Chapter 81 – A Trapped Beast Still Fights
The King's voice was not loud — but in the silence that followed, it carried across the entire tourney grounds like a peal of thunder.
Every knight, lady, and merchant heard it clearly.
And the moment his words fell, the stands erupted in murmurs.
"Mad… he's gone mad again…"
At the edge of the royal dais, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin, had both hands clamped to his knees. His fine silk robes were twisted into wrinkled knots between his fingers as he muttered under his breath:
"First he cuts off Rickard Stark's thumb on a whim, and now he wants the man's heir to fight a Kingsguard to the death before half the realm… He's lost his wits entirely!"
"If the North rises in fury and marches south, this will end in blood — in chaos we cannot afford!"
He wheezed, eyes wide with panic.
"Gods help us… His Grace has gone mad! And the cost… Seven save me, the cost of a war like that—!"
Tywin Lannister said nothing.
Beside the Master of Coin, the Hand of the King sat perfectly still, green eyes hooded and unreadable. His crimson cloak pooled like spilled wine at his boots.
When Lance had first challenged Brandon Stark to a duel, Tywin's instincts as Hand had urged him to rise, to stop the madness before it began.
A Stark heir dying in the capital — that would be a spark no gold could extinguish.
But after a moment's thought, he had settled back into his chair.
The realm had been at peace too long.
Nearly twenty years had passed since the last great conflict — the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
It had been his first campaign. Tywin had been little more than a young knight then — brave, efficient, but hardly glorious.
The true heroes of that war had been Ser Gerold Hightower, commander of the royal forces, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who slew Maelys Blackfyre in single combat.
Tywin Lannister had merely done his duty. And yet it was he — not they — who later rose to become Hand of the King at twenty years of age, the youngest in centuries.
Since then, the realm had known no finer administrator.
Under Tywin's stern rule, the Seven Kingdoms thrived.
From Oldtown to the Wall, merchants and lords alike acknowledged that it was Tywin Lannister, not Aerys II, who truly governed Westeros.
He balanced the crown's debts with ruthless efficiency, using the gold of Casterly Rock to repay the Iron Bank and the loans of Jaehaerys II.
He lowered port tariffs at King's Landing, Lannisport, and Oldtown to stimulate trade; he built roads, restored order, and punished corruption without hesitation.
And while the King twirled through feasts and masques with highborn maidens, Tywin ruled — coldly, perfectly, efficiently.
It was under his guidance that Westeros became stable, prosperous, and feared once more.
Yet, as every great lion learns, a realm at peace forgets who keeps the wolves at bay.
Tywin's success had become his curse.
His steady governance had lulled the nobles into complacency — and the King, into resentment.
The more competent Tywin appeared, the more insecure Aerys became.
In the Small Council chamber, Tywin's will had been absolute.
Even when the Master of Ships, the Master of Laws, and the Master of Coin joined forces, their combined words could not outweigh a single raised brow from the Lion of Casterly Rock.
And so, denied power in council, they sought it elsewhere — in the King's ear.
Lord Velaryon, cautious and calculating, had learned to temper his flattery. But Symond Staunton and Qarlton Chelsted — those two fools — had no such restraint.
In Aerys's presence, they dared to say anything:
That Tywin Lannister coveted the throne…
That he meant to crown Prince Rhaegar in his stead…
That the peace of the realm owed nothing to the Hand's efforts, but to His Grace's divine wisdom and awe.
Each word, dripping with venomous praise, fed the King's ego like wildfire on dry grass.
It was their whispers — and his pride — that had driven Aerys to ride alone into Duskendale, believing himself untouchable.
And now, those same tongues had sown another madness:
King's Landing's tariffs were doubled.
The port of Lannisport was taxed triple.
And all in the name of "restoring royal dignity."
Tywin's golden eyes flickered once toward the dais where Aerys sat trembling in his silks.
The beast was wounded, he thought. But a wounded beast still has claws.
He turned his gaze back to the field — to the white knight and the wolf's son standing beneath the Red Keep's shadow — and said nothing.
For the moment.
Aerys no longer consulted his Hand on anything. He issued royal commands and watched them be obeyed. Since the escape from Duskendale, his stubbornness had only hardened into outright willfulness. The Hand's voice in council was ebbing away.
Tywin had thought, in cold calculation, that perhaps only a fresh war would remind the Seven Kingdoms who truly kept the peace. Without dragons, men owed stability to steel and to the sharp order of a firm hand — a truth Tywin was determined the realm should not forget.
Not a Targaryen king, he told himself, but the Lord of Casterly Rock — Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King.
Let them make a spectacle of it. Let them cause the ruin. He would watch for a while, and the fools' errors would prove his point.
"Pick up the sword in front of you, Stark."
Aerys's voice rasped across the tourney ground from the royal dais. He tried to make it sound less broken than he felt, to lend it the iron cadence of command.
"This is not the North. Even your father would not dare such insolence before me. If you will not meet my Kingsguard in honorable combat, then clothe him in black, Ser Gerold."
The King's words left Brandon no choice. Aerys framed it plainly: take up the sword, or put on the black cloak and ride to the Wall. Renounce your lands. Renounce your wife. Renounce your name. Go north to rot with thieves and bastards and criminals, and never set foot in the South again.
The crowd went wild.
A lance-duel? Ah, now that promised something. After days of parades and face-saving, they had longed for a spectacle with blood on the mud. The stands surged like a living thing, hungry for a duel to death.
"Pick it up!" they cried. "Show us your courage, Stark! Is all of Winterfell a nest of cowards?"
Their fists pumped the air. The very earth seemed to roar. Brandon stalked forward, every step a drumbeat of fury. He clasped the sword thrust before him and drew it clean from the earth.
"I am Brandon Stark, son of Rickard, heir of Winterfell!" he bellowed, striking his chest with his free hand as if to tear open the pride inside. He cast a venomous glare over the stands until it landed on the King.
"You want me to die for your sport?" he shouted. "Fine. I'll show you what a true Stark is. I will drive my sword through the chest of your vaunted Kingsguard and cut his head off!"
Then, to the assembled nobles, he roared a promise that set men's teeth on edge:
"If I die here, my father will lead the Winter Wolves south. The North's iron boots will crush this cursed city, drag you from your red castle, and put a blade through each one of you!"
At that, many in the crowd went pale; no one wanted to be the next face Brandon might remember. He had struck terror. He smiled like a man who had baited a trap and watched it spring.
"Coward," a cold voice said from the lists.
Brandon looked up. Lance Lot had taken another sword — the white knight held it at a distance, point leveled at Brandon's brow. The blade shadowed his face. The simple sight of steel so near his temple made Brandon flinch.
"You're afraid, Brandon Stark," Lance said, quiet and precise.
"You're afraid because you know you cannot beat me. You bark because you've been startled by a tiger. Your noise is only meant to hide the cowardice in your chest."
The words cut; they were knives measured and thrown true. Brandon's chest heaved. He lashed out with a wild cry and surged forward, trying to hide his fear with violence.
Lance's voice stopped him cold.
"I can forgive you this once, Stark."
The field fell into a breathless hush. Even the crowd's roar seemed to wait on that single promise.
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