Daenerys was wrong — she had not returned to eighteen years ago, but had "traveled" back nineteen years.
"Your Grace, Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna. Many nobles from Harrenhal witnessed it. You are not only sheltering and protecting the prince, you have imprisoned those who made proper appeals to you, like Brandon and many other lords, and now you intend to burn us. How can this be?"
Beneath the Iron Throne, a man in jet-black plate armor, long-faced with black hair, his beard and mustache standing on end, his eyes blazing red, threw out his chest and roared.
"Rickard Stark, you are the vilest, vilest scoundrel!"
Aerys leaned forward, pointing at the Warden of the North, and spat the curse loudly: "I see through your plot. You seek to overturn my rule, to seize my throne!"
"Ugh, so insane." Daenerys pressed a hand to her forehead.
Everyone knew how straightforward and honest the Starks were; any old charge of 'high treason' or 'assaulting the king' would make more sense than accusing Rickard Stark of plotting to usurp the crown.
As expected, the broad-shouldered Rickard, fierce as a black bear, rounded his eyes and bellowed, "Your Grace, I only wish to have my son and daughter back. How does that mean I want to overthrow you?"
"Hah. My son Rhaegar has been missing since Harrenhal; it must be you. You had your whore daughter seduce him, you lured him away somewhere and did him harm. You covet the Iron Throne; first you must remove the brave and battle-hardened Rhaegar, then you would use his missing daughter as a pretext to rise against me. You call me the Mad King behind my back, thinking I do not know?"
"Am I mad? Even if I am, it's nothing compared to the madness of you traitors, who dare plot to overturn the True Dragon dynasty established by Aegon the Conqueror."
The Mad King's thin lips fluttered rapidly; his beard, long down to his belly, trembled violently. His eyes were full of resentment and mania.
The Mad King's imagination.
Daenerys froze.
Though the Mad King was paranoid, this "subjects harmed me" line of thinking — it actually had a certain logic to it!
"Your Grace, do not slander me! My daughter Lyanna is already betrothed to Robert Baratheon; everyone knows this. How could I sully the honor of House Stark and make her—make her seduce—"
The word "seduce" was too sharp to fall on the ears of a doting father. Rickard's hand went to the hilt of his sword in anger — he had already laid it against the pommel.
"Honor? House Stark lost its honor the moment you began to cast off your liege." Aerys sneered.
"Your Grace, the moment I received your command I set out at once from Winterfell, riding day and night across thousands of miles to come to King's Landing. I came alone with only a few guards; I brought no northern vassals. Does that not prove my loyalty?" Rickard said, grief and indignation in his voice.
He continued, explaining: "Prince Rhaegar had the White Bull, Dawn, and several other white knights about him — how could we possibly have murdered him without anyone knowing? I am in the North; I have heard that some say they saw His Highness at the Tower of Joy in Dorne. If Your Grace doubts it, you can send men to Dorne to see."
The Mad King of course knew Rhaegar was not dead; he simply piled charge upon charge — and yet he had no real proof, which was why he put forward such a nonsense excuse that not even a ghost would believe.
"Your son Brandon rode into the Red Keep, drew his sword and shouted, 'Rhaegar, come out and die!' You cannot deny that, can you? I arrested him on the charge of conspiring to murder the crown prince. What's the problem?" the Mad King said coldly.
That was at least a normal accusation — far more believable than the earlier 'using your daughter to seduce and murder Rhaegar' charge.
Rickard could only confess helplessly: "Your Grace, Brandon acted on impulse. He was only too worried for his sister; he never truly meant to kill the prince."
"Hmph. Since you admit he erred, then I may punish him as I see fit," the Mad King sneered.
"Your Grace, how do you intend to deal with him?" Rickard asked through clenched fury.
"Attempted murder of the crown prince is a crime a thousand deaths could not atone for, hahahaha!"
The Mad King had no subtlety; he laughed triumphantly.
Brandon was reckless enough.
Aerys's Targaryen 'mad blood' had fully awakened; the name Mad King had been feared across the realm for more than ten years.
Knowing the king was mad, he still rode into the Red Keep, drew his sword and cried out for Rhaegar to come out and die — what, did he think the king's madness was a sham, that he would not truly strike?
According to the official line, Brandon had awakened the Stark family's running wolf blood.
Like Lyanna, he had lost reason, become hotheaded and rash, acting without thought for consequences.
"Your Grace, my son is guilty, but he only drew his sword and roared at the king; he took no real action. Death is too harsh a sentence, is it not?" Rickard said, grief-stricken.
A malicious smile tugged at the corners of the Mad King's mouth; half-smile, half-sneer, he said, "I can show mercy. I will allow him to don the black. The Wall is next to Winterfell; he would be going home, in a way."
Daenerys studied the Mad King on the Iron Throne and suddenly felt that his initial aim had been only to get rid of Brandon.
All this about Lyanna seducing Rhaegar, Rhaegar's death — it was all guiding the Starks step by step into admitting Brandon's crime of drawing a sword to harm the prince.
Convicting Brandon did not mean killing him; it meant making him obediently don the black.
But why make Brandon wear the black?
Daenerys was not certain.
She could not tell whether the Mad King was purely insane, or if there was a political calculation behind it: Brandon was the heir to the Lordship of Winterfell and formed the core of the northern–riverlands alliance — his marriage to Catelyn was part of that.
If Brandon were forced to don the black in dishonor, the Stark–Tully alliance could not continue.
They could not simply replace Brandon with Eddard.
If the wolf–fish alliance failed, the fish, the eagle (Arryn), and the wolf — the iron triangle — could not form.
The northern lord's righteous anger gradually receded; his voice grew calm yet unusually resolute: "Your Grace, regarding my son Brandon Stark's alleged crime, I demand trial by combat."
