Eddard felt his situation in the darkness had improved a little. He had not been moved to another cell, but the straw had been replaced with a low bed covered in down, and every day a jailer came to carry away his slop bucket. Still, there were no windows, and that was the hardest thing to bear.
Although the jailers did not know what important figure they were holding, they made sure he never lacked food or water. Every so often, Eddard was even allowed a glimpse of light, lest too long in the darkness ruin his eyes.
Eddard knew the walls around him were pale red, with patches of saltpeter showing through. The gray wooden door was made from splintered planks and studded with iron nails. The dungeon lay beneath the Red Keep, though he had no idea how deep. Everyone knew the story of Cruel Maegor, who had killed every craftsman who built his castle so that none of its secrets could be revealed.
Aside from that, Eddard was little different from a dead man. The jailers brought food and water, but never spoke a word to him, nor did they know who he was. His food and daily needs were barely tolerable, but he knew nothing of the world beyond the door. He was only an imprisoned wolf. How much time had passed, and how quickly, he could judge only by the rhythm of his meals and the moments when the door opened.
"Robert once told me, 'When the king feasts, the Hand of the King shits.' Now the king is dead, and the Hand of the King is buried with him," Eddard thought. He ran his hand over the cold wall, as if feeling the chill of Winterfell itself. In the crypts, the Kings in the North watched him with cold stone eyes. He remembered the faces of his brother and sister. Poor Starks. Now death had come for him.
"I die for my loyalty to you, Robert. You fool. You got our Lord Jon killed, you got yourself killed, and now you will get me killed too. But I was a fool as well. I investigated too slowly, found no clear trail, and I got you killed too." Eddard blamed the king's carelessness. King's Landing had fallen into such chaos, and Robert had not even been able to control his own wife. He thought of Cersei's face too, of that golden hair shining like sunlight as it mocked him, and of the Lioness laughing aloud. "I won this Game of Thrones, Lord Eddard. You lost, and losing means death."
Eddard also thought of Catelyn's urging and recklessness. He should never have gone south and become entangled in this chaos, but Catelyn, so eager for the crowns women wore, had pressed him again and again to head south, then rushed to kidnap the Imp. And then there had been Lysa's letter, like deadly poison, luring him onward. He had loved too deeply, and loved too foolishly. Yet in the end, Eddard cursed himself. His own stupidity had dragged the North into bloodshed and defeat. "You fool. You are a damned fool."
What was happening outside? The thought of his two daughters, of Robb and Catelyn, set his heart burning with anxiety. At such a time, he knew he was a Stark of Winterfell, and grief and fury brewed inside him. He should never have come to King's Landing, this wretched, chaotic place.
Eddard no longer knew night from day. Here, it was always night. More than anything, he wanted to return to Winterfell, to be with his children and Catelyn. At this very moment, he did not know where they were or what they were doing. Nor did he know whether this body of his could ever charge into battle again.
Eddard resolved to give himself some hope. Though no one spoke to him, he could still think in the darkness, and he resolved to keep fighting. Many who opposed the Lannisters were still unharmed. The King's bastard had always been brave and fierce in battle. The King's two younger brothers had also escaped King's Landing, and would gather armies at Myr, Dragonstone, and Storm's End. Would Alyn, whom he had sent away, return to his side with the other guards? And Catelyn. Once she received the news, she would call the lords of the North to rise, and the lords of the Riverlands and the Vale of Arryn would fight at their side.
Footsteps came from the corridor. Half asleep and half awake, Eddard finally heard the heavy wooden door creak open. Sudden light poured in, and he stared at it greedily.
A new jailer stepped forward. This one was short and stout, wearing a half-length leather cloak and a spiked steel helm.
"Lord Eddard, drink quickly," the jailer said.
Eddard soon recognized the familiar voice. It was Varys. His strength had still not fully returned. The Lannisters allowed him to eat, but never enough to leave him full.
Eddard touched Varys's face. The Eunuch's cheeks had once again sprouted coarse black stubble, making him look especially rough. Varys had transformed completely, reeking of cheap wine and sweat from head to toe, becoming a bearded jailer. He had appeared like this before, so Eddard was not surprised. The man truly was a magician, endlessly skilled in strange disguises.
"Magician, you've appeared again." Eddard took the wineskin and drank. He had never loved wine, but this time he drank greedily. As for whether it was poison, Eddard no longer feared it. The wine was surprisingly clear and sweet.
