Chapter Text
The King ate alone.
He always did now.
The fowl gone, he picked at the carcass with twitching fingers, nails yellow and ragged, and licked the grease from his knuckles as though it were some holy anointing oil. When the last scraps were sucked away, he flung the carcass to the floor where it landed with a wet slap.
The tasters kept their distance, as they ought. They were shadows at the pillars, stiff and pale, waiting for the king’s wrath to light upon them. Aerys let his gaze drift lazily over their faces. Which one? Which one would falter first, let slip the twitch of a mouth or flicker of an eye that betrayed guilt? He had learned to read treason in the smallest gestures. The boy last moon—what was his name? Jorald? Jorren?—yes, that one, had cracked like thin porcelain. Swore Tywin’s daughter paid him to slip foxbane into the meat. Fool. Lies. The lioness was too clever to be caught so clumsily. She would not bare her claws yet, not while her golden father still kept his banners furled.
Cersei must be watched. But not slain. Not yet. She was the bait, the chain about Tywin’s throat. If he abandoned his king, as he had at Duskendale, the lioness would pay the price. Rhaegar had wed her, bedded her—mayhaps—though who could say what Rhaegar ever did, especially considering those gold haired, green eyed spawn she had shat out. Aerys could not trust him. He trusted no one.
He dragged a finger through the pool of grease on the platter, then smeared it across the table in jagged strokes. His mouth twisted in a smile. A map, he thought. A map of kingdoms on fire.
His thoughts turned backward, as they did so often, to that day eight months ago when the falcon burned. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, traitor of traitors, had shriveled like a dried fruit under the rain of wildfire. Aerys could still smell it if he closed his eyes: the acrid sweetness, the crackle as green fire kissed flesh. The man had screamed until his throat melted. He had begged. His falcon banners had blackened and curled as if they too felt the flame. And Elbert, the bright young pup, had watched, chained, forced to see his uncle crumble to ash.
And after, the wolves had howled. Brandon Stark with his wild mane and his wolfish eyes, demanding his sister back, demanding justice. He rotted now in the dark beneath the Red Keep, rotted with Elbert. Aerys liked to think of them there, screaming at shadows, clawing at damp stone, gnawing their own hands when the hunger grew too sharp. That was justice.
But still the war festered. Starks and Arryns in arms, falcons and wolves snapping at his rule. Worse—the Baratheons, those storm-born curs, had joined them. Steffon, who had once served his king like a loyal hound, was now baring his teeth. And that son of his, Stannis, who looked at the world as though it had wronged him simply by existing. Antlers were sharp, but antlers could be broken.
The Reach had been given Storm’s End, and yet the Tyrell men dawdled, wallowing before its gates like cattle in the mud. It displeased him. Had they forgotten their king’s command? He would remind them soon enough. Still, Jon Connington, his bright young Hand, would march. Jon was bold, fearless, a sword that cut clean. Aerys had chosen well in him. Connington would smash the Baratheons, seize the marches, bring the stormlands to heel.
On another board, the lions moved. Lord Tywin’s banners were raised at last, marching east through the Riverlands. Devouring, yes, devouring, as lions did. Aerys tried to remember—was it Riverrun they besieged, or some lesser keep? He had been told, surely, but the words had slid away like water from glass. Never mind. Tywin’s fangs were sharp, and that was all that mattered. The falcons and wolves would bleed.
He leaned back in his chair, running his tongue along his teeth, savoring the taste of grease and memory. Then, suddenly, his mood turned.
Too many battles. Too many banners. His head throbbed with it, the pieces moving, moving, all around him. Who told him these things? Merrywether? Velaryon? Pycelle with his droning voice? Or had it been Barristan, bold Barristan with his silent stares? No matter. The king needed no counsel but his own.
His eyes fell on the tasters again, and for a heartbeat he thought of calling them forward, demanding one of them gnaw the bones he had stripped bare, test them for hidden poisons. But no. Better to let them sweat. Their fear was a sweeter seasoning than any spice.
Instead, he rose. The hall echoed with the rasp of his chair on stone. The tasters stiffened, eyes wide, but Aerys did not look at them. His steps carried him forward, long strides that flapped his soiled robes around his legs. The grease on his fingers smeared the iron ring of his belt as he fastened his cloak.
He would go below. He would see them.
The Black Cells called to him, their damp breath rising through the stone floors. It pleased him to visit, to remind the traitors of the king’s power. Elbert Arryn, Brandon Stark. Proud boys once, all fire and fury, now broken toys rusting in the dark.
Yes, he would look upon them, hear their coughs, their whimpers. Mayhap he would speak to them, offer them mercy if they bent the knee, if they begged prettily enough. Or mayhap he would promise them fire, as he had promised their fathers. Promises kept a king strong.
He paused at the doors of the hall, one hand pressed to the wood. His reflection swam faintly in the bronze studs: a lean face, hair wild and matted, beard streaked with grease and spit. The eyes that stared back were too large, too bright. Dragon eyes. They all said so.
Aerys smiled at his reflection, teeth bared. The world thought him mad. Let them. Madness was armor. Madness was fire. Madness, was just another word for greatness.
He flung the doors wide. The Red Keep’s corridors yawned before him, torchlight flickering on red stone. Downward he would go, down to the bowels where the traitors lingered. He could already hear the scrape of chains in his mind, smell the mildew and piss of the dungeons.
The king descended, his laughter echoing faintly behind him.
The steps downward coiled forever, or so it seemed. Each one groaned under the king’s boots, the scrape of leather loud against stone slick with damp. Torches flared in their iron sconces, coughing smoke that crawled along the ceiling like black veins. The air was cooler here, and stank of mildew, old piss, and rot—an honest smell, Aerys thought. The Red Keep above reeked of perfume and treachery, but the dungeons did not lie. They reeked of death and despair, and that was truth.
The king’s laughter echoed down the stairwell, jagged as broken glass. He kept one hand on the wall, dragging greasy fingers across stone, leaving smears that glistened in the torchlight. His robes flapped about him, soiled hems brushing the steps.
Behind him, steel rang softly with every step as the Kingsguard followed. Ser Barristan Selmy came first, white cloak trailing clean despite the filth, his face as grave as a sepulcher. His hand rested near the pommel of his sword, though not on it, never on it—not against his king.
Ser Bonifer Hasty lumbered a few steps behind, red-faced and sweating beneath his helm. Pious Bonifer, Aerys thought with a twitch of his lip. Always praying, always muttering about the Seven. He would pray now, no doubt, when the king made the traitors sing.
“Your Grace,” Barristan said quietly, his voice careful, as if sound itself might offend. “It is late. Are you certain—”
“Certain?” Aerys snapped, whirling, his hair flaring like a ragged mane. His eyes glittered wide and wet in the torchlight. “Am I king, or am I some trembling babe who must ask leave to suck at his mother’s tit?”
Selmy bowed his head at once. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
The king’s lips curled in satisfaction at Barristan’s bow. “Apologies,” Aerys crooned, drawing the word out as though savoring its shape. “Do you hear, Ser Bonifer? Even the Bold bends. Even the white knight stoops. And yet these wolves and falcons below me—ah, they think themselves made of steel.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “We shall see what breaks first. Steel… or fire.”
