"I will repay you!" Gregor's voice was abrupt and commanding, cutting off Maester Harry before he could protest. His tone left no room for argument. He turned his attention back to Mark, who dutifully distributed three gold dragons to the last three families.
Among the eleven villagers, four women never dared to look at Gregor. His infamous reputation for mistreating women was well-known, and any girls of marriageable age had long been married off to distant lands. The remaining younger women were mothers. Upon hearing that Gregor had returned to Clegane's Keep, they had already smeared their faces with coal dust days ago in preparation to make themselves less attractive.
Gregor looked at the four young women and felt a twinge of shame for his past wrongs.
Instilling fear in his people to the point they saw him as a venomous serpent, Gregor reflected on how far his past cruelty had come. He had done much evil in the past.
"You will go back and cut down every single poppy in your fields and replace them with corn, wheat, and rice," Gregor commanded.
The villagers exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond.
It was his order that had caused them to grow poppies.
"What is he scheming now?" they all wondered.
Why were they so poor?
Their fields were planted with poppies, with Gregor being the sole buyer. But Gregor, their lord, paid them pitifully little for their harvest.
"This gold dragon is compensation for the poppy loss," Gregor explained, "This year, you will still be able to plant three seasons of corn, wheat, and rice."
The seasons of Westeros were different from any other world. There were no four seasons in a year. Instead, one season could last for many years. For example, this current summer has already lasted for nine years.
During these long summers, the hardworking people could harvest crops for four seasons, saving them up in preparation for what could be just as long and harsh a winter.
"Stop standing around," Gregor barked. "Go back and cut down the poppies. Replace them with rice, wheat, and corn."
Mark, with an air of sarcasm, echoed, "From today onward, there will be no more poppies on our lands."
"Yes, milord," the villagers responded, though their voices were devoid of conviction.
"I will compensate you for your losses. I don't have the money now, but I'll owe it to you. I'll repay you for ten years' worth of loss. One gold dragon per year for ten years. How much do you owe each family, Scribe?" Gregor asked.
"Each family owes ten gold dragons, milord," Mark responded, proving his good grasp of mathematics.
"Then how much do I owe in total?" Gregor was never good with numbers. He couldn't read or do math. His only sharp tool was his sword.
"My lord, you owe a total of one hundred and ten gold dragons… uh, this is a lot of money, my lord… we… we can't pay this…" Mark explained.
"Well, we won't be discussing money-making right now," Gregor said, dismissing the matter. "If any of you have grievances, or if any noble has wronged you, now is the time to speak up. I have never held an administrative meeting at Clegane's Keep before, but today is the first time. It will not be the last."
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. The women also lifted their heads to steal a glance at the demon.
Their unease deepened.
The demon was behaving unusually.
His face looked different too, as if he had suffered a terrible wound.
An administrative meeting was something every lord would hold. If their people had any complaints, disputes, or problems, they would come to the lord to have them solved. The lord was the highest authority to address all grievances.
"This is our first administrative meeting. Speak your minds, anything at all," Gregor said.
However, both the sparse villagers and his own subordinates felt uncomfortable with Gregor's words and actions.
As with anything, the beginning was the hardest.
For someone like Gregor, who rarely held administrative meetings, this was a strange and awkward experience for him.
But change had to be made.
The current Gregor was not the same as the old Gregor.
"...Milord, I… I'm very grateful for the gold coins you've given me," one man stammered. "I will go back immediately and cut down the poppies, replacing them with rice, wheat, and corn." His voice trembled as he spoke, nearly on the verge of kneeling.
"Do you have any problems that you want me to solve?" Gregor asked, tapping his head. "For instance, if you're worried about the cost of seeds for wheat or corn, I can have Mark buy the best seeds from the Lannis marketplace, guaranteeing no one will sell them to you at inflated prices."
"No, no, no… Thank you for your kindness, my lord… may the Seven bless you. May all the gods watch over your good heart… Under your leadership, it is the greatest honor for my family… Uh, as for the seeds, we will buy them ourselves. We wouldn't dare trouble you…" the man hurriedly declined, his voice sincere.
"May the Seven bless you as well. You will feel true honor serving me. Now, do you have any other requests?" Gregor pressed.
"No, milord."
"Oh! Then you may leave."
"Yes, milord!"
The man immediately relaxed, as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Gregor, however, felt a twinge of frustration.
It seemed that being a good person was much harder than being a bad one. Much harder.
The others watched as the "honored subject" quickly left the frightening yard.
Gregor sat in silence for a while before speaking again, "Since there are no complaints and no issues requiring justice, you can all leave now. Go back and cut the poppies, replacing them with rice, wheat, and corn."
"Yes, my lord!" they all replied in unison, eager to leave. The lord's behavior today was so strange that it made them deeply uneasy. They felt safer the farther they were from this place.
The four women hurried out of the yard, fearful but quick in their steps.
The remaining villagers followed swiftly.
Gregor gestured to Mark. The boy quickly stepped forward and stopped an elderly man. "Thomasson, stay."
As soon as the others exited the yard, they hurried away, secretly sweating for the unfortunate Thomasson. Who would dare oppose the Mountaint? No one could!
"Thomasson, do you have something you want to say to me?" Gregor asked. earlier, he had seen the elderly man open his mouth when Gregor asked about their grievances, but no words had come out.
"...No, milord..." Thomasson quickly knelt on one knee.
"Speak," Gregor frowned. "You are my people, and if you've been wronged, I will help you, no matter who the offender is."
"...Milord…" the old man suddenly broke down, tears streaming down his face. "…Milord… my little girl… at the end of last month… ten days ago… was taken by the Silverhill's mine guard…"