"This wine is rather good."
"You look well enough. After all, you are the Queen's most valuable bargaining chip."
"My daughters."
"Your elder daughter is still Joff's betrothed, though now she is a noble prisoner in the Red Keep, and she witnessed her father's gruesome death. Your younger daughter has still not appeared. That may be a mercy from the gods. You should know that the King hates her and your bastard most of all."
"The King. The Queen."
"You are very lucky," Varys said with a smile. "Still, I admire your backbone. If you had truly yielded as I advised, your head would be gone by now."
"What?" Eddard asked in confusion.
"It is a long story," Varys replied. "You refused to lower your head, but the Queen Dowager and the King needed a Great Lord Eddard who would bow and confess. And so..."
"So you found someone to take my place?"
"Yes." Varys nodded. "A Northerner caught stealing in King's Landing. No home, no family, and he looked very much like you. With just a little work from us, so long as he kept his mouth shut, he made a perfect Stark. The scene was chaotic anyway, with plenty of guards on the platform, and you have rarely been to King's Landing. As long as he agreed to help us with the performance, I promised him a jug of golden wine afterward. The boy had never tasted golden wine before. Poor folk are always like that. They will give up their sons, or their own lives, for wine. In any case, all he had to do was repent on the platform. What harm could that do? He was a criminal as well. North, King's Landing, or across the sea, it was all the same to him. Unfortunately, he never got to drink it. The King ordered his head cut off, and so Lord 'Eddard' died, executed for treason."
Eddard fell into heavy silence. His refusal had saved his life instead. Was that good or bad?
"So I am dead, then?" Eddard said hoarsely. He was still alive, but before the hundreds of thousands in King's Landing, he had already died.
"Not quite. The Queen has finally learned just how mad Joff can be, so for now, you are safe. The plan was flawless. At the Great Sept of Baelor, 'Great Lord Eddard' would confess in public, declare that the King's will was something you fabricated, announce that you, the Hand of the King, were a traitor, and admit that you coveted the regency and conspired with the Little Blacksmith. Then Joff would have you take the black. The lion and the wolf would reconcile, and we would choose a day to send you back. As long as your son was willing to swear loyalty to the Iron Throne, you could return to Winterfell whenever you wished. An oath cannot be changed again and again. Who could have expected the crown to turn a man into a madman? And Joff has always been arrogant. He cut off a wolf's head in public. In all the histories I know, I have never heard of such a bloody-minded king. Now he has offended not only the North, but the Church as well."
Eddard was at a loss. "But I am still alive. Once this news spreads, Robb and Catelyn will surely raise their banners."
"That is exactly what I wished to tell you, my good lord." Varys looked at Eddard. "War has already broken out everywhere, and far faster than you imagined. That means your value has not fallen. It has risen."
"Robb? Has Robb marched on King's Landing?" A spark of hope flared in Eddard's heart.
"You are too optimistic, Lord. If your noble son were truly outside the walls of King's Landing, you would already have been sent away," Varys replied.
"Gendry and Robb are only children."
"In this age, even children must go to war."
"But though it is not Robb, it does have something to do with you. It is Robert's eldest son. The Lannisters call him Ambitious Gendry and Black-Hearted Gendry, but that Little Blacksmith is truly unstoppable in battle. Some are already calling him the Storm of Triumph. At the moment, he is in the limelight. He has broken the siege of Riverrun, cut off the Kingslayer's hand, and killed the Old Weasel while he was at it. By now, he may already be marching south with your son to fight Lord Tywin to the death."
"Then can you help me send a letter?" Hope rose in Eddard's heart. Were the Lannisters close to finished? Though he despised the Kingslayer, he knew the man had reason to be arrogant. He was one of the greatest swordsmen of the age. If Gendry could defeat Jaime, then he possessed a strength that could make the Lannisters afraid.
"That is unlikely," Varys said. "It depends on what the letter says. Once you've written it, I will read it, and whether it is sent will be entirely up to me. Besides, I came to warn you about something else."
"What?"
"Peace, Lord Eddard. If anyone in King's Landing still loves peace, it is me. Only my soul sincerely longs for peace. I saved King Robert from his enemies more than once. Now, what I ask for is peace for the realm."
"How very merciful of you," Eddard said mockingly. If there was one honest man left in King's Landing, it certainly was not Varys.
