Chapter 85 – The Regent
"Your son," Lance said casually, leaning back against the King's bedframe, "isn't exactly the sharpest sword in the rack."
He spoke without hesitation, as though addressing a comrade rather than a king. His tone was light — almost lazy — as he poured a little honey-water into Aerys's cup and handed it back.
"Here. Drink up — or don't. Your choice."
Aerys accepted the cup, his lips twitching faintly.
"I'd say his temperament comes more from his mother."
The Mad King didn't seem offended by the knight's irreverence. He took another sip, his voice low, contemplative — tinged with something between disappointment and bitterness.
"Rhaegar was born in the shadow of the Summerhall — even his birth carried sorrow.
He was never like the rest of us Targaryens. Quiet, melancholic… obsessed with books, and that damned harp."
A weary smile crossed his face — gone as soon as it appeared.
"But somewhere along the way, the boy began to hunger for power.
Not for war — for influence. For adoration."
He sighed, eyes distant.
"And in that, I must admit, he succeeded.
He was never tested by war — his greatest struggle was a border feud between House Connington and the Morrigens — and yet, somehow, the lords adore him."
The King's fingers tightened around the cup. His eyes gleamed with reluctant admiration — and the faint sting of envy.
"He won their hearts through charm and smiles," Aerys said softly. "Whereas I… I had to bathe in fire and blood to earn my crown's respect."
For a rare moment, the madness in his gaze receded — replaced by a glimmer of clarity, of the king he might once have been.
He was not always insane. Once, Aerys Targaryen had been brilliant — a visionary ruler who loved peace, music, and dreams. But stillbirths had broken his queen… and each loss had shattered something within him, until all that remained was the bitterness and paranoia of a man watching his glory slip away.
And the final wound — Tywin Lannister.
The friend who outshone the king he served.
The Hand who ruled more effectively than the dragon on the throne.
"I didn't think Denys Darklyn would have the gall to imprison me," Aerys muttered. "That one was my folly."
He said it plainly — without pretense, without arrogance. Just tired honesty.
"If not for my arrogance, Ser Gwayne might still be alive… and I'd never have met you."
He glanced up at Lance.
"But most of all — Rhaegar."
His voice trembled as he spoke his son's name.
"Do you know, I truly had faith in him once? When I was locked in that cell, I kept waiting — every day — for a knight in a dragon-helmed visor to storm the gates with fire and steel.
To strike down every wretch who dared defy the Iron Throne!"
His purple eyes flashed with fevered emotion.
"If Rhaegar had done that — if he'd died fighting — I would have been proud.
But instead…" His voice turned venomous. "Instead he cowered behind Tywin's advice, hiding on Dragonstone while the lion ruled in his stead!"
Aerys slammed his fist against the bedpost. The sound was pitiful — his frail arm too weak to do more than rattle the wood. But his anger was real.
"If only you were my son, Lance…"
The words slipped out between ragged breaths.
For a heartbeat, there was silence — the kind that weighs heavy between men who understand too much.
Aerys turned his head, studying the white-armored knight beside him. Lance was tall, broad-shouldered — every inch the image of the great Duncan the Small, his long-dead uncle. Aerys's voice softened, almost wistful.
"Tell me, how should I address you? Lance Targaryen? Or perhaps… Rhaeseryon?"
Lance only shrugged.
"Someone called me that once. I doubt the name's real. But if you all want to believe it, I won't stop you."
"Ha… Rhaeseryon."
Aerys chuckled, shaking his head.
To the world, the Targaryen name was divine — a symbol of fire and destiny.
But he knew the truth: it was a crown of molten gold.
And this man before him — a supposed bastard of dragon's blood — bore it with more grace than his trueborn heir ever had.
"Have I even failed at siring a son worthy of my house?" Aerys thought bitterly. "Uncle Duncan, it seems even your blood breeds better kings than mine."
He exhaled sharply, dismissing the thought with a faint laugh.
"No. I prefer 'Lance Lot.' It suits you. Sounds far better than that ridiculous mouthful."
"I agree," Lance said with a grin.
Aerys laughed — a sound rare and sharp, echoing through the royal chamber. For a fleeting moment, the Red Keep no longer felt cursed.
---
"So," Aerys said at last, the smile fading. His tone hardened. "Has he confessed?"
Lance didn't need to ask who he was.
"Pycelle?" he asked. "No. The old man's tight-lipped. You know how it is — can't exactly drag a member of the Small Council into the black cells for questioning."
He smirked faintly.
"Though… he did manage to 'fall' and break a couple bones. A tragic accident."
Aerys's lips curled, his eyes glinting with cruel delight.
He didn't need to ask further. Lance's tone told him everything.
"Hmph."
The king's amusement died quickly, replaced by quiet fury. His violet gaze turned cold, burning with loathing.
Milk of the poppy — the so-called medicine.
Yes, it was used by maesters across the realm as a sedative. But the dose Pycelle had given him was far from ordinary.
Every night had been a nightmare — every breath steeped in fever and hallucination. He'd never noticed the slow poisoning.
Never noticed that he'd been reduced to a puppet in a haze of sweetness and sleep.
"If not for you," Aerys whispered, "I'd still be a corpse pretending to rule."
