Chapter 22 – Dawn
Lance furrowed his brow, exchanging a quick glance with Ser Barristan before striding through the bronze-and-oak doors.
A long carpet stretched from the entrance all the way to the throne. At the far end rose the narrow steps, upon which sat a grotesque monstrosity of a chair—thousands of blades hammered and twisted together into what men called the Iron Throne. To Lance's eyes, it was nothing more than a spiked, jagged heap of blackened steel.
The king sat upon it now, flailing his arms in agitation, hurling curses down at the men below. With each reckless movement, curved blades sliced at his skin, leaving fresh gashes across his body.
The sight made Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, visibly anxious, yet without the king's leave, even he dared not intervene. The other two white knights present in the hall fared no better, standing rooted to their places, unwilling to risk Aerys's wrath.
"Seven hells," Lance swore under his breath. I bled and fought to drag you out of Duskendale alive, and now you'll let yourself die impaled on your own damned chair?
Jaw tight, he strode forward, his voice ringing out across the hall:
"Your Grace!"
"Aah—Lance!" At the sound of his name, King Aerys grew even more frantic. His hands beat against the throne's arms as tears welled in his eyes. "You've returned… you've returned!" he muttered, as if seeing not a knight, but a long-lost son.
Yet every movement only drew more blood as the throne's cruel edges carved into him again and again.
Before the watching court, Lance did not hesitate. He pressed forward through the narrow channel, steel scraping steel as jagged blades screeched across his white armor, even sparking as they bit against him.
He looked upon the king's torn, bleeding form and cursed inwardly. What kind of madman designed a throne like this? No wonder he's half-crazed already.
And the cuts—does no one here worry about infection? About rot?
For a moment, Lance almost pitied the man. Here he sat, bleeding upon his own throne, and not a single soul offered him comfort. Madness seemed almost a mercy.
With a sigh, and under a hundred pairs of watching eyes, the white knight stretched out his arms and lifted the king bodily from the Iron Throne.
And most shocking of all—Aerys did not resist. He gave no angry commands, no shrieks of defiance. Instead, he only leaned into Lance's strength, smiling faintly, almost peacefully, as if at last the cruel chair had released him from torment.
That familiar feeling… so safe.
"You there!"
Under a hundred astonished gazes, Ser Lance descended the steps with long, steady strides, setting King Aerys gently upon the floor. He beckoned impatiently toward a stooped old man standing slack-jawed in the hall.
Aerys, once released, wore an oddly wistful look in his violet eyes—as if he preferred being carried.
"Arch—Archmaester…" the old man stammered as he shuffled forward, bent back curving even further in an unconscious bow toward the white knight.
"Grand Maester Pycelle, isn't it?" Lance asked flatly. "See to His Grace's wounds. At this rate, the throne will kill him before any usurper does."
The maester bobbed his head, beard trembling, and set to work. For all his trembling hands and frail demeanor, Pycelle proved efficient enough—rolling up his sleeves and producing an endless array of jars, vials, and salves from the depths of his voluminous robes until they were stacked neatly at his side.
Seven save us, Lance thought with a trace of dry humor. If I hadn't known his true game, I'd swear he was little more than a kindly old healer. Who would ever suspect this tottering crow would outlive half the realm's lions and wolves alike?
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"You are Ser Lance Lot?"
The words came not from the maester but from the tall figure at the center of the hall.
He was striking—tall and fair, with silver hair falling loose to his shoulders, though his eyes gleamed not with Aerys's fevered purple but the deep indigo of pure Valyria. Clad in a flowing black robe of Targaryen tradition rather than armor, Prince Rhaegar radiated melancholy like a cloak. Behind him stood three knights—two in white and one in sable.
Even without an introduction, Lance knew exactly who he faced.
"Your Highness." He bowed low in a knight's salute, but rose swiftly, hand resting on his sword hilt as he placed himself squarely before the king, posture as sharp and vigilant as any sworn Kingsguard on duty.
Rhaegar's gaze lingered, shadowed and intent, his sorrowful air deepening. He was every inch the "Prince Who Was Born in Grief."
And Lance recalled the story whispered through the realm: how on the night of Rhaegar's birth, King Aegon V had summoned all his kin to Summerhall, hoping with the aid of pyromancers and wildfire to hatch dragon eggs and restore House Targaryen's glory. Instead came only fire and ruin—Aegon himself, his son Prince Duncan the Small, and Ser Duncan the Tall of the Kingsguard perishing in the inferno.
That calamity had paved the way for Jaehaerys II… and then, far too soon, for Aerys. In truth, the Targaryens had always been short-lived—seventeen kings in barely two centuries, most driven to madness as surely as moths to flame. Perhaps two hundred years of brothers marrying sisters was bound to twist more than just their minds, Lance mused darkly.
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"You! So you're Lance Lot!"
The shout came from behind Rhaegar. One of the white knights stepped forward, face flushed with fury.
"You murdered Ser Richard Lonmouth and Ser Myles Mooton!" Ser Oswell Whent all but spat the words, ripping his sword free and leveling it toward Lance's face.
"Draw your blade! I, Ser Oswell Whent, challenge you to single combat!"
Lance's eyes narrowed. Ah, so the so-called Kingsguard finds his courage only when it comes to avenging "special friends." His gaze flicked to Rhaegar—who merely stood silent, making no effort to restrain his knight. Behind the prince, the other white knight rested his great pale blade on the floor, a mocking smile curling his lips as if waiting to be amused.
"Enough," Lance snapped, stepping forward. His breastplate pressed against Oswell's sword, forcing the steel back with sheer weight of will. His tone was sharp, commanding, as though scolding a green recruit.
"To bare steel in the king's hall—before His Grace himself—is no act of a Kingsguard knight. Sheathe your blade, ser, before you shame the white cloak you wear."
His blue eyes blazed with such unflinching resolve that Ser Oswell faltered, retreating step by step beneath his pressure.
Only when a firm hand gripped Oswell's shoulder did he halt.
"Steady your step, ser," came a lilting, careless voice.
A pale-haired knight leaned lazily forward, violet eyes glimmering with amusement beneath his white helm.
"I am certain Ser Oswell meant no harm. Surely, he wished only to demonstrate his swordsmanship before His Grace."
The words carried no threat, yet they rang with an authority that made Oswell swallow hard. And just like that, with a shrug and a smile, Ser Arthur Dayne had smoothed over what might have been branded treason.
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