"I know he's still alive," Oberyn continued, his voice thick with obsessive hatred. "Ser Coreyon nearly killed him outside the Sept. Cut out his tongue. But the bastard survived. I know he's in the Red Keep's sickroom right now, getting patched up by the maesters."
He stepped forward, eyes locked on Tywin.
"I demand Gregor Clegane be brought here. Let him stand face to face with this man. Let's hear what two men who once carried out orders together in the Red Keep have to say to each other."
Silence.
Long, heavy silence.
Only the rain kept tapping against the windows, drilling into everyone's nerves.
Tywin Lannister slowly lifted his head.
His gaze slid past Oberyn and settled on Coreyon.
The knighted farmer stood perfectly calm, as if none of this had anything to do with him.
Tywin knew better.
This was all Coreyon's doing.
Finding Lorch. Torturing him. Dragging him to King's Landing. Parading him in front of the council so Oberyn would be forced to demand a confrontation.
Every step calculated. Every move designed to back Tywin into a corner.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," Tywin said at last, each word like it had been pried out of stone. "He is currently in the Red Keep's infirmary. Gravely wounded. Unable to move. Unable to speak."
"And for that," he added, "we can thank Ser Coreyon."
"He cut out Clegane's tongue outside the Sept. Broke several ribs. Left sword wounds in his chest and joints that should have killed him."
His tone stayed even, almost conversational.
But Cersei's eyelashes fluttered when she heard the Mountain's name.
Oberyn didn't react. He kept his lazy sprawl, but his dark eyes were sharp as daggers.
"Gravely wounded?" he said with a cold laugh. "That was over half a month ago, Lord Tywin. With the Red Keep's maesters and Lannister gold, the man should be walking by now. Unless…" He let the pause stretch. "Unless House Lannister can't even be bothered to treat one of its own knights properly."
The direct insult made Tywin's brow twitch.
Before he could answer, Coreyon spoke up, voice quiet but clear in the silent hall.
"Funny thing," he said. "While I was in Flea Bottom, I heard some interesting rumors."
He let go of Lorch's arm and stepped forward.
Lorch's legs gave out. He crumpled to the floor like wet rags, but Coreyon didn't spare him a glance.
"Rumor says the Red Keep's been buying up huge amounts of poppy milk, spider paste, and healing herbs from the Summer Isles. Enough to treat a whole army's worth of wounded."
Coreyon drifted to the long table, fingers brushing the polished wood.
"I wonder… has the Red Keep seen any recent battles? Or is someone receiving very special treatment?"
His eyes flicked to Cersei.
The queen went rigid.
"Cersei," Tywin said, turning to his daughter. "Do you know anything about this?"
Cersei's throat worked. She wanted to speak. Couldn't.
She knew that look on her father's face. Had known it since she was a girl. The one that said: I already know what you did. Confess.
Yes. She had ordered Qyben to treat Gregor in secret. Because she needed him.
Joffrey was dead. Jaime was gone. Tyrion was still breathing. Her father's attention was fixed on the farmer who had somehow become a knight.
She needed a weapon that belonged only to her. Something strong. Obedient. Dangerous.
Gregor Clegane was that weapon.
If he died, she would have nothing left.
She had found Qyben by chance—an exile from the Citadel who openly talked about experimenting on corpses and using dark arts to heal. She hadn't cared how he did it. She only cared that Gregor lived and stayed useful.
She never imagined Coreyon would find out.
That damned farmer. How far did his eyes reach? How much had he heard?
If she could, she would have the Kingsguard cut him down where he stood. But she couldn't. Not after even her father had been forced to bend.
Now she had no power against him at all.
"I…"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ser Coreyon. The Red Keep keeps records. Check the ledgers if you like…"
"Ledgers can be faked," Coreyon said flatly. "Living men cannot."
He turned to Tywin.
"If you don't believe the rumors, Lord Tywin, we can go see for ourselves how badly wounded Ser Clegane really is. Or we can ask the Queen. She is mistress of the Red Keep. She should know the condition of every knight who serves her house."
Tywin's gaze returned to his daughter.
This time something new moved behind his eyes. As if he were finally seeing her clearly—seeing the foolish, desperate role she played in this game.
"Cersei," he said, voice empty of feeling. "I want the truth."
Her breathing turned shallow.
She wanted to lie. Knew she couldn't. Coreyon was too certain. If she lied and he proved it, her father would see her as nothing but a stupid little girl who couldn't even lie well.
No.
She was Cersei Lannister. Queen Regent. Daughter of Casterly Rock.
She forced the word out between her teeth.
"Yes."
Tywin looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded once.
"Very well."
He turned to the guards at the door.
"Bring Ser Gregor Clegane."
Two Lannister men bowed and left at a run. Their footsteps faded down the corridor.
The chamber fell silent again.
Everyone waited.
Time stretched thin.
The rain kept falling.
Then heavy footsteps approached.
Slow. Deliberate. Each one like a hammer striking stone. The sound carried weight that pressed on the lungs and made the skin crawl.
