The Mountain vs The Berserker

"You're bloody daft lad," Bronn chuckles as he walks down the cobbled streets of Flea Bottom. "The little Lion's already got the Viper to fight for him, he's got no need for a spare champion."

"You don't know that," Podrick defends, keeping his eyes trained on the street in front of him. The piss stained stones are slippery, and he's already had one close call.

"I do know that," Bronn snark's, "but let's say you're right. Let's say that for some reason; most likely Cersei being the vicious cunt she is, the Viper fails to turn up. What makes you think you're gonna find a fucker mad enough and strong enough to take on the Mountain, down here of all places?" He flicks his hand at the darkened streets and the barely lit taverns that surround them.

"Its our best bet." Podrick turns towards one of the cleaner and grander looking pubs, which in Flea Bottom means an establishment that has an actual door.

"If you ask me, your best bet would have been riding off with that lady knight when you had the chance."

"Lord Tyrion's been good to me, I can't turn my back on him now." Podrick says as he avoids a drunk stumbling into the street. Only to be pulled to the side by Bronn, when he nearly knocks over a scantily clad whore making her way to the stairs left of the bar.

He ducks his head in embarrassment stuttering a small apology as the grizzled sellsword drags him into the tavern.

"Aye, he's been good to you, but he's not gonna be much good to anyone when his squat heads sitting pretty on a pike." Podrick glares, but Bronn merely smirks as he sits at an empty table and waves the bar maid over.

"Don't give me that look, for one it won't scare a rabbit, two it makes you a target."

"It doesn't make me a target." Podrick mutters as he continues to glare.

"Oh really? Look over there." The sharp crack Podrick hears followed by the pain blooming at the back of his skull has him grabbing the table for support.

"See that's your problem, still too green. If I weren't sitting beside you the bastards nursing drinks in here would have slit your throat the minute you turned your back."

Looking about the room, Podrick couldn't say Bronn was wrong. Even the comely bar maid, that was now standing by the table waiting for their order, looked as though she was weighing him up. Trying to decide whether to serve him or mug him.

"Ale for me, luv." Bronn orders casually as he leans back against the wall. His dark scale leathers nearly disappearing against the brown bricks behind him.

When the maids gaze turns to him Podrick lowers his eyes to the table. "The same."

He's expecting the girl to move off, but she doesn't. He glances at Bronn in confusion, the sellsword merely places his hands behind his head and nods towards Pod. "He's paying."

Annoyed but resigned Podrick sighs as he places a few coppers on the table. As soon as the precious metal touches the rotting wood of the table the girl snatches them up and soon disappears behind the bar.

Alone again Podrick fidgets in his seat as he tries to look around the tavern. It's dark, only a few candles litter the establishment and most of them have nearly burned out.

There's enough light for him to make out the number of people crowded into the small space; about fifteen in all. Most of them are huddled together in groups, which only makes the single loner in the corner more conspicuous.

That, and the sword that lies against the wall beside him.

Actually; calling it a sword just isn't right.

The thing is huge, larger than any great sword Podrick had ever seen. It must be at least the same height as the boy who sits beside it.

"Most likely that hunk a metal belongs to the knight he serves." Bronn comments as he follows Podrick's gaze.

"You think so?" Podrick asks.

"Aye, I don't know many lads his age or older that can even carry a blade that big, let alone wield it." He sits up straighter as the bar maid brings their order. The drinks are dumped on the table and the girls about to leave when Bronn lightly taps her arm to get her attention.

"He come alone or is he just minding the sword till his patron gets back?" He nods to the boy in the corner.

"What's it to you?" the girls' snappish tone is coloured with her thick Flea Bottom accent.

"Not much, just curious," Bronn replies not bothered in the least by her brash attitude.

The girl seems to lose interest, fast. She's already walking to the next table over when Bronn speaks again, "but my friend here's looking for a capable sellsword. It might be worth something to him."

Podrick doesn't miss the emphasis Bronn puts on the word 'worth', nor does he miss the look the girl is giving his coin purse.

He fishes out a silver stag. In the blink of an eye the coin is gone, stuffed down the front of the girls dress away from prying eyes.

"He came in a while ago. He's ordered a few drinks and kept to himself. S'all I know"

Podrick watches disappointedly as the girl saunters off, he's sure that he's just been robbed.

