Chapter 12 – The Council Before the King
Inside the royal army's command tent.
Covered in blood and dust, Ser Barristan Selmy stepped through the flap, only to see his king seated safely upon the high chair.
On either side of Aerys, the members of the Small Council were all present—yet none dared sit within three or four paces of him. The only figure permitted so close was a tall, imposing man standing by the king's side.
"Your Grace!" Barristan exhaled in relief. Planting his sword into the ground, he dropped to one knee before Aerys. He himself had barely escaped death not long ago.
Aerys gave him a passing glance and spoke in a cool, even tone.
"I have heard of your deeds, Ser."
"To ride alone into Duskendale… such courage shames every knight of my Kingsguard. At least, compared to some others."
"You flatter me, Your Grace. I… I truly did little to aid you."
Though the king's praise warmed his heart, Barristan answered with honesty. "Your deliverance owed far more to this formidable warrior at your side."
"Indeed."
Aerys inclined his head, turning toward Lance with a faint smile of satisfaction.
The man who had carved their way to freedom stood tall and silent, chest out, face expressionless—the very picture of a bodyguard born. He understood his purpose well: to lend the king an aura of strength and intimidation.
Six months of captivity had changed many things. Who could say what loyalty still remained within the Small Council? And above all…
"Tywin Lannister!"
With a gesture for Barristan to step aside, Aerys raised his voice, calling out for his Hand.
"My dearest Hand, where are you hiding?"
At the summons, Tywin Lannister rose slightly from his seat and inclined his head with icy composure.
"Your Grace."
He wore a crimson silk robe embroidered in gold thread with fierce lions. His face betrayed no emotion, yet his tone was courtly, impeccably measured, as he acknowledged his king.
All eyes in the tent turned toward the two men—nominally the most powerful in the Seven Kingdoms—listening with sharpened ears for what would follow.
Only Ser Barristan's gaze strayed. He stole wary glances at Lance, fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword. For the Kingsguard to be absent from the king's side, replaced by this stranger, stirred in him a deep unease.
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"Kneel!"
"Or do you mean to sit there and answer your king from a chair?"
The words cut like a lash. Instead of addressing the matter of Duskendale, Aerys turned on his Hand with sudden fury, chastising him before the full council.
Shock rippled through the chamber—some eyes gleamed with amusement, others with fear or disbelief. None had expected that the king's very first act upon his return would be to humiliate Tywin Lannister.
Under their collective gaze, Tywin's eyes narrowed. He cast his gaze slowly about the chamber, meeting each councillor's stare in turn. From those cold depths radiated the commanding weight of a lion.
Even Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, who had moments earlier worn a smirk of schadenfreude, let it fade under the silent weight of Tywin's warning gaze.
After nearly ten seconds of tense stillness, Tywin finally rose. He stepped forward with deliberate calm, came to stand before Aerys, and sank to one knee. His emerald eyes, unflinching, locked on the king's as he spoke in a low, resonant voice:
"The king commands me to kneel, and so the Hand obeys without question.
But as your friend, I cannot help but recall the days of the Ninepenny Kings—when we fought side by side in glory.
If memory serves, it was I who first dubbed you knight."
At that, even Lance flicked him a glance of surprise.
None could deny it—this Duke of Casterly Rock was a man of rare steel. To speak so bluntly before the court, and to the king himself, was audacious beyond measure. His words were veiled, yet no one present was foolish enough to miss their meaning.
As the Hand, I kneel to my king.
But as the one who once knighted you, should not Aerys Targaryen also kneel to Tywin Lannister?
Only moments ago, Lance had thought Aerys' insistence on keeping him close a needless precaution. After all, even absent for half a year, a king ought not be overshadowed in his own council. But now, he saw the truth: Tywin Lannister's power loomed dangerously close to eclipsing the throne itself.
To defy the king so brazenly—Barristan's blood boiled at the insult. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, teeth clenched, but he held his tongue. A Kingsguard had no voice in matters of council. Even Ser Gerold Hightower, the famed White Bull and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, kept his silence. Tywin's rebuttal, after all, had been only in metaphor.
"Ha… ha… ha…"
Aerys' bony fingers dug into the arms of his chair, knuckles whitening. Tywin's piercing stare seemed to unmoor him. His lips curled, his violet eyes bloodshot and wild, madness flickering once more.
"Your Grace!"
Lance raised his voice sharply, fearful the king might erupt in one of his infamous fits—screaming for fire, demanding them all burned alive.
The sound snapped Aerys back. His eyes cleared, his breath came hard and fast, and after a long, ragged exhale he forced down his rage.
"Ahh…"
At last, he fixed his gaze on Tywin—now risen, tall and unbending in the center of the tent. Instead of fury, a harsh laugh grated from the king's throat, mocking and bitter.
"I must thank you, Lord Hand. In my absence, you bore the weight of rule. How diligent you've been."
"That was my duty, Your Grace," Tywin replied evenly, without bowing too low or standing too tall.
"Indeed." Aerys tapped a skeletal finger against the chair, lips twisting into a ghastly smile. "For what am I, after all, but a puppet on the Iron Throne? And the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms… is my Hand of the King—Tywin Lannister."
A collective gasp swept the council.
Even Tywin's composure cracked; his brows knit, and his voice grew firm.
"Your Grace, how could such a thought enter your mind? Everything I have done has been to strengthen the Targaryen reign. Never have I sought to usurp what is yours."
The denial, though controlled, carried a rare urgency. Even Tywin Lannister could not ignore the peril of such an accusation.
"Heh… heh heh…"
Aerys' laughter returned, raw and jagged. His tongue darted over dry lips, a string of spittle stretching between them, gleaming red in the firelight—like the maw of a beast about to bite.
Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted beyond Tywin, settling on a tall, thin knight standing rigid in armor behind him.
"I believe you, Lord Tywin," the king rasped. "I believe you mean no such treason.
But can you swear that those beneath you have not spoken otherwise?"
The knight jolted at the words.
Aerys did not release him. His voice, slow and venomous, carried across the tent.
"To speak of the king and the Hand in whispers… to spread such venomous lies… what punishment should that merit, I wonder?"
His purple eyes gleamed as his lips curled into a smile.
"Ser Ilyn Payne."