Chapter 170 – You're Late
The man spoke as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather.
But the words themselves made Garin's blood run cold.
Because he could see it in those eyes.
Those gray eyes contained no human warmth whatsoever—only a savage madness that felt closer to a wild beast than a man.
He wasn't joking.
The monster standing before him would genuinely do exactly what he threatened.
"W-Who the hell are you…?"
Garin forced the words through clenched teeth while secretly reaching for the backup dagger hidden behind his waist.
"Let me go… I can pay you… lots of money…"
"Money?"
The burned man tilted his head slightly, the movement twisting the scars on his face into something even more grotesque.
"How much do you have?"
"A-As much as you want…"
"Forty thousand gold dragons."
"…What?"
Garin stared at him in disbelief, wondering if he had misheard.
"You can't even produce forty thousand gold dragons?"
The man sounded genuinely disappointed.
Then he grinned.
A smile filled with naked mockery.
"Then why are you trying to bribe me?"
Madman.
At that moment, Garin became completely certain—
the man before him was utterly insane.
Forty thousand gold dragons?
If I had forty thousand gold dragons, would I be risking my life assassinating Oberyn?!
What kind of lunatic asks for that much?!
But while those thoughts raced through his mind, Garin's hands moved quickly.
His left hand shoved upward violently, trying to break free from the iron grip crushing his skull.
At the same time, his right hand ripped the hidden dagger from his belt and stabbed viciously toward the burned man's abdomen.
Fast.
Precise.
Lethal.
A move he had practiced countless times.
A move that had killed many men before.
But today, he had encountered something entirely different.
The burned man didn't even bother dodging.
He casually swatted the attack aside with his free hand.
Crack!
Garin felt as if his wrist had been struck by a siege hammer.
Bone shattered instantly.
The dagger flew from his hand, spinning through the air before embedding itself into the ground ten paces away.
The hilt trembled violently.
"AAAAAGH!"
Garin screamed—
only to be silenced immediately.
Literally.
Because the burned man suddenly slammed his head into the cobblestones.
Boom!
The impact rang through Garin's skull.
Stars exploded across his vision.
His nose broke instantly, hot blood gushing down his face.
"I told you already."
The burned man crouched slowly, his horrifying face looming inches away.
"Be quiet."
Even then, Garin still tried to struggle.
But the man had already released his head and instead swung a massive backhand across his face.
Later, Garin would remember this moment and conclude that surviving it had to be a blessing from the gods.
Because that slap contained strength no human should possess.
The instant the hand connected, Garin felt as though his entire head might fly off his shoulders.
His ears rang violently.
Then the sheer force of the blow sent him rolling across the ground three full times before he finally stopped.
By then, he no longer knew which direction was up.
The sky spun.
The earth spun.
The entire world spun.
"Cough… cough…"
Garin vomited a mouthful of blood mixed with shattered teeth.
Barely managing to lift his head, he looked toward the burned man with the only eye he could still open.
The man hadn't even moved from his original position.
The midday sunlight behind him cast a golden outline around his body—
yet his face remained buried in shadow.
Monstrous.
"What the fuck… are you…?"
Garin croaked weakly through blood.
The burned man gave no answer.
Instead, he slowly drew the sword at his waist.
A massive two-handed greatsword.
The blade was broad and heavy, its edge gleaming coldly beneath the sunlight.
The leather wrapping around the hilt was badly worn from years of use.
It looked absurdly heavy—heavy enough that an ordinary man would need both hands just to lift it.
Yet in this man's grip, it seemed as light as straw.
"Wait!"
Even through the haze clouding his mind, Garin finally panicked.
"Wait! We can talk! Whatever you want, I'll give it to you!"
"Save it."
The burned man sneered.
"You're too poor to even afford forty thousand gold dragons."
Ignoring the plea entirely, he continued walking toward Garin with the greatsword in hand.
Then—
four figures suddenly burst from the shadows lining both sides of the street.
Garin's companions.
The assassins stationed nearby as backup.
According to the plan, if Garin failed—or if the disturbance grew too large—they were supposed to intervene.
And now they had.
These men were clearly trained killers.
The moment they appeared, they spread out instantly in a fan-shaped formation, surrounding the burned man and cutting off every possible escape route.
One of them already had a crossbow loaded and aimed directly at the man's heart.
Seeing this, hope flickered once more inside Garin.
Four against one.
And they had ranged support.
No matter how strong this monster was, there was no way he could—
Thunk!
The crossbowman fired first.
The bolt shot forward with terrifying speed, aimed perfectly at the burned man's chest.
At less than twenty paces, dodging should have been impossible.
