He fucking died.
The realization hit him like a freight train as consciousness flickered back into existence in some void between worlds. One moment he'd been playing hero- thinking he was some goddamn Batman wannabe rushing to save a woman being assaulted by scumbags in an alley. The next moment, his chest had seized up, his vision had gone white, and he'd collapsed face-first onto the pavement.
A heart attack.
He hadn't even gotten a single punch in. Hadn't even made it close enough to the attackers to do a damn thing. Just keeled over and died like some out-of-shape middle-aged man having a coronary at a buffet.
"Never doing that shit again," he muttered into the endless white void surrounding him, his voice echoing strangely in the non-space.
And now here he was, standing before what could only be described as a Random Omnipotent Being—some cosmic asshole who'd apparently found his pathetic death so fucking hilarious that they'd decided to give him a second chance. Except, knowing his luck, this "second chance" was probably going to be worse than the first go-around.
The ROB—a figure that kept shifting between forms, sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes something else entirely—was currently doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down their face.
"HAHAHA!" The being's voice boomed through the void. "You seriously died of a heart attack trying to be a hero? Who the fuck were you trying to be? I bet you were thinking, 'I'm the savior of this city!' Oh man, I haven't laughed this hard in millennia!"
He crossed his arms, scowling at the cosmic entity. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it all up. At least I tried to do something good. Didn't see anybody else trying to help that woman."
The ROB wiped tears from their eyes, their form solidifying into something vaguely humanoid—tall, androgynous, with features that seemed to shift whenever he tried to focus on them. They sneered at him with obvious contempt.
"Are you stupid?" the ROB asked, their voice dripping with mockery. "There wasn't anybody else around for miles. Don't act like you stumbled into that situation accidentally. You went looking for trouble like some kind of self-righteous idiot."
"Fuck off," he shot back, his patience already wearing thin.
The ROB's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What the fuck did you just say to me, you little shit?"
"You heard what I said. You ain't deaf, are you? Unless you got too much dick in your mouth and can't hear a damn thing after gurgling all over it!" The words were out before he could stop them, his temper getting the better of his common sense.
The void around them seemed to darken, the temperature dropping several degrees. The ROB's form grew larger, more imposing, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly light that promised pain and suffering.
"You know what?" The ROB's voice was cold now, all traces of amusement gone. "I was going to let you off easy originally. Give you a nice, cushy reincarnation into some overpowered protagonist with a harem and cheat abilities. But I changed my mind. I'm putting your shit on max difficulty. Scratch that. I'm going to give you a character that has a certain death in their universe".
Oh shit. Oh fuck. He'd really stepped in it now.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" He held up his hands in surrender. "I take it all back! Just let me get a few abilities to help me survive, okay? Give me something to work with here!"
The ROB studied him for a long moment, their expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile crept across their face—not a kind smile, but the smile of a cat playing with a mouse.
"Fine," they said, drawing out the word. "I accept your apology. But I'm watching you real carefully, and if I hear a single slip-up, if you piss me off even once more, I'm sending your ass straight to Cthulhu's dimension or dropping you into Warhammer 40k. You don't want that, right?"
He nodded fiercely, his throat suddenly dry. He'd read enough horror stories and grimdark fiction to know that those universes were absolute nightmares. He wouldn't last a single day in either of them,hell, he'd probably die within the first hour.
The ROB's smile widened, clearly enjoying his fear. "Good. At least you're not completely stupid."
The void around them shifted, and suddenly they were sitting in comfortable chairs that hadn't been there a moment before. The ROB leaned back, crossing their legs casually as if they were about to conduct a job interview rather than determine the fate of his immortal soul.
"Alright then," the ROB said, waving their hand lazily. "Tell me your three wishes."
He blinked. "Wait, I get wishes?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you do. Shows how generous I am—like a god to a peasant. You should be grateful." The ROB paused, then grinned wickedly. "Actually, you know what? Kneel and shout some random Chinese cultivation shit. Something like 'This junior pays respects to senior' or 'You will pay for this offense before the heavens!' Come on, do it."
