Chapter 50 – Take Me In on This Deal?
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Rickard Stark's face remained as stern as ever, unbothered by the stares boring into him from every corner of the hall. At this moment, there was no one in his eyes but the man on the Iron Throne.
His deep, resonant voice carried a rare fervor.
"I will not take a single gold dragon! The cost of building a second Wall — the North will bear it in full!"
"What?!"
The words exploded like thunder in the hall.
Every noble present turned to stare at the Lord of Winterfell as though he had gone mad — even Tywin Lannister's golden eyes flickered in surprise.
The North was poor. Everyone knew that.
Despite holding nearly forty percent of the Seven Kingdoms' total landmass, the North was a hard, frozen wasteland, ill-suited for farming or trade. Most of it was snowbound wilderness, dark forests, and jagged mountains. When winter came — and in Westeros, winter lasted for years — the entire region was buried under blizzards and bitter cold.
What little crops the North could grow were pitiful in yield, and nearly half had to be stored away as winter reserves. Even so, thousands froze or starved to death every long winter.
That was why House Stark had lived by its words for ten thousand years: "Winter is Coming."
Because winter always came. And it always killed.
It was precisely this hardship that made Rickard's claim sound insane to southern ears.
The North will pay?
It was laughable. To most of the lords in the hall, Rickard Stark looked like a madman proposing to build castles out of snow.
But Aerys Targaryen was not laughing.
On the contrary, the King's violet eyes lit up for the first time in weeks.
A chance to expand the realm, to carve new land into the royal domain, to leave a mark in the history books as a conquering king — such glory had been rare since the days of Aegon the Conqueror.
The King sat up straighter on the Iron Throne, excitement and suspicion warring in his gaunt face.
If the Starks truly emptied their coffers, perhaps they could accomplish this great feat.
But such generosity demanded caution.
Aerys shifted on the throne and cleared his throat. His tone sharpened.
"And what do you ask in return, Lord Stark?"
Inwardly, the King's thoughts churned.
Is this wolf after my throne?
No one — not even the poorest northern lord — spent this much without expecting something back.
He was not the only one wondering. Across the hall, Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister exchanged glances, each calculating what Stark's true aim might be.
Rickard, however, stood ramrod straight, a faint smile tugging at his weathered lips.
"I ask but one thing, Your Grace."
His voice carried, filling the hall.
"My daughter, Lyanna, is twelve years old. It is time to settle her betrothal."
Bad.
Tywin's golden brows drew together at once, his instincts screaming danger.
This is aimed straight at me.
But before he could speak, Rickard pressed on quickly, turning his gaze directly on the Lion of Casterly Rock — as though challenging him.
"Prince Rhaegar is of marriageable age, yet as far as I know, he has not been promised to any lady of the realm."
"If Lyanna is wed to the Crown Prince — and if their firstborn son is named heir to the Iron Throne — the entire North will rejoice. Every lord of Winterfell will give his all to raise this new Wall!"
"This alliance between Stark and Targaryen would be remembered as one of the greatest triumphs of your dynasty since the Conquest!"
Rickard's arms spread wide, as if already beholding the future — a future where a Stark-blooded child sat the Iron Throne.
But instead of cheers, a deathly silence fell over the hall.
Rickard blinked, confusion flashing in his gray eyes.
On the Iron Throne, Aerys leaned forward, tapping one long, sharp nail on the armrest. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between fascination and unease.
"Your Grace... Lord Stark!"
At last, Tywin Lannister could remain silent no longer.
Even though he doubted Aerys would ever agree, the prospect of expanding the realm was dangerously tempting — and Tywin knew the King well enough to fear that temptation.
He could not risk letting the wolf snatch the prize he had schemed for years to secure.
For over a decade, he had labored as Hand of the King, partly in the hope of marrying his daughter Cersei to the royal line.
If Rickard Stark's gambit succeeded, the Starks would not only rise to unmatched power but eclipse the Lannisters entirely.
Even if Cersei never married Rhaegar, Tywin would not allow Winterfell to take what he believed was rightfully his.
He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the hall.
"With respect, Your Grace — and my lords..."
Tywin Lannister had made up his mind.
The Lord of Casterly Rock swept his golden gaze across the gathered lords. His voice, calm as ever, held just the faintest edge of urgency.
"The North... is far too poor. House Stark may have an ancient and honorable name, but it does not possess the wealth to sustain so vast an undertaking."
He inclined his head toward Rickard Stark, but his words cut like a knife.
