Chapter 112 — Night Visit
"So you set up a toll at Prince's Pass to collect road fees, and that's what led to the conflict with Lady Larra Blackmont?"
"That's correct, Ser Lance."
Franklyn replied with a pleasant smile, unaffected by the earlier altercation. He continued to converse warmly with Lance and the others along the road, as though nothing had happened.
"The stone fortifications at Prince's Pass were built centuries ago from sandstone. Dorne's dry climate erodes it — it's gotten so brittle that parts have been collapsing. Last year alone, three merchants were crushed to death."
He shook his head with genuine helplessness.
"The Fowler family has guarded Prince's Pass for generations, but repairing all of those defenses is beyond our means. So we've been trying to gather funds from the western Dornish lords."
"At every meeting, we speak pleasantly… until the topic of money comes up. Then suddenly everyone points fingers, and it all falls apart."
Franklyn let out a tired laugh.
"The damage to the pass has only grown worse. I had no choice but to barricade my section and collect tolls from caravans. Fowlers haven't done that in hundreds of years… I know I'll be remembered as the first."
He laughed at himself, but the loneliness behind it was obvious.
"Don't worry, Franklyn."
Prince Lewyn patted his old friend on the shoulder.
"Eventually we'll find a way."
He didn't pretend he could fix everything himself — even if he sold his entire castle, he couldn't pay for a full restoration of the pass.
Lance watched the downcast Lord Fowler, a faint thread of unease tugging in his mind. Something about this situation didn't feel right… yet he couldn't put a finger on it.
"Oh! We're here!"
Franklyn's cheerful call drew everyone's attention forward.
A cluster of rough stone buildings emerged from the desert — abrupt and lonely amid the endless sands.
"Outpost Inn," Lance murmured, reading the weathered sign.
"Yes," Franklyn smiled. "These were once barracks during wartime. After Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms, we converted them into an inn."
"I know the accommodations are beneath Her Majesty's dignity. But Skyreach is too steep — the carriage can't make the climb. So the Queen must endure one night here."
Lance only shrugged and answered for her:
"Compared to camping in the open, this is already luxury. I'm sure Her Majesty will gladly step out of the carriage."
And that was no lie — ever since leaving the Reach and entering Dorne, they'd been forced to camp outdoors twice. Finding any shelter out here was a blessing.
---
Lance stepped beside the carriage and gently knocked.
"We've found lodging, Your Grace."
Soft rustling inside. Then the curtain lifted — Queen Rhaella's pale face peered out, exhaustion etched across her features.
Inside the carriage, two Dornish girls slept curled against the cushions. Princess Elia held young Viserys tightly, as though they were a small, peaceful family.
"I require a room of my own tonight, Ser."
The Queen's amethyst eyes brushed past him, cool and distant — as though the wild night between them had never happened.
"They will tend to Viserys."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Lance did not object. No matter how crude the inn was, arranging a private room for the Queen was easy. Her dignity demanded it.
Soon the entire party was settled — thanks to Franklyn's preparations, the inn bustled rather than descended into chaos.
Then came the hard part.
Carrying a tray of food to the Queen's door, Lance felt… nervous.
He had ridden into battle against thousands without hesitation — yet one night with a seductive queen had left him unsure of how to face her alone ever again.
And with this queen… there was always the risk of trouble.
Still, as Lord Commander and the only Kingsguard present, he had a duty. She had dismissed every maidservant to Elia's room under the excuse of caring for Viserys — leaving only him to attend her needs.
"Enter."
Her cold voice reached him through the door.
Lance's forearm tensed as though he were bracing for combat.
He swallowed and pushed the door open, head down, placing the tray on the table — ready to leave without a word.
"Wait."
He froze. Turned.
Thank the Seven — she was clothed.
He let out a long breath… uncertain whether the relief disappointed or comforted him.
For a man who had spent years swinging a hammer at a forge, Lance could fearlessly charge into battle… yet resist the embrace of a gorgeous queen.
This was the kind of trial that killed men.
He studied Queen Rhaella sitting calmly at the edge of the bed and wondered if now was the time to partner with a certain Starfall maiden on a multibillion-coin "project."
