King's Landing, Great Sept of Baelor, Rains of Castamere Square
The Rains of Castamere Square, sprawling before the marble majesty of the Great Sept of Baelor, felt suffocatingly solemn on this fateful day. As sunlight pierced the cloud cover, it struck the crystalline pillars crowning the Sept, fracturing into brilliant, prismatic beams that bathed the plaza in a light that felt far more divine than the men standing within it.
Dong... Dong... Dong...
At the summons of the great bronze bells, the smallfolk of King's Landing flooded the square. Their eyes were fixed on the newly erected wooden platform atop the Sept's white steps—a stage for judgment. Rumors flew through the crowd like wildfire; those with "inner knowledge" shouted over their neighbors, spinning tales of the treachery within the Red Keep.
Information was a sluggish beast in this era, and many commoners remained blissfully ignorant of the palace coup until the Royal Decree had beckoned them here to witness the fall of a Great Lord.
Dong... Dong... Dong...
As the crowd swelled, the bells tolled a second time, pulling every gaze toward the platform.
"Back! Get back, you lot!" "Silence!" "Move behind the line!"
Soldiers of the City Watch, their pointed helms gleaming and gold-wool cloaks billowing, struggled to maintain order. These Gold Cloaks held a terrifying sway over the city's populace. With rhythmic barks and the occasional shove of a spear butt, they carved a wide berth between the mob and the high stage.
Behind the Gold Cloaks stood the Red Keep's elite household guards, and further back, the seven Kingsguard stood like a white-enameled heptagram, shielding the young King who sat enthroned behind the dock.
The coronation of Joffrey I Baratheon had been a hurried affair, yet by the laws of the realm, the golden-haired boy was now the sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.
As the second peal of bells faded, the High Septon appeared. Clad in heavy, rainbow-striped robes and clutching a crystal-topped staff, the man—known derisively by the court as "The Fat One"—waddled to the edge of the stairs. He was a creature of refined gluttony, a man who viewed the "donations" of high lords as his personal treasury. In King's Landing, the High Septon was often a puppet, chosen specifically for his lack of backbone and his appetite for coin, a way for the Crown to leash the beast of popular faith.
"Cough... my beloved children of the Faith... I am your High Septon..."
By holy decree, those who served the Seven surrendered their names. He spoke with a labored, wheezing breath that, through the clever acoustics of the square, seemed to float over the heads of the thousands gathered. The Rains of Castamere Square was designed like a shallow stone goblet; a voice raised from the heights would resonate and amplify, much like the Altar of Heaven in the far east.
The murmurs of the crowd gradually died down as the Fat Septon began his long-winded preamble.
"What's that greedy tub of lard blathering about now?" a man dressed as a blacksmith whispered, leaning toward his neighbor.
"Haven't you heard? Lord Eddard Stark is accused of murdering the King!"
"Rubbish!" a sellsword nearby spat. "Everyone knows Lord Stark and King Robert were closer than blood brothers."
"The Lannisters are vipers," a merchant muttered, before nervously glancing around to ensure no Gold Cloaks were listening. "I wouldn't trust a word that comes out of the Rock."
"Lords and their games," a beggar croaked. "I'm more worried about whether I'll starve tomorrow than who sits on a chair of swords."
As the High Septon reached the formal charges, the mood in the square shifted. For those who still held the Crown and the Faith in high regard, the allegations of regicide were an unforgivable stain. They began to jeer, their shouts mingling with the Septon's rhythmic chanting, turning the solemn trial into something resembling a rowdy fish market.
The simpler minds in the crowd began to pump their fists, screaming for justice, fueled by a manufactured rage. Yet, amidst the cacophony, others watched in silence. These were the men who remembered the Sack of King's Landing, when Tywin Lannister had breached the gates under a false flag of friendship and turned the city into a charnel house. They had no love for the Lions of the Rock.
But regardless of their politics, the mob shared one primal craving: they wanted to see a Great Lord fall. They wanted to see the blood of a man who lived in a castle they would never enter.
"Kill him!" "Take his head!" "Death to the traitor!"
Watching this spectacle, Joffrey felt a surge of intoxicating heat. He had been crowned only that morning, and the roar of the crowd felt like the ultimate validation of his birthright.
"Bring forth the prisoner, Eddard Stark!"
The Fat Septon bowed to Joffrey, and the boy King waved a hand with practiced arrogance, a child playing at being a god.
"Move!" "Faster, traitor!"
Bound in heavy chains and guarded by Red Keep gaolers, a battered Eddard Stark was shoved onto the stage.
"Lord Eddard," a soft, perfumed voice hissed as he passed. It was Varys. "I truly thought you had finally learned the game, yet here you are—still so tragically stubborn."
The Spider's voice was tinged with genuine irritation; he clearly felt Ned's refusal of his "Aegon Targaryen" gambit was a waste of a perfectly good pawn.
But Varys didn't know the truth. Ned knew where the realAegon Targaryen was. He had seen the future through Jon's eyes, and he no longer believed in the Spider's sincerity.
Hmph.
Ned offered only a cold, dismissive grunt. After a lifetime of honor and a few weeks of brutal education in King's Landing, he had adopted a new philosophy: Trust no one with more than three-tenths of the truth.
"I hereby declare the prisoner, Eddard Stark, guilty of high treason and regicide!" Joffrey shouted.
The task of reading the verdict was traditionally meant for Grand Maester Pycelle, but Joffrey, drunk on the crowd's energy, snatched the parchment from the old man's trembling hands.
"However!" Joffrey's voice cracked with excitement as he leaned over the railing. "Our reign is one of mercy! Eddard Stark, you have a choice. Confess your crimes and take the Black... or refuse, and meet the gods today!"
Want to read +250 chapters ahead! Support me on patreon and unlock early access!
patreon.com/c/Daredevil_05