Chapter 160
"I know he's still alive," Oberyn Martell continued, his voice carrying a hatred so intense it bordered on obsession.
"Although Ser Odin crippled him outside the Hall of Order and cut out his tongue, the Mountain did not die."
"I know he's still somewhere inside the Red Keep, rotting away in one of the maesters' chambers while they try to stitch him back together."
As he spoke, Oberyn stepped forward and locked eyes with Tywin Lannister.
"I demand that Gregor Clegane be brought here."
"Let him confront this man face to face."
"Let us hear what story these two men — who carried out orders together inside the Red Keep seventeen years ago — have to tell."
Silence.
Long, suffocating silence.
Only the rain remained.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Drumming against the windows.
Drumming against everyone's nerves.
Tywin Lannister slowly raised his head.
His gaze passed over Oberyn before settling upon Odin.
The peasant-knight he himself had once knighted still stood there calmly, as though none of this concerned him in the slightest.
But Tywin knew better.
Every part of this had been arranged by him.
Finding Lorch.
Breaking him.
Dragging him to King's Landing.
Appearing at the Small Council.
Forcing Oberyn to demand a confrontation.
Every move had been calculated.
All to drive Tywin into a corner.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," Tywin finally said, each word carved out like stone.
"Currently lies inside the Red Keep under heavy treatment."
"His wounds are severe. He cannot move."
"And he cannot speak."
He paused.
"And for that, we have Ser Odin to thank."
"At the Hall of Order, he severed Ser Gregor's tongue, shattered several ribs, and left sword wounds deep enough to kill most men."
His tone remained perfectly calm, as though he were merely reciting facts.
Yet the moment the Mountain's name was spoken, Cersei Lannister twitched slightly in her chair.
Oberyn, however, remained completely unmoved.
The Prince of Dorne lounged lazily against his seat, but the gleam in his dark eyes was sharp as a blade.
"Too injured to appear?" he sneered.
"Lord Tywin, unless I am mistaken, the incident happened over half a month ago."
"With the skill of the Red Keep's maesters, combined with the wealth of House Lannister, surely no medicine would be beyond your reach."
"By now, Ser Gregor should at least be capable of walking."
He paused deliberately before adding with open mockery:
"Unless, of course, Lord Tywin no longer considers a knight serving House Lannister worth the expense of treatment."
That jab caused the slightest twitch in Tywin's brow.
But before he could answer, Odin suddenly spoke.
His voice was quiet, yet perfectly clear inside the silent chamber.
"Speaking of which…"
"I recently heard an interesting rumor in Flea Bottom."
He released his grip on Amory Lorch and stepped forward.
Without support, Lorch's injured legs buckled instantly, and he collapsed onto the floor like a heap of refuse.
Odin did not even glance back at him.
Instead, he walked toward the council table, fingers brushing lightly across the polished wood.
"The rumor claims the Red Keep recently purchased enormous quantities of milk of the poppy, spider-maggot salve, and rare healing herbs imported from the Summer Isles."
"So much medicine that one might think an entire army was being treated."
His tone remained casual.
Almost conversational.
"I found myself wondering…"
"Has the Red Keep recently fought a war?"
"Or perhaps…"
"…someone is undergoing a very special kind of treatment?"
As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward Cersei.
The Queen Regent's body stiffened instantly.
Tywin naturally followed that glance.
"Cersei."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"Do you know anything about what Ser Odin just mentioned?"
Cersei swallowed hard.
She wanted to answer.
But no words came out.
She could feel her father staring at her.
That look.
She knew it too well.
Ever since childhood, whenever she lied, whenever she disappointed him, whenever she did something he considered foolish…
Tywin Lannister would look at her exactly like this.
As if saying:
I already know.
Now admit it.
And yes.
She had secretly ordered Qyburn to continue treating Gregor Clegane.
Because she needed him.
Joffrey was dead.
Jaime had abandoned her.
Tyrion — that twisted little monster — was still alive.
And her father's attention was entirely consumed by that damned peasant-knight.
She needed a weapon.
A weapon that belonged only to her.
Powerful.
Terrifying.
Obedient.
And Gregor Clegane was that weapon.
If Gregor died, then she truly would have nothing left.
By sheer chance, she had encountered Qyburn after he fled to King's Landing to survive.
The strange man claimed he had been expelled from the Citadel.
He spoke openly of experimenting on corpses, of forbidden arts and dark methods capable of preserving life when ordinary healing failed.
So Cersei secretly ordered Qyburn to save Gregor Clegane.
No matter the cost.
No matter the method.
She did not care.
She only wanted the Mountain alive.
Alive enough to remain useful.
But she never imagined Odin would know about it.
That damned peasant.
How far could his eyes see?
How much could his ears hear?
If she had the power, Cersei truly wanted to order the Kingsguard to cut him down where he stood.
But she couldn't.
