Wide eyes, horrified expression, gaping mouth, trembling hands, and a fountain of blood…
The Ironborn who had been stabbed was even larger and more muscular than the bald madman. His face was as rugged as black rock. But now, all his strength and pride drained away with the blood spraying from his body. His eyes were filled with sheer terror, the Ironborn's belief that "What Is Dead May Never Die" could not shield him from the fear of death.
Two women screamed in panic, tore themselves free from the grasp of two Ironborn men, and bolted, running far from ladylike.
"He kept insisting on it!" the bald madman stammered, trembling as he spoke, clearly frightened by the gushing blood.
Even his own eyes were filled with shock. It seemed he had underestimated how violent a stab could be, startled by the reality of a blade sinking into flesh and unleashing a crimson geyser.
The dockworkers, sailors, captains, Ironborn, and local street vendors all froze in stunned silence.
As the blood-soaked Ironborn collapsed to the ground, his two companions stared in disbelief, unwilling to accept what had just happened.
Even the Ironborn on the ship gaped in astonishment, mouths hanging open. They had been watching a joke unfold, yet in the blink of an eye, it had turned into a bloody act of violence. The madman's attack had come too fast, catching everyone off guard.
"His ring, necklace, shortsword, and dagger… those should all be mine, right?" the bald man said timidly, his face twitching nervously. "I paid the iron price."
Among the Ironborn, paying the iron price, taking something by force, was the only true way to acquire anything.
But those words were dangerous.
The two remaining Ironborn snapped out of their shock. With a sharp swish, they drew their short blades. One lunged at the bald man's chest, the other at his stomach.
The bald man screamed and fell backward, flailing wildly with his own blade. In his panic, he slashed at one of Ironborn's legs again and again. Terrified beyond reason, he stabbed like a chicken pecking at grain, so fast his knife left afterimages,
Thud Thud Thud,
stabbing repeatedly into one Ironborn's thighs.
That Ironborn had barely struck once before the crazed man drove blade after blade into his legs. The second Ironborn missed with his first strike and quickly moved to help, stepping forward, bending down, aiming his knife at the bald man's throat.
But suddenly, he froze.
Someone shouted something.
Without turning his head, the madman lashed out with a backhanded thrust, straight into the Ironborn's gut. The stab was vicious and lightning-fast, the entire blade disappearing into flesh.
The bald man's build was tall, his arms unusually long. After the strike, he spun around from the ground like a monkey, his movements fluid and relentless,
Thud Thud Thud Thud,
driving his blade repeatedly into the man's lower abdomen and groin, so fast that there wasn't even the slightest pause between strikes.
The Ironborn with the stabbed legs managed half a step forward before collapsing, blood soaking his legs as his body spasmed violently on the ground.
The other Ironborn stood stiff as a puppet for a second, then collapsed as well, blade still gripped in hand, eyes wide, already dead.
His lower belly and groin had been savagely torn apart by the madman in the blink of an eye.
From the upper floor, Gregor Clegane watched it all unfold without a word.
He had known that if Polliver drew his blade, someone would die.
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Lord Tywin had told Gregor not to get involved, but in truth, Lord Tywin knew Gregor would come anyway. By saying not to intervene, he subtly shifted Gregor's direct actions to those of his subordinates. Had Lord Tywin instead been given the nod, Gregor might have personally slaughtered all the Ironborn present.
That was the difference between a nod and a shake of the head.
After two decades together, Gregor and Lord Tywin shared a silent understanding that few others could comprehend.
When Lord Tywin said "no," he often meant the opposite, and though others might not catch it, Gregor always did. Sometimes, all it took was a glance for Gregor to know he needed to get his hands dirty.
That was true understanding.
Similarly, when Gregor had instructed his men to simply break the Ironborn's arms and legs, they understood perfectly. If he had said to butcher a few of them, it wouldn't have been just Polliver taking action, they'd all have shown these Ironborn what true blood and terror looked like.
Killing one, or even several, Ironborn was, to Gregor and his loyal men, utterly trivial.
Westerlanders, after all, harbored no fondness for Ironborn. Not the old, not the young, none.
Along the coastline, whether the people of House Tyrell in the southern Reach, the Westerlanders in the west, the Northerners, or those from the Riverlands, not a single soul had a good opinion of the Ironborn.
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From the ship, the Ironborn let out a strange chant, unlike any rallying cry heard elsewhere:
"Lo-lo-lo, lo-lo-lo, lo-lo-lo, "
With that eerie rhythm, the Ironborn on deck leapt ashore, weapons in hand, battleaxes, longswords, war hammers, flails, spears, cleavers, spiked clubs, every kind of brutal weapon imaginable.
The Ironborn were known for their large, heavy, and long weapons.
It was clear at a glance that their fighting style was brute-force and overpowering, focused on raw strength, lacking finesse or agility.
As the chant rang out, more Ironborn burst from nearby taverns along the dock, two here, three or four there.
These men had only short blades and daggers. Their heavy axes and hammers weren't practical for dining, so they'd left them on the ship.
Now, each drew their blade and charged toward the bald madman.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A man struck his chestplate with his scabbard.
It was Dunsen, the fiercest of the Clegane men. Though slightly shorter and leaner than Polliver, his swordsmanship and precision in killing surpassed him.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Raff the Sweetling, who had been squatting nearby enjoying the show, now stood up, drawing his longsword and slapping it against his armored arm.
Though not dressed as soldiers, these men still wore partial armor, covering key spots like the neck, elbows, and shins. It wasn't full plate, but it was enough.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Among the crowd of Westerlanders, several fierce-looking young men also drew swords. With one hand on the hilt and one on the scabbard, they began striking the sword backs against the scabbards in rhythm.
The Ironborn hesitated.
Because five or six Westerlanders had stepped out with weapons, forming up beside the bald madman, matching their rhythm with sharp clangs.
This was Westerland territory, after all.
And Lord Tywin was not someone to be trifled with.
The Ironborn might have had some justification if they were only dealing with one killer. But now, more Westerlanders have stepped in…
That moment of hesitation was enough.
Suddenly, from the streets, the dock, the taverns, the shops, and among the dockworkers, even more Westerlanders stood up, holding whatever weapons they could find: knives, swords, wooden clubs, and began to beat in time.
Clang, clang, clang!
The rhythm intensified into a thundering
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
Mercenaries who had been working the docks appeared as well, pulling out their weapons and pounding on their chest plates.
United in outrage, the Westerlanders rallied together against the twenty-plus Ironborn, matching rhythm and fire in their eyes. Their numbers swelled, quickly surrounding the Ironborn.
Tension crackled in the air.
If the Ironborn so much as touched the bald man, this would explode into a full-blown, bloody brawl.
More Ironborn began emerging from the five iron-laden ships, armed and ready.
But just then, the port guard arrived.
A full squad of soldiers had been dispatched after receiving reports that Ironborn were harassing respectable Westerland women and instigating violence and murder.
The port guard had never had any affection for Ironborn. When the soldiers heard the news, they were furious. Adrenaline surging, they raced to the scene.
The officer in charge of the docks was a distant cousin of House Lannister: Archil Lannis.
He was already seething with rage. When he arrived and saw Dunsen, Raff, and Polliver, the infamous killing trio, standing there, even he was stunned.
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