Here's another chapter to make up for the days without it because maybe tomorrow I won't have time.
Prologue:The Crossed Line
POV Aenar Targaryen
The audience hall in the Red Keep was stifling. Aenar Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, not as a petitioner, but as the Emperor whose will it served. His purple dragon-eyes scanned the room, seeing through the pageantry to the irrelevance of it all. His true focus was miles away, on Summerhall—the industrial and magical heart of his empire, where his son Uriel conducted research that would shape the future.
A shift in the air announced Gael's presence before she spoke. His Empress, a figure of serene power, approached and leaned in, her voice a soft contrast to the hall's din.
"A raven from Uriel," she murmured. "Aerys has worsened. He attempted to breach the living fire laboratories. The guards restrained him, but his madness now threatens our son's work."
Aenar's expression did not flicker. The Interim Lord's instability was a predictable nuisance, but tolerable when contained. Threatening Summerhall was different.
Two days later, Aenar walked with Gael in the Red Keep's gardens, seeking a respite rare for a man of his station. He stopped abruptly. His gaze fixed on the distant north. He reached out with his mind, trying to see the event he knew was unfolding: Lyanna Stark's flight with Rhaegar. But he found only a void, a thick, intentional mist. Someone—or something—was actively blinding him.
Ancient fury, a familiar flame, ignited within him. This interference was a direct challenge. He felt the impulse to lash out, to burn the obscuring veil with pure will.
Then, a presence brushed the periphery of his consciousness. It was not a voice, nor was it the gods he had confronted before. It was something else, an observing entity whose nature remained unclear to him. It did not speak but impressed a single, ice-cold word into his mind: "Wait."
Aenar clenched his fists. The air around him wavered with heat. Gael touched his arm, a calming gesture.
"Fine," he whispered, the word for himself alone. "This once. Because I said I would not interfere. But touch my blood... that is different."
Weeks passed. The summer heat began to wane, yielding to the first chill of autumn. News arrived in fragments, like debris from a distant shipwreck: Lyanna Stark had disappeared with Rhaegar Targaryen. Robert Baratheon's fury was a muted thunder. And then, the predictable echo: Brandon Stark, in a blind rage, had not ridden for King's Landing, but south, for Summerhall, to confront Uriel, whom he saw as Rhaegar's ally.
More days later, Lord Rickard Stark arrived at the Red Keep, his face graven with travel and anguish.
"My Emperor," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "My son Brandon... he has gone to Summerhall seeking answers. I fear for his hot head. And I fear what he might find there. I implore you, help calm these waters before Robert Baratheon unleashes a war that will consume us all."
Aenar's face remained an impassive mask. "Summerhall is under Lord Uriel's protection. Your son will be safe from himself there. Do not worry, Lord Rickard."
But the moment Rickard departed, a deep disquiet settled in Aenar. He stretched his consciousness across the bond he shared with Uriel, a constant connection of thought and magic.
Where the familiar brilliance of his son's mind should have been, there was only silence. An absolute void. The same mist that had obscured Lyanna and Rhaegar now shrouded his own son.
The fury he had contained for weeks erupted.
It was not a shout, but a wave of pure power that slammed out from him. The stained-glass windows rattled in their leaden frames.
"They dare," his voice was not a sound but a pressure filling the room. "They dare touch what is mine."
Two days later, preparations were complete. In the main courtyard, Zekrom awaited. The dragon was not a small lizard but a leviathan, a creature the size of a mountain, its black scales absorbing the morning light. Its sheer presence forced everyone to their knees, a testament to raw, primordial power.
Aenar climbed into the massive saddle. A contingent of his Imperial Guard, clad in black steel, mounted smaller drakes that seemed puny next to their emperor's mount. With a earth-shaking beat of wings that cast the entire Red Keep into shadow, Zekrom launched into the sky, the drakes and their riders struggling to keep pace in its wake.
As they flew, Aenar knew the truth before they saw the spires of Summerhall. The crisis was over. But through the blood-bond, he could feel Uriel's rage—not a hot explosion, but a deep, dangerous cold, the fury of a genius whose sanctum had been violated.
The price for touching his son would be paid. The line had been crossed.
