The gold cloaks froze where they stood. Their commander lay dead, and they clutched their spears in helpless confusion.
"Advance!"
Gray met red with a crash, and blood flew.
Ice rose and fell in Eddard Stark's hands. A redcloak staggered to his knees, the lion-helm split clean in two as blood poured down his face.
Steel rang. Jory Cassel barely caught a blow slashing in from Ned's rear quarter—then Ice skimmed over Jory's crown, and the assailant's head leapt from his shoulders.
Ned spared Jory a glance; his captain bared his teeth and dipped his chin.
Jory had fought at his lord's side for years. He understood that look—indeed, he'd had the same thought.
…
With a wet chop, Jaime Lannister's first stroke took a gray cloak's arm; the second laid open his neck.
"Kingslayer!"
At the shout, Jaime's gaze flicked up and locked with Lord Eddard's.
The lion smiled, thin and cold, and strode toward the wolf.
Ned's sword hand trembled. He had lost count of the men Ice had felled. Six feet of Valyrian steel drank a man's strength; his time was running short.
Their blades met with ringing blows.
Ice swept half a circle and came cleaving down. Jaime dared not take it square; he lurched aside, near-sprawling on the blood-slick stone of the great hall.
Ice smashed where he'd stood, cracking the flags.
Before Jaime could find his feet, Jory's sword flashed in; the Kingslayer caught it by a hair, but his knee buckled and he dropped to one leg.
Ned's greatsword settled on Jaime's shoulder. Jory, grimacing, lifted one boot and wiggled his toes.
"Good work, Jory," Ned said between breaths.
"Hah… hah… My lord—he ran into my foot. Gods, that hurts."
Jaime burned with fury. An ambush, not a stumble. Who said northmen were always blunt and honest?
At Jory's shout, the seven Stark men still standing fell back to ring their lord. Seeing the Kingslayer taken, the foe hesitated.
Jaime glanced at the weight of Ice upon his shoulder and let one corner of his mouth curl. "I haven't lost to you, wolf."
Jory hobbled over and took his sword. Ned lifted Ice away.
"You're my prisoner," Ned said, setting the great blade upright before him, both hands upon the grip.
Jaime said nothing.
Ned looked around the hall and grief tightened his face. Too much Winterfell blood had been spilled today. He looked again at the handful of guards left to him. His folly had killed good men. All he wanted now was to bring the rest home.
…
Only harsh breathing remained in the hall.
"Cersei, let us leave," Ned called. "I give you my word I will not harm Jaime."
At least he could be glad he'd named Gawen Crabb captain at the Steel Gate; a friendly door waited there. Now he had the Kingslayer besides—leverage enough, perhaps, to win a retreat.
But guilt gnawed at him. A child would have planned more wisely than he had.
From atop the throne, Joffrey shrieked, "Don't let them go! Kill them!"
Cersei's laugh was a razor. "Stark, this is hardly honorable."
"Honor has cost too many lives already," Ned said hoarsely. "Let us end it."
"I think not…"
The Kingsguard parted before the queen, and what Ned saw wrenched a gasp from him.
Cersei smiled with lazy contempt. "Sansa. Only you can keep Lord Stark from making another mistake."
Sansa Stark stood before the queen, eyes drowned in tears, Cersei's hands resting upon her shoulders as if in benediction.
Ned's heart lurched. "Sansa—how are you here?"
If Cersei held his elder daughter, what of Arya? Had Jon—and Gawen—come to harm? Shame and panic washed through him. His folly had ensnared his children as well.
"F—father…" Sansa choked.
Cersei stroked the girl's hair, gentle as a cat. "Good child. I shall bless your match to Joffrey. All your father need do is lay down his sword, and everything will be well."
Sansa glanced back, pleading. "Your Grace… you will pardon my father?"
"We shall soon be one family," Cersei purred.
Ned roared, "Cersei, leave my children out of this!"
"Sweet love brought her here," the queen replied, voice cool as marble. "You know the choice that will be best for everyone."
Wolf's fury and lioness's composure stood in stark relief.
Cersei patted Sansa's shoulder.
"Father… Her Grace has agreed to let me wed Joffrey," Sansa sobbed. "Please—I truly love him."
Ned kept silent, eyes closed in pain. Poor child. To trust a Lannister's promise…
He opened them. "Take me, then. Do as you will with me—but spare my children and my men."
Cersei lifted her chin. "Release Jaime. Show me your good faith."
Ned studied her, then said, "Jory. Let him go."
At once, Jory and the others stepped back from the Kingslayer.
Jaime rubbed at his neck. "At last, wolf—you've chosen to be clever."
Ned ignored him. "Jory, see the men—"
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Jaime's pupils narrowed. He turned, aghast, to Cersei—and caught her stilling hand as she lowered it from a small, sharp gesture.
The gray cloaks crumpled into their own blood. Jory Cassel stared down at the spearhead jutting from his belly; a tide of red climbed his throat and spilled from his lips.
Stark blades had not even touched the ground before their bearers were dead.
"No!"
Ice clanged on stone. Ned gathered Jory's body into his arms.
Cersei drew a trembling Sansa tight, crooning, "Good child, don't fear. Lord Stark will come to no harm."
Sansa's mouth worked soundlessly. She had never liked grimy Jory Cassel, always keeping her distance—yet now a thousand small kindnesses from childhood flooded back, and her heart tore. Was it my fault Jory died?
