Varys cast his eyes around the chamber. "Oh, dear… my little birds tell me that Lord Renly left the city about an hour before dawn. I assumed you had ordered it."
A flicker of fire lit Eddard Stark's gray eyes. "I gave Renly no such order."
Disappointment stirred in Ned's heart. Renly had Robert's face, but not his spirit. He had hoped for support; instead, his brother's younger sibling had revealed ambition in the heat of urgency. Ned sighed inwardly. Renly's flight was a setback, but one he could not prevent.
"Let us begin."
Ned drew forth Robert's will. "Last night, King Robert summoned me to his side and commanded me to set down his last words. Lords Renly Baratheon and Grand Maester Pycelle witnessed his seal. By law, this will was to be opened by the Small Council after the king's death."
He extended the parchment toward Ser Barristan Selmy. "Lord Commander, will you do us the honor of examining it?"
Barristan accepted gravely, inspected the seal before them all, and nodded. "It is the king's hand and unbroken."
The old knight opened the will and read aloud:
"…I name Eddard of House Stark Protector of the Realm and Regent, to rule in my stead until my lawful heir comes of age."
Ned thought grimly, that heir has already come of age. He need only play along for now, steady the Red Keep, and await Stannis Baratheon's arrival with his army.
He glanced at Barristan, who would surely see Joffrey as king, bound by honor to defend the boy. This was not the moment for truth.
"I ask the Council to confirm me as Protector of the Realm, according to the king's will—"
Knocking interrupted him. The door opened, and Tomard entered.
"My lords, forgive me—His Majesty's steward insists—"
The Royal Steward strode in, bowing. "My lords, the king commands the Small Council to convene at once in the throne room."
Ned's brows drew tight. His eyes sharpened. Cersei had made her choice: she had refused his mercy and chosen defiance.
"The king's command is immediate," pressed the steward.
Ned ignored him. He rose, lifted Ice, and studied the dark steel that smoked with cold. When he raised his eyes again, they burned with the wolf's will to fight. Barristan stiffened; Varys's fingers twitched; Pycelle shrank from his gaze.
"The king is dead," Ned said calmly. "But we shall go."
Outside the Tower of the Hand
Twenty-eight Stark guards in chainmail and gray cloaks stood ready, helms glinting.
Ned met the eyes of his captain. "Jory. You'll lead our escort."
The Hand marched at the fore, followed by Varys, Pycelle, Barristan, and the steward. Gray cloaks cracked in the wind. The walls and gates bristled with gold cloaks patrolling—Janos Slynt's men held the castle. That gave Ned a fleeting sense of security.
Before the Throne Room
Janos Slynt stood waiting, clad in black-and-gold armor, a tall-feathered helm beneath his arm. He inclined his head to Ned, then gestured.
The colossal doors groaned open. The steward proclaimed:
"Behold Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
From afar, Ned saw the boy perched high upon the Iron Throne.
The wolf strode forward with his men.
He remembered the first time he had entered here, astride a warhorse with sword in hand, forcing Jaime Lannister down from the throne. Would Joffrey descend so meekly?
Six Kingsguard, Jaime foremost, formed a crescent around the dais, silver armor shining, white cloaks pristine.
Behind them stood Cersei in red silk, a golden circlet on her brow, with Myrcella and Tommen at her side.
Upon the barbed throne itself sat Joffrey, in gold-threaded doublet and crimson cloak.
At the rear loomed Sandor Clegane and scores of Lannister redcloaks.
On either side, ranks of gold cloaks stood ready, spearpoints gleaming. More than a hundred—Slynt had done as promised.
Ned halted. His twenty-eight gray cloaks closed in tight.
"I command the Small Council to ready my coronation. I want it done in two weeks," Joffrey announced, rising. "Today, I shall receive your oaths of fealty."
Ned ignored the boy and raised Robert's will.
"Varys—give this to Lady Cersei."
The eunuch obeyed, bowing low as he offered the parchment. Cersei glanced at it, lips curling.
"Protector of the Realm? By virtue of a scrap of parchment?" She tore it once, twice, shredding it to the floor.
Ser Barristan gasped. "Your Grace—that was the king's will!"
Cersei dismissed him with a glance. "We have a new king, ser." She turned to Ned, smiling thinly. "Last we spoke, you gave me counsel. Allow me to repay the courtesy…"
She lifted her chin. "Bend the knee to my son. Lay down the Hand's chain. We'll let you return to your gray wasteland and live out your days."
