NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 11: Before the Storm
CHAPTER 11: BEFORE THE STORM
He sat in the chamber the King had given him, the chamber that was supposed to be a great honor, yet felt only like an enormous weight. Eddard Stark—Ned to those he loved—could still scarcely believe he had allowed himself to be brought here, to King's Landing, in service to a man who had once been his closest friend. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows lit the dust motes spinning in the air, and for a moment he wished he was anywhere else: the quiet godswood of Winterfell, for instance, or even the chaotic clamor of a battlefield. Anywhere but this seat of southern intrigues that bristled with hidden daggers and whispered lies. Yet this was his duty. And Eddard Stark had always believed in duty, even as it chafed his spirit.
He turned his gaze to the open door. Servants drifted in and out, carrying ledgers or requesting sign-offs. The seal of the Hand of the King—a golden hand on a field of red—adorned the desk before him. He scowled at it, thinking how different it was from the direwolf sigil that had graced his own seat in the North. If not for Robert's insistence, he would never have taken the role of Hand. But Robert needed him, or so his old friend said. And Ned, always the loyal companion, had bent to that call. Perhaps if the realm were not in such a precarious state, he might have refused. Yet the realm seemed to teeter on the brink of something dire. Whispers of debt, unrest in Essos, the vestiges of Targaryen claimants in faraway lands. The King needed an honest Hand—someone who would speak the truth.
A sigh slipped between Ned's lips. He wondered if this was what Jon—his nephew—would have done if he were in Ned's place. A flicker of memory stung him: Jon's face in the courtyard of Winterfell, that tight-lipped expression the boy wore whenever Ned treated him with fatherly care yet kept him distant. Guilt tugged at Ned's heart. Jon, he thought bitterly, if you only knew. If you understood the reasons. Perhaps one day you will. Or perhaps Lyanna will have her say.
The thought of Lyanna pricked his conscience like a thorn. Lyanna, who had once been so spirited, so willful, had defied her father's wishes and left Ned burdened by her legacy. He felt an uncomfortable twist of anger. How could she have left him and the realm in such a predicament? If she had done her duty, if she had refrained from… from what she did, maybe the realm would not be haunted by the ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe Ned would not be forced to lie about his sister's child, to hide the boy as his bastard, Jon Snow. Yet in the same breath, Ned's anger melted into sorrow. Lyanna was gone, her life cut short, and all he had left of her was a promise etched in blood. He still remembered her voice: "Promise me, Ned." A memory that refused to fade.
The guilt weighed on him, pressed heavier than the chain of the Hand of the King. He had left Jon in the North, neglected and overshadowed by the name "Snow," and now Ned was in King's Landing, dealing with Robert's failings. Robert had grown fat and careless, that much was obvious. The new king was nothing like the warrior who had smashed Targaryens on the Trident. He feasted while the crown sank deeper into debt, while the Lannisters extended their golden claws further around the throne. Ned saw it clearly. Robert refused to. Or perhaps he saw it and didn't care. The reckless boy inside Robert had never fully died, it seemed; it had only grown fonder of wine and hunts.
Ned tried not to let bitterness stain his voice when he answered a clerk's query about the cost of a tourney. Another extravagance. The King wanted a grand tournament in honor of his new Hand, ignoring the realm's finances. Ned's jaw tightened, but he signed the necessary documents anyway. He had no illusions about fighting King Robert's every whim. Some battles he must pick carefully.
When the clerk left, Ned closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the memory of Jon's face. He could almost hear the boy's quiet, "I wish I could be with you, Father. I wish I could stand by you." But Ned had never truly embraced Jon as a father embraces a son. Because Jon was not his true son. Guilt flared anew. I do it to protect him, Ned reminded himself. Lyanna, if she could speak from beyond, would she condemn me for my distant treatment of Jon, or thank me for keeping him alive? He tried to quell the rising anger he felt toward her for forcing him into such a lie. Yet it was a helpless anger, for she was gone. He was left to pick up the shards of her decisions. If only she had done her duty… if only she had listened to father and not run off with Rhaegar…
A heavy knock at the door. Ned's steward entered, bowing. "My lord Hand, the King summons you to the council chamber. There's talk of new debts and some business about the Master of Coin."
