Brandon Stark and his companions—Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Jeffory Mallister—after a long and dusty journey, carrying the cold and fury of the North, finally arrived in King's Landing.
Ignoring the inspections at the city gates, they were like five whirlwinds of vengeance, galloping straight to the towering gates of the Red Keep. Disregarding the Royal Guards trying to stop them, they forcibly charged into the castle's outer courtyard.
Brandon reined in his panting warhorse, standing tall beneath the dragon-den-like Red Keep. His face, twisted with rage, turned toward the scarlet walls, and with all his strength, he let out a deafening roar: "Rhaegar! Targaryen! Get out here! You dared touch my sister; now come out and face me like a man! I challenge you to a duel! Come out and die!"
His furious challenge echoed through the courtyard, startling a flock of ravens.
Prince Rhaegar was not in the Red Keep at this moment, but another Targaryen—"Mad King" Aerys II—was listening to everything from the shadows.
The King's response was more biting than the northern wind. He did not show himself but issued a cold decree through his Hand and the Kingsguard: Arrest these northern traitors roaring in the court for treason and conspiracy to murder the Crown Prince.
In an instant, hundreds of Gold Cloaks surged from all directions, blades drawn and spears like a forest, tightly encircling the five in the center. Even more suffocating, three Kingsguard in white armor and cloaks approached step by step like cold stone statues.
Although Brandon and his companions were brave and battle-hardened knights who drew their swords in unyielding resistance, how could five withstand hundreds of times their number and three of the realm's top swordsmen?
The fierce combat was brief and desperate. In the end, they were forcibly disarmed, brutally knocked to the ground, bound tightly with cold chains and rough ropes like the basest criminals, dragged from the courtyard, and thrown into the dark, damp, sunless dungeons beneath the Red Keep.
The heavy iron door slammed shut behind them, locking away all anger and hope.
The Mad King's decree then spread like a shadow in all directions: He ordered the fathers of these "traitors" to depart immediately for King's Landing to personally face royal interrogation.
For the lives of their sons, every father who received this ultimatum-like edict fell into despair and struggle, ultimately having to embark on the uncertain journey south.
Lord Rickard Stark was no exception.
Inside the hall of Riverrun, Lord Hoster Tully furrowed his brows tightly, trying his best to dissuade him. "Aerys is the Mad King! His actions cannot be judged by reason! Rickard, if you go this time, who can guarantee he won't detain you as well? That would be walking into a trap!"
Lord Rickard's face was etched with exhaustion and helplessness. He shrugged heavily, his voice full of a father's resolve and bitterness. "Then what else can I do, Hoster? Watch my son, my heir, be executed by that madman on trumped-up charges?"
Young Eddard Stark stepped forward abruptly, his face written with determination and worry. "Father, I will go too!"
"No!" Lord Rickard interrupted him decisively, pressing his hands heavily on Eddard's shoulders, his gaze heavy as the bedrock of Winterfell. "Listen, Ned. If I go and don't come back... you are the Lord of Winterfell. House Stark cannot be without a successor!"
Eddard's throat bobbed; all words were blocked by this heavy responsibility.
Lord Rickard continued to instruct, his tone rapid and unquestionable. "The North cannot be without a Warden; Winterfell cannot be without a Stark! Lord Hoster is right; this is a gamble. If... if the worst happens, do not hesitate. Go find Jon Arryn immediately, then return to the North at full speed! You must survive and protect our family."
Before leaving, Lord Rickard handed the ancestral greatsword Ice to Eddard, refusing his son's decline, and said solemnly, "This is the ancestral sword of House Stark. I leave it with you for now. In case I don't return, it is yours! You must pass it down generation to generation!"
Without waiting for Eddard's reply, Lord Rickard spurred his horse and left.
Lord Rickard felt there was a high probability he would not return, but he had to go!
---
The worst expectations eventually turned into cold reality.
Lord Rickard and his brave son Brandon, along with several other fathers who came to save their sons, did not receive any fair trial. Instead, they were chained together and escorted to the grim execution ground within the Red Keep. They were forced to kneel on the hard stone floor, rough ropes cutting deep into their wrists. Behind them stood the King's executioner and a group of expressionless Gold Cloaks.
On the high platform, Mad King Aerys II looked down at all this, a twisted sneer on his pale face. His voice, shrill and excited, echoed in the dead silence:
"Traitors! You ambitious traitors! By the order of the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! Protector of the Realm! His Grace King Aerys II Targaryen, I sentence you to death..."
"I demand a trial by combat!" A thunderous roar brazenly interrupted the King's sentence.
---
Lord Rickard Stark jerked his head up. Even in desperate straits, his gaze remained unyielding as the northern ice, his voice containing the final right granted to him by ancient and sacred tradition. "According to the laws handed down by the Andals for thousands of years, I demand to prove my innocence through combat in the name of the gods!"
