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 "the Hound" Clegane 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.