Chapter 56 – The Drowned Prince Rhaegar (Part II)
"Whoa... what a lively crowd."
At the head of the procession, Ser Lance allowed himself a faint, wry smile as he gazed over the sea of nobles flooding the hall.
Truth be told, he had no interest in this kind of tedious nonsense. Balls, feasts, ceremonies—he'd gladly trade them all for a good spar with Barristan Selmy, sword in hand, Dawn gleaming under the torches.
But King Aerys had personally insisted—this grand celebration was held in his honor, and attendance was non-negotiable.
To make matters worse, in recent weeks tales of the "Fearless Knight of the Kingsguard" had spread through King's Landing like wildfire:
stories of Lance single-handedly defeating scores of dark knights, tales that grew taller with each retelling.
Some even whispered that his swordsmanship surpassed the Sword of the Morning and that his valor outshone even "Barristan the Bold."
And yet, this same supposedly invincible Ser Lance was now silently cursing the spectacle before him.
"Good gods… this medieval ball is basically a massive public orgy!"
He swallowed hard, his composure faltering. Before the blades of his enemies, he'd never known fear—
but now, he didn't even know where to look.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a drunken noble urinating on his fallen companion's head.
The man seemed half-aware of his actions, trying to be discreet—
except his forehead was practically touching the poor fellow's cheek.
I can't even watch this anymore.
Lance turned away—only to be greeted by a wave of rippling decadence.
"Are you kidding me?! I'm a knight, not some depraved voyeur!"
Had it not been for that damned "advancement quest," he wouldn't have come at all!
He gulped audibly, forcing his gaze back toward the center of the hall.
The move didn't go unnoticed—a voluptuous noblewoman sighed regretfully when his eyes passed her by, and with a teasing smirk, she lifted her gown a little higher, earning a chorus of sighs from the men nearby.
---
"Your Grace."
"Father."
At the far end of the hall, Princess Elia and Prince Rhaegar both stepped forward and bowed in unison before the Iron Throne.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized—graceful, harmonious.
But Elia's dark, almond eyes kept stealing glances toward the white-armored knight behind them.
Queen Rhaella, meanwhile, sat motionless in her seat. Crimson wine dripped from her goblet, soaking into her dress,
but she did not react—not even a twitch.
"Your Grace… Your Grace…"
Only when Lance leaned down and whispered softly several times did she stir from her trance.
"You're soaked, Your Grace."
"By the Seven!"
Her face remained calm, but her heart was in turmoil.
She dared not show it, yet her eyes trembled with disbelief as they fell upon the knight's face.
The last time she'd seen him, the lighting had been dim, his features indistinct.
But now—under the glow of chandeliers—those blue eyes, that sharp jawline,
and even that shoulder-length black hair—
It was as if she were staring at a ghost.
"Too alike… far too alike…"
She bit her lip, fighting to keep her voice steady.
The resemblance was uncanny. Every inch of him screamed of that man—
Duncan the Small, her lost uncle, the once-beloved prince of House Targaryen.
"Uncle Duncan…" she nearly gasped aloud.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to contain the flood of emotion.
Why had Aerys chosen someone who looked so much like him to stand by his side?
Had the years dulled his memory so completely that he no longer remembered Duncan's face?
Rhaella's mind swirled with questions, but in the end, she said nothing.
"I… I need to change," she whispered.
Terrified her husband might notice the turmoil in her eyes,
she turned and hurried away, her captain of the guard close behind.
From start to finish, she hadn't exchanged a single word with the King.
---
"Humph."
Watching his queen retreat as though fleeing from him, Aerys II Targaryen merely let out a cold snort.
Their marriage had been forged by duty, not affection—both of them knew that.
Love had no place in the union of dragons; only obligation.
He'd long grown used to her coldness.
In fact, in his darker moments, he'd grown to resent it.
Ever since the incident at Duskendale, his mind had twisted further.
Each time his attempts to rekindle their bond failed, his temper worsened—and when the King of the Seven Kingdoms felt powerless, he would assert his "authority" in the only way he still could.
And tonight, watching her flee from him again, the Mad King's lips curled into a mirthless smile.
King Aerys paid no mind to his wife's cold indifference. He moved straight to his throne and sat down, fixing his sharp gaze on Princess Elia Martell with an oddly cheerful tone.
"Heh… you look far better than before, little girl."
"I still remember the day you returned to King's Landing," he said. "You looked so frail and miserable that even Lord Lucerys—whose heart is said to be harder than Valyrian steel—was moved to tears."
Elia bowed her head gracefully.
"I'm much better now, Your Grace. Thank you for your concern."
