Chapter 162 — Killing Intent Sky-High!
The Godswood
In the godswood, ancient weirwoods sprawled like living monsters—roots twisted deep into the earth, their blood-red leaves shining like lacquer in the sunlight.
Winter was close. Snow had not yet come, but the cold had already sunk its teeth into the air. After days of endless rain, the sky finally cleared, sunlight spilling down over Riverrun's sacred grove—
Yet not a single knight looked relaxed.
At the very front stood Brynden Tully.
Gone was the lazy, mocking posture he wore at banquets. What remained was something far sharper: a predator's focus.
He had always been like this.
Normally he was undisciplined, almost reckless, yet the moment combat approached, he would snap into place—mind honed, senses awake, spirit at full steel.
Even if his opponent was only one man.
Behind him stood six fully armed knights, forming a tight ring formation. Each wore polished plate and bright mail, their faces grim and murderous.
Their weapons varied:
A razor-edged two-handed longsword.
A brutal battle axe.
A thick steel shield heavy enough to break ribs.
And even a long, wicked spear—perfect for killing horses and men alike.
From their stance alone—foot placement, weapon grip, breathing rhythm—it was obvious these were not merely "good knights."
They were the Riverlands' finest.
One against seven was unheard of.
But when the command came from Lord Hoster Tully, and the opponent was the realm-famous Ser Lance Lot, none of these men dared to treat it lightly.
Yet among them, one knight's hatred stood out like a torch in darkness.
His gaze burned as he stared straight at the Kingsguard captain ahead.
Because his brother—
Martyn Cassel—
had died beneath Lance's blade only months earlier.
As Winterfell's master-at-arms, Rodrik Cassel had come to Riverrun with Benjen Stark at Lord Rickard's command… never expecting that fate would hand him the perfect chance for revenge.
So good…
Gods above, this is perfect.
Rodrik's eyes locked forward. His fingers tightened around his sword-hilt until the leather creaked.
Lance noticed the hatred—sharp as a dagger tip.
He turned his head slightly, casual as if someone had merely glared at him across a tavern.
He wasn't wearing a helm. His face was calm, handsome, even faintly amused.
Not an ounce of pressure.
Not a trace of fear.
"That one," Lance asked mildly, nodding toward Rodrik, "who is he?"
"Do I have a grievance with him?"
The question almost sounded sincere.
Almost.
After all, Lance had killed so many people by now that his enemies could probably stretch from the Summer Sea all the way beyond the Wall.
Who was who hardly mattered anymore.
"Hm…"
Lance glanced at Rodrik's unfamiliar face and shook his head.
"No idea."
Whatever.
"Arrogant…" Rodrik hissed.
To him, Lance's attitude wasn't calm—it was mockery.
It was contempt.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He swore to the Old Gods that today he would make this insolent butcher pay.
"Seven against one, ser."
Brynden's voice cut in, low and hard.
"Even now, you can still back out."
"Oh, no…" Lance chuckled lightly.
"Seven against one?"
He lifted Dragontooth with one hand and smiled.
"No."
"It's one versus seven."
Brynden frowned slightly.
He genuinely didn't know what difference Lance thought existed between the two phrases, but he had no interest in playing word games.
"We won't kill anyone in the godswood," Brynden said. "And you're Riverrun's guest."
"So don't worry. Your safety is guaranteed."
Lance raised an eyebrow.
"And I'll return the same words to you, 'sworn brother.'"
The way he said it—casual, confident—made it sound like Brynden's fate was already decided.
As if Brynden had already been dragged to King's Landing and forced into a white cloak.
Lance's relaxed posture stood in brutal contrast to the tightly coiled formation before him.
Above the stone steps outside the godswood, spectators filled every inch.
Lord Hoster Tully's hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had gone pale. His eyes couldn't leave Dragontooth—the black Valyrian steel greatsword in Lance's grip.
He swallowed hard.
Nearby, Lord Wyman Manderly was sweating like a pig at slaughter. His fat face shone with panic, because everything he'd been tasked to accomplish by Rickard Stark—
depended on this duel.
The irony was cruel:
The two men who weren't even fighting looked more nervous than the knights preparing to kill.
Logic said it was impossible.
One man couldn't defeat seven.
Yet once greed, ambition, and political benefit tightened their chains around a man's throat—
even "impossible" became something to fear.
In stark contrast—
Eddard Stark looked steady.
Not calm exactly, but composed.
Even Roose Bolton beside him looked indifferent, as though watching a minor dispute between peasants.
He had witnessed what Lance could do in battle just days earlier—how he cut through hundreds of men like harvesting wheat.
To Bolton's eyes, this was almost laughable.
Not that he underestimated the Riverlands knights—
but seven?
Double that number and it still wouldn't be enough.
"Now!"
