The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, sat beside her son the king, her expression a mask of regal grace.
Eddard Stark was dragged onto the execution platform in the center of the square, his hands and feet bound in heavy shackles. Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, stood waiting, his thin face twisted in a rare display of pride. He had not forgotten the incident in the Riverlands last year. He would have gladly killed the direwolf that bit Prince Joffrey, had Eddard Stark not intervened. Forcing him to stand down, to fail in carrying out the royal will, was an insult Ilyn Payne had carried ever since.
Now, he would have his satisfaction. The prospect of taking Stark's head with his own two hands sent a flush of color to his pale, gaunt cheeks.
Nearby, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, stood with his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of a silk robe. He squinted at the jeering crowd, at the thousands of ignorant commoners screaming for blood. The execution of a former Hand of the King was a rare spectacle, and the people of King's Landing were eager for the show.
Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, allowed a small, satisfied smirk to touch his lips. A glint of triumph shone in his eyes. Eddard Stark, with his head full of honor and justice, had never suspected that the trail of secrets leading to Joffrey's parentage was one Littlefinger himself had laid. He had spread the rumors, fanned the flames, and pushed Stark into direct conflict with the Lannisters, all to plunge Westeros into chaos.
He hadn't anticipated, however, that the arrogant young king would be foolish enough to actually order Stark's execution. With this one act, Joffrey had made peace between the North and the Westerlands impossible. House Tully of the Riverlands was bound to the Starks by marriage, and with the Lannister army burning their lands, war was now inevitable.
In the south, the Stormlands and the Reach had declared for Renly Baratheon. On Dragonstone, his elder brother Stannis seethed, refusing to let his incompetent younger sibling usurp what he saw as his own birthright. Word had already reached the capital that Stannis's fleet was sailing for Storm's End. It seemed the Baratheon brothers would have to settle their own bloody dispute before either could march on King's Landing.
Chaos is a ladder, Littlefinger thought with a soft, internal chuckle. Let it be even more chaotic.
On the platform, the High Septon read the charges against Eddard Stark aloud. "…collusion with the traitor Stannis Baratheon, in a treasonous plot to usurp the throne of His Grace, King Joffrey…"
With every charge, the crowd roared its approval, hurling stones and insults at the man kneeling before them.
Lost in the mob, dirty and disheveled, Arya fought to push her way forward, desperate to reach her father. But she was too small, too weak, and the wall of bodies was impassable. Tears streamed down her face, turning her cheeks into muddy tracks.
Suddenly, a large hand clamped over her mouth, and the foul stench of sweat filled her nose.
"Be quiet, boy," a rough voice whispered in her ear. "Don't shout, or they'll take you too." It was Yoren of the Night's Watch. He pulled her back, away from the square.
Arya whimpered and struggled, but his grip was iron. She was forced to watch, helpless, as Ser Ilyn Payne raised the greatsword high above his head and brought it down, severing her father's head from his body.
The crowd erupted in a massive cheer. They had their show.
Forced to watch by Lannister guards, Sansa collapsed into loud, gut-wrenching sobs as her father was beheaded. She could do nothing but watch as his body was unceremoniously dragged away.
Joffrey leaped from his seat, his pale face flushed with excitement as blood sprayed across the platform. "Hahaha, yes!" he shrieked. "That's how it's done! If anyone else dares to defy me, I'll chop off their heads too!"
News of Eddard Stark's execution spread through Westeros like a plague.
Tyrion Lannister was on the road from the Riverlands to the capital when he heard. He was stunned.
"Those brainless idiots!" he roared, his voice echoing from inside his tent. "Cersei and Joffrey! What in the seven hells were they thinking? Beheading Eddard Stark? This forces the North to fight us to the death! Fools! Are there no men on the council with the sense to talk them out of it? Idiots! Every last one of them is an idiot!"
Outside, Tyrion's attendants exchanged uneasy glances. The door burst open.
"Get the carriage ready now!" Tyrion bellowed. "I'm riding to my father's camp. We can't let that mad boy and his mother ruin everything!"
His men scrambled to obey, and Tyrion's carriage was soon racing toward Lord Tywin's position.
When the news reached Robb Stark, who was marching his northern army south across the Neck, his grief quickly hardened into a cold, burning rage.
"I will march on King's Landing," he swore, drawing his sword. "I'll take that bastard's head myself and avenge my father!"
At his side, his direwolf rose to his feet, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
Robb gave the order to increase their pace. The plan was clear: they would join forces with his grandfather's army at Riverrun, crush Jaime Lannister's forces, defeat Tywin Lannister, and then march on the capital to kill King Joffrey.
The lords of the North learned of their liege's death and immediately acknowledged his heir. By law, Robb Stark was now the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. In their tents, they gathered to pledge him their fealty.
But one lord approached him with caution. "Lord Robb, with respect, the army must rest. We have been marching hard. The men are exhausted. If we rush into the Riverlands and the Kingslayer meets us, our weary soldiers will be routed."
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