There's no way this place can hold so many people…
The thought popped into Lance's head out of nowhere, completely out of place in the tense silence of the dungeon.
So I transmigrated, fine. But why the hell did I have to end up locked in with a complete lunatic?
He shook his head, feeling the weight of despair settle in.
Lance had seen this story before—at least on screen. He didn't know every detail of Aerys II Targaryen's life, but he knew the man's infamous title.
The Mad King.
The last king of House Targaryen's dynasty.
And just how insane was he?
Well, when his son Rhaegar was accused of abducting Lyanna Stark—the daughter of Rickard Stark, Warden of the North—Aerys had responded not by seeking justice, but by ordering Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon, executed in the cruelest way possible.
As if that weren't enough, Brandon's companions—noble heirs from the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, even Jon Arryn's fosterling from the Eyrie—were all put to death alongside them.
And Aerys didn't stop there. He demanded that Jon Arryn hand over Rickard's second son—one Eddard Stark.
Jon Arryn refused. Instead, he joined forces with Robert Baratheon of Storm's End and raised the banners of rebellion.
Just like that, Aerys had turned four of the Seven Kingdoms—the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands—into mortal enemies.
Even for a Targaryen, whose family tree was littered with lunatics, this level of self-destruction was impressive. Truly worthy of the na Mad King.
Still… judging from the present situation, it seed the tiline hadn't reached that point yet.
---
"Boy!"
Aerys's sharp voice cut through the silence, displeasure dripping from every syllable.
"You stand before your king—why do you not kneel?"
Lance snorted. "Kneel, my ass."
From the mories he had inherited, he already had a rough idea of his current circumstances—and why the so-called ruler of the Seven Kingdoms was rotting in the sa cell as him.
And honestly? He couldn't make sense of Westerosi logic at all.
What kind of king shows up in a vassal's stronghold with just one Kingsguard knight and a handful of attendants, then has the audacity to announce—in front of everyone—that he's there to arrest Lord Denys Darklyn of Duskendale?
That wasn't courage. That was suicide.
Of course, considering the Targaryens' long history of questionable decision-making, it wasn't all that shocking. Even Daenerys, the so-called Mother of Dragons who would co later, wasn't exactly known for strategic brilliance.
But at least she had three dragons.
And Aerys?
Nothing. Not even a lizard.
What was he expecting—that a single Kingsguard knight could fight off thousands of soldiers from Duskendale?
If Tywin Lannister hadn't marched the Lannister host to surround the city almost imdiately, Aerys would've been chopped into pieces by Denys Darklyn long ago.
Even so, Denys Darklyn had managed to stand against the royal host for half a year.
Which ant this lunatic of a king had already been rotting in the dungeon for six months.
Even a sane man would likely lose his mind in a place like this. And Aerys Targaryen? He hadn't exactly started out sane to begin with.
Exhausting…
Lance lay flat on the cold stone floor, staring into the oppressive darkness, feeling utterly done with life.
"Grrr~"
Right on cue, his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
He suddenly rembered—he hadn't eaten a single bite since the night before. Add in the torture he'd endured through most of the night, and his body was ready to give out.
Clink.
Sothing hit the ground beside him. Lance turned his head, and a warm aroma—freshly baked grain—drifted into his nostrils.
"Eat, boy," ca Aerys's hoarse, sinister whisper.
"Without food, you won't survive."
---
Lance hesitated, but in truth, Denys Darklyn had shown surprising restraint. Though he had imprisoned the king, he had not humiliated him. Aerys still received decent als—soft, sweet bread rather than the rock-hard black loaves normally tossed to prisoners.
Perhaps Darklyn feared killing the king outright. Aerys alive was a bargaining chip. Aerys dead was worthless.
Biting into the bread, washing it down with cool well-water, Lance felt strength trickle back into his limbs.
"Hey, old man," he muttered at last.
"What the hell were you saring on just now?"
He didn't feel right mocking the man after eating his food, but the mory still gnawed at him.
Aerys, who looked older than his years after half a year in chains, leaned weakly against the bars. His violet eyes glead faintly in the dark.
"Sacred oil."
"Sacred oil?" Lance frowned. He wasn't a priest, but even a blacksmith's apprentice knew what that was used for.
"That's for baptisms or prayers. Don't tell you're holding my funeral in advance. And for the record, I'm not one of your Seven Gods sheep. I'm a firm materialist."
"Idiot," Aerys spat softly, dismissing the jest.
Then, gripping the bars, he pulled himself upright. His sharp eyes locked onto Lance. Despite the darkness, Lance could see sothing burning in them—madness, yes, but also conviction.
"What is your na, boy?"
"Lance," he answered, for once not joking.
"Do you have a surna?"
Surnas were the line between nobles and commoners. Blacksmith's sons had none.
But after a pause, Lance said quietly,
"Lot."
"Call Lance Lot."
"Ku—kuh—kuh…"
Aerys laughed, a rasping, broken sound like a rusty saw dragged over wood. Yet he seed delighted. In the shadows, he smoothed his ragged clothes, straightened his back, and lifted his chin—like he was adjusting a crown that wasn't there.
"Lance Lot."
His voice grew solemn, almost regal.
"Will you swear yourself as my Kingsguard? Will you cleanse the realm of traitors and te out their punishnt in fire and blood?"
"The Kingsguard?!"
The words stunned Lance. They had barely known each other half a day. He was no knight, just a naless blacksmith who'd stumbled into this nightmare.
Surely the man had gone mad, pinning his hopes on a stranger in rags.
Still… Lance glanced down at the bread in his hand. A debt of food was still a debt. And considering he'd already made an enemy of Ser Coombs, chances were slim he'd survive past tomorrow anyway.
Fine. If I'm going to die, I may as well play along with this pitiful old man's fantasy.
He shoved the last of the bread into his mouth, chewed hard, and forced himself to his feet. Dropping to one knee before the bars, he lowered his head and declared,
"To serve you is my honor, Your Grace."
Aerys's cracked lips spread into a satisfied grin.
He chuckled softly, then shuffled into the corner of the cell. From beneath a pile of straw, he dragged out a filthy, bloodstained cloak.
In the faint moonlight, it was clear—it had once been white.
He shook the dust from it and laid it solemnly across Lance's shoulders.
"Lance Lot."
"You will wear the white cloak as your armor, live by honor as your law, and follow my command as your highest duty."
"You will guard the Targaryen crown and bloodline with your life. By dragonfire, you shall scourge the traitors of the Seven Hells."
His ragged fingernails scratched across Lance's shoulder as he placed the tattered Kingsguard cloak upon him.
Ding!
A clear chi echoed in Lance's ears.
[Identity detected: "Kingsguard." Template System activated!]
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