Chapter 96 — One Man Against a Thousand
"Haa—! Hah—!!"
Deep within the forest, Robert Baratheon thundered forward,
Leaping over roots and brush while carrying two full-grown men over his shoulders as if they weighed no more than sacks of oats.
Ahead of him, Lyanna Stark darted between the trees like a silver-gray shadow—
wild, agile, utterly at home in the dense wilderness.
Occasionally she paused, vaulted a fallen trunk, and signaled Robert, checking for traps and obstacles.
Between Robert's monstrous physique and Lyanna's wolfish instincts—
and with the forest choking the speed of mounted pursuers—
they somehow outran the chase.
The shouts and hoofbeats behind them slowly faded into the distance.
But someone… was not faring well.
"Uuugh— hrrgh—!!"
Bouncing violently on Robert's shoulder, the half-dead Ser Symond Staunton, already battered and starved from his earlier ordeals, suddenly gagged—and vomited.
Lyanna had taken pity on him earlier and bought him dry rations so he wouldn't starve.
And now… all that goodwill splattered down Robert's back.
"Seven Hells—! Watch where you're puking, you bloody fool!"
The smell hit him instantly.
Robert gagged.
Symond gagged.
Even unconscious Rhaegar twitched in disgust.
---
"St–stop… stop— I can't… I'm going to— hurk—!!"
Symond trembled and retched again—louder, wetter, worse.
"FUCK!!"
Robert's eye twitched.
Already exhausted, he suddenly halted, ripped Symond off his shoulder, and threw him to the ground.
Rhaegar he set down more gently—mostly because he didn't want another stain on him.
Panting, he yanked off his vomit-soaked tunic and hurled it aside with pure disgust.
---
For all his love of wine, women, and warhammers, Robert Baratheon was, and always had been, a painfully vain man.
His beard—trimmed.
His hair—brushed.
His clothes in the Vale—immaculate silks and fine velvet.
He had built his entire reputation on being the handsome, wild, irresistible young lord.
And now?
He had been puked on.
He, Robert of House Baratheon—
was filthy.
---
"Why did you stop?!"
Lyanna crashed back through the brush, moving fast—
then froze when Robert's tunic hit the ground, revealing thick, sculpted muscle beneath.
"Gods…"
Her eyes widened despite herself.
"This man really is built like an aurochs."
But admiration had to wait—she was barely breathing, drenched in sweat from running.
She slid down a tree trunk, gasping.
Robert dropped beside her, chest heaving.
"This… hah… isn't going to work. We can't— hff— outrun mounted knights forever."
He wiped sweat from his forehead.
"They've horses. We don't. We'll collapse before they ever do."
Lyanna nodded, exhausted.
"Then what do you suggest?"
She slicked her damp hair back behind her ear.
The simple movement made Robert's throat tighten.
Without thinking—
he reached out and grabbed her wrist.
Lyanna blinked, surprised—
and before she could react—
Robert kissed her.
Hard.
Warm.
Hungry.
"Mm?!"
Her eyes flew wide.
But instead of pushing him away, she kissed him back—
easily, naturally, even eagerly.
After all, she had practiced once or twice back in Winterfell with the boy from House Cassel…
Until Rickard Stark caught them and banned her from ever seeing the poor lad again.
But kissing?
Kissing she knew.
---
Symond, meanwhile, was finally recovering from his nausea—
and lifted his head just in time to see the two teenagers devouring each other.
He stared.
Then stared more.
We… are running for our lives.
Is this really the right time?!
Wait.
Hold on.
I'm a royal official. I don't need to escape!
The thought lit in his mind like a candle.
He began sneaking away—
inch by inch—
until—
A large hand clamped around his arm.
"Don't move."
Symond squeaked.
Robert glared, but not at him—
his eyes instead softened as he looked at Lyanna.
"Listen."
His voice deepened.
"I'll draw them away. You take him—"
he jerked his thumb at Symond,
"—and get to the North."
Lyanna opened her mouth—
but Robert silenced her with another fierce, possessive kiss.
"Fuck the Targaryens."
He grinned wildly.
"If I make it out of this alive, I'm marrying you.
And you'll give me seven sons."
Before she could shout at him—
He grabbed his ruined tunic—
slammed it over Symond's face—
hoisted the poor man back onto his shoulder—
and ran full speed toward the pursuing soldiers.
"Rhaegar Targaryen is here, you horse-fucking bastards!" Robert bellowed.
"Come get me if you've got the balls!!"
His laughter shook the trees.
---
And far away… inside the Great Sept.
Blood.
Everywhere.
The marble floor had turned crimson.
Ser Lance—white cloak stained scarlet—
sat astride an overturned pew with Dawn's massive blade embedded in the floor beside him.
