The Throne Room.
As the news of Lord Rickard's request for a Trial by Combat spread, hundreds of lords and nobles gathered together, coming to witness the duel.
"Bring the man forward!"
Aerys leaned forward, unable to wait any longer to inflict torture.
Lord Rickard entered the hall fully armed in his armor, under the watch of two Kingsguard.
His expression was heavy, with a deep gloom gathered between his brows.
Maester Aemon had kept his word, pleading with the King to excuse his crimes.
In the end, the King gave him two choices.
Either imprisonment, trial, and beheading, or confession, submission to the law, and being sent to the Wall.
Though life at the Wall was harsh, it was at least a way to survive.
"I cannot go to the Wall!"
Lord Rickard's gaze became resolute; for the sake of his eldest son, Brandon, he could not take the black.
If he confessed his guilt, no one would be able to clear Brandon's name.
Given the Mad King's insanity, the best Brandon could hope for would be to accompany him to the Wall.
His Second Son, Eddard, had been raised by Lord Jon Arryn and had already lost the wildness of House Stark, draping an eagle's skin over wolf bones.
He had to protect Brandon and ensure that Brandon could return safely to Winterfell.
"Alas!"
Maester Aemon shook his head gently and sighed with regret.
Lord Rickard had chosen a path to death.
Daeron, wearing a suit of boiled leather armor and holding Dark Sister, showed no trace of sympathy in his eyes.
The old wolf had personally cut off his own path to survival.
As a believer in the Old Gods, you proposed a Trial by Combat under the Faith of the Seven; if you don't die, who will?
Aerys shouted excitedly, "Rickard, since you proposed a Trial by Combat, I shall find a well-matched opponent for you."
Saying this, he clapped his hands loudly, signaling for the torture devices to be brought out.
Several Alchemists clad in green robes pushed a rack-like object into the corner of the hall.
One of them wore a scarf that covered everything below his mouth.
It was Wisdom Rossart, whose tongue had been cut out.
With a single glance from Daeron, Wisdom Rossart shuddered all over and stood frozen in place, not daring to move.
"Father, let me fight."
He stepped out from the crowd, Dark Sister lightly tapping against the floor.
The Starks did not deserve sympathy, but they needed to die with value.
If he let his father play out the original scene of using wildfire instead of a champion and strangling the "Wild Wolf" Brandon with a rope, the Iron Throne would lose its moral ground even if it was in the right.
Everyone watching would be labeled a coward.
Since it was a Trial by Combat, it should be an honorable duel, taking the opponent's head with his own hands.
"Oh?"
Aerys was taken aback, feeling quite reluctant, but seeing the ancestral sword in his Second Son's hand, other thoughts surfaced in his mind.
He was mad, not stupid.
His Second Son mastered Life Force and was one of the top warriors in the Seven Kingdoms.
Lord Rickard was past middle age and had not mastered Life Force; his strength was only so-so.
Having his Second Son slay him with the ancestral sword "Dark Sister" seemed like an entertaining way to display their power.
Aerys hesitated for a long time before saying irritably, "Then you shall do it. Cut off this rebel's head and present it to me."
He wasn't sure if his Second Son would obey, so he went along with him for now.
Daeron: "No problem."
Rickard's face lit up with joy; he had thought the Mad King was going to go back on his word and intentionally torture him.
He hadn't expected such a turn of events—the opponent for the Trial by Combat was just a green boy.
Maester Aemon stepped forward and announced the Iron Throne's charges against Lord Rickard and his eldest son Brandon, accusing Lord Rickard of conspiring with the Lords of three other regions with the intent to rebel and usurp the throne.
Now, a Trial by Combat would determine whether Lord Rickard was guilty.
*Whoosh!*
The hundreds of lords and nobles broke into a flurry of discussion, all turning their gazes toward Lord Rickard.
No one had expected House Stark to have thoughts of rebellion.
But the facts were indeed so.
The Trial by Combat began.
Daeron gripped Dark Sister with both hands, sized up his opponent, and said speechlessly, "You won't use a two-handed greatsword?"
Lord Rickard held a bastard sword, assuming a standard combat stance.
House Stark's greatsword, "Ice," was also a legendary valyrian steel sword.
But unfortunately, few in House Stark could swing that door-like ancestral blade.
"Less talk, boy!"
Lord Rickard was fully concentrated, searching for his opponent's weaknesses.
Just then, Aerys pulled another stunt.
He ordered Brandon and the other noble sons who had come south to King's Landing to be brought out, and he tied a rope around Brandon's neck, tethering him to a stone pillar in the hall like a dog.
Aerys laughed loudly, "The father fights the Trial by Combat while the son watches from below."
Even Daeron rolled his eyes, having to admit that his father Aerys and his elder brother Rhaegar were both masters of drama.
They seemed determined to make sure the lords of the Seven Kingdoms saw how mentally unstable they were.
"Let me go! Let me take the Trial by Combat for my father!"
Brandon had been kept in a daze, but seeing his father take the field with a sword, he immediately roared with excitement.
Having experienced the Tourney at Harrenhal, he knew the Dragon Prince Daeron's combat prowess all too well.
His father would surely die.
Albert and the others were no better off; a month of imprisonment, hunger, and darkness had long since crushed their nerves.
They had thought they were being brought out of the dungeon to be released.
Seeing Lord Rickard and Daeron engaged in a Trial by Combat, their psychological defenses instantly collapsed, and the agony tortured them until they were broken.
There was nothing left to say; let the fight begin.
