The man standing before the Iron Throne, though the term man was being used rather liberally in this instance, remained perfectly composed as he delivered the report.
He stood beneath the throne with his hands folded neatly before him, his soft voice carrying easily through the cavernous hall despite never rising above a polite volume. He appeared utterly unbothered by his surroundings, neither the white-cloaked Kingsguard standing vigil around the throne nor the oppressive atmosphere of the room capable of unsettling him.
It irritated Aerys more than he cared to admit.
As he sat upon the Iron Throne and listened to the report, careful not to shift too carelessly against the countless blades jutting from the monstrosity beneath him, he found himself growing increasingly displeased by the man's composure.
Shouldn't messengers be nervous when bringing their king unwelcome news?
Aerys leaned back slightly against the jagged iron behind him, his violet eyes narrowing as a petty thought entered his mind.
Would the man be more nervous if it were Tywin sitting here? Would he sweat if he had to disappoint the mighty Lord of Casterly Rock?
The thought irritated him greatly. His fingers tightened around one of the twisted iron blades protruding from the throne, the king fighting against the growing displeasure that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of his former friend.
Why was it always Tywin?
He did not understand why so many of his subjects thought so little of him. The whispers and dismissals followed him everywhere, people convinced he never noticed them as though he were deaf or stupid, unaware his ears were sharper than most.
The thought filled him with bitterness. He was not a cruel ruler, far from it.
Indeed, he had spent much of his life making certain he would not become one. Knowing the expectations that rested upon him from birth, he had strived to be a gracious and merciful king that rewarded service and forgave mistakes.
Did he not choose a capable Hand? Did he not preserve peace throughout the realm through careful diplomacy and personal relationships? The friendship between the Crown and House Lannister had strengthened under his reign, as did the friendship between the Crown and House Baratheon.
The realm prospered, trade flourished and the great lords remained loyal, yet somehow none of it seemed enough.
His jaw tightened.
He tried so hard, far harder than anyone ever acknowledged. He was patient with his family, with his friends, with the realm, constantly trying to hold everything together despite the endless demands placed upon him.
Aerys was more patient than many of them deserved and yet somehow everyone around him seemed determined to repay that patience with disappointment and spite
His gaze drifted toward one of the stained-glass windows high above the throne room, the light filtering through the colored glass painting fragments of red and gold across the floor like spilled blood.
His fingers tightened slightly around one of the twisted iron blades protruding from the throne as his thoughts went to his wife.
With Rhaella, he had done his duty despite everything. He did not love his sister as a woman and never had. In truth, the very notion disgusted him, and the marriage had been another one of his father's decisions, another burden thrust upon him without consideration for what he actually wanted.
Yet he obeyed, because that was his duty as a prince and a Targaryen.
So he married her, shared a bed with her, performed his obligations despite the resentment and discomfort that accompanied every encounter. He did what was required for the realm and House Targaryen despite the disgust that accompanied the deed.
And what had he received from Rhaella in return? One heir and years of failure, full of miscarriages, stillbirths and children that died in cradles, infants who survived only long enough to break their father’s heart. Hope followed by disappointment, again and again and again.
The familiar bitterness settled heavily within his chest.
He had done everything expected of him, everything demanded of him, yet the gods continued taking and taking and taking, with only Rhaegar remaining as the future of House Targaryen.
And now even Rhaegar seemed determined to drift away from him.
Aerys closed his eyes briefly, fingers pressing against the arm of the throne as another headache threatened to form behind his eyes.
Aerys loved the boy. He truly did, even if he struggled to understand him and his eccentricities.
Even as a child there had been a solemnity to him that unsettled adults. While other boys chased one another through halls and courtyards, Rhaegar had preferred books. While other children sought praise, Rhaegar sought understanding.
Aerys had tolerated it. Encouraged it, even, as Gods knew his own father had never shown him such patience. Aerys had sworn he would not become such a father, so when Rhaegar spent his days reading books and playing on a harp, Aerys allowed it.
And now? Now Rhaegar spent his days chasing after the foreign barbarians, following them around like some awestruck squire.
