Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 275 Wartime Pleasure

After a long while, when the noise outside had completely subsided, a very light knocking sound rang out on the door of the dark room.

Alice's low voice came through the wooden board, with a hint of relief in her breath: "They're gone."

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She skillfully activated the hidden mechanism, and the low door to the dark room slid open silently.

A smell mingled with old dust, herbs, and the sweltering sweat of the body wafted out first—the unavoidable odor after a long period of being in a confined space with herbs from wounds.

Alice leaned in and carefully helped Robert out of his tall but frail body.

Standing again in the relatively spacious attic, under the flickering lamplight, Alice's cheeks still seemed to retain the blush from the tense situation, mixed with a hint of awkwardness at being so close to this fallen hero. She quickly regulated her breathing, trying to dispel the awkward ambiguity in the air, and said softly, "It's safe for now, sir. They might very well come back for a comeback. I need to change your bandages as soon as possible, and you also need to eat something."

Alice gracefully brought over a wooden tray with a large loaf of dark bread, a slice of cheese, a few pieces of salty, briny meat, and a large glass of ale. Robert took the food and began to wolf it down, his empty stomach finally soothed.

Between meals, Alice quietly knelt beside him and whispered, "My lord, it's time to change your dressing." Her movements were as gentle as a deer touching the morning dew in the forest, carefully untying the old bandages soaked with blood. When her fingertips occasionally and inevitably touched the skin on the side of his neck, they carried a coolness and delicacy that seemed out of place in this rough environment.

She breathed very softly as she cleaned the wound, reapplied the ointment, and carefully bandaged it with clean linen. Throughout the process, her lowered eyelashes cast soft shadows in the firelight, and her focused tenderness was as if she were caring for an extremely precious object.

Robert's muscles, which had been tense from the pain, unconsciously relaxed under this tranquil care. Gazing at the red hair before him, and smelling the faint herbal scent emanating from her—so different from the perfumed and alcoholic odors of the inn—a strange sense of peace enveloped him. For a fleeting moment, he even felt that the excruciating pain that had plagued him for so long seemed to have truly lessened considerably.

Robert raised his hand and gently lifted Alice's chin with his fingertips.

In the flickering candlelight, Alice's usually wary eyes now held a rare, almost pure gleam, like amber cleansed of dust. His rough thumb stroked her cheek, then he leaned down and pressed a kiss, carrying the scent of ale and the rust of battlefield, onto her lips.

The kiss began tentatively, then transformed into an irresistible act of plunder. Alice's slightly stiff body gradually softened, finally settling into a soft sigh as she responded to this sudden tenderness.

In the cramped attic, the tense and oppressive atmosphere quietly dissipated, replaced by a different kind of silent melody.

Heavy breathing replaced the footsteps of the pursuers, the slight creaking of the wooden bed replaced the clash of swords, and the sound of the rising night rain outside the window veiled this brief moment of tenderness blooming amidst danger with a hazy curtain.

Jon Clinton slammed his fist heavily on the wooden table covered with maps, making teacups bounce. His usually stern face was now contorted with rage, his eyes burning with the flames of frustration.

Torture finally broke a soldier's tongue, revealing the worst possible news: Wilbert Paxson had dispatched the fastest messenger to Riverrun for reinforcements before the castle was besieged.

"Stonehall is only two days' journey from Riverrun!" Jon practically roared, his finger digging into the two dots on the map. His mind raced, calculating:

If Euron Greyjoy, Hoster Tully, and Eddard Stark of Riverrun react quickly enough and send all their elite cavalry to reinforce them—their vanguard could appear outside Stonehouse as early as noon the day after tomorrow!

Time has become the deadliest enemy.

Jon Snow, who had thought he held absolute power, now seemed to hear the sands of an hourglass rapidly flowing. What he found most unbearable was that Robert Baratheon, the heavily wounded primary target who should have been easily captured, still lurked like a ghost in some corner of the town, mocking his incompetence.

"Search! Keep searching! Dig three feet into the ground and drag him out!" His command echoed through the night sky like the roar of a wild beast. Every passing second felt like adding another weight to his already taut nerves.

Lord Tywin Lannister sat upright at the massive stone table in the study of Casterly Rock, his posture as solid as a rock.

On the heavy oak table lay letters, one after another, like fallen autumn leaves, yet carrying the scent of gunpowder and blood.

Nearly half of the letters bore the imprint of the King's Landing's burning dragon seal.

These "decrees" from the Iron Throne were increasingly urgent and sharp, all demanding that the Warden of the West, the Duke of Casterly Rock, immediately raise an army to suppress the rebellions throughout the land.

In these commanding words, Tywin found not a single word about what the Lannisters would receive in return, not even a promise of basic military expenses or supplies. What chilled him even more was that his only, and most basic, demand—to release his eldest son Jaime, allow him to step down from the Kingsguard, and return to Casterly Rock to inherit the family business—was dismissed outright and contemptuously rejected by Aerys II.

In the candlelight, Lord Tywin's face was as if veiled by a golden mask, utterly expressionless. Yet, in his cold green eyes, a frost as thick as the foundations of Casterly Rock had hardened. He gently placed down the last letter from the Mad King, his movements so steady they didn't tremble, as if he were setting down a mere scrap of paper.

The oppressive atmosphere in the study foreshadowed a storm far more brutal than battlefield carnage, brewing in the absolute silence.

Kevan Lannister sat opposite Tywin, a knowing, mocking smile on his face. He gently swirled his wine glass and said, "If Aerys II, that mad king, really agreed to let Jaime remove his white robes and return him to be your heir, brother, would you immediately send troops to quell the rebellion?"

Lord Tywin's gaze remained fixed on the letters, his voice steady and cold, devoid of any emotion: "Help him?" He paused slightly, then said in a pronouncement-like tone, "If it were the Iris of twenty years ago, when she still possessed reason, perhaps I would consider it. But now—"

Kevan understood his brother's unspoken meaning, his laughter tinged with a bitter mockery: "It seems who can accuse the Mad King of acting unwisely? At least holding Jaime hostage in King's Landing has certainly made us hesitant to act rashly and place our bets on the rebels."

Tywin finally raised his eyes, his famous pale green eyes devoid of warmth, only a calculated chill: "Wait, Kevan. What we need is patience." He spoke each word clearly and slowly, "I will make that madman on the Iron Throne spend the rest of his life fully understanding the price that comes with underestimating a Lannister."

Upon hearing this, Kevan's smile deepened and hardened. He raised his glass to his brother, the true ruler of the Westerlands, and softly uttered the oath etched in the family bloodline: "Yes—Lannisters, debts must be repaid!"

The crackling of the candlelight seemed to bear witness to this seemingly simple yet incredibly weighty vow.