Chapter 15

POV: Lewyn Martell

Hearing the command from their pitiful leader, I prepared for the fight. But instead of charging at me with loud cries as I expected from these drunken fools, they unexpectedly froze in place. For a moment, I thought they had come to their senses and decided to flee, but something in their movements betrayed a hidden plan.

I tensed up, feeling the air around me thicken. And then, just a moment after the command "Forward!" an arrow whizzed from the bushes near me. Luckily, my experience and reflexes didn't let it catch me off guard. Acting purely on instinct, I made a sharp movement to the side, and the arrow only grazed my arm, leaving a shallow wound on my shoulder. "Cowardly scum," I thought.

Drawing the dagger hidden at my belt, I threw it toward where the arrow had come from. In an instant, it found its mark—the archer collapsed to the ground with a muffled groan. This gave me a brief moment to prepare for the main battle.

Now four thugs stood before me. Though tipsy, they were still determined to kill me. I unsheathed my sword and stepped forward, ready to charge as my father had taught me. The first one lunged at me, swinging his blade. I smoothly sidestepped and delivered a short, precise cut, leaving a deep gash on his arm. He howled in pain and retreated, clutching his bloodied limb.

"Slow and predictable," I noted to myself. The other two tried to encircle me, but I simply slipped between them, swiftly changing my movement's trajectory. One of them, in his attempt to strike me, lost his balance and nearly fell. I took advantage of this moment and delivered a slashing blow to the leg of the second man, knocking him out of the fight.

"What were you hoping to achieve?" I whispered, almost silently, more to myself. Only two opponents remained capable of fighting, but they were disoriented by my maneuvers. They attempted to attack together from different angles, but I just smirked at their pitiful attempt. Their actions were chaotic, driven by unnecessary rage and lacking coordinated movement.

The first raised his axe for a strike, but I quickly parried and, rolling forward, cut the tendons in his leg before beheading him in one motion. Meanwhile, the second tried to attack from behind, but ran into my sharp blade, which pierced his chest. He froze, disbelief in his eyes, and then fell to the ground.

Looking around, I saw the fool with the wounded arm trying to escape. Picking up an axe from one of the fallen attackers, I gripped it tightly and hurled it at the back of the fleeing coward. Seconds later, he dropped dead.

When it was all over, I surveyed the scene. Three brigands lay on the ground, while in the bushes hung the lifeless body of the archer with my dagger sticking out of his chest. I calmly wiped my blade on the cloak of one of the fallen and headed toward the only living criminal.

He barely lifted his head, staring at me with eyes full of fear. The wound on his leg was bleeding, but judging by his trembling body, the pain was giving way to despair.

"Who sent you?" I asked calmly, but with a hint of menace.

"I-I don't know the name, my lord…" he stammered, curling up as if that might protect him. "We were just paid… told to put you in your place."

I squatted down, staring intently at his dirty face. An ordinary, unremarkable man, clearly unaccustomed to such clashes.

"And you simply decided to attack a royal guard at the request of someone you don't even know? Bold… and foolish."

"I-I have a big family to feed, my lord," he babbled, tears welling in his eyes. "I lost all my money on bets and got into debt. That man just sat with us and spoke so smoothly, I thought it was my chance… forgive me, my lord."

"Describe him: scars, hair color, height, clothing. Anything that can help find him!"

His eyes darted around, and I pressed down on his wound. Groaning in pain, he seemed to realize that lying was pointless now.

"He was an ordinary man. Tall, wearing a cloak, with slightly reddish hair. He approached us at the tavern, had a drink. The innkeeper must have seen him. He talked about bets and your victory over Barristan Selmy, said Selmy was his idol."

"And how much did you get paid for this foolishness?" I continued, adding icy mockery to my voice.

