Chapter 9: The Mountain's Humiliation
POV: Geralt
The thunderous approach of Tywin Lannister's war host shook Harrenhal's foundation stones like an earthquake of steel and flesh. From my position hauling water buckets in the castle's upper courtyard, I watched thirty thousand men flow across the God's Eye countryside like a plague of gold and crimson locusts.
At their head rode the most dangerous man in Westeros.
Tywin Lannister sat his destrier with the rigid perfection of a man who had never doubted his own supremacy. Even at this distance, his presence was unmistakable—the way other riders unconsciously gave him space, the absolute straightness of his spine, the calculated precision of every gesture. He was a creature of cold logic and calculated cruelty, and seeing him in person sent ice water through my veins.
"Well, shit," I muttered, setting down the water buckets. "Time to blend even deeper into the wallpaper."
[Host Status Update: Extreme Stealth Mode Activated]
[Visibility Reduction: Maximum camouflage protocols engaged]
[Social Camouflage: Unremarkable servant persona reinforced]
[Prank Protocols: Escalation sequence prepared]
The castle erupted into controlled chaos as word spread of Lord Tywin's approach. Servants scurried like rats, cleaning what was already clean, straightening what was already straight, terror driving them to pointless busy work. The garrison snapped to attention with parade-ground precision, their earlier slovenliness evaporating under the weight of reputation.
Everyone knew the stories. Tywin Lannister had drowned two entire Houses in the caverns of Castamere for defying him. He had ordered the brutal sack of King's Landing during Robert's Rebellion. He was the man who had orchestrated the Red Wedding—would orchestrate it, I corrected myself, noting how strange it was to think in future tense about past events.
But what terrified the garrison most was knowing that Tywin would be arriving with his newest pet monster.
Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides. Eight feet of plate armor wrapped around twenty stone of sadistic muscle, famous for crushing babies against walls and burning down villages for sport. The man who would torture and murder hundreds of prisoners in this very castle, including children barely old enough to walk.
My jaw clenched involuntarily. Time to make the bastard's life significantly more complicated.
I slipped away from the courtyard as the first Lannister outriders approached the gates, melting into the servant traffic that flowed through Harrenhal's corridors like blood through arteries. The castle's expanded staff provided perfect camouflage—so many new faces that one more meant nothing.
In the kitchens, Umma was driving her people to the edge of collapse. "Faster, you worthless dogs! Lord Tywin expects perfection, and by the Seven, he'll get it! You—new boy—check the spice stores again. Make sure nothing's gone bad."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied with perfect servile humility, even as my mind raced through the possibilities. The spice stores. Where I'd planted certain... preparations... weeks ago.
The storeroom was a maze of sacks and barrels, filled with the exotic seasonings that fed a castle's worth of people. But hidden among the legitimate supplies were my special additions—containers that looked identical to proper pepper but contained something far more interesting.
Ground fire pepper from Dorne, concentrated to levels that would make a dragon weep. Mixed with normal pepper at a ratio of one part fire to ten parts normal, it was undetectable until someone actually tried to cook with it.
And according to my intelligence network, the Mountain's men always demanded the heaviest seasoning on their food. Apparently, years of violence had dulled their ability to taste anything subtle.
[Prank Activation: Supply Line Pepper Disaster]
[Target: Mountain's Personal Guard]
[Escalation Level: Moderate]
[Plausible Deniability: Maximum]
I checked the containers one final time, ensuring the seals looked untouched, then made my way back to the kitchens. Within the hour, the Mountain would arrive. Within two hours, his men would demand their first meal. And sometime after that, the real fun would begin.
The gates of Harrenhal groaned open with the sound of metal screaming against stone. From my position hauling firewood near the stables, I had a perfect view as Tywin Lannister rode into the cursed castle like a conqueror claiming his prize.
The man was every inch the legend. Tall, lean, with silver-gold hair that caught the afternoon sunlight and eyes like chips of green ice. His armor was masterwork steel polished to a mirror shine, unmarked by battle because lesser men died long before they could threaten him. Power radiated from him in waves so intense I could feel it from fifty yards away.
Behind him rode his brother Ser Kevan—softer, more reasonable, but no less dangerous for his kindness. Then came the household knights, a collection of killers and sycophants who had built their careers on serving the most successful lord in Westeros.
And finally, bringing up the rear like a mobile siege engine made of flesh and hate, came the Mountain.