Without warning, Brynden let out a thunderous shout.
Seven knights surged forward together, launching their charge at Lance.
It was shameless, perhaps—seven men rushing one.
But if that one man was Lance Lot…
then even dishonor began to look like wisdom.
The spear knight led the attack, thrusting straight for Lance's face.
At the same time—
two swords swept in from either side, sealing off Lance's evasion.
And a massive axe-bearer raised his weapon high—
bringing it down in a brutal overhead cleave meant to split helm and skull alike.
The coordination was flawless.
In a heartbeat, the Riverlands' finest unleashed a perfectly synchronized killing net—
a textbook execution—
built to crush Lance Lot in one single moment.
And it wasn't over yet.
Under the cover of the others, Rodrik Cassel suddenly broke from the side—both hands locked on his hilt—driving his blade straight toward the heart-point of Lance's breastplate.
Hatred exploded in his eyes.
With multiple weapons striking at once, Lance had almost no room left to dodge.
In that situation, any knight in the Seven Kingdoms would be facing a guaranteed defeat.
But unfortunately—
They had run into a man who was, quite simply, cheating.
In the eyes of Rodrik and the others—certain of victory—
the white-armored Kingsguard captain finally moved.
No flourish. No needless tricks.
Ser Lance Lot merely lifted the black greatsword in his right hand and swept it sideways—plain, brutal, efficient.
Clang!
Thud—splurt!
Two sounds rang out almost at the same time.
The spear knight felt an indescribable force surge up the shaft. The spear was smashed violently aside—so hard it dragged his entire body forward, pitching him off balance.
At the same time, the Valyrian steel blade pierced cleanly into the left swordsman's shoulder blade.
Plate armor meant nothing.
It was paper before Valyrian steel.
Lance didn't even spare the man a glance.
A flick of his wrist—
the sword-point withdrew.
Rodrik's thrust arrived an instant later—
but it struck nothing.
Only air.
Rodrik's eyes widened in disbelief.
Lance's feet slid lightly, effortlessly—like water slipping past a rock.
He hadn't been there.
Not anymore.
Then—
the massive blade snapped upward.
SCHLK!!
Blood sprayed like rain.
A sword-gripping arm hit the ground with a wet slap.
Rodrik Cassel—
crippled.
In the rear, Brynden Tully was visibly shaken by what he'd just seen.
But decades of battle instinct saved him.
He seized the opening—thrusting from an angle sharp as an assassin's whisper—
aimed straight for the weak seam at Lance's right ribs.
A killing strike.
But Lance moved as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
No pause.
The great sword turned—spinning through an impossible angle and speed for such a heavy weapon—
and instead of blocking, it smashed into Brynden's blade with raw, crushing force.
BOOM!
Steel shrieked like dying beasts inside the godswood.
Brynden felt a monstrous impact surge through the sword into his bones.
His grip tore open—
blood bursting from his palm.
His entire right arm went numb, screaming with pain.
His sword flew from his hand.
Then—
BAM!
A pure-white armored boot drove into his chest.
Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—was kicked clean off his feet and arced through the air before slamming into the weeds.
Brynden—
defeated.
He lay there, dizzy, ears ringing, listening to steel strike steel again and again.
When he finally forced himself up, pushing against the grass—
he looked up.
And the fight…
was already over.
Seven fully armed elite knights—
a force strong enough to wipe out minor Riverlands lords—
had been knocked down in less than a dozen breaths.
The most absurd part?
All of them were wounded—some badly—
but Lance had kept his promise.
He hadn't killed a single one.
Brynden, seasoned as he was, understood exactly what that meant.
This wasn't a victory.
It was an exhibition.
A demonstration.
A statement.
"So this is…" Brynden rasped, half-dazed.
"…the Kingsguard?"
"AAAAH! My hand—my arm!!"
The moans and screaming of the fallen knights echoed through the grove.
On the steps, Lord Hoster Tully still hadn't recovered from the shock.
Too fast.
Too strong.
Too—
Gods, too damned unreal.
He hadn't even had time to build courage for the result before it ended.
Hoster sat there with his mouth hanging open, eyes wide, his mind reduced to blank buzzing.
Is this even a man?
Not just him.
Nearby, Wyman Manderly trembled violently, horror written all over his bloated face.
Thank the Seven… thank the Seven I didn't push him harder at the banquet.
I would've died.
He turned shakily to glance at his "partner"—
only to see Roose Bolton, who almost never showed emotion, wearing the faintest curve of a smile.
Wyman's blood ran cold.
Damn you, Roose Bolton…
Damn you to the Seven Hells… how lucky can one man be, to latch onto a beast like this?
If Lance marched north with an army—
who could stop him?
For the first time, even Manderly—so loyal to Rickard Stark—felt genuine fear for what the North's future would become.
