Chapter 137 – Kingsguard, Your King Has Come!
The heavy merchant ship pushed upstream against the current, carving fresh ripples into the already troubled waters of the Greenblood.
At the stern stood Lance, both hands resting atop the pale greatsword braced before him.
Across his back hung a second weapon — a massive blade of black Valyrian steel (Dragontooth).
Though he had never set foot on a ship in either of his lives, his body—tempered like steel—felt no hint of seasickness.
---
"We've passed through Godsgrace, haven't we?"
His blue gaze slid toward Ser Hod, who had shadowed him like an anxious squire ever since they boarded.
"Yes, ser!"
Hod straightened at once, as if back in drill, and replied with earnest pride:
"We are beyond Godsgrace. House Allyrion will hold off the pursuers.
We'll reach the upper stretch of the Torentine before long!
The Lord Anders and Lady Ynys took the land route—they should return to Yronwood ahead of us.
Once we reach their lands, you and Her Grace can follow the Boneway north in safety, and reach King's Landing untouched!"
There was certainty—almost triumph—in his voice.
As though they had already escaped Martell claws.
But Lance felt none of that relief.
"It's too smooth."
Hod blinked.
"Ser?"
"I said, it is far too smooth."
Lance shook his head, voice low:
"We should have met resistance by now.
When a road becomes too easy—
it often hides something worse ahead."
Despite his deep respect for the Kingsguard captain, Hod could not share her concern:
"With respect, ser… perhaps you overthink it.
The Martells are surely still scrambling to contain the fire in the Old Palace."
A sigh escaped him.
"Seven save me, burning the palace?
Only Lady Delonne Allyrion could have thought of that."
Lance did not answer.
He merely murmured:
"Perhaps."
But his eyes remained troubled.
He had fought through hell in Dorne…
yet now, after their desperate struggle, fate offered a path home lined with roses.
And he trusted roses least of all.
At least the Queen was occupied — the young Prince Viserys clung to her skirts like a burr, sparing Lance from further… complications.
Even she wouldn't dare attempt anything foolish on a Reachman vessel full of strangers.
Lance's jaw set.
"Pass word to the captain."
"Ser?"
"He is to lighten the ship — throw every last crate overboard.
We go full sail and full speed.
House Targaryen will compensate Lord Mace Tyrell for any loss."
Hod hesitated—
"Ser, is that truly necess—"
He met Lance's unblinking gaze and swallowed the rest.
"At once."
He turned to go—
---
—and the world cracked.
A shrill whistle cut the air.
Hod jerked violently backward—
his body hurled like a rag doll as a massive bolt punched clean through him.
He smashed through two layers of deck-planking before collapsing in a heap, limbs twitching.
Blood frothed from his lips—
then stilled.
Dead. Instantly.
---
"Archers!"
"ENEMY ATTACK!"
Lance's roar shook the ship.
Another whistle.
This time he was ready—
but even braced behind the Dawn-white greatsword, the impact drove him bodily backward, shattering bulkheads as he crashed through a cargo hold.
The world swam black for a heartbeat.
His lungs burned; his ribs felt rearranged, his insides scrambled.
But the armor held.
And his body… was not one that broke easily.
Compared to being struck by a commercial jetliner at the moment of transmigration—
this was nothing.
He shook his head hard, vision snapping back into focus.
No time to rest.
Lance seized his sword, boots slamming into the deck as he surged forward—back into the fight.
The thunderous crash had drew every soul aboard toward the stern.
When they saw Ser Hod's corpse pinned to the deck by a colossal iron bolt, terror drained the color from every Yronwood knight's face.
"S-Scorpions!"
"Seven save us—those are scorpion!''
Lance's breath caught.
His gaze snapped to the river ahead.
Through the morning haze, a flotilla of warships pushed toward them — over a dozen, flanking two massive flagships.
And on each prow—
a row of towering siege scorpions, nearly ten in all.
"My father told me…" one knight whispered, voice breaking,
"Queen Rhaenys's dragon Meraxes — large enough to swallow a warhorse — was slain by a single scorpion bolt through the eye during the assault on Hellholt!"
"Gods… Sunspear kept those weapons…"
"We're doomed! Doomed! Someone—someone save us!"
Panic broke like a storm.
Men shoved, slipped, bolted across the deck like maddened sheep; some slammed into rails or mast, splitting their brows open — terror making them blind.
---
"Damn it—!"
Lance seized the Tyrell captain by his collar and barked into his face:
"Pass the word — everything not nailed down goes overboard!
Cargo, crates, ballast — all of it!
