Chapter 29 – Sister-in-Law
"Ahhh…"
Aerys let out a long, satisfied sigh as he sprawled across the wide feather bed, wrapped in a thin blanket of soft silk. Since his imprisonment in Duskendale, he had not enjoyed such comfort. Every time he returned to King's Landing and touched a real bed, it struck him with such nostalgia it almost brought him to tears.
"Hey, old man."
The king's blissful groaning was cut short by Lance's dry voice, dousing the moment like cold water.
"With things as bad as they are, how can you sleep so soundly?"
"You're a blacksmith—what do you know of 'things'?"
Aerys cracked an eye, his gaze full of disdain. "I admit, your swordplay is remarkable. But you can't even tell one sigil from another. What could you possibly know of politics?"
He tugged at the edge of his blanket with bony fingers, tucking himself in more snugly before leaning back against the feather pillows, eyes half-lidded.
Normally, no king would sleep without attendants at his side. But since Duskendale, Aerys's paranoia had worsened—he trusted no one. Not even the Kingsguard were permitted to approach within five paces of him while armed. That was why, earlier in the throne room, Gerold Hightower—Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—had stood far away, unable to guard his king closely.
It was an unprecedented sight in the long history of the Kingsguard.
To Lance, it was absurd. After all, when it came to the finest knights in Westeros, steel or no steel made little difference—if they wanted Aerys dead, he'd already be ashes. And if assassins truly came, disarming the Kingsguard was like pulling the fangs from a lion.
"Yeah, right. I'm just a blacksmith who knows nothing," Lance shot back, rolling his eyes. He sat heavily on the edge of the royal bed without hesitation—a sight that would have sent any other Kingsguard into fits of horror.
He reached for Aerys's arm, examining the bandages Maester Pycelle had wrapped around the cuts left by the Iron Throne's blades.
"Look at you—wounded all over, unloved even by your own son. In Duskendale, not one of them came for you. Truly, I've never seen a king so pitiful."
To anyone else, such insolence would have meant death by fire. Yet Aerys let it pass. Perhaps because Lance had carried him through blood and chaos out of Duskendale. Perhaps because his low birth meant he posed no threat. Or perhaps simply because Aerys trusted him as he trusted no lord, no knight, no courtier.
Rudeness, after all, was a common man's privilege. And from Lance, it was proof of honesty.
"How many kings have you even seen?" Aerys sneered. But the pain in his bandaged arm, the sting of the wounds, kept his temper tethered.
"None," Lance admitted bluntly. "But I've heard the songs. And tell me—did I speak false? The Kingsguard are sworn to protect the king, yet you saw it yourself today. Seven white cloaks, and two already side with your son. Of the rest—besides Barristan, the only one worth trusting—most are like Gerold Hightower, paralyzed, waiting for someone else to tell them what to do."
He leaned closer, voice sharp as a blade.
"And then there's Tywin Lannister. A man full of schemes, eager to wed his daughter to Rhaegar. If you cannot see his aim clearly by now… then perhaps it's time you abdicated."
Each word cut into Aerys's heart like steel. His lips quivered, purple eyes narrowing, but no fury came. From anyone else, he would have ordered fire at once. But from Lance… he sensed the truth. Crude, brutal truth, but truth nonetheless.
"You are not wrong," Aerys murmured at last, slumping back into the pillows.
"Gwayne Gaunt died at Duskendale. Ser Harlen Grandison is old and feeble. Jonothor Darry and the White Bull are both indecisive fools. Only Barristan remains… and even he has a temper too quick, too easy to exploit."
His voice grew hoarse as he pressed the blanket in his fists, the old madness glinting in his violet eyes.
"If you hadn't cut off Oswell Whent's arm today, Rhaegar would already command more white cloaks than I!"
"And Tywin—Tywin forever scheming, dreaming of wedding his golden daughter to my son. Do you think I don't see? Do you think I don't know?"
