Chapter 183 — Petitioning the Throne
King's Landing.
Before the Iron Throne.
The chill of winter seeped silently into the stone walls of the Red Keep. Yet within the Great Hall of the Small Council, the atmosphere was anything but cold—voices rang with excitement, and the air buzzed with anticipation.
Nearly every member of the Small Council was present.
The Regent, Lance Lot, sat upon the Iron Throne clad in white armor and a white cloak, the young king Viserys cradled securely in his arms. The broad plates of his armor shielded him from the throne's cruel blades.
As for the Regent's consort—
She seemed to have little interest in matters of state. She was nowhere to be seen at council sessions. Lance had sent for her a few times early on, but eventually stopped bothering altogether.
Nearby, two young dragons tussled playfully—though it was less a fair fight and more Ilyon schooling Rhaego.
The ash-colored hatchling had already grown to the size of a young calf, while the green dragon was still no larger than a goose. Rhaego tried to fight back, but stood no chance.
Ilyon's wings were powerful. Bracing himself against the floor, he shoved Rhaego back with his neck, hissing low and menacing to assert dominance.
Rhaego screeched as he was knocked down again and again, scrambling to his feet each time. In his amber slit-pupiled eyes—reflected in the flickering firelight—there was confusion, grievance, and stubborn defiance.
As if protesting:
We were born on the same day—why are you so much bigger than me?
Lance's gaze swept over the scuffling hatchlings. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, but he made no move to intervene.
Dragons were wild, magical creatures by nature. They were meant to struggle, clash, and soar beneath open skies—growing stronger through hardship and conflict.
He hadn't forgotten what would later happen to Daenerys Targaryen. When she locked Rhaegal and Viserion in a cellar, both dragons ended up stunted.
Keeping dragons penned wasn't raising them.
It was fattening pigs.
Power was never nurtured in comfort.
Whether human—or dragon—strength was born only through blood and fire.
At last, a voice broke the silence.
"Your Grace!"
The Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, spoke first. His voice boomed, every wrinkle on his face glowing with excitement.
"Thanks to Your Grace's rising fame—and the blessing of living dragons—we are witnessing prosperity unlike anything before!"
"Throughout the Crownlands, roads are choked with wagons and riders. Bannermen and their massive retinues are pouring in from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, answering your summons!"
"Inns, taverns, brothels—every place with a roof is packed to bursting! In just half a month, our revenues have already surpassed an entire year's income from past times!"
"And this—this is only the beginning!"
As he spoke, Qarlton paused for a moment, lifting his gaze toward Lance on the Iron Throne with unrestrained admiration. Emotion stirred in his chest.
He had originally assumed that with the lords of six kingdoms coming to court, the royal treasury would be drained dry just to host and entertain those nobles arriving from all across the continent.
Yet who could have imagined—
Merely from their spending in King's Landing alone, the Crown was already earning a fortune.
Watching thousands upon thousands of gold dragons pour into the treasury every single day, Qarlton—Master of Coin—was practically smiling from ear to ear.
The Six Kingdoms coming to court…
This was the greatest financial maneuver he had witnessed in his entire life.
Was this, too, part of your design, Your Grace—Lance Lot?
Qarlton drew a deep breath. The more he served, the more unfathomable the young man before him seemed—the same youth who had once returned to King's Landing alongside the king.
"In just ten more days," Qarlton continued excitedly, "it will be the sacred date of the Dragon's Advent Grand Ceremony. By then, the fervor of the entire city will reach its peak!"
"Your glory, Your Grace," he proclaimed fervently, "shall rise alongside the dragons themselves—like the sun at dawn—illuminating all of Westeros!"
As he spoke, he nearly began gesturing wildly, unable to contain his elation.
Since Lance had taken the regency, Qarlton could clearly feel it—this new Regent showed unmistakable trust and reliance upon him, a Master of Coin who had once been teetering on the brink of losing power.
That fact alone was evident from one thing:
The Hand of the King had remained completely silent.
Tywin Lannister—once standing atop the pinnacle of power, a man who made countless nobles tremble—had, in recent days, become almost invisible.
He offered no opinions in council.
And any request Qarlton put forward was approved without question, stamped immediately.
The wheel of power is turning.
And perhaps—just perhaps—I, Qarlton Chelsted, may yet get a chance to sit upon the King's Hand's chair one day.
"You've done well, Lord Qarlton."
Lance nodded slightly in approval, then added calmly, "But you must understand this clearly: the lords who come to court do so in submission to House Targaryen—and to the glory of King Viserys."
His voice was soft, yet unmistakably firm.
Viserys, sitting in Lance's arms, looked up in confusion, clearly not understanding why his name had suddenly been mentioned.
In response, a broad, armored hand gently patted the boy's head.
Lance had kept his promise. After the coronation, he had ordered smiths to craft a small crown for Viserys—lightweight yet elegant, perfectly suited for a child of his age.
Of course, the expense had been paid from Lord Tywin's purse.
After all, the Lannisters lacked for nothing.
"Ser Manly."
Lance's gaze shifted.
The Commander of the City Watch snapped upright at once, slamming his right fist against his chestplate. "Your Grace!"
