BlurryDream
patreon
Chapter 212: The Fugitive
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 11:53:14 +0000 UTCThe White Gull Garden was a villa with a garden located not far from the port district. Its name came from the view—standing in the courtyard, one could see the entire port, along with the white gulls circling nearby.
The villa was neither the largest nor the most beautiful in the area, but it was by far the most heavily guarded. Dozens of men patrolled outside, and even within the villa, soldiers from the Golden Company stood watch.
At that moment, in the villa's courtyard garden, a middle-aged man dressed as a Maester was instructing a blue-haired child, around ten years old, in The Chronicle of the Four Kings—a particularly dry and difficult book, not something an ordinary person would typically study.
Nearby, a middle-aged septa of the Faith of the Seven sat focused on knitting, though the Dornish scimitar at her waist seemed oddly out of place.
In the open space of the courtyard, a knight was practicing swordplay with his men. His skill was exceptional; even when surrounded by multiple opponents, he handled them with ease.
The noise of the training often drew the child's attention, making him glance toward the sparring session. Each time his eyes strayed from the book, the Maester would, without hesitation, strike him sharply on the back with his teaching rod.
Though the child's clothing absorbed some of the impact, the blows still hurt. Yet, despite the pain, he stubbornly endured it in silence, refusing to make a sound.
On the balcony of the second-floor study overlooking the courtyard, a middle-aged man with graying temples watched everything unfold. He frowned slightly when he saw the Maester strike the child but did not intervene.
“Jon, this wasn’t part of our plan. I can't help you with this,” a voice came from inside the study. Moments later, a warrior with a prominent, oversized nose and a rather unappealing face stepped out and stood beside the middle-aged man. “You’d best stay out of Myr’s affairs. It’s too complicated. If you step in rashly, you won’t gain anything—worse, you might get yourself into serious trouble.”
The speaker was no ordinary figure. Any high-ranking official in Myr would have instantly recognized him as Myles Toyne, the leader of the Golden Company, currently employed by Myr and responsible for the city's security.
The Golden Company, originally founded by Bittersteel Aegor Rivers, was the largest mercenary group in the Free Cities. It boasted ten thousand elite warriors, not counting the support troops responsible for logistics.
As the commander of such a powerful military force, Myles Toyne was a well-known figure throughout the Free Cities. His striking features—especially his absurdly large nose—made him unmistakable.
The man he was speaking with was also a notable figure: Jon Connington, a staunch Targaryen loyalist wanted by the Iron Throne. However, compared to Myles Toyne, Jon Connington’s reputation was far less prominent. He was remembered mainly because he had been the last Hand of the King during the Targaryen dynasty.
Anyone familiar with both men would have been shocked to see them conversing so calmly. According to widespread rumors, Jon Connington had been expelled from the Golden Company for stealing from its treasury, leading to a bitter and irreparable feud between him and Myles Toyne.
In Westeros, some even believed that this supposed betrayal had cost Connington his final chance to reclaim the throne for House Targaryen, that he had fallen into despair, and that he had ultimately drunk himself to death.
But clearly, those rumors were false. The two men were still on good terms, and Jon Connington was very much alive—though the years of exile and hardship had left him looking much older.
“Is the situation in Myr really that chaotic?” Jon Connington asked with a frown after hearing Myles Toyne’s warning.
Myles Toyne’s expression turned serious. “Worse than you can imagine. Before I came here, I received orders from the Magister’s Council. The Golden Company is no longer just guarding the city walls—we’re now patrolling the streets as well. The Armed Magister’s Unsullied have either been sent back to their barracks or stationed on the walls. The Magisters no longer trust those eunuchs. I fear they may grow desperate and do something reckless. So whatever you're thinking, you’d be wise to abandon it and leave Myr as soon as possible.”
Jon Connington’s reluctance was clear. He had been planning this for a long time, and if it succeeded, it would bring in a significant sum—money that would be crucial in achieving their ultimate goal.
Now, when everything was about to come to fruition, he was being told to give up because of Myr’s internal power struggles. It was a bitter pill to swallow.
