Chapter 77 – The Dragon's Dream
The noise from the royal bedchamber was deafening.
Hearing the commotion, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry burst through the doors — swords half-drawn, ready for battle.
What they saw instead made both men freeze.
Ser Lance Lot, the youngest and fiercest of the Kingsguard, had Maester Pycelle by the collar — lifting the old man clear off the ground with one arm.
"Help me! Ser knights, help me!" Pycelle wheezed, his wrinkled face red from the pressure on his throat. "He's gone mad— he's trying to kill me!"
But to the Maester's horror, none of the white knights rushed forward to stop Lance.
Instead, Barristan and Jonothor exchanged uncertain glances — then turned to Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander himself, who stood silently by the bedside.
Even Gerold, calm as ever, simply bent down, dipped a finger into the puddle of spilled white liquid on the floor, rubbed it between his fingers, and frowned. His eyes hardened as they lifted to Pycelle.
The Maester's stomach dropped.
"You… you fools," he rasped, voice trembling. "You're just going to stand there while he assaults a member of the Small Council— inside the royal chamber!?"
But none of them moved.
Jonothor glanced at Barristan — who, after a long silence, spoke quietly but firmly:
"Ser Lance must have a reason."
Jonothor hesitated for a moment, then slowly sheathed his sword and nodded.
Across the room, Lance's fury only grew.
"Speak, old man!" he snarled, hoisting Pycelle higher, the Maester's feet barely brushing the floor. "Who ordered you to give the King that poison?"
His voice cracked with righteous anger. "Keep feeding him that filth, and even if he had been sane, he'd go mad soon enough!"
There was nothing theatrical about it — no false outrage, no act. Lance's fury burned raw and real.
In another life — one long buried — he'd watched his own father spiral into madness on this same poison, hallucinating demons and angels until he slaughtered his entire family in a haze of delusion.
The police had arrived just in time to pry baby Lance from his father's arms — seconds before he dashed him against the wall.
That memory, buried for years, now roared back like wildfire.
He'd sworn, back then, that he would never again allow poison to destroy a family.
"Confess!" Lance's voice was a whipcrack.
"I—I didn't! I swear I didn't!" Pycelle stammered, his composure shattering.
He looked desperately to the other knights, but their eyes were cold — skeptical.
"This… this is slander!" he cried hoarsely. "He's slandering me!"
"It's nothing but milk of the poppy! A mild anesthetic, a painkiller! You can find it in any medical text! Yes, it causes strange dreams — yes, one may build a tolerance — but at worst, it causes a little swelling, never what this madman describes!"
He was pleading now, trembling hands outstretched. "Please, my lords, you must believe me!"
"Enough!"
Lance's fist shot forward — smashing square into Pycelle's face.
The old Maester crumpled like paper, collapsing to the floor with a strangled groan. Two bloody teeth clattered across the tiles beside him.
Jonothor blinked, horrified — and then, despite himself, thought: Well… that's the end of his steak dinners.
Lance exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stop. Killing the man now would only bury the truth.
He turned to Barristan, his voice clipped but steady.
"Take him back to his chambers. Summon Commander Manly of the City Watch — ten Goldcloaks, round-the-clock watch. No visitors. No contact. Until I say otherwise."
Barristan frowned. "Ser, we don't have the authority to imprison a Grand Maester. His seat on the Small Council—"
"—means nothing if he's a threat to the King."
Lance's eyes were ice.
Before Barristan could argue further, Gerold Hightower stepped forward.
"Do as he says."
All heads turned.
"Ser Gerold—?"
The Lord Commander's tone was calm, but resolute.
"Escort him to his quarters," he ordered. "Post men at his door. I'll handle the Small Council."
Then he looked directly at Lance — and nodded once.
"As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it is my duty to investigate anything that endangers His Grace's life. Even if this exceeds my station."
His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"If the Grand Maester is innocent, I'll bear the shame — and the punishment — myself."
Barristan straightened immediately. "Yes, Lord Commander!"
The knights moved quickly, lifting the dazed, bleeding Pycelle from the floor and marching him out into the hall.
"Good work, Ser Gerold," Lance said quietly as the door shut behind them.
Gerold turned slightly, his face unreadable beneath the torchlight.
"Don't thank me, Ser Lance," he said. "I'm not doing this because I trust you."
His voice was steady — solemn.
"I'm doing this because I wear the white cloak. And I intend to honor it."
Then, without another word, he left the chamber.
Lightning flared outside, streaking across the sky. For an instant, the reflection lit up Gerold's retreating figure — the white armor gleaming like a blade against the storm.
Thunder followed a moment later — rolling, echoing, endless.
---
"Rrrrrrraaaaahhhhhh—!"
The sound tore through the room, startling Lance to attention.
On the bed, Aerys II Targaryen convulsed violently, his mouth open in a wordless scream.
The air grew hot — impossibly hot.
"Your Grace!" Lance rushed forward — but stopped short.
Aerys's eyes had changed. His pupils had split into vertical slits, glowing faintly in the dark.
