Chapter 198 — Even Armies Flee Before the White Cloak!
Storm's End
High atop the Sea Tide Tower.
A young girl with violet eyes as beautiful as amethysts sat perched upon the window ledge, her bare feet dangling several feet above the floor.
The bitter wind seemed to have stopped.
Winter itself felt as though it had already passed.
Inside the chamber, the fire in the hearth was dying, the last traces of warmth unable to dispel the chill that seeped into one's bones—just like the lingering gloom between the girl's brows.
Looking northward, the towering spires and sturdy battlements fractured her view, cutting it into broken pieces and isolating her from the battlefield where fate itself was being decided.
"ROOOAAARRR!!!"
Suddenly, a wave of thunderous shouting rolled in from afar.
"Did… did he win?"
Ashara trembled.
Her body reacted before her mind could even process the thought. She leapt down from the window, landing barefoot on the stone floor and running toward the door.
Creak—
Her slender fingers had only just reached the cold iron ring when the heavy wooden door was pushed open from the outside.
A towering knight stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway.
His shadow swallowed her entirely.
Ashara looked up at him, her throat dry and voice trembling.
"How… how did it end, Prince Lewyn?"
At the question, a complicated emotion flickered through the knight's eyes.
Shock.
Awe.
Fear.
"He won."
Prince Lewyn's heavy pauldrons shifted slightly as he spoke, his voice low and solemn.
Hearing those words, the girl finally exhaled.
The tension holding her together snapped.
Ashara's legs weakened beneath her, and she nearly collapsed, gripping the icy doorframe to steady herself.
A burning rush flooded her eyes, and her vision blurred instantly.
Relief so immense surged through her that she wanted to burst into tears—or laugh aloud in joy.
But suddenly, she could do neither.
She simply stood there, stunned and motionless.
Prince Lewyn Martell paid no attention to her emotional turmoil. Instead, he murmured quietly to himself:
"Robert Baratheon…"
"One strike."
"Reduced to ashes."
"Re… reduced to ashes?"
Ashara blinked through her tears, catching the unusual phrase.
A flicker of confusion mixed into her joy—but she dismissed it almost immediately.
Prince Lewyn had always possessed a dry sense of humor.
Perhaps it was just an exaggerated description.
She did not wish to think too deeply about it.
After all—
As long as Lance had won, that was enough.
Ever since she learned that Lance had ridden south with only eight hundred knights, declaring he would capture the legendary Storm's End—a fortress said never to have fallen—within ten days…
Her heart had never known peace.
Whenever she was alone, she blamed herself bitterly for bringing such trouble upon him.
And yet—
The white-armored knight who had rescued her in the royal forest seemed utterly unstoppable.
Good news had arrived again and again.
Thinking of that, a faint smile curved across her lips—one she had not shown in a long time.
A genuine smile.
As though winter had finally passed, and sunlight had entered this cold chamber.
At last, the weight on her heart lifted.
But while Ashara rejoiced for Lance, she failed to notice the heavy shadow lingering on Prince Lewyn's rugged face beneath his calm gaze.
"I'm leaving, child."
Lewyn spoke again, his voice resolute.
Ashara's smile froze instantly.
"Leaving? Going where?"
"Back to Dorne."
His answer came without hesitation.
Yet his eyes drifted toward the bleak sky outside the window, as though the most beautiful woman of Dorne standing before him no longer held his attention.
"That boy won."
"As agreed in our wager, the 'marriage alliance' between House Baratheon and House Martell is officially broken."
He spoke slowly, a self-mocking curve appearing on his lips.
"It's time for this 'captain of the guard' to return to where he truly belongs."
"The alliance between Baratheon and Martell has failed. I should go back now."
"Now? So soon?"
Ashara stepped forward, unable to hide the reluctance in her voice.
Throughout their journey, the Martell knight had protected her like a kind and reliable elder.
Without him, she might never have escaped Robert Baratheon's harassment.
"Won't you… meet Lance before you go?"
"You two got along so well before—talking about the stars of Dorne and the strong wines of the North."
"He would certainly welcome you warmly… and thank you for protecting me all this time."
"No need."
Lewyn lowered his head to look at her earnest face and slowly shook his head.
His voice was quiet—but firm.
He turned around, his towering silhouette stretching long shadows across the doorway.
"Meeting him would only bring trouble."
"He and I…"
"Dorne and the Iron Throne…"
"…are not friends."
"But—"
"Stay here, child. He should arrive soon."
