Chapter 161 — Lance: One-vs-Seven
"I'm very sorry, Ser Lance."
Riverrun.
Lord Hoster Tully spoke again, forcing himself to break the suffocating silence hanging over the banquet hall.
He drew in a slow breath, suppressing the irritation boiling in his chest, doing his best to keep his tone calm—so he wouldn't sound too aggressive.
Even though… the one being aggressive here clearly wasn't him.
Truthfully, no matter how much he'd prepared himself mentally, Hoster still hadn't expected the Kingsguard Commander to be even more overbearing than the rumors claimed.
This was Lance's first time ever setting foot in Riverrun, and yet the moment he arrived, he was already demanding to take two people from him without the slightest courtesy—
One was his daughter.
The other was his brother.
"House Tully's loyalty to the Iron Throne is beyond question," Hoster said evenly.
"But unfortunately… I'm afraid I cannot grant your demands immediately."
He paused, swallowing his frustration, carefully arranging his words in his mind.
To be honest, ever since inheriting the title of Lord Paramount of the Trident from his father, he had never once felt as cornered as he did now.
This man's bluntness—this brutal, unapologetic dominance—was far beyond anything the famously 'pragmatic' old trout had imagined.
"Don't be nervous, Lord Tully. Take your time."
Seeing Hoster rubbing his hands like some poor peasant being forced to sell his daughter, Lance merely raised an eyebrow and casually sipped his wine.
With that tone—those manners—anyone who didn't know better might've thought he was the lord of Riverrun.
That was one of Lance's greatest strengths:
Wherever he went… he behaved like he was home.
"You understand, Ser."
Hoster steadied himself and continued, voice tightly controlled:
"Benjen Stark and Lord Wyman arrived here first, bearing… Lord Rickard's—"
He caught himself, quickly corrected the wording.
"—his letter, and his sincerity."
"The original marriage arrangement was something Rickard and I discussed and agreed upon."
"Brandon Stark is dead, yes. But which son of House Stark my daughter is to wed… should rightly be decided by Rickard."
Hoster spoke the words with dignity, but the bitterness underneath was obvious.
"And as for my brother Brynden…" he added.
At the mention of Brynden, Hoster's expression darkened with irritation, as though a headache had returned in full force.
"That boy has been rebellious since childhood."
"Even while staying in Riverrun he was always causing trouble. And if he dons the white cloak and becomes Kingsguard…"
Hoster's tone grew heavier.
"I fear he might do something outrageous one day—and bring disgrace upon the Crown itself."
"Perhaps you could remain in Riverrun a while longer, Ser. Let the brothers talk. Let them reach an agreement slowly, and then—"
"No need to complicate things."
Before Hoster could finish, Lance cut him off cleanly.
Under the gaze of the entire hall, the Kingsguard Commander calmly pinched the edge of a napkin and began to wipe his greatsword Dragontooth—carefully polishing away the few drops of wine splashed earlier when Wyman struck the table.
Then he spoke, his voice flat and cold.
"I hate procrastination."
Lance's voice wasn't loud—yet it carried clearly into every corner of the hall.
He could more or less guess what Hoster was thinking: the same old tiresome routine of holding out for a better price, weighing both sides, dragging things out until the last possible moment.
All that crooked bargaining… a waste of breath.
"These games—stalling, haggling, talking in circles—are meaningless."
"The North needs a true Lord. Targaryen authority needs true respect."
"We don't have the luxury of wasting our short lives here."
As he spoke, Lance casually tossed the napkin aside, then looked Hoster straight in the eye and grinned—white teeth flashing.
"So let's stop pretending."
"In the name of the Old Gods and the New… let's decide this the simplest, oldest, and most sacred way possible—"
"Trial by combat."
Just as his words fell, a loud, bright, almost mocking shout rang out from the banquet hall entrance.
"Oh, give it a rest!"
Everyone turned.
A knight in black mail leaned lazily against the thick oak doorframe, a damp red-and-blue striped cloak hanging from his shoulders. Rainwater dripped from him, but he looked perfectly at ease.
A sharp curve tugged at his lips—pure sarcasm.
"Brynden!"
