...Chapter Start
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(General POV)
The once-loud arena had suddenly stilled like a calm stream; the noise lost within its grasp, where one could hear a pin reverberate if need be. The sound of breathing—either low or stopped altogether—was something that no one had expected, and no one could have imagined an event so unprecedented. But now, they could no longer say no.
Eyes trembled as they looked at the form of The Mountain, whose back was now firmly placed on the floor—his breathing heavy, the rise and fall of his chest beneath heavy plate armor a testament to his state. Yet if one were to look into his eyes, they would see nothing but contempt, exhaustion, and shame—shame at being forced into submission by a foe several times shorter than himself.
The knight who had bested The Mountain, however, shared in the same exhaustion as his defeated foe. His armor was battered, his sword a far cry from what it had once been, yet even still, the man stood firm—tall, even as his gaze looked down over the form of The Mountain That Rides.
"D-Did… he beat the flipping Mountain?" someone asked.
"Who's that knight?" another individual called out.
"He beat Ser Gregor fucking Clegane!" one shouted.
Various comments like this echoed throughout the audience. Many had their money on the Mountain to win the entire tournament, only to watch him be bested by someone named "Knight," which caused outrage among some—or joy among those who had bet against him and now celebrated their winnings.
But more importantly—it was now etched into the minds of those who were present—The Mountain That Rides had fallen.
All eyes remained fixed as they awaited the words that would mark the end—the words that would seal his defeat, uttered by the man who had a sword to his neck.
"...I-..." The Mountain started, inhaling to catch his breath before continuing. "I yield," he finished.
The silence was deafening—gasps followed—then cheers. The crowd erupted, some shouting with joy, others in frustration. Under his helm, Daemon released a sharp exhale; his tense shoulders eased, and his features beneath the helmet relaxed. He had done it—he had bested The Mountain and now stood in the final two.
Daemon soaked in the cheers as he triumphantly raised his shield and sword into the air, screaming in elation as he roused the crowd, turning his back to The Mountain, who was now slowly getting back to his feet, albeit tiredly. With only one opponent left, Daemon's chances of victory were now fifty-fifty—his only obstacle: the man who wielded the Valyrian steel blade.
His expression shifted from calm confidence to razor focus as he locked eyes with Lyn Corbray, who stared directly at him—rushing forward, presumably saying something. But Daemon couldn't hear anything over the crowd's roar, only catching fragments of syllables, lost in the ever-growing noise.
"H..ind..ou…" Before Daemon could understand the warning, a sudden force struck the back of his head, slamming him down to the ground, his mind thrown into a daze. The Mountain, despite yielding, couldn't accept the humiliation of losing to a lesser knight. A man like him would never let such a disgrace go unpunished.
Daemon groaned as fists crashed against his face. His only protection was his helm, which began to dent under the sheer force of Gregor's gauntleted fists. He felt his lip burst, pain in his cheekbone, and pressure growing over one of his eyes.
The blows were brutal and relentless, leaving him dazed and too weak to defend himself. Instinctively, he raised his shield to block the onslaught, but even it started to splinter and crack under the force of the barrage.
"You… think you'd humiliate me… and walk away like nothing happened?!" Gregor snarled, finally standing up, leaving Daemon battered on the ground. The Mountain smiled cruelly at his work before reaching for his sword. He retrieved it, raising it high above his head, ready to bring it down upon the knight below.
"Die, bastard," The Mountain whispered coldly, lowering the blade, intent on splitting Daemon in two.
That word again… bastard. Not like it matters anymore. And as I see the blade coming closer—it never really mattered. Daemon thought as he watched the sword inch nearer to him.
He had resigned himself to his fate—there was little he could do. The blade was the final punctuation mark in a short-lived tale. He had died in a moment of pride and arrogance—by turning his back to his enemy.
Clang!
