Under the Eyes of Madness

A Song of Ice and Fire, and all associated media, are the property of George R. R. Martin.

/+/+/+/+/

The journey to the Red Keep was mercifully silent. Smallfolk stared at them—Randy specifically—but continued with their business otherwise. When they finally reached the Red Keep itself, handing their horses off to the stablemen, they were met by a handful of sour-faced gold cloaks, led by a stern red-haired man with a griffon emblazoned on his shirt. Lyanna scowled at the man—Jon Connington. Rhaegar sung his praises enough for her to know him by sight.

Connington glared murderously at Randy as she, Bran, and Thoros received Guest Rights, before he sent Daemon a sharp nod. "You've done your prince a great service, Ser. You and your men may rest, I shall handle the guests and…prisoner…from here."

Daemon hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Aye, my lord. Thank you." He ordered his men to the barracks, and left without another word.

Connington stared after them for a moment, before levelling a glare at Randy. "You, you damned cur, are going straight to the Black Cells." He stepped forward, face twisting into a sneer as he looked down at Randy. "I promise, your stay will not be a pleasant one."

Randy smiled placidly. "Whatever you say."

Connington huffed, and spat on Randy's face. Lyanna growled, stepped forward—only for Bran to hold her back. "Now is not the time to run wild, Lyanna." He hissed—in any other situation, she would have laughed at the sheer irony of him advocating patience. Randy, for his part, just wiped his face off, though his features did sharpen.

Connington glared once more at Randy before turning to Lyanna, Bran, and Thoros. "You three are considered guests of House Targaryen, and shall be directed to rooms within the Red Keep. You shall have an hour to refresh from your travels before meeting King Aerys." He turned on his heel. "I shall show the wa—aagh!" Connington flailed, and hit the ground face-first with a nasty crunch not two steps forward.

Instantly, Lyanna turned to Randy. He caught her gaze, and winked.

"M'fine!" Connington said, holding a piece of cloth to his bloody broken nose and he shoved away the men that came to help him up. "My apologies," he said with a light groan. "But I'm afraid I'll have to leave your entry to the stewards." He turned on his heel once again, and once again fell flat on his face when he took two steps forward.

This time, Lyanna saw that Randy had slid his left foot back ever so slightly. He winked at her again, and Lyanna couldn't help the giggle that burst past her lips. Thankfully, she wasn't the only one that was giggling at Connington's apparent failure to keep his balance.

A knight to their side cleared his throat. "I'll, uh…I'll lead you inside, my lord, my lady."

Bran nodded. "Y-Yes." He tried, and failed, to hold in his laughter. "Lord Connington is obviously preoccupied." Lyanna had to clap her hands over her mouth as Connington—after being helped up by someone—fell a third time.

However, her mirth died when she saw Randy finally get dragged away by his guards.

/+/+/+/+/

The maids and servants at the Red Keep were different from those in Winterfell and other castles Lyanna had previously stayed at. They were skittish, barely saying a word even among themselves. When they pulled at a particularly hard knot in her hair, making her wince, they all froze, and only continued assisting her when she asked why they stopped. Lyanna wanted to attribute their demeanor to attending to the Targaryens—and between the increasingly paranoid King Aerys and delusional Prince Rhaegar, there were enough reasons to be nervous—but there was something more to it. Something she couldn't quite place.

Still, they vacated themselves after helping her into a dress they'd brought with them. It bore more of those crosses popular in the Reach—as did the majority of the dresses in the dresser. She supposed it made sense for Reach-style clothing to bleed over into King's Landing.

"Lyanna!"

"Gah!" Lyanna yelped and whirled around, smacking her arm on the edge of the dresser.

"Ah, sorry." Bloodraven—in the body of a rat—crawled up the bed from a hole in the wall. "I'm was just refamiliarizing myself with the secret passages within the Red Keep, figured I'd check on you." He rubbed his paws together, snout twisted what a smile—at least, Lyanna assumed it was a smile. "I'd forgotten how fun winding up and down the Keep can keep."

"Secret passages?" Lyanna parroted, stricken.

"Yes. Oh!" Bloodraven held a paw over his heart. "Oh, don't worry, Lyanna. I've set rats to guard the passages to your, Bran, and Thoros's rooms. No one shall hide within them, I assure you.

"Thank you," Lyanna asked, a weight falling off her shoulders. If you couldn't even sleep within the Red Keep without worry of some villain hiding within the walls, it was no wonder the Targaryens all bore some form of madness.