"What are you even saying?" He stared at the being in confusion.
"Don't worry, the viewers will get it." The ROB waved dismissively. "Anyway, you may have three wishes, and I'll bring them into reality—those within my power. Ah, what am I saying? I can grant any wish. I'm fucking omnipotent."
"The viewers?" he asked, but the ROB ignored him.
"Well, go ahead. I haven't got all day. Well, actually, I have infinite time, but I'm bored and you're boring me. So chop chop."
He took a deep breath, his mind racing. Three wishes. He had to make them count, especially if he was being dropped into some nightmare scenario. He needed to think strategically, cover his bases, make sure he could actually survive whatever hell this cosmic asshole was planning to throw him into.
"My first wish," he said slowly, "is to have complete immunity to all poisons."
It was a practical wish. In any medieval or fantasy setting, poison was one of the easiest ways to kill someone, especially someone important. He couldn't risk going out like a bitch, couldn't go through dying again—especially not from something as ignoble as poison in his wine.
The ROB tilted their head, considering. "Hmm. Request denied."
"What? Why?"
"Too overpowered. Complete immunity is boring. However..." The ROB tapped their chin thoughtfully. "I'll give you significantly increased resistance to poisons. You can survive most toxins that would kill a normal person, but the really nasty stuff might still fuck you up. Fair?"
He gritted his teeth. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was better than nothing. "Fine. I'll take it."
"Excellent. You may grant a second wish, as long as it's not too overpowered. After all, you are my first client in a while, so you must entertain me. Make it interesting." The ROB leaned forward, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Great, I have to entertain this asshole," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, that's what I thought." The ROB smirked. "Now hurry up. I've got important matters to attend to. There's a universe collapsing in Sector 7-G that I need to deal with, and a pantheon of gods having a civil war that I'm taking bets on."
He took another breath, thinking carefully. "My second wish is to have the abilities of fire magic, specifically the resurrection ability like Beric Dondarrion from Game of Thrones."
The ROB's eyebrows rose. "Oh? Interesting choice. Planning to die a lot, are we?"
"Just want insurance," he replied. "If I'm going into a death world, I want a way to come back."
"Fair enough." The ROB waved their hand in a relaxed manner, and he felt something warm settle into his chest—like a pilot light had been ignited in his soul. "Request granted. You can resurrect yourself or others through fire magic, though each death will take a toll. You'll lose a bit of yourself each time—memories, emotions, pieces of your humanity. Use it wisely. You may have one final wish. Choose carefully."
This was it. His last wish. He needed something that would give him an edge, something that would help him survive and thrive in whatever nightmare scenario he was being dropped into.
"My final wish," he said, "is to have Daredevil's enhanced senses and physical capabilities: the heightened hearing, smell, touch, taste, and that radar sense thing he has. But without being blind."
The ROB placed their fingers under their chin, studying him with an unreadable expression. The silence stretched out for what felt like an eternity.
"Hmm," they finally said. "That's technically three wishes in one. Enhanced senses, enhanced physical capabilities, and the radar sense."
His heart sank. "So... request denied?"
"Request denied," the ROB confirmed, and his stomach dropped.
"Why?" he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
The ROB's serious expression cracked, and they burst out laughing. "I'm joking, you idiot! You should see your face right now!"
"Thank the gods," he breathed out in relief.
"Although," the ROB continued, their laughter subsiding, "seriously, Daredevil is too OP for the universe you're about to be dropped into. Those senses would make everything too easy, and I'd be bored watching you steamroll through every challenge." They paused, a calculating look entering their eyes. "Unless... yes, yes, I've got just the plan."
He didn't like the sound of that.
"Here's what I'll do," the ROB said, leaning back in their chair. "I'll give you those wishes, but I'm going to tone them down a bit. You'll have enhanced senses—better than any normal human, good enough to give you an edge—but not so good that you can hear a heartbeat from a mile away or sense every movement in a building. Your physical capabilities will be enhanced too, but within the limits of your new body. Fair?"
