Chapter 142 — The Fallen Prince
The Red Keep always breathed the sea.
With the castle pressed against the cliffs, nightfall carried the breath of the ocean inland—salt-tinged gusts slipping through every crack and seam.
In high summer, that wind was a blessing: cool, gentle, and fragrant with memory.
But winter was coming.
And the sudden bite of cold crept through the red stones of the fortress like an unseen wraith.
Inside the royal bedchamber, the hearth roared with well-seasoned logs.
Firelight danced and strained to warm the room, yet the chill of the sea—ancient, stubborn—still seeped beneath the doors and shutters.
Beneath a mountain of quilts, Aerys II Targaryen trembled.
His hands—dry and gnarled like old roots—clutched the edge of his blanket, pulling it up past his shoulders. His feet were buried deep beneath down and wool, yet his thin frame still shivered as though frost lived in his bones.
Gone was the vigor he flaunted hours earlier—
the fire that had burned from his eyes after returning from war.
Now he looked every bit the broken man the realm whispered about,
and Lance could not help but sigh.
He crossed to the fire, fed it fresh fuel, and coaxed the flames higher.
He called the king old man often enough—
but Aerys was only thirty.
Thirty… and worn down to threads.
Too many stillborn heirs,
half a year rotting in a cell at Duskendale—
grief and captivity had aged him worse than time ever could.
And yet, all of that only deepened Lance's loyalty.
For a king once too paranoid to step beyond the Red Keep's walls
had marched to Dorne himself—
with an army and four Kingsguard—
to retrieve his queen and son.
That was more than trust.
It was devotion—obsessive, blazing, and undeniable.
Never again, Lance swore inwardly,
no matter how Rhaella bats her lashes or whispers her sweet poison…
Never again will I waver.
I mean it.
---
Aerys's voice rasped like torn parchment, but his eyes—no longer drug-dulled—were clear, amethyst bright.
He lifted a trembling hand toward the heavy oak chair beside the bed, its arms inlaid with rubies.
"Sit… closer."
Lance obeyed, dragging the chair forward with a soft scrape and leaning in without speaking.
"How long have we known each other?"
"Since the day you were taken from Duskendale, Your Grace."
Aerys gave a dry, breathless chuckle—twice, then a third time.
"The turn of a single moon.
Enough time to crown a king—or topple one."
Lance blinked.
That… is admittedly an unsettling metaphor.
But the fragile pink rising in the king's cheeks was rare, almost precious,
and he let the silence hold.
Only when Aerys's breath grew thin did he speak again, voice low and reflective:
"To tell the truth, boy…
I didn't know why I named you to the Kingsguard.
Perhaps I wanted one last gamble.
Perhaps I wished to remind myself before dying that I was still a king of House Targaryen."
Aerys's gaze sharpened, bloodshot and unwavering.
"But I chose well."
His voice took strength as he looked at the white armor, the two massive blades, the presence that filled the chamber.
"You wear the white better than I ever wore steel.
My father always said I was too small, lacked presence…
yet I still slew nine men in battle!"
There was pride there—raw and clinging.
"In the final clash of the Ninepenny Kings, I charged as well.
But Barristan…"
Aerys's voice lowered.
"Barristan was the true storm. I saw him—
cut straight through the pikes, strike down Maelys—and ride away untouched."
He sighed, long and weary.
"For years I thought him the greatest knight alive.
Dawn, Blackfyre, Valyrian steel—none could best him."
His eyes lifted.
"And then… you came."
Wrapped in blankets, Aerys looked like a dying man—
but his words carried the weight of a confession.
Lance stood and tucked the blankets more securely around him.
"Don't dwell on the past, old—
… Your Grace."
Aerys chuckled again, softer this time, then fell silent.
The fire popped and cracked, the only sound between them.
After a long while, the king spoke—quiet, almost fearful:
"What do you think of Viserys?"
Lance answered without hesitation:
"He is clever… and composed."
Lance did not dodge the question, nor soften his words. Between him and Aerys, nothing needed to be said with caution—
Rhaella was the only exception.
"He's not yet four," Lance answered plainly.
"There isn't much to judge at that age… but he's well-behaved enough.
At the very least, he hasn't caused trouble."
"Hasn't he?"
Aerys looked satisfied—almost smug.
"When he was born, Tywin held a grand tourney in Lannisport.
He claimed it was to celebrate Viserys, but everyone knew what it truly was—
a declaration of Westerland power."
The king's lips curled with remembered spite.
"That ambitious old lion even thought to marry his daughter into House Targaryen.
I shamed him for it—publicly and thoroughly.
Seven hells, Lance, you should've seen his face… hah… hahaha—"
"We agreed not to reminisce, Your Grace."
Lance's voice cut gently through the king's gloating.
Aerys blinked, then sighed, gathering himself.
"Very well."
His expression hardened.
"You saw it today.
Rhaegar—my good son, the realm's shining prince—
the one the lords praise as wise, Tywin calls 'the better king'—
and what did he do?"
Aerys's voice rose with bitterness.