Hoster froze for a beat.
Before the feast began, he'd personally invited Brynden to attend. Brynden had refused with a simple, lazy: "Boring."
And now he shows up like this?
But Brynden didn't even spare his lord brother a glance.
He strode into the hall as if he owned it, boots soaking wet, stamping mud onto the carpets without a hint of shame. His footsteps were heavy, unhurried, disrespectful.
Then he dropped down beside Benjen Stark with a careless thud, and stared across the table at the white-armored knight with amused curiosity.
"Kingsguard?" he scoffed.
"Ha! Wearing white for life, swearing off wives, lands, children—standing behind the Iron Throne like some shiny ornament…"
"Not even allowed to touch a woman!"
"Seven hells, no thank you. Spare me that fate~~~"
With a grin full of mischief, he snatched the roasted lamb chop right off Benjen's plate, tore off a bite with his teeth, then tossed it back like he'd done the boy a favor.
It was rude. Shameless. Almost childlike.
And yet somehow… dangerous.
"So this ser has quite the prejudice against the Kingsguard," Lance said mildly.
Despite Brynden's insolence, Lance only smiled—calm, faintly amused, his bright teeth showing.
No anger.
Instead: interest.
"If that's the case," Lance chuckled, "why not accept my earlier offer?"
"Let's have a proper fight."
"No."
No one expected it.
Brynden refused instantly—so casually it was as if he'd turned down a second serving of bread.
He shrugged, then reached for Benjen's wine and drained it in one gulp, ignoring Benjen's furious glare completely. Then he lazily picked dirt from his fingernails and spoke like this was the most normal thing in the world:
"From Dorne to the Wall, everyone knows Ser Lance Lot's swordsmanship is unmatched."
"In King's Landing you humiliated the Sword of the Morning. That story's already spread across the Seven Kingdoms."
"You could search the whole realm and still barely find anyone qualified to trade blades with you."
He smirked.
"Sorry, ser. I'm not stupid enough to test a legend with my own life."
"You're self-aware. I like that."
Instead of being offended by Brynden's utter lack of honor, Lance looked even more pleased.
He paused deliberately, glancing around the room, then spoke again—tone light, but dripping arrogance.
"Still… Brynden's right."
"With my strength, any one-on-one duel is unequal."
He said it plainly—without the slightest humility.
And worse, his voice held the kind of contempt that seemed to dismiss every knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
Even worse?
No one could refute him.
Because he was Lance Lot—legend stacked on legend.
Then Lance stood up.
His voice suddenly rose—clear, powerful, hammering into every ear in the hall.
"So let's do it differently."
"If one-on-one is boring—if the outcome is obvious—then we do it by the standards of the greatest trials of the Faith."
"Trial of Seven."
He lifted a hand and pointed straight at Brynden.
"You, Ser Brynden."
His tone was teasing, confident, almost playful—
but it sounded like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
"You may choose six knights. Anyone you like."
"They don't have to be from Riverrun."
"Just pick the strongest men you know—men you believe worthy of standing at your side."
"And then, including you—seven knights will fight."
"We decide it in one battle."
"Who gets Catelyn Tully—"
"and who gets you."
Then Lance spread his arms wide.
Leather-gloved fists clenched.
And every word came down like a hammer striking bone:
"And I…"
"I fight alone."
For a moment, the entire hall seemed to lose sound.
Even Brynden Tully—the unbothered Blackfish himself—stared at Lance in disbelief, as if his mind had turned to sludge.
One against seven?
This wasn't arrogance.
This wasn't confidence.
This was open humiliation—an insult aimed at Brynden, at Riverrun, at the entire Riverlands, and at every knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
Brynden wasn't some green boy.
He'd fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He'd earned glory in real slaughter.
He had personally witnessed how "the Bold" Barristan Selmy fought—cutting through armies like a hero out of myth.
For every knight who survived that war, Barristan wasn't just admired—
He was worshipped.
Brynden included.
But even Barristan would never dare say:
I will fight seven knights alone.
That wasn't bravery.
That was madness.
"Your arrogance is beyond belief," Brynden said at last.
His playful expression vanished.
