Chapter 145 — Trial by Combat
At the far end of the corridor, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood cloaked in flowing, immaculate white plate.
Under the dim glow of the wall lamps, his armor reflected a cold, razor-sharp sheen.
He wore no helmet.
Black hair fell loosely over his shoulders, framing a strikingly handsome face whose sharply defined features appeared carved from shadow and steel alike. As he stepped out of the darkness, the pressure he radiated was suffocating—like a storm given human form.
In his left hand, he carried a massive greatsword, its blade pale as polished jade. Even in the low light, faint pinpricks of starlike brilliance shimmered along its surface.
The sword's tip brushed the stone floor.
A soft, unmistakable scrape echoed through the silent corridor—
like Death honing his scythe.
"L-Lance… Lance Lot!"
The instant Rhaegar recognized the face, the ecstasy and certainty on his expression froze solid. His hand remained suspended inches from the gilded door ring, as though time itself had seized him.
An icy terror clenched his heart, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
Even Lyanna—who could not see—began to tremble violently at the sound of that name, fear and fury stealing the strength from her legs.
"That is my—"
Arthur Dayne faltered for a fraction of a second before instinct took over. His sword came up in a guard position, violet eyes locked onto the greatsword in Lance's hand, emotions roiling in his chest.
But Rhaegar did not wait.
"Kill him! Kill him!!!"
He pointed wildly at Lance, shrieking at the two remaining Gold Cloaks beside him.
"You two—kill him! Now!"
The Gold Cloaks stared at each other.
Then back at Lance.
Then at Rhaegar.
Kill Lance Lot?
Who did the prince think they were?
Two Barristans?
Two Sword of the Mornings?
If there was a Kingsguard right in front of them, why wasn't he doing it?
They'd been paid three gold dragons apiece—not enough to die screaming.
Without a word, both men took several steps backward—very carefully positioning Arthur Dayne between themselves and Lance.
"Your Highness," Lance said mildly, amusement flickering in his blue eyes,
"the game is over."
Varys had deliberately told them nothing. As far as they knew, they were helping the prince seize the throne.
But men who clawed their way up from the gutter had excellent survival instincts.
Lance's gaze drifted to Lyanna—utterly devoid of emotion.
Rhaegar felt his blood turn to ice.
"You and your queen," Lance said flatly,
"should return to where you belong."
The last fragments of Rhaegar's confidence shattered like glass.
So it had all been a trap.
"Varys… where is Varys?!"
Panic flooded him as he stared at the towering figure holding the sword he knew so well.
"What about the Gold Cloaks who swore loyalty to me?! Where is Manly Stokeworth?!"
His voice cracked as he screamed at the corridor.
"Go—go find them!"
Desperation clawed at his throat.
The answer was silence.
The two "loyal" Gold Cloaks had already vanished—long gone the moment Rhaegar's attention turned elsewhere.
"Tsk."
Lance clicked his tongue softly.
"To call you foolish was generous, Rhaegar Targaryen."
He rested the massive sword on his shoulder, looking almost bored.
"Did you truly believe that eunuch ever meant to swear loyalty to you—the 'wise and noble true dragon'?"
"And gods above… old man, how did you manage to sire something this stupid?"
As the words fell, a thin figure draped in a broad black cloak emerged from the far end of the corridor.
Three fully armed Kingsguard flanked him.
King Aerys II Targaryen.
His violet eyes were wide awake. His gaunt fingers twitched nervously, his gaze passing over Lance and settling on Rhaegar.
There was no rage.
No disappointment.
Only a cold, exhausted detachment—
the look of a man who finally understands everything.
"Father…"
Rhaegar's voice caught in his throat.
That indifference—more than hatred, more than execution—cut deeper than any blade.
"You… you lied to me!"
His scream echoed down the corridor.
His body shook, indigo eyes burning with rebellion and fury.
He felt like a child cruelly tricked by his parents—dragged onto a stage to be mocked.
"You lied to yourself, Rhaegar," Aerys replied quietly.
"Look at yourself, my son. My former pride. Prince of Dragonstone. Heir to the Iron Throne."
"What have you done?"
"If you had even a shred of true understanding—true feeling—for your own blood, you would never have been swayed by Varys's empty words."
"I gave you a chance. One last chance."
He inhaled deeply.
The storm in his violet eyes faded, replaced by the cold authority of a king.
"Take the prince to the top floor of Traitor's Walk. Until the council decides the matter of succession, no one is to see him."
"As for the wolf cub… and this Kingsguard who betrayed his white cloak—"
"Try them for treason."
"Hang them."
At those words, every light in Rhaegar's eyes died.
His ideals.
His love.
His family.
Everything he cherished was ground into dust—by the people he trusted most.
"That sword… is mine…"
Arthur Dayne whispered.
As the Kingsguard advanced, he stared at Lance Lot. His pupils shrank to pinpoints, humiliation and fury detonating into pure battle instinct.
"My Dawn…"
With a roar, Arthur charged.
