"I know he is still alive." Oberyn continued, his voice laced with an almost obsessive hatred: "Although Sir Corleone severely wounded him outside the The Hall of Order and cut out his tongue, he did not die. I know he is still in the infirmary of the Red Keep, receiving treatment from the maesters."
As he spoke, he took a step forward, looking directly into Tywin's eyes.
"I demand that you summon Gregor Clegane and let him confront this fellow face-to-face!"
"Let us hear what kind of story these two, who once 'executed orders' together in the Red Keep, have to tell."
Silence.
A long silence.
Only the sound of rain, tap, tap, tap, tap, beating against the windows, beating against everyone's nerves.
Tywin Lannister slowly raised his head.
His gaze passed over Oberyn and finally settled on Corleone's face.
The Farmer whom he had knighted still stood there calmly, as if all of this had nothing to do with him.
But Tywin knew that all of this had been arranged by him.
Finding Lurch, torturing him, bringing him to King's Landing, appearing at the Small Council, forcing Oberyn to demand a confrontation... Every step had been calculated, just to back him into a corner.
"Ser Gregor Clegane." Tywin spoke slowly, each word sounding as if it were chiseled from stone: "He is currently lying in the Red Keep's infirmary, severely wounded and unrecovered, unable to move, and unable to speak."
"And for all of this, we must thank our Sir Corleone."
"At the The Hall of Order, he cut out Ser Gregor Clegane's tongue, broke several of his ribs, and left fatal sword wounds on his chest and joints."
His tone was calm, as if he were stating facts.
But when she heard the name of the Mountain, Cersei, slumped in her chair, saw her eyelashes flutter slightly.
Oberyn, however, remained unmoved.
The Prince of Dorne maintained his lazy posture, but the light in those black eyes was as sharp as a knife.
"Severely wounded and unrecovered?" He sneered, clearly not believing it: "Lord Tywin, as far as I know, that was more than half a month ago."
"With the medical skills of the Red Keep's maesters, coupled with the financial resources of House Lannister, no matter how expensive the medicinal herbs are, it shouldn't be a problem. Ser Gregor Clegane should be able to get out of bed and walk by now."
He paused, and mocked meaningfully: "Unless, the knight serving House Lannister was injured, yet Lord Tywin was unwilling to provide even treatment for him..."
Such blunt sarcasm made Tywin's brow furrow imperceptibly.
However, just as he was about to say something, Corleone, who was to the side, suddenly spoke up, his voice not loud, but clearly audible in the silent council chamber: "Speaking of which..."
"I once heard some interesting rumors in Flea Bottom."
As he spoke, he released his grip on Lurch's arm and took two steps forward.
Losing support, Lurch's legs went weak and he nearly fell, but Corleone did not turn back to look at him, simply leaving him to slump on the ground like a pile of mud.
"Rumor has it that the Red Keep has recently ordered a large quantity of milk of the poppy, spider-grub paste, and healing herbs from the Summer Isles... in such quantities that it would be enough to treat the wounded of an entire army."
Corleone walked to the long table, his fingers lightly brushing over the smooth surface.
"I am curious, has there been any fighting at the Red Keep recently, or is it that... someone is receiving very, very special treatment?"
As he spoke, his gaze turned to Cersei, and the Queen Regent's body stiffened visibly.
"Cersei." Tywin also naturally looked at his daughter: "Do you know anything about what Sir Corleone is talking about?"
Cersei's throat moved. She wanted to speak, but could not make a sound.
She could feel her father's gaze; she was all too familiar with that look.
From childhood to adulthood, whenever she made a mistake, whenever she lied, whenever she did something he deemed "foolish," her father would look at her like that.
As if to say: I know what you are thinking, I know what you have done, now, admit it.
Yes, she had indeed secretly ordered Qyburn to treat Clegane because she needed him.
Joffrey was dead, Jaime was gone, Tyrion the dwarf was still alive, and her father's attention was entirely on that damned Farmer.
She needed a weapon, a powerful, obedient weapon that belonged only to her.
Clegane was that weapon.
If he died, she would truly have nothing left.
By chance, she had encountered Qyburn, who had fled to King's Landing to make a living, that eccentric who claimed to have been expelled from The Citadel, who openly stated he knew how to use corpses for experiments and used dark magic to heal injuries.
Thus, she had Qyburn secretly treat Clegane, not caring about the means used.
She only needed Clegane to survive, as long as he could still be of use to her.
But she had not expected that Corleone would find out about this!
That damned Farmer, how far could his eyes see, and how much could his ears hear?
If she could, Cersei would truly want to order the Kingsguard to cut down Corleone right now, but she could not. After all, not long ago, even her father, who had almost never experienced failure, had been forced to compromise under the other's machinations.
As for herself, she had absolutely no ability to contend with him.
"I..."
"I do not know what you are talking about, Sir Corleone. The Red Keep's purchases are all recorded. If you have any questions, you can check the ledgers..."
"Ledgers can be forged." Corleone mercilessly interrupted Cersei, who was trying to quibble: "But living people cannot."
