When Winter Comes

“Prince Eddard,” a man echoed from the dark.

Groaning, Ned opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of his rooms in the Tower of the Hand. Ned felt sore all over. He wondered where he was for a second, then his last memories washed over him. The Kingslayer, his men, blood and pain.

“Prince Eddard?” A shadow stood over the bed.

“How... How long?” Ned croaked, he tried to move through his sweat soaked, tangled sheets. With dull eyes he saw his right leg was sticking out from under the sheets, wrapped tightly in bandages. A dull throb of pain shot up his side.

“Three days.” The voice was Vayon Poole’s. The steward held a cup to Ned’s lips. “Drink, my prince.”

“What...?”

“Only water. Maester Pycelle said you would be thirsty.”

Ned drank. His lips were parched and cracked, his throat drier than the sands of Dorne. The water was cool and tasted sweet as honey.

“The Chosen Men…” Ned managed after he got the water down. He did not know how he managed to get away, or what happened to them.

“None sustained heavy injuries, my prince.” Vayon assured him, kindly. “All are well and back in the Red Keep. Captain Harper is with your daughters, Cooper and Harris stand outside this very room.”

“Good…” Ned sighed, thanking the Gods for sparing his men. He took another drink from the cup.

“The king left orders,” Vayon told him when the cup was empty. “He would speak with you, my prince.”

“On the morrow,” Ned said. “When I am stronger.” He could not face Robert now, he needed to see his daughters first.

“My prince,” Vayon said, “he commanded us to send you to him the moment you opened your eyes.” The steward busied himself lighting a bedside candle.

Ned swore softly. Robert was never known for his patience. “Tell him I’m too weak to come to him. If he wishes to speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here. I hope you wake him from a sound sleep. Summon Arthur and Beric and...” Ned debated for a moment if his daughters would appreciate being woken from their slumber to be told he was awake. “Send for my daughters too.”

Arthur and Beric stepped into the bedchamber not long after the steward had taken his leave.

“It’s good to see you back in the land of the living, lad.” His grizzled old Witcher of an uncle said as the two men walked into the room.

“Poole tells me it’s been three days,” Ned said. “I must know how things stand.”

“It was Snowflake who flew down to get you during the fight.” Arthur told him. “That eagle of yours landed right in front of the Tower of the Hand with you in his talons.”

“I’ll have to reward that bird later.” Ned smiled.

“The Kingslayer has also fled the city,” Beric told him. “The talk is he’s ridden back to Casterly Rock to join his father. The story of how Princess Catelyn and Elia took the Imp is on every lip.“

“We’ve put more guards on watch, and sent for three hundred Winter Wolves from Winterfell.” Arthur added.

“Good.” Ned thanked them. It gave Ned some comfort that he would have hundreds more Winter Wolves in the city, but it would take more than a month for them to sail down from the North. With three hundred Winter Wolves, I could take this city in a day. “My daughters?”

“They have been with you every day, my lord. They were both raging when they were told of what happened.” Beric told him.

“We had to stop Sansa from mounting Sunbeam and flying after the Kingslayer herself.” Arthur added, chuckling.

“Whatever happens,” Ned said, “I want my daughters kept safe. I fear this is only the beginning.”

“No harm will come to them” Arthur swore. “I promise you that.”

At that moment, the door burst open as Yennefer and Triss rushed into the room. “He’s awake?” Triss asked hurriedly as she rushed over to sit on the left side of his bed, with Yennefer sitting on the other, both examining him.

“Your women were quite worried for you.” Arthur chuckled.

Yennefer gave Arthur a cold look before she turned back to Ned. “Are you in much pain?” She asked, looking over his bandaged leg.

“Not so much now.” Ned lied. He reached out for Yennefer with his right hand and for Triss with his left. For some reason, only his right reached out, both Yennefer and Triss were trying to mask their apprehension.

Ned looked down to his left arm…

His breath became erratic as Ned began to panic.

His left arm wasn’t there anymore, in it’s place was a small stump at his shoulder.

“What!?!” Ned almost squeaked in surprise, shifting on the bed, trying to get a better view in the dark room.

“Ned, try to stay calm.” Yennefer tried to assure him.

Pain shot up Ned’s leg as he tried to move. He reached out his right arm to touch the bandaged stump, not quite believing it. A dull pain spread along his shoulder when he finally touched the stump. It couldn’t be real, Ned still felt his arm. At that moment, he could feel his left hand clenching into a fist. He had heard of men who had lost an arm or leg feeling a phantom limb, but Ned didn’t think it could have felt that real.

“How!?” Ned turned to the people standing around his bed.

“I’m so sorry, Ned.” Yennefer had tears in her eyes as she spoke to him. “The Kingslayer’s sword cut deep into your forearm and bicep, deep into the bone… I could have healed you if I had been allowed to... I could have at least checked…” Her head turned angrily to the side. “The king wanted the Grand Maester to see to you personally. Pycelle said he detected some kind of magical poison from the wound, that the Kingslayer had poisoned his blade. He said, he feared that if he didn’t remove the arm right away, we would lose you...”

“Robert would hear no other words after he heard that.” Arthur said, grimly. “He didn’t even want to risk waiting for a second opinion when he heard you could die unless he acted right away.”

Ned gritted his teeth, stifling his anger. Robert’s love could be a gift and a curse. The man could be incredibly loyal, but he could not see the wood for the trees when someone he loved was in danger. Ned’s head fell back onto the pillows as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he only had one arm.

“At least it wasn’t my sword hand…” Ned said, dryly.

“There are spells to mitigate this.” Triss said, leaning over to him. “When you’re stronger, I can teach you how to make an ethereal arm.” She tried to reassure him. Ned was not as convinced as Triss tried to present herself as being.

“There is other news as well…” Beric stared.

“He doesn’t need to hear that as well.” Yennefer turned to him.

“What?” Ned asked.

“It seems, whatever has been effecting Stormbreaker, has spread to Snowsong and Sunbeam too…”

That was too much. Ned tried to rise from the bed, even as Yennefer and Triss pushed him back down. “I need to see them.” Ned said as he fell back to the pillows.

“Yen and I are doing everything we can.” Triss assured him. “You can see them when you’re feeling better.”

“And how long will that be?” Ned asked, perhaps a bit harsher than he had meant to.

“The spear in the thigh was the worse of the two injuries.” Yennefer said, poking his leg to prove her point, making Ned wince. “It badly tore your muscle and broke your femur. For a normal man, it would take seven to eight moons. But for you? With your enhanced healing and all the healing magic we’ve been administering, you’ll be healed before the turn of the moon.”

“Until I can walk?”

“Probably days.”

“Well, I suppose you’ve done well while i’ve been indisposed,” Ned was saying when Vayon returned. The steward bowed low. “His Grace is without, my prince, and the queen with him.”

Ned pushed himself up higher, wincing as his leg trembled with pain. He had not expected Cersei to come. It did not bode well that she had. “Send them in, and leave us. What we have to say should not go beyond these walls.” Poole and the rest withdrew quietly, both Yen and Triss kissing his head before they left.

Robert had taken time to dress. He wore a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares. A flagon of wine was in his hand, his face already flushed from drink. Cersei Lannister entered behind him, a jeweled tiara in her hair.

“Your Grace,” Ned said. “Your pardons. I cannot rise.”

“No matter,” the king said grumpily, though it did not mask the concern in his eyes. “Can I get you some wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage.”

“A small cup,” Ned said. “My head is still heavy from the milk of the poppy.”

“A man in your place should count himself fortunate that his head is still on his shoulders,” the queen declared.

“Quiet, woman,” Robert snapped. He brought Ned a cup of wine. “Are you in much pain?”

“Some,” Ned said. His head was swimming, but it would not do to admit to weakness in front of the queen.

“Pycelle swears it will heal clean,” Robert frowned, his eyes quickly passed over the stump that had been Ned’s left arm. “I take it you know what your women have done?”

“I do.” Ned took a small swallow of wine. “They are blameless, Your Grace. All they did was at my command.”

“I am not pleased, Ned,” Robert grumbled.

“By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?” Cersei demanded, then looked at his stump. “…Or perhaps I should say ‘hand’.” Robert gave her an angry look. “Who do you think you are?”

“The Hand of the King,” Ned told her with icy courtesy. “Charged by your husband to keep the king’s peace and enforce the king’s justice.”

“You were the Hand,” Cersei began, “but now—”

“Silence!” the king roared. “You asked him a question and he answered it.” Cersei subsided, cold with anger, and Robert turned back to Ned. “Keep the king’s peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Eighteen men are dead...” It brought Ned some comfort that the Chosen Men had managed to slay so many of the Lannister’s men. “Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets,” the king said. “I will not have it, Ned.”

“My wives had good reason for taking the Imp—”

“I said, I will not have it! To hell with their reasons. You will command them to release the dwarf at once, and you will make your peace with Jaime.”

“Jaime Lannister set more than thirty men against six of mine, with trolls and lions beside. Due to their strength and skill they prevailed, but he wished for them to be slaughtered before my eyes, because he wished to chasten me. Am I to forget that?”

“My brother was not the cause of this quarrel,” Cersei told the king. “Stark was returning drunk from a brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his harlots attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad.”

“You must think me a fool to make your lies so transparent.” Robert thundered at Cersei, then turned to Ned. “You were outside some whorehouse though…”

“Some whorehouse? I went there to see your daughter! Her mother has named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale.” Ned watched the queen as he spoke; her face was a mask, still and pale, betraying nothing.

Robert flushed. “Barra,” he grumbled. “Is that supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense.”

“She’s young, and a whore, and you thought she had sense?” Ned said, incredulous. His leg and his stump were beginning to pain him sorely. It was hard to keep his temper. “The fool child is in love with you, Robert.”

The king glanced at Cersei. “This is no the subject for the queen’s ears.”

“Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to say,” Ned replied. “I am told the Kingslayer has fled the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice.”

The king swirled the wine in his cup, brooding. He took a swallow. “No,” he said. “I want no more of this. You’ve slain near twenty of his men. Now it ends.”

“Is that your notion of justice?” Ned flared. “If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand.”

The queen looked to her husband. “If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you—”

“Do you take me for Aerys?” Robert interrupted.

“I took you for a king. Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly, asking if he’s in much pain and would he like some wine.”

Robert’s face was dark with anger. “How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?”

Cersei’s face was a study in contempt. “What a jape the gods have made of us two,” she said. “Perhaps I should wear the crown, and you the frock.”

Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow to the side of the head.

“Robert!” Ned impotently chastised the king from his position on the bed.

Cersei stumbled against the table and fell hard, yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. Her slender fingers brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face. “I shall wear this as a badge of honor,” she announced.

“Wear it in silence, or I’ll honor you again,” Robert vowed. He shouted for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant stepped into the room, tall and somber in his white armor. “The queen is tired. See her to her bedchamber.” The knight helped Cersei to her feet and led her out without a word.

Robert reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. “You see what she does to me, Ned.” The king seated himself, cradling his wine cup. “My loving wife. The mother of my children.” The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Ned saw something sad and scared. “I should not have hit her. That was not... That was not kingly.” He stared down at his hands, as if he did not quite know what they were. “I was always strong... No one could stand before me, no one. How do I fight someone if I can’t hit them?” Confused, the king shook his head. “I’m… I’m sorry about your arm… You scared me there…”

Ned did not have the heart of be angry at Robert. “It’s done now…” he said. “We must talk...”

Robert pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I am sick unto death of talk. I’m going to the kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say can wait until I return.”

“If the gods are good, I shall not be here on your return. You commanded me to return to Winterfell, remember?”

Robert stood up, grasping one of the bedposts to steady himself. “The gods are seldom good, Ned. Here, this is yours.” He pulled the heavy silver hand clasp from a pocket in the lining of his cloak and tossed it on the bed. “Like it or not, you are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave.”

Ned picked up the silver clasp with his good hand. He was being given no choice, it seemed. His leg throbbed, and he felt as helpless as a child. “The Targaryen girl—”

The king groaned. “Seven hells, don’t start with her again. That’s done, I’ll hear no more of it.”

“Why would you want me as your Hand, if you refuse to listen to my counsel?”

“Why?” Robert laughed. “Why not? Someone has to rule this damnable kingdom. Put on the badge, Ned. It suits you. And if you ever throw it in my face again, I swear to you, I’ll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister.”

*******************************************************************************************************

Through the high narrow windows of the Red Keep’s cavernous throne room, the orange light of sunset spilled across the floor. Ned sat high upon the immense ancient seat of the Targaryen kings. Ned had never seen a more ugly heap of twisted metal in his life. Though it was surprisingly comfortable to sit in, Ned decided he didn’t want to think too hard about what it meant.

“You are quite certain these were more than brigands?” Varys asked softly from the council table beneath the throne. Grand Maester Pycelle stirred uneasily beside him, with Yennefer sat apart from the two of them. They were the only councillors in attendance. A white hart had been sighted in the kingswood, so Renly and Barristan had joined the king to hunt it, along with Joffrey, Theon Greyjoy, Sandor Clegane, Balon Swann, and half the court. Ned had sat the throne in the king’s absence. While his leg had healed considerably since the attack, it still throbbed painfully when kept in the same position for too long.

At least he could sit. Save the council, the rest had to stand respectfully, or kneel. The petitioners were clustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries, the smallfolk in the gallery, the guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood.

