Of White Trees and Blue Roses

I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.

~X~

Chapter Thirty Two – On a Leash

King's Landing

Dazed and battle weary, Brandon and the other hostages had been taken to down into the dungeons after their brief audience with King Aerys. Brandon had searched the throne room for a sight of his sister or the thief that had taken her, but they were nowhere to be seen.

At least, not that Brandon could see. After the blow to the head he'd taken, he felt punch drunk, the room spinning and faces flashing in and out of view around him. He was so disorientated that it wasn't until a gruff voice behind him mumbled, "Three to a cell," and he found himself thrust into blackness that he thought to protest.

His armour was roughly removed from him, and struggling, he found himself chained in the dark, demanding to see his sister and to have Rhaegar brought down to him. His words fell on deaf ears.

Once his throat was sore from shouting, he then took the time to find out who it was that he was imprisoned with— his squire, Ethan Glover, and his friend, Elbert Arryn. A while later, he heard the voices of those kept in other cells, and felt relieved that at least some of his other friends had survived the massacre in the courtyard.

In the black cell, Brandon found that he now had plenty of time to dissect his actions and realise just how foolish he'd been. He took a moment to remember his men being pierced by arrows, killed like animals in a trap. It was all his fault, but then if it wasn't for the crown prince's actions he wouldn't have come here. Brandon's mind swung wildly between guilt and escalating hate towards his sister's kidnapper.

In the dark there was little to do but think or talk with Elbert and Ethan. First they talked about what had happened, then about home, and then about the small things that they missed from the outside world. As time limped by, the men found themselves confessing every little thing they'd ever done and regretted, and Brandon had more to get off his chest than most.

The guards weren't conversationalists; as they thrust a bowl of thick porridge into their prisoners' hands and poured water down their throats, the most you got was a grunt or a swift insult. Ask too many questions and you got a fist to the face. It didn't take Brandon long to learn that wasn't a good idea. If you were out cold the rats would get to your porridge first, and the guards didn't give second helpings.

How long they'd been in the cells, they had no idea. With no light to tell the difference between night and day it was impossible to tell how many times the sun had risen and set without a single ray reaching them.

Were they being held for trial...or for ransoms to be paid? Perhaps they were left, out of sight, to waste away into nothing and be forgotten—it certainly felt that way.

Then, eventually, there was commotion in the unseen hallway as names were called out, chains clanked, and prisoners were led away. The door to the cell opened and Brandon squinted hard at the sudden invasion of torchlight.

"Stark," the guard called, and as Brandon lifted his hand, other guards unlocked his bonds. The chains were then refastened around his wrists and ankles.

Stumbling to his unsteady feet, Brandon allowed himself to be led from the room, but as the guard closed the door behind them, he stopped and asked, "What about the other two?"

The guard looked down a list and counted. "Other two...what are their names?"

"Arryn and Glover."

"No Arryn and Glover on my list. Their fathers mustn't be here yet. Get a move on."

Panicking at the idea of Elbert and Ethan being left alone, Brandon shouted out that they wouldn't be forgotten, and that he'd make sure they were freed soon. With that, Brandon was led up stone stairs, squinting harder at the increasing daylight finding its way through cracks and small windows.

Father is here, Brandon thought. A second of hope that a ransom had been paid for his release soon dissipated. That seemed too easy—he'd made the mistake of following a road without resistance without questioning it before. He wouldn't be so naive this time.

A trial...that must be the reason. Brandon's spirits sank. No doubt the trial he was about to face would be overseen by the seven southern gods he didn't believe in, and decided by the king who was father to the man he'd came here to challenge.

Looking down at his hands, he saw the redness around his wrists and his bony, dirty fingers. Brandon's limbs felt weak. His period of incarceration had destroyed his chances of success by requesting a trial by combat.

Brandon was led into a room to find a number of his friends in a state of undress or getting there quickly. It didn't take long for the guards to unfasten his bonds and leave him in the hands of a middle-aged man who almost seemed as wide as he was fat.

The fat man began to remove Brandon's soiled breeches, jerkin and shirt. He would have complained but he could see Jeffory Mallister sitting in a tin bath, having water poured over him. Being chained up with a limited range of movement wasn't good for hygiene, and the thought of sloughing off some of the build up of dirt was worth the humiliation of being naked.

Once he was devoid of clothes, it distressed Brandon to see exactly what his prison diet had done to him, and he was glad to take his turn in the bath just so he could submerge his emaciated form under the water.

Judging by Jeffory's face, pallid and hollow, his friends were in as bad a state as Brandon was himself.

