Disclaimer: This fanfiction is a creative work of fiction crafted by a fan of both the Harry Potter and Game of Thrones series and is not officially sanctioned by J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, HBO, or any related parties. All characters, events, and settings from both universes are utilized in a transformative manner and should be interpreted as such. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or deceased, or real-world events are coincidental. The views and interpretations presented in this fanfiction are the sole responsibility of the author(s) and do not necessarily align with the established canons of either Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. Reader discretion is advised as this fanfiction may explore crossover themes, character interactions, and storylines not found in the original works.
--
As the first light of dawn filtered through the windows, Dany stood close to Harry, her hands moving with practiced care as she adjusted the straps of his armor. Each piece was secured with a tenderness that belied the tension in the air, her touch both a comfort and a promise of her unwavering support.
"You look so brave," Dany murmured, her violet eyes meeting his with a blend of pride and concern.
Harry offered her a small, reassuring smile. "With you by my side, Dany, I feel invincible," he replied, his voice full of quiet gratitude.
She fastened the final buckle and stepped back, admiring him with a heart full of mixed emotions. "You are a warrior, Harry Peverell," she said, her voice carrying both admiration and a hint of fear. "Today, you will show the world the true extent of your strength."
As Dany reached for his sword, Ignis—the blade forged in the fire of Fawkes, the legendary phoenix—Harry gently stopped her. "Not today, Dany," he said, his tone firm with decision. "I'll be using my other sword."
Dany's brow furrowed in confusion, but she nodded, understanding the gravity of his choice. She handed him the sheathed sword from his expanded trunk instead. "As you wish," she replied, her voice steady with acceptance.
Before they could leave the room, Dany paused, her hand brushing over the necklace. With a soft whisper, she activated the glamour that would conceal her true identity from prying eyes. Her features shifted subtly, the transformation a necessary precaution in a world where enemies lurked in every shadow.
Harry watched as the glamour took effect, a deep appreciation in his gaze. "Thank you, Dany," he said, his voice filled with resolve. "For everything."
Together, they stepped into the sunlight, ready to face the trial by combat that awaited them. United in purpose, they moved as one, their bond an unspoken vow that they would face whatever came next side by side, their resolve unshakable.
—
As Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, and the Sand Snakes approached the Red Keep, their arrival was like a ripple of heat through an already simmering crowd. Clad in the vibrant and unmistakable garb of Dorne, they cut an imposing figure, their presence a stark reminder of old grievances that had yet to be settled. The deep reds and oranges of their attire seemed to burn with the same intensity that smoldered in Oberyn's eyes as he made his way toward the arena where the trial by combat would soon take place.
Ellaria walked beside him, her steps confident, her gaze as sharp and steady as her lover's. Though she spoke no words, her very presence was a testament to her unwavering support for Oberyn, the unspoken bond between them stronger than steel. Behind them, the Sand Snakes followed in a formation that reflected their lethal prowess and fierce loyalty to their father. They moved like shadows, their expressions set in grim determination, each one a living embodiment of the wrath and pride of Dorne.
As they reached the entrance to the arena, the tension in the air was palpable, thick with anticipation and the weight of old vendettas. Whispers rustled through the gathered crowd, the arrival of the Martells sending a shiver of intrigue and apprehension through the onlookers. The trial by combat was already set to be a spectacle, but the presence of the Dornish royalty added a new, dangerous edge to the proceedings.
Yet even as they strode forward, there was an absence among them, a shadow unspoken but keenly felt. The mysterious figure who had often walked in their midst had been left behind, kept away from the prying eyes and scheming minds of the Red Keep. Too many dangers lurked in the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, and some secrets were best kept hidden until the right moment. For now, Oberyn's family moved without her, each step echoing with the promise of justice long overdue.
—
As they made their way to the arena, Ned Stark's expression was shadowed with concern, the furrows on his brow deepening with every step. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, as if by holding it he could somehow protect the one he cared for. He glanced at Jon, his voice low, yet resolute.
"I can't help but worry about Harry," Ned murmured, the weight of his words heavy with unease. "He's facing a monster in human form, and the stakes have never been so high."
Jon nodded, his own face a mirror of his father's concern. "I know, Father," he replied, his voice steady, though it carried the same undercurrent of worry. "But Harry is no ordinary man. He's faced trials before that would break lesser men, and he's always come out stronger."
Ned looked at Jon, his eyes a mixture of pride and the deep, abiding concern of a father. "I understand that," he said, his tone heavy with the love he bore for Harry. "But the Mountain is not just an opponent; he's a force of destruction. And though Harry is strong, it's hard not to fear for him when so much is at risk."
Jon's jaw tightened, his resolve hardening like steel. "I feel the same, Father," he said, his voice firm, yet filled with an undercurrent of anxiety. "But I also know that Harry is family, and he would never let us down. He's strong, capable, and he knows what's at stake. He won't fall easily."
