Chapter 82 – The Execution
"Yes," said Lance, his voice steady beneath the pale steel of his helm, "you heard me correctly."
He met Brandon Stark's wide, disbelieving eyes without the faintest flicker of anger.
There was only calm — the calm of a dragon gazing down at an ant clawing at its feet.
"I can forgive you this once, Brandon Stark."
His sword struck the earth with a soft metallic thud. Standing tall, the white knight's tone was almost conversational as he continued:
"All you must do is shed your armor — strip yourself bare — and present your 'sincerity' before His Grace."
"Crawl before the court. Confess your folly to all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Swear never again to cross south of the Neck."
"And finally," his voice curled into mockery, "lick the King's boots clean with that filthy mouth of yours. Do that, and I'll let you crawl back to your frozen keep and live out the rest of your days as the North's pampered heir."
The words struck like thunder.
Gasps rippled across the viewing stands. Even the courtiers who had long since grown numb to cruelty stared in shock.
This was no mercy — this was a death sentence wrapped in humiliation.
If Brandon Stark truly agreed to such terms, he would not only damn himself but shame his entire bloodline. No northern lord would ever again bend the knee to a Stark who had knelt like a whore before a southern king.
The moment Brandon returned home, his name would be spat upon.
The proud bannermen of the North — fierce Karstarks, stubborn Umbers, and cruel Boltons — would turn away from Winterfell's call.
And if the Boltons ever needed an excuse to resurrect their old title — Red Kings of the North — this would be it.
"He's a dead man," Tywin Lannister murmured, rising from his seat.
He did not even glance back as he descended the stairs of the royal dais.
No heir of a great house could accept such humiliation, least of all a Stark.
Under the twin pressures of the King's will and the Kingsguard's blade, Brandon Stark had only one path left — to die fighting.
As the Master of Coin beside him still mumbled anxiously about troop costs and grain logistics, Tywin left the arena with his guards.
He already knew what would come next.
Rickard Stark would not forgive this.
And war… war was never far when pride was wounded.
The Hand of the King would be ready — ready to profit from it.
And then, as if to confirm his thought, Brandon Stark roared and charged.
"Die, you southern dog!"
Sword raised high, he came down like a storm. His fury was absolute — the fury of a man who knew his honor was already lost.
He didn't want to die.
But to kneel as Lance had commanded — to abase himself in front of all of Westeros — was worse than death.
His father would have disowned him before the sun set.
For thousands of years, the Starks had ruled the North. They had fought the Others in the long night, battled wildlings and Red Kings alike, endured endless wars with House Arryn over the Sisters.
But never — not once in all those generations — had a Stark been brought to such shame.
Their words were carved in blood and winter.
Winter is Coming — and no true Stark ever bowed before death.
"No one judges me!"
Brandon's roar shook the air. His muscles swelled with rage as he swung with all his strength.
"No one!!!"
His blade fell like a bolt of lightning.
The arena fell silent. Every eye fixed on the black wolf and the white knight — the clash that could change the balance of the realm itself.
"Die!"
The northern heir struck. The white knight didn't flinch.
At the last instant, Lance tilted his body aside. The sword hissed through empty air, slicing only dirt.
Aerys exhaled sharply. For a moment, even he had feared what might follow.
Lance's movement had been effortless — the grace of a dragon teasing prey beneath its claws.
Watching from above, Aerys whispered to himself, eyes wide with awe and envy.
"A dragon soaring in the heavens… cannot be caged in chains of iron."
He remembered the words Ser Gerold had once relayed from Lance himself.
"Can two dragons truly exist beneath the same sky?"
he murmured, almost to no one.
---
Down below, Brandon was breaking.
Each swing grew heavier, slower, sloppier. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Lance stepped lightly out of reach, sword flicking once, twice, never striking back.
"Pathetic," he said softly, voice dripping with contempt. "For a knight, your swordplay is laughable."
He dodged another clumsy slash.
"You call this skill? You thought to make your name in King's Landing?"
His blade tapped Brandon's with effortless precision, twisting it aside.
"Every one of my sworn brothers would have beaten you long ago, Brandon Stark. Even if it hadn't been me, your defeat was inevitable."
Each word cut deeper than any blade.
Brandon's fury dissolved into panic, and panic into despair.
He had trained under Ser Rodrik Cassel.
He had been knighted by Lord William Dustin after besting every challenger in the North.
At thirteen, he had defeated his own master-at-arms. His father had called him the running wolf — the pride of Winterfell.
He had ridden south thinking he would make the realm remember the name Stark.
Instead, he found only humiliation.
