Chapter 66 – My Name… Is Lance Lot!
"Rhaeseryon Targaryen!"
Queen Rhaella's voice rang through the cavern, clear as a silver bell.
The name struck Lance like a thunderbolt. His pupils contracted sharply — his breath hitched.
He wasn't a fool. Even if he had never heard that name before, even if no one had ever whispered it in his ear, the events of the past few days — the strange glances, the muttered comparisons, the king's erratic behavior — all began to fall into place.
And now, that name… confirmed what he had already begun to suspect.
Still, he forced his expression into calm neutrality, his tone clipped and guarded.
"I don't understand what you mean, Your Grace."
Though his mind was racing, he refused to show it. No matter what truth the queen intended to reveal, she had lured him here in secret — and that alone meant he couldn't let his guard down.
Never trust royalty. That was one rule he intended to keep.
Rhaella smiled faintly, unfazed by his wariness.
"Of course you don't understand, Rhaeseryon…" she said softly. "How could you? A Targaryen prince, abandoned as an infant in a Duskendale smithy, raised by commoners who never knew what flowed in your veins."
Her voice trembled slightly as she went on, her violet eyes glistening.
"Who would have believed that a true-born heir of royal blood would spend his youth sweating over iron and coal, living like a peasant…"
A wistful smile touched her lips — and her gaze, as it lingered on his face, softened with something almost maternal.
Then she murmured, half to herself:
"You look so much like him…"
Lance's brow furrowed.
"Him?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Her smile deepened.
"Yes. Duncan Targaryen."
Lance's eyes narrowed. "The same Duncan you mentioned before?"
"The very same," she said, her voice quivering now with emotion. "Prince Duncan Targaryen — son of King Aegon the Fifth. Your father."
The words hit like a hammer blow.
Rhaella took a trembling step forward, as if to touch his face — but Lance instinctively stepped back.
"Your Grace, words will do," he said dryly.
He had to admit — the queen, even in her thirties, was still radiant, her silver hair gleaming under the torchlight. But he was no fool. He had no interest in indulging the whims of a woman whose husband was still the King of Westeros.
Sure, he'd flirted with the Lannister girl — but that had been calculated, not sentimental. There was gold in that family, and gold meant power.
By contrast, this? This was dangerous.
Especially when that "mad brother-king" trusted him as one of his own.
Rhaella froze mid-step, clearly caught off guard by his withdrawal.
"You mean to say Duncan Targaryen was my father?"
Lance's tone was cold now — suspicious. "Then I suppose that makes me his bastard?"
He gave a mocking smile. "In the Crownlands, that would make my name Waters, wouldn't it?"
His voice was sharp as steel, carrying none of the awe one might expect from a man learning he was born of kings.
Because he knew what bastards meant in Westeros. They were reminders of lust and shame, branded by geography — Snow, Sand, Stone, Rivers, Flowers.
And no matter where they came from, they were never meant to inherit anything but contempt.
Rhaella's lips parted. "No… Rhaeseryon—"
"Call me Lance. Lance Lot," he interrupted, tone flat.
The queen faltered, the name hanging between them like a wall of ice.
Before she could speak again, another voice broke the silence.
"You are not a bastard, Prince Rhaeseryon."
Both turned toward the sound.
From the shadows at the edge of the cavern, Bonifer Hasty stepped into the torchlight — solemn, weathered, and reverent. His gray eyes shone with conviction.
"No, my prince," he said, bowing deeply. "You are no bastard."
Lance frowned, tension flickering in his shoulders. "Explain yourself, septon."
Bonifer took a slow breath.
"Your father was Prince Duncan Targaryen. Your mother… was Jennie of Oldstones — a commoner, yes, but beloved by all who met her."
"Jennie…" Lance echoed quietly.
Though he was not truly the man who bore this body, something deep within him — some vestige of the soul that once lived here — stirred faintly at the name.
Mother.
It was a word that carried weight, even across worlds.
Seeing the shift in his expression, Bonifer continued gently.
"She was a simple woman, but beautiful — with soft brown hair and a light step, graceful as a forest spirit. Your father loved her deeply. So deeply that he renounced the throne for her."
The old knight's tone grew warm — nostalgic, almost proud.
"Do you know where they were wed, my prince?"
Lance didn't answer, though his pulse quickened. He had already guessed.
Bonifer smiled faintly, voice echoing through the chamber.
"In Duskendale."
The torches flickered as if stirred by ghosts.
"Yes… in Duskendale," he went on softly. "Your father, while traveling the Riverlands, met your mother. They fell in love. And when they reached Duskendale, they entered the sept — and were wed before the eyes of the Seven."
"They remained there for a time, quietly, because…" Bonifer's gaze sharpened. "Because she was with child."
Lance's heart pounded. "You mean…"
"Yes," Bonifer said firmly. "You, my prince — were born in Duskendale, beneath the blessing of the Seven."
