The Snare & The Hare, The Quarry & The Mare, and The Duel That Was Not Fair.
Gimme the lyrics to them ballads.
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Victarion's axe cut forward toward The Mountain's face. The blow wouldn't pierce the armor, and it just as likely wouldn't connect, but it would force Clegane to move, lest he risk the blow damaging his helm or skull.
The Mountain hopped back on his feet almost leisurely, his counter-swing less of a swing and more an idle roll of his wrist.
Victarion hopped back nonetheless in response, and the tip of Clegane's sword scraped across the curling tentacles that protected his neck and chin. He rechambered his axe and repeated his prior swing, but slower, more hesitant.
Clegane threw his head back instead of his whole body this time, and Victarion's axe swished through empty air.
Victarion halted his swing just as it stopped shy of the Mountain's face, and he saw a flash of grey and black as The Mountain's eyes blew wide, hair swishing inside his helm when Victarion thrust his axe forward instead, his slowness a deliberate feint.
Clegane practically flung himself backward, backpedaling as fast he could before his left leg tripped up over a corpse. The Mountain fell back on one knee, but Victarion stepped back a few paces instead of pressing the advantage, bending low.
Clegane's eyes narrowed behind his visor. "I would have swept your feet." His voice was flat, void of nearly all emotion, of almost anything resembling human. All he could register in the pitch was a touch of plaintive curiosity and disappointment, the kind he would hear from a child who had been denied a sweet before bed.
Victarion did not reply, merely rolling his shoulders. The sun shone into his eyes, and he squinted, stepping to the left a few paces so some nearby trees on the other side of the river shadowed him, chancing a quick glance behind his back. He was isolated quite far from where the bulk of the fighting was taking place, a bridge to his right a few yards away choked up with the dead, a rapids father past it, and at its height lie a hill that was more red than green, broken bodies and crimson flowers landmarks atop its height.
The Mountain rose back up on his two feet, silent as the grave but for the rattling of his armor. It was so absurdly large that even Victarion's own looked small and ill-fitting in comparison. The plate covering his chest, arms, and legs looked more than twice as thick as his own, chainmail double layered over and under the gambeson he wore beneath it.
Victarion's was arranged much the same way, but the combined work of Lordsports best smiths paled in comparison to whatever artisan designed that behemoth's regalia. It was covered in so many layers of scratches, gouges, warps, and dents and what even looked to be charred and melted sections that the damage more resembled designed engravings that repelled blows, the damage done enough to destroy his own set ten times over. It was a dark enough grey it could have resembled Valyrian steel had he not known any better, seemingly sucking in all of the sun's light, reflecting none back out. It was devoid of any and all ornamentation besides the tattered strips of yellow cloth dangling from his chest and back that was once a surcoat, faded and stained with blood and mud, and wine, and a massive fist that rose up from the top of his helm, clenched tightly, lines of red running from between the gaps between each 'finger', like streaks of blood. The only other thing Victarion could see was a comically small dagger that sat sheathed on The Mountain's belt.
Clegane matched his movement, head cocked to the side, and they circled each other like vultures would over a corpse. The Mountain relaxed his arms and let his sword fall slightly as he considered the foe before him, dragging half of its length across the ground. It slid atop bodies and grass and flowers and discarded weapons and everything in its path was pushed aside.
It trailed blood the whole way.
Victarion feigned a lunge, but Clegane didn't react to it outside of his fists clenching tighter. Victarion frowned beneath his helm, tense, waiting for The Mountain to rush forward, to try and dominate him with his sheer size and bulk, to abandon his blade and try for a grapple, to swing, to throw out a feint of his own.
Clegane did nothing of the sort.
He paced and paced and paced until they'd gone full circle thrice over, with only Victarion testing the waters with a few short and low swings and thrusts. Clegane was happy to respond, but he did so as noncommittally as possible.
Victarion's frown stretched further, a feeling akin to but not quite fear taking hold of him. Where is the aggression? The savagery? The baying and the snarling?
He had based his entire plan on the man's reputed character, which Victarion was beginning to realize had been a colossal blunder. He would not be baited, by Mallister or himself.
Why?
Victarion glanced down at the dead around him several times, looking for familiar faces, eyes flicking between them and The Mountain as quickly as he could. Instead of making use of Victarion's distraction, Clegane was satisfied by a single forward thrust, aimed at Victarion's chest, a blow he could have safely ignored. Victarion slapped the tip of his blade away with contemptuous ease anyway, still frowning.
Clegane's shoulders straightened at the riposte, head tilting even further.
It was then Victarion realized.
He's just as nervous as me.
He was being appraised just as equally. The Mountain That Rides was fucking nervous.
