In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, candles flickered, casting the Iron Throne's monstrous shadow against the stone walls like a beast ready to devour men.
Aerys II's withered fingers clutched a freshly written parchment tightly. His breathing was rapid, his eyes shot with the blood vessels of madness.
"Useless! Traitors! All of them traitors!" His shrill voice echoed in the empty hall like the screech of an owl. He turned to a scribe kneeling and trembling on the floor, hurling the letter at him violently.
"Send this letter by the fastest raven to Casterly Rock! Tell that golden-haired old fox Tywin Lannister—"
He paused here, his body leaning forward from extreme rage, almost falling off the spike-covered throne. He hissed out every word:
"Tell him, if his army does not appear beneath the walls of King's Landing immediately to crush those rebel bandits for me... I will chop off his pretty son Jaime's head, pickle it in lime, and put it on my dinner table as a decoration! Let him eat facing his precious son's skull every day!"
The scribe, pale with terror, could barely hold the scroll that seemed cursed. Aerys finished speaking and slumped back onto the throne, emitting a fit of neurotic, hair-raising laughter.
This threat letter, filled with madness and despair, was sent out quickly, flying toward distant Casterly Rock, into the hands of the Warden of the West who had been watching coldly from the sidelines.
In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, Aerys II paced back and forth on the cold floor like a trapped beast.
His fingers twisted together nervously, his lips moving constantly, muttering curses no one could hear clearly. Although madness had devoured most of his reason, a surviving sliver of clarity allowed him to see more clearly than anyone that his advantage was gone. The probability of defeat and death loomed larger and larger, like the shadows outside the window.
This realization didn't make him yield; instead, it triggered the most extreme desire for destruction in his bones. He stopped abruptly. A terrifying light shone in his cloudy eyes—a mix of despair, rage, and the vicious satisfaction of "if I can't have it, no one can."
"Rossart..." he called hoarsely, his voice echoing in the vast hall.
Soon, the pyromancer Rossart appeared silently beneath the throne like a shadow. This man, obsessed with wildfire, wore a look of fanatical devotion to destruction similar to the King's.
Aerys looked down at him and issued an order in an unusually "calm" tone that was more chilling than any roar:
"It is time... go complete our great 'masterpiece.'" He waved his arm violently, pointing at the city of King's Landing outside the window. "I want you to place wildfire systematically and in massive quantities throughout the city—in every corner, underground, beneath buildings! The more the better! Let the entire city... be ready for the final feast!"
Excitement burst in Rossart's eyes. He bowed deeply. "As you wish, Your Grace. It will be... an unprecedented 'purification.'"
With this order, the deadly green liquid began to be secretly and efficiently transported to various strategic points in King's Landing, buried beneath the foundations of the city.
The Mad King planned not just to resist to the bitter end, but to drag the entire city of King's Landing, along with its hundreds of thousands of inhabitants, into a sea of hellfire the moment defeat arrived.
The new Hand of the King, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, walked briskly through the inner courtyards. The fine sweat on his forehead was due either to the heat of the Red Keep or the heavy responsibility on his shoulders.
Qarlton was on his way to make a routine report to King Aerys—the year-long rebellion had long since drained the royal treasury, yet he, the nominal Hand, was still vainly trying to maintain the dynasty's last shreds of dignity. He had prepared a thick stack of dossiers, intending to ask the King: How to appease the demoralized and potentially mutinous soldiers retreating from the Trident? How to secure grain for a starving King's Landing? How to quell the rising public resentment within the city?
However, Qarlton's steps unconsciously slowed as he approached the Throne Room.
Qarlton keenly noticed that members of the Alchemists' Guild were entering and leaving the King's private chambers with unusual frequency.
Those figures in dark robes were like ominous crows. Their expressions were secretive and focused, always carefully carrying containers tightly covered with heavy black cloth. This was the third group he had seen in just an hour.
When he saw the pyromancer Rossart personally leading another team of alchemists disappear behind the heavy doors of the Throne Room, a cold, intense premonition seized Qarlton's heart like an invisible hand, almost suffocating him.
The dossiers on army pay and grain in his arms seemed so pale and ridiculous under the King's mad gaze. Aerys II didn't even let him finish, rudely interrupting and ending Qarlton's report with a shrill, piercing "Get out!"
