Bab 400: Chapter 401: Inferno of Lava
The night grew deeper.
Franklin Flowers leaned against the battlements, hiding in the shadows.
He was a portly knight from the Reach, with scars crisscrossing his face. His right ear looked like it had been chewed by a dog, and his left ear was completely gone.
Born to a laundress who had been assaulted by the lord of Cider Hall, Franklin was often referred to as the Bastard of Cider Hall. But he preferred to mock himself as the Rotten Apple.
Franklin's greatest dream was to one day return to Westeros and smash the head of Lord Fossoway of Cider Hall, just as one might smash a rotten apple.
Unfortunately, that dream would never come true—Lord Fossoway had already died during Robert's Rebellion.
So, Franklin had set himself a new goal: to become the Lord of Cider Hall.
It wasn't an impossible dream.
If he could help Young Aegon ascend to the Iron Throne, surely the boy king wouldn't hesitate to grant him the title of Lord of Cider Hall.
Imagining his triumphant return, Franklin's eyes gleamed with a beastly hunger.
But as time dragged on with no sign of the enemy, he grew restless.
"Why haven't they come yet?"
He stood up and leaned over the battlements, staring into the distance. All he saw was impenetrable darkness, silent and heavy.
"What hour is it?"
"Just past the Hour of the Wolf."
Franklin grunted, nodded in acknowledgment, then sat back down to polish his longsword.
The waiting made every moment feel like an eternity.
Finally, Franklin couldn't bear it anymore and stood up again.
The sudden motion startled a nearby soldier awake.
"Damn it! No sleeping!" Franklin barked, kicking the soldier before stomping down the tower stairs.
Finding Jon Connington in a nearby room, Franklin grumbled:
"Do you think that bastard Samwell's too scared to show up?"
Jon's face darkened.
"Get back to your post. Do not abandon your duty."
Franklin scowled, shaking his head in frustration.
"At this rate, the men will fall asleep where they stand."
"Then wake them up!" Jon snapped.
Muttering under his breath, Franklin turned and left.
Jon watched him go, sighing deeply.
He knew the Golden Company was in a precarious position.
Their plan to use Lady Ynys' supposed betrayal as bait had been clever—turning the western gate into a trap for Samwell's forces.
But what if Samwell didn't take the bait?
If the enemy didn't come, the Golden Company's soldiers would be forced to remain on high alert, growing increasingly fatigued.
Jon suspected the enemy would choose to strike just before dawn, when his men were at their weakest while the enemy was well-rested and prepared.
Even if the Golden Company had fortified the western gate, the outcome of such a battle was uncertain.
But there was an even worse possibility—what if the enemy didn't attack the western gate at all?
The thought sent a chill down Jon's spine.
What was meant to be a trap for the enemy had now become a shackle, binding the Golden Company to one location and robbing them of strategic flexibility.
Jon considered abandoning the plan altogether—closing the gate and ordering his men to rest.
But he couldn't.
What if the enemy did attack the western gate?
Though the gate could be defended if closed, abandoning the plan would make Jon look like a fool who had wasted time and resources.
With a mercenary army—men who fought for gold rather than loyalty—Jon couldn't afford to undermine his own authority or morale.
So, he hesitated.
---
Meanwhile, Franklin Flowers returned to the battlements, making his rounds.
When he spotted a soldier dozing off, he didn't hesitate to deliver a barrage of kicks and punches, venting his frustration on the hapless man.
Feeling slightly relieved after his tirade, Franklin sat back down by the battlements to continue polishing his sword.
As the night wore on—from the Owl's Hour to the Nightingale's Hour, and finally to the Hour of the Bat—Franklin found himself nodding off despite himself.
Suddenly, a faint sound broke through the silence.
A high-pitched whistling.
And the air had grown uncomfortably warm.
Franklin shot to his feet, his chest tightening with a sense of impending doom.
"What's wrong, ser?" a nearby soldier asked nervously, scrambling to stand as well.
Ignoring the question, Franklin leaned over the battlements, straining his eyes to pierce the darkness.
But no matter how hard he looked, he saw nothing.
Then someone shouted:
"Fire! There's fire!"
Franklin whipped around, just in time to see a burst of orange-red light erupt in the distance.
It wasn't just fire—it was an inferno, rising like a molten sun to shatter the pre-dawn gloom.
The soldiers on the battlements stared in stunned silence, their mouths agape as dread filled the air.
Franklin was the first to recover.
"East gate! Damn it, they're attacking the east gate! Move, now!"
Drawing his sword, he rushed down the tower.
He nearly collided with Jon Connington, who was issuing commands.
"Franklin, I need you to—"
"Out of the way!" Franklin barked, shoving past Jon in his panic.
The blaring of horns roused the Golden Company as soldiers scrambled to respond.
By the time Franklin reached the east gate, he was greeted by chaos.
The gate was engulfed in flames, collapsing under the heat as enemy forces poured through like a swarm of locusts.
"Hold the line!" Franklin roared. "Kill these Dornish bastards!"
"Kill them!" the mercenaries screamed back, their battle cries echoing through the burning streets.
But their cries were cut short.
Franklin looked up, dread pooling in his stomach.
Above him, a massive shadow loomed, blotting out the moonlight.
A dragon.
"Scatter!" Franklin bellowed. "Take cover!"
A thunderous roar shook the city as the beast swooped low, its immense wings stirring a blistering wind.
Then came the fire.
A column of flame descended like molten lava, consuming everything in its path. Dozens of men were incinerated in an instant, their screams drowned out by the roar of the inferno.
Franklin dove into a nearby house, narrowly avoiding the blast. The searing heat scorched his back, making his armor unbearably hot.
The scent of charred flesh filled the air as dying men howled in agony.
"Where's the scorpion?" Franklin shouted. "Get the scorpion up here!"
Dragons weren't invincible, he reminded himself.
After all, one of Aegon the Conqueror's dragons had fallen to Dorne centuries ago. If the Dornish could slay a dragon then, so could he now.
Bursting from the burning house, Franklin sprinted toward the tower where the scorpion bolt throwers were stationed.
The east gate was a battlefield. Though the Golden Company fought valiantly, they were outnumbered and outflanked. The defenders were poorly distributed, with most forces stationed at the western gate.
And above them, the dragon circled like a specter of death, spewing hellfire that shattered their morale.
Killing the dragon was the only way to turn the tide.
Reaching the tower, Franklin found the scorpion already manned by three soldiers. But in the pitch-black night, they struggled to locate their target.
Snatching a torch, Franklin waved it wildly above his head.
"Samwell! Come fight me, you lowborn bastard! Face me, you coward!"
A deafening roar answered his challenge.
The air grew furnace-hot as the dragon descended, its glowing red eyes piercing the darkness.
At that moment, Franklin realized he was staring into the heart of hell itself.
That was his last thought before the flames consumed him.
The scorpion fired, the bolt whistling through the air.
But Franklin was already aflame, his screams swallowed by the inferno.
(End of Chapter)
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone