Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12448149.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&
      Related_Fandoms, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Rhaegar_Targaryen/Lyanna_Stark_(ambiguous_consent), Brandon_Stark/Catelyn
      Tully_Stark_(Arranged_Marriage), Elbert_Arryn/Lyssa_Tully_Arryn_(Arranged
      Marriage)
  Character:
      Brandon_Stark, Elbert_Arryn, Richard_Lonmouth
  Additional Tags:
      Character_Study, Character_Death, Minor_Character_Death, Major_character
      death_-_Freeform, Character's_dropping_like_flies, The_situation
      escalated
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Last_days_of_the_Dragon
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-22 Chapters: 1/? Words: 3406
****** The Storm and the Fury ******
by Ketch117
Summary
     Once the arrow is loosed, it cannot be drawn back to the bow.
     It is too late now. All are caught, trapped within it, king and
     prince, peasant and child alike, and all must dance to the tune that
     is playing, for this is not a dance-floor you may take leave of, and
     because the orchestra's podium is too high to climb and bid the
     musicians to play some other tune. So dance they will, even as they
     fall, even as they lose themselves, even as the world ends around
     them, they will dance, for choices are not given to them, choices are
     the domain of a happy few, and all they can do is follow the music.
     Gods have mercy on them all.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
"Why, it's the gallant knight of skulls and kisses, two things I admit that
I've never associated with one another." Elbert said, inclining his head. He
was with Brandon Stark, soon to be his good-brother, and the two of them were
fishing, which they both agreed was by far the best thing to do while in the
Riverlands. Much to their surprise they had hit it off with each other, and
were spending as much time as they decently could in each other's company.
Lysa Tully had japed that perhaps the two would prefer to court one another,
and Elbert had laughed. Brandon had laughed as well, then grown a little more
aggressive about kissing his intended.
For now, Brandon was stretched out under a tree, his arms behind his head and
legs splayed to make himself comfortable, the light that filtered through the
branches playing across his face. Elbert's feet were in the stream, his sleeves
and trousers rolled up to reveal his calves and muscle-corded forearms, and he
was watching for the sparkle of a fish, at which point he'd dart down almost
too fast to see, and his fingers would gently close around it without gripping
it firmly enough for it to slip through, and he'd toss it onto the shore before
the fish realised what happened. He'd caught six or so, so far, and Brandon was
most impressed by this novel method of fishing, but hadn't tried it himself
yet. He wanted to figure out the trick first, rather than risk failure and
embarrassment.
"Skulls and kisses?" Brandon asked lazily, hardly stirring at all.
"Gallant and a Lonmouth." Elbert replied cheekily, and the older of the two let
out a bark of laughter. Richard Lonmouth, however, looked affronted at the
slight. He was a second son with nothing to his name but his name, and the
legacy of honor and valor that accompanied it. He was past thirty years old,
handsome in a rough-hewn way, with brown hair cut for convenience under a
helmet, and he looked halfway wound up already, having been looking for the two
of them since shortly after dawn. It was now well past mid day.
"We're a long way from your native haunts." Elbert continued carelessly, eyeing
the water for another fish. "What brings you here?"
"I'm riding with the prince, as it happens. He sent me to find you, and Lord
Tully told me you've been spending your days here."
"Well, we're to be his sons-in-law, or so it has been decided anyway. We make
our own entertainment."
"Of course, there are worse ways to spend early spring than acquainting
yourself with a beautiful woman." Elbert added. "Like following the Prince
around wherever he goes, or so I imagine."
"What's the prince doing here anyway? Planning on paying a call upon Lord
Tully?"
That, of course, what Lonmouth was here to explain, although he didn't have
much taste for the task. "No, he has no interest in the hospitality of the Lord
of the Riverlands. On point of fact he's departed already."
Brandon made a face. The prince had humiliated him at jousting in the Tourney
of Harrenhal, just as first Denys Arryn and then Robert Baratheon had
humiliated Richard Lonmouth. It was a year previous, but still too fresh in the
memory to laugh about. "That's too bad." He replied, tugging on his line in a
distracted fashion. "I'm sure he'll be back soon, however. He seems to have
left something behind."
"He asked me to stay behind."
"Can't say that I blame him." Brandon said, but Elbert, noticing the serious
expression on the knights face, made a guess.
"Might I presume it is something to do with us?"
"You may."
"Messager boy too, is it? Shame that there is no space on your famous shield
for a raven." Brandon said, pointing at the rather cluttered heraldry, but
Lonmouth had had enough and was studiously ignoring him.
"The prince felt you should be told that the Lady Lyanna Stark is accompanying
him, and he intends me to reassure you that no harm will come to her…"
The mocking, unfriendly smile on Brandon's face froze, and the line slipped out
of his hand. "What did you say?" His tone was as cold as his homelands all of a
sudden.
