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He felt only rage when he awoke within the middle of the night, his bed groaning as he shifted his gigantic girth.
He panted like a dog, screaming maddeningly as he felt the pains that wracked his head.
His screams so loud that smallfolk within miles of Clegane Keep were able to heart it.
This was all he felt.
Rage and pain.
They had run out of the Milk. His Maester had proven to be incompetent, he had forgotten to get more of the Milk. He had wanted to reprimand him.
A man who didn't listen had no use for his ears.
Unfortunately, the old fool had died of 'natural causes'. He wanted to kill him, to make him feel the same pain that he had left him in.
He was lucky. He would have done worse than what the Gods had intended.
Clegane Keep was a dreary and grim place, it looked like a normal Knight's tower to any visitor; but the dreadful stories of its Lord had seeped its reputation in darkness and infamy.
It lacked in everything that mattered.
It had no strong walls, only a few smallfolk. It was more like a brigand's stronghold than any noble lord's holding, and in the opinion of the wider realm it was true in a manner of speaking if one considered the Clegane's no more than mere thugs with titles.
He hated his keep. It was quiet to be sure, but there was nothing to do. He was forced to make is own entertainment.
First he targeted his servants and then his smallfolk, but he quickly learned at the rate he went through them he would have no one to serve him, so he decided to desist on hunting within his own lands; deciding that the lands of the other Lords would give far more worthy prey.
His actions had quickly endeared a hatred on the local lords, who tried to get rid of him through conventional means. They were beaten back however, no matter how many swords they sent after him.
Eventually Lord Lannister had received word of his actions, of how he often 'foraged' on his vassal's properties.
The Lords of Lannisport and Cornfield especially complained like whimpering lickspittles to Lord Tywin. They spoke of how the Mad Dog of House Clegane had started biting the master's hand.
They were weak, they allowed peace to dull them. Their knights were slovenly and slow, they were too easy to kill; but, blood remained blood. Their deaths served to entertain him like any other. He enjoyed breaking their skulls with sword and hand; he reveled in their screams as his men roped them into splits and roasted them like game; he bellowed in utter amusement when some of his men tried to eat the cooked meat, they spoke of how it tasted like a mix of hare and pork.
Lord Tywin had leashed him, had his men put to death for crimes against the realm. Yet he did nothing to Gregor himself. The Mountain was too valuable to the lion. He needed his strength and his viciousness.
Gregor was angered that most of his effective men-at-arms were now dead to satisfy the whims of weak men. He would have killed Lord Tywin if he were any other man.
The cause for Gregor's even more violent lashings were simple to understand for those who truly understood the savage nature of the Mountain.
He was restless, restless ever since the Stag King's rise.
He resented his liege lord for staying his hand during the war. The more news he received of the battles the more he lusted for the chance to join.
He was overjoyed when Lord Tywin finally decided to declare for the Baratheons. The time came for him to have his share of the killing.
Yet it only proved to be merely disappointing.
He had done so little.
He was supposed to be at King's Landing. He wanted to be the one to kill the Targaryens, to end the line of Dragons. Instead it was Lorch who got that honor; pitiful, soft and piggy Lorch who got the fun of butchering the Prince's family.
Lord Tywin was fearful of the outcome of the clash between Baratheon and Targaryen, Gregor had been made commander of a van of five thousand knights. He was supposed to join Robert just before the Battle over the Trident. To bolster the rebel's numbers with five thousand battle-hardened veterans and to clench the iron gauntlet around the dragon's throat.
It proved to be the wisest course.
For the Stag would have lost without those five thousand knights and the sheer reputation of the Mountain's cruelty.
Their forces were almost routed by the Targaryens. The Lord Baratheon and the Targaryen prince had wounded each other, resulting in their men to decide the future of Westeros.
It took the Mountain to save the Stag.
With fury and rage in his lungs he had crashed into the remnants of the Targaryen army. It was he who gave Robert the chance to win his crown.
It was the Mountain who crushed the dragon's skull.
Robert had lauded him, offering him countless riches. He even suggested a place within his own Kingsguard.
Gregor saw no need for the Stag King's gifts.
He didn't care for such things.
All he wanted was to kill and rape.
He destroyed too few villages and ravaged too few women. Now peace was here, worthless and unwanted peace. His life was now meaningless, there was no purpose to him.
Peace was useless to him. He was made a knight for naught peace but for war. He wanted to kill more and destroy more. He wanted to set King Landing aflame. He wanted to reduce the Reach to ruin and Dorne into a truly empty desert.
