Chapter 97 — Target: The Kingsroad!
Dozens of knights in crimson plate thundered down the streets of King's Landing.
Iron-shod hooves struck the cobblestones in sharp, ringing bursts, scattering townsfolk in panic.
People fled into their homes, peering nervously through cracked shutters at the unfamiliar sight.
"Lannister knights!"
"That's the Hand of the King at the front!"
"Seven save us, look at the giant riding beside him—like a damned mountain on horseback!"
"What in the Seven Hells are the Lannisters doing here?"
Only after the red tide galloped past did the citizens creep back out, whispering in fear and curiosity.
For nearly twenty years, Tywin Lannister had served as Hand, and never once had he brought more than a modest escort into the capital.
But today—
he had marched in with a small army.
Fully armed.
Fully armored.
And not bothering to hide it.
Whatever he intended, it was no small thing.
---
Outside the Sept of Baelor, the growing thunder of hooves drew the attention of every gold cloak present—
even Janos Slynt, who straightened his back as if trying to look taller.
First to appear was a mane of perfectly combed gold hair.
Tywin rode at the forefront, no longer in his customary silks.
He wore armor—deep red plate, overlaid with golden threadwork shaped into roaring lions that shimmered in the sun.
Even the massive crimson cloak at his back glittered with gold.
Janos was nearly blinded on the spot.
He swallowed hard, envy burning through him.
He completely ignored the giant riding beside Tywin—an armored brute built like a moving fortress—
because his vision couldn't look past the sheer wealth radiating off the Hand.
Seven help me…
How much must all that have cost?
For a minor noble from a patch of dirt with barely a dozen peasants, gold like that was unimaginable.
It was this very hunger—this very longing—that had driven Janos to flee his father's tiny holding and gamble his future in King's Landing.
Years of scraping, bribing, begging, and humiliating himself had finally earned him a captaincy at Mud Gate.
People even called him "Ser Janos" now—
though he wasn't a knight, and the title was stolen glory.
He clenched his jaw watching Tywin's gleaming destrier.
The saddle alone costs more than everything I own.
---
"L–Lord Hand…"
Despite his dry throat, Janos forced himself forward.
He had a job to do.
But Tywin Lannister didn't even flick his gaze downward.
He simply rode past, as though Janos were another stone in the road.
The knights behind him followed suit—silent, disciplined, expressionless.
But Janos caught the faint look in their eyes:
utter contempt.
As if he were filth beneath their boots.
Something inside him snapped.
A memory struck him—
A younger Janos Slynt in this same square years ago, mocked like a dog by nobles who barely bothered to remember his name.
His soul smoked with fury.
No.
Not today.
---
"TAKE—YOUR—HANDS—OFF—THE—REINS!"
The shout burst from him before he realized he'd spoken.
Gold cloaks around him gasped.
Their captain—their captain—had just raised his voice at Tywin Lannister.
Janos didn't care.
He ran two steps forward, planting himself directly in the Hand's path, spreading his arms wide.
"I stand here by order of Ser Lance Lot, Commander of the Kingsguard!" he barked, voice trembling yet unyielding.
"Until he emerges, NO ONE enters this Sept!"
He lifted his chin.
His ridiculous triangular eyes narrowed into determination.
For the first time in his life—
he did not look away.
Tywin finally deigned to look at him.
Cold green eyes locked onto Janos from atop the destrier.
Janos felt his throat tighten.
His heart hammered like a caged bird.
But he did not move.
If I back down now, I'll die a nobody.
This is my moment.
My chance to be seen.
To be remembered.
To rise.
He inhaled sharply—
and held Tywin Lannister's gaze.
For one heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
---
"You worthless dog."
The insult didn't come from the Hand—
but from the armored giant beside him.
The enormous knight snarled, yanking a sword free from his hip.
No warning.
No hesitation.
Not a single word more.
He simply brought the blade down at Janos Slynt's skull in one brutal, merciless stroke.
The sword was six feet long—larger than most greatswords—and yet, in the black-armored knight's massive hands, it almost looked dainty.
The blade whistled down toward Janos Slynt, splitting the air.
His mind went blank.
He simply stared up at the descending steel with glassy, vacant eyes.
So this is how I die…?
But—
Seven damn it!
I was just following orders! You bastard!!!
Terror and fury churned inside him, yet his body refused to move.
All he could do was watch death descend.
And then—
CLANG!
A pure, ringing note of metal striking metal exploded above his head.
In the next instant, before anyone could blink, a towering figure in white armor had dropped from above like a descending star—
Lance of the Kingsguard—
his massive milk-white greatsword sweeping sideways, intercepting the killing strike with effortless strength.
But he didn't stop there.
With a grunt, the white knight twisted his arms, heaved upward—
and flipped the giant black-armored knight off his horse, man and mount crashing to the ground in a thunderous heap.
The fallen armor boomed against the stones.
The courtyard of the Sept was clean, so no dust rose—only the raw force of the impact.
Janos stared, trembling in disbelief at the figure standing before him—broad-shouldered, sword planted like a pillar.
