Clegane Keep. The Sanctum. The Mountain's Prayer Room.
The Mountain sat on a bench, towering above the man seated across from him, Petyr Baelish, better known as Littlefinger.
He stared at Petyr, unblinking, until the ever-composed Baelish began to crack. His hands, resting on the table, shifted position no less than three times.
Finally, the Mountain pulled out a small glass vial and tossed it to him.
Petyr caught it. Inside the vial was a thick red liquid, blood.
"What's this?" the Mountain asked, voice low and heavy with menace.
"If I'm not mistaken," Petyr said, squinting at the vial, "this is blood from my fingertip."
"You remember the night we met at the tavern?"
"How could I forget?" A sly smile tugged at Petyr's lips.
"You still have the nerve to smile?"
"I always do, Ser."
"You're a dead man."
Petyr gave a soft snort. "Ser, if you truly intended to kill me, I wouldn't be sitting here across from you. Frankly, I don't understand why you brought me to Clegane Keep. As for the gold ore prices, you asked, and I followed your demands to the letter."
"I brought you here because that vial in your hand revealed all your secrets."
"My blood?" Petyr feigned surprise, though the falsehood was obvious.
"Your blood told me everything."
Petyr let out a short laugh. "Ser Gregor, if you want something from me, just say the word. Let's stop dancing around. You didn't drag me here for nothing, and you won't kill me. So let's talk."
"The blood sorcerer who read your blood... just so happens to be my grandmother."
Petyr's grey-green eyes flickered with amusement as he gazed at the massive man before him. "Let's skip the theatrics, Ser. No more idle words."
"Fine. You exploited Lysa Tully's feelings for you and convinced her to poison her husband, Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. Then you had her write a letter to her sister, Catelyn Stark, framing House Lannister for the murder, claiming the Lannisters poisoned Jon Arryn."
The smirk vanished from Petyr's face.
His complexion drained to a ghostly white. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, nose, and neck, seeping out uncontrollably. His hands, now twisted together on the table, trembled, though he didn't even notice.
He stared at the Mountain. Inside, his defenses shattered.
How had his meticulously crafted schemes been laid bare so easily? His gaze dropped to the vial in his palm. He remembered that night over a month ago, at the tavern near Tobho Mott's forge, where Gregor's men had pinned him down and pricked his finger to draw blood.
Later, in the throne room, Varys, the Spider, had even warned him: some sorcerers could curse a man with just a drop of his blood. He had dismissed the idea at the time. The gods had long since fallen silent, and magic had faded from the world. He had assumed Varys was trying to rattle him.
He had laughed it off.
Now he wasn't laughing.
"You were the mastermind behind the murder of Jon Arryn. You manipulated Lysa Tully to deceive House Stark, leading them to blame the Lannisters and setting the North and West on a path to war. Tell me, Baelish... am I wrong?"
Sweat dripped from Petyr's nose.
He tightened his grip on the vial. His hand trembled as he wiped sweat from his brow. His entire body shivered. His mind roared like a battlefield, but the Mountain's voice cut through the chaos again and again, echoing loud and clear.
"If Lord Tywin were to learn of your deception, how you pinned the Hand's murder on House Lannister, dragging the North and West into war, how do you think you'd die?"
Petyr, usually quick-witted and sharp-tongued, opened his mouth, but no words came out. It was as if cotton stuffed his throat, he could neither speak nor breathe.
The Mountain rose, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of wine and a goblet. He poured half a glass of deep crimson wine, almost the color of blood.
"Care for a drink, Littlefinger?"
Petyr let go of the blood vial and grabbed the cup, draining it in one gulp. Then he began to cough violently. Sweat had plastered strands of his graying hair to his forehead, making his face seem even smaller. The calculating gleam in his eyes had vanished, leaving only a lost, vacant stare.
He was truly terrified.
He feared death, feared a meaningless end.
For a man born into a minor, powerless house like Baelish, death at the hands of Tywin Lannister would be quick and merciless. Tywin would tear him apart like a lion mauling a lamb, erasing all traces of the Baelish name.
Littlefinger began trembling with cold, the beginnings of a seizure.
He feared dying before he could elevate the Baelish name, before securing a legacy. Born in 268 AC, he had just turned thirty.
As panic gripped him, he thought of Lysa Tully.
