And, The Giant Awoke

Tyrion sat in his cell, the blackness of the night reflecting his thoughts.

"What now, Imp?", he asked himself.

When it became clear that no-one was going to champion him, his mind restlessly chewed over possibilities of escape. That proved to be a dry well also. So, now his thoughts ran around like a rat in a trap, ceaselessly repeating "What now? What now?"

He recalled the conversation that he had with Bronn. "I could fight the Mountain. Maybe even defeat him."

That earned a laugh from him, a dry bark of amusement that only lasted a second.

Still, the notion was intriguing. Tyrion had learned a necessary amount of war and weapons over the last year and, with no better choices, he began thinking of ways to actually beat one of the greatest killers in the Seven Kingdoms.

By morning, he had a plan.

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"He asked what!?"

Tywin Lannister glared at Oberyn Martell, who merely returned the gaze with lazy, catlike composure.

"Your son wishes to be let out of his cell to prepare himself for his combat with the mountain." Oberyn added, "He wishes to choose his arms and armor."

"We will choose his arms and armor," Cersei said. "He'll be given the weapons that we feel are necessary."

Oberyn spared her a glance and a raised eyebrow. Didn't she realize how petty she sounded and how much it took away from her beauty? Her brother was going to face a warrior three times his size and probably ten times (Or more) his skill. She was going to argue about sending him into the arena without decent weaponry? "Apparently, Tyrion does not trust others to provide him with proper armor."

Cersei noted the dig about trust and didn't give a damn. "This is a trick." She glanced around at the rest of the Small Council, hoping for support. "Once he's out of his cell, he'll escape."

The Dornish Prince shrugged. "He cannot be refused."

Underneath Cersei's queenly mask of composure, buried deep within her core, there was a spoiled brat of five years old. Having received 99% of every benefit that life had to offer, that brat simply could not understand why it could not be everything. When she heard the word "can't", Cersei's eyes narrowed while her inner child threw a tantrum. "What do you mean, "Can't'?"

"The Laws of Trial by Combat are clear. The accused gets to choose his own weapons."

Across the table, Pycelle nodded reluctantly. "The accused may not choose a offensive weapon that gives him an unfair advantage, such as a mounted rider against one on foot or a crossbow against a sword. Otherwise, any choice may be made."

Everybody in the Small Council (Even Mace Tyrell, it was that obvious) knew that Cersei was itching to deny this request. But, it was also obvious that such a denial would cause a storm of arguments. Given the instability of recent events, any one of the other families might have to do a trial by combat soon. Refusing to give Tyrion his rights would create a precedent that could be used against someone else in the future.

"Tyrion told me that he needs three or four days of freedom." Oberyn had been planning to offer to be Tyrion's champion, but this alternative was not without amusement. He enjoyed baiting Cersei and was also rather curious about what the Little Lion was up to. Besides, there was plenty of time to challenge Clegane later. "He says that he needs the extra time to have weapons crafted for someone of his height. Personally, I think he wants to enjoy some food, wine and women before he dies."

At the head of the table, Tywin made a soft noise of disgust. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. The lecherous little beast was going to fritter away his last days in the same fashion that he wasted his previous ones. "Very well. He may be released."

Cersei turned to protest, but Tywin cut her off before she could get a word out. "He won't escape the city. We will have all gates watched and all ships inspected. Furthermore, he will released into Prince Oberyn's custody."

"He will?" Oberyn met Tywin's gaze and held it for a long moment before agreeing, "Done."

Standing, he continued, "If you will excuse me, I'm going to go prepare the brothel for my new guest. A good Dornish wine is always a blessing. But, after weeks of nothing, the first cup will seem like a gift from the gods."

##########################################################################################################

True to his father's expectations, Tyrion did get very drunk the first night that he was out of his cell. But, before doing so, he gave detailed instructions to Bronn about some materials that he needed.

Back at the Red Keep, Cersei protested bitterly to Tywin. In response, Tywin pointed out that letting Tyrion have one last debauch before facing the Mountain wouldn't change anything.

Privately, Tywin was rather hoping that Tyrion would try to escape and get caught. The penalty for that would be summary execution and Martell would be responsible for the transgression. Not only would he be finally rid of the curse that the Gods had inflicted upon him, he would be able to hammer Oberyn. Possibly even to saddle him with some of the debt that they owed to the Iron Bank.

But, true to form, Tyrion disappointed Tywin.

On the morning of the Trial by Combat, Tyrion showed up.

Terrified, but ready.

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"At this moment, I've never been prouder of being a Lannister." Jaime flicked a glance at his sister. "Or, more ashamed."

His sister and his lover opened her mouth to hiss something vicious at him, but Jaime was already striding across the arena floor towards Tyrion.

Despite his claims to need time to prepare, his brother was entirely without chainmail or plate. Jaime supposed that made sense. Even if armor held up against Gregor Clegane's sword edge, the force behind it would shatter the bones underneath.

All Tyrion was armed with was dagger, ax and shield. The ax had possibilities, Jaime mused. Only one side had a ax blade. The other side had a spike, eight inches long and sharpened to a needle point. A point like that would drive through even the best armor.

