Arthas's gaze fixed on the three hounds emblazoned upon the sigil stitched across the Mountain's chest. The creature of a man was in the midst of yet another arrogant speech, but Arthas cut him off without hesitation.
"A lord's duty is to protect," Arthas said coldly, his voice carrying across the gathered knights and smallfolk alike, "not to exploit."
He took a step forward, the faint frost beneath his boots crunching softly. "A lord who does not know how to respect his own subjects has no reason to exist."
Whether in Lordaeron or in Westeros, Arthas had never witnessed such shameless cruelty as that practiced by Gregor Clegane. Draining ponds dry just to seize every last fish, wringing grain and coin from peasants already on the brink of starvation—these acts were not clever governance. They were the habits of a brute who mistook fear for authority.
"Tyrion."
Arthas did not allow the Mountain even a breath to retort. He turned sharply to the dwarf standing at his side.
"Tell me," Arthas demanded, his voice rising, "what are the words of House Lannister?"
Tyrion Lannister, long accustomed to his younger brother's gentle temperament, straightened instinctively at the fury blazing in Arthas's eyes. He drew himself up as much as his short stature allowed and answered without hesitation.
"Hear Me Roar!"
The response rang out like a struck bell. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause—then the Lannister knights erupted as one. Longswords were raised high, steel catching the fading light, and a thunderous chorus followed:
"Hear Me Roar!"
"Hear Me Roar!"
The chant rolled across the road, echoing off hills and stone alike.
"Then, Ser Gregor Clegane."
Amid the roar of lions, Arthas leveled Frostmourne. The blade's edge pointed unerringly at the Mountain, who stood frozen, as though struck by a spell. Cold radiated from the sword in palpable waves; frost crept along the steel, and even Arthas's long golden hair seemed dusted with ice.
"Are you prepared," Arthas asked quietly, "to endure the lion's roar?"
"Arthas!"
The Mountain finally moved. He lifted his massive greatsword and began striding forward, each step heavy enough to shake the ground.
The knights Arthas had brought with him were no ordinary retainers. Every one of them had been trained personally under his command. To call them his personal guard would not have been an exaggeration.
At once, they urged their horses forward, forming a wall of steel and flesh between Arthas and the approaching giant. Their blades were raised, their eyes sharp and watchful. None doubted that if the Mountain made a single reckless move, he would be torn apart in moments.
"Let him through."
Arthas rested both hands upon Frostmourne's pommel, his tone flat yet absolute.
The knights obeyed instantly, parting to create a narrow path. Even so, their gazes never left Gregor Clegane, tracking every breath and twitch of muscle.
The Mountain ignored the murderous intent surrounding him. He halted before Arthas, then—slowly, deliberately—grasped his greatsword by the hilt with one hand and the blade with the other.
Before anyone could react, the enormous knight dropped to one knee.
"Lord Arthas Lannister," he said hoarsely, "son of Lord Tywin Lannister."
He raised the greatsword above his head with both hands, presenting it like an offering. His proud head bowed low.
"I am Gregor Clegane," he continued. "Son of Orn Clegane. Since my house swore fealty to House Lannister, we have been loyal hounds of the lion."
"All these years, I have guarded Lord Tywin and served House Lannister without hesitation. Before we set out, Lord Tywin entrusted me to you."
He clenched his jaw. "Lord Arthas, I do not know where I am wrong. But if Lannister says I am wrong, then I am wrong."
"I am willing to accept any punishment."
Silence fell like a shroud.
Arthas reached out and grasped the hilt of the massive greatsword. Even with his strength, lifting it one-handed strained his arm. He placed his left hand atop the pommel and raised the blade high above his head.
"Gregor Clegane, son of Orn Clegane," Arthas declared.
"I, Arthas Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, pronounce sentence."
The greatsword descended.
Many knights flinched, certain they were about to witness an execution. Instead, Arthas merely turned the blade and tapped the flat gently against the Mountain's head.
"Your sentence," Arthas said calmly, "is to return all seized grain to the subjects of your fief, and to waive their taxes for three full years."
"…What?"
Gregor's eyes flew open. He stared up at Arthas in disbelief, certain he had misheard.
Before he could speak, Arthas lowered the sword and extended a hand. Strong fingers closed around the Mountain's arm, pulling him steadily to his feet.
"Lord Arthas, I—"
"No need for words, Ser Clegane."
Arthas met his gaze directly, his eyes clear and unclouded. "The contributions of you and House Clegane to House Lannister are known throughout the Westerlands."
He placed a hand upon Gregor's shoulder, his grip firm and authoritative. "But as a lord, you are unfit."
"As punishment, after we return from our current affairs, your fief will be administered by Lord Tyrion for a time. When you have learned how to govern properly, it will be returned to you."
Even Gregor Clegane understood the weight of mercy when it brushed so close to death. He nodded heavily.
"I understand, Lord Arthas."
He accepted his greatsword back, remounted his horse, and added with grim determination, "I will gather every troublemaker in the Westerlands, clothe them in black, and send them north to guard the Wall."
"…I always thought you were a pedantic, false Lannister," Tyrion muttered as he approached Arthas, watching the Mountain ride away. "Much like Jaime."
He paused, then chuckled softly. "I was wrong. You're the one who resembles Father the most."
"Me?" Arthas scoffed. "Like Tywin? That old fox?"
"Who else?" Tyrion replied. "With a few words, you bent a monster like Gregor Clegane to your will and made him acknowledge you as heir to the Westerlands."
Arthas shook his head. "My way has nothing to do with him. I've simply learned that blind impulse often leads to disaster, no matter how noble the intent."
His gaze drifted, memories surfacing—Lordaeron, betrayal, Frostmourne. He rested a hand upon the sword's hilt, feeling neither temptation nor whisper now.
Tyrion studied his fourteen-year-old brother in silence, unsettled by the ancient weariness in those eyes.
"I don't know how you learned such wisdom so young," Tyrion said at last, then laughed. "But following you seems the safest gamble I've ever made."
He spurred his horse forward eagerly. "I've gained a fief, after all. Even if it's temporary, I'll make it prosper."
Arthas watched him go, pity flickering briefly across his face.
"Your hopes may be in vain, Tyrion," he murmured.
Behind them, a ragged peasant named Pyke fell to his knees, bowing deeply.
"Thank you, Lord Arthas," he said with trembling gratitude. "With a ruler like you, House Lannister will surely rise above all others."
Arthas mounted his horse and raised his whip toward the rising sun.
"It is late," he commanded. "Lannister knights—ride for King's Landing!"
Cheers erupted as red-cloaked riders thundered down the road.
Pyke watched them disappear, whispering a prayer.
"You are a true knight."
May the Seven guard your body.
May the old gods protect your soul.