To him forgiveness was a grave sin, for it left enemies still breathing. A man who bent the knee needed to have that leg removed and fed to his family. They needed to be utterly destroyed.
He learned that from Lord Tywin, to utterly destroy your foe until only derelict ruins remain of their memories.
The only stories that he cared to listen was those of Lord Tywin. In Lord Tywin he thought he discovered a kindred spirit, one who worshiped violence as he did.
He was disappointed to discover his Lord was far milder than he envisioned.
He had no cause to love the Baratheons. They had made a mistake in making the war such a short affair. They should have prolonged it for years.
He wanted more chances to kill.
There was no need for any righteous cause.
War was not the means but the very end.
Tywin he respected, Tywin he followed.
For the lion had promised him the one thing he wanted.
The chance to take life unabated. To elevate his torturous existence through the deaths of others.
Lord Tywin was his Septon.
The battlefield was his Sept.
Killing his prayer.
Pillaging, rape and harrying were his rites of worship.
He loved nothing but killing. The Stranger was the only god he would ever worship. It was death that defined him and it was death that gave him meaning in this life.
He felt nothing but contempt for those who proved weak to not understand what he knew. That only fear ruled the world. The Septons were fools, the True Knights more foolish and virtuous Lords the most foolish of them all.
It was in part why he hated his brother so much.
Sandor was a weeping welp.
He disliked him when he played with his toys.
He hated him when he cried as he was burned.
Sandor hated the world, hated the reality of this short and cruel life. He hated being the savage dog, hated knightdom because it was not as the tale's talked of them.
Gregor could not help but despise his soft brother.
Sandor was a child in tantrum who saw only filth in the world. While Gregor only saw its beauty.
The world was nothing but death, pain and rage.
There was no other purpose than these three things.
Sandor knew these things, but he did not understand them. He was like a babe playing with a blade. He did not know the extent of the power the thing he held gave him.
These three things were Gregor's entire being, they were all there was to him. They were the only things that he held sacred. If Gregor believed in anything than it was these three facets of reality.
Only when his sword was dipped in blood and his ears caressed by the sweet lamentations of defiled virgins did he feel alive. Only when he left people broken and destroyed did he feel any sort of spiritual stirrings in his black and depraved soul.
He was a warrior-monk, like those of the Warrior Sons of ages past.
A true believer who believed in a cause higher than himself.
Yet the religion he followed he followed alone.
His religion was war and strife.
His creed was violence for its own destructive end.
The Stags took it all away from him.
They took away his cherished war.
He would never forgive them for such a crime.
They had committed blasphemy within his eyes.
Jousting was a poor imitation of real fighting. The point of it was not for killing, which made it pointless; but, it was the only outlet for Gergor's impulses. The closest to actual war without breaking the laws of the realm.
The journey to Deep Den was quiet, much to his distress. Ever since Gregor Clegane killed the Dragon Prince crime had been seldom seen within the Westerlands. Most of the brigands were either slain by him or served under him. So hence travel was relatively safe, no bandit was foolish enough to prowl on the roads for fear that one day they would suffer the wroth of the Mountain that Rides.
When they arrived he instantly felt a distaste of the entire affair; the one thing he hated about tourneys was how loud they were. All the insipid talkings of lords and smallfolk only served to worsen his head pains. All he wanted was to strangle them all into solitude.
He cared less for what they cared for and cared even less more about the reason for this gathering of cravens and milksops.
The Lord of House Lydden had apparently born a child and held the tourney in celebration of its nameday.
In order to celebrate life, one needed to celebrate death.
A Maester told him this once, the only time he had ever bothered to heed a Maester's words.
Without men as savage as he, then how would people know what was good and virtuous? The Gods put him here for a reason.
His purpose was of violence, to remind men of their mortality. It amused him so on how men would whisper of his cruelty.
There was a purpose to Gregor, even a brute such as he was aware of it.
Lord Tywin had entrusted him with an important duty.
Fear.
The Rains of Castamere was not sufficient enough to remind the enemies of lions that they were not a house to be fucked with. They needed something more than a catchy tune to put the fear into them.
They needed a Mountain.
He knew his purpose. He knew why Lord Tywin allowed him free reign when it came to his cruelty.
Nothing ruled man more than fear.
Not love, nor coin or loyalty.
It was fear that ran the world. The Westerlands were known for their rich mines, and the Cleganes were no different; but, instead of silver and gold. What the Clegane's mined in ample and generous amounts was iron and blood.
The fat and vain Westerland lords knew of how much more wealthy the Clegane's were compared to them. The wealth that the Clegane's held was far more stable and useful than the pretty rocks they hoarded.
