enraged beast than a human. His face, usually a mask of cold brutality, was now twisted in agony, sweat mixing with the blood dripping from his shattered leg.
"You think you've beaten me, boy?" Clegane's voice rumbled, low and venomous, as he clenched his jaw to stifle the roar of pain threatening to escape. His free hand gripped the hilt of his massive sword, but the pain in his knee made him falter, a tremor running through his arm as he tried to stay upright.
Harry's eyes gleamed with cold calculation. He wasn't done. Not yet.
Seizing the moment, Harry moved with deadly precision, his feet barely skimming the sand as he dodged the Mountain's wild, desperate swing. The blow came too late, slicing through the air where Harry had been a fraction of a second ago. In that same instant, Harry darted in close, a blur of speed, and landed a vicious uppercut directly under Clegane's jaw. The strike jarred through the Mountain's entire body, snapping his head back with a sickening crack. Clegane staggered, but he was far from finished.
"You should've stayed down, monster," Harry muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with venom as he danced around Clegane's fury. His movements were as graceful as they were lethal, each step taken with purpose, precision, and deadly force.
With a flick of his wrist, Harry cast the Cruciatus Curse, the spell amplifying the agony of Clegane's shattered knee. The Mountain's entire body spasmed as if struck by lightning. His eyes rolled back, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his mind was assaulted by unimaginable pain. His sword dropped from his hand as he collapsed forward, his legs trembling as the pain consumed him.
"You'll pay for that," Clegane rasped, his voice hoarse with fury, even as his massive frame buckled. His breathing was ragged, every exhale punctuated by grunts of agony. He swung his arms in wide, desperate arcs, attempting to land a blow on Harry, but his movements were uncoordinated, slowed by the excruciating pain of his shattered knee.
But Harry was too fast. He weaved around the Mountain's swings with an almost predatory grace, striking out with brutal force. He landed another blow, this time to Clegane's side, a fist crackling with magical energy that sent the giant sprawling to the dirt. The Mountain's heavy body thudded against the ground, but his defiance didn't fade. He tried to rise, dragging himself with one arm, his other clutching his ruined knee.
"Not finished yet, huh?" Harry's voice was a mockery, laced with amusement at the Mountain's pathetic attempt to continue. "This is fun, but it's getting a little embarrassing for you, don't you think?"
The crowd was in shock, unable to tear their eyes away from the brutal, one-sided fight. They were witnessing a display of violence and magic that they had only heard of in whispers—a warrior, once feared across the land, being torn apart piece by piece by the boy they had barely seen as a threat.
Clegane's hands, covered in the blood of his own injuries, slammed into the ground as he attempted to push himself upright. "I'll crush you like a worm!" he snarled, his voice filled with venom and rage, even as his body trembled from the strain.
Harry's lips curled into a cruel smile. "I'm the one crushing you," he muttered before delivering a crushing blow to Clegane's already shattered knee. The impact sent another shockwave of pain through the Mountain, his howl echoing through the arena, raw and guttural. His massive body trembled from the force, his arm swiping out once more, the swing barely grazing Harry's shoulder.
"Is that all you've got?" Harry taunted, sidestepping with a fluid motion and landing another devastating punch, this one to the side of Clegane's skull. The impact sent a sickening thud through the air, as if the giant's entire body was one great wound. Clegane's eyes fluttered, his face paling as he struggled to stay conscious. But even the Mountain had limits. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, his once-great strength waning with every breath he took.
"You really should've stayed down," Harry repeated, his tone cold, almost pitying as he loomed over the giant. His fist, wrapped in enchanted steel, came down again, striking Clegane square in the temple.
The Mountain's head jerked to the side with a sickening snap. His body crumpled beneath the weight of the blows, blood pooling in the dirt around him as the last vestiges of his sanity faded away.
"Pathetic," Harry muttered, still standing over the now motionless form of Gregor Clegane. His gauntleted fist dipped with blood as he stood tall, gazing down at his fallen opponent. "I guess you weren't as invincible as everyone thought, were you?"
—
In the stands, the reactions of the assembled noble houses were swift and visceral, each more intense than the last as the brutal spectacle in the arena unfolded.
The Martells—ever poised in their desert grace—found their calm shattered as they watched the Mountain's once-legendary resilience crumble under Harry's relentless assault. Oberyn Martell, ever the observer, watched intently, his sharp gaze never leaving the arena as he leaned toward Ellaria Sand with a slow, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"The Mountain's downfall is more spectacular than even I anticipated," Oberyn's voice was low, but it carried a cold satisfaction, like someone watching their prey being effortlessly dismantled. His fingers twitched, tapping lightly on the armrest of his seat. "I'd say his reign of terror is at an end, and about time too."
