Game of Thrones: Reign of the Dragonking-Chapter 89: [] Rats in the Alley

Chapter 89: Rats in the Alley

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I trailed the two Golden Company men through Meereen's winding streets, keeping to the shadows. The drunken fools wove an unsteady path, their golden skull clasps catching the moonlight as they stumbled away from the main thoroughfare. I stayed twenty paces behind, silent as the grave that awaited them.

They turned down a narrow alley between two sandstone buildings, their voices echoing off the close walls as they joked about some slave girl they'd both had. Perfect.

The alley opened into a small courtyard—a dead end with high walls on three sides and only one exit. The taller one paused to piss against a wall while his companion slumped against the opposite side, belching loudly.

I stepped out from the shadows, my footsteps deliberately heavy against the packed earth.

"Evening, gentlemen of the Golden Company."

They spun around, hands fumbling for their swords. Too slow. Far too slow.

"Who the fuck are you?" the taller one demanded, squinting through the darkness.

I didn't waste breath on introductions, nor did I bother to draw my sword or spear to use my Skills. My fist connected with the scarred one's face before he could fully draw his blade. The impact sent a satisfying shock up my arm as his nose shattered beneath my knuckles. I felt bone give way to cartilage, blood spraying in a hot arc across my hand.

He dropped like a stone, sword clattering uselessly beside him. The taller one managed to draw his weapon, slashing wildly in my direction. "Fucking die!"

I sidestepped the clumsy swing and drove my fist into his breastplate. The metal crumpled inward with a sickening crunch, and his eyes widened in shock as he staggered backward, golden armor buckled as if struck by a warhammer.

"What... the... hell?" he gasped, clutching his chest.

These men had killed for gold across two continents, yet against me, they weren't warriors—they were prey. I was far beyond human limits for two men to pose any threat. Anyone who wanted to kill me would have to bring an army.

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However, it seemed I hadn't calculated my strength properly. He wasn't subdued yet as he tried to attack again. I caught his next swing easily, twisting his wrist until the bones snapped. He howled, dropping to his knees.

His companion tried crawling away, blood pouring from his ruined face. I planted my boot on his back, forcing him flat against the dirt.

"Going somewhere?" I asked, grinding my heel between his shoulder blades.

"Please," he gurgled through blood and broken teeth. "We have gold—"

I increased the pressure until something cracked beneath my foot. "I'm not interested in your coin."

Grabbing the taller one by his throat, I slammed him against the stone wall hard enough to crack the sandstone. I held him there, feet dangling above the ground, while he clawed weakly at my arm.

"Let's talk about your employers," I said conversationally, tightening my grip just enough to let him know death was a breath away. "Tell me about Daenerys Targaryen. How loyal are you to her?"

"We serve... the Queen... with all we have," he choked out. "The Mother of Dragons..."

I clicked my tongue in disapproval. "First lie." I drove my fist into his stomach, feeling his armor fold beneath the impact. "Try again."

His companion moaned from the ground. "We're loyal! We've fought for her since Yunkai!"

I released the taller one, letting him crumple to the ground, then pulled a small dagger from my belt. Crouching beside the scarred man, I drove the blade through his palm, pinning his hand to the packed earth. His scream echoed off the walls before I clamped my hand over his mouth.

"Since you're so loyal to the Targaryen name, then let's ask something else," I said, voice dangerously soft. "How many Blackfyres are in your ranks?"

Their faces went slack with shock.

"I don't know how many—"

I twisted the dagger, eliciting another muffled scream. "Wrong answer. Since you know what a Balckfyre is, you know how many there are."

Blackfyres. The bastard branch of House Targaryen that only lived for their desire to claim the Iron Throne for themselves.

It began with Daemon Blackfyre, a king's acknowledged bastard gifted the ancestral sword 'Blackfyre,' which he took as his sigil. He launched rebellions that nearly toppled the realm. Each time they lost, they fled across the Narrow Sea—some hid in Dorne, others in Essos, nursing their grudge against us true Targaryens. Over the generations, they married into wealthy families of Essos, merchants, and local nobles, and their name kept breeding children who quietly carried the Blackfyre blood.

They reappear across history whenever they sense weakness in the Crown, throwing a rebellion to claim the throne. The Golden Company was made by the Blackfyre, and they'd always fought for the Blackfyre during the rebellion. Until the very last, 20 years ago, when their defeat was said to have extinguished the Blackfyre line for good.

"Don't make me repeat myself, bastards," I said, glaring into their eyes.

The taller one, still gasping for breath, spoke up. "A few... just a few. About a dozen."

I raised an eyebrow. "That many? All Blackfyres were exterminated during the last rebellion." Even if Young Griff was born out of pure luck, how could there be more?

The man on the ground spat blood. "Female line," he gasped. "The women... they escaped... had sons. And... the line continued."

Of course. It was so simple that I should have seen it immediately. The female Blackfyres had survived, giving birth to sons who carried the bloodline, if not the name. They were clever rats, hiding in the darkness all these years and waiting for the perfect opportunity.

"When is your precious 'queen' planning to attack Westeros?" I demanded.

They exchanged glances.

"We don't know," the taller one finally admitted. "The commanders haven't told us anything."

I studied his face carefully. He wasn't lying—or if he was, he believed his own deception. These were just foot soldiers, not privy to the grand plans.

To wrap things up, I asked them about the pyramid guards' patrol routine. I could just fly to the highest floor, but it was better to know which window to look out for. They answered obediently, as much as they knew.

"Well, gentlemen," I said, rising to my feet. "You've been most informative."

"You... you'll let us go?" the scarred one asked, hope flickering across his battered face.

I smiled. "Not quite."

What followed wasn't clean or quick. I wanted whoever found these bodies to understand exactly what happened to those who stood against the true Dragon King. I wanted every Golden Company soldier in Meereen to see and remember.

When I finished, I wiped blood from my hands onto their cloaks. I arranged their golden skull clasps carefully on what remained of their chests—a message for those who would follow.

A familiar blue window appeared before me as I straightened.

[You've killed a human - Golden Company Mercenary.] 

[You've received experience points.]

[You've killed a human - Golden Company Mercenary.] 

[You've received experience points.]

[You've leveled up!]

[You've reached Level 49!]

I smiled and swiped through to check my status. It'd been a while since I'd last done so, but there wasn't much of a change.

=== Page [⅓] ===

Viserys Targaryen

The Dragon King

23 Years Old

Level 49

56 STR

59 END

56 DEX

61 INT

57 LUC

170 AUTH

=== Page [⅓] ===

A few weeks ago, it was Level 47. I wasn't growing as fast anymore through these small killings. I wanted another war. Regardless, my progress pleased me. Soon enough, I'd reach level 50 and unlock whatever new abilities awaited.

I was becoming stronger by the day, and my Auth stats made me nearly impossible to resist. That was why these bastards started talking so easily.

I looked down at the broken bodies one last time. These men were just the beginning. If my sister had truly allied with false dragons—Blackfyres masquerading as Targaryens—I would need to move quickly.

And I'd need to teach her a lesson, too, for being a stupid bitch.

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