Chapter 87 – I, Lance Lot, Was Ambushed!
The Red Keep.
The sea crashed against the crimson walls of the castle, the saltwater gnawing endlessly at its foundations — yet even after two hundred years, it had never managed to wash away the bloodstained hue of its stone.
The waves didn't give up. They just kept coming, day after day, as if time itself was determined to scrub clean what men never could.
Above, the moon broke through the clouds and cast a long silver beam across the spires of Maegor's Holdfast. The light stretched down over the Traitor's Walk, draping the passage in ghostly shadow.
From that darkness, a figure darted out — lithe, quick, and silent as a hare.
Lyanna Stark moved with a wild grace, her gray eyes glimmering with excitement.
Try to send me back north, will you? Not a chance!
The she-wolf of Winterfell would have her vengeance.
And she would have it tonight.
Her breath quickened as she tightened her grip on the dagger hidden in her cloak. Her boots barely made a sound on the cobblestones as she crept deeper into the castle grounds.
But just as she rose to move again—
A large hand shot from the shadows behind her and clamped over her mouth and nose.
"Mmph—!"
Lyanna's eyes went wide with shock. She reacted instantly, stabbing backward with the dagger — but the assailant was faster. His other hand seized her wrist with iron strength.
She twisted, flipping her body in a blur of motion, long legs snapping around the attacker's neck in a northern wrestler's lock. She wrenched with all her strength.
It didn't matter.
The man barely swayed. His grip tightened instead, bending his elbow to pin her against his chest.
"Quiet! It's me—"
That voice.
Lyanna froze. The resistance drained from her limbs, replaced by wary recognition.
She pulled away, retreating two cautious steps. The moonlight fell on a broad, familiar face.
"You…"
Her tone was sharp — not relieved, but suspicious. Dagger still in hand, she frowned.
"How long have you been following me, Robert?"
"Since you slipped out of the Emerald Bird."
Robert Baratheon grinned, the moonlight glinting in his blue eyes. The wild, fierce scent of her made his heart drum louder.
He couldn't help it — there was something about this wolf-girl that made even the storm go still.
The dagger in her hand didn't intimidate him; if anything, it made her more breathtaking.
Even that northern grapple a moment ago — he couldn't stop thinking about the warmth of her legs against his neck.
"I'll admit, you're sharper than your brother," he teased softly. "Hiding in a food wagon to sneak past the gates — clever girl."
He nodded in genuine admiration.
The Red Keep wasn't easy to breach — not with Gold Cloaks at every entrance and seven of the finest Kingsguard patrolling the royal grounds.
For Lyanna to slip in unnoticed spoke of both wit and nerve.
"And you?" she asked, arching a brow at his rough, sackcloth attire. "What's your excuse?"
"Me?" Robert spread his arms, smiling like a fool. "I'm King's Landing's most famous cook — Hannibal the Handsome! Cost me five gold dragons for the outfit, too."
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a mock-gallant tone.
"But for the beautiful Lady Stark, I'd have paid five thousand."
Lyanna's lips twitched despite herself. For all his bluster, there was something disarmingly earnest in his tone.
When she threw her arms around his broad waist, Robert stiffened for a heartbeat — then felt her whisper against his chest:
"You came to help me avenge Brandon, didn't you?"
"I knew it. You're nothing like Ned!"
"Ah… well…"
He wanted to tell her the truth — that he'd followed her to stop her, not join her.
But when he looked down at her wild brown hair and those defiant eyes, the words died in his throat.
"Aye," he said finally, resting a heavy hand on her head. "I'm here to help."
Her face lit up with such joy that Robert's breath caught.
In the pale light, her smile showed two small, sharp teeth — a wolf's grin.
And it bit straight into his heart.
---
All right, Robert, just keep her busy, he told himself. Let her chase shadows until she tires herself out.
"You're headed the wrong way," he said aloud, pointing across the courtyard. "That's the royal wing — the King and Queen's chambers. The Kingsguard are quartered over there, see that tall tower? The White Sword Tower."
It wasn't exactly a lie.
But if she went that way, she'd find empty halls and locked doors.
The King's favorite knight — that damned Lance Lot — would be nowhere near it tonight. He'd be standing guard at Aerys's bedside.
"Seven bless me," Robert thought smugly. I'm a bloody genius.
"Good! Let's go, then!"
Before he could object, Lyanna grabbed his arm and started toward the tower.
"Wait, wait—"
He barely managed to keep up. They'd only taken a few steps when the sound of boots echoed sharply down the corridor ahead.
"Hide!"
Robert moved fast, dragging Lyanna into a dark recess of the wall. He wrapped an arm around her to keep her still — perhaps a little too tightly.
