Chapter 24 – The Murderer
At Prince Rhaegar's command, Tywin Lannister clapped his hands toward the doors.
Neither man spared King Aerys a single glance throughout the exchange. With unspoken agreement, they treated the rightful monarch as though he were no more than air.
Moments later, several soldiers entered the council chamber, clad in black chainmail and draped in heavy golden cloaks. Between them, they ushered in two frightened women.
These were men of the City Watch of King's Landing—better known as the Gold Cloaks, for the thick golden wool they wore upon their shoulders. Their duty was to guard the capital and serve the royal family, carrying out the commands of its members.
In theory, the City Watch answered to the Master of Laws. But in truth, the current holder of that office—Lord Symond Staunton—was a feeble man, too timid to oppose the Hand of the King at council. Were it not for the iron will of Ser Manly Stokeworth, the Watch's commander, the Gold Cloaks would already have fallen fully under Tywin's sway.
Even so, many within their ranks already bent toward the Lord of Casterly Rock.
"Who are these women? And what, Tywin, do you mean by this?"
King Aerys shifted upon the Iron Throne, violet eyes flashing with agitation. His voice betrayed the first quiver of another fit of madness, but the sight of the tall figure of Ser Lance before him, and the hard steel of the throne itself, seemed to steady him.
"Your Grace," Tywin replied evenly, as though Aerys's rasping tone had not grated upon him. "I know nothing of this matter. You should ask Prince Rhaegar. I merely obeyed his command."
Having spoken, he withdrew into silence, washing his hands clean of responsibility.
"That sly old fox…"
Lance frowned, his gaze sliding toward the two women trembling in the hall's center. A fleeting glimmer of surprise—and danger—flashed in his eyes.
He did not know how Tywin had found them, nor for what purpose they had been brought, but he knew well enough—this was aimed at him. The killing of Ser Ilyn Payne at the council still lingered like an unhealed wound. Clearly, Tywin Lannister was not as forgiving as the songs would have him.
And yet… something nagged at him.
Two women stood before him. But should it not have been three? Where was the other?
"Rhaegar!"
The King's cracked voice rang once more from the throne. This time it carried sharp accusation, his violet eyes boring into his heir with suspicion and demand.
In answer to his father's confusion, Rhaegar first adjusted the folds of his black robe. Whatever the circumstance, the prince never failed to preserve his elegance.
Only then did he speak, his voice calm, deliberate.
"Last night, quite by accident, I overheard troubling things—very troubling—about the man who stands before you, Ser Lance Lot."
His words hung heavy in the hall.
"It is plain," Rhaegar went on smoothly, "that this Kingsguard whom you so favor has not merely carried out your commands in Duskendale. No… he has committed other deeds as well. Darker deeds. Deeds most vile."
As he spoke, the prince turned to Lance with a gentle smile, courtly and polite. Yet to Lance, that smile was poison, its charm nothing more than a mask for malice.
In truth, Rhaegar had every advantage a man might wield over women—noble birth, striking beauty, unmatched skill with the sword, and a voice and harp that could melt hearts. It was no wonder that so many highborn maidens dreamed of him.
But the notion, oft repeated in songs, that a few strokes upon his silver-stringed harp could reduce men to silence and women to tears—this, Lance found hard to credit. A prince's very breath drew praise, and Rhaegar was already well-schooled in music. Lance, having heard him play firsthand, knew the truth of it.
"Other deeds?" Aerys frowned, violet eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the two women trembling in the hall.
They looked worn and hollow-eyed, as though robbed of sleep for many nights. Their cLotes were plain but neat, yet their eyes were red with weeping, their throats and necks marred by faint bruises.
And both stared at Lance with a look that mingled dread and hatred.
The King's breath caught. Could it be…?
A suspicion seized him, widening his gaze. No need for questions—the truth, to him, was plain. Lance had wronged these common-born women.
Had he not once already been imprisoned for an escapade in a brothel?
No—he must be shielded.
The Kingsguard swore vows never to wed or father children, yet all knew well enough that men were not made of stone. The sole exception was Ser Barristan the Bold, whose unyielding honor had become near legend. Though desired by half the women of King's Landing, Barristan Selmy had never drawn whisper of scandal. It was beyond belief.
But Barristan was only one man. Others, when needs grew strong, found their way to the pillow houses, or kept quiet mistresses. The realm turned a blind eye. After all, the Kingsguard were still men—not eunuchs like the Unsullied, shorn root and stem from boyhood.
And yet, in his fevered mind, Aerys decided—if these women dared accuse Lance of rape, they would burn. Burn by wildfire!
His fingers clenched upon the Iron Throne's armrest, reopening the half-healed cut in his palm. A thin line of blood welled fresh.
"Speak, Maris," Rhaegar commanded. His head was held high, his smile radiant as though kindly, but every word carried the weight of a prince born to command.
"Tell His Grace what you told me. I am certain the wise and just Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, will see justice done."
The woman called Maris stepped forward, trembling so hard her teeth nearly chattered. Then, with a sudden drop, she fell to her knees. Her coarse skirts shifted, baring the swell of her breast.
"I am Maris, from Duskendale, Your Grace."
Never before had she stood before such great lords. Fear and awe shook her to her bones, but her voice rang steady.
"Why are you here, Maris?" Aerys asked, his tone feigning gentleness though a flicker of killing fire burned in his purple eyes.
Once, before his fall, he had been a king of promise—temperate, even kind to the lowborn. He had dreamed even of raising a new Wall with Lord Rickard Stark to shield the realm from foes unknown.
But that was long ago. Bitterness had soured him, child after child had died, and the cheers for Tywin Lannister at the tourney of Lannisport had twisted his pride into envy. His friendship with his Hand had rotted into rancor. His descent had begun in Duskendale, when his stubborn folly led him to months of imprisonment.
Aerys pressed his temples with his fingers, his thoughts blurring. The hall wavered before his eyes. When his vision cleared, the woman was already weeping, pouring out her plea.
"We could not endure our lives any longer, and so we came to King's Landing. We beg Your Grace for justice. Let the murderer be punished as he deserves!"
"What?" The king started, coughing lightly, his gaze vacant. "Murderer? What murderer?"
Had she not come to accuse of rape? Where had this turn come from?
"That man!"
Maris lifted a shaking arm and pointed at Lance. Her face twisted with rage, voice shrill with venom.
"He is no Ser Lance Lot. He is no knight at all! He is a blacksmith who lived across from me, a bastard without name or father! Four nights past, he broke into my home. He butchered my husband and two knights who stood in his way!"