"Hold your tongue. The man is not what he once was." Rickard Stark unhorsed with slow purpose, following the white cloaks into the Great Hall. "I'll not have your reckless words stirring trouble before it's due."
Brandon scoffed angrily and walked beside his father, along with some more loyal men to him and Rickard. They had rushed to King's Landing with no greater plan. By now, it was confirmed by many eyes that Lyanna was kidnapped by the Kingsguard. And the only one to be accused was Rhaegar.
Soon, they were ushered into the large, but eerie throne room, not as crowded as they were expecting from a royal court. The Mad King was sitting on the throne as usual, beside the throne stood the Lord Hand. There were Gold Cloaks and Kingsguards all around, guarding places.
As expected, Prince Rhaegar couldn't be found anywhere. That made Brandon more furious, and he somewhat guessed why Wylis must have left King's Landing. But what Wylis did to gain that fat bounty, he was keen to learn.
"Your Grace." Rickard Stark formally greeted the King by getting down on one knee, an act his son visibly hated, and hesitantly followed. "We are grateful you've received us with such haste."
"Heh… heh… heh…" The Mad King chuckled from his high throne, eyes red like never before, face pale, veins visible on the forehead, the long, unkempt hair and beard more vile than in the past. "Heh! Stark! Yes! From your little snows and stones—all the way to MY throne! Hah! Look at you! Cloak of honor, tongue of knives. Do you think I don't see it?! I see it! I see everything! The wolves circling the throne? Hmm? You come to cast stones at the dragon… in his den? Hah… brave. Brave or mad. But we are all mad here, aren't we? All of us… but only one breathes fire."
Lord Rickard recoiled a little, the tone feeling too unhinged. So much so that he doubted if he could even discuss the matter with the King.
"Your Grace, House Stark has kept faith with the Crown for generations. My forebears served with honor, and I have done no less. We are not a people of whispers or daggers in the dark. We speak plain, and we stand by our word. It has reached me that Prince Rhaegar may have taken my daughter—where, I do not know. She is promised to Lord Robert Baratheon. I ask only that Your Grace help see her returned to u—"
"SILENCE! SILENCE, I SAID—do you think I'm blind?! Hah! No... no, I see, I hear your whispers, licking through the stones! You slither with Baratheon, and him—my son—scheming, always scheming! You'd crown the brat on my bones! This is yet another scheme, isn't it? My—my champion, my beast of might, if Ser Wylis hadn't shattered his smirking mouth, he'd have eaten the Iron Throne whole, chewed the steel, and spat out my name! Burn you all... burn you all, traitors!"
The Mad King had to say only that. Gold Clokes moved in, and some strange-looking men wearing dark robes came out holding large vials full of a green liquid.
"I hold no quarrel with the Crown, Your Grace," Rickard shouted in panic as the Gold Cloaks nearby kept circling them. "But your son stole my daughter. He is no less a traitor to me than he is to you."
"Hahhh! There it is, the whisper of guilt—your icy tongues thaw at last, little wolves. Claiming my own son, my own blood, a traitor? Burn them all. No, wait—wait! Not yet, not yet. Fetch the chains, the Tyroshi claws, the singing knives! The dragon stirs today, yesss, yes. Hang the Stark… slow, slow—let him feel the fire lick his cold bones. Let's see if the snow screams."
"Enough of this!" Brandon roared, ripping the steel from scabbard. "This is madness! Look at him! That's no King, that's a gods-damned demon! Maegor, Aegon the Fourth—they rotted the realm, and you still cower to madness! No. I'll not stand by while madness wears a crown. I'll end him with my own hand."
But Brandon knew it was easier said than done. The great hall was teeming with Gold Cloaks and some Kingsguards. Even if he could kill the King, he wouldn't make it out alive. But Brandon was willing to accept that over dying for the King's entertainment.
"Heh-heh... the wolf yowls, yowls before the dragon's teeth! Good... good, let him whimper, let him burn... Rossart, the flames, the pretty flames, bring them closer, I want to see his fur curl! Barristan—make them crawl, crawl like ash before me! They forgot, they forgot, who the fire belongs to!"
Swords came out instantly, and clashes echoed. It wasn't much of a battle, more a one-sided beating.
