Chapter 51 — The Reckoning
When the three White Cloaks strode into the hall, the two quarrelling Lords—who had been on the verge of tearing one another apart—suddenly fell silent, as if the presence of those armored figures had, at once, soberred them.
Tywin Lannister had never been a quick-tempered man; Rickard Stark had simply goaded him too far with words that stung. He had not expected that the rough northern lord, whom he habitually dismissed, could speak so eloquently. Rickard was rash, all right—but not a fool. Even overflowing with confidence, he would not have dared to hurl insults in front of so many Kingsguard, least of all the man standing at the head of them now.
And anyway… why had every other lord's sword been taken at the entrance—yet this man brazenly bore a greatsword so massive it looked like a legend? Why did that blade look so like the House Dayne sword?
"Lance… you're back!" Rickard's confusion didn't last. King Aerys could hardly contain himself: he hopped down from the Iron Throne, took the knight's gauntleted hand as if he were greeting a favorite courtesan, and hurried back to his seat, motioning for Lance to stand within arm's reach.
"Stand there. Don't move," Aerys purred, pointing to a spot barely a yard away. He leaned back and sighed, suddenly and absurdly comfortable with the bulked knight standing so near—his throne's spines hardly seemed to bother him when Lance's presence brought such reassurance.
The captain of the Kingsguard, who was supposed to be the King's nearest—and was now a few yards farther—felt an odd sourness in his chest. When had a newly minted guard eclipsed him? And where, he wondered absently, had the "guard" he'd been promised gone? He glanced at the familiar white-forged greatsword in Lance's hands and could only sigh: "Old friend—you've been abandoned like the rest of us."
Lance, for his part, let none of this unsettle him. He planted the cream-hued greatsword in the floor, eyes scanning the room. He gave the assembled lords a grin that was half insolence, half amusement.
"I hear His Grace prepared quite the welcome for us," he said. "Not bad. I like it."
He tossed a look to Barristan Selmy and Jonothor Darry. As the seniormost and most decorated of the Kingsguard present, Barristan shrugged and allowed himself a rare joke. "Compared with what I've seen, it's… novel," he said, smiling.
Jonothor, wounded and pale, had little to add. Tywin kept silent: from their skirmishes, this White Cloak was no easy opponent; without certainty, Tywin preferred not to tangle.
Rickard had less patience. In his view, he had swallowed insults already; now this man mockingly spoke as if the hall belonged to him.
"You have no right to chatter here, Kingsguard!" Rickard snapped. He was the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—used to being obeyed. "We are in council with His Grace about matters that concern the realm. This is not your place. Consider yourself fortunate you stand in King's Landing; were you beneath my bannermen, I'd have your finger—!" Pride and fury made him roar to the last syllable.
The hall fell oddly still. Rickard's tone had crossed something; even Aerys's amused gaze hardened a fraction.
Lance smiled, unbothered. "Excuse us, old man," he said, and inclined his head to the king.
He stepped slightly aside, close enough for the King's pale hand to rest upon the haft of the greatsword. For a moment the hall smelled of wax and steel, and everything else—every petty feud, every ambition—felt very small.
Then, under every eye in the hall, he hefted the greatsword and began to walk down the steps, one deliberate stride at a time.
"Your sword frightens no one, boy," Rickard said, standing his ground. He glanced at the cream-hued blade with a sneer. "And besides, that sword doesn't even look like yours."
Lance arched a brow and studied the arrogant man he was meeting for the first time. Rickard's hair and beard were long and unkempt; deep furrows marked his brow, and the roughness of his face gave him an age beyond his years. The sigil of a grey direwolf embroidered on his chest told Lance everything he needed to know.
"You're right, Lord Rickard Stark," Lance said calmly, nodding once. He made no attempt to argue. From what he'd learned of House Stark, strange stunts and stubborn gambits were to be expected. Call it the blood of the running wolf if you like; call it plain, reckless stubbornness if you don't. Lance had read the old histories—how the Starks had outwitted the Boltons—and, first meeting aside, he had already filed Rickard under one simple label: problematic.
He turned his head only long enough to raise the greatsword. "That blade is not mine," he announced, voice steady. "It belongs to my comrade, Ser Arthur Dayne."
Then, with an almost casual sweep of his white cloak that brushed Rickard's cheek and left a sting of cold against the Lord's skin, Lance knelt. He drove one knee to the marble beside the king and presented the sword in the oldest, most obvious way a swordsman can: in service.
Barristan and Ser Jonothor stepped forward without a word, each mirroring Lance's motion—one knee down, a salute plain and proud.
"May I present the fruits of our campaign, Your Grace," Lance intoned; his voice carried through the hall like a bell. Even Rickard's scowl could not hide the fact that the words rang square and true: there was honor in them.
At Lance's signal, Captain Manly's men—two rows of Gold Cloaks—filed in on steady, soldierly feet. Each man bore a black sack in his hand. At Lance's nod Manly cracked them open. Two heads tumbled out first—an ugly spill of hair and blood: the Smiling Knight and Simon Toyne. One after another, more sacks were revealed. Heads rolled across the floor like refuse.
The stench of blood hit every nose in the great hall.
"Three Kingsguard," Lance said, sweeping his gaze over the assembled lords, "and fifty enemies."
His tone brimmed with pride. He continued, eyes locking on Lord Rickard with a hard, pointed edge: "The Kingsguard have brought down the Fifty of the Kingswood Brotherhood. All but four were cut down—and their heads are here."
He let the meaning hang in the air, then closed with a warning as sure and cold as steel: "Whoever raises a hand against Aerys Targaryen II, whoever stands against the Kingsguard and the crown—let them learn the fate of these men."