Prince Lewyn gently cut off her protest.
He lifted his gaze again, as though looking far beyond the horizon—toward a palace of flowing water beneath the eternal sun.
"Lance Lot… no."
"Now he should be called Regent Rhaeseryon Targaryen."
"That kind of power…"
"It's not something humans can resist."
"It's a force capable of reshaping the very order of the world."
"Baratheon couldn't stop him."
"And Martell…"
"…cannot either."
"I must return to Dorne and convince Doran to abandon his hatred and stubbornness—before it brings even greater disaster."
"But—!"
Ashara's heart tightened at his resolute attitude, and she could not help asking,
"Prince Doran… will he really be able to let go of such a blood-deep hatred and accept the rule of the Iron Throne?"
Lewyn turned back and looked into Ashara's worried violet eyes.
Those eyes were clear—like the sky over Dorne after a rainstorm—without the slightest trace of calculation.
A long silence followed.
Just as Ashara thought he would not answer, Lewyn suddenly smiled.
Not his usual hearty laugh.
Only a faint smile.
He raised his hand in the traditional Dornish gesture of respect, then straightened his slightly stooped posture.
"Foolish child."
"Don't forget…"
Before he finished speaking, the tall Dornish knight had already turned decisively and strode away.
His heavy armored boots struck the cold stone floor with dull echoes, like a marching call to war.
He left behind only a cryptic answer, still ringing in Ashara's ears.
"I…"
"…am also a Martell."
---
At the Highest Tower
The red-robed sorceress stood by the window.
The beautiful face that could shake a monk's faith and make nobles bow their heads was now frozen in utter disbelief.
Her composure—her confidence in controlling fate—had shattered the moment that invisible blade fell.
Deep within her crimson pupils, the memory still burned clearly.
Lance Lot.
The man who seemed like a mutation born from a crack in destiny…
And the sword he had swung.
That strike had not only destroyed Robert Baratheon—
It had shattered everything she believed.
"Impossible… how could this be…"
Melisandre whispered, her voice trembling.
"He… he stole the divine flame."
The cold stone window bit into her clenched fingers, yet she felt nothing.
What had she witnessed?
The power that should belong only to the chosen one of prophecy—
The one destined to end the Long Night and bring the dawn.
The ultimate manifestation of the Lord of Light's sacred power.
And yet the one wielding it…
Was Lance Lot?
"My Lord… how could you allow a mortal to profane your authority like this?"
For the first time, confusion and cold dread enveloped Melisandre.
Because she felt no faith within that white-armored knight.
No devotion to the Lord of Light.
No reverence for the sacred fire.
Not even a single prayer.
No—
Not just the One True God.
That man seemed like a stubborn rock—following only his own will.
He believed in nothing.
And yet—
She had sacrificed everything.
Even the life growing within her womb—
All to allow Robert to briefly become a champion of light.
But Lance Lot?
Why did he deserve it?
"My Lord…"
In despair, she pressed her forehead against the icy stone wall.
"Great Lord of Light…"
"Why would you allow a faithless mortal to steal your divine authority?"
For the first time in centuries, despair entered her voice.
It felt like a child who had always obeyed and pleased their parents—
Only to suddenly lose their love.
And then see the most troublesome, useless sibling inherit everything.
I was the good one.
She had sacrificed everything to light the first lamp against the coming Long Night.
Yet that lamp had been extinguished by a variable.
And the new flame—
Was carried by a man she had never once seen in the flames.
"Lance Lot…"
"The anomaly…"
"The one who should not exist…"
"The heretic who stole the fire…"
Her breathing became ragged.
Overcome by helplessness and fear, Melisandre fell to her knees upon the cold stone floor.
Closing her eyes, she prayed with desperate fervor.
"My Lord…"
"Grant me revelation. Tear away the fog before my eyes and show me the true path!"
"The darkness raises its fangs before us."
"Who… is truly the light that will break the endless night?"
Her voice echoed through the empty tower.
Silence answered.
A silence that felt eternal.
Only the wind outside the high window howled against the stone walls.
After more than a hundred years, she had finally heard the sacred voice once more—
And yet now…
The light she once felt, the rhythm of the flames she understood—
Had vanished.
Even the One True God seemed unable to answer.
After a long while, Melisandre slowly opened her eyes and stared down at the white figure below.
Fine.
If you won't tell me—
I will find the answer myself.
Lance Lot.
Let me see just how a man without faith can wield the power of my Lord.
We shall see.
