Jero Legge, believing the Old Knight to be knowledgeable, gripped his sword tightly, trembling slightly, his breath momentarily hitched.
His eyes were fixed on the sword; its blade shimmered with a dark glow in the firelight, and the twisted, wave-like patterns seemed to flow within the torch's flames, clearly not of this world.
He reached out, his fingertips touching the cold blade. It possessed an extraordinary lightness, forming a strange contrast with its deadly sharpness.
Jero's face twitched as he muttered, his words filled with a sense of absurdity: "Impossible!"
"How can such a thing exist?!"
"This is absolutely impossible! A family like theirs! How could they possess something like this?!"
He couldn't connect the legendary weapon before him with the humble Stinkfort Family, which his own family could easily crush. This was more baffling than hearing that pigs could fly.
The Old Knight, Adam, ignored his mockery. With trembling hands, he swallowed hard and carefully took the longsword from Jero Legge, as if holding a sacred relic of the gods.
He brought the sword closer to the torch, his cloudy old eyes fixed on the unique dark ripples.
The Old Knight raised the sword high, his voice suddenly rising, overriding the echoes of the soldiers still digging graves in the crypt: "No mistake, young master!"
"This is a masterpiece of Valyrian magic forging! A treasure the Lannister Family couldn't acquire even with a mountain of gold!"
His eyes were fixed on the sword he held up, and he added excitedly.
"In all of Westeros! Valyrian swords! You can count them on two hands!"
Jero Legge's gaze changed; greed, like a hungry wolf, instantly devoured all his confusion and disdain.
He stared at the sword, as if seeing not just a weapon, but a magnificent, sturdy castle, a fully armed army, a treasure that could bring his family endless gold dragons and boundless glory.
He clenched his fist. This sword could also bring him everything he desired as a family heir.
"To possess such a sword!" Sir Adam's voice pulled Jero back from his fantasy. "The owner of this crypt! He could never be an unknown!"
The Old Knight handed the precious Valyrian steel sword to Jero Legge, then unhesitatingly walked to and jumped into the oldest excavated crypt.
Ignoring the ankle-deep muddy water and scattered bones, he bent down and fumbled with his hands among the decaying coffin remnants.
Sir Adam paid no mind to his surroundings. Like a devout treasure hunter, he searched for historical truth amidst the filth. To possess such a sword yet never have heard the story of its wielder, as a devotee of warriors, it was only right to spread his story. This must be very meaningful.
Jero, unable to contain his curiosity, also moved closer, standing at the edge of the crypt and peering down.
Sir Adam let out a low cry: "Found it!"
From between a pile of rotten wood and silt, he pulled out an object wrapped in oilcloth.
The oilcloth had long since rotted away, crumbling at a light touch, revealing a small, leather-bound notebook inside.
The Old Knight held it with trembling hands. The notebook had been ravaged by time, its leather cover curled and cracked, and the pages inside were yellow and brittle, as if they could turn to dust at any moment.
Sir Adam held it as if cradling a newborn baby, carefully climbing out of the crypt. Several Knights immediately gathered around him,
holding torches high, casting light upon this relic from over a hundred years ago.
Jero Legge pushed through the crowd and squeezed in, wanting to see what other secrets this stinking, lowly family was hiding. Sir Adam gently opened the first page, and a line of writing on the flyleaf caught everyone's eyes.
It was an elegant yet forceful script, and even though somewhat blurred by erosion, it still exuded an extraordinary demeanor.
And a strange hatred and anger within the lines: "To the prophesied flame, Oathbreaker, Fallo.Stinkfort."
Jero sneered, finding it interesting that he called himself an Oathbreaker.
He spat, thinking it was just like someone from their family: "Oathbreaker?!"
"Hahaha, it seems their ancestors weren't anything glorious either."
Sir Adam ignored him. His fingers gently traced the line of text, then he turned to the next page. As the diary's contents unfolded little by little in the firelight, the clamor of the graveyard seemed to fall silent.
"My name is Fallo.Stinkfort, a squire to Lord Leonard Dading's son, Lord Davos Dading. At this moment, I stand upon the ruins of the Dragonpit in King's Landing, recounting my story to the prophesied flame and leaving behind my legacy."
"My father and his liege, Lord Leonard, are fighting on the front lines for Queen Rhaenyra's Black party, while my two brothers and I are ordered to protect his children, remaining in King's Landing as squires to the young Davos Dading."
"Since the Queen reclaimed King's Landing, her rule has become increasingly bloody and tyrannical. The air in this city has grown heavier and heavier. In the streets and alleys,
there is no joy in people's eyes, only fear and unease."
"The Gold Cloaks' patrols have doubled, but they are not for bringing safety, but for squeezing more blood from the common people of King's Landing and enacting more oppression."
"I saw a commoner beaten to death by the Gold Cloaks in front of everyone, after they slipped a Green Party leaflet into his pouch and then declared his crime."
"And they simply wanted to send their somewhat attractive wives and daughters into brothels."
...The Old Knight frowned and sighed. The content here stopped, but it was probably the deceased's observations of the common people's suffering during his lifetime. He looked further down for more readable content.
"King's Landing is like a pile of dry kindling soaked in oil, needing only a spark to ignite a fire that will consume everything."
"Today, my eldest brother, the brave Denver, advised young Lord Davos to leave King's Landing as soon as possible and return to the Riverlands."
"Young Lord Davos immediately refused, saying, 'Father is bleeding for the Queen on the front lines; how can we run away like cowards?'"
"I looked at his pale face, unaccustomed to hardship due to his privileged upbringing, and for some reason, it merged in my mind with the faces of the people of King's Landing who were suffering from hunger and hardship at this very moment."
Jero frowned. He hadn't realized this diary recorded events from the "Dance of the Dragons" period, a history that bards had sung about for hundreds of years, familiar to every noble child.
But he was still very interested in these noble stories and urged the Old Knight to continue: "Keep reading."
Sir Adam cleared his throat, turned to the next page, then to the one after that. Too much content was missing, and the paper made a fragile rustling sound, as if it could crumble at any moment.
"I grew increasingly disgusted with everything here. Disgusted with the nobles' hypocritical smiles at banquets, disgusted with them discussing the virtues of a Knight while invoking the Seven Gods, yet turning a blind eye to the suffering of King's Landing's commoners."
"Those nobles! Those Knights! They are demons! They are not followers of the Seven Gods! They use lies and swords! To enslave the people! To oppress the people!"
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