"He stood before the city gates, in front of nobles and smallfolk alike, not as a prince—
but as a street preacher, waving righteousness around like a banner!"
His breath shook; he coughed twice before forcing the words out:
"And does he think I don't know what fills that righteous skull of his?"
"All of it—every word—was for that Stark girl."
Aerys's eyes blazed purple fire—rage, betrayal, wounded pride tangled together.
"He cares for himself—his fantasies—his messiah dreams!
Calls himself the savior of the realm, yet forgets his own blood.
He weeps for strangers and rebels, but turns a blind eye to his mother's suffering—
to his brother's peril—"
Lance listened silently.
He offered neither defense nor agreement—only attention.
At last Aerys steadied, though his voice remained raw.
"He is unworthy, Lance."
"Unworthy of my throne."
The shout cracked through the bedchamber.
Outside the door, two Kingsguard stiffened; Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy shared a grave look.
Arthur's jaw clenched—he took half a step toward the door, but Barristan's eyes stopped him cold.
"Whatever His Grace intends, Ser Arthur," Barristan murmured, voice low but iron-hard,
"it is not for us to interfere."
"Our duty is to protect the king—
not correct his thoughts."
Arthur's hand slowly loosened from Dawn's hilt.
Anger trembled in him, barely leashed—but oaths weighed heavier still.
"Then I will tell the prince myself."
He spoke the words like a vow, then strode down the corridor, white cloak billowing behind him—
leaving Barristan staring after him in sorrow.
---
Inside the chamber, Aerys fixed Lance with a fever-bright gaze.
"He is not fit to inherit."
Lance did not look away.
"Your will is mine."
No hesitation.
No questions.
Only certainty.
Aerys's shoulders relaxed, breath leaving him like a prayer answered.
"I knew it."
Madness and affection flickered together in his eyes.
"The dragons may be gone, boy,
but the gods gave me you instead."
"Duskendale was the forge.
You were the blade tempered within."
Lance's lip curved faintly.
"And to think—once you demanded I prove my blood in a dungeon."
Aerys snorted.
"You can't blame me for that."
Then, suddenly grave—almost reverent:
"In my heart, there was never a 'Rhaeseryon.'
Only Lance—the man who fought at my side and dragged me out of Duskendale."
They stared at each other—
and both laughed quietly at nothing and everything.
Aerys wiped at his eyes, breath trembling.
"Pycelle rots in the cells.
The Citadel will send a new maester soon.
Once the council is assembled, before every lord of the realm…"
His voice lowered to a vicious whisper:
"I will strip Rhaegar of Dragonstone and every claim to the Iron Throne."
"He will be imprisoned in the Red Keep until death."
"Viserys will be the Prince of Dragonstone—my heir."
Aerys's finger lifted—trembling, skeletal—and pointed to the white knight before him.
"And when I die—
you will remove the cloak…"
"and rule as Regent."
He smiled—proud, terrified, utterly certain.
"Targaryen needs a sword we can trust."
"Westeros needs you, Lance Lot."
For anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, such a promise would stir feverish ambition.
Lance only felt something like grief.
Aerys wouldn't survive long.
The fire in his eyes dimmed more each day, like a candle burning through its wick.
Lance swallowed, voice tight:
"We will need a lawful cause."
"You know what happens when a prince is disinherited."
He spoke plainly, without drama:
"Stark gathers men in the North.
Tully's daughter will soon wed Benjen Stark—
the riverlands will march beside them."
"The Martells cannot join now, but the Stormlands…
without Steffon Baratheon, we cannot count on them."
"If we move against Rhaegar now, half the realm will bleed—
all in his name."
Aerys's smile sharpened.
"Do you think I came unprepared?"
"Tonight, Lance—
Rhaegar becomes a traitor."
A flash of lightning tore the sky open—
illuminating Aerys's face, all cruelty and certainty.
Then thunder rolled, and the heavens broke into violent rain.
---
Elsewhere in the Red Keep…
Water splashed beneath armored boots.
Rain soaked through white cloaks and darkened pale hair until water trickled into Arthur Dayne's eyes.
He wiped his face beneath the eaves, jaw set, fury banked deep.
He must warn the prince.
"Halt."
Two goldcloaks leveled spears.
Strangers—fresh faces Arthur didn't know.
"I'm here to see Prince Rhaegar."
His fingers brushed Dawn's hilt by reflex.
If steel was needed, it would be swift; these men wouldn't last five breaths.
The guards exchanged a look.
"Your name, ser?"
Unusual—everyone in the Red Keep knew the white cloaks.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
Brought in from outside, then—so the prince cannot sway them.
"Ser Arthur Dayne."
A beat—
then the tension shattered like glass.
Both guards brightened instantly, bowing so low their helms nearly clanged together.
"The prince has been expecting you, Ser Arthur!"
Arthur's suspicion only deepened.
Hand still on the hilt, he stepped forward—
—and froze.
Because standing before Prince Rhaegar—
radiating calm like a serpent basking on warm stone—
was a man with a gleaming bald head.
Varys.
---