The next morning, the Red Keep.
The Iron Throne lood beneath the cold light of dawn.
Its master, King Aerys II Targaryen, slouched upon it, weary and thin, idly stifling a yawn as he glanced over the sparse assembly below.
"Hmm… fewer faces every ti,"
he muttered to himself.
And where was Rhaegar?
The boy had sworn he would attend today's session.
The king frowned, but his mind—fogged by sleepless nights and the poisons of milk of the poppy—was too clouded to dwell on the thought. Simply appearing for the council at all felt like an act of divine labor.
Below, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, droned on with his usual thodical calm. He was outlining troop movents, letters dispatched, and a diplomatic marriage in motion.
He spoke of sending his son Jai to Riverrun with a ssage, to strengthen ties with Lord Hoster Tully and keep the Riverlands loyal to the Crown.
And, as always, Tywin promised victory.
"Should Rickard Stark raise his banners," he said, "I can crush the North within two months."
Aerys barely listened. He lacked the strength for one of his usual tirades, so—for once—he let Tywin finish.
Across the chamber, the Master of Ships was not so restrained. Puffing up his chest, he loudly interrupted Tywin, boasting that he had secured an accord with Lord Redwyne of the Arbor—one that could blockade the North's nonexistent fleet.
Tywin gave a thin smile and cut him down at once.
"The North owns more trees than ships, my lord. If you've sealed an agreent with the Redwynes, you've only proven your fondness for wasted parchnt."
Their bickering filled the hall. For a mont, even Aerys found the noise oddly comforting—sothing alive, sothing normal.
"Enough," he said at last, waving a lazy hand.
"The North is poor, frozen, and far away. Let Rickard Stark march if he dares. With my loyal lords behind , this will all be settled soon enough."
He turned his head toward the Master of Ships.
"Any word from Lord Steffon Baratheon? I'm still waiting for him to bring back a proper bride for my son."
"Three days past, Your Grace," the man said quickly, smiling. "Lord Steffon's letter arrived from Volantis. He claims to have found a maiden of true Valyrian blood—noble, beautiful, and most worthy of a prince."
"A Valyrian beauty," he went on, oozing flattery, "fit for your son and heir. And who knows? Perhaps their children might even hatch dragons again!"
The king's expression darkened instantly.
Their children?
Their dragons?
A chill filled the air. The sycophant realized too late what he had said.
Under Aerys's cold violet gaze, he bowed so deeply he nearly toppled over.
"When Steffon returns," the king said icily, "I shall see for myself whether the girl's blood is truly noble—or rely another rchant's lie."
He exhaled sharply, waving a hand.
"Enough of this. If there's nothing else, we are done here."
---
"Wait… Your Grace!"
The voice ca from the Master of Coin, a man rarely known for courage or interruption.
All eyes turned as he swallowed hard and stepped forward.
"There… there is soone who wishes to see you, Your Grace."
Aerys blinked, annoyed.
Soone wished to see him? Then why didn't they simply co grovel like everyone else?
"Fine," he said with a dismissive wave. "Bring him in."
Still, he subtly shifted in his seat, adjusting his position so that Ser Lance Lot—the towering white knight beside the throne—stood slightly in front of him. Not out of fear, of course. Just… prudence.
Within monts, the doors to the hall swung open.
Two gold cloaks ushered in a man clad in a simple grey cloak—unard, unarmored, but walking with the steady composure of soone born to command.
Tywin's golden eyes narrowed as recognition flickered.
The man's face, his bearing… this was no courtier.
And in that instant, Tywin knew:
The war has already begun.
The man knelt before the Iron Throne, lowering his head respectfully.
"Your Grace."
His movents were disciplined, his voice steady. He was no commoner.
Ser Barristan Selmy stepped forward, wary.
"State your na, and the reason the Master of Coin has brought you before His Grace."
Behind him, Lance glanced sidelong at Barristan, noting the older knight's weary, hollow-eyed look.
Lance arched a brow in silent amusent.
The old man's been vanishing during his off-watch again, he thought.
Looks like soone's been spending too much ti in the beds of bored noblewon.
He smirked to himself—then shook his head. Focus. No distractions.
The kneeling man lifted his gaze.
"My na," he said clearly, "is Eddard Stark, second son of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell."
The air in the hall seed to still.
"My brother, Brandon Stark, was executed before the eyes of the realm. I stand here today to demand an answer—before you, Your Grace, and before your Kingsguard Ser Lance."
