Chapter 45 – The Kingsguard Charges!
Lance's silent countdown hit one.
The lead rider suddenly felt the ground vanish beneath him. Horse and rider pitched forward in a blur of motion.
A trap—horse pit!
His instincts screamed the truth even before he hit the ground.
But how?
How had the enemy known they would pursue this way—and prepared the ground in advance?
He didn't have time to wonder. The horse's forelegs vanished into the pit, and its momentum hurled the knight out of the saddle like a rag doll. He slammed into the dirt with a sickening crash.
He wasn't alone. Most of the front rank suffered the same fate—armor and horses crashing in a chain reaction of disaster.
Heavy plate, which should have been their salvation, became their doom—dragging them down, cracking ribs, rattling skulls. The unlucky ones struck hard enough to vomit blood before they even tried to stand. Some fell directly into the pit itself, skewered on the stakes hidden within.
Nearly half of the first wave was down in seconds.
The veteran knight who had led the charge forced himself up despite the roaring in his head, lungs burning for air. His vision cleared just enough to see the carnage—his comrades sprawled in every direction, some twitching, some horribly still.
And then he heard it.
Da-da-da… da-da-da…
The sharp, fast drumbeat of hooves. From behind.
He spun, gripping his sword in both hands—just in time to see a flash of blinding white.
Shhkkk—!
A hiss like tearing silk, then silence. His world spun, sky and earth reversed, and the last thing he saw was his own body collapsing headless to the mud, Dawn's pale edge glistening red as it passed.
Lance stood in the saddle, Dawn raised, blue eyes alight with battle fury.
"Gods… this feels glorious!"
The sword was impossibly sharp—every swing like a scythe through wheat. No wonder Arthur Dayne had always carried himself like a man above men.
With Lance's own swordsmanship, combined with this peerless greatsword born from the heart of a fallen star, there might truly be no equal left in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps not even Barristan the Bold could match him—unless the old knight too had a Valyrian blade.
Thoughts flashed as fast as Dawn itself. His horse circled the pit while he struck down anyone struggling to rise. The white blade made mockery of plate and mail—cleaving through armor as though it were parchment.
Thanks to his strange link with Rhaegar and the Dayne bloodline, Lance could wield Dawn as if he had been born to it. He lacked Arthur's sheer strength, perhaps—but with both hands on the hilt, every stroke had unstoppable weight.
Four. Five men fell in moments.
But then the survivors rallied—six, seven knights skirting the pit to close around him.
Lance only grinned.
Instead of fleeing, he turned his horse, spurred hard, and galloped straight at them.
They followed, giving chase—until Lance wheeled about after fifty yards, cloak snapping behind him, and faced them head-on with Dawn resting lazily on one shoulder.
That mocking look froze the blood in their veins. Too late they realized what he'd done—drawn them into a kill zone.
Hoofbeats sounded on both flanks.
From the treeline came two more white shadows—full-armored Kingsguard, swords low, charging like avenging wraiths.
Through the narrow eye-slits of their helms, their gaze was colder than the Stranger's.
"Don't panic!" one of the knights barked, trying to steady the others.
"There are only two of them!"
Even so, his eyes darted nervously to Lance ahead, who merely smiled.
"Two of you, with me. We take the big one down first!"
Seven riders split—three thundering toward Lance, the other four angling to intercept Barristan and his companion.
Lance laughed under his breath.
"So you think I'm the biggest threat?"
He spurred forward. His horse leapt into a full gallop.
Rhaegar's horsemanship, combined with the raw instinct of the Dothraki template fused into him, made Lance one with the animal beneath him. He needed no hands on the reins—his legs alone guided the steed, leaving both arms free for Dawn.
In seconds they clashed.
The three enemy knights struck as one, blades scything in perfect unison, their angles chosen to leave Lance nowhere to dodge. Any normal man would have been carved apart.
But Lance wasn't normal.
Instead of flinching, he roared and met their blades head-on.
Dawn crashed into the three swords with such force that the first snapped clean in two, the impact sending shockwaves down the arms of the other two knights, numbing their fingers and nearly knocking the weapons from their hands.
Before they could recover, Lance's grin widened.
Dawn came around in a great white arc—
Shrrk!
