Blood. Charred flesh. Fear.
Robert Baratheon stood in the center of it all.
His golden doublet—once magnificent—was soaked dark red. Sticky. Petyr Baelish's blood and meat clung to his face, his beard, even his eyelashes.
He didn't care.
He licked his lips. Tasted copper.
His eyes—clouded by wine and slaughter—burned with terrifying euphoria.
This. This was power.
Life and death in his hands. Every man here looking at him with fear.
This was what it meant to be king.
He swept his gaze across the high table. Nobles frozen. Faces white as bone. Cersei's disgust written plain. Jaime's eyes unreadable.
Then he found Ned Stark.
His best friend. His brother.
The man who'd just tried to stop him from killing Petyr. The same man who'd stopped him from hunting down those Targaryen whelps.
Ned was holding his daughters now. Face like ash.
Something snapped in Robert's skull—a wire pulled too tight by wine, poison, and blood.
The Eyrie. Lysa Arryn.
Lysa was Catelyn's sister.
Catelyn was Ned's wife.
The thought crawled from the dark pit of his mind and wrapped around his heart.
"Ned."
Ned looked up. Confused.
"Your wife's sister." Robert descended the steps. His boots left bloody prints. "That mad bitch in the Eyrie."
Step.
"She dared threaten me."
Step.
"Thirty-five thousand men!"
He stopped before Ned. His shadow swallowed the Stark lord and his daughters.
"Where'd she find the balls?"
Robert leaned in. Wine-stench and blood-reek. Arya gagged.
"Tell me, Ned."
His voice shot up—venom and accusation.
"Your wife. Catelyn Tully!"
"Was she part of it?!"
"Did she know her mad sister was planning treason?!"
What?
Ned's mind went blank.
Catelyn? This had nothing to do with—
He stared at Robert. The man he'd grown up with. The man he'd bled for. The king he'd sworn to serve.
He's accusing Catelyn.
He's accusing House Stark.
Anyone else could doubt him. But not Robert. Never Robert.
Their friendship went back decades. To the Eyrie. To the Trident.
This wasn't suspicion.
This was betrayal.
"Robert! You've lost your mind!"
Ned's voice cracked. "Catelyn would never—"
"WOULDN'T SHE?!"
Robert spat in his face.
"They're sisters!"
"Tully blood in both their veins—scheming, treacherous Tully blood!"
"Jon Arryn dies and his wife runs to the Eyrie!"
"Now she threatens the king over some brothel madam!"
"You think that's normal?!"
"If there's nothing rotten here, I'll rip my own head off and kick it to you like a ball!"
Ned's heart sank.
He looked into Robert's eyes—bloodshot, wild, mad.
Nothing he said would matter.
Robert wasn't the man who'd called him brother anymore.
He was a beast. Cornered. Rabid.
A mad dog that would bite anything it feared.
High above, Lynn watched.
He lifted his cup. Sipped.
Beautiful.
Robert's self-destruction was faster than expected. More violent.
Lynn didn't need to do anything. Just watch.
Watch two brothers destroy each other.
Tywin's poison was working perfectly. It wasn't just rotting Robert's body—it was burning his mind.
And Robert was losing his most loyal ally.
One step at a time.
"PROVE IT, NED!"
Robert's roar echoed.
He jabbed a finger at Ned's face. Like sentencing a criminal.
"Prove House Stark is still loyal!"
Ned's lips moved. No words came.
How could he prove it? Cut open his chest? Show Robert his heart?
"I don't care how!"
"I want your wife—Catelyn Stark—out of that frozen shithole you call Winterfell!"
"I want her here! King's Landing! Before me!"
"On her knees!"
"Showing me—showing the Iron Throne—that the Tullys and Starks are still loyal!"
Silence.
The entire arena held its breath.
Summon the Lady of Winterfell. Make her travel a thousand miles. Kneel before the king to prove innocence.
It was an insult. To House Stark. To the North itself.
Ned swayed.
Blood rushed to his head.
Northern pride—the pride of ancient kings—was being ground under Robert's boot.
He wanted to draw his sword.
He wanted to punch that face—once so familiar, now alien.
He wanted to scream:
Was twenty years of friendship worth nothing?!
But he couldn't.
He was Hand of the King.
The realm's steward.
He couldn't let the kingdom burn for his pride.
Ned closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the rage, the humiliation, the heartbreak—all of it had turned to ash.
He gently pushed Arya away from Sansa.
Then—under every shocked gaze, under Robert's mad stare—Ned Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, bent his knee.
THUD.
Knee met blood-slick stone.
The sound wasn't loud. But it struck every heart like a hammer.
"Your Grace."
Ned's voice was flat. Empty.
"House Stark's loyalty is beyond question."
"The North will always be your shield."
"I will write to Catelyn immediately. She will come to King's Landing and prove our innocence."
He knelt.
The man who'd rather die than bow had submitted.
Robert looked down at Ned. At his brother.
He felt no satisfaction. No relief.
Only irritation. Disappointment.
Ned's just like the rest. Spineless.
The last ember of warmth in Robert's eyes died.
"Good."
The word scraped through clenched teeth.
He didn't help Ned up.
Just turned. Showed him his back. Blood and meat covering it.
"Watch your people."
"Don't cause me more trouble."
He walked away. Toward the Red Keep.
His silhouette final. A stranger's.
The arena emptied in silence.
Ned Stark remained kneeling.
Head bowed. Expression hidden.
Arya stared at her father's trembling back. At the king's cold retreat.
Her small hands curled into fists.
She didn't understand politics. Didn't understand the greater good.
She only knew her father was in pain.
And someone would pay for that.
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