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Chapter Text

In the 298th year after Aegon’s Conquest, the continent of Westeros was enjoying the ninth year of a long summer.

March. The Westerlands. Lannisport.

Though called a “port." Lannisport was in truth a great and thriving city. A cadet branch of House Lannister governed it, and the port accounted for nearly ninety percent of all trade in and out of the Westerlands. It was also home to a Western fleet tasked with repelling pirates and the raiders of the Iron Islands.

Lannisport stood among the Five Great Ports of Westeros, alongside Blackwater Bay in King’s Landing, Oldtown in the southwest, Gulltown in the Vale, and White Harbor in the North.

Oldtown, founded even before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea six thousand years ago, remained the largest and oldest of them all. Blackwater Bay, outside the capital city of King’s Landing, was the second largest. Lannisport ranked third, followed by Gulltown of House Arryn, and then White Harbor in the North.

Not far to the southwest of the famed Lannisport stood a modest stone castle.

modest, at least, when compared to the grand keeps of high lords. But to the common folk, the place would still appear expansive and richly built.

The stone castle had three stories and a dozen rooms of varying size. A large courtyard lay at its heart, featuring training dummies stuffed with straw for sword practice, leather targets suspended for jousting drills, and three archery butts painted with red bullseyes neatly arranged along the southern wall.

The yard was large enough to ride a horse through, but when compared to the vast training grounds of great noble houses, it seemed meager. Their castles boasted sprawling practice fields where knights and guards drilled in full regiments, several times the size of this humble yard.

In the wealth-soaked Westerlands, such a plain fortress seemed laughably poor.

And yet, among the hundred or so noble families of the Westerlands, not one dared look down on this unassuming stone castle.

At its summit flew a fearsome banner: three black dogs on a field of gold .

The dogs stood one above the other in a straight line, teeth bared, claws out. The top and bottom dogs faced left, snarling; the middle one roared to the right.

It was the sigil of a rising house in the Westerlands: House Clegane .

This sigil was not born of ancient bloodlines, but of deed. It was granted by Lord Tytos Lannister himself, the father of the current Warden of the West, Tywin Lannister, in recognition of an act of rare heroism.

Clegane, once merely Lord Tytos’s kennelmaster, had accompanied him on a hunt. When Tytos outpaced his escort and found himself alone in the forest, he stumbled upon a lion and was swiftly brought down. His horse fled, wounded. Just as the beast was ready to tear him apart, Clegane appeared with his three black hounds. At his command, the dogs leapt into battle with the lion. All three perished, but not before mauling the beast and saving Tytos’s life. As the lion lunged again, Clegane threw himself into its path. He lost a leg but drove the lion off, and thus preserved his lord.

For this, Tytos knighted the kennelmaster, gifted him a small parcel of land, and raised a tower house upon it. He even took Clegane’s son as a squire.

Clegane, illiterate and common-born, had no means to design a family crest or compose a house motto. So Tytos’s maester did it for him: three black dogs on a golden field . The gold symbolized the mineral-rich lands of the Westerlands. The dogs were the three hounds who died fighting the lion.

As for a house motto, what need did a former kennelmaster have for lofty words? Many lesser houses went without, and no one thought less of them.

After Clegane's death, his modest title passed to his son, who died soon after in a strange hunting accident, snapping his neck in the woods. The lordship then fell to his own son: Gregor Clegane .

Born in the year 266 AC, Gregor Clegane was now thirty-two years old. He stood over eight feet tall, nearly three meters, and resembled a giant out of legend. His strength was monstrous. By the age of twelve, he was already taller and stronger than most grown men. By sixteen, he had become an unstoppable juggernaut, wielding a greatsword so massive that no ordinary man could lift it, let alone fight with it.

In 283 AC, seventeen-year-old Gregor Clegane followed Tywin Lannister during the sack of King’s Landing. There, he butchered the royal family of House Targaryen, crushing infant Aegon, son of Prince Rhaegar, against a wall, raping Princess Elia Martell, and then smashing her skull with his bare hands.

Thus was born his infamous title: “The Most Feared Man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

His size was beyond belief. Ordinary knights looked like children beside him. His shoulders were as broad as walls; his arms, as thick as saplings. In battle, he wore the heaviest plate armor in all the Seven Kingdoms, so weighty that no other man could even lift it. Beneath that, he layered chainmail and boiled leather.

His helm was a massive flat-topped thing, thickly masked to deflect arrows, with only slits for breath and vision. Atop it, an iron fist pointed defiantly at the sky.

His greatsword measured six feet long, and weighed dozens of pounds, far more than most knights could manage even with two hands. Gregor wielded it one-handed, as easily as if it were a dagger.

His reach with the massive blade rivaled that of a lance. With a single swing, he could cleave man and mail in two. His shield, fashioned from thick oak and rimmed with iron, bore the three hounds of House Clegane.

This terrifying titan, a warrior so infamous that his name sent shivers even across the Narrow Sea, had a secret shame.

At that very moment, in the famed Clegane Keep , the monster lay sprawled atop a vast stone bed.

“Raff, Dunsen, Polliver, get in here, now.”

His three captains scrambled in, obedient as pups.

“Bring ropes. Tie me down. Tight. What are you gawking at? Unless you want your heads ripped off, move!”

The three men blanched and rushed off to fetch heavy ropes.

“Fuck your mother!." came a muttered curse. “I'm just a socially awkward engineering nerd, and I had to transmigrate into this goddamned butcher? Enemies everywhere, blood on every step. What the hell, man?!”

The voice dripped with rage, and came from somewhere far, far away.

Chapter Text

The rope was brought in, thick and coarse.

“Tie me up. Tight." Gregor commanded, his voice like rolling thunder. “If I break free, I’ll crush your skulls.”

The three subordinate officers exchanged glances, their expressions stiffening.

“Do it!” Gregor bellowed.

The thunderous roar shook them into action. Raff, Dunsen, and Polliver looked at one another and moved in without further hesitation.

Raff, nicknamed “Raff the Sweetling” was one of Ser Gregor Clegane’s officers. He spoke in soft tones, never cursed, always gentle, always smiling. That sweetness earned him his nickname. With his tousled sandy hair and a calm demeanor, he could’ve passed for a polite courtier.

But Gregor, lying bound on the stone bed, knew better. Raff was a cold-blooded killer with no regard for age or gender. His swordsmanship was sharp, his cruelty sharper. Before waking up in this monstrous body, the man now inhabiting Gregor had been a mild, bookish engineering student, an introvert who spent his nights bingeing classic American show. Game of Thrones had been one of his favorites. He’d watched it twice through, huddled in bed, totally absorbed. Compared to the nationalist dramas back home, these shows told stories that truly gripped the soul.

If the world he now lived in still followed that familiar storyline, then this Raff the Sweetling would soon play a role in the Riverlands, capturing Arya Stark, Gendry, and the chubby boy Hot Pie. A scrawny kid named Lommy Greenhands had been with them too, injured and unable to walk. Raff was the one who’d knelt beside him, smiling sweetly, offered to help, then calmly drove Arya’s Needle through his throat.

Yes, this sweet-talking murderer had done plenty of terrible things while serving Gregor.

Just last month, on Tywin Lannister’s orders, Gregor had gone on patrol along the Red Fork. At a roadside inn near the Rainwood, he took a liking to the innkeeper’s daughter. Right there on the dining table, in full view of the patrons, he “made her a woman” before marching his men out. But the look of fury in the girl’s brother’s eyes had stayed with him. Gregor had circled back alone, gouged out the boy’s eyes, then softly consoled the father: “Men like us will meet the gods’ judgment soon enough.”

This was Raff’s specialty, low-profile, silent, ever-smiling brutality. Arson, maiming, murder, he did it all with poetic phrasing and quiet devotion. Unlike the other officers who liked to boast about their body count, Raff kept his deeds quiet, staying loyally in Gregor’s shadow.

The rope wrapped tightly around Gregor’s massive arms, looped beneath the stone bed, and was tied around the bed legs multiple times.

“Not my neck." Gregor growled at Dunsen, his eyes fierce. “Wrap the rope around my waist more.”

“Yes, milord!” Dunsen replied, laughing nervously, eyes darting.

He obeyed, wrapping the thick cord around Gregor’s barrel-like torso over and over. Gregor stared at him down until sweat rolled from Dunsen’s forehead. He pulled the rope even tighter.

Why Gregor had ordered them to bind him so thoroughly, even Raff didn’t know. Dunsen certainly had no clue. While Dunsen was stronger in combat than Raff, he lacked his cunning. In Gregor’s brutal little army, committing evil wasn’t just about ruthlessness, it had to be done with finesse. Only Raff had mastered that art. Among the three, he was the most trusted, the most capable. Dunsen ranked second due to brute strength alone.

From what the memories of the show told him, Dunsen was the one who’d captured Gendry during the Riverlands campaign, and had kept Gendry’s signature bull-headed helmet for himself. Arya Stark never forgot that name. On her revenge list, Dunsen came right after Gregor and Raff.

Remembering Arya whispering their names in the rain each night sent a chill through Gregor’s spine. If he didn’t act now, he could already see his future: a grim, gruesome end.

Then he remembered what would happen in two years: how Maester Qyburn would turn him into a half-dead abomination. Another shiver ran down his back.

He had become the most infamous brute in Westeros, and his fate was worse than death.

If life could be rewound, who in their right mind would choose to reincarnate into the world of Ice and Fire ? A world of chaos, darkness, and bloodshed, where death was currency and survival meant betraying everything noble. North of the Wall, the White Walkers were gathering an undead army in the millions, preparing to wipe out all living things. Across the Narrow Sea, the last of the Targaryen bloodline was rising with fire-breathing dragons. And right here, the Lannisters, the richest family in the realm, were on a slow march toward civil war, decline, and vengeance.

This was a world where noble titles masked lies, where war was constant, where betrayal came dressed in silks. Gregor Clegane may have been the strongest man alive, but to Tywin Lannister, he was just a chamber pot, useful when needed, discarded when not.

Who could love a chamber pot? Yet every lord, no matter how high-born, needs one in the dark of night.

Gregor’s vile reputation had brought endless scorn upon Tywin from the other great houses. The Starks of the North, the Martells of the South, `they all kept their distance. Especially the Martells, who had never forgiven Gregor for the brutal sack of King’s Landing in 283 AC. The people of Dorne, along with their ruling Martell house, hated Gregor with a passion that burned in their blood.

Even now, inhabited by the soul of a rational, educated man from Earth, Gregor knew he stood no chance. His college smarts might’ve earned him decent grades, but here? Competing in cunning against Petyr Baelish? In honor against the Starks? In poison-laced spearplay against Oberyn Martell? Or luck against Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons?

He’d lose every time.

And that made his heart churn with unease.

The man tying Gregor’s legs was Polliver, a tall, bald officer with a thick black beard. His only merit, and his biggest flaw, was loyalty. If Gregor ordered something, no matter how insane, Polliver would carry it out without question, even at the cost of his own life.

He was the kind of man who didn’t know right from wrong. In Earth terms? A hardcore fanboy. A blind worshipper.

And fanboys like that? They never had happy endings.

In the show’s canon, Polliver would eventually die under the swords of Sandor Clegane, the Hound, and Arya Stark.

Gregor didn’t even need to lift his head to see Polliver’s shiny scalp. And as he looked at the man’s loyal, stupid face, he realized: if he didn’t find a way to change his fate, then Polliver’s death was guaranteed too.

Chapter Text

Gregor tested the ropes. They didn’t budge. The three men had tied him tightly and securely.

He was quite satisfied.

"Get out. Close the door. No matter what happens, do not come in." Gregor growled.

"Yes, milord!" came the unified reply.

Raff the Sweetling, the Executioner Dunsen, and the brain-dead loyalist Polliver turned and left, shutting the door behind them.

Gregor’s men appreciated his foul temper and crude orders. He hadn’t attracted followers who spoke like courtly lords, they were scum, and they liked it raw and simple.

Gregor sighed inwardly.

For the sake of his health, he had to take extreme measures.

He was burdened with what might be the most despicable past imaginable.

But a transmigrant doesn’t get to choose the life they wake up in. All he could do was accept it.

The man who now lived in Gregor’s body, a former engineering student from Earth, felt sick recalling the original owner’s bloody and abhorrent deeds. His cruelty was beyond redemption.

When Gregor Clegane was a child, he once caught a fever. The pain and headaches were unbearable. His father, then serving as a retainer to Tywin Lannister, asked the maester for milk of the poppy. Seven-year-old Gregor had his first taste, and loved it. The carefully prepared dose was surprisingly palatable, and the relief was immediate. The fever broke. The pain vanished.

From then on, little Gregor craved it. Like a modern child tasting candy for the first time, he was hooked. A few days later, he told his father he had a headache again. Despite taking other medicines, nothing worked, until a new bowl of poppy milk arrived. He downed it all in one go. And, of course, the "headache" disappeared.

But it had all been a lie. He wasn't in pain. He just wanted more.

The original Gregor had no idea how dangerous poppy milk really was. But the transmigrant, the man from Earth, knew all too well.

Poppies, the source of opiates like morphine is also used in the creation of dangerous narcotics. Known by many names, sleep lotus among them, this seemingly beautiful plant is a flower of evil. Even though its natural levels of morphine are low, some individuals are extremely sensitive to its effects. Long-term use leads to chronic poisoning and eventual addiction.

Gregor was one of those highly sensitive individuals. It didn’t take long before he was fully dependent.

In the world he came from, growing more than 500 poppy plants would earn you a criminal charge for illegal cultivation of drug-producing flora.

But here, in the brutal world of Ice and Fire , every part of the poppy was considered a gift. Milk of the poppy was the most widely used and accessible medicine in all Seven Kingdoms. Contrary to its name, it wasn’t made from petals, but from the poppy pods, boiled and brewed. Maesters used it to treat everything from fevers and wounds to insomnia and grief. Whatever the ailment, a bowl of poppy milk was the universal answer.

The medical knowledge here was primitive, and their overreliance on poppy milk bordered on fanaticism.

Gregor’s addiction grew quickly. A regular bowl was no longer enough. He needed a special copper basin to hold his doses, over seven times what an average man could tolerate. Most drank it as medicine. He drank it like wine or tea, out of habit and compulsion. If he didn’t have it, he would grow restless, sweating, and racked with migraines.

These were classic signs of deep opiate poisoning. But Gregor’s body was different, inhumanly strong, muscular, and resilient. He could endure the damage. At twelve, he was already taller than grown men, stronger than most knights.

But his personality had begun to twist.

Violent outbursts became more frequent. At twelve, he saw his seven-year-old brother Sandor playing with an old wooden toy soldier. In a sudden fit of rage, Gregor slammed Sandor’s face into a blazing brazier. Half his brother’s face melted; skin, scalp, and part of his neck. It took several guards to pull Gregor away. To save face, their father lied, claiming Sandor had been burned in a bed fire.

From that day forward, Sandor harbored a deep-seated fear of fire, and an even deeper hatred for his brother.

A year later, Gregor’s father mysteriously died in the family grove, his neck broken. Only Gregor and his father had been there.

Eight-year-old Sandor went to Tywin Lannister in secret, claiming Gregor had gone mad and murdered their father after being scolded.

It was a scandalous accusation. Kinslaying was a grave sin in the Seven Kingdoms, believed to draw the wrath of the Seven Gods.

But Tywin didn’t believe him. No one did.

After their father's death, Tywin took young Sandor in as a page, allowing him to train with Lannister armsmasters, keeping him safely away from Gregor.

A year later, tragedy struck again. Gregor’s little sister was found dead in the woods near their home, mutilated beyond recognition. An official investigation concluded she had fallen victim to a shadowcat attack.

But nine-year-old Sandor was certain: it was Gregor again.

The man now in Gregor’s body had absorbed his memories. He knew the truth. The real Gregor had killed his sister after she talked back. Before it happened, he had downed a massive dose of poppy milk, his mind warped by hallucinations.

At the age of fourteen, Gregor's talent for martial arts was revealed. In the annual internal knight tournament in the West, the fourteen-year-old Gregor won every battle, whether it was spearmanship, swordsmanship, horsemanship or team mixed combat. In the final, he defeated four of the West's top spearmanship masters in a row and won the championship of the West Tournament.

As his martial talent became more and more powerful, his size grew, and his reputation for cruelty and murder grew. In the following two years, he won the Westerland Tournament Championship. Except for archery, no one could beat Gregor in other tournament events.

At the age of sixteen, Gregor Clegane was knighted by Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen on the recommendation of Tywin Lannister.

A year later, Gregor Clegane, 17 years old, followed Tywin to trick the gates of King's Landing open. Under Tywin's orders, he and Ser Amory Lorch massacred the Red Keep. Gregor broke into the royal nursery, grabbed Rhaegar's infant son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and smashed him against the wall. Before the child's blood and brains had dried, he raped and killed Aegon's mother, Princess Elia Martell.

Chapter Text

Thinking back on all the bloody sins of his past, Gregor felt a storm of emotions churn inside him.

Before crossing into this world, he’d been a well-behaved and accomplished student; upright and kind. Or maybe not kind, exactly “timid” might be the better word. Upright, timid, and fond of small animals. He wouldn’t dare call himself a noble soul, but one thing was certain: he had been a good person.

A good person, yet now he couldn’t deny, much less escape, the monstrous crimes that came with this body. Not only could he not deny them, but he also had to bear all the consequences.

Like two years from now, at King Joffrey’s wedding, when he would be impaled by Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, with a spear tipped in a special venom, an exquisite and deadly concoction prepared just for him.

Among the many emotions surging through Gregor’s heart, one stood out, something he didn’t want to admit: despair .

“AHHHH!”

Gregor let out a roar that tore from his chest.

It gave him a momentary sense of release, a flicker of relief. But it also sent a chill down his spine.

He knew the fear wasn’t real, not entirely. But it still sank its claws into him, making him second-guess everything.

On the TV show, this body looked so powerful. What the screen didn’t show was the torment it suffered, the slow destruction from years of poppy milk addiction.

He began to thrash. His stone bed was solid, and the ropes binding him were thick and numerous. But with one surge of strength, the bed creaked and shuddered. The ropes groaned under the tension.

Outside the room, Raff the Sweetling, the Executioner Dunsen, and #1 Fanboy Polliver exchanged nervous glances.

When Gregor howled again, like a wounded direwolf, Raff the Sweetling leaned over to Dunsen and whispered, “Milord sounds really bad in there. Maybe go in and check?”

His meaning was clear.

If punishment followed, it would be Dunsen who broke orders. But if help was needed, Raff could take credit for the idea.

Let the brother take the fall, take the prize for himself.

Dunsen, strong but slow, was loyal to Gregor to the bone. In the language of his past life, Gregor was Dunsen’s idol.

Hearing his idol scream in agony, feeling the room tremble beneath his feet, it tore him up inside. He’d gladly suffer in Gregor’s place if he could.

Raff’s subtle nudge was all it took. Dunsen reached out for the door but Polliver’s hand slapped down on his wrist.

“Dunsen. Milord said no one goes in. No matter what.”

“Just one quick peek!” Raff said sweetly, as if he were a courtly lady. “What if he needs us?”

Polliver scowled. He hated Raff's oily voice.

“Raff, Milord’s orders are absolute.”

“But he’s ordering us in there right now, isn’t he?” Raff arched a brow, eyes glinting with feigned innocence.

“Milord said only when he's calm. And right now, he's not calm. He’s in rage. That’s not a real order.”
Polliver, loyal to the core, was the one Gregor trusted most to obey without question.

Raff chuckled. “If you get Milord killed…”

He cast a sly glance at Dunsen. “Fine, fine. Your sword’s better than mine, I know you think no one but Milord can beat you… I’ll just take a step back…”

That did it.

Dunsen, proud of his swordsmanship, could never stand anyone implying someone else was better, except for Gregor, of course.

“Polliver, move. I’m doing this for Milord’s safety!” Dunsen growled, hand going to his sword.

Inside the room, Gregor’s screams had reached an almost inhuman pitch.

He roared for poppy milk, threatened to kill everyone in the castle, and demanded his three most loyal men come in and untie him immediately.

He thrashed wildly, and the dozens of thick ropes creaked and strained. The massive stone bed, two thousand pounds, shifted with heavy thuds across the floor. The vibrations could be felt even outside the room.

Polliver's face darkened. He drew his longsword with a hiss.

“Raff, Dunsen, if you want in, you’ll have to kill me first.”

The truth was, all three of them were hardcore Gregor fanboys.

To them, Gregor wasn’t a man. He was a beacon, a blinding, brutal lighthouse.

But Polliver was the purest of them all. He never doubted Gregor, never second-guessed an order. His brain ran in a straight line: Gregor’s word was law. No exceptions.

“What if something happens to him?” Raff asked sweetly.

Shing!

Dunsen drew his sword too. “Get out of the way, Polliver.”

“You move aside, Dunsen. What were Milord’s exact orders?” Polliver stood firm, voice righteous.

Inside, Gregor writhed under the agony of withdrawal.

He hallucinated, but hadn’t completely lost himself. Thankfully, the ropes and bed held. If they hadn’t, he might already be rampaging, slaying everyone in sight.

So long as he didn’t lose full control, Gregor treated his men well.

He was fiercely protective. If you were his, he’d stand by you, even when you were wrong. His logic was simple: the strongest fist wins.

And his fist was always the biggest. That made him right. Every time.

Hearing the idolized voice scream in torment, feeling the tremors underfoot, Dunsen said darkly, “Polliver, I’ll kill you.”

“You dare defy Milord’s command? Then I’ll kill you !”

Polliver was furious. Anyone who broke Gregor’s rules deserved death, along with all their family and kin.

Polliver’s sword lashed out like a streak of silver, straight for Dunsen’s chest.

The chest was a big target, easy to hit.

Polliver thought Dunsen was dumb (he always had), but he had to admit the man’s swordsmanship was skilled.

Dunsen sneered and swept his sword across his chest in a block, but found nothing.

Polliver had fainted.

Mid-swing, his blade angled up, aimed straight for Dunsen’s throat.

He knew he couldn't beat Dunsen in a fair fight.

So he went for a fatal strike, one clean kill.

Chapter Text

Dunsen froze in shock, Polliver’s strike held nothing back. He wasn't trying to stop him; he was trying to kill him.

This wasn’t a sparring match. It was an assassination.

Unlike Polliver, Dunsen wasn’t blindly loyal. He simply wanted to check if his idol, Ser Gregor, needed help. He hadn’t intended to kill anyone. But Polliver clearly meant to take his life.

The thrust came too quickly. Caught off guard, Dunsen had no time to retreat. He could try to parry upward with his sword, but there was a problem, he didn’t have the time.

Raff the Sweetling, standing nearby, flinched in alarm. He was the highest-ranking man among Gregor’s followers. Whether it was Dunsen or Polliver who got hurt, or worse, he’d be held responsible.

Injuries could be explained. Death couldn’t.

Gregor Clegane was never cruel to his men. In fact, compared to other knights and lords, he was almost indulgent. But his version of mercy still seemed like cruelty in the eyes of others.

"Watch out!" Raff ’s signature smile froze on his face.

A flash of steel. Polliver's sword lunged at Dunsen’s throat.

Swish!

The blade passed by, and blood sprayed.

Dunsen twisted his neck just in time, dodging the killing thrust, but not fast enough to escape unscathed. A long red line appeared across his throat, like a bloody necklace. Blood spurted from the wound.

He’d narrowly avoided death. Had that blade struck even slightly deeper, it would've pierced his artery, and that would have been the end.

Polliver scowled in frustration. “Afraid? Don’t dodge, you damned mutt!”

Coming from someone trying to kill him, it was laughably hypocritical.

Still reeling, Dunsen backpedaled quickly, dodging two more rapid thrusts, one toward his face, then one at his gut.

Polliver wasn’t pulling his strikes. Each one was aimed to kill.

This wasn’t about blocking a door. This was about eliminating an enemy.

Rage flared in Dunsen’s chest. He ignored the searing pain from his throat and launched into a counterattack, his sword a blur.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!  

Three rapid strikes pushed Polliver back on his heels.

Polliver spun, swinging for Dunsen’s waist. The corridor was too narrow for Dunsen to dodge sideways, he’d either have to take the blow or retreat. Polliver was betting that Dunsen, like a true disciple of Gregor, would never back down.

And Dunsen didn’t. He gripped his sword with both hands and met the attack head-on, slashing upward in a powerful diagonal arc.

Polliver’s technique was inspired by Gregor’s devastating spinning cleave, an attack once so powerful it had cut a man and his horse in half. Ever since witnessing that, Polliver had obsessed over perfecting the same move, focusing solely on raw power.

The blades clashed, silver streaks meeting in a blur.

But instead of the explosive crash Polliver expected, there was only a soft ting . Dunsen had redirected the force, not blocked it, but guided it away with a clever twist of his blade. In that same motion, he spun past Polliver like a shadow.

Polliver’s full-powered slash met nothing but air. He stumbled forward under the weight of his own momentum, and by the time he caught himself, Dunsen was behind him.

And striking.

With a vicious downward arc, Dunsen’s sword carved a deep line from the base of Polliver’s neck down to his tailbone. A red gash burst open, clothes splitting with it.

Polliver gasped in agony, slamming into the stone wall. He’d meant to trap Dunsen there. Instead, they’d traded places, and he was the one cornered.

He whirled around, but Dunsen’s sword was already lunging again, straight at his throat.

It was the same killing thrust Polliver had tried to use at the start.

Only this time, delivered with superior technique and terrifying speed.

Polliver had no room to dodge, no time to retreat. He could only block.

CLANG!

Sparks flew as Polliver barely deflected the thrust.

Before he could counterattack, Dunsen’s blade twisted, spun once, twice, two feints aimed at both sides of Polliver’s chest.

Uncertain which was real, Polliver raised his sword to strike Dunsen’s head instead, gambling on a mutual kill.

But Dunsen was faster.

He shifted slightly, dodging Polliver’s slash, then stabbed, cleanly, precisely, into Polliver’s sword wrist.

“AHHH!”

Polliver screamed as his sword dropped from his hand.

Before it even hit the ground, Dunsen’s blade flipped again, aiming straight for his throat.

Another killing thrust .

The blade moved like lightning. If it connected, it would impale Polliver against the wall.

CLANG!

A spray of sparks exploded between them.

Raff the Sweetling had slipped in like a cat, silent and sudden, parrying the blow at the last second.

Polliver collapsed against the wall, drenched in sweat, blood pouring from his back. He panted heavily, trying to stay conscious.

“Enough, Dunsen." Raff said quietly.

“He tried to kill me!” Dunsen shouted, furious.

“Polliver was obeying Ser Gregor’s orders.”

Dunsen’s face darkened. “So I was in the wrong, then?”

“You weren’t wrong." Raff  said in his usual soft tone, “But if you kill him, then you will be.”

Inside the room, Gregor's howls had stopped.

“The room is silent." Raff  continued. “Our concern should be Ser Gregor’s safety, not tearing each other apart.”

The name “Ser Gregor” was like a magic spell. At its mention, all three men froze.

Dunsen let out a furious huff and sheathed his sword, glaring at the wounded Polliver. The fight was over, for now.

There would be plenty of time to kill that idiot later (as Dunsen often thought of him). But right now, what mattered most was Gregor’s condition.

Chapter Text

Polliver panted heavily and said, “Raff, we can’t go in.”

Raff and Dunsen froze mid-step and turned back.

Polliver gripped his sword with his left hand, his body trembling. He had lost a lot of blood from both his back and wrist, and he was growing weaker by the second. His sword wavered in his hand. “We need Ser Gregor’s command to enter.”

“Fine. We won’t go in." Raff said calmly.

Polliver let out a sigh of relief. His knees gave out, and the sword slipped from his hand.

“Rest. Don’t move. I’ll go fetch the maester." Raff said gently.

Polliver slumped down the wall, sliding into a sitting position.

Raff  gave Dunsen a look. Dunsen understood and quietly stepped forward to open the door.

“No!” Polliver cried out.

He tried to push himself up, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs were numb and useless. He barely rose halfway before collapsing again.

With the silent grace of a cat, Raff darted upstairs to fetch Maester Harry.

Polliver felt hands lifting him and came back to his senses. “Raff, you can’t go in... Not until Ser Gregor gives the order... Only when he’s calm... only then...”

“Yeah, yeah." Raff replied, slinging Polliver over his back with monkey-like agility. He hauled the wounded man upstairs and tossed him into the maester’s small chamber.

Ser Gregor couldn’t afford a personal maester. His stone castle was small, his lands meager, and while he had gathered a loyal crew of reckless followers, he was far from wealthy.

Famous for its gold mines, the Westerlands?

Sorry, those were all on other lords’ lands.

Rich fisheries?

Also someone else’s.

Hunting and farming?

You guessed it, it belonged to other nobles too.

All that truly belonged to Gregor was a small grove and a few poor fields. His taxable population? Eleven households. The revenue they brought in wasn’t even worth mentioning.

So how did Gregor make a living?

He didn’t. He lived entirely off Tywin Lannister.

Not that he had a family to support anymore, he was the last of his household.

His brother Sandor Clegane had been sent to Tywin’s household at the age of eight and never returned.

Gregor had been married twice. He’d squeezed plenty of money out of his in-laws, enough to squander with his band of thugs, but neither wife had fared well. The first died when Gregor, in a fit of migraine-fueled rage, punched her for bringing poppy milk too slowly. The second he killed while drunk, smashing her into a stone wall after she dared talk back when he accused her of letting him sleep on the floor all night.

After both wives died under mysterious circumstances, he never admitted to their murders, no one dared marry their daughter off to him again. Gregor gave up on marriage altogether. Instead, every time Tywin sent him to patrol the Trident’s borders, he’d raid Tully villages, snatching any women that caught his eye. As long as he didn’t kill anyone, Tywin might scold him, but little more. Gregor didn’t care, he and his wild crew lived as they pleased.

As for Maester Harry, he had been sent by Tywin to care for Gregor, who was now plagued by increasingly frequent headaches. Gregor had taken a leave of absence from Casterly Rock to rest at home, and Tywin, concerned for his health, had dispatched the young maester to assist him.

But Gregor was no longer the man he used to be. He was now the soul of a third-year engineering student from Earth who had found himself reincarnated in Gregor’s brutal body. Tired of relying on poppy milk to dull his headaches, he was determined to endure the pain and break the addiction through sheer willpower, if only to survive.

So, he had tied himself down to his stone bed.

Maester Harry was newly appointed, once an apprentice to Grand Maester Pycelle of House Lannister. Normally, apprentices had to return to Oldtown, the southern seat of the Citadel and headquarters of the maesters, to take their exams and earn their chains. The chain symbolized their official status and expertise.

However, Westeros was vast. To spread knowledge more efficiently, any archmaester with at least ten links on his chain could award promising apprentices with a temporary chain. These apprentices were expected to eventually travel to Oldtown, take the exams, and be registered officially.

Without a chain, you couldn’t serve a noble house. You couldn’t gain respect, status, or income.

And once you became a maester, you took a vow of celibacy. Your life belongs to knowledge. Of course, plenty of maesters who swore that vow on their knees in the Sept found themselves sneaking into brothels by night.

Polliver’s back wound wasn’t too bad, but his right wrist injury was serious. If left untreated, he might never wield a sword again. That was unthinkable for Polliver, Gregor’s most fanatical follower, and unacceptable to Maester Harry. This was his first solo assignment. If he failed, his chain would mean nothing. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing Grand Maester Pycelle with failure hanging over his head.

As Harry tended to Polliver’s wounds with anxious focus upstairs, downstairs Dunsen and Raff were frozen in shock.

Two of the thick ropes binding Ser Gregor had snapped. The two-ton stone bed had shifted from one side of the room to the other. Blood streaked the ropes.

“Get out!” a voice suddenly rang out.

It was Ser Gregor, still motionless, but his voice was hoarse, drained... and tinged with something that had never been there before: sorrow.

Ser Gregor Clegane had never known sorrow. Only rage. He was a beast of a man, not a creature capable of grief.

Dunsen and Raff exchanged a look, confused but obedient. Without a word, they left the room and quietly shut the door behind them. Then they took up their posts again, one on each side of the door.

No one was to enter Ser Gregor’s room. Not even Maester Harry, Tywin’s handpicked healer.

Not long after, an inhuman wail tore through the silence.

The floor shook beneath their feet, louder than before.

Dunsen and Raff were terrified. What if Ser Gregor snapped the ropes and came for them? He was kind to his brother, yes, but in a frenzy, even they could fall victim.

Aahhh, !

Aahhh, !

Aahhh, !

That blood-curdling howl, like a beast caught between agony and death, echoed from Gregor’s room for two full days and nights .

By the end, all that remained was a rasping, broken whisper, more hiss than howl.

A/N: For updates and extra content, check out my Tumblr: https://www. /vynthor

If you're enjoying the story, kudos are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

The room was silent.

Maester Harry gently pushed the door open.

He poked his head inside, and someone behind nudged his shoulder. He ducked lower, and a second head peeked in. Then came a third, and a fourth.

Four people. Four heads. All lined up evenly.

Their expressions were identical, shocked.

They saw bloodstained ropes scattered across the floor, some snapped clean into several pieces. They saw deep and shallow scrapes gouged into the stone floor, marks left from the heavy bed being dragged out of place. And they saw the fallen idol, Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, clinging to the last breath of life.

The Mountain’s eyes were sunken, bruised dark beneath, like a refugee fleeing disaster. His hair clung to his scalp in filthy, matted clumps, as if he’d had a bucket of wet clay poured over his head. Every bit of exposed skin, arms, neck, chest, stomach, legs, ankles, was streaked with bloody marks.

His eyes were dull and lifeless. He looked dead.

Polliver, his number one fanatic, was tense to the point of panic. He feared Ser Gregor had died.

He couldn't accept that. He needed the overwhelming awe that Gregor, the ultimate bastard, brought into his life. He was Gregor’s biggest fan, bar none.

Dunsen and Raff the Sweetling were just as anxious. They had never seen Ser Gregor look so defeated, like a giant drained of life, hollow and limp.

At last, young Maester Harry broke the silence. “...My lord… is still breathing…”

In the blink of an eye, the expressions of the three fanatics shifted, from shock to confusion, to fear, and finally to joyous relief. They’d all killed before, but none had noticed he was still breathing, until Maester Harry gave them hope.

In their eyes, a man like Ser Gregor, with his superhuman strength and inhuman endurance, if he still drew breath, there was no doubt he’d recover.

Polliver tried to push forward, but three others were already blocking the way. His right arm was raised and bandaged, immobilized with splints to keep it straight.

Under the calm command of the rational Raff, Maester Harry was the first to enter the room. Best to let the healer check things out before rushing in.

The other three followed close behind, unconsciously walking on tiptoe.

Outside, a servant waited with food but dared not enter without being called. Entering unbidden could cost him his life.

His predecessor had made that mistake and ended up dead from a single kick to the chest.

Although Maester Harry served Tywin Lannister, he dared not test Ser Gregor’s temper either. He moved carefully, light-footed and silent, holding his breath.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to be scared.”

Gregor suddenly spoke, startling all four of them.

But since when did Ser Gregor say things like “You don’t need to be scared” ? The words sounded bizarre in the ears of Polliver, Dunsen, and Raff.

They were used to hearing things like, “You bastards want to die?”

The gentleness in Gregor’s voice made their skin crawl. It felt like ants crawling down their spines. They preferred his rough curses and shouting.

“My lord…” Maester Harry stretched his neck cautiously. “How do you feel, ”

“How do I feel? Screw you! If you don’t want to die, get these ropes off me right now, you dogshit bastard! Son of a bitch!”

Gregor Clegane glared at the four of them, taking in their mouse-like hesitance and the discomfort on the three fans’ faces. He knew his men were used to being barked at and cursed, talking nicely didn’t sound like him at all.

So, fine. He’d curse like usual.

Before crossing into this world, he’d argued plenty online, no stranger to slinging insults.

But as the words flew out of his mouth, he realized: they didn’t quite fit this world. Phrases like “screw you” and “son of a bitch” didn’t even exist here.

It felt… off.

A classic case of too much science, not enough street smarts . If he’d been a street punk back in his old life, he’d be more at home in Gregor’s skin.

The yelling left him winded. He was still weak.

But the moment he started cursing, the three fanatics lit up like starving dogs spotting a bone. They rushed forward, quickly untying the few remaining ropes binding their lord.

Polliver, despite only having one good hand, worked fast.

His sword wound down his back was long, Maester Harry had stitched over 200 sutures. The sudden movement reopened the barely healing gash. Blood seeped through. But Polliver didn’t care.

As long as Gregor was swearing, everything was fine.

Once the ropes were off, Gregor shoved aside Dunsen and Raff’s hands as they tried to help him sit up.

“Get lost!”

He braced himself and sat upright on the stone bed.

“I’m starving. Bring me food.”

The words “I’m starving” gave him pause. This world didn’t even have that phrasing. Damn, his old world’s language habits still dominated.

He glanced around. No one seemed to notice. Probably none of them even understood what exactly he said, they only cared that their lord was back to being his foul-mouthed self.

Maester Harry quietly stepped to the side. Gregor hadn’t spared him a glance. The young man knew better than to approach uninvited. If Gregor struck him dead in a rage, Lord Tywin would barely scold him and maybe dock two months’ pay.

Polliver stormed to the door and shrieked like a lunatic, voice sharp and high:

“You maggot, get in here! One more second and I’ll ram a spear down your throat!”

The servant jumped, then rushed in carrying a massive tray, carefully arranged under Maester Harry’s instructions: a steaming basin of bacon stew to warm the stomach, a small mountain of freshly baked bread, a bowl of assorted fruits, and generous portions of roast rabbit, chicken, beef, and lamb. A full jar of Arbor’s finest red wine, too, Gregor wouldn’t touch meat without wine.

For that much food, the tray had to be huge, and the servant needed serious strength to carry it.

He entered quickly and lowered the tray onto Gregor’s bed, eyes down the whole time. He didn’t dare glance at Gregor, nor at the fanboys flanking him, nor even at the young maester.

The maester, in truth, wasn’t much better off, standing still, silent, and barely breathing.

Gregor watched the servant tremble like he was facing a demon. He thought about offering a kind word, but feared it might scare the man more.

“Fine. Get out.”

“Yes, my lord!” The servant clearly relaxed, backing out of the room in a deep bow, fearful but reverent.

Gregor knew full well, living under the same roof as a butcher like him was a daily mental strain.

He started with the bacon stew. Lifting the basin, he drank straight from the edge, slurping loudly. He swirled the bowl once and finished it in one go. The soup was rich; ham, carrots, bits of meat, and vegetables galore.

He set the empty bowl down.

“Maester Harry." Gregor said.

“Yes, my lord!” Harry answered quickly, doing his best to keep calm despite the knot in his gut.

“What happened to Polliver’s right hand?”

Gregor’s eyes narrowed.

Then he turned a sharp glare toward Raff. Raff the Sweetling’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly lowered his gaze to the floor.

Chapter Text

Faced with Ser Gregor’s overwhelming presence, Maester Harry involuntarily stepped back, then quietly retreated another pace.

“My lord, rest assured, Polliver’s hand can still wield a sword.”

“Polliver, who injured you?” Gregor’s gaze shifted from Raff the Sweetling to Dunsen, narrowing with menace.

A faint, purplish-red scar circled Dunsen’s neck like a necklace, evidence of a sword wound recently treated by Maester Harry.

Dunsen instinctively backed away. The usually cold-blooded killer now looked panicked and unsure, all of his usual bravado gone. He seemed more like a cowering coward than a hardened soldier.

“My lord... Polliver tried to take my life first. I had no choice but to strike back.”

But Gregor was no longer the man he once was. With his mind sharpened and restored, he saw through his men like glass. He understood them too well.

Polliver was fiercely loyal, he would only try to kill Dunsen for one reason: insubordination. And Dunsen, fool that he was, would never dare defy orders unless someone had whispered in his ear, encouraged him. That someone could only be Raff the Sweetling.

A fence needs three posts. A villain needs three henchmen, Gregor thought. Since he was a villain among villains, he needed fiercely loyal cutthroats around him. Then again, villainy depends on the target, doing evil to the wicked makes you a hero, doing evil to a hero makes you a traitor, and doing evil to the innocent makes you a true villain.

Being a villain, in fact, had its perks, especially being a notorious one. Gregor knew that all too well. In his previous life, his girlfriend had dumped him for not being bold enough to start a fight at the movies. Just a day later, she’d hooked up with some street thug who practiced kickboxing. That breakup had left a deep scar on the heart of the former engineering geek.

Now, with Gregor's memories fused with his own, that same man sat devouring roasted meat, sipping bacon broth, tearing at bread, and gulping red wine while glaring down at the four terrified men before him. The fear in their eyes filled him with a satisfaction he had never known in his past life. If he had to describe the feeling, it was like eating an ice pop on a sweltering summer day, or warming your hands by a crackling fire in the dead of winter.

His men were loyal, yes, but not united. That needed to change.

A lone cutthroat, no matter how fierce, inspired little fear. But a band of united killers, that was a force to be reckoned with.

Goats aren’t stronger in numbers, but Gregor’s men weren’t goats. They were hounds. Hounds that would dare take on lions. And if you can bind these dogs together, forge them into one pack, then that pack could rip a lion to shreds.

“Raff." Gregor said coolly, already having pieced most of it together, “You’ve always had a silver tongue. Tell me what happened.”

Raff hesitated. It must’ve been him who suggested going inside. Dunsen, hotheaded, acted on impulse. And Polliver, the loyal dog, refused.

Among these three, the solution to conflict was always simple: a duel .

Back when Gregor was at full strength, a single glance from him could stop a fight. But this time, tied to a stone bed, hallucinating from poppy withdrawal, he hadn’t been able to interfere.

Thanks to the warmth of the bacon broth and the comfort of food in his belly, Gregor’s sickly pallor began to fade. He looked like a man back from death’s edge, haggard, yes, but clear-eyed, and free.

He had conquered the poppy’s grip. If you can endure the first withdrawal, the second and third grow easier.

Raff stammered, “My lord... I heard... something strange in your voice…”

“So you told Dunsen to come check on me." Gregor said, chewing a piece of honey-glazed rabbit. The golden juices dripped from his mouth, down his chest, soaking into the thick mat of hair there. Hunger had cured his lifelong obsession with cleanliness.

“Yes, my lord." Raff confessed, not daring to lie.

Normally, Gregor would have ignored scuffles like this between his men.

“Maester Harry, may I ask you to head upstairs? I need a few words with my three officers.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Harry bowed deeply, relieved, and hurried off. Once on the stairs, he exhaled a long, heavy breath.

…

“Raff, draw your sword." Gregor said around a mouthful of meat and bread.

The food was delicious. The soup warmed him to his bones. He felt too good, almost tempted to forget his anger.

Raff hesitated, confused, and slowly drew his blade.

“Dunsen, draw yours too.”

No meal in either of Gregor’s lives had ever tasted so good. Two days without food had left him ravenous and drained.

Dunsen unsheathed his sword.

“Kill Raff the Sweetling.”

Dunsen glanced at Gregor and saw he meant it. With a swift motion, he lunged at Raff’s throat.

Startled, Raff parried with a clang of steel, sparks flying. They broke apart and began to circle each other like hungry wolves.

Raff struck first, slashing at Dunsen’s face. Dunsen spun aside with a nimble sidestep, it was a feint. Raff turned and ran for the door.

“Polliver, block him." Gregor ordered, then downed a goblet of Arbor red and let out a satisfied belch.

He knew it wasn’t wise to overeat after starving, but the food was too good. The wine, too tempting.

Polliver had already stationed himself at the door. A die-hard Gregor fanatic, he’d caught the look in Gregor’s eye the moment the first sword was drawn and moved into position.

Gregor admired Polliver’s silent understanding. A glance, a nod, a twitch of the lips, and Polliver knew what to do. That uncanny intuition worked only for Gregor. In most other areas, Polliver was the slowest of the three.

Schring!

Polliver drew his sword and blocked the doorway.

Raff froze mid-stride. There was no way past Polliver, and with Dunsen right behind him, even a moment’s hesitation meant death.

Gregor had given the order. Dunsen wouldn’t hold back, he’d fight harder than ever.

Clang!

Raff dropped his sword and spun around, then fell to his knees before Gregor.

Whoosh!

Dunsen’s blade stopped at his throat.

“Raff." Gregor said, “if Dunsen and Polliver were your enemies right now, would you already be dead?”

“Yes, milord!”

“How many swords can you face alone?”

“If it’s someone like Dunsen, not even one.”

“And Polliver?”

“One. At best.”

“What if two Pollivers came at you together?”

“I couldn’t win, milord.”

Gregor slowly rose from the bed, still a bit unsteady. He paused, then stood tall.

