Chapter 162: The Opening Trial
Qyburn's body went limp.
His head dangled at an unnatural angle, eyes frozen wide open in terror and disbelief.
Meanwhile, Gregor Clegane casually tossed the corpse aside like a piece of garbage.
Then he turned back toward Odin.
That lone crimson eye locked onto him.
A low growl rumbled from the monster's throat, filled with the excitement of a predator spotting prey.
Odin stood motionless, gripping half a broken sword.
His expression remained calm.
But he could feel it.
The Mountain had changed.
Before, he had merely been a raging beast.
Now—
he was something else entirely.
A transformed abomination completely beyond control.
No reason.
No pain.
No fear.
Only the instinct to kill.
And worse—
his speed, strength, and reactions had all risen yet again.
Troublesome.
Odin rapidly calculated his options.
Meeting him head-on would be difficult.
Gregor's strength had already surpassed anything remotely human.
Run?
That was not Odin's style.
Besides, if he fled now, the invincible image he had painstakingly built would collapse instantly.
Then—
Before Odin could finish his thoughts, the Mountain attacked again.
This time he did not use the sword.
He used his hands.
The gigantic palm lunged viciously toward Odin's head, clearly intending to crush it the same way he had crushed Amory Lorch.
Faced with such overwhelming aggression, Odin could only retreat.
But Gregor pursued relentlessly.
Both massive hands swung again and again, attempting to seize him.
The attacks came like a storm.
Continuous.
Merciless.
The giant body now moved with terrifying agility, every step shaking the stone floor beneath them.
Odin maneuvered through the cramped chamber, dodging and weaving while occasionally blocking with the broken blade.
Every collision numbed his arms.
Gregor's strength was simply monstrous.
Even a glancing block carried enough impact to shatter an ordinary man's bones.
This won't work.
His stamina was draining rapidly.
The Mountain, meanwhile, showed no sign of fatigue whatsoever.
There had to be a weakness.
Odin pushed his Insight Lv4 to its limit.
His gaze swept across Gregor's body like a scanner.
Neck.
Joints.
Eyes.
Mouth.
Every possible vulnerable point.
Then he noticed something.
The armor over Gregor's right chest was thicker than the rest.
And every time he attacked, his left arm unconsciously shifted to protect that area.
As if guarding something vital.
Odin's eyes narrowed.
"Enough."
A voice suddenly echoed through the hall.
The monstrous creature that had already lost all reason—
actually stopped.
Slowly, Gregor turned toward the source of the voice.
Tywin Lannister stood at the end of the shattered council table.
At some point, the Hand of the King had moved beside the window.
Rain drifted through the opening, soaking his shoulders and golden hair.
He paid it no mind.
Hands clasped behind his back.
Posture perfectly straight.
His green eyes stared calmly at the Mountain.
Expressionless.
"I said," Tywin repeated quietly.
"That is enough."
The Mountain stared at him.
That single crimson eye remained fixed on Tywin's face for a long moment.
Everyone held their breath.
Qyburn was dead.
If the Mountain no longer obeyed Tywin—
everyone in Maegor's Holdfast might die tonight.
Seconds crawled by.
Each one felt endless.
Then finally—
Gregor relaxed slightly.
Perhaps some instinctive loyalty to Tywin still survived inside the monster.
The giant stepped backward.
Then lowered himself onto one knee in a crude gesture of submission.
The twisted face still radiated savagery—
but at least the attacks had stopped.
Odin lowered his stance as well.
He did not seize the opportunity to strike.
Because he understood.
The moment Tywin intervened, the fight was over.
At least for now.
Tywin nodded in satisfaction.
Then looked toward Odin.
"Ser Odin."
"Your swordsmanship is impressive."
"But…"
His tone shifted abruptly.
"This farce ends here."
He paused and slowly swept his gaze across the ruined chamber.
"Tonight's Small Council meeting suffered an unfortunate incident."
"Ser Amory Lorch suffered a sudden fit of madness and falsely accused Ser Gregor Clegane. In a moment of agitation, Ser Gregor accidentally killed him."
"A tragedy."
"But the matter ends there."
The instant those words fell—
Oberyn Martell finally snapped out of his shock.
"Ends there?"
His voice trembled.
Not with fear.
With fury.
The fury of a volcano suppressed for seventeen years.
"Tywin Lannister…"
"You saw it!"
"That bastard murdered a man openly! In front of the Small Council! In front of the king!"
"I saw it," Tywin replied calmly.
"But Ser Lorch is dead. Continuing this matter benefits no one."
"Benefits?"
Oberyn laughed savagely, teeth bared.
"I don't want benefits!"
"I want justice!"
"For my sister!"
"For her children!"
"And what exactly do you want?" Tywin asked in return.
"To kill Ser Gregor? Of course you do. And perhaps you may attempt it… if you are capable."
He paused.
His voice turned colder.
"And afterward?"
"War between Dorne and the Westerlands?"
