We gave Myrcella gifts—Margaery and I presented her with a board and pieces for cyvasse, Tyrion and Sansa gave her an incredibly rare book, Cersei gifted her a gorgeous dress, Tywin gave her a purse embroidered with pearls and filled with coin, and Mace presented her with a beautiful parrot in a silver cage.
In short, we all did our best to make Myrcella feel at home as quickly as possible.
That evening, a feast was held in my sister's honor. She sat between Margaery and Sansa, and the girls periodically burst into laughter and quiet giggles. Watching them at a time when everything around us was so difficult was a genuine pleasure. They were like a breath of fresh air in stifling heat. Moreover, my sister served as a kind of intermediary—it was through Myrcella that Margaery and Sansa were able to communicate easily and pleasantly.
The bard Alarik of Eysen, who had settled in the Red Keep after the royal wedding, sang a song dedicated to Myrcella—about her gentle green eyes, her golden hair, and how the Lannisters always cherished their children.
It turned out rather well, and the audience tactfully ignored the fact that Myrcella, like Tommen and me, was not a Lannister at all, but quite the opposite—a Baratheon.
After the feast, I remembered something important and sent Jacob Liddon to Gregor Clegane and Oberyn Martell with a message that the king wished the duel to be fair. Therefore, before the fight, he would personally inspect the combatants' weapons for poison.
I made this move to give Clegane a chance to survive. From what I had already heard, he truly was a monster, a beast in human form. But he was our monster, and Tywin knew how to control him perfectly. So let him live—the death of Oberyn, as an extremely dangerous man who hated all Lannisters with a burning passion, suited me far better.
I also sincerely hoped that Oberyn would recognize and understand my gesture. It would have been far worse for him to learn of this condition at the very last moment, right before the fight. I wanted him and his people to realize that the king had allowed him to "save face."
And the next day, the trial by combat that Oberyn had demanded so insistently finally took place.
A courtyard near the Tower of the Hand was chosen as the arena. For the nobles, carpenters erected a raised platform with a canopy and covered it with carpets. The common folk—more than a thousand of them—crowded in on all sides, climbing onto barrels, carts, and even trees. Curious faces peered from windows, loopholes, and between the crenellations of the walls.
Around three hundred gold cloaks held back the press of the most curious, forming a living chain.
There were children among the spectators—people are always hungry for spectacle. Especially bloody ones.
However, neither Margaery, Myrcella, nor Sansa were present. Everyone understood that this was not a knightly duel, but a battle to the death for one of the participants. Therefore, there would be plenty of blood and suffering. Prince Tommen also did not want to attend.
That day, I saw Ser Gregor Clegane for the first time. Encased in armor, the Mountain looked like a creature out of some grim fairy tale—superhumanly huge, bearded, and savage. He stood nearly eight feet tall and seemed to overwhelm the space around him by his mere presence.
He was the first to approach the royal dais, removed his helmet, and gave a slight nod—though the expression of unrestrained ferocity never left his face. This man was a beast, inspiring fear simply by existing. I shuddered involuntarily, imagining what it would be like to see such a monster through the narrow slit of my own helm on a battlefield.
Gregor drove his enormous six-foot sword into the gap between the paving stones, rested his hands—encased in gauntlets—on the crossguard, and stood motionless. His massive shadow stretched menacingly toward the royal platform.
Clegane was armored thoroughly for battle—chain mail, breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses, and a plate skirt. He was wrapped in iron from head to toe. Dented, scratched, and scarred, the armor looked crude but immensely durable, tested and proven in countless battles. And yet, even it had weaknesses: the slits for the eyes, the neck, elbows, knees, and feet.
Nearby, his squire, Joss Stilwood, held a triangular shield bound with iron along the edges. The Clegane sigil—three black dogs on a yellow field—was chipped and battered, and like all of the Mountain's equipment, bore the marks of long and brutal service.
After some time, accompanied by four Dornish knights, Prince Oberyn appeared from the opposite side of the courtyard. I already recognized one of his squires—Ser Dagos Manwoody.
Oberyn wore beautiful, sturdy, and undoubtedly expensive cuisse, gauntlets, a groin guard, a gorget, and chain mail. On his left arm hung a small round shield bearing the Martell sigil, and atop his head was a helmet without a visor, leaving his attentive, focused gaze fully visible. That was the extent of his protection, aside from his supple skin and flowing, shimmering silks.
In his right hand he carried a thick, smooth spear about eight feet long—well suited to Clegane's towering height. The spearhead itself was nearly two feet long, a gleaming steel blade shaped like a leaf.
Oberyn wore red leather gloves on his hands.
It was obvious at a glance: one of these men, due to his size, relied on raw strength and crushing power, the other on agility and speed.
The prince halted a few yards from the Mountain and struck the stone tiles sharply with the butt of his spear. At once, the squires stepped forward, took the Mountain's sword and the Red Viper's spear, and brought them to me.
Clegane's two-handed sword was astonishing in size and weight. For most men, it would have required both hands without question, yet Clegane himself handled it easily with one.
The Red Viper's spear looked like a deadly work of art—elegant, refined. The long blade was honed so keenly it could have served as a razor.
Lord Kevan assisted me in examining the weapons. We found no trace of poison, and they were returned to their owners.
Clegane's squire helped him don his helmet and secure the straps. Ser Osmund Kettleblack handed Gregor his shield. The Mountain slowly slid his left arm into the straps and flexed his fingers, adjusting his grip for maximum control.
Prince Oberyn merely tightened his gloves.
(End of Chapter)
If you like what I'm doing and feel like helping out, my P@treon is /SadRaven. Your support means a lot!