Gregor had an astonishing appetite.
It was several times that of a normal man.
An entire table, stacked with meat, bread, lettuce, pastries, and bacon soup, along with the famous wine of Greenshield, was devoured by him alone. Even the honey meant for spreading on bread was polished off, four full glass jars of it. Though the jars were small, it usually took the Lord over a week to finish just one.
The golden honey was edible straight from the jar.
Gregor didn't treat it like honey, but more like dessert.
This world was, in many ways, primitive, rough, and backward, but many things were also pure and wonderful. The skies, the land, and the water were all bright and unpolluted; there was no smog or filth to worry about. Plant-based and animal-based food alike were of fine quality. The honey, too, was pure and unadulterated, no additives, no dilution. And since it came from the Lord's own table, Gregor saw no reason to hold back. He indulged freely.
Lord Auren noticed something else: Gregor was drinking less.
He still drank, but not often, and not greedily.
He actually felt more at ease because of this. He was afraid that Ser Gregor would get drunk and cause trouble.
This mad dog, he couldn't be scolded or struck. The only choice was to smile, flatter, and see him off peacefully.
Before long, Gregor would become Tywin Lannister's son-in-law, making him closer to Casterly Rock than anyone not of Lannister blood. Tywin had recently been showing him special favor. In the eyes of Lord Auren, Gregor was essentially family to Tywin Lannister now.
Auren himself bore the Lannister name, though from a cadet branch. His port city, Lannisport, could be taken away by a single word from Tywin. He knew very clearly whom he could provoke, and whom he couldn't.
Thankfully, he managed to get through the meal without incident.
He quietly let out a breath of relief.
He glanced at the Mountain. There was no bloodlust in his eyes after eating, only a ruddy glow on his face, not from wine, but from sheer indulgence.
That gave the lord some comfort.
He liked this "civilized" version of the Mountain.
Lord Auren was a refined knight. He always maintained a respectful distance from Gregor's brutish nature. This version, no belching, no scowling, no foul language, was far more agreeable.
The blessing of the Seven was indeed miraculous.
Like many western lords, Lord Auren was a devout follower of the Seven.
"Ser Gregor." the lord said with enthusiasm, "would you care to take a walk in the garden? I've had some tall mulberry trees imported from across the Narrow Sea, which cost me quite a fortune! They're nothing like the low, scrubby ones we have here. Their branches are heavy with ripe fruit, purple as pearls. Would you like to have a look?"
Mulberry trees did exist in Westeros, but they were short and spindly, with leaves too small to raise silkworms. Silk itself didn't come from the continent, it was imported from the east, from the Free City of Pentos across the Narrow Sea. The famed "Silk Road" traveled by sea.
"Mulberry trees?" Gregor's eyes flickered with interest, then dulled again.
Sure, back in his previous life, his hometown had been packed with mulberry groves.
Everyone raised silkworms. It was second nature.
On the continent of Essos, there were multiple silk-producing nations. Silk was a treasured commodity and always in high demand in Westeros. The entire silk trade over there had long been an integrated industry: mulberry cultivation, silkworm rearing, spinning, weaving, tailoring, it was all fully developed.
To Lord Auren, these "precious eastern mulberry trees" were treasures. But to Gregor, they were utterly mundane. He'd spent his childhood playing in those very trees.
Mulberry trees?
Start cultivating silkworms here? Build a textile industry? Forging a new Silk Road?
Forget it. Just because he had a technical background didn't mean he was some all-powerful genius. Planting mulberry trees? Sure. Raising silkworms? Maybe. But weaving silk? That was something Gregor had no clue about.
Still, he had read some history. He knew that in the real world, there had once been someone who successfully copied and surpassed another nation's entire textile industry, just by using a very clever trick. That trick, he could easily replicate if he ever chose to.
In the warm and fertile lands of the Westerlands, it would take just one year to become a minor silk-producing region, two years to become a major one. The demand for silk would explAuren across the continent.
