Note: Ever since I’ve read Jaime’s POV in A Storm of Swords, I’ve always found it amazing that GRRM managed to turn our opinion of characters completely around. Since then, I’ve always wondered what other characters might he have done that with. After reading through the Song of Ice and Fire series again, I’ve decided to do my own rendition of a POV for none other than the most hated person in the Seven Kingdoms: Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides.

This is meant to be more of a writing exercise than a piece of true writing. It’s extremely rough and could use some more polishing. But I like what I’ve given it so far. I know GRRM’s own distate for fanfiction but like I said, it’s more of a personal exercise in writing.

Gregor

‘What are we, child? Answer me!’ His father bellowed at him. His father always bellowed at him. Ser Soter was an unnaturally large man who was made even more terrifying by the fierce beard that hid his scarred chin. Even in his gloomy hold, Ser Soter wore his heavy plates and boiled leather, as if he might be called to fight at any moment. The boy trembled and could not stammer out the answer fast enough.

‘D-Dogs, my Lord.’ But the mailed fist descended anyways, smashing into his face and filling his mouth with blood. His lord father demanded an immediate answer and any delay earned him a sound thrashing.

‘Dogs.’ Ser Soter growled and wiped the blood from his mailed fist and raised it again. The boy cowered before him. ‘A dog who does not obey is fit for no kennel. What do we do to dogs who do not obey?’

‘Kill it.’ The boy answered immediately. At least he knew this much. He had seen Ser Soter carry out the bloody business before.

Ser Soter nodded and lowered his fist. ‘Pray you do not forget this lesson. Now be gone!’

Gregor scrambled away from his father, running as fast as his thick legs could carry him. He was not yet five but already towered over other boys–including his liege lord’s own golden son. But to his father’s consternation, Gregor Clegane had also grown fat as well as tall. A dog who could not run was no dog fit to serve, his father often said as he beat young Gregor. His feet carried him to his lady mother’s chambers even as tears streamed his face. When he burst into the room, his mother saw the bloodied nose and drew him into her bosom without a word.

‘Oh Gregor, sweetling, what have you done now to have earned your father’s wroth?’ She asked as he sobbed, staining her yellow dress with rivulets of salty red.

“I didn’t know…’ He hiccuped as he searched for the words. ‘I didn’t know he would cry like that. I only meant to scare him a little.’

‘Scare who?’ She smoothed his hair and rocked him on her lap.

‘The young lord Lannister. He took my toy knight and wouldn’t give it back.’ And it was true. Ser Soter was never one to give his son any toys to play so Gregor fashioned his own. Often, they were no more than crude imitations of the real things but the knight was different. It had joints that made it dance and move as if it were a real knight and Gregor loved it immensely. A gift on his fourth nameday from his mother, the knight was Gregor’s most treasured possession.

‘Oh, Gregor, sweetling, why didn’t you ask the young lord for it back?’ Lady Kenna hugged her son close.

‘I did… only he said I couldn’t have it back. He said that dogs like me weren’t fit to play at knights like a lord. So he tore the arms off and threw the pieces at me.’ The memory brought fresh tears to his eyes. ‘It was my knight!’

‘Hush now, sweetling.’ Lady Kenna shushed her son. ‘One day you’ll be a knight yourself and when that day comes you won’t need to have those toys. But save me the pieces, I’ll have someone see to its repairs and it’ll be as good as new.’

Gregor looked up at his mother through his tears and smiled. ‘Do you promise?’

‘In the light of the seven, sweetling.’ She kissed his forehead gently. ‘I’ll even paint it myself. But you’ll have to promise me that you’ll keep it safe until you’ve become a knight yourself.’

‘I promise.’ He said.

And so it was done. Within the fortnight, Gregor found the wooden knight on his pillow. Its joints were repaired and there was even a new coat of paint on it. The three black dogs of House Clegane graced the front on the field of yellow. It was the happiest day of Gregor’s life.

A FEW MONTHS LATER





A chill descended through Clegane’s Keep, accompanied by the wail of newborn babes. Gregor clutched his wooden knight and prayed as hard as he could. His father was in a black mood, brooding in silence and draining one cup of dreamwine after another. Yet Ser Soter remained silent. Finally, the maester–a tiny hobbling man who often tugged at the chains around his throat–entered the room.

‘It is done, ser. You’ve a new son and daughter.’ But there was a fearful tremble in the maester’s voice.

‘And my lady wife?’ Ser Soter asked.

‘She…’ The maester looked uncomfortable as he searched for the right words. Finally, he settled on ‘She lost her battle, ser.’

Gregor looked at the man and clutched the wooden knight close to his heart. What did it mean she lost her battle? Weren’t knights the only ones who fight in battles? What battles could his gentle mother have fought in and how could she have lost? The young child could not say. But he sensed that whatever the news, it meant his father’s mood would only be fouler. Quietly, he attempted to melt back into the shadows, tiptoeing to avoid detection. He heard his father’s voice roaring in the distance as he ran and clutched the knight closer to himself. Something wasn’t right. There was another sound that accompanied his father’s rage and it sounded suspiciously like crying. And though he didn’t know why, Gregor Clegane felt his own tears welling from his eyes as he ran.

MANY YEARS LATER





Gregor looked at his brother Sandor in anger. It had been seven years since his lady mother’s passing and Gregor no longer resembled the big fat boy that found comfort in his mother’s arms. He had grown to be a fearsome man, as tall as his father even though he was no more than two and ten. His arms were thick and rippled with strength, such that many thought him a man full grown even though he had not a single whisker of hair on his chin.