It wasn't ideal, but it was still better than nothing. "I guess I don't have a choice, do I?"
"Nope!" The ROB grinned cheerfully. "Now then, got any last words before I send you off?"
"One final question," he said quickly. "Which character am I going to be reincarnated as?"
The ROB's grin widened. "Now that would be telling. Where's the fun in spoiling the surprise?"
"Come on, at least give me a hint—"
"Nope. That's a mystery you're going to find out on your own." The ROB stood up, and the chairs vanished. "Now then, are you absolutely certain you want these abilities? You can't change anything once we proceed. This is your last chance to back out. Are you certain this is what you want?"
He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "I'm certain."
"Excellent!" The ROB clapped their hands together. "Oh, wait, I almost forgot—I'll give you three extra wishes."
His eyes widened. "Really?"
"Nah, I'm just fucking with you." The ROB laughed at his crestfallen expression. "You ain't that stupid to think I'd give you three extra wishes for free, right? What do you think this is, a charity?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he muttered.
"Everything, probably." The ROB shrugged. "Nah, I'm fucking with you. Well, about fucking with you. I'm not giving you extra wishes, but I'm not as much of an asshole as I'm pretending to be. Probably. Maybe. We'll see."
He felt his body beginning to shimmer, becoming translucent. The void around him started to fade, replaced by swirling colors and sensations he couldn't quite process. He looked at the ROB one last time, trying to memorize their face, trying to understand what kind of being would do this to someone.
At the last moment, just as he was about to disappear completely, the ROB leaned in close and whispered, "By the way, I'm not a dude. I'm a woman."
The shock on his face must have been priceless. To think he'd been talking to a woman this whole time, a cosmic tomboy with a sadistic sense of humor. His life had peaked. He could die peacefully now.
Well, die again, technically.
"Transition into your new universe commences in three... two... one..."
The world went white.
Gregor Clegane groaned, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very air around him. His eyes cracked open slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through narrow windows. Everything felt wrong—his body was too heavy, too large, his limbs too long and thick. The bed beneath him creaked ominously under his weight, the frame clearly reinforced to handle something far beyond a normal man.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and the movement sent a cascade of sensations through his new body. Muscles rippled beneath skin, each one defined and powerful. He could feel the raw strength coiled in his limbs, the potential for violence that this body represented.
His eyes scanned the room, taking in details with a clarity that surprised him. The enhanced senses were already working, he realized. He could hear the crackling of torches in the hallway outside, smell the stone and wood and leather that made up his surroundings, feel the texture of the rough linen sheets against his skin with startling precision.
The room itself was large—it would have to be, to accommodate someone of his size. Tapestries hung on the stone walls, and his eyes fixed on the sigil displayed prominently: three black dogs on a yellow field, arranged vertically. The Clegane sigil.
"Don't tell me," Gregor muttered, his voice coming out as a deep bass that resonated in his chest.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood, and immediately his head nearly brushed the ceiling. The room, which had seemed large a moment ago, suddenly felt cramped. He looked down at himself and felt his breath catch.
His body was magnificent.
There was no other word for it. Muscles upon muscles, each one perfectly defined, creating a physique that looked like it had been carved from marble by a master sculptor. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, his chest broad and powerful, his abdomen a perfect set of eight distinct abs that were visible even without flexing. The V-taper of his torso was pronounced, creating the ideal ratio that bodybuilders spent their entire lives trying to achieve.
But it was his size that truly shocked him. He had to be at least ten feet tall—maybe more. Everything in the room looked small by comparison, built to accommodate his massive frame but still seeming inadequate.
"I need a mirror," Gregor said to himself, his voice still strange to his own ears.
He spotted one across the room—a polished piece of metal that served as a looking glass. He crossed to it in three long strides, and what he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.
