Chapter 94: Become the New King
"His Grace, Rhaeseryon Targaryen!"
As soon as that calm voice echoed through the Sept, it scraped across Lance Lot's ears like a cold iron nail.
He turned—and there, wrapped in his priestly robes, stood Bonifer Hasty.
Lance snorted.
He had never bothered with septons, monks, priests, or any other god-sworn parasites since arriving in King's Landing.
The only exception was this man—this scheming, soft-spoken serpent.
And if anyone in King's Landing was shameless enough to summon him to the Great Sept—while hiding behind back passages and cryptic messages—it could only be this one.
"Truly perceptive, Your Highness Rhaeseryon," Bonifer said, eyes glimmering.
"Cut the flattery. Why did you drag me here?"
Lance didn't even wait for an answer.
He strode up the steps to the Seven's statues, dropped heavily onto the platform, elbow on knee, one hand resting lazily on Dawn's hilt.
Those blue eyes—cold as glacier ice—radiated nothing but impatience.
"If you're wasting my time, I swear I'll burn this entire gods-rotted place to the ground."
He jabbed a finger toward Bonifer.
"And stop calling me that ridiculous name.
My name is Lance Lot."
Bonifer blinked, momentarily thrown off by the knight's sheer hostility—then smoothed his expression back into beatific serenity.
At his signal, the Red Priest quietly slipped out through a side door.
Soon, the vast Sept was empty save for the two of them.
"Peace, Ser Lance," Bonifer said gently, stepping forward—but stopping a good ten paces short, as if wary of Lance's reach and reputation.
"Since our last meeting, more than a month has passed.
Last night, I received the Seven's guidance.
Guess what They revealed?"
"Let me guess," Lance drawled. "That you haven't bathed in a week and your holy stench is blaspheming up Their nostrils?"
He lifted Dawn one-handed and leveled the pale blade at Bonifer.
"One more word of nonsense, and I'll split you from crown to collarbone.
Don't think distance will save you—I swear to that stone-faced bastard above—"
He jabbed toward the Father's statue towering overhead.
"—that you won't make it out of this building before your head and body file for separate addresses."
Respect for gods?
Please.
Lance knew gods existed in this world—but that didn't mean he bowed to anyone.
Fear them?
Yield to them?
Nonsense.
Bonifer felt a prickling sting at the center of his brow, as if the blade's edge had reached him already.
But instead of anger, he smiled—genuinely delighted.
"Truly," he said softly, "the blood of the Targaryens runs in you.
Raised by a blacksmith or not—you possess the bearing of a king."
"A king?" Lance scoffed.
"That what you're calling it?"
In his old world, people lived as their own masters.
Only fools and degenerates chose to be someone else's obedient dog.
Explaining that to this priest would be pointless.
Lance's eyes narrowed.
His voice dropped to a cold, flat whisper:
"Three."
Bonifer blinked. "I follow the will of the Seven, Ser Lance—"
"Two."
"Together, we will transform this corrupted age—"
"One."
Lance moved.
A blur.
Two strides—no more than two seconds—and he was suddenly there before Bonifer, Dawn raised high, descending toward his skull in a single murderous stroke—
"I will crown you as king!"
The words burst out of Bonifer in a desperate shout.
CRASH—
Dawn halted—stopped dead—thirty centimeters above his forehead.
The gust from the blade tore his hood back.
Bonifer stared up, trembling, breath caught in his throat.
Through the haze of terror, he met a pair of glacial blue eyes, half-obscured by the sword's gleaming edge—eyes that studied him with a strangely amused detachment.
Bonifer's gaze flicked to the blade hovering above his skull, and he silently cursed.
This man—this madman—actually swung for real just because he felt like it!
Utterly unreasonable.
Utterly without honor.
Years ago, Bonifer Hasty had been a celebrated tourney champion, a knight whose name once carried weight across Westeros. He had never stopped honing his swordsmanship even after donning the robes of the Faith.
Yet the speed and strength Lance had displayed just now—
He couldn't match it. Not even close.
As Lance finally withdrew Dawn and stepped back, Bonifer stared at the marble floor where the knight's armored boots had left cracks from a single burst of acceleration.
His hand was still shaking around the hilt of his own sword.
Seven save me… is he even human?
