I don't own ASOIAF or Game of Thrones
Chapter 5 : The Quiet Wolf
A young boy with brown hair and grey eyes clashed wooden swords with an older boy under the watchful eye of their master-at-arms. The early morning light, filtered through the ever-present northern mist, cast a soft, diffused glow over Winterfell's courtyard, creating an atmosphere of serene activity. The ancient, towering walls of Winterfell, grey and weathered, stood resolute, protecting the bustling activity within. The sound of clashing steel and the soft thud of practice swords hitting wood echoed through the courtyard.
Graceful, confident, quick, and sure, the older boy, Brandon Stark, struck. He was only nine. His focus was sharp. Eight-year-old Eddard, or Ned, was less sure. His strokes were tentative, his thoughts straying to his imminent trip to the Vale of Arryn for fostering. He thought of the towering mountains, the cold halls of the Eyrie, soon to be his home, lodged with noble lords who would not only judge his skills but also his Northern heritage.
Winterfell's courtyard was alive with the daily routines of its inhabitants. Stable boys brushed down horses, their coats gleaming in the morning light. Guards practiced their drills, the rhythmic clanging of steel on steel adding a steady beat to the ambient noise.
Brandon's wooden practice sword connected with Ned's in a series of swift, controlled movements. The older boy's strikes were firm and unyielding, reflecting his dedication to their training. Ned parried with less conviction, his thoughts drifting.What would the Vale be like? Would the lords accept him, a boy from the North raised with the old ways and the old gods?
In a fluid motion, Brandon disarmed Ned, sending the younger boy's sword clattering to the cobblestone ground. Before Ned could react, he found himself lying flat on his back, looking up at his brother's triumphant face.
"Ned," Brandon exclaimed, offering his hand. The warmth in his voice cut through the sting of defeat. Ned clasped it, feeling the roughness of his brother's calloused palm, and was pulled to his feet. "Care to share your thoughts, little brother?" Brandon tussled Ned's hair playfully, earning a glare from the younger Stark, which looked almost comical on an eight-year-old's face.
Ned sighed, brushing the dirt from his clothes. "I'm thinking about what's going to happen in the Vale," he admitted, his voice tinged with worry. "Will the lords of the Vale approve of a Northern boy fostering in their lands? Surely they would try their best to convert me to the Seven."Let them try, Ned thought with a spark of defiance, though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind.
Brandon, sensing his brother's unease, offered a reassuring smile. "I heard Robert Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands, is also fostering under Lord Arryn," he mentioned, recalling a conversation he had overheard between their lord father and Maester Walys.
Ned's head snapped up, surprise evident in his grey eyes. This was news to him. He wouldn't be alone at the Eyrie.Robert Baratheon is of age with me... maybe he will be friends with me?he thought, a glimmer of hope softening his features.
Just then, a house guard approached, bowing respectfully to the young lords. "Young Lord Eddard, your father is calling for you in his solar," the guard informed, his tone formal. With a final bow, he turned and left.
Brandon raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "What did you do now, Ned?" he teased.
Ned felt a twinge of irritation but masked it with a cheeky retort. "I don't know, brother. I'm not half as troublesome as you," he shot back before turning on his heel and sprinting towards his father's solar, Brandon's laughter echoing behind him.
Ned came to his father's solar, his heart thudding with anticipation. He opened the door but felt out of place as he beheld a very large hall with many people inside it, large skulls of dragons adorning the walls, and an ugly, imposing throne made of blackened, melted swords with a person sitting on it, with long greasy silver hair and long, claw-like, unkempt nails, laughing maniacally.
The Iron Throne, he realized.This is the Red Keep in King's Landing.
The hall was vast, with high ceilings supported by massive stone pillars. Tapestries depicting scenes of Targaryen conquests hung from the walls, their colors faded with age. Incense and the metallic tang of blood were heavy in the air. Along the walls, a line of torches caused flickering shadows across the floor, seeming to bring movement and life into the eye sockets of a line of long-dead dragons.
The Iron Throne itself was a monstrous creation, a twisted mass of swords fused together by dragonfire. It was said to be uncomfortable to sit on, a constant reminder to the king that ruling was not meant to be easy. The throne loomed large and menacing, its jagged edges and sharp points threatening anyone who dared to approach. The metal was dark and foreboding, with a sheen that reflected the torchlight in eerie patterns.
