Sherlock’s Day Out In King’s Landing
King’s Landing, the good cesspool into which all the idlers and loungers of the empire are irresistibly stone island loose fit jeans drained.
Sherlock regained his consciousness, solely to seek out himself mendacity in the midst of a avenue. The small tattered homes around him had been all engulfed by fierce flames, the folks of Kings Landing running away haphazardly, grabbing onto their belongings. Noise and chaos were unfold in all places and shrieks encompassed the troubled sq.. Fixed volley of burning stones have been being hurled onto town by the Targaryen fleet.
Sherlock started looking all around, trying to make some sense of the upheaval. Alas! He had to resort to the only thing which may get him out. His wits.
Fireplace.. chaos.. misery. Wherever I’m, this place is being attacked. The clothes of the commoners.. shrouding veils and flying drapes.. The middle ages I have to get out.
*Gets up and starts operating*
The attackers are pelting the town with fire.. the smell.. the moisture within the air says sea breeze. The attackers should be utilizing ships then. Vary of the fireballs suggests the usage of Trebuchets.. distance says they’re actually close to the shore.. If they are close.. the preliminary pawns should have already started attacking the forces by the city walls.. they must have been attempting to penetrate the gates.. Since I don’t know the way lengthy it has been that I used to be unconscious, I don’t know if the gates have been razed or not.. Both manner I have to run the other manner.. The game is On!
*After running for a few minutes, encounters the Targaryen forces who’re busy laying waste to the town*
Pink shrouds.. dragons.. totally different sigils.. enemies. Stone They are killing the commoners.. no mercy. I have to hide deep in that alley.. charging bull all the time tries to see the broader picture.. the band will march on till the square and forward onto the palace.. If I keep right here, I’ll develop into a part of the massacre.
*Hides at nighttime alley. A lot of the soldiers cross on, but a tall one senses a shadow and decides to comply with by*
Tall soldier.. six ft seven.. north of 2 hundred and eighty pounds.. possibilities of profitable in a fistfight- minimal. Archaic design of the helmet.. limited vision.. harder to move the neck around.. missing right eye.. holding his sword in the left hand.. attacking from 10 o’ clock will increase the possibilities of profitable. Impaired stroll.. skilled soldier.. suffered fairly a blow on the correct knee.. wound has healed but has disturbed his walk.. says more than a 12 months outdated. Scars by his arms.. crisscross of the wrinkles on his face.. says an skilled swordsman.. possibilities of profitable diminishing additional. A method avenue.. the only means out is to remove him from the picture.. getting close to him and being in his proximity will only result in his sword passing through me. I have to keep up distance.. at the same time.. knock him down with some kind of a ballistic weapon. I can’t discover one right here.. he is approaching nearer.. assume Sherlock assume.. the stones.. the sand.. good ol’ way.
*Sherlock grabs a sharp stone in one hand and sand in the other as he proceeds forward to combat*
Anger in his eyes… vertical strike of sword… quickness on the ft saves the day… throw the sand into the remaining eye… puff of magic… distraction… let the rabbit out of the hat… flat kick on the injured knee… infuriates the attacker further… incoming swipes of his sword… roll on the ground and assume the 10 o’ clock position… lean across… crush his eyeball with the sharp end of the stone… attacker is incapacitated… complete the act earlier than the blind swings come your way… punch at the carotid artery at the best angle… Goodnight Vienna!
*Sherlock seems glad because the tall soldier sways his physique with the breeze and crumbles to the bottom, unconscious. However earlier than he could turn back, a heavy metal shield strikes his head and darkness surrounds him*
He wakes up again only to find himself tied to a chair. A humming sound echoes round him as his blurry imaginative and prescient clears up and his eyes deal with an abnormally small man standing earlier than him.
Tyrion: Get up my alien good friend! We are in the middle of laying a siege upon my sister’s city, so you may imagine that I don’t have the luxury of time.
Sherlock: You… Who’re you
Tyrion: It doesn’t matter who I’m, what issues is who you might be. I’ve by no means seen a man put on clothes reminiscent of yours. I would be lying if I said that it didn’t look way more appealing than those worn by fat kings and their pompous queens. I have to say that your attire appears to be like rather… futuristic.
Sherlock: I’d say that your attire seems rather… ancient.
Tyrion: I’m certain it could, especially since you don’t even belong to our world. I have read about folks like you. Travelers who discover themselves out of their instances, in the course of an previous village, or a misplaced island, even one in all the greatest battles in your case. I have to say that my men found you in quite a questionable situation.
Sherlock: (Appears to be like skeptically at all the guards standing round him, their weapons drawn out)
Tyrion: Oh! Don’t fear in your nicely-being. Our Queen makes sure that no innocent soul is hurt.
Sherlock: Yet I see your men, pillaging and slaying innocents all across the city.
Tyrion: (Laughs) Collateral injury my buddy. It’s important to sacrifice a little bit in your rules if you want to manage the seven kingdoms. Don’t you agree What do your instincts inform you, traveler
Sherlock: My instincts tell me to never belief an alcoholic.
Tyrion: I need to say that I am sober right now.
Sherlock: After all you might be! You’re in the midst of certainly one of the greatest sieges of your age. But your face tells me more than enough. Dark circles beneath your eyes and the unusual redness on the sclera says inadequate sleep. Perhaps as a result of battle, however a symptom of chopping down the intake of alcohol. The abnormal number of wrinkles on your face assist the deduction, much like the fact that your eyes have been doling towards that pitcher on the table to my right every few moments. Says you want it, but can’t. Why you ask Perhaps your self-consciousness isn’t allowing you or perhaps it is a direct order from your queen. Balance of probability suggests the latter. And then there is your intellectual prowess.
Tyrion: What now
Sherlock: Your intellectual prowess. Your body lacks a lot variety of scars, besides after all the ones in your face, says you aren’t much of a warrior but had to partake in a battle below a certain influence. Yet the badge on your crest says that you hold a very high rank within the council of your queen. But why would a robust queen desire a man in his council who clearly lacks good physical skills It’s important to be good. It has to be your wits.
Tyrion: Go on!
Sherlock: Your language, your confidence, the very way how you carry yourself says you might be highborn. Indulgence in wealthy wine is a mere symptom of your parentage.
Tyrion: (Tightens his jaw)
Sherlock: But your response says that you just clearly aren’t a fan of your mother and father. Additionally there’s the very fact you could read. In this age, I’m certain solely the highborn and the nobles are avid readers. So your dad and mom themselves had been royalty and it’s secure to assume that they despised you… due to your top. Additionally I can say with confidence… that you simply haven’t… wait! Is that a dragon
Tyrion: He’s Drogon. He is magnificent. He’s marvelous. He is majestic. And he is right here to burn you alive.
Sherlock: Wait… what… you can not do this to me. No. Noo!
*Sherlock hears a dying rumble for a second earlier than a blast of hearth envelops him*
He wakes up abruptly. The syringe which he used to administer cocaine was still stuck in his arm. A disgusted Watson sat on the sofa opposite to him, giving him the identical look which Drogon gave him in his high.
Watson: Really Sherlock
Sherlock: Earlier than you converse additional John, I feel I solved the case. You possibly can write it because the Thriller of the Dragonbreath in your weblog. Or you may quite cease romanticizing my adventures and cease inflicting your opinion on the world. You recognize. In the event you care.
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