Chapter 70 – The Provocation!
Click... click...
The sharp rhythm of armored boots echoed crisply against the stone floors of the City Watch Headquarters.
With every step deeper into the fortress, Janos Slynt's stomach twisted tighter. Two captain-ranked Goldcloaks escorted him toward the inner chambers, their faces unreadable.
Don't tell me… they found out about the bribes?
Impossible. He'd covered his tracks perfectly. Everyone had been paid — handsomely. Even Lady Tanda, the wife of Commander Manly, received her monthly share of fifty gold dragons.
And knowing how terrified Manly was of his wife, there was no chance the man would risk her wrath just to dig into Slynt's accounts.
Still, paranoia gnawed at him. His head hung low, eyes fixed on the floor.
Then, as his gaze drifted sideways, envy flickered across his face.
"Nice boots," he muttered under his breath.
The captains' polished steel greaves gleamed in the torchlight. His own? Plain leather patrol boots — functional, yes, but utterly unimpressive.
He could afford dozens of pairs like theirs without batting an eye. But as a mere captain, flaunting wealth was a good way to end up stabbed in an alley.
After all, his father had been just a butcher — literally. The old man had earned his knighthood and the name Slynt after slaughtering fifteen beasts in a single day to feed Lord Bywater's grand feast. That act had won him a tiny hamlet and a surname, nothing more.
No noble blood, no powerful allies.
So Janos had learned early: survive by being careful. Make friends, not enemies. Bribe generously, speak little, and always smile.
Even the money he extorted from merchants, he shared liberally among the right hands. That was how he'd charmed Lady Tanda — and bought himself the captaincy.
Recently, he'd gone even further. He'd paid one hundred and fifty gold dragons for something far more prestigious:
The position of tournament herald.
A steep price, yes — but the profits were absurd. By the end of the first day alone, he'd already earned it back.
---
"Bring him in," came a voice from beyond the oak door.
The guards opened it and pushed Janos forward.
"The man's here, ser."
"You may go."
"Yes, ser."
The two Goldcloaks withdrew immediately, closing the door behind them with a dull thud.
Janos's heart nearly stopped.
Seven save me… I'm done for.
"Janos Slynt?"
The voice wasn't Commander Manly's. It was deeper. Colder.
Janos hesitated, then lifted his head — and froze.
Across from Manly sat a white-cloaked knight, his armor gleaming, eyes the color of winter sky.
Ser Lance Lot.
"S-Ser… Ser Lance!"
His knees buckled. With a heavy thud, he dropped to the floor.
It was over.
Completely, utterly over.
If the Kingsguard were involved, his crimes must've reached the King himself.
Cold sweat trickled down his forehead as despair swallowed him whole.
I should've listened to Father. Should've stayed in the village. Should've just been a damn butcher.
Now, he pictured himself rotting in the dungeons of the Red Keep — tortured until he confessed every coin he'd ever pocketed.
Seven help me! I haven't even spent the gold! I was just… saving!
Lance leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching the trembling man on his knees.
"Hmm. Knows his place," he thought with mild amusement.
He had no idea what was going through Slynt's mind — only that the man's dramatic kneeling looked an awful lot like respect.
No wonder he becomes Commander one day, Lance mused. Flattery must run in his blood.
If he'd been half that shameless in his last life, maybe he wouldn't have ended up playing video games until that plane crash killed him.
"So," Lance said at last, his tone calm, "I hear you're the herald for the current tourney, Lord Janos?"
That one sentence made Janos's heart sink into the pit of his stomach.
Of course. They found out about the tournament bribes…
His whole body began to shake uncontrollably.
"Y-Yes, ser!"
His voice cracked, rasped, barely coherent.
Lance's eyes softened slightly.
"That sounds like a hard job," he said, almost kindly. "Memorizing every knight's sigil, their lineage, their feats — shouting until your throat's dry…"
Janos blinked in confusion.
"And above all," Lance added, his smile faint, "deciding the order of the jousts."
The blood drained from Janos Slynt's face.
A ringing filled his ears. His mind went blank.
He collapsed fully to the floor, limbs trembling, forehead pressed to the cold stone.
"I… I was wrong…" he croaked, voice breaking with terror.
In his mind, he could already hear the clank of chains, smell the damp of the Red Keep's dungeons, and feel the hot iron brand searing his flesh.
Lance simply raised an eyebrow.
What's he babbling about now?
The pale knight leaned back slightly, his smile deepening ever so faintly.
"Oh? We'll see about that," he murmured.
"Now then, Lord Slynt… let's talk about the next match."
Tears of pure regret streamed down Janos's face as he knelt trembling on the floor. His voice came out in broken gasps, muttering to himself like a man losing his mind:
"I never should've come to King's Landing... If I hadn't come to King's Landing, I wouldn't have joined the Goldcloaks...
If I hadn't joined the Goldcloaks, I wouldn't have started taking bribes...
If I hadn't taken bribes, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to buy that damned herald's post..."
His voice cracked, rising into a pitiful wail.
"I—I confess everything!"
"There's gold under the bed sheets, and more hidden in the latrine— but I swear, I never spent a single coin!"
He kept babbling on, voice so faint it was nearly a whisper, as though trying to reason with the Seven themselves.