His eyes hardened, staring at Lance seriously now.
He could tell Lance wasn't joking.
And that was exactly why he couldn't accept.
"It would be wrong."
"Yes—you've led three Kingsguard into ten times their number and slaughtered them."
"Yes—you beat the Sword of the Morning in the yard."
"But against seven armored elite knights, you have no chance."
Brynden drew his sword and slammed it into the table with a brutal clang.
"Take those words back."
"Or I swear by all the gods…"
"I will treat them as your true challenge."
Every gaze swung to Lance.
Was he bluffing?
Or was he truly insane enough to believe—
he could win?
Across from him, Lord Wyman Manderly's breathing grew rapid. His enormous body rose and fell with excitement, fat face flushed red.
He wanted this duel more than anyone.
Because in his eyes:
Not only would Lance finally die in glorious humiliation…
But Benjen and Catelyn's marriage would be secured.
And the Riverlands would be dragged into the Northern alliance exactly as planned.
"Pour the wine."
At that moment, Lance's cold voice cut through the hall.
Wyman jerked violently, as if stabbed.
He swallowed hard—
because that pair of blue eyes was suddenly staring straight at him again.
"Y-yes… yes, of course!"
Lord Wyman instantly bent forward and hurried over, grabbing the wine jug like a trained servant.
But the moment he lifted it—
A black blade stabbed down in front of him.
It pierced the table with a heavy thud, stopping less than an inch from his fingers.
Wyman's hands shook. He bowed his head so low it was nearly pressed to the table, pouring without daring to look up.
"This sword," Lance said calmly, "is a prize I won from Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island."
"In King's Landing I had two smiths remake the hilt."
"I named it Dragontooth."
He tilted his head toward Brynden, eyes gleaming with provocation.
"House Tully has no ancestral Valyrian steel."
"Isn't that… unfortunate, Ser Brynden?"
"Lord Hoster?"
"Now listen carefully."
"If you can bring six men and defeat me…"
"This sword becomes House Tully's."
But then Lance's smile sharpened.
"However…"
"If I win—"
"Catelyn Tully marries Lord Eddard Stark."
"And you, Brynden Tully…"
"You come back to King's Landing with me."
"You put on the white cloak."
"And for the rest of your life…"
"You stand beside His Grace."
Valyrian steel.
At the sight of the black sword in Lance's hands, even Hoster Tully's breath quickened.
How valuable was a Valyrian steel blade?
It wasn't only power.
It was honor.
Glory.
A family's prestige made flesh.
Centuries ago, House Lannister paid enough gold to raise an army just to buy Brightroar, their Valyrian greatsword.
But after the Doom, King Tommen II sailed into the ruins with Brightroar—and vanished. Fleet and sword, gone forever.
Even two hundred years later, Tywin Lannister had repeatedly offered mountains of gold to any house that owned Valyrian steel.
And still, even the poorest of them refused.
Even the richest man in Westeros couldn't buy it.
That said everything.
And for House Tully—who had never possessed Valyrian steel in their history—
this was like a starving man being handed the very thing he'd dreamed of his entire life.
No one could resist.
No one.
Accept. Win the sword.
House Tully's prestige would skyrocket overnight.
Hoster stared at Brynden as if Brightroar itself had already been mounted on Riverrun's walls.
Even the Lord Paramount of the Trident looked like a desperate man begging at a locked door.
"Heh…"
Brynden looked back at his brother.
He knew the truth:
If he refused this now—
Hoster would never stop nagging him.
Not until the day he died.
He'd grab him by the collar on his deathbed and croak:
"YOU MISSED THE SWORD…"
Then finally die satisfied.
…Fine.
He'd rejected his brother's marriage schemes so many times.
Maybe it was time to do something for the house.
Brynden Tully lifted his eyes.
Then, in one smooth motion, he stepped onto the table, leaned forward, and placed his hand on Lance's sword hand.
"You'll regret this, Lance Lot."
---
Meanwhile…
On the sea route from King's Landing to Dragonstone—
A white cloak flashed across the deck.
A raven launched into the stormy sky, beating its wings hard—
flying straight toward Riverrun.