Littlefinger Petyr Baelish suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.
Gregor Clegane looked down at him with a condescending gaze, as if he could see right through him.
It was as if he were naked in Gregor's eyes.
This feeling is absurd, incredible, yet so real.
Gregor's gaze was arrogant, domineering, and sharp. But whether it was domineering or sharp, Littlefinger felt that it was concealing something that sent chills down his spine: scrutiny.
Gregor was scrutinizing him, exploring him, penetrating him, as if he were peeling away the disguise of his little finger with his gaze, layer by layer, to see the deepest secrets of his heart.
This feeling was absolutely unbelievable, yet it felt incredibly real to my little finger.
It was indescribable, inexplicable, and even Littlefinger himself didn't want to believe it—a strange yet real feeling.
If this feeling were to apply to Tywin Lannister, Littlefinger wouldn't doubt it for a second.
But when it came to Gregor Clegane, Littlefinger found it absurd, contradictory, and unbelievable.
Gregor's mind was as dull as rock; he was nothing more than a fine knife in Tywin's hand. A fine knife is not scary; what is scary is the person wielding it.
But now, he felt a strange sense of fear even from the sight of such a fine knife.
Why do I have this feeling?
Littlefinger respects and befriends anyone who can involuntarily instill fear in the depths of his heart.
"Seize Earl Sheepdung," Gregor said. The feeling of being scrutinized, probed, and penetrated vanished as Gregor spoke.
Immediately, a bald man with a black beard and an obviously abnormal smile walked up, drew a short knife in a flash, and reached out to grab his little finger.
Littlefinger's territory lies in the most remote easternmost part of the valley, on a peninsula that resembles five fingers, hence its name, the Five Fingers Peninsula. The Five Fingers Peninsula is entirely rocky, inhabited by fewer than ten fishing families. A type of moss grows on the peninsula's rocks, providing sustenance for sheep, making sheep the peninsula's primary livestock. Thus, Littlefinger earned the nickname "Earl of Sheep Dung."
Gregor's territory in the Westerlands was looked down upon by the true nobles, but Littlefinger's family territory was ten times poorer than Gregor's little place.
Gregor called Littlefinger the Earl of Sheepdung, a term of humiliation, much like someone calling him the Mountain to his face. However, Gregor didn't care at all when others called him the Mountain; the real Gregor before being transmigrated by the third-year STEM student actually liked being called the Mountain. But Littlefinger was different; the most humiliating name for Littlefinger was being called the Earl of Sheepdung.
One of the main reasons he worked so hard to climb the ladder and schemed by any means necessary was so that he would no longer be called Earl of Sheep Dung to his face.
But now is not the time to argue with the Mountain about how to address him, because a short sword came straight at him.
No amount of eloquence or cunning can stop a brute from slashing his neck with a knife.
Moreover, Polliver was clearly not a mentally sound person; his smile was full of evil, and he exuded a cruel and tyrannical aura.
"Sir Gregor…" Littlefinger chuckled. He was calm and composed, though his smile seemed somewhat forced.
"Are you going to go there yourself, or should I stab you first and then go over?" Polliver said with a grin.
Littlefinger only made eye contact with Polliver once before immediately going over to him.
He realized that Polliver, that scumbag, would never repeat himself, and would definitely stab him without hesitation.
This is a bunch of lawless desperados.
Whoosh!
Gregor kicked over the stool and swept all the cups, bowls, plates, basins, dishes, wine jars, and other items on the table to the ground. Before Littlefinger could react, several thugs rushed up like wolves and tigers, grabbing Littlefinger like an eagle snatching a chick or a hungry wolf catching a rabbit.
Little Finger was powerless to resist, and with his exclamation of "Hey! Hey! Hey!" which finally turned pale, the little finger was completely helpless.
Bang!
His little finger was pressed onto the table, his right cheek was pressed tightly against the surface, his neck was twisted painfully, it felt like mountains were pressing down on both shoulders, and someone was kneed down on his waist, almost breaking his bones. He couldn't move his entire body. Let alone speak, even breathing was extremely difficult.
Bang!
The Mountain's enormous foot stepped onto the table, and the huge boots were right in front of Littlefinger's nose. Littlefinger's eyes could only see the Mountain's black boots, and his nose could only smell the mud and leather of the boots.
"Blood!" said Demon Mountain.
The sound of the Demon Mountain was like muffled thunder, which terrified Littlefinger.
Woo! Woo! Woo!
A sharp pain shot through his fingertips; someone was stabbing his little finger with something sharp. The pain in his little finger was excruciating, but because his neck was also being pressed down, and his right cheek was pressed tightly against the table, it felt as if a mountain was pressing down on his entire body. He could only manage muffled whimpers.
The Mountain was a villain who raped and murdered even the queen, and even killed an infant prince by smashing him against a wall.
Littlefinger regretted being too confident.
He thought he could easily solve the trouble caused by the Demon Mountain with his sharp tongue.
He realized he hadn't thought about it enough.
"Alright, release Earl Sheepdung." The Mountain's voice revealed satisfaction.
The pressure on the little finger suddenly released, and the little finger remained in that position lying on the table for a while before it caught its breath.
The latest novels are first published on 69shuba!
He felt as if he had been molded into the wood of the table.
Littlefinger straightened up and saw Gregor holding a long, thin glass vial filled with blood. His blood.
Littlefinger had no idea what Gregor wanted to do with his blood.
He looked at his fingers; all five were pierced by steel needles and were still bleeding. His fingers no longer hurt because his entire hand was numb.
"Earl Sheep Dung, the amount of gold I deliver each month ranges from one hundred to one thousand cartloads, with three gold dragons per cartload, and a third of that placed on top of the stones." Gregor gently shook the glass bottle, which contained the blood from his little finger. "It's settled then." He made the final decision, leaving no room for argument.
A carriage with four golden dragons—the kind of treatment reserved for Duke Tywin Lannister.
"Very well, Sir Gregor." Littlefinger considered himself ten times more eloquent and shrewd than Gregor, but he knew it was best to leave now. To argue with this madman, it would be better to do so in the Throne Hall or somewhere with the Royal Guard.
"Get out!" Gregor waved his hand.
The tall, bald, eccentric man walked up, the short knife in his hand making Little Finger's heart pound with fear.
With that stab to the stomach, Little Finger's painstakingly cultivated dream came to an end.
Littlefinger, maintaining his aristocratic demeanor, decided to use a polite farewell phrase, saying to Gregor, "Sir Gregor..."
Before he could finish speaking, Gregor frowned: "Polliver, Earl Sheepdung said two extra words. Slap him twice."
Slap! Slap!
Pollifer delivered two resounding slaps, swift and heavy, leaving his little finger dizzy and both sides of his face burning with pain.
"Polliver, if Earl Sheep Dung dares to utter another word, cut out his tongue."
"Yes, sir!"
Polliver looked at Littlefinger with anticipation, his face beaming with excitement, but he was quickly disappointed—Littlefinger had already strode out and was rushing down the stairs.
Power is the only truth!
Absolute power represents absolute truth.