The face staring back at him was beautiful. Handsome, attractive in a masculine sense and beautiful. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, piercing eyes that seemed to look straight through the soul. His features were perfectly symmetrical, almost unnaturally so. His hair was dark and thick, falling to his shoulders in waves. And most importantly, there were no burns, no scars, no signs of the cruelty and violence that had marked the original Gregor Clegane's face.
"So I'm not Sandor," Gregor murmured, studying his reflection. "Unless..."
He looked down at his body again, taking in the sheer mass of muscle, the impossible size. Then he looked back at the ceiling, which his head nearly touched. He turned to the door, which was enormous—clearly built for someone of extraordinary stature.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Gregor said, his voice rising. "There is no way in hell that I am—"
But he knew. Deep down, he already knew.
Gregor Clegane. The Mountain That Rides. One of the most hated characters in all of Westeros, a man known for his cruelty, his violence, his complete lack of mercy or compassion. A man who had raped and murdered and pillaged his way across the Seven Kingdoms in service to House Lannister.
"I hate my life," Gregor muttered, slumping against the wall. "I hate that fucking ROB. I hate everything about this situation."
Seriously, out of all the characters he could have been reincarnated as, it had to be this guy. The Mountain was one of the worst possible choices—a man with more enemies than friends, a man destined to die horribly at the hands of Oberyn Martell, a man who would be turned into a zombie by Qyburn and spend the rest of his existence as a silent, mindless monster.
At least he wasn't Joffrey. That would have been worse. Probably.
Gregor began pacing the room, his heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak. He needed to think, needed to plan. This was a survival situation now, and he had to approach it strategically.
First things first: he needed to figure out when he was in the timeline. Was this before Robert's Rebellion? During it? After? The state of the room didn't give him many clues. It was well-appointed but not luxurious, fitting for a landed knight but not a lord.
Second: he needed to figure out what the original Gregor had already done. Had he already committed the atrocities that made him famous? Had he already raped Elia Martell and murdered her children? The thought made his stomach turn. He might be in Gregor's body, but he sure as hell wasn't going to continue that monster's legacy.
Third: he needed a plan. A checklist of goals to accomplish if he wanted to survive and maybe, just maybe, make something better of this situation.
Gregor stopped pacing and closed his eyes, organizing his thoughts.
"Alright, let's make a checklist," he said aloud, finding that speaking helped him think. "First priority: don't get killed unless absolutely necessary. I've got the resurrection ability, so I can probably come back six or seven times, but each death takes a toll. Can't rely on that as a crutch."
He resumed pacing, his mind racing.
"Second: survive House Martell's pursuit of revenge. If the original Gregor already did what I think he did, then Oberyn Martell is going to come for me eventually. That fight at the trial by combat—I need to either avoid it entirely or make sure I win without getting cocky." He paused, his jaw clenching. "And if the original Gregor did rape Elia and murder her children... fuck. I'm going to have to deal with that guilt, even though it wasn't me who did it."
The thought sat heavy in his chest. How did you atone for crimes you didn't commit but were still responsible for in the eyes of the world?
"Third," Gregor continued, pushing the dark thoughts aside for now, "don't become Robert Strong. That's non-negotiable. I am not spending the rest of my existence as Qyburn's zombie experiment. I'd rather die permanently than end up like that."
He flexed his hands, feeling the raw power in them. This body was incredible, strong beyond measure, fast despite its size, durable enough to shrug off blows that would kill a normal man. But it was also a prison in some ways, a constant reminder of who he was supposed to be.
"Fourth: try to reconcile with Sandor." Gregor shook his head even as he said it. "Yeah, like that's going to fucking work. The original Gregor shoved his brother's face into a fire when they were kids. Sandor's not going to forgive that, and I can't blame him. But I have to at least try. Maybe if I can prove I'm different now..."
He trailed off, knowing it was a long shot. But he had to try. Sandor deserved better than the brother he'd gotten.