“No matter how strong a man is, no matter how skilled his swordplay, he can’t fend off multiple foes alone. Why do you think a powerful lynx always gives way when a pack of wild dogs comes sniffing around?”

“Because the lynx is alone, and the dogs are many, milord.”

“Numbers help, but that’s not the real reason. The lynx fears them because they’re united. A disorganized pack is no threat, even a hundred wouldn’t scare the lynx. From this day on, Raff, you, Executioner Dunsen, and Loyal Polliver must unite like wild dogs. You must act as one. Three blades are far deadlier than one. Do you understand? When two blades come for you, won’t you want Dunsen’s sword or Polliver’s, at your back?”

“Yes, milord. I will.”

Gregor had aimed this lesson squarely at the sharpest mind, Raff the Sweetling.

“Dunsen, do you understand my words?”

“Yes, milord.”

“You fought while I was fighting poppy addiction. Dunsen nearly had his throat cut. Polliver almost lost his sword hand. And it all began with Raff’s mouth. All three of you made grave mistakes.”

Gregor’s face darkened. His voice thundered with rage.

Raff turned ghostly pale and lowered his head in silence. Dunsen flinched, quickly sheathing his sword and dropping to one knee. Polliver didn’t wait for Gregor’s gaze, he sheathed his weapon and knelt instantly with a thud .

“I want your blades, from now on, to aim only at enemies, never at one another. Drive your swords into your foes’ hearts. Pour fine wine into your brothers’ bellies. You are my best men. My fiercest warriors. Now swear to me, on your family honor and in the name of the Seven, that no matter what conflict arises, your swords will always strike outward. Never inward.”

Chapter Text

Swearing an oath in the name of one's family honor and the Seven Gods was the most sacred and binding vow one could make in this world, far more solemn than the overused "I swear on my whole family" curses from the logical, engineering-minded world Gregor came from.

With the Seven as witnesses, such oaths carried divine weight. They were far more binding than those unpaid student internship contracts signed during college breaks.

Gregor watched as his three subordinates finished their vows, a faint smile creeping onto his face. The old Gregor would never have smiled. That man was cold, brutal, and never indulged in emotion, not even with those who served him. But Gregor Clegane was now his own man, and he would decide what kind of master he wanted to be.

When the three officers knelt before him in unison, a ripple stirred in his heart. He wanted to tell them to rise, to make their pledges standing, as equals. He wanted to say: "We’re brothers-in-arms, no need for kneeling." But he held his tongue.

He was a noble, a knight, and a titled man. One day, his son would inherit that title. That was the order of this world. Back in his old life, he had the mindset of a democratic third-year engineering student, but here, he would respect the customs of rank and hierarchy. Besides, maintaining absolute authority in front of his officers was necessary.

Once their oaths were made, Gregor told them to stand, and embraced each of them like brothers.

Raff, Dunsen, and Polliver were his die-hard fans, he knew it well. To them, he was a hero, an idol. None of them were knights yet, although Gregor had the right to confer knighthood upon them. And while every swordsman dreamed of that honor, Gregor knew such a reward, so prestigious and cost-free, shouldn’t be handed out too casually.

So, when he embraced the three like brothers, he reined in the impulse to knight them then and there. He used to be a bit too soft-hearted in his previous life. That had to change.

“All right. Polliver, go upstairs and bring Maester Harry to the courtyard.”

“Yes, milord!” Polliver replied respectfully.

“Raff, gather all eleven of my household subjects. Tell them to come to the courtyard. I’m... uh, holding a little meeting.”

“Yes, milord!”

Polliver and Raff turned and left.

Gregor tapped the stone bed with his fingers. “Dunsen, check under my wolfskin blanket. See how much gold we have left.”

“Yes, milord!”

Dunsen lifted the bedding and carefully felt around every corner. “Seven gold dragons, thirty silver stags, fifteen copper stars.”

…

The continent of Westeros used three primary forms of currency: gold, silver, and copper coins.

All three circulated as minted coins.

The gold coin, commonly known as a gold dragon , featured the face and name of the reigning king at the time of its minting. On the reverse side was the sigil of House Targaryen, a three-headed dragon. The coin’s nickname, "gold dragon." came from this very emblem.

House Targaryen had ruled Westeros for three centuries. During that time, gold dragons had become widely accepted across the continent, and even beyond the Narrow Sea in the Free Cities and the exotic lands of the East. Though the Targaryen dynasty had been overthrown more than a decade ago, the image of the three-headed dragon remained on the gold coins. King Robert Baratheon had not replaced it with his own crowned stag.

Silver coins were called silver stags , named after the crowned stag sigil that Adoned them, the heraldry of House Baratheon of Storm’s End. The current king of Westeros, Robert Baratheon I, was the head of this house.

House Baratheon had been founded by Orys Baratheon, Hand of the King and close friend to Aegon the Conqueror. Legend says Orys was Aegon’s bastard half-brother, a man favored for both his martial prowess and loyalty. Aegon gave him the Baratheon name and sent him with his sister-queen, Rhaenys, on dragonback to subjugate the Stormlands.

With Rhaenys’s help, Orys defeated the last Storm King, Argilac Durrandon, and married his daughter Argella, taking Storm’s End and founding the Baratheon line. Since then, House Baratheon had ruled the Stormlands. Sixteen years ago, Robert Baratheon, a descendant of Orys, overthrew the Targaryens and claimed the Iron Throne, uniting the Seven Kingdoms.

For the past three hundred years, the crowned stag had Adoned the realm’s silver coins, hence the name "silver stag."

The last type of currency was the copper star , a small round coin made entirely of copper.

Its name came from the seven-pointed star stamped on its surface, the symbol of the Faith of the Seven. Across Westeros (excluding the North and the Iron Islands), the Seven were the dominant religion. In King’s Landing, the grand Sept of Baelor stood as the centerpiece of worship.

The number seven was considered sacred in Westeros, tied to divine symbolism.

Wealthy merchants and nobles dealt primarily in gold; the common folk used silver and copper. In remote regions, especially beyond the Wall in the far north, barter was more common than coins. Up there, a warm animal pelt was worth more than any gold dragon.

This tripartite currency system had been established after Aegon the Conqueror unified the realm. Robert Baratheon kept the system intact after overthrowing the Targaryens. Coin minting was strictly regulated, only authorized by the king and overseen by the Master of Coin.

On this relatively modest continent, the exchange rate was simple:

One gold dragon = 30 silver stags = 210 copper stars.

…

“Bring all the coins, we’re going to the courtyard." Gregor said.

The amount was far too little for what he intended to do.

“Yes, milord!” Dunsen hurried to pack the gold dragons, silver stags, and copper stars into a pouch. “Milord, perhaps you should bathe and change your clothes first.”

Gregor paused.

Due to his violent nature and long absences from home, having lived mostly at Casterly Rock under Tywin Lannister’s roof, his household staff had dwindled. There were no maids left. Only a cook, a male servant for yard work, and a steward to handle the family’s affairs.

“Fine. Help me." Gregor said.

“Yes, my lord!”

Half an hour later, Gregor had washed, dressed neatly, and fastened his broad and imposing sword belt. He and Dunsen stepped into the courtyard.

His energy had recovered by about half.

Waiting nervously in the yard were eleven of his household subjects, men and women, young and old, all dressed in rags, faces sallow and gaunt, looking more like refugees than residents.

Gregor sighed inwardly, overcome with sympathy.

Chapter Text

The eleven households stood trembling in the courtyard, filled with fear and anxiety. To their left stood the sweet-talker, Raff, and to their right was the unremarkable, black-haired young official from Clegane's Keep, Mark.

When Gregor Clegane was in Casterly Rock, it was Mark who oversaw everything here. Mark was essentially Gregor’s steward, but given Gregor’s small domain and meager wealth, calling him a steward seemed overly grand, small official was a more fitting title.

Mark always carried a small Scribe in his pocket, meticulously detailing every little task he handled daily, from castle expenditures to the mundane chores of the three inhabitants. It was a precaution for when Gregor Clegane felt the need to scrutinize things on a whim.

Previously, Gregor couldn’t read, but now, as he secretly learned the script of this world, it wasn’t too difficult for someone from a highly civilized world like himself. Whenever Gregor wanted to know what Mark had done on any given day, Mark would pull out Mark and read aloud.

This earned Mark the nickname "Scribe."

Mark truly served its purpose. Whenever Gregor suspected Mark was slacking off or misreporting finances, Mark would present Mark and clarify every detail, with nothing left unchecked. The book proved invaluable, as there was no evading its records.

Surviving in the terrifying Clegane's Keep without meeting an 'untimely' death was an art in itself. After a series of incompetent assistants, Gregor had finally found Mark, a sharp, obedient, loyal, and literate young official.

Mark was only sixteen. He’d been Gregor’s family official since he was fourteen, having narrowly escaped death several times at Gregor’s hands. His quick wit had earned Gregor’s complete trust, establishing his position firmly within Clegane's Keep. Under Gregor’s violent reputation and brutal authority, Mark, too, became ruthless and cruel. He was Gregor’s most devoted follower.

Gregor could see the intense admiration Mark held for him. If Gregor commanded him to die, Mark would do so without hesitation.

Gregor believed that the intense devotion of people like Raff the Sweetling, the executioner Dunsen, die-hard fan Polliver, and the young "Scribe" could be a form of psychological illness, something akin to Stockholm Syndrome. This condition was most evident in Mark.

Gregor clearly remembered when he first picked Mark up off the streets and subjected him to abuse. Mark’s feelings toward Gregor had evolved from fear, hatred, and humiliation, to submission, flattery, and eventually, love and adoration. It perfectly matched the Stockholm Syndrome symptoms.

Stockholm Syndrome refers to a psychological condition where victims develop feelings of affection for their abusers, sometimes even helping and loving them. It occurs when the weak become dependent on the strong for survival, feeling grateful for the slightest kindness or mercy. It’s not uncommon in cases where captors are perceived as protectors by those they hold captive. On Earth, there are countless cases where kidnapped victims later end up emotionally attached to their captors.

Gregor wasn’t sure if this world had a name for such a condition, but he didn’t feel the need to correct it. He didn’t intend to fix anything; he only needed to adjust his cruelty and terror, and his followers would inevitably follow his transformation.

There’s a saying: The power of an idol’s example is limitless.

Standing on the steps, Gregor was flanked by Maester Harry, and behind him stood his two subordinate officers, Polliver and Dunsen. A mere glare from Gregor would make young Harry tremble.

Gregor had always felt that he needed a Maester by his side. His own fearsome reputation and terrifying name across the Seven Kingdoms were a form of power, and knowing how to wield it would bring many advantages.

A good person explains their reasoning when they ask someone to do something, but a villain needs no explanation, just commands. A good person will pay for things when they go shopping; a villain simply takes what they want. In terms of efficiency, villains had the upper hand.

Gregor decided to keep Maester Harry as his personal doctor. Judging by experience, Harry would likely develop Stockholm Syndrome in due time.

Psychological things… invisible, shapeless... but not necessarily evil… He suddenly realized that he might be deriving some twisted pleasure from playing the role of a supervillain. Was this… a psychological thing? No, he needed to stay alert.

“Scribe!” Gregor called out.

“Yes, milord." Mark replied.

“Give each of the households a gold dragon.”

“Understood, milord!”

Everyone, including Mark, was momentarily stunned. No one dared to believe what they heard, but Mark moved swiftly, taking the pouch from Dunsen’s hands.

Inside, there were only seven gold dragons, far too few to distribute.

The eleven households stood bewildered. For ordinary people, receiving even a single gold dragon was an enormous sum. They dared not refuse, yet they hesitated to accept. Gold dragons were rare, often out of reach for common folk who only dealt with silver deer or copper stars.

One gold dragon was worth thirty silver deer, or two hundred and ten copper stars, enough to support a poor family comfortably for half a year.

As Mark reached the seventh household, the pouch was empty. Gregor’s pouch contained only seven gold dragons, thirty silver deer, and fifteen copper stars.

Mark glanced back at Gregor and understood. He handed the thirty silver deer to the eighth household.

None of the people dared to pocket the coins. They couldn’t fathom what Gregor might have planned next, but one thing was certain: they wouldn’t be allowed to keep the money. Instead, they’d likely end up with more tax debt to pay upon leaving.

Shaking the pouch, Mark heard the clink of the remaining fifteen copper stars.

Three households were still without gold dragons.

Mark looked back at Gregor, reading the solution in his eyes.

He approached Maester Harry and extended his hand. “Maester, lend me three gold dragons.”

Harry glanced at Gregor, who said nothing but wore a disapproving look on his face.

“Very well!” Harry said, taking three gold dragons from his pocket and placing them in Mark’s hand. His pale hand trembled slightly.

“Scribe, record this." Gregor said, his tone softer.

“Yes, milord." Mark replied.

“Maester, I’ll repay you." Gregor added.

“No… no need, milord." Harry quickly replied, his words earnest and his gaze sincere.

The benefit of being a villain: borrowing money without the need to repay. But if you insist on repaying, you earn unexpected honor and gratitude.

Malevolence may be a power condemned by morality, but it is undeniably potent.

A/N: For updates and extra content, check out my Tumblr: https://www. /vynthor

If you're enjoying the story, kudos are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

"I will repay you!" Gregor's voice was abrupt and commanding, cutting off Maester Harry before he could protest. His tone left no room for argument. He turned his attention back to Mark, who dutifully distributed three gold dragons to the last three families.

Among the eleven villagers, four women never dared to look at Gregor. His infamous reputation for mistreating women was well-known, and any girls of marriageable age had long been married off to distant lands. The remaining younger women were mothers. Upon hearing that Gregor had returned to Clegane's Keep, they had already smeared their faces with coal dust days ago in preparation to make themselves less attractive.

Gregor looked at the four young women and felt a twinge of shame for his past wrongs.

Instilling fear in his people to the point they saw him as a venomous serpent, Gregor reflected on how far his past cruelty had come. He had done much evil in the past.

"You will go back and cut down every single poppy in your fields and replace them with corn, wheat, and rice." Gregor commanded.

The villagers exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond.

It was his order that had caused them to grow poppies. 

"What is he scheming now?" they all wondered.

Why were they so poor?

Their fields were planted with poppies, with Gregor being the sole buyer. But Gregor, their lord, paid them pitifully little for their harvest.

"This gold dragon is compensation for the poppy loss." Gregor explained, "This year, you will still be able to plant three seasons of corn, wheat, and rice."

The seasons of Westeros were different from any other world. There were no four seasons in a year. Instead, one season could last for many years. For example, this current summer has already lasted for nine years.

During these long summers, the hardworking people could harvest crops for four seasons, saving them up in preparation for what could be just as long and harsh a winter.

"Stop standing around." Gregor barked. "Go back and cut down the poppies. Replace them with rice, wheat, and corn."

Mark, with an air of sarcasm, echoed, "From today onward, there will be no more poppies on our lands."

"Yes, milord." the villagers responded, though their voices were devoid of conviction.

"I will compensate you for your losses. I don't have the money now, but I'll owe it to you. I'll repay you for ten years' worth of loss. One gold dragon per year for ten years. How much do you owe each family, Scribe?" Gregor asked.

"Each family owes ten gold dragons, milord." Mark responded, proving his good grasp of mathematics.

"Then how much do I owe in total?" Gregor was never good with numbers. He couldn't read or do math. His only sharp tool was his sword.

"My lord, you owe a total of one hundred and ten gold dragons… uh, this is a lot of money, my lord… we… we can't pay this…" Mark explained.

"Well, we won't be discussing money-making right now." Gregor said, dismissing the matter. "If any of you have grievances, or if any noble has wronged you, now is the time to speak up. I have never held an administrative meeting at Clegane's Keep before, but today is the first time. It will not be the last."

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. The women also lifted their heads to steal a glance at the demon.

Their unease deepened.

The demon was behaving unusually.

His face looked different too, as if he had suffered a terrible wound.

An administrative meeting was something every lord would hold. If their people had any complaints, disputes, or problems, they would come to the lord to have them solved. The lord was the highest authority to address all grievances.

"This is our first administrative meeting. Speak your minds, anything at all." Gregor said.

However, both the sparse villagers and his own subordinates felt uncomfortable with Gregor’s words and actions.

As with anything, the beginning was the hardest.

For someone like Gregor, who rarely held administrative meetings, this was a strange and awkward experience for him.

But change had to be made.

The current Gregor was not the same as the old Gregor.

"...Milord, I… I’m very grateful for the gold coins you’ve given me." one man stammered. "I will go back immediately and cut down the poppies, replacing them with rice, wheat, and corn." His voice trembled as he spoke, nearly on the verge of kneeling.

"Do you have any problems that you want me to solve?" Gregor asked, tapping his head. "For instance, if you're worried about the cost of seeds for wheat or corn, I can have Mark buy the best seeds from the Lannis marketplace, guaranteeing no one will sell them to you at inflated prices."

"No, no, no… Thank you for your kindness, my lord… may the Seven bless you. May all the gods watch over your good heart… Under your leadership, it is the greatest honor for my family… Uh, as for the seeds, we will buy them ourselves. We wouldn't dare trouble you…" the man hurriedly declined, his voice sincere.

"May the Seven bless you as well. You will feel true honor serving me. Now, do you have any other requests?" Gregor pressed.

"No, milord."

"Oh! Then you may leave."

"Yes, milord!"

The man immediately relaxed, as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Gregor, however, felt a twinge of frustration.

It seemed that being a good person was much harder than being a bad one. Much harder.

The others watched as the "honored subject" quickly left the frightening yard.

Gregor sat in silence for a while before speaking again, "Since there are no complaints and no issues requiring justice, you can all leave now. Go back and cut the poppies, replacing them with rice, wheat, and corn."

"Yes, my lord!" they all replied in unison, eager to leave. The lord’s behavior today was so strange that it made them deeply uneasy. They felt safer the farther they were from this place.

The four women hurried out of the yard, fearful but quick in their steps.

The remaining villagers followed swiftly.

Gregor gestured to Mark. The boy quickly stepped forward and stopped an elderly man. "Thomasson, stay."

As soon as the others exited the yard, they hurried away, secretly sweating for the unfortunate Thomasson. Who would dare oppose the Mountaint? No one could!

"Thomasson, do you have something you want to say to me?" Gregor asked. earlier, he had seen the elderly man open his mouth when Gregor asked about their grievances, but no words had come out.

"...No, milord..." Thomasson quickly knelt on one knee.

"Speak." Gregor frowned. "You are my people, and if you’ve been wronged, I will help you, no matter who the offender is."

"...Milord…" the old man suddenly broke down, tears streaming down his face. "…Milord… my little girl… at the end of last month… ten days ago… was taken by the Silverhill’s mine guard…"

Chapter Text

Silverhill, once known as Silverhill City, is located at the southeastern foot of the Silverhill, which stretches across the eastern side of Clegane's Keep.

Silverhill is rich in silver and gold mines, most of the land belonging to Silverhill. Just a few dozen miles beyond the small forest behind Serrett’s family estate lies the famous Silverhill.

The head of Silverhill is Tyger Serrett, a noble from the Westerlands with significant power.

The Serrett family’s coat of arms features a proud peacock with its tail spread, perched on a cheese-colored background. Their family motto, Unbeatable , is well-known. The Serrett family is extremely wealthy, thanks to the abundance of silver and gold mines.

In the southern part of the Westerlands, three major noble families guard the southern border. The coastal family of Clegane's Keep resides on the Searoad, their fortress situated in the middle of a two-hundred-mile stretch of primeval forest.

The Searoad connects the capital of the Westerlands, Casterly Rock, with the capital of Riverlands, Highgarden. Highgarden belongs to the Tyrell family, and Casterly Rock to the Lannister family.

About a hundred miles east of Clegane's Keep lies the Swyft family’s stronghold, Cornfield. Known for its vast fertile plains, the Swyft family excels in farming corn, rice, and wheat.

The eastern border of the Swyft family is the Silverhill.

The only large noble family controlling Silverhill is the Serrett family of Silverhill, formerly known as Silverhill City.

A golden highway runs alongside Silverhill, connecting the capital of the Westerlands, Casterly Rock, with the Seven Kingdoms’ capital, King’s Landing.

The Serrett family is the noble house that guards the critical Goldroad in the Westerlands.

The three major noble families defending the southern borders of the Westerlands, from west to east, are: Clegane's Keep’s Clegane's Keep family, guarding the Searoad; Cornfield’s Swyft family, guarding the primeval forest; and Silverhill’s Serrett family, guarding the Goldroad. These three families form a line of defense along the Westerlands’ southern borders.

Of these families, the Serrett family of Silverhill is the wealthiest, with seven sons among the most talented knights of the young generation in the Westerlands, known for their martial prowess. The Swyft family has the richest harvests, while the Clegane's Keep family boasts the strongest military.

During this long summer of peace, common folk either tend their crops or work as miners to earn a living.

Small families under petty nobles like Gregor Clegane, long oppressed by his tyranny, have fallen into poverty. These impoverished folk, unable to grow rice, corn, or wheat under Gregor’s command, are forced to cultivate poppies, which are not food. The best option for the adult men of these eleven families is to work as miners.

Mining for a month allows them to buy enough food to feed their families for two months.

The nearest mine to Clegane's Keep is Silverhill.

Thomasson’s youngest son also went to Silverhill to mine.

Staying at home would mean starvation, as the poppies in the fields don’t require much labor from the young and strong. The old and women can watch over the poppies as they grow.

All the men in the eleven families of Clegane's Keep are working at Silverhill, mining to support their families.

…

“What's the girl's name?” Gregor asked.

“Julie." Thomasson replied.

“How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“Has she gotten her first menstruation?”

“…Yes… milord…”

Having had her first menstruation means she’s a woman now. Thirteen years old is an acceptable marriage age in this world.

“Thomasson, do you know how to care for horses?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Good. You’ll take care of my horses. I’ll pay you twenty-one copper stars a month.”

“...As you wish, milord…”

Gregor nodded and turned to his scribe, Raff the Sweetling, executioner Dunsen, and his fanboy Polliver, giving one last glance at the Maester Harry, and thought, “I’ll catch Tyger Serrett, the Lord of Silverhill, and extort a few hundred gold dragons from him. But taking action over a poor girl from a peasant family isn’t quite right, and it wouldn’t earn old Tywin’s support. But does the deadliest scoundrel in the Seven Kingdoms need to make sense of anything? Just act.”

When nobles argue over commoners, if it’s a case of murder, for example, if a noble kills a commoner in another noble’s territory, compensation is usually about a few dozen gold dragons. This money isn’t for the victim’s family, but goes to the lord, who might then take a few more gold dragons from his coffers to comfort his people.

Though this violates the kingdom’s laws, commoners can still go to a major lord to complain and demand justice. Privately, nobles usually settle such disputes with money, an unspoken rule.

If a dispute arises between two nobles, as long as there’s no murder, they often resolve it with money behind the scenes. If one noble captures another’s kin, and it’s not a blood feud, they will usually demand ransom rather than death. This is a common practice in all of the Seven Kingdoms, not just the Westerlands.

Gregor is too poor, and he knows he needs to make money. To do so, capturing Tyger Serrett is the best way to earn from the Serrett family. Roughly speaking, three hundred gold dragons shouldn’t be a problem.

Three hundred gold dragons. A fortune.

By logic, Gregor, as a noble, shouldn’t be going to war with the Lord of Silverhill over a poor peasant girl like Julie.

Although Gregor is invincible, Serrett’s mine guards number in the thousands, and his family soldiers are even more numerous. If war breaks out, Serrett can quickly raise an army of three thousand or more.

The rich never lack manpower for war. Most of Serrett’s guards are mercenaries.

Moreover, Tyger Serrett has seven sons, all young knights with fierce temperaments.

If Gregor doesn’t rely on Tywin Lannister’s guard, plus his “Four Big Titans." he can only muster ten soldiers from his own estate at best.

Charging into battle with brute force was Gregor’s old way of doing things, brave but unthinking.

“Tonight, we move. We’ll attack Silverhill and capture Tyger Serrett." Gregor said calmly. “Thomasson, you take care of my horses. Raff the Sweetling, gather the men and sharpen the swords, daggers, and steel spikes, everything must be sharp. We leave tonight.”

This was more in line with Gregor’s character.

He doesn’t care about the noble rules. Kidnapping a little girl might be a serious crime, but the nobles don’t take such things too seriously.

This is a world of noble privilege, a society based on noble rights.

But Gregor knows he’s the deadliest villain in the Seven Kingdoms. Ruthless and violent, with a giant sword in his hand, he doesn’t need to reason with anyone. Besides, this time, he has a legitimate reason for his actions, supported by the laws of the land. Though noble customs may override legal statutes.

Raff the Sweetling and the other “Four Big Titans” grinned with excitement. Attacking Silverhill, extorting ransom, just what they loved.

Maester Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Tyger Serrett’s title is above Gregor’s. Gregor is only a knight, while Tyger is a lord. Moreover, Tyger helps Tywin Lannister defend the southern Goldroad and is an important ally of Tywin.

A poor girl from a peasant family, or a powerful southern noble like Tyger Serrett? Which is more important?

Thomasson, the old man, was startled. If Gregor kills Tyger Serrett, or if Gregor himself gets hurt, his entire family is doomed.

Tywin Lannister would certainly hold him responsible and have his entire family killed.

“...Please, milord... my daughter... she might come back in a few days... It’s my fault... milord...” Thomasson stammered.

“Thomasson, feed the horses now, or I’ll chop off your head first." Gregor barked, furious.

Thomasson trembled in fear.

Gregor glared at him.

The old man lowered his head, his face pale, not daring to speak further, and shakily went to tend to the horses.

“Milord, to save Julie, you could send someone with a letter to Lord Tyger. Once he receives your letter, he won’t dare refuse." Maester Harry said hesitantly.

This was also what Thomasson had hoped for in his heart.

With one letter from Gregor, he could get the girl back.

“Harry, tonight we will attack Silverhill. You’ll come too. We don’t have enough hands, and I’ll give you a sword!”

Chapter Text

Black stones, black roads, black trees, all Maester Harry could see were shades of black. Even the air seemed black.

He couldn’t see anything at all, only following the horse ahead. He couldn’t understand how the Mountain and his four killers were able to navigate the forest so well.

The Goldroad was fine, but once they turned off onto the narrow mountain trail, he completely lost his sense of direction, time, and even his ability to see.

Leading the way was the elderly Thomasson, serving as their guide.

Normally, one could follow the Goldroad directly to the Silverhill of the Serrett family, but Mountain had insisted Thomasson lead them first to the mine guards.

Thomasson had once been an old miner and knew the area well.

"Who’s there?" A booming voice suddenly called out from the darkness.

"It’s me, Old Stick!" Thomasson’s voice came calmly in response.

Maester Harry immediately huddled low on his horse’s back. He remembered a knight once telling him that this was the best way to avoid arrows in the dark.

"Old Stick?"

"Yes, I’ve come to deliver fine wine and food to Lord Alva."

"Oh, so early today?"

"Didn’t want your lord to wait too long." A familiar voice of the scribe interrupted, suddenly cheerfully laughing.

Before the words were even finished, Harry heard a short, sharp "ah!" as if someone’s throat had been sliced.

Harry felt himself shivering.

Looking around, everything was pitch black, and he couldn’t see what terrifying creatures might be lurking. A feeling of constant threat filled the air, though his well-trained horse kept moving steadily forward, following the horse ahead.

There were seven people in Gregor’s party, along with ten warhorses.

Warhorses were different from regular horses. They could fight, recognize paths, march through the night, carry heavy loads, and even climb rugged mountain trails. Gregor’s immense size meant he had three of the best warhorses, two carrying his armor and one for his massive sword and shield. In battle, the extra horses would be used to replace the others.

When they turned off the Goldroad onto the mountain pass leading to the mine guards, Gregor donned his armor and sword.

A faint, bloody scent hung in the air.

Has the scribe killed someone?

Harry couldn’t be sure if the unfortunate sentry had been killed.

If it had been just a conversation, they held the absolute advantage. But if people started dying, everything changed,, hey would be in the wrong.

But the Mountain was always the one in the right, and his right was his fists and sword. Except for Tywin Lannister, there was no one he feared.

Suddenly, a flicker of light appeared ahead, a row of small flames.

Without realizing it, they had crossed the mountain road and arrived in a flat area.

In front of them were rows of houses, the trees on either side of the road were gone, and the stars in the sky were visible as the clouds parted. Harry’s eyes could now make out objects a few meters ahead.

"Watch out for the mine shafts." Thomasson’s voice warned.

Along the sides of the narrow road, black, gaping mine shafts appeared, just beside the path.

The horses walked along the edges of the shafts, and Harry glanced down; pitch black and bottomless.

He heard small stones tumbling into the depths, but no echo came back for a long while.

He could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Luckily, they passed the treacherous "big mouths" of the mine shafts safely and reached an open area in front of the houses.

They dismounted, and the entire mine guard team was asleep.

Thomasson pointed to a door, and the Mountain strode forward, kicking the wooden door open with a loud crash.

Bang!

The noise startled the sleeping guards, and three sentries, who had been dozing by the fire, leapt to their feet.

They were met with the gleaming blades of swords pointed at their faces: Raff was grinning; Dunsen’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s; Polliver’s left hand trembled slightly with excitement, not fear; and the scribe’s face was full of cruel anticipation, his sword stained with blood.

Maester Harry clumsily drew his sword, the Mountain had ordered him to take part in the fight. He hesitated, trembling, as he stumbled forward, his shaky sword pointing toward the throat of one of the mercenaries.

He felt unsure, lowering the blade to the chest instead, then down again to the man’s stomach, his eyes flickering nervously.

"Don’t move…" he said in a voice full of nervous tension.

The Four Iron Fists laughed uproariously.

Bang!

A figure was hurled from the room.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The Mountain emerged like a beast, his massive sword drawn. The man on the ground, Lord Serrett was stunned by the impact, immediately recognized who it was.

"Ser Gregor!"

His voice was filled with fear.

More than a dozen guards, swords drawn, rushed out of the room but quickly stopped in their tracks. Inside the barracks, soldiers were scrambling to find shoes, armor, and weapons when they heard Lord Alva Serrett’s agonized scream: "Gregor!"

Everyone froze.

"Julie, where is she?" The Mountain roared, startling birds from nearby trees with their frantic flight.

Gregor’s massive boot landed squarely on Alva’s chest, his great sword pointing at his head.

Unexpectedly, a foul smell filled the air.

Alva Serrett, the youngest and most beloved son of Lord Tyger, the sharpshooter, had soiled himself in terror.

From that moment on, his knightly honor would be lost, slipping away like water flowing eastward.

In moments of extreme fear, the body loses control of certain muscles, resulting in involuntary accidents like this.

"...My lord... my lord..." Alva’s mind went blank, his chest crushed under the Mountain’s boot, unable to breathe. "…Julie… who is Julie?" His voice was weak.

The Mountain had a daughter?

No one had ever heard of such a thing.

The Four Iron Fists, nor Maester Harry, knew that Mountain had a daughter named Julie.

But Thomasson knew. By claiming Julie as his daughter, Gregor now had a rightful reason to attack the Serrett family, Julie had become a noblewoman.

Gregor had already decided before they left that Julie was his daughter. As for the exact nature of that daughter, he hadn’t figured that part out yet. In any case, Julie was no longer just a poor girl.

This was the art of manipulating the truth, or as it's commonly known, "peddling fake claims."

In the Seven Kingdoms, it was common for nobles to raise daughters or keep illegitimate children. So, no matter what the nature of Julie’s relationship to Gregor was, her status was now that of a noble. There were no DNA tests in this world, making it all the more convenient to fabricate the truth.

Back in Gregor’s homeland, it was like using a small piece of evidence to outsmart the entire Serrett family. Just like the tactics used by those who avoid helping the elderly in the streets, by throwing out accusations, creating falsehoods, making noise, or even using force to intimidate, Gregor had his own way of applying pressure.

"Ten days ago, your guard passed by my Clegane Keep and took away a girl from the poppy fields. Her name is Julie, and she’s my daughter." Gregor bellowed.

A/N: For updates, extras, and backlog chapters, check out my Linktree: https://linktr.ee/Vynthor
I crosspost this story, and a lot of chapters are already up on other sites. Not sure I can update daily here (w/o chapter scheduling really sucks).

Chapter Text

Gregor was fierce.

He didn’t need to raise his voice; just his name, the Mountain, was enough to intimidate Alva and his mining guards.

Aside from his ferocity, Gregor had another powerful backing, he was a trusted figure of Tywin Lannister: the sword in Tywin's hand.

Although Lord Tywin of the Westerlands did not grant the Clegane family large lands or wealth, he held two members of the family in high regard: Sandor "The Hound" Clegane and Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane.

Sandor served as Cersei Lannister’s personal guard at King's Landing, while Gregor stayed in Casterly Rock, serving as Tywin's general, handling multiple duties, one of which was protecting Tywin’s safety.

The Hound and The Mountain, the two fiercest dogs in the Lannister family, and they were very good at biting.

Through Gregor's eyes, seeing the world through the lens of a different civilization, it seemed dark and bloody.

Noblemen raping a poor girl from a peasant family was a trivial matter. Although the kingdom's laws considered rape a serious crime, the vast disparity between law and reality was widely accepted.

But if a poor man dared to steal from a noble family, say, a loaf of bread, he would either lose his hand or be sent to the Wall to become a Night’s Watchman.

This world’s “civilization” was really only for the privileged class, the nobles.

The soldiers of the Serrett family's mining guard often went down the mountain to visit the bustling port city of Lannisport (the largest city in the Westerlands), spending their last coin in the brothels before returning to the mountain.

The mining guard had three camps, and over a thousand soldiers, most of whom were mercenaries.

Mercenaries came from all over the world, not just the country, but the whole world. They came from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, and even from the Summer Islands, where the people’s skin was as dark as night.

In the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, every city, even the smallest villages, had brothels, which were legal and taxed.

For mercenaries, who were used to living on the edge, seeing a poor girl with a bit of beauty and taking her was no big deal.

Of course, if the girl was noble, then they wouldn’t dare.

Suddenly, last month, the poor girl they had captured was revealed to be none other than the daughter of the infamous Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

Being the daughter of a noble, this was serious. What made it worse was that her father was the Mountain himself.

The mercenaries in the mining guard were all hired to do a job. If they were asked to risk their lives for Alva and the Mountain, they wouldn’t go out of their way. The family soldiers dared not make a move either. Gregor’s name alone struck fear into everyone.

The Mountain was notorious across the Seven Kingdoms. His great sword was six feet long, longer than the height of a tall knight, and weighed several dozen pounds. It was aimed directly at Ser Alva’s head.

Alva could no longer speak.

The force of the Mountain's giant foot was enough to crush him like a rat.

Gregor was nearly three meters tall.

It had taken him a long time to adapt to this giant body that intimidated even himself. In his past life, just being two meters tall would have made him feel like a giant. Now, he has become nearly three meters tall.

In Earth civilization, the average height of a single story of a building was about three meters.

After the crossing, the once average-sized college student felt that his new body should have belonged to some kind of giant beast rather than a human.

Gregor lifted his giant foot. Alva could no longer move.

His breath was shallow, and his pupils were dilated.

"Bring my daughter here!" Gregor's voice boomed.

The family guards, shaking with fear, sent Ser Alva’s personal guards to find Julie. Meanwhile, some guards surrounded Gregor, though none dared to draw their swords. They silently watched Alva, who lay on the ground, fearing that the young knight might die right there.

A few figures quietly retreated from the disordered ranks of the mining guards. They slowly, cautiously, moved into the black shadows, clearly the ones responsible for capturing the "poor girl."

Gregor, towering over everyone, spotted them.

"Capture them!" He raised his sword, pointing at the sneaky figures.

Several knights immediately woke up and shouted orders. Soldiers drew their swords and ran towards them. The suspects immediately leapt out of the shadows and began to flee.

"Capture them!"

"Block the exit, quick!"

"Into the forest, into the forest."

Once comrades in arms, they now fought each other, the ones fleeing were criminals, and the ones chasing weren’t much better.

Master Harry approached Gregor’s side. He helped the barely-breathing Alva, noticing that the young knight's pupils were already spreading. The knight was dead, he wouldn’t last much longer.

Alva had been grabbed in his sleep, slammed into the ground, and Gregor’s roar like thunder had shaken him. The giant sword had fallen on him with terrifying force. The fear, compounded with Gregor's crushing foot on his chest, had exhausted him to the point of death.

He died of fear.

Harry felt a pang in his chest.

Although the soldiers surrounding them had not drawn their swords, Harry couldn’t shake the worry that if they knew Alva was dead, they might attack.

If they did, the first one to die would surely be him.

Harry adjusted Alva’s head, propped him up, and waved for the Raff to come over. Raff was the most astute of the four.

Raff approached, seeing Alva’s lifeless eyes. He knew immediately and felt a sudden dread. They had no problem killing mercenaries or the Serrett family’s guards, but killing Alva Serrett, a noble, was another matter.

"Alva, I’ll take you to Silverhill, to face your father, Tyger Serrett." Raff muttered angrily. He lifted Alva, draping the knight’s arm around his shoulder, and led him, as if they were brothers walking side by side. "Let’s go, get on the horse."

Gregor too realized something was wrong, a cold feeling sweeping over him. He knew his previous self would have killed a young knight without blinking, but now, in this body, something stopped him.

It was the first time he had killed someone himself!

The situation was spiraling out of control. He had never intended to kill Alva Serrett. He never expected the boy to be so fragile.

He had used little force when stepping on him. Was it the fall that killed him? Even then, he hadn’t exerted much force.

Amid the chaos, the soldiers who had fled were captured. Some were family soldiers, others mercenaries.

Julie was also brought over. The poor girl looked frail, her hair a mess, and she seemed like a starving beggar child.

Thomasson immediately stepped forward, embracing Julie and whispering, "Don’t speak, come with me."

But before they could leave, Alva’s family knight ordered swords to be drawn and pointed at Thomasson and Julie.

"Ser Gregor, you may take Miss Julie and the old soldier, as well as the criminals who harmed her, but please leave Ser Alva."

The clatter of sword blades rang out as hundreds of soldiers unsheathed their swords, surrounding Gregor and his four companions, including the Maester.

Chapter Text

A person who has no sense of reverence in their heart is not brave, they are foolish.

In a dark and bloody world, foolish people don’t live long, and no foolish person ever has a good end.

Gregor, however, held a deep respect for life and the rules; he was no longer the same Gregor as before.

The young knight, Alva Serrett, had unexpectedly died.

His captain, however, held Julie and his cavalryman, Thomasson, demanding an exchange for Alva.

Hundreds of soldiers from the garrison had drawn their swords.

They feared Gregor, but they were many in number.

Gregor was confident he could break through the encirclement on his own. After going through withdrawal and resting for an entire day, his energy had been mostly restored. But Thomasson, Julie, and the others, including Maester Harry and his four loyal subordinates, were in grave danger. Most of them would likely not survive.

Gregor’s original plan had been to capture Alva Serrett, bring him down the mountain, and go to Silverhill, where they would draw out Lord Tyger Serrett. Then, they would capture the Lord, take him to Clegane Keep, and negotiate a hefty ransom.

This was the common way nobles in the Seven Kingdoms resolved issues: kidnap and ransom.

There were rarely any murders between nobles.

The plan was perfect: rescue Julie and secure a large sum of gold dragons, a win-win.

But who would have known that the young hero, the renowned archer Alva Serrett, would be so fragile? He had been so frightened that he lost control of his bodily functions and died swiftly.

Gregor glanced at Maester Harry.

Harry nodded and whispered, “Alva was scared to death by the Lord.”

Gregor froze for a moment.

He thought back to the stories he had read before crossing over, about the Three Kingdoms in the ancient Chinese civilization, where Sun Ce, the "Little Tyrant." killed a general by squeezing his elbow on the battlefield, or killed another with a drink. Those stories, it seemed, were true.
Gregor himself hadn’t used much force. His roar, his swing of the great sword, had simply terrified Alva Serrett to death.

Now, they were demanding an exchange of hostages. What should he do?

Gregor could never allow himself to return as a powerless leader.

It was very difficult to cultivate and find truly loyal subordinates who had no personal interests.

“What is your name?” Gregor asked the captain in a cold tone, reminiscent of the ice of winter.
“…I’m Allen Serrett…” the captain said, pointing at Thomasson’s sword with a small motion.
It was a small detail, but the leader was afraid.

Allen Serrett, a branch of the Serrett family.

“Allen, you have two choices. Either you kill Julie and my cavalryman, or you give them to me, and I’ll take them away. I’ll give you ten breaths of time. Otherwise, I’ll kill Alva first, then kill you.” Gregor said flatly.

Gregor was the type who could say it and do it.

Maester Harry spoke up, “Allen, do you want to kill Alva and provoke a feud between the Clegane family and the Serrett family?”

This was a clever line.

As long as Allen didn’t release the hostages, Alva would be his doing.

The branch Serrett family relied on the main Serrett family for their livelihood.

“Three breaths have passed." the voice from Mark chuckled.

“Five breaths now!” Raff the Sweetling laughed.

Dunsen’s long sword was at Alva’s throat, his hand grabbing Alva’s brown hair. “Seven breaths, Lord Allen.”

“Ten breaths are up, kill Alva." Gregor said calmly.

“Yes, milord!” Dunsen’s voice was eager as he licked his tongue.

Gregor’s subordinates were just as notorious as he was.

“Alright, I’ll let you go down the mountain." Allen Serrett shouted.

His back was drenched in cold sweat, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

He lowered his sword, and the swords aimed at the cavalryman and the girl also lowered.The tense atmosphere instantly relaxed.

This was just a garrison camp at the mine. A few dozen miles away, there was another garrison camp. Several hundred swords couldn’t stop Gregor, but they could stop his soldiers.

Thomasson, holding Julie, quickly walked forward.

“Allen, are these the criminals who kidnapped my daughter?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Have they confessed?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Polliver, take them away.”

Five soldiers were brought forward, and without Gregor saying a word, they knelt down, begging for mercy, claiming they were willing to serve Gregor, work as servants, soldiers, or slaves, they were willing to do anything.

Gregor glanced at the girl.

In the civilization he had come from, a girl like her would have been considered an "innocent maiden." An innocent, inexperienced girl.

“Julie…”

The girl broke free from Thomasson’s embrace. She had already learned everything from his whispered words. She drew the short sword from Thomasson’s waist and faced Gregor.

“Father, may I deal with the beasts who harmed me?”

Gregor was slightly surprised. The girl’s words and courage took him by surprise.

A girl like her, kidnapped by strong soldiers and brought to the mountain, would have gone through terrible experiences, and Gregor knew all too well what that meant. Generally, such girls would be broken, their will to live shattered. They wouldn’t feel hatred, only fer, a fear worse than death.

Gregor nodded.

Under the gaze of hundreds of bright, shining eyes, the girl walked up to the five criminals who were kneeling. She ordered them all to stand up, and had Allen’s soldiers grab them.

This detail made Gregor feel that the girl was different from the rest.

Perhaps the people in this world had different genetic structures, where both men and women were more martial and stronger.

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you." Julie said through gritted teeth.

A young girl speaking through clenched teeth seemed absurd and unreal.

But no one laughed.

Julie’s short sword slashed through the first man’s trousers in one swift motion. A scream of pain echoed.

Gregor himself felt a chill down his spine.

Soon, five bodies were sprawled on the ground, writhing and howling in pain.

Julie, holding the short sword, walked up to the stunned Alva, staring at him in silence. “Alva, it was you who ordered my capture. I’ll leave you one cut.”

...

On the Goldroad, Maester Harry spoke cautiously: “My Lord, I suggest we return to Clegane Castle.”

Gregor only grunted, and Harry dared not speak further.

Raff the Sweetling and the deceased Alva rode together, holding Alva’s body to keep it from falling.

In the distance, Allen Serrett and more than ten family guards slowly followed.

Gregor and his group moved along the Goldroad at a steady pace, heading for Silverhill.

At dawn, the group of nine people and ten horses arrived at the base of Silverhill.

As the gate of the Westerland, Silverhill was magnificently built. Its towering stone walls, flanked by mountains and rivers, were nearly impossible to scale.

“Tyger Serrett, I’ve brought you back your knight, Alva Serrett." Gregor shouted, his voice carrying.

From the Silverhill, countless birds and small beasts scattered. Birds took flight, and small beasts hid.

Soon, the garrison appeared atop the walls.

The Silverhill garrison was made up entirely of Serrett family soldiers, far more loyal and battle-hardened than the mine garrison.

Maester Harry’s face turned ashen, his eyes furtively glancing at the others. Apart from Gregor’s four loyal subordinates, who seemed unconcerned, Thomasson also clenched his fists, nervously. What surprised Harry even more was that Julie, her hands covered in blood, was eerily calm. When their eyes met, Harry inexplicably felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

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Chapter Text

More and more guards appeared on the city walls.

