Chapter 47 – Do You Want My Sword?
"Hyah—KILL!!!"
Clang! Clang—Dong!
"Aaahhh!!!"
Under the scorching sun, the brutal clash raged on. Steel clashed, men screamed, and the air reeked of blood and sweat.
"Hah… hah…"
Lance panted heavily, chest heaving with every breath. The soft padding inside his helm did little to stop the sweat that trickled down from his brow. The salty drops stung his eyes like acid.
Beside him, Ser Barristan was just as winded, bracing himself on his sword as he gazed forward. Forty years had not slowed his blade — his skill was sharper than ever — but time had nibbled at his endurance. Compared to the days of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, even the "Bold" knight felt the difference.
Both bore cuts and bruises, not mortal, but enough to drag at their movements.
And Ser Jonothor Darry…
Barristan spared a glance to where his fellow white cloak lay, unable to rise. Silently, he offered a prayer to the Seven for the man's life.
Three against thirty — even for the best knights in the realm — was a steep price to pay.
But the cost for their enemies had been far greater.
Lance finally caught his breath and reached up to wipe the sweat from his eyes, only to smear it worse with his leather glove. With a growl, he tore off his helm and hurled it aside.
He raised his head and looked at the grisly mounds before them — the harvest of five bloody charges. Of the thirty knights who had charged them, only six remained.
Half had fallen to Dawn. The rest to Barristan's sword. Jonothor, even wounded, had fought like a lion, covering their flank.
Barristan was every bit the legend Tywin Lannister once claimed him to be — the kind of man whose very presence could turn the tide of war, no matter whom he served. While shielding Lance's right, he had somehow found the time to cut down more than ten enemies on his own.
Lance, who had once drawn on the full might of the "veteran Kingsguard" in training, could only shake his head in admiration.
But their luck had not been perfect — in that fifth charge, both Lance and Barristan had lost their horses.
---
"Still not ready to yield, you craven dogs of House Yronwood?!"
Lance shouted, planting Dawn in the ground, calling them out by name and stripping away any pretense.
His white breastplate was gashed open, blood seeping through the mail beneath. He looked like a man carved from war itself — yet his eyes shone with defiance, unbroken.
"Yronwood?" Barristan frowned.
He had no idea where Lance had gotten that piece of intelligence, but after days fighting side by side, the old Kingsguard had come to trust Lance's word. If he said they were Yronwood men — then Yronwood they were.
But why would Yronwood knights be here in the Kingswood… aiding these outlaws in kidnapping Princess Elia?
Barristan shook the thought away. There was no time to ask. Instead, he tore off his own helm, letting sweat-darkened silver hair tumble free. His eyes hardened, sword rising again.
"He really does know…"
From his saddle, Simon Toyne stared at them, too shocked for words.
Three against thirty — and this was the result. If word of this fight spread, he would be mocked across the Seven Kingdoms. His name — already cursed — would become a byword for failure.
"I… I'm done…"
One of the surviving Yronwood knights broke down, sobbing. He was shaking so badly his sword slipped from his hands.
"They're demons — Kingsguard demons! I… I want to go home!"
His despair seemed to infect the others. The last four survivors looked around, faces hollow, as though weighing whether to flee.
Fifty had ridden out with them. Four remained.
Yes — this was what it meant to face the Kingsguard.
"You can't go home now, you fools."
Simon Toyne's voice was cold, but inside, he already knew they had lost. Completely.
Even if they killed Lance and Barristan here, they would have no strength left to press their advantage.
But he could not give up.
His jaw worked as he glanced at the Smiling Knight — nearly crippled, barely holding his sword in one hand, yet still upright in the saddle.
No. He would not allow this to end in shame.
"They know who you are!" Simon roared. "If you let them leave, they'll ride straight to the king — and when word reaches Ormond Yronwood, do you think he'll save you? No! Your whole houses will pay the price!"
He swept his gaze over the survivors, forcing the weight of those words upon them.
"There is only one way to protect your families — kill them all. Here and now!"