As they approached the arena, the oppressive weight of the impending battle pressed down on them, the very air thick with anticipation and dread. The thought that Harry might fall, that the man they considered family might be lost, gnawed at them both. But in the depths of their hearts, they held onto hope, the hope that Harry would prevail as he always had, and that the fate of House Peverell—and indeed, the future of Westeros—would be secured by his strength and courage.
For Jon, it was more than just concern for a friend; it was the fear of losing the man who had become his brother by marriage. And for Ned, it was the fear of losing a son in all but blood. As they took their seats, the silence between them spoke volumes, a shared understanding that they were watching not just a fight, but the unfolding of destiny itself.
—-
The entrance of the Tyrells into the arena was a sight to behold, their presence commanding attention as they moved through the throngs of gathered nobles and smallfolk alike. Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, led the way with her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the arena. Behind her, Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, carried himself with the pompous air of a man who believed himself important, though his mother's steady hand ensured he did not stray too far from propriety.
Margaery Tyrell, radiant as ever, walked beside her mother, Lady Alerie. The two women exchanged glances, a mix of concern and composure in their expressions. Margaery's beauty and grace turned heads as she passed, but it was the steel beneath her serene smile that marked her as a true daughter of Highgarden. She understood the game of thrones well and knew the significance of today's events.
Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, followed with a slight limp, his cane tapping softly against the stone floor. His eyes, keen and intelligent, scanned the crowd, noting who was present and who was conspicuously absent. Garlan Tyrell, the gallant, brought up the rear, his strong, imposing figure a protective shadow over his family. He was the embodiment of knightly valor, yet even he could not fully hide the tension that lay beneath the surface.
As they took their seats, the crowd's murmur followed them, a low hum of speculation and anticipation. The Tyrells were known for their wealth and influence, and their arrival only heightened the stakes of the trial by combat. Olenna's gaze flickered toward the center of the arena, where the fight would soon take place. Her sharp mind was already calculating the implications of the outcome, considering how best to position her family for whatever was to come.
Margaery, ever poised, kept her attention on the entrance through which the combatants would soon emerge. She reached for her grandmother's hand, a gesture of solidarity that did not go unnoticed by those seated nearby. Olenna squeezed her granddaughter's hand in return, a rare show of affection from the formidable matriarch.
As the Tyrells settled in, the atmosphere in the arena seemed to shift, the tension rising with the arrival of one of the most powerful families in the realm. They were here to witness history, to see whether Harry Peverell could do what so few had ever done—defeat the Mountain, and in doing so, alter the course of the game they all played.
—
The arrival of the Lannisters at the arena was like a cold wind sweeping through the gathered throng, chilling the air and stilling the murmur of voices. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, moved with the regal bearing of a lion surveying its domain, his sharp gaze cutting across the sea of faces with a calm, calculating intensity. His golden hair, now touched with silver, gleamed in the light of the afternoon sun, a crown atop the head of a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.
Behind him, Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, loomed like a shadow given form. His armor, black as night and heavy with the weight of death, seemed to absorb the light around him. The visor of his helm was lowered, hiding whatever expression his brutish features might hold, but the menace that radiated from him was unmistakable. Ser Gregor moved with a ponderous, deliberate pace, each step a reminder of the brutal power that lay within his enormous frame.
Kevan Lannister followed, his expression set in a mask of grim determination. Though a loyal man, Kevan was no stranger to the darker side of his brother's ambition, and his presence here, alongside the Mountain, was a testament to the lengths the Lannisters would go to secure their hold on the Iron Throne. Behind them, a retinue of Lannister guards, resplendent in their crimson and gold, marched with the disciplined precision of soldiers who knew their place in the world and would do whatever was necessary to maintain it.
As the Lannisters took their places in the arena, the hush that had fallen over the crowd deepened, the air thick with the weight of expectation. The whispers that followed their entrance were tinged with fear and uncertainty. The Mountain was a legend of terror, a creature of nightmare, and his very presence cast a long, dark shadow over the proceedings.
Tywin's gaze swept across the arena, his expression betraying nothing of the thoughts that churned behind those cold green eyes. He was a man who understood the stakes of this trial by combat, not just for his house but for the future of Westeros itself. The Lannisters were not merely spectators; they were the architects of this moment, and they would see it through to its bitter end.
The crowd, too, seemed to sense the gravity of the situation. The arena, once filled with the low hum of conversation, was now eerily silent, as though the very walls held their breath in anticipation of the violence to come. The arrival of the Lannisters had signaled that this was more than just a trial by combat; it was a clash of titans, a moment that would be remembered long after the blood had dried on the sand.