The son Fury - Part 1
Third Person POV - Summerhall
Lord Rickard Stark's horse arrived at the gates of Summerhall, its chest and flanks splattered with white foam. The fortress itself, once a symbol of tragedy, now stood as a monument to the Empire's industrial and arcane might. Tall chimneys belched pale smoke into the sky, and a subtle, almost inaudible hum emanated from the stones. Rickard, his face carved from granite by worry and fury, ignored the impressive architecture. His thoughts were with Brandon, his impetuous son, who had vanished inside those walls days ago, seeking answers about Lyanna.
He was met in the main courtyard by a group of guards dressed in Aenar's black and purple livery. They were courteous but cold. "Lord Uriel is occupied in his private quarters, Lord Stark. If you would wait in the throne room..." said the captain.
Rickard gave a single nod and followed the guards. The throne room of Summerhall was not like the one in the Red Keep. It was smaller, more functional, dominated by a throne of steel and obsidian. Rickard waited, his impatience growing. Where was Brandon? Where was Uriel?
Then, the same guards who had escorted him entered again, but now in greater number, and their courtesy had vanished, replaced by a rigid and threatening posture. They surrounded him, spears lowered.
"What is the meaning of this?" Rickard roared, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of Ice.
"By order of the Interim Lord, you are detained, Lord Stark, under suspicion of treason," the captain declared, his voice impassive.
The resistance was futile and brief. The guards of Summerhall were numerous and well-trained. They disarmed him and forced him down to the dungeons, not to a common cell, but to a circular, gloomy chamber lit only by flickering torches. There, seated on a high chair, was not Uriel, but Aerys Targaryen.
The Interim Lord was a deplorable sight. His once-silver hair was tangled and filthy. His clothes, rich, were stained. His eyes spun in their sockets, and a wet, unhinged smile played on his lips. Crouched at his feet like a hungry raven was Grand Maester Pycelle.
"Rickard Stark," Aerys hissed. "The Wolf of the North prowling my walls. Have you come to finish your son's work? To assassinate me in my own castle?"
"Where is my son, Aerys?" Rickard ignored the accusations. "Where is Brandon? And where is Lord Uriel? He is the true lord here."
"Uriel?" Aerys let out a sharp laugh. "The sorcerer is busy with his abominations. And your son... your son came here with lies on his tongue. Lies about my son, Rhaegar! Lies about a kidnapped maiden! Accusations of treason!"
"He spoke the truth!" Rickard contested. "My Lyanna was taken by Rhaegar! And Brandon came seeking justice, not to deal with a mad old man!"
The word "mad" echoed in the chamber like a blow. Aerys's face contorted. "Mad? ME? You are the mad one, wolf! Mad with ambition! You and your son conspired to stain the name of my house! It is treason!"
Pycelle placed a bony hand on Aerys's arm. "Calm yourself, Your Grace. Lord Stark denies it, of course."
"Denies? Denies?" Aerys spat. "Bring the son! Bring the little wolf to confront the old wolf!"
The door opened, and two guards dragged Brandon Stark into the room. His hands were bound tightly behind his back. He was visibly injured – one eye was swollen shut, his lip was bleeding. His clothes were torn and dirty. He saw his father, and a mix of relief and despair crossed his face.
"Father!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "It's a trap! They... they took me when I arrived... Uriel... I don't know where he is..."
Rickard felt a glacial fury course through his veins. He turned to Aerys, his gray eyes burning like ice. "Is this your answer, Aerys? Torturing a man for seeking the truth? I demand a trial. I demand the sacred right of trial by combat. Let the gods decide between us!"
The chamber fell silent. Aerys seemed delighted. His eyes shone with a manic light.
"Trial by combat?" he repeated. "Yes... yes! The gods must judge! But I am the king here! I decide the rules!" He stood up, his limbs trembling. "Your opponent will not be a knight, Rickard Stark. Your opponent will be fire! The purifying fire!"
Before Rickard could react, Aerys made a brusque gesture. Guards seized Rickard, while others poured jars of lamp oil around him.
Brandon screamed, fighting against his captors. "Father! NO!"
Aerys took a torch from a guard. His smile was the most terrifying thing Rickard had ever seen.
"Let Fire decide your innocence, Lord Stark."
The torch fell into the oil. The flames exploded with a roar, enveloping Rickard Stark in a mantle of instant agony. His scream was drowned out by the voracious crackling of the fire.
Meanwhile, Brandon Stark struggled with the strength of despair. "FATHER!" he roared, his hands bound tightly behind his back. Two guards forced him to his knees, while a third approached with a strange and sinister device of polished steel - an Essosi artifact that Brandon recognized from dark stories. It was a strangler's noose, with complex mechanisms that resembled the claws of a steel crab.
