Chapter 139 — King and Knight, Reunited
Along the banks of the Greenblood, burning wreckage drifted downstream, the shredded remains of the yellow-and-red spear-sun banner clinging to splintered masts like tattered memory.
Charred corpses bumped against scorched hull fragments, the stench of burned flesh so thick that even from the grassy rise it clung to the morning air.
Upon the hill, the black field and red three-headed dragon snapped sharply in the wind.
Gold cloaks and royal guards stood in disciplined ranks, armor gleaming cold beneath the newborn sun.
At the forefront, the King waited—
surrounded by four knights in white, swords at their sides, eyes watchful and hard.
Among them stood a tall knight with auburn hair and amethyst eyes—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Yet in those eyes flickered a glimmer of sorrow, and his jaw clenched so tight the muscles trembled.
He was a Dornishman too.
"Steady, Ser Arthur."
The soft warning came from Ser Gerold Hightower, former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
He too had seen that look—
and knew exactly what stirred beneath it.
"If it were the Reach burning like this," he murmured, gaze fixed ahead, "my own heart would not sit easily either."
"But this is the King's will.
Our duty is not to weigh his judgment—
only to protect his person."
Though no longer Lord Commander, Gerold's voice still carried authority, and Arthur bowed his head just slightly, drawing a long breath as if to force every wild feeling back into its cage.
He glanced over his shoulder—
and saw the King, shivering with excitement, pale hands clasped tight around a cane, violet eyes burning bright.
Arthur's grip tightened on the hilt at his waist.
Then slowly—
painfully—
he let go.
Gerold was right.
He was a Kingsguard.
And a Kingsguard serves the crown, not his own heart.
---
"Look there!"
The cry from the front ranks broke the silence.
Arthur lifted his head sharply.
Along the riverbank, a column of men advanced, banners streaming behind them.
At their head rode a lone figure—
white armor, white cloak,
two massive swords crossed across his back,
his warhorse thundering forward, cloak snapping like a banner in the wind.
Where he passed, soldiers stepped aside in reverent silence, lowering their weapons without command—
as though honoring not merely a knight, but a legend.
For they all knew his name.
"Lance!"
The King's voice carried across the water, ringing louder than wind or waves.
He strode forward—
and for a moment looked almost young again, flushed with triumph, breath sharp with exhilaration from the flaming ships still burning behind them.
The white knights followed at once, falling into step at his shoulders—
as if welcoming a brother home.
---
"Your Grace!"
The great white warhorse halted a few paces short.
The Commander of the Kingsguard—or the man who should have been—swung down with practiced ease.
His greaves were scorched and dented from battle.
His cloak torn and stained with blood.
But his stride did not falter.
And instead of kneeling—
instead of bowing—
Lance stepped forward and wrapped the frail old monarch in a fierce embrace, as though neither crown nor crown-wearer could stand between them.
For the first time in years, Aerys Targaryen laughed—
a raw, breathless, human sound.
"I knew it—
I knew you'd come through!"
Aerys paid no mind to Lance's breach of etiquette.
Instead, he burst into delighted, manic laughter, pounding on Lance's armored arm with wiry hands:
"If the walls of Duskendale couldn't hold you—
how could a bit of Dornish sand ever hope to?"
Pressed within Lance's grasp, the King felt a security so tangible it made his voice tremble.
"I heard you slew that damned Viper—
and helped the Yronwoods burn Sunspear to the ground?"
Aerys's grin widened, eyes gleaming feverishly.
"Magnificent! I've dreamed of doing that myself!"
"Even Aegon the Conqueror couldn't finish what you just did—ha! AH-HA-HA!"
Lance could feel the tremor in the King's hands—
not only madness, but a fierce, possessive loyalty, twisted yet sincere.
He gave Aerys's back a reassuring pat, then stepped away and went to one knee.
"As promised, Your Grace.
The Queen and Prince Viserys are safely returned to you."
Only then did Aerys seem to remember he had a wife and son at all.
He glanced their way with idle disinterest, muttering:
"Good. The dignity of House Targaryen must never be profaned."
And at once his eyes swung back to Lance—
"You'll never guess what I dreamed, Lance—dragons!
I hatched one—the head bigger than Balerion's itself!
Its wings blotted out all King's Landing—every last brick under shadow—"
Behind him, Queen Rhaella lowered her gaze, her expression twisting.