On the throne sat the Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen. His long silver hair was greasy and unkempt, hanging in tangled strands around his gaunt face. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, darting around the room with a paranoid intensity. His long nails, more like claws, clicked against the armrests of the throne as he laughed maniacally, a sound that sent chills down Ned's spine. His robes were rich and ornate, but they hung loosely on his emaciated frame, giving him a skeletal appearance.
But what really caught Ned's eye was the young man who looked so much like his brother Brandon, strangling himself on a leather cord around his throat in a desperate attempt to reach the sword kept just out of reach from him.
Ned saw what—or rather, who—he was trying to reach. Then he realized in horror that he was seeing his own father, bathed in green flames,Wildfire, burning alive, his armor melting, his skin peeling off. But what horrified Ned most was that his father was looking straight at him as if accusing him in an eerie way.
Ned started to tremble with fear and terror, but he couldn't let his father and brother die. He tried rushing to their sides, but he couldn't reach them as if some invisible wall was blocking him.
"Father! Brother!"he called out, but he was ignored. No one was paying attention to him.
Then Ned started to cry. He cried for his family, for the horror they endured, until eventually, it stopped. His father's burnt body slumped on the floor, and his brother lay there with the cord still around his neck, his face blue and devoid of life, his mischievous eyes not shining anymore.
The sight of his father was a nightmare brought to life. His armor, once a proud symbol of the North, was now a molten mess, clinging to his flesh like a second skin. The green flames of wildfire danced over him, consuming everything in their path. His face was a grotesque mask of agony, skin blackened and cracked, eyes wide with a pain beyond endurance. The stench of burning flesh and metal filled the air, choking Ned and making his eyes water.
Brandon's struggle was equally harrowing. His face was contorted in a desperate effort, muscles straining as he tried to loosen the cord around his neck. His eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting as he fought for every breath. The veins in his neck stood out like cords, his skin turning a sickly shade of blue. Each convulsion, each gasp for air, was a testament to his will to live, even as his body betrayed him.
Ned's heart broke as he watched them. He reached out, but his hands passed through the air as if it were smoke. He felt a growing sense of helplessness, a gnawing despair that he could do nothing to save them. His cries went unanswered, his pleas ignored by the indifferent figures around him.
Then, all of a sudden, a dark phantom appeared in front of him. It looked him up and down.
"You're not supposed to be here," it uttered in a terrifying voice.
Ned looked at its face with terror and looked around to find every eye in the throne room turned to him—the mad king, the nobles, and even his dead father and brother rose and looked at him.
The phantom was a figure of pure darkness, a void that seemed to absorb all light around it. Its eyes were glowing embers, burning with a malevolent fire. Long, shadowy tendrils snaked around it, writhing and hissing like living things. It exuded an aura of dread that made Ned's skin crawl and his blood turn to ice.
The phantom moved closer, its presence overwhelming and suffocating. Its voice was a guttural whisper, echoing in Ned's mind. "You are not welcome here. This is not your place."
As it spoke, the phantom seemed to grow, its form expanding until it towered over Ned. The shadows it cast were like living things, writhing and twisting on the walls. The air around it crackled with an unnatural energy, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The light from the torches dimmed, as if the very presence of the phantom was consuming the light.
"Look at them," the phantomhissed, its voice reverberating through the hall. "Look at them! See the madness that consumes them. They have no mercy. They will kill anything and everything in their path, driven by their own insanity."
Ned's eyes rose back to the faces surrounding him. The lords of the court were no longer the same indifferent men they had been a moment before. Their eyes had sunken into their heads, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of malice and hunger. They stared at him with a predatory intensity, seeming to await the signal to fall upon him and rip him apart.
The Mad King's laughter grew louder, more maniacal. His eyes burned with a frenzied light, and his nails clicked against the throne in a maddening rhythm. "Burn them all!"he shrieked, his voice a high-pitched wail that echoed off the stone walls with a haunting resonance. His eyes gleamed with a frenzied light, madness clear in every glance he cast. The nobles around him, once indifferent, now seemed to feed off his insanity, their expressions twisted and grotesque. Their eyes were hollow, like empty voids that stared into Ned's soul.