"The Seven Kingdoms drowning in blood once more over a seventeen-year-old grievance?"
"Prince Oberyn, I understand your grief."
"But you must understand this—after seventeen years, if you continue clinging to this matter, even your brother, Prince Doran Martell, may not support you."
"Some things must eventually be laid to rest."
Tywin stepped forward.
"House Lannister is willing to compensate House Martell."
"Name a reasonable price."
"Compensate?"
Oberyn's voice suddenly became razor sharp.
"You would buy my sister's life with gold?"
"You think everyone is like you, Tywin Lannister?"
"That honor, justice, and blood debts can all be priced in golden dragons?"
The accusation was brutally direct.
Cold-blooded.
Transactional.
Soulless.
Yet Tywin did not grow angry.
His face did not change at all.
He merely stared at Oberyn for a very long time.
Then he spoke softly.
Each word heavy as iron.
"Then what do you want?"
It was not a question.
It was an ultimatum.
A demand for Oberyn to show his hand.
To reveal whether he truly possessed the power to pursue vengeance to the end.
The candles crackled softly.
Outside, the rain intensified again, crashing against the windows like the weeping of gods.
Then—
"Lord Tywin, I have a proposal."
Odin spoke.
Every eye in the chamber turned toward him instantly.
The man who had been fighting for his life moments earlier now stood beside the ruined table, calmly wiping blood and grime from his hands with a clean cloth.
His movements were leisurely.
Elegant.
As though that deadly battle had never happened at all.
Then he looked up toward Tywin.
"Tonight, before the Small Council and before His Grace the King, Ser Gregor Clegane openly murdered Ser Amory Lorch."
"That is an indisputable fact."
"Everyone here witnessed it."
Odin's voice remained steady and calm.
"Whether Ser Lorch lied or not."
"Whether Ser Gregor had justification or not."
"Murder is still murder."
"And according to the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, a murderer must face judgment."
Tywin frowned slightly.
"You intend to put Gregor on trial?"
"It is not my desire," Odin corrected calmly.
"It is the law's."
"Ser Gregor Clegane's actions tonight were a direct challenge to royal authority, an insult to the Small Council, and an act of disrespect toward His Grace himself."
He paused and glanced toward the kneeling Mountain.
"Of course, since Ser Gregor cannot speak and therefore cannot defend himself in a conventional trial…"
"We may instead let combat speak in his place."
"Let the gods determine guilt and innocence."
Tywin's pupils contracted slightly.
"You mean…"
"Trial by combat."
The words echoed through the chamber.
Silence followed once again.
Trial by combat.
The oldest and most sacred judicial tradition in the Seven Kingdoms.
By ancient law, the accused could prove innocence through battle.
If the gods favored him, he would win.
If not—
he would die.
No middle ground existed.
Victory meant innocence.
Defeat meant guilt and execution.
Tywin's mind immediately began calculating.
His gaze shifted toward the kneeling Mountain.
"Ser Gregor cannot speak," Tywin said slowly.
"We cannot ask for his consent."
"But he understands," Odin replied calmly.
"He can nod."
"Or shake his head."
Tywin fell silent.
He stared at Odin—at that calm face, those unfathomable eyes—and finally spoke.
"Ser Clegane."
Gregor Clegane slowly raised his head.
That lone crimson eye turned toward Tywin Lannister.
"Do you accept trial by combat?"
The moment the question was asked, everyone held their breath.
The Mountain did not answer immediately.
Still kneeling there, his massive body trembling faintly, he looked at Tywin… then at Odin… then finally at Qyburn's corpse on the floor.
Then—
slowly—
he nodded.
Tywin drew a deep breath.
"Very well. Since Ser Clegane chooses trial by combat, then—"
"I have one condition," Odin interrupted again.
"The trial by combat must be held publicly."
His voice was calm, but every word landed like iron nails hammered into the chamber.
"Let every noble and commoner in King's Landing witness it."
"Let the realm see that House Lannister honors the law, respects tradition, and submits to the judgment of the gods."
"Agreed."
Tywin nodded immediately.
"The trial will take place in the square before the Great Sept of Baelor three days from now—"
"Five days."
Odin interrupted him for the third time.
Tywin frowned.
"Why five?"
"Because five days from now is the grand opening of Flea Bottom's Free Combat Arena."
Odin's tone remained steady, though the faintest trace of a smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
"If this is to be public, then it should be held somewhere larger."
"The arena can hold at least two thousand spectators—far more than the plaza before the Great Sept."
He paused before adding:
"And besides, the arena was built for combat. There is no more suitable place for trial by combat."
The instant those words were spoken, Tywin stared at him coldly.
Now he finally understood.
Everything.
From Amory Lorch appearing…
to the Mountain murdering him…
to the proposal of trial by combat…
to insisting it be held at the Free Combat Arena five days later…
Every single step had been part of Odin's design.
This damned man did not care about hatred.
