Chapter 45 – "A Trial of Monsters and Men"
The sun had barely risen when King's Landing stirred as if waking from a restless nightmare. But this day was not for merchants or prayers. This day belonged to blood, steel, and spectacle.
Every corner of the city buzzed with talk. Every tongue wagged with rumor, awe, and fear. The Dragonpit—abandoned for over a century—had been cleared, dusted, and transformed into a makeshift arena. The trial by combat of Cregan Stark versus Ser Gregor Clegane was the only thing the realm could speak of.
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Lords Gather
They came from every corner of Westeros.
Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne arrived in a gilded litter, flanked by Dornish spearmen in red and gold. His eyes burned with intensity. "A monster to slay. If only the wolf would step aside."
Lady Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter Margaery sat quietly in the high stands, watching the city's storm with the calm of seasoned schemers.
Stannis Baratheon arrived stern-faced, jaw clenched tight. "This is folly," he muttered to no one in particular, standing stiff and unmoving like a granite statue.
Renly, by contrast, looked amused. "What's justice without a bit of drama?" he joked to Loras, who merely nodded, eyes on the arena.
Edmure Tully sat beside Lord Hoster, shifting nervously. "He's just a boy. He'll die."
"No," Hoster said, his voice hoarse and dry. "He's a Stark."
Even envoys from the Iron Islands and Vale had arrived. The great and powerful were all here—for the trial, and perhaps for the beginning of something far worse.
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Oberyn and the Wolf
That morning, Oberyn Martell visited Cregan Stark in the dimly lit war room of the Frosthall quarters.
"You don't have to do this," Oberyn said, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "Let me fight for you. I've waited years to face Gregor. This is personal."
Cregan met his gaze. "It's not your fight. It's mine."
Oberyn's lips curled in frustration. "I've dreamed of killing that beast. For my sister, for my nephew. And now you, a boy barely known to the South, take the stage?"
"I am a Stark," Cregan replied calmly, "and I fight my battles."
Oberyn sighed and stepped closer. "Then take this advice. He's a brute. Don't block—dodge. Let him tire himself. And when you hit… aim for joints, not plate."
They parted with a nod. Two warriors who understood one another—one burning, the other frozen.
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Robb's Thoughts
Robb Stark paced the battlements above the Dragonpit, boots crunching against stone.
He hated every second of this. He should be the one down there, or Jon, or both. But Cregan had forbidden it.
"He's doing it for Lyanna," Jon had said.
But Robb knew it was more than that. Cregan carried the fury of a wolf wronged. And when a wolf bleeds, he bites. Robb stared into the pit and clenched his fists. "Win, damn you," he whispered.
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Ned's Guilt
Ned Stark stood alone on a private balcony. The sight below—an arena soaked in history and shadow—tore at his heart.
He had seen men die for honor. He had killed for it. And now, his son walked toward death for it.
Would it be like Brandon? Would he lose another Stark to the madness of King's Landing?
He looked away and closed his eyes.
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Jon Snow's Resolve
Jon Snow stood with the northern guard near the Dragonpit's entrance. His hand rested on his sword hilt. Every muscle in his body begged to move.
"If the Mountain kills him, we fight," one guard whispered.
"No," Jon replied. "He will win."
But inside, doubt twisted. Could Cregan truly survive the monster?
Jon shook the thought away. "He's my brother," he muttered. "He has to."
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Lyanna's Fear
Hidden away under watch, Lyanna Stark curled her fingers in Shadow's fur. The direwolf did not rest. Neither did she.
"They say the Mountain eats children," she whispered.
Shadow growled low, pressing closer.
"I believe in Uncle Cregan," she said. "He'll win. He has to."
But her voice trembled. She clutched Shadow tighter.
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Tywin's Confidence
In the Lannister box, Tywin Lannister sat regal and composed.
Everything had gone as expected. The trial. The opponent. Ser Gregor.
A beast, yes, but his beast. And beasts were made for slaughter.
"Let the wolf howl his last," he muttered.
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Cersei's Glee
Beside him, Cersei smirked, clad in green and gold. "This will send a message. No northern brat humiliates my son and lives."
She turned to Joffrey. "Watch closely. That's what happens to traitors."
Joffrey grinned, eyes alight with cruelty.
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Jon Arryn's Dread
The Hand of the King sat alone, hands clasped, eyes shadowed with sorrow.
He had failed.
He had tried to reason, to mediate, to protect the realm from fire. But no one listened.
Now blood would be spilled—perhaps the first of many.
He looked down into the arena and prayed it would end with one death only.
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Robert's Silence
Robert Baratheon, drunk but not entirely lost, drank deeply as he watched the pit.
"I never wanted this," he whispered.
But no one listened to kings who didn't roar.
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Shadow's Watch
The direwolf sat just outside the Dragonpit, flanked by guards who dared not come close.
His red eyes never blinked. His breath was slow. Measured.
He remembered the pain. The fire. The scent of Lyanna's fear.
This man—the one with the big sword—hurt her.
The next time Shadow saw the Mountain, he knew.
He would bite.
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The gates of the Dragonpit creaked open.
Two figures stepped into the arena.
One, armored in midnight black, wielding a battleaxe forged in northern flame in left hand and his Valiryan sword in his right .
The other, a mountain of steel and fury, his sword long as a man and twice as thick.
Steel kissed stone.
The trial had begun.
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