"You are no bastard. You are Rhaeseryon Targaryen, the son of Prince Duncan and Lady Jennie — born of love, not shame."
For a moment, the cavern seemed utterly silent.
Lance stood motionless.
Then he lifted a hand slowly — staring at it as if it belonged to someone else.
This can't be real.
He almost laughed.
A prince? Him?
A blacksmith reborn in a foreign world?
"So…" he whispered under his breath, lips curving in disbelief.
"The dying prince was me all along?"
He gave a humorless chuckle, half mocking, half dazed.
"What a joke…"
Then, raising his head, he met Bonifer's solemn gaze — and Rhaella's tearful one.
"I don't understand," he said quietly. "If what you say is true…"
"Then why now? Why tell me this now?"
Silence lingered for a long moment.
Then, Lance finally took a slow breath, his voice low and steady.
"For as long as I can remember," he said, "I've never seen the faces of my parents. My only companions were an anvil and a hammer."
He lifted his gaze toward the queen, his tone even, but edged with iron.
"If what you say is true — if my father was really Prince Duncan — then tell me this: why, after their marriage, after my birth, did they leave me behind in Duskendale?"
"Why abandon me to strangers?"
His tone carried no rage, no sorrow — only a cold, deliberate calm.
Bonifer Hasty hesitated, then quietly turned his gaze toward Queen Rhaella.
Rhaella's expression softened. "I don't know," she admitted. "He kept the secret too well. Even the lords of Duskendale never learned the truth — and now, they never will."
She stepped closer, the sound of her silken gown brushing against the stone floor. Reaching up, she gently touched Lance's cheek with her pale, elegant fingers.
This time, he didn't move away. He simply looked at her, expression unreadable.
Her fingertips lingered. For an instant, her composure slipped — her eyes glazed over, full of memory and longing.
The young man's face before her overlapped with another's — a man she had loved long ago.
So like him…
The thought pulsed through her chest like a forgotten heartbeat.
For a fleeting moment, Rhaella — the queen of the Seven Kingdoms — wanted nothing more than to bury her face against the armor of the knight standing before her.
Bonifer saw it. His eyelid twitched slightly, but he said nothing.
When Rhaella finally found her voice again, her tone was soft — almost tender.
"Perhaps he knew his journey would be perilous," she murmured. "Perhaps he hid you to keep you safe… entrusted you to a friend — a blacksmith he met in Duskendale."
Then her voice brightened suddenly, her sorrow replaced by a hopeful smile.
"But none of that matters now. You've returned. You're home again, Rhaeseryon. The lost Targaryen prince, found at last."
Her words came faster now, carried by the fever of conviction.
"This is an omen — a sign of the gods' favor! The Seven Kingdoms will rejoice! You'll take your rightful place beside Rhaegar, equal in name and blood!"
"And Dragonstone — yes, Dragonstone was your father's seat. Perhaps I can persuade Aerys to return it to you—"
"That's enough."
Lance's voice cut through hers like a blade.
Rhaella froze, startled by the sudden chill in his tone.
"But—"
"I said enough."
The sharp command echoed against the stone walls.
He stepped back from her embrace, his face hard, his blue eyes clear as ice.
"It's a touching story," he said. "But stories aren't truth. I have no proof of what you've told me."
"All I know," he went on, his voice rising with quiet authority, "is what I've seen with my own eyes."
"Rhaeseryon—"
"Call me Lance Lot, Your Grace."
The queen flinched — the name hit her like a slap.
But Lance pressed on, his words steady, burning with conviction.
"Maybe to you, the blood of the dragon is sacred. Maybe you think the name Targaryen makes a man noble."
"But I don't need that name."
He spread his scarred hands — hands hardened by years of hammer and flame.
"I grew up with iron and fire. My food, my clothes, my life — all earned by these hands. No one ever called me a Targaryen."
"When I was thrown in a dungeon, starving, King Aerys gave me bread — and he didn't know I was a Targaryen."
"When I faced the soldiers of Duskendale and carved a path through a thousand men to save that same king, I carried no noble name — only my sword."
"When I fought beside my brothers in the Kingsguard, surrounded ten to one, I charged with my own flesh and blood — not with the ghost of a dynasty."
His voice grew deeper, stronger — echoing in the vast cavern until it seemed the dragon skulls themselves listened.
"This body belongs to no house. It remembers no banners, no bloodlines. It remembers only one thing—"
He clenched his right fist and struck it hard against his breastplate.
The sound rang like a hammer on steel.
"It remembers the taste of bread shared in a stinking cell — the warmth of life when death was near."
"That memory weighs more than any name."
He straightened, gaze sharp as a drawn sword.
"So remember this, Your Grace."
His voice carried through the firelit chamber — resolute, unyielding.
"My name…"
He struck his chest again, eyes blazing.
"My name is Lance Lot!"