"Look at them,"the phantom hissed again, its voice a chilling whisper that seemed to penetrate Ned's very bones. "Look at the madness that consumes them. They delight in cruelty, they revel in death. This is their true nature, and they are unstoppable."
The phantom's presence grew even more oppressive, its dark tendrils wrapping around Ned like cold, clammy fingers. He felt as if he were suffocating, the air around him thick and stifling. The temperature in the room dropped further, and his breath came out in white puffs.
"They will destroy everything you hold dear,"the phantom continued, its voice rising in intensity."They will burn your home, slaughter your family, and leave nothing but ashes in their wake. You cannot stop them. You are powerless against their insanity."
Ned's gaze was drawn back to his father and brother. Rickard Stark's armor was now a molten, twisted mass, his skin blistering and blackened. His eyes, once so full of wisdom and strength, were wide with pain and accusation. Brandon's face was a mask of agony, his efforts to free himself from the cord growing weaker with each passing moment. His eyes, bulging and bloodshot, seemed to plead with Ned for a salvation that he could not give. He would find the scene repeated again and again to Ned's horror.
The Mad King's laughter grew louder, more frenzied. He leaned forward on the Iron Throne, his long, claw-like nails scraping against the metal with a sound that made Ned's blood run cold. "Burn them all!"Aerys shrieked, his voice a high-pitched wail that pierced through Ned's ears. "Burn them all and let the flames cleanse this world of their filth!"
The nobles around the Mad King began to chant, their voices a low, ominous murmur that built into a deafening roar. "Burn them all! Burn them all!"Their eyes glowed with a fanatical light, their faces contorted with a horrific blend of ecstasy and bloodlust. It was as if they were possessed, their humanity stripped away by the Mad King's insanity.
Ned felt the weight of the phantom's gaze upon him. Its eyes, burning like fiery coals, bore into his soul. "You think you can save them, Stark? You think you can protect those you love from this madness?"The phantom's voice was mocking, filled with a cruel amusement. "You are a fool. You will watch them suffer and die, and there is nothing you can do."
A wave of hopelessness swept over Ned as he was drowning in it. It was hard to breathe, his chest having tightened with the weight of his helplessness. Again and again, his hand reached out, trembled, and passed through the air like smoke. His cries for help went unanswered, and the figures surrounding him turned a deaf ear to his pleas for mercy.
The phantom drew closer; the dark tendrils wrapped tighter around Ned's body. He felt a cold, sharp pain in his chest as the claws of the phantom shredded through his flesh to pierce into his heart. The agony ripped through him—a searing, burning pain that left him gasping for breath. The phantom lifted him up, its grip tight, and held him aloft in the air like some rag doll.
"Look at them, Stark,"the phantom hissed, its voice filled with a twisted delight. "Look at the suffering you cannot prevent. Look at the death you cannot escape."It gestured to the Mad King, who watched with a maniacal glee, his eyes wide with excitement. "This is the fate that awaits you. This is the horror that will consume you."
The phantom's grip tightened, and Ned felt his heart being torn from his chest. He screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that echoed through the throne room. The Mad King and his courtiers laughed, their voices blending into a cacophony of madness that filled Ned's ears. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the phantom's eyes, burning with a malevolent fire, and the faces of his father and brother, twisted in death.
Eddard Stark woke up with an agonizing scream, his hand instinctively reaching for his stomach, his mind spinning with the horror of his recent dream. He was jolted from his stupor by his friend Howland Reed, who had rushed into the tent and was now shaking him gently. "Ned, are you alright?" Howland asked, concern etched on his face.
Ned nodded, though he felt far from alright. He stumbled out of the makeshift tent and approached the small fire their party had lit for supper. He sat down, staring up at the star-filled sky, trying to shake off the remnants of his nightmare.
The air smelled dry, as expected of the Dornish marches. The dry grasslands stretched toward the horizon, but they had been making progress since leaving the castle of Nightsong. Now, they could see the red mountains of Dorne in the distance, the border of that southern land.
He regretted traveling with so few companions. They had already been attacked several times by bands of bandits and looters, broken men who predated on the chaos and disorder unloosed by the war. Although castle-forged steel and battle-hardened skills easily dispatched the vagabonds, it was wearisome to run into bandit parties again and again.
