Qyburn's body hung limply, his head tilted at an eerie angle, eyes wide open, filled with terror and disbelief.
Gregor Clegane tossed the corpse onto the ground as if discarding a piece of trash.
Then, he turned back to Corleone.
That crimson eye locked onto his target, a low growl rumbling in his throat, as excited as a beast discovering its prey.
Corleone stood his ground, gripping the broken half of his sword, his face devoid of expression.
But he could feel it.
Gregor Clegane's aura had changed.
If he had been a savage beast before, he was now a completely out-of-control, modified monster.
No reason, no pain, no fear.
Only the instinct to kill.
Furthermore, his speed, strength, and reflexes had all improved significantly compared to before.
Trouble.
Corleone quickly calculated countermeasures in his mind.
It was hard to win by brute force; Gregor Clegane's current strength had completely transcended the human realm.
Run?
That was not Corleone's style, and if he were to flee, the invincible image he had worked so hard to build would be completely destroyed.
Then...
In the moment Corleone was thinking, Gregor Clegane lunged at him.
This time, he did not use his sword.
Instead, he used his hands.
The massive palm viciously clawed at Corleone's head, as if intending to crush Corleone's skull just as he had done to Ser Amory Lorch.
Facing such an onslaught, Corleone could only retreat.
But Gregor Clegane followed like a shadow, continuously swinging his hands to grab at Corleone.
The continuous attacks were like a torrential storm, giving Corleone no chance to breathe. His massive body was terrifyingly agile at this moment, and every step he took made the floor tremble.
Corleone dodged and weaved in the confined space, occasionally blocking with his broken sword, but every collision made his arm go numb. Gregor Clegane's strength was too great; even a mere block transmitted an impact force sufficient to shatter the bones of an ordinary man.
This won't do. This won't do.
His stamina was depleting rapidly, while Gregor Clegane seemed to never know fatigue.
He had to find a weakness.
Corleone's [Insight Lv4] was operating at full capacity.
His gaze swept over Gregor Clegane's body like a scanner—neck, joints, eyes, mouth... all possible weak points.
Before long, Corleone noticed that the armor on Gregor Clegane's right chest seemed thicker than elsewhere, and every time he attacked, Gregor Clegane's left hand would intentionally or unintentionally guard that spot.
As if he were protecting something important.
Corleone's eyes narrowed.
"Enough."
Just then, a voice suddenly rang out.
The monster, having long lost its reason and become a killing machine, actually stopped the instant it heard the voice. It slowly turned its head to look at the source of the sound, and there stood Tywin Lannister.
The Hand of the King had somehow reached the end of the long table, leaning against the window. Rain drifted in from outside, dampening his shoulders and golden hair, but he paid it no mind.
His hands were behind his back, his posture as straight as a pine. His emerald eyes looked calmly at Gregor Clegane, his face devoid of expression. "I said, enough."
Tywin repeated, his voice not loud, but every word was clearly audible.
Gregor Clegane stared at him.
That crimson eye lingered on Tywin's face for a long time.
Everyone present held their breath.
After all, Qyburn was dead; if Gregor Clegane were to lose control completely and ignore even Tywin's orders, then everyone in Maegors Holdfast tonight would likely not escape death.
Time ticked by, second by second.
Each second felt as long as a year.
Finally, Gregor Clegane's body relaxed slightly.
Perhaps because the instinct to serve Tywin remained, he took a step back, lowered his massive head, and knelt on one knee, assuming a posture resembling obedience.
Although that twisted face was still full of brutality, at least he had stopped attacking.
And Corleone also stopped, not taking the opportunity to attack.
Because he knew that Tywin speaking meant this fight was over.
At least for now.
Tywin nodded in satisfaction.
Then, he looked at Corleone.
"Sir Corleone."
"Your swordsmanship is impressive."
"However." Tywin suddenly changed the subject: "Tonight's farce ends here."
Saying this, he paused, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"There have been some incidents at today's Small Council."
"Ser Amory Lorch had a sudden fit of madness and slandered Ser Gregor Clegane. In a state of agitation, Ser Gregor Clegane killed him by accident. This is a tragedy, but... it ends here."
Once these words were spoken, Oberyn finally snapped out of his shock.
"Ends here?"
The Prince of Dorne's voice was trembling—not with fear, but with anger, a volcanic rage that had been suppressed for seventeen years and had finally erupted.
"Tywin Lannister, did you not see? This bastard killed someone in public! At the Small Council! In front of the King!"
"I saw it," Tywin said calmly. "But Ser Amory Lorch is already dead. Continuing to dwell on this benefits no one."
"Benefits?" Oberyn laughed, a ferocious smile, his mouth curling to reveal stark white teeth. "I do not want benefits! I want justice! For my sister! For her children!"
"Then what do you want?" Tywin countered. "To kill Ser Gregor Clegane? Yes, you can certainly do that, if you can."
He paused, his voice colder: "But then what? War between Dorne and the Westerlands? Plunging The Seven Kingdoms into flames once more? Letting thousands of people die because of an old case from seventeen years ago?"
"Prince Oberyn, I understand your grief."