Bonifer muttered a prayer under his breath, his broad shoulders hunched beneath his cloak. The damp seemed to cling to him worse than to Selmy. “The Seven judge all men, Your Grace. Even the proud may—”
“Judge? Judge?” Aerys spun again, robes snapping wet against his legs. His laughter cracked down the stairwell, bouncing madly against the stone. “I am the judge. I am the pyre. I am the fire. Let the Seven rot on their clouds.”
Bonifer fell silent, though his lips moved still.
The stairway uncoiled into a vaulted passage, the walls slick with condensation. A chill wind seemed to breathe from the very stones. The guards at the first iron gate snapped to attention at the king’s approach, their halberds clattering. Their eyes betrayed a flicker of unease—whether at their king or at the depths below, none could say.
The guards fumbled with the heavy chains and bars, the iron screeching like wounded beasts as the gate swung open. Aerys swept through, his robes dragging muck along the floor. The torchlight guttered in his wake, as if reluctant to follow him deeper.
The Black Cells yawned ahead, their shadows thick as pitch. The air grew colder still, clinging wetly to the skin, and the silence pressed heavier than any weight of stone. Only the drip of unseen water and the distant rattle of chains broke it.
Aerys drew in a long breath and let it out with a hiss. “Ah. Do you smell it, Barristan? Do you smell it, Bonifer? The perfume of treason. The reek of broken men.”
Neither knight answered.
The king’s eyes glittered as he turned sharply, torchlight flashing in their depths. “Well? Speak! Tell me—what do you think waits below? Is the wolf clawing at the bars, frothing at the mouth, howling for his mother? Is the falcon weeping, his feathers plucked one by one until nothing remains but a trembling chick?”
His voice rose with each word until it cracked into shrill laughter that rang against the stones.
Selmy’s face was granite, betraying nothing. “Your Grace, I cannot say.”
Aerys’ mirth stopped on a knife’s edge. His head jerked, greasy hair whipping across his face. “Cannot say? Cannot say? You are sworn to guard your king, Ser Barristan. When I ask, you will say. Now tell me—are they broken? Have their eyes gone dull as dead fish? Do they beg? Do they scream?”
Selmy hesitated, just long enough for Aerys’ lip to curl. “I have not seen them, Your Grace. I know not their state.”
“Ha!” Aerys barked, teeth bared. “The Bold, they call you. Bold! Yet you cannot even hazard a guess? Perhaps your boldness lies only in silence.”
He stalked past Selmy, robes brushing the knight’s boots, and fixed his gaze upon Bonifer Hasty. The pious knight shifted under the scrutiny, sweat rolling down his ruddy cheeks.
“And you, Seven’s fool? You pray, do you not? The gods whisper in your ears while you kneel on cold stone. What do they tell you of the wolf and the falcon? Are they still proud, or has the darkness gnawed them hollow?”
Bonifer swallowed thickly. “I—I do not know, Your Grace. The Seven keep their counsel.”
Aerys’ laughter cut like a whip. “Of course they do. Cowards and liars, every one of them! They sit in their heaven, blind, while I sit upon the Iron Throne. I am their fire made flesh. But you—you are sworn to me, Ser Bonifer. Not to the clouds. So answer!”
The knight’s lips moved soundlessly before words stumbled out. “I think… I think they will not yield, Your Grace. Wolves and falcons are proud creatures. They would sooner die than beg.”
Aerys’ head tilted, wild hair framing his gaunt face like a lion’s ragged mane. For a heartbeat, silence pressed close. Then his mouth twisted into a smile. “Ah. There it is. A scrap of truth. Or treason. We shall see.”
Yet even as he spoke, doubt flickered behind his wide eyes. He leaned closer to the bars, peering into the dark, as if he might glimpse their shadows. His lips twisted, muttering half to himself.
“Or perhaps it is a plot. A plot in silence, like the Spider.”
At that name his head snapped up. “Where is he? Where is Varys?” His voice turned sharp, cutting the air like a blade. “The Spider skulked in my walls, whispered in my ears, and now—gone. Vanished when the war began. Where? Where does he spin his webs?”
Neither knight answered.
Aerys’ gaze fell on Bonifer. His eyes narrowed, bright as molten glass. “You. It was you, was it not? You were sent to find him the night he vanished. You searched the walls, the passages. Did you search? Did you truly search? Or did you let him crawl deeper into his holes?”
Bonifer stiffened, his lips working soundlessly. “Your Grace, I swear upon the Seven, I searched. We found no trace—”
“No trace!” Aerys shrieked, voice breaking high. He lunged closer, so close Bonifer flinched back, sweat shining on his brow. “No trace because you did not look, or because you conspired! Do you hide him still? Is he in the walls, listening even now?”
The king spun suddenly, flinging greasy hands toward the stones. “Do you hear, Spider? Do you hear me? Come out, come out! Sing for your king!” His laughter raked the silence raw.
The stones gave no answer.
Aerys turned back on Bonifer, his face contorted. “Perhaps you are his coconspirator. Perhaps you pray not to the Seven but to the Spider. Tell me—did he weave you in his web, knight? Did he whisper poison in your pious ears?”
Bonifer’s voice cracked. “No, Your Grace! I serve only you! Only the throne!”
The king’s eyes bored into him, unblinking, fever-bright. “We shall see. We shall see.” He drew a finger across his throat, smearing grease down his neck. “If the Spider hides, I will smoke him out with fire. Fire cleanses all webs.”
The gate loomed before them at last, iron thick as a castle’s portcullis, barred and bolted, sweating rust and damp. The torchlight guttered in the chill draft seeping through its seams. Chains clinked as the gaolers moved forward, heads bowed, fumbling with keys too large for their hands. Their fear made Aerys smile. Even shadows feared him now.
He leaned close, pressing his face almost to the black iron. “They are here,” he whispered, voice quavering with glee. “The wolf pup and the falcon chick. Bright heirs once, now rats in a pit. Shall I hear them whimper? Shall I watch them grovel? Oh, how they must dream of mercy.”
The gate groaned open, links clattering like broken bells. Darkness breathed out, rank and cold, heavy with mildew and old blood. Aerys inhaled greedily, as though it were perfume. “Yes. That is the scent of treason. That is the scent of my kingdom’s enemies, gnawed hollow by stone and time.”
They stepped inside. The passage was narrower here, torchlight pressed close by the suffocating dark. Cells squatted in the stone like open mouths, their bars crusted with rust, their shadows clinging thick. A cough echoed faintly—wet, ragged. Chains scraped stone.
Aerys’ head jerked toward the sound, lips stretching wide. “Ah! There, there! My pups are still alive. The gods have been kind. They have saved them for me.”
He swept forward, his robes dragging filth. Ser Barristan and Ser Bonifer followed in heavy silence. At last, they came upon the cells.
Brandon Stark was the first to be seen. He was thinner than rumor, beard wild and matted, hair clinging damp to his brow. His wrists were ironed to the wall, red and raw, yet his back was straight, his eyes burning. A wolf still, even in chains.
