"My lord." Maester Harry said cautiously.
The steady clatter of hooves echoed as the group rode at a moderate pace. There were no signs of pursuit behind them.
Maester Harry slowed his horse to ride beside Ser Gregor, who was guarding the rear.
Gregor glanced sideways at him.
"If the Serrett family brings charges against you, my lord… have you thought of a countermeasure?"
Gregor asked, "Do you have a good one?"
"...I... if I may speak frankly…"
Gregor's scrutinizing gaze bore into the maester until Harry nervously turned his eyes forward.
Deceiving someone as intelligent as Tywin was no easy task.
In this world, still in the early stages of agrarian civilization, yet laced with supernatural forces, Gregor never felt truly secure.
Just think: in the North, there were wights, undead creatures akin to zombies, and the terrifying White Walkers, beings that seemed to embody ice itself. In the Ghost Forest, the Children of the Forest lived in hiding, alongside greenseers who could become three-eyed ravens and skinchangers capable of inhabiting the bodies of animals. The real giants in the Thenns stood four meters tall; beside them, Gregor himself would be dwarfed.
Soon, in Essos, across the narrow sea, dragons would return, three of them, spewing fire. The Red Priestess Melisandre, who could glimpse fragments of the future, would arrive at Dragonstone. In Braavos, the Faceless Men could change their faces and bodies at will, and in Lys, new and ever more deadly poisons were brewed and sold across the world.
Strange gods and unfamiliar beliefs filled the world, though most of the time, these gods never answered their followers' prayers.
In the end, people had no choice but to rely on themselves.
But what exactly did Gregor have to rely on?
If not for Tywin Lannister's protection, the Serrett family would have already raised an army against tiny Clegane's Keep. Gregor might be invincible in close combat, but what could he do against thousands of arrows? His armor and shield could protect him, but what about his horse? His followers and servants?
One year from now, the Seven Kingdoms would fall into civil war. Two years later, White Walkers and their undead would begin appearing en masse in the Ghost Forest. Four, maybe five years later, summer would end, snow would fall, and winter would come. Every humanoid lifeform, humans, animals, across Westeros would face a moment of survival or extinction.
Gregor wasn't even sure he'd live long enough to see the White Walkers invade.
If he changed nothing, he would die in Aegon's year 300, two years from now, at King Joffrey's wedding, his life as a man coming to an end.
Fleeing Westeros might seem like an option. In Essos, he could become a sellsword. But that meant living among a rabble of foreign mercenaries who spent whatever they earned and drank themselves senseless, killing for nobles they'd never even met. No purpose. No future. No home. No faith. Just killing, arson, drinking, and sleeping.
For a single gold coin, he'd have to take on work he despised.
But it wasn't time to flee just yet.
If he wasn't going to run, then he needed an army, a force truly loyal to him. Just like the Serretts, who, at a single order, could field three thousand warriors ready to fight for their lord.
Gregor had never felt this urgent need for an army of his own.
He needed at least a thousand men.
Noble armies were usually made up of commoners from their lands; farmers, hunters, fishermen, craftsmen, dockworkers, miners, servants. When the lord issued a call to arms, they would set aside their tools, grab their weapons and armor, and march to war.
Most of them didn't even own decent armor, and their weapons were poorly made.
Such levies were weak in battle, rarely trained, and couldn't match professional sellswords.
That's why great lords preferred hiring mercenaries. Unlike peasants, mercenaries trained year-round in swordplay, archery, and mounted combat. They were paid to bleed, to protect with violence, and their strength was honed through real combat. Compared to that, a hastily assembled force of farmers and fishermen simply didn't measure up.
Yet mercenaries lacked something crucial, loyalty.
They fought for coins and had no real attachment to their employers. They were powerful, but not willing to die for you.
Household soldiers, on the other hand, possessed what sellswords didn't, loyalty, sacrifice, unity, and honor.
Gregor's own lands were too small. Even if he issued a call to arms, he might gather only a few miners to fight.
To form a true household force, he needed two things: money and freedom from Tywin Lannister's service.
Ten gold dragons a month might seem like a fortune to a commoner, but to the nobles of the wealthy Westerlands, it was barely anything.
What Gregor earned in a month wasn't enough to cover even three days of Tyrion Lannister's spending in a brothel. The Imp could blow ten gold dragons in a day if he was in a good mood, and he might tip a prostitute with more than that.
Gregor needed a new way to make serious money.
How could one earn gold in the Westerlands?
Set up a small mercenary company to guard mines? Try his luck in the markets at Lannisport? Rob a gold mine in disguise? Hike taxes? Use knowledge from his previous life to invent something new?
His thoughts were in chaos.
...
Gregor silently looked up at the brilliant blue sky.
It was clear, the air was fresh, none of the gray smog from the world he came from. But there were also no smartphones, no internet, no machines. Every civilization had its own problems and dangers.
"Maester Harry, I need to write a letter to Lord Tywin."
"Yes, my lord. What should I write?"
"Tell him my headaches are worsening, and I'll need to rest at home for some time."
"Yes, my lord."
"And mention that Alva Serrett abducted my daughter Julie and assaulted her in the Silverhill mining district."
"Yes, my lord. And Alva's... sudden death, shall we mention that as well?"
"Yes."
"...How shall we describe it?"
"We went to retrieve my daughter from Alva. I captured him and gave him a slight toss, and he suffered a sudden heart attack and died."
"Heart attack?"
"Yes, heart attack. Haven't you learned about those from Grand Maester Pycelle?"
"...I... uh... I haven't yet dissected... a corpse." Harry stammered, his face turning red.
Gregor wasn't even sure if this world had the concept of heart disease.
"Just write it like this: Alva died suddenly of a heart condition. It was entirely accidental. After the incident, we returned his body to Silverhill. The Serretts responded with violence. We had no choice but to take Ado Serrett hostage and return to Clegane's Keep, demanding an apology and compensation for the abduction and rape of my daughter Julie."
"...Gregor… my lord… do you think Lord Tywin will believe this?"
"I don't know. But write it anyway."
"Yes, my lord."
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