The throne room doors groaned closed behind them, drowning the Iron Throne and all it represented in silence and ash.
Eddard Stark walked ahead, his boots quiet on the scorched stone. He said nothing. His men followed without command—Greatjon, Rodrik, and the twenty handpicked veterans who had stood watch while Jaime Lannister was dragged down from his stolen perch.
The halls of the Red Keep were quiet now. Word had spread already—faster than fire. Guards who had laughed hours ago now stood straighter, stepping aside without a word as the Northerners passed. Even the gold cloaks bowed their heads when the wolf banner brushed by. No words had been exchanged, but something had shifted. The South could smell it.
They descended the long stair into the antechamber, and there Ned stopped.
Rodrik stepped forward beside him, face tense. "What now, Lord Stark?"
Ned's eyes were on the empty corridor ahead. Torches flickered in their sconces. The scent of death and damp canvas clung to the air. "The city is not ours to govern," he said at last, "but it will obey."
Rodrik waited, eyes narrowing.
Ned turned, his voice low but clear. "Gather the officers. All of them. Northmen only. No others."
Rodrik nodded and peeled away into the shadowed hall without a word.
Greatjon Umber shifted beside him. "You mean to march again? We've not even pitched for a night—"
"I will speak once," Ned said, voice cutting through the air like a blade.
Greatjon's mouth shut.
The others held their silence. These men were no southern flatterers. They'd bled on the march to the Trident, watched comrades die, seen the river boil red. Now they looked to Ned not with awe or confusion, but readiness. They would follow him into hell if he led.
And they already had.
Rodrik returned moments later, his voice low. "They await in the lower hall."
Ned walked.
The antechamber opened into the old feasting hall—blackened tapestries still hung, limp and torn. Once a place for kingly boasts and drunk lords, it now felt like a tomb. Around the perimeter stood his officers—commanders of the flanking companies, scouts, riders, guardsmen. They turned as one when he entered.
No ceremony. No greeting.
Ned stopped in the center.
"I leave tomorrow," he said. "I will not take the host. I will not announce our route. But I will take thirty."
Murmurs rippled through the room before stilling again.
"I need fifteen swords—those who strike hard, fast, and without hesitation. I need fifteen bowmen—those who do not miss. They are to be ready by dawn, mounted and provisioned and me a midwife too incase the worse has happened."
He turned slightly, scanning them all.
"Speak not of where we ride or why. Not in your tents. Not over fire. Not in earshot of man, woman, or wind. You will obey this as if your lives depended on it. Because they do."
There were no questions. No protests.
Ned continued.
"Rickard Karstark will take command of the host. You will obey him as you would me. There will be no division."
That drew more reaction—eyebrows raised, a few sideways glances. But no words.
"I leave this city under Northern law," Ned said. "Any man who rapes, loots, or murders shall be hanged. If he is of the North, he will be gelded first, then hanged by his guts."
One of the captains flinched. Another swallowed hard.
"You will not shame the North."
His voice was low, but the finality in it rang across the stone.
Rodrik stepped forward. "And if they ask… if they ask when you return, or when we yield the city to the king's men?"
Ned didn't hesitate.
"You tell them the truth."
He turned, face hard.
"You tell them the city answers to the Stark. And it will answer to no one else—until the Stark says so."
---
The next morning broke grey over King's Landing.
Ash still clung to the rooftops, mixing with mist from the Blackwater and the soot of burning memories. The sun refused to shine. It lingered behind clouds as if ashamed to look down.
Ned stood at the foot of the Red Keep's eastern steps, his back to the city.
The chosen thirty assembled behind him in silence—fifteen swords, fifteen bowmen. None had asked where they were going. None had packed more than what they could carry. They had only looked to Rodrik and Greatjon, seen their silence, and prepared accordingly, Howland had found him 2 women who were from the city, one who delivered the babes from the whorehouse and another who's mother was a healer in the free cities had joined the Starks party.