But after a moment of contemplation, he let out a slow breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Myles Toyne was right. No amount of money was worth the risk of getting entangled in Myr’s political turmoil. If something went wrong, years of planning and effort would be wasted.
Myles Toyne then added, “Once the Golden Company completes its contract in Myr, we’ll be leaving as well—likely heading to Volantis. If you need anything, come find us there.”
“Volantis?” Jon Connington paused, puzzled. “Why Volantis? Is there some major job there?”
Myles Toyne shook his head. “Haven’t you noticed yet? Summerhall’s influence has already seeped into Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. It won’t be long before they make their move on the Disputed Lands.”
“You mean the Miracle Merchant Guild?” Jon Connington scoffed. “You’re being overly paranoid. The Miracle Merchant Guild isn’t just in Lys and Myr—it’s in every Free City. Even Slaver’s Bay has branches. Does that mean Summerhall is planning to take over Slaver’s Bay too? They only just secured the Stepstones; they wouldn’t be reckless enough to strike at the Disputed Lands so soon. Not long ago, didn’t the Chosen One sign a trade agreement with Tyrosh? If he truly wanted to invade the Disputed Lands, he would have attacked Tyrosh outright after destroying their fleet. At that point, Tyrosh wouldn’t have been able to stop Summerhall’s forces.”
Though Jon Connington was in exile, he had never stopped tracking the political landscape of Westeros. And as the most legendary figure of the past decade—arguably since the days of Aegon the Conqueror himself—Lynd Tarran, the Lord of Summerhall and the so-called Chosen One, had naturally become a key subject of his attention.
Never before had he seen a man of such humble origins rise so quickly. In just ten years, Lynd had accomplished what most noble houses took centuries to achieve.
Disguised as a commoner, Jon had traveled to King’s Landing to see the wight in the Great Sept of Baelor, visited the Redemption Sept to witness the giants, and even gone to Miracle Harbor, where he had seen the enormous sea dragon for himself.
From all he had witnessed, Jon Connington had reached a firm conclusion: for House Targaryen to reclaim Westeros, the Iron Throne was not the greatest obstacle—Summerhall was.
Thus, anything related to Summerhall was always on his radar.
When he first learned of the rift between Lynd and the Iron Throne, Jon had briefly considered trying to recruit him. However, his contacts in Dorne had made it clear that such a hope was futile. Until the Usurper Robert Baratheon was taken by the Stranger, Lynd Tarran would never betray him, nor would he join their cause.
Later, when Lynd led the Miracle Fleet to annihilate the combined forces of Tyrosh and the Pirate Alliance, securing dominion over the Stepstones, Jon had never felt more threatened. At the time, he and Young Griff had been in Tyrosh, and he had feared that Lynd might launch an invasion, sweeping them up in the chaos.
Only when news arrived that Lynd had instead negotiated peace with Tyrosh did Jon finally relax. Through his own channels, he also discovered that the Targaryen siblings had been gifted to Lynd by the Tyroshi, yet rather than sending them to the Iron Throne, he had placed them in Pentos. This raised a possibility Jon hadn’t considered before—perhaps Lynd’s loyalty to the Baratheon dynasty wasn’t as unshakable as it seemed. Maybe, in time, there could be a chance to bring him into their fold.
In discussions with his allies, they had speculated about Lynd’s next move. Their conclusion was that he would inevitably turn his attention to the three major Free Cities in the Disputed Lands—but not yet. Not until the Stepstones were fully stabilized.
Based on recent reports from Summerhall, Lynd appeared to have no immediate plans for military action. Most of his forces had been recalled to their barracks, and his focus seemed to be on constructing new castles and settlements in the borderlands.
That was why Jon dismissed Myles Toyne’s concerns so readily. From everything he had gathered, Lynd had no intention of acting against Myr anytime soon.
Myles Toyne, however, didn’t offer further explanation for his suspicions. His belief that Lynd would move against the Free Cities soon wasn’t based on any concrete evidence—only a gut feeling.
But Myles Toyne had learned to trust his instincts. They had saved his life more times than he could count.
And this time, he intended to trust them again.
