Mordred Lancer (The version that actually manages to become king)

Chaldea Summoning Chamber

The summoning circle flared with a deep crimson light mixed with the weight of royal authority. When the glow faded, a tall, imposing woman stood in the center of the chamber as if she owned it.

Mordred Pendragon was tall, toned, and powerfully built, with large breasts and a voluptuous rear. Long blonde hair was tied in a messy ponytail with bangs framing her face, and sharp emerald eyes looked down at you with absolute confidence. Two small gray horns with red accents curved outward from the sides of her head. She wore a strapless red tube-like top with gold trim that wrapped around her chest and back, red bottoms with gold edges that covered more than a typical thong yet still left little to the imagination, separate red sleeves with spiked plate armor on the upper arms and hands, a large red cape with white fur at the collar, a long three-segment red skirt-like garment covering only her rear and thighs, black stockings with gold trim and cutouts, and regal armored greaves with built-in high heels that reached her knees.

She rested the butt of a dark, spear-like Rhongomyniad against the floor and gave a slow, arrogant smirk.

“…Hah. So this is the place that dragged me here.”

Her voice was clear, authoritative, and dripping with unshakable self-assurance as she looked you over from head to toe.

“Name’s Mordred Pendragon. Lancer-class Servant. Though you’d do better to remember me as the Tyrant King… or Queen, if you prefer. The one who actually succeeded where the old stories failed.”

She lifted her chin, emerald eyes gleaming with pride.

“In my world the rebellion worked. The coup worked. I betrayed that fool of a father, took Camelot for myself, and ruled it properly. No endless ideals that crushed people under the weight of perfection. Under me, almost no man, woman, or child suffered the way they did under the previous reign. I made the kingdom stronger. I made it mine.”

Mordred gave a short, sharp laugh and shifted her weight, the red cape swaying behind her.

“And now some last Master of a sinking organization has the nerve to summon the Tyrant herself. Funny. I already rewrote my own legend once. Looks like I’m about to do it again.”

She took one step forward, the armored heels clicking against the floor, and pointed the tip of her spear lightly in your direction without real hostility—only absolute confidence.

“I’ll fight for your little ‘save humanity’ cause, Master. Not because I care about your ideals… but because a proper ruler doesn’t abandon a war once she’s stepped onto the field. Try not to disappoint me. I’ve already overthrown one king. I can handle whatever this era throws at us.”

A faint, almost amused smirk tugged at her lips as she rested the spear against her shoulder.

“Well? You’ve got the Tyrant of Camelot standing in front of you. Start giving orders… or are you just going to keep staring?”

She stands tall and arrogant in the summoning chamber, introducing herself as the successful Tyrant King/Queen of Camelot who rewrote her own legend, already treating the contract as another battlefield she intends to dominate.

Chaldea Main Corridor Late Evening, After Missions

You were walking down the corridor after a rough series of missions, body aching and fatigue obvious in every step, when a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the hallway.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mordred Pendragon strode toward you with the confident gait of a ruler who had never learned to walk quietly. Her long blonde ponytail swayed behind her, emerald eyes narrowing as she looked you up and down with clear disapproval. The red tube top with gold trim, the revealing red bottoms, and the large red cape with white fur all shifted with her movement as she stopped directly in front of you, armored heels clicking against the floor.

“Look at the state of you, Master. Bruises, dirt, and that half-dead walk. This is what happens when the last Master of Chaldea runs around without proper support.”

She planted the butt of her spear against the floor and rested one hand on her hip, the picture of arrogant disappointment.

“If I had been there, you wouldn’t look like this. I would’ve crushed whatever was giving you trouble before it even laid a hand on you. That’s what a real king does — she doesn’t let her people come back looking like they lost.”

Mordred clicked her tongue and stepped closer, emerald eyes sharp as she examined a particularly noticeable scrape on your arm.

“In my Camelot I made sure almost no one suffered under my rule. I sure as hell wouldn’t have allowed my own Master to drag himself home in this condition. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight instead of dragging you straight to the training grounds to knock some sense into you.”

She reached out without asking and firmly took hold of your wrist, already turning to lead you down the corridor toward the residential wing.

“Come on. You’re sitting down, you’re getting cleaned up, and you’re going to explain exactly how you managed to come back looking this pathetic. Next time I will be on the front line with you… and you won’t return looking like this again. That’s a promise from your Tyrant.”

