Chapter 52 — The Cut Finger
"Good!"
Lance's booming declaration made King Aerys on the Iron Throne tremble with excitement; he applauded like a man half relieved and half exultant.
As a king who'd been kept prisoner by his vassals for months, Aerys's prestige had plummeted to an all-time low even after Lance had executed the Darklyn and Hollard houses. Now, three Kingsguard—three men—had faced down and nearly annihilated the notorious Kingswood Brotherhood that had long preyed on the Crownlands. That single feat proclaimed, loud and clear, that the crown still had the power to defend the realm and protect the nobles' safety.
Targaryens without dragons could still be the law of the land.
The smell of blood still hung in the hall. Lord Rickard, whose eyes had met Lance's, recoiled a step and nearly tripped over a round, bloody head on the floor. It was grinning up at him as if mocking his cowardice.
"You… wretched—" Rickard Stark, proud and hot-tempered, flushed red. He strode forward, grabbed at the edge of his breastplate and glared down at Lance. "I am the Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and you—so you say you are a Kingsguard, yet you keep provoking us?"
"Your Grace!" Rickard checked himself only because the king watched from the throne. He shouted up at Aerys: "If you want that new Wall built, then promise my daughter Lyanna to Prince Rhaegar, and—" he turned back to Lance in fury—"atone for this insolence by having one of this insolent Kingsguard's fingers cut off!"
A silence like a dropped blade fell over the hall. Everyone stared at Rickard as if he'd gone mad. Only Tywin Lannister's green eyes narrowed with a flash of perverse pleasure. So the old, blunt Rickard was back—rash, rude, and oddly sincere. He'd never been subtle; when he lost his temper, he lost it fully. Tywin liked the certainty of intent.
From the Iron Throne, Aerys tapped his fingernails on the armrest—the sound bright and impatient. He had expected Rickard to show restraint; the Lord's outburst told him something about the man's state of mind. The king's voice, when he spoke, was deceptively calm.
"You said what, Lord Rickard?"
Rickard did not feel embarrassed. He barked his demand: "Betroth Lyanna to Rhaegar, Your Grace—and have that rude Kingsguard's finger struck off as punishment!"
Aerys listened, expression unchanged. He inclined his head, eyes sweeping the hall until they settled on the knight Rickard had singled out.
"What do you think of Lord Rickard's proposal, Sir Lance?" the king asked.
Lance had been bowed, hair shadowing his eyes. For a beat Rickard thought Lance might refuse. Then Lance's mouth curved just so.
"Very good," he said simply.
"Excellent proposal, Your Grace." Lance's voice carried. There was no flourish—only the plain, hard truth of a man who'd just smeared fifty bandits across the dirt.
Aerys's manner shifted. The madcap king of late became suddenly composed; everyone in the hall could hear the steel in his reply.
"Then do it."
Do it.
The single command fell like a judge's gavel.
As the white-armored knight rose to one knee and silently drew a dagger from his greave, Rickard Stark gave a disdainful snort.
He had expected the man to defy him to the last—or at least beg the king for mercy. Instead, Lance had complied without a word, as if he were some spineless cur.
Rickard's gaze dropped to one of the severed heads on the floor. That same mocking grin was still frozen on its face, only deepening the fury in his heart.
"I knew it," he sneered, shaking his head with open contempt.
"A mere band of outlaws couldn't have fielded fifty knights. You butchered innocent smallfolk to pad the numbers—just to deceive the king!"
The accusation hit the hall like a thunderclap.
Even Tywin Lannister, who rarely betrayed an expression, nearly let his lips curl into a smirk. If such a claim spread, Lance's honor would be destroyed—and every Kingsguard who fought beside him, as well as Ser Manly, would see their hard-won glory reduced to shame.
Even the king's own authority would be called into question.
"That damned fool…" Ser Jonothor Darry trembled where he stood. He had wanted to intervene from the moment Lance drew his dagger—now, after such an insult, he nearly stumbled forward in fury.
But a strong, steady hand landed on his shoulder.
"Ser Barristan…" Jonothor turned, meeting the elder knight's grave stare. Barristan shook his head slowly.
"This is not for you to settle, lad. Let Ser Lance handle it."
Grinding his teeth, Jonothor forced himself back into place, though rage still burned hot in his chest.
…
"You're too slow, liar!" Rickard barked, completely oblivious to the shift in the room. Seeing Lance pause with the dagger poised, he taunted louder:
"I don't know how a man like you ever became a Kingsguard. In the North, you wouldn't even be fit for a blacksmith's apprentice!
"Honestly, even my twelve-year-old daughter—"
He never finished the insult.
A sudden force wrenched him off his feet. The hall spun wildly, and before Rickard could grasp what had happened, his right arm was locked at the joint, twisted in a hold that made every muscle scream. A white steel boot pressed hard on his cheek, pinning his face to the stone floor.
"Not so slow after all, am I, Lord Rickard?"
Lance's voice floated down, calm and almost playful, which only made the humiliation worse.
Then his tone hardened, loud enough for all to hear:
"Ser Arthur Dayne—his right shoulder pierced, left chest stabbed, nearly killed."
"Ser Barristan Selmy—right thigh slashed to the bone, within an inch of the artery."
"Ser Jonothor Darry—seventeen wounds, chestplate crushed under a horse's hooves."
Each name rang out like a tolling bell.
Jonothor's eyes filled with tears. He had not thought Lance remembered every injury in such detail. Barristan, though moved, frowned slightly—he knew what was coming next.
"My dear Lord of Winterfell," Lance went on, his voice dropping low, icy as a northern blizzard, "I truly wonder if the snow has frozen your wits."
"If those words of yours were to leave this hall, they would not only erase the honor my brothers and I bought with blood, but they would shame the Iron Throne itself—and His Grace upon it."
"Ser Barristan!" Lance suddenly barked.
"Tell me—what became of the last man who roared and raged before the Iron Throne?"
Barristan sighed, then stepped forward, voice ringing clear:
"Ser Oswell Whent—his sword hand was struck from him, by your blade, Ser."
He knew he could not stop what was about to happen. And truth be told… a part of him wanted to see it done.
"Good."
Lance grinned.
Rickard began to thrash, but Lance's grip was iron. He caught the northern lord's thumb between his gauntleted fingers.
"Do not worry, my lord," Lance said softly, almost tenderly. "As Warden of the North, I will leave you a shred of dignity. So—"
CRACK.
Pain exploded from Rickard's thumb, but before he could even scream, a hand clamped over his mouth.
"You think a snow-blind wolf can touch a dragon that soars above the sky?" Lance's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"This claw is mine now, Lord Stark. Learn some manners before you grow another."
The dagger flashed.
A calloused northern finger tumbled to the floor, blood splattering bright red across the stone and staining the Iron Throne itself—where Aerys Targaryen sat, purple eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to delight.
It was beautiful.