Chapter 46 – "The Bloody Wolf"
The sun hung like a burning eye above the Dragonpit, casting long, crimson shadows across the blood-soaked sand. A heavy hush gripped the thousands packed into the broken stone seats. Nobles and smallfolk alike leaned forward, holding their breath. Every soul present knew they would remember this day for the rest of their lives.
The Monsters Enter
The great gates groaned open.
On one end stood Ser Gregor Clegane, a walking terror clad in blackened steel, towering and broad, wielding a greatsword so large it seemed made for giants. He was more beast than man—his breath steaming through his helm like a forge, his every step shaking the earth beneath.
From the opposite end, Cregan Stark stepped into the pit, black steel and Valyrian steel glinting across his frame. He carried a massive battleaxe forged of rare black steel in one hand, and a Valyrian steel longsword sheathed at his hip. Taller than most men and broad of shoulder, even he looked like a shadow before the Mountain. But he walked with calm fury—his gait sure, measured, like a predator approaching its kill.
The crowd murmured in wonder and fear. Some whispered prayers.
The Clash Begins
Gregor raised his sword high and charged, expecting Cregan to dodge like all the others.
But the wolf charged too.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. The first clash was like a thunderclap. Cregan's axe struck low and sideways, forcing Gregor to block awkwardly. Then Cregan ducked, twirled, and sliced his Valyrian steel blade across the Mountain's vambrace, cutting through the first layer of steel like parchment.
Gregor roared in fury and swung his massive sword overhead. Cregan rolled aside just in time, the blade missing his head by inches.
What followed was chaos. Pure, savage, bloody chaos.
They clashed again and again. Neither held back. Each blow was meant to kill. Cregan fought like no knight the Mountain had ever seen—he was a blur of speed, brutality, and instinct. He moved like a beast, eyes cold and glowing with fury, dodging blows with impossible precision, ducking under sweeps, leaping away from slashes, and countering with terrifying efficiency.
But he did not escape unscathed. A glancing blow to the ribs. A slice across the thigh. His left arm bleeding from a brutal graze. Yet Cregan fought harder, each wound awakening something deeper, darker.
His black steel axe pounded Gregor's chestplate again and again, denting it inward. He struck at joints, weak points, the gap at the back of the knee, under the arm, the neck where helm met armor.
Gregor grew slower.
Cregan did not.
He had fought in the sweltering pits of Meereen, the ruined streets of Myr, and the frozen forests of the North. He had endured war and fire. His stamina was endless. The Mountain, for all his size, began to stagger, to sweat, to falter.
Then Cregan shattered Gregor's sword.
With a spinning strike of his axe followed by a downward blow of his Valyrian sword, the great blade of the Mountain cracked and snapped in two. The crowd gasped. Gregor barked at his squire and caught a second weapon just in time, but the shift in momentum had already begun.
Cregan bled. Gregor bled. But one man still moved like a storm.
Cregan feinted left, then ducked low and slammed his axe into Gregor's knee, breaking it inward with a sickening crunch. The Mountain screamed.
Then Cregan dropped his axe and unsheathed his Valyrian sword fully.
He circled the wounded titan, eyes glowing like twin moons in a snowstorm. Then, as Gregor rose again, Cregan moved.
With one hand, he slashed open Gregor's side. With another, he drove his sword through the armpit—deep and twisting.
Gregor collapsed to one knee, roaring. Cregan kicked his helm off, revealing a bloated, furious face caked in sweat and blood.
And then Cregan gripped the Mountain by the hair, lifted his blade high, and began chanting in the Old Tongue of the North:
"Drogon ēdruta, zulūks mazverdagon!" ("Blood offering, the wolf returns!")
"Skorion iā moriot vēttan!" ("To the Old Ones and the snow-born gods!")
He raised his sword and brought it down—not to behead, but to carve.
He sliced deep into the neck and shoulder, peeling flesh and bone, breaking the Mountain down like a sacrifice. It was the ancient death rite of the First Men—used on traitors and monsters.
The Mountain screamed as he died.
Screamed until the blood drowned his voice.
When it ended, Gregor Clegane was a heap of torn flesh and shattered pride.
Cregan stood soaked in blood from head to toe. His armor glistened red. His face was streaked with gore. His eyes burned. He looked like a death god.
The Crowd's Roar
The Dragonpit shook.
"Bloody Wolf!"
"BLOODY WOLF!"
"BLOODY WOLF!"
The chant rose not just in awe—but in fear.
Even the Goldcloaks backed away.
The Realm Reacts
In the stands, Oberyn Martell rose with wild laughter, clapping his hands. "Finally! That monster is dead!" He threw back his head in joy. "Dorne celebrates tonight!"
Lady Olenna blinked. "Remind me never to cross the Starks."
Margaery gripped her grandmother's hand tightly, wide-eyed.
Stannis Baratheon nodded solemnly. "Justice."
Renly exhaled. "Well...fuck."
Edmure was white as snow. Lord Hoster simply whispered, "The old blood still runs strong."
The Lannister Box
Cersei had gone pale.
Joffrey had wet himself.
Tywin Lannister's jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened. He had expected a northern boy to die a quiet death. Instead, he had witnessed a monster butchered like a pig—and now the monster was his problem.
The King and the Hand
Robert Baratheon said nothing. He only drank, and drank more. Somewhere deep within him, the war drums beat again.
Jon Arryn could not lift his head.
He had tried to prevent war.
But wolves were not made for peace.
Cregan's Declaration
Cregan stepped forward, still soaked in blood. The crowd went silent.
His voice rang like a war horn.
"Let all here know: This is the price of threatening my pack."
He turned to the royal dais.
"To House Lannister: I've killed your beast. If you've got a lion worth sending, then send him."
He pointed directly at Tywin.
"Send your son The Kingslayer, if his balls haven't shriveled. Let him meet me here and now. Or shut your mouth and crawl back to your rock."
Gasps erupted. Robb grinned. Jon nodded.
Cregan's voice dropped.
"Twenty years ago, you watched my kin burn. You saw what the North did to dragons. Today, you see what we do to cats."
He held up the Mountain's bloodied helm.
"We are the wolves. We are winter. We remember."
"THE NORTH REMEMBERS" He screamed on top of his lungs .
He dropped the helm to the sand.
And the Bloody Wolf turned and walked away.
---
Behind him, the crowd chanted his name.
"Cregan Stark!"
"Bloody Wolf!"
"Winter's Wrath!"
Some chanted in fear. Others in awe.
But none would ever forget what they saw in the Dragonpit.
And in every corner of Westeros, they whispered the truth:
"The North remembers."
---
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