Aerys could scarcely understand it.
Who were these so-called Inbetweeners to command such attention? Who were they to arrive from nowhere and immediately capture the interest of half the realm? Who were they to stride through Westeros as though they belonged there, as though the King of the Seven Kingdoms did not exist?
The reports made it increasingly clear that they neither feared nor respected royal authority in any meaningful sense. They obeyed their own rulers, followed their own laws and worshipped their own gods, yet somehow everyone treated them as honored guests rather than clear threats to the stability of the realm.
The thought left a bitter taste in Aerys' mouth.
Then there was Tywin.
The irritation instantly sharpened into something far less pleasant as Aerys’ thoughts went to his former friend. Tywin Lannister —his oldest friend, his Hand, the man whom everyone insisted on praising.
Aerys felt his fingers tighten around the twisted iron blade beneath his hand.
No matter what happened, the realm always found a way to credit Tywin. A successful harvest? Tywin. Prosperous trade? Tywin. A peaceful realm? Tywin.
Every achievement somehow belonged to House Lannister, meanwhile every setback belonged solely to House Targaryen.
Tywin.
Tywin.
Tywin.
They all spoke his name as though Aerys himself merely occupied the throne while another man ruled.
And while he had long grown accustomed to the humiliation, the matter of the Inbetweeners had become another insult entirely, slight harsher than any before.
His thoughts drifted toward Tyrion Lannister, the malformed child so grotesque that many believed the gods themselves had cursed House Lannister. While normally he would have simply thought the boy’s existence as humbling for Tywin, it was simply too unbearable that the Inbetweeners had saved him…instead of saving Aegon, Aerys’ own son.
Why? How was that fair? How was it that Tywin's monstrous son had been granted salvation while poor Aegon had not?
His little prince.
These foreigners had arrived possessing miracles beyond comprehension, performing impossible feats and saving lives that should not have been saved, yet they had not been there for Aegon. It could not have been coincidence. Why did they not come to King’s Landing to meet the King, instead of visiting the Hand’s home and entangling themselves with Tywin’s family, if not to show their disregard of Aerys’ authority?
…Why did they save the wrong child, if not to spite him?
Aerys' jaw tightened painfully.
Why was this happening to him of all people? He had fulfilled his duties and upheald the realm, repairing so many of the mistakes left behind by previous generations. He had worked tirelessly to preserve peace, so why did fortune constantly favor others?
Why did gratitude never last?
And now…
Now even Steffon betrayed him.
Faithful Steffon.
Steady Steffon.
One of the few men Aerys had trusted without reservation, more so even than he ever trusted Tywin. His kin, one of his oldest companions, one of the rare individuals who seemed genuinely fond of him rather than his crown.
Was it Aerys’ fault? He sent Steffon to investigate the foreigners and ensure Tywin wouldn’t do anything treacherous. He was only supposed to determine whether they posed a threat and ensure the Seven Kingdoms were safe, nothing more.
…and now, Aerys learned that his last friend abandoned his mission, allying with the Inbetweeners against the crown. Steffon and Hadwyn apparently behaved like brothers, with Steffon declaring his friendship with the foreign noble for all to see.
The thought stung more than Aerys wished to admit, because Aerys and Steffon had once been brothers too.
Aerys stared into the distance as the man finished his story, the throne room strangely quiet.
“…So they are to remain at Storm’s End for the time being?” Aerys asked at last, his voice carefully measured.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Varys replied calmly.
The eunuch stood at the foot of the Iron Throne with his usual air of composed humility, his hands folded neatly within his sleeves. There was something deeply unnerving about the man. He spoke softly, moved carefully, and somehow managed to seem entirely harmless despite possessing more knowledge than most lords in the Seven Kingdoms combined.
Not that Aerys particularly minded much, as Varys had proven exceptionally useful since arriving in King's Landing not long after the Inbetweeners' appearance upon Westerosi shores.