Ned rose, bracing himself for the daily frustrations that came with ruling King's Landing in Robert's stead. "Very well. Lead on."
Together they moved through the labyrinthine corridors. Guards saluted, maids curtsied. The Hand's badge demanded respect, but Ned took no pride in it. He felt only the burden of leadership. The city's smell—hot stone, distant sewage, perfumed courtiers—assaulted his northern sensibilities. He longed for the crisp air of Winterfell, the open sky of the North. But duty held him here, as unyielding as a chain.
They reached the council chamber, an ornate hall with a long table at its center. Seated around it were the familiar faces of the small council: Grand Maester Pycelle, Renly Baratheon, Lord Petyr Baelish, and Lord Varys. The King's seat stood empty; Robert seldom joined council sessions, leaving them to Ned or the others. Ned took the seat at the table's head, ignoring the plushness of the cushions.
Pycelle rose with a bow, spouting pleasantries about how the realm must remain stable. Renly offered a grin, though tension laced his posture. Petyr Baelish smirked with that ever-present cunning that made Ned uneasy. And Varys studied them all with those watchful eyes, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Another wave of regret hit Ned, that he had not a single old friend on this council besides Renly, and even Renly was Robert's younger brother, unpredictable in his own ambitions.
They began discussing finances. Baelish, as Master of Coin, explained the crown's growing debts. Ned listened, disgusted at the sums owed to the Lannisters, the Iron Bank, and various other creditors. The Crown poured money into feasts, lavish hunts, and golden trinkets. Ned tried to object, reminding them the realm needed prudence. Baelish smiled that mocking smile, twisting words like an eel, insisting a grand lifestyle was necessary to keep the people dazzled. Pycelle droned on about King Robert's glory. Varys said little, only offered half-smiles.
Midway through, Renly broached the subject of a forthcoming tourney—yet another. Ned hammered the table softly with his fist, keeping his anger subdued. "The city cannot afford such extravagance while people starve in Flea Bottom."
"Oh, but the city thrives on spectacle," Baelish countered sweetly. "And the merchants profit from the influx of visitors. The coin returns in taxes." A half-lie, Ned suspected, but Baelish was skilled at painting illusions of profit. Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. If only Robert would see sense. But he was off hunting or whoring. Ned had to make the best of a bad situation. Eventually, they agreed on a scaled-down event, though still too lavish for Ned's taste.
Once the meeting ended, Ned lingered, waiting until the others filed out. Baelish hung back, as though expecting a private word. Ned studied him, recalling how the man had once dueled Brandon Stark for Catelyn's hand. That memory pricked at Ned's guilt again—Brandon had died, and Ned had inherited not only Brandon's betrothed but also a family's legacy. And the Targaryen war had forced Ned to bury truths about Jon. As if reading Ned's tension, Baelish gave a soft chuckle.
"My lord Hand," Baelish said, "you look troubled. Might I be of service?"
Ned eyed him warily. "You claim to know much about this city's secrets, Master Baelish. I do find myself in need of certain… knowledge. I suspect you can aid me, if you will."
Baelish spread his hands in mock humility. "I'm but a modest lord with a love for whispers. Name your desire, and if it pleases me, I'll help."
Ned frowned at the man's smugness. Yet he recalled that Jon Arryn, the previous Hand, had been investigating something about Robert's bastards and the truth of the royal children. Ned needed to continue that search. "I want to know how Jon Arryn died, truly, and what he was investigating. I sense foul play. Also, I suspect the King's children might not be his by blood. Help me confirm or refute that suspicion."
Baelish's eyes gleamed with interest. "You believe they are… another man's get?"
Ned hesitated, then nodded curtly. "Yes. I have reason to think so, but no firm proof."
Baelish's smirk widened. "A dangerous path, Lord Stark. The Queen will not take kindly to such inquiries. But I do enjoy secrets. Very well—I shall discreetly point you toward certain leads. You must handle them with care, or we both risk the queen's wrath."
Ned felt a chill. This alliance with Baelish felt like bedding a viper. But Jon Arryn had sought truth and died for it. Ned owed it to his old friend's memory to uncover that truth. "Agreed," he said. "Find me the leads. I'll handle the rest."
