Chapter 149 — The Lion and the Wolf
The Black Cells.
Rot, cold, and endless darkness had almost become tangible—heavy, oppressive, crushing down upon Eddard Stark like a physical weight.
Ever since the day the trial by combat ended, he had been dragged back here without ceremony, thrown once more into this narrow, familiar cell. The iron door had slammed shut with a final clang, sealing away the last faint traces of light and sound from the outside world.
He had been abandoned again.
Curled against the freezing stone wall, damp, mold-reeking straw beneath him, Eddard did not cry. He did not scream or rage. His gray eyes stared emptily into the void, as though he wished to dissolve into the darkness itself.
The image of Brandon's blood spraying across the tourney grounds…
Lyanna's body going still beneath the noose…
They replayed again and again in his mind.
Grief seeped into him like a north wind that had blown all the way to King's Landing—finding every crack, every weakness, leaving nowhere to hide.
He didn't understand how it had come to this.
Abductions.
Ambushes.
Treason.
Eddard had never known why his brother Brandon had acted so rashly. He had never taken part in Lyanna's actions, nor in anything involving his closest friend, Robert.
And yet, everything had unfolded so nakedly, so brutally.
They were dead.
Brandon.
Lyanna.
And he—
was now a prisoner awaiting execution.
Clack.
The sound of a heavy lock turning shattered the stillness.
Eddard did not move.
Hunger and thirst had drained him to the brink; he merely shifted his gaze toward the faint torchlight spilling through the crack in the door. His gray eyes remained flat, unreadable.
"Wait outside, Tyrion."
A slightly flippant adolescent voice sounded from beyond the door, followed by a younger, higher-pitched reply.
"As you wish, Jaime—but make it quick. This place stinks worse than a corpse wagon."
"That bastard Logan is like a starving wolfhound. Took five gold dragons just to loosen his grip."
"Oh, spare me. Since when have you ever carried fewer than five hundred gold dragons on you?"
The complaining faded, and a single figure stepped into the cell, torch in hand.
"Tch. This place really is foul," the newcomer muttered.
"Even rats wouldn't want to live here."
He had flowing golden hair and wore a finely tailored coat of deep crimson velvet. Wealth and nobility clung to him like perfume—utterly out of place in this pit of filth and despair.
In his other hand, he carried a covered basket. A faint aroma of food drifted out, dull but unmistakable, briefly pushing back the stench of decay.
He complained openly, his tone full of distaste, yet his expensive calfskin boots stepped without hesitation into the muck of piss and excrement, letting the filth smear the hem of his cloak.
"Still alive, are you… wolf?"
Jaime stepped closer and crouched in front of Eddard, nudging the basket forward with one hand.
Eddard's gaze swept over it. His throat tightened involuntarily, but he answered coldly:
"Take it away, Lannister."
"A Stark has no need for anyone's pity."
Jaime froze.
The blunt rejection clearly caught him off guard, a flicker of surprise flashing through his green eyes. He could tell—anyone could—that this boy had been starving for days.
Yet Jaime did not grow angry. Instead, he let out a short laugh.
"Hah…"
"You've got backbone, Stark. Just like your brother who lost his head—and your sister who lost her neck."
He dragged the words out deliberately, his tone tinged with mockery. Those green eyes glittered with curiosity as he studied Edd.
"Or is this just you sulking because your righteous father abandoned you?"
He leaned closer.
"What a shame. Lord Stark tossing you aside like a rag, then rushing to raise another son as his heir."
The words struck like ice picks.
Eddard's body tensed. Pain flickered deep within his gray eyes—but it was quickly buried beneath something firmer, heavier.
He raised his head and met Jaime's gaze. His voice was quiet, yet unmistakably clear.
"My father, Rickard Stark, is the Warden of the North."
"He protects the people of the North. His decisions… are made for the survival of the pack—even if that means abandoning—"
He paused, then continued with a solemnity Jaime could not comprehend.
"My brother and my sister broke the laws of the realm. They have already paid the price."
"As for me—my sword has never tasted unjust blood. My heart has never betrayed justice."
"If the king believes me guilty, then let judgment be passed according to the law."
"Even if that judgment condemns me to die alone in this endless darkness, I will not fear it."
The lightness vanished from Jaime's face.
His chest rose and fell sharply as he drew in the foul, reeking air without complaint. His green eyes flickered again and again.
Then, abruptly, he shoved the basket toward Eddard's feet.
"Listen, you stubborn bastard."
