Eddard woke to the sound of trumpets, loud, noisy, and irritating. He scrambled out of his tent, knowing the sound of military trumpets only meant one thing. Targaryens.
Brandon's foul mood could only mean he had woken up far too early for his liking. He spat into the dying embers of last night's fire. "Fucking Targaryens. No respect for the sleeping. Can't they be content with the whole of Westeros already? Now they intrude into the realm of Dreaming?"
"Calm, brother. Some might think your words to be treasonous talk."
Brandon smirked. "Poor Ned. Always worrying, always tactful." He spat again. "What difference is the dragon from the direwolf if both our helpful pets have died out? The North has never bent its knee willingly, and the North always remembers."
"Then we best remember that we did bend our knees, willingly or unwillingly."
Brandon stared at him, then looked away. "I find your lack of faith in the North...disturbing. Have you ever not gone by the rules for once?"
Eddard cocked an eyebrow.
"Yeah. You don't need to answer that. I'll just go wake Benjen. You, Lya."
Eddard stepped into the cool shade of his sister's tent. Lyanna lay on the bed, hair tousled, spread-eagled, the blankets on the floor. She was every inch the wild beauty like the winter roses she enjoyed so much. Eddard had never dared raise a sword against her, but Brandon was only too eager to put her to the sword whenever father was away. It ended soon enough when an ugly bruise was discovered by Lord Rickard Stark on Lyanna, caused by a rather severe hit by Brandon's wooden sword. Still, Eddard could never forget the beauty in her passion and hot-bloodedness during swordplay, as she jumped back and forth to parry Brandon's lunges.
A few strands of black hair had crept into the corners of her mouth. As Eddard gently brushed them away, she woke with a start. And promptly crashed back down. "It was such a pleasant dream! You just had to ruin it!"
"What of it?"
"None of your concern." A faint blush danced across her cheeks. "Leave. Now."
"Don't you want to see the Targaryens?"
"I will. When I what to. Leave or face the wrath of the She-Wolf." Eddard wisely left.
It was not until pots were steaming and mouthwatering scents filled the air that Lyanna emerged from her tent. Benjen, sitting on a log, scooted over to make space for her. "What are we waiting for? The Targaryens might have settled already!"
Brandon smiled. "What has the maester been teaching you? Seven blares of the trumpet means the sighting of a royal party, not its arrival. Still plenty of time for us to break our fast." Lyanna gratefully accepted the bowl of porridge from her eldest brother.
The Starks ate in silence. Passing ladies sent questioning glares at Lyanna, dressed in a blue dress, sitting on a log alongside her brothers. The collective glares of the Northmen sent them all scurrying away.
As time passed, the excitement of the crowds grew to an almost audible hum. The Starks mounted their horses and trotted towards the Kingsroad. The horses gave them a distinct height advantage over the peasantry, who had to fight for a glimpse of the approaching royals.
First came the standard bearer and the herald. A few sharp blasts quieted the crowd. On top of his chestnut horse, with the blood red three-headed dragon as a fitting background, the herald proclaimed, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men…"
The rest was drowned out the murmurs of the crowd.
"Aerys? Here? Impossible!" Eddard heard one old lady exclaim.
But the evidence was there. The full Kingsguard rode in front of the procession, six in number. It was known that the seventh, Harlan Grandison, had passed away in his sleep. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, led the wedge at its tip, with three on his right and two on his left. To his left, Ser Oswell Whent, clad in white, except for the black bat adorning his helmet. Ser Jonothor Darry, a white shield, unblemished, held in his hand. To his right, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Greatsword Dawn slung across his back. Further down, another Dorishman, Prince Lewyn Martell, famed for having a paramour despite his vows. Lastly, Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, hero of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
Benjen gaped with his mouth wide open. He turned angrily to Brandon, who had kicked him. "Practise your swordplay well, and you might just become one. On second thought, you might not want to become a Kingsguard."
"Why?" Benjen was genuinely puzzled.
Brandon wiggled his eyebrows. "Then you won't get to practise your, ah, other sword." A few septas turned reproachfully, scandalized.
Then, the Second of his Name, King Aerys Targaryen himself. There were shocked gasps. A man in his forties, the King looked more like in his seventies. His beard and hair was unwashed and matted. Foodstuff remained tangled in his long white beard. Yellow fingernails, so long they had started to curl. Thin and gaunt, hunched upon his destrier, it was almost as if the golden crown on his head was weighing him down.
To his side, in direct comparison, Rhaegar Targaryen sat tall in the saddle, staring straight ahead. Every inch the Prince he was, handsome, beautiful even, with striking purple eyes, long white hair billowing back in the breeze. His black armour was polished to the point that it shone. Lyanna sighed beside him, and even Eddard thought that this was a man he would go beyond the Wall .
Then came ranks of Targaryen men-in-arms marching in cadence, five hundred strong. The carriages of the Queen and Princess Elia Martell rolled past. All openings were firmly covered with red cloth. Members of the Royal Court next, then the numerous retinue of every newcoming Lord or Lady. Finally, a rearguard, also five hundred strong. It was already mid-day when all that was left was the dust raised by marching boots.
Benjen yipped excitedly, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. "What next?"
"Now we wait," Brandon raised a hand to cover his yawn. "Some time later, after the dragons have settled, the opening ceremony for the Tourney will begin. Then the real fun begins."