Aerys clasped the bars, fingers slipping through to clutch at the cold. “Look at you,” he crooned. “Lyanna’s wild brother. The wolf with teeth too sharp for his own muzzle. Do you whimper now, Stark? Do you beg for your king’s mercy?”
Brandon’s head lifted slowly, and when he spoke his voice was raw but loud. “Mercy? You’ll have none, Aerys. When I am free, I’ll gut you. I’ll see your line ended, your bastards and whores burned, your wife, your children, your spawn. Rhaegar, Viserys, Rhaella, that Lannister sow and her brats—all of them. Dead. Do you hear me?”
His roar shook the stones. Even in his weakness, his rage filled the cell. Aerys reeled back, eyes wide, the breath hissing through his teeth. For a heartbeat, fear licked at him. Then he shrilled laughter to hide it, spittle catching in his beard.
“Such a voice!” he cried. “Still raging, still dreaming. Do you know what your precious sister does now, wolf? She lies beneath my son. Rhaegar has her, Rhaegar uses her, night and day. Perhaps I shall use her too. And if that tires me, I will have your trout-wife. That red-haired fish, wriggling on my hook. I will breed her with fire.”
The wolf lunged. Shackles snapped taut, iron groaned, bars shivered. Brandon’s face slammed against the rusted rods, teeth bared, eyes wild. He strained like a beast, straining for the king’s throat.
It was Ser Barristan who moved. His pommel struck swift and hard, catching Brandon across the skull. The wolf collapsed, sagging against his chains, breath ragged but still defiant even in stupor.
Aerys staggered back a step, laughter breaking, reforming in nervous bursts. “Did you see? Did you see, Barristan? He would have torn me apart like a cur. Even broken, even chained! Ha! Wolves, wolves…” His voice thinned, muttering. “But they burn, they always burn.”
Slowly he turned, wiping spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. Another cell yawned beyond, darker, quieter. The falcon’s nest.
The torchlight fought to reach its bars, and the damp seemed heavier here, thick with mildew and rot. For a heartbeat there was only silence, and Aerys felt a flicker of disappointment—was the boy already dead, starved into dust before the king could taste his breaking?
Then came a sound: chains scraping, faint but steady. A shape shifted in the dark, slow and deliberate. Two eyes glimmered there, pale as the sky, catching the torchlight.
“Ahh,” Aerys breathed, his grin splitting wide. “There he is. My falcon chick.”
He pressed close to the bars, face almost against the rust, fingers clawing through to clutch at the damp air. “Elbert Arryn,” he crooned, rolling the name on his tongue. “Nephew of a traitor, heir to the Vale. Do you remember, boy? Do you remember how your noble uncle fell?”
The silence in the cell was heavy, but Aerys plunged on, voice rising with a manic glee. “He screamed, oh yes. Screamed as the green fire kissed his skin. Cried for mercy as it ate his eyes. He begged like a beggar in Flea Bottom. The great, the noble Jon Arryn, roasted like a fowl, spitting fat and shrieking until his throat melted!”
He laughed then, high and shrill, flinging his greasy hands wide as if conducting a chorus. “And you, little chick—you watched! You wept, you howled, like some lost babe hunting for its mother’s breast. You rattled your cage until your hands bled, but it was too late. Too late! The falcon was ash, and all you had were tears!”
Aerys pressed his face harder to the iron, his eyes wild. “Do you remember the smell, boy? Do you smell it still? The burning feathers, the charred meat? Does it haunt your dreams, does it rot your belly? Ha!”
But Elbert did not answer. He sat shackled in the shadows, face little more than a blur—save for his eyes. Those pale blue eyes fixed on the king, unblinking.
Aerys faltered. His laughter stuttered, cracked. “What is this? Are you so broken that you cannot speak?” He sneered, though unease twisted his grin. “Yes, that must be it. The boy has no tongue left. He is hollowed out, scraped clean. Nothing but a husk.”
Still Elbert stared. No plea. No curse. No sound but the faint rasp of breath.
Aerys’ smile flickered, bent at the edges. He stepped back, rubbing greasy palms down the front of his robes. “No,” he muttered. “No, that is not it.”
He began to pace before the cell, robes dragging muck. “That is not the stare of a broken man. I know broken men. I made them. I watched their eyes go dull, watched them piss themselves when the fire touched them. But you—” His voice hitched. “You glare as though you wait. As though you dare.”
Memory surged, jagged and raw: stone walls damp with mildew, iron chains, darkness pressing like a shroud. His own voice echoing, cracked with pleading. Denys Darklyn’s face, smirking. His wife’s eyes, dark and foreign, watching as the king begged. Myrish? Tyroshi? No—Lyseni, wasn’t she? Always watching, whispering in her silk tongue, while Aerys whimpered like a beaten dog.
He stopped, clutching at his temples. “No,” he whispered. “No, not again.”
He whirled, pointing at Elbert with a shaking hand. “Why do you not break? Why do you not beg? Your uncle burned, your House is ash, and still you sit. Still you stare!” His voice cracked into a shriek. “Break, damn you! Break! Both of you!”
The sound rang through the dungeons, shrill and jagged, until it curdled into breathless gasps. His chest heaved, sweat streaking his gaunt face.
He spun on Barristan and Bonifer, spittle flying. “Kill them!” he shrieked. “Kill them both! Cut their throats, here and now!”
The Kingsguard did not move. Selmy’s face was stone, Bonifer’s lips moved soundlessly in prayer.
Aerys froze, trembling with fury. His nails dug at his beard until blood welled. Slowly, his voice dropped to a rasp. “No. Not yet. If they die now, they die unbroken. They will not die unbroken. I am king. I am dragon. I will break them.”
But the silence pressed close, and with it came memory’s bite. The Darklyns again, standing over him, unbent, unbroken, while he had begged. Begged.
He staggered back from the cell, his laughter returning, thin and wild, as he clutched at his greasy robes. “Yes. I will break you. Both of you. I will find the fire, the fire that gnaws the soul, and I will make you scream. Not yet, not now. But soon.”
He lurched away from the bars, calling for his guards. “Come! Come with me! Bring your steel, your cloaks, your prayers. They will break! I will make them break!”
The Black Cells echoed with his laughter as he rushed back the way he had come, the torchlight staggering in his wake. Behind, the silence returned—save for the faint rattle of chains, and the steady, unbroken stare of sky-blue eyes in the dark.
The King’s bedchamber was warm with braziers, but Aerys shivered as he paced, muttering half-prayers, half-promises beneath his breath. He had sent for her. Tonight the Queen would come, and tonight, perhaps, he would taste again what he remembered from youth: a girl’s soft flesh, smooth as cream, her hair smelling of lilacs, her body yielding beneath the fire of his seed. Rhaella. Sweet Rhaella.
He licked his lips, nails scratching at his beard. Yes, she was his. His sister, his queen, his prize. She had been promised to him in the cradle, set aside like some fine wine to be uncorked at his pleasure. He thought of her, almost biting his fingers off—slender, pale, violet-eyed, a maid whose laughter was high and nervous, as though every giggle betrayed a secret. He remembered how she had looked at his coronation, silver and red upon her shoulders, eyes wide and wet with tears.
