Chapter 58 – To Rhaenyra
Thud... thud...
The sound of armored boots echoed softly across the carpeted floor.
Under a hundred curious, disbelieving gazes, the tall knight in white armor walked slowly toward the center of the hall and stepped onto the stage. Without hesitation, he sat before the silver-stringed harp.
"Wait— isn't that Ser Lance Lot?"
"What's he doing? Don't tell me... he's going to play the harp?"
"Hold on. I heard he used to be a blacksmith! Since when do blacksmiths know how to play instruments—let alone in full armor?"
The whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd, filled with doubt and derision.
This was, after all, a world bound tightly by class. A blacksmith's son could only forge iron; a farmer's boy would till the same soil; a cobbler's child would spend his life stitching shoes. No one expected someone born low to touch the realm of the nobility—let alone the arts.
To most, Lance's rise to the Kingsguard was already an anomaly—perhaps only made possible by some freakish talent and proximity to weapons.
But music? That was beyond imagining.
Not everyone, after all, was blessed with the innate brilliance of Prince Rhaegar.
---
After a long absence, Queen Rhaella finally returned to the ballroom, exhaling softly as she settled beside her husband, the King. But the moment her eyes caught the figure seated at the harp, her blue-violet gaze widened in shock.
"What... what is he doing there?"
The queen's disbelief was almost audible. That proud, upright posture—it was identical to how her Uncle Duncan once sat when playing for her in her youth.
She was about to speak when the white knight's fingers brushed across the strings.
A crystalline note rang out—then another—and soon, a cascade of soft, shimmering tones filled the air.
"This... this can't be..."
Rhaegar, who had been sitting with his arms crossed and a smirk of anticipation, instantly straightened in his seat, his expression freezing in astonishment.
The knight's fingers danced effortlessly across the harp strings. His control was confident, elegant, and startlingly precise. Every note landed with practiced ease—as if he had been born to play.
Rhaegar couldn't believe it. The technique, the rhythm—almost on par with his own!
And the melody...
The melody was divine.
By the Seven—he swore he had never heard such a piece in his life.
The notes shimmered with a crystalline clarity, the melody tender and pure, like a young man softly confessing his love to a woman he adored from afar.
Seven above... what song is this?!
He gripped the armrests of his chair, the envy in his chest tightening like a vice. There was no longer any room to question Lance's skill—the music had already claimed his soul.
And it wasn't just him. The entire hall had fallen silent, bewitched. Even without lyrics, even without words, the music painted an emotion so vivid that hearts swayed with every pluck of the string.
Rhaegar realized, with a sharp twist of humiliation, that this time... he had been utterly outshone.
The melody rose to a breathtaking crescendo, then descended softly like a sigh, fading into silence.
No one moved. No one dared break the spell. It was as if the entire hall was still caught in the echo of that story—of love, longing, and devotion.
Finally, someone clapped. Then another. And then—
Thunderous applause erupted.
The cheers were twice as loud as those Rhaegar had received moments earlier.
---
Ding!
[Advancement Mission Complete.]
Standing before the harp, Lance smiled faintly at the familiar mechanical chime in his mind.
It had been worth bringing out Beethoven himself to deal with Rhaegar. After all, Für Elise was one of the most widely known masterpieces in his past life.
If that couldn't put the prince in his place, then Lance would gladly admit defeat.
But in the end, he thought smugly, no matter how talented you are... your art now belongs to me.
The applause rolled on like waves. Noblewomen gazed at him with open admiration, some with barely concealed hunger. A few of the bolder widows looked at him like wolves ready to devour prey.
But amidst all those gazes, four pairs of eyes stood out distinctly—
One blue. One black. One violet. One green.
---
"Ha ha ha ha!!"
"By the Seven, boy—you never cease to surprise me!"
Even King Aerys rose from his seat, clapping furiously, laughter booming through the hall.
"I had no idea you possessed such extraordinary talent!"
The King gripped Lance's arm, eyes alight with excitement, as though seeing him for the first time.
"Truly... a dragon's spirit! A true dragon!"
He stared deep into Lance's sapphire eyes and sighed quietly to himself.
If only this young man were my son...
Lance smiled modestly. "Well, this was actually my first time playing. It wasn't as hard as I expected."
The hall went still for a moment—then Rhaegar nearly choked.
Your first time?
He wanted to scream. You call that your first time?!
He'd spent over a decade mastering the harp—sometimes sleeping with it by his side—and now this smug bastard was saying it was "not hard"?
If that was truly his first attempt, Rhaegar Targaryen swore he'd eat the harp.
