Chapter 209 — I Have No Time for Some Damn Love Story (2 in 1)
The Red Keep
Inside a chamber beside the White Sword Tower, the air was thick and oppressive.
A nauseating stench of rot filled the room.
Old Maester Qyburn, dressed in a grey maester's robe, hunched over the bed so deeply that his entire body seemed folded forward.
Sweat covered his wrinkled face, yet he had no time to wipe it away.
All of his attention was fixed on the body lying before him.
His movements were precise and swift—every action calm, efficient, and urgent.
---
The golden-haired knight lay on the bed.
His armor had been removed, leaving him only in a thin undershirt.
The exposed skin had turned a sickly waxen yellow.
His chest rose and fell weakly, each breath shallow and rapid.
The wounds on his thigh and arm were so deep that bone could be seen.
Now those wounds had turned a terrifying bluish-black.
The flesh was visibly deteriorating.
Softened tissue collapsed into foul-smelling pus as rotten flesh seeped steadily from the depths of the wounds, soaking the thick linen padding beneath him.
---
A slender, razor-sharp knife fell again and again.
Each cut was perfectly placed.
Rotting flesh was sliced away cleanly and dropped into a metal tray beside the bed.
The tray already held quite a pile of such "trophies."
Yet beneath the newly exposed tissue, faint grey-black traces of poison could still be seen spreading deeper into healthier flesh.
---
"Your Grace!"
"Your Grace!"
At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor outside.
Armored boots struck the stone floor sharply.
Servants' nervous greetings mixed with the approaching steps.
Qyburn did not look up.
He remained focused on treating Ser Balman's wounds.
---
"How is he?"
Lance did not reprimand the maester for his lack of courtesy.
Instead he asked directly.
His tone was calm, almost emotionless.
Yet everyone present could hear the anger beneath it.
---
Qyburn still didn't raise his head.
The knife in his hand never paused.
With steady precision, it cut away another patch of corrupted tissue.
After finishing the excision, he casually tossed the blade into a boiling copper pot of sterilizing water.
Then he pressed a thick piece of gauze—soaked in a pungent medicinal solution—firmly against the newly exposed wound.
Only then did he look up.
His bloodshot eyes met Lance's unfathomable blue gaze.
---
"The situation is… not optimistic, Your Grace."
His eyes drifted back to Balman's wound.
A thin finger pointed toward the deeper layers of the thigh injury.
"Look here… and here…"
He indicated the darker areas of flesh.
"These sections are significantly different from the surrounding tissue."
His explanation was calm and professional.
---
"This poison did not kill instantly like certain lethal toxins."
"But its nature is… extremely unusual."
"In fact—"
He paused.
"I would almost call it… a curse rather than a poison."
A strange gleam appeared in Qyburn's eyes.
He seemed almost excited by the craftsmanship of the toxin—and the challenge it posed.
---
"Yes, Your Grace. As you can see."
"Once this 'curse' penetrates the bone, it continuously stimulates the surrounding tissue to rot and decay."
"Even if we remove the obviously necrotic flesh, the corruption continues to spread."
"This process drains the victim's strength rapidly."
"And the pain… is extraordinary."
"If not for Ser Balman's strong constitution—and the potions I've used to forcibly sustain his life…"
Qyburn chuckled faintly.
At that moment, Balman suddenly coughed violently.
His body convulsed uncontrollably.
---
Qyburn immediately bent down.
With practiced ease, he pressed a cloth soaked in a sedative solution over the knight's mouth and nose.
A few breaths later, the coughing subsided.
Balman slipped back into unconsciousness.
Only the faint rise and fall of his chest proved he was still alive.
---
"Can he be saved?"
Lance offered no comment.
His eyes simply rested on the dying knight.
Balman's body was covered with numerous thin translucent tubes of varying thickness.
They looked almost like rubber.
The other ends of the tubes were connected to strange bottles and containers.
Liquids of different colors slowly flowed through them, continuously entering Balman's body.
