Chapter 141 — The Kingsguard Commander Thrashes His Prince
"Father!"
Just as the gathered nobility followed the Hand of the King in bowing to the monarch—celebrating House Targaryen's triumph in Dorne—
a sharp, discordant voice cut straight through the ceremony, shattering what little harmony remained.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as silver-haired Prince Rhaegar strode forward and, with reckless force, yanked aside the carriage curtain—
exposing King Aerys II Targaryen to the full scrutiny of court and commons alike.
The solemn atmosphere collapsed instantly.
Only the king's purple eyes, burning with fury, remained fixed upon his eldest son.
Watching from nearby, Tywin Lannister caught every detail—
and the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
After days of simmering rage, the prince's spectacular lack of judgment almost made him laugh.
Every family, it seemed, had its burdens.
His own heir, Jaime, possessed all the outward marks of an ideal young lord—
handsome, tall, athletic—
yet was as rebellious and ungovernable as his missing twin sister.
Tywin had ordered Jaime to Riverrun, to wed the daughter of House Tully.
But instead of courting his prospective bride,
the boy had apparently spent his time hounding Brynden Tully for stories of the Ninepenny Kings.
Infuriating.
Yes, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully was a formidable knight—
but his battlefield valor paled beside Tywin's own achievements
in the same war.
There was a Lord in Casterly Rock worth studying,
yet Jaime chose to moon after a "legendary" uncle with a taste for stories.
Worse—half a moon ago, the boy vanished from Riverrun entirely,
riding off across the Seven Kingdoms with a handful of Lannister knights as if the realm were at peace
and not a tinderbox ready to ignite.
Why must his son be so incapable of discipline?
And if the Seven decided to claim Jaime early—
who would Tywin leave Casterly Rock to?
That dwarf?
The shame of House Lannister?
But seeing Prince Rhaegar's impulsiveness firsthand,
Tywin felt… lighter.
Perhaps the trials of fatherhood were not his alone to bear.
There was Brandon Stark, that reckless fool who attempted to murder Lance from behind and lost his head for it—
and Robert Baratheon, implicated in Rhaegar's alleged kidnapping, now likely sulking in Storm's End as its new lord.
And now Rhaegar Targaryen—the very image of royal grace—
behaving like a half-mad squire.
Oh, and let us not forget Doran Martell, who dragged his entire house into ruin
and took his brother down with him.
When Tywin laid them all out in his mind,
his own family's woes seemed almost… reasonable.
At least Jaime—rebellious fool that he was—
still paled in recklessness beside these men.
As for Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn?
Tywin allowed himself a private, silent chuckle.
One had no sons.
The other… well.
---
"Step aside!"
Aerys's voice cut clean through Tywin's musings—
cold as iron.
The king stared into the eyes of his heir,
rage simmering beneath every syllable.
"I will not."
Rhaegar's reply came hard and unyielding—
mirroring his father's obstinacy almost perfectly.
On that point at least,
they were unmistakably kin.
"What madness grips you now?"
Aerys finally stepped from the carriage, his fury barely leashed.
Rhaegar—normally composed, almost ethereal—
looked disheveled from his earlier confrontation.
Silver hair unkempt, robe wrinkled,
and worst of all, his expression burned with a feverish righteousness
utterly out of place beside banners, trumpets, and cheers.
Facing the king's ire, the prince spread his arms wide,
as if embracing an invisible verdict.
"I am not mad, Father—
the madness is yours!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"You locked an innocent girl away like an animal,
and now you return with the wife and newborn child of Dorne's prince—
chained as hostages?"
"Taking women and infants as leverage violates every tenet of chivalry,
every teaching of the Seven—
and it stains the very name of House Targaryen!"
Aerys's jaw clenched.
But the prince pressed on, voice rising:
"And that is not all."
"Do not think word has not reached my ears—
I know what happened on the Greenblood."
"You unleashed wildfire, Father."
Rhaegar's voice broke—equal parts horror and disgust.
"You burned ships—burned men—burned innocents.
You drowned Dorne in green flame!"
"Before the Seven and all the realm,
tell me—
how does a king justify that?"
A hush fell—one that seemed to stretch a lifetime.
Faces blanched.
Breath caught.
Whispers rustled like dry leaves as the crowd digested the weight of his words.
Rhaegar had just accused the king of monstrous cruelty
before the entire capital.
And Aerys—his face cycling from pale to crimson to bruise-purple—
looked seconds away from snapping.
Tywin Lannister kept his expression carefully stoic—
yet behind the mask, amusement flickered bright as gold.
To watch his former friend—his greatest rival, the Iron Throne itself—
being publicly chastised by his own heir…
delicious.
The Hand folded his hands behind his back, eyes narrowing with intent.
Yes.
He could work with this.
For nothing pleased Tywin Lannister more
than a weak king with a fragile pride
and a crown that could be guided—
molded—
ruled.
At that moment, his decision crystallized:
Rhaegar would sit the Iron Throne one day.
Not because he was wise—
but because a king easily led
was a Hand's greatest prize.
And Tywin Lannister had always preferred kings
he could bend.
Just as he once declared during the council that planned the rescue at Duskendale—
"We shall have a better king."
—better, in that moment, had little to do with the realm, or the lords of Westeros.
It meant better for him—
for the Hand who sought a sovereign he could shape and steer,
a king whose power would sit comfortably under his shadow.
