Chapter 181 — Dawn Brand
Inside the Inn
Quinta and his companions were bound tightly to their seats, eyes blazing with fury as they glared at Petyr Baelish.
They wanted to curse him—
but rags stuffed into their mouths reduced everything to muffled growls.
Just minutes earlier, they had been drinking like brothers—eating beef, singing songs. Then, in the blink of an eye, a swarm of soldiers had flooded the inn and tied them up without a word.
It must be this damn bastard who tipped them off—dragging us here on purpose!
Damn northern nobles. No manners at all.
"Petyr… Baelish, is it?"
"Yes, Lord Reveray."
"You know me?"
Reveray Rykker cast a glance at Petyr's gaudy, nouveau-riche attire. Disdain flickered in his eyes.
Typical taste—for someone from the Fingers.
Ever quick to read the room, Petyr gave an awkward smile and discreetly tucked his oversized gold chain into his collar.
"Three years ago, at Lady Catelyn's twelfth nameday feast at Riverrun. I was Lord Hoster Tully's ward, so I remembered you."
"I see. I don't," Reveray replied flatly.
He dismissed Petyr entirely and turned instead to the girl who had been hiding behind the smaller man.
"No need to hide, Lady Tully."
Unable to avoid it, Catelyn Tully stepped forward and performed a proper, elegant curtsy.
"Lord Reveray."
He studied her for a moment, as if recalling the past.
"Your twelfth nameday, yes… You were already quite lovely back then. You've grown even more beautiful."
His tone softened—polite, almost avuncular—utterly unlike his cold treatment of Petyr.
Catelyn smiled lightly. "How did you know we were here, my lord?"
"Pure coincidence," Reveray replied. "I was acting on orders from the Regent, sent to apprehend a group of Dornish criminals who slipped into the Crownlands."
That part was true. Had he not stumbled onto Catelyn and Petyr, he wouldn't have bothered with this mess at all.
After all, Crownlands lords and Riverlords rarely shared more than courtesy. And noble daughters running off with penniless young men? Hardly rare in the Seven Kingdoms.
In fact, minstrels loved turning such stories into songs—beloved by landless knights and romantics alike.
Pretty much the same tired formula Lance Lot remembered from trashy novels in his previous life.
"The Regent?" Catelyn's eyes lit up. "His Highness Lance Lot is here too?! Where is he?"
Adventure burned in her blood; the pull of legends overwhelmed all caution.
Reveray glanced toward the dark back courtyard, where faint sparks flickered beyond the door.
"He should be… a little ahead of me."
At that moment, a soldier hurried over.
"My lord, the Dornish infiltrators are all secured. Shall we assist in the rear?"
Reveray smiled faintly and shook his head, gaze still fixed on the courtyard.
"No need."
"The Regent said he wanted to stretch his muscles."
---
Back Courtyard
Snow and wind howled through the yard—but any flakes that drifted too close to the white-armored knight vaporized instantly.
Lyn Corbray lay slumped against a pile of hay, face ashen. Massive blood loss dulled his senses; all he could do was stare in despair at the radiant flames on the battlefield—like a god made manifest.
"Impossible… the blasphemous power of light and shadow!"
Darat had lost all his former composure. His bell-sized eyes locked onto the white knight, hatred rumbling in his thick Norvoshi accent.
"Wretched false god… hound of R'hllor!"
Norvos tolerated only one god. All others were "false," their worship, an unforgivable heresy.
And Darat recognized it instantly.
The flames dancing along the Valyrian steel blade were unmistakable—
this was the power of the Lord of Light.
The Red Temples and shadow priests scattered across Essos were precisely the heretics the Norvoshi bearded monks loathed most.
Lance Lot slowly raised his head.
In the depths of his blue eyes, tangible gold-red flames leapt like twin ignited stars, echoing the blaze roaring along his sword.
His lips curved upward.
A terrifying, visible wave of heat exploded outward from him, sweeping the entire courtyard like an unseen tidal surge.
Snow melted. Ice evaporated. Thick white steam surged into the air.
Kneeling in the snow, Lyn was nearly knocked over by the blast—but the shock cleared his fading consciousness.
He stared in awe.
The pain was gone.
A miracle.
This was nothing less than divine intervention.
The Regent, Lance Lot, was not only a dragonlord of Targaryen blood—
He was something more.
Darat felt the crushing heat bear down on him. Veins bulged at his temples as the dark yellow runes across his body flickered wildly.
"Apologies," Lance Lot said calmly through the steam.
"First time using this power. Still adjusting."
A hint of eager amusement colored his voice.
"I'll try to go a little easier next."
"ARROGANT HERETIC!!!"
Darat roared in fury.
"Our god grants me the power to shatter false faith! He grants me the duty to guard against it! Alio, Frelna—countless bearded monks—our god witnessed their devotion and forged their strength into my flesh!"
"You will never defeat one who bears the power of so many Norvoshi faithful!"
With that, he hoisted his massive battle-axe once more—the blade nearly half a man wide—raising it high above his head as the runes flared brighter than ever.
The core runes embedded in Darat's chest flared brighter than ever, erupting with a deep, earthen yellow glow. The light streamed across his massive body, converging like molten veins before pouring entirely into the battle-axe he raised high overhead.
The giant axe tore through the air.
It carried with it every drop of rune-power in his body—along with his boundless fury—as it crashed straight down toward Lance Lot.
This blow was unmistakably stronger than anything before it.
Yet faced with this earth-shaking strike, Lance Lot did not so much as shift his footing. He merely watched with detached calm—and casually raised the flaming Valyrian steel sword in his left hand.
