Game of Thrones: Starting by Escaping with the Mad King

Chapter 215 215: Tell Me—Where Is Your Dragon?

The moment those words fell—

the entire sept plunged into silence.

Hundreds of eyes fixed on Mace Tyrell atop the dais. The earlier shock in their gazes slowly shifted—

into something closer to disdain.

No one had expected—

that he would be this eager.

Betrothals between noble houses were nothing unusual, even for children.

But this?

This was absurdly early.

Your daughter is probably still wetting the bed!

Shameless!

Some lords inwardly scoffed at Mace's lack of dignity—

while others…

felt a pang of regret.

"Damn it, why didn't I think of that?!"

"Exactly! My daughter's five—perfect match for His Grace!"

"I don't even have a daughter, but if I hurry back and try, maybe I can make one in time!"

"Oh please—do you have Tyrell money? Didn't think so!"

The hall erupted into murmurs and laughter.

Yet Mace Tyrell stood there, utterly unbothered, chest puffed out, face glowing with pride.

In his mind, the future had already unfolded:

A beautiful Margaery Tyrell crowned as queen beside a handsome king—

and himself…

standing at the peak of power, wearing the badge of the Hand.

"Give it a rest, Tyrell!"

A sharp, mocking laugh cut through the noise.

William Mooton—the man whose place had been stolen—finally snapped.

"You just said your daughter's still in swaddling clothes! What, can't wait to strip her and throw her into His Grace's bed already?!"

"HAHAHAHA!"

The hall exploded with crude laughter.

"Exactly!"

Another lord chimed in. "My five-year-old can already recite the Seven-Pointed Star! That's what a queen should be!"

"Oh, spare me!"

A Westerlands lord sneered. "Your girl looks like a wooden post and eats like a horse. She'll run off with a butcher before she's grown!"

"HAHAHAHA—!"

"You bastard—want to test how hard my fists are?!"

In an instant, the insulted lord lunged forward, and the two began grappling in the middle of the hall.

Cheers and laughter erupted as others egged them on.

The once solemn sept now buzzed with chaotic amusement.

Up on the dais, Mace Tyrell's expression stiffened, his eyes darkening as he glared downward.

"Enough!"

A thunderous shout cut through the chaos.

Randyll Tarly stepped forward, grabbing the two brawling lords by the collars and hauling them apart like unruly children.

With his sheer martial presence, no one dared intervene.

Order—

was restored.

From above, Lance swept his gaze across the crowd, feeling a trace of helplessness.

In truth—

Westeros wasn't so different from medieval Europe.

What refinement could one expect from these men?

Turning his attention back to Mace, he spoke slowly:

"Your proposal… is certainly… unique, Lord Tyrell."

In truth, he had already seen through the man's intentions before he even finished speaking.

"Growing Strong"—that was House Tyrell's motto.

And how did they grow?

Through marriage alliances.

This—

was simply tradition at work.

Still—

one does not slap a smiling face.

After accepting such lavish gifts, Lance had at least allowed him to finish.

"Highgarden's loyalty is unquestionable. Your generosity reflects your devotion to the Crown."

He paused deliberately, tapping his fingers lightly.

His voice carried clearly through the hall:

"However—"

"The king's marriage concerns the entire realm. It is not a decision I can make alone."

"It must be discussed by the Small Council."

"And more importantly…"

"…it depends on His Grace's own will."

As he spoke, Lance gently patted the back of Viserys's head.

The young king blinked—

looking up in confusion.

At his age, Viserys had no real understanding of what marriage meant.

But Lance's calm, steady voice still put him at ease.

"Marriage isn't some toy to be played with. It requires careful thought. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Uncle Lance!"

Viserys nodded, half-understanding at best. Then he turned toward Mace Tyrell, whose smile had already stiffened, and spoke bluntly:

"I don't like dolls, Lord Tyrell!"

The words hit like a hammer.

Mace instantly deflated, his posture collapsing like a punctured wineskin.

Lance, on the other hand, gave the boy's head a satisfied pat.

A marriage without affection was rarely a happy one.

Just look at Viserys's own parents—

bound for twenty years, yet mired in endless arguments.

Most noble marriages were the same.

Built on interests, not emotion.

Unions like that of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark—mutual respect and harmony—were rare.

Far more common—

were marriages like Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister.

"If there's nothing else, Lord Tyrell…"

Lance tapped the table lightly, the meaning obvious.

There were many more nobles waiting.

He had no intention of lingering.

Mace let out an unwilling sigh—

but quickly recovered, forcing a grin.

Because—

he had just thought of something more interesting.

"Your Majesty!"

The flush returned to his face.

Raising his voice deliberately so all could hear, he declared:

"Before the Seven Gods as witness—"

"House Tyrell has demonstrated its loyalty! All present have seen it!"

