Chapter 201 — I Am… Lance Lot! (Double Chapter)
Night.
Pitch black.
At the top of the Sea-Tide Tower in Storm's End, inside the bedchamber—
Ashara Dayne lay quietly beside the broad chest of the man next to her.
Her violet eyes shimmered faintly in the darkness.
She gazed at the sleeping figure beside her—
The man who, only hours earlier, had reshaped the order of the Stormlands with thunderous force.
He was her knight.
Her salvation.
Her fingertips traced the outline of his shoulder through the smooth silk blanket.
An almost dreamlike sense of unreality filled her heart.
Happiness had come too suddenly.
Even while basking in it, a tiny tremor lingered deep within her chest—as though she feared it might vanish like a fleeting dream.
Suddenly—
The man's eyes snapped open.
Blue pupils shone sharply in the darkness as he stared directly at her.
Ashara jumped slightly, her fingers trembling.
"Did I wake you?"
"It's nothing."
Lance smiled softly, warm breath brushing the loose strands of hair on her forehead.
He leaned closer.
Ashara instinctively closed her eyes, thinking he meant to kiss her.
Instead, he lifted a strong hand and gently brushed her hair aside.
"Listen."
"There's someone… crying outside."
"Crying?"
Ashara frowned in confusion and listened carefully.
Gradually, a faint, intermittent sobbing slipped through the cracks of the stone walls.
In the stillness of the night, it sounded painfully sorrowful.
And terribly unpleasant.
"I'll go see what's going on."
Lance threw off the silk blanket and rose smoothly.
His tall figure stood firm in the darkness, radiating quiet reassurance.
He bent down and kissed her forehead gently, comforting the worried violet eyes that still watched him in the dim light.
"Sleep. I'll be back soon."
The warmth left the bed with him.
Ashara pulled the blanket tighter around herself and watched him put on his heavy coat and push open the thick wooden door.
Cold wind from the dark corridor rushed in instantly, stirring her hair.
Lance stepped out.
The hallway was empty.
Ser Brynden Tully, of the Kingsguard, had intended to stand guard outside—but Lance had sent him away to rest.
After all—
In this world, the person least in need of protection was probably Lance himself.
The stone staircase spiraled down the tower.
Wind battered the walls, howling loudly.
Yet beneath it, the sobbing grew clearer.
Following the sound, Lance descended into the lower parts of the castle, crossed the silent courtyard, and finally reached the edge of a sparse grove of dead trees.
Under the pale moonlight—
A figure crouched beside a few barren trunks.
The person clutched something tightly in their arms, their head buried against it.
Their body shook violently with suppressed grief.
Lance stopped several steps away.
His cold gaze pierced the darkness.
A faint trace of irritation crept onto his brow.
"Lord Symond?"
"Why are you crying here?"
The figure jolted and slowly raised his head.
In the moonlight, a tear-streaked face appeared pale and miserable.
Clutched in his arms—
Was a broken stag-antler helmet.
Honestly, the man's life had been rather miserable.
Forgotten among the Kingsguard in the Red Keep.
Barely managed to walk back to King's Landing—only to be beaten senseless by Brandon Stark.
Then dragged along by the mad pair Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark.
Just when rescue seemed within reach—
Robert kidnapped him again and hauled him all the way to Storm's End.
Symond wiped his tears and sobbed.
"Your Majesty… though Robert forced me to come here, he treated me very well."
"He gave me good food and drink. Ate with me at every meal. Even kept sending women to my chambers."
"Whenever he got drunk, he'd put his arm around me and sing The Bear and the Maiden Fair."
"Seven Gods… his singing was truly terrible…"
"I told him many times that I just wanted to go back to King's Landing, serve as Master of Laws, study legal codes, enforce proper procedure… but he never listened."
"He really treated me well!"
The more he spoke, the louder his crying became—almost childish.
"Please forgive me, Your Majesty."
"Robert betrayed the Iron Throne, yes… but he also paid for it with his life."
"Those cowardly Stormlands nobles are all busy flattering you."
"Someone should at least say prayers for him before the Seven Gods."
His sobs echoed through the cold grove as wind rattled the dead branches.
Symond Staunton—a mediocre, timid man who had risen through flattery and sycophancy.
Yet now, amid the ruins of a collapsing regime, he prayed sincerely for the Lord who had once shown him kindness.
Like a stubborn child.
Lance raised an eyebrow.
"Go to bed early. We leave for King's Landing tomorrow morning."
