Chapter 49 – I'm Not Interested in Money
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On the Iron Throne, Aerys II Targaryen drummed his long, yellowed fingernails against the armrest. The sharp clink of nail on blade echoed through the hall, mingling with the restless gleam of irritation and anticipation in his violet eyes.
His thin, bony fingers alternated in rhythm. Ever since Ser Lance's departure, Aerys had forbidden anyone from approaching him within five paces while carrying a weapon. Even his nails were left untrimmed, curling and sharp, giving his hands a twisted, talon-like appearance.
Aerys, however, seemed quite pleased with himself.
In his own words, they were "like the claws of a dragon — a mark of Targaryen nobility."
"Why isn't he here yet..."
The King yawned lazily, his hollow gaze drifting over the hall.
Today, the chamber that normally held the Small Council and the Kingsguard was crowded with nobles from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
The most eye-catching among them were two men: a weathered, middle-aged lord bearing the silver direwolf of House Stark, and a towering green-eyed warrior whose breastplate bore the crowned black stag of Baratheon on a field of gold.
Aerys' voice was soft, but in the silent hall it rang clearly. Yet none stepped forward to answer.
Closest to him stood the unarmed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Over the past several days, the White Bull had learned well the temper of the newly "liberated" king — no matter what he said, Aerys would inevitably compare him to Ser Lance and then ridicule him.
So Gerold Hightower stood motionless, silent, his gaze fixed respectfully on the floor, as if meditating.
Below, the gathered lords all turned their eyes toward the King's Hand — but Tywin Lannister merely stood there with his eyes closed, expression calm, as though he heard nothing at all.
The strange tension in the air made Lord Steffon Baratheon, who had only just arrived in King's Landing and had yet to meet the King, furrow his brow.
He felt the urge to speak, to cut through the oppressive silence, but thought better of it. He still knew too little about the dangerous politics of the capital.
"Your Grace... Ser Lance and his men have endured a long and difficult ride. Surely they must rest before presenting themselves to you — but I imagine they will not be much longer."
At last, it was the aged Grand Maester Pycelle who shuffled forward, stooping into a slight bow.
Not out of loyalty, mind you — but simply because he had been summoned at dawn and made to stand for hours. His legs were beginning to go numb.
"Oh... ah?"
A long silence stretched in the throne room. Aerys, chin propped on one bony hand, was nearly dozing off when Pycelle's loud voice jolted him awake. The King nearly tipped forward, his face dangerously close to the sword-edged throne.
He wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, sat up straighter, and adjusted the crown on his head. He hadn't seen Ser Lance for days — he had to look his best.
Seven Hells... why had he been so drowsy lately? Every night he dreamt of strange, twisted things, waking in the dark in a cold sweat.
If he had known this would happen, he never would have sent Lance away to crush the Brotherhood. Without him, Aerys barely slept at all.
As the fog in the King's violet eyes cleared, the grizzled Northman could no longer restrain himself. He stepped forward, his voice carrying across the hall.
"Your Grace."
Rickard Stark's heart burned as he remembered the words Varys had whispered to him before entering the Red Keep — a great plan, a chance to change the realm. It felt as though his chest were being roasted from the inside out.
"It has been nearly a year since we last met," he said solemnly.
"Not a day has gone by in which I haven't thought of Your Grace — of your presence here in King's Landing, of your great vision and boundless ambition. The memory of it inspires me still."
"Say what you came to say, Lord Stark," Aerys cut him off with a bored lift of his brow.
Flowery words no longer impressed him.
Where were these oaths of loyalty when he was imprisoned in Duskendale for months, waiting for rescue? He had never heard Rickard so much as lift a finger on his behalf.
Tywin Lannister, standing silently nearby, glanced sidelong at the Warden of the North. For a moment, the Lion almost looked impressed.
Rickard Stark, the famously stern and plainspoken lord of Winterfell, was flattering the King as smoothly as any southern courtier. Perhaps life in King's Landing had changed him more than Tywin realized.
After all, Rickard hadn't returned north once since visiting the capital three years ago — by now he might hardly remember the faces of his own children.
"Ahem..."
Being cut off so bluntly clearly stung, but Rickard was not a man to be easily shamed. After a short cough, he pressed on:
"Your Grace, a year ago, after your return from the Westerlands, you mentioned to me your wish to raise a second Wall — one hundred leagues north of the first."
"Although the project was delayed for... various reasons, now that you are safely back in King's Landing, I wonder if we might revive the plan."
"A second Wall?"
Aerys tapped his sharp nail against his temple, frowning as he tried to recall. After a moment, he vaguely remembered saying something like that — though, truth be told, it had been while deep in his cups.
Another Wall. The thought was absurd. The North was a desolate wasteland, and even Aerys' limited grasp of royal finances told him that such a project would cost a king's ransom — perhaps many kings' ransoms.
Who would pay for it? The Crown? The Lannisters?
Not Aerys, certainly. And Tywin... well, emptying half of Casterly Rock's coffers for a wall in the frozen North was something even he wouldn't stomach.
"I would very much like to see the land beyond the Wall brought fully into the realm," Aerys said at last, his voice mild, "but sadly, Lord Stark, we simply do not have the coin to pour into such a bottomless pit."
He cast a sly glance at Tywin. Oh, how he would enjoy watching the lion bleed gold for this — but no. Even forcing Tywin to wage war on the North would be cheaper.
The King's words drew a ripple of disdainful looks from the gathered lords, all directed at Rickard.
Annex the land beyond the Wall? And whose hand would truly rule it if not the Starks of Winterfell?
Spend Targaryen gold to enlarge Stark power — Rickard Stark was either a fool or far bolder than they thought.
Feeling the weight of their scorn, Rickard's temper flared. But he remembered Varys' instructions before he left Winterfell, and forced the anger down.
Then, in front of the entire court, he dropped a bombshell.
"Your Grace," Rickard declared, his voice like steel, "I will not take a single gold dragon for it."
The hall fell utterly silent. Even Aerys froze, his sharp fingernail digging into his own brow until it nearly broke the skin.
He swallowed hard, staring at Rickard as if he'd misheard.
"You... said what, Lord Stark?"
"No gold?"