Ser Gregor Clegane was even more terrifying in person than on screen. His destrier, a massive beast that would have been considered large for a draft horse, looked like a pony beneath his armored bulk. His helm was shaped like a snarling hound, and through the eye slits, I caught glimpses of dark pits that held no trace of human mercy.
Even his own men gave him space. The Lannister soldiers rode in perfect formation, but around the Mountain was a bubble of empty air, as if proximity to him was physically dangerous.
Which, given his reputation, it probably was.
The procession came to a halt in the main courtyard, where the castle's garrison had assembled in their finest approximation of military precision. Lord Tywin's gaze swept across them like a blade, cataloguing weaknesses, noting failures, mentally composing the punishments that would follow.
"Ser Amory," Tywin's voice carried across the courtyard with the clarity of hammered steel. "Report."
Ser Amory Lorch stepped forward, his pox-scarred face already shining with nervous sweat. "My lord. The castle is secure. No enemy activity in the region. Supplies adequate for—"
"Adequate?" Tywin's interruption was soft, which somehow made it more menacing than shouting. "I did not ride three hundred miles to hear about adequate, Ser Amory. I came to hear about perfection."
"Of course, my lord. The castle is... perfectly secure."
"Good." Tywin dismounted with fluid grace, his boots clicking against the stone. "Ser Gregor, see to your men. I want them fed and rested. Tomorrow we begin planning the campaign against my son's rebellion."
The Mountain said nothing, merely grunted his acknowledgment. He dismounted with considerably less grace than his lord, the impact of his feet hitting stone reverberating through the courtyard like thunder.
"Time for the fun to begin," I thought, shouldering my load of firewood and heading for the kitchens.
Two hours later, the Mountain's men were bellowing for their dinner.
"Where's our bloody food?" roared Chiswyck, one of Gregor's sergeants, as he kicked open the kitchen door. "We've been riding for ten hours, and I'm hungry enough to eat a horse!"
"Coming right up, ser," Umma replied with forced cheerfulness. "Got fresh bread, roasted pork, and plenty of pepper to spice it proper."
The cook's assistants began ladling out massive portions onto wooden trenchers, seasoning each serving with liberal amounts of what they thought was normal pepper. I watched from my position scrubbing pots, fighting to keep a straight face as disaster prepared to unfold.
The Mountain's men attacked their food with the same savage enthusiasm they brought to battle. These were hard men who lived hard lives, and they ate like they might not get another meal for days.
Which made it even more entertaining when the fire pepper hit.
The first scream came from Chiswyck. He'd taken a massive bite of heavily peppered pork, and for a moment his face went blank with confusion. Then understanding dawned, followed immediately by agony.
"WATER!" he howled, his face turning purple. "WATER! MY MOUTH IS BURNING!"
But the other men were already following suit, taking their own bites of super-concentrated fire pepper. Within seconds, the kitchen erupted into chaos as twenty hardened killers transformed into weeping, shrieking children.
"It's poison!" someone screamed. "We're being poisoned!"
"Get the maester!" another man howled, rolling on the floor as if that would somehow ease the burning in his mouth.
Umma stared in horror as her kitchen descended into madness. "It's just pepper! It's supposed to be just pepper!"
But these men had never experienced Dornish fire pepper before. To their northern palates, it might as well have been liquid dragonfire. They stumbled around the kitchen like madmen, knocking over tables, spilling water barrels, creating a destruction that would have made a barbarian army proud.
The commotion drew more attention. Other soldiers came running, followed by officers, followed eventually by the Mountain himself.
Ser Gregor Clegane filled the kitchen doorway like a personification of death, his dark eyes taking in the scene of chaos with growing fury. His men were writhing on the floor, tears streaming down their faces, making sounds that no self-respecting soldier should ever make.
"What," the Mountain said in a voice like grinding stone, "is the meaning of this?"
"The... the pepper, ser," Chiswyck gasped between sobs. "Something's wrong with the pepper!"
Gregor's gaze fixed on Umma with the intensity of a hunting hawk. "You poisoned my men."
"No! No, ser, it's just pepper! Same pepper we always use!"
"Test it," the Mountain commanded.
One of the kitchen boys was forced to taste the pepper directly. He took a tiny pinch on his finger, touched it to his tongue, and immediately began screaming as if his mouth had caught fire.
Which, in a sense, it had.
"Sabotage," Gregor stated with cold certainty. "Someone has tampered with our supplies."
