Chapter 67 – This Ridiculous Matching Mechanism
Lance left.
Before walking away, he turned to Queen Rhaella one last time, his tone calm but edged with warning.
"After the Duskendale Rebellion, the Iron Throne's authority has already been weakened. If Your Grace insists on revealing my so-called 'true identity,' you'll only drag the Targaryens into another civil war."
He paused, meeting her violet eyes.
"Think carefully, Your Grace."
Then the white-clad knight turned and strode away alone, his figure soon swallowed by the dark tunnels beneath the Red Keep.
Rhaella stood in silence, her heart tangled with emotions she could scarcely name.
She had imagined a different ending — that when Lance learned his true name, he would rejoice, fall to his knees, embrace his lineage, and claim his rightful place as Prince of Dragonstone.
But instead… he rejected it.
He had turned his back on everything the world dreamed of possessing.
"So like his father," Rhaella murmured, watching the shadows where he'd disappeared.
Duncan Targaryen had once been just as defiant — giving up crown and inheritance for love.
Compared to him, what was she?
A queen molded by duty, bound by her father's will, too afraid to chase her own heart.
Perhaps that's why I envy him… and his son.
After a long pause, she exhaled softly and said without turning back:
"Do not speak of this to anyone."
Her voice was steady now, cold as winter rain.
"Ser Lance was right. If we announce his identity now, it would only bring chaos. The realm isn't ready for another dragon's birth."
"We must wait," she said, lowering her hood. "Wait for the right moment."
Her words echoed faintly as she turned and disappeared into the winding corridor.
"Yes, Your Grace," Bonifer Hasty replied obediently, bowing low.
But as the queen's footsteps faded, the gray-eyed man's solemn expression slowly shifted. His lips curled upward in a faint, unreadable smile.
"Targaryens…" he whispered, watching the twin flames of the torches flicker in his pupils.
---
The Next Day
The tourney grounds of King's Landing were once again packed beyond measure.
Since the King's capture and release, this was the first grand festival held in the capital — and knights from all seven kingdoms had flocked to attend.
Though Aerys had only announced a single event — the joust — one full day had barely been enough to finish the qualifiers.
And outside the lists, the true carnival had already begun.
The banks of the Blackwater were a riot of noise and color. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking everything from roasted boar to "lucky charms blessed by the Seven." Even the brothels of Silk Street had pitched tents beyond the city gates, ready to entertain the crowd.
Business was business, after all — and pleasure sold faster than prayers.
Many peasants couldn't afford even a wooden cup of wine, but once in a while, a lucky gambler struck gold on a wager and blew it all before dawn.
The gold would flow back into the streets soon enough. Easy come, easy go.
And for those who had toiled a lifetime hauling fish and barrels, a night of indulgence felt like justice itself.
"Three thousand coppers? Bah, what's the worst that could happen?"
The brothel keepers could scarcely believe their luck — the tents outside the city were making more coin in a day than their Silk Street parlors did in a week.
Soon, an entire "market of pleasure" had sprung up along the Blackwater — a forest of canvas and moans, where even daylight couldn't hide the sounds of lust.
Among them all, The Blue Pearl reigned supreme — the largest, loudest, and most profitable of the lot.
---
"Hahaha!"
Seated before the row of tents, the owner, Jerryl, laughed until his jowls quivered.
To his ears, every muffled gasp, every sigh from within the tents was the sound of gold coins clinking into his purse.
"Boss! Boss Jerryl!"
A frantic voice cut through the air. One of his pimps came stumbling out from the tent, clutching his swollen cheek.
"Someone's trying to get it for free!"
"What?!"
Jerryl's laughter died instantly. He spun around, his face darkening, fat rippling under his collar.
"Who dares freeload on my ground?" he roared. "Do they not know I serve Lord Colton himself?!"
He slammed a meaty hand on the table, motioning to his thugs.
"Come on! Let's see who's tired of living!"
With his belly leading the charge, Jerryl and half a dozen burly guards stormed toward the tent, ripping open the flap —
— only to freeze.
Inside stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, curling hair. In one hand, he held a gleaming longsword; in the other, he gripped a terrified courtesan by the wrist.
His grin was sharp as the blade he brandished.
"Don't be scared," he drawled, his tone half-mocking. "This sword's real sharp. I shave with it all the time."
He smirked, leaning the edge against his own chin.
"Perfect for trimming… other things, too."
In the dimly lit tent, three terrified women huddled together in a corner, trembling uncontrollably. None dared to look toward the man standing near the center.
"B–Boss Jerryl! Help me!"
The courtesan gripped in the man's rough hand cried out the instant she saw Jerryl and his men storm in. Her plea was echoed by the three women cowering in the corner, their eyes wide and desperate.
