In the Red Keep, Sandor Clegane watched Arya disappear outside. Preventing her from killing Cersei and then having nothing to live for afterwards was his first good act of the day, and he intended to perform a similar service to the world soon after. Despite the screams outside and having to dodge the occasional collapsing ceiling or piece of crumbling masonry, he felt almost light-hearted for the first time in years. At last his brother would pay.
Pausing only to grab a panicked servant and demand to know where Cersei was last seen, he released the terrified woman and walked resolutely onwards and upwards.
"This way, your grace."
On the stairway leading down from the ruined tower of the Red Keep, Qyburn, Cersei, and the pitiful remains of the Queensguard stopped as Drogon passed by overhead. Another tremor shook the tower, blocks of stone crashing to the stairs below. Several Queensguard fell, their skulls crushed, while Cersei and Qyburn cowered under the Mountain, who ignored the debris falling on its back as if they were only grains of sand. The shaking stopped, and the group resumed their progress. Then a silhouette appeared on the stairs beneath.
Sandor emerged into the soot-choked light, his gaze fixed on the Mountain. He performed the tiniest of bows.
"Yer grace."
The remaining Queensguard drew their swords and attacked. Sandor slew them with barely a thought, still staring at the target of his hatred.
"Hello big brother."
The Mountain took a step forward.
"Ser Gregor, stay by my side!"
Panic filled Cersei's voice. The Mountain turned its head towards her, glaring through bloodshot eyes and took another step down.
"Ser Gregor I command you!"
"Obey your queen, Ser Gregor!"
Qyburn's firm tone of voice was exactly what the Mountain needed to go over the edge. It stepped towards its creator, and suddenly stopped.
Even with the raging inferno outside, the faint but increasingly loud ringing of bells and the occasional dragon's roar, they could all hear the sounds of thudding footsteps coming down the stairs. Cersei shot a glance at the others, but they looked equally surprised. Thus all eyes were on the giant in skull-covered armor as he came into view, bigger even than the Mountain, filling the staircase with his bulk.
Cersei stumbled back against the wall, her memory of Tyrion's trial surfacing unbidden. The monster armed in black had destroyed Gregor, allowing Tyrion to escape death and murder their father, and only through Qyburn's sorceries had her champion been restored to a semblance of life. And now he stood before her again.
She trembled convulsively as the giant approached, two silhouettes standing behind him, then her jaw gaped as the Wolf ignored her utterly. He stopped and spoke in a resonant tone, as a herald might relay a king's order.
"Qyburn. Ex-Maester of the Citadel, Master of Whisperers, Hand of the Slut-Queen. I am called the Wolf. Today you die."
Cersei stared. She recognized the voice as the one that had goaded her into murdering the hostages at Danaerys' last attempt at parley. The Wolf's expression became irritated, and he sighed heavily.
"Not again... Am I condemned to face weaklings every time I seek to honor the gods?"
The Wolf looked disappointedly at Qyburn, who looked back at the Mountain and stepped back towards the wall. He saw only one way out.
"Ser Gregor, kill this man!"
The Mountain moved, but towards Qyburn, fist drawn back, clearly intending to punch its creator's head off. The Wolf's arm lashed out and dragged the Maester to him, Cersei feeling the wind of its passage on her face.
"Piss off, you underfed weasel, this one's mine!"
The Wolf's lip curled.
"And take a good long bath or five while you're at it. I've been near orc latrines that smelled fresher than you."
Turning back to Qyburn, he lifted the Maester in the air with one hand, eyeing him critically. Below them, Sandor took a step upwards. The Mountain turned to face him.
"Stop struggling, whelp, or you'll be dead with only one arm. And you with not even a dagger. Is this weak and feeble appearance only a lure that has brought your enemies to ruin, fleshcrafter? Does your blood burn like fire when spilled, or can you spit venom when cornered?"
As if in a dream, Cersei stepped daintily around the Mountain and went downwards, neither Clegane making a move to stop her, glaring hatefully at each other. She was already out of sight when the Wolf called out without taking his eyes off Qyburn.
