Chapter 134 — I Am Waiting for Dawn. What Are You Waiting For?
"Put out the fire! Get water from the Water Gardens—move, now!"
Inside the Old Palace, Ellaria Sand shouted herself hoarse, pointing and barking orders as her people rushed to contain the spreading flames.
As a Dornishwoman, she understood better than most how terrifying fire was in this scorched land. Even though the Old Palace stood by the Summer Sea, the strong coastal winds were now accomplices to the blaze.
When the wind fed the fire, it was no metaphor—it was a death sentence.
"Damn it…"
Watching the palace descend into chaos, irritation flickered through Ellaria's eyes.
They had spent nearly the entire night searching, yet they hadn't even caught sight of that cursed Kingsguard knight.
A living, breathing man—vanished into thin air inside the Old Palace.
It made no sense.
Had he fled? Abandoned the Queen and the prince to save his own skin?
No… impossible.
Ellaria knew the sort of men who called themselves knights. They valued honor—illusory, ridiculous honor—above their own lives. A man like that would never commit an act that would disgrace him across all Seven Kingdoms.
To Ellaria, the only things that truly mattered were coin, desire, and pleasure of the flesh—but that didn't stop her from judging others accurately.
And besides…
This fire was wrong.
Five separate blazes burned simultaneously. Thick smoke already smothered the Old Palace.
This was no accident.
Someone had planned this.
"Areo!"
"Areo Hotah! You big idiot!"
Ellaria shouted, grabbing the attention of the towering captain of Sunspear's guards as he marched toward one of the fire sites.
"I must put out the fire, Sand," Areo said without even looking at her, continuing forward.
"Stubborn bastard…"
Ellaria cursed and grabbed his arm, yanking him back.
"Forget the damned fires! Gather men and come with me to the Water Mirror Courtyard—now!"
"The Water Mirror Courtyard?"
That name finally made Areo stop.
As Mellario's sworn guard—brought from Norvos—Areo had followed Doran Martell for years, but he never forgot where his true loyalty lay.
His massive hand clamped down on Ellaria's arm, eyes sharp as a charging bull's.
"Why the Water Mirror Courtyard?"
"Because the Queen is there, you idiot!"
Ellaria shouted, wrenching free before her arm snapped.
She jabbed a finger toward the distant inferno.
"This is a diversion. Whoever did this is targeting the Targaryen woman and her child!"
"That cursed Kingsguard must be there too. If he sets a fire in the courtyard—your Lady Mellario will be in danger!"
Areo's face tightened.
He immediately roared orders to recall his men.
But time had already been lost. Most of the guards were gone. No matter how loudly he shouted, only a dozen managed to regroup.
"It will suffice."
"Without my order—or Lady Mellario's—Frelna and the others will not abandon the courtyard."
Areo spoke with certainty as he strode forward.
"No matter how strong that man is, even the Sword of the Dawn could not break the bearded priests' line!"
---
Slash!
The greatsword flashed like lightning.
The white blade sheared clean through an axe haft—wood and iron splitting alike—its momentum unbroken as it cut down a second bearded priest.
The black sword followed, spinning back to intercept incoming blows, deflecting seven or eight axes in a single breath before the white-armored knight withdrew unscathed.
Behind him, the knights of Yronwood stared in disbelief.
Too strong.
They had heard the legends of Lance Lot's swordsmanship—but until one saw it with their own eyes, belief was impossible.
This was not a duel.
This was slaughter.
The Lord Commander stood at the center of the battlefield, twin blades lowered, blood dripping steadily from their edges.
His blue eyes were calm.
As if what he had just done was nothing more than a tedious chore.
"Shields up. Don't loosen your grip."
Lance glanced back, seeing that all six knights were wounded.
Yet in his heart, he rated every one of them perfectly.
The finest Yronwood had to offer.
Facing the bearded priests' massive axes, they had held the line through sheer strength and discipline. Without their shields, no amount of sword skill would have allowed Lance to advance so effortlessly against such numbers.