She would be like that again tonight. She must.
Aerys threw himself upon the bed, clawing at the coverlets. He could almost smell her. Almost hear her voice. He would kiss her wrists, her throat, her breasts. He would take her as a king takes, and she would give him what he demanded: a child. A daughter. A perfect little dragon-maid who could be betrothed to his son. Yes, yes, the line must be pure, ever purer. Brother to sister, son to daughter, dragon to dragon. Fire made flesh, unbroken.
A knock sounded on the door.
The King sat upright, heart hammering. “Come,” he rasped.
The door creaked open, torchlight spilling across the chamber. Ser Jonothor Darry stepped in first, broad-shouldered and stooped, his face solemn beneath his helm. Behind him came the Queen.
Aerys blinked.
For a heartbeat he thought his eyes betrayed him. The woman who entered did not seem his Rhaella at all. This creature was swollen, her belly vast beneath a gown of heavy velvet, her face round and weary, her skin blotched and pale. Lines had etched themselves at the corners of her eyes, ringed by purple hollows. Her hair, once shining as spun silver, hung limp, streaked with dullness. She looked more like…
“Mother?” the King whispered.
The thought struck him like a blow. For an instant he saw Shaera, his own mother, that proud, cold unfeeling princess who birthed him. The nose, the weary mouth, the very slight sag of her cheeks- an aging beauty, but not his. Had the years turned back? Had his mother crawled back from her fiery tomb at Summerhall?
Aerys lurched to his feet, his knees knocking against the bedframe. “What…what have you done to yourself?” His voice cracked like a whip. “You look—old. Fat. Bloated like some sow before slaughter. You are Rhaella, yes? You must be. What trick is this?”
The Queen’s hands clutched at her swollen belly. “I am with child, my husband. Eight moons gone. Soon I will deliver.” Her tone was even, tired, the words weighed down with weariness.
Aerys’s eyes darted from her face to her middle, then back again. Slowly, a smile crept across his lips, twisting at the corners. “Yes. Yes, good. A daughter this time. It had better be a girl. She can be wed to one of the boys. To Rhaegar, perhaps.”
“Wed…to Rhaegar?” Rhaella’s brow furrowed. “My lord, I do not understand. Rhaegar has not been seen for many moons. In this time of war—”
Aerys cut her short with a snarl. “What is wrong with you? Do you not see? You come before me looking like some senile hag, and now you prattle nonsense? Rhaegar is in his room. He studies too much, too quiet, but he is in his room.”
Rhaella shook her head, pity in her eyes. “Aerys, what are you even say-”
“You are blind.” Aerys seized her wrist, his grip iron. “Come. You will see.”
Aerys half-dragged Rhaella into the corridor, his fingers clamped around her wrist like a manacle. She stumbled, her swollen belly forcing her steps into an awkward shuffle, but he paid no mind. His breath came ragged, quick, like a bellows set to flame. Ser Jonothor Darry followed close behind, helm under his arm, his mouth a grim line.
“Rhaegar will show you,” Aerys muttered, almost to himself. “You’ll see him with your own eyes. You’ll see that I was right. He’s with his books and his stories. Doing what he always does.” His free hand jerked in a violent gesture, nails scraping along the stone wall as they passed.
The Queen said nothing, only kept her eyes fixed on the flagstones. Her silence pricked him. She always had her silences, her meek little quiets, and each one made his blood boil. Did she think herself above him? Did she mock him with her downcast eyes, her muttered prayers, her refusal to laugh? He would strip the silence from her tongue if need be.
They came to the prince’s chambers. Two guards flanked the doors, but Aerys swept past them with a flare of his cloak, nearly dragging Rhaella off her feet. He shoved the door open.
Torchlight spilled over the room.
The boy sat cross-legged upon the carpet, a small scatter of carved dragons arrayed before him, wings chipped, tails broken, yet still proud little beasts. He moved them in stiff little flights, knocking them against one another with soft clacks. His hair—silver, long, unkempt—fell over his shoulders, half-hiding his face.
Aerys’s heart leapt. His smile bloomed wide, too wide, teeth bared. “There! There he is!” His voice cracked with sudden laughter. “Do you see, my queen? He has left those dusty scrolls at last. He plays. A boy should play, not mope about with parchment and harp-strings. Look at him—dragons in his hands, fire in his blood. A proper prince at last!”
The boy looked up, startled. His violet eyes widened at the sight of the king, of his mother, of Darry looming in the doorway. His hands stilled on the toys.
But the smile withered from Aerys’s face in an instant. The thought burst across his mind, raw and jagged. Something was wrong. Someone was missing.
His head twitched left, then right, jerking like a marionette pulled on broken strings. His lips peeled back from his teeth. “Where is he?” he hissed. “Where is Maekar?”
The boy blinked, confused.
“Maekar,” Aerys said louder, almost shouting now. “He should be here. He should be with you. Where is my little boy?”
Rhaella’s voice was soft, strained. “My lord—”
“Quiet!” He rounded on her, spit flying. “You lost him again, didn’t you, you ugly slut? He got lost before. Slipped into the tunnels, little feet echoing in the dark, and I told you—told you he could be gone forever. Then he fell. Fell from the railings and cracked his head. And he’s only three! He could be alone now, scared, crying. Where is he?”
He whirled on Ser Jonothor, jabbing a yellowed nail into the knight’s chestplate. “Find him! Do you hear me? Go, go, find Prince Maekar, NOW! He must be here, he must—”
The boy flinched at his father’s shriek. His toys toppled as his small hands trembled.
Aerys lurched toward him, robes flapping, face twisting with desperation. He dropped to his knees before the child and seized his shoulders, shaking him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Where is he, Rhaegar? Tell me! Where is your brother? Where is Maekar?”
The boy’s lips trembled. He stammered. “B-but, Father… I’m… I’m not Rhaegar.”
The silence that followed was sharp as shattered glass.
Aerys’s eyes bulged, his mouth working soundlessly, breath hissing through his teeth. The boy swallowed, his voice no louder than a whisper:
“I’m Viserys.”
The word seemed to hang in the chamber, thick and heavy, as if it might topple the walls themselves.
Aerys stared, his face slack with disbelief. His hands fell away from the child’s shoulders. “Viserys…” He mouthed the name as though it were foreign, alien on his tongue. His gaze darted up at Rhaella, then back to the boy. His nails clawed at his beard, tearing at his own flesh until drops of blood dotted his chin.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, no, no. You are Rhaegar. You must be. You sit there with dragons, you must be. Rhaegar with his silver hair, Rhaegar with his bright eyes, Rhaegar who never laughs, never plays—”
Viserys’s lip wobbled, his little chest heaving. “I am Viserys, Father. Rhaegar, he hasn’t come home. Cersei said she misses him, and I do too, a little bit, and…”
Aerys’s head jerked back, eyes wide, pupils pinpricks of terror and fury. The words—so small, so simple—struck like wildfire across dry timber. Rhaegar gone. Months. Gone with that wolf girl, that Stark, in the midst of war that had raged while he, the king, had been blind, preoccupied, or perhaps too paranoid to notice. The ground beneath him seemed to tilt, the walls of the Red Keep slanting as though mocking him. He lurched toward the boy, hands trembling, voice strangled.
