Tyrion
Tyrion found Prince Oberyn drinking a cup of red wine as he donned his armor. He was attended by four of his younger Dornish lordlings. "Good morrow to you, my lord," the prince said. "Will you take a cup of wine?"
"Should you be drinking before battle?"
"I always drink before battle."
"That could get you killed. Worse, it could get me killed."
Prince Oberyn laughed. "The gods defend the innocent. You are innocent, I trust?"
"Only of killing Joffrey," Tyrion admitted. "I do hope you know what you are about to face. Gregor Clegane is –
"Large? So I have heard."
"He is almost eight feet tall and must weigh thirty stone, all of it muscle. He fights with a two-handed greatsword, but needs only one hand to wield it. He has been known to cut men in half with a single blow. His armor is so heavy that no lesser man could bear the weight, let alone move in it."
Prince Oberyn was unimpressed. "I have killed large men before. The trick is to get them off their feet." The Domishman sounded so blithely confident that Tyrion felt almost reassured. "Daemon, my spear!" Ser Daemon tossed it to him, and the Red Viper snatched it from the air.
"You will have no cause for complaint. Though Ser Gregor may. However thick his plate, there will be gaps at the joints. Inside the elbow and knee, beneath the arms ... I will find a place to tickle him, I promise you." He set the spear aside. "It is said that a Lannister always pays his debts. Perhaps you will return to Sunspear with me when the day's bloodletting is done. My brother Doran would be most pleased to meet the rightful heir to Casterly Rock ... especially if he brought his lovely wife, the Lady of Winterfell."
"A trip to Dome would be very pleasant, my prince." Sansa interjected.
"Plan on a lengthy visit." Prince Oberyn sipped his wine. "The two of you and Doran have many matters of mutual interest to discuss. Music, trade, history, wine, the dwarf's penny." Sansa's face darkened somewhat at the reminder of Shae." The laws of inheritance and succession. No doubt the counsel of an aunt and uncle would be of benefit to Queen Myrcella in the trying times ahead."
The outer ward had been chosen for the combat. It looked as though a thousand people had come to see if he would live or die. They lined the castle wallwalks and elbowed one another on the steps of keeps and towers. They watched from the stable doors, from windows and bridges, from balconies and roofs. And the yard was packed with them, so many that the gold cloaks and the knights of the Kingsguard had to shove them back to make enough room for the fight. Some had dragged out chairs to watch more comfortably, while others perched on barrels. We should have done this in the Dragonpit, Tyrion thought sourly. We could have charged a penny a head and paid for Joffrey's wedding and funeral both. Some of the onlookers even had small children sitting on their shoulders, to get a better view.
Cersei seemed half a child herself beside Ser Gregor. In his armor, the Mountain looked bigger than any man had any right to be. Beneath a long yellow surcoat bearing the three black dogs of Clegane, he wore heavy plate over chainmail, dull grey steel dinted and scarred in battle. Beneath that would be boiled leather and a layer of quilting. A flat-topped greathelm was bolted to his gorget, with breaths around the mouth and nose and a narrow slit for vision. The crest atop it was a stone fist.
If Ser Gregor was suffering from wounds, Tyrion could see no sign of it from across the yard. He looks as though he was chiseled out of rock, standing there. His greatsword was planted in the ground before him, six feet of scarred metal. Ser Gregor's huge hands, clad in gauntlets of lobstered steel, clasped the crosshilt to either side of the grip. Even Prince Oberyn's paramour paled at the sight of him. "You are going to fight that?" Ellaria Sand said in a hushed voice.
"I am going to kill that," her lover replied carelessly.
"But he is the biggest man I've ever seen." Her voice was full of doubt.
"Size does not matter when you are flat on your back."
Tyrion could not help but smirk at the remark.
He had his own doubts, now that they stood on the brink. When he looked at Prince Oberyn, he found himself wishing he had Bronn defending him ... or even better, Jaime. The Red Viper was lightly armored; greaves, vambraces, gorget, spaulder, steel codpiece. Elsewise Oberyn was clad in supple leather and flowing silks. Over his byrnie he wore his scales of gleaming copper, but mail and scale together would not give him a quarter the protection of Gregor's heavy plate. With its visor removed, the prince's helm was effectively no better than a halfhelm, lacking even a nasal. His round steel shield was brightly polished, and showed the sun-and-spear in red gold, yellow gold, white gold, and copper.
A platform had been erected beside the Tower of the Hand, halfway between the two champions. That was where Lord Tywin sat with his brother Ser Kevan on his right, and Cersei on his left. King Tommen was not in evidence; for that, at least, Tyrion was grateful.