Bronn meanwhile is smirking.

"Don't look so down lad. You might be in luck, for a sellsword he's got good armour.

"So?"

"So, if he's a sellsword. It means he's either good enough to earn the money to pay for it; or he's good enough to kill the twat that thought high quality armour would save him."

"You think he stole the armour?"

"Doesn't matter what I think. So long as he can fight."

With that Bronn takes a swig of ale before he stands and makes his way across the tavern to where the boy still sits alone. Podrick hastens to follow, nearly spilling his drink when he catches his foot on the table.

By the time he catches up Bronn's already sitting down opposite the sellsword.

"Nice sword. It yours?" Bronn asks casually as he takes another gulp of ale.

The boy says nothing, he merely glares at Bronn in annoyance.

With his short black hair, the small scar that bridges his nose, and his narrow dark eyes it's a glare that has a lot of weight behind it.

No wonder nobody in the tavern had tried to bother him.

Bronn tries again. "You a squire?"

More silence.

"A sellsword then?" Bronn asks.

The boy finally speaks. "Unless you've got a job for me and the gold to back it up…"

"Right, seems I've been hanging about with those fancy folks for too long," Bronn chuckles, "let me buy you a drink."

The boy doesn't protest, so Bronn gets the attention of the bar man, "three more ales over here, go pay the man Pod."

Any thought of protest doesn't even form; Bronn's helping him, that's more than enough reason to do as he's told.

Bronn turns back to the sellsword as Podrick makes his way to the bar. "So, tell me, what do you know of the Mountain?"

"Cersei!"

Jamie bursts through the doors to his sisters' apartments, not caring for the protests both her guards and handmaids voice as he pushes them aside.

He finds her sitting in her solar; a glass of wine already in hand even though the sun has barely risen.

The light streaming through the shutters does little to lighten the black flowing gown she wears, but its gold accents gleam almost as brightly as her hair.

The guards and handmaidens have already beaten a retreat by the time he comes to stand before her. "What have you done?"

"Done?" She empties her glass before rising to refill it from the waiting tray on her side table. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific."

"One of the Dornish guard just came and told father that Prince Oberyn will not be able to act as Tyrion's champion." He's not in the mood for her games. "Apparently, his over indulgence has finally caught up with him, or that's what his Paramour says."

The smirk that curls the edges of Cersei's mouth is ugly. "Isn't that a shame. I expect our little brother is going to have to face the Mountain himself. Disappointing really," She takes a sip of wine, savouring the taste, "I was so looking forward to seeing his head mounted on a spike. I suppose seeing Ser Gregor split him in two will have to suffice."

"What did you promise her." Jamie snarls, taking a step closer to his sister.

"Promise?" Cersei doesn't look up; her gaze is focused on the red liquid swirling in her glass.

"I know you met with her, with Ellaria Sand." He clarifies.

"And?"

"And!" Fury rises at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down. "Not a day after your meeting her lover becomes unable to act as Tyrion's champion, a bit convenient don't you think."

"It's not convenient at all." She turns, making her way to the shuttered windows of the solar, wine glass still firmly in hand. "Prince Oberyn has always been known for his drinking and his whoring, it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with him.

She isn't looking at him, it's how he knows she's lying.

"Like it did with Robert."

Tense silence is all that hangs between them.

"Cersei, you have to know—"

"Know? What do I have to know?" She's gripping her glass so tightly that its shaking, "that you're sworn to protect our enemies?" Her voice is low, but he can still hear the tremble of rage that laces her words. "That you did nothing as your King, your son, laid dying in my arms?"

He tries to interrupt, "Cersei I—"

She goes on. "Or, am I supposed to know that you would do anything within your power, to protect the creature that ripped our mother open as he came into this world?"

He bites his tongue to stop the vicious words that spring to his lips in response to her venom.

"It wasn't his fault," he says instead, "you've always blamed him for that, you and father both, but you have to know it wasn't his fault."

"Get out." Her words carry a chill that he has never heard taint her voice.

He steps forward, ready to plead, ready to seize her by the arms and force her to look at him.

"I said get out!"

The disgust in her voice leaves him cold. It's the same disgust he saw in her eyes when he first came back; broken, bleeding, a shade of his former self. There had been no warmth nor love in her eyes then, and there was none now in her voice.

