Chapter 204 — Love Is a Ray of Light (Double Chapter)
"Your Majesty!"
"Your Highness, the Prince Regent!"
"Lord Lance Lot has returned to King's Landing!"
The moment the words rang out, the crowd gathered outside the smithy exploded into thunderous cheers.
Commoners flushed red with excitement. Lesser nobles, pushed forward by their attendants, tried desperately to squeeze through the mass of people—but the surging crowd was impossible to part.
Even people from neighboring streets, hearing the commotion, poured toward Steel Street like a rising tide.
"Steel Street! Coming here today was absolutely worth it!"
"Seven above, I actually get to see the Prince Regent in person!"
"Those eyes… oh gods, they're intoxicating. If I could spend a night with His Majesty Lance, I'd gladly be queen for it!"
Wait—
So you want both the meal and the takeaway?
For a moment, everyone lowered their heads in reverence toward the single figure at the center of it all.
Among the crowd, Janos Slynt, captain of the River Gate watch, was practically weeping. Tears streamed down his face while snot ran freely from his nose.
Staring at Lance's sharply defined profile, the grievances in his chest nearly burst out.
His silent cries seemed to shout:
Your Majesty… you're finally back!
He bullied me… he slapped me in front of everyone, Your Majesty!
Meanwhile, only a few steps away from Lance, Balon Greyjoy felt a level of fear and panic he had never experienced before.
Standing before the tall, cold knight clad in white armor, he could clearly sense an invisible pressure.
The man showed no anger, no expression at all—he merely stood there quietly.
Yet his presence was impossible to ignore.
Even Balon's soul seemed to tremble.
Gulp.
Balon swallowed hard, gripping his right forearm with his left hand just to steady the trembling in his arm.
The ironborn—terror of the Seven Kingdoms, masters of slaughter and plunder—
At this moment, before the White Knight who was said to have crushed the Stormlands rebellion with only eight hundred riders, they seemed pitifully insignificant.
But no one felt greater pressure than Ser Manly Stokeworth, who stood directly before Lance like a child caught committing a mistake.
Just moments ago, he had been the commanding officer of the Gold Cloaks, able to slap a captain in public and decide at will who would be arrested or released.
Now—
Manly trembled violently.
Cold sweat beaded across his forehead.
His knees weakened, nearly buckling beneath him.
Weren't they supposed to arrive the day after tomorrow?
How did he arrive early?
And why… why here of all places?
Countless chaotic thoughts raced through Manly's mind.
He didn't dare meet Lance's eyes.
Yet he also dared not look away from the Regent's armored boots.
So he simply lowered his head and said nothing.
He looked utterly submissive.
However, Lance didn't seem interested in pursuing Manly's arrogance—at least for the moment.
Though Manly's behavior disappointed him greatly, the man had once done plenty of work on his behalf.
And Lance still didn't understand why the commander had suddenly said such reckless things.
"Hmm…"
Instead of questioning him further, Lance walked straight past him as if Manly didn't exist at all.
He headed toward the source of the conflict, clicking his tongue.
"Well… someone really did a number on you."
He stopped beside the unconscious old blacksmith Tobho, studying the man's bloodied face.
His tall figure blocked what little sunlight remained, casting a shadow over the dying smith.
During the shocking battle beneath Storm's End, the clash of fire against fire, Lance had emerged unharmed thanks to his Unburnt physique.
But his armor had suffered severe damage.
Not that the Prince Regent couldn't afford a brand-new set of white armor.
The problem was—
The armor he wore now meant something far more important.
It had been personally chosen and fastened onto him by the old man when he first fought his way out of Duskendale.
The armor itself could be replaced.
But the memories carved into it—
The proof that the old man had once lived in this world—
That was irreplaceable.
Lance had left the main army behind and ridden ahead with only a few companions, returning early to King's Landing.
Originally, he had planned to have this blacksmith repair and maintain the armor.
Now?
Looking at the half-dead old smith…
Maintenance?
Forget it.
No one dared speak.
Every person present stared fixedly at the Prince Regent's every movement.
