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Part 2 of Finished fic
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2017-04-17
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2017-06-14
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Heart of Darkness

Summary:

Lord Eddard Stark, uncle and Hand of King Aegon VI, has many regrets, but none shame him as much as what he did to the Lion of Lannister. He should have taken his head or sent him to the Wall. That would have been the honorable thing to do. If only he could blame what he did on the circumstances: the need to appease Dorne, the demands of angry King's Landers for vengeance. Oh sure, the Dornish pressured him alright, and the survivors of the Sack clamored for blood. But he knows the choice was his and his alone.

Fills two old ASoIaF Kink Meme prompts (see notes for details)

Notes:

Combines two prompts and takes them a notch darker:

1) Tywin Lannister: Miscalculation. From a purely political point of view, it had been a smart move. The Targaryens were on the out, and at that point helping speed up the process was better for everyone. Murdering the royal family was simply expediting what would need to be done anyway and would hopefully earn the Lannisters their new place in the new order of things. He was not expecting for Robert Baratheon to suddenly and unexpectedly choke to death on a sharp shard of stray bone in his meat. No one was expecting Eddard Stark to return from Dorne with the only surviving son a Rhaegar Targaryen. Suddenly Tywin finds himself in the unfamiliar position of having made a very big mistake. Because Eddard Stark now sits on the Iron Throne as regent for a king still in swaddling clothes, and he is not thankful for what Tywin has done. Not at all.

2) Any male, public punishment (Any/others) tw:non-con, humiliation. Any male character - put in the stocks in the public place; bonus for sexual humilation (like being naked/forced into whores dress)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

His chest rattled with every breath he took, and no matter how many blankets they piled on top of him, he still felt cold. He would eat a spoonful of gruel when they fed it to him and drink a sip of water when they pressed the cup to his lips, but he felt neither hunger nor thirst. It won't be long now, he knew.

As a young boy at Winterfell, he'd often lain awake at night wondering what death would feel like, what being dead would feel like, trying and failing to wrap his mind around the idea that the world would continue without him for thousands upon thousands of years. His only comfort was knowing he would join his forefathers, for in the end, all men shared the same fate.

The king sat by his side, holding his hand. “You're a good man, Uncle.” There was silver in the dark hair of the man he had once carried to King's Landing as a babe in swaddling cloths. 

“You do not remember,” Ned said, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. “You were too young; you don't remember.” You don't know me; you don't know what I've done; you don't know what I am. He'd never told him.

“You are a good man, Eddard Stark!” Aegon repeated stubbornly, stressing every word. “I won't allow anyone to claim otherwise, not even you.”

Ned wanted to open his mouth, wanted to protest, wanted to tell his nephew the truth, but all he could produce was a weak croaking sound through half-closed lips.

He thought of the men he'd slain in battle and those who'd died in his arms. He thought of the wife he'd failed and the children he'd never truly known. He thought of all his failures, and for a time, that would keep his mind occupied, but sooner or later, his thoughts would return to that day.

I was born a second son, never meant to rule. He'd never meant to become Hand, and he certainly had not envisioned himself as Regent for a king in swaddling clothes. Yet that was what circumstances had made him. Damn you, Robert, and your gluttony.

And suddenly, right there on his deathbed, he was a man of twenty again, riding into a city that had burned to ashes, carrying Rhaegar's heir and the heavy knowledge that his best friend had choked to death on a piece of bone, leaving him to decide who would rule the realm and to sit in judgment over who would live and who would die.

He'd taken many heads during those days, but it was the head he had refused to take that haunted him. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. He'd justified in his head a myriad of times why this had been different, but Eddard Stark knew a lie when he saw it, even if it was a lie he told himself.

Yes. If he could go back in time and change just one thing, he would turn his horse around at the city gates. For riding into King's Landing had taken him into his heart of darkness.

Notes:

King Aegon VI is Jon Snow, in case that wasn't clear. Yeah, I guess Elia and Lyanna had some sort of rivalry going on between them :)

Chapter 2: Eddard

Chapter Text

The fighting was over, but the smell of smoke and blood still clung to the air. It had become a familiar scent after the countless battles he'd fought, but somehow, it turned Ned's stomach as he rode through the River Gate.

Turn around, a voice in his head whispered. You have no place in this city. But he couldn't go back. He might not have a place in King's Landing, but the boy in his arms did. He belonged with what remained of his family. And how could he abandon the babe in this Southron nest of vipers? Promise me, Ned. Promise me!

There were bodies floating in the Blackwater Rush and more bodies piled on the muddy river banks. Ned saw a handful of soldiers among the dead, but most of them were ordinary city folk: men, women, and children. They tried to flee, he realized. They posed no threat. The soldiers killed them for sport.

Smoke was rising from a fire burning in the middle of Fishmonger's Square. Most of it was furniture and goods from trashed shops piled up and set aflame, but Ned instantly recognized the sweet, nauseating smell of burning flesh. Despite the heat the fire gave off as he rode past, he suddenly felt cold, drawing his cloak tightly around himself and the infant in his arms.

Bodies lined the side of the Hook all the way up to the foot of Aegon's High Hill. Mixed in with the dead were the living, moaning and writhing in pain, begging for help or for water or for the mercy of death. But even though he commanded his captains to see that the wounded were taken care of, he realized there was little he could do for most of them. Nothing but death and destruction for as far as the eyes can see.

