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Chapter 62
Brynden 'The Red' Tully
Brynden Tully's fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening.
Jaime Lannister. Standing there, shackled, yet somehow managing to look smug all the same. The Kingslayer.
Brynden's jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He could almost see the blood of his kin—Edmure's blood— on that man's hands, hear the screams that followed in his wake.
Every instinct screamed at him to step forward, to drag Jaime down from his perch and drive steel through his throat.
But he didn't.
The anticipation clawed at his ribs, made his breath sharp and shallow. The hall itself seemed to close in, every jeer and whisper only feeding his rage.
Soon, he told himself. Soon he will have his due.
Robb rose slowly from the throne, Ice resting point-down at his side, its pale steel catching the faint glow of the roots overhead. The sound in the hall dulled to nothing, courtiers and lords alike turning toward the young king. Even the jeers fell dead in the throats of men who, a breath before, had been so eager to spit venom.
Robb's voice carried with a steady calm, cutting through the silence like the edge of his greatsword. "Jaime Lannister." he said, his tone hard as stone. "You are to be tried."
The words rang out, firm and final, echoing off the white-veined walls until not a soul dared to move. Jaime Lannister stood before him, hands bound, the torchlight throwing sharp shadows across his face.
Robb's gaze did not waver as he stepped forward, each word striking like a hammer.
"You are charged first with kingslaying—sworn as a knight of the Kingsguard, you struck down the very king you were sworn to protect."
"You are charged with treason, for betraying your vows and conspiring with your father against the crown you swore to serve."
"You are charged with cuckolding the king, and with incest most vile, breaking the bonds of nature and soiling the honor of your house."
"You are charged with the attempted murder of my brother, Bran Stark, whom you pushed from a tower window to silence what he had seen."
"You are charged with injuring Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, at your own volition and without lawful order."
"You are charged with breaking the king's peace, drawing steel in the streets of King's Landing, and spilling blood where none had leave to fight."
"You are charged with pillaging the Riverlands, burning villages, and butchering smallfolk who never bore arms against you."
"You are charged with the murder of my uncle, Edmure Tully, and of other nobles whose lives you saw fit to take."
"And lastly, you are charged with escaping justice, fleeing lawful captivity and shedding more blood to cover your flight."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, quickly smothered by the sharp lift of Robb's hand. His eyes never left Jaime's, cold blue meeting green, wolf meeting lion.
"These are the charges laid at your feet, Kingslayer," Robb said, his voice lowering, the weight of it pressing down upon the hall. "Now tell us—before gods and men, before those whose blood you've spilt—how do you plead?"
Jaime glared impetuously at Robb, his hands twitching.
Brynden could almost read his mind. Robb was but a few steps ahead, close enough for a stupid, hot blooded, bastard such as Jaime to think to take advantage of. But once his gaze met Robb's, once they wandered just the bit to not only behold his direwolf, but the still figures of the Green Men, looking at him with indifference, as if daring him to act, his eyes went down in submission.
Brynden's fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword as the silence stretched. He could see the storm building behind Jaime's eyes, the restless twitch of his hands in their shackles, the pride refusing to bend even now.
Brynden's chest burned with loathing as the Kingslayer raised his head, green eyes flashing in defiance. "I will not plead guilty nor innocent to the judgments of wolves and fish."
Gasps tore through the hall. Brynden felt his jaw tighten, blood pounding in his ears. The arrogance, the gall—to stand here accused of slaughter and treachery and mock the very court giving him the mercy of words. Brynden's grip near slipped on his blade, the need to step forward almost unbearable.
And then the Kingslayer's voice rang out again, bold and venomous. "I demand my rights as a knight of the realm. I demand trial by combat."
It is a testament to Robb's authority that none raised their voice. Whispers rose at once, lords craning to see Robb's reaction. Brynden's pulse hammered. He could feel his rage clawing higher, threatening to spill out. The man had not even pled his case—he had spat in their faces, cloaking his fear in arrogance.
Brynden's gaze flicked to Robb, his liege, his king, and then back to Jaime. His teeth ground together until his jaw ached.
"You are no knight." Robb spoke. "But so be it."
"Let all see and remember this," Robb declared, raising Ice with one hand before the gathered crowd. "Let this serve as a lesson. That no amount of gold, no family name, no knight's oath, no martial skill, nor even the luck of the gods themselves, will shield a man from justice."
