Night lay heavy over King's Landing. Though the king was dead, mankind's revelry had not ceased. The brothels, gambling dens, and fighting pits were still as busy as ever.
With Lothor guarding him, Littlefinger arrived at a three-story wooden building that looked as though it might collapse at any moment. Light spilled from the windows, especially bright against the dimming dusk. Music and shrill laughter drifted out from inside and over the river. By the door hung a heavy chain supporting an ornate oil lamp, covered by a leaded red glass shade.
"This is a place that spreads joy. A pity Eddard is gone. I remember the last time we came here together. Poor Stark," Littlefinger said to Lothor beside him.
Lothor said nothing. Littlefinger knew he was the sort of man who was always silent. Quiet, loyal, and handy with a blade. That was exactly the kind of talent Littlefinger wanted.
They went inside, passed through the crowded hall, where a fat woman was singing a bawdy song while pretty young maidens in gauzy robes perched on their patrons' laps and cooed at them. Littlefinger led Lothor straight up to the third floor.
Smiling, Littlefinger poured Lothor a hot drink. "Now that our good Robert is dead, things in King's Landing will become even livelier, especially tomorrow."
Lothor drained it in one swallow, but still said nothing. He was unmoved by the king, or at least he played the part of a man who cared only for Littlefinger's gold dragons and favor.
"Oh, I forgot. Lothor, you prefer blades and spears."
"Forgive me, my lord."
"I like that silence of yours. Without it, a sellsword wouldn't be worth much." Littlefinger smiled. "Still, I don't think we'll be staying in King's Landing much longer. Let Stark keep rotting beneath the Red Keep. Let the hounds scramble over the inheritance the lions leave behind."
He looked at Lothor's puzzled expression, then revealed his plan. "King's Landing is not our home. It will only grow more dangerous. My home is in the Vale, on the Fingers."
Littlefinger had already sensed the danger closing in on him. He had spread that lie about the Valyrian dagger. The Imp would surely bear him ill will, and the Lannisters would begin to suspect him. Besides, his grip on King's Landing was not strong enough. He did not have enough men. There was also the third storm. The young man across the Narrow Sea filled Littlefinger with a dread much like Brandon had once done, or the Mountain. Littlefinger was certain the Mountain's death could not have happened without the young smith's scheming. All things considered, only the Vale was truly safe.
"I'll make the preparations," said Lothor Brund.
"Good. Just do as I say," Littlefinger replied. The Vale had the natural barrier of the Mountains of the Moon, a foolish fish like Lysa, and his real foundations, unlike King's Landing, which stood at the heart of every storm.
"For men like us, opportunities are rare. They vanish in an instant." Littlefinger poured himself a cup of wine as well.
"You are a great man," Lothor said in praise.
Littlefinger laughed. "Well now, Lothor, are you flattering me too? You're the one I trust most."
"Thank you, my lord," Lothor said gratefully, tears nearly in his eyes.
"I'm no great man. I'm just someone always looking for a ladder."
"Hmph. But I won't leave King's Landing empty-handed. My ship must take at least one or two passengers with it. That is the interest I mean to collect from King's Landing." Littlefinger muttered to himself, "Though for that, I'll need the right person to do it."
The next day, Sansa Stark wore a sky-blue silk dress. Her long, curly auburn hair hung loose, and her wrists were ringed with silver bracelets. Today she was to accompany the king and the Queen Dowager to the Great Sept of Baelor.
She was only a girl not yet twelve, after all, and all alone in King's Landing. Sansa felt frightened and miserable, with only a single sliver of hope left to her, and today that hope felt sweeter than ever. She had no companion. Even the ever-tearful Jeyne had been taken away, and the servants would not speak to her at all. Sansa knew people had disappeared from the Tower of the Hand. Most of them had likely sunk into darkness, and she dared not think about it.
Lady Catelyn had raised her daughters only in the ways of a lady of the Riverlands and the manners of court. Sansa had learned well, but this was no age for ladies.
"May the Mother Above protect us. Father, my sister, and me," Sansa prayed. Sometimes she would go to the godswood. That was the Stark faith. House Stark worshipped the Old Gods. Ever since King Robert died on his hunt, leaving behind a will no one in the Red Keep dared speak of, and Lord Eddard was thrown into prison, Sansa had known the mood in the Red Keep had completely changed.
