Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
The chill of dawn had yet to be dispelled by sunlight, and the towering spires of the Tower of the Hand were steeped in a cold, gray-blue hue. Eddard Stark slept soundly beneath soft velvet bedding, the exhaustion of recent days granting him a rare, deep rest.
Outside the window, the faint sounds of King's Landing stirring to life began to drift in.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
A series of urgent, heavy knocks shattered the fragile tranquility, piercing through the thick oak door and striking Eddard's ears.
Eddard jolted awake.
"My lord... trouble... terrible trouble!"
The frantic voice outside belonged to Vayon Poole, his steward of many years. Just last night, Eddard had secretly arranged for him to depart at dawn, taking his daughters north to safety. Yet now, hearing that voice filled him with a sudden sense of dread.
He sprang from bed, threw on a simple woolen cloak, forced down the unease tightening in his chest, and pulled open the door.
In the dim corridor light stood Vayon Poole and three men-at-arms loyal to House Stark—Jory, Tomard, and Desmond. Vayon's normally composed and courteous face was now as pale as parchment. He clutched a crumpled note tightly in his hand. The guards had their hands on their sword hilts, bodies tense, eyes sharp with alarm and uncertainty.
"My lord... this news has already spread throughout King's Landing!"
Vayon's voice was hoarse and dry, trembling with barely contained fear as he handed the note to Eddard.
Eddard's brow furrowed, unease swelling inside him. He took the note and read it by the flickering torchlight from the alcove outside.
One glance was enough to banish every trace of sleep from his face. His pupils constricted sharply, and a chill shot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. His blood seemed to freeze in place.
The note contained a detailed account of Jon Snow's true parentage.
The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna... the Tower of Joy... Howland Reed...
Every word was a dagger to the secret he had guarded for over a decade.
Jon was exposed.
The realization exploded through his mind like a thunderclap, leaving him reeling. A wave of shock and panic surged over him, threatening to drown all reason.
He seized Vayon Poole by the shoulders, his voice urgent.
"Quick! Vayon! Go find Sansa and Arya! Tell them to bring nothing—we're leaving. Now! Immediately!"
He had to get his daughters out of this viper's nest before the storm broke.
"Lord Stark, I'm afraid that won't be possible."
The cold, mocking voice drifted up from below the spiral staircase.
With the clang of metal against stone, a squad of Gold Cloaks surged upward, swords drawn, instantly blocking the narrow stairway and corridor.
At their head stood Jaime Lannister—golden-haired, strikingly handsome, his white Kingsguard armor gleaming, spotless.
A smirk curved his lips, his eyes cold and predatory, like a lion toying with its prey. Lifting his chiseled chin, he spoke with clear, commanding arrogance that filled the frozen air.
"Seize this traitor who conspires against the crown and harbors the remnants of the old regime!"
Clang!
The Gold Cloaks moved at once, blades flashing as they surrounded Eddard and his men, sword points glinting in the torchlight.
Eddard's heart sank.
Without hesitation, Jory roared, and the three guards drew their swords almost in unison, forming a desperate shield around their lord.
But the corridor was too narrow to maneuver. The Gold Cloaks, far greater in number and trained to kill, pressed forward in unrelenting formation. Steel clashed violently, the sharp ring of metal echoing through the top floors of the Tower of the Hand.
Blood splattered, staining the cold stone walls and ornate tapestries.
Jory fought fiercely, cutting down one Gold Cloak before a spear struck from the side, piercing his ribs and spraying crimson. Tomard was impaled by two swords through the chest, his eyes dimming as he fell. Desmond tried to shield Eddard's retreat but was cut down in a storm of blades.
Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the loyal guards' resistance was brief. Their lives flickered out one by one—snuffed like candles in the wind.
"Stop—!!!"
Eddard's eyes went wide as he watched his loyal guards—the men who had served beside him day and night—cut down before his eyes. The surge of grief and fury tearing through him was almost unbearable.
He roared, voice hoarse and raw with despair.
"I'll go with you! But you must promise me—none of my family is to be harmed! Not one of them!"
His gaze locked on Jaime's, burning with restrained rage.
Vayon Poole's face was streaked with tears as he cried out, voice breaking, "My lord!"
Eddard drew a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. His tone dropped, low and resolute.
"Vayon! Stay here. Find Sansa and Arya. Protect them. Don't leave this place, no matter what."
Jaime let out a contemptuous snort, his eyes sweeping disdainfully over the fallen bodies.
"Relax, Stark. I'm not as low as your House Stark—kidnapping defenseless dwarves to threaten your enemies."
The long sword in his hand remained level, its point unwaveringly aimed at Eddard.
Eddard's face darkened. "What nonsense are you spouting?!"
Jaime's cold smile deepened, tinged with bitter hatred.
"Playing dumb, are we? Your dear Lady has openly taken my brother Tyrion captive in the Riverlands. Don't tell me you know nothing of it."
He stepped closer, the sword tip nearly pressing against Eddard's chest.
"If it weren't for the King's command to bring you to the throne room, do you really think you'd still be standing here talking? I'd have washed away the Lannister shame with your blood long ago."
Eddard's heart sank into the abyss.
Catelyn had captured Tyrion.
That act alone was enough to ignite the fury of House Lannister—a volcano ready to erupt. He dared not imagine what would follow.
Jaime gave him no time to respond. With a flick of his hand, he ordered, "Take him away!"
Two burly Gold Cloaks stepped forward at once, seizing Eddard's arms roughly.
He was shoved down the long, cold corridors of the Red Keep before being hurled into the Great Hall—the very heart of royal power in the Seven Kingdoms.
The massive oak doors slammed shut behind him with a heavy, echoing thud.
Inside, the air was so tense it felt frozen solid.
Robert Baratheon's massive frame sank deep into the throne forged from a thousand surrendered swords. The Iron Throne loomed over ten feet high, twisted and menacing, its jagged blades jutting upward like thorns, gleaming with a cold, dark light beneath the flickering fire.
A narrow, steep stairway of black iron spikes connected the throne to the cold floor below.
Before it, seated at a great table, the King's advisors sat in silence. The atmosphere was thick enough to choke on.
Queen Cersei sat among them.
Beneath her golden hair, her face—stunning yet cruel—was shadowed with venomous hatred. Her green eyes were fixed on Eddard, sharp as blades.
The Kingsguard stood like white statues flanking the steps of the Iron Throne, their cloaks flowing to the floor. Knights, nobles, and ladies-in-waiting stood stiffly beneath the tapestries, afraid even to breathe. Fully armed Gold Cloaks lined the hall, their faces grim and expressionless.
Robert's chest rose and fell heavily as he glared down at Eddard, his booming voice breaking the suffocating silence.
"NED!!! Tell me! That damned paper—tell me if it's true! Is your 'bastard,' Jon Snow, the spawn of Rhaegar Targaryen's whoring bloodline?!!"
Eddard staggered, barely managing to steady himself. He lifted his gaze to meet Robert's fiery eyes—and those of everyone else in the hall.
Anger. Shock. Contempt. Cold curiosity.
A thousand eyes bore into him.
His throat constricted. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
He truly didn't know what to say.
...
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