White cloak snapping like a defiant banner, he hurled himself forward.
Three Kingsguard struck at once—blades flashing—but carefully avoided lethal blows.
Arthur met them head-on.
His sword moved too fast to follow, leaving afterimages in the air.
Steel rang sharply as he knocked aside all three blades in a heartbeat.
He did not linger.
Breaking through their formation, Arthur pivoted and sprinted straight toward Lance—toward the king.
Only a hostage could buy them a sliver of survival.
"KILL!"
Arthur's roar shook the corridor.
He closed the distance in seconds, thrusting straight for Lance's throat with everything he had.
The fastest strike of his life.
But Lance moved.
Just one step to the side.
Arthur's blade screamed past his neck, grazing white armor.
Then—
A simple upward cut.
Perfect timing.
Overwhelming force.
Arthur's sword shattered with a crystalline ring. Half the blade spun through the air.
And in the stunned reflection of Arthur's eyes—
That familiar, wide blade rested calmly against his throat.
Arthur lifted his head.
Bloodshot violet eyes locked onto Lance, burning with no fear—only unyielding battle intent and defiant rage.
"That is my sword, ser."
Arthur clenched his teeth, the words forced out as though accusing Lance of an unworthy victory.
If that blade were still in his hands, he was certain—utterly certain—that he could just as easily have cut down the four Kingsguard around him.
Because he was the Sword of the Morning.
"I know, ser."
Lance's expression remained calm.
He lowered the broad blade and planted it upright before him, both hands resting on the pommel as the night air stirred the white cloak at his back.
By then, three Kingsguard had already stepped in, seizing Arthur without ceremony and pinning him fast.
"I refuse to accept this!"
Arthur struggled fiercely in their grip, snarling at Lance:
"Return Dawn to me! Face me in the lists—fair and square—and you would never defeat me!"
"This is not the way of knights!"
The accusation rang sharp, as though he had forgotten that it was he who had already betrayed the vows of the white cloak.
Lance did not argue.
He did not mock him.
Instead, he raised his eyes slightly, blue gaze steady and earnest as it met Arthur's.
"I know exactly what you want, Ser Arthur."
Then, in a voice that carried unquestionable weight, he continued:
"In light of your years of service to the Crown, I will grant you one final chance."
The surrounding Kingsguard stiffened in surprise.
Tilting his head, the Lord Commander spoke the words Arthur himself had never dared to say aloud:
"I will face you before the king, the Hand, and all the nobles of King's Landing—
in a fair duel."
"To prove that you are unworthy of that blade."
"—Trial by combat."
___
"Trial by combat?"
"A trial by combat?!"
The Riverlands.
The Inn at the Crossroads.
A man in crimson armor slammed his hand down on the table and leapt to his feet.
"What nonsense is this?!"
Jaime Lannister's golden hair swayed violently with the motion, several strands falling straight into a bowl beside him.
A blond boy with a grotesquely oversized head glared up at him in fury.
"Your hair's in my soup again, Jaime!"
He scolded him loudly, poking at the floating strands with a spoon in clear disgust.
Jaime didn't even glance back.
Instead, he strode to another table and unhooked a heavy pouch from his belt, dropping it onto the wood with a solid thud.
"You little—!"
The sellsword jolted upright, ready to curse—
then froze.
The roaring golden lion on crimson plate.
The young man's handsome, oppressive presence.
Every crude word died in his throat.
He opened the pouch.
Gold dragons gleamed back at him.
Instantly, his anger melted into something far closer to reverence.
"M-my lord?"
"Tell me," Jaime said coolly, tapping the pouch,
"where you heard this."
"Every detail. About Ser Arthur Dayne. About the trial."
"Tell it properly—and every coin here is yours."
The man's eyes lit up.
He shoved the pouch deep into his clothes as if afraid Jaime might change his mind.
"It's true! All of it!"
"The news came from King's Landing—something huge happened in the Red Keep! The Sword of the Morning struck at the king and was imprisoned for treason!"
"But Ser Arthur demanded trial by combat! Before gods and men—to prove his innocence!"
Jaime's heart leapt into his throat.
Trial by combat.
The final defense of a knight's honor.
"Who?" he demanded instantly.
"Who stands against him?"
"It's… it's the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"Lance Lot. The 'Fearless.'"
"What?!"
Jaime shouted aloud, memories flashing unbidden—
that towering white figure lifting Robert Baratheon from the ground like a child.
If it were anyone else…
"Move."
"We're going to King's Landing."
The eldest son of House Lannister—meant to be wandering the realm like a proper knight—stormed out of the inn without another word.
"Seven hells, Jaime!" Tyrion shouted after him.
"I'm still eating!"
Cursing furiously, Tyrion shoveled down a few mouthfuls of soup—hair and all—leapt from his stool, and hurried after his brother on short, pumping legs.
As he ran, he yelled back:
"Dog! Move!"
A boy half his face warped by a massive scar—spat out a bone, shoved a sword nearly as tall as himself into his belt, and followed the red-armored riders out the door without hesitation.