Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 249 Jon Arryn – Forcing a Rebellion

Just as the flames burning Duke Rickard were at their fiercest, casting his red-hot armor as if it were a furnace from hell, the hall doors were pushed open once more.

Brandon Stark was shoved in roughly, and the sight before him instantly froze his blood: his majestic father, the Warden of the North, was hanging above flames like prey being cooked.

Brandon's hands were tightly handcuffed behind his back, and a wet leather rope was looped around his neck, the other end of which was connected to a strange metal device with an intricate winch—something the Mad King had specially purchased from the Tyrosian merchants.

Instruments of torture specifically designed to torment unruly slaves. He could only move his feet with difficulty.

Aerys II, perched high on the Iron Throne, surveyed the scene, a sickly flush of excitement rising on his pale face. He gestured, and a guard tossed Brandon's sword onto the stone floor with a clang, placing it precisely in front of him, clearly visible, yet impossible to reach no matter how hard he stretched his leg.

"Little wolf cub," the Mad King's voice hissed like a venomous snake, clearer than ever in the silent hall, "Do you see that sword? Pick it up, pick it up—and you can go save your father."

These words seemed to ignite Brandon's last shred of reason; he didn't even have time to curse the Mad King.

Brandon let out a roar that was a mixture of despair, anger, and pain. All his pride and all his schemes vanished, leaving only his most primal instinct: he had to get that sword! He lunged forward, his body twisted into an extremely painful angle, using all his strength to try to hook the hope that was within reach with his toes.

However, with each desperate struggle and each forward tilt of Brandon, the damp leather strap around his neck tightened abruptly as the mechanical device behind him rotated!

"Pick it up!" the Mad King urged excitedly from the high platform, as if watching a spectacular performance. "Pick it up now! Your father is waiting for you!"

Every urging from Iris felt like a whip lashing at Brandon.

The more frantically Brandon strained, the tighter the rope around his throat became, eventually digging deep into his flesh and completely cutting off air. His face changed from an angry crimson to a suffocating bluish-purple, his eyes bulging horribly and bloodshot.

Under the malicious manipulation of this mad king, the heir of House Stark, in an endless torment and struggle to save his father, strangled himself to death.

At the edge of his gradually fading, solidifying vision, his father, Lord Rickard Stark, was also completely reduced to charred remains and scattered ashes in the raging wildfire.

The mad king Iris II's maniacal laughter echoed through the throne room, like the hiss of a venomous snake, celebrating the end of the blasphemous tragedy he had orchestrated.

The Mad King's "game" is not over.

The laughter abruptly ceased, and his cold gaze swept out of the hall. Soon, the remaining noble fathers and sons—fathers and sons who had also come with the hope of rescuing their sons but had all become prisoners—were roughly escorted in by the men in golden robes. Their faces were filled with fear and despair; they had already foreseen their fate.

There was no trial, no words. Iris II simply made a gesture.

The pyromancers stepped forward again, but this time they carried not ordinary fuel, but wildfire shimmering with an eerie, ghostly green. The viscous, almost living liquid was splashed out and immediately ignited.

In an instant, a raging green demonic fire shot into the sky, engulfing the terrified figures. The wildfire was far more greedy and fierce than ordinary flames, almost instantly swallowing up the screams, pleas for mercy, and flesh and blood, turning them into rolling charcoal and twisted remains.

The air was filled with a nauseating stench of burning flesh and the distinctive sulfurous aroma of witchcraft flames.

As the eerie green flames gradually died down, leaving only a mess and wisps of smoke, the entire hall fell into a deathly silence, except for the Mad King's inexplicable maniacal laughter and excited panting.

In the arena, only one surviving squire of Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, remained: the young Ethan Glover. He collapsed to the ground, deathly pale, trembling violently, almost driven mad by extreme fear.

The Mad King Aerys II walked up to him, and the shadow completely enveloped the young man.

"Stand up, little mouse." The king's voice was gentle but full of malice. "I need you to live so that you can deliver a message to the Duke of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn."

He leaned down, almost whispering, but every word pierced Ethan's very bones like an ice pick: "Tell him to immediately execute his two adopted sons—Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End and the new Lord of Winterfell, Brandon's brother Eddard Stark—and send their heads to King's Landing."