"NO!" Brandon shouted as the device was fixed around his neck. The metal was cold against his skin. The mechanism locked, and he immediately felt a constant pressure on his throat.
Instinctively, he struggled, trying to free his hands, trying to get up. It was a fatal mistake. With every movement, every muscle contraction, the device reacted - the steel claws tightened methodically, restricting his breathing even more. The more he struggled, the tighter the garrote closed.
Brandon spat and choked, his eyes wide with terror and impotent fury. He could see the flaming silhouette of his father, hear the muffled screams of agony, and Aerys's strident laughter echoing in his ears. He tried to scream again, but could only produce a hoarse, muffled sound. His vision began to darken at the edges, black spots dancing in his field of vision.
The need for air became an overwhelming urgency. His lungs burned, his head throbbed. In a last desperate effort, he arched his back and pulled with all his might against the ropes binding his wrists. The garrote responded instantly, tightening with brutal force, crushing his trachea.
A dry and horrible snap echoed through the chamber. Brandon's body convulsed violently for a moment, his glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling, still reflecting a mixture of fury and terror. Then, he fell sideways, motionless, his struggle over. The black, acrid smoke from his father's funeral pyre enveloped his body, an involuntary shroud for the heir to Winterfell.
Pycelle observed the scene with an expression of deep satisfaction, quickly disguised. As the charred remains of Rickard Stark collapsed to the floor, he approached Aerys.
"A swift and decisive justice, Your Grace," whispered the maester. "The Essosi garrote is... efficient. But the work is not complete. The root of the witchcraft here is Uriel. While he breathes, his shadow hangs over Summerhall. We must deal with him now, while he is distracted in his laboratory."
Aerys, still panting and wild-eyed, nodded. "Yes... yes... the sorcerer. He must be eliminated. Send the men! Send all the men! Bring me the head of the dragon's son!"
---
POV Uriel Targaryen
Uriel Targaryen was immersed in an equation of reality, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and magical perceptions. He was on the threshold of a monumental discovery. It was then that the main door, forged of Valyrian steel and reinforced with protective spells, exploded inwards with a roar that made the floor tremble.
Uriel slowly raised his head. The dust of stone and metal hung in the air. And then, as if a curtain had been torn, the suppression runes that isolated his laboratory ruptured. A massive flow of information – sounds, emotions, intentions – flooded his mind.
He saw the armed men entering. He felt the naked and raw betrayal emanating from them. And, at the peak of this perception, he felt two agonizing voids, two echoes of life that had been brutally extinguished in the castle: Rickard Stark and his son, Brandon.
A fury like he had never experienced erupted within him. It was an absolute cold, so intense it was painful. A silent roar filled his skull. His hands, resting on the stone bench, contracted. With a dry crack, his fingers sank into the solid rock as if it were soft clay.
He turned to face the intruders. His purple eyes glowed with a supernatural inner light.
Brendon was at the front. "Your existence is an aberration, Uriel!" he shouted. "A stain on the natural order! Your magic is heresy!"
Uriel did not respond. He just stared.
A mercenary charged and struck Uriel's back with all his strength. The sound that followed was not of metal cutting flesh, but of metal meeting something harder than diamond. The blade bounced off, leaving nothing more than a white scratch on Uriel's simple tunic.
Uriel turned his head slowly and looked at the man. Then, his gaze fixed on Brendon. Their underestimation was a final insult.
The chief assistant retreated, grabbing a longsword. He assumed a defensive posture.
"Stay back!" Brendon shouted, his voice trembling.
Uriel did not use complex magic. He didn't need to. With an unpretentious movement, he swung his arm as if swatting a fly.
Brendon, in a foolish act of instinct, put his blade in the path.
The sword, and the body holding it, were cut in half as if Valyrian steel had met silk. There was no resistance. Just a wet, decisive sound, and Brendon was in two parts on the floor.
A deadly silence fell over the laboratory. The other men looked at the carnage, then at Uriel. Their faces were pale with absolute terror.
Uriel's fury had not diminished. It needed an outlet.
He advanced.
It was not a movement of fighting; it was a harvest. He moved with dizzying speed. He did not use weapons. His fingers, his hands, his arms, were blades. Where he passed, his fingers cut armor, flesh, and bone like a hot blade cuts butter.
