Chapter 42: Barristan's Heartbreak
"You bastard—showing up late was bad enough, but you didn't even help and only made things worse."
Lance tossed his hammer aside, walked over, and crouched down to check on Arthur's condition, grumbling the entire time.
Gods, that hammer was heavy. Without a body like Ben's, even that single swing just now left Lance's muscles aching—though admittedly, it did the job.
He honestly had no idea how someone like Robert Baratheon managed to wield such a monstrous warhammer on the battlefield without collapsing from exhaustion.
"He'll live. No vital organs were hit," Lance muttered.
He unfastened Arthur's breastplate and examined him carefully. Thanks to the armor, Wenda's strike could only slip through a gap at the side, and while the angle was cunning, it barely missed anything fatal.
The arm, however, was a different story.
The dagger had nearly gone straight through the joint. Getting back to full strength would probably take months—half a year at least.
"S-sorry..."
Seeing Lance bandage his wounds, the usually proud and unbending Sword of the Morning hesitated before gritting his teeth and apologizing.
"But as a knight... forgive me. I simply cannot bring myself to strike a woman."
"Give me a break."
Lance rolled his eyes at Arthur's stubbornness.
He finished wrapping the chest wound, then gave it a firm slap—making Arthur hiss in pain, teeth bared.
"One of these days, you're going to die clinging to that so-called 'honor' of yours."
Dusting off his hands, Lance stood and spoke the words with a note of warning.
But Arthur only grinned through the pain.
"To die for honor—surely that's the highest calling for any knight."
"And you, Ser Lance?"
Arthur looked up at him.
"As a Kingsguard, would you fight—and even lay down your life—for honor?"
Lance said nothing.
He simply took the massive sword strapped to his back, hefted it onto his shoulder the way Arthur usually did, and turned toward the small hut.
"My sword's broken. I'll borrow yours."
Under Arthur's watchful gaze, the towering knight strode off into the moonlight, Dawn glinting coldly across his shoulder.
---
As soon as Lance stepped into the hut carrying Dawn, a sense of wrongness hit him.
Prince Lewyn was still sprawled on the ground, barely clinging to life.
Nearby, the dirt was soaked dark with Ulma's blood.
But—
Where were the two women?
"Ashara... Ashara Dayne!"
His brows knitted as he raised his voice in a shout.
No answer.
Lance's gut twisted—an ominous feeling creeping over him as a name from his intelligence reports flashed in his mind.
The Smiling Knight.
Damn it. That bastard hadn't shown his face yet...
Could he have slipped in while Lance and the fat man were fighting—and taken the women?
What a bloody cliché.
Lance gritted his teeth, irritation bubbling faintly in his chest. He planted the greatsword in the floorboards with a heavy thunk and was just about to haul the barely-breathing Prince Lewyn out of the hut when he heard faint knocking from the cellar door.
Instantly alert, he snatched up Dawn, crouched low, and stalked toward the trapdoor. One hand gripped the iron ring and slowly, carefully, he lifted it open.
The first thing he saw was a pair of beautiful violet eyes.
"Whew…"
He exhaled in relief and swung the hatch open the rest of the way.
Ashara darted out and flung herself into his chest, her arms locking tight around his waist like a frightened kitten clinging to safety. In her right hand, she still held the dagger Lance had given her—its blade wet with fresh, dark blood.
"What happened?"
Lance didn't lower the sword, simply braced it against the floor with one hand as the other gently stroked Ashara's disheveled chestnut hair.
She smelled faintly unwashed after days locked away, but the scent wasn't unpleasant.
"S-someone came… a terrifying man…"
Ashara clutched him even tighter, soaking in his presence. The sense of security was intoxicating—stronger even than when she'd clung to her brother as a child.
"A terrifying man?"
Lance's brows knitted. "The Smiling Knight?"
"Smiling Knight?" Ashara blinked, tears glistening in her eyes as she thought back.
"I never saw his face. The moment you left, I hid in the cellar. But from his voice, I'm sure it was a man. He tried to force the hatch open… I panicked, stabbed upward with the dagger—again and again. I don't know if I hit him, but he stopped trying and eventually left."
"Then it was him."
Lance nodded grimly. He took her hand and inspected it—blood still stained the blade, and her ten delicate fingers were covered in bruises. The trapdoor must have slammed on her hand when she struck, yet she'd kept stabbing anyway.
He couldn't help but feel a spark of respect.
House Dayne really did breed warriors—even their women were fierce.
Shame about the questionable decision-making, though.
Lance's frown deepened. "That means… he took Princess Elia?"
"No."
Ashara's cheeks flushed as she ducked her head in embarrassment. "I dragged Her Highness into the cellar with me, it's just that…"
"Just what?"
"My strength wasn't enough." Her voice turned sheepish as she buried her face against his chest. "I… kind of tossed her in. I don't know if I hurt her."
Gods above.
Lance gently pried Ashara off him and hurried down into the cellar. Sure enough, there lay Princess Elia, sprawled stiffly across the steps, completely unconscious.
A large, swollen lump rose from her forehead.
Lance knelt and checked her breathing—it was steady. Relieved, he scooped her up and carried her back into the moonlight.
"She's fine," he said, smiling at the anxious Ashara. "Good thing you're smarter than your brother."
"My brother…"
Ashara's eyes lit up, her guilt momentarily forgotten. "Arthur—he's here?"
"He is." Lance grinned. "Though a woman nearly beat him to death."
"A… a woman?" Ashara's heart skipped, thinking of the terrifying figure who'd haunted her nightmares.
But something felt off. "But everyone says Arthur is the greatest knight alive—Prince Oberyn himself can't defeat him. How could a woman hurt him?"
"How is he? Is he in danger?"
"He'll live," Lance said with a shrug, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Ask him yourself when you see him. I'm not sure he'll answer honestly—it's too embarrassing."
Ashara frowned, but before she could press further, the sound of galloping hooves cut through the night. Shouts followed, stopping right outside the courtyard.
"They're here."
Lance grinned, hefted Dawn onto his shoulder, and strode out the door. Ashara, almost on instinct, followed close behind.
Outside, three fully armed knights sat their horses, staring down at Ben's mangled corpse with low whistles of amazement.
"You're late, ser knights!"
Lance's voice snapped their attention toward him. Their gazes flicked between the massive greatsword on his shoulder and Ashara standing behind him.
Barristan Selmy's eyes locked onto Ashara the moment he saw her.
Even disheveled, with hair loose and clothes rumpled, the moonlight seemed to frame her like a vision from the Seven themselves. For a man who had spent forty years in service, denying himself every earthly temptation, she was nothing short of divine.
This… isn't Princess Elia.
No—those striking violet eyes told him immediately who she was.
By the Seven…
Ser Arthur Dayne had a sister—and she was this beautiful?
In that instant, Barristan felt the walls he had built around his heart since taking the white cloak begin to crumble.
Sensing his stare, Ashara instinctively edged closer to Lance, hiding behind his tall frame and clutching the backplate of his armor like a frightened child seeking shelter.
Smack!
It hit Barristan like a thunderbolt. He froze in the saddle, utterly stricken, as though he'd heard something inside him shatter.
The heart he had only just rediscovered… had broken all over again.