Richard Lonmouth rolled his eyes haughtily. "Your sister is with the prince. He
intends to take him with him."
"And what possible reason would the prince have to go riding with the Lady
Stark, or to take her anywhere? Betrothed to his cousin, a match requested by
his father?" Brandon hadn't seemed to know what to make of this, so it was
Elbert who responded, but Brandon, face beginning to go very red, occupied the
kinght's attention. "Insisted upon, in point of fact."
"The prince desires her companionship." Richard Lonmouth replied primly.
A shocked, uncomfortable silence fell over the little clearing by the stream.
"The prince intends to force himself upon my sister?" Brandon said, so quietly
Lonmouth almost didn't hear him despite the silence, getting to his feet. He
was at least two inches taller than Richard, but he seemed far larger, looming
above the knight.
"She went with him willingly." Lonmouth protested, offended on his friends
behalf.
"Oh she did, did she? Let me hear it from her, then. Where is she, you
miserable excuse for a man?"
"Calm yourself."
"No. No, I don't think I will. My sister goes riding, and then you tell me
she's been dragged off, and on top of that claim it's what she wants? Tell me.
Go on. Tell me why the prince took my sister."
"It was long a privilege of the Targaryens, even before they became kings to…"
"Rape, you mean?" Elbert said, before Brandon could.
"I would not call it rape." Lonmouth replied.
A silence fell upon the clearing by the riverside. "Watch what you say about my
sister." Brandon growled. His hands clenched into iron sledges, the knuckles
going very white. At the same time Ser Richard Lonmouth put out his own hand
gently on the hilt of his sword, barely conscious he was doing it.
Elbert had to remain composed, because there was no possibility of Brandon
managing it, but his eyes flashed like lightening. A part of him was
remembering his youth. He was remembering his aunt, Lady Alys Waynewood - who
was as unlucky a mother as anyone could imagine - and in particular her sixth
daughter who had been dragged off by the Mountain Tribesmen. It was Elbert's
firm conviction that the Mountain Tribes had never been so close to being
exterminated root and branch as they had been in that year. It was the first
time his uncle had frightened him. Lord Arryn had done all that a man could do
to try to get her back, or at least see her avenged, he killed every one of the
tribesmen that he could find and burned villages to the ground. Their corpses
had been displayed on every crossroads in the Vale, but they never had found
her or forced them to return her. And he doubted now that they ever would, if
she was even still alive, which seemed a less likely proposition then one of
the Burned Men forcing her, slitting her throat, then leaving her corpse in a
ditch somewhere, even if neither his uncle or aunt could ever accept it. A
romantic temperament was all well and good- why be a knight otherwise - but you
had to be realistic where chances were concerned.
"And what do you call it, exactly?" He asked, sounding as furious and disgusted
as Brandon, which was no small feat. "Because these actions seem more befitting
a wildling than a prince."
"He means to marry her." Richard Lonmouth retorted, shouting back, his hand
still on his sword.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Brandon snapped.
"Aye. Rape a woman and she's yours, as far as the Wildlings are concerned.
That's what they call marriage. But we have laws, and it's the king who's
supposed to enforce them." He retorted. "And knights who are supposed to
protect maidens and the helpless. If only one had been present, eh?"
Ser Lonmouths face reddened, but he didn't get a chance to reply, before
Brandon spat. "Besides, he's married already."
"In a sept. He means to marry her before the Old Gods." Ser Lonmouth snapped
back, growing increasingly irate himself.
"That wouldn't be recognized. Not by either set of gods. It's been tried before
and wasn't then." Brandon replied with authority. He'd looked it up when he'd
been informed of his betrothal, thinking he was the first to think of a clever
way of meeting his filial obligations his father had demanded of him, and
marrying the girl he wanted at a single stroke. As it turned out, he wasn't the
first to think of it. The two faiths had coexisted with varying tolerance side
by side for nearly four thousand years, afterall, and both were equally firm on
that issue - one of the few things they did agree upon, really. The sanctity of
marriage was too important for dynastic succession for it to be undermined in
any way. If you wanted more than one wife, you could head off to Essos and find
a god who suited you. "It doesn't matter anyway. You say my sister wants this.
Where is she? I'll ask her myself."
"Gone, not that it's any concern of yours."
"No concern of mine? I'm her brother! You ride here and tell me my sister's
vanished, the prince is to blame, and that it's what she wants but she couldn't
write a note, or tell you anything to make me trust what you're saying, and you
presume to tell me that it's no concern of mine? Where is my sister? Tell me!"
"I won't. The Prince has taken her away, and doesn't want anyone to know his
location."
"Well, I'll just have to find him, then." Brandon replied, baring his teeth.
