Chapter 187 – One Sword to Fell Connington!
On one side of the Kingsroad, deep within a dense forest.
A Stormlands force had gathered there, the air heavy with the cold scents of steel, leather, and horses.
Jon Connington stood at the head of the formation, mounted on a powerful warhorse, his gaze fixed on the road stretching north.
Snow and wind lashed his face mercilessly. Cold seeped through his helmet, frost clung to his brows and lashes—yet he felt none of it.
His heart burned.
In his mind, a distant vision surfaced once more:
that towering fortress on a stone isle by the sea.
There, in the darkness of his life, had shone the only light he had ever known—
the brightest star of them all.
"Rhaegar…"
He whispered the name, as though calling to a lover.
Whenever snow fell or solitude crept in, that silver-haired, blue-eyed face appeared before him.
He still remembered their first meeting.
It had been at Griffin's Roost, the ancestral castle of House Connington.
That day, the sun had been far warmer than now.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of Dragonstone had stopped there—not for a formal visit, but merely to rest briefly along his journey.
For Jon's father, it was an honor beyond measure.
The castle had been dressed in its finest. Old tapestries—crudely embroidered but cherished—were hung upon rough stone walls. The air was rich with the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, and strong house-made wine.
Servants rushed about nervously, terrified of committing some offense before such an exalted guest.
Jon had been little more than a boy then—awkward, uncertain of his future.
At the welcoming feast, the prince took up a silver-stringed harp and played.
Clear, luminous notes flowed through the hall, light as breath—yet carrying a sorrow sharp enough to pierce the heart.
When Rhaegar set the harp aside, every woman in the room wept.
Jon did too.
His father had no taste for art. He saw only opportunity—scheming for the prince's favor to gain leverage against Lord Morrigen.
Standing in the shadows, Jon watched his father abase himself with a humility he had never seen before, his face plastered with calculated smiles, eyes gleaming like a merchant's.
But Jon saw none of that.
He saw only the boy with the harp.
He fell in love.
He chose to follow Rhaegar—to Dragonstone.
They grew up together. They spoke of music. Later, they trained in arms and horsemanship.
Jon loved him more with every passing year.
But the world allowed no place for such feelings.
He buried them deep, convinced himself that time would carry on—that he would one day watch Rhaegar marry, father heirs, and ascend the Iron Throne.
And he—Jon Connington—would don the white cloak, become his most loyal Kingsguard, and guard him from the walls of the Red Keep until old age claimed him.
Until the end.
Until—
that man appeared.
That coarse, lowborn brute of a blacksmith.
"My lord!"
A breathless voice shattered Jon's reverie. His hand twitched on the reins.
Scout Captain Hardy Storm rode up at speed, his horse foaming.
Hardy gasped for breath, lips blue with cold. He swallowed hard.
"My lord—an hour ago, the enemy passed through our outer blockade."
"Pursue."
The fire in Jon Connington's chest flared higher.
He issued his command without hesitation:
"Send word—slow our pace. Once they're tangled up with that idiot Ralph, we close in from behind."
"Leave Lance Lot's head in the Stormlands!"
Hardy hesitated.
"My lord… the Dondarrion and Tarth forces haven't arrived yet. Shouldn't we wait—"
"Wait my ass!"
Jon snapped, shooting an irritated glance westward.
"I've seen through them all! Those fools are useless—whether they come or not makes no difference!"
"This chance comes only once. We can't let that blacksmith react!"
"But—!"
Hardy's voice shook with fear.
"That's Lance Lot! They say he stands ten feet tall! With just two men he slaughtered dozens of trained knights in the Kingswood, then carved his way through Doran Martell's old palace alone—and now he has a dragon-!"
"A hatchling!"
Jon cut him off sharply.
"One that can't even fly properly!"
Seeing fear ripple through the ranks, Jon raised his voice.
"I've seen Lance Lot myself. He might be a little taller than me—but he's not ten feet tall!"
"He's no seven-headed demon. He bleeds. And he can die!"
He drew his sword in one smooth motion and roared:
"They have eight hundred men—we have eight hundred too! And ahead of us are thousands of allies!"
"Eight hundred is enough!"
