Chapter 128: Artos, 'The Cruel Hand'
There were three things that made this trial different from every other proceeding the Red Keep had seen in years, and every lord walking into that hall knew it before a single word was spoken.
The first was that the king was not presiding.
Robert Baratheon, by every tradition and precedent, should have sat the Iron Throne while judgment was passed on a knight who had broken the sacred peace of a royal tourney.
But Robert had no patience for lengthy hearings, no love for the shit show that's about to happenand Artos had used exactly that weariness to his advantage. He'd asked it as a favor—simple, direct, the favour for not to sit in his son's trial.
"Let me sit it," Artos had said. "You hate this sort of thing and I as a Hand sitting in it won't look weird and it's a Fair Trail. Lords won't say much about it."
Robert just sighed listening to this " This would have realm on its toes. I guess you can lead it after all you are the one who asked for this. I don't think Tywin would mind."
The second thing that made this trial different was the man being judged.
Gregor Clegane was not simply present in that hall. He was propped, more than seated, in a chair reinforced with iron bands, his massive frame draped in chains that would have crushed a lesser man's wrists. His skin had the strange, waxen sheen of something reconstructed rather than healed—patches of flesh too smooth in places, too dark and cracked in others, knitted together by means most men in that hall did not fully understand and did not wish to.
The third thing—and the one whispered about most, in corners and behind raised cups—was why and how the Mountain lived at all after that attack. It was a slim chance after all.
Three weeks earlier,
In a chamber deep beneath the Grand Maester's tower that smelled of vinegar and burnt herbs, Grand Maester Marwyn had stood over what remained of Gregor Clegane and asked the question that had been sitting on his tongue since Artos first came to him with the request.
"Why," Marwyn had said, not looking up from the ruined flesh before him, "would you have me heal the man who tries put a blade to your son? I would assume you want him dead. But here you are requesting me to alive him no matter the cost. I don't take you as a generous and good hearted Lord no offense, My Lord" Marwyn the Mage said that while knowing that wasn't supposed to be thing to say in a Lord face. But he wasn't afraid.
He is a oddball even in the Oldtown unlike Maester who has feeble bodies, Marwyn has a body of a Sellsword. And his whole reason of joining Citadel is research on Magic. Although he is shunned at Citadel by other Maesters thats why he is sent here in the end. Afterall the other Maesters are too rigid in thier thinking, they haven't seen things like Marwyn has. One of the things that made Artos interesting to him. He has heard a lot about this man and He could see what others couldn't. Artos is connected with the magic in a way that others aren't.
Marwyn thought about this and gets shivers just from that.
Artos had stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a cold Expressions on his face.
Artos scoffs at him."As if I would let him die like this after all dead men make poor examples," he said.
Marwyn's hands paused over the wound.
"I want him alive," Artos said, "so that when I kill him, every man who ever thinks to raise a hand against my family remembers exactly how it looked. A quick death is forgotten by the next full moon. This—" he gestured toward the ruin on the table, "—this, they will tell their grandchildren about."
Marwyn had studied him a long moment, something between fascination and unease flickering behind his sharp eyes. "I can make him alive again but it has a steep cost to hear , My Lord and it's not one Maester and Even Men look kindly upon ."
Artos looked at the man and remember what kind of man he Marwyn really is, after all what Artos spies gathered wasn't a normal Maester behaviour at all but Artos didn't mind it. He care little about methods but only the results as long as he didn't harm others Artos couldn't really give a fuck what methods he use." What's are you going to do?" He asked for the sake of formality
Marwyn laughed " It's a experiment, Let's just say that. It's kind of a taboo and restricted method and even looked down upon in Citadel."
"I want him unable to feel enough to beg for it. Do what your arts allow. Whatever price that requires of him, I care little." Artos said coldly
And so Marwyn had gone to work with substances few maesters would admit to knowing, techniques that owed less to the Citadel's teachings and more to older, stranger practices he'd gathered across his years in the Free Cities and even Cities close to Asshai. What emerged from that chamber weeks later was not the same Gregor Clegane who had once swung a greatsword at a boy half his size for sport.
He no longer screamed when struck. He barely bled correctly. His voice, when it came at all, emerged low and broken, more growl than words, as though something in the passage between throat and tongue had been rebuilt wrong on purpose. He was more monster now than man, and everyone who looked upon him in that trial hall understood, without needing to be told, that this monster has even become a bigger one.
The hall itself was packed tighter than any council session in recent memory.
Tywin Lannister sat with his spine rigid and his expression a mask carved from old contempt, flanked by members of his own household guard who had the good sense to stand very still and say nothing.
Mace Tyrell occupied a chair not far off, his daughter Margaery beside him, both watching with the careful blankness of people who had already decided which way the wind blew and were simply waiting to be proven right.
Robb stood near the front with Bjorn and Loras, the three of them dressed plainly but standing straighter than boys their age had any right to. Sansa sat further back, hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on Gregor Clegane's ruined face with an expression caught somewhere between horror and grim satisfaction.
Artos came in the Throne room and looked towards the ugly Throne, it wasn't the first time he is going to sit at it but this time it is going to be different.
Artos remembered his first time, he remembered it quite good and clear. The body of Mad King in the room and Kingslayer Jamie Lannister sitting on that throne. A regret in his life that he couldn't take the life of that mad man with his own hands.
Not Today.
