Chapter 220: Urgent News from the Iron Islands
"Hiss—"
The moment those words fell, the entire hall seemed to suck in a breath.
No one had expected that the heir of the Vale—the young lord of the Eyrie—would dare to insult the Regent in front of so many nobles, at such a moment, in such a place.
It was beyond unwise.
Even Mace Tyrell snapped out of his jealousy, staring at the young man in disbelief.
…Was he always this reckless?
There was a saying—never insult a man by exposing his roots.
A blacksmith's origin wasn't disgraceful in itself—but for the current Regent, it was clearly meant as a deliberate humiliation.
You might be the heir to the Vale, Elbert Arryn—
but how many heirs had already died at Lance Lot's hands?
Tywin Lannister merely glanced at him coldly, offering neither words nor reaction.
He had seen many fools in his life—
but even Mace Tyrell looked almost clever compared to this boy.
At least Tyrell never placed himself beneath a collapsing wall.
Let alone throw himself into certain death like this.
Yet unexpectedly—
Lance did not grow angry.
Instead, his gaze lingered with curiosity on the falcon crest pinned to Elbert's chest.
He couldn't understand it.
Why would this man provoke him again and again?
Was there… something—or someone—pulling the strings behind the scenes?
With that thought, he spoke plainly:
"I don't recall ever meeting you."
"Why do you bear such hostility toward me?"
"…Arryn?"
"Elbert Arryn! That is my name!"
Elbert shouted, his voice ringing through the sept.
And once he had spoken it—
there was no holding back.
His eyes widened, hatred and fury spilling over completely.
"Why? You ask me why I hate you?"
"Heh… I should be asking all of you—"
"Why none of you dare to speak the truth!"
Under the gaze of the Seven, before hundreds of nobles—
he began listing the Regent's "crimes."
"Because your hands are drenched in innocent blood, Lance Lot!"
"When did it begin?"
"Yes—Duskendale!"
"In the name of the king, you acted like a devil—House Darklyn, House Hollard—men, women, children—none spared!"
"You built your rise on their corpses!"
He stepped forward, voice rising.
"And Brandon Stark—the heir of Winterfell—a noble knight!"
"In a fair duel, before all, you beheaded him without mercy!"
"Where was your so-called knightly honor then?!"
"And more!"
Elbert's voice grew louder, his face flushed with feverish intensity.
"You wore the sacred white cloak—swore to protect the king with your life!"
"And yet—"
"King Aerys II burned to death on Dragonstone… while you lived!"
"And now you call yourself 'Regent'? Seven hells—what a disgraceful joke!"
"Ser Duncan would never have lived like you did!"
At that—
the Kingsguard standing nearby stiffened instantly.
Hands moved to sword hilts.
Especially Barristan Selmy, Jonothor Darry, and Gerold Hightower—
their gazes turned cold and hostile.
Because those accusations didn't just target Lance Lot—
they condemned them as well.
They had been there on Dragonstone.
They had watched the Mad King burn himself alive.
But that didn't mean they were meant to die with him.
If Elbert's logic held—
then every Kingsguard should have perished alongside Aerys.
It was nothing but reckless nonsense.
Even the usually calm Jonothor Darry was struggling to contain his anger.
If not for the Regent's command—
he would have drawn his blade already.
And yet—
Lance Lot still did not react with anger.
"Go on."
He tilted his chin slightly.
As if he had no intention of defending himself at all.
Elbert took a sharp breath.
"Stormlands—do you remember, Lance Lot?!"
"What crime did they commit—to deserve your invasion?!"
"Blackhaven! Nightsong! How many people died beneath your knights' hooves?!"
"And Robert Baratheon—Lord of Storm's End—the finest ward of the Vale—my brother—"
"You slaughtered him before the very walls he swore to defend!"
"And now—here you stand!"
"You are just a filthy blacksmith—"
At last, Elbert clenched his teeth so hard his jaw trembled. His entire body shook with emotion, his voice filled with raw hatred and fearless defiance as he roared:
"You wear a stolen white cloak and wield stolen power!"