He knew who was responsible for the carnage before he ever saw the Lannister banners flying over the Red Keep. So you've answered our calls at last, he thought bitterly as his horse made its way up Aegon's Hill. Robert had sent raven after raven, yet there had been no response from Casterly Rock.

He thought nothing could shock him anymore after what he had witnessed outside, but he was not prepared for what he saw when he rode through the tall doors into the Great Hall. On the dais, right at the base of the throne lay another body. The man was turned on his stomach so that Ned could not see his face, but with his cloak of red and black and his long, unkempt white hair, there was no mistaking who he was.

High above him on the Iron Throne sat the boy who had killed him, his white cloak stained with blood, an arrogant smile on his face as he played with the bloodied sword across his legs. For a moment, it felt as though the world only consisted of him and the golden-haired youth smiling down on him.

Then the boy got up. “Oh, don't worry, I've only been keeping the seat warm,” he said mockingly as he descended the stairs. “It's most uncomfortable, but feel free to give it a try. Your arse will look as good on it as any, and it's all the same to me.”

Finally, Ned snapped out of his daze. “Seize him,” he ordered his men. “He killed the king he was sworn to protect. I want him well-guarded.” But even as they grabbed a hold of him and dragged him out of the throne room, the Lannister boy kept smiling his wide, smug smile.

Ned's men found Lord Tywin himself in Maegor's Holdfast, standing over the still warm bodies of the Princess Elia and her children. They had seized him and several of his captains with him, locking them in the Black Cells underneath the Red Keep. Robert's host outnumbered the Lannister forces three to one, but it only occurred to Ned later that night how lucky he'd been to have cornered the Lannister lord. It had avoided further bloodshed: once their commander had been captured, the troops had yielded.

He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. He couldn't bear the thought of letting the babe stay under the same roof where his half-siblings had been so brutally murdered, so he had taken up residence in the Tower of the Hand. As he looked down on the burned city from his window, all he wanted was to be as far away from King's Landing as possible, away from this place where men broke their oaths and lords slaughtered small children only to prove their loyalty to a cause.

A cause that no longer even exists, he reminded himself. He'd arrived with rebel troops only to make peace with what was left of his former enemies. Now, he who'd fought alongside Robert against the Targaryens would have to install Rhaegar's only remaining heir on the throne.

He dreaded the coming days more than he could say. The Dornish had pledged him fealty, the Faith had thrown its weight behind the babe, and most of Robert's forces remained loyal to him, but Ned knew the negotiations would be messy. He wasn't cut out for any of their Southern intrigues, yet he had no choice but to rise to the challenge. I promised to protect the boy. His place is here, and so is mine.

 

Chapter 3: Tywin

Chapter Text

His cell was pitch-black. No matter how hard he tried to focus his eyes to adapt to the darkness, he couldn't see a thing. It was eerily quiet in the Black Cells. All he could hear was the sound of water dripping from the ceiling. He couldn't have been locked up for more than a day or two, but it felt much longer. His throat was dry and his stomach was growling.

Every muscle in his body was aching. The undergoaler had chained him to the cold, damp wall by his neck, allowing him neither to sit nor stand, forcing him instead to squat on the filthy straw that padded the ground. The acrid smell of old urine hung in the air. He himself had held his bladder, unwilling to give his tormentor the satisfaction of seeing him soil himself, even though the pressure was beginning to be near unbearable.

This despicable creature takes pleasure in humiliating me. The realization almost stung as much as the pain of the flesh. Rugen was the name the Spider went by down here, but he had instantly recognized him.

He would remember to pay Varys back in kind, though he did not fool himself into thinking that he would get his revenge soon. He'd seen the look in Ned Stark's cold gray eyes. The Northern boy will send me to the Wall, he knew. And no doubt he'll think himself honorable for doing so.

But these were uncertain times. The king in swaddling clothes and his green boy of an uncle wouldn't last until the next winter, and whoever would sit the Iron Throne after him would likely be persuaded to grant him a royal pardon. Like as not they'll make me Lord Commander at the Wall. That should make it easier to enter into negotiations with whoever comes into power.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in its lock. When he opened his eyes, he could see the faint glow of the torch the Spider carried. The eunuch wore a smile on his round face under the spiked steel cap that was part of his mummer's disguise.

“Is this the way to treat hostages under the new king?” Tywin asked, unable to hide his anger any longer. “Lock them in a hole and starve them to death?”

The eunuch chuckled. “Why, I believe it was you who first gave the order to cut the rations of prisoners to save coin, my lord. And as much as he despises you, Lord Eddard is convinced you are sitting comfortably in a cell on the upper levels, enjoying your supper as we speak. But he hasn't bothered to inquire about you, so I haven't had to disabuse him of his fantasy.”

“Have you come to taunt me, eunuch?”

“You wrong me, my lord.” Varys pulled out a wine skin from under his half cape of boiled leather, took a generous sip himself and held it to the chained man's lips. “Here. Drink this.”

The taste of the wine was dreadful, but he was too thirsty to refuse, gulping it down greedily.

“Your situation is dire. The Dornish want you dead, my lord. So do the alchemists, and the mood in the city is frightful.”

“I hardly need you to tell me this,” he said, vexed. “Have you nothing of substance you can offer me?”

Varys sighed. “I'm afraid not, my lord. I am here to gather some information myself.”

“You are to take my confession.” Of course noble Ned Stark will want one before he sentences me. He needs it to satiate his conscience.

