Chapter 166 — Dragons!
A streak of white tore through heat and smoke as the tall knight in white armor shot into the cavern like lightning.
The sight before him was worse than he'd imagined. The ritual runes had faded, drowned beneath thick, charred blood. Waves of heat and flame surged outward—enough to melt steel—yet to Lance's Unburnt body, it felt like little more than a hot wind. His cloak and anything flammable on him caught fire, but the blaze could not harm him.
He didn't slow. His boots hissed softly against the scorched stone.
Fanatics lay twisted across the ground, their bodies already carbonizing. The air reeked of burnt flesh and heavy blood.
Bound to the pillar, the Targaryen prince no longer struggled.
His once-handsome face had melted in the heat, reduced to a blackened ruin. Life had long fled. Flames licked greedily at the corpse, crackling low, turning the cavern into a vision of hell.
Then Lance's gaze stopped.
Several charred corpses lay in strange positions—not scattered, but collapsed together in a strained semicircle, propped against one another as if shielding something.
He stepped forward at once. With a flick of Dawn's tip, he pushed the bodies aside.
A curled figure was revealed within.
"…Old man…"
Lance's jaw clenched. Pain flashed through his blue eyes.
The king looked even more shriveled than in the Red Keep. His robes had burned away, leaving only blackened scraps clinging to skin. Vast swaths of flesh were horribly burned, meat split and curled, blood and ash fused together.
He was breathing—barely. Each breath rasped like a dying animal. His chest rose so faintly it seemed it might stop at any moment.
Lance knelt and, with the gentlest motion of his life, lifted him into his arms, pressing him against his white breastplate to shield him from the flames.
He was terrifyingly light.
Like a body already emptied of its soul.
Sensing movement, the old king forced his murky eyes open a slit.
The madness was gone from those violet eyes. Only pain remained. And the emptiness of death's approach.
Seeing the pure white figure before him, a faint light stirred in Aerys's dim pupils.
Joy. Relief. Regret. Guilt.
"Kh…."
His throat, burned nearly beyond use, could only produce meaningless air.
"Shut up," Lance whispered hoarsely, eyes wet—tears instantly evaporating in the heat.
"I brought a maester. He's incredible. He'll fix you… he will…"
The words poured out, desperate, broken. Flames could no longer dry the tears fast enough.
The man who could face hundreds without fear now wept like a helpless child.
"Dragon…"
A tear slipped down Aerys's cheek and into his mouth. Salty. Bitter. It eased the burning—just a little.
With a trembling, ruined hand, he pointed toward the fire.
"Dragon…"
"Forget the fucking dragons!!"
Lance's voice cracked with grief. "As long as I don't allow it, even the gods can't take your life! If they try—I swear I'll fight into the Seven Hells and drag you back!"
He growled the vow like a challenge to heaven itself.
But he knew.
Right now… he wasn't strong enough to face gods.
He turned, carrying the dying king toward the exit. Yet the old man's gaze clung stubbornly to the four motionless eggs in the flames, unwilling to die like this.
Then—
Lance's heart slammed hard in his chest.
"I… hear… it!!!"
The king's eyes flew wide in a final surge of strength.
"I hear it!! It's a dragon!"
"Quick… you know what to do… it's in your blood… Lance!!!"
Lance froze and looked back at the silent stones.
And suddenly—
He felt it.
An impossibly faint pulse of life, responding to him.
The old man was right.
This was bloodline instinct.
A dragonrider.
The eggs had not been unmoved by blood and fire. They had been waiting—
—for a stronger catalyst.
A purer spark.
The thought struck like lightning. Lance looked down at the king in his arms, then back at the eggs.
As if possessed—
his right hand rose sharply and swept forward.
The milky-white greatsword, forged from a fallen star, left Lance's hand like a meteor.
It carved a brilliant arc through the air, spinning—then plunged straight into the heart of the blazing fire, embedding itself between the four dragon eggs.
The blade seemed to carry its own gravity. In an instant, it vanished beneath the roiling flames.
Not enough.
Lance frowned slightly and reached over his shoulder again, drawing the second greatsword from his back.
The weapon he had taken from Jorah Mormont—later reforged with Valyrian steel craft—
Dragontooth.
Steel born of ancient Valyria's secret forges, folded and hammered tens of thousands of times, said to have been infused with blood-and-fire sorcery.
With a flick of his wrist, Dragontooth followed.
Like lightning tearing through darkness, it shot forward with a vicious shhk, burying itself in the inferno beside Dawn, close against another egg.
The moment the two mystical blades entered the fire—
The ordinary flame, which had burned lifeless and dull, changed.
It was as if a soul had been poured into it.
The blaze exploded upward several times higher, color shifting from red-gold to blinding white. The cavern flashed bright as day.
Heat roared outward like a physical wave, whipping Lance's black hair wildly behind him.
