Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn, the way
their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. He
burned lords he didn’t like. He burned Hands who disobeyed him. He
burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was
against him. Aerys saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer
place caches of wildfire all over the city. Beneath the Sept of
Baelor and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, taverns.
Even beneath the Red Keep itself. Finally, the day of reckoning came.
Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory at the
Trident. But my father arrived first with the whole Lannister army at
his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my
father better than that. He’s never been one to pick the losing side.
I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But
the king didn’t listen to me. He didn’t listen to Varys who tried to
warn him. But he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle, that grey,
sunken cunt. “You can trust the Lannisters,” he said. “The
Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.”