Chapter 106 — Kill Every Last Northerner.
He did it.
He won.
When the white-armored knight finally put Jorah Mormont on the ground, Lord Walter Whent almost cheered aloud. His fist clenched, his heart thudded with relief.
He had never met Lance before, nor did he know that this was the very Kingsguard who had chopped off his brother's hand — but even if he had known, it wouldn't have dulled his happiness.
If the Kingsguard won, then according to the agreement, Prince Rhaegar would be returned safely.
No war.
No bloodshed.
No siege of Harrenhal.
For Walter Whent, this result was perfect.
Call it cowardice if you like — but compared to staying alive, cowardice wasn't worth a copper.
Because nothing in the Seven Kingdoms was harder than being Lord of Harrenhal.
The largest castle in Westeros was the greatest curse of Westeros —
three times the size of Winterfell, with walls so long that no lord could ever defend them.
Surrounded by wide open plains, with not a mountain nor a river to serve as natural defense, Harrenhal had fallen every time war touched Westeros.
So if the Prince of Dragonstone was dragged back to Winterfell and executed,
the realm would burn,
armies would ride,
and Harrenhal would be the first to fall.
That was why Walter Whent wanted peace with every breath in his body.
But unlike him, not a single Northerner looked pleased.
Faces that had moments ago watched Jorah dominate now stared in grim silence.
Because their view of the duel had been simple:
Jorah charges.
Jorah overwhelms him.
Jorah has it won.
And then—
Jorah falls.
Jorah falls again.
Jorah keeps falling.
So that was their "warrior of Bear Island"? Bah.
Dozens of Northerners began to look at the unconscious Jorah with contempt.
And then—
"Release him, or I'll order Prince Rhaegar Targaryen killed where he stands!"
Maege Mormont stepped forward, her voice sharp and vicious, a wicked spike-headed mace in her fist.
"Don't forget — we still have the prince!"
It was an appalling threat — so shameless that even Northerners muttered in disgust.
Breaking a vow so publicly would have shamed even the wildlings beyond the Wall.
But Lance only laughed — a soft, cutting sound.
Northern politics were crystal clear to him now:
A land cut off by the Neck, united under Stark dominance.
Dependence on Winterfell for resources, support, and survival.
Any house that betrayed the North would freeze and starve alone.
That was why he hadn't feared trickery before the duel — their lives depended on honor.
But now?
"Ah. So the North is ruled by women now."
Before the entire Northern host, Lance swung the broad side of Dawn and slapped the flat of the blade across Jorah Mormont's face.
His voice was quiet.
His tone was lethal.
"What a pity, Lord Mormont."
"You may not be worth a prince's life…
but for fairness, I suppose I must take your head and Eddard Stark's head together — and hang them both over the gates of King's Landing."
"Let it begin."
The Kingsguard raised the milky white blade high.
Sunlight ran along its edge like liquid fire.
A single stroke — and Jorah's head would be gone.
"WAIT—!"
Maege Mormont tried to shout, but Martyn Cassel moved faster, kicking his horse into a lunge.
"WAIT, SER! PLEASE—!"
But Lance did not even glance at him.
The sword came down without hesitation.
SHHHNK!
A slash of white light — and the blade halted less than a fingertip from Jorah's throat.
Jorah could even see the fog of his own panicked breath on the steel.
The entire host froze.
No one breathed.
The precision with which Lance suspended his blade was breathtaking—
one finger against the pommel was all that kept Dawn from falling and severing Jorah's neck like a guillotine.
One twitch, one breath, one heartbeat out of place—
and the Bear Island lord would be headless.
"Last chance."
Lance didn't even look at the man beneath his boot.
His icy gaze locked onto Martyn Cassel — the Northerner wearing the double row of ten gray direwolves on his chest.
"Hand over Prince Rhaegar.
He lives — and this one lives."
His voice was flat, merciless.
"But if you lie to me again… you all die here."
Martyn's brows tightened.
He glanced sideways at Maege Mormont — her face twisted with fury — and shot her a silent warning.
The woman said nothing.