These soldiers were better equipped than the ones at the mining camp; cloaks, armor, and weapons of visibly superior quality. Most of the mining camp guards lacked full suits of steel armor, instead relying on leather vests and mismatched greaves and bracers. Even decent helmets were a rarity there.

The city gates creaked open. A cavalry unit thundered out over the drawbridge, led by a broad-faced man with a bristle beard and long brown hair flowing to his shoulders. His eyes gleamed like stars, and behind him flew a banner: a proud peacock with its feathers fanned, vivid against a backdrop of creamy gold.

The peacock was the sigil of House Serrett. But to Gregor Clegane, it seemed oddly mismatched with their house words: Unmatched . A strutting peacock didn’t exactly scream dominance. Swords, axes, those were worthy symbols of invincibility.

Unmatched? The thought struck Gregor like a spark.

The Clegane family, though known for its brute strength, had no official house words. Their banner showed three black dogs, but beyond that, they had no motto. Why shouldn’t Unmatched belong to them instead?

If a family waving around a peacock could claim such a phrase, then a house bearing three war hounds certainly could.

Gregor, despite being a science and engineering student in his past life, had no shortage of literary pride. And Unmatched ... the word fit him. It echoed his strength, his towering skill in combat, and his superiority over this medieval world, which, by his reckoning, lagged several civilizations behind his own.

The lead rider reined in his horse, his expression a mix of tension and suspicion. “Ser Gregor." he said, “why are you holding my seventh brother prisoner?”

“He kidnapped my daughter Julie from Clegane Keep." Gregor growled, “and he and his five brothers raped her for over ten days. I demand justice. I want to see your father. Tyger Serrett, get out here! ”

His bellow cracked like thunder, echoing across the mountains: Get out! Out! Out!

This man was Ado Serrett, the eldest of Tyger Serrett’s seven sons and heir to the seat of Silverhill. Ado’s face changed dramatically. He’d never heard of Gregor having a daughter, but considering Gregor’s infamous behavior with women, it wouldn’t be surprising if he had a few illegitimate children scattered across the Westerlands.

He exchanged glances with his brothers. Each one looked shaken, their arrogance shattered.

This was a disaster.

Getting into a feud with the most brutal man in the Westerlands? The fact that Alva was still alive was a miracle in itself.

Ado glanced at his brother slumped on the horse, tied up like a criminal. Alva had clearly taken a beating and was wedged awkwardly between two riders, one of them grinning like a fool.

“If what you say is true, Ser Gregor, we will take full responsibility." Ado said cautiously. “Please, come inside. Let us host you. We’ll investigate and give you a fair and proper explanation.”

“You’re not worth talking to. Bring out your father.”

Ado clenched his jaw. Gregor had now demanded his father three times. “Ser Gregor, it’s not out of disrespect. My father isn’t in the castle.”

“Oh? Then where is he?”

“Hand of the King Jon Arryn has died suddenly. After the funeral, King Robert Baratheon summoned all his lords and advisors to accompany him north to Winterfell. My father received a summons from Lord Tywin Lannister and traveled to King’s Landing as the Westerlands’ representative.”

Gregor’s heart skipped a beat. So, the story had begun.

Jon Arryn, poisoned by his wife Lysa Tully at Littlefinger’s urging, had left a vacancy in the Small Council. Robert Baratheon, needing a new Hand, rode north to offer the position to his closest friend, Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

The Hand of the King wore a brooch in the shape of a golden hand, a symbol of his status as the king’s chief advisor and executor of royal power. The Hand’s role was vast: commanding armies, enacting justice, managing governance both foreign and domestic. When the king was ill or away, the Hand sat the Iron Throne as acting ruler.

In short, the Hand was the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

Eddard Stark was a man of unwavering honor, a quality that would cost him his life, and doom his family. He despised House Lannister and loathed Gregor Clegane.

Robert heading north. Ned heading south. The great war was beginning.

“Oh, so Lord Tyger isn’t here." Gregor said, tone cooling. “That means you’re in charge of Silverhill.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then take your damned brother and go. We’ll settle the rest of this between us, House Serrett owes me a debt.”

Ado blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected Gregor to hand over Alva so easily. His brothers looked equally stunned, then relieved.

They were nobles. They understood how these things worked. Gregor wanted gold.

The girl, thin, dirty, and dressed in rags, was clearly a nobody, likely one of Gregor’s many bastards. Her life or death meant little. The real issue was ransom.

House Serrett had plenty of wealth. The mines behind Silverhill stretched for leagues, overflowing with gold and silver. It wouldn’t be hard to buy peace.

“Thank you, Ser Gregor. Our family will repay this insult with due compensation." Ado said quickly. At his signal, two of his brothers rode up to take Alva.

Gregor swung his greatsword in warning. “Back off. You two aren’t worthy. Ado, you’re the heir. You come.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ado nudged his horse forward.

Gregor moved aside, then in one sudden motion, reached out and plucked Ado clean off the saddle as if lifting a child. He clamped his massive arm around Ado’s torso, bones cracked audibly under the pressure, and the man gasped, unable to breathe.

The Serrett brothers panicked. Blades were drawn, swords, spears, axes gleamed in the sunlight. Over a dozen guards unsheathed steel in unison, bloodlust in their eyes.

Gregor didn’t flinch. He raised his voice:

“You can have your precious Alva back. But Ado here, he comes with me to Clegane Keep. Prepare one thousand gold dragons for his ransom.”

With a rasp, Gregor unsheathed his greatsword and laid it across Ado’s neck.

“Stand aside… or I’ll take his head.”

Chapter Text

In life, eight or nine out of ten things rarely go as planned.

Gregor understood this all too well.

The first thing he tried to do after being transmigrated into this world as an ordinary university student was simple: save a commoner girl from his own territory and, while at it, extort a bit of money under a justifiable pretense to build a foundation for himself.

But in a night raid, he accidentally scared a noble youth, Alva Serrett, to death.

Such is the bitterness of life.

What’s done is done. If he didn’t want to pay with his own life, the only option was to crush any resistance head-on.

Fortunately, this world respects one other principle: power.

Back on Earth, in Huaguo, people also lived by this truth: might makes right, truth exists within the range of artillery.

Gregor’s greatsword was resting on Ado Serrett’s neck, not because he needed to, but to make a point. If he truly wanted Ado dead, he could have crushed the man like Sun Ce, the Little Conqueror from Romance of the Three Kingdoms , strangling him with a single arm.

He could’ve grabbed Ado by the legs and torn him in two like a rag doll.

But people respond better to visible threats, like a sword at the throat.

None of the guards behind him, nor the five Serrett brothers in front, dared to make a move.

Though Gregor had just recently quit his addiction and was still recovering his strength, it would’ve been easy for him to slaughter the lot of them, one strike per brother was all it would take.

“Don’t move. Save Alva first." Ado croaked, voice rasping.

That’s what a big brother should sound like.

Gregor gave a slight nod. Raff tossed Alva to the grassy roadside off the Goldroad. The body tumbled a few times and lay still, looking exactly like a corpse, because it was one.

“Alva’s yours. We’re leaving." Gregor said.

His group wasn’t exactly elite: a veteran cavalryman; a badly injured little girl; Polliver, wounded in the back and right hand, now forced to fight left-handed; Gregor himself, just one day into recovery; and Maester Harry, who could barely hold a sword.

The guards surrounding Alva gave way.

Maester Harry, Raff, and the rest turned their horses and withdrew swiftly, bringing their new hostage, Ado Serrett, with them.

Gregor remained in the rear, blocking pursuit with his massive warhorse and greatsword.

He looked like a giant on a pony, his feet nearly touching the ground.

Next to him lay the lifeless Alva in the grass.

No one dared approach the body.

Only after Gregor’s group disappeared around the bend did he finally turn away, snorting in contempt, and ride off.

The moment they were out of sight, Alva’s guards and brothers rushed forward, dismounted, and the second brother cradled the body. “Seventh Brother!”

Alva’s eyes were wide open, pupils dilated.

“Call the maester!” he barked. He glanced down the Goldroad, where Gregor had vanished into the forest bend.

The third brother leapt onto his horse and raced toward the castle. “Maester! Maester Miller!”

Ser Allen Serrett knelt by the body, checking breath and pulse. His voice cracked: “My lord, Alva is dead.”

He trembled. As Alva’s personal guard and distant cousin, Allen had sworn to protect him. His failure cut deep.

Shing!

A dagger slashed through the ropes binding Alva’s limbs. His arms and legs fell limp, lifeless.

“Alva…” the sixth brother choked up. “I swear I’ll avenge you.”

He mounted his horse and raised his axe, but was instantly restrained by the others. The fourth brother blocked his path.

“You’re no match for Gregor.”

“Move if you’re afraid to die!”

“What’s the point of dying for nothing? Alva’s already dead. We need the maester to confirm the cause and demand justice. Gregor must pay.”

“He’s not far. We can still catch him!” the sixth brother roared.

“Even if we kill him, how many of us will die? Maybe all of us. Don’t forget, Ado is still his hostage." the fourth said calmly.

“No strength, no courage, how will we ever kill Gregor?”

“Gregor is Tywin Lannister’s enforcer. We go to Casterly Rock. Let Lord Tywin decide.”

“Tywin will always protect his mad dog." the sixth brother sneered. “I’ll wager he’ll lock Gregor up for a few days, force an apology, and call it done.”

“Yes, Tywin will protect him, but we must accept that. Gregor is a brute and a villain. We won’t beat him with force. We need strategy." said the fourth brother, slowly.

“I’ll kill him." Allen Serrett said firmly. “I was Alva’s guard. I failed him. I will take Gregor down and avenge my lord.”

“How?” the fourth brother asked.

“A thousand gold dragons. One fine cask of wine. I’ll poison it. Drink with him. He won’t suspect a thing.”

“…That’s a good plan." the fourth said.

“You’ll die too!” shouted the sixth.

“My lord, Gregor must die, and someone must pay the price. He is Tywin’s war hound. If he dies without someone taking the blame, Tywin will unleash terrible vengeance. But I am just a distant cousin. My branch of the Serretts doesn’t even live in Silverhill. It will be easy to separate my act from the family.”

“I swore in the Sept of the Seven, when I became captain of Alva’s guards, that I’d give my life for him if necessary. If I die with Gregor, it will be my own vengeance, my oath fulfilled. It has nothing to do with the Serretts of Silverhill. But if any of you do it, Tywin will hold the entire family responsible. And we don’t have the strength to stand against him. Mishandling this could bring disaster.”

When Tywin was eighteen, he rose to power by wiping out two of the most powerful noble houses in the Westerlands. Their lands, rich with gold, now lie in ruins, overgrown and uninhabited, by Tywin’s decree. The famed song The Rains of Castamere tells of his ruthless campaign.

Tywin rules the Westerlands with an iron grip. No one dares challenge him.

“Very well. That’s the plan." the fourth brother said. “Allen, after you’re gone, I’ll ask Ado to take in your son as his squire. When the boy turns sixteen, House Serrett will knight him. Your parents, I’ll care for them. And if you don’t want your wife to remarry, no one will dare propose to her.”

“Thank you, my lord." Allen said solemnly.

Chapter Text

“My lord." Maester Harry said cautiously.

The steady clatter of hooves echoed as the group rode at a moderate pace. There were no signs of pursuit behind them.

Maester Harry slowed his horse to ride beside Ser Gregor, who was guarding the rear.

Gregor glanced sideways at him.

“If the Serrett family brings charges against you, my lord… have you thought of a countermeasure?”

Gregor asked, “Do you have a good one?”

“...I... if I may speak frankly…”

Gregor's scrutinizing gaze bore into the maester until Harry nervously turned his eyes forward.

Deceiving someone as intelligent as Tywin was no easy task.

In this world, still in the early stages of agrarian civilization, yet laced with supernatural forces, Gregor never felt truly secure.

Just think: in the North, there were wights, undead creatures akin to zombies, and the terrifying White Walkers, beings that seemed to embody ice itself. In the Ghost Forest, the Children of the Forest lived in hiding, alongside greenseers who could become three-eyed ravens and skinchangers capable of inhabiting the bodies of animals. The real giants in the Thenns stood four meters tall; beside them, Gregor himself would be dwarfed.

Soon, in Essos, across the narrow sea, dragons would return, three of them, spewing fire. The Red Priestess Melisandre, who could glimpse fragments of the future, would arrive at Dragonstone. In Braavos, the Faceless Men could change their faces and bodies at will, and in Lys, new and ever more deadly poisons were brewed and sold across the world.

Strange gods and unfamiliar beliefs filled the world, though most of the time, these gods never answered their followers' prayers.

In the end, people had no choice but to rely on themselves.

But what exactly did Gregor have to rely on?

If not for Tywin Lannister’s protection, the Serrett family would have already raised an army against tiny Clegane’s Keep. Gregor might be invincible in close combat, but what could he do against thousands of arrows? His armor and shield could protect him, but what about his horse? His followers and servants?

One year from now, the Seven Kingdoms would fall into civil war. Two years later, White Walkers and their undead would begin appearing en masse in the Ghost Forest. Four, maybe five years later, summer would end, snow would fall, and winter would come. Every humanoid lifeform, humans, animals, across Westeros would face a moment of survival or extinction.

Gregor wasn’t even sure he’d live long enough to see the White Walkers invade.

If he changed nothing, he would die in Aegon’s year 300, two years from now, at King Joffrey’s wedding, his life as a man coming to an end.

Fleeing Westeros might seem like an option. In Essos, he could become a sellsword. But that meant living among a rabble of foreign mercenaries who spent whatever they earned and drank themselves senseless, killing for nobles they’d never even met. No purpose. No future. No home. No faith. Just killing, arson, drinking, and sleeping.

For a single gold coin, he’d have to take on work he despised.

But it wasn’t time to flee just yet.

If he wasn’t going to run, then he needed an army, a force truly loyal to him. Just like the Serretts, who, at a single order, could field three thousand warriors ready to fight for their lord.

Gregor had never felt this urgent need for an army of his own.

He needed at least a thousand men.

Noble armies were usually made up of commoners from their lands; farmers, hunters, fishermen, craftsmen, dockworkers, miners, servants. When the lord issued a call to arms, they would set aside their tools, grab their weapons and armor, and march to war.

Most of them didn’t even own decent armor, and their weapons were poorly made.

Such levies were weak in battle, rarely trained, and couldn’t match professional sellswords.

That’s why great lords preferred hiring mercenaries. Unlike peasants, mercenaries trained year-round in swordplay, archery, and mounted combat. They were paid to bleed, to protect with violence, and their strength was honed through real combat. Compared to that, a hastily assembled force of farmers and fishermen simply didn’t measure up.

Yet mercenaries lacked something crucial, loyalty.

They fought for coins and had no real attachment to their employers. They were powerful, but not willing to die for you.

Household soldiers, on the other hand, possessed what sellswords didn’t, loyalty, sacrifice, unity, and honor.

Gregor’s own lands were too small. Even if he issued a call to arms, he might gather only a few miners to fight.

To form a true household force, he needed two things: money and freedom from Tywin Lannister’s service .

Ten gold dragons a month might seem like a fortune to a commoner, but to the nobles of the wealthy Westerlands, it was barely anything.

What Gregor earned in a month wasn’t enough to cover even three days of Tyrion Lannister’s spending in a brothel. The Imp could blow ten gold dragons in a day if he was in a good mood, and he might tip a prostitute with more than that.

Gregor needed a new way to make serious money.

How could one earn gold in the Westerlands?

Set up a small mercenary company to guard mines? Try his luck in the markets at Lannisport? Rob a gold mine in disguise? Hike taxes? Use knowledge from his previous life to invent something new?

His thoughts were in chaos.

...

Gregor silently looked up at the brilliant blue sky.

It was clear, the air was fresh, none of the gray smog from the world he came from. But there were also no smartphones, no internet, no machines. Every civilization had its own problems and dangers.

“Maester Harry, I need to write a letter to Lord Tywin.”

“Yes, my lord. What should I write?”

“Tell him my headaches are worsening, and I’ll need to rest at home for some time.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And mention that Alva Serrett abducted my daughter Julie and assaulted her in the Silverhill mining district.”

“Yes, my lord. And Alva’s... sudden death, shall we mention that as well?”

“Yes.”

“...How shall we describe it?”

“We went to retrieve my daughter from Alva. I captured him and gave him a slight toss, and he suffered a sudden heart attack and died.”

“Heart attack?”

“Yes, heart attack. Haven’t you learned about those from Grand Maester Pycelle?”

“...I... uh... I haven’t yet dissected... a corpse." Harry stammered, his face turning red.

Gregor wasn’t even sure if this world had the concept of heart disease.

“Just write it like this: Alva died suddenly of a heart condition. It was entirely accidental. After the incident, we returned his body to Silverhill. The Serretts responded with violence. We had no choice but to take Ado Serrett hostage and return to Clegane’s Keep, demanding an apology and compensation for the abduction and rape of my daughter Julie.”

“...Gregor… my lord… do you think Lord Tywin will believe this?”

“I don’t know. But write it anyway.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Chapter Text

The young girl rode ahead, then slowed down and separated from Raff and the others, waiting by the roadside for Gregor and Maester Harry.

Gregor silently kept his eye on the girl.

He forced himself not to think about what she had endured up in the mountains. If he had gone through something similar, especially as a young girl, it would have felt like the end of the world. Yet this girl, Julie, was as tough as the black stones of Silverhill.

As her lord, Gregor realized he had had no impression of this girl before, Julie had been just another face in the background.

“Father." the girl said.

Gregor felt a little awkward.

In his past life, he had been an unmarried student, dumped by his girlfriend, just an ordinary guy. Now he’d fused with Gregor’s soul and inherited Gregor’s body. Inherited his body , even the phrase felt strange, as if two men had shared some bizarre, cross-temporal relationship. It made him uncomfortable.

“Mm." Gregor grunted in reply.

“Father, kill me." the girl said.

“…What?” Gregor was stunned. “I’m not your father.”

Maester Harry was just as surprised. “Julie, address him properly, as ‘milord.’”

“Father, my lord, please kill me." she repeated.

Gregor suddenly felt a headache coming on. “I won’t kill you.”

“You won’t?”

“I won’t." Gregor said, firm this time.

Why should I kill you? You're the source of a whole storm of trouble, but I’m not the same Gregor as before.

“If Father won’t kill me, then I’m staying with you." she declared. She nudged her horse forward, casually forcing Maester Harry to fall behind, lining up her mount next to Gregor’s. It was a subtle move, proof she could ride and that she knew how to maneuver people.

Gregor looked down at her from above. Her blond hair was dry and thin, her chin sharp, her face narrow, eyes monolidded with amber irises, lips thin. There was no trace of childhood left in her features, only a calmness and composure far beyond her years.

She reminded Gregor of another northern girl: Arya Stark, that wild wolf pup of House Stark. If Julie had been born into a noble house, would she have become someone like Arya, or even more dangerous?

A phrase came to Gregor's mind: “Are lords and kings born any different from us?”

“Julie, have you trained with the sword?”

“No. But I’ve watched people use one.”

“Have you used a knife?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“To kill chickens, ducks, pigs, and goats. Killing people can’t be all that different.”

“You’re too young to be talking about killing." Gregor said, suddenly chilled.

Julie gave him a sideways glance. “Is the Mountain afraid of killing?”

Gregor gave a sheepish grunt. “You’re just a child.”

“I’m not a child. I’m a woman.” She turned to Maester Harry behind them. “Maester, once we get back to Clegane Keep, I want moon tea.”

Moon tea, a woman’s herbal remedy for terminating pregnancy.

Maester Harry stammered, “J-Julie… are you… pregnant?”

He was shocked by the girl’s calmness, or perhaps it was her complete lack of shame.

“I don’t know." she said matter-of-factly.

Gregor felt even more awkward.

Maybe he hadn’t rescued a little Arya Stark after all, but another young version of himself.

At Julie’s age, the original Gregor had already burned his brother Sandor’s face and snapped their father's neck in the woods.

None of us are normal, he thought.

Birds of a feather flock together. Was his reputation as Westeros’s most brutal killer only destined to draw similarly twisted people and events into his life?

Gregor didn’t know much about moon tea, only that it was used for abortions.

Up ahead, Raff the Sweetling was singing bawdy songs from Gregor’s previous life with the ever-cheerful Scribe. Their tunes were vulgar and shameless “The Lady’s Dinner." and others like it. Even Dunsen, who rarely sang, and the grunting Polliver joined in.

Aldo Serrett, their noble hostage riding in the middle, ended up humming along too, an odd smile on his stiff face.

Noble or common, it seemed men were men, shared a dirty song and they'd all get along.

Only the cavalryman Thomasson looked deeply worried and out of place.

…

Nightfall.

Maester Harry couldn’t settle his nerves.

Upon returning to Clegane Keep, they had sent off a raven, and it had returned. But there was no reply from Lord Tywin.

This made Harry anxious. He had no idea what Lord Tywin might have thought of the letter he had written.

Lord Tywin had placed him beside Gregor not only to treat his headaches, but also to serve as Tywin’s eyes and ears.

Clegane Keep was less than a hundred miles from Casterly Rock, and ravens flew fast.

At dinner, Ado Serrett was already laughing and joking with Raff the Sweetling, a testament to Raff’s charm. As for Julie, she had not returned home. She sat kneeling by Gregor’s side, cutting his meat, spreading honey on his bread, ladling bacon soup, pouring his wine, just like a dutiful daughter doting on her father.

Her real father, Thomasson, sat lower down the table. Julie never spoke to him.

That afternoon, Raff had taught her court manners. Dunsen, the executioner, had shown her how to hold a sword sideways. Ado Serrett had taught her archery. Gregor, meanwhile, had taken a long nap in his bedroom, not waking until Polliver came to summon him for dinner.

He needed the rest. After detoxing and traveling half the night and day, his body was drained.

Food in this world was plentiful, meats of all kinds were common. Hunting yielded delicacies unknown in his former life: wolf, bear, wild boar, and even shadow cats the size of tigers. But the meat was coarse. Seasonings were gritty and poorly refined. Even the salt was chunky and full of sand.

Despite being near the sea, everyone here used rock salt.

Gregor found himself missing the pure white iodized salt of his previous life; fine-grained, snow-like, and often packaged beautifully.

Maybe salt could become a profitable business’ refined, sand-free, bitter-free, packed like fine gifts to be sold to nobles.

It seemed doable. Salt here was bought loose from open salt pans, with workers standing barefoot in the brine. Both nobles and commoners measured salt with wooden scoops. Everything was bulk.

Refining it into snow-white crystals didn’t require chemistry, just a simple process of high-heat filtration, followed by cooling and crystallization. Sea salt could be boiled down as well.

But Gregor didn’t want salt to be his main business.

He wanted to mine, gold mines.

To be in the Westerlands and not think about mining gold? You’d have to be brain-dead.

But Gregor's own lands had neither gold nor silver mines.

His territory was pitifully small.

The Westerlands were rich in mountains, gold, and silver but every mountain had an owner.

Only two mining areas were currently abandoned: those once belonging to the exterminated noble houses of Castamere (House Reyne) and Tarbeck Hall (House Tarbeck). Their mines had been left untouched for thirty-eight years.

Chapter Text

To secretly mine, or even openly mine, gold, the first thing one needed was people. The second: money.

Gregor had neither.

But with enough money, people would come. So, at the root of it all, he needed wealth.

Gregor watched as Ado Serrett clinked tankards with Raff the Sweetling, arms slung over each other like old friends. Raff's silver tongue was something the nobles loved, Lord Tywin among them.

There was a saying in his past life’s homeland: “Flattery will get you everywhere.” That principle, he found, held true in this world as well.

The only hitch? Raff the Sweetling was a commoner.

But that didn’t matter to Gregor. He had already made up his mind to promote Raff, to put that gift of gab to good use in high society. If he was to build power and wealth, he needed someone like Raff working the room.

Back in his previous life, during a college internship selling insurance, the company manager often spoke about “salesmanship.” There were two levels: the lower was selling products; the higher, selling yourself .

Raff was a natural at the latter.

Gregor was a man of action. No hesitation. No delay. He was known as a villain, a brute, a monster. The upside of such a reputation? He didn’t have to care what anyone thought.

He rose from his seat, towering and broad, like a god of war made flesh.

“Thomasson. Bring me my sword.”

“Yes, milord." Thomasson answered with due reverence.

Everyone at the table froze. Shocked.

Ado Serrett turned pale.

He feared Gregor. Feared death. He looked to Raff with pleading eyes, hoping the man he’d just shared ribald jokes and bawdy songs with might speak up for him.

Thomasson returned, struggling under the weight of Gregor’s massive greatsword, longer than a man was tall.

Gregor took it in one hand as if it weighed nothing.

“Raff. Kneel.”

Raff ’s full name was Rafford, but most simply called him Raff. Like many commoners, he had no surname.

Raff rose and dropped to one knee.

“I hereby bestow upon you the honor of knighthood." Gregor declared. “Let Maester Harry and Ser Ado Serrett stand as witnesses.”

Raff was stunned, joy bursting in his chest like fireworks. He felt as if he might float right off the ground.

Maester Harry scrambled to his feet, rushing to fetch the prayer book. Knightings required a formal oath; long, ceremonious. Gregor hadn’t warned anyone, so Harry was entirely unprepared.

Ado Serrett, meanwhile, felt the blood rush back to his head. His spine was soaked in cold sweat. Relief flooded him.

Elsewhere around the hall, the executioner Dunsen, the quiet scribe Mark, and the ever-loyal Polliver all looked on with envy. Each had dreamed of being knighted by Ser Gregor, their idol. And more than anything, they hoped one day he would grant them a surname, Clegane.

All four of Gregor’s closest men had no surnames, no noble standing. Mark could do basic sums, but his literacy was still poor.

…

In this world, there was no multiplication table like in Gregor’s past life. Instead, calculations were done through a strange method of intersecting lines.

For example: 11 × 11.

You’d draw two vertical lines for the multiplier’s tens and ones, then two horizontal lines for the multiplicand. Count the intersecting dots, bottom right for ones, the sum of top right and bottom left for tens, and top left for hundreds. The result: 121.

With his modern scientific education, Gregor held a huge intellectual edge over the Maesters of this world. In Oldtown’s Citadel, he could easily earn himself a chain as a maester.

Math. Mechanics. Physics. Chemistry. Poetry. Storytelling, he could dominate them all.

…

In front of the gathered men, Gregor laid his greatsword across Raff’s shoulder.

He spoke a line of the knight’s oath.

Raff repeated.

Again. And again.

When the final vow was spoken, Gregor tapped the blade gently on Raff’s right and left shoulder, then raised it above his head.

“Rise, Ser Rafford Clegane.”

Raff froze. Stunned.

He had been granted the Clegane name.

Dunsen, Mark, and Polliver were thunderstruck. Jealous beyond words.

Not only had Gregor knighted Raff, he had also given him his surname. That was the greatest honor of all.

Raff, usually so glib, was speechless. But inside, he was ablaze with joy.

For this name, for this glory, he would die for Gregor a hundred times over, willingly.

“Congratulations, Ser Raff." said Ado Serrett, clapping.

Maester Harry, Julie, Thomasson, Dunsen, Mark, and Polliver all joined in, applauding the newly-dubbed Ser Raff Clegane.

Like Ado, Raff was now a knight. The difference? Raff was a landless knight; Ado held property.

…

The higher the rank of the person doing the knighting, the greater the honor for the knight.

Gregor himself had been knighted by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of the former dynasty, a distinction orchestrated by Lord Tywin Lannister himself.

Outside of a king, there was no one more prestigious.

Just a year later, Rhaegar was slain by Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident. Tywin, ever the pragmatist, chose the winning side.

He led the armies of the West in feigned surrender to King Aerys. Then, to help Robert establish a new and “righteous” regime, Tywin allowed Gregor to handle the dirty work.

Gregor murdered Rhaegar’s infant son. He raped and killed the prince’s wife.

Tywin had passed on the chance to knight Gregor himself, letting Rhaegar do it instead, proof of how much he valued his rabid dog.

…

Now, Raff’s face flushed, the veins on his neck bulging. The words he spoke trembled with emotion.

“My Ser Gregor, I, Raff the Sweetling, once again swear upon the Seven, upon the old gods and the new:

No matter what trials lie ahead, no matter how strong the enemies we face, even if the Silverhills crumble or the Sunset Sea dries to dust, my loyalty to you will never waver.

In your darkest hour, I will not hesitate to give my life for you.”

Chapter Text

“Rafford Clegane, my sworn knight." Gregor said solemnly, “I swear to you, there will always be a place for you by my heart. We will share food and drink at the same table. I will never force you to do anything you do not wish to do. From this day forth, you are one of the Clegane family. We live together, and we die together.”

He had made a slight revision to the oath that Maester Harry had just recited. The original phrase, “I will never compel you to act unjustly." had been altered to, “I will never compel you to do anything you do not wish to do.” For a man who intended to carve his path through the world by embracing the darker side of power, the word “unjust” struck a nerve. It sounded judgmental, naïve even. Gregor, unlike most, had already seen the shadows of this world for what they were. He judged not the morality of means, only the clarity of purpose and the success of the result.

The phrase “we live together, and we die together” wasn’t part of the traditional oath either. Gregor had added it himself. He would raise a brotherhood of death-bound knights. Raff was the first, but he would not be the last.

For any noble to utter such words to a subordinate was unheard of. In the rigid, hierarchical society of Westeros, nobles and their retainers existed in clearly stratified spheres. “Live and die together” was the kind of sentiment only a madwoman like Arya Stark of the North might have shown, befriending a butcher’s boy, attacking Prince Joffrey for him, and triggering a chain of events that led to the death of her friend and her sister Sansa’s direwolf.

So when Gregor spoke those words, it stunned everyone.

Ser Ado Serrett looked uneasy. Gregor was becoming more and more unfamiliar to him, no longer just bloodthirsty, but now willing to lower himself and speak as equals with common-born knights. To him, this was a disgrace to noble dignity.

Maester Harry was even more shocked. Gregor’s recent behavior, raiding at night, returning Alva’s body, arresting Ado, writing to Lord Tywin, and now knighting Raff, was not the behavior of a brute, but of a cunning man. Judging by the teary look in Raff’s eyes, Harry thought Gregor could ask the man to die a hundred deaths, and he’d do so gladly.

Raff was already overwhelmed. Tears shimmered in his eyes. Anyone could see the emotion surging through him. To be knighted, granted the Clegane name, he was completely undone.

To Maester Harry’s cool eyes, the man known as the smiling devil who killed without blinking now looked more like a child who’d just been given candy.

Polliver’s mouth hung open, his round eyes fixed on Gregor. His splinted right hand was frozen in the air, and even his fork was suspended in mid-motion. He too longed for a knighthood, for the Clegane name, and most of all, for those words: we live and die together . For that alone, he would give anything.

To a fanatical follower like Polliver, Gregor wasn’t just a lord, he was a god.

Gregor continued, “Ser Raff Clegane, remember our family’s motto.”

“A family motto, my lord?” Raff exclaimed, wide-eyed. “We have a family motto now?!”

He knew perfectly well that House Clegane had never had a motto. In fact, none of the three generations of Clegane knights had ever been literate enough to come up with one.

Even Maester Harry was caught off guard.

Gregor, a notorious illiterate, creating a family motto? Normally, such things were either composed by well-read lords or commissioned at great expense from archmaesters. For Gregor to invent his own… it was extraordinary. Unnatural, even.

Julie, the girl;Thomasson; Ado Serrett; the executioner Dunsen; the note-keeper Mark; and diehard fan Polliver, all stared blankly at Gregor.

Only Maester Harry remained skeptical and watchful.

“ Unrivaled! ” Gregor declared. “That is the motto of House Clegane, Unrivaled. ”

The name struck like thunder in Ado Serrett’s head. He couldn’t contain himself. Rage burst from within as he leapt to his feet. “Ser Gregor! Unrivaled is the motto of House Serrett!”

“You don’t deserve it." Gregor replied coldly. “Only House Clegane is worthy of such words. As for your House Serrett… that preening peacock you use for a sigil suits you far better.”

“I will, ” Ado shouted, but the rest of the sentence, likely a challenge to a duel, never made it out. His body burned with shame, his breath caught in his throat, but he lacked the courage to die for his honor.

Raff stood, patting Ado’s shoulder, and raised a cup with a smile. “Don’t be angry, Lord Ado. You can still use Unrivaled for your family motto. We will too. But… I’m afraid yours might become a bit of a laughingstock among the nobility. Your house has coins, hire a new archmaester and find another one. No shame in it. Now, come on, let’s toast to my joining House Clegane!”

Raff  Raff never insulted people. He killed with a smile, his words like honey, his heart full of blades.

Maester Harry couldn’t help but chuckle. So, Gregor had simply stolen the Serrett family’s motto. It fit his bandit logic perfectly. Once word spread that House Clegane claimed Unrivaled , House Serrett would be ruined in reputation. And when it came to martial prowess, none could deny that Gregor Clegane was the most fearsome in the Westerlands, perhaps in all Seven Kingdoms.

Still, this would deepen the already-burning feud between the Cleganes and the Serretts, fanned further by the death of Alva.

But that, too, was Gregor’s nature. A brute stays a brute, even when he’s playing the wise man. Even his family motto had to be taken by force.

…

“Father." said Julie sweetly, pouring Gregor a drink and placing a piece of honeyed bread on his plate, his portion always several times larger than anyone else's. “You said you wouldn’t kill me, right?”

Gregor glanced sideways at the girl, suddenly uneasy. Not that anyone could see it, he wore his expression like a mask.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t know what she might say next.

“Ser Raff Clegane, when you go to Lannisport tomorrow to have our new family crest forged, could you have one made for me too? I want a small one, in silver, a brooch.”

Raff glanced at Gregor’s face, which had gone faintly stiff, and smiled. “Of course, Julie.”

But Gregor felt a chill run down his spine. After the Serrett incident, Raff would surely kill Julie. The sweeter he smiled, the more ruthlessly he’d strike. And he’d do it silently, cleanly, without leaving a trace.

Julie wasn’t Gregor’s daughter, nor his bastard. Raff knew that. He had seen the awkwardness on his lord’s face. Naturally, Raff would take care of the "problem" without being told.

To silently kill and dispose of a little girl was, to Raff, a satisfying chore.

But Gregor didn’t want Julie to die, not yet. The girl had done nothing wrong.

He could command Raff not to touch her. Or… perhaps he’d just protect her for now. Who knew what the future held? One step at a time.

“Raff, make Julie’s brooch in gold." Gregor said. He glanced at her hay-strewn hair and tattered clothes. “And take her for a haircut. Buy her some decent clothes.”

“Yes, milord.” Raff’s smile faded slightly. He shrugged. With only a few copper coins left, he’d have to rely on the Clegane name and the sword at his hip to buy on credit.

“Maester Harry, if you’re willing, start teaching Julie to read tomorrow. Teach her noble etiquette, the mottos and sigils of the great houses, and everything else she’ll need to know.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Lord Ado Serrett." Gregor said, “Julie is now my foster daughter. Her name is Julie Clegane.”

Ado’s face went white.

Thomasson slowly unclenched his grip on his fork. He glanced at Gregor, a flash of deep gratitude in his eyes, before bowing his head and gulping down his bacon soup.

Chapter Text

Gregor watched as Thomasson slurped down his bacon soup with great relish. The sight stirred something in him.

His vassal, Thomasson, had endured far too many hard days.

And so had the rest of his people.

Gregor himself only ate until he was half full. The more he ate, the more he realized that, aside from the bread spread with honey, the soups and meats tasted coarser and blander than they had the day before.

Yet everyone else seemed to be enjoying the meal.

Even a nobleman of high rank like Ado Serrett was eating with greasy lips and obvious delight. His plate was piled high with roasted and boiled meats.

Yesterday, after Gregor quit his opium addiction, everything he ate tasted like the finest delicacy on Earth. Now, he understood the truth: it hadn’t been that the food was especially good, it was just that he had been starving.

The meats, including hunted boar and bear, were served in chunks so large that the salt hadn’t properly penetrated the flesh. The roasts were tolerable, but the boiled meats had been cooked too long, leaving them tough and dry. Worse, there wasn’t even a dipping sauce prepared, something that should have been standard.

In this world, people didn’t eat boiled meats with dipping sauces. And aside from small knives and forks, there were no chopsticks.

Compared to the culinary refinement and rich flavors of Earth, this world’s food culture was crude and undeveloped. After all, the agrarian, pre-industrial society of this world was multiple civilizations behind Earth’s digital, high-tech era.

Gregor glanced around the large wooden dining table: no MSG, no garlic, ginger, or cilantro. No soy sauce or vinegar. 

Salt was still the king of flavor, if there was decent salt, boiled meat dipped in it could still be passable. But here, even the salt was coarse and gritty, with hints of bitterness, clear signs of poor refinement.

Gregor looked beyond the stone castle gates into the darkness. He heard frogs, insects, and saw a few fireflies flickering in the night, but no electric lights, no streets, no cars. He had no phone at hand, no computer in the room.

What a primitive society.

He found himself missing the “four new great inventions” of modern society: high-speed rail, mobile payments, online shopping, and shared bikes.

Thinking of those brought to mind the original four: the compass (easy enough to make middle school science level), printing, papermaking, and gunpowder.

A compass could help him escape. Gunpowder could be used for mining or for war. But as for papermaking and printing, with the White Walkers soon to descend upon the Seven Kingdoms and humanity’s days possibly numbered, Gregor had no time to waste on making paper.

Whatever he hoped to achieve here, it would all start with mining, gold mining. And then, minting gold dragons in secret. With the realm about to plunge into chaos, and Lord Petyr Baelish soon to disappear from King’s Landing, the laws forbidding private minting would become meaningless. It would be the worst of times, but the perfect time to mint his own currency.

No one in this world had thought of printing counterfeit coins yet. Gregor would be the first. In business terms, it was a blue ocean market .

Black cat or white cat, if it catches mice, it's a good cat.

Gold dragons, now that was real power.

As a man from an advanced civilization, how could he be content serving as a mere dog to a minor lord with less than thirty thousand troops?

By his estimate, the Westerlands were no bigger than a single ordinary city in the modern world. The entire Seven Kingdoms stretched only a few thousand miles from north to south, and their combined military might barely reached 300,000 soldiers.

Gregor remembered ancient history; feudal lords battling for supremacy, dynasties rising and falling, armies of hundreds of thousands clashing, brilliant tactics and brave generals, strategists commanding victory from afar. Great warriors who could cut down enemy generals amidst a sea of soldiers; brilliant minds who turned the tide of war from behind the scenes.

In ancient civilization, a powerful lord could summon thousands of household troops just for a brawl. Raising an army of over 100,000 was nothing special.

But here, a lord with a thousand soldiers was already considered powerful. Even the wealthy Serrett family, flush with gold and silver mines, only maintained 2,000 warriors in peacetime, and could at best summon 3,000 in times of war. That made them the most militarily formidable among the Westerland nobles.

Gregor himself, famed for his martial prowess across the Seven Kingdoms, ruled a tiny fiefdom with just eleven households.

He had made up his mind: he would forge his own path and change the fate laid before him. If the world survived the coming threat of the White Walkers, then he would make the flower of civilization bloom here. If not, he would take his gold dragons, cross the Narrow Sea, and head eastward without looking back.

…

That morning, a squad of cavalry approached along the Goldroad. Leading them was Allen Serrett, captain of the personal guard to Alva Serrett, who had died of fright at Gregor’s hands. At his side rode the standard bearer, gripping a tall flagpole bearing the Serrett sigil: a resplendent peacock with its tail fully fanned, representing House Serrett of Silverhill.

From afar, Polliver spotted the flag from the rooftop of Clegane Keep.

“They’re here! Scribe, the Serretts are here!” he shouted.

Scribe, who was watching Dunsen teach Julie sword footwork in the courtyard, immediately leapt onto a horse. “How many?”

“About thirty." Polliver called back.

Scribe turned to the steps and yelled, “Notify Ser Gregor, Serrett has arrived!”

Raff Clegane waved him off, and Scribe galloped out of the courtyard to assess the situation.

Dunsen stopped training Julie, rushed inside, dropped his training sword, and began donning armor. He strapped on his sword belt, checked his daggers, steel pins, and short blades, then slung on his longsword and made for the main hall.

Gregor was already inside. On the wall hung his fearsome greatsword, a massive oak shield, and heavy plate armor. Raff and Thomasson were helping him into his armor.

Julie Clegane ran in, lifting her skirts, her training sword replaced by a short blade. Gregor noticed the hem of her dress was dragging along the ground.

He scowled. His armor was a nightmare to put on, his massive frame required the plates to be fastened piece by piece, front and back, with at least two people assisting. The backplate and shoulder armor were especially difficult to manage without help. If he were ambushed, there would be no time to suit up.

There was no helping it. In this era of cold steel, armor was the equivalent of a bulletproof vest. As inconvenient as it was, it had to be worn for safety.

Julie’s outfit, however, could be redesigned. He imagined it transformed into something more like the fitted pants of modern martial attire. No more dragging skirts, no more decorative sashes, just a practical belt capable of holding multiple weapons.

Her sleeves were also too wide, an obstacle in swordplay. If she had tight sleeves with buttoned cuffs at the wrist, it would improve her sword speed and reduce resistance.

Yes, Gregor thought, he would design a proper training outfit for Julie: snug-fitting, efficient, tailored for movement. No more long sleeves or flowing skirts. She would wear flexible tops and wide-crotched tight-fitting pants, like a modern-style riding jacket. In fact, this world didn’t even have riding jackets yet.

Gregor stared at Julie, now picturing her wearing his sleek, modernized martial uniform. In his mind’s eye, she was clean-cut and precise, every move unencumbered by fabric or flair. Her footwork crisp, her posture agile, her movements efficient and free.

Julie suddenly lunged, pointing her short sword at Gregor’s eyes.

“Hey! What are you staring at?” she snapped.

Thomasson and Raff both jumped in alarm.

They feared Gregor’s wrath.

But Gregor remained expressionless. He didn’t understand it, why wasn’t Julie afraid of him, the infamous ‘The Mountain’? He suspected it had something to do with what she had endured. Perhaps her spirit and soul had already died several times over.

Maybe she simply wasn’t afraid of death anymore, or maybe she believed she was already dead. Being alive now was already a bonus.

Either way, Julie was no ordinary girl.

Gregor wouldn’t allow this girl to walk all over him. In a cold, commanding voice, he said, “Julie! Dunsen! Bring Ser Ado Serrett up from the dungeon.”

“Yes, my lord." they replied in unison.

Dunsen led the way, Julie followed. As they stepped out the main gate, Julie glanced back and winked her right eye at Gregor.

Chapter Text

“Ser Gregor, as per your instructions, we’ve brought one thousand gold dragons." said Allen Serrett.

Two soldiers from the Serrett family opened a chest, revealing a dazzling pile of glittering gold coins.

Raff the Sweetling grinned with satisfaction.

Scribe licked his lips.

Dunsen’s hand went to his sword hilt, and Polliver’s eyes went wide.

Julie managed to stay composed, but cavalryman Thomasson nearly fell headfirst into the chest of gold.

Maester Harry was inwardly shocked. That much money? That didn’t seem like the Serrett family.

Gregor did a quick mental calculation: a thousand gold dragons was roughly equivalent to ten million on Earth.

For a great noble house, it wasn’t an astronomical sum, but still far beyond the usual price for a hostage.

Typically, ransom for someone of this status would be in the range of three to five hundred gold dragons.

But here they were, offering a full thousand despite already losing Arva Serrett. That struck Gregor as odd.

In his past life, Gregor hadn’t been a business mogul, but he’d haggled in his share of street markets. The first offer was never final, it was just the opening gambit, meant to be slashed in half before settling.

Yet the Serretts hadn’t bargained at all.

They had accepted Gregor’s asking price without complaint.

No proper merchant dealt like this.

Even if the Serretts were wealthy, this wasn't how deals were done, especially after losing one of their own and gaining a blood feud in return.

Something didn’t add up.

Fully armed and clad in armor, Gregor wore a massive flat-topped helm crowned with an iron fist jutting toward the sky. It looked imposing, but was completely impractical. He made a mental note to have the iron fist removed later. Shedding a bit of weight was always a good idea, every ounce counted.

His visor was also thick, designed to stop arrows, with only a narrow slit for vision and tiny holes for breathing.

In this world, metalworking was highly advanced. The smiths were skilled in crafting from gold, silver, copper, and iron, producing beautiful decorations, armor, and coins, all with superior craftsmanship that often surpassed Earth’s. Their glasswork, too, was refined, used to make exquisite ornaments. With such solid foundations, Gregor hoped to someday create a few items of his own design.