In seconds, the laboratory was silent again. Uriel stopped amidst the slaughterhouse, his breathing still calm, his clothing immaculate except for the crimson splatters.
He left the laboratory, his steps calm and determined. Each footprint he left on the stone floor burned a deep, smoking mark. He marched, an unstoppable force of nature.
He advanced towards the throne room. Any guard foolish enough to stand in his way met the same fate as the men in the laboratory.
He entered the circular chamber. The smell of burned flesh and smoke still hung in the air. Aerys was there, his manic smile frozen on his face upon seeing Uriel alive. Pycelle was beside him, and his eyes widened in pure shock and disbelief.
"You... you should be dead!" the Grand Maester stammered.
Uriel did not say a word. He simply extended his hand towards Pycelle, palm up, and then clenched it into a fist, in a pulling gesture.
From inside Pycelle's chest, there was a wet, tearing sound. The old maester screamed as his own heart was torn from his body by an invisible and brutal telekinetic force. The organ pulsed for one last moment in the air before falling to the floor with a warm thud.
Uriel then looked at the black, charred mark on the floor where Rickard Stark had died. His gaze passed over Brandon's body, the Essosi garrote still around his neck. The fury within him was a volcano about to erupt.
He turned to Aerys, his eyes promising an annihilation that would make Pycelle's death seem merciful. He raised his hand, fingers tense to deliver the final blow.
And then, he felt it.
It was a vast, familiar, and overwhelming presence, hovering on the edge of his perception, approaching rapidly. His father. Aenar was coming.
With a sound of frustration that was almost a snarl, Uriel changed his gesture. Instead of a mortal blow, a swift and potent sleep spell hit Aerys. The look of madness and terror in the king's eyes instantly vanished, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Uriel stood in the silent chamber, surrounded by death and betrayal. He knew this would be a monumental headache for his father and for the empire.
He did not know, however, that from the top of a distant tower, a single raven had been released the moment his laboratory door was violated. The bird, carrying a message for its masters in the Vale of Arryn, beat its wings against the twilight sky, carrying with it the first seeds of a storm that was just beginning.
The Dragon's Wrath - Part 2
POV Aenar Targaryen
The wind howled in my ears as Zekrom dove toward Summerhall. Even from above, I could feel the reverberations of the chaos that had occurred below. The air smelled of smoke, death, and betrayal. When we were about fifty meters from the ground, I extended my hands.
A golden, nearly invisible force field enveloped the area around me. I myself jumped from the saddle, falling like a stone only to slow my descent at the last moment, my boots touching the ground without a sound. Barristan Selmy and Aemon, my two Imperial Guards, landed their smaller drakes nearby, their faces grim and ready.
The guards in the courtyard recoiled from me, their faces pale. The authority I radiated was as palpable as the sun's heat.
"What happened here?" My voice was not a shout, but it cut through the air like a blade.
The captain of the guard, a man named Loras, fell to his knees. "Your Imperial Majesty... it was the Interim Lord... Aerys... he executed Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon... burned one and strangled the other with a horrible device... Lord Uriel... he... he..."
I could already feel Uriel's cold anger emanating from the castle. But the details... were still shrouded in that irritating divine fog. Even here, in the middle of my own domain, they dared to obstruct my vision.
"Enough," I murmured.
I closed my eyes and for the first time since the Harrenhal tournament, I deliberately unleashed the reins of my power. It wasn't just about seeing; it was about reclaiming. This was not the realm of the gods. It was the world of mortals, and here, I was the supreme force.
I felt their presences - the old gods, R'hllor, the Many-Faced God - like spiders weaving their webs on the periphery of my perception. Instead of just breaking the web, I attacked the spiders themselves.
A silent scream, a sound that existed only on the spiritual plane, swept through the castle. It was not a cry from one, but from many, a symphony of divine agony. The webs of illusion they had woven so carefully unraveled, burned away by the pure, raw power of my displeasure. In the Divine Realms, wherever they were, they felt it. They understood.
And suddenly, I could see everything.
I saw Rhaegar and Lyanna at the Tower of Joy, a secret marriage already consummated. I saw the messenger raven flying towards the Eyrie, its message of treason hidden in a small capsule attached to its leg. I saw the full extent of the massacre here at Summerhall.
