Chapter 160 — Dragon Egg!
Riverrun
The banquet hall blazed with light.
A long table was draped in the Tully colors—blue and red—woven with the leaping trout. Silver candelabra reflected off fine porcelain and mountains of food.
Servants rushed in and out so quickly they nearly tripped over themselves, replacing dishes and topping off goblets for the assembled nobles.
And yet… the air held none of the warmth of celebration.
Instead, the feast was soaked in something sharp and strange—
a tension so thick it felt almost physical.
Lord Hoster Tully sat at the head of the table. He was around forty, in the prime of his strength, his auburn hair combed with meticulous precision.
He cut delicately into a fillet of fish with a silver fork, posture calm and elegant—
but his blue eyes moved quietly, measuring every guest on both sides of the table.
On the right, sat the Kingsguard Commander in dazzling white armor.
Beside him: a brown-haired, gray-eyed youth, a direwolf sigil stitched across his chest.
And beside that—
the Dreadfort's lord, Roose Bolton… the man who had only recently been driven out of Riverrun.
On the left, Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor sat like a fortress of flesh. He took up nearly two seats by himself, chewing noisily, all while watching Roose Bolton with the fixed stare of a man trying to decide whether he was looking at a threat… or a corpse that hadn't yet realized it was dead.
And next to Manderly sat Benjen Stark.
Since he had come here to "court," the young man wore freshly tailored clothes. The direwolf sigil on his chest mirrored the one worn by the youth sitting opposite him—
his own brother.
But from the moment Eddard's party entered the hall, his "brother" hadn't offered him even a glance.
No greeting.
No acknowledgement.
Their eyes never met.
As if Benjen were nothing more than a stranger he'd happened to share a table with.
Benjen didn't understand it.
But he also didn't know how to speak to him.
What was he supposed to say?
"Hey! Long time no see. I heard you were a prisoner in King's Landing for months?"
And then Eddard replies—
"Yeah, yeah. I was imprisoned with our sister… but she's already hanging now. Hahaha."
...
That would be beyond awkward.
Finally, Lord Hoster Tully—acting as host—spoke first, shattering the unnatural silence.
"Ser Lance Lot."
He tapped the corner of the table lightly, raised his wine with perfect courtesy, and took a measured sip before looking directly at Lance.
"The arrival of the Kingsguard Commander brings honor to Riverrun."
"But if you will forgive my bluntness…"
His smile was polite. Controlled.
Yet the complaint hidden inside it was unmistakable.
"We did not send an invitation to King's Landing."
"So may I ask what important cause compels you to come to Riverrun in person?"
Hoster's manners were impeccable. Even his veiled reproach carried no outright hostility.
Because the feast had already begun—food eaten, wine shared.
Guest right had taken effect.
Under Riverrun's roof, old tradition guaranteed the safety of all present.
And that gave them something priceless:
space.
Time.
A thin buffer of ritual before the knives could come out.
Lance swallowed calmly and set his utensils down.
Normally, a guest could not wear armor at table.
But a Kingsguard could wear white wherever he pleased—no one would dare object.
"Three matters."
In every pair of eyes in the hall, Lance slowly raised three fingers.
His voice remained indifferent, but it carried with perfect clarity to every corner of the chamber.
"I came to Riverrun…"
"…for three matters."
He curled one finger down and turned his gaze toward the youth beside him.
"First."
"I have brought you the newly appointed Lord of Winterfell—Lord Eddard Stark."
Across the table, Wyman Manderly's expression twisted into something odd.
The news that the king had named Eddard Stark Lord of Winterfell had already spread across the Seven Kingdoms—
but no one treated it seriously.
After all…
Rickard Stark was still sitting comfortably in Winterfell, alive and enthroned.
Yet now, Lance had marched into Riverrun with this so-called "new Lord," as if presenting a fact.
No one knew what game he was playing.
Hoster Tully also gave young Eddard a look, inclining his head with a mild and formal nod.
Everyone knew the title was hollow—
but it had been granted by the king himself.
And with the Kingsguard Commander present, it was wise to give the Iron Throne its due respect.
"Second…"
Lance curled down a second finger, and his eyes shifted—slowly, deliberately—onto Lord Hoster Tully.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"As the only remaining 'elder son' of House Stark…"
"And according to the original agreement between House Stark and House Tully…"
"Lord Eddard Stark… should come to Riverrun and wed Lady Catelyn Tully."
