Barthogan stood alone in the room that held his father's body.
The chamber was quiet, lit only by candles placed at the four corners of the bed where King Torrhen Stark lay. The flickering light cast dancing shadows across the walls, but Barthogan's eyes never left his father's face.
He looked peaceful. That was what struck Barthogan most. Despite the violence of his death, despite the horror of those final moments, his father looked peaceful now. His expression was serene. He could have been sleeping.
His father had been laid on the bed, fully prepared for the long journey back to Winterfell. He wore a complete set of armor. The armor bore the direwolf of House Stark prominently on the breastplate, and grey fur trimmed the shoulders and collar. His hands were folded over the hilt of a sword resting on his chest in the traditional pose of a warrior laid to rest.
The body would normally have begun to decay, had Harald not placed an enchantment on the late king's body, a preservation spell that would prevent decomposition for weeks. It was a kindness, allowing them to bring their king home intact to be buried in the crypts rather than as bones.
He felt hollow.
His father should never have died like this. Not at the hands of his own blood. Not far from home. Barthogan could not even imagine what had been going through his father's mind in those final moments. He had died in confusion and heartbreak. Torrhen Stark had loved all his children. He had been stern when necessary, but beneath that Northern coldness was genuine warmth and care. He had taught them, guided them, protected them. He had been a good father, perhaps not perfect, but trying his best in a harsh world.
And two of them had repaid that love with treachery.
Barthogan felt his anger increase at the thought of Serena and Brandon. It was all their fault. All of it. If Brandon had not been so stubborn. If Serena had not been seduced by whatever promises the maesters had made her.
In his mind, Barthogan imagined a thousand ways they could have prevented this. Brandon could have come to their father when the plot was revealed to him. Serena could have refused whatever the maesters had offered her. Either of them could have shown loyalty to their family instead of betraying it.
But what had happened had happened. The past was fixed, unchangeable. All that remained was how they moved forward.
He thought of Edric, his second-oldest brother, still in Winterfell. Edric the drunk, the lecher, the disappointment who spent more time in taverns and brothels than at home. Even Edric, for all his faults, would be broken by this news. And little Arya, only six namedays old. She would have to be told why her father would never return. What could you say to a child that young? How did you explain treachery and conspiracy and death?
Barthogan heard the door open behind him. He did not turn. He knew who it was.
"Uncle," Barthogan said as Brandon Snow entered, his eyes immediately going to his dead brother and king.
"You've been here for hours," Snow said quietly, coming to stand beside Barthogan. "The others have been looking for you."
"I need to be here," Barthogan said simply.
"Your sister—" Snow began.
Barthogan snapped, his voice harsh. "I care not for that traitor."
Snow continued, undeterred. "Her body and mind are broken. The transformation... Harald says the curse cannot be fully removed. She will bear the scars forever, physical and mental. She is barely coherent, Bart. She just weeps and screams."
"I said I do not care," Barthogan said coldly. "She will not return north with us. She can rot here for all I care."
"That is for our new king to decide," Snow said carefully.
Barthogan turned to his uncle, and Snow could see tears tracking down the young man's face despite the anger in his voice. "Yes. Our new king. Who also knew of the plot. Who conspired with maesters and septons. Who betrayed our father's trust. Who broke guest right, the most sacred law of hospitality." His voice broke slightly. "He has our father's blood on his hands as much as Serena does."
Snow was quiet for a long moment, then sighed heavily. "There is nothing we can do, Bart. We cannot convince our lords of that. They will never believe any evidence Harald provides. They will say it is fabricated, that the southern sorcerer is lying."
"We were there, Uncle!" Barthogan said desperately. "As was Father! As was King Loren when that maester confessed! They have evidence, letters, documents, everything!"
"You forget what we Northmen are like," Snow said, and there was bitter resignation in his voice. "Brandon will tell them Harald manipulated everyone, that the maester was tortured into a false confession, that Serena was cursed by Harald's dark magic."
He looked at his nephew directly. "And most of the lords will believe him because they want to believe him. Because the alternative is accepting that their Crown Prince, now their King, is a traitor and a fool."
Barthogan stayed silent because he knew his uncle was right.
"King Harald plans to put Brandon on trial," Snow continued. "The lords are already calling for war."
Barthogan snorted bitterly. "Then soon enough the North will be just another province of the Heartlands. Harald will march north, and he will tear Winterfell apart stone by stone."
He turned back to his father's body. "Brandon and Serena have shamed our house. Tainted it. Not just our family, but the North itself…."
Barthogan's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "We have insulted the gods themselves. We must beg them for their forgiveness."
