Chapter 19 – Lance Lot the Fearless!
The moment Ser Barristan spoke, his presence alone silenced the crowd.
Even Roland faltered, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. He dared not speak against the legendary knight before him.
Measured by feats of arms alone, this middle-aged Kingsguard stood in a class of his own within all of Westeros. Even the famed Sword of the Morning—hailed as the finest knight of the Seven Kingdoms—stood a step behind him.
After all, Barristan Selmy was no mere title; he had once cut his way into an enemy host thousands strong, slaying their general with his own hand. A man of living legend.
Yet, even so, Roland's ambition did not fade. After a moment's thought, he leaned close to his men and whispered darkly:
"Watch my signal. When I move, rush in and cut them down. I refuse to believe one man can hold back hundreds of us.
But remember—under no circumstance are you to strike Ser Barristan. Do you hear me?"
"Understood, my lord!" came the reply. With that, his men slipped quietly into the throng.
Roland drew a slow breath, eyes narrowing with malice as he stared at those huddled behind Barristan. Reveray and the others, exhausted from fleeing all night, sat slumped on the ground.
They must die, he thought coldly. Without witnesses, Barristan and this upstart Lance Lot could say what they wished before the king—none could contradict them.
But nothing escaped Barristan the Bold. His seasoned eyes noted every shifting soldier in the crowd. Lifting his longsword, he edged back a step, shielding Reveray and the others.
"On your feet! Take up your arms, my lord!" he barked.
"Stay close behind me. I'll lead us out!"
His voice rang with iron-clad certainty, radiating a confidence born of countless battles.
Wearied though they were, Reveray and his companions obeyed at once, gripping their weapons and drawing close to Barristan's side.
The air grew taut, blades drawn, every heartbeat heavier than the last.
Roland clenched his jaw, ready to give the signal—when suddenly, a round, heavy object came hurtling down from above. It smashed into the ground with a thud, nearly striking Roland himself.
"Who in the seven hells is throwing—" He began to curse, but the words died on his lips as the thing rolled twice and came to rest before him, face turned upward.
A human head.
Roland's eyes bulged.
Seven save us…
Before his horror could form words, a thunderous voice bellowed from the edge of the crowd:
"Out of the way, you fools! Move, or be trampled!"
The standoff shattered as a warhorse thundered through, soldiers shrieking as they were knocked aside under its hooves.
And upon that destrier rode Lance Lot.
The beast was a proud riverland charger, and today it had carried its master through two charges over the bodies of Targaryen loyalists—enough to rival any famed warhorse of legend.
"Lance Lot!" Roland spat in fury. His finger stabbed toward the fallen head. "What have you done!? That is Ser Richard Lonmouth, sworn companion of Prince Rhaegar and heir to House Lonmouth!
You've doomed yourself! Not even the white cloak of the Kingsguard will shield you from the wrath of Rhaegar, of Lord Lonmouth—nor from Lord Baratheon himself!"
Smack!
Lance's gauntleted hand struck Roland across the face, silencing him at once. Both cheeks swelled red, almost comically symmetrical.
"Enough."
The coldness in Lance's gaze brought Roland's fear rushing back—the memory of another slap, not long ago. He dared not speak again.
But Lance leaned down in the saddle, voice low, meant for Roland alone.
"Rhaegar. Lonmouth. Baratheon. Have I repeated that wrongly?"
Roland kept silent, but Lance Lot's eyes hardened.
"Answer me! Look at me!"
Jolted by the command, Roland lifted his gaze—only to meet the lifeless stare of Richard Lonmouth's severed head. Terror clawed at his chest. Above it, Lance's piercing blue eyes bored into him, so like the prince he served.
"Yes… yes, ser!" Roland stammered, his voice loud and desperate, as if declaring fealty.
"Good."
Satisfied, Lance straightened, wheeled his mount into the center, and raised his blade high. Reveray looked on with gratitude as Lance's voice boomed across the square:
"I am Lance Lot!
Some of you may have heard my name. Many of you have not. No matter.
What you must know is this: the man behind me is Lord Reveray Rykker, a true and loyal knight of the realm!
It is true I pulled His Grace from the trap at Duskendale—but I was not alone!
Without the aid of Lord Rykker, both I and our king would have perished beneath Darklyn steel!
Tell me, when your king was trapped in Duskendale's walls, how many of you were at his side? How many of you dared ride to his rescue?"