Not wanting to think anymore of Targaryens and their madness, she asked, "You've been to the Red Keep before?"

"Well, obviously," Bloodraven said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. He blinked at Lyanna's blank stare. "Hold on…Do you not know who I am?"

"Should I?"

He gestured to himself. "I-It's Bloodraven. Brynden Rivers. From the Blackfyre Rebellion—the first one."

"Oh right!" Lyanna smacked her left fist into her right palm. "The supposed sorcerer among Aegon IV's Great Bastards." She goggled at him. "Wait, you're that Bloodraven?"

He held out his hands. "Do you know of another?"

"I barely remembered you—and hardly heard of you outside of lessons. I cared more for the Dance than the many, many Blackfyre Rebellions."

"I suppose that makes sense." Bloodraven—or was it Brynden?—replied. "Cregan does cut a striking figure."

She hummed. "But wait…wouldn't that make you over one hundred years old?"

"…Is that really so improbable? After everything you've seen and heard?"

Lyanna flushed. "Well, when you put it like that…"

"In any case, I should leave you to it. You're to greet King Aerys, yes?" She nodded—and gods did that terrify her. Worst came to pass, she knew Randy would protect her, but to stand before the man that, in another life, would sentence her father and brothers to death…She could only hope to freeze the wolf's blood in her veins to keep herself from doing something drastic.

"You'll be fine," Bloodraven assuaged. "Aerys is mad, to be sure, and getting worse by the day. But nothing you or Brandon—or even Thoros, should he be called upon—can say or do shall set him off."

"Bran would have, once."

"True," Bloodraven conceded. "But he also called for the death of a member of the Royal Family. Nothing against Brandon—would that all my siblings cared for each other to such an extent—but that would never have ended well. Just stay calm, be polite, and for the love of the gods, don't implicate Rhaegar."

"You'll have to tell Bran that," Lyanna replied.

"I already have. He went red-faced, but understood the importance of patience. Especially since Rhaegar, the subject of Brandon's true ire, isn't here yet."

Lyanna swallowed—yet. "And when shall the prince arrive?"

"He and Arthur Dayne travel slowly to accommodate the injured Oswell Whent. By my estimates, he shall arrive in five days' time. The same day, if not the day after, your father and Eddard Stark shall arrive."

"What!" Lyanna hissed. "Father and Ned are coming here?! Bran's letter told them not to."

"Brandon's letter asked them not to," Bloodraven clarified. "When I left your father, he had changed his course to Maidenpool—he's pushing himself even harder than Brandon did. Eddard left the Eyrie almost as soon as he received the letter, despite Jon Arryn's protests for caution, and should already be at Gulltown, if not boarding a ship to King's Landing as we speak." He hesitated. "And Robert Baratheon travels with him."

Lyanna honestly couldn't give a fuck about Robert, though she did appreciate Bloodraven's concern. She was more focused on her father and Ned, equally heartened and frustrated at their behavior. She bent down to stare Bloodraven in his beady, intelligent eyes. "Bloodraven, listen to me. No matter what happens, my family must live. Relay this to Randy—they must live. Promise me!"

Bloodraven chuckled, of all things! "If only you understood what you just said. Rest assured, Lyanna, Randy and I shall protect them. He's actually finalized that ever-dwindling plan of his."

Lyanna smiled, relieved. "And what is this plan?"

"I can't say—we do not want to risk you giving anything away." He swallowed. "It is ambitious, however." His voice turned apologetic. "And contingent on Rhaegar's return to the Red Keep."

Lyanna closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Just…promise me that I won't be left alone with him." She couldn't trust herself not to try and wring the bastard's neck at the earliest opportunity. Then where would she be?

"Of course not." Bloodraven replied. "Even if your brother weren't planning to stick to you like a tick, Rhaegar will have much more immediate conerns to occupy his attention."

Lyanna nodded. "Then I shall have to trust in Randy's plan.

"None of us really a choice at this point," Bloodraven remarked. "Thankfully, he's a good man to trust in." He turned around and crawled down the dresser. "Now, if you shall excuse me, I need to find my way to Jon Connington's room."

"Whatever for?"

"Randy asked me to fuck around with it—shit in his boots, tear up his bedding, that sort of thing."

Lyanna giggled. "My, he was more offended by that spit than I assumed! I thought his revenge was complete by splitting Connington's face open upon the ground."

Bloodraven paused before entering the wall. "Considering all Randy can do; I'd consider this a rather restrained revenge." That was true.