As Tywin and his retinue settled into their seats, the arena crackled with tension. All eyes were now on the Mountain, that looming figure of death and destruction. The stage was set, the players in place, and the realm held its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
—
As Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon entered the arena, a hush fell over the assembled crowd, the weight of his presence palpable. Clad in princely finery, his crimson and gold cloak trailing behind him, Joffrey moved with the arrogance of one born to rule, his every step a display of entitlement. His eyes gleamed with sadistic anticipation, eager for the bloodshed to come.
Joffrey's gaze swept over the arena with a disdainful sneer, relishing the spectacle before it even began. For him, this trial by combat was more than just a matter of justice—it was an event meant to entertain, a chance to indulge his appetite for cruelty. The prospect of witnessing Hadrian Peverell's death at the hands of Ser Gregor Clegane filled him with twisted glee.
As he ascended to his seat, the crowd instinctively recoiled, their whispers fading into silence. Joffrey's presence cast a dark shadow over the proceedings, an ominous forewarning of the brutality to come. Even the nobles, seated in the higher tiers, exchanged uneasy glances, aware of the Crown Prince's merciless nature.
Joffrey settled into his seat, his expression one of eager anticipation, hands gripping the arms of his chair as if barely able to contain his excitement. The sun shone brightly over the arena, but a coldness lingered in the air, a chill that spoke of the malice harbored within the young prince's heart.
For Joffrey, this was no mere trial; it was a spectacle of suffering, and he intended to savor every moment of it. The fate of Hadrian Peverell mattered little to him, save for the entertainment it would provide. Here, in the heart of the Red Keep, the Crown Prince's cruelty would be on full display, a harbinger of the darkness that loomed over Westeros.
—
King Robert Baratheon finally arrived at the arena, his booming voice slicing through the murmurs of the crowd like a battle horn signaling the charge. "Bring forth Queen Cersei!" he commanded, his tone as unyielding as the Iron Throne itself.
The arena fell into a tense silence as the guards led Queen Cersei Lannister into the center. Her hands were bound, but her posture was proud, defiance etched into every line of her regal bearing. Her emerald eyes met Robert's with a flash of resentment, her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line. Though captive, she was still every bit a lioness, her pride undiminished.
The crowd watched with bated breath, every eye tracking her movements as she was brought to her place. The arrival of the queen signaled the trial by combat was upon them, a trial that would see justice—or vengeance—delivered by sword and blood.
King Robert, his voice a force of nature, thundered across the arena. "Where is my champion?" he demanded, the impatience in his tone brooking no delay.
As the anticipation swelled to a fever pitch, the crowd turned as one to the entrance. There, striding into the arena with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, was Harry. By his side walked Daenerys, her presence a radiant contrast to the dark tension of the day. But it was Harry who drew every eye.
Clad in gleaming red and gold armor, he looked every inch the hero from legend. The golden phoenix emblazoned on his breastplate caught the light, shimmering with an otherworldly brilliance that seemed to reflect the flames of battle yet to be waged. The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, a mix of awe, curiosity, and whispered prayers.
Here was the man who would face the Mountain. The man who, in the face of overwhelming power, would dare to defy the odds.
—
In the stands, the Martells, the Tyrells, and the Lannisters observed Lord Hadrian Peverell as he entered the arena with a mix of reactions and conversations that rippled through their respective contingents.
Oberyn Martell's sharp eyes were locked on Peverell, his expression a blend of intrigue and calculation. His gaze flickered towards Ellaria Sand and his daughters, his voice low but intense.
"Look at that armor," Oberyn remarked, a trace of admiration in his voice. "The phoenix emblazoned upon it—it's a bold statement."
Ellaria Sand leaned closer, her voice laced with curiosity. "He looks every bit the part of a hero, or a fool. Do you think he stands a chance against the Mountain?"
Oberyn's lips curled into a slight smirk. "If he has any sense, he's prepared for the worst. But I've seen men who wear their bravado as armor. It may not be enough."
Nymeria Sand, her gaze fixed on Peverell, added with a firm tone, "He'll need more than confidence. The Mountain isn't just a brute; he's a seasoned killer."
Margaery Tyrell leaned in towards her grandmother, Olenna, her eyes wide with both concern and admiration.
"His armor is magnificent, isn't it?" Margaery said softly. "But is it enough to face the Mountain? I've heard tales of the beast's ferocity."
Olenna Tyrell studied Peverell with a shrewd gaze. "It's a fine display of grandeur, but grandeur doesn't win battles. We'll see if he has the steel to match."
Mace Tyrell, trying to project an air of confidence, grunted, "A man dressed like that should be able to put up a good fight. Let's hope he lives up to the spectacle."
Willas and Garlan, more reserved in their observations, exchanged glances. "The Mountain is a monster," Willas murmured. "It seems Peverell's only hope is that the gods favor him."
Tywin Lannister's gaze was cold as he surveyed Peverell, his eyes narrowing. He turned to his brother Kevan, his voice laced with disdain.
