Chapter 39 – You Owe Me a Kiss
Moonlight.
A ruined shack.
A knight and a damsel.
If a bard had been present, he would have turned the scene into a song and spread it across all of Westeros.
"Ser Lance Lot…"
Though the man before her did not wear the white cloak, his name had long spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
In Stoney Sept, his feat of rescuing the king single-handedly had become a tale told by peasants and knights alike — his fame for the moment even eclipsing Ser Barristan and the Sword of the Morning.
After all, fame is just another word for exposure.
Bathed in moonlight, the beautiful girl of Dorne hesitantly stretched out her blood-stained fingers and grasped the knight's broad hand.
His grip was firm, his strength solid, and she felt almost weightless as Ser Lance Lot effortlessly lifted her onto the back of his horse, settling her behind him.
Her head rested against his armored back — cold as frost — yet for the first time in days, she felt safe.
"Wait!"
Eyes still closed, savoring the moment, Ashara suddenly remembered something and gasped.
"Princess Elia — and Prince Lewyn!"
"I know, my lady," Lance said, turning his head slightly to give her a reassuring glance. "Don't worry. My horse can't carry everyone, but reinforcements will be here soon."
"And before that, there's something much more important we need to do."
"More important?" she asked, tilting her head in confusion.
"Yes. The fourth most important thing in the world — after eating, sleeping, and… certain nightly activities."
Lance's lips curled into a grin as his gaze shifted to the shattered planks where a pair of terrified eyes hid beneath the debris.
"Finishing the job."
He spurred his horse forward. In a few bounds, they were upon Ulmer. The stallion reared, four hooves crashing down like divine judgment.
Thud. Crunch.
The sound of the hooves was almost rhythmic — like some dark, perverse dance — until Ulmer's skull gave way, splattering the floor with blood and brain matter.
"Ahhh… that's better."
Lance exhaled with satisfaction. It had been far too long since he'd killed someone — the violence in his blood felt almost euphoric.
Shame about the mess, though. Can't exactly bury this one.
...
Ashara clutched his waist tightly, terrified, pressing her cheek against his back as if to hide from what she had just witnessed — though she still stole a few quick glances.
And to her surprise… she felt a strange, guilty sense of relief.
Damn it…
If only Prince Lewyn had survived…
"Kid…"
Just as the horse turned toward the road, a bloody hand suddenly grabbed the tail. Lance barely managed to pull the reins in time, stopping himself from kicking the man away.
He looked back — only to see Lewyn Martell's battered face lift from the ground.
"I… I think…"
"I can still be saved," he croaked.
...
This man's body was unbelievable.
Lance's mouth twitched. The sword wound across his chest was brutal, an arrow still jutted from his abdomen, and fresh blood soaked through his clothing — and yet the man still had the strength to speak.
If this weren't the wrong time, Lance might have asked outright whether the Dornish prince also had some kind of secret "system" keeping him alive.
Even so, he was on the brink of death.
Lance swung off his horse, drew the dagger from his boot, and slit open Lewyn's blood-soaked tunic. He tore the cloth into strips and pulled them tight across the massive wound, trying to stem the bleeding.
Miraculously, the blade hadn't pierced his vital organs or major arteries — the blood flow began to slow.
"I'm no maester, so this is the best I can do," Lance said with a shrug. Then he pointed at the arrow lodged in Lewyn's belly. "That stays in. Pull it out now and you're dead for sure."
"I'll stay here and guard you until reinforcements arrive."
"T…thanks…" Lewyn rasped, his breathing weak and shallow.
But before Lance could relax, every muscle in his body went taut. The hairs on his neck stood on end.
Something whistled past his ear — fast, cold.
Another arrow struck Lewyn in the shoulder. Its fletching was identical to the one already sticking from his abdomen.
"Damn it — another archer!"
Lance's scalp prickled. He yanked Ashara off the horse and dragged her behind its armored flank for cover, then sprinted with her to the corner of the building.
Lewyn, hit again, rolled his eyes and promptly passed out.
...
"Tch."
Standing on the roof, Wenda slung her bow over her shoulder with a dissatisfied snort.
Her archery wasn't as good as Ulmer's — had it been him shooting, that knight would be a corpse by now.
But no matter.
Her lips curled into a cruel smile as she barked her next order:
"Go, Big Belly!"
Wenda tilted her head slightly, her expression cold as she ordered Ben beside her:
"These people aren't merchants at all — they're clearly knights sent by the king to rescue them!"
"While he's alone, we have to finish this quickly. Kill him, take the Martell princess, and get out of here. If their main force arrives, we're done for!"
Ben grunted in acknowledgment, his deep voice like rolling thunder.
"You can trust Big Belly Ben completely!"
He swung his massive warhammer over his shoulder, slapped his bulging stomach with a loud thump, and strode forward with heavy, confident steps.
"Be careful — that one might be a Kingsguard!"
Wenda warned him, frowning at his reckless bravado. Then she vaulted off the roof, landing soundlessly, and crept along the side of the house toward Lance's position.
...
"Damn it. This just got tricky."
Through a gap in the wooden wall, Lance could clearly make out their movements.
He had no idea how strong they really were — but if Varys's intelligence was correct, none of them were pushovers.
And the worst part? The one they called "the Smiling Knight" still hadn't shown up.
If they all stormed the house at once, there was no way he could protect three helpless civilians at the same time.
"Bloody hell… I knew we shouldn't have split up."
He cursed under his breath, though he knew full well that splitting up had been necessary. Otherwise, the search would've taken far too long — the enemy would have slipped away by now.
"You stay here. Don't move."
He clenched his jaw, glanced at the horse's position, then drew the longsword from his hip. With his free hand, he pulled a dagger from his belt and shoved it into Ashara's hands.
"If someone breaks in, play scared — then stab him when he gets close."
"Remember — aim for the throat."
Ashara's violet eyes blinked, startled by his seriousness. Then she nodded firmly, taking the dagger with her blood-stained hands and tucking it under her collar.
Dorne really was bolder than King's Landing — even their clothing left little to the imagination.
As she moved, Lance caught an accidental glimpse of bare skin.
"Hey."
He lowered his head, licking his lips almost unconsciously, and locked eyes with her.
For a moment, neither spoke — the only sound was their ragged breathing, loud in the tense silence.
Then, after a few seconds, Lance shook his head and took a step back with a helpless sigh.
"Damn shame… I'm about to ride out there and risk my life — and I've still never kissed a woman."
"I'd be happy to oblige, Ser knight."
To his surprise, Ashara smiled softly, her tone almost teasing.
"Though I haven't rinsed my mouth in three days. If you don't mind…"
"I mind."
Lance cut her off without hesitation.
Ashara froze, wide-eyed, as he shouldered his sword, swung into the saddle, and called back over his shoulder:
"Remember this, Ashara Dayne!"
Seeing that his enemies had spotted him, Lance jerked the reins. The horse reared, hooves flashing in the moonlight.
"You owe me a kiss, and when we get back to King's Landing, I'm coming to collect it—"
He flashed a wolfish grin.
"—with interest!"