Chapter 60 – Suspicion
"Bang! Thud!"
By the banks of the Blackwater Rush, a knight clad head to toe in steel was thrown from his horse. His heavy armor spared his life, and though he hit the soft mud hard, he suffered little more than bruises.
"Roar! I—Robert Baratheon—will be the champion!"
Across the field, the towering victor ripped off his antlered helm, revealing neat black hair and a ruggedly handsome face. His blue eyes gleamed with pride as he basked in the cheers, many a young noblewoman's gaze lingering on him with open admiration.
The defeated knight, red with shame, hurled his helmet to the ground. "The ground's too slick! If it were sand, I'd have won!"
No one agreed. Laughter rippled through the stands, and with his dignity in tatters, the beaten knight slunk off the field.
"What a spirited young man," King Aerys mused approvingly from the royal dais, eyes following the triumphant Robert as he circled the arena on horseback. "Stronger than Steffon was at his age—he's nearly as large as Ser Duncan the Tall!"
He chuckled wickedly and raised his cup. "They say he weighed eleven pounds when he was born. I've no idea how poor Cassana managed to push him out—ha!"
Aerys sipped his wine, completely oblivious to the stony silence of the woman beside him. Queen Rhaella's attention was elsewhere—her chin rested on her hand as she stared absently toward the white-clad knight across the lists.
Ser Bonifer had been gone for half a month without a single raven or word. The waiting gnawed at her. If she couldn't get the truth soon, she would have to test it herself…
As if sensing her gaze, Ser Lance Lot glanced over his shoulder, then quickly looked away with a faint shake of his head.
Being handsome isn't a crime, he thought wearily. And it's not my fault the Queen keeps staring at me.
He couldn't deny that, for a mother of two, Queen Rhaella's beauty had a certain mature allure—but still, Aerys had once saved his life.
By the Seven, Lance swore silently, even if Rhaella desired me, I'd never betray the King. I'm no thief of crowns or beds.
"Hey, old knight," he said, nudging Ser Barristan beside him with an elbow, eager to change the subject. "Is it true you first entered a tourney at… ten years old?"
"That's right," Barristan replied, utterly serious. "Ser Manfred Swann sponsored me with a suit of armor—far too large for me—but I wore it all the same and rode into the lists."
"At the time, none dared face me except Prince Duncan. I was only ten years old, disguised as a mystery knight at a tourney in Blackhaven. Though I lost, the prince himself named me 'The Bold.' Six years later, at sixteen, I returned to the lists and defeated him in fair combat."
Pride glimmered in Barristan's eyes as he recounted his story. He turned to Lance—then paused, his expression shifting from pride to startled disbelief.
"Now that I look at you, Ser Lance… has anyone ever told you that you look like Prince Duncan? No—more than like. You're identical! By the Seven, how have I never seen it before?"
His voice wasn't quiet. Both the King and Queen heard him clearly—and both turned their eyes on Lance.
Where Aerys's gaze was wide with shock, Rhaella's eyes shimmered with something else entirely—confirmation.
So I wasn't mistaken after all…
"By the Seven!" Aerys lurched to his feet, seizing Lance by the shoulders and staring at him with feverish intensity. "Unbelievable! When I first saw you, I thought you reminded me of Gwayne Gaunt—but no, I can't even recall what that man looked like anymore. It was Duncan! It's him you resemble!"
But as he said the name, his expression darkened. A shadow passed through his violet eyes. Slowly, he turned to his wife.
"Look for yourself, Rhaella," he rasped. "I can barely remember my uncle's face… but you remember, don't you?"
The question dripped with venom.
Rhaella's hand whitened around her wine cup. For an instant, fury flashed across her face—but then it vanished. She composed herself, rose gracefully, and walked toward Lance.
Her chin tilted high, her indigo eyes gleaming with disdain as she gave him a slow, deliberate look from head to toe.
Then, with a cool smile, she said lightly, "Not at all. The great Prince Duncan Targaryen was far more handsome than this one."
She swirled her wine glass and suddenly, without warning, flung the crimson liquid straight into Lance's face. The expensive red splashed across his cheeks and dripped down his collar.
