Chapter 84 – The First Rule: Never Act on Impulse
The Red Keep.
For all his madness, one had to admit — Aegon the Conqueror had chosen his seat of power wisely.
Perched high above the sprawling capital, the fortress overlooked the Narrow Sea, its winds forever sweeping away the stench of the slums below.
Even now, as night blanketed King's Landing, the pale moonlight struck first upon the red stone towers, bathing the castle in cold silver fire.
---
"Drink, Your Grace."
The Captain of the Kingsguard stepped inside, a large pitcher of honeyed water in hand. From the strain in his arm, it was heavy — filled to the brim.
"Pour it… pour it for me…"
King Aerys II Targaryen lay sprawled upon his bed, his skin slick with sweat.
The chamber was a ruin — overturned furniture, shattered glass, silken curtains torn as if by claws.
His lips quivered as he spoke, his once-handsome face pale and hollowed, eyes sunken deep into shadow.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander, hesitated only briefly before fetching a cup from the wreckage — one of the few not smashed in the King's frenzy — and filled it halfway.
He had doubted Ser Lance Lot's warnings about the "withdrawal fits" that would come once the King was cut off from milk of the poppy.
Not anymore.
What he had witnessed moments ago would haunt his sleep for weeks.
The King had thrashed like a beast possessed — purple eyes blazing with a hunger so deranged that even the bravest White Sword dared not draw near.
It wasn't strength that had frightened Gerold — no, Aerys was frail, his limbs little stronger than a boy's.
What terrified him was that look — that inhuman craving, that absolute loss of reason.
They couldn't strike their king. They could only watch him writhe and scream as the poison burned out of him.
If Ser Jonothor Darry hadn't thought to summon Lance when he did, the entire Kingsguard might have been forced to restrain their sovereign by force.
---
Gerold glanced toward the man in white armor standing silently beside the bed.
"Should I release him?"
"Do it," Lance said evenly. "He'll behave — for now."
Only Lance dared to treat the King so — to tie him down, to speak to him as an equal, and to live afterward.
And he'd been careful too. Instead of ropes, he'd used strips of silk — soft enough not to wound the royal wrists.
If he hadn't… the King's hands would have been torn raw.
---
"Guh— guh—!"
Aerys seized the cup the moment his hands were free, gulping the water down as though he'd crossed a desert.
Within seconds, he drained it dry and shoved it back toward Gerold, gasping for more.
But before the old knight could refill it, the King doubled over, choking. His thin frame convulsed, and he retched violently over the side of the bed.
Fortunately, there was little to bring up — his stomach had been empty for days. Only the water came back up, splattering onto the floorboards.
"Slowly," Lance murmured, taking the pitcher himself. He poured a smaller cup and offered it.
"Sip. Not too much at once. Let your body remember what it means to be alive."
Aerys wiped his mouth, eyes glassy but lucid enough to obey.
He drank again — slower this time.
The nausea eased. His breathing steadied.
"This will be a long, painful road," Lance said. "If you can't endure it—"
Gerold half-expected him to suggest sending for Pycelle or another healer. But the knight's next words froze the room.
"—I'll just tie you to this bed every day until you can."
"Hmph!"
To Gerold's astonishment, the King didn't rage — didn't even protest.
Aerys merely gave Lance a scornful look and muttered,
"You think I can't endure? What you saw just now was nothing. A trifle! Pain means nothing to a dragon."
"Then endure," Lance said mildly, shrugging. "We'll see."
It was impossible to tell whether his calm was mockery or respect.
Gerold felt his stomach sink. Every time these two spoke, he might as well not exist.
He was the Lord Commander, sworn to lead the Kingsguard — and yet beside Lance, he felt like a shadow in white steel.
After all… he had worn the white cloak long before Ser Lance had even taken his vows.
And yet, here he was — silent as a squire.
---
"You can't go in there, Your Highness!"
The shout came from beyond the door — angry, desperate, and loud enough to echo through the corridor.
"This is the King's bedchamber! Without his permission—"
"Out of my way! I will see my father!"
The clamor broke the fragile quiet.
Gerold and Lance exchanged weary looks. Even Aerys, pale and trembling, scowled in irritation.
"Throw him out!" he barked hoarsely, voice cracking. "How dare he barge in here unannounced!?"
"At once, Your Grace."
Gerold moved swiftly, unbarring the heavy door.
Outside, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was locked in a struggle with Ser Jonothor Darry, shoving at the knight's armored chest.
