Lance followed the crowd, stumbling toward the Faith of the Seven Church.
His mind was still a daze.
When the Ironborn entered the city, he had fled blindly and hidden in an underground wine cellar with several others, surviving by sheer luck.
In the darkness, he had listened to the shouting, the screams, and the crackle of burning wood outside, huddling in a corner and trembling as he prayed those pirates would not find them.
Later, a deafening boom had erupted outside. It had not sounded like thunder. It had been far more terrifying.
After that, someone had opened the cellar hatch and told them the Ironborn had been wiped out.
He had climbed out, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, soldiers in black surcoats had stopped him and ordered him to follow them.
He had not dared resist and had obediently followed.
More and more people joined them along the way.
All around him were people with the same golden hair as his, descendants of the Lannister cadet branches.
Lance inwardly cursed these rude soldiers. They knew nothing of etiquette or propriety, daring to treat nobles like this.
He considered himself a noble. Even if he belonged to the most distant of distant branches, as long as the lion's blood flowed in his veins, he was a noble.
Led-or rather, herded-by the soldiers, they poured into the square in front of the Faith of the Seven Church.
The left side of the square was already packed, while the right remained empty.
Their group had the good fortune to be placed in the front row.
Lance raised his head and saw the figure standing on the raised platform.
Long silver hair, black armor, a dark red cloak.
He had heard that the man who had driven off