"Come here. Sit."
Her voice was soft but undeniable.
Lance's back stiffened like a corpse. He didn't move.
"This isn't proper, Your Grace," he said, swallowing hard.
The Queen didn't back down. She raised her chin in imperial defiance.
"My will is propriety.
By the authority of Rhaella Targaryen, I order you to sit.
Disobey your Queen, and I'll have you charged with high treason."
He had heard this tone before. And every time, it spelled trouble.
She knew he would refuse — and she clearly enjoyed it.
If she wanted affection so badly, couldn't she find someone else? Why was she fixated on him?
But Lance sat — rigid and obedient — because a Kingsguard charged with treason was not a dignified thing.
"Your arms are strong."
She didn't rush him this time. She simply placed a hand on his bicep, smiling sweetly.
Suddenly Lance's mind echoed with absurd memories from his past life:
"Your hands are so big."
"You smell so good."
"Want a drink? I just bought skewers."
"The air-conditioning is freezing — hold me."
"Just measuring."
"I'll take responsibility."
Why, Seven help him, did it always go in reverse when it came to him?
"I… used to do a lot of blacksmithing," he blurted.
The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to slap himself.
Lance of all men should know not to hand a woman a golden opening.
And indeed — the Queen burst into a chiming laugh.
"You really do have a sense of humor. Much better company than Aerys."
The King's name snapped him out of the heated haze.
He stood immediately, face resolute.
"This mustn't continue. It is wrong — to you, to me, and to the King."
He turned to leave.
He meant it this time.
But the Queen's voice halted him instantly:
"Do you think Aerys doesn't know about us?"
Lance froze.
"…what?"
"Exactly what you heard."
Her lips curved with dangerous confidence as she rose, placing a hand — deliberately intimate — against his chestplate.
"Aerys can no longer perform as a man. But he desperately wants another child of pure Targaryen blood.
If you were him… what would you do?"
"Prince Rhaeseryon Targaryen!"
---
Meanwhile — in the wilderness
Larra Blackmont stared toward the faint glow of campfires. They were close.
She took a sip from her waterskin.
A soft voice came beside her.
"Mother."
Larra turned. Moonlight only faintly etched the features of the young woman at her side.
"Well? Have you confirmed?"
"Yes."
The girl nodded crisply.
"Roughly seventy men, split into two groups. Timing unknown. But if they intend to strike, it must be tonight — once we pass Yronwood there won't be another stretch this deserted."
"Good. Excellent work, Jynessa."
Larra's voice was cold, but her eyes briefly shimmered with maternal warmth.
"Tell everyone to wait until the enemy moves first. No premature action. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Mother."
The girl sprinted into the darkness.
Larra watched the distant flames reflected in her eyes, sharp and predatory.
---
Back to the inn:
"I don't understand you, Your Grace."
Lance's voice was rough, his pulse pounding.
She didn't seem to care.
Instead she seized his hand — and pressed it where she wanted it.
Seven hells.
A gown that thin should've been illegal.
"Literal meaning, Ser."
Her breath brushed his ear, her body molding against him.
"The King and I both need another child of true-born Targaryen blood.
Will you help us?"
And just like that — everything clicked.
So that's why the old man insisted he escort the Queen south.
Aerys wasn't plotting politics — he was plotting a baby.
A husband and wife.
Running a joint operation.
And he was the designated donor.
In that case…
A loyal Kingsguard served both King and Queen.
If that was the mission — could he refuse?
Sister-in-law… don't turn around. I'm doing this for my brother.
With epiphany achieved, Lance returned to the court — both hands on the ball — unleashing the drills of a street-honed athlete.
The court was impeccably maintained; the equipment long unused yet perfectly preserved. The ball bounced with satisfying rhythm. The one-on-one match intensified, fouls and contact escalating as the two players tested will against will.
Until Lance yanked off the other player's jersey in pure fight-for-possession fury—
And then—
"ENEMY ATTACK! ENEMY ATTACK!"
Shouts erupted outside the room, shattering the heated arena in an instant.