The twisted grin on the gaunt king's face froze like sour milk curdling.
"Rickard, letting him put on the black is the greatest mercy I can grant, and it is the best outcome for you."
Aerys's beard, the veins in his hands, his gaunt frame all trembled, as if a beast inside him was battering at its cage, about to burst free.
"Your Grace, Brandon is innocent. We will not plead guilty. We have the right to demand trial by combat. To die honorably in battle is better than living without honor," Rickard said, his eyes cold.
"Hehehe." Iris pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a quiet laugh.
"You must have thought that since Arthur Dayne isn't in the Red Keep, you actually stood a chance, didn't you?"
"Guards, go to the dungeon and bring Brandon here."
Soon, Dany saw Brandon the Bloodied Sword.
He had black hair and black eyes, a square face with a strong nose, tall and broad-shouldered, radiating energy and masculine strength.
Though his face was covered in grime and his clothes were filthy, there was still an unmistakable air of pride about him. He walked into the throne room with his head held high, chest out, and not a trace of fear in his expression.
A true man, brimming with testosterone.
No wonder Ashara fell in love with him. Compared to the calm and somewhat world-weary Barristan, this young man was the perfect choice for a first love.
Yes—old Barristan and Eddard were the kind of honest men you'd marry and settle down with, but someone like Brandon was made for passion.
Brandon was tied to a marble pillar engraved with bronze dragon reliefs before the throne.
His legs were bound tightly with hemp rope, his hands shackled, and a leather collar fastened around his neck, chained to the pillar.
Clang!
Under Brandon and Rickard's confused gazes, the Mad King turned and pulled the longsword from the White Knight Jaime's waist, tossing it down the steps of the throne. The sword clattered and rolled across the floor, finally coming to rest just two steps away from Brandon.
Then, four guards rushed in, seized Rickard without explanation, and bound him, hoisting him up on another pillar.
"Your Grace, what are you doing?" Rickard asked in shock, his voice tinged with dread.
"Didn't you ask for a trial by combat?" the Mad King replied, puzzled.
"But you've tied my hands and feet and hung me in the air. How am I supposed to fight like this?" Rickard said.
"Oh, perhaps you misunderstood. My champion for this trial isn't a White Knight—it's something that better represents the true dragon… fire!"
The Mad King slapped his forehead and burst into wild laughter.
"Fire?"
In a moment, everyone understood what he intended.
The pyromancers brought in several jars of green liquid—wildfire—and set it ablaze beneath Rickard.
"Rickard," the Mad King said with a grin, "if you can bathe in wildfire and survive, I'll admit defeat, and everyone will go free. But if you are guilty, the fire will serve as my judgment."
"No—!" Brandon's face twisted in horror as he thrashed violently against his bonds, screaming, "Your Grace, kill me instead! My father had nothing to do with Rhaegar's death! Let him go!"
"Ah, such mercy I have," the Mad King sighed theatrically, spouting nonsense with perfect seriousness. "Brandon, the sword is right at your feet. If you're truly a filial son, pick it up, cut your bonds, and save your father."
Boom!
Flames turned the Great Hall a sickly shade of green, casting their glow over every face.
"Ahhh—!" Rickard's screams no longer sounded human.
He had donned full steel armor for the trial, which meant the fire didn't burn his body directly. Instead, it cooked him alive inside, like meat on an iron grill.
"No! Father!" Brandon's eyes turned bloodshot, his face flushed purple, tears of blood streaming from the corners of his eyes.
His father struggled in the wildfire; he struggled against the leather collar crushing his throat.
Brandon lunged forward, stretching his arms as far as he could, desperately trying to reach the sword on the floor—but the collar only tightened. His neck snapped before he could get there.
The smell of burning flesh filled the hall, the crackling of sizzling fat unnaturally loud. Rickard was roasted alive until the fat burst and dripped down in streams.
"Hhhh—hhh—" Brandon's eyes burst with blood, and his breathing turned into a demonic rasp, yet he still fought to move forward, reaching for that sword.
Then he strangled himself to death.
The Mad King watched the entire spectacle with delight. The guards looked on, their eyes filled with morbid curiosity, as if they were enjoying a gruesome play.
Only Ser Jaime Lannister, the White Knight, appeared tormented—his face a mix of pain and fury. Several times he took a step forward, only to retreat again to the Mad King's side.
The Mad King noticed Jaime's inner struggle and seemed perversely thrilled by it, grinning wider and wider.
"Rickard has lost. I've won this trial by combat," the Mad King said with a twisted smile, turning to the young knight. "Brandon had allies—Kyle, Elbert, and Joffrey. Jaime, go fetch them. I'm going to burn them all!"
The four young nobles who had accompanied Brandon to King's Landing to confront Rhaegar were all scions of great houses.
Among them, Elbert Arryn was the direct nephew and heir of Jon Arryn, the famed "Father of the Realm."
His death later drove Jon Arryn to marry Lysa Tully.
In that one act, the Mad King had tortured to death the heirs of two of the Seven Kingdoms.
Such cruelty and madness—
Dany was certain the Mad King had developed the Targaryen "mad blood" to an unprecedented level.
Then a chill crept over her. She was his direct descendant—what if she carried that same madness within her?
After consuming the weirwood seed paste, all her latent gifts had awakened. Did that include the "mad blood"?
How terrifying.
"This is our kingdom! Leave! Leave!"
As that thought passed through her mind, the Three-Eyed Raven's will swept toward her.
When Dany looked up, she saw Bran standing beside Brandon, his face filled with sorrow. Brynden watched her as well, and countless other figures appeared—all of them had once witnessed the Mad King's "masterpiece," just as she had.
They all turned their gaze upon her, and in an instant, their combined will blasted Dany out of that fragment of time.
(End of Chapter)
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