King's Landing.
Before the King's Gate, a sea of people had gathered.
Almost the entire population of King's Landing had poured into the streets, desperate to catch a glimpse of the legendary Kingsguard returning in triumph.
For a city of over half a million, the streets were packed wall to wall with spectators. The din of voices rolled like waves, a roar of excitent that never ceased.
Thankfully, Ser Manly Stokeworth had anticipated this. He had deployed most of the Gold Cloaks to maintain order — avoiding a disaster that might have looked like the stampedes from Lance's mories of a faraway land in his past life.
Even so, the crowd kept pressing forward as if compelled by instinct, terrified of missing the sight of the white-clad knights. The press of bodies forced Ser Manly to order the Gold Cloaks to bare their weapons just to hold the mob at bay.
"Quite the spectacle," said Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin. He turned in his saddle and looked back at the sea of heads stretching into the city, his voice tinged with wonder. "I don't think King's Landing has seen this kind of excitent in years."
"Humph." Beside him, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, snorted dismissively. "Just a mob of fools. When the king himself last returned to the city, they weren't half so worked up."
Qarlton said nothing, but Ser Manly shot the lord a sharp look and warned, "Mind your tongue, my lord. The Brotherhood of the Kingswood was hated across the realm. It's only natural that the smallfolk would cheer the brave knights who crushed them."
Lucerys stiffened, chin raised in defiance. Manly knew what the look ant — the man simply could not stomach the thought that the people now adored a few white knights more than they revered the highborn blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon.
Out of goodwill, Manly reminded him again:
"This campaign was commanded by Ser Lance Lot himself — the King's most trusted knight. As a mber of the Kingsguard, he embodies His Grace's will. I urge you to show magnanimity, my lord. Right now, what we need most is unity at the Small Council."
That finally softened the lord's expression. Lucerys was no fool; he knew Manly was right. Their true enemy was not the Kingsguard, but the golden lion whose fangs glead even at court.
Still, when he turned to see the eager faces of the crowd, his pride twisted inside him. How could their noble nas an less than the re sight of three n in white armor?
"I'm feeling unwell. You wait here if you like."
With that, he wheeled his horse around and rode away, his retainers following, the Gold Cloaks parting quickly to let them pass.
"This man never sees the full board," Qarlton sighed inwardly. If the Small Council could ever speak with one voice, instead of bickering among themselves, they might have toppled Tywin Lannister long ago.
But no — unity was beyond them. Each mber had their own designs, their own ambitions.
Sotis Qarlton wondered if the council's days were numbered.
---
"They're here! They're here!!"
"It's the White Knights! Seven save us, they're even taller than I imagined!"
"You can't even see them yet, you blind oaf — get out of my way!"
From the distant road, three white figures on horseback appeared, and the crowd erupted. Cheers rolled down the street like a breaking tide.
No one even noticed the dozens of Gold Cloaks escorting them from behind.
"Welco back to King's Landing, sers!"
Qarlton urged his horse forward, spreading his arms as if to embrace them. His voice carried over the noise:
"Your heroics are already the talk of the city. To face an enemy ten tis your number and nearly annihilate them — such a feat is almost without precedent in the history of the Seven Kingdoms!
Your glory is worthy of song — the finest bards will make ballads of this day!"
He spared no praise, nearly lifting the three Kingsguard to the heavens.
"You honor us too much, my lord."
Lance kept his tone humble, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Not just him — even Barristan and pale-faced Ser Jonothor could not help but grin as they gazed at the sea of cheering faces.
For knights who had forsaken land, marriage, and family for their vows, to be so openly celebrated for their strength and their deeds — this was the very essence of a Kingsguard's honor.
"Where is His Grace?" Lance asked, tilting his head toward Ser Manly.
"Since your departure, ser, His Grace has not left the Red Keep. But he has arranged a grand celebration within the keep to welco you ho. Nearly every noble of the Crownlands has been invited — even the great lords visiting for the tourney will attend."
