Chapter 148 — You Are Not Dawn. I Am.
"You're courting death!" (T/N: please🙄)
Arthur's voice was hoarse, as if scraped raw by sandpaper, saturated with boundless rage.
Throughout his years as a knight, he had faced formidable foes, bandits, murderers, and the utterly shameless—but never, not even from the most vicious scoundrel, had he endured an insult so absolute, so degrading.
For a heartbeat after Lance's action, the arena fell into stunned silence.
Then—
The crowd erupted even more violently than before.
"So strong!"
"He can spray that far—Lance is no weaker than me!"
"Seven hells! If my man were half that mighty, I wouldn't be sneaking off to the Silk Street for boy-whores every night!"
"As expected of Ser Lance Lot!"
"Daddy—! Daddy—!"
Listening to the roaring cheers, a trace of mockery curled at the corner of Lance's mouth.
To be honest, he hadn't wanted to do this.
But there was no helping it.
It was just… a system task.
[Advancement Quest:
Defeat the Sword of the Morning in a public duel while urinating.
Status: Incomplete]
(T/N: Yes, System is still alive 🙂↕️)
If not for this task, Lance would never have stooped to something so utterly shameless.
But judging by the results…
The effect was excellent.
He looked at Arthur Dayne, both hands gripping the hilt of Dawn, eyes burning with fury. Lance casually shifted his hips, raised a brow, and taunted him wordlessly—
I can do this all day.
"GRAAAH—!!!"
That was the last straw.
Arthur abandoned all pretenses of knightly conduct. Gripping Dawn, he charged, swinging with murderous intent.
Gone was the calm confidence from before.
Only madness remained.
Sword and man moved as one. Titanic strength surged through the blade, tearing the air apart as a streak of milky-white light crashed down toward Lance's head!
Arthur had only one goal—
To cleave this humiliation apart, along with the man who dared inflict it.
Lance responded instantly.
His left hand wrenched Dragontooth from the ground, and he swung without retreating, the black blade carving a lightning-fast arc beneath the sun.
Another perfect prediction.
Another vicious angle.
And even more power than before.
Black and white. Dark and light.
Steel collided with steel in a shrieking scream, sparks bursting like shattered stars!
The impact sent a shock through Arthur's arms so violent it felt like being struck head-on by a warhammer. His chest tightened, breath knocked from his lungs.
With a sharp cry of metal, his all-or-nothing strike was smashed aside—deflected by half a foot—and Arthur staggered backward, dragged along by the force.
But Lance did not stop.
In the instant Arthur lost balance, Lance snapped Dragontooth horizontally, Valyrian steel howling as it swept toward him again.
Arthur barely managed to reset his stance, raising Dawn with both hands.
This time, there was no technique.
Only instinct—
years of training and battle compressed into one desperate motion.
It wasn't enough.
The force that slammed into him eclipsed everything that had come before.
Before the horrified eyes of the crowd, the pale greatsword tore free from Arthur's hands, flipping end over end through the air before crashing into the sand.
The broad blade buried itself deep, its hilt trembling, humming softly.
Arthur's arms went numb.
Blood split his palms, trickling from shattered grips.
Only sheer battle-honed reflex kept him upright.
He staggered forward, raising his useless arms—still trying to fight.
But before he could take another step—
The cold edge of a black greatsword pressed against his throat.
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
The cheers vanished.
The curses died in throats.
All that remained was the sound of wind brushing the stands… and the heavy, restrained breathing of those who bore witness.
Arthur Dayne stood frozen.
Unarmed.
Defeated.
And for the first time in his life—
The Sword of the Morning stood in the shadow of another dawn.
Arthur stood frozen in place, watching as Lance withdrew the blade from his left hand and casually fastened his belt again.
There was no triumph on his face.
No exhilaration after victory.
Only calm.
As if defeating the Sword of the Morning had been nothing more than a trivial errand.
Arthur turned his head unwillingly, staring at the once-pure white hilt now stained crimson with his own blood. The sight burned his eyes.
His chest heaved.
And yet, he could only lower his head—
and sink to one knee.
He had lost.
Lost to a man who wielded his sword with his left hand—
and had relieved himself mid-duel.
That realization pierced his heart like an ice spike, far more cruel than the blade once pressed to his throat. The pride of a lifetime without defeat shattered in an instant.