Victarion had fought Andrik, Harras, and many other men near his height, but never with live steel in fully raid gear, never seriously. He was approaching this duel with a level of caution that was new to him before now.
He's never fought a man near his size, Victarion thought. Not to the death, not with a real risk to his own life.
Clegane stopped a moment to look down at the corpses below his feet. He kicked a dismembered hand that lingered too close to his boot away, but otherwise showed no reaction to the carnage. He looked back up at Victarion, gesturing with his head in the direction of a company of Ironborn infantry that were slaughtering a group of what looked to be landed Knights a few dozen feet away.
He grunted.
"Why fight her-?" And that was about all he got out before Victarion bulled toward him again.
Victarion's axe pounded into The Mountain's armor again and again and again, viciously, violently, the sound of scraping and screeching steel drowning out all other sounds of battle around them. He put as much force as he possibly could into each and every blow, grunting and snarling with effort each time.
The Mountain took it, parrying and countering as best he could, but even as strong as he was, his one-handed grip couldn't hold up against Victarion's two-handed savagery. Victarion landed maybe a dozen blows that would have killed any other man on the planet, gouging lines and furrows into Clegane's armor that were maybe two or three inches deep each time, his blade dulling further and further with each blow.
He pushed the man back perhaps ten or fifteen steps, his back towards the water that became perilously and perilously closer, until a deflected blow had The Mountain clasp a second hand around the hilt of his sword on a backswing.
Victarion felt himself pale slightly.
He rolled to the side on pure instinct, face hitting the muddy ground just as Clegane's blade passed over it. He felt the oncoming displaced air blast into his eyes so violently he had to shut them for a moment.
He hauled himself back up on one knee, a mistake, because the sudden backswing of Clegane's blade slammed into his side and sent Victarion sprawling across the ground with a strangled gasp, all air forced out of his lungs. Something in his chest had dislodged, a rib, or part of his armor had buckled inward and begun to press into his chest through his leathers, because Victarion felt a sudden burning pain in his side, sharp and radiant, and when he sucked in a desperate breath, the pain grew hotter.
He organized his awkward sprawl into a more organized and deliberate roll, swinging impotently with his axe with one hand. A good block would have seen it struck from his hands entirely, but curiously, Clegane had not followed up his success, for he was still an axebreath away and then some.
I would be dead if he had, Victarion realized with a wince.
He stood back up, a touch slower than he would have liked. Clegane watched him impassively, sword back in one hand, held loosely.
Victarion stared at the deliberately casual pose in disquiet.
A horse rushed between them, bearing the sigil of a snarling hound, but it made no move to intervene in their duel, nor did it seem likely it would double back to try. Victarion watched his host, combined with Mallister and Bracken's remnants, begin to throw The Mountain's men back over the river. Their duel had not lasted for even a few minutes, and the battle was already about to be decided.
Clegane stared at him. "Why fight here?" He rumbled.
Victarion would indulge him this time, if only to catch his breath. "My brother-"
"No." Clegane shook his head. He bent down slightly, looming over Victarion. "Why are youhere?"
Victarion stood up as straight as he was able, finally able to look the man in the eye. Clegane's pupils were dilated.
"I wanted to fight where Tywin's most important general was in command."
The Mountain roared, the sound echo-y and distorted, oddly metallic, as it rang out from his helm, bouncing back and forth inside it. When the roar subsided and relaxed into a series of low growls, Victarion realized that that roar had indeed actually been a laugh.
"
Then you would have sought out my lord's brother. He holds sway over the best men in the army. You know these facts."
Victarion did not reply for a moment, before finally shrugging. "I just wanted to kill you."
The Mountain chuckled again.
Victarion lunged again.
(X)
They danced their dance for what felt like an eternity more, until between swings, as Victarion panted for breath and Clegane dodged backward again, Victarion realized that he had been had.
He relaxed his arms and let his axe fall back into a guard stance as Clegane idled on his heels, sword pointed in Victarion's direction, rolling on the balls of his feet, ready to spring forward or backward, only a few feet from a short fall into the water.
Sweat ran down Victarion's brow, and he had to blink it out of his eyes, momentarily blinded, and not for the first time. His breaths came out in harsh and ragged gasps, and the pain in his side had spread down to his thigh and up to his left shoulder, the muscles worn and pulled.
Clegane was as silent as ever, seemingly not even winded.
He chuckled despite himself, feeling all the more a fool for not seeing it sooner.
He wishes to wear me down and bleed me dry. It was far from the most complex strategy in the world, but it was best saved for foes larger and slower than you, not ones smaller.
