Chapter 83 – At First Sight, Lyanna Stole His Fate
"In the name of the Kingsguard, Your Grace!"
In the center of the tourney grounds, the tall white knight lifted a severed head by its hair, his voice carrying clear across the stunned arena.
"I offer you, my king, the head of the traitor and coward — Brandon Stark!"
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then came the roar.
The crowd exploded into wild cheers.
They had expected this ending — but when the Stark heir's head truly struck the dirt, even the most jaded spectators felt the cruel thrill of satisfaction.
After all, he was a Northerner — proud, loud, and insufferably arrogant.
To march into the capital and challenge a knight of the Kingsguard before the eyes of the realm? To insult the King himself?
They thought he deserved it.
A fitting lesson for the "wild wolf" who dared to snarl in the lion's den.
Only one word passed between them now:
"Justice!"
Whether it might spark a war with the North — whether House Stark would march south in vengeance — was none of their concern.
They were spectators, and for now, they were entertained.
But not everyone was cheering.
Up in the stands, two young Starks stood frozen.
Tears welled in their eyes, fury burning hot enough to melt the chill of Winterfell's snows.
Lyanna Stark's hands shook as she turned to her brother.
"I'll kill him! I'll kill that bastard, Ned — let me go!"
Her voice cracked with rage, her grey eyes blazing. She struggled violently against Eddard's grip, every muscle coiled like a cornered wolf.
If her brother hadn't locked his arms around her, she would already have leapt over the railing, charging straight at the white knight who still held Brandon's head aloft like a trophy.
"Calm yourself, Lyanna!" Ned hissed, holding her tighter.
His own fury simmered just beneath the surface, but reason — cold and hard as northern ice — restrained him.
This was King's Landing, not Winterfell. One wrong move here could destroy them both.
If she died… if he lost her here… he would never forgive himself.
He would curse himself every day for bringing her to this cursed city.
"Let me go, Ned!" Lyanna spat, twisting and clawing. "Let me go!"
She was wild — a mother wolf defending her pack — blind to fear, to consequence, to everything but her brother's death.
Then she bit him.
A sharp pain tore through Ned's arm; he gasped as blood welled where her teeth broke skin.
Lyanna froze. Her breath caught. She looked down at the crimson stain spreading beneath her fingers, horror and shame flickering in her tear-filled eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ned… I didn't mean to — but Brandon… they killed Brandon!"
"I know, Lyanna."
Ned's voice was low, steady — but trembling at the edges. He didn't even glance at the wound. Instead, he wrapped his sister in his arms, pulling her close, his bloody hand gently patting her hair.
"He was your brother," he whispered, "and mine."
"I want to kill that knight as much as you do. I want to see him bleed."
He drew in a breath, his jaw set.
"But not here. Not now."
He leaned back slightly, brushing a tear from her cheek, his voice hardening to steel.
"This is King's Landing. We have no right to pass judgment here — especially not on a knight of the Kingsguard."
"Tomorrow," Ned said, his tone cold and certain, "I'll go to the Red Keep myself. I'll stand before the Iron Throne and demand to know what law Brandon broke — what crime justified this butchery!"
Lyanna trembled. Her voice quavered.
"But Father said the King can't be trusted anymore. Don't you remember? He's cruel, he's mad — he had Father's thumb cut off before the court, and now he's murdered Brandon! Maybe… maybe Aerys has already chosen war!"
Ned's gaze hardened, his northern blood surging like winter wind.
"Then let him choose war," he said fiercely. "If he wants it, we'll give it to him."
"But not before I demand justice — by the law of the realm."
His voice dropped, deliberate and calm, every word like a vow.
"If the King refuses… if he shields the murderer… I'll return to the North, call our banners, and march south with Father's host until the Iron Throne is forced to answer."
He looked down at her — his expression softening, but only slightly.
"But before that, Lyanna… you must leave King's Landing. It's too dangerous. They'll use you against us."
"No, Ned!" she cried, shaking her head, her eyes wild but steady. "I won't leave you! Wherever you go, I go! We'll stand together — for Brandon!"
"Lyanna, listen to me—"
"No! I won't go!"
"You must!"
"Never!"
Their argument rose above the din — until another voice cut cleanly through the noise beside them, halting them both in place.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing here!?"
The voice boomed like thunder.
Eddard and Lyanna turned — and there he was.
A towering man built like a brown bear, broad as a gate, all raw strength and roguish vitality. His presence was enough to make nearby onlookers instinctively step aside.
