GOT : Chapter 121

( Cletus POV )

Cletus looked forward to this short stopover in Lys as a way to finally get out of the heat of Westeros. A new start, if one preferred to call it that, or at least, he could pretend it to be one.

A new start perhaps because he felt stupid he had fallen for a honeyed trap, or perhaps he felt guilty to having let his friends and family down. Most of all though, Cletus had thought that he'd failed himself, and guilt gnawed at him regularly.

Therefore, in Lys, he decided to forsake the old ways and do his best to, if not redeem himself, at least try and better his ways. And, true to his word, he had not stepped a foot in a pleasurehouse or any establishment of that nature. He'd stayed and counted coppers, looked at books, and sought to act as a liaison between this island and Yronwood.

But quickly, the fervent atmosphere that had gripped the island-city had turned sinister.

The atmosphere in the Dornish camp was…disturbed to say the least. Around the table gathering of several Dornish lords, there was chatter and incomprehension. There had been cases of disappearances in recent days.

Although this was to be expected, the rate at which they happened was…unnerving. And it's not like the men disappearing were just too drunk or spent too much time in a whorehouse…no. They were always found…

Thus, something had to be done. It seemed the Dornish were specifically targeted, but by who? And for what purpose?

"Who did we find this time?" Quentyn, on the edge of the table, asked.

"A merchant found two bodies floating in the sea." Nymeria Sand sighed, handing him a small piece of paper. "One was identified as Ser Ulwyck Uller, missing for five days. The other was too mauled to be identified…"

"And who are we still missing?" Quentyn asked, distraught.

"Three men," Ryon Allyrion, heir to Godsgrace, pointed out. "Ser Raymund Crow, Ser Jacen Elaryon and Ser Rowan Wyl."

"How many does this give?" Quentyn, asked, frowning.

"Eight, my prince." Ryon Allyrion sighed, as worried as him.

Something in Lys wanted the Dornishmen dead, but what? Or rather who?

Quentyn was frustrated, it could be read on his face, as he nervously tapped the table beneath him, before finally releasing:

"Damn it to the seven hells, I came here to replenish my fleet, not to hunt down a murderer!"

The room fell slightly silent at that. Although Quentyn had a temper, and did not hesitate to put people back in their places, seeing him lose control of his emotions like that was a rare sight.

"We'll catch him." The Sand Snake put a hand on his shoulder while raising the other in a fist. "We'll catch whoever has done all of these terrible acts and we'll make them pay!"

"In the meantime, we've given strict orders not to go into whorehouses alone, even if it is for service," Ser Ryon continued, "we've had a suspicion that the whorehouses have been where our men were lured and killed."

"I don't understand." Quentyn shook his head. "All of these men whose remains we've recovered, they've been brutally killed, but Lysene are usually very smooth about how they eliminate people. Poisonings are what they are known for."

"You suggest these people might not be from here?" Lord Daeron Vaith asked in turn. "I must admit, it would make sense, but who would want so many Dornishmen dead?"

Suddenly, the doors burst open.

As if it was engrained into his brain, Cletus immediately brought his hand to his sword, almost taking it out. Thankfully, it was just Ser Deziel Dalt, out of breath, with a broad smile.

"I have news!" he shouted.

"Let's hope they're better than the ones we keep getting," Cletus whispered to Arch, at his side, who sombrely nodded.

"What news?" Quentyn asked.

"I might know who has been killing our men! Or, rather, a way of knowing!" he smiled, raising a letter in the air.

Ser Deziel rushed the letter to Quentyn, who frowned and asked,"Who gave this to you?"

"A young girl came to our party, on the market," Ser Deziel explained, "she must not have been older than two-and-ten. She then told us that she knew about the disappearance of Dornishmen, but that she couldn't tell us in public. However, although she couldn't tell us anything, she did write something which was to be given to you in person."

Quentyn suddenly became weary, and put on a pair of gloves. Carefully, slowly, he opened the letter, revealing a perfectly normal piece of paper.

"What does it say?" Cletus found himself asking.

All heads turned to Quentyn, who put the piece of paper down.

"It's saying that the girl cannot talk in public, as she fears being killed. She cannot write the words, because she fears they might be intercepted, and, finally, she cannot come here because she fears retribution." Quentyn shook his head. "Instead, the girl asks to meet at the dragonpit ruins, where she can tell me, the Prince of Dorne, who has been causing all of this death."

"Well, we must be off right away!" Ser Deziel said, waving his hand. "I volunteer to escort…"

"She also says," Quentyn continued, unphased, "to bring as little men as possible to avoid attracting much attention."

"We can spare four or five men," Ser Ryon acknowledged.

"Are you both dense?" the snake cut in.

Both Ser Ryon and Ser Deziel turned to her, both angry at having been insulted.

"I find myself in agreement." Quentyn let a shadow of a smile appear. "This letter could have said, 'I wish to lead you into a trap' and it would have been the same outcome."

"You fear an ambush?" Lord Daeron Vaith asked.

"I don't fear an ambush, I know there will be one." Quentyn scoffed. "This letter is too providential for it to be anything else."

Ser Ryon and Ser Deziel's faces suddenly went red and both sought to sit down. But it seemed the Allyrion was not ready to give up the fight just yet.

"With all due respect, my prince, we cannot dismiss this out of hand." He faced Quentyn without flinching. "If the girl speaks true and she has information, we must know what it is."

