Chapter 79 – Courting Death
Brandon Stark's roar echoed across the tourney grounds, and in an instant the crowd erupted — not with cheers, but outrage.
"Cut that northern bastard to pieces!"
"Feed him to the hounds!"
"Go back to the snows, wolf!"
If not for the height of the stands (and the very real risk of breaking their necks if they jumped), half the spectators would've already stormed the field to beat him senseless.
But in the center of the arena, Ser Lance Lot— the "Fearless" — merely turned his head.
Under the blazing sun, he gave a slow, almost lazy glance in Brandon's direction, his expression unreadable behind the visor.
Then, without a word, he dug his heels into his horse's flank.
The destrier surged forward in a blur of white and gold, and with one smooth motion, Lance seized a long lance from a startled squire at the rail before trotting back to the center of the lists.
His meaning was crystal clear.
You want a fight? Come claim it.
"Ser Lance!" Janos Slynt called out from the announcer's stand, half-excited, half-panicked. "You've already won! There's no need to—"
But the words froze in his throat.
Lance's head turned slightly, and even from a distance, the cold weight of that gaze was enough to shut him up.
Slynt swallowed hard and fell silent.
---
Brandon grinned, his teeth flashing beneath the helm.
"Ha! You've got guts, I'll give you that!"
He raised his own lance and pointed it at the white knight.
"Let's see how the King's precious guard fares against a real man of the North! When I'm done, the whole realm will see the truth — that your 'honor' is nothing but painted steel and empty vows!"
The crowd booed and jeered, but Brandon barely heard them.
He'd had a miserable night — one that would've broken a lesser man.
After jumping from the Blue Pearl to escape arrest, he'd spent hours running half-naked through the streets of King's Landing while the Gold Cloaks scoured the city like hounds on a scent.
They'd accused him — Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell! — of stealing from a brothel.
And not just anything — no, supposedly he'd stolen the Hightower family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Vigilance.
Vigilance!
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
"I'm the son of the Warden of the North!" he'd growled at the guards. "Do I look like a man who needs to rob a whorehouse!?"
But the Gold Cloaks hadn't cared. The city was in an uproar, and Ser Manly Hightower wanted the sword found — or heads would roll. So every guard in King's Landing had been unleashed, searching every alley, tavern, and dockside den.
And Brandon Stark, naked as the day he was born, had been the easiest target to spot — a torch in human form running through the night.
To escape, he'd fled the city gates and stumbled into the outer shanty towns — the slums of the slums, where the poorest of the poor built tents from rags and dreams.
Refugees from all corners of the realm huddled there, too broke to live within the walls, too desperate to leave. It was a cesspit even worse than Flea Bottom — where hunger made men beasts.
When Brandon appeared among them, tall, broad-shouldered, naked and pale-skinned, every starving eye turned toward him like wolves scenting prey.
He could see it in their faces — not lust, but hunger.
They'd eat me if they could, he thought grimly.
Thankfully, he still had his half-sword. The glint of cold steel and his sheer presence were enough to keep the mob at bay.
But after a day of running and hiding, exhaustion gnawed at him. His stomach screamed.
And the "city of beggars" offered nothing.
He'd cut down a few bold scavengers, taken a handful of moldy bread and a tattered cloak, but it was barely enough to survive.
Then, just as he staggered toward the outskirts, he met a strange man pushing a rickety cart.
Barefoot, filthy, clothes in tatters — but the cart was piled high with dead animals.
Rabbits. Foxes. Maybe a deer. All half-rotted, crawling with flies.
The stench was unbearable.
Still, Brandon's hunger won.
"I'll be taking that," he'd said, drawing his sword.
The stranger had protested — babbling something about being the Master of Laws, of all things — which earned him a swift beating before Brandon stole the cart.
"A Master of Laws?" Brandon had spat. "And I'm the bloody Hand of the King."
He'd eaten what he could, choking down the least rotten bits of meat, then slept against a tree until dawn.
When he finally reached the tourney grounds by the Blackwater, he was half-delirious, half-furious — but he'd made it.
And now, here he was, glaring down the field at the gleaming white knight who symbolized everything he'd come to despise about the South.
---
"Crush that northern fool!"
"Show him what a true knight is, Ser Lance!"
"Twenty gold dragons say you'll shatter his ribs!"
The stands shook with excitement. Somewhere among the shouts, a shrill female voice rang out:
"If you win, Ser Lance, I'll let you take the back door tonight!"
The men nearby choked on laughter, then looked away awkwardly.
Some things even the gods can't un-hear.
Lance ignored them all.
He gave a single, measured glance toward the royal dais — still empty. The King's seat stood vacant, the Queen nowhere to be seen.
He lowered his visor with a soft click.
The white cloak rippled behind him, pure and weightless in the wind.
His blue eyes, hidden beneath the steel, fixed on the man across the field.
"Perfect," he murmured to himself. "I needed something to burn."
