The Mountain of Ice and Fire

Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, suddenly felt a chill in his heart.

Gregor Clegane looked down at him, as if seeing through everything.

It was as if he were naked in Gregor's gaze.

The feeling was absurd, unbelievable, yet so very real.

Gregor's gaze was arrogant, domineering, and sharp. But whether it was domineering or sharp, Littlefinger felt that it was all masking something that made him feel cold: scrutiny.

Gregor was scrutinizing him, probing him, penetrating him, as if he were using his gaze to strip away Littlefinger's disguise, layer by layer, until he saw the deepest secrets of his heart.

This feeling was incredible, yet Littlefinger felt it was very real.

Indescribable, inexplicable, a strange and real feeling that even Littlefinger himself was unwilling to believe.

If this feeling had come from Tywin Lannister, Littlefinger would not have doubted it at all.

But coming from Gregor Clegane, Littlefinger found it absurd, contradictory, and unbelievable.

Gregor's mind was as dull as rock; he was just a good knife in Tywin's hand. A good knife was not scary, but the person wielding the knife was.

But now, he felt that even the good knife made him feel a little...fear.

How could he have such a feeling?

Littlefinger treated with respect anyone who could involuntarily arouse fear in the depths of his heart.

"Seize Lord Sheepshit," Gregor said. The feeling of being scrutinized, probed, and penetrated disappeared with Gregor's words.

Immediately, a bald, black-bearded man with an obviously abnormal smile on his face came forward, drew a short knife with a whoosh, and reached out to grab Littlefinger.

Littlefinger's territory was in the most remote eastern part of the Vale, on a peninsula that resembled the five fingers of a hand, so his territory was also known as the Fingers. The Fingers were all rock, with fewer than ten fishing families. A type of moss that could feed sheep grew on the rocks of the peninsula, so sheep became the main livestock on the Fingers, and Littlefinger earned the nickname Lord Sheepshit.

Gregor's territory in the Westerlands was looked down upon by the real nobles, but Littlefinger's family territory was ten times poorer than Gregor's little place.

Gregor called Littlefinger Lord Sheepshit, implying humiliation, just as if someone called him the Mountain to his face. However, Gregor didn't care at all when people called him the Mountain; the real Gregor, before being transmigrated by a great university理工man, even liked people calling him the Mountain. But Littlefinger was different; the title that Littlefinger felt most humiliated by was Lord Sheepshit.

He worked hard to climb up, scheming by any means, largely because he no longer wanted to be called Lord Sheepshit to his face.

But now was not the time to argue with the Mountain about titles, because a short knife was coming at him.

Any eloquent words or conspiracies could not stop a crude man from slashing his neck with a knife.

Moreover, Polliver clearly did not look like a mentally normal person; his smile was full of evil, and he carried a fierce aura.

"Ser Gregor..." Littlefinger said with a smile. He was calm and composed, but his smile was a little forced.

"Are you going to come with me yourself, or should I stab you once before you go?" Polliver said with a grin.

Littlefinger only glanced at Polliver before immediately going over on his own.

He could tell that this scumbag Polliver would definitely not repeat himself, and would definitely stab him without hesitation.

This was a bunch of lawless desperadoes.

Bang!

Gregor kicked over the stool, reached out and swept all the cups, bowls, plates, basins, dishes, wine jars, etc. off the table. Before Littlefinger could react, several rogue-like soldiers swarmed up, like wolves and tigers, grabbing Littlefinger like an eagle grabbing a chick, or more like a hungry wolf grabbing a rabbit.

Littlefinger had no resistance. In his exclamations of 'Hey, hey, hey' as his expression changed drastically—

Thump!

Littlefinger was pressed onto the table, his right face pressed tightly against the tabletop, his neck twisted painfully, his shoulders felt like they were being crushed by mountains, and his waist was also pressed down by someone's knee, almost breaking his bones. He could not move his whole body. Not to mention speaking, even breathing was very difficult.

Bang!

The Mountain's huge foot stepped onto the table, his huge war boots were right in front of Littlefinger's nose, Littlefinger's eyes could only see the Mountain's black war boots, and his nose could only smell the dirt and leather of the boots.

"Blood!" The Mountain said.

The Mountain's voice was like muffled thunder, making Littlefinger feel afraid.

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!

Severe pain came from the tips of his fingers, someone was using something sharp to pierce Littlefinger's fingers. The ten fingers were connected to the heart, Littlefinger was in excruciating pain, but because his neck was also pressed down, his right half of his face was tightly pressed against the tabletop, and his whole body felt like it was being pressed by a mine, his throat could only make muffled whimpering sounds.

The Mountain was an evil man who had raped and killed the Queen, and even smashed the prince in swaddling clothes to death against the wall.

Littlefinger regretted being too confident.

He thought he could easily solve the trouble brought by the Mountain with his glib tongue.

He realized he had underestimated things.

"Alright, release Lord Sheepshit." The Mountain's voice revealed satisfaction.

The force pressing down on Littlefinger suddenly loosened, and Littlefinger remained in this position lying on the table for a while before he could catch his breath.

He felt like he had been kneaded into the wood of the table.

Littlefinger straightened up and saw Gregor holding a thin glass vial filled with blood. His blood.

Littlefinger didn't know what Gregor wanted to do with his blood.

He looked at his fingers, all five of which had been pierced by steel needles and were still dripping blood. His fingers no longer hurt, because his whole hand was numb.

"Lord Sheepshit, the gold mine I hand over each month ranges from one hundred to one thousand carts, three gold dragons per cart, with one-third of stones placed at the bottom," Gregor gently shook the glass bottle containing Littlefinger's blood, "It's settled then." He made a final decision, brooking no argument.

Four gold dragons per cart, the treatment of Duke Tywin.

"Alright, Ser Gregor," Littlefinger's eloquence and wit were ten times higher than Gregor's, but he knew it was best to leave here now. To argue with this madman, it was best to be in the throne room, or in a place with the Royal Guard.

"Get out!" Gregor waved his hand.

That nervous, tall, bald guy came up, the short knife in his hand so bright that Littlefinger felt a chill in his heart.

If this knife stabbed into his stomach, Littlefinger's painstakingly managed dreams would be terminated.

Littlefinger maintained his aristocratic demeanor and decided to say a polite farewell. He said to Gregor: "Ser Gregor..."

Before he could finish speaking, Gregor frowned: "Polliver, Lord Sheepshit said two extra words, slap him twice."

Slap! Slap!

Polliver delivered two loud slaps, so fast and so heavy that Littlefinger was dizzy, both sides of his face feeling the same: burning pain.

"Polliver, if Lord Sheepshit dares to say another word, cut off his tongue."

"Yes, my lord!"

Polliver looked at Littlefinger with anticipation, a fervent expression on his face, but he was soon disappointed—Littlefinger had already strode out,噔噔噔噔噔噔, running quickly downstairs.

Power is the truth!

Absolute power represents absolute truth.

Thanks to the following four book friends for their rewards: 只是入目三分、浪速之桜、Chau534、梦想·死神的天空, thank you.