The setting sun was like congealed blood, splashed across the Duskendale square, staining everything a deep, blackish crimson.
The Mountain stood in the center of the clearing, a black colossus cast from pig iron and malice.
His heavy armor was suffocatingly thick, every iron plate soaked in years of bloodstains, glinting with a greasy, gruesome light under the setting sun.
His form was like a mountain wall—silent, deathly, pressing down on others until they could barely breathe by his mere presence.
Westeros's most terrifying killing machine, rumored to tear men apart with his bare hands, crush heavy armor with his strength, and split an armored warhorse with a single sword stroke; countless knights trembled at the mere mention of his name.
At this moment, he was as still as a deep well, only two bloodthirsty glints peering through the narrow slits of his helm—the most primitive, brutal instinct for slaughter.
He slowly raised that greatsword, as wide as a door, thick and heavy enough to shatter bone with a single blow.
Gripping the hilt with both hands, the knotted muscles between the gaps of his armor tensed and bulged, veins writhing like black snakes.
Then, he moved.
Step by step, he ground toward Aegon. The earth seemed to groan and tremble beneath his feet; every step fell like a heavy hammer on the hearts of the onlookers, turning their faces pale and tightening their throats.
On the high platform, Tyrion held his breath, not daring to blink. The commoners were already shaking like sieves.
No one believed Aegon could survive; that was The Mountain, a human-shaped beast.
Aegon stood motionless.
A ferocious dragon-winged helm covered his face, revealing only a jawline as cold and hard as carved ice.
His hands hung down, each holding blackfyre and Dark Sister.
The two valyrian steel swords shimmered in the setting sun with a cold, otherworldly light of death.
Facing that black mountain of death bearing down on him, he did not retreat a single step, nor did he waver in the slightest.
One man against a mountain.
Two steel swords against a massive blade of iron.
Life and death collided with a crash at the moment of their charge.
A thunderous roar rolled from The Mountain's throat, his arms pouring forth inhuman brute force as he swung the greatsword in a wide arc. With a whistle that tore through the air, it fell like a literal iron gate crashing down!
No forms, no techniques—only the purest crushing power, intent on flattening this silver-haired ant, armor and all, into a pile of meat.
Beneath his helm, Aegon's eyes were as cold as an unsheathed blade.
At the final instant before the greatsword struck, his figure suddenly blurred. With swords crossed, neither dodging nor evading, he cut directly into the violent wind of the blade at an inconceivable angle and speed!
Clang—!!
An excruciatingly piercing metallic screech tore through the sky.
The tip of blackfyre, like a viper's tongue, accurately flicked into the weak joint where the armor of The Mountain's right arm connected!
The seemingly indestructible heavy armor shattered under the sharpness of Valyrian Steel and Aegon's extraordinary strength and technique, sending shards of plate and sparks flying.
The Mountain's right arm, swinging the sword, was instantly exposed.
Upon the muscles knotted like tree roots, veins throbbed frantically.
The entire crowd erupted in uncontrollable gasps and sharp intakes of breath.
No one had ever remained unscathed under a mountain-splitting blow from The Mountain, let alone broken through that despair-inducing heavy armor in the blink of an eye.
The Mountain's malevolence surged; pain and humiliation drove him completely mad.
Heedless of everything, he exerted force with his single arm, changing the greatsword's direction mid-swing from a crush to a sweep. With a shrill whistle of wind, it cut across, intending to slice the passing Aegon in half at the waist.
Aegon's footwork was unpredictable; shifting his body, he actually slid past the sweeping blade.
In the moment their figures crossed, the cold blade of Dark Sister grazed the exposed muscle of The Mountain's right arm as lightly as a lover's fingertip.
A thin red line slowly appeared.
Before The Mountain could even register the pain, Aegon's left hand shot out like lightning. His fingers, like hooks, clamped fiercely onto the edge of the freshly sliced skin...
And yanked downward!
Rip—!!
A scalp-numbing, teeth-aching sound of tearing exploded across the square.
The horrific sound of fabric and slick flesh being forcibly stripped away pierced the dead silence.
The Mountain's entire right arm, from shoulder to wrist—a whole sheet of skin was torn alive from the muscle by Aegon with cold, absolute precision!
Bloody fascia, ruptured capillaries, and layers of yellowish fat hung naked in the air, exposed to the setting sun and thousands of terrified gazes.
