Author's Note: I do not, as a matter of fact, own the impressively varied contents of A Song of Ice and Fire. Let this disclaimer stand for this story; I am not profiting from the writing of it, or from publishing it. And for all that GRRM might not necessarily like fan-written stories being made from his works - he's inspired quite a lot of writing on my part, most of which hasn't been published, so there's that. Enjoy!

Brandon

He could feel the bonds about his neck, tightening as he struggled. He could barely breathe, but he thought it wasn't from the cord at his throat. No, it was from the sickening stench of burning flesh, his father's flesh, that lay thick in the air. His sword was just there, right in front of him, if he could just reach it, he could pull his father from the flames-

And then, over that stomach-turning crackling and spitting, he heard his father shout. Not scream, like the madman on the Iron Throne was waiting for, not scream, like Brandon thought and feared his father would do. No, he shouted something, something everyone could understand, something that made his heart pound and tears blur his sight-

"Live!"

Brandon stilled, knowing this was meant for him. It tore his heart to stand there and watch as his father thrashed and his hair and beard erupted into sparks and his flesh melted off his bones but Rickard was his father, and even now Brandon knew he must listen… for all that this was to be his father's last command, no, last word, and it made the son's heart to feel like a stone in his breast. His father screamed then, a long, breaking sound, and the monster of a king only laughed his cold, creaking laugh.

Then his father stopped moving altogether, and Brandon didn't feel it when his knees gave way beneath him, only the impact as they hit the stones of the floor. Blackness spread over his sight and his mind, and all he knew was one thought.

I'm so sorry. I failed them all…

"Your Grace? What should we do with him?"

Aerys seemed to consider the two Starks; one lying insensate, the other unrecognisable bones in melted armour. "He wanted the Tullys to ally with him," he said, looking at the dead man. "Throw his bones in the Blackwater. And his brat in the black cells. There's something in him yet. Mayhaps I'll burn him later, when I've got his brothers. It'll make for a good time, to see them all burn together!"

The guard's face was emotionless as he gestured at his fellows. Three came forward and began the ugly task of pulling the twisted thing that had been a lord from the smoky hall, made difficult as the steel keened and faltered and ashen flesh crumbled. One of them let out a quiet retching noise. In the meantime, the first guard and another had hoisted the unconscious man under his arms and cut the binding about his blue-marred throat.

Aerys merely turned and stomped away, muttering about traitors and flames.

Eddard

"Where is my brother?" Ned snapped at the nearest guard, his face a mask of fury. The man hesitated. "You will tell me, now, or I swear to you, your head will grace the walls of Winterfell!"

"The black cells, m'lord," the guard said, eyes wide with fear. "I'll take you, if it please you."

Ned followed the guard down twisting passages and flights of stairs, well aware of the pattering of the footsteps of his men. The walls grew rougher, the embellishments and carvings fewer and fewer as the strange pair walked further and further. It grew cooler as they descended, and darker, and at last they stood before a metal-girded door the guardsman shied away from.

"It's in there, my lord," he said. "Begging your pardon, but I don't have the keys."

"To the hells with the keys." Ned examined the lock that bound the door shut, and knew he could dispose of it. When he had, an angry swipe of Ice sufficing, he snatched a torch from the nearest bracket and, shoving the door open as wide as it would go, entered the midnight darkness of the black cells. The air here was heavy, musty with the breaths of countless men who had died by orders of kings through the centuries. Ned fancied he could hear their mutterings, mad cries as shadows faded in and out with the flickering of his torch's flames. He shuddered. This was an evil place.

It was only a few rough-hewn columns over that he spotted a figure slumped against one of the stone structures. The man was thin and emaciated as he had never thought to see his large, powerfully-built brother. But it was Brandon, yes, he could see that. Ned felt his heart beating oddly slow as the man he barely recognised turned his head, eyes dull.

"It's not you," he said, voice heavy and as lifeless as his eyes. "I'm tired of these false dreams."

"Brandon," Ned said, trying not to show his horror at what had happened to the brother he remembered. To see his brother, ever fiery, his moods like one of the tempests that ever assailed Storm's End – it drove it home, again, that nothing would ever be the same. He pushed that thought away as he had for too long, for if he thought too hard on it now Ned knew he would never be able to finish this ugly war. "It is me. King's Landing is ours. Get up. Lyanna is still in Dorne. I would find her, and I haven't the time for playing around with you." He felt somewhat guilty at treating his brother – no, he realised, his lord – that way, but it seemed to work. Brandon stumbled upright. Ned went to support him.

"I'm coming with you," Brandon said, though gasping with exertion. "I know I'm not the same as you remember, Ned, but I have to. I am the reason Father died. I would not be the reason Lyanna died as well."

"I knew you would say that," Ned replied, leading Brandon out of the cells. His brother shied from the light, but soon followed, his paces staggering and his dimished weight leaning on the younger of the two. "I found your horse and your armour. You are going to eat, rest a while, and then we ride south."

"I should never have come south to begin with, is that it?" Brandon sighed. "I knew it was foolish. But it was Lya, Ned, our sister. How could I have done anything else? What Rhaegar did… It was our sister."

"No one blames you, Bran," Ned assured, though he found it hard to see how his ever-confident brother had become so doubting. "Least of all Father and Lyanna. You will see. We will find her, she will slap you, most like, and then we will be together again. As we should be. As we belong."

Brandon's lips quirked up into a slow smile, as if unused to the movement.

"I suppose I deserve that slap," he said.