Ac29: Killing the Enemy
"It's the man with the crossbow."
Viserys Targaryen, hiding inside the wooden crate, barely dared to breathe. The silver-haired boy clutched the short blade in his hand the small sword custom-made for him by the castle smith of Dragonstone, the same weapon he had grabbed in panic while fleeing through the corridors earlier.
His fingernails had turned white from gripping the hilt so tightly.
His heart pounded violently in his chest.
Through a narrow crack in the old wooden crate, he watched the mercenary carefully.
The storage room was almost completely dark, just like many of the forgotten chambers within Dragonstone's ancient volcanic fortress. Only a thin line of torchlight filtered in from the corridor through the half-open door.
The man holding the crossbow had not yet noticed the old, rotting crate sitting quietly in the corner of the storeroom.
Clatter
The mercenary kicked aside some broken debris on the stone floor, sending dust floating into the air. The damp castle had not been cleaned in years, and the room smelled of mold and rot.
The man coughed several times, clearly irritated, then spat on the ground before muttering a curse under his breath.
After that, he raised the crossbow slightly and spoke in a slow, threatening voice.
"Hey… little prince."
"I know you're hiding in here somewhere."
"You can hear me, can't you?"
"You're watching me through some crack, aren't you?"
The mercenary waved his hand through the dusty air and straightened his back, letting his eyes scan across the entire room, including the darkest corners where the torchlight could barely reach.
He had experience hunting children before.
Many people believed children could hide well because of their small size, but seasoned killers knew the truth most children would panic if they were frightened enough.
All it took was a little intimidation.
The mercenary forced a cruel smile onto his face and continued speaking.
"Come out, little dragon."
"Don't hide. I can already see you."
"Is that the hem of your clothes over there?"
His voice echoed around the empty storeroom.
But the room remained completely silent.
No movement.
No breathing.
No sound at all except the mercenary's own voice bouncing off the damp stone walls of Dragonstone's storerooms.
The silence made him look like a fool talking to himself.
"Damn it!"
The crossbowman's expression darkened slightly as he gritted his teeth.
Perhaps the boy was not in this room after all.
Still, the mercenary decided to step further inside to check properly. The interior of the storeroom was extremely dark, and there were many places where a frightened child like Viserys could hide.
The man moved deeper into the chamber.
His figure was quickly swallowed by the shadows, and the faint light from the doorway barely reached the ground behind him.
Thump
In frustration he kicked over an empty wooden barrel.
The lid rolled across the stone floor with a dull sound.
He glanced inside.
Empty.
"Looks like the little bastard really isn't hiding here."
"Lucky brat."
The mercenary muttered to himself.
He began to turn toward the door, preparing to leave the room and continue searching the other chambers of Dragonstone Castle. His companions were already checking the nearby corridors, and the assassins clearly intended to hunt down Prince Viserys before the remaining loyal guards men commanded by Sir William, the knight still defending Queen Lyra's chambers could regroup.
But just as the mercenary reached the doorway, something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.
"Hmm?"
His gaze shifted toward a wooden crate resting quietly in the corner of the storeroom.
It looked old and unremarkable.
In fact, it seemed too small for a seven-year-old boy to hide inside.
Because of that, the mercenary didn't immediately suspect that Viserys might be hiding there.
Instead, another thought crossed his mind.
Could that crate contain treasure?
Even though House Targaryen had lost the Iron Throne after Robert Baratheon's rebellion after the death of King Aerys II in the Red Keep and the fall of Prince Rhaegar on the Trident the dragon kings had ruled Westeros for nearly three centuries.
During those long centuries they had accumulated unimaginable wealth.
Dragonstone had been the ancestral seat of the Targaryens long before Aegon the Conqueror sailed to Westeros with his dragons.
Perhaps some of that wealth was still hidden here.
The mercenary's greed slowly awakened.
After all, the mission he had been given was simple: infiltrate the castle, kill the remaining Targaryens, and bring back proof of their deaths.
But if he happened to find a few coins along the way…
Well, the Targaryens were going to die anyway.
Taking a handful of gold dragons from their treasure would not hurt anyone.
Even a few coins stamped with the three-headed dragon would be enough to drink for months in the taverns of King's Landing or the port cities of the Narrow Sea.
Having made up his mind, the mercenary slowly turned around and began walking toward the wooden crate resting in the corner of the dark storeroom.
Caught completely off guard, the mercenary never imagined that such a small wooden crate could possibly hide a boy. In his mind, the seven-year-old prince of the fallen Targaryen dynasty should have been cowering somewhere under a table or behind a pile of barrels.
