Chapter 131 — A King's Treatment
"Hey—hang in there, kid."
Carrying the gravely wounded Ser Balman through the palace corridors, Lance felt the man's breathing grow weaker with every step and called out to him in a low voice.
All around the Old Palace, noise was rising—shouts from multiple directions, flickering firelight in the distance. Clearly, whatever had happened in the dungeons had been discovered, and search parties were already being dispatched.
"I'm fine, my lord…"
At Lance's voice, Balman—who had been on the brink of unconsciousness—forced his eyes open and spoke stubbornly.
"Put me down. I can walk."
"Don't push it."
Carrying two swords was already inconvenient. Hauling a man on top of that was worse.
Though Balman's struggle was weak, it was enough to nearly make him slip. Lance tightened his grip and soothed him quietly:
"Stay still. I'll have you know—aside from His Grace the King, I've never carried anyone on this shoulder. If you make it back to King's Landing alive, you'll have something worth bragging about."
That finally made Balman go still.
He smiled faintly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Honestly… I'm more looking forward to drinking with you once we're back in King's Landing."
"Hm?"
"You promised yourself… earlier today…"
Before he could finish, blood loss claimed him, and Balman slipped into unconsciousness.
Earlier today…
Lance thought about it.
Yeah. He really had said that.
Damn it. Ever since transmigrating, he'd even forgotten something as basic as don't set death flags.
If he'd known, he would never have said something like that.
Shaking his head, Lance forced the thought away.
Right now, what mattered was finding Rhaella and Viserys.
Unfortunately, every knight he'd brought from the Crownlands was dead—except Balman.
He was alone again.
No—this was worse than Duskendale.
Back then, he'd only had to protect one old man.
Now he had one, two… three liabilities.
And more importantly, the defenses of Sunspear were nothing like a small town. Even if he made it out of the city, there was no guarantee any Dornish lord would help him.
Then again…
According to canon, Doran Martell was a master of patience—so cautious that even after Oberyn died at the Mountain's hands, he'd stayed cooped up in Dorne, scheming in the shadows.
If he had truly approved the Red Viper's plan…
Then something about all this was very, very wrong.
"Search over there!"
The shout snapped Lance out of his thoughts.
Boots thundered closer.
Damn it… already?
He cursed silently, scanning his surroundings—but there was nowhere to hide.
"Can I fight my way through?"
Lance tightened his grip on his swords—then shook his head.
Alone, under the sun, with his dual-sword mastery active, maybe.
But carrying Balman? Not a chance.
His earlier massacre of the Northmen had only been possible because they lacked polearms, and because he'd wielded two legendary blades, catching them completely off guard.
Under daylight, it would be another story.
And none of that mattered anyway.
What mattered was finding that damned queen and young Viserys.
"Hey—hey!!!"
Just as the footsteps closed in and Lance struggled to think, a faint voice drifted down from above.
He looked up.
Towering overhead stood a tall spire crowned with gilded iron spikes.
At some point without realizing it—
He had arrived beneath the Spear Tower.
At the very tip of the tower, two guards holding long spears had clearly noticed him long ago. Their eyes locked onto Lance's—yet neither of them raised an alarm or called for reinforcements.
"Hey! Don't just stand there!"
"Get up here—now!"
Just as Lance was about to brace himself, a clear, youthful voice rang out again. Following the sound, he focused his gaze upward and saw a small figure leaning halfway out of a narrow window near the tower's peak, waving frantically at him.
At her urging, Lance glanced back over his shoulder, then up again at the silent guards atop the tower. The sound of pursuit was growing closer by the second.
With no other choice, he gritted his teeth, steeled his heart, and ducked inside.
Less than two minutes after Lance entered the Spear Tower, dozens of pursuers armed with long spears arrived.
"Did anyone pass through here just now?"
Ellaria Sand lifted her head and shouted toward the top of the tower.
"No," came the reply from above. "We've been standing guard the whole time. If we'd seen anyone, we'd have lit the signal fire."
Ellaria frowned slightly.