Lance's lazy voice shattered the dead silence.
"Now."
He casually planted the great sword into the ground again, returning to the same posture as before the fight—
as if none of it had happened, as if the last moments had been a mirage.
His blue eyes settled on Lord Hoster—calm, absolute, leaving no room for debate.
"Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, will marry House Tully's daughter—Lady Catelyn."
"And Brynden Tully goes with me to King's Landing."
"Cough… cough—!"
Before Hoster could answer, the battered Brynden started coughing violently from the ground.
All eyes shifted.
He forced himself upright, staring at Lance as if still trapped in the afterimage of that slaughterless massacre.
"Forgive me… ser."
His voice was hoarse, heavy with something Brynden had never carried before.
"We cannot fulfill the promise… because…"
His throat worked.
"Catelyn…"
"She… isn't in Riverrun anymore."
"What?!"
Hoster's vision went black.
His head, already swelling with panic, felt ready to burst.
A servant rushed in, supporting him, pounding his chest.
Finally catching breath, Hoster pointed at Brynden with a shaking finger, voice weak but furious.
"What did you do, you damned bastard?"
"What in the Seven Hells did you do to my little Cat?!"
"She refused to marry a Stark boy two years younger than her, Hoster!"
Brynden's guilt flared—but his stubborn pride flared even harder.
If he had to burn, he'd burn loudly.
"She's a free trout."
"She has the right to choose love."
"I sent her out of the city last night."
Rage, shock, humiliation—
all of it crashed into Hoster like a tidal wave.
His finger shook violently. His lips trembled.
He couldn't even form words.
Without servants holding him up, he would've collapsed.
Lance's face tightened instantly.
A clear, sharp displeasure flashed through his eyes.
All of this—the duel, the pressure, the political knife-play—
had been for one thing:
to force Eddard Stark into marriage with House Tully, so Riverlands strength could be used to crush the North's rebellion.
And now—
this farce.
So I did all that for nothing?
Before the godswood could sink deeper into silence, hurried footsteps came pounding.
A golden-haired knight forced through the crowd—
Ser Balman Byrch.
He strode straight to Lance, breath quick, face tense.
"Urgent news from King's Landing, ser!"
Lance took the letter.
Expressionless.
He read it carefully.
The moment his eyes finished scanning the message—
the godswood changed.
It felt as if an invisible frost swept over the grove.
Even the insects stopped.
Even the birds went quiet.
Everyone watching felt their lungs tighten.
As if an unseen hand had seized their throats.
A primal fear raised every hair on their bodies.
Wyman Manderly's legs gave out.
He collapsed on the spot, staring at the white cloak as if it had turned into the shroud of death itself.
That was killing intent—
pure, concentrated, almost tangible.
Even Brynden began trembling.
He stared at Lance in disbelief.
This isn't human.
To carry killing intent like this—did he slaughter thousands with his own hands?!
Lance snapped his head up.
Those blue eyes now carried a faint hint of red—like blood seen through ice.
His gaze swept the crowd and locked onto Brynden Tully.
Brynden's heart slammed in his chest.
"You."
"Honor your oath. You're coming with me to King's Landing."
"Now."
Before Brynden could respond—
Lance's gaze whipped toward Hoster Tully.
"Lord Stark must marry a Tully girl."
"Which daughter it is—I don't care."
"Have him marry Lysa Tully."
"Tonight."
His voice was fast, cold, decisive—leaving no room for refusal.
"As Lord Paramount of the Trident… and Lord of Riverrun."
"I trust your honor, your family's name, and your loyalty to the Iron Throne—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
But the renewed killing intent—
and the blood still dripping from the Valyrian steel—
said everything.
Hoster's back went wet with sweat.
He wanted to refuse.
But his lips twitched helplessly.
No sound came.
Eddard Stark stepped forward, face conflicted.
"What happened, Ser Lance—?"
"It has nothing to do with you, Lord Stark."
Lance turned toward him. His tone softened—only slightly.
"I apologize. Something more urgent demands my attention."
"I won't be able to attend your wedding."
"Do not overthink it."
"Marry in peace. The Iron Throne will always be your strongest support."
Then Lance strode forward and slapped a hand on Roose Bolton's shoulder.
His eyes sharpened into daggers.
"Support Lord Stark properly."
"Don't try any clever tricks, flayer."
"Or I'll let you experience what it truly means—"
"to have your skin peeled off while you're still alive."
No more words.
No hesitation.
He didn't even spare the others a glance.
He turned and strode out of the godswood—
white cloak snapping like a war banner in the wind.
Balman and the white-cloaked knights followed at once.
The air around them was cold and murderous—
as if the living should step away from the dead.
Nobody knew what had happened in King's Landing.
But everyone could guess one thing.
Someone…
was about to suffer.
Badly.