Chapter 175 – Stripping the Queen Bare
The voice was sharp and venomous, dripping with the kind of arrogance only bred through a lifetime of privilege.
Hearing it, Bronn's usual carefree grin stiffened awkwardly for a moment before he turned around.
Standing in the middle of the passageway was Ser Balman Byrch.
He wore a brand-new dark blue knight's tunic with a longsword hanging from his waist. His posture was rigid, clearly trying to project dignity and authority.
But Bronn could see the fine beads of sweat dripping from the man's hairline, gleaming under the sunlight.
Because beside him stood a woman.
Falyse Stokeworth.
The eldest legitimate daughter of House Stokeworth. Elder sister to Lollys Stokeworth.
Since Lady Tanda Stokeworth had become senile and barely capable of moving about anymore, Falyse had effectively become the true mistress of Castle Stokeworth.
And at this moment, she was glaring at Bronn with eyes as cruel and sharp as her features.
"My dear brother-in-law," Falyse mocked as she walked forward, "perhaps I misheard earlier. Were you calculating how many years my husband and I have left to live?"
Bronn met her gaze.
The awkwardness vanished instantly, replaced once more by his usual insolent swagger.
"Lady Falyse," he drawled playfully, "I was merely stating facts."
"Facts?" She stepped closer. "What facts exactly?"
"The line of succession at Stokeworth?"
"Or the length of my husband's lifespan?"
"Both," Bronn grinned.
Falyse's eyes narrowed immediately.
"Ser Bronn."
Her tone hardened.
"Do you know the history of House Stokeworth?"
Bronn didn't answer.
Falyse clearly didn't need him to.
"House Stokeworth has stood in the Crownlands for over a thousand years."
"We survived the Blackfyre Rebellions. We survived the tragedy at Summerhall. We survived Robert's Rebellion."
"My father died in that war."
"But our castle has never fallen."
"And our bloodline has never broken."
She took another step forward, her presence becoming increasingly oppressive.
"You are a sellsword, Ser Bronn."
"You sell your sword to whoever pays the highest price."
"Before the Battle of the Blackwater, you weren't even a knight."
"You simply stumbled into fortune by marrying my sister and becoming the son-in-law of House Stokeworth."
"I'll admit, your luck was remarkable."
Then her voice suddenly sharpened.
"But you seem to have forgotten something."
"Castle Stokeworth is not yours."
"It belonged to my father."
"It belongs to my mother."
"And one day…"
"It will belong to me."
"And you?"
"You are merely an outsider."
"No bloodline. No lands. No bannermen."
"All you possess is a sword…"
"…and a life that could end at any moment."
At that, Falyse smiled.
It was a beautiful smile.
Very similar to Cersei Lannister's earlier expression.
Only less mad.
And somehow even crueler.
"So, my dear brother-in-law…"
"When you calculate how long my husband and I may live…"
"Perhaps you should first calculate…"
"…how long an outsider like you can survive a Westerosi winter."
The surrounding nobles collectively held their breath.
Because scenes like this—
highborn nobles tearing into each other in public—
were simply too entertaining.
First it had been the Lannisters.
Now the Stokeworth family itself was imploding.
This was exactly why attending grand events mattered.
Miss one, and you might miss the most spectacular scandal of your life.
Suddenly, even the outrageously expensive tickets felt worth every coin.
As the atmosphere grew increasingly tense, Balman stood behind his wife, desperately trying to maintain a dignified expression.
But sweat poured even harder down his forehead.
Though he swaggered about outside as a captain among the Gold Cloaks…
the person Balman feared most in this world had always been his wife.
Unfortunately for him, Bronn clearly wasn't nearly as intimidated by Falyse.
He stayed silent for several seconds.
Then casually muttered:
"Fuck."
The word wasn't loud.
But plenty of people heard it.
Several nobles stared in disbelief.
After all, there existed an enormous social divide between noble ladies and common-born sellswords.
For a knight to openly curse a noblewoman in front of the entirety of King's Landing's aristocracy—
in such blunt and vulgar language—
was something most people had never witnessed before.
Of course, there had been exceptions.
Like a certain king who was now famously dead from poison.
But that had been a king.
Bronn was just a knight.
And yet he dared.
Or perhaps more accurately—
he simply didn't care.
"Well now, dear sister-in-law," Bronn said lightly while Falyse still stood stunned, "you're absolutely right. I am an outsider."
"But do you know the biggest difference between outsiders and nobles?"
Falyse opened her mouth slightly, momentarily speechless.