—and split the first knight nearly in half, shearing through plate as if it were cloth.
The corpse toppled from the saddle before it even realized it was dead.
The other two thrust wildly, desperate to land a killing blow—but Lance bent back in the saddle, lying flat against his horse's spine, letting the blades whistle harmlessly over him.
Then, still in motion, he surged upright, gripped Dawn with both hands, and drove the point forward—straight into a warhorse's belly.
The animal screamed, rearing and crashing down, its rider crushed beneath.
"Come on then!"
Lance wrenched Dawn free, his white cloak stained crimson, his smile feral.
Seeing that the last remaining knight still wanted to fight, Lance swung his greatsword with one hand, knocking him back. Then he casually slung the blood-stained Dawn over his shoulder and jerked his chin at him.
"Take a look behind you, boy."
The knight felt a chill creep up his spine at Lance's unhurried tone. Slowly, almost against his will, he turned his head—
Two White Cloaks had appeared behind him, no more than a few meters away. Their flowing cloaks, now speckled with crimson, looked like blood-red blossoms blooming in the dawn.
And behind them… the bodies of all four of his comrades, lying still and silent. He hadn't even heard them die.
"T-This… this is the Kingsguard?"
The knight swallowed hard, for the first time in his life feeling doubt gnaw at his heart. They had always been told they were among the most elite knights in Westeros—yet before the Kingsguard, they were nothing but pigs waiting for slaughter.
Clop… clop…
In his daze, he saw the knight whose horse had been gutted earlier struggling to his feet. The man turned toward him, seemingly oblivious to the charging White Cloak behind him—
—and to the sword raised high.
Shing!
The blade fell. A round head flew from its shoulders, blood splattering across the stunned knight's face. He stood frozen, even forgetting to blink, as the second Kingsguard bore down on him, sword descending.
---
"Damn it…"
Elsewhere, Ser Simon Toyne watched helplessly as the twenty knights he had sent forward were wiped out in moments. His teeth ground with rage. He turned to his knight-captain, but when he saw no trace of fear in the man's eyes, he exhaled slowly and forced himself calm.
"Around the pits—charge!"
Pulling down the visor of his helm, Simon spurred his warhorse forward, taking the lead himself.
Yes, they had lost twenty men in an instant—but only because of the trap.
Without it, thirty against three was no contest.
Even the Kingsguard could not stand against such odds in open combat.
Rumble… rumble…
Thirty warhorses thundered forward, kicking up dust, their charge shaking the earth.
---
"Heh… they really are underestimating us, Ser Barristan, Ser Jonothor."
Lance grinned as he saw the enemy's cavalry formation swinging around the pit and heading straight for them. None of the three Kingsguard showed the slightest fear—even the youngest, Ser Jonothor Darry, had only bright, eager light in his eyes.
Lance reached into the saddlebag, retrieved his white helm, and locked it into place.
His gaze met Barristan's.
The trap had done its job, but there were still plenty left to deal with.
"Only thirty men," Barristan Selmy said with calm disdain, stroking the neck of his horse. The wind stirred the long beard visible beneath his helm. And why wouldn't he be calm? This was the man who, at only eighteen, had charged into the middle of a thousand Golden Company veterans and slain Maelys Blackfyre, the "Monstrous," before riding back out alive.
Lance nodded, murmuring thoughtfully, "Yes… only thirty men."
Hearing the two speak with such quiet contempt, Ser Jonothor's chest swelled with pride.
After all, he was about to charge side by side with "Barristan the Bold" and Ser Lance Lot, the man who had cut his way through Duskendale and brought the king out alive.
With these two at his side, what were thirty men? He would have followed them against three hundred.
Under his companions' eager eyes, Lance slowly lowered his visor. His blue eyes gleamed through the narrow slit like those of a hungry predator.
The three White Cloaks tightened their grip on their swords, but their mood was light, as if they were about to ride to a feast rather than into battle.
"Appetizers are over, ser knights."
Lance raised Dawn high overhead and tugged hard on the reins. His horse reared, front hooves lashing the air.
"KINGSGUARD… CHARGE!!!"
In the newborn light of dawn, the milky-white blade of Dawn caught the sun's first rays, making the three knights' armor blaze like beacons as they thundered forward.