A/N: Little feedback reviews will be nice. You can use these templates-"You suck", "more plot plz", "characters are one dimensional", "too confusing", "kill yourself", "you copied paragraphs from canon", "all characters sound same", "events are happening too fast" etc.

Excerpts from diary of a Guild follower

He possesses every quality requisite for success in the disturbed age in which we live; cautious and wily in council, he is fierce and daring in action; he possesses an endurance that makes him remarkable even amongst his hardy fellow men, and an energy and decision that will in any kingdom have raise him to distinctions. He is always prompt in taking advantage of the enemy's vacillation, and in falling upon them unawares. He never shirks from entering upon desperate attempts with utmost vigor and courage. He has no fear of mortification of disgraceful defeat. His matchless swordplay is preserved and regarded with nothing short of idolatrous veneration by the entire Guild.

Previously in Valar Morghulis

"I do not pursue gold. I shall name my price after the trial. I have heard that a Lannister always pays his debts."

"Do you realize that you can die as well?"

"Valar morghulis little man. All men must die. But tomorrow is not the day I die."

Chapter 8

Mortal Combat

POV

Harry

Two Days before the Trial

If King's Landing mourned its dead boy king, Harry would never have known it. On the Street of Seeds a begging brother in threadbare robes was praying loudly for Joffrey's soul, but the passersby paid him no more heed than they would a loose shutter banging in the wind. Elsewhere milled the usual crowds; gold cloaks in their black mail, bakers' boys selling tarts and breads and hot pies, whores leaning out of windows with their bodices half unlaced, gutters redolent of nightsoil. They passed five men trying to drag a dead horse from the mouth of an alley, and elsewhere a juggler spinning knives through the air to delight a throng of drunken Tyrell soldiers and small children. Harry had no trouble renting a room in an inn.

At midnight there was a soft knock on the door.

"Enter."

The man who stepped through the door was plump, perfumed, powdered, and as hairless as an egg. He wore a vest of woven gold thread over a loose gown of purple silk, and on his feet were pointed slippers of soft velvet.

"Welcome to King's Landing, old friend."

"How could you know that I was in town? I took every precaution to avoid your little spies"

"Some things best left for mystery," Varys said, smiling. "But you know all about mysteries, no?"

"Get to the point Varys."

He shrugged. "It is time to begin, yes? If we do not start soon, it may be too late," the portly man continued "This game no longer follows my rules, if ever it was. But an opportunity has aroused. We can earn an invaluable ally and start our plan in one motion."

"Who?" asked Harry.

"The Imp, Tyrion Lannister."

POV

Tyrion

"Have you nothing to say in your defense?"

"Nothing but this: I did not do it. Yet now I wish I had." He turned to face the hall, that sea of pale faces. "I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here. You leave me no choice but to appeal to the gods. I demand trial by battle."

"Have you taken leave of your wits?" his father said.

"No, I've found them. I demand trial by battle!"

His sweet sister could not have been more pleased. "He has that right, my lords," she reminded the judges. "Let the gods judge. Ser Gregor Clegane will stand for Joffrey. He returned to the city the night before last, to put his sword at my service."

Lord Tywin's face was so dark that for half a heartbeat Tyrion wondered if he'd drunk some poisoned wine as well. He slammed his fist down on the table, too angry to speak. It was Mace Tyrell who turned to Tyrion and asked the question. "Do you have a champion to defend your innocence?"

"He does, my lord." A voice emerged from attending group of knights. "Lord Tyrion has contracted me to fight for his honor."

The uproar was deafening. Tyrion glimpsed pleasure flash in Cersei's eyes. It took a hundred gold cloaks pounding the butts of their spears against the floor to quiet the throne room again. By then Lord Tywin Lannister had recovered himself. "Let the issue be decided on the morrow," he declared in iron tones. "I wash my hands of it." He gave his dwarf son a cold angry look, then strode from the hall, out the king's door behind the Iron Throne, his brother Kevan at his side.

Later, back in his tower cell, Tyrion poured himself a cup of wine and sent Podrick Payne off for cheese, bread, and olives. He doubted whether he could keep down anything heavier just now. Did you think I would go meekly, Father? He asked the shadow his candles etched upon the wall. I have too much of you in me for that. He felt strangely at peace, now that he had snatched the power of life and death from his father's hands and placed it in the hands of the gods. Assuming there are gods, and they give a mummer's fart. If not, then I'm in a stranger's hand.

