c31: Ruthless
Meanwhile, on the other side,
the mercenary known among his companions as "The Axe-Carrying" was already harboring thoughts of retreat. He intended to abandon his brothers and escape alone.
For sellswords like them, brotherhood and camaraderie meant little. Such things were easily dismissed with a rough laugh and a shrug.
They were men driven by coin, fighting and killing for gold wherever opportunity appeared across the war-torn lands of Westeros and sometimes even the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
No one among them knew how long they would live.
They might close their eyes tonight after a night of drinking and whoring, and tomorrow morning their bodies might already be lying cold on the battlefield.
As mercenaries, death could arrive at any moment due to some unexpected accident. Even among the lower-ranking fighters in their Courage Group, casualties and replacements were extremely frequent.
He himself was considered a mid-to-high-ranking member of the Courage Group because of his considerable strength and experience with the axe.
A newcomer who had only recently joined the band might greet everyone around the campfire one night, and only a few days later that same man might be carried back as a corpse.
Life and death were things they had grown far too accustomed to.
Life meant indulging in wine and women whenever they had coin in their pockets, venting their frustrations in taverns, or trying to leave behind a child somewhere before fate finally caught up with them.
Death meant nothing more than lying cold on the ground.
Whether it was the Seven worshipped by most people in Westeros, the Old Gods of the North, or the fiery god of R'hllor, none of it mattered much to a sellsword like him.
Even the strange gods whispered about in the east like the Black Goat of Qohor or other forgotten deities meant little.
If a god truly existed after death, he supposed he would be willing to become a slave, a dog, or a beast of burden just to survive in that next world.
But…
no one had ever truly come back from death to tell the tale.
Who could say whether they would really meet these gods when their lives ended?
Some mercenaries even managed to gather small fortunes from years of bloodshed, yet they often had no family or heirs to leave it to.
In the end they simply squandered it all on drink, gambling, and pleasure.
Therefore, for men like these, what scruples could possibly exist?
Betraying teammates when a mission went wrong was considered the most natural thing in the world.
Backstabbing and abandoning companions were not uncommon occurrences among wandering sellsword companies.
And at this moment,
he was cautiously moving through the Stone Drum Tower, holding an axe tightly in one hand and a shield he had just taken from the corpse of a fallen guard in the other.
This tower, part of the fortress of Dragonstone, overlooked the dark and restless waters of the Narrow Sea.
The mercenary no longer dared to underestimate Viserys simply because the boy was young.
"This little thing…"
The man's thoughts raced as his eyes darted around nervously.
The mission to assassinate the young prince of House Targaryen had taken a completely unexpected turn.
Not only had they failed to find the boy easily, they had already lost two men.
Meanwhile, the situation elsewhere in the castle was unclear.
The fortress was clearly waking up.
Servants were shouting in alarm and guards were rushing through the corridors.
Somewhere in the distance, he even heard orders being barked by officers perhaps by loyal knights such as Ser Willem Darry, one of the last sworn protectors of the surviving Targaryens.
Even if Queen Leila had already been killed, escaping the castle now would still be extremely difficult.
"Never mind."
"Don't blame me… I'll retreat first."
The mercenary gritted his teeth and finally made his decision.
He would abandon the others and escape alone.
No matter how high the reward promised by Robert Baratheon, it was meaningless if he died before spending it.
Gold was only valuable if one remained alive to enjoy it.
The tall man then touched the rope coiled around his waist.
With practiced ease he climbed onto the stone windowsill and swung one leg over the edge.
He planned to escape the same way they had infiltrated the castle earlier by descending the wall with a rope, returning to their hidden ship, and leaving Dragonstone before dawn.
The man glanced around carefully.
No guards appeared in the corridor.
Satisfied, he relaxed slightly.
He had no idea where Viserys had gone.
The little devil was surprisingly quick, and he had already lost sight of the boy earlier in the twisting corridors.
Click
The mercenary fixed the grappling hook firmly onto a stone edge of the wall and pulled the rope hard several times to confirm it was secure.
Afterward he slung his battle axe and shield across his back.
Once more he checked his surroundings carefully to ensure no one was watching.
Then, gripping the rope with both hands, he slipped out through the window of the tower and vanished into the night outside the castle.
