Rickard Stark stood naked with his back to the gate, shivering in the night time air of the North. He took a look around, attempting to catch hold of one of the castle residents to ask them what was happening. But he found the grounds empty, and through the windows of the castle walls there stood no men, no women nor children. He tucked his hands under his arms, attempting to ward the cold from his body, to save his fingers, though his manhood felt several bites.
Shivering, he moved onward through whatever snow coated the grounds; he soon reached the wide arch that led to the Great Hall, stumbling forward to shove the doors open. The iron handles stood ice cold, sentries permitting no entry. He looked about frantically, searching for the entrance to his chamber tower. As he took the long walk across the yard, he happened to notice the doors to the Stark Crypt wide open, with fresh tracks leading down the stairs.
Detouring, he shuffled towards the crypt. His toes had long abandoned feeling and he had given up on warmth altogether. Even the walls, usually full of hot water to warm the castle, held no heat. He took tentative steps down the stairs, finding a lit torch in the bracket off to the side. He eyed it with apprehension. “Fire,” he whispered, though he knew it to be his only way to see down below. He pulled it from the bracket and continued onward, holding the fire before him to light his path.
Reaching the bottom, he halted. He swung to torch to and fro, attempting to catch a glimpse of the one that had intruded on the dead, for surely none of his own would disrespect them so. He dare not speak, though the fire was sure to draw anyone who saw. Still, he pressed on, passing tomb after tomb, great grandfathers and grand mothers, great uncles and aunts, then finally his own father and mother, his wife, and beside her... himself.
He stood, staring at his open grave in wonderment. Was he dead? For surely he did not see himself laying in that stone prison, if this was indeed the afterlife. He was woken from his reverie when he heard the sound of a boot scuffing the ground behind him.
“Who goes?” he demanded, swinging the torch about, casting light and shadow alike on the dark halls of the underground. Finally the light illuminated a figure. They stood hidden in the corners, upright and still striding towards Rickard. They moved closer to him, the light catching first their boots, then their breeches, their wools... and then their eyes.
His own gray eyes stared back at him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked his other hesitantly. He received no answer but the icy stare he knew so well from the looking glass. The intruder moved forward, a grin cracked across his thin, seemingly dead lips. A sword hung at his side, scabbard and all. His eyes twinkled bright as he reached across his body to slowly draw the blade, forged of Valyrian steal, the folds in the metal rippling in the torch light as the smooth sound of metal on leather resounded beneath the earth.
“Ice,” Rickard breathed, turning back to flee, but simply tumbling into his own stony deathbead. The torch had fallen at the foot of the tomb, and his other regarded it with an absent gaze. He reached down slowly, fingers curling 'round the bottom. As he hefted the flame, Rickard gazed up in wonder, daring to breathe again as his phantom stood distracted.
“M'lord Stark!” he heard, looking about as the ghost vanished from before his own eyes. “Ser Rodrik?” he asked, puzzled.His eyes soon opened on the dawn of a new day, light streaming into his chambers.
“M'lord Stark,” a voice called gruffly, accompanied by a rattling knock on the chamber door. Rickard sat abruptly, eyes wide and startled for a moment before he gained composure. “M'lord, a raven from King's Landing. It bears the seal of the Mad King himself.” Rickard's heart began to beat doubly fast as he looked about for want of a distraction.
“Come,” he managed, “The door is unbolted.” Ser Rodrik, Master-at-Arms to Winterfell and one of Lord Rickard's closest friends, managed through the door. Though not built for someone his size, it allowed his large shoulders entry. The old master clutched in his left hand a letter sealed with a large glob of red wax embroidered with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. His right hand reached nervously to pull at his large gray-and-white whiskers. Lord Rickard caught his gaze. “Ser Rodrik, out with it,” he commanded.
“Y-yes, m'lord, right away,” he fumbled hastily with the letter and shoved it into Rickard's outstretched hands. Rickard drew a quick breath, running his thumb over the wax before breaking the seal and unfolding the thin paper.
“Gods,” he let out. He stood from his bed, linens thrown haphazardly over the edge. His eyes had abandoned their traditional calm in trade for distress. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, turning angrily towards Ser Rodrik. “My son's been taken prisoner by Aerys Targaryen on grounds of treason?”
“Yes, my Lord Stark,” he returned, head bowed gravely. “I am truly sorry. The King requests you and the fathers of young Brandon's companions come forth at once to answer for their crimes.” The last word of the sentence hung in the air, unwanted.
“Crimes,” Rickard spat, turning to stare out the large window at the end of his chambers. He stood there, a stony expression on his face, eyes wandering the hills in the distance and tracing the Kingsroad. “I will go to King's Landing, but not on the demands of any King,” he said quietly. “That is my son he holds, and Prince Rhaegar still keeps my daughter. If anyone shall answer for a crime, it is Aerys.”
Ser Rodrik nodded and moved to stand beside his Lord and friend. “And how shall you be traveling, m'lord?” he asked solemnly.
