Chapter 222: Reclaiming the Dignity of a King
This… wasn't right.
Kneeling on the ground, Balon Greyjoy felt his mind buzzing uncontrollably.
Crushed beneath the twin weights of authority and fear, he could barely breathe.
Submit… or be destroyed?
Why?
His heart screamed in protest.
All he wanted was a fleet—just enough strength to return home and secure his position. Not this… not the destruction of the Iron Islands!
He lifted his eyes in panic.
Not far ahead stood the regent—tall, imposing, his dark formal attire outlining a powerful frame. Those deep blue eyes were unfathomable.
In his hand, the black Valyrian steel blade—Blackfyre, once wielded by Aegon I Targaryen—glimmered coldly beneath the fractured light of stained glass.
The sword pointed skyward.
But to Balon, it felt as though it was aimed straight at his homeland.
A suffocating dread seized his heart—far worse than the moment he had learned of his father's death.
"Your Grace…"
Glancing around and seeing the nobles' faces lit with excitement rather than concern, Balon could no longer hold back.
"The Iron Throne need not mobilize such overwhelming force! Just grant me a fleet—I will return to the Iron Islands and take the traitor's head!"
"Once I claim the Seastone Chair, I swear in the name of House Greyjoy—eternal loyalty to the Iron Throne!"
"Forever!"
He slammed his forehead against the cold stone floor with a dull thud.
Utterly sincere.
Yet the gazes upon him were amused, detached—almost mocking. Sympathy was nowhere to be found.
After a brief silence, a steady voice broke through.
"He speaks reasonably, Your Grace."
Tywin Lannister stepped forward once more. Having already presented his "gift," the Hand of the King now chose to speak again.
Standing half a step beside Balon, he met Lance's gaze calmly.
"Your resolve is admirable."
"The ironborn are indeed prone to raiding—fear strength but not virtue. Your assessment is both novel and accurate."
"But…"
His tone shifted.
"War is not a trivial matter. It demands calculation—costs and consequences alike."
His eyes swept across the gathered nobles.
"We have only just concluded a campaign in the Stormlands."
"Though the Crown's forces achieved victory with merely eight hundred knights, the fleet suffered significant losses against Stannis Baratheon's navy."
"Three flagships and over twenty longships were damaged. Repairs will take time."
"Rebuilding the fleet requires even more—ships, gold, manpower."
"The realm has only just stabilized. It would be wiser to rest."
He paused, then added with calm finality:
"The ironborn… are merely raiders."
"They pose no true threat."
A ripple of agreement passed through the hall.
Even Hoster Tully nodded.
But then—
Heavy footsteps echoed from the entrance.
Boots struck stone in rapid succession as a golden-haired knight in crimson armor forced his way through the crowd at near full sprint.
"Tywin!"
He ignored all decorum, shouting urgently:
"Something's happened—something serious!"
Tywin's brow furrowed instantly.
"How many times must I remind you—address me by my title in public, Tygett Lannister!"
His voice remained steady—but something in his chest tightened.
Tygett was impulsive, yes—but not reckless. For him to behave like this…
Something was terribly wrong.
And the next moment proved it.
Tygett shoved a crumpled letter into his hand.
"Read it. Now!"
Tywin said nothing.
He unfolded the letter before everyone.
Only a few lines.
But they made his green eyes widen in disbelief.
For the first time—raw fury surfaced in those cold, calculating eyes.
"WAR!!!"
Tywin Lannister's roar thundered through the Great Sept.
Every noble, knight, and guard froze.
Even Hoster Tully frowned in shock.
He had never seen Tywin lose composure like this—not even during the destruction of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck.
What could provoke such fury?
Balon stared in disbelief.
He didn't understand.
Moments ago, Tywin had been speaking of costs and restraint.
Now—he radiated killing intent.
"Lord Tywin… what happened—"
Balon tried to ask.
But Tywin ignored him completely.
The heir of House Greyjoy was insignificant before his rage.
Instead, Tywin strode past the crowd and stopped before a noble bearing a deep purple grape sigil.
"Lord Paxter Redwyne."
"How many warships does the Arbor currently possess?"
"Not fishing vessels—warships."
Paxter hesitated briefly.
The Arbor fleet was among the strongest in Westeros.
But why ask him?
Still, after a glance toward his liege—Mace Tyrell—who seemed oblivious, he answered:
"Roughly two hundred warships, my lord."
"Good."
Tywin stepped closer.
"I need one hundred."
No negotiation. No hesitation.
"You will be compensated handsomely."
"When this war ends, gold will pile in the Arbor like mountains."
"More than your lord's 'gift'."
He shot a glance at Mace.
Mace blinked, stunned.
Paxter narrowed his eyes—then nodded.
"Of course. Your word is as good as gold."
"Lannisters always pay their debts."
"One hundred ships—at your command."
"Excellent."
Tywin turned, returning to Lance.