"Yes, Commander!"
Ser Hod George shouted.
He understood—this wasn't a rebuke, but guidance.
Since Mellario's arrival in Dorne, the Norvosi bearded priests had demonstrated terrifying individual strength time and again.
Few in number—but each a monster.
They fought in wool and rawhide, yet struck with the force of fully armored knights. Their axes were so heavy that most men could barely lift them. To take a blow without proper shielding meant losing more than flesh.
Areo Hotah himself had once split a man in two with a single swing.
And yet—
Lance Lot parried those axes with swords.
Not only parried—but shattered them.
Step by step, over a dozen corpses beneath their boots, the formation advanced into the courtyard.
The only concern: the knights' iron shields were splintered and cracked. They wouldn't last much longer.
Against an ordinary army, such a display would have shattered morale instantly.
Men would have fled screaming.
But these were no ordinary warriors.
They were, after all, bearded priests trained in Norvos.
From childhood, they had been cast into temples and forged through brutal discipline. Their education was not meant to create soldiers, but vessels—lives wholly devoted to faith.
In a sense, they were not a true army at all.
They were fanatics.
Lance saw the fear flicker in their eyes—unavoidable, human—but not a single one stepped back.
Not one.
His grip tightened on both swords.
If you will not retreat…
Then I will kill every last one of you.
"Shields up!"
With a thunderous shout, the two "tortoise formations" split apart, becoming two independent defensive units.
At the same time, the black and white blades swept out in crossing arcs.
In his left hand, Dawn held a constant forty-five-degree angle.
In his right, Dragontooth was reversed, the spine pressed along his forearm.
In a single breath, two more enemies fell.
But it was not over.
As several bronze axes came crashing down, Lance suddenly drove the Valyrian steel sword straight into the ground.
Then—before anyone could comprehend what they were seeing—the white-armored knight vaulted upward using the embedded blade as a pivot, planting his right foot on Ser Hod's shoulder and launching himself skyward.
The great white sword spun.
From above, with terrifying force, its edge traced a perfect circle across the battlefield.
Necks opened.
Blood sprayed.
Four… five bearded priests collapsed in an instant.
At last, even these zealots faltered.
They stared at the towering knight before them—like a god of war made flesh.
Blood drenched his armor. The white plate had nearly lost its original color, only faint streaks of silver visible beneath layers of dark crimson.
The bearded priests… began to retreat.
"Support them!"
Shock flashed through Mellario's eyes.
As a woman of the Free Cities, she believed she had seen the strongest warriors alive—the Dothraki. Riders like the wind, each man a match for these priests, with the greatest among them commanding tens of thousands.
Yet even the Dothraki could not do this.
Not against so many heavy axes at once.
This was… unfair.
Still, Mellario remained composed.
"Go!" she shouted at Frelna, ignoring his hesitation.
"That man's swordsmanship is monstrous. They're losing their nerve!"
"That woman is tied up—she's no threat to me!"
"With Areo gone, you must hold the line. If they break, my safety is lost. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lady!"
Frelna did not hesitate again. Gripping his massive axe, he strode forward.
"Move aside!"
At his roar, the retreating priests froze, then parted into two ranks.
Frelna advanced, one hand resting on the axe haft as he bellowed,
"Form the Ironbeard Bulwark, you fools!"
Then he swung.
The axe fell like a falling star.
Its weight and momentum were nothing like the previous blows—it was an entirely different tier of force.
Lance raised his blade, intending to repeat his earlier tactic—
—but two priests burst in from the flanks, axes sweeping horizontally.
A triangular assault.
Forced to react, Lance lifted Dawn to block the descending blow, then flipped Dragontooth into a forward grip and stabbed downward, the tip wedging perfectly into the gap of the side-swinging axe.
Yet the third axe—aimed at his waist—came too fast.
Too close.
But at the moment of triumph in the attacker's eyes—
Lance kicked off the ground, using the black sword as support once more, spinning his body horizontally in midair, completing a full rotation.
Both swords whirled.