They had chased him all the way from the dining hall, yet there was still no sign of that Kingsguard knight.
After a moment's hesitation, she waved her hand sharply.
"Move. Keep searching. We must find him before dawn!"
At her command, dozens of guards followed her and quickly departed.
Behind the tower door, listening to the footsteps fade away, Lance finally let out a quiet breath of relief.
"Are you Ser Lance Lot?"
The sudden voice made him jump. Instinctively, he raised his greatsword and pointed it forward—but what he saw was a little girl of about ten, sitting in the shadow of the staircase, staring straight at him.
"Next time you speak," Lance said after exhaling deeply, lowering the sword with a glare, "don't do it from behind someone."
He didn't know who this girl was, but since she had helped him, she likely posed no immediate danger.
"Are you Lance Lot?"
Ignoring his tone entirely, the girl repeated herself calmly.
"You're wearing white armor, but… there's no cloak. And you seem to be carrying two swords."
"Who told you Lance Lot can only wield one sword?" Lance replied, his curiosity now piqued.
He carefully set Balman down, checked his breathing, and found it faint but steady—he wouldn't die just yet.
Patting himself down, Lance realized all his cloth had been burned away in the fire. He looked back up at the girl.
"Do you have bandages or something? My companion doesn't look good."
"You still haven't answered my question."
Her voice was clear and deliberate as she asked once more, word by word:
"Are you truly Ser Lance Lot?"
"Yes," Lance answered evenly. "If you're looking for the Commander of the Kingsguard, Lance Lot—then that's me."
The girl stared directly into his deep blue eyes, as though weighing the truth of his words.
After a moment, she seemed to relax. She lifted her head and called softly into the darkness of the stairwell:
"It's really him. Come out."
Lance frowned in confusion as figures emerged one by one from the shadows—more than a dozen of them, all in armor. Their presence was imposing, but thankfully, their weapons were lowered.
Had Lance answered differently, they might have rushed out and chopped him into pieces on the spot.
"Allow me to introduce myself, Ser Lance Lot."
Surrounded by her companions, the girl descended the steps with measured grace. She lifted her skirt and performed a flawless courtly bow.
"My name is Ynys Yronwood," she said.
"I am the eldest daughter of Lord Anders Yronwood."
"Ynys?"
Moonlight streamed in through a narrow window, illuminating the black portcullis sigil set against golden sands on her chest. Realization dawned on Lance.
"I've heard your father mention you before, Lady Ynys."
"If I recall correctly, Lord Anders said he entrusted Yronwood Castle to you. Why, then, are you here in Sunspear—so secretly, no less?"
"It all stems from my rather troublesome father, Ser."
Despite her words, her expression remained calm and composed.
She gestured toward the unconscious Balman.
"If you trust us, perhaps my men can tend to your companion's wounds."
"Of course."
Lance nodded without hesitation.
After all, if she were Anders's daughter and meant him harm, she could have simply led the pursuers straight to him. There was no need for this.
At his signal, a tall, lean knight stepped forward. After a brief examination, he began expertly bandaging Balman's wounds.
"You came to Sunspear to look for your father, didn't you, Lady Ynys?" Lance asked softly, watching the knight's practiced movements with growing confidence.
Just as Anders had described, this child was remarkably mature—her words and bearing more like an adult's than a girl's. Lance found himself speaking to her as an equal.
She nodded but offered no explanation. Instead, she turned and began climbing the stairs toward the upper levels of the tower.
"Please follow me, Ser," her cool voice echoed back.
"There's something upstairs you'll want to see."
Though puzzled, Lance followed.
His armored boots echoed sharply against the stone steps, starkly contrasting with her light, quiet footfalls—yet they climbed at nearly the same pace, reaching the second floor together.
Ynys stopped in a shadowed corner. A knight stepped forward and lit a candle, illuminating a large piece of canvas.
Under Lance's questioning gaze, the girl reached out and pulled it away.
Bound tightly to a chair, gagged and muffled, struggling helplessly—
Lord Anders Yronwood sat there, very much alive.