The door creaked open.
An old man in a stained gray robe entered first. Gaunt face, sunken eyes, a faint unsettling smile on his lips. Qyben bowed.
"Lord Tywin. Your Grace. My lords."
He stepped aside.
The figure that followed filled the doorway.
Black armor, specially forged and twice as thick as normal plate. Spikes at every joint. The three black dogs of House Clegane across the chest. Dark red stains that would never wash out.
A closed helm shaped like a demon's skull, with curved horns and a snarling dog's maw across the visor.
He had to duck to enter.
Shoulders wide as doors. Arms like tree trunks. Hands big enough to crush a man's skull like an apple.
The Mountain.
He moved slowly, each step heavy enough to make the floor groan.
But the worst thing was his eyes—visible through the narrow slit. Bloodshot, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. No reason left in them. Only raw, animal violence.
His gaze swept the room like a starving dog looking for something to tear apart.
Then it found Coreyon.
Killing intent flooded the air so thick it felt solid.
Gregor's body locked tight. His gauntleted hand clamped onto his sword hilt. A low, bestial growl rolled from his throat.
He took one heavy step forward. The floor protested.
"Clegane!"
Qyben's voice cracked like a whip.
Gregor stopped. Turned his head. The savagery in his eyes didn't fade, but something else flickered beneath it—obedience.
Qyben leaned in and murmured something.
Gregor's shoulders slowly lowered. His hand left the sword. But he kept staring at Coreyon, hatred burning so hot it looked ready to bleed.
No one in the chamber dared breathe.
Tommen had gone white. He shrank into his chair, both hands clamped over his mouth.
Oberyn rose at last.
He stared at the Mountain, seventeen years of rage burning in his dark eyes. His fingers brushed the poisoned dagger at his hip. Old sellsword instincts calculated angles and distance.
Coreyon caught his eye and gave a tiny shake of the head.
Oberyn let the dagger go.
"Gregor Clegane."
The Mountain turned. Confusion flickered behind the violence, as if he were trying to remember who this man was.
"Do you remember me?" Oberyn asked.
No answer. Only another low growl and a fresh glare toward Coreyon.
"Seems you've forgotten."
Oberyn turned to the trembling wreck on the floor and pointed at the Mountain.
"This man. Do you remember him?"
Amory Lorch was shaking so hard he could barely stay upright. His pants were soaked. He knew exactly what Gregor Clegane was capable of. If he spoke the truth in front of everyone, he was a dead man.
But then he looked up and met Coreyon's black eyes.
The memory of what had been done to him in the Harrenhal dungeons made him shudder.
"Yes… that's Ser Gregor Clegane. We called him the Mountain."
"Good," Oberyn said. "Then tell us what the two of you did together in the Red Keep seventeen years ago."
"He… he…"
"He killed Princess Elia. Raped her. Strangled her."
Oberyn's rage flared hotter.
"And then?!"
"Princess Rhaenys…" Lorch whispered. "I dragged her out from under the bed. She was screaming. Crying. I stabbed her. Over and over…"
He couldn't finish. His whole body shook. Tears and snot ran down his face.
He looked between the Mountain and Coreyon, trying to decide which monster would kill him more slowly.
Either way, he was finished.
Oberyn stepped closer. "Who gave the order? Who sent you to murder them?"
Lorch's eyes went to Tywin and stayed there.
Everyone in the room already knew the answer.
Tywin spoke before Lorch could.
"Ser Lorch. Think carefully. Seventeen years is a long time. Memory plays tricks. Are you certain of what you're about to say?"
The words sounded like concern.
They weren't.
Lorch looked at Coreyon again.
The black eyes gave nothing away. Only darkness. Speak. Say the name.
Lorch took a shaky breath. Something like resolve crossed his face.
"The order came from—"
A huge iron-gauntleted hand shot out and seized his head.
Time froze.
Lorch's eyes went wide. His mouth was still open, the word half-formed.
The hand clenched.
A wet, muffled pop.
Skull and brain matter burst inside the glove. Blood sprayed in a fan across the stone floor.
Gregor Clegane opened his fist.
The body dropped like a sack of grain. What was left of the head was a ruined, dripping mess.
Brain and blood ran between the iron fingers.
It had happened so fast no one had time to move.
Even Coreyon only narrowed his eyes.
Then Tommen screamed.
The boy bolted upright, hands over his eyes, shrieking in pure terror.
Mace Tyrell lurched to his feet so fast he knocked his chair over and staggered into the wall.
Cersei stood slowly. Her face was blank. She looked like someone watching a play she didn't care about.
Oberyn was the last to react. He turned to the Mountain, all urgency gone from his face. Only cold, bottomless hatred remained.
"You…"
His voice was raw. "You killed him."
Gregor turned his head. The eyes behind the visor were still wild.
He lifted the dripping gauntlet and casually wiped it across his armored thigh, like brushing away dust.
Then he tilted his head.
As if to say:
Yes.
I killed him.
So what?