“Five of my household guard. I would prefer to go unnoticed. You shall remain in Winterfell to look after those that remain. Make sure Benjen and Ned receive word that I've gone. I shall return; hopefully with my son and daughter alive.”
----- -----
Lord Rickard had left Winterfell in Ser Rodrik's care on the day following as he set off on the Kingsroad. He brought only his most trusted members of the household guard, and carried at his side the greatsword Ice. Their mares rode at a canter, not daring to move fast, though the pace was painstaking.
On one of their nights of camp, some twenty-eight riders approached, and at the head were the Lords Mallister and Royce, and the Lord Jon Arryn's brother. Recognizing the Stark banners, they readily enough requested to make camp with Lord Rickard and his guard, knowing that they shared in the same troubles. The Lord Stark accepted them after some internal debate; their party was quite large, though refusing another Lord company could come off to some as hostility.
And so, some few days later, they approached King's Landing together. Those in the streets made part for the Lords and their men, as they winded through past brothels and homes, stalls and stands, inns and smiths, all haphazardly clustered together.
Rickard sat his horse abreast with the fathers of the other accused. The guards that rode with them were set fore and aft, now numbering thirty. Lords Mallister and Royce, along with Arryn, rode to Rickard's left, speaking of the events preceding their journey.
“...heard Stark's boy caused all o' this. Stupid boy, crusading after his sister. What did 'e think to find? The King alone on his bloody throne, arms wide, waiting for th' pointy end, eh?”
“I heard m'self that the girl wanted after the Prince. Why wouldn't she? He so willing to name her Queen o' Love an' Beauty.”
“Damn fool, right in front of his own wife. Poor Elia must have been in quite a fury.”
“Aye, that she was. It's been said that she could've o'erturned all o' the contenders at th' tourney at th' same time, what in that fury she was.”
“But the damn Stark boy, going in like he did. Last we heard, she had no harm done to her. And then he storms in to the Red Keep during the middle of a petitioning, Seven be damned, with our sons behind him. They're just as much sods as he is, I reckon.”
“Shut up,” Rickard said, his voice like a biting wind come upon them. They turned their heads to regard him as he stared straight ahead, and they quickly turned back towards each other, sure to hush their voices as they continued their heated discussion.
Rickard sat and tried his best to guard his ears. Before the gate to the Red Keep stood a set of guards. One squinted to make out who rode amongst the mass of horses and men, when realization took him and he set about raising the portcullis. Into the castle the group rode, the Lords now quiet save for the occasional gasp of awe. Inside the castle walls stood many a structure.
Maegor's Holdfast, inside the heart of the Red Keep, was kept behind walls twelve feet thick as well as a dry moat adorned with iron spikes. It held the royal apartments inside it, the King's bedchamber with twin hearths; as well as the Queen's Ballroom, which had a Hall only half as big as the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand.
The Tower of The Hand stood sentry, the bedchambers of the Hand of the King. Its Small Hall was a long room with a high vaulted ceiling and seating room for two-hundred. The private audience chamber, though not as large as the King's, had an intimacy about it. It was adorned with Myrish rugs, wall hangings, and a golden-tinted round window. The tower held a solar as well as a garderobe, and its long windows were easily distinguishable from other structures.
White Sword Tower was erected proudly, a slender structure of four stories built into an angle of the castle wall overlooking the bay. A round white room forming the first floor, known as the Round Room, had whitewashed stone walls hung with white woolen tapestries. The undercroft held arms and armor, the second and third floors the small spare sleeping cells of the six brothers of the Kingsguard, and the topmost floor given over to the Lord Commander's apartments.
Traitor's Walk was a squat, half-round tower containing the entrance to the dungeons. The top floor held the cells for the prisoners who were to be kept in a degree of comfort. That is where my Brandon is, Rickard thought, choking on his own emotion. The entrance to the dungeons sat on the ground floor of the tower, with the dungeons beneath. Between the two prisons were rooms for the King's Justice, the Chief Gaoler and the Lord Confessor.
Elsewhere in the castle was a Godswood, though the heart tree not the same as the weirwood Rickard himself prayed to. An acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees comprised the Godswood, with a great oak at the center: the heart tree, overgrown with smokeberry vines.
But before them now stood the Great Hall, the King's throne room. The riders had dismounted at a stable and the guards stood now round their charges as their arrival was announced to the King. The great doors opened with a moan.
The Mad King Aerys II Targaryen sat atop the Iron Throne, slumped lazily to the side. The throne itself sat raised on an iron dais with high and narrow steps. Greeting them as they stepped forward was a long carpet that stretched from the oak-and-bronze doors to the throne. The cavernous hall looked as though it could sit a thousand. It was oriented north to south, its high, narrow windows on both the east and western walls. Skulls of the Targaryen dragons adorned the walls; their eyes, though dead, followed as you walked.
“So nice of you to join us,” King Aerys announced. “Why don't you leave your guard outside, hmm? I trust you won't be in need of them any time soon.” A small smile touched his wicked lips, and the guards took a bow to first their King, then their Lords, and exited the Great Hall. As the doors closed behind them, Aerys addressed the Lords, “So, you come to bear witness to the trial of your sons,” he began, his grin fading and a slight expression of boredom overcoming him. “Well? Bring them in, Seven be damned!” he boomed, looking over his shoulder.
