The Forgotten Son

Chapter 1-The Forgotten Son

"Leave one dragon alive...and even a Mountain can crumble."

~Survivor.

The Forgotten Son

He couldn't move.

Not a finger, not a toe, not an inch.

Even the act of breathing was little more than a ragged gasp.

Trying to move his hands only made matters worse; because once he opened his eyes in the dim light, he realized his hands were bound, his legs as well, his body strapped to a table. Was it a table? It felt cold. Too cold. Too solid to be a wooden table. Too dark. The air was damp. He could hear the sound of the ocean, taste the salt in the air, yet he could't lift his head. The chain about his neck saw to that. Even without it he couldn't see anything at all, not a damn thing.

Why was he here?

Why couldn't he move?

Why wasn't he dead for that matter.

His last memory was of that damn Dornishman and his spear. The poison. His blood burning in his veins. The countless wounds he'd taken...he couldn't remember anything else. He'd won, hadn't he? Sure he hadn't been able to pop his head like a grape before he passed out, but he'd gotten a few hard punches in. That had been a good fight. He'd won...right? He remembered that stupid whore screaming as he beat her lover down. Then a weight in his head, and passing out...

Was this Kings Landing? Didn't feel like Kings Landing. Didn't smell like it, either.

He could feel his heart pounding, now. He needed to move...!

Footsteps echoed somewhere above him.

Torchlight burned away the dark.

"Ser Gregor Clegane." a familiar voice hummed happily. "Awake at last."

He growled at them with all the hate and vitriol he possessed. "The hell am I?"

"Dragonstone." The voice informed him. "I apologize for the silence; its been like this ever since Stannis abandoned it."

"You sonuva...!

"Now is that any way to speak to the man who saved your life?" his savior tutted. "Don't worry. You're safe."

Gregor didn't feel bloody safe. He felt angry, pissed to all the hells.

"You're restrained for your own protection, I assure you. You have a great many wounds, and they need to heal."

Someone poured a goblet of wine. He saw it. Heard it.

A hand offered him a cup. "Thirsty?"

Gregor didn't want to drink. But gods his throat was dry...

His host -captor?- waved it just under his nose, bringing with it a fragrant aroma.

"Drink." the man urged. "I wouldn't bring you all the way here just to poison you now, would I?"

Fair, he supposed. Then again, thinking had never been his strong suit. He couldn't nod, but he managed a grunt.

"A toast." they set it to his lips and poured wine down his throat, helping him to savor each drop. "Proper wine, for a proper hero. Come, drink. You should be grateful. I saved you. Healed you. Ferried you away from danger. I even got that awful poison out of your veins...

He drank greedily.

...after all," his host continued apace, "I wanted you to have your wits when you woke up. You, the man who made murder a pastime...