Jaime clenched his teeth, voice low and sharp.
"I don't care whether you live or die. But if you truly aren't afraid of death, then at least go die somewhere useful."
He straightened, looking down at Eddard.
"The Wall."
"That's where thick-skulled men like you belong. Swing your sword at wildlings instead of rotting here."
"At least… at least dying there would mean something."
With that, Jaime spun on his heel and stormed toward the door.
"Let's go, Tyrion!"
"This place stinks—and so do the people!"
Outside the cell, Tyrion watched his brother burst out, irritation and strange excitement mingling on his face. The mismatched eyes of the dwarf glimmered with understanding.
"Ser Jaime's overflowing mercy strikes again," he muttered.
"Seven save us—if only I were as tall as him, given a sword and a horse, Ser Tyrion Lannister would be far more impressive than those two idiots yesterday."
Grumbling finished, Tyrion scurried after Jaime on his short legs.
The iron door slammed shut once more, and darkness reclaimed everything.
Eddard Stark stared at the basket by his feet. His gray eyes flickered.
After a long time, he leaned forward and stretched out his hand.
Clank.
The chains snapped taut.
He was still several inches short.
No matter how he strained, he could not reach it.
Silence lingered.
Then, at last, a hoarse, irritated whisper echoed through the cell.
"Damn you… Lannister…"
---
The Tower of the Hand
The study was warm with the scent of burning pine. Firelight filled the room.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat behind his massive oak desk, pale green eyes calmly scanning a report detailing movements in the North.
Benjen Stark has arrived at Riverrun.
Bang.
The door flew open, a rush of cold air causing the flames to flicker.
"Father!"
"We need to talk!"
Tywin did not look up. His fingers tapped the desk with measured rhythm.
"Leave," he said flatly.
"Knock."
Jaime froze. He inhaled deeply, turned, and stepped back outside.
Knock. Knock.
"Enter."
Only then did Jaime return, though his urgency had not diminished.
"We need to talk—about Eddard Stark!"
Tywin raised an eyebrow slightly and set the report aside. Leaning back, he studied his eldest son with detached interest.
"Eddard Stark is a prisoner. His fate lies with the king."
"I see no reason for discussion."
"He's innocent!"
Jaime strode forward, planting both hands on the desk.
"He had nothing to do with what his family did. I saw him in the Black Cells—he's stubborn, but he's honorable. He couldn't have committed treason!"
"And?"
Tywin's mouth curved faintly downward—half scorn, half contemplation.
"What do you intend to do? Beg the king for mercy?"
"Do you think you hold such authority? You are not even of age."
"What right do you have to plead for a traitor's life?"
The questions came one after another, driving color into Jaime's face.
Finally, he clenched his teeth and said, humiliated yet desperate:
"But you do, Father."
"You are the Hand of the King. I beg you—explain the truth to His Grace."
"Why?"
The sudden coldness in Tywin's voice cut him off.
Green eyes assessed Jaime like a blade peeling flesh.
"Why should I risk angering the king for a discarded Stark?"
"What benefit does that bring—to me, to House Lannister, to the Westerlands?"
Jaime faltered.
Then he rallied.
"It shows the lion's magnanimity!"
"Let the realm see that even the cast-off son of a traitor house receives a lawful, dignified end!"
"Send him to the Wall. Make him wear black. Let him fight wildlings until he dies repaying his family's sins!"
"That is true Lannister authority!"
Tywin's lips twitched—barely. Not a smile. A mockery.
Still, he did not interrupt.
"You speak passionately of image," Tywin said at last.
"That is good. An heir of Casterly Rock must understand such things."
"But—"
His tone hardened.
"Do you recall the last time you 'displayed Lannister dignity'?"
"When you disobeyed my orders and slipped out of Riverrun like a minstrel's fool?"
"When you led our knights wandering the Riverlands chasing childish fantasies?"
Each word struck like a whip.
Jaime opened his mouth—but under his father's gaze, every defense withered.
"True authority," Tywin said calmly,
"comes from power. From obedience. From sacrifice for the family's interests."
"Not from impulsive charity."
Silence fell.
Jaime clenched his fists, believing all hope lost.
Then Tywin leaned back again, confidence returning to his eyes.
"You want me to speak for Eddard Stark."
"Very well."
"But you will first prove that you understand what duty means."
"What it means to be heir to Casterly Rock."
A chill crept into Jaime's gut.
Tywin's command followed, cold and absolute:
"You will go to Riverrun."
"And you will marry Lysa Tully."