Chapter 30 – The Abduction
"Oh, Ser Lance, you're magnificent!"
"Yes, that's it—strike again!"
"By the Seven, your skill is beyond compare!"
The bright, girlish voice rang out again and again across the practice yard, her lilting encouragement carrying a tone that made onlookers raise their brows. And yet, despite how it sounded, this was nothing more than a sparring match—though a fierce one at that.
Clang—haaah!
Sweat streaming down his face, Lance thrust his blade upward with all his strength, catching and deflecting a crushing blow from the older knight. The weight of it jarred his arms to the bone.
Across from him, Ser Barristan Selmy looked entirely at ease, scarcely winded, his sword poised as steady as a drawn bow.
Lance exhaled hard, then shook his head. "Enough, enough. I yield for today."
He cast a sidelong glance at the beautiful young woman perched on the edge of the yard, her eyes alight with excitement. Best to end things before he looked utterly outclassed in front of her.
Sheathing his sword, he gave a wry smile. Barristan, ever gracious, followed suit. He made no move to press his advantage—instead he offered a rare, warm smile.
"You improve quickly, Ser Lance."
At forty, Barristan's body had lost little of its youthful vigor, but his honor forbade him to strike at a man who had lowered his blade. More than that, he had come to value Lance's company. Among the seven sworn brothers of the Kingsguard, there was not a one he could truly befriend—not even the Sword of the Morning. In Lance, he had found a kindred spirit.
"Improvement means little if you can still cut me down in thirty passes whenever you please," Lance said lightly, conceding the truth with admirable candor.
And it was true—Rhaegar Targaryen's swordplay was no ordinary thing. Trained by the greatest knights of the realm and blessed with unnatural talent, his style drew from every school of the Seven Kingdoms, woven seamlessly together. More impressively still, he studied the habits of each Kingsguard knight and devised counters to them all. That was why Lance, carrying Rhaegar's gift within him, had so handily bested Oswell Whent.
And not only with the sword. Even with the lance, mounted on horseback, the same strange instinct guided his hand.
No wonder that, in the tales yet unwritten, Rhaegar was said to have bested both Barristan and Arthur Dayne in tourney, claiming the champion's crown.
Now, it was Lance who reaped that harvest.
If only I were at full strength…
He glanced at the glowing 80% on his ever-present panel, the same number it had shown for weeks. His jaw tightened.
This quest… was proving harder than he had imagined. And somehow… far more embarrassing.
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"Oh, Ser Lance, you truly are wonderful!"
The sparring done, the girl leapt from her seat like a fluttering songbird, hurrying toward him with a jug in her hands. Her face was flushed with eagerness, her smile radiant.
"Here, drink! I had this made specially—honey-water from the Vale. Sweet as summer itself!"
"The Vale's honey…"
Lance looked down at the deep-red jug, embroidered with golden lions along its rim. Typical of the Lannisters—riches poured into even the smallest gesture. But what truly caught his attention was not the jug… but the glimpse of pale skin visible at the collar of her gown.
Seven save me… she's so young, and yet already…
Heat stirred within him, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed hard.
Cersei, noticing his lingering gaze, glanced downward. Her lips parted in surprise when she realized what she had unwittingly revealed.
Yet instead of shame or panic, her smile only brightened—delight playing across features already strikingly beautiful.
"Drink first, my knight… my Ser."
Her voice lingered, soft and playful, the title repeated as though savoring its taste.
"Ser Lance! Ser Lance!"
The girl had to call him twice before Lance snapped out of his wandering thoughts. He hastily took the jug from her hands and drank deep.
Glug, glug—
Sweet, yes. Refreshing, not quite.
Lance wiped his mouth, drawing a long breath to cool the fire roiling in his chest. Lately, that fire had been growing harder to control. He would have to… find a way to let it out soon. After all, what twenty-year-old man could still be a virgin?
Just not here. Not yet. Not with her. That path would only lead to disaster.
"Ser Lance! Ser Lance!"
Another voice cut through his thoughts—loud, hurried, almost desperate.
All three turned their heads. Striding across the yard came a knight in a golden cloak, his heavy boots striking hard against the stone. The instant he spotted Barristan, his face lit up in relief.
"Thank the Seven, Ser Barristan! You're here as well."
"Good morning, Ser Manly," Barristan replied with a frown. "What's the matter that brings you running like this?"
The man was Ser Manly Stokeworth, long-serving commander of the City Watch. He had worn the golden cloak since the reign of Aerys's father, Jaehaerys II, and had earned a reputation for steadiness and loyalty. Both kings had trusted him.
"I—" Manly began, then stopped short. His eyes flicked uncertainly toward the young lioness standing at Lance's side.
Cersei caught the glance, rolled her eyes, and gathered her skirts with practiced grace. "It seems you have urgent matters to discuss. I'll not intrude, ser knights."
"Your water jug, Lady Cersei," Lance said politely, offering it back.
But she only smiled, a mischievous sparkle in her green eyes. "Keep it, Ser Lance. It was mine, after all… and I've been drinking from it for days."
She winked, turned, and skipped away with a girlish lightness in her step.
Barristan's gaze lingered on her retreating figure, his expression touched with melancholy. "Such a spirited young lady," he murmured. He himself had never tasted the sweetness of love. First the battlefield, then the white cloak—his vows had left no room for such things.
But when he looked back at Lance, something in the young knight's eyes gave him pause. After a moment's hesitation, he spoke quietly:
"You'd best keep your distance from her, Ser Lance."
"Oh? And why is that?" Lance raised a brow, still marveling at how the Lannisters could so casually hand out a gold-embroidered jug worth more than a smallhold.
"She is Lord Tywin's daughter. And it's said the Hand means to wed her to Prince Rhaegar. That would make her his bride… and you—" Barristan broke off, unwilling to say more.
Lance only chuckled, shaking his head. He knew Barristan's heart was kind. In the old knight's eyes, sworn brothers of the Kingsguard should have no entanglements with women. Yet he often chose to look the other way when oaths were bent. His warning was born of concern, nothing more.
"I must agree with Ser Barristan," Ser Manly spoke suddenly, his voice firm.
"My wife always says: the Lannisters are not to be trusted. That shining golden hair is nothing but a curtain, meant to hide the rot within." His tone sharpened, bitter. "Stay clear of them, Ser Lance. To do so is to steer clear of danger—and of evil."
Lance and Barristan exchanged a look. Both could read the old grudge in the commander's words. Everyone in King's Landing knew Ser Manly and the Lannisters had never been on good terms.
"You talk nonsense," Lance said lightly, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He straightened, eyes narrowing. "If you came all this way, Ser Manly, say what you mean. Has something happened to His Grace?"
"No," Manly answered quickly. But the urgency returned to his face, dark and grave now.
"This is greater still."
He looked from Lance to Barristan, voice low and weighty:
"Princess Elia of Dorne—the sister of Prince Doran Martell—along with her lady companion… has been abducted on her way to King's Landing!"
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