Chapter 101 — Black Armor. White Armor. Red Armor.
Ruins.
That was the first word that surfaced in Lance's mind as he led several dozen red-cloaked knights into Sow's Horn.
(Sow's Horn: Seat of House Hogg.)
What remained of the village was barely recognizable. Ash and burnt timber filled the air, and the scorched stench of a razed settlement clung to every breath.
Every house had been reduced to cinders—except one.
Roger Hogg's stone "keep" stood untouched amidst the devastation, its walls seemingly tempered into something even harder by the inferno.
"Kh… kh…"
Beside him, a Lannister knight covered his nose, coughing lightly, the charred smell clearly aggravating him.
"You can't stand the scent, Ser Tybolt?"
Lance glanced over. During their ride, he'd exchanged a few words with the redcloak captain and learned the man's name.
Hearing the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard address him, Tybolt Hetherspoon—despite being a landed knight of the Westerlands—quickly dropped his hand, straightened his back, and replied honestly:
"My apologies, Ser Lance.
Since my daughter Melara passed, it feels as if the Seven have abandoned me. Sometimes I can feel my strength fading, as though the muscles I once relied on are slowly wasting away."
"I requested permission from Lord Tywin to resign my post as captain—but he… never approved it."
Tybolt hid nothing. He admitted openly what age and grief had done to him.
Lance merely nodded. He offered no comfort.
For a knight who had lost his only child, the crushing grief was more than enough to break even the strongest man. And by all accounts, Tybolt's daughter had been close friends with Tywin Lannister's eldest girl—until the day she fell into a deep well in Casterly Rock and drowned.
A man and wife with only one daughter.
Middle-aged, left childless.
Not everyone survives that kind of loss.
Still, Lance said nothing. They were little more than passing acquaintances. And had he not forcibly taken this group out of King's Landing—they might well be enemies right now.
More importantly, he had urgent business to attend to.
"Ser!"
A cluster of Lannister knights hurried toward him from different parts of the village.
"It appears the village suffered a severe massacre. Nearly every building was torched. We found thirty-two bodies."
"One was armored—burnt beyond recognition. Even the crest melted away. But it is most likely the local lord, Ser Roger Hogg."
"No survivors?"
Lance's eyes remained calm, almost detached, as if the news stirred nothing inside him.
The reporting knight swallowed hard as soon as their gazes met.
"No living persons found, Ser. And no sign of Prince Rhaegar, either."
"Heh…"
A soft chuckle escaped Lance's throat—gentle yet chilling enough to make the Lannister knights stiffen.
"Seven above… look what your faithful have done."
He wasn't some saint. But as he stared at the scattered corpses, an unmistakable anger rose within him.
These pious hypocrites—forever preaching "the Light of the Seven" and "the Father's justice"—were no better than cutthroats. In truth, they were worse than criminals.
Usurpation.
Murder.
Massacre.
All to restore their laughable "divine right," they would commit any atrocity. Their arrogance was boundless.
And this… was the Crownlands.
"Any trails to follow?"
Lance asked again after a long, steady breath—his tone colder, sharper.
If there was no corpse, then Rhaegar was likely alive.
And he needed to find the prince before the zealots did.
"We found hoofprints leading north."
"Judging from the spacing, the group is not large—but wiping out a village of thirty means they're extremely efficient. Elite, most likely."
"Elite?" Lance murmured, expression unreadable.
Lance let out a cold snort, shooting the knight a sideways glance.
Elite?
He had cut down fifty of these so-called "elites" in the Sept not long ago without even breaking a sweat.
And besides—who in the Seven Kingdoms could compare to the Lannisters when it came to quality equipment?
Take Tybolt, for example. Even in his weakened state, the man's armor was nearly as thick as Lance's own white-enameled Kingsguard plate.
Against the deep pockets of House Lannister, very few could field anything that truly deserved to be called "elite."
"After them."
His voice hardened.
"It's time we clean these damned vermin out of the king's own lands, ser knights!"
With a shout, Lance wheeled his horse around. Despite a long night of hard riding—with barely two short breaks—the proud Lannister charger beneath him was still full of strength.
No surprise there. It was Tywin Lannister's personal horse, bred to perfection.
A pity, Lance thought with a faint smirk. It belongs to me now.
---
On the Road — Rhaegar & Lyanna
The hooves beneath them pounded weakly into the soft earth, each step more sluggish than the last.
Roger Hogg's horse—cheap, underfed, of poor bloodline—was hardly worthy of the word "steed." It was barely faster than a mule. With only Lyanna riding, it might have managed. But carrying both her and Rhaegar?
Its stamina had drained to nothing.
Behind them, the pursuing hoofbeats grew closer and closer.
