The Small Council chamber was close and stale, the air thick with parchment dust and old secrets. Eddard Stark sat in the Hand's chair with his hands folded before him, listening, waiting, wishing it done. Justice waited elsewhere, chained and snarling, and he had no patience for ledgers and whispers while Gregor Clegane still drew breath.
Robert should have been here. A king ought to sit in judgment upon the Iron Throne. Instead he had left the city at dawn, laughing, talking of steel and banners, of mustering strength and meeting threats half a realm away. War was coming, Robert said. Holy war. Arthur's war. He would leave courts and quills to softer hands.
Ned's mouth tightened at the thought. He did not like what Arthur was doing. He liked it less that Robert seemed content to let the boy do it.
Pycelle's voice wobbled through the chamber, thin and persistent.
"The accounts from Rosby remain unsettled, and the provisioning of the fleets has placed an unexpected strain upon the treasury…" He paused to cough, his whole body shuddering with the effort. When he straightened, his chain of office clinked softly. "Yet it could not be avoided, given the necessity of readiness."
"Readiness for what?" Ned asked. He did not raise his voice, but the question cut through the drone of the old man's speech.
Pycelle blinked. "Why… for the mustering of forces, my lord Hand. The army has begun to gather under Lord Arthur's command. Men from the crownlands, the stormlands, and the Reach. His lordship has been embarking them upon his fleet and sailing toward Driftmark."
Silence followed, brief and brittle.
"Driftmark," Renly said lightly. "An interesting choice. Lord Velaryon will be pleased to play host, I'm sure."
"Lord Arthur chose it for the anchorage," Pycelle said. "Deep water, defensible, and loyal to the crown."
Littlefinger leaned back in his chair, lips curved in faint amusement. "Efficient, at least. One could do worse."
"Or better," Ned said. "If one were not so eager." He felt the familiar knot of unease tighten in his chest. Arthur was moving too quickly, gathering men and ships as if war were already declared.
Varys's hands were hidden in the folds of his sleeves. "Lord Arthur's diligence can be mistaken for eagerness, my lord," the eunuch murmured. "Such diligence is rarely punished by the gods."
It should be, Ned thought, when it overreaches. Ambition wore many masks, and the boy had learned to smile as he donned them. Yet pride rose with the fear, welcome, and undeniable. Arthur had stood before Gregor Clegane when no other knight would. He had faced that mountain of flesh and rage and brought him low, not with brute strength but with skill and resolve.
The crowd had screamed for blood. Kill him, they had cried, as if death were the only answer the world knew. Arthur had not listened. He had ordered chains instead.
That mattered. It mattered more than banners or fleets.
Littlefinger's grey-green eyes flicked toward Ned. "Whatever his diligence may be, this war is going to be a costly undertaking, all the same. Ships, men, supplies. War is rarely cheap, my lord Hand."
"It never was," Ned said.
"What of the royal fleet?" Renly asked, glancing about the table with an easy smile. "Has there been any word from my boorish brother?"
Ned felt the question settle like a stone in his gut. He had wondered the same. Stannis Baratheon had withdrawn to Dragonstone as a turtle to its shell, and from there had sent nothing, no letters, no counsel, no courtesy. Ravens had flown and flown again, yet none had returned with more than silence. Silence, Ned knew, could speak louder than any trumpet.
"No word," Ned said at last. "Lord Stannis has not answered the king's summons, nor mine."
Littlefinger gave a soft laugh. "Then I fear we shall have to go and ask him ourselves, my lords." His smile widened, as if pleased with his own wit. "Lord Stannis seems to have forgotten where his rookery is."
Ned cut him off before the sound could linger. "That is of no importance now." His voice was firm, brooking no more jests. "We have a trial to hold."
He turned to Pycelle. "How fares Clegane? Will he be fit to stand before the court?"
The Grand Maester shifted in his seat, chain clinking as he gathered himself. "He will, my lord," he said, wheezing softly between words. "The… the injuries he sustained were grave, but the recovery had been equally remarkable. The wounds he sustained would have slain any ordinary man, yet within a few days, Ser Gregor was upon his feet again. His flesh has knit as if guided by some unnatural vigor. It is quite without precedent."
