Chapter 61 – One Strike!
The Vale of Arryn.
The Eyrie.
In the quiet, high-walled hall of the Crescent Chamber, Rickard Stark sat before a platter of sizzling roast meat, the juices still dripping onto the table.
His right hand was wrapped in clean bandages — a grim reminder of the day a Kingsguard knight had sliced off his thumb. He awkwardly fumbled with the dining knife in his left hand, but after several failed attempts to cut his food properly, frustration overtook him.
"Seven damn it," he growled.
With a snarl, Rickard threw the knife aside and simply grabbed the meat with his hand, tearing into it with his teeth.
Across from him, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie, ate at a far more deliberate pace. His every movement was measured and calm, even graceful, despite his age. The old eagle's thin lips curled slightly as he observed the northern lord's brutish appetite.
"You look rather... disheveled," Jon remarked mildly. "I heard it was one of the Kingsguard who did that to you, wasn't it?"
Rickard's eyes flashed with fury.
"To hell with the Kingsguard!"
He slammed the meat down onto the table, the plate crashing to the floor as he stood, roaring with anger.
"It wasn't the Kingsguard—it was Aerys Targaryen himself! Those so-called white knights? They're nothing but royal hounds, biting whoever the Mad King tells them to bite!"
His chest heaved, voice echoing through the stone hall. But even in his anger, his sharp northern eyes flicked toward Jon Arryn, searching for a reaction.
The Vale's lord remained unperturbed, quietly cutting his meat, neither agreeing nor objecting.
Rickard narrowed his eyes slightly.
Old fox, he thought.
With a grunt, he sank back into his chair. The roast had fallen to the floor and gathered dust — he didn't bother to pick it up.
"Two hundred years, Jon," he said at last, his tone steady but his eyes burning with ambition. "The Targaryens have sat on that Iron Throne for over two centuries. And tell me—what have their dragons done for them lately?"
He leaned forward.
"The last dragon's been dead for a hundred years. Even weaklings like Denys Darklyn dared raise their swords against the crown. The truth is plain—the Targaryens' grip is slipping. The Seven Kingdoms obey out of habit, not loyalty."
He let the words hang heavy in the air before continuing.
"They are foreigners, Jon. We are the true sons of Westeros."
The meaning behind his words couldn't have been clearer.
Jon Arryn, however, did not immediately respond. He finished his meal first, methodically chewing what little his aging teeth allowed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost weary.
"I have no sons, Rickard."
He set his knife down, staring at the empty plate.
"You have three. But I have none. No sons, no daughters. Just a lonely old man in a cold castle."
Rickard's brows furrowed. For a moment, he said nothing.
"You have two foster sons, Jon," he said after a pause. "Robert and Eddard — both raised by you as if they were your own. You do have heirs."
Jon gave a small, tired chuckle.
"Robert Baratheon will inherit Storm's End one day. And Eddard…" He smiled faintly. "Eddard will always be your son, Rickard. He bears your name, not mine."
The mention of heirs drew a sigh from the Vale's lord.
"As for my nephew, Elbert Arryn — a good lad, but not fit to rule. You saw how quickly he followed your eldest's call to arms during that foolish duel. He has the heart of a knight, not a lord."
He paused, eyes softening for a moment.
"Perhaps he's better suited to guarding the Bloody Gate than ruling the Eyrie."
He gave a small laugh, though there was no humor in it.
Rickard said nothing for a while, only watching the fat drip from the spit into the flames.
"We'll win, Jon," he finally said, his voice low but firm.
The fire's smoke curled upward, veiling his expression in shifting gray.
"The crown's prestige is at its lowest in two hundred years. All it needs is a single spark to bring it down."
His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"Riverlands. The Vale. The Stormlands. The North."
"Four of the Seven Kingdoms united — I refuse to believe we can't topple a dynasty that's lost its dragons."
Jon Arryn's knife paused midair.
"Stannis's father — Lord Steffon Baratheon — will never agree to that," he said quietly. "He's closer to the king than anyone."
Jon's gaze sharpened. At sixty, his eyes still held the keen focus of a hunting falcon.
Rickard smirked, tearing another bite of meat.
"Steffon Baratheon?" he murmured. "Oh, he'll agree. He just doesn't know it yet."
Before Jon could respond, the heavy doors of the hall burst open with a bang!
A young man strode in, tall and grim, his long face unmistakably Stark. His gray eyes blazed with anger.
"Father!"
He stopped in front of Rickard, voice loud and accusing.
"Why did you provoke Robert? Why send him alone to King's Landing?"
Rickard raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"He's strong, yes — but he's fifteen! Challenging a Kingsguard at the tourney is madness!"
The young man's tone wavered between outrage and fear. Even when Jon Arryn shot him a warning look, he didn't back down.
"If not for Lyanna telling me, I wouldn't have known at all!" he continued, voice trembling with emotion. "It's wrong, Father. Dishonorable! We Starks shouldn't act this way."
He drew a deep breath, his chest heaving.
"Even if they cut off your finger, I'll avenge you myself — with my sword, not by sending Robert to die for it!"
