Chapter 14 – Clad in White
He actually dared.
He truly dared!
Watching Lance finish what he had done, Ser Barristan felt a pressure in his chest dissolve all at once.
Even he, famed as the Bold, would never have risked such defiance—not before the full royal council, and certainly not under the cold green gaze of Tywin Lannister.
Perhaps the title the Fearless belonged not to him, but to this young knight.
Ser Lance the Fearless… it has a ring to it.
But the trouble was only beginning.
To slay Tywin's man before his very eyes—Tywin Lannister would not let that pass quietly.
"The man is dead. If you don't mean to put me on trial, Lord Hand…" Lance shrugged as if it were all the same to him. "Then kindly step aside. I would return to His Grace."
Tywin did not move. He neither acknowledged Lance's words nor glanced at the corpse cooling on the floor. He only stared at the young knight, his emerald eyes unreadable, as though weighing something far beyond the moment.
Lance did not yield an inch. He locked eyes with the Lion of Casterly Rock, stubborn and unflinching, like some green boy too reckless to know fear.
"Step aside, Tywin."
The tension broke only when the king's voice rang out:
"Let Ser Lance Lot come forward. I have an announcement for you all."
Aerys's words struck like a hammer, scattering the invisible swords that hung between them. Tywin did not yield at once, though—he held his ground for a long, heavy seven or eight seconds before finally shifting just enough to let Lance pass.
"You are… memorable, ser."
He spoke softly as Lance strode by.
The young knight glanced at him, but Tywin's face betrayed nothing—neither anger at the humiliation nor pleasure at the display. Was it a threat? A grudging compliment? Impossible to say.
Either way, Lance cared little. His blade had avenged the man who had saved him in prison. That debt repaid, the rest of them—Lannister or no—meant nothing to him.
"Your Grace."
He dropped to one knee before the king, abandoning the irreverent old man he had once used.
"Heh, heh…" The king's grin spread wide, uncontainable.
Not even in the days before Duskendale had Aerys so thoroughly enjoyed himself. To see Tywin Lannister forced to swallow such bitter humiliation—how sweet it was!
He still remembered the sting of last year, when at the great tourney of Lannisport, the cheers for Tywin had nearly drowned out his own royal presence. It had been an insult he had never forgiven.
And later, when Tywin had offered his daughter Cersei as a bride for Prince Rhaegar, Aerys had scorned him to his face:
"You are my most loyal servant, Tywin. But servants and masters' heirs do not wed."
Tywin had borne the slight in silence, his composure unbroken. But Aerys had known full well who truly ruled the realm—and it was not he.
Yet today, watching Tywin bite back his pride, the king's joy was unrestrained.
Clap. Clap.
The king's hands rang out, and into the tent strode a bald man bearing a folded cloak of pure white.
"Ser Lance Lot."
Aerys took the cloak with delight and held it high for all to see. "I seem to recall your white cloak was lost at Duskendale."
"Yes, Your Grace," Lance declared, voice proud and clear. "I ran Ser Symon Hollard through with it, avenging Ser Gawen Gaunt!"
He spoke boldly, eyes alight as he gazed upon the snow-white cloak in the king's hands.
An S-rank reward!
His words rippled through the gathered lords. Many had thought the young knight no more than a lucky fool who happened to free the king. But if he had indeed slain the infamous Symon Hollard—even while protecting the king himself—then this was no mere chance. This was strength.
"Excellent," Aerys beamed. "The Kingsguard needs men such as you."
With almost childlike glee, he draped the great white cloak across Lance's shoulders, fastening the knots himself.
"Ser Gerold Hightower!"
At last the king turned, summoning the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
The towering "White Bull" strode forward and bent to one knee. "Your Grace."
It was the first time since his return that the king had drawn the Kingsguard captain so near. Did it mean Aerys trusted them again? None could say.
"Ser Lance swore his vows to me at Duskendale. There is no need to repeat the ceremony." The king's voice carried through the tent. "But as Lord Commander, I think it fitting you present your new brother with a gift. For as I understand it, Ser Lance does not even possess a proper sword."
As he spoke, Aerys cast a sidelong glance at the blade at Gerold Hightower's hip. The implication was plain.
The king had spoken lightly, almost carelessly—yet the words sent a fresh shock through the assembly.
The king himself issued the command—ordering the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to present his own sword to Lancelot. What did this mean? Had His Majesty already chosen the next Lord Commander?
It wasn't Ser Barristan Selmy.
It wasn't Arthur Dayne, the fabled "Sword of the Morning."
Nor was it Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne.
Instead, the honor went to a stranger—an unknown knight whose name had never before graced the halls of power!
One must understand: every Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was chosen with the utmost care. After all, the post not only granted a seat at the Small Council but also placed one closer to the king than any other.
Just look at those who had worn the white cloak before:
Prince Aemon the Dragonknight!
Ser Duncan the Tall!
And the current Lord Commander, Ser Gerold "the White Bull" Hightower!
Each one was a legend forged in the crucible of battle, knights whose deeds of blood and steel could fill tomes as thick as The White Book.
And yet now, the king commanded his Lord Commander to place his very sword into the hands of an outsider.
Under the gaze of all present, Ser Gerold Hightower froze for a heartbeat—then, without hesitation, rose to his feet. With a hiss of steel, he drew the long sword at his side.
"To rescue the king from Duskendale… that was something none of us could accomplish," the White Bull declared in a solemn voice, his stern features locked on the unfamiliar knight before him.
"You not only saved His Majesty, but you also restored the honor of the Kingsguard. For that, you have earned this, Ser Lance."
He held out the weapon with both hands.
"This sword is named Guardian. It may not be Valyrian steel, but it has served me faithfully for more than a decade. Accept it as a gift, to mark the day you don the white cloak. Wield it well in the king's defense."
Lance grasped the hilt without ceremony and raised the blade high with one hand.
Forged for the White Bull's massive frame, the sword was broader and heavier than most longswords. Though not as vast as Dawn, the ancestral greatsword of House Dayne, it was weighty enough to test any man's strength.
Yet thanks to the lingering fusion of the [Khal Drogo Template], which had risen to 42.7% integration after the Battle of Duskendale, Lance lifted the weapon as though it were but a toy.
Clap… clap… clap!
Barristan was the first to break into applause.
At once, the great tent erupted in thunderous clapping and cheers. Even Tywin Lannister himself stood and applauded with impeccable courtesy. Though few knew who Lance truly was, no one wished to deny the king his moment of triumph.
"Ding~"
System Alert: Host has obtained S-Rank Title—Kingsguard. Reward: +1 S-Rank Draw.
As the cheers resounded, Lance grinned broadly, raising Guardian toward the rafters before turning to King Aerys.
"It is time, Your Grace," he declared, voice ringing above the crowd. "Time for those who erred to pay the price!"