New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤 ✦ Pointing at the half-conscious Bart, the Dornishman jeered.
“This knight seems to dislike me.
Worse, he clearly has a prejudice against the people of Dorne.” “That is not right.” He sliced off one of Bart’s ears with the spearhead.
“I have heard a saying, that the women of the Vale are uglier than goats.
Is it true?” He kicked Bart’s head.
“Truth be told, I have never had a Vale woman.
I do not know whether they are truly worse than goats.” His smile was foul.
“Tell me, Vale knight.
Give me a little guidance.” Blood loss and pain had left Bart dizzy.
Urged on by the crowd, he mustered the last of his strength.
His lips moved as if he wanted to speak.
The Dornishman crouched, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled him up.
“If you want to speak, speak louder.” “Son of a bitch…
Dornish…
monkey…” Bart coughed blood, spat a mouthful of it across the Dornishman’s face, and gave a weak, ugly laugh.
“You filthy Vale goat.” The spit enraged Degar Orlyan, but he did not kill Bart at once.
A quick death would have been mercy.
He had no wish to give that mercy.
He drove the spear into Bart’s limbs one by one.
Each time, he twisted inside the wound and wrung out more pain.
The torment lasted nearly ten minutes.
Only when Bart finally failed to keep himself conscious did Degar drive the spearpoint through his throat and end it.
“Damn you, Dornishman!
The gods will judge you!” A curse rang from the stands.
An empty cup followed, striking the muddy ground with a sharp crack.
That single shout broke the crowd’s restraint.
More and more people rose from their seats, cursing and hurling whatever came to hand.
Cups.
Apples.
Plates.
Even several ladies’ shoes.
In the crowd, Rhaenyra stared at Degar as he dodged and laughed with open mockery.
As a princess of the realm, she already had little love for Dorne.
Her mother, Aemma Arryn, had come from the ruling family of the Vale.
The Dornishman had not only tortured a Vale knight sworn to the same realm, but had also insulted the women of the Vale without restraint.
Rhaenyra’s desire to kill him needed no further feeding.
“Cole,” she said, turning to Criston, “go down there and duel him.
Kill him for me.” Criston’s face tightened.
“I would gladly serve you, Princess.
That man is vile enough to deserve it.” He hesitated.
“But I am a knight of the Kingsguard.
Without the king’s command, I cannot enter the lists on my own.” “Then I will ask the man who can command it.” Rhaenyra left him and went to Viserys.
Keeping her voice low, she said, “Father, that man is too arrogant.
He is making a mockery of the realm.” “I can send Cole.
He will avenge Ser Bart.” Viserys was already angry enough.
He agreed with her, but forced himself to remain rational.
“Wait.
The realm has many brave knights.
I cannot send a white cloak into the lists on a whim.
Give the young men a chance to show themselves.” The argument was reasonable.
Rhaenyra wanted to answer, but in the end she swallowed the words.
The tourney had to continue.
Lyonel Strong called for order and stopped the crowd from throwing more insults and objects at Degar.
Before all watching eyes, the Dornishman only grew more arrogant.
“Knights of the Vale are weak.
Is there a stronger fighter here?
I want a true opponent, not cowards and soft-handed boys.” He laughed as if daring the entire realm.
“I will face you.” The hateful display drew no shortage of challengers.
A middle-aged knight in silver-gray armor stepped onto the field with a longsword in hand.
“I am Ser Soren Barrott of the Stormlands,” he said in a deep voice.
“Let me teach you that a man should know fear and respect.” Degar’s smile turned playful.
“Is that so?
I hope you still sound so impressive in a moment, storm knight.” Away from the lists, the feast grounds were full of food.
Rows of tables groaned beneath roasted meats, fruits, wine, and sweets.
Noblewomen and young ladies gathered around one table like a private court of their own.
Aelor had claimed a table for himself.
Before him, he had cleared a generous space and filled it with the same kind of pastry.
He did not know what it was called.
It was a small, cup-shaped tart with a dark, chewy, spiced-fruit filling.
“Wonderful.
Who made this?” Aelor ate with a happy curve in his eyes.
‘When I return, I must ask Alicent which cook made these.
From now on, that cook will make them for me.’ As he ate, a figure suddenly sat beside him.
Under Aelor’s puzzled stare, the man took a plate of pastries and began eating with great pleasure.
‘Where did this man come from, and why is he eating my pastries?’ Aelor kept his complaint inside.
There were still several plates, after all.
Reality quickly taught him a lesson.
When something displeases you, failing to stop it only gives it room to become worse.
Aelor had barely eaten a few more bites before the stranger began devouring the pastries like a starving man.
One plate vanished.
“Excellent flavor,” the man muttered.
“A truly devoted cook.” Before Aelor could react, he took another plate.
Then a third.
Then a fourth.
When only the final plate remained, Aelor could endure no more.
He sprang from his chair and shielded the last plate with both hands.
“Do you know who I am?
You dare steal my pastries.
Are you always this bold?” He made an impressive show of outrage.
Unfortunately, his childish voice and round cheeks robbed the threat of any force.
He looked more like a child defending a toy than a prince issuing judgment.
The stranger scratched his curly hair in distress.
“You are a prince, but the pastries on the table are meant for guests, are they not?” Aelor grew even angrier.
“You know I am a prince, and you still steal from me?” “You did not even spare the last plate.
You are stealing food from a child.
Have you no shame?” “Ah…” The man looked entirely unashamed.
“Food recognizes neither age nor rank.
Besides, Prince, children who eat too many sweets will rot their teeth.” He reached for the plate again.
“You are too young for so many sweets.
Better let me save you from the danger.
I fear no rotten teeth.” “You bastard.
Do you think you can trick me?
Do I look three years old?” Aelor pointed at him and ordered Erryk, “Ser, teach him a lesson, and make it memorable.
Let him remember what happens when he acts like a shameless rogue.” Erryk stared for a moment.
“Yes, Prince.” He did not want to cause trouble at a feast, but the man had taken advantage of the prince’s youth.
The dignity of the king’s son had to be protected.
Erryk did not draw his sword.
He strode behind the man and reached to seize his shoulder.
“No, no, my white-cloaked lord.
I believe there has been a misunderstanding between us.” “Not my concern.
You brought this on yourself.” Erryk had no patience for argument.
He gripped the man’s shoulder and prepared to throw him down.
Crack.
In a blink, a blur struck the back of Erryk’s hand with clean precision.
Pain forced him to let go.
A purple welt rose across his hand.
✦ ✦ ✦ Want to keep going?
I hope this chapter gave you another reason to stay with the story.
There’s still plenty ahead, and things are only starting to unfold.