Chapter 113 — The Blackfyre Remnant
Creak—
Bang!
Under the Queen's gaze full of disappointment, the white-armored knight walked out without looking back.
He slammed the door shut, fingers absently rubbing something — a thin, crystalline residue.
Well.
Rhaegar's little sanctuary… was definitely humid.
He hadn't even entered the battlefield properly — but lingering at the threshold had been more than enough to understand the terrain.
Oppressive. Lethal.
And unforgettable.
But despite the lingering heat in his mind, Lance's feet moved fast. Within seconds he reached his own room—
—and froze.
His sword was gone.
Where Dawn should have rested… nothing.
Lance's expression darkened instantly. He strode toward the door — and ran right into Balman rushing back inside. Lance seized him by the collar and roared:
"Where the hell were you?! I told you to guard the room!"
"I— I—"
Balman shrank under his fury, babbling:
"J-Janie and Jennilyn said they were feeling faint, so I went to… check on them—"
Lance looked down.
The idiot's belt wasn't even done.
Of course. He had run off to fool around with the twin sisters.
Unbelievable.
He, Lance Loth, had only been playing with the Queen a little — yet this brat managed to be even more shameless?
Rage boiled — but Lance forced it down.
"My sword is missing. Find it. Now."
He thundered down the stairs.
Kicking a fallen table aside, he reached Prince Lewyn.
"What happened?"
Lewyn stood with one hand on his sword, nodding toward the outside gate.
"Raiders. Lord Fowler is negotiating with them."
"Raiders?"
Lance stared in disbelief.
Outside — even in the dim starlight — the crimson three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flew unmistakably.
"What raiders dare attack the Targaryens? Are they tired of living?"
Lewyn hesitated first — then answered quietly:
"Most likely survivors of the Ninepenny Kings."
"The Ninepenny—?"
Lance's shock deepened.
"That rebellion ended fifteen years ago. Every last one of them was crushed. How can there still be remnants?"
He trailed off mid-sentence.
Because the realization hit him all at once.
The Ninepenny Kings weren't a single kingdom — they were a coalition of nine ambitious warlords: merchants, pirates, mercenary captains. They killed Lord Monford Baratheon, the King's general, and came dangerously close to toppling the realm.
Crushing their army didn't mean all branches were cut.
And among the Nine, only one branch would still dare remain in Westeros after losing the war:
Maelys the Monstrous.
The Blackfyre bloodline.
"The Blackfyre pretenders… in Dorne?"
Lance's voice dropped to a razor's edge.
"Why wasn't this ever mentioned in King's Landing—"
Lewyn's expression spoke volumes.
Of course Dorne hadn't told the Iron Throne.
Dorne handled its own problems. Outsiders were not welcome.
---
Upstairs —
Balman rushed into the room and confirmed the sword was gone.
He slapped his forehead.
"Seven hells! I'll find it, Ser! It must've been those disgusting raiders — how dare they steal your sword!"
A man who worshipped Lance could not abide such sacrilege.
But just as Balman spun to leave—
"Wait."
Lance stopped him.
Balman turned, confused.
"Go to the Queen's room. Guard her door.
Nobody — and I mean nobody — gets near her.
Forget the sword for now."
Duty first.
Because whether they were raiders, sellswords, or Blackfyre loyalists — an attack here was no coincidence.
Not on this night.
And especially not when the Queen was vulnerable.
Balman swallowed and nodded firmly.
"Yes, Ser!"
He sprinted upstairs.
Lance exhaled once. A long, steadying breath.
Then he reached behind his back.
Even without Dawn, his hands found the weight of another weapon at his belt — a dagger of Valyrian steel.
"Fine," he muttered.
"If someone stole my sword…"
His eyes narrowed, predatory.
"…I'll just get it back myself."
Lance's gaze was sharp enough to cut steel, but reason returned just in time. Instead of charging out, he ordered Balman to guard the Queen first.
