The Ironborn, a people who live for raiding and killing, who see survival and glory as one and the same.
They do not worship the Old Gods of the First Men, nor do they revere the Seven of the Andals.
They worship the Drowned God.
The Ironborn's sacred creed: "What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."
They believe that those who follow the Drowned God never truly die. Death, to them, is merely a passage to the Drowned God's watery halls, where they are served forever by mermaids in splendor.
During the rite of baptism in the Drowned God's name, an Ironborn is forcibly held underwater until they drown, or nearly do. Then, using crude and primitive methods of resuscitation, they are brought back. To rise again (as their creed proclaims) symbolizes rebirth, and a return stronger than before.
Those who fail to come back are deemed unworthy, lacking true faith in the Drowned God.
The ruling great house of the Iron Islands is House Greyjoy, whose lord is Balon Greyjoy.
Their house words: "We Do Not Sow." This phrase reflects their disdain for the so-called "greenland" peasants, soft, delicate, cowardly folk who till the land instead of seizing what they want.
To Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, the Ironborn were nothing more than savage, backward, bloodthirsty pirates who took genuine pleasure in slaughter.
In their eyes, life was not sacred, it was a thing to be trampled, just as Gregor himself had always believed.
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This time, the Mountain hadn't brought many men with him, just three of his brothers-in-arms: Raff, Polliver, and Dunsen.
He'd also brought along a few greenhorn mounted warriors from local villages, lads who had yet to take a life.
This was their chance to get blooded.
The Lord apparently had no intention of disciplining the Ironborn, nor was Gregor allowed to do it himself. So, he stayed low-profile. Few knew of his presence, else blood would certainly have been spilled.
Only the three Clegane men and a few native cavalry accompanied him. These rookies needed battle experience.
When the Mountain entered the tavern, he spotted a group of Ironborn drinking upstairs in one of the private rooms.
Ironborn were easy to identify.
First, their clothes were filthy, in shades of gray or black, and their faces were darkened by constant sea wind exposure.
Second, their speech had a unique, slurred quality, as if they were always talking with marbles in their mouths.
Third, they never wore armor.
Sailors avoided armor, falling into the sea in plate meant sinking like a stone.
But the Iron Islands were home to a fleet that rivaled any in the Seven Kingdoms, the infamous Iron Fleet.
Its commander, Victarion Greyjoy, Balon's second brother, was a devout follower of the Drowned God. He wore heavy armor even at sea, believing the god's favor would keep him from drowning.
His men followed his example: every one of them armored to the teeth, wielding massive axes, and utterly fearless.
It was said that, in all the Seven Kingdoms, no naval force could match the Iron Fleet in open sea warfare.
But the Ironborn currently selling iron ore were not from the Iron Fleet.
That was clear from their banners and noble house sigils stitched into their clothing.
The flags flown by the five iron ore ships bore a red field with a black warhorn edged in gold, the heraldry of House Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, from Great Wyk, the largest island in the Iron Islands.
House Goodbrother was one of the most powerful noble houses on Great Wyk.
Their seat at Hammerhorn was nestled deep in the island's mountainous interior, far from the open sea. Their wealth came primarily from their iron-rich mines.
Ironborn iron ore was sold throughout the Westerlands, the North, the Riverlands, the Reach, and Oldtown.
Westerland lords knew the game all too well: the Ironborn charged them the highest prices.
Why? Because the Westerlands had gold mines, they were rich, especially House Lannister
They lacked nothing, except iron.
Even when prices spiked quarterly, the Westerlords had no choice but to accept.
They had no iron ore of their own, and the Ironborn could sell elsewhere if pushed.
Iron was always in demand.
The Westerlands couldn't do without it.
That was extortion, plain and simple.
But that was the Ironborn way: if they had the upper hand, they pressed it, hard. The concept of "quit while you're ahead" simply didn't exist in their worldview.
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When the Mountain entered the inn, the owner was so terrified he hid his wife and daughter before nervously approaching the table with a forced smile.
Gregor Clegane had claimed the entire first floor, all the other guests had quietly slipped away the moment he arrived.
They were very polite about it, no noise, no fuss.
"Ser Gregor, would you…"
"Leave," Gregor said politely, using only that single word.
The innkeeper didn't argue. He just left.
The room fell into utter silence.
Gregor turned to stare out toward the docks.
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"Hey! Let her go!" A bald, twitchy man called out, his voice timid but determined.
He was tall but looked every bit the commoner, roughspun clothes, a poor excuse for a short blade on his belt, worn like a knight but clearly not one.
To the Ironborn, he was the epitome of a soft-bellied "greenland" weakling.
"Don't come asking for a beating," one thick-armed Ironborn sneered. "Piss off."
"She's my wife," the bald man said, forcing his voice louder though fear danced in his eyes. "Let her go. This is Casterly Rock."
"Your wife?" Another Ironborn laughed. "You? With that face? You're lucky the pigs don't run from you."
The three Ironborn roared with laughter.
More faces appeared from the ship, rough, dark-skinned men with hard eyes and calloused hands.
Shing!
The bald man drew his short blade.
Despite its shabby scabbard, the knife itself gleamed cold and sharp, clearly a fine weapon.
Something in him snapped. He began twitching, his head tilting awkwardly, eyes slanted, the right side of his face spasming.
"Let her go… or I'll kill you," he said mechanically.
The Ironborn howled with laughter.
They'd seen dozens like this, men whose knees quivered with fear but whose mouths clanged like anvils.
As soon as blood was spilled, these types always fell to their knees and begged.
The Ironborn were men born of storm and sea, used to blood and fire, they didn't fear a trembling whelp with a dagger.
"Here," one of them chuckled, slapping his chest, "stab me right here. Try not to shake so much, eh?"
He pulled aside his shirt, revealing a chest like black iron, thick with hair.
Just as expected, the bald man flinched back, stammering, "Let her go. Don't make me do this!"
His pathetic defiance sent the Ironborn into another round of jeering.
Most of them climbed from the ship's hold to watch the show.
"Come on, brother! Don't be shy, stab here!"
The bald man looked up… and caught sight of a figure watching from the highest floor of the tavern.
"Are you really asking me to stab you?" he asked.
"Of course. Just don't, "
Thud!
The short blade sank into the chest of the big Ironborn.
The strike was so sudden, his two companions were still laughing.
Even the Ironborn on deck were still jeering.
But the bald man had already pulled the blade free,
— and plunged it in again.
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