Chapter 108 — Delicious.
"You truly don't intend to kill him?"
Watching the lone, swaying rider vanish northward along the Kingsroad,
Ser Tybolt finally voiced the question that had been gnawing at him.
Lance didn't even turn his head.
"Honor. Confidence. Courage. Reputation."
He listed the words softly — almost lazily — then sighed.
"He's lost all of them, ser."
His eyes narrowed, tracking the shrinking silhouette of Jorah Mormont.
"A black bear that's lost its heart will live the rest of its life in fear —
waking every night screaming from nightmares."
"For a man like him, living is far crueler than dying."
A thin smile tugged at his lips. He clapped Tygett Lannister on the shoulder with a jesting ease.
"And besides — someone needs to go home and tell Rickard Stark what happens when that old wolf decides to poke his filthy claws into the South."
Tybolt chuckled and nodded — unsurprised.
But Tygett Lannister… Tygett now looked at the Kingsguard in a different way.
He had fought beside giants. He had killed men at ten.
He had ridden with Tywin Lannister to crush Reyne and Tarbeck.
He had become a knight before his voice had even deepened.
Yet no matter where he went, the songs hailed Tywin.
Every hall, every feast, every skald spoke of the Lion of Casterly Rock.
And Tygett — the youngest knight in the Seven Kingdoms — was always just a shadow behind his brother.
No bitterness.
No hatred.
But something had always been missing — recognition.
Today, for the first time in his life, he felt it.
Respect.
True, instinctive, awe-struck respect.
This was what a knight was supposed to be.
Swordsmanship beyond comprehension.
Horsemanship like a demon on steel hooves.
And that crushing, unstoppable presence — that certainty of victory.
If this man was not worthy of the white cloak… then no man was.
Still, one question lingered, and Tygett couldn't swallow it.
"You could've just killed him, ser."
He used ser deliberately — with sincerity, not protocol.
"You could've kept the warning and still removed a future threat. If he returns to the North, raises men, and marches south again… we might face unnecessary trouble."
Lance didn't look annoyed. He actually chuckled — amused by the question.
"Your worry isn't without merit, Ser Tygett."
For a moment, his tone softened. He clearly didn't dislike the young Lannister.
Then his voice cooled.
"But you judge him by our standards."
"In the South," he continued, "a defeated lord may swallow his pride, raise banners anew, and gamble for another chance."
"But in the North…"
His eyes sharpened — a predator's gaze.
"In the North, when a man has lost his honor, his courage, and the faith of his own people… he loses everything."
He leaned forward slightly in the saddle.
"Jorah Mormont won't return as a hero gathering banners — he'll return as a broken disgrace, bearing the deaths of his own kin."
"Let the North see their proud, fearless Lord of Bear Island return as nothing more than a gutless animal. A coward. A warning."
"Rickard Stark won't trust him.
His vassals won't follow him.
His people won't respect him."
A cruel smile — not of malice, but calculation — played across his face.
"He lives only to suffer."
"And through him — the North will learn to fear us."
Tygett slowly inhaled.
There it was — the cold brilliance beneath the carnage.
Not barbarism.
Not mindless slaughter.
A message.
Delivered in blood.
And carried by the one man cursed to remember it forever.
A shiver rippled down Tygett's spine.
He had thought Lance merely a warrior.
But now… he saw the truth.
He was a strategist.
He was a tactician.
He was a master of psychological warfare.
The kind of man who could break armies without ever laying siege to a city.
The kind of man who could serve a king — or rule in his own right.
Tygett swallowed.
"You're frighteningly good at this," he murmured.
That earned him a grin — sharp, predatory, exhilarated.
"Tygett," the Kingsguard said lightly, "there's a reason your kings wear steel and mine wears gold."
To Lance the man was nothing like his older brother.
Tygett Lannister was nearly thirty, yet he still carried the idealism of a young knight — full of vigor, honor, and a heart that believed in stories.
In that sense, he resembled his nephew Jaime far more than Tywin.
And Lance didn't dislike that.
Lance only laughed — ready to finally head back to King's Landing and report to the king.
But right then, a furious voice rang out:
"You shame the very name of knighthood, Ser Lance!"
Lance closed his eyes, exhaling a curse.
Of course.
The silver hair made the interruption obvious before he even turned.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
"I told you to keep an eye on the prince, Lord Whent," Lance snapped.
"S–sorry, ser!"
Walter Whent— sweating bullets — bowed so fast he nearly hit the ground. "He… he is the prince. I… I could not defy him."
Lance stared at him with such exhausted disappointment that Walter looked ready to faint. After the earlier carnage, even the memory of his brother's severed hand was gone — fear had wiped out everything else.
"Go. Command your men. Clean the battlefield," Lance muttered.
Walter nodded like he'd been pardoned from execution and scurried away shouting orders — as thrilled as if he'd found gold in the corpses.
Then Rhaegar struck again.
"You went too far, Ser Lance!" he cried angrily. "Charging the Northmen is one thing — but striking Lady Lyanna and Lady Maege Mormont? They were women! You violated the very spirit of chivalry!"
He stood there like a statue of the benevolent Baelor the Blessed, righteous indignation glowing on his face.
And Lance finally understood:
This had nothing to do with chivalry.
It was about Lyanna.
"Do you think we were playing a game, Your Highness?" Lance snapped, voice like a whip. "The moment they raised a weapon at me, they ceased to be women — they became enemies."
"Mercy to the enemy is cruelty to your own men. If you cannot grasp that, I doubt you could rule Dragonstone properly, let alone the Seven Kingdoms."
Even Tygett silently nodded — admiring the harsh logic.
But Rhaegar, flushed with embarrassment before so many knights, doubled down.
"Then I command you," he declared, voice trembling with authority, "as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne — release Lady Lyanna. Escort her safely back to the North!"
Every knight present stared, stunned.
Was the prince mad?
They had just fought a bloody battle because she kidnapped him —
and now he wanted to return her unharmed?
Lance watched the prince with unreadable eyes.
Tygett inhaled nervously.
"What will you do now, Ser Lance?"
To defy the future king outright was dangerous — even for a Kingsguard.
Lance smiled.
"Your reasoning is sound, Your Highness."
Rhaegar immediately brightened, smug relief washing across his face.
Of course.
He was the crown prince.
No mere knight would dare disobey—
Dang!!!
The flat side of the greatsword hammered straight into Rhaegar's skull.
The prince's proud smile froze.
Then he toppled like a felled tree.
Every Lannister knight watched in horror as Lance dusted off his gauntlet like nothing had happened.
"Record this."
He announced loudly, voice echoing across the blood-soaked roadside:
"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was struck by the enemy during battle and fainted from the blow."
He swung the giant pale sword onto his shoulder, stretched, and let out a long, satisfied breath — finally smiling from ear to ear.
"Gods, that felt good."