With that, she lifted the hem of her gown slightly and curtsied. Then, turning her head toward the knight beside the King, her lips curved into a radiant smile.
"Speaking of which, I haven't had the chance to properly thank Ser Lance Lot yet," she said, her tone soft and warm. "If not for his courage that day, I fear we would have been slain by those savage brigands."
Her pale face flushed faintly, and her gaze lingered boldly on Lance—utterly unashamed, full of the fiery confidence typical of Dornish women.
Her bright, forward manner stood in sharp contrast to how she'd behaved with Prince Rhaegar earlier. Watching from the side, the silver-haired prince inhaled deeply, a faint pang of jealousy twisting in his chest.
I was the one who arrived first…
"Your words honor me, Princess," Lance replied calmly, showing no sign of fluster.
He bowed slightly, voice humble but steady.
"The success of that rescue owed far more to His Majesty's wisdom and the valiant efforts of my brothers-in-arms than to any personal skill of mine. After all, no knight—no matter how strong—can stand alone against an army. Unity is the true strength of the Kingsguard."
"Well said!"
The King laughed heartily, clapping his hands in delight. Even his fellow white knights cast Lance admiring glances.
Aerys, looking at him, could hardly contain his satisfaction.
Who would've thought that the man I knighted so casually in the dungeons of Duskendale would prove so loyal, capable, and sharp-minded? If only I'd met him sooner…
While the King was lost in that thought, Princess Elia found herself studying Lance anew. His modesty, his calm composure—it all struck her deeply.
In Dorne, noble suitors had once nearly trampled down Sunspear's gates for the chance to propose to her. Yet all of them were arrogant peacocks, eyes high and hearts empty. None possessed the quiet grace that this knight carried so effortlessly.
The more she looked, the more she liked what she saw.
But Lance seemed oddly distracted. When the music rose again in the hall, his gaze drifted toward the bards, lingering on the silver-stringed harp at their center.
"Ahem."
Rhaegar, noticing Elia's growing attention, felt a prick of irritation. He stepped forward, his tall figure deliberately blocking her line of sight.
"Ser Lance," he said, following the knight's gaze toward the musicians. "Do you enjoy the harp?"
"Ah—what?"
Snapped from his thoughts, Lance blinked in surprise before offering a sheepish smile.
"Well, Your Highness," he said, shrugging slightly, "I was born the son of a poor blacksmith. We could barely afford food, let alone music lessons. But I still remember—when I was ten, a troupe from the Reach came to Duskendale. For three days they played in the square. And when I first saw the harp in that bard's hands… gods, I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. One pluck of those strings, and the sound seemed to lift my soul."
His voice softened with nostalgia.
"I swore then that one day I'd save enough to buy a harp of my own."
He paused, then chuckled ruefully.
"But… harps are far more expensive than I ever imagined. To this day, that dream remains out of reach."
The sincerity in his tone tugged at every heart in the hall. Both the King and the Princess looked at him with undisguised sympathy.
"I never imagined you had such a humble childhood, Ser," said Elia softly, dabbing the corner of her eye with a silk kerchief. "To rise so high from such hardship—truly remarkable."
"Buy one!" Aerys suddenly roared, slapping the armrest of his throne. "Buy a hundred harps if you wish! I'll summon the finest musicians in the realm to teach you, my boy! Remember this—whatever you desire, your King shall stand behind you!"
The King's tone was almost fatherly, indulgent to the point of tenderness.
Rhaegar's jaw tightened.
When has he ever spoken to me that way?
His blood boiled.
Lance had stolen the moment yet again, the King's approval turning entirely toward him.
Forcing down his anger, Rhaegar smiled thinly.
"I didn't realize you had such an ear for music, Ser Lance. As it happens, I'm rather fond of the harp myself. If everyone is willing, I'd be honored to play a song for the gathering."
"Truly?"
Elia's eyes lit up at once. Back in Dorne, she'd heard the tales—that Prince Rhaegar's harp could make even the coldest hearts weep. At the Eyrie, he'd once performed a ballad of love and doom that moved every woman present to tears.
"Of course, my dear princess," Rhaegar replied smoothly, flashing a courtly smile.
He bowed to the room and turned toward the stage.
"Watch closely, Ser Lance Lot," he murmured under his breath as his expression hardened, pride and resentment flickering in his violet eyes. "Soon you'll see what it means to be the true son of the dragon—the last scion of House Targaryen."
But as he strode away, he didn't see the faint smirk curling at the corner of Lance's lips.
You asked for this, Prince Rhaegar, he thought. Don't blame me when it backfires.