"Look at him," Tywin said, his tone icily detached. "All bravado and ornament. We'll see if he has the skill to match his appearance."
Kevan Lannister nodded, his expression serious. "Peverell may be well-equipped, but the Mountain is a force of nature. We've seen what he's done to others. If Peverell's preparations are as thorough as his armor, he may stand a chance."
Tywin's lips tightened. "We cannot underestimate Peverell, but the odds are firmly in our favor with Clegane. Even if he survives, it will be a hard-fought victory."
As the crowd buzzed with speculation, the sense of anticipation grew, each faction contemplating the imminent trial by combat with their own hopes, fears, and calculations.
—
King Robert Baratheon's voice roared across the arena, commanding attention with its deep timbre. "This trial is to ascertain the guilt or innocence of Queen Cersei Lannister," he proclaimed, his words cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade. "If Ser Gregor Clegane, the champion of the accused, emerges victorious, the queen shall be declared innocent. Should Lord Hadrian Peverell prevail, the queen will face the full measure of justice for her alleged transgressions."
The king's declaration hung heavily in the air, a somber silence settling over the crowd as the gravity of the moment took hold. The outcome of this trial by combat would not only decide the fate of Queen Cersei but also ripple through the realm, altering the course of history itself.
King Robert's gaze swept over the two combatants, his expression one of grim expectation. "Are you prepared to fight, Ser Gregor?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the stone confines of the arena.
Ser Gregor Clegane, a hulking behemoth in dark, menacing armor, offered a terse nod. His eyes, cold and unfeeling, remained fixed on Lord Hadrian Peverell with a promise of relentless brutality.
The king then turned his attention to Peverell, his tone measured but firm. "And you, Lord Peverell? Are you ready to face this challenge?"
Harry, standing resolute in his red and gold armor, met the king's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I am, Your Grace," he declared, his voice steady and filled with a quiet strength that belied the storm of anticipation within him.
King Robert's voice rang out once more, cutting through the tension that gripped the arena. "Then let the fight begin!"
With the king's command, the arena erupted into a frenzy of sound and movement, the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd signaling the commencement of a battle that would determine the fate of not just one individual but the very future of the realm.
—
Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, was a force of nature, his immense frame a shadow of doom as he charged forward with a roar that shook the very stones of the arena. His sword, a monstrous slab of steel, cut through the air with a force that could have felled trees. He swung with brutal intent, his every move a testament to raw, unrestrained power, aimed at cleaving Lord Hadrian Peverell in two.
Yet, to the astonishment of the assembled crowd, Peverell's response was a ballet of fluid precision. His red and gold armor gleamed beneath the blazing sun, the golden phoenix emblazoned on his breastplate seeming to pulse with life as he danced nimbly through the storm of steel. With a grace that bordered on the supernatural, Harry sidestepped each thunderous blow, his movements an intricate weave of evasion and poise.
Every time the Mountain's sword struck the ground or swung past, the arena erupted in gasps. The clash of brute force and finesse was starkly evident, and the crowd could only marvel at the spectacle unfolding before them. The Mountain's rage and strength seemed almost futile against the elusive, agile figure that darted around him, turning each powerful strike into a missed opportunity.
—-
Jon turned sharply to Ned, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Father, I've just realized something—the sword Harry wields is not Ignis."
Ned's gaze fixed intently on the weapon in Harry's grasp, recognition dawning in his eyes. "That's the Sword of Gryffindor," he murmured, his voice laden with a mixture of awe and concern. "Harry showed it to me before, spoke of its unique qualities."
Jon's brow furrowed in intrigue. "Qualities?"
Ned's eyes never wavered from the arena. "It's a blade of legend, imbued with powerful magic. It grows stronger with each victory, absorbing the essence of its vanquished foes. Harry wielded it against the Basilisk when he was just a boy."
A spark of renewed hope flickered in Jon's eyes. "Then the Mountain is facing an adversary far more formidable than he realizes," he said, a grim satisfaction touching his lips.
At that moment, Dany arrived by their side, her demeanor fierce and resolute. Her gaze was fixed on Harry, and her voice carried the weight of her determination. "Harry will not draw that sword until the very end, when the Mountain has been thoroughly subdued and humiliated," she declared. "And even then, only to ensure the beast remains dead. A swift death by Basilisk venom would be too merciful for a man like Clegane. He must suffer for his transgressions."
—
As the Mountain's massive sword descended with brutal force, Harry met the blow with the Sword of Gryffindor, its goblin-forged steel ringing out with a discordant clang. The clash reverberated through the arena like the peal of a giant's bell, but the sound of metal on metal was swiftly eclipsed by the thunderous shatter of Clegane's blade.
The arena was momentarily filled with a dazzling shower of shards, the fragments of the Mountain's sword glinting like deadly confetti in the sunlight as they scattered across the ground. The shockwave from the impact rumbled through the earth, stunning the spectators into an awed silence. Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd, their breath collectively held as they struggled to comprehend the spectacle before them.