The villagers were kneeling: men, women, and children, alike tattered and bloody, their faces drawn by fear. The three knights who had brought them before the throne to bear witness stood behind them. Ned was not in the best of moods, as he had been called way from seeing his dragon. He suspected whatever affliction Stormbreaker had had been passed on to Snowsong, and from Snowsong, to Sunbeam.

No matter the cause, his and Sansa’s dragons were now apparently too ill to fly. The thought had upset Sansa greatly and she had retired to her quarters. Ned wanted to do the same, yet he had been called upon and now he had to hear the grievances of the people.

“Brigands, Lord Varys?” Ser Raymun Darry’s voice dripped scorn. “Oh, they were brigands, beyond a doubt. Lannister brigands.”

Ned could feel the unease in the hall, as high lords and servants alike strained to listen. He could not pretend to be surprised. The west had been a tinderbox since Cat and Elia had seized the Lannister dwarf. Both Riverrun and Casterly Rock had called their banners, their armies were massing in the pass below the Golden Tooth. It had only been a matter of time until the blood began to flow. The sole question that remained was how best to stanch the wound.

Sad-eyed Ser Karyl Vance, who would have been handsome but for the winestain birthmark that discolored his face, gestured at the kneeling villagers. “This is all the remains of the holdfast of Sherrer, Prince Eddard. The rest are dead, along with the people of Wendish Town and the Mummer’s Ford.”

“Rise,” Ned commanded the villagers. He never trusted what a man told him from his knees. “All of you, up.”

In ones and twos, the holdfast of Sherrer struggled to its feet. One old man needed to be helped, and a young girl in a bloody dress stayed on her knees, staring blankly at Ser Arys Oakheart, who stood by the foot of the throne in the white armor of the Kingsguard, ready to protect and defend the king... or, Ned supposed, the King’s Hand.

“Joss,” Ser Raymun Darry said to a plump balding man in a brewer’s apron. “Tell the Hand what happened at Sherrer.”

Joss nodded. “If it please His Grace—”

“His Grace is hunting across the Blackwater,” Ned said, wondering how a man could live his whole life a few days ride from the Red Keep and still have no notion what his king looked like. Ned was clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast with the left sleeve pinned to his side; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his silver hand of office. Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth. “I am Prince Eddard Stark, the King’s Hand. Tell me who you are and what you know of these raiders.”

“I keep... I kept... I kept an alehouse, m’lord, in Sherrer, by the stone bridge. The finest ale south of the Neck, everyone said so, begging your pardons, m’lord. It’s gone now like all the rest, m’lord. They come and drank their fill and spilled the rest before they fired my roof, and they would of spilled my blood too, if they’d caught me. M’lord.”

“They burnt us out,” a farmer beside him said. “Come riding in the dark, up from the south, and fired the fields and the houses alike, killing them as tried to stop them. They weren’t no raiders, though, m’lord. They had no mind to steal our stock, not these, they butchered my milk cow where she stood and left her for the flies and the crows.”

“They rode down my ’prentice boy,” said a squat man with a smith’s muscles and a bandage around his head. He had put on his finest clothes to come to court, but his breeches were patched, his cloak travel-stained and dusty. “Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking at him with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till they pierced him clean through.”

The girl on her knees craned her head up at Ned, high above her on the throne. “They killed my mother too, Your Grace. And they... they...” Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she was about to say. She began to sob.

Ser Raymun Darry took up the tale. “At Wendish Town, the people sought shelter in their holdfast, but the walls were timbered. The raiders piled straw against the wood and burnt them all alive. When the Wendish folk opened their gates to flee the fire, they shot them down with arrows as they came running out, even women with suckling babes.”

“Oh, dreadful,” murmured Varys. “How cruel can men be?”

“They would of done the same for us, but the Sherrer holdfast’s made of stone,” Joss said. “Some wanted to smoke us out, but their leader said there was riper fruit up river, and they made for the Mummer’s Ford.”

Ned could feel cold steel against his fingers as he leaned forward. Between each finger was a blade, the points of twisted swords fanning out like talons from arms of the throne. Even after three centuries, some were still sharp enough to cut. The Iron Throne was full of traps for the unwary. The songs said it had taken a thousand blades to make it, heated white-hot in the furnace breath of Balerion the Black Dread. The hammering had taken fifty-nine days. The end of it was this hunched black beast made of razor edges and barbs and ribbons of sharp metal; a chair that could kill a man, and had, if the stories could be believed.

What Ned was doing sitting there he would never comprehend, yet there he sat, and these people looked to him for justice. “What proof do you have that these were Lannisters?” he asked, trying to keep his fury under control. “Did they wear crimson cloaks or fly a lion banner?”

The brewer, Joss, nodded his head. “Their armour was solid gold, m’lord.”

“They were Tywin’s Gold Legion.” Ser Marq said loudly. “Can any man doubt it? This was their work.”

Ned heard muttering from beneath the windows and the far end of the hall. Even in the galley, nervous whispers were exchanged. High lords and smallfolk alike knew what it could mean if Ser Marq was right. The Gold Legion only obeyed one man, Tywin Lannister. If they were raiding the Riverlands, it would mean war for a certainty.

He studied the frightened faces of the villagers. Small wonder they had been so fearful; they had thought they were being dragged before the king to name Lord Tywin a red-handed butcher before a man who was his son by marriage. He wondered if the knights had given them a choice.

Grand Maester Pycelle rose ponderously from the council table, his chain of oce clinking. “Ser Marq, with respect, you cannot know for a certainty that these brigands are Lord Tywin’s men. Perhaps they mean to frame lord Tywin.”

Or perhaps you are Tywin’s creature. Ned felt the phantom fingers of his left hand begin to twitch as he looked at the man who hacked it off as he slept.

“Must you ignore the truth when it sits in your lap?” Ser Karyl said. “Who else wears gold armour? Who else could even afford to armour a hundred men in gold?”

“My lords, open your eyes.” Ser Raymun added hotly. “Do you need to see his seal on the corpses? It was Tywin.”

“This butchery is beyond any lord with strong morals. Lord Tywin is incapable of this.” Pycelle said, definitely. Ned tried not to roll his eyes so hard they fell out of his head.

“Ask the Reynes and the Tarbeks what they think of that.” Ser Marq said. “Or even one of the Hand’s wives. I’m sure Princess Elia would have something to say on that matter.”

Ned regarded Ser Marq coldly for that.

“My lord Hand,” Pycelle declared in a stiff voice, “I urge you to remind this good knight that Lord Tywin Lannister is the father of our own gracious queen.”

“Thank you, Grand Maester Pycelle,” Ned said through clenched teeth. “I fear we might have forgotten that if you had not pointed it out.”

From his vantage point atop the throne, he could see men slipping out the door at the far end of the hall.

Hares going to ground, he supposed... Or rats off to nibble the queen’s cheese.

At the council table below, Varys leaned forward. “Ser Marq, Ser Karyl, Ser Raymun—perhaps I might ask you a question? These holdfasts were under your protection. Where were you when all this slaughtering and burning was going on?”

Ser Karyl Vance answered. “I was attending my lord father in the pass below the Golden Tooth, as was Ser Marq. When the word of these outrages reached Ser Edmure Tully, he sent word that we should take a small force of men to find what survivors we could and bring them to the king.”

Ser Raymun Darry spoke up. “Ser Edmure had summoned me to Riverrun with all my strength. I was camped across the river from his walls, awaiting his commands, when the word reached me. By the time I could return to my own lands, Tywin’s vermin were back across the Red Fork, riding for Lannister’s hills.”

“And if they come again, ser?”

“If they come again, we’ll use their blood to water the fields they burnt,” Ser Marq Piper declared hotly.

“Ser Edmure has sent men to every village and holdfast within a day’s ride of the border,” Ser Karyl explained. “The next raider will not have such an easy time of it.”

And that may be precisely what Lord Tywin wants, Ned thought to himself, to bleed off strength from Riverrun, goad the boy into scattering his swords.

His wife’s brother was young, and more gallant than wise. He would try to hold every inch of his soil, to defend every man, woman, and child who named him lord, and Tywin Lannister was shrewd enough to know that.

“If your fields and holdfasts are safe from harm,” Pycelle was saying, “what then do you ask of the throne?”

“The lords of the Trident keep the king’s peace,” Ser Raymun Darry said. “The Lannisters have broken it. We ask leave to answer them, steel for steel. We ask justice for the smallfolk of Sherrer and Wendish Town and the Mummer’s Ford.”

“Edmure agrees, we must pay Tywin Lannister back his bloody coin,” Ser Marq declared, “but old Lord Hoster commanded us to come here and beg the king’s leave before we strike.”

Thank the gods for old Lord Hoster, then.

Tywin Lannister was as much fox as lion. If he’d sent his legion to burn and pillage—and Ned did not doubt that he had—he’d taken care to see that he rode under cover of night, without banners, in the guise of a common brigand. Only peasants had seen the gold armour, and they could be easily dismissed as having been paid off, or threatened. Should Riverrun strike back, Cersei and her father would insist that it had been the Tullys who broke the king’s peace, not the Lannisters. The gods only knew what Robert would believe.

Grand Maester Pycelle was on his feet again. “My lord Hand, if these good folk believe that some of Lord Tywin’s men have decided to turn brigand to plunder and rape, let them go to his liege lord and make their complaint. These crimes are no concern of the throne. Let them seek Lord Tywin’s justice.”

“All flows from the king’s justice,” Ned told him. “North, south, east, or west, all we do we do in Robert’s name.”

“The king’s justice,” Grand Maester Pycelle said. “So it is, and so we should defer this matter until the king—”

“The king is hunting across the river and may not return for days,” Ned said. “Robert bid me to sit here in his place, to listen with his ears, and to speak with his voice. I mean to do just that... though I agree that he must be told.” He saw a familiar face beneath the tapestries. “Ser Robar.”

Ser Robar Royce stepped forward and bowed. “My lord.”

“Your father is hunting with the king,” Ned said. “Will you bring them word of what was said and done here today?”

“At once, my lord.”

“Do we have your leave to take our vengeance against the Lannisters, then?” Marq Piper asked the throne.

“Vengeance?” Ned said, not surprised in the least. “I thought we were speaking of justice. Burning Lannister fields and slaughtering his people will not restore the king’s peace, only your injured pride.” He glanced away before the young knight could voice his outraged protest, and addressed the villagers. “People of Sherrer, I cannot give you back your homes or your crops, nor can I restore your dead to life. But perhaps I can give you some small measure of justice, in the name of our king, Robert.”

Every eye in the hall was fixed on him, waiting. Slowly Ned rose to his unsteady feet, pushing himself up from the throne with the strength of his remaining arm, his leg burning under it’s bandages. He did his best to ignore the pain; now was not the time to let them see his weakness.

“The First Men believed that the judge who called for death should wield the sword, and in the North we hold to that still. I mislike sending another to do my killing... Yet it seems I have no choice.” He gestured at his leg and stump.

“Prince Eddard!” The shout came from the west side of the hall as a handsome stripling of a boy strode forth boldly. Out of his armor, Ser Loras Tyrell looked even younger than his sixteen years. He wore pale blue silk, his belt a linked chain of golden roses, the sigil of his House. “I beg you the honor of acting in your place. Give this task to me, my lord, and I swear I shall not fail you. A dragonrider need not fear Tywin’s men.” Ser Loras said haughtily.

Ned eased himself slowly back onto the hard iron seat of Aegon’s misshapen throne. His eyes searched the faces along the wall. “Lord Beric,” he called out. “Thoros of Myr. Ser Gladden. Lord Lothar.” The men named stepped forward one by one. “Each of you is to assemble twenty men, to bring my word to lord Tywin. Twenty of my own men shall go with you. Lord Beric Dondarrion, you shall have the command, as befits your rank.”

The young lord with the red-gold hair bowed. “As you command, Lord Eddard.”

Ned raised his voice, so it carried to the far end of the throne room. “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, his Hand, I charge you to ride to the westlands with all haste, to cross the Red Fork of the Trident under the king’s flag, and there bring the king’s justice to the members of the Gold Legion who have raided the Riverlands.”

“My lord.” Pycelle rose from his seat, looking up at Ned. “Perhaps we should not take such drastic action. It would be better to wait for king Robert-“

“Grand Maester.” Ned interrupted him. “Send a raven to Casterly Rock, inform Tywin Lannister that he has been summoned to court, to answer for the crimes of his men. He is to arrive before the moon’s turn, or be branded an enemy of the crown, and a traitor to the realm.” A murmur went through the crowd as they looked on. Their apprehension and uncertainty filled the hall.

When the echo of his words had died away, the Knight of Flowers seemed perplexed. “Prince Eddard, what of me?”

Ned looked down on him. From on high, Loras Tyrell seemed almost as young as Bran. “No one doubts your valor, Ser Loras, but we are about justice here, and what you seek is vengeance.” He looked back to Lord Beric. “Ride at first light. These things are best done quickly.” He held up a hand. “The throne will hear no more petitions today.”

As Ned made his descent, he could feel Loras Tyrell’s sullen stare, but the boy had stalked away before Ned reached the floor of the throne room.

At the base of the Iron Throne, Varys was gathering papers from the council table. Yennefer and Grand Maester Pycelle had already taken their leave. “You are a bolder man than I, my lord,” the eunuch said softly.

“How so, Lord Varys?” Ned asked brusquely. His leg was throbbing, and he was in no mood for word games.

“Had it been me up there, I should have sent Ser Loras. He so wanted to go... and a man who has the Lannisters for his enemies would do well to make the Tyrells his friends.”

“Ser Loras is young,” said Ned. “I daresay he will outgrow the disappointment.”

