Game of Thrones: Starting by Escaping with the Mad King

Chapter 218 218: Let the Music Play, Let the Dance Continue

The Great Sept of Baelor.

The feast went on.

The shattered glass from earlier—broken by Ilyon—had already been swiftly cleared away by servants. The lords of Westeros proved to have remarkably strong nerves; even the appearance of a dragon could not dampen their enthusiasm for wine and pleasure.

After all, life in their own lands was unbearably dull—drinking, whoring, and occasionally fighting or bedding a neighboring lord's kin were about the only entertainments available.

Now that so many nobles had gathered in one place, there was no way they would let such an opportunity slip by.

Some sought revenge, others alliances, others marriage ties.

Before long, the atmosphere inside the sept rose again—strangely, stubbornly—returning to its peak.

Golden goblets brimmed with Arbor wine, minstrels resumed plucking their strings, though their melodies were quickly drowned out by the growing din of voices.

And yet, because of Lance's warning before he left, not a single person dared to slip away.

Even the young man from House Tully kept his head down, drinking in silence, still shaken by the dragon's sudden descent.

At that moment, a firm, steady hand landed on his shoulder.

"That would not be wise, Elbert."

He turned to see a weathered, square face—Hoster Tully.

Elbert Arryn straightened his back, trying to maintain the pride of the Vale's heir. "This doesn't concern you, Lord Tully."

His voice was stiff, his lips pressed downward in restrained displeasure.

Hoster did not remove his hand. Instead, he guided Elbert a few steps aside, away from the crowd.

"You are a fine young man, Elbert."

"Lord Arryn often praises you. Among the young nobles of the Vale, your ability and intellect stand out."

The Lord Paramount of the Riverlands spoke more gently now, his tone sincere—like that of a concerned elder.

This was no mere flattery. He knew well the place Elbert held in Jon Arryn's heart.

And precisely because of that, he could not stand by and watch a fledgling eagle provoke a dragon.

Hearing the praise, Elbert pressed his lips tighter, a flicker of complicated emotion crossing his eyes.

He didn't think himself exceptional.

At least, in his own mind, that rough man who wielded a hammer was the finest in the Vale.

"A wise heir of the Eyrie," Hoster continued, lifting his chin slightly, believing his words had taken effect, "would not openly provoke the Prince Regent in King's Landing."

"What you did was foolish—more foolish than what Brandon Stark did back then, a thousand times over!"

"Don't forget—when he died in King's Landing, the Targaryens didn't even have dragons yet!"

"I'm not afraid!"

Elbert's face flushed red instantly.

He rejected the accusation of "foolishness" outright.

"The Vale does not fear!"

"The Eyrie lost a ward, the Stormlands bleed—and the honor of the Vale has been scarred as well!"

"The Targaryens… must pay for this!"

The young heir's voice dropped low, trembling with anger—half a snarl, half an attempt to steel his own courage.

His chest heaved violently, youthful stubbornness surging under the influence of wine.

As if shouting it aloud would make it true.

"I know…"

Hoster sighed helplessly.

"I know you haven't let go of Robert's death, child."

"You grew up together—like brothers. But…"

"That is no reason to throw your life away!"

His tone hardened suddenly as he gripped Elbert's shoulder more firmly, his previously gentle gaze turning sharp.

"The death of the Lord of Storm's End is not for House Arryn to avenge. Doing so will only bring lasting shame upon your family."

"Remember—your uncle sent you here to be his eyes and ears. To learn how to preserve the Vale beneath the shadow of dragons… not to come here and die."

His words grew increasingly direct, cutting straight through Elbert's thoughts.

Elbert clenched his jaw.

"I said—it's none of your concern, Lord Tully."

His tone turned colder, more distant.

"If you want to cower beneath a dragon's wings, clinging to your lands and titles, that's your choice."

"But until we receive the apology we deserve—the Vale will not yield!"

