Chapter 103 — The First Simp of Westeros
"Heh…"
Instead of getting angry at Jorah's declaration, Lance actually laughed—light, amused, almost pleased.
He tilted his head slightly, trying to peer past the wall of Northern riders. He could not see Rhaegar clearly, only a faint shimmer of silver hair out of place among the gray-black Northern armor.
"How should I address you, ser?"
The playful look faded. Lance straightened slightly in the saddle—balanced, focused, every muscle prepared to carve straight through the Northern formation.
There was a time when he and two other Kingsguard had single-handedly routed nearly thirty mounted knights head-on.
And now?
Under the blazing sun, at the height of his swordsmanship, with dozens of Lannister heavy cavalry behind him?
Were it not for "the hostage factor" in the enemy formation, he was confident he could annihilate every Northern rider here within three charges.
Jorah's brow twitched at the question.
Asking an opponent's name before fighting was a southern custom—and it meant one thing:
The Kingsguard in front of him had no intention of backing off.
"Jorah Mormont."
He didn't hide it. He met Lance's gaze squarely and added pointedly:
"And I am no ser. Bear Island is mine."
Unspoken meaning:
I do not play by your southern knightly rules.
"Oh… I've heard of you. A Mormont."
Lance's eyes flicked to Jorah's chest—sure enough, a green shield with a black bear emblazoned on it.
Recognition lit his face. He slapped his forehead theatrically.
"Your father has joined the Night's Watch, hasn't he?"
Of course Lance knew exactly who Jorah was.
Westeros' number one simp.
The man who:
Lost his first wife
Saw a pretty Hightower lady at a tourney
Married her and brought her back to frozen, miserable Bear Island
Then spent himself into crippling debt trying to buy her luxuries
And when it wasn't enough, started selling slaves to fund her lifestyle
Got caught → fled across the Narrow Sea to save himself
Only for his beloved wife to run off with a rich merchant anyway
In the world Lance came from, a story like that would've triggered a "System Awakening: Revenge & Redemption," followed by a power fantasy.
Instead, Jorah went on to become a devoted simp for the true female protagonist, licking boots with terrifying perseverance.
Commitment like that?
Unprecedented.
"My father chose the Night's Watch of his own will. He placed his honor beneath the Wall."
Jorah's voice darkened.
Mock the Mormonts if you like, but not his father.
"Unlike you southerners, who wave your empty 'knighthood' titles around like trophies—we keep honor in our hearts."
To Jorah, there were many things he could endure.
Insults toward Jeor Mormont were not one of them.
Lance's response was immediate, calm, and merciless:
"So kidnapping the Prince is 'honor' too?"
The words hit like a blade.
Jorah stiffened—but didn't step back.
Behind him, Rhaegar was surrounded by Northern riders, unharmed.
So he raised his chin and answered without hesitation:
"No. It is vengeance."
Jorah's justification barely left his mouth before Lance burst into loud, hearty laughter.
"I've truly come to appreciate Northern honor these past days!"
He didn't hold back.
"Hiding in the dark, skulking in shadows, ambushing from behind, kidnapping a prince, defying the crown—if that is what counts as 'honor' in the North, then you should ride back to Winterfell and chop off Rickard Stark's ugly head yourself. I promise—you'll be crowned the most honorable man in the North, Jorah Mormont!"
Even the Lannister riders behind him erupted in laughter.
Jorah's face stiffened. He could feel the Northern riders behind him staring—and shame and fury burned through him like acid.
But he didn't forget why he was here. He raised his sword and stared straight at the white knight.
"You won't provoke me, Kingsguard."
"I ride by order of Lord Rickard Stark to bring Rhaegar Targaryen back to the North for execution. If you insist on blocking the way, I can just take the prince's head here and now. All the Lord requires is that a prince's head hangs above Winterfell's gate."
"And you… Kingsguard… you'll gain nothing. You'll stand before the king empty-handed. A failed guard with no prince to show for it. I wonder—will His Grace allow you to keep your hard-earned position?"
Jorah leaned on the threat heavily.
He expected panic.
He expected hesitation.
Instead—
"You're threatening me, Northman?"
Lance lifted the massive sword Dawn with one hand and leveled it at him. The blue of his eyes turned razor-sharp.
"If you want the prince dead, then kill him right now. Do it. I'll watch."
"But the moment you drop that blade—
I order the charge."
The killing intent rolling off him was unmistakable. Even Jorah's grip trembled.
He trusted his riders. They were the elite of the North.
But after what he'd just witnessed from Lance—and the quality of the Lannister cavalry behind him—he knew exactly how the battle would end.
And they were deep in the South. If more reinforcements arrived, they'd be crushed.
"Hurry," Lance snapped, boredom creeping into his tone. "Kill him. I'm getting impatient."
Behind him, the Lannister riders grinned and exchanged jokes.
To them, whether the prince lived or died was meaningless.
Lance smirked.
"The king has more than one son. Killing this one only leaves us a better heir."
"And don't forget—House Stark has another son in the Red Keep. One dead prince for two replacements? His Majesty would applaud."
"Go on. Do it. I'm waiting."
He urged Jorah to kill the prince.
Jorah's jaw clenched.
His mind spun.
Isn't the Kingsguard supposed to protect the royal family?! Why does this lunatic look more excited at the idea of the prince dying than I am?!
Nothing in his imagination—nothing in his plans—prepared him for this.
Seeing his hesitation, Lance chuckled.
"Since you clearly don't dare kill him, Jorah Mormont—"
He arched a brow.
"Allow me to offer a better solution."
He planted Dawn point-first in the road, swung down from his saddle, and stepped forward. His voice rang loud enough for every rider on both sides to hear:
"I know the North doesn't practice trial by combat. But in the South—we do."
"If you truly believe yourself a man of honor, then let's resolve this the honorable way. Fewer men need die."
The sun stood high. The wind tugged at the long white cloak behind him, streaked with drying blood.
Jorah already knew what was coming.
"We fight. Just you and me. In front of them all."
Lance held the sword hilt with one hand.
"If you defeat me, you may take the prince home to the North without hindrance."
"But if you lose, my dear Lord Mormont…"
His lips curled, teeth white against the crimson stains on his armor.
"…then you leave your head—and the prince—with me."