Chapter 75 – I, Who Cannot Coexist With Lust and Poison!
"Your Grace, you don't wish for His Majesty to remain unconscious forever, do you?"
That ridiculous line from some bawdy play flashed across Lance's mind the moment he looked up — and saw the sight before him.
He had to admit… Queen Rhaella Targaryen was breathtaking.
She was the living embodiment of the Targaryen legacy — beauty born of dragon blood.
Her silver-gold hair shimmered under the candlelight, her violet eyes glowed with dangerous intelligence, and her every movement carried the poise of royalty.
Even after bearing several children, she was still in the prime of her allure. The silken robe she wore revealed glimpses of smooth, pale skin — flawless save for faint bruises that somehow only heightened her tragic beauty.
It was the kind of sight that made lesser men want to sin.
Lance inhaled deeply, forcing himself to think of Aerys II's gaunt, half-crazed face — a mental image cold enough to douse the heat boiling through his veins.
Across from him, the queen tilted her head slightly, studying him with a strange fascination.
Or rather — studying the blackened scorch marks still staining his once-gleaming white armor.
Her eyes lit with something halfway between curiosity and obsession.
She took a slow sip of her wine, then tipped the glass back too far. Red liquid slid down the corner of her lips, tracing a glistening path along her slender throat before disappearing into the low fold of her robe.
Lance shut his eyes at once, jaw tightening.
A faint laugh rippled through the chamber.
"Your armor is filthy," Rhaella said softly. "I don't like it."
"What?"
The knight blinked, caught off guard by the odd statement. He glanced down at the armor that had withstood wildfire — scorched, yes, but intact.
Before he could answer, Rhaella tossed the empty wineglass. It struck his breastplate with a sharp clink and shattered on the floor.
"I said," her voice rose, laced with command, "I don't like that armor, Kingsguard."
"Take it off."
The command hit him like a slap.
Lance swallowed hard. What in the Seven Hells was happening?
Just moments ago, she'd been the grieving queen — and now she was giving orders like a queen of desire.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," he managed, "but it is forbidden for a Kingsguard to remove his armor within the Red Keep."
"Hmm."
Rhaella's lips curled in disdain. "Just like your father. All pride and no imagination."
That one stung — not because he understood it, but because of the faint amusement in her tone, as though she knew a secret he didn't.
Still, she didn't stop.
The queen rose slowly from the bed, her silken gown swaying like mist around her.
Each step she took made the soft fabric ripple — and Lance could feel his self-control bleeding away one heartbeat at a time.
"I," she said quietly, stopping before him, "am the Queen."
Her hand snatched a bronze candlestick from the bedside table, raising it like a scepter.
"I command you to remove it," she whispered, her tone half-command, half-tease. "Or I shall have you tried for treason, Ser Kingsguard."
Her words might have been dangerous — but her eyes were not those of a ruler giving orders. They were the eyes of a woman playing a dangerous game.
The flame on the candle flickered between them, casting wild shadows across her face.
Lance's throat bobbed. He knew that if he looked down — just once — he would see what only the King himself was meant to see.
He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead.
"No… Your Grace," he stammered, "we can't—"
But the words died in his throat.
At some point, the queen had lifted the candlestick, pressing the small dancing flame directly against his gauntleted hand.
And he hadn't even felt it.
The fire clung to his skin — and the skin did not burn.
"Seven save me…" Lance muttered under his breath.
The Unburnt.
So that was what she'd been testing.
"I knew it…"
Rhaella dropped to her knees beside him, staring at his unharmed flesh with eyes wide and trembling with wild excitement.
"I knew it!" she gasped, voice rising to a feverish pitch. "You're the true dragon!"
"True— what?" Lance blinked, exasperated. Gods above, this isn't dragon's blood, woman, it's a perk! A bug in the system, not a prophecy!
But before he could say another word, she rose — and her lips found his.
"—!"
The shock hit him like a lightning strike. Her arms looped around his neck, pulling him down; her body pressed warm and desperate against the cold steel of his armor.
For a split second, instinct overpowered restraint. His arms moved of their own accord, drawing her close — and in that moment, duty, vows, and reason all vanished in the heat of her kiss.
The taste of wine, the scent of fire and silk — he nearly lost himself.
Then — clang.
The fallen candlestick struck the floor, the sharp sound shattering the spell.
Lance's eyes snapped open.
"Get off me!"
He shoved her away, breath ragged, staring at the Queen sprawled across the bed in disheveled splendor.
"What the hell are you doing!?"
This was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
The sister-wife of his King.
And she had just—
Seven help me, he thought. This isn't the Targaryen line — it's a bloody soap opera!
Rhaella, however, didn't look the least bit ashamed. Her violet eyes shimmered with hunger and something even more dangerous — conviction.
"Calm down, Lance Lot," he muttered to himself. "Calm down!"
History flashed before his eyes — empires ruined by lust.
Lust for women, lust for power.
He saw them all: Henry VIII, Antony, etc. every fool who had fallen to temptation and dragged kingdoms down with them.
"This won't be me," he growled under his breath.
He straightened his armor, glaring down at her. "I won't tell the old man what happened here. But, Your Grace—"
He turned sharply toward the door. "You'd better think about what you just did."
His footsteps were fast — too fast — as he left the chamber, every stride closer to a sprint.
Behind him, the queen sat motionless for a moment, then slowly smiled.
Her breathing was shallow, her cheeks still flushed.
"You are the true dragon…" she whispered, licking the corner of her lips as if tasting him still.
"The prince that was promised… the only true dragon. Not Aerys. Not Rhaegar."
Her eyes gleamed with feverish faith.
