Chapter 62 – The Knight
The world spun violently.
Robert Baratheon hit the ground with a heavy thud, the impact driving the air from his lungs. For a moment, darkness swallowed him whole. Only after several seconds did the light slowly return to his vision.
And when it did—he saw nothing but white.
A gleaming figure stood before him, sunlight glinting off immaculate plate. The knight's snow-white cloak fluttered in the breeze, filling Robert's world entirely.
Gasping for breath, he lifted his head—and met a pair of calm, ocean-blue eyes staring down at him.
Those eyes were pure, unclouded by arrogance or cruelty. There was no joy in them, no pride of victory… yet they seemed to say:
"Do you see now, boy of the Stormlands?
This… is the Kingsguard."
Humiliation and fury surged in Robert's chest. He tried to push himself up, only for a sharp pain to lance through his ribs.
His hand flew to his chestplate—and froze. The mighty stag-emblazoned armor he had commissioned at great expense was dented, crushed inward by the tip of a training lance.
Seven hells… impossible!
Shock replaced rage. The lances used in tourneys were made of soft wood, designed to shatter on impact—to avoid killing the contestants. Yet this man had driven one so hard it nearly punched through tempered steel.
It shouldn't have been possible. Not without monstrous strength… and absolute control.
Too strong, Robert thought. Far too strong.
So this—this—was the power of the Kingsguard.
He had thought himself nearly invincible, the pride of the Vale's lists, certain he'd at least make it to the final round. But to be crushed so effortlessly, by just one of the kingsguard… it shook him to his core.
The fury in his green eyes dimmed to disbelief. He braced himself for mockery—but it never came.
The white knight simply looked down, shook his head, as if to say, "Train harder, boy."
Then, without another word, he turned his horse and rode off.
As the fluttering white cloak disappeared into the light, for the first time in his life, Robert Baratheon felt something new—
a sense that he might never catch up.
"Seems I won't be avenging your father after all, Ned…"
He rubbed his bruised chest, wincing at the sharp ache that told him at least two ribs were cracked.
"The Kingsguard… none of them are easy prey."
---
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible!"
From the stands, Brandon Stark—who had been watching the match for amusement—was even more shaken than Robert himself.
From his vantage point, he had seen everything: the tilt, the flawless dodge, the seamless counter.
In pure horsemanship, perhaps only his sister Lyanna could rival such grace. But to lift a man of Robert's size—over three hundred pounds—clean off his saddle with a wooden lance? That was beyond reason.
Brandon's breath caught. He prided himself on his strength, confident he could best Robert in a fair fight… but to do it this easily? Effortlessly, elegantly, like it was nothing at all?
He couldn't.
"Walys."
He swallowed hard and turned to the man beside him.
"That knight… he's dangerous. We'll need to find a way to deal with him."
He didn't say the words outright—but his meaning was clear enough.
Walys nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming with thought. His little "test" had proven its worth.
Had Brandon charged into battle unprepared, he might have ended up just like the young Baratheon—on his back in the dirt.
"Do not worry, my lord," Walys murmured with a thin smile, fingers brushing the hidden vial beneath his sleeve. "Victory in a tourney does not always come from the open field."
His gaze drifted toward the returning knight, the white armor catching the sunlight like silver fire.
"Sometimes," he whispered, "a different kind of skill wins the day."
---
Back at the royal stand, Lance Lot raised his broken lance high.
"Victory is mine, Your Grace!"
He didn't show it outwardly, but pride stirred in his heart. The moment he had touched the weapon, that instinctive, perfect connection—the bond between man and steel—had been undeniable.
The power of the Weapon Master skill surged within him. A fifty-percent boost to his proficiency in all arms—it was absurdly strong.
That was why, with a single strike, he had been able to hurl mighty Robert Baratheon from his saddle—using a weapon designed to break.
And make no mistake—Robert was no weakling. Even at fifteen, the sheer force behind his lance strike was terrifying. Had he been wielding his warhammer instead, he might have rivaled any S-rank warrior alive.
But now…
Lance knew with certainty: aside from Ser Barristan Selmy, there was no knight in the tourney who could stand against him—not even Arthur Dayne, not while the Dawn Knight was still recovering from his wounds.