He exits without another word, leaving the door wide open as he escapes into the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep.

He walks without direction, taking corners blind and allowing his feet to carry him where they will, all the while allowing his thought and emotions to run wild.

It's not until he nearly stumbles on the familiar stone steps of a cliff path that he realises where he's subconsciously been heading. He considers turning back, but what is there to go back to.

Continuing down the steps he is soon greeted by the sound of crashing waves and the heavy scent of salty air. It does little to clear his head.

Still he carries on, his and Bronn's sparing ground is just around the bend up ahead and he could do with some time alone until…

He allows that thought to trail off, he'll be forced to confront it in a few hours whether he wants to or not. For now, denial was his only comfort.

Rounding the last bend, he stumbles to a halt. He had expected the sparring ground to be empty, instead he is greeted with the sight of Bronn sparring with an unknown swordsman.

Well, to call it sparring is a bit of a stretch.

Bronn is dodging for his life while his opponent swings a…he couldn't even call it a sword.

Massive, thick, heavy, and far too rough. It was more like a heap of raw iron.

And yet Bronn's opponent wields it as though it is an extension of his own arm.

He watches, transfixed, as Bronn continues to avoid the hulking blade, until he is backed up against the jagged rocks that act as a barrier between the practise grounds and the sea.

"I yield!" the swordsman stops the blade mid swing, but momentum carries it forward. Strength alone stops the sword a mere inch from Bronn's nose.

Jamie imagines that Bronn can see his own pale reflection pretty well on the surface of the blade, though his breath may be fogging up the iron too much for him to see it clearly.

Slowly the boy lowers his sword, letting out a breath as he does and relaxing his arms.

Jamie can't help but admire his stance; back straight, feet a shoulders width apart, his right foot leading, his knees slightly bent. It all adds up to a honed balance that allows him to counteract the weight of that slab of iron.

"Ser Jamie?"

He's drawn from his observations by the approach of Podrick Payne.

"Podrick, who's your new friend?" he nods towards the unknown swordsman, blinking as he watches the boy remove his helmet to reveal surprisingly young features.

"He calls himself Guts," Podrick explains "he's a sellsword."

"A good one by the looks of it. An acquaintance of Bronn's?"

"No, we only met him last night."

Jamie raises an eyebrow at that.

Podrick fidgets under his gaze, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he looks down.

"I…I was worried. Lord Tyrion already has Prince Oberyn to fight for him but—"

"But my sister would never allow Tyrion that sort of advantage."

"My Lord?"

He's about to explain when Bronn finally notices him.

"How long you been standing there?"

Jamie can't help but smirk "not long at all," he purrs, "but long enough."

The scowl that darkens Bronn's features only cause him to laugh.

"Laugh it up Lannister, I can still hand you your own arse on a golden platter."

"I intend to, it's not often that I see you bested, what happened to your tricks?"

Surprisingly Bronn smiles.

"Fighting dirty loses some of its edge when your opponent does the same, the lads also quicker than anyone has the right to be with that hunk of iron." He says as he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Said 'lad' still stands at the centre of the sparring ground, twisting his blade this way and that in the sun; presumably checking it for any nicks or cracks. Seemingly satisfied he starts swinging it, working his way through a series of stances, still wielding that monstrous slab of iron as though it weighs nothing.

Perhaps…

"What were you saying Podrick?"

Tyrion's young squire flinches at his question. Unsurprising, he had always been a nervous lad, but his brother had done wonders for the boys' confidence, as shown when he stands a little straighter and answers Jamie's question. "Ah, yes My Lord, Gut's has agreed to fight on Lord Tyrion's behalf, should Prince Oberyn be unable to."

"Does he know that the Mountain will be representing the crown?"

Bronn chuckles "aye, he knows." He looks to Gut's, who's still pointedly ignoring them all as he brings down a slash that would cleave a horse in two. "I don't think the mad bastard cares."

"What did you promise him?" Jamie's cynical side rears its head.

The sardonic smile that Jamie's come to hate plays across Bronn's lips. "Guess."

"I couldn't possibly." Jamie says in a bored tone hoping that Bronn will read his mood and just tell him.

Bronn might not but Podrick does.

"Ten Gold Dragons, My Lord, an extra five if he defeats the Mountain."