…

Gregor’s expression remained unreadable. If the Serretts were willing to pay one thousand dragons without even attempting to negotiate, it likely meant they were already planning revenge. After all, when a man is doomed to die, it makes no difference whether he costs one coin or a thousand. Why make it harder than it had to be?

Still, Gregor stayed cautious. Fully armored and carrying his greatsword, he remained on guard in case the Serretts tried anything sudden.

He glanced at the gate.

The cavalry Allen Serrett had brought were still waiting outside, Gregor hadn’t let them into the courtyard. Only the two guards who had carried the chest were allowed in.

“My lord, would you like to count the gold dragons?” Allen asked respectfully.

Count them?

Gregor recalled those movie scenes from his previous life where people would bite gold coins to check their authenticity. But what if someone had smeared poison on the gold…?

It’s good to be wary of others, even if you mean them no harm.

“No need to count." Gregor said. “Dunsen, Thomasson, take the chest inside.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A thousand dragons weighed around a hundred pounds.

Dunsen and Thomasson carried the chest into Gregor’s bedroom and locked the door behind them.

They were suddenly very rich.

One thousand gold dragons. Ha! Hahaha!

Raff no longer needed credit to have the family crest forged in Lannisport. He could afford to have it made from solid gold.

Tonight, the high-class brothels of Lannisport would welcome their favorite patrons, the Rhoynish courtesans would be busy indeed.

With money in their pockets, drinking, feasting, and brothel-hopping were the top three pleasures of Gregor and his men.

“My lord." Allen said with a courteous smile, “you’ve taken the gold. Would you now return Ser Ado to us?”

Gregor nodded.

His eyes, behind the narrow slit of his visor, were calm and calculating as he stared at Allen.

If they were planning anything, it would happen after Ado Serrett was released.

Ado wasn’t just anyone, he was the eldest son of Lord Tyger Serrett, heir to the Serrett family.

True, the small group with Allen, even with the thirty-odd swords waiting outside, was no match for Gregor’s forces. But who knew what might be hiding just beyond the Silverhills?

Gregor’s caution now far exceeded that of his former self.

The old Gregor wouldn’t have bothered with armor on his own turf, at Clegane Keep. With his greatsword in hand, he’d feared no one, not even wounds.

But this new Gregor, with a past life’s memories, thought differently. What if they used poison-tipped arrows?

The scene of Gregor being tortured by the Viper’s poison in Game of Thrones was still vivid in his memory.

Better safe than sorry.

In this world of intrigue and betrayal, of darkness and fire, Gregor trusted criminals more than nobles.

Julie stepped forward and cut Ado’s bonds. He thanked her briefly, then marched straight toward Allen, not looking back.

He was angry, furious, in fact. His brothers had acted recklessly. Why pay a thousand gold dragons for him? Five hundred would have sufficed!

Without another word, Ado Serrett mounted his horse and rode out of the courtyard. Gregor said nothing either.

Now that the hostage was gone, the Serrett’s could openly declare war on Gregor. But they had to consider the consequences. If they angered him, Gregor might burn Silverhill to the ground and kill every last Serrett.

Allen turned to Gregor with a polite smile and said, “Bring in the Arbor wine.”

Arbor wine was this world’s finest vintage, the Rolls-Royce of wines, in Gregor’s eyes.

Raff the Sweetling chuckled. “Serrett, why didn’t you bring the wine in with the gold, to show proper respect to Ser Gregor?”

Allen laughed. “Raff, what if Ser Gregor had taken the gold but refused to give back Ser Ado? We would’ve had to carry the wine back.”

“But now that the money’s been taken and the man returned, you’re willing to give us the wine?”

“Exactly!”

Several barrels of Arbor wine were brought in.

The wine came in large, round-bellied wooden casks. Each barrel was painted blue and adoned with a cluster of deep purple grapes, the sigil of House Redwyne from the Arbor. It served as the authentic mark of genuine Arbor wine, like a trademark from Earth.

Gregor and the others all swallowed unconsciously.

This was the finest wine in the world, Arbor wine, shipped across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities and even farther to the mysterious lands of the East.

As soon as the casks were set down, Raff the Sweetling, Executioner Dunsen, Scribe Mark, and Polliver rushed forward.

The wine was even more enticing than the chest of gold dragons.

“These two barrels are red wine, and those two." Allen said, patting the barrels, “are rare golden wine, a gift from the Serrett family.”

Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads.

Even Maester Harry’s lips moved slightly.

Everyone had tasted the red Arbor wine before, but golden wine was another story, rarer, more expensive, and reserved only for the high nobility.

They had all heard of golden Arbor wine, but few had ever had the chance to taste it.

Gregor’s crew were legends in the brothels and heroes of the bottle.

Polliver licked his lips and looked at Ser Gregor. “M-milord… can we…?”

“Take it inside. Bring the cups." Gregor said.

Chapter Text

Four barrels of Arbor wine were carried into the dining hall.

The castle’s only cook and sole house servant quickly arrived, drawn by the news.

As the seals on the barrels were pried open, a rich, sweet aroma of wine filled the room. The liquid inside gleamed clear and golden, like molten sunshine; pure and radiant, as if it were gold in liquid form.

Raff the Sweetling quickly replaced the lid. “Ser Gregor hasn’t arrived yet. The first cup must be his.”

“Of course, Ser." Polliver replied, eyeing the barrels with envy, swallowing hard. He still admired Raff’s rise to knighthood.

Maester Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Golden Arbor wine should be served in wooden cups. I once heard Grand Maester Pycelle say that the proper way to drink it is with goblets carved from the very vines that bear the golden grapes, it brings out the wine’s full essence. Red Arbor wine is fine in glass, but for the golden vintage, wood is essential.”

“We don’t have wooden cups." Raff the Sweetling said.

“Should we swirl it first?” Dunsen asked the maester.

“Yes, a light swirl. Just look at that color, it’s like golden honey." Raff said, clearly enamored.

At the base of each round wine barrel were three small spigots, each set at a different height. These weren’t merely decorative, they were designed to control the wine’s flow based on pressure. Opening the lowest spigot first would cause the wine to pour too fast, even splatter. But releasing the tapes from top to bottom allowed the wine to flow smoothly and gently. Only premium Arbor wine used this kind of refined design. Elsewhere, a barrel usually had just one tap.

…

In the Courtyard

Allen Serrett gave Ser Gregor a respectful bow. “Ser Gregor, please enjoy the wine. We’ll take our leave now.”

“Ado Serrett has already gone." Gregor replied coldly.

As soon as Ado had left the courtyard, he’d mounted his horse, and the sound of hooves echoed as the Serrett riders swiftly departed Clegane Keep.

“Yes, my lord. Ser Ado has departed. We’ll be off too. Farewell." Allen said, already turning away. His four wine Pycelles followed closely.

“You’re not leaving, Allen." Gregor said quietly, resting his hand on the hilt of his greatsword.

He hadn’t asked him to stay, he’d told him he couldn’t leave. It wasn’t a suggestion, but a command. Gregor had always ruled with a heavy hand.

Allen paused mid-step, turning slowly. “Ser Gregor, is there something else you require?”

“I’d like you to share a drink with me." Gregor said.

From the beginning, Gregor hadn’t trusted Allen in the slightest.
He believed in criminals more than he did in noblemen. That was one of his few unwavering principles.

“Gladly." Allen replied with a smile, as though he’d been waiting for just such an invitation.

Gregor watched him closely through the narrow slit in his visor. Allen’s expression seemed genuine, his eyes clear. No sign of treachery.

“Your four men should join us as well." Gregor added.

“Thank you, milord!” the four Pycelles replied in unison, their faces lighting up in delight.

The contrast was revealing. The Pycelles were clearly thrilled, while Allen wore only a polite, practiced smile.

As captain of Alva’s guard, Allen had likely never tasted golden Arbor wine before, it was a drink reserved for highborns. Only the lord himself or his close family would have access to such a rare vintage. Any man would be overjoyed to drink it.

Allen’s smile rang hollow. But Gregor couldn’t draw conclusions from that alone. Perhaps Allen had tasted it before, maybe after some distinguished service, or if Ser Alva had offered him a sip. Or perhaps he simply loathed Gregor, and the idea of sharing a drink repulsed him.

Gregor led Allen and the four Serrett guards into the dining hall. On the long narrow table sat one round-bellied barrel. The other three had already been taken to the kitchen cellar.

Every home in the Seven Kingdoms had a cellar. When winter came, and it always did, it could last two or ten years. During summer, a family had to prepare enough food to last a decade. That’s what the kitchen cellar was for. In noble houses, the underground storage was sometimes as large as the living space above.

Beside the barrel sat a row of drinking cups.

There were no wooden cups, only glass.

None of Gregor’s men or servants would dare drink before their lord. Despite their fearsome reputations, Gregor’s crew was tightly disciplined. Their loyalty, fierce and unwavering, was something few outsiders could understand.

When the others saw Allen and his men enter, they exchanged puzzled glances.

“Pour the wine." Gregor ordered.

He removed his heavy helmet and set it down on the table with a dull thud. It was cumbersome, but the weight didn’t bother him.

Maester Harry turned one of the small spigots, and the golden wine flowed, fragrant and smooth.

Gregor tilted his head slightly, gesturing for Allen to take the first drink.

Allen smiled, lifted his glass. “To you, Ser Gregor.”

Gregor nodded. Harry poured a second cup.

Gregor raised his glass but said nothing, waiting for Allen to drink first.

Allen held the cup beneath his nose, inhaled deeply, then closed his eyes, savoring the aroma. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and met Gregor’s cold gaze with a calm smile. Then he slowly sipped, savoring each drop, and finished the glass.

“Exquisite." he said. “My lord, your turn.”

A trace of gold lingered on his lips.

“You." Gregor said, handing the cup to one of Allen’s guards. With his long arms, he reached across the table with ease.

The guard hesitated, almost in disbelief.

Was Ser Gregor really offering this wine to him first?

But a quick look from Gregor confirmed it. The man trembled with excitement and sipped slowly. The flavor was rich and smooth, he drained the glass in several careful swallows under the weight of every eye in the room.

“More." Gregor said.

Harry poured two more glasses and handed them to the other Serrett guards.

“Bring out a barrel of red." Gregor told the cook.

The cook obeyed immediately, returning with a barrel of red Arbor wine.

“Pour a cup for each of the five." Gregor said, settling into his chair with a creak that sounded like the wood might collapse.

He didn’t remove his armor, nor unstrap his greatsword.
The chair creaked again beneath his weight, as though it might fall apart any moment.

As the red wine was poured, Raff the Sweetling and Maester Harry began to understand Gregor’s intent: their lord didn’t trust this wine, not for a moment.

Allen raised his glass of red and laughed. “Ser Gregor, such fine wine! Let us give toast to you. What’s the matter, are you afraid to drink? Ha! Hahaha!” He downed the red in one gulp, grinning. “The mighty Mountain, scared to drink Serrett wine? I just wish I had more!”

He slammed the glass down. “Pour me another, Maester! Come on! The great Mountain is too afraid to drink, but what about the rest of you? Are you all cowards too? Rats, roaches, stinking fish!”

“I’ll drink!” Polliver shouted.

Gregor glanced at him, expressionless. “Polliver, you’d drink wine sent by our enemies?”

“My lord, they’ve already drunk it, nothing’s happened.”

Gregor’s voice turned cold. “They drank their wine. That doesn’t mean we should.”

The room fell silent.

At that, Allen Serrett’s smile finally began to fade.

Chapter Text

“Raff, pour the wine. Maester Harry, step back." Gregor said, fixing his eyes on Allen.

Maester Harry quickly retreated. Raff the Sweetling took his place with a grin, while Dunsen’s hand slid onto the hilt of his sword. The scribe quietly moved behind Allen and his men. Polliver twitched his neck as if an ant were crawling up it, and his left hand gripped the handle of his dagger.

Their silent coordination startled Maester Harry.

Julie reached for her short sword. The veteran cavalryman, Thomasson, tightened his grip on his dagger.

The group had closed in, quietly encircling Allen and his four guards.

Raff pulled the small wooden stopper from the cask and began pouring the wine. But before he could fill all five glasses, blood started trickling from Allen’s nose. His four guards began to sway slightly, one felt a sudden heat in his nostrils, wiped at it, and found blood on his hand.

The guards stared blankly at their bloody palms, confused.

They had no idea about Allen’s poisoned wine plot.

“Drink." Gregor said coldly. “Keep drinking.”

“Of course! Can’t let this fine wine go to waste." Allen said with a smile. He picked up one cup, then another, and suddenly flung the golden wine at Gregor.

Before the wine had even reached the air halfway, Dunsen’s sword flashed. A burst of steel, a splash of blood, Allen’s arm fell to the ground.

Though a massive man, Gregor moved like a cat. With a slight push of his legs, his chair slid aside. The wine splashed harmlessly onto the floor.

“Aaaargh!”

Allen clutched his severed arm in agony.

His four guards froze in shock. Then, each one began to bleed from the nose. They instinctively reached for their throats but found their strength slipping away. Their faces turned red with spider web-like veins. Their throats gurgled as if trying to speak, but no words came out.

“The Strangler!” Maester Harry gasped. “A poison from Lys!”

Thud!

Allen collapsed. His eyes reddened rapidly as blood poured from his nose and mouth. His remaining hand clawed toward his throat, trembling, as if some invisible force held it back, always just out of reach.

Thud, thud, thud!

One by one, Allen’s guards dropped. Their faces were marked with crimson veins, eyes bloodshot, blood oozing from every orifice. Their hands, stiff like claws, grasped at their own necks but could not reach them, as though restrained by unseen chains.

“The Strangler is a creation of the mages of Lys." Maester Harry said with a trembling voice. “Invisible, tasteless, and odorless. Extremely expensive. Only the wealthiest nobles or royalty could ever hope to obtain it.”

“There’s no antidote?” Raff asked, his face pale and anxious.

“None." Harry replied. “Only the mages who craft it have their secret ways of neutralizing it, through black magic.”

He turned to look at Gregor. It was this brute who had saved all of them.

“Just because they drank their wine and lived doesn’t mean we can.” Gregor’s earlier warning now echoed in Harry’s mind.

That wasn’t something the Mountain would normally say. There was wisdom in those words.

And then he remembered another: “Polliver, you’d drink the wine sent by our enemies?”

Gregor had never trusted Allen or the Serrett family, not for a moment. His judgment had been clear, precise: the Serrett were the enemy.

Harry’s view of Gregor began to shift.

This man… didn’t quite seem like the Mountain anymore.

Gregor stood. “Polliver, put on Allen’s armor. Go to the rooftop and wave. If I’m right, there are cavalry lying in wait in the woods.”

“That can’t be." Harry said. “If the poison worked, their goal would be achieved. Why would they need hidden cavalry? And if the poison didn’t work, a few riders wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

“The cavalry isn’t for me." Gregor replied calmly. “It’s to wipe out everyone in Clegane’s Keep once I’m dead. But they’ll spare you, Harry, and bribe you generously to return to Lord Tywin and speak in defense of the Serrett family.”

Harry stammered, “But killing Lord Tywin’s favorite general? And wiping out his officers? Do they want the entire Serrett line executed?”

“They won’t be." Gregor said. “Allen Serrett’s household will be scapegoated and exterminated. But the main line, Silverhill’s Serrett, will pay a hefty bribe to Lord Tywin. The Western lords will plead their case. They’ll survive.”

Gregor’s patience was surprising even Raff noticed. In the past, the Mountain would never explain so much. Every extra word was agony for him.

“But why?” Harry was still baffled. “I don’t understand.”

“Allen Serrett was the poisoner, but he wasn’t from Silverhill. He’s a distant branch, acting to avenge his lord, Alva. That’s honorable and lawful. And the cavalry in ambush? Likely mercenaries hired from the mines, no actual Serrett family members among them.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

No matter what the truth was, Gregor’s cunning clearly surpassed his own.

Impossible.

“If Allen had succeeded, and the cavalry wiped out this keep." Harry asked, “what would the Serretts say when Lord Tywin demanded answers?”

“They’d send another cavalry to wipe out the first, claiming vengeance for me. Then deliver their heads to Tywin as tribute.”

Harry was speechless.

Such a scheme, how could Gregor possibly see through all of it?

Meanwhile, Polliver, who hadn’t understood a word, was already in Allen’s armor and running to the rooftop.

He waved toward the nearby woods.

What happened next nearly made him gasp, two cavalry units emerged from either side, executing a pincer movement toward Clegane’s Keep.

The thunder of hooves closed in.

Shing!

Gregor drew his massive greatsword. “With me! Kill them all!”

“Hoah!”

It was only a few voices, but they roared with the power of an army.

Even sheep become lions when they follow one.

Clang, clang, clang!

Dunsen, Raff, Scribe Julie, Thomasson, the cook, and even the servant, every blade was drawn.

The air bristled with the heat of battle.

“Grab your shield. Thomasson, guard Julie.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Julie, stay behind me.”

“Yes, milord.”

Harry’s eyes bulged. “M-milord, Julie and I can stay in the cellar, ”

“No." Gregor said calmly. “You stay. Julie comes with me.”

Julie winked at the pale-faced Harry, a delighted grin on her face.

A chill ran down Harry’s spine.

The hoofbeats drew nearer, front and rear.

Polliver rushed back in: “Milord, thirty riders! Two groups! They’re flanking us!”

A perfect plan: thirty riders against Clegane’s Keep without the Mountain, overwhelming odds.

“We rode out the front gate. Take the fifteen in front first." Gregor said, placing the great helm on his head. With long, powerful strides, he left the dining hall. In a flash, he was on horseback in the courtyard. The trained warhorse sensed his intent without command and charged for the gate.

Behind him, Julie was a step slow. Thomasson helped her mount.

Just as she grasped the reins, a storm of cavalry thundered from the gates, she and her father were already falling behind.

Chapter Text

Gregor charged out just as a squad of cavalry thundered toward him.

Both sides were moving fast.

By the time the riders sensed something was wrong, it was already too late. The squad leader at the front was cleaved in two by Gregor’s greatsword.

A diagonal slash.

Half a shoulder and a head flew into the air, blood spraying like rain.

The other half of the body, still upright in the saddle, passed by Gregor's warhorse in a blur.

That one strike shattered the courage of the remaining fourteen riders.

But with the momentum of a cavalry charge, they couldn’t turn in time. Two of them, close behind, barely managed to veer off and passed Gregor at a slant.

Gregor spurred his horse forward and swept his sword sideways with his right hand.

Another rider was cut cleanly in half at the waist.

The first body hadn't even hit the ground before the top half of a second corpse flew backward through the air.

The air was instantly choked with the metallic scent of blood.

From the left, a spear lunged toward Gregor’s face, a desperate attack from one of the riders who couldn’t turn around.

Gregor snatched the spear with his left hand, gave it a slight tug, and the rider was yanked from his saddle by brute force, the spear slipping from his grip. Gregor drove the spear downward, piercing the man's armor and pinning him to the ground.

Another rider, right behind, managed to steer his horse just wide of Gregor, circled away, and fled north without daring to double back.

Gregor ripped the spear from the ground and hurled it like a javelin.

It shot through the air like an arrow, slamming into the fleeing rider’s back, clean through from back to front.

The rider’s corpse flew forward over his horse’s head, impaled on the shaft.

Such power was terrifying to behold.

The remaining riders tried to rein in their mounts and turn, but in their panic, several yanked too hard. Their horses reared, toppling them to the ground. The formation disintegrated into chaos.

Gregor kicked his warhorse hard and charged.

In the time it took the enemy to turn halfway, Gregor was upon them.

Crash!

His warhorse plowed into their disordered ranks.

The greatsword rose and fell, sweeping and slashing, limbs flew, torsos split. Riders and horses alike were cut down.

Gregor wielded the massive sword with one hand, using the momentum of his charge and the angle of his body to extend his reach even farther than a lance.

By the time Raff  Raff and the others completed their flanking maneuver, only three enemy riders remained.

Gregor blocked one side, and the rest closed in from the rear. In a single charge, they struck down all three, leaving them dead in the dirt.

Julie and Thomasson finally caught up, just in time to see the battle already finished.

“ Fan formation! ” Gregor barked.

At once, the riders fell in behind him, forming a fan-shaped cavalry line.

The fan formation was ideal for hunts; wedge formations were for frontal assaults.

On the other side of Clegane Keep, the enemy cavalry had not yet encountered any defenders bursting out in panic.

The back gate was shut tight.

They were waiting for someone inside to flee, so they could give chase.

But the sound of battle on the other side, the clashing of swords, the pounding of hooves, unnerved them.

Experienced riders left four men to guard the back gate while the rest, led by their captain, circled the outer stone walls to investigate.

Though the keep itself wasn’t large, the Clegane courtyard was wide, with walls that blocked their view.

Then suddenly, from around the corner of the keep, a massive figure on horseback emerged, towering like a mountain. The infamous ‘The Mountain’ himself.

The riders froze for a heartbeat.

Gregor’s horse didn’t wait for orders, it charged the moment it saw enemies.

They were far too close.

The captain hadn’t even unsheathed his sword before Gregor’s blade came down like thunder.

One swing split him from crown to crotch.
Helmet and armor shredded like paper.

Too fast. Too brutal.

Crash!

The remaining ten riders scattered like flies, wheeling their horses to flee.

None dared face Gregor in combat.

Their hearts were already broken by fear.

Gregor’s greatsword swept across like a butcher’s cleaver.

Two riders who had just begun to turn were sliced in half before they could flee even a single step.

He cut down men like chopping vegetables.

The outermost riders veered off in a panic, only to find enemies ahead.

Raff, Scribe, Executioner Dunsen, Polliver, Julie and Thomasson, the cook and the servants, formed a wide fan, a net that blocked the path forward.

Julie and Thomasson took up the rear near the wall.

Dunsen let out a shout and charged, sword flashing like a flower in bloom.

One mercenary rode out to meet him.

As expected, all these attackers were mercenaries.

Their gear couldn’t compare to that of the knightly Sarriott household. Many wore leather instead of steel.

For them, wine and brothels were the real glories of war.

The mercenary’s sword slammed into Dunsen’s round shield. Dunsen’s blade sliced diagonally into the man’s unprotected neck.

No scream, just a fall from the saddle.

At the flank, Raff had already circled to cut off the edge. The fan formation pressed inward.

This squad of mercenaries had put themselves at a geogRaffic disadvantage by riding along the wall.

At the same time, Gregor killed two of the four riders guarding the back gate. The last two fled along the wall.

Gregor pursued, catching the slower one with a sword to the back.

As the man fell, Gregor spotted the other four at the gate.

He kicked his horse into a gallop.

The fallen rider screamed for help from his comrades.

Gregor casually swung his sword, shhk! , the man’s head flew off, yet his body stayed upright, riding headless into the four guards.

They shouted in panic and fled.

Veterans all, they ran west, the quickest escape.

To the west lay open plains, and beyond that, the coastal city of Lannisport and the Sunset Sea.

Gregor said nothing, just kicked his horse and chased.
But he could feel the animal flagging beneath him.

He was too heavy.

Pushing it to full speed over and over was taking its toll.

Violence burns bright but fast, man or beast, it can't last forever.

Gregor pulled a dagger and threw it. It hit the last rider square in the back. His armor was good, which had slowed him, but not enough.

Clang!

The dagger pierced through armor, barely breaking skin, but the impact knocked him from the saddle. Before he could rise, Gregor’s sword whistled down, shhk! , off with his head.

Three riders remained.

Their hoofbeats faltered as they looked back in horror.

“Split up!” one yelled.

They fled in three different directions.

Gregor roared and chased the one to the left.

That rider had the best chance, if he crossed the narrow plain and entered the dense forests of House Swyft’s territory, he’d be safe.

Beyond those woods lay the border, and beyond that, House Tyrell’s lands in the Reach.

The other two were heading deeper into the Westerlands, toward Lannisport or the inland core. Escape would be far harder.

Raff and the others had already given chase.

Gregor was relentless.

But the mercenary he chased rode like his life depended on it, which it did. His horse flew like fire.

Gregor’s mount was top-tier, but under his massive weight, even the best beast was at its limit.

He sighed.

If only he had a spear, that man would already be dead.

No, he had to train with a bow after this.
A single arrow would’ve ended this. No need to waste energy.

His horse was fading.

The mercenary had no such concern, he pushed his mount without mercy.

But Gregor didn’t know how to give up.

He had given the order: Kill them all.

And he would see it done.

As the gap widened, hooves pounded behind him.

Gregor looked back.

Julie was galloping toward him.

“Father, quick, take my horse!”

“Good!”

This adopted daughter was finally proving useful, in a crucial moment, no less.

Julie rode one of Gregor’s own three best horses. She was light, unarmored, the horse was still fresh and full of fight.

Gregor and Julie swapped mounts mid-stride.

The new horse didn’t need urging, it whinnied and surged forward like an arrow.

Within moments, Gregor had closed the distance.

The mercenary kicked his heels, but his steed was spent.

Julie shouted behind, cheering him on.

Gregor twirled his massive blade with ease, sword flowers blooming in the air.

He whistled once.

Then he caught up.

The mercenary begged for his life, eyes wide with terror.

Gregor answered with a soft swing.

And cut him cleanly in two.

He claimed the man’s horse as spoils.

Warhorses were precious. Training one took time and gold.

Meanwhile, Raff and the others finished their chase; two heads mounted on sword tips, held high in triumph.

They had captured two more steeds, dragging headless corpses behind.

The thunder of hooves, the roar of voices, 

“ Hoh! Hoh-ho-ho! Hoh! ”

The thirty mercenary cavalry who had assaulted Clegane Keep, 

All dead.

Chapter Text

Casterly Rock, the capital of the Westerlands, was a city carved within stone itself.

This colossal rock fortress stood at the edge of the sea. Over time, the waves had hollowed out the base of the seaside cliff, creating an enormous cavern. When the tides rolled in, seawater surged into the hollow, producing a deep, thunderous roar like that of distant storms. Above this rocky cavern stood the Hall of Heroes, a sacred tomb belonging to House Lannister.

Only members of House Lannister, or their close kin, who had achieved extraordinary feats were honored with burial in the Hall of Heroes. Within it stood the statues of a hundred Lannister knights, lords, and kings, all clad in lavish armor, their stone gazes ever vigilant in eternal defense of Casterly Rock. The Hall of Heroes was famous across the Seven Kingdoms, even spoken of across the Narrow Sea.

The coastal rock upon which the fortress was built stood two hundred feet tall, about seventy meters, or the height of a twenty-three-story building by Earth’s standards. It stretched nearly twenty miles east to west and fifteen miles north to south. From the ground, only a single tower and a watch post could be seen rising from the rock’s summit, the rest of the city was concealed within the natural stone exterior.

Humans had dwelled inside this rock for thousands of years.

Centuries ago, gold was discovered in its depths, and extensive mining began. Over the millennia, hundreds of shafts were carved deep into the stone, hollowing out its heart. Though some red and yellow veins of gold still remained, they were no longer worth the effort of extraction. House Casterly was the first to convert the old mine shafts into halls and chambers. After building the first fortress atop the rock, they began transforming the deep tunnels into rooms and corridors.

Legend holds that during the Age of Heroes, a clever trickster named Lann the Clever swindled Casterly Rock from House Casterly using nothing but his wits. Lann would go on to become the legendary founder of House Lannister.

Generations later, Lann’s descendants became so numerous that they filled the still largely unconverted rock fortress. Some of the younger branches moved to a nearby village beside a natural harbor. Over the centuries, that settlement flourished through trade and eventually grew into what is now known as Lannisport, the third-largest port city on the continent of Westeros.

Today, the great seaside rock has been completely hollowed out, transformed into a multi-leveled city of winding roads and tiered structures. Within its stone heart lies a labyrinth of corridors, dungeons, storerooms, barracks, grand halls, stables, staircases, courtyards, septs, balconies, and gardens, everything a city could need.

At the base of the rock, three massive entrances known as the Lion’s Mouths had been carved into the stone. These were the only ways in or out of Casterly Rock. The central mouth was the largest, wide enough for twenty horses to ride through. It connected to the Goldroad, the Searoad, and the Riverlands Road, allowing smooth passage into the city.

When the sun cast its light on the giant rock, the shadow it threw upon the land resembled a reclining lion. Thus, Casterly Rock became known as the Lion’s City , and its gates were named the Lion’s Mouths . House Lannister adopted the lion as their sigil, a golden lion roaring upon a crimson field. Their official motto: Hear Me Roar! . But the phrase more commonly heard across Westeros was their unofficial one: A Lannister always pays his debts , a saying more famous than their actual words.

The current Lord of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister, was born in the year 242 AC. At fifty-six years old, he held the titles of Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Shield of Lannisport. He had begun losing his hair at fifty and chose to shave his head completely, leaving only thick golden mutton chops on his cheeks. His light green eyes sparkled with flecks of gold, a trait the nobles said symbolized his wealth. Tywin favored deep crimson, and his armor was forged in that color. Consequently, the warriors of the Westerlands also wore crimson armor and cloaks, earning the name Redcloak Army .

Inside the great keep of Casterly Rock, Tywin was skinning a massive black bear, a trophy from a recent hunt in the eastern mountains. His blade moved with practiced ease, peeling the hide away in one unbroken sheet.

As Tywin washed the blood from his hands in a golden basin, Grand Maester Pycelle entered the room.

“My lord." he said, bowing. “I’ve just received a letter and a gift from Maester Harry.”

Maester Harry was Pycelle’s young apprentice in the Westerlands, not yet twenty years of age and still untested by the Citadel's official exams.

“Read it." Tywin commanded.

His tone was stern and cold. He had not smiled once in the twenty-five years since his wife, Joanna Lannister, died in childbirth in 273 AC, the same day their youngest son, Tyrion, was born. That tragic day had turned Tywin’s heart to stone.

“Yes, my lord.”

Pycelle read the letter aloud, then glanced anxiously at Tywin’s face for any sign of reaction.

The letter reported that after paying a ransom in gold for the captured Ser Ado Serrett, Allen Serrett of Silverhill had sent four casks of Arbor wine as a gift. Ser Gregor Clegane, wary of treachery, had insisted that Allen and his four guards taste the wine first. All five of them died, poisoned by a deadly substance known as “Strangler." according to Maester Harry.

Shortly afterward, thirty mercenary horsemen ambushed Clegane’s castle from the nearby woods. Ser Gregor led a counterattack and slaughtered them all, seizing twenty-three horses, eleven suits of armor, and dozens of swords and axes.

Ser Gregor now sought Tywin’s instruction, should he retaliate, or return the weapons and armor to House Serrett? Gregor believed that the assassination attempt and ambush might not have been ordered by the main branch of House Serrett. The attackers were not Serrett men, and the scheme likely originated with Allen Serrett, the captain of the guard to the now-deceased Alva Serrett. Allen himself was only distantly related to the main family line.

Tywin dried his hands carefully as a servant offered him a snow-white towel.

“What was the gift?” he asked.

“Salt." the Grand Maester replied.

Tywin paused, hand still mid-motion. “Bring it to me.”

Salt was a valuable commodity among common folk, some poor households couldn’t afford it at all. But to Tywin Lannister, it was trivial. Gregor would never send salt as a mere gift, there had to be something more.

“I already have it here." said Pycelle.

He opened a finely crafted wooden box. Inside, a bundle wrapped in delicate parchment lay tied with a neat bow, clearly the work of a woman’s hand. Untying the ribbon, he unrolled the parchment to reveal a piece of silver silk. When the cloth was unfolded, both Tywin and the Grand Maester were momentarily stunned.

Within it lay a heap of salt, white as fresh snow, glittering like crushed crystal. It was unlike anything they had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Fine white salt slipped between Tywin’s fingers.

The grains were beautiful, unlike the coarse, pale yellow salt that he was accustomed to. The usual salt sometimes carried a bitter aftertaste. This, however, was different. Snowy white and as fine as sand, it clung lightly to his fingers.

He touched his fingertips to his lips. Salty. Pure. Delicious.

Not even a trace of bitterness.

It was a small pouch of salt, delicate and clear like crystal, something he had never seen before.

For common folk, salt was a luxury. The poor rarely had enough to season their food. While salt was highly profitable, in the Westerlands, where gold and silver mines abounded, it couldn’t compare to the wealth of precious metals. The famous Goldroad, which stretched from Casterly Rock to the capital at King’s Landing, was built for the sole purpose of transporting these riches to the royal mints. Every month's end, ox-drawn carts and horse-drawn wagons packed the road, overflowing with ore on the journey out, and returning weighed down with golden dragons and silver stags.

"Send it to the kitchens." Tywin said. "Tell the cooks to use this snow-salt in today’s meals."

"Yes, my lord." Maester Pycelle replied, carefully repackaging the salt.

There was an old saying among the people: Salt is as precious as gold.

And it wasn’t just about cost, it was about rarity. Rarity bred value.

Pycelle wrapped the salt with care, placing it back into the velvet-lined box.

"Where did this snow-salt come from?" Tywin asked.

Snow-white as it was, he gave it a name on the spot.

"According to the letter from Maester Harry, it was created by accident, by Ser Gregor Clegane himself."

"Oh?" Tywin said absently.

Maester Pycelle gave a quick bow and left the room, glad to escape the suffocating stench of blood and animal musk that clung to the air. The butchering room always reeked. A nauseating mix of predator and prey, it left him unsettled each time he entered.

"Maester Pycelle." Tywin called, still methodically wiping his hands, now moving on to trim his nails.

Tywin Lannister took pride in his precision. When it came to skinning animals, beasts or livestock, none of his servants could match his skill.

"Send both of Gregor's letters to Tyger Serrett in King’s Landing."

"Yes, my lord!"

"And tell him: it’s time he kept his sons in line."

"...As you command, my lord."

…

King’s Landing – Capital of the Seven Kingdoms

Atop Aegon’s High Hill stood the Red Keep , the seat of royal power. Its crimson walls earned their name from the red stone used in their construction. The castle rose behind sheer cliffs on three sides, impossible to scale, leaving only the northern gate as an entrance.

To the left and right of the gate lay two military barracks: one for the city’s right flank and the other for its left. Beyond the right barracks, a neat row of stone houses housed the royal courtiers. On the left side, a similar row served as temporary lodging for noble visitors from across the realm.

King Robert Baratheon had made a decision. He would ride north to Winterfell, to visit his longtime friend and foster brother Eddard Stark, Lord of the North. It had been over ten years since they last met. Robert intended to persuade the stubborn and principled Ned Stark to accept the role of Hand of the King, the most powerful position in the realm, second only to the monarch himself.

Robert knew Ned well. Mere ravens wouldn’t summon him. Ned Stark was a block of Northern ice, cold, unmoving, and loyal only to duty. Only the king himself could melt his resolve. The two of them had grown up together in the Vale under the care of the late Jon Arryn, who had served as Hand before his untimely death.

Robert loved grand displays. He wanted pomp, pageantry, and noise. So ravens had flown across the kingdom, summoning great lords to send nobles from their houses to accompany him on the royal procession north. The greater the entourage, the more wagons, banners, and trumpets, the happier Robert became.

From the fertile Reach under House Tyrell of Highgarden, to the storm-lashed Stormlands under the Baratheons of Storm’s End; from the Crownlands around King’s Landing itself to the gold-rich Westerlands ruled by House Lannister; from the mountainous Vale of House Arryn to the river-crossed Riverlands under House Tully of Riverrun, all received the king’s command.

Only the distant regions of Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the final destination, the North, were excused by geography.

Among the nobles chosen to represent the Westerlands was Tyger Serrett, personally dispatched by Tywin Lannister to fulfill the king’s decree.

This was no small thing: Robert Baratheon was Tywin’s son-in-law. The Queen, Cersei Lannister, was Tywin’s eldest daughter. For House Serrett, this journey north with the king was an enormous honor.

Tyger Serrett was proud, until today. The king’s grand departure was only a day away, yet Tyger was troubled, restless.

He had just received two letters.

They weren’t written by Tywin himself, but by Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, addressed to Tywin, then forwarded to Tyger without a word of commentary. Only one sentence was scrawled in the margin by Maester Pycelle:

"Lord Tyger, Lord Tywin says: It’s time you controlled your sons."

That one sentence hurt more than the news of Alva Serrett’s death.

In Westeros, only the heir of a noble house had the right to inherit land and titles. The rest of the sons, no matter how many, received nothing unless their lord father saw fit to grant them something. It was law and custom. But law and custom could not prevent ambition. Some brothers murdered their older siblings to claim inheritance. Some heirs, fearing betrayal, killed their own brothers preemptively.

Though rare, such events were not unheard of.

Of Tyger's seven sons, only the eldest, Ado Serrett, was vital to the family’s future. The others were expected to make their own way in the world. Many second sons became sellswords, or even joined the Night’s Watch to avoid the power struggles within noble families. Take, for example, Ser Waymar Royce, youngest son of Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale, who would be remembered as the arrogant young ranger killed by the White Walkers in the opening scene of Game of Thrones .

In this world, sons who were not heirs were expendable.

Tyger had come to King’s Landing, only to receive word that his youngest, Alva, had raped one of the Mountain’s daughters in a mining village, prompting Gregor to retaliate with brutal violence. That wasn’t the worst part. What truly mattered was that the Serrett family’s recklessness had offended Tywin Lannister’s authority.

Even Gregor, the Mountain himself, a brute of a man, knew to report to Tywin with two letters. Meanwhile, the six remaining Serrett sons had done nothing. No letters, no warnings, no consultation with their father. They had taken matters into their own bloodstained hands.

And in doing so, they had crossed a line.

The Mountain was Tywin’s dog. And when someone kills a man’s dog without even the courtesy of informing the master, it is not merely disrespect, it is an insult.

A stupid, dangerous insult.

Chapter Text

Bang!

A punch slammed into the wall.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

Lord Tywin had always placed great trust in the Serrett family, assigning them the responsibility of guarding the Goldroad and awarding them the silver-rich mountains of the Silverhill.

But the actions his sons had taken behind his back were disastrous. Their behavior had clearly displeased Lord Tywin.

Tywin’s authority was not something to be trifled with.

From the bedroom, the sound of Lady Serrett’s sobbing echoed.

The news of their youngest son Alva's death had devastated her.

This northern journey, which Tyger had planned to strengthen his relationship with Queen Cersei Lannister, had originally been an opportunity for his wife to bond with the queen during their two-month journey. The long and exhausting travel time made it clear that Queen Cersei needed a companion to alleviate her fatigue and loneliness.

“Stop crying." Tyger snapped.

“My son... he's dead... that damn... Mountain... that monster should be torn apart!”

Tyger stormed toward the bedroom door. “You’re here venting, but don’t you realize disaster is upon us? Have you never heard of ‘The Rain of Castamere’?”

The ‘The Rain of Castamere’ was a song sung across the Seven Kingdoms that sent chills down the spine. The two most powerful families of the West had been wiped out for offending the Lannisters, their ancestral lands abandoned and overgrown with weeds.

Lady Serrett raised her tear-streaked face, her crying abruptly ceasing. Shock replaced her grief.

“...Is it really... that serious?”

“Look at this letter.”

“The letter doesn't say anything about Lord Tywin blaming us.”

“That’s right, it doesn’t. Lord Tywin only told Maester Pycelle that I need to handle my sons. The next line says, if I don’t, he will. Don’t you understand what it means for Lord Tywin to handle my sons for me?”

Lady Serrett gasped, instinctively covering her mouth.

Her face went pale, and she trembled.

“But... but Ser Gregor said... the poisoning and the cavalry raid had nothing to do with our Silverhill Serretts. It was all Allen Serrett’s doing.”

“Do you believe that?” Tyger sneered.

“...I... believe it…”

“I don’t, and neither does Lord Tywin.”

“...Why...?”

Lady Serrett felt her body begin to shake uncontrollably, a coldness spreading through her.

“Allen Serrett, a mere mine guard captain, without our Serrett family’s approval, how could he have obtained the wine to give to Ser Gregor? Without Silverhill Serrett’s backing, how could he have gotten his hands on such an expensive and secret poison?”

She was immediately silenced.

“My only concern right now is that Lord Tywin thinks I knew about all of this.”

“...So what should we do?” Lady Serrett's tears had dried. She suddenly stood up. “You need to reply to Lord Tywin immediately. I’ll go to Maegor's Holdfast and explain everything to Queen Cersei. We know nothing about what happened in the West. It wasn’t your command, and it wasn’t mine." she said in a jumbled, panicked manner.

She rushed out of the bedroom, then hurried back, opening the wardrobe to search for clothes. “Tyger, which one should I wear? White? Red? Pink or silk? No, no, I need to do my makeup first. Oh, Kesha, where are you? Damn Kesha, I’ll cut off your head! Hurry up and do my makeup, you stupid fool.”

“Can you calm down?” Tyge growled. “When everything happened, we were in King’s Landing. Lord Tywin still isn’t sure whether I ordered Gregor’s poisoning. We need to seize this opportunity to clear things up and get Gregor’s forgiveness.”

“...No, why do we need to get that damn the Mountain’s forgiveness? All we need is Lord Tywin’s trust." Lady Serrett protested.

“You don’t understand anything... sit down and do your makeup. I need to write letters to Lord Tywin, Ser Gregor, and Ado Serrett. You hurry up and get ready to see Queen Cersei at Maegor’s Holdfast.”

…

The Westerlands, Casterly Rock

Gregor stood atop a high staircase, looking down at the eleven dark figures below. These men were his subjects, summoned by a military draft order.

Once the draft order was issued, Serrett Mines had to immediately settle its accounts and release the men.

Each lord had absolute control over the military service of their subjects.

Eleven men, eleven miners, one family had three men, two families had two men each, and the remaining four families each had one man. This meant that four of the men had died in the mines. Thomasson’s son, who had just returned, was killed in a cave-in the previous day.

These men represented the entirety of Gregor’s male workforce.

But they were not seasoned warriors.

In Gregor’s eyes, a true warrior needed to be trained.

Farmers, fishermen, hunters, and miners were not fit for combat unless they had undergone rigorous training.

This draft order was not only to put them in armor and swords for battle, it was also to put them to work mining.

Gold mining.

The veteran soldier, Thomasson, now in charge, led the miners after delivering a stammering speech. The miners stared at him, silent, full of questions. But with Gregor standing nearby, along with a few of his infamous henchmen, they were too scared to speak out.

“I can tell you all have something to say. Go ahead, speak your minds. I won’t punish you. Whoever speaks first, I’ll reward you with a bag of salt, a fine horse, a suit of armor, and a good sword." Gregor said. His voice, unusually devoid of malice, carried through the air.

The room fell silent.

The men knew that Gregor had recently been involved in a vicious encounter with the Serrett family and had come into a fortune.

A bag of salt, a fine horse, armor, and a good sword, a reward so generous that they couldn’t believe it. They would never earn this much in their entire lives.

Just the price of one good sword could cover twenty years of mining.

“Scribe.”

“Yes, milord.”

“If no one speaks up in three heartbeats, deal with them one by one.”

“Yes, how should I handle them, my lord?”

“Cut off their tongues. Since they don’t like speaking, their tongues are unnecessary.”

“Yes, my lord." the scribe chuckled.

Sweet-talker Raff, executioner Dunsen, and the brainless Polliver all smiled eagerly.

They relished this kind of work, blinding people, cutting off tongues, hacking off limbs.

A brief silence was broken by a stammering voice: “Ser Gregor, the place you’ve arranged for us to mine isn’t even in our territory.”

Chapter Text

“But it doesn’t belong to any other knight’s land either." Gregor responded.

The area Gregor had chosen for gold mining was located in the Silverhills, close to Clegane's Keep, and was a no-man’s-land. Gregor had decided that his first fortune would be gained from a nearby location. As for the long-abandoned Castamere gold mine, it was located far to the north in the Westerlands. More importantly, it was part of the strategic territory Lord Tywin Lannister had intentionally left untouched as a reminder to the other noble houses of his power. It was best not to disturb it just yet.

“My lord, the land you’ve ordered us to mine doesn’t have any gold." one miner said.

“I know." Gregor replied.

“But why should we mine in a place without gold?” another miner asked.

“The gold mine is just on the other side." Gregor answered, “and it’s very close.”

The miners exchanged looks. They understood. Ser Gregor was planning to start mining from the no-man’s-land, pushing into the gold-mining area controlled by the Serrett family.

“Milord, the area on the other side belongs to the Serrett family." one miner pointed out.

“That’s right, my lord. What if the Serretts find out?” another asked.

“We’ll be thrown into the dungeons of Casterly Rock." another miner added.

“My lord, who dares to go against Tywin Lannister’s law?” one more said.

The miners began to talk all at once. The tension in the air finally became palpable.

Gregor raised his hand, and the room fell silent.

“If Tywin Lannister wants to arrest you and send you to Casterly Rock, he’ll send me with my soldiers to do it. Do you think I’d arrest myself? Do you? Yes, or no!” Gregor’s words were ruthlessly blunt.

