Chapter 95 — Have You Ever Been Cut by Dawn?
CLANG!!
Dawn's massive blade slammed down, its razor-edge skimming past Bonifer as it carved into the marble floor, scattering chips of stone.
"You mad bastard!"
Flat on his back, Bonifer jabbed a finger at Lance's darkened expression and roared, "I was about to crown you king, and you—!"
Before he could finish, the white-armored knight took another step forward and brought the sword down again.
CLANG!!!
The impact was even fiercer. The enormous blade tore through Bonifer's robes and pinned them to the floor.
Had he not rolled at the last possible heartbeat, he would have met the Seven already.
"You lunatic—what in the Seven Hells is wrong with you?!"
Seeing Lance advance again, sword raised, all reason abandoned him. Bonifer scrambled to his feet and sprinted for his life, shrieking,
"Calm down, Rhaeseryon! It's the Iron Throne—THE IRON THRONE!"
He toppled over pew after pew as he fled, trying desperately to slow Lance's approach.
Lance hacked each obstacle apart with Dawn as if chopping firewood, roaring,
"To hell with your Iron Throne!"
"And how many times do I have to say it—my name is Lance Lot!"
Even weighed down by layers of plate, and forced to chop through fallen benches, his terrifying speed still closed the distance with every breath.
Bonifer stole a glance back—
What he saw nearly froze his soul.
The white knight's blue eyes blazed with a killing intent so dense it felt physical.
Seven save me… he is a Targaryen, isn't he?!
Only a Targaryen could be this deranged!
Bonifer's legs pumped faster—he would have taken flight like a raven if he could—but just as Lance nearly cornered him—
Footsteps. Countless footsteps.
From every passage of the Sept, armored warriors poured in like a tide.
Dozens of them, swords drawn, faces painted in garish holy colors, rainbow cloaks billowing behind polished mail.
Disciplined. Fearless.
They looked like the reborn Warrior's Sons of old.
"You madman!" Bonifer roared triumphantly as his men surrounded him. "Did you really think I'd invite you here without preparing?!"
Buoyed by the sight of his soldiers, he jabbed a finger at Lance's nose.
"What did Aerys offer you?! What promise could that thief of wives possibly make to turn you against the Iron Throne?!"
"That throne is the dream of all Westeros! The pinnacle of power, you idiot!"
The rainbow-cloaked soldiers closed in, blades pointed from every direction.
But Lance merely grinned.
"The Iron Throne? I don't give a damn about that scrap-metal chair."
His eyes narrowed.
"But you…"
He lifted Dawn and swept it in a slow, deliberate arc—its edge tapping against dozens of raised swords with ringing chimes—before leveling the tip at Bonifer.
"You? A robe-wearing charlatan who preaches nonsense and thinks he can play kingmaker?"
"I don't know what grudge you bear against the Targaryens, but a mere priest—whose worth is beneath that of a stray dog—wants to make me your puppet? Restore 'divine rule' through me?"
He barked out a laugh.
"I'd love to carve open that skull of yours just to see if there's anything inside besides whatever a boar shits out!"
"Do you even know who I am?"
"I am Lance Lot, personally appointed by King Aerys Targaryen—
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
His laughter boomed through the Sept, wild and contemptuous—like a giant amused by the insolence of worms.
Even the surrounding soldiers stiffened in awe.
He stood there, relaxed, unbothered, as though the blades pointed at him were soft feathers rather than sharpened steel.
Only Bonifer's command held them in check.
"Enough, Lance Lot!" Bonifer spat.
His voice cracked between fury and desperation.
Bonifer clenched his teeth. Many years ago—on the day he lost the woman he loved and cast himself into the arms of the Seven—he had sworn that the man who stole her would one day pay.
And now the arrow was nocked; whether Lance resisted or not, he would be the king Bonifer installed.
Steeling himself, Bonifer drew a deep breath. Pity and holiness returned to his face; he closed his eyes as though receiving sacred revelation.
His voice rang out, solemn as a prophet:
"If the Seven decree he is the new king—then he will be the new king."
"No matter how he struggles, no matter how he flees, he cannot escape the fate of ascending the throne. Such is the will of the Seven. No mortal can defy it."
