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Chapter 3: Welcome to the game

=ASOSAT=

Part 3: A Mountain falls

=The Mountain that Rides=

Tournament Grounds

Outside of King's Landing

Red haze and searing pain engulfed his world. Then, there was the rage that had always been his closest companion. It was no longer kept in check.

His left eye wasn't working. His right was seeing as if through a crimson mist. No matter. It was all right. He had a blade in hand and rage boiling through his veins.

All was as it should be.

The Mountain looked around. His fury was whispering in the back of his head. Ah. There was the little shit that had the temerity to hurt him.

Clegane grinned. There were two small forms next to the fucker he had knocked straight off the saddle. Splendid. More people to kill.

He strode forward, glaring at the flimsy wooden parapet that was barring him from his next kills. He slung his sword, which felt surprisingly light in his hands. The Mountain shrugged off that thought. It was normal. Every single time he was about to slaughter someone in the midst of passion, his sword arm felt stronger, his weapons lighter, easier to swing.

It made killing easier. So he could slaughter more people.

Just as it should be.

His blade slashed through the fresh wood as if it was butter. A backhand swing from his armored left arm and the way was clear.

The Mountain's smile became even more vicious, when his brain finally registered the annoying noise he's been hearing for some time.

Screams of horror. That was music for his ears.

The fuck that he was about to gut finally stirred. He was shouting something, but the mountain paid it no heed. The man was probably squealing for mercy. Heh. As if he had any.

His next victim managed to sit up and push one of the small forms, the kids away. He shouted something to the boy, who looked deliciously terrified. The girl's tears made it even better. It was too bad that she wasn't screaming in terror. Yet.

Clegane raised his sword as if it was a toy and swung down. He wanted to see the fucker sheared in two.

It came as a surprise when his latest victim managed to roll in the mud, barely avoiding the blade.

The Mountain bellowed in fury. He was going to tear the little fuck into pieces!

He struck again and the bastard managed to roll again. Little shit!

Clegane was about to start another strike, this time horizontal so the fuck couldn't get away, when he felt something. His instincts screamed of danger and he swung to the right, his blade tearing through the air. A horse shrieked in pain and terror. The animal stumbled with its throat cut and threw off it's rider. The horse collapsed barely missing Clegane and his target. The Mountain chuckled when he saw a man in pale armor flying through the air.

Then he roared in pain when something hard slammed into his manhood. The Mountain's eyes snapped towards his intended victim and saw him retrieving an armored leg, which he was pulling back for another kick. Before he could react, the sole of the steel boot slammed in his loins again.

The heavily armored man stumbled to his knees. For a moment the crimson haze lifted, battered away by wave of pain and feeling sick. Then the fury returned with vengeance, the agony in his manhood washing away on a tidal wave of pure rage. He roared at the heavens and stood up, using his sword to pull up his bulk. In the meantime, his target had managed roll over and was on his knees, trying to stand up.

Clegane was about to skewer the fuck when he sensed someone approaching and turned, his sword already moving to gut the next distraction. There was another man in a familiar looking white plate, who a sword in hand. The Mountain growled when the damn pest managed to stop in time and stumble back, barely avoiding the sweeping arc of his sword. There was another man sprinting in their direction, wearing a black tabard with silver stag on it. That one had a sword and shield.

The Mountain laughed. More fools to slaughter. He moved forward, his intended victim forgotten for the moment. Steel met steel in a thunderous clash and Clegane frowned. The fuck in white armor managed to block his strike and kept a hold of his blade. No matter. He was going to die anyway. The two-hander sang again, sweeping in a deadly arc. This time the heavy, bloodthirsty blade would not be so easily denied. Clegane's strike smashed through the guard of his opponent, the longsword of the Kingsguard proving out to be less than adequate defense. The smaller blade was battered aside and the two-hander slammed at the plate protecting Ser Arys' shoulder. The white armor did it's job, preventing the strike for severing the Kingsguard left hand.

However, the force behind the strike would not be denied. A sickening crack could be head as the loyal knight was forced on his knees from the titanic blow.

Ser Arys' shout of pain as his shoulder was smashed was a music for the Mountain's ears. The giant of a man swung again, determined to decapitate the wounded knight, only to stagger when his attack was met by steel-reinforced shield. The wooden board cracked by the impact, which threw its owner back, yet it did it's job.

Clegane snarled when his kill was denied again. He wasted no time and went on the offensive, battering the shield again and again. His fourth strike shattered it and threw the man that wielded it to the ground. The Mountain raised his sword with a roar of triumph, ready to cut in half the third fucker that tried to stop his fun.

His below turned into one of agony when fiery pain slashed through the back of his right knee. For a moment Clegane remained on his feet, then the pain exploded further as whatever that had stabbed him was rotated in the wound, destroying his joint. The Mountain screamed in pain and fell on his knees.

A lesser man would have been incapacitated by the agony. Even Clegane might have been if it wasn't for the red haze that was consuming his existence. He roared again and turned, using his hale leg as leverage. His left hand swept in an arch, backhanding whoever cowardly attacked him from behind. He felt a satisfying crunch of steel hitting steel and heard someone falling in the mud. The Mountain used his great sword as a cane so he could turn towards the fuck that had the temerity to wound him. His one still working eye glared at the armored figure that laid prone in the mud. He could see that the fucker's helmet was dented on the side he backhanded him and grinned. It was time to finish that.

He could feel it. There were more bastards coming at him, ready to fuck up with his fun. That simply wouldn't do. He could see a pair of men clad in that white armor wadding his way. The fucks weren't going to be fast enough. Neither the bastards in red or black who were converging on his position. He was going to finish the three cunts that dared attack him and then deal with the rest.

He was the Fucking Mountain that Rides! It wasn't like a bunch of weaklings could bring him down, wounds or no wounds!

Clegane raised his great sword, ready to gut his original target when he heard thunder. Acting on instinct he tried to turn around, when a battering ram struck just behind his right shoulder and threw him in the mud. The agony in his wounded knee flared to new heights and he screamed in pain.

The red haze finally shattered, just like the tourney lance that sent him in the mud.

For a few brief moments, Clegane's mind was clear. Memories surged back and he remembered where he was.

"FUCK!" He spat while trying to sit up.

"Sword!" Spat a familiar voice filled with so much hatred that gave even him a pause.

The Mountain managed to sit up just in time to see the armored form of Prince Durran receive a naked blade from a Kingsguard. The boy grabbed it with his right hand and took an unsteady step towards him. Clegane raised a hand to protect himself. His mouth opened to say something. Then the blade flashed forward, a ray of sun sparkling over the blade and blinding his good eye.

The Mountain felt a moment of pain as something tore through the front of his face and then he knew only darkness.