Gregor Clegane stood frozen, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and unbridled rage as he clutched the broken hilt, his formidable weapon reduced to mere splinters. The raw intensity of his anger twisted his features into a mask of fury. For the first time, the Mountain's strength had been met and overwhelmed by a power greater than his own. Across the arena, the faces of the Lannisters were etched with shock, their disbelief mirrored by the triumphant expressions of Harry's supporters.
—
In the stands, the reactions of the Martells, Tyrells, and Lannisters were animated as they processed the sight of Clegane's shattered sword.
Oberyn Martell leaned closer to Ellaria, his voice low and filled with a mix of admiration and curiosity. "It seems Clegane's blade is not the only thing that has broken today," he remarked, his eyes never leaving the arena. "Peverell's sword has revealed itself to be more than just a weapon."
Ellaria Sand nodded, her gaze shifting between the shattered fragments and Oberyn's intense expression. "Indeed. It appears that Peverell's choice of weapon was both a stroke of fortune and strategy."
Obara Sand's voice carried a hint of grim satisfaction as she addressed her siblings. "The Mountain has always relied on his brute strength. Seeing his sword destroyed like that... it's a testament to Peverell's prowess."
Nymeria Sand's eyes were sharp as she added, "It's not just strength but the finesse of the blade that has turned the tide. We may be witnessing the end of the Mountain's reign of terror."
Margaery Tyrell leaned towards her grandmother, a mixture of amazement and concern in her voice. "Grandmother, did you see that? Clegane's sword was shattered in an instant."
Olenna Tyrell, her eyes gleaming with a rare hint of amusement, replied, "Yes, my dear. It seems Peverell is not merely a showman but a formidable opponent. I suspect we may have underestimated him."
Willas Tyrell's brow furrowed as he added, "The Mountain's pride has always been in his strength, not in the quality of his blade. Losing his sword so decisively... it's a significant blow."
Garlan Tyrell, a touch more practical, nodded in agreement. "Indeed. But let's not forget, the Mountain himself is still a force to be reckoned with. The fight is far from over."
Tywin Lannister's face darkened as he muttered to Kevan, his voice a low rumble of controlled anger. "This is an unexpected setback. Clegane's sword was meant to be a symbol of his might. Now, it lies in ruins."
Kevan Lannister's expression was one of concern, though he kept his voice steady. "We've seen the Mountain overcome greater challenges. We must not assume this is the end. He's still a formidable adversary."
The stands hummed with whispered comments and shared astonishment, the destruction of the Mountain's sword a catalyst for shifting allegiances and rising tensions. The arena's energy was electric, the finality of the moment setting the stage for what would come next.
—
King Robert Baratheon, his colossal form imposing even upon his throne, leaned forward with a scowl etched deeply into his rugged features. His gaze was locked on the arena, where the spectacle of shattered steel had unraveled into a display of raw, unfiltered power. Beside him, Queen Cersei's composure had all but fractured; her face, once serene, was now a storm of disbelief and rising terror as the grand design of her hopes and schemes crumbled before her eyes.
Across the sand, Harry stood resolute, the Sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in his hands. The weapon, a relic of legend, which seemed to pulse with a life of its own, like a beacon of fiery resolve. The contrast between Harry's unyielding calm and Clegane's barely-contained rage was stark. The golden phoenix on his breastplate caught the sun's dying light, casting an ethereal glow that spoke of both defiance and destiny.
The arena held its breath, the palpable silence thick with the weight of anticipation. Every eye in the stands, every ear straining against the stillness, was fixed on the combatants. The next clash was imminent, a moment that would decide not only the fate of the queen but also the very future of the realm itself.
—
Gregor Clegane, his rage a tempest unleashed, cast the shattered hilt of his sword aside with a roar that shook the arena. His immense frame surged forward, fists clenched in a primal display of brute strength. The Mountain's fury was an elemental force, a storm of raw violence intent on pulverizing his opponent into the dust.
Harry, unshaken by the impending carnage, stood like a calm center in the midst of the storm. His movements were a dance of fluid grace and precision, as if he were weaving a tapestry of combat. The Sword of Gryffindor, a gleaming shard of legend, was sheathed with a practiced flick, leaving Harry's hands free to face the Mountain's onslaught.
Clegane's thunderous fists cleaved through the air, each swing a testament to his overwhelming might. Yet Harry, light on his feet, sidestepped with a serene efficiency, evading each devastating blow. The Mountain's rage only fueled his assault, making his strikes increasingly erratic and frenzied. But Harry remained ever elusive, his reflexes a product of years of relentless honing.
As the Mountain's frustration swelled, his heavy footfalls resounded like war drums across the arena floor. His pursuit was relentless, each swing a testament to his unyielding fury. Yet, Harry danced around him with effortless elegance, his movements a blur of calculated evasion. The crowd watched, spellbound, as Harry's agility allowed him to sidestep the Mountain's brute force time and again.