If someone could sneak inside the inn and steal his greatsword, then this place was no longer safe.
Balman might be unreliable when it came to willpower and women, but his swordsmanship was undeniable—among the younger generation, he wasn't inferior even to the Jorah Mormont Lance once dueled.
With him protecting the Queen, nothing should go wrong.
The young knight froze for a moment, then nodded hard and rushed off without hesitation.
As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Lance's eyes flickered. He knelt, reached under his bed, and pulled out a narrow iron case.
The lid clicked open.
Under the firelight, the black dragon-headed pommel gleamed like something alive.
Click.
Lance locked the case and stood.
---
"You do understand how serious this is, Lewyn," he said, voice low and cold. "The King will not tolerate news of Blackfyre loyalists resurfacing anywhere in Westeros. If Aerys hears they're active, he'll demand a purge."
Lewyn Martell's expression hardened — the complacent prince from earlier was gone.
"We don't know for certain, Ser," he said quietly. "They only began appearing some time after the Ninepenny Kings were defeated. They raid caravans, kill the occasional smallfolk. They've never shown their faces to anyone."
"They're few — a dozen at most — but infuriatingly slippery. Every time one of the Dornish lords musters men to hunt them, they vanish long before soldiers arrive. So yes, we suspect the Ninepenny remnant. But no one has ever heard them admit it."
"And until tonight, they mostly ignored nobles… but now, for some reason, they have the audacity to attack the Queen's retinue."
Before Lance could answer, raised voices erupted ahead.
He and Lewyn snapped their heads up — Lord Franklyn Fowler, who had ridden ahead to negotiate, was now being punched off his horse.
"Franklyn!"
Lewyn spurred his mount forward without hesitation.
Lance followed instantly, booting his horse into a gallop. Several Crownland knights rushed behind him, while a dozen remained to guard the inn.
---
"STOP!"
Lewyn forced his way into the fray, swinging his sword to scatter the assailants long enough to drag the bloodied Franklyn back onto his horse.
Lance dismounted beside them, greatsword-less but unflinching, scanning the enemy.
"What kind of 'dozen men' are we talking about?" he muttered under his breath.
He counted quickly — thirty at least.
So that explained it.
No wonder they had the boldness to threaten twenty armored knights.
Their armor, too — well-forged and familiar somehow. Lance couldn't place it, but his instincts screamed danger.
---
"You bastards!"
Lewyn, seeing Franklyn's bloody face, lost all patience and surged forward with his sword — but Franklyn caught him by the arm.
"Don't. The Queen's safety comes first!" he hissed. "Stall them. Get Her Grace to Sunspear alive. Then deal with them."
Lance heard every word.
Lewyn swallowed his rage and let Franklyn speak.
---
"Three hundred gold dragons," Franklyn said through clenched teeth, barely staying in his saddle. "That is all I brought."
"Three hundred?" the man leading the raiders — a thick-necked brute on a huge horse — barked a laugh.
"I bring my men out here, risk our necks, and for three hundred gold you expect us to eat, drink, gamble, and live like monks? Don't insult me."
He jabbed a thumb toward the crimson Targaryen banner behind Lance.
"I saw that royal flag. That's Targaryen blood back there. Targaryen lives don't come cheap. Think I'm stupid, Fowler?"
Franklyn's voice steadied despite the blood on his lips:
"You're overreaching, Bruce. If you push me too far, I'll return to Skyreach, call my banners, and hunt you down to the Stepstones if I must. I'll have every last one of you dangling from a gallows."
Bruce laughed in his face.
"We've robbed this land for years. Even the Martells can't stop us. You? A crow living in a mountaintop? Don't make me laugh."
Franklyn's jaw tightened.
"Name your price."
Bruce grinned, unconcerned.
He raised five fingers.
"Five thousand. Gold dragons."
"Since a Targaryen graces Dorne only once in a generation… we should show her the proper respect, shouldn't we?"
He smirked.
"You pay five thousand — and maybe today everyone lives."