I walked towards the castle, and Uriel met me on the path. His clothes were lightly stained with blood, his hands still trembling with contained rage. He prostrated himself before me.
"Father," his voice was hoarse. "I have failed you again. I let myself be deceived, and now a Lord Paramount and his heir have been killed under my custody. By Aerys." The shame and fury in him were almost tangible.
I reached out and raised him up. "Now is not the time for lamentation, Uriel. It is time for resolution. The fault is not yours. The gods twisted the minds of the weak for their own ends. They will pay for this interference soon."
We entered the throne room. The smell of burnt flesh and death still hung in the air. Aerys lay on the floor, unconscious, where Uriel had left him. A man who allowed his madness to be amplified and used as a tool, causing the death of two noble men and nearly destroying my son's most important work.
There was no need for a trial. There was no need for a hearing. Justice, in this case, was a simple thing.
I waved my hand.
Aerys's head separated from his body with a dry snap and a spurt of blood. There was no drama, no speech. Just the end of a broken tool. He was an Interim Lord, a steward of my domain, and he had failed in the most absolute way.
My mind then turned to the eunuch. Varys. The weaver of shadows. Through my newly clarified vision, I saw him trying to flee in a covered carriage, taking a back road towards King's Landing.
"Lara," I whispered, sending my call through the bond I shared with the deadliest of my "winged surprises".
A blur of black feathers and sharp claws dove from the sky. There was no scream, just the sound of shattering wood and the subsequent silence. Varys's web finally unraveled, not by pulled threads, but by claws.
Two days later, in King's Landing, the news arrived. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, had openly declared rebellion against the Imperial Crown, citing the "illegal executions" of Rickard and Brandon Stark and the "tyranny" of the Iron Throne.
For a moment, I almost felt pity for them. How could someone supposedly so intelligent think this would end in any way other than their complete annihilation? Then I remembered: the Three-Eyed Raven and the gods were working overtime, twisting and warping the minds of men, making them see hope where there was only fire.
"Bring me parchment and ink," I commanded. "I will send a message to Jon Arryn. He will meet with me, man to man, to talk. I will give him one chance - a single chance - to stop this insane rebellion before I remind the Vale why they used to fear the sound of wings over their mountains."
My next stop was the Citadel.
Zekrom dove towards Oldtown, and this time I did not bother with subtlety or soft landings. I jumped from his saddle two hundred meters from the ground, falling like a meteor into the central courtyard of the Citadel. The stone under my feet cracked and shattered, sending a crater thirty meters in diameter. The memory of my last visit here - avenging my brother Baelon's death, leaving half the Citadel in ruins - must have returned to all present.
I stepped out of the crater and walked towards the main entrance. Maesters in their grey robes fled from me, their faces masks of pure terror.
I found Vaegon in his study, immersed in stacks of books and scrolls, so deep in his world of knowledge he barely noticed the commotion outside. He looked surprised to see me.
"Brother," he began, but I cut him off.
"Vaegon. Step away from your books for a moment. You have snakes in your garden that demand your attention."
He frowned. "Snakes?"
"Pycelle. He was the leader of an anti-magic faction here within the Citadel. He and his followers were responsible for blinding Uriel to the events at Summerhall, leading to the deaths of the Starks. They acted under your nose, brother."
Vaegon's expression shifted from confusion to shock and then to a cold, quiet anger. The immortality I had granted him had not softened his passion for knowledge, only concentrated it.
"Pycelle... I... did not perceive it," he admitted, his voice a rough whisper.
"Well, now you know. Deal with it. Clean your house. Remove this infection from the Citadel. All factions opposing arcane progress, all maesters working secretly against the Empire. Find them. Purge them." My tone was flat, final. "It is good that you do this, brother. Or I will return. And next time, I will not spare half the Citadel. I will reduce it all to dust and salt."
Without waiting for a reply, I turned and left the study. The message was delivered.
As I mounted Zekrom outside the shattered courtyard, I gave the order. "Send word to Alys. I want to know how the Stormlands troops are moving so quickly to Gulltown."
Back in King's Landing, I sat on the Iron Throne and waited. Jon Arryn's reply did not come. Instead, reports kept arriving. The rebels were gathering in the Riverlands, and they seemed to be waiting for something - or someone. I would only find them, I realized, after Robert Baratheon's marriage to Catelyn Tully. A political move, uniting two great houses under the banner of rebellion.
