"What do you think of Clegane?" Lord Tywin, seated to my right, leaned unexpectedly close and murmured into my ear.
"Are you asking about his fighting skills, or something else?" I turned to my grandfather, but he met my gaze calmly and said nothing. "Looking at this monster, what amazes me most is where you found him—and how you managed to tame him."
"Exactly," Grandfather smiled, straightening in his chair. "Learn to see the essence, Joffrey. Behind all this severity and intimidating appearance, you must understand the main thing—Clegane is only a tool. The virtue of a wise ruler is that he always knows where best to use a particular tool."
"All that remains is to acquire the right tools," I joked.
"Why look for them? They're everywhere. You just have to know how to see them—that, too, is a ruler's virtue."
"And yet, people like Gregor are rare," an interesting thought occurred to me. "Does he have children?"
"He has a nine-year-old son," Tywin smiled faintly. "He's still a puppy, but they grow into excellent fighting dogs. You simply have to train them properly."
"Thanks for the idea, Grandfather. I'll think about it."
"That's right. Think about it."
Meanwhile, the opponents had taken their designated positions. Traditionally, before the start of a fight, the fighters were expected to greet one another. This time, neither of them even considered it.
I raised my hand. A dozen trumpets rang out into the silence. The High Septon stepped into the center of the arena, announced the nature of one combatant's accusation against the other, and prayed that the Seven would grant victory to the righteous and punish the guilty.
The distance between the warriors was about fifty yards. As soon as the Septon withdrew, I lowered my hand again. The trumpets sounded a sharp fanfare, and the combatants began to advance.
Oberyn moved lightly and fluidly. Gregor, by contrast, walked slowly, with a slight sway. It seemed as if the ground itself trembled beneath his steps.
His helmet was crowned with a clenched fist, a brutal ornament that added nearly a foot to his height and made Clegane appear even more monstrous.
When they were about ten yards apart, Oberyn suddenly stopped.
"Do you know who I am?" the prince asked.
"Fuck you," came the Mountain's voice, muffled beneath his closed helm, hollow and booming, as if spoken from inside a barrel. Without warning, he surged forward, and his sword describing a magnificent arc, flashing briefly in the sunlight.
No one—including Oberyn—had expected such an explosion of speed and agility from the giant. The first blow nearly became the last. Oberyn threw himself to the right at the final instant and rolled over his shoulder.
Clegane stepped in and kicked at his rising opponent. The strike was glancing, catching his thigh, yet even so it hurled Martell several yards away.
The prince rebounded like a cat, landing lightly on his feet. The arrogant smile vanished from his face. Only now, having come within a breath of death, did he seem to grasp the true seriousness of the moment.
"I am Oberyn Martell," the prince declared loudly, beginning to circle the Mountain.
His spear struck suddenly—swift, precise, like a flash of lightning. The Mountain staggered, taking the blow on his shield. Another strike followed, then another.
"Princess Elia is my sister," Martell added, seizing the rhythm of the fight.
"I don't give a shit about you or your whore. Fucking Dornishman," Clegane snarled as he pressed the attack, combining sweeping slashes with brutal thrusts. He gathered speed and rhythm, displaying not only incredible strength but surprising coordination. And yet his sword had its weight, and it was considerable. And even Gregor Clegane, despite all his skill and strength, could not completely ignore inertia.
From the very first moments, the fighters set a furious pace, wasting no time on cautious probing their opponents.
The Red Viper dodged with ease, constantly circling and circling the Mountain. His spear seemed alive, like a serpent's tongue—darting forward again and again, striking, striking, striking…
The shoulder.
The groin, exposed for the briefest instant.
The leg.
The arm.
Again the leg.
The belly.
The neck.
The eye…
Clegane did not appear stunned, but even he was forced to respect such speed and precision.
The clangor of iron on iron rang across the courtyard. The spectators, silent at first, began to shout and whistle, marveling at particularly skillful blows and techniques.
A couple of times, Oberyn's spear found its way into the joints of Gregor's armor and kissed flesh. Yet Clegane seemed scarcely bothered. He looked much as he had before—utterly implacable, utterly calm. I silently congratulated myself on the foresight of inspecting the weapons.
Oberyn continued to circle, trying to slip behind him, and Gregor was forced to turn again and again. Several times, waiting for the right moment, the Mountain lunged forward, hoping to catch his foe. Oberyn had no intention of repeating the mistake he had made at the very beginning, and easily stepped aside. Only his harsh, guttural laughter—more like a growl—reached the crowd at these moments.
"Elia of Dorne was my sister. And you, you bitch, killed her. You raped her. You killed her," Martell's voice rose with every word. Each accusation was punctuated by a spear thrust. He never ceased moving, and at times the long, heavy weapon became a shimmering circle, from which the steel blade flew out again and again, striking a new target each time.
Watching such mastery, I was stunned. Never before—even with my limited experience—had I imagined that a spear could be wielded like this.
A strike from below.
From the side.
To the chest.
To the arm.
The spear bit into Gregor's thigh. He tried to cut the spear with his sword and failed, the effort forcing him a step forward. The prince flowed behind him like water. Gregor had only just begun to turn when the spear stung him behind the knee, in the gap left unprotected by his greaves.
I don't know how deep the blade went, but for the first time the Mountain growled—it sounded like the discontented grumbling of a bear disturbed by dogs in its den.
"You raped her. You killed her. You murdered her children," the Dornishman repeated incessantly, moving incessantly as well.
The Mountain turned, trying to keep that swift shadow before him. With every step the giant took, dark drops of blood spattered onto the stone slabs.
(End of Chapter)
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