Snow said, "Lords Ryswell, Bolton, Karstark, and Dustin are meeting with the Lord Chancellor now. We should go… and don't say no, Bart."
Barthogan reluctantly followed his uncle out of the chamber, casting one last look at his father before closing the door softly behind him.
As they walked through the corridors, Snow spoke. "King Harald is still recovering from it all. The burns from Serena's attack were severe. I was told they were cursed flames and will take more time to heal."
He paused, then added, "King Loren has been oddly silent through all of this."
"King Loren may know the truth," Barthogan said thoughtfully. "But I do not think it would be easy to convince his lords. Many would not take kindly to the idea that maesters have been manipulating their houses for generations."
"Yes, that is true," Snow agreed, running a hand through his hair. "This is all fucked up. Damned maesters. I still cannot believe it. A conspiracy that old, that deep..."
"I believe it," Barthogan said, his voice hard. "Think of it, Uncle. How many lords in the North can even read? How many in the South? Knowledge is power, and the maesters have used their monopoly on it to gain immense influence. Enough to enforce their shadowy rule over entire kingdoms."
Snow was quiet for a moment, then said in a lower voice, "I have sent word to my crannogmen friends. They will remove Maester Morris from Winterfell."
Barthogan stopped walking. "You mean...?"
"Not kill him, no, no," Snow said quickly. "He will be taken and imprisoned quietly until we return."
"If we return," Barthogan said quietly. "If Brandon takes up rule in the North, I will not return."
"Bart, you cannot—" Snow objected.
"No, Uncle, no. I cannot," Barthogan said firmly, resuming his walk. "I cannot bend the knee to a man who got our father killed. I cannot pretend to accept a king who broke guest right. I cannot go home and act like everything is normal when nothing will ever be normal again."
They arrived at the chamber where the meeting with the Lord Chancellor was taking place. The raised voices were audible even through the thick oak door.
"HE IS OUR KING!" Barthogan heard Lord Ryswell scream, his voice shrill with indignation. "HOW DARE YOU HOLD HIM CAPTIVE! HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE HIM OF—"
Barthogan and Snow entered together.
The chamber fell into brief silence as all eyes turned to them. Lord Ryswell stood with his face red and his fists clenched. Lord Bolton watched everything with cold, calculating eyes. Lords Karstark and Dustin stood to the side, grim-faced and silent. Lord Chancellor Edmyn Tully sat behind a desk, his expression composed but his eyes showing the strain of sleepless nights.
"My Prince," Lord Ryswell said immediately, turning to Barthogan with desperate appeal. "These heathens dare to put our king on trial! After they murdered your father, after they turned your sister into a monster, now they have the gall to—"
"Peace, Ryswell," Lord Bolton interrupted smoothly. He turned to Edmyn. "Brandon Stark is the King in the North, Lord Chancellor. Whatever you believe happened, he is our sovereign. We demand his immediate release."
"After the trial," Edmyn said calmly, his hands folded on the desk before him.
"TRIAL?!" Ryswell exploded again, his voice hitting notes that made everyone wince. "HE IS THE KING IN THE NORTH! You cannot put our king on trial! It is an insult to our—"
He whirled on Lords Karstark and Dustin, who had remained conspicuously quiet. "Why are you so silent? Say something! Stand up for your king!"
Then he turned his fury on Barthogan and Snow, his finger jabbing accusingly. "And you! Prince Barthogan! It is your brother! Your king! How could you let him be humiliated like this? How could you let the North be humiliated like this?"
Brandon Snow was the one who spoke up, his voice steady despite the accusation. "Because he broke guest right, Lord Ryswell. His actions led to my brother's death. King Torrhen died because Brandon knew of the plot and even helped enable it in some ways."
"A lie!" Ryswell spat. "Southron lies to discredit the North!"
Barthogan stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chamber. "Brandon and Serena willingly joined a plot orchestrated by maesters and septons to kill King Harald. They conspired to murder a man who had offered us hospitality and friendship."
"This is what I find hard to believe. The maesters plotted to kill King Harald? The Faith, I can imagine. But the maesters somehow convinced our Crown Prince and also a princess to…." Lord Dustin offered quietly, his first words since Barthogan had entered.
"THEY ARE TRAITORS!" Barthogan exploded, his composure finally breaking. "The moment they worked against my father, against his wishes for an alliance with the Heartlands, they became traitors!"
His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. "He died because of their choices!"
"You believe that?" Ryswell's voice dripped with contempt. "You believe this monster's lies? This sorcerer who has clearly bewitched you?"
"I was there, my lord," Barthogan said, forcing his voice back to something calmer. "I was there when Maester Flowers confessed. I heard him explain how he gave my sister a dark artifact, claiming it would help in killing King Harald, in massacring his people. She and my brother willingly took part in it…."