"Eight hundred Stormlands riders are more than enough to bury that damned blacksmith in our soil!"
"Let those Crownlands dogs see it clearly—Stormlands men are the fiercest warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
"For Lord Robert!"
"For the wronged Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!"
"Glory to Storm's End!"
"Glory to Storm's End!"
"Glory to Storm's End!"
The knights answered him in thunderous chorus.
Jon Connington kicked his heels in and surged forward, leading the charge toward the Kingsroad.
Hooves thundered. Wind howled. Steel flowed behind him like a living tide.
Cold air burned his lungs—but his heart burned hotter still.
Wait for me, Rhaegar…
Everyone who defiled your light—will die.
Eight hundred riders thundered south.
Until they reached a narrow valley.
Jon suddenly reined in.
"My lord?" Hardy hurried up beside him.
"Have you changed your mind? I told you we should wait for the Dondarrions and—"
"HAHAHAHA!"
Jon burst into wild laughter, the sound echoing through the empty valley.
Hardy stared, stunned.
"My lord… what are you laughing at?"
"I laugh at Lance Lot's stupidity!"
Jon thrust an arm forward, pointing at the empty pass ahead, his voice ringing.
"Such a strategic choke point—and he lets eight hundred riders pass through unguarded!"
"Even leaving two hundred men here would've given him a fallback if defeated—but look!"
"Not a single soul."
"That man's rise was nothing but decent swordplay and blind luck."
"In real war?"
"He's nothing but a reckless brute!"
Hearing his words, the knights around him burst into cheers.
"Wise as ever, my lord!"
"Take the blacksmith's dog head!"
"Hahaha!!"
Laughter spread through the ranks, washing away the tension that had hung in the air.
Jon Connington curled his lips into a satisfied grin.
"Move through at full speed!"
"Catch those idiots and grind them into the mud of the Stormlands!"
"Yes!!!"
The morale of the eight hundred riders surged to its peak. Like arrows loosed from a bowstring, they followed Jon and charged headlong into the dark mouth of the valley.
Only Hardy felt a knot of unease tighten in his chest.
Too quiet.
Aside from the wind and the echo of their own hooves, there was nothing. Even in winter, it felt wrong.
He glanced back once more—but in the end, he lashed his horse forward and followed the main force into the gorge.
The cavalry thundered ahead, eight hundred riders pouring into the narrow pass.
The dense forest on both sides blurred past, snow exploding under pounding hooves.
Jon Connington rode at the very front, his heart hammering in his chest—not from fear, but from the promise of revenge.
Then—
A faint rustle came from the depths of the forest to the left, almost drowned out by wind and hooves.
A bird?
Jon's instincts caught it instantly. He glanced toward the sound just in time to see a small shape flicker between the trees.
In the dim light, he could barely make it out—a startled bird flapping desperately as it fled the forest.
I'm too tense, he thought, shaking his head as he urged his horse forward.
But then—
A second sound rolled out from the woods.
Clear. Heavy.
Hooves.
Jon reined in sharply.
The riders around him halted as well—but the hoofbeats were still coming.
Had Dondarrion arrived?
No.
They wouldn't be approaching from both sides of the valley.
"Form up! Enemy attack!!!"
Jon roared, drawing his sword.
Almost at the exact same moment—
The dull twang of bowstrings exploded from both sides.
An instant later, a rain of arrows poured down from the heights!
"Argh!"
"My eyes!"
"Shields up—scatter!"
Screams, metal impacts, and the shrill cries of panicked horses filled the gorge.
Most arrows failed to pierce their heavy armor, but the sheer volume crushed morale.
Riders collided. Horses reared. Men were trampled.
Their formation collapsed in seconds.
"Hold the line!!"
Jon Connington shouted himself hoarse, slashing the air in fury.
Then—
The real storm arrived.
With thunderous hooves and furious battle cries, two black torrents burst from the forests on both slopes.
"For the Regent!"
"For the Iron Throne!!"
Crownlands knights, held back until this moment, charged like unleashed beasts.
On the right flank, Brynden Tully led the attack, sword blazing. A Stormlands knight barely raised his spear before Brynden's blade took his head clean off, the white cloak snapping behind him like a banner.