Rickard fell first, and then the rest of the loyal men. Brandon fell last after cutting down a few Gold Cloaks and getting injured.
"Ahhh—yes, yes, let him see the little wolf pup, see his sire sizzle and scream. Bind him tight, tighter! I want to hear the fear leak out of him. Hah! And then—yes, then—we feed the flames. Let the fire dance!"
"Hhngh—damn you!" Brandon struggled, trying to punch at the men coming closer. He was a large and powerful man. But wounded in that moment. "You fucking madman! This is treason—treason against all the Seven Kingdoms! You think the North will bow to this? You think Robert Baratheon will watch in silence? Your throne is a lie! The dragons made it—they're gone. Count your days, Aerys. The end is clawing at your door—"
Someone shoved a cloth into his mouth and tied his arms behind. Meanwhile, Rickard Stark was hanged from the rafters of the throne room.
At that moment, Lord Rickard Stark glanced at his son in silence. He regretted it, coming to King's Landing. Honor and justice were dead in the King's hall. He was blind to the truth all along.
He didn't demand a trial by combat. He didn't demand honor. The Mad King wasn't going to change his mind. But Rickard knew that his death would light up a flame. While he supported Rhaegar initially, now he despised the Targaryen bloodline itself. They were all insane, father or son.
"May you suffer worse than this fire, Aerys," Rickard muttered as he watched the fire light up underneath him. The green flames burn brighter and start to reach him.
"NO! STOP THIS!" Brandon roared, kicking his feet. "You're mad—every one of you! Can't you see it? This is madness!"
Yet all heads remained bowed down, eyes hiding from the injustice before them. The Gold Cloaks, the Kingsguards, all the knights in that Great Hall, all the talk of honor and chivalry, dead as wisdom to the Mad King.
Brandon's curses and Aerys' mad laughter. Only two voices rang through the hall. Lord Rickard didn't scream, accepting his fate in silence. His blood boiled from both fire and anger. Regrets were plenty. His southern ambitions. Getting involved with the South. It all felt insignificant in that moment.
Lyanna was lost. Brandon was going to die. He had doomed his house.
And yet, he remembered a face in that dying moment. Wylis, the mere stableboy. Somehow, that boy had been more successful than he was in his southern ambitions. Alive, wise to stay away from King's Landing.
Rickard remembered something that Wylis had said when he was just fifteen. A young boy, mucking stables. He just wanted to test the boy's wits to decide if letting him handle a sword was worthy.
"All the money and might in the world are useless if you're surrounded by scheming bastards and wise fools. The blade that kills you usually comes from behind—and it's often your own damn pride that handed it to them."
As much sense as those words had made to Rickard, he couldn't accept them as they came from a mere boy. An illiterate boy who knew nothing in life but servitude. But now… he couldn't help agreeing with everything Wylis had said.
My own pride… my damn confidence… M-Maester Walys, that cunt!
Moments passed, and the last of Lord Rickard's breath escaped his lungs. Charred black, he was dead and lost, his flesh a husk.
Thud!
His corpse fell from the tied ropes into the fiery pit itself.
"More... more, yes... the others, the rest—hah!" Aerys shouted, pointing at the men Rickard and Brandon had brought with them. "Toss them in, toss them in like kindling. Let's see how they dance. In the pit. MAKE THEM DANCE FOR ME!"
The Gold Cloaks quickly used spears and pushed the men into the wildfire pit. This time, screams were loud and blood-curdling. It was exactly what the King wanted.
Lacking much energy, Brandon didn't roar or flail his legs anymore. He just waited for his turn.
"The pup! Yes, yes, the pup. Drag him closer—closer! Let's peel his skin with flame, let him howl. Release him, chase him, let him run on burning feet. Hah! No more wolf now. Just a dog!"
"Your Grace…"
Right then, Ser Barristan stepped in front of the throne and knelt on one knee.
"Kneeling, kneeling—why are you kneeling, Ser Barristan? You think that saves him? No... no, no, no. Burn the wretch. BURN HIM!"
"Your Grace, may I speak?"
"I want him in flames!"
"He's crucial to finding Wylis, Your Grace!" Ser Barristan responded in a rush. "Ser Wylis was Brandon's squire—they grew up side by side, near as kin. If he hears Brandon is in peril, he'll come. Of that, I've little doubt."
______________________
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