Eddard's lips were cracked, and he felt as if he had fallen into an ice pit.
He vaguely remembered the walls were pale red, showing patches of saltpeter, and there was a grey door made of splintered wood, four feet thick, studded with iron nails.
When he was pushed in, he briefly glimpsed the room, but once the door slammed shut with a thud, he could see nothing.
There was no light here; he was as good as blind.
"Damn it," Eddard sighed, then touched the cold stone wall.
At this moment, what difference was there between him and a dead man?
Perhaps he was already dead, Robert perhaps already buried deep, turned into a king of worms.
When the King died, the Hand was buried with him; this was his fate.
Eddard cursed each of them: Littlefinger, Janos Slynt and his Gold Cloaks, the Queen, the Kingslayer, Pycelle, Varys, and even Robert's own brother, Lord Renly, because he had fled when Eddard needed him most.
Yet in the end, Eddard blamed himself.
He could never bring himself to abandon his men and daughters in the city, only to plunge them into greater danger.
It was just that the timing was terrible; the hunting incident came as quickly as a storm, and what Robert left behind was nothing but stagnant water.
"Fool!" Eddard shouted into the darkness, "You damned fool!"
But there was no audience, and no one applauded him.
Eddard didn't know if he was cursing King Robert or himself.
The darkness slowly eroded Eddard's confidence and hope, and in this dangerous game, his own Attendants had paid for him with their lives and the traces of their blood.
Eddard remembered Cersei Lannister's face; that woman must have been maliciously mocking him.
Her hair was like sunshine, her smile like a razor.
"In the game of thrones, you either win or you die."
Eddard was sad and enraged; he missed his two daughters most, one just over eleven, the other only nine.
He was trapped in a cage; would his children be alright?
They were children of summer, who had not yet experienced the cruelty of winter.
Darkness was the only thing Eddard had to face.
There was no sunrise or moonset here, nothing to see, not even a mark to make on the wall.
Whether his eyes were open or closed, everything was the same.
Eddard slept and woke, woke and slept, not knowing which was more painful, sleeping or waking.
When he slept, he dreamt dark, disturbing dreams, filled with bloodshed and broken vows; when he woke, there was nothing to do but think, yet what he thought was more terrifying than any nightmare.
Eddard missed Catelyn most, wondering if they would ever reunite, and where his beloved was now.
Time flew by, and Eddard no longer knew day from night outside.
No one could communicate with him, so he could only hold onto hope.
Eddard felt that he might still have a chance.
If Elin and Halwin returned after killing the Mountain, if the King's two brothers, Renly and Stannis, were preparing, calling upon their vassals from Dragonstone and Storms End.
If Catelyn heard his message, the Lords of the North would march south with a great army, and the Lords of The Vale of Arryn and The Three Rivers would also move.
But Eddard thought most often of the King and his bastard, again and again.
Eddard saw the young King, tall and handsome, wearing a deer helm, wielding a warhammer, riding a horse like a horned giant.
In the darkness, he heard Robert's laughter, looking into those clear blue eyes like mountain lakes.
"Eddard, by the gods.
How did we come to this?
You are imprisoned here, and I died at the feet of a boar.
And my son?
Did that boy not save you?"
Eddard then saw the same young figure appear, Gendry, whom he had not met but knew the young man's name.
The young man wore a horned helm, with black hair and blue eyes, tall and agile, just like the King in his youth, swinging a warhammer to smash open the door, his golden cloak like golden flames burning.
"We place our hope in the young man, will it come true?" Eddard said, half-asleep and half-awake.
Eddard again felt that he had failed Robert.
The truth was not revealed in time, and they had harmed the King.
Eddard remembered Littlefinger, who was probably laughing at him.
Arrogant, unwilling to listen.
Stark, can pride be eaten?
Can honor protect your children?
Behind Littlefinger's smile, there must be lies.
Eddard regretted not killing Littlefinger sooner.
As Eddard was lost in thought, he heard footsteps.
He initially thought he was dreaming, until the footsteps became increasingly clear.
When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sudden light stung his eyes.
A Jailer threw in an earthenware pot, which contained water.
Eddard opened his mouth to drink, feeling the flowing water wet his beard.
"How much time has passed?" Eddard asked.
The Jailer was as thin as a scarecrow, with a rat-like face and an unevenly trimmed beard.
He wore a cuirass and a leather half-cloak over it.
"Silence!" he said, snatching the water jug from Ned's hand.
"Please," Ned said, "My daughters..."
The door slammed shut, and the light vanished instantly.
Eddard only received water, never food.
He was always hungry, but fortunately, Lannister still knew to send him water.
Once Eddard drank, he knew it was a new day.
It seemed Cersei most likely believed he still had some use, rather than killing him directly.
Suddenly, in the haze, beyond the foul air.
Eddard again heard the sound of metal clashing, and the door opened.
"Food," Eddard said, expressing his hope.
The torchlight bothered him, and the wall space was still so damp.
"I brought wine."
Eddard saw the face of the newcomer clearly.
This Jailer was shorter and fatter, but also wore a leather half-cloak and a spiked steel helmet.
"Lord Eddard, please drink quickly," the Jailer shoved a wineskin into Ned's hand.
The voice was surprisingly familiar, but Eddard Stark took a while to remember.
"Varys?"
Eddard was startled; his eyesight was poor.
He could only reach out to touch Varys's face.
Varys's plump cheeks were covered with coarse, short black stubble, and Eddard's fingers felt their roughness.
Varys had transformed himself into a bearded Jailer, emanating the smell of sweat and cheap wine.
"Are you... a sorcerer?" Eddard said in surprise, Varys possessed methods he didn't know about.
"Drink quickly," Varys said.
"Was this the same poison the King drank?" Eddard looked at Varys, hastily holding up the wineskin, but not swallowing.
"Indeed, no one trusts a poor eunuch," Varys said sadly.
"You truly misunderstand me."
Varys took a sip himself, then offered it to Eddard.
"This is dregs," Eddard took a sip, then spat it out.
"My daughters..." Eddard couldn't help but ask.
"Your darlings are not doing so well.
Sansa is still in the Queen's hands, and the other one?"
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