But Gregor was a man who was used to bending the rules, and he never bothered with niceties. He had never cared about making sense. What mattered to him was that he delivered on his promises. And as for the disputes among the Westerlands’ nobility, arresting criminals, conquering defiant nobles, subduing rebellious knights, and patrolling the southern and eastern borders, those were all things Gregor had done while leading the guards of Casterly Rock.

The miners fell silent, unable to argue further.

“From now on, you are all my soldiers. Although I don’t think of you as true combat soldiers, you are my mining soldiers. From this moment on, you are my miners.”

Miners?

This was the first time anyone had heard of such a unit. It sounded ridiculous, but no one dared to laugh.

“The first step in becoming my mining soldiers is to take an oath. Harry, it’s your turn!”

Young Maester Harry stepped forward, holding the seven wooden statues of the Seven, representing the Seven Gods: the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.

The statues were small, only a few inches tall, far smaller than the towering, colorful statues in the grander temples. Clegane's Keep had no such temple. The Seven represented different virtues, and their followers prayed to specific aspects of them depending on what they sought.

The miners, upon seeing the Seven statues, immediately knelt in unison.

...

In the land of Westeros, only two regions did not widely follow the faith of the Seven: the North, which worshipped the Old Gods, and the Iron Islands, which followed the drowned god.

Before Gregor had crossed into this world, he had been an atheist. But after coming here, he believed there was a supernatural force at work. Whether called gods or spirits, these forces didn’t respond to the prayers of mere individuals, like how an elephant would never notice the tiny ant in the grass.

But people didn’t understand this, and the ruling classes often used religion to control civilizations that lacked a higher level of understanding. The church and Maesters, priests, sisters, and others acted as intermediaries between the mundane and the divine.

Gregor realized that by leveraging the belief in the Seven, he could better manage many of his affairs, oaths of knighthood, master-servant contracts, and more could all be influenced through this faith.

...

After Maester Harry led the eleven miners in swearing their oaths, they stood up, and there was no more dissent regarding the task ahead. They had already pledged their loyalty to the Seven under Harry’s guidance.

Gregor waved his hand, and the scribe called out loudly, “Blackstone, come sign the document.”

A large man stepped forward from the ranks and stood before the scribe’s table.

Raff sang out melodiously, “Blackstone Soldier, you shall receive a sack of salt, a warhorse, a full set of armor, and a fine sword from Ser Gregor!”

Blackstone couldn’t believe it. At the scribe’s urging, he dipped a quill in ink and circled the spot where the scribe indicated.

Most of the poor people couldn’t read or write. The better off had a name, but some, like Blackstone, hadn’t bothered with one. He was simply big, dark-skinned, and tough, so he had been named Blackstone.

The scribe’s Scribe already contained the names of the eleven miners; they were the first members of Gregor’s new unit of mining soldiers. The list of items that came with their names had been prepared by Harry in advance.

Gregor beckoned Harry over and whispered in his ear. Harry nodded quickly.

...

“Blackstone, do you want the warhorse, armor, and sword to become your personal property?” Maester Harry asked.

“Wha… what? Yes… I really do... I really want it, Harry!” Blackstone stammered, as if he were dreaming. He barely understood what he was saying, his ears ringing.

A warhorse, a full set of armor, and a sword in its scabbard, he could barely believe it. Even most mercenaries didn’t own such high-quality armor.

“Kneel and swear your loyalty to Ser Gregor before the Seven, and these things will be yours to keep." Harry instructed.

Personal property was different from what a lord issued. A lord could reclaim items given at any time, but this oath would make them Blackstone’s possessions.

Blackstone knelt before the Seven statues, and under Harry’s guidance, he swore his loyalty to Ser Gregor, using his family’s honor and life, and his faith in the Seven, as a bond.

Then, Blackstone received his sack of salt from Julie, his warhorse from Thomasson, his armor and sword from Dunsen.

Half an hour later, Gregor had his first mining soldier squad: eleven warhorses, eleven new soldiers, and eleven swords.

“From now on, you are the loyal warriors of Clegane's Keep. You are my armed miners. Tomorrow morning, you’ll train under Dunsen the knight for half an hour in swordsmanship, and under Knight Raff for half an hour in horsemanship. The rest of the time, each of you is to recruit at least five miners to join our ranks. Tell them that the wages I’ll offer them each month will be ten times what they’re getting now. And today, every household will receive ten gold dragons as a down payment.”

Chapter Text

Ten gold dragons, an absolute fortune for the miners.

Gregor knew that most common folk in this world never even had the opportunity to use gold dragons in their lifetime. The builders who constructed houses had no place to live, and the miners who mined gold had no gold to spend. This was true even in this agricultural civilization.

Ten gold dragons were equivalent to three hundred silver stags or two thousand one hundred copper stars, and they were given directly to the people under his command. Even Maester Harry couldn’t believe it was real!

But it was real.

Ever since Gregor returned to Clegane's Keep, he had become quite different from the man he was before. But exactly how he had changed, Harry couldn’t put into words.

Harry, as Tywin's eyes and ears on Gregor, had always been able to understand his lord. But now, he found himself increasingly bewildered. A noble being so generous to common folk, this was something only the Stark family of the North would ever do. Even the incredibly wealthy Lannister family would never treat commoners this way. Tywin Lannister would only punish or whip disobedient subjects, and rebellious nobles would hear the “The Rain of Castamere” song echoing through their halls.

Harry recalled Gregor’s promise several days ago to compensate each of his people with one gold dragon per year. At the time, Harry and others like Raff thought it was a terrible joke. A lord could joke with his subjects all he wanted, especially one like the Mountain.

Watching the eleven new miners ride away from Clegane's Keep on horseback, fully armored and armed, with their salt bags in tow, Harry almost felt like he was dreaming. As a commoner, he had never seen a lord so extravagant and generous. Gregor was a newly minted noble who had just extorted a great noble, and yet, he was distributing so much wealth to his people. Harry couldn’t understand, and frankly, he didn’t think he ever would.

This was something no noble had ever done before.

However, the Mountain could do whatever he pleased, simply because he was in the mood, no reasons needed. Harry, though an adviser of sorts, didn’t dare offer any advice to the Mountain.

Gregor could reward his people with ten gold dragons, and he could just as easily kick Harry to death if he displeased him.

This was the Mountain!

The Mountain had always been synonymous with terror and brutality. Harry envied Sweet-tongue Raff and others who always stayed close to the Mountain. How did they survive? And, not only survive, how did they thrive? Their loyalty to Gregor was absolute, and Harry couldn’t understand why anyone would offer such loyalty to a man who was so feared, so ruthless.

Harry was a wise young man, but with little life experience. The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. It seemed to him like Gregor had the ability to sway people’s hearts, something he hadn’t noticed before. It was like the Stockholm Syndrome, where captives begin to sympathize with their captors.

“Scribe!” Gregor commanded. “Bring me forty gold dragons.”

So, the Scribe counted out forty gold dragons.

“Give ten to Thomasson.”

The Scribe handed ten gold dragons to Thomasson.

Thomasson took the gold dragons, his hands shaking.

“Thomasson, you have the day off today. Take these coins home. They are compensation for your ten years of losses from planting poppies in the fields.”

“Yes, milord.”

Thomasson's gratitude was profound and different from anyone else's. Julie stood by his side.

Harry watched as Thomasson almost knelt before Gregor. The old soldier was so grateful to the Mountain that he couldn’t find the words. His eyes stared at Gregor as though he were gazing at a holy idol. His face twitched, as if he had a spasm.

Harry realized that, should Gregor ask Thomasson to do anything in the future, the old man would do it without hesitation.

A thought crossed Harry’s mind: Gregor’s ability to make people loyal, this was unsettling. He’d never realized the full extent of it before. He needed to secretly write to Lord Tywin about this.

In the Seven Kingdoms, Maesters were the sole masters of the lord’s ravens. Gregor, who came from humble beginnings, didn’t have his own ravens. The ravens in Clegane's Keep were brought by Harry from Casterly Rock, belonging to Lord Tywin, to help facilitate communication between Gregor and Tywin.

“Bring Julie back too... Is there anyone else at home?”

Gregor, as a lord, knew very little about his eleven subjects. He’d never cared about the lives or deaths of his people before.

“There’s my mother, but my sisters all married off early, they were afraid you would rape them. Both of my brothers died in the mines." Julie chirped cheerfully.

Gregor stared at the girl, Julie, and found it odd how she spoke of her dead brothers as if they were just two dead cats or dogs, without a hint of sadness.

Why didn’t she show any emotion or sorrow?

Was Julie’s indifference just part of her nature, or was there something wrong with her humanity?

Gregor didn’t want to dwell on it. He knew that probing into such things wouldn’t give him answers.

Though he felt a little unnatural about Julie’s callousness, he couldn’t deny that he found something appealing about her straightforward and unfeeling nature.

Clearly, the girl had no emotional attachment to her brothers. They were a family, but there was no warmth between them. At least Gregor saw none of that warmth in Julie.

“Julie, take the salt. I’ll allow you to bring an extra bag of salt." Gregor said. “Go check on your mother. Starting tomorrow, I’ll have lead poured into your training swords. Your arms are too thin, and your strength is lacking.”

“Yes, milord!”

Julie skipped forward, arms wide, as if about to hug Gregor.

But Gregor glared at her, as if ready to crush her skull on the spot. Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

However, Julie was as quick as a monkey. She climbed up Gregor’s arm like a tree, and in front of the stunned onlookers, with the air thick with tension, she wrapped her arms around Gregor’s neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Thud!"

Thomasson fell to his knees in terror, opening his mouth as if to beg for Gregor’s forgiveness, but no words came out. Fear had seized his throat.

Julie jumped off Gregor’s arm and, with a playful wink and giggle, flashed her cheeky smile. Everyone, including Gregor himself, was dumbfounded.

Harry trembled, closing his eyes. He was sure that Gregor would crush this little girl’s skull the next second.

The Mountain was a devil, not a good man.

“No more of that. This is the last time." Gregor said in a stern tone.

“Got it! Father!” The little girl drawled, clearly not taking Gregor’s warning seriously.

Chapter Text

In the Westerlands, due to the abundance of gold and silver mines, every month large carts and ox-drawn wagons travel along the Goldroad to the King's Landing mint to be processed. To ensure these carts and wagons can smoothly travel the mountainous terrain of the Westerlands, the region boasts the most well-built roads in the Seven Kingdoms.

Apart from the Searoad leading to Highgarden, the Goldroad to King’s Landing, and the Riverlands road to the Riverlands, the roads crisscrossing the Westerlands are also meticulously paved and wide, ensuring that even rural paths can accommodate carts and oxen. Horseback riders can travel together through the fields without hindrance.

Alec was sowing rice seeds in the fields.

It hadn't been long since Ser Gregor had given the order to replace the opium poppies with rice. The poppies had been cleared from her field not long ago. Alec, along with her neighbors, had drawn water from the irrigation ditch, plowed the land, leveled the paddy fields, and planted the rice seeds after soaking them and allowing them to sprout.

It was a bit late for the first season of planting. In other noble lands, the crops had already begun to flower. However, because the Westerlands enjoyed a climate that was warm all year round, rice could be planted at any time and still yield a harvest.

In the North, the weather was still cold in March, while in Dorne, it was already quite hot, but in the Riverlands and Westerlands, it was the perfect time, not too hot, not too cold.

Lost in her work, Alec heard the sound of hooves approaching from the field path.

Although the path was narrow, it was wide enough to allow carts and ox-drawn wagons, with a smooth and durable gravel surface, a rare feature found only in the Westerlands among the Seven Kingdoms.

Alec looked up briefly before returning to her task.

She recognized the rider as someone of noble standing, judging by the warhorse, helmet, armor, and longsword, things most common soldiers and mercenaries didn’t have.

Noble knights were often cruel and would stop to harass any peasant woman they fancied when passing through the fields. Alec’s heart began to race.

This was the territory of the Mountain, and she, like all the peasants here, was one of his people. Yet, everyone knew the Mountain didn’t protect his subjects. He was indifferent to their lives and fates. For a passing knight to rape a lone woman working in the fields was, in the eyes of the nobility, nothing more than an insignificant affair.

Alec lowered her head, hoping the knight would pass by quickly.

But her fears were realized when the hooves stopped, and the rider did not move forward.

“Hey, woman, come here!” A rough voice called out to her.

The knight was shouting at her from atop his horse.

She was the only one working in the fields nearby.

Alec’s first instinct was to flee, but she knew she couldn’t outrun a horse. If she ran down the path, the knight would catch up with her easily. The paths between the fields were interconnected, and a warhorse would have no trouble overtaking her.

Her heart pounded, and she pretended not to hear, continuing her work. She hoped to wear down the knight’s patience and prayed he would leave soon. At least for now, the mud of the fields was her only protection. Surely a knight wouldn't dismount and chase her through the dirt!

But she was still afraid he might get angry or grow patient enough to wait for her on horseback.

Though the Mountain had killed dozens of knights in a violent conflict over Thomasson's young daughter, Julie, this didn’t mean he cared for his subjects' protection. The Mountain only did what he wanted to, and his actions had nothing to do with his responsibility to protect his people.

“Woman, do you want me to come down and grab you? If you come up willingly, I won’t kill you or harm your family." the knight said lazily.

Alec’s home was not far away. It was mealtime, and her children, an eleven-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl, had gone home to cook. From the field, she could see the smoke rising from the thatched roof of her cottage.

The knight tapped a small knife against his armored arm twice.

Alec felt a rush of heat through her body. Her breathing became shallow, and her limbs grew weak. She felt herself raise her head, and her voice spoke out before she realized it: "Knight, I am a subject of the Mountain."

“I’m not a knight." the rider replied. “I’m a soldier, a miner. Woman, you look quite nice. Come here, let’s go into the grass up ahead. It’ll be quick. I won’t hurt you or your family.”

Not a knight.

Alec immediately felt a sense of relief.

He was just an ordinary soldier, one of the common folk, just like her. There was no need to be particularly afraid of him.

“Soldier, you should leave. Haven’t you heard of the Mountain? Lord Alva Serrett, the seventh son of the Serrett family, abducted Julie and took her to the mines. When the Mountain found out, he went to the mine and killed Lord Alva. I am under the protection of the Mountain.”

The miner chuckled. “Woman, when has the Mountain ever protected his people? Don’t make me wait any longer, or you’ll regret it.” He pointed at her cottage. “That’s your home, right? Someone is cooking there. If you don’t come up, I’ll go wait for you at your house.”

Alec was terrified. Her two children were at home.

“Soldier, swear on the Seven Gods’ name that once you’re done, you’ll leave. Don’t hit me, don’t go to my house, and don’t harm my children.”

“I swear by the Seven Gods’ name!” The soldier raised his hand. “I swear I won’t hit you, won’t go to your house, and won’t harm your children.”

“…Thank you, soldier…” Alec felt her face grow warm, and when she touched it, she realized she was crying. Tears streamed down her face uncontrollably.

“Come up now, Alec!” the soldier called, dismounting.

Alec was confused as to how the soldier knew her name. Her mind felt foggy, unable to comprehend what was happening. With a thud, she mechanically walked out of the paddy field, set down her basket of rice seeds, cleaned the mud off her legs, and heard her voice speaking: "Soldier, please, hurry up. I don’t want my children to see."

Suddenly, the soldier pulled her close and whispered, "Alec." His voice sounded strange but familiar.

“Stone!” Alec gasped in shock.

Her husband had suddenly returned, dressed in full knight’s armor, sword at his side, looking every bit the imposing figure!

“Alec, I’m sorry.” The man’s voice returned to normal. “I just wanted to play a joke on you.”

Slap!

A loud slap echoed.

Half of the man’s face turned red.

He grinned and quickly scooped Alec up, carrying her swiftly toward the grass.

Slap!

Another resounding slap.

Chapter Text

The warhorse grazed nearby, occasionally glancing at the man and woman on the grass.

Alec glanced in the direction of her home. If it weren't for the fear that her children might suddenly come outside, she truly wouldn't want to stop.

Blackstone's face was swelling on both sides, the result of Alec's slap.

Alec began to put on her dress.

"You're a knight of the Mountain that Rides now?" Alec didn't use any honorifics, referring to Gregor by the infamous title of 'Mountain that Rides.'

"Yes."

"Let's sell the armor and sword, and head south."

"I've sworn allegiance to the Mountain."

"He'll kill you when he's not happy."

"He won't."

"You believe in the Mountain?"

"I've sworn an oath."

"We have the warhorse for travel, and we can sell the sword and armor to get some capital. We'll head to the Riverbend in the south and start a small shop. The land in the south is more fertile than the West."

Alec tied her skirt and started getting dressed.

"The sword, armor, and the warhorse are all mine. They’re not the Mountain’s." Blackstone said.

Alec paused, looking at him in confusion.

"The horse, sword, armor, helmet, they're all our personal property." Blackstone said, smiling. "I swore allegiance to the Mountain, but these things are gifts from him, not issued by him."

Alec resumed dressing, but now more quickly.

"Then selling them won't be illegal. Let’s sell them and leave as soon as possible."

"How much can we sell them for?"

"I don’t know, maybe seven golden dragons. Plus the one the Mountain gave us last time, we’ll have quite a bit of money. We can find a noble in the south to sponsor us, and it's safer than staying here."

Blackstone grabbed a pair of undergarments, shook them out, and coins jingled inside.

Alec’s hands stopped again as she noticed the weight of the coins.

Blackstone tossed them to her.

Alec caught them. They were heavy, and when she dug inside, she pulled out several golden dragons. There were even more in the pouch. She counted them, ten in total.

A large sum of money, enough to live comfortably for many years.

"Where did all this money come from?" Alec's voice had changed.

"The Mountain compensated us for the losses we suffered when we were growing poppies."

Alec stood still, staring at Blackstone, her mind in a daze.

"He really gave us money?" Her voice felt hollow, as if she were dreaming.

"Yes. The Mountain gave ten golden dragons to each of the eleven households in our village."

Alec was stunned, her eyes locked on Blackstone's as if she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.

"The Mountain really compensated us?" she asked again, her voice barely audible.

"Yes. He gave us each ten golden dragons, for all eleven families." Blackstone said, quickly dressing. "And there's salt, pure white salt. I’ve tasted it. You can eat it straight with rice; it's delicious, not bitter at all, and has no grit."

Salt was a rarity for Alec.

"Where is the salt?" Alec asked, already starting to rummage through Blackstone’s bag.

Brown parchment wrapped several pounds of white salt. Alec stared, wide-eyed.

No matter how rich the nobles in the West were, most of the common folk were still poor.

Alec had seen salt sold in the big city of Lannisport, a pale yellow salt that was bitter and often had stone grains mixed in. But this, this was the purest white, finer than sand. Alec had never seen anything like it.

She touched a bit of salt, put it in her mouth, and her face twisted with surprise, it was incredibly salty, but so tasty.

"This salt came from the Mountain?" Alec added honorifics to the title, calling him 'the Mountain.'

"Yes."

"Where did this salt come from?" Alec had never seen anything so refined.

"I heard from the scribes and Maesters that the Mountain took the salt he purchased and used secret methods to refine it. Only the people of our land, Faircastle, have this salt."

"The Mountain is selling salt at Faircastle?"

"This salt is not for sale. The Mountain only gave it to Lord Tywin, and then to the people of Clegane. He promised us we will get this fine salt for free from now on. Maester Harry said his teacher, Master Pycelle, told him that Lord Tywin even named it 'snow salt.'"

"The Mountain is giving us snow salt for free?" Alec could hardly believe it.

"Yes! Not only is the Mountain giving us snow salt, but he also swore in front of the Seven Gods to protect us. From now on, if anyone from other lands or nobles bullies us, the Mountain will demand justice. Just like Julie from Thomasson’s family, even though she’s from the Serrett family, she will not be violated."

How could such a great lord be the infamous the Mountain? Alec had always been worried, afraid that one day the Mountain might burst into her home with a group of ruthless men and assault her. Her little daughter was four now, and Alec had been raising her with constant anxiety in her heart.

"We know about Julie." Blackstone continued. "People from nearby lands are gossiping, saying that Julie now carries the Clegane name, but she hasn’t yet sworn her oath in the temple under the Maesters' guidance."

"Julie will swear her oath soon." Blackstone replied.

"Really?"

"Yes. Maester Harry is in charge of inviting Lannis' craftsmen to build a Seven Gods temple in Faircastle. From now on, we’ll have a place to pray for harvests, health, our children’s growth, and victory in battle. We won’t have to go to another lord’s temple anymore."

"That’s wonderful!" Alec was excited.

"There's even better news."

"What is it?"

"The Mountain plans to build a village for us, Clegane's Keep, outside his castle. When the houses are finished, all eleven of our families will move there. We won’t have to pay for the construction; the Mountain is covering the cost. The village will have wells, animal pens, chicken coops, stables, underground storage, firewood houses, and walls. Our stone houses will be twice the size of these thatched cottages."

Alec stared at her husband, her mouth agape in surprise.

"Alec, do you still want to run to the south?" Blackstone asked, finishing his clothes, putting on his armor, and strapping the sword to his horse.

"Will the Mountain still, will he still..." she hesitated, the words hard to speak.

"Will the Mountain harm women?" Blackstone asked, a reassuring smile on his face. "The Mountain swore in front of the Seven Gods that he would protect only the people of Faircastle, regardless of age or gender. If anyone from another land or any noble bullies us, they will regret it."

"Just like the Serrett family." Alec said, her face slowly brightening.

"Yes, just like the Serrett family."

Chapter Text

On the wide road outside Clegane’s Keep, a group of horses trotted in perfect sync. At the center of the group, a large flag flew, with a vivid, lifelike peacock spreading its tail on it.

Among the group, there were a few prison wagons holding more than ten people; old and young, men and women alike.

Ado Serrett led his small retinue of guards at the front of the group.

Surrounding the prison wagons on either side, and behind them, were the elite cavalry of the Serrett family, fifty strong.

With a sharp, metallic whistle cutting through the air, the sounds of shouting, galloping hooves, and clashing swords echoed from within Faircastle. Soon after, a cavalry unit appeared, holding long spears, lined up and ready for action.

At the head of this unit was Raff Clegane, whose armor displayed the freshly etched family crest of the Clegane House: three snarling hunting dogs.

Only those who bore the Clegane surname were allowed to have the family crest engraved on their armor or wear its pin on their clothing.

A flag with a yellow background, featuring three black dogs in a vertical row, waved alongside the cavalry.

This group of riders wore red cloaks, the traditional color of the Westerlands army, matching the colors worn by the Serrett cavalry.

The Clegane family's three-headed hunting dog flag was held by a muscular, dark-skinned cavalryman, Blackstone, who was a miner.

Leading the charge at the front were the four strongest knights of Clegane: Raff Clegane, the executioner Dunsen, the brainless fanboy Polliver, and the scribe Mark.

They formed a protective circle around a small figure: Julie Clegane.

Julie wore a light, form-fitting suit of armor, with leather protection around her elbows, knees, and other joints, allowing for greater flexibility. She had a sword belt at her waist, with both a sword and a dagger hanging from it, and a bow strapped to her back, with a quiver full of arrows at her side.

The cavalry of Clegane’s Keep could respond quickly because they had been undergoing extensive training right in the castle’s yard. Every rider carried a bow and a quiver of arrows at their waist.

Julie was trained to focus on archery, this was the direct order of Ser Gregor Clegane.

There was no room for negotiation, it was a command.

Ser Gregor believed that Julie was too small, with slender arm bones that made her weaker compared to men. In close combat, she would lack the strength advantage, so he had ordered her to specialize in archery.

However, strength was required for all forms of weapon training.

Drawing a longbow, firing a hard arrow, required as much strength as wielding a sword.

To help her develop arm strength, Julie’s practice sword was filled with lead.

The four elite knights, known for their ruthless efficiency, kept close to Julie since she was Ser Gregor's adopted daughter. Gregor had married twice, but both wives tragically died in accidents, leaving him without children. Julie Clegane thus became the sole heir to Faircastle.

None of Gregor’s feared four would dare to bully her.

… 

Ado Serrett reigned in his warhorse.

His entire group stopped alongside him.

To his surprise, he saw another cavalry unit charge out of Faircastle. Judging by their numbers, this group exceeded fifty riders.

The cavalry charged toward them, their flag of three-headed hunting dogs flapping in the wind, making a sharp noise as it whipped through the air.

"Less than twenty days, where did Gregor get this many cavalry from?" Ado remarked, stunned.

Beside him was the calmest of the seven brothers, his fourth brother, Adam Serrett.

Adam was skilled with a spear.

"Is this the Lord Tywin’s guard cavalry?" Adam asked.

Gregor Clegane, a former captain of Tywin’s guards, had commanded a highly skilled cavalry of five hundred men to protect the Lord’s safety. But during peacetime, Tywin’s guards didn’t need such a large force.

"That’s very likely!" Ado replied.

The cavalry arriving was fully armored, with helmets, long swords, sturdy horses, and even round shields strapped to their backs. Such fine equipment suggested they were part of Lord Tywin’s elite guard.

"But it’s not them!" Adam said sharply, focusing on the cavalry with an intense look. "They’re flying the Three-Headed Hunting Dog flag."

If these were Tywin’s men, they would have the Golden Lion flag.

"This is Gregor’s personal cavalry!" Ado’s voice was filled with shock.

They all knew Gregor was broke, barely scraping by under Tywin’s protection. Normally, his Faircastle had only three residents: a cook, a servant, and a young official. His domain was one of the smallest, with just eleven households.

"Did Mountain buy this cavalry with the gold he received from our compensation?" Adam said, his tone full of frustration.

"Maybe he hired mercenaries." Ado muttered, feeling a pang of jealousy.

"It’s not mercenaries." Adam replied, "With Mountain’s reputation and his dual role as Tywin’s general and guard captain, plus this tiny little domain of his, he wouldn’t need mercenaries to protect it."

"But he doesn’t need a personal cavalry to guard his lands either." Ado countered. "Who would dare threaten his territory?"

The sound of hooves grew louder as the Clegane cavalry approached. Ado noticed the Three-Headed Hunting Dog insignia on Raff’s armor and the small figure in the middle. Julie Clegane, fully armored and wearing a helmet, had her face hidden.

But both Ado and Adam immediately recognized who it was.

Sweet-Tongue Raff let out a sharp whistle, and the cavalry quickly spread out, each rider holding a spear, surrounding the Serrett group.

Ado was surprised by the sharp whistle. He had never heard anything like it before.

Neither Adam nor his soldiers had ever heard such an iron whistle. In this world, generals and knights usually shouted commands during battles. Nobles, as they led their men into war, trained from a young age to have a strong, commanding voice. Iron-smelting technology was advanced, but iron whistles hadn’t been invented yet.

Gregor, coming from a different civilization, had effortlessly invented the iron whistle. Within just two days, he had integrated various battle commands into the different pitches and lengths of the whistle, using it to train his cavalry to maneuver with precision.

The penetrating sound of the iron whistle was much more distinct and recognizable than a shouted command, especially in the chaos of battle.

Ado and Adam also noticed that each of the riders carried two throwing spears, in addition to their swords and long spears.

This was a fully trained cavalry unit. They also had bows strapped to their backs and quivers at their sides.

With their cavalry surrounded, the Serrett riders were effectively fish on a chopping block.

The small figure at the center removed her helmet, revealing a confident, cold, and indifferent face. Her single eyelid and thin lips exuded an aura of ice and cruelty. She looked every bit as fierce as the woman they had once known, but now, she was Julie Clegane.

Chapter Text

Julie wore no red cloak.

A red cloak would only weigh her down.

That, too, was by the decree of her father, Ser Gregor.

Without the cloak, riding or swordplay was cleaner, quicker. Without the cloak, she felt faster on horseback.

Gregor had taught her in just twenty days to cast off all burdens and focus only on the true target.

Julie's armor was a burnished copper-red, an adult suit that had been refitted for her smaller frame.

Adam Serrett almost didn’t recognize her.

He had only glimpsed her once before, on the Goldroad outside Silverhill. Back then, she was pale and gaunt, her hair dry and split, her figure frail and hollow like a beggar's. Aside from her calm, cold eyes, she had been unremarkable.

But now, just shy of a month later, Julie had transformed entirely. She was like a new person.

“Ser Ado, what business brings you to Clegane Keep?” Julie Clegane’s voice was clear and sharp, but held no warmth. Her eyes were sharp, cold, and utterly merciless.

“Lady Julie, I’ve come seeking an audience with Ser Clegane.” Ado gestured behind him, encompassing the prison wagons with a sweep of his arm. “These are the kin of the criminal Allen Serrett. He plotted to poison Ser Clegane and ambushed his subjects with hired blades. Though Allen is dead, his death does not wipe clean his crimes. We’ve captured his family and brought them here for Ser Clegane to judge.”

Julie let out a cold laugh. “Ser Ado, we Cleganes know full well who the true villain is.” Her eyes locked with his, and a strange chill crept up his spine. “Those who wrong the Cleganes will suffer merciless retribution. The Stranger will bring divine punishment in time, I, Julie Clegane, believe that with all my heart.”

“Yes, Lady Julie, you are entirely correct. Now that the criminals have been delivered, may we be permitted to see Ser Clegane?”

“Leave the prisoners. The rest of you, get out.” Julie’s tone was icy.

Her hatred for House Serrett had long since festered into loathing.

Allen Serrett had died seeking justice for his lord, and barely was his body cold before his kin were betrayed and offered up like lambs. Were the hearts of the Serretts carved from Northern ice? Or the Biter of Sunset Sea sharks? Such cruelty came to them as naturally as breath.

Ado opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Raff the Sweetling Clegane chuckled. “Ser Ado, when my lady tells you to leave, you’d best take the hint.”

“Get out!” bellowed Polliver.

“Out!” roared the Clegane cavalry in unison.

Most of these soldiers were once free miners, only recently trained within Clegane Keep. But sheep raised by lions soon learn to bite like them.

A ferocious tension surged through the air.

Ado and Adam Serrett, both famed knights of the Westerlands with noble blood and elite skill, found themselves being shouted down by Clegane’s green recruits.

Their faces darkened like ironstone.

“Lady Julie, we’ve come to apologize to Ser Clegane and hand over these prisoners. Please let us pass." Ado said, his voice cold.

Julie said nothing. She drew a short sword, then slung a small round shield from her back. 

Clang!  

The sword struck the shield, echoing sharp and clear.

“Soldiers of Clegane!” she called. “If I strike three times and the Serretts have not left, seize them. If they resist, kill them.”

Hoah! came the chorus of the Clegane cavalry.

Ado and Adam’s expressions tightened, along with those of their fifty knights.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Raff the Sweetling, the Executioner Dunsen, Madman Polliver, and Scribe Mark all drew their swords and slung their shields forward.

The rest of the cavalry followed: round shields up, lances at the ready.

Clang! Julie struck her shield a second time.

Boom! the cavalry answered, their weapons slamming into their shields. The sound boomed like thunder across the field.

The Serrett horses neighed and stamped anxiously. The formation wavered.

Still, Ado held his sword. His riders, disciplined and well-trained, followed his lead, none reached for their blades.

After the second strike, Julie slipped on her helmet and slowly lowered the visor.

It was the signal: battle could break out at any moment.

The Clegane riders followed, visors down, lances leveled. From behind their eye slits, their cold, killing glares fixed on the Serretts.

Julie raised her short sword.

One more strike, and all hell would break loose.

The Serrett cavalry, surrounded on all sides, was at a clear disadvantage. And with Ser Ado refusing to draw his sword, none of his men dared to do so either.

“We’re leaving." Ado said at last, his back soaked in cold sweat.

He raised a hand and gave the order.

The Clegane cavalry opened a path.

Adam Serrett exhaled hard. Several lances had been pointed directly at his chest, one more beat of Julie’s blade and he would’ve been skewered through like a boar on a spit.

As Ado, Adam, and their fifty horsemen rode off in bitter silence, the Clegane cavalry saw them off with a thunderous farewell on their shields:

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

…

Three wagons holding Allen Serrett’s kin were driven into the courtyard of Clegane Keep.

When the doors creaked open, none of the prisoners dared move, they were too terrified to step down.

The Mountain stood in the center of the yard, practicing swordplay with a massive greatsword. His towering figure looked less like a man and more like a beast from some ancient nightmare. The sword, longer than most spears, spun in his hands with the ease of a butterknife. Its steel flashed cold and fast. The ground trembled beneath his feet, each step carving shallow craters.

One by one, the prisoners were dragged out. Trembling, they collapsed on the ground, not a single one daring to lift their gaze toward the Mountain.

No one in the land doubted his cruelty.

He kept training as he spoke. “Maester Harry, wash them, dress them, take them to the sept. If they swear fealty to Clegane Keep, I’ll spare them.”

The prisoners were in terrible condition; tattered clothes, whip marks on some of their faces.

“Yes, my lord. But the sept isn’t fully built yet.”

“A few Seven statues will do.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Ser Raff.”

“Milord.”

“Draft the younger Serrett men into the cavalry. Start training them as miner-soldiers.”

“Yes, milord.”

Chapter Text

Night. Clegane Keep. Dining Hall.

Gregor set down his and let out a small burp.

Amidst the clatter of cutlery and dinnerware in the large hall filled with dozens of diners, Gregor alone ate using chopsticks alongside the usual cutlery.

At the main table sat Gregor, Raff the Sweetling, Dunsen the Executioner, Polliver the Fanatic, Scribe Mark, Julie, Thomasson, Maester Harry, and a middle-aged woman.

Sixty mounted soldiers sat at the side tables.

Outside the dining hall, the workers building the Sept and various servants sat at another long table.

Much has changed at Clegane Keep over the past twenty days.

The first major change was the recruitment of mine-soldiers, Gregor’s unique take on cavalry. He insisted on calling them "mine-soldiers" because while they rode as cavalry in battle, they were also expected to dismount and dig in the mines.

Besides the eleven local peasant-miners, the remaining forty-nine were recruited from Lannisport's freefolk and the mountain miners from the Silverhill range.

Though they had yet to begin mining, Gregor had been training them intensively in combat.

Mounted, they were soldiers; dismounted, they were workers. That was the dual role of the Clegane mine-soldiers.

With this team in place, Gregor had managed, through a mixture of persuasion, bribery, and threats, to bring over a hundred more free laborers from Lannisport.

He split them into two groups: one was sent into the nearby Silverhills to quarry stone, fell trees, and fire bricks for the construction of Clegane's Keep. The other group remained at the keep’s western side, working to build the Sept.

The new Sept was modest in size, not remotely comparable to the grand structures in Casterly Rock or Lannisport, but it had the complete form of a proper place of worship.
In a few days, the roof would be finished and the building would be complete.

Gregor valued the Faith of the Seven.

It offered hope to the hopeless, a place for the voiceless to confess, courage to the fearful, and loyalty to the disloyal.
Having both subjects and soldiers swear allegiance before the Seven was a ritual Gregor favored deeply.

Across both Earth and this fantasy world, rituals held great meaning. Whether it be weddings, graduations, or the issuance of official documents, humans have always needed ceremonies to anchor their spiritual lives.

The Sept served as a place for such rites of the soul.

Once construction of the Sept was done, the laborers quarrying stone, chopping wood, and making tiles would soon finish their jobs.

Gregor had not sent overseers to monitor them in the mountains.

First, he had paid them generously.

Second, he had made them swear before the statues of the Seven to work diligently.

Third, he had warned the foremen: if the materials weren’t delivered by the set deadline, he’d personally break their arms and legs.

If any dared flee, he’d hunt them down and kill their families.

The thousand gold dragons Gregor had taken from House Serrett was his first pot of gold.

Constructing a clean, spacious village for eleven families and a mid-sized Sept had already cost more than two hundred gold dragons.

Outfitting his sixty-man mine-soldier force with top-quality armor, swords, spears, lances, shields, bows, horses, daggers, and steel spikes, most of it bought in Lannisport, had cost another six hundred gold dragons.

He had purchased only the very best.

Now, all that remained in his coffers was a pitiful twenty-some gold dragon.

A mine-soldier’s monthly pay was one gold dragon, a high wage, triple that of a regular soldier.

In ten days, Gregor would owe at least sixty gold dragons in wages.

And that didn’t even include daily food, lodging, and supplies.

In just twenty days, the pressure of raising a military force, building a Sept, and gathering building materials was already mounting day by day.

Gregor now understood the old saying: You never know how expensive life is until you manage a household yourself.

A thousand gold dragons had disappeared like a stone tossed into a lake, just a few ripples, then silence.

Once the quarrying at the designated stone pit was complete, Gregor planned to take his mine-soldiers and start digging at an angle from that spot, tunneling straight into the gold mine owned by the Serrett family.

Most of the Silverhills belonged to House Serrett.

That was... damn infuriating.

With ten days to go before payday, Gregor was already broke.

But he still had ten days.

And for a consummate rogue like him, if there’s no road ahead, he’d just scale the damn mountain.

For now, he needed to deal with the family of Allen Serrett, whom Ser Ado had delivered to earlier.

Allen’s widow was sitting at the main table with them.

As a knight’s wife, she was entitled to dine with the nobility.

Her seven-year-old son, however, sat with his grandparents at the workers’ table outside.

“Lady Serrett." Gregor said casually, “do you know how your husband Allen died?”

Everyone at the table turned to look at the woman.

She kept her head down and said nothing.

“The poison your husband used to try to kill my Choker was mixed into golden grape wine. That poison costs more than gold, diamonds, emeralds, or rubies. Only the Serrett of Silverhill could afford such a thing. Your husband couldn’t.”

Slowly, the woman raised her head.

She was a young widow, fairly beautiful, with large eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Allen’s assassination attempt failed. The Serretts of Silverhill, needing a scapegoat to appease Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock, decided to hand over your entire family as compensation.
Tell me, my lady, are you afraid to die?”

She shook her head firmly.

“And your son?”

The tears finally fell from her eyes, her face etched with despair.

“My lord, please spare my son. I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll test your food for poison, bathe you, make your bed, clean your chambers, I’ll be your personal servant.”

The tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

Though she tried to hold herself together, her body trembled ever so slightly.

Gregor’s reputation as a rapist and murderer of women was infamous enough to silence even crying children.

“Very well. I won’t kill your son. I’ll take your whole family in, restore your status as freefolk, and welcome you all to Clegane's Keep.”

“Thank you, my lord!”

She stood, knelt, and knocked her head against the ground.

The sound was sharp and loud, thud thud thud , and by the third bow, her forehead was bleeding.

That was the power of a devil.

A mere crumb of kindness from a monster could earn a mountain of gratitude.

“Lady, I do have one task for you tonight." Gregor said.

“Yes, my lord!”

A flash of fear crossed her eyes, but was quickly replaced by grim resolve.

Gregor could tell she assumed he would use her that night.

But for the sake of her family’s survival, she had made peace with it.

The brutes around the table, Raff, Dunsen, Polliver, all snickered lecherously.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was spacious, noble kitchens always were.

Even a modest noble household typically had a kitchen capable of serving over three hundred guests.

Clegane Keep rarely hosted visitors, and even less often did it entertain other nobles. The fact that only a single chef was employed here made it clear: guests were not welcome. It was also a testament to how poor Gregor Clegane’s social standing was among the nobility.

Yet the kitchen itself remained generously sized, easily able to serve two hundred people at once.

Lady Serrette, who had followed Gregor into the kitchen, appeared calm on the surface, but her heart was uneasy.

Neither she nor her late husband Allen had ever done kitchen work.

If Ser Gregor preferred to conduct his pleasures in the kitchen, then she had no right to refuse.

Her husband’s two younger brothers had already been conscripted into the ranks of the mine-soldiers. Her seven-year-old son, Andy Serrett, had been apprenticed to Maester Harry. The rest of her family, her aged parents and other relatives, had all been assigned various tasks within the keep: some under the stablemaster, others under the stewards, some in the kitchens, others in the poultry coops or livestock pens.

And she herself… it seemed she had been assigned to Gregor Clegane.

Lady Serrett’s greatest fear wasn’t death, it was whether her body could withstand the physical demands of this monstrous man. His sheer size was terrifying. Rumor had it his previous two wives had died from his abuse.

Gregor could see the tension in her posture, the fear in her smile, anxious and feigned.

She was a mature woman, still with some beauty left. But Gregor had no intention of laying hands on her, at least not in that way.

Even kings weren’t immune to poison. They employed food tasters, ensuring every dish and drink was safe before touching it themselves. Imported delicacies from foreign lands or noble gifts were sampled by professionals first.

A rabbit doesn’t eat the grass around its burrow, it needs the cover to hide from predators.

To survive longer in this brutal world, one had to treat their own people well, win their gratitude and loyalty. Like Polliver, for instance.

“Madam." Gregor said, pointing to a wooden lid. “Open that.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lady Serrett lifted the lid and saw a large earthen jar full of yellow salt.

Mineral salt, mined straight from the hills. She was well familiar with it. Her family had always used this kind of salt, even though they were among the wealthier locals thanks to her husband’s knighthood.

“Open the one beside it." Gregor ordered.

“Yes, my lord.”

The neighboring jar looked identical. Lady Serrett removed its lid and found it filled with a snowy-white substance.

“What is this, my lord?”

The soft glow from a thick red candle revealed the fine, glimmering white crystals.

“Salt." Gregor replied.

“Salt?” she echoed, surprised.

“Snow-salt." he said. “A name given by Lord Tywin himself.”

“I’ve never seen salt like this before, my lord.”

“Taste it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lady Serrett dipped her fingertip into the snow-salt and touched it to her tongue. It was salty, of course, but unlike the yellow salt, it lacked the bitterness.

She suddenly remembered tonight's meal, the soup and dishes, none of them had that bitter, astringent taste she had grown used to. But in her nervousness and fear of Gregor, she had failed to notice it until now.

Salt, the king of flavor, the cornerstone of taste.

“My lady, would you do me a favor?” Gregor asked.

“…As you wish, my lord…”

“I’d like to appoint you as my kitchen steward, tasked with producing snow-salt for the people of Clegane's Keep. I’ll also be giving some to the great houses of the Westerlands.”

Lady Serrett found it hard to breathe for a moment. The legendary Mountain That Rides was now addressing her with respectful words.

“…As you wish, my lord…”

“Good. Let me show you how to turn bitter yellow salt into our snow-salt. The technique is simple, but I’ll need your sworn secrecy.”

“I swear." she stammered, raising her right hand, “In the honor of House Serrett and in the name of the Seven.”

Gregor nodded. Oaths sworn before the Seven were powerful, it was a sacred ritual deeply rooted in this world’s culture.

“Let’s make a batch now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lady Serrett’s fear slowly eased as she realized Gregor had no ill intentions toward her. When they had entered the kitchen together, her body had been wound tight like a bowstring.

Gregor filled a large pot halfway with water, then poured in half a scoop of yellow salt and began stirring.

“Light the fire." he said.

She obeyed, sparking the hearth to life.

As the water heated, Gregor added more salt, then more water, stirring steadily. The salt dissolved as the temperature rose.

“When it stops dissolving, stop adding salt." he instructed.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now boil it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once all the salt had dissolved, Gregor held a thick candle to the pot and scooped the bottom with a ladle.

“What do you see in the water?” he asked, holding the ladle up for her to inspect.

She saw black and brown flecks, tiny particles.

“Salt residue, my lord.”

“Correct. Keep boiling.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As she watched, Lady Serrett’s fear gave way to fascination.

“Come with me." Gregor said, moving to a wooden structure shaped like a cross.

It was her first time seeing one like it, a wooden cross with a rope hanging from its top arm. The whole frame could rotate freely. A large iron nail held the two wooden beams together at the center.

Gregor opened a large chest nearby and pulled out pieces of cloth, some thick, some smooth like silk. He tied the corners of the cloth to the wooden cross.

“Once the boiling stops and the water cools a little, we’ll pour it through this cloth filter. The clean brine will fall into a barrel below. The residue will stay on the cloth.”

“What a clever idea!” she exclaimed.

“Boiling removes bitterness, but full refinement requires several rounds of filtering and boiling.”

“How many rounds?” she asked.

“You’ll have to experiment. Try different fabrics, different layers, find what works best.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then pour the filtered brine back into the pot and boil it dry. The salt will crystallize again. But be careful, if the fire’s too hot, it’ll scorch and waste the salt.”

“I understand, my lord." she said, excited. “We could sell snow-salt across the Seven Kingdoms!”

“No. Snow-salt is not for sale.”

“Yes, my lord.”

An hour later, Gregor and Lady Serrett emerged from the kitchen, chatting pleasantly. Her face was flushed, a healthy color returning to her cheeks. She followed him into his chambers, whatever was to happen next, she was ready to face it.

Gregor needed her to manage the kitchen, oversee food purchases, recruit new servants, and most importantly, make snow-salt. She now felt assured her family’s safety was secure.

