Gong… gong… gong…
The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled, solemn and heavy, as though descending from the heavens.
Flea Bottom.
"Gods have mercy, why do those bells never stop ringing?"
"Has the little brat-king died?"
"The king isn't dead. When he dies, every bell in the city will toll."
"If not the king, then who?"
"It's the sept's assembly bell!"
"Seven be praised! Maybe they'll hand out bread."
"Bread?!"
"Don't believe him. That bastard-king won't care about us…"
"Shh, shut it! If the red-cloaked devils hear, they'll tear out your tongue."
"We're all going to starve anyway, and you won't let me—"
"Enough! Let's go, I heard the Gold Cloaks are going to cut off the Hand's head!"
"Don't trust him—go claim bread!"
Gong… gong… gong…
The bells grew louder, relentless, summoning the masses.
…
"They're taking the Hand, Stark, to the Great Sept."
"Didn't they say he was dead already?"
"Not yet—but soon. Come, I'll wager a silver stag they take his head."
"That rebel should have lost it long ago!"
"Fool. They won't do it here. The sept's no scaffold."
"Maybe they'll knight him. I heard Stark killed King Robert—slit his throat in the woods, then lied it was a wild boar."
"Bah, not true. It was Robert's own brother, Renly, with his crowned stag helm."
"Watch your mouth, wench! Lord Renly's a good and honest man."
"I heard it was Stannis, the other brother."
"Ha, I say it was the whore-queen."
"Quiet, are you trying to die?"
…
Upon the marble steps of the Great Sept, knights and nobles assembled.
Gawen Crabb and Ser Lancel Lannister flanked Cersei Lannister.
Gawen, clad in gilded plate and a blue cloak with his house sigil, gazed at the endless sea of faces. He bent close and murmured to the queen regent:
"Your Grace, the crowd presses too near. This is dangerous."
Cersei, in a gown of mourning black and a veil of dark diamonds, smiled with pride.
"This is Joffrey's will. Our king will judge Stark before all, so they feel his justice. Do you understand, Lord Crabb?"
"Permit me to place some of my household men at your side, Your Grace."
Cersei frowned, her tone sharp. "Enough. Lions do not fear sheep."
Lancel, smug, added: "Lord Crabb, you worry too much. I've placed one hundred Lannister red-cloaks and two hundred Gold Cloaks all around. More than enough to guard the regent and the king."
Cersei glanced at him with a smile.
Gawen, cold: "Ser Lancel, there are ten thousand below us. May the gods protect us today."
Lancel flushed and held his tongue.
Cersei soothed, to one… or to both: "With you beside me, I feel safe."
…
Gawen turned to where Sansa Stark stood among the noble ladies, in sky-blue silk, her long auburn curls falling loose, seven silver bracelets shining on her wrist.
Her face could not hide her joy—perhaps she believed her father would soon be free.
Gawen's eyes flicked briefly to Ser Ilyn Payne with Ice strapped to his back, then he looked away.
…
A line of Gold Cloaks with leveled spears opened the way. The red-cloaks of House Lannister forced Eddard Stark up onto the platform.
The High Septon, aged and corpulent, with hair gone gray, in pure white robes and a massive crown of gold leaf and crystal, stepped forward to bow before Joffrey.
"Your Grace, the trial may begin."
Joffrey, in scarlet silk embroidered with bounding stags and roaring lions, wore his crown; the Kingsguard—The Hound now cloaked in white—stood about him.
The boy-king gave a nod. "Begin."
…
The bells fell silent. A hush blanketed the square.
The High Septon looked upon the kneeling lord. "Lord Eddard Stark of House Stark, confess your crimes before gods and men."
Ned raised his dirt-streaked face, hair greasy and matted. He strained to see, but the red-cloaks pinned him tight. Only the crowd below filled his view.
"Confess your crimes," the High Septon repeated.
Joffrey struck his armrest. "My dog, make him speak!"
The new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Sandor Clegane, swept his white cloak and strode forward, voice rasping and harsh:
"Stark, your sweet little girl waits for you to come home."
Ned flinched. "Ser Sandor, let me see Sansa."