Hoster looked at the young man before him, blinded by anger, and a flicker of impatience crossed his eyes—quickly replaced by deeper weariness.

He had seen too many youths like this—burning with passion, heedless of consequence.

Most did not end well.

Just like Brandon Stark… who should have become his goodson.

With a quiet sigh, Hoster said no more.

As an old friend of Jon Arryn, a few words of warning were already more than enough. If the boy refused to listen, there was nothing more to be done.

He simply raised a hand and pointed upward.

"No matter how strong an eagle is, it cannot soar that high—cannot shatter a vaulted sky of glass and look down upon all beneath it."

"Anger cannot shake the foundation of the Iron Throne. Futile strikes will only end in ruin."

"Especially… when beside that throne coils a true dragon—one that breathes fire."

With that, Hoster Tully didn't spare Elbert Arryn another glance. Without the slightest hesitation, he slipped away like a slick trout, vanishing silently into the bustling crowd behind him.

Within a few steps, he was gone—absorbed among the nobles raising their cups, like a drop of water swallowed by the sea.

Elbert opened his mouth, as if to call out to that disappearing figure.

But the words stuck in his throat.

Not a single syllable came out.

He lifted his stiff neck, staring up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. Cold wind poured through it, and bleak winter light spilled down.

"This was not a wise move, Lord Tywin."

Elsewhere in the hall.

Mace Tyrell shoved his way through the crowd, a smile plastered across his face—a mixture of concern and smug superiority—as he approached Tywin Lannister.

"Embarrassing the Prince Regent in front of so many people…"

"I must say—that wasn't very clever."

He shrugged exaggeratedly, raising his voice so nearby nobles and ladies could hear him clearly.

There was a cramped, self-satisfied look on his face—like a man congratulating himself while pretending to offer advice.

It was almost impressive how arrogance and foolishness could coexist so perfectly in one expression.

Tywin, who had been speaking with his brother Kevan, didn't even fully turn toward him. He merely cast a brief glance, lifted his goblet, and took a measured sip.

Calm. Elegant. Unbothered.

As if the so-called "offense" toward the Regent meant nothing at all.

In that instant, he saw through Mace completely.

This wasn't advice.

It was mockery—an attempt to flaunt superiority.

After all, the man had just presented thirty thousand gold dragons to the crown.

Tywin knew exactly what kind of man Mace Tyrell was.

Calling him "ambitious but incompetent" would be generous.

The Tyrells were fortunate gardeners—fine clothes couldn't hide the mediocrity beneath.

If not for that sharp-minded old woman behind him—Olenna Redwyne—the so-called Queen of Thorns…

House Tyrell might have long since fallen into disgrace.

A cold memory flickered in Tywin's green eyes.

His father—Tytos Lannister.

The "Laughing Lion."

Not a title of honor—but humiliation.

In those days, the Westerlands had been weak. Everyone trampled over House Lannister.

Debts went unpaid. Pirates ravaged their shores.

The lion's roar had become a pitiful mewl.

Until Tywin himself—before even inheriting the title—crushed Houses Reyne and Tarbeck into extinction.

Only then did Lannister rise again.

Only then did The Rains of Castamere become a shadow over all.

Tywin returned to the present and glanced at Mace again.

All that gilded splendor—

yet beneath it, the same vulgarity, shortsightedness, and stupidity.

Perhaps even worse.

He had no interest in wasting words on fools.

Speaking with a man who mistakes stupidity for wisdom is, in itself, an insult.

He lifted his goblet again—ready to end the conversation in silence.

But he had overestimated Mace's intelligence.

"Hah!"

Mace laughed loudly, oblivious to the rejection.

In his eyes, Tywin's silence was proof of guilt.

Especially that sip of wine.

He must be regretting it!

Even the great Tywin Lannister makes mistakes!

And as a "wise and generous neighbor," Mace felt obligated to guide him.