The silence that stretches between the three men is filled only with the sound of crashing waves and the boys' monstrous sword rending the air.

"He's insane." Jamie finally breathes, eyes fixed on Gut's as if he's about to blink out of existence. A man like this shouldn't still be alive.

"He can also hear everything we're saying but like with everything else he doesn't give a damn. Best kind of sellsword." Bronn comments as he folds his arms and leans back against a rock.

Jamie can't argue with that. "You are the expert on these matters." He makes his way towards the swordsman, stopping just outside the circle of the blades' influence.

"You really think you can beat the mountain?"

The boy, Gut's—what a name—glances at him as he sheathes his blade, in a rather interesting style of sheath, Jaime can't help but note.

The chape, which resembles a devil's pointed tail flaps around on the end of a leather strap. Instead of a wooden core, that would prevent him from drawing the sword over his shoulder, the sword is held in place on his back at the tip, middle, and guard. There's also an ingenious clamp mechanism within the locket of the sheath, which Jamie sees Gut's engaging as he releases the handle. An interesting design indeed.

"I won't know until I try." Gut's shrugs.

Jamie thinks he must have a death wish, it's the only logical explanation.

Still, he's Tyrion's last hope.

"It's fifteen gold dragons my friends promised you if you beat the Mountain, right?" He reaches for his purse with fumbling fingers and eventually manages to undo the knot keeping it attached to his belt.

For a second, he palms the purse, if he's honest he's not entirely sure how much is in it. More than fifteen dragons', he knows that much.

Throwing the purse, he watches as Gut's snatches it from the air; he tosses it in his palm a few times, testing the weight.

Jamie almost snorts when he sees Gut's picking out one of the coins, inspecting it thoroughly, even bringing it to his teeth and biting down on it to see if it's real.

"You do realise that's Lannister gold you're holding."

"So?"

"His families rather famous for shitting the stuff." Bronn helpfully volunteers.

The boy pockets the coin and picks up his helmet. "If you're paying me, I'm guessing the other guy turned tail."

"You're right, in a way." Jamie pauses, "though if we're being fair Prince Oberyn really didn't have a choice." Remembering why Prince Oberyn had to withdraw sends a fresh wave of anger flooding through his veins. From what he had heard the Red Viper's life wasn't in danger, he just wasn't in any condition to even hold his damn spear, let alone fight the Mountain with it.

This, like so many other things, as Jamie is quickly learning doesn't seem to matter to Gut's. He merely shrugs his shoulders.

"Tch, at least you're not cheap like most of the nobles who've had to pay me."

Tyrion stares at the tower of the hand that looms above his trials chosen field of combat.

He trails his eyes up and down the structure as he studies every aspect of it. The red wind-worn stones that act as its base, the intricate iron works that lines the balcony, the snarling dragon heads that have been chipped away by time and changing allegiances.

He studies everything about it with a scholars' eye, trying to needle out the stories that lay beneath each brick. Everything, but the platform that has been erected beside it.

He already knows the full story behind it, as well as the stories of each person sat beneath the rich fabric of its canvas top. The very people he's trying so hard not to look at.

It's a task made impossible by the eyes drilling holes through his skull. Oh, if only looks could kill, there would be no need for this trial and his sweet sister would be queen of the world. Not even dragons would be able to withstand that blazing stare of hers.

Alas, Cersei's glare has little effect on his state of living. He fears, however that Ser Gregor and his sword will not have the same trouble.

Tyrion had been contemplating what to do about the rotten hand he had been dealt ever since the Dornish guard came to his cell this morning.

He sat there on the straw covered floor of his cell, watching dust motes dance in the rays of light that filtered through his barred windows.

All the while thinking.

Those thoughts seem to matter very little now. Especially when they are confronted with the imposing figure of the Mountain.

Ser Gregor stands on the opposite side of the field, looking as though he was chiselled from stone. His hands clad in gauntlets of lobstered steel clasp the crosshilt of his six-foot great sword, a weapon that still bears all the scars of previous battles. The rest of his bulk is hidden beneath the thick layer of heavy plate armour that covers his entire form; is it too much to ask that he boil to death in it?

Considering how unbothered he looks and how still he is standing…yes.

He remembers Bronn's words: "Dance around him until he's so tired he can hardly lift his arm, then put him on his back."

