The Mountain, torch in hand, stepped into the tunnel.
The passage grew increasingly narrow, forcing him to stop as he advanced.
Torches lined both sides of the tunnel, with every bend illuminated by twin flames.
After turning another corner, the space opened up. The tunnel widened into a corridor, revealing a row of a dozen cells. One cell stood open, voices drifting from within.
The sound of his heavy footsteps drew the attention of those inside. Reynald Westerling appeared at the cell door.
"Ser Gregor," Reynald greeted.
"Bring them out. Take them to the interrogation chamber," said the Mountain.
"Yes, Ser Gregor."
The Mountain turned and ascended to the level above, entering the interrogation room. The air was thick with the stench of blood, heavy and suffocating.
He sat down before a long, dark table. On the opposite wall was a water spout, from which water flowed down a groove into a trench in the floor, eventually draining through a small hole.
The setup was designed to wash away bloodstains.
When prisoners were interrogated here, a pointed funnel could be fitted into the spout to direct water into a basin. The water in the basin was then used to rinse blood from the table, chairs, and floor.
But no matter how thoroughly it was washed, time had left its mark. Too many interrogations had soaked blood deep into the stone floor, turning it black. The same had happened to the table and chairs, their surfaces now dark and saturated with a permanent metallic stench. The smell clung to everything, choking the air with its reek.
After a while, chains clinked as Reynald and Foulmouth escorted three men into the chamber.
"Ugh! Who beat them up like this?" The Mountain frowned.
The three were covered in wounds and soaked in blood. One man's face was a ruin, his nose collapsed entirely, his upper and lower lips sliced clean off, exposing his raw gums. It was a revolting sight, enough to turn anyone's stomach.
"Ser Gregor," Foulmouth explained, pointing at the mangled man. "Captain Chiswick bashed his head in a bit."
"You don't lose your lips just from a bash," the Mountain said coldly.
"Chiswick shaved off his lips with a knife," Foulmouth admitted.
The Mountain nodded. "Have they confessed?"
"They have. They're guards of House Marbrand, sent to spread rumors about you on the lands recently reclaimed from the harbor," said Foulmouth.
"They also claimed we'd soon be imposing heavy taxes," Reynald added.
"Good. Since they've confessed, and their lord, Damon Marbrand, is our honored guest, we won't make things too hard on them," the Mountain said with a calm voice.
"Yes, Ser," the two answered in unison.
"Foulmouth, Reynald, in five days we need to raise our first levy of three hundred men. There's just one problem, we're broke," said Gregor.
"Ransom these three to Lord Damon for coin," suggested Foulmouth.
Reynald added, "Ser Gregor, my mother and uncle still have connections in the spice trade. We could hire agents in Lannisport to restart the business."
"Not bad ideas," said Gregor. "But Foulmouth's plan won't raise much. If we had Addam Marbrand, the ransom would be worth something. These three? Peanuts. Reynald's plan is more promising, spices are profitable, but it requires heavy upfront investment and at least two months to make a round trip across the Narrow Sea. Too long. We need money now."
The two fell silent, unsure what to suggest.
Gregor looked at them. "Can I trust the two of you? What I'm about to say is strictly confidential."
He knew them well, two dependable youths. He intended to groom them personally. After this mission, he would knight them himself.
Foulmouth grinned. "Ser Gregor, whatever you tell me, I swear by the Stranger himself: even if the sun sets in the east and the moon rises in the west, I will never speak a word. Not even if they smash all my teeth in."
Gregor nodded. "I believe you, Foulmouth."
Reynald said, "Ser, your words go in my ears and straight to my heart. Unless you give the order, I'll never tell a soul. I won't swear by my house or the Seven, I swear by my life. I would rather die than betray your trust."
Gregor nodded again. "Good. Reynald, you're family to me. I trust you."
Simple words, but to Foulmouth and Reynald, they landed like thunder in their hearts.
Gregor's statement confirmed it: they were now his inner circle. His true brothers. The fire in their veins surged with pride and purpose. To be entrusted by the indomitable Ser Gregor himself, it lit something fierce in their souls.
Gregor spoke again. "Lord Tywin told me great upheaval is coming to the Seven Kingdoms. War is on the horizon. I must forge an elite force. The current military plan: 500 Clegane cavalry, 1,000 sellswords under Chiswick, and 1,000 foot soldiers from Casterly Rock."
He paused, studying their serious, determined faces. In their eyes, he saw sparks of ambition.
"Three armies. Two thousand five hundred men. Training them will take a mountain of gold. Lord Tywin won't fund me, but he gave me something better: a power that breaks the law. The right to mint my own coin."
Gregor paused again, watching for their reaction.
Foulmouth said nothing, but inside he was full of awe. Minting coins, no one dared such a thing. But Ser Gregor dared. That alone was legendary.
Reynald's gaze was resolute. If Lord Tywin condoned it, then why hesitate? Do it.
But the boy didn't consider the deeper truth, what if this was all Gregor's idea? With Gregor's character, it was very possible.
Reynald said, "Ser Gregor, there are still the three Marbrand guards here…"
Gregor ignored the comment and continued, "East of Casterly Rock, there are two forbidden places, Castamere and Tarbeck Hall. Both have rich gold mines. No one dares touch them. Though I have Tywin's tacit approval, I can't act openly. That's where you two come in. You'll secretly hire miners to dig in those places. I'll send people to mint the gold."
The Rains of Castamere was sung across the realm. Everyone knew Tywin Lannister wiped out the Reynes and Tarbecks at age nineteen, leaving no survivors, not even dogs. As a warning to the other Westerlands houses, both places were declared cursed. No one dared farm, build, or mine there.
But the two boys just stared at Gregor, unafraid, eyes blazing with youthful fire.
"For workers, find families who've benefited from House Westerling. For guards, use those with strong family ties. House Westerling has ruled these lands for a thousand years, your kinship network will hold. Foulmouth, you'll oversee the operation. Anyone disobedient or trying to run, kill them."
"If I use our loyal house guards, my parents will notice," Reynald said.
"Then you'll go east to establish a training camp," Gregor replied.
"Understood. I'll handle the arrangements. We'll house the miners' families near Casterly Rock. I'll pick a trustworthy foreman from among my kin."
Gregor nodded. "Foulmouth, Reynald, do this well, and I'll knight you both."
The boys lit up. Despite trying to hide it, smiles broke through their excitement.
"Foulmouth, I'll ask Lady Jeyne to give you a proper name. Then I'll grant you the Clegane surname."
Foulmouth felt like he'd been struck in the chest, then set ablaze, his whole body heated with emotion.
He was speechless. He dropped to one knee, clenched his fist over his heart.
"Ser Gregor, I swear to follow you to the death. It is my honor to become Clegane."
Gregor placed a hand on his shoulder and helped him up. "From today, you and Reynald are not just my men. You're my family. My brothers."
Foulmouth's lips trembled. His eyes burned. For a street orphan who'd always spat on laws and morals, this was the first time a noble had ever placed such trust in him, entrusted him with great plans, and promised to make him a knight. A man with a name. A lord. He'd give not just one life, but ten, for Gregor Clegane.
Gregor let him go to digest the overwhelming emotions. Then he turned to Reynald.
"Reynald, have you ever killed a man?"
Reynald blushed and shook his head.
The last war ended when he was just three. Peace had lasted sixteen years. He had trained in arms since boyhood. He had never seen battle. Even punishments within their lands were handled by executioners, not heirs.
"A soft heart makes a poor general. A hesitant hand doesn't even make a decent soldier. Mercy has no place in war," said the Mountain, pointing to the three Marbrand guards.
"Reynald, kill them."
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