Because not long ago, even her father — Tywin Lannister himself, the man who almost never lost — had been forced to compromise before this man.
And now…
she possessed absolutely no strength capable of opposing him.
"I…"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ser Odin."
Cersei forced the words out stiffly.
"All purchases within the Red Keep are recorded. If you have questions, you may inspect the ledgers yourself—"
"Ledgers can be falsified."
Odin cut her off mercilessly.
"But living people cannot."
He turned toward Tywin Lannister.
"Lord Tywin, if you doubt my rumor…"
"…then perhaps we should simply visit Ser Gregor ourselves and see exactly how 'unable to move' he truly is."
"Or…"
His gaze shifted back toward Cersei.
"…perhaps Her Grace the Queen Regent could enlighten us."
"After all, she is mistress of the Red Keep."
"She should know the condition of every knight serving House Lannister."
Tywin slowly looked back at his daughter.
This time, something in his eyes had changed.
As though he had finally seen clearly.
Seen her stupidity.
Seen the pathetic role she had played in this entire game.
"Cersei."
His voice carried no emotion whatsoever.
"I want the truth."
Cersei's breathing quickened.
Her first instinct was denial.
But she crushed the thought immediately.
Odin sounded too certain.
If she lied and he exposed her…
what would her father see?
A complete fool.
A failure incapable even of lying properly.
No.
She could not allow that.
She was Cersei Lannister.
Queen Mother of the Seven Kingdoms.
Daughter of the Lion of Casterly Rock.
"Yes."
The word slipped out between clenched teeth.
Barely audible.
Tywin showed no reaction.
He simply stared at her for a very long moment before slowly nodding.
"Good."
Then he turned toward the guards stationed beside the chamber doors.
"Bring Ser Gregor Clegane here."
Two Lannister guards bowed at once and hurried away.
Their footsteps faded down the corridor.
Silence fell once more.
Everyone waited.
Time crawled.
Every second stretched endlessly.
Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the windows.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like an endless interrogation.
At last—
footsteps.
Heavy.
Slow.
One step after another.
Like a giant walking across stone.
The sound itself carried pressure.
The kind that made people instinctively want to retreat.
To flee.
Creeeeeak—
The doors opened.
The first figure to enter was an old man with thinning white hair.
Qyburn wore a dark gray robe stained with suspicious blotches that resembled dried blood or chemical residue.
His face was pale and gaunt.
His eyes deeply sunken.
And at the corner of his mouth lingered a faint smile.
A smile that made people uncomfortable.
The smile of a man observing specimens rather than human beings.
Qyburn stepped into the chamber and bowed slightly.
"Lord Tywin. Your Grace. My lords."
His voice sounded dry and rasping, as though unused for years.
Then he stepped aside.
And the moment the second figure appeared—
the entire chamber froze.
The man wore specially forged armor.
Twice as heavy as ordinary plate.
Cruel spikes protruded from the joints.
Across the breastplate were emblazoned the three black dogs of House Clegane.
The armor itself was black, though dark crimson stains clung stubbornly to certain edges, like blood that could never truly be washed away.
A fully enclosed helm concealed his face.
Only narrow slits remained for the eyes.
The helm resembled a demon's skull, complete with curved horns and a snarling hound-shaped visor.
No one could see his face.
Yet everyone knew exactly who he was.
Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain.
Simply standing there, his sheer size created a suffocating sense of oppression.
He had to lower his head slightly just to pass through the doorway.
His shoulders were as broad as gates.
His arms like tree trunks.
His massive gauntleted hands looked capable of crushing a human skull with ease.
The Mountain moved slowly.
Each footstep struck the ground like a hammer.
But the most terrifying part…
was his eyes.
Visible through the visor slits.
Bloodshot.
Veins swollen crimson across the whites.
Pupils shrunk to pinpoints.
There was no humanity left inside them.
Only naked brutality.
The eyes of a beast.
His gaze swept across the chamber like a starving hound searching for prey—
before finally stopping on Odin.
At that instant, murderous intent flooded the room almost tangibly.
Gregor's body tensed violently.
One enormous hand immediately clamped around the hilt of his sword.
A guttural growl escaped his throat.
The red fury in his eyes intensified.
Then he stomped forward.
Hard enough that the floor groaned beneath the impact.
"Gregor!"
Qyburn barked sharply.
The Mountain froze instantly.
Slowly, he turned his head toward Qyburn.
The savagery remained…
but there was something else there now.
Obedience.
Qyburn stepped closer and whispered something quietly into his ear.
Gradually, Gregor relaxed.
His grip loosened from the sword.
Yet he continued staring at Odin with such concentrated hatred it felt as though blood itself might drip from his eyes.
No one in the chamber dared breathe.
Little Tommen Baratheon had never seen anything like this before.
The boy shrank into his chair, face white as milk, both hands clamped over his mouth to stop himself from screaming.