“Ah, but we do not require your confession. You were caught red-handed, my lord.” Varys said. “Ser Gregor tells me whatever he did he did under your orders, and Lord Brax has been singing just as pretty a song, claiming you permitted the troops to rape and pillage as they please. No. I have a few questions of my own that you will answer.”

“I think not.”

They stared at each other in silence.

“This pains me,” Varys finally said, a sad smile on his face. "But you leave me no choice." He pulled out a thick black long hair. “Do you know what this is, my lord? It's a hair from the tail of your very own warhorse.”

“You are planning to force answers from me with a horse's hair?” The thought almost amused him.

But Varys did not laugh. “Yes. I'm afraid I will.”

 

Chapter 4: Varys

Notes:

A number of people who died in canon survived Robert's Rebellion in this fic.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The young Stark looked tired. His long, haggard face with its sunken eyes made him look much older than the boy of twenty that he was. He is still grieving the loss of his father and his brother, Varys thought. This place will break him sooner or later. But for better or for worse, he'd thrown in his lot with the Northern boy they called the quiet wolf.

However quiet he may have been in the past, he was forced to speak now, surrounded by the men that formed the core of the fragile alliance for his boy king: the High Septon, Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, Lord Arryn, Lord Hoster Tully, Ser Gerold Hightower, and the Dornish Prince Lewyn who had so narrowly escaped death on the Trident.

“Jaime Lannister will answer for his crimes,” the young Stark told the men around the table. “It's his head or the Wall.”

“Ser Jaime slew the King he was sworn to protect,” the High Septon protested. “Such men cannot be trusted to serve the realm, not even in a cloak of black.”

“His crimes are grave,” the Stark agreed. “But so were the crimes of many others who joined the Night's Watch. I'm honor-bound to give him a chance to start anew at the Wall.”

The Northman's voice was calm, but the look in his gray eyes gave Varys a chill. Behind the pain and sorrow, there was hatred. The Lannister boy took something from you, he realized. How you wish you could renounce your honor for once and take his head. Or worse.

“What of Lord Tywin?” Prince Lewyn Martell asked. “The undergoaler in charge of him tells me he has confessed to ordering the murder of the royal family.”

Oh yes, he has, Varys thought. And he's still bleeding when he makes water and begging me for milk of the poppy. “His bannerman Clegane confirms it,” he interjected. “He claims he tried to stop his liege lord but came too late.”

“Gregor Clegane was caught with my niece's blood on his hands,” Prince Lewyn protested. “He deserves the sword or worse.”

“Ser Gregor received his knighthood from Prince Rhaegar himself,” Varys reminded him. “Would he truly want to hurt the family of the man who gave him that honor?”

Ser Gerold took his bait. “The prince would not have knighted Ser Gregor if he had any doubts about his character,” he agreed. “Rhaegar took the vows of knighthood very seriously.”

The Stark boy nodded. “Clegane will get a chance to take the black if he so wishes.” He paused, looking at the Dornish prince. “As for Lord Tywin, I will have his head myself.”

He hates the father nearly as much as he hates the son, Varys thought.

“To take his head would be an undeserved mercy,” Lewyn objected. “My sister insists on an appropriate punishment to match the gravity of the crime, my lord. Must I remind you that your boy's claim rests on our support?”

“We cannot afford to incense the Westermen any further, Ned,” Jon Arryn cautioned.

“Have you seen the bodies?” The Dornishman asked, livid with anger. “Have you seen what they did to my niece? Have you seen the babe's head? Lord Tywin and his men should be drawn and quartered, and that would still be a kindness.”

The Stark boy closed his eyes, and for a moment, Varys was unsure of what he would do. “I have seen the bodies,” he finally said softly. “But I cannot give you what you are asking for. I will take Lord Tywin's head myself. That is all the justice I can offer you.”

 

Notes:

In case it's not clear, Varys knows that Ser Gregor is anything but honorable, but he wants Ned to believe Clegane's testimony over Tywin's so he pulls his little manipulative game.

Personally, I believe Gregor was knighted by Rhaegar as a personal favor to Tywin, and Varys probably would have found the fact that Tywin used this man of all people to kill Rhaegar's family quite distasteful, so that would have given him some additional motivation to use Gregor against Tywin.

Chapter 5: Eddard II

Chapter Text

Ned couldn't remember the last time he had slept more than an hour or two, and some nights, he did not sleep at all. Oddly, he didn't feel tired, but his heart was racing incessantly and a thin sheen of sweat coated his entire body.

It was his second day sitting in judgment in the Great Hall. The ordinary Westermen were free to return to their homes to tend to their fields unless they stood accused of a specific crime, but their captains and any man calling himself a knight had to answer for the slaughter wrought upon King's Landing.

He tried to listen to the accusations and the words of defense addressed to him, but his thoughts were racing, and it was as if he could hear the constant beating of war drums in his ears. He had experienced the rush that came with fighting in battle, that moment right before fear was replaced by drunken madness. His restiveness now wasn't quite the same, but it came close.

Seated on the steps of the Iron Throne, Ned had to fight the urge to get up and walk around. You should sit on the throne, Jon Arryn had told him, but he couldn't. Ice lay beside him. Most of the men who were brought before him chose the Wall, but some declined his offer. He'd taken three heads already, and he suspected there would be more.