Indeed, if anything, the eunuch had rapidly become one of the few people Aerys felt comfortable relying upon. While others constantly sought to reassure him, soften unpleasant truths, or dismiss his concerns about the Inbetweeners entirely, Varys simply reported what he learned, quickly revealing many worrying and borderline treacherous actions taken by the Westerosi nobles in their attempts to befriend the foreigners from beyond the Sunset Sea.
The eunuch brought word of Jaimie Lannister's tutelage beneath one of the foreign knights. He revealed that Mace Tyrell had received a magical artifact at the end of the Highgarden tourney. He brought the report of Rhaegar’s troubling fascination with Hadwyn Caria and his decision to join them at Summerhall.
And now he brought news of Steffon’s conduct.
The eunuch's information was timely, accurate and, more importantly, it often arrived before anyone else even realized there was something worth reporting.
Already Aerys found himself relying upon the man more than he cared to admit. Not because Varys agreed with him, as the eunuch rarely offered opinions at all, but because he remained one of the few people willing to present information that painted the Inbetweeners in a potentially threatening light instead of reassuring him everything was perfectly fine.
The king's fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the throne.
More and more frequently he found himself considering a position for the eunuch upon the Small Council: Master of Whisperers, the office had remained vacant since Bloodraven's departure.
Many considered that a blessing, but Aerys increasingly suspected it had been a mistake.
“From what my little birds tell me,” Varys continued. “there are numerous celebrations planned in honor of the Inbetweener royalty: feasts, hunts, private gatherings and similar entertainments. Lord Baratheon appears intent on making their stay as pleasant as possible, which should go smoothly, as Hadwyn Caria is described by many observers as remarkably similar in disposition to Lord Baratheon himself.”
Aerys suppressed a frown.
“Do we know how long they intend to remain there?” the king asked.
The Inbetweeners were told to present themselves before him to answer for their actions, yet they seemed eager to test his patience, something that Steffon was seemingly encouraging by entertaining them in his castle as if they were his guests.
“I cannot say with certainty, Your Grace.” Varys spread his hands slightly. “I was told that the journey to King's Landing remains their eventual intention, however no specific departure date has been decided. While they undoubtedly received Your Grace's command, they appear content to take their time for now.”
Aerys leaned back against the throne and immediately regretted it as a jagged piece of twisted iron dug into his shoulder through the fabric of his clothing. It only worsened the headache steadily growing behind his eyes. His gaze drifted toward the stained-glass windows high above, in the direction of Storm’s End.
The Inbetweeners had already crossed half the realm and somehow every lord who hosted them acted as though they had personally witnessed heroes descend from the heavens. Mace Tyrell practically worshipped them, Tywin seemed eager to cultivate relations with them and now Steffon had apparently become personal friends with their leader.
Every report made them sound less like potential invaders and more like heroes from a child's tale…every report except those of Varys, that is.
“…And Rhaegar?” he asked quietly after a long moment. “Will he return home?”
If Varys noticed the shift in tone, he gave absolutely no indication, the eunuch merely lowering his head slightly.
“Your son intends to remain with them for the foreseeable future, Your Grace.”
Aerys closed his eyes.
Of course.
The answer somehow failed to surprise him and yet still managed to disappoint him.
“More specifically,” Varys continued carefully, “Prince Rhaegar appears particularly interested in Lord Hadwyn Caria.”
Aerys opened his eyes again.
“In what manner?” The king inquired softly.
The eunuch paused, just long enough to choose his words.
“As I understand it, the prince finds Lord Caria personally fascinating.”
Aerys stared at him.
“Why?”
The eunuch considered his answer.
“I suppose it’s due to the…tales of the man’s draconic nature.” Varys ventured.
Aerys felt something unpleasant stir inside his chest.
“Dragon.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“My son considers that foreigner a dragon.”
The words emerged sharper than intended, the sound echoing faintly through the throne room. Varys wisely remained silent as Aerys rose slightly from the Iron Throne before settling back down once more.
The motion did little to ease his agitation.
Surely there were no real dragons to be found among the Inbetweeners. Just stories, pretenders, imitations.