“And Ser Ilyn?” The eunuch stroked a plump, powdered cheek. “He is the King’s Justice, after all. Sending other men to do his office... Some might construe that as a grave insult.”

“No slight was intended.” Ned did not trust the mute knight. “I remind you, the Paynes are bannermen to House Lannister. I thought it best to choose men who owed Lord Tywin no fealty.”

“Very prudent, no doubt,” Varys said. “Still, I chanced to see Ser Ilyn in the back of the hall, staring at us with those pale eyes of his, and I must say, he did not look pleased, though to be sure it is hard to tell with our silent knight. I hope he outgrows his disappointment as well. He does so love his work...”

*******************************************************************************************************

“Pain is a gift from the gods, Prince Eddard,” Grand Maester Pycelle told him. “It means the bone is knitting, the flesh healing itself. Be thankful.”

“I will be thankful when my leg stops throbbing.”

Pycelle set a stoppered flask on the table by the bed. “The milk of the poppy, for when the pain grows too onerous.”

“I sleep too much already.”

“Sleep is the great healer.”

“I had hoped that was you.”

Pycelle smiled wanly. “It is good to see you in such a fierce humour, my lord.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “There was a raven this morning, a letter for the queen from her lord father. I thought you had best know.”

“Dark wings, dark words,” Ned said grimly. “What of it?”

“Lord Tywin is greatly wroth about the command you have given him,” the maester conded. “I feared he would be. You will recall, I said as much in council.”

“Let him be wroth,” Ned said. Every time his leg throbbed, he remembered Jaime Lannister’s smile and his cutting blade. “Let him write all the letters to the queen he likes. If Tywin does not come, he will have Robert to answer to. The only thing His Grace enjoys more than hunting is making war on lords who defy him.”

Pycelle pulled back, his maester’s chain jangling. “As you say. I shall visit again on the morrow.” The old man hurriedly gathered up his things and took his leave. Ned had little doubt that he was bound straight for the royal apartments, to whisper at the queen. I thought you had best know, indeed... as if Cersei had not instructed him to pass along her father’s threats. He hoped his response rattled those perfect teeth of hers. Ned was not near as confident in Robert as he pretended, but there was no reason Cersei need know that.

When Pycelle was gone, Ned called for a cup of honeyed wine. That clouded the mind as well, yet not as badly. He needed to be able to think. A thousand times, he asked himself what Jon Arryn might have done, had he lived long enough to act on what he’d learned. Or perhaps he had acted, and died for it.

It was queer how sometimes a child’s eyes can see things that grown men are blind to. That was not fair to Sansa, she was a woman grown, yet sometimes Ned could only see his little girl. Someday, when they had returned to Winterfell, he would have to tell her how she had made it all come clear for him. He’s not the least bit like that old drunken king…He’s even worse! she had declared, angrily. The betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey had long been dead in the water. She had seen him in ways Ned had never even imagined to look at him. Once he realised it, all came crystal clear. A cold hard truth that cut right to the bone.

This was the sword that killed Jon Arryn, Ned thought then, and it will kill Robert as well, a slower death but full as certain.

Ned allowed himself a curse. Aside from his own retainers, there was scarcely a man in this city he trusted. For all Varys’ protestations of loyalty, the eunuch knew too much and did too little. Grand Maester Pycelle seemed more a Lannister creature with every passing day, and Ser Barristan was an old man, and rigid. He would tell Ned to do his duty.

Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail with the rest of the household on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence.

They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. He was trying to get his people out of the castle as quickly and as quietly as he could. They were being sent down the secret path that Littlefinger had shown him to leave the Red Keep, Yennefer and Triss constructed powerful illusions to mask the household as they busied themselves with the withdrawal.

Soon enough, it would just be Ned and his guards left behind. He could no longer use his concern for his daughter’s safety to excuse his delay.

Yet last night he had dreamt of Elia’s son… His son... If Ned had known that the babe had been his own son, there would not have a living creature in all the realms that could have stopped Ned from gutting Tywin where he stood.

Ned could not let that happen again. He had to find some way to save the children.

Robert could be merciful. Ser Barristan was scarcely the only man he had pardoned. There had been many in the rebellion that had called Robert and enemy once, and each had been welcomed into friendship and allowed to retain honors and office for a pledge of fealty. So long as a man was brave and honest, Robert would treat him with all the honour and respect due a valiant enemy.

This was something else: poison in the dark, a knife thrust to the soul. This he could never forgive, no more than he had forgiven Rhaegar. He will kill them all, Ned realized.

And yet, he knew he could not keep silent. He had a duty to Robert, to the realm, to the shade of Jon Arryn...

Late that afternoon he summoned Harper. “I shall require your help,” Ned said when Harper appeared, looking faintly apprehensive. “Take me to the godswood.”

“Is that wise, Ned? Yennefer said that you need plenty rest, and I dare not anger the witch.”

“I was not aware she had quite the hold on you.” Ned chuckled.

“She was quite angry we let you get hurt…”

“There were so many of them, we’re lucky to have all survived.” Ned managed to descend the steep tower steps with Harper holding his good arm. “I want the guard doubled,” he told Harper. “No one enters or leaves the Tower of the Hand without my leave.”

“Ned, you sent a fair number away with Lord Beric,” the Chosen Man lowered his voice. “You have us watching the pathways to the ship to make sure we aren’t discovered. We’re hard-pressed already—”

“It will only be a short while. Lengthen the watches.”

“As you wish,” Harper answered.

The godswood was empty, as it always was. Very few in the south kept the Old Gods, luckily that made the godswood a private meeting place. Ned’s leg was sore as he sat in the grass beside the heart tree. “Thank you.” He said to Harper, who helped him there. He drew a paper from his sleeve, sealed with the sigil of his House. “Kindly deliver this at once.”

How long he waited in the quiet of the godswood, he could not say. It was peaceful. The thick walls shut out the clamor of the castle, and he could hear birds singing, the murmur of crickets, leaves rustling in a gentle wind. The heart tree was an oak, brown and faceless, yet Ned still felt the presence of his gods. Even his leg did not seem to hurt so much.

She came to him at sunset, as the clouds reddened above the walls and towers. She came alone, as he had bid her. For once she was dressed simply, in leather boots and hunting greens. When she drew back the hood of her brown cloak, Ned saw no bruise where the king had struck her. She must have had Pycelle heal her back to her usual unblemished skin.

“Why here?” Cersei demanded as she stood over him.

“So the gods can see.”

She sat beside him on the grass. Her every move was graceful.

Her curling blond hair moved in the wind, and her eyes were green as the leaves of summer. It had been a long time since Ned had seen her beauty, but he saw it now.

“I know the truth Jon Arryn died for,” he told her.

“Do you?” The queen watched his face, wary as a cat. “Is that why you called me here, Stark? To pose me riddles? Or is it your intent to seize me, as your wives seized my brother?”

“If you truly believed that, you would never have come.” Ned touched her cheek gently, where the mark would have been. “Has he done that before?”

“Jaime would have killed him.” Cersei looked at him defiantly. “My brother is worth a hundred of your friend.”

“Your brother?” Ned said. “Or your lover?”

“Both.” She did not flinch from the truth. “Since we were children together. And why not? The  Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is in me, I feel... whole.” The ghost of a smile flitted over her lips.

“All three are Jaime’s,” he said. It was not a question.

“Thank the gods.”

The seed is strong, Jon Arryn had cried on his deathbed, and so it was. All those bastards, all with hair as black as night. No matter how far back Ned searched in the brittle, yellowed pages of Jon Arryn’s book, in every union of Lannister and Baratheon, the gold always yielded before the coal.

“Twenty years,” Ned said. “How is it that you have had no children by the king?”

She lifted her head, defiant. “Your Robert got me with child once,” she said, her voice thick with contempt. “My brother found a woman to cleanse me. He never knew. If truth be told, I can scarcely bear for him to touch me, and I have not let him inside me for years. I know other ways to pleasure him, when he leaves his whores long enough to stagger up to my bedchamber. Whatever we do, the king is usually so drunk that he’s forgotten it all by the next morning.”

How could they have all been so blind? The truth had been there in front of them all the time, written on the children’s faces. Ned felt sick. “I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king,” he said quietly. “A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?”

Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. “The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister’s name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.”

“I do not know which of you I pity most.”

The queen seemed amused by that. “Save your pity for yourself, Stark. I want none of it.”

“You know what I must do.”

“…Must?” She put her hand on his good leg, just above the knee. “A true man does what he will, not what he must.” Her fingers brushed lightly against his thigh, the gentlest of promises. “The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of age for years. No one wants war again, least of all me.” Her hand touched his face, his hair. “If friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Your wives are a thousand leagues away, and my brother has fled. Be kind to me, Ned. I swear to you, you shall never regret it.”

Before Ned could answer, Cersei gracefully rose to her feet and undid the binds of her cloak, letting it fall softly to the grass. In moments, she was naked as her nameday, standing in front of Ned, looking down at him confidently.

Ned would be lying if he said she was not one of the most strikingly beautiful women he had ever seen. Luxurious golden locks hung loose and free, down to large, round breasts with nipples that begged to be sucked on. It seemed after three children, the gods had blessed her with a still slim figure, a flat stomach lead down to a neat patch of golden curls above her cunt. Wide, matronly hips flared out from her thin waist, leading to long legs. Her skin was flawless and fair, begging for his hands to hold.

Ned’s eyes roamed lazily up and down her form as she presented herself to him.

Cersei wore a cat-like smirk. “Men can be so easy.” She said, as if she had him completely under her control. “I’m a beautiful woman, Ned. And i’m in need.” Cersei said as she knelt down on the soft grass. “I’ve heard the stories. Ned Stark would never say no to a beautiful woman in need…”

Ned thought of the Lannister’s crimes, of the murders they’d committed, of Robert and what he had to tell him. Then he thought of Tywin Lannister and Jaime Lannister’s smirking face as he’d ordered him men to kill Ned’s.

The thought of fucking Cersei much better than Jaime ever had became one that was too good to pass up. Ned would fuck Cersei, then tell Robert the truth. If Robert found out, he would forgive him, or Ned would deny it and Robert would believe him over Cersei.

“Well… Who am I to deny a queen?” Ned smiled at her, Cersei smirked back.

“Perhaps you would like me to undress you.” Cersei said as she reached for the hem of his tunic, eventually it was off. Ned watched as Cersei’s eyes roamed over his toned body, her hands feeling the muscles of his chest. Then further down her hands went, hooking into the rim of his breeches and pulling them down.

The look on Cersei’s face and the sound she made when she saw his cock for the first time would keep Ned laughing for years to come. It was clear shock in her bright emerald eyes. Must be bigger than she’s used to, Ned mused. Cersei pulled his breeches and boots the full way off and sat on the grass, marvelling at his cock.

“I take it your brother is somewhat less impressive.” Ned chuckled.

“I never imagined…” Cersei said, her eyes still fixed on the pillar of flesh.

“Robert sometimes told tales of your exploits during feasts…” She gingerly reached out and brushed her fingers along Ned’s cock, it it throbbed at her tentative touch.

“What tales?”

“Well, he said there was the time you fucked lady Bethany Breakwater in her husband’s bed when your troops camped outside their castle.”

“Lord Breakwater was off with Jon Connington, forming an army.” Ned remembered the keep well, and the woman.

“Yes, but the thing was, Lord and Lady Breakwater were sitting at are table with us as Robert told the story.” Cersei burst into fits of laughter. “You should have seen his face when Robert went into detail about how all could hear his wife’s moans as you fucked her blind.”

“I’ve seen lord Breakwater about court many times,” Ned said. “It’s never seemed like he knew.”

“That’s because he knows you’d snap him in half if he attacked you.” Cersei laughed again. “Looking at you now though…” Cersei rubbed his cock some more. “I feel I might have married the wrong man. Sometimes, I think Robert would have preferred to marry you. If he had been born a woman, she would have taken you to bed the second she saw this.”

“Is that what you felt when you saw me?” Ned smirked at her, running his only hand up her thigh and over her hip.

“I admit there was some curiosity.” Cersei shuffled closer and started pumping Ned with more confidence. “I’d heard many stories of your prowess, I had assumed they were… exaggerated… Now, i’m not so sure…” she giggled again. “If I had known this earlier we could have done away with all this intrigue and suspicion. Clearly we are much better suited as friends rather than foes.”

“Friends?” Ned asked.

“Very close friends.” She whispered back, leaning forward, Cersei embraced Ned deeply. She tasted like honey and wine as their tongues danced together. Cersei was a domineering woman, her kiss reflected that. Her tongue forced it’s way into Ned’s mouth, trying to gain submission. Ned was not so easily subdued.

Ned’s hand reached up to take a large handful of Cersei’s bountiful breasts as they kissed, pinching her small nipples, earning a whine from the queen.

“I fear in my condition, you will have to do the work.” Ned said as they pulled apart, laying back against the tree.

“It will be a pleasure to play with such a gorgeous cock.” Cersei said, biting her bottom lip and smiling down at him. “So long… and thick…”

Cersei started to rub both her hands along his cock faster as she laid small kisses on his shaft. Ned felt her kiss a line from the base of his cock, all the way to the tip and back down the other side. Ned ran his hand through her beautiful, golden locks, taking hold of her hair in his fist.

Dazzling, emerald eyes were staring up at him, pupils wide with lust. Cersei took another step when she opened her mouth wide, stuck out her long tongue and gave his cock a long lick, from base to tip. Then another and another.

