The Dread Lord of Essos (Ch. 94) (Patreon)

( Every character in this story is a legal adult over the age of 18 )

The Dread Lord of Essos

Chapter 94

They said nothing in the Seven Kingdoms had ever matched the spectacle of the coliseum Harry had willed into existence. Nothing so grand had stood in Westeros or even Essos. The structure itself was a ringed mountain of white marble, taller than the Sept of Baelor and twice as wide as the Red Keep. Arches upon arches soared overhead, buttressed by flying columns and capped with domes of shining gold. The outer facade was relieved with lions, dragons, and beautiful, nude goddesses. At the front gates, a pair of golden goddesses glared out over the city. Their gemstone eyes burned in the afternoon sun.

Inside, the noise was deafening. Sixty thousand souls had crammed themselves into the stands, with more lining the outer streets, hoping to get in. The circular arena was circled by a moat of polished obsidian and sand so white it nearly blinded, and every tier above was stuffed with nobles, merchants, and commoners, all jostling for a clearer view. Despite it being winter, no one needed to worry about such silly things like freezing to death. Heat was magically produce down in the bowls of the coliseum, and it was piped through to keep everyone nice and comfortable. Vendors shouted over the din, handing out skewers of roasted meat to outstretched hands. Above it all, pennants bearing the cream and gold of Harry’s line snapped in the wind.

At the highest tier, directly above the finish line and shaded by a silk canopy, was Harry’s private box. Harry lounged there with one leg cocked lazily over the other. Cersei and Arianne each did their best to keep his attention on them. Cersei’s golden hair was up in an elegant bun, studded with rubies. Arianne wore a dress so scandalous that her tits kept slipping free, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to love all the attention. To Harry’s right sat Daenerys. Her silver hair fluttered in the breeze, while Myrcella whispered jokes into his ear. On the benches behind them sprawled the Lords Paramount and Ladies of the realm, most of whom pretended to be above such spectacle, but all of whom had clawed for an invitation.

When Harry raised his hand, the noise subsided by degrees. The crowd rippled with anticipation, and even the banners seemed to tremble in their sockets. On the sand below, stable boys scurried to the stables, and two dozen chariots destined to race thundered into their starting positions. Each was painted in the colors of a Great House or the chosen color of their sponsor. The teams’ champions stood atop their chariots, tightly gripping the reins.

A hundred musicians scattered around the coliseum blasted their horns, and a herald in cream and gold strode to the edge of the platform. His voice rang out across the stadium.

“In this, the first race of King Harold’s realm, you are witness to history!” The crowd thundered with cheers and applause. “Let the games begin!” he shouted, and the horns blasted once again. 

It started as a tremor beneath their feet. The sixty thousand in the stands leaned forward as one, with their necks craned and eyes wide, while the coliseum’s booming bass drums pounded out a rhythm that rattled their bones. Below, the charioteers stood rigid in their painted cars. Some wore their house colors like war banners, while others wore only leather straps. The teams of horses stamped and snorted as they waited for the race to begin. The air was filled with the sounds of vendors hawking their wares, children shrieking and laughing, and bets changing hands. Above it all, the pounding drums counted down to the moment everyone was waiting for.

Then, there was a sudden hush. The drums cut off and were replaced by the long echo of a ceremonial horn. For a moment, every soul in the coliseum seemed to hold their breath. A massive golden gong crashed, and the race exploded to life. Stable boys barely scrambled clear before the first chariots tore loose with plumes of white sand billowing out from under their wheels. The horses plunged forward in tight formation. Their powerful muscles flexed and rolled, and their manes and tails whipped back as they gained speed. The crowd howled as the field spread out, and the teams jostled for space before the first turn.

Arianne leaned against Harry’s back, and her laughter rose above the tumultuous noise. She pressed her breast against him, then squirmed so that he could definitely feel it. The fabric of her dress was so thin that there was no way he couldn’t feel her soft tits and stiff nipples. She watched the race intently, but that didn’t stop her from caressing Harry’s body. Every time his eyes moved from the track to her, she gave him a naughty, teasing look.

Cersei sat stiffly next to Harry, showing no outward emotion. She watched Arianne’s performance with narrowed eyes and the faintest twitch of her mouth. She wore her usual colors of red and gold, but the neckline was higher than Arianne’s, and the effect was a little less scandalous. Still, Cersei’s beauty was impossible to miss, and she always angled her body to perfectly show it off to Harry. When Arianne giggled and squeezed Harry’s hand, Cersei countered by shifting so her thigh pressed hard against his. She shot Arianne a glare, then leaned into Harry’s ear.