We must lighten the ship and outrun them before we reach the Torentine's end!"
The captain froze — hope sparking—
—only to gutter out again.
"It's useless, ser…"
His voice cracked with weary resignation.
"We're just a merchant carrack.
They're warships — narrower hulls, twice the oarsmen.
Even if we throw everything overboard…
we cannot outrun them."
The words washed across the deck like cold poison.
Hope died.
Hands slowed.
Some simply slumped to their knees.
Lance's jaw clenched.
He slammed his blade through the rail — wood shearing like soft cheese.
It did nothing to ease the fury coiling in his chest.
Strength enough to carve through men like wheat…
and yet before these dragon-slayers, even his sword felt small.
---
THUMP — THUMP — THUMP
Fresh volleys screamed overhead.
Bolts the size of small trees punched into the hull, carving gaping wounds through the planks.
The entire ship lurched.
Even Lance had to jam his sword into the deck and cling tight to keep his footing.
"Damn it all—!"
He scanned the steep banks — at least ten meters high — grit his teeth, and grabbed the captain again.
"Beach her."
The captain stared blankly.
"W-what—?"
"I SAID BEACH HER — NOW!"
Lance dragged him close, voice a thunderclap in his ear:
"While they're reloading — run her aground!
Better a shattered hull than sitting here waiting to die!"
Steel kissed the man's throat.
That convinced him.
"Y-Yes, ser!"
He sprinted forward, scrambling to the helm.
---
Belowdecks — the Queen's cabin
Rhaella Targaryen sat composed, cloaked in black silk, holding her sleeping son.
Her eyes never left Lance's blood-stained armor when he entered, though she asked nothing.
"We're under attack, Your Grace," he said quietly.
"I swear — I will protect you and the prince with my life."
The Queen tilted her chin, gaze cutting like tempered steel.
"Then what are you doing here, Kingsguard?"
"Your duty is not to my chamber —
but to the field."
"Targaryen women do not weep while danger closes in."
The words struck like a gauntlet.
Lance bowed his head once — deeply.
"Await my word, Your Grace."
His white cloak flared as he turned —
and the Queen's amethyst gaze lingered long on the fading hem.
---
Back on deck
Lance sucked in a breath, unshouldered Dragontooth, and leveled both swords toward the advancing warships.
The distance was closing fast.
Through sharpened eyes, he could already see three scorpions drawn and ready —
iron heads glinting like the eyes of hunting gods.
"Come on then— you Dornish bastards…"
Some battles you fought not because victory was certain—
but because walking away meant surrendering who you were.
The first bolt shrieked toward him like thunder made flesh.
This time — he saw the arc.
BLANG—!
Dawn met the steel head,
his wrist snapping just so — Arthur Dayne's technique — bleeding the force through his frame.
Then Dragontooth took over, Valyrian steel bending, sparks spitting against his jaw.
His hands tore.
Flesh split.
Tendons frayed.
"Break… damn you…"
The scorpion bolt pressed him back, knees grinding the planks — mere inches from his throat—
and then—
CRACK—WHOOSH
He twisted—
the massive bolt skittered aside, gouging the cliff face and trembling like a struck tuning fork.
___
Meanwhile among the Warships-
Manfrey Martell stared wide-eyed:
"A bolt that killed dragons—
and he—
he turned it aside!
What—what is this man?"
But Lance sagged, one knee driven into the deck, Dawn buried in splintered wood to hold him upright.
He fought for breath.
And ahead—
two more scorpions lowered their sights.
---
"Legs—MOVE—!"
His roar split the dawn.
Somehow, muscle answered the call.
He forced himself upright, swords raised—
—but everyone could see it:
He was spent.
One more volley would end him.
Manfrey swallowed, voice shaking—
"F-Fi—"
---
And then—
the sky darkened with arrows.
A storm of black fletching rained from the cliffs, drumming into decks and masts like a thousand harp-strings plucked at once.
Arrows shattered around Lance —
and high above—
armor glinted white.
Not Dornish red.
Not gold roses.
Not Reach green.
White.
Like snow.
Like bone.
Like sevenfold oaths sworn before gods.
---
Lance staggered, lifting his gaze—
—and saw a silver-haired wraith among them—
thin as parchment, yet standing proud in burnished armor—
a king's armor.
Purple eyes met blue across the battlefield of air and river and dawn.
Lance's lips trembled.
"…Old man…?"
The king's smile was faint — but unmistakable.
A smile he had not worn in what felt like years.
And in that look—
without a word spoken—
Lance understood.
"Kingsguard,"
the old king's eyes seemed to say.
"Your king…
has come to save you."