Chapter 13 – The Execution
The moment Aerys called his name aloud, every eye in the council chamber turned toward the tall, gaunt knight.
Ser Ilyn Payne, captain of Tywin's household guard, had never known such attention—certainly not from the full weight of the royal court. And if given the choice, he would have gladly done without it.
"Y-Your Grace…" he stammered.
"Look at me!"
Ilyn swallowed hard, about to speak in his defense, but Aerys' voice cracked like a whip, cutting him short.
"Look into my eyes, ser knight!" the king barked again, harsher this time.
"'The king is nothing more than a puppet on the Iron Throne. If Lord Tywin wished it, he could kick that ugly arse aside and seat himself in an instant.' Those were your words, were they not? Speak! And if I've missed a line, by all means—add it!"
Sweat poured down Ilyn's brow.
Yes, he had spoken those words—boastfully, drunkenly, long ago, when the king was still imprisoned at Duskendale. He had never dreamt such idle braggadocio would return to condemn him.
How in the Seven Hells had Aerys heard of it?
Ilyn's whole body trembled. His thoughts raced back to that night, desperately trying to recall who had been present, who might have betrayed him. In despair he turned his eyes toward his lord—Tywin Lannister—silently begging for salvation.
"Is it true, Ser Ilyn?"
To his horror, Tywin did not intercede on his behalf. Instead, he stepped forward, emerald gaze sharp as a blade.
"Did you say such words?"
"My… my lord, I…"
Under Tywin's piercing stare, Ilyn Payne could not force a single coherent denial past his lips. He longed to cry out that it was a lie, but with the king repeating his insult verbatim, and the full council as witness, the courage to brazen it out deserted him.
His silence was damning. The chamber understood at once—Aerys had not erred.
"Unforgivable!"
It was Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself, who spoke first, fury in his voice as he strode forward and dropped to one knee before the king.
"Your Grace, grant me the honor of punishing this insolent cur with my own hand. The dignity of House Targaryen cannot be mocked!"
"Indeed!" thundered Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, rising to add his own outrage.
"The rule of House Targaryen must not be sullied. Such a man deserves no mercy! Gouge out his eyes, hack off his limbs, and throw the carcass to the swine!"
"Kill him!" others roared.
"Kill him!"
Their voices rose in a frenzy, the entire council baying for Payne's blood. Only Tywin remained silent, turning his gaze instead upon the king.
Aerys met those green eyes and bared his teeth in a crooked, triumphant grin.
"Hmph." Tywin's nostrils flared, his only reply a cold snort.
"Silence," he commanded.
The word was softly spoken, yet it carried a gravity that quelled the entire hall at once.
"What is this, Lord Tywin?" Aerys sneered, tone dripping with scorn. "Do you mean to shield your dog?"
Instead of bristling, Tywin inclined his head politely and turned to face another lord at the table, his gaze fixed like a spear.
"If I recall correctly, under the laws of the realm, those who spread falsehoods are punished by removal of the tongue. Is that not so, Lord Symond?"
Caught off guard, Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Laws, faltered. He would have loved nothing more than to see Payne executed—to watch Tywin squirm under his king's wrath. But Tywin's gaze bore down like an executioner's axe. He dared not lie.
"You… remember correctly, my lord. That is indeed the punishment prescribed." He hesitated. "But—"
"Good."
Tywin cut him off before he could add another word. Turning back to Ilyn Payne, he extended his hand.
"Your dagger, ser knight."
"L-Lord…" Ilyn's lips trembled. He wanted to beg, to plead—but knew better. To lose a tongue was a small price compared to losing his life.
With shaking hands, he drew the dagger from his boot and surrendered it to Tywin.
"Wait!"
Aerys lurched to his feet, wild with fury.
"That wretch insulted House Targaryen itself! And you would settle it with a missing tongue? You dare?"
"The law is clear, Your Grace." Tywin's reply was calm, unflinching. "And since it was my man who transgressed, I shall deliver the sentence myself, in deference to the crown."
"No!" Aerys shrieked, face twisting in madness. He jabbed a finger at Ilyn Payne, spittle flying.