"I would welcome it," Ned replied coldly, "but your son has no claim. Stannis Baratheon is Robert's lawful heir."
So be it—Cersei had forced the matter. Ned signaled to his men.
Joffrey's face went scarlet. "Liar! Traitor!"
Cersei snapped at Barristan: "Take him, ser. Seize the traitor!"
The Lord Commander faltered, encircled by Stark steel. Ned held his gaze. "For Robert, ser. For honor. Let me explain later."
"My honor demands explanation now," Barristan said firmly. "I cannot permit this."
"You speak of honor," Cersei spat, "but you grasp at power."
"Kill him!" Joffrey shrieked. "Kill them all!"
Step by step, Jaime came forward, drawing steel. "Lord Stark, accept the queen regent's mercy."
"The Kingslayer," Ned sneered. "You disgrace the white cloak. Your honor is fouled forever."
Jaime's face darkened, but Cersei shouted first: "Enough! Stark is a traitor. Seize him!"
Swords hissed free—the Hound, the Kingsguard, the redcloaks.
"Kill them!" Joffrey screamed again.
"Cersei," Ned said evenly. "I wished to avoid bloodshed. You leave me no choice."
He turned to Janos Slynt. "My lord, arrest the queen and her children. Do them no harm. Take them to Maegor's Holdfast and set guards."
Slynt donned his helm, plume swaying, and roared: "City Watch!"
One hundred spears lowered—toward Ned.
"The traitor Eddard Stark!" Slynt thundered. "The Watch stands with King Joffrey!"
Cersei's voice dripped mockery. "Spare us the blood, Stark. Lay down your arms. Beg the king's pardon."
"Kill them!" Joffrey shrilled. "Kill them all!"
Ned glimpsed Pycelle and Varys edging toward the queen. Gawen was right—enemies on every side.
He realized then how foolishly he had been duped. Slynt had always been Cersei's dog. The hall was her snare.
Slynt swelled with triumph. "Eddard Stark! Throw down your sword! Kneel!"
Ned gripped Ice with both hands.
Jory flashed him a grin. "My lord, too many spears. Hard to guard against, eh?"
Battle-heat surged through Ned's veins, as Robert had always said. Gods, how I miss fighting beside him.
"Jory—the North was never made for defense."
"As you command, my lord."
Jory raised his arm and roared: "Ready yourselves!"
The gray cloaks bellowed thrice, the sound deafening in the hall.
Joffrey shrieked, then tumbled backward onto the throne, slicing his hand on an iron spike. "Mother! I'm bleeding!"
Cersei ignored him. Sandor Clegane heard, though—he seized Pycelle and dragged him up the steps.
Jaime leveled his sword. "Yield, Stark!"
But Ned heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears. His gaze swept the foes, locking on Janos Slynt.
He loosened his grip, then tightened once more.
"Winterfell!"
"Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!"
"Stark!"
"Attack! Attack! Attack!"
The Hand of the King led his men straight at Slynt.
Ice sheared through three spearpoints, then swept sideways—two goldcloaks lost their heads.
Ned paused a heartbeat; his men surged past, crashing into the line.
"Hold! Thrust!" Slynt roared.
The first wave of gray fell upon spears. Among them was grizzled Tomard, near fifty. A shaft punched through his belly and out his back. He coughed blood and bellowed, "Winterfell!" Then, impaled, he rammed his sword through an enemy's throat, spending his last breath.
One after another, the grays fell. Eleven lay dead before the fight broke into chaos.
Each swing of Ice severed steel and flesh alike. Ned carved a path, while his guards blocked blows with blade and body, dying to shield him.
In the melee, each gray took at least three goldcloaks with him. Stark steel chilled their foes' hearts.
"Slynt!"
Ned's greatsword slashed across the commander's cuirass, shoulder to chest. For a breath it held—then blood sprayed. Janos Slynt toppled.
Ned panted, face smeared with gore. His eyes fixed on Jaime Lannister, guarding Cersei behind a wall of redcloaks.
The wolf turned, sword ready.
"Stark!"
"Attack! Attack! Attack!"
Only twelve Stark guards remained, but their voices still thundered, their spirit unbroken.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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