The man's voice was calm, like he was just saying the weather was fine. But the words made Gelin's blood run cold.
Those gray eyes held zero human warmth. Just pure, animal madness.
He wasn't joking. This guy would actually do it.
"You… who the hell are you?" Gelin forced the words out, right hand sliding toward the spare dagger at his back. "Let me go and I'll pay you… whatever you want."
"Money?" The burned man tilted his head. The movement twisted the scars on his face into something even uglier. "How much could you even have?"
"As much as you want…"
"Forty thousand gold dragons."
Gelin stared. "What… what did you just say?"
"Can't even scrape together forty thousand?" The man looked disappointed, then grinned like he was enjoying this. "Then why the fuck are you talking about bribes?"
Crazy. Gelin decided right then the man in front of him was completely insane.
Forty thousand gold dragons? If he had that kind of coin, would he be out here trying to kill Oberyn Martell?
Fucking lunatic.
But even while thinking that, Gelin's hand moved fast. He shoved his left hand up to break free and yanked the dagger from behind his back, driving it straight at the man's gut.
The strike was quick and mean. He'd killed plenty of men with it before.
Today was different.
The burned man didn't dodge. He just slapped Gelin's arm with his free hand.
Crack.
Gelin felt his wrist shatter. The dagger flew out of his grip, spun through the air, and stuck in the ground twenty paces away.
"Argh!" Gelin screamed.
The burned man grabbed his head and smashed it into the stone.
Thud.
Gelin's forehead cracked against the flagstones. His nose broke with a wet snap. Blood poured down his face.
"Cough… fuck…" Gelin spat blood and broken teeth.
He forced his head up with the one eye he could still open. The burned man hadn't moved an inch. Noon sun lit him from behind, turning him into a dark silhouette with a monstrous face.
"Who… the fuck… are you?" Gelin rasped.
The burned man still didn't answer. He just slowly drew the massive greatsword from his back.
The blade was huge. Most men needed two hands to lift it. In his grip it looked almost light.
"Wait!" Gelin panicked. "Wait! We can talk! Name your price!"
"Save it. A broke bastard who can't even find forty thousand gold dragons."
The man kept walking toward him, sword in hand.
Four men burst from the shadows on either side of the street. Gelin's backup. The ones who were supposed to help if things went loud or sideways.
They spread out fast, trying to surround the burned man. One had a crossbow already loaded, bolt aimed at the man's chest.
Gelin felt a spark of hope.
Four on one. With a crossbow.
Even this monster couldn't win that.
Twang.
The crossbowman fired first. The bolt flew straight at the burned man's chest.
The man raised his left hand and blocked with his vambrace.
Clang.
The bolt bounced off steel and dropped to the ground, bent.
The crossbowman stared. That bolt should've punched through plate.
Before he could react, the burned man was already on him. He didn't even swing the greatsword. He just thrust it forward like a spear.
Shunk.
Steel punched through the man's chest and out his back. He looked down at the blade sticking out of him, eyes wide, then went limp.
The burned man yanked the sword free and turned.
The other three finally charged.
It was over in seconds. Three more bodies hit the ground. Clean kills. No wasted movement. Just brutal efficiency.
Gelin lay there watching, blood turning cold.
He'd seen good fighters before. Never anything like this.
"You…" Gelin's voice shook as the man walked toward him again. That burned face triggered something in his memory. "You're… you're the—"
Footsteps and shouting came from both ends of the street.
"Drop your weapons!"
"Hands up!"
Gold Cloaks. Two full squads, about thirty men, closing in from both sides.
They'd heard the fighting. Silk Street wasn't empty during the day.
"Drop it!" the squad leader barked, sword pointed at the burned man. "Now!"
Spears and swords came up. One word and the man would be full of steel.
The burned man didn't move. He just stood there, greatsword at his side, blood dripping from the tip. Sunlight lit his ruined face against the corpses around him.
For a moment everything stayed still.
Then the squad leader's eyes went wide. He recognized Oberyn.
"That's Prince Oberyn Martell! You attacked the prince?!"
The burned man finally spoke. "Not me. Them."
He pointed at the bodies, then at Gelin.
"Bullshit!" another Gold Cloak shouted. "The prince is cut to hell and you're the only one standing. You killed him and the ones who tried to help!"
The burned man stayed silent for a second. He looked at the unconscious Oberyn, then at Gelin.
Then he sheathed the greatsword and turned to face the Gold Cloaks.
His face came fully into the light.
Gasps ran through the squad. Some of the younger men stepped back.
The squad leader stared. Recognition hit hard.
"You're… the Hound."
Yes. Sandor Clegane. The man who'd left King's Landing months ago.
"You know me?" the Hound asked.
"Blackwater," the squad leader said. "I saw you hold that tower by yourself. Killed dozens. Then you came out covered in blood and told the king to go fuck himself."
The tension eased a little. They'd fought on the same side once.
But then one of the older soldiers spoke up. "Captain… there's still a warrant out for him. He insulted the king and walked away."
The squad leader's face tightened. Arrest him? With these men? Look at the four clean kills on the ground.
Let him go? If it came back on them later, they were finished.
He was stuck.
"Secure the scene," he decided. "Send word to the Red Keep and the City Watch command. Everyone else stays put."
He looked at the Hound. "You don't move until higher-ups get here."
Hoofbeats sounded from the far end of the street. Urgent. Getting closer fast.
A group of riders appeared. Leading them was a black horse. The rider wore dark clothes, cloak snapping in the wind.
The Gold Cloaks turned. When they saw who it was, the squad leader's face lit up with relief.
"Make way!"
He hurried forward. "Ser Corleone! We found Prince Oberyn attacked and badly wounded. Five bodies. One survivor. And this man—Sandor Clegane. We think he's the killer."
"I'm not a ser," the Hound said.
Corleone dismounted. "Who's the survivor?"
"Unknown. But he's breathing. Probably knows something."
Corleone walked over to Gelin, checked him quickly, then signaled Rolje.
Rolje grinned and stepped up to the Gold Cloaks with a heavy coin pouch. Gold dragons flashed in the sun.
"Hard work today, lads," Rolje said. "Little something for drinks."
He started handing out coins. Ten gold dragons each. When he reached the captain, he just gave him the whole pouch.
The squad leader's smile was blinding.
"Leave this with me," Corleone said. "You get back to patrolling. I'll handle the report to Ser Adam and Lord Tywin. Credit stays yours."
The captain saluted fast. "Whatever you need, Ser Corleone."
Twenty men cleared out in under a minute.
Now only Corleone's people, the Hound, Gelin, and the unconscious Oberyn remained.
Corleone checked Oberyn, stopped the bleeding as best he could, and had Rolje's men carry him back to the Hall of Order.
Then he checked Gelin. Broken nose, swollen face, broken wrist. Nothing fatal.
Only then did he walk over to the Hound.
The two men looked at each other.
The Hound grinned. "You're late, Vito Corleone."