Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 248 Firefighter and Rickard Stark

Brandon Stark and his companions Ethan Glover, Keller Royce, Albert Arryn, and Joffrey Mellist—traveled and weary, carrying the cold and fury of the North—finally arrived in King's Landing.

Ignoring the city gates' checks, they rode like five whirlwinds of revenge, charging straight to the towering gates of the Red Keep, even disregarding the royal guards' attempts to stop them, and forcibly entered the castle's outer courtyard.

Brandon reined in his panting warhorse, stood tall beneath the dragon's lair-like Red Keep, his face contorted with rage towards the crimson walls, and roared with all his might, "Rhaegar! Targaryen! Get out here! You dared touch my sister, now come out and face me like a man! I challenge you to a duel! Come out and die!"

His furious challenge echoed through the courtyard, startling a flock of crows.

Prince Rhaegar was not at the Red Keep at that moment, but another Targaryen—the Mad King Aerys II—was listening to everything from the shadows.

The king's response was more chilling than the northern winds. He did not appear in person, but issued a cold decree through the Prime Minister and the Kingsguard: arrest these northern rebels who had ravaged the court on charges of treason and plotting to assassinate the Crown Prince.

In an instant, hundreds of golden-robed guards surged forth from all directions, swords drawn and spears flying like a forest, surrounding the five of them. Even more breathtakingly, three Imperial Guards in white armor approached step by step like cold stone statues.

Although Brandon and his companions were valiant knights who drew their swords and put up a fierce resistance, how could five men withstand an army hundreds of times larger and seven of the nation's best swordsmen?

The fierce struggle was brief and desperate. In the end, they were forcibly disarmed, brutally knocked to the ground, bound hand and foot with cold iron chains and rough ropes, and dragged away from the courtyard as if they were the most despicable criminals, thrown into the dark, damp, and sunless dungeons beneath the Red Fort.

The heavy iron gate slammed down behind them, locking away all anger and hope.

The Mad King's decree spread like a shadow: he ordered the fathers of these "traitors" to immediately travel to King's Landing and personally undergo royal interrogation.

For the sake of their sons' lives, each father, upon receiving this ultimatum-like decree, fell into despair and struggle, ultimately having no choice but to embark on the uncertain journey south.

Lord Rickard Stark was no exception.

Inside the halls of Riverrun, Duke Horst Tully frowned, vehemently advising, "Aerys is a mad king! His actions defy common sense! Rickard, who can guarantee he won't detain you as well? That would be walking into a trap!"

Duke Rickard's face was etched with weariness and helplessness. He shrugged heavily, his voice filled with the resolute bitterness of a father: "What else can I do, Horst? Am I just going to watch my son, my heir, be executed by that madman on trumped-up charges?"

Young Eddard Stark stepped forward abruptly, his face filled with determination and worry: "Father, I'm going too!"

""

"No!" Duke Rickard interrupted him decisively, placing his hands heavily on Eddard's shoulders, his gaze as heavy as the rock of Winterfell. "Listen, Eddard. If I go, I won't come back—you are the Duke of Winterfell. House Stark cannot be without an heir!"

Ed's throat bobbed, all the words stuck in his throat by this heavy responsibility.

Duke Rickard continued, his tone urgent and leaving no room for argument: "The North cannot be without its protectors, Winterfell cannot be without the Starks! Duke Horst is right, this is a gamble. If—if the worst happens, do not hesitate, go to Jon Arryn immediately, and then return to the North at full speed! You must survive and protect our family."

Before leaving, Duke Rickard handed Eddard his ancestral longsword, "Frostbite," from his waist, refusing Eddard's offer to accept it. He solemnly said, "It is the ancestral sword of my Stark family. I'm entrusting it to you for now. If I don't return, it will be yours! It must be passed down from generation to generation!"

Before Ed could answer, Duke Rickard had already ridden away.

Duke Rickard felt that there was a high chance he would not return, but he had no choice but to go!

The worst expectations have ultimately turned into a cold reality.

Duke Rickard, along with his valiant son Brandon and several other fathers who had also come to rescue their sons, were not given a just trial. Instead, they were bound in chains and taken to the grim execution ground within the Red Keep. They were forced to kneel on the hard stone ground, the rough ropes digging deep into their wrists, with the king's executioners and a group of expressionless golden-robed guards behind them.

On the high platform, the Mad King Aerys II surveyed the scene, a twisted, cold smile spreading across his pale face. His voice, shrill and frantic, echoed in the deathly silence: "Treasoners! You treacherous wolves! By the order of His Majesty King Aerys II, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men! Head of House Targaryen! Protector of the Realm! Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms! You are sentenced to death—"

"I demand trial by combat!" A thunderous roar abruptly interrupted the king's pronouncement.

Lord Rickard Stark abruptly raised his head. Even in his desperate situation, his self-confidence remained as unyielding as the ice of the North. His voice carried the final right granted to him by ancient and sacred tradition: "By the ancient laws of the Andals, I demand that, in the name of the gods, I prove my innocence through a contest of combat!"