Ned's armor was fastened tight. Black leather over steel. A fur-lined cloak swept around his shoulders. His helm hung from his saddle, untouched. The sword Ice remained across his back, bound in its scabbard, though its weight never left him.
At his side stood Howland Reed, lean, green-eyed, and unreadable.
Rodrik approached from behind, a report scroll in hand, but paused when he saw Ned staring down into the city streets. He followed the look and saw what Ned already had.
A Lannister soldier—red cloak billowing, drunk—dragging a girl barely into her maidenhood by the hair. The soldier laughed as he staggered down the alley. The girl's legs scraped against the cobbles, bleeding.
Rodrik drew his sword.
Ned raised a hand. Just one.
Two of the thirty were already moving. They stepped into the alley, no shout, no demand—just steel. The Lannister had a moment to look up before the first blade punched through his neck. The girl screamed and scuttled away.
The soldier fell in the gutter, cloak splayed like a dying flame.
Ned turned away.
Rodrik stared for a moment longer, then nodded. "They're ready."
Ned mounted.
He looked once to the gathered Northern host beyond the gate. Still encamped, still vigilant. Then to the walls of the Red Keep, where a few gold cloaks watched from behind arrow slits, not daring to come down.
Rickard Karstark stood at the front of the camp, mounted and waiting.
Ned rode to him.
Karstark dipped his head. "They'll march as ordered."
"They'll obey you as they would me," Ned said.
Karstark didn't flinch. "And if they ask?"
Ned didn't need to ask what he meant. He gave the answer they had rehearsed in truth and in steel.
"When the Stark says so."
Karstark nodded once. No smile. No pride. Just purpose.
Ned leaned forward slightly in the saddle. "You will not let them shame us."
"They won't."
"And if any do?"
"They'll die before sunset."
The two men sat in silence for a moment—no farewell, no binding oath. Just understanding.
Then Ned turned his horse toward the southern road. Howland followed. The thirty riders fell into formation—silent, lean, and deadly.
Not a single voice rose in parting. No banners were raised. No cheers called out.
Only the sound of hooves striking stone as the coldest sword of the North rode from the burning heart of the South.
---
Dust clung to the riders like frost, kicked up by hooves pounding over dry river trails and cracked southern roads. The North had left King's Landing in silence, but their presence still rippled behind them—a jagged, cutting shadow following the thirty through the waking heat of a land not yet burned clean.
They rode with purpose, heads low, formation tight. Ned rode at the front, Howland Reed at his right, Ice strapped across his back like a slab of black stone. None of the men behind them spoke. The air didn't permit it.
The Stormlands loomed to the east, but Ned turned them south, following no paved king's road but a war trail carved by raiders and couriers. The route twisted through sun-cracked valleys and dry creekbeds, skirting burned orchards and trampled farms. By midday, their column stretched in a thin ribbon across a ridgeline. Ned raised a hand, and they slowed.
Two scouts peeled off with signal gestures, galloping ahead into the rising heat. The others waited without question.
Howland pulled up beside him.
"I spoke to someone," he said at last. "After the throne room. A man from Rhaegar's household."
Ned's eyes stayed on the horizon.
"He didn't see me at first. He served wine at court, nothing important. But he heard things—kept his head down, listened when others didn't think he could."
Ned remained silent.
"He overheard Rhaegar's final orders," Howland continued. "Before the Trident. He sent Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent south."
"Where?"
"To the Tower of Joy."
Ned's jaw tightened. "When?"
"Months ago. Before the battle."
Ned looked at him then.
"Lyanna?"
The answer came without pause. "He said she was already there. Rhaegar spoke her name."
The horses shifted beneath them. A breeze stirred the dirt. No one else heard. No one else needed to.
Ned said nothing more. Just adjusted his reins and began moving again.
The trail narrowed into shale and loose stone. They fell into single file. Vultures circled in the distance, black dots turning above something freshly dead.