But the burned man didn't dodge.
He simply raised his left arm and let the bolt strike the steel bracer protecting his wrist.
Clang!
The bolt ricocheted away uselessly.
Its tip bent from the impact before clattering onto the ground.
The crossbowman froze in shock.
His bolts could punch through chainmail at fifty paces—
yet they hadn't even pierced the man's bracer.
And in the instant he hesitated—
the burned man moved.
Not like a human being.
Like a nightmare unleashed.
One second, the burned man was standing still.
The next, he was already in front of the crossbowman.
He didn't even swing the greatsword.
He simply thrust it forward like a spear.
Thrust.
The blade pierced straight through the crossbowman's chest and burst out his back.
The man looked down blankly at the sword protruding from his body, disbelief frozen in his eyes, before collapsing lifelessly to the ground.
The burned man yanked the blade free and turned around.
Only then did the other three assassins react.
Roaring in fury, they charged together.
But facing three attackers at once, the man merely grinned.
From beginning to end, the entire fight lasted less than ten breaths.
When it was over, three more corpses lay scattered across the street.
Clean.
Efficient.
Terrifyingly efficient.
Every strike aimed for a vital point.
No wasted movement.
No flashy techniques.
It was as simple and natural as a butcher slaughtering livestock, a farmer harvesting wheat, or someone casually picking apples from a tree.
Garin lay sprawled on the ground, staring at the massacre in utter horror.
It wasn't as if he'd never seen masters before.
He had spent two years across the Narrow Sea as a sellsword.
He had seen Braavosi water dancers.
He had fought alongside Dothraki warriors.
But none of them—
none—
had ever made him feel fear like this.
"Y-You…"
Garin trembled as the man slowly approached again.
Looking at that burned face, a name suddenly flashed through his mind.
"You… you're…"
"Drop your weapons!"
"Don't move!"
"Hands where we can see them!"
Shouts and pounding footsteps erupted from both ends of the street.
Just like every classic story—
the Gold Cloaks finally arrived after everything was basically over.
Two full patrol squads.
Roughly thirty men.
They rushed in from both sides, surrounding the area.
The earlier screams and fighting had clearly drawn their attention.
Even during daylight hours, Silk Street still had enough pedestrians for violence like this to spread quickly.
"Drop the weapon!"
A Gold Cloak sergeant pointed his sword directly at the burned man.
"Now!"
The other guards raised their spears and blades.
At a single order, a dozen spears could pierce the man instantly.
Yet the burned man didn't move.
He simply stood there with the massive sword hanging loosely at his side, blood dripping from the tip.
Under the blazing noon sunlight, his burned face and the corpses surrounding him made him look more terrifying than ever.
For a moment, the entire street froze.
"You…"
The Gold Cloak sergeant suddenly recognized the wounded figure on the ground.
His face changed instantly.
"That's Prince Oberyn!"
He swung back toward the burned man in alarm.
"You attacked the prince?!"
From the scene before them, the conclusion seemed obvious.
Several dead bodies.
A grievously wounded Dornish prince.
A blood-covered surviving attendant sprawled nearby.
And standing over them all—
a scarred giant holding a bloody greatsword.
The answer appeared self-evident.
"Not me," the burned man finally said in his rough voice.
"It was them."
He pointed first at the corpses.
Then at Garin.
"Bullshit!"
Another Gold Cloak barked.
"The prince is covered in wounds! You're the only one standing, and all these men are dead!"
"You attacked the prince and killed the others when they came to help!"
Honestly?
It was a very reasonable conclusion.
At least from the surface.
The burned man fell silent.
He glanced at the unconscious Oberyn.
Then at Garin.
Finally, he slid the greatsword back into the sheath on his back and turned fully toward the Gold Cloaks.
The movement exposed his face completely beneath the sunlight.
Every scar.
Every twisted burn mark.
Every horrifying detail.
A collective gasp rippled through the Gold Cloaks.
Several younger soldiers instinctively stepped backward, faces pale.
Even hardened veterans found that face difficult to look at.
But the sergeant did not retreat.
Instead, his eyes widened more and more until shock overtook his expression entirely.
"You…"
His voice trembled.
"You're… the Hound."
Yes.
The man standing there was none other than Sandor Clegane — the Hound himself, missing from King's Landing for months.
"You know me?"
The Hound raised an eyebrow.
"The Blackwater…"
The sergeant swallowed nervously.
"The Battle of the Blackwater… I was stationed on the right side of the gate."
"I saw you holding an entire tower by yourself… killing more than twenty of Stannis's men…"
"Then later you came out covered in blood and shouted at the king…"
He trailed off awkwardly.