And then — the world around him changed.
---
When Aerys opened his eyes again, he was standing on a lonely island surrounded by crashing waves.
Salt spray lashed the air, the sea roared against black stone cliffs — and before him, rising like a god's monument, stood a vast castle shaped like a dragon's spine.
Dragonstone.
The King's heart clenched with awe.
He had been here as a boy — the birthplace of his bloodline.
But why was he here now?
He tried to stand — and heard the rattle of chains.
Looking down, Aerys froze.
Thick iron links bound his neck, his arms, his legs. And worse — they weren't attached to human flesh.
His hands were no longer hands at all.
They were clawed talons, scaled in green and black. His arms had become vast wings, and when he twisted, a massive tail struck the stone behind him, shaking the earth.
He was no longer a man.
He was a dragon.
"I… I am a dragon," he whispered — then laughed, voice echoing across the island. "I am the true dragon! Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name — the Dragon Reborn!"
The heat built in his throat, smoke rising from his nostrils.
Then came the fire.
A torrent of white-hot flame burst from his jaws, consuming everything before him — stone, sand, air — all turned to cinders.
He roared again, triumphant.
"I am the dragon! The one true dragon of the world!"
But his triumph curdled into rage.
For though he burned the world to ash, the chains remained.
No matter how he pulled, no matter how fiercely he screamed, the bindings did not melt, did not even glow.
"Damn you!" he roared. "No chain forged by man can bind a dragon!"
He thrashed and struggled until his wings bled and his scales split — until his fire dimmed and his breath came ragged and weak.
But the chains only clinked in answer.
Then came the thunder.
A deafening crack split the heavens, and the skies opened.
Torrents of rain poured down like a broken sea, hammering the volcanic rock. The downpour was so fierce it felt as though the sky itself had ruptured, spilling the rivers of the gods upon the earth.
But the storm could not quench his fury.
If anything, it only fed it.
The dragon that was Aerys threw back his head and screamed, his molten breath steaming against the rain — until the sound of the world itself answered him.
From the distant peaks, a deep, shuddering boom erupted.
The mountain trembled.
Cracks split across its surface, glowing red from within.
Then came the smoke.
Thick gray fumes poured into the air, followed by a brilliant crimson glow.
The volcano was waking.
Dragonmont… it's erupting!
Panic flickered through Aerys's fevered mind.
He beat his wings in desperation, trying to break free — but the enchanted chains held firm, cutting into his scaled limbs.
A chunk of molten rock shot skyward from the crater — a blazing fragment of the world itself — and came crashing down.
It struck his left wing.
The pain was indescribable. His scream shook the clouds. Fire burst from his mouth as blood and ash rained together, painting the ground in black and scarlet.
But there was no mercy.
More stones followed — a storm of molten fire raining from the heavens, colliding with the falling rain in a hiss of steam that cloaked the island in mist.
"Rrrrrrraaaahhhh!!!"
Aerys roared his defiance to the storm. But his fury was meaningless — he was powerless, trapped, and small beneath the wrath of the world.
Then — a sound answered him.
A roar. Deep. Primeval.
A sound like his own — but far stronger.
"Aaaaaarrrrhhhhhhhhhh!!!"
Aerys froze, the scales along his neck rising. His eyes turned toward the volcano — and what he saw made his heart stop.
Something enormous burst from the fire.
A dragon — vast and magnificent, its wings brighter than the molten sky, its scales burning red like living flame. Lava rolled down its body but did not harm it; it was the fire.
The newcomer beat its wings once — just once — and the storm scattered before it.
Within a heartbeat, it was before him.
"Raaaaahhhh!!!"
The crimson dragon opened its jaws wide and unleashed a torrent of white-hot flame — not at Aerys, but at the chains.
Metal screamed, glowed, and melted like wax.
In seconds, the bindings that had imprisoned the self-proclaimed "true dragon" for eternity turned to molten slag.
Aerys stumbled free, gasping, his mind reeling.
"You— you freed me," he hissed, disbelief twisting into outrage. "Who are you!? Who dares—!?"
His pride burned hotter than the fire around him.
How dare another dragon exist? How dare another claim his birthright?
But the red dragon did not answer.
Instead, it spread its mighty wings, casting its vast shadow over Aerys — shielding him from the rain of fire and falling stone.
For an instant, amid the roaring inferno and blinding light, Aerys saw it turn its head.
The dragon's eyes met his — eyes of pure, crystalline blue, shining like sapphires through the flames.
And in that reflection, Aerys saw a face he knew all too well.
"Lance…"
The name escaped his throat like a prayer — or a curse.
The blue-eyed dragon gazed down in silence, firelight flickering across its scales — and then, with a single beat of its wings, it rose into the storm, vanishing into the blazing clouds above.
Aerys screamed after it, voice breaking with rage and despair.
"No! Come back! You're not the dragon — I am!"
But only thunder answered him.
The true dragon was gone.
And the mad king awoke — weeping like a child in the dark.