The bright red, pulsing muscle was completely unobstructed, so cruel and bloody it made stomachs churn and eyes bulge.
"Ugh—"
Someone on the high platform couldn't help but retch.
The Lannister knights were ashen-faced, their sword-hands trembling uncontrollably.
The commoners were frightened out of their wits, prostrating themselves on the ground and squeezing their eyes shut, not daring to look again.
The Mountain let out a beastly roar that didn't sound human, muffled as it came from his helm, laden with endless agony and rage.
His massive frame trembled violently and uncontrollably, yet the ferocity in his bones still kept him from falling.
His left leg kicked out like a battering ram, aiming to send the nearby Aegon flying.
The more frantically he counterattacked, the more it showed the monster's fearlessness in the face of death, and the more it highlighted Aegon's composure—like a hunter toying with prey—and his absolute dominance.
Aegon easily avoided the rock-shattering kick. The twin swords were like living things in his hands.
blackfyre turned into black lightning, piercing directly behind the back of The Mountain's left knee. The tip flicked and sliced...
Squish!
The soft sound of tendons snapping was clearly audible.
The Mountain's left leg gave way, unable to support his mountain-like weight any longer. His massive body lost its balance and crashed down onto one knee, the impact cracking the stone tiles on the ground.
Before he could struggle to his feet, Dark Sister followed like a shadow. A glimmer of cold light stabbed like a viper through the gap in The Mountain's left shoulder plate; with a twist of the wrist, it churned fiercely!
Crack! Splash—!
Armor plates flew off, accompanied by the ear-piercing sound of a shattering scapula. Blood gushed like a fountain from the breach in the armor, instantly staining half of his black breastplate crimson.
Aegon did not stop.
He didn't seek a killing blow; he sought to disable him inch by inch.
He gave no quick end, only a slow execution by a thousand cuts.
blackfyre fell again, precisely slicing open the muscle of The Mountain's left forearm, picking out and severing the tough tendons one by one.
Dark Sister followed closely, its blade gliding through the joints where the chest and abdominal armor didn't fully cover, cutting open flesh and letting blood gurgle out, soaking the heavy armor and dripping onto the ground to form a striking pool of red.
In Aegon's hands, the twin swords were like the black wings of the Reaper.
Not a single movement was wasted; every strike targeted the most painful yet non-lethal areas.
Pulling tendons, deboning, slicing flesh, draining blood... strike after strike, layer by layer.
The Mountain's terrifying brute force was dismantled bit by bit, his spine-chilling ferocity crushed inch by inch. That massive frame that defined "The Mountain" was slowly and cruelly torn apart, piece by piece.
From silent, deathly combat to roars of agony, then to the desperate gasps of failing strength and futile resistance... finally, under pain that exceeded human limits, a bone-deep helplessness, and the clear perception of approaching death, The Mountain completely broke.
He jerked his head back, using his last bit of strength to let out a shrill roar like a demon from hell.
He used the foulest, bloodiest, most unforgivable atrocities of the past to roar frantically, trying to sting Aegon, to enrage him, to force him to grant him a release:
"I killed your mother, Elia—!!"
"I smashed you, you little bastard, against the wall! Smashed you to pieces—!!"
"I watched that Dornish bitch Elia cry! Begging me like a dog—!!"
"My final stroke! I hacked her right in half—!!!"
He hissed, roared, and vented repeatedly, thinking the filthiest memories could sting Aegon, disrupt his icy rhythm, force him to lose control, and grant him death.
But Aegon simply stood before him; beneath the dragon-winged helm, even his breathing rhythm hadn't faltered in the slightest.
The louder you roar, the slower I strike.
The more detailed you are about the past, the more clearly I will make you experience what it means to wish you were dead.
Aegon's wrists turned slightly. blackfyre and Dark Sister, like mating vipers, pierced simultaneously into the thickest parts of The Mountain's thighs. Then, with a twist of his wrists and a fierce churn, he completely mangled and severed the large muscles!
"Argh... hhh..."
The Mountain's entire body convulsed violently, like a giant insect pinned to the ground. His eyes rolled back, and his throat only produced the raspy, broken sound of a leaking bellows, no longer able to roar a coherent sentence.
The ferocity that once made the knights of the Seven Kingdoms tremble was now reduced to the futile tremors and unconscious struggles of a dying beast.