“Ser Kevan Lannister.” The stout man in chains raised his head to meet his eyes. “You are a knight, sworn to protect the weak and the vulnerable, yet you allowed the troops under your command to pillage and rape and murder as they please,” Ned said, unable to hide his disgust. “Why?”

The man did not respond. He looked kind and gentle. A loving husband and father, most like. Yet he had done this monstrous thing. “Speak!” Ned commanded, almost frightened by the impatience in his own voice.

Ser Kevan drew up his shoulders. “I did what I did because I chose to,” he said with unexpected dignity. “What good does it do to make excuses now or blame my actions on another man? Do what you have to, Lord Stark.”

He is protecting his brother, Ned knew. He just about said so himself. His own brother's face flashed before his eyes: valiant, fearless Brandon whom the Mad King had put in an early grave. Would I have done the same for him? But Brandon would never have ordered the slaughter of innocents. “Ser Kevan Lannister, I sentence you to die,” he said. “You have the option to take the black instead.”

“I choose the Night's Watch, my lord,” Ser Kevan said, bowing. He tried to catch his brother's eye as he was escorted out of the Great Hall, but Lord Tywin's face was like a mask with his cold, unflinching eyes locked on the Iron Throne.

Ser Jaime was next. The Lannister boy looked bored when he was brought before him.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, you stand accused of slaying the King you were sworn to protect.” Ned heard himself say. The king who was mine to kill, a familiar voice in his head joined the sound of the war drums in his ears. Mine to kill, mine to kill, mine to kill, kill, kill.

“You saw me with your own eyes, Stark,” the youth said. “Yes. I killed your bloody King.”

“Kingslayer,” Ned called. “I sentence you to die for the crime of breaking your vows.” He paused. The laws and customs of the North were clear. No matter how much he disliked the idea of sparing the oathbreaker's life, he was honor-bound to offer him a choice to exchange his soiled white cloak for a black. The king was mine to kill, the voice inside his head protested feebly. “Or you may join the Night's Watch,” he finished reluctantly.

The Lannister had the gall to smile. “Why, I suppose I'll take the black then,” he said with a shrug. The arrogance of this boy took Ned's breath away. I should have his head. But he'd offered him the Wall, and the youth had accepted. There was nothing he could do now. “Take him back to his cell,” he commanded. “He'll leave for the North with the others.”

Ned rose. “Lord Tywin Lannister,” he called as if to shout over the noise in his own head. “You are accused of ordering the sacking of King's Landing and the murder of Princess Elia and her children.” 

The Lannister lord turned his head to lock eyes with him, his face expressionless. “I ordered neither. The troops lacked discipline, and as their lord commander, the fault lies with me, I grant you that, but it was Clegane who murdered the royal family.”

“Ser Gregor claims he acted under your orders.” It was all Ned could do not to lose patience. “What do you say, my lord?”

“I name Clegane a bloody butcher, a liar and a traitor. I tried to stop him, but I came too late.” His eyes were cold, and Ned could tell the man was lying through his teeth.

He was so sick of all the lies, the treason, the falsehood. This will be my life for the next sixteen years until Aegon comes of age. His heart was racing and the noise in his ears was getting louder and louder. “Ser Gregor claims otherwise,” he said angrily. “And so did you.”

Lord Tywin's mouth tightened. “Ah, yes, so you've been told by the beast you sent to deal with me. Noble, honorable Ned Stark.” He almost spat the words. “Keep telling yourself that you are just and fair and honor-bound, boy. But I've seen the true face of your honor, and you are no better than the rest of us. So go ahead, do what you must. Send me to the Wall.”

Ned sat back down. He could see the bodies floating in the Blackwater Rush and smell the sweet scent of decay. I am nothing like you, he wanted to shout. “I haven't offered you to take the black,” he said instead. “There is no place at the Wall for people like you.” He watched as the Southron lord's face turned pale. He didn't expect to die today, he realized. It gave him an odd satisfaction to see fear in those pale green eyes.

But he wasn't done yet. He could see Elia's babe before his eyes, barely older than his own nephew, with his face smashed and battered beyond recognition. To take his head would be an undeserved mercy, he heard Prince Lewyn say, and he knew the Dornishman was right.

“Lord Tywin Lannister.” His own voice was like the voice of a stranger as he spoke the words. “I sentence you to live or die at the hands of the people of the city that you raped. Pray for their mercy.”

 

Chapter 6: Tywin II

Chapter Text

The Great Hall erupted in turmoil the moment the Stark boy had finished the words. Some men cheered and others protested. He watched them as if through a haze, unable to move or speak. His stomach clenched so painfully it took his breath away. This is not the end, he thought. This is not how it ends.

His heart was beating in his chest, and all he could hear was the sound of blood rushing through his ears, so deafening it drowned out the clamoring in the throne room. His limbs had turned cold, and for a moment, he feared his legs might give out under him.

Ned Stark pounded his sword on the steps of the Iron Throne. Gradually, the noise died down.

Tywin wanted to speak up, to ask the boy what in seven hells he thought he was doing, but he couldn't get out the words.

Focus! He told himself, taking a deep breath and then another. Focus. I did not survive the Mad King only to die in the name of a king in swaddling clothes. His eyes scanned the faces in the room, trying to find the one person who would be willing to stand up to the rabid young wolf. Someone will. Someone has to.

