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Just as the flames roasting Lord Rickard burned most fiercely, illuminating his red-hot armor like a hellish forge, the doors of the hall were pushed open again.
Brandon Stark was shoved in roughly. The sight before him instantly froze his blood—his majestic father, the Warden of the North, was suspended above raging fire like prey being cooked.
Brandon's hands were locked tightly behind his back with iron shackles. A water-soaked leather cord was looped around his neck, the other end connected to a bizarre metal contraption with an intricate winch—a torture device the Mad King had specially purchased from Tyroshi merchants, designed specifically to torment unruly slaves. His entire body was restrained; only his feet could move with difficulty.
High upon the Iron Throne, Aerys II looked down at all this, a sickly flush of excitement rising on his pale face. He made a gesture, and a guard threw Brandon's sword onto the stone floor with a clang. It was placed precisely in front of his line of sight, clearly visible, yet absolutely unreachable no matter how hard he tried to stretch his feet.
"Little wolf pup," the Mad King's voice carried a viper-like hiss, exceptionally clear in the silent hall. "See that sword? Pick it up, pick it up... and you can save your father."
This sentence ignited the last shred of Brandon's reason. He didn't even have time to curse the Mad King.
Brandon let out a roar mixed with despair, rage, and pain. All pride, all strategy vanished, leaving only the most primal instinct—he had to get that sword! He lunged forward violently, his body twisting into an agonizing angle, using all his strength to try and hook that hope inches away with the tip of his toe.
However, with every desperate struggle Brandon made, every lunge forward, the wet leather cord around his neck tightened abruptly by a notch under the rotation of the mechanical device behind him!
"Pick it up!" The Mad King urged excitedly from the high platform, as if watching a magnificent performance. "Hurry up and pick it up! Your father is waiting for you!"
Every urge from Aerys lashed at Brandon like a whip.
The more frantically Brandon exerted himself, the tighter the cord strangled his throat, eventually cutting deep into his flesh and completely cutting off his air. His face turned from angry crimson to suffocated purple, his eyeballs bulging horribly, covered in bloodshot veins.
Under the malicious teasing of this mad king, the heir of House Stark strangled himself alive in endless pain and struggle in an attempt to save his father.
At the end of his gradually unfocused, freezing vision, his father, Lord Rickard Stark, was completely reduced to a charred husk and drifting ash in the raging wildfire.
Mad King Aerys II's maniacal laughter echoed in the Throne Room for a long time, like the hiss of a viper, celebrating the end of this tragedy he directed, blaspheming both gods and humanity.
The Mad King's "game" was not over.
His laughter stopped abruptly, and his cold gaze swept outside the hall. Soon, the other noble fathers and sons who had been detained—those who had also come with hearts set on saving their sons but ended up prisoners together—were roughly escorted in by Gold Cloaks. Their faces were written with fear and despair, having already foreseen their fates.
No trial, no words. Aerys II simply made a simple gesture.
The pyromancers stepped forward again, but this time they held not ordinary fuel, but wildfire flashing with eerie demon green. The viscous, living liquid was splashed out, then ignited.
In an instant, violent green devil fire soared into the sky, swallowing those terrified figures. Wildfire was far greedier and fiercer than ordinary fire, engulfing screams and pleas along with flesh and blood almost instantly, turning them into rolling charcoal and twisted wreckage.
The air was filled with the sickening smell of burnt flesh and the unique sulfur scent of sorcerous fire.
When the eerie green flames gradually extinguished, leaving only a mess and curling green smoke on the floor, the entire hall was dead silent except for the Mad King's inexplicable maniacal laughter and excited panting.
In the field, only one person was left alive—young Ethan Glover, squire to the heir of Winterfell, Brandon Stark. He collapsed on the ground, face deathly white, trembling all over, his mind nearly destroyed by extreme terror.
Mad King Aerys II paced up to him, his shadow completely enveloping the young man.
"Stand up, little mouse." The King's voice was soft but full of malice. "I kept you alive because I need you to take a message to the Lord of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn."
He leaned down, almost whispering, yet every word pierced Ethan's marrow like an ice pick: "Tell him to immediately execute the two wards under his care—Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End and the new Lord of Winterfell, Brandon's brother Eddard Stark—right where they are, and send their heads to King's Landing."