The battle was a grim ballet of predator and prey, with Clegane's frustration mounting as Harry continued to evade his assaults. The arena, a crucible of anticipation, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the moment when Harry would finally seize his chance to turn the tide.
—
In the stands, reactions surged through the ranks of onlookers like wildfire.
Joffrey Baratheon's countenance darkened with fury and disbelief as the remains of Clegane's shattered sword lay strewn across the arena floor. His face contorted in a snarl, his frustration palpable. Curses dripped from his lips, each word a sharp edge of venom directed at the scene unfolding before him. His eyes blazed with a dangerous intensity, his gaze locked onto Harry as though he could will the outcome to change through sheer force of will.
Around him, the noble houses murmured among themselves, their voices a low rumble of surprise and shock. The Tyrells exchanged astonished glances, their usual grace momentarily eclipsed by the spectacle. The Martells, too, seemed caught between admiration and disbelief, their expressions a mix of intrigue and awe. Some leaned forward, their attention utterly absorbed by the unfolding drama, while others remained in stunned silence, their minds grappling with the power and skill on display.
Among the common folk, the reaction was no less intense. A wave of gasps and whispers surged through the stands, spreading with the swiftness of a tempest. The arena's lower tiers, filled with commoners and watchers from the lower ranks of society, erupted in a cacophony of cheers and anxious murmurs. Excitement crackled in the air, with some voices raised in fervent support of the unexpected hero, while others exchanged wary glances, their uncertainty mirroring the dramatic shift in the combat's tide.
All eyes were drawn to the arena, where Harry and the Mountain stood locked in a fierce and defining clash. The arena held its breath, every spectator poised on the precipice of anticipation, eager to witness the next turn in this extraordinary trial by combat.
—-
With a decisive swing, Harry ducked low and drove his gauntleted fist into Clegane's left knee. The concealed Elder Wand, nestled within his armor, sparked with an eerie, dark magic as he invoked the Reductor Curse. The impact was both thunderous and grotesque—a sickening, bone-snapping crack that resonated through the arena, mingling with the gasps and horrified murmurs of the crowd.
The Mountain's roar was a primal, guttural cry, a sound of pure, unfiltered agony that echoed off the stone walls. His massive frame staggered, the leg bending at an unnatural angle as the shattered bones splintered beneath the strain. Blood and fragments of shattered bone spattered out, painting a macabre tableau against the dirt-streaked arena floor.
Clegane, his face a contorted mask of pain and rage, tried to steady himself but faltered, his balance lost as the sheer force of the blow left him reeling. The arena fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the ragged breathing of the wounded warrior and the low murmur of the crowd as they processed the grisly spectacle before them.
Seizing the moment of his opponent's vulnerability, Harry pressed his advantage with cold, ruthless efficiency. His movements were a blur of precision, each strike landing with practiced accuracy as he danced around the Mountain's flailing defenses. The Cruciatus Curse, channeled through the Elder Wand and the Holly Wand, added an additional layer of torment to his relentless assault. Each curse inflicted upon Clegane was like a searing brand, amplifying the Mountain's suffering with every movement.
The spectators, a sea of faces lit by the harsh sunlight, were enraptured by the brutal dance of combat. Harry's grace and deadly precision were in stark contrast to the Mountain's brute, unrefined fury. The agony of Clegane's shattered knee and the relentless, magical torment brought a new level of visceral horror to the trial by combat, painting the arena with a vivid tableau of pain and desperation.
—
In the stands, the reactions of the assembled noble houses were swift and visceral.
The Martells, seated with their usual air of detached grace, found their composure momentarily shattered. Oberyn's eyes widened, his sharp gaze fixed on the brutal spectacle unfolding in the arena. A smirk of grim satisfaction touched his lips as he leaned towards Ellaria. "The Mountain's downfall is more spectacular than even I anticipated," he said, his voice barely a whisper but laced with cold delight. "I'd say the Mountain's reign of terror is at an end."
Ellaria, her eyes fixed on the arena, nodded in agreement. "And it seems that Lord Peverell has more than lived up to his reputation," she replied, her voice low and impressed. Obara, her face a mix of awe and dark humor, muttered to her sisters, "Well, that's one way to bring down a Mountain."
The Tyrells, perched high in their seats, displayed a mixture of astonishment and cautious optimism. Margaery's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as the sickening crack of Clegane's shattered knee echoed across the arena. She turned to her grandmother, Olenna, who raised a single eyebrow, her usual imperious demeanor softened by surprise. "It seems we underestimated Lord Peverell's prowess," Olenna commented dryly, her voice carrying just enough edge to be heard over the hushed murmurs. "And here I thought the Mountain was unbeatable."
