Chapter 161: The Berserk Mountain
The entire sequence lasted perhaps three seconds.
Oberyn Martell stared blankly as Amory Lorch's skull exploded inside the Mountain's iron gauntlet, blood and brain matter blooming outward like some grotesque flower.
Seventeen years of waiting.
Seventeen years of hatred.
Seventeen years of reliving that nightmare every single night.
At that moment, every last shred of restraint and calculation finally shattered beneath the weight of his fury.
Oberyn snapped.
With a savage roar, he lunged forward like an arrow loosed from a bowstring.
The dagger at his waist flashed free.
Its blade shimmered with a strange dark-purple sheen — coated in venom distilled from the deadliest scorpions of Dorne, mixed with rare toxins brought from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.
A single cut was enough to kill.
Legend claimed victims of that poison would witness the most terrifying thing in their lives before dying in madness.
As the greatest warrior of Dorne, Oberyn had always been famed for his speed.
The title Red Viper came not only from his mastery of poison, but from the snake-like swiftness of his strikes.
Even now, past forty years old, his movements remained so fast that most people in the chamber saw only a blurred shadow.
He was fast.
But someone else moved faster.
Just as Oberyn's poisoned dagger came within three feet of Gregor Clegane's throat—
a figure stepped in from the side.
No flourish.
No warning.
No dramatic draw.
Simply one smooth step forward.
A hand gripped the sword at the waist.
Draw.
Slash.
CLANG!!!
The violent crash of steel echoed through the hall hard enough to make ears ring.
Oberyn's dagger was intercepted at the final instant by a longsword.
The impact disrupted his momentum instantly.
He staggered back two steps before regaining his footing, black eyes blazing with rage as they locked onto the man blocking his path.
Odin.
Rainwater still dripped from the peasant knight's hair.
His sword arm remained utterly steady.
He stood between Oberyn and the Mountain, back facing Gregor, expression calm and unreadable.
"Move."
Oberyn's voice was ice-cold.
"Not now," Odin replied evenly.
"He killed the witness!" Oberyn snarled, voice suddenly rising. "In front of the Small Council! In front of the king!"
"I know."
Odin's tone never changed.
"Which is exactly why you cannot attack him now. That would violate the laws of the realm."
"Then when?!" Oberyn practically screamed.
"When he's murdered every witness and buried the truth for another seventeen years?!"
"I've run out of patience, Odin!"
"I want to kill that bastard right now!"
Odin did not answer the outburst.
He simply watched Oberyn with those dark, emotionless eyes.
Like a man observing a furious child.
Yet even while facing him, the corner of Odin's attention had already locked onto the Mountain behind him.
The enhanced power of his Insight Lv4 operated at full force.
He could see Gregor's muscles swelling beneath the armor.
Fibers contracting and expanding at an unnatural speed.
The man's heartbeat thundered like war drums.
A normal person's heart beat sixty to one hundred times per minute.
Gregor's?
At least two hundred.
"He's wrong."
Odin glanced back toward Oberyn and lowered his voice.
"Something's wrong with him."
But Oberyn no longer cared.
"I'll say it one last time," the Dornish prince hissed coldly.
"Move."
Odin slowly lifted his gaze.
His eyes remained calm.
Almost cruel.
"Do you want to die?"
Oberyn paused for a fraction of a second.
Then he laughed.
Wild.
Broken.
Overflowing with seventeen years of hatred.
"I want to kill him."
"You can't kill him right now."
"He's changed."
Odin's voice sharpened slightly.
"He's nothing like he was outside the Hall of Order."
But while Odin tried to restrain Oberyn—
the Mountain's eyes burned increasingly red behind his visor.
He remembered this man.
Only vaguely.
But he remembered the cold sensation of a blade across his throat.
He remembered the agony of losing his tongue.
He remembered pain.
And the man who caused it was standing directly before him.
Gregor released a low growl from deep within his throat.
Not human.
The sound of a beast scenting prey.
His massive hand slowly wrapped around the hilt of the gigantic greatsword at his waist.
The blade was broader than a human hand and over five feet long.
Even the hilt was thick enough that ordinary men would struggle to grip it properly.
SHING!!!