Ellaria, her dark eyes flickering with interest, gave a small nod, her lips curling slightly in admiration. "And it seems that Lord Peverell has more than lived up to his reputation," she replied, her tone hushed but impressed. There was no mistaking the respect in her voice.
Obara Sand, ever the one to appreciate a fight, muttered to her sisters with a harsh chuckle, her eyes wide with admiration. "Well, that's one way to bring down a Mountain," she quipped, her voice laced with dark humor. The other Sand sisters shared her mirth. Nymeria Sand, her hand on her chin, seemed absorbed by the display, the brutality of it not lost on her. "I didn't think anyone could do it."
Tyene Sand smirked at her sisters, her tone dripping with mockery. "A display of strength and style, I would say," she added. "But how long can he keep this up?"
Oberyn, eyes never leaving the carnage, spoke again, his voice filled with amusement. "I don't think Lord Peverell is concerned with keeping up. He seems more than capable of finishing what he started."
Across the arena, the Tyrells displayed a mixture of astonishment and cautious optimism. Margaery Tyrell, usually the picture of composed beauty, had a hand clasped tightly over her mouth, her eyes wide in shock as the deafening crack of Clegane's shattered knee filled the air. She turned to her grandmother, Olenna, her face pale.
""Do you think he'll manage to finish him off? Or is this just a show of his skill?""
Olenna, whose usual imperious demeanor had faltered, raised a single eyebrow, eyeing the scene with a blend of incredulity and grudging respect. "It seems we underestimated Lord Peverell's prowess," Olenna remarked dryly, her voice carrying a note of disbelief as she leaned back slightly. "And here I thought the Mountain was invincible."
Willas Tyrell, seated beside Margaery, was frowning, his brow furrowed as he watched the brutal assault unfold. "I never expected to see something like this in my lifetime," he murmured to his younger brother Garlan, who was equally fixated on the fight.
Garlan, his face pale, whispered, "If it weren't for our association with the Lannisters, I might even feel sorry for him."
But Mace Tyrell, ever the optimist, was now less certain. He scratched his chin nervously and let out a nervous laugh. "I never thought this would happen," he muttered, his voice carrying an uncertain edge. "A man like the Mountain, brought low by some... boy." His tone was full of disbelief, as though the entire concept of Clegane being so thoroughly dismantled was something impossible.
Olenna, however, was pragmatic. She didn't waste time in second-guessing. "He's certainly proving himself," she said, her eyes still focused on the arena. "But let's not forget that the Mountain is a beast. The battle is far from over."
Tywin Lannister had grown increasingly tense as the fight wore on. His face, always a mask of grim control, was now a portrait of barely-contained fury. His eyes narrowed at the sight of his champion's misery, and his jaw clenched tightly, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing of his box.
"This is a disgrace," he growled, his voice low but seething with anger. He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving the ongoing conflict. "How did we allow ourselves to be so poorly prepared for this?"
Kevan Lannister, ever the quieter of the two brothers, stood by his side, his face reflecting disbelief as he watched the Mountain falter and crumble. "The Mountain was supposed to be unstoppable," Kevan murmured, his voice betraying a rare flicker of doubt. "It seems we've misjudged our adversaries."
Tywin's lips thinned into a hard line, his disapproval palpable as he adjusted his posture, no longer merely a stern figure but a man contemplating a strategic shift. "We'll see how Lord Peverell handles the rest of the fight," he said, his voice tinged with reluctant respect. "For now, the damage has been done. We must reassess our position."
As the battle raged on, the tension in the stands was almost unbearable. The Lannisters, pride hurt and strategy in shambles, were as unsettled as the Tyrells, whose initial surprise was giving way to a complex mix of admiration and fear. Even the usually composed Martells—who found a twisted satisfaction in the sight of their long-time enemy suffering—couldn't tear their eyes away from the bloody spectacle.
Through it all, Harry continued his relentless assault, each strike a testament to his overwhelming might. The sound of the Mountain's body crashing to the arena floor, blood mingling with sand, seemed to echo in the hearts of those who had come to witness this trial.
The crowd held its collective breath, each person waiting to see the moment the Mountain would either break completely or rise once more to challenge the boy who had shattered him. In that moment, every noble house, from the proud Martells to the scheming Lannisters, had a single thought running through their minds: Who truly held the power in Westeros now?