"Fifth: become rich and powerful." Gregor nodded to himself. "Powerful is already halfway there—I'm the Mountain, after all. But rich is where the real problems get solved, especially in Westeros. Money means influence, means options, means the ability to change things."
He thought about what he knew of House Clegane's situation. They were a knightly house, not a lordly one. Gregor had never been elevated to full lordship by Tywin Lannister, despite his service. That was something he could potentially change, if he played his cards right.
"When the war comes—and it will come, whether it's Robert's Rebellion or the War of the Five Kings—I need to curry favor with Tywin Lannister. He's the key to everything. If I can prove myself valuable enough, if I can show him I'm more than just a mad dog to be unleashed on his enemies, maybe I can secure a better position for House Clegane."
Gregor paused in his pacing, a thought occurring to him. "Wait, is this an alternate universe? The ROB said I'd be in a character with a certain death, but I don't look like the original Gregor. I'm beautiful instead of brutal-looking. Maybe things are different here. Maybe I have a chance to change the story."
The thought was both exciting and terrifying. If this was an alternate universe, then he couldn't rely on his knowledge of the books and show. Things might play out differently. People might make different choices. The future was uncertain.
But uncertainty meant possibility. It meant he wasn't locked into a predetermined fate.
Gregor looked down at himself again, taking in the sheer size and power of his new body.
He had to be ten feet tall, maybe 600 hundred pounds of pure muscle. The original Gregor had been described as nearly eight feet tall and monstrously strong, but this... this was something else entirely.
He walked over to where his breeches were laid out and pulled them on, then paused, looking down with curiosity.
"Holy shit," Gregor muttered. "I thought it would be big, but I never imagined it would be this size. Proportional to the body, I guess, but damn."
He shook his head, pushing aside the distraction. There were more important things to focus on right now.
"This body," Gregor said, flexing his arms and watching the muscles ripple beneath his skin, "I feel so much stronger. Like I could lift a horse and tear it in half. Like I could punch through a stone wall without breaking my hand."
He moved to the mirror again, studying his reflection with a more critical eye. The enhanced senses from his Daredevil wish were definitely working—he could see details in the dim light that should have been invisible, could hear the servants moving about in distant parts of the keep, could smell the breakfast being prepared in the kitchens far below.
"Let's test the physical capabilities," Gregor said, backing up to give himself room.
He started with a simple sprint across the room, and immediately realized his mistake.
His speed was incredible, far faster than someone his size should be able to move. He crossed the room in a blur and slammed into his bed frame with a thunderous crash, the reinforced wood splintering under the impact.
"Oww," Gregor groaned, rubbing his shoulder. "Note to self: don't try to run indoors at full speed. This body is way faster than I expected."
He looked at the damage he'd caused- a significant dent in the bed frame, cracks spreading through the wood. The bed itself had shifted several feet from the impact, and he was pretty sure he'd left an impression in the stone wall behind it.
"Okay, so I'm fast and strong. What about the senses?"
Gregor closed his eyes and focused, trying to tap into the enhanced perception he'd been granted. Immediately, the world exploded into detail. He could hear conversations happening in other parts of the keep: servants gossiping, guards changing shifts, horses moving in the stables. He could smell everything:the oil used to maintain weapons, the soap used to clean linens, the sweat and leather and metal that permeated a military household.
And there was something else, something harder to define. A kind of spatial awareness, a sense of the space around him and the objects within it. Not quite Daredevil's radar sense:the ROB had toned it down, after all- but enough to give him an edge in combat, to help him avoid attacks he couldn't see coming.
"This is going to take some getting used to," Gregor muttered, opening his eyes. "But it's definitely useful."
He walked over to where his greatsword was stationed beside the bed or rather, where it had been before he'd crashed into the furniture. The weapon was enormous, easily eight feet of steel, with a blade as wide as a man's hand. It should have been impossible to wield, a decorative piece rather than a practical weapon.
Gregor reached down and grasped the hilt, lifting the sword with one hand. It came up easily, the weight feeling natural in his grip. He gave it an experimental swing, and the blade cut through the air with a whistle that spoke of deadly speed and power.
