Chapter 159 — We Can Let Our Swords Do the Talking!
King's Landing.
Outside the Red Keep, waves battered the jagged rocks below, and the stench of rotting seaweed hung in the air—no different from the foul reek inside the king's chambers, a smell so stubborn that even burning mint meant to soothe the mind couldn't mask it.
Aerys Targaryen lay buried deep beneath silk quilts stuffed with swan's down. The hearth crackled relentlessly, its fire too lively—too hot. Sweat seeped through his nightrobe, soaking the thin fabric until it clung to his bony spine like a second skin.
His hands—dry, shriveled, clawlike—gripped the bedding as he panted, each breath ragged and shallow, as though an invisible fist were squeezing his aging heart.
"Father… Father…"
A child's sobbing voice echoed at his ear.
Aerys' eyes squeezed shut. In the darkness behind his lids, he saw the young face of Prince Viserys—small, terrified, helpless.
The boy's cheeks were smeared with blood. Melted gold had poured over his forehead like a twisted crown, burning into him like mockery. Viserys stared at Aerys with wide, desperate eyes, silently begging to be saved.
Aerys lurched forward—
And shadows swept in from every direction.
They carried swords and knives, hacking down again and again into Viserys' tiny body, striking until the child became nothing but torn flesh… and still they did not stop.
"NO!!!"
Aerys roared, violet eyes blazing with hatred as he tried to focus on the attackers—but their faces remained blurred, hidden inside the dark.
Then a fragile figure rushed forward with a cry, throwing herself over Viserys, shielding him with her own body.
Queen Rhaella.
She wore a black gown—the signature color of House Targaryen. Her indigo eyes were drowned in terror.
And then—
Without warning—
A spear punched through her back.
It impaled her cleanly, skewering her and the broken child beneath her, lifting them both like trophies.
From the shadows, a pair of eyes emerged—cold, amused, venomous.
Snake eyes.
A Dornish viper.
Aerys' breath caught.
The Red Viper of Dorne.
And then the killers finally stepped into the light, one by one.
Tywin Lannister.
Rickard Stark.
Denys Darklyn.
And even—
A headless corpse carrying its own severed head, grinning at him with grotesque delight.
Last came the final figure.
He stood at the center of them all, surrounded by murderers.
Indigo eyes.
Eyes that still held, disturbingly, a trace of poetry—of music—of gentle melancholy.
Yet his lips curled upward, splitting into a warped, exaggerated smile.
Then laughter burst from his throat.
Sharp. Piercing. Insane.
Not horror—pleasure.
As if he admired the massacre. As if he found it beautiful.
As if he was satisfied.
"Rhaegar…"
Aerys whispered.
And then he screamed.
"NO!!!"
His sanity shattered in that instant, drowned beneath rage without limit.
"Burn… burn you all!"
A force beyond reason surged through his veins.
Heat—unthinkable heat—rolled through his body as if molten lava were erupting from the inside out. His sight flooded with pure, violent green.
His flesh began to swell.
To split.
To transform.
Rough scales erupted across his skin, spreading like disease until they armored his body completely. His fingers twisted, stretching into hooked talons. His spine cracked and lengthened in agony.
And behind his shoulders—
his flesh tore open with a wet, horrible sound—
as massive membranous wings burst outward, unfolding with a thunderous snap.
"Dracarys!"
The monstrous dragon threw back its head and unleashed a torrent of green dragonfire, a holy inferno so hot it seemed capable of purifying existence itself.
The flames screamed toward the enemies.
Toward the laughing prince.
Dragonfire could not be stopped.
Tywin's golden hair melted in an instant. Rickard's wolfskin cloak ignited, burning so fiercely the air filled with the sickening stench of charred hide and flesh.
Then Brandon.
Then the Red Viper—
Everything—
Everything vanished beneath the tide of emerald flame, reduced to ash.
Even—
his wife.
Even—
his son.
But Aerys did not care.
Not in that moment.
Revenge filled him with an intoxicating, divine thrill. Watching them disappear beneath dragonfire, seeing his enemies annihilated, gave him a satisfaction so complete it felt like salvation.
He raised his enormous draconic head, a victorious rumble rolling deep in his throat—
And then—
a hand, covered in a leather glove, rested lightly upon his scaled shoulder.
Aerys froze.
Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head.
What he saw made the fire inside him hesitate.
White armor—pure and bright—symbol of absolute loyalty, of sacred vows.
And eyes—
those uniquely clean, uniquely piercing sapphire eyes—
the same eyes that had fought his way out of the prison at Duskendale for him.
"Lance…"
Coldly, he murmured the name.
And the turbulence in his heart stilled at once—calm flooding in, warm and absolute, as though the world had finally become safe again.
Then—
A chill bloomed in his chest.
A faint pain followed, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Aerys lowered his gaze in confusion.
A blood-smeared white blade, gleaming with icy light, had punched through his heart and emerged from his breast.
Hot dragon's blood—thick as molten rock—crawled down the steel in slow, viscous trails. It dripped onto spotless white armor… and soaked the immaculate cloak crimson.
Time seemed to freeze.
Aerys lifted his head, disbelieving.
But what met his eyes was only that same pair of sapphire-blue eyes—still calm… still cold… utterly indifferent.
"Gah—AAAAGH!!!"
Aerys' eyes snapped open.
He bolted upright in bed, his withered right hand clawing at his chest so hard his fingers dug through thin silk and into flesh.
But it was only sweat.
Ice-cold sweat poured off him like a stream, and the ashes of the nightmare still burned across his nerves.
Fear coiled around him like living vines—tightening, tightening—until he could scarcely breathe.