"Hah… hah…"
He could barely see. Sweat and dust burned his eyes. His lungs clawed for air. Still, he swung blindly, half from rage, half from pride.
"I… I am Brandon Stark! No one can take what's mine! No one!"
"AHHHH!"
His final scream tore through the square as he brought his sword down with every ounce of strength left in him.
This time, Lance didn't move.
It was over.
He had shown the realm enough. He had shown them what the North's heir truly was — a beast of rage, not reason. A wild dog gnashing its teeth at a dragon.
The blow never landed.
BANG!
Lance's armored boot slammed into Brandon's chest. The sound cracked like thunder.
The northern knight flew backward, hitting the ground hard. His sword clattered from his grasp, sinking into the mud.
For a long moment, he lay there under the burning sun, staring up at the white figure standing above him. The light hurt his eyes. He could no longer move.
Lance strode toward him, voice cold as winter steel.
"Say goodbye, 'Winter Wolf.'"
He planted his boot on Brandon's wrist. Bone crunched. The heir to Winterfell cried out, dropping his sword.
In one swift motion, Lance seized the man's brown hair, lifting his head high for all to see.
Gasps rippled through the stands. Even the King leaned forward.
Step by step, the white knight dragged Brandon Stark toward the royal dais — his prize, his warning, his execution.
---
Outside the arena, a girl's voice cried out, breathless and frightened.
"Ned! You're too slow!"
Lyanna Stark pushed her way through the crush of spectators, too short to see above the crowd.
Behind her, Eddard 'Ned' Stark — taller, grim, and far more cautious — forced his way forward, clearing a path with quiet strength.
"Keep your head down, Lyanna," he muttered, eyes fixed ahead. "Don't draw attention."
Eddard held his younger sister close, his hand firm on her shoulder as he whispered in her ear,
"We're here to find Robert and Brandon, not to join the mob."
"Yes, yes, I know!"
Lyanna rolled her eyes in exasperation, brushing off his warning.
"We must stay alert," Ned insisted quietly. "We're Starks. Winter is Coming, Lyanna."
She parroted his solemn tone with a mocking lilt, her lips curling into a grin.
"Oh, gods, Ned — you really are duller than a maester's book. A few years in the Vale, and you've turned into one of those proper, joyless knights!"
Her gray eyes glinted with mischief.
"Tell me, do the women of the Vale actually like men who look like they've swallowed their own tongues?"
Then, with a wicked grin:
"Be honest, brother — you're still a virgin, aren't you?"
Lyanna elbowed him in the ribs as they pushed through the crowd. That teasing look, that irreverent laugh — it reminded Ned painfully of his dearest friend, Robert Baratheon.
"A lady shouldn't speak so crudely," Ned muttered, shaking his head.
He meant to lecture her, to remind her how a highborn daughter of Winterfell ought to behave — but before he could speak, Lyanna's slim figure darted forward.
In one graceful motion, she slipped between two men and vaulted up over the wooden railing of the stands.
"Lyanna!" Ned hissed. He could only sigh, then follow clumsily after her, squeezing between shouting spectators until he managed to climb up beside her.
"You should learn some manners," he said, panting. "If you keep behaving like this, I can't imagine which lord's son will—"
He broke off.
Lyanna wasn't listening. She was leaning far over the railing, half her body hanging above the lists, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Brandon!" she gasped. "It's Brandon — what is he doing!?"
Ned's heart lurched. He pushed past a row of gawkers and stared down at the field.
There, in the center of the arena, a knight in white armor stood tall, sword raised high.
And beside him — kneeling in the dust, his head bowed, his hair wild — was Brandon Stark.
His brother.
"What… what is this?" Ned breathed. "It was supposed to be just a tourney…"
He felt the world tilt around him, a sickening blur of noise and heat.
How had it come to this?
"Brandon!"
Lyanna's scream tore from her throat — but her voice was swallowed instantly by the thunder of the crowd.
For a moment, the kneeling man seemed to hear.
Brandon's head lifted slightly, his bloodshot eyes searching the stands until they found hers.
Their gazes met — brother and sister, just for an instant — before his lips moved soundlessly.
No words came out.
Because, before he could speak, the white knight had already moved.
Before the King.
Before the realm.
The blade fell.
It sang through the air with a silver whisper, then bit clean through flesh and bone.
A sudden chill spread across Brandon's neck. His vision spun — the sky, the stands, the sunlight blurring together.
The last thing he saw were two faces in the crowd — a boy and a girl — staring back at him in horror.
Ned. Lyanna.
And then everything went dark.
His eyes closed.
The wolf of Winterfell was gone.