Meanwhile, the ships from the Stormlands kept arriving at Gulltown, pouring soldiers into the Vale. The speed and efficiency still bothered me. Alys's response was still pending.
It did not matter, in the end. I had offered them a chance for peace. If they refused it, if they insisted on dancing in the palm of the gods' hands, then I would show them the price of defying a dragon. They had forgotten the fire. I would make sure it was the last thing they ever forgot.
Final part: The Wolf of Ice and Duty
POV Eddard Stark
The humid warmth of Riverrun felt like a physical weight upon Northern shoulders. Eddard Stark sat stiffly on the edge of the borrowed bed in his assigned chambers, the fine southern fabrics of his best doublet feeling alien against his skin. He was a wolf in a songbird's cage, surrounded by the trilling of rivers and the scent of wet earth and flowers, so different from the crisp, pine-scented winds of Winterfell.
Everything had moved with a speed that left him disoriented. One week, he was in the Vale of Arryn, sparring with Robert Baratheon in the courtyard of the Eyrie under the stern, fatherly eye of Lord Jon Arryn. The next, a raven arrived, its message shattering the peace of their fostering. It was not a letter sealed with the direwolf of Stark, but one stamped with the three-headed dragon of Aerys Targaryen, the Interim Lord of Summerhall. Ned would never forget the way Jon Arryn's face had drained of color as he read the scroll in silence, before lifting his gaze, heavy with a terrible resolve, and reading the words aloud.
The words had been brands of fire, searing themselves into Ned's soul. '...Rickard Stark and his whelp Brandon, judged guilty of high treason against the peace of the Empire... justice has been meted out in fire and steel... their other sons, Eddard and Benjen, are tainted by the same treacherous blood... Robert Baratheon, your ward, is a known conspirator in their plots... send me the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon as proof of your unwavering loyalty to the Imperial Crown...'
The fury that had erupted in Ned then was a white-hot, blinding thing. It was a Northern blizzard given human form, so intense it left him trembling, his vision tinged with red. Robert, ever the storm, had roared his defiance, splintering a heavy oaken chair against the stone wall. "HE ASKS FOR MY HEAD? LET HIM COME AND TRY TO TAKE IT!" he had bellowed, his face purple with rage. But Ned had simply stood, silent and still, the heat of his anger cooling into a core of ice-hard resolve in his gut.
Jon Arryn had looked between them, his expression that of a man watching his sons be sentenced to death. "The Interim Lord has descended into utter madness," he had declared, his voice low and trembling not with fear, but with a cold, terrifying wrath. "He has executed a Lord Paramount and his heir without the sanction of the Emperor himself. This is not Imperial justice; this is the butchery of a rabid dog. I will not deliver my sons to a madman's blade." In that moment, the rebellion was born. It was not, they told themselves, a rebellion against the Emperor Aenar, but against the unlawful, tyrannical acts of his deranged vassal.
Now, in the uneasy quiet of Riverrun, the first seeds of doubt were taking root. The cold, hard knot of fury was still there, a constant, painful reminder of his father's burning and Brandon's strangulation. The desire for vengeance was a drumbeat in his blood. But subsequent ravens had brought complicating news. The Emperor Aenar had flown to Summerhall on his colossal dragon. He had confronted the chaos, and with his own authority, he had executed Aerys for his crimes. The highest power in the land had already delivered the ultimate punishment.
So why were they still raising their banners?
Jon Arryn spoke of principles, of the need to show that the great houses of Westeros would not stand for such atrocities, even from a high-ranking vassal. He argued they needed to force the Emperor to grant stronger guarantees, to prevent any future lord, mad or sane, from wielding such power unchecked. But Robert... Robert's eyes now held a new, frightening light. He spoke not of justice or guarantees, but of replacement. "He's just another Targaryen!" Robert would growl, his breath thick with wine. "The Iron Throne should be mine by right! My grandmother was a Targaryen! We will tear it all down and build something new!" He already saw himself not as a rebel lord, but as a rival emperor.
Ned felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Riverlands' climate. Aenar had punished the guilty party. They were now challenging not the murderer, but the judge who had passed the sentence. How could they possibly stand against a man who commanded a dragon the size of a mountain? His only slender hope was that when they met for the parley, the Emperor would be a rational man. That he would see their rebellion for what it truly was—a desperate, angry reaction to the murderous decree of a mad subordinate, not a direct challenge to his imperial authority. He clung to the hope of mercy, a fragile raft in a sea of dread.
