Novigrad
Bathhouse
Wun Weg felt the warmth of the setting sun in his bones. Once, it would have been uncomfortable, making him sweat like an animal. It was nothing more than a pleasant feeling now.
He raised his hammer to his shoulder, letting the weight remind him of his task. He charged forward like a mammoth. Each heavy step left indentations on the ground. The sound announced his arrival, but there was nothing anyone could do. He barged through the pillars at the entrance, reducing two of them to rubble. He didn’t even feel the door as it gave away before him.
His eyes locked on the bald man, Dijkstra. He was just leaving the hot waters and stood there with a towel around his waist. His flaming hammer cut through the dimly lit baths like a falling star.
“Ah shit,” Dijkstra closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged. He knew it was the end for him.
The hammer slammed into his left upper arm first, burning and crushing it. The flesh turned to charcoal and was broken into a black dust that smelled of burned meat. The swing nailed a soldier in the torso, dropping him to the ground as nothing more than a head, arms, and legs.
The rest scrambled to act. They found it only made their deaths more tiring.
—
Putrid Grove
Sandor stood at the entrance. He rolled his neck left to right and knocked. Francis Bedlam’s location, the Putrid Grove, was supposed to be a secret. The only way inside was either through a donation or by knowing the password.
The small peephole on top of the door slid to the side. “What’s it?”
Sandor answered by thrusting his hand through, wrapping his fingers around the man’s throat. He pulled him out, ripping the door apart. The choking man was covered in splinters. His hand tightened, a sharp crack rising, echoing through the empty streets. He tossed the corpse aside and walked in.
The whole world crawled to a stop.
—
When Bedlam heard the commotion outside, he had an idea what was happening. He ordered his men to disperse through the dozen secret escape paths they had. He went first, aiming for the wall where a path to the docks awaited.
His head snapped back at the sound of the screams, but there was no one except the corpses hitting the ground. He turned forward, increasing his speed, and collided with something. Rather, whatever he hit didn’t even budge. He raised his hand, seeing a monster with three heads, each one a snarling, hellish hound darker than night. Lightning poured out of their eyes and maws, illuminating them all.
The monster raised his sword, and Bedlam didn’t even have the time to negotiate for his life.
The men that thought they were safe found themselves mistaken. The blue dragon was in the air, blocking moonlight with his wings spread open. The membranes glowed, firing
—
Cleaver’s Headquarters
He stretched his arms and legs, craning his neck. Cleaver was in his base, torturing someone for information on Whoreson Junior. He spotted four guards lounging outside. He split the sword into four knives, floating around him.
He flicked his finger.
Four red streaks pierced the veil of the night. The dwarves were clueless, bored one second, dead the next with knives nailing them to the wall. He strolled to the door, knocking. The knives gathered in his hand, melting back into a sword.
“What?! Can’t you see that the boss is busy?” a dwarf screamed to his knees. He looked up, seeing Robert’s eyes lighting up his face. Flames spread from his feet; he grew in size, and his form was covered by dark, solid shadows.
“Fuck me,” the dwarf’s eyes widened. His form was cut in half just like the headquarters as the sword came down. Robert stomped inside. Cleaver was frozen there, pale as a Noonwraith.
His sword came down on them.
—
Cleaver ran for his life. Somehow, he had survived when everyone else had turned to ashes. He had never shied from a battle in his life, never backed down from any enemy.
Until now.
Cold, unfeeling hands gripped his heart. Each beat squeezed it harder. The night was cold, yet he felt himself sweat. He ran and ran as fast as his legs could take him. He weaved between the buildings, searching for a way out.
The noise of fighting died.
He stopped, hands on his knees, heaving for breath, thinking he was far enough. A slow, deeply unsettling tune rang in his ears. It was a low, echoing tone, and it cut through the ambient sounds.
He ran once more.
No matter how far he went, the eerie tune was close, breathing down his neck. His face lit up as he saw the moonlight shine on the docks. He felt a portion of his strength return and pushed ahead.
The shockwave as the dragon landed in his path launched him back. He took in the sight of the beast, seeing its narrow, slit pupils lock on him. He turned around, scrambling to find another way.
