Chapter 73 – Falsehood and Truth
"How much longer is he going to stay in there…"
In the royal gardens, three white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard stood in a triangular formation before the hidden entrance to the underground passage.
At the center stood Ser Gerold Hightower, his silver-gray eyes fixed anxiously on the silent black mouth of the tunnel.
"Are you certain His Grace and Ser Lance are both inside, Ser Gerold?"
Time dragged on. Even Ser Barristan Selmy began to frown, his patience wearing thin as he cast a questioning look toward his commander.
He and Ser Jonothor Darry had been resting in the White Sword Tower when Gerold had arrived in haste, summoning them without explanation — only to declare that Ser Lance Lot was alone underground with the King, and that something might have gone wrong.
The claim was so outrageous that Ser Jonothor had nearly drawn his sword in protest. But Barristan, thinking of all that had happened over the past few days — the growing instability of Aerys, the strange summons, the whispers in the court — had convinced him to come.
The passage before them was no secret. Every Kingsguard who had served long enough knew of it.
It led down to the Dragon Crypt, where the skulls of House Targaryen's dragons were kept — a place many of the royal bloodline had visited in moments of nostalgia or madness.
"Patience, Ser Barristan," Gerold said evenly, though his calm words betrayed the tightness in his jaw.
He was far from patient himself. It had been he who had escorted Ser Lance to the King's presence. If anything happened to Aerys down there — if the King came to harm under his watch — then Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, would carry that stain forever.
"Ten more minutes," he said grimly, never taking his eyes from the tunnel. "If there's still no sign of movement… we go in."
"Forgive my bluntness, Lord Commander," Barristan said, resting the tip of his longsword on the marble floor. "But Ser Lance Lot is one of us. He swore the same vows beneath the Seven. He's my brother-in-arms — our brother."
He looked directly at Gerold, his voice steady but firm.
"No matter what danger he faces, Ser Lance has always served His Grace with loyalty beyond question. He has no need to prove that to anyone."
Gerold's expression hardened. "And your point, Ser Barristan?"
"My point," Barristan replied quietly, "is that you are letting fear cloud your judgment, Ser Hightower."
The deliberate change in address did not go unnoticed.
"As a knight of the Kingsguard, I trust Ser Lance with my life," Barristan continued. "I will stake my honor on his loyalty to His Grace."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a conviction that made even Jonothor glance at him with respect.
"When we stood together against an enemy ten times our number, Lance never faltered," Barristan said, his eyes distant as memories surfaced. "He led the charge himself, so that the King might escape unharmed."
"And at Duskendale," he added, "by the King's own order, he cut down nearly the entire House Darklyn — until his arms were too numb to lift the sword. Yet he never stopped."
Barristan's words echoed in the still air, heavy and unwavering.
"If such a man wished the King harm," he said at last, "then none of us deserve these white cloaks."
Gerold's jaw tightened — not out of anger, but because, deep down, he knew Barristan was right.
Still, the uneasy silence that hung over the crypt's entrance gnawed at them all.
The King had gone below with a knight the realm now whispered about — the Fearless, the Iron Flame of the Kingsguard.
And yet… neither had come out.
The minutes stretched on.
The only sound was the whisper of wind through the garden leaves — and the heavy, uncertain rhythm of their own hearts.
The elder knight's conviction rang through the still night air.
Hearing Barristan speak so decisively in Lance's defense, Ser Gerold Hightower's jaw tightened until the veins in his neck showed pale against his skin.
He wanted to refute him — to remind the old knight of duty, of vigilance — but before he could, Ser Jonothor Darry stepped forward as well, planting a mailed fist over his heart.
"I'll say the same," Jonothor declared, his young voice ringing with pride. "Everything Ser Barristan said — I stand by it!"
"Ser Lance Lot is a knight of courage, of honor, of justice and loyalty. He's our sworn brother. He would never raise a hand against the King!"
For a moment, Ser Gerold was struck speechless.
His chest rose and fell as he fought to keep control. He wanted to ask them — furiously — whether they had forgotten who their commander was.
Am I your captain, or is Lance Lot?
But in the end, the words never left his mouth.
He exhaled sharply through his nose — a quiet, irritated snort — and after a moment's thought, he gave up waiting.
"Hmph. Enough talk," he said, his tone clipped. "If words can't bring certainty, then we'll see it with our own eyes."
