Chapter 722

The grating sound of Valyrian steel scraping against itself filled the street, setting teeth on edge. Ernst launched a storm of rapid, relentless dagger strikes within mere seconds. Aegor, shielding his head, moved like a ship battered by raging waves, retreating under the onslaught—but not a single strike managed to cut even an inch of his skin.

"Pull… pull me out!" Ernst shouted through bloodied lips, his words garbled. He hoped his subordinates would rescue him from this predicament.

One of the assassins glanced down at his own body, realizing that he wasn’t burning, nor was he bleeding. A sudden realization hit—he had been fooled. Cursing under his breath, he turned his gaze back toward his leader—only to find Ernst flipped onto his back, pinned to the ground, both daggers knocked from his grip. Their target was straddling him, delivering a brutal barrage of punches to his face.

Panicking, the assassin fumbled for another crossbow bolt—

But before he could fire, he saw Aegor’s boot lashing out, slamming into Ernst’s chest.

Ernst twisted his body, narrowly dodging Aegor’s first sword strike. His opponent—Hand of the Queen—was certainly strong and fast, but his swordsmanship? Only passable, barely above mediocre. Suspecting a feigned weakness meant to lure him into a trap, Ernst played it safe, avoiding direct thrusts toward vital points. Instead, he used one dagger to block any possible counters and the other to carve a shallow slice across Aegor’s waist. The blade easily cut through the black robes, revealing the contours of the armor beneath.

Yet no counterattack came.

Aegor wasn’t faking.

He wasn’t some hidden master waiting to strike.

Realizing this, Ernst ducked beneath the next horizontal slash, confidence surging. This time, he swung his twin daggers with full force, aiming for Aegor’s arms.

His second thought was simple: armor had weak points. No matter how fine the breastplate, no matter how sturdy the vambraces, there was always a gap where a dagger could slip through.

CRACK.

Ernst’s nose shattered as Aegor’s forehead smashed into his face, blood spurting from his nostrils.

A small figure, clad in red, glared at the assassin with wide green eyes. She made a strange gesture with her hands and pointed directly at him.

"Die, you bastard!"

This was the scene that greeted the rearguard when they finally fought past the chaos and arrived on the scene minutes later.

After all, this was a hunt, not a suicide mission. The assassins had no intention of fighting alone.

Pain blurred his vision as Ernst staggered back, struggling to keep his balance. He barely had time to shift his weight to land on his back instead of his skull. Even as he fell, he instinctively protected his throat and face with his arms, denying his enemy any easy opening.

If not for his dragonscale armor doing its duty, Aegor would have already suffered two fatal wounds in those fleeting moments.

Such mastery of the blade—he had only seen its like once before, when he sparred against the "Red Viper" Oberyn Martell in Robert’s war camp.

Then, with the force of a storm, something massive plunged from the sky.

A thunderous impact shook the street as a great shadow descended, like an eagle diving into a narrow trench—graceless, chaotic, but overwhelming in its sheer power. Two taloned feet crashed onto the ground behind Aegor, shattering the stone pavement. The massive wings of the green dragon sprawled awkwardly atop the roofs of nearby buildings, unable to fold in such a cramped space.

The beast had barely landed before its long, sinuous neck coiled downward. With a swift, brutal snap, it engulfed the last standing assassin—crossbow and all—into its maw.

Two thoughts entered Aegor’s mind.

He and Ernst locked eyes.

And in that instant, Aegor seized the only counterattack left to him.

Had his enemy been wearing Valyrian steel vambraces?

No—he would have heard of such a thing.

But before Ernst could reach a decision, his opportunity was gone.

For a fraction of a second, hesitation flickered across Ernst’s bloodied face. In that moment, Aegor acted.

Barehanded, his fingers like iron clamps, he seized the assassin’s wrists.

He ignored the daggers biting into his flesh, clamping down with his armpits to lock his opponent in place.

Bloodshot eyes burned into Ernst’s.

"Tell her," Aegor panted, forcing words out between ragged breaths. "Use whatever damn magic you have—contact Priest Machiro in King’s Landing."

A deep inhale.

"Warn the Queen. Tell her I’ve been attacked. She must cancel all appointments and stay in the Unsullied’s camp. Do not let her leave!"

Aegor had never seen Ernst before. But he knew—this man was the deadliest opponent he had ever faced.

Headbutt.

The assassin’s twin blades should have severed Aegor’s hands at the wrists.

Instead, they only scraped against something unnervingly solid, leaving nothing but the shrill sound of metal grating on metal.

Ernst’s eyes flickered with confusion. His daggers were superior even among Valyrian steel, capable of slicing through iron like butter. It made sense that Aegor’s breastplate had stopped them. But why—why in the name of the Seven—could they not even scratch his vambraces?

"Wake her up," Aegor ordered, his voice hoarse. "Slap her. Throw water in her face. I don’t care. Just do it. Now."

He wanted to glare the assassin into submission, to rip his arms from their sockets with sheer rage. But reason kept him grounded—rage did not make men into gods.

Even Oberyn Martell, holding back in their spar, had left Aegor drenched in sweat. This? This was a man aiming straight for his life.

Ernst struggled, but Aegor's grip was relentless. He locked the assassin’s arms against his own torso, pinning him in place.

Ernst attempted to twist his daggers to inflict more pain, but all it earned him was another vicious headbutt.

This time, the blow landed squarely on his mouth.

Teeth scattered like dice on a tavern table.

The third headbutt struck his jaw.

The fourth—his cheekbone.

Soon, his face was a canvas of blood, as if someone had dumped a bucket of red paint over his head.

"Crunch."

"Damn it…"

A lapse in focus nearly cost Ernst his life. He barely parried Aegor’s sword in time, rolling backward to escape the danger zone. He needed a new approach. His subordinates would provide support soon.

For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed Ernst’s mind.

Something was stopping him from killing this man.

A treasure—one so valuable it could not be bought, not even with the limitless wealth of the Iron Bank.

—

The green dragon squirmed between two rows of houses, sending loose bricks and debris tumbling to the ground.

Beneath its hulking form, drenched in his own blood, Aegor slumped against the pavement, utterly spent. A diminutive red-cloaked figure knelt beside him, frantically trying to remove two crossbow bolts from his legs.

Nearby, the last assassin lay sprawled, unrecognizable. His face had been beaten into a formless pulp, his chest impaled by twin daggers with jewel-encrusted hilts.

Shing—

Ernst took half a step back.

Realization struck like lightning.

He had miscalculated.

His daggers should have been redirected the moment they failed to cut through Aegor’s vambraces. Instead, he had stubbornly kept slashing at them, wasting a full second in the process.

Aegor’s muscles coiled as he focused entirely on the gleaming Valyrian steel daggers.

He knew—one mistake, even half a second’s hesitation, and he was dead.

Two sharp twangs sounded.

Crossbow bolts buried themselves into Aegor’s legs.

Pain and force nearly drove him to his knees.

Ernst lunged.

He mounted Aegor’s chest, both daggers raised high, and drove them toward the exposed flesh beneath his opponent’s arms.

But in that moment, the red-cloaked girl behind them shouted.

"Hey!"

The assassin with the loaded crossbow flinched.

And that was all the time Aegor needed.

With all the strength left in him, he struck.

Headfirst.