Gregor's Bad Luck

Author's note: In the novels, Gregor Clegane suffers from painful, debilitating headaches of unknown origin. Since this story has been speculation on the entire Clegane family origins, it seemed appropriate to put forth a theory on Gregor's condition.

Jeyne Sarsfield was never a strong girl. After the bedding ceremony, the maester begged that Gregor leave Jeyne alone for a few day, but Gregor paid no heed.

"What good is she if I can't bed her?" he asked. Even when she was sick with fever, Gregor would not let her be.

Jeyne died of an infection six months after her wedding. The Sarsfields asked for Jeyne to be buried in their family crypt, and Gregor agreed. He came to the funeral with Jeyne's shrouded body, her distraught handmaids, and his band of coarse men. He drank heavily, and oggled Jeyne's younger sister and female cousins. He picked the sturdiest looking one, and asked Lord Mycah for her hand. The grieving father contained himself for the sake of his wife, and gave a curt refusal.

Gregor was asked to leave after the internment. He didn't. The food and drink were better here than in his own Hall. His men got drunk and rude and fought with Sarsfield men for three more days before Gregor got bored and went home without a new marriage contract.

Gregor, the last Ser Clegane, was no longer invited to decent homes. Nor did he wish to entertain. But the invitations to tournament were abundant, and he went to them all, large or small.

He neglected the businesses - he was never smart about that like his father. But the lumber crews and millwrights carried on without him - they would not dare lose money and face his wrath. The silver mine did well enough - no one dared steal from Gregor. He wished the coal mine and sheep herds and farmers would go away - too damned many decisions and plans and investments. He ignored them, and they took the hint soon enough - got by on their own or sunk. Gregor did not care as long as they paid their rent and tax to him. He had what he needed. Tournament gold was good, very good, and brought glory to their House, just like Grandfather wanted.

Gregor looked for a new bride at tourney, but his reputation proceeded him...and not in a good way. He resigned himself to the fact that he would not get a well-born bride with a dowry, and looked again.

He unseated a hedge knight who could not afford to replace his horse, so Gregor made a deal with him. The knight's daughter was twenty-one, not much to look at but decently bred. It was like buying a horse. She was worth less than her father's courser, for certain. Gregor decided not to begrudge his new father-in-law the difference.

She fared better than little Jeyne on the wedding night. Smart, she was. Instead of being jealous of handmaids and wenches, she would drag one into the bed herself to keep Gregor happy and spare herself some torment. Gregor almost liked her. She got with child soon enough. He thought there would be heirs, and plenty of them. But Gregor came home from tourney in a foul mood and she met him at the door with bad news about the corn crop, as if he cared. He lit into her - a punch to the face, another to the stomach. He kicked her across the floor to the hearth. Like that, she was gone.

They buried her quietly in the Sept yard rather than the family crypt. There was no feast.

Gregor heard that Septon Daemus sent word to every Sept in the Westerlands to refuse to perform a marriage ceremony on him. Pious little shit - he squeezed plenty of coin out of Pypar Clegane, always crying about the poor. Gregor believed the small folk should lift themselves up, like Grandfather had, and cut Daemus off from the Clegane teat as soon as Father died. This was the thanks he got, no surprise.

Gregor had nearly given up on the notion of marriage, anyway. He hated children. But Grandfather had wanted their line to continue. Gregor understood it was his duty, much like being a squire and taking orders - a due that had to be paid.

The men wanted to see him married again. They knew there was not a woman born who could keep him from drinking and whoring and fighting his way across Westeros. They did not want to tame Gregor, they just wanted him to have a little woman who kept the Hall running smooth, with decent food and wine ready when they came home to rest. That's what a wife was for. But they did not nag Gregor about it. They came up with an idea, once. It happened at a tourney in Lannisport. They took him to a seeress.

"Best one around." they swore. They'd already paid for her. "She can tell you where to find a wife to suite you."

Gregor gave in to a rare sense of curiosity, and agreed to go. His men led him to a tent at the shabbiest edge of the tourney camps. He told them to scatter, not a one of them he trusted to hear anything about his future.

"Six questions." the aged crone told Gregor, "One for each face of God save the Stranger, for I will not answer your time or manner to die."

"There more silver in that mountain of mine?" Gregor asked.

"Smith says there is always more silver if you are willing to dig to the center of the world. Might have asked if it was enough silver worth looking for instead, dimwit."

Gregor growled. It was a stupid question for a trickster.

"Where will I find a proper wife?"

"Two questions there - for Maiden and Mother. There is no woman born that deserves you. Marry again, if you can, from the lowest brothel in Lannisport, but no wife of yours will live more than a year."

"Will I have children?"

Even a bastard would do - he'd figure out a way to get one made legitimate and carry on the Clegane name if he had to.

"The Father says 'no', and you know why."

Her lips did not move but he heard the echo in his head say 'kinslayer.' Gregor hated the echo - it meant a headache was coming on.

"Name the man who can defeat me in battle." There was a good question. Make her get specific.

"Warrior says there is no man born can defeat you in a fair fight...but when is any fight with you fair? You will fall, though, to truth. Truth is a bright light, shining on your sins. You've tried to snuff Truth out before and failed."

Stupid riddles. This was worthless. Gregor thought about his last question. It had to be something the Crone would know. The seeress was a crone. She'd insulted him plenty and was probably planning to insult him again no matter what he asked.

"How do you want to be buried, old bitch?" Let that scare the shit out of her, make her tell him something useful.

"Hardly matters to me." she chuckled. "I know my end, and I know it is not here and now. That was not the question you wanted to ask more than all the others. I will let you ask again, ask what you truly want to know."

So she did know things. Maybe she could give him one honest answer.

"The pain...feels like my head is on fire. Sometimes I'm...I go blind, it is so terrible. I can't see. Can anything be done?"

"No. The needle has worked its way too deep."

"The needle?" felt more like a thousand needles in his head on a bad day.

The old woman smiled sadly, "Little hand still holding her embroidery when she tried to slap you away. Her needle went in behind your ear."

Gregor remembered his sister and what he had done to her...and felt the cold realization. Lanna did this to him, all those years ago.

A needle. A needle brought him to his knees, made him scream in agony. Lanna's parting gift to her brother Gregor, a small taste of Hell on Earth.