It's a good strategy, one that's he's woefully underequipped to carry out.

This late in the game the only real choice left to him is this; throw himself down at his fathers' feet and beg for mercy or take his chances against Ser Gregor.

He'd take Ser Gregor any day.

No chance as there is there, it was infinitely preferable to the thought of the great Tywin Lannister finally getting everything he wanted.

What's that old saying?

Ah, yes: 'Either you win the Game of Thrones or you die.'

It seems he has not won.

As the sun slowly rises to its zenith, he can't seem to keep his eyes away from the platform. King Tommen is not in evidence, for that he is at least grateful, but the people who are there give him little comfort.

His father sits at the centre, his head currently bent as he listens to something his brother Kevin is telling him. Tyrion shifts his gaze along to the right, having no desire to look to the left where Cersei sits perched upon her chair.

It surprises him to find Jamie sitting in a previously empty chair, but he only has time to share a quick nod with his brother before he notices his father glancing at him. It was time enough to note an astonishing amount of confidence in his brothers' eyes.

Strange.

It's confidence he wishes he shared.

His fathers' eyes soon leave him.

With a wave of his hand the waiting trumpeters take up a fanfare to quiet the murmuring crowd. In the following silence his father nods and in response Grand Maester Pycelle stands and shuffles slowly forward.

"Prince Oberyn has been forced to withdraw due to ill health, therefore Tyrion of House Lannister stands without a champion." He takes a rather drawn out wheezing breath for dramatic effect. "Does the accused choose to retract his request for a trial by combat?"

"No."

Whispers sweep across the crowd, at least they aren't laughing, he is sick unto death of their laughter.

Eventually they calm and Pycelle continues "you wish to represent yourself?"

"Not really, no." He looks at the crowd scanning it uselessly.

Bronn and Prince Oberyn are the only ones that he bothers to recognise amongst the sea of faces, but Prince Oberyn is in no condition to face the Mountain. Even from this distance Tyrion can see him leaning heavily on his paramour that he's practically only a few degrees off of laying his head in her lap.

As for Bronn…well, his survival instincts have always been good, its one of the reasons Tyrion likes him.

Pycelle draws his attention back to the trial grounds with that simpering voice of his "then, who do you name as your champion?"

Who indeed?

One thing is clear, he is well and truly fuc—

"L-Lord Hand!"

Tyrion's head snaps in the direction of the tremulous voice. He watches; stunned as Podrick emerges from the crowd, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped as though he's trying to make himself as small as possible.

For a brief second, a flash of panic whites his mind as he thinks the boy is going to be stupid enough to volunteer himself.

Though those fears are soon put to rest as a glimpse of wane sunlight filtering through the clouds reflects off something metal within the parting crowd, snatching his fractured focus.

Soon enough a swordsman clad in armour the likes of which Tyrion has never seen nor even read about comes to stand beside his Squire.

Were Tyrion forced to take an educated guess he would say that the armour is some strange mix between Westerosi and Yi Ti.

His chest armour certainly takes influence from Yi Ti. A design called manju no wa if he's not mistaken; it is comprised of four separate pieces which cover his chest and shoulders leaving his stomach and lower back unarmoured. A white cape flows out beneath his chest armour, for what purpose Tyrion can only guess; distraction perhaps.

The pauldron's are certainly Westerosi in origin, being made of several lames divided between the larger ones that cover the sellswords shoulders and the gutter shaped ones that follow his upper arms.

The helmet by far, is the most intriguing part to Tyrion. It looks similar to a lobster tail helmet, but it is made of overlapping riveted sections, not a style that Tyrion has seen in Westeros before. The visor is wholly unique but looks sturdy enough and there are cut outs for his ears, probably to allow for better hearing. Finally, it has a thick rope chin strap which incorporates a small metal chin plate.

While Tyrion is observing the swordsman. Absorbing every aspect of his armour and the hulking great sword carried on his back—how on earth had it taken him so long to notice that—Podrick takes one step forward. Drawing everyone's attention back to him.

"I name the sellsword Gut's as Lord Tyrion's champion." His voice is so small when he speaks, but for all the noise the silent crowd is making he may as well have shouted.

Pycelle doesn't seem to know what to do now that this farce of a trial has gone off script. "I…what do—this is highly irregular! Not to mention insulting…yes, young man I don't know what you're—"

"I will allow it." His fathers voice cuts across Pycelle's non-sensical babbling.

