King's Landing, Great Sept of Baelor, Rains of Castamere Square
"I will not confess. It was you who murdered the King. You are nothing but an incestuous bastard, and you are unfit to wear that crown!"
"You...!"
Though his daughter's life was held as collateral, Eddard Stark knew this was a game he could no longer play by the rules. Thanks to the "stories" Jon had shared, Ned understood that Sansa was the Lannisters' only tether to the North; they would not kill their most valuable hostage. Free from the fear of her immediate execution, the Wolf finally bared his teeth.
"You dare defy your King?" Joffrey screeched, looking like a rabid cub. He paced the platform, fists flailing. "I am the true-born son of Robert Baratheon! I carry the blood of the Roaring Lion and the Crowned Stag!"
"You should ask your oath-breaking mother about that, boy," Ned spat, his voice devoid of his usual northern restraint. "Betrayers will face the wrath of the gods. The selfish always perish by their own hand."
Stripped of his illusions, Eddard was finished with being polite.
"Guards! Take his head!" Joffrey shrieked, his face turning a sickly shade of purple. "Do you not hear him slandering the King? Kill him now!"
In Joffrey's mind, he was the perfect fusion of two Great Houses. To have this "savage" lord from the north drag his name through the mud in front of the entire city was an insult that could only be washed away in blood. He wanted Ned Stark silent, and he wanted it immediately.
"No! Father, please!"
Sansa Stark broke. She lunged toward the platform, but was instantly caught in the iron grip of Sandor "The Hound" Clegane. The scarred guard held her fast, his eyes fixed on the madness of his master. He knew Joffrey better than anyone; if the girl didn't stop screaming, there would be two heads on pikes by sunset.
"Stop!"
Just as the Gold Cloaks moved to secure the prisoner, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, stepped between the executioner and the accused.
"Your Grace," Barristan's voice boomed with the authority of decades of service. "Lord Eddard has not confessed. There are inconsistencies in these charges. I implore you, show mercy and allow for a proper investigation into the late King's death. We cannot execute a Warden of the North without a true trial!"
"Ser Barristan," Cersei Lannister interjected, her voice cold and sharp as a Valyrian blade. "A servant of House Stark has already confessed to poisoning the King's wine. The treason is plain."
She ignored the protests of her brother Jaime, believing firmly that dead men told no secrets. To protect the truth of her children's birth, she had poisoned her "boar" of a husband and pinned it on the most honorable man she knew. It had been a rushed, clumsy plan, but she knew Jaime would protect her regardless of the cost.
"But... that servant died in the Black Cells before he could be questioned! The circumstances are highly suspicious!"
"Enough, Ser Barristan!" Joffrey bellowed, his face contorted with rage. "I have not yet questioned your failure to protect my father, and yet you jump to the defense of this traitor? Do you oppose your King as well?"
"Honor is not a cloak you put on, Your Grace," Barristan replied, his eyes filled with a weary sadness. "It is something in a man's heart. And I will not stand by while it is defiled."
"Kill him! That is a Royal Command!" Joffrey pointed a trembling finger at both Ned and Barristan. "And you, Barristan Selmy! By my authority as King, I strip you of your white cloak! You are no longer Kingsguard! You are a traitor!"
The square erupted. The High Septon waddled away in terror, regretting his involvement in this royal circus. The nobles on the steps began to shout over one another, while the smallfolk in the square jeered and screamed, their manufactured anger turning into genuine panic.
"Is this the chaos you envisioned, my dear Petyr?"
Varys stood at the edge of the platform, his voice a soft, silken whisper in the ear of Petyr Baelish.
"Lord Varys," Littlefinger replied with a thin, predatory smile. "Chaos is the only environment where men like us thrive. Surely you don't truly wish to sacrifice yourself for a 'stable' realm?"
"A fire is easy to start, Petyr. It is the cost of putting it out that ruins a man."
"Chaos is a ladder," Baelish countered. "I have no intention of remaining at the bottom."
"The world is full of variables, Petyr. You might—"
"ROAR—!"
A monstrous, guttural bellow tore through the air, silencing the thousands gathered in the square. Every head turned toward the entrance of the plaza.
"What... what is that?" "A giant? Is it a giant?" "It only has one eye... wait... is someone standing on its shoulder?"
Emerging from the street was a gargantuan, four-meter-tall nightmare. The creature was a mass of bulging, tumor-like muscles and pale, raw flesh, its singular, massive eye pulsing with a dim, malevolent light. It looked like a titan born of a fever dream, clutching a massive, uprooted tree trunk as a club.
Standing atop the Cyclops's massive shoulder was a young man, his silver-grey cloak snapping in the wind.
Jon looked down at the cowering crowd with a detached, focused intensity. He had weighed many options—a dragon would be too clumsy to rescue Ned without burning the city, and a stealth mission would be intercepted by the Gold Cloaks. This "Super Tank" summon from the Magic Stone was the perfect solution.
As the Cyclops advanced, the Gold Cloaks guarding the Sept steps scrambled backward, their spears trembling.
"Stand your ground!" a voice commanded.
Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, stepped forward, his white cloak stark against the chaos. He drew his gilded longsword, his eyes locking onto Jon's.
"I have held many names," Jon said, his voice carrying over the silence of the square as he looked down from his mount. "In the North, they called me Jon Snow. But the gods have whispered my true name into my ear. Are you sure you wish to hear it, Ser Jaime?"
Jaime's jaw tightened. He was already having a wretched day—he had argued with Cersei over Ned's fate, his conscience pricking him for the first time in years. Seeing Jon—the boy who looked so much like the man who had once shamed him—perched atop a monster only fueled his frustration.
"I don't care what you call yourself, boy!"
Jaime Lannister, a man who would later charge a dragon on horseback, didn't hesitate. He leveled his sword and charged toward the massive, one-eyed beast.