Ned sighed. They shouldn't have lit that fire; it would surely attract more bandits. They needed to break camp and leave as soon as possible, to reach Lyanna.
Lyanna.
His little sister. Did he even know her anymore?Apparently not, he thought bitterly, remembering how she had run off at the first opportunity to become her silver prince's wife. Wife,Princess,Queen.
The thought irritated him to no end. She should have done her duty, accepted Robert as her husband, not run off with that self-important, prickly prince—no,King—that everyone bent themselves backward to please.
Rhaegar Targaryen was hisbrother-in-lawnow. The realization twisted uncomfortably in Ned's stomach. The son of the mad king now sat on the Iron Throne, ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Ned was wary of Rhaegar, remembering the saying that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin to determine whether they will be great or mad. He wasn't willing to test Rhaegar's coin, especially after the horrifying dream he had just experienced.
He vowed to take his sister back to Winterfell by any means necessary. Starks did not do well in the south, a sentiment Ned understood firsthand from the whispers and comments of the nobles who referred to northerners as unwashed barbaric savages. Ned hated it. He hated them. He hated the vipers' pit known as King's Landing.
Ahh, King's Landing.
Eddard Stark remembered all too well what happened in that smoking, partly ruined city. Too many innocents died due to the Mad King's madness. The wildfire explosion on Rhaenys' Hill that blew up the Dragonpit had set the city ablaze, and it took them three harrowing days to extinguish the fires. The acrid stench of smoke and burnt flesh lingered in his memory, mingling with the haunting screams of the dying and the sight of charred remains.
The devastation was almost unimaginable. Buildings reduced to smoldering rubble, streets filled with the mangled bodies of men, women, and children. The once bustling city now resembled a grim battlefield. It was a sight that would haunt Ned for the rest of his days. They were lucky that the rest of the wildfire caches underneath the city did not light up and form a chain of explosions
But one was enough as the fire had grown so severe that the army stationed outside King's Landing had to be called in to help. They tore down all wooden structures near the blaze to stop it from spreading further and worked tirelessly to douse the flames. Ned himself joined the effort, along with plenty of Northern lords. They labored side by side with the smallfolk, covered in soot and grime, their faces smeared with ash and sweat. The heat was unbearable, the smoke choking, but they pressed on, driven by a grim determination to save what was left of the city.
Meanwhile, the pompous Andal lords lounged on their horses, supervising the endeavor from a safe distance and claiming credit for the hard work of the smallfolk. It was a disgusting display of arrogance and indifference. These lords, who hadn't lifted a finger to help save the city, preferred to lounge inside the Red Keep, far from the chaos and destruction. Ned's disgust for them grew with each passing moment.
Ned hated them.Oh, how he hated them.
At least Rhaegar put his foot down and ordered them to take part in the efforts to save the city. Ned was almost grateful to that bastard. Almost.
But what came after was a sight to behold.
Rhaegar had cracked down on the opportunistic lords who had tried to gain power during the rebellion. None felt his wrath more than House Baratheon and House Tully. Ned had been present when Rhaegar sent messengers to Storm's End to order Stannis Baratheon to surrender Storm's End to Mace Tyrell, relinquish his title of prince, and put down any notion of rebellion or die trying. He was allowed to keep the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormland due to his familial connection to the king and the shared history between Targaryens and Baratheons, although he was forced to send his younger brother to the Red keep as a ward.
Hostage, Ned corrected himself,a prized hostage to keep Stannis in line.Not that Stannis would rebel; he was too rigid to ever forsake his oaths.
House Tully was stripped of its title as Lords Paramount of the Trident, and Edmure Tully was taken as a ward—hostage, his mind whispered again—to ensure the Tullys' compliance. Naming the new Lord Paramount of the Trident was a contentious affair, with the riverlords quarreling amongst themselves. The Blackwoods and Brackens, age-old rivals, were the most vocal in their claims, while the Mallisters tried to position themselves as a neutral choice. The king's decision would have far-reaching consequences, potentially sparking further conflict if not handled with care.