“My lord, do you wish to place a wager?” she purred. Her hand trailed down Harry’s chest, and she let it rest just above his belt.

Arianne caught the gesture and laughed. She arched her back and stretched in a way that showed off her jiggling assets. All the men around her openly admired her gorgeous body. “Who do you favor, Harold?” she asked in a sultry voice. “I would put my coin on the rider for Sunspear.”

“It appears that I’m the true winner for today,” Harry replied, grinning as they pressed against him tighter. Arianne’s tits were mashed into the back of his neck, and Cersei had taken his hand and placed it on her inner thigh. Harry moved his hand up, caressing her soft, delicate skin. Cersei shuddered as his fingers neared her naked pussy. Harry could feel the heat rolling off her pussy in waves. 

The chariots rounded the first curve, and already two teams had wiped out. The crowd roared as splinters flew and horses screamed. Onlookers leapt to their feet and clapped, and noblewomen gaped behind their trembling hands. On the sand, crashed riders scrambled free of the wreckage, and the survivors drove their teams harder, lashing the horses mercilessly. The frontrunner was a lean, black-haired man from Lys. His chariot was painted the same cream and gold as Harry’s banners. He had pulled a horse-length ahead, but a pair of Westerlands teams in crimson and blue were fighting to overtake him. 

Arianne pressed closer, mashing her hard nipples into him and drawing another lustful glance. “Do you see how he handles the turn?” Arianne asked. “He lets the horses run just to the edge, then pulls at the last instant. It is all about knowing when to let go and when to pull tighter … but I don’t think I have to tell you that, Harold … now, do I?” she giggled. 

Her flirtation was as blatant as the dress she wore, and Cersei seemed to sense it. She let her fingers dance over Harry’s hand, then held his palm tight against her inner thigh. “If you are so skilled at holding on, Arianne, why do you always seem to end up behind?” Cersei asked loud enough for the whole box to hear.

Arianne merely smiled, undeterred by Cersei’s insults. She lifted Harry’s goblet, took a long, slow sip, and let the wine linger on her lips as she handed it to him. “Because, Cersei … it is more fun to chase than to be chased.”

The rest of the box watched the interaction. Some were amused, and some were outright scandalized. However, none dared to look away. Even Daenerys, who had until now said nothing, leaned forward to catch every word. The tension between the women was nearly as thrilling as the race itself. Harry, for his part, basked in it. He allowed them to compete for his attention as surely as the horses below raced for victory. Each woman tried to outshine the other, and they used every trick at their disposal. 

Arianne shifted her position and wriggled in on his other side, so her thigh slid over Harry’s until she was practically in his lap. She let her dark ringlets spill over his shoulder. The two women’s eyes met, and sparks flew. Neither looked away.

Myrcella giggled in response, and Dany just rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the race. 

In the thick of the pack, the Ironborn charioteer lived up to his people’s reputation for cunning and cruelty. His chariot was made of black iron sheets hammered into a brutal wedge, and he stood atop it like a pirate king at the bow of a ship. With every jostling moment, he sought to sabotage his competitors by any means at hand. He wielded his whip not merely to spur on his horses, but as a weapon. On the first lap, he snapped it at the neck of the Highgarden racer beside him. The second man cursed while jerking his head back, and the crowd let out a collective gasp as a bloody welt blossomed immediately on his skin. Unconcerned, the Ironborn grinned and flicked his whip at the next rival, this time catching the lead horse across the eye. The beast screamed, veered, and into the Sarwyck racer while the Ironborn’s chariot slipped by untouched.

But he wasn’t content to simply outpace them by sabotage. On the second turn, he positioned himself on the inside and steered hard, ramming the side of his chariot into the Lannister team. The impact sent splinters and sparks flying. Both chariots shuddered dangerously, but the Ironborn was ready for it. He hunched, dug his heels in, and kept his balance as his opponent’s axle shrieked and began to wobble. The Lannister driver shouted a curse and tried to steer away, but the Ironborn leaned in again, using the wedge of his own vehicle to force the other racer up against the stone rim.

