Chapter 86 – Assassination!
"Don't be a fool, Ned!"
Lyanna Stark's voice cut sharply through the tension, her tone fierce enough to make even the drunken murmurs of the brothel quiet for a heartbeat.
"The King hasn't cared about the honor of House Stark for a long time!
If he did, he wouldn't have ordered Father's thumb cut off — or stood by while that Kingsguard butchered Brandon!"
"She's right," Robert added, rising from his chair, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the flickering candlelight.
He gripped Ned's shoulders, staring straight into his friend's storm-gray eyes.
"Listen to me. I grieve for your brother too, but it's clear as day — he struck first. He tried to attack a Kingsguard from behind, and he lost fair and square in the lists."
Robert's voice softened slightly, but his words carried hard truth.
"Even if the King killed him without summoning Lord Rickard, it's still within royal law.
And ever since your father's punishment, the North and King's Landing have been on the edge of open war. Marching into the Red Keep to 'demand justice'? Gods, Ned, that's not bravery — it's walking into the lion's den and handing him a hostage."
His logic was ironclad. Even Lyanna fell silent.
Ned, jaw tight, said nothing — but the fire behind his eyes dimmed into cold restraint.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Ned slammed his fist softly against the table — once, controlled but heavy.
"Then tell me, Robert," he muttered through clenched teeth, "what should I do?"
---
Robert exhaled heavily, finally seeing that his friend was thinking, not raging. That was something.
If Ned had charged into the Red Keep on sheer pride, Robert would've had no choice but to follow him into madness. And both their heads would end up on spikes above the gates before sunset.
"If it's vengeance you want," Robert said quietly, "there's only one way—"
"Assassination!"
Robert blinked.
"What?"
Lyanna was already on her feet — no, on the table, her hair wild, her eyes blazing with feral conviction.
"Yes! Assassination!" she cried. "We sneak into the Red Keep, find the bastard who killed Brandon, and take his head! Then we bring it back North and hang it from Winterfell's gates for all to see!"
The outburst was so sudden, so fiery, that Robert just stood there, mouth open, staring as if she'd grown dragon wings.
"Assassinate— what!? No! That's not what I— Seven hells!"
He rubbed his temples, utterly exasperated.
That wasn't the plan at all. He'd meant escape, not regicide!
The idea had been simple: slip out of the city quietly, ride north, and let Lord Rickard raise the banners and demand justice with steel and fire.
But of course, try explaining strategy to a Stark when their blood was up.
Robert turned to Ned, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Is she always like this?"
Ned just sighed.
---
Then a darker realization hit Robert mid-thought — one that made his grin twitch at the corner.
That temper… that wild defiance…
Seven save me, he thought, she's exactly like Brandon.
For a moment, his imagination wandered.
Maybe… just maybe… Rickard Stark hadn't been entirely faithful when he was younger.
Robert shook his head violently.
Gods, what am I thinking? Not the time!
---
"Enough!"
Ned's sharp voice snapped him back to the present. The young Stark grabbed his sister by the arm and yanked her down from the table.
"We will not stoop to such dishonorable acts, Lyanna!" he barked, his tone echoing with all the grim gravity of Winterfell's godswood.
"An assassin's blade brings no justice — only shame!"
Lyanna rolled her eyes, groaning loudly.
"Seven hells, Ned, you've spent too long in the Vale! You sound just like Lord Arryn — all rules, no heart!"
Her frustration flared again.
"He murdered Brandon! And you'd rather do nothing than lift a finger for him?"
"It was Robert's idea anyway!" she snapped, pointing straight at the bewildered Baratheon.
Robert nearly choked on air.
"What!? When did I— I was talking about— Seven bloody hells!"
He wanted to tell the wild northern girl that she'd misunderstood him completely — that his "plan" had been about strategy, not stabbing.
But then she looked at him — those gray Stark eyes, fierce and unyielding — and the words froze in his throat.
Refusing her, he realized, somehow felt like an act of treason against the gods themselves.
---
"No!"
Eddard Stark's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Absolutely not, Lyanna!"
He gripped his sister's shoulders tightly, his tone stern but pleading.
"Even if you avenged Brandon's death this way, you'd only prove the King right — that he was a man who struck from behind. You'd make his shame our family's legacy!"
"Every northern lord would mock our name. Winterfell's honor would turn to ash."
He turned toward Robert, eyes grim.
"I've decided. Tomorrow I'll go to the Red Keep myself and demand an answer from the King. But before that…"
He hesitated for a heartbeat, then added quietly,
"I need you to escort Lyanna safely back to the North."
---
Robert groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.
"Seven hells, Ned…"
He stared into his friend's gray eyes and saw it there — that stubborn Stark conviction that neither reason nor storm could shake.
"You're the most damned stubborn man I've ever met."
He let out a long sigh.
"Fine. If that dragon bastard tries to take you hostage, I'll ride north and bring every man in Storm's End back down here to break through his bloody gates myself."
