Chapter 31 – The Bald One
"Rebellion! This is outright rebellion!"
"How dare they! Running rampant across the Crownlands, kidnapping nobles was already intolerable, but now—now they dare lay hands on Princess Elia herself? This is nothing short of a direct challenge to the king's authority!"
"They've been left unchecked for far too long. Lord Tywin, as Hand of the King, the blame rests squarely on your shoulders!"
By the time Lance and his companions arrived outside the council chamber, the place was already in chaos. Voices rose and overlapped, the chamber sounding more like a noisy marketplace than the seat of royal governance.
Exchanging a glance with Barristan, all three quickened their steps, realizing just how dire the situation must be.
Yet the moment they stepped into the hall, they were met with an astonishing sight: the Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, clad in his green robes, was standing right in front of the Hand of the King, jabbing a finger at Tywin Lannister's nose, spitting venom with every word.
When did this man grow a spine?
Lance frowned slightly, genuinely puzzled.
Qarlton had always been a loyal dog to King Aerys. True, he had long held grudges against Tywin, but he never once dared openly oppose him. At most, he would whisper venom into the king's ear in private, hoping to plant seeds of doubt against the Hand.
After all, Tywin Lannister's reputation was a blade sharper than steel. The Rains of Castamere echoed across the Seven Kingdoms—a reminder of what befell those who crossed him. And Qarlton? He was no ironborn reaver, no Stark of Winterfell. He was a petty, timid man who preferred coin to blood. Where would he ever find the courage to stand toe-to-toe with Tywin?
Yet today, this sycophant—this man better suited to the role of court flatterer than royal treasurer—was defying the Lion of Casterly Rock in full view of the court, showing not the slightest hint of fear.
Stranger still, Tywin himself—normally the very embodiment of authority and iron will—stood silently, stone-faced, enduring the accusations without a single retort.
…
"Your Grace!"
The heated chamber fell silent as Lance and his party entered. The King, who had until then worn only a grim expression, immediately brightened. His tight frown melted into a genuine smile.
"Come—come here, Ser Lance! Quickly, to my side!"
From atop the Iron Throne, Aerys waved excitedly, thumping the armrest with unrestrained delight.
His mood had been steadier these days, and he seemed to be taking greater care to avoid the jagged blades that jutted from the throne, sparing himself fresh cuts.
Under the eyes of the entire court—some envious, others resentful—Lance straightened his posture, hand resting upon his sword's hilt, and strode boldly forward until he stood less than a yard from the king himself.
The Commander of the Kingsguard, who stood empty-handed three paces away, could only watch with conflicted eyes.
"Do not hesitate, Your Grace!"
Among the council members and gathered white cloaks, the one who could no longer contain himself was Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
He stepped forward, dropped to one knee, and spoke with fierce urgency:
"Command me, sire! Give me leave to lead men against these treacherous curs, to cut them down and rescue Princess Elia and Lady Ashara at once!"
Everyone present knew all too well why Arthur's voice trembled with such anger.
After all, the one who had accompanied Princess Elia on her journey was none other than this man's sister—the famed beauty of Dorne, Ashara Dayne.
Two women of such renown, both of them stunning beyond compare, had fallen into the hands of ruthless brigands. Everyone in the hall understood what horrors might follow if they were not swiftly rescued.
"I understand your urgency, Ser Arthur."
In the face of Arthur's impassioned plea, the Master of Laws, Lord Symond Staunton, spoke with infuriating calm:
"But you must restrain yourself for now. We don't yet know the whereabouts of these criminals. Even if you rode out from King's Landing this instant, you'd be chasing shadows with no hope of finding their lair."
"You dare say that to me?!"
Arthur's patience snapped. He leapt to his feet, jabbing a finger at Symond's nose, fury blazing in his eyes.
"As Master of Laws, you've allowed this gang of cutthroats to run rampant across the Crownlands unchecked! That is a failure beyond forgiveness. If you had spent even half the energy you waste fawning over the king on maintaining order, King's Landing would already be safe and at peace!"
"Men like you aren't fit to be Master of Laws—you'd serve better as a jester!"
The words hit like a slap. Gasps and smirks rippled through the chamber. No one had expected the usually polite Arthur Dayne—the Sword of the Morning—to so brazenly humiliate a great lord, calling him unfit for office in full court.
Symond's face flushed crimson. He was, in truth, incompetent—a toady whose only skill lay in flattering Aerys. Even his supposed subordinate, Ser Manly Stokeworth, commander of the Gold Cloaks, had little respect for him. His authority existed only in name.