Unless, of course, your opponent dodged the attacks. Or caught the blows on thier shield. Or knocked the ax out of one's hands. Or split your skull before you had a chance to even swing.

The sigil on Tyrion's shield was quite interesting. Thicker than usual and all in black, it had a red mountain etched upon it. Centered on the mountain was a golden lion's head with a prominent scar crossing it's face.

After commenting on this, Tyrion tersely informed him that it wasn't a mountain. "It's a hill."

Ah. Hill. Just as bastards up north took the name of Snow and the ones in the Crownlands took the name of Waters, bastards in the Westerlands were known as Hill. One last insult at father and the family name.

As he looked at the shield, Jaime frowned. There was something odd-

The Mountain chose that moment to enter. Eight feet of armor-clad muscle carrying a sword bigger than Tyrion was tall. The crowd, who had been excitedly gabbling away, fell silent. This was going to be a slaughter. Even among the practiced sycophants of the court, the injustice of it tugged at more than few consciences.

Until Tyrion's voice rang out in the hush.

"Ser Gregor! Have you chosen stench as your weapon!?"

For a frozen second, no one could believe that anyone would say such a thing.

Then, Oberyn began to laugh. The sheer tension of the moment suddenly shattered, others began to laugh as well. In a heartbeat, the stands echoed with loud guffaws.

Gregor glared and growled. In his entire life, no single person had ever had the balls to mock him. He was going to cut the little shit's arms and legs off before stomping his skull in.

Before the fight, there were preliminaries. A blessing by the High Septon, other rituals and so forth. The only thing that actually mattered was when Tywin stood and asked Tyrion if he wished to confess his guilt. The unspoken question was: "Do you wish to face the executioner instead? It will be less painful."

Tyrion gave Tywin a death glare that rivaled his own and said, "Whether I live or die, I will never kneel again. I am innocent."

To his credit, Tywin slightly bowed his head and acknowledged his hated son's bravery. Sitting, he simply said, "Begin."

Ser Gregor advanced. Tyrion slowly backed away, hiding behind his shield. One advantage of his size was that practically his entire body was covered.

Small matter, the Mountain thought. One or two good blows will split it apart. With an enormous swipe, he drove the edge of his blade into the little man's shield.

It thunked! oddly and Clegane frowned. Having used his sword on just about anything imaginable, he had never heard a noise like that. Something between the crack of bone and the squish of flesh.

His sword stuck, but that was more familiar. Most shields were made of wood and they sometimes "clasped" the blade. Almost by reflex, he tore it out of Tyrion's grasp and grabbed with his free hand to tear it loose.

It would not come loose. Furiously, Ser Gregor yanked harder. Instead, it clung like glue.

Which was an apt description, because his hand was now stuck as well. Snarling, sounding more like a hound than his brother ever did, Clegane pulled. To his baffled fury, the shield actually stretched and he only succeeded in getting more of whatever it was on himself.

At this point, the Mountain should dropped the sword's grip and stove in Tyrion's skull with his fist. He could even have kept both hands occupied and kicked him to death. But, under admittedly unusual circumstances, he made the mistake of being distracted. And, as Bronn pointed out, one mistake is all it takes.

With plate armor, the joints are most vulnerable spots and Tyrion swung desperately for the back of one of Clegane's knees. If he had the chance to think about it, he probably would have missed. Instead, he achieved the odd perfection you get when there is no time and no thought.

With a sound that had both the crack of bone and the squish of flesh, the knee was transformed into a mangled ruin. And, with a bellow of rage and pain that heard all the way in Flea Bottom, the Mountain came crashing down.

Everyone, from Tywin down to the lowest commoner serving the wine, was dumbfounded. The Imp had reduced the Mountain to a wreck groveling in the dirt.

Whatever else you could say about Ser Gregor Clegane, there was absolutely no quit in him. Using his unstuck hand, he rose to his unwounded knee and lunged at Tyrion. He missed the grab, but still managed to knock the dwarf sprawling.

For Tyrion, the world went blurry for a moment. He shook off his daze just in time to feel a massive hand seize the hem of his tunic.

Fascinated, Ser Loras watched the Halfman get dragged in by the berserk Mountain. Ser Gregor's left hand was still all tangled up with his sword, shield and whatever the Seven Hells that black stuff was. With the eye of the experienced fighter, Loras noted that, once he brought Tyrion in close, Clegane would have to let go to punch or throttle. That would be the chance to run.

If he had taken that moment to run, Clegane would have finished him. The extra seconds involved to get to his feet would have been cut short by a snapped neck.

However, a fine killing rage had taken hold of Tyrion. There was still fear, yes. But, just as it had during Shae's testimony, a lifetime of unjust scorn fueled a black anger that only wanted to lash out. His father's hatchet man was a perfect target.

When the Mountain brought him in close, it was practically within kissing distance. With no hesitation, Tyrion plucked the dagger from his belt and buried it in his adversary's eye.

Ironically, the bellow of pain that Ser Gregor unleashed did the most amount of damage to Tyrion, deafening him in one ear for nearly a month afterwards.

