章 48: Trial By Fire
Late 281 False Spring
Brandon Stark
"This whole matter was shamefully done." Ned Stark spat as he contemplated the victory of the man in the arena and the utter destruction of the family that hosted him in their home.
Brandon Stark narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. The fostering in the Vale ruined him as a man of the North, and instead before him stood an Andal knight in the skin of Ned Stark. A useful personality for a vassal, certainly more tenable than the usual rowdy Northern Lords, but terrible in a peer. Brandon resolved to break Ned of this mindset before they parted at the Crossroads, but wondered if it would even take before Jon Arryn reasserted his values high as honor into Ned.
"This was a victory for the whole North that will be celebrated for a hundred generations." Brandon began a bombastic monologue to begin Ned's counter indoctrination.
His heart hoped for success, because if the worst should happen to him, Ned would inherit Winterfell and the Paramountcy of the North. An Andal in wolf's clothing could be disastrous for the dynasty, on top of being absolutely shameful.
"And would your soon to be wife feel that way?" Ned countered the counter indoctrination, "It is her cousin Lord Mormont has taken as concubine. How will you keep a good household when you say things like that about a man who's ruined her kinfolk?"
Brandon snarled at the thought. The Tully bitch had already ruined his capacity to take Salt Wives alongside his friends when they raided beyond the wall. Now she would be unbearable about the North's greatest living hero, and Brandon's personal role model and mentor?
Maybe Brandon should take a page out Lord Frey's book and breed the bitch to death…
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Early 282 Winter
Jorah Mormont
While my student took a leisurely trip though the Riverlands, I had my party making a forced march to comfortably beat the coming cold snap. I had to drop off all the Noble's along the west coast who came with me and get all my boats out of the water before the sub-zero hits. The Year of False Spring would sucker punch Westeros with the sudden return of one of the coldest winters on record, one that would freeze Blackwater Bay, let alone a stretch of sea known as the Bay of Ice. Though whinging abounded, the first signs of chill validated my brutal pace, and my former kin among the Glover's apologized as they got off on the tidal flats north of their home.
My sons had continued the expansion of Rock Hall over the years, building their bodies much the same ways I had decades prior. Their work was rougher than mine, but well ventilated, well insulated, and well heated which was all my family cared about at this point. I had 120 living children from Alyssa and my sixteen Salt Wives, on top of the wives and children of Ulfric and Galmar and my new concubine. That's a lot of bodies in our home under the stoney hill.
Ulfric came in from the outside, furs plastered with ice and snow as he fell over and shivered next to one of the coal ovens struggling to keep the entryway warm.
"Well?" I asked from my chair, dressed up to go out next if needed.
"A-all c-c-c-lear." he chattered out as his body released vapor from the rapid temperature shift.
"Good work, son." I nodded, happy I wouldn't have to go out as the next in the line to keep the vents clear.
We'd done our best when building this harbor town, but this second winter is so cold that the very young, the sick, and the very old stand little chance of survival. Even if this is a 'short' return of winter by Westeros standards, it is so bitterly cold that by this time Aerys has walls of the Red Keep lit up with Wildfire to drive the ice and snow back.
Between this Winter, two rebellions and most disastrously: Rob Stark, I can see why Lyanna Mormont would only have sixty two fighting men left on Bear Island. If I didn't have the super power of money, even healthy adults could die easily in these conditions. The coal my sailors used to weep over paying dividends.
I pat Ulfric on his wet shoulder and smiled down on him in approval, "Don't worry, son. This winter will break soon. After all, how will we war if we're all snowed in?"
It goes to show how maddeningly cold it is that even someone as 'modern' in temperament as Ulfric would rather be fighting a civil war than be out in the cold again. Whether the pyromancers succeeded in their order to overcome winter or not, winter began to break in the second turn of the year, and it is during this turn that Brandon learned what he learned of Rhaegar and Lyanna.
Put some respect on the man for braving the weather from some Northgirl strange. Fortunately for my plans, Lyanna remained unburdened of child, and coordinated with the crown prince to nicely vanish along her route to Brandon's wedding to Catelyn Tully. In a fury, Brandon abandoned the event, gathered his friends, and rode south to King's Landing to perform a strategic suicide.
By third turn of the year my liege lord Rickard Stark had the summons in hand to come to King's Landing to answer for the treason of his son and heir, similar letters distributed to the father's of Brandon's other companions, of which only my former good-father Gawen Glover refused to go, and interestingly enough this is the reason his youngest son Ethan would survive, as Aerys murdered the fathers and sons together as they arrived.