/+/+/+/+/

The time had come for their meeting with King Aerys. Thoros was called alongside herself and Bran, and they waited until the herald called their entrance. There weren't many people in court—just a handful of nobles, a dozen-or-so guards along the walls, and two Kingsguard flanking the Iron Throne.

Lyanna had to fight to not see visions of her father and Bran dying before her. Gods, she could hear their screams. Smell the burnt flesh of her father in his armor. Watch Bran turn red-and-blue as he broke his own neck trying to save their father. Feel the unrepentant, mad glee of the King as he laid them both to waste.

"Easy, my lady," Thoros whispered into her ear, his hand on the small of her back as he led her forward. "We have you." Bran wove his arm with hers, and she thanked the gods that these men stood with her.

Finally, they stopped before the Iron Throne. Before the king. The throne was, truly, an ugly, misshapen monstrosity—and the king upon it more so. He looked worse than he had at Harrenhal, if such a thing was possible. His silver hair was limp atop his head, his skin pulled tight across his bones, nails and teeth cracked, misshapen, and yellow. But worst were his eyes. They were surrounded by dark bags, red-rimmed, and alight with mania. His gaze darted everywhere—the people around him and the shadows in the corners. As if danger could strike from any direction.

She prayed he didn't decide Lyanna, Bran, and Thoros were a danger.

"Ah, the Starks," King Aerys rasped, though his voice boomed throughout the Throne Room. "So rare of your ilk to venture so far South. Have you come to follow the will of your ancestor, Cregan?" Aerys leaned forward, his already too-tight skin pulling at his neck and highlighting his atrophied muscles and veins.

She and Bran bowed as one as her brother said, "Of course not, Your Grace. Cregan only acted to ensure that the true Targaryen line—your line—would be able to live unopposed."

The king leaned back with a pleased hum. "Yes, that's right. So loyal, you Starks. Like the dogs you are, ha!" He started to laugh—a raspy, wheezing thing—and the courtiers in the throne room laughed along with him. Until he started to cry, then they all grew silent.

"Oh!" King Aerys moaned through tears. "I am bereft of true loyalty! Beset by all sides by insurgents and malefactors! Not even my own son, my heir, is safe!" He stared down at them, face going blank even as tears rolled down his cheeks. "I suppose I ought to thank you, for bringing this latest threat to my reign to me. Rest assured; he shall be thoroughly punished." That mad gleam entered his eyes once more.

Lyanna froze, terror for her savior compounded by being in the site of her family's would-have-been deaths. How many of the people here had been there? Did they try to stop the king? Did they stay quiet in fear of burning as well? Or worse, did they join in his revelry? Would they do the same for Randy?

She made to speak—to do something for the man that had done so much for her, even if it was wholly unneeded—but her tongue felt numb and swollen in her mouth.

Thankfully, Bran spoke for them both.

"In truth, Your Grace," her brother slowly began. "We would ask that you hold off on any punishment." He pulled Lyanna closer. "I've sent letters to my father and younger brother, Eddard. We would wait for them to join us before punishing Lyanna's…attacker."

The king cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed. "…Very well." He said at length. "The duration of this man's stay in the Black Cells is of no matter—he shall receive his due in the end." He waved at them. "You are dismissed. Not you, Red Priest." The king said when Thoros turned around with them. "I would speak to you alone. In truth I've always been fascinated by your religion." His voice turned almost giddy. "I was so excited to hear of your band landing in the Stormlands. But, where are the rest of you?"

Thoros took a moment to reassuringly wave Lyanna and Bran off, before turning to King Aerys and bowing. "I am very glad to hear that, Your Grace. Our travels would have taken us to King's Landing, had tragedy not struck." Whatever else he said was lost as she and Bran were led away to their rooms.

It wasn't quite suppertime when they returned to their rooms—Lyanna's specifically—but neither Bran nor Lyanna had in them to dine with the king after their meeting, and asked to eat their meals early in their rooms. The steward nodded, and left to procure their meals.

As soon as the door closed, they collapsed onto Lyanna's bed.

"Fuck me," Bran gasped, hand over his heart. "Did you see the look in his eyes?"

"Mad as they come," Lyanna replied, fanning her neck to dry the sweat upon it. "I don't know how people can meet with him daily."

"With any luck, you won't have to. We can just claim that you're tired and afraid from having to be in such close proximity to your 'attacker' and need to rest within your room." Lyanna made a face, but didn't say anything. Better to be seen as weak and vapid than deal with the man that would have destroyed her family.