Whoosh
As the rope stretched downward along the dark stone wall of Dragonstone, the mercenary slid down skillfully.
"He escaped…"
The man breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.
He felt no guilt whatsoever about the others left behind inside the castle.
Whether they lived or died meant nothing to him.
The only thing that mattered was that he himself had escaped.
But just as he was halfway down the rope, something unsettling happened.
He suddenly felt the rope sway slightly.
It was not caused by his own movement.
Some other force was shaking it.
"Hmm?"
The burly man, his face still smeared with dark greasepaint used for night raids, froze for a moment.
Then he slowly raised his head.
In the window he had just climbed out of, a small figure had appeared.
Because of the torchlight shining from inside the room, he could not see the person's face clearly.
He could only see the silhouette of a small body standing quietly in the opening of the window.
However, Langdon immediately recognized the person standing in the window.
It was Prince Viserys, the silver-haired boy he had been chasing through the corridors of Dragonstone only moments earlier.
"Damn it!"
The mercenary's heart sank instantly. He realized something very bad had happened.
"No…"
His thick and powerful arms, bulging with muscle, tightened around the rope. His throat moved slightly as he swallowed hard.
He didn't want to die.
In truth, no man wished to die if he still had the chance to live.
Yet Langdon who possessed a small but fearsome reputation among the wandering mercenaries of the Disputed Lands near the Free Cities was now genuinely panicked.
Although he had earned the cruel title "Bloody Hand from Rhys" for his brutality, and had once slaughtered ten chained slaves during a pit fight in the arenas across the Narrow Sea to the roaring cheers of drunken spectators,
even his terrifying strength could not save him now.
The mercenary leaned backward against the stone wall, his boots pressed against the outer surface of the castle while he clung desperately to the rope.
He glanced downward.
Below him there was only darkness.
The abyss beneath the cliff looked like the open mouth of some monstrous creature waiting to swallow him whole, leaving not even fragments of bone behind.
…
Splash
Waves crashed violently against the jagged rocks far below.
Dragonstone's cliffs were infamous throughout Westeros for their steep and unforgiving height.
And out on the distant sea, the battle between fleets appeared to be drawing to a close.
The fleet from The Arbor had not come in overwhelming numbers with the intention of conquering Dragonstone in a single assault.
Although he had little choice but to obey the commands of Robert Baratheon after the fall of Aerys II Targaryen during Robert's Rebellion, the cautious lord commanding the fleet did not wish to suffer unnecessary losses.
The warships of his house were, after all, the private strength of his family.
Every ship destroyed and every sailor lost would be a painful loss.
Therefore, after only a brief probing attack against the defenses of Dragonstone, the commander ordered his fleet to prepare to withdraw from the battlefield.
Meanwhile, the admiral commanding the Dragonstone fleet understood the situation clearly as well.
Without steady supplies from the mainland of Westeros, the defenders were already facing growing shortages of provisions and equipment.
Thus he did not recklessly pursue the retreating enemy ships.
Instead, he allowed the fleet from the Arbor to withdraw in an orderly formation across the dark waters of the Narrow Sea.
However, at this moment,
none of those commanders sailing upon the sea could possibly understand the terror gripping the heart of the mercenary hanging helplessly on the side of the cliff.
Langdon could neither climb back up nor safely descend.
And yet he also did not dare to let go.
"I…I don't want to die…"
Dragonstone stood atop towering volcanic cliffs that plunged directly into the sea.
Langdon had descended less than halfway down the wall.
At least twenty yards still separated him from the ground below.
If he fell from this height, there would be absolutely no chance of survival.
His body would shatter upon the rocks beneath the castle.
"Your Highness… please forgive my sins…"
"I…"
The mercenary's voice trembled as panic overtook him.
Clutching the rope desperately with both hands, he attempted to beg Prince Viserys for mercy.
Yet when he opened his mouth, the words would not come out properly.
The strong sea wind carried his broken voice away into the darkness.
Inside the window above, Viserys Targaryen stood silently before the stone opening.
The pale-haired boy calmly watched the mercenary hanging on the cliff face.
His breathing was still heavy from the chase through the corridors.
Then Viserys slowly drew the short sword hanging at his waist.
He placed the blade carefully against the rope.
For a brief moment the steel rested there, pressed against the coarse fibers.
And then he swung the sword down with ruthless force.
.....