Daeron didn't even use both hands to hold the sword; he channeled the Life Seed within him, simultaneously augmenting his body and Dark Sister with Life Force.
Lord Rickard started with a war cry, raising his longsword above his head and delivering a heavy downward cleave.
No matter how excellent the valyrian steel sword "Dark Sister" was, it was only a slender one-handed sword.
As everyone knew, a one-handed sword could not block such a heavy strike.
Daeron's body moved like a ghost; without waiting for the sword to descend, he flashed to Lord Rickard's side and swept Dark Sister across.
*Screech!*
Lord Rickard wore steel plate over chainmail, but the double layer of protection was like two sheets of paper before Dark Sister's blade, sliced through like a hot knife through butter.
Lord Rickard's downward strike froze.
Looking down, he saw a smooth gash cut through both layers of armor, the flesh beneath sliced open simultaneously as blood surged out and soaked into his leg guards.
"How is this possible?"
Lord Rickard's pupils contracted violently.
Even his family's greatsword, "Ice," while capable of violently breaking through steel plate, could not possibly create such a smooth cut.
"Ah!!"
Daeron didn't say a word; he switched from a two-handed grip to a single-handed one, moving back and forth with casual ease, each swing of his sword so fast the human eye could not catch it, leaving wound after wound on his opponent's body.
He did not kill him directly but slowly sliced open his flesh, letting him grow numb bit by bit from blood loss, finally suffocating in fear.
As this scene played out before the lords and nobles, none felt it was madness; there was only blood-pumping excitement and intense admiration.
It was simply because Daeron's fighting style was too magnificent.
Wearing only boiled leather armor and holding the ancestral sword "Dark Sister" in one hand, he left the fully armored Lord of Winterfell with no power to resist, parrying helplessly like a stray dog.
His footsteps were light and silent; his movements were swift and decisive.
Whenever his opponent tried to counterattack, he would easily dodge and raise his sword to open another gash on him.
His combat was like the aesthetics of violence.
It was as if he were treating Lord Stark like a fish on a chopping block—gutting, skinning, and slicing him with speed that was never chaotic—
Whenever his opponent was too weak to resist, he would stop and wait for him to regain his strength.
When he attacked again, he would strike back without mercy.
Within this cruelty masked by elegance, there actually revealed a sort of fair and just knightly spirit.
Daeron leaned Dark Sister against the ground and said, "Surrender now, and you can still take the black and go to the Wall to atone for your sins."
"No—impossible—"
Lord Rickard was covered in blood, his consciousness fading, supported only by the conviction to protect his eldest son.
Daeron acknowledged his will and nodded, "I will give you a quick end."
At that moment, Brynden, with the rope around his neck, struggled frantically, his neck rubbed raw and bloody, his face covered in tears as he screamed piercingly, "Release my father! Let me take the Trial by Combat with you!"
Daeron remained silent, pressing his sword against Rickard's heart.
Brynden became even more agitated, starting with threats to spare his father, then turning to humble pleas when threats failed, and finally to bitter curses when pleas went unanswered.
In just a few seconds, he had exhausted every insult he had accumulated in a lifetime.
Daeron lunged the sword tip forward, easily piercing the two layers of armor as a trickle of blood flowed along the unique rippled patterns of the valyrian steel.
"Bastard! I'll kill you!"
Brandon's eyes nearly burst from their sockets as he mustered all his Life Force, snapping the rope with a violent tug and charging toward the ruthless executioner.
"No!"
In a final burst of strength, Lord Rickard tried to stop his son's impulsive act.
Daeron looked away and swung Dark Sister in a level arc.
With a thud, Brandon was decapitated; his large head fell to the ground and rolled right in front of Lord Rickard.
The headless corpse sprayed blood and, following the momentum of its run, collapsed powerlessly onto the floor.
"No!!"
Lord Rickard fell to his knees with a thud, trying to cradle his son's head, but his hands hesitated to draw near.
"When you intended to rebel, you should have expected this day."
Daeron's voice was flat as he moved behind Lord Rickard and pressed his sword against the back of his head.
Lord Rickard's spirit had collapsed; he was already powerless to resist.
Daeron looked around; the hall full of lords and nobles was hushed, everyone watching the pivotal moment of the traitor's execution.
He knew his objective had been achieved.
Lord Rickard intended to rebel and tried to use the Trial by Combat to argue his innocence.
His son, Brynden, who was also guilty, interfered with the progress of the Trial by Combat; failing to save his father, he was decapitated.
After today, House Stark's reputation would be utterly ruined.
"Close your eyes; it is normal to feel short of breath."
Daeron retracted his gaze and gave a kind reminder.
In the final moment of his life, Lord Rickard picked up his son's head and closed his eyes tightly in absolute agony.
*Puchi!*
Dark Sister pierced through Stark's head, the slender blade exiting through his mouth, bringing him eternal darkness.
Daeron counted three seconds before pulling out his sword.
As Lord Rickard's corpse fell to the ground, the hundreds of lords and nobles felt none of the fear from the original timeline; there was only the immense excitement of watching a Trial by Combat as they cheered and Applauded for the final victor.
"Hahaha—"
Aerys was immersed in the moment, believing the cheers were for him, and sent men to cut off the heads of the Stark father and son to be placed on spears and hung on the city walls.
Daeron wiped Dark Sister, ignoring the shouts of the people around him as he walked toward the row of kneeling noble sons.
To pull up weeds, one must remove the roots; to kill a man, one must break his heart.
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