He didn't bother criticizing him.
After all, Lance wasn't the petty type.
If someone wanted to cry for a failed traitor, let him.
It wasn't as if tears could bring Robert back to life.
But as Lance turned to leave—
He suddenly frowned.
"Lord Symond."
He glanced back.
His blue eyes locked onto the man murmuring prayers over the helmet.
His tone turned probing.
"Those words you're reciting…"
"They're wrong."
"That isn't a prayer to the Seven."
Silence settled between them.
Symond slowly lifted his bloodshot eyes and stared at Lance.
A sinister smile slowly spread across his lips.
"You believe in the Seven as well?"
"I don't," Lance replied flatly. "But I recognize their prayers."
He rolled his eyes.
You hear people say 'Seven save us' a thousand times a day—you eventually learn the sound.
But Symond's chant was strange.
Mysterious.
Nothing like the prayers spoken by any follower of the Seven in Westeros.
"In that case…"
Symond's voice changed subtly.
"What do you believe in, Your Majesty… Lance Lot?"
Lance's blue eyes narrowed.
His answer came proudly.
"I believe in the sword in my hand."
At that moment—
The tears and grief vanished from Symond's eyes.
Instead, two blazing flames erupted within them—burning with eerie, seductive malice.
Even his voice changed.
No longer hoarse or sorrowful.
Now it carried a deep resonance, as if countless voices overlapped into one whisper.
Each syllable tugged at the listener's mind like invisible fingers.
"Unfortunately…"
"You currently… don't have your sword with you."
Before the final syllable faded—
A colossal mental force slammed violently into Lance's mind.
The pale moonlight.
The twisted trees.
The kneeling Symond.
All shattered instantly.
Lance's pupils dilated.
The next moment—
They lost focus entirely.
His body froze in place.
Like a man whose soul had been ripped away.
Silence returned.
Even deeper than before.
Only when Lance's consciousness was fully dragged into the abyss did the sorrowful expression on "Symond's" face fade away.
Sadness.
Fear.
Anger.
All human emotions vanished.
In their place appeared a distant, almost divine serenity.
Then his body began to melt like wax.
The silhouette reshaped itself.
Flame-red hair burst from the scalp, growing rapidly down to the waist.
A slender, graceful feminine body emerged in the cold night air.
Bare feet stepped lightly over dead leaves as she approached Lance and tilted her head upward.
A pale hand slipped beneath his coat.
Her palm pressed directly against his bare chest.
Under her hand—
His young heart beat powerfully.
Her crimson lips parted.
Like a hymn softly sung.
"Lance Lot…"
"Let me see…"
"What your true faith really is."
---
Darkness.
Endless darkness.
Time and space seemed meaningless.
Then—
Light tore the darkness apart.
Lance's consciousness slowly gathered.
It felt as though he had floated at the bottom of the ocean for a thousand years—
Until a great force suddenly lifted him to the surface.
His eyes snapped open.
Before him stood the Great Hall of the Red Keep.
But unlike its usual gloomy atmosphere—
Tonight it blazed with golden light.
Torches and candles illuminated everything.
Under the vast vaulted ceiling—
Voices thundered like a storm.
The sound alone seemed powerful enough to shake the roof itself.
Everywhere he looked—
The most powerful lords of the Seven Kingdoms had gathered.
Their banners and sigils filled the hall.
Symbols of the continent's greatest power.
Every face was filled with awe.
Reverence.
Submission.
And all their gazes focused on a single point.
Upon the Iron Throne, forged from a thousand swords—
Sat a towering knight in white armor.
Lance himself.
Before him stood the Warden of the West,
Lord of Casterly Rock—
Tywin Lannister.
The great lion of the West, master of gold and cunning.
Yet now even his face showed a rare trace of humility.
His sharp green eyes lowered respectfully.
In both hands he held a massive golden crown.
Radiant with the authority of worldly power.
Beside him—
Prince Doran Martell of Dorne knelt reluctantly.
Holding a scroll sealed in dark leather.
A formal document of surrender.
And on the distant wall—
A severed head hung impaled on a spear.
Rickard Stark.
"Long live the King!"
"Long live the Targaryens!"
"The Seven Kingdoms united!"
The deafening chants battered Lance's ears.
The entire continent seemed to kneel before him.
Then—
A voice whispered beside his ear.
A voice long dead.
Familiar.
"Put it on… Rhaeseryon."
The whisper curled like a ghost.
Full of temptation.
