Chapter 53 – Exile
The hall was silent.
It wasn't until Lance released Rickard Stark's hand and slid the dagger back into the sheath on his thigh that sound slowly returned. The sound of Rickard's ragged breathing — the harsh, painful gasps of a man missing a finger — seemed to drag everyone back to their senses.
All eyes turned to the white-armored Kingsguard standing before the throne, sword in hand.
He actually did it.
He actually dared.
Of all those present, Tywin Lannister's gaze was the hardest to read. He had already seen Lance' resolve when the young knight beheaded Ser Ilyn earlier, but even Tywin hadn't expected this — that a mere Kingsguard would dare mutilate a Great Lord of the North, right here, in front of the entire court.
And not just any finger — his thumb.
The thumb was the most vital finger on a man's hand — nearly every grip and motion required it. To a nobleman, to a warrior, losing it was crippling.
Rickard Stark would never again hold a longsword in one hand. He would never duel properly, never fight as he once had.
Granted, the Starks' ancestral greatsword was meant to be wielded with two hands — but few had ever used it in real combat. It was more a symbol of the North's honor than a practical weapon.
...
"Heh… heh… hahahahaha…"
Rickard Stark was indeed a true wolf of the North. Even with his thumb severed, he did not scream. He pushed himself up from the ground, clutching the bleeding wound with his other hand, and glared at the Iron Throne with a low, humorless laugh.
"I will remember this, Targaryen."
He didn't curse Lance, nor did he lash out. He turned his fury where it truly belonged — at the man seated on the throne.
Because he knew very well: this Kingsguard would never have dared raise a dagger without the King's command behind him.
"Two hundred years… TWO HUNDRED YEARS!"
His voice echoed through the hall like the howl of a wounded direwolf.
"Since the day House Stark bent the knee, we have never broken our oaths! We have stood loyal to the Targaryens — for more than two centuries!"
"And yet—!"
Rickard's voice grew louder, his face flushed red as he took a step forward, and then another, his fury building with every word.
Ser Gerold "White Bull" Hightower frowned, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, watching Rickard with wary eyes. He half-expected the Lord of Winterfell to go mad with rage and throw himself at the throne.
But Rickard did no such thing.
Under the horrified stares of the court, he bent down, picked up his severed thumb from the cold stone floor… and raised it to his mouth.
Thick saliva, stringy with pain and fury, gleamed between his teeth — but Rickard didn't care.
He bit into the blood- and dust-covered digit and chewed savagely.
"Gul-lup!"
The sound of swallowing echoed through the silent hall like the toll of a death bell.
Rickard bared his teeth in a crimson grin, looking every bit the snarling wolf he was.
"You have lost the friendship of House Stark, Targaryen."
He spat the words like a curse, then turned sharply on his heel, as though he never wished to set eyes on this hall of power again.
But before he could leave, several goldcloaks stepped forward, blocking his path.
"What now?"
Rickard gave them a disdainful glance, then turned back toward the throne, his voice cold and mocking.
"Will you try to kill me while I stand here alone? Do it! I'm not afraid!"
"My son, Brandon — he is sixteen now. His strength, his sword arm, his courage far surpass mine."
Rickard roared, turning his fury on the goldcloaks.
"Go on then! Strike me down, you bastards! The moment your blades fall, my son will inherit my title and call the banners of the North. He will march tens of thousands across the Neck and teach you soft-bellied Southerners the true meaning of Winter Is Coming!"
"House Stark… does not bow to the sword!"
The sight of him — bloody-mouthed, defiant, radiating the unyielding will of the North — made the goldcloaks falter. Not one dared move.
"Indeed, House Stark has never bowed to the sword."
It was then that King Aerys finally spoke, his voice calm and cutting like a drawn blade.
"But wolves," he said, his violet eyes glittering, "will always kneel before dragonfire."
The words struck like a lash. Rickard's nostrils flared, his fury burning hotter — but he could not deny the truth of it.
"Let him leave," Aerys commanded, a note of contempt curling his lips.
"The friendship of wolves," he sneered, "is worth less than ash to the blood of the dragon."
The King rose from the Iron Throne, his long fingers — tipped like talons — pointing at Rickard like a death sentence.
"Hear me, Rickard Stark. I, Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, by the grace of the gods King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men — banish you from King's Landing!"
"Return to your cold, dreary North at once. Should word reach me that you set foot in my city again, I swear by the Seven—"
Aerys' lips split into a wild grin, his amethyst eyes shot through with crimson veins.
"I will roast your body slowly over dragonflame, until even that proud soul of yours is burned clean!"
"Ha…"
Rickard gave a short, mirthless laugh. He turned one last time to glare at the white-armored knight standing before the throne, then fixed the King with a look of pure venom.
"Pray, Targaryen, that when your day of reckoning comes — you truly have dragons at your side."
With that, he shouldered past the goldcloaks, shoving them aside like kindling, and stalked out of the hall.
He had come in proud and unbending, but left bloody and beaten, his honor scarred.
---
Once Rickard was gone, Lance glanced at Aerys and spoke under his breath, so only the King could hear.
"Well, Your Grace — I suppose we can forget any chance of a Stark-Targaryen marriage alliance now."
Aerys smirked, clearly pleased.
At last — someone who understands me.
Ever since returning to the Red Keep, the King had grown increasingly wary of Rhaegar. An heir praised by all as noble and wise was no blessing to a king — not when that heir commanded love, respect, and influence enough to threaten the throne itself.
If Rhaegar were to secure a powerful marriage alliance — to a house like the Starks — Aerys knew his own crown would grow perilously unsteady.
Even if Rhaegar never moved to depose him, the court might force Aerys to become nothing but a puppet king.
No, he would not allow it.
Better to insult the North than risk Rhaegar gaining another powerful ally.
Rickard Stark might gnash his teeth — but would he really call the banners and wage war over a single severed thumb?
Surely not.
…Surely.
"Still," Aerys mused, stroking his beard, "the wolf did give me an idea."
He turned his attention toward the Stormlands, his violet eyes gleaming.
"Lord Baratheon!"
Steffon Baratheon, who had been quietly enjoying the spectacle from the sidelines, blinked in surprise and stepped forward.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing.
Inwardly, he frowned.
What does Rhaegar's marriage have to do with me?
True, he and Aerys had once been close — comrades in the War of the Ninepenny Kings — and if a chance for a Baratheon-Targaryen union came, he would gladly take it.
But still…
I only have three sons.