Chapter 6 – The SS Experience Card
Duskendale.
Two shadowy figures crept along the winding stair of the Dun Fort's tower path.
The fortress loomed vast against the night, and from this height Lance could take in almost the entire town.
To the east, the Blackwater Bay stretched wide, moonlight shimmering across the sea.
To the north, a white cliff line stood sentinel, with roads threading between the chalk hills and the coast. Fishing villages dotted the roadside like scattered pearls.
Southward, a rocky peninsula jutted into the water, forming a natural breakwater that sheltered the ships moored in the harbor.
It was beautiful.
Ten years he had lived here, yet Lance had never once seen his home from such a vantage.
"Earlier, you said…"
Behind him, Aerys' hoarse voice rasped, low and dark:
"…that Denys Darklyn may have joined hands with Rhaegar, that my own son…"
"What chance do you truly think there is of that?"
"I don't know, Your Grace." Lance glanced back at him and shook his head.
Perhaps it was the half year spent in chains, but the king was frail, each step labored and slow. To keep up appearances as his "gaoler," Lance matched his pace.
And he was not lying. His talk of Rhaegar had been nothing but a fabrication—half-truths spun to lull Coombs into dropping his guard. In his past life, Lance had only ever seen the show. What he knew of Rhaegar Targaryen came secondhand, scraps of dialogue at best.
But from even those fragments, Lance's judgment was clear: Rhaegar was an idiot.
Yes, an idiot with Valyrian good looks and Targaryen blood.
No sane heir to the throne—no "fit" king in waiting—would stand at a great tourney, in full view of lords and commons alike, and slight his own wife to crown another man's betrothed with a wreath of love.
"Lovestruck" didn't even begin to cover the madness.
And yet, even after death, people still sighed and wept for Rhaegar, praising his nobility and vision.
It was laughable. A broken world, where fools were celebrated, and anyone "normal" seemed the true anomaly.
"You know him better than I ever could, Your Grace," Lance said at last. "He is your son. Tell me honestly—would Rhaegar truly do such a thing?"
For a long while, the king was silent. His breath rasped as though every step pressed the question deeper into his chest.
Finally, Aerys spoke.
"Rhaegar was… always courteous. He was born in grief, in the shadow of Summerhall's ashes. He kept to himself. He has my gift with a sword, but he prefers his silver-stringed harp. Truth be told…" a rare softness crept into his tone, "…he'd have made a finer bard than a prince."
The king almost sounded like a father then, words spilling forth with weary fondness.
But the warmth did not last. His face darkened, teeth grinding.
"And yet in all these months, no one—no one—has demanded my release! Not a word, not an envoy, not a soul to speak for me!"
His voice cracked into venom.
"Rhaegar… he has been poisoned by Tywin Lannister, I know it! That golden bastard waits for my death, schemes to place Rhaegar on the throne, and then—then—step by step, he will claim my crown for himself, until the ugly lion's arse sits upon the Iron Throne!"
The words poured out unguarded. Here, with a new and nameless "Kingsguard" beside him, Aerys could speak his paranoia freely.
Lance said nothing. He only listened.
He did not know the depth of the enmity between king and Hand. But he did know the saying: "There is no prince who waits decades to be king."
Even if Rhaegar himself hesitated, those who backed him would never waste so perfect an opportunity. And if the chance came—did Rhaegar truly never waver?
Only he would know. But facts were facts: the prince had made no move to save his father.
---
So the two went on, one behind the other, the king muttering curses under his breath until they reached the stair's base.
They had passed patrols along the way—two, three times—but Lance had bluffed them with ease.
The way ahead, however, would not be so simple.
At the stair's end, torches burned bright. Four men stood guard.
The foremost was tall, broad, clad in deep yellow armor that glowed like fresh blood under the torchlight. His long chestnut hair hung loose, no helm to hide his sharp features.
The moment he saw them approach, his hand dropped to his sword.
"Ser Symon Hollard."
Aerys' voice was a venomous hiss, thick with hate.