---
He paused, admiring Ethan's uncontrollable trembling, then added, his tone like an ultimatum:
"Otherwise, Jon Arryn's end... will be exactly the same as those in this hall today. I would be very happy to 'share' this warmth of wildfire with him."
Finished, he straightened up and waved his hand, like shooing away an insignificant bug. Two guards stepped forward, dragging the nearly limp Ethan Glover out of this Throne Room turned purgatory, to deliver the order destined to ignite the fires of war across the Seven Kingdoms.
---
Inside the towering hall of the Eyrie, even the biting mountain wind could not disperse the almost tangible anger and sorrow.
When the grievous news from King's Landing pierced Jon Arryn's ears like a bloodied dagger, the Guardian of the Vale, always known for his fairness and composure, slammed his fist onto the cold moonstone throne, knuckles instantly splitting and bleeding.
"Aerys! Mad King!!!" Jon Arryn squeezed the name through his teeth, his voice trembling with extreme rage.
The details of the atrocity eroded his reason like venom: using sons as hostages to lure their fathers into a trap; ordering executions directly without any fair trial; even blaspheming the ancient and sacred trial by combat, burning his old friend, Lord Rickard Stark, alive with that vile wildfire!
What tore his heart and gall even more was the torture-killing of Brandon—forcing a son to watch his father swallowed by fire, then using an unreachable sword to trick him into strangling himself alive!
What demonic act was this?!
In this massacre against loyalty and honor, burned to charcoal alongside them was his own heir, the future of the Vale, Elbert Arryn!
Before the grief and indignation could subside, the Mad King's final, most vicious order followed closely.
The messenger, the nearly mentally broken survivor Ethan Glover, brought Aerys's verbal message: Ordering him, Jon Arryn, to personally execute his two wards—Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark—and send their heads to King's Landing. Otherwise, the same punishment of burning by wildfire awaited him at the Eyrie.
The cold order was like the final death knell, shattering the last shred of loyalty to the Iron Throne remaining in his heart. Asking a father to raise a butcher's knife against children he viewed as his own? Asking him to betray all family, honor, and humanity?
Jon Arryn looked up. All grief and hesitation in his eyes had been replaced by burning resolve. He looked at his bannermen, who were equally shocked and outraged, his voice decisive as the indestructible rocks of the Vale:
"They not only want us to submit, they want us to stain our souls, to strangle justice and kinship with our own hands."
"Such tyranny shall not get another soldier, another grain of corn from the Vale! From this day forth, the Eyrie no longer heeds the Mad King's commands!"
Jon Arryn stood tall in the hall of the Eyrie, behind him the eternal snow-capped mountains and bottomless canyons.
His voice was no longer the initial rage, but transformed into a cold, firm determination capable of shaking mountains. He turned to the pale-faced old Maester standing by, his command striking the ground like steel:
"Maester, send ravens to the Seven Kingdoms immediately! Send word to Hoster Tully of Riverrun, Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Robert Baratheon of Storm's End—" he paused, his gaze sweeping over his two young wards beside him, continuing, "—as well as King Quellon of the Iron Islands, the 'Queen of Thorns' Olenna Redwyne of Highgarden, and Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear. Inform them all: I, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, Warden of the East, henceforth no longer recognize Aerys II Targaryen as the lawful King! His madness has stained the Iron Throne; he is unfit to rule the Seven Kingdoms! Overthrowing this tyrant is the only way for any of us to live!"
He took a deep breath, flames of righteous indignation burning in his eyes: "Send word to all my bannermen in the Vale, great and small. Tell them the monstrous crimes the Mad King committed in the Red Keep—how he mocked and burned Lord Rickard alive under the guise of trial by combat, how he forced Brandon Stark to kill himself, how he burned the nobles with wildfire—tell them everything exactly as it happened! And, convey the inhuman order he gave me word for word: Demanding I hand over the heads of my wards!"
Jon's voice reached its peak here, full of unquestionable power: "Finally, tell them my, Jon Arryn's, final decision: I will never submit to such tyranny and evil! I will raise my banner, rebel against the King's atrocities, and overthrow this cruel rule! May justice and the gods be with us!"
The old Maester hurriedly recorded every sentence, fingertips trembling slightly, knowing these words would fly from this cloud-top castle like flaming arrows shot at the Seven Kingdoms, destined to ignite a war that would sweep the world.
But other than war, there was no choice!