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Just as Jimmy had predicted, Ser Hugh never stood a chance.
He lay on the ground, motionless. His gorget had shattered under the impact, and the broken shaft of Gregor's lance had driven straight through his throat.
Blood sprayed in violent bursts from the wound.
Hugh tried to lift his hands, tried to press against the bleeding, but his arms would not obey him.
Within seconds, he stopped moving.
Two attendants dragged his body away like discarded cargo.
"A miserable life," Jimmy murmured.
---
The next day, Jimmy secured a good vantage point.
It was the final round.
The Mountain had carved his way through every opponent without mercy. Few survived facing him. Jimmy had watched one man take a direct hit to the chest. His breastplate collapsed inward, ribs puncturing his lungs. He suffocated before anyone could reach him.
Gregor reveled in it.
Violence was not a necessity for him. It was an expression.
Which made his survival all the more remarkable.
Every knight in this tourney belonged to a noble house. Every death created enemies. Gregor did not care.
He never had.
Now only one opponent remained.
Ser Loras Tyrell.
The Knight of Flowers.
His armor gleamed silver, adorned with intricate floral patterns. Where Hugh's armor had been foolishly decorative, Loras's was dazzling by design. Every eye on the field followed him.
Truthfully, he stood out so much that even allies might have been tempted to strike him down just to stop the display.
The crowd loved him.
The cheers when he entered were louder than those for the Mountain.
But Jimmy's attention drifted elsewhere.
To the royal box.
At the center sat a massive man with a beard and the posture of someone who had long since abandoned discipline.
King Robert Baratheon.
Soon to die by a boar.
Robert the First.
And only.
Nearby stood a young girl holding a rose Loras had given her.
Sansa Stark.
Dreaming of marrying Joffrey.
Beside her sat Eddard Stark himself.
The man Jimmy had come to save.
Arya Stark, however, was nowhere to be seen.
A small disappointment.
Still, Arya had her own path. Interfering too much might attract attention Jimmy did not want. He had already been warned. Westeros was full of forces that did not play by mortal rules.
He had deliberately avoided the temples of the Seven.
And Arya's connection to the Faceless Men was another unknown.
Bran. Arya. Others like them.
Best to keep a distance.
Not fear.
Prudence.
There was no reason to invite trouble.
---
A sudden roar from the crowd snapped Jimmy's focus back to the field.
It was over.
Loras Tyrell had won.
Not through strength.
Through strategy.
His horse, scented and conditioned to disrupt Gregor's mount, had thrown the Mountain off balance at the critical moment.
But Gregor Clegane was not a man who accepted defeat.
Realization dawned slowly.
Then came rage.
With a single strike, Gregor beheaded his own horse.
The massive blade fell like an executioner's axe.
Then he turned.
Sword in hand.
Advancing on Loras.
The Knight of Flowers barely raised his shield in time.
The force of the blow drove him to the ground.
The crowd fell silent.
Everyone understood.
Gregor Clegane did not care about rules.
He never had.
Even if Loras had been fully prepared, the outcome would not have changed. A direct strike from the Mountain left only one possible result.
You fell.
The entire arena froze.
In front of the king himself, Gregor Clegane had drawn steel to settle a personal grievance.
Loras lay on the ground, shield raised, barely holding the blade back. The next strike would split him in half.
Then someone moved.
A man with half his face scarred charged forward, intercepting the killing blow.
Steel slammed against steel.
Sandor Clegane.
The Hound.
"Enough!"
Only then did King Robert finally speak.
Gregor stood motionless for a moment, then hurled his massive sword aside in disgust and turned to leave.
Guards drew their weapons, blocking his path.
"Let him pass," Robert commanded.
Robert Baratheon had won his crown through strength. He had seen Loras's trick immediately. The scented mare. The manipulation. He was angry at Gregor's defiance, but he despised deception more.
He would not punish the Mountain for reacting to dishonor.
Most men would have shown gratitude.
Gregor Clegane did not.
He walked away without a word, his rage unresolved.
Perhaps he believed he had been wronged.
---
Jimmy had seen enough.
Now he had what he needed.
Names. Faces. Positions.
What came next mattered far more.
The dungeons beneath the Red Keep.
The ancient dragon tunnels beneath the castle were a labyrinth. Most exits were forgotten. Some led to the river behind the fortress. Others opened into sealed ruins.
Jimmy spent days mapping them.
With his camouflage cloak, he could vanish into the shadows of the tunnels, becoming invisible in the darkness.
After more than ten days of exploration, he finally found what he was looking for.
A route leading into the prison.
Several iron gates blocked the path.
For ordinary men, they were impenetrable.
For Jimmy, they were obstacles in name only.
---
The bells rang.
Deep. Heavy.
Relentless.
The entire city listened.
Jimmy stepped outside just as the ringing stopped.
"The king is dead."
Robert Baratheon was gone.
So events had accelerated.
Jimmy did not join the crowds rushing toward the Great Sept. He turned and returned home.
Rest mattered.
Tonight, if possible, he would extract Eddard Stark.
---
Under the cover of darkness, Jimmy slipped beneath the Red Keep.
He avoided the Gold Cloaks and entered the tunnel system undetected.
He waited.
One day.
Two.
Just as his patience began to wear thin, something changed.
The guards were gone.
Some had been reassigned. Others had been lured away. A few lay unconscious, victims of some unseen sedative.
Then came the torchlight.
A heavyset figure in black robes approached silently, hood drawn low.
Jimmy smelled him long before he saw him.
He knew that scent.
Varys.
The Spider.
Master of Whisperers.
If Varys were here personally, then only one prisoner mattered.
The old wolf.
Eddard Stark.
Jimmy extended his claws.
Silently, he sliced through the iron bars.
And followed.
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