Did not care about justice.
Did not even care about the dignity of the crown or House Lannister.
To him, all of it was irrelevant.
What Odin truly wanted—
from beginning to end—
was nothing more than advertising for the grand opening of his arena.
A chill crept up Tywin's spine.
For the first time, he realized with complete clarity just how vast Odin's ambition truly was.
How ruthless.
How calculating.
This man disregarded every worldly rule.
For his own benefit, he would trample over anything.
He used Dorne's hatred.
Used the Lannisters' predicament.
Used the authority of the Small Council itself.
Turning every person and every event into pieces upon his chessboard.
And Tywin—
Tywin had been helping him the entire time.
Helping him build influence.
Helping him gain status.
Helping him rise step by step until even the Hand of the King could no longer stop him.
Damn it.
Damn it all.
Tywin closed his eyes.
Took another slow breath.
When he opened them again, only icy calm remained.
"Very well," he said.
"Five days from now. Trial by combat at the Flea Bottom Free Combat Arena."
Then he added:
"But I have a condition as well."
Odin raised an eyebrow.
"What condition?"
"You are forbidden from participating."
Tywin's answer came without hesitation.
The condition was sudden—
but Odin immediately understood his intent.
Tywin had watched the entire battle.
He had seen Odin's swordsmanship.
And he understood something terrifying:
If Odin entered the arena himself, the Mountain had almost no chance of winning.
So Tywin intended to remove him from the board entirely.
"Why?" Odin asked calmly.
"There is no why," Tywin replied.
"That is my condition."
"Accept it, and the trial proceeds exactly as you requested."
"Refuse, and the duel will be held before the Great Sept in three days."
He was gambling.
Betting that Odin valued the arena's publicity more than the fight itself.
Betting that Odin would compromise.
Odin fell silent.
He looked into Tywin's cold green eyes.
Then—
he smiled.
"Very well," he said.
"I will not participate."
Though in truth, that suited a certain someone perfectly.
"I will!"
A furious roar echoed through the chamber.
Everyone turned toward the speaker.
Oberyn Martell stood there glaring murderously at the Mountain, hatred blazing within his eyes.
The smile on his lips was savage and unhinged, overflowing with a thirst for vengeance.
His answer suited Tywin just fine.
The Prince of Dorne was unpredictable, arrogant, and impossible to control.
Tywin had no intention of allowing someone like that to dominate his Small Council.
If the Mountain killed him during trial by combat—
even Doran Martell could say nothing against it.
After all—
the gods themselves would have delivered judgment.
"Five days from now."
"At Flea Bottom's Free Combat Arena."
"Ser Gregor Clegane's opponent in trial by combat shall be Prince Oberyn Martell."
Tywin paused before declaring solemnly:
"May the gods… witness this judgment."
Oberyn burst into satisfied laughter.
Bright as sunlight—
yet carrying a chill that made everyone uneasy.
He turned and strode toward the door.
As he passed the kneeling Mountain, he stopped briefly.
"Enjoy your final five days, Gregor."
"Because five days from now…"
"I'll teach you what real pain feels like."
Then he left without looking back.
Inside the council chamber remained only the members of the Small Council, Odin, the corpses on the floor, the shattered walls, and the lingering scent of murder.
Tywin sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, as though gathering strength.
Cersei Lannister still stood frozen in place, pale-faced and hollow-eyed.
She looked at the Mountain.
At Qyburn's corpse.
At the devastation surrounding her.
Her lips moved silently, as though asking the gods:
Why?
Why did everything become like this?
I only wanted power.
I only wanted to escape Father's control.
Why do the gods never let me have what I want?
No one paid attention to her silent despair.
Odin calmly adjusted his clothes.
His outfit had been torn in several places during the battle, stained with blood and dust.
Then he walked toward the exit.
Just before leaving, he paused and glanced back at Tywin.
"Lord Tywin."
Tywin opened his eyes.
"What now?"
"Nothing important."
Odin smiled faintly.
"Just a reminder."
"Don't forget to prepare a generous gift."
"The grand opening of the arena, combined with a trial by combat of this scale… surely the Hand of the King should show some support."
"Oh, and preferably gold."
"You know how valuable gold has become during wartime."
With that, he pushed open the door and left.
His footsteps gradually faded into the sound of rain.
Silence consumed the chamber once more.
After a long while, Tywin slowly rose and walked toward the window.
The rain had weakened into a soft drizzle.
Though the night remained dark, the faintest hint of dawn had begun to appear in the east.
"Father…" Cersei finally whispered, voice trembling.
Tywin did not turn around.
"Silence."
The single cold command instantly shut her mouth.
The Hand of the King continued gazing out over the city.
Then—
slowly—
an unreadable smile appeared on his lips.
"Odin…"
"So you are not truly invincible after all."
His voice was so soft that only he himself could hear it.
"At the moment steel comes for your flesh…"
"You dodge too."
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