She felt a bitter tangle of relief and hurt tighten in her chest.
Part of her welcomed being ignored—
yet how could he overlook their near-death, and show such open warmth only to this knight?
I knew him first…
All right—fine—
you knew him first.
Her grip tightened protectively around the infant prince.
Nearby, Lady Delonne of House Allyrion watched silently, the faintest knowing curve to her lips.
---
"Your Grace!"
A clear, resonant voice shattered the fragile calm.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure strode forward—
Lord Anders Yronwood, golden hair blazing beneath the sun, jaw set with iron resolve.
He gently pried his eldest daughter's hand from his wrist, and with long strides came to stand before the King.
Before the white cloaks could bar his path, he dropped to one knee.
"Lord Yronwood," Aerys said briskly, assuming the man sought reward.
"Your family's service has been invaluable."
"I name you Warden of the Boneway and Commander of the Dornish Pacification."
"In the name of the Iron Throne, you will unite loyal bannermen and strike down the traitor Doran Martell."
Aerys turned to leave—
But Anders did not rise.
"Your Grace!"
The King halted, irritation flickering through violet eyes.
"What more could you want? This is the highest honor I can bestow.
Do not expect any nonsense about a 'High King of Dorne' title."
Before Anders could speak, his ten-year-old daughter Ynys darted forward, clapped a hand over his mouth, and bowed deeply:
"My father has simply never beheld Your Majesty's person before,
and wished to better feel the weight of your presence."
She tugged at him frantically, eyes pleading—
Please stop, please stop, PLEASE stop…
But Anders lifted her bodily aside, placed her firmly behind him, and rose to his full height—
eyes unwavering, voice ringing like a warhorn across the field:
"I seek no reward, Your Grace!"
"Doran Martell's treachery is undeniable—"
"But Lady Mellario and Prince Quentyn are blameless!"
"To take woman and infant hostage—after childbirth, while still weak—"
"This is not the way of knights!
It violates the Seven's teachings—
it disgraces honor itself!"
The wind carried his declaration across the riverside.
Even Lady Allyrion's brow creased in surprise;
Ynys bowed her head in despair.
Aerys did not roar in anger.
Instead—he laughed, almost indulgently.
And Lance stepped forward.
He rested a hand on Anders's shoulder—lightly, yet with undeniable weight.
"Honor does not stand alone."
"A knight's oath binds him to his king, and to the order of the realm."
Anders blinked, stunned into silence as Lance's sapphire gaze bored into his.
"Doran Martell broke sacred guest-rights, seized the Queen and Prince, and invited foreign aid."
"That is not offense—it is treason."
"Would he repent if his wife and child were returned?"
Anders swallowed hard.
He wanted to say yes.
But in the end, he shook his head.
"You are a true knight, Anders Yronwood—
as pure as the steel you bear."
Lance's tone softened—yet struck deeper than steel.
"Then use that purity well."
"Unite Dorne.
Expose Martell for what he has done."
"End the greater war—and you will end countless deaths."
"That is knightly."
Anders's breath shuddered.
Emotion clenched his throat.
He remembered the day Lance saved his life beneath Oberyn's spear.
Lance's grip tightened—
not painfully, but like a vow.
"I swear by Dawn in my hand, and by my knightly honor—"
"When peace returns to Dorne—Mellario and Quentyn shall be returned safely."
The field fell still.
Anders closed his eyes—
and nodded, once.
Behind them, Ser Arthur Dayne stared at the pale greatsword on Lance's back, lips parting—
but for now, he held his silence.
---
At last the King spoke.
"Ser Lance's word is mine."
"The woman and child will be kept in King's Landing—well-treated—until Anders marches on Sunspear."
Only then did Anders exhale.
He ruffled his daughter's hair—
and she looked up at Lance with quiet gratitude, older than her years.
Had Lance not stepped in—
her father might have crossed a line no lord survives.
Delonne watched the pair, then glanced toward Queen Rhaella's tense profile
and finally at Lance and the King, shoulder to shoulder.
Her lips curved—
a small, unreadable smile.
Along the riverbank, Martell corpses lay like driftwood, the Greenblood carrying ash and char downstream toward the sea.
Beneath the surface,
currents tugged restlessly—
as though heralding a storm born in Dorne,
soon to sweep across all Seven Kingdoms.