Qyben's body hung limp, head lolling at a sick angle, eyes wide with terror and disbelief.
The Mountain tossed the corpse aside like garbage.
Then he turned back to Coreyon.
That single red eye locked on. A low growl rumbled in his throat—the sound of a beast that had just found fresh prey.
Coreyon stood where he was, broken sword still in his hand, face blank.
But he could feel it.
The Mountain had changed again.
Before, he had been a raging animal. Now he was something worse. A monster with no reason, no pain, no fear. Only the need to kill.
And he was faster. Stronger. More vicious than he had been minutes ago.
This was a problem.
Coreyon's mind raced through options.
A straight fight would be ugly. The Mountain's strength had already left the realm of normal men.
Run?
Not his style. And if he ran now, the untouchable image he had built would shatter.
So—
The Mountain came at him again.
This time he didn't bother with the sword. He used his hands.
A huge palm shot out, aiming to crush Coreyon's skull the same way he had crushed Lorch's.
Coreyon gave ground.
The Mountain followed like a shadow, swinging both arms in wild, crushing grabs. The attacks came in a nonstop storm. No breathing room. For something so massive, he moved with terrifying agility. Every step made the floor shake.
Coreyon weaved through the narrow space, using the broken sword to deflect when he had to. Each impact sent a jolt up his arm. The Mountain's strength was monstrous. Even a glancing block would have shattered an ordinary man's bones.
This couldn't last.
His stamina was draining fast. The Mountain fought like he would never tire.
Coreyon needed a weakness.
Insight Lv.4 ran at full power. His eyes scanned every inch—neck, joints, the ruined eye socket, the gaping mouth. Anything vulnerable.
Then he noticed it.
The armor over the Mountain's right chest was thicker than the rest. And every time he attacked, his left hand drifted toward that spot, almost protectively. Like he was guarding something important.
Coreyon's eyes narrowed.
"Enough."
The voice cut through the chaos.
The monster that had been lost in bloodlust actually stopped.
He turned his head slowly toward the sound.
Tywin Lannister stood at the far end of the long table, back to the rain-streaked window. Water had soaked his shoulder and golden hair, but he didn't seem to notice.
Hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, green eyes calm.
"I said enough," Tywin repeated. Quiet. Clear.
The Mountain stared at him.
That red eye stayed fixed on Tywin's face for a long time.
Everyone in the room held their breath.
Qyben was already dead. If the Mountain ignored Tywin's command and kept killing, no one in the chamber would leave alive.
Seconds dragged.
Finally the huge body relaxed slightly. Some old instinct of loyalty must have remained. The Mountain took one step back, lowered his head, and dropped to one knee in a crude show of obedience.
The twisted face was still full of violence, but at least the attack had stopped.
Coreyon lowered his broken sword. He didn't press the advantage. He knew what Tywin's voice meant.
The fight was over.
For now.
Tywin nodded, satisfied.
Then he looked at Coreyon.
"Ser Coreyon."
"Your sword work is impressive."
"But," he continued, voice turning colder, "this farce ends tonight."
He let the words settle, then swept his gaze across the room.
"There was an unfortunate incident during today's Small Council meeting. Ser Lorch suffered a sudden fit of madness and slandered Ser Clegane. Ser Clegane, in his distress, struck him down. A tragedy. But it ends here."
Oberyn finally found his voice.
"Ends here?"
The Dornishman was shaking—not from fear, but from seventeen years of rage finally boiling over.
"Tywin Lannister, are you blind? That thing murdered a man in front of the entire council! In front of the king!"
"I saw," Tywin said evenly. "But Ser Lorch is dead. Continuing this serves no one."
"No one?" Oberyn laughed. It was an ugly sound. "I don't want what serves people. I want justice. For my sister. For her children."
"Then what do you want?" Tywin asked. "To kill Ser Clegane? You're welcome to try, if you think you can."
He paused. "And then what? War between Dorne and the Westerlands? Another war that burns through the realm? Thousands more dead over something that happened seventeen years ago?"
"I understand your grief, Prince Oberyn."
