Throne Room.
Word got out that Lord Rickard demanded a trial by combat. Hundreds of lords and nobles packed room to watch bloodbath.
"Bring him in!"
Aerys leaned forward, practically foaming at mouth to dish out some torture.
Lord Rickard marched into hall fully armored, escorted by two Kingsguard.
His face was grim, a heavy knot of dread resting between his brows.
Maester Aemon kept his word, doing his best to talk King out of a harsh sentence.
In end, King gave him two choices.
Get locked up, stand trial, and lose his head. Or confess, plead guilty, and take black at Wall.
Wall was a brutal life, but it beat dying.
"I can't go to Wall!"
Lord Rickard's eyes hardened. He couldn't put on that black cloak—not if it meant abandoning his eldest son, Brandon.
If he confessed, no one would be left to clear Brandon's name.
Knowing Mad King, best-case scenario was Brandon getting shipped off to Wall right alongside him.
His second son, Ned, was fostered by Lord Jon Arryn. Kid had already lost his Stark wildness, wrapping his wolf bones in falcon feathers.
He had to protect Brandon. He had to make sure his boy made it back to Winterfell in one piece.
"Sigh."
Maester Aemon shook his head, letting out a heavy, regretful sigh.
Lord Rickard just picked a dead end.
Daeron stood there in hardened leather armor, gripping Dark Sister. His eyes were dead cold. Zero sympathy.
Old wolf just slit his own throat.
A follower of Old Gods demanding a trial by combat under Seven? If you don't die, who does?
Aerys was practically vibrating with excitement. He screamed, "Rickard! You want a trial by combat? I'll find you a perfectly matched opponent!"
He clapped his hands hard, signaling his men to bring out torture gear.
A few alchemists in green robes pushed a cart-like contraption around corner of hall.
One of them wore a scarf pulled up tight, hiding everything below his nose.
It was Wisdom Rossart—guy who got his tongue ripped out.
Daeron shot him a lethal glare. Rossart flinched hard, freezing in place like a terrified rat.
"Father, let me fight."
Daeron stepped out from crowd, tapping tip of Dark Sister lightly against floor.
Starks didn't deserve pity, but their deaths needed to mean something.
If he let his father run original script—using wildfire as his champion and making 'Wild Wolf' Brandon strangle himself trying to save his dad—Iron Throne would look like absolute villains, even if they were in right.
Everyone standing here watching would be branded a coward.
If it's a trial by combat, make it a real fucking duel. Chop guy's head off with your own hands.
"Oh?"
Aerys blinked, clearly pissed about having his fun ruined. But looking at ancestral sword in his second son's hand, a twisted new idea sparked in his brain.
He was crazy, not stupid.
His second son had unlocked Vitality. Kid was a top-tier killer in Seven Kingdoms.
Lord Rickard was past his prime and hadn't unlocked shit. His combat skills were strictly average.
Watching his son use Dark Sister to butcher man might actually be a fun way to flex royal muscle.
Aerys hesitated for a long minute before snapping, "Fine! Do it. Chop off this traitor's head and bring it to me."
He wasn't entirely sure his son would even listen to him anymore, so he played along for now.
"No problem," Daeron said.
Lord Rickard actually looked relieved. He thought Mad King was going to back out and just torture him to death.
He never expected trial by combat to actually happen—and against a green kid, no less.
Maester Aemon stepped up. He formally announced Iron Throne's charges against Lord Rickard and his eldest son, Brandon: conspiring with three Lord Paramounts in an attempt to rebel and usurp throne.
Now, Lord Rickard's guilt would be decided by a trial by combat.
Whoa!
Hundreds of lords erupted in whispers, every single pair of eyes locking onto Lord Rickard.
Nobody ever imagined House Stark had balls to plot a rebellion.
But that was brutal truth.
Trial by combat began.
Daeron gripped Dark Sister with both hands, sizing up his opponent. He sounded almost bored. "You don't know how to use a greatsword?"
