"Clack!"
The broken lance struck true — sharp in sound, but weak in power. Barely a third of the weapon remained, light as driftwood.
Lance hadn't expected a coward's strike from behind. He didn't even turn. The shattered shaft struck the back of his armor with a hollow crack — and that was all.
No dent. No blood. Not even a scratch.
As the splintered wood fell uselessly to the dirt, Lance slowly turned his head.
Beneath the white helm, his glacial-blue eyes flicked toward Brandon Stark — calm, distant, as if he were swatting away a fly.
But where Lance was silent, the stands exploded.
"Seven damnations! The northern wretch attacked from behind!"
"Kill him! No honor, no sha!"
"Where's the King? Bring him out — let him sentence that wolf bastard to death!"
The cries rose like a storm, crashing over the tourney grounds in a furious wave.
Even the lords watching from the shade were stunned.
"Disgraceful," Lord Jason Mallister muttered, arms folded. "To strike from behind after defeat — cowardice made flesh. Lord Hoster's daughter deserves better than that."
Beside him, Lord Leyton Hightower frowned, his voice lower and more cautious.
"Let's pray the Kingsguard doesn't take this too far. If the Warden of the North's heir dies in King's Landing, Rickard Stark will lose what little sense he has left."
He knew the man's temper well — that wolfish pride that snapped at even imagined slights.
But the gruff voice of Randyll Tarly cut in, cold and decisive:
"It doesn't matter. We are guests, not judges. The Gold Cloaks and the Kingsguard keep the peace here — not us. And if that northern mad dog bares his fangs against the crown…"
He rested a hand on his sword.
"Then I, for one, will gladly help tear them out."
---
In the arena, Brandon Stark stood fuming beneath a thousand accusing eyes, his chest heaving with fury.
To him, he'd done nothing wrong.
So he'd thrown a stick — so what? It was a harmless outburst, not an attack.
But deep down, the humiliation burned. The plan that had seed foolproof, the careful bribery, the secret potion — all undone. Lance had seen through it all.
And that made him feel like the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Stop staring at , you southern bastards!"
He tried to step forward, but the pain in his side made him wince sharply.
Seven hells… that hit really did land deep.
Clutching his ribs, Brandon turned his anger outward, jabbing a finger toward the stands.
"Don't look at like that! It was just a piece of wood! You dung-sucking swine wouldn't know courage if it pissed on your boots!"
"I am Brandon Stark — the Wild Wolf of Winterfell! Heir to the Warden of the North!"
"If anyone ans to judge , it'll be the King himself!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Even those who had heard rumors hadn't truly believed it until now.
To impersonate the heir of Winterfell before so many nobles would have been suicide — and Brandon Stark was many things, but not suicidal.
The murmurs changed — not from anger to sympathy, but to uneasy respect.
Brandon smirked.
"Ha. Southern fools. No wonder you bow to Targaryens — not a spine among you."
He no longer cared to hide who he was. The mask of the Winter Wolf Knight had served its purpose.
He'd co here to humiliate the crown — to win glory, then tear off his helm and reveal that the victor was a Stark, shaming the royal family before all.
And now?
It was all ash. All ruined. Because of one man — one damned white knight who stood like a wall between him and triumph.
He glared at Lance's advancing form, rage twisting his mouth into a sneer.
"Go ahead then, Ser Lance. What can you do? Strike down and you start a war with the North."
He smirked wider.
"You won't dare."
Lance's reply ca low and cutting as steel.
"You're as stupid as your father."
The sneer froze.
Brandon looked up, eyes wide. Beneath the white helm, those blue eyes were flat, emotionless — as if they gazed not at a man, but at sothing beneath one.
"Do you even know whose blade took Rickard Stark's thumb, boy?"
The killing intent in Lance's voice was so sharp it made Brandon's skin crawl.
Then he rembered — the stories.
The King's executioner who had once maid a northern lord for defiance.
The whisper that it hadn't been the King's will — but the Kingsguard's hand that had done it.
Lance's hand.
"You…" Brandon stamred, stepping back, eyes flicking to the sun blazing above the white helm.
"If you harm , my father will—"
"Bring him a sword."
The command cracked like thunder.
Everyone stared.
The white knight turned his head toward the stands where the old Lord Commander sat watching, then repeated, voice clear and sharp as a bell:
"No — bring two."
The entire field fell silent.
Dust hung in the air, shimring in the sunlight.
Lance's tone was calm — but unyielding.
"That throw from behind," he said coldly, "I'll take as your formal challenge, Ser Stark."
"You can flee if you wish. No one will stop you. But if you do, every man, woman, and child from Dorne to the Wall will rember this day — the day a Stark proved himself a coward."
