Chapter 118 – Lance Lot's Moment of Carelessness
Gods, look at her—so proud she might snap in half.
Lance watched the Blackmont girl lift her chin, shoulders squared in smug defiance.
Dorne's reputation for open relationships was well-known, but the way she treated her mother's lovers like family honors? That was new.
Anyone listening would think Lady Blackmont mounted the Yronwoods like a personal hobby.
---
"Nothing to say, Franklyn?"
Prince Lewyn Martell's voice was quiet—too quiet—as he stared down at the man who had once been his closest friend.
Not anger. Not outrage.
Just distance.
As if he were speaking to a stranger.
Silence stretched… until Franklyn finally raised his head.
"We've known each other how many years, Lewyn?"
His voice was rough.
"I met you in the Water Gardens when you were ten. A shy, silent boy no one wanted to play with. Except me.
I was six years older. I taught you swordplay. Riding. Even the first time you visited the brothels of Planky Town—I kept watch outside the door."
His gaze hardened.
"Have I ever done anything to hurt you?"
Lewyn closed his eyes for a brief second.
"You know that's not what I want to hear."
He looked back over his shoulder at Ryon Sand—at the trembling bastard kneeling in the dirt.
Then his voice sharpened.
"You guard your books like treasure. You never let anyone into your solar—not even me.
That boy wasn't lying. Anyone could see that."
He hesitated.
"But you never told me you had a bastard."
"That was an accident," Franklyn spat.
He followed Lewyn's gaze toward Ryon, his grey eyes twisting with disgust.
He spat blood onto the ground as if ejecting something filthy from his body.
Ryon flinched—just barely—but kept his head bowed.
"Why?"
Lewyn's voice cracked at the edges.
"Why do this? You know if the Queen were harmed in Dorne, the Targaryens would have grounds for war. Do you want to drag all of Dorne back into fire and blood?"
His hands shook.
"We fought so hard for this century of peace. Dorne stood with the Crown in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. We proved our loyalty. Earned the King's favor."
His voice broke into a growl.
"Why destroy all of it?"
Silence fell.
Thick. Suffocating.
Then—
"...Heh. Hahaha…"
A thin, jagged laugh scraped out of Franklyn's throat, his body trembling.
Lewyn's expression darkened. His hand drifted instinctively to the hilt at his hip.
No matter how deep their friendship ran, no personal bond could outweigh the fate of Dorne.
"You aren't the firstborn, Lewyn."
Franklyn's voice rose slowly, heavy with resentment.
"You aren't the heir. You'll never sit the high seat of Sunspear.
You'll never bear the burden of rule or lead your family."
He looked up with a sneer.
"You don't need swordplay. You don't need discipline.
Just the Martell name. A few mistresses. And heirs to carry your 'noble' blood."
"But me?" His voice cracked into a bitter laugh. "I was different."
"When I was old enough to walk, my father pointed at the Black Gate and said:
'Remember that mark. They stole everything that should have been Fowler.'"
"Since the fall of the Kings of Skyreach, the Fowlers were Martell's strongest bannermen. Then Yronwood bent the knee—and suddenly we were second."
His eyes burned with old humiliation.
"At twelve, I broke my arm in training. Do you know what my mother said?"
He imitated her voice, cold and mocking:
'It's only a small injury. The Yronwood boy is probably training right now.
Do you want Skyreach to become a joke?'
"So the next day, I was back in the yard—my arm in a sling—practicing swordsmanship with my other hand.
Blood soaking the bandages.
Not daring to stop."
"But it didn't matter."
His voice broke.
"No matter how hard I trained… I could never last ten exchanges against Ormond Yronwood."
"So I stopped trying to beat him with swords."
He lifted his head, a twisted smile forming.
"Wit is the quickest path to power.
So I sought allies. Opportunities. Even meeting you, Lewyn… was deliberate."
"I was quiet by nature. Like you. But I forced myself to change—just to befriend the future sons of Sunspear."
The courtyard went still.
The history between Yronwood and Fowler was older than half the kingdoms of Westeros:
one guarding the Prince's Pass, the other holding the Boneway.
Old rivals. Old hatreds. Old wounds.
In hindsight, Franklyn's upbringing made terrible, perfect sense.
"But that still isn't a reason to strike at the Targaryens," Lewyn said hoarsely.
He looked shaken.
Disturbed.
He had known Franklyn for most of his life—laughing with him, training with him, growing with him.
But he had never truly known him.
Not like this.
Not the pressure.
Not the fear.
Not the lifelong bitterness carved into every fiber of the man.
"To betray the peace of Dorne…" Lewyn whispered. "To risk everything we fought for…"
He shook his head.
"I don't understand you anymore."
He hadn't expected any of it to be real. It had all been a performance.
"I never meant harm to the Queen or anyone, Lewyn," Franklyn said, voice steady despite the rubble of his reputation around him. He looked at his old friend with genuine—if strained—earnestness. "I only planned to kidnap the Queen or Princess Elia for the name of Yronwood."
