Chapter 129 — This Time, I Didn't Lose Your Sword
"This meal is taking way too long."
Seated at the table, Balman carefully blew on the piping-hot charcoal-grilled whiskerfish, trying to cool it with his breath. Just as he lifted it toward his mouth with a fork, his eyes caught the glaring crimson chili sauce coating the flesh—and his appetite instantly vanished.
Bloody Dorne food…
Everything here was unbearably spicy. A man of the Crownlands like him simply couldn't get used to it.
With a sigh, Balman tossed the fork aside in irritation and dumped the fish back onto the plate with a clatter, showing not the slightest respect for wasted food.
"What's wrong—still not to the refined tastes of our noble Ser Balman?"
A Crownlands knight stuffed his mouth full and laughed loudly.
"What a shame. You really should've asked your dear father-in-law—the commander of the City Watch—to send a Red Keep chef along with us!"
"Now look at you—reduced to suffering the same mistakes as the rest of us! Hahaha!"
The room erupted in laughter, the air instantly filled with rowdy cheer.
Truth be told, most of the men present were Crownlands nobles themselves—no lower in rank than Balman—so there was no real reason for envy.
Except for one thing.
Balman was handsome.
And gods help them, women loved him.
On the road here, the Fowler twins hadn't spared a glance for anyone else—yet both had ended up in Balman's bed for an entire night. The jealousy had nearly eaten the others alive.
What? The Fowlers rebelled?
Isn't that a bonus?
No responsibility afterward—how is that not a bonus?
"Hmph. If you enjoy it so much, have some more, Ser Harys Dark."
Balman shot him an annoyed look. He knew the jabs weren't malicious—just resentment over the fact that he'd been "busy" while the rest had been charging into battle like fools.
Still, that didn't mean he had to accept it.
He lifted his plate and dumped the entire contents onto Harys's dish in one go.
Harys only grinned and dug in happily, shoveling food into his mouth—his eyes, however, lingered with unconcealed envy on the massive ivory greatsword strapped across Balman's back.
He hated to admit it, but—
Gods, he was jealous.
To think that Balman of all people had the honor of carrying Ser Lance Lot's sword.
That glory should've been his—Ser Harys Dark's!
The jealousy festered.
He turned it into appetite.
But then—
A splash of crimson landed on his ceramic plate, blooming like a scarlet flower.
Harys froze.
Frowning, he lifted a hand to his nose.
Itched a bit…
When he pulled his hand away, it was slick with blood.
"Balman…"
He didn't know why—but his lips called Balman's name.
Balman, who had just stood up to open a window for fresh air, turned back with a snort.
"What now—still not done mocking me—"
The words died in his throat.
Harys spewed a mouthful of blood and collapsed forward onto the table.
"HARYS!"
Balman lunged forward—but before he could reach him, one knight after another around the table began coughing blood and slumping to the floor.
Only three men remained standing.
The ones—like him—who hadn't touched the spicy food.
"Fuck… it's poison!"
His eyes widened.
Before anyone could react, the door burst open—
—and a storm of arrows tore through the room.
Balman's heavy armor and the massive sword on his back deflected several shafts. He reacted instantly, kicking the dining table over and dragging it upright as cover.
The remaining knights followed suit.
One unlucky bastard had his skull split by the first arrow. The other two overturned tables just in time.
"This is bullshit!"
Balman roared as arrows thudded into wood and stone.
"Attacking us while we're eating—this violates guest right!"
"Damn you Dornish dogs! Godless vermin! Poisonous snakes!"
"You'll be cursed by the Seven for this!"
Whether by coincidence or not, the arrows suddenly stopped.
Silence.
Carefully, Balman peeked out.
Two volleys should've been—
There.
Five or six armed men rushed in.
Balman flashed a hand signal.
Crownlands elites, all of them—his companions understood instantly.
With a shout, the three knights heaved their tables forward, then drew swords and charged.
Steel flashed.
Nearly half the attackers went down in moments.
"Don't linger—fall back!"
Rage burned in Balman's chest, but he forced himself to think. Staying inside would only make them trapped rats.
They burst out into the courtyard—
—and froze.
A sea of armored soldiers waited.
Black armor.
Cold eyes.
Weapons gleaming.
Not Sunspear guards.
No sigils.
No banners.
Just darkness.
Balman tightened his grip on his sword.
"…Heh. Quite the welcome."
Balman clenched his teeth. Turning back with his companions, the three of them cut down the two enemies who had pursued them in just a few swift exchanges.
Then he faced the enemy force—nearly ten times their number.
There was not a trace of fear in his eyes.
Only battle-hunger.
He tossed his longsword aside, reached over his shoulder, and drew down the massive ivory greatsword. Both hands closed around its hilt.
Beneath the moon's fading glow, the blade gleamed brilliant white—almost painfully bright.
"Gentlemen,"
Balman said, lips spreading into a grin.