The whistle intensified.
It was all he could hear now. The towering mass of shadow approached him, each slow step accompanied by the beat of the whistle. Carlo looked at the red and blue orbs regarding him.
His heart seized, and they were the last things he ever saw in this mortal world.
“Ah man, is he dead? I wanted to play a bit more,” Robert grumbled, turning the corpse to ashes.
—
Oxenfurt
Geralt held on for dear life. He had done many acts he never thought he would. He rode with the Wild Hunt, became involved in politics, and even raised a child. Flying on a dragon was not one of those things. The idea was wild enough he never even had a reason to consider it.
“We are here,” Ra said. The beast’s tone was not the harsh, guttural tone one would expect from a dragon. He sounded similar to Ciri when she was bored.
“We need to land away. I am not durable like your father.”
“I know, just hold on tight,” the dragon said, his tone
“Wait, what?” he said. The dragon flipped around, and Geralt felt his stomach drop. “Are you crazy?!” he screamed, his gravelly tone lost in the rushing wind.
“Calm down,” the dragon said, and he could feel the winged menace roll his eyes. They approached closer and closer to Whoreson’s hiding place. Just as it seemed the dragon would crash into the yard, Geralt let go of the saddle, falling on his feet. Strong gusts of wind on either side of him howled in his ears, and the dragon shot up to the sky again.
He stood there like a statue. He had never been more grateful to feel the solid ground beneath his feet. He watched the dragon move over the house as if it weren't a beast that weighed thousands of tons.
Ra came down around, targeting the men on the outer walls and near the door. He didn’t release his flames, instead striking each one with his tail, flying right over their heads.
Geralt shrugged. As long as he didn’t alert all of Oxenfurt, it was precise and quiet enough for him.
He drew his sword, stepping left and cleaving one of Whoreson’s men in half. He blocked the club heading for his head and decapitated the next one. He twirled around once and carved the third man from hip to shoulder.
His face hardened. Whoreson would try to run. He was faster, though, barging inside the residence. He cut through several more men with the fury of a father. He reached the upper floor. An Aard broke the door open, and Geralt’s rage intensified.
Whoreson was trying to escape through the window.
It wasn’t anything surprising. Two female bodies were hanging from the ceiling, most likely prostitutes. They were young, most likely dragged to this line of work because of debts.
A ghost of an image flashed in his vision.
“You bastard,” he snarled like an animal, reaching for Whoreson. He caught him by the back of his neck and threw him to the wall. He landed a kick. Cyprian groaned in pain, curling in half.
“An ashen haired young woman came here. She gave you a phylactery. Where is it?”
“Inside the drawer,” Cyprian wheezed out.
Geralt almost tore the drawer off the desk. True to Whoerson’s word, the broken phylactery was there. He took it, eyes snapping back. Whoreson was trying to crawl away, but he wasn’t done yet.
Another kick to the chest had him coughing out blood.
“Wait, wait,” Cyprian begged. Geralt raised his sword and brought it down, letting the head tumble away. He considered taking it back as proof, but the thought of touching that bastard disgusted him in a way no monster guts ever had.
He took the phylactery and left.
—
Novigrad
Whoreson’s fighting ring and casino were the last remaining great enterprises. Robert marched in with Sandor. Wun Weg was tasked to handle the casino with the city guard.
—
Administrative Center
“Goodness, look at him,” Sile muttered, feeling the bile in her stomach rise. Robert was holding a man by the neck while he breathed flames like his dragons, incinerating everything in sight. He then turned his attention to the struggling man, squeezing his throat, decapitating him with brute force.
A wyvern, one of the monsters kept in the arena, charged at Robert. It stopped, though, its claws leaving gashes on the ground. She rolled her eyes as the beast laid its head on the ground, showing total submission.
Robert patted it on the head.
A bear followed a similar path, retreating with its head held low, while the endrega warriors were killed without a thought.
The animals were smarter than the men working in the arena, she noted.
Sandor was even more fervent in his pursuit. He hunted the running gangsters like animals. Pleas of mercy were ignored, groveling only earned them a faster death, and offers of material rewards in return for their lives did not even move the man. The effigies he wore made sense now.