Gregor Clegane had ever seemed less a man than a force, something bred for slaughter and loosed upon the world. Even broken, he refused to yield.
Renly laughed. "Well, he is more beast than man. You might learn more about him by studying a giant, Grand Maester."
"Or ask his cook what sort of meat they've been feeding him," Littlefinger put in lightly.
Their jests grated on Ned's nerves. This was no mummer's show, no tourney sport to be laughed at. Men and women lay dead by Clegane's hand, villages burned, lives shattered beyond mending.
"Call the judges," Ned said. "Gregor Clegane will stand trial. He will answer for what he has done."
"As you say," Renly replied lightly, "Though some might say a quick death would have been simpler."
"Justice is seldom simple," Ned said. "If it were, we would not need kings."
Varys inclined his head. "Indeed. The realm will be watching closely," the eunuch said softly. "Gregor Clegane has… few friends. And scores of enemies. How this proceeds will be of much import. The court will be full. The eyes of the realm will be upon you, and the birds will sing."
Let them sing, Ned thought. Words were wind
Ned rose from his seat. "We will be done with this soon," he said, his voice steady, though his temper was fraying. "And after, we must stop Robert from riding to war."
The words fell into the chamber like a dropped cup. For a heartbeat no one spoke. They looked at him as if he had asked them to yield their lands and titles both.
Varys was the first to answer, his soft voice gliding over the silence. "My lord Hand, I fear that will not be possible. Once King Robert's mind is set, it is set fast. He has always been so."
Renly chuckled, easy as ever. "Aye. He even has new armor now, insists on wearing it at table and in the yard both. Courtesy of Arthur, of course."
Littlefinger turned in his chair, eyes bright with interest. "You have a similar suit of White Steel as well, do you not, Lord Renly?"
Renly grinned. "Aye. Fine armor, it is too. Light as silk, yet strong too. I'm being spoiled by Arthur's gifts."
Spoiled, Ned thought, or bound?Gifts had a way of carrying chains within them.
"And the king?" Varys asked. "Does his armor please him as well?"
Renly laughed. "He hasn't stopped talking of it. Says it makes him feel twenty again. Gods help us all."
Ned's mouth tightened. Robert was chasing ghosts, of youth and love, of a man he had once been and could never be again. And Arthur was feeding that hunger, whether by design or folly, Ned could not yet say.
"This war is ill-timed," Ned said. "The realm is already strained. Debts, unrest, old wounds torn open. Robert should remain here."
Pycelle inclined his head. "The king believes strength must be shown, my lord. He fears hesitation more than folly."
Ned's mouth twisted in a grimace. "He is the king," he said, his voice hard as winter stone. "His duty is here, ruling his realm, not riding off to fight some foreign war."
Varys inclined his bald head, hands folded neatly within his sleeves. "My lord," he said gently, "this is said to be a noble war. A holy one. His Grace pledged his name and honor to it."
The words were smooth, rehearsed, yet there was a faint curl beneath them, a subtle mockery that brushed Ned's ear like a whisper, as though Varys were reciting a part he did not believe. He wondered if Varys himself heard it.
"No war is noble," Ned said at once. His patience was thinning. "Men dress slaughter in fine words so they may sleep at night. And vows sworn in folly do not become wiser for being spoken aloud. It is our duty as counselors to advise the king, not cheer him on like squires at a tourney. If Robert cannot be dissuaded from this folly, then he has no need to ride at its head."
Renly leaned back in his chair, smiling as if this were all a summer game. "Robert wants neither restraint nor counsel. He will have this war, and he will lead it himself. There's no sense in counseling otherwise." He shrugged. "Besides, the men are eager and thrilled. They like the taste of it. We should embrace that spirit, my lord, not scold it away."
Ned looked from face to face and found no comfort there. They spoke of armor and war as if they were tourney prizes, not graves waiting to be filled. His eyes landed upon Renly, grey eyes cold. For a moment, he saw another Renly there, younger, laughing in the yard at Storm's End while older men bled for his brother's crown.
