Chapter 7 — Ser Barristan Selmy!
[SS-Rank Experience Card — Barristan Selmy]
When activated, grants the full might of Barristan Selmy in his prime for 30 minutes.
Countdown: 29:59
Character Profile: "Barristan the Bold," the indomitable knight who claimed the tourney crown at the age of fifty-seven!
Passive Ability: While fighting for the rightful ruler of the Iron Throne, gain +100% Courage.
Oath: "With my body, I shall defend the honor of the Iron Throne unto death!"
The crisp sound of shattering glass echoed in Lance's mind.
In an instant, a flood of alien muscle memory surged through his veins like boiling water, filling every fiber of his body with overwhelming power.
Symon Hollard was only a step away. Lance's lips peeled back in a grin. His hand shot to the hilt, and with lightning speed he drew his sword and struck!
Aerys had once said this man was no common knight—that even Ser Gwayne Gaunt had fallen before his blade. With only thirty percent sync to Khal Drogo's template, Lance knew victory would've been impossible.
But now?
Now he wielded the courage and skill of Barristan the Bold.
---
Symon, for his part, had been watching carefully. The moment Lance lunged, he brought up his sword to meet him.
As master-at-arms of Dun Fort, his skill was renowned. Around Duskendale, he had never met an equal. He'd fought in tourneys, measured his blade against the best—save perhaps Ser Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy himself, he believed no Kingsguard alive could match him.
Had he not humbled Gwayne Gaunt himself, half a year ago?
So when he saw Lance's swing, his heart held no fear.
Unless this fool truly carries Barristan within him, or Dayne's Dawnblade flows in his veins, he will fall.
Besides, Symon had three men at his back. Even Barristan would think twice before charging into those odds.
The swords met with a shriek of steel. Symon smirked.
The boy was slower than Gaunt had been—clumsy even.
So this is your strength? To dream of rescuing a king? Foolish child.
But then his smile froze.
Lance's wrist flicked, impossibly subtle. Symon's own blade twisted in his grip, dragged off-line by a force he couldn't resist. His eyes widened as his sword, betraying him, plunged into the chest of his own comrade.
The soldier staggered, crimson spilling from his lips as he stared down in disbelief at the steel jutting from his chest.
Symon gasped, but there was no time for shock.
A knee slammed into the weak gap of his armor, right beneath the breastplate. Agony exploded through him, and he stumbled back, his sword slipping from numb fingers.
Before he could recover, Lance snatched the fallen weapon, spun, and hammered its pommel into another soldier's temple. Bone cracked. The man dropped like a sack of grain.
The third soldier had finally cocked his crossbow—only to level it at Aerys.
Too late.
Lance's shoulder slammed into the collapsing body at his side, hurling it into the line of fire. The quarrel thudded home into the hapless man's back, saving the mad king by a hair's breadth.
Three men down in a heartbeat.
But Symon Hollard wasn't finished. Gasping, he tore a dagger from his leg armor and drove it straight toward Lance's eye.
It was a killing thrust—swift, precise, inevitable. No knight alive could twist away in time.
Except Lance was no longer merely Lance.
Every muscle in his body thrummed with exhilaration. Death itself sharpened his senses to a fever pitch.
At the last instant, he snapped his head aside—the blade kissed past his eye—and his jaws clamped down on cold steel.
Crunch!
The edge tore into his mouth, splitting his lip, flooding his tongue with the copper tang of blood. But he held it fast.
Symon's arm wrenched, trapped.
A boot like a warhammer slammed into his chest. His breastplate caved inward with a sickening crunch. Breath and strength fled him, his vision swimming black. He collapsed in a heap, gasping like a fish.
The last soldier shrieked and broke, sprinting for his life.
Lance spat the dagger free, the taste of blood sweet and wild in his mouth.
With one smooth motion, he hurled the blade.
It whistled through the air—thunk!—burying itself clean through the fleeing man's neck.
The body crashed to the ground.
In less than ten seconds, Lance had slaughtered three men and broken another.
Symon, clutching his ruined chest, wheezed in disbelief.
"This… this is impossible! My ribs—five, at least—shattered…"
Symon Hollard lifted his gaze.
Through the flickering firelight, he saw Lance striding toward him—both hands gripping swords.
And for a heartbeat… he saw not Lance, but him.
That white-cloaked knight who had humiliated him once before in a tourney.
The precision, the unyielding pressure, that fearless momentum—
It was the same. Exactly the same.
"Ba… Barristan Selmy!"
The name tore from Symon's lips. He stared at Lance in disbelief, only to be met with a stranger's face, made ghostly by the glow of flames.
Lance only chuckled, crouching low before him.
From inside his bloodstained armor, he drew out a filthy, torn cloak—its original pure white just barely recognizable beneath the gore.
He dropped it across Symon's chest.
"My name is Lance Lot," he said evenly, "Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard to His Grace, Aerys II Targaryen."
His eyes narrowed. "You should remember that cloak. It once belonged to Ser Gwayne Gaunt—my predecessor."
"I… I…"
Symon's gaze sank to the ruined white cloth across his chest. His lips trembled. He wanted to yield, to croak out an apology. I'm sorry. But the words stuck in his throat, strangled by pride and fear.
"There's no need for apologies."
Lance seemed to read his heart. Shaking his head, he smiled faintly.
"Every man chooses his own fate. Ser Gwayne chose to die protecting his king. That was his duty as a Kingsguard. He kept his oath to the very end—an excellent knight."
For an instant, Symon felt a sliver of relief.
Then steel flashed.
The sword point drove straight through the cloak, straight through his chest.
"Urghhh—ghhh—"
Symon's throat clogged with blood. His eyes bulged wide, staring at Lance in agony, unable even to scream.
"You too are an excellent knight, Symon Hollard."
The words fell cold and flat in his ears, as his vision dimmed.
"To die in single combat—surely that is the best end a knight could wish for."
Lance released the hilt, leaving the sword trembling in its master's body, and walked away without looking back.
The proud master-at-arms of Dun Fort sagged against the wall, his lifeless eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hands clutching tight at the white cloak pressed against his wound—staining it deeper red.
---
When Lance reached Aerys, he found the king staring at him, purple eyes bloodshot, burning with a feverish light.
"What?" Lance frowned.
"I am the true dragon!" Aerys hissed suddenly, eyes unblinking, his voice manic with conviction.
"…???" Lance froze, utterly dumbfounded.
The king staggered closer, laying trembling hands on Lance's arm and shoulder, stroking as if handling some priceless relic. His lips moved ceaselessly, whispering:
"Yes… yes… Only a true dragon could choose at random, and yet grant such power beyond even the Kingsguard. I, Aerys II Targaryen—I am the true dragon!"
Confidence—no, arrogance—blazed off him like wildfire.
Lance rolled his eyes.
Yeah, sure. If not for that SS-Rank Experience Card, both of us would already be corpses. But now this lunatic thinks it's all because he's some "true dragon"?
What was this?
The Targaryen takes MVP, and Lance Lot is just the carry mule?
Look into my eyes!
"Enough. Let's go, Your Grace."
Lance flicked his wrist, twin sword flowers spinning, shearing clean through the king's shackles.
The system clock ticked in his vision: 26 minutes, 43 seconds remaining.
"Too much noise just now. They'll be swarming this place soon."
Without waiting for an answer, he slung the mad king over his shoulder and broke into a sprint toward the gate.