The Mountain was soon heaving, his massive lungs pumping like bellows while the heat radiating from his plate armor became visible in the air. He was a titan fighting a ghost.
Sansa watched with wide, crystalline eyes. Her fear had been replaced by a fierce, soaring pride. She didn't look at the monster; she looked at Alaric.
She saw him sitting there—relaxed, dominant, his hand resting possessively near her.
Finally, Gregor let out a gargle of rage, overextending on a massive overhead strike that buried his greatsword a foot deep into the earth. It was the opening Alaric had waited for.
The Blood Scout surged forward, dropping low to the ground, and delivered two surgical, precision kicks to the back of Gregor's ankles—the vulnerable gaps in the plate where the tendons were exposed. The sound of snapping bone and buckling steel echoed across the silent grounds as the giant collapsed.
CRACK.
The sound of the Mountain's collapse was like a siege tower toppling. Gregor's knees didn't just bend; they buckled under the impossible strain, sending him crashing forward into the filth.
His armor hit the ground with a deafening, discordant ring that echoed across the silent lists. He lay there, face-down in the mud and the blood of the boy he had just murdered, struggling like a flipped beetle beneath the weight of his own "impenetrable" steel.
The silence that followed was absolute. A common servant had brought the most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms to his knees without breaking a sweat.
Alaric slowly turned his head toward the Royal Pavilion. Cersei Lannister's face was a mask of ugly, contorted fury. Her perfect composure had shattered, replaced by the raw, jagged realization that her mad dog had been publicly neutered.
Alaric caught her gaze and let a slow, deliberate smirk spread across his face—the exact, mocking expression she had worn moments before.
System Notification: Objective Complete
Reward: +1,000 Monarch Points.
Current MP: 5,932
Margaery Tyrell leaned back, her eyes darting between the defeated Mountain and Alaric.
Alaric rose, his hand sliding from Sansa's as he turned to leave the stands.
"I believe the lesson is over," he said.
"A well-played hand, Lord Alaric," Margaery replied. Her voice held a new note of respect. "But you've made an enemy of the Queen. In this city, humiliation is paid back with poison."
Alaric did not blink. "Was she ever not my enemy? And my blood has buried worse than her tricks."
Margaery said nothing. The warmth she wore so easily fell away, replaced by a cool, measuring calm. She watched him the way one watches a sleeping dragon—with respect, and the uneasy sense that the order of King's Landing had just shifted.
What he had done to Gregor Clegane without even rising from his seat made the knights around them.
She looked at her brother Loras, who was staring at the mud-stained Mountain in shock, and then back to Alaric.
"The sun is high, and the air here is foul," Alaric said, his voice a low, steady rasp. "Lady Sansa, Arya... it is time to return to the Tower."
Sansa rose with a stiff, regal grace, her hand instinctively finding Alaric's arm for support, she didn't look back at the Mountain or the Queen. Her gaze was fixed solely on the man beside her.
Arya followed, clutching Needle with white-knuckled intensity, her eyes darting between Alaric and the literal shadow where Nyx lay hidden.
He led them through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea. Commoners whispered his name, and knights turned their heads in a mix of fear and envy. He could feel Cersei's eyes burning into his back, but with nearly 6,000 MP, the Queen's fury felt as insignificant as the buzzing of a fly.
As they reached the relative safety of the Tower of the Hand, Margaery's final words echoed in the air. She had turned to Sansa at the last moment, her voice a melodic lilt that pushed back the metallic tang of the tourney grounds.
"Sansa," Margaery had said, her fingers briefly touching the girl's hand like an olive branch.
"The air here is too thick with blood. My grandmother, the Lady Olenna, is hosting a small supper tonight in our gardens. It is away from the prying eyes of the court, where we can speak as women, not symbols. I would be honored if you joined us. And of course," she added, her green eyes flicking to Alaric with a spark, "you must bring your Mr Alaric."
"The Lady Sansa would be honored to accept, My Lady," Alaric replied, his voice a low, steady rasp.
"A garden is a fine place for a conversation, provided one knows which roses have the sharpest thorns."
Margaery let out a delighted, silver laugh. "Oh, Alaric, I think you'll find our thorns are much more polite than the ones you've encountered today." She stood, her silks rustling as she gave the ward a final, lingering look before disappearing into the crowd toward the Tyrell pavilion.
...
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Blackwater in shades of bruised purple and gold, Alaric escorted Sansa and Arya to the Tyrell manse.
The air here was different—sweetened by hundreds of imported jasmine plants and cooled by marble fountains.
The manse was a world of suffocating sweetness, a far cry from the sharp, honest cold of Winterfell. Lanterns hung from ancient trees like trapped stars, casting flickering amber light over marble paths.
Margaery didn't waste time. She slipped her arm through Sansa's with practiced sisterly affection. "Come, Sansa. The moon-lilies are in full bloom. They are far more interesting than men talking of war and horses." She glanced back at Arya, who was eyeing the high-priced topiary as if searching for a place to hide a blade.
"Arya, darling, the Septa mentioned your interest in the archives. My steward can show you the records of the Reach—we have several illustrated volumes on the flowers."
Septa Mordane beamed, won over by the hospitality. "How thoughtful, My Lady. Come, Arya."
Arya looked ready to protest, but a sharp glance from Alaric silenced her. She followed the Septa, her hand never drifting far from Needle's hilt.