Chapter 115 — The Lady Knight of Blackmont
Powerful.
Unstoppable.
Sharing a saddle with Prince Lewyn, Franklyn jolted forward just in time to witness Ser Lance cleave Bruce from his horse with a single, merciless stroke.
One swing — no hesitation, no wasted motion.
Just a clean execution.
The Lord of Skyreach stared in disbelief.
So this… is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?
Absurd. Terrifying.
He might even be stronger than that freak from Starfall.
Skyreach and Starfall were both in western Dorne; the Fowlers and the Daynes crossed paths often. Franklyn had once personally seen sixteen-year-old Arthur Dayne duel — and even then, the boy's swordsmanship was breathtaking, the rightful successor of the Dawn.
Yet now he had to accept a horrifying truth:
Someone even more ferocious existed.
And the strangest part of all —
Lance had been a blacksmith before joining the Kingsguard.
What kind of blacksmith fights like this!?
"HEY!"
Franklyn was still processing the sight when Lance suddenly shouted and lifted the blood-dripping Valyrian blade — aiming directly toward Franklyn's direction.
The poor lord nearly had a heart attack — until he realized Lance wasn't pointing at him.
The Kingsguard merely turned his head and barked over Franklyn's shoulder:
"Catch a few alive — my damn greatsword still hasn't been found!"
"Yes, ser!"
The Crownlands knights howled in reply and resumed the hunt, while Franklyn — pale and shaking — finally let out the breath he'd been holding.
Thank the Seven…
"Franklyn!"
Lance wheeled his horse around and rode straight up to him. His glacier-blue eyes locked on Franklyn with a chilling sharpness.
"Y-yes, Ser!"
The lord jerked upright like a soldier under inspection.
Lance didn't comment on the reaction. There was no need.
"Next time something like this happens," he said flatly, "don't panic. Tell me immediately."
He leaned in slightly — voice deep, cold, and absolute.
"A Targaryen is never threatened."
Franklyn swallowed hard and nodded awkwardly.
Then Lance spurred his horse, white cloak stained red and snapping in the desert wind, racing back toward the inn.
Lewyn watched him go — laughing with admiration.
"Hah! What a fiery young man. Don't you think so, Franklyn?"
"Yes…"
Franklyn forced a smile.
But his eyes were fixed on the faraway, silent inn — with something closer to bitterness than relief.
---
Just before Lance reached the inn, another thunderous wave of hoofbeats erupted from the opposite side of the desert.
"Oh? What a wonderfully lively night."
Dust rolled through the moonlight — dozens, no, hundreds of riders by the sound of it.
Lance's irritation sharpened. He raised his sword and signaled two knights to flank him.
"HALT!"
Moonlight reflected off the white armor as the Kingsguard blocked the road, sword across his saddle.
He might have just finished one battle, but fatigue had not touched him. His killing intent only intensified.
The fact they'd managed to infiltrate the inn to steal his greatsword revealed something simple:
Someone much smarter than Bruce was behind this.
"Advance another step and you become an enemy of the Targaryens!"
His voice cut the cold desert night like a whip.
This time the riders slowed — then stopped roughly a hundred meters away.
As the dust settled, Lance's expression soured.
"You."
The leader removed her veil.
A sharp face, hawkish eyes — the unmistakable Lady of Blackmont.
"Ser Lance Lot. We meet again."
Lady Larra Blackmont smiled faintly — her already angular cheekbones jutting sharply under the moonlight.
Her gaze drifted to Dragontooth in his hand, sparkling with amusement.
"Not long ago, you carried a white blade — one remarkably similar to the Daynes' sword. Or should I say… the same one?"
Lance's voice dropped to a glacial register.
"May I take that as provocation, Lady Blackmont?"
He stepped forward — fearlessly — and leveled the sword at her.
"You colluded with Blackfyre remnants, ambushed the Queen's convoy, and sent infiltrators to steal my blade. Do you intend to wage war on the Targaryens, Lady Larra Blackmont?"
"Watch your tongue."
Larra remained eerily calm, but a fully armored knight beside her surged forward, snatching off her helmet — revealing flowing chestnut hair.
"You go too far, Lance Lot! If not for my mother's preparations, all of you would have already—"
"Jynessa. Enough."
Larra cut her off without hesitation.
"But—"
"In the presence of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you do not speak."
The young woman bit back further protest, stepping back with fierce resentment and shooting Lance a venomous glare.
What in the world are these two doing?
Nothing made sense. Their posture wasn't hostile — but nothing was clear either.