If she could also please Ser Gregor at night, win his favor, then her son Andy could grow up safely under Maester Harry’s guidance. Her fear was gradually transforming into accommodation… into willingness.

Gregor saw the look in her eyes. He knew that with a bit more kindness, her compliance would become gratitude. Gratitude would deepen into loyalty. And if Maester Harry brought her to the Sept for a private ceremony, an oath of fealty to The Mountain in the name of the Seven, she would become a loyal supPycelle. A devoted mistress.

Among the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, keeping mistresses was common. There was no limit to how many.

Chapter Text

"My lady, you are truly beautiful. I would like you to stay with me tonight." said Gregor.

"...As you wish, my lord... It would be an honor to serve you." Lady Serrett replied, a blush rising to her cheeks, making her even more radiant.

Gregor had never considered himself a noble man. Goodness and nobility were distant concepts to him. In fact, he believed he was rather devious. After transmigrating into this world and taking on the monstrous nature of the Mountain, he was no longer just a man of science and engineering, but he wasn’t entirely the Mountain either.

"My lady, you’ve only just arrived today, and you suffered greatly at Silverhill under Serrett. I suggest you spend a peaceful night resting with your son, Andy Serrett." he said.

Andy Serrett, her beloved seven-year-old son.

Lady Serrett looked up, stunned by Gregor’s sincerity. In her mind, and by everything she'd heard before, Gregor Clegane was a brutal beast without a shred of humanity, especially when it came to women.

Gregor was infamous for his insatiable lust, having raped countless peasant women and even tarnished the reputations of noble ladies. He had a notorious reputation.

No dog would give up a bone, especially a bone that still had tender meat on it. Lady Serrett was young and attractive, her most striking feature being her large, expressive eyes. Compared to the rough-skinned farm girls he’d once ravished in the Riverlands, bedding a knight’s widow would have been far more gratifying.

But Gregor, using unexpectedly polite words, declined her unspoken offer.

Lady Serrett left Gregor’s room and went to the apprentice quarters on the second floor. As she cradled her sleeping son, her mind was in turmoil, struggling to believe what had just happened.

That night, she could not sleep.

Andy, comforted by his mother’s presence, slept soundly and sweetly. But Lady Serrett tossed and turned, unable to find peace.

Gregor’s considerate and respectful attitude toward a woman was something she'd never imagined possible. This version of Gregor seemed completely unlike the ruthless monster from the stories. He wasn’t the savage brute she had feared.

What surprised her even more was Gregor’s intelligence. He had come up with a clever method for purifying rock salt. From the design of the filtering cross-frame, to the removal of bitterness through boiling, Lady Serrett realized that Gregor possessed the mind of a Maester.

As she left his room earlier, she glanced back. In his eyes, she had seen deSere, he clearly admired her beauty and maturity. He wouldn’t mind taking her as a mistress, yet he had prioritized her physical exhaustion and emotional trauma. For a woman who had just arrived in Clegane Keep after being caged like a criminal, her pain and fatigue were very real.

She had lost her husband. She had been falsely accused and humiliated by Serrett at Silverhill. She had been torn from her home and her freedom. These were scars that wound the soul.

Yet, ever since arriving at Clegane Keep, none of her family had been abused. This was in stark contrast to the brutal mistreatment they had suffered before.

Compared to the cruel Serrett, it was clear who the true monster was.

…

Night. Casterly Rock. The Lannister Keep.

Lord Tywin Lannister, bald-headed and meticulous, had one peculiar hobby: he liked to groom his golden beard over and over while gazing into the mirror.

Knock knock knock!

A knock interrupted the silence.

“Enter." said Tywin.

The bedroom door opened, and Grand Maester Pycelle stepped in, holding a rolled parchment.

“Read it." said Tywin.

“My lord, this letter is somewhat unusual.”

“Oh?”

The maester spread the upper part of the letter on the desk and used a ruler to flatten its corners. It was a long letter, complete with illustrations and text.

Tywin, his expression unreadable, focused his pale green-gold eyes on the drawings.

The first image showed a clay jar filled with salt, labeled as mined salt . The second illustration depicted a man pouring salt from a wooden scoop into a large pot of water, flames licking beneath the pot.

The third image was a strange wooden cross-frame, from which hung something like a cloth pouch, with a large wooden bucket underneath. The caption read: Snow Salt Filter . The accompanying text described how to build and use the filter in detail.

The final image showed the filtered brine being boiled again in a pot, the water evaporating until only pure white salt remained.

As Tywin read, Maester Pycelle discreetly studied his reaction. Tywin’s expression remained unchanged, but his eyes gleamed sharply.

“Maester Harry’s drawings are acceptable. His handwriting, however, is atrocious.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tell Maester Harry to be careful, lest the Mountain kills him.”

“My lord, this letter was written on the orders of Ser Gregor himself.”

Tywin stopped and looked up, his eyes narrowing.

“Gregor told Harry to write me this letter?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is he still Gregor? These ideas… he could never have conceived them. None of us did.”

“Yes, my lord. It looks simple, yet not one of us thought of it. The process of making snow salt is deceptively clever.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened.

“Maester, do you believe Gregor came up with this?”

“By the Seven, I do not believe it, not for a second!”

“Nor do I.”

Maester Pycelle hesitated before continuing. “My lord, there is another invention mentioned in the letter.”

“Oh?”

The maester unrolled the second half of the parchment. There was a drawing of something Tywin had never seen before, it resembled the number six.

“What is this?”

“Ser Gregor has named it a war whistle .”

“war whistle?” Tywin echoed, intrigued.

His eyes moved to the explanatory notes:

A war whistle, formed of two concave iron plates, with a small iron bead inside the hollow. When the flat mouthpiece is blown, air rushes in, spins the bead, and creates resistance. The airflow escapes through a narrow slit, producing a sharp whistling sound. With training, the tone can be varied in length and pitch. Its piercing sound is ideal for battlefield signaling, providing countless tactical advantages.

Tywin studied the diagrams and text closely.

“There are two narrow slits, how does the iron bead get inside?”

“My lord, the bead is placed inside first, then the two halves are sealed together.”

In this world, ironwork was already highly advanced. Decorative ironwork took the form of flowers, animals, even mythical beasts.

“This whistle too, Gregor invented it?” Tywin’s voice and expression changed.

“That’s what Maester Harry wrote, my lord. He also says Clegane’s soldiers are already using them in training. Very effective.”

“Write to Gregor immediately. Order him to bring the whistles and his troops to Casterly Rock tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord." the maester bowed. “Also, Ser Gregor has invented something else… called chopsticks . Maester Harry says he uses them instead of knives, forks, or spoons.”

Chapter Text

“Chopsticks?”

“Yes, chopsticks.”

“What do they look like?”

“Very simple, two equal-length sticks made of bamboo, rounded at one end and tapered at the other. Apparently, they’re quite convenient for eating noodles and picking out vegetables from soup. According to Maester Harry, Ser Gregor plans to craft chopsticks and other utensils from silver.”

“Silver chopsticks? And how does one cut roasted meat with chopsticks? Are there any drawings?”

“…uh, no… Maester Harry only mentioned them briefly. There were no illustrations…”

“A private letter from Harry?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Let me see that letter.”

“Yes, my lord.”

…

Casterly Rock was a city carved inside a massive stone mountain, roughly twenty miles long and fifteen wide, standing seventy meters tall. Calling it a “rock” was hardly accurate, it was more like a fortress-mountain.

To ensure natural light within the city, large ‘skylights’ had been carved into the rock’s outer shell. Giant glass panes were installed at the summit, but even with this, many corners and secluded areas remained dark during the day. Torches were kept burning in those areas year-round, attended by dedicated stewards.

A spiraling main road wound its way upward through the heart of Casterly Rock, connected at its base to the Lion’s Maw, a triple-gated grand entrance. This spiral avenue linked to a complex web of streets and alleys, forming the main arteries of the city. At its summit were the Lannister family’s central military grounds, the main keep, the maesters’ tower, cavalry barracks, stables, and kennels. A narrow path behind the drill yard led even higher, to the watchtower at the mountain’s peak.

Ser Gregor Clegane rode out from Clegane Keep with a mounted force of sixty-three. They galloped eastward onto the Searoad, past the towering walls of Lannisport, and turned north. After an hour, the thunder of hooves echoed down the Lion’s Maw as they approached Casterly Rock.

Gregor was unmistakable on horseback, his enormous figure atop a steed that stood a full head taller than the average warhorse. Behind him, the banner of the Three Hounds whipped in the wind, held high by the burly miner Blackstone.

The guards at the gate recognized Gregor instantly. He needed no introduction. Scrambling, they flung open all three gates of the Lion’s Maw, even those that normally remained shut.

Six abreast, Gregor’s riders surged into the city and charged up the spiral road. Patrol guards and gate watchmen snapped to attention and saluted, but Gregor didn’t even spare them a glance. He neither slowed his pace nor acknowledged their presence. Officer, captain, knight, knight, it made no difference to him. None were worth his attention.

His men, just as arrogant and disdainful, rode with the same contempt. As the spiral road narrowed with elevation, crowds filled the thoroughfare, merchants, cart-pullers, Pycelles, and townsfolk all bustling about their daily lives.

At the base of the Rock lay a small harbor. Goods from across the Narrow Sea, fine silks, exquisite porcelain, were brought through a natural cavern hollowed over centuries by the sea. Small ships could dock within the city itself, and countless merchants and laborers depended on this trade.

But Gregor’s riders barreled through the crowds like a thunderstorm.

Drivers abandoned their wagons. They dropped their loads and ran. Children and elders fled in panic. Shouts and curses echoed down the road as people scattered like fish through torn nets.

At the head of the charge, Raff the Sweetling blew his war whistle , signaling the riders to maintain speed. The shrill notes pierced the air, adding to the chaos.

They trampled street stalls. They lashed slow-moving bystanders with their whips. Cries of pain followed in their wake, but the riders laughed, mocking the fallen. To the common folk, beatings from Gregor’s men weren’t rare. If you got hit, it was your own fault for not getting out of the way fast enough.

From the training stands in Clegane's Keep, Lord Tywin Lannister watched the banner of the Three Hounds ascend the spiral. A faint gleam of satisfaction flashed in his golden-green eyes.

He had always liked Gregor, liked him as one might value a particularly dangerous blade. Tywin never praised him openly, and his rewards to Gregor were few, certainly less than to other lords. That was by design.

A vicious dog must never be overfed.

Gregor was terrifying, sharp, and loyal.

When trouble brewed, Gregor always confessed everything to Tywin personally, never lying, never evading. This alone earned Tywin’s trust, more than any hollow courtesy from highborn nobles who didn’t understand why Tywin protected a brute like Gregor. They didn’t understand the value of true loyalty .

Now this brute had suddenly become clever, clever enough to invent snow salt, the war whistle, and even these so-called chopsticks. And he’d had Maester Harry send word directly to Tywin. That loyalty hadn’t wavered.

Gregor knew exactly who his true master was.

Not that he could’ve hidden anything even if he’d tried, Maester Harry was Tywin’s eyes and ears within Clegane’s camp.

Gregor charged into the Parade Ground. Waiting for him were five Lannister knights, all lined up in formal welcome.

Gregor was their commanding general.

Tywin maintained a household cavalry of five hundred. The five knights were all Lannisters by blood, drawn from numerous cadet branches of the family based primarily in Lannisport. Some were distant kin, others more closely related.

This elite cavalry was under Gregor’s command. In peacetime, their power rarely showed, but they remained the most loyal and fearsome force in the West.

“Ser Gregor!”

The five knights saluted in unison, raising their hands on horseback.

Gregor didn’t respond. He didn’t respect them, never had. He thought them cowards hiding behind noble manners, weaklings who pretended to civility. To him, they were nothing but pampered mutts.

Outside the elite cavalry, Tywin also commanded a thousand-man standing army of mixed infantry and cavalry, free folk who trained as professionals. This force, too, fell under Gregor’s command during wartime.

Raff the Sweetling and his likes were junior officers from that very force. Their cruelty, their thirst for blood, their admiration for Gregor’s ruthless ways, these were the reasons they followed him so fervently.

Gregor raised his visor and shouted like thunder toward the grandstand:

“my lord, please watch as Ser Raff demonstrates the use of the war whistle with our cavalry!”

Tywin nodded in approval.

He already knew from Harry’s letter that Gregor had knighted Raff and given him the surname Clegane .

Gregor’s voice was no exaggeration, it truly boomed.

In this world, every general trained their voice. Just as bards practiced daily to maintain their pitch, cavalrymen trained on horseback, and archers refined their aim, so too did commanders hone their ability to project, loud and commanding.

Chapter Text

To the sharp and piercing sound of the war whistle, Ser Rafford led sixty-three cavalrymen in a display of battle formations: the wedge formation designed to tear through enemy ranks, the fully defensive circle, the marching square for frontal assaults, a semi-encirclement arc, a sweeping line formation, and the standard column formation used for marching.

Tywin Lannister observed from the stands, noting the precision with which the cavalry executed their maneuvers. It lifted his spirits. Though these riders belonged to Gregor Clegane’s personal household forces, in truth, they were Tywin's strength. If ever sent to war, they would not disgrace the Westerlands.

For a cavalry unit so recently formed, to have already mastered not only the formations but the transitions between them was no small feat. Tywin was aware that two of the riders were new recruits, brothers of Ser Allen Serrett, the man who had attempted to poison Gregor.

In the Westerlands, even common folk learned to ride from a young age. This was a world where all could be soldiers, blacksmiths, millers, farmers, called to arms at a moment's notice. But knowing how to ride and executing complex cavalry tactics were two very different things. Such discipline demanded focused and rigorous training.

Gregor Clegane was undoubtedly gifted in the art of war.

And yet, even by that standard, the performance today was impressive. But perhaps not so surprising, under Gregor’s terrifying authority, not a single man dared slack off during training. Tywin knew this well. His own five hundred personal household guards had been trained by Gregor, and not one among them, Lannister blood or not, dared challenge his dominance.

Those who disobeyed Gregor either ended up beaten to death or rotting in Tywin’s dungeons.

In this world, few could afford professional standing armies. Only the great lords had the means to maintain them. Even among the wealthiest, few could support more than two thousand full-time soldiers. Most houses settled for several hundred.

Tywin Lannister, richer than many kingdoms, kept fifteen hundred soldiers stationed at Casterly Rock. His daughter, Queen Cersei, maintained five hundred red-cloaked Westerlands guards in King’s Landing, all funded by Tywin himself to support her spendthrift husband, King Robert.

But Tywin hadn’t summoned Gregor here to watch him parade his soldiers. His true interest was something new, something Westeros had never seen before: the war whistle.

Its shrill tone cut clearly through the sounds of hooves and shouted commands, its high-pitched signal impossible to miss. In the chaos of battle, where voices are drowned out by war cries and steel, such a sound could be invaluable.

Tywin knew the problem well. At seventeen, he had made his name in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, charging beside Brynden "Blackfish" Tully. Both had slain enemy commanders and turned the tide of battle.

He remembered how hard it was to convey orders amid the chaos of combat, men screaming, horses whinnying, weapons clashing. A general's voice would eventually falter, no matter how strong. And a commander had to fight too, not just shout.

But this whistle... it could preserve the voice and authority of a general. Loud, clear, recognizable, it could change the very nature of battlefield command.

“Let me see the war whistle." Tywin commanded.

His face remained stern. No praise, no warmth, not even a flicker of approval for Gregor or his cavalry’s flawless demonstration.

Tywin Lannister never smiled. Cold, ruthless, unyielding, that was his way.

Rafford Clegane dismounted and climbed the viewing platform, reverently placing several pre-prepared whistles into Tywin’s hand.

“Teach me." said the Lord of Casterly Rock.

“Yes, my lord.”

All of Casterly Rock's main parade grounds fell silent, hundreds of soldiers, maesters, and servants holding their breath. No one dared make a sound. The only noise came from the restless snorts and occasional whinnies of the warhorses.

If Gregor was a demon, Tywin was a demon king, one that none dared cross.

Since the birth of his youngest son Tyrion in Aegon’s Year 273, Tywin had not smiled once in twenty-five years.

Half an hour later, the lesson ended.

Tywin made a decision: war whistles would now be standard issue in the Westerlands military.

“Ser Gregor, your invention is... adequate." he said, just “adequate." despite how groundbreaking it was. “What would you have as your reward?”

That simple question carried weight.

Tywin Lannister never asked what his men wanted. He rewarded as he saw fit. The very act of asking Gregor showed the value he placed on the invention.

Everyone noticed, his household maester Pycelle, the five knights, the hundreds of cavalrymen, and even Gregor himself. Tywin, famously frugal with praise and coin alike, was opening the door.

Gregor guessed that the offer wasn’t just about the whistle, it was also tied to snow salt, his other invention. Slightly less profitable than a gold mine, snow salt was a revolution in preserving food and solving the gritty, impure salt supply of the realm.

“Grant me a marriage, my lord." Gregor said.

Tywin was taken aback.

The request surprised everyone.

Gregor had lost two wives under mysterious circumstances, both died after “accidental” falls that broke their necks. Since then, he had shown no interest in remarriage. No noble house dared offer him a daughter.

“Whose daughter?” Tywin asked.

“From Crag. Jeyne Westerling.”

Tywin’s pale green eyes narrowed.

“The Westerlings are among the oldest and noblest of Westerlands bloodlines. Their lord, Gawen Westerling, is proud to a fault. He would never consent to giving you Jeyne.”

“My lord." Gregor said solemnly, “when I prayed before the Seven, they revealed their will to me. The gods want me to take Jeyne Westerling as my wife.”

“The Seven?” Tywin echoed.

“Yes, my lord. The wisdom behind my inventions comes from the Seven’s divine guidance. To honor them, I’ve already built a sept in the Clegane lands.”

Who was Jeyne Westerling?

Gregor knew all too well. She was the beautiful young lady who, in the show he remembered from another life, had led Robb Stark to his doom at the Red Wedding. In truth, her appeal in the books lay not just in her healing hands, but in her beauty, kindness, noble lineage, refined manners, and cultivated talents.

Jeyne Westerling was born in 283 AC. She was fifteen years old now, sixteen by Westerosi reckoning.

Chapter Text

Crag lay to the north of Casterly Rock, roughly 150 kilometers away, also nestled along the coast.

The sigil of House Westerling was six white seashells arranged in a triangle on a field of yellow sand, three shells at the top, two in the middle row, and one at the bottom.

The seashells on sand symbolized Crag’s location by the Sunset Sea.

House Westerling’s words were Honor, Not Honors .

Once a noble house of ancient lineage in the Westerlands, the Westerlings were descended from the First Men and bore the legacy of a proud and noble bloodline. However, over the generations, the silver and gold mines within their lands had long since been exhausted. Their territories had gradually shrunk under pressure from more powerful lords and wealthy neighbors.

By the time the house passed to Lord Gawen Westerling, all that remained of their glory was the prestige of an old name and noble blood. Their true strength had completely faded into decline.

For generations now, their primary source of income had shifted from mining precious metals to harvesting seafood from the sea.

Just beyond the Westerling lands lay territories rich in gold, but none of it belonged to them. Those golden lands had two names that sent shivers down the spines of Westerland lords: Castamere and Tarbeck Hall .

These lands belonged to the two once-powerful houses of the Westerlands, House Reyne of Castamere and House Tarbeck of Tarbeck Hall. Both grew incredibly rich and powerful thanks to the abundant gold in their lands, to the point where their strength rivaled that of their liege lords, House Lannister.

Seeing that Lord Tytos Lannister, Tywin’s father, was weak and indecisive, the Reynes and Tarbecks grew arrogant and defiant, daring to ignore the authority of House Lannister entirely.

Eventually, the two houses crossed a line.

In 261 AC, the nineteen-year-old Tywin Lannister led thousands of Lannister soldiers and utterly eradicated both houses.

Every man, woman, and child of the Reynes and Tarbecks was slaughtered, none were spared. Not even livestock survived. To send a clear message to the rest of the Westerlands, Tywin left both Castamere and Tarbeck Hall in ruins, and to this day, he has never granted those lands to any noble under his banner.

The famous song The Rains of Castamere , sung across the Seven Kingdoms, tells the story of this brutal campaign.

When Tywin could not storm Castamere, which was built underground, he diverted rivers and flooded it, drowning everyone within. The “rains” in the song’s title symbolize that flood.

House Westerling’s lands bordered those very ruins. Though they were surrounded by mountains of gold, they dared not claim even a speck. They could only watch their once-proud house fall further into decline, year after year, while the wealth of Castamere remained untouchable.

...

A year earlier, Ser Gregor Clegane had seen Jeyne Westerling, the eldest daughter of House Westerling, with his own eyes during a visit to Casterly Rock.

Her beauty had stunned the entire court.

Having come from another world, Gregor was well aware, Jeyne Westerling's beauty far surpassed that of any actress from the television series.

She had come to Casterly Rock with her father, Lord Gawen Westerling. Gawen had brought his eldest daughter, groomed with the utmost care, full of confidence and ambition, to propose a marriage alliance with House Lannister.

Tywin Lannister had a younger brother, Kevan Lannister, who served loyally as his right hand and devout admirer. Kevan had a son named Lancel Lannister, born in 283 AC, the same year as Jeyne Westerling.

Lancel was handsome and served in King Robert Baratheon’s court as a personal cupbearer. Gregor remembered him clearly: the striking young man who always stood beside Robert, wine jug in hand, in the show.

Jeyne, born with rare beauty and elegant grace, had been further refined by the careful instruction of her noble house. She was not only dignified and charming but also intelligent and well-mannered. Lord Gawen had invested years of effort and wealth into shaping her into a perfect bride, hoping she would elevate their fallen house through marriage into a great one.

However, Kevan Lannister was a practical, worldly man, he valued wealth over talent or beauty. In this, he was very much like his brother Tywin. Though Jeyne was flawless in appearance and accomplishments, House Westerling was simply too poor, too far gone.

Kevan understood that marrying her would come with constant appeals for aid from her desperate father.

And so, Kevan Lannister refused.

The rejection was a bitter humiliation for Lord Gawen. Powerless against House Lannister, he could only return to Crag in disgrace, his hopes shattered.

While word spread across the Westerlands of the failed proposal, so too did tales of Jeyne Westerling’s stunning beauty and refined bearing. Suitors from all over came calling, but none met Lord Gawen’s lofty standards. He rejected them all.

Now sixteen by Westerosi, Jeyne Westerling remained unmarried and unbetrothed, which, in this world, already marked her as a woman nearing old maidenhood.

The reason was simple. House Westerling’s bloodline was ancient and noble, and Lord Gawen disdained lesser lords. Yet the powerful and wealthy great houses viewed the Westerlings as far too impoverished to consider.

...

As for Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the most feared man in the Westerlands, and indeed, the most feared brute in all Seven Kingdoms, his deSere to marry Jeyne Westerling was pure delusion.

It was absolutely impossible.

With Lord Gawen's towering pride and fragile honor, he’d likely faint from rage if he even heard of such a match.

Everyone in the training yard, knights and lords, found the idea of Gregor marrying into House Westerling laughable... but not one of them dared laugh out loud.

Lord Tywin finally spoke: “Ser Gregor, since you’ve taken the initiative to raise your own household troops, I will grant you permission to legally sell snow-salt in the Westerlands, provided you pay the proper taxes.

As for marriage... I will keep an eye out for a suitable noblewoman on your behalf.”

In the Seven Kingdoms, only kings and great lords had the right to trade salt. To common folk, salt was nearly as valuable as gold.

Though King Robert’s rule was lax and turned a blind eye to salt smuggling, granting someone like Gregor the legal right to openly trade salt was still astonishing.

The knights, soldiers, and servants all thought they’d misheard.

Maester Pycelle was so shocked he stood completely stunned.

But Gregor stood firm and said coldly,

“No, my lord. I only want to marry Jeyne Westerling. I have no interest in any other reward.”

He was as coarse and rude as ever. But Tywin had long grown used to it, Gregor was the only man who dared speak so boldly in his presence.

Chapter Text

Crag, situated on the western coast at the northern edge of the Westerlands, was the ancestral seat of House Westerling. Due to a chronic lack of funds, the castle had fallen into disrepair over the years and now looked more like a ruined fortress perched on the cliffs than a noble estate.

Morning. Inside the main keep. Study.

Lord Gawen Westerling sat motionless at his desk.

He had spent the entire night in the study. Though there was a small bed in the room, he hadn’t slept a wink.

His brow was furrowed with worry, and his hair was disheveled. His thick black beard was equally unkempt, curling at the ends from neglect.

Before him sat a battered old desk with peeling paint. Atop it lay a faded ancestral map of the Westerling lands.

The map was marked in three colors: red for the outermost territories, blue for the middle areas, and black for the inner core surrounding Crag.

More than a dozen red blocks dotted the map, symbols of lands once held by his ancestors, now sold off by Gawen and his late father to cover household expenses.

Each time a piece of land was sold, Gawen and his father had marked it with red ink on the family map.

As he stared at the blotches of red, Gawen could only dream of the day he might restore his family’s honor and wealth, perhaps even repurchasing the lands at a premium.

Behind the red blocks were nine blue ones, lands pledged as collateral to neighboring lords in exchange for loans. If Gawen couldn’t redeem them within the agreed timeframe, they too would be marked red.

Gawen was still a man in his prime, around thirty, but the creases at the corners of his eyes and the worry lines on his forehead told a different story. Although finances were grim and money grew harder to come by, he remained determined to uphold the image and dignity of an old noble house. Not a single servant had been dismissed, and the family still dressed in the finest garments whenever they left the manor.

Staring at the map, quill in hand, Gawen hovered over a small plot of land with a bottle of red ink nearby. The family urgently needed money, and he had resolved to sell off yet another parcel, this time to House Marbrand of Ashmark, a hundred leagues to the south.

The current Lord Marbrand's younger sister had married Tygett Lannister, the second brother of Tywin Lannister. Tygett had been the most skilled warrior among the four Lannister brothers and was widely renowned across the Seven Kingdoms. Sadly, he had died a few years ago of greyscale. He had once been especially close with Tyrion, the youngest of the Lannister siblings.

With a heavy sigh, Gawen prepared to mark another red square on the map. Just as his quill was about to touch the page, 

Knock knock knock!

A courteous knock sounded at the door.

The Westerlings prided themselves on etiquette, and all the household servants were rigorously trained in proper decorum.

“Just a moment." Gawen called out.

“Yes, milord." came a soft, graceful voice from beyond the door.

Gawen stood and walked over to the dressing mirror. A few moments later, he had changed his clothes and carefully groomed his hair and beard. The man who now faced the mirror looked nothing like the disheveled, despairing figure from moments before, his noble bearing was fully restored.

“You may enter." he said, returning to his desk. The ancestral map had been rolled up and placed carefully back into a drawer.

A maid entered quietly, dressed immaculately and carrying herself with poise. She moved with silent steps and spoke with elegance.

“Milord, a letter from Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

“Hand it to me." Gawen replied with a smile.

Even when speaking to a servant, Gawen Westerling carried himself with the polished demeanor of a true noble.

“Yes, my lord.” The maid delivered a rolled parchment into his hand.

Gawen didn’t open the letter immediately. He waited until the maid had bowed and gently closed the door behind her.

Then, with deliberate care, he unsealed the scroll and began to read.

His eyes widened slightly in disbelief.

He closed them for a moment, took a breath, and then read it again, slower this time. As his gaze traveled down the page, a rare expression gradually returned to his face, a smile. A brilliant, long-lost smile.

...

After breakfast, a small convoy departed Crag. Eight guards and two servants on horseback escorted a stately carriage draped with fine silk curtains.

The carriage, pulled by four strong horses, was spacious and luxurious. Two finely dressed coachmen sat at the front, guiding the reins.

Inside sat two people, Lord Gawen Westerling and his dazzlingly beautiful daughter, Jeyne Westerling .

Jeyne was slim and elegantly curved, the very embodiment of beauty. To Gregor Clegane, the man from another world, she was far more alluring than any actress he had ever seen on TV. Her beauty was striking, and the figure hidden beneath her noble attire was curvaceous and seductive, perfectly matching the local ideals of female charm, as well as Gregor’s own.

She had naturally wavy chestnut hair, a delicate heart-shaped face, and amber-colored eyes. What the noblemen of Westeros appreciated most, however, was her full, rounded hips, a sign of fertility, and a highly prized trait among young, unmarried women. Though in Gregor’s eyes, it had less to do with childbearing and more to do with raw sensuality.

She wore a flowing silk gown imported from across the Narrow Sea, elegant and refined, every inch a noble lady. Yet no matter how modest the dress, a man’s eyes could always see through the fabric to the beauty beneath.

“Father... I can’t help but feel uneasy." Jeyne said softly, a slight furrow between her brows.

“Don’t worry, child. Do you know how many young women across the Seven Kingdoms dream of being adopted by Lord Tywin Lannister?” Gawen beamed. For him, forging ties with the Lannisters was a lifelong dream.

“But… why would Lord Tywin suddenly want to adopt me?” Jeyne asked, her voice full of doubt. “Isn’t there something more going on here that we don’t know about?”

Gawen looked fondly at his radiant daughter. “My dear, even if there is more to it, what does it matter? Once you become Lord Tywin’s daughter, what could you possibly have to fear? This is a blessing, a rare and golden opportunity. The adoption ceremony will take place in the Sept of the Seven in Casterly Rock, attended by septons, septas, Maester Botho, and all the knights and lords of the Rock. It will be a moment of great honor, a signal to all that our house is rising again.”

“But I still don’t understand, Father.”

“Haha! My sweet girl, just think: after the ceremony, you’ll be the daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister. Who is he? The richest man in all of Westeros! Even the royal treasury in King’s Landing owes him millions in gold. And once you’re his daughter, who would dare propose marriage unless they were of ducal status or higher? No common lord would even dare think of courting you. And Tywin will never let his daughter remain unmarried, no, no, my dear Jeyne. From this day forward, our family’s rise begins, all thanks to you.”

Chapter Text

“Father, I wish to return home… May I?”

The words were spoken gently, with the elegance of a noble lady carefully raised through years of strict etiquette. As a proper noblewoman, Jeyne would never use the definitive "I want to go home." Instead, she said "I wish to go home." softening the intent, but the truth behind her words was clear. She wanted to go home.

For over a decade, Lord Gawen had poured his heart into grooming Jeyne into the perfect noble daughter. She was meant to be the key to restoring the family's lost glory. But now, at the very moment he expected her to begin repaying those efforts, her words made his smile freeze mid-expression. His face slowly darkened.

Jeyne was his hope. The hope of House Westerling.

“Why?” he asked, his voice tight.

Jeyne was not only beautiful and well-mannered; she was naturally intelligent. She could see what her father either refused to see or chose to ignore, only, she saw it more clearly.

She had thought deeply about it. For Lord Tywin to suddenly adopt her as his foster daughter, it couldn’t possibly be a simple act of goodwill.

“If Lord Tywin truly meant to adopt me sincerely, why didn’t he invite my mother to the ceremony?” Jeyne asked softly, eyes lowered, not daring to meet her father's gaze.

Lord Gawen’s breath caught. A sharp pain lanced through his chest.

His wife, Sybell Spicer, came from controversial roots. Her grandfather was a merchant, and her grandmother, infamously known as the “Toad Witch of Lannisport” had once foretold grim futures to noble girls. In the show, young Cersei had visited the Toad Witch with two other girls, one fled in terror, another trembled, but Cersei alone stood firm, even threatening the witch into giving her prophecy. That very same witch was Jeyne’s maternal grandmother.

In his youth, Lord Gawen had fallen on hard times. Despite House Westerling's declining fortunes, he’d stubbornly clung to aristocratic pretensions, lavish spending, too many servants, excessive appearances. He’d married Sybell not for love or bloodline, but for her father’s generous dowry. It had been a laughingstock among the Westerlands nobility.

Tywin’s younger brother, Kevan, had rejected a proposed marriage with the Westerlings, not solely because they were impoverished, but also because Sybell’s blood was not noble.

Gawen had come to regret the marriage, but divorce was out of the question. He couldn’t afford to return the dowry, and separation would permanently tarnish the family’s remaining dignity.

By tradition, even when a commoner’s daughter is adopted by nobility, both parents are entitled to be present at the adoption ceremony, kneeling before the Seven, anointed with sacred oils, praying under the statues of the gods, and receiving blessings from friends and kin.

But in his letter, Tywin had explicitly stated he did not want Lady Sybell present in the Great Sept of Casterly Rock.

Gawen chose to ignore this insult. Smiling as though nothing was wrong, he had his daughter dressed in her finest and brought her along with the ceremony. He spared no effort, four horses pulled their carriage, accompanied by eight guards and two coachmen. Most of their extended family had long stopped keeping in touch.

Jeyne didn’t care for the blessings of distant relatives, but she had hoped her mother would be shown some measure of respect. Tywin’s refusal had deeply wounded her sense of dignity. Shortly after leaving home, she finally found the courage to voice her unease.

She told her father that Lord Tywin’s actions showed disrespect, not just to her mother, but to House Westerling itself, and thus, she wished to return.

Lord Gawen’s face turned ashen. Pain tightened in his chest.

He spent a long while silently wrestling with his thoughts before speaking gently: “Very well. We’ll go home.”

Jeyne lit up with joy. Her sadness vanished like clouds swept away by wind. For a moment, she wanted to throw her arms around her father’s neck and kiss him on the cheek, just like when she was little. But she sat still, composed. She knew her father wouldn’t approve of such unrestrained affection. She was a noble lady, after all. She had to remain graceful, elegant.

Lord Gawen lifted the carriage curtain and called to the driver. “Aryu, pick up the pace.”

“Yes, my lord!”

Crack!

Crack! Crack!

The coachman snapped his whip sharply through the air, not touching the horses, just letting them hear the sound. The four steeds immediately broke into a gallop, pulling the carriage forward like the wind.

There was no need to strike good horses. A snap in the air was enough for well-trained steeds to understand. This was part of House Westerling’s code, never abuse the beasts that served them.

“...Father...” Jeyne’s voice trembled with emotion.

“Jeyne, the sooner we reach Casterly Rock, the sooner we can finish this farce of an adoption. Then we’ll head straight home.”

…

The next evening, as the sun dipped low in the west, a large knight on a towering destrier blocked the royal road north of Casterly Rock. He was surrounded by more than twenty riders. Among them was one man with a perpetual smirk, and a petite female knight, but the rest looked brutish, wicked, or worse, radiating open menace and lechery.

Lord Gawen’s carriage was forced to a halt. The eight guards flanking the carriage turned pale. Standing in their way was none other than Ser Gregor Clegane "The Mountain", infamous throughout the Westerlands.

“Milord." one of the guards whispered through the curtain, “It’s the Mountain. He’s blocking the road.”

Inside, Lord Gawen and Jeyne both stiffened.

Gregor Clegane, Tywin’s mad dog. Brutal. Crude. Debased. And his followers were even worse, criminals and thugs of the vilest sort. Gregor was rumored to have violated noblewomen, among countless other atrocities.

Lord Gawen pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the carriage. Drawing a deep breath, he raised his voice. “Ser Gregor, I am Gawen Westerling. I greet you.”

Gregor’s voice boomed like thunder. “Oh? Lord Gawen, your daughter, Lady Jeyne, is she inside the carriage?”

Gawen’s face darkened. The guards on either side of the carriage instantly stepped forward, forming a protective line.

“Ser Gregor." he said sternly, “we were invited by Lord Tywin to Casterly Rock. He intends to adopt my daughter Jeyne as his own.”

“Hmph." Gregor snorted.

Without warning, the knights behind Gregor charged forward, lances lowered. The distance was too short, too sudden. Gawen’s guards didn’t even have time to draw their swords before spears were pressed against their chests, throats, faces, and stomachs.

In an instant, all eight were subdued. None dared move.

Gregor and his band were notorious for lawless cruelty, but even for him, to treat a nobleman with such open contempt was extraordinary.

Lord Gawen was stunned. Speechless. Disbelieving.

“Lord Gawen." Gregor roared, “tell your guards and coachmen to get the hell out of my sight!”

His voice was so loud it made Gawen’s eardrums throb.

Gawen’s face turned pale. He raised his hand. The guards reluctantly backed away, faces drawn. They retreated behind the carriage. The two coachmen jumped down and stood trembling by the roadside.

Gregor’s men, fierce as wolves, quickly surrounded the carriage.

The ever-smiling knight at Gregor’s side was Ser Rafford Clegane, nicknamed “Raff the Sweetling.” He laughed cheerfully, slung down a large bundle from his horse, and strode up to the carriage. He opened the bundle and pulled out a gleaming bronze basin and two bulging leather pouches.

Beside him was a young female knight, Gregor’s foster daughter, Julie Clegane. She nimbly dismounted, walked over, crouched beside Rafford, and opened one of the pouches, pouring fresh spring water into the basin.

Lord Gawen stared blankly at them, Rafford, ever smiling; Julie, swift and composed. He had no idea what these lawless brutes were planning to do next…

Chapter Text

A snow-white towel was dipped into a bronze basin half-filled with water.

“Lord Gawen, please step down from the carriage." said Julie.

Gawen’s face turned bright red. He saw the sigil of three dogs on the girl’s armor, then noticed the same on Raff the Sweetling’s armor. Why were these two wearing the sigil of House Clegane? Wasn’t Clegane’s cavalry supposed to be part of Lord Tywin’s household guard?

When did the Mountain have his own cavalry? Could he even afford them?

But now was not the time to be questioning such trivial matters. Lord Gawen had no choice but to step down from the carriage. He was secretly relieved to see that Ser Gregor was still on horseback at a distance and hadn’t approached.

He feared that the Mountain might be tempted into some ungentlemanly behavior after seeing Jeyne's beauty.

“My lady, what is it you intend to do?” Gawen asked politely, keeping his voice soft.

“My lord, we have been ordered by Lord Tywin to ride ten miles out of the city to receive you and Lady Jeyne." Julie replied smoothly. “And by command of Ser Gregor, we are to help Lady Jeyne wash away the dust from the road.”

Julie’s words were sharp and clear. As she spoke, she pulled aside the curtain, carried the basin into the carriage, and jumped in after it. The curtain fell shut behind her, gently swaying. Soon after, the sound of water and the murmur of Jeyne and Julie’s voices could be heard from within.

Beside the carriage, Raff the Sweetling smiled as he rummaged through a large bundle, producing a silver mirror, rouge, powder, and eyeliner, all high-end cosmetics, the kind favored by noblewomen. From their exquisite craftsmanship and decorations, Gawen could tell these were luxury imports from across the Narrow Sea. They were worth a small fortune.

Surprisingly, Gawen’s mood improved. This clearly showed that Lord Tywin placed great importance on Jeyne, and, by extension, on House Westerling.

Lord Tywin was being extraordinarily thoughtful. Concerned that Jeyne might not look her best after two days on the road, and unable to properly freshen up, he had sent soldiers ten miles out of the city to greet them. And not just any soldiers, female knights, to help her dress, wash, and prepare for her entrance. She would enter the city beautiful and composed, a picture of grace and nobility. The common folk would see her elegance and dignity, reflecting glory back upon Lord Tywin himself.

“Ser Gregor, I must apologize, I misjudged you earlier." Gawen said, his tone more relaxed as he offered an apology to Gregor Clegane.

Ser Gregor was around the same age as Lord Gawen. He sat expressionless and completely ignored Gawen’s words.

Gregor’s rudeness was legendary across the Seven Kingdoms. Though Gawen prided himself on his manners and felt somewhat embarrassed, he didn’t stoop to quarrel with a man as infamous as the Mountain.

But Gregor’s indifference wasn’t just arrogance, it came from a deep-rooted disdain. He held nothing but contempt for Gawen, whom he saw as a hypocritical, preening, self-serving, pompous fool. A man who would sell off ancestral lands for glory and appearances. To Gregor, Gawen was scum. And his daughter, Jeyne? She wasn’t a daughter, she was a commodity. The most valuable item he and Sybelle possessed. He was doing everything in his power to sell her off at the highest price, without ever once considering her feelings, future, or happiness.

In Gawen’s eyes, the Mountain was an uncouth brute, a piece of human garbage. But in the eyes of the new Mountain, Gawen was the true scum: a weak-willed, talentless aristocrat squandering his family’s legacy.

…

Meanwhile, in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock...

The hall was enormous, with four massive banquet tables, each capable of seating two hundred guests.

Only one of those tables was reserved for knights and noble guests.

Lord Tywin Lannister sat rigidly at a dining table adorned with silver and gold carvings. A golden lion brooch pinned a pristine white napkin to his chest. When Tywin dined, no servants or guards were allowed to eat in the hall, he preferred silence.

Only nobles of significant status were permitted to dine with him.

Across from Tywin sat his younger brother, Ser Kevan Lannister. At Tywin’s side was his Grand Maester, Pycelle.

The grand hall, built to host hundreds, held only three diners.

Ser Kevan Lannister had begun to grow stout. He was bald on top, shaved smooth, but still had a thick ring of golden hair circling the back of his head like a crown. His chin was square, his beard meticulously trimmed and short, trembling slightly when he spoke. His beard, too, was golden.

Kevan was born in 245 AC, three years younger than Tywin, making him fifty-three. He was broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, and his skin was remarkably well cared for.

Of the four Lannister brothers, only Tywin and Kevan remained. The other two had died of illness.

Kevan was Tywin’s most trusted deputy, his loyalty legendary throughout the realm. Many called him “Tywin’s shadow.” He had recognized Tywin’s exceptional nature when they were still teenagers, and since then had served him unconditionally. At seventeen, Tywin had crushed a rebellion in the Westerlands and restored the Lannister name. At twenty, he had become the Hand of the King to the Mad King Aerys II, serving for twenty straight years, until he resigned by choice.

Among Westerland nobles, a saying circulated: Kevan has never once disagreed with Tywin. Though not entirely true, Tywin often consulted Kevan, Kevan would always execute Tywin’s final decisions, even if they went against his own opinion.

….

“Try this soup." Tywin said, gesturing to Kevan.

Kevan cast a curious look at his brother and the maester, then picked up his spoon and took a sip.

“Still Aldrich’s handiwork." Kevan smiled. “Just as delicious as always.”

Tywin showed no sign of amusement. He clapped his hands.

A second bowl of the same bacon soup was brought forward in a golden basin.

“Try this one." Tywin said again.

Kevan obediently tasted the second bowl. After a slow spoonful, his expression began to shift. He glanced at Tywin and the maester, then went back to sample the first bowl again.

“Both by Aldrich?” he asked, puzzled.

“Yes.”

“Same ingredients?”

“Yes.”

“Then why does one taste cleaner and more flavorful, and the other more bitter and coarse the more I drink it?”

Without a word, Tywin looked toward a servant, who stepped forward carrying two ornate porcelain boxes. At Tywin’s signal, Kevan opened the jade-carved lids. Inside one was the familiar pale yellow mineral salt. In the other, fine, snow-white granules.

“This." Tywin said, “is snow-salt.”

“Snow-salt?”

“Sea salt from across the Narrow Sea? The kind they make by boiling seawater in massive iron pots after chopping down entire forests?” Kevan asked. “How much does it cost per ounce?”

“Nothing." Tywin said flatly. “It’s made by refining mineral salt directly.”

“Oh?” Kevan perked up.

“Discovered by Maester Pycelle?”

Tywin shook his head slightly. “No. It was the Mountain.”

Kevan’s face froze.

His eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly, as if an invisible hand had gripped his throat.

Impossible.

How could that be?

The Mountain? That brute?

He was supposed to be nothing but a mindless piece of trash.

Chapter Text

The Grand Maester touched the chain of office around his neck, the dozen metal links swaying lightly. Smiling, he said, “Ser Kevan, you’ve been away from the Westerlands lately, so you likely haven’t heard about the strange and remarkable changes in Ser Gregor.”

“…What other startling changes could the Mountain possibly have gone through?”

“Well, strictly speaking, it all began about a month ago, triggered by a particularly violent headache.”

“I know. He’s always had migraines. He used to drink large quantities of poppy milk to deal with them.”

Tywin interjected, “Too much poppy milk is dangerous. I know that Eddard Stark in the North almost never touches it, even when injured or ill.”

“That’s true." the Maester nodded. “Poppy milk can treat illness, help sleep, and dull pain, but in excess, it causes dependency and harms the body.”

“So what happened with Gregor’s headache?” Kevan asked.

“He fell into a coma, and his fever wouldn’t break." said the Maester.

“I thought he was going to die. I even began making funeral arrangements.” Tywin waved a hand, signaling a servant to take away the bowl of overly bitter bacon soup.

“But the Mountain's still alive and well!” Kevan exclaimed.

