Chapter 117 – The Lover of Blackmont
Lance raised his greatsword in one hand, lifting it overhead in a posture that looked laughably unnatural to anyone who didn't understand what it demanded:
Strength was not enough — it required terrifying core control.
Gulp—
Staring up at the pale blade suspended above him, Ryon's throat tightened. His gaze slid past the towering Kingsguard, toward the Dornish lords watching behind him… and someone there immediately looked away.
"W–wait— I… I request the black cloak! Let me join the Night's Watch!"
"Smart. But unfortunately…"
Lance didn't even pretend to consider it.
"This is Dorne. I am not the Prince of Dorne. I can't grant your request."
"T–then you have no right to execute me!"
"You're wrong, Sand."
Lance's voice turned cold enough to freeze bone.
"As Commander of the Kingsguard, I have the authority to dispose of any scheming villain who threatens the Queen."
As he spoke, the greatsword began to fall.
"And besides…"
Lance smiled — too gently to be comforting.
"I never said I wanted to kill you, bastard."
He leaned close.
"I said I'd turn you into something less than an animal."
The sword plummeted.
WHOOSH—!
It stopped less than three inches from Ryon's skull.
He broke.
The man who had stared down execution now crumpled like wet parchment, sobbing on his knees.
"IT'S FRANKLYN! FRANKLYN FOWLER IS MY FATHER!"
A hush fell.
Lance's smile widened as he lowered the blade and planted it in the dirt.
Nearly had him. And gods — holding Dawn like that really hurt.
Lance might be a demon in battle, but he wasn't a lunatic who enjoyed mutilation.
If psychological pressure hadn't been required to break the man open, Ryon would have been headless already.
Acting terrifying is exhausting… the ancients did not lie.
"Continue."
Under every pair of stunned eyes, Lance rested both hands casually atop the sword pommel, inviting him to go on.
"Wa—wait!"
Lord Franklyn, who had been silent until now, suddenly surged forward — cutting Ryon off.
Outwardly, righteous fury. Inwardly, only gods knew.
He jabbed a finger at Ryon, voice booming:
"He just claimed to be a Yronwood bastard, and now he says he's my son?! Lies upon lies! He's slandering an innocent man!"
"This scum has no honor! His words aren't worth the spit he drools out — kill him now before he ruins more reputations!"
Franklyn actually reached for his sword.
But Lance was already staring at him.
He didn't need to lift a finger — Barthes and two Crownland knights seized Franklyn instantly and pinned him to the ground.
"No need to be so angry, my lord," Lance said, voice soft but expression glacial.
"We will uncover the whole truth. No honorable man will be wronged."
"YOU FILTHY DOG!" Franklyn shrieked past the arms holding him down, still kicking like a madman. "You degenerate bastard — did your mother teach you nothing about honesty?!"
The word "mother" hit Ryon like a hammer.
He flinched so hard it looked like someone had stabbed him.
Ryon's reaction did not escape Lance.
The Kingsguard narrowed his eyes, strode toward Lord Franklyn Fowler, and — without warning — drove the steel toe of his white plate boot straight into the lord's face, snapping his jaw shut and silencing him instantly.
A signal — only a slight twitch of Lance's chin.
Barthes understood immediately.
He tore a blood-soaked strip of cloth from a corpse lying nearby and shoved it over Franklyn's mouth, forcing the gag between his lips. Fresh, wet blood seeped up his nose and into his throat — the taste so foul it dragged a retch up from his gut, only to be choked and swallowed back down by the pressure of the hand holding him.
"Continue."
Satisfied that Franklyn could no longer interfere, Lance dusted his hands and returned to stand in front of Ryon Sand.
Prince Lewyn Martell watched, jaw clenched. That was his old friend being humiliated — yet he didn't dare intervene.
But now Ryon hesitated.
Fear replaced rage. He stammered, choking on words that refused to come out. And Franklyn — bound and gagged — thrashed like a trapped animal, eyes bulging with murderous desperation as he stared at Ryon.
Lance leaned forward.
"You don't need to worry about repercussions, Sand."
The pale greatsword angled toward Ryon's neck — a whisper from the skin.
"If I hear even one answer I don't like, I'll take something from your body every time. Limb by limb. Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left but what's lying beside you."
His voice lowered to a deadly calm.
"So tell the truth — or stop pretending you want to live."
Ryon's breath came in ragged gasps.
And then he broke.
He collapsed forward, forehead cracking against the ground.
"I am Franklyn Fowler's bastard son! He promised that if I completed this mission, he would restore the Fowler name to me — and name me heir to Skyreach!"
Pandemonium.
Even Lewyn Martell shut his eyes, dragging a slow breath through his teeth.
Franklyn's whole body convulsed with fury, screaming against the gag — barely recognizable, red-faced and wild-eyed.
The knights held him firm.
He wasn't going anywhere.
"Proof," Lewyn said flatly.
He stepped toward the kneeling bastard, his expression carved from stone.
"You claim to be Fowler's son — then prove it. I won't take your word alone."
Ryon raised his head. He stared at Lewyn's dark hair and the sun-piercing-spear sigil of House Martell — then at the gagged noble beside him.
There was no going back now.
"I have no written proof. He left none — deliberately."
"But—"
His voice cracked; emotion flooded in.
"I know every servant in Skyreach. I know every room. I grew up there."
He swallowed hard, then continued, louder — angrier:
"Lord Franklyn always keeps a glass of Summer Red beside him when he copies Masters of the Freehold in his solar."
"His bookshelves — top to bottom — A History of Westeros, The Seven-Pointed Star, The Songs of the Sandsnakes."
"Every fourth and seventh day of the week he meets his mistresses. Their names are—"
He kept going — vividly, specifically, and with the kind of detail only someone intimately close would know.
There was no way to fake it.
Lewyn's eyes closed again, then opened — full of grim resignation.
He stepped toward Franklyn, still pinned on the ground, and looked down upon him with an expression that was not anger… but disappointment so sharp it cut.
"Release him," Lewyn ordered quietly.
"I will ask him myself."
But before Lewyn could speak again, he turned — eyes narrowing at Lance.
"How," he asked, voice trembling with contained outrage, "did you know the ambushers on the road wouldn't actually be Yronwood men? What made you so certain?"
Lance leaned lazily against the hilt of Dawn, his tone casual — but his gaze slid toward the woman watching from the side.
Jynessa Blackmont.
It had been her whispered analysis on the ride back that had inspired Lance to pressure the "Yronwood knight" earlier.
And now, confirmation.
The Blackmont knights had not arrived to threaten the Queen's escort.
They had arrived to protect it.
The ambushers — the so-called Yronwoods — were frauds.
And everyone now understood what Lance had realized first:
If true Yronwood knights were involved, Dorne would already be at war.
Lewyn turned toward Jynessa.
And Jynessa, chin high, arms folded across her cuirass, exhaled sharply through her nose.
"Who did you think gave us the intelligence?" she said, unimpressed with the men's slowness.
She tilted her head, eyes glittering with a hint of pride.
"Lord Edgar Yronwood was once my mother's finest lover."
---
Silence. Then again chaos.
Even Lance — who had seen everything — blinked.
Lewyn stared like someone just slapped him with a history book.
Franklyn froze mid-struggle.
Ryon went white.
And Barthes, bless his idiot heart, muttered too loudly:
"…so Blackmont's been infiltrating half of Dorne through… bed diplomacy?"
Jynessa didn't deny it.
She just smirked.
"Dorne has many weapons. Not all of them are forged of steel."