"I agree." Quentyn nodded. "But you must also agree that putting my person at risk is stupidly dangerous."

"Yes," Ser Ryon conceded, biting his lip. "Perhaps a lookalike would do?"

"I'm afraid I'm quite recognizable." Quentyn shook his head.

"We could give your impersonator an eye patch," the sand snake proposed.

"And large robes, a cape, preferably," Lord Daeron added.

"Fine." Quentyn nodded. "Since Ser Deziel so kindly offered earlier, he will be volunteering to take my place."

The color drained from Deziel Dalt's face.

"For the rest…" Quentyn looked around the room, "I need four volunteers. I won't be ordering anyone to go willingly into a trap for me."

Instinctively, Cletus raised his hand. He was a seasoned fighter, this made sense. Arch looked at him for a moment, then raised his hand as well, reluctantly.

"Very well." Quentyn eventually gave up. "Ser Cletus, Ser Archibald, Ser Garibald and Ser Ryon will accompany Ser Deziel. For the love of Mother Rhoyne, come back in one piece."

Cletus smiled widely, grabbing Arch by the shoulder, while the tension in the room suddenly lifted.

"Glad you're backing me up, Arch," Cletus whispered.

"Don't mention it, Cletus," Arch scoffed in response, "you'd manage to get yourself killed."

"I'm tougher than that, cousin." Cletus smirked. "A few pirates won't bring me down just yet."

Arch shook his head, heading towards the streets of Lys.

The latter were busy as could be, with people cluttering the streets, despite the large width of the Lysene avenues on the waterfront. Contrary to what the average Westerosi thought, Lys wasn't filled with whorehouses.

On the large streets covering the parts closer to the city were many shops similar to the merchant quarter in Yronwood: bakeries, armories, stalls filled with fruit, vegetables and spices… the only difference with Yronwood was that in every stall, in every shop, there were people with collars or a sort of brand on their back or chest, their eyes heavy.

Cletus did his best to pay no mind to that, crossing into less busy streets on the outside of the port city, which houses the less fortunate, and some slave barracks. Then, the road wound towards a large ruined dome: the old dragonpit, a complex of ruins at the edge of the town that once served to house the dragons of the main houses of Valyria whenever they felt the need to stop on the island.

It was completely deserted, not a soul around, the pillars of grey and black stone covering multiple holes which could fit a man, or two…or several.

Sensing the danger, all unsheathed their weapons.

Cletus clutched his sword with both his hands, while standing as close as possible to Arch. One looked to the left, the other to the right.

"Quentyn might've been right once again…" Arch whispered.

"He's always right," Cletus scoffed. "I don't like this."

"I don't like this either."

Cletus had the eerie feeling of being watched, but from where? No one was in the rubble, they'd have known. But in this labyrinth, who knew where the potential foes would come from?

"I say we turn back," Ser Ryon suggested. "It was a waste of time, and we're likely heading right into the dragon's mouth, so to speak."

Indeed, before them, on the ground, was a huge statue of a dragon, broken into several pieces, including one which only showed the head and the terrifying mouth, staring right at them.

Suddenly, there was noise.

Behind the large statue, Cletus could see the figures of two men, slowly moving towards them.

In an instant, he signaled all the knights in the party, who immediately sensed the danger.

This was not a small girl, these were grown men, in armor! This was a trap, and they'd walked right into it, as usual…

Damn it, Cletus thought, might as well try to battle our way out of it.

He walked around the dragon's mouth, waited, and when the man on the other side had just finished clearing it, he charged into him.

Whilst Cletus charged the first man, the rest of the Dornish each attacked in turn. Fortunately, it seemed their attackers were as surprised as them. They were five, what luck!

Cletus immediately raised his sword to try and deal a blow to his opponent, sending him tumbling a few paces back.

Unfortunately, the man was skilled, too skilled. He absorbed the blow and stroked back, putting his weight behind the blow.

Cletus raged internally. How did he give this man the initiative when it was Cletus that surprised him first?

Trying not to lose control or patience, he parried his opponent's blows as best he could, doing his best to try to use the ruins as an advantage, pushing the enemy towards rocks that could destabilize him, with no luck.

Damn it, why do I have to take on the veteran? Cletus raged bitterly as Arch was doing a lot better.

With a cry, Cletus then took a rock and threw it at the man opposing him. Surprised by this maneuver, he let his guard down, which allowed Cletus to rush him and block him against the dragon statue, their swords clashing whilst both struggled to get out of the grasp of the other.

"You're the bastards who take pleasure in killing our men?" Cletus found himself asking, his face red with anger.

"Bastard!" his opponent spat. "You're the monsters who have been killing ours!"

"We've killed no one here…yet," Cletus said as he broke out of the man's grasp, trying to finish him off.

But the man was resistant, and did not let go.

"Killing unarmed men in brothels and inns, what a dishonourable way of doing things," his opponent taunted, "it's more difficult when your opponent has a sword in hand."

Cletus suddenly felt uneasy.

"I don't know what you are talking about." Cletus frowned. "You are the ones who slaughtered our men in the pleasurehouses, then sent them to us in pieces. And you lured us here with the little girl's letter so that you may kill our prince!"

Suddenly, the man stopped in his tracks, frowning.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Cletus Yronwood, why do you give a shit?"

"Parlay sir, if you will, I fear we've all been fooled." His opponent removed his helm, revealing long, silver hair. "My name is Monford Velaryon. I fear we're both looking for the same person."

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