Big Iron Head.
In Lannisport, Big Iron Head's reputation even surpassed that of the Mountain.
The Mountain was infamous across the Seven Kingdoms, but Big Iron Head was the most feared name among the thugs and gangsters of Lannisport.
When Chiswick appeared, the local hoodlums immediately lost their nerve. The more cowardly ones quietly slipped away along the street, while the bolder ones dropped their knives in fright.
The gang leader's short sword suddenly felt like a red-hot branding iron in his hand.
He dropped it and fled immediately.
Not run, walk.
He was too afraid that running would make Chiswick unhappy.
It would look too cowardly.
And Big Iron Head Chiswick loathed nothing more than a man with no guts.
He had conquered all the gangs of Lannisport with nothing but courage and loyalty. Gang leaders across the city took pride in simply being associated with him.
This street was tucked away in a poor corner of town, no wealth to be made here, just a cluster of the impoverished.
And the poorer the place, the more violence festered.
The gang members followed their leader's retreat, reluctant to go but far too afraid to stay.
They wanted to stay and maybe follow someone stronger, but Chiswick's name was too overwhelming. To these street rats, he was a legend.
Even if they wished to join him, they felt too unworthy, crippled by their own inferiority and shame, like an illiterate peasant daring to approach a royal.
"You bastards just gonna leave your brothers behind?" Chiswick snapped.
The fleeing thugs froze like soldiers hearing a command.
They turned, eyes averted, and scrambled to help their fallen comrades, dragging them away without another word.
"You're the leader?" Chiswick asked, brow furrowed.
The gang leader trembled. Few street bosses could stand tall in front of the infamous Big Iron Head.
He wasn't heartless, just scared out of his wits.
When Chiswick shouted at him to get lost, he did so instantly, so instantly, he forgot to bring his men with him.
That, to Chiswick, was an unforgivable sin.
Loyalty was the bedrock of Chiswick's rule.
His men followed him not for riches or ambition, but because of this very loyalty. If you were one of his, you were always right, even when wrong.
Chiswick wasn't the type to preach about justice, honor, or law. To him, those were all crap. His brothers, that was all that mattered.
And to be called Chiswick's brother… you had to be anything but normal.
Being unafraid of death was the bare minimum.
The gang leader could barely breathe under Chiswick's gaze. His eyes darted nervously, his knees weak, his stomach churning.
"I… I'm their leader…" he stammered.
"Cut yourself. Then get lost." Chiswick growled, disgusted by these spineless, disloyal cowards.
"…Yes, Ser."
The gang leader, as if receiving a pardon, yanked out his short blade and slashed his own arm.
No hesitation.
Ser Polliver grinned madly as he watched Chiswick in action.
He loved men with this kind of spine, true Clegane material.
Cowards were the ones Polliver hated most. As for loyalty, he didn't really understand it. His only principle was following the Mountain. If the Mountain said kill, he killed. No questions.
The thugs disappeared down the street, dragging their injured comrades with them.
Only the bloodied beggar boy, Foulmouth, remained.
"You came out?" Foulmouth asked, smiling faintly, utterly unafraid.
"I came out." Chiswick replied.
His gaze could cut like a hook, but like Polliver, the boy seemed unfazed.
"Alright, you win. Do it." said Foulmouth. "When I get to hell, I'll stop by the brothel and say hello to your dear mother, ha! Then she and I will come back together and fetch you."
Chiswick picked up a fallen short sword. "Good blade. Foulmouth, to see me executed, you were even willing to pose as a beggar and stick around. That's loyalty. Come with me!"
The grin on Foulmouth's face slowly faded into stunned disbelief.
"You want me to go with you?"
"Aegon's dead. He was a coward, not worthy of a brother like you. Only I am.
I came here for you, so you can be my brother, Foulmouth."
With that one sentence, Chiswick tied Foulmouth's life to his forever.
Everything Chiswick owned would now belong to Foulmouth as well.
No vows were needed.
No oaths to family, gods, or the Seven.
Nothing had more weight than Chiswick saying, "You are my brother."
Foulmouth was speechless.
He had been ready to die.
No one had ever defied Chiswick and lived to tell the tale, until now.
And Chiswick hadn't even asked Ser Polliver's opinion before offering the brotherhood.
"Why?" Foulmouth asked, his words no longer foul.
"There are a thousand in the Seagull Gang. Only you stood up to avenge your boss Aegon." said Chiswick.
"You're the only one among them with any loyalty.
Foulmouth, come with me."
"Alright!" Foulmouth laughed, though his body trembled.
He was soaked in blood, stabbed several times, standing only by sheer will.
"You can't handle a few cuts? Still too soft-boned." Chiswick muttered.
"Ser Polliver, does Clegane's Keep have a maester?"
"There's one."
"Good." Chiswick turned back to Foulmouth. "If you're gonna be my brother, your bones better be the hardest. Come on. There are horses just down this street."
"Alright!"
Somehow, a surge of strength shot through Foulmouth's battered body.
His legs, moments from collapse, steadied under him.
It felt like magic, an unfamiliar power he hadn't known he possessed.
Even he was shocked.
That was Chiswick's true talent, his word alone could send thugs charging into battle or awaken a strength they never knew they had.
Polliver and Chiswick led the way. Two guards followed behind, with Foulmouth, still bleeding, walking in the middle.
Though nearly fainting with each step, he left a long, bloody trail behind him, staggering down the street until, finally, he collapsed.
He passed out at the street's edge.
The poor folks of the neighborhood stood silently in doorways and windows, watching a pale, bloodied youth drag himself down the lane, leaving only silence and blood behind.
...…
Inside the great hall of Clegane Keep
The Mountain stood before Big Iron Head, who knelt on one knee.
His head truly was massive, unlike that of a normal man.
A deep, twisted scar ran across his forehead, pale violet, coiling like a monstrous centipede.
Just one look made Lady Jeyne and Mrs. Ellen recoil.
This man, Chiswick, radiated violence.
Even a single glance from his eyes could haunt your dreams.
"Big Iron Head." the Mountain rumbled, "from now on, you serve me as one of my soldiers. Any objections?"
"Ser Mountain." Chiswick replied, "from this day forth, my life is yours."
He didn't call him Ser Gregor, but simply Ser Mountain.
"But, ser, I do have one last regret." Chiswick added.
"I have a dozen brothers still rotting in the black cells of Lannisport.
I beg you, help me save them."
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