The crowd gasped as the sword was intercepted—Lady Forlorn, the blade of Lyn Corbray, had stopped the strike. Daemon, lost in his haze, could only stare in shock. He hadn't expected Lyn to save him—much less hold back the monstrous strength of The Mountain without even a grunt.
"Striking a man with his back turned? Are you sure you're not a Wildling?" Lyn's gruff voice echoed.
"Stay out of this, Corbray. He's mine to kill," The Mountain said, voice deep and menacing.
The two clashed violently—steel met steel, and sparks danced through the air as the sun vanished behind gray clouds, casting a cold shadow over the arena. Lyn Corbray's skill with Lady Forlorn stood against Gregor's raw strength. And now, with Gregor fatigued from the melee, it was clear that the battle had taken its toll.
Lady Forlorn cut through the air with grace; Lyn's movements were light, almost defying gravity. He weaved through Gregor's strikes with agility and poise, responding with precise counters. One such counter pierced an opening in Gregor's armor—cutting into his shoulder like a blade through tender beef.
Gregor's scream startled Daemon, snapping him back to the present. He groaned, sitting up, placing a hand on his helm before tearing it off and tossing it to the ground.
The cold wind hit his face and his wounds, drawing a grimace. He spat out the blood that had collected in his mouth and rubbed his head, trying to steady his vision. He had been hit hard—but now, he had a moment to regain himself.
The roar of the crowd pulled his attention back to the fight. Gregor enraged, attacked with renewed ferocity. Lyn was forced to meet the assault, blades locking again. Their strength now evenly matched, they became stuck in a stalemated power struggle.
Daemon glanced around, grabbing his sword. He would've gotten to his feet—likely heading toward them—if not for the booming and commanding voice of the king.
"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING, YOU SHITS!" King Robert bellowed. Immediately following was the surge of the City Watch and two Kingsguards, one of whom was Jaime Lannister—Daemon's father.
"Ahh shit…" Daemon muttered as he saw Jaime approaching, golden hair catching the light, eyes filled with that familiar Lannister fury.
"Escort fucking Clegane out of the fucking arena!" Jaime shouted angrily as the knights surged forward, hands on their hilts in case the giant resisted.
"And that's an order from your king, Clegane," King Robert said sternly, rising from his seat, his gaze burning with fury.
Even out of shape and past his prime, Robert Baratheon still exuded an aura that no man could ignore—especially not now.
Faced with overwhelming force, Gregor had no choice but to relent. Begrudgingly, he made his way out of the arena.
"With that done and dusted… how should I proceed with this?" Robert gestured toward Lyn and Daemon.
"Your Grace, I think you should call it o—" Jaime began, but was swiftly interrupted by Robert.
"Ahh, shut up, Kingslayer. It wouldn't be fair for both men to fight so long and walk away with nothing, especially if one of them turns out to be your son. So what is it? Do you want to continue, or do as the Kingslayer says?"
Jaime looked at Daemon, his narrowed eyes silently urging him to yield—clearly worried about his injuries. Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but before he could—
"I yield, Your Grace," Lyn Corbray declared.
The crowd gasped, all eyes turning to him in shock. Daemon looked on with wide eyes. After all the damage he had sustained from The Mountain, Lyn could've easily defeated him—so why?
"Why?" Robert asked, genuinely curious, a hint of confusion in his tone.
"There's no honor in beating someone who was attacked from behind and is currently suffering from those wounds," Lyn replied, his gaze shifting to Daemon. "Especially a boy so much younger than myself."
"I can still fight—" Daemon began, only to be shut down by Jaime's firm voice.
"No, you're not."
Daemon held his tongue, swallowing his pride as King Robert nodded, accepting Lyn's yield, and declared before the crowd:
"The melee has finally ended—Your winner is Daemon Waters!" he bellowed, prompting thunderous applause.
But for Daemon, there was no triumph—only shame.
He hadn't won by skill… only by Lyn Corbray's pity
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...Chapter End