"Where is Prince Rhaegar? Tell us now, and we can catch him. Whatever happened,
it should not be a nobody like yourself who speaks for either Lady Stark or the
Prince. Tell us where he's taken her." Elbert demanded.
Richard Lonmouth drew himself up to his full height. "I won't betray the
Prince's trust."
Brandon loomed over him. "You'd better reconsider."
"Step away, Lord Stark." His voice was commanding, but Brandon didn't look
impressed. He looked murderous.
"You fixing to make me, little man?" He asked, his own voice still quiet, but
growing louder again.
Sensing himself losing control of the situation that was escalating rather than
being quelled by the appeal to force, he cleared his throat. "I have a sword."
Announced the Knight of Skulls and Kisses, hating the way his voice wavered and
his face blotched red and white.
"You would have a sword," Brandon shouted contemptuously, losing what little
ability to keep himself under control that he had been able to hold on to "you
mother-fucker!"
Elbert moved, but it was too late to intervene, and there was nothing he could
have done anyway, the situation passed beyond any sort of control. Ill-
advisedly, perhaps out of fear and perhaps out of a kind of desperate need to
control the situation Ser Lonmouth drew, and Brandon Stark, at the sight of
naked steel went into a blind rage. He swung away from Elbert, burst into a
flood of words as he drew the hunting knife - which was all he carried - and
advanced on Ser Lonmouth, all in the same terrible instant. The bared steel in
his hands did not restore the knight's courage, as if thrown back on the
defensive by the impact of Brandon Stark's fury, and he retreated a step from
him, holding the sword in front with shaking hands as though hoping it would
ward him off.
"A sword's not much use in your hands," roared Brandon as he advanced upon him,
spittle flying, "why would it be? A sword doesn't make a man, does it, you
coward? You fucking coward! I know your sort! How many rode with you to give
you the courage to take my sister, eh? Did you hold her down? I bet you did,
you look the type, though it would have taken three like you! Coward! Drop it.
Drop it! Or better yet find the courage to use it! You'd draw on me, would you,
lickspittle? You sorry accident of a man? Murdering an unarmed man looks more
your way! Well I don't have a sword! Come on, damn you, try it!"
"Ser Lonmouth, either put the sword down right away, or he will kill you. Be
quick, man." Elbert's voice snapped like the lash of a whipcrack, but the
warning, though well-considered was lost in the torrent of words bursting from
Brandon Stark, and neither were much given to listen. "Don't be a fool.
Brandon, leave him alone. Let him explain."
But Ser Lonmouth made an ill-considered thrust at Brandon Stark, which the heir
of Winterfell turned contemptuously with his knife, lightning fast, then he
rushed in and pinned him round the waist. The sword clattered to the ground and
rolled into the stream where moments ago two friends had been fishing as the
knight fumbled his grip with Brandon on top of him, and the dagger rose to make
an end of it. Elbert caught his wrist from behind, and a lifetime of sword and
lance practice had given him wrists like iron bars, but Brandon was strong to,
his blood was up, and was not calming down in the slightest.
For a moment time seemed frozen, and they stood in a tableau of perfect
silence, all motionless. Brandon's breathing was deep and wet and fast, like a
blood-drunk wolf in its death-throes, and his eyes rolled in his head. Ser
Lonmouth was on his back, hiding his eyes with the free hand, flinched from the
knife. And Elbert held the avenging arm suspended. Then Ser Lonmouth opened his
mouth to speak, perhaps to apologize, perhaps to cry, perhaps to yell something
defiant, but he never got the chance. It was all too much, all at once, and
Brandon shook Elbert off, the knife coming down with a dread finality.
When he stepped away, Brandon's hands and tunic were red with blood, and his
eyes were filled with a quiet wrath.
Slowly he rose, mechanically wiping his hands upon his cloak, leaving bloody
smears on the grey and white. A dark scowl had settled on his somber brow. Yet
he made no wild, reckless vow, swore no oath by any gods, old or new.
"Rhaegar." He said, so coldly Elbert flinched.
"Brandon…"
Brandon rounded on him. "He drew on me. He knew what that meant." Brandon
replied, then spat. "Saddle my horse." He said, presumably to himself, for if
anyone were likely to overhear they would have been brought earlier. "Bring me
my boots. Now, by mine honor, by my life, by my troth, I intend that Rhaegar
will answer to me for this. I will have satisfaction, and I shall see his
corpse at my feet."
"Brandon!" Elbert shouted, and finally seemed to have gotten through. "He was
Hoster Tully's guest!"
"Was he?"
"He must have been!"
Brandon shrugged. "He drew on me. He had a sword and meant to use it. He
forfeited any protection. Even so, were he twenty times so protected, still I
would have slaughtered him for each." He replied. His clenched jaw shuddered a
little. "I should hack him to bits and toss him into the rivers a piece at a
time, so his spirit wanders forever, never finding rest. I aught to…" He
continued, and recovered the sword out of the stream, indicating that he
intended to do just that, but again Elbert grabbed his wrist, and this time he
allowed himself to be stopped.