"Those who hunger for the thrill and glory of war," Ned said softly, "are more often boys who have never seen it, or men who cannot bear to live without it."
Silence followed. Even Littlefinger did not smile.
Ned said no more. He turned and left the chamber, boots ringing against the stone, already weary to the bone. He had heard cheers before, had marched beneath bright banners, had buried friends whose names the singers forgot. Let others dream of armor and holy causes. Ned knew what war truly was, and he would not bless it with pretty lies.
The throne room was hushed, the vast space beneath the Iron Throne heavy with waiting. Torches burned along the walls, their flames guttering against blackened steel and ancient stone. Above them all loomed the throne itself, cruel and jagged, a reminder of what power cost and what it demanded in return.
The court had begun.
Seven chairs had been set beneath the throne, facing the hall. Seven judges, for the Seven Kingdoms. It had been Baelish's notion, offered with that mild smile of his when the queen had balked at the trial and sought to delay it.
A fair court, he had said, broad enough that no one voice could be accused of bias. Cersei had accepted it after a night's thought. Arthur had agreed as well, his face unreadable.
Ned Stark sat in the center seat, where the Hand must sit, though the weight of it made his shoulders ache. Seven judges for one man. It felt excessive.
To Ned's right sat Lord Mace Tyrell, heavy and splendid in green and gold, fingers drumming softly on his knee. Beside him was Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard, lean and weathered, a man who knew the cost of holding borders. Next to Mallister sat Lord Anders Yronwood, newly arrived from Dorne with his banners and his sons, dark-eyed and watchful. He had come to join Arthur's fleet, and Ned wondered how much blood had already been promised by that choice.
On Ned's left was Renly Baratheon, bright and at ease, as if presiding over a feast rather than a trial. Ser Addam Marbrand sat beside him, red beard neatly trimmed, eyes sharp and measuring. At the far end was Lord Yohn Royce, bronze runes gleaming on his armor, his face as stern as the mountains he hailed from. Royce gave Ned a brief nod, grave and respectful, and Ned felt a flicker of comfort there.
Good men, he told himself. Most of them. Or good enough.
Yet even so, unease gnawed at him. Too many lords to judge one knight. Too much pageantry, too many eyes. Justice ought to be plain and clean, not wrapped in silks and politics.
Yet Gregor Clegane was no ordinary knight. Some of his crimes were spoken openly now; others lurked in whispers and half-remembered screams. If half of it were true, he deserved the headsman's sword a dozen times over.
Ned folded his hands upon his knees. Let this be done rightly, he prayed.
Grand Maester Pycelle rose from his seat with an effort. He cleared his throat, once, twice, and then spoke.
"Hear now the charges laid before the Iron Throne. This day begins the trial of Ser Gregor Clegane, a knight of the Westerlands, sworn to Casterly Rock. He stands accused of breaking the king's peace; of the attempted murder of Ser Arthur Manderly; of vile Kinslaying, of patricide, in the slaying of Ser Jonothor Clegane, his lawful father; and of fratricide, in the murder of Lady Sara Clegane, his sister."
The great doors groaned open.
Chains clattered against stone as Ser Gregor Clegane was brought forth. He loomed above the guards who flanked him, a mountain still, even bound hand and foot. His shoulders filled the width of the aisle; his head nearly brushed the banners overhead. Iron shackles circled his wrists and ankles, thick as a man's wrist, yet he walked as though they were no more than ornaments.
Ned Stark watched him approach, his face set, his hands clasped tight upon his knees. He had seen the Mountain's wounds after the duel, deep gashes and broken bones, enough blood to drown a horse. No man should have risen from such hurts in a fortnight. Yet here Gregor Clegane came, his stride steady, his pale eyes flat and untroubled.
The guards trembled as they escorted him, cloaks fluttering, hands never straying far from their swords. Gregor did not look at them. He did not look at the lords upon the benches, nor at the judges beneath the throne. His gaze went only forward, fixed upon the throne itself, as if daring it to pass judgment upon him.
The hall fell silent. Even Renly had ceased his fidgeting. Somewhere high above, a raven croaked, harsh and lonely.
