There were a dozen Fox Clan or more crowded around the end of the yard now, growling and grunting louder and uglier than the hogs.
They waved jagged swords, axes, rough clubs in their fists, a few with shields, too, one at the front with a rusted chain hauberk on, tattered at the hem, straggling hair tangled with rings of rough-forged silver.
'Back.' Whirrun stood tall in front of them, holding out his sword at long arm's length, hilt up, like it was some magic charm to ward of evil.
'Back, and you needn't die today.'
The one in the mail spat, then snarled at him in broken Northern. 'Show us your iron, thief!'
'Then I will. Look upon the Father of Swords, and look your last.' And Whirrun drew it from the sheath.
[...]
Whirrun had hardly moved, the Father of Swords still gripped in his fist, long, dull blade pointing to the ground.
Only now he was spotted and spattered head to toe in blood, and the twisted and hacked, split and ruined corpses of the dozen Fox Clan who'd faced him wre scattered around his boots in a wide half-circle, a few bits that used to be attached to them scattered wider still.
'He killed the whole lot.' Brack's face was all crinkled up with confusion. 'Just like that. I never even lifted my hammer.'
- Sharp Ends, The Fool Jobs