"Father, you can't possibly allow this." Cersei hisses as she practically claws at the armrests of her chair.

"I can and I am." His father answers calmly, "we have wasted more than enough time on this already." With that he waves his hand and the High Septon scuttles forward to take Pycelle's place at the centre of the trial grounds.

Podrick and the sellsword Gut's make their way to him as the Septon prays that the Father above will help them with this judgment.

"Not that I'm not grateful for this little intervention, but shouldn't you be leagues away from King's Landing by now?" Tyrion asks, he tries to make his voice sound stern but the sheer relief of actually having a champion is making his voice sound slightly squeaky.

Podrick looks contrite none the less, though that too is ruined by the cheeky smirk the lad tries to hide by bowing his head. "I couldn't do it My Lord. I couldn't leave you to face this alone after all you've done for me."

Its touching, to know that some of his actions did earn him genuine loyalty. That he's actually managed to inspire something other than hate.

He finds himself bowing his own head, the last thing he needs is for the crowd to see his glassy eyes and think it weakness.

"Thank you Pod." He says as he pats the lads' elbow as well as he can. It's rather harder than it should be, but with his hands bound by the iron manacles what did he expect.

With that unanticipated scene out of the way he turns to acknowledge his new champion.

"Gut's is it?" He supresses the glib comment that flows to the tip of his tongue with great effort, a name like that does lend itself well to clever quips but now really isn't the time.

"Yeah, so that's the Mountain?" Gut's tilt's his chin towards Ser Gregor who stands tall on the opposite side of the field. "Is he over compensating for something?"

Tyrion chokes and it's a good thing, it stops him commenting on the boys' own choice of overlarge sword. Pissing off the guy who's fighting on his behalf; not the wisest option.

"I heard he's fast for his size." Gut's goes on to say.

"He is, its what kills a lot of the men who fight him."

"Tch, consider me warned."

The Septon seems to be wrapping up his sermon as Ser Osmund Kettleblack brings Ser Gregor his shield. A massive thing made of heavy oak and rimmed in black iron. Tyrion can't help but notice that the traditional sigil of House Clegane has been painted over. Now the shield bears the seven-pointed- star; brought by the Andals when they crossed the Narrow Sea to slaughter the First Men.

Very pious of Cersei, but he doubts the gods will be impressed.

"So, how much am I paying you?" he can't help but be curious, he'd offered Bronn a piece of the North and the sellsword had still turned him down.

"I've already been paid." The boy comments idly as he adjust the position of his sword on his back, flicking a small mechanism in the locket of his unusual sheath.

"You have?"

Gut's is not forthcoming with an answer but Podrick helpfully interjects.

"Thirty Gold Dragons My Lord."

"I'm sorry Pod I must have misheard you."

"No, My Lord, originally the deal was fifteen, but another backer paid him thirty." Podrick explains, looking smug.

It reminds Tyrion very much of the glint of confidence he'd seen earlier in Jaim—Ah, now it makes sense.

The relief that had been bleeding away suddenly returns ten-fold.

"Thirty Dragons, hardly a price worthy of the Mountains head." If Jamie thought this sellsword could fight… "If you actually beat Ser Gregor, I'll give you ten times that amount." …This sellswords worth every coin.

He's gratified to see Gut's eyes blow wide beneath his visor but then the boy bears his teeth in a way that gives the impression that he might be trying to smile.

"Guess Lannister's really do shit gold."

Tyrion allows himself a smirk, "if that were true the bucket in my cell this morning would have bought me an army of Unsullied and the ships needed to sail them here.

It seems that quip is the last words of their short conversation, as the Septon is at last done begging the Seven.

Gut's steps forward, his right hand rising to hold the handle of his sword firmly in what looks like a familiar grip.

There is fifty yards between him and the Mountain, but the gap closes quickly. Gut's advances at a steady pace while Ser Gregor moves more ominously. The ground does not shake when he walks, Tyrion tells himself. That is only the sound of my heart fluttering.

They both stop, a mere five yards separating them.

"They send some green horn child to face me?" Ser Gregor grunts through his breathes. "The Imp must be desperate."

He is but that's beside the point.

