Chapter 171 — I Am the Precedent
Prince Regent.
The words fell—
—and the thunderous cheers inside the Great Sept of Baelor died instantly.
All eyes turned upward toward the white-armored knight holding the young king on his shoulder, gazes filled with envy, confusion… and shock.
A regent.
By tradition, when a king is underage or unable to rule, a regent governs in his stead. Once the king reaches his sixteenth nameday, authority returns to him.
House Targaryen had seen such arrangements before.
But the last time… was over a century ago.
Back when dragons still existed.
And now—they did again.
With Viserys Targaryen only four years old, the late king appointing a regent was entirely reasonable.
What no one expected—
was that this supreme authority would fall to Lance Lot.
"I object!"
The sharp voice cut through the hall.
The crowd parted as a silver-haired noble strode forward — Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships. His eyes burned with open anger.
"A lowborn blacksmith becomes Regent of the Seven Kingdoms? There's conspiracy here!"
He pointed straight at Lance Lot.
"I don't believe King Aerys named you regent! You and those Kingsguard must have fabricated it! Only you were on Dragonstone — I don't believe it!"
Silence returned.
No one supported him.
No one stopped him.
They simply watched.
Fabricated?
Against the Kingsguard?
One man lying might be plausible.
Three white cloaks standing firm, faces resolute?
Impossible.
And one of them was Barristan Selmy.
You could doubt anyone.
But not Barristan Selmy.
At ten, he challenged Prince Duncan at a tourney.
At sixteen, he defeated him.
At twenty-three, he cut down Maelys the Monstrous amid an army.
That same year, he gave up lands, title, and betrothed to don the white cloak.
Loyalty. Honor. Steel made flesh.
If a blade were at his throat, he would not bend.
That was reputation.
True reputation.
And now this Velaryon lord dared question it before the Seven themselves.
All eyes shifted to the statues… and then to Lance Lot.
How would he respond?
Unexpectedly—
Lance Lot said nothing.
He only watched, expression distant.
Because the Kingsguard had already begun moving.
Three white-armored figures descended the steps and stopped before Velaryon.
"What are you doing?!"
The lord panicked. His hand gripped his sword hilt, but he dared not draw.
"I am Master of Ships of the realm— you cannot—"
"Take my sword, my lord."
It was Barristan.
He extended his blade, offering it hilt-first.
Velaryon froze, confused, then instinctively took it.
He had no idea what was happening.
But the entire sept understood.
This was no arrest.
No execution.
This was something older.
Something absolute.
A knight's answer to slander.
Under countless stunned gazes, Barristan Selmy drew a dagger from his greave.
With one clean motion, he cut the cords at the side of his breastplate. Metal slackened. The armor fell open.
He bared his chest.
"Strike!"
His voice boomed through the sept. He slapped a hand against his own sternum.
"If you doubt my honor and my oath—then cut me open! Take out my heart and show it to every lord here!"
"I, Barristan Selmy, have never lied!"
The instant he finished, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jonothor Darry drew their swords in unison and flung them point-first into the stone before Velaryon.
"We stand the same!"
All three white cloaks threw open their tunics, exposing their chests — an ancient, terrible answer to slander.
But Lord Velaryon wasn't admiring muscle.
He was drenched in cold sweat.
Was he supposed to carve open three Kingsguard before the Seven?
Barristan Selmy.
Gerold Hightower.
Jonothor Darry.
White cloaks aside, their families alone were enough to crush him.
Worse—
The Kingsguard commander stood above, the boy king on his shoulder, staring down with cold eyes.
Even the dragons hissed softly.
One move, and he might end like the maid.
Her corpse wasn't even cold.
"I never meant to question your honor, sers!"
Velaryon folded instantly.
But he forced himself to stand tall and continued loudly, clinging to argument instead of courage.
"Even if Aerys truly named him— I still refuse to recognize it!"
"A Lord Commander of the Kingsguard becoming Regent has no precedent!"
"Every Kingsguard swears: no lands, no wife, no children! Even their commander sits the council but cannot rule in the king's stead. To break that oath brings ruin!"
"Criston Cole, the Kingmaker, only became Hand — not Regent!"
His voice rang through the sept.
Truth was, he didn't doubt the appointment.
He just couldn't accept that Aerys had passed over him — a highborn lord of ancient Valyrian blood — for an outsider.
"I have served the realm for over a decade!"
His eyes burned at Lance Lot.
"Who, in your view, deserves to be Regent then?"
Lance Lot had gently set Viserys Targaryen on the ground before the Father's statue.
Calm. Unmoved.
Velaryon stepped forward eagerly.
"Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Hand of the King for years!"
A flicker of danger crossed Tywin Lannister's eyes — and he stepped back half a pace.
Fool.
"Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin, long-serving—"
The man shrank into the crowd, sweating.
Then Velaryon declared grandly:
"I, Lucerys Velaryon! Of the same Valyrian stock as Targaryen! Years commanding the royal fleet! In lineage, merit, and service, every council lord surpasses you, Lance Lot!"
Silence.
Only candle flames crackled.
Then—
A low chuckle left Lance's throat.
His gaze swept the hall. Every noble lowered their eyes.
"You speak of precedent. Of merit."
His eyes returned to Velaryon, voice like cold steel.
"Riding alone through an army to bring the king to safety — has that precedent?"
"Three knights breaking a royal bandit host and slaying fifty riders — has that precedent?"
"Going to Dorne, defending queen and prince, slaying vipers and burning a palace — has that precedent?"
Each question struck like a hammer.
These were no boasts.
They were legends known across the realm.
"You want merit? You want precedent?"
The white knight spread his arms, voice rising like a war horn.
"I, Lance Lot… am the precedent."
The ash-gray dragon shrieked, smoke spilling from its throat.
But Velaryon, blinded by pride, roared back:
"You're just a blacksmith!"
Then—
"Silence!"
Queen Rhaella Targaryen stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"Lance is not a blacksmith's son!"
"His father was Prince Duncan Targaryen. His mother, Lady Jenny of Oldstones."
"He carries the blood of the true dragon. His true name is—"
Time stopped.
"Rhaeseryon Targaryen!"
The ash dragon Ilyon roared like ancient blood answering the call.