His face remained completely expressionless.
Yet that calmness was far more terrifying than any burst of anger or shouting could have been.
He stood there silently for a moment, watching.
As if weighing something.
Then he straightened and shifted his gaze away.
His eyes swept past the scattered tools and the mess of merchandise on the floor. Without hesitation, he turned and took a step forward.
"Greyjoy?"
He stopped in front of Balon, his gaze lowering to the golden kraken sigil on the man's chest.
The voice was quiet.
But to Balon it felt like a hammer smashing into his heart.
Instinctively, the pride of the ironborn forced him to straighten his back—though fear had already bent it slightly.
Suppressing the tremor in his throat, he answered,
"Yes… Your Highness, Prince Regent."
Before Lance could even ask another question, Balon took a deep breath and hurriedly pointed toward the unconscious blacksmith.
"That smith cheated my brother Urrigon by selling him inferior goods and then accused us of theft. I lost my temper and struck him—but I had no intention of causing trouble in the city."
"We are ironborn, yes… but we follow our traditions. We take—never steal…"
His voice grew smaller and smaller.
Even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.
Glancing up nervously at Lance's expression, he shrank his neck slightly and muttered,
"You know how Greyjoys do things… we have our own rules."
By the end, his voice had nearly vanished.
If Lance's hearing hadn't been sharp, he might not have caught the words at all.
Lance listened quietly.
His gaze drifted toward the pale, skinny boy beside him—still clutching what could barely be called a sword.
At once, Lance had a rough idea of what had happened.
Old Tobho Mott was indeed an excellent smith. His skill was unquestionable; he had even brushed against the secrets of forging Valyrian steel.
But he had one fatal flaw—
He loved taking petty advantage.
Most likely he had seen two obvious outsiders and decided to exploit them.
A classic case of a shopkeeper bullying travelers.
"I see."
Lance finally spoke.
He didn't linger on Balon any longer.
Instead he lifted his head. Because of his arrival, the crowd had grown at an astonishing speed.
Men, women, and children alike stood on tiptoe, craning their necks to glimpse the scene.
After a moment of thought, he turned to Janos Slynt.
"Take them all to the headquarters of the Gold Cloaks."
"I will personally handle this matter."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Janos immediately straightened his chest with pride and shouted the reply.
From beginning to end, Lance never said another word to Ser Manly Stokeworth.
---
As dusk fell, long shadows stretched across Aegon's High Hill.
Yet the precious land beneath the hill remained untouched by darkness.
The estates built along the slope beneath the Red Keep enjoyed cleaner air than anywhere else in King's Landing.
Thanks to their perfect position upwind, this neighborhood never smelled of dung heaps or rotting mud.
Every inch of land here proclaimed power and status.
"Falyse!"
In the center of one courtyard stood Ser Balman Byrch, still dusty from travel, shouting loudly.
He took a deep breath of the fragrant air, exhaustion mixing with excitement.
With practiced ease he removed his heavy helmet, revealing a handsome face. Sweat-soaked strands of blond hair fell across his forehead.
He glanced around the carefully trimmed yet strangely quiet garden.
His brow furrowed slightly.
This was his house.
More precisely—
It was the dowry given by his father-in-law, Ser Manly, when Balman married Falyse.
Yes.
A dowry.
In Westeros, men did not pay bride price.
Instead, the bride's family was expected to prepare a generous dowry.
And if the bride was marrying upward—
The dowry could multiply several times over.
Balman was considered quite handsome, and many noble girls in King's Landing had once admired him.
Falyse had been one of them.
To satisfy their only daughter, Manly and his wife had been extremely generous—granting Balman a valuable estate.
Among all the suitors, their offer had been the most lavish.
"Falyse!"
"Come greet your husband, woman!"
His voice rang with the relief and joy of a warrior returning home.
"I'm back! Damn it… where is everyone?"
Only the wind whispered in reply.
Balman's brow tightened further.
Too quiet.
Unnaturally quiet.
He didn't even see servants moving through the corridors or garden paths.