—
As the resounding crack of the Mountain's shattered knee echoed across the arena, a stunned silence descended upon the royal box. Robert Baratheon's usually jolly face, red and bloated from years of indulgence, went pale as he gaped at the fallen Clegane. His boisterous laugh, a constant in the halls of the Red Keep, was abruptly cut off. The king's mouth hung open, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at Harry's effortless display of power.
"By the gods…" Robert muttered, a low, gruff voice tinged with a mix of admiration and unease. He leaned forward, hands gripping the arms of his throne, as if to make sure he wasn't seeing some twisted mirage. "That's… That's no mere man." He exhaled sharply, his gaze now glued to Harry, who stood tall and defiant in the midst of the broken Clegane. "The Mountain's done for."
Jaime Lannister, standing just beside the king, rarely taken aback, found his usual composure slipping. His sharp, golden eyes widened for a fleeting moment, his mouth barely managing a thin line of disbelief. His gloved hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, but even the Kingslayer seemed momentarily shaken by what he had just witnessed.
"Gods," he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with reluctant awe. "The Mountain was never meant to fall like that."
Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy, ever the stalwart and composed knight, gave a subtle nod of approval, though his expression betrayed an inner surprise. He'd seen battles, slaughter, and death on countless fields, but even the old knight couldn't mask the slight change in his gaze as the brutal reality of the fight unfolded. "Lord Peverell's skill is unmatched," Ser Barristan said quietly, his voice betraying a hint of grudging respect for the young man who had brought down the Mountain with such efficiency.
But it was Cersei, shackled in her seat beside her son, who seemed to suffer the greatest turmoil. Her pale face twisted in horror as she watched the spectacle unfold. She gripped the armrest of her chair, her knuckles turning white as her gaze flickered between the shattered Clegane and the confident Harry. Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, a single tear welled up in the corner of her eye, a rare admission of vulnerability from the queen, and one that went unnoticed by most in the chaos of the arena.
"How… how could this happen?" she hissed under her breath, her voice filled with a quiet, venomous disbelief. "He was the Mountain. He was supposed to be invincible…"
Beside her, Joffrey's face had gone a peculiar shade of purple, as though his fury was manifesting in every vein of his body. His hands gripped the armrests of his gilded throne so tightly his knuckles seemed ready to burst, the blood draining from his face as his eyes locked onto Harry. His mouth twisted into a grimace, a snarled sneer that only amplified the cruel child's frustration.
"This isn't happening," Joffrey spat through clenched teeth, his voice shrill and filled with impotent rage. "This isn't how it's supposed to go! He's the Mountain! The Mountain doesn't fall like this! Get him up! Get him up now!"
His hands trembled in fury, and for the briefest moment, there was something almost childish about the king's tantrum. But the reality of his loss had set in, and he was no longer the petulant child; he was a king fighting the bitter sting of defeat.
Jaime's voice, tinged with a rare coldness, broke through the silence in the booth. "The Mountain's dead, Joff. We both saw it." His eyes, narrowing with distaste, turned to the young king. "It's over."
Joffrey shot him a venomous look, but there was no denying the truth. He had witnessed the collapse of his champion, and in the process, the very foundation of his own pride. He wanted to scream, wanted to throw something, anything, at Harry to avenge his broken idol. But his eyes, wild with frustration, could only watch helplessly as the bloodied Mountain writhed in the dirt.
Cersei's lips curled into a tight, controlled smile that only someone who knew her intimately could read as a mask of fury. "No matter," she said softly, her voice smooth, but the undercurrent of contempt was sharp as a dagger. "The Mountain may have fallen today, but we'll find another way. There's always a way."
Robert's booming voice cut through her thinly veiled determination. "That's the problem, Cersei," he said with a thick, booming chuckle that seemed strained, his amusement bordering on disbelief. "You might have just found a way to lose this war."
As the tension in the royal booth thickened, the arena roared in the aftermath of the battle. Harry, standing over his fallen opponent, exuded a quiet, formidable confidence. The King's crowd had witnessed the might of the Mountain's defeat, but Harry was already thinking of what came next—what other warriors, what other battles would befall him now.
And, somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, the faintest echo of respect for the chaos he had just caused flickered in the back of his mind. The fight was far from over, but today, for at least a moment, he had shown that no one was truly invincible.