Baelish offered a mocking bow. "As you wish. Just be prepared for unpleasant revelations."
Ned snorted. "I come from the North, Master Baelish. We're not afraid of winter."
Baelish laughed softly, stepping away. "Winter may be kinder than the Queen's vengeance, my lord."
With that, he departed, leaving Ned alone in the chamber. Ned let out a breath, hearing the echoes of his own heartbeat. He felt the sting of guilt anew—why was he once again uncovering secrets that might incite a war, all while Jon, the boy he had cast aside as a bastard, roamed somewhere in the North or beyond? If Jon had been in Ned's place, might he have the cunning to handle King's Landing more deftly? Or would he be devoured by these intrigues?
He closed his eyes, briefly imagining Lyanna's face, her disapproval or anger. She might scold him for forging alliances with serpents like Baelish. Then the anger at her flared again. She had forced him down this path. She had not done her duty, leaving him to cloak her child in shame. He shook his head, pushing the thought away. He had no time to dwell on old wounds. The realm demanded action now.
Ned gathered his papers, resolved to investigate further. He prayed he was not walking into a trap. The memory of Jon Arryn's last words—whispered on his deathbed, if rumor was true—rang in his mind: "The seed is strong." Yes, the Baratheon line was known for black hair, not golden. That clue might unravel the entire monarchy.
Time to see if Baelish's leads produced anything worthwhile. And time to ensure Robert Baratheon, the once mighty rebel, realized how fragile his throne truly was.
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He stepped into the corridor, heading toward the solar that served as his office. A swirl of courtiers milled about, but Ned moved with purpose, ignoring the chatter about fresh rumor of a Targaryen in Essos raising armies. The Red Keep thrummed with anxious gossip, though no one seemed to connect it yet to any immediate threat. Ned wondered if the Targaryen rumor could be true—had a child survived? Or a distant cousin?
At the solar, he found a messenger waiting, wearing the sigil of House Arryn. The lad bowed, presenting Ned with a small bundle of parchment. "My lord, from one of the late Jon Arryn's confidants in the city."
Ned felt his heart twist at the name. He took the bundle, dismissed the boy, and unwrapped the parchments inside. They contained notes about certain locations Jon Arryn had visited: a blacksmith's shop, an orphanage, a handful of taverns scattered across Flea Bottom. Why would the Hand of the King visit such places?
He scanned further. One name recurred: Gendry. A young apprentice at a smithy near the Street of Steel, dark of hair, rumored to be of unusual birth. Ned's brow furrowed. A bastard? Possibly Robert's. Jon Arryn might have discovered this. If the "royal children" in the Red Keep carried the golden Lannister coloring, while the Baratheon bloodline was known for black hair, it suggested the royal children were not Robert's after all. Meanwhile, real bastards like Gendry would share Robert's dark hair. Ned's chest tightened. This was the path that had cost Jon Arryn his life.
He stepped out again, calling for a few trusted guards. If he was to question Gendry, he would do so discreetly. Baelish's leads might coincide with these references to black-haired bastards. Ned's sense of honor demanded he confirm the truth, then confront Robert or the Queen. Yet part of him dreaded that confrontation. Would it spark war? The realm had enough chaos already.
He let his mind flick back to Winterfell, to the day he had parted from his children. Jon had parted from them even earlier, going to… the Wall, perhaps, or so Ned had assumed. He felt a pang of regret. In a twisted sense, the realm was riddled with bastards—some legitimate, some hidden. But among them, Ned's nephew might hold the greatest claim of all, if only the truth came to light. But Ned had no illusions: if the realm discovered Jon was Rhaegar's son, the war might reignite. He sighed, burying that thought. He had to focus on the immediate danger.
Before noon, Ned and a handful of men in plain cloaks made their way to the Street of Steel. The clang of hammers on anvils echoed through the air, mixed with the tang of smoke. Skilled smiths labored here, forging swords, helmets, horseshoes. Ned approached a modest forge at the far end, recalling the address from Jon Arryn's notes. A burly man hammered away at a glowing bar of steel, while a lanky boy with black hair pumped the bellows. The boy wore broad shoulders, eyes serious, a face reminiscent of someone Ned once knew.
They paused their work as Ned stepped forward. The burly man grunted. "Need a blade, my lord?"