The flickering candlelight danced across his hollow face, and for a heartbeat, he almost looked like the man he once was — a king clawing his way back from the abyss.
"It must have been that damned lion's doing,"
Aerys muttered darkly, his voice calm but certain — as though the matter was already settled.
Lance, however, wasn't so sure.
From everything he knew — and everything history itself would one day record — Tywin Lannister was many things: ruthless, ambitious, unrelenting in his pursuit of power.
But a poisoner? No. Never.
The man was too proud for that.
And in Westeros, there was an old saying:
"Poison is a weapon for women and cowards."
And Tywin Lannister was neither.
Still, Lance didn't bother voicing that opinion aloud. There were always exceptions.
And who could say, really, what a man like Tywin might become after being outshined and humiliated by the very king he had once ruled through?
---
"If I were to die one day, Lance…"
Aerys's eyes wandered toward the window, unfocused, his frail fingers trembling as they reached toward the moonlight.
"If Rhaegar were to inherit my throne… what would you do?"
"Would you remain his Kingsguard?"
"Or would you—"
"I don't know," Lance interrupted simply.
He gave a small shrug, as though the question itself bored him.
"To be honest, from the first day I met you in Duskendale, I never planned on being a Kingsguard for life, old man. Celibacy sounds terribly dull."
"A wife…?"
The King blinked, momentarily stunned — as though the notion itself was more shocking than treason.
"Anyway," Lance continued with a faint smirk, "you do have more than one son, don't you?"
Aerys frowned slightly, unsure where this was going.
"Honestly, I can't stand your firstborn," Lance went on, tone as casual as ever. "Every time I see him, it takes every ounce of restraint not to rearrange that smug face of his.
Never met you when you were young, but I'd wager you were far easier on the eyes."
The audacity of the remark was staggering — a Kingsguard mocking the Crown Prince right in front of the King himself.
Anyone else would've lost their head before finishing the sentence.
But this was Lance.
Aerys's jaw tightened, caught between shock and outrage.
"Rhaegar is my son," he rasped, feigning anger. "How dare you speak of him so—"
Lance cut him off with a dry laugh.
"Oh, drop the act. You don't need to pretend with me."
He leaned closer, voice low but sharp.
"I showed you what I really am — the Unburnt, remember? You can at least be honest in return. Admit it. You've thought about disinheriting him more than once."
"You—!"
For a moment, Aerys looked ready to curse, but the words caught in his throat.
Then, just as suddenly, he began to chuckle — quietly at first, then louder, until his laugh turned breathless and unhinged.
There he goes again, Lance thought, shaking his head. Mad as a starving dog, and twice as unpredictable.
When the laughter finally subsided, Aerys exhaled, a faint smile still playing on his cracked lips.
"You should rest," Lance said, rising. "You'll sleep better through the night."
He gave the King's shoulder a light pat — an act so casual it would've been unthinkable coming from anyone else.
If anyone heard of it later, they'd swear it was treason.
He turned toward the door.
---
"Ser Lance…"
The voice stopped him mid-step.
He didn't turn, but his hand paused on the door.
"If — and I mean if — I were to pass the crown not to Rhaegar, but to Viserys…"
Lance's posture stiffened.
"Would you stand as Regent?"
"Would you clear the path for him — crush every threat to the Iron Throne, whether it hides in sunlight or shadow?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Anyone else might have hesitated, stumbled, bowed, or flattered.
Lance only lowered his head, silent for a moment.
Then, without looking back, he replied:
"Ask me again when I'm Lord Commander."
He pushed open the door, his tone half-irritated, half-amused.
"And gods, you're only in your thirties, old man. Stop talking about dying all the damn time. It's morbid as hell."
---
The Emerald Bird
King's Landing's second-greatest brothel — rivaled only by the famed Blue Pearl — was thriving that night. The air reeked of perfume, wine, and moans.
Inside a richly furnished chamber on the third floor, however, the mood was very different.
Two men and a woman sat around a small table — and for once in the history of the place, they were actually talking.
Despite the muffled cries of pleasure echoing through the walls, the air in the room was thick with anger and grief.
"You're lying!" Lyanna Stark snapped, eyes flashing. "My brother would never do something so vile!"
She snatched the wine cup from Robert Baratheon's hand and hurled it to the floor.
Red liquid splattered across the carpet — Dornish summer wine, two golden dragons a jug.
Robert winced.
Even the Lord of Storm's End hated to see good wine wasted.
He opened his mouth to scold her, but one look at her tear-streaked face — the wild, unbending fire of the she-wolf — and his fury melted into helpless affection.
"Believe me or not…"
Robert took a step forward, arms spreading as if to embrace her, only for Eddard Stark to intercept him, one hand pressing hard against the storm lord's chest.
For Ned, just being here — in this den of lust and scandal — was humiliation enough.
Letting this bear of a man lay hands on his sister? Never.
"Whatever Brandon did or didn't do," Ned said coldly, "the King had no right to pass judgment without my father present.
Even a lord's son deserves the respect due to his house — and my brother was heir to Winterfell!"
Robert frowned, half from guilt, half from irritation. But Ned's grip didn't loosen.
"Tomorrow morning," Ned said, his voice steady and grim,
"I'll go to the Red Keep myself. I'll stand before the Iron Throne and demand an answer from the King."
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