A sudden chill ran through Petyr Baelish's mind.
Gregor Clegane's gaze was high and cold, as if he could see right through him. It was as if, under Gregor's eyes, Petyr was standing there completely naked. Absurd, unbelievable, but unmistakably real.
Gregor's look was proud, domineering, and sharp. Yet beneath all that, Petyr sensed something darker, an unsettling scrutiny. Gregor was examining him, probing, peeling away every layer of his carefully constructed facade, until he reached the very core of Petyr's secrets.
This feeling was irrational, inexplicable, something Petyr himself didn't want to believe, but it was genuine all the same.
If it had come from Tywin Lannister, Petyr wouldn't have hesitated for a moment.
But coming from Gregor Clegane? It felt absurd, contradictory, almost impossible.
Gregor's mind was blunt as a rock. He was just a good sword in Tywin's hand. A good sword wasn't dangerous, the one wielding it was.
Yet now, Petyr felt a flicker of… fear.
How could this be?
Anyone who could stir genuine fear deep inside Petyr's heart was someone he chose to respect and keep at a distance.
"Grab the Lord of Sheepshit." Gregor said abruptly.
The heavy sense of being stripped bare vanished the moment Gregor spoke.
A bald, black-bearded man with a disturbingly unnatural smile stepped forward, quickly drawing a dagger and lunging at Petyr.
Petyr's territory lay at the easternmost part of the valley, a peninsula shaped like five fingers. His lands were known as The Fingers. The rocky soil supported only a few fishing families and some moss that sheep could graze on. Sheep were the main livestock, earning Petyr the humiliating nickname: the Lord of Sheepshit.
Gregor's lands in the Westerlands were looked down on by true nobles, but Petyr's holdings were even poorer and more insignificant.
Gregor calling him the Lord of Sheepshit was a deliberate insult, like calling him "The Mountain" to his face. But Gregor didn't care. The real Gregor Clegane, before being twisted by the great scheme, actually liked the nickname "The Mountain." Petyr, however, hated being called Lord of Sheepshit more than anything.
His ruthless scheming, his relentless climbing, all largely motivated by the deSere never to be called that name again.
But now wasn't the time to argue with The Mountain's nicknames. Because a dagger was coming straight for him.
No amount of clever words or plots could stop a knife flashing at your throat.
And Polliver clearly wasn't sane, his smile was wicked, and his whole demeanor radiated cruelty.
"Ser Gregor…" Petyr smiled calmly, though the grin was forced.
"Are you going to come willingly, or shall I stab you first?" Polliver said cheerfully.
Petyr just met Polliver's eyes once, then stepped forward on his own. He knew the bastard wouldn't ask twice, he'd plunge that blade in without hesitation.
These were lawless desperados.
Crash!
Gregor kicked over a chair, then swept the table clean, sending cups, plates, bowls, and a wine jug crashing to the floor.
Before Petyr could react, several brutish soldiers surged forward like wolves on prey, grabbing him like an eagle snatching a chick, or a hungry wolf seizing a rabbit.
Petyr was helpless. As he gasped out a panicked "Wait, wait.",
BAM!
He was slammed onto the table, his right cheek pressed hard against the wood, his neck twisted painfully.
Huge weights seemed to crush his shoulders and his waist, pressing him down so hard it felt like his bones might snap.
He couldn't move at all. Speaking was impossible, and even breathing was a struggle.
Thud!
The Mountain's massive boot planted on the table just inches from Petyr's nose.
All he could see were the black leather boots, all he could smell was the dirt and leather.
"Blood." The Mountain said, his voice like distant thunder, making Petyr tremble with fear.
A sharp pain shot from his fingertips, someone was stabbing his hand with something sharp.
Fingers and heart connected, the pain was unbearable.
But with his neck trapped and face pressed into the table, and his whole body crushed under what felt like a mountain, Petyr could only manage muffled whimpers.
The Mountain was a monster who had raped princesses and smashed infants against walls.
Petyr suddenly regretted his overconfidence.
He had thought his sharp tongue would be enough to handle the trouble the Mountain brought.
He was mistaken.
"Enough. Let go of the Lord of Sheepshit." The Mountain said, his tone satisfied.
The crushing pressure lifted instantly.
Petyr stayed on the table for a moment, catching his breath. He felt as if he'd been crushed into the wood itself.
He straightened up and saw Gregor holding a slender glass vial filled with blood, his blood.
Petyr had no idea what Gregor planned to do with it.
He looked at his hand, all five fingers had been pricked by steel needles and were still bleeding.
His fingers didn't hurt anymore; the whole hand had gone numb.
"Lord of Sheepshit, my monthly gold ore shipments range from one hundred carts to a thousand." Gregor said, lightly shaking the vial containing Petyr's blood. "Each cart pays three gold dragons, with one-third filled with rocks."
"Consider it settled." Gregor declared, leaving no room for argument.
One cart paid four gold dragons, that was the treatment Tywin Lannister received.
"All right, Ser Gregor." Petyr said.
He knew his eloquence and wit were ten times sharper than Gregor's, but now was not the time to argue.
If he wanted to debate this madman, it had to be in the throne hall or somewhere guarded by the royal troops.
"Get out!" Gregor waved his hand.
The nervous, tall, bald man stepped forward again, the shining dagger making Petyr's heart flutter with fear.
One stab to the belly, and Petyr's carefully built dreams would be finished.
Maintaining his noble composure, Petyr decided to offer a farewell courtesy:
"Ser Gregor, "
Before he could finish, Gregor frowned.
"Polliver, the Lord of Sheepshit said two extra words. Give him two slaps."
Smack! Smack!
Polliver's blows were fast and heavy, making Petyr's head spin with the burning pain on both cheeks.
"Polliver, if he says one more word, cut out his tongue."
"Yes, my lord!"
Polliver's eager eyes searched Petyr's face, but quickly fell into disappointment as Petyr strode swiftly away, his footsteps pounding down the stairs.
Power is the reason.
Absolute power is absolute reason.
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