But for now, Gregor had no interest in spinning that thread.
One thing at a time. One step at a time.
Launching a textile industry now? He couldn't be bothered.
Lord Auren continued enthusiastically, inviting Gregor to taste the mulberries and admire the exotic trees, but Gregor only gave him a blank look and closed his eyes. He was too full. He let out a burp and leaned back to digest.
Gregor's crude manners and absolute arrogance left Lord Auren awkwardly standing.
So he hadn't changed after all. Still the same brute. He wouldn't even give a polite decline, just a glance and silence. That was plain rude.
Technically, a Lord outranked a knight.
But in front of Gregor, titles meant nothing. The social order felt reversed.
Lord Auren decided to try another approach, one that might genuinely interest Gregor. The Mountain was rarely this "civil." and it was a rare chance to win his favor, and by extension, curry favor with Lord Tywin.
Auren was working hard to implement Tywin's policy of "wood over iron." If Gregor could casually mention him in a good light, it would do wonders.
"Ser Gregor, I recently bought two fine swords from King's Landing, from Master Tobho Mott's forge. Would you like to have a look? If one catches your eye, it's yours. Even if you don't use it yourself, you could give it to a deserving subordinate. Tobho Mott's blades are true masterpieces, I waited over half a year to get just two! They cost a fortune."
He knew Gregor had a passion for swords, especially Tobho Mott's weapons.
This was a sure way to please him.
Tobho Mott?
Gregor didn't even open his eyes. He gave a grunt through his nose.
Tobho Mott was already in Clegane's territory now. The Mountain didn't lack true master-forged weapons. He had the real deal, not the shop goods.
From now on, Lord Auren would be the one chasing after him, begging for swords, helmets, and armor from Clegane lands.
And that stubborn apprentice, Gendry, was proving to be a fine fellow. As long as he had a forge, some iron, and a hammer, he'd work like a beast, seemingly forgetting he'd been kidnapped by the Mountain.
Give him metal, and he was content. Gregor had even promised him a gold dragon a month, a sum his old master would never have offered, not even in dreams.
For the past ten days, Gendry had been working hard in the forge, hammering out weapons and armor. Gregor was even thinking of finding him an apprentice.
A smith of royal blood, what a treasure.
As for Tobho Mott himself, he had adapted quickly to the role Gregor assigned him. He was now master of all blacksmithing and machinery operations in Clegane territory. A week ago, Gregor promised him a knighthood, if he brought over his wife and children and swore fealty before the sept.
Tobho Mott hadn't even pretended to hesitate. He agreed on the spot.
Soon, the whole Mott family would be warm and cozy in Clegane's Keep.
The "kidnapping from King's Landing"? As if it ever happened.
A knighthood, more precious than life. For truly talented men, Gregor was willing to grant them in bulk. Gendry, in particular, wasn't just going to knight him; he was even considering giving him a surname: Clegane.
With a full belly and a broad chest, Gregor closed his eyes and began to snore.
Faced with this crude mountain of a man, Lord Auren gave an awkward laugh and quietly excused himself.
An hour later, heavy footsteps rushed toward the sleeping Mountain from the garden.
Maybe it was guilt, or just instinct, but even in his sleep, Gregor's senses were sharp, like a wild animal's.
He opened his eyes to find several bruised soldiers and a few of his own thuggish men with sharp eyes and mean faces.
Leading them was the most brutal of his men, Dunsen Clegane.
The boy was starting to show shades of Polliver lately, not a good sign.
"My lord, many thanks to the soldiers for their… cooperation. Everything's been handled." Dunsen said respectfully, like a straight-laced schoolboy reporting to his teacher.
"All done?" Gregor asked.
"Yes, my lord. All done."
"Good. Let's go back."
"My lord, aren't you going to say farewell to Lord Auren?"
"No need."
⚔────────
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