She had once seen the throne room with her own eyes. The tapestries King Robert had loved most in life had all been torn down and tossed in disorder into a corner, leaving the walls bare and desolate.
Sansa knew she was unwelcome now as well. She was the daughter of a traitor. The Queen Dowager had granted her the freedom to come and go within the Red Keep as a reward for her good behavior. Even so, no matter where she went, someone always followed close behind.
"This is an honor guard for my future daughter-in-law," the Queen Dowager had said of the guards set to watch Sansa, but her tone left no room for refusal.
"Have they all forgotten me?" Sansa had murmured greetings to people before, but seldom received any answer. Those highborn ladies now avoided her as though she carried misfortune with her. There were no friendly faces left. In the court of King's Landing, Sansa had become like a ghost. Still alive, yet already pronounced dead.
The dark-skinned Jalabhar Xho, the gloomy Ser Aron Santagar, and the House Redwyne twins, Ser Horror and Ser Slobber. Yet none of them seemed to recognize Sansa. Or perhaps they did, and were avoiding her as though she were the plague. The haggard Lord Gyles covered his face and pretended to cough violently the moment she came near. The drunken, absurd Ser Dontos had been about to greet her, but after Ser Balon Swann leaned over and whispered a few words in his ear, he turned his head away.
Even so, Sansa was still looking forward to the good news she hoped to hear today. She had already pleaded with Queen Dowager Cersei and King Joffrey, and today, at the Great Sept of Baelor, Eddard would receive justice. It was the only good news Sansa had had in quite some time.
"Come, Lady Sansa," the white Kingsguard, Ser Boros, said roughly, in a tone that allowed no refusal. Sansa had no choice but to follow him, first to see the King and the Queen Dowager, and then onward to the Great Sept of Baelor.
King Joffrey was dressed in crimson silk and satin, embroidered all over with leaping stags and roaring lions, a golden crown upon his head that made him the most eye-catching figure in the crowd. The Queen Dowager stood beside him in a black mourning gown threaded here and there with crimson silk, with a black diamond veil resting in her hair.
"I hope. I hope Father will be all right." Sansa followed the King and the Queen Dowager toward the Sept. By the great doors, before the high pulpit, a crowd of knights and nobles had already gathered.
"I have given the order for the bells to be rung," the High Septon said respectfully. Short and stout, old in years yet no less fawning for it, the High Septon had gray-white hair and a swollen, fleshy body. He wore a pure white robe and a massive crown of gold leaf and crystal that scattered rainbow light with every movement.
"Well done."
As King Joffrey appeared at the Great Sept of Baelor, the bells began to ring. This was the summons bell, so only one bell in one tower was sounding. When a king died, every bell in the city would ring.
People streamed in the same direction, all eager to find out why the bells were ringing. The sound grew louder and louder, clanging without pause, calling them onward.
Before long, the crowd was shoulder to shoulder, packed so tightly there was hardly room to breathe. The white marble square before the Great Sept of Baelor was crammed with people. They chatted excitedly among themselves and shoved for a better place, hoping to get closer to the Sept. Here, the bells were deafening.
The people of King's Landing knew nothing of right and wrong. They only cared about beheadings and public assemblies, and were even more interested because the one confessing was a great lord from the North. They said the Starks could turn into wolves.
"They say these Northerners can turn into wolves and only pray to trees. Is that true?"
"I heard it was this Stark who killed our old King Robert. He slit His Grace's throat in the woods, and when they found him afterward, he acted like nothing had happened and lied, saying His Grace was killed by some old wild boar."
"Oh, that's not true at all. The one who killed His Grace was his younger brother, Renly, the one with the golden stag antlers on his head."
"You foul woman, shut your flapping mouth! Stop talking nonsense here. Lord Renly is an upright, honorable man."
"You're all wrong. I heard it was that bastard from across the Narrow Sea who used magic. The king was killed by a boar, and the kinslayer knew sorcery, then he joined forces with Lord Eddard to write a will."
