Chapter 223: Let Me Show You What a Real God Looks Like
The air was cold and damp, thick with the metallic scent of rust and blood.
As Lance's words faded, his tall figure seemed to swallow the light itself, standing there like a statue forged from black iron. Even his pure white cloak now appeared dimmed, stained by shadow.
He shifted slightly, revealing the young king behind him.
Dressed in an ornate velvet night robe, Viserys III Targaryen stood frozen.
The brutal scene before him struck like a hammer.
He bit down hard on his lower lip to suppress the nausea rising in his throat. His face had gone deathly pale under the flickering firelight, his small body trembling uncontrollably. He didn't dare look directly at the man nailed to the wooden cross.
"W-What… what do you mean, Uncle Lance?"
He swallowed, forcing out a stiff, unnatural smile. His voice was thin, laced with feigned confusion—and a hint of pleading.
He didn't understand.
Or rather… he didn't dare to understand.
That clumsy act fooled no one.
Least of all Lance.
Yet instead of exposing it, Lance smiled faintly—almost approvingly.
His broad hand came down gently on the boy's frail shoulder.
"It seems you know you were wrong."
"That's good, Your Grace."
"For a king, the ability to recognize one's mistakes is rare… and valuable."
His tone was calm. Patient.
He ignored the tangled emotions flickering across the boy's face and continued.
"You may deny your mistakes—for now. Out of fear, shame… or anything else."
"That's fine. Everyone has weaknesses."
He paused, slowing his words deliberately, making sure each one sank in.
"But you must understand where you went wrong."
"And next time…"
"…you correct it."
The warmth vanished from his eyes.
His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.
He gave the boy's shoulder a firm pat—not comforting, but grounding. He knew the fear and helplessness clawing at Viserys' heart.
And he showed no mercy.
This was something a king had to learn.
From the moment Viserys wore the crown, he had forfeited the right to grow up like an ordinary child.
Seeing the boy lower his head, Lance didn't spare him another glance.
He stepped forward.
Straight to the cross.
The dying septon seemed to sense movement. With immense effort, his head lifted slightly, revealing half a ghastly pale face beneath tangled hair. His clouded eyes struggled to focus, wandering blindly in the dim light.
Lance raised his right hand.
Reaching toward the iron spike driven through the man's wrist.
Then—
he twisted it.
"AAAHHH—!!!"
The sound was sickening.
Metal tearing flesh.
The septon's body convulsed violently, jerking upward as a raw, animal scream tore from his throat. The wooden cross creaked under the strain.
The scream didn't last.
His strength failed.
He sagged again, limp.
But the agony cleared his vision.
Bloodshot eyes snapped into focus—locking onto the white-armored figure before him.
His chest heaved violently.
Then—
his gaze shifted.
Past Lance.
To the small figure in the shadows behind him.
Something changed.
The hatred and pain vanished.
Replaced by… pity.
A warped, almost holy compassion.
As if he were the one passing judgment.
The septon's lips trembled.
He began to murmur, voice broken and faint—yet filled with eerie conviction.
"A tyrant's heart… coiled like a serpent… will drown the land in blood…"
"His crown… will be ground to dust… by the wrath of the Seven…"
"A storm of ruin… shall consume the throne of dragonbone…"
The words grew weaker.
But the curse within them deepened.
Like a dying prophecy.
Sacred.
Insidious.
Under the silent gaze of the Seven above, the words carried a strange, unsettling weight.
But unfortunately for him—
Lance had never read the Seven-Pointed Star.
He didn't care.
"Ha."
A short, sharp laugh.
Cold.
Mocking.
His blue eyes cut across the septon's twisted face like steel.
"You zealots really are something."
"Hanging here like dried meat, and your tongue's still this stubborn?"
There was a strange note of mocking "admiration" in Lance's voice as he slowly turned to look at the young king behind him.
"Your Grace."
"If I'm not mistaken… this is the one who persuaded you to lock Rhaego away, isn't he?"
As he spoke, Lance stepped slightly aside again, ensuring the blood-soaked figure on the cross was fully visible.
No embellishment.
No rhetoric.
Just the truth—laid bare.
The mastermind.
Yet as Viserys III Targaryen stared at the suffering man, a flicker of pity rose uncontrollably in his eyes.
Not long ago, this same man had stood beside him—soft-spoken, gentle—whispering about the "evil of dragons."
And now…
The contrast struck like a blade.
Guilt coiled around his heart like a venomous serpent, just like the verses the septon had once recited from the Seven-Pointed Star.
Silence lingered.
Then, suddenly—
Viserys lifted his head.
Summoning the last shred of fragile courage, he spoke, his voice trembling:
"Uncle Lance…"
"The gods… the Seven… they teach mercy."
"They tell us to show compassion, to all people… only then can we be righteous rulers."
"And what you're doing…"
"…is wrong!"
The words fell.
And the entire sept fell into silence.
A cold wind seeped in through the damaged dome above, the torchlight flickering wildly. Shadows stretched and twisted, making Lance's still figure loom even larger—oppressive, immovable.
He simply stood there.
Watching.
No anger.
No rebuke.
Just… watching.
"Ha…"
A faint sound broke the silence.
The septon—still nailed to the cross—forced a twisted smile onto his pale face.
Triumphant.
He struggled to lift his head, turning toward the boy, his voice trembling yet eager:
"You've done well… Your Grace…"
"A true… wise king should think as you do… follow the guidance of the Seven…"
"Their glory will… will surely bless you…"
"The wisdom of the gods is not—"
Smack!
The sound of a sharp slap echoed.
His head snapped violently to the side.
The sanctimonious smile shattered instantly.
