Chapter 15 – In This Life, A Man Must Keep His Word
Duskendale.
The sky was just beginning to brighten, a pale silver stretching across the east.
Riding tall in the saddle, Ser Lance Lot strode through the city's main gate in full view of everyone—an almost comical contrast to the last time, when he had been a fugitive, hounded to desperation.
Now, as the newly anointed Kingsguard and the commander personally appointed by His Majesty, he naturally inherited Ser Ilyn Payne's authority, taking control of the ten-thousand-strong Targaryen host without resistance.
He had never commanded an army before, but Lance knew one thing well enough: when you held overwhelming superiority, the enemy was nothing but paper tigers.
So he abandoned the thought of intricate tactics. His order was simple—everyone attacks at once.
Strategy? For an army this size storming a mere provincial town, the best strategy was none at all.
Infantry or navy, cavalry or crossbowmen—it didn't matter. No one was playing support here. Everyone was main force.
But, as it turned out, the enemy denied him even this chance at bloodshed. When his troops reached the city walls, they found the gates already flung wide. Duskendale, tightly locked for half a year, now lay spread open like a courtesan welcoming her lord.
"Quick to surrender, aren't they..."
Lance, no longer the ragged fugitive he once was, cut a striking figure in his spotless white cloak and armor. His presence was so commanding that even Ser Barristan Selmy—whose golden hair and chiseled face had long been the dream of noble ladies in King's Landing—seemed overshadowed at his side.
"Duskendale's a prosperous trade hub, but the Darklyns have never had much of an army," Barristan explained patiently, seeing that Lance had little experience in war.
"They can barely field a thousand men. The only reason they dared defy us before was because they held His Majesty hostage. After half a year under siege, even their granaries must be bare. Their surrender is only natural."
Lance, however, barely listened. His eyes weren't focused on the ruined streets or the hollow-eyed townsfolk. His gaze hovered strangely, as if fixed on something only he could see.
[Current Template: S – Rhaegar Targaryen (Fusion 72.7%)]
[Profile: The Silver Prince, Last True Heir of the Dragon, the Knight Whose Harp Was Sharper Than His Sword, Free Fish Food at the Trident.]
[The Dragon Has Three Heads!]
That was the template he had drawn the night before.
Even better, he had discovered something new: cards of equal rank could be sacrificed to increase the fusion rate of another. Without hesitation, Lance had discarded Khal Drogo's card to feed into Rhaegar's.
Not that he believed Rhaegar to be stronger than Drogo in raw power. But here, in Westeros, as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, it was the sword that mattered most.
And honestly—what Kingsguard knight in the White Cloak would look dignified swinging a curved Dothraki arakh? That would be an insult to Ser Gerold Hightower's gift of the longsword Guardian.
What stunned Lance was the result. At just over seventy percent fusion, his strength had multiplied several times over. Every motion with the sword flowed as naturally as moving his own arm.
Rhaegar Targaryen, it seemed, truly was a prodigy of the blade.
Legend had it he never trained much at all—one day, the prince simply decided he wished to become a warrior. He picked up a sword, trained a few years under knights like Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold, and emerged nearly their equal.
To Lance, this revelation meant something greater.
A shortcut.
A path to rise faster and higher than anyone else.
The plan was simple: climb, and keep climbing. Secure higher identities, seize stronger templates.
Perhaps start with something modest, like—oh, say—becoming the next Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Of course, he had no ill will toward Ser Gerold Hightower. The White Bull had even gifted him a sword. But Lance Lot's hunger for progress was insatiable.
And no one—not king, not lord, not knight—could stand in his way.
Seeing that Lance ignored him, Barristan didn't take offense.
After all, the young man couldn't be more than twenty, and to have already achieved such merit at his age… a little pride was understandable.
When Barristan himself was sixteen, he had entered a tourney and defeated both Prince Duncan the Small and Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The confidence and fire he carried back then easily surpassed the arrogance Lance now displayed.
And if he hadn't possessed absolute faith in his own ability, he never would have dared such madness as infiltrating Duskendale alone to rescue the king. True, he hadn't been much help in the end—and nearly broke his leg jumping off the walls—but still, the courage had been there.
"Commander!"
A knight in black armor came riding hard, pulling his horse to a sharp stop before them. He pulled off his helm, revealing a mane of dazzling golden hair that almost hurt the eyes, his face bright with excitement.
"We've captured the entire Darklyn family—Denys the traitor included! Guess how we found him?"
There was a mocking gleam in the knight's eyes, as though Denys Darklyn's fate delighted him.
"Tell me, Ser Morfydd," Lance replied coolly, arching a brow.
Though a Velaryon by name, this young knight bore none of Old Valyria's looks; with his golden hair, he looked far more like a Lannister. Then again, golden hair was not theirs alone.
Morfydd Velaryon had always been a hardliner. More than once he had urged Tywin to storm Duskendale outright, only to be overruled by the Hand's cautious insistence that he "would not gamble needlessly." Only when the town's supplies were nearly exhausted and Denys Darklyn had lost all hope had Tywin at last agreed to advance.
Had it not been for Lance's single-handed dash to spirit the king out, they would likely already be arranging Aerys' funeral and debating which new king to crown.
To Morfydd, Lance was nothing less than a living legend—an idol he gladly addressed as "commander."
"When we reached Dun Fort, that traitor was lying trussed up in the great hall, not a stitch of clothing on him!" Morfydd said gleefully.
"According to his own confession, his wife from Myr tied him up in his sleep—together with his steward, Jon Hollard. The pair ran off with gold and jewels, leaving him naked and helpless."
"We questioned the servants, and it turns out those two had been carrying on for ages. Half the castle staff had heard the whispers. Only poor Denys was fool enough to stay in the dark."
"Hmph…" Lance let out a derisive snort through his nose.
"I'd heard he was weak-willed. Seems the rumors were true. Any lord who lives by a woman's word will end up destroyed by it."
Morfydd nodded vigorously, agreeing with every word. Barristan, on the other hand, coughed awkwardly and said nothing. After all, it had been at his fiancée's urging that he had joined the Kingsguard—and within half a year, that same girl had married his cousin. Best not to dwell on that memory.
"Where are the two runaways now?" Lance asked, ignoring Barristan's silence.
"No trace yet, commander," Morfydd answered honestly, squaring his shoulders. "But rest assured—our fleet has the coast locked tight. They won't escape."
Lance inclined his head, but his voice remained firm.
"See that you search thoroughly. His Majesty gave strict orders before we set out: not a single Darklyn or Hollard is to be spared."
He gave a cold cough, then added with grim finality:
"A knight must keep his word. If we vowed to wipe out their house, then wipe them out to the last."