Chapter 90 – The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard
The King's command had barely left his lips when the doors to the throne room burst open.
A squad of gold cloaks poured in, weapons drawn, and in a heartbeat Eddard Stark was forced to the ground, his arms wrenched behind him.
Even pinned beneath their boots, the young man from the Vale's Eyrie did not curse or plead. His voice rang through the hall, steady and furious:
"I came only to seek justice for my brother! I have done nothing wrong, Your Grace!"
"I have a right to know why Brandon Stark was executed! If you mean to take me, then at least tell me my crime!"
He struggled, shoving back at the guards.
"Don't touch me!" he snapped, his northern pride flashing through his restraint.
But his words only fanned the King's rage.
Aerys II rose from the Iron Throne, his face contorted, voice shrill and wild:
"You dare speak of justice to me, boy?"
"Your sister has kidnapped my son, Prince Rhaegar—my heir! And you come crawling to my throne, demanding answers?"
He lurched forward, his eyes glowing with a mad, feverish light.
"I swear to the Seven—I will see you and your sister share the same fate as Brandon Stark! I'll have your heads struck from your bodies and your skulls made into goblets!"
His laughter cracked, high and thin as shattered glass.
"And when the Targaryen armies march north and burn your precious Winterfell to the ground, I'll make your father drink from them—filled with poison, so he can choke on the death of his line!"
The court fell silent save for the echo of the King's ragged breathing.
Eddard's face tightened, pale but resolute.
"Your Grace, there must be some mistake," he said quickly, straining against the guards.
"Lyanna was already sent back to the North last night under escort. She could not have kidnapped the prince!"
"There has to be a misunderstanding!"
Aerys's expression twisted with disbelief, his eyes wild.
"A misunderstanding?"
He kicked Eddard squarely in the ribs, spittle flying as he screamed:
"My men saw her with their own eyes—her and that Baratheon bastard! They smuggled the prince onto a ship together, and you dare call it a misunderstanding?"
The name hit Eddard like a hammer.
Robert.
Gods… that reckless fool!
He had warned him. He had told him not to act rashly.
And now, everything was collapsing.
"Whatever they've done," Eddard gasped, his voice hoarse but unbroken, "it was not by my command, Your Grace."
"Let me go, and I'll bring them back myself. I swear it upon my house and my honor. I'll return Prince Rhaegar safely to King's Landing."
Aerys sneered, madness gleaming in his eyes.
"You'd flee justice and call it honor? You think to bargain with your king?"
He raised his arm, trembling, his voice rising to a shriek:
"You will burn for this! Burn, do you hear me? Burn—!"
The air seemed to hum with terror.
The courtiers froze, and even the gold cloaks faltered, glancing uncertainly toward the Iron Throne.
Then—
A gauntleted hand shot out and clamped over the King's mouth.
"Calm yourself, old man," came a low, even voice.
All eyes turned as the white-armored figure behind the throne stepped forward—his silver hair glinting beneath the torchlight.
Ser Lance Lot, sworn brother of the Kingsguard, had just silenced his King.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Even Eddard Stark, struggling on the marble floor, stared up in disbelief.
A Kingsguard knight daring to touch the King? To restrain him?
Could such a man truly exist?
For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in Eddard's eyes.
Maybe this knight was not the monster he had imagined.
Maybe… Brandon's death had been something else entirely.
Maybe this man—this Ser Lance Lot—wasn't his enemy.
The King clawed at the hand on his face, wheezing through his rage.
Slowly, his breathing steadied. His glazed eyes began to clear.
"Let me go," he rasped, voice muffled.
At last, the knight released him.
Lance Lot stepped past the throne, his boots striking hard against the marble, and came to stand before the bound Stark.
His white armor gleamed in the firelight, his voice cool and impassive:
"Kidnapping a prince is an act of treason, Lord Stark. You understand that, don't you?"
Eddard raised his head, sweat beading along his brow.
"There has been a mistake," he said, his tone urgent but steady.
"Lyanna would never commit such a crime. Release me, and I'll find them myself. I'll return with my sister and the prince—before the council, before Your Grace—to prove the truth!"
Lance Lot's expression did not change.
"No need," he said quietly.
"I will find your sister and the Baratheon boy myself. And when I do…"
He glanced briefly at the King, whose hands still trembled on the armrest.
"I'll have the truth from them both."
He turned to the guards, his voice like cold steel:
"Take him to the dungeons. Send word to Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell."
"Tell him the King has his son."
"If Rickard Stark does not wish to lose another son, he will find his reckless daughter, return Prince Rhaegar safely to King's Landing—
and then come alone…
to face the King's judgment."
At Ser Lance Lot's command, the gold cloaks glanced uncertainly between the King and the gathered lords.