“No. No! It cannot be! This… this is sorcery! Trickery! Witchcraft!” he shrieked. “Rhaella! Viserys! What spell, what poison, what devilish incantation have you woven into my mind? How… how have you done this to me?”
Rhaella stepped forward, pale and trembling. “My king, I have done nothing. I swear it. I am innocent. I have—”
Aerys swung a hand across her face before she could finish, a sharp slap that rang through the chamber. “Innocent?!” he bellowed, voice cracking, hands clutching at the air as if he could seize the truth itself. “You—what are you doing? What have you done? What is being done—tell me!”
She stumbled back, hand to her cheek, eyes wide with fear. “I am with child! I am carrying your child! My lord, mercy—”
He stumbled forward, knees knocking against the stone floor, gasping in ragged breaths. “Child… yes… yes, a child. But… but even so… you… Viserys, even as a boy, you—your thoughts… plotting… you are plotting against me! Both of you! Yes, yes, plotting in silence, in the dark, with that wolf girl, that traitor of a son—”
His voice rose to a shriek, faltering, a broken rhythm of panic and disbelief. “Tomorrow… tomorrow you will leave! Dragonstone! You will leave my sight! Away from me!”
He spun toward her, fingers clawing at his hair, voice dropping to a rasp, shaking with sudden, unbearable fear. “And if you do not… if you do not obey… I—”
The words tore off on a scream as he turned abruptly, abandoning the sentence. His boots pounded the floor, echoing through the hall as he fled back toward his chamber, robes flapping like torn banners in a storm. The chamber door slammed behind him, shaking the walls, leaving Rhaella pale and trembling, hand pressed to her swollen belly. Viserys sank to his knees, wide-eyed, clutching the scattered dragons, silence filling the hall, broken only by the distant thundering of the king’s panicked retreat.
Aerys moved like a man possessed, fingers clutching at his robes, nails gouging the fabric as he paced, muttering to himself, a tide of terror and fury colliding in his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps. “Dragonstone… you will leave… you will not—”
He staggered to the window, pressing his forehead to the cold glass, eyes wide, seeing visions of betrayal everywhere: Rhaegar gone, armies advancing, wolves and falcons taking his kingdom. Hands shaking, he spun toward the empty hall, voice rising in a thin scream. “No! No! You cannot! You will not! I am Aerys! I am the king! Fire… fire… fire will punish you!”
He sank to his knees, head in his hands, muttering, whimpering, whispering broken fragments of commands and curses, sweat streaking his face, hair clinging in damp strands. “I will break them… I will see… I will…”
His eyes lifted, wild, staring at nothing but shadows. “Yes… I will see… and if they defy me—if they do not obey—then…”
A sound, half-laughter, half-sob, escaped him as he lunged toward the bed, grasping at the covers. His words dissolved into frantic muttering, voice a trembling rasp: “I will break them… I will burn them… I will—”
And then, without another thought, he stumbled, turned, and fled down the corridor toward his inner chambers, robes flapping, breath ragged, heart hammering like a drum of doom, leaving the Queen and her child in the hall, shadows stretching long across the floor, silence settling, heavy as stone.
The chamber was too small. Too hot, too narrow, too loud with the creak of his own bones and the pounding in his skull. The King of the Seven Kingdoms sat hunched over the table, fingers splayed against parchment that seemed to shift beneath his gaze, as though letters crawled like worms across the page.
He had sent them away.
Rhaella. Viserys.
He remembered them. He had made sure to remember them. Not like the others. Not like the faces that swam and dissolved, names that vanished, voices that mocked him in the night until he woke clawing at his sheets. Rhaella had been his sister for seven-and-thirty years, his wife for four-and-twenty, the mother of his sons.
Sons.
Rhaegar, who had fled with the wolf girl, her eyes full of northern snows and treason. Maekar, traitorous Maekar, who had wrapped his hands about his father’s throat—his father, his king, his blood—five years past. Who had looked at him with eyes like knives and teeth bared like a dog. Who had been sent to exile. Who had been buried at sea, so they told him. Buried at sea in the same ship that was meant to carry him away. A fitting grave. Salt and cold and silence.
And Viserys. Seven years old. His creature? No. His wife’s creature. Rhaella’s boy, soft and pale, clinging to her skirts, blinking too much, asking questions that pried into the marrow. He was not the king’s, not truly. Or was he? The boy’s hair was silver, his eyes the right shade of lilac. But Rhaella whispered to him, taught him words in the dark, shaped him with her sorcery. She could not be trusted.
That was why they were gone. For their safety? For his?
For the kingdom’s.
He pressed his palm flat against the parchment, as if by sheer weight he could pin the world into truth.
What if their magic lingered still? What if it had taken root inside him, wormed its way into his skull, making him see things, hear things? What if his mind was not his own? What if he had been poisoned by kisses, by touch, by the meals they pressed to his lips?
What if?
What could he do?
What could he do?
What could he do?
He lurched up from the chair, paced the length of the chamber, back and forth, back and forth, his robes tangling at his ankles, his nails scraping at his arms until welts rose. The fire in the hearth cackled, mocking. He spun to glare at it. Fire was honest. Fire burned, consumed, revealed. No trickery. No poison. Fire was truth.
Yes. He could write the truth.
He would write all he knew, all that was certain, so that when they tried to twist his mind again, he would have a record. A proof. A weapon.
A scribe? No. Never. A scribe would twist his words, slip in treason between the lines, smirk as he penned lies in the king’s name. Spies, every one of them. Lurking in parchment and ink.
He would have to do it himself.
The chamber was too small. Too hot, too narrow, too loud with the creak of his own bones and the pounding in his skull. The King of the Seven Kingdoms sat hunched over the table, fingers splayed against parchment that seemed to shift beneath his gaze, as though letters crawled like worms across the page.
He would have to do it himself.
He looked for the first sheaf of papers. Blank. Good. It was good. Blankness could not betray him, not yet. He did not know why it was here, or who had placed it here, or whether it had always been here waiting for him—but it was here, and that was enough.
The quill was waiting too, black feather gleaming like an oil-slicked crow’s wing. He seized it, dipped it too deep in the ink, watched a bead swell and tremble at the tip. His damned nails snagged against the wood, too long, too thick, yellow as old ivory. One split as he gripped too hard, a sharp lance of pain shooting up his finger. He hissed, then laughed, then hissed again. His blood was thin and dark, a single drop smearing the parchment before the ink could.
“Good,” he whispered. “It will bind the words.”
He pressed the quill down.
The first letters came in jagged strokes, uneven, as if the quill resisted his hand. His wrist trembled. His eyes swam. But he forced the lines into being. Letters, words, shapes. He would remember. He must remember. He could not allow himself to forget.
He wrote:
I am Aerys of House Targaryen, the Second of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
The words sprawled across the parchment like broken legs. His hand ached from the effort, but he pressed on, dragging ink into order, into memory, into truth.
I am the blood of the dragon.