He adjusted the sword at his hip, stepping toward the dark entrance. "But hear me — if we find Ser Lance Lot has harmed His Grace, remember who and what you are."
And with that, Gerold strode forward.
But before he could reach the tunnel, the sound of footsteps echoed from within — clear, metallic, and steady.
Clack… clack… clack…
The sound of armored boots striking stone.
The three knights turned toward the passage.
From the darkness emerged a tall figure, the moonlight catching on the battered edges of his armor. His white cloak was gone, his once-gleaming breastplate scorched and blackened as though by flame.
Yet none of them paid attention to his armor. Their eyes were fixed on what — or rather, who — he carried upon his shoulder.
A frail, thin old man… his hair tangled, his crown bent, his body limp.
The King.
Aerys II Targaryen.
Lance's face was expressionless. He adjusted the weight on his shoulder, stepped out fully into the garden, and met his brothers' shocked gazes with calm, icy composure.
"You were waiting for me, then?" he asked quietly.
The midnight bell tolled seven times — marking the hour of the wolf.
---
The Sept of Baelor
Inside the Great Sept, the air was thick with the scent of melted wax and incense.
Beneath the stained glass of the Seven, Bonifer Hasty knelt upon a pew, his hands clasped, his forehead resting against his knuckles in prayer.
His lips moved in silence, reciting the sacred creed — serene, devout, and radiant in the candlelight.
A man in a simple robe — though the sword at his hip betrayed his true profession — approached softly and sat beside him.
"It is done, Brother Bonifer," he said.
Bonifer did not raise his head.
The man folded his hands and joined him in reciting the prayer:
"Seven above, seven as one.
As colors of light return to the rainbow,
Guide us through the long night,
Until stars fade and the seasons turn again.
As seven are one… and one is seven."
When the prayer ended, Bonifer finally opened his eyes — calm, serene, and faintly gleaming with zeal.
"Well done, Brother Valentyn," he said.
The man — Valentyn — smiled faintly and made the sign of the Seven. "For the glory of the gods."
Bonifer mirrored the gesture and placed a gentle hand upon his head.
"May the Warrior strengthen your arm, and the Father guide your judgment," he said softly. "The Faith Militant is blessed to have brothers such as you. The Seven's light will surely shine brighter because of your deeds."
Valentyn bowed his head humbly, though a flicker of curiosity stirred in his eyes.
After a pause, he spoke.
"There is… something I do not understand, Brother Bonifer."
Bonifer tilted his head slightly.
"We found no evidence," Valentyn continued carefully, "that this Ser Lance Lot has any true connection to Prince Duncan Targaryen. If that's the case, why did we erase every trace of Duncan and his wife's life in Duskendale? Wouldn't it make more sense to forge evidence instead — something that ties them together?"
Bonifer smiled — not mockingly, but with patient amusement.
"My brother," he said softly, "we are the sword of the Seven's justice on earth. Forgery is the work of liars. We do not sully the gods' cause with deceit."
He paused, his voice lowering into something almost reverent.
"Besides… forgeries can be disproven. Lies unravel. But when truth is erased — when all traces are gone — the mind fills the void with faith."
He turned his serene gaze toward the altar's flickering light.
"Destroy all that remains of Duncan Targaryen in Duskendale," he said, "and when others search for the truth, they will believe only what they wish to find. The absence itself will become proof."
Valentyn's eyes widened with admiration.
"Your wisdom humbles me, Brother Bonifer."
He bowed low, the awe in his voice unmistakable.
After sharing one last brief prayer, Valentyn departed, leaving the sept in silence once more.
Bonifer remained seated, staring up at the statues of the Seven, his expression unreadable.
Time passed.
At last, the great doors creaked open again.
Moonlight spilled across the marble floor, outlining the figure of a graceful woman as she stepped into the sept.
Bonifer smiled faintly, rising to greet her with a courteous bow.
"Your presence, my lady," he murmured, "makes this sacred hall shine even brighter."
"Spare me the flattery," she said curtly, her voice smooth but sharp.
She sank gracefully onto the bench, crossing one long, pale leg over the other. The silk of her gown shimmered like water beneath the moonlight, and her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders like a halo spun from sunlight.
Her green eyes, cool and distant, glimmered with bored irritation.
"Well?" she said. "Why did you call for me?"