Chapter 195 — The Body as Vessel, Blood as the Key
"You came."
"I did."
"I thought you wouldn't."
"I said I would. So I came."
"You shouldn't have."
"Why?"
"Because if you lose—
you die."
---
Before Storm's End, the two armies faced one another.
The snow had been cleared away, leaving behind a vast circular arena of bare stone and packed earth.
Eight hundred Crownlands knights stood in immaculate formation, facing the castle. Every gaze was locked onto the tall white-armored figure at the center of the field—eyes filled with unwavering reverence and absolute confidence.
To them, the name Lance Lot itself meant victory.
Opposite them stood the Stormlands host—larger in number, yet visibly fractured in spirit.
Where the Crownlands knights radiated certainty, most Stormlands lords and their personal guards wore expressions devoid of loyalty or concern for their liege, Robert Baratheon. Instead, there was something unsettling in their faces—anticipation, even relief.
They craned their necks shamelessly, more like displaced refugees awaiting salvation than proud nobles awaiting battle.
Everyone knew the truth.
These men were not loyal to the Iron Throne—otherwise, they would never have followed Robert in his assault on Summerhall.
They merely wanted this duel to end.
They wanted to return to their lands and resume their comfortable lives.
Whether Robert lived or died was irrelevant.
By now, the Stormlands' defeat was all but inevitable. No one believed it could be reversed.
"Hmph!"
A heavy snort burst from Robert's nose, loud enough to cut through the wind and echo across the snowy field.
"Don't think for a second that I can't beat you, Lance Lot!"
"I lost to you at the tourney in King's Landing because I hate using those flimsy practice lances!"
As he spoke, he casually swung the massive warhammer in his hands—easily forty or fifty pounds. The hammerhead tore through the air with a terrifying whistle.
Today, Robert Baratheon looked every inch the warrior.
His armor shone brilliantly, polished to a mirror gleam. The crowned stag of House Baratheon roared proudly across his breastplate, catching the sunlight. Broad pauldrons and thick vambraces framed his massive build perfectly.
After days of inner torment, resolve had finally crushed fear.
Robert stopped swinging the hammer, then lifted it high and rested it across his shoulder.
The pose was flawless.
Almost identical to the way Lance Lot rested his greatsword.
…Damn. It really was handsome.
Why hadn't he learned this pose earlier?
If he'd known it back in the Vale, he might've—
no, definitely would've—attracted even more foolish noble girls and desperate noble ladies into his bed.
What a waste.
"Is… is His Majesty really going to be all right?"
Leonno Selmy's voice carried genuine unease as he stared at the distant figure wielding the warhammer so effortlessly.
He glanced around—and found himself alone in his concern.
Faces nearby bore the expressions of spectators, not loyal retainers. Even Ser Brynden, clad in white armor like the Kingsguard, wore a relaxed grin, as if watching a performance rather than a duel to the death.
Leonno swallowed.
"Ser Brynden… you're not worried about His Majesty at all?"
His father, Granstin Selmy, had died in Storm's End's great hall for the sake of justice—seeking to atone for the sins of his youth. His mother had followed soon after, passing away in grief after giving birth to Leonno's sister.
House Selmy had all but declared itself irreconcilable with the Baratheons.
If Lance Lot were to fall here…
Then the Selmys would surely face Baratheon retribution.
Harvest Hall would be destroyed by his own hand.
How could he not be worried?
"Shouldn't you stop this?" Leonno pressed. "You're Kingsguard—"
"Hearing you talk," Brynden cut in with a grin, clapping Leonno on the shoulder, "you sound like you're backing that Baratheon pup."
"Is he really that strong?"
Brynden's smile never faded—easy, roguish, unconcerned.
Leonno exhaled sharply, then pointed at the hammer on Robert's shoulder.
"He's the kind of man who—"
"Let me put it this way..."
"We were hunting when a full-grown brown bear came crashing out of the trees—over two meters at the shoulder. By the Seven, it was the fiercest beast I've ever seen."
"It went mad. Even the bravest knights froze."
