Chapter 116 – The Concubine of Westeros
BANG!
Inside the desert outpost inn, the night—meant to be calm—had burst into chaos after the bandit raid.
Per Lance's orders, the Crownland knights restrained themselves the best they could… but bloodlust was hard to rein in.
The brigands were almost completely slaughtered, yet two survivors were dragged into the empty courtyard.
Blades glinted in torchlight.
The two captives collapsed to their knees, sobbing and kowtowing in terror.
"Speak."
Lance stepped forward, sword dangling loosely in his hand—no trace of mercy in his eyes.
"Who sent you?
You each get one chance.
Use it wrong, and you die."
"L–Lord, it was Bruce! Bruce brought us! Said there was a big score here—we don't know anything else!"
SHING—THUD!
The pale greatsword Dawn swept through the air in a perfect arc—
and the first man's head rolled across the sand, a fountain of blood erupting after it.
Yes…
Dawn always felt right in his hands.
"I don't like that answer."
He dropped the black Valyrian sword Dragontooth beside him and stepped toward the second prisoner, looming like judgment incarnate.
"You. Try again."
"G–glrk—"
The man nearly fainted outright.
Franklyn swallowed hard—this display of cold efficiency chilled even him.
Then the bandit screamed:
"E–E–E–ELLEWOOD!
It was House Yronwood—my lord!!!"
He collapsed prostrate, words tumbling out in a desperate rush:
"We've robbed in Dorne for years because the Yronwoods warn us of troop movements!
Bruce never let us meet them, but I saw it once!
They wear the Black Gate sigil! Please—please—I swear it's true!"
"Damn them—!"
Prince Lewyn Martell thundered, face twisting with fury.
"I've heard the rumors—Yronwood and the Blackfyres, always tangled!
They backed every rebellion! But we never had proof—until now!
And now they dare target the Queen?!"
He stormed forward, sword raised to execute the prisoner—
CLANG!
Dawn smashed the prince's weapon from his grip before it could fall, the blade spinning through the air until Lance casually caught it again.
"Lance, why—?!"
"Don't lose your head, Your Grace."
Lance returned the sword to him calmly—though his eyes slid briefly to Franklyn.
In the flicker of torchlight, he caught something in his gaze:
Relief…
and disappointment.
Interesting.
"Yronwood, is it?"
Lance hooked the second bandit's chin up with the wide blade and smiled—not kindly.
When the Kingsguard purged the Brotherhood of the Watchers, he'd caught whispers that their knights were supplied by Yronwood.
No proof—until now.
"Well, then."
He turned and raised his voice:
"Bring him over—Lady Blackmont!"
The reaction was instant.
"Blackmont!?"
Lewyn blinked in confusion—
But Lord Franklyn nearly lost his footing, eyes bulging in disbelief.
He hadn't been there earlier when the Blackmont host arrived—he had no idea.
Jynessa Blackmont rode forward, sword at a man's back.
The captive was bloody, bound, and barely standing.
Franklyn's face drained of color.
And the bandit screamed on sight of him:
"That's him! I swear it!
He met Bruce every time! Look—look at his chest—the Black Gate sigil! I told the truth! Please, please believe me!"
The captive clenched his jaw and snapped his eyes shut—resigned to death rather than confess.
Franklyn finally managed to breathe again.
But then—
SHLICK!
Dawn flashed once more—blood sprayed—
and the second bandit stared in disbelief at the stump where his right hand used to be.
"A—AAAAAAAAH!!!"
He fell screaming, rolling on the ground in agony.
Why—why?! I told the truth! Why cut off my hand?!
"You lied."
Lance stood over him, voice flat.
"House Yronwood is the most loyal of Martell's bannermen.
They would never attack the queen without Martell's consent."
His voice hardened.
"Or are you implying House Martell is plotting treason against the Crown?"
Gasps spread through the courtyard.
The implications were clear.
If this prisoner insisted Yronwood ordered the attack, then the accusation extended to Doran Martell and Sunspear.
Whether true or not—it would give King Aerys the perfect excuse to bring fire and sword to Dorne.
Lewyn froze.
Franklyn blanched.
The bandit shriek didn't last long—another flash of white steel, and he lost his left hand.
His body finally shut down from pain and mercifully collapsed unconscious.
Jynessa Blackmont stared—cold, assessing—and for the first time, impressed.
Earlier she had poked and prodded, thinking Lance softhearted and overly composed.
Not anymore.
In the swing of a sword, she understood:
the man in white was not gentle—he was simply disciplined.
"Wake him up," Lance instructed, planting Dawn in the ground and leaning on the hilt.
"And bandage the arms.
He's not finished yet."