His father, Lord Baelish, had once fought alongside Lord Hoster Tully during the Ninepenny Kings' rebellion. Afterward, out of friendship, Hoster agreed to foster young Petyr at Riverrun.
There, Petyr grew up with Lysa and Catelyn Tully. He fell deeply in love with Catelyn, while Lysa, in turn, fell deeply for him.
A boy from a rocky peninsula with nothing but goat droppings to its name, daring to love a Tully girl? It was laughable. His nickname, "Littlefinger," was first given by Lysa and Catelyn, based on the smallest, most barren peninsula on the Fingers, his family's worthless sliver of land.
When Catelyn was betrothed to Brandon Stark, Petyr challenged him to a duel. Brandon spared him only at Catelyn's plea.
One night, a drunken Petyr awoke to find Lysa in his bed. Soon after, she was pregnant. Lord Hoster was furious. He made her drink moon tea to end the pregnancy and expelled Petyr from Riverrun.
From that moment on, Petyr vowed to become someone powerful.
He craved status and power. Even after Lysa married Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale, he continued their affair. With her help, he secured a position as a customs officer in Gulltown. There, his financial genius shone. He increased revenue tenfold in short order, winning Jon Arryn's favor. Promotions followed, until he became Master of Coin on King Robert's small council.
Yet despite his high office, his land remained the same barren peninsula. No matter how many brothels he ran or coins he counted, he was still mocked as the "Lord of Goat Shit." His domain could support little more than a few moss-eating goats.
Just as his grand schemes were unfolding, the Mountain had taken his blood. And a blood mage had unraveled every one of them.
The impossible had happened. His deepest secrets had been exposed. He was truly terrified.
Without a word, the Mountain poured him another cup of wine.
Petyr downed it again. Then a third. A fourth. After seven full cups, the color finally returned to his face.
The Mountain put the bottle and cup away and stared at him.
Petyr raised his head. The cold sweat was gone. The wine had steadied his nerves. He looked directly into Gregor's eyes.
"What do you want from me, Ser?"
Those words showed that Petyr's reason had returned.
"I want Lord Tywin to sit the Iron Throne," the Mountain said calmly.
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
"That won't be easy," Petyr finally said. He now understood, this was no longer the dull, brutal Gregor Clegane he once knew.
"Help Lord Tywin take the throne, and your reward will be a real duchy, with lands and armies of your own. Refuse, and I tell Lord Tywin everything. Your choice."
Petyr stared at the Mountain. He couldn't read him at all. There was no ambition, no cunning, no threat, just calm, unreadable eyes.
A chill ran down his back.
He hated men whose eyes revealed nothing. Tywin Lannister had eyes like that.
"What do you want me to do, Ser?"
"I'll take you to see Lord Tywin. My grandmother has already warned him that war between the North and West is coming, and that you are the cause. You'll admit to that."
"No!" Petyr jumped, panicked. "He knows about the letter I had Lysa send to Catelyn?"
"He knows none of your schemes. Only that you've done something against the interests of House Lannister, and that you are tied to the coming war."
"Then how should I approach him? Tell me, Ser!"
"Lord Tywin already knows about Cersei and Jaime's incest. When you meet him, say that you once hinted this to Eddard Stark, and that you believe Jon Arryn's death is tied to this as well."
"Cersei and Jaime killed the Hand to hide their incest?" Petyr asked.
"Yes."
The Mountain intended to use their incest to divert suspicion from the real truth.
"And how do I stay alive?"
"Simple. Convince Lysa Tully to send her forces to help the West fight the North and Riverlands. Tywin cannot defeat all three alone. If you turn the Vale to his side, he'll have no reason to kill you, and every reason to help you seize power there."
Petyr stared at the Mountain for a long while before whispering, "You can't be the real Mountain…"
"And you're no longer Littlefinger," Gregor said coldly. "Before we go to Lord Tywin, you must swear loyalty to me before the Seven."
He clapped his hands three times. The door creaked open.
A barefoot priestess entered, face hidden behind a curtain of tangled hair, wearing a gray robe. In her hands were a black, needle-like instrument and a small glass vial.
"My grandmother needs another vial of your blood," the Mountain said. "The last one has already been cursed and can't be reused. So long as I hold your blood, I'll know your every move. Don't try anything clever."
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