He turned to face Tywin.
"Lord Tywin, if you do not believe my rumors, then we can go and see for ourselves exactly how'severely wounded and unrecovered' Ser Gregor Clegane is, or..."
"We can ask Her Grace the Queen Regent. After all, she is the mistress of the Red Keep, and she should be most clear about the health of the knight who serves House Lannister."
Upon hearing this, Tywin's gaze returned to Cersei's face.
This time, there was something more in his eyes, as if he had finally seen his daughter's stupidity clearly, and seen the pathetic role she played in this game of power.
"Cersei." Tywin said, with no emotion in his voice: "I want the truth."
Upon hearing this, Cersei's breathing quickened.
She wanted to deny it outright, but immediately dismissed the idea of denying it.
Corleone dared to be so certain, so he must have evidence. If she chose to lie and was exposed by the other party, what would her father think of her then?
A complete and utter fool.
A loser who couldn't even tell a lie.
No.
She could not be that.
She was Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of The Seven Kingdoms, daughter of the Lord of Casterly Rock!
"...Yes." A single word, squeezed through Cersei's teeth, so soft it was almost inaudible.
Upon hearing this, Tywin had no reaction. He simply looked at his daughter, looked for a long time, and then slowly nodded.
"Very well." He said.
Then he turned to the door and ordered: "Go and bring Ser Gregor Clegane here." This was said to the guards at the door.
Two Lannister guards bowed their heads in acknowledgment, turned, and hurried away, their footsteps gradually fading in the corridor.
The council chamber fell into silence once again.
Everyone was waiting.
Time passed very slowly.
Every second felt like a year.
The sound of rain outside the window continued, tap, tap, tap, tap, like an endless interrogation.
Finally, footsteps sounded again.
Heavy, slow, step by step, like the footsteps of a giant treading on a stone road.
There was a psychological oppression in the sound of those footsteps, making people instinctively want to retreat, want to run away.
Creak~~~~ The door opened.
The first to appear at the door was an old man with graying hair.
He was wearing a dark gray robe, stained with suspicious dark smudges that looked like dried blood or the residue of some potion. His face was thin and pale, his eyes deeply sunken, and a faint, elusive smile always hung at the corners of his mouth.
That smile was uncomfortable, as if he were looking at a test subject, not a living person.
Qyburn walked into the council chamber and bowed slightly: "Lord Tywin, Your Grace, my lords."
His voice was hoarse, as if he had not spoken for a long time, and then, he turned aside to make way.
The moment that figure appeared at the door, the air in the council chamber seemed to solidify.
The man wore custom-made armor, twice as thick and heavy as an ordinary knight's plate, with vicious spikes at the joints and the three black dogs of House Clegane engraved on the chest.
The armor was black, yet certain parts bore dark red stains, like blood that could never be washed away.
He wore a fully enclosed helm with only slits for the eyes. The helmet was shaped like a demon's skull, with curved horns on the forehead and a snarling dog's maw carved into the faceplate.
Although his face was hidden, everyone knew who it was—The Mountain.
Just by standing there, his sheer size created an oppressive, suffocating presence. He had to duck slightly to enter the room, and his frame was so massive that even his custom armor seemed tight. His shoulders were as wide as a doorframe, his arms as thick as tree trunks, and his hands were large enough to easily grip a man's skull and crush it!
The Mountain walked slowly, each step heavy enough to sound like a hammer striking the ground.
But most terrifying of all were the eyes peering through the slits of his helm.
The whites were filled with scarlet bloodshot veins, the pupils contracted to pinpricks, and there was no light of reason in them—only pure, naked brutality.
They didn't look like human eyes at all; they were almost identical to a beast's.
His gaze swept across the Small Council chamber like a stray dog searching for prey or a target to tear apart, then settled on Corleone.
In that instant, a nearly tangible killing intent erupted in the air.
Clegane's body tensed abruptly. His massive hand instantly gripped the hilt of his sword at his waist, and a low growl, like the roar of a beast, emanated from his throat.
The scarlet light in his eyes intensified as he took a heavy step forward, the force so great that even the floor groaned under the weight.
"Clegane!" Seeing this, Qyburn immediately snapped sharply.
The voice wasn't loud, but Clegane's movement stopped abruptly.
He turned his head to look at Qyburn. His gaze remained brutal, but there seemed to be a hint of... obedience?
Immediately after, Qyburn walked over to his side and whispered something.
Clegane's body slowly relaxed, and he let go of his sword, but he continued to stare fixedly at Corleone, the hatred in his eyes so thick it was as if it would drip blood.
In the Small Council chamber, everyone held their breath.
The young king had never seen such a scene; he immediately shrank into his chair, his face deathly pale, his hands tightly covering his mouth as if afraid he might scream.
At this moment, the Prince of Dorne finally stood up.
Oberyn glared at The Mountain, the fire of seventeen years of suppressed rage burning in his black eyes.
His body was taut like a drawn bow, his fingers gently stroking the poisoned dagger at his waist. Years of life as a sellsword made him instinctively begin calculating the distance and angle for a strike.
