Polliver panted heavily and said, "Raff, we can't go in."
Raff and Dunsen froze mid-step and turned back.
Polliver gripped his sword with his left hand, his body trembling. He had lost a lot of blood from both his back and wrist, and he was growing weaker by the second. His sword wavered in his hand. "We need Ser Gregor's command to enter."
"Fine. We won't go in," Raff said calmly.
Polliver let out a sigh of relief. His knees gave out, and the sword slipped from his hand.
"Rest. Don't move. I'll go fetch the maester," Raff said gently.
Polliver slumped down the wall, sliding into a sitting position.
Raff gave Dunsen a look. Dunsen understood and quietly stepped forward to open the door.
"No!" Polliver cried out.
He tried to push himself up, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs were numb and useless. He barely rose halfway before collapsing again.
With the silent grace of a cat, Raff darted upstairs to fetch Maester Harry.
Polliver felt hands lifting him and came back to his senses. "Raff, you can't go in... Not until Ser Gregor gives the order... Only when he's calm... only then..."
"Yeah, yeah," Raff replied, slinging Polliver over his back with monkey-like agility. He hauled the wounded man upstairs and tossed him into the maester's small chamber.
Ser Gregor couldn't afford a personal maester. His stone castle was small, his lands meager, and while he had gathered a loyal crew of reckless followers, he was far from wealthy.
Famous for its gold mines, the Westerlands?
Sorry, those were all on other lords' lands.
Rich fisheries?
Also someone else's.
Hunting and farming?
You guessed it, it belonged to other nobles too.
All that truly belonged to Gregor was a small grove and a few poor fields. His taxable population? Eleven households. The revenue they brought in wasn't even worth mentioning.
So how did Gregor make a living?
He didn't. He lived entirely off Tywin Lannister.
Not that he had a family to support anymore, he was the last of his household.
His brother Sandor Clegane had been sent to Tywin's household at the age of eight and never returned.
Gregor had been married twice. He'd squeezed plenty of money out of his in-laws, enough to squander with his band of thugs, but neither wife had fared well. The first died when Gregor, in a fit of migraine-fueled rage, punched her for bringing poppy milk too slowly. The second he killed while drunk, smashing her into a stone wall after she dared talk back when he accused her of letting him sleep on the floor all night.
After both wives died under mysterious circumstances, he never admitted to their murders, no one dared marry their daughter off to him again. Gregor gave up on marriage altogether. Instead, every time Tywin sent him to patrol the Trident's borders, he'd raid Tully villages, snatching any women that caught his eye. As long as he didn't kill anyone, Tywin might scold him, but little more. Gregor didn't care, he and his wild crew lived as they pleased.
As for Maester Harry, he had been sent by Tywin to care for Gregor, who was now plagued by increasingly frequent headaches. Gregor had taken a leave of absence from Casterly Rock to rest at home, and Tywin, concerned for his health, had dispatched the young maester to assist him.
But Gregor was no longer the man he used to be. He was now the soul of a third-year engineering student from Earth who had found himself reincarnated in Gregor's brutal body. Tired of relying on poppy milk to dull his headaches, he was determined to endure the pain and break the addiction through sheer willpower, if only to survive.
So, he had tied himself down to his stone bed.
Maester Harry was newly appointed, once an apprentice to Grand Maester Pycelle of House Lannister. Normally, apprentices had to return to Oldtown, the southern seat of the Citadel and headquarters of the maesters, to take their exams and earn their chains. The chain symbolized their official status and expertise.
However, Westeros was vast. To spread knowledge more efficiently, any archmaester with at least ten links on his chain could award promising apprentices with a temporary chain. These apprentices were expected to eventually travel to Oldtown, take the exams, and be registered officially.
Without a chain, you couldn't serve a noble house. You couldn't gain respect, status, or income.
And once you became a maester, you took a vow of celibacy. Your life belongs to knowledge. Of course, plenty of maesters who swore that vow on their knees in the Sept found themselves sneaking into brothels by night.
Polliver's back wound wasn't too bad, but his right wrist injury was serious. If left untreated, he might never wield a sword again. That was unthinkable for Polliver, Gregor's most fanatical follower, and unacceptable to Maester Harry. This was his first solo assignment. If he failed, his chain would mean nothing. He couldn't bear the thought of facing Grand Maester Pycelle with failure hanging over his head.
As Harry tended to Polliver's wounds with anxious focus upstairs, downstairs Dunsen and Raff were frozen in shock.
Two of the thick ropes binding Ser Gregor had snapped. The two-ton stone bed had shifted from one side of the room to the other. Blood streaked the ropes.
"Get out!" a voice suddenly rang out.
It was Ser Gregor, still motionless, but his voice was hoarse, drained... and tinged with something that had never been there before: sorrow.
Ser Gregor Clegane had never known sorrow. Only rage. He was a beast of a man, not a creature capable of grief.
Dunsen and Raff exchanged a look, confused but obedient. Without a word, they left the room and quietly shut the door behind them. Then they took up their posts again, one on each side of the door.
No one was to enter Ser Gregor's room. Not even Maester Harry, Tywin's handpicked healer.
Not long after, an inhuman wail tore through the silence.
The floor shook beneath their feet, louder than before.
Dunsen and Raff were terrified. What if Ser Gregor snapped the ropes and came for them? He was kind to his brother, yes, but in a frenzy, even they could fall victim.
Aahhh—!
Aahhh—!
Aahhh—!
That blood-curdling howl, like a beast caught between agony and death, echoed from Gregor's room for two full days and nights.
By the end, all that remained was a rasping, broken whisper, more hiss than howl.