Will you come to see the end, Shae? Will you stand there with the rest, watching as Ser Ilyn lops my ugly head off? Will you miss your giant of Lannister when he's dead? He drained his wine, flung the cup aside, and sang lustily.

He rode through the streets of the city,

Down from his hill on high,

O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,

He rode to a woman's sigh.

For she was his secret treasure,

She was his shame and his bliss.

And a chain and a keep are nothing,

Compared to a woman's kiss.

He poured another cup of wine. A pity he'd had Symon Silver Tongue killed before learning all the words of that song. It wasn't a bad song, if truth be told. Especially compared to the ones that would be written about him henceforth. "For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman's hands are warm," he sang. Perhaps he should write the other verses himself. If he lived so long.

Final day of the Trial of the Imp

That night, surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister slept long and deep. He rose at first light, well rested and with a hearty appetite, and broke his fast on fried bread, blood sausage, applecakes, and a double helping of eggs cooked with onions and fiery Dornish peppers.

It is bloody cold on the Wall, but at least I would be shut of Cersei. He did not think he would make much of a ranger, but the Night's Watch needed clever men as well as strong ones. Lord Commander Mormont had said as much, when Tyrion had visited Castle Black. There are those inconvenient vows, though. It would mean the end of his marriage and whatever claim he might ever have made for Casterly Rock, but he did not seem destined to enjoy either in any case. And he seemed to recall that there was a brothel in a nearby village. It was not a life he'd ever dreamed of, but it was life. And all he had to do to earn it was trust in his father, stand up on his little stunted legs, and say, "Yes, I did it, I confess." That was the part that tied his bowels in knots. He almost wished he had done it, since it seemed he must suffer for it anyway.

"My lord?" said Podrick Payne. "They're here, my lord. Ser Addam. And the gold cloaks."

"Pod, tell me true . . . do you think I did it?"

The boy hesitated. When he tried to speak, all he managed to produce was a weak sputter.

I am doomed. Tyrion sighed. "No need to answer. You've been a good squire to me. Better than I deserved. Whatever happens, I thank you for your service."

Ser Addam Marbrand waited at the door with six gold cloaks. He had nothing to say this morning, it seemed. Another good man who thinks me a kinslayer. Tyrion summoned all the dignity he could find and waddled down the steps. He could feel them all watching him as he crossed the yard; the guards on the walls, the grooms by the stables, the scullions and washerwomen and serving girls. Tyrion found the Wizard waiting for him. He was attended by two pretty maids. Curtsy of the eunuch no doubt.

"Good morning, my lord," the wizard said.

"Where is your armor? And are you going to fight him with a shortsword?"

"I don't need armor. Too heavy and this is the sharpest blade in the entire known world. No other sword or knife or ax can match the keenness of its edge, not even Valyrian steel. It is the ultimate sword. You'll not find its equal anywhere." Wizard spoke with his strange unfamiliar accent.

"This arrogance could get you killed. Worse, it could get me killed."

The Wizard laughed softly. "The gods defend the innocent. You are innocent, are you not?"

"Only of killing Joffrey," Tyrion admitted. "I do hope you know what you are about to face. Gregor Clegane is—"

"—large? So I have been told many times. I give you my word; I will do all I can to save you and myself. Have faith." Tyrion kept quiet, his eyes mirroring the foreboding he felt inside. He liked the man's spirit. But he had to know his ability in a dual. For spirit without ability usually led to a gruesome death on the battlefield. Tyrion longed to ask more questions, but Wizard merely said, "The Mad Dog is no problem for me. What is going to happen after I kill him is more bothersome."

The outer ward had been chosen for the combat. Tyrion had to skip and run to keep up with The Wizard's long strides. The day was grey and windy. The sun was struggling to break through the clouds, but Tyrion could no more have said who was going to win that fight than the one on which his life depended.

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. They shouted and pointed at the sight of Tyrion.

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.

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. Ser Gregor Clegane did seem to have taken every precaution to protect his person. If he was he was over -confident in his success in dispatching Harry during the battle, he didn't show it.