Manly's eyes held open admiration. He had been part of the mission too, but had left early to ensure Princess Elia's safe withdrawal. That choice had cost him the chance to win the glory of that legendary battle.
If he had to choose again… he would never have left.
"I see," Lance nodded. He knew well that after his long confinent, Aerys trusted no one — except, perhaps, himself. Only with Lance nearby did the king ever dare step out into the gardens.
"Co, sers," Qarlton said kindly. "You look exhausted. Before you attend His Grace, you should bathe and put on fresh robes. Rest for a mont — you've earned it."
"You're right."
Lance looked at himself and the others. Their white cloaks were stained crimson, darkened to near black in places. They looked like harbingers of death — impressive, yes, but also wild, grimy, and blood-soaked.
A bath before eting the king seed very much in order.
Led by Qarlton, the three white knights straightened their backs and urged their weary horses forward, passing through the King's Gate.
"Ahhh!!!"
"Seven above! It's 'the Bold' Barristan! I'd know him anywhere!"
"Lance! Ser Lance Lot the Fearless! They say he slew the entire Kingswood Brotherhood by himself!"
"Who's the one in the back—Dawn's Sword? No, that's not him…"
The mont they crossed into the city, a thunderous cheer rolled over them like an avalanche. The fervor of King's Landing's people was so overwhelming it was almost enough to drown them where they sat.
"Enjoy it, Ser Lance."
Barristan laughed heartily, glancing over at him. "The cheers you're getting are nearly twice as loud as mine were after Ninepenny Kings!"
"This is the highest honor a Kingsguard can receive."
"It's not my honor alone, ser."
Lance's chest swelled with pride as well — after all, what young knight didn't dream of being hailed by tens of thousands? But he still reminded Barristan solemnly:
"This glory belongs to all of us — to you, to Ser Jonothor, and to every brother of the Kingsguard!"
"Ha ha ha—true enough!"
On impulse, Lance suddenly unstrapped the massive white greatsword from his back and raised it high over his head.
At once, the cheers died down. As if with one mind, the crowd fell into a tense, expectant silence, waiting for their hero's next words.
"Citizens of King's Landing!"
The bloodstained white cloak snapped in the wind as the triumphant knight's voice rang out like a warhorn:
"I am Lance Lot — a sworn brother of the Kingsguard!"
"Fifty outlaws — fifty heads! This is our answer!"
At his signal, the Gold Cloaks behind him pulled open the black sacks tied to their saddles. Dozens of severed heads spilled into view. The stench of blood filled the air — and yet not a single soul recoiled. Instead, the crowd roared with renewed fury and elation.
"We are knights, we are warriors — but above all, we are the Kingsguard!"
Lance tore off his helm, revealing a face hard and grim, eyes blazing like steel.
He struck his gauntleted fist against his breastplate with a booming clang.
"Our vows are not re words! Our loyalty is harder than Valyrian steel!"
"As long as one of us still draws breath, King's Landing will never fall!"
"For His Grace, Aerys Targaryen!"
His shout was like a spark on dry tinder. The crowd exploded into deafening cheers:
"Long live the King!"
"Long live the Kingsguard!"
"Long live Lance Lot!"
Only after the chant reached its crescendo did Lance allow himself a satisfied grin. He tugged on his reins, cloak billowing red and white behind him, the very image of a towering hero returning from war.
And yet… as the shouts rang in his ears, Lance turned his gaze toward the looming red walls of the castle ahead.
Sowhere deep in his mind, a faint unease stirred.
He had the strange, nagging feeling that he had forgotten sothing important.
But what?
---
The Kingswood.
The forest village was empty now, abandoned and eerily still.
Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Laws, sat slumped in a chair, staring blankly at the towering heap of beast corpses and at the limp, near-empty purse of gold dragons at his hip.
His lips moved, whispering to no one:
"The campaign… isn't over yet?"
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