Chapter 146 — I Will Prove You Are Unworthy of It
King's Landing.
A razor-edged northern wind swept through the stone stands, slicing across the cold steps and seats like blades.
"Hah… hhh—!"
Eddard Stark exhaled ragged breaths of white mist as two burly Gold Cloaks dragged and shoved him forward, forcing him through the passage and up toward the viewing platform.
Months in the dungeon had left his mind dull and unfocused, his vision swimming. If he hadn't been dragged out of the pitch-black cells the day before to adjust, he doubted he could even open his eyes now.
He shuddered violently.
The thin prison tunic offered no defense against the cold. His lips were blue, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.
Once, as a true son of the North, this kind of chill would have meant nothing to him. But more than two months of starvation and darkness had drained him day by day.
He was not yet fifteen.
Still growing, still developing—yet malnutrition had stripped him down to bone and sinew. Where he had once been sturdy, he now looked painfully thin.
"Y-Your Majesty…" he croaked, shaking his head weakly as he glanced toward the guards beside him, his voice hoarse.
"Does… does the king wish to see me?"
In over two months, he had not once seen the outside world.
Now that he was finally out, Eddard dared to hope—perhaps his father had reached an agreement with the king. Perhaps he was being released, allowed to return to the North.
Or…
Perhaps negotiations had failed.
Perhaps this was his execution.
The two Gold Cloaks did not answer.
They said nothing at all, marching him forward in silence.
"Move faster, wolf pup!" one of them snapped impatiently, shoving him hard.
Eddard staggered, nearly falling.
After that, he stopped asking questions.
Like a puppet on strings, he let himself be dragged along.
Then—
the passage ended.
Light exploded into his vision as he stepped out onto the platform.
The sudden brightness forced him to raise an arm to shield his eyes. His breath fogged and vanished into the open air.
He turned slowly, disoriented—
And froze.
The stands of the tourney grounds were packed.
Nobles wrapped in heavy furs and lavish cloaks.
Commoners in threadbare cotton and patched coats.
Their faces were red from the cold—but their eyes burned.
With excitement.
With anticipation.
With hunger.
The naked hunger of spectators awaiting blood.
Their gazes pierced like needles, making his skin prickle.
Instinctively, Eddard followed the direction of those feverish stares.
Across the arena, on the highest and most prominent dais, sat a gaunt figure beneath a heavy golden crown.
The king.
A Kingsguard in white stood vigil at his side.
Yet confusion flickered through Eddard's mind.
If the king wished to see him…
Why was he so far away?
Why bring him here?
Then—
Something beside the royal stand caught his eye.
A tall wooden pole.
A rope.
And something hanging from it.
Swaying helplessly in the cutting wind.
Eddard squinted through stinging tears, forcing his vision to focus—
And recognition struck like lightning.
That tangled chestnut hair.
That familiar profile.
"Lyanna!!!"
Every trace of weakness vanished in an instant, obliterated by a tidal wave of fury.
"Lyanna!"
The scream tore out of his throat—raw, broken, filled with disbelief and rage.
He became a young wolf driven mad.
With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, Eddard thrashed wildly, fighting the guards with everything he had.
"Let me go!"
"You honorless bastards—let her go! Put her down!"
His grey eyes flooded red with blood, veins bulging as he struggled toward the gallows.
The Gold Cloaks were ready.
One locked him down; the other drove an elbow brutally into his stomach.
Eddard doubled over, gagging violently as bile burned up his throat.
But even as pain wracked his body, his eyes never left his sister.
"Urgh… kh—cough…"
His breath came in broken gasps—
Yet his gaze remained fixed, burning, unyielding.
He coughed harshly a few times, then turned his head and demanded in a stern, strained voice:
"You can't treat a little girl like this. No matter what crimes or mistakes she's accused of—I'll take the punishment in her place!"
"Take me to see the king… please."
By the end, Eddard was no longer demanding—he was begging.
This upright foster son of the Vale simply could not watch his sister endure such suffering.
But the two Gold Cloaks ignored him entirely.
Like wooden puppets, they remained silent, expressionless, forcing him upright and compelling him to face the arena.
---
"That's… a Stark?"
On a nearby stand, Jaime Lannister, clad in gleaming golden plate with a crimson cloak flowing behind him, glanced toward the disturbance.
He tilted his head slightly and asked one of the red-armored knights beside him, curiosity in his tone.
Before the knight could answer, a voice cut in.
"Don't get involved, Jaime."