The Hound of Death.
“Can’t believe it's over like that. Radovid couldn’t have done this in a decade,” Margarita said, spitting the name out with all the hatred she could muster. He held the city for barely a week, yet life in Novigrad was never more promising.
The witch hunts were banned. Any attempts to continue were met with lethal retaliation. The taxes were readjusted, commerce flowed freely, and now the criminal underground was annihilated for the most part in hours.
Sile’s eyes hardened. “Yes, well, hopefully that wretch will meet his end too.”
Margarita turned back to the glass candle, and she winced. Robert punched a man, turning his upper body into a gory mess. The shockwave of the punch continued like an unstoppable spear, carving the three men behind apart.
“Let’s check the situation at the casino. I’ve seen enough blood for a lifetime,” Sile said. It wasn’t the first battle she had watched, and by no means was she a stranger to blood and viscera.
Something about the primal way Robert tore those poor bastards apart made it difficult to watch. Like stepping on ants.
She held her hands out, and the screen blurred, displaying the casino. Several of Whoreson’s men had met the same fate as their boss. The rest were arrested along with the patrons.
“At least that ended with less bloodshed.”
—
Robert sat down on his seat. “Ladies, thank you for your work. You can go and rest.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Sile said. They both bowed, opening a portal back to the inn.
“Oh, do tell Dandelion I’d like to rent the tavern for a small celebration,” he said as they left. Margarita’s head peeked out, and she nodded, returning back.
There was a knock on the door. His head tilted towards Sandor, and he opened the door, allowing the last member of their little operation inside.
“Geralt, how did it go?” he asked, his tone cheerful as ever.
“Whoreson’s dead; I took his head off,” Geralt replied. His tone, however, did share theirs. Considering what a filth Cyprian was, the sights inside his hiding place would drain joy from anyone.
“Dijkstra, Cleaver, and Bedlam, along with most of their men, are dead as well,” he said, holding a cup of mead to Geralt. All four emptied their drinks in one breath.
Geralt put his cup down and took a seat. “Never thought Dijkstra would go out like this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You knew him?”
“I broke his leg once. He was Radovid’s father’s spymaster. I thought he would go out with a knife between his ribs.”
“A hammer to the face works much better in my opinion.”
Geralt turned right, glancing at the massive hammer Wun Weg carried. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Thank you once again,” he said, reaching for the door. Robert could feel the gratitude in the man’s voice.
“Don’t mention it.”
"Alright, you two, go and rest.” He dismissed Sandor and Wun Weg.
They all earned a good night’s rest.
—
The deaths of the four criminal leaders of Novigrad’s underworld spread quickly. Radovid was both pleased and displeased. He wanted all four dead to take over the city. Robert’s existence made it difficult, and with Dijkstra gone, he owned the city now.
Emhyr was entirely displeased. With no Dijkstra to negotiate with, he could not have the necessary insider assistance to dispose of Radovid. The growing discontent inside the empire put him in danger each day. His daughter’s whereabouts were still unknown. The current state of affairs did not look hopeful.
—
Westeros
King’s Landing
Red Keep
Rhaelle smiled as she read the letter. “Your father agreed to ransom you and the boy. He also gave his word there would be no bid for the throne.”
Lyanna’s face was cold as the lands she was born in. She pressed her son closer to her chest. “What will you do with the land?” What use was the Neck to anyone?
She flicked her hand to the side, dismissing her question. “That’s his business. I would start packing up if I were you. It won’t be long before Rickard Stark arrives.”
Robert’s idea to create a canal in the Neck by having his dragons blast the land apart and connect the seas was brilliant. If he could pull it off, and she had no reason to believe he couldn’t, the trade he would control would be beyond every other kingdom’s.
“What about the rest of House Targaryen?” she asked. Her good brothers, sisters, and mother were still prisoners in the keep. The accursed dragons, the sigil of their house, kept the whole city in check.
There would be no saving them.
“You know how it is. Men and boys to the Wall or the Citadel, ladies and girls to the Faith. I’ll let Rhaella take Daenerys and retire to a faraway sept. She suffered enough as it is.”
Lyanna left the room without acknowledging her.