But Corleone, not far away, caught Oberyn's eye and gave him a look, which finally helped him calm down a little.
"Gregor Clegane." Oberyn let go of the dagger, but his eyes remained fixed on the other man.
Hearing this, The Mountain turned his head to look at him. His gaze remained brutal, but there seemed to be a hint of confusion, as if he were struggling to recall who this person was.
"Do you remember me?" Oberyn took a step forward.
The Mountain did not react, save for a flicker of bewilderment in his eyes, which was quickly replaced by brutality as he glared in Corleone's direction.
He let out a low growl, as if saying that no one else mattered, only the man who had cut out his tongue...
"It seems you have forgotten." Seeing this, there was a hint of sarcasm in Oberyn's voice.
Immediately after, he turned to look at Amory Lorch, who was slumped on the ground, and pointed at The Mountain.
"Do you remember this man?"
Lorch was already paralyzed with fear, his pants wet, his lips trembling as he wanted to deny it. After all, having worked with The Mountain for so many years, he knew all too well how cruel and brutal this guy was.
If he identified The Mountain in front of everyone, he would definitely die a horrible death!
But... Lorch looked up and caught sight of Corleone's ink-black eyes. It was as if he suddenly remembered some unpleasant memories, and he shuddered all over.
"Yes... He is Ser Gregor Clegane. We all call him The Mountain!"
"Very good."
"Then, tell us, seventeen years ago at the Red Keep, what did you and this man do together?"
"He... He..."
"He killed Princess Elia... He raped her, and then strangled her..."
As soon as these words were spoken, the anger in Oberyn's eyes grew even more intense.
"And what else!"
"Princess Rhaenys..." Lorch muttered, "I... I dragged her out from under the bed. She kept screaming, kept crying... I stabbed her... many times..."
Lorch couldn't continue; his body began to shake violently, tears and snot running down his face.
He looked up.
His gaze shifted between The Mountain and Corleone, as if he were weighing which one would have more severe consequences if offended.
But no matter how he thought about it, he could only conclude... that he couldn't afford to offend either of them.
"Who?" Seeing that Lorch was on the verge of a breakdown, Oberyn decided to strike while the iron was hot. He stepped forward and demanded angrily, "Tell me! Who gave the order? Who sent you to the Red Keep to kill them!"
Hearing this, Lorch's lips trembled, and he instinctively looked toward Tywin.
This time, his gaze lingered for a long time.
Everyone could guess the answer.
But just then, Tywin suddenly spoke up.
"Ser Lorch."
"Think carefully before you answer. Memories of events from seventeen years ago can be flawed. Are you certain that everything you have said is the truth?"
The words sounded like a reminder, but everyone present could hear the threat within them.
Hearing this, Lorch's body shook even harder.
He looked back at Corleone, the devil who had dragged him out of the dungeons of Harrenhal and used every means to torture him and force him to speak.
The man did not speak.
He only looked at Lorch, his eyes devoid of emotion, filled only with bottomless darkness.
It was as if he were saying: Speak, say it, say that name.
Lorch took a deep breath.
A flash of resolve flickered in his eyes.
"The order was..."
Before he could finish his sentence.
A massive, gauntleted hand reached out from the side without warning and gripped Lorch's head.
In that instant, time seemed to stand still.
Lorch's eyes widened abruptly, his mouth still held in the shape of his words, but the sound was cut short.
Because that hand... suddenly tightened.
Then. Splat!
The sound was not loud. Like a ripe watermelon being smashed.
The sound of shattering bone and gushing blood mixed together as Lorch's head deformed inside the gauntlet.
The Mountain let go. Thud!
The body slumped softly to the ground, blood spurting from the severed neck and splashing onto the floor in a large, fan-shaped pattern. His head was no longer recognizable, looking like a crushed apple, white brains and red blood mixed together, dripping from between the fingers of the gauntlet.
Everything happened too fast. Too fast for anyone to react.
Even Corleone only narrowed his eyes slightly.
Then... "Aaaaah!!!" A scream rang out.
It was Tommen. The eight-year-old king jumped up from his chair, covering his eyes with his hands, letting out a sharp scream.
Immediately after, Lord Mace Tyrell sprang up from his chair, his fat body knocking it over. He stumbled backward and hit the wall with a dull thud.
Cersei also stood up, but her movements were slow, her eyes devoid of any emotion.
It was as if everything happening before her had nothing to do with her, as if she were merely a bystander watching an absurd play.
Oberyn was the last one to react. He slowly straightened up, turned his head, and looked at Clegane. In his eyes, the eagerness and anticipation from just moments ago were gone, replaced by a bottomless, icy hatred.
"You..." He spoke, his voice hoarse, "You killed him."
Hearing this, Clegane turned his head and looked at Oberyn, the eyes beneath the helm still scarlet and brutal.
He raised the hand stained with brains and blood and wiped it casually against his armor, the action as natural as wiping away dust.
Then, he tilted his head slightly. As if saying: Yes. I killed him. So what?
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