Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 246 Rhaegar and Lyanna

Petyr Baelish teetered on the brink of death, but ultimately survived.

During the days when he was seriously injured and bedridden with a persistent high fever, Lysa Tully disregarded the opinions of others and stayed by his bedside day and night, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead with a damp linen cloth and personally feeding him spoonfuls of broth and medicine into his pale lips.

Petyr's consciousness was blurred amidst the strong painkillers and the persistent low-grade fever.

Pain and medication robbed him of his lucidity. Petyr only felt a gentle figure bustling around him and smelled the faint, familiar scent of a Tully girl. In his half-awake, agonizing pain and hallucinations, he mistook Lysa, who was taking such good care of him, for the bright moon he longed for but could never reach—her sister, Catelyn.

One night, at the height of the drug's effects, his burning hand grasped Lysa's wrist. His blurred vision focused and then blurred again, and the murmur that escaped his lips was a name that broke Lysa's heart and drove her mad: "Caitlyn—"

Lysa's breath caught in her throat. She looked at his face, so vulnerable with pain and weakness, at the burning, hazy longing in his eyes that wasn't his own. A mixture of pity, jealousy, and intense possessiveness overwhelmed her. Instead of correcting him, she silently condoned and indulged this dangerous mistake in the shadows.

Thus, between the unconscious haze brought on by painkillers and the deliberate indulgence of lucidity, a relationship built on illusion and deception quietly unfolds. Outside the window, the river of Runflow City continues its ceaseless flow, silently concealing everything.

Upon hearing the news of Lyanna Stark's disappearance, Lord Hoster Tully, as the host, felt a great responsibility and dared not be negligent in the slightest. He immediately dispatched nearly a hundred elite riders to conduct a thorough search and inquiry along the main roads of the Trident River and in the territories of neighboring vassals.

After several anxious days of waiting, the Duke of Horst summoned the Duke of Rickard Stark and his two sons, Brandon and Eddard, to his study.

A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace. Duke Horst, his face grave, placed the secret report he had just received on the table, his rough fingers tapping the scroll of parchment.

"We've found witnesses," he said in a low voice, breaking the suffocating silence, "at the Crossroads Inn, and—and closer to Harrenhal." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the Starks' instantly tense faces, knowing that his next words would ignite an unpredictable fire.

“More than one person saw her—Miss Lyanna.” He took a deep breath and finally uttered that earth-shattering name, “and the one accompanying her was neither a guard nor an ordinary traveler—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

He spoke the last few words clearly and slowly.

Brandon Stark slammed his hand on the heavy oak table, making the cups and saucers rattle. He stood up abruptly, his tall frame trembling slightly with rage, his grey eyes burning with an unbelievable fire.

"Rhaegar Targaryen?!" His roar nearly lifted the roof off. "That mad Targaryen dragon! He dared to kidnap my sister!"

In his mind, there was never a second possibility. The idea of ​​mutual love and voluntary elopement—these thoughts never existed and could never have crossed his mind.

Lyanna was his willful and stubborn sister, and Rhaegar was the prince who used a gorgeous appearance to cover up his despicable nature. There is only one conclusion—this is the most shameless abduction and kidnapping!

"No! I can't stand idly by!" Brandon turned and charged towards the door, the northern chill in his blood seemingly boiled over by rage. "I'm going to King's Landing, storming into the Red Keep, and personally retrieving my sister from that bastard!"

He had barely taken a step when a heavy, iron-like hand slammed down on his shoulder. His father, Lord Rickard Stark, stood up, his face icy colder than the depths of winter. "Sit down!" Lord Rickard's voice was deep and icy, carrying an unquestionable authority and suppressed rage.

Duke Horst Tully stepped forward hastily, his tone filled with the prudence of a statesman and the earnestness of an elder: "Brandon, I implore you, be patient! The information we have is still inaccurate; everything is based on eyewitness accounts. Was it abduction? Kidnapping? Or perhaps—it really was just a coincidence among colleagues? Before the truth comes to light, any rash action, especially going directly to King's Landing to question the royal family, will only put Miss Lyanna in greater danger and utterly tarnish her irreparable reputation!"

"reputation?!"

Upon hearing this word, Brandon's face instantly turned bright red with rage, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his head.

He practically spat out the word through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse and trembling with extreme anger.

"What honor do we Starks have left?!" He abruptly turned to Duke Horst, his eyes blazing with long-suppressed humiliation and hatred. "Back at the tournament at Harrenhal, that son of a bitch Rhaegar trampled our family's honor underfoot and crushed it into the mud!"

He stretched out his trembling fingers and recounted the unforgettable humiliations one by one: "First hatred! In the spear duel, I was defeated by Rega's spear in full view of everyone. It was because my martial arts skills were not good enough, I admit it!"

I refuse to accept that I am weaker than him, and I will defeat him sooner or later, but this is a personal grudge!

The second great hatred! At that assembly, the Mad King Aerys treated all the nobles like clowns. His suspicion and madness were an insult to all participants, and this aroused public outrage!

And the deepest, third hatred—!

Brandon's voice suddenly rose, almost roaring: "That bastard, after winning the crown, bypassed his own wife, bypassed all the noble ladies and young women in the audience, and actually offered that Winter Rose Crown of Love and Beauty to my sister Lyanna! By what right? How dare he?!"

He was breathing heavily, as if each breath was filled with blood and foam.

"Ever since the day I left Harrenhal, this burning hatred has tormented me every single day! And now, he dares to disappear without a trace with my sister?! Tell me, where is the honor of the Stark family?!"

Lord Horst Tully sighed deeply, his voice filled with helplessness and worry. He looked at his nearly out-of-control heir to the North, knowing that any admonitions about caution and honor were futile in the face of such raging fury. He opened his mouth, but found himself speechless, unsure how to soothe the wounded direwolf.

Lord Rickard Stark's face was ashen. His son's defeat in the tournament was undeniable, but the Mad King Aerys's humiliating actions at Harrenhal, and Prince Rhaegar's meaningful, almost provocative, offering of the crown, were like poisonous thorns, deeply embedded in the heart of this Warden of the North, accumulating unspeakable resentment.

As the head of the family and the Duke of the North, his cold political rationality, transcending personal emotions, ultimately prevailed. He exchanged a heavy, knowing glance with Duke Horst, and almost simultaneously, in a calm voice that held back the storm, they said in unquestionable composure: "Now, what we need most is patience."

But this attempt to stabilize the situation was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, only creating ripples of lifeless stillness.

The flame burning in Brandon's eyes showed no sign of extinguishing. A tense and oppressive atmosphere enveloped the room, and ultimately, this crucial meeting ended in a suffocating silence, leaving only heavy doubts lingering in the air.