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.
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