The scent of her hair filled his lungs; for a brief, dangerous moment, he closed his eyes and forgot everything else.
"It's him!"
Lyanna's whisper cut through the haze. Robert snapped his eyes open.
A figure in gleaming white armor strode across the courtyard — tall, broad-shouldered, with a silver sword at his hip and a white helm concealing his face.
Even from this distance, the gait, the build, the commanding presence — they were unmistakable.
Lance Lot.
The Kingsguard who had slain Brandon Stark.
Lyanna's grip on her dagger tightened.
And for the first time that night, Robert Baratheon — the storm born of thunder — realized he might have just followed the wrong wolf into the lion's den.
"I'm going to kill him!"
Lyanna's gray eyes blazed as she drew her dagger the moment she spotted the man she thought had murdered her brother. She didn't hesitate—she never hesitated.
Before she could sprint forward, Robert Baratheon caught her by the arm.
"Hold on—Seven hells, girl, we don't even know if that's really him! Let's at least make sure we've got the right man before you stab him!"
"I have my ways!"
And before Robert could spin another excuse to slow her down, the she-wolf of Winterfell shrugged off his grip with startling strength and bolted straight toward her target.
"Gods above…"
Robert's mind went blank for a moment.
He'd expected her to be bold—but not this mad.
---
A short distance ahead, a lone figure strode toward the royal quarters, his boots echoing against the stone.
"Arthur's armor fits better than I thought," murmured Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, glancing down at himself.
The white enamel of the Kingsguard armor gleamed under the moonlight. He had never worn it before, but he and Ser Arthur Dayne were nearly the same build. With his silver hair tucked beneath the helm and only part of his face showing, he looked—he had to admit—remarkably like Ser Lance Lot.
If he lowered his voice just a little…
"By the gods," he muttered with a rare smirk, "I am him."
For once, the melancholy prince looked almost pleased with himself.
"Let's see Gerold and Jonothor try to bar my way now."
---
"Lance Lot!"
The shout rang from behind him—high, clear, and furious.
Caught off guard, Rhaegar turned instinctively.
"Yes, that's me!" he answered before he even thought about it.
"I am Ser Lance Lot!"
The moment the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake.
Wait. Who in the seven hells would be calling me that at this hour?
He spun around—and froze.
A young woman stood before him in the moonlight, her face sharp and wild, her beauty marred by rage. For a split second, he forgot to breathe.
Then the blade flashed.
The dagger darted toward him, a streak of silver and moonfire.
Rhaegar moved on instinct, twisting aside, raising his right shoulder just in time—steel screeched against his pauldron. The blow glanced off harmlessly, leaving little more than a scratch.
Seven save me—she's trying to kill me!
The prince caught her wrist, blocking another kick before it landed. His reflexes were quick, his training sharp; he moved with the grace of a duelist. He grabbed her mid-strike and, with a twist of weight and leverage, brought both of them crashing to the ground.
He pinned her there, his armored frame pressing her down as she struggled beneath him.
"Who are you?" he barked, breath ragged. "Why are you trying to kill me?"
He raised a fist, ready to strike—but then their eyes met.
Those wild gray eyes—stormy, fierce, full of tears and hate—made him freeze.
Beneath him, Lyanna snarled, still thrashing.
"Kill you… I'll kill you!"
"I don't even know—"
Rhaegar's words were cut short by another voice, roaring from behind him.
"Lance Lot!"
He turned instinctively toward the sound.
"Yes—"
DUANG!
A deafening clang split the air.
Rhaegar's vision went black as something hard and heavy smashed into the side of his helmet. The white steel flew off his head and clattered across the stones, silver hair spilling free.
He tried to rise—only for another blow to crash down on him.
CRACK!
This time, the world spun. Rhaegar crumpled, armor ringing, and fell still.
---
Out of the darkness stepped Robert Baratheon, massive as a bear, grinning ear to ear. In his hand gleamed his fearsome weapon…
A long iron ladle.
"Ha! Behold!" he declared triumphantly. "The great Ser Robert Baratheon, savior of the beautiful Lady Lyanna Stark! By tomorrow, the bards will sing of this glorious rescue!"
He tossed the ladle up once for show and caught it again, laughing as he helped Lyanna to her feet.
Lyanna didn't return the grin. Instead, she pointed at the ladle in disbelief.
"You… hit him with that?"
"Oh, this?" Robert twirled it proudly before sliding it into the strap at his back.
"My trusty companion. Every good chef needs his spoon, my lady."
He flashed his best roguish smile.
"And tonight, it just saved your life."
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