Chapter 179 — "What Do You Think You're Doing to My Kingsguard?"
The scalding stew came flying.
Quinta reacted fast, twisting aside—but the bowl's contents splashed across the man behind him instead.
"AAAHHH!!"
A scream tore through the inn. The man shot to his feet, clawing at his face and neck.
Most of the boiling broth had hit one side of his face and throat. The skin reddened instantly, swelling, blisters rising.
"Shit!"
"You bastard!"
Quinta's men exploded in fury, weapons drawn in an instant as they rounded on Petyr Baelish.
The entire inn fell silent. Every patron turned, eager for drama.
"My lord, please, calm down—don't fight!" the fat innkeeper rushed over—only to be pinned in place by one of Petyr's guards.
Petyr tilted his head, sneering.
"Where'd you bumpkins crawl out from? Can't even speak properly."
Hearing their clumsy Crownlands accent only strengthened what Lyn had told him. No matter how they imitated the speech, the dry, sandy undertone of Dorne clung to them.
Worth every coin he'd spent on this extravagant disguise.
Petyr smirked. "Judging by how poor you look, you've probably never had beef before. Consider it Lord Hans's charity."
Weapons tightened in fists—
"Sit down!"
Quinta barked the order through clenched teeth.
"But boss—"
"I said sit down!"
His men reluctantly obeyed.
Then Quinta forced an ugly smile. "Forgive us, Lord Hans. We'll leave at once."
Petyr blinked.
That didn't work?
He pivoted instantly, rage vanishing into charm.
"My, what strong arms! You look like capable men. I happen to be short on guards—five gold dragons a month each."
Gasps rippled.
Even Quinta hesitated.
Petyr slung an arm around his neck. "My fault your man got hurt. Ten gold dragons for treatment. Sit, eat with me!"
Food was ordered again—lavishly.
---
Meanwhile — Back Courtyard
A shadow slipped over the low wall.
Lyn Corbray moved soundlessly through the snow.
Ahead, two guards shivered outside the small building.
Steel whispered.
Lady Forlorn slid free.
Lyn blurred forward—two strokes.
Throats opened. Bodies dropped into the snow.
He paused, listening.
From the front hall, laughter still roared.
A grin spread across his face as he wiped the Valyrian steel clean.
Good. The boy from the Fingers did his part well.
He had chosen the right ally.
Click.
The door latch turned.
Lyn took a few quick steps forward. His blade sheared straight through the door bar. With a light push, the heavy wooden door creaked open, rotted hinges groaning.
The stench of mold hit him at once.
He frowned, held his breath, and slipped inside.
The room was pitch-black, lit only by the moon overhead. Still, in that faint glow, his eyes locked immediately onto the figure curled in the hay in the corner.
"Found you."
Grinning, he strode over. The woman appeared unconscious, trembling faintly from the cold.
Without hesitation, Lyn unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around her.
"Can't have you freezing. You're the merit that'll make me Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
Though she clearly couldn't hear him, he kept talking anyway, half to keep her conscious, half in idle amusement.
"They say you're the sister of the Sword of the Morning? Shame. That fellow's taken the black—guess I'll never cross blades with him."
"Hey. Don't sleep on me, woman."
"Since I saved your life, when the time comes, dress nicely, serve that Regent well, and put in a few good words for me."
A low, villainous chuckle rumbled in his throat as he lifted her and headed outside.
At the word Regent, her body seemed to tremble faintly. Her eyelids fluttered. Dark eyes weakly studied the man holding her.
Snow and the metallic tang of blood filled the air.
Lyn stepped over the threshold—
—and stopped.
Ahead, blocking the only exit, stood a massive silhouette like an iron tower planted in the storm.
A true giant. Well over seven feet tall. Heavy armor thick as a gate slab. Beast fur draped his shoulders. Bare arms knotted with muscle thicker than Lyn's waist.
In his hands—
a single-edged greataxe nearly twice a man's height.
From behind the helm, a pair of frigid eyes locked onto Lyn and the woman.
No words.
But the pressure was like a mountain.
Norvoshi bearded priest? Lyn narrowed his eyes. He'd heard of such warriors across the Narrow Sea.
"...Tch. Acting tough."
He gently set the woman against the doorframe.
Then Lady Forlorn flashed free.
No words were needed.
Only one would leave standing.
Lyn moved first—fast as a shadow. His sword carved a black arc under the moon, a strike representing the peak of Westerosi swordsmanship.
CLANG!
The giant barely moved. A simple lift of the wrist—
The greataxe blocked.
An indescribable force crashed through the blade into Lyn's arm.
"Ghh—!"
His arm went numb. Blood surged up his throat. He skidded backward through the snow, boots carving trenches.
His palm split open. Blood soaked the hilt.
It felt like striking a moving mountain.
The giant hadn't budged.
"Damn… looked down on me?"
Blood dripped from Lyn's lips.
"I am Lyn Corbray—greatest knight of the Vale—future Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
With a snarl, he lunged again, blade shrieking toward the knee joint—
Blocked again.
He staggered, dropped to one knee.
"Now it's my turn."
The giant finally spoke, voice like grinding stone.
The axe swept down in a blur, faint yellow light flickering along its edge.
"Magic…?"
Lyn raised his sword—
BOOM!
His knees sank deep into the snow. His right arm bent backward grotesquely—bone shattered through flesh.
Blood sprayed across white ground.
His vision blurred.
A massive fur-lined boot stepped into view.
The axe rose overhead.
Facing death, Lyn gave a ragged, defiant laugh. He tried to lift his broken arm—failed—gripped his sword with his left instead.
"I don't lose!"
He swung—
The giant casually kicked the blade away. Lady Forlorn spun off and buried itself in the snow.
"Go meet your false god, knight."
The axe descended.
Is this it?
Lyn raged inwardly. He hadn't become Lord Commander. Hadn't carved his legend. Hadn't—
A shriek tore across the sky.
The giant froze, startled, glancing upward.
Nothing but clouds.
He turned back—
The axe fell.
Sparks exploded.
A gray-white blur had intercepted the strike for an instant—then vanished.
The giant's eyes widened.
He had seen it—
A molten, vertical pupil in the dark.
A dragon.
So the rumors were true.
But—
"Come out, beast!"
He roared, gripping the axe. With runic blessings of the High Priest, he feared nothing—not even a hatchling.
Wind howled.
From the darkness ahead, a figure stepped into moonlight.
White armor, spotless. Heavy white cloak billowing.
On his shoulder perched an ash-gray hatchling dragon, dark red light burning at the edges of its near-black irises.
Cold slit-pupils fixed on the giant, hissing.
In the knight's hand—
a massive black blade bearing the same rippling patterns as Lyn's fallen sword.
Valyrian steel.
The sword tip dragged through snow as he advanced.
He stopped.
Under the moon, the white-armored knight lifted his head. Blue eyes pierced forward, emotionless as winter.
His calm voice cut through the storm.
"You…"
"What exactly do you think you're doing… to my Kingsguard?"