Their wealth was built on burning villages, broken maidens, gutted knights and dead children.
They peddled fear itself.
When he first trotted in with is massive armor he already heard their whispered murmurings; men's faces were drained of color, women fainted and crying babes grew silent in his wake.
The great Lord of Lydden humbled himself when the shadow of Gregor was cast above him. He remembered how he groveled like a child and spoke of his praise.
He wished for the soft lord to silence himself least Gregor tear out his tongue. He had no use for words, he came only for the joust. That was all.
All he managed to respond with was a deep and reverberating growl, the Lord Lydden was quick to retreat when Gregor made his displeasure known.
He did not need the offers of marriage, nor the gossip on who was playing the game of thrones. All he was meant for was the violence.
They were all empty and rudderless beings; in his eyes they were less than even animals. They were motivated by such petty things.
They wanted power, or gold, glory and whatever the fuck they wanted to enrich themselves with. They acted as if death would not claim them one day.
It was only because of Gregor's presence did they not smalltalk as they would have wanted to. It was quickly made evident that the Mountain had a mercurial and short temper that could claim the lives of those who had so unknowingly triggered it.
They took to the field, brandishing their arms. Gregor noted how within the Lydden pavilion, there was a pretty looking lady seated among them who wore the Lydden colors of green and brown along with the badger.
Gregor imagined just how beautiful her face would have been if it were in pain.
His first two tilts had enraged him, for they were not true jousts. His two foes were utterly terrified of the Mountain, with both purposefully withdrawing from the jousting. They'd rather be shamed than face the Mountain's lance.
Only the third proved to be braver than most.
A knight of House Ashford, his bronze armor blazoned with a silver sun on the middle. He galloped like a fool without fear, paying no heed to the Mountain's terror.
It only gave him death in the end.
The boy had failed to fasten his gorget properly, he noticed it so plainly. He aimed for his chest, and on the first try he had him impaled.
There were screams of fright and shock.
Gregor remained seated on his stallion, looking on impassively as the Maester removed the knight's helm.
He was very young.
He had probably not yet seen his twentieth nameday.
His green eyes were glazing over, his hazel hair was caked in dirt and blood. He gasped desperately for dear life.
To no avail.
The Maester stared at him, his eyes only showing hate.
Gregor whipped the reigns of his steed, the beast rode over the newly fresh corpse, desecrating the young knight with its hooves.
The Maester screamed out in bloody murder.
"YOU MONSTER!" Gregor had half the mind to cut the old man's head in twain; but he had his fill of blood today.
He looked at the faces of the smallfolk and the lords. All united in their disgust, fear and hatred of him. He looked over back to the pretty Lydden. She looked pale, her pretty hazel eyes widened in shock and her hands shivering in utter disbelief.
She would look beautiful indeed when he was to ever degrade her.
He had won so easily, it bothered him so.
It bothered him that the young Reach knight was the only one who had given him the blood that he had wanted so.
All were murmuring, they did not wish to cheer for him. He was the Mountain, only fear was worthy of him.
"I-I give you your champion!" The Lydden Lord limply said, not thrilled at the prospect of acknowledging Gregor's victory.
Now all that was left was to crown his queen of love and beauty.
He grinned darkly underneath his helm.
He walked over towards the pretty Lydden girl, tossing the crown to her.
She was in tears.
"S-She's my dear sister Ser Gregor!" Lord Lydden cried out in utter fear for her life.
Yet Gregor ignored him.
Her tears, they made him wild.
Those were such exquisite tears, she sobbed so pathetically. Utterly terrified of being crowned by the Mountain himself.
A sexual hunger quickly gripped him, like a hound when catching the scent of a bitch in heat.
He wanted to make this even more satisfying.
"What is your name?" Gregor spoke for the first time. His voice was ugly and deep, it produced tremors that shook the very earth itself.
She remained quiet, her lips inward as she refused to give him his name.
"Lydia my lord!" Gregor was disgusted by how easily Lord Lydden caved in.
"Lydia. A very pretty name. A name that should belong to a wife of Clegane." Those words took some time to set in.
Her face once terrified, was now deathly pale.
Lord Lydden alternated his gaze between Mountain and sister.
"M-My lord there is su-" Gregor turned his helm at him, the Lord Lydden quickly silenced himself.
"I-If the lord wishes for a wife. T-Then he needs to pay the dowry." Oh? He stared at her now. The fear was still there, but there was some bravery now.
It only made Gregor harder.
He wondered how long this third one would last.
If he was a betting man, he'd wager three months at the very least.
He would have his fun until then.