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.
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