Chapter 20: Final Strike (Part 1)
"Sellswords!" Harry suddenly shouted. "Your captain, for the sake of his honor, refused to kill the bastard before you. He feared offending the Lannisters. He wants to revive his family, reclaim his grandfather's castle, and live as a lord in Westeros."
Knowing he couldn't prove Ian was an impostor, Harry simply admitted he was a Lannister bastard.
"But you don't have to fear them. I'm offering a bounty of eighty gold dragons on his head. With that coin, you can flee across the narrow sea and live like princes in Essos, far from Lannister vengeance." Harry raised his purse—going all in.
In an instant, the sellswords, who had been quieted by Ser Camel's command, erupted into agitation once more.
Eighty gold dragons—a sum these men had never seen in their lives. Faced with such temptation, what was their captain's honor? What were Lannister threats? They'd sooner face the White Walkers!
"He's a fish on the chopping block now. Don't look at your companions—strike first! The fewer who act, the more coin for each man." Harry urged again, then glanced at Ian with a smug expression. But Ian's face froze Harry's triumph.
Because Ian was laughing too.
Harry turned around in surprise, finding Camel glaring at him furiously. Harry realized he had just crossed a line by bypassing Camel and dealing directly with his men.
But so what? With Camel's devotion to honor, would he truly kill his own employer?
"You'll still protect me, won't you? You swore an oath to me," Harry grinned fearlessly, a hint of madness on his face. "You won't become an oathbreaker, will you?"
Camel turned his head away, not answering—but his silence was acquiescence.
"Hahaha!" Satisfied with the response, Harry's laughter grew even louder as he looked at Ian again. "You... you... you bastard! You're still laughing! What gives you the right?"
Why are you laughing? Why do you look so damn smug? You're richer than me, but what good does that do?
I can bribe these sellswords to kill you because they can actually do it. But you can't bribe them to kill me. Even if you offer ten times the price—a hundred times—it won't matter. With Camel and his sworn men protecting me, these hired thugs have no chance of touching me!
Killing me isn't even an option for you!
I've already won! And you're finished. The game is over!
"Protect me until my squire arrives. I'll pay you the same as he's offered," Ian said casually to the sellswords gathered around him. He then glanced at Harry and returned his mocking smile.
Harry's grin froze. He took about half a minute to process Ian's words, and then suddenly understood why his defeat felt inevitable.
Because if it were him, he would never have conceived such a perfect response.
The fake bastard's strategy was brilliant in at least two ways. First, he simply wanted to save his own life, not incite the sellswords to murder. If he had offered them coin to kill Harry, they would have been intimidated by Camel's strength and long-standing reputation, and might not have dared accept even ten times the price.
Instead, the impostor chose retreat, abandoning any attempt to kill him. This avoided direct confrontation with his greatest support—Ser Camel, who had already decided to let Ian go. As long as Ian didn't press the issue, Camel certainly wouldn't either.
The fake bastard's second stroke of genius was this: while he clearly intended to save his life by paying what amounted to ransom, he didn't directly offer coin in exchange for his safety. Instead, he framed his payment as a "reward" to the sellswords for "protecting" him.
That simple change in terminology—from "ransom" to "reward"—completely altered the nature of the transaction.
If he had paid ransom after being threatened by the sellswords, the relationship would have remained hostile, and even after receiving payment, the men would still fear Lannister retaliation.
However, by paying them as "wages" for service, he redefined his relationship with the sellswords as an "employment contract," effectively surrendering any claim to vengeance.
In an age where everything revolves around "rights" and "justifications," this move by the impostor—posing as a nobleman—offered the sellswords complete reassurance.
"It's an honor to serve you, ser." As expected, a sellsword who had been preparing to attack Ian bowed and swore allegiance.
"My sword is yours." The sellswords surrounding Ian switched sides, and even many who had initially hesitated to join the attack now came to Ian and pledged their service.
For the sellswords, this was an easy choice. Taking Ian's coin not only fulfilled Captain Camel's earlier decision to spare Ian, but also saved them from having to flee their homeland in fear of Lannister revenge. They didn't even have to do anything—it was essentially free money.
Taking Harry's coin, however, risked Lannister retaliation. The choice was obvious.
Soon, only five of Camel's personal guards remained at his side, while the rest gathered around Ian.
"The tables have turned," Ian said with a snap of his fingers, grinning at Harry.
"I thought this move would seal my victory, but I suppose there's no such thing as a guaranteed win, is there?" Harry mentally conceded defeat, though he tried to save face. "Still, the worst outcome for me is a draw, wouldn't you say?"
Ian didn't respond, simply observing Harry in silence.
"What? Are you still planning to kill me?" Harry immediately bristled at Ian's apparent contempt, glancing back at Camel beside him.
"Ser Ian, you swore an oath." Camel didn't understand the strange exchange between his employer and the Lannister bastard, but he reminded Ian anyway.