The armor he wore was heavy—ridiculously heavy.
But his movements were like a charging giant.
For the first time, Bonifer began to doubt whether all his careful scheming had been unnecessary.
Perhaps this man truly was of Targaryen blood.
"Continue," Lance said.
He did not retreat.
He kept the distance where a single lunge could separate Bonifer's head from his body.
Both hands rested on Dawn, eyes cold and unblinking.
"How exactly do you plan to 'make me king'?"
Gulp.
Bonifer swallowed hard.
For the first time, he questioned whether he had chosen correctly.
A man this powerful, this domineering—
Would he really be content to be guided?
Would he let himself be controlled?
But it was too late to back out now.
Tywin Lannister already knew what he had been planning.
If he didn't crown this man, the Lion of Casterly Rock would make sure his corpse fed the crows.
There was no turning back.
Either succeed—or die.
Bonifer steeled himself and forced a smile, instinctively sliding one foot backward.
"Now is the perfect opportunity, Your Grace—cough—Ser Lance."
"Rhaegar Targaryen's abduction is a blessing straight from the Seven!"
"With Rhaegar missing and His Grace having placed command of the entire City Watch in your hands, you can send nearly all the gold cloaks out of the city under the pretext of searching for the prince."
He spread his hands, voice rising, smooth and persuasive like a sermon.
"That will leave my Faith Militant as the strongest armed force within King's Landing!"
"Then, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, your men can escort you into the Red Keep. And there—quietly, without witnesses—you can remove King Aerys from the board."
He drew a breath, eyes brightening with fanatic fervor.
"I have already dispatched a small band to pursue Rhaegar, and at dawn tomorrow, we will spread word throughout the city—by the authority of the Seven—that the lost son of Prince Duncan the Small has returned!"
"Our followers are countless. Within three days, everyone in King's Landing will believe the rightful Targaryen heir has come home!"
"And once both Aerys and Rhaegar are dead, the Targaryen line will have no adult heirs."
"At that moment, you, as the uncle of young Viserys, will proclaim his ascension—and rule as Regent of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"And when the time is right, should the boy prove troublesome, an 'accident' can be arranged. One must not let sentiment cloud judgment."
Bonifer spread his arms wide, eyes burning with religious zeal.
"And then—the last true heir—the son of Prince Duncan—you—shall reclaim what is rightfully yours!"
"You will be crowned King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!"
"Protector of the Realm!"
"Your Grace—
Rhaeseryon Targaryen!"
His voice rose higher and higher, echoing through the empty Sept, cracking slightly with excitement.
A triumphant smile curled across his lips.
In this world, men, women, even eunuchs thirsted for power.
The Iron Throne was temptation incarnate.
Who could resist it?
Certainly not this man.
"Ah… so that's your plan," Lance murmured.
He chuckled—low, amused.
Bonifer's confidence surged.
Yes. This was it.
He had him.
Lance's expression softened.
He lifted Dawn onto his shoulder, posture relaxed, almost friendly.
"The Iron Throne, huh…"
He sighed wistfully.
"Never thought I, Lance Lot, would ever get a chance to sit on that chair."
His eyes flickered with what looked like desire.
"So tell me… you've already killed Rhaegar, haven't you?"
Bonifer beamed.
"Not yet, Your Grace—but soon! I have… very special informants."
"I've already sent two squads of the Faith Militant up the King's Road to eliminate Rhaegar and those two abductors."
Lance frowned with what seemed genuine concern.
"But… won't some people accuse me of ordering it? Spread rumors? Blame me for their deaths?"
Bonifer laughed loudly.
"No need to worry! My men will make it clean—very clean."
"Everyone will believe the prince died in a struggle with the kidnappers."
"And if anyone in the city dares spread slander, my hundred Faith Militant will be your sharpest blade. One word from you, and they will purge anyone who speaks ill of you, Your Grace!"
"I see," Lance nodded slowly.
Bonifer puffed out his chest, certain victory was already his.
Lance smiled.
"You should've said all this from the start. I wouldn't have worried."
Then, as if casually:
"Rhaegar and the kidnappers—they're on the King's Road, yes?"
"Exactly, Your Gr—"
A flash of pure white steel cut downward.
SLLIIIIIT—!!!
The blade fell faster than Bonifer could even gasp.