Before long, the queen of the Seven kingdoms was licking up and down Ned’s cock with great gusto. Ned looked down on her with satisfaction as she wrapped her hands tightly around his base and started slapping his cock against her pursed lips.

“I’d wager you’ve dreamed of being in this position.” Cersei said in a husky voice. “You have the queen kneeling before you, worshiping your cock.”

“I imagine many men have.” Ned said, avoiding the answer. The truth was he’d never dreamed of fucking Cersei, strangely enough. He did not imagine Cersei would accept that answer, however.

“That is certainly true.” She giggled in response. “Though, while it is other men’s fantasies, it is your reality. Robert needs you as his Hand, and my son will need you after him… You could rule the kingdom by day, then retire to my bed come nightfall… I would treat you as a king. You would be my king, Stark.”

It was certainly an enticing proposition. One Ned might have even entertained for a fraction of a moment. Cersei did not wait for an answer, she went back to circling her tongue around his cock head, as it throbbed against her tongue. Then was licking him from root to tip, flicking her tongue along his shaft as her emerald eyes locked with his grey ones.

“I love your massive cock, Stark.” Cersei said in a low voice, looking up at him reverently.

“Seen many, have you?” Ned chuckled.

“What does it matter? If I was a married man taking other women to bed, none would bat an eyelid.” Cersei said, sourly. Ned supposed she was right. She angrily got to work, her beautiful, plump lips latched around the head of his cock and began to suck hard. Her hand gripped the base of his cock tightly, and began to pump the shaft. Her cheeks hollowed and she began to bob her head up and down on the end of his cock.

Ned’s single hand rested on top of her head, motioning her up and down, his fingers threaded through her golden tresses. He felt a hum of satisfaction vibrating around his cock from Cersei, a thoroughly pleasant sensation.

To Ned’s surprise and pleasure, she started circling her tongue around his cock-head, while she sucked him and pumped his cock with her hands. It seemed to Ned, that she was using all the skills she had at her disposal. Understandable, as in a way, she was begging Ned not to tell Robert of her crimes.

She sucked him greedily, caressing one ball and then the other with her loving tongue. They stayed their for a while, Cersei lavishing his balls, making love to them with her tongue.

“My wives are far better at sucking cock.” Ned chuckled, knowing what it would cause Cersei’s ego to do.

“I can do anything they can do.” She said, defiantly. “And better!”

“Then prove it.” Ned challenged. “Give yourself over to me completely.”

Wordlessly, Cersei shifted from her kneeling position, to lie down between his legs. Ned had an excellent view of her peachy arse as she settled into her new position.

“Well… I’m here…” Cersei said, expectantly, opening her mouth wide.

Without a word, Ned grabbed her head with his one hand and angled his tip into her open mouth. He slowly began to push Cersei’s head down onto his cock. She easily obeyed his command, eased her lips down passed his cock head. Ned could see that Cersei was stretching her mouth wide open to accommodate his girth. Her tongue was stretched out, trying to get more cock into her mouth.

When Ned heard the queen gagging around his cock, he relented, pulling her back so only the tip of his cock remained in her mouth. Cersei’s lips sealed around it, sucking on him still. So, he pushed her down again this time deeper, then he pulled her up, then down again.

Cersei was limp in his hands, Ned could do anything he wanted to her and she would comply. She didn’t even struggle when Ned held her half way down his cock, even as she choked on him.

Ned began to speed up his movements.

The sounds coming from Cersei’s mouth as he skull fucked her were obscene, loud and incredibly gratifying for him to hear. The debauched sounds of Cersei choking on Ned’s cock could be heard throughout the godswood, Ned was glad there was no one else there to see them.

Ned was holding Cersei’s hair in a tight fist as he pumped her up and down his cock, her arms were hanging limply at either side of his thighs, her head seemed to have nothing but his hand holding it up.

It was clear to see that Cersei’s large, emerald eyes were bulging and filled with tears at the lack of air she was getting, yet still, she did not struggle at all.

“According to a lot of the personal journals stored in Winterfell from previous Starks, you’re doing what many Targaryen queens have done before you.” Ned said to her. “Struggle to take Stark cock!” He laughed. Ned could hardly believe that it was true, but he had read the journals many times, including the many love letters from Targaryen queens that had been stored between the pages. “It seems the destiny of the queens of the seven kingdoms is to taste Stark seed!” Ned grunted as he sent forth a great wave of his seed directly into Cersei’s belly.

Ned held her head down as torrents of his seed went down her throat. Even as she choked on him, Ned’s cock was buried in her throat as she tried to swallow all he gave her. Eventually, Ned let Cersei go. She pulled away from his cock, a river of his seed flowing from her mouth, down her chin and onto her monumental breasts as she coughed and wheezed.

Laughter echoed all across the godswood as Ned looked at her then. She was a great queen, yet she knelt naked in the grass, sullied and flushed, eyes watery and hair tousled, trying to swallow his seed and gasp for breath at the same time.

“Gods!” Cersei finally choked out, still panting as she scooped his seed up with her fingers and licked them clean. “How are you still hard?” Like most women who lay with Ned for the first time, Cersei’s eyes were fixed to his still-throbbing member in astonishment.

“It’s the Stark gift, your grace.” Ned grinned. “Your brother usually done after one go?” The look Cersei gave Ned told him he was right.

“Let’s see how long you last inside a queen’s cunt.” Cersei challenged, rising to her feet, stepping over his thighs.

Ned could clearly see the arousal dripping from her cunt. She was wet and eager for him, even if she tried to hide it. Looking down at him with her green, cat-like eyes, Cersei put her hands on both Ned’s shoulders. He gritted his teeth slightly, rather than show pain when Cersei put her hand on his left shoulder. Slowly, she lowered herself further and further down.

Ned’s eyes ran along her thick thighs, flexing as she dropped down. He had to admit, the queen was certainly a cruel woman, with a soul that was rotten to the core, but she had the body of a goddess. A body that his current position afforded him an excellent view of.

Cersei was a mother of three, and her breasts certainly had the size to prove it. They were large and round, standing high on her chest, proudly. Ned couldn’t resist reaching up to take one of them in his hand, playing with her hard nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers as she moaned. Cersei took her hand off Ned’s bad shoulder and grasped his cock, properly angling it towards her cunt.

“Deep breaths now…” Ned teased. “Make sure you’re properly prepared.” Cersei gave him a scowl.

“I’m sure i’m more than capable of-AHH-ARGH-FUCK!” Ned didn’t let Cersei finish her sentence before he gripped her waist with one hand and pushed her all the way down his shaft. “Fuck! It’s too big!!” Cersei cried as she shivered on him, pressing her face against the tree beside Ned’s head.

She’s trying to hide her face,Ned realised, she doesn’t want me to know she’s enjoying it.

The feeling of having Cersei’s tight, hot womanhood surrounding his cock was certainly something Ned would remember till the day he died. She tried to rise off him, but Ned held her down, pushing deeper into her.

“You’re even tighter than Genna.” Ned chuckled into her ear.

“You’ve bedded my aunt?” That clearly surprised her.

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“Does her husband know?”

“Ofttimes Mance and I fucked her together.”

Cersei sat in Ned’s lap for a time, seemingly contemplating the fact that Ned had fucked her aunt, and was currently balls-deep inside her. “Then I guess it’s time for you to taste the superior Lannister woman.” was all she said as she began to motion her hips back and forth.

Ned chuckled as he he felt the intense pleasure of his cock going in and out of Cersei’s cunt. Trying to stifle her moans, Cersei bit her lip as she eased him in and out, only a few inches at a time.

Unsatisfied with her slow pace, Ned placed his hand on the small of her back and pushed her down as he thrust his hips upward. While his leg was healing by the day, it’s lack of use took the vigour out of Ned’s thrusting. He had to settle for slow and deep, rather than fast and hard.

Cersei’s petite moans were soon drowned out by the sound of her ample, fleshy arse-cheeks slapping down on his thighs. Ned had to admit, the queen was an excellent rider. She set a fast rhythm and she kept to it well, her hands braced on Ned’s chest to hold her up.

It did not escape Ned’s notice that Cersei’s eyes were closed in pleasure as she rode him, moaning prettily as a flush crept up her cheeks. Her large, firm breasts were bouncing with her every movement, begging for his touch like ripe, round melons.

Ned was enraptured by the sight, his hand reached out to cup one breast, bringing a hard nipple to his lips. It tasted of honey as he sucked on her greedily, making Cersei moan even louder, her cunt squeezing his length as it surged forth within her. She had moved her hands from Ned’s chest, to her knees, using them as leverage to bounce herself up and down his shaft.

“Knew you couldn’t resist.” Cersei smiled. “All the boys love my breasts...”

After a moment, she threw her head back, and her words were replaced with low, deep moans. Ned felt her vice-like cunt stretching around him, quivering and shaking every time his cock plunged deeper.

He could tell she was cock-drunk now, where once she had been reserved and cold, now she was eager and wanton. She knew it was wrong, that she would be put to death if they were found out, but she wanted his cock and his seed. To Ned, there were few feelings as satisfying as being wanted by a married woman.

They locked eyes, cool grey against bright emerald. She gave him a truly lecherous, cheshire grin. Ned knew she thought she had him then, that he was under her spell, that he could be turned by her cunt.

Sorry, Your Grace. Ned thought.But only my wives have that strong a hold on me, I fear.

With a predatory grin, Cersei leaned forward against Ned, pushing him fully against the tree behind him, their lips crashing together in a heated embrace. She was resting on her knees now, pressing her body against him fully, her breasts pushed flat against his chest.

Ned decided to play along with her, he met her eager lips with equal fervour, their tongues fought a hard battle for dominance as she pressed her hips all the way down against him, taking the full length of his cock inside her. Both were moaning loudly into each other’s mouths as Cersei wrapped her arms tightly around Ned, pulling him closer to her.

Ned’s own hand snaked down her flawless back, to the ample curve of her sumptuous behind. Much to Cersei’s surprise, Ned slipped a finger into her arse.

First she struggled, moaning into his mouth as he held her in place. Then her eyes fluttered and she rested her head on Ned’s good shoulder, shivering. Her end was near at hand.

Using his finger in her bum as leverage, Ned pulled her up and pushed her down on his cock as it throbbed inside her silky womanhood.

Again and again.

“Ohhh, fuck…” Cersei moaned as Ned took control of her. “Gods… So good…”

“Better than Jaime?”

“…So much better…” With that, Ned began to thrust up harder, making Cersei scream as her cunt squeezed him tightly, she was close to her end. “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me, Ned! I love your cock!”

“You’re a whore!”

“YES! I’M A WHORE-QUEEN!” Cersei screamed as she began to tremble violently, the beginnings of her climax reverberating through her. “I’M THE QUEEN OF THE WHORES!!!” She sang as she came to an earth-shattering climax, squirting her release all over Ned’s lap. He continued to thrust up into her as she quivered on-top of him. “Stop, please!” She called as she scrambled off Ned, falling into the grass beside him, her body spasming uncontrollably as she moaned and quivered.

Ned sat and watched amusedly as Cersei recuperated, coming down from the high of her powerful climax, hearing her mumble and moan as she was naked, face-down in the grass. Ned would never be able to see her as a dignified queen again. She looked like a well-used whore.

“…That was… So amazing…” Cersei managed to pant out after a time, her voice hoarse and her legs still shaking.

Ned’s cock was still achingly hard, almost steaming in the cool air of the godswood. Cersei was on her hands and knees in the grass, still panting, the fleshy globes of her arse providing a delicious target.

With some difficulty, as his bad leg was starting to hurt again, Ned manoeuvred himself behind her. His cock gave a big wet THWAP! As he slapped it down in the cleft between Cersei’s arse-cheeks. He saw Cersei tense at the feeling, letting out an uncertain moan.

“I’m not ready yet…” She stammered as Ned pushed her against the tree.

“You’ve had long enough.” Ned took his cock in hand, angled it against her cunt and thrust inside all in one smooth motion. Cersei let out a guttural moan, her fingers clenching the roots of the tree as she shivered around him.

It did not deter Ned, he pushed forward, spearing his shaft deeper into the queen. Her golden head dropped low in submission, completely surrendering to Ned’s cock as he plumbed the depths of her womanhood.

”You’re s-s-s-soo deep…” Cersei moaned, as inch after inch of his cock surged deeper. She arched her back, pressing back against Ned as her body curved invitingly towards him.

“The biggest you’ve ever had?”

“Y-y-y-eessss!” It was certainly gratifying for Ned to hear that, as he claimed Cersei’s body. He’d gone deeper inside her than any other, no man other than Ned could say they’d felt the whole of her cunt, because he stretched it’s limits. The heavenly sensations of Cersei’s hot, wet, velvety cunt enveloping him again and again nearly overwhelmed Ned, but his resolve held firm.

His hand snaked up her body, beads of perspiration forming on her back from her exertion. Ned’s hand took hold of her long, flowing locks of spun gold, gripping them tightly, pulling Cersei’s head up as he ploughed her.

Ned wondered what the people might think if they saw their queen now, being defiled and ravaged in a godswood. The thought pleased him, though he would never admit it. Ned could feel her arousal dripping from her cunt as he fucked her like a wolf and she moaned like a whore.

"You're so tight…" Ned grunted, pushing Cersei’s perfect face against the tree, leaning forward as he rammed into her.