To most people, the sight would have been terrifying.
But Lance—who had seen far more advanced medical methods in his previous life, and who knew Qyburn's capabilities—felt no surprise.
Though he had no idea what those fluids actually were.
Still—
for a maester expelled from the Citadel for conducting human experiments,
Qyburn's surgical and medical skills were unquestionably among the best in the world.
---
"I am working on a method to save him without amputating the limb," Qyburn said with a confident grin.
To others, the poison and wounds might seem insurmountable.
To him, they were merely a challenging puzzle.
He had not even seriously considered amputation to preserve Balman's life.
---
"But it will take time, Your Grace."
He pointed toward the heavily corrupted thigh.
"The toxin has already penetrated the bone marrow."
"I cannot promise he will recover completely."
"However—"
"Once I fully understand the properties of this poison, I should be able to suppress it quickly."
"The wounds will stop rotting."
"And eventually, Ser Balman will wake up and speak to you himself."
He paused briefly.
"Though he will most likely never regain the strength he once had."
"You understand…"
---
"I know."
Lance raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Just tell me this."
"How long until he wakes up?"
Qyburn answered without hesitation.
"Three days."
At this point, old Qyburn finally had time to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
"Three days at most, Your Grace," he said confidently.
"You've done well, Maester Qyburn."
Lance nodded in approval.
"Keep up the good work. I've already sent a raven to the Citadel, requesting that the Conclave restore your maester's title, return your chain… and appoint you as the next Grand Maester."
"Really?"
Qyburn's aged face lit up with surprise.
In his youth, he had been obsessed with vivisection and necromantic research, which was precisely why the Citadel had expelled him.
Years of wandering and hardship had taught him to bow before reality—and awakened a deep desire for power.
If the Regent truly restored his maester's status and elevated him to the Small Council, then he would be skipping decades of struggle and reaching the pinnacle of life in one leap.
"Do you really think they'll agree?" he asked hesitantly.
Even someone like Qyburn, who prided himself on emotional detachment, couldn't help feeling a little anxious in the face of such enormous benefits.
"You know how the Citadel works, Your Grace," he said quietly.
"Those scholars are stubborn men. And the experiments I conducted in the past…"
He chuckled awkwardly.
---
Lance merely pressed his lips together.
Then he spoke in a calm, unquestionable tone.
"Relax."
"They will agree."
"The Citadel exists to serve the Crown."
"And if they decide to resist…"
His voice turned colder.
"I don't mind tearing the entire system down and building a new one."
Qyburn's breathing stopped for a moment.
He had never expected Lance to go that far—to confront the Citadel directly for his sake.
A man should die for the one who understands him.
Even at his age, Qyburn felt his throat tighten. His fists clenched unconsciously.
Yet he said nothing.
Instead, he quietly picked up another sterilized scalpel and continued cleaning Balman's wound.
---
Lance watched him in silence.
With a thought, the system interface appeared before his eyes.
After the battle at Duskendale and the slaughter in the Stormlands, the fusion rate of Azor Ahai had reached 59%.
Knowing the system's usual behavior, Lance suspected that once it reached 60%, the skill called "Will of the Flame" would unlock.
Judging from the name, it seemed likely that he would gain the ability to share a portion of his fire power with others.
Whether that power also possessed healing properties, however, remained uncertain.
Qyburn sounded confident—but there was no guarantee he could truly cure Balman.
If things truly went wrong…
Lance briefly considered another option.
Kill Balman outright.
Then force that mysterious red-robed priestess to revive him with magic.
After all, his own power seemed to originate from the same divine source as R'hllor.
Of course…
That was only a last resort.
---
"Your Grace!"
A booming voice suddenly came from the doorway.
Lance turned.
A tall, handsome knight in gleaming white armor stepped inside.
"Is something the matter, Ser Barristan?"
"The Queen Regent requests your presence, Your Grace."
The old Kingsguard spoke briefly and respectfully.