BANG!
Wyman Manderly slammed his palm onto the table the instant Lance finished speaking.
He rose in a fury, his face flushing with humiliation as he glared straight at Lance and bellowed, voice booming through the hall:
"That's impossible!"
"By the order of Lord Rickard Stark, the one who is to wed Lady Tully is young Lord Benjen Stark!"
"And now you barge in and shove yourself into the middle of it—this is a provocation against House Stark and the entire North!"
Wyman's voice was thunderous. The fat on his cheeks trembled with rage, but somehow the display carried no real menace.
Eddard merely glanced up at him once… then lowered his head and continued eating.
Even before they entered the city, Lance had warned him: no matter what happens, don't look around, don't speak, don't react.
Lance would handle everything.
Lance would make him the Tullys' son-in-law.
And all Eddard needed to do was sit quietly here and act like a calm, elegant young lord.
Even if he wasn't particularly handsome.
"Calm yourself, Lord Manderly."
Faced with Wyman's righteous outrage, Lance casually tapped the tabletop with his leather-gloved right hand, his tone lazily dismissive—and the insulting nickname sharp with mockery.
Then he leaned back in his chair like a man scolding someone far beneath him.
"First of all," he said coolly, "let me correct one thing you've gotten wrong."
"There can only be one Lord of Winterfell."
"And that is Eddard Stark."
"As for the Rickard Stark you speak of…"
His blue eyes narrowed slightly.
"…he is nothing but a rebel."
"Bullshit!"
Wyman hammered the table again—harder this time.
The long wooden board trembled; even the goblet in front of Lance toppled over, sweet wine spilling across the table in a gleaming crimson stream.
But Wyman only grew more aggressive.
He leaned forward, baring his teeth as he stared at Lance's young, handsome face like a threat made flesh.
"Listen closely, boy."
"When you were still clanging iron behind a smith's furnace, Lord Rickard was already Lord of Winterfell."
"And if I hear you speak one more word of disrespect—by the Seven, I'll draw my sword and carve that ugly tongue out of your mouth myself!"
The hall fell dead silent.
Every face turned toward Wyman in disbelief.
Even Roose Bolton couldn't help himself—he subtly lifted a thumb as if praising courage.
After years of political struggle with that old whale, he'd never known Wyman Manderly possessed such ferocity.
Go on then, old eel, Bolton thought coolly. Die with honor. I'll drink three cups for you afterward.
His lips even threatened to curl.
Hm. I wonder… is my wife close to giving birth yet?
But before Bolton's amusement could settle, the only sound left in the hall was—
tap… tap… tap…
Fingers drumming slowly on wood.
After several long breaths, the Kingsguard Commander finally spoke, voice steady and calm:
"Pick up the goblet. Fill it again."
"I can pretend I never heard what you just said."
The words were mild.
But the tone was pure command—cold, contemptuous, absolute.
Wyman's mouth opened to bark another curse—
but then he looked up.
And met Lance's eyes.
Those eyes were calm. Still. Untroubled.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Yet within them lay something… bottomless.
A quiet violence. A killing intent that crushed the air.
Wyman's lips froze halfway open.
No sound came out.
Cold sweat flooded his back in a heartbeat.
By the Seven, Wyman swore he had never seen eyes like those—
as if the man before him had just finished slaughtering a hundred people moments ago… and felt nothing.
I'll die.
If I speak again, I'll die.
Gulp.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Trembling, Wyman turned to Hoster Tully as if begging for rescue—
only to find the Lord of Riverrun lowering his head, calmly scraping his plate with his fork as though this was none of his business.
And the most terrifying part?
Hoster's plate looked even cleaner than Wyman's face.
Seeing that, Wyman gritted his teeth.
He desperately wanted to keep his pride, to glare back, to roar—
But…
"Hehehe…"
Under the gaze of the entire hall, the Lord of White Harbor broke into a broad smile.
He waddled over, his round backside swaying, and personally refilled Lance's goblet—
then, with zero shame, lifted his wide sleeves and wiped every drop of spilled wine off the table until it gleamed.
"This is Arbor gold, after all," he said warmly. "Fine stuff. It would be a pity to waste it."
"Please enjoy it, Ser."
The speed of his transformation was so breathtaking it stunned even Benjen and Eddard.
Even Roose Bolton's mouth twitched.
No wonder Rickard Stark trusts you, Bolton mused. That kneeling talent really is bred into your bones.