Bronn didn't wait for an answer.
"The difference is this—"
"You nobles always speak in circles."
"You hide insults behind poems, histories, and clever little metaphors until everyone needs half an hour to realize they're being mocked."
"But me?"
"I'm straightforward."
"When I want something, I say it."
He paused deliberately.
"For example…"
"I wanted Castle Stokeworth."
"So I married your sister, Lollys."
"And you?"
"You want your mother to die quickly so you can become the next Lady Stokeworth."
"But you don't dare say it out loud."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
Bronn continued mercilessly.
"You married a minor knight from a nobody house."
"He barely clawed his way into the Gold Cloaks."
"He's nearly fifty years old now…"
"…and still earns less than ten gold dragons a month."
"You despise him."
"You want to divorce him."
"But you don't dare say that out loud either."
"So stop dancing around the point."
"And don't forget—"
"You and Ser Balman still don't have children."
"In this world…"
"Accidents happen all the time."
"No one can predict anything."
Then Bronn grinned broadly.
"If the two of you happen to fall off your horses one day…"
"Or die some other unfortunate way…"
"Well then…"
"The castle."
"The lands."
"The title."
"They'll all belong to me."
Falyse stopped speaking entirely.
Not because she didn't want to respond—
but because she genuinely couldn't.
She had heard countless vulgar insults throughout her life.
But never anything like this.
This wasn't mere crudeness anymore.
Not even "poor upbringing" was enough to describe it.
It felt as though someone had ripped away every layer of decorum and thrown raw, bloody reality into the sunlight for everyone to stare at.
Even someone as vicious as Falyse suddenly realized—
the man before her wasn't someone she could suppress with status or shame into submission.
This bastard genuinely wanted her dead.
Looking at Bronn's utterly fearless grin, a chill slowly crept down her spine.
Finally, she turned stiffly toward her husband.
Her eyes practically screamed:
Say something!
"F-Falyse…"
Balman finally cleared his throat and puffed out his chest, desperately trying to sound authoritative.
"Ser Bronn comes from humble origins. His vulgarity is well known."
"And besides… this marriage arrangement was Her Grace the Queen's… ah…"
He coughed awkwardly.
"Although Lollys's marriage perhaps should have been handled more carefully…"
"Ser Bronn did distinguish himself during the Battle of the Blackwater…"
"But perhaps if more candidates had been considered…"
"…a more suitable match might have been found…"
After rambling pointlessly for half a minute, Balman gradually trailed off.
Because Falyse was staring at him.
And the look in her eyes clearly said:
How did I end up marrying such a useless coward?
She had shoved him into the Gold Cloaks hoping the position would finally make him grow a spine.
Yet even now, he still cowered like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.
Falyse was practically dying of rage.
But someone else was even angrier.
"Ser Balman Byrch!"
A voice suddenly cut through the tension.
Falyse turned sharply—
only to see Queen Regent Cersei Lannister striding toward them.
And in those emerald-green eyes…
something seemed to be burning.
Marching straight up to Ser Balman Byrch, Cersei wasted no time.
Her voice was cold and cutting.
"Should I take what you just said as a challenge to my judgment?"
Balman's face instantly went pale.
"Your Grace, I only meant—"
But Cersei never gave him the chance to explain.
"From the day Lollys Stokeworth learned how to speak, she's been a fool."
"She's over thirty years old and still can't tell a silver stag from a copper penny."
"She can't even remember people's names."
The Queen Regent's tone remained eerily calm, but every word struck like a knife.
"Two years ago, during the riot in King's Landing, she was dragged away by more than a dozen rioters."
"Afterward, she became pregnant."
"She gave birth to a son."
"No one knows who the father is."
"No one knows which filthy peasant's blood runs through that child."
"If I hadn't arranged the marriage, tell me…"
"What knight in Westeros would have willingly married her?"
Balman licked his lips but stayed silent.
Meanwhile, Falyse's face had already turned deathly pale.
Because that was the greatest shame of House Stokeworth.
And Cersei had just dragged it into the open in front of half the nobility of King's Landing.
But before Falyse could explode, Cersei turned her full firepower toward her.
"And you, Lady Falyse."
"You call Ser Bronn lowborn."
"Then perhaps you should remember who knighted him."
"It was my father."
"Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock."
"Warden of the West."
"Hand of the King."
"And you dare call that 'lowborn'?"
Bronn blinked in surprise.
The woman was actually defending him?
For a brief moment, he almost felt touched.
Then Cersei immediately swung the blade toward him too.
