Chapter 69 – I'll Take My Time With You
"Huh?"
Ser Barristan blinked in confusion, utterly baffled by his sworn brother's cryptic warning.
From what he could tell, Arthur Dayne might have been wounded, yes — but his opponent was clearly in far worse shape.
The so-called Winter Wolf Knight had been struggling the entire match. If not for Arthur's injured arm, this joust would have ended in a single pass.
And yet, Ser Lance Lot's tone carried a certainty that made Barristan uneasy.
Could it be… that Lance knew something he didn't?
Some hidden trick up the Stark boy's sleeve, perhaps?
"Ser Lance…" Barristan began.
"Just watch," Lance interrupted quietly, eyes fixed on the lists.
The old knight frowned but said nothing more, turning his attention back to the duel below.
---
"Guh—ah…"
Brandon Stark grimaced as his horse thundered forward again. His left hand clutched his abdomen tightly — the wound from Arthur's last strike still throbbed like fire.
"Damn this Sword of the Morning… even injured, he fights like a demon!"
The pain had forced him to drop his shield entirely; every breath burned. That last blow had driven straight through his leather and padding, leaving his side bruised and bleeding.
Had he not clung to his reins with the stubborn strength of a wolf, he would've been flung clean off his horse.
He had underestimated these southern knights.
Gritting his teeth, Brandon steadied himself, though a sliver of doubt crept into his heart.
Across the field, Arthur Dayne wasn't faring much better.
Though his chestplate had deflected most of Brandon's strike, the impact had torn at his reopened wounds. The old injury in his right arm — the one left by that Kingswood woman's sword — pulsed with sharp, white-hot pain.
If not for Pycelle's treatments, he might've lost the limb entirely.
But Arthur was left-handed. His swordsmanship hadn't dulled.
Even so, he could feel it: the ache spreading from his elbow, the dull throb at every motion.
He had to finish this quickly.
"Come, then!" Arthur growled, lowering his stance. "Come at me, you cowardly cur!"
The third pass began.
But instead of accepting a new lance from his squire, Arthur did something that made the entire arena gasp.
He tossed the broken half of his weapon in his hand, gauging its weight — and charged.
"He's gone mad!"
Brandon and half the audience thought the same thing.
Everyone knew the rule: in a joust, the longer your lance, the greater your reach — and your chance to win.
To charge with a shattered shaft barely two meters long was suicide.
But Lance and Barristan exchanged knowing looks.
They, more than anyone, understood what Arthur was doing.
To him, that broken lance was no handicap. It was a sword. A greatsword.
And to the Sword of the Morning, who had spent his life wielding the massive blade Dawn, two meters of wood and steel was more than enough.
"Fall, you bastard!"
With a roar that echoed through the stands, Arthur twisted in the saddle at the last instant, ducking under Brandon's thrust.
The crowd gasped as the white-cloaked knight, in a blur of motion, swung his broken lance like a sword and drove it straight toward his opponent's exposed belly.
If that strike landed, the match would be over — the jagged tip sharp enough to pierce even boiled leather.
But then—
Arthur's horse screamed.
Its eyes rolled, its legs faltered, and it began to thrash wildly.
Arthur barely managed to stay mounted, muscles straining to keep his balance, but the fatal blow missed by inches.
And Brandon saw his chance.
As they passed each other, he swung the butt of his lance — smashing it hard against Arthur's helm.
Crack!
Even through the roar of the crowd, the sound was unmistakable.
Arthur staggered, dazed, before tumbling from his saddle and crashing into the dirt.
For a moment, silence.
Then—
"I WON!!!"
Brandon bellowed, thrusting his lance skyward as he circled the lists on horseback, expecting cheers, applause, glory.
Instead, what greeted him were jeers.
Cold, disgusted eyes.
"Shameful!"
"Coward!"
"He struck from behind! That's no knight — that's filth!"
"Get out! Get out of here!"
The chants grew into a roar of anger.
Some spat toward the field; others shouted obscenities. One particularly bold man even undid his belt and pissed in Brandon's direction.
(Thankfully, he was far enough away that none of it reached him. Still, the gesture was clear.)
Brandon froze, stunned.
"I'm the victor, you idiots!" he roared back, face twisted with rage. "I won! You should be praising strength, not whining like children!"
He couldn't understand it.
In the North, victory was all that mattered.
The strong triumphed. The weak fell. That was the way of the world.
But here, in the soft and perfumed South, these fools worshiped their so-called "knightly virtue."
He spat in disgust.
"A blood-stained sword," he muttered, "is the most beautiful kind."
It was something he'd once whispered to Barbrey Dustin, daughter of Lord Dustin, when he'd seduced her.
He'd used the same words to charm her father, earning himself a knighthood.
And later, when his father arranged his betrothal to the eldest Tully daughter, Brandon had told Barbrey — over and over — that it was only duty, that she was the one he truly loved.
Every time, she believed him. Every time, she let him into her bed.
And Brandon had never once felt guilt.
"Stupid girl," he'd once thought. "Too easy to fool."
Now, facing a crowd that booed instead of bowed, Brandon's fury boiled over.
"SHUT UP!" he roared.
"Silence, you southern fools! I am the victor! I, the Winter Wolf Knight, defeated your so-called Sword of the Morning!"
"If any of you cowards have the guts, come down here and fight me yourselves!"
