Faced with Ser Gregor's overwhelming presence, Maester Harry involuntarily stepped back, then quietly retreated another pace.
"My lord, rest assured, Polliver's hand can still wield a sword."
"Polliver, who injured you?" Gregor's gaze shifted from Raff the Sweetling to Dunsen, narrowing with menace.
A faint, purplish-red scar circled Dunsen's neck like a necklace, evidence of a sword wound recently treated by Maester Harry.
Dunsen instinctively backed away. The usually cold-blooded killer now looked panicked and unsure, all of his usual bravado gone. He seemed more like a cowering coward than a hardened soldier.
"My lord... Polliver tried to take my life first. I had no choice but to strike back."
But Gregor was no longer the man he once was. With his mind sharpened and restored, he saw through his men like glass. He understood them too well.
Polliver was fiercely loyal, he would only try to kill Dunsen for one reason: insubordination. And Dunsen, fool that he was, would never dare defy orders unless someone had whispered in his ear, encouraged him. That someone could only be Raff the Sweetling.
A fence needs three posts. A villain needs three henchmen, Gregor thought. Since he was a villain among villains, he needed fiercely loyal cutthroats around him. Then again, villainy depends on the target, doing evil to the wicked makes you a hero, doing evil to a hero makes you a traitor, and doing evil to the innocent makes you a true villain.
Being a villain, in fact, had its perks, especially being a notorious one. Gregor knew that all too well. In his previous life, his girlfriend had dumped him for not being bold enough to start a fight at the movies. Just a day later, she'd hooked up with some street thug who practiced kickboxing. That breakup had left a deep scar on the heart of the former engineering geek.
Now, with Gregor's memories fused with his own, that same man sat devouring roasted meat, sipping bacon broth, tearing at bread, and gulping red wine while glaring down at the four terrified men before him. The fear in their eyes filled him with a satisfaction he had never known in his past life. If he had to describe the feeling, it was like eating an ice pop on a sweltering summer day, or warming your hands by a crackling fire in the dead of winter.
His men were loyal, yes, but not united. That needed to change.
A lone cutthroat, no matter how fierce, inspired little fear. But a band of united killers, that was a force to be reckoned with.
Goats aren't stronger in numbers, but Gregor's men weren't goats. They were hounds. Hounds that would dare take on lions. And if you can bind these dogs together, forge them into one pack, then that pack could rip a lion to shreds.
"Raff," Gregor said coolly, already having pieced most of it together, "You've always had a silver tongue. Tell me what happened."
Raff hesitated. It must've been him who suggested going inside. Dunsen, hotheaded, acted on impulse. And Polliver, the loyal dog, refused.
Among these three, the solution to conflict was always simple: a duel.
Back when Gregor was at full strength, a single glance from him could stop a fight. But this time, tied to a stone bed, hallucinating from poppy withdrawal, he hadn't been able to interfere.
Thanks to the warmth of the bacon broth and the comfort of food in his belly, Gregor's sickly pallor began to fade. He looked like a man back from death's edge, haggard, yes, but clear-eyed, and free.
He had conquered the poppy's grip. If you can endure the first withdrawal, the second and third grow easier.
Raff stammered, "My lord... I heard... something strange in your voice…"
"So you told Dunsen to come check on me," Gregor said, chewing a piece of honey-glazed rabbit. The golden juices dripped from his mouth, down his chest, soaking into the thick mat of hair there. Hunger had cured his lifelong obsession with cleanliness.
"Yes, my lord," Raff confessed, not daring to lie.
Normally, Gregor would have ignored scuffles like this between his men.
"Maester Harry, may I ask you to head upstairs? I need a few words with my three officers."
"As you wish, my lord." Harry bowed deeply, relieved, and hurried off. Once on the stairs, he exhaled a long, heavy breath.
…
"Raff, draw your sword," Gregor said around a mouthful of meat and bread.
The food was delicious. The soup warmed him to his bones. He felt too good, almost tempted to forget his anger.
Raff hesitated, confused, and slowly drew his blade.
"Dunsen, draw yours too."
No meal in either of Gregor's lives had ever tasted so good. Two days without food had left him ravenous and drained.
Dunsen unsheathed his sword.
"Kill Raff the Sweetling."
Dunsen glanced at Gregor and saw he meant it. With a swift motion, he lunged at Raff's throat.
Startled, Raff parried with a clang of steel, sparks flying. They broke apart and began to circle each other like hungry wolves.
Raff struck first, slashing at Dunsen's face. Dunsen spun aside with a nimble sidestep, it was a feint. Raff turned and ran for the door.
"Polliver, block him," Gregor ordered, then downed a goblet of Arbor red and let out a satisfied belch.
He knew it wasn't wise to overeat after starving, but the food was too good. The wine, too tempting.
Polliver had already stationed himself at the door. A die-hard Gregor fanatic, he'd caught the look in Gregor's eye the moment the first sword was drawn and moved into position.
Gregor admired Polliver's silent understanding. A glance, a nod, a twitch of the lips, and Polliver knew what to do. That uncanny intuition worked only for Gregor. In most other areas, Polliver was the slowest of the three.
Schring!
Polliver drew his sword and blocked the doorway.
Raff froze mid-stride. There was no way past Polliver, and with Dunsen right behind him, even a moment's hesitation meant death.
Gregor had given the order. Dunsen wouldn't hold back, he'd fight harder than ever.
Clang!
Raff dropped his sword and spun around, then fell to his knees before Gregor.
Whoosh!
Dunsen's blade stopped at his throat.
"Raff," Gregor said, "if Dunsen and Polliver were your enemies right now, would you already be dead?"
"Yes, milord!"
"How many swords can you face alone?"
"If it's someone like Dunsen, not even one."
"And Polliver?"
"One. At best."
"What if two Pollivers came at you together?"
"I couldn't win, milord."
Gregor slowly rose from the bed, still a bit unsteady. He paused, then stood tall.
"No matter how strong a man is, no matter how skilled his swordplay, he can't fend off multiple foes alone. Why do you think a powerful lynx always gives way when a pack of wild dogs comes sniffing around?"
"Because the lynx is alone, and the dogs are many, milord."
"Numbers help, but that's not the real reason. The lynx fears them because they're united. A disorganized pack is no threat, even a hundred wouldn't scare the lynx. From this day on, Raff, you, Executioner Dunsen, and Loyal Polliver must unite like wild dogs. You must act as one. Three blades are far deadlier than one. Do you understand? When two blades come for you, won't you want Dunsen's sword or Polliver's, at your back?"
"Yes, milord. I will."
Gregor had aimed this lesson squarely at the sharpest mind—Raff the Sweetling.
"Dunsen, do you understand my words?"
"Yes, milord."
"You fought while I was fighting poppy addiction. Dunsen nearly had his throat cut. Polliver almost lost his sword hand. And it all began with Raff's mouth. All three of you made grave mistakes."
Gregor's face darkened. His voice thundered with rage.
Raff turned ghostly pale and lowered his head in silence. Dunsen flinched, quickly sheathing his sword and dropping to one knee. Polliver didn't wait for Gregor's gaze, he sheathed his weapon and knelt instantly with a thud.
"I want your blades, from now on, to aim only at enemies, never at one another. Drive your swords into your foes' hearts. Pour fine wine into your brothers' bellies. You are my best men. My fiercest warriors. Now swear to me, on your family honor and in the name of the Seven, that no matter what conflict arises, your swords will always strike outward. Never inward."
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