Four men escorted the accused into the chamber, Brandon and the others bound in shackles and stumbling down the narrow steps of the Iron Throne to be placed before their fathers. Rickard and the other Lords took a collective gasp; their sons were unharmed, healthy, dressed. Rickard wanted to move forward to embrace his son, but he knew it not to be allowed. Brandon Stark stared back it him through determined gray eyes.
“So, here stand the treasonous snakes.” Aerys cracked a smile, standing from the throne and pacing the dias. “And there stand their fathers.”
“And there stands the Mad King,” Rickard called out. Those in the room not too shocked to react began to laugh, all but Aerys Targaryen, who stomped his foot down like a pouting child, bellowing at them to remain quiet. The laughter died down around the party, but Rickard still stood with a smirk gracing his features.
“And so there stands another treasonous snake!” he hissed. He looked down the bridge of his nose at Rickard Stark and his son, his gaze full of malice.
“And what crimes have I to answer for, Your Grace?” he spat.
King Aerys did not take kindly to those that served him making a mockery of him. “Threats against the life of the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, my own son.”
“On account of his kidnapping of my daughter, Lyanna,” Rickard returned.
“Your Grace.”
“I piss on Your Grace,” Brandon laughed, looking over his shoulder as he addressed the King.
“ENOUGH!” Aerys stormed down the steps and swung a fist at Brandon's head, knocking him to his knees. Yet still Brandon laughed, looking up at his father. “What is so fucking funny?” he demanded, staring down anyone else that dare smile or chuckle, his eyes wide and bloodshot with fury.
The Seven of the Kingsguard stood watch, their eyes glazed over as they distanced themselves from the goings-on and paid their attention to other matters; perhaps the ornate carpet patterns or the designs of the windows, the grand pillars lining the hall, it mattered not. Ser Barristan Selmy broke his reverie to look to Rickard solemnly. He shook his head, looking to the ground as if he knew what was to happen.
Rickard could not shake the feeling that he wasn't going to leave with his life. A chill ran up his spine; not much could turn a northerner to cold, but suddenly Aerys making a fool of himself seemed less a folly and more a sight to be wary of. After he turned apart from the Lords and prisoners, he strode back up the steps towards his throne, slowly taking a seat and sweeping the room with his crazed gaze.
“And so, how shall we atone for these crimes?” he whispered, after a moment of silence.
“Trial by combat,” Rickard stated, taking a slight step forward. The rest of the room turned their sights towards the man that dared challenge the King, a hint of fear in their eyes. Yet the Seven in White still stood solemn, as if none of this was new to them. Ser Barristan was the only to show any remorse. Rickard's heart dropped.
Aerys smiled wide, cackling. “Oh, as you say... Lannister!” he called, and Ser Jaime stepped forward with four others of Targaryen loyalty, seizing Rickard Stark as he struggled to free himself.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rickard cried out.
“Father, no!” Brandon exclaimed, “No, father, confess my crimes, confess all of our crimes, he will kill you all!”
“It's too late, young Stark,” Aerys cackled, leaning forward in the Iron Throne and resting his elbows on his knees; all for a better viewing. “Your father is to be chained high in his armor, and a fire to be lit beneath him. If he can survive the flames, then he has bested my champion.” He grinned and chuckled to himself. “Ser Barristan, fasten a noose to a pillar, remove his fetters... make due sure it is tight around his neck. I would have you place his father's sword before him. If he can reach it in time, mayhaps he can save his father... and spare his friends.”
As the Targaryen guards held Rickard Stark, Ser Jaime Lannister moved forward and removed the covering to the stone pit, revealing the logs soaked in lamp oil. “No, this isn't a trial, it's murder, Gods be damned!” Rickard called out, but none took his aid. The King now stood atop the Iron Throne, watching with eyes wide in anticipation.
The white knight stepped close to him and clasped a hand on his shoulder. “I am truly sorry, my Lord of Stark.” Jaime fastened the chains about his wrists as the Lord Commander turned a winch which hefted him high into the air, his shoulders straining to remain in place. As he looked over, he noticed Brandon had the noose about his neck, pulled tight. Ser Barristan himself now stepped forward, looking into Rickard Stark's eyes and attempting not to betray his doubt. He pulled from Rickard's side the greatsword Ice, setting it before Brandon and stepping back to take his place before the King.
Rickard looked pleadingly to the King. “No, no please, Your Grace. I'll take the black, I swear it, they will too, just let us go!”
The King looked from one Lord and prisoner to another. “They don't seem to have the same idea, my Lord Stark.” He grinned, and he motioned with his right hand. The Lord Commander hefted a torch and strode towards the lamp-drenched logs.
“No!” Brandon cried. “No, Your Grace, please, no!”
But Brandon's screams were snuffed out as the fire caught, and the roar of the dragon overtook Lord Rickard Stark as the Mad King laughed in the background.