He wrote it twice, then thrice, each time heavier, the quill scratching deeper until the parchment tore. He cursed and seized another sheet, slapped it down, and pressed the words again with shaking strokes.
The blood of the dragon cannot be poisoned. The blood of the dragon cannot be broken.
Yet he remembered the taste of the bread at supper, the sweet wine that had cloyed too thick upon his tongue. He had seen the taster’s eyes widen, the twitch in the jaw. Lies, he told himself, lies of the flesh. But what if it had been true? What if the poison had been hidden too deep for the taster to find, meant only for the king?
His head throbbed. His mouth felt sour.
Write.
He bent low again. His hair, lank with sweat, brushed against the parchment. The ink smudged beneath his cheek. He did not care.
They came for Maekar first.
The words tumbled out crooked. His hand lurched. He crossed them out with angry black lines, then scrawled them again, harder.
They came for Maekar first.
He remembered—yes, he remembered—Maekar’s hands about his throat, the boy’s eyes like knives, his voice low and snarling. His son. His blood. Yet no son of his could turn so traitor unless another hand had guided him. Rhaegar’s hand? Rhaella’s? Varys’?
Varys…
The ink dripped where he had paused, spreading a black blot. He jabbed the quill down, carving the name across the page.
VARYS.
A fat spider. A false tongue. A sorcerer. He had crept into Aerys’s councils, into his dreams. He had placed whispers in his ears like worms, promising loyalty, promising service, while feeding his words to Tywin, to Rhaegar, to the dark.
Aerys’s hand shook as he stabbed the page again and again with the quill, spattering ink like blood across the parchment.
VARYS. VARYS. VARYS.
He scrawled the name until the word dissolved into nothing, black smears tearing through the paper. The ink ran down his wrist, dark rivulets tracing the blue veins beneath his skin.
But wait- when had the Spider come to him? After Tywin had gone. After Maekar had been sent away. Yes. Yes, he remembered that now. The Handship had stood empty, the council sundered, and Varys had crept in with his whispers, smooth as oil, sly as silk. Why not before? Why not when Tywin still sat the high seat? Why not when Maekar still breathed the king’s air?
The thought caught him, clutched him, shook him until he felt his ribs might split. He could not remember. He must remember.
Aerys slammed his fist upon the table, hard enough that the inkpot toppled. Blackness spilled over the parchment, drowning his words. His words—his proof—lost to the tide.
“No,” he rasped, pushing the wet pages aside. “No, you cannot take them. You cannot twist them. They are mine.”
He clawed for a fresh sheet, slapping it down upon the table with ink-stained fingers. The quill had broken beneath his hand, the nib snapped and jagged. He fumbled for another, snatched it like a dagger, dipped it deep until the ink swallowed the point. His breath rattled. His heart lurched.
He wrote:
He lies in wait. He crawls between the walls. He makes me forget.
The words bled crooked across the parchment. He pressed harder.
He makes me forget.
The letters doubled in his eyes. He blinked, blinked again, but the words slipped away like minnows in a stream. They twisted, turned, changed their shapes when he was not looking. Aerys snarled and struck them through, the page a frenzy of black gouges.
“Not mine,” he whispered. “Not mine. His.”
He pushed himself to his feet, swaying. The chamber tilted. The window yawned open, stormlight spilling through in pale gray shafts. He stumbled toward it, clutching his robes, clutching his ribs. The rain had begun, spattering against the stone sill. Far below, the city sprawled like a carcass, roofs dripping, streets twisting, alleys whispering.
“Where are you?” he croaked to the storm. “Where are you, my son?”
Rhaegar. Always Rhaegar. The harp-strings, the prophecies, the wolf-maid. Lyanna Stark, her name burned into his skull like a brand. She had stolen him, or he had stolen her—no matter which. The truth slipped between his fingers no matter how he clenched. But he knew this much: Rhaegar was gone. His heir had forsaken him, abandoned his crown, fled into shadows with a wolf bitch for a bride.
A bride?
Aerys reeled. His hands went white upon the sill.
Yes. He had a wife. He had wed her. He had left his wife behind—had he not? Or was she still his wife, and Lyanna only his whore? Aerys’s teeth ground together until his jaw ached. He could not remember. He could not tell. The names tangled, the faces blurred, and he clawed at his skull as though he might rip free the veil that smothered his thoughts.
The names tangled, the faces blurred, and he clawed at his skull as though he might rip free the veil that smothered his thoughts. His nails caught in his hair, greasy strands tearing loose, clinging to his fingertips like spider-silk. He tugged harder, desperate, until his scalp burned. Still the veil remained. Still the storm of unknowing howled in his skull.
“Rhaegar,” he gasped, then spat the name like bile. “Lyanna. Ty-Cersei. Maekar. Rhaella.” His tongue stumbled over them, slipping, misplacing. “Which? Who? WHERE?”
The storm outside lashed against the tower, a chorus of drums on stone, a thousand iron fists. The sky cracked white, lightning etching the world for a heartbeat. In that flash he saw them—faces in the stormclouds, pale and watchful, their mouths opening in silent laughter.
The gods.
Always watching. Always testing.
“You think me weak,” he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. “You think me broken. You think I do not SEE.” His voice rose, shrill and ragged, until it cracked. “I will not kneel. I am king. I am fire. I AM THE DRAGON!”
His voice rattled the panes, though whether from storm or sovereign, none could say. He jabbed a finger at the heavens. “When I am done with them—the lords, the traitors, the curs—you will be next. Do you hear me?” His throat tore with the scream. “I will come for you in your halls of light, in your seven thrones, and I will set them aflame. You will BURN! BURN, all of you!”
Another bolt split the sky, so bright he staggered back from the window as though struck. For a moment the storm filled the chamber itself, thunder swallowing thought, the light bleaching parchment and stone alike to bone. Aerys reeled, tripped over the hem of his robes, and crumpled to the floor in a heap of silk and sweat.
The breath fled him. His chest clenched like a fist, and for a heartbeat he thought his heart had burst. He clawed the floorboards, nails scratching. His lungs dragged at the air in shallow, ragged gulps. His head rang with the echo of his own scream.
Too much. He had spent himself.
The king lay sprawled, trembling like a whipped dog, his hair a tangle across his face. He buried it in his hands, shoulders quaking. Hot wetness smeared his palms—sweat, spit, or tears, he could not tell. He would not believe it tears. Dragons did not weep. Dragons did not—
But he was weeping. He felt it, bitter and salt, streaking his face. The gods were laughing at him, he knew. Watching him writhe, watching him falter, watching him fail. That was their jest, their cruelty. To give him fire and crown, and then to mock him with weakness.
“Why?” he croaked into his palms. His voice broke. “Why can’t I remember? Why must you take it from me?” His words echoed in the chamber, muffled by storm and stone.
He tried to picture Rhaegar’s face—the proud tilt of his jaw, the dark eyes like pools of ink—but the image slipped like water through a sieve. Sometimes he was young, harp in hand. Sometimes older, cloaked in armor. Sometimes he wore Lyanna’s face, snow-pale and defiant. Sometimes he was Maekar, teeth bared, hands around his father’s throat.
