After receiving the "Blacksmith" stigmata, the High Sparrow could not only wield the "Blacksmith's Forge (Divine Dragonflame)," but also gained countless forging techniques out of thin air.
Because of this, he could instantly identify the weak points of his opponent's armor and strike precisely at the gaps to shatter them, breaking the armor's structure and achieving the effect of dismantling it with skill rather than brute force.
So he smashed Robert's shoulder guard with one strike, and his helmet with another.
The visor half fell off, the iron helm shattered, and part of Robert's face was revealed.
And what a horrific face it was!
Eyes flickering with a bloodthirsty red glow, lips black without the breath of life, a grayish-blue nose, skin pale gray tinged with purple, and crisscrossed with dark purple veins. No—those weren't veins, but the marks of sutures.
"Ah, is that even human? He's uglier than Duke Euron!" an onlooker exclaimed.
Euron scowled and leaned forward to watch.
He had long heard the rumors that Robert neither ate, drank, nor relieved himself, and he too was curious about the man's true nature.
"Kill him, kill the High Sparrow!" Cersei screamed hysterically, her face pale and her eyes filled with terror.
But even without her shouting, the High Sparrow likely could not survive.
With his spine shattered, how could he live?
"You are no man!" the High Sparrow's eyes suddenly lit with realization. Struggling, he lifted his warhammer and roared with all his strength: "Sacred fire of the Seven, burn away the sins of the unclean!"
"Boom!"
The warhammer blazed with fire once more, its scorching heat and divine aura forcing Robert to recoil.
If he didn't dodge, he would die.
A strike to the head would mean certain death!
Instinctively, the kneeling White Knight shifted from holding to hurling, seizing the High Sparrow's chainmail with his right hand and flinging him away.
"Clang!"
Though the High Sparrow was powerless as he was hurled aside, his hammer did not completely miss. It struck Robert's loosened visor, scattering holy flames across his head, face, and chest.
With his left shoulder and cloak already smoldering, Robert was nearly a man of fire.
"Awooo—" The White Knight clawed at the flames on his face, unleashing a soul-rending roar.
"The duel is over, Robert Strong is the victor! Put out the fire!" Cersei shouted, appealing to the surrounding nobles.
"Your Grace, the High Septon is neither dead nor has he yielded." Lord Tarly sternly pointed to where the High Sparrow, coughing blood, struggled to rise.
At once, Cersei screamed at the White Knight writhing in the flames: "Kill him, Robert! Kill the High Sparrow!"
"What kind of fire is that? It seems as dreadful as dragonflame… maybe the High Sparrow truly could win—if he lasts half an hour longer." Tyrion muttered in shock.
"Remove the helmet and cloak," Euron advised.
Cersei hesitated. She was not stupid. Of course she knew removing the helm could free Robert from most of the holy flames.
But if the helm was removed, what uproar would follow when people saw the face beneath?
Yet earlier, when the visor had slipped, some nobles had already glimpsed part of the face without recognizing him. Perhaps now, burned as it was, not even his own mother would know him.
Thinking this through, Cersei made her decision and commanded: "Robert, remove your burning armor!"
Even dragonflame could not ignite steel. If not for this holy fire driven by the Blacksmith's divine power, it would have burned itself out after consuming the cloak.
Now the flames were already weakening, but the holy fire was devastating against corpses, which was why Robert Strong thrashed and howled like a madman.
Following Cersei's command, Robert tore off his shattered helm with his iron-gloved right hand. His left shoulder, broken from the High Sparrow's last desperate strike and seared by holy fire, was nearly useless.
"Clang—" Robert ripped off the massive flat-topped helm and flung it far away.
"Ah—" The priests, nobles, and common representatives all saw Robert's true face—one-third burned, but the rest still visible.
Large patches of grayish-blue scalp were exposed, dotted with sparse, dull black hair like weeds scattered across a barren field, brittle and lifeless as winter reeds.
To everyone's surprise, Ser Strong's head was not nearly as enormous as they had imagined.
Though a little swollen, compared to his giant's frame of nearly eight feet, his head and torso seemed oddly disproportionate.
"Ahhh—" Suddenly, the Great Bear pointed at Robert's reflection in the magic mirror, howling in terror, too stunned to speak.
"Seven hells!" Tyrion slapped his forehead, voicing the Great Bear's horror aloud: "Robb?! Robert was Robb all along! How did my sister pull this off?!"
"Robb? Which Robb?" Quentyn quickly asked.
"Could it be Robb Stark?" Maester Aemon exclaimed.
"Yes, Robb. Since it's not just me who thinks so, then it must be Robb." The Great Bear's face went pale. He glanced at Tyrion and nodded heavily.
"But the Young Wolf is dead! His head was cut off and sewn to a direwolf's body before being sent to King's Landing," Quentyn said in disbelief.
"That explains it." Daenerys suddenly understood.
She had always believed Robert Strong was the Mountain. After all, that was how it played out in Game of Thrones.
But the reports from Westeros confirmed otherwise. To placate Prince Doran's wrath—after the trial by combat in which Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper and Doran's own brother, was slain by the Mountain—Tywin had already delivered the Mountain's head to Dorne.
The Mountain's size made his head nearly impossible to fake. More importantly, Tywin had no reason to deceive.
The Mountain had been poisoned by Oberyn's black sorcery and was doomed to die.