Margaery glanced at her, her face a mix of concern and curiosity. "Do you think he'll manage to finish him off? Or is this merely a display of his skill?"
Olenna's eyes remained fixed on the arena. "He's certainly proving himself," she said. "But let us not forget that the Mountain is a beast. The battle is far from over."
The Lannisters, however, were a study in contrasts. Tywin's face was a mask of grim disapproval, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his champion's misery. "This is a disgrace," he growled softly, his voice low but seething with barely contained anger. "How did we allow ourselves to be so poorly prepared?"
Kevan, standing by his side, could only shake his head in disbelief, his face reflecting a deepening concern as the brutal nature of the fight unfolded. "The Mountain was supposed to be unstoppable," Kevan murmured, the reality of their situation sinking in. "It seems we've misjudged our adversaries."
Tywin's lips thinned into a hard line. "We'll see how Lord Peverell handles the rest of the fight," he said, his voice carrying a tone of reluctant respect. "For now, the damage has been done. We must reassess our position."
Throughout the stands, the mood oscillated between disbelief and awe. The sheer violence of the moment had rendered even the most composed nobles momentarily speechless, their eyes glued to the arena as Harry's relentless assault continued. The air was thick with the tension of the unknown, and the crowd's collective breath seemed to hang in anticipation, waiting to see how this unprecedented clash would ultimately resolve.
—
As the shattering impact of Harry's strike echoed through the arena, Robert Baratheon's mouth fell open, his eyes wide with unfeigned astonishment. The Mountain, once a figure of terror and strength, crumpled to the ground, his knee shattered beyond repair. Robert's boisterous laughter, usually so full of mirth and bravado, was stilled in sheer disbelief. His gaze flickered between the broken Clegane and the confident figure of Harry, his thoughts a tumult of respect and unease.
Jaime Lannister, standing at the king's side, was caught in a rare moment of slack-jawed surprise, his usual composure faltering as he took in the sight of the Mountain's downfall. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy maintained his stoic façade, yet the brief flicker of astonishment in his eyes betrayed his inner shock at the turn of events.
Cersei, shackled and forced to witness her champion's humiliation, gasped sharply. Her face, usually so composed, was now a mask of horror and dismay. Her eyes darted between the fallen Mountain and Harry, her lips moving silently as if to plead or curse the fates.
Joffrey, perched on his gilded chair, looked as though he might burst with rage. His face was a grotesque mask of fury, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. The sight of his champion's ignominious defeat was a bitter pill, and his expression twisted into one of venomous frustration, his rage palpable even from afar.
The royal booth, once a sanctuary of authority and control, had fallen into a stunned silence. The clamor of the arena seemed distant and muffled, replaced by the collective gasps and murmurs of the crowd. For Robert, the spectacle of the Mountain's fall stirred a tumult of conflicting emotions. Part of him marveled at Harry's prowess, acknowledging the skill and power that had felled this most fearsome warrior. Yet another part of him could not shake a lingering unease, a grim recognition of the potential ramifications of Clegane's defeat—a stark reminder that even the mightiest could be brought low by unforeseen forces.
—
Jon Snow, watching from the stands, could scarcely believe the sight before him. His eyes widened with a mix of disbelief and awe as Harry's strike shattered the Mountain's knee. The sound of bone breaking seemed to reverberate through the very air, and Jon's expression softened into one of grudging admiration. His gaze remained fixed on Harry, who stood resolute amidst the chaos, the powerful blow turning the tide of battle.
Eddard Stark's face was a mask of taut concentration, his jaw set in a grim line as he witnessed the Mountain's sudden fall. Beneath the surface of his stoic demeanor, there was a flicker of pride and relief. He had always believed in Harry's prowess, but seeing it in such a brutal display affirmed the strength and skill of his ward.
Dany, standing beside them, could barely contain her relief and satisfaction. Her eyes shone with a fierce light as she observed the scene. A faint, triumphant smile graced her lips, her heart swelling with pride and relief at the sight of her husband's victory. Her gaze remained locked on Harry, her silent support a testament to her unyielding faith in him.
As the realization of Clegane's defeat sank in, the air grew thick with anticipation. Jon, Ned, and Dany exchanged glances laden with unspoken understanding. The scales of power had shifted decisively, and the outcome of the trial by combat had been irrevocably altered. The significance of the moment was clear, and with it, the fate of those involved hung in a precarious balance.
—
Harry stood over the fallen Mountain, whose broken body lay twitching and convulsing in the sand. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood, the once fearsome figure now a grotesque display of shattered flesh and splintered bone. Clegane's eyes, wide and unseeing, reflected a terror far removed from his former, unyielding might.
With a grim resolve, Harry unsheathed the Sword of Gryffindor, its blade gleaming with a cold, merciless edge. He took a deep breath and swung with brutal efficiency. The blade bit into Clegane's neck with a sickening crunch, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the very marrow of the arena. Blood sprayed forth in a visceral, pulsing geyser, splattering the sand and the spectators nearest to the arena's edge.
