Chapter 74 – The Powerless Husband
"Do not be alarmed, my lords," Grand Maester Pycelle finally said after a long examination, his voice trembling slightly with age. "His Grace has merely fainted from emotional agitation. Nothing more."
At those words, the tension that had gripped the chamber finally eased.
The white knights of the Kingsguard — even Queen Rhaella herself — let out quiet sighs of relief.
Upon the royal bed lay King Aerys II Targaryen, eyes shut tight, his thin chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Rhaella stepped closer, reaching out with trembling fingers to take his hand… but stopped halfway.
Her hand hovered there, frozen in hesitation, before she quietly withdrew it.
She had never loved her husband — her brother.
Their marriage had been duty, a union of blood and fire demanded by the name of Targaryen.
Yet thirty years of shared life, two sons, and endless pain had forged a bond that even hatred could not entirely sever.
And truth be told, she knew Aerys better than anyone.
That restless, reckless streak — it ran deep in their family's veins.
In the early years of their marriage, Aerys had indulged in every vice imaginable, wandering from one noble bed to another as if he meant to scatter Targaryen seed across the Seven Kingdoms.
Later, he turned his appetite toward those even closer — her handmaidens, her companions, the women who served her.
He treated them as he did the harlots of Silk Street — as playthings, disposable and beneath him.
Some whispered that even Joanna Lannister, the wife of Tywin Lannister, had once been summoned to his chambers — a sin that shattered a lifelong friendship and turned Hand and King into bitter enemies.
And yet, through all his infidelity, Aerys blamed Rhaella.
He claimed her womb was cursed by disloyalty, that her "unfaithful heart" caused their children to die before birth.
The accusations had only stopped when their fifth son was born — Viserys Targaryen.
Silver-haired, violet-eyed, radiant with health and innocence — he was the image of Targaryen beauty.
Courtiers cooed, "What a lovely little prince."
For a brief moment, it had almost seemed as if peace might return to their marriage.
Then came the Tragedy of Duskendale — and everything shattered again.
"Ah…"
Rhaella's fingers brushed against the faint scars that lined her forearm, hidden beneath her wide silk sleeve.
No one else could see them, but she felt each one — dozens of tiny reminders carved into her flesh.
Since his return from Duskendale, Aerys had grown worse — crueler, more unstable.
The King's manhood had withered, but his rage had not.
Unable to prove himself as a husband, he found other ways to exert control — teeth, whip, fire, pain.
And as his queen, Rhaella could only endure in silence.
Even her son Rhaegar could never know.
The fragile bond between father and son was already fraying — this truth would have torn it apart.
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
As she gazed down at Aerys' unconscious form, one unworthy, forbidden thought whispered in her mind:
If only he would never wake again.
"Your Grace," Pycelle murmured beside her, breaking her reverie, "you should rest. It is very late, and you must be weary. I shall stay with His Majesty."
"The King's condition has… worsened somewhat," the old man added in his usual cautious tone, "but it remains within control. There is no cause for alarm."
Rhaella met his kindly, pitying eyes and nodded. He likely mistook her sigh for weariness — and she did not correct him.
"Thank you, Grand Maester," she said softly. "For your tireless service."
As she turned to leave, her gaze fell briefly upon the mirror in the corner of the room.
Time had not been kind.
She remembered the first time she'd met Pycelle — a man still black-bearded and sharp-eyed, not the stooped white ghost before her.
And she, once a spirited girl of silver hair and laughter, was now a queen wrapped in silence.
The woman in the mirror wore a crown, but her eyes were hollow.
The smile she once shared with her uncle Duncan — during those bright days of youth and freedom — had been locked away forever in the Red Keep's cold walls.
A soft, bitter laugh escaped her.
Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she thought. And still a prisoner.
Her melancholy faded only when she turned — and her eyes met those of the white knight standing among the others.
The one whose face she could not look upon without her heart stirring.
"Ser Lance," she said quietly, "escort me back to my chambers."
---
The Sept of Baelor
"Your beauty still astonishes me every time we meet, Lady Cersei," said Bonifer Hasty, his tone reverent as he gazed at her face bathed in silver moonlight. "It's the sort of beauty that could drive all men in the Seven Kingdoms to madness."
Cersei Lannister's emerald eyes flickered — not with pride, but with boredom.
"Spare me, septon," she said flatly.
Flattery was nothing new to her.
Born the golden daughter of Tywin Lannister, she had heard every form of adoration — some genuine, most self-serving.
None of it mattered.
Her father's words echoed in her mind:
'A lion does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep.'
Leaning back on the pew, she crossed her long, pale legs, the light silk of her gown shifting like water.
One hand propped up her chin, and her eyes — half-lidded, cool — fixed on Bonifer with aristocratic impatience.
"I'll give you one minute, septon," she said. "Speak."
Her tone was imperious, almost lazy, but every inch of her radiated command.
No one dared to mistake her for a mere girl — she was Tywin Lannister's heir in spirit, sharp as a blade and proud as a lioness.
Bonifer did not bristle at her rudeness. His calm expression did not waver.
