"Your Grace, she is Genna Lannister."
Before Kal stood a golden-haired woman with a broad, flat face, towering breasts, and a neck like a pink pillar, her body square and heavy.
Though her figure had long since gone out of shape, one could still tell that in her youth she had likely not been too ill-favored.
This was the matter Wyman had emphasized in his letter to Kal.
Otherwise, a mere Dreadfort—even if taking it would not be easy with White Harbor and half the strength of the Vale—would not have required the King to come in person.
After all, the ruin of House Bolton was already a settled fact. Roose Bolton had been ordered by the King to take his own life, a measure that granted him a measure of dignity.
The present Dreadfort was guarded by nothing more than Roose Bolton's bastard son. That he could hold such a fortress—no one would believe it.
Thus the reason Wyman had written to summon the King was that they had captured Genna Lannister.
After a feast at Winterfell the night before, Kal set out at first light, bringing with him his dragon and his dog, and rode for the Dreadfort.
Wyman's letter chiefly informed him that east of the White Knife, on the road toward the Dreadfort, they had encountered a cavalry force—the very Long Lances that had attacked White Harbor and then ridden deep into the North.
After annihilating some hundred men, the remaining sellswords surrendered. Among the captives they found a woman they had fully expected to find—Genna Lannister.
Outside the Dreadfort, Wyman had come in person with his two sons, Wylis Manderly and Wendel Manderly, together with the forces of White Harbor.
The armies of the Vale were led by Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, who had come with his two sons, Andar Royce and Robar Royce, along with a host drawn from the levies of other noble houses.
Within the great tent of the garrison, seven or eight houses and more than twenty nobles who had come to lend their strength stood to either side. Kal sat upon a stool, a large dog at his feet with its tongue lolling.
Genna, her hands bound behind her back, hair disheveled, was forced to her knees before Kal. Beside her knelt the Long Lances' captain cringing and not daring to raise his head.
No one paid the little sellsword from the Free Cities any heed. All eyes were fixed upon the golden-haired woman who held her chin high.
"Why would you do this?"
At the head of the tent, Kal slowly stroked JJ's head and asked the question as if in passing.
He spoke true. He had never declared that the cadet branch of House Lannister that had fled should be hunted to extinction.
If so, they might well have remained quietly in the east. Why return and wade into this mire?
What is more, the Old Rose, who had before that secretly aided them, whether by intent or by chance, had already been reduced to ash by a single breath of dragonfire from Robert, and he had no wish to pursue the matter further.
For so vast a fleet as that of House Lannister to vanish without a trace was no easy feat. Without the aid of House Redwyne of the Arbor, slipping past Dorne would not have been simple.
In the circumstances at the time, had Dorne learned that such a Lannister fleet was departing with its wealth in tow, if it had not struck, Kal would truly have had to question whether Prince Doran of Dorne was in truth a craven.
In answer to Kal's questioning, Genna merely cast a glance over the nobles present, the corner of her mouth lifting in disdain.
"Lannister is stronger than you imagine, bastard king. A house that has endured for a thousand years—without ambition, resilience, wit, and strength—would long ago have vanished into the river of history."
She looked upon the King before her with lofty contempt, her words as though she were chiding a child.
At once, several knights within the tent drew their swords.
"Your Grace, grant me leave to cut off her jaw, that she may be punished for her insult!"
Yohn moved fastest. Clad in his ancestral bronze armor, sword flashing cold light, he strode toward Genna, fury plain upon his face.
"There is no need to heed a cry born of fear, like the mad barking of a mongrel before a dragon."
"Return, Lord Yohn. I thank you—and all of you—for your loyalty."
Kal waved a hand, his expression unchanged.
He had never cared when others called him bastard. It was the most useless of attacks, less threatening than a child's table knife.
Though most who had cursed him for the base blood in his veins were now dead.
Yet that had nothing to do with Kal.
Halting the indignant nobles who shouted that Genna must be taught the meaning of order, Kal's gaze fell upon her once more.
"You are right, Lady Genna."
"History has shown that the true victors are never the heroes who shine for a fleeting hour. Only those who survive to the end are the ones who write it."
"So let us set aside these needless excuses and return to the true matter at hand."