He turned, expecting the king's voice, perhaps a word of praise. But instead of Aerys's pale figure, he saw only Barristan's calm eyes.
"His Grace has retired to his chambers," the old knight said quietly.
Lance frowned.
"So soon?"
Barristan hesitated, then added, "After you unhorsed the Baratheon boy, he left under the escort of Ser Gerold Hightower."
Lance's expression darkened slightly. Ever since his return to King's Landing, the Mad King had trusted no one but him, forcing him to stand watch by his side day and night.
And yet now, suddenly, Aerys had gone—without him.
Even though Lance had already won his match, and the next bout was about to begin, King Aerys unexpectedly rose from his seat.
He waved off the rest of the tournament, ordering Ser Gerold Hightower to escort him back to the Red Keep.
It was… highly unusual.
Lance frowned.
"Because of that man… Duncan?"
He murmured to himself, recalling the name Aerys and the others had mentioned earlier. Something about it felt important—but he couldn't place it.
Just as he was about to ask Barristan for details, the herald's voice echoed across the tourney field:
"For the next round—representing the Kingsguard—Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold!"
Barristan turned toward him with a faint smile.
"Apologies, Ser Lance," he said, shaking his head. "Your match is done. Now it's my turn."
He tucked his white-plumed helm beneath his arm, tying the chin strap as he leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"What you wish to know," he whispered, "I'll tell you after I win this fight."
Lance nodded. There was no point pressing further—he trusted the old knight's word.
Leaving the royal stand, he dismounted and began unbuckling his armor with the help of squires. As he did, a knight clad in crimson plate brushed past him.
Lance turned slightly, brow furrowed.
"That man…"
The figure atop the horse was slender, youthful. Though the helm hid his face, there had been a fleeting glance—an exchange of eyes that felt oddly familiar.
But no matter how he tried, Lance couldn't recall where he had seen it before.
He shook his head. Probably just my imagination.
Ahead, the royal stands came into view. Two young women sat together—one a Dornish princess, the other a girl with chestnut hair and violet eyes. They laughed softly, pretending to watch the matches, though Lance could feel their glances flicking toward him again and again.
He smiled faintly, about to approach—when the herald's next announcement froze him in place.
"Ser Barristan Selmy's opponent will be… from House Lannister—heir to the Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister—Ser… Jaime Lannister!"
Even the herald's voice faltered, uncertain. The boy before him looked no older than fourteen.
Lance blinked—and suddenly everything made sense.
That familiar gaze… the resemblance—of course.
Jaime Lannister. Cersei's twin brother.
It was said that when they were children, the two had often swapped clothes to fool their household, and even Lord Tywin himself couldn't tell them apart.
"No wonder he looked so familiar," Lance murmured.
So even Jaime had come to compete in the tourney. This event was turning into quite the gathering—kings, lords, legends of the Kingsguard… and now the future Kingslayer himself.
He frowned, eyeing the slim figure in red plate below.
"But how old is he, really?"
He recalled Cersei mentioning she was thirteen that year. Which meant Jaime—her twin—was the same age.
Thirteen. Barely a boy.
And yet his first match was against Barristan the Bold, one of the greatest knights alive.
Lance exhaled through his nose, half amused, half pitying.
"Of all the bad luck in Westeros… good luck, kid."
Around the arena, murmurs broke out as spectators recognized the young lion of Casterly Rock. After all, the heir of Lord Tywin himself entering a joust would never go unnoticed.
Especially not by certain sharp-eyed courtiers.
"If memory serves," drawled Lord Qarlton, the Master of Coin, turning toward Tywin, "your son is only thirteen, isn't he?"
Tywin's face remained impassive, golden eyes fixed on the field. He said nothing.
Truth be told, he hadn't even known Jaime was here. The boy had not asked permission, nor sent word ahead.
And Lord Tywin Lannister loathed surprises he did not control.
Lord Qarlton chuckled, leaning back in his seat.
"I wonder," he mused, "has your boy even been anointed yet? The joust is open only to true knights, after all. If His Grace were to hear of this…"
He smiled thinly, savoring the tension.
"…I imagine the king would not be pleased."