Chapter 147 — Unbuckle the Belt: The Humiliation of the Sword of the Morning
"Ser Lance's bearing truly deserves to be called unmatched in all the Seven Kingdoms."
On the stands, the Master of Coin wrapped himself tighter in his thick purple velvet cloak and let out a heartfelt sigh.
"To return Dawn to a traitor—what breadth of mind, what confidence! With Ser Lance at His Grace's side, the Stark traitors will most certainly receive the punishment they deserve—"
"Enough."
At his side, the Hand of the King raised a finger—only slightly.
Tywin did not take his eyes off the arena. His voice was low and even, yet carried an unmistakable authority.
"The trial is about to begin, Lord Qarlton. Do not disturb His Grace's viewing."
The words were like a bucket of ice water.
Qarlton's enthusiasm froze instantly. The muscles in his face twitched; the smile he had been wearing stiffened into something awkward and hollow.
Before Tywin Lannister, however exalted his title, the Master of Coin dared not argue. He merely shrank back, lips moving silently.
Though no sound emerged, the amount of unspoken profanity was considerable.
It couldn't be helped.
Since that damned Symond had vanished, no one on the Small Council could truly counterbalance Tywin anymore—especially now that Tywin had summoned his younger brother from the Westerlands to temporarily assume the post of Master of Laws.
There were only so many seats on the council.
The Grand Maester was imprisoned.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was rarely in King's Landing.
And with only Qarlton and that Velaryon fool of a Master of Ships remaining—
Frankly speaking, Tywin could deal with all of them with one hand.
Curse you, Symond.
Qarlton cursed the missing Master of Laws for the ten-thousandth time in his heart.
Tywin noticed every petty movement—but remained unmoved, sitting like an immovable mountain. He merely glanced at Qarlton and dismissed the fool from his thoughts entirely.
Master of Coin?
If tradition did not demand the position's existence, Tywin would gladly recommend abolishing it altogether.
After all, the kingdom's treasury was already being propped up—largely—by gold from the Westerlands.
As for Rhaegar Targaryen…
Tywin shook his head faintly.
A complete and utter failure. A wall of mud that could never be reinforced.
In Tywin's original design, Rhaegar would have married his daughter, ascended the throne, and become a perfect—manageable—king.
Not another Aerys, constantly locking horns with him at every turn.
But alas.
That carefully laid road had been destroyed—casually, effortlessly—by Rhaegar himself.
From the moment Rhaegar and his companions were captured, Tywin had not spoken a single word in their defense.
After all—
A Lannister only ever stood on the side of the victor.
And victory belonged to only one man now.
Lance Lot.
Returning Dawn to the Sword of the Morning—
was that confidence… or a foolish display?
Tywin did not know.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: this Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was nothing like the idiots who used to clutter the Small Council.
Though the full details of Rhaegar's rebellion remained unclear, Tywin could guess enough.
He might become a truly dangerous opponent.
The storm was gathering.
House Lannister had to stand with the final victor—or become the storm itself.
---
"In the name of Aerys Targaryen the Second, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
A young herald in a brand-new gold cloak—Janos Slynt—climbed onto the platform, drew a deep breath, and shouted with all his strength:
"On this sacred ground, a Trial by Combat is hereby convened!"
"By sword and blood, judgment shall be passed upon the traitor Arthur Dayne!"
"By sword and blood, judgment shall be passed upon the traitor Lyanna Stark!"
"The accused combatant—former Kingsguard knight, oathbreaker, and traitor—Arthur Dayne!"
As he spoke the name, Janos's voice turned openly contemptuous.
At once, the crowd's gaze shifted to the figure in the filthy white cloak.
Curses erupted.
"Traitor!"
"Disgrace of House Dayne!"
"Filth who sullied the white cloak!"
"Hang him! Hang the wolf girl!"
The response pleased Janos greatly. Raising his voice another octave, he continued:
"And standing in judgment—Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! His Grace's sword and shield! The terror of the Kingswood Brotherhood! The faithful guardian of House Targaryen—Ser Lance Lot!"
The arena exploded.
