The Monster's breath came harsh and ragged, yet Gregor forced his wounded body upright. The muscles in his neck bulged against the crushed rim of his helm. Blood coursed from the gash Arthur had carved, from the spear wound, from the crushed dent in his helm. Too much blood for any man to stand.
Yet Arthur knew it was still not enough for the Mountain.
Oberyn circled, spear sweeping low in a warning arc. "Say her name!!!"
Gregor's only answer was a thick, wordless growl of anger and pain. Gregor was fully maddened now. There would be nothing that could stop him. The Mountain suddenly stood up faster than they had expected and hit Sandor right across his helmed jaw. The sound of the hit echoed through the arena. Sandor staggered, flew, and fell flat on the mud.
Gregor turned his helm, slow and ominous, toward the prince, and swung his greatsword toward anyone near enough to kill. The Mountain lunged, mud erupted beneath his boots as he charged and kicked Oberyn hard, knocking the viper far away.
Then the Monster set his eye on Arthur. The last man standing.
Arthur shifted and dodged, refusing to be caught flat-footed, all the while trying to find an opening. This was no contest any longer. Now he had to survive.
Arthur's heart hammered in his throat, but his grip on Nightfall held steady. Yet he could taste something on his tongue, whether it was blood or fear, Arthur could not say.
Arthur braced and lifted Nightfall high, the dark steel singing in the cold air. His Valyrian blade met the sharp edge of Gregor's greatsword again and again, sparks flickering where steel met steel.
Arthur's arms burned from the effort, but he kept parrying, twisting, and dodging. He did all that he needed to do to avoid death and survive, all the while trying to force the Mountain to overreach, to expend some of that impossible strength. Every strike Arthur blocked, every calculated step backward, he felt the rhythm of this fight settle in his bones.
Meanwhile, Gregor Clegane moved effortlessly through pain that should've crippled him. Pain that would have brought down even the strongest knigts. Yet the Mountain kept swinging, and he swung again, wide and heavy, his greatsword cleaving through the muddy ground with a thunderous crash.
Arthur barely rolled aside from the blow, Nightfall scraping the dirt as he countered with a low swing aimed at the Mountain's knee. The blade bit through the armor, drawing a small drop of blood and a single grunt from the Mountain.
Arthur's breath came in short, ragged gasps, each inhale a battle in itself. All that effort for a drop of blood, he thought.
Too strong. Too fast. Too relentless. He forced the thought aside.
Strategy, not strength, would win this day. Arthur had to hold the Mountain back, tire him, push him to the brink of madness. Every swing, every parry, every narrowly avoided strike served that end. As long as he stayed calm in the fight, Gregor would eventually lose.
Gregor noticed the slight weakening of his blade. The greatsword of his was denting against the Valyrian steel through sheer force of each clash. Arthur hoped the beast would not notice it, but no matter how much of a brute he was, Gregor was still a seasoned killer in the end. It was folly to expect anything else from him.
Gregor's eyes narrowed with sudden understanding that soon his blade would be split in half. As the realization dawned on him, the Mountain started to swing even harder. Arthur gritted his teeth and braced, forcing Nightfall between him and the storm.
"You'll have to do better than that, Beast!" Arthur said, eyes locked on the glinting steel and red-hot hatred in Gregor's gaze.
Gregor roared in response, his foot catching Arthur across the chest.
Arthur's breastplate creaked ominously under the weight of the impact, the force reverberating along his ribs like a hammer. Pain flared, sharp and white-hot, the world wobbled for a heartbeat; metal groaned, and then a thud.
Arthur tasted blood on his lips, bitter and metallic. The ground was churned to mud beneath him, yet Nightfall still felt alive in his hands.
Gregor's roar rent the air, a sound of sheer rage that shook the arena and sent shivers through the crowd. Arthur could hear the screams, the gasps, the frantic cries of the ladies in the stands, but all of it faded to a dull hum against the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Arthur barely noticed Gregor's presence looming over him, and almost instinctively, Arthur's knees bent as he rolled through the mud, narrowly avoiding the Mountain's descending sword. The air sang with the force of Gregor's swings, each one capable of shattering bone.
When the hulking knight tried to crush Arthur beneath his boots, he twisted again, feeling the thud of armor against ground instead of skull.
Springing to his feet, Arthur let the momentum carry him forward, blade poised. He angled Nightfall toward the back of Gregor's knees, driving the edge through thick gambeson. Arthur felt the cut through his arms, the shudder of flesh, the resistance of boiled leather giving way.
Nightfall slid free in a fine spray of red. Gregor roared, a sound half‑man, half‑beast, and lurched forward onto both knees. Mud splashed around him as he crashed down, one gauntleted hand sinking into the wet earth to keep from pitching face‑first.
Arthur did not pause. He darted in again, swift as a striking hawk. Nightfall rose in a black arc and came down just beneath the gorget. Steel hissed. Blood burst outward in a hot, crimson sheet. Gregor's helm toppled free and rolled across the ground, clattering against the stones.
The crowd stirred, a mixture of gasps and shouts, sensing the shift in the battle. Arthur's heart pounded, but his mind was ice-cold.
For the first time, Arthur saw the man's face, purpled with fury, veins bulging, eyes wild. A monster made flesh, but a wounded one. Gregor's breath came ragged, wet. His massive frame swayed, threatening to collapse entirely.
Yet Arthur kept his distance, blade ready, keeping his guard high, eyes locked on the creature before him. Every movement, every breath, counted. One misstep, and the Mountain could crush him without mercy. Men had died for their pride before, and he would not be one of them.
