Chapter 25 – The Hand Severed
Maris's accusations hung in the air. Aerys's fingers twitched upon the Iron Throne, violet eyes narrowing on the broad white-clad back before him. To the astonishment of those watching, there was even a trace of admiration in the king's gaze.
For Aerys did not despise lustful men. Once, he had been one himself.
At nineteen, he had taken the crown—a young king, bright with passion and vigor, and endlessly curious about the beauty of highborn maidens across the Seven Kingdoms. Though wed, by tradition, to his sister Rhaella, that had never kept him from dallying with other noblewomen.
Only after his son Jaehaerys died in the cradle had grief driven him to madness. In a fit of piety—or guilt—he had executed every mistress he kept, swearing before the Seven never again to share his bed with any save his queen.
But bedding another man's wife, then slaughtering the husband and silencing witnesses? That was…
Glorious.
A thought no sane king would ever have. But this was Aerys II Targaryen, who could never be read by the measures of other men.
"You have nothing to say, Ser Lance Lot?" Aerys croaked. "Or should I name you more truly… Lance the Smith?"
In the center of the hall, Rhaegar stood tall and graceful, his black robes immaculate, his indigo eyes locked on the impassive knight. A flicker of fury passed across the prince's face.
He took a step forward, voice sharp with accusation.
"You donned a false name and deceived the king, worming your way close to him. At Duskendale, you committed vile atrocities—murdering two valiant knights, butchering common folk without mercy! I, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, hereby name you traitor and—"
"Silence!"
The shout cut him short, leaving his words like a blade snapped mid-swing. Rhaegar faltered, his head snapping up in disbelief.
Lance had drawn his sword. His gauntleted hand leveled the point at the prince himself, his face blazing with righteous fury.
"Do you seek the throne, Rhaegar Targaryen? Do you mean to usurp your father's crown?"
The words struck the hall like thunder.
Rhaegar froze, lips parting, yet no sound came forth. Usurp the throne? He had said no such thing. Why would he need to? He was heir. Once his father died, the throne was his by right. What sense was there in usurpation?
"Watch your tongue, boy!"
Before the prince could gather his wits, Ser Oswell Whent stepped forward, his voice harsh and scornful. No "ser" for Lance now—only boy, as if his guilt were already proven.
"We speak here of your crimes—slaying innocents, murdering knights in cold blood. Do not think to deflect by slandering the prince. No lord in this hall will stomach such insolence!"
He spat on the ground at Lance's feet.
"To don the white cloak beside us—what a mockery! You have shamed the Kingsguard, shamed the honor of knighthood itself. You are no knight. You are nothing."
His anger stoked the chamber. All eyes turned upon Lance.
And beneath that withering scrutiny, the white knight at last replied—his voice low, deliberate, cutting through the hall with iron calm.
"Honor, Ser Oswell? You dare speak of honor to me?"
His gaze hardened, a mocking smile flickering at the edge of his lips.
"You have no place to weigh me in that balance. None of you do."
With narrowed eyes, Ser Lance swept his gaze across the hall, letting it rest a heartbeat on each man, each lord, each white cloak.
"Not only you."
Lance ignored Oswell's gnashing teeth. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he gave a cold snort.
"None of you here," he declared, his voice echoing through the hall, "are worthy to even speak the word honor before me!"
The chamber erupted in shock. Even Tywin Lannister could not help but cast Lance a look of genuine surprise.
He had always known this knight was unyielding—after all, Lance had slain Ser Ilyn Payne before Tywin's very eyes without hesitation.
But to brazenly utter such arrogance before four Kingsguard at once, including their Lord Commander—Barristan the Bold himself—this was beyond what Tywin had expected.
"You dare spew such madness?!"
Humiliated before so many, Ser Oswell Whent could contain himself no longer. He drew his sword once again, pointing it at Lance before the Iron Throne. His voice thundered with rage:
"You wretched, baseborn cur! To soil the sacred name of honor before these great lords—unforgivable!
Mark my words! Trial by combat or not, I, Oswell Whent, will see your head struck from your shoulders!"