"Sven? Akkarulf?"
Two men emerged from the stairs above and immediately headed downstairs, one an aged man in slightly singed furs, and the other a hulking warrior in metal armor. Sandor barely paid them any heed, and they ignored him in turn.
The Wolf turned, as though noticing Sandor for the first time.
"Oh, you're here."
Sandor's gaze stayed fixed on the Mountain.
"Told you you'd missed him."
"Eh?"
"Told you you hadn't killed him."
Sandor climbed a few steps further. The Mountain turned, and drew its sword.
Still held in the Wolf's iron grip, Qyburn saw him frown.
"Didn't kill..."
Recognition dawned on the Wolf's face.
"Molehill?"
The Wolf whistled and snapped his fingers, as if summoning a dog. The Mountain spun around.
"It is you, Molehill! Why are you up and about when I removed your head? Very bad idea to be moving around after so crippling an injury, you sure you don't want to sit down and wait until you feel better? Or perhaps, given how little you used your brain, it was less of a loss for you than for ordinary men?"
The Wolf sniffed.
"You were already a halfwit when last I saw you, now I see you've forgotten how to wash yourself. Or rather... Hound! You've known this ugly dogspawn longer than I have, did this waste of good armor ever learn to pull down his breeches before taking a piss?"
"Shut it, Wolf! He's mine."
The Wolf sounded surprised.
"Oh?"
The giant turned his head from one to the other, then shrugged.
"Very well, then. Who am I to meddle in family affairs."
The Wolf fell silent as the brothers crossed swords. Qyburn dared to look up, and saw an expression of intense interest on the Wolf, as of a gambler watching a prizefight.
The Hound struck, and the Mountain's helm flew off. The Wolf gave a shout of approval which both Cleganes ignored. Sandor stared in contempt.
"Yeah. That's you."
Underneath the helm was a maggot-pale face, wobbly and hairless, covered in necrotic patches. The Mountain blinked bloodshot eyes, but its face had no more expression than a statue.
"That's what you've always been."
The Clegane brothers rushed at each other again, chips of stone flying as their swords crashed into the walls and stairs.
"So he did grow a head back. Walking and fighting despite his skull being at my belt all this time... I take it this is your work, necromancer?"
Qyburn tried to nod, uncertain as what the answer would bring. Would this lunatic call him an aberration against the laws of man and nature, as those fools at the Citadel had done, unable to see past their ossified ritual and useless gathering of knowledge already acquired?
"What of his heart? You give him a new one too?"
"In a manner of speaking, there were-"
"Well this changes a lot of things."
The Wolf moved his arm up, staring Qyburn full in the face.
"Now, Qyburn, ex-Maester of the Citadel, Master of Whisperers, Hand of the soon-to-be former, still a slut, Queen. Your life, and the manner of your death, lies solely with me."
"Either you die at my hands, slowly, by bits and pieces, or you renounce your mistress and serve me."
Qyburn winced, but nodded as much as he could with the Wolf's fist around his neck.
"Don't answer before you know what I'm asking of you."
The Wolf looked down at the progression of the duel.
Sandor grabbed the Mountain's arm and swung himself around, driving the blade deep into his brother's body with a grunt. The blade now protruded from the Mountain's back, yet still it showed no emotion, only throwing Sandor down the steps. The Wolf nodded, smirking with satisfaction, and turned his head back to Qyburn.
"Choose your next words with exceptional care, fleshcrafter. You brought a corpse to some semblance of life and intelligence. Can you do it again?"
Qyburn blinked rapidly.
"Er, certainly! I used a pump to compensate for the heart until a replacement could be put in, while the maturation process is accelerated by careful dosage of certain venoms obtained from Q-"
The Wolf's face was closed again, his tone still dangerously neutral.
"I don't care how you did it, corpse-monger. I am a warrior, not a student of sorcery, I tolerate it only as long as it serves my needs. Now. Can you do it, again?"
Qyburn hastily stopped himself from replying, before considering his answer carefully. Immediate and unconditional assurance might save him at the moment, but doom him in the long run.
