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Sherlock’s Day Out In King’s Landing

King’s Landing, the nice cesspool into which all the idlers and loungers of the empire are irresistibly drained.

Sherlock regained his consciousness, only to search out himself lying in the midst of a road. The small tattered houses round him have been all engulfed by fierce flames, the folks of Kings Landing operating away haphazardly, grabbing onto applied their belongings. Noise and chaos had been spread all over the place and shrieks encompassed the troubled sq.. Fixed volley of burning stones were being hurled onto the town by the Targaryen fleet.

Sherlock started trying all around, attempting to make some sense of the upheaval. Alas! He had to resort to the one factor which might get him out. His wits.

Sherlock considering-
Hearth.. 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 begins operating*
The attackers are pelting town with fireplace.. the odor.. the moisture in the air says sea breeze. The attackers have to be utilizing ships then. Vary of the fireballs suggests the use of Trebuchets.. distance says they’re actually near the shore.. If they are close.. the preliminary pawns will need to have already began attacking the forces by town partitions.. they should have been attempting to penetrate the gates.. Since I don’t understand how 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 have to run the other manner.. The sport is On!

*After running for a couple of minutes, encounters the Targaryen forces who are busy laying waste to the town*

Purple shrouds.. dragons.. totally different sigils.. enemies. They’re killing the commoners.. no mercy. I have 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 keep here, I’ll develop into part of the massacre.

*Hides in the dead of night alley. A lot of the soldiers pass on, but a tall one senses a shadow and decides to observe via*

Tall soldier.. six ft seven.. north of 2 hundred and eighty pounds.. possibilities of profitable in a fistfight- minimal. Archaic design of the helmet.. restricted vision.. harder to move the neck round.. missing proper eye.. holding his sword within the left hand.. attacking from 10 o’ clock increases the possibilities of successful. Impaired stroll.. experienced soldier.. suffered quite a blow on the precise knee.. wound has healed however has disturbed his walk.. says greater than a 12 months previous. Scars by his arms.. crisscross of the wrinkles on his face.. says an experienced swordsman.. probabilities of winning diminishing further. A method street.. the one way out is to remove him from the image.. getting near him and being in his proximity will solely result in his sword passing through me. I have to keep up distance.. at the identical time.. knock him down with some form of a ballistic weapon. I can’t discover one here.. he’s approaching closer.. assume Sherlock assume.. the stones.. the sand.. good ol’ method.

*Sherlock grabs a sharp stone in a single hand and sand in the opposite as he proceeds ahead to fight*
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 ten o’ clock position… lean across… crush his eyeball with the sharp finish of the stone… attacker is incapacitated… full the act earlier than the blind swings come your way… punch on the carotid artery at the best angle… Goodnight Vienna!

*Sherlock appears to be like happy because the tall soldier sways his body with the breeze and crumbles to the bottom, unconscious. However before he could flip back, a heavy metallic shield strikes his head and darkness surrounds him*

He wakes up once more only to search out himself tied to a chair. A humming sound echoes around him as his blurry vision clears up and his eyes give attention to an abnormally small man standing earlier than him.

Tyrion: Get up my alien friend! We’re in the middle of laying a siege upon my sister’s city, so you possibly can think about that I don’t have the luxury of time.

Sherlock: You… Who are you
Tyrion: It doesn’t matter who I’m, what matters is who you are. I have by no means seen a man wear clothes reminiscent of yours. I would 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 looks rather… ancient.
Tyrion: I’m certain it would, especially because you don’t even belong to our world. I’ve read about people like you. Travelers who discover themselves out of their times, in the middle of an old village, or a lost island, even one of the best battles in your case. I must say that my males found you in fairly a questionable scenario.

Sherlock: (Appears to be like skeptically at all the guards standing around him, their weapons drawn out)
Tyrion: Oh! Don’t fear for your well-being. Our Queen makes certain that no innocent soul is harm.

Sherlock: Yet I see your men, pillaging and slaying innocents all across town.
Tyrion: (Laughs) Collateral damage my good friend. It’s a must to sacrifice a bit of on your principles if you wish to regulate the seven kingdoms. Don’t you agree What do your instincts tell you, traveler

Sherlock: My instincts inform me to never belief an alcoholic.
Tyrion: I need to say that I’m sober right now.

Sherlock: After all you might be! You are in the middle of one of the greatest sieges of your age. But your face tells me greater than enough. Dark circles below your eyes and the unusual redness on the sclera says insufficient sleep. Maybe as a result of battle, however a symptom of cutting down the intake of alcohol. The abnormal number of wrinkles in your face help the deduction, much like the fact that your eyes have been doling in the direction of that pitcher on the table to my proper each few moments. Says you need it, but can’t. Why you ask Maybe your self-consciousness isn’t allowing you or maybe it is a direct order from your queen. Steadiness of likelihood suggests the latter. And then there may be your intellectual prowess.

Tyrion: What now

Sherlock: Your intellectual buy stone island london prowess. Your body lacks a lot number of scars, besides of course the ones in your face, says you aren’t a lot of a warrior but had to partake in a battle below a sure influence. But the badge on your crest says that you hold a really excessive rank in the council of your queen. But why would a robust queen desire a man in his council who clearly lacks good physical skills You need to be smart. It must be your wits.

Tyrion: Go on!
Sherlock: Your language, your confidence, the very approach 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 response says that you simply clearly aren’t a fan of your parents. Also there’s the very fact you can read. In this age, I am certain only the highborn and the nobles are avid readers. So your mother and father themselves have been royalty and it is safe 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 is magnificent. He is marvelous. He is majestic. And he’s here to burn you alive.

Sherlock: Wait… what… you can’t do that to me. No. Noo!
Tyrion: Dracarys

*Sherlock hears a demise 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 nonetheless stuck in his arm. A disgusted Watson sat on the sofa opposite to him, giving him the same look which Drogon gave him in his high.

Watson: Actually Sherlock
Sherlock: Earlier than you speak further John, I believe I solved the case. You may write it because the Mystery of the Dragonbreath in your weblog. Or you can moderately cease romanticizing my adventures and stop inflicting your opinion on the world. You realize. If you care.

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