Kal smiled, yet his eyes were colder than ice. Though a dozen braziers burned within the great tent, it seemed as if a cutting wind had swept through.
"So, was it the Iron Bank that backed your venture? Braavos, was it?"
"If you do not wish to answer, I believe the gentleman beside you would be most willing to enlighten me."
Kal's gaze shifted from Genna to the cowering captain of the Long Lances at her side.
The captain, who had been shrinking into himself as though wishing to vanish, could only open his mouth in trembling haste when Kal addressed him.
"Ho… honored… Ba… Baratheon… house… your…"
Very well—he stammered. Kal's mouth twitched, and he cut him off at once.
Then he said simply, "Aside from your testimony, the three sellsword companies in White Harbor have already told me much. I do not wish to hear lies."
All their plans had failed. Genna had nothing left to conceal.
She gave a brisk smile and said plainly, "Yes—the Iron Bank. Do you know why they supported us, failures who had already failed once?"
"Why?" Kal was truly curious.
From what he knew, the Iron Bank did not usually engage in ventures that were likely to lose coin.
And as proper men of capital—bankers, merchants—if they chose to back this remnant of the Lannisters, there must have been something that assured them they would not lose.
Sure enough, when Kal's voice fell silent, Genna turned her head toward the tent's entrance, where the great dragon outside had just lifted its head to yawn, then rolled over and settled again into slumber.
"They wanted your dragon. That is why they supported us."
"Of course, should we have succeeded, they might also have gained lands radiating outward from White Harbor as a base."
"A fine venture indeed. A touch of risk, perhaps—but for such returns, the gamble was worth it."
Hearing her words, even Kal could not help but give a low note of admiration.
The nobles and knights within the tent, upon hearing of the Iron Bank's boldness, broke into exclamations and curses alike.
Kal waited until the clamor subsided. Then he tapped JJ lightly upon the head and let a cold smile curl at his lips.
"For if the profit of investment and return reaches threefold, perhaps they might even sell the rope with which they themselves are to be hanged."
Those around him did not grasp the meaning of his words.
But Genna—clever, shrewd, and having already cast all upon the board—understood.
"Oh? Could it be that Your Grace intends to take vengeance upon them?"
"If I recall rightly, the Iron Throne still owes them several million gold dragons in loans. Though of course the debt of House Lannister has already been remitted for you."
Her smile was edged with scorn, her tone thick with mockery.
Kal seemed not to perceive the barb beneath her words. He merely nodded with a faint smile.
"I would not rule out the thought. Perhaps I shall reserve that right. I thank you for the suggestion, Lady Genna."
Yet at those words, Genna did not smile. On the contrary, a grave expression came over her face.
"Hmph… Do not let victory blind you, young King. What you ought to do is govern this realm well, not act recklessly in the heat of youth."
"When twenty years have passed and you look back upon this day, I only hope you will not regret it."
Kal had not expected such words of counsel to come from Genna's mouth. He gave a slight shake of his head.
Perhaps this was the kindness of one who stood at death's door.
"How the Iron Throne and Braavos are to be dealt with need not trouble you, my lady. There is another matter that concerns me more, and I hope Lady Genna will enlighten me."
"What matter?"
Seeing that Kal seemed not to have abandoned his ambition, Genna did not waste further words.
"I would know whether what you have done now bears any relation to House Frey."
At Kal's meaningful smile, the expression upon Genna's face truly changed this time.
Yet Kal did not intend to draw any answer from her lips.
He merely nodded indifferently, then rose and strode toward the tent's entrance.
As he passed by Genna, he left her with these words: "My thanks for your candor, Lady Genna. I shall grant you a dignity befitting your name."
…
The Dreadfort—after Roose Bolton's departure, its acting lord, Ramsay Snow, stood pale of face, his lips, like great worms, drained of all color.
It was as though leeches had sucked the foul blood from his body.
Nearly ten days had passed since the events at Winterfell, and what had transpired there—as well as all that Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, had done—had spread throughout the North and the Seven Kingdoms.
That news had, of course, reached the Dreadfort where Ramsay now stood.
The combined host of White Harbor and the Vale that had encircled the Dreadfort had already left him feeling powerless.