Even if he had survived, Tywin would still have offered his head to Dorne to soothe their fury.
"In the East, there is a school of sorcery—necromancers—who specialize in the magic of reviving the dead."
"The necromancer seeks limbs rich in negative essence and stitches them into complete, controllable corpse demons," Dany explained simply.
It was obvious that Stark's body contained an extremely high concentration of negative essence, making it the best material for a corpse demon.
It was also the best material for a White Walker.
And the best vessel for a greenseer.
"Hmm."
"Cersei knows necromancy?" Ser Bear questioned in shock.
Tyrion affirmed, "Qyburn. It was Qyburn. That man was once a maester of the Citadel. He secretly studied necromancy, and when he was discovered, the Archmaesters stripped him of his chain and expelled him from the Citadel.
Later, Qyburn joined one of the most infamous sellsword companies, continuing his vile human experiments.
Later still, when Jaime's sword hand was cut off by the Brave Companions, Qyburn followed him to King's Landing after treating his wounds.
A Lannister always pays his debts.
No matter how disgraceful Qyburn's past was, my father and sister still placed great trust in him!"
"Roar!" At this moment, Robert had already torn off his burning shoulder armor and cloak, dark purple blood oozing from his burns. He strode up to the High Sparrow.
With one kick, he sent the hammer flying from the man's hands, then stomped down hard on the chest of the Son of Light while his massive iron hands clutched the High Sparrow's head.
The bloodiest, most horrific scene unfolded.
It was like pulling a turnip out of mud—"Squelch!"
The High Sparrow's head was wrenched off, the jagged stump of his neck still attached to several segments of white-and-red vertebrae.
"Shhhhhh—" Blood gushed from his neck like a fountain.
"Roar!" Ser Robert Strong flung away the severed head and let out a soul-twisting roar toward the statue of the Father.
The sept was filled with the stench of blood, silent as a grave. Only the candle flames flickered wildly, and the Father's glaring eyes seemed to be veiled with a dark shade of blood.
"I've won." Suddenly, Cersei burst into laughter, crying out to the surrounding nobles with elation: "I've won! I've won the trial by combat! I am innocent! The Seven themselves have proven my purity! Hahaha!"
"You cheated! Robert Strong isn't even human!" Lancel's furious roar erupted from among the septons.
Cersei turned and saw her cousin's eyes bloodshot, his face twisted, on the verge of collapse.
"Yes, Robert isn't human. No man could look like that." As a representative of the common people, Strick decided to speak a word of fairness.
"This monster looks very much like the Young Wolf, Robb Stark. This is sorcery—vile blood magic!" cried a Riverlands noble in shock and anger.
Indeed, this trial by combat had caused a great stir. Ravens had been sent out more than half a month ago. Even Dragonstone had sent representatives, not to mention nobles from the other Seven Kingdoms.
All who could come, came.
"This is unfair. The Queen Dowager used sorcery to cheat."
Once someone spoke up, a dozen nobles from non–Iron Throne factions immediately joined in agreement.
"This is necromancy! Don't think no one recognizes it. Go across the Narrow Sea, bring a red priest or a necromancer to confirm. Everyone knows the truth."
Marwyn's face was dark with fury as he spoke on behalf of Dragonstone.
"Don't slander me with baseless lies!" Cersei, seeing the suspicion in everyone's eyes, quickly stepped forward and pointed at Marwyn, cursing, "Look at his chest—he's from Dragonstone. He serves that little—"
"Cough, cough!" Regent Kevan coughed hurriedly, cutting off his niece. "Your Grace, Dragonstone belongs to House Targaryen. The Iron Throne acknowledges this. You should call her 'Princess Daenerys.'"
"It's all the same!" Cersei waved dismissively and continued, "Daenerys clearly wishes me ill—everyone knows it. Just as I would never speak well of her, you should assume her words about me are the opposite of the truth.
So, Ser Robert Strong is a man. He just looks… unusual.
Look at my fiancé."
Euron was yanked forward by his betrothed, caught completely off guard.
"See? He is three parts human and seven parts White Walker!"
Cersei pointed at Euron's pox-ridden face. "He's even uglier than Ser Robert Strong. But who can deny he's alive?"
Marwyn's mouth fell open in shock, his expression blank.
Euron's facial muscles contorted, making him look even uglier, as if more terrifying than the White Knight himself.
The crowd began to waver.
"And then there's the White Knight who fled, the Hound. Everyone knows how ugly he is. And Ser Loras, too—you really ought to see him.
I swear, after meeting him, anyone would think Robert was a handsome young man."
The Little Rose, Margaery, and her father, Mace Tyrell—Hand of the King and father of Loras and Margaery—both turned dark with fury.
"Pfft—" In front of the magic mirror, the Imp clutched his belly and burst into laughter.
"Look at her—that's my dear sister. Charming, isn't she? She has a special gift, the ability to make everyone hate her—and hate the Lannisters."
His darling sister went on, "As for a small head on a big body—haven't you seen the Imp? Deformed, twisted short legs, abnormally thin arms, a head bigger than most men's, and even his little—"
The Imp's laughter cut off instantly.
The spectators in the sept grew pensive.
Those before the magic mirror turned their heads, giving Tyrion strange looks.
"I'm so moved. I never knew my sister cared so deeply about me." Tyrion squeezed his legs together, his ugly face twisted.
(End of Chapter)
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