"Your Grace."
"Lannisport has been attacked."
"Over fifty warships destroyed."
"The harbor… burned."
His voice carried grief—and iron resolve.
"House Lannister will contribute one hundred thousand gold dragons."
The hall erupted.
"One hundred thousand?!"
It was an astronomical sum.
Tywin continued:
"This will fund the entire campaign."
"Any force that joins this war—Lannister gold will cover the cost."
"We will lead the assault."
The scale of it stunned everyone.
Even Mace Tyrell's earlier gift now seemed pitiful in comparison.
And Lance—
smiled.
"This," he said, stepping forward, voice steady but resolute,
"is what the ironborn truly are."
"The sea did not teach them gratitude or peace—only greed."
"They raid our coasts, slaughter our people, steal our wives and daughters!"
"If we do not break them now…"
"Tomorrow—it will be your lands burning."
His gaze swept the hall like a blade.
"Then fight."
"Pierce their islands with spears!"
"Burn their ships!"
"Crush their Old Way!"
"Let their islands, their fleets, and their twisted beliefs—burn together!"
For a heartbeat—
silence.
Then—
eruption.
"Destroy them!!!"
"Destroy them!!!"
"For House Targaryen!!!"
"For the Regent!!!"
The hall descended into roaring fervor.
War fever consumed them all.
With Tywin's gold and the Arbor's fleet, this was no longer an idea—
It was inevitable.
And on the ground—
Balon Greyjoy remained kneeling.
Drained.
Broken.
As he watched the nobles—faces flushed, fists raised, voices howling—
He realized the truth.
His revenge.
His throne.
His family's rule over the Iron Islands…
Were no longer his to decide.
Everything… had become a joke.
Balon Greyjoy clenched his fist helplessly. This man of the Iron Islands—who hadn't cried out even when he severed his own arm—now found his eyes brimming with tears.
Damn you, Euron Greyjoy…
What the hell have you done?!
---
Night fell over the Great Sept of Baelor.
The grand "Dragon Ascension Festival" that had roared with life during the day was now swallowed by silence.
The towering statues of the Seven gazed down unchanged, their expressions eternally compassionate—yet somehow, in this moment, that compassion felt like cold indifference.
Footsteps echoed.
Sharp. Clear.
Out of place in the absolute stillness.
A faint flicker of firelight emerged from the depths of a long corridor, tearing open a sliver of the thick darkness.
"W-Where are we going… Uncle Lance?"
The young king, Viserys III Targaryen, trailed closely behind.
He wore an ornate velvet night robe, yet it did nothing to keep out the biting cold that seeped into his bones. He pulled it tighter around himself, shivering.
The Sept was too vast.
In the darkness, it felt as though countless unseen eyes were watching him.
Children were always afraid of the dark.
And the only light—the only certainty—was the figure ahead.
Lance, clad once more in his familiar white armor, held the torch high. His straight back resembled a pillar holding up the entire realm.
At the question, he didn't slow.
Didn't turn.
"Just keep walking."
The answer was brief. Final.
No explanation.
Viserys swallowed his fear and followed, forcing his numb legs to move, chasing that fragile glow of fire.
With every step, his heartbeat quickened.
The cold crept in from all sides—slipping beneath his skin, drilling into his bones.
A gust brushed his neck, and he flinched violently, clutching his robe so tightly his knuckles turned white.
It was too quiet.
Far too quiet.
At last, he couldn't hold it in any longer.
His voice trembled, edged with tears.
"W-Where are we going? What… what are we doing?"
"Uncle Lance… I'm cold…"
This time—
the figure ahead responded.
The torch lifted.
A sudden gust made the flames shudder violently.
The light shrank.
Darkness surged in like a tide.
For one suffocating instant, everything nearly vanished.
Viserys' eyes flew wide open.
A gasp caught in his throat.
He instinctively stumbled forward, grabbing at Lance's white cloak.
The flame didn't die.
It flickered—
then flared back to life.
And in that moment—
Viserys froze.
His pupils shrank.
A man.
There was a man.
Alive.
Hanging before the altar—beneath the towering statue of the Father.
He wore a rough, simple robe, stained with dried blood.
The usual expression of piety on his face was gone—twisted instead by unbearable agony.
Behind him stood a crude wooden cross.
Two iron spikes had been driven through his wrists.
Dark, clotted blood stained the wood, black under the trembling firelight.
His arms were fixed at unnatural angles.
His body hung slack.
His feet dangled limply above the ground.
Viserys sucked in a sharp breath.
The raw brutality of the scene struck him instantly.
Overwhelming.
Terrifying.
He recoiled, stumbling backward, instinctively letting go of Lance's cloak—
But a firm hand landed on his shoulder.
Holding him in place.
Preventing escape.
Only then did Lance speak.
His voice was calm.
Cold.
Final.
"We're here…"
"…to help you reclaim the dignity of a king."