"But you must understand, seventeen years have passed. If you continue to dwell on this matter, I do not think your brother, Prince Doran Martell, would agree with you doing so."
"Some things should be let go."
Tywin took a step forward.
"House Lannister is willing to compensate House Martell, provided you name a reasonable price."
"Compensate?"
Oberyn's voice rose sharply, piercing and grating.
"Buying the lives of my sister and two children with money?"
"Do you think everyone is like you, putting a price tag on everything, Tywin Lannister? Do you think honor, justice, and blood debts can all be settled with gold dragons?"
This was spoken quite rudely.
It was almost pointing at his nose, calling Tywin cold-blooded, utilitarian, and devoid of bottom lines.
But Tywin did not get angry.
He didn't even show a change in expression.
He just looked at Oberyn, for a long time.
Then, Tywin spoke slowly.
The voice was soft, but every word carried the weight of a thousand pounds.
"Then, what do you want?"
This was not a question.
This was an ultimatum.
It was forcing Oberyn to show his hand.
It was telling Oberyn: State your demands, and then we shall see if you truly have the ability to achieve them.
The candlelight crackled.
The rain outside the window grew heavier, the pattering sound like the gods weeping.
Just then.
"Lord Tywin, I have a proposal."
Corleone spoke.
Everyone's gaze turned to him instantly.
The man who had just been fighting for his life was now standing by the long table, meticulously wiping the stains from his hands with a clean cloth.
His movements were calm and elegant, even somewhat leisurely, as if the thrilling battle just now had never happened.
Then he looked up at Tywin.
"Ser Gregor Clegane tonight at the Small Council, in front of His Majesty the King, openly murdered Ser Amory Lorch. This is an indisputable fact that everyone present witnessed."
Corleone's voice was calm, but every word was clear and forceful: "Regardless of whether Ser Amory Lorch was lying, and regardless of whether Ser Gregor Clegane had a reason, murder is murder. According to the laws of The Seven Kingdoms, the murderer must be judged."
Tywin frowned slightly: "You want to judge Ser Gregor Clegane?"
"It is not I who wishes to judge," Corleone shook his head. "It is the law that must judge him."
"Ser Gregor Clegane's actions tonight are an open provocation against royal authority, an insult to the Small Council, and a sign of disrespect to His Majesty the King himself."
He paused and looked at Gregor Clegane, who was kneeling on the ground.
"Of course, given that Ser Gregor Clegane cannot speak and cannot defend himself in a trial, we can replace debate with combat, letting the gods decide who is guilty and who is innocent."
Tywin's pupils contracted slightly.
"You mean."
"Trial by combat."
Corleone uttered the words.
In the council chamber, people fell silent once again.
Trial by combat.
The oldest and most sacred form of judgment in The Seven Kingdoms.
According to tradition, the accused may choose to prove their innocence by the sword; if the gods deem them innocent, they will grant them victory in the duel.
It is a way of placing the power of judgment in the hands of the gods, and it is the cruelest form of gamble.
Win, and you are acquitted.
Lose, and you are found guilty and executed.
There is no middle ground.
Tywin's mind raced as he watched the Mountain kneeling on the ground.
"Ser Gregor Clegane cannot speak," Tywin said slowly, his voice devoid of emotion. "We cannot ask for his will."
"But he can understand," Corleone said. "He can nod or shake his head."
Tywin fell silent.
He looked at Corleone, at that calm face, into those bottomless eyes, and finally spoke.
"Ser Gregor Clegane."
The Mountain slowly raised his head.
That single crimson eye turned toward Tywin.
"Are you willing to face trial by combat?"
The question hung in the air, and everyone held their breath.
The Mountain did not answer immediately.
He knelt there, his body trembling slightly, looking at Tywin, then at Corleone, and finally at Qyburn's corpse on the ground.
Then, he nodded slowly.
Upon hearing this, Tywin took a deep breath.
"Very well. Since Ser Gregor Clegane has chosen trial by combat, then..."
"I have a condition," Corleone interrupted him again.
"The trial by combat must be conducted in public." Corleone's voice was not loud, but every word felt like a nail driven into the ears of everyone present: "Let all the nobles and commoners of King's Landing see it. Let everyone know that House Lannister upholds the law and traditions, and respects the will of the gods."
"Very well."
Tywin nodded in agreement. "The trial by combat will take place in the square before the Great Sept of Baelor, in three days..."
"In five days," Corleone interrupted him for the third time.
Hearing this, Tywin's brow furrowed.
"Why five days?"
"Because in five days, it is the opening day of the Free Fighting Arena in Flea Bottom."
Corleone's voice remained calm, but the corners of his mouth curled into a faint arc.
"Since it must be public, it would be better to hold it in a larger venue. The Free Fighting Arena can accommodate at least two thousand spectators, which is much larger than the square before the Great Sept of Baelor."
He paused, then added, "Besides, the Free Fighting Arena was built for fighting; it couldn't be more appropriate to hold a trial by combat there."
Upon hearing this, Tywin stared fixedly at Corleone.
He understood everything now.
