The midday sun shone mercilessly outside the sept of Baelor, but thankfully, he was hidden in the shade. His executioner's blacks were uncomfortable enough without him being out in the sun, and wearing his armor would have only been worse. No one even realized he was here, of course. King Joffrey had sent him to the throne room early that morning and ordered him to meet them here—and bring Ned Stark's sword with him. He had laughed at that. Killing Ned Stark with his own damned sword… How perfect was that? How very beautiful and awful and cruel, to take down the Lord of Winterfell with his own Valyrian steel blade?
He shifted his weight slightly as the bells began to ring. A few passers-by paused, staring up at the bell tower as though they weren't sure where the noise was coming from, and then began to inch forward, toward the sept. The King was already there, with his bitch of a mother, his Dog, the Stark girl, Littlefinger, Varys… It was a fucking royal party, all that was missing was Moon Boy, dancing and singing stupid songs and poking fun at him for not being able to speak…. He hated that damned fool.
As the bells echoed through the city, he watched the crowd multiply—merchants, beggars, stablehands, sailors… Everyone came at the sound of the bells, like they were a bunch of trained hounds, hoping for a treat—but then again, he supposed that was exactly what they were about to get. He had never met a man who didn't like seeing someone else's head roll. Sure, he might pretend it was sad, or act like he were disgusted by it, but deep down, there was a part of every man that loved to see blood, to smell death, to feel the life seeping out of another man's form. The only thing that set some men apart from others was how tightly they kept that part of them chained up.
He stared out at the crowd again—the square was packed now, and Ned Stark was being led out by two of his jailors. The people shouted, demanding he repent, that he be killed, throwing insults as idly as a child throws a ball… It seemed as though his men had their work cut out for them, keeping the crowd from finishing Stark off themselves. For an instant, he was tempted to step out there himself, to glower and brandish his blade and glare, to chop off hands and arms and heads until the filthy peasants learned to stay back… But that would ruin the plan.
They brought him up the steps, and he saw the Stark girl smiling, thinking that somehow or other, she was helping, that she was saving her father's life, that she had done well for him… He laughed at that. The girl was an even bigger fool than her father was. She'd made the mistake of trusting the queen, of trusting her son. Trust was a fragile thing, easily broken or flung aside. She would learn that soon enough.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King," Stark began, and looked to his daughter, who was all smiles and nods… Foolish little bitch.
"I come before you to confess my treason, in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my King, and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son, and seize the throne for myself." There was a great uproar at that—someone from the crowd even threw something and nailed him in the side of the head. Ilyn got a chuckle out of that, but Stark seemed unfazed. The king's Dog caught Stark's arm, pushed him forward slightly, and the shamed lord pressed on, giving his little speech that no one particularly cared about.
"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne by the grace of all the gods, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realms."
Old Pycelle stepped up at that comment, and Ilyn spat upon the ground. He didn't know what the man planned to do—he had proved himself worthless to Ilyn the day he had lost his tongue. "As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The gods are just, but beloved Baelor has taught us that they can also be merciful. What is to be done with this traitor, your grace?"
The crowd roared their opinions, and Ilyn laughed grimly again. If only they knew… Joffrey raised a hand and began to speak, and the shouts died down again.
"My mother wishes me to let lord Eddard join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father." He paused for a long moment to stare at the two women, and Ilyn found his hands twitching eagerly toward his sword, his fingers flexing, itching to grab the hilt and pull the steel free.
"But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished." The King finally looked over to where he stood hidden, then, his gaze steely and cold. "Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"
He didn't really know much of what happened after that. It was noisy, everyone seemed to be shouting… He saw Varys run over to the king, saw the two jailers force Stark down onto his knees, saw the Stark girl panicking as Cersei attempted to talk some sense into her son… Yet all of it faded into the background and became unimportant. His face set, he stepped from behind the pillar where he hid, pulling his hood over his head even as he approached the former Hand of the King, every movement controlled and practiced, his steps smooth and unfaltering. Nothing mattered now, except the kill. He had a task to perform, and he would do it.
He drew the Valyrian steel blade from its sheath, the rasp of metal on leather music to his ears, and made his way calmly to Stark. The man looked once at his daughter, then to the crowd, then at the statue of Baelor. Perhaps he prayed—Ilyn wasn't sure what the northmen considered religion, how they prayed, if they did at all… It was all a bunch of nonsense to him anyway. Then, Eddard Stark bowed his head and exposed his neck. Ilyn took a test swing, gauging the weight of the blade and how it handled, the tip of the greatsword mere inches from Stark's neck. The swing was smooth, practiced, and he found the weight of the blade acceptable, but far from the familiar comfort of his own greatsword. He didn't care much for Valyrian steel, he decided, but hefted the blade nonetheless, lifted it over his head, and brought it down in a wide arc.
It slid through the other man's neck like a knife through butter, barely even catching at all when it hit bone. Underneath his hood, he arched a brow. Not bad. Perhaps Stark's blade was nicer than he thought. Maybe he would hang on to it after all. It would never be as nice as his own sword, but it was certainly an acceptable substitute.
He turned and sheathed the blade, then bent to grasp Stark's head by the hair, picking it up and holding it high for the crowd to see. He brought it next to Joffrey and knelt, offering it to the King. It would be put on a spike, he knew, on display for the whole city. Let it be a lesson to them—Justice would come to make them pay for their sins, and more often than not, Ilyn Payne was the emissary sent to collect payment.