All three axes were flung aside.
He landed heavily.
"Haah…"
Even for him, that exchange had been perilous.
Frelna stood before him, driven back but burning with renewed resolve.
Lance knew it at once.
The pressure he had built—the fear—had broken.
For the first time since the battle began, his strike had not claimed a life.
And that was enough.
This was their ground.
If they could hold him here—just long enough—they would win.
Boom!
Frelna slammed his axe haft into the stone, standing alone between the courtyard and the seven knights behind Lance.
"This path ends here, Kingsguard."
His voice was steady, absolute.
"We can hold you all day. But your time… is precious."
"Leave now—before reinforcements arrive."
It was simple.
And devastatingly accurate.
Lance laughed softly.
He turned his gaze eastward.
While steel had clashed, the sun had risen.
A crimson disc emerged from the sea, shattering the night. Golden light spilled across the waves, turning black water into rippling blue fire.
Dawn's first light bathed the Kingsguard Commander.
Blood glimmered darkly against silver plate.
The white blade stood upright, blazing with blinding brilliance, while the reversed black sword drank the light beside it.
Faced with the rising sun, even Frelna and the Norvosi priests instinctively squinted, unable to meet his radiance.
Lance's chest rose.
Then fell.
"Haaa…"
Power surged through him.
He smiled.
Pointing Dawn forward, his voice cut through the air, cold and clear:
"I am waiting for dawn."
"What are you waiting for?"
He charged.
Armor thundered against stone.
Black and white blades carved perfect arcs through the air.
"Hmph."
Frelna narrowed his eyes.
The man was strong—exceptionally so—but still within comprehension. Like the water dancers of Braavos: fast, precise, lethal.
The difference was strength.
Overwhelming strength.
Still—together—they could stall him.
That was enough.
Frelna advanced to meet him, lifting the axe overhead and striking once more.
Four priests followed, sweeping at Lance's waist.
But this time—
They were wrong.
The white blade became a streak of light.
With unimaginable force, it slammed into Frelna's axe.
The weapon shattered like glass.
The greatsword did not slow.
It sheared clean through Frelna's right shoulder.
At the same instant, the black blade struck the ground.
Lance vaulted again.
Spinning.
Both swords traced a flawless circle.
Blood bloomed in the dawn.
Four priests fell simultaneously, their throats opened by impossibly clean cuts.
"This… isn't possible…"
Frelna collapsed to his knees, staring up in despair.
In an instant—speed, strength, technique—everything had leapt beyond reason.
Had he been holding back all along?
Who could restrain themselves in such a moment?
Frelna would never understand.
He did not know of systems.
Or blessings.
And Lance had no intention of explaining.
Dawn had come.
Lingering any longer meant facing armies.
He inhaled deeply.
Then vanished.
His form blurred—ghostlike.
With each step, with each increase in synchronization, his understanding of the ancestral sword arts deepened, melding seamlessly with his own style.
Each strike took a life.
Like a reaper among wheat.
Blood sprayed into the morning light as twenty elite priests fell—clumsy now, slow as children swinging sticks.
When the last enemy dropped, Lance crossed his blades into a figure-eight.
Blood flung free, forming a faint red halo around him in the sunrise.
Gulp.
Ser Hod swallowed hard.
From the moment Lance surged forward at dawn, they had been unable to follow—only watch.
They had expected a desperate battle.
Instead—
A massacre.
Too strong.
How could such a knight exist?
Even the Sword of the Morning himself…
Hod had seen him fight.
Yet no one—no one—had ever carved such awe into his soul.
"Compared to Arthur Dayne…"
"Perhaps he is more worthy of the name Sword of the Morning."
The words escaped Hod before he could stop them.
No one disagreed.
Lance opened his eyes.
Stepping forward, twin blades in hand, he stood before the kneeling priest.
Frelna stared upward.
The sun loomed behind the white-armored knight.
In Norvos, he had been taught all his life to serve the gods.
He had never seen one.
But today—
If gods existed—
He had seen one.
Standing before him.