It made Clegane's reticence perfectly clear, explained away his apparent caution and 'laziness'. He would weather Victarion's storm as best as he was able, let him hammer and chip away at The Mountain before him until exhaustion bound his limbs with chains and whatever internal injuries he'd accused would weaken him enough for an easy kill, or finish him outright with minimal intervention.
Clegane noticed the sudden tenseness of his posture. "You are slow, Kraken. Your kind do not belong on dry land." Victarion imagined the man was giving him a knowing look behind that great helm. "I'll toss your corpse into the water before your men kill me or I ride away. Righteous pissant you are, you deserve to be with a pissant god."
Victarion narrowed his eyes, but did not rise to the bait. He glanced at the Mountain, at the men retreating behind him-
-And he blinked, axe slackening in his grip. The Mountain turned around to track his gaze.
They both saw the retreating Lannister men, and they both saw the black silhouettes in the distance that were marching toward them from behind,far in the distance.
Clegane's shoulders slumped, and he let out a hum. "You have me between armies." His voice was as flat as ever, but Victarion heard a note of wonderment in it.
Victarion nodded.
Clegane stared at him blankly, studying him and his body language. "You do not talk." Much, Victarion mentally added on the end of that statement.
Rise to provocation, you mean. Victarion shook his head again.
He did not see need The Mountain's face to know he was smiling. "We will both die well."
Victarion slung his axe back over his shoulders as a way of reply and sprinted forward as fast as he could.
Clegane raised his blade over his head, but he was strangely hesitant, his grip loose, and before he could swing, Victarion tackled him into the river.
They fell for half a second, passing under the bridge before they both slammed into the ground. Victarion was flung over to the right, water rushing between his hands and feet so fast he nearly could scarcely find his balance.
But find it he did.
Clegane rose, fell, rose, and fell again, thrice in a row as he tried scrambling back up onto his feet. The water splashed upward and soaked into his leathers through his mail and the gaps in his plate with every trip and fall and crash of one of his armored boots. Victarion's were high up enough and enclosed enough no water would seep in.
Clegane found his sword, awkwardly stumbling forward as his waterlogged greaves weighed him down.
Victarion pressed the attack again, and this time it was him who had the advantage, and he let himself poke and prod and thrust as lazily as Clegane had earlier, the man fighting for his life with a previously unseen desperation, though Victarion felt that could be the wrong word to use in describing his hurry.
They made it under the bridge, towards where the rapids sped up and the bodies were flush together, and that was where it happened.
It was where The Mountain fell.
A corpse shifted, letting more water rush forward, and a rock traveled down the current and struck Clegane in the foot. He stumbled, and a kick at the same leg knocked him to the ground, and Clegane fell upon a bed of rushing water, stones, and bodies, sword falling out of his hands.
Victarion abandoned his axe, striding forward. He looked up to see dozens of men watching from above, of them Patrek, Andrik, and Lord Edmure, freshly arrived with his reinforcements.
Victarion all but collapsed on top of him, pressing his knees into the Mountain's chest as hard as he could. Clegane wheezed for breath, right hand coming up to try and push him off, but Victarion slapped it aside with his own and threw himself forward, resting his forearm against The Mountain's neck, pressing hard as he pinned that arm down as best as he could with his elbow.
With both hands, he tugged at the gauntlet on Clegane's left hand until it came loose, and he tore it free of his arm and flung it away, taking the bulk of The Mountain's fingers on his left hand into a clenched fist, squeezing.
The Mountain bellowed his agony as the bones in his fingers were crushed to a pulp, and he ceased his thrashing as Victarion repeated the process on his other hand.
He then clumsily shoved his fingers under the Mountain's Helm and lifted and lifted until he'd managed to pry it off, and he let it fall free from his slackening hands, leveraging his entire body weight atop him until they were close enough their noses would have touched.
He passed a moment to take in The Mountain's face. He looked plain. Human, even, his dark hair cut short, matted by water and sweat, his eyes utterly empty, a small ill-fitting smile on his lips. Blood ran down his chin from a bite mark atop his bottom one.
The first punch knocked the smile clean off his face, and caved in his cheekbone to boot.
The second and third sent several teeth flying out of his mouth and caved in part of his skull.
Clegane's head lolled to the side as Victarion heaved, the adrenaline fading away as his eyelids began to droop.
He raised his fists again.
The Mountain never felt the fourth punch.
Victarion collapsed after the thirteenth, falling face-first into the sticky pulped mess that used to be Gregor Clegane's head.
The resulting splash sent bits of brain and skull fragment through his visor. Victarion tasted them a moment on his tongue before darkness took him, himself unable to resist exhaustion's sweet siren song.
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Thus ends the life of Ser Gregor Clegane.