Lewyn's jaw tightened. Franklyn pressed on, hurried now, each word aiming to paint victory.
"You know how things are between Yronwood and Martell—Oberyn's… that affair changed everything. If this plot worked, even Anders Yronwood's protests wouldn't matter. I'd join with House Martell, crush Yronwood—and like Tywin at Castamere, finish them off."
His voice rose with feverish ambition. In his mind he could already see banners toppled, Yronwood estates burned, Fowler rising to a position of power second only to Martell in Dorne.
But his scheme had miscarried.
"All of this is your fault… yours!" Franklyn spat, eyes burning toward the white figure not far off. Even held down by the Prince's men, his fingers clawed at the dirt so hard his nails were smeared with blood and grit.
If not for that damned Kingsguard—if not for him—my plan would have succeeded, Franklyn thought. Last time, and now again, everything I planned slips away.
He had planned everything to the last detail—he'd even stolen Lance's greatsword ahead of time. Yet somehow—somehow—the man still had a Valyrian blade to cut down Bruce and his gang and foil the whole plot. What sort of knight was Lance Lot?
Lance Lot only watched, hands resting on the pommel of Dawn, his blue eyes unreadable. Whatever Franklyn thought of him, Lance didn't care—he'd fought and built his place with every strike of the blade. No time for whining.
"Bind him," Lewyn said quietly. "His plot endangered the Queen. Take him to Sunspear for Prince Doran to judge."
Lance shrugged, unconcerned. Franklyn was livid, but the Prince's sentence stood.
"Lewyn—please—" Franklyn begged as they lifted him. "Don't take me to Sunspear. Think of our years—think of what I've done for you. I wasn't going to harm the Queen or House Martell. The promise to that bastard was a lie—just to keep him loyal. After this is over I'll send him to the Wall—no more trouble. I swear it! I had his mother… I had her executed quietly at Skyreach. If you doubt me, I'll let you check."
He threw himself to the ground, forehead smashing the dust in a shameless plea. Lewyn's face tightened; old affection warred with the duty to Dorne.
After a moment he said, "Go. Return to Skyreach and guard the pass. If any more trouble comes of you, I'll drag you from your ruins and rip your heart from your chest."
Lewyn's voice was cold and final; Franklyn accepted it, relief and shame warred in his eyes as the men released him. He stumbled free and staggered for the stables, trying—foolishly—to call after Lewyn. Jynessa Blackmont watched him go and snorted contemptuously. "Useless," she said. "Your Prince is spineless."
Lance's answer was sharp and dry: "We aren't Dornish. We don't take the law into our hands." He tipped his chin toward Lewyn. "Besides, he'll need a little dignity left. This is Dorne."
Jynessa huffed but did not press it. Then—sudden motion snapped Lance's attention. He shouted, "What are you doing? No—stop!"
The bound Ryon Shad was free.
Before anyone could react, Ryon threw his weight, shoved Lance off balance, and—miraculously—wrenched the greatsword free from the Kingsguard captain's hands. He was on his feet with Dawn in his grip and running, muscle and madness driving him.
"Stop him—now!" Lance roared.
The courtyard erupted. Knights lunged, men shouted; Lance scrambled to his feet, knocking and tumbling others as he moved. In the chaos the bound Ryon closed the distance to his father faster than reason allowed.
"Die, Franklyn Fowler!" Ryon screamed.
Franklyn had nothing with which to defend himself—only his hands raised in a useless shield. Ryon's blow was a thing of terrible intent: the blade crashed down and took both of Franklyn's arms away at the shoulder. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc; Franklyn's throat was sliced and he fell back, gurgling, eyes wide with disbelief. He had never imagined his own bastard could stand like that.
Ryon did not stop. He screamed every slur he had learned, branding his father a murderer, a liar—then buried the sword again and again into the failing man.
Only then did Barthes, the blond knight, react. He seized an arrow and loosed it clean into Ryon's chest. The boy staggered, then collapsed; the greatsword dropped and skittered, blade burying itself in Franklyn's breast.
Lance, who had just righted himself and dusted his head as if embarrassed by the tumble, walked forward slowly. He regarded the dying pair—father and son—without the flourish of a dramatist.
"Son kills father," he said, iron in his tone. "How shall we clean this up?"
He tapped his fingers like a bored man and then, as if recording a minor domestic mishap, said, "Note it down: Commander Lance Lot's lapse led to the death of Lord Franklyn Fowler."
"Not so!" Barthes protested immediately, chest puffing with loyalty. "It was the bastard! Sir Lance—no blame at all!"
Others echoed the cry. Even Lewyn looked stunned.
Lance stooped and drew Dawn from Franklyn's chest. He held the bloodied blade up, looking at it as if apologizing to a beloved friend. His voice softened, almost intimate. "Just this once," he murmured to the sword, "I won't let anyone take you from me again, yes?"
—The courtyard smelled of iron and the desert night. Men murmured and moved to tend the dead and the dying. Jynessa stood with the Valyrian steel in Lance's hands catching the moon—impression, perhaps, of how a sword can change the world in a single stroke.