Chapter 109 — Counseling the Queen
Iron-shod boots rang against the Red Keep's stone path as Lance returned, taking in the familiar red walls and green gardens with an idle, almost playful curiosity.
Ahead, a squad of gold-cloaked guards stood rigidly at attention under the stern command of a fully armored knight.
"Good morning, Ser Darry."
"Congratulations on your victory, ser!"
The moment the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard arrived, every man straightened like a drawn bowstring. Ser Willem Darry — the Red Keep's master-at-arms — thundered his greeting with perfect discipline.
After the campaign against the Brotherhood, Willem had heard the stories from his own brother, Ser Jonothor Darry — the tales of Lance's fight on the Kingswood road. Even as Master-at-arms of the Red Keep, Willem couldn't help but admire him.
And now the man had risen even further — Commander of the Kingsguard, permitted to sit on the Small Council. For a knight, there was no higher summit.
"No need to be so tense. Breathe."
Lance's tone was warm, a friendly smile tugging at his lips.
"Guarding the Red Keep and the royal family is your duty. But you don't need to look like you're expecting execution every second you breathe. Do your job — nothing more."
"Yes, ser!"
Ironically, the encouragement only made them stand even straighter — like men preparing to impress a god rather than a knight.
Lance sighed, helpless, and strode inside.
"That's the bearing of a true knight…"
Willem watched his retreating figure, eyes glowing with admiration and envy.
He was the master-at-arms, true — but Rhaegar had barely trained under him at all.
Once the prince learned the basics, his instructors became Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Gerold Hightower. Willem Darry was a fine knight — but compared to legends, he was only mortal.
"Why don't you join the Kingsguard yourself, ser?" one of the Goldcloaks teased. "There's a vacant slot now that the Harrenhal boy got dismissed!"
Smack!
Willem slapped him across the head.
"Shut your mouth. There are only two sons left in the Darry family. If we both join the Kingsguard, who will give my father grandchildren?"
But he grinned as he said it.
"You want to joke? Fine. Let's cut that thing dangling in your breeches and send you to the king — I'm sure he could use another fool."
Their laughter echoed down the hallway.
---
All through his walk, servants, guards, courtiers — even nobles — greeted Lance. He responded politely to each.
Strange how many friends appear once you gain power, he thought.
When he was not Lord Commander, few had spared him more than a glance.
He didn't resent them — humans were built to seek favor and avoid risk. It amused him more than it offended him.
---
The path opened into the Royal Garden, where a temporary stage had been erected. Actors in bright costumes sang and danced with exaggerated flair.
And there — lounging like a fat alley cat sunning itself — lay King Aerys II, not in his chambers but sprawled on a cushioned seat enjoying the play.
"Someone's in a good mood."
Lance approached with a crooked smirk, shooting a quick glance at Ser Jonothor Darry — unarmed and stationed four to five meters away — before casually settling beside the king.
"Your heir gets kidnapped and I expected you to be screaming bloody vengeance, threatening to burn House Stark to the roots."
"Burning those traitors is only a matter of time."
Aerys shot him a glare for the jab — but the slight curve tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed his pleasure.
Lance saw it and laughed under his breath.
He stepped half a pace closer and watched the stage alongside the king.
"What play is this?"
"Prince Duncan Targaryen relinquishing the crown for a peasant girl — the moment my father Jaehaerys ascended the Iron Throne."
Aerys's tone grew oddly wistful.
---
And Lance could already guess why he'd been summoned.
There was a queen somewhere in this castle — angry, humiliated, grieving, and about to explode.
Lance could hear the king clearly; Aerys wasn't even trying to hide anything. His voice was low, but his words were blunt.
Lance blinked, momentarily surprised.
If it had been anyone else, they might have thought Aerys was taking a dangerous risk — after all, the fact that Lance might be Prince Duncan reborn was a secret only the two of them knew.
Well… two and a half, if you counted a certain occasionally overheated queen.
But beneath the king's tone, Lance caught something else.
Not provocation. Not madness.
Hesitation.
"You're thinking of disinheriting Rhaegar?"
The old man wasn't circling the subject, so Lance didn't either. He lowered his voice.
"Have you really thought this through?"
Aerys fell silent for a moment, then shook his head.
"Truthfully? No."
He sighed as a cool breeze brushed across the garden. His dry, bark-like feet drew up onto the bench, and he curled in on himself like a tired old spider.
"Walter Whent wrote to me," he said. "Described everything that happened on the Kingsroad — every last detail."
In front of Lance, Aerys sold his loyal lord without a second thought.
"Only you would dare treat the prince like that," the king said bluntly. "If I'd sent that little rat from Harrenhal, the Stark girl would've slipped through his fingers."
He jerked his chin toward the direction Lance had come from, clearly displeased.
"That boy Rhaegar… I swear, he must've had half the amniotic fluid leak into his skull in the womb."
"Someone sneaks into the Red Keep and kidnaps him, and instead of asserting Targaryen authority, he tries to help the criminals escape."
"He's even more soft-headed and pathetic than Baelor the Blessed."
Aerys didn't mince his words.
To him, anyone who dared insult Targaryen majesty deserved burning, extermination, and salt on the ashes. House Darklyn and House Hollard at Duskendale had proven that well enough.
And what did his "promising" heir do, once rescued?
Help the kidnappers.
It was enough to make any king wonder if his son hadn't secretly come to an agreement with the Starks — some quiet arrangement to one day overthrow him.
"I don't think he's anything like you, either," Lance said.
He didn't try to defend Rhaegar. He disliked the crown prince too much for that. He simply stated his opinion honestly.
"But breaking primogeniture comes at a price. When you depose the firstborn and name a younger son heir, legitimacy is written in dragonfire, steel, and schemes — and Targaryen history has proved this more than once."
