Chapter 104 — Fight.
"You're going to die."
Lyanna Stark craned her neck from within the Northern column, trying and failing to see through the wall of armored riders. She could only follow the situation through sound and instinct.
When Lance challenged Jorah Mormont to single combat, she turned toward the tall silver-haired prince beside her. She wore a teasing smile — yet there was something else in her gray eyes, something difficult to name.
"What do you mean?"
Rhaegar frowned. "Why would I be 'about to die'?"
"Your Kingsguard is far too confident. To challenge the Lord of Bear Island is nothing but suicide."
Lyanna shook her head matter-of-factly, lips pressed tight.
"'Bear Island has no gold — only warriors.' Every Northerner knows that."
"They say that when a Mormont child turns ten, they're thrown into the sea. If they can't return with prey in hand, they lose forever the right to become a warrior."
"Even a nursing mother — one hand cradling her infant, the other gripping an axe."
She lowered her voice.
"Father told me more than once… A Mormont baby learns two things in the cradle — how to grip an axe handle, and how to chew roots from frozen soil."
She spoke with respect — yet there was no pride in her tone.
When she looked at Rhaegar's face, worry crept into her eyes.
"Your Kingsguard is too arrogant. He cannot defeat Jorah Mormont. And that arrogance will kill not only him… but you."
"Is that so?"
Rhaegar wasn't shaken. In fact, a faint smile curved his lips.
He knew she was probably right.
But—
"Shall we make a wager?"
Lyanna's eyes widened slightly. Rhaegar leaned closer.
"If your mighty Lord of Bear Island wins, I'll follow you north without complaint. Whether your father hangs my head from the Winterfell gates or has me chopped into pieces — I won't resist."
"Stop joking — you might really die!"
"Shhh. I'm not finished."
He pressed a gentle finger to her lips.
"But if my Kingsguard wins… then you return with me to Dragonstone — as my princess."
Lyanna's eyes flew open. Shock. Confusion. Something far more dangerous beneath it.
They froze there — staring at each other.
Then—
A hard-faced Northern warrior barged between them, shoving them apart. Before either could speak, ropes were thrown around Rhaegar and yanked tight.
"Stop it! Uncle Martyn!"
Lyanna thrashed like a cornered wolf pup, kicking, shoving, her voice breaking.
"Let go! Don't treat my friend like that!"
Her fury accomplished nothing. Martyn Cassel's strength was immovable.
"He is not your friend, Lady Lyanna."
His voice was cold, clipped.
"The Lord ordered us to bring Rhaegar Targaryen back to the North — as a prisoner."
"You will stay close. We may be fighting a battle soon. I won't waste my attention restraining you."
Despite her curses, he dragged her away. Rhaegar, exhausted and bound, was hauled to the rear of the formation.
---
On the Front Line
"You've hesitated too long, Mormont!"
Lance raised Dawn, pointing the Pale Blade forward like a decree.
"If you're afraid, hand over the prince and crawl home to the North — and never return to the lands of the South!"
"Fight or flee — choose!"
His roar hit Jorah like a hammer.
Behind him, every Northern rider stared — disappointment, irritation, even contempt.
A Northerner might reject southern rules — but humans everywhere instinctively follow strength.
And right now, the Bear Island Lord was shrinking under pressure.
"I'll do it!"
A sharp voice cut through the stalemate.
A stocky woman in full armor shoved her horse forward, massive bear-shaped helm glinting under the sun. Her gray-green eyes burned with ferocity.
"Stand down, Aunt Maege!"
For the first time, Jorah snapped, glaring at the woman.
"This is not your battle."
"I'm a Mormont!"
Maege Mormont didn't budge.
"A Mormont never fears battle!"
She bared her teeth in a wild grin.
"Your father gave up his title for you — not so you could shame him in the South, Jorah!"
"When we were thrown into Wolfwood as children, he was ten and I was eight. Together we killed an ice-wolf and lived on its meat and hide. Mormonts never decline a Stark's call — not even for war!"
"If you won't fight for House Stark—"
She slapped her chest proudly.
"—then I'll win our family's honor back myself!"
"Enough!"
Jorah wanted to roar at her.
But how could he explain the truth?
He wasn't afraid of losing.
He was afraid of losing instantly.
The memory replayed in his mind — Lance cutting down five mounted knights with one charge, without slowing.
Against that?
He would be broken like driftwood in a storm.
But refusing meant humiliation — the Mormont name dragged through the mud forever.
So—
"I accept."
Jorah drew his sword and stepped in front of Maege, pushing her back with firm pressure until she reluctantly retreated behind him.
Lance smiled.