Once most of the people had arrived, "Eddard" the Great Lord was escorted to the High Septon's pulpit outside the Sept doors, with a Gold Cloak supporting him on either side.
Struggling through the crush, Arya fought her way forward, only to be shoved up against a stone pedestal.
The little wolf girl looked up. She was only nine, skinny and small, and anyone who saw her would have taken her for a boy. Arya saw the face of Septon-King, Saint Baelor the Blessed. She tucked her sword into her belt and started climbing. Her broken nails left streaks of blood on the painted marble, but in the end she made it up and wedged herself between the king's legs.
Arya saw her father, though he was still a little far away. His face was full of pain, and it looked somewhat darkened.
The King, the Queen Dowager, Sansa, and the others stood before the pulpit. Farther back was a great crowd of knights and nobles, though only the highest-ranking councillors were allowed to stand so close, and there were not many of them, since half the Small Council had already run off. Now only the eunuch Varys remained, dressed in a patterned silk robe and slippers, drifting among the nobles. There was Littlefinger too, in his silver cloak with his pointed beard. Sansa now knew he was the man who had once fought a duel for her mother. And there were five white knights as well, Joffrey's dogs in dark gray armor and snow-white cloaks.
"Father, Father." Sansa tried to call out, but the white knight stopped her.
"That is not how a lady behaves." The Queen Dowager gave Sansa a glance, and Sansa fell silent, looking timidly at her father. Yet for some reason, she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Sansa stole another look at her "father." He wore a thick gray velvet doublet with a white wolf beaded across the chest, and a gray wool cloak trimmed with fur over his shoulders. But Sansa had never seen him so thin. Pain was written all over that long face, and there was a murky blackness on it too, as though years in the dungeons had smeared it there. The more she looked, the stranger it felt. If it were truly Father, how could he not have noticed her? He could barely stand, with two guards holding him up.
Under the command of the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, a long line of gold-cloaked spearmen kept the crowd back at the perimeter. He wore splendid black-lacquered armor picked out with gold, and his cloak was woven with real gold thread, gleaming with a metallic sheen.
The bells fell silent, and wave after wave of quiet spread through the square. The Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, ugly as a toad, stepped forward. "Eddard" opened his mouth and began to speak, but his voice was so faint that Sansa could hardly hear him.
"Louder," the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks shouted, then jabbed him viciously.
"I can't say it. I am guilty, but I..." "Eddard" said blankly, his voice hoarse, and then began to sob. His voice rose a little after that, though only a little.
Only Sansa could catch the rough meaning of it. She was close, and she was listening with all her heart. It was not the voice of the father she had thought of day and night, though it did have the accent of a Northman. Sansa wanted to hear more, but "Eddard" said no more.
"This coward is afraid, Your Grace, Queen," Slynt announced loudly to Joffrey and Cersei.
"What is going on?" Joffrey said impatiently.
"It seems the black cells of King's Landing are rather poor accommodations. Lord Eddard is nearly mute," Littlefinger said with a smile.
"Psychologically speaking, that can happen."
"I don't care. This ceremony will continue," Joffrey said, looking at Slynt.
Slynt climbed higher onto the platform, then said to Eddard, "Former Great Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, have you come here today to confess your treason before the gods in heaven and the men of earth?"
"Yes," "Eddard" said carefully, nodding again and again.
"And was that written confession written by your own hand?"
"Yes."
"Damn it, louder. What's wrong with him?"
"He should've been beheaded long ago, that traitor."
"Idiot. They're not going to chop his head off. Since when do they behead traitors in the Great Sept?"
"Will this traitor turn into a wolf?"
The crowd below broke into loud shouting, the air thick with mockery and filthy curses. Sansa buried her face deep in her hands, but the doubt in her heart remained.
Arya kept thinking, kept listening. Her father said so little. It seemed he had been too badly broken in King's Landing.
"All of Lord Eddard's crimes are accurate and true. I will read them again," Slynt shouted, straining to make his voice carry across the square.
"Eddard Stark, did you betray our king, your dear friend, Robert? You betrayed the trust and charge of the late king," Slynt bellowed. "You swore to protect his children, yet before the late king's body was even cold, you conspired to depose and murder his son, and to raise a bastard up as king."
