Chapter 164 — Landing on the Island
"Who provided the ships for His Majesty?"
Before the Lion Gate, the white-armored knight's voice was cold as ice.
Everyone knew he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. Still, almost in unison, all eyes turned toward—
"I did!"
Lord Lucerys Velaryon, whose silver hair matched the royal line and who had always prided himself on fearing no one, stepped forward proudly.
He straightened his chest and repeated his explanation loudly.
"It was the king's command! He ordered me to dispatch the fleet. As Master of Ships, I cannot defy His Majesty!"
At the same time, Velaryon was clearly displeased by the accusatory tone.
With a sneer, he added mockingly,
"You're quite something, Ser Lance Lot. As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you can question me now? Such authority."
"I remember when you crawled out of Duskendale with barely decent clothes on. Now look at you—dressed in splendor, even your warhorse looks richer than most lords."
"I doubt I could ride as fast as—"
SMACK!
The flat of a Valyrian steel blade slammed into his face.
Two bloodied teeth flew from his mouth.
"Speak less."
The cold voice sounded again.
Rage flashed in Velaryon's eyes and he nearly drew his sword—but when he looked up, he met a pair of utterly emotionless blue eyes.
And above Lance's head—
the flayed-man banner fluttered.
"Prepare a ship. I depart immediately."
The tone was calm, but absolute.
Velaryon glanced down at the black Valyrian steel blade before him. No matter how proud he was, he did not dare utter another word.
He spat blood, shot a vicious glare at Qarlton—who had dared to smirk—and stormed off.
Can't deal with Lance? Fine. I'll deal with you instead.
---
Only after Velaryon left did Lance press the sword hilt down and extend his other hand.
Beside him, Brynden Tully, quick-witted, handed over the tall banner pole he'd been holding.
Lance lowered it.
The flayed human skin banner unfurled directly before Tywin Lannister.
"What is the meaning of this, Ser?" Tywin asked, voice low, eyes dark, expression carefully controlled.
A declaration of war?
A mockery?
Tywin didn't know.
But he did know Lance had likely recognized Gregor Clegane—no matter how smooth his face looked now.
"A gift, my lord Hand."
Lance smiled faintly.
"You've given me so much. I've never returned a proper present."
"I acquired this in the Riverlands. Quite an artistic collectible. Consider it my gesture of gratitude."
Tywin narrowed his eyes, then—elegantly—reached out and removed the flayed skin from the pole.
He folded it calmly, movements smooth and unhurried.
"Many thanks, Ser Lance Lot," Tywin said with a slight bow. "House Lannister will remember your generosity."
"Good."
Lance studied him for a moment.
"If you like it, I can have more made."
"I recently met a craftsman from the North. His skill is… remarkable. Even I was impressed."
Tywin chuckled softly. "One piece is enough. Too many would cheapen its value."
"Let's hope so."
Mounted once more, Lance's gaze lingered on Tywin.
The warning was unmistakable.
Tywin understood perfectly:
Do nothing while I am away.
---
"Where are the Queen and Prince Viserys?"
"In Maegor's Holdfast," Ser Manly answered immediately. "I've had Janos personally lead two full Goldcloak units to guard every entrance to the Red Keep. No one enters without permission."
"If needed, we can maintain round-the-clock reinforcement."
"You've done well, Commander."
Lance nodded. At least someone in King's Landing was reliable.
"Ser Balman."
Lance turned to the blond knight who had fought beside him from Dorne onward.
"Take your men into the Red Keep. Guard the Queen and Prince Viserys' doors. Do not leave."
"Anyone approaching without my authorization—"
His voice turned lethal.
"Kill them. No exceptions."
"Yes, Commander!"
At Lance's command, Balman slammed a fist against his breastplate with a dull clang.
"I swear by the Seven, on my life and my house's honor—so long as I stand, no one will so much as disturb Her Grace or Prince Viserys!"
Without hesitation, he wheeled his horse and galloped toward the Red Keep.
Dozens of knights followed close behind. Steel rang, hooves thundered, and a killing aura rolled outward. Anyone could see it—
the Lord Commander was done holding back.
