Chapter 43 – The Feast… Is Waiting!
"Ser Arthur, how are you feeling?"
Ser Jonothor Darry stood by the makeshift wooden cot where Arthur Dayne lay, his body barely able to move. The question sounded polite enough, but the smirk tugging at Jonothor's lips betrayed him.
And he wasn't the only one. Even Ser Barristan, usually the picture of composure, had the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.
The grizzled old Kingsguard captain's mustache quivered as if in mirth — even his earlier worry seemed to have melted away.
This haughty man, this so-called "Sword of the Morning," was always looking down his nose at others — not because of personal spite, but because he truly considered every knight who wasn't his equal to be beneath him.
Even Ser Barristan was not exempt. Arthur had always believed that, with Dawn in hand, he could defeat even the legendary Barristan Selmy in a fair duel.
And yet, here he was — the mightiest of the Kingsguard, the man lauded as the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms — bested by a single woman.
Arthur glanced at the smirks and half-hidden grins surrounding him and knew instantly: this story would spread.
Miserable beyond words, he simply closed his eyes and lay still on the plank, feigning death.
The Sword of the Morning needs no excuses, he thought bitterly. My deeds speak for themselves. Let them talk.
The room erupted in laughter. The heavy mood that had hung over them since the mission began seemed to vanish, replaced with easy cheer.
After all, Princess Elia had been rescued. Their mission was more than halfway done. All that remained was to widen their search, find the remaining leader of the Brotherhood, and end him. Then the "Brotherhood of the Kingswood" would be nothing but history.
"How bad is he? Can he be saved?"
Lance Lot approached, massive greatsword balanced casually over his shoulder, and posed the question to Ser Manly.
Trailing behind him was Ashara Dayne, flitting about like a nervous shadow — a sight that made Barristan's heart tighten all over again.
Lance let the greatsword drop to the ground with a solid thunk, resting his chin atop its pommel with a grin that betrayed just how pleased he was.
No wonder Arthur never let go of that sword of his — it wasn't just about forging a bond with the blade, it was because… gods, it made him look good.
Wherever he went, Dawn gleamed like milky-white crystal, glowing all the more brilliantly under the pale moonlight. And paired with the white cloak and white enamelled armor of the Kingsguard?
It was a vision. An image of chivalric perfection.
As a transmigrator, Lance had been coveting Dawn for a long time. Finally, the sword of his dreams was in his hands.
Too bad… he'd have to give it back when they returned.
No. There's got to be a way to trick him out of it.
His gaze slid toward Ashara, trailing dutifully behind. Maybe if she agreed to throw in the family heirloom as a dowry?
Lance immediately shook his head.
First of all, he was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Second, Dawn had been passed down through the Dayne family for thousands of years. Even when a Sword of the Morning fell in battle, it was said that enemies themselves would personally return the blade to Starfall — that was how sacred it was to House Dayne.
Still… if there were a way, Lance Lot was not a man too bound by oaths to consider resigning his white cloak.
Ahem. Retire. Definitely not "break vows."
Lance sighed inwardly.
---
Ser Manly finished dressing Prince Lewyn's wounds and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Gods, what a constitution this man has," he murmured. "He must have taken a grievous wound before, and now he's been hacked nearly to pieces, with two arrows still lodged in him. The fact that he's still breathing is nothing short of a miracle."
He glanced at his meager supply kit and frowned. "I learned some healing in the Citadel, but I haven't enough salves with me. We need to get him to King's Landing as soon as possible so that a proper maester can tend to him."
He made a reverent gesture over his chest. "May the Seven watch over him."
"Alive is good enough," Lance muttered under his breath, utterly unmoved by Manly's piety.
If the Seven really cared, Aerys wouldn't have been left rotting in Duskendale until he nearly went mad.
Still… Lewyn Martell was a tough one. Too bad neither of his nephews inherited that constitution. In the story Lance knew, one ended up crippled with gout, and the other got his skull crushed like a grape by the Mountain.
And Princess Elia? Fragile as glass.
Don't tell me this guy used some kind of bloodline-gathering secret art, like that Battle Saint in those webnovels…
Lance was still amusing himself with the thought when the sharp clatter of approaching hooves shattered the night.
"Who goes there?"
The knights reacted instantly, drawing their weapons and forming a wall.
But Lance relaxed when he saw the rider and mimed a bird's beak with his hand. "Stand down. He's one of ours."
The rider was unremarkable, the kind of man whose face would be lost instantly in a crowd. Without a word, he swung down a wax-sealed letter and tossed it to Lance before riding off.
Efficient. Discreet. Varys' little birds never disappointed — though Lance couldn't help thinking, wryly, I really should get some little birds of my own one of these days.
"What does it say?" Ser Jonothor Darry craned his neck curiously as Lance broke the seal and scanned the contents.
Instead of answering, Lance folded the letter and tucked it under his breastplate. Then he turned sharply toward Ser Manly, his expression hardening.
"Ser Manly, I need a favor."
"Name it, Ser Lance."
"Take this rider and escort Princess Elia and her companions north — at once."
"What's happened—"
"That's an order!" Lance's bark cut him off.
"Yes, ser!"
Though still puzzled, Manly nodded and began giving instructions. Lance, satisfied, turned toward the remaining Kingsguard.
He gripped Dawn's hilt, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the camp before finally settling on the other two knights.
"Gentlemen," Lance said, grinning suddenly, all sternness gone. "You arrived late earlier — must have been a bit disappointing for you."
"Don't worry." His grin widened. "I'm about to take you to a far greater feast."
"Just remember… bring your tableware."
---
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The rhythmic hoofbeats echoed through the dark forest.
The man known as the Smiling Knight was no longer smiling. Sweat beaded on his brow. His foot throbbed with every jolt of the horse, a constant reminder of the woman who had stabbed him.
That woman. Damn her.
He had never imagined that one day, a mere woman would put a blade through his foot.
He knew he could no longer risk storming the cellar and dragging Princess Elia out. This mission was over.
So he had done the only sensible thing: abandoned his men and fled.
He might be mad — but he wasn't stupid.
Based on the details he'd gleaned, he had already guessed the true identities of these "traders." Anyone carrying a royal hunting decree signed by the Hand of the King and guarded by knights of that caliber could only be… the Kingsguard.
Had it been one-on-one, he would have relished the challenge. Even if the Sword of the Morning himself appeared, the Smiling Knight believed he could kill him in a fair fight — and claim the legendary Dawn as his own.
But now he was injured, outnumbered, and in no condition to gamble.
He wasn't reckless enough to throw himself into certain death.
"Wait for me," he murmured as the rendezvous point with Simon Toyne drew near.
A crooked smile crept back onto his face.
His men — every one of them handpicked, every one of them an elite — were all dead now.
No matter.
As long as he still breathed, the family's vengeance would be carried out.
And soon.