He spoke with righteous fury, posturing as though he were the very embodiment of knightly valor, his blade gleaming as it leveled at Lance.
"Twice."
Lance's eyelids lifted lazily, his blue eyes meeting the sword's edge without a trace of fear.
"What do you mean, twice—"
Before Oswell could finish, one of the white-cloaked Kingsguard stepped forward, steel rasping as his blade left its scabbard. He advanced toward Oswell without hesitation.
"Hold, boy!"
It was Arthur Dayne, Dawn in hand, striding forward to intercept Lance. But before his path could close, his view was filled with another flash of white—
Barristan Selmy.
Clang!
Steel rang out as the two greatest knights in Westeros clashed before the Iron Throne itself.
"Stand aside, Ser Barristan!" Arthur growled, teeth clenched, his pride unwilling to yield. Though confident against any foe, he knew better than to underestimate the man before him—Selmy's strength was proven, time and again, in the crucible of war.
"We've never crossed blades before, Ser Arthur."
To Dayne's surprise, Barristan did not yield. His eyes shone bright, alight with battle's fire.
"And I have longed to test the swordplay of House Dayne."
On the other side, Jon Connington unsheathed his own sword, moving to intervene—only to be barred by yet another white cloak.
"Show no insolence before the King!"
The words rumbled like thunder, freezing Connington where he stood. Raising his eyes, he met the piercing glare of the White Bull, Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Steel clashed, voices roared, and in moments the council chamber dissolved into chaos. Yet curiously, neither king nor Hand made any move to stop it. Aerys sat motionless on his throne, watching as though the bloodshed were but a spectacle.
Rhaegar quickly gathered Lady Maris and her daughter, shielding them to one side—a picture, almost, of a husband protecting his family.
Pycelle, as ever, had already slunk into a corner, feigning invisibility.
"Twice, Oswell Whent!"
Lance's voice cut through the din like thunder. With the greatsword gifted by the White Bull in hand, he strode forward, his killing intent so thick it made Oswell's blood run cold.
Oswell rushed him desperately, blade flashing— shhh!
But Lance swayed aside with effortless grace, as if he had foreseen the strike.
Panic clawed at Oswell's heart. He pressed harder, pouring every ounce of strength into his swings. Yet Lance parried each one with fluid precision, his blade turning aside every attack as though swatting at gnats.
Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
The calm, predatory look in those blue eyes… it was the same feeling as standing before Prince Rhaegar himself.
In that instant of doubt, Lance's armored boot crashed into Oswell's chest, the force denting steel and hurling him back.
Then, before the eyes of the court, Lance raised his sword high and brought it down with merciless strength—
SHHH!
Oswell's scream tore through the hall as his sword arm flew free, severed at the elbow, landing in the chamber with a sickening thud.
All around, knights and lords froze. The clamor of battle died as men lowered their blades, stunned beyond words.
Lance seized Oswell by the hair, dragging him like a dog, and flung him before the Iron Throne. The once-proud Kingsguard could only lift his head in agony, eyes pleading toward the man he had sworn to protect.
But King Aerys's violet gaze was as cold as ice.
"I warned him once, Your Grace," Lance said, kneeling on one knee, his greatsword planted in the floor. His voice rang clear across the hall.
"He drew steel before you not once, but twice. An insult to the very dignity of the Iron Throne!
Out of respect for Your Majesty's mercy, I spared his life, and only took his sword hand—as a lesson to any who would dare show you such disrespect."
"You have done well, Ser Lance."
To everyone's astonishment, Aerys rose from the Iron Throne. For the first time in months, his hunched figure seemed to stand tall, pride swelling in his chest.
He stepped forward, passing the fallen Whent without even a glance, and rested his hand upon Lance's helm. His cracked lips curved into a smile.
A loyal son… a true knight…
The thought flickered in his mind. Then his gaze shifted toward his own son, Rhaegar, and the faint smile curdled into scorn.
Oswell's anguished cries broke the silence once more. Aerys turned toward Rhaegar with a snarl, his finger stabbing the air.
"Pick it up."
The prince blinked. "Father—"
"I said pick it up!" the Mad King screamed. "Pick up his hand!"
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