Bran continued. "With any luck, I'll be able to claim that I need to keep an eye on you and avoid needing to mingle with anyone. At least until Randy accomplishes whatever the fuck he's got planned."

Lyanna sat up. "Do you know anything specific about it?"

Bran shook his head. "Just that he needs Rhaegar to be here." His voice dropped to a whisper; face twisted in mild disgust. "Can't he just wring the bastard's neck from here and be done with it?"

He no doubt could. Still, Lyanna replied, "That would still leave Aerys to contend with."

"Then kill him too," Bran bit back.

"Brandon!" Lyanna hissed.

"He'd be doing us all a favor! Leave Prince Aegon to his Martell kin and pray the babe didn't inherit his family's madness."

Lyanna scowled at her brother, but a knock at the door interrupted her. A voice called out, "Lady Ashara Dayne has come to visit."

Lyanna blinked at Bran. "Did you call for her?"

Bran shook his head. "I did not. Are you well enough for a visitor?" She nodded, and Bran helped her up before responding to the call.

The door opened, and Ashara Dayne swept into the room. She truly was a beautiful woman—pretty pale skin, full lips, silky hair, a curvy figure, and brilliant amethyst eyes that you could get lost in. Ned was truly a lucky man for earning her affection.

She bowed. "Lord and Lady Stark."

Bran grinned. "Come now, none of that. You're to be family, if Ned has his way."

Ashara rose with a blush and shy smile. But it was lost when she turned to Lyanna. "La—Lyanna, I am so relieved to hear you're safe. When we received the letter from Prince Rhaegar regarding his attack, we all feared the worst."

Lyanna's stilled. It made sense for a member of the Red Keep to defend the would-be rapist. But it made her wolf's blood howl. "Yes," she said frostily. "I imagine that the prince would have had quite the tale to tell. How did he report the 'attack'?"

"Lya," Bran whispered warningly.

But the damage was already done. Ashara blinked, and a calculating gleam entered her eyes. She twitched when the idea came to her mind, and schooled her features into a blank mask. "I see…If neither of you have had supper, Princess Elia would be delighted to host you." Oh yes, dine with the wife of the man that tried to marry her against her will and would have raped a babe into her. That would go over so well.

Lyanna hummed. "I'm afraid not." She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and grimaced. "I've been feeling so awful since my 'attack' at roguish hands, I won't be good company."

Ashara's lips twitched downward, but she did accept the excuse, and left with a soft goodbye.

Bran ran a hand down his face as the door shut closed. "I don't know the first thing about these Southern games, Lya, but you're terrible at them."

Lyanna flopped back onto the bed. "Or perhaps I'm so good I merely seem terrible."

"No," came her brother's blunt reply.

/+/+/+/+/

Their meal came without any further surprises. Lyanna had been hoping to hear from Bloodraven, or perhaps even Randy himself, but neither sent word. No news was good news, she supposed.

She did worry for Thoros, however—as did Bran, perhaps even more than her. She'd asked the guards stationed in the corridor, but none of them had seen or heard of him.

She and Bran were about to prepare for bed, when someone knocked declaring for Thoros. They ushered him in.

He looked terrible. Not in a beat-up sort of way, but he had a harshness to his breath and an aura of trepidation cloaked around his body.

"Thoros?" Bran asked as he directed him to a seat. "What's wrong?"

Thoros gulped, and was silent for a long moment. "…Whatever Randy is planning," he finally said in a whisper. "I pray it involves regicide." Bran and Lyanna reared back. Their friend ran a hand through his hair. "The king…I've known men like him, in Essos. Among my order. He's…"

"Mad?" Lyanna supplied.

Thoros violently nodded. "Yes. Worse, mad for the flame." Lyanna's blood ran cold. Her father's death wasn't just some stroke of one-off cruelty?

Bran furrowed his brow. "How do you mean?"

"Lord Brandon, I've told you that the members of my order, by sheer necessity, hold a healthy appreciation for fire?"

"Aye."

"Well, some men go beyond that that. For them, the flames become their entire lives. They devote themselves to it, above what the R'hllor calls for. Live their lives by it. Start it wherever they can with whatever they can." Thoros took a deep breath. "They're the kind of men that are not allowed to host gatherings and burn sacrifices. Because once they start, they don't stop." He looked away. "And King Aerys has already started."

"…Started what?" Lyanna asked, though she already knew the answer.

Thoros looked her dead in the eye. "Started burning people."

Bran took a sharp breath. "Thoros, are you sure?"

"I killed my fair share of the type, my lord."

