He sat with his back to the wall, his face shielded by the shade of the corner, his plate filled with roast deer, buttered turnip and mushrooms, mutton stew, and freshly baked bread – all the good food his father only served up when the high lords came visiting. He liked sitting in the corner where no-one could see him, but he could see all.
The hall was filled with the sound of hundreds of men supping together, laughing, bawling and clanking their tankards of ale.
His head was pounding. It always did, but anger worsened the pain. "Behave yourself while m'lords are here," his father's words rang in his ears. "If any of m'lords' servants disappear there'll be trouble, boy, an' I won't be able to help you none this time."
"They can't give us no trouble," he remembered telling his father. "I'm stronger 'n them." The look Ser Harthor gave him in return stung. "That's not how it works, boy," he'd said as if his son was an imbecile. "They're lions, an' we're dogs. They give us our land 'n we serve them."
Gregor didn't like serving, much less men who were weaker than him.
He eyed his father's guests on the dais. The lion lord was slender while his brother's tunic lay taut around his waist. Both were trained knights, or so they claimed, but he knew he'd have no trouble defeating them, even if they came at him at the same time.
His father was sitting a few feet away from them, groveling before the lords in gold and red. You don' tell me what to do no more. Nobody told him what to do: not his father, not the lion lords, not the dragon king, no-one. They're all weaker 'n me.
He'd killed his first man with his bare hands before his twelfth nameday, a hedge knight who'd sought shelter for the night in a shack behind the lake. He'd strangled him and crushed his skull before taking him. Gregor still remembered his eyes right before his body went limp, bloodshot and bulging, filled with the realization that he was going to die.
His father's men had found the stripped corpse by the water and raised the alarm, but Ser Harthor had told them an animal must have savaged the man, and no-one had dared to mention him ever again. I could kill father if I wanted to, and he knows it. I could kill him, and those lords, too.
His teeth tore into a haunch of venison, ripping out large chunks of meat, blood and juice running down his chin. They think they're lions, but I could tear their throat out.
He gulped down another cup of wine to dull the ache in his skull, but somehow, that only seemed to make his throbbing head worse.
The feast dragged on and on. All Gregor wanted was to get up and leave the noisy hall behind, but for that, he had to emerge from the corner and face all the stares. Everyone always stared.
He'd been too tall for his age all his life. The servants at Clegane's Keep knew better than to let their eyes linger too long, but whenever people came from the outside, they would gape at him as if he was some kind of rare beast from the forest. Some would try to hide their curiosity; others stared unabashedly. He knew the words they all whispered behind his back. Freak, monster, freak, freak.
He got a sinking feeling in his stomach when his father leaned over to his guests, gesturing in his direction.
The lion lord got up, his eyes roaming over the tables down below him. He's heard tales, an' now he wants to see for himself. Gregor moved back on his chair, but it was too late. He had seen him.
Men moved aside, clearing the path. There was nowhere for him to hide now.
The lion lord stood in front of him. Gregor was looking down at his plate, but he could feel the man's eyes on him, studying him. He knew that look well enough: that odd mix of contempt and curiosity. Freak. He's come to look at the freak.
The noise in the hall had died down. "How old are you, boy?" He knew he had to respond, but somehow, all he could do was stare at the table, clenching his fists. I'm no boy no more. I could strangle you here 'n now if I wanted to.
"He's shy, Tywin, leave him be." Gregor felt his ears redden. He couldn't say what he hated more, the lion lord's contempt or his brother's pity. I'm not shy, I just don't like talking is all. "I'm almos'... almost..."
"Speak up." The man's voice was as sharp and cold as his eyes. "I can't hear you."
Before Gregor had a chance to say anything, Ser Harthor stepped in. "Almost sixteen, m'lord. He's almost sixteen."
"Then he ought to be able to speak for himself."
"He's a good boy, strong as ten men, and loyal, m'lord."
Gregor took a deep breath. Father's selling me like a piece of cattle. Slowly, he rose from his seat, his heart still pounding. Half the hall gasped. The portly lion took a step back, and even his brother seemed startled.
That was all he needed to regain his voice. "I need to take a piss," he said as loudly and clearly as he could before pushing the gawking Lannister soldiers aside and heading for the door.