"I have dreamed of this moment."
As his fingers tightened around the long, familiar hilt, every muscle in his body began to tremble.
Not from fear.
From exhilaration.
"You all know whose sword this is."
"This blade belongs to Ser Lance Lot, the Fearless!"
"Once, he and two Kingsguard slaughtered an enemy force many times their size."
"And now—"
His eyes blazed.
"—it's our turn to make a legend!"
"Kill them!"
"RAAAH—!"
With a thunderous roar, Balman charged first, leading the remaining two Crownlands knights straight into a force nearly ten times their size.
The enemy clearly hadn't expected it.
Yet as an ambush force, their response was swift and disciplined. They surged forward as one, encircling the three knights in moments.
Clang—!
The greatsword swung.
The sheer force behind it shattered an enemy's blade clean in two—and didn't stop there. The blow severed the man's sword arm at the wrist.
Blood sprayed, splattering across Balman's golden hair.
Though his swordsmanship wasn't peerless, Balman was an elite knight—far from easy prey.
The three knights stood back to back, forming a tight triangle. But they faced over twenty foes.
Even after cutting down two in the opening moments, the tide was inevitable.
Nearly ten blades struck at once.
One knight took a sword through the throat and collapsed, clutching uselessly at his neck.
Balman couldn't spare him a glance.
Though he parried most attacks, steel still found flesh—his arm, his thigh, both torn by shallow but bleeding wounds.
The crash of plate armor behind him told him all he needed to know.
The last remaining companion was faring even worse.
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
As the enemy pressed in again, Balman raised the greatsword and pointed it at the leader.
"If you've got the guts, take off your helmet! Let me see what kind of ugly bastard you really are!"
The black-armored leader raised his fist.
For a heartbeat, Balman thought the man would answer—
—but instead, the fist slashed downward.
At once, a dozen blades fell.
Balman's eyes went bloodshot.
Pain vanished beneath rage.
He braced the greatsword horizontally and forced a sweeping arc with every ounce of strength he had left.
The blade carved through the first three swords it touched, snapping them like twigs—but the power behind the swing was spent.
At the same instant, a blade slipped through at a vicious angle, driving straight into Balman's belly armor.
The thick scale-mail saved his life. The sword penetrated less than half an inch before lodging fast.
Balman roared and surged forward, swinging again.
By now, reason was gone.
No form.
No technique.
Only one word remained in his mind:
Kill.
The sheer ferocity forced the enemies before him to retreat two steps, wary of the legendary blade.
But he couldn't guard his back.
Blows struck from behind, staggering him.
The leader seized the moment—stepping in and driving a boot, reinforced with steel greaves, directly into Balman's wounded side.
BOOM!
The impact sent him crashing to the ground, blood bursting from his mouth.
He dropped to one knee, agony tearing through him—yet his right hand still clutched the sword.
A glance sideways revealed the truth.
His last companion lay dead, hacked apart beyond recognition.
Dizzy and fading, Balman planted the greatsword like a crutch and tried to rise.
His body refused.
Iron boots filled his vision.
With great effort, he lifted his head.
The leader stood before him, sword drawn, both hands raised high for the execution blow.
"So… this is the end?"
Cold eyes stared down through the helmet slit.
Yet Balman felt no fear.
Instead, his gaze drifted past the man—up to the moon hanging high above.
His hand tightened around the hilt once more.
Because he had sworn.
On his honor.
On his life.
As long as the sword stands… so do I.
"Go meet your Seven, southerner."
The words struck him like a hammer.
That accent—
He understood then who this man was.
But it was too late.
The blade came down.
Balman closed his eyes.
—
CRASH!
Pain never came.
Instead, a violent impact sent the executioner flying, knocked aside by another body hurtling through the air.
Balman's eyes snapped open.
Ahead of him, black-armored men were falling—one after another—cut down like wheat before a scythe.
Terror rippled through the ranks.
They recoiled, splitting into two lines instinctively—like soldiers standing inspection.
Tap… tap…
The sound of armored boots echoed across the stones.
Under the moonlight, a figure in white armor—scorched and blackened in places—walked forward.
A black Valyrian steel sword dripped blood from its edge.
The knight ignored the enemies on either side.
He stopped before Balman, as casually as strolling through a garden.
Those familiar blue eyes—
Balman nearly wept.
With the last of his strength, he raised the ivory greatsword.
"I… I didn't lose your sword this time, ser."
Lance pressed his lips together, voice low and steady.
"I know."
He set a hand on Balman's shoulder, then took the greatsword—one hand black steel, one hand white.
Turning slowly, he faced the remaining men.
Fear rippled through them.
The white-armored knight stood alone among dozens—expression empty, emotionless.
"Who struck him?"
The question cut the air like ice.
Then he shook his head.
"Never mind."
"You're already here."
"So—"
His voice dropped to something utterly merciless.
"All of you stay."