Luke stood on the deck of the Queen of the Arbor. The sea wind whipped his cloak loudly.
Around him was the dense Redwyne fleet. More than two hundred warships glead coldly in the sunlight. But at this mont, the masters of these ships knelt before him, trembling.
He had "forced" Lord Redwyne to gather all the senior commanders of the fleet onto this flagship.
Those knights, captains, and officers knelt before him one by one, receiving the invisible electric light shot from his eyes.
That was the "spiritual imprint"!
So trembled, so wept, so gritted their teeth and tried to resist, but in the end they all lowered their heads before that irresistible force.
"ntal control" could make a person submit wholeheartedly to a large extent, but it consud a great deal of ntal energy and had a limited number of slots — only twenty.
Moreover, ntal control had a distance limit. If the target was too far away, it would lose effect. He had already tested it — the effective range was roughly the distance from Harrenhal to Riverrun!
The "spiritual imprint," while unable to forcibly control others, had an upper limit more than ten tis that of ntal control and had no distance restriction.
The "spiritual imprint" was equivalent to a "ti bomb" planted in the brain. Luke could detonate it at any ti.
Even from Draco, he could sense the spiritual imprints of the Web branch heads scattered across the Seven Kingdoms or Essos.
He could detonate those spiritual imprints at any mont, causing the target splitting headaches, turning them into idiots, or even causing imdiate brain death!
Lord Redwyne knelt at the back. The blood from his nose had dried, leaving two dark red streaks on his face.
His eyes were red, whether from crying or from the spiritual pressure.
"Your Grace, my sons…"
"I will do my best to save them." Luke patted his shoulder, his tone gentle as if comforting an old friend.
In truth, he had no intention of saving those two hostages.
Saying "I will do my best to save them" was just empty words, rely to maintain his "rciful image" as king and Son of God.
He wished all the old nobles would die out!
He ordered Marcus to send n to board the Queen of the Arbor and directly control Lord Redwyne's life — an extra layer of insurance.
Thus, with the commander captured, this fleet known as the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms was taken in such an absurd manner.
To deceive the outside world, he also had the Redwyne fleet pretend to blockade Lannisport.
From a distance, the blue grape banners still fluttered, the warships still patrolled the sea — everything appeared normal.
No one knew that the master of the fleet had changed.
Luke urgently flew to Crakehall Hall.
House Crakehall's castle sat on a hill beside the coastal road in the Westerlands. The walls were not high but very thick — a typical Westerlands mountain castle.
At this mont, faint smoke still rose above the castle. The air was filled with the sll of burning.
A rebellion had broken out inside Crakehall Hall.
House Crakehall had betrayed them. The Draco commander stationed there had been killed. Crakehall Hall had nearly fallen.
However, the Draco soldiers fought bravely. According to warti regulations, the officers imdiately promoted new commanders and held the castle at the cost of one thousand casualties.
One thousand n.
One thousand soldiers he had personally trained and brought out.
Luke landed in the castle square, retracting his flaming six wings.
The surrounding soldiers all raised their hands in salute and shouted "Long live His Grace!"
He did not respond. He only looked at the corpses covered with white cloths on the ground.
Under the white cloths were faces he recognized.
The young man who always ran at the front during training in Draco. The lad who marched with the most perfect steps during the parade. The soldier who held a guitar and sang by the campfire at night…
They all lay there now, never to rise again.
"Your Grace, the rebel leaders have been captured," the new commander stepped forward and saluted crisply, his voice trembling slightly. "Daven Crakehall, current head of House Crakehall."
Daven Crakehall was dragged forward.
His face was beaten beyond recognition, covered in blood and filth. All his teeth were broken. His hair was matted with blood. Two soldiers held him down on his knees, but he was still struggling, still cursing.
"False king! Evil god! You will die a horrible death!"
This was the second son, not the eldest. The heir to Crakehall Hall was currently receiving education in Draco.
Luke looked at him.
House Crakehall — he had kindly spared their younger generation, but these fellows showed no gratitude.
He rembered this family. In Tywin's camp, the previous Lord Crakehall had been the one who shouted, "So what if he can fly? If he dares co, my archers will turn him into a porcupine!"
"Your brother is a hostage in Draco. Do you not care about his life or death?" Luke asked.
"Hahahaha…" Daven laughed wildly. Blood and spit sprayed from his toothless mouth. "False king! You killed my father. How could I possibly submit to you? My brother will not bla ! He will only bla for not killing more of your soldiers!"
Luke was silent for a mont. Then he smiled. The smile was very cold.
"Good. Very good. House Crakehall has committed treason by colluding with the enemy. Their titles are revoked. The entire clan will be executed. After we finish dealing with the Reach forces, the execution will be carried out in the square of your family castle."
Daven froze. The wild laughter on his face stiffened and twisted into genuine terror.
"No, you can't! Tyrant! You cannot do this! You will suffer retribution!"
Luke no longer looked at Daven.
He turned to the mbers of House Crakehall kneeling on the ground and spoke in a voice that was not loud but drove every word like a nail into their ears: "You could have lived."
He raised his hand. A fla condensed in his palm, orange-red, like a blooming flower.
Then he waved his hand. The fla flew out and landed on the main tower of House Crakehall's castle.
BOOM!!!
Flas instantly engulfed the entire tower. Black smoke billowed into the sky. That was House Crakehall's eight-hundred-year-old foundation — a castle that had existed before Aegon the Conqueror's landing — now reduced to ashes in the inferno.
"Pass the order," Luke said to the commander beside him. "All mbers of House Crakehall are to be imprisoned. After the war ends, they will be publicly executed. Not a single one will be spared."
The new commander straightened his back. "As you command, Your Grace!"
Horn blasts tore through the afternoon stillness.
Four thousand n ford ranks beneath the ruined walls of Crakehall Hall. Their silver armor glead coldly in the sunlight. Spears stood like a forest, shields like a wall.
Behind them was the still-smoking castle. Beneath their feet was ground soaked with the blood of their comrades. So still had red eyes. So still had bloodstains on their armor that hadn't been wiped clean. But every single one of them looked in the sa direction… where their king stood.
Luke slowly rose into the air. Nine flying knives gleaming with cold light appeared around him, hovering in the air like nine icy stars.
He did not give the usual long motivational speech. His face was cold and solemn as his gaze swept across every face.
"Will you follow to kill our way out and avenge our fallen brothers?!"
The entire army's blood boiled. They let out a thunderous roar.
Four thousand throats erupted with the sa cry at once: "Kill!"
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The sound rolled across the plain like thunder, crashed against the cliffs like a tsunami, shaking loose stones from the walls.
To fight side by side with His Grace was the highest honor.
In Draco, people had begun saying that "so family trees deserve three extra pages."
If a man could bring such glory to his family, his na would be written alone on a page, separated from his ordinary ancestors, so that future generations opening the family record would see him first.
Luke mounted his horse and took the silver-white lance from his guard. The spearhead glead dazzlingly in the sunlight, like a frozen bolt of lightning.
"Move out!"
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