Scrambling free of his flailing opponent, Tyrion first caught his breath. Then, he picked up the ax which had been kicked off to the side.

With one eye gone and the other blinded by blood, the most feared knight in Westeros was easy meat. Mouth agape and disbelief written across her face, Cersei watched her despised brother drive his ax blade into the gap between Ser Gregor's helm and breastplate.

Smeared with blood and moving slowly from the bruises that were starting to make themselves felt, Tyrion limped forward until he was standing before his father. In the stunned silence, before the entire court of King's Landing, he deliberatly spat on the ground and turned his back on Lord Tywin.

One look on the choking rage that was on the Hand's face was enough to clear out the rest of the spectators quite quickly. Even Cersei swallowed her bitter spite and went back to her quarters without a word.

But, before he left, Jaime went down to Gregor's corpse. Kneeling, he prodded what was left of Tyrion's shield. An odd sweet odor could be detected underneath the smell of blood and a sudden realization left him amazed.

Looking up, he saw Prince Oberyn approach with a strange half-smile on his face. "I do not know if I should hate your brother for taking my revenge or thank him for delivering it." He paused. "I see that your curiousity matches mine. What is that made of?"

"Toffee."

The Red Viper's eyebrows shot up as his legendary composure deserted him in an instant. "What?"

"It's black saltwater toffee," Jaime said. A light coat of dye disguised what it was and help to cut the scent, but under close inspection, it was unmistakeable. "A Westerland specialty. It's so sticky and hard to chew, we used to joke that it would pull the teeth right out of your jaw if you were careless."

The Kingslayer gestured at Clegane's corpse. "The Mountain. Dead because of twenty pounds of candy."

He started to laugh helplessly and Oberyn joined him.

In the bad times that followed (And, some of them were very bad indeed) that memory never failed to make either man smile and chuckle.

###########################################################################################################

After the Trial by Combat, Shae approched Cersei for the payment that she'd been promised. Cersei, who had listened the tale of Tyrion "betrayal", took some small enjoyment in telling Shae the true facts of what happened.

"My brother has a unduly high regard for whores," Cersei said. "I don't. You underestimated the lengths that I would go to hurt him. He didn't. He drove you away so that you would be beyond my reach. If he really didn't care, Tyrion could have gotten rid of you by letting father hang you. And, you were a fool for not seeing that."

Shae saw both certainty and cruelty in the Queen's eyes and felt sickened. "And my payment?", she made herself ask.

Cersei laughed. "You truly are a whore." She gestured towards a small chest. "A Lannister always pays their debts. The full amount is right here. As well as a bonus."

"A bonus, your Majesty?"

"Yes," Cersei said. "A whipping."

Jaw dropping, Shae finally managed to stammer out, "W-what?"

With a sweet, ugly smile Cersei continued, "Consider what I said about whores and hanging. When you are finished being whipped, don't forget to thank me for my restraint."

###########################################################################################################

The two brothers stood silently looking up at the ship that would take Tyrion to Braavos. Neither knew how to say the goodbye that was inevitable.

There had been surprisingly little difficulty in gathering up Tyrion's things, mostly his books and maps. A surprising amount of public support had developed for him. Many people took the point of view that, for him to survive the fight with the Mountain, Tyrion must truly be favored by the gods.

Once he understood that his son was going into voluntary exile, Tywin washed his hands of the entire affair and refused to speak of it any further. Cersei wanted him dead, but was apparantly going to wait until he left King's Landing before sending assassins.

Back when Joffery was still alive, Tyrion had the vague sense that he might have to leave town quickly to save his neck. Therefore, he had some gold and gems stashed away for a quick departure. He'd have to more careful than he'd been in the past, but he wouldn't starve.

"My lords!"

They turned and saw Prince Oberyn striding towards them.

"I will be sorry to see you leave, Lord Tyrion. A Lannister that I both like and respect is a rare creature."

Jaime and Tyrion both smirked at the combined compliment and insult.

"Despite your recent prowess as a warrior, you'll still need a blade to guard your back." Oberyn handed Tyrion a scroll and continued, "Ser Dellyne Martell, a cousin of mine, is residing in Braavos and is a superb swordsman. This letter will be an introduction and a recommendation, but the final choice will be his."

"You should get along well. He also had to leave Westeros because of an argument with his father." Martell hesitated for a moment, then held his hand out to shake.

A moment of respect from a noted warrior. This alone almost made the duel worth it. Tyrion shook his hand and said, "Be well, my friend."

"And you, as well." With nothing more to be said, Oberyn exchanged nods with Jaime, turned and left with an easy saunter.

There was nothing else to be said between the to brothers, either. Wordlessly, they embraced.

Then, without a backwards look, Tyrion walked up the gangplank and left everything-family, home and all that he had ever known- behind him.

###########################################################################################################

And so, Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain met his death at the hands of Lord Tyrion Lannister, The Imp, The Halfman and The Little Lion.

The ballad that was made after the duel gave him a new name: The Giant of Casterly Rock.