I kept my head down and continued scrubbing pots, but internally I was celebrating. The beauty of the prank was that it was impossible to prove deliberate sabotage. Fire pepper was a legitimate spice, just concentrated beyond normal levels. It could have been a mistake by the suppliers, contamination during transport, or simple bad luck.
But the Mountain didn't think in terms of mistakes or bad luck. He thought in terms of enemies and punishment.
"Find who did this," he commanded Ser Amory. "Check every supply barrel, every spice container, every grain of salt in this castle. Someone will pay for this humiliation."
As the investigation began, I allowed myself a small smile. This was just the beginning. The Mountain was about to discover that Harrenhal had become a very unlucky place for him specifically.
And luck, as the system kept reminding me, was something I had in abundance.
[Prank Success: Supply Line Pepper Disaster Complete]
[Enemy Morale: Significantly decreased]
[Mountain's Rage: Escalating according to plan]
[Plausible Deniability: Maintained]
[Next Phase: Armor Sabotage Sequence Initiated]
That night, as the castle settled into uneasy sleep, I made my rounds.
The Mountain's equipment was stored in the armory adjacent to his quarters—a chamber guarded by two of his men who had survived the pepper incident with their dignity barely intact. But guards were human, and humans had weaknesses.
Weakness number one: they were still suffering from fire pepper aftereffects, which made them drowsy and inattentive.
Weakness number two: they were drinking heavily to ease their burned throats, which made them even more drowsy and inattentive.
Weakness number three: they had no reason to suspect that a humble castle servant might pose any threat to their lord's equipment.
I approached openly, carrying a mop bucket and wearing the expression of resigned tedium that was every servant's natural camouflage.
"Evening, sers," I mumbled, not quite meeting their eyes. "Just need to clean the corridor. Won't be but a moment."
The guards barely glanced at me. Why would they? I was furniture that happened to walk around and occasionally speak.
I began mopping the corridor with exaggerated slowness, working my way closer to the armory door. When I judged the moment right, I "accidentally" knocked over my bucket, sending dirty water splashing across the stone.
"Clumsy fool," one guard muttered, but neither moved to help or supervise as I bent to clean up the mess.
Which gave me the perfect opportunity to slip a tiny metal shaving between the door and its frame—just enough to prevent the lock from engaging properly.
[Skill Unlocked: Subtle Sabotage]
[Lock Manipulation: Basic proficiency gained]
[Stealth Infiltration: Enhanced effectiveness]
I finished cleaning, apologized profusely for the disturbance, and shuffled away with perfect servile humility. The guards had already forgotten I existed.
Two hours later, when the castle had settled into its deepest sleep, I returned.
The armory door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, the Mountain's personal equipment was arranged with military precision—his massive armor on its stand, his equally massive sword in its rack, his shield bearing the three black dogs of House Clegane.
But it was the armor that interested me most.
The Mountain's plate was a masterwork of steel engineering, designed to turn aside sword blows and crossbow bolts that would punch through normal armor like parchment. It was also complex, with dozens of articulated joints, hinges, and connection points that required precise maintenance to function properly.
Precise maintenance that was about to become significantly less precise.
I started with the simple sabotage—loosening bolts just enough to cause problems without being obviously tampered with. A shoulder joint that would separate under stress. Leg plates that would shift and bind. Gauntlet articulation that would seize at the worst possible moment.
But the real masterstroke was more subtle.
From my servant's kit, I produced a small vial of oil that looked identical to the weapon oil used to maintain armor. The only difference was that this oil contained a special additive—iron filings so fine they were invisible to the naked eye, suspended in a solution that would gradually break down the metal it touched.
Not quickly enough to cause immediate failure, but slowly enough to create weakness at precisely the wrong moments.
I applied the corrupted oil to every joint, every moving part, every surface that bore stress during combat. By the time I finished, the Mountain's armor looked exactly as it had before—polished, maintained, perfect.
But appearances, as I was learning, could be very deceiving.
[Advanced Sabotage: Armor Integrity Compromised]
[Delayed Effect: Gradual structural failure programmed]
[Detection Difficulty: Nearly impossible without detailed inspection]
[Psychological Impact: Maximum embarrassment potential]
I was preparing to leave when inspiration struck.
The Mountain was a creature of habit and intimidation. His massive size and strength were tools of psychological warfare as much as physical combat. But what if that intimidation factor was... undermined?
From my servant's kit, I produced another small vial. This one contained a concentrated dye made from crushed beetles—the same insects used to create the expensive crimson colors favored by wealthy lords. But when mixed with certain other compounds, the dye shifted from deep red to bright, unmistakable pink.