Lord Rickard was holding a hand-and-a-half sword, shifting into a textbook combat stance.
House Stark's ancestral greatsword, Ice, was a legendary slab of Valyrian steel.
Too bad almost no one in House Stark had raw muscle to actually swing that door-sized blade in a real fight.
"Shut your mouth, kid!"
Lord Rickard was dead focused, hunting for any weakness in his opponent.
Right then, Aerys decided to pull another psychotic stunt.
He ordered guards to drag out Brandon and rest of Northern noble kids. He had a thick rope tied tight around Brandon's neck, leashing him to a stone pillar like a rabid dog.
Aerys cackled like a maniac. "Father fights for his life, and son gets front-row seats!"
Even Daeron rolled his eyes. He had to admit, his father and his big brother Rhaegar were absolute masters of putting on a clown show.
Like they were terrified Seven Kingdoms might not realize they were both clinically insane.
"Let me go! Let me fight for my father!"
Brandon was bruised and delirious from dungeons, but moment he saw his dad standing there with a sword, he went completely ballistic, screaming at top of his lungs.
After seeing Tourney at Harrenhal firsthand, he knew exactly how lethal Dragon Prince was.
His father was a dead man walking.
Elbert and rest of crew weren't doing much better. A month rotting in a pitch-black cell, starving and broken, had completely shredded their nerves.
They thought being dragged out of dungeons meant they were getting released.
Moment they saw Lord Rickard facing Daeron in a trial by combat, their mental defenses collapsed. Agony and despair ripped right through them.
Nothing left to say. Time to bleed.
Daeron didn't even bother with a two-handed grip. He tapped into Life Seed in his gut, instantly surging Vitality to buff his body and coat Dark Sister in same breath.
Lord Rickard roared, lifting his longsword high over his head, bringing it down in a brutal, heavy overhead strike.
Dark Sister might be prime Valyrian steel, but it was still a slender, woman's single-handed sword.
Everyone knew a single-handed sword couldn't block a heavy overhead cleave.
Daeron moved like a damn ghost. Before longsword even started its descent, he blurred right to Rickard's flank, sweeping Dark Sister horizontally.
Ssshhhkk!
Lord Rickard wore plate armor over chainmail. Against Dark Sister's edge, those two layers of heavy defense might as well have been wet paper. Blade sliced through like a hot knife through butter.
Rickard's overhead strike froze mid-air.
He looked down. A perfectly smooth gash had been carved right through both layers of armor, biting deep into flesh underneath. Hot blood spilled out, pooling down into his leg armor.
"How is that possible?"
Rickard's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Even their massive ancestral greatsword, Ice, couldn't leave a cut that smooth while violently tearing through steel plate.
"Arrrgh!!"
Daeron didn't waste a single word. He dropped his left hand, wielding blade effortlessly with one hand. He strolled around his opponent casually. Every swing of his sword was a blur faster than eye could track, carving fresh, bloody gashes all over Old Wolf's body.
He didn't go for kill immediately. He systematically flayed man's flesh, letting him bleed out inch by inch until his entire body went numb, leaving him to drown in pure, suffocating terror.
Watching this brutal display, none of noble lords thought he was crazy. They were absolutely jacked on adrenaline, their blood pumping with intense, raw worship.
Because Daeron's fighting style was beautifully, terrifyingly flawless.
Wearing only hardened leather and casually wielding Dark Sister with one hand, he systematically dismantled fully armored Lord of Winterfell. Rickard was flailing like a beaten dog, desperately trying to block strikes he couldn't even see.
Daeron's footwork was dead silent. His movements were explosive and utterly precise.
Every time Rickard desperately tried to counter, Daeron casually slipped strike, flicking his wrist to lay open another bloody gash on man's body.
His combat was pure, violent poetry.