The wooden knight was in two pieces on the ground and Sandor averted his gaze away from Gregor.

‘You broke my knight.’ Gregor said. He adopted the same quiet brooding anger of his father and his size gave weight to the threat.

‘I didn’t mean to.’ Sandor sniffed. ‘I didn’t know the arm would break like that.’

‘You broke my knight.’ Gregor repeated himself. He hadn’t touched the knight since he was five, since the day his brother and sister–twins–were born. But he kept it by his bed always to remind himself of his lady mother. The yellow paint had faded from years of wear but the knight’s joints still worked. He often would move the knight into a new pose depending on the night to remind him of the lessons his father had taught him in fighting. Sandor was always eyeing the knight in envy but Gregor knew his brother was clumsy. It would’ve been a terrible mistake to let Sandor touch the knight.

Yet here they were. The knight–the only final reminder of his mother–suffered a broken arm and Sandor was responsible.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll ask father for a new one. I didn’t mean to break it Gregor, I swear.’ Sandor tried to explain.

But the words didn’t reach Gregor. All he could think about was seven years ago when his mother held him close to her bosom and promised him that she’d repair the knight. She can’t repair it now, he thought bitterly, she can’t repair it now because *he* had to be born. He looked on Sandor with rage and hatred. He still remembered sneaking into his mother’s chamber on that night. A brush dabbed in yellow paint was by the night table. Everything was exactly as his mother had left it. It was almost as if she had only left the room.

‘You broke my knight.’ He stepped closer, his hands clenched and unclenched.

‘It was an accident, Gregor!’ His little brother whimpered.

But he heard no more. He supposed he should feel angrier but there was only cool purpose strumming through his veins. In a blur, he seized his little brother by the head and slammed it against the wall. When he felt Sandor’s hands clawing at him, his rage flared. Kill him, kill him for mother! You killed her! You murdered her! You took her from me! The words echoed in his head–or was it from his mouth? Heat flared around his fingers and Sandor’s face sizzled in the brazier. You killed her! You murdered her! You took her from me! The voice screamed again, deeper this time. Hands beat against his doublet and he felt the hot coals burning his fingers. The pain felt good. Was this what vengeance felt like? Was this justice?

‘Leave him be!’ He heard a shrill shriek behind him. Before he realized what happened, something slammed into his head and he released Sandor from his grip. A shadow descended on him and he lashed out instinctively, his training taking over. He drew back a fist and slammed it into the shadow on top of him as Sandor screamed and writhed on the ground. Warm blood mingled with teeth and bone. The fist pulled back again and flew forward again. And again. And again until his sister fell away from him lifeless. He would’ve killed Sandor too were it not for his father bursting into the room. All the while the voice shouted. You killed her! You murdered her! You took her away from me!

MANY YEARS LATER





The pain coursed through his body, burning like Wildfire but he was not dead. He could not die, not for lack of trying. His foe stood over him, the broken spearshaft quivering in the air. His sword had been knocked away and it pained him immensely to even curl his fingers into a fist. Make it stop! He screamed silently. Mother! Make it stop! Please! The crowd murmured–or did they roar?–all around him. Voices clamored and faded to whispers all at once. The same voice that had roared when he put Sandor’s face into the brazier echoed–so familiar yet so different.

‘You raped her. You killed her. You murdered her children.’

Yes, he supposed he had done all of those things. But who was this Dornishman to judge him for what he did? He was a sworn knight of Lord Tywin. What Lord Tywin asks, he will do without question. Yet this Dornishman has already judged him, has already condemned him, but would not give him the clean death he so longed for in all these years.

He felt a foot press against his armor and saw his foe towering over him. ‘If you die before you say her name…’

His fingers curled one by one. Slowly. Slowly. Oh Seven above, it hurts to move! Mother! Make it stop!

‘…I will hunt you through all seven hells…’ The sword dangled over his head but the Dornishman’s pride demanded an answer.

His hand inched slowly and he drew a long ragged breath. Pain filled his heart, burning his lungs and setting his joints aflame. Let me die! He was five again and it was no longer the Dornishman with a foot pressed against his breastplate but his father’s mailed fist looming over his head. He was five again and he could smell his mother’s comforting fragrance. He was five again and Jaime Lannister ripped the arms from his treasured wooden knight.

‘Say the name!’ The Dornishman roared.

Mother… He was in her arms again but she turned into ash in his grip. Instead he found himself holding Sandor’s face in the brazier. The voice rumbling from his throat sounded far away. Mother! He wanted to cry, but the only words out of his mouth were

‘ELIA OF DORNE!’ The wooden knight was clutched against his chest and his fingers tightened around Sandor’s face, his thumb pushing into his brother’s eye.

‘I KILLED HER SCREAMING WELP!’ He ripped his sister’s beating hands away.

‘THEN I RAPED HER!’ He clutched the wooden knight close to him as the sound of wailing babes and the sickly smell of a bloodied birthing bed flooded his mind.

‘THEN I SMASHED HER FUCKING HEAD IN!’ The mailed fist drew back and the smell of his brother’s burning face filled his nostrils. ‘LIKE THIS!’

The Dornishman collapsed on him. The two embraced as if lovers and the lone thought running through Ser Gregor Clegane’s burning mind was a single word: Mother…