And then, insult upon injury, he turned and caught the sight of both women beside him—Elia and his mother—staring at Lance with open affection.
Rhaegar's vision darkened.
Elia was one thing... but Mother?!
Grinding his teeth, he muttered, "I'm not feeling well," and stormed out of the hall. Jon Connington hurried after him, barely keeping pace.
No one else seemed to care. Even Queen Rhaella only gave a passing glance before turning her attention back to the white knight.
Elia, meanwhile, could no longer contain herself.
"Ser Lance," she asked eagerly, "what do you call this piece? It's... it's beautiful!"
"It's called—"
Lance began to reply, but then his gaze caught Queen Rhaella's. She was watching him closely, brow faintly furrowed.
On instinct—perhaps mischief, perhaps fate—he changed his words.
"It's called... To Rhaenyra."
---
Meanwhile, ten miles outside King's Landing...
A group of riders thundered down the dark stretch of the Kingsroad, led by a tall man with rough-hewn northern features and a greatsword strapped to his back. His hair was slightly curled, his eyes sharp beneath a fur-lined cloak.
He was every inch the image of the North.
"Someone ahead!" a knight shouted.
The man raised his hand and frowned. Even this close to the capital, his instincts from years in the North kept him cautious.
But then, under the moonlight, he caught sight of several riders bearing the sigil of the direwolf—the same emblem stitched on his own surcoat.
Recognition dawned.
"Father! It's Father!"
With sudden joy, he spurred his horse faster, calling out.
Moments later, they met on the road—Lord Rickard Stark's weathered face illuminated by the moon.
"Father!"
Before anyone could react, a small, lithe figure on horseback leapt forward, moving with breathtaking agility.
As she passed Rickard, she grabbed the reins at his saddle, spun in midair, and landed gracefully in his arms.
Such mastery of horsemanship—so fluid, so precise—that even the famed Dothraki, born and raised in the saddle, might not have matched it.
And yet, not a single man among them seemed surprised. It was as if such feats were second nature to her.
"Hahaha… look at that! Isn't this my little Lyanna? You've grown so tall!"
"Stop ruffling my hair, Father."
Though she protested as Rickard Stark's rough hand tousled her brown curls, her eyes gleamed with a rare, tender light—one of nostalgia.
Since her father had departed for King's Landing, she hadn't felt this warmth in a long, long time.
"Wait…"
Still smiling, Lyanna suddenly froze. Her eyes widened as she lifted her father's right hand—wrapped tightly in white bandages.
"Your hand… Father, your hand—!"
"Father!!!"
At that moment, Brandon Stark galloped up with his men, excitement and relief written all over his face.
"Look at Father's hand, Bran!"
Lyanna held it up. The torchlight revealed what the bandages could not hide—Rickard's right thumb was gone.
"Who did this?! Tell me, and I'll cut him down myself!"
"Yes! Whoever dared to raise a hand against the Lord of Winterfell has insulted all the North! He must die!"
Brandon's fiery temper flared instantly—so like his father's in his youth. He ripped his half-sword from his back, eyes burning with fury.
The men behind him roared in agreement, drawing blades and axes, each one eager to avenge their lord's mutilation.
"It was Ser Lance Lot of the Kingsguard."
Rickard's voice was calm, even faintly amused, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the loss of a finger.
The name struck like a hammer.
"The Kingsguard?!" Brandon's eyes bulged. "Then I'll ride into the city and kill him myself!"
"Kill him!"
"Let's go!"
His men shouted as one, every sword raised, every face burning with rage. Not a single voice objected.
But before they could move, Rickard's deep voice stopped them cold.
"Hold your horses, lads!"
The Lord of Winterfell gave a grim smile, showing no pain, only the dark gleam of vengeance in his eyes.
"This didn't start with Lance Lot. The order came from the King himself. He not only commanded the Kingsguard to take my finger—he exiled me from King's Landing entirely."
His voice dropped to a growl, cold and resolute.
"But that's fine. Sooner or later, I'll have my revenge… because the North remembers!"
"The North remembers!"
"The North remembers!"
The cry echoed into the night, blades raised high, fury burning in every northern heart.
When the roar finally died down, Brandon stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"What now, Father? Shall we return to the North and rally our bannermen? One word from you, and every lord will rise!"
"No, my son."
Rickard placed a firm hand on his shoulder, his tone grave yet proud.
"Bravery alone won't win this war. The North never fears battle—never has. But to face all the South, we must plan. We must bide our time."
He glanced back at the maester who had ridden behind him and then turned toward the dark horizon.
"For now… we wait. And we prepare."