"You're so big!" Cersei moaned into the bark. Ned sank his cock the whole way into her cunt, pressing as deep as it could go, all the way to the hilt. He let go of her hair, to bring his hand down on her arse, smacking both cheeks three times, making Cersei quiver and moan weakly. “Gods… Gods…”

Ned savoured the feeling of being fully encased inside a queen, then he began to slide himself back out, drawing a deep moan from the woman beneath him. Ned would teach her how it felt to be taken. He withdrew from her, slowly, in-by-inch, then slammed home, spearing her deep. Cersei made a sound half a squeal, half a shriek, it was music to Ned’s ears.

In and out, he went, sliding some inches out before thrusting back with enough force to make the Cersei shriek with pleasure as she quivered around him. Wet clapping echoed through the godswood as Ned’s pelvis slapped against Cersei’s arse relentlessly, pounding his cock into her womanhood with all the might he could muster.

“Gods, you’re even better than Theon...” She moaned. Ned stopped mid thrust, surprised.

“You’ve taken Theon Greyjoy into your bed?” He was dumbfounded that Cersei would do such a thing. He thought back to the youth he had barely around Winterfell, and then the Red Keep. The Greyjoy ward was apparently fast friends with Joffrey, so that told Ned all he needed to know about him.

“I made sure I was his first.” Cersei moaned in response, confessing to more infidelity. “I wanted to ensure his loyalty to Joff.”

“Is that how you earn loyalty from men?” Ned asked, as he went back to thrusting, somewhat harder. “You fuck them?”

“Worked for you, didn’t it?” She giggled. “We must all use what the Gods gave us.”

“Does your brother know you don’t keep to his bed either?” Ned asked. Silence was all the answer she gave him, so Ned went back to forcing his cock deeper into her cunt.

They fucked like animals, rutting in the wood. Harder and harder they went at it, Ned pillaging Cersei’s womb until they reached their mutual end. Cersei’s end came first, screaming her climax into the dirt as Ned pushed her face into the ground to muffle her.

Ned was there not long after her. The pressure became too much and Ned emptied his balls directly into her womb. Ned didn’t know how long he spent just holding his pelvis against Cersei as she slumped on the ground, unconscious, but he was surprised when Harper announced himself.

“Perhaps we should be going back now.” The captain said.

Ned agreed and Harper helped him get dressed, as Cersei still lay, naked and quivering in the grass, either unaware or uncaring that Harper could see her. Ned hefted her up and lightly slapped her awake. Cersei spluttered indignantly as she opened her tired eyes. When she was Harper was there, she tried to cover her modesty, unsuccessfully.

“I am still going to tell the king.” Ned told her.

She slapped him.

“I shall wear that as a badge of honor,” Ned said dryly.

“Honor,” she spat, now wide awake and seething. “How dare you play the noble lord with me! You would fuck me, then renege on our deal? You’re just like all other men, lecherous beasts. Tell me, my honorable Prince Eddard, how are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jaime?”

“For a start,” said Ned, “I never agreed, you just started fucking me.” He told her matter-of-factly “And second, I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady. For I shall say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I will tell him the truth. You must be gone by then. You and your children, all three, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I should take ship for the Free Cities, or even farther, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow.”

“Exile,” she said. “A bitter cup to drink from.”

“A sweeter cup than your father served myson.” Ned growled, his voice like rumbling thunder.

Cersei looked at him in confusion. “Your sons are back in Winterfe-“

“Rhaegar did not father Aegon.”

Cersei’s face contorted in shock and confusion, with perhaps a little fear at what Ned might do to her to avenge his murdered son. “I… How?” She asked.

“At Harrenhal, after Rhaegar crowned Lyanna. Elia sought comfort in my arms. She only told me of Aegon’s true parentage recently.”

“Gods…” There was a silence between them, before she spoke again. “I could say you raped me...” She levelled his gaze. “Or you could join me…”

“That would be a very poor decision.” Ned looked down at her. “Firstly, your pride would never let you say that publicly. You would be dishonoured. Second, I would deny it for the lie that it is. People would not know who to trust. The king would be called upon. Who would he believe between you and I, I wonder.” Cersei looked to the side, knowing she was beaten. “Be thankful that I am not your father.” Ned told her. “Nor that I am Robert. Take your children and run. Robert’s wrath will follow you.”

The queen stood on shaky legs, leaning against the tree. “And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?” she asked softly. Her emerald eyes searched his face. “You should have taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King’s Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a sad mistake.”

“I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine,” Ned said, “but that was not one of them.”

“Oh, but it was, Ned,” Cersei insisted. “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.”

She turned, picking up her cloak with all the dignity she could muster, then hobbled away into the night.

*******************************************************************************************************

Ned awoke in the dead of night, the blankets tangled around him, with Yen and Triss on either side. The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door. “Prince Eddard,” a voice called loudly.

“A moment.” Groggy and naked, he stumbled his way across the darkened chamber, he heard Triss stirring awake behind him. When he opened the door, he found Harris with an upraised fist, and Cooper with a torch in hand. Between them stood the king’s own steward. The man’s face might have been carved of stone, so little did it show.

“My lord Hand,” the steward intoned. “His Grace the King commands your presence. At once.”

So Robert’s returned from his hunt. It’s been long past time.

“I’ll need a few moments to dress.” Ned left them waiting without. Triss and Yen helped him with his clothes; white linen tunic with grey breeches cloak, his badge of office, and last of all a belt of heavy silver links. The Valyrian dagger at his waist.

The Red Keep was dark and still as Harris and Cooper escorted Ned across the inner bailey. The moon hung low over the walls. On the ramparts, a guardsman in a gold cloak walked his rounds.

Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the bridge, white steel armor ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield stood at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at the door of the king’s bedchamber.

Ser Barristan’s face was as pale as his armor. Ned had only to look at him to know that something was dreadfully wrong. The royal steward opened the door. “Prince Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King,” he announced.

“Bring him here,” Robert’s voice called, strangely thick.

Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare and a terrible heat. Robert lay across the canopied bed, Foebreaker lying on the floor where he had dropped it. At the bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, quietly bringing his potions, while Renly paced restlessly before the shuttered windows.

Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her eyes. They followed Ned as he walked cross the room.

Robert still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert’s feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him. A green doublet lay on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and death, mostly death.

“Ned,” Robert whispered when he saw him. His face was pale as milk. “Come... closer.”

Ned edged closer, steading himself with a hand on the bedpost. He had only to look down at Robert to know how bad it was. “What...?” he began, his throat clenched.

“A minotaur.” Lord Renly was still in his hunting greens, his cloak spattered with blood.

“A devil,” the king husked. “My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell.”

“And where were the rest of you?” Ned demanded of Renly. “Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?”

Renly’s mouth twitched. “My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the Minotaur alone.”

Ned lifted the blanket.

They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough. Not even magical healing could save him now. The Minotaur must have been a fearsome thing. It had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its horn. The wine-soaked bandages that Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous. Ned’s stomach turned. He let the blanket fall.

“Stinks,” Robert said. “The stink of death, don’t think I can’t smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I... I paid him back in kind, Ned.” The king’s smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red. “Grasped the bastard by the horns and ripped his head off. Ask them if I didn’t. Ask them.”

“Truly,” Lord Renly murmured. “We brought the carcass back with us, at my brother’s command.”

“For the feast,” Robert whispered. “I want it to hang on the wall. Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned.”

“Robert, my sweet lord...” Cersei began.

“I said leave,” Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness. “What part of that don’t you understand, woman?”

Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. Renly and the others followed. Grand Maester Pycelle lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the king a cup of thick white liquid.

“The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,” he said. “Drink. For your pain.”

Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand. “Away with you. I’ll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get out.”

Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled from the room.

“Damn you, Robert,” Ned said when they were alone. His leg was throbbing, but he had to ignore it. Ned lowered himself to the bed, beside his friend. “Why do you always have to be so headstrong?”

“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” Robert said hoarsely. “I killed the bastard, didn’t I?” A lock of matted black hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned. “Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave a man to hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Calling Tywin Lannister to court.” His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. “Gods have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony. “The girl. Daenerys, her mother and sisters… you were right... that’s why, the girl... the gods sent the minotaur... sent to punish me...” Robert coughed, bringing up blood. “Wrong, it was wrong, I... Varys, Pycelle, even my brother... worthless... no one to tell me no but you, Ned... only you...” He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I tell you.”

Ned smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the quill. “At your command, Your Grace.”

“This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest—put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Prince of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my... upon my death... to rule in my... in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come of age...”

“Robert...” Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say, but the words would not come. The agony was written too plainly across Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more. So Ned bent his head and wrote, but where the king had said “my son Joffrey,” he scrawled “my heir” instead. The deceit made him feel soiled. The lies we tell for love, he thought. May the gods forgive me. “What else would you have me say?”

“Say... Whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods old and new, you have the words. Write. I’ll sign it. You give it to the council when I’m dead.”

“Robert,” Ned said in a voice thick with grief, “you must not do this. Don’t die on me. The realm needs you.”

Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. “You are... such a bad liar, Ned Stark,” he said through his pain. “The realm... the realm knows... what a wretched king I’ve been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me.”

“No,” Ned told his dying friend, “not so bad as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys.”

Robert managed a weak red smile. “At the least, they will say... this last thing... this I did right. You won’t fail me. You’ll rule now. You’ll hate it, worse than I did... but you’ll do well. Are you done with the scribbling?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Ned offered Robert the paper. The king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood across the letter. “The seal should be witnessed.”

“The Targaryens” Robert said. “Let them live. If you can, if it’s... not too late... talk to them... Varys, Pycelle... don’t let them kill them. And help my son, Ned. Make him be... better than me.” He winced. “Gods have mercy.”

“They will, my friend,” Ned said. “They will.”

The king closed his eyes and seemed to relax. “Killed by a bull,” he muttered. “Ought to laugh, but it hurts too much.”

Ned was not laughing. “Shall I call them back?”

Robert gave a weak nod. “As you will. Gods, why is it so cold in here?”

The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires. The queen had gone; that was some small relief, at least. If she had any sense, Cersei would take her children and flee before the break of day, Ned thought. She had lingered too long already.

Robert did not seem to miss her. He bid Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle to stand in witness as he pressed his seal into the hot yellow wax that Ned had dripped upon his letter. “Now give me something for the pain and let me die.”

Hurriedly Grand Maester Pycelle mixed him another draught of the milk of the poppy. This time the king drank deeply. His black beard was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the empty cup aside. “Will I dream?”

Ned gave him his answer. “You will, my lord.”

“Good,” he said, smiling. “I should have liked to have seen Lyanna again... Take care of my children for me.”

The words twisted in Ned’s belly like a knife. For a moment he was at a loss. He could not bring himself to lie. Then he remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast, Mya in the Vale, Gendry at his forge, and all the others. “I shall... guard your children as if they were my own,” he said slowly.

Robert nodded and closed his eyes. Ned watched his old friend sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the pain from his face. Sleep took him.

Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle came up to Ned. “I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace’s suffering, but only the gods can heal him now.”

“How long?” Ned asked.

“By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a man cling to life so fiercely.”

“My brother was always strong,” Renly said. “Not wise, perhaps, but strong.” In the sweltering heat of the bedchamber, his brow was slick with sweat. “He slew the beast. His entrails were sliding from his belly, yet somehow he grabbed it by it’s horns and ripped the Minotaur’s head clean off.” His voice was full of wonder.

“Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long as a foe remained standing,” Ned told him.

Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower stairs. “Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the poppy,” Ned told him. “See that no one disturbs his rest without leave from me.”

“It shall be as you command, my lord.” Ser Barristan seemed old beyond his years. “I have failed my sacred trust.”

“Even the best knight cannot protect a king against himself,” Ned said. “Robert loved to hunt. No one could know this one would be his death.”

“You are kind to say so, Prince Eddard.”

“The king himself said as much. He blamed the wine.”

The white-haired knight gave a weary nod. “His Grace was reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his lair, he slew the boar easily enough, yet he commanded us all to stand aside when the Minotaur came for the boar.”

“I wonder, Ser Barristan,” asked Varys, so quietly, “who gave the king this wine?”

Ned had not heard the eunuch approach, but when he looked around, there he stood. He wore a black velvet robe that brushed the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.

“The wine was from the king’s own skin,” Ser Barristan said.

“Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work.”

“I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required it.”

“Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment.”

Ned had a bitter taste in his mouth. He recalled the two fair-haired boys Robert had sent chasing after a breastplate stretcher. The king had told everyone the tale that night at the feast, laughing until he shook. “Which squire?”

“The elder,” said Ser Barristan. “Lancel.”

“I know the lad well,” said Varys. “A stalwart boy, Ser Kevan Lannister’s son, nephew to Lord Tywin and cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their youth, how well do I remember.”

Certainly Varys had once been young. Ned doubted that he had ever been innocent. “Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen and her family. Whatever arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once.”

“Alas,” said Varys. “At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord. With your leave.” He bowed and vanished down the steps, his soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he made his descent.

Harris and Cooper were helping Ned across the bridge when Lord Renly emerged from Maegor’s Holdfast. “Prince Eddard,” he called after Ned, “a moment, if you would be so kind.”

Ned stopped. “As you wish.”

Renly walked to his side. “Send your men away.” They met in the center of the bridge, the dry moat beneath them. Moonlight silvered the cruel edges of the spikes that lined its bed.

Ned gestured. His Chosen Men bowed their heads and backed away respectfully. Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end of the span, at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. “That letter.” He leaned close. “Was it the regency? He was telling me to tell you if he didn’t survive long enough to get back here. Has my brother named you Protector?” He did not wait for a reply. “My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a hundred swords in your hand.”