"I could definitely use a shield with this," Gregor mused, lowering the sword. "The plate armor is supposed to be the thickest and heaviest in Westeros, but I'll take extra protection. No such thing as being too careful."
He was about to continue his exploration of his new body's capabilities when he heard footsteps approaching his door. Heavy footsteps, but not as heavy as his own. Someone was coming.
Gregor quickly set the sword back in its place and moved to stand in the center of the room, trying to look like he hadn't just been testing his superhuman abilities and destroying furniture.
A knock echoed through the chamber, firm and respectful.
"Enter," Gregor called out, his deep voice carrying easily through the thick wooden door.
The door swung open, and a man stepped inside. He was of average height which meant he barely came up to Gregor's chest with robes that draped down to the ground. A chain of silver and lead hung around his neck, the links heavy and numerous. A maester, then, assigned to House Clegane to provide counsel and medical care.
The maester's eyes widened slightly as he took in Gregor's appearance, though he quickly schooled his expression into professional neutrality. Clearly, he was used to the Mountain's imposing presence, but something about Gregor's current state had surprised him.
"Ser Gregor," the maester said, bowing slightly. "Are you alright? The servants reported hearing a loud crash from your chambers."
Gregor glanced at the damaged bed frame, then back at the maester. "I'm fine. Just... testing the durability of the furniture. It failed."
The maester's lips twitched, as if he wasn't sure whether Gregor was joking or serious. "I see. Shall I have the carpenters send up a replacement?"
"That would be appreciated," Gregor said. Then, realizing he had an opportunity to gather information, he added, "I'm afraid I had a bit too much wine last night. My memory is somewhat... foggy. Remind me of your name?"
The maester's eyebrows rose slightly, but he answered readily enough. "Maester Lymon, Ser. I've been in service to House Clegane for three years now."
"Of course, Maester Lymon." Gregor nodded, filing the information away. "And tell me, what day is it? What's on my schedule?"
Now the maester looked genuinely concerned. "It's the fifteenth day of the third moon, Ser. As for your schedule..." He paused, pulling a small scroll from his robes. "You have training with the men-at-arms this morning, a meeting with your steward about the harvest yields this afternoon, and..." He hesitated, glancing up at Gregor with an unreadable expression. "You're scheduled to depart for Harrenhal in three days' time."
Gregor's heart stopped.
Harrenhal.
The word echoed in his mind like a thunderclap. Not Casterly Rock. Not some minor tourney in the Westerlands. Harrenhal. The Tourney at Harrenhal. The most
famous, most consequential tourney in the history of Westeros. The event that would set in motion Robert's Rebellion, that would see Rhaegar Targaryen crown Lyanna Stark as Queen of Love and Beauty, that would ultimately lead to the fall of a dynasty.
"Harrenhal," Gregor repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, Ser," Maester Lymon said, looking even more concerned now. "The great tourney called by Lord Whent. Surely you remember? Lord Tywin explicitly gave his permission for you to participate on behalf of House Clegane. It's the most prestigious tourney in living memory—knights from all Seven Kingdoms will be attending. The prize purse alone is forty thousand gold dragons."
Forty thousand gold dragons. Lords and princes competing. The king himself would be there, along with his entire court. This wasn't just a tourney—this was history in the making.
And Gregor was going to be there for it.
"Of course," Gregor managed, his mind racing. "The tourney. I remember now."
Maester Lymon studied him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "Ser, if I may speak frankly, you seem... different this morning. Are you certain you're feeling well? Perhaps I should examine you, ensure that you haven't suffered some injury or illness."
Gregor waved him off, barely hearing the words. "I'm fine, Maester. Just needed a moment to clear my head. That will be all for now. Please inform the steward that I'll meet with him after my training session. And have someone bring me breakfast—a large breakfast. I'm starving."
The maester bowed, still looking uncertain, but he departed without further comment, closing the door behind him.