"You need to calm down, Brandon. You're drunk on choler, and not thinking
clearly."
Brandon took a deep breath, but the light in his eyes was as bright as ever,
and the sword trembled in his hand from tension. "Aye, you're right. Rhaegar."
He spat the last name like a curse.
"He must have been planning this since Harrenhal." Brandon was growling, pacing
back and forth clenching and unclenching his fists. "Since he gave her that
damn crown."
"We've been here more than two weeks. With fast horses he could have gotten
here from the capital that quickly."
"You should write to your father. A raven will bring him the news faster than
any horse. I'll get my uncle, and Robert, and between them…"
"Two months." Brandon replied. "Two months to get him a message, to get him
here, to get to King's Landing. In two months, there'll be nothing left of her.
In two months he'll have savaged her like a dog."
Elbert closed his eyes. He pictured Lyanna, the woman that one of his closest
friends was so besotted with but could only bring to memory his cousin, Alaya
Waynewood's face. She'd been small and fey and fragile, little more than a
child, really, a small, thin wisp of near womanhood who's huge dark eyes were
lively and hopeful. She had been a year older than Lyanna was now back when he
had last seen her, and he'd been six years younger than he was now, but he had
no trouble recapturing her. There had been an impression of fragility about
her. Now, if she still lived, doubtless he'd never recognize her, not after
what she would have been through at the hands of the Burned Men, though he
doubted that she did. Her hair had been so pale blond it was almost white, and
she had tried to make herself look older by binding it in a great coil on the
crown of her head, and in truth more than anything looking back she made Elbert
think of nothing so much as a child dressed up in her mothers clothing.
And suddenly he did picture Lyanna's face, and wanted to cry, mingled feelings
of rage and helplessness forcing their way up his throat. Lyanna's face mingled
with Alaya's, mingled with all the other tragedies he'd witnessed and been
unable to prevent. Elbert's passion ran cooler than Brandon's and thus was
slower to build up, but his act of calm was just that. An act. The idea of a
young girl, ambushed alone by the prince and his men made his heart swell, as
if he were going to suffocate. It was the unfairness which was hurting Elbert -
Lyanna, who to him had become the picture of all weak and innocent people
victimized by a resistless tyranny in general and the Targaryen's, who he had
never much liked, in particular. Elbert was a generous boy. He hated the idea
of strength against weakness.
"But we'd get her back." he said in defence of his proposition. "That's what
matters."
Brandon rounded on him, as though daring him to tell him to give up, but Elbert
folded his arms and met his eyes, and eventually Brandon took a deep breath.
"No. No, I will not leave her to endure that for a moment. Not a single moment.
Not while there is any strength in my body. I will not."
Elbert closed his eyes, because though it felt a mistake, he knew that it was
not. It might not be pragmatic, but it was the correct choice, the only choice.
It was not the choice that clearer heads would urge him to make. But Brandon
was right as well, how could any man take it, leave a girl to such a fate, and
after stand to call himself a man? Allowing it to occur, even by not doing all
in your power to stop it as soon as it began, was to him as cruel an act as
participating in the act. "Neither will I." he said quietly, and Brandon
clapped him on the back.
"Good man. Lets get our horses. We'll ride to the capital, and demand he
account for it."
"Or demand the king does, if he will not." The King was said to be mad, but
surely, in light of this, he would have no choice but to intervene.
"Aye. And then he can meet me, and I'll spill his royal blood like water."
End Notes
     So guess what? Turns out setting the characters up is really boring.
     Let's skip ahead to everything going wrong all at once.
     Richard Lonmouth, apparently friends with Rhaegar who frequently hung
     out with Robert, seems to have stopped existing after Harrenhal. This
     seems as good a reason for that as any. Our abductee is canon, though
     her first name is unknown. I decided to go with Alaya because it's
     the kind of twisted touch that Littlefinger loves.
     I personally feel I am doing Rhaegar far more credit here than he
     deserves, but the story requires some ambiguity to be even a little
     compelling, so here we go - what passes for ambiguity. Enjoy.
     Anyway, that out of the way this is the next part of my experiment.
     Write Robert's Rebellion, mostly following canon except where canon
     is dull or makes no fucking sense, focusing on the wars and upheaval,
     the broken hearts and broken friendships, and put as little emphasis
     on Lyanna and Rhaegar as I possibly can, to make up for all the
     stories that seem to insist on forgetting that anything else actually
     happened. Instead of a few platitudes, actually put the big pile of
     corpses in the story. See how it looks.
     This was intended to become an AU. Still might, it's too early to
     say, but more likely I'll write an AU afterwards.
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