Tyrion started to have doubts, now that they stood on the brink. When he looked at the Wizard, he found himself wishing he had Bronn defending him . . . or even better, Jaime. At roughly six feet tall, he was tiny compared to the mountain that walked. He had deep green eyes, his ragged black hair hung low over his forehead. His age was impossible for Tyrion to guess. The wizard was armorless; clad in a rough leather vest, though he wore a helm. A sheathed sword protruded at an angle from under the belt of his britches. Numerous scars, thin and white, marked his tanned skin, like scratches on a well-used table.

Despite his features, there was no doubt that Harry was a warrior, given the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms and chest and the coiled power of his stride as he sauntered down the outer ward.

Dance around him until he's so tired he can hardly lift his arm. The Wizard seemed to have the same notion as Bronn. But the sellsword had been blunt about the risks of such tactics. I hope to seven hells that you know what you are doing, boy.

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 and Prince Oberyn of Dorne. King Tommen was not in evidence; for that, at least, Tyrion was grateful.

Lord Tywin glanced briefly at his dwarf son, and 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.

There were fifty yards between them. The Wizard kept still as Ser Gregor moved ominously forward. The ground does not shake when he walks, Tyrion told himself. That is only my heart fluttering.

Clegane moved slowly, waiting for Harry to charge. But both men kept waiting for another to charge. Tyrion realized that the dog was assessing his young opponent, not knowing the combat abilities of opponent and slightly surprised by lack of armor. Harry's lack of height prevented a high arm assault that would be required to attack a taller man like Clegane. It seemed to be a fight between a giant and a pigmy. Ser Gregor Clegane with his gigantic figure was a hero of a hundred victories. Harry was a small and slender young man of 30 years his junior in no way a match for the strong, vicious and cruel Ser Gregor Clegane. Ser Gregor Clegane was the first to take the offensive.

He sprang to his feet and drove at Harry, the longsword in his hands. Harry jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. It was an orthodox assault. It was an attack unlike any Harry had experienced. He struck only from above, keeping his shield upfront at medium height. Harry had to keep stepping back, holding his shield high with his left hand to defend against the inhumanly powerful blows. If he could get an opening, he would have struck Clegane's exposed head and shoulder. But he couldn't as Clegane kept jabbing back at his chest. Harry kept parrying the blows with his shield. Slowly, but surely, Clegane kept pushing Harry back towards the edge of the yard. It was a matter of time before he would have no place to retreat. Tyrion, while worried at what he thought was the Wizard's retreat, also observed that Harry was comfortably parrying Clegane's heavy blows. The wizard started to move sideways as he was kept on defensive.

It went on that way for what seemed a long time. Back and forth they moved across the yard, and round and round in spirals. Ser Gregor dealt every blow more powerfully than last, his face alight with bloodlust. He was proud of his strength. He was fully convinced that he could easily overpower the young man. Clegane with a giant's strength was impatient to end the battle by killing the small and slender youth. But Tyrion could tell that he was tiring. The relentless hammering continued as each sought an opening in the other's defenses. Crowd was getting impatient for the blood and Harry's defensive approach was most unglamorous. All around the yard, the throng of spectators was creeping in toward the two combatants, edging forward inch by inch to get a better view. The Kingsguard tried to keep them back, shoving at the gawkers forcefully with their big white shields, but there were hundreds of gawkers and only six of the men in white armor.

He charged at Harry again. To everyone's surprise, Harry stepped to the side, letting Clegane move forward with his momentum. Then Harry turned and charged as an aggressor. He swung to the left, letting his shield come down, leaving his flank open. Ser Gregor pushed his sword forward. Harry turned right to avoid the blow and in the same motion rolled his right arm in a swing, letting the momentum carry the sword higher than his regular strikes normally have gone. Suddenly the Harry was close enough to strike, his sword flashing in a blur. Ser Gregor started to turn, but too slow and too late. The crowd was screaming. He struck Clegane on his neck. An instant kill strike, if it had been a normal man and not a man-giant. Ser Gregor Clegane stood stunned, blood flowing from his half severed neck freely. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed face first on the ground. His huge sword went flying from his hand. Slowly, ponderously, he rolled onto his back.

Tyrion's face broke into a wide smile. How had the Wizard managed to do that? Harry had given up being defensive, turned into an aggressor, and won in one stroke.

"He killed the Mountain!" shouted one of the guards, and cries of disbelief and outrage spread among the men.

A/N: I can't write awesome Harry, I am sorry. Please review.