Gregor's fingers clawed at the air, trying to push himself upright again. They trembled. Slid. His strength, legendary and near inhuman, was bleeding out onto the mud.
Arthur's heart hammered in his chest. Nightfall felt heavy with promise. One stroke, one motion, and it would end here. Justice. Vengeance. The righting of a hundred wrongs.
The world seemed to narrow to nothing but the space between them, the blood‑slick ground, the trembling hulk of Gregor Clegane on his knees.
He wanted to kill him. Gods, he wanted it. It would be so easy.
The crowd found its voice then, an uproar that rolled across the tourney grounds like a breaking storm.
"Kill him!"
"Kill him! Kill him!"
"KILL! KILL! KILL!"
Stomping feet, fists pounding wood, a fever spreading through thousands. Women shrieked the words like a prayer. Men bellowed them as if calling for a sacrifice. Even guards leaned forward from the rails, hungry for the end of the beast.
Arthur felt it in his bones, the pull of the crowd, the desire to give them what they demanded. Nightfall seemed to hum in his grip, eager, alive. He could end the Mountain here, in the sight of gods and men, while the realm cheered his name.
But something colder wound through his thoughts. His promises. The plan. The spectacle of proper justice, not slaughter in the mud.
Gregor wheezed, trying once more to rise. His blood pooled around him, steaming, thick. He was a wounded titan and still dangerous.
Arthur raised a hand, slow and deliberate, and his men moved as one.
Crossbows rang out, the twang of string snapping through the air, bolts thudding into Gregor's massive shoulders, arms, and thighs. The Mountain's roar split the sky, a sound of pure fury and agony, echoing across the tourney grounds. The hulking monster stumbled, staggering against the weight of pain.
Arthur's men, chains coiled and hooks ready, surged forward. They struck quickly, looping iron around Gregor's limbs, yanking tight until the chains bit into his flesh. The Mountain struggled, each movement straining against the bindings, but the iron held fast. His knees buckled, his shoulders sagged, and finally, he collapsed, bellowing, impotent in his fury.
The chains rattled, his roar softened to a groan, and for the first time in the arena, the Mountain was at the mercy of others. Crossbow quarrels still protruded from the brute's shoulders and arms, shafts splintered or bent under the force of his struggles.
Arthur watched the two men, one a prince aflame with righteous fury, the other a scarred hound clawing for scraps of long‑rotted justice, stand over the broken colossus they had hunted for years in their hearts.
Oberyn bent close, so close his breath fogged the blood spattered across Gregor's cheek. His voice slid out like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
"I shall return you each and every bit of agony you gave my sister and her children, a Thousandfold!" he whispered, lips curling. "From this moment until your death, the agony will remain. And when death comes for me too, I shall descend to the deepest hells to find you again, and there I shall keep killing you over and over again."
Sandor stood over his brother as a gallows stands over a condemned man. His voice was rough, low, "I know what hell is like, the heat, the burning, and the pain, all thanks to you," he muttered. "And now you will know it too, brother. When the time comes, the fire will claim you whole. I will piss on your ashes then, and revenge would be mine."
For a heartbeat, Arthur let the moment breathe. Let vengeance hiss its poison. Let his allies take what little balm this victory offered. Then he tightened his grip on Nightfall and stepped forward, command settling over him like armor.
"That is enough," Arthur said, voice calm yet hard as iron. "Take him away."
His men moved at once, crossbows still trained, chains pulled taut. Hooks dug deeper into gambeson and flesh as they wrestled the Mountain's bulk into motion. Gregor bellowed once, more anger than pain, but the sound was hollow now, robbed of its terror.
Arthur turned away before the beast was fully hauled. To him, the work ahead mattered more than watching the giant being dragged like a felled ox.
He walked toward the high box where lords and ladies leaned forward, pale and wide‑eyed, unsure whether they had witnessed. Mud streaked his armor. Blood clung to Nightfall's dark steel. His ribs throbbed where the Mountain's kick had nearly caved them in, but Arthur ignored the pain.
Arthur's chest rose and fell beneath his breastplate as he watched the king's gaze lock onto him, wide with awe and some relief, tempered by the roar of the crowd that still echoed from the arena. The queen's glare cut across the field like a sharpened blade, her eyes dark with barely restrained fury. Lord Eddard Stark's expression was more measured, a mixture of relief and wariness.
The crowd's cries faded into murmurs, whispers of awe and fear. The tournament ground, once a field of chaos and steel, now felt sacred in its terrible silence. Arthur set his helm upon the pommel of his poleaxe, revealing his face to the assembly. Silence swept the arena as if the very air waited with bated breath.
"Your grace," he said, voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. "I, Arthur of House Manderly, son of Ser William Manderly, charge the false knight Gregor Clegane with breaking the King's peace and attacking me with intent to kill. I demand his life as is my right by honor, by blood, and by law. I shall leave his fate in your hands, and in the hands of the gods. Will you give me the justice… or shall I take it myself?"
A hush fell, broken only by the distant clatter of the chains that bound the Mountain. Arthur's gaze swept across the field, noting Oberyn's simmering anger, Sandor's tense patience, and the crowd's shuffling unease. He saw the fear in some noble eyes and the awe in others, the way men and women alike recognized the gravity of what had been wrought before them.
Then King Robert rose, towering as always, his voice booming across the arena and carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.
"Take Gregor Clegane away!" the king shouted. "Keep him restrained. We shall put him to trial as soon as he stands!"
Arthur sheathed Nightfall slowly, letting the Valyrian steel slide into the scabbard with a soft whisper. The first act was complete. Now it was time to drag out the truth that dwelled in the darkness for a long time, into the light.