The man lowered himself slightly and reached toward the crate, intending to lift the lid and check whether there might be coins, silver goblets, or perhaps a few forgotten gold dragons belonging to the old royal family.
But just then
Bang!
the lid of the crate was violently thrown open from the inside.
The silver-gold haired boy hiding within suddenly sprang forward.
Viserys Targaryen gripped the short sword tightly in both hands. With all the strength his small body could muster, he thrust the blade upward toward the mercenary's exposed throat as the man bent over the crate.
At the same time, a voice echoed repeatedly inside the boy's mind.
The stern voice of the arms instructor who had trained him during the past months within Dragonstone Castle.
"Remember, Your Highness… use the sharp end."
"Thrust straight at the enemy."
In truth, after more than half a year of daily training in the castle yard overlooking Blackwater Bay, Viserys's swordsmanship was far from impressive compared with the knights of Westeros.
He was still only a frightened child.
However, he was no longer completely unfamiliar with weapons.
The instructor who had been assigned to teach the young prince had kept the lessons extremely simple: thrust and slash.
Again and again.
The man had repeated a single principle to him:
The essence of swordsmanship lies not in fancy movements but in simple techniques applied at the right moment.
And this moment
This desperate moment
was exactly what those lessons had prepared him for.
The mercenary carrying the crossbow had absolutely no time to react.
The boy's attack was sudden and fast.
Thud
The short sword pierced straight into the man's throat.
Just as the crossbow bolt he had fired earlier had pierced the chest of one of Dragonstone's guards in the corridor, the sharp blade now drove through the mercenary's neck.
The point burst out from the back of his throat.
Blood sprayed violently into the air, splattering across Viserys's pale face and silver hair.
The man dropped his crossbow and clutched desperately at his neck.
But the wound was fatal.
Blood poured through his fingers, unstoppable.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
He could not understand what had just happened.
Never in his life had he imagined that a child one barely old enough to hold a sword would ambush him from inside a crate and kill him.
His mouth opened as if he wanted to shout.
But only a broken, choking sound escaped.
Then a scream erupted into the silent corridor.
…
Not far away, another mercenary was searching through a nearby chamber.
He was a tall man with shoulders like a mountain and thick arms hardened by years of fighting. A heavy battle axe rested across his back.
His name was Langdon.
At the moment, he was rummaging carelessly through cabinets and drawers, throwing aside broken pottery and scraps of cloth as he searched.
Like the others, he did not believe a seven-year-old boy could cause any real trouble.
"Poor little prince…"
Langdon muttered with a cruel smirk.
His facial muscles twitched slightly, making his already ugly face look even more ferocious.
With one powerful pull he tore a loose wooden door off its hinges and tossed it aside.
And then
A clear scream suddenly echoed down the corridor.
"Hmm?"
Langdon froze.
He instantly recognized the voice.
It belonged to the mercenary with the crossbow.
The big man frowned.
"He got hurt by a kid?"
He snorted.
"Hmph. What useless trash."
Without wasting another moment, Langdon strode out of the room. As he moved he grabbed the heavy battle axe from his back, gripping the long wooden handle tightly.
If the boy had somehow injured his companion, he would simply finish the job himself.
Meanwhile, the other mercenary the one who had earlier made lewd jokes about killing the queen had already rushed out into the corridor before Langdon.
He too had heard the scream.
Sword drawn, he ran toward the noise.
And just then he saw something shocking.
The silver-haired boy burst out of the storeroom doorway.
Viserys Targaryen looked miserable and disheveled.
Blood covered his face and hair, mixing with dust and sweat. His clothes were stained dark red from the fight inside the room.
In one hand he held the short sword he had used to kill the first mercenary.
And in the other
He held the crossbow he had just taken from the dead man.
The bowstring was already pulled tight.
A bolt had been loaded.
Viserys had watched the mercenary use it earlier in the corridor, and although his hands trembled slightly, he understood how the weapon worked.
The pursuing mercenary was extremely close.
Less than two meters away.
The man raised his sword and rushed forward.
But Viserys did not hesitate.
He lifted the crossbow and pulled the trigger.
Thud.
The bowstring snapped forward with a heavy sound.
The bolt shot out instantly, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle.
Crack—
The iron bolt struck the mercenary directly in the head.
At such close range, the hard bone of the skull offered almost no resistance.
The bolt smashed straight through it.
Blood and fragments of bone burst outward as the man's head jerked backward.
He had no time to react.
No time to scream.
His death was even faster than the first man's.
Without making a single sound, the mercenary's body was thrown backward by the force of the bolt before collapsing heavily onto the stone floor of the corridor.
....