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.

---

A/N: If you're enjoying the story, you can read up to 50+ chapters in advance of the current story, you can support me on Patreon. You can read up to chapter 116 there! patreon.com/vynthor

 

[Vynthor]

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.

 

[Vynthor]

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.

 

[Vynthor]

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."

 

[Vynthor]

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.

---

(Note: There are two types of silver stags with different values, and five denominations of copper stars. The actual exchange system is more complex, for example, one gold coin can be exchanged for over 10,000 copper bits. This has been simplified here for clarity.)

 

[Vynthor]

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: If you're enjoying the story, you can read up to 100+ chapters in advance of the current story, you can support me on Patreon. You can read up to chapter 116 there! patreon.com/vynthor