---
On the Battlefield
Lance inhaled lightly.
The air carried the mingled scents of charred flesh, iron rust, and steam rising from melted snow.
He lifted his head toward the distant tower.
For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a flash of red.
Perhaps it was just an illusion.
Whatever.
Planting the tip of his sword into the ground, Lance slowly straightened.
The flames along the blade faded.
Everything was over.
Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the battlefield's center.
Even breathing seemed to stop.
The once unstoppable Lord Robert Baratheon was now nothing more than a charred outline of human remains and glowing ash.
To be fair—
It was an extremely thorough burn.
Practically a cremation.
Absolute silence covered the field.
The lords of the Stormlands stood pale as death.
Fear gripped their hearts like an invisible hand.
Moments ago, Robert had roared like a god of war.
His flaming warhammer had seemed unstoppable.
Yet before the white-armored knight—
It had been as fragile as paper.
One strike.
Melted.
In the center of the battlefield, Lance ignored the trembling lords.
He slowly drove his greatsword into the snow.
The motion was calm, almost casual—like completing a routine task.
"Whinny—!"
A horse's cry broke the silence.
The pure white warhorse, a generous "donation" from Lord Tywin Lannister, had somehow slipped free from the attendants holding its reins.
With surprising intelligence, it trotted straight toward Lance.
Lowering its head, it gently nudged his hand with its nose.
Lance patted the horse's muzzle.
No wasted movements.
He grabbed the saddle and swung smoothly into the seat.
Drawing the greatsword, he rested it across his shoulder.
White armor.
White horse.
White sword.
Perfect unity.
Without issuing a single command, he simply turned the horse toward the castle that had never fallen.
Storm's End.
The massive gate where Granstin Selmy's head had once hung not long ago.
With a gentle squeeze of his legs, the horse began walking forward.
Alone.
Eight hundred Crownlands knights stood far behind him.
Without orders, none dared move.
They barely even breathed.
The Stormlands nobles and thousands of Baratheon soldiers stood rigid on both sides of the snowy field.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Every lord whose gaze met Lance's calmly lowered his head instantly.
None dared meet his eyes.
Deathly silence.
Only one horse.
One rider.
Step after step across the snow.
As he approached, the gathered lords instinctively parted to both sides.
The air was thick with fear colder than the winter wind.
Fear is instinct.
Clearly, none of them possessed Eddard Stark's belief that true courage exists only within fear.
Then—
Thud.
Lord Ralph Buckler was the first to collapse to his knees.
That single kneeling gesture triggered a chain reaction.
One lord.
Two.
Three.
Until the ground before Storm's End was filled with kneeling figures.
Lords.
Knights.
Soldiers.
The proud lords of the Stormlands bowed deeply, foreheads nearly touching the ground.
No command had been given.
But the steady sound of approaching hoofbeats spoke of power and authority.
Even the proudest knight dared not lift his head.
No one wished to gamble—
Not against the memory of the white knight sitting calmly on that horse.
After all…
"Hey! That's the one who didn't kneel that day!"
For the survivors, bowing to power had become the only option.
Lance Lot's gaze swept across the kneeling nobles.
He lingered on none of them.
Holding the reins lightly, he guided the horse forward at the same calm pace.
Until he reached the castle walls.
The gate remained tightly shut.
Above it stood the commander of the garrison—
A weathered old soldier with gray hair.
His hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He looked down.
His eyes met those of the white-armored knight.
Just for a moment.
Cold sweat instantly drenched his forehead.
He knew—
If he said even a single word of refusal—
If he showed the slightest resistance—
That massive sword would appear above his head in the next moment.
"O… open the gate!"
The hoarse order finally forced its way from his throat.
The heavy winch groaned loudly.
The massive gates of Storm's End—
A fortress that had never fallen to assault—
Slowly opened inward before a single rider in white armor.
Inside lay the wide stone road of the inner castle.
Every building was sealed.
Every window closed.
The once vibrant fortress seemed empty, as though its life had been replaced by silence and submission.
"Welcome His Highness the Regent into the city!"
Someone shouted first.
Then came a tidal wave of voices:
"Welcome His Highness the Regent into the city!"
"Welcome His Highness the Regent into the city!"
Amid the deafening cheers, Lance did not gallop.
He continued forward slowly.
As though he controlled time itself.
Guiding his white horse calmly through the open gates of Storm's End.
Silent fear.
Silent submission.
With every step he took—
The fortress's legendary unconquered history came to an end.
Storm's End…
Had fallen.