"Why that place?" Ned asked eventually.
Howland glanced sideways. "It's old. Older than any royal holdfast. No one uses it. Not even Dornish lords."
Ned's voice was quiet. "Except him."
Howland nodded. "Except him."
That night, they made camp near the bones of a dry riverbed. No fires were lit. The scouts had cleared the perimeter, but the men still slept light—armor half-on, blades within reach. The kind of sleep men knew during war, even if no one had declared it.
Howland sat beside Ned beneath a gnarled tree. Stars blinked overhead like half-forgotten gods.
"You knew," Ned said, not looking at him. "When we rode south."
"I knew she was missing," Howland answered. "I didn't know why. No one did."
Ned unslung his waterskin and drank, then passed it to him.
"You think she's still alive?"
Howland considered. "If those two were sent to guard her, not kill her… yes."
"If she isn't," Ned said, "then someone else is going to die for it."
They didn't speak after that.
The camp breathed around them—quiet, tense. A bowstring creaked as one of the watchmen adjusted. Somewhere, an owl called.
But Ned didn't sleep.
His hand rested near Ice's hilt.
And when the wind shifted, carrying dust and silence through the trees, he didn't look back toward the capital.
He looked south. Toward Dorne. Toward the truth.
---
The red hills of northern Dorne rose like broken teeth from the earth, jagged and dry. Wind stirred up fine sand and grit that coated the throats and eyes of the riders. Still, the thirty pressed on.
By the fourth day, the terrain narrowed into a ravine that opened into a high saddle between two cliffs. And beyond it, standing alone in the cradle of stone, was the Tower of Joy.
It was not tall. Not grand. Just white stone, smooth and narrow, untouched by time or war. It rose like a fang from the earth, silent and waiting.
Ned halted the company just short of the ridge.
The sun burned high overhead, casting long shadows across the crags. A pair of scouts returned from the slope ahead. One of them, face half-covered by a leather scarf, pointed toward the far rise.
"Three men in white armor," he said. "They do not move from the tower. They have water. And Dornish mounts."
Ned nodded. "Kingsguard?"
"They bear no banners. But yes."
Ned stared down at the tower. "Only three?"
"That's all we've seen. They don't speak. They don't ride. They just wait."
He turned to the men.
"Swords—ready. Bowmen—hold."
He chose ten riders to remain behind and flank from a higher ridge. The bowmen would have sight. The rest—fifteen swords, Howland at his side—followed him as he rode slowly, openly down the slope.
No deception. No hidden movement. Just the truth, walking on two legs.
As they crossed into the clearing below the tower, the wind carried the scent of dry grass and stone. Silence reigned.
Three knights waited.
Ser Gerold Hightower. The White Bull, taller than any of them, his white plate worn and clean. His face was old stone, unreadable.
Ser Oswell Whent. Slighter, hawk-nosed, calm. The visor of his helm rested open.
And Ser Arthur Dayne.
The Sword of the Morning stood still as a statue, Dawn sheathed at his side. He did not reach for it. Not yet.
Ned stopped his horse twenty paces away.
There were no salutes. No greetings. Just three men between him and the tower.
"I came to speak with my sister," Ned said. His voice carried.
Gerold's reply came flat. "She is not yours to command."
"I'm not here to command," Ned said. "Only to speak."
Whent shook his head. "That's not possible."
"She is my blood."
Dayne's eyes narrowed faintly, but he said nothing.
Ned drew a breath. "She was taken. She did not come willingly."
"You do not know what passed between them," Gerold said.
"I know what war was built upon. I know how many died chasing lies."
"Then you know what must be protected."
Ned's voice dropped low. "If you knew what was right, you'd let her go."
"She is safe," Dayne said quietly. "And beyond your reach."
A pause.
"You were not there at the trident, you failed your vows to protect your prince alrasdy." Ned said.
