"Oh, my brave champion! Tonight, you're going to lose."
Viserys's voice carried an almost feverish glee that cut through the still air of their cramped quarters.
By now, Lynn had won seven consecutive matches in Pentos's underground arena — seven hard-earned victories that made his name known among gamblers and thugs alike.
Lynn looked up, his calm gaze meeting the "Beggar King's" manic eyes.
Viserys had dressed up for the occasion — a slightly threadbare silk robe that he'd probably stolen or bargained for, but he wore it like royal armor. The smugness in his face was undeniable — layered with greed, arrogance, and something colder underneath.
"Why, Your Majesty?" Lynn asked, voice even and low. "Haven't I made you enough money already?"
"Why?" Viserys spread his arms grandly, his tone dripping with mock indignation. "For the crown, of course! For the restoration of House Targaryen! You fool — you've won too many times. Your odds have dropped too low for anyone to profit!"
He slammed a crude sketch onto the table.
"Here. That's your opponent — Marto the Bonebreaker. The bettors adore him. His odds are sky-high!"
Lynn frowned slightly. He'd heard the name whispered around the fighters' quarters — a massive man with a warhammer, known for turning heads into pulp. The only reason he wasn't the arena's top draw was because his fights lacked the performance the bookies craved. Too much brutality, too little drama.
In truth, Marto had once been undefeated — seven fights, seven broken skulls.
And now, he was Lynn's opponent.
Viserys leaned in close, smiling with a serpent's pride.
"I've spoken with his sponsor — and the house dealers. You'll fall tonight, understand? You'll lose — tragically, dramatically. We'll bet everything on Marto. All of it! With one fight, we'll have enough to hire a mercenary company. That's how we reclaim our destiny!"
Lynn's heart sank, though his face betrayed nothing. He'd expected greed — but not this level of malice.
This wasn't about a fixed match. Viserys meant for him to die.
Only a corpse could keep the lie clean.
"I understand, my king," he said quietly, lowering his gaze.
Viserys grinned, patting his shoulder like a butcher inspecting meat.
"Good. Make it convincing — die like a true warrior! Let the world remember this as your glorious offering to the blood of the dragon."
He left humming to himself, already dreaming of coin and crowns.
That night, Lynn sat sharpening his short sword, the weapon that had carried him through every battle. The flickering candlelight glinted off its worn but deadly edge.
Then, soft footsteps approached.
"Lynn…"
Daenerys slipped inside, moving cautiously like a cat, fear shadowing her face.
"You can't go to the arena!" she whispered urgently. "I—I heard them talking. My brother and his men — they're not just planning for you to lose. They want Marto to kill you! I heard it myself!"
Her trembling hand clutched his arm. "Please, go! Leave Pentos! Now, before it's too late!"
Lynn stared at her — the same young girl who, even in this filthy city, still carried the fragile heart of something pure.
He took her hand in his. It was cold, shaking.
"I know," he said softly.
She froze. "You… know?"
"I do." He met her eyes. "But I won't run — not like this."
He reached beneath his bed and pulled out a small, heavy pouch. It jingled faintly — the sum of everything he had secretly saved from Viserys's winnings.
"Take this," he said, pressing it into her hands. "Hide it. Tell no one — especially your brother."
"I can't—"
"Take it." His tone sharpened. "It isn't charity. It's an investment. In the future."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
"Listen, Daenerys Targaryen," Lynn said, his voice steady but burning with conviction. "Your brother's path leads only to ruin. But yours doesn't. You're Stormborn, the blood of the dragon. One day, you'll have your own army. Your dragons. You'll cross the Narrow Sea and take back what's yours."
Her violet eyes widened — bright with shock, confusion, and something fierce beginning to stir.
No one had ever spoken to her this way before. No one had ever believed she could be the one to reclaim their fate.
"And I…"
Lynn rose, sliding his sword into its worn sheath. A dangerous sharpness filled his expression — something half man, half beast.
"I'll grow stronger. Strong enough to change the rules of this world."
He turned to the window, where the lights of Pentos glimmered faintly through the fog.
"Remember my words, Daenerys. One day, I'll return — and when I do, I'll shatter every chain that binds you. By the name Lynn Auger, I make this vow."
Then, without hesitation, he stepped into the night — walking toward the arena prepared for his death.
Daenerys gripped the pouch to her chest, watching the empty doorway long after he was gone.
In her heart stirred something she couldn't name — fear, longing, hope.
---
The Arena of Pentos roared with life that night. The crowd was thicker than ever, drunk on gold and the promise of blood.
Viserys sat front-row, his grin wild and red-faced with excitement, whispering eagerly with the bookkeepers beside him.
Lynn stood in the entry tunnel, rolling his shoulders, steadying his breath.
He didn't glance at Viserys, nor at the hulking giant waiting across the sand floor — Marto the Bonebreaker, muscles like armor, eyes like coals.
Instead, he scanned the crowd — and found what he was looking for.
In the corner shadows, cloaked and hooded, sat a small figure.
Daenerys.
He gave the faintest nod.
Then he turned back, slid two fingers across the betting table, and placed all his coin — every last piece of gold he'd saved — on himself.
The crowd murmured. More bettors followed suit, sensing a twist in fate.
A bookmaker chuckled beside Viserys.
"Shame, really. Your champion fights well enough."
Viserys sneered. "He's a peasant. Dying for the glory of House Targaryen is the finest thing he'll ever do."
Then the gong sounded.
From the opposite gate, Marto charged like a maddened bull, warhammer raised high. His orders were clear: make it slow, make it brutal — and make sure the runt doesn't get back up.