Ned felt the weight of what was to come settle upon his chest. Gregor Clegane would not plead meekly. He would demand a trial by combat; of that Ned had no doubt. Men like Clegane trusted only strength, and the gods had cursed him with too much of it.
Arthur had beaten him once, aye, but not alone. Sandor Clegane's blade had been there, and Prince Oberyn's spear. Three against one, and still it had nearly ended in death. What would happen if Arthur were forced to face the Mountain alone, beneath the eyes of gods and men?
Ned's fingers curled into his palms. Let him not ask it, he prayed silently. Let the law suffice.
But as Gregor Clegane was brought to a halt beneath the Iron Throne, chains rattling like distant thunder, Eddard Stark feared he already knew the truth. Some men would rather be killed than be judged.
Ned's eyes strayed, unbidden, to where Arthur stood below the dais, flanked by Sandor Clegane and Prince Oberyn Martell. An ill-matched trio, bound together only by blood spilled and hatred earned. Sandor's face was carved from old scars and older loathing; Oberyn's dark eyes burned with a heat that had crossed half the world to find this hall. Both had cause enough to wish Gregor Clegane dead a hundred times over.
And Arthur stood between them, calm as still water, his hands empty, his sword left sheathed. Too young, Ned thought again, and carrying too much.
Ned straightened in his seat.
"Gregor Clegane," he said, his voice carrying through the hall, firm and clear, "you have heard the charges set before you. You will swear by the gods above and the laws of this realm, and answer plainly. How do you plead?"
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Gregor lifted his head. His face was a ruin of old scars and newer wounds, pale eyes dull as cloudy ice. When he spoke, his voice grated through the hall like stones grinding together. "Guilty."
The word struck harder than any shouted denial.
A gasp swept the hall, sharp and sudden. Lords shifted in their seats. Courtiers whispered. Ned felt the shock ripple through him as well. He had braced himself for bluster, for defiance, for the inevitable demand for steel and blood. He had not prepared for this.
Below the dais, Sandor Clegane stared at his brother as if seeing him anew. Prince Oberyn's lips parted in disbelief, his hand tightening at his side. But Arthur did not move at all.
Renly's voice cut through the stunned silence, sharp and incredulous. "You admit to killing your father? Your sister?"
"Aye," Gregor said, voice like the grinding of iron. "I killed her. I drowned her in a well."
The words echoed like a bell tolling for the dead. The crowd's murmur swelled to a roar. Gasps, cries, even the scrape of a foot across stone. Ned's stomach turned. Sandor Clegane's hands twitched, fingers curling toward his sword as if the law were too slow to act. Arthur's hand on his shoulder kept the scarred man in check, and Ned silently thanked him for it.
Gregor did not pause. He seemed almost eager, laying bare every horror. "I killed my father, fed him to the wolves during a hunt. I burned my brother's face. I raped and pillaged through the rebellion and in the Ironborn war. Every village, every man, woman, and child I touched was left ruined in my wake."
The hall erupted. Voices rose in a chaotic tide: Murderer! Monster! Hang him!
Gregor stood unmoving, chains hanging heavy from his wrists. Ned studied him, searching for trickery, for madness, for some deeper cruelty lurking beneath the admission. Why now? he wondered. What game do you play, monster?
Oberyn's voice rang out, "Say it! Say her name!"
Gods help us all, Ned thought, watching Gregor, a mountain of horror. The realm will never forget this day.
Ned rose, voice steady but commanding, "This hall will hold its peace. By the gods and by the king's law, silence now!"
Yet the crowd could not be stilled. Murmurs rippled and voices rose again, the anger and horror spilling like wildfire.
"SILENCE!" Lord Yohn Royce's roar cut across the chamber like a hammer blow, halting the tide of screams. The lords and ladies froze. Courtiers pressed their backs to the walls.
Ned's eyes found the Queen, standing at the side of the hall. Cersei's face was pale, eyes wide with fear, her composure shaken for once, while Jaime's expression was an unsettling mixture of amusement and disbelief.
