Chapter 189 – Three castles Fall in a Single Day
The battle ended astonishingly fast.
Faster even than Lance had anticipated.
A biting winter wind swept across the field, lifting splintered spear-shafts and tatters of banners soaked through with blood.
The tall knight in white armor stood amid the wreckage. His once-pristine cloak, now stained crimson, snapped sharply in the wind. His azure eyes moved slowly over the battlefield—there was no triumph in them, no intoxication of victory, only a faint, almost absurd trace of surprise.
By his own calculations, even with morale shattered by repeated blows, six thousand Stormlands troops entrenched in a defensive formation should not have collapsed this quickly.
And yet reality handed him a brutally ironic answer.
Under the charge of eight hundred royal cavalry, the Stormlands army hadn't even held for an hour before nearly all of them chose to raise their hands in surrender.
Six thousand men.
A full six thousand.
They broke and disintegrated at a speed that defied belief, facing barely eight hundred riders.
The sheer lack of discipline was so extreme that it left Lance with a fleeting sense of unreality.
Were the Stormlands soldiers really this incompetent?
Robert… is this the army you raised?
Heavy, hurried hoofbeats cut through his thoughts.
Ser Balman Byrch rode through the scattered ranks of prisoners and reined in before Lance.
The blond knight of the Crownlands looked at him now with something far beyond admiration—his gaze burned with the fervor of a pilgrim who had witnessed a miracle.
It was unbelievable. Almost divine.
During the charge, he had been right beside Lance, watching with his own eyes as the Regent swung his flaming greatsword and tore straight through the enemy's defensive line by sheer personal might.
That sight would be seared into his bones for the rest of his life.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
"Your Majesty!"
Balman stood straighter than ever, his voice ringing out. "We've captured the enemy commander!"
"He claims to be the son and heir of the Lady of Haystack Hall, from House Errol!"
Lance raised an eyebrow slightly.
After a brief pause, he spoke evenly, "Good. Take him with you. Lead two hundred riders to Haystack Hall and demand that House Errol open its gates and surrender at once."
But for once, Balman hesitated before carrying out the order.
"However… Your Majesty," he added carefully, "that man has been shouting nonstop. He insists—no, demands—to see you in person."
Lance turned his head, blue eyes settling on Balman.
"Bring him here."
Moments later, a jumble of footsteps approached.
Dragged forward by two Crownlands knights, the young heir of House Errol was all but thrown to the ground before Lance's horse.
He was in a sorry state—his cloak torn in half, his once-ornate armor dulled and smeared with blood, all the polish of nobility stripped away in defeat.
Yet those proud, defiant eyes still stared fixedly at Lance atop his horse—filled with resentment, humiliation, hatred, and a near-obsessive arrogance.
"Kneel, prisoner!"
A knight kicked the back of his knee. Sebastian staggered, but forced himself upright. He lifted his mud-smeared chin, as if clinging to the last scraps of dignity he had left.
"I hear you wanted to see me?"
Lance studied the proud young man with mild curiosity. His voice carried no emotion at all—
as casual as asking about the weather.
That calm, almost mocking tone made Sebastian's chest heave. He sucked in a lungful of icy air and roared with everything he had:
"I refuse to accept this, Lance Lot!"
Sebastian instinctively pressed a hand to his sword hilt, glaring. A prisoner daring to be this arrogant was rare.
Lance, however, merely lifted a hand to stop him and spoke again, still evenly:
"And what, exactly, do you refuse to accept?"
"Magic!"
Sebastian ignored the surrounding knights and shouted himself hoarse.
"That isn't a power a knight should wield!"
"Winning with that kind of evil strength—what sort of knight does that make you? What kind of warrior?!"
"If Ralph Buckler hadn't been a coward who fled the moment things turned bad, if his soldiers hadn't started running before they even engaged—there's no way I would have lost!"
"No way! Absolutely no way!"
When his words fell, silence swallowed the field.
Only Balman looked at him with open contempt.
Lost is lost. Since when had battle ever been fair?
If fairness mattered, why hadn't you brought eight hundred men as well?
Six thousand losing to eight hundred—and he still had the nerve to shout?
Stupid. Arrogant.
Lance, meanwhile, listened patiently from horseback. He neither refuted nor mocked him. He offered no explanation at all.
Then—
A massive Valyrian steel greatsword, black as midnight and nearly as tall as a man, traced a clean arc through the air.
Sebastian instinctively stepped back.
The sword plunged into the ground before him. The hilt trembled faintly, cold metal gleaming.
"Pick it up."
Two simple words.
Sebastian froze.
"I said—"
Lance's voice snapped cold and sharp.
"Pick it up. And strike me."
Sebastian's mind went blank.
Strike… who?
He looked up.
Those blue eyes held no hint of jest. Only the same flat calm as before.
"What?"
Lance's lips curled faintly.
"Great Ser Sebastian Errol—do you not even have the courage to draw a blade?"
"Or does your so-called chivalry exist only in words?"
"When real steel is placed before you, do you turn into a coward?"
A coward?!
The insult crushed him.
His pride was trampled into the dirt—urinated on, spat upon.
He—heir of Haystack Hall, the Stormlands' future eagle—was no coward!
"Fuck you!!!"
