Chapter 22

For Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides, also known simply as the Mountain, things had definitely gone downhill for him. He was alone for a good while, except for Ashlyh, who didn’t particularly enjoy what he did to her whenever he took her to bed. She grunted and winced in pain even now, taking that monstrous cock up her bum. He oiled her bottom before going in, but that was his only courtesy to her while buggering the young maid. She bit her lower lip in her agony, trying to endure his thrusts as he plundered her bowels with his prick.

Ashlyh felt as if her insides were sure to be pulled from her body by means of her bunghole, but she had no choice save to submit to what the Mountain wanted of her. The worse thing was that he didn’t stop for anything or anyone, granting her no respite as he rammed her arse with his thick cock, making the much smaller lass scream and cry out into the pillow supplied by a terrified innkeeper who feared for his own daughters now that the Mountain was present in his inn. He certainly dared not betray him, regardless of the bounty, for fear of incurring his wrath, just as Ashlyh dared not resist having Clegane bum-fuck her.

Ashlyh was very tight and Clegane wondered if she would peel the foreskin off him permanently, as she rubbed him roughly with each stroke of him inside her butt. Jaime had focused on her cunny, after all, and so the buggery was kept to a minimum with the Kingslayer. Jaime had been rough at times, to be sure, but he had never been brutal or cruel. Clegane was a different matter. When he took Septa Unella on that table, for instance, he never bothered to oil up her bum at all before he shoved it inside her arsehole. He raped and buggered her for days, whenever duty didn’t carry him elsewhere, not wishing to grant her any relief if he could prevent it.

Nor was there any attempt to gag the septa or keep her screams from reaching the ears of others. On the contrary, Cersei had ordered that she be kept in the rooms nearest to the staircase, thus enabling more to hear the cries of anguish from the ravaged septa. The door was closed and bolted, so they could only imagine the torments that the septa might endure, but that was the point. Cersei wanted it uncertain what torture and suffering Unella might face, so that people could never dismiss it as they sometimes did other known fates.

No, Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, outlaw, sellsword, landed knight, murderer, raper, bugger, torturer, brigand, traitor, bodyguard, undead freak, and thug, was no less dangerous for being on the lam than for being in the pay and service of a mighty lord such as Tywin Lannister. His lands were only not forfeit for his brother Sandor’s sake, the hope still lingering that the Hound might yet redeem himself and inherit his brother’s castle and fief. For Gregor, there could be no redemption. He had raped and slain Elia Martell and dashed the elder children of Rhaegar Targaryen against a wall, a rather infamous crime that still tainted House Lannister as well as House Clegane and dishonored his knightly vows.

Clegane cared not by now. He was a dead man and he knew it, so his last hope was to rally what he could of House Lannister’s bannermen and muster them under his command. Then he would fight his way to Oldtown, ravaging the Reach before taking ship to Essos, where he would attach himself to the armies of Volantis as a sellsword and wreak his vengeance at Slaver’s Bay. In the meantime, he would enjoy Ashlyh’s body until she probably died from the pain and injury that he inflicted on her bowels from the constant buggery and rape. She hadn’t perished yet, though, so perhaps she was stronger than she made him think at first. He didn’t honestly care, either way. She was fuckmeat to him, a chattel, a plaything, nothing more, and if she lived long enough, he would simply sell her to the slavers for the pleasure houses of Lys.

“Oh, cease your blubbering!” Gregor snapped at Ashlyh as he thrust yet again inside her bum and spent himself in her at last, “now, wash me, and do it well! Or next time I shall make you lick me clean!”

Ashlyh could still feel the pain and tears in her arsehole from the last time that he buggered her, so she washed very carefully indeed. She didn’t wish to have to lick what was up her rump at any time, but especially not with such injuries inside her body, which included blood as well as ... other things. The stench was horrid, but she managed to wash him properly in the bath before cleaning up her own bunghole the moment that his back was turned. If she didn’t, he’d complain about that, whether he griped when she did or not.

Ashlyh limped painfully out of the bath as she attended the Mountain like a good maidservant, dressing him to the best of her ability, which was still high in spite of the dull, throbbing pain in her arse. Gregor stopped her before she could put any clothes as well, preferring the sight of her naked and wishing to get her used to the idea of being a slave before he sold her to the highest bidder. Her fate would be a vocation of satisfying men’s lusts, after all, whether it was a long or short life indeed. He smirked as he imagined her servicing men and women in the pleasure houses of Lys for many years to come. It was still better than being a maid in the Red Keep, scrubbing floors, washing clothes, and cleaning latrines. At least she would get some enjoyment out of being a slave of that kind.

“Ser Gregor, pardon me, m’lord, but there is a rider here to speak to you,” the innkeeper intruded now, much to the Mountain’s annoyance, as he didn’t wish most to see his rather revolting flesh.

“Oh, very well, then!” the Mountain consented, albeit reluctantly, to confer with the rider, though wary in case he was trouble.

“You’re a hard man to find,” the man told him, revealing Lannister colors, “anyway, it’s been rough, trying to escape King’s Landing while that Greyjoy bitch in her boots and cuirass with her bare buttocks mooning us all guards the docks. That’s not even counting the rumors about the Onion Knight taking over as Master of Ships. Few of us have been able to get away, so we’ve been hiding out and crawling slowly out of the capital. Name’s Decran Hill, m’lord. I hail from Lannisport. Yes, I’m a bastard, as you can tell.”

“What’s your business with me, though?” the Mountain insisted.

“Well, m’lord, it’s clear that House Lannister has but one man free enough to champion the Westerlands, and that’s you. Ser Jaime would do it if he were free, but he’s a prisoner again, so we must set him free and plant him on the Iron Throne at last, Kingslayer or not. I don’t believe that he’d bend the knee without being put under duress, ser. We dare not yield this war, good ser. The foreign savages are everywhere, with their heathen gods no less, especially those Red Priestesses of theirs. You haven’t heard their plans for the septons and septas, have you?” Decran inquired, not being a prude, but certainly being devout in his own way.

“Not particularly, my man. What is that?” Gregor asked impatiently, not personally giving seven fucks for the Seven.

“They wish to make the septons and septas walk, naked no less, in atonement in every city and town of Westeros, in order to make amends for the ‘crimes’ of the Faith! They’ve begun persecuting the Faith and the Seven, do you not see? This Dragon Queen might have been born on Dragonstone, but she is truly a foreigner and a heathen who worships the Lord of Light, the Fire God, the Red God, and favors his Red Priests over the septons and septas of the Faith of the Seven. The King in the North, of course, holds true to his primitive superstitions about the Old Gods of the Forest, so cares nothing of the Faith or the Seven,” Decran told him.

“That hardly seems my affair. I’m seeking to take ship in Oldtown for passage to Essos. Why should I give seven dragons for the Seven?” the Mountain was brutally honest.

“Because if they turn against the Gods, the Gods will surely destroy Westeros. I do not fear this supposed Night King and his Army of the Dead, but I fear the wrath of the Seven and torment in the Seven Hells. I also fear that this Dragon Queen and her Wolf consort, Jon Snow, who now claims to be Aegon Targaryen, her nephew as well as her husband and thus rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, will turn brother against brother and father against son. War will continue, not abate, in Westeros, under their rule, especially if they persist in humiliating the septons and septas of the Faith,” Decran warned Clegane.