"But you need to understand something. Seventeen years have passed. If you keep clawing at this wound, I doubt your brother Prince Doran would approve."
"Some things," Tywin said quietly, "need to be let go."
He took one step closer.
"House Lannister is willing to offer compensation to House Martell. Name your price."
"Compensation?"
Oberyn's voice cracked with disbelief.
"You want to buy my sister's life and her children's lives with gold? You think everyone can be bought, Tywin Lannister? You think honor and justice and blood debts can be settled on a ledger?"
The insult was direct. Almost spitting in Tywin's face.
Tywin didn't react. Not even a flicker.
He simply watched Oberyn for a long moment.
Then he spoke, voice low and heavy.
"So what do you want?"
It wasn't a question.
It was a challenge.
A final offer.
Say it. Name your price. Let's see if you can actually collect.
Candle flames popped. Rain hammered harder against the windows, like the gods themselves were weeping.
Coreyon spoke.
"Lord Tywin, I have a suggestion."
Every eye turned to him.
The man who had just been fighting for his life stood beside the ruined table, calmly wiping blood and grime from his hands with a clean cloth. His movements were unhurried, almost casual, as if the deadly fight had never happened.
He looked up at Tywin.
"Ser Gregor Clegane killed Ser Amory Lorch tonight. In front of the Small Council. In front of the king. That is a fact witnessed by everyone here. Whether Ser Lorch was lying or not, whether Ser Clegane had reason or not—murder is murder. Under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, the killer must face judgment."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "You want to put Clegane on trial?"
"Not me," Coreyon said. "The law does."
"Ser Gregor's actions tonight were a direct challenge to royal authority. An insult to this council. Disrespect to the king himself."
He glanced at the kneeling Mountain.
"Since Ser Clegane cannot speak or defend himself in a normal trial, we can let the gods decide his guilt or innocence through combat. Trial by combat."
Tywin's pupils tightened.
"You mean—"
"Trial by combat," Coreyon said clearly.
The chamber went quiet again.
Trial by combat.
The oldest and most sacred form of judgment in the Seven Kingdoms. The accused could prove his innocence with a sword. If the gods believed him innocent, he would win. If guilty, he would die.
No middle ground.
Tywin's mind worked fast as he looked at the kneeling giant.
"Ser Clegane cannot speak," he said slowly. "We cannot ask his wishes."
"But he can hear," Coreyon answered. "He can nod or shake his head."
Tywin was silent for a moment.
He studied Coreyon's calm face and those dark, bottomless eyes.
Then he turned to the Mountain.
"Ser Clegane."
The huge head lifted. The single red eye found Tywin.
"Do you accept trial by combat?"
The room held its breath.
The Mountain didn't answer right away. He knelt there, body trembling slightly, looking at Tywin, then at Coreyon, then at Qyben's corpse on the floor.
Finally, slowly, he nodded.
Tywin drew in a long breath.
"Very well. Since Ser Clegane chooses trial by combat, then—"
"I have one condition," Coreyon cut in.
"The trial must be public," he said, voice steady but every word landing like a hammer. "Let every noble and commoner in King's Landing see it. Let them all know that House Lannister respects the law, the old traditions, and the will of the gods."
"Agreed," Tywin said at once. "The trial will be held in the square before the Great Sept of Baelor, three days from now—"
"Five days," Coreyon interrupted again.
Tywin's brow furrowed.
"Why five days?"
"Because five days from now is the opening day of the Flea Bottom fighting pit."
Coreyon's voice stayed calm, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"Since we want it public, why not use a bigger venue? The fighting pit can hold at least two thousand spectators. Much larger than the square in front of the Sept. And it was built for combat. The perfect place for a trial by combat."
Tywin stared at him.
He understood now.
Everything.
Lorch's appearance. The Mountain's murder. The demand for trial by combat. The push to hold it five days later in the new fighting pit.
All of it was Coreyon's plan.
The man didn't care about old grudges or justice or even the dignity of the crown and House Lannister. He only cared about one thing.
He wanted to use this chaos to advertise the opening of his fighting pit.
Tywin felt a cold chill climb his spine.