"Heh…"
He raised his voice again deliberately, chatting loudly as if nothing were wrong.
"You wouldn't believe what we went through this campaign, Falyse!"
"The Prince Regent—he fights like the Warrior himself descended—"
But while speaking, his right hand quietly closed around the hilt of his sword.
The blade slid free.
Lowering his body slightly and shifting his center of gravity, he moved forward with careful steps toward the closed bedroom door deeper in the house.
He approached cautiously.
Positioning himself so he could either block or thrust at a moment's notice—
BANG!
The door burst open.
What he saw inside made his tense body relax immediately.
His wife Falyse sat primly behind a table.
In her hand was a thin embroidery needle, moving back and forth across a piece of golden silk.
"Oh!"
The sudden noise startled her.
She hurriedly set aside the needle and cLot. On the fabric were several unfinished silver axes—the Byrch family sigil.
"Balman!"
"Seven save us! Why are you back so soon?"
Her face lit up with surprise and delight, though her voice carried a slightly shrill edge.
Balman narrowed his eyes and studied her face for a moment.
It had to be said—
Falyse had inherited the Stokeworth family's famously… plain features.
Her face was broad. Her features weren't exactly ugly—but they seemed to belong to different people entirely.
Her lips were enormous, like a catfish's mouth, giving the impression she might swallow an entire teacup if she tried.
Balman was only a cadet branch of his family.
To curry favor with House Stokeworth, his father had essentially married him off to Falyse.
As a second son from a minor branch, he had no right to refuse.
Seeing his wife appear gentle and domestic, Balman gradually relaxed.
With a flick of his wrist, the sword slid neatly back into its sheath.
"Where are the servants?" he asked irritably, scanning the room.
"I didn't see a single one. The whole house feels dead."
"You're the only one here?"
Falyse smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear.
The graceful gesture noblewomen often made looked slightly awkward when she did it.
"Don't be so nervous, dear."
She slowed her speech deliberately.
"I sent them out to buy supplies for the banquet. That's why the house is empty."
"A banquet?"
Balman frowned again.
"What banquet?"
"The city is already chaos. I barely managed to squeeze through the gates, and the Dragon-Arrival Festival is about to begin."
"What kind of banquet are you—"
"My mother suggested it!"
Falyse interrupted quickly.
"You've just won another victory with the Prince Regent. What a perfect opportunity!"
She tried to look thoughtful.
"Mother plans to invite His Highness to dinner in a few days. Father could take that chance to resign as commander of the City Watch… and you would take his place."
She swallowed nervously, her excitement barely contained.
"Just think about it, Balman."
"If Father agrees and the Prince Regent approves… the position will be yours."
She lifted her hand as if to gesture in excitement, but froze halfway and gripped the table instead.
Her body trembled slightly.
Balman's suspicion eased somewhat, though he still frowned.
"But there's no reason to send everyone out."
"Oh, you know how it is!"
Though it was winter, sweat slid down Falyse's forehead.
She waved her hands exaggeratedly.
"King's Landing is mad these days. Everyone's gone crazy."
"Even with gold dragons, it's hard to buy anything."
"We had to… had to hurry… prepare…"
She panted slightly.
Even she seemed aware her reaction was strange.
She quickly looked up.
"Dear… why did you come back so early?"
"I heard you defeated the Baratheons. The army should still be on the road."
Her eyes locked onto Balman's face, trying to appear casual—like a wife simply concerned about her husband's return.
Her oversized mouth remained slightly open so she could draw deeper breaths.
"Oh, that's because of His Highness!"
Balman didn't notice anything unusual.
He straightened proudly.
"The Prince Regent rode ahead with a few trusted knights. The main army under Ser Brynden Tully is still bringing the prisoners and spoils."
He shook his head.
"You know I've never cared about being commander or anything like that."
"As long as I can stay by His Highness's side—"
"Ah—!"
Suddenly, a sharp, trembling gasp burst from Falyse's mouth.
Her entire body began shaking uncontrollably.
