Chapter 78 – A True Dragon Cannot Be Caged
The sleeping king woke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, clutching at the tangled sheets like a drowning man.
"Lance…"
King Aerys gasped, the dream still clawing at the edges of his mind — that same haunting image: the white knight standing before him in the crypts, pouring wildfire upon himself without flinching, flames devouring his armor yet leaving his body untouched.
The only true dragon…
But now another thought crept into his skull, sharp as a splinter.
Could it be… that he was not the only one?
He shook his head violently, forcing the idea away — but the dryness in his throat made him feel as though he truly had breathed fire.
He reached for the pitcher at his bedside, gulping it down in one breath — only to taste honeyed water.
"Wine…" he rasped. "Where is my wine!?"
When no one came, his voice rose to a shriek:
"WINE! Bring me my wine, you useless worms!"
The door flew open. Ser Gerold Hightower rushed in, his face lighting with relief.
"Your Grace! You're awake!"
"Don't prattle, fool," Aerys snapped, the veins at his temples throbbing. "Bring me wine. Now."
The nightmare still lingered — wildfire, dragons, blue eyes in the flames — and he needed drink to drown the images.
But to his shock, Gerold didn't move. The massive knight simply stood there, his expression uncertain.
"Did you not hear me?" the King barked. "Your King commands you — bring me wine!"
The knight hesitated, jaw tight. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he said at last, voice low. "But Ser Lance forbade it."
Aerys froze. "Lance…?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Seeing the flicker of attention, Gerold sighed and explained:
"Ser Lance said Your Grace had been poisoned by milk of the poppy — that for a time, no wine should touch your lips. He said it would worsen the affliction."
"He left orders that you should drink only honey-water to cleanse the blood and quicken the humors."
Then, as though trying to soften the command, he added almost reverently:
"He even rode through the night to fetch this water himself — all the way from the upper Blackwater."
The room went silent.
For a long moment, Aerys said nothing.
Of all things he had expected from that insolent knight — defiance, pride, ambition — compassion was not one of them.
He knew what the knight had said to him, what he had seen: the King's madness, the whispers of wildfire, the humiliation of Duskendale. Yet still… he had gone to fetch him clean water.
And in King's Landing, that meant everything.
For half a million souls packed within its walls, the capital was a cesspool — a reeking, festering pit where even the air stank of rot.
The poor relieved themselves in the streets; the rivers ran yellow and foul. Even the wells beneath the Red Keep carried a faint taste of metal and decay.
Only the rich could afford water carried from upriver — or else they masked the stench by boiling it with mint and citrus, or mixing it with cheap, weak wine.
That was why nobles drank endlessly — not to celebrate, but to survive.
The King sat in silence for a long while, his pale hands trembling faintly.
Then he whispered hoarsely:
"Pour me a cup."
The knight obeyed.
Aerys drank slowly, the sweetness of honey clinging to his tongue. His eyes closed. For the first time in weeks, his breath steadied.
Then suddenly—he grabbed Gerold's wrist.
"Where is he?"
His voice was sharp, almost frantic. "You said he left. Where did he go!?"
Gerold blinked, startled. "I… I don't know, Your Grace. He didn't say."
The King's grip tightened.
"Think!"
Gerold winced, then blurted out what he remembered:
"Before he rode out, Ser Lance said something strange. He said that King's Landing is a cage — a golden cage that binds even dragons. He said Your Grace escaped one prison at Duskendale, only to build another for yourself here."
"And then he said… 'A true dragon was born to soar the skies — not rot behind iron bars.'"
Aerys's eyes went wide, pupils trembling.
He could hear the words echoing in his skull like the roar of a beast.
A true dragon cannot be caged.
His breath came faster. He could see it again — the flames, the blue-eyed dragon rising from fire while he, the king, was bound in chains.
"He's gone," Aerys whispered. "He's… left me."
He clutched at Gerold's sleeve with both hands, his voice breaking into a hiss.
"Don't go… Lance…"
But Gerold could only stand there, silent and helpless, as his king muttered the name again and again, each time weaker than the last.
---
Far across the city, the lists of King's Landing thundered with applause.
"Ser Lance Lot of the Kingsguard!"
The herald's cry echoed as the white knight rode into the arena, sunlight gleaming off his newly polished armor and pristine white cloak. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Noble ladies leaned forward; young squires shouted his name. His blue eyes swept the stands — faces of admiration, envy, and longing everywhere he looked.
There was the Dornish princess, her lips parted in awe.
The lady of Starfall, eyes soft as violets.
And even Cersei Lannister, her gaze smoldering like molten gold.
But Lance saw none of them.
His eyes turned to the royal dais — the King's seat stood empty. Only Queen Rhaella sat there, chin resting on her hand, her smile a mask of dangerous warmth.
He ignored her.
"I swore to win for you, old man," he murmured beneath his breath. "Whatever happens when you wake… it no longer matters."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Because this may be the last time I fight in your name."
With that, he steadied his reins and turned toward the opposite gate. His opponent had yet to appear.
Something was wrong.
From the stands, Ashara Dayne frowned. Her violet eyes shimmered with concern.