For the first time he saw clearly how large Coreyon's ambition was. How ruthless his methods. How deep his calculations ran.
This man would trample anything—law, tradition, honor—if it served his interests.
He had used Dorne's hatred. Used House Lannister's difficult position. Used the authority of the Small Council. Turned everyone and everything into pieces on his board.
And Tywin had helped him do it.
Helped him gain power. Helped him earn a knighthood. Helped him reach the point where even the Hand of the King could no longer stop him.
Damn him.
Tywin closed his eyes and took a slow breath.
When he opened them, his face was once again a mask of cold calm.
"Very well," he said. "Five days from now. The Flea Bottom fighting pit. Trial by combat."
He paused. "But I have a condition of my own."
Coreyon raised an eyebrow.
"What condition?"
"You will not participate," Tywin said flatly.
The demand came out of nowhere.
But Coreyon understood immediately.
Tywin had watched the fight. He had seen what Coreyon could do with a sword. If Coreyon stepped into the arena, the Mountain would have almost no chance.
Tywin wanted him out.
"Why?" Coreyon asked, voice neutral.
"No reason," Tywin said. "That is my condition. Accept it and we do this your way. Refuse, and the trial happens in front of the Sept in three days."
He was betting.
Betting that Coreyon cared more about the fighting pit's grand opening than anything else.
Betting that Coreyon would compromise.
Coreyon was quiet for a moment.
He looked at Tywin. At the cold certainty in those green eyes.
Then he smiled.
"Fine," he said. "I won't fight."
That suited someone else perfectly.
"I will!"
Oberyn's voice boomed across the chamber. The Prince of Dorne stood glaring at the Mountain, eyes burning with hatred, mouth twisted into a savage grin.
"Good," Tywin said, satisfied.
Oberyn was volatile, ruled by personal desires. Having someone this dangerous and unpredictable in his Small Council was unacceptable. Better if the Mountain killed him during the trial. Then even Doran Martell couldn't complain.
After all, it would be the will of the gods.
"Five days from now," Tywin announced. "Flea Bottom fighting pit. Trial by combat. Ser Clegane's opponent will be Prince Oberyn Martell."
He let the words hang.
"May the gods bear witness to this judgment."
Oberyn laughed. Bright and sunny, but the cold promise in his eyes made the air feel colder.
He turned and walked toward the door. As he passed the kneeling Mountain he stopped.
"Enjoy these last five days, Clegane," he said softly. "Because when we meet again, I'm going to teach you what real pain feels like."
Then he was gone.
The chamber fell into dead silence.
Only the Small Council members, Coreyon, and the bodies on the floor remained. Cracks in the walls. The lingering smell of blood and violence.
Tywin sat in his chair and closed his eyes, gathering himself.
Cersei still stood where she was, face pale, eyes empty. She looked at the Mountain. At Qyben's corpse. At everything that had happened. Her lips moved without sound.
Why?
Why did it turn out like this?
I only wanted power. I only wanted to escape my father's control.
Why do the gods never let me win?
No one cared about her quiet despair.
Coreyon straightened his torn and bloodstained clothes, then walked toward the door.
Before he left, he paused and looked back at Tywin.
"Lord Tywin."
Tywin opened his eyes. "What now?"
"Nothing important," Coreyon said with a small smile. "Just a reminder. Don't forget to bring a generous gift."
"The fighting pit opening and a trial by combat on the same day? As Hand of the King, you should make a proper showing."
"Oh, and gold would be best," he added. "With the war going on, gold is worth quite a lot these days."
Then he pushed the door open and left.
Footsteps faded down the corridor until only the sound of rain remained.
The chamber was silent.
After a long time, Tywin stood and walked to the window.
The rain had eased to a light drizzle. The sky was still dark, but a faint line of light showed in the east. Dawn was coming.
"Father…" Cersei whispered, voice shaking.
Tywin didn't turn around. "Be quiet."
Cersei closed her mouth, resentment clear on her face.
Tywin kept looking out at the city. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved into something almost amused.
"Vito Coreyon…"
"So you're not impossible to kill after all."
His voice was barely audible.
"In the moment the blade touched you… you dodged."