Robert slammed a fist to his chest, voice booming with conviction.
"If Aerys won't release you, I'll storm the Red Keep, drag his royal arse off the Iron Throne, and kick it all the way to Dragonstone! I swear it, Ned Stark!"
The words sounded half like a boast — but Ned knew Robert too well.
When Robert swore something, it wasn't bluster. It was a promise sealed in thunder.
"Thank you, Robert."
Ned allowed himself a faint smile — the kind of expression that felt rare, even fragile, on his face. Then his gaze fell upon Lyanna, who stood pouting in silence, her lips pressed in a thin line.
He sighed softly. He knew this was reckless — perhaps even suicidal.
But as Brandon's brother, as a son of Winterfell, he had a duty.
Someone had to stand before the throne and demand the truth.
To restore Brandon's name.
To confront the mad king face-to-face.
It wasn't about vengeance. It was about honor.
And duty — that cold northern word that bound him tighter than steel.
But as Ned's thoughts turned to duty, he failed to notice the flicker in Lyanna's eyes — the sharp, defiant gleam of a girl already planning her own rebellion.
---
The White Sword Tower
"He won't see me, Arthur."
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's voice was quiet but edged with restrained fury as he paced the dim chamber of the Kingsguard's tower. The candlelight reflected off the polished marble, flickering across the pale bandages of Ser Arthur Dayne — the Sword of the Morning — resting on his sickbed.
"Everything I've done — every word, every decision — has been for the good of House Targaryen. For the peace of the realm. Yet my father refuses to listen! He's changed since Duskendale. Everything I say, he twists into treachery. But that… that knight, that Lance Lot, he trusts as though the man were blood of his blood!"
Rhaegar's words came out in a rush, sharp and bitter.
He didn't even try to hide his resentment.
"Ser Jonothor and Ser Gerold are on duty tonight, and Barristan is gods-know-where — probably groveling at Father's bedside. That leaves only you and… the old man."
He cast a glance toward the far corner, where the ancient Ser Harlan Grandison slept, pale and still as marble.
Rhaegar sighed. "Half the Kingsguard are crippled, and the other half seem deaf to reason."
Arthur, pale but calm, met his prince's eyes.
"He saved the King's name, Your Grace," he said quietly.
"You must understand — our silence at Duskendale cost you your father's trust. And when that silence ended, Ser Lance Lot appeared at his side — a knight who would bleed for him without question."
Arthur's lips curved faintly, almost teasing.
"Truth be told, the man even looks a bit like you. The build, the eyes… if you wore the white armor, I'd wager half the court couldn't tell you apart."
Rhaegar's expression darkened.
Arthur's grin faltered as pain shot through his chest; he hissed and clutched his bandaged side.
"Still," Arthur continued after a moment, "you must admit — the man is formidable. In Duskendale, he faced a thousand guards alone and brought the King out alive. Even I might not have managed that."
"Hmph. I never thought I'd hear the Sword of the Morning admire another man," Rhaegar muttered coldly. "That's not the Arthur I know."
Arthur smiled faintly, shaking his head.
"Even swords dull with time, Rhaegar."
He lifted the edge of his blanket, showing the bloodstained wrappings beneath.
"I can defeat any knight in the realm, perhaps. But I still bleed. I still hurt. I still die."
His voice softened.
"Take my advice, my prince. Bend your pride — just this once. You're his heir, his blood. One act of humility might bring back the father you lost."
"You and he are Targaryens both. Fire and blood may differ in shape, but it's still the same flame."
Rhaegar listened in silence, jaw tightening. Then a bitter laugh escaped him.
"Since when did you start preaching obedience to tyrants?"
He turned toward the door, voice dripping with frustration.
"You just focus on healing, Arthur. If you'd been by my side tonight, I'd already be inside that bedchamber."
He opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind him.
Arthur only sighed, lowering himself back into the pillows. There was no anger in his eyes — only weary loyalty. Whatever path Rhaegar chose, he would follow it to the end.
---
Rhaegar stalked through the torchlit halls, anger burning in his chest.
How had it come to this?
He was the rightful heir, yet his father trusted a stranger more than his own blood.
Even Arthur — Arthur! — had urged him to kneel.
Am I truly the one at fault?
The thought struck him like a whisper of doubt. He walked faster, head down — until he suddenly collided with something hard.
The sound was sharp, metallic.
He looked up.
Before him stood a gleaming suit of white plate armor hanging upon its stand — pristine, expressionless. The hollow eyes of the helm seemed to stare straight into him.
Arthur's earlier words echoed faintly in his mind.
"If you wore the white armor, people might mistake you for him."
Rhaegar stood there for a long moment, his reflection caught in the steel — one prince, one shadow, both born of fire.
And for the first time, the heir to the Iron Throne wondered if the armor staring back at him would one day outlive them both.