Eddard Stark could feel that his situation had improved—slightly.
He was no longer forced to lie on damp straw. In its place stood a low wooden bed layered with soft feather down. Each day, a silent jailer came to remove the foul bucket that served as his chamber pot. Food and water arrived regularly, never abundant but never lacking.
And yet… the most important thing was still missing.
There were no windows.
No light.
No sky.
That absence gnawed at him more cruelly than hunger or discomfort ever could.
Though the jailer never spoke, Eddard noticed small mercies. Once a day, the heavy door would open just long enough for a faint shaft of light to enter, preventing his eyes from failing entirely in the endless darkness.
From those brief moments, he pieced together fragments of his prison.
The walls were pale red stone, veined with streaks of saltpeter. The wooden reinforcements were crude and splintered, held together by iron spikes. The air was damp and cold.
He was deep beneath the Red Keep.
How deep, he could not tell.
But he knew the stories.
Of Maegor the Cruel, who had slain every builder of his fortress so that none might reveal its secrets.
If that legend was true, then no one outside knew the exact paths of these dungeons.
And that meant—
Eddard Stark was as good as buried alive.
The jailer who came daily did not know who he was. There were no conversations, no news, no whispers of the outside world. Time itself had become meaningless.
He counted days by meals.
Measured hours by footsteps.
He was a wolf… locked in a cage.
"Robert once told me—the king feasts, and the Hand cleans the filth."
Eddard rested his hand against the cold wall, as though he could feel the distant chill of Winterfell through the stone.
"Now the king is dead… and the Hand will follow."
His thoughts drifted.
To the crypts of Winterfell.
To the stone kings of the North, watching him with their cold, silent eyes.
To his brother.
To his sister.
All gone.
And now, death was coming for him as well.
"I die for my loyalty to you, Robert," he murmured bitterly. "You fool… you caused Jon Arryn's death. You caused your own. And now—you will cause mine."
But even as he spoke, he knew the truth.
He was no less foolish.
"I moved too slowly… saw too little… and understood too late."
King's Landing had been chaos from the beginning. A den of intrigue and deception. Robert had never truly ruled it—not even his own household.
And Cersei…
Eddard could almost see her face.
Golden hair shining like sunlight.
Cold green eyes filled with triumph.
"I won this game, Lord Stark," she seemed to whisper. "And you… have lost."
He clenched his fists.
Then came other memories.
Catelyn.
Her urgency.
Her insistence.
Her belief that coming south would bring clarity… justice… perhaps even honor.
Instead, it had brought ruin.
The letter from Lysa Arryn.
That poisoned invitation.
He had followed it like a blind man walking into a trap.
"I was too trusting… too sentimental," he muttered.
In the end, there was no one left to blame.
Only himself.
"You fool… you damned fool."
What was happening outside?
The thought burned in his chest.
Sansa.
Arya.
Robb.
Catelyn.
Where were they now?
Were they safe?
Or had his mistakes already dragged them into the same abyss?
Eddard closed his eyes tightly.
He was a Stark of Winterfell.
He could not break.
Not yet.
Somewhere, hope still remained.
Robert's brothers had escaped.
Armies would gather.
Storm's End.
Dragonstone.
The Free Cities.
Rebellion would rise.
Catelyn would rally the North.
The Riverlands would answer.
Perhaps even the Vale would join them.
If so…
Then perhaps all was not lost.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Eddard stirred, half-asleep, as the heavy door creaked open.
Light flooded in.
Blinding.
He stared at it hungrily, as though it were the sun itself.
A figure entered.
Shorter. Broader. Wrapped in a worn leather cloak, a spiked helmet obscuring most of his face.
"Lord Eddard… drink."
The voice was low.
Familiar.
Eddard's eyes sharpened.
"Varys…"
He reached out, touching the man's face.
Rough.
Unshaven.
The faint scent of sweat and cheap wine clung to him.