Ned glanced at the boy, Gendry, noticing the curve of the jaw, the shape of the eyes. So similar to Robert Baratheon's in younger days. "I'm here to speak with your apprentice."
The smith's brow furrowed. "Gendry? Fine. But he's not for sale, if that's what you want. He's a good worker."
Ned shook his head. "I only want a word, alone."
Gendry hesitated, setting aside the bellows. "Yes, my lord?"
Ned motioned, guiding him to a corner, away from prying ears. "I knew your father," he said gently. "You look very much like him." Gendry's eyes flicked with confusion, then a glimmer of fear. Ned pressed on. "Was Jon Arryn here before he died?"
Gendry nodded. "Aye, he asked me questions. About my mother, about my father. Told him I never knew my father. Just that… he had black hair, they said."
Ned exhaled, heart heavy. "Jon Arryn was searching for the truth about you. And now I see why. Keep your head low, Gendry. Some in the Red Keep wouldn't like that you exist."
The boy's eyes widened. "Why? I'm nobody, my lord."
Ned laid a hand on Gendry's shoulder. "Because your father's the King, or so I suspect. Robert Baratheon, once Robert of the Stormlands. He fathered bastards. You share his features. If they suspect you matter, they might—" He paused. He would not shatter the boy's illusions too harshly. "They might seek to remove any threats to the succession. Do you understand me?"
Gendry paled, but nodded. "What do I do?"
Ned frowned. "Stay here for now. Keep forging. But if someone comes asking more questions, be wary. If you need protection, come to me at the Red Keep." He pressed a small coin pouch into the boy's hand. "Use this to stay safe."
Gendry swallowed. "Thank you, my lord."
Ned turned, his chest tight. He had his confirmation. The heir on the throne—Prince Joffrey—was likely not Robert's trueborn son. Cersei had deceived the realm. Gendry and possibly others like him were the real Baratheon bloodline. Jon Arryn had discovered it, and it killed him. Ned felt the weight of that truth pressing on him like a millstone. If he revealed it, the queen would do anything to protect her children's claim. War, executions, chaos. Yet if he stayed silent, he let a lie remain on the throne, undermining the realm's foundations.
He returned to the Keep, his mind churning. That evening, Baelish approached him with a sly smile. "Heard you visited a smith. Found what you needed?"
Ned met his gaze, hating the smugness. "Yes. The queen has lied. The King's heirs are not his. I plan to confront her or the King soon."
Baelish's lips curved. "Be cautious, my lord. Information is a blade: if you draw it carelessly, you may cut yourself. Consider letting me manage the blow. Perhaps we can arrange a quiet outcome."
Ned stiffened. "I won't stoop to cunning murder. Robert deserves the truth, plainly stated."
Baelish spread his hands. "As you wish. But if you show a wolf's fangs too openly, you might lose your head. The city devours the honorable."
Ned's anger flared. "Better to be honorable than to scheme in shadows. I'll handle this my way."
Baelish shrugged. "Then let me know how I can help. I can deliver messages, bribe certain guards. We must ensure the realm stays calm, yes?"
Ned narrowed his eyes, but necessity made him nod. He needed some local networks, and Baelish commanded them. So the alliance, uneasy though it was, held. If only Ned knew how close that alliance would lead him to ruin.
As he parted from Baelish, Ned felt a pang of guilt again—Jon, he thought, would likely handle this differently. But Jon was not here. Only Ned, living with the consequences of Lyanna's choices and his own vow. He pictured Lyanna's face if she could see him now, tangled in political webs. Might she be angry he was dealing with scoundrels like Petyr Baelish? Or might she scold him for not acting faster?
He bit back a surge of anger at her memory. She forced me down this path. And yet, he loved her still.
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He stood on a balcony overlooking the training yard at dawn, the day after discovering Gendry's truth. The King's huntsmen had returned from the King's Wood with news that Robert had decided to embark on a grand boar hunt. Ned tried to talk him out of it, cautioning the King to remain in the capital while rumors of Lannister plots swirled. But Robert, drunk on wine and nostalgia for his rebellious youth, refused. He wanted to chase boars in the forest, ignoring the potential turmoil at court. Ned barely managed to secure an agreement for minimal expense on the lavish hunting feast.