Lance's order hadn't even fully left his lips before the young blond knight, Barthes, rushed forward eagerly, thrilled—not repulsed—by the blood pooling at his feet. To carry out Ser Lance Lot's command was a privilege.
But the moment Lance stepped toward the bound noble with his greatsword, the man—bearing the black gate sigil across his chest—finally snapped.
"Enough!"
His voice cracked from strain, but it stopped Lance mid-stride.
"He's not lying. I truly am of House Yronwood!"
Lance paused, gaze cutting toward him.
The man exhaled, as if accepting there was no going back, and spoke clearly:
"My name is Ryon Sand—the bastard son of the late Lord Ormond Yronwood."
A ripple of shock ran through the courtyard.
Being a bastard was nothing unusual in Dorne.
But being a bastard who openly admitted to treason—that was a scandal not seen in decades.
"To earn the right to wear the Black Gate," Ryon continued, "I swore to Lord Ormond that I would work with the Blackfyre loyalists and seek revenge against House Martell."
Lewyn Martell's face twisted in fury.
"Why?! What reason could you possibly have?! House Martell and House Yronwood have—"
He stopped midsentence.
Memory hit him like a hammer.
Ryon laughed—a humorless, venom-coated sound.
"Remember now, Martell?"
He spat the words like poison.
"Blame your bloody Red Viper."
The words hit Lewyn harder than any blade.
Even those who didn't know the story fell still—
because every Dornishman who did know it looked away, jaw tense.
It was Jynessa who broke the silence, voice cool and matter-of-fact:
"Years ago, Oberyn Martell was found in an affair with Lord Edgar Yronwood's mistress.
Edgar challenged him to a duel… but Oberyn's blade was laced with poison.
The wound festered. He died days later."
In Dorne, such scandals were almost… ordinary.
At feasts, green hats were practically part of the dress code.
But killing a great lord—however justified—never ended cleanly.
"Exactly!"
Ryon roared:
"Oberyn killed my grandfather like a coward! My father grieved himself to death after inheriting the title for barely half a year!"
"So yes—we will take revenge!
We will tear you hypocrites from the Prince's seat!
Only House Yronwood deserves to rule Dorne!"
Lewyn had no retort—because the truth was ugly.
Martell had wronged Yronwood, horribly, and worsened the wound with arrogance.
What answer could he give?
None.
The courtyard fell silent.
Jynessa clenched her jaw, clearly wanting to speak—
but remembering Lance's earlier warning, she swallowed the impulse.
Then—
"Are you done?"
Lance's cold voice sliced through the tension.
He lifted the greatsword again and walked toward the maimed bandit, whom Barthes had just revived.
The man was deathly pale from blood loss, but still clung to life.
"Good story, Sand," Lance said without looking back.
"Very dramatic."
He smiled—too wide, too calm, too sharp.
Then the greatsword flashed white—
SHHNK!
A whole leg hit the ground.
Barthes clamped a hand over the bandit's mouth before his scream could echo, and another knight immediately wrapped the stump to keep him alive.
Lance wasn't finished.
"I'll tell you a story too."
He planted Dawn upright in the sand beside him.
"On another continent—long ago—there was a woman who offended someone far more powerful than herself."
He tilted his head, voice eerily gentle.
"When the powerful one seized full control… she turned the other into a thing.
Neither human nor dead."
His eyes gleamed.
"In your terms:
arms cut off, legs cut off, eyes gouged out, eardrums pierced, tongue removed, vocal cords severed.
Blind. Deaf. Mute. Paralyzed."
"And then—"
He chuckled softly.
"Thrown into a pigsty to live in filth until madness devours what's left of the mind."
Even the night wind seemed to hold its breath.
Everyone—the Prince, the knights, the Blackmont girl—felt their blood run cold.
Not even demons devised torment so methodical.
Ryon Sand's bravado died instantly.
He stared at Lance like a cornered animal.
Lance ignored him, turning back toward the dismembered bandit.
"This punishment kills most people.
But fortunately, we now have a test subject, don't we?"
He raised the sword again—
SHINK!
The bandit used the last of his strength—
to throw himself forward onto the blade, driving it through his own heart.
He died with a peaceful expression, relieved to escape.
Lance clicked his tongue.
"What a pity."
He slid the sword free and turned—eyes landing on Ryon Sand.
Dragontooth dripped from his shoulder.
Boots crushed half-coagulated blood with each step, leaving sticky prints.
His smile was angelic.
Ryon saw a monster.
Lance leaned close, voice soft enough to be mistaken for affection:
"Well then—"
He tapped Ryon's cheek with the flat of the sword.
"Now it's our turn."