"You should be grateful, eel."
Lance turned his head slowly, lazy amusement still in his eyes as he looked at Wyman.
"We are under Riverrun's roof," he said, smiling.
"We are guests of Lord Tully."
"Otherwise…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
After gesturing for the goblet to be set down, Lance finally turned back toward Hoster Tully, voice smooth as steel:
"Third."
"Your brother—Ser Brynden Tully."
"Over half a month ago, a raven from King's Landing carried His Grace's royal order to Riverrun."
"Ser Brynden was commanded to travel to King's Landing and swear himself into the Kingsguard."
"But unfortunately…"
Lance leaned forward slightly.
Pressure filled the hall like a tightening noose.
"To this day, Riverrun has sent no response."
"His Grace has begun to suspect that House Tully no longer acknowledges the authority of the Iron Throne."
"And so, he sent me personally…"
"…to invite him."
---
The Docks of the Red Keep
A sleek royal cutter rocked in the harbor, the Targaryen three-headed dragon banner snapping in the wind.
Sailors worked in grim silence, checking ropes and chains. The harsh rattle of iron echoed across the dock.
An aging Kingsguard knight stood at the pier in gleaming white armor.
His brows were deeply furrowed as his gaze followed the thin, restless figure ahead of him—his blue eyes full of worry, full of pleading.
"Your Grace… we should wait for Ser Lance to return before we depart," Barristan said, raising his voice to fight the roar of the sea wind.
"Your condition is not fit for travel by ship!"
"What are you afraid of, Ser Barristan?"
Aerys spun around, his heavy crown gleaming.
His violet eyes were bloodshot, his voice shrill—sharp with neurotic fury.
"Do you mean to say that without Lance, you and your sworn brothers cannot protect your king?"
Barristan had no answer.
And Aerys had no patience to wait for one.
He flung his arms open as though embracing all of King's Landing and cried loudly:
"Ser Lance Lot is my sharpest blade!"
"He serves the glory of House Targaryen—he enforces the authority of the Iron Throne across the realm!"
"And I, Aerys Targaryen—your king…"
"…have been hiding inside the Red Keep like useless furniture!"
"After the Greenblood, and that time—"
"That doesn't count!" Aerys snapped, cutting him off.
His voice trembled with excitement.
"I once fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings!"
"When did your king become nothing more than an onlooker, staring coldly from the side?"
"No."
"This is not how a true dragon lives!"
He clenched his fist so hard veins rose across his bony hand. Madness and confidence twisted together in his eyes—bright enough to frighten.
"I will prove it!"
"To Lance… to Rhaella… to Viserys…"
"And to those damned traitors!"
"I will make every soul in the Seven Kingdoms see clearly—"
"I, Aerys Targaryen, carry the blood of Aegon the Conqueror…"
"I…"
"…am the true dragon!"
He nearly screamed the final words.
Barristan inhaled sharply.
"But—"
"This is an order, Ser Barristan Selmy!"
Aerys cut him off again, voice absolute with royal command.
"Stop defying your king."
"You will do what you are sworn to do—protect me."
His eyes slid sideways.
There, Ser Jonothor and Ser Gerold were escorting a man onto the ship—his head wrapped in rough linen.
The former Crown Prince.
Aerys grinned wildly and whispered as if speaking to himself:
"These days… I have read every secret record hidden in the Red Keep!"
"From the journals of Valyria's Doom… to Maegor's bloodfire experiments…"
"I studied every detail of my grandfather Aegon V's tragedy at Summerhall."
"I know where he failed."
"I know exactly what must be done!"
"From Duskendale to Dorne—you were always the one charging ahead first."
"This time…"
"…it's my turn."
"That damned nightmare tried to turn me against you, hahaha… dogshit!"
"As long as I can ride a dragon again…"
"…all rebellion, all betrayal, all schemes will be cleansed and destroyed by dragonfire!"
"And then you'll understand…"
"You and I…"
"…we are both true dragons!"
With that, Aerys turned without hesitation and strode onto the deck.
Behind him, the old Kingsguard's worry deepened—but he could only grit his teeth and follow.
Just after their figures vanished aboard…
two strong servants carried a heavy chest, covered in thick black velvet, and followed onto the ship.
A powerful gust struck the harbor—
and tore the velvet aside.
Inside the chest lay four smooth, rounded objects, each a different color, resting quietly on soft velvet.