"Five thousand!"
Franklyn hadn't even spoken yet when Prince Lewyn exploded, jabbing a finger toward Bruce and roaring:
"Five thousand gold dragons!? You mangy bastard — have you ever even seen that much money in your miserable life?"
"You'd need a wagon just to carry that many coins! Even the Lannisters don't travel with five thousand gold pieces!"
Bruce didn't flinch. If anything, Lewyn's fury amused him. His lips curled into a smug grin.
"Five thousand… or my n walk right into that inn, drag the legendary Queen out — and let every single one of them take their turn with her."
"You—"
He never got to finish the threat.
A cold voice cut him off like a blade.
Under the moonlight, a knight in white armor galloped forward, stopping before Lewyn and Franklyn. In his hand he carried a black greatsword, the steel rippling ominously under the pale light, its poml shaped into a snarling dragon's head.
"Valyrian steel!"
Bruce's eyes widened — even he couldn't hide his shock.
"As a bandit," the white knight said with a raised brow, "I'll admit — your taste is surprisingly refined."
With one hand, Lance lifted the sword and leveled it at the enemy line. Then, without taking his eyes off the raiders, he tossed Franklyn a look filled with contempt.
Thirty bandits? If it were up to , we'd cut them down in one charge.
But you? Skyreach's 'proud' lord tries to buy his way out of it.
Is this what Dorne has beco?
How a man this soft had guarded the Prince's Pass for decades was beyond him. But now was hardly the ti to dwell on that.
Lance flashed a grin — sharp and fearless.
"You said your na is Bruce. Bruce what?"
"Bruce has no surna, Kingsguard!" the brute bellowed. "Bruce is Bruce! The great Bruce will seize the world with his brothers!"
"THE GREAT Bruce!"
"THE GREAT Bruce!!!"
His n chanted behind him, the thunder of their voices rivaling a knightly host.
Lance didn't blink.
Instead, he chuckled under his breath.
"Good. As long as you're not Wayne."
No one understood the remark — and they didn't get ti to ponder it.
Without warning, before anyone could even gasp, the towering Kingsguard dug his spurs into his horse and launched himself straight at the thirty raiders — alone.
"Wait— don't! Ser Lance, don't be rash!"
"Our mission is to protect the Queen — don't engage him!"
Franklyn reached out desperately but caught nothing but the flutter of a white cloak.
Lewyn didn't hesitate. Fury that had simred in his gut finally ignited.
He hauled Franklyn up in front of him, clamped his heels into his horse, raised his sword skyward, and roared:
"CUT THOSE BASTARDS DOWN — FOR DORNE!"
Behind him, six Crownland knights snapped out of their shock and charged in full force. Not one hesitated. Not one weighed the odds.
---
"Damn it… this wasn't the plan."
Bruce cursed under his breath when Lance charged.
He had heard the stories. Every bandit in Dorne had.
The Kingsguard captain who slaughtered fifty mounted killers with two allies.
A monster in armor.
A butcher in white.
That was why Bruce had sent n ahead to steal Lance's famous greatsword — the only weapon truly feared.
He thought stripping the knight of his sword would strip him of his bite.
He didn't expect the lunatic to pull out a Valyrian blade instead — and charge straight into a force many tis his size.
Damn it… how rich is this Kingsguard?
The shock lasted only a heartbeat. Bruce was a veteran bandit; instinct took over imdiately.
"Move! Stop them!"
He barked the order, but he himself did not move an inch — tightening his grip on the reins and letting his horse stand its ground while the others charged.
Lance clicked his tongue.
Steady as an old dog. Sha.
Had Bruce been the kind of brute who led from the front, Lance was confident he would have taken his head in the very first clash.
Even at midnight, without Dawn and with his swordsmanship effectively dropped two tiers, Lance was still among the deadliest knights alive.
His Dawn Reforged template had reached 70% assimilation — and with the 50% mastery from Weapon Master, his swordsmanship was now no weaker than that of the real Arthur Dayne.
And now he carried a Valyrian steel greatsword in hand…
A grueso grin pulled across his face. In a tighter grip, the black blade humd for blood.
He silently thanked Jorah Mormont.
Their duel had cracked Longclaw at the tang — the blade was intact, the hilt was not. Once repaired and reforged by the royal smiths, the hilt had been replaced, becoming sothing new.
A Valyrian greatsword — "Dragontooth."
"Co on… co on…"
The white cloak fluttered wildly in the wind, and the battlefield reflected in Lance's ice-blue eyes. A low, feral growl escaped his throat:
"I haven't had a proper fight in days — my bones are getting rusty."
"—KILL!!!"
His roar tore through the desert night.
Lance swept past the enemy in a blur — Dragontooth flashing once.
Schk—!
The blade kissed a throat. Blood fountained across the dragon-headed hilt.
In seconds he carved through the bandits, ripping their formation apart like paper.
The Crownlands knights behind him stared in awe — then their blood boiled.
They spurred their horses after him, charging the much larger enemy force without an ounce of fear.
Because Lance was leading.
The man who once cut down fifty mounted killers with only two others beside him.
Thirty bandits were nothing.
---
Bruce swallowed hard.
The sheer difference in numbers between the two sides ant nothing — the battle was already tilting one way.
His eyes darted toward the silent inn in the distance. Nothing had happened yet.
Damn this Kingsguard — too strong!
Lance continued to butcher the n who tried to surround him. His exposed face was drenched in blood, his eyes burning red with killing intent.
Bruce felt his scalp crawl.
In that mont, he rembered another man — a white armored knight drenched in blood who once fought through thousands to kill Bruce's leader, then rode away laughing.
The sa blood-soaked white cloak.
The sa terrifying eyes.
Fear overtook him.
"To hell with this! Fight yourselves — I'm not dying here!"
Bruce yanked his reins and bolted, abandoning his n without hesitation.
Living is all that matters — everything else is nonsense!
But as soon as he fled, a voice bellowed behind him — sharp as a lion's roar.
"DON'T YOU RUN, YOU BASTARD!"
Bruce turned — and his soul nearly left his body.
Lance had already cut straight through the bandits. He was coming for him.
The Kingsguard's warhorse stord forward like a beast forged from night. Every muscle rippled under moonlight, the golden saddle glittering.
Bruce looked down at his own horse.
Good horse… but compared to that monster…
Why the hell is a Kingsguard this rich!?
He whipped his horse frantically, but money mattered — and so did breeding. Speed couldn't be beaten by desperation.
Before he reached two hundred ters, he heard hoofbeats closing fast.
Then a calm voice at his side:
"Hey, Batman."
Bruce turned stiffly.
The blood-soaked white cloak was right beside him — riding parallel.
Lance didn't strike imdiately.
He smiled — too wide, too calm.
"What did you say earlier — about the Queen?"
"I—!"
Bruce would have given anything to take the words back. His voice cracked, but instinct for survival worked faster than fear.
"I ant— the Queen is holy and noble, Ser!"
Lance's smile brightened — almost gentle.
Then the black blade flashed once.
A clean cut. A fountain of red. Bruce's head remained attached for half a second too long — then slid.
"Thank you for the complint."
Lance pulled his reins hard; his warhorse reared, front hooves carving the air as Bruce's body tumbled from his saddle.
On the ground, Bruce's fading gaze drifted from the blood-soaked Kingsguard to the approaching riders, and finally to the yellow-vulture banners of House Blackmont racing toward him.
His eyes closed forever.
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