Aerys’s sobs turned harsh, angry. “You twist them!” he accused the storm. “You steal them, you tangle them, you laugh as I choke on their names. Why? Why must I forget? WHY?”
The thunder gave no answer.
He pressed his forehead hard against the floorboards, as if he could force memory back into his skull by sheer pain. His nails dug trenches in the wood. His body shook with each breath, half from exhaustion, half from fury.
He thought of the parchment on the table, soaked with ink, words drowned, proof undone. He had tried. He had written. Yet even those truths fled him now. What had he set down? That he was king? That he was dragon? That Maekar had come for him? That Varys whispered in the dark? Already it slipped. Already it sank.
Aerys bared his teeth and bit his own palm, hard enough to taste blood. The sharpness anchored him, for a heartbeat. At least that he could not forget. The sting was real. The taste was real.
The rest—he could not be sure.
He rocked where he sat, clutching his knees like a boy. His crown, twisted gold, had fallen askew in the tumble. It lay on the floor beside him, bent, one jagged point catching the candlelight like a fang. He snatched it up, held it tight against his chest.
“They want it,” he muttered, rocking. “They all want it. Tywin. Rhaegar. Jon Arryn. The wolves. The lions. The spider. The gods. They all want it. But it is mine. Mine.” He pressed the metal so hard against his ribs that the sharp edge cut through his silk, into skin. He did not care. The pain was truth. The crown was truth.
His mutters dwindled into a whisper, hoarse and cracked. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
The storm raged on beyond the window, but within the chamber the fire guttered low. Shadows lengthened, reaching across the walls like fingers. Aerys did not move. He stayed curled upon the floor, crown clutched to his chest, breath shuddering, eyes shut tight against the darkness that pressed from all sides.
The gods would not have him. The traitors would not have him. The forgetting would not have him.
He was the king.
He was the dragon.
Yet in the silence between thunderclaps, the only sound was his weeping.
The hall swam before him like a fever dream. Heat shimmered in the vaulted ceilings, though the braziers burned low, and the stink of sweat and smoke turned every breath thick and bitter. His eyes felt as if sand had been ground into them. He had not slept—not for a night, not for two, not for… how many? He had lost count. His body cried for rest, but his mind would not still. Shadows had kept him company when his courtiers could not, whispering of treason, of poison, of hands tightening round his throat.
When the herald’s cry rang through the Red Keep—“The king comes!”—he almost laughed. The king. Yes, he was still king. Was he not?
Aerys dragged himself toward the throne room, his gait unsteady. His hair, once silver and gleaming, clung lank to his face, damp with sweat. His robes hung from his shoulders as if they weighed a hundredweight. The steps up to the Iron Throne loomed before him like a mountain. Each one mocked his weakness. He clutched at the rail, his nails splitting against the stone as he climbed.
The court parted in silence. Lords and knights bowed, though their eyes whispered louder than tongues ever dared. He saw them—Velaryon, with his sea-stained cloak, the Master of Ships; Staunton, thin-lipped and pale, Master of Laws; Chelsted, sweating through his silks as always, Master of Coin. Behind them stood Pycelle, bent like an old crow, beard trailing near his belt. Their faces wavered before Aerys, shifting as if he peered at them through storm-wracked water.
But where was the Hand?
He froze at the foot of the throne. The question writhed inside him. He could not ask—no, no, if he asked it plainly, they would mark it down, scratch it into their ledgers, whisper it in their feasts: The king forgets his own Hand. The king is mad. They would turn to Rhaegar, or worse, to Viserys, still a boy clinging to his mother’s skirts.
He mounted the last steps with a grunt and collapsed onto the throne. Cold iron kissed his skin, and then—a sharp sting. He yelped, drawing his hand back to see a bead of blood on his palm. The throne had pricked him. The throne itself rejected him.
The court stirred, murmurs fluttering through the hall like startled birds.
Aerys straightened, forcing strength into his voice. “Where… is my Hand?” He said it as a challenge, not a confession. Yes, that would show them. Let them answer if they dared.
Velaryon stepped forward, his voice even. “Your Grace, Lord Jon Connington has returned to the Stormlands. By his last letter, he prepares to march upon the usurper Baratheons.”
Aerys blinked. Jon Connington? His mind swam with images: a copper-haired boy, Rhaegar’s squire, barely past his first beard. Could that boy be Hand? The thought seemed absurd, laughable—until memory tugged at him. Yes… yes, the years had passed. The boy should be three-and-twenty now. Perhaps four. A man grown, though still untried.
“Good,” Aerys muttered, though doubt gnawed. “Good.”
He leaned back, forcing his limbs to relax against the barbed throne. The iron bit again at his back, but he ignored it. He could not show pain. He could not show weakness.
And then he saw her.
At the edge of the hall, half-hidden in the crowd, stood a woman with hair like beaten gold, bright as sunlight. His breath caught. Joanna. Joanna Lannister, standing before him, young as she had been when first she came to court, when she laughed with Rhaella and smiled with Tywin at her side.
Aerys’s chest clenched. She was dead. Dead these many years. Yet there she was, her eyes fixed upon him, her hair shining, her lips parted as if to speak.
His fingers twitched against the throne’s arms. If he called her by name, if he asked Joanna, how come you here?, they would brand him mad. They would drag him down from his throne, crown Rhaegar or that milksop Viserys in his stead.
No. He must not speak.
But he could not look away.
The woman tilted her head, and in that moment the illusion cracked. Her nose was narrower, her chin softer. Not Joanna. Another. A girl, not the woman he remembered. But who?
If I ask, I am lost.
The thought hammered in his skull. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath his robes. His breath came shallow. He glanced to Velaryon, to Staunton, to Chelsted, to Pycelle. Their eyes bored into him, waiting, weighing, measuring. Every heartbeat stretched, each silence louder than the last.
Aerys’s gaze fixed on her, sharp as wildfire. She was smaller than he expected, but there was fire in her stance, a taut readiness beneath her cautious deference. His lips drew tight, teeth gnashing as he pointed a trembling finger.
“You,” he rasped, voice thick with both command and uncertainty. “Step forward.”
All eyes turned to her. She hesitated, glancing at the circle of ladies and the lords behind them, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and fear. The heat of the hall seemed to press against her, and her fingers fidgeted at the folds of her gown.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, voice barely carrying. She took a breath, swallowed, and moved forward, each step measured, deliberate, as if she were walking on thin ice. The hall seemed to grow smaller with each step, the air heavier.
“Curtsy,” Aerys said, voice sharper now. “Before the throne. Declare yourself loyal to your king. To your house. Let all the world hear.”
She lowered herself in a careful curtsy, head bowed, hands clasped, the swish of her skirts ringing faintly in the cavernous space. She kept her eyes down, but Aerys’s gaze burned into her, probing, insisting.
“I am… I am Cersei of House Lannister,” she said, voice steadier now, rising with pride beneath the tremor. “Daughter to Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna. Wife to Prince Rhaegar, mother of his children Jaehaerys and Joanna.” Her words were precise, measured, each one an oath, a bond, a declaration of loyalty. “I am the king’s gooddaughter, and his servant, as my father was for fifteen years as Hand of the King. My house is yours, as am I.”
