Chapter 230 — Burn That Power
"Hand it over."
The words were cold, direct—without preamble.
Lance Lot spoke calmly, because this was not a request. It was an order—the final ultimatum of a victor to the defeated.
Across from him, Doran Martell swallowed.
Fear flickered in the depths of his hollow eyes, though a strained, mocking smile tugged at his lips as he tried to preserve the dignity of a Dornish prince.
"The gods are unjust indeed… a blacksmith from beside a forge now wears the white cloak of the Kingsguard… even becoming Regent?"
It didn't provoke him.
Lance merely raised an eyebrow and stepped forward. The weight of his presence pressed down like iron.
"I don't have time for your nonsense, Doran Martell."
His greatsword lifted slowly, the tip settling at Doran's throat.
"Either you hand it over—"
"Or this 'blacksmith' will personally take your ugly head."
The smile froze.
Doran stared into those cold, unfeeling eyes. The blade hovered inches from his neck, its chill biting into his skin.
He understood.
Power, schemes, plans—none of it mattered before absolute strength.
Silence fell over the walls.
Only the distant chaos of battle below… and the slow, heavy breathing of the dragon.
Then—
A shrill whistle split the air.
An arrow shot from the shadows of a nearby battlement, aimed straight for Lance's neck.
He didn't even fully turn.
At the last instant, he tilted his head.
The arrow grazed his helm.
Then—
Clang.
With a casual flick of his blade, the arrow was deflected—only to bury itself deep into Doran's swollen left knee.
"—AAAAHH!!!"
The scream tore from his throat.
Pain exploded through him like a hundred needles driven into bone. His body convulsed violently, hands clawing at the shaft embedded in his flesh.
Cold sweat soaked through his robes.
Even the slightest touch brought more agony.
And yet—
Lance didn't even glance at him.
But the dragon did.
Ilyon's molten eyes snapped toward the attacker.
In an instant, it lunged.
The guard barely had time to react before the dragon's jaws closed around his torso.
Crunch.
Bone shattered like dry twigs.
The dragon shook its head violently, flinging the man like a rag doll. Blood and viscera sprayed across the walls, stones, and stunned soldiers nearby.
Within seconds, nothing recognizable remained.
With a final toss, the mangled corpse was hurled off the wall—vanishing into the battlefield below.
"I heard you can't stand anymore," Lance said calmly.
"But it seems… your knees still feel pain."
He hadn't even looked at the execution.
Instead, he stepped forward.
His hand reached out—gripping the arrow lodged in Doran's knee.
And twisted.
Doran's scream lasted only a moment before Lance clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Mm—! Mm—!!!"
His eyes bulged. His body thrashed like a fish dragged onto land, suffocating and drowning in unbearable pain.
The arrowhead, barbed and buried deep, ground against bone and tendon.
A wet, sickening crunch echoed.
Blood surged down the shaft.
"I'll ask… one more time."
Lance's voice whispered beside his ear, like a demon.
"Where… is it?"
Crack.
Doran's body jerked violently—something inside him breaking completely.
All resistance collapsed.
With trembling hands, he fumbled beneath his wheelchair.
Click.
A hidden compartment sprang open.
Inside—
A black whip, threaded with gold.
Lance took it instantly.
Doran collapsed, coughing violently as air flooded his lungs—then blacked out from pain and shock.
Lance didn't spare him another glance.
He mounted Ilyon.
The dragon beat its wings—
And rose.
Wind howled.
Below, the battlefield churned.
"Unsullied!"
"Look up!"
"Open your eyes—and see!"
His voice thundered across the field, drowning out all other sound.
Thousands looked up.
High above, the white-armored knight sat astride a dragon, sunlight blazing off his armor.
In his hand—
The black whip.
The symbol of command.
The moment they saw it—
Thousands of Unsullied dropped to one knee in perfect unison.
Boom.
Armor struck earth like thunder.
The Dornish soldiers surged forward, weapons raised—
"Stop!"
Lance's voice cut through the chaos.
"In the name of the Iron Throne—stand down!"
Hesitation rippled through the ranks.
Then, slowly—
Weapons lowered.
Silence spread.
"I understand your hatred!" Lance continued.
"These men may have just killed your brothers—your fathers—your sons!"
"But they are only tools!"
"Like your swords and shields—tools do not hate!"
"The real enemy… is the one who commands them!"