Artos sat at The Iron Throne where the king would normally preside, though he wore no crown , but looked more of a King than Robert ever did but he made no pretense of being anything but what he was—the Hand, judging in the king's stead, He didn't care for the position Afterall he knows it easy to get someone rise and fall. He has done it in Westoros 16 years ago and Bravos a decade ago. So he knew quite well, it doesn't fucking matter so he doesn't ran after one.
He finally sat and checked at the crowd, he could see his family, Tyrells and Ofcourse Tywin Lannister and all other Small Council members. Though he made special attention to Tyrion knowing well he could be his next best asset in Capital after Ethan who has become Commander of the City Watch.
So without any Hesitation he started the Trial.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," Artos said, and his voice carried authority without needing to rise, "you stand accused here of attacking Ser Loras Tyrell during a sanctioned tourney, with malicious intent, in violation of the tourney's rules and the King's own peace. How do you answer?"
The sound that came from Gregor's throat might once have been a word. Now it was closer to a rasp, wet and broken, utterly without inflection. Whatever he intended to say, it emerged as noise, and several lords in the front rows visibly recoiled.
Tywin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He said nothing, but the fury in his stillness was its own kind of statement.
"Let the record show," Artos said, tone almost pleasant, "that the accused struggles to form words. A pity. I imagine there was quite a lot he might have wished to say, once. "
A ripple of quiet, uneasy laughter moved through parts of the hall—not from Tywin's allies, but from those who had waited a long time to see a Lannister-sponsored monster humbled in front of the realm.
But Artos didn't stop there, not at all
" Though I would have to admit you have gotten much more handsome than before."
He said to Mountain immediately murmurs went through the crowd, Afterall it is a Horrific Thing to say to someone who has his whole face scarred and blackened by Experiments. Mountain gotten scars from the swords and his face is furthered damaged by experiments done by Marwyn some forbidden magic to let him keep breathing, but it did have a side effects of not feeling pain.
The crowd felt Horrified not knowing to laugh or stay silent at that scandalous statement.
"Lord Tywin," Artos continued, turning his gaze deliberately, "does your house wish to speak in Ser Gregor's defense?"
Tywin's voice was even, controlled, though it carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "My house acknowledges that Ser Gregor's conduct at the tourney was… regrettable. However, I would remind this court that regret is not the same as malice, and a trial built on spectacle rather than evidence serves no one. So I would recommend that facts and evidence would be best to talk about"
"Spectacle you say," Artos repeated, almost thoughtfully. "Strange word to use, given how many witnesses saw your knight nearly cave in a boy's skull after the match was decided. I count perhaps more than two hundred lords, knights, and smallfolk present that day. That was the real spectacle. Though this one is far more entertaining" Artos playing with words, one of his best pastimes these days.
A murmur swept the hall. Tywin's hands, resting on the arms of his chair, curled slightly.
Loras stood then, unbidden, color high in his face. "I do not need two hundred witnesses to speak for me," he said. "I was there. I almost died to that blow from Back. It was not an accident of sport. If it was a challenge on the ground, I would have accepted it with a smile on my face but it was a attack behind my back, a attack without honour and dignity of a Knight in it."
"Sit, Ser Loras," Artos said kindly. "You've done your part simply by living to speak at all."
Loras sat, jaw tight, and beside him Robb's expression had gone carefully, dangerously neutral—the look of a boy learning, in real time, exactly how a room full of enemies could be dismantled with words alone.
The proceedings ground on for the better part of an hour—Tywin's men offering thin arguments about the chaos of tourneys, about misjudged blows, about a knight simply too strong to fully temper his strikes.
Artos dismantled each argument with the patient, almost lazy cruelty of a man who had already won and simply enjoyed watching his opponent flail before admitting it.
Though everyone knew that it was a done deal, Artos streched it provoking Tywin and his men again and again. He wanted to really get under his skin.
By the time the sun through the high windows had shifted from midday gold to the flatter light of afternoon, even the dumbest Lord had worn thin enough to see through the gimmick played by Artos against Tywin.
The hall had turned, decisively and audibly, against the man chained before them.
It was then that Gregor Clegane made the only move left to him.
He rose—or tried to, chains groaning against the effort—and from that ruined throat came something closer to words than he'd managed all day, forced out through sheer, brute will.
"Trial," he rasped. "By combat."
The hall went utterly silent.
Artos leaned back slowly in his seat, and though his expression remained composed, something in his eyes sharpened with unmistakable, private satisfaction. This—precisely this—was what he had wanted from the very moment he'd asked Marwyn to keep the beast breathing.
"Trial by combat," Artos repeated, letting the words settle over the hall like a held breath finally released. "It is his right, by ancient law, and I will not deny a man his rights, Finally some words I agree with spoken from that Rotten mouth."
Tywin's eyes had narrowed, calculating fast now, searching for the angle Artos had clearly already accounted for.
"You will have your trial by combat," Artos said, rising from the dais, voice carrying easily to every corner of the silent hall. "In two weeks' time. Prepare yourself, Ser Gregor, in whatever manner you believe will serve you best." His gaze swept briefly, deliberately, toward Tywin before returning to the chained ruin of a man before him.
"Though I would advise you to prepare for the worst." Artos in a serious tone " After all Death given by a Stark. The realm would remember it. The Last Stark Hand in the city has given the Realm Hour of the Wolf, I Artos Stark SON OF RICKARD STARK WILL GIVE YOU THE HOUR OF THE DEMON."
He said at last, announcing to the realm and his intentions bare naked.
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