---
"Where's that ancient maester?"
Only after finishing the defensive arrangements for King's Landing did Lance ask.
Velaryon was still preparing ships. Lance had no intention of waiting idly.
Tywin turned and gave a subtle look to his brother Kevan.
Moments later came the scrape of heavy chains and pained groaning.
Two Goldcloaks dragged forward a filthy, skeletal figure from beneath the gate's shadow.
"You came prepared," Lance said, voice sounding like praise—though the mockery was unmistakable.
Tywin, ever composed, did not react.
Before the watching crowd, the former Grand Maester was thrown down like refuse.
Lance crouched slightly.
Pycelle barely resembled a man. His coarse prison rags hung in strips, barely covering skin mottled with bruises and cuts. Arms like dead branches. Dirt and dried blood caked beneath his nails. His face was swollen beyond recognition, one eye reduced to a slit of clotted red.
He had clearly suffered long before Lance returned.
Yet disturbingly, the old man still seemed mentally intact.
Impressive vitality—for a relic in his sixties.
But not impressive enough.
"Tell me, Grand Maester Pycelle," Lance said flatly, eyes devoid of pity. "What did you do to His Majesty?"
Only killing intent lived in those deep blue eyes.
If not for needing answers, Lance would have cut him down already.
Pycelle convulsed, some survival instinct triggered.
"Seven above, I'm innocent, ser!!" he wailed. Tears, snot, and blood mixed at his lips.
"I did nothing! I was locked in the black cells! Only rats for company! Until two nights ago Ser Gerold Hightower dragged me out on the king's order—"
"Continue."
Pycelle gulped, voice trembling.
"His Grace demanded I prepare… a draught. But after your discipline, I hadn't touched such things! Yet he shouted 'I am the true dragon!' and threatened me with death if I refused—"
"Last chance."
Pressure radiated from Lance like a suffocating storm. Even Tywin glanced sideways.
The killing aura around this man had grown frighteningly dense.
"Who ordered you to do it?"
Cold terror seized Pycelle.
"No one… ser… it's a treatment the Citadel uses… only the dosage… was slightly… higher…"
"Please—"
A black arc flashed.
His plea cut short.
Before everyone's eyes, the grey-haired head flew up and rolled to a stop at Tywin's feet.
The empty eye stared upward at the Hand of the King.
Tywin lowered his gaze to the severed head of a man who had served the Targaryens for decades. A faint ripple stirred in his green eyes.
---
Dragonstone
The sea was freezing, sharp with brine and sulfurous volcanic ash.
Bare feet sank into black sand.
The wind tore at Aerys's thin silk robe, yet he felt no cold.
Before him loomed jagged black stone towers. Massive dragon statues perched above, wings spread, claws dug into rock as if ready to live again.
The king's chest heaved. Purple eyes burned with fanatical fire.
This is where conquest began.
Aegon. Visenya. Rhaenys.
From here they had unleashed absolute power and forged legend.
"Put on your cloak, Your Grace," Barristan urged, stepping forward.
Aerys ignored him, spreading his arms to the wind.
"I can smell… dragonfire… cough!"
Gerold Hightower and Jonothor Darry rushed to steady him. He shoved them away.
"A true dragon… needs no support!"
He hid the black blood staining his palm.
No one saw.
He staggered onward, spine rigid, eyes wild.
"Targaryen… will be great again…"
---
Behind him, Rhaegar was shoved down the gangplank into the freezing surf.
His hood was yanked off.
Moonlight revealed—
Dragonstone.
Recognition stole his breath.
The towers he'd once gazed from as a child prince.
Why here?
Why Dragonstone?
Unease coiled in his chest.
Ahead, Aerys's frail silhouette moved across the sand, wrapped in mad resolve.
The Kingsguard surrounded their king in silence. Only waves and footsteps broke the stillness.
Barristan glanced once toward the dark sea.
Please let the raven reach him…
The king needs you, Lance…
And he followed his mad king toward the ancient stone walls.