Chapter 44 — The Final Battle
Dawn was just breaking.
Dozens of horsemen thundered along the forest track; the pounding of hooves sent birds scattering from the trees. The Smiling Knight lay low in his saddle and peered toward his leader, eyes bright with a fierce excitement.
He hadn't expected his rider to muster nearly fifty men. Fully armored, disciplined, and helmeted so tightly none of them showed a face, they nonetheless held formation even at speed—the mark of a veteran force. If only he'd lingered longer in the village to harry them; still, it was only been half a night. They couldn't have gone far.
"Up ahead!" the Smiling Knight called, and the column reined in, coming to a halt with effortless precision.
"Those your men?" Simon Toyne, perched in his saddle, pointed ahead to where something hung between two houses.
Two heads, gruesomely still, dangled from a rope: frozen blood darkening the throat and lips, swinging in the pale morning breeze.
"Wenda… Ben." The Smiling Knight ground his teeth; anger flickered in his eyes. He didn't mourn them so much as seethe—the sight was a taunt, proof that his men had been hunted down like stray dogs.
"Kill them… kill them all…" his voice was thin with fury, bloodshot eyes gleaming.
"Steady. We find the girl first," Simon said, reining forward to jab a hand under the Smiling Knight's chin and bring their foreheads together. He locked eyes with that deranged stare and spoke low and hard: "Right now the priority is Princess Elia. Everything else can wait. Understand?"
The Smiling Knight's chest heaved. He inhaled, counted his breaths, and finally gave a grudging nod.
"Hold!" A shout rang out from the distance, stopping them.
A hundred and fifty yards on, a figure sat on a house step—white cloak slung carelessly, eating a coarse chunk of bread with a savage crunch. A great horse pawed the dirt nearby. He tipped a waterskin to his mouth, guzzled, wiped his chin, and grinned toward the riders; Dawn—the pearly-white blade—rested across his back, conspicuous and terrible.
"Sword of the Morning?" Simon's jaw tightened. The Smiling Knight licked his lips; that crazed hunger returned to his face. "Take the blade… take it!"
Lance Lot gave a lazy sniff, brushed crumbs from his mouth, hoisted Dawn off his back and shouldered it with a deliberate swagger. He squared himself and stared at the approaching ranks, voice carrying easily.
"I'm Lance Lot!" he called. "You've all heard the name—yes, the Kingsguard who dragged the King out of Duskendale with his own hands."
"Even if you hide your crests, I know who you are. Princess Elia has already been taken back to King's Landing under escort. If you turn and leave, I'll pretend I saw nothing."
He let that hang, then tightened his grip and pointed the razor edge of Dawn at the force arrayed before him. "But you and your friends aren't going anywhere, Simon Toyne."
Simon's pupils pinched to slits. By God—how did this Kingsguard learn his name? He'd been so careful. Where had Lance heard it?
"Don't listen to him." Simon turned to his captains. "The Smiling Knight saw the princess when he left. They haven't been gone three hours. With two women and baggage, they'll be slow. We can catch them."
"But first—this nuisance must be dealt with," he added, eyes on Lance. "Kill this one, then we ride."
The helms hid their faces, but a small, curt nod answered Simon's command. They trusted him to run the job; they had been told to obey him.
The Smiling Knight, though barely restrained, was practically salivating at the sight of Dawn. He'd heard the name—Lance Lot—before. Now that he saw the sword, mania surged.
"I've heard of you, Lance Lot!"
Simon Toyne frowned, thinking for a moment, then yanked the longsword from his hip and leveled it at the lone figure ahead. His voice rang out, sharp and commanding:
"To rescue a king single-handedly from Duskendale—I'll grant you that, you're a knight of no small renown.
But I have fifty men behind me!"
He gestured to the ranks at his back. One by one, the riders drew steel. In unison, the sound of unsheathing blades cut through the morning stillness, and the air grew taut with murderous intent.
Lance narrowed his eyes. That kind of perfect, wordless coordination wasn't something hedge knights or mercenaries could manage. No—these were household knights, retainers of an ancient and powerful lordly house.
Strict military discipline was no easy feat in Westeros. Most lords still relied on conscripts—farmers, smiths, and vagabonds pressed into service at a moment's notice—an undisciplined rabble with more fear than training. Only the great houses, like the Lannisters, could field men with proper armor and arms, let alone drill them to move as one.
Lance smiled, broad and almost taunting.
"Are you sure about this, Simon Toyne?
Are you certain you want to defy the might of Lance Lot?"
His voice rang with a dangerous sort of mirth as he pointed Dawn toward the rebel leader.
"Before you decide, I'd advise you take a ride to Duskendale and look upon the gates. The heads of House Darklyn still hang there!"
"Enough talk!" Simon snapped. He couldn't fathom why this Kingsguard was so brazen when so vastly outnumbered—but there was no more time to waste. He turned to his right-hand knight and barked:
"Kill him. Then bring Princess Elia back—alive!"
The knight gave a short nod and, without a word, raised two fingers to his lips.
A shrill whistle split the air. At once, twenty mounted knights surged forward in a thunder of hooves, lances and swords glinting as they charged.
Lance's blue eyes flickered with something like pity.
"A shame…"
He swung into the saddle—not to flee, but to meet them. Dawn rested on his shoulder, its pale blade gleaming in the newborn light.
With a slight pressure of his knees, his horse leapt forward into a gallop. The white cloak of the Kingsguard snapped like a banner behind him.
Simon Toyne's eyes went wide with disbelief. The man was charging them—alone.
Dawn's edge mirrored the light of dawn itself in Lance's gaze. No fear, no hesitation—only resolve. He tightened his grip on the hilt and began to count under his breath.
"Three… two… one."
And then he struck.