—
Jon Snow's eyes were wide with shock as he watched the aftermath of Harry's devastating blow. The air was thick with tension as the Mountain, once an unstoppable force, crumpled to the ground, his knee shattered beyond repair. The sickening crack of bone seemed to echo in Jon's chest, a deep, reverberating sound that left him momentarily breathless. His fingers clenched around the cold iron railing before him as his gaze stayed fixed on Harry—standing tall amidst the wreckage, a figure of calm amidst the chaos.
Jon's heart raced as he took in the image of his old friend, resolute and unyielding in the face of victory. For a brief moment, Jon was reminded of his own struggles and his own battle for survival. He couldn't help but feel a stirring admiration, mixed with an unspoken sense of pride. By the gods… He's done it, Jon thought, the corners of his mouth curling into a small, involuntary smile. His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse with emotion.
"Did you see that?" Jon muttered, mostly to himself. "That was no ordinary man."
Beside him, Eddard Stark stood with his arms folded, his gaze unwavering as he took in the unfolding scene. His face, ever the picture of stoic composure, held a subtle tension, as though each passing second weighed heavily on him. Yet, beneath the grim set of his features, a glint of something—pride, perhaps—flickered in his eyes. He'd always known Harry's potential, but seeing it realized in such a brutal, decisive moment filled him with an unspoken relief.
"I've always known he was capable," Ned said quietly, his voice deep and steady, his northern accent carrying the weight of years spent in the cold winds of Winterfell. "But to see him do this… It's something else entirely."
Jon glanced at his father, seeing the faintest trace of admiration in his gaze. It was rare for Ned to show any emotion beyond duty and resolve, yet now, in the wake of Harry's triumph, the elder Stark's pride was unmistakable. Jon's chest swelled with an unexpected warmth. Maybe… maybe Harry truly does have the strength to change everything.
Dany, standing beside them, was nearly trembling with emotion. Her eyes sparkled with a fierce intensity as she watched the scene unfold, her pulse quickening. The relief that washed over her was palpable, her lips parting into a triumphant, nearly breathless smile as Harry stood unscathed, victorious. Her heart swelled with pride—her husband had just defeated a man who had long been considered an unkillable beast.
"Harry…" Dany whispered softly, her voice thick with emotion. Her gaze remained locked on him, her eyes tracing his every movement as he stood tall amidst the broken remains of the Mountain. The joy on her face was impossible to hide, and though she said nothing further, her smile spoke volumes.
Her soft French accent, tinged with a sense of satisfaction, filled the air as she continued, "He is incredible… mon mari."
Ned turned his head slightly to glance at Dany, his expression softening. He could see how deeply this victory meant to her, how much she believed in Harry. The sight of her husband—her fierce protector—standing in the aftermath of such a brutal battle seemed to strengthen the bonds that held them all together.
Jon, who had been watching Dany with a quiet sort of respect, turned back to the arena, his attention shifting back to Harry as the full significance of the moment began to settle in. The Mountain—the Mountain—had fallen. That was no small thing, not in the world they lived in. Jon's thoughts turned dark as he remembered Cersei's cruel manipulation, the toll the trial by combat had taken on so many lives. And yet, now, as Harry stood in the arena, the future felt a little more uncertain, but also a little more hopeful.
"What now?" Jon muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the crowd as whispers and gasps spread like wildfire. "The scales have shifted, that's for sure. But what will Cersei do now?" He turned to his father, the question unspoken between them but clear all the same.
Ned's brow furrowed slightly as he considered Jon's words. "We move carefully," he said, his voice grim, but with a note of determination. "The trial by combat was meant to settle things, but this victory... It changes things in ways we can't yet understand."
Dany's gaze remained fixed on Harry, her smile faltering just slightly as a thought crossed her mind, a thought she hadn't voiced aloud. The political ramifications were just beginning to unravel in her mind. If Harry could defeat the Mountain so effortlessly, there was little doubt that his strength—combined with the alliances they were forging—could shift the entire balance of power. What had seemed like a final blow to the Lannisters was now a moment of uncertainty.
"They will fear him now," she said softly, her voice taking on a darker edge. "And we'll need to prepare for that. Cersei won't let this go easily."
Jon nodded, a somber agreement passing between them. He could already see the turmoil brewing behind the walls of King's Landing. Cersei's pride, Joffrey's wrath, and the growing tension in the city would make any victory feel temporary. They would need to be prepared for what came next.
As the roar of the crowd still echoed in the distance, Jon's thoughts were clouded with uncertainty. The scales of power had shifted—but to what end?