Dead silence fell over the field. Everyone held their breath and looked toward the King.
Aerys II's words stopped abruptly. He stared coldly down at the Lord who dared to challenge his authority, his gaze like a viper measuring its prey's dying struggle. A moment later, a strange and terrifying laughter erupted from his throat—not of joy, but a vent of utter madness and cruelty.
"Haha... Hahaha! Granted!" He laughed, leaning back and forth as if he had heard an incredibly funny joke, tears almost coming to his eyes. "I grant your request! Let the gods... decide!"
His voice echoed over the empty execution ground, full of chilling mockery and malice.
The duel was scheduled for noon the next day.
Lord Rickard Stark donned his best steel armor, the plates shining with a cold, hard luster in the dim corridor. Fully armed, he silently recited the ancient warrior's prayer, ready to fight a fair (or so he hoped) duel with a knight of the Kingsguard for his honor and his son's life.
He imagined the battlefield would be an open square, under the sun, where life and death would be decided by martial skill and the will of the gods.
When he was led by guards into the grim and magnificent Throne Room, a chill seized him instantly.
The towering dome cast heavy shadows. Silent courtiers and Gold Cloaks lined both sides, the air thick with oppression and unease.
In the distance, the Iron Throne, forged from a thousand swords, stood hideously on the high platform, and King Aerys sat in it like a lurking spider.
Just as Lord Stark stepped into the center of the hall, before he could bow to the King, several burly guards swarmed him, roughly twisting his arms behind his back and binding his wrists tightly with cold chains again!
Caught off guard, Lord Rickard struggled violently, his armor clanking. He looked up sharply, his angry roar shaking the silent hall:
"What are you doing?! Your Grace personally promised a trial by combat! Why bind me?! This violates sacred law and promises!"
His question echoed between the four walls of the Throne Room but received only a trace of mocking coldness in the mad gaze from the high platform.
Lord Rickard was dragged roughly to the center of the hall. Cold chains bound his hands, hoisting him high beneath the gloomy rafters. He struggled with all his might, armor screeching against chains, but could not break free from this shameful restraint.
High upon the Iron Throne, Aerys II's mouth twisted, mad fire flickering in his eyes. He waved his hand lightly. Two pyromancers in dark red robes stepped forward silently, lighting a fire of interwoven ghostly blue and orange-red in the bizarre brazier they brought.
"Fire—" The Mad King's voice was shrill and excited, echoing in the hall. "—is the champion of House Targaryen! Lord Rickard, didn't you demand a trial by combat? Now, the time to prove your innocence has come—you must... hahahaha, not burn!"
Like performing some precise and terrifying ritual, the pyromancers manipulated the flames to slowly scorch the suspended Lord of the North. They carefully fanned the fire back and forth, letting the scorching air lick his entire body evenly and meticulously.
Lord Rickard's cloak curled and blackened first, turning into flying fire butterflies; then his surcoat carbonized and peeled off in the high heat. Soon, only a red-hot suit of armor and drifting ash remained on him. His breastplate gradually turned cherry-red, like metal burning in a forge; the gold inlaid on his spurs couldn't withstand the terrifying heat, melting into scalding liquid gold, dripping drop by drop into the flames below with soft sizzles.
Throughout the process, Aerys II erupted in bursts of maniacal laughter, shrill and horrifying, full of cruel pleasure.
Inside the hall, almost all the named nobles of King's Landing were present. Like statues fixed by invisible shackles, they stood stiffly on both sides, luxurious velvet and brocade wrapping their bodies cold with fear. Blood had drained from every face, leaving a deathly pallor. Some pursed their lips tightly, eyes lowered, staring dead at the intricate stone patterns on the floor as if finding salvation there; some had hands trembling uncontrollably in their sleeves, cold sweat seeping from their foreheads; others felt their stomachs turn, forcibly suppressing the urge to vomit.
The air was filled with the terrible smell of burnt flesh and silent terror. Their eyes clearly reflected the body struggling painfully in the fire until it fell silent; their ears were filled with the King's mad and piercing laughter. Though their hearts were filled with unbearable pity, anger, and shock, not a single person—no duke, earl, or knight—dared to take that step forward and utter a word of protest.
The shadow of the Iron Throne and the might of the Mad King were like a giant hand strangling everyone's throat, crushing conscience and courage completely. They could only stand there, becoming silent witnesses to this atrocity, and cowardly accomplices.
Among the Kingsguard, "The Bold" Barristan Selmy squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear watching this tragedy that blasphemed gods and honor.
Jaime Lannister, who had not been a Kingsguard for long, was pale, his lips trembling uncontrollably. He seemed to want to step forward and say something. But another white-cloaked knight beside him grabbed his arm swiftly and forcefully, shaking his head silently, his eyes full of warning and helpless sorrow.