The eunuch had spoken the truth; at least half the hall wanted him dead, he knew immediately. Aerys's toadies were nodding approvingly, and the satisfaction in Prince Lewyn's eyes turned his stomach. The lords Brax, Swyft, and Westerling sat quivering, suddenly fearing for their own lives. Only Clegane seemed untouched, staring into space, dense as an ox as always. Hightower, Tyrell, and Rowan were offended by the nature of the punishment, but none of them would meet his eyes.

The Stark boy himself was sweating, madness in his wild gray eyes as he raised his voice again. Whoever claimed he has ice in his veins clearly never saw him like this.

He stood on the stairs before the throne, talking himself into a rage, speaking of inexcusable crimes, of slaughter and murder, of justice and retribution. Then he started rambling of the Dragon's Way and of King's Square, but Tywin couldn't quite put the words together to make meaning of them.

Lord Arryn plainly disapproved of his ward's actions, and for a moment, Tywin was certain he would get up and put the boy in his place, but he too remained silent.

“Let every man, woman and child see that wanton murder does not go unpunished under the new king.” He heard the wolf's last words before the boy seated himself again. Stark means it, he realized. And they are letting him do this. Nobody is going to stop him.

The room started spinning, and he felt as though he might retch up the oats the eunuch had fed him before this mummer's farce of a trial. Someone gave him a push, and he stumbled forward, preventing himself from falling at the last moment.

One of his guards was yanking at his tunic. He did not understand what the man wanted from him at first. Then it hit him. He wants me to strip, he realized in horror. They are going to make me strip. He tried to back away, but found himself surrounded. Someone gripped him as the guard tore his surcoat apart.

Somewhere in the distance, behind the mass of people around him, he could see the young wolf leaving.

He couldn't say how, but suddenly he found his voice again. “Stark!” He called. “If you will not take my head, then at least see this through to the end yourself. You owe me that much.”

He instantly knew he'd struck a chord. The boy was fighting with himself, the spark of madness in his eyes briefly replaced by a sense of duty and honor.

But then he lowered his head in shame and turned around without so much as another word, leaving him to the vultures.

 

Chapter 7: Varys II

Chapter Text

The Dragon's Way led all the way from the Great Hall up on Aegon's High Hill down to King's Square in the center of the city. This was the route the Stark boy had chosen before he had fled from the throne room, leaving it up to the Dornish to see the punishment carried out. The wolf pup surprised us all, Varys thought. Not even I saw this coming.

Somewhere in the distance the bells tolled as they made their way down from the Red Keep. Ser Harmen Uller had taken over command, yelling orders at the goldcloaks to clear the path ahead of them of spectators.

Word spread like wildfire, and soon, half of Flea Bottom was flocking to the sides of the Dragon's Way. While many of the richer merchants had escaped unharmed, the poorest of King's Landing had borne the brunt of the brutal assault on the city, and it was them who had come now. Some were shouting and jeering as their procession passed, but others simply stared, cold hatred in their eyes.

Varys studied his old rival. That he of all people should end like this. For an instant, he almost felt pity for the fallen lord. Hands bound in front of him, he was stumbling forward as the crowd closed in behind him, forcing him to keep moving. Even though he tried to straighten his shoulders as best he could and refused to cover himself, it was plain to see he was terrified.

Only a few days ago, the man that was now being paraded through the streets had watched his army burn and kill from the safety of Aegon's High Hill, cool, unmoving, his splendid armor of crimson and gold reflecting the last rays of light as the sun set over King's Landing.

Lord Tywin Lannister had lived his life by the assumption that appearances mattered. Men had called him a King, and Varys understood why. No man had ever looked more kingly than he had as Hand. Tall, handsome, and solemn, he had comported himself with all the poise and dignity that Aerys himself had lacked. Even as he was brought before Ned Stark to face justice, he had kept some of that cool grace about him. He had insisted on dressing in his finest clothes of silk and velvet, meeting the young wolf's eyes with defiance.

But naked, he was just another man, lost, shivering, frightened of what was still to come. His feet were caked in mud, and someone in the crowd had hurled rotten eggs and something that looked suspiciously like human feces at him.

As they slowly continued their way down the Dragon's Way, Varys had to duck more and more often to avoid being hit himself. If the Lion didn't realize before that he is going to die today, surely he must know it by now, he thought. There was no mercy to be had in this crowd.

The sun was at its zenith when their procession finally spilled onto King's Square. The pillory was right in the middle, high up on a wooden platform for all to see, with two sets of stairs leading up to it. There was a brief scuffle when the Lannister lord refused to walk any further at the sight of the wooden contraption, but the goldcloaks simply grabbed him, dragging him forward amidst taunts from the crowd.

Varys found himself swept up in a sea of people pushing and shoving. Somewhere next to him, a man was humming the song of the Lord Confessor. It was one of those cruel old nursery rhymes that had survived from the days of Maegor the Cruel and Aegon the Unworthy, and even though Varys knew he himself was the closest thing the royal court still had to a Lord Confessor, the song gave him chills.

For a moment, all he wanted to do was turn around and flee the scene, but he forced himself to keep moving forward with the crowd. The young Stark may refuse to watch his sentence carried out, he thought. But I won't.

 

Chapter 8: Tywin III

Notes:

This probably doesn't come as a surprise for anyone, but this chapter is one of the more disturbing ones in this fic and contains graphic depictions of violence. Please proceed with caution.

Chapter Text

He'd never felt as powerless as when the wooden board closed over his head, locking him in place, bent over as if bowing for the crowd. The wood was rough with sharp edges, chafing his neck and his wrists whenever he tried to shift his body.