"Yes, I swore an oath—on the honor of House Lannister." Ian nodded, his cold gaze fixed on the end of the dirt road leading from the salt pans toward the town.
The setting sun cast long shadows through the treetops, and two knights riding side by side came into view. Both wore full plate armor—one light green, the other pure black.
The knight in light green plate wore a closed helm with the visor raised, revealing a bearded face. His sturdy build made him look particularly formidable. He rode a tall destrier draped with a red caparison and carried a thick iron-banded round shield on his back.
The other knight was even more massive than the one in green plate. He stood over seven feet tall, with a five-and-a-half-foot greatsword strapped across his back. He wore no helm, his long, light brown hair flowing freely. His eyes were keen, and his features—considering his size—were surprisingly handsome.
"My squires have arrived," Ian said with a smile to the sellswords beside him. The men followed his gaze toward the end of the road.
No one noticed Ian clench his fist slightly, fingers curling into his palm, or how his breathing gradually quickened.
"Squires?" Hearing Ian's words, Adam—the old sellsword who had been pretending to be the foreman—looked at the two approaching fully-armored knights with astonishment. "Seven hells! Your squires wear full plate?"
They'd heard a set of that stuff cost at least ten gold dragons.
"Can't be helped. I'm a bastard. If I'm not generous to my men, who would follow me?" Ian quickly recovered his composure, shaking his head with mock bitterness. "After all, I may be baseborn, but the one thing I have plenty of is coin."
"Coin's a fine thing to have."
"What was that?"
"Nothing, nothing." The old sellsword shook his head quickly.
Soon, as the two knights drew closer, the sellsword company tensed.
They had assumed the squires Ian mentioned would be two ordinary youths, so the sudden appearance of two heavily armored knights felt deeply intimidating.
"Relax! I told you they're my squires, and they've brought everyone's wages," Ian called out, glancing at the old sellsword, Adam.
"Lower your weapons!" the old sellsword hastily shouted to those around him. "Ser Ian is our employer. How dare you show such disrespect?"
It was clear Adam held considerable sway among these rough sellswords. After his words, the men—while still wary—at least put away their blades.
Seeing this, Ian nodded to the old sellsword, then raised one hand above his head in a stopping gesture. He called to the knights five yards away: "Stop there."
As expected, the two knights halted immediately.
"Hound, throw eighty gold dragons over here. And I mean throw them," Ian ordered. He knew the two knights carried far more than eighty dragons.
The two knights stared at each other for a full seven seconds before finally deciding which one was "Hound." Then the one in light green plate—"Hound"—untied the pouch hanging from his saddle and began counting the gold dragons.
"That lord—" the old sellsword wanted to say "ser," because the knight counting coins looked far too imposing to be a mere squire, but he quickly corrected himself. "That squire's name is... Hound?"
"Son of a kennelmaster. Low birth. He followed me before my father brought me to his castle. That's his nickname," Ian explained. "He's a bit thick, but loyal. Once I regain my true name, I'll find a way to knight him properly."
"Knight... a kennelmaster's son?" The old sellsword could scarcely believe his ears.
"Loyal service deserves rich reward. That's my principle. Besides, bastards never judge others by their birth—we're no more highborn than anyone else to start with." Ian chuckled self-deprecatingly.
"He's fortunate indeed to have found a master like you."
"Ha, truth be told, I'm just thinking ahead. After all, it may be another six months before my father recovers from his wounds and weds my mother. Only then can I truly become a Lannister." Ian waved a hand dismissively.
He then turned to the green-armored knight, who had finished counting the coins, and nodded for him to toss them over.
The green-armored knight grabbed the pouch and threw it—not once, but three times in succession. The scattered gold dragons immediately provoked a scramble among the sellswords.
"A Lannister always pays his debts. Farewell, good sers." Ian seized the moment to mount his horse and galloped toward the two knights.
Halfway there, Ian glanced back at Harry—a look that sent a chill through him.
Harry didn't know why, but a sense of foreboding welled up within him.
"Ser Camel, I want to leave. Take me away now! Now!" Harry said urgently.
"Don't worry. Ser Ian swore he—"
"He's not a Lannister!" Harry roared.
"This again," Camel said with frustration. He couldn't understand why his employer remained obsessed with this impossible claim.
"Regardless, I'm leaving now." Harry abandoned any attempt to explain further and hurriedly climbed onto a palfrey. Due to his poor horsemanship, he gripped the horse's neck tightly with both hands and urged again, "Quickly, quickly!"
Seeing this, Camel relented and gave the order to his guards to depart.
But to his surprise, none of his sworn men moved. They all stood frozen, staring blankly toward the setting sun.
Camel grew suspicious and followed their gazes. He saw Ian, who had reached the two knights, holding a gold bar high above his head. The red gold gleamed brilliantly in the dying light of day, casting an intoxicating glow like something from a bard's tale.
(End of Chapter)
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