The eunuch had transformed himself completely.
Once again.
Eddard gave a faint, weary smile.
"The magician returns."
He accepted the wineskin and drank deeply.
He had never been fond of wine.
But now…
It tasted like life itself.
Sweet.
Clear.
Real.
"Good wine," he said quietly.
Varys chuckled.
"You look well enough, considering your circumstances. After all… you are the Queen's most valuable bargaining chip."
"My daughters," Eddard said immediately.
"Your eldest remains Joffrey's betrothed. A noble prisoner, if such a thing exists. She has witnessed her father's… execution."
Eddard flinched.
"And Arya?"
"No sign of her," Varys replied. "Perhaps the gods have shown her mercy. The boy king disliked her greatly… as he did your bastard."
Eddard exhaled slowly.
Relief.
And dread.
"You have nine lives, it seems," Varys continued. "Though I must say… I admire your stubbornness. Had you truly confessed as I advised, your head would already be gone."
Eddard frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Varys smiled faintly.
"It is… a long story."
"You refused to bow. But the Queen and her son required a Lord Eddard who would confess. So… we provided one."
Eddard's breath caught.
"You replaced me?"
"A Northman. A thief. No family, no ties. Close enough in appearance. A few adjustments… and in the chaos, no one noticed."
Varys' tone remained calm.
"As long as he did not speak, he was you."
Eddard said nothing.
"They promised him wine," Varys continued. "A rare luxury. For a poor man… that is often enough."
"And then?"
Varys' smile faded.
"King Joffrey ordered his execution."
Silence fell.
"So… I am dead," Eddard said hoarsely.
"In the eyes of the realm… yes."
War, Varys explained, had already begun.
Faster than anyone expected.
Eddard's value had not diminished.
It had increased.
"Is it Robb?" he asked, hope flickering.
Varys shook his head.
"If your son stood at the gates, you would already be gone."
"Then who?"
"Robert's bastard," Varys said softly.
"The blacksmith boy."
Eddard's eyes widened.
"Gendry?"
"They call him the Storm of Victory," Varys said. "He has lifted the siege of Riverrun… defeated the Kingslayer… and now marches south."
Eddard's heart pounded.
"If he can defeat Jaime…"
"Then House Lannister will bleed," Varys finished.
Hope rose again.
"Send a letter," Eddard urged.
Varys hesitated.
"I will read it first. And decide whether it is sent."
Then he leaned closer.
"I came for another reason."
"Peace."
Eddard almost laughed.
"You?"
"I serve the realm," Varys replied calmly. "And the realm needs peace."
He studied Eddard carefully.
"If you confess… truly… you could still live."
"Never," Eddard said immediately.
"I will not betray Robert."
Varys tilted his head.
"Did Robert not betray you first?"
Eddard fell silent.
"Think carefully," Varys continued. "Your honor… or your daughter's life."
The words struck like a blade.
"They may bring you pardon next time," Varys said softly.
"Or… Sansa's head."
"Get out!" Eddard roared, his voice breaking.
Silence returned.
The darkness closed in once more.
The wine began to take hold.
Eddard lay back on the bed, his mind drifting.
Memories came.
Bright.
Painfully vivid.
The Tourney at Harrenhal.
Green fields.
Warm sunlight.
Robert laughing as he fought.
Brandon's voice.
Jon Arryn's steady presence.
And Rhaegar…
The crown of blue winter roses.
Placed not upon his wife…
But upon Lyanna.
Eddard reached out—
Thorns pierced his fingers.
Blood trickled down.
"Promise me," Lyanna whispered.
Then—
The vision shattered.
Sansa appeared.
Crying.
Begging.
Beaten.
"No—!"
Eddard jerked awake, tears streaming down his face.
The darkness remained.
Unchanged.
"Gods…" he whispered hoarsely.
"I have made too many mistakes."
"Please…"
"Save my daughter."
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