"I am simply curious…"

"At such a grand celebration, marking the return of dragons to Westeros…"

"What gift—"

"—will our esteemed Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, present to House Targaryen?"

The moment the words fell—

every gaze shifted.

Toward a quiet, almost overlooked corner of the hall.

There, Tywin paused mid-motion, a piece of dessert between his fingers.

He looked up.

Green eyes sharp.

Confused.

How did this turn into me?

Did this fool Tyrell really think that one grand offering could win Lance's favor—

and replace him?

Or—

was this orchestrated by that sharp-tongued old matriarch behind him?

His thoughts raced—

yet outwardly, he remained perfectly composed, calmly placing the dessert back onto the plate.

"Please…"

He inclined his head slightly—

but before he could finish, the nobles before him had already parted, forming a clear path.

Partly out of respect for Tywin's authority.

Partly—

because everyone recognized what this was:

A provocation.

And nothing drew a crowd like conflict.

Especially between two great houses.

Like hounds scenting blood, the nobles leaned in, eager.

Step by measured step, Tywin ascended the dais with composed elegance.

Seeing his impassive face, Mace nearly burst with delight.

Even if his original plan had failed—

watching Tywin Lannister stumble publicly was reward enough.

For years, House Tyrell had been compared to the House Lannister—

and always found wanting.

The Westerlands had gold mines.

Tywin had ruled as Hand for over a decade, his methods ruthless and effective.

Even the song "The Rains of Castamere" was enough to chill the nobility.

And yet—

in Mace's mind—

the Tyrells possessed the noble bloodline of Garth Greenhand.

The Lannisters?

Upjumped tricksters who seized Casterly Rock through deceit.

And today—

with thirty thousand gold dragons' worth of gifts laid before all—

whatever Tywin presented would pale in comparison.

He was doomed to lose face.

Perfect.

By the time Tywin reached the front, he didn't even spare Mace a glance.

To him—

House Tyrell had only one worthy opponent.

The old matriarch behind it.

And she…

would not outlive him.

Sometimes victory required no swords.

Only patience.

"Your Majesty."

His voice was not loud—

yet it silenced the hall completely.

Firm.

Controlled.

Respectful—without yielding authority.

Lance watched him, a faint, amused curve at his lips.

"House Lannister has always been a steadfast ally of House Targaryen."

"Your loyalty is as enduring as Casterly Rock itself."

This was the first time they had met since Lance assumed regency.

Tywin had seemingly withdrawn—

but Lance knew better.

Men like Tywin did not step away from power.

They waited.

They maneuvered.

A cold amusement flickered in Lance's eyes.

"Still… I am curious as well."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed directly on Tywin.

"Thirty thousand gold dragons is… quite extravagant."

"Even if your offering does not surpass Lord Tyrell's—"

"I'm sure His Grace, and the Queen Regent, will understand your… difficulties."

On the surface, it sounded considerate.

In truth—

it placed Tywin squarely over the fire.

As the wealthiest lord in the realm—

and the Hand of the King—

anything less would cost him face.

And for nobles—

face could matter more than life.

Tywin's expression did not change.

Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth—

gone in an instant.

Emotion, to him, was already mastered.

"The restoration of true dragons is a cause for celebration across all Seven Kingdoms, Your Highness."

His voice remained steady.

"Casterly Rock's offering will not disappoint the Iron Throne."

He paused—

but did not reveal it yet.

Instead, his gaze swept across the assembled lords before returning to Lance.

Measured.

Deep.

"You see… those of us fortunate enough to reside in King's Landing have already witnessed their strength."

"But many of these lords—who have come from afar—"

"…are still waiting."

The hall stilled.

Everyone knew what he meant.

Dragons.

Legend.

Power.

The very foundation of Targaryen rule.

That was why they were here.

That was what they had come to see.

All eyes turned upward—

filled with anticipation.

At this—

Lance's eyes narrowed slightly.

Why bring this up now?

At this moment, Ilyon was out over Blackwater Bay, hunting.

It was scheduled to return later—

its roar marking the climax of the ceremony.

Everything had been arranged.

And yet—

beside him, Viserys suddenly stiffened.

Lance noticed immediately.

He turned—

The boy's face had gone pale.

His lips pressed tight.

His fingers gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles turned white.

"…Since returning to King's Landing…"

Lance leaned closer, his voice low—

but edged with steel.

"I haven't seen Rhaego, Viserys."

The boy shrank back, eyes filled with fear.

That was enough.

The problem—

lay with the other dragon.

Lance drew a slow breath, scanning the expectant crowd.

Then—

his lips moved, forming a string of subtle, inaudible syllables—

calling Ilyon back.

Finally, he turned again, his sharp gaze locking onto Viserys.

His voice dropped to a whisper—

heard only by the two of them.

But the anger within it was unmistakable.

"Tell me—"

"…where is your dragon?"