"I will not fail another." Gerold growled
"So be it"
They stood like that for a long moment, wind tugging at cloaks, eyes locked.
Then Ned lowered his left hand, barely at his side.
A twitch. A subtle motion.
Far above, the archers saw it.
15 arrows loosed from the ridge.
5 missed.
7 struck Whent through the neck and gaps in his armour, just beneath the lip of his helm.
He staggered forward, a wet gurgle escaping his throat, blood spurting in hot, arterial rhythm.
Hightower and Dayne had been hit but not in anywhere fatal there arms bled and the legs dripped blood into the dornish sand.
Dayne didn't shout. Didn't hesitate.
His hand snapped to Dawn.
Gerold drew his longsword and charged with a roar.
The thirty surged forward. Steel clashed. Horses reared. The clearing exploded into chaos.
Ned dismounted as Dayne's blade cleaved through one of the Northmen's helms with a single, elegant stroke. Blood sprayed in an arc. The man fell, screaming, skull split.
Two more rushed Dayne. One was gutted before he could lift his shield. The other caught a slash to the throat and dropped twitching.
Ned met Gerold.
The White Bull swung with raw power, crushing down with a hammer-like blow. Ned barely deflected it, his shoulder jolting from the force. He sidestepped, Ice biting upward, but Gerold turned the cut with practiced ease.
Another Northerner lunged for Gerold's side. The knight turned, parried, and ran him through in a single motion.
Four dead.
Ned fought beside Howland now, driving toward Dayne.
Dawn flashed like silver lightning, cutting down a fifth man—this one screaming for his mother as he fell.
Then Ned moved.
He caught Dayne's next strike on the flat of Ice, turning it aside by inches. He stepped inside and slashed. Dayne twisted away—fast, too fast—and the blade skimmed harmlessly off his greaves.
Howland darted in, thrusting low.
Dayne kicked him aside.
Ned pressed again. One cut, then another. Dayne retreated three steps, assessing, calculating.
Gerold turned too late.
A Northern sword took him from behind, punching between the seams of his backplate. He arched, dropped his sword, and collapsed to his knees. Another stab into his side dropped him fully.
Only Dayne remained.
He backed toward the tower.
Blood ran down his arm. One of the bowmen had found flesh after all.
Ned did not call for surrender.
He simply advanced.
Dayne came at him with everything left—blinding speed, perfect form. They clashed once—twice—and Ned felt the edge of Dawn graze his jaw.
He stepped into the next blow, accepting the pain, and rammed Ice into Dayne's gut.
The knight staggered. Still standing.
Another cut from Howland opened his side.
A final stroke—Ice through the chest—ended it.
Arthur Dayne fell to one knee, then to his side, gasping as blood pooled beneath him.
Then nothing.
Only silence.
Ned stood over him, panting, streaked with blood—his, Dayne's, and five others'.
The wind howled through the rocks.
Howland limped to his side. "You made the right call."
"I made a necessary one."
They looked to the tower.
Still silent. Still waiting.
The survivors turned toward it without a word.
—
The wind had died.
It left only silence among the rocks and red earth, broken bodies cooling beneath the sun. Five Northern dead were laid out side by side, their weapons cleaned and set across their chests. The remaining men, bloodied and grim, wrapped them in linen and cloth with reverence, speaking no prayers—only names.
"Darric of the Tallwood," one muttered.
"Jonnel Slate."
"Bryn the Younger…"
Each name passed like breath, carried to the stones.
Ned stood over them briefly, eyes unreadable. Then he turned.
"To the tower," he said.
Only Howland Reed moved to follow. Behind them came two others: the midwife and healer they had brought, older women from the Neck and Barrowton, sharp-eyed and quiet. The rest remained behind, tending the fallen and gathering the shattered pieces of Northern steel.
The tower door groaned on rusted hinges. Inside, the stone was cool and smelled faintly of herbs and blood.
They climbed a narrow stair. At the top, the hall widened.
