Creak—
The iron-bound dungeon door groaned open, allowing a sliver of long-forgotten light to spill inside.
The sudden brightness stung his eyes, forcing the king to raise a hand and shield himself from the rare touch of sunlight.
Monts later, the voices of two guards echoed in the corridor.
"What on earth did this brat do to end up here? You know this place is reserved for—"
"You don't know?"
The second guard sounded genuinely surprised, but soon chuckled as he explained:
"They say the kid went to the Golden Pearl brothel. The madam thought she was being clever and gave him a man dressed as a woman. The mont his pants ca halfway down, a fight broke out."
"Biber?? Isn't that even better?" the first guard asked, baffled. "He's the best in town. Even three lords praised him, said no one could match his… skill."
"That's true," the companion sighed, sounding almost regretful at the waste.
"Still, a brawl's not enough to land soone in this dungeon. At most, they'd chop off a finger and let him go."
"Hold on, I haven't finished."
They reached the cell, unlocked the wooden-barred door, and shoved the half-conscious prisoner inside. Dusting his hands, one guard continued:
"This poor bastard had bad luck. He happened to beat up Lady Serala's younger brother's 'favourite' Biber."
"Lord Coombs?"
"Exactly. You know how much Coombs adores Biber—he practically visits him every week."
"So when he saw Biber get beaten, Coombs was furious. Ordered the boy beaten half to death, dragged him here, and told the warden personally to lock him in the death cells."
"Knowing Coombs' temper… I'd say this brat won't live past tomorrow."
The two guards kept chatting casually as they walked away, never sparing so much as a glance at the king inside the cell. To them, he was little more than air.
The king, however, was long used to such treatnt. He glanced at the cell beside him, where a young man lay battered beyond recognition. Bloodshot violet eyes lingered on the boy, unreadable.
Then, out of nowhere, his raspy, cutting voice broke the silence:
"Hey, your na's Fenley, isn't it?"
The guard jolted in surprise, a shiver running down his spine.
Though the king had been imprisoned for nearly half a year, he had exchanged barely a dozen words with lowly guards like him.
For one, the king was said to be mad—always raving, threatening to burn this or that person alive.
For another, Lord Denys Darklyn had repeatedly warned them never to engage him in conversation.
Turning hesitantly, Fenley looked at the withered figure—ssy white hair, gaunt face, the ragged look of a beggar rather than a monarch. Nervously, he replied:
"I… I didn't expect you to rember my na, Y–Your Majesty."
Fortunately, the king did not lash out or rave. Instead, he asked in a calm, almost indifferent tone—
"I need food. And water."
Fenley blinked. Hungry this early?
Strange. Food had been delivered barely two hours ago.
He didn't understand, but he also knew one thing: the king's request was not sothing a man of his station could refuse.
Fenley gave a quick nod and was about to leave with his companion to fetch food when the king's voice rang out again.
"And one more thing."
Fenley turned back. Beneath the pale, tangled strands of hair, the king's bloodshot, crimson-veined eyes glead with sothing unsettling.
Calmly, almost casually, he commanded:
"Bring so sacred oil. I'll need it tonight."
---
Pain.
Agonizing, searing pain.
Lance's eyes snapped open. Aside from the unbearable ache that wracked his body, his head was cramd with a jumble of chaotic mories that didn't belong to him.
Just hours ago, he had been at ho, playing League of Legends. Then—out of nowhere—a passenger jet had co crashing through his living room.
What the hell…? Did I transmigrate?
Sorting through the fragnts of mory in his head, he found it hard to accept.
My na… is Lance?
A blacksmith… from Duskendale?
What kind of sick joke is this?!
As his head throbbed, a voice whispered beside him. A hand slid across his thigh, saring sothing slick and sticky on his skin.
The greasy sensation made his stomach churn.
What the hell is this guy doing? The mories he had inherited scread at him—this world was crawling with degenerates.
"Get your filthy hands off !"
His voice cracked, weak but sharp. He could only pray that his show of bravado would scare the stranger away.
Instead, the darkness answered with a hoarse, eerie voice—tinged with excitent.
"You're awake."
Shit.
It was a man.
Even though Lance had half expected it, the confirmation made his gut tighten. The way this guy was touching him—there was no mistaking his intentions.
"Closer… co closer! I can't reach your shoulder!"
The man ignored Lance's hostility, barking the command with the authority of a king.
"Get the hell off !"
Lance kicked and thrashed as the stranger tugged at his ankle, but his battered body was too weak. Fortunately, the man was no stronger—neither could overpower the other.
Both of them panted heavily after the struggle, glaring in the dark.
At last, the man snarled, voice filled with madness:
"You damned brat! You dare kick the face of the True Dragon three tis? Do you understand the sin you've committed? When I return to King's Landing, I'll burn you alive—reduce you to ashes in dragonfire!"
His fury was genuine, his tone wild. But Lance only scoffed.
"True Dragon? Don't make laugh. If you're really that powerful, why are you rotting in the sa dungeon as ?"
"Fool!" the man roared. "No cage can bind the True Dragon! This is but a temporary rest. When I spread my wings once more, when dragonfire scorches the skies, this filthy city will be nothing but cinders! Denys Darklyn, that oath-breaking cur, will suffer my wrath!"
His voice rose, frothing with hysteria.
"Not just Darklyn! Tywin Lannister! Rhaegar too!"
"They think they can steal my throne, lock away to die? Impossible!"
His words spiraled into manic frenzy.
"Burn them! Burn them all! HAHAHAHA—!"
With each scream, he smashed his skull against the wooden bars, the thud echoing through the dungeon.
Lance cursed under his breath. A lunatic. Who knows how long he's been locked up?
At first, he felt a flicker of pity. But then, two nas stabbed through his haze—
Tywin Lannister?
Rhaegar?
A tidal wave of mories surged into his mind, nearly splitting his skull apart. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself upright, straining to glimpse the figure through the faint moonlight leaking in.
A withered fra. A gaunt, hollow face.
"Y–Your na!" Lance demanded, breath ragged. "Tell your na!"
The man froze. Then, with a grotesque laugh, he clutched his face, peering through his fingers.
"You ask my na? Have the Seven Kingdoms already forgotten their king?"
He lowered his hands. From between the pale fingers, Lance saw them—two violet eyes, shot through with madness, burning in the dark.
And then, the voice rolled out of his throat—not rely speech, but a dragon's growl:
"Before you stands the son of Jaehaerys Targaryen II…"
"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First n… Protector of the Realm… the one and only True Dragon…"
The voice rose into a roar—
"—Aerys Targaryen II!!!"
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