Her waist arched upward, the chair rocking violently as the elegant posture she had maintained collapsed instantly.
Her pale face flushed red.
Her eyes widened, empty and unfocused—
As if her soul had briefly left her body.
The strange episode lasted less than two seconds.
Seeing Balman staring at her in shock, Falyse immediately looked mortified.
She leaned forward, trying to hide what had just happened.
Forcing a bright smile, she raised her voice higher than ever.
"T-that's wonderful, Balman!"
"The Prince Regent returned too?"
"We must… must prepare properly… to welcome…"
Her words dissolved into nervous babbling.
She lowered her head, avoiding Balman's gaze.
Silence swallowed the room.
Balman stood there.
The fury in his eyes burned so fiercely it almost seemed visible.
A veteran of countless affairs, Balman instantly recognized the meaning of her reaction.
His hand returned to the sword hilt.
His handsome face twisted with rage.
Shing!
The blade came free and pointed straight ahead.
"Get out here, you bastard!"
His roar exploded through the silent room.
"Come crawling out of your filthy rat hole, you son of a whore!"
Startled by the shout and the cold steel inches away, Falyse jerked her head up.
"What are you talking about, Balman?! Have you lost your mind?"
"Go change your cLotes and we'll talk—"
"Shut up, Falyse!"
Balman shook the blade furiously.
"Tell that bastard under the table to come out!"
"We had an agreement!"
His voice thundered with humiliation.
"You can do whatever you want outside!"
"But you never—never bring someone into this house!"
"That was our line! Our agreement!"
"You greedy whore! You disgust me!"
"You've disappointed me beyond words!"
The room echoed only with Balman's ragged breathing.
Falyse froze.
She looked at Balman's furious face—
Then glanced unconsciously at the space beneath the table.
After a long, silent standoff, the last trace of hope and pretense vanished from her face.
She slowly withdrew her hand and folded it over her lap.
Then she sighed.
"Why… why did you have to say it out loud, Balman?"
Her voice had become strangely calm.
"When you spend your nights with noble ladies or lowborn whores—have I ever blamed you?"
"Have I ever restricted your freedom?"
A mocking smile curled across her lips.
"No. Never."
"I understand men. Especially handsome, charming knights like you."
"You always have… needs."
She shrugged casually.
"I only made the same mistake every woman in the world makes."
"Only… I was a little careless today."
Her casual attitude instantly ignited Balman's fury to its peak.
"Shut your filthy mouth, whore!"
He stepped forward violently, the sword trembling with rage.
"Remember this! This is my house!"
"You broke our agreement and dared to entertain some gutter dog in my room—right in front of me!"
"You treacherous, filthy sow—tell him to come out!"
"Or I'll cut the both of you down!"
The mask on Falyse's face shattered completely.
All the feigned guilt and fear vanished.
What remained was cold irritation.
Her mocking smile widened.
"Come out."
With those words, the air in the room froze.
But what answered her was not the expected scrambling figure.
From the deep shadow beneath the table—
A flash of steel burst forth.
WHOOSH!
A dagger shot out from an impossible angle.
THUD!
It pierced straight through Balman's thigh.
Too fast.
He had no time to react.
The next instant—
A figure exploded from beneath the table.
No hesitation.
No pause.
A sword flashed toward Balman's vital points in a vicious diagonal strike.
Balman had no time to think.
No time to see the attacker's face.
Not even time to feel the pain in his leg.
His battle-hardened body simply moved.
With pure muscle memory forged on countless battlefields—
He raised his sword.
CLANG!
Steel crashed against steel.
The impact sent Balman staggering again.
His sword trembled violently.
Cold sweat drenched his undershirt.
Pain and fury blurred his vision red.
But he forced himself to look up.
His sight slowly focused.
Over the vibrating blades pressing against his own—
He finally saw the face of the man who had stolen his honor, destroyed his home, and now sought his life.
Not the cowardly figure he had imagined.
The man's eyes were a cold deep-sea blue.
Bright.
Sharp.
Filled with naked cruelty.
Like—
A raven waiting to feast on flesh.