When Lord Auren saw Master Tobho Mott enter, he was initially startled, then relaxed. If it was Master Tob, the mastermind behind the noodle machine was likely him. As a smart man, Auren weighed whether to voice his doubts or keep them to himself, and wisely chose the latter.
Besides, with Tobho Mott here, the master of both weapons and machinery, any suspicion was pointless. A true master wasn't just a skilled blacksmith or weapon-maker; he was a creator of siege engines and defenses, fine ironwork, and practical iron goods like utensils and farming tools. Being a master meant proven extraordinary creativity in the realm of ironcraft.
Lord Auren was always approachable to common folk, masters all the more so. He stepped forward to shake the master's hand, ready to embrace him, but was stopped by the Mountain. The giant stretched out a hand and said, "Enough greetings. Let's drink!"
…
Chiswick's head was truly a wonder of nature, not only huge, but his forehead jutted forward like a spatula. And his chin? Also protruding, turning his face into a pair of spatulas.
The first time Polliver saw Chiswick, he realized he was smitten. The first thing Polliver wanted to do was invite Chiswick to see his gallery, a room filled with glass jars, each containing some kind of preserved organ or finger. Polliver was convinced that if Chiswick's head were ever severed and turned into art, it would be the most unique masterpiece in history, unparalleled and unmatched.
But Polliver knew that chopping off the head would mean killing Chiswick, and that was unacceptable to the Mountain. So for now, no chopping. But an order could be placed, just in case someone else got to Chiswick's head first!
"My lord!" Polliver spoke humbly.
Chiswick stared at Polliver. His gaze was like sharp hooks that made most people uneasy, but Polliver felt nothing.
Chiswick said nothing.
Polliver looked like a sickly man but carried the status of a knight, flanked by two guards. Though Chiswick's reputation in Lannisport was growing, he wasn't a knight, nor did he have a family name. So Chiswick was not a "lord."
He just stared silently.
"My lord! I want to reserve your head. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, supremely gorgeous and one of a kind. No other treasure in the world compares. I beg you, when the time comes after your death, allow me to sever your head and preserve it in a giant wine vat as a masterpiece."
Chiswick tilted his head and still said nothing. He wondered if all of Ser Gregor's men were this strange. This guy was clearly not normal.
Polliver suddenly beamed with joy. "My lord agreed so readily, thank you, thank you!"
Chiswick said nothing, but Polliver was overjoyed, convinced it was an implicit yes. Strange logic!
"My lord, now that you're free, let's return to Clegane. I want to show you my gallery. I bet you'll fall in love at first sight. The only thing missing is a rare treasure like your head."
"I have business to take care of." Chiswick said coldly. "Tell Ser Gregor I'll come to Clegane after I'm done."
"Oh, I get it, you want to go to a brothel. I just got married, but a good friend has to go with you."
"I'm not going to a brothel!"
"How about the bathhouse? Come on, come on!"
"No."
"Oh, you want to hit the casino instead!"
Chiswick fixed Polliver with a sharp gaze, no longer thinking the guy was crazy. This arrogant jerk assumed that after he 'gave' his head, he didn't need to call him 'my lord' anymore.
Being called "my lord" did have a strange comforting feeling.
"Ser Polliver, I'm not going to the casino or the tavern. I'm looking for someone."
"Who?"
"The Loudmouth."
"You mean the one who reported you to Lord Auren and got you thrown in the black cell?"
"Yeah."
"No way." Polliver said firmly. "Ser Gregor swore on family honor and the Seven Gods not to allow you to kill anyone in Lannisport. But…" he grinned, "to thank you for letting me have your head as art, I can kill him for you. If you want to do it yourself, no problem. We just have to catch the Loudmouth outside the city."
"Good idea." Chiswick said coldly.
"There are tens of thousands in Lannisport. That guy's hiding for sure. If I were the Loudmouth, I'd leave town."
"He hasn't left. After I was captured, he came to see me in the black cell. He said he won't leave until he's seen me beheaded with his own eyes."
"Isn't he afraid your outside friends will catch and kill him?"
"He's afraid."
"But he still wants to watch you die?"
"Yes."
"Who did you kill? Wife? Parents? Siblings?"
"I killed his boss, Aegon."
"A man who avenges his boss shouldn't die!" Polliver praised sincerely. "Chiswick, we should let him be. Besides, we can't find him anyway. Let's just go back to Clegane."
"I will find him as soon as I'm out." Chiswick said coldly.
…
Smack!
A loud slap echoed.
The begging boy staggered, and the cloth bundle on his shoulder slipped off. Inside, broken bowls, a gray cloak, and other items spilled to the ground, along with a finely crafted short sword gleaming coldly.
The sword was picked up by a filthy, thick hand.
"Tsk, tsk, nice sword. Where'd you steal this, kid?"
The gang leader admiring the blade wasn't angry but laughed. "Boys, tear his mouth apart, and strip his pants off!"
Bang!
The loudmouth boy was first to strike, a punch straight to a man's nose, knocking him out and sending him crashing backward.
Thus began a fierce fight: one boy against twenty.
Agile and strong, the boy quickly felled several enemies. The others dared not approach.
The leader playing with his dagger lost his smile and shouted, "How dare you beg in my territory and hurt my men? Boys, draw your blades! Take him down!"
Knives, daggers, and cleavers gleamed as they slashed toward the boy. Though he knocked down several foes, he was cut across his chest, back, arms, and belly. Blood splattered; wounds deep to the bone!
He dodged several deadly dagger stabs.
"Cut him down!" the leader yelled, furious and bloodthirsty after seeing his men fall again.
A dozen blades rose high. The boy's movements slowed.
He sneered, "Cut down your grandpa, you're still my grandsons."
The gang leader roared and joined the fray with his sword.
"Get lost!" a voice rang out.
Soft but chilling, it sent a shiver through everyone.
Turning, they saw a man with an unusually large head and a terrible scar across his forehead striding forward.
Behind him were three others, one a tall bald man wearing black armor emblazoned with a fearsome emblem of three dogs that struck terror in friend and foe alike.
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