"It depends on the... the freshness of the corpse, on the subject's vitality, whether-"
"That'll do."
The Wolf grinned. Any benevolence it might have expressed was cancelled by the rows of sharp fangs thus revealed.
"You'll have a hard time finding a cooler body than the one I have in mind. Now if you'll excuse me..."
The Wolf lowered Qyburn to the ground and went down the steps. Qyburn hesitated, then followed him. However the barbarian had managed to scale the tower walls, the Maester would be incapable of such a feat.
"I don't want to miss this."
The Mountain had pulled the blade from its own midsection, then pulled off its armor to reveal skin as pale and diseased as its face.
Throwing away the sword, the Mountain descended, singlemindedly concentrated on its brother. The Wolf followed at a good distance, saying nothing but taking in the scene with visible interest.
Broken laughter forced its way out of Sandor's throat once he stopped rolling down the stairs. How could he of all people have imagined he stood a chance against the monster that was his brother?
The Mountain continued its descent, kicking and punching Sandor until he came to a small landing, followed by the Wolf, who made no move to intervene.
There it grabbed Sandor, and lifting him against the wall, brought its fist down on his head again and again. Despite the ringing in his ears and the sunbursts in his eyes, Sandor managed to grab his dagger, and started stabbing the Mountain everywhere he could reach.
"Fucking DIE!"
The blade sank to the hilt in the Mountain's bare flesh every time, but it no more reacted than if a fly had landed on it.
The Mountain grabbed hold of its brother's face, putting its thumbs to his eyes. Sandor screamed as something squirted out of his left eye, but he groped around his brother's face, and shoved the dagger into the Mountain's own left eye and out the back of its skull. The Mountain, its face still entirely devoid of expression, fell back.
"Ha! Good one, Hound!"
The Mountain stumbled into the wall behind it, but already it raised a hand to the dagger, starting to pull out the blade with a wet sucking sound.
Sandor blinked. To his surprise, his right eye still worked. And now, seeing how fragile the wall behind the Mountain looked, he gathered himself up for one last effort that would free the world of the Cleganes... and the Wolf stepped onto the landing between them.
"And I do believe it's my turn now."
Sandor tried to say something, but fell back against the wall, utterly spent.
"You had your chance, warrior. The Crow God demands his prize, and will not be denied... again."
Sandor gave one last effort, but could only scratch at the rubble before collapsing. His one remaining eye closed, the extraordinary vitality that had kept him alive through years of battle failed him at last, and he did not hear the Wolf's words before sleep claimed him.
"See to his wounds, fleshcrafter. Fighting men of any worth are too rare in this world to be allowed to succumb to their injuries."
The Wolf turned to face the Mountain, now back on its feet, and spread his arms in a parody of welcome.
"Molehill! I'd be lying if I said I was glad to see you again. When I make your head an offering to the Skull Throne, it's very rude of you to grow back another one, even taking your natural crassness and utter lack of social graces into account."
"A shame you couldn't grow a spine along with a head, but I suppose with a skull that thick there wasn't enough bone for both."
The Mountain stopped trying to remove the dagger from its skull as the Wolf continued talking, its remaining bloodshot eye twitching. Qyburn stared with wide eyes even as he applied his treatment to Sandor. Could Gregor's memories of his own death have been restored? Which of the alchemical processes had caused it? Desperately he looked for a scrap of parchment with which to take notes.
"I won't ask you how you've been doing, I frankly do not care, but I would be interested in knowing if you've managed to kill anything more impressive than a horse, a woman, and newborn babes since we last met. There needs to be some challenge in the sacrifices I offer to the gods. Otherwise it'd be your master's guts I'd be cleaning off my sword."
The Mountain opened its mouth as if to respond, and only a low grunt came out. The Wolf snickered.
"So either you haven't managed to kill anything of note since, which would not surprise me, or you've forgotten how to speak. Which also would not surprise me."