His clear blue eyes were filled with admiration.
Truth be told, Barristan had initially been skeptical of Lance's decision to ride south with only eight hundred knights.
But some men were simply born to create miracles.
Barristan knew that better than anyone.
After all, he himself had once cut down an enemy commander in the midst of thousands.
---
"The Queen Regent wants to see me?"
Lance frowned slightly.
Then relaxed.
Since returning to King's Landing, he hadn't yet had time to meet Rhaella.
There had simply been too many matters demanding his attention.
Thinking of that, Lance couldn't help but feel a trace of admiration for Tywin Lannister.
The man might have been obsessed with power, but as a ruler he was undeniably capable.
Back when the king ignored governance entirely, Tywin had still managed to keep the Seven Kingdoms running smoothly.
He even found time to outmaneuver the rest of the Small Council politically.
Of course, later events had completely thrown the situation into chaos.
Recently, Tywin himself had started acting like a hands-off ruler—spending his days sleeping in the Tower of the Hand, ignoring nearly everything.
Looks like I'll need to find a new Hand of the King, Lance thought.
After all, in his previous life he had never been any sort of ruler.
He could dominate the overall situation with sheer power and authority.
But the endless details of governance were exhausting.
---
After a moment of thought, Lance spoke to Barristan.
"Remain here and guard the room, Ser."
"I'll go see the Queen Regent myself."
Then he turned to Qyburn.
"If anything happens to Balman, inform Ser Barristan immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Both men responded at once.
Lance wasted no time.
He strode out of the chamber.
The tall figure in white armor disappeared around the corridor corner.
---
Moments later, a man and a woman slowly approached from the opposite direction.
"I think I saw flames, Father."
"Oh shut up and act like a lady, Lollys!"
"If Balman refuses to marry you, I'll sell you to Silk Street!"
"Silk Street?" Lollys replied innocently. "I heard they serve honey pies every day there. If that's true… that sounds nice, Father."
"Seven hells, just shut up!"
"Look at you! Your dress is dragging on the floor like some flea-ridden whore!"
"Lift your skirt! Lift it!"
---
Maegor's Holdfast
Inside the Queen Regent's chambers, the fireplace burned brightly.
The warmth chased away the winter chill, filling the room with the comfortable heat of a summer afternoon.
The air carried the lazy scent of expensive spices, sweet wine, and faint feminine perfume.
Rhaella Targaryen, once queen, now Queen Regent, reclined on the wide bed at the center of the room.
Despite preparing to meet an important "guest," she wore no elaborate court gown.
Instead, she was draped in a thin silk night robe.
A silver-gray blanket covered her body, though it revealed just enough—her smooth ankle, the elegant curve of her calf.
Above that, the silk clung to her hips and the pale roundness of her thighs.
The robe's neckline dipped low, exposing her collarbones and a glimpse of white skin that stirred endless imagination.
Her eyes were closed, as if peacefully resting.
---
"Your Grace, the Regent has arrived."
A maid whispered softly as the door opened.
A tall figure entered, bringing the chill of the outside air with him.
Lance still wore his familiar white armor.
His sharp blue eyes immediately locked onto the woman lying on the bed.
He said nothing.
Instead, he stood near the doorway, quietly inhaling the fragrance drifting through the room.
Firelight danced across Rhaella's pale skin, tracing the curves of her body.
It all felt like a carefully woven web.
A trap meant to capture a moth drawn to flame.
What trick is she playing this time…
Lance shook his head.
Though Rhaella tried to control her breathing, the slight tension in her long neck betrayed her.
Beautiful.
But pointless.
---
"You may leave."
Lance turned and spoke softly to the maid.
The girl immediately bowed and fled the room without asking questions.
A man and woman alone in such circumstances was technically improper.
But no servant would dare interfere in matters involving such powerful figures.
She even closed the door behind her.
With a heavy thud, the room seemed sealed off from the world outside.
---
Lance did not approach the bed.