The moment his words faded, the rainbow-cloaked soldiers beside him lifted their swords high and chanted like zealots:
"THE NEW KING!"
"THE NEW KING!"
Their faces were grave, reverent, but in their eyes burned a fanatic fire that made them look less like holy warriors and more like members of an unhinged cult.
"Rhaeseryon Targaryen!"
Bonifer shouted, riding the crest of their fervor.
"In the name of the Seven—do you accept Their divine will, ascend the throne, restore the title of 'Warrior's Sons,' and return the right of judgment to the Faith?"
"If you refuse…"
His tone sharpened to a blade.
"I will order these hundred faithful brothers to rend your flesh until you kneel beneath the Seven's holy light!"
The threat was unmistakable. One command, and the holy warriors would swarm him and carve the Kingsguard commander into mince.
But Lance seemed wholly unmoved.
Instead, he lazily summoned his system panel—golden light flashed across his vision.
---
[Current Template: SS — Arthur Dayne (Fusion 60%)]
[Description]
The Dawn Sword. The First Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
A man who could piss with his right hand while slaying five Kingsguard with his left.
Had he not died to treachery, he would have carved legends beyond imagination.
[Passive]
• Under sunlight, your sword shines like a star in the night — Swordsmanship +1
• When wielding "Dawn" — Swordsmanship +1
• Permanent Skill — Weaponmaster
• Permanent Skill — Unburnt
• Permanent Skill — Dragonrider
---
Truth be told, Lance had hesitated when he first drew Arthur Dayne's template.
After all, his Rhaegar Targaryen template was already at 100% fusion.
Even if Arthur had greater long-term growth, that didn't matter much in the immediate fight.
But when he saw the two passive abilities tied to Dawn, he switched instantly—and transferred Rhaegar's fusion into it without hesitation.
And gods…
it was worth it.
Even with only 60% fusion, the dual +1 Swordsmanship passives combined with Weaponmaster's +50% universal mastery made his sword skill grow like weeds after rain.
He'd tested it too—sparring with old Ser Barristan before this mission.
And he had won—easily.
Even when Barristan Selmy fought at full strength, the old knight lasted ten exchanges at best before being cut down.
He challenged again and again, refusing to believe it—but each loss was faster and more humiliating.
Eventually, Barristan himself admitted:
"Your talent with the sword…
is beyond anything I have witnessed in my lifetime."
Even when compared to Arthur Dayne, Barristan had always believed he could fight the Sword of the Morning to exhaustion.
But Lance?
Lance was beyond that.
In barely a month, he'd grown from being manhandled by Selmy in training to utterly eclipsing every knight on the continent.
Barristan privately confessed:
"Even if Maegor the Cruel rose from his grave,
he would not defeat that boy."
And Lance knew it too.
The template, the passives, the holy sword on his back—
he had every right to feel invincible.
---
Back inside the Sept.
Sunlight poured through the stained glass, falling upon the white cloak behind him. Dawn shimmered with a radiance so bright Bonifer had to squint.
"Good," Lance murmured. "My fusion level needs a bit more."
He raised the giant pale blade.
A sudden pressure burst from him—so fierce, so overwhelming that for a moment, every zealot in the room felt as though Lance was the one trapping them.
He smiled.
"Bonifer Hasty…"
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with murderous delight.
"Tell me—
have you ever been cut by Dawn?"
---
Meanwhile, outside the Great Sept of Baelor—
Over a hundred Goldcloaks had silently surrounded the structure.
Ser Barristan stood at their head, sword in hand, sunlight glinting off his white armor. His calm blue eyes stared at the Sept entrance, as though he could see everything happening inside.
"How long must we wait, Ser Barristan?"
Commander Janos Slynt asked nervously.
"Ser Lance Lot has been inside for some time. I'm afraid that—"
"Patience, Goldcloak."
Barristan spared him a glance and looked forward again.
A breeze swept across the square, lifting the hem of his white cloak.
He thought back to the many times inside the Red Keep when Lance had defeated him with impossible ease.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Give him a little more time."
"That boy…"
His eyes warmed with rare amusement.
"is probably enjoying himself right now."