Chapter 172 — The Kingdoms Bow
The Great Sept of Baelor fell silent once more.
It was as if even the Seven held their breath.
Only Ilyon's young, rasping hiss echoed beneath the vast dome, the sound lingering like the tail of a thunderclap.
But the crowd cared less about the dragon now—
and more about the name.
Rhaeseryon Targaryen.
All eyes turned toward the Father's statue.
Most already believed it.
Because there was a dragon.
The moment Lance Lot had entered the sept with Ilyon, when the hatchling had breathed flame at his command, suspicions had already taken root.
Perhaps the famed Lord Commander was some Targaryen bastard.
Jaehaerys II?
Or young Aerys, in one of his… youthful indiscretions?
Given Aerys's early reputation, such a thing would hardly be shocking.
It would even explain why the king had trusted a blacksmith he "happened" to meet in a small-town jail — why he made him Lord Commander… and now Regent.
But no one could have imagined this:
Prince Duncan Targaryen — the prince who had loved a common woman, renounced the throne, and perished in the tragedy of Summerhall —
had left behind a hidden son.
Not a bastard.
A true-blooded dragon.
The thought alone made people draw sharp breaths.
No one doubted the claim.
Because it came from Queen Rhaella Targaryen herself.
In the sept of the Seven. Before the dead king. Before the new one.
She had no reason to lie.
Unless—
No.
Before the thought could grow, a broad, steady hand rested gently on the queen's trembling shoulder.
She turned sharply, fire still in her indigo eyes—
and met calm, ocean-deep blue.
The look alone soothed her racing heart.
"You see?" Lance Lot said softly. "Too quick to anger again."
No reproach. No impatience.
Her breath slowed.
After calming her, Lance Lot stepped forward.
His gaze hardened, weighty as iron.
He could have stopped her from speaking.
But he hadn't.
This was a world of bloodlines. Secrets never stayed buried. If not today, another day.
Better now.
"I do not know the truth of my birth," he said clearly, chest lifted, voice echoing through the sept.
"Duncan Targaryen… Jenny of Oldstones… I know them only from stories."
"My name in this life is Lance Lot. A blacksmith raised by hammer and fire in a small town."
"From a cage in that town's prison, where King Aerys himself placed the white cloak upon my shoulders…"
"To the Kingsguard… to Dorne… to Harrenhal… to Riverrun…"
He let the weight of memory settle.
"I earned every step with steel and blood."
He looked over the nobles.
"So whether I am dragon-born… or merely forged in flame…"
His voice rang, calm but unbreakable.
"I stand here by deed, not lineage."
"But since the realm demands blood…"
His eyes sharpened.
"Then remember this."
"The dragon does not ask where the fire began."
"Only whether it burns."
Ilyon hissed softly, smoke curling.
And one by one—
lords bent the knee.
The realm had just accepted something greater than law.
It had accepted inevitability.
Lance Lot's gaze passed over the crystal coffin where the late king lay in silent rest. His voice struck like iron on an anvil.
"I have never relied on the name Targaryen for anything."
"I stand where I stand today because of the edge of my blade."
A pause.
His sharp blue eyes cut toward the ashen-faced Lord Velaryon — and then across the entire sept.
"If anyone objects to my becoming Regent—"
"Then step forward. Here. Now. Before the eyes of the Seven."
"And face me in the fairest trial of all."
Ilyon shrieked, the cry spearing the dome above.
No one moved.
Heads bowed.
The Master of Coin wept openly. Tywin Lannister merely watched in silence, eyes narrowed — you really expect anyone to believe this isn't destiny when a dragon sits on your shoulder?
As for Velaryon…
His pride shattered.
Bloodline. Ambition. Jealousy. Humiliation.
All crumbled beneath the truth standing before him: the return of dragon power.
At last, his shoulders sagged.
"…Your Grace… Regent."
He knelt.
And the hall erupted.
---
That Night — The Iron Throne
Night fell.
The boy king slept. The queen withdrew.
But the new Regent did not change from white armor.
He sat upon the Iron Throne, forged of a thousand swords — and it seemed almost made for him.
Ilyon lay drowsy on his shoulder.
Two massive blades leaned casually beside the throne.
Below stood the Small Council.
Varys stepped forward.
"Dorne stirs. Houses Allyrion, Yronwood, and Blackmont rally forces."
"The Riverlands gather banners."
"Robert Baratheon marches toward Summerhall."
"The Vale waits — but not quietly."
Silence.
"War," said the Master of Coin, unusually eager.
Velaryon echoed him, desperate to prove loyalty.
Tywin remained silent.
Lance Lot's fingers tapped the sword-edge of the throne.
Then—
"I have an idea."
Everyone stiffened.
"You are right. They have forgotten Targaryen power."
A pause.
"So we will remind them."
He looked at Varys.
"Send ravens. Every lord of rank."
"The Reach. The Riverlands. The Vale. The Westerlands. The Stormlands. Even the Iron Islands."
"One month."
"They are to come to King's Landing. In person. With tribute."
Shock rippled through the chamber.
"For what purpose?" Varys asked carefully.
Lance Lot rose, arms spread as though embracing the realm itself.
"To bow."
"To witness."
"To behold the glory of King Viserys Targaryen."
"To see the dragon returned to the world."
The Iron Throne seemed to hum beneath him.
History had just shifted from survival—
to domination.