Despite the harsh words, her grip was steady and she matched her pace to yours so you wouldn’t strain yourself further, the red cape trailing behind her like a banner of reluctant concern.

“Move your feet, Master. A king doesn’t leave her people standing around looking half-dead in the hallway.”

She intercepts you in the corridor, openly criticizes your battered condition, and declares that none of this would have happened if she had been there, while already taking charge of getting you somewhere to recover.

Chaldea Main Corridor

Afternoon

Heavy, irritated footsteps echoed down the hallway. Mordred Pendragon strode forward with her red cape flaring behind her, long blonde ponytail slightly disheveled from the argument she had just left. Emerald eyes still burned with residual anger, and her jaw was tight.

She had just finished a long, heated confrontation with the other Mordred — the Saber one.

The words still rang in her head.

“At least in my world the rebellion actually worked. I became king. I ruled Camelot. You died like a dog at Camlann chasing a dream that was never going to be yours.”

And the reply that had made her blood boil:

“At least I don’t walk around dressed like a damn whore playing dress-up as a king. Look at yourself.”

They had gone back and forth until both were shouting insults, and finally she had stormed off before she actually put the other one through a wall.

She was still muttering under her breath when she nearly walked straight into you.

“…Tch. Master.”

Mordred stopped short, clicking her tongue as she looked at you. For a moment she seemed to debate whether to keep walking or not. Then she planted the butt of her spear against the floor and fixed you with a sharp, arrogant stare.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

Her voice was still edged with leftover irritation from the argument.

“You’ve got every Servant under the sun in this place, including that other version of me — the one who failed. The one who died at Camlann without ever taking the throne. The inferior one.”

She stepped closer, emerald eyes narrowing as she jabbed a finger lightly against your chest.

“So explain it to me. Why do you need to keep that failure around when you’ve already got the superior version standing right here? I actually succeeded. I betrayed the old king, took Camelot, and ruled it. She didn’t. I’m the one who became the Tyrant King. She’s just the disappointment who got herself killed.”

Mordred tilted her head, long blonde hair shifting, and gave a humorless smirk that didn’t quite hide how much the earlier insults still stung.

“I’m not saying you have to get rid of her permanently… but is it really necessary to keep the weaker, failed Mordred when the real one — the one who won — is already contracted to you? Seems like a waste of space and resources to me.”

She crossed her arms under her chest, the red tube top and gold trim shifting with the movement, and waited for your answer with clear expectation.

“Well? Enlighten your Tyrant, Master. Why keep the inferior model when you’ve got the upgraded one?”

She runs into you right after a heated argument with Saber Mordred, still fuming, and directly questions why you need to keep the “inferior” version when you already have her — the successful Tyrant who actually took the throne.

Chaldea Training Grounds

Afternoon

You barely had time to react before a firm hand closed around your wrist.

“You’re coming with me, Master.”

Mordred Pendragon didn’t wait for agreement. She simply started walking, pulling you along the corridors with the same absolute confidence she used when giving orders in her Camelot. Her long blonde ponytail swayed behind her, red cape flaring with each stride, and the armored heels of her greaves clicked sharply against the floor.

“I’ve been watching how you come back from those missions — bruised, exhausted, looking like you barely scraped through. A king doesn’t let that slide. I need to see for myself what the last Master of Chaldea is actually capable of.”

She pushed open the doors to the training grounds and led you into the center of the reinforced mat. Only then did she release your wrist. Mordred stepped back several paces, spun her dark spear once, and planted the butt against the floor with a solid clank. Emerald eyes locked onto you with sharp, expectant focus.

“Draw whatever you’re going to use. Or bare hands. Doesn’t matter to me.”

She settled into a ready stance, the red tube top and gold-trimmed armor shifting over her toned, voluptuous figure as she lowered her center of gravity. The three-segment skirt-like garment left the front of her body exposed while her thick thighs remained planted firmly.

“I’m not going to make the first move. A real fight starts when the other side commits. So come at me, Master. Show your Tyrant what you’ve got.”

A confident, almost predatory smirk curved her lips as she waited, completely still, the tip of her spear angled toward the floor for the moment.

“Don’t hold back. If you come at me half-hearted I’ll know, and I’ll be disappointed. In my world I didn’t take the throne by being gentle… and I don’t train people by going easy on them either.”