Ryswell was about to explode again when Edmyn spoke.
"The trial will happen," Edmyn said firmly. "Your king is accused of conspiracy to commit murder and breaking guest right. Another king witnessed the confession. King Harald has asked that three of you Northern lords be selected as judges, while King Loren and I will act as the other two. Five judges in total."
He paused, letting that sink in. "King Harald himself has agreed to accept the judges' verdict, whatever it may be. This is more fairness than many would offer in his position."
Edmyn stood. "You have until nightfall to decide which three Northern lords will serve as judges."
Ryswell spoke up as Edmyn left, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "They are such fools. They put three of us on their so-called judges. We will free our king, and we can leave this cursed place."
Barthogan followed after Edmyn, ignoring Ryswell's words.
He heard the lords calling after him, but he did not listen. He caught up with the Lord Chancellor in the corridor.
"Lord Chancellor," Barthogan called out.
Edmyn stopped and turned, his expression weary but not unkind.
"How is King Harald?" Barthogan asked, catching up. "I never thought he could be hurt."
Edmyn sighed. "Even the Herald of the Gods can be hurt, Prince Barthogan. The artifact that transformed your sister into that monster was created by a dark god, or so King Harald has told me. Your sister caused injuries requiring far more time to heal than normal wounds. The burns go deeper than flesh. They affect the spirit itself."
Barthogan stayed silent, shame filling him. Harald was someone he looked up to, someone he had championed to his father and the North.
"Go and see him," Edmyn said gently. "He has been asking for you."
"I... I cannot face him," Barthogan said, his voice quiet.
"You had no part in this, Prince Barthogan," Edmyn said firmly. "House Stark is also a victim in this conspiracy. The maesters and the Faith used your family, manipulated your siblings. King Harald knows this."
Edmyn left, leaving Barthogan alone in the corridor.
He walked aimlessly through the castle, his mind churning. What would happen now? Brandon would certainly be let go. He was a king, after all, and three Northern lords would serve as judges. They would free him regardless of the evidence.
The trial was set up to reveal as much evidence as Harald could gather, to show the world that this was a plot orchestrated by the Faith and the maesters. Harald could not punish Brandon without setting a dangerous precedent for other kings. If one monarch could put another on trial, what would stop the rest? But he could expose the conspiracy, could show that Brandon and Serena had been involved, willing or unwilling.
And Barthogan would stay in the Heartlands. He had already decided. He would never set foot in the North again as long as Brandon remained king. He could not. He could not bend the knee to the man whose actions had killed their father.
The thoughts stewed in his mind for a long while as he walked, building into something harder, angrier. He needed answers. He needed to hear it from Brandon's own mouth.
He turned and made his way to the chamber where his brother was being held.
Four Spectres stood guard outside the door, their purple-tinted armor gleaming in the magelight, their expressions hidden behind their helms.
"I need to see my brother," Barthogan said.
"No one is allowed to enter, my prince," one of the Spectres said, his voice respectful but firm. "King Harald's orders."
"I am the Prince of the North," Barthogan said, his voice hardening. "I need to see my king, who is going to be put on trial soon. Surely I have the right to speak with him."
Just then another voice came from down the corridor. "Let him enter."
Barthogan turned to see Aerion Whiteflame, the Primarch of the Spectres, walking toward them.
The guards immediately stepped aside at their commander's word, opening the door.
Barthogan walked in.
Brandon was sitting on the bed, and when he saw Barthogan he immediately stood.
"Bart! Brother! What is going on? Have the lords sent word to the North? Did you send word to Winterfell? The armies of the North need to be mustered. They need to march down to free us."
His words came in a rush, desperate and urgent. "If they have not, we need to find a way to send a secret message north now. We need to—"
Barthogan only glared at him.
"Did you know of the plot?" Barthogan asked, his voice flat and cold.
"What? Now is not the time for—" Brandon started.
"Our father is dead," Barthogan interrupted. "Killed by our sister."
"Our sister was bewitched by the sorcerer, brother," Brandon said, his voice rising. "That is what I have been trying to tell everyone. Harald cursed her, turned her into that thing to—"
"ENOUGH!" Barthogan roared. "Did you know? Did Maester Morris and his order's plot involve you? Did they give Serena a ring, claiming it would weaken Harald enough for them to kill him?"
Brandon stayed silent.
"So you did know," Barthogan said, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. "Congratulations, brother. You let yourself be manipulated by maesters into using you as a pawn. You thought the ring would weaken Harald, but in truth the wearer of the ring was the weapon…."