Time weighed on him, pressing. If Robert left, Ned might have a chance to speak with the Queen or even gather enough evidence to remove her. But that act felt dishonorable—like a betrayal. Yet was not the bigger betrayal letting the realm be ruled by a false line? Duty warred with mercy in his heart. He recalled how the King's Rebellion started: Robert's claim that Rhaegar had stolen Lyanna. And indeed, if that single event had not happened, Jon would not be living as a bastard, and the realm's lines of succession would be entirely different.
He clenched his jaw. The memory of Rhaegar haunted him, but he forced it aside. The present demanded his attention. With Robert away hunting, Ned might approach the Queen, giving her a chance to flee. A foolishly honorable move, perhaps. But he could not bring himself to slaughter children, no matter whose blood they carried. Or so he told himself.
That morning, he donned the badge of the Hand, summoned a handful of household guards, and requested an audience with the Queen. She arrived at the throne room, flanked by Lannister guards. The hall felt cold despite the warm air outside. Eddard Stark stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, resisting the urge to scowl at the twisted metal monstrosity. The Queen approached from behind the dais, wearing a gown of rich green brocade that accentuated her golden hair. Her eyes flicked with cunning.
Ned cleared his throat. "Your Grace, I would speak with you alone."
She arched an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. "And risk letting you do something rash? I think not." She flicked a glance at her guards. "But speak, Lord Hand. I've no secrets to hide."
Ned's lip curled slightly. "No secrets, truly?" He drew a breath. "I know about the children. They are not Robert's. The seed is strong in Baratheons, but your children bear the golden hair of your brother Jaime. They are… bastards, in the eyes of the law."
Her face went pale, then tightened into a mask. The guards tensed. Ned signaled his own men to remain calm, though he felt his heart pounding. "You have proven your disloyalty to the King. I urge you to flee, quietly. Take your children if you wish. I will not see them harmed, but I cannot let them remain on the throne. If Robert returns and learns the truth—"
Cersei's eyes flashed with fury. "He will kill them, you fool. He will kill me." Her voice trembled with anger. "Do you think I'll just run? My father would never forgive such cowardice. My children deserve the crown. They are… they are of royal blood."
Ned's chest ached. "Royal blood? They are Jaime's. Robert was deceived. I will not keep silent. This is the realm's rightful order. If you remain, war may be inevitable. For the sake of your children's lives, go." He tried to keep his voice gentle, but there was steel beneath it.
She studied him with contempt. "Ah, you Starks and your honor. You think honor will shield you from the swords that come. You have no idea what you toy with."
He lifted his chin. "I know enough. This is your chance, Your Grace. Take it or face the King's wrath when he learns the truth."
She scoffed, turning away. "If the King returns alive. The boars of the forest can be quite dangerous, you know."
Her words sent a chill through Ned. Could she plan an 'accident' for Robert? She said nothing further, only strode off, beckoning her guards. Ned let her go, mind roiling. He had done a foolishly honorable thing, granting her a chance to flee. Would that only ensure she prepared her defenses to strike at him first?
He left the throne room, dread coiling in his belly. Hours later, a rider brought news that Robert had been mortally wounded by a boar. Ned's blood went cold.
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Robert Baratheon lay on a bed soaked with sweat, his face pale, his massive frame reduced to gasping weakness. Ned had to steel himself upon entering the King's bedchamber. The stench of sour wine and blood clung to the air. Maesters bustled around, but all looked resigned. The King's mortal wound in the belly festered. Cersei was nowhere to be seen, nor was Jaime.
Robert beckoned weakly when Ned appeared. "Ned," he rasped. "Gods… what a fool. Too much wine… the boar gored me good." He tried to laugh, but coughed up spittle.
Ned felt tears prick his eyes. Despite all, Robert had once been his cherished friend, the brother in arms who fought for Lyanna. "Robert… hush now. Conserve your strength."
The King's eyes rolled, wild with pain. "Save the realm talk for after. Listen, Ned. I can feel the cold creeping in. I know I won't… last. Write down… my last will. Let me see that boy Joffrey is set, or—" He gagged, moaning. "No. Wait. That boy… no, he's not mine, is he?"