The crowd jeered, and a few even hurled bits of food at him from the stands, but the Ironborn luxuriated in the outrage. He loved the fury. He was an Ironborn after all, and he craved chaos. On the straightaway, he leaned sideways and reached with one gloved hand to grab the shoulder of the Dornish charioteer beside him. He yanked, nearly pulling the man off balance and out of the car. The Dornishman twisted and retaliated with a swing of his fist, but the Ironborn only laughed. He sideswiped the Dornishman, which caused his chariot to ride up on one wheel. It pulled his horses off balance, and soon, the entire thing rolled with a thunderous crash. Several chariots behind him were unable to steer clear. 

Behind him, the chaos he’d created blossomed. Chariots pinwheeled into the walls, horses screamed and collided, and drivers tumbled into a mess of splintered wood and flying sand. The Ironborn looked back with a wide grin, showing off his brown, discolored teeth. Arianne booed and cursed loudly, causing Harry to chuckle. 

While the race raged around the stadium, Tywin Lannister was nowhere to be found in the stands. Instead, he ghosted through the terraced vineyards and fig trees that ringed the amphitheater. Tywin wore a dark hood. It was just enough to keep prying eyes at bay but not so much as to draw undue notice. He had not survived multiple rebellions and kings by being careless, and he wouldn’t risk exposure now.

He paced down a tiled walkway lined with statues of nude women. The pleasure gardens were mostly empty, save for a few drunken idiots who had come to piss in the hedges before continuing on their way. A single figure waited for him at the far end. It was a beautiful, busty woman with bronze hair. She wore a dress that showed off her curvy figure, and much more. Tywin wasn’t sure how her tits remained hidden under the flimsy fabric. 

She didn’t bow when Tywin arrived, but instead, she fixed him with a steady, knowing gaze. “You’re late, my lord,” she said with a Braavosi accent. 

“You’re early,” he replied. His tone was neither warm nor cold. He had learned to distrust courtesans, no matter how beautiful, so he kept his distance, watching for the flash of a hidden blade. “We will speak quickly.”

The woman stepped closer, and Tywin did not move. “They call me Seline,” she whispered. “But you already knew that.” She pressed a soft hand to the side of her throat, making her look vulnerable. Tywin knew she was anything but. “You have a job for me, yes?”

In the distance, the racing drums began again, signaling another lap. Shadows crossed the grass, making the old lion feel uneasy. Tywin glanced around, making sure they were alone. He then looked back at Seline. “You know your target.”

“Of course.” She smiled, and her even teeth shined like pearls. “King Harold, the usurper. The one who thinks too much of himself.”

He didn’t bother to correct her on the title. “He is surrounded by guards, but none suspect you. You will be summoned to his bedchamber before the end of the week. When the moment comes, you will act.”

“Poison?” Seline asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or do you wish it to be messier?”

“Poison,” Tywin said. “I can’t have this traced back to you or me.” He produced a small vial from beneath his tunic and held it so the light glinted off the glass. “This is all you will need. One drop in his cup is enough. The poison is slow-acting, but no less deadly. He will be dead within the month. You will be paid handsomely once he’s buried.”

Seline reached out, and her fingers grazed Tywin’s palm. “And when you take the throne?”

“There will be more work for you,” he promised. His voice was flat and absolute. “But until then, you must disappear. Do not linger. You do the job and vanish.”

“I want more than gold for such a risky job,” she stated. “When you take the throne, you will declare me as the head courtesan of this city, and I want a large room in the castle,” she told him in a way that left no room for argument. 

“Fine … Whatever you want,” Tywin said with a glare. 

She nodded, pocketed the vial, and then let her hand linger on Tywin’s wrist. “You never did tell me what the boy did to deserve this.”

He regarded her for a long moment with unblinking eyes. “He was born,” Tywin said at last.

The woman laughed. “So were we all.”

She stepped back, and the slit in her dress opened up, revealing a dagger strapped to her smooth, shapely thigh. “Go watch the race now, my lord,” Seline said. “It may raise suspicion if you are not seen there.” Then she melted into the hedge maze, as silent as a shadow.

Tywin lingered for a moment, breathing in the cool, earthy scent of the garden. The thrill of danger always left a pleasant tingle in his chest. He knew better than to trust the Braavosi whore, but he trusted fear and greed to do his bidding when nothing else would. His men would watch her like a hawk, and she already knew what would happen to her if she even thought of betraying him. 