A thunderous clash exploded as axe and blade met, the impact ripping through the courtyard. A violent shockwave burst outward, kicking up a ring of compressed air.
"Impossible! How can this be?!"
Darat stared in disbelief.
That strike—fueled by the strength of dozens of bearded monks, a blow meant to shatter any foe—had failed to force Lance Lot back even a single step.
The gale whipped Lance's pure white cloak into a frenzy.
And that was all.
The white-armored knight's sword arm remained as steady as a mountain, without the faintest tremor.
The recoil transmitted through the axe made Darat feel as though he had struck a moving mountain range.
Worse still, the searing heat began to creep along the point where their weapons met—snaking upward, climbing through his arms, and pouring directly into his body.
His blood ignited.
Burned.
Burned.
His skin flushed red as if boiled alive, agony flooding his nerves—so intense that even the rune-power granted by the High Priest could not suppress it.
"ROAR!!!"
Realizing that if this continued he would burn alive before defeating his enemy, Darat bellowed in desperation.
Survival instinct took over.
He swung again.
A second blow.
A third.
The massive axe whirled like a storm, dark yellow runes detonating with every collision.
Metal screamed against metal in a continuous roar, so loud it nearly ruptured Lyn Corbray's eardrums.
Before his stunned eyes, the two weapons collided dozens of times in the span of a single breath.
The dark yellow glow was utterly overwhelmed by blazing fire—like fireflies daring to contend with the sun.
"Too slow… far too slow…"
Amid the storm of attacks, the flames dancing along Lance's blade casually erased every strike with effortless grace.
He even had breath to mock:
"No strength… no strength at all!"
"The power you're so proud of—pathetic."
With those words, Lance Lot snapped his wrist forward, his arm surging with raw force.
Darat could resist no longer.
With a muffled grunt, his mountain-like body was driven backward, step after step.
Each heavy bootfall crushed the stone beneath him, shattering slabs into spiderwebbed fractures.
"BOOM!"
Only after retreating more than ten paces did he manage to halt himself, jamming the axe handle into the ground to avoid collapse.
But the relentless exchange had drained him.
His arms trembled, muscles screaming. The runes on his armor flickered weakly, reduced to faint, dying glimmers.
The proudest and strongest of the Norvoshi bearded monks had reached his limit.
"No… impossible…"
He lifted his head, horror eclipsing everything he had believed in.
A lifetime of faith was crumbling before undeniable reality.
"How can the power of a false god rival the true one?!"
"The rune-force has already returned! I carry the strength of dozens of monks—unlimited power! Even the High Priest said I was invincible when the runes awakened!"
"You… how can this be?!"
Darat roared in defiance—but what he did not know was that the premature return of magic itself originated from the man standing before him.
"Tch…"
Lance curled his lips into a grin, seeing straight through Darat's bravado to the fear beneath.
He tightened his grip on the sword's burning hilt.
The wild flames instantly retracted, compressing and condensing into the blade itself.
Forged by ancient Valyrian sorcery, the sword resonated perfectly with the inferno coursing through his body.
The fire vanished from sight—but the temperature skyrocketed.
The air around the blade warped violently, trembling as if reality itself were being scorched.
"This farce ends here."
Lance's voice turned cold—final.
A destructive intent capable of incinerating all things locked onto Darat.
The black blade—now faintly glowing red from unimaginable heat—came down in a decisive arc.
"Purification… Dawn Brand."
There was no explosion.
Only an instant of absolute silence—as if the air itself had been erased.
Then—
A blinding pillar of fire erupted, engulfing Darat and his rune-engraved armor in an instant.
The supposedly indestructible plate ignited the moment it touched the light, melting… vaporizing.
The massive rune-axe, and Darat's towering body, were erased without resistance—reduced to nothing.
When the wind passed through the courtyard again, all that remained was rising steam and a pool of unidentifiable liquid formed by extreme heat.
Everything had been purified.
Erased.
The courtyard fell into dead silence, broken only by Lyn Corbray's ragged breathing.
Slumped against a haystack, barely conscious, he watched as the blazing light faded—revealing a spotless white cloak.
He tried to speak, but couldn't even open his mouth.
In his blurred vision, the white-robed figure walked toward him.
The Vale's so-called greatest knight tilted his head—and lost consciousness.
Just before darkness claimed him, he thought he heard a warm, magnetic voice near his ear:
"Your swordsmanship is excellent. Your physique, though, is lacking."
"Train with me a bit longer… and you might surpass the Daynes one day."
Watching Lyn pass out, Lance Lot shook his head.
He wasn't wrong—the boy's sword skill was exceptional. Among the Kingsguard, perhaps only Barristan Selmy could firmly overpower him.
In the Vale, "First Knight" was a title well deserved.
Unfortunate, really.
Fresh out of the Vale—and he ran into someone with cheats enabled.
Thankfully…
my cheats are better.
Lance glanced at where Darat had stood.
He had thought that a forty-percent fusion with the Lightbringer template would make him unbeatable—but as the magical tide returned, enemies would only grow stronger.
Especially north of the Wall—where a certain block of ancient ice had been "leveling up" for thousands of years.
And those shadowy manipulators hiding in the dark, pulling strings from behind the curtain.
"Just wait," Lance snorted.
"I'll drag every last one of you into the light—and burn you alive."
He turned and strode toward the doorway, where a fragile figure lay collapsed.
"Ashara…"
He knelt, gently lifting the woman into his arms.
"Asha—"
But as he brushed aside her dark hair, a face both familiar and unfamiliar came into view.
"…Why is it you?!"