“Yes. He woke up three days later. After a few days of rest and recovery, it was as if something had changed in him. He became quiet, withdrawn, even when the Lord spoke to him, he barely responded. Then one day, he suddenly asked to return to Clegane’s Keep, saying he wanted to rest and recover. The Lord, worried something might happen to him, sent Maester Pycelle with him, along with three of Gregor’s most loyal officers.”

“Raff, Dunsen, and Polliver." Kevan listed off without pause.

“Yes, those three accompanied him, along with the young Maester Pycelle. According to Pycelle, once Gregor returned to Clegane’s Keep, he stopped drinking poppy milk and tied himself to a stone bed to forcefully break the addiction. Two days later, he got up from that stone slab, and from that moment on, it was as if something in him had awakened. He suddenly became… wise.”

“Wise? The Mountain? That’s absurd.” Kevan frowned. He didn’t like hearing the word “wise” used to describe Gregor.

Tywin cut in, “Gregor claimed it was the Seven. He even had a sept built. Said he’d been touched by the light of the Seven, and that it opened his eyes to knowledge he’d never known before.”

“The Father judges. The Mother nurtures. The Warrior fights. The Maiden is purity. The Smith works. The Stranger is death. Only the Crone symbolizes wisdom. So if he was enlightened, it wasn’t by the Seven, but by the Crone alone, not all of them." Kevan argued skeptically.

“I believe he truly was touched by the Seven." Tywin said flatly.

Kevan opened his mouth to argue but froze. He stared, speechless for a moment, then finally muttered, “Very well. I believe he was touched by the Seven.”

“You should." the Grand Maester chuckled, raising his eyebrows. “Because Gregor’s also made some remarkable innovations in the realm of warfare.”

“Military inventions?”

“Let’s not get into his war bugles yet. Bring up the noodles." Tywin ordered.

“Yes, my lord.” Three servants waiting at the side quickly stepped forward with bowls of noodles already prepared.

The noodles were thick, short, and slippery, like eels, very different from the smooth, uniform white noodles from Kevan’s memory of the more refined dishes of civilized Essos. These were more akin to thick, unevenly shaped hand-cut noodles, except they hadn’t been sliced with a knife, but handmade, so each was unique in shape and size.

Kevan noticed the servants placed small, flat wooden boxes beside the Maester and Lord, each intricately carved and about the length of a dagger, while his own bowl came with the usual knife and fork.

“You don’t have cutlery?” Kevan asked, puzzled.

Traditionally, noodles weren’t served at this stage of a meal. And no meats, breads, lettuces, honey, fruits, wine, pastries, or desserts had been brought out either, violating every rule of proper dining order and etiquette.

“We’re using what’s in the box." the Maester said with a smile.

Tywin and the Maester opened their boxes and pulled out two small, identical wooden sticks. Each stick was wrapped in shimmering silver silk, and the pair were tied together with a red ribbon in the shape of a butterfly.

Kevan’s eyes widened.

“What are those?” Even he could hear the odd tone in his own voice.

They were utterly unfamiliar. The delicate silk wrapping suggested something newly imported, perhaps from across the Narrow Sea, from the Free Cities.

“Chopsticks." the Maester said.

“Gregor invented them. He made this pair personally as a gift for me." Tywin added, not looking up as he began eating his noodles with the chopsticks.

Kevan’s jaw dropped open.

Fifty-three years he’d lived, and never had he seen or heard of “chopsticks.” He looked at his own bowl, and lightly tapped the edge with his fork and knife, ding ding, as if doubting their adequacy.

The Maester also began eating with his chopsticks.

Kevan now understood why no other dishes had been brought out, Tywin clearly wanted him to witness firsthand how chopsticks were used to eat noodles.

“Are there any more?” Kevan asked.

“There are, but don’t let their convenience fool you." the Maester said with a chuckle. “If it’s your first time, you’ll likely fumble. You’ll drop them. You’ll find it frustrating and be tempted to go back to your knife and fork. But stick with it. Give it a try. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll find it ten times better than eating noodles with Western utensils.”

“They’re also great for picking up vegetables and meat in soup." Tywin added. “Because they’re wooden, they don’t conduct heat, and won’t burn your fingers.” He looked up at Kevan. “When I saw how easily Gregor used them, I decided to try them myself. It was awkward at first, I dropped mine a few times, but I got the hang of it.”

Kevan understood perfectly: with Tywin’s pride, there was no way he would allow himself to be outdone by Gregor. Of course he mastered the chopsticks quickly, and even grew fond of them.

“But how do we know these are truly Gregor’s invention? Couldn’t they be from the Orient, across the Narrow Sea?”

“Gregor wouldn’t lie to me." Tywin said sharply, eyeing Kevan. “And if chopsticks were already in use across the Narrow Sea, I would have heard of them before he did.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kevan nodded quickly. He had never doubted Tywin, he had just found it hard to believe anything remarkable could come from Gregor.

Tywin and the Maester ate their noodles swiftly and skillfully with their chopsticks. Kevan, by contrast, only managed to finish half his bowl with his knife and fork. Though he was used to it, he couldn’t deny how clumsy and inefficient it now seemed.

“From now on, House Lannister will dine with chopsticks." Tywin declared. “This is the wisdom of the Crone. No other house in the Seven Kingdoms knows of chopsticks, not the royal family, nor even the oldest and noblest bloodlines. But House Lannister will lead the way.”

“But how does one cut roast meat with chopsticks?” Kevan raised a practical concern.

“Gregor never cuts his own meat." Tywin replied. “He has a foster daughter named Julie who cuts the roasted and boiled meat for him. And chefs can pre-slice meat in the kitchen before serving it at the table.”

“Yes, my lord." Kevan responded, realizing that Tywin must have seen Gregor demonstrating his new eating style firsthand.

“House Lannister will set the trend." Maester Pycelle sang as if proclaiming prophecy. “The other noble houses will scramble to imitate us.”

Hearing those words, Kevan suddenly understood everything.

So that’s why Tywin had summoned him back. That’s why noodles were served first. If this truly sparked a new trend among the nobility, the Westerlands would gain cultural prestige to rival, or even surpass, the other six kingdoms, not just in gold, but in influence and sophistication. And that, more than anything, was what Tywin had always sought.

And there was the snow salt, utterly unique. Once noble palates tasted it, they would never turn back. And that snow salt came from the Westerlands.

Chapter Text

North of Casterly Rock, ten miles down the King’s Road.

Julie Clegane helped the dust-covered Jeyne Westerling freshen up. Once she was ready, Julie and Rafford Clegane took the reins as drivers of Jeyne’s carriage, while Gregor Clegane rode alongside on horseback. The Clegane cavalry followed close behind, and at Gregor’s command, the procession slowly moved forward.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the road, its golden light stretching from the distant Sunset Sea.

Lord Gawen and his eight guards could only watch helplessly as Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane forcibly took charge of the carriage.

Swallowing his pride, Gawen followed behind the Clegane retinue, keeping a safe distance.

There’s no reasoning with a madman.

And Gregor Clegane was exactly that, a madman.

Lord Gawen knew full well that even if he and his eight guards joined forces, they still wouldn’t be a match for the Mountain. His priority was not to protect the carriage, not when Jeyne was still safe, but rather, to avoid provoking the brute.

Once they reached Lord Tywin, Gawen would seek justice. He’d make sure Gregor apologized.

For his daughter’s safety and honor, Gawen decided to endure the insult.

Once Jeyne became Lord Tywin’s daughter-in-law, her status would rise accordingly, and Gregor would be nothing more than a dog forced to obey her commands. The Westerling family, too, would benefit from her marriage, gaining newfound respect from the other Westerlands lords.

With this thought, Gawen began to feel a little better, the humiliation seemed easier to swallow.

The clip-clop of hooves echoed on the northern road.

Travelers who spotted the Mountain from afar quickly stepped off the road.

In the Westerlands, you don’t cross the Mountain.

…

Inside the carriage, Gregor Clegane’s deep voice came through the curtain.

“Lady Jeyne, I am Gregor Clegane.”

Jeyne was so frightened she couldn’t even respond.

But ignoring the Mountain might enrage him, what if he lost control? What if he yanked back the curtain and saw her face? What if he acted inappropriately, or even uttered some filthy, dishonorable words?

Already, the coarse jokes and vulgar remarks from the Clegane soldiers behind the carriage were seeping through the air. Jeyne blushed with shame, her face hot with embarrassment. Some of the things they said were simply… unspeakable.

“...Lord Mountain...” she began, and instantly realized her mistake.

“The Mountain” wasn’t Gregor Clegane’s name or title. It was an infamous nickname born of fear and loathing. Calling someone “a dog” or “a beast” might be fine behind their back, or whispered in private, but never to their face. It was a blatant insult.

Jeyne was mortified. For someone raised with strict manners and noble decorum, her slip was unforgivable.

But it was too late. The words had already left her mouth, stammered and awkward.

In truth, many people, even Julie, and the late Ser Serrett, and Gregor’s own loyal men, had called him “Lord Mountain” to his face before. And Gregor never seemed to care. He didn’t consider it an insult. It might even be part of what made him such a natural villain, he embraced the name.

But Jeyne, only fifteen years old, had never trained in warfare or courage. Her days had been filled with reading, embroidery, etiquette, music, painting, medicine, poetry, and the history of the Seven Kingdoms. She’d never built the resolve to face monsters like Gregor Clegane.

Her voice trembled as she awaited his reaction.

“Ah, my lady. I’m listening." Gregor replied calmly. His voice was deep but gentle, surprisingly mild.

Jeyne took a deep breath, steadying her nerves.

“...Ser Gregor... good day to you. Thank you, and your soldiers, for coming to escort me. House Westerling is deeply grateful, and I personally... appreciate your care.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. By the time she finished, her forehead and nose were glistening with sweat. Her small, pale hands felt hot.

“Lady Jeyne, it was Lord Tywin who ordered me to greet you.”

“Oh! Then please give Lord Tywin my sincerest thanks. House Westerling is honored.”

“I am the one who is honored, Lady Jeyne. I should be thanking you.”

“Ser Gregor, it is I, and House Westerling, who owe you thanks. We are humbled by your escort.”

“Lady Jeyne, the copper basin, the spring water, and the towels were prepared personally by me. The silver mirror, the rouge, the powder, and the eyeliner, I purchased the finest ones in Casterly Rock as gifts for you. I’m honored that you accepted them.”

The moment she heard this, Jeyne felt a chill rise in her heart. By the time he finished, cold sweat covered her entire body.

What did the Mountain mean by this?

Had she known the gifts were from him, she never would have accepted them. No matter how exquisite, she would have refused.

But now... she had already used them. The basin, the water, the towels. The mirror, the rouge, the powder, the brush. Julie had cheerfully told her they were carefully selected gifts from “my lord." and Jeyne, assuming she meant Lord Tywin, had accepted them all politely.

She had never imagined that these elegant, noblewoman-worthy items had come from Gregor .

Just remembering the rumors, the Mountain’s treatment of women, made her blood run cold.

She wanted to scream for her father.

But it would be useless.

And technically, the Mountain had not violated any etiquette.

It had been her assumption, her mistake, that these gifts came from Lord Tywin. If she rejected them now, it would be her offense, not Gregor’s.

And worse, she feared provoking him.

Even if he didn’t dare physically harm her under Tywin’s protection, he could still pull back the curtain and say something vile, something degrading.

That, too, was unacceptable.

“What’s wrong, Lady Jeyne?” came Gregor’s voice again. “Are you feeling unwell? Would you like me to take a look?”

She could feel his large hand pressing lightly on the curtain, as though he might lift it at any moment.

Jeyne’s heart nearly stopped. It felt like he was about to climb into the carriage.

“N-no! I’m fine! Ser Gregor, thank you... for the gifts!”

“Did the gifts make you happy, my lady?” he asked again.

Jeyne had never found speaking to be so torturous.

She felt helpless.

She needed her father.

But even her father dared not offend the Mountain, and he was far behind, riding at a distance.

“...Yes." she finally said, forcing herself to lie. “I was... very pleased with them, my lord.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Gregor replied casually. “Then I’ll be able to report back to Lord Tywin.”

That statement chilled her more than anything.

Why would he report to Lord Tywin?

These were personal gifts, not something Tywin had ordered. Gregor wasn’t acting under orders when he prepared those items.

So why would he mention reporting back?

Something about it didn’t sit right.

Some vague, unsettling suspicion took root in Jeyne’s mind.

There was something between Gregor and Lord Tywin... something she didn’t understand, and couldn’t even begin to guess.

Chapter Text

Casterly Rock. Dining Hall.

The meat, vegetables, and bacon soup had already been cleared from the table, leaving only a selection of fresh fruit.

“What do you need to raise a little bird?” Lord Tywin asked, his piercing eyes fixed on Kevan.

“Water and millet." Kevan answered. He knew his brother hadn’t summoned him back without a reason, there was something Tywin needed him to do.

Before Kevan sat an exquisite wooden box. Inside, wrapped in fine silk and tied with a red silk thread, was a pair of chopsticks, something he had yet to learn how to use, but clearly of great value.

Because they were rare, they were noble.

“And what about raising a wolf?”

“You feed it meat.”

This kind of exchange wasn’t new. They had had similar conversations many times before.

But Tywin always repeated himself, and Kevan always answered with care. Tywin wanted his most loyal and valued younger brother to remember these simple truths.

The most effective way to control complicated people and situations was often through the simplest methods and logic.

“And a vicious dog?”

“You give it bones.”

“Exactly. If someone is useful to you, just give them what they want, and they will serve you loyally.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What does Sandor Clegane, the Hound, want most?”

“Honor, my lord.”

“So I gave him the honor of serving as Queen Cersei’s personal guard in the Red Keep. Apart from the Kingsguard, there’s no title more prestigious than that for a common knight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What are your thoughts on the changes in Gregor Clegane?”

“I’m concerned, my lord.”

“Concerned about what?”

“That a mad dog should not possess human intellect.”

Tywin’s face was cold as iron. Even in private, speaking only with his brother, he never smiled. There wasn’t a hint of warmth or humanity in him. He was all steel and stone.

“Even if a mad dog gains intelligence, could he surpass the maesters of the Citadel?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Would the Seven’s light forever shine upon one man?”

“No, my lord. But a dog with a man’s mind… it’s unsettling.”

“What would you do about it?”

“I… don’t know.”

“There’s nothing to fear in a slightly smarter dog, as long as he remains obedient.”

“It’s only a problem if the dog turns into a wolf.”

“This is a time of peace. A dog will never become a wolf. And even if he does grow into one, he’ll be a wolf that tears at others, not at us. Lannisters are lions, always.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give the dog what he wants, and he will always remain your dog.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“Yes, a dog turning into a wolf is dangerous. But the real danger lies in the loss of loyalty. Whether your subordinates are rats, cats, dogs, wolves, or anything else, loyalty comes first. If you begin to doubt their loyalty, don’t waste time trying to confirm it. Just kill them. Better to kill by mistake than to let a traitor slip by.”

“Yes, my lord.”

In truth, Gregor wasn’t nearly powerful enough yet to warrant such a serious conversation. But this was the style of Tywin and Kevan in private. Ever since Tywin had taken control of the Westerlands at nineteen, he had developed this habit, treating every unusual person, event, or thing within their domain, no matter how small, with rigorous assessment and future planning.

When Jeyne Westerling entered the reception hall with Gregor Clegane, all the attending servants, household guards, soldiers, knights, and lords immediately perked up.

Even beside the towering figure of Gregor, Jeyne’s beauty and radiance drew all eyes.

Lord Gawen, though dressed regally and walking beside her with her hand gently resting on his arm, was completely overshadowed. No one noticed him, even though he had entered the hall with Jeyne and Gregor.

Seated atop a lion-pelt-draped chair, Tywin Lannister sat upright, face like carved stone, radiating authority without a hint of anger. His golden beard, polished bald head, and gold-threaded formal robes gave him the aura of a ruler whose very presence could silence a room. Even the gold-threaded embroidery on his boots gleamed under the hall’s torches.

There was an old saying among the smallfolk: "Even Tywin's shit comes out as gold."

But a knight once dared say that in Tywin’s presence and has been rotting in Casterly Rock’s dungeons ever since, never to see the sun again.

Maester Pycelle and Ser Kevan stood at Tywin’s sides.

The hall was full of lords and knights, but none dared sit.

When Tywin sat, everyone else stood.

“ Lord Gawen ." Tywin said.

“Yes, my lord.” Gawen hurried forward, dropped to one knee, and gave the formal oath of fealty.

Jeyne followed gracefully, kneeling beside her father in full view of all, also offering her fealty.

Tywin didn’t move. He silently accepted their tribute.

The oppressive weight of his silence filled the room.

Gregor, sword at his side, moved to stand at Tywin’s right.

“Was the journey smooth, Lord Gawen?”

“Very smooth, my lord.”

That was the end of their conversation.

“Jeyne, you are truly beautiful.”

“Thank you for your praise, my lord." Jeyne replied, bowing slightly with a soft smile and a curtsy.

“Maester, send ravens tomorrow across the Westerlands. I shall adopt Jeyne Westerling as my daughter. Summon all the noble houses to Casterly Rock within three days. In celebration, we shall hold three days of feasts, and on the third day, every noble and knight of the Westerlands shall gather in the Sept of the Seven to witness the anointing and adoption ceremony.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gawen’s face flushed red with disbelief and excitement.

He knew that the gifts alone from all the noble families would bring great wealth to House Westerling. There’d be no need to sell their ancestral lands to Earl Marbrand now.

Never in his wildest dreams had Gawen imagined Tywin would treat Jeyne’s adoption so seriously. This was a signal, a declaration that House Westerling was about to rise again.

Jeyne Westerling couldn’t hide her shock.

The rest of the hall was equally stunned. Tywin didn’t need to mobilize the entire Westerlands just to adopt a daughter. It didn’t make sense. Neither Jeyne nor her house was important enough to warrant such spectacle.

Gregor, however, understood. Tywin was planning something far greater: salt, chopsticks, and military outposts.

Gregor glanced at Kevan and Maester Bert. Their calm expressions confirmed it, they weren’t surprised at all.

He knew he had guessed right.

Tywin’s declaration was an event that should have caused an uproar across the Westerlands. And yet, despite the crowded hall, no one cheered, no one flattered, no one clapped.

Because Tywin hated such displays.

The vast hall remained eerily quiet. From outside, one might think it empty.

Tywin looked at Gregor.

They had made a wager. If Gregor could get Jeyne to accept his gift, without force, Tywin would support their marriage.

But choosing the gift was difficult. Delivering it even more so. And getting Jeyne to joyfully accept a gift from Gregor Clegane , a man with such a fearsome reputation, was no small feat.

Tywin wanted to test whether Gregor’s new-found intellect was truly useful. Whether it was mere cleverness or true wisdom, either could be shaped into strategy.

A brave warrior is only muscle. But a brave warrior with strategy is a true general.

Tywin hoped this mad dog, under the light of the Seven, could become more than a brute.

Gregor said, “Lord Tywin, Lady Jeyne was very pleased with the gift I gave her. She accepted everything.”

“How did you give it to her?”

“Ten miles north of the Kingsroad, we met Lord Gawen and Lady Jeyne. I asked my daughter, Julie, to help Lady Jeyne bathe and prepare herself. Then, inside the carriage, she helped her with her makeup. When she finished, Julie offered her the gifts, a silver mirror, rouge, scented powder, and eyeliner. Lady Jeyne accepted them with delight.”

“Jeyne, is this true?”

“…Yes, my lord.” Jeyne smiled politely, her posture perfect, but there was a hint of bitterness at the corners of her lips.

Chapter Text

Tywin's expression remained impassive, but inwardly, his interest was piqued.

There was no tradition of grooming or preparation outside the city to receive a guest. This was yet another “innovation” by Ser Gregor.

Choosing a noblewoman's cosmetics as a gift for Jeyne was a thoughtful gesture, perfectly in line with a woman’s natural deSere for beauty. But for someone as coarse and boorish as Gregor to come up with such a delicate idea, and actually choose items a woman would like, required not just effort, but insight.

Before entering the city, Gregor had Jeyne bathed, groomed, and made up. Then, with a simple phrase, "a gift from my lord", he presented the items. Immersed in the pleasure brought by her refined appearance, Jeyne had no way to refuse.

Moreover, Gregor employed a form of “deception” that Jeyne couldn’t even call out, one could even say it was a kind of sleight of hand. He had received her under the name of Lord Tywin, so naturally, both the grooming and the gifts would seem like arrangements made by the Lord himself.

If Gregor had offered the gift in his own name, Jeyne might not have accepted it. But using Lord Tywin’s name to deliver the gift while taking the action himself, that was a clever workaround.

The brilliance of the deception lay in the fact that Tywin couldn’t disavow Gregor’s move. After all, during the gift-giving, Julie had only said, “A gift from my lord.” She never specified which lord. And in her eyes, “my lord” obviously referred to Gregor.

At the same time, Jeyne couldn’t deny the joy she’d felt upon receiving the gift. Her upbringing, family honor, and pride wouldn’t allow her to go back and reject that moment of happiness once she realized the truth. She had assumed the refined, high-quality gifts came from Lord Tywin. They didn’t. That mistaken assumption was her own, not a result of Gregor’s “deceit.”

A simple gift. A simple trick. But an incredibly effective piece of political maneuvering.

The simpler the method, the better the effect.

Between two points, any slightly more complex path is longer than a straight line, and the shortest distance is always the simplest.

This little test made Tywin reassess Gregor.

He no longer saw Gregor as merely a brute. He now viewed him as a true general, not just in title, like so many noblemen, but a real one.

By contrast, Ser Kevan, standing beside Lord Tywin, was growing uneasy. How could the Mountain come up with such a subtle, seamless scheme? Since when could Gregor handle a tricky situation with such elegance and clarity? Was he still that vulgar brute?

Indeed, a heavy blade bears no edge; great skill often appears clumsy. Gregor’s seemingly unremarkable act of gifting bore this very style.

He had made a bet with Tywin, and he won.

But Tywin had also won.

Through this minor incident, he’d accomplished his goal: he had come to understand Gregor. He was certain now, the Gregor who’d awakened after days of fever and coma was no longer the same brute he once was.

This didn’t unsettle Tywin. Unlike Ser Kevan, Tywin had an unshakable core.

He’d shown rare military genius at seventeen, become Hand of the King at twenty, and for twenty years had ruled the realm with unmatched efficiency. He had never doubted his own iron-fisted ability to command.

Among the Seven Kingdoms’ renowned generals, two stood out most: Jon Connington, now exiled across the Narrow Sea, and Randyll Tarly of the Reach under House Tyrell. Both were far more capable in war than their lords, but their lords still commanded them. And always had.

Gregor, though improving, still had a long way to go. He needed polish. He needed time.

And if Gregor ever disobeyed, he could always be eliminated. After all, the Rains of Castamere still echoed through Westeros, and had even spread across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities.

When Jeyne uttered the words “Yes, my lord." Gregor finally relaxed. Given Tywin’s reputation for keeping his word and paying his debts, Gregor knew his only remaining task was to wash the sheets, make the bed, and wait for his beauty to lie down beside him.

Gregor Clegane, a man who had crossed into another world, had taken Jeyne Westerling, the girl who should have married Robb Stark, as his wife.

So, when the War of the Five Kings begins… will the infamous Red Wedding that crushed House Stark still take place?

Gregor didn’t know. And he didn’t care.

After all, the butterfly had already fluttered its wings, ever so subtly, stirring the air.

…

Night. 

Lord Tywin’s Bedchamber.

“My lord, Lord Gawen requests an audience." said Grand Maester Pycelle.

Tywin stood by the window, gazing at the stone tower across the courtyard. It was seven stories high, symbolic of the Faith of the Seven, and brightly lit from within, housing the honored guests.

“Deny him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Maester Pycelle quietly withdrew from the room, gently shutting the door behind him. He descended exactly seven steps, seven being the most auspicious number in Westeros, tied to the Seven Gods.

“I’m sorry, my lord." he said to Lord Gawen, waiting at the foot of the stairs. “Lord Tywin has retired for the night.”

“He’s asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I apologize for disturbing you, Maester. Good night.”

“Shall I relay a message to the Lord in the morning? If you’d like, you can tell me now what the matter concerns.”

“...Oh… I only came to say goodnight to Lord Tywin.”

“Truly?”

“Truly!”

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Lord Tywin is already resting.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Lord Gawen responded quickly.

Pycelle didn’t believe for a second that Lord Gawen had come just to say goodnight. But since that’s what he claimed, the maester chose to accept it.

Gawen’s real purpose was threefold: first, to express thanks; second, to complain about Gregor’s rudeness during their reception earlier that evening; and third, to say goodnight.

He had simply underestimated how early Lord Tywin went to bed.

…

“My lord, Ser Gregor, requests an audience.”

“Send him in.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gregor ascended the seven steps and pushed open the chamber door. He cast a glance at the Grand Maester, and Tywin gave a slight nod. Taking the cue, the maester bowed, whispered “Good night." and exited quietly.

“What is it?”

“My lord, in three days, Jeyne will become your daughter. Nobles from across the Westerlands will gather to celebrate. She’ll receive many gifts. I’ve recently raised a cavalry unit under my family banner, but I’m short on funds. I’d like to ask for half of Jeyne’s gift money.”

Tywin had known this hound wouldn’t bring good news, but even he hadn’t expected Gregor to so shamelessly ask for money.

His face hardened. Gregor had grown even more brazen. In the past, he’d at least paid lip service to meaningless notions like honor.

“Jeyne will indeed receive many gifts. But they are hers. Whom she gives them to, or not, is her decision. Are you asking me to order her to give you half?”

“I’m her husband. I’m entitled to half. If I don’t take it, Lord Gawen will take it all. That would be unfair to me.”

Tywin’s sharp gaze pierced through Gregor, but the Mountain stared back without fear, shameless and unflinching.

“You’re not her husband yet.”

Gregor shrugged. “True. Not yet. So I humbly ask Your Grace, as your future son-in-law, and in recognition of my contributions, snow salt, signal horns, chopsticks, could you lend me a hundred gold dragons?”

A hundred gold dragons, equivalent to over a million yuan on Earth, was a huge sum.

Gregor had borrowed money from Tywin before, and never once repaid a single coin. He was shameless, always borrowing with the confidence of someone who had already paid his debts. His previous loans had never exceeded ten dragons. Now, he was asking for a hundred.

That was too much.

“The reward for your salt, horns, and chopsticks is Jeyne herself, something you insisted on. I’ll adopt her and marry her to you. But not a single gold dragon more.”

“If you won’t lend me money, then I’ll have to find another way. But if some... ‘minor troubles’ arise, I’m already your son-in-law. You can’t punish me for harming your honor. I need money to feed my soldiers, support my noble-born wife, and defend my lands. I won’t let what happened to my foster daughter Juli, who was kidnapped and raped by the Serrett family, happen again.”

Tywin tensed at once.

All that earlier talk, just a preamble. This damn hound was clearly setting something up again. Trying another scheme. That last line, it wasn’t just a plea. It was a provocation.

If it truly were a “minor” problem, Gregor would solve it himself.

Fine , Tywin thought. Let’s see what kind of trick this mongrel has up his sleeve this time.

His pride flared.

Tywin hated to lose.

Once, when King Aerys defied him, Tywin resigned from twenty years of service as Hand of the King without hesitation.

“No swindling. No extortion. No forced dealings. No usury. You have my support to find your own way to earn money. Trade. Take mercenary work. Keep order at Lannisport docks. Do whatever you must. But if anything goes wrong, handle it yourself, and do not tarnish my honor.”

Gregor hesitated, silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Yes, my lord. I will remember your words.”

Tywin watched him leave.

He was long accustomed to Gregor’s shamelessness, boldness, and brazenness, but this time… what was he planning?

In the cold green eyes of Lord Tywin, there was now a trace of caution, a glint of scrutiny, a flash of iron, and a spark of curiosity.

As Gregor left Tywin’s chambers, he exhaled.

The "greeting" had been made. The Lord’s “support” had been secured.

It was time to begin.

Chapter Text

Three days later, the Lannisport was bustling with life. The Sept of the Seven was packed to the brim.

Every noble from the Westerlands had come.

It was a grand event, unprecedented in scale.

Such splendor had not been seen in the West since Queen Cersei’s wedding or the grand tourney at Lannisport.

Lord Gawen stood beside Lord Tywin, practically floating with excitement.

In the entire Westerlands, from high to low, aside from Lord Tywin himself, the most prominent name now belonged to House Westerling.

The High Septon stood solemnly, holding the Seven-Pointed Star aloft, chanting prayers in a deep, reverent voice.

Other septons anointed Jeyne Westerling with sacred oils before the statue of the Maiden, her hair, her brow, the backs of her hands.

Each noble family chose a different aspect of the Seven to stand before. Some chose the Father, some the Mother. Young lords knelt before the Warrior, while maidens followed tradition and chose the Maiden. A few nobles stood before the Smith, and the elderly knelt at the Crone. No one chose the Stranger, the god of death.

Ser Gregor Clegane stood before the Crone, even though a line of nobles had already formed there. True to his brutish nature, he strode forward without a hint of shame or hesitation. The priests meant to maintain order did not dare stop him. With a swipe of his enormous hand, he brushed aside several nobles and placed himself at the head of the line.

Behind him was the grinning Raff Clegane, proud as ever, his collar pinned with the gold sigil of three dogs. He bowed and smiled to everyone he passed, shamelessly following right behind Gregor. After being knighted by Gregor, he barely qualified to attend such a sacred ceremony.

Several earls standing behind them felt deeply insulted. While none dared rebuke Gregor himself, they had no reservations about scolding his "dog."

To them, a lowly knight was several rungs beneath an earl on the social ladder.

Just as some were about to lash out at Raff physically, Gregor seized him by the collar and yanked him forward. At that moment, the High Septon’s oil descended directly onto Raff’s forehead.

The septon apprentices immediately began their chants.

A wave of gasps swept through the crowd.

But it was too late to change anything.

Many nobles angrily left the Crone’s statue, refusing to receive blessings at the same place as Gregor and Raff. They dispersed to other statues, some to the Father, others to the Mother.

Though they grumbled in hushed voices to avoid disturbing the ceremony, Raff could hear every word.

Not one dared curse Gregor himself.

He was a madman, a monster, a violent brute, everyone knew it.

Several fearless knights wanted to challenge him but held back, knowing this was a day of celebration. So they swallowed their anger and went to other statues to receive their blessings.

Gregor didn’t care for knightly honor.

But they did.

Gregor and Raff stood there without shame, utterly unbothered by their disgraceful actions.

For men without shame, shamelessness itself becomes a badge of honor.

…

Jeyne completed the anointing and received the blessings of two High Septons. A choir sang sacred hymns in her honor. A harpist played solemn, divine music that soared through the sept, the melody intertwining with the voices of the choir.

The anointed nobles stepped onto thick carpets and slowly lined up along winding corridors, making their way to where Lord Tywin sat upon the lion-fur chair. Standing before him was his daughter, Jeyne, now formally initiated.

Nobles of all ages advanced one by one, bearing congratulatory gifts, carved jade figurines, fine silks, artistic weapons, rare rouge, pearls and agates, gold and jade. Rubies and sapphires sparkled side by side, emeralds and moonstones dazzled in contrast.

Standing at Jeyne’s right hand was her birth father, Lord Gawen.

Lord Tywin, clad in brocade, stood with the cold dignity of a god. His face betrayed no emotion, sharp and frigid as ice. By contrast, Lord Gawen seemed drunk on joy, his face flushed, breath rapid, his smile stretching from ear to ear, even the veins in his neck bulging from excitement.

Gregor and Raff stood among the noble line. Gregor towered a full head above all others, making those before and behind him feel the pressure of a beast looming close.

Jeyne had been meticulously adorned with extravagant jewels, headpieces, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, chest ornaments, and jeweled belts, all of exquisite craftsmanship and immense value. Clad in silk and brocade, she was a vision of elegance, so radiant she seemed almost divine, impossible to look at directly.

Gregor, in both this life and the last, had never seen such a classical, noble beauty, graceful and majestic beyond comparison.

He was utterly entranced.

Before and behind Jeyne, several servants busied themselves collecting gifts. A dozen elegant wicker baskets lined up in neat rows. The herald, his voice clear and formal, announced each noble’s name, title, rank, holding, and gift with meticulous precision, a display that was both ceremonial and a chance for social one-upmanship.

Lord Gawen thanked each guest profusely. Lord Tywin, however, remained mostly silent. The nobles first paid respects to him before presenting their gifts to Jeyne.

For most, Tywin responded only with a nod. For those of higher rank, he might offer a handshake, already an extraordinary gesture of acknowledgment. Only a few received words from him: the heads of House Marbrand of Ashemark, House Lefford of Golden Tooth, House Farman of Fair Isle, House Crakehall of Crakehall, House Lannister of Lannisport, House Swyft of Cornfield, and the heir of House Serrett of Silverhill.

Then came Gregor, representing House Clegane. All eyes turned toward him.

Everyone saw that his gift tray was nearly empty.

Several earls stood nearby, ready to mock him.

In this environment, where the herald loudly announced every gift for all to hear, the offering itself became a public display of wealth and status.

Gregor saluted Lord Tywin, then lifted the red cloth from his tray.

Inside the large tray were only three items: a small silk box tied with red ribbon; a palm-sized package wrapped in embroidered cloth; and a strange silver object the likes of which no one had seen before. It was strung on a fine cord of gold, silver, and silk, delicate and unique, shaped like a number 6… or perhaps a 9.

When the herald announced the gifts, “chopsticks, snow-salt, and a golden whistle” , the entire hall fell silent.

None of the nobles had ever heard of such things.

Whispers spread as people glanced at one another, unsure what to make of it. Was it a joke? Was it valuable?

No one dared openly mock Gregor now. If these gifts turned out to be rare and precious, their ridicule would only expose their own ignorance.

Even Jeyne and her father, Lord Gawen, were hearing of "chopsticks, snow-salt, and a golden whistle" for the first time. They didn’t know what they were, how to use them, or if they were valuable at all.

The herald continued in a loud, sonorous voice, almost like singing:

“Chopsticks, a noble utensil invented by Ser Gregor Clegane himself, blessed by the Seven, a creation of divine inspiration. In certain aspects of dining, they surpass knives and forks tenfold. They have already received the highest praise from Lord Tywin and Grand Maester Pycelle. Today, the nobles of the Westerlands shall witness Lord Tywin himself demonstrate their use during the banquet.”

The hall fell completely silent.

Jeyne stared at the beast before her in disbelief.

Gregor looked back at her, eyes fixed on her beautiful face. When she looked up to meet his gaze, he gave her a roguish wink with his right eye.

Jeyne quickly looked away, her face flushed bright red, stunning beyond compare.

Chapter Text

Lannisport’s temple square was bustling with excitement.

Long rows of banquet tables stretched across the vast plaza, covered with steaming fresh bread, glistening roasted meats, polished and shining fruits, piping hot bacon soup, golden spiced honey, crisp green lettuces, pork hams, and smoked wild game…

“Hey, Foolish Lord." Gregor Clegane grinned, slapping Ado Serrett amiably on the shoulder with a goblet in hand. “Why do you keep staring at Jeyne Westerling like that?”

The knights of House Serrett immediately stood, two of them stepping between Ado and Gregor with hostile glares, while five more flanked Ado protectively.

Ado spared a glance at the high-seated Lord Tywin and responded coolly, “Mountain, I’ve already proposed to Lord Gawen and received a return gift.”

“Mountain” was the infamous nickname used behind Gregor Clegane’s back. No knight or lord would dare use it to his face, it was a grave insult, sure to provoke his wrath.

But here, Ado judged the moment carefully and had no fear.

Since Gregor had approached reeking of alcohol and mocked him as a “Foolish Lord." Ado naturally returned the insult, calling him “Mountain” without the honorific of “Ser”, an even greater slight.

Gregor’s eyes fell on the brooch pinned to Ado’s chest. It wasn’t unusual for nobles to wear decorative pieces, on hats, belts, boots, or breastplates, but this one was distinct. It bore the sigil of House Westerling: six small white shells.

“Gawen agreed to it?” Gregor asked with a laugh.

“He did. And Lady Jeyne is aware, she offered no objection.” Ado looked toward Jeyne Westerling, who shone like moonlight at Tywin’s side. Just then, her gaze met his, and after a brief pause, she looked away.

Gregor caught the flicker of affection exchanged between them. A handsome young noble like Ado was indeed a good match for a beauty like Jeyne.

“Foolish Lord, I recall Lord Gawen once proposed a match between your families, your father, Earl Targ, and your mother rejected him. Her family was too poor, and her mother was a merchant’s daughter, not of noble birth. Are you sure your parents will approve this time?”

“Mountain." Ado replied calmly, “Jeyne may not have been Lord Tywin’s daughter in the past, but she is now. And once I marry her, I’ll be Tywin’s son-in-law. You? You’re just one of Tywin’s dogs. Did you really think the Serrett family would let you go unpunished?”

Ado’s smile deepened. He could see a flicker of emotion in Gregor’s eyes, it pleased him.

“Oh? You sound so confident, why don’t we make a bet?” Gregor downed his wine in one gulp, his tone unsteady.

Ado knew his words had cut deep, deep enough to leave a wound.

“A bet? You’re not even worth betting with." Ado replied flatly.

He wanted to provoke Gregor into losing control and striking first. He had already noticed Gregor had only one henchman with him here, his lackey, Raff the Sweetling, seated far on the outer edge of the tables, stuffing his face thanks to the knighthood Gregor had granted him.

Meanwhile, Ado was surrounded by seven strong household knights, each armed with daggers, ready for trouble. They had one purpose, guarding against Gregor’s inevitable provocation.

Gregor had no armor and was visibly tipsy. If he struck first, it would be his fault.

Striking someone at a celebratory banquet, especially one in Jeyne’s honor, would bring shame regardless of the outcome. And even a monster like Gregor couldn’t shrug off steel bare-handed.

Of course, it was still dangerous. Gregor might very well kill him with a single punch. That’s why the knights had immediately moved between them.

The Serrett knights had sworn to die for their house.

In this world, knights were not just skilled warriors, they were fearless. Many feared Gregor, but many knights did not.

“Ado, don’t you want revenge for your brother Alva?”

“We all do!”

“Then let’s bet. I’ll propose to Lord Gawen as well, and we’ll see who Jeyne chooses in the end.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?” Ado’s brows knit tightly, his eyes sharp and challenging.

“I’ll propose, too." Gregor said. “The bet is whether Jeyne will choose me over you. Do you dare?”

Ado stared at Gregor, mouth falling open in disbelief. Then he burst into laughter. His knights were already doubled over with laughter beside him.

Hundreds of guests filled the banquet, laughter and music everywhere, yet their boisterous laughter still drew the attention of Lord Tywin.

Among the great lords of the Westerlands, only Ado Serrett, the heir of Silverhill, had not been granted the honor of sitting at Tywin’s table. The others, Lord Marbrand of Ashmark, Lord Lefford of Golden Tooth, Lord Farman of Fair Isle, Lord Crakehall of Crakehall, Lord Lannister of Lannisport, and Lord Swyft of Cornfield, had all received places of honor and ceremonial gifts: chopsticks, snow-salt, and war-whistles.

These items would soon be formally introduced across the realm, chopsticks a symbol of noble privilege, war-whistles a military secret, and snow-salt a premier product of the Westerlands. All private salt-mining rights were to be revoked by Tywin’s decree.

The Serrett family’s rank merited an invitation to Tywin’s table, but two things held them back: Ado was only the heir, not yet a lord; and their previous conflict with Gregor, where Ado’s six brothers had beaten Gregor’s men without regard for “the master’s face." had displeased Tywin.

Tywin’s sharp gaze swept toward the commotion, then looked away. He recalled what Gregor had once told him when borrowing money, he’d said he had “plans to earn more.” Tywin had remembered. He knew Gregor couldn’t afford the wages of sixty-three cavalrymen, the most expensive troops of all, and paid his men triple the going rate even in peacetime.

Even mountains of gold wouldn’t last under Gregor’s spending.

Tywin instinctively felt Gregor wouldn’t cross the square just to share a laugh with Ado without reason.

“What’s the wager, Mountain?” Ado asked, nearly choking from laughing.

“Does he even have anything worth betting?” one knight jeered.

“You name the stakes." Gregor replied, laughing too, like a fool. His drunkenness, shifting emotions, and provocative words were all part of a carefully laid plan. A plan shaped by the influence of Earth’s civilization.

Both sides were thoroughly enjoying themselves.

“If I win." Ado said, grinning, “I want your cavalry, your Clegane lands and castle, and your little adopted daughter, Juliette Clegane. Most importantly, I want your family motto, ‘Unmatched’, to be permanently abandoned. Do you dare, Mountain?”

Truth be told, losing those things wouldn’t destroy Gregor, he’d just be forced to return to Tywin’s cavalry camp as the loyal attack dog of House Lannister.

“Fine. I accept.”

“Swear it!”

“By which god?”

“The Father.”

The Father, god of judgment and balance.

“Very well. I, Gregor Clegane, swear by the Father and by the honor of House Clegane, that I wager against Ado Serrett. We will both propose marriage to Lord Gawen. If Jeyne chooses not to marry me, then my cavalry, my lands, my castle, my adopted daughter Juliette Clegane, and our house words ‘Unmatched’ will all be forfeited to Ado Serrett.”

Ado burst out laughing and poured Gregor a glass of Arbor wine. “Cheers, Mountain! A toast, to your stupidity!”

Gregor, unfazed by the insult, downed the wine in one gulp. “Foolish Lord, now it’s your turn. If I win, I want nothing but a small patch of land, the western edge of the Silverhill. Goldleaf Bay.”

Chapter Text

The table in front of Lord Tywin was quiet.

The other long banquet tables were all placed far from his. This table had only eleven people in total.

Lord Tywin sat alone at the head. To his right were five individuals: first was Jeyne, second was Lord Gawen, followed by Lord Marbrand of Ashmark, Lord Lefford of Golden Tooth, and Lord Farman of Fair Isle.

To his left were another five: first, Lord Kevan, second, Grand Maester Pycelle, followed by Lord Crakehall of Crake Hall, Lord Lannister of Lannisport, and Lord Swyft of Cornfield.

Lord Gawen was tasting such tender roasted meat and refreshingly light bacon soup for the first time in his life. His family was on the brink of bankruptcy, yet he remained a refined gourmet.

Jeyne, accustomed to exquisite cuisine, found every dish today to be absolutely delicious.

After drinking a little too much, Lord Gawen became bold. “Your Grace, are all these dishes seasoned with snow salt?”

“Yes." Tywin answered tersely, as was his way.

“Snow salt… is it really from Ser Gregor, ?”

Before Gawen could finish, the Lord cut him off sharply. “Yes.”

Though Gawen nodded with a look of understanding, deep down, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

Jeyne Westerling felt the same disbelief.

During the gift ceremony, the herald had clearly announced that the snow salt came from Clegane Keep and had been inadvertently produced by Ser Gregor Clegane. Now, at the dining table, Tywin himself confirmed this, but Jeyne still found it hard to believe that the Mountain had mastered the production of snow salt.

Lord Marbrand spoke softly, “Your Grace, I’ve never had bacon soup so rich in flavor. Ser Gregor’s snow salt production is truly remarkable.”

The other Lords all nodded in agreement, though none voiced their thoughts aloud. They genuinely believed it, but they knew better than to flatter Tywin Lannister needlessly.

Tywin disliked sycophants who echoed others blindly, and this cast a heavy, subdued air over the table.

They were all used to eating salt that was bitter and gritty with sand or dirt. Now, tasting this fine white snow salt for the first time, the difference was immediately apparent. When used to roast suckling pig, the contrast in flavor was stunning. The purity of the snow salt seemed to elevate the texture of the meat itself.

Yet this enjoyment was exclusive to Lord Tywin’s table.

All eleven seated there used chopsticks.

With Lord Tywin leading by example, the others had quickly picked up how to use them. At first, it was undeniably awkward, how to even hold these two “sticks." which end to use?, but soon everyone got the hang of it.

The food at this table was also special.

The roastmaster was grilling meat just down the street from the plaza. The baker was nearby, baking fresh bread. All the dishes were prepared on the spot by chefs and served steaming hot, their savory aromas wafting through the air.

Once the meat was done, two skilled chefs sliced it into various sizes and portions for the nobles at Tywin’s table, plating everything before serving it. The guests used chopsticks to pick their pieces, eliminating the need for cutting.

Jeyne found this absolutely delightful.

Ladies cutting steaming, greasy meat often risked staining their fingers or soiling their elegant gowns.

Gregor had made a very apt point when demonstrating chopstick use to the Lord: have the chefs cut the roasted meat and bread to one's preferences, then eat with chopsticks, no need to soil one's hands with grease or crumbs. This, he’d said, was especially fitting for the elderly, children, and elegant noblewomen.

