Chapter 33 – I, Lance, Never Fight a Battle I Cannot Win
The Kingswood.
South of King's Landing, along the banks of the Blackwater Rush, stretched a vast, untamed forest. It was here one could find nearly every wild creature that roamed the southern reaches of Westeros. Since time immemorial, this wilderness had served as the royal hunting grounds for the kings of the realm.
And yet, despite its dangers, smallfolk had long made their homes beneath its canopy.
Here, a man might scrape out a living without fear of tax collectors—hunting rabbits and fowl was freer than tilling land or trading in the markets. After all, no lord was foolish enough to send a tallyman into the Kingswood to count every hare or quail a peasant snared. It was too costly, too thankless, and far beneath the dignity of any noble house.
So long as one did not poach the larger quarry—stag or aurochs—few cared what became of them. The Kingswood was, after all, a place where even lords were loath to dwell, too stifling and primitive for their tastes.
"Pah!"
Inside a weathered tent in one of the villages, a man spat out a mouthful of venison with a look of disgust. The leg of stag, a rare delicacy for such folk, landed in the dirt with a wet thud.
"Seven hells, Ben—you've charred it again!"
The man's neck was freakishly long, his entire frame twisted and unnatural. When he craned forward to berate his companion, the deformity was all the more grotesque.
Moments later, a great bulk filled the entrance of the tent. Ben, a mountain of fat whose hammer seemed nearly too heavy for his waddling gait, scowled as he looked at the discarded meat. His small eyes darkened like storm clouds.
"That was dear meat," Ben growled. "Pick it up and eat it, Longneck."
"Eat?" Longneck sneered, swinging the venison back and forth in mockery. "Eat this filth? Every meal you cook is a crime against the gods. You waste food with every burnt bite."
He spat to the side, eyes gleaming with malice. "Truth is, I could drag a beggar off the street, and he'd outcook you a thousand times over."
Ben's face grew uglier by the second. With a thunderous crash, he slammed his hammer down onto the rickety table, sending cups rattling. His gray, lifeless eyes fixed on the other man with a deadly promise.
"If you don't like my food," he said, voice low and cold, "cook your own next time. But this one—you'll eat it. Now."
His fat-laden chest heaved as he loomed forward, hammer raised just enough to make his threat plain.
But before the blow could fall, a flash of steel pressed against his rolls of flesh. A slender dagger had appeared, its tip digging into the softness of his gut.
"Or perhaps," Longneck hissed with a smile sharp as broken glass, "you'll be the one to eat it."
His eyes were pools of malice, glittering with murder.
Ben did not flinch. He even chuckled, the sound a guttural rumble from deep within his throat. "My fat runs deep. Do you think that little toothpick of yours will reach my heart before this hammer caves in your skull?"
"I promise you, the instant you thrust that knife, your brains will be dripping from your ears."
And so they stood, dagger to gut, hammer poised to strike, neither man willing to yield an inch.
At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed outside the tent. The flap was thrown open, and two figures entered.
"Click, click, click…"
A man and a woman. The man was strikingly handsome, yet his beauty was ruined by the grotesque smile etched across his face—a smile filled with malice and unhinged madness. His eyes burned with a lunatic's light. A longsword hung at his waist, and he wore armor befitting a knight, though his right hand never strayed from the hilt, as though it had grown into the steel itself—ready to draw and kill at a whim.
He licked his lips as his gaze fell upon Ben and Longneck, locked in their standoff. His tone was mocking, almost gleeful.
"Well, well… your spirits seem high. I thought with those two women in our hands, the lot of you would be brooding like me—wondering how best to avoid the king's hounds."
"Boss… Boss!"
At once, Ben and Longneck dropped their weapons and tried to look obedient. Yet Ben's eyes lingered with fury on the half-chewed venison lying in the dirt.
"Such waste…" he muttered.
The smiling knight bent, plucked the filthy meat from the ground, and without warning turned to Longneck. His voice cracked like a whip.
"Open your mouth."
Startled, Longneck flinched, but obeyed without protest, lips trembling as he stretched his jaw wide. Defiance never even crossed his mind.
In a sudden, brutal motion, the knight shoved the dirt-caked venison into his mouth and held his stare with predatory intensity.
"Chew. Swallow it."
"Mmff… mmfff!"