On the left, Ser Balman Byrch surged forward with his cavalry, shouting in wild exhilaration. His swordsmanship lacked Brynden's refinement—but every swing still dropped an enemy.
One single charge.
That was all it took.
The Stormlands cavalry shattered completely.
Trapped in the narrow gorge, ambushed from above and both sides, they had no time to react. Fear and chaos strangled any hope of resistance.
Worse still—
A gray-white dragon wheeled overhead.
It swooped again and again, snatching men into the air, dropping them screaming onto the rocks below.
Over and over.
"My lord! Run!!!"
Hardy's voice cut through the carnage.
He and a dozen elite guards, soaked in blood, hacked desperately around Jon.
Only then did Jon Connington tear himself free from shock.
He saw his men being butchered like livestock.
His teeth clenched so hard they nearly cracked.
"Run," he forced out, humiliation and rage tearing his throat raw.
It was over.
From the moment the ambush began, the outcome had been sealed.
Under Hardy's desperate protection, Jon spurred his horse toward Fallenwood, fighting his way out.
The escape was brutal.
Hardy used his own body as a shield, smashing aside attackers, while the remaining guards gave their lives to delay pursuit.
At a terrible cost, they carved a path through the slaughter.
As the light at the valley's exit came into view, Jon regained a sliver of clarity.
If he could link up with Ralph Buckler at Fallenwood—six thousand men waited on the Kingsroad.
They could still strike back.
Then—
A figure stood calmly at the mouth of the gorge.
Like a statue carved from winter marble.
Weak sunlight gleamed off armor white as snow.
And in his hands—
Two massive blades.
One black.
One white.
"Lance… Lot!!!"
Jon bellowed the name, horror and fury crashing together.
That damned blacksmith had been waiting here all along.
Waiting for him to walk straight into the trap.
Hatred reignited, blazing hot.
Jon looked around—
Only one man?
"Kill him!!!"
Jon screamed, voice shredded raw.
"He's alone! Lance Lot is alone!"
"Charge! Kill him! We still have a chance!"
The surviving guards roared and urged their horses forward, weapons raised, charging the lone white-armored knight.
But Lance's blue eyes held no emotion at all.
He lifted his right hand slightly, the black Valyrian greatsword pointing forward—steady, unwavering.
His left hand held the ivory greatblade across his chest.
Still.
Only when the first sword was about to strike his face—
The Valyrian steel moved.
One simple upward slash.
Plate armor split like parchment.
Blood and organs spilled across the snow.
At the same time, the Dawn-colored blade swept out in a half-circle, cleaving two charging spearmen—man and armor—into four pieces.
Steam rose as hot blood met winter air.
Not a single drop touched the white cloak behind him.
The twin greatswords danced.
Every strike meant death.
Heads flew. Limbs scattered.
A grotesque, beautiful massacre.
"No… impossible…"
Hardy trembled uncontrollably, watching his comrades fall.
This wasn't human strength.
Even the legendary Sword of the Morning could not kill so effortlessly.
Ah… right.
That sword had already lost to him.
That didn't make this better. Not at all.
"Kill him! Kill him!!!"
Jon's voice screamed again.
Hardy looked back—Jon's eyes were drowned in blood-red madness.
Kill him?
Hardy swallowed.
The last guard fell.
The white knight stood alone again.
Hardy made his choice.
He spurred away from Jon, dismounted, cast aside his weapon, and dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead deep into the snow.
"Coward!" Jon roared.
But the pursuing hooves were already closing in.
There was no escape left.
Jon inhaled, raised his sword.
"Blacksmith! By the honor of House Connington, you will die here today!"
He kicked his horse forward in one final charge.
"House Connington?"
"Honor?"
Lance tilted his head slightly, a faint smile curling his lips.
As the distance closed, Jon screamed and thrust for Lance's throat.
It was the fastest strike of his life.
But—
A black arc flashed.
Steel tore through mail.
Jon heard his own heartbeat.
The world spun.
He saw the black greatsword planted in the snow.
And a headless body still seated on a horse.
White armored boots filled his vision.
A familiar cold voice spoke:
"Don't worry."
"Soon, there won't be anyone left with the name Connington."