"You have no right to touch the Conqueror's blade!"
"You are not worthy, Lance Lot!"
"Never… worthy!"
His furious outburst finally ended.
Elbert stood there, gasping like a beast that had exhausted all its strength.
The sept fell deathly silent.
It was as if even breathing had ceased.
"I've had enough!"
Just as everyone expected the Regent to unleash thunderous wrath—
a furious shout cut through the silence.
Steel rang as a blade was drawn.
In the next instant, a sword slashed toward Elbert Arryn in full view of the crowd.
Clang!
A middle-aged knight reacted instantly, drawing his weapon to block the strike.
"Have you lost your mind, Lord Whent?!"
"Get out of my way, Yohn Royce!"
"I'll kill this foul-mouthed bastard!"
The young Lord of Harrenhal showed no restraint, raising his sword again.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel collided repeatedly, forcing the surrounding nobles to retreat, forming a wide circle around the clash.
But the difference in skill was obvious.
Yohn Royce—the famed "Bronze" lord of Runestone—completely outclassed the younger Torrhen Whent.
Within just a few exchanges, Whent was already faltering.
Then—
another figure burst from the crowd.
A sword flashed from behind, slashing at Royce.
Clang!
Even without looking, Royce turned on instinct, blocking the strike by sound alone.
He kicked Whent back, then pivoted to face the new attacker.
After recognizing him, he gave a cold snort.
"Striking from behind isn't knightly conduct, Lord Reveray Rykker."
Reveray merely raised a brow, grinning carelessly.
"Sorry—I've never been anointed. Knightly codes mean nothing to me."
And with that, he attacked again.
Meanwhile, Whent scrambled to his feet—
but instead of joining forces, he turned his blade once more toward Elbert.
Elbert, already prepared, drew his sword and fought back.
Two against two.
The fight escalated instantly.
The sept descended into chaos.
Some nobles cheered and shouted in excitement.
Some ladies covered their eyes—
only to peek through their fingers.
Others even started taking bets on the outcome.
It was madness.
Watching this, Lance Lot's expression darkened.
He knew nobles could be unruly—
but this level of disorder was beyond even his expectations.
This was supposed to be a grand ceremony—
and yet it had turned into a street brawl.
"ROOOAR!!!!!"
A deafening dragon's roar tore through the hall.
In an instant—
everything stopped.
Yohn Royce froze mid-motion.
Elbert Arryn halted.
Even the jeering nobles fell silent.
All eyes turned upward—
to Ilion on the dais.
Its massive head loomed over them, molten-gold eyes blazing like living lava.
Only then did they remember—
a true apex predator was watching.
A crushing pressure settled over the hall.
"This is a celebration."
Lance Lot spoke at last.
His voice was calm—
but absolute.
"If you want to fight, take it outside."
"But, Your Grace—this brat has gone too far!"
"He insulted you openly! He must be punished!"
Reveray and Whent were still seething.
Lance Lot said nothing.
Instead—
he stepped forward.
Bent down.
Helped Reveray to his feet.
Brushed the dust from his clothes.
Then, one by one, he calmly pressed their swords back into their sheaths.
Only after that—
did he walk toward Elbert.
Ignoring Royce entirely.
"You accuse me of murder?"
His tone was flat.
Like asking about the weather.
Before Elbert could answer, he continued:
"Yes. I killed."
As he spoke, he slowly closed his eyes.
When they opened again—
flames flickered within his blue irises.
Not madness.
Not darkness.
Just… something deeper.
It only made him more curious.
"What is it you want?"
His voice returned to calm as he looked at the young heir.
"Tell me."
"All your accusations, your anger—what are they for?"
"Power? Conspiracy? Fame?"
"No!"
Elbert snapped.
Lance Lot's composure only enraged him further.
That condescending calm—
that gaze, like he was nothing—
cut deep into his pride.
"Don't think everyone is like you, Lance Lot!"
"I don't care about any of that!"