Perhaps the only mercy was that he could barely see the crowd in this undignified contortion unless he made an effort to raise his head. He could hear them though, and he knew the sea of people stretched far beyond King's Square, with people pouring in from Aegon's Way and the Street of the Sisters.

He felt a sudden sting in his eyes as someone hurled the contents of a bucket up at him from below. The sharp taste of metal in his mouth as the blood dripped down his face made him gag. “Bloody butcher!” People were shouting. “Bloody butcher! Bloody butcher!”

Somewhere below him, someone was still singing:

 

I am the Lord Confessor,

I'll make you dance for me.

And if your dance is pretty

Mayhaps I'll set you free.

I am the Lord Confessor

Sing me a pretty song.

And if your song does please me

Your suffering won't be long.

For I'm the Lord Confessor

Confess to me, my lord.

And if I should believe you

I'll put you to the sword.

Genna had sung the song once when they had played some game involving prisoners and dungeons as children. He still remembered how Kevan couldn't understand why anyone would ever want to be put to the sword. He had tried to explain that sometimes, death could be a mercy, but his brother had refused to accept that. There's always hope that someone will come and save you, he had insisted.

Oh, Kevan. At least his brother didn't have to see this.

A stone hit him right in the forehead, breaking his skin, the blood dripping down from the wound mixing with the pig blood they had doused him in.

“Ah, ah, how rude.” A soft voice said. He could see the leather boots of the man it belonged to. “To throw things at you. The people of this city have no manners.”

Harmen Uller. He'd never spoken more than a word to the Dornishman, but his voice was unmistakable. And of course, everyone knew his house. Half of them are half-mad and the other half are worse. It was said that Queen Rhaenys had died screaming at Hellholt during the First Dornish War.

“Let's give them a good show. Perhaps it will distract them enough to stop pelting us.” He could not see Ser Harmen's face, but he knew he was smiling his cruel little smile, and the tone of his voice made his stomach tighten up.

Then, suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck as someone kicked his legs out from under him. Just as he had picked himself up, the first strike hit. The next missed and struck him in the kidneys, taking his breath away and making him lose balance again, sending the crowd below into a riot of laughter and jeers.

Flogged for the amusement of the rabble. The cane was covered in brine, burning him with every stroke. But he pressed his lips firmly together, even as the blows began to make his eyes water. He would not give these people the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain.

He could not say how long it lasted, but eventually, his tormentors seemed to grow bored of his suppressed groans.

There was some commotion going on behind him as Uller conferred with others in the background. When he raised his head, he could tell by the excitement on the faces of those below that whatever awaited him next would be unpleasant.

He only caught a brief glimpse of the glowing iron rod, but it was enough. His whole body contracted as the fear washed over him, and he felt something warm running down his legs, pooling at his feet.

“This is for our princess.” The Dornishman said as he pulled his buttocks apart and slowly pressed the burning metal against the sensitive skin in between.

He felt as though he would break in half. For a moment, the pain took his breath away.

Then, he screamed.

 

Chapter 9: Lewyn

Notes:

This is another of the more disturbing chapters. Please proceed with caution.

Chapter Text

The goldcloaks guarding the steps to the platform had closed their visors to protect their faces from any objects that missed their intended target, and so had Ser Harmen and his brother, but Prince Lewyn Martell did not even so much as wear a helmet. His bright orange cloak was stained red and brown, and blood was trickling down his face. Something must have hit him in the head, but he could not remember what or when.

His eyes swept over the sea of people surrounding the platform. The crowd below was boiling with a mix of anger and excitement. We cannot get out, he realized. We're trapped here until the people tire of the show.

And what a show it was. His sister's bannerman was the master mummer, making the butcher lord dance for the crowd. He understood the art of making one death feel like a thousand, how to maim without killing, how to play with a man's fears, how to make him cry and plead and shriek in agony without ever allowing him to slip into unconsciousness.

Somehow, he had expected that watching the monster die might give him peace, but the sight of the blood, the sound of the screams, the smell of gore only reminded him of Elia, her crushed head, her savaged body still clinging to her babe even in death. Blood, blood, blood everywhere.

Death was a messy affair. He closed his eyes and covered his ears, wishing he had a third hand to cover his nose as well.

For a moment, all he wanted to do was take his sword and put an end to the man's suffering. On the battlefield, when he saw a dying man, friend or foe, he always gave him the mercy of death. He knew how to drive his blade through the armpit straight into the heart. This is no man, he reminded himself. This is a monster.

He thought of his sister, his beautiful, strong sister who had always taken care of him, comforted him as a child, protected him. Will this give you satisfaction? He wondered. If I bring you his head, if I tell you how he died, will it give you comfort? But he already knew the answer.

He'd sent her a raven before word of her daughter's and grandchildren's death could reach her in another way, but he had only heard back from his nephew, informing him the Princess had taken to her bed and refused to see anyone. “She does not eat,” Doran had written, “she does not wash herself. She will not even speak to me. I don't know what to do.”

His sister had died with her daughter.

Lewyn pressed his cloak over his mouth, forcing back a gag. If only I hadn't left for the Trident, he thought. I could have saved her. I could have saved you.

Just as the sun was about to set, the monster fell silent at last, his limp body hanging in the stocks by his neck, his knees almost touching the wooden planks of the platform.

Gradually, the crowd dissipated, bored by the sudden lack of wails and screams.