Gut's say's nothing in reply, he instead lowers his stance. His hand moves down the handle of his sword as his left foot slides forward.

The next moment he's charging. His right foot comes forward, his right arm swings bringing down that massive piece of steel in the shape of sword over his shoulder. He attacks, aiming for the Mountains raised shield and soon the air is filled with the sounds of cracking wood and rending iron.

The howl that leaves the Mountain maw is like nothing Tyrion has ever heard before.

Ser Gregor is stumbling back, remnants of his shield are left in ruins abandoned on the ground, only a few ragged pieces cling to the straps still attached to his arm. His left arm is limp, hanging useless at his side.

Dislocated?

Broken?

Tyrion doesn't know but it doesn't matter to Gut's, he keeps pressing the Mountain.

He slashes at Ser Gregor's sword arm next, aiming for the joint at the elbow. As Gut's sword glances off the heavy plate the Mountain tries to bull rush forward on instinct, knowing that he has the weight advantage, but Gut's already has his sword drawn back, ready.

As the mountain brings down his great sword in a one-handed slice Guts brings up his own to meet it. Stepping into the swing he grasps his blade with both hands.

The sound of shearing metal as the swords clash has many in the audience covering their ears. Sparks fly as the momentum of the blows carry both swordsman past each other, but as the mountain stumbles forward clumsily Gut's twists. One knee bent, the other dragging behind for balance he swings his blade in a wide arc with his right arm alone. The tip scrapes against the back of Ser Gregor helm leaving a gaping wound in the metal with a hideous steel screech.

Another bellow of rage and pain escapes the Mountain as he regains his footing swinging his blade blindly behind him to force Gut's to back off.

He does and from what Tyrion can see of his face he's annoyed that he's being forced to give the Mountain distance.

All around the yard spectators are creeping closer, trying to get a better view. The Kingsguard are trying their best to keep them back, shoving forcefully at the crowd with their large white shields, but there are only six men in white cloaks and there are hundreds of spectators.

The Mountain charges Gut's again, a feral cry of rage echoing from within the walls of his helm.

He doesn't use words, he just roars like an animal, Tyrion thinks.

Gut's is prepared for it, he deflects the blow, driving forward as he slams his blade down across the Mountains breast plate. Ser Gregor manages to raise his sword, absorbing some of the force of the strike, but his blade is turned aside with it and he's forced to step back. Another crack appears on his blade.

The crowd is screaming now, howling with each swing of the sword.

All the while Tyrion is silent, his jaw left hanging open as he watches Ser Gregor, the Mountain being pushed back. No, being forced back.

With a flurry of strikes Gut's closes in, raining down blow after blow on Ser Gregor. The mountain continues to defend with his great sword, metal meeting metal with an ear-splitting clang.

Tyrion turns to Podrick, somehow finding his voice. "I am feeling more innocent by the instant."

A scream from the crowd has his eyes flicking back to the duel.

Ser Gregor's retreat has brought the fight to the edge of the crowd.

Spectators scream and shove as they try to get out of the way, the noise drowns out the sound of the approaching blades for one Kingsguard still trying to push the people back.

A swell in the audience causes the white cloak to stumble back, straight into the Mountain.

Gut's hacks down with a savage strength and his sword cleaves through Ser Gregor's own, the blade shatters along the cracks and scars that mar its surface.

The sudden lack of resistance pulls Gut's forward just as the mountain rolls to the left, revealing the Kingsguard behind him.

The sword tears into the white cloak, dragging a line of red down the once pristine fabric as the Kingsguard crumples to the ground, a scream drowning in his throat. Gut's barely blinks an eye as he draws his blade from the dying man's torso, but it gives Ser Gregor enough time to attack.

He leaps onto the smaller swordsman and his hand tightens and twists as he rams Gut's to the ground. They wrestle in the dirt for a moment and Tyrion watches in horror as the Mountain wraps his lone arm around Gut's, bringing him close to his chest, like a lover.

"You're a dead man." Ser Gregor says, his deep voice booming within his helm as he tightens his hold.

Tyrion can feel the bile rising in his throat as he watches Gut's thrash in the Mountains hold. He wants to look away, but he finds himself oddly mesmerized by the sight of the Mountain slowly squeezing the life from Gut's.

