Chapter 1: The Most Feared Man in the Seven Kingdoms

[Vynthor]

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.

 

[Vynthor]

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.

 

[Vynthor]

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.

 

[Vynthor]

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.

 

[Vynthor]

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.

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