Chapter 41 – Why Waste Words With Her?
Gulp.
In the shadows, Wenda swallowed hard, her bow arm trembling uncontrollably.
For someone who prided herself on being second only to Ulmer in archery, having an unsteady arm was the greatest disgrace imaginable. But what lay before her made fear crawl up her spine.
Too brutal.
The fight between the knight and Ben had completely abandoned the rules of combat between men.
It was no longer a duel — it was two wild beasts tearing into each other. Blood gushed from Ben's wounds in high crimson arcs, spraying nearly a meter into the air.
His massive frame had given him an almost inhuman amount of blood, yet in less than a minute his strength was visibly draining.
This isn't a man. This is a demon — straight from the seventh layer of hell!
Wenda's scalp prickled. Her trembling arms dropped the bow.
There was no point in trying to shoot now — she couldn't even aim straight.
Thud!
Not far away, Ben's massive body crashed to the ground.
The knight, however, was still crouched over the corpse like a starving wolf, tearing into his prey.
In a daze, Wenda saw Lance slowly raise his blood-streaked head and grin at her.
Blood and bits of flesh clung to the corners of his mouth.
His eyes no longer looked human — they were something far more terrifying.
Run.
The moment their gazes locked, Wenda's mind went completely blank except for that single thought.
She spun around and sprinted — but froze after only two steps.
A short distance ahead, a tall knight astride a warhorse sat waiting, staring at her coldly.
When did he get there?!
Terror made her stumble back, bow clutched in shaking hands. She raised it on instinct, but her aim wavered even more violently.
The knight didn't strike. Instead, he calmly rested an absurdly large, milk-white greatsword across his shoulder, tilted his chin toward her, and gestured as if to say, Go on. Shoot.
"Damn you…"
The contempt gleaming in his violet eyes made rage flare in Wenda's chest.
Even the Smiling Knight wouldn't dare stand so casually in front of her bow!
Drawing a deep breath, she forced her shaking hands steady, drew the bow to its full length, and aimed straight for the knight's head. Her fingers loosened.
Whoosh!
The arrow flew like a streak of lightning.
Wenda had absolute faith in her aim.
Aside from Ulmer, she had never met another soul who could rival her archery. Knights, lords — all had fallen to her shots before.
This arrow should pierce his eye and burst from the back of his skull.
As it always did.
But the knight merely tilted his head slightly — the arrow hissed past his ear.
Disappointment flickered in those violet eyes. He shook his head with faint scorn, as though saying, So this is the famous archer?
"Bastard…"
Her teeth clenched.
Where had these knights come from?
Her arrows, which had never failed her, had now missed twice in a single night.
Wait.
Something clicked in her mind.
Those violet eyes…
The image overlapped with that of the Dayne woman they had once held captive.
And that enormous milk-white greatsword — under the moonlight, it gleamed like a blade out of legend.
"You… you're—"
Her eyes went wide. Cold dread raced up her spine.
"So you do recognize me."
Arthur Dayne's lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. His eyes burned with contempt as he raised the sword and leveled it at her.
"You dared to kidnap my sister — and Princess Elia — knowing who I am? I must admit, woman… you have courage."
His strength was almost monstrous. Such a massive sword, yet he held it in one hand without so much as a tremor.
"The Sword of the Morning…"
Her voice cracked with despair.
To face the man hailed as the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms — there was no chance of victory.
Clatter.
Without hesitation, Wenda dropped her bow, raised her arms, and knelt.
"Wise choice."
Arthur nodded approvingly.
He had no wish to cut down a woman if he could avoid it.
Spurring his horse, he rode up and looked down at her.
"My sister. Princess Elia. Where are they?"
"In the cabin."
Her voice was calm as she sank fully to her knees, then slowly prostrated herself in surrender.
Her leather trousers stretched tight as she bowed, the curve of her hips boldly displayed.
"One of our knights broke the cellar door and freed them. I don't know their condition now. Oh — that other knight is still fighting Ben."
"Another knight?"
Arthur's gaze flicked briefly to her form — then he looked away.
He hadn't touched a woman since he had joined the Kingsguard, and though she was tempting, his will was iron.
"Ser, I was forced into this," Wenda said softly, a tremor of false innocence in her tone.
A tear traced down her cheek as she wove her story.
"I was a distant cousin of House Carvlen, living a good life in the Stormlands.
Then these men stormed my husband's keep, slaughtered everyone before my eyes, and took me captive."
Her voice cracked, tears flowing freely.
"They trained me, used me as bait to lure unsuspecting lords, then ransomed them. Ser Arthur… please, I can't keep living like this. I don't want to help them hurt people anymore!"
Her words neatly separated herself from the Brotherhood, painting her as a helpless victim.
Arthur sighed quietly. He slung Dawn across his back and dismounted.
"Stand, woman."
His face was stern, but there was a trace of compassion in his voice.
"I will tell Prince Rhaegar of your situation. Whether you are forgiven is for him to decide. Stay here. When we've dealt with the rest, we'll bring you to King's Landing."
"Oh, Seven bless you, Ser Arthur!"
Wenda let out a sob of gratitude and threw herself into his arms, clinging to him as if salvation itself had come.
"It must be the Seven who sent you to me! Please… let me repay you. If you'd allow it, I could even be your mistress."
"No… no, that's not necessary—"
Arthur stiffened, clearly flustered.
He might have been the greatest swordsman alive, but he was still a young man — four, maybe five years without the touch of a woman.
Her warm body pressed against him was more dangerous than any sword thrust.
Arthur swallowed hard, gripping Wenda's shoulders with iron will, forcing himself to push her away.
"I can't take a mistress, my lady — you know I am a Kings—"
Pfft!
Before he could finish, a sudden chill seeped through the gap in his breastplate.
Arthur's heart sank. He looked down in shock — a dagger was buried in his chest.
Wenda was no longer the pitiful, tearful woman from moments ago. Her tears still clung to her lashes, but her lips were curled in a twisted, triumphant smile.
"Damn you!"
Arthur roared, fury surging — but this was the price of his pride.
The Sword of the Morning had never imagined that a mere woman would dare strike at him.
Ignoring the agony in his chest, he shot out a hand and clamped it around her throat, lifting her bodily into the air. His violet eyes burned with such killing intent that for the first time, Wenda truly felt death looming over her.
Panicked, she yanked the dagger free and drove it into the joint of his right arm.
Pain flared white-hot. Arthur's grip slackened, his arm falling uselessly to his side, and Wenda dropped heavily to the ground.
"Hhh—hah—"
Arthur's breath came ragged. He sank to one knee, blood draining from the wound and taking his strength with it.
How ironic…
He forced his head up. Wenda was already standing, face twisted in a mocking sneer, dagger in hand as she stalked closer.
So this was how it would end — the Sword of the Morning, slain by such a woman.
His violet eyes blazed with unwilling rage as the dagger slowly descended—
BANG!
The expected stab of pain never came. Instead, a deafening impact rang out.
Wenda's body flew like a ragdoll, hurled several meters through the air before slamming into the wooden fence. She collapsed in a heap, blood pouring from her mouth, twitching once, twice — then lying still.
Arthur slumped to the ground, barely conscious, vision swimming. Through the haze he saw a towering figure in armor approaching, a massive war hammer resting casually on one shoulder.
Then came a familiar voice, tinged with dry mockery:
"I told you already — no matter who it is, you kill first."
The hammerhead tilted toward Wenda's crumpled form.
"What were you doing wasting words with her?"