Chapter 105 — Victory!
Walter Whent had made his decision.
But when he actually rode into the Northern formation with only two of his best guards, the sight of all those blades — cold, sharp, and far too close — made his heart slam against his ribs. For a moment he seriously regretted coming.
If these rough, half-wild Northerners decided they didn't like his face, he and his two men would be meeting the Seven in under three seconds.
Fortunately, the Northmen hadn't yet gone that far.
He followed the narrow path they'd opened, riding forward for a few dozen paces — and then the line broke, the world opened up before him.
What greeted him was the clash of steel.
Under the blazing sun, two swords collided with a shriek of metal, sparks bursting bright between them.
Clang!
Thud!
In the open ground ahead, black and white clashed in a blur of motion — one in snow-white armor, the other in dark mail. Walter stared, stunned, then rounded on Martyn Cassel.
"This is what you call a 'friendly negotiation'?!"
"The soldiers haven't moved," Martyn replied, utterly calm. "Only the leaders are fighting over who gets the hostage. What else would you call 'friendly'?"
He rolled his eyes at the southerner.
Soft. Typical.
In the North, men had gone to war over a single well. Two petty lords could fight to the death with hundreds of men for less cause than this.
In a fight over a prince?
Two champions settling it was practically civilized.
And besides…
"I don't think we'll trouble you for long, Lord Whent."
Martyn's lips curled slightly as he watched the duel.
"That Kingsguard is no match for Jorah Mormont."
---
This is wrong.
Jorah's hands were locked tight around Longclaw's hilt. To everyone watching, he looked like the snarling bear on his pommel — fierce, relentless.
His attacks were savage and relentless.
The white knight seemed barely able to keep up — always backing away, always on the defensive, blocking strike after strike, giving ground like a man drowning beneath a wave.
And yet—
This isn't his true strength. There's something off.
Jorah's brows furrowed.
He killed five knights in a heartbeat. There's no way this is all he has!
Something was wrong.
There had to be something wrong.
---
On the Lannister side, a red-armored knight couldn't hold back any longer. He spurred his horse forward a few steps, frustration twisting his features.
"That boy can't hold much longer!"
He gripped his sword, ready to charge in.
"Easy, Ser Tygett."
A steady arm barred his way.
Tygett Lannister turned to see Ser Tybolt's calm, almost relaxed expression.
"This isn't the time to prattle about knightly honor," Tygett said coldly. "If he loses, we lose the prince. My brother will lose even more of the king's trust."
Tybolt merely chuckled.
"Young men always rush to make a name for themselves. It's admirable. But rushing is never wise."
"This was the Kingsguard's choice. Even if it costs us the prince, the blame will not be ours. You must understand that."
"We can't decide for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, can we?"
Tygett clicked his tongue in frustration and slid his half-drawn sword back into the scabbard.
He might be Tywin Lannister's brother, but command of this column belonged to Tybolt.
Green Lannister eyes burned with unwillingness.
"I'll be sure to tell my brother everything when we return to King's Landing."
He turned away, focusing on the duel again.
Tybolt only smiled — and watched Lance with growing amusement.
To a seasoned warrior's eye, the truth was obvious.
Lance wasn't being driven back.
Lance was toying with him.
---
"Left. Right. High cut. Straight thrust."
Swords howled through the air in a storm.
Inside, Lance's mind was calm — almost bored.
He called every move a heartbeat before it came. The more Jorah attacked, the more effortless the defense became.
He'd once wondered — in his previous life — why villains always liked to toy with the hero when they clearly had the upper hand, dragging things out until fate flipped the table.
It had always seemed… stupid.
Yet now, holding overwhelming power himself, he was starting to understand.
It's fun.
Like replaying an action game you'd already beaten once — the first clear was exhilarating, but the second? You began experimenting. Speedruns. No-damage runs. Weird challenges.
Why just win, when you could win stylishly?
Right now, Lance had Jorah's entire style mapped out.
Unlike the flowery techniques of southern knights, Jorah's swordplay — especially with a bastard sword like Longclaw — was wide, brutal, direct. Every strike was heavy, decisive, meant to kill, not impress.
For his age — barely past twenty — Jorah's talent was outstanding.
On some imagined scale, he'd rank at least S-tier.
Among fighters Lance had met, only Barristan the Bold and Arthur Dayne could reliably crush him.
In the North, Jorah Mormont would be considered truly elite.
Unfortunately for him…
Lance was done playing.
---
Jorah wasn't holding back.
His instincts were sharp. His attacks never faltered. He pressed harder and harder, not giving Lance room to breathe.
Valyrian steel's weightless bite helped him maintain the storm for a long time.
But every missed stroke drained him.
With each swing that met only empty air or solid steel, his reserves bled away.
"This is impossible…"
Breathing hard, Jorah glared at the white knight.
Lance had retreated again and again, but his footwork was so precise it was infuriating — always one step just out of reach, always turning at just the right angle.
At first, he'd needed his sword to block.
But as the duel wore on, he'd started to move Longclaw out of the way entirely — letting his body do the work.