Before Ned could speak, Gregor's voice rose, deeper and harder than before, scraping like stone against stone. "I raped and killed Elia Martell, and I dashed her son, Aegon Targaryen, against the wall."
A hush fell over the hall. The chamber seemed to shrink around him, the air thick and choking. He could hear only the ragged breathing of those nearest him and the faint clink of the Mountain's chains.
Gregor continued, voice cold and unflinching. "I did it for my enjoyment and for reward. Killing my father gave me my keep. Killing my sister gave me satisfaction. Killing Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen gave me gold. I did it all, and I enjoyed it. I confess it freely."
Ned's stomach twisted, bile rising to his throat. His hand tightened upon the chair, white-knuckled. The man before them was not merely guilty; he was without conscience, without law, without shame. The world might have called him knight, a sword in his lord's service, yet here he stood, a living reckoning of blood and cruelty.
Ned could not understand it. Not truly. The man's confession was complete, unflinching, almost casual in its cruelty. What drove a man like this to speak so openly of his sins? Did he hope for a swift death, a mercy denied by his own monstrous nature? Did he seek a pardon, a second chance at the wall, or some other vile coin for his honesty?
Oberyn Martell's voice cut through the tension like a whip. "Murderer! Say it! Say who it was!"
The words ignited the hall. The crowd rose in anger, voices overlapping, a rising tide of grief and fury. Murderer! Monster! Hang him!
It was the memory of Princess Elia, so tender in the minds of the people, that stoked the flames.
Ned's own voice rang out then, "Gregor Clegane. You have confessed to the murders and atrocities, yet you haven't confessed who it was that commanded you to kill Princess Elia and her son? Who gave you the gold?"
Gregor's jaw tightened, and for a long moment he said nothing, eyes flat and unreadable. The silence weighed like iron. Ned felt the crowd holding its breath, waiting for an answer that could undo the world or damn it further. Waiting for the truth they all knew.
"Lord Tywin Lannister," Gregor said again, flat, unflinching.
For a heartbeat, silence fell, shocked and complete. Then it broke, as if the air itself had been set ablaze. Shouts rolled from every corner. Lannister men cried for lies, slanders, the word of a madman chained in iron and blood. The Martells shouted back, their voices sharp with grief and fury: Murderers! Monsters! Justice!
The hall became a maelstrom of sound. Courtiers pressed against benches; the king's small council struggled to be heard above the roar.
Renly's voice rang out, trying vainly to call for order. "Peace! By the gods, peace! You are in the king's hall, not the streets!"
Ned rose from his seat. His voice carried through the hall, sharp and unforgiving.
"Enough!" he commanded. "Anyone who disrupts this trial will be imprisoned. Keep your tongue, or lose it."
The clamor faltered. The lords and ladies, courtiers and servants alike, fell silent, pressed down by the authority in his words. Even Oberyn's fury stilled, tempered by Arthur's firm hand on his shoulder.
Gregor's chains rattled as he shifted, "He gave me and Amory Lorch orders to kill Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys," he said, voice flat and brutal. "And we obeyed."
Ned's stomach tightened. The truth had been spoken aloud; no shadow of doubt remained. Nothing could be denied, no words could twist the reality now laid bare.
He stood straighter, letting the law itself guide his hand and his voice. "I find Ser Gregor Clegane guilty of murder, of rape, of breaking the king's peace and the laws of men," Ned declared. "All those in favor, raise your hands."
One by one, the judges raised their hands. Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord Jason Mallister, Lord Anders Yornwood, Renly Baratheon, Lord Yohn Royce, and even Ser Addam Marbrand. The room was heavy with the weight of unanimity, the slow, deliberate lifting of hands echoing like hammers striking the realm's conscience.
Ned's gaze fell back upon Gregor, towering, scowling, yet still bound and diminished in chains. "I strip you of your knighthood, your lands, and your titles," Ned said, his voice like iron on stone. "And I sentence you to death."
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the hall, followed by a swelling cheer. Relief, outrage, and grim satisfaction mingled together in a strange, bitter perfume.
Ned's gaze swept the hall, cold and unflinching. He spoke again, voice carrying the weight of the law and the authority of the Hand of the King.