The glory passed down through generations of House Dayne—
reduced to nothing by a stream of warm, mocking humiliation.
"I told you already, Arthur Dayne."
Lance's cold voice fell from above.
Arthur looked up.
The white cloak gleamed beneath the sun—so blinding it felt like gazing upon his former self.
"I said it."
The Lord Commander's words cut like winter wind, stinging Arthur's face.
"Your swordsmanship is garbage."
"Just like your loyalty.
Your honor.
Your oaths."
"They're all dust beneath your feet—crumbled at a touch."
"For Lady Ashara's sake, I will not kill you."
"You will take the black."
"You will go to the far North, stand beside the Wall, and spend the rest of your life with the Night's Watch—atoning in ice and snow."
Arthur's body trembled violently.
Not with rage—
but with utter humiliation and despair.
His teeth ground together. His eyes were bloodshot.
Yet he lacked even the strength to curse—only hoarse, broken breaths escaped his throat.
In the end, he had saved no one.
Not even himself.
Then—before all eyes—
The towering commander walked to Dawn.
He rested a gloved hand lightly upon the crossguard.
Bent down.
Gripped the blood-soaked hilt.
And with a simple pull, drew it free from the earth.
"You are not Dawn, Arthur Dayne."
The declaration rang with crushing authority, shattering what little dignity Arthur had left.
The milky blade rose skyward. Sunlight fractured across its surface in blinding white, turning Lance's cloak into a banner of flame.
His blue eyes swept the arena, finally settling on the kneeling knight.
"I am."
No one spoke.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
All eyes fixed upon the white-armored knight holding two swords—
black and white crossed overhead, like the first light splitting the night.
Then—
at last—
The crowd exploded.
Fists pumped the air. Hoarse voices screamed the name Lance Lot, faces twisted with fanatic joy.
They had witnessed the birth of a legend.
Yet not everyone rejoiced.
High upon the stands, Jaime Lannister stared at the radiant armor—
its light unable to reach the emptiness in his eyes.
His fingers unconsciously tightened around his sword hilt.
"…Impossible…"
He whispered, throat dry.
"That was Arthur Dayne…
the Sword of the Morning…"
He had grown up on those stories.
Years ago, at a grand tourney in Lannisport, Jaime had snuck into the field just to glimpse Arthur wielding that massive blade—
alive in his hands, flawless, untouchable.
The pinnacle of mortal swordsmanship.
And now—
That pinnacle had collapsed.
Completely.
Absurdly.
Crushed beneath humiliation so grotesque it defied belief.
"You are not Dawn. I am."
Jaime shut his eyes. Sweat soaked the leather of his grip. His breathing turned ragged.
When he opened them again—
The white cloak snapped in the wind.
Light and darkness intertwined.
The emptiness in his chest burned away—
replaced by something scalding.
A new light was rising.
Brighter.
More terrifying.
"No—!!!"
But the one least able to accept reality was not Arthur, nor Jaime—
It was Eddard Stark.
He slammed into the wooden barrier, pain flaring through his body, yet he felt none of it.
His gaze was locked on the king's platform.
There—
His sister hung.
A coarse rope looped around her neck. Her toes barely touched a trembling plank.
Her prison clothes were stained with dried blood. Her hair clung messily to her pale face.
Yet her wolf-gray eyes still burned—
defiant, hateful, unbroken.
Throughout the duel, Eddard's nails had dug into his palms. Every clash of steel struck his nerves like a hammer.
He knew—
if Arthur fell, Lyanna would die.
So he had prayed.
To the Old Gods.
To the Seven.
To every god he had ever heard of.
Begging for her life.
But when the legendary Sword of the Morning truly fell beneath the commander's blade—
Hope died.
He roared, a trapped beast's howl, unheard and unanswered.
As Lance raised both swords—
On the royal platform, a gold-cloaked guard swung his blade and severed the rope holding the plank.
"LYANNA—!!!"
Before the eyes of all King's Landing—
Her body dropped.
The rope snapped taut with a sickening creak.
Eddard watched as her neck was wrenched back violently, her eyes flying open—
then going utterly empty.
His scream died in his throat, collapsing into choking gasps as red flooded his vision.
The crowd.
The victory.
Arthur's defeat.
All sound vanished.
Only the sharp crack of her breaking neck echoed again and again in his mind.
Crack.