Longneck gagged on the grit, but nodded frantically, chomping with desperate speed. His grotesque throat bulged as he forced it down in one harsh gulp. The deed was done—quick, clean, merciless.
Only then did the knight's grin soften. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the tent.
"Cough… cough!"
The moment his footsteps faded, Longneck collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat, sweat pouring down his brow as he gagged.
"Serves you right," the cold-faced woman who had entered alongside him scoffed. Her eyes glinted with cruel satisfaction. "If you hadn't been so reckless—dragging back those two cursed women—we wouldn't be skulking in this hole, hunted like dogs!"
Her voice was like a lash. "We can't touch them. It's been two days without fresh prey. Two days since the boss killed. You'd best watch yourself… no one will save you if his hunger turns your way."
With a contemptuous sway of her hips, she swept out of the tent.
"Damn whore," Longneck spat under his breath, eyes gleaming with venom.
When he turned back, he froze. Ben was seated comfortably in his place, happily gnawing on the roasted stag leg that had once been his.
"Don't even think about it."
Seeing Longneck's glare, Ben clutched the meat protectively. "A man who wastes food doesn't deserve my cooking. If you want to eat, hunt for yourself."
"Eat, eat, eat—that's all you ever do!" Longneck cursed, his eyes full of hate. "Even the boars of this forest aren't as fat as you. One day, you'll gorge yourself to death!"
"Better to die full than starve empty," Ben replied, entirely serious.
Longneck spat on the ground and stormed out, unwilling to argue further with such a blockhead. Soon, only the sound of Ben's ravenous chewing remained.
"Oh, that's the stuff… mama."
---
Outside, the calm shattered.
Clip-clop, clip-clop…
The thunder of hooves scattered birds into the sky. A company of riders, perhaps ten strong, pressed deeper into the Kingswood. Their armor and cloaks were mismatched, making them seem more like a band of mercenaries than sworn knights.
"Seven hells…"
At the rear of the column, a man groaned miserably—none other than the realm's Master of Laws, Ser Symond Staunton.
"Can we not rest for a while? My arse is rubbed raw! By the Seven, Ser Lance, I swear when we return to King's Landing, I'll see your wages docked for half a year!"
His pitiful wailing drew stifled laughter from the riders ahead. To see the august Master of Laws—hair disheveled, slumped helplessly across his saddle like a sack of oats—was comical beyond bearing.
Unlike other noble boys, Symond had never cared for knightly games nor endured their training. He traveled by carriage, pampered and protected, destined to inherit his house's estate. Knights, to him, were tools to be commanded, nothing more.
But the rough march through the Kingswood had turned him into a whining wreck.
Lance, riding near the front, allowed himself only the faintest smile. He did not slow, nor answer. That's what you earn for crossing me in the council chamber, Staunton. You thought you could insult Lance and walk away?
"Your aid is deeply appreciated, Ser Lance."
Arthur Dayne spurred his horse closer, his tone unusually earnest. The Sword of the Morning was proud, but he was no fool. He knew full well that without Lance's intervention, their expedition might still be mired in delays. Every wasted day put Princess Elia and his sister Ashara in greater peril.
"You owe me no thanks, Ser Arthur," Lance replied smoothly. "Princess Elia and Lady Ashara are honored guests of King Aerys. That they were seized so near the capital is an outrage. It is our duty to see them freed."
Arthur inclined his head, grudgingly impressed. He had not thought much of his new brother-in-arms, but Lance carried himself with an authority that was difficult to dismiss.
"Still, one thing puzzles me," Arthur said. "If the eunuch's report is true, we face no more than a band of ten outlaws. Why march with such a company of knights?"
His eyes swept their force: Barristan Selmy, Arthur himself, Commander Manly of the Goldcloaks, Kingsguard Jonothor Darry—and, of course, Ser Lance, with the whining Symond tagging along like excess baggage.
Four Kingsguard and the captain of the City Watch. A strike force that could cut through a thousand men and live to tell of it.
"To waste such steel on mere brigands…" Arthur frowned. "Give me a single squad of Goldcloaks, and I'd promise you their corpses."
"Caution never loses a war, Ser Arthur."
Lance's eyes gleamed as he regarded him sidelong.
Yes, their strength was excessive—absurd even. But why should he care? Aerys had given him free rein to choose his men. Why not claim the best?
Had the king allowed it, he would have brought Gerold Hightower as well.
For Lance lived by a simple creed:
He never fought a battle he could not win.
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