"Ser Lance!!!" he gasped.
The black knight roared from the ground:
"You filthy little shit!!
I'll rip your head off and use your brains as gravy for my roast!!!"
He surged upright—almost unharmed thanks to his monstrous size—snatching up his sword and charging again, frothing with rage.
And then—
"Stop."
The calm, cold voice of the Hand of the King froze the air.
Tywin Lannister had spoken.
The giant hesitated, chest heaving.
At last he jammed his sword into the ground, tore off his helm, and revealed a face as brutal as a smashed anvil.
Lance only smiled lazily.
"Don't glare at me like that, big man," he drawled.
"Next time you look at me wrong, I'll shove my sword down your throat and pry out every ugly tooth in your skull."
"You—!"
The knight—Gregor Clegane—tensed to lift his blade again.
"Enough, Clegane."
Tywin's voice was arctic.
Gregor froze, then glared back at the Hand.
Meeting Tywin's green eyes, cold as winter glass, he ground his teeth, hurled his sword aside, abandoned even his fallen horse, and stalked away like an angry bear.
Lance watched him go, estimating silently.
What is he—fourteen? Fifteen?
And already that size?
Seven only knew what his mother fed him.
Giant's milk? Whole giants?
---
"I must apologize, Ser Lance," Tywin said smoothly at last, dismounting.
"The boy's temper has been foul since childhood. The maesters say his mind suffers… conditions. He can be difficult to control."
"No problem, my lord," Lance replied warmly—smiling just a shade too cheerfully.
"If he snaps again, I'll take his head off. A man without a head is far less troublesome."
Tywin's eyes narrowed, but he let the remark pass.
After all—Gregor had attacked first, and Lance had held back from killing him out of respect for the Hand.
"But tell me, my lord…" Lance's gaze drifted toward the ranks of crimson knights behind Tywin.
"To bring so many Lannister elites here—what purpose could require such a display?"
The red armor gleamed beneath the sun, each breastplate stitched with the golden lion of House Lannister.
"Unrest has been stirring," Tywin replied calmly.
"I brought reinforcements from the west to assist His Grace in maintaining order."
He glanced at the bloodied white cloak behind Lance.
Gold cloaks were already dragging armored sept warriors out of the Sept in chains.
"Word reached me this morning that clues regarding Prince Rhaegar's kidnapping might be inside the Sept," Tywin continued.
"So I rode here at once. But it seems you have handled the matter already, ser."
His lie was smooth as polished marble.
Lance silently admired the performance.
Even he had only learned the truth moments ago—yet Tywin had arrived with uncanny precision.
No way this old lion is uninvolved.
In fact… he might be behind the entire damn scheme.
And had Lance accepted Bonifer's plan, Tywin would no doubt have twisted the tale to claim he'd come to "support the rightful new king."
"I must say, Lord Hand," Lance said with mock admiration,
"your information network is impressive."
"Regardless," he continued, "I have the prince's trail now. I must ride out of the city at once."
Then he turned, clapping Janos Slynt firmly on the shoulder.
"You're a brave officer of the City Watch, Captain Slynt."
Janos nearly burst into tears.
"T-This is only thanks to your wise leadership, ser!"
Lance blinked.
Did this man reincarnate from another world?
But he let it slide.
He turned toward the white-cloaked figure galloping over.
"Ser Barristan!" he called.
"I'm leaving the city. From this moment, command of every gold cloak in King's Landing passes to you.
Guard the capital well.
Do not—under any circumstances—allow rats to creep into the Red Keep."
"Yes, Ser Lance!"
Barristan Selmy answered without hesitation, sword drawn in salute.
Reliable, rigid, honorable—perfect for holding the city.
But Lance wanted more insurance.
He turned back to Tywin, smiling like a man about to ask a friend for a small favor and a huge loan.
"Lord Hand…"
Tywin's instincts instantly screamed danger.
Sure enough—
Lance swept an arm toward the Lannister knights.
"My sworn brothers guard the Red Keep. Many gold cloaks are already deployed. The capital's defenses are stretched thin."
He sighed theatrically.
"And since we all serve His Grace together… surely you might lend me your fine Lannister knights—just for a short time?"
"Surely you don't expect a Kingsguard commander to ride alone to rescue a prince?"
Tywin's face darkened.
This bastard was trying to take his entire escort out of the city—
with perfectly legitimate justification.
But in front of so many eyes…
He could not refuse.
"…Of course, Ser Lance," he forced out.
"Ah! Truly the most loyal servant of the king, Lord Tywin!"
Tywin forced his lips toward a smile—
—but Lance had already walked past him.
Straight to Tywin's horse.
The one with the golden saddle that cost more than most keeps.
Lance vaulted up onto it in one motion, settling comfortably as though it had always belonged to him.
"Mount up!" he roared.
The horse reared—Lance tugged the reins—
and it submitted instantly, tamed in a heartbeat.
The white knight raised his gleaming greatsword high.
The sun lit his blood-stained white cloak like fire.
"Our destination…
THE KINGSROAD!!!"
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