Chapter 102 — We Have the Prince
"You really let them go?"
Inside the Tower of Dread, Lord Walter Whent stood at the window, gazing toward the far end of the yellow road. In the distance, more than a dozen small black dots sped across the plain—so tiny they looked like ants.
He exhaled heavily and turned to face his wife. Lady Shella Whent lounged in the chair, calm and unbothered, not the slightest hint of concern on her expression—as though nothing unusual had happened at all.
Walter's face darkened, resentment creeping into his voice.
"This is not a wise decision, Shella. You know that."
"And so what?"
Shella's tone held not a shred of guilt or hesitation.
She picked up a plump riverlands plum, bit into it with slow, deliberate satisfaction, its sweet juice spreading across her lips.
Her indifference only fueled Walter's anger. He strode forward, grabbed the entire bowl of fruit from the table, and slammed it into the floor.
"This is treason against the king! You're dragging the whole Whent family into ruin!"
Still Shella didn't flinch. She simply stared at him—cold and silent—until the he instinctively shrank away, slumping back into his chair. Only then did she speak.
"Oswell is your brother, Walter."
Her voice was icy, carrying a natural authority—iron-hard and impossible to resist. In front of her husband, it felt as if she were the one who truly ruled Harrenhal.
She shook her head slowly, disappointed by how cowardly her husband looked.
"Your brother swore loyalty and life to the king. He gave up land, marriage, heirs—everything—just to don that ridiculous white cloak and protect the royal family."
"And look how the king repaid him."
"That was because Oswell offended His Majesty before the Iron Throne. Punishment was—"
"Utter nonsense!"
Shella cut him off sharply.
"I know what you're thinking, Walter. I know every one of your plans."
She rose to her feet, neck stretching high like a swan's, pride radiating from her posture as she stared down at her husband.
"Oswell served Rhaegar Targaryen with unwavering loyalty. The prince should have shielded him in return."
"If a prince cannot even protect his own Kingsguard, how could he ever hope to gather support for the Iron Throne?"
"How pathetic."
Her voice sharpened to a razor's edge, bitterness burning in her eyes.
"Wake up, Walter! Oswell isn't a Kingsguard anymore!"
"If the Targaryens choose to betray House Whent's loyalty—then they had better be prepared to be betrayed in return!"
"Shella… enough."
Walter tried to shout her down, but under her piercing gaze, his voice shrank to a whisper. His eyes darted around nervously, ensuring no servants were nearby.
"If anyone hears you say that… it's treason."
"You're always this frightened," she sneered. "Sometimes I wonder why I ever agreed to marry you."
She leaned back, mocking him openly.
"The Targaryens have been without dragons for more than a century. Do you honestly think they could burn Harrenhal to the ground again?"
Do you think they still have that power?
Walter nearly blurted out what he wanted to say: Do you think I wanted to marry you?
But the words died in his throat.
He glared at her with silent hatred, then rose abruptly and stalked toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To greet them. My dear wife."
He shot her a bitter look.
"Oswell may no longer wear the white cloak, but a large host of Northern cavalry riding openly on Whent lands cannot go unanswered. If I don't make a show of duty, we'll both be getting a letter of inquiry from King's Landing."
"Thanks to you, Shella."
"When the rest of you indulge your tempers and recklessness—someone must clean up the mess."
He paused at the door, voice sharp but restrained.
"And do not forget—I am the Lord of Harrenhal."
Shella sneered, her voice like a dagger dipped in frost:
"Before you, my father and my grandfather were Lords of Harrenhal.
And you? You only sit in that chair because you married me, you insignificant branch of House Whent."
She leaned back with a cruel smile.
"Go then. Go play the loyal hunting dog. Wag your tail for your precious Targaryens."
Walter's face twitched—rage, shame, and humiliation all fighting to surface.
But she hadn't stopped him from leaving the castle, and that was enough.
He clenched his jaw, opened the door, and disappeared down the corridor without a word.
Shella watched him go, lips curling in disdain.
Why did I ever marry that Targaryen-loving coward…?
A moment later, the door swung open again.
A tall figure in spotless white armor stepped inside.
"Oh, Oswell…"
Shella's expression changed instantly.
Cruel mockery melted into tenderness. She strode forward and wrapped her arms around the man's neck.
"I told you not to wear that ugly armor anymore. Why do you keep putting it on…?"
"I am a Kingsguard."
Oswell Whent answered stiffly, but his hand pulled her waist tight, and his lips crushed into hers without hesitation.
And Shella didn't resist.
She melted into the kiss willingly.
Below the tower window, dozens of yellow-armored household knights thundered out of Harrenhal's gates, escorting their lord to "welcome" the arriving forces.