"You dare compare that lowborn fool to Uncle Duncan? That's an insult to his very name!"
Before anyone could react, Queen Rhaella spat out the words, turned sharply, and stormed out of the royal box.
The wine slid down his chin in slow rivulets as Lance stared, bewildered, at the queen's curvaceous figure retreating in fury.
He had no idea what had just happened.
Although being splashed with wine was humiliating, Lance didn't feel angry. It wasn't as if it hurt him. What he felt, more than anything, was confusion.
Who in the seven hells looks like Duncan?
Hell, I'm not even a monk!
"Ha… hahahaha…"
Only after the queen's departure did Aerys' expression soften, shifting from stern to amused.
Knowing Rhaella as he did, if Lance truly resembled Duncan, she would never have flung wine at the face she once adored.
"Foolish woman… she's gone utterly mad!"
The king cursed theatrically, grabbing a corner of his sleeve to wipe Lance's face—his silk sleeve, of course—before shooting an irritable glance at Ser Barristan.
"You're getting senile, Kingsguard! Don't speak such nonsense again—your tongue almost caused a scene!"
"Yes… Your Grace."
Barristan lowered his gaze respectfully.
Even so, he studied Lance again, uncertain but ultimately stepping back. So what if I was wrong? It's hardly worth the trouble.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves broke the tension as Robert finally rode up to the royal stand.
Oblivious to what had just transpired, he shouted excitedly, "I won, Your Grace! Make me one of your Kingsguard!"
Aerys laughed—a sharp, brittle sound.
The young knight's eagerness amused him, but his reply was measured.
"I would love to, Baratheon," he said, rapping a hand on the railing.
"But if I made you one of my Kingsguard, your father would sail back from across the Narrow Sea just to curse me to my face!"
"I don't care!"
Robert's booming voice rang across the tourney grounds. With the physique of a brown bear and the temper of one too, he raised his spear and thumped his chest.
"I'm stronger than any of your Kingsguard, Your Grace! If you doubt my skill, let me prove it—send your best! Be it the Sword of the Morning or Ser Barristan himself, I'll defeat them before your eyes!"
"Mind your tongue, Baratheon!" Barristan barked, stepping forward with disapproval.
"You are your house's heir, destined to inherit Storm's End. It's because of that your king spares you from such oaths. Don't throw your future away, boy!"
But the young stag only scowled, jabbing his spear toward the knight.
"You're the eldest son too! Why is it right for you but not for me, old man? You're just afraid I'll take your place once I'm sworn!"
"You—!"
Barristan's face flushed with anger, ready to deliver a scathing retort—but Lance raised a hand, silently telling him, Leave this to me.
"How old are you, boy?" Lance asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Fifteen!" Robert replied proudly.
Lance blinked, then threw back his head in exaggerated disbelief.
"Fifteen? Seven hells, you look thirty! If you hadn't said your name, I'd have mistaken you for Lord Steffon's brother!"
The crowd burst into laughter. Even the royal stand rippled with amusement.
Robert's face turned crimson. "You damned bastard—!"
Barely containing his fury, he turned to the king. "Your Grace, this man mocks me! I demand a duel!"
Aerys opened his mouth to refuse, but then paused. His violet eyes flicked toward Lance—who was already smiling, eager for a fight.
After a moment's thought, the king nodded slowly.
"This is a matter between knights. I cannot forbid it."
He looked at Lance. "Ser Lance, do you accept the challenge of Ser Robert Baratheon?"
"With pleasure, Your Grace."
If someone wanted to court humiliation, Lance was not about to deny them the chance. He smirked. "I'll show this cub what it truly means to be Kingsguard."
Aerys gave a curt nod and returned to his seat. As Barristan helped Lance adjust his armor and fasten his helm, the king's eyes glimmered strangely.
He watched in silence until Lance descended toward the field, then drained his wine in one long swallow.
Lance's blue eyes flicked briefly toward the royal dais as he passed Barristan and murmured so only the older knight could hear:
"When this duel is over, Ser Barristan… I'd like you to tell me everything you know—"
"—about Prince Duncan the Small."