Sherlock’s Day Out In King’s Touchdown
King’s Landing, the good cesspool into which all of the idlers and loungers of the empire are irresistibly drained.
Sherlock regained his consciousness, solely to search out himself lying in the midst of a avenue. The small tattered homes around him have been all engulfed by fierce flames, the folks of Kings Touchdown running away haphazardly, grabbing onto their belongings. Noise and chaos were spread in every single place and shrieks encompassed the troubled sq.. Constant volley of burning stones were being hurled onto the city by the Targaryen fleet.
Sherlock began wanting throughout, attempting to make some is stone island hooligan sense of the upheaval. Alas! He needed to resort to the one thing which might get him out. His wits.
Fireplace.. chaos.. misery. Wherever I am, this place is being attacked. The clothes of the commoners.. shrouding veils and flying drapes.. The center ages I must get out.
*Gets up and starts running*
The attackers are pelting town with fire.. the smell.. the moisture within the air says sea breeze. The attackers have to be using ships then. Range of the fireballs suggests using Trebuchets.. distance says they are really near the shore.. If they’re shut.. the preliminary pawns will need to have already began attacking the forces by the town partitions.. they must have been trying 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 way I need to run the opposite approach.. The game is On!
*After operating for a couple of minutes, encounters the Targaryen forces who’re busy laying waste to the town*
Crimson shrouds.. dragons.. different sigils.. enemies. They’re killing the commoners.. no mercy. I’ve to hide deep in that alley.. charging bull all the time tries to see the broader image.. the band will march on until the square and ahead onto the palace.. If I stay right here, I’ll turn into a part of the massacre.
*Hides at midnight alley. Most of the soldiers move on, but a tall one senses a shadow and decides to comply with by way of*
Tall soldier.. six toes seven.. north of 200 and eighty pounds.. probabilities of profitable in a fistfight- minimal. Archaic design of the helmet.. restricted imaginative and prescient.. more durable to move the neck round.. missing proper eye.. holding his sword in the left hand.. attacking from 10 o’ clock will increase the probabilities of successful. Impaired stroll.. experienced soldier.. suffered fairly a blow on the fitting knee.. wound has healed but has disturbed his walk.. says greater than a year outdated. Scars by his arms.. crisscross of the wrinkles on his face.. says an skilled swordsman.. probabilities of successful diminishing additional. A technique street.. the one approach out is to remove him from the image.. getting near him and being in his proximity will solely result in his sword passing by me. I have to maintain distance.. at the identical time.. knock him down with some form of a ballistic weapon. I can’t discover one right here.. he’s approaching closer.. think Sherlock think.. the stones.. the sand.. good ol’ means.
*Sherlock grabs a sharp stone in a single hand and sand in the opposite as he proceeds forward to struggle*
Anger in his eyes… vertical strike of sword… quickness on the feet 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 bottom and assume the 10 o’ clock position… lean across… crush his eyeball with the sharp end of the stone… attacker is incapacitated… full the act before the blind swings come your way… punch on the carotid artery at the best angle… Goodnight Vienna!
*Sherlock looks happy as the tall soldier sways his body with the breeze and crumbles to the bottom, unconscious. But earlier than he could flip back, a heavy steel shield strikes his head and darkness surrounds him*
He wakes up once more only to seek out himself tied to a chair. A humming sound echoes around him as his blurry vision clears up and his eyes deal with an abnormally small man standing earlier than him.
Tyrion: Wake up my alien friend! We’re in the middle of laying a siege upon my sister’s city, so you’ll be able to think about that I don’t have the luxury of time.
Sherlock: You… Who are you
Tyrion: It doesn’t matter who I am, what issues is who you are. I have by no means seen a man wear clothes equivalent to yours. I can be lying if I said that it didn’t look far more interesting than these worn by fat kings and their pompous queens. I must say that your attire appears rather… futuristic.
Sherlock: I’d say that your attire appears to be like rather… ancient.
Tyrion: I’m positive it could, especially because you don’t even belong to our world. I’ve read about folks such as you. Travelers who discover themselves out of their times, in the middle of an old village, or a lost island, even one of the greatest battles in your case. I must say that my men found you in quite a questionable scenario.
Sherlock: (Appears to be like skeptically at all the guards standing around is stone island hooligan him, their weapons drawn out)
Tyrion: Oh! Do not worry for your well-being. Our Queen makes certain that no innocent soul is harm.
Sherlock: But I see your men, pillaging and slaying innocents all across town.
Tyrion: (Laughs) Collateral damage my good friend. You have to sacrifice a little on your rules if you want to control the seven kingdoms. Don’t you agree What do your instincts tell you, traveler
Sherlock: My instincts inform me to by no means belief an alcoholic.
Tyrion: I have to say that I’m sober right now.
Sherlock: After all you might be! You are in the middle of certainly one of the greatest sieges of your age. But your face tells me more than enough. Dark circles under your eyes and the unusual redness on the sclera says insufficient sleep. Maybe because of the battle, but a symptom of cutting down the intake of alcohol. The abnormal number of wrinkles on your face help the deduction, very similar to the fact that your eyes have been doling in the direction of that pitcher on the table to my proper every few moments. Says you need it, but can’t. Why you ask Perhaps your self-consciousness isn’t allowing you or maybe it’s a direct order from your queen. Balance of likelihood suggests the latter. And then there may be your intellectual prowess.
Tyrion: What now
Sherlock: Your intellectual prowess. Your body lacks a lot variety of scars, besides after all the ones on your face, says you aren’t much of a warrior however needed to partake in a battle under a sure influence. But the badge on your crest says that you just hold a really high rank within the council of your queen. However why would a powerful queen want a man in his council who clearly lacks good physical abilities You must be good. It has to be your wits.
Tyrion: Go on!
Sherlock: Your language, your confidence, the very way the way you carry your self says you might be highborn. Indulgence in rich wine is a mere symptom of your parentage.
Tyrion: (Tightens his jaw)
Sherlock: Yet your reaction says that you simply clearly aren’t a fan of your mother and father. Also there may be the very fact that you would be able to learn. On this age, I am sure only the highborn and the nobles are avid readers. So your dad and mom themselves were royalty and it’s protected to assume that they despised you… because of your peak. Additionally I can say with confidence… that you simply haven’t… wait! Is that a dragon
Tyrion: He’s Drogon. He’s magnificent. He’s marvelous. He is majestic. And he is here to burn you alive.
Sherlock: Wait… what… you can not do that to me. No. Noo!
*Sherlock hears a loss of life rumble for a second before a blast of hearth envelops him*
He wakes up abruptly. The syringe which he used to administer cocaine was nonetheless caught in his arm. A disgusted Watson sat on the sofa opposite to him, giving him the same look which Drogon gave him in his excessive.
Watson: Really Sherlock
Sherlock: Earlier than you communicate additional John, I believe I solved the case. You can write it as the Mystery of the Dragonbreath in your weblog. Or you possibly can quite stop romanticizing my adventures and stop inflicting your opinion on the world. You understand. In case you care.