“Where are you headed next? Pentos?” Myles Toyne asked, shifting the topic.
“No, Braavos,” Jon Connington replied solemnly. “I need to meet with the Sealord of Braavos. I'll be staying there for quite some time. If anything comes up on your end, send word to me in Braavos.”
Myles Toyne nodded, then asked, “Do you need mercenaries?”
Jon Connington shook his head. “We’re traveling by sea.”
Myles Toyne stared at him in disbelief. “Are you mad? Taking the sea route at a time like this? Do you have any idea how bad the pirate activity in the Narrow Sea has been lately? The Stepstones have bottled up all the pirates in the northern waters, preventing them from sailing south. With nowhere to go, they’re preying on merchant ships nonstop. Even Myr’s ships have halted their routes to avoid the risk, opting for overland trade instead. And yet, you still want to sail? I’m starting to wonder if your brain’s been eaten by the Others.”
“Don't worry. We'll be sticking close to the coastline, and we have Braavosi ships meeting us along the way. There won't be any danger.” Jon Connington clearly didn’t want to continue the discussion, so he changed the subject. “Have you heard anything about how Myr’s Magister’s Council plans to deal with the pirate problem?”
Myles Toyne shared what he knew. “There’s no concrete plan yet, but some have suggested seeking help from Summerhall’s Miracle Fleet—”
Before he could finish, a sudden commotion erupted in the courtyard. Both men turned toward the noise, their faces darkening. Without hesitation, they drew their weapons and leapt off the second-floor balcony, rolling as they hit the ground to absorb the impact before sprinting toward the courtyard.
In the center of the courtyard, the septa, the maester, and the knight had formed a protective barrier around the child. The Golden Company guards had also gathered, surrounding an unexpected intruder.
The intruder was clad in simple mercenary leather armor, indistinguishable from any other sellsword. A hood covered his face, concealing his features. Yet, despite being completely encircled, he showed no signs of panic—if anything, he seemed completely unconcerned by the situation.
Jon Connington rushed to Young Griff’s side, quickly scanning him for any injuries or abnormalities. Finding nothing amiss, he exhaled in relief before turning his attention to the trespasser. Without bothering to ask who the man was or what he wanted, Jon gave a curt order to the guards.
“Kill him.”
But the moment the words left his lips, an invisible force radiated from the intruder, washing over the entire courtyard like an unseen tidal wave. A sudden, inexplicable sense of awe gripped everyone present. It wasn’t just an emotion—it had a physical effect, locking their limbs in place, leaving them rigid and unable to move.
Then, the hooded figure slowly reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing an unremarkable face—ordinary, even. And yet, despite his plain features, the sheer weight of his presence was overwhelming. His very aura exuded authority, a majesty greater than any king Jon Connington had ever encountered.
As the stunned onlookers struggled to comprehend what they were seeing, one man recognized him instantly.
Rolly Duckfield, the knight, stared at the figure in shock before exclaiming, “Lord Lynd!”
The others were still too stunned to grasp who he was referring to.
Lynd, meanwhile, looked at the knight with mild curiosity. The man seemed familiar, yet Lynd couldn’t immediately place him. His voice was steady as he asked, “You know me?”
“Yes,” Rolly Duckfield said, his voice tinged with excitement. “Years ago, at Bitterbridge, you taught me swordsmanship.”
A flicker of recognition passed across Lynd’s face. “Ah, so you’re the blacksmith’s son from Bitterbridge.”
As he spoke, he withdrew the power of the Nameless King’s Rune of Dominion, releasing the invisible force that had paralyzed those around him.
At that moment, the full realization dawned upon everyone present. This mercenary, who had at first appeared so ordinary yet carried himself with undeniable presence, was none other than the Chosen One himself—Lynd Tarran.
Rolly Duckfield had long claimed that his swordsmanship had been taught by Lynd himself, recounting how the Chosen One had once given him a night’s worth of instruction at Bitterbridge.
Until now, no one had ever taken his story seriously.
But standing here, faced with undeniable proof, they suddenly understood—Rolly Duckfield had been telling the truth all along.