The dragon was House Targaryen's symbol, its legacy and inheritance, the last surviving proof of Old Valyria. Yet now some foreign barbarian from beyond the Sunset Sea apparently wielded dragonfire as well, boasting to be more powerful than the Targaryen ever were?
Convenient. Very convenient.
“Witnesses describe black scales and fire.” Varys continued. “Some claim Lord Caria became a dragon entirely. Others insist it was merely a magical glamour. There is little agreement regarding the exact details.”
Silence followed as Aerys found himself rubbing his temple.
How was he supposed to respond to that? How was any reasonable man expected to respond?
Transforming into a dragon was an absurd notion that belonged in songs and tales told to children. It was the sort of fantasy that had driven Aerion Brightflame to drink wildfire believing himself destined to become a dragon.
The fool had burned from the inside out.
The king's expression darkened.
But if the stories were true...If Hadwyn Caria truly wielded draconic power...Then what did that mean?
For centuries dragons had belonged to his family and even after the beasts themselves died, the legacy remained. Now some outsider arrived possessing the very thing Targaryens had spent generations mourning.
Aerys felt his grip tighten around the arm of the throne. The iron bit painfully into his palm, but he barely noticed.
Was he truly expected to accept that? To believe that some wandering king from a distant land wielded the power of dragons while House Targaryen did not? That a man with no Valyrian blood could command the flame that had once answered only to dragonlords?
The notion felt deeply offensive.
“And how reliable are these tales?” His voice emerged colder than before.
Varys seemed to notice, the eunuch lowering his gaze slightly.
“I place little faith in anything I have not personally witnessed, Your Grace.” He replied. “Even If magic truly occurred, I would prefer not to speculate draconic nature of such without additional evidence.”
Aerys exhaled slowly. At least someone remained sensible.
“However,” the eunuch added, “whether the stories are true matters somewhat less than the fact that many people believe them to be true. Lord Baratheon certainly appears convinced of Lord Caria's immense power, as he has devoted considerable effort toward cultivating the man’s goodwill.”
Aerys frowned, irritation roaring back immediately.
Steffon.
He knew Steffon…Or at least he had once believed he did.
Of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, Steffon Baratheon had always been among the easiest to understand. The man was straightforward, loyal, honest to a fault, and possessed a heart far larger than his sense.
Aerys had trusted him because of that.
The king stared upward toward the ceiling of the throne room, following the stone arches with his eyes.
What had happened for the Lord of Storm’s End to forget his duty?
“…I see.” Aerys said at last.
Before him, Varys inclined his head, the eunuch's expression perfectly neutral.
“Will there be anything further, Your Grace?” The man asked.
For several moments Aerys did not answer.
The throne room felt strangely distant, histhoughts heavy and tangled. Every day seemed to bring new complications and new uncertainties, new reminders that the world no longer behaved according to familiar rules.
He waved a hand.
“…No, that will be all.” He declared.
“Then I shall take my leave.” Varys bowed deeply and turned, departing without another word. His soft footsteps echoed briefly through the hall before fading entirely, great doors closing behind him.
Silence settled over the throne room.
Only the Kingsguard remained, white figures standing motionless among the pillars like statues. Aerys scarcely noticed them anymore.
The king sat alone upon its twisted blades and stared into the emptiness of the hall.
Why?
The question surfaced again.
It had become an increasingly common companion.
Why did everything seem to move away from him?
Why did every relationship become more difficult the harder he tried to maintain it?
Why did every act of goodwill somehow end in disappointment?
His fingers traced one of the jagged iron protrusions beside him.
He had tried, Gods knew he had tried. He had tried to be a good king, a better king than his father, a kinder king than many before him, generous and patient liege that rewarded loyalty and forgave mistakes.
And yet somehow it never seemed enough.
The king sat alone beneath the Iron Throne's twisted mass of swords, utterly unaware of tiny cuts covering his arms and back, fresh blood trickling slowly from half a dozen wounds.
The vast hall stretched before him, empty and cold.
What had Aerys done wrong?
No answer came…only silence.