All Lewyn wanted to do was return to the White Sword Tower and sleep, but he had one more task left unfinished.

The sky was dark when he met the eunuch by the Traitor's Walk. He had changed into his gaoler's uniform and looked nothing like himself. He even sounded different. “Follow me,” he said in a gruff voice.

The deeper they went the damper the vaults seemed to become. He felt a draft of cold air as they passed a row of cells.

“That's your white brother there,” Varys said, pointing at a heavy wooden door with iron reinforcements. For a moment, Lewyn was tempted to go inside. He could not help but be angry at Lord Eddard's refusal to put Jaime to the sword. He should have stopped his father. Elia was his to protect, too. But he forced himself to shake his head. “Show me the dog.”

Ser Gregor was chained to the wall. Even seated, he was a mountain of a man. He raised his head, grunting and cursing when he saw them coming.

Lewyn seized his face with his hands and looked him in the eye, searching for the man inside. Nothing, he thought. There's nobody in there. A boy of seven-and-ten, but the monster's dog is a monster himself.

Ser Gregor spat at him.

He smiled as he wiped his face clean. “I've brought you wine,” he said, holding a cup to the enormous man's lips. Clegane was too thirsty to refuse.

Lewyn made sure he finished all the wine before he turned around, walking away. “That's all?” He heard the eunuch calling after him.

“That is all,” he said softly.

 

Chapter 10: Jon

Chapter Text

The Small Council had turned into a Large Council, with half the lords of the realm trying to secure their place in the new order. Jon felt his heart sink as he looked around the table. Too many people with too many interests, he thought. And Ned, oh Ned... He didn't know what to do with the boy.

His ward had rested at last. Jon himself had given him dreamwine and watched over him as he slept for almost a full day and a full night. He still looked exhausted, but the flicker of madness had left his eyes.

Jon had not spoken to him since Ned had left for King's Square in the early hours of the morning, silent and sullen, returning with a severed head.

“He cried for his mother in the end,” Varys had told them afterwards, “begging her to come and save him. And perhaps she did, for he passed out soon after... A mercy for all of us who were there, no doubt.”

Jon had watched his ward's expression change at that. It is a curious thing, he thought, that nothing makes us remember a man's humanity more acutely than to be reminded that he too came from a woman's womb.

Now though, he was no more than a corpse that the lords around the table fought over, giving them all a taste of what was yet to come. Prince Lewyn insisted on taking the head back to Dorne, Lord Rykker wanted it put on a spike in King's Landing, and Wisdom Garigus wished to see it burned and scattered along with the rest of the remains.

Jon listened to them squabble about the skull for a while before interrupting them at last. “Perhaps we can postpone the decision until we have settled the matter of succession in the Westerlands.” 

The eunuch gladly took his cue to change the topic. “Lord Tywin leaves two children, a boy of ten and a girl of seven-and-ten, both living at Casterly Rock with his brothers and sister.” He began. “But they are not our only option, and we should carefully consider who will serve our inter-”

“The castle and the father's titles will go to the son,” Ned decided almost instantly. “They are his by rights.”

“That would be most unwise, my lord,” Varys cautioned. “Casterly Rock, perhaps, but to make the boy Lord Paramount and Warden of the West? This is too great a prize to give to the child of a disgraced lord, especially when some of our alliances are still shaky.”

“Please think about this, Ned.” Hoster Tully agreed. “The boy will hold a grudge against you and the King for the rest of his life. You would do better to put another lord in charge of the Westerlands and gain an ally.”

But Ned had made up his mind. “Casterly Rock goes to the boy.” He said stubbornly. “And so does everything that comes with it.”

He has the right of it, Jon thought. Though for all the wrong reasons. He will need to learn to listen and to listen to the right people if he wants to survive. He was no longer sure Ned could do that. “The Lannisters will surrender a hostage to us to ensure their loyalty,” he said quickly. “To elevate another house would alienate those who would suddenly see themselves ruled by a former equal and upset the power balance in the Westerlands for years to come. We cannot afford that.”

There was more arguing back and forth, but by the time their long meeting had finally come to a close, rewards of lands and titles won over the last few remaining dissenters.

“Go get some sleep,” Jon told his ward after all the men had left. You will need it. Tomorrow will be another long day just like this.

Ned nodded, but his eyes were empty, and he made no move to get up. “Why me?” He asked quietly. “How did this happen?”

Jon put his hand on his shoulder. “Return to the North,” he said. “Return to your wife and be a father to your son. I can take care of Aegon and see that no harm comes to him.” Do what's best for yourself, he prayed. Do what is best for all of us.

But the young Stark shook his head. “I promised Lyanna I would protect the babe,” he said, rising. “This is my place now.”

 

Chapter 11: Eddard III

Chapter Text

His legs and arms were numb, and he felt cold, so cold! This is what it's like to die, he knew. Aegon was holding his hand, his head bowed as he prayed to his Southron gods in a soft voice, asking the Mother to shield and protect him on his journey.

You should ask the Father to judge me justly, he thought. Ned did not believe in the Seven, but whenever he saw the stern god's statue in a Sept, the scales of justice in his hands, he could not help but turn his eyes.

“Aegon....” His voice was no more than a whisper. His nephew raised his head, a smile on his face as he bent over him, gently caressing the wrinkles on his face. I have to tell you something, Ned wanted to say. So that you will know and judge me for who I am, the good and the bad. But no words would come out of his mouth. The memories were his burden to carry, and his alone.