"Your bark was already worse than your bite, and now you can't bark at all. Have your teeth all fallen out too? A dog with no teeth, no voice and the mange, much like the bitch you work for! Did she give you the pox your skin is blighted with, or did it come from playing with yourself in the dark too often?"
The Mountain lurched forward, throwing itself forward with surprising speed, the Wolf turning like a pikeman holding fast against a cavalry charge. The Mountain impaled itself on the Wolf's spiked pauldron, skulls shattering and breaking under the impact. Even prepared for the blow, the Wolf stumbled a few steps back, nearly stepping on Sandor. Qyburn hurriedly scrambled out of the way.
The Mountain pulled away, long strings of black and sticky gore stretching between the sucking wound on its chest and the Wolf's armor.
"By the Raven's cloaca, Molehill, I'll thank you not to get my armor dirty! Just being in your presence is enough to corrode it, don't go staining it with whatever it is you use for blood these days. Some of us are used to looking respectable, you know."
The Mountain charged again, but this time the Wolf waited in a wrestler's crouch, and used the monster's momentum to pivot and shove it headfirst down the stairs. Masonry crumbled as it fell, the dagger slamming back through the Mountain's skull.
The Wolf looked down the stairs, then unsheathed another of his enormous swords.
"Heads up, Molehill! Catch it with the right end, if you still remember which one that is!"
The Wolf brought his arm up and hurled the sword down the stairwell. There was a sound of metal piercing flesh from below. The giant sighed.
"The next time you bring one back, necromancer, give it the brains it lacked in life. A rat would do... or a turnip."
The Wolf turned his head towards the stairs.
"I said the right end, Molehill! That is to say, the one that isn't sharp! I didn't think it possible, but here we are: you are in fact as stupid as you are ugly, and you look so ugly I'll wager that on seeing you emerge, the midwife slapped your mother instead!"
There was a thudding noise. The Mountain reappeared, the Wolf's discarded sword in hand and a fresh wound along its side.
"Ah, good, my teachings are paying off. There's hope for you yet, lard-gut, maybe I can even get you to understand that a sword is kept in a sheath and not inside your belly!"
The Mountain advanced, sword held low. The Wolf drew another of his swords, and lunged at the Mountain, two thrusts scoring deep wounds in quick succession in the Mountain's arm and chest. But it showed no reaction, swinging and pushing the Wolf back. Qyburn watched in horrified fascination, the Wolf's strikes digging deep yet seeming to deal no damage to the Mountain.
The Wolf grabbed the Mountain's face and squeezed. Black rivulets spurted between his armored fingers and dripped down to the stone steps, where they fizzed and bubbled. The Wolf's eyes darted down.
"You haven't washed in a while, Molehill. Even dogs know how to lick themselves clean... or was your cock simply too short for your tongue to reach?"
With a fierce cry, the Wolf thrust his sword to the hilt into the Mountain's gut. The Mountain swung its arm in a short arc, driving the Wolf back and continuing to advance, the embedded sword wobbling as it moved, but still the Mountain remained expressionless. Even when the Wolf swung his free hand, backhanding the embedded dagger deeper into the Mountain's head, there was no reaction.
Qyburn's eyes darted to the Wolf, but the barbarian merely grinned as he drew another sword.
"So you are worthy of my blade after all! That's good to know, I was afraid you were wasting my time... well, moreso than you are now."
The Wolf's sword lashed out, but the Mountain made no attempt to dodge, only swinging its sword horizontally. The Wolf looked down. Qyburn saw him look astonished as the Mountain's weapon was embedded in the armor covering the barbarian's upper arm.
"Finally, progress!"
Reversing his grip on his sword, the Wolf raised his arm high and plunged the sword into the Mountain's shoulder. The point punched through the small of the Mountain's back, but it did not make a sound. The Wolf looked the Mountain in its remaining eye.
"You know, Molehill, I have to admit I'm impressed. Not many men I've know could handle being stabbed with two swords at once... Perhaps your master trained you by having you impaled by randy stallions, or was that already something you were used to doing in life? Is it a a habit you learned from your mother?"
The Mountain's free hand curled into a fist and crashed into the Wolf's head.