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No Mercy in Meereen
Gawr Weg Dun Mawr Dun was a creature of the Frozen Shore of Westeros, but he had, with the indulgent complicity of his comrades, long since ‘gone native’ and begun dressing Meereenese style. He wore hideous, blousy pants of a dozen different colors, calf high sandals and a painted vest. At least a dozen steel and ceramic plates were sewn into the vest, front and back, like lammelar armor of old.
“Good to go, ser!” bellowed Ned Sallt. He beat on the top of the cab from inside the makeshift cupola they’d built, pounding the improvised armor there like a drum. He jerked the bolt of his machine gun back and swiveled it toward the gate, hand on the butterfly grips, indicating the truck was finally loaded and that the last of the laggards had climbed aboard or were inside their vehicles.
Ser Jorah Stone had been called many things over the many years of a storied career, including Hard Jorah Stone and the Bastard of Bronzewater, but mostly his soldiers now just called him Hardhead.
Five Brazen Beasts sprawled dead or dying beneath a persimmon tree in vast clay pot, their faces covered in the traditional bronze-colored masks of Meereen’s ancient city watch, all splashed with gore and gasping their last.