"Get out!"
Jerryl's roar shook the tent. The women didn't hesitate — they scrambled away half-naked, clutching their torn dresses as they bolted through the flap.
The one still caught in the man's grasp tried to wrench free, but he simply released her with an indifferent flick of his wrist.
"Boring," he muttered.
He looked completely unfazed by the armed thugs crowding behind Jerryl. Bare-chested and unbothered, the stranger sauntered toward the table, grabbed a jug of wine, and drank deeply.
Red liquid ran down his chin, soaking into the thick dark hair on his chest. His every movement radiated unrestrained, primal arrogance.
With a loud thud, he slammed the jug down, burped, and sneered.
"Southern wine's as dull as your women — no strength, no bite!"
Jerryl's face twitched. That was Dornish strongwine, the finest and most potent vintage money could buy — and this barbarian was drinking it like water!
"Bloody northerner," Jerryl hissed under his breath.
Still, he kept his voice steady, gesturing cautiously for his men to stand ready.
"You owe me coin, friend," he said coldly. "Four premium girls, an hour and a half, plus two jugs of fine Dornish wine — that's one gold dragon and two silver moons."
He squared his shoulders, his tone louder now, meant for the crowd to hear.
"Pay up, or I'll call the Goldcloaks!"
Then, just in case, he leaned close to one of his enforcers and whispered, "If he draws steel, protect me first."
The thug nodded.
Jerryl exhaled slowly and waited.
But to his surprise, the man didn't explode in anger or reach for his weapon. Instead, he sat down casually on the edge of the bed, propped his greatsword beside him, and began eating grapes from a nearby plate.
"No coin," he said through a mouthful, his voice lazy, muffled, and insolent.
"Y–You damned—"
Jerryl's temper spiked. Hardly anyone dared cheat him — not when every man in the district knew he was under the protection of the Master of Coin himself.
And yet this stranger sat there, fearless and calm.
That sword of his… it wasn't jeweled, but the steel gleamed faintly in the lamplight — a blade forged for killing, not for show.
Could he be a nobleman?
No, that made no sense. Every northern lord had long since been driven from King's Landing — even Rickard Stark himself.
Still, something in this man's bearing didn't fit the image of a common sellsword.
"Fetch the Goldcloaks," Jerryl ordered under his breath. "He's not some drunk fool. Let the guards deal with him."
His lackey nodded and turned to leave —
Then whshhh! — a blur of silver light cut through the air!
A blade hissed past the man's ear so close it nearly sliced it clean off before driving point-first into the dirt between his feet.
Thud!
Everyone froze.
The northerner's voice broke the stunned silence.
"Ten gold dragons."
All eyes turned toward him. The man had already thrown on his coat and was walking toward the exit. The sheer mass of his frame made the armed guards instinctively step back.
As he passed Jerryl, he stopped.
The brothel keeper could see the outline of solid muscle beneath the fur-lined cloak — a physique like a bear's. Sweat pricked his forehead.
The man grinned, showing teeth.
"I know you're running betting tables behind this operation," he said. "That sword's worth ten gold. Put it down on the next match."
He leaned in, his grin widening into something feral.
"Bet on the Winter Wolf Knight to win."
Jerryl swallowed hard.
"And when I come back," the man added lightly, "I expect to see my winnings in gold — or I'll burn this whole tent city to the ground."
With a booming laugh, the northerner suddenly drove his hip forward, ramming into Jerryl's gut. The fat man stumbled backward, wheezing, as the stranger strode out of the tent still laughing.
"Cursed northern brute…"
Jerryl wiped his mouth, glaring after him. His men looked at the ground, avoiding his eyes.
He wanted to explode — but the weight of that man's presence still lingered, and rage was a poor shield against fear.
Finally, he snapped his fingers.
"Follow him," he ordered the pimp beside him. "Keep your eyes on that bastard."
He turned to study the sword lodged in the ground. The craftsmanship was impeccable — balanced, deadly, northern.
"That damned northerner…" Jerryl muttered. "He must be the one they call the Winter Wolf Knight."
"Let's see how mighty he really is."
He sneered, the greedy glint returning to his eyes.
"If he wins, I lose gold. If he dies, I keep the sword."
He snorted. "Fair trade."
Turning to his men, he barked,
"Pull that sword out and take it to the smithy. Sell it!"
But as his thug wrestled the greatsword from the ground, Jerryl flipped through the day's match schedule — and when his eyes landed on the Winter Wolf Knight's next opponent…
He froze.
Then slowly, a grin crept across his fat face.
"Oh," he chuckled darkly, "this is going to be good."
"Let's see you win this one, you northern fool."
And with a gleam of greed and malice in his eyes, Jerryl slammed the ledger shut.