"And they will whisper your na with sha for a hundred years."
"A thousand."
No one dared breathe.
Even Randyll Tarly — the hardest man in the Reach — found his heart pounding, eyes fixed on the motionless white figure in the arena.
"Seven have rcy…" he murmured. "That—"
He drew a slow breath.
"That is what a true knight looks like."
And then, quietly, as if to himself:
"If ever I have a son, I pray he grows up to be half the man that Ser Lance Lot is."
In the middle of the tourney field, Brandon Stark stood frozen, staring up at the white knight before him — and for the first ti in his life, he didn't know what to do.
As the heir to Winterfell, Brandon had been trained since childhood to fight from horseback, to charge, to win.
He was the "Wild Wolf" of the North — fierce, proud, and undefeated.
No one had ever unseated him.
Until now.
He had co to King's Landing with absolute confidence, certain that no southern knight could best him. But the mont he'd seen Ser Lance lift Robert Baratheon clean off his horse in a single strike, sothing inside him had begun to crack.
And then ca the duel with Ser Arthur Dayne — the Sword of the Morning himself.
Even wounded, Dayne had nearly thrown him from the saddle. That fight had left Brandon with more than bruises; it had left him with the bitter realization that the world was far larger — and far crueler — than he'd believed.
And now, this man — this cold, flawless Kingsguard — had shattered him in one pass, tossed him into the mud like a boy.
His ribs still ached with every breath.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His eyes flicked from the white knight's unyielding stance to the sword lying in the dirt between them.
The challenge was clear.
And he couldn't bring himself to accept it.
For the first ti in his life, Brandon Stark — son of the Warden of the North, heir to the proud House Stark — was afraid.
---
Clang!
Two swords landed point-first in the dirt between them, thrown down from the royal platform. The blades quivered, humming faintly — like the heartbeat of the silent crowd.
The sound seed to echo inside Brandon's chest, unsettling and relentless.
What now?
The Wild Wolf, once so proud, so fearless, found himself paralyzed by indecision.
If he took the sword — he might die here.
But if he didn't — if he backed down before all these lords and knights — then the honor of the North would rot in sha for generations.
House Stark's ambitions, his father's years of sches and sacrifices — all would turn to ash because of his cowardice.
"I…"
He licked his lips, eyes darting nervously across the stands.
Everywhere he looked — cold eyes, mocking eyes, bored eyes — they were all the sa. They were waiting. Waiting to see the northern savage die by a southern blade.
He clenched his fists.
No… not like this.
I can't die here — not in this filthy southern pit. I have to live, return to the North, and finish what Father began. House Stark must rule the Seven Kingdoms.
He drew in a deep breath, ready to refuse.
"I refu—"
"Let them fight!"
The words cut through the air like thunder.
Every head turned toward the royal dais.
And there — thin, frail, pale as ash — stood King Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King himself, slowly climbing the steps with the aid of two massive Kingsguard knights.
"The King!"
"It's His Grace!"
"Seven save us, he looks… awful!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The King's sudden appearance shocked everyone. He had only been seen briefly during the tournant's opening ceremony, and his absence since then had fueled endless whispers — that he was sick, that his mind was failing, that the throne itself had begun to consu him.
Now those rumors no longer seed like gossip.
The once-vibrant monarch, barely in his thirties, looked closer to fifty. His hands trembled, his skin sallow beneath the heavy crown.
It took only a few steps to reach his throne on the dais, but by the ti he sat down, he was already gasping for air — as if those few stairs had drained what little strength he had left.
"Hah… ha… haaaah…"
He slumped into his seat, wheezing, eyes wild and glassy.
For a brief mont, his gaze t the Queen's — a flicker of confusion, then disdain. But he said nothing to her.
Instead, he raised a trembling hand and croaked, voice raw but sharp:
"Let them fight!"
The command rolled through the arena like a hamrblow.
"To strike from behind," he rasped, "is to defile the very code of knighthood. And if a knight cannot restore his honor in fair combat…"
His voice grew louder, steadier, the madness gleaming through his exhaustion.
"…then I shall strip him of his title, his na, and his bloodline! I will see him sent to the Wall — to live out his miserable life in black, among ice and filth and wild n!"
The King's final word was a snarl, his crown glinting with a cruel light as he spat out the last syllables.
"Fight, Stark! Or freeze for eternity!"
The field fell utterly silent.
And in that stillness, Brandon Stark's heart pounded like a drum.
He looked at the sword before him — trembling, waiting — and he knew there was no way out.
The Wild Wolf of the North had been cornered.
And the Mad King himself was watching.
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