The bacon soup was rich with chunks of ham, carrots, and assorted vegetables. In poor households, ingredients were chopped tiny and boiled into thick soup to make spooning easier. But nobles had no such constraints, large chunks of meat and vegetables were simply simmered in the pot, and chopsticks made fishing them out far easier than using knives and forks. Moreover, there was no risk of burning one’s hands on the hot broth. Once children learned to use chopsticks, it would be much safer for them, too.

In the civilization Gregor had transmigrated from, chopsticks had been used for thousands of years and had never been replaced. Their enduring presence stemmed from how practical and versatile they were.

As a university-trained science and engineering student from Huaguo, Gregor knew well how many types of chopsticks existed. They could be made from bamboo, wood, bone, porcelain, ivory, gold, silver, plastic… Chopsticks were one of the most common utensils in the world and a hallmark of  culinary culture, an invention that spread across Asia and even influenced dining customs overseas.

Jeyne quickly mastered the chopsticks. She was multitalented, skilled in music, painting, and even medicine, always graceful and dexterous.

She stole a glance at the Mountain.

That brute? Invented chopsticks? Invented whistles? Discovered how to make snow salt?

Was that even possible?

Absolutely not.

And yet, Tywin Lannister’s words and honor were beyond question.

This left Jeyne feeling deeply conflicted.

She prided herself on her intelligence and talent, and utterly despised Gregor as a person. She had subtly asked Grand Maester Pycelle about him before, only to receive a definitive answer: Gregor was illiterate.

How could someone who couldn’t read or write possess such inventive brilliance? How could he come up with entirely new things never before seen in this world?

If it were true, it could only be explained as divine revelation from the Seven.

A divine revelation… given to such a scoundrel?

Jeyne found the notion absurd.

Still, while enjoying her meal with ladylike grace, she let her mind wander through a young woman’s secret thoughts.

In the Westerlands, there were four great noble families of immense wealth:

• House Lefford of Golden Tooth, rich from gold mines;
  
  
• House Serrett of Silverhill, likewise enriched by mining;
  
  
• House Lannister of Lannisport, made wealthy through trade;
  
  
• And House Lannister of Casterly Rock, whose wealth came from gold and taxation.
  
  

Jeyne had no hope of marrying into the main Lannister line at Casterly Rock. The Lannister of Lannisport had only one daughter and no sons. That left only two powerful houses: the Leffords and the Serretts.

The Serrett of Silverhill had once rejected her father’s proposal. But now, as the newly recognized daughter of Lord Tywin, Jeyne had already received numerous marriage offers, including one from Ado Serrett, heir to House Serrett.

Ado Serrett was handsome, came from immense wealth, belonged to a powerful family, and was skilled in martial arts. He was the ideal young noble in Jeyne’s eyes. There was no better match for her in all the Westerlands.

If she married Ado, she would become the Lady of Silverhill.

Jeyne was filled with anticipation for such a future.

Today, she was the center of the entire city’s attention, basking in admiring gazes from nearly everyone, men and women alike.

From sixteen-year-old boys to sixty-year-old lords, all eyes were filled with praise… and deSere.

Jeyne owed her position entirely to her father.

The only regret was that her mother couldn’t be there to witness her moment of glory. As the daughter of a merchant and not a noble, her mother was looked down upon by Tywin and had to stay behind in Clegane’s Keep.

Jeyne, immersed in her girlish musings, once again stole a glance at Ador.

His side of the hall was full of boisterous laughter. From this distance, Jeyne couldn’t hear what he and Gregor were talking about. But she saw many knights from nearby tables raising their cups and gathering around them. They laughed and talked animatedly, the atmosphere lively and filled with cheer.

“I bet ten gold dragons!”

“I bet fifty!”

She could just barely make out the shouts of the knights and lords around them.

Chapter Text

The next day, in the main hall of Casterly Rock, seat of House Lannister.

Lord Tywin’s voice was not loud, yet it carried an unmistakable weight of authority.

“All the lords of the Westerlands are gathered here today. I have several announcements to make. If anyone has objections, feel free to voice them.”

The hall fell silent. Not a single sound.

That pleased Lord Tywin.

He preferred his vassals to listen, not to speak. The invitation to raise objections was nothing more than a formal courtesy.

Of course, Tywin was not averse to hearing real concerns, but only if they were well-considered and backed by sound logic. If not, it was better to remain silent.

“The first matter: all salt mining and trade in the Westerlands is to be centralized. Casterly Rock will reclaim full control. All shops under your houses that deal in salt are to cease procurement. Once current stocks are sold, operations end. All rock salt mined across the Westerlands is to be transported to Casterly Rock. Do any of the earls object?”

The hundred lords and knights in the hall remained utterly silent.

“Good." Tywin continued. “Since we are in agreement, I hereby appoint Ser Kevan as the Minister of Salt for the Westerlands. From this day forward, only 'Snow Salt' may be sold. For the first six months, its price will be equal to that of rock salt. After that, the price will rise by twenty percent. For external sales, the price will be tripled. Each vassal’s domain will be assigned a fixed monthly salt quota, which may be reduced, but never increased. Any objections?”

This quota system was designed to prevent vassals from buying salt cheaply from Casterly Rock and reselling it at higher prices elsewhere. Once the quotas were enforced, trying to sell at a premium outside one’s domain would only result in a shortage at home, for both lord and commoner.

The hall remained still.

“Ser Kevan?”

“I accept Your Grace’s appointment and the office of Minister of Salt.”

“Good. Second matter: within three days, each vassal must send two generals to Casterly Rock to learn the military whistle system. This knowledge is not to be shared outside the Westerlands. Should anyone be found leaking it to other duchies, they will face harsh military punishment.”

Tywin’s gaze swept the hall slowly. Where his eyes passed, nobles instinctively lowered their gazes, avoiding his stare.

Still, no one raised an objection.

“Ser Rafford Clegane.”

Rafford stepped forward quickly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You are appointed Chief Instructor of the military whistle system. You will have one month to train two generals from each house in the proper use of whistle commands, one for cavalry, one for infantry. Do you accept it?”

Gone was Rafford’s usual cheerful expression, replaced by a serious, cold demeanor. “Yes, Your Grace.”

This was a tremendous honor bestowed upon House Clegane, one Rafford himself felt deeply.

“Once Casterly Rock’s generals complete their whistle training, I will personally inspect the armies of every vassal within two months. Troops will be tested on formation changes, maneuvering, and command execution via whistle. Any army that fails the examination will see its general and lord punished under martial law. Any objections?”

The hall remained silent.

Tywin’s eyes once again swept the room of lords and knights. He always paused after each major decree to observe the room.

“The third matter: starting today, chopsticks are to be adopted across the Westerlands, beginning with the nobility. Within six months, all nobles, knights, soldiers, and commoners are to abandon metal utensils entirely. Steel is too valuable, and the price of iron ore from the Iron Islands rises every year.”

“From tomorrow onward, no blacksmith may manufacture or sell iron cutlery or tableware. Production is hereby banned. Maester Pycelle, explain the benefits.”

Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. “Lords and knights, after calculations last night, I found that by saving the iron used in common household goods, such as wash basins, we could increase our iron reserves by forty percent annually. Redirecting this iron to make armor, swords, daggers, and arrowheads would reduce the cost of weapons by thirty percent.”

The hall remained silent.

When it came to numbers, everyone trusted Maester Pycelle.

Lord Tywin’s gaze swept the room again, the pressure of his presence nearly tangible.

“Does anyone have questions or objections? Speak now.”

wooden chopsticks vs. iron utensils, there was no question which was cheaper. Tywin had already considered every angle. This wasn’t an impulsive decision.

During wartime, most commoners had no armor and wielded rusted, inferior weapons. Why? Because they were unaffordable.

Steel was too rare.

But wood was abundant in the forested mountains of the Westerlands.

“My Lord." said Lord Lefford of Golden Tooth, “if iron tableware is abolished, what do we use for kitchen knives? Surely chopsticks can’t slice meat.”

He voiced the concern on everyone’s mind.

“Kitchen knives will be manufactured centrally by Casterly Rock’s smiths and distributed via a quota system. I will ensure every household receives at least two knives. From now on, whether it’s meat or bread, it must be pre-sliced in the kitchen and served ready to eat. Chopsticks only at the table. No personal knives or forks allowed.”

“Six months from now, every home in the Westerlands will use chopsticks. All existing iron cutlery, including those of House Lannister, must be turned in. They can be exchanged for snow salt. I’ll say it again: steel must be conserved. From now on, it is for weapons and armor only. No more iron plates, iron pots, or decorative items. Wood will replace them all. Any objections?”

Many looked around uneasily. Centuries of tradition, abandoned overnight? It felt surreal.

But no one dared speak.

After all, even House Lannister was held to the same standard. No exceptions.

Gregor couldn’t help but admire Lord Tywin. At twenty, Tywin had already been appointed Hand of the King for his political brilliance, overseeing the governance of all Seven Kingdoms for two decades. His administrative skill was beyond question.

The chopsticks initiative alone would give the Westerlands a critical advantage in steel reserves over rival kingdoms. Once weapon prices dropped and commoners were better armed, which army would be stronger in the next war?

Gregor, despite coming from a highly advanced world, was still a novice when it came to grand statecraft.

When he first introduced chopsticks, he hadn’t realized how such a trivial, low-cost tool could free up a massive reserve of iron. And the Iron Islands’ annual price hikes on ore were no joke.

“Now that governance is done." Tywin continued, “I wish to recognize Ser Gregor Clegane for his extraordinary contributions to the Westerlands. I believe he will bring us even more valuable inventions in the future. For such merit, I intend to reward him today.”

Gregor stepped forward, bowing with respect.

“Ser Gregor, you are my most loyal general, your loyalty is unquestioned. Your blessing from the Light of the Seven fills me with awe. Let us thank the Seven! You are also my bravest commander, undefeated in battle, unmatched in all the realm. As such, I shall grant you a sizable fief. But more than that, I will give you the dearest and most precious thing I have.”

“Thank you, Your Grace." Gregor said, kneeling on one knee, fist to chest.

“My daughter, Jeyne Westerling.”

Tywin took Jeyne’s hand.

“You are of marriageable age. Today, I bestow you in marriage to Ser Gregor. I hope you will accept.”

His tone was polite, but his voice allowed no refusal.

The hall was so silent, it was as if no one existed.

Jeyne’s mind exploded in a burst of white noise. She saw her father’s lips moving, but couldn’t hear a word.

The world blurred. Light, shadow, color, and sound melted into a dreamlike haze. She thought she heard her father, Lord Gawen Westerling, say in a voice that felt both distant and unreal:

“My lord, you are like a father to Jeyne. House Westerling is honored by this union.”

Her body went limp. She couldn’t stay upright. The world around her faded, sound and color vanished, and she plunged into endless darkness, falling deeper and deeper, with no end in sight.

Chapter Text

Everyone in the hall saw Jeyne faint.

Lord Tywin's expression remained unchanged.

But Lord Gawen quickly jogged to Jeyne's side, wearing a smile plastered with concern. “Apologies, My Lord. Apologies, Ser Gregor. Apologies, my lords. The young lady is rather frail and cannot handle strong emotions. When she gets too excited, her body tends to go weak. It’s just joy, nothing more, she’ll be fine in no time.”

As Gawen rambled on, he helped the Lannister maids escort Jeyne Westerling out of the hall and into the Maester’s Tower.

Lord Tywin's gaze swept across the hall. Silence immediately fell once again.

“Ser Gregor, it seems my daughter Jeyne may be suffering from a minor ailment...”

“My Lord, Ser Gregor is grateful beyond words for this marriage. The Clegane family shall never forget your generosity." Gregor quickly interjected.

He could sense the Lord’s tone beginning to take a subtle turn, perhaps a change of mind, and that was something he couldn’t allow.

A wife like Jeyne, graceful, clever, and peerlessly beautiful, what man in his right mind would give that up? Sure, she fainted the moment the engagement was announced, but that couldn’t be helped. Once they were married, love could be nurtured in time.

All around the hall, the young unmarried nobles felt a pang, not just for Jeyne’s sake, but for their own.

Unlike the Red Keep’s throne room in King’s Landing, where noblewomen and ladies-in-waiting were often present during court sessions, the Westernlands' Hall of Governance allowed no such thing. Tywin never permitted his vassals to bring wives or daughters to matters of state. Today’s presence of Jeyne Westerling was an exception; she was seated at Tywin's side, because she herself was part of today’s political business.

The earls, barons, and knights present all harbored a storm of emotions: envy, bitterness, even a tinge of resentment. Jeyne Westerling, renowned for both her beauty and talent, had scorned every suitor that came her way. Yet now, she was to marry the most infamous brute in the Westerlands, the Mountain .

Gregor Clegane had already been married twice. Both wives had supposedly "tripped and broken their necks." But whether they truly died of accidents or were tortured to death, everyone in the hall had their suspicions.

Many nobles now deeply regretted their choices.

They had made a bet, betting that Jeyne would marry Ser Ado Serrett instead of the Mountain. Once the betting began yesterday, it quickly escalated. By the end, aside from Raff and a few drunkards too far gone to know better who wagered on Gregor, everyone else backed Ser Ado.

Even Ser Ado himself placed a heavy bet: Goldenleaf Bay , a small coastal plot within the Silverhill lands.

Goldenleaf Bay lay on the western edge of Silverhill territory, near the Clegane lands. It had never been mined, but Gregor had already sniffed out its value, rich in gold. The area was small, just a sliver of Silverhill’s broader mineral wealth, but it was a golden prize nonetheless.

The very stone used to build Clegane's Keep had been quarried from a stony outcrop just west of Goldenleaf Bay. Dig down from the quarry, curve the tunnel just a bit, and you'd be in the gold-rich veins of Goldenleaf.

Wager or not, Gregor had already set his sights on it. If he won the bet, he could mine it openly and legally. If he lost, or if Ado never took the bait, Gregor would still mine it... just under cover of night.

Always prepared, two plans, one goal.

This time, the Mountain had won big . Goldenleaf Bay now belongs permanently to House Clegane. And should they ever run short on coins, a little digging just beyond the edge of their new domain would take them straight into Serrett territory, a few nibbles off their gold mine, nice and easy.

Ser Ado Serrett stood among the knightly ranks, face ashen.

Losing Goldenleaf Bay was bad enough. But losing Jeyne Westerling , that truly broke him.

Last night, in the Lannister dining hall, he and Jeyne had brushed past each other. They’d exchanged only two or three words, but the fire in her eyes had said more than a hundred. They had understood each other.

Back in his chambers, Ado hadn’t slept a wink. Partly from the wine, but mostly from Jeyne. When Lord Gawen had last come to propose marriage, he hadn’t brought Jeyne along. Ado had only heard of her beauty and talent, never seen it himself. After yesterday’s ceremony, he realized that even the tales hadn’t done her justice.

To a passionate young man, beauty on that level could make him forget all about a girl’s family misfortunes. And it wasn’t like House Serrett lacked wealth.

“Hey!” whispered a burly young noble, nudging Ado. “You cost me fifty gold dragons, you cursed bastard.”

The speaker was Lyle Crakehall, from Crakehall. House Crakehall was known for producing strapping, hard-headed men.

Ser Lyle Crakehall was the second son of Lord Crakehall. Of his three brothers, Lyle was the biggest and strongest, earning him the nickname “Strongboar.” His tunic bore the family crest, a wild boar, black and white, on a brown field.

Though he cursed at Ado, he did so only with lip movements, silent mouthing.

In Lord Tywin’s hall, no one dared to raise their voice or hurl insults.

Ado was seething. Were it not for the setting, he would’ve already drawn his sword and driven it into the Strongboar’s belly. But who in their right mind would dare draw steel during a council summoned by Tywin Lannister?

No one.

Barely containing his fury, Ado mouthed back: “ Fat swine. Duel. ”

“ Get lost." Strongboar responded with equal venom. “I’m mad about losing fifty dragons, not enough to die over it.”

“Well, I am ready to kill you." Ado spat silently, his rage burning.

“Fine then. I’ll oblige you." said Strongboar, who had a temper to match his size.

High on the dais, atop seven steps, Lord Tywin sat, watching the hall below.

“ Ser Lyle Crakehall." Tywin said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but to Strongboar, it crashed like thunder in his ears.

Being called out by the Lord was never good news.

Lyle Crakehall immediately stepped out from the line, right fist over his heart in salute.

“What were you saying?” Tywin asked, his pale green eyes calm and unblinking.

Cold sweat broke out across Strongboar’s back. His father, Lord Crakehall, looked on with bulging eyes and a furious glare aimed straight at his reckless son.

“My Lord, I was just overjoyed by Ser Gregor and Lady Jeyne’s engagement. I was wondering what sort of gift would be worthy of such an esteemed couple.”

“Oh?” Tywin turned to Ado. “Ser Ado, was Ser Lyle discussing gifts with you just now?”

Ado had no choice but to step forward, fist to chest. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Very well. Since you young men are so enthusiastic, why don’t you set an example, Ser Ado? Today, my daughter Jeyne is betrothed to Ser Gregor. What gift will House Serrett of Silverhill present to mark the occasion?”

Ado’s mouth went dry. His chest felt aflame with anxiety. Forcing a smile, he answered:

“My Lord, Silverhill shall present Lady Jeyne with a string of pearls… two ruby bracelets…” He glanced at Tywin, who didn’t seem impressed. This was a moment to set the standard for all the noble houses of the Westerlands.

Ado’s scalp prickled. Gritting his teeth, he continued, “A coral onyx tree, a pair of emerald bowls… and two hundred gold dragons. Silks and satins, perfumes and powders in full measure.”

Chapter Text

Gregor looked at Ado Serrett with eyes full of gratitude and admiration.

But in Ado’s eyes, this was nothing but pure humiliation.

Humiliation?

Yes, this was humiliation of the highest order.

Since he'd been transmigrated into this rather miserable world and become a noble, Gregor figured, if you're going to play the noble game, you might as well play it at the highest level. That included how you humiliate others.

A gift of two hundred gold dragons was already a hefty amount. After all, this was just an engagement, not a wedding.

Compared to jewelry and fine gems, Gregor much preferred cold hard gold dragons. Jewelry required appraisal and reselling. Gold dragons? Instantly spendable. Much more convenient.

And Ado Serrett had indeed been generous this time: pearls, rubies, emeralds, gold dragons, silk, rouge, it was all there.

Of course, Gregor was especially grateful to Lord Tywin for his unwitting help!

He accepted it all without shame.

Granted, it was Tywin who had conceived of replacing metal with wood in the realm’s armory system, but that brilliant idea came only after seeing Gregor's chopsticks. Without those, there would’ve been no inspiration.

Gregor had merely thought chopsticks would be a stylish novelty for the nobility, a bit of flair in private. Who could’ve predicted that by the very next day, Lord Tywin and the court's mathematically-gifted maester would lock themselves in a room and calculate their way to a high-level policy reform like replacing ironware with wood? Incredible.

Gregor had to admit, Tywin’s political prowess was truly something else.

Gregor’s gaze moved to the burly man known as "Strongboar." Ser Lyle Crakehall. This man had lost fifty gold dragons to him, generously so.

Fifty gold dragons! 

From his memories, Gregor clearly remembered that when King Robert invited Eddard Stark to travel south from the North, they had camped along the shores of the Trident. Robert suggested a bit of gambling and asked Ned to join. Even with his rank as Warden of the North, the most Ned could wager was ten gold dragons. Even when Robert had his steward count the contents of Ned’s private purse, there were only fifty gold dragons and a few coppers.

Only in the Westerlands could nobles throw around such wealth so casually.

Ser Lyle had lost fifty gold dragons to him. Gregor nodded toward him with gratitude.

This kind of “thank you” was something Gregor was happy to give away freely. He wasn’t stingy.

True, refined humiliation was making your opponent seethe with rage inside, yet still forced to smile and bow in return.

Originally, this entire event had been a ploy to bait Ado Serrett into a trap, a cunning scheme to seize the gold-laden Goldenleaf Bay from House Serrett. Gregor was delighted that Ado had eagerly jumped in, and even launched a betting game that drew in half the Westerlands nobility, making Gregor a small fortune in the process.

Gregor didn’t even need to calculate it on the spot, he had long since tallied it in his head: 321 gold dragons of pure profit. Dozens of nobles and young knights had participated. That was equivalent to 445,567 USD by Earth standards. Of course, that still didn’t compare to the true tycoons back on Earth, but it was a substantial haul here.

Gregor was satisfied with Ado’s generous gift. But Lord Tywin, it seemed, was not.

“Gregor, have you remembered all the items in Ser Ado’s gift?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If anything is missing when the time comes, go to Lady Tyghe of Silverhill and ask for it.” 

Tywin’s tone was stern and serious, he was not joking. Tywin never joked. 

“Yes, my lord.”

Ado Serrett’s face flushed a deep red.

This was blatant, undisguised humiliation .

“Ser Lyle." Tywin continued calmly, “I know you are not your family’s heir and therefore have no right to make binding commitments on your house’s behalf. As the second son, you’ll inherit neither land nor wealth. So tell me, why were you discussing gift-giving with Ser Ado?”

Though his tone was calm, it was clear that Tywin was angry.

Lord Crakehall, Lyle’s father, knew trouble had arrived. His son had been caught lying, and Tywin had exposed it mercilessly. But knowing Tywin’s temperament, he dared not speak up or defend his son.

Lyle stammered, speechless.

“Lyle, do you admit you lied?”

“Yes, my lord.” Lyle dropped to one knee, overwhelmed with fear.

In Ado Serrett’s mind, he had already killed Lyle seventeen or eighteen times. But with things as they were, he had no choice but to kneel as well and confess his lie to Tywin.

Tywin declared coldly:

“Today is my daughter’s engagement. I’ve also announced three major policy reforms, so I’m in a good mood. Therefore, I’ll let this pass, for now. But I won’t forget it. If you two ever step out of line again, the punishment will be doubled.”

Then he stood, casting a sweeping gaze over the gathered crowd.

“I’m going to visit my daughter in the Maester’s Tower. If she’s well enough, we’ll hold the engagement ceremony this afternoon right here. Those of you without gifts, write an IOU. Ser Gregor, do you have any suggestions?”

Gregor admired Tywin’s bluntness in asking for wedding gifts, it was the kind of brazenness that would be scorned on Earth, but here it was taken as perfectly natural. Gregor was determined to learn and surpass even his master.

“My lord, I can’t wait to be engaged to Lady Jeyne." Gregor said solemnly.

“Good. When do you plan to marry her?”

Gregor always believed Tywin’s cunning was just as natural and powerful as his political talent. Poor Jeyne, she’d probably be sobbing in the privy for days.

“Uh, in a month’s time. Once the Westerland generals finish training their new formations, I’ll marry Lady Jeyne.”

“Very well. Since it’s not far off, she won’t return to Casterly Rock. She’ll stay here in Casterly Keep until the wedding. After that, she’s yours, take her back to Clegane’s Keep.”

“Yes, thank you, my lord.” Gregor nodded solemnly. “My lord, you mentioned a land reward as well?”

“Indeed." Tywin said, waving his hand to signal the end of the meeting. As he descended the steps, he spoke to Gregor, “Your new fief will stretch from the current southern border of Clegane lands to the edge of the Swyft family’s domain at Cornfield, and east to the Serrett of Silverhill. North and west borders remain unchanged. You’ll receive twenty new households, send your steward with the census book to register them under Clegane.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gregor respectfully watched Lord Tywin stride out of the council chamber, elated.

So this new land was essentially the unclaimed buffer zone between House Swyft of Cornfield, House Serrett of Silverhill, and House Clegane. It might look like worthless rocky hills, tangled thorns, and shallow streams, but it was vast .

Now, the Serrett gold mines sit just outside Clegane’s new eastern border.

With such a long border, it would be easy to dig tunnels under and bend them slightly into the gold-rich veins, just like burrowing rats. The Serretts would never see it coming.

To others, this barren stretch of land had no value. But to Gregor?

It was pure gold .

He was absolutely thrilled.

As for Jeyne sobbing her eyes out in the privy?

Well, in this world, the Mountain’s claim on her was entirely legitimate. This wasn’t some act of brute force, it was all proper and legal.

And besides, love could always be cultivated .

Chapter Text

Night.

Two guards from Casterly Rock stood at the door of Lady Jeyne’s chambers.

Gregor approached, but the guards stepped forward and placed their hands on their sword hilts, blocking his path.

“Move." Gregor said, politely.

“Apologies, ser, but the lady has said she’s not receiving any visitors.”

“Move." Gregor repeated, this time through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing.

The guards hesitated. One of them said, “Ser, if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll go inside and, ”

Gregor’s hand shot out and grabbed the guard by the chest. With barely any effort, he lifted him clean off the ground, held him in the air, and growled, “I said move.” His hot breath blew across the guard’s face, and with a casual flick of his arm, he hurled him aside.

Thud!

The guard crashed to the ground several yards away. To Gregor, tossing him was no different than flinging aside a toy. Luckily, the man landed on his back and rear, right onto a patch of grass.

The other guard instinctively began to draw his sword, but Gregor only had to glare at him. That alone was enough, the blade froze halfway out of its sheath and wouldn’t budge another inch.

“Don’t draw your sword." Gregor said sincerely. “If you do, you might get it halfway out… and by then, I’ll have killed you twice over.”

The guard didn’t respond. He stood frozen, stiff as stone.

The guard who had been thrown scrambled to his feet, dazed and dizzy. While airborne, he’d screamed, convinced he was about to die with his skull smashed open. But by some stroke of luck, he had landed on soft grass.

Gregor wasn’t careless. He didn’t kill Jeyne’s guards without reason, and he went out of his way to avoid injuring them if he could help it.

After all, Jeyne was now his fiancée.

And a fiancé visiting his betrothed? Entirely reasonable.

He didn’t have the self-restraint to play the gentleman and politely wait outside her door. He wasn’t a courtly noble, he was a brute. And brutes didn’t need justification to act… though in this case, he had it.

The engagement ceremony that afternoon had been a resounding success.

Gregor and Jeyne had sat side by side, received blessings from the septon, made offerings to the Seven, pigs, cattle, sheep, fruits, and had their brows anointed with holy oil, a symbol of sanctity. They’d been congratulated by lords both high and low and showered with gifts and promissory notes for even more to come.

Lord Tywin had invited nobles from across the realm to Casterly Rock, announcing only that he intended to take Jeyne as his daughter, not that she would be betrothed to Ser Gregor the very next day. Many had come unprepared with betrothal gifts, so they either presented what they had or left behind promissory notes, with plans to send gifts later.

And just like that, Jeyne became Gregor’s lawful betrothed. In a month’s time, on an auspicious day, he would return to Clegane’s Keep with his beautiful bride in his arms.

But the moment the ceremony ended, Jeyne had claimed she wasn’t feeling well and retired to her chambers alone, refusing to see anyone, not even her father, Lord Gawen.

In this world, women had no say in their marriages. Everything bowed to the interests of the family. Love was a luxury most people could never afford. Even princes and princesses, even kings, often had to sacrifice love for political gain.

In the face of politics, all else gave way.

For Lord Gawen and House Westerling, the greatest benefit was staying in Lord Tywin’s favor. The greatest danger was falling from it.

So when Lord Tywin offered his daughter’s hand to Gregor, no matter how distasteful it seemed, Lord Gawen couldn’t refuse. And Jeyne had even less choice.

They couldn’t afford to offend the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Tywin taking Jeyne as his daughter was already the highest honor and political boon House Westerling had ever received. By accepting that honor, they had to accept everything that came with it, especially the marriage. Refusing would be tantamount to betrayal.

On the surface, everyone seemed to win.

House Westerling won. Lord Tywin won. Ser Gregor won.

There was only one true loser: Jeyne Westerling.

Gregor ducked through the doorway to Jeyne’s room, cradling an exquisite brocade box in his hands.

At the sight of him, Jeyne’s delicate figure trembled. She was afraid.

She was only fifteen, a young girl. Gregor was in his thirties, nearly as old as her father. A grown man. A monster, some whispered.

In this world, men and women married young. There were no marriage licenses, just a trip to the sept to be wed by a high priest and recorded in the ledger. There were no population laws, no restrictions.

Gregor spoke softly. “Jeyne.”

Even his gentleness made her flinch again.

“Can you do me a small favor?”

“W-what is it…?” Her voice was barely a whisper, frightened and pitiful.

She was a lamb before a snarling wolf.

“I just want to ask you… a small favor.”

“…Okay.” She nodded instinctively.

Even in fear, she was stunning. Fear couldn’t dull her beauty, it only made it more fragile, more striking.

A flower soaked in dew beneath the morning sun or bathed in moonlight and silence, beauty took many forms, but it never disappeared.

Gregor crouched and placed the brocade box gently on her knees. Jeyne’s lips had gone pale. She looked like a weeping pear blossom in the snow. The pressure of being alone in a room with a beast like Gregor was crushing, too much for even a strong man to bear.

“…Ser, if you want, I’ll give you all the gifts. The gold, the pearls, the jewels, everything. Just… please… can you break off the engagement?”

Gregor looked at her, watched the fear in her eyes, the helplessness in her expression, the way her breathing quickened. He said quietly, “Jeyne, I don’t need money. Ser Ado set up a public wager, mocking me for being poor. He thought he could humiliate me. I had one of Ser Kevan’s knights deliver a message, and with just a word from Ser Kevan to vouch for me, I accepted Ado’s entire bet. I won over three hundred gold dragons. Kevan earned fifty just for guaranteeing me. I don’t need money. What I do need is a wife.”

Silence.

After a moment, Jeyne whispered, “Ser Gregor… you placed that bet with Ado and asked Ser Kevan to vouch for you because you already knew the Lord would grant the marriage the next day. Ser Kevan is cautious by nature, but he still agreed, that means he knew too. This was all carefully planned. Maybe it began the moment the raven arrived at my home in Casterly Rock. You’ve always wanted to marry me, haven’t you?”

Her words only made Gregor more determined. A woman this beautiful and this clever? He couldn’t let her go, even if he was wrong to pursue her, he’d rather take the risk than regret forever.

“Lady Jeyne… maybe only the Seven know the truth. But right now, I care more about the cat in this box.”

He opened the lid.

Inside was a pure white cat, spotless, not a single stray hair, its breed immaculate and rare.

Jeyne’s eyes lit up. A spark of genuine joy shone through. It was instinctual, natural, uncontrolled by reason.

“A Lysian cat?” she gasped, delighted.

“Yes. But… it hasn’t eaten in days. Jeyne, can you help me? Can you take care of this poor thing, nurse it back to health?”

“You like cats?” she asked in disbelief. She picked the cat up, and her heart melted the moment she looked into its amber eyes. “Oh no, it’s burning up, we need to find medicine now!”

“I don’t know what to do." Gregor admitted.

“I do! My mother once raised a cat. I even studied veterinary medicine just for it." Jeyne said, completely forgetting her fear. The dying white cat had seized her heart. “Ser Gregor, we need to go to the maester’s tower immediately !”

“All right, Lady Jeyne. But Maester Harry doesn’t know how to treat it, I’ve already asked.”

“I know!” Her voice rose, filled with urgency.

Gregor scooped up both Jeyne and the cat in his arms. She was as light as a feather.

“Lady Jeyne, I’ll carry you. I can move faster that way.”

And with that, he strode from the room, each of his steps as long as three of a normal man’s.

Chapter Text

Lord Gawen hurried over with the family guards and saw Gregor carrying his daughter, Jeyne, out of her room. His heart boiled with anger, this demon was already bullying his daughter on the day of their engagement. What would happen after they were married?

Though Lord Gawen feared the Mountain, and his six family guards only showed anger on the surface but were truly uneasy inside, this was Lord Tywin’s main castle. They were protected as honored guests. If the Mountain dared to rough them up here, it would be not only rude but also a grave insult to Lord Tywin’s dignity.

So their courage was many times stronger than when they were outside, ten miles from Ironhold.

Gathering his courage, Lord Gawen strode forward, ready to reprimand harshly, but he saw Jeyne calm and quiet in Gregor’s arms. She wasn’t crying, nor did she show the kind of grief he had imagined.

Lord Gawen had rushed over in a panic after hearing the Mountain had come for his daughter, afraid that the beast had gone too far on their engagement day. Hastily leaving his drinking companions at the noble feast, he called for the family guards and rushed over with weapons drawn.

No matter how fierce the Mountain was, he couldn’t allow him to bully Jeyne today.

Though Lord Gawen’s fighting skills were average, he was a trained knight who had seen battle. Especially here, in the Lord’s castle, his boldness felt bolstered.

“Jeyne, are you alright?” Gawen glared at Gregor but spoke gently to his daughter.

“I’m fine. We’re going to the Maester’s Tower. Everything’s fine.” Jeyne glanced at her father, then lowered her gaze to the bundle in her arms.

Only then did Gawen notice the pure white shape nestled there, it looked like a cat. The creature was still, and Jeyne held it protectively. Gawen couldn’t be sure it really was a cat.

Before he could react, Gregor passed by like the wind and said, “Lord Gawen, we’re going to save a life first. We’ll come back later to toast with Jeyne.”

Gawen and his indignant guards were left stunned.

Gregor still called him Lord Gawen, not “father-in-law”, though his tone was softer than before.

The Mountain had always been rude, crude, and wild. Gawen didn’t mind the lack of formal respect. As long as Jeyne was safe, that was all that mattered.

Two of Jeyne’s guards approached. When Gawen asked if Gregor had mistreated Jeyne, Gregor was already far ahead, striding as if flying. In the blink of an eye, his tall figure disappeared into the Maester’s Tower.

Suddenly, five men burst out from another corridor, all strong and imposing. They carried not swords or spears, but long iron poles with forked ends and nets attached.

Gawen and his guards had never seen such weapons.

“My Lord, where is Ser Gregor?” one demanded.

Gawen pointed toward the Maester’s Tower.

“And Lady Jeyne?”

“With him.”

“Chase after them!” one of the men shouted, surprised.

The five men took off running, but saw Gawen and his guards remained still.

They were soldiers of Lord Tywin’s cavalry, sent by the Lord himself to prevent the Mountain from harming Jeyne.

“My Lord, come with us. The more people against that Mountain, the better our chances." One knight said.

“Ser Gregor and Lady Jeyne are fine. They… uh… they’re fine.” Gawen hesitated.

“Fine?” The five soldiers stopped dead and asked in unison.

“Well… we saw that Ser Gregor wasn’t hurting Jeyne. They’re going to the Maester’s Tower to save a life.”

“Save a life?” The five couldn’t help but echo, disbelieving.

“Then let’s all go to the Maester’s Tower and see." Gawen said.

“Good. Let’s go together!”

The soldiers had heard about Gregor showing up drunk to see Jeyne, and they’d all been alarmed. The Mountain couldn’t control himself for long, and yet here he was, in Lord Tywin’s castle, while the guests were still celebrating, trying to bully Jeyne. This was a stain on the Lord’s reputation!

They’d reported immediately to Lord Tywin and received his orders to apprehend the Mountain.

In Lord Tywin’s household, no one dared cause trouble, not even Jaime Lannister, Lord Tywin’s own son, without severe consequences.

The soldiers carried a special weapon called the “Mountain Pole.”

This iron pole with a forked end and net was designed by Grand Maester Pycelle under Lord Tywin’s strict orders, specifically to control the Mountain. It was named after the Mountain himself.

The Mountain often suffered headaches and drank poppy milk to relieve them, but too much would cause hallucinations and chaos. Excessive drinking also made him increasingly uncontrollable and prone to violent outbursts. Once, he nearly killed a noble guest from the Riverlands in the Lord’s dining hall.

To prevent him from hurting others while drunk or under the influence of poppy milk, Lord Tywin ordered Pycelle to create a weapon that could restrain the Mountain without causing him injury. Thus, the netted forked pole was invented.

Despite repeated training, it was only effective against the Mountain when he was unarmed and either drunk or hallucinating.

When sober, the Mountain could easily grab and snap these poles.

Still, the Mountain Pole was the most proven tool to control him.

Gawen’s group arrived at the tower and heard a loud crash from the top floor, followed by the sound of something breaking apart. Then came Jeyne’s surprised cry: “Ser Gregor, why did you kick down the pharmacy door?”

“Old Pycelle is too stingy. Even on a wedding day, he locked the pharmacy door. His apprentice dog isn’t even here guarding it. Damn it, when we’re done, I’m going to deal with them.”

“No, don’t blame anyone. Today’s our engagement day. Everyone’s celebrating with the wedding feast. You shouldn’t go looking for trouble with the maesters and their students.”

“But our cat…”

“Ser, they wouldn’t have known we’d come to the pharmacy now anyway.”

“Hmph!” Gregor’s voice was fierce. “Fine, this time I’ll listen to my fiancée and let them off, but if any other intruders come to bother us, they’re dead.”

“Please don’t do that, Ser Gregor." Jeyne said softly. “Put me down. Let me find the medicine quickly.”

Then, the top floor of the Maester’s Tower lit up.

Lord Gawen and the others exchanged looks and stopped in their tracks.

When the Mountain was angry, he really would listen, everyone in the west knew he only obeyed Lord Tywin.

But now… it seemed there was someone else?!

Chapter Text

To control someone, you give them what they want.

This art of persuasion wasn’t something only Lord Tywin mastered, Gregor understood it just as well.

To win Jeyne’s favor, he had to give her what she desires most.

Jeyne’s first wish? For Gregor to call off their engagement.

If Gregor did that, Jeyne would be overjoyed, but Gregor himself would be miserable. So that option was out.

Next best was to satisfy her second, third, and fourth desires. 

All Gregor had to do was figure out what those were!

Words can echo, but money speaks louder.

One gold dragon coin.

With just a single gold dragon, Gregor’s smooth-talking knight, Raff, managed to extract detailed information about Jeyne’s life.

No heights, weights, or measurements like on Earth, but plenty about her personality, interests, and talents.

For a practical, analytical mind like Gregor’s, after analyzing those little details, he knew Jeyne’s second greatest deSere after ending the engagement was a young nobleman, Ser Ado Serrett.

But what truly captured a girl’s heart, it was a cat.

When Jeyne’s mother, a merchant’s daughter, married into the Gawen family, she brought a cat with her as part of the dowry.

A year later, Jeyne was born, and that cat became her constant companion from her earliest babbling days.

The cat had accompanied Jeyne through childhood and adolescence, until the day it passed away when she was just fifteen.

That cat gave Jeyne a bond deeper than most family ties.

Even after its death, she couldn’t free herself from her love for that cat in another world. Her longing was deep and painful.

Though cats could be bought from across the Narrow Sea if you had the money, the Gawen family was poor. Her father, Lord Gawen, had to sell land again just to scrape by.

Buying a cat was a huge expense, and even then, you had to be lucky, the cats had to be smuggled over by merchants, and you had to outbid others.

Usually, nobles and merchants agreed on deposits well in advance before any cat was “procured.”

Who would reveal Jeyne’s preferences to Gregor’s knight, Raff, just for one gold dragon?
It was the very same fellow whom Gregor had effortlessly brushed aside when he tried to barge into Jeyne’s room.

For Raff, coaxing every detail from the guard around Jeyne was child’s play. His words were sweet as honey, irresistible.

For Gregor, it was all part of the game.

Before crossing over, he was a master of schemes and witty comebacks, a king of smooth talk in group chats.

Besides, money is the best debater in any world, always eloquent, always persuasive.

With one gold dragon, Sweetmouth easily drew out every detail about Jeyne’s life from her guard.

That cat came from a noble family in Crownlands, the Blount family.

The current head of the Blounts was famous: he was the sword instructor for Sandor Clegane, the Hound, and also Gregor’s first swordmaster.

All 1,500 soldiers of the Lannister family in Casterly Rock, cavalry and infantry alike, had trained under this knight, Ser Boros Blount.

The Blounts had recently purchased a cat, beloved by Lady Blount herself.

There’s a saying: everything is arranged for the best.

Gregor was a man of action.

He forcibly bought that very cat from Lady Blount as a wedding gift for Jeyne, arriving unannounced to demand it.

Then, Raff used underhanded tricks to get the cat drunk, and Gregor, smelling of wine, carried out the plan exactly as intended.

…..

When Gregor and Jeyne slowly descended from the Maester’s Tower, Lord Gawen’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

The beast still held the beauty, and the beauty still cradled the cat.

A strangely harmonious scene.

The family guards stayed silent.

The five soldiers sent by Lord Tywin had vanished, probably back to their drinks.

Since Gregor hadn’t forced Jeyne, they dared not provoke him.

If anything went wrong, though they shared Lannister blood, they were still Gregor’s men.

This savage beast could only be befriended, never antagonized.

No trouble meant it was time to withdraw.

“Jeyne!” Lord Gawen’s voice was heavy with mixed emotions.

His obedient daughter of fifteen was about to take the name Clegane.

Jeyne finally noticed Lord Gawen and the guards, surprise flickering in her voice.
“What’s going on? Why are you all here?”

Lord Gawen felt awkward. His daughter was so quick to lean toward a monster? But then he saw the cat, the pure white little creature with amber eyes.

“Ser Gregor, please put me down.” Jeyne spoke softly.

“Of course.”

She realized her gentle, coaxing tone was the only way to calm Gregor’s impatience.

Though his arms felt like steel, strong and unyielding, Jeyne no longer felt afraid of his strength.

She didn’t even realize it herself.

Blame that cat.

Jeyne called her Angela.

“You all...” Lord Gawen gestured toward the Maester’s Tower.

“Oh, Angela was sick. Ser Gregor and I went to the maester’s apothecary to get some medicine. She’s much better now. Want to feel her? Her temperature’s normal, and her eyes are bright again.”

Gregor let out a drunken burp in agreement and loudly praised Jeyne’s frantic medical skills.

He just hoped those strange, colorful potions she made him drink wouldn’t actually make Angela sick.

Playing to her interests worked perfectly.

Jeyne carried Angela into her room without a care in the world.

Gregor asked her to help look after Angela, and she gladly agreed.

She was happy to do Gregor that favor.

Such a rough knight, Jeyne didn’t fully trust him to care for Angela on his own.

Lord Gawen sighed deeply.

Even a fool could see this was just Gregor’s little trick to win his daughter’s heart.

Jeyne was smart, not easy to fool, but she was still a woman.
Right now, Jeyne was just a little bit more foolish than a fool.

Under Gregor’s brusque invitation, Lord Gawen and the family guards all went off to drink with him.

Jeyne returned alone to her room, closing the door behind her to make a cozy embroidered nest for Angela.

“Lady Jeyne!” a polite voice called, tinged with apology.

Jeyne startled and turned around to see a courteous knight standing at her bedroom door.

-------

Note: The cat is white and was name Angela.

Chapter Text

“Who are you?” Jeyne instinctively assumed a defensive posture.

The young knight carried an air of nobility, sharp, noble brows, maesterly eyes. It was clear he came from an illustrious noble family. Yet Jeyne didn’t recognize him.

“Lady Jeyne, please take a look at this.” The knight produced a pin bearing the Westerling family crest.

“You’re a friend of Ser Ado Serrett?”

“Yes.”

That pin was the token exchanged between Ado and Lord Gawen during the proposal. At that time, Lord Gawen had privately agreed to Ado’s proposal, but it was an informal promise, not publicly announced. He hadn’t consulted Jeyne yet, and since Lady Tywin was Jeyne’s adoptive mother, Lord Gawen hadn’t had a chance to inform him either.

“I’m sorry, Ser, but I am already engaged to Ser Gregor Clegane. Please convey my apologies to Ser Ado. I will have my father return the exchanged tokens.”

“Lady Jeyne, Ser Ado Serrett is waiting for you at the watchtower on the mountaintop.”

“Are there no guards at the watchtower?”

“You can rest assured, Miss. It’s a time of peace, and the watchtower hasn’t been manned for a long while. Tonight, all the Lannister soldiers are out drinking! They won’t return to camp unless drunk.”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot meet Ser Ado at the watchtower.”

Intimate relationships ran rampant among the Seven Kingdoms’ nobility.

King Robert Baratheon himself had once locked eyes with the bridesmaid Delina Floren at his younger brother Stannis Baratheon’s wedding. They ended up sharing the bridal bed, which belonged to Stannis and his new wife.

Delina was the cousin of Stannis’s new wife. Even though Robert’s wife Cersei was present, Robert still made Delina his consort and fathered a bastard son, Edric Storm, with her.

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, at sixteen, had an affair with the mistress of Lord Ormond Ironwood, who guarded Dorne’s most important border post. He challenged Oberyn to a duel. Oberyn, a prince and only sixteen, fought with venom-coated blades. Both were wounded, but his ’s wounds festered and he died days later. Since then, Oberyn was known as the “Red Viper.”

From kings and princes down to ordinary knights, many nobles fought duels to claim intimacy, some dying for it. This was the prevailing noble custom in this world.