Chapter 170 — The Prince Regent
"Dracarys…"
A voice cold to the point of near total emotionlessness shattered the eerie silence inside the sept.
The instant the command fell, the air behind Viserys Targaryen seemed to warp violently. In the next heartbeat, a torrent of extreme, blazing heat shot in from the direction of the great doors like a streak of living flame.
Carrying with it the destructive aura of something meant to burn down the old order, the fire engulfed the maid who had just shoved Viserys—precise, merciless.
Her plain linen dress disintegrated into drifting ash in a blink. Her carefully groomed dark brown hair curled, blackened, and crisped as the crackle of searing flesh rang out in sharp, nauseating bursts.
"AAAAAAAH—!!"
Her shriek tore through the hall, body twisting, arms flailing like broken wings in a futile struggle. The sound drilled straight into bone, drowning out every gasp of shock around her.
It lasted only a few breaths.
Then the violently writhing body stopped.
With a dull thud, it collapsed.
The air filled instantly with a thick, sickening stench of burnt flesh.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The reek hung heavy, inseparable from the invisible terror spreading like plague through the sept. It felt as though an unseen hand had closed around every throat, squeezing the breath from them.
Even on the face of Tywin Lannister, the composure he had worn for decades cracked. For the first time in many years, something unmistakable surfaced in his green eyes—
Shock.
Then—
A figure stepped slowly through the doorway.
Clad in the pure white armor of the Kingsguard, symbol of supreme protection, the tall knight seemed to envelop Viserys's small frame in his presence. His white cloak billowed high, like some divine guardian watching over a prince on the verge of coronation.
"…It's him… it really is him…"
Queen Rhaella Targaryen murmured under her breath, indigo eyes fixed on the tall white-armored knight. Her already taut nerves tightened further, her pulse racing uncontrollably.
Lance Lot.
All eyes converged behind Viserys.
On that handsome face—no expression.
His deep blue eyes were unfathomable, yet they carried a chilling authority that made hearts quail.
But the most unbelievable sight of all—
On the pauldron of his left shoulder perched a small dragon.
Its body was a deep ash-gray, like charcoal born from flame. Fine scales covered its slender neck as it slowly lifted its head. Its dark brown irises were nearly black, ringed faintly with crimson, as though violence itself simmered within.
It swept its gaze over the terrified crowd below.
Sensing their fear, the dragon—Ilyon—spread its wings slightly. A satisfied hiss vibrated from deep in its throat. Its mouth parted, revealing serrated teeth, sparks still visible between them.
It was announcing to the world—
That fire had been its doing.
The impact was so immense that everyone's nerves seemed briefly paralyzed.
A dragon.
Many had never seen one—but that was unquestionably a dragon.
Yes, people knew the king had taken dragon eggs and Rhaegar Targaryen to Dragonstone not long ago. But most had assumed it would end no differently than another repeat of the tragedy at Summerhall.
After all, the king's corpse… and Rhaegar's disappearance… had seemed proof enough.
They looked at one another, and in every pair of eyes they saw the same thing—
Disbelief.
And dawning fear.
In an age where dragons had vanished for over a century…
the world had just witnessed living dragons once more.
"Gaaah—!"
While minds were still blank, drowned in indescribable terror, a second cry—much younger, sharper—split the silence.
A smaller, nimbler green figure suddenly shot out from behind Lance Lot, slipping through the gap between his flowing white cloak and greaves.
Its semi-transparent wings fluttered. After a brief hesitation, it landed lightly on the shoulder of pale-faced Viserys Targaryen.
Two dragons.
The sight was so shocking that the air in people's throats seemed sucked dry. No one could even scream.
No one even questioned why Lance Lot—who bore no Targaryen blood—stood with dragons. They could only stare, eyes vacant, filled with terror… or awe.
"Keep walking."
Lance Lot's voice broke the deathly stillness again.
Not loud. No anger. No urgency. No emotion at all.
His gaze rested calmly on the small figure before him.
"You are the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Viserys."
"A king does not fear his subjects… or dragons."
The words cut through the haze. A thread of clarity returned to Viserys. He turned his stiff neck, afraid to look at the legendary creature on his shoulder, and instead looked up—
Into deep, azure eyes.
There was no condescension there. Only unfathomable steadiness. Like a lighthouse in the night.
An unfamiliar sense of safety rose within him. His racing heart gradually slowed.
He inhaled sharply and, gathering courage, looked at the little head beside his own.
The golden slit pupil no longer seemed terrifying.
Instead, there was… kinship.
The power flowing in Targaryen blood.
"…Mm."
The stench of burnt flesh still lingered, but Viserys nodded firmly. He lifted his chin and met the crowd's gaze with pride.
He was Targaryen.
King of the Seven Kingdoms.
One step.
Two.
His small hand clenched into a fist. The green wingshadow trembled on his shoulder as he walked toward the summit of power.
Each footstep echoed clearly through the sept.
The green dragonlet raised its head and hissed softly—like a herald clearing the path for a new king.
No one dared meet the gaze of dragon and king. Heads bowed in submission.
And then—
The final obstacle.
Tywin Lannister.
His jaw tightened as he stared at the green dragon. As Hand of the King, he had planned to control the child monarch and climb to supreme authority.
But now… there were dragons.
They stood in silent confrontation.
"You should step aside, Lord Tywin."
Lance Lot's voice rang out once more.
Only then did Tywin notice Lance Lot had moved to the late king's coffin. The white knight now approached, holding the heavy golden crown.
Footsteps echoed up the steps. The air froze.
Then the ash-gray dragon on Lance Lot's shoulder let out a low, threatening growl.
Its throat glowed orange.
A shrill warning screech erupted. A hot gust reeking of sulfur hit Tywin's face.
The last trace of resistance vanished from his expression.
He stepped back.
Power mattered to him. But this creature was the ultimate disruption of power itself.
"Thank you for your generosity," Lance Lot said mildly.
He turned to Viserys.
Before all eyes, the white knight lifted the pure gold crown and set it upon soft silver-gold hair.
Cold. Heavy.
Viserys's first thoughts.
But he straightened his neck and bore the weight.
"A little big," Lance Lot said gently, like a fond elder. "We'll make one that fits later. For today… this will do."
He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, then lifted him up onto his own shoulder, presenting the young king to the hall.
"LONG LIVE KING VISERYS!"
The Master of Coin shouted first, voice shrill with joy.
The roar that followed was tidal.
"Long live Viserys!"
"Long live House Targaryen!"
"Long live the true dragon!"
The sept shook with sound.
In the shadows, Queen Rhaella Targaryen watched, emotions churning behind indigo eyes.
Then came the scrape of metal.
From before the statues of the Seven stepped a legendary knight—
Barristan Selmy.
Sword raised high, voice powerful:
"In the name of the Seven—witness!"
"I, Barristan Selmy, proclaim the final will of King Aerys II Targaryen—"
"Former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Lance Lot… is hereby named—
PRINCE REGENT!!!"
___
The crown had a king.
The king had a dragon.
And the realm… had a new power behind the throne.