Lord Tywin glanced briefly at his dwarf son, then lifted his hand. A dozen trumpeters blew a fanfare to quiet the crowd. The High Septon shuffled forward in his tall crystal crown, and prayed that the Father Above would help them in this judgment, and that the Warrior would lend his strength to the arm of the man whose cause was just. That would be me, Tyrion almost shouted, but they would only laugh, and he was sick unto death of laughter.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack brought Clegane his shield, a massive thing of heavy oak rimmed in black iron. As the Mountain slid his left arm through the straps, Tyrion saw that the hounds of Clegane had been painted over. This morning Ser Gregor bore the seven-pointed star the Andals had brought to Westeros when they crossed the narrow sea to overwhelm the First Men and their gods. Very pious of you, Cersei, but I doubt the gods will be impressed.
Clegane pulled a large vial of something from a squire and downed it instantly. Probably milk of the poppy thought Tyrion. The mountain drank milk of the poppy the same way his younger brother drank wine.
There were fifty yards between them. Prince Oberyn advanced quickly, Ser Gregor more ominously. The ground does not shake when he walks, Tyrion told himself. That is only my heart fluttering. When the two men were ten yards apart, the Red Viper stopped and called out, "Have they told you who I am?"
Ser Gregor grunted through his breaths. "Some dead man." He came on, inexorable.
The Domishman slid sideways. "I am Oberyn Martell, a prince of Dome," he said, as the Mountain turned to keep him in sight. "Princess Elia was my sister. Do you know why I've come to this stinking pile of golden shit they call King's Landing?"
"For you."
Oberyn's long spear jabbed, but Ser Gregor took the point on his shield, shoved it aside, and bulled back at the prince, his great sword flashing as if it were an ordinary man's longsword. The Domishman spun away untouched. The spear darted forward. Clegane slashed at it, Martell snapped it back, then thrust again. Metal screamed on metal as the spearhead slid off the Mountain's chest, slicing through the surcoat and leaving a long bright scratch on the steel beneath. "Elia Martell, Princess of Dome," the Red Viper hissed. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
Ser Gregor grunted. He made a ponderous charge to hack at the Domishman's head. Prince Oberyn avoided him easily. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
"Did you come to talk or to fight?"
"I came to hear you confess." The Red Viper landed a quick thrust on the Mountain's belly, to no effect. Gregor cut at him, and missed. The long spear lanced in above his sword. Like a serpent's tongue it flickered in and out, feinting low and landing high, jabbing at groin, shield, eyes. The Mountain makes for a big target, at the least, Tyrion thought. Prince Oberyn could scarcely miss, though none of his blows was penetrating Ser Gregor's heavy plate. The Dornishman kept circling, jabbing, then darting back again, forcing the bigger man to turn and turn again. Clegane is losing sight of him. The Mountain's helm had a narrow eyeslit, severely limiting his vision. Oberyn was making good use of that, and the length of his spear, and his quickness.
"You raped her," he called, feinting. "You murdered her," he said, dodging a looping cut from Gregor's greatsword. "You killed her children," he shouted, slamming the spearpoint into the giant's throat, only to have it glance off the thick steel gorget with a screech.
"Oberyn is toying with him," said Ellaria Sand.
That is fool's play, thought Tyrion. "The Mountain is too bloody big to be any man's toy."
"You raped her." Prince Oberyn parried a savage cut with his spearhead. "You murdered her." He sent the spearpoint at Clegane's eyes, so fast the huge man flinched back. "You killed her children." The spear flickered sideways and down, scraping against the Mountain's breastplate. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." The spear was two feet longer than Ser Gregor's sword, more than enough to keep him at an awkward distance. He hacked at the shaft whenever Oberyn lunged at him, trying to lop off the spearhead, but he might as well have been trying to hack the wings off a fly. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." Gregor tried to bull rush, but Oberyn skipped aside and circled round his back. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
"Be quiet." Ser Gregor seemed to be moving somewhat slower, and his greatsword no longer rose quite as high as it had when the contest began. "Shut your bloody mouth." His speech seemed a bit slurred. Tyrion briefly wondered if he had too much milk of the poppy, but that seemed unlikely.
"You raped her," the prince said, moving to the right.
"Enough!" Ser Gregor took two long strides and brought his sword down at Oberyn's head, but the Domishman back stepped once more. "You murdered her," he said.
"SHUT UP." Gregor charged headlong, right at the point of the spear, which slammed into his right breast then slid aside with a hideous steel shriek. Suddenly the Mountain was close enough to strike, his huge sword flashing in a steel blur. The crowd was screaming as well. Oberyn slipped the first blow and let go of the spear, useless now that Ser Gregor was inside it. The second cut the Domishman caught on his shield. Metal met metal with an ear-splitting clang sending the Red Viper reeling. Ser Gregor followed, bellowing. He doesn't use words, he just roars like an animal, Tyrion thought. Oberyn's retreat became a headlong backward flight mere inches ahead of the greatsword as it slashed at his chest, his arms, his head.
But the Red Viper of Dome was back on his feet, his long spear in hand. "Elia," he called at Ser Gregor. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Now say her name.