Like he was treating Lord Stark as a piece of meat on a chopping block. Fast but methodical—gutting him, skinning him, filleting him alive stroke by agonizing stroke.
Whenever his opponent collapsed, totally defenseless, Daeron would stop and wait for him to catch his breath.
Moment Rickard tried to swing again, Daeron countered with absolute, merciless precision.
Buried deep in this elegant, calculated torture, there was actually a twisted sense of fair, honorable knightly combat.
Daeron rested tip of Dark Sister on floor. "Yield now, and you can still take black and rot at Wall."
"No— never—"
Lord Rickard was soaked in his own blood. His consciousness was slipping. Only thing keeping him on his feet was raw, desperate instinct to protect his eldest son.
Daeron respected his grit. He nodded. "I'll make it quick."
Right then, Brandon, still leashed to pillar, thrashed like a wild animal. Rough rope tore his neck to raw, bloody meat. Tears streamed down his face as he shrieked, "Let my father go! Fight me!"
Daeron didn't say a word. He placed tip of his sword right over Rickard's heart.
Brandon lost his mind. He screamed threats, demanding Daeron let his father live. When threats failed, he dropped to begging. When begging failed, he started spitting vicious curses.
In just a few seconds, he completely emptied out every single foul insult he'd learned in his entire life.
Daeron pushed blade forward. It pierced right through both layers of armor like they were nothing. A thin stream of blood slid down Valyrian steel's rippling water-like patterns.
"You bastard! I'll fucking kill you!"
Brandon's eyes practically tore out of their sockets. He flared every ounce of his Vitality, snapping thick rope with pure brute force, and charged straight at vicious executioner.
"No!"
Lord Rickard caught a sudden, desperate second wind, trying to throw himself in front of his son's suicidal charge.
Daeron didn't even look at him. He simply leveled Dark Sister and swung a flat, horizontal arc.
Thump. Brandon's head was completely severed from his neck. Massive head hit floor and rolled right to a stop at Lord Rickard's feet.
His headless torso sprayed hot blood into air, momentum carrying it a few more steps before it collapsed heavily onto stone floor.
"No!!"
Lord Rickard dropped heavily to his knees. He reached out, desperately wanting to cradle his son's severed head, but his trembling hands couldn't bear to touch it.
"Moment you started plotting treason, you should have known it would end like this."
Daeron's voice was completely dead. He stepped casually around behind Lord Rickard and pressed flat of his blade against back of man's skull.
Rickard's mind was completely broken. He had absolutely zero fight left in him.
Daeron swept his gaze across hall. Entire room of lords and nobles was dead silent, too terrified to breathe, their eyes glued to this brutal execution.
He knew his goal was accomplished.
Lord Rickard plotted rebellion and tried to beat rap with a trial by combat.
His eldest son Brandon, already a condemned criminal, interfered with sacred trial. Failed to save his father, lost his fucking head for it.
After today, House Stark's reputation was completely dragged through mud.
"Close your eyes. It's normal if you can't breathe."
Daeron pulled his eyes away, offering a polite warning.
In his final moments of life, Lord Rickard grabbed his son's severed head, squeezing his eyes shut in pure, agonizing despair.
Shhhk!
Dark Sister punched clean through back of Stark's skull. Slender blade erupted straight out of his mouth, plunging him into permanent darkness.
Daeron counted to three in his head before yanking blade free.
As Lord Rickard's lifeless body hit floor, hundreds of lords didn't react with terror like they did in original timeline. They were absolutely hyped after watching a real trial by combat, cheering and clapping wildly for ultimate victor.
"Hahaha!"
Aerys soaked it all in, completely convinced they were cheering for him. He ordered his men to hack off both Starks' heads, jam them on spikes, and mount them on city walls.
Daeron wiped Dark Sister clean, completely ignoring screaming crowd. He walked straight over to row of kneeling Northern noble kids.
If you're going to pull weeds, rip out roots. If you're going to kill a man, shatter his soul.