Now he held Dawn off to the side with one arm, dancing around Jorah's blade like a ghost.
Jorah couldn't even touch him.
Not the sword.
Not the cloak.
Not even a thread of white.
If this continues, I'll be spent before either of us is bleeding…
Shame burned.
His lungs burned.
His grip started to ache.
"This is on you…"
Watching the white-cloaked knight flit around him like a butterfly, Jorah Mormont felt humiliation wash over him for the first time in a fight.
Fine then.
He stabbed Longclaw into the ground again — another feint, another miss. Lance stepped aside easily.
But this time Jorah didn't try to pull the blade out.
He twisted his wrist.
The swordpoint hooked upward.
A spray of dust exploded from the dirt — arcing straight toward Lance's eyes.
"Shameless!"
"That's not knightly at all!"
The Lannister riders reacted instantly, faces twisting with disgust.
Whatever they thought of Lance personally, such tactics — throwing dirt in a man's face mid-duel — were no better than a backstab.
It spat in the face of everything a knight pretended to stand for.
Jorah didn't know what they thought.
And even if he had, he wouldn't have cared.
He wasn't a knight.
In the merciless North, the only rule was survival.
Honor was something you carved into a gravestone.
"Go…"
Dust billowed.
To many watching, the outcome was already decided.
Lance had been on the back foot. Now blinded by sand? There was no way he could perform a miracle.
Unless a war god possessed him on the spot.
But… how likely was that?
Maege Mormont, watching her nephew fight, felt pride swell in her chest.
She had never fully believed in Jorah.
Yet at this moment—
He looked every bit a true Mormont.
Jorah Mormont was born on Bear Island — but unlike the Mormonts who came before him, he had not been raised in the brutal, unforgiving traditions of his house.
To Maege Mormont, Jeor's love for his son had been weakness.
The old bear had abandoned centuries of Mormont customs — sheltering the boy, raising him warm and safe like some pampered southern heir. In doing so, she believed, he had smothered Jorah's courage.
And to secure the boy's future, Jeor had even surrendered his lordship and taken the black, giving Jorah the title of Lord of Bear Island.
So although Jorah's sword talent was obvious from childhood, Maege never accepted him. She saw him as soft — coddled, undeserving — which was why she tried to take his place in the duel moments earlier.
But now…
she was satisfied.
Win first.
Honor second.
What did a little trick matter? When hunting in the forest, they dug pits and set traps — and watched beasts howl as they died. Victory was what mattered.
And so Maege's face lit with savage pride. She even laughed aloud, already picturing the white knight's head rolling across the ground, blood fountaining from his neck as he knelt in defeat—
But before that imagined image could become real—
A pale arc split the air.
The massive greatsword Dawn swept down in a perfect, fluid curve, smashing directly onto Jorah's blade.
CRAAANG!
The impact was so violent that the nearest riders felt their ears ring — a wave of sound ripping through their skulls.
Then—
Jorah Mormont's body was flung backward like a ragdoll.
He hung in the air for two full heartbeats before crashing to the ground, dirt exploding around him.
Every spectator froze.
From the dust marched the white knight — unhurried, unscathed, sword gleaming like milky glass under the sun.
Then he opened his eyes.
Blue.
Cold.
Murderous.
Only then did they realize—
That devastating strike… he unleashed it with his eyes closed.
Impossible.
Every veteran watching knew: such precision, such force, such timing — without vision — should not exist.
But it had happened.
---
"W–what… what kind of joke is this…?"
No one was more shattered than Jorah himself.
He stared at Longclaw — the Valyrian steel was intact, but the memory of that overwhelming force throbbed through his arms, which trembled uncontrollably.
The white knight stepped forward, the sun outlining his silhouette like a blinding corona.
Jorah swallowed hard, scrambled to his feet, and charged.
CLAAAAANG!
Again he flew.
"Trying to play dirty, are you?"
The white knight loomed over him like a mountain, sword angled down, voice cold enough to freeze blood.
"Get up. I'm not finished."
That tone — disdainful, arrogant, bored — cut deeper than any blade.
Shame flushed hot in Jorah's veins. Rage and terror blurred into instinct, and he rose again, roaring, swinging with both hands—
CLANG.
He flew again.
And again.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The white knight never once struck Jorah's body.
He struck only the sword — every time — shattering pride blow by blow.
Dust flew. Armor dented. Breath broke.
And then—
A thin crack spidered along Longclaw's blade.
Even Valyrian steel could no longer endure.
As the crack spread, so did the collapse of Jorah Mormont:
—his confidence,
—his pride,
—his identity,
—his dignity as a Mormont,
shattered with the sword that symbolized them.
He lay on the ground, unable to rise.
"I haven't even started hitting hard, and you're already down?"
Only then did Lance stop.
He planted a steel-clad boot on Jorah's chest and pressed Dawn's edge to his throat.
He didn't finish the kill.
Instead, he turned — meeting Maege Mormont's stunned eyes.
His voice was flat, final, and absolute:
"Hand over Rhaegar Targaryen."
A beat.
"Or you all die here."