A deathly silence fell over the room. Everyone held their breath and stared at the king.

Iris II abruptly stopped speaking, his gaze turning cold as he stared at the duke below who dared to challenge his authority, his eyes like a viper assessing its prey's dying struggle. A moment later, a bizarre and horrifying laugh suddenly erupted from his throat—not of pleasure, but of utter madness and cruelty.

"Hahaha—hahaha! Granted!" He laughed so hard he almost fell over, as if he had heard an incredibly funny joke, tears welling up in his eyes. "I grant your request! Let the gods decide!"

His voice echoed across the empty execution ground, filled with a chilling mockery and malice.

The duel was scheduled for noon the following day.

Lord Rickard Stark donned his finest steel armor, the plates gleaming with a cold, hard luster in the dark passageway.

He was fully armed, silently reciting ancient warrior prayers, preparing for a fair duel (or at least he hoped) with one of the Knightsguard for his honor and his son's life.

He imagined the battlefield to be an open plaza, bathed in sunlight, where life and death would be decided by martial skill and the will of the gods.

As he was led by the guards into the somber and magnificent throne room, a chill instantly gripped him.

The towering dome cast a heavy shadow, and silent courtiers and golden-robed guards stood on both sides, the air thick with oppression and unease.

In the distance, the Iron Throne, forged from hundreds of sharp swords, stood menacingly atop the high platform, while King Aerys sat upon it like a lurking spider.

As soon as the Duke of Stark stepped into the center of the hall, before he could even bow to the king, several burly guards rushed forward, roughly twisted his arms behind his back, and bound his wrists tightly with cold iron chains!

Caught off guard, Duke Rickard struggled violently, his armor clanging loudly. He jerked his head up, his furious roar shaking the silent hall: "What are you doing?! His Majesty has already promised a trial by combat! Why are you binding me?! This violates the sacred law and the promise!"

His question echoed through the walls of the throne room, but only earned him a cold, mocking look in the crazed gaze from the high platform.

Duke Rickard was roughly dragged to the center of the hall, his hands bound by cold iron chains, and he was hoisted high under the chilly eaves. He struggled fiercely, his armor scraping against each other with a grating sound, but he could not break free from this humiliating bondage.

King Aerys II, seated atop the Iron Throne, twisted his lips in a grotesque smile, his eyes blazing with madness. With a mere wave of his hand, two fire sorcerers clad in deep crimson robes silently stepped forward, raising eerie flames of hues of blue and orange-red from the strange furnace they had brought.

"Fire—" the Mad King's shrill, frenzied voice echoed through the hall, "The Targaryen warriors! Duke Rickard, didn't you demand a trial by combat? Now, the time has come to prove your innocence! You must—hahahaha, not be burned!"

The fire sorcerers, as if performing some intricate and terrifying ritual, manipulated flames to slowly scorch the suspended Duke of the North.

They carefully turned the flames back and forth, allowing the scorching air to gently and evenly caress his entire body.

Duke Rickard's cloak was the first to curl and char, then transform into a flurry of fire; next, his outer garment carbonized and peeled away in the intense heat. Soon, only a suit of red-hot armor and scattered ashes remained. His breastplate gradually turned a cherry-red, like a piece of metal being scorched in a furnace; the gold inlaid on his spurs could not withstand the terrible heat and melted into molten gold, dripping into the flames below with a soft sizzling sound.

Throughout the process, Iris II burst into maniacal laughter, a piercing and terrifying sound filled with cruel pleasure.

Inside the hall, almost every nobleman of King's Landing by name was present. They stood frozen to the sides like statues bound by invisible shackles, their bodies chilled with fear, wrapped in luxurious velvet and brocade. Every face was drained of color, a deathly pallor. Some had their lips pressed tightly together, their gazes lowered, fixed on the intricate stone patterns on the floor, as if seeking salvation within them; others' hands trembled uncontrollably within their sleeves, cold beads of sweat forming on their foreheads; still others felt a churning in their stomachs, forcibly suppressing the urge to vomit.

The air was thick with the horrific smell of burning flesh and a silent terror. Their eyes clearly saw the body struggling in agony in the flames before finally succumbing to death, and their ears were filled with the king's maniacal, piercing laughter. Despite their hearts filled with reluctance, anger, and horror, not a single person—not a single duke, earl, or knight—dared to take that step forward and utter a single word of protest.

The shadow of the Iron Throne and the tyranny of the Mad King, like a giant hand, gripped everyone's throats, utterly crushing conscience and courage. They could only stand there, silent witnesses to this atrocity, cowardly accomplices.

Among the Kingsguard, Barristan Selmy the Bold closed his eyes tightly, unable to bear witnessing this blasphemous tragedy that desecrated God and honor.

Having been a member of the Kingsguard for only a short time, the younger Jaime Lannister was deathly pale, his lips trembling uncontrollably, as if he wanted to step forward and say something. But another white-robed knight beside him swiftly and forcefully grabbed his arm, silently shaking his head, his eyes filled with warning and helpless sorrow.