Blood surged. With a beastlike roar, Sebastian yanked the black greatsword from the ground and hacked savagely toward Lance on horseback.
But—
A flash of cold light.
The black blade was knocked clean from his hands.
A massive ivory-white sword rested lightly against his throat.
Too fast.
Far too fast.
From Sebastian's perspective, Lance never even seemed to draw his weapon—it simply was.
"So you don't even have the strength to hold a sword,"
Lance said calmly, withdrawing the blade.
"Knight."
There was no triumph in his voice. Defeating Sebastian wasn't worth boasting about.
Balman trotted over, scooped up the black sword, and returned it—without sparing Sebastian a glance.
That indifference hurt more than any insult.
It was humiliation layered upon humiliation—one man finished, the next stepped up, and then another.
"Let's go, Ser Knight."
Balman's teasing voice cut in as he clamped a hand on Sebastian's shoulder, dragging him from his stunned haze.
"Brynden's already heading for Grandview Castle. We can't be slower than him—or he'll never let us hear the end of it."
"Wait."
Lance's voice rang out again.
Balman turned, puzzled.
"I've changed my mind," Lance said casually.
"Release him."
"What?"
Balman stared. "But… Your Majesty, he's our prisoner!"
"I was going to use him to force that woman at Haystack Hall to open the gates—"
"It's fine."
Lance grinned.
"Haystack Hall's a bit far."
"I have a better idea."
He tilted his chin toward Sebastian.
"Hey, kid. Go to Storm's End."
"Deliver a message for me to Robert Baratheon."
---
Storm's End
What should have been a castle buzzing with wedding celebrations was instead suffocating under a grim, oppressive tension.
The Stormlands' major lords had gathered, dressed in finery and heavy cloaks, yet their eyes flickered with unease.
What was meant to celebrate a ducal marriage had become a tribunal after defeat.
No one dared speak loudly. Even breathing felt deliberate—as though any sound might trigger the Lord's wrath.
"One hour! Just one hour!"
Robert Baratheon roared like a maddened brown bear, eyes blazing.
"Bronzegate! Haystack Hall!"
"And Jon Connington's eight hundred elite cavalry—seven thousand men in total!"
"Gone. Surrendered. In less than an hour?!"
"Even seven thousand wild boars couldn't be slaughtered by Lance Lot in an hour!"
His voice exploded through the hall. Nearby lords shrank back instinctively.
This was a man built like a siege engine—and just as dangerous when enraged.
Robert had thought his deployment foolproof. Even if Lance couldn't be crushed, at least he should have been forced to retreat.
Instead, after barely two or three days, he was handed this humiliation.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He snatched up a wine jug and hurled it at the kneeling Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate.
The man was fat—plenty of padding—and fast enough to escape without a scratch.
Well. Except for the armor straps snapping under his bulk.
"Useless trash!"
The jug struck his belly and bounced off harmlessly.
"It's not my fault, my lord!"
Ralph shouted desperately.
"It was that damned Jon Connington!"
"I warned him not to abandon a solid defensive position for some idiotic flanking maneuver! Now look—total annihilation! This is entirely his responsibility!"
Then, astonishingly, he puffed up his chest.
"If you had appointed brave old me to command, with my battlefield experience and knowledge of Stormlands terrain, none of this would've—"
"Fuck off!"
Robert nearly laughed from sheer disbelief.
"Jon died fighting on the front line," he snarled.
"And you—"
He paused, restraining himself.
"—still don't have an excuse for abandoning Bronzegate and running back here like a rat."
The hall fell silent.
Seven thousand routed—especially the destruction of Connington's elite cavalry—was a devastating blow to Stormlands morale.
After a long while, Robert finally forced himself to breathe.
"What about Dondarrion? The Tarths?"
"I sent ravens days ago demanding their support!"
A grey-robed maester hurried forward.
"Word just arrived from Blackhaven, my lord. Lord Dondarrion reports that Blackhaven is under relentless attack by Reach forces led by Randyll Tarly. They can barely hold the walls."
"The Tarths appear to have moved west to reinforce them."
"Damn it!"
Robert smashed his fist into a stone pillar.
Tarly… that mad dog.
With Dondarrion and Tarth tied down, Stormlands strength was bleeding away.
He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the assembled lords.
"Listen. All of you."
"Write letters. Now."
"To your heirs, your wives—hell, your captains or drillmasters."
"Drag every man over fourteen out of your lands. Anyone who can hold a pitchfork."
"Block the King's Road. Seal every route to King's Landing."
"I want Lance Lot and his few hundred bastards to rot in the Stormlands!"
"I want him dead!"
The lords' faces went pale.
They understood the unspoken threat.
They weren't being sent to muster troops.
They were being kept here—as hostages.
Fear and resentment spread in the heavy air.
Then—
BANG!
The iron-bound oak doors slammed open.
A freezing gale tore into the hall, making every torch gutter violently.
A Storm's End guard stumbled in, helmet askew, chest heaving.
"My lord—urgent report!"
"The Regent… Lance Lot!"
"He and his eight hundred cavalry have taken three castles in a single day!"
"Felwood, Grandview, and Fawnton—lost!"
"And… they've already entered Bronzegate territory!"
"We must warn Lord Buckler at once—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Staring.
At the enormous, sweating man standing in the center of the hall.
"…Huh?"
"Why are you here?"