"Never mind that. I came to urge you to think carefully. If you are willing to truly repent, leaving will only be a matter of time. All you need do is admit the will was false, and persuade the North to stop fighting."
"That is impossible." Eddard looked at Varys, his voice hoarse. "I will not betray Robert. I will not betray my friend."
"Nothing is impossible. Did Robert not betray you?" Varys smiled faintly. "As I see it, Robert betrayed you, betrayed Lord Jon, and betrayed every soldier who died for him in Robert's Rebellion. He betrayed the realm. You forged this kingdom with blood and sweat, but what was the king? The king thought only of whores, hunting, and bedding women. A whoremonger king."
"The gods may forgive Robert," Eddard said. Or perhaps they would not forgive that fool. The peace he had brought had only been a surface calm, and now he had left behind the greatest war of all.
"You were foolish as well, my lord. Had you pretended to cooperate with Cersei, pretended to support Joff's ascension, or told the king of your plans beforehand..."
"May the gods forgive me too," Eddard sighed, thinking of his own hesitation and failure to grasp the larger picture.
"But not all of this can be blamed on you and the King. House Lannister would have made sure the King's death came as an accident. If not a boar, then perhaps a stray arrow, a heavy blow in a tourney, or a viper. The King had become harder and harder to control, and his two brothers were both ambitious. They had to act first, then deal with the other two afterward."
"I... I did not think that far." Eddard sighed. King's Landing was a city of betrayal. The Old Gods did not protect the Starks here.
"Lord Eddard, think about your situation. Do you truly believe Robert's son will come to save you? Perhaps he has heard the news and is pretending he has not. No king wants a Regent over him, and what benefit would there be in saving you? As long as you and Sansa are truly dead, the will becomes beyond dispute, and your son Robb will continue serving him. Just as you once served Robb."
"What?" Eddard was startled, but after a moment of thought, he said, "Perhaps a dead Stark is more useful than a living one."
"You are mistaken, Lord Eddard. The most frightening thing in the world is a man who is not only unmatched in courage, but dark and calculating as well. Your son may be brave, but before this man, he is a poor little lamb." Varys smiled faintly. "What I am about to reveal to you is the greatest schemer in the Known world: the King's bastard. A bastard is the product of desire and lies. They grow faster than other children, with debauchery and betrayal flowing in their blood." Varys spoke smoothly and at length.
"He is still a child," Eddard said.
"Oh, a child who commands a great army, wins every battle, and is ambitious and ruthless besides. Do you think Gendry does not know the truth about the King's children? Do you know why he fled King's Landing in such haste, how he won Daenerys's love, and how he drove the poor Beggar King to his death? He is a hidden scorpion, a viper lying in wait. If he does not love his own father, do you think he will love you, Lord Eddard? Think about it. You do not understand him at all. He loves only power, and like Littlefinger, he will use any means to get it." Varys watched Eddard, hoping to draw something useful from his face.
"What you're saying is all coincidence. Like the Conqueror, like Robert, they simply held the fortune of an age in their hands."
"I hope you are right. But when a king rises, bones pile up beneath him. If I were him, I would most want the Lannisters to kill you and Sansa, binding House Stark completely to my battlefield. Even if the Queen Dowager spares your lives, you will still die under mysterious circumstances."
"Is that your idea, or someone else's?"
"It hardly matters, Lord Eddard," Varys said. "The Queen Dowager does fear you, but there are many others she hates more right now. The Three Storms are the ones she loathes most. That bastard cut off her beloved brother's hand, Lady Lysa commands a great army, and House Martell still has its own grudge against the Lannisters. House Martell will not forget the poor Princess and her child. Young Robb's forces are no longer much to speak of. But what could be more precious than restoring peace? Besides, do you think the Little Blacksmith can keep winning forever? Lord Tywin will soon have Lys and Volantis moving as well. Sooner or later, he will have to return to his Myr. Since that is so, why not let peace come back? As long as you return to the North, what does that king matter to you?"
"But I made Robert a promise," Eddard said hoarsely.