Blood dripped from the pale metal like falling stars.
Around him lay ten bodies, broken, twisted, carved open in every direction.
Every cut—clean, deliberate, final.
The holy warriors surrounding him trembled.
None dared attack.
These warriors, trained to fear nothing—not pain, not death, not sin—
now stared at Lance as though they faced a demon birthed in the Seventh Hell.
Even Bonifer Hasty, who had dreamed of crowns and thrones mere moments ago—
was shaking.
Eyes wide.
Face pale.
Heart hammering.
He had unleashed the wrong monster.
And he knew it.
In his youth, Bonifer Hasty had been a knight of impressive renown.
Even now—though it had been nearly twenty years since his last tourney—he still believed his skill rivaled any famous knight alive.
But nothing… nothing had prepared him for the man before him.
The Kingsguard's white-cloaked captain fought like a storm given flesh.
Even though Bonifer's men were under strict orders not to kill him—only subdue him—the display unfolding before their eyes was terrifying.
Surrounded by dozens of heavily armored zealots, Lance moved with a calm, unhurried grace—
as if he were strolling through a garden, not a battlefield.
The massive greatsword he wielded—large enough to call a slab of star-white steel—
Bonifer had once seen its previous master wield it with awe-inspiring ease.
But even that paled before what he saw now.
Lance held the enormous blade in one hand, swinging it with a fluid lethality that made a longsword seem cumbersome in comparison.
Under the sunlight, the milky-white surface of the sword shimmered like a captured dawn, and every time it swept out—
a man died.
Thick chainmail offered no protection.
Heavy gambesons may as well have been paper.
The blade cleaved through steel, flesh, and bone as though none of it mattered.
It was not swordsmanship.
It was divinity.
A warrior descended from the heavens.
"Not coming?"
Lance's eyelids lifted lazily.
Amusement flashed in the electric blue of his eyes.
His mouth curved, gaze sliding to Bonifer like a wolf considering a trembling lamb.
His voice was soft, casual—yet laced with death:
"If you're not coming to me…
then I suppose—"
He rose.
"—I'll just come to you."
Before the stunned zealots could react, Lance kicked the greatsword's flat with his armored boot.
The weapon snapped upright, gleaming like a sunrise.
Then—like a mountain cat pouncing—
he launched himself from the toppled pew and charged straight into their formation.
---
"Kill—kill him!"
All composure burned away.
Bonifer shrieked, face twisting with fear and desperation.
"Don't hold back—kill him!
The Seven themselves sent me a vision—if he rejects His will, we can choose another king!"
The warriors of the Faith—already fanatics—were instantly whipped back into holy frenzy.
Swords lifted.
Voices howled.
They lunged for every lethal gap in Lance's armor.
But—
Lance's expression didn't even flicker.
With a sudden shift, he placed his second hand on the hilt—
and the world exploded.
He twisted mid-air, core muscles coiling like steel cables.
The greatsword swept a full blazing arc—
a white scythe cutting through a field of wheat.
Steel screamed.
Dozens of longswords shattered into broken fragments.
Those few that did land only left thin scratches upon the immaculate white of his breastplate—
and even those seemed an insult to the blade that danced in his hands.
Before the zealots could recover, Lance stepped in.
Dawn flashed once—twice—five times more.
Bodies fell like chopped saplings.
And suddenly—
nothing stood between him and Bonifer.
"Your god has strange standards," Lance mocked.
"A 'new king' you can replace on a whim?"
Bonifer staggered backward, terror hollowing out his eyes.
The white knight leapt.
Sunlight poured over the greatsword as he raised it high—
the silver-white blade glowing with an almost sacred luminescence.
"W–wait—please—!!"
Bonifer thrust his sword up in a pathetic attempt at defense, sputtering pleas.
Lance did not listen.
His blue eyes grew cold—
impossibly, beautifully cold.
The sword came down.
A single ringing note echoed through the Sept.
Bonifer's blade split cleanly in half—
and the man behind it was carved down like a butcher's offering.
The commander of the Faith Militant fell without dignity or prayer, blood spreading beneath the holy blade called Dawn.
But the killing was not over.
Even as Bonifer's lifeless body hit the floor, several zealots lunged at Lance's back—
longswords already descending.
He didn't even turn.
The corner of his lips curved upward.
At that exact moment—
BOOM!
The great doors of the Sept slammed open.
A white shadow on horseback burst through—
white cloak snapping like a banner in a storm.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
His lance leveled.
His arm drew back—
And with a thunderous roar, the Old Knight hurled the spear.
It flew like lightning.
A single strike.
Two men were impaled, lifted clean off their feet, and nailed to the marble floor together like grotesque ornaments.
---