Chapter 62 — Rebirth
"Say it! Was it him?
You people wouldn't even spare infants still suckling at their mothers' breasts—what were you so afraid of?
Afraid that the true dragon would one day be reborn to take revenge on you?"
Oberyn pointed furiously at Tywin, his voice rising with each word.
"Your retribution is already upon you!
Do not think that Dorne will once again turn its scorpions against dragons!"
He continued hurling accusations, as though pouring out decades of suppressed rage in a single, searing torrent.
Watching the Mountain still twitching on the ground, Varys felt even more anxious than Tyrion.
Only now did he fully understand the warning contained in the mysterious letter.
He wanted to shout—to warn Oberyn to be careful—but the prince was consumed by fury, his attention fixed solely on his enemy.
There was no way Oberyn would hear him now.
Then—
Thump!
As Oberyn stepped closer, the Mountain suddenly lashed out, striking Oberyn's calf and knocking him to the ground.
In the same motion, Gregor seized Oberyn by the chest and began to lift him up.
The instant he fell, Varys's warning flashed through Oberyn's mind.
Without hesitation, Oberyn drew the dagger strapped to his thigh and drove it savagely toward the Mountain's face.
Pain exploded across Gregor's features.
Before he could react, the blade plunged deep into his eye.
His half-raised arm froze in midair.
Feeling the crushing strength of the Mountain's grip—and the searing pain where he was being held—Oberyn abandoned any thought of torment or interrogation.
He stabbed again.
And again.
And again.
Only when the Mountain's fingers slackened completely did Oberyn stop.
When the enormous body beside him finally went still, Oberyn sat up, breathing hard.
The Mountain's face was riddled with gaping wounds—there was no doubt left.
Gregor Clegane was dead beyond all question.
Shaken but alive, Oberyn instinctively tore open his light armor.
A palm-sized chunk of flesh had been crushed loose, shriveled and misshapen.
Only then did he fully grasp the Mountain's terrifying strength.
Had he hesitated even a moment longer, he would not have survived.
Oberyn glanced toward Varys, who stood among the nobles.
If not for that warning—
If he had not armed himself with a second dagger—
If he had reacted even a heartbeat slower—
He would have died, just like his sister Elia.
Killed by the same monster.
And vengeance would have remained forever unfulfilled.
Seeing that the Mountain was truly dead, Tyrion stepped down from the arena, intending to thank Oberyn.
Before he had taken more than two steps, someone rushed past him and threw herself into Oberyn's arms.
Earlier, Ellaria had been terrified—she had fully expected to witness Oberyn's gruesome death.
She knew better than anyone that no one who faced the Mountain ever met a good end.
The brute's greatest pleasure lay in torturing and slaughtering his opponents.
Ellaria never imagined that, even after being knocked to the ground, Oberyn could still turn the tables.
Seeing Oberyn survive by the narrowest of margins, Jaime walked over to Tyrion with a smile and gave his shoulder a firm pat.
"Hmph."
Cersei shot a venomous glare at Tyrion and Oberyn, then lifted her skirts and stormed out of the arena, unwilling to look at the Mountain's lifeless body for another second.
Tywin rose slowly from his seat and formally declared Oberyn the victor and Tyrion innocent.
Then, casting a cold glance at Oberyn and his paramour, he too departed the arena.
The assembled nobles had never imagined that the so-called strongest warrior in King's Landing would fall.
Many cast wary looks at Tyrion before hastily leaving—none of them had expected him to claw his way back from the brink.
As the arena gradually emptied, Tyrion approached Oberyn and offered his thanks in earnest.
"You saw it yourself—I nearly died," Oberyn said, staring at the long trail of blood left behind where the Mountain's corpse had been dragged away. Even now, lingering fear flickered in his eyes.
Had things gone differently, it would have been his body pulled across the sand.
Knowing the Mountain's fondness for torment, Oberyn shuddered at the thought of what his own end might have looked like.
Ellaria, who had just stepped away, saw the look on Oberyn's face and rushed back to embrace him again, pressing kisses to his cheek to comfort him.
Tyrion stepped forward solemnly.
"I will remember today's debt," he said, bowing deeply.
"You should be thanking Varys—not me," Oberyn replied calmly. "In fact, I owe him my thanks as well."
"Varys?" Tyrion was genuinely surprised. The same man who had testified that Tyrion sympathized with the Starks?
Ellaria, leaning against Oberyn, looked equally astonished. She had never heard him mention Varys's involvement.
"Last night, on my way to the dungeon to see you, Varys stopped me," Oberyn explained.
"He warned me not to get too close to the Mountain during the duel—or I would die because of a single careless moment."
"So that's why you strapped daggers to both thighs," Ellaria said, realization dawning. She had noticed the unusual preparation earlier that morning.
"I knew exactly what would happen if the Mountain got his hands on me," Oberyn replied, glancing uneasily at the bloodstains still darkening the sand.
"I took precautions—and thank the gods I did. If I'd been even a moment slower, what's soaking into the ground there would've been my blood and flesh, not his."
"But how could Varys possibly predict how your fight with the Mountain would unfold?" Tyrion asked, puzzled.
"I don't know," Oberyn admitted. "Even with his warning, I never imagined things would come that close.
And he told me plainly—he was only passing along a warning. The one who foresaw my death wasn't him."
As Oberyn finished speaking, Tyrion fell into deep thought.
Who could possibly have known he would demand a trial by combat—a decision he himself had made only in the heat of the moment?
Who could have foreseen that Oberyn would grow careless and nearly die?
Suddenly, a thought struck him.
Could it be her?
Varys had once urged him to leave King's Landing and pledge himself to Daenerys Targaryen.
And last night, Varys had said he was delivering a warning on someone else's behalf.
If Varys was quietly working for the Dragon Queen…
Then the answer was obvious.
"It seems you already have a guess," Oberyn said, noticing the change in Tyrion's expression.
"It's only a suspicion," Tyrion replied honestly. "I won't know for certain until I ask him."
"When you do, don't forget to tell me," Oberyn said. He was a man who repaid both debts and kindness—and he intended to thank his unseen benefactor face to face.
"I will," Tyrion promised.
After parting with Oberyn, Tyrion returned to his residence.
The vast courtyard stood empty.
Sansa had fled King's Landing.
Shae's whereabouts were unknown.
The servants were long gone.
Only he remained.
He poured himself a cup of red wine from the cabinet and took a slow sip, savoring the taste.
He hadn't expected to ever drink wine again.
After two cups, he stopped. There would be time for indulgence later—he still had things to do.
Leaving the house, he made several loops through nearby alleys to ensure he wasn't being followed, then headed straight for the eastern residential quarter.
After passing through two filthy, reeking streets, he stopped before a small courtyard shaded by several large trees.
He knocked twice, deliberately.
Moments later, he heard movement inside.
The gate opened a crack, and Varys's gleaming bald head poked out.