Ser Lance Lot and Commander Manly exchanged a bewildered glance.
"What in the Seven Hells is he mumbling about?"
Manly blinked. "He's not... having a fit, is he? I didn't hear anything about epilepsy in his file."
The silence was so awkward that Lance eventually sighed and stepped forward, extending a gloved hand to pull the trembling man to his feet.
"Easy there," he said evenly.
But Janos was beyond reason. He grabbed Lance's hand, tears and snot running freely down his face.
"Please, Ser Lance—please! Send me to the Wall! I'll take the black! I'll serve the Night's Watch!"
"I'll do anything, just let me live!"
"...Huh?"
Lance blinked, genuinely stunned.
Join the Night's Watch?
He tilted his head, almost impressed.
"Well, that's… noble of you."
Once upon a time, taking the black had been a mark of honor — a calling reserved for knights, second sons, and men of virtue. But that had been centuries ago.
Now, the Watch was a dumping ground for thieves, rapists, and bastards.
And yet here stood the future Commander of the City Watch, the most infamous corrupt official King's Landing would ever know, begging to join the Night's Watch like a man chasing redemption.
Huh. Guess you really can't judge a man by his face, Lance thought, half-amused.
He gave Janos a friendly pat on the shoulder and said warmly:
"Such lofty ambition warms my heart. Commander Mormont and the brothers of the Night's Watch would be proud."
"But sadly, I can't grant that request. I don't have that authority."
Janos froze mid-sob.
"And besides," Lance added with an almost fatherly tone, "someone as... passionate and capable as you—why would we waste you freezing on the Wall? I doubt Commander Manly would ever approve of that."
"Ah... wha—what?"
Janos blinked, sniffling. The words sank in slowly.
Had he misunderstood?
He rubbed at his swollen eyes and looked up to find Lance's gaze — calm, even appreciative.
"Wait," he croaked, confused. "Then... why are you here, ser?"
Lance's only response was a disarming smile.
"Oh, that."
He leaned back slightly.
"We need to discuss tomorrow's joust."
---
Later that night — at the Blue Pearl brothel.
"Hahahaha!"
Brandon Stark, half-naked and flushed with drink, sat at a velvet table piled high with fifty gleaming gold dragons. His laughter was loud and crude, echoing through the room like that of a newly rich fool.
Even the humiliation from earlier that day — when Ser Lance had nearly cut him down in the arena — seemed forgotten.
"Fifty gold dragons! Hah! What should I even do with all this money?!"
For a man raised in the cold, barren North, even as a Lord's heir, such wealth was unimaginable.
"So easy! Easiest money I've ever made! If the tournament ran a few more times, I'd be richer than the Lannisters!"
He slammed the table, still laughing.
"You there! Ten more bottles of Dorne's Summer Red! The best vintage!"
Downstairs, Jerryl, owner of the Blue Pearl and bookmaker extraordinaire, rolled his eyes at the noise.
"Hmph. Typical northern savage," he muttered.
As King's Landing's largest brothel keeper and underground bookie, Jerryl had seen hundreds of fools like this — men who struck gold by chance and spent it like water.
Still, he was nothing if not professional. He'd already bought back Brandon's pawned sword, paid out his winnings at five-to-one odds, and sent him upstairs with the best girls in the house.
After all, most gamblers who won big lost it all within a week.
"Give him three days," Jerryl said, smirking. "He'll crawl back begging for a loan."
He took a sip of wine, content.
Business was booming. Hunters from the southern forests were flocking to the capital, rich with spoils and reckless with coin. Many had already spent their entire fortunes in his establishment — and a few were now paying off their debts working the docks at the fish market.
The Seven bless fools and gamblers, Jerryl mused.
But his pleasant evening was abruptly shattered by the sound of a door slamming upstairs.
BANG!
"Who the hell are you?! Get out of here!"
"Heh, so this is where you've been hiding Beth, eh? Told me she was off today!"
"Didn't you hear me? I said get out!"
"He's drawing his sword, brother—get him!"
Then came the unmistakable clang of steel on steel — followed by the shrieks of startled women.
"Seven bloody hells!" Jerryl cursed, leaping from his chair.
Not another brawl.
He stormed up the stairs with half a dozen guards in tow, his face red with fury.
"If they break my furniture again, I swear I'll feed them to the river crabs!"
When he kicked open the door, chaos greeted him.
The room was wrecked — crystal ornaments shattered across the floor, silk curtains torn.
In the center stood Brandon Stark, naked save for a bedsheet around his waist, brandishing his sword defensively. One side of his face was badly swollen — clearly from a heavy punch.
Opposite him stood two armored knights, clad in silver fish-scale mail, their expressions calm and amused.
They hadn't even drawn their swords — only held iron batons in hand.
And yet the tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
Jerryl's eyes darted to the wreckage — and his heart broke.
"My Braavosi crystal lamp! My Seven-damned crystal! Do you have any idea how much that cost?!"
The three men turned toward him at once.
Jerryl froze — then blinked as recognition dawned.
Those white tower sigils on their chests nearly blinded him.
His face drained of color. He dropped his club immediately, forcing a sickly smile.
"Ah... good evening..." he stammered.
"Ser... Ser Hightower!"