"Put it on."
"Have you forgotten what I once told you?"
"The same fire flows in your veins…"
"I am the true dragon."
"And so are you."
"The crown was always yours."
"The time has come."
"Take it."
"What are you hesitating for?"
---
The moment that voice sounded, a fleeting emotion—something like nostalgia—flashed briefly in the depths of Lance's blue eyes.
Around him, the roaring cheers reached their peak.
Power.
Status.
Every ultimate temptation that mortal kings could ever desire—
All of it lay naked before him.
All he needed to do was reach out, take the golden crown Tywin held aloft, and place it upon his head.
And the entirety of Westeros would be his.
Yet—
"Ah…"
A soft sigh escaped Lance's throat.
Looking at the brilliant golden crown glittering before him, he murmured quietly:
"Old man…"
He chuckled and shook his head.
Then his gaze changed.
A fierce disgust and rejection flashed across his face.
"Kingship?"
"It's nothing more than a rotting coffin for a useless body."
With a sudden shout, Lance grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled.
But what emerged was not a physical blade.
Instead—
A pure white-gold sword aura, condensed from nothing but violent battle intent, visible to the naked eye.
The enormous blade of energy carried a tyrannical will that sought to burn away all falsehood.
Like divine judgment, it fell without mercy—
Straight toward the golden crown Tywin Lannister held high.
Crack—
With a sharp shattering sound, the magnificent crown fractured like fragile glass.
The sword aura smashed it apart instantly.
Fragments of gold exploded outward like scattered stars.
The cheers.
The roaring crowd.
The thunderous cries of devotion—
All stopped in an instant.
Tywin.
Doran.
Rickard's severed head—
Every illusion dissolved silently.
Before the fading golden fragments could dim completely—
The scene changed.
The air became heavy and sweet with warmth.
The thunderous cheers were gone.
Velvet curtains draped around him like a luxurious prison.
And the first sensation was not sight—
But touch.
A warm body pressed against him.
Ashara Dayne.
She lay beside him.
The pale violet dress that symbolized her purity now slipped slowly down her body—
Like a serpent shedding its skin.
But that was only the beginning.
From the shadows stepped a girl with golden hair and green eyes, radiating the pride and authority of a lion.
Her flowing golden hair shimmered like molten gold.
It spread through the air and slowly formed the map of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Riverlands wrapped around her wrist.
Dorne rested along her waist.
The Stormlands leaned against her thigh.
And the Westerlands became a crystal crown upon her brow.
She approached Lance and leaned close.
Desire burned openly in her emerald eyes.
"Sit," she whispered.
"Become one with me."
Then a warm desert wind swept in.
Elia Martell appeared.
Her fragile figure was perfect in its vulnerability.
Her dark eyes gazed at Lance with compassion, courage, and maternal warmth.
Those eyes were like a harbor of peace—
As if anyone who sank into them would find eternal rest.
And finally—
A chilling undercurrent emerged.
From behind the curtain came a silver figure.
Queen Rhaella Targaryen.
She did not approach.
She merely watched from a distance.
Her silver hair cascaded like moonlight.
"You belong to me. And I belong to you."
Her voice slipped directly into Lance's mind.
"A union of Targaryen and Targaryen."
"Together we will give birth to the Prince That Was Promised."
"He will awaken from our blood."
"You will be his father… and I—"
The whisper brushed his ears like silk.
Inheritance.
Creation.
Immortality.
Four pairs of arms wrapped around him.
Lance felt himself trapped within a web woven from perfect bodies, ruthless ambition, and ancient prophecy.
A vortex of temptation.
Ashara's violet affection.
The green-eyed lioness offering a kingdom.
Elia's comforting warmth.
Rhaella's promise of destiny.
Each touch.
Each whisper.
A perfect poison designed for a different part of his soul.
Desire.
Conquest.
Comfort.
Belonging.
Immortality.
Lance narrowed his eyes.
His body grew warmer.
His muscles wanted to relax.
His mind began to sink into the feast of sensation.
But just as he was about to drown—
His eyes snapped open.
Cold light flashed within them.
"What do you think I am, hiding in the shadows?"
"You think this can test me?"
"Me—Lance Lot?"
With a disdainful snort, Lance grasped the air again.
The white-gold blade of light reappeared in his hand.
Facing the four arms wrapped around him—
He showed no hesitation.
No attachment.
Not even a trace of regret for the beauty before him.
His arm swung like lightning.
"Don't you know?"