But to be publicly denounced, nose pointed at him no less? Even a clay idol would have cracked.
"You… you…" Symond sputtered, chest heaving, hand trembling as he pointed back at Arthur. He even entertained a fleeting thought of challenging the knight to a duel—only to abandon it at once, knowing full well he was no match for the Sword of the Morning. His anger curdled into impotent shame.
"Enough, Ser Arthur."
At last, Prince Rhaegar laid a calming hand on his friend's shoulder, pressing him back into his seat. Turning to Symond, the prince inclined his head politely.
"Ser Arthur's words sprang from deep concern for Princess Elia and Lady Ashara. His passion carried him too far. Please do not take offense, Lord Symond."
"Hmph." Given the prince's intervention, Symond seized the offered escape. With a dramatic flick of his sleeve, he subsided into sullen silence.
"Enough! Enough!"
The king, who had been silent until now, suddenly raised his voice, rubbing his temples theatrically. "All this noise—my head feels ready to split!" His violet eyes flicked, dark with resentment, toward his son.
So the prince soothes tempers and plays the hero, while I—the king—am left a fool. What need has anyone for me, if Rhaegar plays the part of ruler so well?
"Lord Tywin."
Aerys' voice cut like a whip. He drummed his fingers against the jagged armrest of the Iron Throne.
"Tell me—why is it that in my absence, such a band of cutthroats could flourish in King's Landing itself? They even dare call themselves the Brotherhood of the Kingswood. Are they mocking my Kingsguard? Or is it that you, my Hand, are nothing but an empty title?"
The words struck like a hammer-blow. Aerys was not merely criticizing—he was openly questioning the Hand's competence.
All eyes turned to Tywin, hungry for his reaction.
But the Lion of Casterly Rock, proud beyond measure, offered no retort. Instead, he merely cast a sidelong glance at the king, his lips curling faintly as though savoring Aerys' humiliation.
At last, he spoke, voice low and steady:
"You were a prisoner for more than half a year, Your Grace. To ensure your safety, I had no choice but to send the bulk of our forces to Duskendale, where they remain garrisoned. Thus, there were fewer men to guard the Crownlands south of the city."
"Oh? Then you mean to say this calamity is my fault, as king?"
Aerys' eyes narrowed dangerously.
"That is not what I mean, Your Grace."
Tywin bowed slightly, words polished but sharp-edged: "I merely state that had you heeded my counsel, and not ridden alone into Duskendale, none of this would ever have come to pass."
The king's fury boiled over. He gripped the throne's armrests, his knuckles whitening. "You dare—!"
"Your Grace."
Before Aerys could hurl another curse, Lance's voice cut through the tension. Meeting the king's gaze with steady blue eyes, he offered nothing but sincerity.
The fire in Aerys' eyes dimmed. With a snort, he subsided back into his seat, though his anger still smoldered.
"Your Grace, my lords."
Taking the moment, Lance stepped forward and swept the chamber with his gaze.
"Ser Arthur is right. The first and most urgent task is to rescue Princess Elia and Lady Ashara. If any harm comes to them, our relations with Dorne will sour beyond repair."
The reasoning was sound. Heads nodded all around.
But not all were pleased.
"Again with these bold words…"
Lord Symond could not resist sneering, his voice dripping with mockery. "Tell me, Ser Lance—do you even know where these villains hide? The so-called Brotherhood of the Kingswood vanishes into the forest, and the smallfolk protect them. You may be strong, but no man can scour the entire Kingswood alone."
He shot Lance a disdainful look.
To Symond, this white-clad knight was nothing more than a thief—stealing away the king's favor that should have belonged to him. Aerys had been back in King's Landing for more than a fortnight, and not once had Symond been granted a private audience. Yet this newcomer dined at the king's side daily.
That place was mine! he seethed. A Kingsguard knight should cling to honor, not usurp the role of confidant! How dare he steal my place as the king's shadow?
Arthur, too, faltered. He knew Symond's words held truth: without knowing the enemy's lair, sending soldiers was folly. The Brotherhood would scatter long before they were caught.
But just as doubt thickened in the air, Lance smiled faintly.
"Of course I don't know where these so-called 'Brothers of the Kingswood' make their den."
He paused, then turned his gaze upon the Iron Throne.
"But… the bald eunuch at Your Grace's side surely does."