"He looks… different," she whispered.
"Different?" Princess Elia Martell, seated beside her, tilted her head, watching the knight she secretly adored. "He's magnificent as ever."
Ashara shook her head.
"No. He's angry. Sad. Like he's fighting something inside himself."
Elia only laughed softly, unwilling to believe it.
To her, Ser Lance was everything a knight should be — grace, strength, and beauty incarnate. If there was pain in his heart, she saw only glory.
---
Meanwhile, the crowd grew restless.
"Where's that northern savage?"
"The Winter Wolf too scared to face the Kingsguard?"
"He beat Ser Arthur once — by ambush! Coward!"
Boos and jeers filled the air. The herald called three times, but the gate remained shut.
Up in the noble stands, laughter rippled among the lords.
"Seems the Stark whelp's tucked his tail and fled," one man jeered.
"Prince of the North, thief of the South!" another cackled. "A better story than any bard's!"
Even stern Randyll Tarly smirked faintly.
The herald glanced nervously toward Lance, uncertain whether to call the match.
But the white knight sat silent and unmoving, the wind catching at his cloak, eyes distant as the sea.
...
Janos Slynt had spent three whole years clawing his way up in King's Landing — three years of bowing, smiling, bribing, and surviving the festering pit that was the capital.
And now, finally, he had a chance to impress the great and powerful.
A grand tourney. The finest knights in the realm. The perfect stage to curry favor with the right people — especially with Ser Lance of the Kingsguard, the rising star of the court, and his close friend, Ser Manly Baratheon.
And then that damned northerner ruined everything.
"Seven hells!" Janos muttered under his breath, watching the empty gate across the arena. "You had one job, you miserable snow-born savage — show up, take your beating, and make the fancy knight look good!"
But no. The so-called Winter Wolf Knight had vanished.
And if he didn't show up, then Ser Lance wouldn't get his victory.
If Lance wasn't pleased, then Ser Manly wouldn't be pleased.
And if Manly Baratheon wasn't pleased…
Then Janos Slynt's entire plan would go straight to the privy.
The crowd's murmurs were growing louder, restless and ugly.
"Why hasn't he declared Lance the winner yet?" someone shouted.
"Did he take a bribe from that northern whelp!?"
Janos winced, grinding his teeth.
Gods above, I did take the northerner's coin — but this time I'm actually on Lance's side!
He glanced nervously at the still-silent gate. No sign of movement.
If he didn't say something soon, he might not make it home alive — someone would bash his skull in before he even left the lists.
Finally, with the weight of fifty thousand impatient voices pressing down on him, Janos raised his arms and shouted,
"Since the so-called Winter Wolf Knight has fled the field before the match, I declare this duel—"
He paused dramatically, then bellowed with all the showmanship he could muster:
"—won by Ser Lance of the Kingsguard!"
The crowd erupted.
"Ser Lance! Ser Lance!"
"Long live the Kingsguard!"
"Ha! The northern coward couldn't even unsheathe his sword!"
Janos allowed himself a grin of relief.
There. Order restored. Nobles happy. Me — alive.
Down in the arena, Lance only sighed softly. He gave the faintest shake of his head, turned his horse, and began to ride toward the exit.
But before he could reach the gates—
"Wait!"
A single voice cut through the noise.
Gasps rippled through the stands as a tall rider burst from the far tunnel, cloak whipping behind him like a banner of defiance.
It was him.
Brandon Stark.
The Winter Wolf had arrived.
"About bloody time," someone muttered.
"Huh? He's not even wearing a helmet today. Looks… what, thirty? Older?"
"Doesn't matter. He's already lost. Should've stayed in the North."
The jeers came fast and merciless.
"Go home, wolf!"
"You're late and you're beaten!"
Brandon reined his horse hard, fury burning in his grey eyes.
"I was only late — not defeated!" he roared, voice echoing off the walls. "Or are you southern cowards so afraid I'll humble your golden champion?"
The crowd answered with laughter, booing louder than ever.
"Afraid? Of you?"
"Back to Winterfell with you, dog!"
The insults washed over him, but Brandon's rage only deepened.
Then Janos, standing up in the announcer's box, decided to put an end to it. His voice boomed above the chaos:
"Ser Brandon Stark, you arrived after the match was decided! By the laws of the lists, Ser Lance has already been declared victor!"
"If you do not leave the field at once, I'll summon the Gold Cloaks and have you removed!"
The audience roared in approval, chanting for the wolf to be thrown out.
But Brandon ignored them all.
He pointed straight at the white knight who was still turning away, his voice a snarl of barely contained fury:
"So that's it, then?" he shouted. "Too afraid to face me, are you, Lance?"
"A Kingsguard full of cowards — hiding behind rules and politics! You call that honor?!"
The last words struck like arrows across the arena —
and even from behind his visor, everyone could feel the tension snap like drawn steel.
Ser Lance reined his horse to a halt.
And very slowly, turned his head.
The sunlight flashed along the polished curve of his helm as he faced the northern challenger.
The crowd went silent.
A storm was coming.