The boy is still tightly holding onto his sword, for all the good it's doing him. Even with one arm immobilized Ser Gregor is still capable of crushing Gut's to death, as the knight proves when his constricting grip snaps bone.

Tyrion can see Gut's gritting his teeth, trying to hold back a scream as he struggles in the Mountain's hold. He has his sword arm free but the length of the bade has become a hindrance at such close quarters.

With dread overtaking his mind Tyrion can't stop his gaze from sliding to the platform. Cersei stands out from those gathered there; she's leaning forward in her chair her eyes holding a gleam of mad joy as they reflect the spectacle of violence playing out before her. She knows she's won.

Cersei must notice his gaze upon her as she look soon drifts to where he stands frozen. Her eyes are burning as bright as wildfire, the thought crosses his mind as an idle observation. I wonder if the Maester's will note that when they record this trial?

Any further thoughts on how the world will remember this day are brought to a sudden and jarring halt.

The animalistic war cry that carries across the dusty blood-soaked trial grounds seizes hold of his very soul.

While he wasn't paying attention, Gut's has somehow managed to free his trapped left arm. There's blood covering the limb, both his own and the still fresh spray from the dead Kingsguard, it must have acted as a slick allowing him to slip his arm loose of Gregor's crushing hold.

With strength Gut's shouldn't have left he raises his blade, swinging it for the Mountain's head. Ser Gregor doesn't even try to dodge.

He knows his helmet is thick enough to protect him from the desperate blow and he has the smaller man pinned beneath him. Just a few more seconds and the screaming boy will break.

It's a mistake and no one notices it until the last second.

Instead of making a last desperate strike Gut's swings his sword around the back of the Mountains helm, digging the edge of his blade into the gaping rift he'd gauged into the metal earlier.

With his freed left hand, he seizes the length of his blade and with a small adjustment to his right hand on the handle he begins to pull.

The sound of metal giving way beneath Gut's sword, of the Mountains helm slowly caving in almost swallows the screams.

Almost.

Blood flows freely from Gut's left hand as he continues to hold on to the unguarded edge of his monstrous blade, but now the Mountain's the one left struggling. He releases Gut's from his deathly embrace to instead claw with metal finger at the boys' neck and arms.

Gut's only holds on tighter, wrapping his legs around Ser Gregor's barrel chest as he puts more and more pressure on the writhing knights head.

Until, with a single sickening crunch everything grows still.

With a great shuddering breath Gut's releases his hold and rolls the Mountain's still body to the side. He then just lies there, breathing shallowly as his left arm comes to cradle his, presumably broken ribs.

All the while a torrent of blood flows from Ser Gregor's mangled ruin of a helm, painting the dirt in an ever-expanding pool of red that seems to smoke in the morning air.

"He killed the Mountain." The whispered words spread through the crowd, snapping many from their shocked daze.

"The Mountain is dead!" the call is taken up by the spectator's and soon they are roaring.

Tyrion himself isn't shaken from his haze until he feels a strong arm clamping down on his shoulder. He looks up to see Jamie grinning unrepentantly down at him as he moves to remove his manacles.

"He did it." He honestly can't believe it.

"He did." Jamie confirms.

Tyrion glances at the crowd trying to get his bearings and instead finds him self laughing hysterically when he catches Bronn shaking down a noble man who apparently lost a bet to him.

Recovering slowly, he looks to his champion only to see Prince Oberyn standing before him with a complicated look of frustrated joy twisting his features as he offers a hand to help the boy up. Even though he himself is being held up by his Paramour on one side and a guard on the other.

Gut's shy's away from the gesture, growling like a cornered dog as he stands on his own.

It's all a bit much to take in and Tyrion is feeling quite giddy, but he soon sobers when his gaze trails once more to the platform.

His father and sister are gone, their chairs sit empty, but the scene of toppled tables, spilled wine and shattered glasses are all clear signs of one of Cersei's legendary tantrums.

He feels a sudden need to leave Kings Landing and the sight of Gut's staring dagger at a chuckling Prince Oberyn gives him an idea.

He takes a moment to bid Jamie goodbye, assuring his brother that he will see him later. He won't.

Turning to Pod he then starts walking forward. "Stay close to me Pod."

Only yards away from the two he calls out "Prince Oberyn, if I might have a word. You see I feel a sudden irrefutable need to visit my dear niece."