Finally.
He studied Jorah's weapon with interest.
The sword was dark, patterned with ripples like Damascene steel — but not quite. Long, broad, heavier than a knight's sword but shorter than Dawn. A snarling white-stone bear head decorated the pommel.
"Valyrian steel?"
Lance raised a brow.
It was the first time he had seen one in this world outside his own weapon.
Valyrian steel — forged with ancient spells and lost techniques, as strong as steel could become and featherlight in the wielder's hand.
If Ice — the Stark greatsword — was too enormous to bring to battle, this weapon was the opposite: perfect for war.
"Better surrender now, Kingsguard."
Jorah leapt from his horse and planted the sword into the earth.
"Your blade may look impressive, but compared to Longclaw, it's nothing but scrap metal."
"You know Valyrian steel — then you know what will happen. It's harder and sharper than any weapon alive."
He tried to break Lance's confidence with his words.
He didn't know who he was talking to.
"Heh…"
Lance's laugh echoed across the field — low, amused, and far more dangerous than anger.
Damn it.
The sound Jorah made only deepened Lance's smirk — a cold laugh, edged with mockery.
So the Lord of Bear Island didn't know Dawn.
Hardly surprising.
The North knew little of knightly culture. And Bear Island — cut off from the South by a wide bay and a harsher life — even less so.
Jeor Mormont might have known the blade's legend.
But his son? Barely past twenty, provincial and inexperienced, could not have understood what he was facing.
Lance did not trouble himself to educate him.
He lifted the massive sword with one hand. Under the blazing sun, his arm didn't tremble — not even slightly. The strength behind the display made Jorah's expression tighten.
The white knight bared his teeth in a grin.
Some truths… can only be carved into you by pain.
---
Meanwhile — approaching cavalry
Thunder—
Hooves hammered the King's Road, kicking up dust.
Walter Whent's heart climbed higher into his throat with every meter they closed.
"Pass down the command — not a single man is to provoke them. We're only here to confirm whether they have Prince Rhaegar. Nothing else. Do nothing stupid."
He barked the order to his captain. Only after it echoed down the line did he exhale and slump a little in the saddle.
Being Lord of Harrenhal was exhausting.
He had tried — truly tried — to play the game right.
His brother joined the Kingsguard — a perfect bridge to royal favor. The Whents would rise with the Targaryens.
And then—
Oswell lost his sword hand less than a month later.
Then news of Rhaegar's kidnapping spread.
And now to cap it all off — his idiot wife had allowed Northern cavalry into Harrenhal lands, at the very heart of the Riverlands.
Yes, the king had failed the Whents.
But that didn't mean House Whent could suddenly flip the board.
Targaryens may no longer have dragons —
but they were still Targaryens.
Centuries of rule had carved their authority into the bones of Westeros. A middling house like his had no right to gamble against the crown.
"HALT! Knights!"
Martyn Cassel's voice cracked like a whip as Walter's group neared.
They were already slowing; they didn't need the warning.
But the command — spoken in Harrenhal territory as if he were lord here — made Walter's jaw clench.
This is the Riverlands.
This is Whent land.
And a Northman dares to order my knights to halt?
Rage surged — but Walter swallowed it for the sake of survival.
He rode forward with feigned courtesy and called out loudly:
"I am Walter Whent, Lord of Harrenhal. You must leave at once and return to the North. You are trespassing on my land."
As he spoke, his eyes scanned the formation.
And there — a ripple of silver hair amidst the sea of dark armor.
Found him.
"No need to worry, Lord Whent!"
Jorah caught the glance immediately. He signaled his men, and Rhaegar was pulled deeper into the crowd, hidden from sight.
"We will return — but not yet."
"Not now?"
Walter's frown deepened.
"That makes no sense. You must leave my lands at once, Northmen. If you are so fond of them… I can return to the castle and gather men enough to keep you here forever."
Cassel and the Northern riders exchanged looks.
It was obvious:
If Walter truly intended to ambush them, he would not have come with only twenty riders.
But provoking him outright could still be disastrous.
After a moment's calculation, Martyn Cassel ordered a clear path opened through their formation. Then he called back across the field:
"Our commander is in friendly negotiation with the Kingsguard. If you wish, Lord Whent…"
"Bring two trusted guards, and witness it yourself."
A trap?
Maybe.
The invitation felt too polite.
Walter hesitated — nerves and ambition clashing behind his eyes.
But this was Harrenhal.
They wouldn't dare harm him here.
And if this ended peacefully — if he could return to King's Landing with the prince unharmed — it would be a triumph for House Whent.
He clenched his teeth.
Damn it.