Instead, his deep, solemn voice echoed in the candlelit sept:
"Ser Lance Lot," he said, "is the son of Prince Duncan Targaryen and Lady Jenny of Oldstones."
The words struck like a thunderclap.
Cersei's breath caught; her emerald eyes widened in shock.
But Bonifer went on.
"His true name," he said gravely, "is Rhaeseryon Targaryen — the lost son of House Targaryen, hidden among the common folk. Not a blacksmith's bastard… but a prince of the royal bloodline."
For several heartbeats, Cersei could only stare at him, stunned into silence.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to process the revelation.
When she finally found her voice, it was cold and wary.
"How do I know you're not lying?" she demanded.
Bonifer met her gaze without hesitation.
"I have no proof," he said simply. "I sent men to Duskendale. Everyone connected to Prince Duncan and his lady wife has vanished — as if wiped clean from history. Every record, every trace of their life… gone."
His honesty, paradoxically, lent him weight.
Cersei narrowed her eyes, thoughtful now instead of dismissive.
Sometimes, she knew, the absence of truth was proof enough.
After all, nothing in the world ever disappears completely.
Even after ten or twenty years, there are always traces left behind — whispers, documents, memories.
But to find nothing? Not a single footprint, not a scrap of record?
That was… very curious indeed.
"That makes absolutely no sense," Cersei said coolly.
Her tone was dismissive, but the glint in her emerald eyes betrayed a spark of intrigue. She leaned back lazily on the pew, resting her arm along the carved wood.
"No proof, no documents, not even a witness — and yet you expect me to believe that some blacksmith's bastard is actually a Targaryen prince?"
Her lips curled into a mocking smile. "If we start taking your word for it, then every smith in King's Landing must secretly be of royal blood."
Bonifer Hasty's expression didn't falter.
Instead, a small, knowing smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
To him, the fact that Cersei hadn't stood and walked away meant only one thing — she was hooked.
"I cannot prove it myself," he admitted calmly, "but there is someone whose word you would believe, Lady Cersei."
"Oh?"
Her brows arched, curiosity flickering through the mask of disdain.
She was listening now — truly listening.
If this "Lance Lot" was indeed a Targaryen… then this was more than gossip. It was ammunition.
Bonifer's brows twitched ever so slightly as he pronounced the name:
"Ser Barristan Selmy."
Cersei frowned. "Ser Barristan?"
Bonifer nodded solemnly.
"He once crossed blades with Prince Duncan Targaryen himself," the septon said. "It was Duncan who personally bestowed upon him the title 'Barristan the Bold.' When he was only sixteen, Ser Barristan defeated the very man he admired most."
He paused, then added softly, "As the Targaryens say — 'Blood and fire are one.'"
Bonifer leaned forward, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.
"Prince Rhaeseryon — the man you know as Ser Lance Lot — is the image of his father. The resemblance is unmistakable. Ask Barristan yourself if you doubt me. He is an honest knight — too honorable to lie."
Cersei studied him for a long moment, her lips curving into a faint smile.
She didn't believe him completely — but she no longer dismissed him, either.
The idea had taken root.
"And what," she asked softly, "is your purpose in telling me all this, Septon Bonifer?"
Her voice turned silken, dangerous. "I'm just a young girl, after all — what could I possibly do with a secret like that? Even if it were true, it would only make for amusing gossip over wine and lemon cakes."
Then the mask fell away. Her eyes sharpened, glittering like polished jade.
"Tell me," she said slowly, "what is it you really want?"
---
"Tell me, Your Grace… what is it that you want?"
The Red Keep.
The royal bedchamber.
Queen Rhaella sat upon the edge of her bed, dressed in a silk nightgown of deep crimson, a half-finished glass of wine in hand. One long, bare leg crossed over the other with practiced grace.
Before her stood Ser Lance Lot — the white knight of the Kingsguard, stiff-backed and uneasy.
The way she looked at him made his skin prickle.
Her violet eyes, sharp and molten under the lamplight, swept over him like a serpent tracing its prey.
He had seen that look before — on women who wanted something.
But this was the queen.
And her husband, the king, lay half-dead in the next room.
Lance's jaw tightened.
He wasn't naïve — in his previous life or this one.
He could read the intent behind a gaze, could sense desire the way a wolf senses blood.
And right now, the Queen's intent was painfully obvious.
That was what made it worse.
Her husband was barely clinging to life… and yet she had summoned one of his sworn protectors to her bedchamber, half-dressed, pouring wine, and looking at him like that.
What kind of scene was this?
The Useless Husband — extended edition?
He resisted the urge to sigh.
"Your Grace," he said finally, his tone measured and cold, "you should rest. His Majesty's condition—"
"His Majesty," Rhaella interrupted softly, swirling the wine in her glass, "hasn't touched me in years."
Her words hung heavy in the air.
The queen's smile was faint — beautiful, weary, and venomous all at once.
"And tell me, Ser Lance," she whispered, "do you think that makes me less of a woman?"
Lance's heart sank.
For the first time since setting foot in Westeros, he wished he could be anywhere else.