The memory wasn't exactly pleasant.
But the tension eased slightly.
They knew him.
Had fought beside him once.
That made things complicated.
Then another soldier hesitantly spoke up.
"Captain…"
The middle-aged guardsman lowered his voice.
"After he fled the city, the crown issued a warrant for his arrest…"
"They said he publicly insulted King Joffrey and threatened to…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Sandor Clegane was officially a wanted fugitive.
The sergeant's expression immediately darkened again.
That was true.
After the Battle of the Blackwater, the Hound had famously shouted "Fuck the king" at the still-living Joffrey Baratheon before walking out of the city.
A warrant absolutely existed.
So now what?
Arrest him?
With these twenty men?
The four corpses nearby had all died instantly.
Clean kills.
No wasted effort.
Even back then, Sandor Clegane had already been considered one of the deadliest warriors in the realm beneath the Kingsguard.
Now?
He looked even worse.
Let him go?
Then the captain himself could be charged with dereliction of duty.
The sergeant's mind spun frantically.
A Dornish prince ambushed.
Multiple dead bodies.
A suspected fugitive involved.
This case was far above his rank.
"Secure the area first," he finally ordered cautiously.
"Send someone to the Red Keep."
"And someone else to the City Watch command."
"The rest of you stay alert. Don't do anything reckless."
Then he looked back at the Hound and swallowed.
"You… stay where you are until higher authorities arrive."
The Hound didn't answer.
Because hoofbeats suddenly thundered down the street.
Fast.
Urgent.
A group of riders appeared moments later, galloping toward them.
Roughly a dozen men on horseback.
At their head rode a man dressed in dark clothing atop a black horse, his cloak snapping violently in the wind.
The Gold Cloaks turned warily—
then relaxed almost instantly once they recognized him.
The sergeant looked so relieved he practically seemed ready to cry tears of joy.
"Make way! Move aside!"
He hurried forward personally.
"Ser Odin!"
The captain saluted quickly.
"We discovered Prince Oberyn Martell gravely wounded after an attack."
"There are five corpses at the scene, one surviving witness… and this man…"
He glanced nervously toward the Hound.
"Ser Sandor Clegane. He appears to be the primary suspect."
"I'm not a 'Ser,'" the Hound corrected flatly.
Odin nodded calmly before pointing toward Garin.
"Who's that?"
"Unknown," the sergeant replied.
"But he's alive. He probably knows something."
Odin walked directly toward Garin while casually gesturing behind him.
Seeing the signal, Rorge grinned broadly, exposing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.
He stepped before the Gold Cloaks carrying a heavy coin pouch.
When he opened it, golden dragons glittered brightly beneath the sun.
"You lads worked hard today."
Rorge's voice was as ugly as ever, yet strangely friendly.
"Patrolling in this heat all afternoon can't be easy."
"Have a drink on us."
As he spoke, he began handing out coins.
Ten gold dragons each.
An outrageously generous amount.
When he reached the captain, he simply stuffed the entire remaining pouch into the man's arms.
The captain's smile bloomed instantly.
That was why he'd been so thrilled to see Odin arrive.
In King's Landing, everyone knew one thing now:
If you helped the Black Hand, you got rewarded.
Sometimes Odin's orders spread faster than the Hand of the King's.
"I'll handle things from here, Captain," Odin said calmly.
"You and your men continue your patrol."
"I'll personally report this matter to Ser Addam and Lord Tywin."
"Don't worry. The credit will still belong to your squad. I'm only assisting with cleanup."
Beautifully said.
Money.
Recognition.
A graceful exit.
The captain practically glowed.
"T-Thank you, Ser Odin."
He saluted quickly.
"If you need anything, just call for us!"
Moments later, the entire patrol withdrew cleanly and efficiently.
Not even a minute passed before the street was empty again.
No one even glanced twice at the corpses.
That was the power of money.
And influence.
Now only Odin's men remained.
The Hound.
Garin.
And the unconscious Oberyn.
Odin crouched beside Oberyn first and checked his injuries.
The prince was hanging onto life by a thread.
After quickly stopping the bleeding, Odin ordered Rorge to carry him back to the Hall of Order immediately.
Then he moved toward Garin.
Broken nose.
Swollen face.
Shattered wrist.
Bruises and abrasions everywhere.
Painful, but nonfatal.
Only then did he walk toward the Hound.
The two men stared at one another for several long moments.
Then Sandor Clegane grinned.
"You're late, Odin."
(Next Chapter: Chapter 171 – The Tragic Hound)
(KEEP SUPPORTING THE STORY)
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