The Mountain whirled. Helm, shield, sword, surcoat; he was spattered with gore from head to heels. "You talk too much," he slurred. "You make my head hurt." Clegane's strength was definitely fading.
"I will hear you say it. She was Elia of Dome."
Prince Oberyn tilted his dinted metal shield. A shaft of sunlight blazed blindingly off polished gold and copper, into the narrow slit of his foe's helm. Clegane lifted his own shield against the glare. Prince Oberyn's spear flashed like lightning and found the gap in the heavy plate, the joint under the arm. The point punched through mail and boiled leather. Gregor gave a choked grunt as the Domishman twisted his spear and yanked it free. "Elia. Say it! Elia. of Dome!" His spear poised for another thrust. "Say it!"
Tyrion had his own prayer. Fall down and die, was how it went. Damn you, fall down and die! The blood trickling from the Mountain's armpit was his own now, and he must be bleeding even more heavily inside the breastplate. When he tried to take a step, one knee buckled. Tyrion thought he was going down.
Prince Oberyn had circled behind him. "ELIA OF DORNE!" he shouted. Ser Gregor started to turn, but too slow and too late. The spearhead went through the back of the knee this time, through the layers of chain and leather between the plates on thigh and calf. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed on his knees. His huge sword fell from his hand.
The Dornishman flung away his ruined shield, grasped the spear in both hands, and sauntered away. Oberyn whirled cat-quick, and ran at his fallen foe. EEELLLLLLIIIIIAAAAA!" He screamed, as he drove the spear down with the whole weight of his body behind it. The crack of the ashwood shaft snapping was almost as sweet a sound as Cersei's wail of fury, and for an instant Prince Oberyn had wings. The snake hit the Mountain with his full force and brought him down on his back. A broken spear jutted from Clegane's belly as Prince Oberyn rolled, rose, and dusted himself off. He tossed aside the splintered spear and claimed his foe's greatsword.
"No, no, no you can't die yet. You haven't confessed. Say it. Say her name. Elia Martell. Who gave you the order?"
Suddenly Prince Oberyn turned to face Lord Tywin, whose face was devoid any noticible emotion.
"WHO GAVE YOU THE ORDER?" Oberyn shouted at the top of his lungs while pointing the Mountian's greatsword in the direction of his lord father.
Ser Gregor tried to rise, the broken spear had gone through him, and was pinning him to the ground. He wrapped both hands about the shaft, grunting, but could not pull it out. Beneath him was a spreading pool of red. "I am feeling more innocent by the instant," Tyrion told Sansa beside him who was having difficulty in containing her own joy.
Prince Oberyn moved closer. "Say the name!" He put a foot on the Mountain's chest and raised the greatsword with both hands.
Clegane's right hand shot up to grab the Dornishman, but was too slow and grasped only air. Oberyn easily avoided Ser Gregor's Grip and brought the greatsword down on the mountain's wrist and nearly severed hand from arm.
"Tywin … Lannister." Clegane's breath came in ragged gasps.
"Good enough." The Red Viper responded much to Tyrion's surprise.
In three glorious swings Prince Oberyn Martell removed the mountain's head.
Tywin Lannister stood up; once again the Seven had humiliated him. "The gods have made their will known. Tyrion and Sansa of the house Lannister are innocent of King Joffrey's murder."
Ser Addam walked over to his wife and unshackled her.
Tyrion took a moment to study the crowd before he left. His sister was as furious as he could recall, and that was saying something. Jaime gave a strangely knowing smirk towards him. The Tyrells who seemed to be in the biggest hurry to leave, looked angry and possibly fearful, of himself, his father, or Prince Oberyn, he was not sure.
Prince Oberyn approached Lord Tywin holding the severed head of Ser Gregor Clegane in the crook of his arm, with the audacity few had when it came to Tywin Lannister.
"Lord Tywin?" Prince Oberyn asked with mocking courtesy. "My brother would very much like to see this."
His father who was normally the living embodiment of self-control, kept his voice emotionless and steady with great difficulty. "Of course."
Prince Oberyn waited a moment as the spectators hastened their exit in fear of his lord father's wrath.
"Princess Myrcella would be very grateful if I brought her aunt and uncle to visit."
Cersei was ready to object, but father cut her off with the slightest of nods.
Tyrion was overjoyed. Soon he would leave King's Landing for Dorne and be out of the reach of the denizens of the Red Keep.
Sansa gave a wordless cry of delight. When she finally looked at him, Tyrion saw something he thought he would never see. A smile that was meant for him. Losing himself in the moment he embraced her under the withering glare of his sweet sister. The last time Tyrion was this relieved, he was with Shae. He pushed thoughts of that lying whore out of his head, as he felt what he thought were tears of joy. As for Sansa, he had never really seen her truly happy until now.
But it was not a complete victory; they would never be safe so long as his Cersei was the queen of seven kingdoms.