"Fuck!" Bran cursed. He started to pace. "Is he doing so now? Has he already done so today?"

"Not today," Thoros quickly replied. "I'm sure of it. I don't know how many in the Red Keep are aware of the King's preferences, but his wife, at least, did not appear worried."

Bran's face pinched in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Thoros averted his gaze and rubbed his neck. "Well…of the fanatics, there are some that derive a very…crude pleasure from their burnings."

Lyanna and Bran drew back in horror once more—gods, she knew he would have burned her father in a mockery of a Trial by Combat, but she didn't think he was so depraved. They exchanged horrified glances, before Bran bent down to a hole where the wall met the floor. "Bloodraven!" he hissed. "Get your ass in here, now!"

Seconds after Bran stood up, a rat with intelligent eyes exited the hole and crawled up the dresser. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Did you know that Aerys burns people?" Bran asked. "Rapes his wife?"

"Yes," Bloodraven bluntly replied.

Bran sneered, and clutched the rat in an iron grip. "Then why haven't you done something about it, Brynden Rivers?"

Bloodraven hummed. "Ah, glad at least one of you figured it out on your own." Bran squeezed him. "Hey, easy, easy! I didn't do anything about Aerys because I didn't need to," Bloodraven said calmly. "Before Randy came along, Aery's cruelty and madness was a very effective means to an end."

Something clicked for Lyanna right then—Bloodraven not only knew the fates that would befall her and her family, but he also had the means to stop them. She glared at him, and given the way he avoided her gaze, he knew what she was thinking.

But she would confront him—and Randy, because he also had knowledge of the future and the means to change it—later. When they were safe. Instead, she said, "What if he starts now? Will you stop him?"

"If Brandon would let me go, I would be happy to answer." Bran did so with a dismissive scoff. Bloodraven pat down his disheveled fur. "Now that I'm actively interfering, rest assured, I shall stop Aerys should his pyromania and cruelties get the better of him. The man's paranoia grows with every day—it'll be easy enough to get him to jump at his own shadow when he thinks to burn someone or rape his wife."

"Won't that just make him more unstable?" Thoros asked. "I know his kind—he won't be dissuaded forever."

"Yes, well, I just need to hold him off until Rhaegar gets here and Randy can enact his plan." He focused on Lyanna. "Which means that you cannot speak to anyone as you did to Ashara Dayne. Lucky for you neither she nor Elia Martell have shared your words with anyone."

Lyanna flushed, but held her head high. "I don't want anyone thinking that madman is a good person."

"Would that it were so simple," Bloodraven said with a sigh. "Regardless, it will be for the best that you stay in your room as long as you can."

"I already plan on doing so"

Bloodraven nodded. "Good. I'm already doing my part to keep the hidden passages clear, but there are other ways the Master of Whispers can discover the truth." He paused. "…Did you know that Mace Tyrell has taken up the position?"

Bran and Lyanna blinked at the question. "Aye," Bran answered for them both. "We'd heard about it. He got it after he discovered that some foreigner in King's Landing was connected to the Blackfyres and wanted to supplant Targaryen rule."

"Did he now?" Bloodraven's snout curled into a smirk. "I didn't think he had it in him."

"Father wasn't too shocked," Lyanna said. "He's always held the belief that the Tyrells are more cunning than they appear."

"Oh, they certainly are," Bloodraven replied with a chuckle. He crawled down the dresser to the floor. "I won't seek you out too often during our stay here. Just stay low, Brandon, Lyanna. Thoros, if Aerys's attentions ever become too much, let me know, I'll stop him."

Thoros smiled gratefully. "While I would like that, you've more important things to keep track of right now."

Bloodraven shrugged. "My offer shall remain." And then he was gone.

Once more, Lyanna flopped back against the bed, and had to fight the urge to simply pass out until morning. And just why did Bloodraven—or maybe she should call him Brynden, she should have asked—care about Mace Tyrell? Did he think the Lord Paramount of the Mander was connected to that other, Randy-like person in the Reach…? Now that she thought about it, it did make some amount of sense. No family in the Reach had as much, well, reach, as the Tyrells. Not even the Florents and the Hightowers, despite their claims otherwise.

Ah, she'd wonder about it after putting the Red Keep behind her.

"Well"—Thoros heaved a great sigh—"that's enough excitement for one night, I think. But before I leave, I must ask one thing. Who is Brynden Rivers and why does he sound important?"

Bran chuckled. "That's a very long story, my friend."

/+/+/+/+/

A/N: One more chapter until the big confrontation.