He brandished his lance, shouting at thousands of furious onlookers, and his voice somehow drowned them all out.
No one answered. No one dared.
For all his shamelessness, he had beaten Arthur Dayne.
And though his victory reeked of dishonor, no one was brave — or foolish — enough to challenge the wolf who had just bared his fangs.
From the royal stands, Lance watched quietly, his expression unreadable.
"Enjoy your moment, Stark," he murmured.
"When I'm done with you… we'll play this game slowly."
But not everyone could sit by and watch.
"Arrogant little Stark bastard."
In the stands, a tall, lean man in brown plate armor with a longsword at his waist scowled, his hand tightening around the hilt.
He took a single step forward, clearly intending to charge down and teach the northerner a lesson — but before he could move, a firm, powerful hand seized his arm.
"Calm yourself, Lord Jason Mallister."
The deep voice made Jason pause. He turned sharply — and froze for an instant.
Standing beside him was a knight even broader of shoulder than himself, built like a fortress of steel.
The man's armor gleamed faintly, plain but refined, and in his arms rested a longsword with no ornamentation — save for the embroidered sigil of a bow-wielding hunter near the pommel.
"Tarly?"
Jason's eyes lit up in recognition.
"By the Seven— I didn't expect even you to be here!"
Excited, he grabbed the man's arm, tugging insistently toward the lists below.
"Come on, Randyll! Let's teach that damned Stark whelp some manners!"
His voice rose with anger.
"The entire Stark brood are lunatics — that cursed Rickard lost a finger, and now his son dares flaunt himself in King's Landing!"
"Enough, Lord Jason."
Randyll Tarly's voice was calm but firm, cutting through his companion's outrage.
He wasn't surprised Jason had recognized the northerner's name. The wolf helm, the sigil, the attitude — anyone with half a wit could put the pieces together.
"But why, Randyll? Why shouldn't we—"
"Because we don't need to."
Tarly's expression remained stoic. He tilted his chin toward the lists, where the wind began to stir two fluttering white cloaks.
"We're not Kingsguard, Jason. Let them handle it."
Jason blinked, then looked down — and his words died on his tongue.
Two figures on white steeds were galloping through the tunnel, sunlight flashing across their cloaks.
The Kingsguard had entered the field.
Ser Barristan Selmy dismounted first, rushing to where Arthur Dayne still lay in the dirt. He knelt beside his fallen brother-in-arms, checking his pulse, his eyes grim.
Meanwhile, Ser Lance Lot spurred his horse straight toward Brandon Stark.
Unlike yesterday, the white knight carried something new across his back — a massive, pale greatsword, its blade gleaming like frozen dawn.
"Dawn..." whispered someone in the crowd.
If that reckless northerner dared make another scene, Lance had already decided he'd draw the sword — and lop off a hand, politics be damned.
"D-Don't come any closer!"
Brandon's defiance wavered as the Kingsguard bore down on him.
Even in his fury, he wasn't suicidal. His eyes darted to the massive greatsword slung over Lance's back — its size alone could cleave a man and horse both in one swing.
He raised his practice lance reflexively, shouting in panic.
It was just a wooden training spear — splintered, chipped, barely holding together. Against that blade, it might as well have been a twig.
He knew it.
Everyone knew it.
And after seeing Lance's performance the day before — carving through chaos like a god of war — Brandon knew that if they truly fought, he wouldn't last a single breath.
Lance pulled his horse to a stop a few paces away, disappointment flickering briefly in his eyes.
"Shame," he muttered under his breath.
If the Stark boy had drawn first, he'd have had an excuse — no matter how much blood spilled afterward.
Cutting off a hand wouldn't spark a war, he thought dryly. After all, his father's already missing a thumb.
Drawing Dawn in one smooth motion, the pale knight pointed the gleaming blade toward Brandon and declared coldly:
"Leave. Now, boy. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life wallowing in mud and horse shit!"
The threat rang loud across the silent field.
Brandon's jaw tightened. His pride burned, but his fear ran deeper.
With a strangled growl, he tossed his lance aside and kicked his horse toward the exit.
From the stands, it looked like surrender.
Boos erupted.
"Coward!"
"Shame of the North!"
"Go back to your snow!"
Brandon's face twisted with humiliation. Rage boiled up inside him again. He turned, ready to scream back — and then he met those eyes.
Cold. Unblinking. Icy blue, sharp as razors.
Lance's voice was low, but it carried across the field like thunder.
"Watch your tongue, northman."
He bared his teeth in something between a smile and a snarl, his tone edged with killing intent.
"Say one more word, and I'll ram this sword down that filthy mouth of yours."
The sheer venom in his tone froze Brandon in place.
For the first time in his life, the proud son of Winterfell felt something he'd never known before — fear.
He swallowed hard, lowered his head, and urged his horse onward, pretending not to hear.
But as he passed, Lance's voice followed — soft, deliberate, heavy as judgment.
"Next round," he said, "you'll be facing me."
Brandon stiffened. His head snapped up, eyes wide.
"How do you—"
He stopped himself.
He didn't need to ask. The certainty in the Kingsguard's gaze was answer enough.
Lance already knew.
Brandon's throat felt dry. He swallowed again, forcing his mount to move faster
.
But the pale knight's final words still clung to him, whispering in his mind long after he'd left the lists:
"When the time comes…"
"…I'll take my time with you."