Chapter 245 — The Northern Campaign Begins
King's Landing.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted stood before the heavy oak doors of the royal bedchamber, their surface carved with coiling dragons. The golden Hand's badge gleamed upon his chest, yet there was no trace of triumph on his face. The expression that once carried calculated charm—so often mocked even by Tywin Lannister as fawning—was now carved with deep lines of worry.
He had been standing there for a long time.
Taking a steady breath, he raised his hand and knocked. The sound echoed sharply in the stillness.
"Your Grace?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
No reply came from within.
Only the faint crackling of firewood in the hearth slipped through the thick door.
Qarlton's heart sank.
He turned to look at the silent figure beside him—Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The old knight stood like a statue in pristine white armor, as spotless as the vows he upheld. Yet at this moment, Qarlton wished that armor were stained with blood and mud on the battlefield, rather than standing here—helpless.
The memory of a few days ago surfaced vividly.
At the gates, as the army marched north—
"Let me go, Your Grace," Barristan had said. "My sword can still carve a path for the realm."
But the Dragonrider had refused, his tone absolute.
"No, Ser Barristan."
"You are the pillar of the realm—the king's final shield. The king needs you. A knight of your honor and loyalty must remain here and guard King's Landing. That duty is more important than charging into battle."
Those words had become chains.
They bound the old knight to King's Landing.
He could not stand beside his friend against the abyss that devoured light, yet he was forced to uphold the very core of his vows—to protect the king. The weight of duty and the sting of helplessness gnawed relentlessly at his knightly pride.
Returning to the present, Qarlton met Barristan's gaze, a hint of pleading in his eyes.
"Ser… please. Open the door."
Barristan looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, without a word, he gave a slow nod.
Click.
The heavy door creaked open.
Qarlton inclined his head in thanks and stepped inside.
The chamber was dim. Massive windows were veiled behind thick crimson velvet curtains, sealing out even the faint light of the overcast sky beyond.
On the enormous bed—large enough for several grown men—lay a small figure curled tightly into itself. Silver-gold hair spread messily across the dark pillows, and a heavy feathered blanket was pulled over him as though he wished to shut out the entire world.
"Your Grace…"
Qarlton's voice softened further as he approached. Beneath the covers, he could feel faint, suppressed tremors.
No answer.
He reached out and gently patted the blanket.
The gesture was awkward—but carried a tenderness utterly unlike the polished, calculating man who once maneuvered through council chambers with practiced ease.
"I know you're angry, Your Grace," he said quietly.
"Angry at fate… angry at… her leaving."
"Shut up!"
The blanket was flung aside.
The silver-haired boy king—Viserys Targaryen III—erupted like a cornered beast before Qarlton Chelsted could even finish speaking. He shot upright, unleashing a raw, throat-tearing scream.
His damp silver hair clung to his forehead, and his violet eyes—bloodshot, blazing—burned with a fury that seemed capable of setting the world aflame.
So much like his father.
Qarlton barely had time to react before pain exploded through his arm.
Viserys lunged forward and sank his teeth viciously into his forearm.
The agony was sharp and immediate—his instinct was to pull away.
He was Qarlton Chelsted: the man who once navigated banquets with honeyed words, who thrived among nobles by reading every nuance and avoiding every risk. Retreat was second nature to him.
He should have pulled back.
But the golden badge on his chest pressed cold and heavy against his heart.
In that instant, the regent's words rang out in his mind:
"Chelsted, King's Landing is yours. Hold it steady… and watch over the king."
The weight of being the Hand of the King crushed down on his hesitation, smothering the cowardice buried deep within him.
He did not pull away.
He let the boy bite him.
With his other arm, he even drew the trembling child into an embrace.
Warm blood soaked through his silk sleeve, ran along the boy's pale wrist, and dripped onto the dark velvet sheets—blossoming into deep crimson stains.
At last, the pressure of the teeth weakened.
Perhaps exhaustion had taken hold, or perhaps the taste of blood finally pierced through Viserys's haze.
Slowly, he let go.
He lifted his head, his small body shaking uncontrollably.
"Why… why…"
Tears streamed down his face, washing away the blood at his lips.
Qarlton did not even glance at his wound.
He simply looked at the boy, calm and steady, and with his uninjured hand gently wiped the blood and tears from Viserys's face—like a guardian, not a servant.
"Your Grace."
His voice was firm now—no flattery, no softness. Only solemn certainty.