"Azor Ahai forged Lightbringer by plunging it through his wife's heart!"
"Fool!"
"Ah—!"
The beautiful faces froze as the blade fell.
The sweet fragrance.
The whispers.
The warmth.
All shattered instantly.
Like illusions consumed by a scorching storm.
Lance did not even look back.
To him, they were nothing but dust.
He stepped forward firmly.
"I want to see just how powerful you really are."
---
Outside in the real world—
Snow had begun to fall again.
The red-robed witch stood naked in the cold, her face flushed with heat.
As the second illusion shattered, she groaned softly.
Her body burned even hotter than before.
Opening her crimson eyes, she stared at the knight before her in disbelief.
She had never seen anyone resist power and desire with such clarity.
"What do you believe in, Lance Lot?"
"Or… what do you truly desire?"
---
Lance opened the next door.
But beyond it was not a corridor.
Beneath his feet stretched an ocean of molten lava.
Above him spun a vortex of countless sparks.
A burning world.
Flames licked his skin as if purifying his soul.
Yet Lance stood calmly within the sea of fire.
His body was unharmed.
The Unburnt body allowed him to dance with flames.
Even diving into lava would hardly bother him.
"So this is the final test?"
The lava surged.
A whirlpool formed before him.
At its center—
Two immense eyes slowly opened.
They were not ordinary eyes.
They were vast burning slits like collapsing stars.
No pupils.
Only pure fire.
The mere glance of those eyes sent instinctive terror through Lance's soul.
It felt as though he was facing the laws of existence itself.
"Mortal."
The voice exploded within his mind like the birth of the universe.
"You are favored by flame."
"You have touched the peak of mortal power."
"But mortal flesh will decay."
"Mortal life will end."
The pressure intensified.
It felt as though the entire universe collapsed upon his shoulders.
"Submit to me."
"Worship the one true god."
"Offer your loyalty… and your will."
"I am the source of light and heat."
"The master of purification and rebirth."
"Serve me… and I shall grant you the power to cleanse all evil."
"Burn the rotten world."
"Recreate it anew."
"Become… immortal."
The blazing eyes examined him.
This temptation surpassed power and beauty.
It offered ultimate divine authority.
Lance saw himself crowned in a temple of fire.
With a gesture—
All injustice vanished.
With another—
The old man returned to life.
The pressure pushed his knees downward.
All he had to do—
Was kneel.
Yet just as his knees bent—
A laugh escaped him.
"Heh…"
"What a shame."
His voice rose into a proud roar.
"I might kneel to many things."
"But I will never kneel to a god."
A dragon-like roar erupted from his soul.
Become someone's tool?
Someone's servant?
Power?
He would take it himself.
In his own way.
Purification?
"My sword is enough."
"How dare you define my existence?"
"You're just a god."
"But I…"
"I am Lance Lot."
A thunderous explosion echoed within his soul.
Flames erupted from his body—
White-gold and molten red.
Not merely the inherited power of Azor Ahai.
But something new.
A fire born from Lance's own indomitable will.
The flames surged outward violently.
Shattering the divine pressure that sought to make him kneel.
Under the gaze of those burning eyes—
Lance stood straighter than ever.
Like a blazing sword aimed at the heavens.
He looked up and challenged the divine being itself.
The colossal eyes watched him in silence.
Then—
The illusion shattered.
---
In the void beyond time and space—
Melisandre wandered.
Her power nearly exhausted.
Yet obsession drove her forward.
She needed to know.
What faith burned inside Lance Lot.
She had seen countless men.
Kings.
Heroes.
Sinners.
Every soul had weakness.
But Lance…
He was terrifyingly perfect.
Unaffected by power.
By beauty.
By divine authority.
That could not be possible.
Everyone had a faith.
She had to find his.
Just before her consciousness faded—
A voice spoke.
"Want to know?"
She looked up.
Lance stood before her.
White armor shining even in the void.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Come with me."
They walked together.
At last—
They reached a door.
"Ready?"
He did not wait for her answer.
The door opened.
Endless red flooded her vision.
Not the fire of the Lord of Light.
A different red.
A sea of burning hearts.
A tide of unyielding souls.
The will of countless people who refused to bow.
The belief that human will can overcome fate.
Not divine fire.
But the fire born from humanity itself.
Melisandre finally understood.
Her remaining consciousness grew calm.
She had lost.
Completely.
In power.
In faith.
In essence.
With her final strength, she whispered to the blazing red core before