His grip tightened around the lance.
If you've come looking for death, Brandon Stark…
Then I'll make sure you find it.
Not a single wasted word.
Under the gaze of tens of thousands, Ser Lance did not so much as glance at Brandon Stark's sneering face. No witty retort, no verbal jab.
He simply leaned forward in the saddle — silent, composed — and charged.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Warhorse hooves thundered against the damp earth, the dull rhythm echoing like a drumbeat of war. Dust and mist swirled up with every strike of iron-shod feet.
The stands, moments ago deafening, fell silent. The tension was so sharp it seemed to hum through the air.
"Lance Lot…"
Brandon Stark murmured the name under his breath, gray eyes narrowing, the reflection of the white knight glinting within them. His grip tightened on the lance.
Then his gaze dropped — to Lance's steed.
And there, a smirk crept across his lips.
According to the plan, Wylis had already bribed the stablehand. The horse Lance rode today had been dosed with a highly concentrated heat potion — several times stronger than the one they'd once used on Arthur Dayne's stallion.
When the two mounts drew close, the scent of Brandon's mare in estrus would drive the other stallion mad — wild, uncontrollable — throwing its rider straight into the dirt.
Then, all Brandon had to do was strike.
A perfect, humiliating victory in front of all King's Landing.
"Say goodbye to your precious honor, Kingsguard!"
The distance closed fast — one heartbeat, two — both lances leveled like silver lightning. Brandon roared and thrust forward, already imagining the cheers that would follow.
But he didn't see the look on Wylis's face at the edge of the field — a fleeting, almost pitying glance.
The warhorses crossed paths in an instant.
And nothing happened.
Lance's mount did not rear, did not flinch, did not even blink.
What!?
Brandon's smirk faltered.
That's impossible. The potion—!
He glared at the white destrier, willing it to falter, to panic, to throw its rider.
Come on, you damned beast!
But the white knight did not move. Not even a tremor.
He rode with perfect stillness, the rhythm of the charge unbroken —
each motion seamless, precise, controlled.
And then Brandon saw those eyes through the slit of the helm — ice-blue, cold, utterly merciless.
A chill crawled down his spine.
His strike faltered.
The lance, meant for Lance's helm, dipped lower, the point wavering toward the chest instead.
A fatal mistake.
Lance's expression — what little could be seen of it — twisted into a trace of disdain.
He didn't even dodge.
He raised his shield just enough to meet the blow.
With a crack like thunder, Brandon's lance splintered to pieces, shards of wood flying through the air.
And in that same heartbeat —
Lance twisted his wrist.
His own lance shifted from a straight thrust to a shallow, angled sweep — precise to the inch — scraping across Brandon's shield edge and stabbing cleanly into the weak point at his waist armor.
Metal screeched.
The force of the strike lifted the hulking Stark heir off his saddle like a toy, sending him crashing to the ground in a spray of mud.
The crowd gasped as the northern knight hit the earth with a bone-jarring thud.
Lance's horse continued forward another ten yards before he reined it in, turned with deliberate calm, and trotted back to the center of the lists.
One pass.
One single pass.
And it was over.
The audience sat frozen. Not even applause dared to break the silence.
The white cloak on Lance's back rippled faintly in the wind — pure, immaculate, untouchable.
Even Lord Randyll Tarly, normally stone-faced and scornful, found his eyes widening slightly.
"Seven save us…" he murmured. "That was… perfect."
That blow — a flawless combination of timing, power, and instinct — had been delivered with the precision of a master duelist and the raw strength of a dragon.
Too strong. Too effortless.
It wasn't just skill — it was domination.
Even Tarly, famed for his own martial prowess, wondered if he could have managed a victory that swift and absolute.
---
"Impossible…"
Brandon spat a mouthful of mud, fury and disbelief twisting his face.
"This can't be happening!"
He slammed a fist into the ground, eyes wild.
He — Brandon Stark, heir of Winterfell, the strongest rider of the North — had been defeated.
And in a single round.
The pain in his ribs and gut made the truth undeniable. Every breath burned. His armor was dented, his pride shattered.
Damn you, Wylis… what the hell did you do!?
He craned his neck toward the gate, searching.
And there, in the shadows of the entrance tunnel, stood Wylis — dressed as a simple page, his soft eyes filled with something like regret.
Then another figure stepped beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Ser Manly Hightower, his golden armor glinting in the light, his smile slow and cruel.
Brandon froze, realization dawning like ice in his veins.
"You… you cheated me!!!"
His roar tore through the arena, raw and hoarse, veins bulging at his temples.
And before anyone could react — before the guards or heralds or even Lance himself could move —
Brandon Stark, bloodied and humiliated, snatched up a broken half of his shattered lance, turned it in his grip—
—and hurled it.
The jagged spear spun through the air, hissing like a viper—
straight toward the back of the white knight of the Kingsguard.