But the sight at dawn of the golden dragon descending from the horizon filled him with true despair.
As Ramsay stared at the armies beyond the walls and the dragon in the sky, at a loss for what to do, a foul stench suddenly drifted from beside him.
A man approached—short of stature, ill-favored of face, clad in leather armor and an iron helm.
"Master, I think we had best leave. I do not believe the stones of the Dreadfort can withstand a dragon."
The man who came to Ramsay's side was his servant, his close attendant—a foul-smelling fellow of like mind, who often joined him in mischief and cruelty.
He drew near to Ramsay, cast a cautious glance about, and offered his counsel in a low voice.
His words jolted the bewildered Ramsay back to himself.
Roose Bolton's bastard glanced about at once, making certain none had overheard their exchange, before schooling his face into steadiness.
"What would you have me do?"
Ramsay sought advice from his attendant.
But Reek could only shake his head. How should he know what was to be done?
"I do not know, master. You are cleverer than Reek. Perhaps you could wear the new Lannister skin you took and slip away unseen."
"No one would know it was you."
At Reek's suggestion, Ramsay recalled Davon Lannister—seized after Roose Bolton's departure, tormented for five days, and flayed alive before death at last claimed him.
He would never forget how, from the moment Davon had come to the Dreadfort, he had borne himself with lofty disdain, looking down upon him—and how he had slain with a single stroke the hound Ramsay had named after a girl called Sara, in memory of her.
Davon had driven his iron sword through the hound Sara's mouth.
And Ramsay, with that same iron blade, had peeled his skin away inch by inch.
It had been a task of considerable difficulty.
Ramsay had just opened his mouth to curse Reek for such a foolish notion when cries rose up all around them.
There was no time to rebuke him. Ramsay turned at once toward the field beyond the Dreadfort.
Now he saw what had stirred the soldiers' alarm.
From the great tent of the combined host of White Harbor and the Vale, not far off, a golden-haired woman and a man whose features could not be clearly seen were being led out under guard.
The pair were brought straight before the dragon.
Then a conspicuous man clad in a white cloak over a bearskin stepped forward, drew a sword, and set it before him, as though speaking to the two.
During this, the dragon slowly rose upright.
Ramsay recognized the man.
He was the one who had come at dawn, riding upon a golden dragon, with a great golden hound at his side, descending from the horizon.
Kal Baratheon.
Though he had never before seen the man, Ramsay knew him.
He widened his eyes and stared without blinking at all that unfolded beyond the castle walls.
The man who stood with a greatsword planted before him appeared to have finished speaking.
In the next instant, the dragon loosed a blast of orange-red fire tinged with blue, pouring it over the man and woman.
Within the flames, the two were like candles set alight, melting into two dark shapes that slowly dissolved.
The horror of the execution seemed to stretch time itself into an age.
Only when those two dark shapes were burned away to nothing did the man with the greatsword and the bearskin white cloak seem to notice his gaze and lift his head sharply toward his direction.
The dragon ceased its breath and turned its head as well.
Then it kicked from the ground, vast wings spreading wide enough to blot out the sky, and beat them once.
With a thunder of wings, it flew toward the Dreadfort.
…
In little time, fires had broken out throughout the Dreadfort, and shrill screams rang on every side.
Within the kennels where the hunting hounds were kept, Ramsay had already changed his clothing. Now he was frantically scooping up the hounds' dung from the corner and smearing it all over himself.
In the corridor beyond, the mad hounds were tearing at a corpse without cease.
At that moment, a flash of lightning suddenly split the darkness of the kennel, white brilliance flooding the space with light.
At the same time, the clear sound of measured footsteps drew near.
Through air thick with stench and the reek of burning, a tall, handsome man entered, clad in a bearskin white cloak, one hand covering his nose.
It seemed that just then he noticed the figure curled up in the corner of the kennel, trembling.
"Who are you?"
"Were you brought here by them?"
His voice was gentle, like rain in spring.
Ramsay, sunk deep in fear, trembled as he lifted his head toward the sound.
Light from outside the kennel shone from behind the tall man, casting over him a shadow as dark and heavy as ink.
He nodded.
"Y… yes, my lord…"
"My name is Reek. I am the son of a hunter from nearby."
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