Gregor watched as Thomasson slurped down his bacon soup with great relish. The sight stirred something in him.
His vassal, Thomasson, had endured far too many hard days.
And so had the rest of his people.
Gregor himself only ate until he was half full. The more he ate, the more he realized that, aside from the bread spread with honey, the soups and meats tasted coarser and blander than they had the day before.
Yet everyone else seemed to be enjoying the meal.
Even a nobleman of high rank like Ado Serrett was eating with greasy lips and obvious delight. His plate was piled high with roasted and boiled meats.
Yesterday, after Gregor quit his opium addiction, everything he ate tasted like the finest delicacy on Earth. Now, he understood the truth: it hadn't been that the food was especially good, it was just that he had been starving.
The meats, including hunted boar and bear, were served in chunks so large that the salt hadn't properly penetrated the flesh. The roasts were tolerable, but the boiled meats had been cooked too long, leaving them tough and dry. Worse, there wasn't even a dipping sauce prepared, something that should have been standard.
In this world, people didn't eat boiled meats with dipping sauces. And aside from small knives and forks, there were no chopsticks.
Compared to the culinary refinement and rich flavors of Earth, this world's food culture was crude and undeveloped. After all, the agrarian, pre-industrial society of this world was multiple civilizations behind Earth's digital, high-tech era.
Gregor glanced around the large wooden dining table: no MSG, no garlic, ginger, or cilantro. No soy sauce or vinegar.
Salt was still the king of flavor, if there was decent salt, boiled meat dipped in it could still be passable. But here, even the salt was coarse and gritty, with hints of bitterness, clear signs of poor refinement.
Gregor looked beyond the stone castle gates into the darkness. He heard frogs, insects, and saw a few fireflies flickering in the night, but no electric lights, no streets, no cars. He had no phone at hand, no computer in the room.
What a primitive society.
He found himself missing the "four new great inventions" of modern society: high-speed rail, mobile payments, online shopping, and shared bikes.
Thinking of those brought to mind the original four: the compass (easy enough to make middle school science level), printing, papermaking, and gunpowder.
A compass could help him escape. Gunpowder could be used for mining or for war. But as for papermaking and printing, with the White Walkers soon to descend upon the Seven Kingdoms and humanity's days possibly numbered, Gregor had no time to waste on making paper.
Whatever he hoped to achieve here, it would all start with mining, gold mining. And then, minting gold dragons in secret. With the realm about to plunge into chaos, and Lord Petyr Baelish soon to disappear from King's Landing, the laws forbidding private minting would become meaningless. It would be the worst of times, but the perfect time to mint his own currency.
No one in this world had thought of printing counterfeit coins yet. Gregor would be the first. In business terms, it was a blue ocean market.
Black cat or white cat, if it catches mice, it's a good cat.
Gold dragons, now that was real power.
As a man from an advanced civilization, how could he be content serving as a mere dog to a minor lord with less than thirty thousand troops?
By his estimate, the Westerlands were no bigger than a single ordinary city in the modern world. The entire Seven Kingdoms stretched only a few thousand miles from north to south, and their combined military might barely reached 300,000 soldiers.
Gregor remembered ancient history; feudal lords battling for supremacy, dynasties rising and falling, armies of hundreds of thousands clashing, brilliant tactics and brave generals, strategists commanding victory from afar. Great warriors who could cut down enemy generals amidst a sea of soldiers; brilliant minds who turned the tide of war from behind the scenes.
In ancient civilization, a powerful lord could summon thousands of household troops just for a brawl. Raising an army of over 100,000 was nothing special.
But here, a lord with a thousand soldiers was already considered powerful. Even the wealthy Serrett family, flush with gold and silver mines, only maintained 2,000 warriors in peacetime, and could at best summon 3,000 in times of war. That made them the most militarily formidable among the Westerland nobles.
Gregor himself, famed for his martial prowess across the Seven Kingdoms, ruled a tiny fiefdom with just eleven households.
He had made up his mind: he would forge his own path and change the fate laid before him. If the world survived the coming threat of the White Walkers, then he would make the flower of civilization bloom here. If not, he would take his gold dragons, cross the Narrow Sea, and head eastward without looking back.
…
That morning, a squad of cavalry approached along the Goldroad. Leading them was Allen Serrett, captain of the personal guard to Alva Serrett, who had died of fright at Gregor's hands. At his side rode the standard bearer, gripping a tall flagpole bearing the Serrett sigil: a resplendent peacock with its tail fully fanned, representing House Serrett of Silverhill.
From afar, Polliver spotted the flag from the rooftop of Clegane Keep.
"They're here! Scribe, the Serretts are here!" he shouted.
Scribe, who was watching Dunsen teach Julie sword footwork in the courtyard, immediately leapt onto a horse. "How many?"
"About thirty." Polliver called back.
Scribe turned to the steps and yelled, "Notify Ser Gregor, Serrett has arrived!"
Raff Clegane waved him off, and Scribe galloped out of the courtyard to assess the situation.
Dunsen stopped training Julie, rushed inside, dropped his training sword, and began donning armor. He strapped on his sword belt, checked his daggers, steel pins, and short blades, then slung on his longsword and made for the main hall.
Gregor was already inside. On the wall hung his fearsome greatsword, a massive oak shield, and heavy plate armor. Raff and Thomasson were helping him into his armor.
Julie Clegane ran in, lifting her skirts, her training sword replaced by a short blade. Gregor noticed the hem of her dress was dragging along the ground.
He scowled. His armor was a nightmare to put on, his massive frame required the plates to be fastened piece by piece, front and back, with at least two people assisting. The backplate and shoulder armor were especially difficult to manage without help. If he were ambushed, there would be no time to suit up.
There was no helping it. In this era of cold steel, armor was the equivalent of a bulletproof vest. As inconvenient as it was, it had to be worn for safety.
Julie's outfit, however, could be redesigned. He imagined it transformed into something more like the fitted pants of modern martial attire. No more dragging skirts, no more decorative sashes, just a practical belt capable of holding multiple weapons.
Her sleeves were also too wide, an obstacle in swordplay. If she had tight sleeves with buttoned cuffs at the wrist, it would improve her sword speed and reduce resistance.
Yes, Gregor thought, he would design a proper training outfit for Julie: snug-fitting, efficient, tailored for movement. No more long sleeves or flowing skirts. She would wear flexible tops and wide-crotched tight-fitting pants, like a modern-style riding jacket. In fact, this world didn't even have riding jackets yet.
Gregor stared at Julie, now picturing her wearing his sleek, modernized martial uniform. In his mind's eye, she was clean-cut and precise, every move unencumbered by fabric or flair. Her footwork crisp, her posture agile, her movements efficient and free.
Julie suddenly lunged, pointing her short sword at Gregor's eyes.
"Hey! What are you staring at?" she snapped.
Thomasson and Raff both jumped in alarm.
They feared Gregor's wrath.
But Gregor remained expressionless. He didn't understand it, why wasn't Julie afraid of him, the infamous 'The Mountain'? He suspected it had something to do with what she had endured. Perhaps her spirit and soul had already died several times over.
Maybe she simply wasn't afraid of death anymore, or maybe she believed she was already dead. Being alive now was already a bonus.
Either way, Julie was no ordinary girl.
Gregor wouldn't allow this girl to walk all over him. In a cold, commanding voice, he said, "Julie! Dunsen! Bring Ser Ado Serrett up from the dungeon."
"Yes, my lord." they replied in unison.
Dunsen led the way, Julie followed. As they stepped out the main gate, Julie glanced back and winked her right eye at Gregor.
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