Blood and saliva spilled from his mouth and nose as he stared, stunned and venomous, at the white-armored figure.
Lance didn't even look at him.
He merely flicked his hand slightly—almost absentmindedly—then rubbed his fingers together, as though he had touched something filthy.
"Next time…"
"If I haven't given you permission to speak…"
"…I'll twist that filthy head right off your neck."
His tone was calm.
But every word pressed down like iron.
The septon swallowed, unable to form another sentence. The false compassion remained on his face—but beneath it lingered a trace of defiance.
He still believed in his leverage.
As long as the king was here… Lance wouldn't dare kill him.
Lance ignored him completely.
Instead, he stepped forward and crouched down, bringing himself level with Viserys.
His long fingers gently ruffled the boy's soft silver hair—an action so gentle it stood in stark contrast to everything before.
"You're a very clever child, Viserys."
His voice softened.
Steady.
Reassuring.
"I've seen it—you're learning. You're thinking. In your own way."
"But… my king."
His fingers moved slowly through the boy's hair, his tone turning more solemn.
"Have you ever noticed the trees in a forest?"
"The younger they are—the faster they grow…"
"…the more fragile they become."
"Like a fresh branch—reaching upward, full of life—yet the easiest to break."
"A stronger wind. A heavy snowfall."
"Or even a bird with ill intent landing on it…"
His fingers tilted slightly, mimicking the motion.
"If there's nothing to guide it… nothing to support it…"
"It bends."
"It breaks."
"…and in the moment of greatest promise—"
Snap.
He flicked his fingers downward.
A small motion.
But heavy with meaning.
After a pause, his voice slowed, carrying a trace of memory.
"Do you remember Dorne, Viserys?"
"You… your mother… and I."
"In that sun-scorched castle. In the hands of that scheming Martell."
"We were trapped."
"Like birds in a cage."
"No matter how noble your name… without the strength to resist blades and schemes…"
"…we were prey."
The boy trembled.
The memory resurfaced instantly.
The fear.
The helplessness.
Though he had once pretended to be brave in front of his mother, the kidnapping at Sunspear had carved itself deep into his soul.
Lance nodded slightly, satisfied.
Pain was not something to forget.
It was something to remember.
Because it shaped kings.
"And back then…"
His voice rose slightly—sharp, decisive.
"If we had dragons!"
"Like Ilyon, who stood by you tonight… like Rhaego, who now answers your call!"
"Even one dragon above Sunspear…"
"Those traitorous Martells—who dared strike from the shadows—would never have been so bold!"
He straightened.
His words carried absolute certainty.
Then, his voice settled again—calm, controlled.
"So, my king…"
"Mercy is a noble virtue."
"To be a merciful ruler—to let your people feel your kindness under the sun—that is good."
"But…"
"That mercy must be built upon strength."
"Strength great enough… fearsome enough…"
"That anyone who dares scheme must tremble before they even begin!"
"Only then will your mercy not be mistaken for weakness."
"Only then will your kingdom not suffer another Duskendale… or another captivity!"
Silence returned.
Viserys' chest rose and fell rapidly.
Something in his violet eyes—something inherited from the blood of dragons—was changing.
Lance did not interrupt.
Some lessons…
could not be taught.
They had to be realized.
Time seemed to freeze.
The septon stared at the boy desperately.
He saw the hesitation.
The struggle.
Panic surged in his heart.
He wanted to speak—to twist scripture again, to drag the boy back into his web—
But when his eyes flicked toward Lance…
He froze.
He didn't dare.
Time passed.
Slowly.
Viserys clenched his fists tightly within his sleeves, knuckles turning white.
Finally—
after a long silence—
he exhaled.
And looked up.
Fear remained.
But now, something else had joined it.
Understanding.
"…But, Uncle Lance…"
His voice was soft. Childlike.
"Then what about the Seven?"
"If I become… like the tyrant in the scriptures…"
"Will divine punishment fall on my kingdom?"
"…on my mother?"
"…on you?"
A faint smile appeared on Lance's lips.
Not mocking.
Not dismissive.
But approving.
"Good."
He nodded.
"That's the kind of question a Targaryen king should ask."
He stepped closer.
His towering presence enveloped the boy—but instead of suffocating, it felt like a shield.
"A god's punishment?"
He scoffed lightly.
"Child… don't let rats in fancy robes trap your mind with fairy tales."
"They weave fear into prophecy. Dress lies as truth."
"All to make you kneel… and hand over the power that should be yours!"
His finger shot out—
pointing at the trembling septon.
"Look at him!"
"A liar who tried to control dragons… to seize power!"
"They are snakes—hiding behind the name of the Seven—feeding their own desires!"
"They promise you heaven…"
"…while dragging you into hell!"
"You fear becoming a tyrant?"
"Good!"
His voice rang like steel.
He stepped back, spreading his arms wide—his shadow stretching so vast it seemed to swallow even the statues of the Seven.
"Viserys III Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I, Lance Lot—your sword and shield—will shatter these ancient illusions for you!"
"I will show you…"
"…what a real god looks like."
The words fell.
The great doors of the sept creaked open.
A cold winter wind rushed in—
yet strangely, no one felt its chill.
The torches flickered violently, their light dimming, wavering.
And in that shifting boundary between light and darkness—
a figure appeared.
A slender silhouette in robes like living flame.
Barefoot.
Graceful.
Silent.
Moonlight spilled behind her, outlining her form in a soft halo—but her face remained hidden beneath the hood.
Only the delicate curve of her jaw could be seen.
The moment she stepped inside—
even the wind seemed to pause.
As if her existence stood at the crossing of opposites—
death and rebirth…
cold and fire…
despair…
and something unknown.