He lifted his head, declaring:
"I, Elbert Arryn, stand for only three things—"
"Honor. Justice… and your apology!"
"…Apology?"
For the first time—
Lance Lot faltered.
A slight frown appeared as if unsure he'd heard correctly.
"You want me… to apologize?"
"That's right!"
"Your arrogance, vanity, and cruelty have stained the Targaryen banner with blood!"
"You must apologize to the innocent you slaughtered—before everyone here!"
"Admit your crimes—or you will lose all support!"
As Elbert finished—
Lance Lot's confusion slowly faded.
At last—
he understood.
There was no conspiracy.
No hidden manipulator.
This heir of the Vale—
Jon Arryn's nephew—
was simply a fool.
A complete one.
"The traitors of Duskendale deserved death."
"Brandon Stark challenged me in a fair duel—and paid for attacking from behind."
"King Aerys is dead. So we upheld a new king—to restore Targaryen greatness."
"As for the Stormlands…"
"…Heh."
His gaze shifted slightly—
toward Renly Baratheon among the Stormlords.
The implication was obvious.
"I don't need to explain this to you, boy."
"But I will give a warning."
His eyes swept across the hall.
Every noble he looked at lowered their head.
"Everyone must pay for their choices."
"Darklyn. Brandon Stark. Robert Baratheon."
"They chose to oppose the Iron Throne."
"They paid the price."
A pause.
Then his gaze returned to Elbert.
"And so will you."
"Elbert Arryn."
This time, he spoke the name clearly.
"You've said a great deal today."
"Words can be spoken freely—but the one who speaks them must bear the consequences."
"You've accused a Regent—publicly—of murdering his vassals."
"Of defiling the very throne he serves."
His gaze sharpened like a blade.
"If you seek justice so eagerly…"
"…then you should be able to bear its weight."
The moment the words fell—
a suffocating pressure crushed down on Elbert.
His chest stalled.
The air seemed to vanish.
His body trembled uncontrollably.
He looked around desperately—
seeking support.
But all he found were lowered gazes.
Fear.
Avoidance.
Mockery.
Even Yohn Royce said nothing.
No one was foolish enough—
to support him under a dragon's shadow.
His "justice"—
had no followers.
And that—
was something Elbert had never imagined.
He had believed—
his righteous speech would rally the nobles.
That they would rise with him.
That Lance would bow under pressure—
confess—
and be "awakened" by his words.
That he, Elbert Arryn—
would be remembered as a hero of justice.
But now…
Why?
Why was everyone so cold?
The winter light poured down through the shattered dome.
A low dragon's growl echoed.
Elbert swallowed hard.
His sword trembled in his hand.
But he was no Brandon Stark.
Clang—
The sword fell.
Before everyone—
the heir of the Eyrie dropped his weapon.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed.
Lance blinked.
…That was unexpected.
He had thought this would be another Robert Baratheon.
Instead—
this one folded instantly.
Stubborn—
but cowardly.
Killing someone like this…
wasn't even satisfying.
"Honestly… I preferred your earlier defiance."
He lost interest completely.
Turning to Tywin Lannister, he said:
"Take him to the black cells."
"Send a raven to Jon Arryn."
"Tell him to come to King's Landing in person—with the Vale's sincerity."
"No excuses about being too old to travel."
"Otherwise…"
"I'll have him find a new heir."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Tywin gave no hesitation.
He signaled the gold cloaks, who dragged Elbert away.
But just as they reached the doors—
hurried footsteps echoed from outside.
"Your Grace!"
"Your Grace, the Regent!"
The doors burst open.
Balon Greyjoy rushed in, his single arm swinging as he ran.
He dropped to one knee before Lance Lot.
"Your Grace!"
"Iron Islands—urgent news!"
His voice trembled with fury.
"Euron Greyjoy has killed my father—Quellon—and imprisoned my two brothers!"
Lance's expression changed instantly.
His hand shot forward—
grabbing Balon by the collar and lifting him up.
"What did you just say?!"