"Five gold each…" he muttered, barely holding back tears. "I swear, my lord, we thought it would be easy! We were told you'd just competed and would be too exhausted to resist…"

"So that's the value of your life? Amusing. But surely he didn't give you everything upfront, did he? Or did you get just a part, with the rest to be picked up later?" I asked with a smile, already knowing the answer.

"Exactly, my lord. After sundown, near the same tavern…" He explained the location. Then I slowly rose, surveying the carnage around me. Four of his companions would never rise again. His eyes reflected desperation and a pleading look. "I answered your questions, my lord…" he croaked, barely able to speak. "Spare me…"

"Spare you?" I approached him and leaned in to look into his eyes. "You chose this path yourself. First, you sold your honor, and now you want to bargain for your life?"

He fell silent, realizing he had nothing left to hope for. My face remained cold as I finally drew my dagger.

"Pray to your gods, if you believe in them."

One precise strike—and his agony was over. Brushing the dirt off my hands, I wiped the dagger on his clothes and calmly walked toward my tent to tend to the wound. Though not serious, it could still cause problems. These pitiful attempts to eliminate me only strengthened my suspicion: someone here was playing a game that could have cost me my life. I'll find them and make them pay.

POV: Aeryon

I approached the mirror, examining my reflection. A large burgundy mark adorned my shoulder; even the slightest movement of my arm made it throb painfully. But pain is merely a reminder of mistakes.

Aside from the marks I had received, the reflection showed a fairly handsome young man with striking facial features, silvery-golden hair falling to his shoulders, and piercing bright lilac eyes. My figure was toned, though a bit slender.

As I slowly began putting on my armor, I heard a rustle behind me. Turning, I noticed my dear and cunning friend. With a slight smile, I asked him:

"Well, have you finished negotiations about setting up my establishments here?"

"Of course, Your Highness," he responded with an exaggerated bow. "I must say, you seem surprisingly calm, my prince, considering that you're about to face one of the best warriors in this tournament."

"Don't worry, it's just a façade. Inside, I'm utterly terrified. I'd even say I'm on the verge of tears." After a moment of silence, we burst into loud laughter. "But seriously, panicking won't help me defeat Martell."

"Well, I'd say your chances are pretty good now," he said cryptically, which made me give him a puzzled look.

"What are you talking about?"

He then told me about his thoughts and the plans that followed. Honestly, at first, I didn't know how to react: Ralf was becoming a bit too bold. Before you know it, he might decide he doesn't need me at all—or worse, he might endanger me with his actions.

"How did your little assassination attempt go?"

"Quite well. Witnesses are dead, mercenaries are dead, and the Dornishman is wounded, albeit lightly. You know better than anyone that even a minor hindrance in a contest can be costly."

"Indeed, the situation played out perfectly, thank you," I said, extending my hand. As soon as he shook it and his skin touched the cold metal of my glove, my fingers began to tighten. The metal started to dig into his hand with pain, and my friend's face twisted in agony.

"Do you really think that if I truly wanted, I couldn't kill that Dornishman?" I whispered, leaning toward his ear, making my voice increasingly threatening. "Attacking Martell… Bold, but foolish. You've forgotten who makes the decisions in our close-knit little team?!"

Ralf, trying to maintain his composure but still hissing from the pain, shook his head.

"Forgive me, Aeryon. I only thought it would be a useful move before the duel. Martell is too confident in the saddle…"

"That's no excuse," I interrupted, squeezing his hand even tighter. "You serve me, and you need to remember one thing: every step, every decision must be coordinated with me. Make another choice behind my back, and our friendship will end. And with it—your life."

I released his hand, and Ralf, stifling a groan of pain, stepped back, rubbing his injured wrist.

"I understand," he rasped, looking at me with new emotions and a hint of fear.

"Good," I replied, returning to my calm state.

Left alone, I returned to my previous thoughts. The tournament was nearing its final stage, and now my mind was entirely focused on the decisive match. But I'll remember this lesson for myself—even those close to you might be playing their own games.