As the fat man poured a jug of cool water over his head, Brandon opened his mouth and gladly swallowed it.

After he reached an acceptable level of clean, he was brought new clothing and the armour that had been taken from him when he arrived. Although it was nice to feel like he was regaining some of his former strength as his familiar direwolf emblazoned breastplate was strapped to him, it became very obvious that he couldn't fill it out in the way he used to. Still, to the untrained eye, maybe it would hide his diminished state.

The prisoners were lined up in the corridor. Most were subdued, but one or two managed to raise a smile at a number of sarcastic observations from Kyle Royce. The smiles ended after Kyle was called up first, and he was taken to face whatever fate waited him before the king.

Brandon looked at everyone, searching their faces for any sign of resentment over the situation he had led them all into. If they felt it, it wasn't written on their expressions. The Stark heir also spared a thought for those who had perished in the courtyard who had not had the luck to see the black cells. The line dwindled until Jeffory Mallister was called up, leaving Brandon on his own, and as he waited his own turn he thought about Elbert and Ethan still in the dark below.

He wouldn't forget them. If he got out of this alive, if by the will of the old gods he made it through this trial, then he would pay however rich a ransom the king wished to lay on their head. During his time down there with them he'd bared his soul. He didn't doubt for a second that if Ethan or Elbert were in his place now, they'd be thinking the same.

And then the time came. His name was called and the guards pulled on his chains.

"Wait," the soldier who had called him added. "The king wants you to use this—says he wants his wolf brought in on a leash."

Brandon looked at the thick leather strip that was passed to the guard. Did they expect him to crawl on all fours like a dog, too, or would they let him keep a little of his dignity?

Awkwardly, he made his way out of the dungeons and allowed himself to be led through corridors into the throne room, the leather pulling at his neck.

What had happened to the others? None of them had been subjected to a leash or another unusual request, but then Brandon had been the ring leader, the one who had shouted for Rhaegar to come out.

Brandon dared to hope that he was being made an example of, and that the others had been sent home with their tails between their legs and their heads still firmly in place.

As he looked around at the courtiers gathered before the iron throne, their eyes told him that his hopes were in vain. Ladies clutched handkerchiefs to their mouths, a desperate expression partially hidden behind the cloth. The men either didn't meet his gaze or if they did, they gave off a sense of pity.

After a brief moment of looking down at his feet, Brandon lifted his head and stared straight ahead. His father came into view right at the fore of the crowd—Brandon would recognise his armour anywhere, although it had been many years since he'd seen him wearing it. How many times had he stared at it as a boy, dreaming that one day he might be a great knight with his own suit of plate?

Lord Rickard Stark's mouth was set in a grim line, but the rest of his face was as stoic as ever; his skin had an ashy hue that hadn't been present before Brandon rode off on the ill-fated road to Riverrun. For all the armour gave the impression of a mature man, aging but still strong, a son could see the stress his father had been under. He looked old.

Brandon hadn't realised that he'd picked up his pace until the guard yanked sharply on the leather leash, temporarily choking the air out of him and snapping his neck back sharply. Brandon gave him a look that would curdle milk.

But someone else found the moment amusing. A shrill laugh rang out, and Brandon found himself looking into the unnaturally wide eyes of the king. There was something off about him that made Brandon think that maybe the ruler of the seven kingdoms had quite possibly lost his mind.

That did not bode well for Brandon's trial. It seemed that the king had taken great pleasure in the proceedings so far, and Brandon imagined that Jeffory, Kyle, and the rest had not fared well.

Finally, in front of the iron throne, Brandon gave his father a long, meaningful look as his leather leash was fastened to an iron ring embedded in the floor.

"I trust you've been treating my son in a manner appropriate to a noble prisoner, your Grace." The way his father spoke said that he could see that Brandon had been less than well cared for.

Storm clouds crossed the king's face. "He and his friends have been kept in a manner appropriate to their actions, Lord Stark." He pointed his wizened finger. "You have been summoned here to not only see your son face trial, but to answer for your own faults in raising such a man—a man who dare defy his ruler and the heir to the throne. So both you and your son will face trial together, like his companions and their fathers before them."

The king gave a sick smile, and the murmurs of the crowd gave Brandon the impression that by now the spikes on the walls around the city were decorated with the heads of his companions and a number of great lords.

His father seemed unperturbed by this. "My son and I, we are of the North, and we do not worship the Seven...and I do not trust that you will be a fair and unbiased judge."

