Damon sneered coldly. "Gregor, stop playing your little tricks. The land's yours again, we admit defeat this time. But if you dare lay a finger on Addam Marbrand, I promise you'll regret ever coming into this world. You're nothing but a dog raised by Lord Tywin. If you want to bite, at least open your eyes and see who you're biting. Lord Tywin's mother is a Marbrand, and so am I. In fact, Addam and I are half your masters, you wretched mutt."
Gregor replied, "Lord Damon, since you agree to return the land, I have no reason to chop off Addam's hand. Polliver, come back."
Polliver stopped, turned, and stared fixedly at Gregor, his gaze like a dagger. The moment Gregor tilted his head, Polliver wilted like a frostbitten eggplant, all spirit drained. He gloomily returned to the ranks, his hand nervously twitching around the small knife, causing the nearby men to worry he might suddenly stab one of them.
Polliver's nerves made it impossible to predict his thoughts or actions by normal standards. If he didn't do something reckless or out of line, people would think it strange. If he suddenly stabbed a comrade, no one would be surprised, though he had never harmed his own before.
Damon laughed heartily. "Gregor, this is all you've got? Others fear your cruelty and savagery, but I don't. No matter how fierce a dog is, it's obedient before its master. Because the master can starve it or chop off its head anytime, skin it alive and cook it with a pinch of snow salt. I bet that tastes delicious."
Damon was sure Gregor wouldn't dare actually harm him. "Not daring" meant no real knife or gun wounds, though some minor injuries were inevitable, just intimidation.
If Gregor truly dared harm him, Damon would already be cut down at Casterly Rock. Damon knew that cutting him was cutting himself. Though cruel and brutal, Gregor wasn't stupid and understood this perfectly.
Among nobles, there was an unspoken rule: no noble must kill another noble. Killing each other's dogs was fair game and commonly done, but dogs and their masters were different matters. Killing a dog was minor; killing the master was a serious offense. And above all dog masters was the greatest master: Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock.
Gregor smiled. "Lord Damon is right. Considering your blood ties to Lord Tywin, you truly are half my master." He stood and drew a short knife, cutting the rope binding Damon's wrist.
"Lord Damon, I may be a dog, but if you are my half master, I want you to understand: in my eyes, you are nothing."
He looked at Polliver. "Polliver, which of the Lord's hands do you want to soak in wine?"
Polliver had not yet recovered from the confusion. Earlier, when Gregor ordered him to chop off a hand and then withdrew the command, it left a deep shadow on his 'pure' mind. Though feared for his unpredictability, Polliver was still young, a bit naive, and simple-minded.
He rolled his eyes at Gregor, too lazy to reply.
Gregor picked up Damon's left hand, already paling. "Polliver, how about the left hand?"
Polliver, sulking, said, "My lord, I prefer Lord Damon's right hand."
"Fine, the right hand it is." Gregor said calmly.
Lord Gawen forced a smile. "Ser Gregor, please come back and sit. You've done enough."
Lord Leo also spoke hurriedly, "Ser Gregor, no more jokes. The matter's settled. Lord Damon returns to the Westerling family lands. We're still brothers under Lord Tywin of the West."
"Exactly! We're all vassals under Lord Tywin of the West. We're family. Just a little misunderstanding, cleared up now. Bring out the good wine, we, Ser Gregor and all the knights…" Gawen laughed.
But a horrific, earth-shattering scream cut him off.
Gregor seized Damon's right hand and with a single slash, chopped it off. Damon's scream echoed through the hall, bursting out of the roof, drifting over Casterly Rock: "Ahhh!"
Every knight was stunned.
Lord Leo, Lord Gawen, Lady Sybell, Jeyne, Ser Rolph, and over twenty captured knights all went pale with shock.
Gregor carefully wiped the blood from his short knife on Damon's clothes, sheathed it slowly, then frowned. "Polliver, for your masterpiece, you've splattered fresh blood all over my pants and boots. These were just new."
Polliver was both shocked and thrilled, his face blossoming into a grin. "Ser Gregor, you really mean it!" He jumped excitedly. "Lord Gawen, bring me a large glass jar, filled with wine. Not red, not brown fruit wine, but pure clear wine, I'm making a masterpiece from the Lord's right hand. Even the wine matters."
He happily approached Damon, who was now kneeling, beside a grief-stricken Addam Marbrand.
Addam's hands were tied, helpless to aid his father, but his eyes burned with fury.
Polliver picked up the bloodied hand, eyes gleaming beastly green. "A fine hand. Even better if it had no calluses on the palm. The cut is clean, perfect. Ser Gregor's serving technique is one I've always admired."
He admired the bloody hand, then shifted his gaze to Addam's bound hands, his expression growing even more appreciative.
A chill ran through Addam's heart. Was this man human or demon? Was he about to draw his knife? Was he going to chop off my hand? A knight, a warrior, losing a hand, especially the right one, meant losing honor and pride forever.
As Polliver clicked his tongue admiring Addam's hands, Lord Leo and Lord Gawen rushed to Damon's side, shielding Addam to prevent this lunatic from drawing his knife.
The over twenty captured knights were terrified. If Gregor dared sever Damon's right hand, he wouldn't hesitate to chop off their heads. Some lower-ranked knights didn't even have their names fully known by Lord Tywin, their importance was negligible.
Lady Sybell was nearly fainting at the sight of blood spraying everywhere.
Jeyne quickly stood. "Go to the Maester's Tower."
Every noble household had a Maester's Tower with a treatment room. Those with means would hire a Maester, who served as doctor. There were no professional doctors or hospitals in this fantasy world. Maesters were the healers.
Before Damon could be taken to the crooked Maester's Tower, he had already fainted.
Gregor sat back down. The servants lowered their heads, cleaning the blood from the floor without daring to look up. Among more than two hundred people in the hall, only Polliver happily admired the severed hand; everyone else was silent.
Gregor said, "Knights, is there anyone unwilling to return the land? Speak now."
The hall fell silent. All twenty-plus knights trembled with fear.
This was Gregor!
They were mad to believe Damon's schemes and unite against Gregor. In truth, they hadn't even fought, and were already crushed. They'd been caught in their sleep! Damon was their support, his hand now severed, how could they fight?
Every knight felt a sudden chill run down their wrists.
That Polliver, Gregor's companion, looked insane. Gregor's other men were no better, either too big-headed or cruel-faced.
"Ser Ado, I will return all lands to the Westerling family, whether mortgaged or sold," one knight trembled.
"Gregor said flatly, "Ser Ado, you promised my father-in-law at my wedding in Casterly Rock that you'd return the land. But you lied."
Polliver immediately strode forward. The knights stepped back in fear, opening a wide space.
Polliver circled Ser Ado with a displeased look, clearly unhappy with his hands. Then he fixated on Ado's face, making the knight sweat cold.
"Ser Gregor, by the old and new gods and the honor of the Serrett family, I swear to return all lands. I swear on the gods and my family's honor never to oppose the Westerling or Krelgan families again." Ser Ado's voice trembled slightly as he tried to avoid Polliver's 'admiring' gaze, the madman seemed intent on peeling off his face as an art piece.
Ser Ado wanted to run, but his body was frozen in place, unable to move.
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