Then — two mounted Blackmont riders stepped forward.
They threw two objects on the ground before Lance.
One — the pristine white greatsword, Dawn.
The other — a bound and gagged captive.
Lance nodded to his men.
The sword and the prisoner were retrieved.
The familiar weight of Dawn filled his left hand.
The dark Valyrian bite of Dragontooth filled his right.
Two legends — blazing under the moon.
Some of Lance's hostility faded.
If the Blackmonts meant harm, they would not have returned his sword.
Moonlight revealed the blood-soaked condition of the Blackmont riders — they too had clearly been fighting.
"Do not think you are the only one protecting the Targaryens, Ser Lance."
Larra's voice was cold, her chin raised.
"House Blackmont forever serves House Martell. We will not sit idle while the Targaryen Crown is threatened on Dornish soil."
She narrowed her eyes.
"To a knight like you, war may be a glorious stage for honor.
But war is cruelty, Ser."
"Dorne does not fear war — but I prefer peace."
With that, Larra snapped her reins and turned her horse away.
The Blackmont host followed — a thunder of hooves fading into the dark.
Lance exhaled.
"She's a strange woman… could've just explained it plainly."
He turned to ride back toward the inn — when suddenly a single rider broke from the Blackmont column and sped toward him.
His knights instinctively drew steel, ready to defend — until Lance spoke calmly:
"Relax.
That one isn't an enemy."
The knights glanced at each other and reluctantly sheathed their swords.
---
The approaching hoofbeats slowed, and the tall young woman did exactly what Lance predicted—no charge, no aggression.
She simply reined in beside him and cast a cool glance at the white greatsword in his hand.
"Mother says I'm to accompany your group to Sunspear for Prince Doran's succession ceremony."
A pause—then, dry as desert sand:
"No—her original words were actually, 'a man who can't even keep track of his own sword has no business safeguarding a queen.'"
Her tone was flat, laced with reluctance, mockery, and a hint of venom.
"Your presence is most welcome, Lady Jynessa,"
Lance replied without offense, bowing slightly in the saddle with a faint smile.
"Her Majesty could indeed use a knight capable of protecting her at close range."
"I am not a knight."
Though her armor was stained with blood—proof she'd already felled enemies tonight—Jynessa scoffed at the title, frowning.
"I begged my mother to knight me years ago. She refused. Said there has never been precedent for a woman receiving knighthood in Westeros."
Her voice sharpened.
"But so what? A moment ago, I personally cut down three of your so-called 'knights.'"
"And once Mother dies, you will call me Lady Jynessa. I am the eldest daughter and heir."
She delivered the line with her chin raised, so like Lady Larra that Lance nearly laughed.
What a mother-daughter pair.
In Westeros, ambitious women weren't rare.
But women who possessed both ambition and battlefield skill were.
And women who could do that while still carrying Arya Stark's ferocity wrapped in Ashara Dayne's beauty?
Almost nonexistent.
Still… casually cursing her own mother's death in front of strangers?
You're Dornish right?
"Hey."
She called again when Lance rode in silence at the front of the column.
This time her eyes flickered—hesitation replacing arrogance.
"That sword of yours… it's Ser Arthur Dayne's, isn't it?"
Lance turned and flashed a wolfish grin, answering with a question of his own:
"Oh? You've seen it before?"
"When I was twelve, he visited Blackmont."
Jynessa's voice softened for the first time.
"He used that sword to defeat six knights at once, like it was nothing. I've never forgotten it."
"He wouldn't let me touch it—said women shouldn't lay hands on Dawn."
She snorted. "But I already tried just now."
"The sword is extremely heavy. Yet you could lift it one-handed."
Her eyes narrowed in curiosity.
"Tell me honestly—can you truly swing that giant sword with one hand? The way Ser Arthur did?"
"Since he lent that blade to you… your skill must be considerable. I've heard the stories, of course—but minstrels love exaggeration."
Lance burst out laughing.
"Oh, they definitely do! I once left Duskendale and overheard someone say I could breathe fire and shoot lightning from my backside."
"You still haven't answered my question, Lance Lot."
Her brows drew together.
The worshipful tone she used when saying Arthur Dayne was gone when referring to regular "knights"—but unmistakable when talking about swordsmanship.
She wanted the truth.
Could he fight like the Sword of the Morning?
Lance gave no dramatic reply.
He simply looked forward at the returning Crownlands knights, voice quiet and thoughtful:
"Me? Oh, I only know a little about swordsmanship."