The king made to sit up, but it seemed that one of the swords that made up the iron throne had caught him. King Aerys cradled his hand to his chest and his verbal response was temporarily forgotten.

"Therefore I claim the right to trial by combat." His father's voice rang out loud and clear. The courtiers gasped and talked amongst themselves. Many looked at Brandon and debated his ability to fight for both his and his father's survival after however long it had been since his defeat in the courtyard.

The king would have the members of the king's guard at his disposal to fight in his name, and indeed it seemed that Lord Stark's invoking of his rights thrilled him. The king's guard were the best knights in the land, and the honour was so great that noble born men were happy to give up their lands to serve the order. In his weakened state, Brandon wouldn't have a chance.

"You have that right, Lord Stark. Who do you name as your champion?"

Brandon felt the king's attention firmly on him.

"I name myself."

Even the king seemed shook up by Lord Stark's answer.

"No," Brandon yelled. "You can't."

"I can and I will," Lord Rickard said defiantly, resting on the hilt of the sword around his waist.

King Aerys shifted in his chair and the room fell silent until he eventually spoke. "So be it. You have your champion, now let me choose mine...ever since Aegon the Conqueror first came to these shores the Targaryen champion has been...fire." Aerys smiled wide. "Bring wood and a sturdy post."

There was a moment of confusion. But then a number of gold cloaked city guards surrounded the Warden of the North, though he stood firm and did not struggle.

"Fire? But how can he fight fire? This is not a fair trial!" Brandon made his voice heard.

"Hmm, Ser Stark. You are right. Your father will have no chance against my chosen champion, if he had a chance against any other I might have chosen, but never let it be said that I robbed you of your chance to prove your innocence. Gold cloak!" The king shouted at one of the city guards. "Leave your sword just out of Ser Brandon's reach. No, a little further."

The king then looked Brandon in the eyes. "If you can reach it and cut down your father before he is cooked in his armour, then you both have your freedom."

Brandon swallowed and looked at the sword as a pyre was built behind his father. It was too much for Brandon and he lurched forward to the weapon on the floor, only to stop abruptly as the leather squeezed around his throat with a pressure that took his breath away.

Stepping backwards and loosening the grip around his neck, Brandon watched his father shaking his head as his hands were bound behind the post rising from a hill of wood and straw.

"This is madness. Stop this. This is not a trial."

Brandon looked at the audience, but the room was silent other than his own cries and the clanks and creaks as his father was tied to the stake. He made another try for the sword, only to lose his footing as he tried to keep his neck within the reach of his leash.

Lord Stark finally in place, the eager king looked as if he could barely contain his enthusiasm.

"Burn him."

A torch was thrust into the pyre amongst the straw, and Lord Rickard shuffled a little closer to the post, though he still kept his head held high. Someone had at least had the courtesy to close his visor, and he stood there, looking as noble and virile as he ever had.

Brandon lay on the floor and tried to stretch an extended leg towards the sword that promised freedom for both him and his father, but the hilt was angled away and he couldn't get a grip on the blade.

As the flames grew higher and smoke lingered in the air, Brandon changed his approach and instead turned his attention to where the leather leash was knotted around the iron ring. At first he tried to unfasten it, but it was too tight—perhaps from the pressure he had put on it when reaching for the sword.

Tugging and frantically trying to loosen it, Brandon caught sight of the swirl of grey surrounding his father, but he was unmoving, as upright as ever. There was no screaming, but then a slight twitch from his hands told that Lord Stark was still alive, but barely.

Smoke made a man drowsy, stole the air from his lungs, and Brandon prayed that this would be the case with his father. Though he hadn't given up hope on saving him yet. Brandon tugged at the leather, but found it was still sturdily attached. In his desperation he even tried chewing through, but the leather was too thick.

Thinking for a moment, Brandon felt frantic as he saw the pyre glowing brighter out of the corner of his eye. Was father looking at him from behind the visor, willing him to find a way to keep them both alive?

The problem was that he could just reach the sword with his foot, but he didn't have enough grip to pull it nearer. And then it came to him. Brandon began unfastening his boots, and then inched along the floor until the leather extended as far as it could without choking.

His bare toes touched cool metal, but as he tried to get a grip with both feet it was still that little bit out of reach. Brandon panted and felt the tightness of the leather about his neck.

A little bit further—an inch, maybe two—and the sword would be his. He would only need those extra inches for a few moments, long enough to drag the blade closer.

Brandon pushed himself a little further away from the metal ring toward the sword, feeling the leather dig into his neck, stopping him from drawing air into his lungs. For a second he panicked at the sensation, but then he forced himself to ignore the natural reaction to return himself to safety.

