Lord Gawen exchanged polite greetings with Lord Leo, whose face looked quite grim. After going through the formalities of noble etiquette, Gawen cautiously asked the blood-stained Gregor, "Ser Gregor, may I have Lord Damon Marbrand's bonds removed?"
Lord Leo's eyes met Gawen's calmly, but inwardly he looked down on him. This was the territory of The Crag, after all. Gawen should have shown a bit more authority, he shouldn't act like a mere guest here.
"No," Gregor said firmly.
This whole mess was Damon Marbrand's doing. If Damon hadn't pushed for this, the other nobles would have quietly returned the lands long ago.
The night raid came with a major downside: it had alienated the northern nobles. On the battlefield, they could no longer be trusted to fight by his side or rear. If any coordination was needed, he'd have to watch them closely, there was no hope of their loyalty when it counted.
But there was an upside as well: these nobles would now never dare set foot on Westerling lands again. Westerling's southern border contained two famous abandoned gold mines, sites of the well-known tale "The Rains of Castamere": Castamere and Tarbeck Hall.
Those rich gold mines, if left unmined, uncoined, would be a betrayal not only to the northern Others and the Seven Gods of the South but also to Heaven and Earth themselves.
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In the distance, Chiswick spotted a huge city.
The Crag was a large city.
Its past glory was evident in its scale.
This erased any doubts Chiswick had about the nobility of the House Westerling. But seeing that Lord Gawen had come to greet Ser Gregor's force with fewer than a hundred men, Chiswick couldn't help but feel some contempt.
When Chiswick was captain of the Warblades in Lannisport, he commanded over three thousand men, knights among them, and some highly skilled swordsmen. Yet he himself was a commoner with no title.
To him, a lord who couldn't muster a thousand defenders was hardly worthy of the fiercely mighty Ser Gregor.
As the force approached, Chiswick noticed the massive city gates, which rivaled those of Lannisport. Above the gate hung the faded name of The Crag, paint peeling, the old lettering almost gone, leaving only a faint white trace.
Chiswick couldn't read, but he recognized it as the city's old name.
The walls, like those of Ashemark, were tall and thick, but many parts had collapsed badly. Long stretches of the wall were overgrown with wild grass, with small beasts and birds nesting atop. The chirping sparrows seemed unafraid of humans.
Chiswick sighed. If this were his estate, he'd never allow it to fall into such neglect.
He simply couldn't understand how a great house like the Westerlings could have fallen so far.
Once a family weakens, others come to bully them, that was plain as day to Chiswick.
When a person or family is strong, others greet them with smiles, kindness, and respect. But when weak, those smiles turn to scorn, and kindness turns to fists.
At the gate stood Lady Sybell, surrounded by a crowd of servants, to welcome the arriving force.
Lady Sybell looked somewhat aged but carried herself with dignity and elegance. She had an aristocratic aura. Surely, twenty years ago, she must have been a stunning beauty. From any angle, Chiswick thought she was a true noblewoman.
But because she was the daughter of a spice merchant, when the proud Lord Tywin took her daughter Jeyne Westerling as an adopted daughter and arranged her marriage to Gregor, Tywin had not even bothered to invite Lady Sybell.
This, no doubt, was tied to the great decline of the Westerling family.
The world was cruel and pragmatic: if you were weak, you lost respect. Chiswick himself had earned respect only through the edge of his blade.
Chiswick looked back for Ser Gregor and saw him walking at the rear of the procession, speaking with a heavily built man whose nose was broken in the middle.
That man drew Chiswick's attention more than anyone else in the welcoming party. He carried a long-handled heavy axe, requiring great strength. The axe's back edge sported a thick upward spike. To others, it might seem decorative and intimidating, but Chiswick knew it was designed to pierce armor.
No matter the armor, a heavy axe swung backward would drive that spike through the plates. A blow to the head would pierce the helmet and skull alike.
At first glance, Chiswick knew this broken-nosed fellow was no easy opponent. But he was even tougher himself.
What puzzled Chiswick was that despite having such a formidable warrior by his side, Lord Gawen hadn't managed to bring down even the neighboring Lord Bancro.
Chiswick scanned the many nobles, most of them from great houses with considerable forces. Yet added together, they still weren't a match for a single Gregor.
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Inside the great hall, Lord Leo, Lord Gawen, Lady Sybell, Lady Jeyne, and Ser Gregor were seated.
Surrounding them were Gregor's knights, commanders, and fierce soldiers, along with Westerling family guards. Ser Rolph Spicer, head of the guards, was also trainer of the Westerling's 150-strong defense force.
The nobles led by Damon Marbrand stood in the center of the hall, watched warily by the Clegane mercenaries.
"Polliver!" Gregor called.
The right side of Polliver's face twitched with excitement as he stepped forward. Tall and bald, he was surprisingly young, a promising man in his twenties.
"Look at Addam's hands. Which one do you like best? Chop it off and make it into a trophy!" Gregor said casually.
Polliver was both shocked and thrilled. He whipped out a dagger so fast it seemed to slice the air. His hand trembled in a strange rhythmic twitch, half convulsion, half deliberate, a nervous energy no one could imitate but that chilled the soul.
His eyes gleamed with a gambler's thrill, like someone who just hit the jackpot. Moving toward Addam Marbrand, his gaze locked on him like a wolf stalking a white rabbit.
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