“And what should I do with a hundred swords, my lord?”

“Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps.” Renly looked back at Ser Boros again and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. “We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward.”

Ned regarded him coldly. “Robert is not dead yet. The gods may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will not dishonor his last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds.” Thoughts of little Aegon and Elia’s scream ran through his mind.

Lord Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring. “Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies, it may be too late... for both of us.”

“Then we should pray that Robert does not die.”

“Small chance of that,” said Renly.

“Sometimes the gods are merciful.”

“The Lannisters are not.” Lord Renly turned away and went back across the moat, to the tower where his brother lay dying.

By the time Ned returned to his chambers, he felt weary and heartsick, yet there was no question of his going back to sleep, not now. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die, Cersei Lannister had told him in the godswood. He found himself wondering if he had done the right thing by refusing Renly’s offer. He had no taste for these intrigues, and there was no honor in threatening children, and yet... if Cersei elected to fight rather than flee, he might well have need of Renly’s hundred swords, and more besides. Ned found himself regretting that his three hundred Winter Wolves had not yet arrived.

Ned turned to Harper, who had been waiting for him with Yennefer and Triss. “The Wind Witch sails on the evening tide. How far have the preparations come along?”

“Almost everyone is on the ship right now, other than fighting men that is.”

“Everyone will be on the ship tomorrow?”

“All who are leaving, yes.”

“You say your illusions will hold until all are away?” Ned turned to Yennefer, who was sitting up in the bed.

“Yes. Not even the Grand Maester himself should be able to see the illusions for what they are until our people are out.”

“Good.” Ned said, stroking his chin. “They will pass near Dragonstone when they turn north. I need one of the Chosen Men to deliver a letter for me.”

Harper looked apprehensive. “To Dragonstone?” The island fortress of House Targaryen had a sinister repute.

“Tell the captain to hoist my banner as soon as he comes in sight of the island. They may be wary of unexpected visitors. If he is reluctant, offer him whatever it takes. I will give you a letter to give to Perkins, he will place it into the hand of Lord Stannis Baratheon. No one else. Not his steward, nor the captain of his guard, nor his lady wife, but only Lord Stannis himself.”

“As you command, Ned.”

When Harper had left them and Yen had gone to bed with Triss, Ned sat staring at the flame of the candle that burned beside him on the table. For a moment his grief overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing so much as to seek out the godswood, to kneel before the heart tree and pray for the life of Robert Baratheon, who had been more than a brother to him. Men would whisper afterward that Eddard Stark had betrayed his king’s friendship and disinherited his sons; he could only hope that the gods would know better, and that Robert would learn the truth of it in the land beyond the grave.

Ned took out the king’s last letter. A roll of crisp white parchment sealed with golden wax, a few short words and a smear of blood.

He drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his quill in the inkpot. To His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon, he wrote. By the time you receive this letter, your brother Robert, our King these past fifteen years, will be dead. He was savaged by a minotaur whilst hunting in the kingswood...

The letters seemed to writhe and twist on the paper as his hand trailed to a stop. Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime were not men to suffer disgrace meekly; they would fight rather than flee. No doubt Lord Stannis was wary, after the murder of Jon Arryn, but it was imperative that he sail for King’s Landing at once with all his power, before the Lannisters could march.

Ned chose each word with care. When he was done, he signed the letter Eddard Stark, Prince of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and Protector of the Realm, blotted the paper, folded it twice, and melted the sealing wax over the candle flame.

His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would finally be free to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a smile to his face. He wanted to be with the children he left in Winterfell, and the babes his wives grew in their bellies. He wanted to drift off to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arm wrapped tight around his wives.

Ned called for Yen as he was pressing the direwolf seal down into the soft white wax, knowing he would need her.

“This is a perilous hour for all of us. Robert has named me Protector, true enough, but in the eyes of the world, Joffrey is still his son and heir. The queen has two dozen knights and two hundred men who will do whatever she commands... Enough to overwhelm what remains of my own household guard. And for all I know, her brother Jaime may be riding for King’s Landing even as we speak, with a Lannister host at his back.”

“If only we’d sent for those three hundred Winter Wolves sooner, they could still be weeks away.” Yennefer toyed with a long lock of her raven curls. “There is small love lost between Renly and the Lannisters. Bronze Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Loras, Lady Tanda, the Redwyne twins... Each of them has a retinue of knights and sworn swords here at court.”

“Renly has thirty men in his personal guard, the rest even fewer. It is not enough, even if we could be certain that all of them will choose to give us their allegiance. We must have the gold cloaks. The City Watch is two thousand strong, sworn to defend the castle, the city, and the king’s peace.”

“Ah, but when the queen proclaims one king and the Hand another, whose peace do they protect?” She let the silence hang in the air for a moment. “They follow the man who pays them…” His Master of Coin smiled at him. “Or in this case, the woman...”

*******************************************************************************************************

The grey light of dawn was streaming through his window when the thunder of hoofbeats awoke Ned from his brief, exhausted sleep, Yen and Triss on either side of him. He lifted his head from the bed to look down into the yard. Below, men in golden armour and crimson cloaks were making the morning ring to the sound of swords, and riding down mock warriors stuffed with straw. Ned watched Sandor Clegane gallop across the hard-packed ground to drive an iron-tipped lance through a dummy’s head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as Lannister guardsmen joked and cursed.

Is this brave show for my benefit? He wondered. If so, Cersei was a greater fool than he’d imagined. Damn her, he thought, why has the woman not fled? I have given her chance after chance...

The morning was overcast and grim. Ned broke his fast with his daughters. Sansa delicately ate her food with a knife and fork, but Arya wolfed down everything that was set in front of her. “Syrio says we have time for one last lesson before we take ship this evening,” she said. “Can I, Father? All my things are packed.”

“A short lesson, and make certain you leave yourself time to bathe and change. I want you ready to leave before midday, is that understood?”

“Before midday,” Arya said.

“How will we take Sunbeam with us?” Sansa asked. The answer was Ned did not know. It seemed she was too sick to fly, and there was no way to remove a dragon from the Dragonpit without being noticed.

“I’ll look after her until she’s well enough to travel again.” Ned told her. The answer clearly not satisfying Samsa.

“Can I at least say goodbye to her before we go?”

“Yes.”

It was an hour later when Grand Maester Pycelle came to Ned in his solar. His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the great maester’s chain around his neck had become too great to bear. “My lord,” he said, “King Robert is gone. The gods give him rest.”

“No,” Ned answered. “He hated rest. The gods give him love and laughter, and the joy of righteous battle.” It was strange how empty he felt. He had been expecting the visit, and yet with those words, something died within him. He would have given all his titles for the freedom to weep... But he was Robert’s Hand, and the hour he dreaded had come. “Be so good as to summon the members of the council here to my solar,” he told Pycelle. The Tower of the Hand was as secure as he and what remained of his men could make it; he could not say the same for the council chambers.

“My lord?” Pycelle blinked. “Surely the affairs of the kingdom will keep till the morrow, when our grief is not so fresh.”

Ned was quiet but firm. “I fear we must convene at once.”

Pycelle bowed. “As the Hand commands.” He called his servants and sent them running, then gratefully accepted Ned’s offer of a chair and a cup of sweet beer.

Ser Barristan Selmy was the first to answer the summons, immaculate in white cloak and enameled scales. “My lords,” he said, “my place is beside the young king now. Pray give me leave to attend him.”

“Your place is here, Ser Barristan,” Ned told him.

Yennefer was next came next, garbed as ever, in immaculate black and white. “My lords,” she said, smiling at nothing in particular before she turned to Ned. “That little task you set me is accomplished, My Prince.”

Varys entered in a wash of lavender, pink from his bath, his plump face scrubbed and freshly powdered, his soft slippers all but soundless. “The little birds sing a grievous song today,” he said as he seated himself. “The realm weeps. Shall we begin?”

“When Lord Renly arrives,” Ned said.

Varys gave him a sorrowful look. “I fear Lord Renly has left the city.”

“Left the city?” Ned had counted on Renly’s support.

“He took his leave through a postern gate an hour before dawn, accompanied by Ser Loras Tyrell and some fifty retainers,” Varys told them. “When last seen, they were galloping south in some haste, no doubt bound for Storm’s End or Highgarden.”

So much for Renly and his hundred swords. Ned did not like the smell of that, but there was nothing to be done for it. He drew out Robert’s last letter. “The king called me to his side last night and commanded me to record his final words. Lord Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle stood witness as Robert sealed the letter, to be opened by the council after his death. Ser Barristan, if you would be so kind?”

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard examined the paper. “King Robert’s seal, and unbroken.” He opened the letter and read. “Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as regent until the heir comes of age.”

And as it happens, he is of age, Ned reflected, but he did not give voice to the thought. He trusted neither Pycelle nor Varys, and Ser Barristan was honor-bound to protect and defend the boy he thought his new king. The old knight would not abandon Joffrey easily. The need for deceit was a bitter taste in his mouth, but Ned knew he must tread softly here, must keep his counsel and play the game until he was firmly established as regent.

There would be time enough to deal with the succession when Arya and Sansa were safely back in Winterfell, and Stannis had returned to King’s Landing with all his power.

“I would ask this council to confirm me as Lord Protector, as Robert wished,” Ned said, watching their faces, wondering what thoughts hid behind Pycelle’s half-closed eyes and the nervous flutter of Varys’s fingers.

The door opened. Harper stepped into the solar. “Pardon, my lords, the king’s steward insists...”

The royal steward entered and bowed. “Esteemed lords, the king demands the immediate presence of his small council in the throne room.”

Ned had expected Cersei to strike quickly; the summons came as no surprise. “The king is dead,” he said, “but we shall go with you nonetheless. Harper, assemble an escort, if you would.”

Yen gave Ned her arm to help him down the steps. Varys, Pycelle, and Ser Barristan followed close behind. Harper assembled a guard of eight Ice Guard along with Beric and Arthur, the other Chosen Men were strewn about the castle, either protecting his children, or watching over the evacuation of his people. Grey cloaks snapped in the wind as the guardsmen marched them across the yard. There was no Lannister crimson to be seen, but Ned was reassured by the number of gold cloaks visible on the ramparts and at the gates. They had no enhancements at all, but their numbers, along with his own forces would prove more than a match of Cersei’s men.

Janos Slynt met them at the door to the throne room, armored in ornate black-and-gold plate, with a high-crested helm under one arm. The Commander bowed stiffly. His men pushed open the great oaken doors, twenty feet tall and banded with bronze. Ned found himself remembering himself entering the throne room at the end of the Rebellion, in search of Aerys.

The royal steward led them in. “All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” he sang out.

Joffrey waited atop the Iron Throne, much like his father had, his true father. Using his cain to steady himself, Ned walked towards the boy who called himself king. The others followed. The first time he had come this way, the Targaryen dragons had watched from the walls as he forced Jaime Lannister down from the throne. He wondered if Joffrey would step down quite so easily. As Ned walked from the door to the throne, he could not shake the ominous feeling that something was being hidden from him. Something in the corner of his eye…

Five knights of the Kingsguard—all but Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan—were arrayed in a crescent around the base of the throne. They were in full armor, enameled steel from helm to heel, long pale cloaks over their shoulders, shining white shields strapped to their left arms. Cersei Lannister stood behind Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. The queen wore a gown of sea-green silk, trimmed with Myrish lace as pale as foam.

Above them, Joffrey sat amidst the barbs and spikes in a cloth-of-gold doublet and a red satin cape. Sandor Clegane was stationed at the foot of the throne’s steep narrow stair. He wore mail and soot-grey plate and his snarling dog’s-head helm.

Behind the throne, twenty of the Gold Legion waited with longswords hanging from their belts. Crimson cloaks draped their shoulders and golden lions crested their helms. However, all along the walls, in front of Robert’s tapestries with their scenes of hunt and battle, the gold-cloaked ranks of the City Watch stood stiffly to attention, each man’s hand clasped around the haft of an eight-foot-long spear tipped in black iron. They outnumbered the Lannisters more than six to one.

Ned’s leg was irritating him again by the time he stopped. He leaned a hand on his cain as he stood before the throne, letting it take his weight.

Joffrey stood. His red satin cape was patterned in gold thread; fifty roaring lions to one side, fifty prancing stags to the other. “I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation,” the boy proclaimed. “I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors.”

Ned produced Robert’s letter. “Lord Varys, be so kind as to show this to my lady of Lannister.”

The eunuch carried the letter to Cersei. The queen glanced at the words. “Protector of the Realm,” she read. “Is this meant to be your shield? A piece of paper?” She ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.

“Those were the king’s words…” Ser Barristan said, shocked.

“We have a new king now,” Cersei Lannister replied. “Prince Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home.”

“Would that I could,” Ned said grimly. If she was so determined to force the issue here and now, she left him no choice. “Your son has no claim to the throne he sits. Lord Stannis is Robert’s true heir.”

“Liar!” Joffrey screamed, his face reddening.

“Them summon Robert’s hammer.” Ned pointed to Joffrey. “Foebreaker was wielded by Robert, his father and his many grandsires before him. If you are Robert’s son, the hammer should answer to you and only you.”

A quiet murmur went through the court as Joffrey looked to Cersei, both of them silent. Joffrey held out his hand like Robert always did to call the hammer. For a second, Ned wondered if he and Cersei were wrong and he really was Robert’s son. Thankfully, Ned got his answer when the hammer did not come.