"I want him dead! Dead, do you hear me? Burn him—burn him alive!"
Before his ravings could spiral further, a firm hand clamped over his mouth.
"Calm yourself, old man," Lance muttered harshly, forcing Aerys back into his chair.
The entire chamber froze in shock. Someone had dared lay hands on the king—call him old man to his face. Not even Ser Gerold Hightower would have risked such sacrilege.
And yet, instead of lashing out, Aerys stilled beneath Lance' grip. Slowly, his breathing eased. His violet eyes remained fixed, seething, upon Tywin with the dagger in hand.
"Leave it to me," Lance whispered at his ear, giving the king a reassuring look. If this ended with Tywin dispensing a token punishment, Aerys' authority would be shredded before the court. That could not be allowed.
Striding forward, he stopped before Tywin, extending his palm.
"By the king's command, I shall carry out the sentence."
"I heard no such command," Tywin said coolly, eyes narrowing as he studied the younger man's boldness. But to his surprise, the king immediately croaked out in support.
"Ser Lance Lot speaks with my voice! His word is my decree!"
The words rang out clear. And in that moment, Tywin Lannister recognized the threat.
The king was ever suspicious by nature—so much so that even Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy could never fully earn his trust. Yet today, against all expectation, he had entrusted himself wholly to a stranger.
And all because this man had spirited him out of the dungeons of Duskendale?
No. It couldn't be that simple.
Though reluctant, Tywin Lannister had no choice but to yield before the king's command in front of the court. Wordlessly, he reversed the dagger in his hand and pressed it into Ser Lance Lot's palm.
"Ser Lance Lot, isn't it?" Tywin's voice was calm, almost courteous.
"When you strike, make it swift. Ser Ilyn Payne may be about to lose his tongue, but he still has hands and feet to serve me. A Hand of the King has much to do, and I cannot afford to lose his labor for long."
Then, almost as an afterthought, Tywin added with a faint smile, "And of course, I have always admired men of courage. The Lannisters never stint when it comes to rewarding such men."
The words were smooth, but Lance Lot heard the iron beneath them—half threat, half temptation, gilded with the promise of Lannister gold. For was it not said, half in jest, that even Tywin's bowels passed nuggets of gold? To House Lannister, anything bought with coin was the cheapest price of all.
"You needn't worry."
Lance grinned as he accepted the blade, his tone as easy as if they were speaking of wine instead of blood. "My hand is always clean and precise. If you doubt it, ask Ser Symon Hollard back in Duskendale—though he may not be in any condition to answer."
Without waiting for Tywin's reply, he brushed past him and strode toward Ilyn Payne.
"Open your mouth, ser."
Ilyn swallowed hard, casting one last desperate glance at Tywin, as if begging for reprieve.
"Do as Ser Lance Lot commands," Tywin said coldly from behind. His words were edged with meaning. "The law of the realm is clear: those who spread slander shall lose their tongues. Those who murder… shall pay with their lives."
Assured by Tywin's promise, Ilyn's trembling lips parted.
"Wider… wider still." Lance Lot's voice was mocking, amused. He peered into Payne's gullet until he could see the man's very tonsils, then gave a satisfied nod.
And then, in one lightning movement, he struck.
Schkk!
The dagger plunged through Ilyn Payne's mouth, the steel bursting out the back of his skull. With a brutal twist, Lance Lot dragged the blade sideways across the man's cheek, then reached in with his free hand.
Before anyone could react, half of Ilyn Payne's head hung loose from his neck, his body collapsing to the floor in a crimson heap.
"Oh dear. My apologies."
Lance Lot flicked away the ragged scrap of tongue he had torn free and turned to face the stunned assembly. His voice was light, almost playful.
"Perhaps I used a touch too much force. But then—what's the difference? A tongue's a tongue. One way or another, it's gone."
He shrugged, his gaze sliding toward Tywin.
"A pity, though. Ser Ilyn Payne won't be serving you any longer, my lord Hand. But with the wealth of House Lannister, I'm sure finding another captain of guards won't be much trouble… will it?"