He returned to the shadowed arcades that skirted the arena, careful to avoid any crowds. He slipped inside the arena, tossed his hooded robe, and watched from a balcony as the chariots crashed and screamed around the track. He couldn’t help but smirk as bodies pinwheeled and horses shrieked. Each disaster on the sands drew a cheer from the crowd. He watched the Ironborn charioteer with a calculating eye. Such ruthlessness was always a useful trait. Tywin found himself admiring the man. Tywin shook his head and continued up to his grandson’s private box. 

At the far end of the box seats, he could just make out Harold, flanked by his usual whores. The boy looked happy, but Tywin knew the smile was a mask. No one survived court life without learning to wear the right faces. He studied the king’s movements, and the easy way he touched and was touched by the women. Harold was young, but not stupid. He had the instincts of a natural sovereign, and that made him dangerous. 

Tywin’s fingers drifted to the ring on his finger. The Lannister signet was heavy, and its edges had worn smooth from decades of use. He turned it once, feeling the old grooves where his father’s hand had once worn it thin. This time, he would not be outmaneuvered. However, he needed to be very careful. Harold had spies everywhere, but so did he. The game was never truly over. A chill wind swept through the galleries, fluttering Tywin’s hair, and he smirked. 

Back in the pleasure gardens, Seline was already gone. She was efficient, greedy, and terrified of him. Tywin preferred his tools that way. Soon, Harold would be dead, and every man in the city would look to Tywin for leadership. Power was not a contest of charisma or popularity … it was a contest of patience.

He watched the race unfold, absorbing the details. The Lyseni still led, but the Ironborn was gaining, and the Westerlands driver had found a second wind. The crowd roared as the chariots slingshotted around the curve. Sand flew, and horses frothed at the mouth. Tywin turned away from the spectacle. He didn’t need to see the finish. Tonight’s winner was already decided.

Unbeknownst to Tywin, Harry had an invisible drone following the old man twenty-four hours a day. There was nothing Tywin could do without Harry knowing about it. 

He saw and heard Tywin’s meeting. He saw the exchange, and he saw the look on the Braavosi woman’s face. Harry smiled darkly. He knew his grandfather would eventually make a move on him, and now he knew the source. He would be ready. The game was just getting started.

The Ironborn’s chariot was now in the lead, but it wasn’t alone for long. A chariot painted in the bright green-and-gold of the Reach began to challenge for the lead. The Reachman stood upright in his car and looked at the Ironborn with a wolfish grin. He was the same Highgarden rider who had been lashed by the Ironborn, and now he wanted his revenge. He cracked his whip at the Ironborn beside him. The first lash opened a red line on the Ironborn’s forearm, but it was the second that was aimed at the Ironborn’s face that drew a cheer from the crowd. The Ironborn ducked, but not fast enough. The whip slashed his cheek, leaving a bloody line across the bruised flesh. 

The Reachman laughed and lashed again, this time going for the Ironborn’s horses. The beasts screamed and jerked violently, and the Ironborn nearly lost his footing, but he caught the rail and steadied himself. The Reachman wasn’t satisfied. He drew the whip back and tried to loop it around the Ironborn’s neck. The Ironborn blocked it with a raised elbow, only to find himself slammed by the green chariot’s heavy wooden wheel. The impact jarred through the frame, and the Ironborn heard a loud snap. The Ironborn’s wheel simply couldn’t hold, and the collision tore the wheel from the axle.

For a moment, the whole car lifted into the air. It almost looked graceful as it spun in the air. The Ironborn’s arms windmilled as the chariot landed hard on its side and exploded into pieces, hurling the Ironborn free of the wreck. He rolled across the sand and came to a stop, completely dazed. 

Then came the horses. The first pair of hooves missed him by a finger’s breadth, but the second team was not so lucky. A heavy black hoof stomped down on the Ironborn’s forearm, shattering bone and mashing flesh. The Ironborn screamed, and the horrendous sound was instantly lost in the roar of the crowd. Chariots behind him tried to swerve, but the next car clipped the Ironborn’s ribs and sent him spinning once more.

The Reachman didn’t even look back. He used the chaos to surge ahead. His horses thundered past the pile of bodies and splintered wood. The crowd, as always, chose a favorite, and they howled for the Reachman as he took the lead. There was no mercy for the fallen. The Ironborn tried to crawl to safety as he dragged his mangled arm behind him, but three more chariots swept by. A wheel missed his head by the width of a coin. The Ironborn spat blood and laughed the laugh of a madman as he tried to rise to his knees.

From the stands, spectators stood on the benches, straining for a better look. Some screamed for the race to stop, but more simply wanted to see if the Ironborn would drag himself clear. 

