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TWL Chapter 508: No Right to Die
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 03:25:50 +0000 UTCFootsteps echoed through the empty hall. All furnishings had been deliberately removed.
This so-called “tribunal” was a far cry from the standards of Nilfgaard—there were no judges, no jury, no summoned witnesses.
Its only apparent purpose was to serve as a gesture of closure for the people seated nearby.
It wasn’t Emhyr’s first time stepping onto this land. And just like the last time, the very same man now sat before him, gazing down with cold, unreadable eyes.
Mousesack, Eist, Crach, Geralt, and many others—none of them looked away from the shackled man standing before them.
“It’s really him... it's Duny.” Crach let out a long sigh. After the rage, a strange taste lingered in his chest—one he couldn’t name.
“Pavetta’s death... it wasn’t my doing.” The man once feared across the South as the Boar of the Sea was now on the verge of tears.
Eist clapped his nephew on the shoulder. Unlike Crach, his eyes burned with nothing but fury.
They watched as Emhyr came to a halt in the center of the hall. Two knights lowered their spears before him, barring his path forward.
They recognized them immediately—they were members of Lann’s Lion Pride: Ace and House.
Then, from beneath the throne, a female attendant spoke aloud: “Presenting: The White Flame Dancing on the Grave of His Foes, Emperor of the Nilfgaardian Empire—Emhyr var Emreis!”
Even his full diplomatic title was used, though in this moment it felt more like mockery than honor.
At the sound of her voice, Emhyr looked up—gaze landing on the man seated upon the throne... and on the daughter sitting beside him.
He could not, for the life of him, understand—how in less than a decade had this man transformed from a wretched, defeated exile into this?
Then, Milva’s voice rang out again: “Before you stands—The Lioness of Cintra, daughter of Pavetta, Her Majesty Queen Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon!”
“And—” Milva took a deep breath.
“His Majesty Lann Lannister I—
The Lion King of Cintra, Heir to the Elder Blood, Slayer of Dragons, Sword of Dawn, Bane of Monsters, Mentor of the Witcher Order, Lifetime Advisor to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, Savior of Multiracial Equality, and Supreme Marshal of the Unified Northern Military Alliance!”
…
Geralt leaned in and whispered to Yennefer, “Bit over-the-top, isn’t it? And that wasn’t even the full list—he’s got plenty more titles he’s not flaunting here.”
…
This was a solemn occasion.
Emhyr took a deep breath. “What do you intend to do with me, Cirilla?”
Ciri seemed to have passed the stage of rage. She looked at him—standing tall and rigid like a pine tree—with an expression of calm detachment.
Lann let out a quiet chuckle. “You are her prisoner. But she believes you don’t even deserve the right to speak to her.”
“This isn’t a trial either. If you really need a label, then—think of it as your execution.”
“So, you have no rights here. You are not entitled to speak on your own behalf. The only thing you’re allowed to do is listen—to every word I’m about to say—and remember each one for the rest of your life. Is that understood?”
Lann spread his arms, motioning to the grand hall around them.
“In the name of the Three Lions banner—it took no small effort to stop everyone here from rushing up and cutting you down themselves, Emhyr.”
Emhyr lowered his head. His self-restraint was remarkable.
After three breaths, he straightened and adjusted his tone.
“You didn’t kill me outright. That means you still need me.”
“So what are you planning to do with me, Lannister?”
Lann clapped his hands. A vivid emerald flame burst to life in front of Emhyr, and with it came an enormous scroll that unfurled before him.
“You’re partly right—but you’ve misunderstood the most crucial point.”
“It’s not that I need you. It’s that you need me—to give you one last chance.”
Emhyr's expression turned grave as his eyes moved slowly across the document.
Lann’s face was expressionless. “Once I finish speaking, I want you to copy every word of this document by hand. Then you’ll read it aloud, with absolute sincerity. I will ensure this message reaches every last Nilfgaardian.”