The sword left its scabbard.
Gregor lowered his stance slightly.
Gathering force.
Then—
he moved.
The enormous body surged forward with impossible speed.
And the blade came crashing down.
No technique.
No elegance.
Just pure violence.
A brutal horizontal slash.
The speed and force of the strike had completely surpassed human limits.
Everyone in the chamber could already imagine what would happen next—
Odin's body split clean in half.
Blood and entrails spraying across the floor.
Another smear of gore beside what remained of Lorch.
But nothing escaped Odin's Insight Lv4.
Even so—
his brows tightened immediately.
Too fast.
At least twice as fast as before.
The instant the greatsword nearly touched him, his Basic Swordsmanship Lv4 instinctively activated to its limit.
His body bent backward by mere inches.
The blade screamed past the bridge of his nose.
He could actually feel the sword wind cutting against his skin.
"Interesting."
Odin retreated several steps lightly, letting out a soft laugh.
Yet his eyes shifted toward Qyburn.
The old man truly was capable of terrifying things.
He had somehow transformed the already monstrous Gregor Clegane into something even worse.
This level of "treatment" could no longer be explained by medicine alone.
Still—
Shing.
Odin finally drew his own sword completely.
The sound was quiet and elegant, sharply contrasting the thunderous roar of Gregor's blade.
The longsword was slender and beautifully forged.
A masterpiece from Tobho Mott himself.
Not Valyrian steel—
but among the Seven Kingdoms' finest craftsmanship.
Odin held the weapon in both hands.
The sword tip angled downward toward the stone floor.
His stance was textbook perfect.
Feet separated.
Knees slightly bent.
Center of gravity balanced cleanly.
The instincts granted by Basic Swordsmanship Lv4 had already fused into his body.
The result of endless training in the practice yards of Flea Bottom.
Only now did many people fully realize what was happening.
Mace Tyrell shrieked and scrambled toward the farthest corner of the hall.
Pycelle had dropped to his knees entirely, clutching his head while repeatedly mumbling:
"The Seven protect us… the Seven protect us…"
Only Tywin Lannister remained seated.
His green eyes showed no emotion whatsoever.
He was waiting.
Waiting to see whether Odin truly possessed the invulnerability he had displayed that night.
And sure enough—
the Mountain did not stop.
Missing his first strike, Gregor used the momentum to spin his gigantic body.
The greatsword carved upward in a savage arc toward Odin's abdomen.
The transition was horrifyingly fast.
A weapon that size should have been clumsy.
Yet in Gregor's hands it moved like a dagger.
But instead of retreating—
Odin surged forward.
Not directly.
At an unnatural angle.
His left foot stepped half a pace ahead while his right heel pivoted sharply.
Within an impossibly narrow space, his body performed a movement that bordered on absurdity.
Whoosh—
His steps skimmed across the ground.
The giant blade swept inches above his head, severing several strands of hair.
Then—
at the exact instant Gregor's swing reached its limit—
Odin rose and thrust.
Fast.
Precise.
The blade stabbed directly toward the inside of Gregor's left knee joint, where the plate armor connected.
A natural weak point.
A human body's balance center.
Thunk.
The sword pierced inward.
Yet Odin frowned slightly.
The sensation was wrong.
Not flesh.
Not muscle.
It felt more like piercing thick leather…
or rubber.
And Gregor appeared not to feel it at all.
His left leg never even wavered.
The gigantic body remained as stable as a mountain.
Through the visor, those blood-red eyes locked onto Odin while a guttural growl echoed from his throat.
Then the greatsword rose again.
This time—
continuous attacks.
Slash.
Cleave.
Sweep.
Rip upward.
The massive blade became a storm of black death.
Every strike carried enough force to split a horse in half.
Every movement came fast enough to blur vision.
Odin weaved through the storm.
His motions remained clean.
Efficient.
Precise.
Dodging constantly, occasionally deflecting with subtle taps of his sword.
Never meeting the strikes head-on.
Because he couldn't.
He could feel it clearly.
Gregor's strength had at least doubled since their battle outside the Hall of Order.
No—
perhaps even more than that.
This was no longer human strength.
Each swing generated violent gusts that whipped Odin's clothes loudly through the air.