At last, Oberyn Martell rose to his feet.
His dark eyes burned with seventeen years of hatred.
His body was drawn taut like a fully stretched bow.
One hand rested lightly against the poisoned dagger at his waist as instinct calculated distance, timing, angles of attack.
But then Odin subtly signaled toward him with a glance.
Only then did Oberyn force himself to calm down.
"Gregor Clegane."
Oberyn released the dagger hilt, though his eyes never left the Mountain.
Gregor turned slowly toward him.
Savage confusion flickered across his gaze.
As though trying to remember who this man was.
"Do you remember me?" Oberyn stepped closer.
No response.
Only a brief flash of confusion before the beastly rage returned and focused once again on Odin.
Gregor let out another low growl.
As if nothing else mattered.
Only the man who had cut out his tongue.
"So you've forgotten."
Mockery crept into Oberyn's tone.
Then he turned toward the trembling figure sprawled on the floor.
"And this man?"
He pointed directly at Gregor.
"Do you remember him?"
Amory Lorch had already collapsed entirely.
His trousers were wet.
His lips trembled violently.
After years serving beside the Mountain, he understood Gregor's cruelty better than anyone.
If he identified him publicly here…
he would die horribly.
But then—
Lorch lifted his head and saw Odin's dark eyes.
Instantly, memories surfaced.
Terrible memories.
His entire body shuddered.
"Yes…"
"That's Ser Gregor Clegane…"
"We all called him… the Mountain…"
"Good."
"Now tell us."
Oberyn's voice sharpened.
"What did you and this man do inside the Red Keep seventeen years ago?"
"He… he…"
"He killed Princess Elia…"
"He raped her… then strangled her…"
The fury in Oberyn's eyes blazed brighter.
"And?"
"Princess Rhaenys…"
Lorch muttered weakly.
"I… I dragged her out from beneath the bed…"
"She kept screaming… kept crying…"
"I stabbed her…"
"Many times…"
He could barely continue.
His body shook violently.
Tears and mucus streamed down his face together.
When he looked up again, his eyes darted desperately between Gregor and Odin.
Trying to decide which monster was more dangerous to anger.
Yet no matter how he weighed it—
the conclusion remained the same.
Both were impossible to offend.
"Who?"
Seeing Lorch near collapse, Oberyn pressed harder.
"Tell me!"
"Who gave the order?"
"Who sent you into the Red Keep to murder them?!"
Lorch's lips twitched uncontrollably.
Instinctively, he looked toward Tywin.
This time, the stare lingered a long while.
Everyone already knew the answer.
But at that exact moment, Tywin suddenly spoke.
"Ser Lorch."
His voice was calm.
"Think carefully before you answer."
"These events happened seventeen years ago."
"Memory can become unreliable."
"Are you certain everything you've said is accurate?"
It sounded like a warning.
But everyone in the chamber heard the threat beneath it.
Lorch trembled even harder.
He turned toward Odin.
Toward the demon who had dragged him from the dungeons of Harrenhal and tortured him until he broke.
Odin said nothing.
He merely watched.
Those black eyes contained no emotion at all.
Only endless darkness.
As if silently commanding:
Say it.
Speak the name.
Lorch inhaled shakily.
A trace of desperate resolve appeared in his eyes.
"The order came from—"
Suddenly—
a gigantic iron-gauntleted hand shot out from beside him and seized his head.
Time froze.
Lorch's eyes widened.
His mouth remained open mid-sentence—
but no sound emerged.
Because the hand—
tightened.
Crunch.
The sound was strangely soft.
Like a ripe melon being crushed.
Bone shattered.
Blood sprayed.
Lorch's skull deformed inside the gauntlet.
Then the Mountain released him.
The corpse collapsed limply to the floor.
Blood burst from the ruined neck in a wide crimson arc.
His head no longer resembled a human head at all.
More like a smashed fruit.
White brain matter mixed with red blood, dripping slowly through the gaps of Gregor's iron fingers.
Everything happened too quickly.
Too quickly for anyone to react.
Even Odin merely narrowed his eyes slightly.
Then—
"AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!"
A shrill scream pierced the chamber.
Little Tommen had leapt from his chair, covering his eyes with both hands.
Mace Tyrell practically launched himself backward, toppling his chair and crashing into the wall.
Cersei also rose—
but slowly.
Very slowly.
Her face held no emotion whatsoever.
As though none of this concerned her.
As though she were merely watching some grotesque play.
Oberyn reacted last.
He slowly straightened and turned toward Gregor.
The anticipation and urgency in his eyes had vanished completely.
Only bottomless hatred remained.
"You…"
His voice sounded hoarse.
"You killed him."
Gregor turned his head toward him.
Those blood-red eyes remained savage and empty.
The Mountain casually wiped the blood and brain matter from his gauntlet against his armor, as naturally as if brushing away dust.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
As though answering.
Yes.
I killed him.
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