Chapter 17 – Watch Your Tongue
"Out of my sight, you mangy curs!"
Lance spurred his horse forward, cutting into the infantry formation from behind. The soldiers of House Targaryen were thrown into chaos, trampled beneath the pounding hooves.
In a matter of seconds, more than ten men were sent sprawling, groaning in pain from the brutal collision. Those who still thought of resisting froze the moment their eyes caught the white cloak and armor he wore. Fear and reverence flashed in their gaze as they quickly lowered their weapons.
The Kingsguard.
They might not know Lance's face, but that armor was identity enough.
His mount continued forward, iron-shod hooves crunching bones as he rode into the circle of men. Lance didn't so much as glance down at the bodies beneath him.
Under the uneasy stares of the black-armored knights, he brought his horse into the space between both sides. Then, with deliberate calm, he wheeled around, placing himself squarely in front of Reveray and his companions, shielding them with an air of absolute authority.
"What is going on here?"
His voice was cold, detached—without hurry, without warmth.
"We've captured these accomplices of House Darklyn, ser—"
"Silence. I didn't ask you."
The black-armored knight who had stepped forward to explain was instantly cut off. Lance's voice cracked like a whip, then he turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing on Reveray. "You. Speak."
"But, ser—!"
Sching!
Steel rasped as Lance drew the greatsword gifted to him by the White Bull. He laid its gleaming edge across the knight's shoulder, the tip hovering less than a hand's breadth from the man's throat.
The knight swallowed hard, sweat beading at his temple. Behind the visor of Lance's helm, cold blue eyes glared at him—eyes that carried open, unmasked killing intent. Another word, and his head would part ways with his body.
"You may continue, Lord Reveray."
The knight dared not move. Only then did Lance lower his voice again, firm and commanding.
Reveray, who had been momentarily stunned, finally understood—this Kingsguard wasn't here to condemn him. He was here to shield him.
Something about the man's back seemed oddly familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall where he had seen it before. After all, Lance's current appearance was a far cry from the way he had looked the previous night.
"Yes, ser!" Reveray straightened, rage boiling once more as he jabbed a finger toward the black-armored knight and spat out his fury:
"Last night, my men and I risked everything to smuggle His Majesty the King out of the city. Knowing the Darklyns would strike back, I secretly moved my family out of our keep, hiding them here.
We spent the whole night evading the Darklyn hounds. At dawn, we heard word of their surrender and were preparing to bring my wife back home.
But when we returned—what did we find? His men, slaughtering her without mercy!"
His voice broke with grief.
"They tore the clothes from her body, and right before my eyes, they drove their swords into her belly! My Vanessa… my poor wife… she was eight months with child. Our house was about to welcome a new heir, and yet…"
He raised a trembling hand, pointing straight at the black-armored knight.
"This wretch—this shameless dog—hid the murderer behind him! Then he dared insult me with a bribe of two gold dragons!
Two dragons—for my wife's life? For my unborn child? For the honor of our House?!
Seven hells take you all!"
Reveray's voice broke into sobs, his throat hoarse as though it bled with every word. By the end, his strength failed him, and he dropped to one knee, burying his face in his hands as grief overtook him.
Lance did not look back. His cold gaze remained fixed upon the black-armored knight as he asked, evenly, "Is what he says true?"
But instead of shame or remorse, the knight met Lance's stare with haughty disdain. His voice was low, heavy with implied threat:
"I am sworn to Prince Rhaegar's Dragonguard, ser. On my honor, I swear these men are accomplices of House Darklyn. Do not hinder us in carrying out His Grace's command."
"Is it true?" Lance repeated, his tone unchanged, as though he had not heard the knight's lofty title at all.
The knight's brows furrowed. Something about this Kingsguard felt… different. Narrowing his eyes, he demanded, "Who are you, truly? Forgive my bluntness, but I have seen every member of the Kingsguard. Never once have I seen you. What hole did you crawl out of, impostor?"
The words fell like a hammer. Soldiers around them erupted into murmurs, weapons raised as suspicion burned in their eyes. To impersonate a Kingsguard—one of the most sacred offices in all the realm—was treason of the highest order.
But then, a deep, resonant voice cut through the tension:
"Lay down your arms, men! The knight who stands before you is none other than Ser Lance Lot—the man who rode through fire and steel to deliver the King from his chains!"
"Ser Lance Lot!"
"By the Seven, it's true! Ser Lance Lot!"
The name rolled across the street like thunder. Suspicion gave way to awe, and awe to reverence.
Tales of Ser Lance Lot's midnight charge had already spread through the camps. A lone knight who had broken the siege of Duskendale, riding through arrow and flame, cutting down guards by the dozen to snatch the King from captivity.
Some claimed he stood twelve feet tall, twice the height of Ser Duncan the Tall. Others swore he breathed fire like a dragon, burning the Darklyn host to cinders, while a thousand arrows clattered harmlessly against his back.
Such were the legends of great knights. And for common soldiers—men who dreamed of earning spurs and shedding the yoke of birth—the sight of one such legend was near divine.
Even Reveray, drowning in grief, could not help but lift his tear-streaked face toward the broad white figure before him. His mind filled with the memory of last night—the vision of that same man, wreathed in fire, riding forth with the King behind him.
…
"Who dares spread such lies?!"
The black-armored knight snapped, though unease gnawed at him. He turned, intent on exposing the so-called liar. But his breath caught in his throat.
For there, stepping into view, was another white-cloaked figure.
"Ser… Ser Barristan!"
The name left his lips in a trembling whisper. His body shuddered despite himself.
At Dragonstone, he had often seen Ser Arthur Dayne—the Sword of the Morning, Prince Rhaegar's dearest friend. But Arthur was different.
Barristan the Bold was another matter entirely. Strength unmatched, temper fiery, and honor unbending. It was said that if he were angered, not even Lord Tywin Lannister himself would dare stand in his way.
"…What are you staring at?"
Lance's voice was flat, his right hand pressing forward. The edge of his greatsword crept closer to the knight's throat, the steel kissing bare flesh.
"This is the last time I'll ask. Did Lord Reveray speak the truth?"
The knight's chest tightened. For the briefest instant, staring into Lance's pale blue eyes, he felt as though he were looking directly into Prince Rhaegar's.
Fear of death clawed at his resolve. His voice cracked as he blurted, "Y-Yes! It's true!"
"Ser Rickard told me—before we even reached the city—that he meant to vent his rage in Duskendale. At first I thought it was mere bluster. Perhaps roughing up some peasants, nothing more. But then… he found the Lord Reveray's wife."
His voice dropped to a plea as he glanced at Lance.
"I swear it was not my doing, ser! Rickard—he has been Prince Rhaegar's squire since boyhood. He is close friends with Lord Jon Connington and Ser Oswell Whent! I had no choice but to obey his word! Do not blame me! Curse the Lord Reveray's wife's misfortune—had she revealed her identity sooner, perhaps Rickard would never have—"
Crack!
The sharp sound of a slap rang out. The knight staggered, blood and spit spraying from his mouth as his body bent under the blow.
Lance drew his hand back, eyes flashing with suppressed fury. His voice was low, cold, and final:
"Enough."