He paused, savoring Ethan's barely suppressed trembling, then added, his tone like an ultimatum: "Otherwise, Jon Arryn's fate—will be exactly the same as these people in this hall today. I'd be more than happy to share that warmth with him with wildfire."

Having said that, he straightened up and waved his hand as if shooing away an insignificant insect. Two guards stepped forward and dragged the nearly limp Ethan Glover out of the throne room, which had become a living hell, to deliver the order that would ignite a war between the Seven Kingdoms.

Inside the towering halls of the Eyrie, even the biting mountain winds could not dispel the almost tangible anger and sorrow.

When the devastating news of King's Landing pierced Jon Arryn's ears like a bloodstained dagger, the Vale Warden, known for his justice and composure, slammed his fist into the cold crescent throne, his knuckles instantly bursting and bleeding.

"Aerys! The Mad King!!!" Jon Arryn spat out the name through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with extreme rage.

The details of the atrocities eroded his sanity like poison: using his son as a hostage to lure their father into a trap; issuing death sentences without any fair trial; even desecrating the ancient and sacred trial by combat, burning his longtime friend, Lord Rickard, the Warden of the North, alive with that sinister wildfire!

What terrified him even more was the torture and murder of Brandon—forcing a son to watch his father be consumed by flames, and then using an untouchable sword to trick him into strangling himself to death!

What a monstrous act this is!

In this massacre of loyalty and honor, along with Jon Arryn's own heir, the future of his Vale, Albert Arryn, was reduced to ashes!

Before the grief and anger had subsided, the Mad King's final and most vicious command followed.

The messenger, a near-mad survivor, Ethan Glover, carried Aerys's message: he commanded Jon Arryn to personally execute his two adopted sons, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, and send their heads to King's Landing. Otherwise, the same wildfire awaited him at the Eyrie.

The chilling command, like a final death knell, shattered the last vestige of loyalty he held to the Iron Throne. To ask a father to raise his sword against the child he considered his own? To ask him to betray all family, honor, and humanity?

Jon Arryn raised his head, his eyes now burning with a resolute determination, all traces of grief and hesitation replaced by a fierce resolve. He looked at his equally shocked and indignant vassals beside him, his voice as firm as an unyielding rock in the valley, resolute and unwavering: "They not only want us to submit, but they also want us to defile our souls, to strangle justice and kinship with our own hands."

"With such tyranny, you will never again receive a single soldier, a single grain of food, from the Valley! From this day forward, the Eyrie will no longer obey the Mad King's orders!"

Jon Arryn stood in the hall of the Eyrie, with the perpetually snow-capped mountains and bottomless canyons behind him.

His voice was no longer that of initial fury, but had transformed into a cold, resolute determination capable of shaking mountains. He turned to the pale-faced old maester standing beside him, his command ringing out like steel: "Maester, immediately send ravens to the Seven Kingdoms! Send messages to Hoster Tully of Riverrun, Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Robert Baratheon of Storm's End," he paused, his gaze sweeping over his two young adopted sons beside him, and continued, "as well as Lord Coron of the Iron Islands, Olenna Redwynn, the 'Queen of Thorns' of Highgarden, and Prince Doran of Sunspear. Inform them all: I, Jon Arryn, Duke of the Vale, Warden of the East, hereby no longer recognize Aerys II Targaryen as the rightful king! His madness has tainted the Iron Throne; he is unworthy to rule the Seven Kingdoms! Overthrowing this tyrant is the only way for all of us to survive!"

He took a deep breath, his eyes burning with righteous indignation: "Send a message to all my vassals in the Vale, big and small, detailing the monstrous crimes the Mad King committed in the Red Keep—how ​​he tormented and burned Duke Rickard alive under the guise of a trial by combat, how he forced Brandon Stark to commit suicide, how he burned the nobles alive with wildfire! And, word for word, convey his inhumane order to me: to hand over the heads of my adopted sons!"

Jon's voice reached its climax here, filled with undeniable power: "Finally, tell them my final decision, Jon Arryn: I will never yield to such tyranny and evil! I will raise my banner against the king's tyranny and overthrow this cruel rule! May justice and the gods be with me!"

The old scholar hurriedly recorded each word, his fingertips trembling slightly, knowing that these words would fly out from this cloud castle like rockets aimed at the seven kingdoms, igniting a war that would sweep across the world.

But there was no other choice but to fight a war!