The moment he was alone, Gregor sank down onto his damaged bed, his mind whirling.
Harrenhal. Before the Rebellion. That meant the original Gregor hadn't committed his worst atrocities yet. Hadn't raped Elia Martell. Hadn't murdered her children. Hadn't become the monster that all of Westeros would come to fear and hate.
"Holy shit," Gregor breathed. "I have a chance. I actually have a fucking chance."
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He wasn't trapped in the role of the villain. He wasn't doomed to become the brutal, sadistic killer that the original Gregor Clegane had been. The slate wasn't clean but the original Gregor had undoubtedly done terrible things already but the worst was still ahead. Still preventable.
He could choose a different path.
Gregor stood and walked to the mirror again, studying his reflection with new eyes. He was beautiful—unnaturally so. Ten feet of perfectly sculpted muscle, a face that could make men and women alike stop and stare. He had enhanced senses, superhuman strength, resistance to poison, and the ability to resurrect himself through fire magic. He had knowledge of the future, of the wars and betrayals and disasters that were coming.
And most importantly, he had a choice.
"I don't have to be him," Gregor said to his reflection. "I don't have to be the Mountain That Rides, the mad dog that Tywin unleashes on his enemies. I can be something else. Someone else."
The Tourney at Harrenhal was his opportunity to prove it. To show the Seven Kingdoms that Gregor Clegane could be more than a monster. He could compete honorably, could demonstrate skill and prowess without cruelty. He could win glory through martial excellence rather than through terror and brutality.
He thought about what he knew of the tourney. Rhaegar Targaryen would win the joust and crown Lyanna Stark, setting off the chain of events that would lead to war. But there would be other competitions:the melee, archery contests, tests of strength. Opportunities for Gregor to make a name for himself as a great knight rather than a feared killer.
"I could actually do this," Gregor murmured, a strange feeling building in his chest. Hope. When was the last time he'd felt hope? "I could be the knight I always wanted to be. Strong, skilled, respected. Not feared, but respected. There's a difference."
With his new body and abilities, he could dominate the competitions without resorting to the savage tactics the original Gregor had been known for. He could show mercy to defeated opponents. He could conduct himself with honor and dignity. He could prove that size and strength didn't have to equal brutality.
And maybe, just maybe, he could start to build a different reputation. One that would give him options when the Rebellion came. One that would let him navigate the coming wars without becoming the monster everyone expected him to be.
Gregor's mind raced with possibilities. If he distinguished himself at Harrenhal, if he impressed the right people, he might be able to secure patronage from someone other than Tywin Lannister. Someone who wouldn't expect him to commit atrocities in their name. Maybe even someone on the winning side of the coming conflict.
But he had to be careful. He couldn't change too much, too fast. People would notice if Gregor Clegane suddenly became a paragon of chivalry overnight. He needed to be strategic, to show growth and change gradually. To give people a reason to believe he was different without making them suspicious.
"Three days," Gregor said, his voice firmer now, more determined. "I have three days to prepare. Three days to train this body, to master these abilities, to figure out exactly what I'm capable of."
He looked down at his hands—massive, powerful, capable of crushing a man's skull like an egg. But also capable of wielding a sword with precision, of showing restraint, of helping rather than hurting.
"I won't waste this chance," Gregor said to the empty room. "I won't become what he was. I'll be better. I have to be better."
The Tourney at Harrenhal would be his debut. His chance to show Westeros that Gregor Clegane was more than just a mountain of muscle and rage. He would compete with honor. He would win with skill. And he would start building a legacy that he could actually be proud of.
For the first time since waking up in this body, Gregor felt something other than fear and dread. He felt purpose. He felt determination.
He felt alive.
"Alright," Gregor said, cracking his knuckles with a sound like breaking branches. "Let's see what this body can really do. I've got a tourney to prepare for, and I'm going to make damn sure everyone remembers my name and for the right reasons this time."
The game had begun. But this time, Gregor Clegane was playing by his own rules.
And he was going to win.