"Yes." "Eddard" kept nodding as he faced the crowd, but his hoarse voice could never ring out like steel.
"Now then, are you willing to ask the High Septon, Baelor the Blessed, and the seven gods above to witness that what you have said is true. That Joffrey Baratheon is the sole lawful heir to the Iron Throne, and in the name of the Seven above, he is the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm?"
"I am."
A stone flew out of the crowd and struck "Eddard," then more stones followed. Blood began to flow, but the guards would not let Eddard collapse. There were too many stones, though, and some even struck the guards and landed near the King. Two white knights immediately raised their shields to protect the King and the Queen Dowager.
Lothor Brune watched Eddard's confession from among the gathered knights. He wondered whether he ought to act. Not personally, but by using the Begging Brothers. Still, this was not the best opportunity.
"Why is Littlefinger still saying Stark is beneath the Red Keep, and why does this man barely dare speak?" Lothor's heart pounded as countless thoughts raced through his mind.
The lavishly dressed High Septon knelt before King Joffrey and his mother.
"Because we are guilty, we suffer," the High Septon intoned in a deep, resonant voice, far louder than Lord Stark's. "Here, in this holy place, this man has confessed his crimes before the gods in heaven and the men of earth." He lifted his hands in prayer, rainbow light flashing around his head. "The gods above are just, yet Baelor the Blessed taught us that they are merciful as well. Your Grace, how should this traitor be dealt with?"
"Behead him!"
"Behead him!"
"Behead him!" the mob roared, and Varys felt at once that something was wrong.
"My mother urged me to let Great Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has pleaded for her father many times as well." The King stepped out from behind the iron shields and smiled at Sansa. "That is only the weakness of women's hearts. So long as I am king, treason must be punished harshly. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"
The crowd exploded. They shoved forward as one, and Arya could feel even Baelor's statue swaying.
"Your Grace, this is the holy Great Sept. No criminal has ever been executed here. It is a desecration of the gods. I do not consent." The High Septon grabbed the King's cloak and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"You must not, Your Grace. At this very moment, the Northerners are preparing to march," Varys said too, staring in shock and gesturing frantically.
The Queen Dowager looked at her son. "Hadn't we agreed? Joffrey, your grandfather and your uncle are still at the front in the Riverlands. Mercy or confinement, both are within your power, but right now we..."
"That is only the weakness of you women." Joffrey shook his head, and the King's Justice strode forward. The executioner was tall and gaunt, like a skeleton in iron armor.
"I didn't."
"I didn't! You promised me!"
"I did not commit treason, Lord Varys," "Eddard" suddenly roared, and then his voice dropped away again.
Sansa began screaming too. Every voice turned into one chaotic, tangled mass, impossible to make out. All the sounds blended together.
On the high pulpit, Ser Ilyn Payne made a gesture, and the black-and-gold armored knight immediately gave the order. The Gold Cloaks forced Lord Eddard down onto the marble slab, with his head and chest hanging over the edge of the platform.
"No." Arya tried to force her way through the crowd, shoving people aside or wriggling between them, lowering her head and smashing into anyone who blocked her path. Someone grabbed at her foot, so she slashed down with her sword and kicked hard at the person's shin. A woman fell, and Arya jumped onto her back at once, hacking wildly to either side, but it was useless, completely useless. There were simply too many people. Every gap she glimpsed was filled in an instant. People were hitting her, trying to drive her back. The only thing Arya could hear clearly was Sansa's screaming.
Ser Ilyn drew a massive two-handed greatsword from his back. As he raised it above his head, sunlight rippled and danced along the dark metal, and the blade was sharper than any razor.
Ice. House Stark's Ice.
Ice took the head, and blood spilled out. Sansa watched it happen with a scream. Through the blood-soaked head, she caught a glimpse of something. There were pockmarks on the right side of the face. They had been hidden well enough before beneath the black coloring, but once the blood soaked through, they showed again. It was not Father. A Stark did not have a pockmarked face.
"Put that head on a spear," Joffrey ordered.
"No." Sansa collapsed to the ground, weeping, no longer caring about her ladylike image. She had to keep playing her role.