The words rolled over the lords and smallfolk alike. Brynden felt the tension crackle around him—the anticipation of vengeance.
Then, with a sudden, ringing crash, Robb Stark drove Ice forward and sent the greatsword skidding across the floor. The Valyrian steel screeched against stone until it came to rest at Jaime's bound feet.
"Take it," Robb said, his gaze sharp as a blade. "So that none shall claim unfairness, I will face you."
"Your Grace!' Tytos Blackwood piped up from the crowd. "Take my sword!"
None doubted Robb Stark's prowess, but to fight without a weapon against a foe such as the Kingslayed is folly.
Yet, Robb ignored the lord. "Unshackle him." He declared. "He will fight here and now, no need to delay the inevitable."
Brynden grunts his teeth, had Robb not spoken to him beforehand, promising him the final blow in exchange for his silence, he'd have demanded the same.
Jaime bristled at the disrespect, and once one of the green men freed his hand, he readily bent down to hold the Valyrian sword.
The chains clattered to the stone as Jaime flexed his wrists, blood rushing back into them. He bent, snatched Ice from the floor. The hall drew a collective breath as Jaime settled into a stance, shoulders squared, green eyes flashing with venom.
He came at Robb like a storm. The first swing of Ice cut the air in a savage arc, meant to cleave the boy in half. Robb slid aside, the blow crashing into empty space, and drove his fist into Jaime's cheekbone with a crack that echoed off the walls.
Jaime barely faltered—he snarled, twisting back, swinging again, wild and desperate.
Robb danced out of reach, calm as a wolf circling prey. Jaime lunged, blade sweeping, but each time Robb leaned aside, dodging with a predator's ease, only to punish him with another strike—a fist to the jaw, an elbow to the temple, a knee that buckled Jaime's ribs.
The crowd roared with every blow, the jeers rising higher.
Still Jaime pressed on, ferocious in his rage. He spat blood, teeth bared, his swings turning sloppy but no less vicious. Yet every time his blade met nothing but air, and every time Robb's knuckles found his face. His lip split. His nose bent crooked.
The Kingslayer staggered, sweat and blood dripping, but he forced himself upright with a growl.
Brynden watched with grim satisfaction as pride bled out of Jaime with every strike. The man who once strutted in golden armor now stumbled like a drunk, his resolve cracking with each failed assault.
At last, when Jaime swung high in desperation, Robb ducked low and buried his fist into the Kingslayer's gut. Jaime folded with a grunt, crashing to his knees, Ice slipping from his grip and clattering across the stone.
The smirk was gone now, replaced with hollow eyes and a face battered near beyond recognition.
Robb stood over him, unmarked save for sweat, chest heaving with the calm rhythm of a man who had never once been threatened. Jaime looked up at him, broken but still breathing, and Brynden felt the heat of his own fury rise like a tide.
Jaime's hand scrabbled across the stone, fingers brushing the hilt of Ice. With a desperate growl, he lurched forward, dragging the sword up with both hands. His arms shook under its weight, his body barely obeying his command. He swung—slow, sloppy.
Robb caught his wrist mid-arc and wrenched it aside. The blade crashed harmlessly against the floor, sparks spitting from the stone. Before Jaime could recover, Robb's fist smashed into his face once more, sending him sprawling onto his back. The Kingslayer coughed, spat blood, and tried to rise—but his body betrayed him, legs trembling, arms failing to lift his weight.
For a moment, the hall was silent save for Jaime's ragged breaths. Then, with a sound more pitiful than defiant, he broke. His voice cracked. "Enough! Seven hells, enough"
Tears streaked through the grime and blood on his battered face. He pounded a fist weakly against the floor, sobbing out words between gasps. "I surrender! Do you hear me?! I yield!"
One moment Jaime was kneeling, voice cracking, the next his severed head toppled forward, rolling across the stone with a sickening thump, golden hair darkened with blood. The crowd gasped as his body, robbed of its crown, lurched in place before collapsing to the side in a twitching heap.
Only then did the sound reach them—the roar of Brynden Tully, his blade still dripping red, his breath ragged with fury. The Redfish stood over the corpse, shoulders heaving, eyes burning. It had ended in an instant—abrupt, merciless, and final.
Robb Stark's promised day had come, yet the Red had only felt overflowing rage.