Instead, he walked to the fireplace, pulled over a heavy oak chair, and sat down some distance away.
He studied the scene with faint amusement.
"Get up."
"Stop pretending."
After a moment, he spoke calmly.
His tone wasn't harsh—just blunt.
Rhaella's eyelashes trembled.
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
She slowly sat up.
The blanket slid down to her waist.
The thin silk robe clung to her full, mature figure.
Her waist curved gracefully, her hips soft and rich, her pale skin glowing in the firelight.
---
"Perhaps," she murmured seductively,
"you could come closer… and wake me with a true love's kiss, Rhaeseryon Targaryen."
Her indigo eyes stared directly at the knight in white armor.
There was naked desire in them—almost predatory.
"I once read a story in an ancient Valyrian text," she continued softly.
"A beautiful princess was cursed and fell into eternal sleep."
"The entire kingdom mourned."
"Until a handsome knight awakened her with a kiss of true love… winning her heart—and the entire kingdom."
She paused.
"Coincidentally, the knight in that story was also named Rhaeseryon."
---
Yeah, right.
Lance glanced at her silently.
The story sounded vaguely familiar.
But most knight-and-princess tales followed that same cliché.
"You're not very good at storytelling, Your Grace."
His body didn't move an inch from the chair.
A mocking smile appeared on his lips.
"Unfortunately."
"First—you're not a princess."
"Second—there has never been, and will never be, anything resembling true love between us."
---
The words struck Rhaella deeply.
Her chest heaved.
She suddenly sat upright, the lazy posture completely gone.
"I don't believe that!"
"In Dorne… those nights in Dorne…"
"There was something between us!"
"I felt it!"
"Every glance, every moment you stood before me… that understanding between us—it wasn't fake!"
Her voice grew louder.
Determined.
As if she could force him to accept her belief.
Seeing Lance remain silent, Rhaella suddenly leapt from the bed.
Barefoot, she rushed toward him and dropped to her knees beside his chair.
"I know the truth," she whispered.
"You were afraid of Aerys, weren't you?"
"But he's dead now. Burned by wildfire beneath the Red Keep."
"And I—Rhaella Targaryen—am a free woman."
"I can sleep with anyone I choose."
She leaned forward, arms wrapping around his neck, trying to kiss him.
---
But just before their lips met—
A strong hand seized her wrist and pushed her back.
The force hurt.
Rhaella gasped and looked up.
Lance finally lifted his head.
The firelight revealed a face devoid of emotion.
No desire.
No hesitation.
Only cold clarity.
---
"First."
He raised one finger.
"You may have lost your husband."
"But you are now the Queen Regent."
"If you wish to climb into some man's bed, it isn't that simple."
"For the dignity of the royal family, such matters must be evaluated for their impact on the Seven Kingdoms."
"They require the approval of the Small Council."
---
"Second."
Another finger rose.
"My name is Lance Lot, Your Grace."
"Not Rhaeseryon Targaryen."
"Please remember that."
"I don't want to keep correcting you."
---
"Third."
The final finger lifted.
"We never had—and never will have—anything that could be called love."
His voice was absolute.
"Stop comforting yourself with those so-called 'nights in Dorne,' Rhaella Targaryen."
"That was nothing more than… momentary impulses."
"Just like the ridiculous love story you just invented."
"Nothing but lies you tell yourself."
---
"I don't believe you!"
Rhaella struggled wildly, trying to kiss his face.
"You love me! You love me, Rhaeseryon!"
Lance finally lost patience.
He released her wrist and shoved her back onto the bed.
"Get a hold of yourself!"
His voice turned sharp.
For the first time, real irritation surfaced.
Rhaella sat there, pale and trembling.
She stared at his handsome face in disbelief.
---
"Drop this embarrassing act."
Lance took a deep breath.
His expression returned to cold indifference.
"I don't have the time for some damn love story."
"My only concern right now…"
"is fulfilling the old man's final wish."
"To rule."
"And to conquer."