Chapter 26 – Lance's Three Smiles at Rhaegar
The King's voice rang through the hall, silencing all.
Every gaze turned toward Aerys and his son, Rhaegar. None present were fools; they understood well what had just unfolded. In this contest of will, the King had claimed a decisive victory.
Though the prince had two Kingsguard at his side, he was not the King.
Oswell Whent's severed hand lying on the floor was more than his own defeat at Lance Lot's sword—it was a public loss for the prince himself.
And Aerys meant to seize this moment, to declare before all:
"Westeros, your King has returned!"
He pressed his advantage, asserting his authority.
"Pick up Ser Oswell Whent's hand, Rhaegar."
When his son hesitated, Aerys spoke again. This time his tone was lower, almost calm—but sharper, unyielding.
Yet before the prince, lying in a pool of blood, was the twitching severed arm—nerves still spasming, fingers faintly curling as if in mockery. Cold sweat ran down Rhaegar's face. In his violet eyes, for the first time, flickered fear.
He had never killed. He had never truly seen battle's cruelty. Compared with every man in that hall—even compared with his father—Rhaegar was but a hothouse flower.
Yes, people called him a fine warrior, and it was true he had once bested Barristan Selmy in a tourney match. But a tourney was not battle. No knight would truly seek to wound the crown prince for the sake of a laurel. Certainly not the Kingsguard.
Gulp.
Rhaegar swallowed hard. He stood rooted in place, trembling slightly—yet enough that all could see. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Jon Connington, heart aching at the sight, stepped forward, eager to spare his prince. "I'll do it—"
"Stand back!"
Aerys's voice cracked like a whip. His fury echoed against the stone walls.
"He will pick it up himself! No one will aid him!"
Jon froze where he stood, his face a mask of helpless concern. His eyes lingered on Rhaegar, full of sorrow and pity.
The proud prince glanced around. He was no stranger to the weight of a thousand eyes, but now their gaze felt like daggers piercing his skin. Once they had been eyes of admiration and awe. Now they were sharp, pitiless, wounding.
"I…" His voice broke.
"I will do it."
The interruption came from Tywin Lannister.
Since entering the hall, he had stood in silence, merely watching. Now, with measured calm, he stepped forward. Unbothered by the King's dark glare, he walked steadily to the severed arm, bent down, and lifted it without hesitation.
Tywin strode forward, bent slightly at the waist, and offered the severed arm to Aerys with both hands.
"His Grace the Prince should not be sullied by such filth," he said evenly. "Such matters are better left to the King's Hand."
His words were calm, steady—yet beneath the veneer of deference lay no room for refusal.
Aerys studied him for a long moment before letting out a cold snort.
"You truly are my most loyal servant, Tywin."
The words dripped with mockery. He made no move to further shame Rhaegar, nor did he take the bloody arm, but turned, stepped past the moaning knight on the floor, and retook his seat upon the Iron Throne.
Tywin withdrew several steps and handed the grisly burden off to a gold cloak. His expression remained unreadable, but deep inside, his face darkened. He knew well what the King's barb meant. A year ago, Aerys had told him plainly: "You are my finest servant, but a servant's daughter does not wed the heir to the throne."
Another reminder. Another humiliation. No alliance between their houses.
Rhaegar, blind to the insult, instead cast Tywin a look of gratitude. Without the Hand's intervention, he would have been utterly disgraced.
"I believe we've strayed from the matter at hand, Your Grace," Tywin said, his steady voice drawing all eyes back to him. He glanced at the unconscious Oswell Whent, then fixed his gaze upon Lance, still standing tall before the throne, hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword.
"Ser Oswell has already received his punishment. But as for Ser Lance Lot—if we may call him that—his trial has yet to even begin. That is an injustice. To a grieving common family, such delay is torment. And if left unresolved, it will brand the crown with the stain of favoritism and cruelty—harming not only House Targaryen, but your name, and that of Prince Rhaegar."
"Yes!" Rhaegar seized on the Hand's words, his confidence flaring once more. His indigo eyes burned with anger as he stepped forward.
This man—this upstart, this false Kingsguard—had slain two of his sworn knights and, before the Iron Throne itself, hacked the hand from Oswell Whent. What was a knight without a sword hand? Nothing. Less than nothing.
"I demand Ser Lance Lot be judged, Father!" Rhaegar's voice rang sharp, uncharacteristically fierce. Never before had his gentle nature brimmed so urgently with the desire to see a man dead.
"You—" Aerys stirred, irritation rising.
But before the King could lash out at his son, Lance himself stepped forward, cutting in with boldness.
"Peace, Your Grace."
He gave the King a steady, reassuring glance, then strode toward Rhaegar.
Arthur Dayne's hand tightened instinctively on Dawn, wary of any sudden strike. But Lance only smirked at him.
"Calm yourself, Sword of the Morning. If I meant the prince harm, I wouldn't be foolish enough to do it before half the realm."
Arthur flushed at the taunt, caught between pride and shame. He glanced to Rhaegar, who gave a small nod of assent, and reluctantly let his greatsword lower.
Face-to-face with the prince, Lance smiled. "You look… dissatisfied, Your Highness."
Rhaegar's indigo eyes glared into his. Lance tilted his head, recalling in a low, almost wistful voice:
"When I was chained in the dungeons of Duskendale with His Grace, the gaolers would look at me just like that. Like wolves eyeing a lamb. Gods, I was terrified. I prayed to the Seven—save me, anyone, I beg you!"
He let out a rueful chuckle and shook his head. "But the gods never answered."
"I care nothing for your tales," Rhaegar snapped. His voice was firm, though his hands trembled. "I care only for justice—for the innocents you've slain. You will answer for your crimes."
"Ha… ha ha…"
Lance's laughter echoed across the throne room, rich with mockery.
"What do you laugh at?!" Rhaegar's anger flared, stung by scorn he had never known. He was a prince, a true dragon, heir to prophecy itself. From the cradle he had been adored, respected, worshiped. None had dared to sneer. None—until now.
But Lance's words cut through him like steel:
"I laugh at your folly, Rhaegar. At your weakness masquerading as courage."
"I laugh that while the Darklyns rose in open rebellion, you cowered on Dragonstone, doing nothing—while your King, your father, rotted in a cell for half a year."
"I laugh that you, who would not lift a hand for your own suffering father, now feign concern for nameless peasants!"