Cheers, whistles, screams, and fanatic cries surged like a tidal wave.
Nobles clapped politely, faces marked by awe or reverence. Commoners went mad—waving hats, fists, anything they could lift—howling themselves hoarse.
"Ser Lance Lot!"
"Kill the traitor!"
"Take his head!"
The contrast was brutal.
Moments ago, Arthur Dayne had been revered. Now, the crowd crushed the last remnants of his dignity beneath its feet.
And yet—
Amid the thunderous roar, Lance stood quietly, holding the black greatsword Dragontooth, his face utterly expressionless.
The noise did not touch him.
His eyes were fixed on only one person—the man who had abandoned his vows and now stood utterly alone.
Before the eyes of all, the fallen Kingsguard knight finally reached out with a trembling hand and grasped the familiar hilt—the symbol of ten thousand years of House Dayne's honor.
The chill of the steel steadied Arthur's heart.
"Heh…"
He clenched Dawn with both hands and let out a quiet laugh.
His defeat in the Red Keep, he had long blamed on one thing alone—
that Lance had wielded his ancestral blade.
Now that the sword had returned to its rightful master, Arthur was certain.
He would show them all who the true Sword of the Morning was.
His breathing steadied. His muscles aligned perfectly.
With eyes closed, House Dayne's sword forms flowed through his mind—every opening, every transition, precise to the smallest measure, carved into his blood.
From the dunes of Dorne to the shadowed paths of the Kingsguard, Arthur Dayne had never known true defeat.
He could not lose.
"Come!"
"Lance Lot!"
Under countless gazes, Dawn flashed—its broad blade gleaming softly as Arthur roared and struck, a perfect opening cut arcing forward in a pale-white afterimage.
Lance's hands rested on the pommel of Dragontooth. His casual gaze sharpened in an instant.
Instead of dodging—
He met the blow head-on.
The black blade moved after—yet arrived first.
Its trajectory mirrored Dawn exactly.
Black and white collided.
BOOM—!
A deafening crash echoed as sparks burst like fireworks.
Arthur felt an overwhelming force surge through the blade. His blood roiled, boots grinding backward half a step before he could stop himself.
Shock filled his violet eyes.
His full-powered strike—halted. Matched. Neutralized.
With the same technique.
Impossible.
But Arthur was a veteran knight. He crushed the shock, withdrew his blade, poured strength into his arms, and attacked again.
Dawn became a flowing curtain of white light—swift, precise, elegant, relentless.
Yet Lance smiled faintly.
Dragontooth came alive in his hands.
Each counter landed exactly at the transition points of Arthur's techniques—mirroring them perfectly, returning every strike in kind.
The massive swords moved like feathers in their hands.
In mere seconds, the blades clashed dozens of times.
The stands fell silent in disbelief.
This wasn't combat—it was a dance.
But while the crowd marveled, Arthur grew uneasy.
Because Lance was not merely matching him—
He was perfectly replicating House Dayne's sword art.
Move for move. Form for form.
And worse—
Lance's strikes were heavier. Faster. More oppressive.
Cold sweat formed on Arthur's brow.
No matter how flawless his attacks, Lance was always half a step ahead—deflecting with minimal effort, countering with superior force, driving him back again and again.
At last—
Panic crept in.
After another clash, Arthur retreated several steps, gasping for space.
His stamina remained—but his breathing had grown sharp.
Lance, meanwhile, stood perfectly calm.
Not even his chest rose.
As though the fight had been nothing more than a warm-up.
What kind of monster is this…
A bead of sweat slid down Arthur's face.
He finally understood.
Lance's swordsmanship was not merely equal.
It was superior.
And yet—
Just as Arthur braced himself—
Lance suddenly made a decision.
Before everyone's eyes, he plunged Dragontooth straight into the ground.
Then—
He calmly unfastened his belt.
A warm stream arced through the sunlight, steaming as it splashed onto the arena's dirt—so close it nearly reached Arthur.
The smell.
The insult.
The utter humiliation.
On the field of a sacred trial, the title of Sword of the Morning was washed into the mud—
trampled underfoot.