The head was cleaved from the body in a grisly arc, rolling and bouncing with grotesque inertia across the sand. The severed neck continued to spurt, pulsing with a final, desperate rhythm as though still clinging to life. The sight of Clegane's head, eyes wide and mouth slack, staring vacantly at the heavens, was horrifying—a final testament to the brutal end of a once-feared warrior.
The arena fell into a stunned silence, the spectators transfixed by the gruesome spectacle. Blood pooled and spread around the headless corpse, darkening the sand beneath in a chilling display of the price of combat. The head, now a macabre trophy, lay amidst the carnage, a stark reminder of the brutality and finality that marked the trial by combat.
Harry, his face set in a mask of somber resolution, surveyed the scene with a heavy heart. The echoes of the battle mingled with the stark silence that followed, leaving the arena a grim testament to the savage reality of the world they inhabited.
--
Author's Note:
Hello, dear readers!
Thank you for following Harry and Dany's journey through Westeros. As we move into the next exciting arc, we have a special event on the horizon: the birth of dragons! These magnificent creatures will play a crucial role in our story, and I'd love your help in naming them.
Please share your suggestions for dragon names in the comments. Consider the unique and powerful nature of these beings, and feel free to get creative! Your input is highly valued, and I can't wait to see the incredible names you come up with.
To give you a bit of inspiration, let me describe the dragons:
First Dragon:
He is a stunning red and gold male dragon, with scales that gleam like molten fire in the sunlight. His wings are vast and powerful, each stroke causing the air to ripple with heat. His eyes burn with an intense, intelligent light, and his roar echoes with the promise of untamed power. His presence is both awe-inspiring and terrifying, embodying the very essence of fire and strength. Notably, his colors are a tribute to both House Gryffindor in Harry's world and the newly formed House Peverell in Westeros, symbolizing bravery, strength, and legacy.
Second Dragon:
She is a magnificent white and emerald green female dragon. Her scales shimmer with an ethereal glow, reflecting the light in a way that makes her seem almost otherworldly. Her wings are graceful yet strong, and she moves with a fluidity that belies her immense power. Her eyes, a vivid emerald green reminiscent of Lily Potter's, are filled with wisdom and a fierce protectiveness. Her roar is a hauntingly beautiful sound, echoing through the skies with a sense of ancient majesty.
Third Dragon:
She is a striking icy blue and grey female dragon. Her scales glisten like the petals of winter roses, reflecting the soft, cold light of the north. Her wings are broad and powerful, carrying her effortlessly through the frozen winds. Her eyes, a steely grey reminiscent of House Stark, are filled with an unyielding resolve and a profound sense of loyalty. Her roar is like the howl of a winter storm, echoing with the chill of the northern winds and the strength of ancient winters.
Fourth Dragon:
He is a magnificent silvery-white and purple male dragon. His scales shimmer with a metallic sheen, reminiscent of the iconic hair color of House Targaryen. His wings are broad and powerful, carrying him gracefully through the skies with a regal air. His eyes, a deep and striking purple, reflect the noble heritage of his lineage. His roar is majestic and commanding, echoing with the legacy of his forebears and the promise of a new era.
Fifth Dragon:
He is a formidable black and red male dragon, with scales as dark as night and accents of crimson that gleam ominously in the light. His wings are immense and powerful, enabling him to soar through the skies with an intimidating presence. His eyes, a piercing red, reflect the fierce and unyielding spirit of House Targaryen. His roar is a thunderous and fearsome sound, embodying the strength and legacy of his noble heritage.
Sixth Dragon:
He is an awe-inspiring emerald green and bronze male dragon. His scales shine like polished gemstones, with the green hues reminiscent of vibrant forests and the bronze adding a touch of ancient majesty. His wings are vast and powerful, carrying him through the skies with grace and strength. His eyes, a deep green, reflect a keen intelligence and a sense of ancient wisdom. His roar is both melodious and powerful, resonating with the strength of nature and the might of dragons.
Seventh Dragon:
She is a radiant cream and gold female dragon. Her scales shimmer with a soft, lustrous glow, reflecting the light in a way that makes her seem almost divine. Her wings are elegant yet powerful, allowing her to glide through the air with grace and majesty. Her eyes, a warm golden hue, are filled with a gentle wisdom and an inner strength. Her roar is a harmonious and resounding sound, echoing with the beauty and grandeur of a rising dawn.
Since these dragons will be birthed in the fire of Fawkes' (the Phoenix) burning day, they will not be your typical Valyrian Dragons. Their origins will infuse them with unique powers and characteristics, setting them apart as extraordinary creatures in our story.
Thank you for your continued support and enthusiasm. Stay tuned for more adventures!
--
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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