Lance tapped his fingers lightly against the jagged blade of the Iron Throne and said evenly, "The population of King's Landing has nearly doubled. The Gold Cloaks must maintain order at all costs."
"Public security is the highest priority. As commander, I require you to ensure stability."
"If anyone dares to stir trouble during this period—no matter who they are—arrest them immediately and bring them before me for judgment."
His fingernails scraped softly across steel, producing a cold, cutting sound.
"Understood, Your Grace!" Ser Manly replied loudly, sensing the killing intent beneath Lance's calm. "I've already ordered all leave cancelled. The Watch is on rotating duty around the clock, patrolling without pause!"
"Captain Janos Slynt is acting as my deputy," he added. "He personally inspects every district each day to ensure nothing is overlooked."
Though in truth, Manly privately believed Slynt had risen purely through flattery—but the man was efficient, especially when it came to mobilizing manpower.
"Good."
Lance nodded. "Tell the Gold Cloaks their efforts will not be forgotten."
"Once the Dragon's Advent Ceremony concludes, every man will receive a special bonus—an entire year's wages."
"Yes, Your Grace! The Gold Cloaks will defend King's Landing with their lives!"
Ser Manly was visibly moved.
He had feared Lance might demand miracles without offering reward—leaving him trapped in the middle—but thankfully, the Regent was generous.
Far more generous than the former Hand, at least.
Granted… that frugality had mostly been directed specifically at Manly Stokeworth.
After all, when your loudmouthed wife spent every day badmouthing Tywin Lannister in public, even a lion's patience had limits.
"Lord Kevan."
Lance's gaze shifted again.
Kevan stepped forward calmly, neither servile nor arrogant. "Your Grace."
"The city's sewage system is abysmal," Lance said bluntly. "Every time I leave the city, I can smell human waste."
"Once this affair concludes, I want you to use Casterly Rock's methods to construct a new underground sewage network—one that spans the entire city."
"It must be large, durable, and capable of carrying filth where it belongs—away from the throne and the lives of the people."
"When next winter comes," he concluded, "I want the air of King's Landing to be truly clean."
Kevan froze.
Such a massive project would cost an astronomical sum.
And that money would have to come from—
This wasn't even his responsibility as acting Master of Laws, yet Lance had bypassed Qarlton entirely and assigned it to him directly.
The meaning was obvious.
The Lannisters would foot the bill.
Kevan hesitated, stealing a glance at his brother—only to find Tywin staring at the floor, utterly motionless, as if lost to the world.
But Kevan knew him well.
Silence meant consent.
Once again: the Lannisters could afford it.
"It would be my honor, Your Grace."
Kevan bowed. "I will dispatch skilled craftsmen and scholars from Casterly Rock at once. Construction will begin immediately after the ceremony."
With that, the council's routine matters seemed concluded. The ministers stepped back to their places.
A brief silence fell once more over the hall, broken only by the continued scuffle of the two young dragons—still Ilyon beating up Rhaego.
Notably, throughout the entire session, Tywin Lannister had not moved an inch, as though his mind had left the hall entirely.
Lance spared the old lion a glance—and asked nothing of him.
Tywin had clearly chosen to sleep.
Unwillingly, perhaps—but wisely.
"Set aside these minor affairs."
After a short pause, Lance spoke again. This time, his voice carried tangible authority.
"The reason I summoned you all here today is to inform you of a matter."
At the word inform, every man straightened instinctively.
This was no discussion.
This was a decree.
Satisfied with their reaction, Lance nodded—and then turned to the white-armored knight nearby.
"Bring them in, Ser Brynden."
The Blackfish bowed and strode toward the doors.
Moments later, under his escort and that of several Gold Cloaks, two figures were dragged into the council chamber.
"Your Grace!!!"
"Oh, Seven bless you! King Viserys! Regent Lance! Thank the gods we've finally found you!"
They dropped to their knees, wailing pitifully.
One had his head wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage.
The other limped badly, teeth missing when he cried out.
No one present recognized them.
Except Qarlton—who, upon noticing the sigils on their chests, frowned in recognition.
"Enough."
Lance tapped the Iron Throne lightly, the clear clang silencing them.
"Lord Cafferen. Lord Grandison."
He lifted his eyes coldly. "Speak your grievance. The Iron Throne stands before you. State the truth of what you have endured."
"The Iron Throne will deliver justice to its subjects."
At that, the older Lord Grandison quieted—but Lord Cafferen broke down entirely.
"Your Grace! Your Grace!!!"
"That dog Robert Baratheon is unfit to rule us!"
"Myself, Lord Grandison, and Lord Fell—merely for voicing a few complaints at his accession—he held a grudge!"
"He sent troops to assault our castles!"
"Our homes, Your Grace!"
Cafferen crawled forward, filthy hands stretched toward the throne. "We had no time to raise troops. We were forced to abandon ancestral lands held for centuries and flee to Summerhall!"
"But that mad dog pursued us there as well!"
"Lord Fell was crushed to death by a single blow of his hammer! Had we not escaped—"
He sobbed hysterically. "Our houses have always been loyal to the Stormlands and to the Iron Throne!"
"And yet this is our fate!"
"Is there no law left in Westeros?! No justice at all?!"