…
Jaime's expression shifted; he dragged his gaze from the queen to the Hand cradling his captain. With a quiet sigh, he stepped forward and stood behind Ned.
The wolf, drowning in grief, felt the blow but not the coming dark. He fell into it without a word.
"Take him," Jaime said. Two men lifted Lord Eddard and bore him from the reeking throne room.
Not long after, Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, appeared. He stooped, picked up Ice, and claimed it for himself.
…
Past noon, without awaiting a summons, Gawen Crabb entered the Red Keep with his guards and made for Maegor's Holdfast.
From Arya he had learned that her father had told the girls he—Gawen—would see them safely back to Winterfell. One detail mattered: Sansa knew he was working in the shadows. He needed to confirm whether she had told Cersei Lannister—and plan accordingly.
Either answer was manageable; he wished only to avoid needless difficulty.
He rubbed his brow. The Starks were proving his bane—each one a fresh complication.
A choice, nothing more… or so he told himself. He was, after all, a lord who could juggle five knives at once.
…
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, a single gold dragon slid into the hand (and neckline) of a voluptuous maid, and Gawen learned which room Sansa occupied.
"Lord Crabb, without the Queen Dowager's leave, no one is to see Sansa Stark," drawled Lancel Lannister. The tone was airy; the boy had forgotten their friendship.
Gawen eyed the silly tuft of beard on Lancel's chin. "Lancel, you—"
"The queen has promised to make me a knight!"
"Oh? How am I to style you—Ser Lancel Not-Yet-Dubbed?"
Color flooded Lancel's face. His hand fell to his sword-hilt.
Gawen arched a brow. "Are you sure? I'd rather like that."
His long fingers tapped his own hilt, the look frankly inviting.
Lancel said nothing, stalled, then tugged his hand away from the blade.
"I'll tell the queen everything," he snapped.
Gawen scrubbed his hair with one hand. The boy had the look of someone warped by Robert's jests and japes—hollowed by them.
As Gawen stepped closer, Lancel flinched. "Wh—what do you want?"
He remembered well the night heads rolled in the Queensgate.
Gawen set a hand on Lancel's shoulder; the youth jolted.
Why provoke me? Fortunate for him that Lord Crabb's temper was long and his loyalties deep.
Softly, at Lancel's ear: "You wouldn't want Ser Jaime to hear about your… services to Her Grace, would you?"
Sweat beaded on the boy's brow. He half-knelt before Gawen could haul him back up.
"I still think well of you," Gawen said mildly, patting his arm. "Open the door. I'll only say a few words."
…
The night of the tourney, Sansa had dreamed of Joffrey upon the Iron Throne, herself in cloth-of-gold beside him, a crown upon her hair, everyone she knew kneeling in homage. She had taken it for a vision of her future.
Now she wept for her father—eyes swollen, gaze lost. Before Joffrey departed she had begged to see Lord Eddard, and the boy's cold strangeness had frightened her.
Had her father angered him? What should she do?
The Queen Dowager had promised to pardon Lord Stark, so surely he would be safe… Yet the memory of Stark guards dying in sprays of red set her trembling again.
…
The door creaked.
Had Joffrey forgiven her and come? Sansa's face lit—then fell.
Gawen paused. The change did not escape him: joy, then disappointment… and wariness—toward him.
Sansa in love, he thought, a tremor in his brown eyes. He thought he knew the answer.
She drew a breath and reminded herself she was a great lord's daughter. Courtesy first.
She forced a smile. "Good day, Lord Crabb. You look radiant today—positively charming."
Gawen only stared, expression flat, and took a chair without asking. He leaned back, one leg over the other.
Whatever the reason, the girl did not trust him. He would need a different tack.
He had arranged everything with care, yet the link failed here, at Sansa. Three kitchen maids, two grooms, and a page in the Tower of the Hand were on his coin; their task was simple—if Sansa slipped out, inform Lord Eddard at once, and earn five gold dragons for the finding. She had dodged them all and ghosted away regardless.
Everyone from Winterfell not of Lord Eddard's blood—plus the hired hands at court—was dead now. They said the spiral stair of the Hand's Tower was heaped with corpses, the steps slick with blood.
It was too late to learn whether someone had helped Sansa slip the net. No point breaking things open now.
Perhaps, he mused, like Stannis, Sansa possessed some quiet quality men overlooked. He even toyed with raising a small team whose sole duty would be to keep eyes on the girl.
He sighed. He had given Lord Eddard his word: he would see the daughters safely north. He would keep it—though taking Sansa by force now… No. Lord Crabb could do anything; he would simply work harder.
"Lady Sansa," he said, voice gone cold, "your father saved my mother's life. I owe him a debt. Tell me—why did he try to ruin me?"
Fear flickered across her face. "My lord, you must be mistaken about my father. He would never—"
"Yes, yes—that's what everyone says. I used to believe it too." Gawen's tone sharpened. "But before he moved to seize the city, he told me to spirit you away. Do you still call it a misunderstanding?"
Sansa's red-rimmed eyes widened. Her mouth worked, but no answer came.
After a moment she looked down. "I… I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" His lip twitched, almost a smile. "The gods were kind; you weren't in my charge yet. Had I sent you off, I'd carry that blame to the grave."
Silence stretched.
Suddenly Sansa's head snapped up. "Where is Arya?"
Gawen's look turned odd. "Have you learned nothing? I was a decoy. Only the gods know where she is."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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