Aegon sheathed his swords and stood, his gaze calmly sweeping over the monster slumped on the ground.
Both arms were severed, the thigh muscles mangled, shoulder bones shattered—there was no longer a single place on his body from which he could exert force.
That massive body, once capable of tearing warhorses apart and crushing skulls, had now been thoroughly reduced to a human stump, without even the strength to lift a finger or turn his neck.
He saw it very clearly, and he understood it very well.
This time, there would be none of the negligence or carelessness shown by the Dornish Red Viper.
Only after confirming that even the slightest possibility of a counterattack from The Mountain had been completely crushed did Aegon slowly move forward and lean in close.
His ferocious dragon-winged helm drew near The Mountain's face, which was hidden by a heavy visor, revealing only the slits of his eyes filled with terror and despair.
He was waiting.
Waiting for this beast, who delighted in fear and pain, to truly taste the flavor of fear for the first time in his life.
Finally...
Deep within The Mountain's clouded, pained, and frenzied eyes, a faint but unmistakable chill slowly surfaced, rapidly spreading and magnifying.
It was the instinctive fear welling from the depths of a soul when a victimizer is finally subjected to violence by an even more terrifying existence.
It was the primitive fear of a monster facing irrevocable death clearly and powerlessly for the first time.
This was the moment Aegon had been waiting for.
It was enough.
He straightened up, without a hint of lingering attachment.
With swords crossed, the cold edge of blackfyre pressed horizontally against The Mountain's thick nape, which was twitching slightly from pain and fear.
No roar, no gathering of strength, no superfluous action to announce death.
Only a light pressure of the arm...
A slight flick of the wrist.
Crack.
A crisp, cold, and supremely clean sound.
The Mountain's massive, heavy head detached from his neck, tumbling into the dust and a pool of blood, rolling several feet before finally coming to rest face-up.
Within the eye slits of the helm, those once-violent eyes were wide open, frozen in the final endless agony and the newly risen fear that was now fixed forever.
Life was completely extinguished.
The entire square was deathly silent.
The wind stopped, the banners stilled; even the sound of the tide from the distant Blackwater Bay seemed to vanish.
Everyone's breath was cut short in unison by that crisp "crack."
Aegon slowly sheathed his swords.
On the blades of blackfyre and Dark Sister, thick droplets of blood gathered and fell, blooming into small, striking dark red flowers on the blood-stained, dusty stone tiles.
He turned, his valyrian steel armor glinting with a cold, extinguished light under the last ray of the setting sun, as he stepped through the pool of blood toward the high platform.
His boots stepped on the blood, making a faint, sticky sound that became the only noise in the square.
He stopped before Oberyn.
The dragon-winged helm turned slightly, and a low, indifferent voice emerged. No emotion from the slaughter could be heard; instead, there was a cold, almost mocking hint of a smile:
"I had thought of taking this skull back, treating it properly, and making it into a wine flagon."
"It would have been useful when paying respects to my mother."
He paused, his tone casual as his gaze swept over the headless, kneeling corpse in the pool of blood in the center of the square, yet it made a chill rise in the hearts of those who heard him:
"Pity, I didn't restrain my strength just now... the skull is a bit too shattered to be of much use."
"But..." He looked back at Oberyn, a very faint curve seemingly beneath the face hidden by the helm. "If you don't find it satisfying enough, you can make do."
"Dragging that thing back to use as a chamber pot would also be... appropriate."
Oberyn was stunned, looking at his nephew before him—clad in armor, having slaughtered his enemy with the coldest and most cruel methods.
Then, on that handsome face that usually bore a sneer, a cold, complex, yet extremely gratified snake-like smile slowly formed.
He didn't speak, only gave Aegon a deep look before glancing back at the headless corpse in the center of the square. A poisonous fire that hadn't been extinguished for seventeen years churned in his eyes, as if he were truly considering the suggestion.
On the high platform, Cersei gazed blankly at that figure like an armored true dragon, looking at the cold, jade-like jawline beneath the dragon-winged helm.
The last ray of the setting sun gilded him with an ethereal golden edge.
She had long since ceased to hear the surrounding noise or see the bloodiness on the ground; her soul was firmly seized by those cold purple eyes and that cruel, agile silhouette, drowning in them, unable to extricate herself.
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