"Gh—ahhh…"
The old man!
Aerys whimpered in pain in his arms. Lance snapped back to himself, turning at once and carrying him toward the exit, not daring to stay to see the outcome.
Yet even as the heat wave struck him, the king's eyes remained locked behind them.
Within the boundless white fire, something impossible was happening—
The flames were twisting together, weaving, fusing under some unseen guidance.
"Dragon…"
The old king's hopeful whisper left his lips—
—and the temperature in the cavern surged to its peak.
The tall knight in white wrapped his body around the dying king, his broad back shielding him completely from the searing blast.
At the narrow mine entrance outside—
Gerold Hightower sheathed his broken sword, stubborn resolve still written across his face.
Jonothor knelt half-collapsed, clutching his chest where Gerold's blow had struck, fury burning in his eyes.
Barristan stood before the roaring tunnel, every human instinct telling him that entering now meant certain death.
"Lance… Lot…"
"If it's you…"
He murmured.
Reason said it was impossible. No living being could survive that fire.
But instinct told him—
If it was Lance Lot, no miracle was beyond him.
Then—
A wall of fire burst from the depths like a tidal wave.
Scalding wind and smoke thundered out. The three knights felt their scalps prickle, breath nearly impossible.
And yet—
From within that world-ending inferno—
a figure walked out.
White armor reflected the lingering inner radiance like holy light. The killing heat that should have incinerated flesh had not even singed a single hair.
It looked like—
a god walking out of the heart of the sun.
And in that god's arms—
their king.
Jonothor forgot his pain, mouth hanging open.
Gerold's stubborn face cracked with shock, his hand trembling around the broken blade.
Barristan's blue eyes filled with awe.
He… actually did it?
In that fire?
"Your Grace!"
Barristan moved first, stepping forward—Jonothor trying to rise beside him.
"Don't touch him!"
Lance's command stopped them cold.
He carried the king to a flatter patch of ground outside the cave, away from burning debris.
Barristan immediately removed his white cloak and spread it on the ground.
Lance lowered Aerys onto it as gently as if setting down fragile porcelain.
"Lance..."
Cold wind brushed the king's face. His fading eyes opened once more.
He looked past the three white cloaks—then fixed on Lance kneeling beside him.
"A cold cage… cannot hold a true dragon…"
His voice was shredded—but he repeated the words from the first time they met.
[What is your name, boy?]
[Lance.]
[Good… you will…]
"I will wear the white cloak as armor.
Let honor be my law.
Your life my highest command.
My own life given to defend the Targaryen crown and bloodline—
With true dragonfire, I shall burn the traitors of the Seven Hells."
The Lord Commander knelt on one knee, voice shaking.
"No…"
Aerys laughed softly. His speech grew strangely clear—like a final flare of life.
"You will take off the white armor, Lance Lot."
"Because you… are a true dragon… like me…"
"Fuck that—I'm no damn 'true dragon,' hahahaha!!"
He laughed wildly—clearer than he had ever sounded in his life.
"You three idiots—bear witness!"
"I, Aerys Targaryen—"
"—By the authority of ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—damn it, add all the useless titles—"
"Appoint Lance Lot…"
"…Regent."
"After my death, you will rule beside Queen Rhaella—guide my son Viserys until he comes of age…"
He roared the words with everything left in him—
—and then began coughing violently.
Black blood and lung fragments poured from his mouth, staining the white cloak beneath him.
"Stop talking," Lance rasped, gripping his hand. "You won't die. I won't allow it. Not even the gods can take you!"
"I'll bring you to that maester—"
"Shut… up."
Aerys convulsed, vision fading—but he clutched Lance's wrist and dragged him closer.
With his last strength, he leaned in and whispered—so low only Lance could hear:
"You… are Targaryen too… I know…"
"If… Viserys cannot hold… that damned throne…"
"Then… take it."
His strength vanished.
His clawlike hand slid free.
The last light in his eyes fading—leaving only gray.
Yet the look of unwillingness remained.
His head lolled sideways—
toward the cave.
Then—
Two shrill, piercing cries rang out from deep within.
Like hatchling eagles.
"SKREEEE—RAAAHH!!"
The sound was strange.
Familiar.
It tore through more than hundred years of silence and struck every heart present.
The three Kingsguard stared at the cave mouth in disbelief.
From smoke and drifting embers—
from a place still radiating killing heat—
two small, scaled shapes dragged themselves into the open.
"Dragon…"
For a moment, Lance thought he heard the dead king's voice.
The regret in Aerys's face seemed to fade—
replaced by relief.
Hope.
Lance did not turn.
He pressed his forehead to the king's.
"I, Lance Lot…"
"Swear upon your will—
to guard your house, protect your wife and children…"
"When my strength is enough—
I will split the Seven Hells with my blade,
force the gods to kneel—
and return… your soul."