"But Robert Baratheon? He charged it. On foot."
"When we were certain he was about to be torn apart—he crushed the bear's skull with his hammer."
Leonno's voice dropped in awe.
"And Robert… he barely even breathed hard afterward."
"I remember clearly—he used that same hammer."
The image was vivid.
Even Ser Balman, standing nearby, looked visibly shaken.
If Leonno's account was true, then Robert Baratheon's raw combat power was far beyond ordinary men.
No wonder Leonno feared the outcome.
No wonder this duel felt so impossibly heavy.
After all, the legends of Lance Lot had spread across the entire continent—but without witnessing them firsthand, and without personally seeing the almost absurd physical power of Robert Baratheon, doubt was only natural.
Yet the flicker of surprise on Ser Balman's face lasted no more than a heartbeat.
"HAHAHAHA!!!"
Just as Balman was about to speak—to retell to Leonno the same story he once told Brynden—Brynden suddenly burst into unrestrained laughter.
The sound rang sharply through the tense battlefield air, instantly drawing countless eyes.
Brynden laughed so hard he nearly doubled over in the saddle, slapping his armored thigh exaggeratedly as if he couldn't stop himself.
After laughing for who knew how long, he finally managed to rein it in, shaking his head while pointing at Leonno, mockery written openly across his face.
"I'm terribly sorry…"
"But asking whether Robert Baratheon can defeat His Majesty Lance Lot—well, that's just too damn funny!"
Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Brynden continued with unabashed ridicule:
"That question is about as stupid as asking whether Balen could defeat Maegor Targaryen!"
"Balen?" Leonno blinked. "Who's that?"
"Ohhh, Balen~~~"
Seeing Leonno's confused expression only made Brynden grin wider. He cleared his throat theatrically, putting on the air of a man reminiscing.
"That boy was the son of a butcher from Riverrun. Poor luck—born with some strange illness. Walked with a limp his whole life."
"When he spoke, his words slurred together, drool running down his chin. Sounded exactly like a pig squealing when his old man stuck a knife in its throat."
"HAHAHAHA!!!"
The laughter carried far on the cold wind—far enough to reach the two men standing at the center of the field.
"You hear that?"
"No one thinks you'll win, Baratheon."
Lance's lips curved slightly as he lifted his chin.
"Look at the people behind you. They aren't waiting for your victory."
"Believe it or not, if you die here, they'll rush out to welcome us into the city—and the smiles on their faces will be far more genuine than any they ever gave you."
"Tch."
Robert didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
Before leaving the city, he had already burned those parasite-like expressions into his memory—faces filled with schadenfreude, even more suffocating than the pity in Maester Cressen's eyes.
He spat hard into his palm.
Calloused fingers clenched around the ebony hammer haft, gripping it like the last scrap of dignity he had left.
When he was twelve—when he first managed to swing this monstrous weapon one-handed and crush the skull of a mountain clansman who dared provoke him—that same savage strength had earned him fear and fame throughout the Vale.
Since then, whether beasts of the forest, pirates, or cutthroats—
Not one of them had ever made him feel threatened.
Not one!
"How long are you planning to stand there yapping, Lance Lot?"
Robert roared, his anger flaring hot. "What—planning to starve me to death in the snow?"
He bared his teeth in a grin eerily similar to the brown bear he'd once crushed.
"I ate two whole roasted stag legs this morning! I've got strength to spare! Even if you brought those eight hundred bastards behind you, I'd smash every last ugly skull!"
"Heh…"
Lance let out a soft, dismissive chuckle.
"Sharp tongue."
"Instead of wasting the final moments of your life on insults, you might want to take one last look at your castle."
"Because soon, you'll never see it again."
"Hahahahaha!!!"
Robert erupted into wild laughter.
Something primal burst open in his chest—a savage confidence that burned away the shadows cast by Brynden's mockery and the lords' expectant gazes.
No matter who stood before him—
Today, Robert Baratheon feared nothing.
Lowering the hammer from his shoulder, he locked his bloodshot eyes on the towering white knight ahead.