The other racers saw the opportunity and pushed their advantage. The Lyseni, who was previously lagging behind, slotted into second and goaded his horses with crazed abandon. The Lannister team thundered past and clipped the trailing edge of the Reachman’s chariot, drawing a fresh shower of splinters and a spray of sand. The Ironborn, somehow, was still alive. He crawled to the wreckage of his own chariot, tore loose a broken spoke, and brandished it as if to defy the gods themselves.

Coming up behind him was more chaos. The Sarwyck driver eyed the bloodbath on the track and tried to pull up short but lost control on the loose sand. His horses reared and toppled the chariot onto its side, sending the driver flying into the wall. The crowd cheered louder, unable to get enough violence to sate them. Women screamed, men bellowed, and children climbed the backs of their parents for a better view.

The Ironborn, refusing to lose with honor, used his good arm to haul himself upright. He staggered a few paces with blood dripping from his ruined limb, and then he jammed the broken spoke into the wheel of the Reachman’s chariot as it passed by again. It jammed into the spokes and flipped the Reachman’s chariot, sending the poor bastard tumbling onto the sand. The crowd loved it. They showered him with coins and raucous shouts. Unfortunately, he was clipped by the Lyseni driver, who was now in first place. The Ironborn tumbled and twisted through the air and landed hard. He didn’t get up this time. The gong crashed as the Lyseni crossed the finish line, and the crowd roared for the victor. 

Harry clapped for the victor as the crowd screamed itself hoarse and the arena floor descended into chaos. Arianne rolled her eyes at the Lyseni’s victory, but Harry could see she was secretly delighted by the violence. “If the Ironborn still lives, I’ll go down there myself and clip his nuts,” she declared. Harry could see she was still angry about his treatment of the Dornish rider. Her gold bangles chimed as she drummed her fingers on the balcony rail.

“He might already be dead,” Harry said, leaning over to peer at the motionless heap of broken limbs far below. “But if he gets up, I’ll let you have him.” He grinned, and Arianne smiled back.

The Lyseni driver rode his battered chariot in a slow victory lap, waving to the stands as if he were the beloved hero of the city. A cloud of white sand trailed behind his horses as the crowd chanted his name, “Vollaro! Vollaro!” Women flung flowers and, on at least one occasion, a lacy undergarment onto the track. Vollaro soaked it in, milking every moment of glory, and Harry found the performance amusing. He knew he would have done the same. He gestured for his party to follow, and they swept out of the box in a miniature parade.

The Lyseni was already waiting. His chest was heaving from exertion, and streaks of blood were drying on his cheek. Two guards flanked him, but he hardly seemed to notice them. Harry strode to the edge of the balcony with his hands raised, and the crowd stilled as if the air itself had been sucked from the stadium.

“Citizens and guests!” Harry's voice boomed thanks to a touch of magic. “Today we have seen the bravest, the boldest, and the most daring of men triumph beneath the eyes of the gods. Vollaro of Lys, you have outraced, outlasted, and outwitted all your rivals, and for that I crown you champion of the day!” He turned and swept his arm with a flourish. The beautiful Myrcella produced a laurel wreath, woven with gold thread and tiny rubies. She placed the wreath on Vollaro’s head and kissed both his cheeks. Harry then gestured for the guards to bring forth the promised prize.

A dozen heavy chests were dragged into view. With a nod from Harry, the guards threw the lids open, revealing gold coins stacked to the brim. The sight of so much gold drew a gasp from the crowd, and a few nearby guards visibly fought the urge to help themselves. Harry took a fistful of coins and held them up for all to see. “One hundred thousand Gold Lions!” he declared. 

Vollaro bowed deeply. His eyes were bright with greed and gratitude. “Your Grace is as generous as he is wise,” the Lyseni said, kneeling promptly. The crowd roared for more. Arianne whispered to Harry, “He’ll spend it all on whores and wine by next week. I like him already.”

Harry chuckled, knowing she was probably right. Hopefully, he spent most of it in his city. He turned to the crowd with his arms wide. “Let it be known that the king keeps his word. Go forth and celebrate in the name of Vollaro of Lys. For tonight, all drinks will be paid for by the Crown!”

For a minute, the crowd seemed to love him more than any king who’d ever sat the Iron Throne. Harry basked in this feeling, then motioned for his retinue to follow him off the balcony. As they walked away, Harry spotted Tywin staring at him. Harry smirked at the old man, knowing his time was about to come.