Chapter 196 — Playing with Fire? I've Never Feared It.
"Long live the Regent!"
"Long live His Majesty Rhaeseryon!!!"
The cheers did not die down.
The Stormlands lords shouted as if intoxicated, as though they were the victors. Faces flushed red with excitement, they waved their arms and pounded their chests, crying themselves hoarse for the enemy.
"Lance Lot has won—Storm's End is saved!"
"Lance Lot has won—the skies over Storm's End are clear again!"
It was absurd. Almost comical.
Their liege lord—
the man to whom every one of them had sworn eternal loyalty—
Lord Robert Baratheon—
lay motionless in the cold mud only a few hundred paces away.
His massive warhammer had slipped from his grasp.
A savage fissure split open his breastplate and abdomen.
Blood soaked through the padding beneath the armor.
Yet aside from the two knights Balman had dispatched, none of the Stormlands lords seemed remotely concerned about whether he lived or died.
All eyes burned with feverish devotion toward the tall white figure seated calmly atop his steed.
As for their flattery—whether sincere or opportunistic—
Lance's expression remained almost indifferent.
Victory?
Defeating Robert Baratheon meant nothing to him now. There was no exhilaration, no triumph.
Compared to this foregone duel, he would rather ride straight into the city and kiss a pair of beautiful Dornish violet eyes.
With that thought, Lance gently turned his horse, preparing to advance toward the wide-open gates of Storm's End.
---
Buzz.
Without warning, something detonated deep within his chest.
It was not a sound.
Not an impact.
It felt more like a resonance—
a tremor from the deepest origin of life itself.
A pulse echoing along ancient bloodlines.
What was that?
Lance's brows drew together.
An illusion?
No.
Because in the next instant, his gaze snapped sideways—drawn by something unseen.
Toward the fallen stag.
Toward the body lying in the mud.
The body that should have been dead.
Two Crownlands knights were riding forward under orders to confirm Robert's condition.
But when they were still more than ten meters away—
their horses began to panic.
The steady rhythm of hooves dissolved into chaos.
The animals shrieked in terror.
They stamped wildly, churning up mud, necks arched, eyes rolling white.
No matter how hard the knights pulled on the reins, the horses refused to approach.
The two knights struggled, panic written plainly across their faces. They exchanged bewildered glances while fighting to calm the nearly uncontrollable horses beneath them.
Then—
A faint, rapid rustling sound came from the direction of the "corpse."
Before their disbelieving eyes, Robert Baratheon's body began to convulse violently, as though seized by some unseen force.
Thud!
A hand that should have been lifeless suddenly clenched tight around the fallen hammer's haft.
And in the next breath—
Flame.
Pure, savage fire erupted from the warhammer without warning.
It leapt and coiled, instantly swallowing the cold iron head in blazing light.
But it did not stop there.
Like a living thing, the fire surged up Robert's arm—wrapping around vambrace and pauldron, crawling across his blood-streaked face, igniting even his tangled beard.
Before thousands of stunned eyes—
Robert Baratheon stood.
He planted both feet heavily upon the earth, rising straight through the inferno that engulfed him.
"ROOOAAARRR!!!"
With a thunderous howl, the Lord of Storm's End rose from the mud—
Reborn in fire.
The cheering stopped.
Stormlands lords who had been shouting praise for Lance only moments ago froze mid-expression. The flattery, the relief, the triumph—none of it had time to fade naturally.
It was as if invisible hands had seized their throats.
What was that?
Magic?
Sorcery from shadowed lands?
Whatever it was—
It did not belong to the Stormlands.
No ancient chronicle of their houses spoke of such power. Not even Durran the God-Hated was said to wield flames like this.
Yet Robert, whose world should have faded to darkness, suddenly saw light again.
He saw nothing else.
Not the lords' shifting loyalties.
Not the battlefield.
Only the white-armored figure before him.
And in his mind—
A voice echoed.
"You were meant to be crowned, Robert Baratheon."
"Robert Baratheon the First."
"Under your rule, the Seven Kingdoms would have known lasting peace. Even the Ironborn would have bowed to your Iron Throne—until… a boar ended your reign."
"A boar?!" he had laughed. "You think Robert Baratheon would lose to a boar?"
"I don't want the Iron Throne. Whoever wants it can have it. Bring Lyanna back to me."
"Whether you accept it or not—you are king. That is your destiny."
"But that man… that anomaly… stole your crown."
"You are king."
"You are king!"
The words swallowed every other thought.
Robert's eyes snapped open.
Where green should have been—
Flame burned.
He raised the blazing warhammer high and roared to the heavens:
"I AM THE KING!!!"
You've got the wrong line.
For the first time, Lance's blue eyes sharpened with genuine seriousness.
He did not know what had happened—
But he knew something beyond the natural order had interfered.
The Lord of Light?
"Whatever it is…"
Lance smiled faintly and lifted Dawn once more.
"Things are finally getting interesting."
---
Robert moved again.
No horse.
He didn't need one.
Each step he took sizzled against the frozen earth. Snow and frost turned instantly to steam beneath his feet.
He charged—no flourish, no technique.
Just raw, brutal force.
The distance vanished.
With a ground-shaking leap, the flaming giant hurled himself into the air, warhammer raised overhead.
It crashed down upon Dawn.
The explosion of steel rang like thunder.
The force was greater than before—so great that even Lance felt his arms go numb. His horse screamed in agony, staggering backward under the impact.
But Robert did not stop.
The hammer came again.
And again.
And again.
Blow after blow rained down like a storm.
Each strike sent red sparks flying. Lance's white cloak burned in places, blackened holes appearing in the fabric. Embers scorched his mount's flesh, drawing desperate cries.
Even Lance was forced back—step by step.
Across the battlefield, Stormlands lords watched in horror.
Moments ago, they had accepted defeat.
Now—
If Robert won—
What would become of them?
The men who had cheered for his enemy?
Would they share Granstin Selmy's fate?
A shadow fell over every heart.
Even Ser Balman tightened his grip on the reins.
He had never seen anyone force Lance into retreat—not even in Dorne.
"Get the hell out of my way!"
At last, Lance roared.
This time he did not deflect.
He met the hammer head-on.
Steel screamed.
A surge of power burst from Dawn and knocked the flaming hammer aside. It smashed into the earth instead, blasting a charred crater into the ground.
In one smooth motion, Lance kicked free of the saddle, flipping cleanly backward to land upon solid ground.
He slapped his tortured horse hard on the flank.
The animal bolted away in terror, smoke rising from its burns.
Lance exhaled slowly.
Fighting mounted was no longer viable. The force between them would destroy any horse foolish enough to remain.
He lowered his center of gravity.
Both hands gripped Dawn.
The blade angled toward the earth.
Across from him, Robert wrenched his hammer free from the crater, mud scattering from its head.
Flaming red eyes locked onto Lance.
With another beastly roar, Robert charged again.
Lance's lips curved into a cold smile.
He rotated his wrist.
Dawn rose from its downward angle to level across his chest.
The heat marks along the blade flared brilliantly—
And then—
Flame erupted.
Blazing, radiant fire surged along Dawn's broad surface, coiling upward in brilliant tongues of light.
The heat that rolled outward was so intense it nearly overwhelmed Robert's inferno.
The white knight stood wreathed in light.
Sword blazing.
Point aimed forward.
His voice—calm, yet burning—rang across the battlefield.
"Playing with fire?"
"I've never been afraid of it."