Chapter 210 — Not You
The fire in the hearth burned quietly.
Fine pinewood crackled softly, yet the silence in the room felt heavy—almost tangible—as it pressed down on both of them.
Lance's calm reply instantly ignited the anger that had been building inside Rhaella.
It was as if she had been slapped across the face.
Her full chest rose and fell sharply.
"No time for love?"
She suddenly stood.
The hem of her silk robe slid like water, outlining the mature curves of her body.
The Queen Regent lifted her chin proudly, like a dragoness baring her glittering scales, and began walking toward the white-armored knight.
Each step was heavy—deliberately loud in the suffocating silence.
"If you truly had no such thoughts—"
Rhaella locked eyes with him, her voice low and cutting.
"Then what about those women in Dorne?"
"Blackmont, the two women from House Dayne… what were they?"
"And now? What about that woman from House Martell?"
Her voice rose, sharp with resentment.
"Do you think I'm blind, Lance Lot?!"
Her finger jabbed toward his white breastplate.
"You rushed south with just eight hundred knights—charging into the Stormlands against tens of thousands!"
"What was that for?"
"The dignity of the Iron Throne?"
She spat the words out.
"Those are just excuses!"
"You made that ridiculous claim—taking Storm's End within ten days…"
Her voice trembled with fury.
"…all for that woman—Ashara Dayne!"
The accusations struck like blows.
The air in the chamber seemed to freeze.
Rhaella stared into Lance's eyes, trying to catch even the slightest ripple—anger, embarrassment, anything.
But she was disappointed.
Those blue eyes were like the Gods Eye in winter—utterly still.
That calmness didn't make her retreat.
It only drove her further.
"So you don't care for love?"
She spun around sharply.
Bare feet stepped across the cool carpet.
In a few strides, she reached the innermost part of the chamber, where a velvet curtain bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung lightly.
She turned back.
A dangerous, teasing smile curled her lips.
"Then… take a look."
With a sharp motion, she pulled the curtain aside.
The scene behind it was revealed in the flickering firelight.
Decadent.
Shameless.
A woman was bound to a carved stone pillar.
Silk restraints pinned her tightly in place.
Compared to Rhaella's already revealing robe—
this woman wore nothing at all.
Her skin pressed against the cold stone, goosebumps visible.
Firelight traced the curves of her full, pale body.
Her black hair clung messily to her face and neck, damp as if from sweat.
A cloth gag filled her mouth.
Tears gathered in her eyes—fear, humiliation, helplessness.
"Mellario. From Norvos."
Lance's gaze fell on her.
He merely raised an eyebrow slightly.
No desire.
No reaction.
His voice remained flat.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"She and her son, Quentyn Martell, are supposed to be our guests."
But his composure only made Rhaella think he was playing hard to get.
With a satisfied air, she walked forward like a cat circling its prey.
Her nails lightly traced across the woman's exposed skin.
Yet her eyes never left Lance.
"Of course…"
She smiled.
"This is how we welcome our victorious Regent."
"Come, Lance…"
Rhaella withdrew her fingers… then crooked them toward Lance.
Her voice dropped—low, slightly husky, carrying a magnetic pull.
"Look at her… then look at me."
She spread her arms wide, as if presenting a priceless offering.
"You are already the Regent of House Targaryen. You stand at the very peak of power."
"If you desire something—what in this world could possibly bind you?"
"What could possibly refuse you?"
Her lips curled into something almost eerie.
"And if you truly wish it…"
Her voice lowered further, each word deliberate.
"I can support you—make Viserys… give up the throne."
"You bear the Targaryen name already, don't you?"
"Then I will become your queen—just like Aegon and Queen Visenya."
Her gaze locked onto his face, searching for even the slightest reaction.
And finally—
That pair of cold, azure eyes… seemed to move.
"Come, Lance."
Her smile bloomed, seizing the moment.
"Right now. Right here."
"Both of us—me and her—the Queen Regent and the Princess of Dorne…"
"We can all belong to you."
"If you want, you can even summon Elia Martell and Ashara Dayne."
"Remember—"
Her voice trembled with excitement.
"You are the king."
"At any time, in any way you desire… my king."
"You don't need something as meaningless as 'love.'"
"All you need is to indulge—"
"In power… and in the pleasures of the flesh."
Her words were like the strongest aphrodisiac.