Rickard froze — then slowly smiled.
His second son, Eddard Stark, stood tall before him, his face earnest and unyielding, the very image of a northern knight.
Rickard's lips curled into a faint, approving grin as he turned his head toward Jon Arryn.
"Heh…"
"You see?" he said quietly. "The boy's got the heart of a true Stark."
Rickard chuckled twice, a low, measured sound, and placed the half-cooked slab of meat back on his plate. Returning to his seat, he leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded in calm amusement.
"And who told you," he said softly, "that I sent him south alone, Ned?"
---
"Ugh, what a waste of time."
High above the arena, a broad-shouldered man sat behind a silver mask, looking thoroughly irritated as his gaze swept across the two knights lining up below. His deep voice dripped with impatience.
"I don't get it, Walys. What are you and my father thinking? If you ask me, you should've just let me fight instead. I'd have humiliated those so-called Kingsguard in front of everyone — our goal achieved instantly!"
His tone was full of arrogance and the unshakable confidence of a man who had never known defeat.
"That Robert Baratheon down there — sure, he's big, but it's obvious he can barely use a lance. That 'victory' earlier was pure brute strength and dumb luck, swinging wildly until his opponent fell. Pathetic."
The young man's scorn was palpable.
Beside him, Maester Walys gave a raspy little laugh, his soft, sibilant voice as eerie as his unnaturally bright green eyes.
"We mustn't be careless, young Lord Brandon," he said, his tone dripping with mock patience. "That man — Ser Lance Lot — rode alone through the siege of Duskendale, cutting down over a thousand soldiers to rescue the King. Later, with only two Kingsguard at his side, he routed an enemy ten times their number."
Walys's lips curled into a shadow of a smile.
"Those weren't nameless foes, I assure you. I don't know exactly who they were, but I can guess the kind of men he's defeated. To face such an opponent, we must prepare for every possibility."
"Hmph."
Brandon snorted but said nothing more. His annoyance eased, though his pride remained. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked down on the jousting field with the disdain of a wolf watching sheep.
Since childhood, no one in the North had ever bested him.
And if the strong men of the North couldn't stand against him, how could these soft-bellied southern knights?
"Three men against thirty?" he muttered with a scoff. "Either those 'enemies' were cowards, or that story's as fake as a septon's vow."
He smirked behind his mask.
"Bah. If it were me, I'd carve through a hundred of these pampered fools before breaking a sweat."
Still, curiosity lingered.
"Fine then," he murmured. "Let's see what makes the Seven Kingdoms call you their finest, Ser Lance Lot."
---
In the jousting field.
Robert Baratheon fastened his iron antlered helm, lowering it until the world became a tunnel of light and dust. Across the arena, his opponent — the white-clad knight of the Kingsguard — waited motionless atop his steed.
Robert's green eyes burned with fury.
It was these men, these hypocritical "protectors," who had maimed his friend's father.
A Lord — mutilated like a common prisoner!
The memory filled him with righteous rage.
"Prepare to taste defeat, Kingsguard!" he roared, driving his spurs into the horse's flank. "I, Robert Baratheon, will knock you from that saddle myself!"
Across from him, Lance exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.
"So much barking…" he muttered.
Robert was strong — monstrously so, even at fifteen — but strength alone didn't win jousts. Even in his prime, with the power of a warrior god, Robert would've struggled to match Lance's skill.
And Lance, bolstered by the instincts of a Weapon Master, knew it.
He pulled down his visor, his body lowering smoothly until his chestplate brushed the stallion's mane.
The horse pawed at the ground, nostrils flaring, sensing the battle lust in its rider.
Around them, the crowd fell into hushed anticipation.
A single word cut through the silence:
"Begin!"
Two sets of spurs struck. Two warhorses surged forward at once — one gold, one white — their armored riders hurtling toward each other like twin bolts of lightning.
In a heartbeat, they clashed.
"Aaargh!"
Robert bellowed, lowering his lance with raw strength, aiming to hammer the Kingsguard straight from his saddle — the same reckless, brutal tactic that had won him before.
But through the narrow slit of Lance's visor, calm blue eyes merely flicked toward him, cool and sharp as winter ice.
At the last possible moment, Lance leaned to the side with impossible grace.
Whoosh!
Robert's lance cut through empty air — missing completely.
Before he could even curse, a shattering impact struck his chest. Lance's counterattack landed squarely against his breastplate, the force driving through his ribs like a thunderclap.
The crowd gasped as Robert's body lurched backward.
Sunlight gleamed off Lance's snow-white armor as his lance struck true. In one swift, precise motion, he tilted the weapon upward, letting the full weight of Robert's charge carry him off balance.
And then —
CRACK!
The mighty stag was lifted from his saddle, flung high into the air, and slammed into the dirt before the stands.
The entire arena fell silent for half a heartbeat—then erupted in wild, disbelieving cheers.
In a single exchange — just one strike — the white knight had sent the towering heir of Storm's End crashing to the ground.
Even behind his visor, Lance's smirk was unmistakable.
"Next."