"As I said, King Robert betrayed you utterly. The king is dead, and he left you mired in the mess. Why not think of yourself for once? The Queen Dowager does not hate the Starks most. She hates the Three Storms most, and what she worries about most is her own children. Stannis is an iron gauntlet, Renly is a silk glove, and the Little Blacksmith is both of them together. I once thought Stannis was the most fearsome of them, a fine commander, merciless, and unbendingly just. But now an even harder one has appeared, and you have just given the Little Blacksmith the iron backing of legitimacy. There is no one in the world more terrifying than such a man, brave beyond compare like King Robert, and as ruthless as Littlefinger. All three of them are gathering men and horses. While the Queen Dowager is desperate for the North to turn back, give her a little time and strength. Let Lord Tywin deal with the Little Blacksmith, and let the Queen Dowager deal with Stannis."
"But the throne should belong to Robert's lawful heir. The throne is his," Eddard said.
"You truly are kind-hearted, willing to serve those who want you dead. Robert and his son both treated you this way, bound you to their war chariot, and still you go willingly. Think of poor Lady Sansa. How many times has she begged for mercy on your behalf?"
"I cannot serve Cersei." Eddard looked at Varys, his heart hard as iron. The man was indeed silver-tongued, but this seemed only another turn of the same old wheel.
"You should serve the king. Have your son lay down his arms, honor Joffrey as king, and denounce the Three Storms as the true rebels, faithless and ungrateful," Varys said.
"Who are you? Who do you truly serve?"
Varys smiled faintly. "I serve the realm. And the realm needs peace. Think on it, my lord. The Queen Dowager will likely come to see you as well."
"Then what use are my oaths?" Eddard said. "I am no jester. I swore an oath to my old friend. I am not an empty suit of armor with no man inside."
"So your daughter means nothing to you either?" Varys asked. "I remember Rhaegar's daughter. Such a lovely little girl. In the Game of Thrones, why is it always the children who suffer? Today I bring you wine. The next visitor may bring you a pardon and fine food, or perhaps Lady Sansa's red-haired head."
"Shut your mouth and get out!" Eddard roared, tears filling his eyes. Next time, would they bring him Sansa's head?
Perhaps Sansa begging for mercy. But he could not forget Robert's eyes.
"Hmph. Lord Hand, it seems you alone must choose your fate." Varys withdrew and left.
Eddard felt the wine rise in him. He could no longer tell black robes from dreams, and he sank back onto the bed in a daze.
In the darkness, memories crept quietly over him, vivid as visions. That year was the "False Spring," and Eddard was eighteen again, descending from The Eyrie with Jon and Robert, bound for Harrenhal and the tournament there.
Eddard saw green grass and smelled pollen on the wind. Warm days, cool nights, the sweet scent of wine. He remembered Brandon's smile, remembered Robert's savage strength in the melee, remembered him laughing as he struck left and right, knocking one opponent after another from the saddle. He also remembered the golden-haired youth in white scale armor, Jaime Lannister, kneeling on the grass before the king's pavilion and swearing to protect King Aerys. Once the oath was spoken, Ser Oswell Whent helped Jaime to his feet, and Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and known as the White Bull, personally fastened the snow-white cloak of the Kingsguard around his shoulders. All six White Knights were present to welcome their newest brother.
The tournament lasted ten days, but in the crucial jousts, Rhaegar Targaryen alone stole all the glory. The Crown Prince wore the same armor he would wear on the day he died in battle: gleaming black plate, with a three-headed dragon of rubies set across his chest, the sigil of his house. He charged on horseback with a crimson ribbon streaming behind him, and no lance could touch him. He unhorsed Brandon, and Bronze Yohn Royce as well. Even Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was no exception.
When the Crown Prince defeated Ser Barristan in the final tilt, circled the field, and prepared to receive the victor's crown, Robert was still locked in his last struggle with Jon and old Lord Hunter. Eddard remembered Rhaegar Targaryen riding past his wife, Princess Elia of House Martell of Dorne, and placing the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty in Lyanna's lap. He still remembered the moment every smile in the crowd vanished. It was a crown woven from winter roses, blue as frost.
Eddard reached out for the crown of flowers, but thorns were hidden beneath the pale blue petals. Sharp, cruel thorns tore his skin, and he watched blood trickle slowly down his fingers.
"Eddard, promise me," his sister whispered from her bed of blood. In life, she had loved the scent of winter roses most.
Then the scene changed again. Sansa was begging him over and over, while the White Knights tore at his daughter's clothes and beat her with whips and sword sheaths. Tears blurred her eyes.
No.
Eddard woke with a start. Darkness surrounded him, and tears spilled out once more.
Gods, please save me. Gods above, I have made enough mistakes already. Look at what I have sacrificed for my oaths.