“He must have placed some curse on it.” Cersei said, shrilly. “He wants to take the throne for himself. Ser Barristan, seize this traitor.”

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard hesitated. In the blink of an eye he was surrounded by Ice Guard, their blue swords pointing at him.

“And now the treason moves from words to deeds,” Cersei said. “Do you think Ser Barristan stands alone, my lord?” With an ominous rasp of metal on metal, the Hound drew his large longsword. The knights of the Kingsguard and twenty Lannister guardsmen in crimson cloaks moved to support him.

“Kill him!” the boy screamed down from the Iron Throne. “Kill all of them, I command it!”

“You leave me no choice,” Ned told Cersei. He called out to Janos Slynt. “Commander, take the queen and her children into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.”

“Men of the Watch!” Janos Slynt shouted, donning his helm. Over a hundred gold cloaks leveled their spears and closed.

“I want no bloodshed,” Ned told the queen. “Tell your men to lay down their swords, and no one need—”

With a single sharp thrust, the nearest gold cloak drove his spear into the back of one of the Ice Guard, the tip bounced harmlessly of the glowing-blue armour. A shout escaped Ned’s lips as the Ice Guard turned around and struck down the gold cloak who attacked him with one blow, shattering the steel of the man’s armour.

The world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Other gold cloaks were attacking his men, Ned realised they were outnumbered by at least ten to one. Feeling Ice, he summoned the blade to his hand, if this was to be his end, he would take every man he could with him.

Before Ice could reach him, one of the gold cloaks was on him. Ned froze the man solid with a single cold blast. Unsheathing his Valyrian steel dagger, he threw it at another, it’s point burying deep into the man’s face.

His leg was a hinderance to his movement, so Ned formed a shield of ice against a magical attack from a Lannister mage. Hearing the breaking of stone and wood, Ned knew Ice had finally arrived. His family sword cut a bloody swath through the gold cloaks to his hand.

Ned heard a deep war cry and saw Arthur, Beric and Harper fighting through men armoured in gold to get to him. More of the Gold Legion were appearing as if from nowhere.

An illusion, Ned realised. That was why he felt there was something amiss. They had lead him into a trap, and Ned had blindly followed. Now his people would pay dearly for it.

Janos Slynt let out a blood-curdling scream as Yennefer set the man ablaze, balls first, when he attacked her. She then sent three large fireballs directly at Cersei and Joffrey. Ned saw fear in Cersei’s eyes before the fires were snuffed out by a golden ward-shield that their mages cast to protect them.

The Ice Guard were some of the strongest warriors in Westeros, yet even they could not prevail against such numbers. One fell to five of the Gold Legion, their swords rising and falling on his fallen body. Another was being savaged by two trolls and a great-lion.

“The girls!” Ned shouted to Harper, Arthur, Beric and Yen. Two dozen men were pouring between them now, Ned knew there would be no escape for him.

“We won’t leave you!” Beric roared as he cut two men down with one swing of his sword.

“Now!” Ned ordered. He could see tears in Yen’s eyes as she blasted a way for the four of them to flee. He was alone in the throne room now.

“After them!” Cersei shrieked, then looked at Ned cruelly. “And bring me his daughters!”

“NO!” Ned roared as rage enveloped him, he felt his body change and grow. In seconds Ned stood in his wolf-man form, twelve feet tall and full of burning anger.

Ned howled as some men ran away from him and leaped at Cersei, only for the Hound to bury his sword deep in Ned’s gut in mid air, knocking him to the ground. The Hound pulled the sword out of Ned and it began to melt away, his blood dissolving the metal.

A single swipe of his hand sent the Hound flying into one of the columns, cracking it badly. Then three King’s Guard were on him, hacking and slashing. Ned weathered the pain, gripped one by the leg, swinging the screaming man around, using him to batter his brothers away, before ripping him in half.

A hundred of the Gold Legion replaced them, with long spears that burned when they pierced his hide, but Ned fought on.

Mages tried to bind him with magical chains. When that didn’t work, they tried streams of fire, but Ned fought on.

He fought alone against an army, rivers of blood flooded the throne room floor.

Until eventually, Ned fell…

*******************************************************************************************************

“High,” Syrio Forel called out, slashing at her head. Their stick swords clacked as Arya parried. “Left,” he shouted, and his blade came whistling. Hers darted to meet it. The clack made him click his teeth together. “Right,” he said, and “Low,” and “Left,” and “Left” again, faster and faster, moving forward. Arya retreated before him, checking each blow.

“Lunge,” he warned, and when he thrust she sidestepped, swept his blade away, and slashed at his shoulder. She almost touched him, almost, so close it made her grin. A strand of hair dangled in her eyes, limp with sweat. She pushed it away with the back of her hand.

“Left,” Syrio sang out. “Low.” His sword was a blur, and the small hall echoed to the clack clack clack. “Left. Left. High. Left. Right. Left. Low. Left!”

The wooden blade caught her high in the breast, a sudden stinging blow that hurt all the more because it came from the wrong side.

“Ow!” she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lesson makes us better.

Syrio stepped back. “You are dead now.”

Arya made a face. “You cheated,” she said hotly. “You said left and you went right.”

“Just so. And now you are a dead girl.”

“But you lied!”

“My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.”

“I was so,” Arya said. “I watched you every second!”

“Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is time for listening now.”

She followed him over to the wall, where he settled onto a bench, next to where the sword her father gave him lay in it’s scabbard. “Syrio Forel was First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?”

“You were the finest swordsman in the city.”

“Just so, but why? Other men were stronger, faster, younger, why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you now.” He touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. “The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it. Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord’s menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things. On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many bravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. ‘Have you ever seen her like?’ he asked of me. And to him I said, ‘Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,’ and the Sealord laughed, that day I was named the First Sword and given the enhancements that befit the rank.”

Arya screwed up her face. “I don’t understand.”

Syrio clicked his teeth together. “The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said ‘her,’ and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?”

Arya thought about it. “You saw what was there.”

“Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth.”

“Just so,” said Arya, grinning.

Syrio Forel allowed himself a smile. “I am thinking that when we are reaching this Winterfell of yours, it will be time to put this needle in your hand.”

“Yes!” Arya said eagerly. “Wait till I show Jon—”

Behind her the great wooden doors of the Small Hall flew open with a resounding crash. Arya whirled.

A knight of the Kingsguard stood beneath the arch of the door with Lannister men arrayed behind him. He was in full armor, but his visor was up. Arya remembered his droopy eyes and rust-colored whiskers from when he had come to Winterfell with the king: Ser Meryn Trant. The red cloaks wore gold plate armour. “Arya Stark,” the knight said, “come with us, child.”

Arya chewed her lip uncertainly. “What do you want? Where’s Cooper?” The Chosen Man should have been guarding her door.

Ser Meyrn turned to one of his men. “Find him.” He ordered, then turned back to Arya as the man left. “Your father wants to see you.”

Arya took a step forward, but Syrio Forel held her by the arm.

“And why is it that Prince Eddard is sending Lannister men in the place of his own? I am wondering.”

“Mind your place, dancing master,” Ser Meryn said. “This is no concern of yours.”

“My father wouldn’t send you,” Arya said. She snatched up her stick sword. “I don’t have to go with you if I don’t want.”

Ser Meryn Trant ran out of patience. “Take her,” he said to his men. He lowered the visor of his helm.

Three of them started forward, their armour clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart.

Syrio Forel stepped between them, his sword was still in it’s scabbard when it flew to his left hand. “You will be stopping there. Are you men or dogs that you would threaten a child?”

“Out of the way, old man,” one of the red cloaks said.

Syrio’s sword came whistling up and rang against his helm, he hadn’t even removed the scabbard yet. “I am Syrio Forel, and you will now be speaking to me with more respect.”

“Bald bastard.” The man yanked free his longsword. Syrio moved again, blindingly fast. Arya heard a loud crack as the longsword went clattering to the stone floor. “My hand!” the guardsman yelped, cradling his broken fingers.

“You are quick, for a dancing master.” said Ser Meryn.

“You are slow, for a knight.” Syrio replied, cheekily.

“Kill the Braavosi and bring me the girl.” the knight in the white armour commanded.

Three gold men unsheathed their swords. The forth, with the broken fingers, spat and pulled free a dagger with his left hand.

Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together, sliding into his water dancer’s stance, presenting only his side to the foe. “Arya child,” he called out, never looking, never taking his eyes off the Lannisters, “we are done with dancing for the day. Best you are going now. Run to your father.”

Arya did not want to leave him, but he had taught her to do as he said. “Swift as a deer,” she whispered.

“Just so,” said Syrio Forel as the Lannisters closed.

Arya retreated, her own sword stick clutched tightly in her hand. Watching him now, she realized that Syrio had only been toying with her when they dueled. The men came at him from three sides with steel in their hands.

Syrio did not wait for them to reach him, but spun to his left. Arya had never seen a man move as fast. He checked one sword with his own and whirled away from a second. Off balance, the second man lurched into the first. Syrio put a boot to his back and the gold men went down together. The third guard came leaping over them, slashing at the water dancer’s head. Syrio ducked under his blade and thrust upward into the eye-slit of his helmet. The man fell screaming as blood welled from underneath his helm.

The fallen men were getting up. Syrio kicked one in the helmet stomped on the knee of another, breaking it. The dagger man stabbed at him. Syrio caught the thrust in the hilt of his sword and shattered the man’s kneecap with another kick.

Four men were down, dead, or dying by the time Arya reached the back door that opened to another corridor. She heard Ser Meryn Trant curse. “Bloody oafs,” he swore, drawing his longsword from its scabbard.

Syrio Forel resumed his stance and clicked his teeth together. Ser Meryn slashed at him angrily. Syrio sidestepped his cut and struck him on the back of the helmet with his scabbarded blade. The King’s Guard grunted as he advanced against Syrio, backing him into a corner.

“I admit, that you are very strong.” Syrio smiled as Ser Meryn advanced. “Stronger even than I.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Ser Meryn hacked away, the metal of his sword clacking against Syrio’s scabbard.

“Because I know something you don’t know.” Syrio sang as Ser Meryn grabbed the scabbard, holding it in place as he raised his sword high.

“What’s that then?”

“I am not left-handed.”

Syrio then moved with speed and grace that Arya had only seen from her uncle Arthur. Her dancing master ducked under Ser Meryn’s elbow, twisting around him as he finally pulled his sword from it’s sheath with his right hand.

Ser Meryn yelled as he turned and slashed at Syrio, who ducked under the blow, thrusting his very thin blade of pure Uru right there, into the tiny gap under Ser Meryn’s helmet.

The metal sang as the blade slid against it, right through Ser Meryn’s head.

The two men stayed still for a few moments. Then Syrio withdrew his blade as blood started the flow from the King’s Guard’s helmet. Ser Meryn fell to his knees, then slumped to the floor, dead.

“I was only gone for a piss.” Cooper came through the open door, covered in the blood of other men.

“Cooper!” She ran into her guards arms, he gripped her tight. “What’s happening? Where’s father?” She asked when she pulled away.

“The Lannisters sent men to take her.” Syrio told Cooper as he picked up his scabbard.

“Then you protected her when I did not.” Cooper nodded at Syrio in thanks before stroking his chin, thoughtfully. “Your father would want us to take you to the ship.” He finally said. “Come.”

“What about father and Sansa?” Arya asked.

“Harris’ll do the same thing. Come.” Cooper nocked an arrow to his bow.

“Arya!” Uncle Arthur called as he ran into the hall, somehow covered in even more blood that Cooper, Dawn glowing brightly in his hand. “To the ship. Now!” He ordered. “Beric’s collecting Sansa. Quickly, run!”

*******************************************************************************************************

Sansa was furious as she stormed out of the Red Keep’s bath houses with Myrcella calling after her. She couldn’t believe her brothers would do such a thing. That was a lie. This was exactly the kind of thing they always did.

The South had been a great boon to Sansa, as for the first time since she had taken an interest in girls, her older siblings weren’t there to get to them first. Taking Marg and her cousins to bed had been amazing, and even more amazing was the fact that she had been the first Stark to fuck them.

Back in Winterfell, all the girls she had wanted to take to bed had already been with both her older brothers and older sister, it was maddening. King’s Landing had been an excellent hunting ground for Sansa and she had just been in the process of claiming the finest game around, Princess Myrcella.

She absolutely could not leave King’s Landing without having tasted the Baratheon Princess. So Sansa had invited Myrcella to bathe together in the Red Keep’s bathhouses, where she had worked her seduction. Soon enough, the Princess was mewling like a kitten as Sansa expertly licked her cunt. It had all been going so well, until Myrcella moaned that she was even better at eating cunt than Jon.

Of course I am.

That had put a swift end to their liaison.

Sansa was in a mood to tell her father what both of her brothers had done. It would serve them right for beating her to the punch… Again.

“Done so soon, Princess?” Harris chuckled, looking up from the small book of poetry she had given him as he stood from the bench he had been sitting on. Harris was the Chosen Man Sansa liked best as they shared an interest in books and stories, often exchanging tales and discussing them at length. Sansa just huffed as she walked past him. “I know that look…”

“Not one word.” She snapped, perhaps a little too harshly. But he was laughing at her misfortune, so he deserved it. Harris fell in step behind her, she could sense his smirk. “Yes. Fine!” Sansa finally admitted. “Must those two walking cocks have every pretty girl within ten miles of them!?”

She was about to start ranting about the unfairness of it all before Harris stopped her, with his hand on her arm, the other taking his bow off his shoulder.

“Can you hear it?” He asked her.