"I'm no knight. I don't deal in lies."
He turned away, leaving him, and returned to his post.
"…confess your crimes," the High Septon urged once more.
Ned's lips twitched faintly. He thanked the Hound—Sansa was safe.
For his family, for his daughter, the Wolf would yield his honor.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell…" he began softly.
"What's he saying?"
"Louder!"
"Can't hear!"
"We can't hear!"
A red-cloak jabbed his belly with a sword hilt. "Speak up!"
Ned clenched his teeth, eyes shut against the pain. His honor would be soiled forever; he would bear a false shame—if it meant his daughter's life.
He tasted blood where his lip had split.
He shouted, voice breaking yet strong:
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King. Today, before gods above and men below, I confess my treason."
His voice swelled, rolling across the square.
A roar of curses and jeers answered.
A tear slid from his eye.
"I betrayed my king and my friend. I betrayed Robert's trust."
He cried out:
"I swore to guard his children, yet I schemed to depose his son and place another upon the throne. Let the High Septon and the Seven bear witness: Joffrey Baratheon is the sole true heir to the Iron Throne; by the gods, he is Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
A stone struck his brow, blood streaming down.
More stones flew—one grazed the High Septon's ear. Gold Cloaks raised shields; septons and septas struggled to quiet the mob.
At last, uneasy calm.
The High Septon fixed his crown, bowed before Joffrey.
"We suffer because we sin. Eddard Stark has confessed in this holy place. The gods are just, yet merciful. Your Grace, what sentence do you pronounce?"
Joffrey stepped from behind the shields. The noise ebbed. All eyes on the boy-king.
"My mother wishes me to send him to the Wall. Lady Sansa has begged for her father's life…" He turned, smiling at her.
Before gratitude could blossom, he faced the mob.
"But that is womanish weakness! While I am king, every traitor shall pay."
He raised his voice. "Ser Ilyn, bring me the wolf's head!"
Cersei sprang to her feet. "Joffrey!"
The boy scowled and stalked toward her.
Cersei smothered her fury, softening her tone: "If you kill the wolf, we cannot bargain with the North. I wish—"
"We'll kill them all, then!" he snapped.
Gawen lifted his gaze skyward. Lancel mimicked him.
"Joffrey, Stannis and Renly—"
"I am king! I command! I will not forgive the wolf!"
"You—"
"Enough, mother! I've been merciful already. Thwart me again and I'll flay him alive."
The nobles parted.
Ser Ilyn Payne strode forward, step by step. Sansa fell to her knees, sobbing.
With a gesture, red-cloaks forced Ned's head upon the stone.
Ser Ilyn drew Ice. His sunken, colorless eyes lingered on the Stark greatsword.
Cersei yielded. Joffrey's grin spread.
Splutch! A lump of filth struck Joffrey's face.
"Who dares?!" he shrieked. Smearing it from his hair, he bellowed: "My dog, seize the cur!"
The Hound leapt down with red-cloaks. Those near shoved aside, those farther pressed closer, sealing the way.
"Kingslayer's whore!"
"Bastard king!"
"Whore, whore, whore!"
"Bastard! Bastard!"
"Die, bastard!"
The square thundered. Joffrey, after a few screams, turned pale and cowered behind the white shields.
The air itself crackled with rage. A spark would ignite it.
Thunk! An arrow buried itself in Ser Ilyn's eye. Blood spurted down his cheek.
The King's Justice writhed and fell.
Shock froze the square for a heartbeat—then pandemonium. Screams, trampling, chaos.
Insults mingled with cries:
"Stannis, long live!"
"Renly, long live!"
"Winterfell!"
"The Eyrie!"
"Riverrun!"
"Highgarden!"
"Sunspear!"
Gold Cloaks fought to hold lines; stones, dung, and trash rained down.
"We want bread, bastard!"
A thousand voices at once: "Bread! Bread!"
"Bread! Bread! Bread!"
…
Gawen calmly donned his helm, deflecting a stone with one stroke.
"Stay with me, Your Grace. I will see you safe."
He lowered his visor.
Cersei, unflinching, pressed close and clutched his arm tightly.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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