"From the moment we are born, each of us is bound to a duty. Just as the anvil must endure the hammer, and the blade must strike at darkness—there is no escape from it."
"I, Qarlton Chelsted, am your Hand. I must remain here, buried beneath endless petitions, balancing the ambitions of great houses."
"And you, Your Grace—"
He raised his bloodied arm and pointed at the boy's chest.
"Viserys Targaryen III, king of the Seven Kingdoms. Whether you are ready or not, you must bear the weight of that crown—no matter where the road leads."
"Even if that road is choked with thorns… and cut by freezing winds."
"And the regent…"
Qarlton's gaze drifted toward the distant, storm-dark northern sky beyond the window.
"He could have remained in Sunspear—basking in victory, celebrating his marriage. But he chose to march north… to face a long night that even gods fear."
"And your mother—Rhaella Targaryen."
"She chose her duty as well. At the darkest moment, she embraced the flames with courage… and with love."
"No one forced her."
"That was her answer—to her love for you, and to the burden of the realm."
"Do you understand, Your Grace?"
His words struck like iron on steel.
Silence fell.
The fire in the hearth flickered, stretching and warping their shadows across the chamber walls.
Viserys lowered his head.
The hysteria was gone—replaced by something colder, deeper… a bone-deep exhaustion.
"Go see Maester Qyburn for your wound, my lord."
Barristan Selmy spoke at last. The earlier scrutiny in his eyes had vanished, replaced by quiet respect.
He had never expected a man who rose through flattery to stand so firmly when it mattered.
Qarlton only shook his head.
His gaze lingered on the desolate boy before him. Then, from within his robes, he drew out a letter.
He unfolded it.
And began to read aloud.
"I, Lance Lot, humbly submit this memorial to Your Grace—"
"Lance… Lot?"
Viserys's head snapped up.
Days ago, that man had returned to King's Landing on dragonback—said nothing, offered no explanation—only brought news of his mother's death.
Then he left.
Marched north.
And now… a letter?
Qarlton did not pause.
"I was once but a blacksmith, raised by the late king, granted the white cloak, entrusted with power. Thus did I repay his grace with my life's service…"
The words flowed on—of battles, betrayals crushed, kingdoms stabilized, enemies slain.
Of the Vale.
Of the North.
Of Dorne.
Of the western seas and their horrors.
Each sentence carried the weight of blood and steel.
Even Qarlton's voice faltered.
Three short years.
And yet, achievements that would shame legends.
He steadied himself and continued.
"…But now, the long night approaches…"
The letter shifted—from past triumphs to looming catastrophe.
Of shadows beyond the Wall.
Of annihilation.
Of a war not for thrones—but for survival itself.
"…Your Grace must take up the will of the flame."
"…Ride the dragon. Tour the Seven Kingdoms. Where the royal banner points, rebellion shall falter; where dragon wings pass, the people shall find peace."
"…If I return victorious, I shall lay the frozen head of the enemy at the foot of the Iron Throne."
"…If I fall, burn my bones with dragonfire… and scatter my ashes upon the Wall."
"…This body may shatter—but this soul shall guard the North… forever."
Silence.
No one spoke.
Only the faint sound of Viserys breathing—uneven, fragile.
The letter trembled in his hands.
The ink blurred through his tears.
Each word burned into him like molten iron.
He saw it—
A white-armored knight carving a path through blood and fire.
A lone figure standing against impossible odds.
A life spent honoring a vow.
Tears fell.
A dark blot spread across the parchment.
Viserys flinched, startled by his own weakness, hastily wiping the stain away with his sleeve.
Carefully—almost reverently—he folded the letter once, then again.
He loosened his collar and pressed it against his chest, over his racing heart.
The cold parchment rested against warm skin.
He drew in a slow breath.
"Ser Barristan Selmy."
His voice was hoarse—but steady.
"Your Grace!"
Barristan stepped forward, fist to chest, armor ringing softly.
Viserys lifted his head.
His gaze was no longer that of a frightened child.
The words echoed in his mind—
Ride the dragon. Tour the Seven Kingdoms.
This time… I won't hide behind walls, Uncle Lance.
I'll hold the realm together.
I'll keep the peace behind you.
His eyes seemed to pierce through stone and distance—beyond the Red Keep, across the trembling lands of Westeros.
Barristan felt it.
The child was gone.
In his place stood something new.
Something forged.
"Prepare the royal procession."
The command was quiet—but absolute.
"I will… tour the Seven Kingdoms."
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