Jonothor, bound by respect, barely used his strength, and was being pushed back step by step toward the door.
"Stand down, my prince!" Gerold's command rang out like steel.
Even Rhaegar froze for a moment.
The Lord Commander had served three kings — Aegon V, Jaehaerys II, and now Aerys II.
He had earned the right to scold princes.
"Let me through, Ser Gerold!" Rhaegar's voice trembled with fury. "I will see my father — I demand to know why he allowed Ser Lance Lot to act with such impunity! To murder Brandon Stark before the eyes of the entire realm!"
His words thundered through the hallway, echoing into the chamber behind Gerold.
Aerys flinched at the name.
Lance said nothing.
"Leave, my prince," Gerold replied coldly. "His Grace is not to be disturbed. He is resting."
"Resting!?" Rhaegar snarled. "You dare bar me from my own father's door? You — white-cloaked dogs — have no right to deny me entry!"
"Brandon Stark died at the hands of the Kingsguard," he spat, his voice rising even higher. "And all of Westeros saw it!"
"If we provoke Lord Rickard Stark any further, relations with the North will collapse completely! It could even lead to war!"
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's voice rang through the corridor — impassioned, trembling with indignation.
"We must make amends! Surrender the culprit, calm their rage — or we'll set the entire realm ablaze!"
He spoke with righteous conviction, yet to Ser Gerold Hightower, it sounded less like the wisdom of a statesman and more like the fervor of a youth untested by the world.
It was the cry of a son who believed — as all young men do — that he could see clearer than his father.
Every man, at a certain age, convinces himself he is wiser than the one who sired him.
It is instinct — a spark placed in men's blood to drive them to challenge, to seize, to ascend.
And yet, most such convictions are illusions — born not of reason, but of pride and restless youth.
---
"Forgive me, Your Highness,"
Ser Gerold's reply was cold, measured, immovable.
The Captain of the Kingsguard did not budge an inch from the door.
Even in the days when Aerys had been a prisoner within his own Red Keep, Gerold had once been tempted by Tywin Lannister's honeyed words — promises of a "better kingdom."
But when the King had returned, the White Bull had returned with him — loyal, disciplined, unbending.
"You must leave this place at once."
He stepped forward. The moonlight gleamed across his immaculate white plate, making him seem a wall of silver and iron. His size — nearly matching that of Robert Baratheon — forced the prince a step back.
Gerold reached behind him and pushed the heavy oaken doors closed with finality.
"If you refuse to depart, Your Highness," he said quietly, "then Ser Jonothor and I will not hesitate to remove you — by less gentle means."
His tone was calm, but the threat was absolute.
"Even should you sit the Iron Throne one day, I will not yield."
---
Rhaegar froze, fists clenched at his sides.
He knew well that no amount of shouting or royal blood could break through two Kingsguard in full armor.
He was the prince — not a sellsword. His hands were meant for harp strings and prophecy, not for iron and blood.
And besides… armor was cumbersome. Undignified.
Still, the fury burned.
He ground his teeth, chest heaving, and finally spat,
"Very well then. Tomorrow, I'll attend the Small Council myself!"
He stepped back, glaring at the closed door as if his eyes alone could pierce it.
"Do you hear me, Father?" he shouted toward the chamber beyond. "I'll be there — before the court, before the realm — and you'll see what your lords truly think of your madness!"
His voice echoed down the hall. The guards said nothing. Gerold merely stood at attention, silent as a statue, watching the young prince rage against the stone and silence.
"It was your reckless pride that brought ruin to Duskendale!" Rhaegar cried. "And now, you'd alienate the North for the sake of some faithless knight? That is not the act of a wise king!"
"Mark my words, Father — when the council meets tomorrow, you will see it for yourself! Not a single lord will stand with you!"
The last words tore from his throat like a vow — or a curse.
Then he turned sharply, silken robes swirling behind him, and strode away, boots striking the marble floor in furious rhythm.
---
In the echo of his departure, Gerold slowly exhaled.
Behind the sealed doors, he could hear Aerys breathing unevenly — a mix of exhaustion and rage.
Beside him, Ser Lance Lot stood motionless, his expression unreadable in the pale torchlight.
And down the corridor, the Prince of Dragonstone walked alone — his fury cooling into resolve.
He was Rhaegar Targaryen — heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince That Was Promised.
He would not let pride destroy the realm.
No.
He would be the king his father could never be.
A king of reason, not madness.
A dragon of prophecy, not fire.
He would never allow himself to be ruled by impulse.
Never.
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