A Song of Ice and Fire: Wrath of the Sleeping Dragon

*Clang!*

Under the crimson sunset, two longswords clashed violently, sending sparks flying.

The already notched blade received another old scar, and Sir William almost stumbled to the ground.

Seizing the opportunity, Kevan, with one broken leg, lunged forward and landed a heavy punch on the master-at-arms' face.

*Thud!*

The man with curly hair was dazed by the punch, blood in his mouth, his teeth slightly loose, as he fell face-up on the ground.

"Die!"

Kevan tried to seize the opportunity to strike a finishing blow but was caught off-guard when William tripped him up, causing him to fall and drop his longsword.

The two men, covered in blood and mud, grappled and rolled around, while the surrounding battlefield fell eerily silent. All that could be heard were their fists meeting flesh and the weak groans of the dying.

The blood-red sunset enveloped the entire avenue, a breeze carrying away the thick scent of blood, drifting into the distance. Carrion birds circled overhead, their cries shrill and mournful.

No one knew of the fierce battle that had taken place here.

At last, Viserys, clutching his longsword, found his chance.

Without harming Sir William...

He thrust his sword through a gap in Kevan Lannister's armor from behind, driving it in mercilessly.

"Die!"

*Squelch!*

The silver-haired boy charged, his sword piercing straight through Kevan's heart, the bright blade emerging red from his chest, blood dripping down its tip.

This knight from House Lannister, a veteran of countless battles, had once fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and earned many honors. Yet, he never expected to meet his end at the hands of a child.

Subsequently, the lifeless body collapsed to the ground, knees buckling.

*Gasp!*

Viserys, panting heavily, pulled his sword out.

What he didn't notice was that after killing Kevan, an unseen black smoke followed his sword from Kevan's body into his palm, a warm sensation spreading through his body.

Immediately after, the boy, still gasping for air, struck his sword into Kevan's neck.

Fearing he hadn't killed his enemy, he sought to sever Kevan's head but failed due to a lack of strength, the sword getting stuck halfway through the neck.

Blood stained the ground red.

But Kevan Lannister was already dead beyond any doubt.

*Thump!*

At that moment, Viserys finally dropped his sword and slumped down, chest heaving.

From witnessing the battlefield up close to personally killing someone, he had quickly adapted in order to survive, forcing himself to keep moving.

Sir William, sprawled on the ground after almost being killed by Kevan's punch, struggled to speak through his bruised and swollen face, unable to even sit up.

"Child... why would you do such a thing?"

He stared at Viserys' last ruthless act.

The mere seven-year-old boy not only had the courage to kill an enemy but even sought to sever the man's head.

This stark contrast stunned Sir William, once again redefining his impression of the Targaryen prince.

'Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin to decide whether they will be great or mad.'

Master-at-arms struggled for a moment to discern whether this was the stance of a hero or a cruel madness.

"I don't know either."

Viserys, panting, sat on the ground and glanced at the lifeless body of Kevan, noticing the emblem beneath his breastplate.

Then, he helped the middle-aged master-at-arms to his feet.

"Perhaps I'm just afraid, afraid I hadn't killed him."

He didn't speak of revenge or any nonsense like that. Everyone would know what the Lannisters did after this, and for now, he'd merely collected a small portion of the debt owed.

The womenfolk who had been hiding in the carriage also disembarked at this point.

No one blamed them for not helping earlier, as their skills might not have been of any use and could have instead caused more harm than good.

At that moment, the sound of galloping hooves could be heard again in the distance.

The faces of Viserys and Ser William paled, but this time, the sound came from the direction they were headed.

The next second, a group of cavalry bearing banners appeared in their line of sight.

...

The following day, just before dawn.

The blue and white diagonal cross, along with two crossed war hammers, fluttered on the banner.

Boom, boom, boom—

The gates of Dun Fort opened, and Lord Renfred Rykker, atop a tall horse, donned a black cloak and deer-hide gloves, personally welcoming the visitors at the gates.

"Your Grace, the Queen."

Splash—

As Queen Rhaella's carriage approached, Lord Renfred Rykker dismounted and led his family and servants to kneel in a dense formation.

They had received word from King's Landing and set out to escort Queen Rhaella and the Prince to Duskendale. However, they hadn't expected to arrive just in time to intercept the fugitive Red Keep guards and learn of the Queen's encounter with bandits.

Under the orders of Sir Jaremy Rykker, they hurried to escort Queen Rhaella and the Prince to Dun Fort.

Dun Fort was the ancestral home of the Rykker family, situated atop the hills outside Duskendale, overlooking the city and the port.

Ser William was severely wounded and underwent emergency treatment. After the maester of Dun Fort carefully sutured and bandaged his wounds, he drank some milk of the poppy and fell into a deep sleep.

Queen Rhaella was resting alone in a bedroom.

Viserys shared a room with little Rhaenys.

Step by step…

Silver-gold curls draped over his shoulders as Viserys carried a frightened and now sound asleep Rhaenys back to their room.

For some reason, he felt stronger than before, and holding Rhaenys wasn't as difficult as he'd expected.

Little black cat Balerion followed its master closely, having also survived the fierce battle.

Viserys gently placed the young girl on the bed, as the candlelight flickered softly within the bedroom. Outside, the sounds of soldiers' armor and patrolling footsteps could be heard.

"At least, the Rykker family appears to be loyal for now."

Viserys was somewhat sleepless, perhaps having experienced too much excitement. The blood-soaked reality reminded him that this world was far from perfect.

He felt trapped in the mire, with every effort required just to survive.

The boy stepped on a stool and leaned on the narrow windowsill of the bedroom, gazing at the view outside.

Duskendale and the sea were split in half, and the morning sea carried a sense of tranquility. Gentle waves lapped against the rocks. The salty, damp sea breeze blew in through the window, caressing the boy's delicate, almost feminine cheeks and rustling his silverish-golden hair.