“What?”

“Shhh. Listen.”

So Sansa did, she had the enhanced hearing of the the Starks who chose to become a skinchanger. At first she heard nothing, then she could hear it. The sound of metal clashing together.

“That’s just men practicing in the yard…?” It was more a question than a statement.

“That sounds different.” Harris said, sagely. “Those blades have edges.” He removed an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. “We make for the Tower of the Hand.” He said. “Be quick, be quiet, stay low and stay behind me.”

Sansa did as she was told, though her mind was whirling with questions, questions she kept to herself as Harris likely knew as much as she did. They got to a corner in the corridor, Harris carefully looked around, before judging it was safe. They were within arms reach of the door when it opened, three men in golden armour walked through, with blood on their golden blades.

“There she is.” One of them said. “Give her here, and we might not-.”

Between one heartbeat and the next, Harris shot an arrow through the first man’s skull.

The next man yelled, lunging forward, swinging his sword down at Harris. He caught the hilt with his bow, in an instant, he nocked another arrow, lifted his bow and sent the arrow flying through the second man’s throat, into the chest of the third.

Both men hit the floor at the same time.

“Gods…” Sansa whispered, stunned. She’d seen Harris weeping when he read the great love story of Jeyne Fair-oak and Brandon ‘the Beloved’ Stark, yet he had just killed three men in almost as many moments, right in front of her.

“Princess, now is not the time freeze.” Harris said, picking a bow and quiver full of arrows one of them had been carrying, handing both to her.

“You know how to use this.” He wasn’t asking.

“But i’ve never…” Killed anyone.

“I’m sorry, Princess, but I don’t think the Lannisters care.”

Sansa took the quiver with the belt, tying it around her dress. She realised she was getting blood all over her nice, new clothes. Then she took the bow, it was old and brown, nothing like her weirwood bow. That was likely in the hold of their ship, far from reach.

They both had arrows at the ready when they heard running through the slightly open door. Words could not describe how glad she was to see that the footsteps belonged to her uncle Beric. She crashed into his arms like she was ten years old again.

“What’s happening? Where’s father? Arya?” She asked.

“The Lannisters are taking the throne.” He said. “Your father sent me and Arthur to get you and your sister, and take you to the ship.”

“What about father?”

“He’ll be waiting for us...” He said, looking at Harris. “Come, we must hurry.”

It was chaos when Sansa walked into the yard. She saw Yennefer shooting lightning at what had been Lannister mages, nursing an wound on her side. Harper and Hagman were both stomping on a King’s Guard’s broken body as it lay on the cobbles beside Yennefer. There was a shield wall of Ice Guard holding off what looked like City Watchmen in one of the many entrances to the yard, but Sansa could not see them properly.

“We’ve got one!” Beric shouted, as they ran into the yard. “Were’s the little one?”

“She’s not here yet!” Harper shouted, now aiming his bow at Lannister men on the walls of the gate, loosing his arrow.

“And we’ll hold the yard until she is.” Yennefer said, leaning on one of the carts, looking pale. “Sansa, get in the cart.” She ordered. “We’ll take you and Arya straight to the ship.”

“You’re hurt.” Was all Sansa could manage as she rushed over to Yennefer, Beric and Harris joining the fighting.

“I’ll manage.”

“Sansa!” Sansa turned when she heard her little sister scream her name. Her heart leapt for joy when her scruffy sister came running into her arms, Arya’s dancing master and Cooper were quick behind her.

“Arya!” She said.

“We have them, lets go!” Yennefer yelled, the Chosen Men and Ice Guard began to retreat to the carts.

“Snowflake’s still in his cage, we can’t leave him.” Arya said, as she got on the cart.

“We already let the bird out, it flew away.” Yennefer informed her. “Your father told us to look after you, so that’s what we’e going to do.”

They all heard a loud crash when three armoured bull-trolls broke into the yard, tackling Beric into a big stone wall. They heard a loud crunch and Beric cried out.

“Beric!” Sansa shouted, as men rushed to help him against the beasts.

Beric killed one, Arthur another, the Ice Guard getting the last. The impact had left Beric’s right shoulder broken.

“Can you fight?” Arthur asked, helping Beric to his unsteady feet, the troll guts sliding off him.

“Any Witcher worth his salt can fight with both hands.” Beric grunted in pain.

A window from a few floors up broke as a City Watchman was pushed out of it, with Dorrk yelling like a madman as he rode the man to the ground, landing on him and smashing his metal helm in with his forge hammer.

“Duvvelsheyss!” The dwarf swore in the Old Tongue as he kicked the dead man in the chest.

“Dorrk!” Yennefer shouted. “Get your hairy arse into one of the carts before we leave you behind!” He did so, as quickly as a dwarf could manage.

“Don’t leave us!” They all heard a scared voice shouting from one of the doorways, before Jeyne Poole staggered through, her father leaning on her shoulder as he bled from a wound.

“Jeyne!” Sansa shouted. “Help her.”

Two of the Ice Guard ran over and picked up Vayon Poole, rushing him onto a cart, with Jeyne coming quick after him.

“You’ll be fine, Vayon.” Hagman said, checking over her father’s steward. “It’s not that deep.”

They were all in the carts now, save for some of the Ice Guard. There were ten too many of them…

“There’s not enough room.” A lieutenant said, grimly, before turning to his men. “We will cover their retreat.” Was all he said to them.

“Gods be with you, brother...” Harper said, before he took of the reins on one cart, Hagman taking the other, both urging them on. Sansa was looking back at her father’s men as they sped away.

“They’re going to die…” Arya said beside her. She was right. All Sansa could do was take her little sister in her arms and hold her.

“Shield wall!” The lieutenant shouted as men glad in gold armour poured into the yard. She didn’t even know his name. He was dying for her, and she didn’t even know his name. Their carts rounded a corner and Sansa could see the gates no more.

They rode hard and fast through the empty, cobbled streets of King’s Landing. The City Watch must have cleared the streets so they would be easy to find. Before long, riders with spears and swords came after them.

The Chosen men loosed all the arrows they had, Sansa lost count of how many men they felled, but then they ran out of arrows. Beric’s broken shoulder was probably worse than it seemed as he was slumped down in the cart. Yennefer was looking paler and paler by the minute. Sansa was beginning to lose hope, when her uncle Arthur gave her a sad smile, then leapt from the back of his cart, swinging Dawn in a wide arc, cutting one horse and his rider in two, then pivoting on his heel to strike down another.

“Arthur!” She shouted as they raced away from him.

“We have to go back!” Arya raised her voice.

“He’s doing this so we can escape. We’re not going back…” Yennefer panted, her wound and the excessive use of magic had clearly drained her.

Sansa looked back to Arthur as he fought. There was a moment where her uncle Arthur single-handedly held back the horde of men that was following them. Where he looked untouchable, unkillable. All men fell before him, he gave up not an inch of ground.

He was half a god, shining bright with the light of the heavens, Dawn blazing like the rising sun in his hand. Sansa had to look away, covering her eyes from the blinding light, before they turned another corner and her uncle was gone too.

They were getting closer to the harbour, to their ship. Where they had more men. Then they rounded a corner and were met with a wall of golden shields and spears down the street. Lannister men had blocked the way. Their two carts came to a sudden halt.

“There’s no way through.” Harper said.

“We can’t go back.” Harris rose up, taking his ice sword in hand.

“There another way?” Hagman asked.

“I can blast a hole.” Yennefer panted, getting to her feet on the cart, her dark hair slightly matted with sweat, before her legs gave out and she fell to the floor of the cart.

Before they could say more, they heard a loud eagle’s cry. A white Great-Eagle dived down from the sky towards the Lannister men.

“Snowflake!” Sansa shouted, she knew her father’s bird anywhere.

“One eagle isn’t going to break their line.” Harper grimaced as he urged the horses forward. “But this could be the best chance we have.”

Then Sansa heard it.

“Stop!” She ordered. Both carts stopped, Harper looked back at her in confusion. “Listen.”

Something big was approaching them. Something very big. Sansa only knew of one thing that big in King’s Landing. The Lannister men seemed to hear it too.

Before long, the house next to them exploded as her father’s dragon burst through it, stumbling into the houses on the other side of the street, crushing the Lannister men beneath her weight. Sunbeam came just after her mother, chomping up what men were left.

“That bird must have broken them out!” Harper laughed, before urging the horses forward again.

Neither of the dragons were strong enough to fly, so they stumbled and ran after the carts, crashing through buildings and people in their path. Both the dragons roared triumphantly as they crushed their foes. Sansa wished Sunbeam was well enough to fly, then she would have been able to take Arya and herself to safety.

Eventually, they got to the edge of the city near the harbour. The carts turned down a slope where they could see all the ships, with banners flapping in the wind. Snowsong and Sunbeam launched themselves off the edge of the slope, gliding into the ships flying Lannister banners, attacking them with all their might.

They’re making sure we can’t be followed. Sansa realised.

When their ship was in sight, Sansa gasped. Perkins, Isiah and Triss were fighting alongside Ice Guard and Winter Wolves against Gold Legionnaires on the docks as they were trying to take the ship.

“Get off here.” Harper said. “I’ve got a plan.”

They all dismounted the carts except Harper and Hagman, who charged them at full speed into the backs of the Lannister men.

With a charge in the rear, Snowflake attacking from above and a push from the front, the Gold Legion were quickly dealt with. They made haste towards the ship, Sansa felt she could finally breath again, her father would be there to hold them. They were rushing onto the deck when she heard what Triss asked Harper. “Where’re Ned and Arthur?” The world froze.

“What does she mean?” “Where’s father?” Sansa and her sister asked together.

“He’s not coming.” Was all Harper said as he pushed them onto the ship.

“What!?!” “No!” They both shouted.

“We can’t just leave him!” Sansa shrieked.

“He told us to get you safe.” Was all Harper said.

Arya made a dash to get back onto the docks, her dancing master caught her.

“Syrio let me go!” She pleaded. “Please!” Sansa remembered Arya was not even four and ten yet. “Father!” She screamed, sobbing.

“He’s extremely valuable,” Harper tried to reassure her. “They’ll take him prisoner… He knew that when he told us to go protect you.”

“Let’s get under way.” Triss said solemnly, turning to tend to Yennefer’s wound, leaving Sansa standing on the deck as people busied themselves around her.

The ship pulled away from the dock and out into the harbour. Snowsong and Sunbeam had sunk almost every other ship there, whether they were Lannister ships or not.

Both dragons threw themselves into the sea, swimming after their ship. Sunbeam stuck her head out of the water and rested her head on one side of the ship, Snowsong on the other. Sansa was numb, she was stroking her dragon’s jaw, pretending they were all back in Winterfell together when a deafening screech filled the air.

She looked up in horror and saw Joffrey was riding his dragon straight towards them. People were shouting and running around on the ship. Sansa wondered why. It wasn’t like there was anywhere for them to run to.

Sunbeam and Snowsong both groaned as they tried to find the strength to fight on, failing. Sansa knew how they felt.

Before Joffrey could get any closer to them, Snowflake dive-bombed the dragon from above. The white Great-Eagle was a fearsome beast, but the dragon was nearly four times bigger. Sansa knew Joffrey had told her it’s name, once. She either wasn’t listening then, or didn’t care enough to commit it to memory.

All on the ship watched and prayed. Prayed to every god they knew that the eagle could save them.

“You should get below deck, Princess.” Perkins put a hand on her shoulder.

“No.” Harper said, sadly. “If he burns the ship, we’ll be needing to jump off.”

The dragon was much bigger, yet Snowflake was much more nimble, dancing around the dragon’s snapping jaws and gouts of flame. The eagle would fly away from the dragon until Joffrey turned back to the ship, then Snowflake would attack from above with his gripping talons. Always going for the back of the neck, either to get Joffrey, or get a good enough grip on the young dragon to break it’s neck.

“Hagman, can you hit it from here?” She heard Triss ask.

“No.” Was the answer. Even then, what good was one arrow against a dragon?

Snowflake was nimbly dancing around Joffrey’s dragon again, until he wasn’t.

Sansa barely felt the tears running down her face as she watched the dragon’s jaws clamp down on Snowflake’s white wing, then start to shake the bird violently. She heard all breath leave the ship in one long sigh as a cloud of bloodstained feathers exploded from the once faithful companion to her father.

“Look away, child.” Hagman told her.

But Sansa did not. She could not bring herself to cry out when Snowflake’s wing was torn off, nor when his body hit the harbour waters. She was numb. The dragon roared in victory, before turning back to the ship.

“If you ever wanted to prove what a marksman you are, now would be the time.” Harper said, handing Hagman an arrow. He nocked it as Sansa watched the dragon flying closer, it’s jaws opening, showing the furnace that was it’s gullet.

Hagman stilled, his mouth uttering a silent prayer.

The dragon was so close, Sansa could make out the features of Joffrey’s laughing face. Hagman closed his eyes, let out all his breath, then released his arrow. It sailed through the air, swift and true.

Sansa closed her eyes, accepting that Joffrey would burn them all. Yet the fire did not come, only the loud screech of a dragon in pain and a great roaring cheer from the ship.

Sansa open her eyes to see that Hagman had managed to hit Joffrey’s dragon in the eye, it was shaking it’s head from side to side in anguish. Joffrey was hanging on for dear life as the dragon turned and flew back to the city.

She turned to see people surrounding and congratulating a grumpy looking Hagman.

“I was aiming for the little shit riding the dragon.” He grumbled.

Sansa began to walk below deck, to her sister and to a bed.