—
Harry stood over the crumpled, broken form of the Mountain, the air thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of death. The once-feared warrior lay sprawled in the sand, twitching and convulsing in his final moments. His body, now a grotesque collection of twisted flesh and shattered bone, was unrecognizable from the towering figure who had once struck fear into the hearts of even the bravest men. The deafening silence in the arena seemed to hold its breath as the Mountain's wide, unseeing eyes stared blankly at the sky, the terror in them far removed from the ruthless confidence he had once exuded.
For a moment, Harry simply stood there, watching as the mountain of a man writhed in his death throes. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, as if the life was unwilling to leave him. But Harry knew better. There would be no mercy, not for someone like the Mountain, and certainly not in a world that demanded such brutal outcomes. His hand tightened around the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor, the blade's ancient runes seeming to pulse with a cold, unforgiving power.
With a heavy heart and a mind made up, Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. There was no room for hesitation. Not now.
He swung the sword with brutal efficiency, the blade cutting through the air like lightning. The edge met the Mountain's neck with a sickening crunch, a sound that seemed to echo deep within the walls of the arena, as though even the stones themselves recoiled from the violence. The headless body jerked once, violently, as if trying to deny its fate, but the motion was short-lived. Blood erupted from the gaping wound, spraying in a grotesque, pulsing geyser that splattered across the sand and the closest onlookers.
Harry watched in grim silence as the severed head tumbled from the ruined neck in a grotesque arc, its eyes still wide with a silent, unspoken question. The mouth, once a sneering visage of arrogance, was now slack, staring vacantly at the heavens above. The body twitched once more, an eerie rhythm of life attempting to cling to something that no longer existed. Then, all was still.
The arena was silent—eerily so—as the severed head rolled a few paces, its momentum carrying it across the sand in an unsettling dance. The dark red of blood began to pool around the lifeless body, seeping into the grains beneath, darkening the earth with its finality. The spectators, once eager for bloodshed, now stood frozen, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and revulsion. The brutality of the moment hung heavy in the air, filling the arena with an oppressive weight.
Jon Snow, watching from the stands, felt a chill crawl up his spine. His hand clenched the railing in front of him, the rough wood biting into his palm. His eyes never left Harry, who stood resolute in the center of the arena, his face a mask of somber determination.
"That… that was something," Jon muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The sight of Harry's swift, decisive action had left him speechless, though his heart was heavy with the consequences. "No one could have expected that."
Beside him, Eddard Stark remained silent for a long moment, his stoic expression betraying none of the tumult that surely swirled in his mind. He had seen many battles, many victories and defeats, but this was different. Harry had taken the life of a man who had been a living legend, a monster in human form. And yet, it was done with such chilling efficiency—no hesitation, no mercy.
"It had to be done," Ned finally said, his voice low but firm. "The Mountain's death will change everything. But it was his or ours. There's no other way."
Dany stood a little behind them, her eyes locked on Harry in the center of the arena. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the scene unfold, the expression on her face a strange mixture of pride and sorrow. Pride, because Harry had triumphed, but sorrow because of what that victory had cost. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest, her heart heavy with the knowledge that this was only the beginning. She took a step forward, her hand instinctively reaching for Jon's arm.
"He did it," Dany whispered, her voice filled with awe, but also with the weight of something deeper, more foreboding. "Il l'a fait. He has done it. The Mountain is dead."
Jon looked over at her, meeting her gaze with a flicker of understanding. It was not just about the victory; it was about what came next. "Aye," Jon said quietly, his voice rough. "But the Lannisters won't let this go. Not by a long shot."
Ned Stark's voice broke the silence that followed, his tone resolute. "The game has changed now. No one is safe."
The crowd began to murmur, their voices rising in a cacophony of disbelief, fear, and awe. The spectacle had shaken them to their core, and now, as the blood slowly seeped into the sand, the reality of what they had just witnessed began to sink in. The Mountain, the terrifying enforcer of the Lannisters, had been brought low by a single strike. And in his place stood a young man—a symbol of something greater, something far more dangerous.
Harry stood amidst the carnage, the Sword of Gryffindor still in hand, the blade dripping with the blood of his fallen foe. His face was a mask of resolve, though the weight of the moment hung heavily on him. His gaze swept across the arena, meeting the eyes of those who dared to look at him. There was no elation, no triumph in his expression—just a quiet acknowledgment that what was done had been necessary. The war for the Iron Throne was no longer just about power—it was about survival.
The weight of that truth settled over him like an iron cloak.
And as he turned to face the rest of the arena, he knew that this was just the beginning. The game had changed, but the end was still far from certain.
---
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