In the end, the honor was bestowed upon House Darry, who had remained loyal to the crown throughout the rebellion. The Darrys were a strong and respected house, and their loyalty had been unwavering. Ser Jonothor Darry and Lord Raymun Darry's sons had died fighting for the Targaryens, and Rhaegar saw this as an opportunity to reward their sacrifice and ensure continued loyalty.
0It was a delicate balancing act, a masterstroke of political maneuvering. Rather than annexing the Riverlands or parts of the Stormlands into the Crownlands and ruling them directly, Rhaegar redistributed the lands and titles in a way that maintained stability. He annexed fertile lands from the Stormlands and Riverlands, taking them from lords who had rebelled and rewarding them to loyal Crownland houses. The heavy taxation and duties on trade reduced effectively the power of the rebel lords without actually divesting them of the same. It was a better option than outright stripping them of their titles.
Ned had witnessed Rhaegar's judgments firsthand. The king had presided over the court with a cold, calculating demeanor, dispensing justice with an iron fist. It was a far cry from the image of the noble, tragic prince that the songs painted. This was a man who understood power and how to wield it, a man who would do whatever it took to secure his reign and ensure the loyalty of his subjects.
But there wassomethingthat Ned was deeply worried about.
He remembered the King's expression as he talked about Lyanna and his soon-to-be-born daughter with fervor. Rhaegar kept blabbering about some prophecy concerning there being three heads of the dragon. Before that, Ned thought Rhaegar was a good and reasonable king. But that conversation changed his mind. Rhaegar seemed almost...fanaticalabout his prophecy, almost like he was the new Mad King in the making. His eyes held some strange light in them, a burning intensity that unsettled Ned deeply.
This King, so obsessed with destiny and ancient prophecies, reminded Ned too much of Aerys's madness. How could a man who seemed to be so rational believe so fervently in something so abstract? It was as if he saw himself as some kind of messiah, destined to save the world. That thought was suppressed, however, as Rhaegar had promised an indemnity to Ned for the losses of the North against the Mad King. That would be later, as the crown had first to rebuild the parts of King's Landing that had been destroyed by wildfire
Ned turned off that thought as he held the parchment scroll that bore the seal of House Targaryen, which he would show to the guards outside the Tower of Joy. It was entrusted to him by hisgood brother, Ned thought mockingly, as Rhaegar believed that Lyanna would be relieved to see him and that her brother was unharmed.
What a load of horseshit. As if Rhaegar cared about House Stark, Ned thought angrily. He almost crushed the letter in his hand, but he soothed his anger by remembering all the pleasant things that had happened recently.
He remembered how the Mad King was put in chains in front of everyone, gagged and rendered harmless, though his eyes still held that wild madness, trying to break through and kill everything in sight. The satisfaction he felt as that rabid beast was dragged by his chains and locked in a tower until he passed away—peacefully or maybe by a lucky poison—was immense.
Ned had been vexed when his request to take the Mad King's head was denied. Rhaegar had reminded him that the man may be mad, but he was still a king, albeit one without power. This in turn quelled Ned's desire to see the Mad King's head on a spike; he refused to let his name be remembered in history as aKingslayer. But still... seeing that worm escaping his grasp and getting a peaceful death was pure torment for Ned, as that mad bitch deserved a public execution. He could still hear the screams of the innocents, still see the flames reflected in the crazed eyes of Aerys.
As he sat by the fire, he couldn't shake the image of his father and brother dying in the throne room of the Red Keep. The sight of his father burning alive, his brother strangling himself in a desperate attempt to reach a sword—it was a vision that would haunt him forever. The phantom's chilling words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of the horrors he had witnessed.
Ned snapped out of his thoughts as Howland Reed and Martyn Cassel approached him, informing him of the impending dawn and their plan to break camp and reach the Tower of Joy as soon as possible. It wasn't long before all his companions awoke, broke camp, and mounted their horses to continue their journey.
Ned took a deep breath, steeling himself. He would find Lyanna and bring her home, no matter the cost. The Starks did not belong in the south, but he would endure it for his sister's sake. He glanced around at his companions, seeing their resolve mirrored in their eyes. Together, they would face whatever stands in their way, and together, they would bring Lyanna back to Winterfell.
Just wait, Lyanna. I'm coming. You will give me all the answers I seek. I am coming for you little sister.