Combined with the raw, unrestrained scene before him—
It was meant to crush his reason entirely.
And finally—
Lance moved.
One step. Two. Three.
Silent, steady steps across the thick carpet.
His tall figure stretched into long shadows under the firelight.
He stopped before Mellario.
Her muffled sobs intensified.
She struggled weakly against her restraints, eyes locked onto him in terror.
Behind him—
Rhaella held her breath, the triumphant smile on her lips impossible to hide.
She had won.
No man could resist this.
Lance slowly raised his hand.
Not hurried—almost gentle.
His fingers brushed across Mellario's smooth skin.
Like a lover's caress.
Rhaella's blood nearly boiled.
Yes—
This was how it should be.
But—
CRACK.
Without warning—
His fingers clenched.
Violence exploded.
The illusion shattered instantly.
"Mmph—!!!"
Mellario's voice cut off mid-sound—
Strangled into silence.
Her bloodshot eyes widened to the limit.
"Tempting terms, Rhaella Targaryen."
Lance's cold voice rang out.
Rhaella's smile froze.
Her mind blanked.
"But compared to what that woman once prepared…"
He continued calmly.
"This still falls short."
His grip tightened.
A choking sound escaped from Mellario's throat.
Her pupils dilated violently.
Her body spasmed uncontrollably—
Then went slack, hanging only by the restraints.
"Hmph."
Lance glanced at the spreading warmth beneath her with faint disgust.
He released his hand—
and turned to leave, ignoring Rhaella completely.
"Oh, right."
After a few steps, he paused and looked back.
"I have no interest in being king."
"Just like I have no interest in you… or her."
"The king is you and that old man's son."
"I don't want to hear another word about Viserys stepping down."
"Understood?"
His tone was no longer polite.
A trace of irritation flickered in his eyes.
Are all Targaryen women this insane?
"Don't worry."
"She's only unconscious."
"But next time… I won't guarantee that."
He left.
Without looking back.
"I don't understand!"
Rhaella's voice finally broke.
"Why?! You have so many women—why not me?!"
"Is it because I was Aerys's wife?!"
"Yes."
Lance turned slightly.
His answer was absolute.
Her teeth clenched.
"So anyone else is fine—just not me?!"
"Yes."
"Anyone else… but not you."
He looked at her coldly.
"So behave yourself."
"And stay in the Red Keep—like a proper Queen Regent."
The door slammed shut.
…
Drip… drip…
The room smelled of rot and medicine.
Glass tubes of varying thickness pierced into the man lying on the bed.
Strange liquids—green, orange-red, deep indigo—
flowed like living things into his broken body.
"Ha… cough…"
After what felt like an eternity—
His eyelids trembled.
Light seeped in.
Blurred.
Then slowly focused.
A hunched figure stood over him.
Watching.
"You're awake."
"You slept quite well, my dear knight."
Qyburn smiled.
"Back from the Seven Hells—how does it feel?"
"Like being torn apart a hundred times?"
Barman tried to speak.
Fragments returned—
Betrayal.
Pain.
Blood.
Darkness.
"Ah… your brain is still reconnecting."
Qyburn leaned closer, fascinated.
Then—
He sighed.
"I'm afraid there's bad news."
His gaze drifted downward.
"We had to remove… certain parts."
"You're a eunuch now."
Thunder.
Barman's pupils shrank violently.
His body convulsed in agony.
Qyburn watched.
Then—
Smiled.
"Relax. Just a harmless little test."
"You're… completely intact."
"Everything is still there."
He grinned like a fox.
"Though whether it still works…"
"That's another question."
Barman trembled with rage—
but could only cough weakly.
At that moment—
Manly rushed forward, grabbing his hand.
"My son!"
"You're alive—that's all that matters!"
Barman's voice cracked.
"I… I'm sorry…"
"Falyse…"
"She's dead."
Lollys said bluntly.
"Shut up!"
Manly snapped.
Then forced a smile.
"It wasn't your fault."
"She made the mistake."
"You only did what any man would do."
Even he felt ashamed saying it.
But Barman—
was moved to tears.
"Forget everything."
Manly pressed on urgently.
"You are my son from now on."
"You can even take the Stokeworth name."
Then—
He pulled Lollys forward.
"To make amends…"
"We'll marry her to you."
"…We'll still be family."