He remembered riding the way down to King's Square on horseback, Howland Reed by his side, grim determination written on his face, and worry on his friend's.

The wood on the platform was slippery with blood and waste. And the body, the body was swollen beyond recognition, cut, burned, mutilated. Like your distant ancestor Ser Tyland Lannister at the end of the Dance of the Dragons, Ned thought. Only dead. And my work.

Howland tried to stop him when he raised Ice and took aim at the head he should have taken the day before. He'd struck again and again and again, but he couldn't get the angle right, and the damned head just wouldn't come off the shoulders.

He couldn't remember how long he hacked away at the neck, but finally, Howland grabbed a hold of his arm. “Let me,” he said, taking the sword from Ned's hands. Ice was taller than the Crannogman himself, but he'd taken the head off clean in a single strike.

The blood gushing from the neck gave proof that the man had not, in fact, been dead.

To live or die at the mercy of the people of this city, was all Ned could think as he rode back to the Red Keep, the head in his lap. In the end, you did not even get the sentence I promised you.

There was a rap at the door, and even though he could not see the man who entered, he knew it was the Septon. I should have asked to be taken to the Godswood, he thought. To die under a weirwood tree, where I belong. He tried to push himself up, his eyes searching for Aegon.

It was then that he noticed the woman in the corner, dark copper hair tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes a radiant brown that looked almost golden. He'd imagined her many times over in his head. And though he'd never seen her in his lifetime, couldn't have seen her, he instinctively knew who she was.

He felt terror at her presence, yet somehow, his fear mixed with an odd sense of relief that all these years of denial, of lies and more lies, of people closing their eyes to what he had done were finally over, for she knew what he had done.

“So you've come for me at last,” he said.

 

Chapter 12: Epilogue

Chapter Text

The blinds were shut, leaving the room dark. Only the fire in the hearth gave off a little light.

Other people came and went, their steps quiet, their voices hushed: the High Septon with his incense and his prayers, the queen with words of comfort for her husband, the master of coin with papers to sign and seal, and many more the king could not remember. Aegon stayed by his uncle's side day and night, watching over him. I owe you that much, uncle, Hand, friend. 

Ned would slip in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he would become agitated, shaking off the blankets they had piled on him to keep him warm, speaking to a woman in the corner, calling her name, arguing with her, cursing her, daring her to come and get him, sobbing, begging her forgiveness.

None of his words made sense to the king. He tried to calm him, but his uncle was in a different world now, caught in his feverish dream, unable to see or hear him. Jeyne, he thought, puzzled. Who are you, Lady Jeyne, that you would come to haunt the Hand of the King on his deathbed?

He took the dying man's hand and kissed it. Did you have a lover, uncle? The thought almost made him smile, despite his grief. He could not imagine his uncle taking a woman other than the Lady Catelyn to bed, but all men had secrets, and it made no matter now. His aunt had died of a summer chill many years ago.

He bent down and hugged Ned tightly. This time, the king's embrace seemed to quiet his uncle. His eyes remained open, transfixed on the corner, but his breathing slowly turned steady as Aegon rocked him back and forth. “I do not know of any Lady Jeyne at court,” the king said softly. “I suppose you'll take this secret to your grave.”

“My grandmother was named Jeyne, Your Grace.”

Aegon looked up and met a pair of mismatched eyes, one green, one black. He had not heard the master of laws enter. How long has he been standing there, watching us?

The Lord of Casterly Rock was in his mid-sixties. His face was wrinkled, and what little was left of his hair had long turned white. “The Lady Jeyne Marbrand. She was married to a third son, but the gods have a cruel sense of humor and made my grandfather Lord of the Rock when they took away his older brothers. I never knew my grandmother though, and neither did your uncle, Your Grace. She died long before the Lord Hand was born.”

“It must be another Lady Jeyne then,” Aegon said. He studied the small man. He was no taller than a boy of six or seven, but what he lacked in size, he made up in wit.

“No doubt,” Lord Tyrion said quickly, but Aegon could see the doubt plainly in his eyes. He just can't let this go, he thought. Not after all these years, not even with my uncle lying before him on his deathbed. I would make him my new Hand if it wasn't for this.

No. This rift between them could simply not be bridged. The master of laws had never spoken much of his own father, but the king knew that he had inquired about his death on the streets of King's Landing, speaking to half of Flea Bottom. Aegon himself had wanted to outlaw the vicious rumors surrounding Tywin Lannister's execution, but Ned had convinced him such a ban was wrong. He was right. It would have only fueled the fire.

His uncle's eyes were glossy, his skin pale, almost gray, spit drooling from his open mouth. The pauses between each labored, rattling breath were becoming longer and longer. Then, suddenly, his ashen face relaxed, and Aegon knew he was gone.

Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King. Uncle. Friend. Father. He closed Ned's eyes, placing a kiss on each lid. You'll be buried in the crypts of Winterfell alongside your father, your brother, and my mother, like I promised you. All his life, his uncle had missed the North. He'd never complained, but not a day had gone by that he hadn't wished he could go back.

“Lord Eddard was a good man,” the master of laws said, and for once, the king knew that he meant it. “He will be remembered as one of the great men of the realm.”

Aegon nodded. “Go,” he said. “I need a moment alone. And tell the master-at-arms to make sure the dragons are well-fed. We will be going North to see my uncle home.”

 

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