Qarlton stumbled out of the Throne Room, the ominous cloud in his heart rapidly expanding into cold fear. He thoroughly realized that the King's mind and energy had flown to realms far darker and deadlier than the mundane administration keeping the kingdom running.
"I must know what these pyromancers are plotting with their frequent visits." That night, Qarlton stood alone at the highest window of the Tower of the Hand, overlooking the ink-black sprawl of Flea Bottom below, muttering softly to himself as a chill climbed up his spine.
In the darkness, several faint but erratically moving lights caught his attention—they were like ghost fires, flickering and pausing secretively in the narrow alleys and ruins. He understood immediately. That was no repair work; it was the Alchemists' Guild, under the cover of night, secretly burying jars of deadly wildfire.
The next morning, burning with anxiety, Qarlton used his authority as Hand to summon a Gold Cloak captain responsible for city defense, attempting to probe indirectly under the guise of inspecting defenses.
In casual conversation, the captain inadvertently revealed that the pyromancers, holding the King's warrant, had indeed been conducting so-called "reinforcement repairs" beneath the Great Sept of Baelor, among the densely packed hovels of Flea Bottom, under major stables and warehouses, and even near the seven city gates and the ruins of the Dragonpit. Their movements were secretive and brooked no questioning.
Hearing these specific locations, Lord Chelsted's heart sank into an icy sea. He knew Aerys's morbid obsession with wildfire too well. This wasn't defense; this was a completely mad final solution to turn the entire city of King's Landing and its hundreds of thousands of residents into sacrificial offerings.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted's chain of office, made of golden hands, rose and fell heavily with his rapid breathing, clinking monotonously and oppressively against his breastplate. He strode through the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep, finally stopping before the massive, iron-studded doors of the Throne Room. taking a deep breath, he pushed them open and entered.
In the gloomy hall, Aerys II reclined on the Iron Throne made of a thousand swords like a sickly dragon in its lair. His withered fingers with long nails tapped rhythmically on the armrest of the iron chair, making a heart-palpitating tap... tap... tap... sound. The pyromancer Rossart—the man who had personally sent Rickard Stark into a green hell—stood silently to the side like a spectral green shadow.
"Your Grace!" Qarlton dropped to one knee before the cold stone steps, his voice trembling slightly with emotion and fear. "I beg you, stop this plan! Stop it! There are fully five hundred thousand living souls in King's Landing! They are your subjects!"
Aerys slowly leaned down, the spikes of the throne almost poking his twisted face. Cloudy eyes rolled in sunken sockets, flashing with an abnormal, near-fanatical light. "Qarlton... I smell it. You are afraid. You are panicking. You cannot understand, cannot comprehend... The power of a true dragon, how can mortals measure it? Fire will purify everything. The filth and betrayal in this city have become... suffocating."
"But Your Grace, it's not just the smallfolk! There are nobles still loyal to you, your ministers! They are all in this city!" Qarlton looked up, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
A low, hoarse laugh came from Aerys's throat, sounding like a broken bellows wheezing. "Isn't that better? They will... accompany their King forever. The Usurper, that traitor Robert... he won't get my capital! All I will leave him is a... massive tomb of ash. Let him be crowned... amidst charred bones and roasted flesh, just like me!"
Hearing this utterly mad, inhuman declaration, the blood drained from Lord Chelsted's face, leaving it deathly pale. He stood up slowly, stiffly. The loyalty to the crown ingrained in his marrow for years fought a fierce, unprecedented battle with his surging conscience and basic humanity. The chain of the Hand, representing supreme power, felt heavy as a thousand pounds, choking him.
Qarlton Chelsted stared dead into Aerys II's eyes—there had once been ambition there, paranoia, even cruelty, but now, only an inhuman, hollow madness remained. Not a shred of human emotion or reason. His last illusion shattered completely. He understood that any words, any rational remonstration, were futile before this absolute insanity.
A mix of despair, anger, and years of suppressed sorrow erupted in his chest like a volcano. He suddenly straightened his back, which had always been humbly bent. For the first and last time, he discarded all courtly etiquette. Using all his strength, he shouted a cry filled with the pain of betrayal and resolute courage at the figure on the Iron Throne, shaking the entire hall:
"By the Seven! AERYS!!"