"Lies," Brandon said, but his voice lacked conviction.
That was it for Barthogan. He snapped.
He lunged forward and drove his fist into Brandon's face. Brandon staggered back, then came forward swinging. They crashed together in a full-on brawl, fists flying, grappling and striking with all the fury of grief and betrayal.
They rolled across the floor, knocking over furniture, trading blows that would leave bruises for weeks. Brandon managed to land a solid punch to Barthogan's ribs. Barthogan responded by slamming Brandon's head against the bedpost.
The Spectres burst in, pulling them apart. Two held Barthogan, two held Brandon.
"Let me go!" Barthogan screamed, struggling against the guards. "Let me go! I will kill him! I will kill him for what he did!"
Brandon looked deflated now, held between the two Spectres, his face already swelling from Barthogan's punches. Something in his eyes suggested he was beginning to see the truth in his brother's words, beginning to understand the enormity of his mistakes.
"You killed our father, Brandon," Barthogan said, his voice ragged with emotion. "You. His blood is on your hands. Yours and Serena's. You are both kinslayers. Gods curse you, Brandon. Gods curse you."
Barthogan had been kept under guard in his chambers for some time after his attack on Brandon. Not as a prisoner, exactly, but the Spectres had made it clear he needed to calm down before being allowed to move freely again.
Later that day, he had gone to see Harald, who was still bedridden. The burns across his torso were healing, but slowly. The flesh was still raw, and in some places Harald needed to apply a special potion to keep the wounds from becoming diseased. Barthogan had apologized, his words stumbling over themselves, shame making it difficult to speak.
Harald had waved it away, saying that Bart had nothing to apologize for, that he was not responsible for his siblings' choices.
He had even offered Barthogan a place in his court if he did not wish to return north.
Now, three days later, it was time for the trial.
Barthogan stood in the throne room, which was filled to capacity. Lords of the West and Heartlands, courtiers in their finest clothes, servants pressed against the walls to witness this historic moment. Near the throne, five chairs had been placed in a row. Lord Chancellor Edmyn sat in one, King Loren in another, and the three Northern lords, Ryswell, Bolton, and Dustin, occupied the remaining seats.
Harald was sitting on the throne itself.
Barthogan had not expected that. He had seen Harald just three days ago, barely able to sit up in bed without pain crossing his face. Yet here he was.
Brandon Snow stood with Barthogan near the front of the assembled crowd, his expression grim.
The doors opened, and Spectres brought Brandon Stark into the throne room.
Something was different, Bart noticed as he saw his brother.
Lord Merrick Frey, serving as the court's herald for this proceeding, stood and read from a scroll in a voice that carried through the chamber.
"Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, you stand accused of conspiracy to commit murder, of knowingly aiding a plot orchestrated by…."
Bart did not listen. His eyes were on his brother, who now looked guilty. Had Bart's words truly reached him? Had his thick-headed brother finally realized his mistakes?
"…These are grave charges that strike at the very heart of the laws that govern civilized society. Guest right is sacred. To break it is abhorrent. How do you plead?"
Barthogan heard his uncle mutter beside him, "Right, let us get this all over with."
Barthogan knew what would happen now. Brandon would say he was not guilty, would perhaps rant about southern sorcerers and conspiracies against the North. The evidence would be presented, letters, testimony, the confession of Maester Flowers. And then all three Northern lords serving as judges would find Brandon not guilty regardless of the evidence, claiming it was fabricated or insufficient.
Brandon opened his mouth.
"Guilty."
The word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.
What?
Murmurs erupted throughout the chamber, spreading like wildfire. Lords turned to each other in shock, courtiers gasped, servants whispered urgently.
What? Barthogan's mind struggled to process what he had just heard.
"Did he just..." Snow said from beside him, his voice trailing off in disbelief.
Barthogan looked at his brother. Brandon stood with his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the floor, the very picture of a broken man. There was no defiance in his posture, no righteous anger. Just defeat.
The three Northern judges looked shocked as well. Lord Ryswell had half-risen from his seat, his mouth hanging open. Lord Bolton's usual composed mask had slipped, showing genuine surprise. Lord Dustin simply stared.
Brandon raised his head and continued, his voice carrying clearly through the now-silent chamber.
"I knew of it all. I was willfully and of sound mind and planned to break guest right, to help in the plot to murder Harald Stormcrown." His voice broke slightly.
"And the gods have punished me for it by taking my father."
He looked directly at Barthogan, and there were tears tracking down his face.
"I am guilty of everything I am accused of. I confess it freely before gods and men."
Barthogan looked to Harald on the throne.
The King of the Heartlands had a ghost of a smile on his face.
What did you do, Harald?