"Robert!"
Ned's eyes lit up with disbelief and relief.
Before Lyanna could even speak, he released her and rushed forward, wrapping his arms around the massive figure.
"Gods, it's good to see you alive, Robert!"
For all his quiet composure, Eddard Stark was still only fifteen — a boy seeing his oldest friend in a foreign city after tragedy. His eyes burned with emotion.
Robert laughed, his voice booming across the courtyard.
"Alive? Ha! I'm Robert bloody Baratheon! No man born of woman could ever bring me down, Ned!"
He slapped Ned's back with a hand the size of a smith's hammer — hard enough to rattle his ribs.
Robert had seen it all — Brandon's execution, the crowd's cheers, the King's smirk. But he said nothing of it. He was clever enough, in his own way, to know when silence was mercy.
Yet his eyes were not on Ned.
They were fixed on the girl standing behind him.
Lyanna Stark.
And in that instant, Robert Baratheon forgot to breathe.
"Oh— right," Ned said after a moment, stepping aside. "Robert, this is my sister. Lyanna Stark."
Despite growing up as foster brothers in the Eyrie, the two had rarely spoken of family. Between battles, training, and long winters, friendship had replaced blood.
But now — seeing Lyanna — Robert realized what kind of family his friend came from.
"Lyanna Stark," he repeated, his deep voice softening, as if tasting the name.
"Of course. I've heard your brother speak of you often."
To Ned's surprise, Robert straightened his posture like a knight before his queen. The famously unrefined heir of Storm's End — the man who could outdrink sellswords and outpunch bannermen — bowed deeply, performing an awkward but earnest courtly salute.
For a moment, he looked almost… noble.
Ned blinked in shock.
Robert? Polite?
Then the illusion shattered.
Without hesitation, Robert lunged forward and swept Lyanna into a bear-sized embrace.
"Robert!—Robert!"
Ned's expression darkened as his friend squeezed his sister tight, her small frame nearly vanishing against his chest. Half a minute passed, and the Storm Lord still hadn't let go.
"Robert!" Ned barked, exasperated.
Robert inhaled — quite audibly — a deep breath of Lyanna's dark hair, as though her scent itself were wine. He didn't release her until Ned called his name a third time.
Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he let her go, his grin broad and utterly unrepentant.
"Apologies, my lady," he said. "I was merely… overcome with emotion."
Then, turning to Ned, he added solemnly — far too solemnly:
"You've just lost your brother. I thought perhaps what you needed most was a warm embrace of comfort."
The moment those words left his mouth, Lyanna's lip trembled. Her fury faded into grief again, and she leaned against him, sobbing into his chest. Her tears soaked through his silken doublet — not that Robert seemed to mind in the slightest.
He shot Ned a sideways glance.
Seven hells, Ned… You've been keeping secrets from me. How could you never mention you had a sister this beautiful?
His mind was already spinning.
She's not betrothed yet… is she?
Well, she won't be for long.
Once Father returns from Essos, I'll speak to him myself — I'll have Lyanna Stark as my lady wife if it kills me.
"Enough, Robert!"
Ned's patience finally broke. He stepped between them, glaring up at his massive friend.
"I know you too well," he said sharply. "You've left a trail of broken hearts from the Vale to Storm's End. I won't have you treating my sister like one of your… tavern 'encounters.'"
Robert looked genuinely wounded for a moment — or perhaps just caught.
He scratched the back of his neck, grinning like a schoolboy caught stealing sweetcakes.
Ned pressed on. His tone hardened.
"Tomorrow, I'll go before the Iron Throne myself. I'll demand the King answer for Brandon's death."
"You've been here longer than we have. You know the truth of what happened. Stand with me, Robert — before the court, before the King. Help me get answers."
He hesitated, then added, his voice low and grim:
"If you're afraid, I won't force you."
Robert's grin vanished. He straightened, his voice thundering once more.
"Afraid!? By the Seven, what do you take me for? Of course I'll stand with you, Ned! Whatever comes, we face it together!"
But just as Ned's relief began to show, Robert's expression faltered.
"Though…" he muttered, lowering his voice, "your brother did… well, perhaps he went a bit too far this time…"
He stopped mid-sentence, eyes darting around. People were watching.
Whispers already fluttered through the stands like startled birds.
"Not here," Robert said quickly, grabbing both Starks by the wrist.
"Come on. Somewhere quiet. I'll explain everything."