So now, before the nobles, the smallfolk, and the shining banners of victory,
to be publicly condemned by his own son—his heir—
lit a white-hot fury inside Aerys Targaryen.
And when his purple gaze slid sideways
and caught Tywin's impassive face—
that carefully controlled stillness,
those eyes not quite hiding a glimmer of amusement—
the humiliation burned hotter than steel or flame.
Aerys's voice came soft and cold, razor-thin:
"Then tell me, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—
what would you have me do?"
Rhaegar did not hesitate.
"In the name of the Iron Throne, I request the immediate release of Lyanna Stark and the Dornish princess and her child—
to show the generosity of House Targaryen,
to win the Seven Kingdoms by honor, not by fear—
before your actions plunge us all into war."
Aerys lowered his head—
and began to laugh.
Not the shrill cackle of his later madness,
but a low, broken sound,
full of disappointment,
full of anger,
and something dangerously close to contempt.
Even Tywin's faint smile died.
Then the king raised his gaze,
and the title he used landed like a slap:
"Beautiful speech… Your Highness."
Rhaegar stiffened—
for never had the word Prince sounded less like respect
and more like mockery.
Only now did he realize what line he had crossed.
He saw no love, no pride, not even the familiar glitter of obsession in his father's eyes—
only a frigid disappointment
sharp enough to draw blood.
It froze him to the bone.
He stepped back—instinctively—
but forced himself upright again, chin high, fists clenched white:
He was the Prince That Was Promised.
The true dragon.
He could not—would not—be wrong.
Aerys's voice cut deeper:
"So merciful… so wise…
more brilliant than Aegon the Conqueror himself!"
Then the king's tone cracked like a whip:
"You pity traitors' daughters.
You pity the wife and infant son of a rebel prince.
You pity those who raised knives against our house—
but tell me, boy:"
His voice rose, sharp enough to draw blood:
"Where was your pity for your own mother—
held hostage in Sunspear?"
"Where was your concern for your brother Viserys—
an infant whose life hung by a thread?"
"You condemn my actions in Dorne,"
Aerys roared,
"yet forget that those you call 'innocent' held a blade to the throats of your blood!"
Rhaegar's mouth opened—
but no sound came.
Because in all the time he'd spent rallying to save Lyanna…
he had not once asked after his mother or brother.
Not once.
Shame crushed him like plate-steel.
"I—"
Aerys didn't let him finish.
"Tywin Lannister!"
The king's voice thundered across the courtyard.
The Hand stepped forward with impeccable calm.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Aerys's words dripped acid:
"Did I not order you to keep the prince confined?"
Tywin bowed, smooth as polished obsidian.
"Forgive me, Your Grace.
But today is your day of triumph.
As heir to the Iron Throne, His Highness ought to be present to greet your return."
The explanation was flawless—
and Aerys knew exactly what Tywin had done.
He had let the lion cub wander out
to expose the cracks in the dragon's scales.
The king inhaled once,
slow and deep,
then turned.
"Ser Lance Lot."
The white knight stepped forward instantly.
"Your Grace."
"The prince has endured one kidnapping already.
Guard him well—
Aerys's gaze hardened—
"so that no schemer gets any more ideas."
Take him back to the Red Keep.
At once."
"No—!"
Rhaegar's refusal was instinctive, desperate—
his last chance to free Lyanna slipping away—
but the word never reached the air.
A flash of white.
No warning.
No time to breathe.
Ser Lance moved like a falling star—
a blur of light and steel and momentum.
An arm hooked around Rhaegar's throat,
precise pressure cutting his voice but not his breath.
The prince choked, red-faced, furious—
but the knight's strength was overwhelming,
like iron springs coiled beneath silk.
Rhaegar had crossed swords with every Kingsguard
except this one.
And now he understood why.
He strained—
only for the knight's voice to whisper at his ear,
soft as velvet, cutting as a blade:
"Don't struggle, Your Highness."
"You wouldn't want me to beat you senseless in front of all these people…
would you?"
Rhaegar froze—
humiliation burning hotter than wildfire.
His hand darted toward his sword—
Two voices rang out:
"Careful!" — Ser Barristan
"Don't!" — Ser Arthur
Too late.
Lance's hand slammed his elbow—
the blade dropped back into the scabbard
as strength fled his arm.
Then—
crack!
A boot to the knee sent the prince crashing forward,
both legs buckling into the dirt
before the eyes of his father.
Silence.
Rhaegar lifted his head—
and saw only disappointment staring back.
His pride cracked.
His title shattered.
His legend—gone, in the space of a knee and a heartbeat.
He tried to curse—
but a sharp twist of the jaw silenced him,
dislocating it cleanly.
The prince fell still, drooling, eyes burning with helpless rage.
And then—
like hoisting a sack of grain—
Lance slung the future king of Westeros
over his shoulder.
"Relax, Your Highness,"
the knight murmured with almost tender mockery,
delivering a sharp smack to the royal backside,
"It's the king's treatment."
Laughter rippled—uneasy, incredulous, shocked.
As the white knight carried him away, the crowd parted like water.
Tywin watched them go, green eyes unreadable.
On the carriage steps, Aerys sighed—
a strange, wistful sound.
"A shame…"
his voice softened—almost fond.
"If only that boy were mine."
And for the first time that morning,
Tywin Lannister did not disagree.