The whole thing took maybe three seconds.
Oberyn stared as Lorch's head exploded inside the Mountain's iron gauntlet. Brain and blood bloomed like some grotesque flower.
Seventeen years of waiting. Seventeen years of hate. Seventeen years of the same nightmare every time he closed his eyes.
All the control, all the careful planning—shattered in an instant.
"AAAAAHHHH!!!"
Oberyn roared and launched himself forward like a striking snake. The dagger was already in his hand, blade gleaming with that sickly purple sheen. Poison from the deepest deserts of Dorne, mixed with something darker from the Shadow Lands. One cut and you saw your worst fears before you died screaming.
He was fast. Even past forty, the Red Viper still moved like death itself.
But someone was faster.
Coreyon stepped in from the side. No flourish. No wind-up. Just a clean draw and a horizontal cut.
CLANG!!!
The crash of steel on steel rang through the hall.
Oberyn's poisoned blade was knocked aside at the last moment. The force jarred him backward. He caught himself after two steps and glared at the man standing between him and the Mountain.
Vito Coreyon.
Rain-slicked hair clung to his forehead. His sword was steady, his face blank. He stood with his back to the Mountain, facing Oberyn.
"Move," Oberyn snarled.
"Not now," Coreyon answered calmly.
"He just murdered a witness!" Oberyn's voice rose. "In front of the Small Council! In front of the fucking king!"
"I know," Coreyon said. "That's exactly why you don't do this. It's against the law."
"When, then?!" Oberyn was almost screaming. "After he kills every witness and buries the truth for another seventeen years? I'm done waiting, Coreyon. I'm going to kill that bastard right now!"
Coreyon didn't answer. He just looked at Oberyn with those dark, unreadable eyes—like he was watching a noisy child throw a tantrum. At the same time, his peripheral vision stayed locked on the monster behind him.
The Insight skill he'd bought with Tyrion's ten thousand dragons was running at full power.
He could see the muscles under Gregor's armor swelling and contracting at impossible speed. The heart was pounding like a war drum—well over two hundred beats a minute. Normal men didn't do that.
"Something's wrong with him," Coreyon warned quietly.
Oberyn wasn't listening anymore.
"Last time," the Dornishman said, ice in his voice. "Move."
Coreyon lifted his head. His eyes were calm. Almost cold.
"You want to die?"
Oberyn laughed. It was a wild, ugly sound full of seventeen years of rage.
"I want to kill him."
"You can't. Not right now. He's different from the last time we fought outside the Sept."
While Coreyon tried to talk him down, the Mountain's eyes were getting redder.
He remembered this man.
The sword that had sliced across his throat. The pain when his tongue was cut out. He remembered all of it.
And the one who had done it was standing right in front of him with his back turned.
A low growl rumbled from Gregor's throat. It didn't sound human.
His massive right hand closed around the hilt of his greatsword. The blade was as wide as a man's palm and longer than five feet. Even through the gauntlet, the leather-wrapped grip felt solid.
SHING!!!
The greatsword came free.
Gregor dropped into a crouch, then exploded forward. The sword came around in a simple, brutal horizontal cut. No technique. Just raw power and speed that no human body should have been able to produce.
Everyone in the room saw the same thing: Coreyon getting split in half, guts and blood spraying across the floor like what had just happened to Lorch.
Coreyon saw it too.
Too fast. At least twice as fast as their last fight.
At the last possible instant his Basic Swordsmanship skill kicked in. He leaned back just far enough. The blade missed his face by a hair. He felt the wind of it sting his skin.
"Interesting."
Coreyon gave ground, eyes flicking toward Qyben for a split second. The old man had done something to the Mountain. Turned an already terrifying killer into something worse. This wasn't medicine anymore. This was something else.
SHING.
Coreyon's own sword came out clean and quiet compared to the Mountain's roar. The steel was fine work from Tobho Mott—nothing like Valyrian steel, but the best the Seven Kingdoms had to offer right now.
He settled into a textbook guard, knees bent, weight centered. The stance felt natural. Like breathing.
Only then did the rest of the room seem to realize what was happening.
Mace Tyrell screamed and scrambled for the corner, putting twenty feet between himself and the fight.
Grand Maester Pycelle dropped to his knees, hands over his head, ass in the air, chanting "Gods save us, gods save us."
Tywin Lannister stayed in his chair. His green eyes showed nothing. He was waiting to see if Coreyon really was as untouchable as he had claimed that night.
The Mountain didn't stop.
He spun with the missed swing and brought the greatsword up from below, aiming for Coreyon's midsection. The change of direction was shockingly fast for such a huge weapon.
Coreyon didn't retreat. He stepped in at a sharp angle, pivoted on his heel, and slid forward. The blade passed over his head and sheared off a few strands of hair.
Then, as the greatsword reached the end of its arc, Coreyon rose and struck.
His sword was fast.
The point drove into the inner side of the Mountain's left knee—right where the plate was weakest and the weight rested.
SHUNK.
The blade sank in.
Coreyon's brow tightened. The feel was wrong. Not flesh. More like tough, elastic leather. Or rubber.
Gregor didn't even flinch. His leg stayed planted like stone. Those bloodshot eyes stared through the visor. Another growl. The greatsword rose again.
This time the attacks came in a storm.
Down. Across. Sweep. Rising cut.
The huge blade moved like it weighed nothing, carving black arcs through the air, turning the space around Coreyon into a killing zone. Every swing carried enough force to cut a horse in half.
Coreyon moved through it.
Clean. Precise. Efficient.