The shame was already crushing enough. If they didn't hand someone over now, things would only get worse.
And losing Jorah Mormont would be a disaster for the North.
Rickard Stark needed every bannerman loyal and present.
So Martyn drew himself tall, voice steady and proud:
"We keep our word. Northerners do not break oath — nor do the Starks."
He lifted his chin.
A signal.
Two men dragged Rhaegar forward — silver hair disheveled but untouched.
"One for one, Ser."
He spoke loudly enough for both armies to hear:
"I believe a Kingsguard honors his vows.
But the matter is too grave — we exchange captives simultaneously."
The proposal was perfectly reasonable.
Lance nodded.
"At least not all Northerners are fools."
Within a minute, both captives were bound at the thighs — enough rope to restrict escape without crippling movement — and sent walking toward each other.
Two hosts held their breath.
No one drew steel. No one loosed an arrow.
Rhaegar reached Lance first.
He opened his mouth — gratitude on the tip of his tongue — but couldn't force the words out.
Lance didn't care.
He was here on the king's orders.
Whether the prince thanked him or not meant nothing.
Across the field, Jorah — humiliated and limping — shouted hoarsely:
"Tell me your name, Kingsguard! Next time, I'll win!"
Lance smiled, preparing to answer—
But a loud voice cut in before he could speak.
The young red-armored knight behind him rode forward proudly and bellowed:
"Get this through your thick skulls, Northern swine!"
"Before you stands the Commander of the Kingsguard —
the Savior of King Aerys II Targaryen —
Terror of the Brotherhood of Kingswood —
Lance Lot, 'The Fearless'!"
Tygett Lannister practically glowed with admiration, chest puffed out as though he had just defeated Jorah.
Lance blinked.
Where the hell did all these titles come from?
He didn't have time to ask.
Because suddenly—
hooves thundered.
A lone rider burst from the Northern ranks like a silver arrow.
"Lyanna!"
Martyn Cassel and Rhaegar shouted at once.
Too late.
The wolf-girl from the North — eyes ablaze, jaw clenched — stood up on her galloping horse, balancing like a dancer despite the speed. The crowd gasped at the impossible display of horsemanship.
Only now did she realize:
The Kingsguard she hated was the one who fought Jorah — Lance himself.
The man she had sworn to kill.
The man whose life she'd risked everything to reach.
He was right in front of her.
She would not miss again.
With only ten meters to go, she yanked a dagger from her belt and hurled it — a perfect throw she had practiced thousands of times in Winterfell…
the same throw that had saved Rhaegar back at Sow's Horn.
It would hit. It always hit.
Except—
Lance merely turned his wrist.
Ding.
Dawn swatted the dagger aside like a grain of dust.
Not even a scratch.
"No… impossible."
Her certainty shattered.
And then she saw the red-armored cavalry around him — dozens of lances angled her way.
She tried to turn—
Whoosh!
One arrow dropped her horse in an instant.
Another landed in the dirt inches before Martyn Cassel, forcing him to rein back.
Her mount collapsed.
Lyanna vaulted free, landing and rolling with breathtaking grace before rising to her feet—
only to find a white-armored giant right in front of her.
"Damn—"
THUD.
A brutal fist smashed into her cheek.
The wolf-girl crumpled.
Rhaegar — newly freed — screamed, rushing toward her.
"STOP! Don't touch her!"
Lance didn't even look at him.
His elbow crashed into the prince's jaw.
CRACK.
Rhaegar collapsed beside Lyanna.
Tygett and Tybolt both winced.
This is the Kingsguard?
Aren't they supposed to protect the royal family?
They wisely kept their mouths shut.
Lance grabbed the unconscious prince and girl like sacks of flour and tossed them backward into the waiting arms of Lannister knights.
Martyn Cassel stared, stunned, torn between diplomacy and war.
He hesitated.
That alone doomed him.
Because Lance was already mounting his horse — visor lowered — hand curling around the hilt of Dawn.
He looked out at the sea of Northern riders.
His smile was a knife.
"Lannisters…"
The greatsword lifted.
"…kill every last Northerner."
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