"Lord Rickard's vision is admirable. But tell me — has he even consulted his bannermen?
I do not question the loyalty of the northern lords. I only fear that, should discontent fester before this plan even begins, this great project might fail before it is born — and the Targaryen name would suffer an irreparable blow to its honor."
"You dare question my ability, Lord Tywin?!"
Rickard's temper flared like a sudden storm.
He stepped forward and jabbed a calloused finger toward the golden lion, his voice booming through the hall.
"The North does not flinch from hardship! If you do not take back your insult this instant, I will show you the strength of the North — even if it must be on the battlefield!"
Tywin's face remained an expressionless mask, but his words struck back with the precision of a drawn sword.
"The Westerlands do not fear war either, Lord Rickard."
His tone was razor-sharp, unflinching.
"I merely present the matter's feasibility to His Grace. That is my duty as Hand of the King."
Then, almost lazily, Tywin flicked a disdainful glance at the Stark lord — a silent message that needed no words:
You are but a northern savage, unfit to stand where true rulers speak.
"You—!"
Rickard's fury boiled over, the famed temper of the North bursting forth. He nearly lunged at Tywin right then and there.
But a cold, smooth voice cut through the air.
"Peace, both of you."
Aerys Targaryen lounged upon the Iron Throne, violet eyes glinting with amusement.
Watching the two great lords of the realm nearly come to blows before his throne seemed to please him.
He tapped a long finger against his temple, lips curling into a thin smile.
"If the North cannot afford such a project, Lord Tywin... then surely Casterly Rock, with its bottomless mines of gold, can fund this glorious endeavor in full — can it not?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
Tywin inclined his head ever so slightly, though he knew exactly what Aerys meant — the King wanted him bled of gold.
Still, he did not hesitate.
"My terms are the same as Lord Rickard's: betroth my daughter Cersei to Prince Rhaegar, and the Lannisters will spare no expense. Gold shall flow like water."
Then he straightened, crimson cloak falling into perfect folds, the gold-threaded lion embroidered on his chest gleaming under the torchlight — mocking Rickard's plain furs.
"Unlike certain impoverished regions, a few million gold dragons are hardly a burden for Casterly Rock."
The words landed like hammer-blows.
Every eye in the hall turned toward Tywin, many filled with envy.
Even Rickard, though seething, could not hide the flicker of bitterness in his gray eyes.
Seven hells, he thought, jaw tightening. The Lannisters truly are the richest house in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Damn you..."
Rickard's voice was a growl. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.
"At the end of the day, you're no different from me!"
"You claim to act for the realm — but you only crave Rhaegar's hand for your daughter! Admit it, you lecherous lion!"
Tywin merely arched a brow, his reply cool and cutting.
"Careful, Lord Rickard. Empty boasts do not fill empty coffers. The North is poor — do not pretend otherwise."
"You... vile, arrogant—!"
Rickard's blood pounded in his ears. He reached instinctively for the sword that was no longer at his hip — it had been taken from him before entering the hall.
Enraged beyond reason, he spat a torrent of northern curses so foul that half the lords present didn't even understand the words — though the murderous intent needed no translation.
"You wish for a duel, Stark?"
Tywin's composure cracked, just enough for a flicker of cold fire to blaze in his green eyes.
Few dared provoke the Lion of Casterly Rock — the man who had put entire houses to the sword.
But Rickard had gone too far.
Tywin said flatly. "Name the time and place."
Rickard's lips curled into a feral grin.
"Here. Before all. You against me. Our honor on the line!"
The two great lords stood nearly nose to nose, the air between them hot enough to ignite.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower — the White Bull himself — took a step forward, ready to intervene.
But when he turned, the King stayed his hand with a flick of his fingers.
Aerys leaned back in the throne, settling in comfortably.
It has been too long since King's Landing was this entertaining, he thought, lips twitching with glee.
And just as the shouting reached its peak — just as swords might have been drawn had they not been surrendered — the sound of measured, echoing footsteps filled the hall.
Every head turned.
A tall figure strode through the great doors, white cloak trailing behind him like a banner of snow.
Piercing blue eyes glinted with dangerous amusement as he surveyed the scene.
Without a word, the knight unstrapped the massive greatsword from his back and let it hang easily in one hand as he stepped onto the hall's polished floor.
"Quite the spectacle," he drawled, his voice carrying over the tense silence.
Then his lips curved into a wolfish grin.
"Well... why don't you let me in on it?"