"You earned honor at the Battle of the Blackwater, Ser Bronn."
"That honor was not easily won."
"If I were you, I would cherish it."
"Instead of…" her eyes flicked disdainfully toward Tyrion Lannister, "…keeping company with murderers and demons, staining your knightly honor."
It truly was peak Cersei.
In only a few sentences, she had managed to offend literally everyone present.
Bronn rolled his eyes.
Yep.
This was the Cersei Lannister he remembered.
And frankly, he had zero interest in arguing with her.
Every previous encounter with the woman had taught him one thing:
she was impossible to reason with.
But while Bronn didn't care much, Falyse was another matter entirely.
Her lips pressed into a razor-thin line as she stared at Cersei.
Inside her head, she kept repeating:
She's the Queen Regent.
Endure it.
Just endure it.
But the more she thought about it—
the angrier she became.
To hell with it.
"I think Your Grace would do well to speak a little less."
Just as Cersei lifted her chin proudly like a victorious lioness preparing to return to her seat, Falyse finally snapped back through gritted teeth.
Cersei frowned.
"What did you say?"
"I said…"
Falyse stood her ground, vicious determination burning in her eyes.
"You should speak less."
"You were born with the blood of Casterly Rock."
"You married a king."
"You gave birth to a king."
"But if you had simply kept your mouth shut at certain critical moments…"
"…perhaps you wouldn't have gotten two kings killed one after another."
Dead silence.
Everyone stopped breathing.
That was vicious.
Even Bronn glanced sideways at his sister-in-law in shock.
He genuinely hadn't expected the woman to have this much backbone.
Meanwhile, Cersei's face first went white—
then instantly flared crimson like fire erupting from the deepest layer of the Seven Hells.
"You bitch," she hissed, voice trembling with rage. "What did you just say?"
Falyse refused to back down.
"I said…"
"King Robert Baratheon married you."
"And then he died."
"King Joffrey Baratheon was your son."
"And then he died too."
She smiled cruelly.
"Your Grace…"
"Don't you find that a little strange?"
Her lips curled higher.
"Perhaps…"
"I'm only saying perhaps…"
"…you're cursed."
Cersei's eyes widened.
Her chest heaved violently.
This woman—
this fucking bitch—
"Falyse Stokeworth!"
Cersei's voice shook with fury as she completely abandoned royal decorum.
"You barren whore!"
"You're jealous because you can't have children!"
"And not just that!"
"You're jealous your sister married a sellsword!"
"You're jealous she can bear children!"
"You're terrified that one day her sons with Bronn will steal your inheritance!"
"And you dare talk about me?!"
Falyse's face flushed red instantly.
She shot back without hesitation.
"You're jealous of Margaery Tyrell!"
"You're jealous of Sansa Stark!"
"Because they're younger than you!"
"And prettier too!"
Cersei snarled through clenched teeth.
"At least I can bear children!"
"I gave birth to three!"
Falyse sneered.
"Can you still bear them now?"
"You're old."
Cersei's eyes nearly bulged with rage.
"Old or not, I still had three children!"
"You can't even lay a fucking egg!"
And just like that—
in front of thousands of spectators—
two of the most powerful women in King's Landing descended into a full-blown public screaming match.
The spectacle was…
magnificent.
Meanwhile, the original instigator of this disaster, Reveray Rykker quietly hid off to the side, wiping sweat from his forehead while whispering to his son.
"Remember today, boy."
Lake Rykker blinked blankly.
"Remember what?"
Reveray sighed deeply.
"Never argue logically with women."
"Especially Lannister women."
Lake looked even more confused.
"Why?"
"Because they never care about logic."
Reveray lowered his voice gravely.
"They only care about winning."
The argument between the two women continued escalating.
Soon even the surrounding nobles began joining in, leaning over railings and enthusiastically heckling them.
"This is an arena anyway!"
"Why don't the two of you settle it in the pit?!"
"Go on, Your Grace! Pull her hair!"
"I'm betting on Falyse!"
"Rip the Queen's dress off!"
"Do her!"
At this point, the atmosphere had become less "noble dispute" and more drunken fish-market brawl.
Even Tywin Lannister could no longer sit still.
A flicker of fury crossed his emerald eyes.
Clearly, he was finally preparing to stand and restore some semblance of royal dignity—
when suddenly—
a sound echoed from behind the crowd.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Steady.
Rhythmic.
Like the pommel of a sword striking against a railing.
One by one, heads turned toward the source.
The crowd instinctively split apart—
as though making way for a king.
Tywin looked up.
And sure enough…