There, on a bed of clean linen, pale as snow and drenched in sweat, lay Lyanna Stark.
She turned her head as they entered. Her eyes went wide. "Ned…"
Ned stopped. His breath did not catch, but something behind his ribs tightened.
Lyanna tried to rise, but the pain stopped her. She sank back against the pillows, a hand instinctively covering her swollen belly. "I thought you were dead."
"You were wrong," Ned said. His voice was soft but steeled. "I've come for you."
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, but she forced them back. "I didn't mean for it to be like this."
Howland stayed near the door, one hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. The two women moved swiftly to Lyanna's side, pressing cloth to her brow, checking the tension in her belly, her pulse, her breath.
Ned stepped closer. "Tell me everything."
Lyanna closed her eyes.
"It wasn't like they say. I never wanted Rhaegar. It was Robert."
Ned's eyes narrowed.
"At Harrenhal," she whispered. "He tried to take what he thought was already his. I ran. I hid near the lake—you remember the one."
"The Gods Eye."
She nodded. "I was going to go home. I just… needed time. Then Rhaegar found me. Said he was protecting me from Robert. Said things would be different."
She turned her face away.
"He lied."
Ned said nothing.
"He brought me here. Said it was sacred. That I'd be safe. Then he took everything from me. Again and again."
The healers worked in silence, one of them murmuring to Lyanna, feeling the shape of the child's position.
"He's coming," the older one said. "You'll deliver within the hour."
Lyanna's hands clenched the sheets. "I thought I could die before it happened."
"You won't," Ned said.
"I thought about ending it. I did." She looked at him again. "But then I felt him move. And I knew… I couldn't."
She groaned as a new wave of pain hit her.
The midwife nodded. "It's time."
Howland stepped back, guarding the doorway. Ned stayed near Lyanna's side.
"Breathe," the healer said. "You've done harder things."
Sweat ran down her brow. Her hands gripped Ned's wrist as the pain tore through her.
Ned held firm. "You're not alone."
She screamed once—sharp and broken—and then again, more ragged. Blood stained the sheets.
The midwife reached forward. "He's coming."
Another push. Then another. Nearly 3 hours of blood and screams -
A child's cry broke the silence.
The healer cut the cord. The midwife wrapped the infant in linen and held him out.
"A boy," she said.
Lyanna's body trembled. Her face was grey with exhaustion, but her eyes locked on the child. "Let me see him."
The midwife hesitated, then placed the boy in her arms.
Lyanna looked down at him. Her fingers brushed the dark hair, the tiny clenched fist.
"I won't let anyone hurt him," she whispered. "Not Robert. Not anyone."
She looked to Ned.
"I won't kill him. I don't care who his father was. He may be born of rape and pain, but he is mine. His blood is Stark. He will be raised with love—and he will be part of the pack."
Ned met her eyes. "Then we raise him in Winterfell. As kin. He will be no secret, no shame."
Lyanna nodded, her eyes heavy. "Promise me."
"I already have."
She closed her eyes and did not open them for a long time.
But she breathed.
She lived.
Later, when the sun began to sink behind the red mountains, Ned stepped outside.
The corpses of the Kingsguard had been stripped of their armor and laid aside. Oswell Whent's face was twisted in death, mouth open in surprise. Gerold Hightower's body still looked upright even in death, arms crossed.
But Arthur Dayne looked like a man in sleep.
Dawn rested beside him, clean despite the blood he had spilled.
Ned looked down at the blade.
It gleamed like morning frost—pale as milkglass, flawless, ancient.
He knelt and lifted it.
No fanfare. No words.
Just one sword, one dead legend, and the price of a brother's duty.
Howland joined him. "To Starfall?"
Ned nodded.
"We'll return their sword for a price, And prepar our dead to be sent home."
"And the child?"
"He comes home we will figure out how to present him later.."
Ned looked west, to the path they had carved through death.
And then south—to the cost yet to be paid.