The reception hall, the Maester's Tower, and the main keep's living quarters were all connected by enclosed stone corridors.
In the corridor linking the Maester's Tower and the hall, Lord Leo stood facing The Mountain, forced to look up at the towering figure before him.
No doubt about it, in Leo's eyes, The Mountain was a humanoid monster.
This time, Lord Leo felt utterly ruined.
"Lord Damon's bleeding can't be stopped!" Leo said, and even as he spoke, a chill seemed to crawl through his body. Yet, in truth, the Western lands were warm, now in the ninth year of the Long Summer.
"Are you afraid he'll die?" The Mountain asked.
"Are you not afraid he'll die?" Leo challenged, disbelief in his voice.
But from The Mountain's expression and tone, Leo could see no hint of worry.
"If he dies, it won't be because of me," The Mountain said easily.
"You chopped off his right hand, over two hundred people in the hall saw it. I saw it myself," Lord Leo said, voice heavy with accusation. What was The Mountain thinking, assuming he could deny it?
Killing Lord Damon was far more serious than killing other nobles. Damon was 'one of our own' in the West. More importantly, he was the cousin of Lord Tywin.
"Life and death are in the hands of the Seven Gods. If I killed the lord, it would only be because a Stranger used my hand to make it so. So what does Damon's death have to do with me? It's the Stranger's will."
Leo's anger caught in his throat, and though he opened his mouth, no words came out. He had no argument against that.
The Mountain laughed heartily.
Watching Leo's face go pale and then flush red, noticing the lord's uncontrollable trembling lips, he said, "My lord, go to the Maester's Tower and watch over Damon. If he really bleeds out and dies, please tell him for me, 'Farewell, and no seeing you off.'"
A heavy weight suddenly settled in Leo's throat, as if an old breath was trapped inside. His chest crushed by a massive stone, his neck flushed red, he struggled to breathe.
"Don't get worked up, My lord," The Mountain said, pointing to the ceiling of the corridor. "Everything is the will of the gods, everything is part of their plan. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going to the hall to make those cowardly knights swear their oaths."
Make the nobles swear oaths to The Mountain? What oaths? What was he planning?
If Lord Damon died, The Mountain would have broken the noble code. Damon was a major Western noble; his death would send shockwaves.
"If Lord Damon dies, you'll bring the wrath of many upon yourself."
"Oh, sixteen years ago we stormed the palace and killed the prince and princess. That angered the entire kingdom, people everywhere were furious! Compared to the prince and princess, what's Damon?"
"He's one of our own."
"No, I'm a dog, he's a man, dogs and men are never truly 'one of our own.'"
Leo's breath caught again.
He looked at The Mountain's openly mocking eyes, his mind spinning.
Was this really the same as The Mountain?
Of course not!
He was now The Mountain blessed by the Seven Gods with the Light of Wisdom, quick-witted and sharp-tongued. His words left Leo suffocated... Leo himself was hot-tempered, skilled in combat, strong, and known to like choking people, yet he dared not lay a hand on The Mountain. He simply couldn't win.
The Mountain shrugged with a careless smile and left Leo in the corridor. He returned to the hall and began ordering each captured noble to swear an oath: in the name of the Seven Gods and with their family honor, never to be enemies of the Westerling or the Clegane families, ever.
Some nobles truly did not wish to be enemies of The Mountain. Others, however, did. For those who secretly wished him harm, forcing them to swear false oaths only deepened their inner pain, it was like rubbing salt in a wound, and it was the right thing to do, to be done often.
Leo didn't know how he had ended up outside the Maester's Tower again. He didn't dare look inside, too afraid and worried...
Suddenly, footsteps rushed down the spiral stairs of the Maester's Tower, Lord Gawen, his face full of joy, sweat beading on his forehead and nose.
"Lord Leo, the bleeding stopped. Lord Damon is going to be alright. The Maester just gave him some poppy milk; he's already asleep."
Leo felt a sudden lightness, as if he could float into the air. He let out a relieved hum...
The man wasn't dead. That was what mattered.
Let the arrogant The Mountain bear the future wrath of the Marbrand family!
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Three days later.
On the great training ground.
The Mountain stood before the Westerling family's forces: 150 city guards and 30 family bodyguards. This was all the fighting force the Westerlings could muster.
He said, "Noble soldiers of The Crag, do you know what you are in my eyes? Anyone want to guess?"
No one answered.
Each soldier carried the weight of immense pressure.
Their drill instructor, Ser Rolph Spicer, was personally skilled and brave, but a rookie at training troops. Reynald Westerling was talented and hardworking, good with sword, horse, and bow, but Westerling's men lacked the systemized, ruthless training to endure hard battles.
"Does no one want to know what you are?" The Mountain asked again.
Still, no reply.
The soldiers feared him, but didn't respect or love him.
Only the Clegane berserkers and Chiswick's bandits both feared and loved The Mountain.
Like attracts like.
The Mountain said, "In my eyes, you are all dead men."
Only heavy breaths filled the air.
"If you don't train as if your life depends on it, you will die in battle. Anyone here want to die in battle? Raise your hand!"
No one raised a hand.
"Good. Not wanting to die means you're normal. But battles will cost lives. I have one way, the only way, to greatly reduce your chance of dying in battle: train like hell. Those unwilling, step forward."
No one stepped forward.
"If you don't want to die on the training ground, step aside and become clerks. Horse keepers, farmers, blacksmiths, wagon repairers, armory staff, logistics, tent setup, these require professionals. Last chance, anyone want to step out?"
No one moved.
The Mountain nodded. "Fine. This is your choice. You choose death. You'll die on the training ground, not the battlefield. That might be the right choice. Now, let's see your physical strength, fully armed. Armor, helmet, shield, bow, sword, dagger, spear, equip everything. From where you stand, run ten laps around The Crag. The last twenty to return lose their names and are called Dead Rats No. 1 through No. 20. Dead Rats get their pay docked, and after training each day they feed horses, polish weapons, maintain armor, sweep, and after dinner spend an hour repairing the walls. Reynald, "
"Yes, Ser Gregor!"
"Swap the round shields for rectangular ones and add two spears to each soldier."
"Yes, sir!"
After a flurry of noisy preparation, The Mountain stared at the fragile troops and said, "Go die, you trash."
And so, under Reynald and Sir Rolph's command, 180 Westerling professional soldiers ran out onto the training ground.
The Mountain slowly walked to the other side.
There stood neat ranks of troops, Clegane cavalry and Chiswick's seventeen fiercest bandit leaders.
A total of 105 men, fully armed with helmets, armor, swords, daggers, steel-spiked boots, thick shields, and two spears each.
The Mountain lit a small candle.
" Raff, when the candle goes out, your unit will set off, catch those trash, and shame them thoroughly."
"Yes, sir!"
In the main keep corridor, watching the scene on the training ground, were Lord Gawen, Lady Sybell, Jeyne, The Maester, and eleven-year-old Irene Westerling, cradling Jeyne's pet Lis cat. Lady Sybell also held the hand of an eight-year-old boy, Gregor's youngest brother, Loram Westerling.
Gregor looked at his father-in-law's family.
Jeyne called up, "Ser Gregor, done with business? Come up. Mother and I have finished compiling all the household registries in the lands. Let's see how many soldiers we can muster."
Conscription?
Yes!
Gregor's domain had limited subjects. With Lord Tywin's two land grants, it only amounted to about 130 households. After reclaiming all Westerling lands, the domain now had over 1,300 households.
If each household supplied one soldier, that would mean a 1,300-strong army.
Gregor's goal was to build a professional infantry force of a thousand men in his father-in-law's lands.
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