A firm knock at the door broke his grim reverie. "Ned? It is time." It was Lord Jon Arryn's voice, steady and filled with grim purpose.
Ned rose, his legs heavy. He followed Jon through the light stone corridors of Riverrun to the sept. The air was thick with the scent of incense and fresh flowers. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting pools of sapphire, ruby, and emerald upon the floor.
And then he saw them. Catelyn and Lysa Tully, standing before the Septon, flanked by their father, Lord Hoster Tully, who wore a look of grim satisfaction. Lysa, the younger, seemed small and frightened, her eyes downcast. But Catelyn... Catelyn was a vision of Tully beauty. Her fiery auburn hair was intricately braided, and her gown of pale blue silk accentuated her graceful stature and the fierce pride in her blue eyes. She was everything a lord could want in a wife: high-born, comely, and strong.
But Ned's heart was a fortress of northern granite, not southern fire. As he walked towards the altar, his mind's eye did not see Catelyn's composed beauty, but a pair of haunting violet eyes dancing in the torchlight of a distant memory. Ashara Dayne. He could still see her at the Harrenhal tourney, spinning in a cloud of silk, her laughter like music, her gaze warm and inviting upon his own shy one. There had been unspoken promises between them, hopes whispered in the innocence of summer. And now he was to wed another, a woman who had been meant for Brandon, his brother, his father's heir. The agony of his brother's loss became intertwined with the pain of betraying his own heart. He prayed to the old gods and the new that Ashara, wherever she was, might someday understand, might find it in her heart to forgive him for this necessary treason. This marriage was for the alliance. It was for the Rebellion. It was his duty.
The wedding ceremony and the feast that followed passed over him like a fever dream. He heard his own voice giving the responses, felt the weight of the Tully maiden's cloak being draped over his shoulders by Lord Hoster, and pressed his lips to Catelyn's, finding them soft but unyielding. In the great hall, he sat beside his new wife, eating without tasting the rich food, drinking the sour riverland wine without feeling its warmth. The smiles and toasts from the river lords and Valemen seemed like masks in a mummer's farce. Robert, in his element, drank deeply, laughed boisterously, and regaled all within earshot with tales of battles and hunts, his grief and rage momentarily submerged in a sea of ale and celebration.
Ned was only jolted back to full awareness by Robert's booming, drink-slurred voice cutting through the hall's din. "BEDDING! IT'S TIME FOR THE BEDDING! Let's get the quiet wolf to his den!"
He turned to see Robert, his face flushed, with a serving girl perched giggling on his knee, his hand roaming freely under the table. A spike of irritation shot through Ned. This was Catelyn's wedding, and Robert behaved like a boar in a rose garden. But his irritation turned to cold, sharp alarm as a group of men, led by Catelyn's brother Edmure and several young knights of the Vale, swaggered towards the high table with lecherous grins.
"Come, Lord Eddard! It's tradition to get the groom ready for his bride!" one of them shouted.
"And the bride too! Can't forget the lovely Lady Catelyn!" another added, his eyes roaming over Catelyn in a way that made her blanch and her fingers tighten around Ned's arm.
Ned was on his feet in an instant, placing his own body squarely between the revelers and his wife. The chill of the North returned to his voice, a low, dangerous tone that cut through the merriment and made the men before him hesitate. "You will lay a hand on the Lady Catelyn," he stated, each word sharp as Valyrian steel, "and I will remove the arm it is attached to. This foolish southern tradition ends now. She is my wife. Her honor is my honor. And I will defend it."
He did not reach for his sword, but the set of his shoulders, the ice in his grey eyes, and the sheer, unyielding finality in his stance were weapon enough. The men faltered, their drunken bravado fading under the Stark's wintry glare. Muttering, they backed away. Ned turned, took Catelyn's trembling hand firmly in his, and led her from the roaring hall, away from the leers and the laughter, towards the silence and the daunting unknown of their marriage chamber.
The next morning, as the camp stirred to life, the preparations began in earnest. They were to ride out to meet the Emperor's host. As he checked the girth on his horse's saddle, Ned clung to that single, frayed thread of hope: that the Emperor Aenar would be a man of reason, not just fire and blood. He would see the truth. He had to. Ned refused to let his mind dwell on the alternative—the sight of a mountain-sized shadow darkening the sky, and the roar that promised not justice, but annihilation.