Chapter 72 – The Unburnt
The Red Keep.
Deep beneath its crimson towers, in a cavern that smelled of dust, fire, and memory, stood the Targaryen king.
King Aerys II rested a bony hand upon the enormous skull of Balerion the Black Dread. His withered fingers traced along one of the ancient dragon's ivory fangs, and within his violet eyes flickered something rare—nostalgia.
"Your Grace."
From the darkness emerged a round, smooth head — the eunuch Varys, gliding forward in a robe of whispering silk. He bowed low, the movement almost serpentine.
Aerys did not turn. His sharp, overgrown nails scraped against the tooth, the sound brittle and faintly eerie.
He seemed lost within the ghost of his lineage.
So Varys waited, perfectly still, perfectly silent.
At length, the king's voice rasped out.
"Have you found out the truth?"
The spymaster stepped forward two careful paces, his voice soft but steady.
"I have dispatched every one of my little birds in Duskendale, Your Grace. None of them have ever heard that Lady Jenny was with child."
Aerys's fingers paused.
"None of them?"
"Not one, Your Grace."
Varys's tone was as calm as a still pond. Years of surviving under tyrants had taught him that shouting never changed the course of madness—it only fed it.
Aerys fell silent again, the firelight dancing on his sunken cheeks.
When he finally spoke, his tone had lightened, almost relieved.
"Then the boy has nothing to do with Prince Duncan after all. Just a coincidence of blood and bone."
But the eunuch did not share his ease.
"I would not be so certain, my king."
Varys hesitated, eyes flickering with thought before he continued.
"According to the reports, the blacksmith who raised Ser Lance Lot once had… close dealings with Prince Duncan."
"He's been dead fourteen years now," Aerys muttered.
"Indeed. But everything concerning Duncan and his lady in Duskendale has… vanished. Records, letters, witnesses — all gone. The few who still remembered them have disappeared as well."
Varys's soft hands clasped together.
"The houses of Darklyn and Hollard are no more, of course. And the new lord of Duskendale, Reveray Rykker, arrived after the prince's death. Which makes me suspect…"
He looked down, lowering his voice.
"That someone reached Duskendale before us — and erased every trace of the truth."
When he finished, Varys retreated a respectful distance and bowed again. His duty was to whisper secrets, not to draw conclusions.
Aerys alone would decide what the truth meant.
Silence filled the crypt again — so complete that Varys could hear his own heart beating. The king stood unmoving, a dark silhouette before the dragon's skull.
And for a moment, the spymaster's eyes widened.
Was that… fire flickering around the king's thin frame? A faint shimmer, a ghostly blue flame, licking along his robes—
No. It was only the reflection of a brazier burning beside him.
Still, Varys felt his breath catch.
"Leave..." came the king's voice at last.
Relieved, the eunuch bowed deeply and slipped away, his silk slippers making no sound on the stone floor.
Now, only Aerys remained.
The last dragonlord among bones.
A breeze wound through the hollow skull, producing a low, mournful hum that sounded almost like the echo of a dragon's roar. The king's black robes stirred in the current, whispering softly.
He sighed, long and tired.
"Ah…"
Ten minutes later, the silence was broken by the rhythmic tread of armored boots.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, entered first, tall and severe. Behind him walked Ser Lance Lot, white cloak trailing like a banner of snow.
"We are here, Your Grace," Hightower announced.
"Leave us," Aerys said without turning. "I wish to speak with Ser Lance alone."
"But, Your Grace—"
"Leave!"
The word cracked like a whip. Even Gerold Hightower hesitated before bowing stiffly and turning to go.
As he passed Lance, the old knight paused, his voice a low warning:
"Do nothing foolish, Ser Lot. Don't give me reason to regret my trust."
Then he was gone.
Lance said nothing. He simply stood before the king, the ghostly firelight glinting off his armor, waiting.
Aerys spoke first.
"When I was young," he began quietly, "Rhaella and I used to play here. We'd climb atop Balerion's skull and slide down his snout."
His voice was soft and wistful, the tone of a man reminiscing about a world long gone.
"Rhaella was braver than I. I only dared because she made me. And when I first stood upon his head, I thought — 'Gods, how high I am!' I imagined how Aegon the Conqueror must have felt, riding this beast across the sky."
A faint, trembling smile crossed his cracked lips.
"Until one day… I slipped."
He turned slowly.
"I fell straight toward those teeth. I could almost feel them piercing me — my chest torn open, my guts spilling onto the stones…"
He let out a dry laugh.
"I thought, 'So this is how I die — swallowed by a dragon long dead.' But then, someone caught me. Strong arms. Safe arms."
Aerys looked directly at the knight before him.
And in that moment, the years fell away. His eyes widened, recognition and madness twisting together.
"Seven above…" he whispered. "You look just like him."
His voice rose, trembling with awe and something darker.
"Duncan Targaryen!"
Lance's answer came cold and clear.
"I am not him."
He stepped forward, standing tall, his blue eyes steady despite the king's growing frenzy.
"I don't know if I share his blood — but I am not him."
"I'm the knight who carried you from Duskendale through a thousand enemies. The man you saved with a loaf of bread and knighted with your own hand. I am — and always have been — Lance Lot!"
He struck his breastplate with a gauntleted fist. The sound rang through the cavern like a bell.