And beneath it all… something worse.
A cold, bone-deep unease—like maggots burrowing into his soul—began to spread, unstoppable.
In his mind, Rhaella and Viserys would not fade.
The blood on them.
The helpless eyes.
And most of all—
that final sword thrust.
Aerys tore open his robe in frantic madness and looked down.
His chest was untouched. Perfectly whole.
He wiped the sweat from his brow—and the faint crack that had appeared across his forehead vanished as if it had never been there.
After a long silence, he slowly raised his head.
His purple eyes were webbed with red, mad with paranoia as he screamed into the darkness:
"Kingsguard!"
"Bring me the old bastard we locked away!"
"NOW!!!"
---
The River Road
Fine rain pattered against armor in a dull, endless hiss.
More than twenty riders thundered across muddy ground, the cold biting deep into the lungs with every breath.
"We need to move faster."
Eddard Stark's voice was low, edged with anger.
Since meeting Lance, he had always been respectful—almost painfully so. But now impatience and suppressed fury bled into every word.
"Riverrun is just ahead, Lord Eddard Stark."
Beside him, Roose Bolton rode up smoothly, choosing his moment with perfect calculation.
"Hoster Tully is a man who sways with the wind. We must leave him with a good impression."
"Hmph."
Eddard didn't even look at him.
Five days ago he had watched Bolton's "noble tradition" with his own eyes—watched it in all its cold, practiced brutality—and something inside him had curdled.
It hadn't been justice.
Not even close.
And not just for enemies.
Even Jaime Lannister had been sickened by it—storming off in disgust, taking his knights back to King's Landing in a rage.
"My father is gathering his bannermen in the North, Ser Lance!"
Eddard's gaze fixed on the white cloak ahead, fluttering with each stride. Snowflakes landed on it and disappeared into the fabric as though swallowed by the same whiteness.
"This is not the time to talk about marriage negotiations!"
His tone was iron.
Since watching his sister hanged, since being crowned Lord of Winterfell by royal decree, Eddard had felt like fate was mocking him.
The royal chains.
His father's madness.
His brother and sister's rebellion.
And ahead of him—
that Kingsguard commander, so crushingly dominant, so impossible to challenge, backed by strength that was not human.
After everything he'd seen, Eddard's thoughts were a storm.
All he wanted was home.
Back to the frozen land.
Back to where a son—and a Lord—had duties that could not be delayed.
Back to drag the North back from the cliff's edge… and drag his father back with it.
At last, Lance turned.
His gaze fell on Eddard's young, tightly drawn face.
He knew the boy had been shaken—truly shaken—by the sight of the Mountain's skin being peeled away while he still lived.
"Calm yourself, Lord Stark."
Lance's voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
It carried a cold authority that allowed no argument.
"You think that when you return to the North, your hollow title and a few righteous speeches will make Rickard Stark abandon hatred?"
"Your father is a mad Lord now."
"He won't listen to the words of a son he has already cast aside. In his eyes… you are no longer his blood."
"You are simply an enemy—one sent by the king to steal his seat."
Lance paused, then continued:
"Even with Lord Bolton at your side, if you return to Winterfell like this, the best outcome is that you'll be imprisoned."
"Or…"
His eyes sharpened.
"…you'll be declared a traitor to the North by furious bannermen, and hanged from the gates of your own castle."
Eddard bit down hard, gray eyes flickering again and again.
He hated it.
But he knew it was true.
"You need power, my lord."
Bolton's voice slipped in smoothly, perfectly timed.
"We… need power."
"Hoster Tully is one of the sharpest lords in the Seven Kingdoms. More importantly, his vassals hold two lifelines of the North."
"The Twins and Harrenhal."
"One is the only throat through which the Neck can pass into the Riverlands."
"The other sits on the Kingsroad—the strategic hinge between the North, the Riverlands, and the Crownlands."
"If you marry Catelyn Tully, then the problems of both castles vanish overnight."
"And more than that…"
Bolton's pale eyes remained calm, but his words were a blade.
"You will gain the Riverlords."
"With the Neck's southern edge as your foundation, their grain, their manpower, and their roads become your rightful support."
"A base from which you can oppose the 'mad Lord,' restore order… and reclaim the North."
Eddard fell silent.
The logic was tight—locking piece into piece so cleanly he couldn't argue.
"Remember this, Eddard Stark."
Lance's voice came again from the front.
Eddard looked up.
Those sapphire eyes were steady—calm, cold… yet holding something almost like hope, like strength offered without softness.
"I know what you're thinking."
"It's fine."
"Keep your fear."
"Only in fear does a man become brave."
Eddard drew a long breath.
He closed his eyes… then opened them sharply again, and nodded once—slow and solemn—toward the white-armored knight ahead.
"But… Benjen has already gone to Riverrun with Father's marriage contract."
"Lord Tully may have already agreed."
"What do we do?"
At that, for the first time in days, Lance's mouth curved into a clear smile.
Now the boy's mind was finally beginning to move like a true ruler's.
Eddard stared at him.
The stubbornness of the North remained in those gray eyes—but now it was welded to something heavier.
Resolve.
He understood it now: to stop his father, to pull the North back from the edge, a royal writ and Bolton's oath were nowhere near enough.
He needed power.
Power strong enough to make his father stop.
"As long as the sword is not yet drawn…"
Lance's blade sang as it left its sheath.
He lifted the broad sword and pointed it toward the faint silhouette of Riverrun's towers in the distance.
His voice wasn't loud.
But it cut through the wind with fearless, absolute force.
"As long as the wedding bells haven't rung…"
"Then we can let our swords do the talking."