No one spoke.
Not Tywin, not Varys, not even Barristan Selmy.
So the guards obeyed.
Eddard Stark was dragged from the hall, his cries echoing off the cold stone, and the massive doors of the throne room shut behind him with a heavy clang.
---
The Master of Coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, stood frozen where he was.
He dared not speak another word in Eddard's defense.
His foolish decision to bring the Stark boy before the King had already cost him dearly. The trust he had spent years earning with Aerys had gone up in smoke within a single morning.
Now all he could do was pray that the King's wrath would not strip him of his office.
Seven save you, Eddard Stark, he thought bitterly. You'll need it where you're going.
The Red Keep's dungeons were no place for mercy. Few who entered ever saw the sun again.
---
"Your Grace…"
The clatter of armor announced a new arrival.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, entered the hall with a puzzled expression, bowing deeply before the Iron Throne.
He had been at his post outside the King's bedchamber all night, vigilant as ever, and had only just returned to the White Sword Tower when a gold cloak summoned him again.
Now, kneeling before his King, he looked up—and faltered.
Aerys's eyes were fever-bright, his lips curled in contempt.
What did I do this time?
Gerold felt the chill of unease creep up his spine.
"Did you know," the King hissed, "that intruders entered the Red Keep last night?"
"Ah—?"
Gerold blinked, stunned. The question struck him like a slap.
Aerys's voice rose to a shriek.
"Intruders! In my castle! And you—my Lord Commander—knew nothing of it?"
"My son, the Prince of Dragonstone, has been kidnapped, and you were snoring in your tower like a useless old dog!"
"Kidnapped…? Prince Rhaegar?"
Gerold's eyes widened. The words made no sense. None of it fit together.
But before he could respond, Aerys was already shaking with fury.
"No excuses! You have failed me!"
The King turned suddenly, his tone shifting from rage to something almost theatrical.
His gaze fell on the white knight standing just behind the throne.
"Ser Lance!"
Immediately, the tall knight stepped forward and dropped to one knee, his polished armor gleaming like moonlight.
Aerys descended from the Iron Throne, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder—just as he had years ago when he first draped the white cloak upon him at Duskendale.
"For the negligence of Ser Gerold Hightower," the King declared, "who allowed intruders to breach the Red Keep and my son to be taken—"
He paused for breath, then raised his voice so that every lord and knight in the hall could hear:
"—I, Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—hereby strip Gerold Hightower of his command."
"And in his stead, I name Ser Lance the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
The proclamation echoed through the hall like a thunderclap.
Ser Gerold stood motionless, the weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders. His snowy cloak trembled faintly, but he spoke no word of protest.
In truth, there was none to give.
The prince was gone, and he was the man charged with the King's safety. The guilt was his to bear.
Lords of the court did not object.
Not Tywin Lannister, who merely studied the new Lord Commander with cold calculation.
Not Varys, whose expression remained unreadable.
Not even Barristan the Bold, who merely lowered his head in silence.
For all of them knew what Lance had done:
He had led the King safely out of Duskendale.
He had crushed the outlawed Brotherhood of the Kingsguard with only two sworn brothers at his side.
He had proven himself in tourney and battle alike—steel, discipline, and victory incarnate.
No one dared contest his rise.
---
"Given the gravity of this crisis," Aerys said, his voice rising again,
"I entrust Ser Lance not only with the command of my Kingsguard, but also with the defense of King's Landing itself."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Even Tywin's golden eyes flickered, narrowing to hard slits.
He's consolidating power, the Lion of Casterly Rock thought. Even now, he trusts no one but this knight.
The King smiled faintly, feeding on the unease his words created.
"Find the culprits," Aerys ordered. "Bring back my son. And make certain the traitors who dared this insult learn what it means to defy the Iron Throne."
Lance stepped forward, his shadow long beneath the hall's high windows.
His voice rang clear, echoing through the vaulted chamber:
"My lords, my knights—hear me!"
"The abduction of Prince Rhaegar within the walls of the Red Keep is a crime not just against the Crown, but against the very soul of the realm!"
"I, Ser Lance of the Kingsguard, swear before the Seven that I shall not rest until the prince is found—
and every traitor who raised a hand against him has paid for their defiance in blood."
He raised his sword, the silver light flashing across the hall.
"For the King!"
A roar answered him.
"For the King!"
Lords, knights, and courtiers alike lifted their fists or voices in fevered unison—some out of loyalty, others from fear.
Even the trembling Lord Qarlton joined the chorus, raising his arm high, eager for the King's notice.
"For the King!!!"
The sound rolled through the hall like thunder.
And through the chaos of voices, a soft, mechanical chime echoed faintly in Lance's mind—like a bell rung in another world.
[Ding——]
---