Emhyr read the content line by line, his gaze sharpening with each word. After a long silence, he spoke dryly: “You want me to reveal the truth… to admit that Cirilla is my daughter. And then to declare that I am passing the throne to her—so she can claim legal succession over Nilfgaard?”
Lann tapped the armrest of his throne. “Glad to see you can still read Northern script.”
“But even if she gains legal claim, she still won’t be able to inherit Nilfgaard as it stands!”
“That’s true,” Lann said calmly. “But it will make Cintra’s annexation of Nilfgaard a lot smoother.”
“Cintra annexing Nilfgaard?” Emhyr let out a scornful laugh, like he’d just heard a snake announce it would swallow an elephant.
And yet... he suddenly realized that he was the one being laughed at now.
He fell silent for several breaths. After thinking for a moment, he asked, voice dry: “You’re not going to kill me?”
“Every person in this room has reason to kill you—and the right to do it. But they all share something else in common—”
As he said this, Lann let his gaze drift across the hall, locking eyes one by one with Eist, Geralt, and the others.
At last, his eyes settled on Ciri.
“They all love Ciri,” Lann said quietly, shaking his head. “And none of them want her to bear the burden of being the one who killed her own father.”
“Even if none of this means anything to me.”
At last, Ciri broke her silence. She spoke just after Lann, her voice steady.
Emhyr’s movements froze.
Lann gently took her hand and continued: “We used magic to raise a small island in the Sedna Abyss,” he said with a soft laugh. “If you remember—that’s where Princess Pavetta once met her end.”
“There’s enough timber and stone there for you to build shelter. Enough land and seeds to farm. On occasion, you might even try fishing the nearby waters—though you won’t have a boat.”
“It lies twenty nautical miles off Cintra’s coast, even farther from Skellige. I won’t station any guards or unleash monsters to watch you. But I will leave a few gargoyles—mute, speechless sentinels—to ensure you don’t die.”
“For the rest of your life, you will never see another human being. You will never hear another voice but your own. You will never again touch a trace of civilization outside that island.”
“You are a dignified and proud man, Emhyr.
That’s why you won’t die—not now, not for a long time. Because what we need is not your death. We need your grief.”
“Perhaps you haven’t started grieving yet—But you will. And when that grief finally comes... that will be your true judgment.”
Lann’s voice echoed through the great hall.
A charged silence spread through the chamber as eyes met across the room. Emhyr’s aura grew more withdrawn, more solemn.
“So that’s it?” His voice rasped like sand in his throat. “Lannister... this is how it all ends?”
“If you’d prefer, I could let a few people here stab you a couple times before you head to the island—no objection from me.”
Lann gestured to the ink and parchment laid before Emhyr.
“Not that I recommend it... But honestly? I’d love to see you choose that.”
A chilling gleam ignited in the eyes of Eist, Crach, and the others.
At length, Emhyr finally bent down and slowly picked up the quill.
...
[On February 15, 1270, Emhyr publicly declared to the entire Continent the truth of Queen Cirilla’s parentage.
He read aloud the conspiracy he had brewed for decades—confessing to the manipulation of young Pavetta, and the cruel means that followed.]
[On February 20, 1270, the province of Aetolia renounced its independence and recognized the rule of Queen Cirilla.
Shortly after, the provinces of Vicovaro, Amell, Rowan, Geso, and Mag Turga welcomed back their royal heirs and vowed to resist the Nilfgaardians to the end.]
[On March 1, 1270, His Majesty Lann returned to the stronghold he had established in Aetolia and led the Lion Guard northward.]
[On May 1, 1270—the South was unified.]
...
[As for certain details in the historical record—
they remain forever out of reach.
Emhyr’s ultimate fate has been the subject of endless speculation among surviving Nilfgaardian loyalists and generations of historians alike.]
But in the end, all they found... was an unknowable silence.
How His Majesty Lann uncovered the secrets that Emhyr had hidden so deeply—we can now only attribute, irresponsibly yet inevitably, to the miraculous power of the Elder Blood.
All the myths and prophecies spoke of it:
a power to rule the Continent.
A force to save the world.
And judging by the outcome—
They were right.