The knights hesitated — then, one by one, they tightened their grips on their swords again.
"They're exhausted." Simon pressed on, sensing the moment. "Look at them — they've lost their mounts, they can barely stand. Just one last charge. One final push—"
He lowered his visor, muttering to himself as though praying: "One last time…"
---
"You may have cut off our only chance to make them run, Ser Lance."
Barristan stepped forward, chuckling softly. "If you hadn't named their house, some of them might have fled."
"Hah… hisss…" Lance winced at the pain in his chest but managed a grin.
"What's wrong, Ser Barristan the Bold? Getting cold feet?"
He drew a deep breath, eyes bright with challenge. "If you're afraid, take Jonothor and run. But me? I'm not leaving these bastards alive, old man."
Barristan's stern face softened — admiration in his eyes. Yes, he thought. This one is truly Kingsguard.
"Weren't you the one who said this was a feast?" Barristan raised his sword, smiling now. "I haven't had my fill yet, boy."
Lance threw back his head and laughed, before leveling his gaze at the half-dead Smiling Knight.
"That one's mine. The rest — do as you please."
"Agreed."
And so they stood together, two white knights against the dawn — ready to charge one last time.
A new charge began — but this time two of the Kingsguard advanced on foot. Even on foot, the aura they gave off was colder, fiercer than when they had been mounted.
Ahead, Simon Toyne led the pursuit. He could feel his warhorse sagging beneath him; the animal's legs had gone weary from the long ride and the repeated charges. Its speed had dropped to less than half. Still… a mounted charge was a different weapon entirely — a leveling blow against infantry.
That thought barely formed when a blur streaked by his side. The Smiling Knight — half hanging off his saddle, one hand clamped on his sword, crawling along the horse's back. Pain had no place in that man's eyes; they glittered with manic excitement. He fixed his gaze on Lance, raised his blade across his shoulder as if to cleave the other man's head in an instant and snatch away that damned great sword.
Lance met him, Dawn gripped with both hands. A killing light flared in his blue eyes. Both men saw only the other's face reflected back at them as the distance closed.
At the last heartbeat before impact, Lance drove with both legs and leapt high. In stunned silence the onlookers watched the Smiling Knight's blade slice across the white breastplate — and then, without a sound, Lance's hands tightened on the hilt. The massive, milky blade of Dawn thundered through the Smiling Knight's cuirass.
A boom — and both riders flew from their saddles. Lance's white cloak billowed as he landed astride the Smiling Knight's chest.
Simon's face twisted with rage as he lunged forward — only to have a white-cloaked figure seize his reins. A sword drove up from beneath; where the helm left the jaw exposed, steel pierced bone and brain. The body collapsed heavily. The white-clad knight rolled up into his saddle, the kill, the theft of a mount, the whole grim motion executed in one swift, perfect sequence.
The four remaining knights, already shaken, lost whatever nerve they had left. They hurriedly urged their steeds away, turning back into the depths of the Kingswood.
"Pity…" Barristan didn't give chase. He knew his mount and his own strength were nearly spent. He watched the riders flee; there was nothing more to be done. Lance, unhorsed, could not pursue either.
Still, the rout was complete enough. Three men — three Knights of the Kingsguard — had met thirty and shattered them outright, not by trickery but by raw force. Only four had escaped alive. The feat, even greater than the legend of the single-handed killing of Maelys the Monstrous, swelled Barristan's chest with pride.
Lance had no interest in the runners. He had one eye only for the man who had coveted his blade from the first moment.
He planted his armored boot on the Smiling Knight's chest and looked down. Blood poured from the other's mouth, yet the Smiling Knight still grinned that ugly smile.
"You want my sword?" Lance asked.
Mimicking that same twisted grin with two fingers at his own mouth, Lance's blue eyes glittered with contempt. "I've already given it to you — you just can't catch it, coward!"
With a shout he planted his boot hard, wrenched Dawn free, swung the great blade in a wide arc — and brought it down with all his force.
One stroke… the head came off.