"I order the arrest of Amory Lorch," Ned said, each word deliberate. "And I summon Lord Tywin Lannister to arrive in the capital and present himself before the crown within a fortnight. To answer for the crimes of his bannermen, and to defend himself against the accusations spoken by Ser Gregor Clegane. Refuse, and he shall be branded an enemy of the crown, and the law shall take its course."
A ripple of unease moved through the hall. Courtiers shifted in their seats, and murmurs began to rise again, though no one dared speak above Ned's voice. The gravity of the proclamation pressed down on all present.
At the far side, the Queen's pale face was twisted in disbelief. She had stormed from her seat, skirts swirling as she moved toward the exit. Her exit was sharp, deliberate, full of the pride and indignation of a lioness spurned. Jaime Lannister's amusement did not fade as he followed.
Ned's eyes fell on Arthur as the boy stepped forward, shoulders square and voice steady despite the tension that still clung to the hall like smoke.
"My lord," Arthur said, gaze unwavering, "I know it is the right of the king's justice to administer the execution. But I would ask for this right in this case. Others here have far more cause to claim it than I, yet they have chosen to give it up. I would ask you to do the same."
Ned's gaze flicked to Oberyn Martell, expecting the prince to press for the honor. Yet Oberyn's grin was slow, controlled, as if he had already foreseen this moment and found it pleasing. The Prince's eyes shone with sharp fire, but he said nothing, letting the boy take the mantle. And Sandor Clegane's expression was harder, unreadable beneath the shadow of his cowl.
The hall was still, each breath suspended. Ned felt the weight of every eye upon him, the judges, the lords, the empty seats of those who had stormed from the chamber in fury. He had been ready to carry out the sentence himself. Yet there was a quiet authority in the boy that made the choice clear.
Ned's jaw tightened, voice slow and deliberate. "Very well," he said. "Take Ser Gregor Clegane to the gallows."
The guards shifted immediately, chains clinking as they moved forward. Gregor's eyes flicked over the hall, narrowing on the boy who had bested him. For a moment, Ned thought he saw a flash of something almost human in that monstrous face, fear, perhaps, or relief, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
The air outside the Red Keep was thick with smoke, torchlight, and the restless murmur of the crowd. Ned stood among the judges, eyes fixed on the stump where Gregor Clegane was forced to his knees. The Mountain's bulk loomed monstrous even in chains, yet he did not struggle, did not roar, did not strike. It was unnerving, unnatural.
Ned's stomach knotted as he watched the Mountain kneel, immense and silent, chains rattling faintly with his weight. Why does he yield so easily? he wondered. Is this cunning, or madness, or some perverse acceptance of fate? Every fiber of Ned's instinct felt wary of what was happening.
A hush fell over the gathered crowd, the commoners craning their necks, the nobles leaning forward from behind their velvet and silk, all straining to see the end of this monstrous tale.
Arthur Manderly stepped forward, boots firm against the packed earth, Nightfall's black Valyrian steel catching the sun in a glint like a shard of night. His hand rested lightly on the hilt as he surveyed the hulking man before him, then spoke, voice steady, clear above the hush of the crowd. "If you have any last words, now is the time."
The Mountain did not move. He said nothing. Not a plea, not a roar, not even a curse. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps a final act of defiance, or perhaps it was resignation. Ned felt a cold shiver run down his spine. No man could bear to look at death so quietly, unless the darkness had long since claimed him.
Arthur's grip on Nightfall tightened. He whispered something to himself, a prayer or a thought, Ned could not tell, and then the black steel arced in a single, fluid motion. The blade met its mark, and in an instant, the Mountain's head was severed, rolling once before resting at the base of the stump. A heavy silence fell, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Murmurs rippled through the nobles, while commoners blinked in disbelief, unsure whether to cheer or to shudder. Ned's heart pounded. He had faced death in many forms, yet nothing compared to the enormity of watching Gregor Clegane fall, the sheer weight of the terror and blood ended in the sweep of a boy's hand.
The Mountain was no more. And in that quiet, terrible certainty, Ned felt both the relief of justice wrought and the burden of the reckoning yet to come.