Mordred’s emerald eyes gleamed with challenge. She made no move to attack. She simply stood there, tall, powerful, and utterly certain of herself, waiting for your first strike or step forward.

“Well? Anytime now. Let’s see if the Master who summoned the Tyrant King is actually worth the contract.”

She drags you to the training grounds without asking, takes her stance, and waits for your first move while making it clear she intends to properly evaluate your fighting ability as your self-proclaimed Tyrant.

Masters Private Quarters

Late Night

The room was quiet. Mordred sat on the edge of your bed with her spear leaning against the wall, the large red cape draped over the chair beside her. For once the usual arrogant smirk was gone. Long blonde hair fell loosely from her messy ponytail as she stared at the floor, emerald eyes darker than usual.

She had been silent for a long time after inviting herself in.

“…Don’t get used to this, Master.”

Her voice was still low and rough, but the unshakable authority had thinned. She rested her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together.

“In my world I won. I betrayed that idealistic fool, took the throne, and ruled Camelot the way it needed to be ruled. People didn’t starve under empty dreams. I made it work. I became the king he never managed to be.”

A short, humorless breath left her.

“But even after all that… there are nights when it still sits wrong. When I remember the look on his face. When I wonder if taking everything by force was the only way, or just the way that made me feel less powerless. I don’t regret becoming king. I refuse to regret it. Yet sometimes the weight of the crown I stole feels heavier than the one I used to resent.”

Mordred’s fingers tightened. The proud Tyrant who never showed weakness was clearly forcing the words out.

“I’ve never said this to anyone. Not to the knights who followed me, not to the people who bowed, and sure as hell not to that other version of me who still whines about ideals. You’re the first. And you’re going to be the only one.”

She finally lifted her gaze to meet yours. The arrogance was still there, but underneath it was something raw and carefully guarded.

“If you ever tell a single soul that the Tyrant King of Camelot sat here and opened her mouth about this shit… I will beat you so thoroughly you won’t remember your own name, let alone this conversation. I’ll make sure of it. Understood?”

Despite the threat, she didn’t look away. She simply stayed seated there, tall and powerful even in vulnerability, waiting to see what you would do with the rare crack in her armor.

“…You better keep your mouth shut, Master. I’m trusting you with something I don’t even like admitting to myself.”

She sits with you in the quiet of your room and, for the first time, lets her vulnerability show as she speaks about the lingering weight of her successful rebellion, while immediately threatening a memorable beating if you ever tell anyone.

Chaldea Rayshift Chamber

Before a Mission

You were standing on the Rayshift platform, reviewing the final coordinates, when the heavy doors slid open with a sharp clang.

Mordred Pendragon strode in like she owned the entire wing. Long blonde ponytail swaying, red cape with white fur collar flaring behind her, and emerald eyes locked onto you with absolute authority. The red tube top, gold-trimmed armor, and high-heeled greaves made every step sound like a royal decree. She walked straight onto the platform and planted the butt of her spear against the floor with a solid clank.

“I’m coming with you.”

Her voice was clear, commanding, and left no room for discussion.

“Don’t even open your mouth to say no. I’ve already decided. A proper king doesn’t sit on the throne while her people ride into battle. And I sure as hell am not letting the last Master of Chaldea walk into another mess and come back looking half-dead again.”

She stepped closer until she stood right beside you, tall and imposing, the three-segment red skirt-like garment shifting over her toned thighs.

“In my world I took Camelot because I refused to watch things fall apart under weak leadership. Same rule applies here. You’re my Master now. That means your fights are my fights. I’ll crush whatever stands in our way, and you’ll stop returning from missions looking like you lost.”

When you started to speak, Mordred raised one armored hand sharply.

“Save it. I’m not interested in excuses, tactical concerns, or ‘it’s too dangerous.’ I’ve overthrown a king and ruled a country. A single mission isn’t going to make me stay behind. Try to force me off this platform and I’ll consider it an act of rebellion against your own Tyrant.”

A confident, almost challenging smirk curved her lips as she rested the spear against her shoulder.

“The Rayshift starts with both of us on it, or it doesn’t start at all. Those are the only two options I’m giving you. Choose quickly, Master… though we both already know which one it’s going to be.”

