Lance felt nothing at all after taking his first life.
No nausea. No trembling. No guilt.
Perhaps it was because he was now fused with the template of Khal Drogo.
After all, for the Khal of the Dothraki Sea, killing once or twice a day was nothing unusual.
He clamped a hand tightly over Coombs' mouth and pressed the longsword against his throat.
"Try moving again," he hissed coldly, "and I'll send you straight to the afterlife—where that disgusting wretch is already waiting for you."
Fenley, on the other hand, stood frozen. The sudden, bloody strike had stunned him into silence.
[Current Character Template: Khal Drogo – Fusion Level: 30.2%]
Lance frowned slightly.
Two kills, and the fusion bar had only crawled up by 0.2%. At this rate, he would need to slaughter hundreds to reach full synchronization.
Still, even at thirty percent, the raw power coursing through him was more than enough to handle scum like these.
If only he had a curved arakh instead of this awkward longsword—his fighting edge would be even sharper.
"Open the cell door," he ordered, jerking his chin toward Fenley.
"And do it slowly. Don't even think about calling for help. Even if reinforcents arrive, I'll have more than enough ti to kill you both first. Understand?"
Fenley swallowed hard, eyes darting to his master's bulging stare. Coombs' face was twisted in terror, silently begging him not to provoke Lance.
Fortunately, cowardice was Fenley's strongest trait.
Hands trembling, he pulled a key from his belt and, with great hesitation, unlocked the king's cell.
"I'm free!"
Aerys II stumbled out, tears streaming down his face.
The Mad King—descendant of dragonlords—had been caged like an animal for half a year. For him, this was the greatest humiliation ever borne by a Targaryen.
"Stay behind , Your Grace," Lance murmured.
Once the king slipped behind his back, Lance shot Fenley a wolfish grin.
"Thank you, friend."
Fenley managed a nervous laugh of relief. "N-no proble—"
Shhk!
The sword flashed, swift and rciless.
Blood sprayed. Fenley clutched his throat in disbelief, eyes wide with betrayal, before collapsing beside Biber's corpse.
Warm arterial spray splattered across Coombs' face. He shook violently, eyes bulging, muffled cries trapped beneath Lance's palm.
"What's that?" Lance whispered mockingly into his ear. "Let guess—you're trying to say you can help us escape, if only I let you live?"
"Mm! Mmm!" Coombs nodded frantically, tears welling, desperate for a chance.
But Lance's tone turned colder, sharper than steel.
"You and that whore of a sister of yours deserve nothing but death. If not for your scheming, Denys Darklyn would never have dared to lay hands on the king."
He pressed harder, forcing the blade to bite into flesh.
"Half a year, this town has starved—surrounded, suffocating—while you glutted yourselves and ignored the dying. You made us all suffer."
Coombs thrashed, but Lance's arm locked around him like iron shackles. He was utterly powerless.
Lance leaned close, his voice a final verdict.
"Don't worry, wretch from Myr. You won't be alone. Your sister. Denys Darklyn. All of you will pay. I'll send every last one of you to the Seventh Hell."
With a swift, rciless slash, the blade tore across his throat.
Blood burst forth in a gory fountain. The once-proud libertine of Duskendale toppled lifelessly, collapsing atop the body of his beloved Biber.
Lance exhaled slowly, sheathing the sword.
He glanced at the trembling, wild-eyed king.
"It's ti to go, Your Grace."
When it was all over, Lance stood over the four corpses littering the floor.
For the first ti in what felt like forever, a smile tugged at his lips.
In the mories of his forr life, he had been Duskendale's youngest genius blacksmith.
Not rich, but comfortable. His craft brought him food, drink, and respect.
All of that ended when Coombs and his sister arrived.
The sister, Serala, word her way into the bed of Denys Darklyn, Lord of Duskendale. And with her ca ruin.
Once a ruler who cared for his people, Denys began listening only to her whispers. He defied the Iron Throne, demanding new charters, extravagant rights, and privileges for his townsfolk—concessions no sane king would grant.
On the surface, it looked like benevolence. But everyone with half a brain could see the ambition beneath.
Of course Aerys rejected such insolence.
Denys' answer? He withheld taxes from the crown.
That act of rebellion set the stage: Aerys himself rode to Duskendale, unguarded, to face Denys—and was promptly shackled like a common criminal.
What shocked Lance most, however, was the king's own words:
Even the mad audacity of kidnapping the King of Westeros had not co from Denys. No. It had been Serala's idea. And Denys had agreed without hesitation.
---
"I… whose clothes should I wear?"
Aerys' voice was shaky as he watched Lance strip the first guard—the one he had killed with a single elbow strike. The boy donned the man's white cloak and armor, folding the bloodied robe with surprising care before tucking it into his chest.
The king glanced at the other corpses. All their clothes were soaked red, useless as disguises. For a mont, Aerys stood lost.
"You won't need one."
With a sharp clink, Lance snapped black iron shackles around the king's wrists. Aerys stiffened, his eyes darting upward in confusion.
Lance only grinned, teeth flashing.
"Ti to move, old prisoner."
---
Outside Duskendale
In the royal encampnt, a storm raged beneath the tent of war.
Every mber of the King's Council was present. Yet the one seated at the head was not a Targaryen, but a lion.
He was tall and broad, with golden hair and a neatly grood beard. His crimson plate armor glead in the lamplight, embossed with the proud lion of Lannister in beaten gold. A vast cloak, embroidered with threads of gold, hung from his shoulders.
Around his neck lay the badge of office: a chain of golden hands linked together. His every movent radiated command.
"Rescue or negotiation, my lords?" one voice cried out.
"To storm the walls outright would be madness. If Denys Darklyn feels cornered, he may slay His Grace on the spot!"
The speaker, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, slamd a fist onto the table. Silver hair glead in the firelight, proof of his proud Valyrian blood. The Velaryons had always been loyal to House Targaryen, and he would not sit idle while his king languished in chains.
But the man at the head of the council hardly blinked.
"Calm yourself, my lord." Tywin Lannister's voice was soft, but it carried like steel. His green eyes flickered with disdain.
"Denys Darklyn is a coward. He will not dare strike."
"We cannot gamble with the king's life!" Lucerys shot back, refusing to yield.
Tywin only glanced at him, expression cool.
"Perhaps he will strike. Perhaps not. And if he does…" Tywin's lips curled into sothing between a sneer and a smile, "then we will have a better king."
The words struck the tent like a thunderclap.
Every man present knew who he ant. No one thought he was jesting. But neither did any dare speak against him.
For all his madness, Aerys inspired little loyalty. And in truth, Prince Rhaegar seed every inch the ruler his father was not.
"…I do not agree," Lucerys ground out, teeth clenched. His loyalty to the dragon line burned hot, even as doubt flickered across the others' faces.
Before he could say more, the tent's flap burst open.
A knight strode in, clad head to toe in white armor and cloak. His steps were heavy, resolute.
Without a word, he unsheathed his longsword and drove the point into the dirt, kneeling on one knee. Both hands gripped the hilt. His deep voice carried through the tent, low and steady.
"I swore an oath to protect the king. If you an to storm Duskendale, then grant one more night. At least allow the chance to bring His Grace back alive."
All eyes turned.
"Ser Barristan…" Tywin's sharp gaze lingered on him. "How many n do you require? You understand too many will risk discovery."
The knight rose slowly, drawing his sword free, his presence filling the tent like a prowling lion. His voice rumbled with unshakable resolve:
"I, Barristan Selmy, require no one."
User Comments
0 comments from readers