Chapter 650: Plea for Mercy

"Your Grace."

Upon noticing Viserys's gaze returning, the rotund Pentoshi, standing at the other end of the desk, cradled a large tome, perusing the detailed data recorded therein. He resumed speaking.

"Your Grace, last month's harbor transactions amounted to…"

Inside the Red Keep, King Viserys was engrossed in state affairs. Meanwhile, in the southernmost tip of Westeros, at Dorne's northern gate…

A hawk perched atop a tree observed a caravan transporting supplies depart. The grey-backed falcon flapped its wings, issued a sharp cry, and soared high, following the same direction the caravan had taken.

That very night, as darkness began to set in…

A convoy carrying supplies approached the mighty checkpoint, following the pathway of the Prince's Pass.

They flew the banners of the Manwoody family of Kingsgrave. Leading them was a man on horseback, accompanied by a servant, and guarded by twenty soldiers holding dim torches.

"Open the gates!"

Upon reaching the gateway, a young Dornish lad named Caren called out.

"Halt!"

"Who goes there?"

From atop the walls, torches ablaze, Dornish guards noticed the caravan bearing the Manwoody banner. However, protocol demanded they confirm the party's identity.

"It's your turn, Lord Deacon."

"Choose your words wisely."

Beneath the walls of the Prince's Pass, the fierce Riverland knight whispered threateningly to the second son of Kingsgrave. Unnoticed by the guards above, the knight had a dagger pressed against Deacon Manwoody's thigh, ready to plunge and twist at the slightest provocation.

Despite the potential for a massacre, Deacon's death seemed certain.

Yet Deacon, a lover of Dorne and his family, cherished his life above all else.

Feeling the dagger's sharp edge against his thigh, almost piercing through his trousers, Deacon gulped. He didn't wish to end his life prematurely, so he responded with a shaky yet feigned composure.

"It's me."

"Are you blind? Can't you recognize me?"

Deacon Manwoody, seated on his horse, looked up. With the nightfall and scarce torchlight, the soldiers on the wall struggled to discern his face. But his voice was familiar to them. Given Kingsgrave's proximity to the Prince's Pass and the recent supplies from the Manwoody family, they recognized Lord Deacon's voice.

"My apologies, Lord Deacon."

Recognizing Deacon's voice, the guard on the wall signaled to his comrades below.

"Open the gates!"

Seeing the mere twenty men, the guards felt no threat. After all, even if they were enemies, a takeover seemed outlandish. Each man would have to defeat a hundred.

Such warriors did not exist. Not even the legendary 'Sword of the Morning', Ser Arthur Dayne, could handle those odds.

Thus, seeing it was Deacon Manwoody, the guards dropped their guard and let the caravan into the city.

Franklyn Fowler felt restless.

Ever since the last male heir of House Fowler perished in the Riverlands, Franklyn had been consumed by rage. He had raided the Cendford castle but failed to capture Lord Cendford, venting his anger on the lord's family.

Realizing the gravity of his actions, regret consumed Franklyn. Not for the act itself, but for the consequences.

Having seen King Viserys firsthand during the coronation and trials in King's Landing, Franklyn knew of the young king's ruthless streak. The trials had seen many nobles meet their fate, and Franklyn feared he had crossed a line.

Times had changed.

In a dimly lit room, the aging 'Old Hawk', Franklyn Fowler, rubbed his temples. Age was catching up, and the strain of his thoughts weighed heavily on him.

He sat in a room within the Prince's Pass, a freshly written letter before him. The letter bore the Fowler motto, 'Let Me Soar', and was addressed to the Martell family of Sunspear.

Prince Doran was the king's father-in-law, having given the kingdom a queen.

Franklyn felt unsettled. Pondering his next move, he decided to pen a letter to Prince Doran, hoping the prince might intercede on his behalf, pleading for his life.