As one, eyes turned from the kneeling Unsullied to the walls of Sunspear.
Lance's voice rose.
"Unsullied!"
"I am Lance Lot!"
"Regent of the Iron Throne! Protector of House Targaryen! Dragonrider!"
"Before you—two paths!"
His gaze swept across them.
"First—leave."
"I will give you ships."
"But you will return to Astapor—back into slavery. Your souls bound to this whip!"
Then—
His voice ignited.
"Or—follow me!"
"Fight not for masters—but for yourselves!"
"For honor!"
"For freedom!"
Freedom.
The word struck like thunder.
The Unsullied—emotionless, broken, conditioned—
Yet something trembled beneath their still faces.
Their eyes.
Shaking.
Uncertain.
Alive.
Then—
Before them all—
Lance raised the whip.
And threw it into the sky.
"Dracarys."
Flame erupted.
Ilyon's fire consumed the whip midair—reducing it to ash.
The symbol of their chains—
Gone.
Burned.
Freed.
___
Far below, deep within the dungeons of Sunspear, darkness ruled.
Not the freezing cold of the North—but Dorne's damp, creeping chill.
It seeped from the stone, from the rotting straw, from the filth.
The air stank of decay, blood, and despair.
In a corner, a man lay curled into himself.
Barely alive.
Hunger, cold, pain—blurred into one.
Only the dull ache of his wounds reminded him—
He was still breathing.
For now.
He lay there like refuse tossed into a heap—something broken and forgotten, waiting only to rot.
Then, suddenly—
The cell door creaked open.
A thin sliver of light spilled in.
His eyelids fluttered. Consciousness drifted in and out, lost in the endless cold and emptiness, clinging to fragments of meaningless thoughts.
With what little strength he had, he forced his gaze upward.
The uneven stone ceiling loomed above, its jagged contours like twisted, distorted faces silently mocking him.
He remembered…
Once, Oberyn Martell had been burned alive in this very cell. The flames had consumed everything—this place had only been rebuilt afterward.
Now…
Was it his turn?
A faint, almost inaudible sigh slipped from his throat.
His mind cleared just a little.
He had believed—truly believed—that he had fulfilled his duty. That he could return to Dorne. That even if Doran Martell harbored resentment, shared grief and the weight of external threats might yet carve out a fragile reconciliation.
Yes.
He had once clung to that fragile hope.
But Doran had changed.
The madness buried deep within him had finally taken root—watered by despair and obsession—until it choked out what little reason remained.
Oberyn's death had been the turning point.
A dividing line.
After that… there was no going back.
In those early days, when his mind was still clear, he had spent every ounce of strength trying to persuade him—analyzing the catastrophe looming over Dorne.
The Iron Throne now held dragons.
The balance of power across Westeros had been completely overturned.
Resistance would only drag House Martell into utter ruin.
And for that—
He had been thrown into a dungeon.
Doran had locked him away, his eyes devoid of reason—filled only with a twisted anticipation for the destruction to come.
Pride.
Distorted "honor."
They filled his ears so completely that no other voice could reach him.
…Fine.
It would all end the same way anyway.
The man's eyes rolled slightly, the fire that once burned within them long since extinguished.
Time had lost all meaning.
Weeks? Months?
He couldn't tell.
Day and night were indistinguishable here.
Even hunger and cold had dulled into something distant.
Then—
Footsteps.
Clack… clack…
Armored boots striking stone, echoing through the corridor.
Nearer.
Heavier.
So… it was time.
A faint, self-mocking smile tugged at his lips.
Good.
Perhaps this ending was a mercy—for himself, and for House Martell, already tumbling toward the abyss.
At least he wouldn't have to witness the final, inevitable horror.
The sun of Dorne would never reach his grave.
But darkness… would be enough.
His body was too weak to move.
He could only struggle to lift his swollen eyelids, vision blurred and unfocused.
The footsteps stopped outside the cell.
With effort, he looked up.
A figure stepped into the doorway, backlit by the light beyond.
Too bright.
His eyes burned.
At first, all he could make out was a tall, upright silhouette.
After a long moment, it came into focus—
A knight in pure white armor.
Standing above him.
Watching.
As if confirming something.
Then, a cold voice spoke—
Not a sentence of death.
"Lewyn Martell."
"Come with me."
"The Regent wants to see you."