Chapter 20 – King's Landing
Three days.
The slaughter raged for three whole days. Duskendale ran red with blood; the executioners swung their blades without pause, never once blinking an eye.
Lance himself struck off the head of Denys Darklyn. His severed skull, already beginning to dry in the wind, hung from the city walls.
His wife and the steward—those treacherous lovers—never made it beyond the harbor. A mob of townsfolk recognized them and beat them to death where they stood. By the time their corpses were dragged before Lance, they were little more than mangled heaps.
The people's hatred burned hottest for Denys's foreign wife, Serala of Myr. They ripped out her tongue while she still lived, carved away her breasts and her womanhood, and visited every cruelty they knew upon her body.
Yet to Lance's surprise, many still clung to their love for Denys Darklyn. At the city gates, groups gathered to sing the Seven-Pointed Star, praising the man who had defied the king in the name of the smallfolk's rights.
---
At last, with the breeze against his face and the sound of hooves on the road, Lance reached the outskirts of King's Landing.
He glanced at the phantom panel only he could see—the Rhaegar Targaryen template had reached 80% fusion.
The sheer number of Darklyns and Hollards had been staggering. In a town of scarcely twenty thousand souls, nearly three hundred nobles lived off the fat of the land, demanding comforts far above their station—though few of them had true titles.
Beside him, Ser Barristan the Bold stole glances his way, unable to mask his disquiet. Lance chose to ignore him. His conduct at Duskendale had been cold-blooded even by Westerosi standards. If not for the system halting his progress at 80% and replacing it with some "advanced task," he might as well have slain every last rebel himself.
Even so, after personally trying and beheading dozens, Lance had become the executioners' undisputed champion—the one with the highest tally of kills.
"Ffff—"
He tried to draw in the air of King's Landing to clear his chest of the bloodlust lingering there. Instead, a stench so foul assaulted him that he nearly retched.
"Cough—cough!"
"Gods!" he spat, gagging, "Seven hells, what reeks so badly!?"
The taste clung to his tongue, and no amount of spitting rid him of it.
Barristan chuckled.
"First time in King's Landing?"
"Aye," Lance admitted, glaring at the knight's twitching lips.
"You'll get used to it," Ser Barristan said with a booming laugh, stroking his long, noble beard as though recalling some old jest. Then he rode forward, spreading his arms wide and pointing up at the massive crimson gate before them, its surface carved with dragons, wings unfurled and seeming to writhe in the sunlight.
"Welcome to King's Landing, ser!"
---
"Welcome back to King's Landing, my lords!"
Beneath the Dragon Gate stood a stout, broad man, arms outstretched in greeting.
Lance nudged his horse forward, studying the man from on high. Though they had met but once in council, he remembered the face. He inclined his head politely.
"My thanks for your welcome, Lord Chelsted."
Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin.
On his chest gleamed the sigil of House Chelsted: a crossed mace and silver dagger.
The man visibly relaxed at Lance's courtesy. This newly-made Kingsguard knight had earned a fearsome reputation. In the council chamber itself, he had cut down Ser Ilyn Payne before Tywin Lannister's very eyes. And now word from Duskendale told of butchery and cold resolve. Lance Lot was not a man one trifled with.
Indeed, upon his return, even Lord Tywin Lannister had said aloud: "Lance Lot is the king's mad dog."
Though his palms were damp with sweat, Lord Qarlton Chelsted kept his smile warm and practiced. Perhaps it was the heat of King's Landing, perhaps the heat of politics—but either way, he dared not falter.
"Your deeds at Duskendale have won every man's admiration, ser," Chelsted said smoothly. His tone, tinged with flattery, held no trace of condescension. "To ride alone into danger, to bring His Grace out alive, and then to strike down scores of rebels with your own hand—smallfolk and lords alike now call you Lance the Just."
"Heh…" Lance chuckled softly and glanced sidelong at Barristan Selmy, as if to say: Keep your title of "the Bold." I'll manage without it.
"You flatter me, my lord." Sliding from his saddle, Lance returned Chelsted's courtesy with an easy smile. He was no stranger to the give-and-take of noble politicking. Courtesy costs little, and the man's words made it plain he meant no harm.
"When His Grace and I were held in chains," Lance said, lowering his voice just enough for effect, "the king spoke of you more than once. Lord Chelsted, he said, is the steward I trust above all others. The prosperity of King's Landing rests on his shoulders." He let the words linger, then added, "Had it been you seated in the Hand's chair, the king believes we would have been freed from Duskendale long ago."
Of course, the king had never said such a thing—but there was no way for Chelsted to ask him now.
The Master of Coin's eyes lit with satisfaction. Already favorable toward the young knight, his regard deepened. The two traded pleasantries beneath the Dragon Gate, until even Ser Barristan—no lover of courtly speech—grew faintly nauseated by the honeyed words.
He had thought Lance a kindred spirit: reckless, defiant, unmoved by pomp. Yet here the man stood, smiling and parrying flatteries like any other ambitious knight. Seven save us, Barristan thought. Even this one…
"Ser Lance." Chelsted's tone shifted as the pleasantries waned. His eyes studied the young knight with newfound approval, and for a moment he even thought: Were he not sworn to white, I'd wed my daughter to him in a heartbeat.
Glancing about to ensure no ears were near, Chelsted leaned close and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I hear you slew Richard Lonmouth and Myles Mooton at Duskendale."
Lance did not blink. "Aye. Those two defied the king's law and tormented both highborn and lowborn alike. By His Grace's own authority, I judged them guilty and struck them down."
"Your sense of justice does you honor, ser." Chelsted nodded gravely, but his next words were hushed. "Then you should know this—Prince Rhaegar arrived in the city last night."
Lance's eyes narrowed. Prince Rhaegar…
On the road to King's Landing, Ser Barristan had spoken of him often: heir to the throne, Prince of Dragonstone, son to the king. Yet for half a year of his father's imprisonment, the prince had never once stirred from Dragonstone, save to dispatch Richard Lonmouth with a token force. To all appearances, Rhaegar had cared little whether Aerys lived or died.
But now, mere days after Aerys's return to the capital, the prince had come in person. That was… telling.
Is he here for me?
"My thanks for the warning, my lord," Lance said at last, sincerity in his voice if not in his thoughts.
Chelsted inclined his head. He had no wish to press further—better to plant the seed and let it grow. Too many words left too many weaknesses to be seized upon.
With Chelsted leading the way, the party passed through the Dragon Gate and made for the Red Keep.
"Rhaegar Targaryen…" Lance's gaze swept up toward Aegon's High Hill, where the crimson bricks of Maegor's Holdfast loomed like the open jaws of a dragon. A dangerous light flickered in his eyes as he murmured,
"Whatever game you mean to play, my prince—I'll be waiting."