He called the King by name, as if cursing a fallen soul.
"I watched you rise, helped you govern the Seven Kingdoms! When Rhaegar's wings grew strong and threatened you, I stood by your side without reservation to consolidate your rule! But look at what you have become?! You are no longer fit to be King! Now—I declare, I am no longer your Hand!"
Before his voice faded, he grabbed the heavy chain of golden hands on his chest—the symbol of the highest authority and responsibility in the realm—and tore it from his neck with all his might! Then, as if throwing off a venomous snake skin, he smashed the glittering gold chain onto the cold marble floor!
CLANG—!
A piercing, sharp crash like a death knell exploded in the Throne Room, echoing in every corner. The gold chain bounced and scattered on the smooth floor like a broken spine, finally coming to a lifeless rest, its luster dimming. It symbolized the total end of an era's loyalty.
A golden hand badge that had snapped off the chain rolled with a tinkle across the cold marble, finally stopping at the feet of the pyromancer Rossart. The token of power and the messenger of destruction met eerily in this moment.
Watching this, Aerys II did not fly into a rage. Instead, he burst into hysterical, mad laughter, his voice echoing shrilly in the Throne Room.
"Hahahaha! Qarlton! You forget, everything you have—status, power, wealth—was given by me! You are just a wild dog barking because of the dragon's might. What right do you have to roar at a true dragon?!" He turned abruptly to Rossart, his cloudy eyes flashing with a chilling green light identical to wildfire. "Rossart, let him... personally experience the 'purifying' power of fire."
A look of near-religious fanaticism appeared on Rossart's face. He bowed elegantly to the King, like an artist preparing to unveil his masterpiece. Calmly, he took an unassuming clay pot from the lining of his dark robe and walked slowly toward Qarlton, who was being held down firmly by guards.
"Let go of me!" Qarlton struggled in terror. When the pot shattered at his feet, splashing thick, pungent brown liquid all over his fine court robes, he let out a scream of despair.
"This is the essence of fire, former Lord Hand," Rossart replied in a chanting, low tone, deftly striking a spark with a piece of flint. He flicked it gently.
The moment the spark touched the liquid—WHOOSH!
Emerald green flames leaped up like a living thing, instantly devouring Qarlton's entire body! It wasn't ordinary burning, but a violent, bone-searing agony. Qarlton's scream was no longer language, but the primal wail of life being torn apart by extreme pain, shrill enough to freeze blood.
In his final, distorted vision, through the dancing, merciless green flames, he clearly saw Aerys on the Iron Throne—the King he had served all his life—leaning forward slightly. His face wore the focus and pleasure of admiring a work of art, as if watching a long-awaited grand performance.
Qarlton Chelsted—the courtier who had once groveled before power and flattered the Mad King endlessly—exploded with amazing courage at the final moment, choosing conscience and justice. The resolve with which he smashed the Hand's chain, and his final scream in that eerie green fire, were like a blinding flash of lightning, briefly illuminating the ultimate darkness and madness deep within the Red Keep.
His sacrifice was not completely forgotten. Among the onlookers of that cruel burning, young Jaime Lannister stood frozen in his white Kingsguard cloak. He witnessed with his own eyes how a Hand of the King was burned alive for trying to save hundreds of thousands of lives; he witnessed how Aerys on the Iron Throne was intoxicated by this cruel "performance."
That dancing green fire devoured not only Qarlton's flesh but deeply seared the last illusions of knightly honor and kingly sanctity remaining in Jaime's heart.
This scene was like a deadly poisonous seed buried deep in his young soul. It provided the most direct, cruel, and persuasive footnote for the kingslaying decision he would make the moment King's Landing fell—a decision that would burden him with eternal infamy yet change the fate of countless people.
In the most tragic way possible, Qarlton completed his belated awakening, and inadvertently shook another young man's blind adherence to oaths.
In the long river of Westeros history, Qarlton might not have been the most outstanding Hand, but the courage and conscience he displayed in that moment made him a brief spark in the darkness among countless fallen courtiers, lighting up the long night about to descend.