Pink was not a color associated with terrifying mountain-sized killers.
I applied the dye mixture to specific stress points on the armor—places where it would remain invisible until heat and friction activated the chemical reaction. The Mountain's own body heat and the stress of movement would gradually transform sections of his fearsome black armor into something far less intimidating.
The effect would be subtle at first, then increasingly obvious as the day progressed. By evening, the most feared knight in Westeros would be wearing what appeared to be armor decorated with pink highlights.
His men would notice. His enemies would notice. Most importantly, his pride would notice.
[Psychological Warfare: Color Sabotage Deployed]
[Target: Reputation and intimidation factor]
[Effect Timeline: 8-12 hours for full activation]
[Humiliation Potential: Extreme]
I completed my work and slipped out of the armory, leaving everything exactly as I'd found it. By the time the Mountain woke, his armor would look perfect. It would only reveal its surprises when he tried to use it.
The next morning brought chaos that exceeded even my expectations.
I was hauling water to the kitchens when the screaming started. Not the screams of pain I'd expected, but something far more interesting—the screams of absolute, incoherent rage.
"GET THEM OFF ME!" The Mountain's voice echoed through the castle like thunder. "GET THESE FUCKING THINGS OFF ME!"
I abandoned my water buckets and hurried toward the source of the commotion, along with half the castle's population. What we found in the main courtyard was a sight that would be remembered for generations.
Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, terror of the Riverlands and nightmare of children everywhere, was hopping around the courtyard like a man trying to escape a swarm of bees. Which, given what I could see, wasn't far from the truth.
His armor was falling apart.
Not all at once, but piece by piece, in a cascade of mechanical failures that defied explanation. As he moved, joints separated, plates shifted, straps snapped under stress they should have easily borne. The sabotaged oil was doing its work perfectly, creating micro-fractures that propagated through the metal like cracks in thin ice.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the color.
Sections of his armor had transformed from intimidating black to a bright, cheerful pink that was visible from across the courtyard. Not subtle highlights, but bold streaks that made him look like he'd been decorated by a mad artist with an obsession with flowers.
The psychological effect was devastating. The Mountain—eight feet of pure intimidation—looked ridiculous. His men were trying not to laugh. The castle garrison wasn't even trying. And somewhere in the crowd, I could hear children giggling.
Ser Gregor Clegane was being laughed at.
"My lord," one of his sergeants said carefully, "perhaps we should—"
"SILENCE!" the Mountain roared, spinning toward the man with such fury that his breastplate finally separated completely, clattering to the stone in pieces.
He stood there in his underpadding, pink streaks decorating what remained of his arm and leg armor, his reputation in ruins around his feet. For a moment, the courtyard was absolutely silent.
Then someone in the crowd—I never found out who—started to snicker.
That snicker became a giggle. The giggle became a laugh. The laugh became a roar of amusement that swept through the assembled crowd like wildfire.
They were laughing at the Mountain.
I've never seen eight feet of armored death have what could only be described as a complete nervous breakdown. The Mountain's face turned purple with rage, his hands shook with barely contained violence, and his voice rose to a pitch that probably frightened animals for miles around.
"I'LL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!" he screamed, drawing his massive sword. "I'LL BURN THIS CASTLE TO THE GROUND!"
But even his threats rang hollow when delivered by a man wearing bright pink armor accessories.
The crowd scattered, but slowly, without the panic that usually accompanied the Mountain's rages. Hard to be properly terrified of someone who looked like he'd been dressed by a child with access to paint.
From my position near the well, I watched Tywin Lannister observe the entire scene with the expression of a man watching his reputation die in real time. The Old Lion's face was carved from stone, revealing nothing, but I could see the calculation in those green eyes.
This level of equipment failure didn't happen by accident. Someone was targeting his pet monster specifically and doing it with precision that spoke of inside knowledge.
Someone was making Tywin Lannister look incompetent, and that was not something the most dangerous man in Westeros would tolerate.
The game was escalating, and I was running out of room to hide.
But as I watched the Mountain storm back toward the keep, leaving a trail of broken armor behind him, I couldn't help but smile.
Sometimes, the only way to fight monsters was to make them look like the ridiculous, petty bullies they really were.
[Prank Success: Mountain's Humiliation Complete]
[Enemy Morale: Catastrophically damaged]
[Reputation Damage: Severe and long-lasting]
[Tywin's Suspicion: Significantly elevated]
[Threat Level: Approaching critical]
The real test was yet to come.
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