Aerys’s lips twitched, a fraction of a smile breaking across his face. Relief, thin and trembling, flickered in his eyes. He inclined his head, almost imperceptibly, and waved her back to the line of ladies. She straightened, color rising to her cheeks, then retreated, glancing once toward him, reassured by the faint nod.
He slumped slightly in the throne, exhaustion pressing at him, but something new held his attention. Cersei. That was her name. Now that he saw it—Cersei—her face closer to her father’s, sharp, calculating, like a mangy street cat. This is who he had allowed to wed his heir? He wondered at the union, at the bright-haired boy somewhere beyond the hall, learning, growing, and yet his thoughts twisted back to the girl who had declared herself faithful.
“And speaking of my heir,” he muttered, voice tight with tension. He turned to Staunton, hand clenching the arm of the throne until the metal dug into his palm. “Where is Rhaegar? Has there been any word of him?”
Staunton, pale as washed linen, shifted uneasily. “No, Your Grace. There has been no word from the Prince, nor from the two Kingsguard sent with him—Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Oswell Whent. Even word sent to Lord Walter Whent, Ser Oswell’s elder brother, confirms their absence.”
Aerys’s eyes blazed as he leaned forward, the fingers of one hand drumming against the arm of the Iron Throne like falling hail. “What of Dayne’s house?” he demanded, voice sharp as a forged steel blade. “Has word been sent there? Starfall? Starfall is far, yes, but… if Rhaegar hides there, if he seeks counsel with those swords, then every hour we wait is another hour of treachery.”
Staunton swallowed, his mouth dry as dust. “Not yet, Your Grace. The ravens have not flown to Starfall. The messengers are—”
“Not yet?” Aerys’s voice cracked, rising to a thin wail that carried down the hall. He slammed a palm against the arm of the throne, rattling the metal. “Not yet, Staunton! Not yet, and my heir could be slipping through my fingers, hiding behind those walls, whispering with Dayne’s men, plotting! Do you think this is patience? This is surrender!” He leaned closer, eyes wild, pupils pinpricks of violet fire. “It makes sense. Rhaegar… he must be hiding there. Starfall. Dayne. Plotting something.”
The King’s gaze swept across the chamber, lingering on each face of the Kingsguard. Gerold Hightower, tall, silver-haired, calm even as the storm inside the King’s mind raged; Barristan Selmy, eyes steady, resolute, though a trace of unease lingered there; Selwyn Fell, who had replaced the late Gwayne Gaunt after Duskendale; Bonifer Hasty, stiff-backed, scarred by age and duty, replacing Harlan Grandison; Jonothor Darry, grim and dutiful as ever. Aerys’s breathing slowed slightly. Relief flickered, brief but tangible. At least he remembered them. The names. The faces. The loyalty that could be counted upon—if only barely.
“Yes,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His thin lips twisted into a small, satisfied smile. “Yes. The Kingsguard. They must be used. Gerold. Lord Commander. You will go.”
Gerold Hightower straightened, the weight of his silvered armor pressing against his shoulders, his gauntleted hands clenched tightly. “Your Grace…” he began, voice low but firm, “I cannot abandon you. My place is here, by your side. I swore my life to serve you, in battle and in peace. I will not leave the king of the Seven Kingdoms, not now, not ever.”
Aerys’s eyes flared, violet fire slicing through the haze of his despair. He rose abruptly, the hem of his silk robes tangling at his feet, fingers clawing the air. “Your place?” he thundered, voice ricocheting off the stone walls like rolling boulders. “Your place is where the King demands! Do you hear me, Hightower? Where the King demands! You are not merely my shield, but my sword, my sword—but the Kingsguard! And I—am the King! The greatest of all dragons! I am the fire that burns, the blood that runs unbroken! You will be where I say, when I say, and no man’s conscience, nor loyalty, nor fear of death will move you otherwise!”
Hightower’s jaw tightened, but he did not falter. “Your Grace, I serve you with all I have. If it is my life to spend, it shall be yours. Yet…” He hesitated, voice catching slightly. “…yet in these times of war. I cannot leave in such….testing times.”
Aerys’s violet eyes flared wider, pupils constricted into needles of fire. The weight of the throne pressed against him, the Iron Crown biting through silk, yet he felt none of it—not really. Only the war gnawed at the edges of his mind, fracturing the already thin glass of reason. “War,” he hissed, the word scraping through his throat. “What of the war?” His voice ricocheted in the hall, bouncing off stone pillars, rattling the eaves. “Where is my kingdom? Who moves? Who falters?”
Velaryon stepped forward, voice calm yet deliberate, like water poured over heated iron. “Your Grace, the men of the Westerlands clash with the Stark and Arryn forces. Lord Hoster Tully remains neutral, perhaps because his elder daughter is wed to Brandon Stark, and his younger to Ser Jaime Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. Efforts by Lord Tywin to sway him have been… persistent. Yet several Riverlands houses—Blackwood, Whent, and others—stand for their king.”
Aerys blinked, trying to assemble the fractured pieces. “The Riverlands… yes… yes. Good men. Loyal men.”
“As for the Crownlands,” Velaryon inclined his head. “Velaryon, Celtigar, Staunton, and Buckwell prepare to march in support, Your Grace. They await only your command.”
The King’s mind fractured like dry wood under the strike of a hammer. “Await only my command?” His voice rose, shrill, almost breaking. “No! No, not yet!” He lurched from the throne, hands flailing as he gripped the arms and dragged himself upright. “The lords of the Crownlands must stay! With me! Protect me! Protect the king! Do you hear? Not yet! Not yet! You will not march into the riverlands- leaving the King!”
Staunton swallowed hard. “Your Grace, they await your orders. But sending the Crownlanders would turn the—”
“I do not command them yet!” Aerys thundered, spinning on Velaryon. “If they march, the city will bleed alone. The walls, the towers, the gates—my city! My Red Keep! You would leave me? All the gold, the swords, the men—all of it—and leave me here to rot?”
Velaryon’s calm surface remained, but a flicker of unease crossed his sharp eyes. “Your Grace, the Crownlands’ lords are sworn to you. They will defend the Red Keep if it is necessary, even if—”
“Necessary!” Aerys shrieked, fingers curling into claws as he seized the hem of his robe and tugged it around him. “It is necessary! It is always necessary! I am the King! I am fire! I am the dragon, and they will not leave me! Do you hear, Velaryon? Not one man moves! Not yet!”
A tremor ran through him, the tremor of a man who balanced on the edge of a knife. “Send word,” he barked, voice jagged, “to every lord of the Crownlands. Every fleet, every house, every man-at-arms. Hold them here. Let no ship sail without my command. Let no banner leave without my eyes upon it!”
Velaryon inclined his head, words carefully measured. “At once, Your Grace. Orders will be sent. The men will remain until your command is given.”
Aerys rocked on the throne, chest heaving, the iron biting deeper, a familiar pain anchoring him to reality. “Good. Good. You understand, Velaryon. You understand that the dragon’s blood runs through me. That fire burns, that iron holds. The city is mine. My throne, my crown—mine! Mine! MINE!”