Something was deeply wrong.
As he evaded strike after strike, Odin continued observing.
His Insight Lv4 had been pushed to maximum capacity from the very start of the battle.
Everything around him slowed and sharpened.
Muscle contractions.
Armor articulation.
Breathing rhythms.
And most importantly—
the abnormalities.
Very quickly, Odin noticed something strange.
The Mountain's attacks were ferociously fast, but painfully repetitive.
Slash.
Cleave.
Sweep.
Uppercut.
Just endless variations of four basic movements.
No advanced techniques.
No feints.
No tactical transitions.
That made no sense.
Gregor Clegane had always relied heavily on brute strength, but he was still a battle-hardened knight who had survived countless wars.
His swordsmanship should not have been this rigid.
This mechanical.
Like a killing machine following a fixed combat program.
Then—
BOOM!!!
One of Gregor's heavy strikes missed and smashed directly into the stone floor of Maegor's Holdfast.
The stone slabs exploded apart instantly.
Chunks of rock blasted through the air as cracks spread across the floor like a spiderweb.
The entire council chamber trembled from the sheer force of the impact.
The violent noise immediately drew attention from outside.
Footsteps thundered closer.
Moments later, at least three members of the Kingsguard and an entire squad of Gold Cloaks rushed into the hall.
But just as they prepared to intervene—
Tywin Lannister calmly raised one hand.
A silent gesture.
Stop.
He issued no further command.
He simply continued watching.
At that moment, Odin had already seized the opening created while the Mountain recovered his sword.
He surged forward again.
This time, he did not target the joints.
His target—
was the visor slit.
The sword shot forward like a venomous serpent, aimed directly at Gregor's glowing red eye.
The Mountain reacted instantly, twisting his massive head aside.
But Odin was faster.
The blade scraped past the edge of the visor and pierced into the gap between the helmet and neck guard.
And once again—
the sensation felt wrong.
Not flesh.
Not bone.
It felt like stabbing into oil-soaked leather.
Odin immediately withdrew.
The sword tip emerged coated in black liquid.
Not blood.
The substance was thick and dark like crude oil.
Sticky strands stretched from the blade before dripping onto the floor with wet splattering sounds.
A foul odor spread through the chamber—
rotting flesh mixed with medicinal herbs.
The Mountain froze for a brief instant.
His enormous hand slowly reached toward the wound on his neck.
He touched the black fluid staining the armor.
Then looked at it.
Then slowly lifted his head toward Odin.
Behind the visor—
that crimson eye suddenly brightened.
As if some hidden switch had been activated.
ROOOOAAARRRR!!!
A deafening howl exploded from Gregor's throat.
The sound no longer carried only rage.
There was pain in it now.
Madness.
Agony.
The giant's body began trembling violently.
Metal joints screeched as armor plates ground against each other.
It sounded as though the muscles beneath were convulsing and swelling uncontrollably.
Then the Mountain moved again.
Faster than before.
Far more violent.
The gigantic sword transformed into a black storm of destruction, hacking wildly toward Odin with enough force to tear down the entire castle.
BOOM!
BOOM!!
BOOM!!!
The floor shattered repeatedly.
Deep sword scars ripped across the walls.
The massive council table split clean in half.
Ink bottles, parchments, and splintered wood flew everywhere.
Fragments of stone blasted through the air like crossbow bolts.
Mace Tyrell and Pycelle scrambled behind pillars in terror.
Several Kingsguard knights rushed to shield young Tommen Baratheon with their own bodies.
Meanwhile, Odin moved through the storm.
His Basic Swordsmanship Lv4 had reached its absolute limit.
Every movement of his body felt instinctive.
Predictive.
He always evaded at the final possible instant using the smallest motion necessary.
Occasionally counterattacking with precise thrusts toward armor weak points.
Joints.
Neck.
Armpits.
Each strike produced more of that black liquid.
But the effect remained minimal.
The Mountain was simply too powerful.
Too fast.
And apparently incapable of feeling pain.
Every injury only made him more frenzied.
"This won't work."
Odin calculated rapidly in his mind.
His stamina was draining.
Gregor, meanwhile, resembled a tireless machine.