He dodged. Sometimes he tapped the blade aside with his own sword, redirecting instead of blocking hard. He couldn't afford to meet that strength head-on. The Mountain was hitting at least twice as hard as before. Maybe more. The wind of each missed swing made Coreyon's cloak snap.
This was wrong.
Coreyon watched while he fought. Insight was pushed to the limit. He could see the muscle fibers firing, the armor joints moving, the breathing rhythm.
And the problems.
Gregor's attacks were fast and powerful, but they were simple. The same four basic patterns over and over. No real swordsmanship. Just a machine following a program.
That didn't make sense. Gregor Clegane was a brutal fighter, but he wasn't stupid. He shouldn't be this rigid.
Then one heavy overhead strike missed and smashed into the stone floor.
BOOM!!!
The flagstones shattered. A web of cracks spread out. The whole council chamber seemed to shake.
The noise brought guards running. Three Kingsguard and a squad of gold cloaks burst in, but Tywin only raised a hand. They stopped.
Coreyon used the opening. He lunged again, this time aiming for the eye slit in the visor.
Gregor jerked his head aside.
Coreyon's blade was faster. The point slipped past the edge of the helm and into the gap between helmet and neck.
Wrong feel again. Not bone and meat. Something thick and leathery soaked in oil.
Coreyon yanked his sword back.
A thin line of black liquid followed the blade. Not blood. Thick, dark, almost like crude oil. It smelled like rotting meat and herbs.
Gregor paused for a heartbeat.
His left hand rose and touched the wound. Black fluid coated his fingers. He looked at it, then lifted his head and stared at Coreyon.
Something in those red eyes clicked.
"ROOOOAAAAR!!!"
The sound that tore out of him wasn't human. It was pain and rage and something worse.
His body started shaking violently. Armor joints ground together. Muscles spasmed and swelled under the plate.
Then he moved again.
Faster. More savage.
The greatsword became a black storm, hacking and slashing with no pattern, every blow thrown with full strength like he wanted to tear the entire Red Keep down.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Stone floors cracked. Deep gouges appeared in the walls. The long table was cut in half. Papers and ink flew everywhere. Shrapnel sprayed like bullets.
Mace Tyrell and Pycelle hid behind pillars. Kingsguard rushed to shield Tommen in the corner.
Coreyon danced through the storm.
His sword skill was at its peak. He could almost feel where each blade would go before it arrived. He slipped past killing blows by inches. When he counterattacked he aimed for the weak points in the armor—joints, neck, armpit.
It barely mattered.
Gregor was too strong. Too fast. He didn't seem to feel pain at all. Every hit that drew black fluid only made him angrier and more violent.
"This isn't working," Coreyon thought.
His stamina was draining. The Mountain fought like he had no limit.
Worse—the attacks were getting smarter. The patterns were changing. The machine was learning.
Coreyon's eyes went cold.
When the next heavy overhead missed, he didn't dodge sideways. He stepped straight in, almost into Gregor's chest. Too close for the greatsword to swing properly. The Mountain's own size became a problem.
Gregor reacted instantly. He let go of the sword with his left hand and threw a crushing punch at Coreyon's head.
Coreyon ducked under it.
His sword came up from below, aimed at the eye slit again.
This time he put everything into it.
The blade punched through the narrow opening, sank deep, kept going until half the sword was inside the helm.
Gregor froze.
His left fist stopped an inch from Coreyon's temple.
The whole room held its breath.
Coreyon's sword had gone through the Mountain's eye. Or at least through the visor and into whatever was behind it. The point was sticking out the back of the helmet. Black fluid dripped from the tip.
Gregor stood perfectly still. The one remaining red eye stared straight ahead, the light in it fading.
"Is… is it over?" Mace Tyrell whispered from behind his pillar.
"Go check!" Cersei ordered.
Qyben wiped sweat from his bald head and hurried forward.
But before he reached the Mountain, the huge left hand that had been frozen in the air slowly closed around the sword blade sticking out of the visor.
CRACK!!!
The sword snapped.
Coreyon stumbled back, staring at the broken half still in his hand.
Gregor used two fingers to pull the remaining piece out of his face. More black liquid poured out. When the metal finally came free it made a wet, grinding sound that set teeth on edge.
He dropped the broken blade.
Then he reached up, grabbed the bottom edge of his visor, and tore.
Metal screamed.
The entire faceplate came off in his hand.
What was underneath wasn't a face anymore.
Dark gray skin. Thick black veins bulging like worms across the surface. The left eye was a gaping hole still leaking black fluid. The mouth had been torn open all the way to the ears, revealing jagged, shark-like teeth.
"Gods above…" Mace Tyrell moaned and collapsed.
Pycelle fainted on the spot.
Even Cersei looked genuinely afraid for the first time.
Qyben, though—he was trembling with excitement. He took a step closer, eyes shining.
"Perfect… it's perfect… this is true transformation. Beyond human weakness. Something higher—"
He never finished.
The Mountain turned that single burning red eye on him.
Qyben's excitement died. Fear took its place. He tried to step back.
Too late.
Gregor moved like a blur. One huge hand closed around Qyben's throat and lifted him off the ground like a doll.
Qyben kicked and clawed at the iron fingers. His face turned red, then purple. His eyes bulged.
"Put him down!" Cersei screamed. "Gregor, I command you—put him down!"
The Mountain looked at her.
For one second the red eye stayed on her face.
Then the ruined mouth split into a grotesque, jagged smile.
CRACK.
The sound of a neck breaking was almost gentle.
Qyben went limp.