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Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Fate of Monsters
The healer's tent was filled with the scent of herbs, blood, and burning oils—a thick, stifling mix that made even hardened men uneasy.
The inside of the tent smelled of blood, and death—a thick, cloying scent that clung to the air like an unshakable omen.
Daeron Targaryen stepped inside with Ghost at his side, the direwolf's red eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight. Behind him, Ned Stark and Ser Arthur Dayne followed in silence.
The moment Daeron entered, the room stilled.
The Silent Sisters were at work, carefully preparing the body of Lord Roose Bolton, draping his corpse in a clean linen shroud. His pale, gaunt face was frozen in an expression of eternal stillness.
The official story was simple.
Lord Roose Bolton had fallen from his horse during the chaotic battle against Tywin Lannister. He had been unconscious for two days before succumbing to his injuries.
But Daeron knew the truth.
Roose had not fallen.
Ghost had scared the horse, sending Bolton tumbling headfirst onto the battlefield—under Daeron's orders.
The North could not afford to have a Bolton lingering in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to betray the Starks.
And now, with no heir to inherit the Dreadfort, House Bolton was gone.
Daeron felt no guilt.
Daeron felt no remorse.
But his justice was absolute.
He let the wolves feast, and the monsters rot.
But before he could dwell on it further, a low, guttural moan interrupted his thoughts.
He turned and saw a massive figure lying on a cot, barely recognizable beneath the layers of burned, peeling flesh.
Ser Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain That Rides had become the Mountain That Burned.
His entire body was covered in burns, the result of Lyrax's fire during the battle. His once-imposing form was now a mass of charred flesh, his breathing ragged and wheezing.
Even now, his massive hands twitched, trying to grasp at something unseen, his eyes rolling back in agony.
Daeron stepped closer, and a pale, nervous healer quickly approached.
"Your Grace," the healer said, bowing his head. "Ser Gregor's wounds… they are beyond saving. We have given him all the milk of the poppy we can, but his pain is…"
The healer hesitated.
"It is not enough."
Daeron studied the grotesque ruin of the man who had butchered his half-siblings in their crib.
Even now, Gregor clawed weakly at the air, whimpering like a dying beast.
There was no honor in this death.
No justice.
Only pain and decay.
"Put him out of his misery," Daeron ordered coldly.
The healer nodded in relief, but before he could act, a smooth, familiar voice cut through the tent.
"No."
Daeron turned.
Prince Oberyn Martell stood at the entrance, his golden eyes burning with hate.
Beside him was a dark-haired woman, her face set in an expression of quiet amusement—Ellaria Sand.
Oberyn took slow, deliberate steps toward Daeron, his eyes never leaving Ser Gregor.
"That monster does not deserve a quick death," Oberyn said, his voice low and dangerous.
Daeron sighed internally.
He had been expecting this.
Still, he ignored Oberyn's words and cut straight to the point.
"Why are you here, Prince Oberyn?"
Oberyn finally turned his gaze from the dying Mountain and studied Daeron.
"I came to see the boy who claims to be my nephew's brother."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The son of Rhaegar Targaryen."
Ellaria Sand smiled at Daeron with a hint of intrigue.
"You do have the look of a Targaryen," she said, tilting her head. "But your eyes… those are Stark eyes."
Oberyn stepped even closer, his expression shifting from curiosity to certainty.
"I was hoping to get here before the battle but alas the winds were not in our favour. But now that I am here. There is no doubt. You are Rhaegar's son."
Daeron nodded but said nothing.
Oberyn studied him a moment longer before turning back to Ser Gregor, his expression twisting into pure disgust.
"And yet, you would grant this beast mercy?"
Daeron followed his gaze to the barely-breathing ruin of Gregor Clegane.
His voice was quiet but firm when he spoke.
"This rabid dog's pain means nothing to me."
Oberyn arched a brow.
Daeron continued.
"I would melt the Rock and burn the entire Westerlands to ash if it meant I could bring Aegon and Rhaenys back."
A shadow passed over Oberyn's face.
"But I can't."
His gray eyes met Oberyn's golden ones.
"Nothing I do will change the past. But what I can do is this:"
Daeron turned slightly, gesturing toward the dying Mountain, and thought about the man who was with him, Ser Amory Lorch—who was now bound in chains, waiting with the other prisoners.
"They are yours."
Oberyn's breath hitched.
Daeron held his gaze.
"Do with them as you please."
For a moment, Oberyn Martell said nothing.
Then, slowly, a small, cruel smile curled at the corner of his lips.
"You honor your family well, nephew."
Daeron gave a slight nod.
Oberyn turned to Ellaria, whispering something in her ear. She grinned and whispered back.
Daeron didn't need to hear their words to know that Ser Gregor's suffering had only just begun.
With nothing more to say, Daeron turned on his heel and left the tent, Ghost padding silently behind him.
Ned Stark and Ser Arthur followed, but neither spoke.
Only once they had stepped into the cold night air did Ned finally break the silence.
"That was a kindness."
Daeron let out a small, humorless laugh.
"No, Uncle."
His gray eyes gleamed like steel.
"That was justice."