"It's you, Rhaeseryon Targaryen."
---
Meanwhile, in the royal bedchamber, King Aerys stirred violently in his sleep.
His thin arms jerked upward, flailing wildly as he muttered incoherent words, his throat rasping like a dying animal.
"Quickly!" cried Pycelle, shuffling forward. "A light — bring me a light!"
Ser Gerold Hightower immediately grabbed a lamp and passed it over.
"Hold His Grace's hands," the old Maester ordered. "Don't let him harm himself!"
He took a cautious step backward even as he spoke — unwilling to get too close.
The Lord Commander obeyed without question, seizing the King's wrists as gently as possible.
He never noticed the faint smell of smoke rising from the King's fingertips… nor the shadow of a flame flickering just beneath his pale skin.
Aerys's body thrashed violently on the bed.
Even with Ser Gerold's strength restrained to a "gentle" hold, it was enough to pin the frail king completely still — though his voice still tore through the chamber in a fevered, delirious shriek:
"It's him! Why… why is he the true dragon!?"
"He?"
Gerold frowned slightly.
Was His Grace raving about Prince Rhaegar again?
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. The king's fits and nightmares had become so common that none of the Kingsguard were surprised anymore.
"Another episode…"
Pycelle lifted one of Aerys's eyelids and peered beneath it under the lamplight.
After a moment, he exhaled a weary sigh.
From the depths of his sleeve, the old Maester produced a small porcelain vial — no, this one was larger than usual — and unstoppered it with practiced ease.
A faint, milky liquid shimmered within.
"Drink, Your Grace," he murmured, tilting Aerys's head back and pouring the contents into his mouth.
The king's cries soon faltered, his breath slowing to a weak rasp.
"Maester Pycelle," came a sharp voice from the doorway.
Pycelle looked up in surprise — Ser Lance Lot stood there, still flushed and disheveled from his hasty return from the queen's chambers.
The knight's expression hardened as he watched the king slip into eerie stillness.
"What are you giving His Majesty?" Lance demanded.
Pycelle's hands did not tremble. He answered calmly, even as he stoppered the now-empty vial.
"Milk of the poppy, ser knight."
Lance's pupils narrowed.
In his mind, alarms blared like war drums.
Milk of the poppy.
He knew that name — and he knew what it truly was.
The stuff wasn't medicine. It was opium.
Refined, potent, and addictive as hell.
"His Majesty's condition worsens daily," Pycelle continued in his droning, self-assured tone. "Once, a small vial was enough to calm his mind. Now… only a full bowl will allow him to sleep through the night."
"WHAT!?"
The shout burst from Lance before he could stop it.
He knew what that meant — full dependence. Aerys wasn't being treated; he was being poisoned in slow motion.
Milk of the poppy dulled pain, yes — but it also clouded the mind, warped dreams, and with enough use… destroyed everything.
"You've got to be joking," Lance muttered, stepping forward.
When Pycelle moved to pour a second dose, Lance's temper snapped.
"Enough!"
He lunged forward and seized the Maester's wrist, forcing the vial away from the king's mouth.
"Ser Lance Lot!"
Gerold's hand went to his sword, his voice booming like thunder. "Stand down at once! You dare interfere with His Grace's treatment?"
"Treatment?" Lance barked out a bitter laugh, blue eyes flashing like frostfire. "You call this treatment?"
He turned on Pycelle, voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"As the Citadel's most 'renowned scholar,' you can't possibly be ignorant of what that drug does, can you, Maester?"
Pycelle adjusted his chain of office with deliberate slowness, his tone maddeningly calm.
"It has mild addictive qualities, yes," he said, "and with repeated use, the body requires greater amounts to achieve the same effect. But it is still the surest way to ease His Grace's mind and let him rest."
"That's not the whole truth, and you damn well know it!"
Lance's voice thundered across the room. He raised the half-empty bottle in his hand, his knuckles white.
"This isn't medicine — it's poison!"
"Poison?" Pycelle's brow furrowed in a frown of feigned confusion. "My dear ser, in all my decades of practice, I have never once known anyone to die of milk of the poppy. It is gentle, soothing—"
"Gentle?" Lance interrupted, his tone dripping with disbelief.
"Headache, dizziness, hallucinations, nervous tremors, loss of focus," he said, enunciating each word like a verdict. "Those are early symptoms. Then come the delusions, the paranoia, the blackouts — and finally, the slow death of the mind and lungs!"
He slammed the vial down onto the stone floor — hard enough that it shattered into shards and splattered milky white liquid across the tiles.
The room went deathly still.
"Long-term exposure erodes the nervous system," Lance continued, voice low and furious. "It breaks the body down from the inside. You're not curing him — you're killing him!"
Pycelle's mouth opened, but no words came out.
Lance stalked forward, armor clanking with every step, until he stood towering over the old man. His hand shot out, gripping the Maester's collar and dragging him close.
"Who told you to do this?" he growled, his voice low, trembling with barely restrained rage. "Who ordered you to poison the King?"
Pycelle's face blanched, but his eyes darted — not toward Lance, nor Gerold, but toward the heavy curtains behind the royal bed.
For the briefest instant, Lance caught it — that flicker of fear, of recognition.
And in that heartbeat, he understood.
This wasn't medicine.
This wasn't negligence.
It was a leash.
Someone wanted the Mad King weak, docile, broken — a puppet bound in silver chains and white poppy milk.
Lance's grip tightened, his voice rising in righteous fury:
"Speak, old man! Who gave the order? Who made you feed the King this poison!?"
Pycelle's lips trembled, his eyes clouded with terror and guilt.