Ned hesitated. "Robert, your Grace, there is something—"
But Robert cut him off, eyes flaring. "No, no time. I know I was a blind fool. If… if the boy isn't mine, damn them. Stannis… is next in line. He's my true heir by law. Make it so, Ned."
Ned's heart lurched. "Aye, I will. I vow to do all in my power to secure the realm for Stannis."
Robert let out a ragged breath. "Don't let them kill my bastards… they're not at fault. You'll… you'll protect them, yes?" A trembling hand gripped Ned's sleeve. "And… Lyanna, forgive me… I loved her. This war… oh, gods, I'm so tired."
Ned fought tears, guilt twisting like a knife. He nodded, taking Robert's last words into account. "I will do what I can, Robert. Rest easy. You fought valiantly. You will be remembered as a hero."
Robert's eyes glazed, drifting. "I just wanted the battles to be over, Ned. The feast, the hunts, the wine… I was never good at ruling." He coughed, convulsing. "But I… love this realm. Keep it safe. For Lyanna's sake, if nothing else."
Ned bowed his head, sorrow crushing him. "I swear it."
With trembling fingers, he scribbled a short will, naming Ned as Regent until Stannis could take the throne. Robert, too weak to read, pressed a shaking hand to a quill, leaving a blotched signature. Then the King slid into unconsciousness. By sunrise, he was gone.
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News of Robert's death spread like wildfire. The palace corridors erupted in chaos. Joffrey proclaimed himself King at once, ignoring Ned's insistence that Stannis was the rightful heir. The Lannisters seized power, locking down the Red Keep. Ned scrambled to gather his bannermen—some loyal houses and a handful of city watchmen who believed in lawful succession. He intended to present Robert's will to the court, proving his regency. The memory of Robert's final words pressed on him: "Stannis is next in line." Ned would do what he believed was right.
He stood in the throne room, surrounded by a handful of Stark men, while Lannister guards lined the walls. Baelish approached, urging Ned to allow Joffrey's coronation quietly. Ned refused, brandishing the sealed will. "I have the late King's final orders. Joffrey cannot be King. We must await Lord Stannis."
The Queen stepped forward, Joffrey by her side. She demanded the will. Ned refused to hand it over. He read it aloud instead, the words naming Eddard Stark as Regent, instructing him to secure the throne for the rightful heir. The Queen sneered, calling the documents forgeries. Gold cloaks shifted nervously. Ned saw fear flicker among them. He expected Baelish to support him, as promised. He declared in a ringing voice that Joffrey was no true Baratheon, but a product of incest.
Gasps and murmurs shook the hall. The Queen's face turned white with fury. Joffrey shrieked for Ned's arrest, calling him a traitor. Ned signaled the gold cloaks he had bribed—only to see them turn on him, blades drawn. Shock rippled through Ned. Petyr Baelish stood behind them, lips curled in a mocking half-smile. "I did warn you not to trust me," he murmured, pressing a dagger to Ned's side.
A horrified hush followed. The Stark men were outnumbered. Within moments, they were either killed or subdued. Ned found himself disarmed, his world spinning. Baelish had betrayed him. He had walked straight into a trap. Joffrey perched on the Iron Throne, laughing in triumph, while the Queen watched, eyes like daggers. Ned's heart sank. He had failed the realm. Failed Robert's last command. And, worst of all, he had not saved his family from this pit.
As the gold cloaks dragged him away, he thought briefly of Jon, so far away. If only I had done better by you, Jon. Perhaps the realm would not be in this state. And oh, Lyanna, you must hate me for failing your son… or your nephew. He felt anger at her anew, for leaving him in a world that demanded these lies. But that anger was drowned by crushing guilt.
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They thrust him into a dark cell beneath the Red Keep, the walls damp, the air reeking of rot. Hours passed, or maybe days. The clank of chains outside told him other prisoners languished in adjacent cells. Ned lay on straw, pain throbbing where a guard had struck him. His mind replayed the moment of betrayal over and over. He had wanted to do the honorable thing, but Baelish had outmaneuvered him. Now his men were scattered or dead, the realm on the brink of chaos. Perhaps the Targaryen rumor was real, and the realm would spiral into war. His heart weighed heavy.