"I wish to know," he said, voice rising, "what cri my brother committed so grave that the Crown would allow a knight sworn to honor to strike him down in front of every noble in the Seven Kingdoms!"
His tone was plain—not poetic, not commanding.
But there was steel in it.
The kind that made lesser n look away.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Even the great hall seed to hold its breath.
For nearly a full minute, silence ruled the throne room.
Then ca the rasping voice from above:
"You're Rickard Stark's son?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Eddard's tone was calm but firm. He t the King's shadowed gaze without flinching, his eyes unyielding even through the shimr of heat and torchlight.
What he did not see, however, was the man beside him — the trembling Master of Coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted— whose face had gone ashen.
Seven hells, Qarlton thought, sweat trickling down his temple. The fool's insane…!
He could barely stand upright.
When the young Stark had approached him last night, asking for an audience with the King, every instinct in Qarlton's body had scread no.
After all, everyone in King's Landing knew what had happened:
Ser Lance — the white knight of the Kingsguard — had executed Brandon Stark publicly, with the King's blessing.
The Starks and the Targaryens were one spark away from open war.
And now this one, the new heir to Winterfell, stood in the Red Keep demanding answers?
It was madness — suicide.
Qarlton's dream of one day becoming Hand of the King had just been buried under the weight of this boy's courage.
Still… he had convinced himself the boy's intentions were peaceful.
Perhaps Eddard Stark, unlike his fiery father, had co to negotiate — to seek peace, to avoid bloodshed.
If so, it would save the realm's coin, and more importantly, the royal treasury he guarded.
But now, hearing the northern wolf's voice ring through the hall — demanding justice in front of the Iron Throne — all such hopes turned to ash.
He's dead, Qarlton thought grimly. He's absolutely dead. And when this one dies too… Rickard Stark will have no choice but to raise the banners.
The North would burn.
And all of it would start here.
---
"Do you an to tell ," the King's voice broke the stillness, soft and oddly curious, "that you don't know what your brother did?"
The question, quiet as it was, rippled through the hall.
Even Qarlton blinked in disbelief.
The Mad King was not screaming?
Not ordering heads to roll — at least, not yet?
Eddard lifted his head slightly.
"I have heard… so things, Your Grace."
His eyes slid toward the white knight standing at the foot of the throne.
"But I wish to hear it from Ser Lance's own mouth — here, before your council, before the eyes of the realm."
He straightened his shoulders, still kneeling, his voice like iron:
"If my brother died unjustly, then by the na of House Stark, I ask Your Grace to judge this man."
"And if he demands trial by combat, then I shall be his challenger myself — and avenge Brandon's death with my own sword."
His tone was harsh, unbending — yet he never once raised it.
He remained on one knee, head bowed, calling Aerys Your Grace with every sentence.
To him, it was simple courtesy.
But to Aerys, it was sothing far rarer: respect.
For a fleeting mont, the King stared at the kneeling Northerner with sothing like wonder.
He rembered Rickard Stark — coarse, blunt, impossible to please — and his wild son Brandon, who had scread insults at the Iron Throne before his execution.
But this one… this quiet wolf was different.
Disciplined. Controlled. Polite.
Almost regal.
For a heartbeat, Aerys Targaryen could not decide whether he was impressed… or threatened.
Could such a man have been raised in that frozen wasteland?
He shows more composure than my own son ever did.
"This matter…" the King murmured, leaning forward slightly, his long fingers twitching on the armrest. "This matter may require… consideration."
Part of him wanted to have the boy seized imdiately — to make him a hostage, to draw Rickard Stark to King's Landing in chains.
But part of him hesitated.
The boy was still kneeling. Still calling him Your Grace.
It had been a long ti since anyone had done that without fear or mockery.
Then, suddenly—
Footsteps echoed through the great hall.
A bald man, his head gleaming like polished marble, hurried in from the corridor, sweat beading down his temples.
Varys.
The Spider glided forward, whispering urgently in the King's ear.
Aerys leaned in to listen, his expression shifting from irritation to confusion, then twisting, inch by inch, into rage.
The veins at his temples throbbed.
His violet eyes grew bloodshot, wild.
Finally, his thin, cracked lips peeled open.
"Guards!"
His shriek echoed like steel across stone.
"Seize him! Seize that man!"
The words struck like a hamr.
Gold cloaks moved at once, their boots thundering against the marble floor.
Eddard Stark rose as the guards descended, his face calm, unflinching — his shadow long and cold beneath the Iron Throne.
And from his place behind the King, Ser Lance's hand slowly drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
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