Though his head was pulled back, his eyes staring at the ceiling above, the side of his foot found a sharp edge. Bringing in his other foot, he stopped abruptly as he knocked the blade.

Unable to speak, he mouthed a curse, his chest feeling as it was about to explode. A little further, a little more pain, and Brandon felt a toenail scrape under the metal. Clamping his other foot on the blade from above, he pulled and the sword scraped closer—enough for him to stretch out for once he could breath.

I've done it, he thought. I can cut my leash and rescue my father. Brandon then tried to crawl back, but his limbs refused to obey. His arms flapped like fishes on the floor, until Brandon brought his heavy, clumsy hands to his throat.

So close...I can't give up now, he thought, but he felt himself fading even as he tried to will himself to move.

Small flakes of ash floated above him, but Brandon felt his body grow cold and numb, the heat from the fire seemingly distant. Night clouded his vision, and amongst the ash, Brandon could swear he saw flakes of snow falling.

Home. Winterfell, were the last thoughts to cross his mind as his body gave a final twitch.

~X~

As he watched the Stark boy kill himself, Aerys found himself confused.

He had enjoyed the display, watching the wolf knight squirm, become feral and desperate, but the manner of his end left the king feeling as if he had somehow been robbed of the chance to dispense justice.

Fire—that should have been his end. The wolf dared to challenge the dragon and he should have burned for it, not been strangled by his own leash.

Flames began to climb Lord Rickard's legs, yet not once had he cried out. A more reasonable side to King Aerys suggested that he was already long dead, that maybe his life had given out before the flames had even touched him.

The laughing tree growing from the stone wall in the corner of the room convinced him that this was all an act of defiance, a mockery. That the lord from the snowy north was vexing him by refusing to accept that he should die screaming and burning.

Aerys stared into the flames, finding himself entranced. They somehow crept along the stone floor, engulfing his court; his courtiers looked at him, seemingly blissfully aware that they were on fire.

No, they weren't on fire, the rational side of King Aerys reminded him. It was just the flames showing him that, should anyone defy him, he could and would burn them, too. He wished that someone would speak up so he could have another trial to demonstrate his dragon strength.

His king's guard shifted awkwardly. A number of women hid their faces behind handkerchiefs and fans. But not one person protested.

What else could he do?

Jon Arryn hadn't answered the demand, and he still held his heir in his dungeons—Elbert Arryn, the so called Darling of the Vale, beloved by all, popular.

King Aerys got to his feet and called for the final rebel to be brought before him.

Growing impatient, the pyre began to collapse under his former Warden of the North and the bonfire shrank the king's spirits with it. Aerys was about to call for the heads of the guards he'd sent when they returned, bringing a stinking and unkempt young man before him.

Was this Elbert Arryn or some peasant boy? Were his guards seeking to hoodwink him by bringing an imposter? The king couldn't be sure, but he would deal with the soldiers later.

"Elbert Arryn, for your part in the Stark rebellion, and for the treason of your uncle, you will decorate a spike at the gates of the city. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head."

That felt better, Aerys thought, as the sword sliced through the struggling boy's neck. It pleased him to see the final expression of fear in his subject's eyes; his blood seemingly quenched the flames about the room and the laughing tree grew solemn and silent.

Feeling strong and in the mood for more justice, Aerys descended the steps from the throne.

"I hereby name Lord Arryn of the Vale a traitor, and demand that his head be brought to me—by whom, I care not. I will reward whoever carries out this service handsomely." Lord Arryn would burn well.

The king thought for a moment. He should wipe out the entire Stark and Arryn families, and anyone else who might be inspired to continue their cause. The Arryn line was almost devoid of male heirs, and no doubt Rhaegar was in the process of making sure any child from the Stark girl was half-dragon.

But Lord Stark's second son, Eddard, would now be the new Lord Stark, and he was very much under the guardianship of Lord Arryn. As was the young Lord of the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon. If Aerys remember correctly the latter had the potential to be a great warrior. His seat, Storm's End, was far too close to the Targaryen held Dragonstone for his liking.

"I also call for the heads of his two young wards—Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, the son of the traitor, Rickard Stark, and Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End."

Satisfied, Aerys gave Rickard's blackened, slumped armour one last sneer and then left the room. The laughing tree that seemed to haunt both his waking and sleeping hours followed him to his chambers, but the king was glad that it didn't have the heart to say a single word.

This pleased him. All in all, it had been a very agreeable day.