"This is my land."
"My father and grandfather ruled here."
"Baratheon soil—"
"Is guarded by Baratheon hands!!!"
With a thunderous roar, his spiked greaves dug into his warhorse's flanks.
The horse surged forward, iron hooves pounding the frozen ground and flinging up clods of icy mud.
Robert had prepared thoroughly.
Not only was he clad in his heaviest armor, but even his mount was wrapped in steel—neck guard, barding, reinforced plates covering nearly the entire body.
By contrast, Lance wore only his white Kingsguard cloak.
His horse bore nothing but a soft, gold-threaded saddle—no armor at all.
Hammer versus sword. Blunt force against a blade.
Fully armored, Robert held the advantage!
Boom—boom—boom!
The thunder of hooves struck every spectator's heart.
Under thousands of eyes, the battle that would decide the fate of the Stormlands began.
Robert charged like a living fortress, steel and fury crashing toward the white figure.
Closer.
Closer still.
Five feet. Three.
Robert's pupils shrank as his strength exploded.
Muscles bulged, veins standing out as horse and rider's momentum combined.
Every ounce of rage, humiliation, fear, and desperation poured into his arm.
"DIE!!!"
The warhammer tore through the air in a brutal arc—power enough to shatter the skull of any beast alive.
But just as Lance raised his blade—
Robert dropped.
His massive frame dipped with startling agility, hammer veering downward.
Not for the man—
But for the unarmored neck of Lance's horse.
This was Robert's plan.
Strike the rider by killing the mount.
He knew Lance's terror—knew his strength, his victories, even without seeing the flames yet dance upon his blade.
He knew he could never win head-on.
The only path to victory—
Was to cripple Lance first.
The hammer screamed toward the horse's neck.
A single hit would have crushed even an ox.
But—
His opponent was Lance.
In the instant before impact, Lance's wrist turned with effortless grace.
The ivory greatsword traced an impossible arc.
What had been an upward guard became a downward press.
CLANG!
A thunderous explosion of steel.
An overwhelming force surged through the hammer haft, numbing Robert's arm to the shoulder.
His fingers spasmed, nearly releasing the weapon.
That power didn't just block his strike—it seized it, dragged his arm backward.
His upper body was yanked open.
His chest plate—
Perfectly exposed.
White light flashed.
No roar. No grinding shriek.
The two riders crossed in silence.
Horses thundered past, then slowed.
The world held its breath.
Then—
Crack.
A sharp, icy sound.
Followed by the horrifying rasp of tearing metal.
Before thousands of eyes, the stag-emblazoned armor—said to withstand any blade—split cleanly down its center.
Steel peeled away like iron petals.
Beneath it—
Blood.
A single, straight crimson line ran from shoulder to abdomen.
Robert swayed.
Then—
THUD.
The Lord of Storm's End fell.
"We won…"
"We won!!!"
"We can go home!"
The cheers did not come from the Crownlands knights.
Nor from Leonno Selmy, who had wagered his entire house.
They came from the Stormlands lords.
They cheered like victors.
Some even wept with relief.
The Crownlands knights stared in disbelief.
They had won—
So why did it feel like they'd lost?
As two knights moved forward to check Robert's condition—
High above, atop Storm's End's tower—
A red-robed woman watched.
Her crimson eyes burned with irritation.
Too fast.
No struggle.
No revelation.
No flaw exposed.
Robert still twitched—alive, barely.
That was enough.
"It cannot wait."
"Great gifts require great sacrifice…"
Her hand rose.
Her gaze lowered to her gently swollen belly.
And she began to chant.
Ancient words—close to High Valyrian—fell from her lips.
"I am the vessel—"
"Blood be the key!"
Pain detonated within her.
Agony beyond human endurance.
A scream tore free as something was ripped from her womb—something unseen, yet vast.
The woman collapsed, breath shallow.
But from her sacrifice—
A blood-red shadow was born.
It hovered once.
Then dove—
Straight toward the fallen body of
Robert Baratheon.