He stepped closer, his flushed face stretching into a smile he thought kind—but was simply repulsive.

"No need to feel so troubled, Lord Tywin!"

"I understand the Regent well—broad-minded as the sea, a truly wise ruler!"

He thumped his chest proudly, raising his voice for all to hear.

"I swear on the honor of House Tyrell!"

"The Regent surely won't dismiss a man as accomplished and experienced as you over a moment of poor judgment."

"Of course… if His Grace does wish to appoint someone wiser, more suitable…"

"Perhaps a Lord who has demonstrated true loyalty to the Iron Throne…"

"Like—"

"HAHAHA!"

His laughter rang out, harsh and grating like a squawking duck.

The implication was obvious.

The golden rose overshadowing the lion.

Even Tywin felt a flicker of disgust.

Being lectured by a fool—

worse than losing to a worthy enemy.

Clack.

In full view of the hall, Tywin set his goblet down.

His left hand folded behind his back as his posture straightened—an invisible pressure radiating outward.

He did not argue.

Instead, he turned to the nobles nearby.

These fence-sitters were already watching him with barely concealed amusement—thinking his position was about to crumble.

"Lord Bywater."

His voice was calm—but unmistakably clear.

"Three years ago, your eldest son drunkenly stabbed two Gold Cloaks on Silk Street. By law, he should have lost his right hand and been exiled."

"I found a clause—first offenses may be pardoned with a fine."

"A thousand gold dragons later, he kept his hand—and now spends his nights in brothels again."

Without pause, he turned.

"Lord Bar Emmon."

"Seven years ago, pirates nearly wiped out Sharp Point. I deployed the royal fleet without waiting for council approval."

"Within half a month, those pirates were hanging from the cliffs—fed to seabirds."

"Your house survived."

Another turn.

"Ser Eustace Brune."

"Last winter, your lands were starving. I sent four thousand kilos of grain."

"Not one of your people died."

Name after name.

Each noble lowered their head in shame.

For nearly twenty years, Tywin had ruled effectively. Most of them owed him something.

No grand speech.

Just facts.

And that was enough.

Mace Tyrell, by contrast—

looked like a clown.

At last, Tywin turned back to him.

The two stood at equal height—

but their presence was worlds apart.

"If the Regent believes you are more suited to be Hand of the King…"

"I will resign."

A pause.

"I believe most here already know the answer."

His voice carried quiet certainty.

In one sentence, he shattered the illusion Mace had tried to create.

Then he leaned slightly closer—speaking only for Mace to hear.

"Tell me… do you really think what I said earlier was an offense?"

"Or a necessary reminder?"

"And do you truly believe…"

"…my gift will be worth less than your thirty thousand gold?"

Tywin straightened.

No longer sparing Mace another glance.

He brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder—and looked upward.

Not at the dais.

At the sky.

The timing was perfect.

One by one, the nobles followed his gaze.

They already knew what was coming.

"ROOOAR—!"

Two distinct dragon roars tore through the sky.

Nearly a thousand nobles froze.

In their widening eyes—

two shapes descended.

One grey. One green.

They circled above the sept, wind roaring in their wake.

This time, they entered cleanly through the broken dome—no destruction.

Two dragons.

Not one.

The crown had not lied.

They landed.

Lance dismounted—if one could call it that.

Under Ilyon's displeased gaze, the smaller dragon, Rhaego, perched proudly on Lance's shoulder, letting out a smug little hiss.

"ROAR!"

Ilyon snapped back irritably.

Apparently… being smaller had its advantages.

Nearby, Viserys clutched his mother's sleeve, knuckles pale.

His eyes, however, were fixed on the shimmering bronze scales of Rhaego—torn between longing and fear.

Lance ignored him.

A mistake must be punished.

Especially at that age.

Only then would the lesson stick.

He looked over the silent hall—

and finally smiled.

"Why so quiet?"

Then, casually—

"Music."

"Dance."