Chapter 18 – Kill!
Dong… dong dong…
Moller stood at the door, balancing a tray of steaming roasted meat, and knocked carefully.
From inside came the sound of a woman's pitiful sobs, laced with a man's vulgar, drunken laughter. A spark of anger welled up in him, but he quickly smothered it.
After all, he was the one who had invited them in.
Perhaps they were too caught up in their "fun," because no one inside came to answer the door. He waited a long while, then adjusted his breath, preparing to knock again. Just as he raised his hand, the sharp rhythm of hooves echoed behind him.
Turning around in confusion, he caught sight of a fluttering white cloak.
"L–Lord…!"
A man who had traveled far and wide, Moller immediately recognized the snow-white cloak of the Kingsguard. He bent at once, clutching the meat protectively, bowing low in deference.
In this famine-stricken town, food was worth more than gold. He had spent every last coin he owned to trade for this cut of meat from the local butcher.
As for where the butcher had gotten it?
That wasn't Moller's concern.
It was only that about a week ago… the butcher's wife had disappeared.
Starved to death, maybe…
Ever since the king's army had surrounded the town, food had grown scarcer by the day. Soon, even money couldn't buy a single morsel.
Many had gone mad from hunger; many more had dropped dead in the streets. The town had long since lost its lively spark.
Just like the blacksmith's apprentice across the street—he'd sold every last possession, vowing to spend it all in Yellow Pearl before he died. No one knew if he had actually made it.
"Two knights in black armor went inside, didn't they?"
The rider's steed reared, its massive hooves nearly crushing Moller's skull.
"Yes, my lord." Moller snapped out of his wandering thoughts and hurriedly nodded and bowed. "Ser Richard and Ser Myles entered some time ago."
From within the house came the broken cries of a woman again.
"And the women inside—who are they?"
Moller forced an awkward laugh. "My… my wife, and my two daughters."
"They're raping your wife and daughters, and yet you bring them food?"
Even a fool could tell what was happening behind that door. The knight's face twisted with disbelief at Moller's answer.
"I… I…" Moller's lips trembled. He wanted to explain, but the words stuck in his throat.
How could he admit that he was bartering away his wife and daughters for the chance of being knighted? Such things could never be spoken aloud.
"Hmph." The knight's eyes narrowed. He had heard enough.
He swung down from his horse, striding past Moller. As he did, his elbow slammed brutally into Moller's gut.
Caught off guard, Moller collapsed to his knees, retching violently. The roasted meat slipped from his grasp, tumbling across the dirt, coated in grime.
"Cough… cough…" Clutching his stomach, Moller reached out, grabbing at the knight's spotless white boots. His eyes begged for an answer—Why?
His only reply was another merciless kick to the skull.
"Some things never change. You're still disgusting, Moller."
Blood streamed down Moller's face. Dizzy, fading, he suddenly realized why that voice sounded so familiar.
"You… you're—"
"I am the nightmare of you filth!"
With a roar, the knight raised his armored boot and slammed it into the door.
Bang!
"Bastards!"
"Get the hell out—!"
Inside the room, one of the armored men was in the middle of his vile "fun." Thinking it was only Moller barging in, he turned to curse—only to meet a fist the size of a hammer.
Bang!
The blow sent him flying half a yard off the woman, crashing to the ground in a heap.
The sudden violence stunned the other knight, who had been busy tying rope around a second woman's limbs.
"What are you doing, Kingsguard?!"
He had never seen this man before, but that iconic white armor could not be mistaken. Dropping the rope, he swaggered forward, shamelessly exposed, and jabbed a finger at the intruder's face.
"Disgusting."
Lance sneered coldly, one hand resting on his sword hilt.
Before the man could react, steel flashed. He felt a sudden chill below his waist—then an agony like fire as blood gushed forth in torrents.
"Aaaaaaghhhh!"
Screaming, he collapsed to his knees, clutching between his legs, but no pressure could staunch the flood.
Lance did not spare him so much as a flicker of pity.
A glance around the room showed three women stripped bare, bound with ropes, their bodies covered in bruises and cuts. They had clearly suffered monstrous cruelty.
Lance's expression was still, but his eyes were colder than death. The desire to kill burned within him.
"Richard Lonmouth?"
The greatsword leveled at the kneeling knight. Lance's voice was like ice.
At that question, the fear of death drowned out the man's pain. Shaking his head violently, he thrust out a trembling finger—pointing at the one Lance had punched unconscious.
"Thank you, Ser Myles Mooton," Lance said with mock politeness, offering him a smile and a nod.
Relief flickered across Myles's face. But confusion followed.
How does he know my name?
He never found the answer. A flash of steel, and the next instant his throat was opened wide.
"Trash. Unworthy of breathing in this world."
His body hit the floor with a heavy thud.
At the doorway, Moller—still battered and bleeding—had tripped on the threshold. Wide-eyed, he stared in horror, muttering:
"Lan… Lance… impossible…"
Lance slung his sword over his shoulder, grinning down at him.
"Oh right. I almost forgot about you."
---
"…Damn it, why isn't he back yet?!"
Outside, Ser Barristan Selmy planted his sword in the ground, standing as a wall before Reveray and the other two. The circle of soldiers around them grew tighter by the minute, and his unease mounted.
It had been nearly half an hour since Lance went inside. In that time, the black-armored knights, still smarting from their humiliation, had summoned more and more of Prince Rhaegar's men.
Were it not for Lance's strict order to hold position, they would already have rushed in to silence the witnesses.
But Barristan Selmy's name alone was enough to hold them back. Even three hundred strong, none dared to test the White Knight's blade.
"Stand aside, Ser," Roland demanded, stepping forward. His eyes glittered with malice as he rubbed his bruised and swollen face.
"Prince Rhaegar will never allow his dearest friend to be branded a rapist and a murderer. You know this."
"If his friend breaks the law, that is fact." Barristan's eyelids lifted slightly, his voice ringing with unshakable conviction. "I will advise His Highness to find himself another friend."
"You—!" Roland's face darkened. Grinding his teeth, he spat, "You swore loyalty to House Targaryen! Do you understand what you're doing?! If word of this spreads, the prince's reputation will be ruined!"
But Barristan stood like an unyielding wall.
When Roland inched closer, Barristan raised his blade, his voice like a thunderclap.
"Back, ser!
I swore my oath to the king—and to protect his blood from harm.
That does not mean the prince's companions may commit vile crimes unchecked. Until my brother-in-arms returns with the guilty, I will not yield a single step!
And should you cowards dare wickedness before my eyes, I swear—I will cut you down one by one, just as I felled Maelys the Monstrous."