All of this. From the appearance of Rocky, to the Mountain killing someone, to proposing the trial by combat, to now demanding it be held in the Free Fighting Arena in five days.
It was all Corleone's plan. This damn fellow didn't care about hatred or justice at all; even the face of the royal family and House Lannister meant nothing to him.
What Corleone wanted was simple.
From beginning to end, he just wanted to provide... opening publicity for his Free Fighting Arena!
Tywin felt a chill rise from the base of his spine and spread through his entire body.
For the first time, he realized so clearly how great Corleone's ambition was, how ruthless his methods were, and how deep his schemes ran.
This guy didn't care about worldly rules at all and would trample over everything for his own interests.
He used the hatred of the Martells, the predicament of House Lannister, and the authority of the Small Council to turn everyone and everything into pieces on his chessboard.
And he, himself, had been helping him all along.
Helping him build influence, helping him gain a title, helping him walk step by step to this day, to a point where even he, as the Hand of the King of The Seven Kingdoms, could not stop him.
Damn it. Damn it!
Tywin closed his eyes. He took another deep breath. When he opened them again, his eyes were filled with cold calmness.
"Very well," he said. "Five days from now, at the Free Fighting Arena in Flea Bottom, the trial by combat."
He paused and added, "But likewise, I have a condition."
Corleone raised an eyebrow. "What condition?"
"You cannot participate," Tywin said, his voice firm and decisive.
This condition was sudden. But Corleone understood Tywin's intention almost immediately.
Tywin had seen the entire fight just now. The swordsmanship Corleone displayed made Tywin realize that if Corleone entered the fray, the Mountain would have almost no chance of winning.
So Tywin had to exclude him.
"Why?" Corleone asked, his tone devoid of emotion.
"No reason," Tywin said. "This is my condition."
"Agree, and we will proceed as you said. If you don't agree, then the trial by combat will be held in front of the Great Sept of Baelor, in three days."
He was gambling. Gambling that Corleone valued the opening publicity of the Free Fighting Arena more. Gambling that Corleone would compromise.
Corleone was silent. He looked at Tywin, at the cold determination in those green eyes. Then, he smiled.
"Very well," he said. "I will not participate."
However, this was exactly what someone wanted.
"I will!"
With a roar, everyone shifted their gaze to see the Prince of Dorne standing there, glaring viciously at the Mountain, flames of hatred burning in his eyes, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.
The smile was ferocious and mad, filled with a craving for vengeance.
"Good."
Oberyn's answer also perfectly suited Tywin's wishes. This Prince of Dorne had a perverse personality and acted entirely according to his own whims; in his Small Council, such unruly people were not allowed to exist.
It would be best if the Mountain could kill him during the trial by combat. That way, even Doran Martell couldn't say anything. After all, it was the will of the gods.
"Five days from now, at the Free Fighting Arena in Flea Bottom, the trial by combat; Ser Gregor Clegane's opponent will be Prince Prince Oberyn Martell."
He paused, and said word by word, "May the gods... witness this trial."
Upon hearing this, Oberyn laughed with satisfaction. The smile was as bright as sunshine, but the coldness in his eyes made one shudder.
He turned and walked toward the door, stopping as he passed by the Mountain.
"Enjoy these last five days, Clegane."
"Because in five days, I will let you know... what true pain is!"
After saying this, he strode away.
In the council chamber, only a few members of the Small Council, Corleone, the corpse on the floor, the cracks on the wall, and the lingering murderous intent in the air remained.
Tywin sat on his chair, closing his eyes, as if gathering strength.
Cersei was still standing there, her face pale, her eyes vacant.
She looked at the Mountain, at Qyburn's corpse, at all of this, her lips moving silently, as if asking, why?
Why did it turn out like this? I just wanted to seize power. I just wanted to escape my father's control. Why, every time, do the gods not grant my wish?
But no one paid attention to her self-pity.
Corleone straightened his clothes; they were torn in several places from the earlier fight and stained with blood and dust. Then he walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he stopped and looked back at Tywin.
"Lord Tywin."
Tywin opened his eyes. "Anything else?"
"Nothing," Corleone smiled slightly. "Just a reminder, don't forget to prepare a generous gift."
"The Free Fighting Arena is opening, and with such a grand event as the trial by combat, as the Hand of the King, you really must show some gesture."
"Oh, right, preferably gold. You know, due to the war lately, gold is very valuable."
After saying this, he pushed the door open and left. His footsteps faded in the corridor, eventually disappearing into the sound of the rain.
In the council chamber, there was a deathly silence. After a long while, Tywin slowly stood up.
He walked to the window and looked outside. The rain had eased, turning into a light drizzle. The sky was still dark, but a glimmer of light had appeared in the east; dawn was coming soon.
"Father..." Cersei finally spoke, her voice trembling.
Tywin did not turn back, but simply barked coldly, "Shut up."
Hearing this, Cersei reluctantly closed her mouth.
The Hand of the King continued to look out the window, gazing at the city, while a very intrigued arc gradually curled the corners of his mouth.
"Vito Corleone... so you are not unkillable."
He whispered, his voice so low that only he could hear: "At the moment when the sword is upon you, you... also dodge."
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