Worse still—
the attack patterns were changing.
At first, the Mountain's strikes had been stiff and repetitive.
Now they were gradually becoming more refined.
More adaptive.
Like a machine learning in real time.
This fight could not continue like this.
Odin's eyes turned cold.
The instant another massive overhead strike missed—
instead of retreating—
he charged directly forward.
One step.
His body almost slammed into Gregor's chest.
At this range, the giant greatsword became nearly useless.
The Mountain's enormous body itself became a burden.
Gregor reacted instantly.
One hand released the sword as his gigantic iron fist crashed toward Odin's skull with explosive force.
But Odin moved first.
He ducked beneath the punch.
Then thrust upward with everything he had.
This time—
not the armor.
The eye slit.
The blade pierced into the visor gap.
Deeper.
And deeper.
Until half the sword vanished inside.
The Mountain froze.
Completely.
That enormous fist stopped barely an inch from Odin's temple.
Time itself seemed to halt again.
Everyone held their breath.
Odin's sword had pierced through Gregor's eye—
or at least through the helmet and deep into whatever lay behind it.
The blade protruded from the rear of the helmet.
Black fluid dripped steadily from the steel.
The Mountain did not move.
His gigantic body stood motionless like a statue.
The remaining crimson eye still stared ahead through the visor slit—
but the light within it was rapidly fading.
"I-Is it over…?"
Mace Tyrell peeked out from behind a pillar, voice trembling.
"Go check!"
Cersei Lannister suddenly shouted.
Qyburn wiped cold sweat from his brow and hurried forward to inspect Gregor—
But then—
the Mountain moved again.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
The giant hand suspended in midair reached upward and grasped the sword lodged in his visor.
Then—
SNAP!!!
The blade shattered instantly.
Odin's eyes narrowed.
Holding only half a sword, he retreated at once.
Gregor pinched the remaining piece of steel between two fingers and slowly pulled it from his eye socket.
Black liquid dripped steadily onto the floor.
As the broken blade slid free, wet grinding noises echoed through the chamber.
Clang.
The shattered steel fell to the ground.
Then—
the Mountain lifted his head.
A gaping hole now marked the visor slit, black slime oozing from its edges.
Gregor raised one hand and gripped the lower edge of his helmet.
RRRRIP!!!
Metal screamed as he tore the entire faceplate off by brute force.
And beneath it—
was something no longer fully human.
The face was twisted beyond recognition.
Deformed.
The skin had turned corpse-gray.
Bulging black veins crawled across it like worms beneath dead flesh.
The left eye socket was now a deep hollow cavity still leaking black fluid.
His mouth had split unnaturally wide, torn almost to the ears.
Jagged teeth protruded inside like a shark's maw.
"Seven save us…"
Mace Tyrell let out a miserable groan and collapsed to the floor.
Pycelle simply fainted on the spot.
Even Cersei's mouth hung open.
For the first time—
true fear appeared in her eyes.
But Qyburn?
Qyburn trembled with excitement.
Step by step, he approached the creature, eyes glowing with obsession.
"Perfect… absolutely perfect…"
"This is true transformation…"
"A superior existence freed from humanity's fragile shell…"
His words abruptly stopped.
Because the Mountain turned toward him.
That single crimson eye locked onto Qyburn.
The maester's excitement vanished instantly.
Only primal terror remained.
He stumbled backward, lips shaking—
but Gregor had already moved.
Faster than before.
So fast he became a blur.
Qyburn only realized what happened when an enormous hand closed around his throat.
Then lifted him effortlessly into the air.
His feet dangled helplessly.
He clawed desperately at the iron grip but could not move it even slightly.
His face rapidly turned purple from lack of air.
His eyes bulged outward.
Only choking noises escaped his throat.
"Let him go!"
Cersei screamed hysterically.
"Clegane! I command you to release him!"
The Mountain slowly turned toward her.
That lone crimson eye rested on Cersei's face for a second.
Then—
his torn mouth stretched wider.
Into a horrifying grin.
And then—
CRACK.
A clean, sharp sound.
Qyburn's neck snapped.
(Please support the story, everyone.)
Want faster updates? Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier. Read early at [email protected]/A_divin5