He had faced fire, battle, and betrayal without flinching. But here, before this frail old man — the first person who had ever trusted him in this strange world — he felt his throat tighten.
"Damn it all," he muttered under his breath.
The king's eyes shone wetly in the firelight.
"Silence!"
The word broke from him like a sob.
For all his madness, Aerys remembered the man who had saved his life. In his heart, he had long wished that knight could have been his son.
If only he were mine…
The thought burned again, cruel and bright.
But he swallowed it, lifting his chin.
He was king. And kings could not afford sentiment.
"Lance Lot…"
Aerys's voice lowered to a hiss, trembling with both doubt and desperation.
"Tell me. Are you Duncan's son? Are you — a Targaryen?"
"I don't know!!!"
The shout echoed off the stone walls. Lance slammed his fist against his armor.
"I grew up with an anvil and hammer, not in a castle! I never knew my parents' names — never even saw their faces!"
His voice cracked, but he pressed on.
"All I've ever been is a blacksmith. If not for those damned Darklyns, we'd never have met, Your Grace — Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name!"
Any other man would have been burned alive for such insolence.
But not this one.
This was the man who had carried the Mad King through the flames.
Aerys trembled, torn between rage and something close to love.
Then, hoarse and shaking, he whispered:
"Prove it."
Lance blinked.
"What?"
"Prove you are not of my blood," the king said, voice low but iron-hard. "Prove you are not Targaryen."
He pointed to the brazier beside him, its green flames dancing in the dark.
"Put your hand in the fire."
"If the flames burn you, I'll believe you're not one of us."
Lance stared at him for a long, silent moment.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
He clenched his fist.
"You saw my burns at Duskendale. That's proof enough. I won't cripple my hand again just to ease your madness."
"If your hand burns," Aerys interrupted, his tone rising, "I will name you Lord Commander of the Kingsguard this very night!"
"Put it in the fire!"
His voice trembled now — not with anger, but with pleading.
"I want to see it burn!"
The green light flickered wildly across his face, and for a heartbeat, Lance could not tell if he was looking at a man — or the ghost of a dragon trying to breathe fire again.
The flames crackled softly between them.
And neither blinked.
The truth, though forgotten by most, was that not all Targaryens were immune to fire.
The blood of the dragon might have given them strength, beauty, and the touch of flame's favor—but fire still killed.
Had it been otherwise, Aegon V and his beloved son Prince Duncan the Small would not have burned to death in the inferno at Summerhall.
Even the line of dragons was not spared from the bite of its own breath.
---
King Aerys II's violet eyes widened, burning with equal parts doubt and desperation as he stared at the white knight before him.
His gaze said what his lips could not:
Put your hand in the fire. Prove it. Let me believe you.
But Lance merely scoffed, his voice calm but edged like drawn steel.
"Your demand, Your Grace, is nothing but madness."
He turned on his heel, the weight of his armor echoing through the cavern as he strode toward the exit.
Aerys watched his retreating back, emotions storming across his face — anger, disbelief, sorrow, and something faintly like relief.
He wanted to shout, to command, to punish… yet some part of him knew that the knight was right.
But just as Lance reached the shadowed archway of the tunnel, he stopped. His shoulders tensed. His head bowed slightly, as though wrestling with something deep within himself.
A whisper slipped through the air — not from Aerys, but from Lance himself.
"Honor. Valor. Sacrifice. Justice…"
The words of the Kingsguard oath.
And then, more quietly still:
"And above all… loyalty."
The king's breath caught.
Then came the voice again — low, resonant, filled with a grim sort of irony.
"You want proof, old man?"
Aerys blinked, startled.
The next moment, the knight moved.
In three strides, Lance crossed the cavern and stopped before the brazier. Without hesitation, he seized it in both hands, lifted it high—
—and poured the green wildfire over himself.
"Lance!!!"
The king's scream echoed off the stone walls.
The emerald flames roared to life, swallowing the white armor whole. His cloak disintegrated into ash. The heat shimmered, the air twisting and warping with the intensity of it.
The metal plates began to glow a dull red. Every piece of cloth, every leather strap, every trace of life's softness was devoured by the flame.
Aerys fell to his knees, horrified. His breath came in ragged gasps as tears welled unbidden in his eyes.
What have I done?
Even a Targaryen could not withstand wildfire — the hottest of all flames, born of alchemy and madness.
If the man truly bore his blood, he would die just as his ancestors had.
But then… a voice. Calm. Familiar.
"Do you see it now, old man?"
Aerys's head snapped up.
Through the living fire, Lance Lot still stood — untouched. The green flames clung to him like silk, dancing harmlessly across his skin. His face was clear, unmarked, the hard lines of his jaw gleaming faintly through the light.
Not a single eyelash had burned.
His eyes — blue as glacier ice — stared coldly through the blaze.
"Do you see it?"
Aerys could only stare, trembling, his mouth wordless.
Kneeling before that impossible sight, the king's mind cracked between terror and awe.
Lance stepped closer, the fire coiling around him like a living serpent, casting his armor in shifting hues of ghostly green.
"You asked for proof," he said softly.
"Now you have it."
The wildfire hissed, guttered, and died, leaving only smoke and silence.
The smell of burnt air lingered — but not a trace of char upon the knight.
Lance looked down at the king who cowered before him, his voice as calm and cold as the dawn.
"I have proven it, Aerys Targaryen."
"Now tell me — what do you see?"
"My proof."