No one below knew that, inside the highest tower of Harrenhal, the Lord's brother and the Lord's wife were busily weaving their Lord the healthiest shade of a cuckold's crown.
---
As the distance to the white knight shrank rapidly, panic churned inside Valentyn.
He had no options left.
Northmen behind.
A Kingsguard ahead.
Only death in every direction.
But then—
Through the slit of the white helm, he glimpsed a pair of brilliant blue eyes.
Clean. Pure. Cold as winter steel.
"Lance Lot!"
He shouted the name in shock.
According to Bonifer's plan, this was the moment Lance Lot should be storming the Red Keep with the Church's forces—killing Aerys Targaryen and placing his young son on the throne.
So why was he here?
Then Valentyn looked behind Lance—
A full column of red-cloaked Lannister knights.
It all made sense.
The plan had succeeded.
Bonifer feared Valentyn's group might run into danger—so he sent Lance Lot and Tywin Lannister's men to retrieve them.
That had to be it.
Everything aligned perfectly in his mind. There was no other explanation for why Lance Lot, leading Lannister troops, would appear here of all places—unless to protect them.
Unless Lance had rejected Bonifer's offer, resisted the temptation of the throne, and single-handedly cut through dozens of Faith Militants to escape.
Impossible.
The red armor behind him proved it—he had joined the Lannisters.
Valentyn raised his voice triumphantly:
"I am Bishop Valentyn of the Faith! Bonifer is my brother! Your Grace— Rhaeseryon Targaryen, Regent!"
The knights beside him froze—shock, then relief washing over their faces.
The plan worked?
The king is dead?
The boy prince crowned?
They lowered their swords slightly.
After all, the man ahead was now the Regent of the Realm.
They could betray him later, but for now—he deserved a bow.
Under Valentyn's lead, the five golden-cloaked Faith Knights galloped toward the white knight—no guard raised, no fear.
Like children running home to their father.
"Your Grace—!"
Valentyn waved, breathless with joy.
Seeing Lance still holding the massive milk-white sword Dawn, he called even louder so the man would hear:
"I am Brother Valentyn of the Faith! Can you hear me?!"
The white knight lowered his sword.
A smile—warm, approving—formed in those blue eyes.
"Valentyn, is it?"
His horse surged forward, speed exploding, ten meters closing in an instant.
Lance grinned.
And just before their horses crossed, he swung Dawn with one hand and roared:
"Allow me… to send you to Bonifer myself!"
Valentyn blinked in confusion.
Bonifer is here too? Where—
He never finished the thought.
The two riders crossed.
A line of pure white light flashed beneath the sun.
Valentyn's head separated cleanly from his body—blood spraying from the stump as his horse carried the headless corpse forward.
The remaining four knights hadn't even processed it before Dawn hummed again.
Their swords raised reflexively—but under the sharp edge of Dawn, iron shattered like wet parchment.
And then the bodies.
Organs spilled. Limbs flew.
A symphony of death executed in a single charge.
What seemed a cumbersome two-handed sword in others' hands danced weightlessly in Lance's grip—an extension of his arm, trailing arcs of white light and blood.
The massacre ended before Valentyn's head even hit the ground.
---
Dead Silence.
Lance pulled on the reins sharply, his horse snorting as it halted.
Blood dripped rhythmically from Dawn's edge.
Ahead, the column of Northern riders also stopped instantly at their commander's gesture—tight discipline, zero collisions, perfect formation.
Jorah Mormont was stunned.
One charge.
Five men slain—effortlessly.
And the Kingsguard didn't even look winded.
Jorah, who prided himself on his own swordsmanship, had to admit—he was outclassed.
Part of him wanted to order his riders forward, overwhelm the white knight by sheer numbers.
Not out of honor or fairness—only because survival decided morality in the North.
But behind Lance stood dozens of Lannister redcloaks who had stopped their charge in the same instant—just as disciplined, just as deadly.
So Jorah held.
Lance slung Dawn across his shoulder and glared at the Northerners.
"You've crossed the border, Northmen."
He didn't need them to introduce themselves.
Their armor, their fur, their faces—it was obvious where they came from.
"If I recall correctly, this is Harrenhal land.
Or did Walter Whent suddenly decide to let the North occupy his castle?"
The jab was blatant.
Jorah didn't answer—he couldn't.
Leading a Northern host this far south was absolutely improper.
But—
A glance backward settled his resolve.
At the rear of the formation—surrounded and protected—stood Rhaegar and Lyanna.
Jorah's lips curled into a small, confident smile.
He turned back to the Kingsguard and spoke clearly:
"My apologies, Ser Kingsguard.
But I'm afraid you've come for nothing."
He raised his voice—so all three armies could hear:
"Because… we have the Prince."