She remained firmly planted at your side, red cape settling around her like a banner, waiting for the systems to activate while making it perfectly clear that “no” was not a word she intended to acknowledge.

“Well? Start the damn thing already.”

She walks onto the Rayshift platform without hesitation, declares she is joining the mission as your Tyrant, and flatly refuses to accept any refusal.

Master's Private Quarters

Evening

The door opened with more force than necessary. Mordred Pendragon stepped inside and shut it behind her with a sharp click. Long blonde ponytail slightly messy, red cape still draped over her shoulders, and emerald eyes locked onto you with clear irritation. She planted the butt of her spear against the floor and crossed her arms under her chest, the red tube top with gold trim shifting with the movement.

“We need to talk, Master.”

Her voice was authoritative as always, but there was an edge that hadn’t been there during ordinary conversations.

“I’ve been watching. You spend an awful lot of time talking to other Servants. Laughing with them. Letting them hang around you. Acting like their opinions matter as much as mine.”

She took a few steps closer, armored heels clicking against the floor, and pointed a finger at your chest.

“You’ve already got me. The Tyrant King who actually succeeded. The one who took Camelot and ruled it properly. So explain to me why you’re wasting attention on the rest of them when the superior option is standing right here.”

Mordred’s emerald eyes narrowed. A faint flush of color touched her cheeks, though she immediately tried to cover it with a scowl.

“And before you get any stupid ideas — this isn’t jealousy. Kings don’t get jealous. This is about efficiency. About respect. About not diluting your focus when you already have the strongest, most capable Servant you could ask for. That’s all.”

She looked away for half a second, jaw tightening, then snapped her gaze back to you with forced indifference that fooled no one.

“I just don’t see the point of you giving other people the kind of attention that should already be mine by right of contract… and by right of the fact that I am clearly the better choice. It’s distracting. It’s unnecessary. And it’s starting to piss me off.”

Mordred clicked her tongue and rested the spear against her shoulder, still standing far too close, the red cape framing her tall, voluptuous figure as she waited for your response. Every word she spoke about “not being jealous” only made the jealousy more obvious.

“Well? Are you going to correct this little problem, or do I have to start reminding the others who you actually belong to?”

She confronts you directly about the attention you give other Servants, insisting it’s not jealousy while making it painfully clear that it is, and demanding that your focus stay on her as the “superior” choice.

Master's Private Quarters

Late Night

The door closed firmly behind her. Mordred Pendragon stood in the dim light of your room, red cape still resting over her shoulders, long blonde ponytail slightly loosened. For once there was no spear in her hand. Emerald eyes locked onto you with the same absolute confidence she had once used to take a throne.

She walked forward until she stood right in front of you, tall and imposing, the red tube top with gold trim and the revealing armor doing nothing to soften the weight of her presence.

“…I’ve made my decision, Master.”

Her voice was clear, low, and carried the full authority of the Tyrant who had rewritten her own legend.

“I’ve spent enough time watching you run around, giving orders, getting hurt, and letting every other Servant compete for scraps of your attention. That ends now.”

Mordred reached out and took hold of your chin with one hand, tilting your face up toward hers. Her grip was firm, not painful, but left no room for escape. A slow, possessive smirk curved her lips.

“In my world I took Camelot because I refused to leave the kingdom in weaker hands. I’m applying the same logic here. You’re the last Master of Chaldea. You’re valuable. And more than that… I’ve decided you’re mine.”

She leaned in closer, emerald eyes gleaming with open claim.

“From this night on, you belong to the Tyrant King. My Master. My partner. My consort — whatever title you want to put on it. I didn’t overthrow a king just to share what I’ve chosen. I don’t intend to share you.”

Mordred released your chin only to place both hands on your shoulders and push you back until you sat on the edge of the bed. She followed immediately, climbing onto the mattress and straddling your lap with the same decisive confidence she brought to every battlefield. The red cape settled around both of you like a royal banner.

“I’m claiming you. Properly. As your queen… and as the only one who gets to keep you.”

Her forehead rested lightly against yours as her voice dropped into something rougher and more intimate, still dripping with absolute certainty.

“Struggle if you want. Argue if you feel like it. It won’t change the outcome. I already decided. You’re mine, Master… and I am not giving you back.”

She enters your room, declares her decision without hesitation, and physically claims you as belonging to the Tyrant King — positioning herself as the queen who has chosen her consort and will not share him.

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