"If you truly intend to strip Rhaegar of his right and name Viserys the lawful heir to the Iron Throne, we'll need to prepare thoroughly."
At that, Aerys fell quiet again, bloodshot violet eyes fixed on the stage ahead, mind clearly far from the play.
The performance neared its end. Despite the cooling weather, the actors were sweating heavily, voices hoarse as they bowed deeply before the king.
"A gold dragon for each," Aerys said.
His tone was flat as he ordered Ser Gerold Hightower, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, to pay them. Then he stood and gave Lance's white cloak a tug.
The tall knight lifted the king onto his shoulder and carried him away.
Gerold dug into the purse, placing gold coins into grateful hands, though his gaze lingered on the retreating figures of king and Lord Commander, expression conflicted.
---
They made their way to the royal bedchamber. Ser Jonothor Darry stood guard at the door, ever dutiful, and lit up when he saw them.
"Your Grace. Lord Commander."
"Good work, ser," Lance said.
He gave the younger Kingsguard a warm smile, then walked inside as Jonothor closed the door behind them.
"Ahhh…"
Aerys let out a long breath as he sank into the bed, the familiar security of his chamber easing the tightness in his chest. A faint smile touched his lips — then faded, replaced by regret.
He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a letter, handing it to Lance.
Lance opened it, brows knitting.
"Princess Nymeria is dead?"
He read it through quickly, then glanced at the king.
"Terrible timing."
"Indeed."
Aerys shifted, trying to settle his aching back into the mattress more comfortably.
"Her eldest son, Doran Martell, will inherit as Prince of Dorne," he said. "As ruler of the Iron Throne, we must send someone to witness his ascension, offer condolences, reaffirm the eternal friendship between Dorne and the Crown… and so on, and so on."
He sighed.
"I cannot leave King's Landing. My body wouldn't survive the journey."
"Rhaegar can't go to Dorne," Lance said immediately.
Aerys said nothing — but his silence was agreement.
Given the prince's recent behavior, sending him south, away from King's Landing, into the arms of House Martell… gods knew what kind of trouble he'd stir up.
If Rhaegar won Dorne's backing, the Crownlands wouldn't just be facing trouble from the North anymore.
"I only trust you, boy."
After a long pause, the king pushed himself up against the headboard and grasped Lance's hand tightly, meeting his gaze.
"I'll write to Doran Martell," he said. "I'll tell him Rhaegar remains unconscious and cannot travel."
"You'll take Rhaella and Viserys as the Crown's representatives to Sunspear — and escort Princess Elia home."
"And on the road, you'll have ample time for… deeper conversation with that Dayne woman, no?"
Aerys' tone suddenly shifted to casual, almost teasing. He didn't look the least bit worried — more like an old gossip nudging a younger man.
"But King's Landing…" Lance began.
"Will be fine."
For the first time in a long while, Aerys's violet eyes gleamed with confidence. He almost looked like the young, ambitious king he'd once been.
"I've written to Mace Tyrell of the Reach," he said. "They're gathering their forces to camp along the Kingsroad east of the Gods Eye, ready to march against any foes from the North or the West."
"The Tyrells have always been reliable. They can be trusted."
Lance knew that much was true.
Even in the "original timeline," when the Targaryens stood alone against a united rebellion, it was the Reach that held the Stormlands at bay and bought Rhaegar time to fight at the Trident.
Of course, that hadn't ended well either — the proud prince had been crushed beneath the hammer of a stag.
"And the Lannisters?" Lance asked.
"Whatever else they are, they played a major role in the rescue. But it's obvious Tywin didn't send them here out of pure loyalty — if they decide to move inside the city, the Goldcloaks will be hard-pressed."
"That's simple."
Aerys's lips pulled back in a cruel smile, eyes flashing with venom.
"I've already had them shipped north."
At Lance's brief look of surprise, the king went on, voice low and cold.
"Those damned Northerners dared cross Moat Cailin and parade their defiance in my lands. I won't sit idly by."
"Besides the Lannisters, I've drawn over two hundred knights from Stokeworth, Duskendale, and five other noble houses. They've slipped into the North in groups, disguised as bandits."
"They'll burn, raid, and slaughter."
"I want to see how Rickard Stark postures when winter comes, the fields lie barren, and every granary he owns has been put to the torch."
Lance raised an eyebrow.
He hadn't expected the old man to be that ruthless.
Northern winters were hell already; add famine and banditry on top of that, and gods knew how many would die in the snow.
But Lance didn't object.
He wasn't a Northerner.
Strictly speaking, he didn't even belong to this world.
The fate of the North had nothing to do with him. If they'd chosen to follow a proud, short-sighted lord into disaster… that was their misfortune.
"Oh, right."
After a grim little laugh at his own plan, Aerys seemed to remember something and looked at Lance again.
"Rhaella has always favored her firstborn," he said quietly. "On the way to Dorne, she may… develop certain resentments."
"You'll need to talk sense into her. Make sure she doesn't cause trouble."
She'd be more than happy for me to "talk sense" into her…
Lance couldn't help recalling that night in the queen's bedchamber, the warmth of her skin lingering in his palm as if he'd just felt it again.
A twist of guilt tugged at him.
The old man trusted him this much — and here he was, thinking about the man's wife.
Some "knight of honor," huh?
"Don't worry, Your Grace."
He drew in a deep breath and forced those thoughts down into the darkest corner of his mind. Then he pressed a fist to his chest, voice steady and solemn.
"I swear on my life and my honor — I will bring Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys safely back to King's Landing."
And in his heart, he quietly added another oath:
No matter what that seductive queen tries on the road,
Lance Lot will not waver.
Absolutely not.