Rhaegar's anxiety worsened. As a prince, he had never traveled without squires or companions—he had no idea where he was going. All he could do was let instinct lead the way and pray they'd chosen the right direction.
Lyanna, exhausted from the night's terrors, had drifted into a half-conscious slumber against his chest. Rhaegar didn't have the heart to wake her just to ask for directions.
Only luck was guiding them now.
Then—on the horizon—a massive shape rose into view.
A castle.
No—the castle.
Five colossal towers pierced the sky.
"Look! Harrenhal!"
Rhaegar's voice broke with joy, startling Lyanna awake.
"Harrenhal…"
She blinked groggily, gray eyes focusing on the distant silhouette—complicated emotions flickering deep within.
If they reached the castle, the pursuers would never dare continue. And with Rhaegar present, the Tully bannermen stationed there would instantly turn on the zealots chasing them.
They would live.
But…
If they entered Harrenhal, she would never be able to bring Rhaegar back to the North.
Her heart tightened. She lowered her head without speaking.
Rhaegar opened his mouth to ask—but at that moment, their horse's legs buckled.
It collapsed with a strangled whinny, throwing both riders violently into the air.
"Seven hells!"
Rhaegar twisted mid-fall, pulling Lyanna into his chest and taking the full impact on his back. Pain exploded through him, his vision flashing black.
But instinct forced him back up. He staggered to his feet and checked the girl—unhurt. Relief washed through him.
The horse, however, lay gasping, froth spilling from its mouth.
"Your horse is dead," Lyanna muttered.
Rhaegar clenched his jaw, staring at Harrenhal's distant outline. They were still far—very far.
Without a horse, they would never outrun the riders closing in behind them.
And sure enough—figures appeared on the southern road.
"Get behind me!"
Knowing escape was impossible, Rhaegar drew the short sword he had taken earlier and stepped forward.
But Lyanna only stepped beside him—dagger drawn, eyes blazing with defiance.
Rhaegar sighed and shook his head.
But he didn't push her back.
If they were going to die… they would fight together.
And a Targaryen prince would never cower behind a woman.
"Come, then!!"
Sunlight flashed over his silver hair as he raised his sword. His indigo eyes burned with resolve.
Lyanna stared at him—momentarily stunned by the defiant figure standing tall before her.
The hoofbeats thundered closer.
Two hundred meters.
One hundred.
Fifty…
She raised her dagger, ready to throw—
But then—
Thunder.
Hoofbeats behind them. Fast. Furious.
Before she could turn, a warhorse shot past them in a blur of steel and wind, whipping their hair upward.
Then a second.
A third.
"Reinforcements!" Lyanna gasped, exchanging a shocked look with Rhaegar.
Without hesitation, both of them pivoted and charged with the arriving riders—straight toward the enemy.
---
Valentyn — The Zealots' Perspective
"Seven damned hells—retreat! RETREAT!"
Valentyn roared in fury.
They had pursued the prince and the girl the entire night. They were so close—and now, at the final moment, a mounted force had appeared on the road ahead.
Harrenhal's knights?
No.
These weren't House Whent's colors.
No yellow-and-black checkered armor.
Instead—
A tide of pitch-black armor.
And the helmets—open-faced half-helms covering only the crown and ears. Their armor was mismatched: fur-lined, leather-patched, rough-forged.
Valentyn's blood ran cold.
These were Northerners.
But why—why—was a Northern cavalry force this deep south of Harrenhal?
Had Lord Walter Whent lost his mind to allow it?!
No—there was no time to blame anyone now. If they were Northmen, then surely Rickard Stark himself had sent them.
And Valentyn had only nine riders left. After the massacre last night, two were dead.
They would be annihilated.
"Back to King's Landing!"
Teeth gritted, he made the only realistic choice—flee.
Better to live and continue serving the Seven than die pointlessly.
He whipped his mount, galloping south with all the speed he could muster.
"Forgive me… Brother Bonifer," he muttered. But guilt didn't slow him for a moment.
Behind him, the exhausted zealots' horses struggled—but the Northern riders were equally worn from a long pursuit. The distance widened slightly.
Only two of Valentyno's brothers were caught—swallowed instantly by a storm of blades.
Then—
"LOOK AHEAD!"
Another knight shouted.
Valentyn snapped his head up—
A blinding white figure streaked toward them across the road.
A Kingsguard.
"Damn it—what's a Kingsguard doing here?!"
Behind him: dozens of Northern riders.
Ahead: a lone white knight.
Five of his remaining men spurred forward at his order, weapons drawn.
If they couldn't outrun—they would crush the obstacle.
Five against one.
Even a Kingsguard would fall.
Or so Valentyn thought—
Until he noticed something behind the white knight.
On the road behind him—
A wall of red.
A sea of crimson armor.