His voice thundered across the assembly.
"None!"
The single word cracked like a warhorn, echoing in every soldier's ear.
As Lance's cold gaze swept across them, the soldiers lowered their eyes one by one. Shame weighed heavy, and their hands slowly slackened on their weapons.
Then, with a deliberate motion, Lance leveled his longsword—its blade pointing toward the severed head of Ser Richard Lonmouth lying on the ground.
"Lord Reveray risked everything—his life, his house, his honor—to save both me and His Grace, and through us, this very realm!
For that loyalty, he was hunted through the night, his family forced from their castle, hounded by the Darklyns!
And when his strength was spent, when he had proven his faith beyond doubt—this nobleman, this true servant of the crown—his pregnant wife was ravished by that dog, Richard Lonmouth!"
Lance's words rang with such force that even the hardened men about him could not help but believe. At that, Lord Reveray himself broke down, weeping openly before all.
The soldiers shifted uneasily, their eyes full of sympathy for the man.
"I know," Lance continued, his voice cutting deep, "that you serve Prince Rhaegar. But look at yourselves! You wear the red dragon on your breast. You are Targaryen men, sworn to the king!"
He drew in a breath, voice rising like a thunderclap:
"Now think! If you gave your all for crown and realm, only to return home and find your wife despoiled, your children butchered—would you endure it?
To defile the king's savior is to defile the king himself! To insult Lord Reveray is to insult not only His Grace, but Prince Rhaegar as well!"
His words lit a fire in their hearts.
"Would you suffer men to rape your wives and murder your kin?"
"No!!!" the soldiers roared.
"Would you allow your king to be shamed before your very eyes?"
"No!!!"
The fury in their voices shook the air. Their eyes blazed like wolves set upon prey, and every gaze turned upon Roland.
Cold dread crept over him. His throat tightened. Why… why do my own men look at me like enemies?
Lance's voice cut through like a blade:
"Soldiers! Faced with the enemies who raped your wives, slaughtered your kin, and dishonored your king—what do you do?"
"Kill!!!"
"Kill!!!"
"Kill!!!"
The cry thundered like storm and steel, echoing off the walls.
Roland shuddered. A sudden hot wetness spread down his legs. He longed to run, but his knees would not obey. Surrounded by these rabid wolves, where could he possibly go?
Lance's mouth curled into a thin, satisfied smile.
"Then what are you waiting for? In the king's name—kill!"
"Roooar!!!"
With that, the Targaryen host surged forward, no longer bound by hesitation. They fell upon Roland like a flood unleashed, some hacking and smashing at Richard's head as if to erase even his memory.
Roland's scream never came—he was swallowed whole by the tide.
Lance, meanwhile, had already reined his destrier aside, leading Reveray and the others to safety.
"You…"
Ser Barristan Selmy, the famed Bold Barristan, stared at him, shaken. For all his years of service, even he could not disguise his astonishment.
"You turned his own men upon him with but a few words. Lance, those were Dragonstone soldiers—Rhaegar's men!"
"They were never his men," Lance replied coolly. "They are soldiers of House Targaryen. And only the king commands the dragon's host."
"Ahhh…"
For a moment, Barristan let out a long breath. Relief—almost exhilaration—washed over him.
Ever since King Aerys had been taken captive, whispers had filled the realm—whispers that Rhaegar should take the throne. The tide was nearly overwhelming. Alone, even the Bold could not stand against the full weight of the royal council.
But now… with Lance at his side, perhaps the king's rule could yet be made strong again.
Still, he could not help but warn the fiery young knight:
"You slew Richard. Have you thought how you'll answer to Prince Rhaegar?"
"Answer?" Lance scoffed. "I wear the white cloak of the Kingsguard. I answer only to the king."
His voice hardened, edged with steel:
"And let me be clear—I slew not only Richard Lonmouth, but also Myles Mooton. What of it?
Prince Rhaegar? Let the boy sit the throne first, then I'll answer him!"
Barristan studied the younger man's defiance, his unyielding spirit. Reckless, yes. Dangerous, without question. But in that boldness he saw a reflection of his own youth, when he too had been a knight the world could not bend.
"Tell me, lad," Barristan said at last, smiling for the first time, his tone almost fatherly. "How does this sound to you—Lance Lot the Fearless?"