He leaned toward Lance, whispering as they walked:
"That one—he slew Ser Gwayne Gaunt. Be wary. Symon's blade is swift. Gwayne barely lasted three breaths against him. Do not meet him head-on."
With that, the king lowered his head, clasping his shackled wrists together, hair falling like a curtain over his face. He hunched his shoulders, playing the meek and broken captive to perfection.
Lance narrowed his eyes, fingers brushing against the hidden folds of his white cloak. Then, just as quickly, he dropped his hand and painted a servile smile across his face.
"Hold!"
Ser Symon Hollard's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Though Lance and the king were still several paces away, the knight's hand shot up to bar their path.
At once, one of the soldiers behind him lifted a crossbow, its bolt silently leveled at Lance's chest.
"Where are you going?"
"Lord Coombs ordered me to bring the king before Lord Denys and Lady Serala."
Lance made no effort to conceal Aerys' identity. Instead, he stepped aside with practiced ease, letting the torchlight fall on the prisoner at his back.
Hollard craned his neck for a better look. The king shuffled forward in filthy robes, manacles biting into his wrists, head bowed, lips muttering curses beneath a veil of tangled hair. The sight drew a frown.
"The king has never left his cell," Symon said coldly. "Why bring him out now?"
"I couldn't say, ser," Lance replied with an honest shake of the head. "But Lord Coombs mentioned… some arrangement with Prince Rhaegar."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough.
"You know as well as I do, we've been under siege for months. If this drags on, we'll starve where we stand."
As he spoke, Lance patted the longsword at his hip.
"Before I left, Lord Coombs gave me his blade as token."
Hollard's eyes dropped to the weapon. Sure enough, the pommel bore a green gem, gleaming in the firelight. Still, the knight pressed.
"And why does Coombs not deliver the king himself?"
"They were… entertaining a new prisoner, ser." Lance smirked, tilting his chin toward the castle's high towers. "Lord Coombs was in rare spirits tonight. Perhaps even now he and Ser Biber are—occupied."
The leer that spread across Lance's face was lewd enough to be convincing.
"Hah. Men without honor," Hollard spat. At last, his shoulders eased. "Word is, Coombs' manhood is as pathetic as a worm. If not for Lady Serala, he'd never have found his way into Biber's bed."
"Ha! Hahaha—"
The soldiers barked with laughter, their wariness forgotten, their crossbows lowering.
Biber, after all, was the prize every man in Duskendale coveted. Even common soldiers scraped and saved to afford his "services." To see him monopolized by Coombs' whims made them seethe with resentment.
"Go on, boy."
When their laughter subsided, Hollard stepped forward, clapped a heavy hand on Lance's shoulder, then nodded to one of his men.
"You, Ryde—go with him. The king is the count's most precious 'guest.' Not a hair on his head must come to harm."
"Yes, ser!"
The soldier moved to join Lance, and inwardly Lance cursed.
Leeches. Always clinging, never letting go.
Still, he gave no sign, only tugged at Aerys' chains and led him forward.
They had taken scarcely three steps when Hollard's voice cracked like a whip behind them.
"Stop!"
Lance froze. His heart lurched. Slowly, he turned, face schooled into puzzlement.
Ser Symon stood with his sword bared, point leveled at Lance's chest. His voice was sharp with suspicion.
"Why does your tunic not fit you?"
The words hung in the air like ice.
At once the other soldiers turned to look. In the torchlight, it was plain—Lance's frame was broad, yet the sleeves ended too high, the trousers too short. Earlier, the distance and shadows had hidden it. Now there was no mistaking it.
Steel rasped from scabbards as two soldiers advanced, weapons ready. The third raised his crossbow once more, bolt trained between Lance's ribs.
Damn it!
He had planned to slip away, dispatch the escort when the chance arose. But the game had collapsed in an instant.
Jaw clenched, Lance met Hollard's gaze, the knight scarcely a pace behind him now.
Then, without hesitation, he reached into the void—
—and crushed the priceless SS-tier Experience Card.
BOOM!