He began to shake, trembling all over as his muttering grew frantic.
"The North and the Riverlands joined in marriage—Rickard Stark would give his heir Brandon to wed Lord Tully's daughter. And Tywin, too, seeks to bind his heir to Riverrun. If such alliances take root… then I, the king—burn them… burn them all… burn!!"
By the end, the king was gnashing like a rabid beast, blood and spit trickling down his chin.
"Easy, Your Grace."
A calm, steady voice rang out above him—like a rope thrown to a drowning man. Aerys stilled, his vacant eyes slowly lifting to meet a pair of unwavering, sky-blue ones.
"I'll help you. You have nothing to fear."
Lance grinned, brimming with confidence, and assured the broken king:
"With me here, no one will dare move against you. But…" he added lightly, "you'll need to name me Lord Commander of the Kingsguard first."
Somehow, that smile carried a strange magic. Aerys, who had been on the brink of a fit, began to ease. His breathing slowed, his eyes grew clearer.
"You insolent whelp," the king muttered, though the tension in his frame slackened as he leaned back against the pillows. His tone softened, almost nostalgic. "Gerold Hightower has worn the white cloak since before I was king. He fought valiantly in the Ninepenny Kings' War, and his kin are tied by marriage to the Tyrells of the Reach. To cast him aside would be folly—an insult the Reach would not forgive."
"And even if I did," Aerys went on, "with your meager years, how could you claim the white cloak's highest honor? How could you sit in my council?"
Lance merely smiled faintly, unshaken. The king had not rejected him outright—only weighed the costs. Which meant his heart was already half-won.
Of course the Lord Commander must be his man. Who else could be trusted?
"You think you can best Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, and the finest knights in all the Seven Kingdoms?" Aerys finally demanded, eyes narrowing. "What if I hold a tourney—declare that whoever emerges champion shall be my Lord Commander of the Kingsguard? Can you win such a prize?"
The proposal stunned Lance. Of all the possibilities he'd imagined, he hadn't expected the king to seize upon something so blunt.
"I'll give it everything I have, Your Grace."
It wasn't a vow—but Aerys saw the fire in those blue eyes, the absolute hunger for victory. That was enough.
The king drew a deep breath and rose halfway, placing a thin hand upon Lance's shoulder—the same gesture he had used when they first met in the dungeons of Duskendale.
"Then I, Aerys Targaryen, will stake my very safety on this gamble. Do not fail me, Ser Lance Lot."
When the king finally drifted to sleep, Lance stepped out into the corridor, the weight upon his shoulders heavier than ever.
With his [Rhaegar Targaryen template] only at eighty percent completion, the thought of defeating every contender and seizing the white cloak's command felt almost laughable.
"Looks like I'd better finish that damned advancement quest, and soon," he muttered, hand resting on his sword-hilt.
He was still lost in thought when he nearly collided with two figures.
"On night duty today, Ser Barristan?" Lance greeted politely. Yet his eyes strayed almost at once to the woman beside the old knight.
She was perhaps thirty, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders, her pale-grey silk gown flowing with quiet grace.
"Yes, Ser Lance Lot," Barristan answered, surprised to see him emerging from the king's chambers. "This morning His Grace said he wished to see the queen tonight, so…"
"I see."
Lance nodded, offering Queen Rhaella a courteous bow and a roguish smile. "Then I won't disturb you further, Your Grace."
With that, he strode down the corridor. Yet as the queen approached the royal doors, he couldn't help but glance back once more. His eyes lingered on her slender figure, the elegant sway of her hips, the rippling curves still visible despite childbearing.
His throat tightened. Gods, she's still stunning…
Slap!
He smacked himself across the face, shaking his head.
Ten years without a woman, and this body's practically starving. What am I thinking? She's my sister-in-law, not some tavern wench. I'm no bloody triad boss…
Taking a long, steadying breath, the tall knight all but fled into the darkness, as though running from his own thoughts.