When the door grated open, Ned raised his head, half expecting Lannister guards or the Queen. Instead, Varys slipped in, candlelight revealing the spymaster's solemn face. The man set a small lamp on the floor, pulling his hood low. "Lord Stark," he murmured. "I bring no illusions of your rescue. The Queen holds power now, and Joffrey is declared King. They intend to force your confession or kill you if you refuse."
Ned rubbed his bruised wrists, stifling a groan. "Then it's done. I have failed the realm, and I have failed Robert. The rightful heir is Stannis, but they will hush it up. War may come."
Varys bowed his head. "War likely will come. You should have bent the knee, or acted more subtly. Yet I see you tried your honest best."
Ned let out a bitter laugh. "Honest best? My honesty cost me everything. Now my daughters are at risk. Arya, Sansa… gods, I hope they escaped or are under watch. Varys, can you see them safe?"
Varys's eyes flickered. "I will do what I can. The Lannisters hold Sansa in the Red Keep. Arya's whereabouts are uncertain. She might be hidden. I can't confirm."
Ned's breath caught. "Then please help them. That's all I ask." He paused, choking on guilt and desperation. "There is something else… I must do one last service to the realm."
Varys tilted his head. "What is that, my lord?"
Ned swallowed thickly. "The realm is not just about Robert's heirs. There is another claim, a truer claim, though hidden. My sister… Lyanna… she bore a child. Rhaegar Targaryen's child. I raised him as my bastard, Jon Snow." The words spilled out, heavy with regret. "His real name is Jaehaerys Targaryen. He's the rightful king, if you follow Rhaegar's lineage."
Varys's eyes widened, genuine shock. "Truly?"
Ned gave a trembling nod. "Yes. I kept it hidden to protect him from Robert's hatred. A… a friend, Howland Reed, holds the copied documents—proof of the marriage, the mother's testament. If the realm plunges into chaos, tell the right people. Let them know the truth. Maybe, if the White Walkers come, the realm will need a strong Targaryen."
Varys stared, astonished. "My lord, this is… momentous. The Targaryens rumored across the sea are not the only ones, then. Jon Snow is the actual heir?"
Ned closed his eyes, tears slipping free. "Yes. I never told him. I failed him. But if you can, if it might help the realm avoid catastrophe, let the knowledge out. Or keep it hidden until the right time, I cannot say. Just… do something right by him. And keep my daughters safe."
Varys bowed, voice hushed. "I will try. Many might not believe, but if you have proof, we can shape events. Perhaps this Jon Targaryen will stand as a uniting figure. Or perhaps he'll just remain in the shadows. Either way, I promise I'll do all I can for Sansa and Arya. They are innocents."
Ned nodded, relief mingled with despair. He had undone his vow of silence, but perhaps it was the final kindness. If war devoured Westeros, the realm might need a hidden Targaryen to rally behind. Even if Ned would not live to see it.
Varys gathered his cloak. "They will come for your answer soon. If you confess treason, they might spare you, perhaps send you to the Wall. I cannot guarantee. But do as your conscience demands."
Ned slumped, eyes on the cold stone floor. "Lyanna… she'll never forgive me for letting her son wander so far from the truth. But maybe, if I can help him now…" He trailed off, shaking. "Go, Varys. Keep them safe."
Varys inclined his head, then slipped out. The door closed, leaving Ned alone once more in the dark. He pressed his forehead to the damp wall. Tomorrow or the day after, they might haul him before the boy king. The city would watch him kneel or die. But at least he had told someone about Jon Snow, about Jaehaerys Targaryen. Maybe that single act could save the realm from something even worse down the road.
As he drifted into an uneasy half-sleep, visions of Jon swirled in his mind—Jon as a boy, solemnly practicing archery, or looking up with wounded eyes whenever Catelyn scorned him. Guilt stabbed Ned anew. He pictured Lyanna's ghost, chastising him for his anger at her, for making him hide her child's heritage. But perhaps now, in his last hours, he had found a shred of redemption. And so the final thought he clung to was that somewhere, Jon was alive, forging his own path. Let him discover the truth in time. Let him save the realm, if that was the will of fate.
Then Eddard Stark closed his eyes, awaiting whatever dawn would bring.