Wrapped in a bear-fur cloak so thick it nearly buried him, Tyrion Lannister sat on a specially made high stool, sipping warm sweetwine.
Though only seven, he had already developed a fondness for drink—whenever the world blurred pleasantly, Tyrion could almost pretend he was taller than his brother. The illusion delighted him.
"Don't get involved," Tyrion repeated with a shrug.
"The Starks are all traitors now. Get close, and you'll only bring trouble on yourself."
"Don't forget—Father is still Hand of the King. And your little escapade running off from Riverrun…"
His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the king's stand, where a golden-haired figure in a red cloak stood in plain view.
But Tyrion had clearly forgotten one thing.
He was talking to Jaime Lannister.
---
"Trouble?"
Jaime's gaze swept over the boy beside him—a silent, hollow-eyed youth in rough but thick leather armor—before a cocky, youthful grin curled his lips.
That innate Lannister pride, mixed with a knight's arrogance, surged to the fore.
"Don't think invoking Father scares me, Tyrion."
"I'm Jaime Lannister, after all."
Ignoring Tyrion's warning, he stepped forward, brushing past the red-armored knights, and stopped before the restrained Eddard Stark.
He looked down at the Northman, only a year younger than himself, yet already ravaged by suffering.
"Hey, wolf pup," Jaime said lightly, superiority lacing his words.
"Is this your first time realizing you don't actually understand what's going on?"
"Do you even know what terrible crime your brave little sister committed?"
Eddard snapped his head up.
Grey eyes, dulled by pain and hunger, struggled into focus on the radiant golden-haired noble before him.
"Lannister…?" he whispered, then struggled again.
"What did she do? Tell me! Take me to the king—whatever the crime is, I'll bear it in her place! Lyanna… she's just a little girl!"
Mud and bruises marred Eddard's sunken face, but the grief in his eyes weighed like a mountain.
Jaime's flippancy faded slightly.
Still proud, still aloof—but less cruel now.
"She's been accused of treason, Eddard Stark."
Each word cut cleanly through the cold air.
"She and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—no one knows exactly what happened between them—but the result was the same."
"They betrayed the king and attempted a coup."
"As you can see, it failed."
"You and your sister, as relatives and accomplices of traitors, are here to face the king's judgment. Ser Arthur Dayne fought for Rhaegar and was captured. Now he seeks trial by combat—for himself and for Lyanna."
Jaime glanced toward the gallows.
"If he loses…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Eddard's body shuddered violently at the word treason.
He believed in law.
In honor.
In the king's justice.
Yet here his sister hung like slaughtered livestock, his family branded traitors, his brother dead—
Everything contradicted the world he believed in.
In the end, all that escaped his lips was a hoarse whisper:
"Lyanna…"
For some reason, seeing those pain-filled yet stubborn grey eyes, Jaime muttered almost to himself:
"Relax… he shouldn't lose."
"That is the Sword of the Morning, after all…"
Whether he was comforting Eddard—or himself—was unclear.
---
The arena fell into suffocating silence.
Every gaze turned toward the twin tunnels leading to the field's center.
Two white-cloaked knights emerged.
One's cloak was pristine—like freshly fallen snow, spotless in the biting wind.
The other's, once a symbol of purity and honor, was stained with dried mud and grime—like snow trampled underfoot.
Arthur Dayne drew a deep breath.
He had stood in countless arenas, bathed in admiration.
But today, the crowd's eyes carried something different.
Contempt.
Suspicion.
It didn't matter.
As the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Arthur advanced with unwavering pride.
His back remained straight.
His gaze locked onto his opponent.
Behind that man were two massive blades—one glowing with a gentle, milky-white radiance.
Wide.
Heavy.
Sacred.
The soul of House Dayne.
The peak of his knighthood.
Dawn.
They stopped several paces apart.
Cold wind swept sand across the field, stirring their contrasting white cloaks.
Lance Lot's expression was calm—utterly untroubled by Arthur's fury.
Absolute confidence radiated from him.
He unfastened the crossed straps on his back and grasped the ivory greatsword.
Then, before tens of thousands of eyes—
He hurled it skyward.
Dawn traced a brief, beautiful arc of pale light, like a falling star, before slamming point-first into the soft earth before Arthur with a ringing clang.
"I said I would give you a fair fight, Arthur Dayne."
Lance's voice was not loud, yet it echoed across the silent arena.
He then drew the second blade from his back.
Dragontooth.
"Now," he said coldly, eyes like driven ice,
"pick up your sword."
"I will prove that you were never worthy of it."