Rickard never spoke aloud about why he chose to answer the call instead of calling the banners, though I wonder if it has something to do with not wanting to condemn the sons of the North to death because of his failure to break Brandon's willful impulsiveness with a dash of not knowing Aerys firsthand and thus underestimating exactly how derailed this feudal system is right now. Either way, Rickard slogged south through the spring time slosh and mud to arrive at King's Landing at the start of the fifth turn.
I watched closely the day of the execution.
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Mid 282 Spring
Brandon Stark
Brandon screamed in horror when the pyromancers lit the fire under his father, the Lord of the North suspended from the rafters to roast, the king's champion for his trial by combat: wildfire. The Wild Wolf felt the leather cord around his neck tighten as he tried to reach the sword left just out of reach of his foot.
Though his admittedly rubbish brain cried out for the sword in sight, something in his years with Jorah Mormont stopped him from it. 'You should try not being a fool all the time. You might need the experience some day to save your life.' This situation seemed like a particularly important time to practice that advice. First time for everything.
Brandon thought about what would even happen if he managed to reach the sword with out the Tyroshi torture device behind his neck strangling him, and realized that even if he manage to get the sword and cut himself free, what could he actually do to save his father? The man is atop a field of wildfire. To get to him would just burn Brandon up, so why the sword? Was it just there to mock him?
His father was a lost cause, so what could Brandon do? He pulled on the chains around his wrists, and they failed to break. Obviously. But then an idea struck, he needed to get his hands behind his head, but couldn't while they were tied behind his back. In a do or die moment, Brandon jumped pulling his knees as high as he could get them and yanking his hands under his ass and feet.
With the whole court watching the Lord of the North cook in his armor, Brandon accomplished the first step to taking back his autonomy. Seemingly the only man in the room who noticed was one of the Kingsguard, but the man made no mention to anyone of the change even as Brandon reached over his head and felt out the release on the strangling device. There was a brief moment of horror when his fingers tightened the cord further, but a reverse of the motion freed the Wild Wolf from his collar.
Crying out from the overwhelming joy, Brandon snatched up the sword. He knew he had no chance of fighting out of the Red Keep unarmored and hands still chained, but Brandon didn't want to escape. How could he live on now after his foolishness condemned so many good men, including his own father to torturous death? Instead of running away from the Iron Throne, Brandon ran at it. Howling like the Wild Wolf they'd always called him he somehow managed to knock one of the two Kingsguard onto his ass with a flying kick like the one he'd seen his mentor deliver at Harrenhal.
The pure and powerful emotion kept Brandon's frail body going, and seemingly his withered arms were as strong as the other White Cloak, an old man. Brandon fell into the zone as he focus on cutting the armored man down, or more precisely sought out a gap to pierce. Seeing an opening, he grabbed his blade halfway down to guide the point home, and froze.
The sword was there to mock him. It was blunt.
The enormity of that revelation crushed Brandon, almost enough to make the pain of the old man's sword entering his guts not register. The White Cloak twisted and pulled away from the young man, and Brandon wanted to collapse and try to press down on his torn open belly. He wanted to weep.
But more than anything he wanted the cackling disgusting creature sitting on that horrid chair of swords to just shut the fuck up.
In one final spurt of effort, Brandon cocked back his arm and kept his feet from slipping on his own blood. He hurled that blunt sword with all he had up at the throne and for a precious moment the noise and the pain fell away as he watched the sword soar over the steps of the Iron Throne.
The Mad King screamed and flailed his hands, trying and succeeding in striking the incoming weapon with his overgrown fingernails. Those disgusting nails snapped when the sword struck, but they diverted the perfect sternum shot up and away, and the king shrieked as the point bounced off his collar. One would think the king was the one with the mortal wound from the wails, but alas, Brandon Stark bore the death blow.
Finally slipping on his blood, Brandon fell hard, and the agony returned. He clenched his jaw as he snorted and gagged, but refused to scream like the weak thing atop the throne. He kept his eyes on the man, hoping he would flail and impale himself on the ridiculous chair, but many years atop it lent the crazed beast some measure of poise and familiarity with its dangers.
Soon enough, the ragged hole in his belly bled enough, and Brandon felt himself slipping away. In his final thought he wondered if anyone was truly proud of him.
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Finally got to one of the big scenes I imagined early on for this fic.
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