"What are our words, Ned? Speak them, and speak them true."
"Winter is Coming."
"And what do they mean, son?"
"... Father, I..."
"They mean that trials and hardship are always just around the bend. As sure as Winter follows Summer. Our words remind us to be ever wary, ever vigilant, ever prepared. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father. Winter is Coming."
In the end, the Starks of Winterfell were always right. Winter was indeed coming. Lord Eddard could feel it in his bones; his own personal Winter, driving towards him like a hurricane, as he was dragged up the tunnel from the dungeons, moving swiftly towards the pinprick of sunlight up above. Even from here, he could hear the thronging masses, screaming and hollering in a discordant fanfare of accusatory cries. The first day light he'd seen in days burned at his stinging eyes, the savage wound in his leg rising from the dull ache of a few hours ago to white hot pain shooting from ankle to hip. "It will all be over soon..." He thought to himself, steeling his resolve. "I may meet the Gods today, but my children, my wife... They will live on..."
And that was all that mattered to the disgraced former Hand of the King and Warden of the North. The Spider, Lord Varys, had warned Ned of the dangers of continuing his stiff-necked war against the Lannisters. The Master of Whispers had counselled humility, sacrificing his pride and doing what was right, not what was just and honourable. "Honour has gotten you nowhere, Eddard Stark. All the High Lords and brave Knights in the Realm supposedly respected you for your honour, but where were they when the Goldcloaks slew your men and Littlefinger pressed the knife intended for your son's demise against your throat? Where was the dearly loved Lord Renly? The steadfast Lord Stannis? Did Ser Barristan the Bold raise a blade in your defence? Why did the powerful Tyrells stand back and allow your men to be slaughtered like lambs? And what of House Arryn? Did any of them come to your aid? No, my Lord Hand. The only friend you have in all of the South is a foreign, fat spider without any manhood to speak of. So please, Lord Stark. I implore you, for your children's sakes; Cry off this folly. Announce Joffrey as the true heir to the Iron Throne and accept the fate the boy King decrees you should receive."
The Eunuch's words floated in the back of Eddard's mind like a rickety boat on a foggy lake, bobbing against the tide of worry and regret. Such a fool, he had been, to expect Queen Cersei to follow his advice and flee the capital, to trust Lord Baelish, to believe that the likes of Renly and Stannis would aid him. The former had fled south to Storm's End, whilst the latter remained cooped up on Dragonstone, giving counsel to none but himself. If only, Ned thought. If only he'd heeded Renly's request to seize Cersei and her bastards. If only he'd not warned the Queen of the truth he'd learned, the truth Jon Arryn had died for. If only he'd stayed in the North, where he belonged, and remained well away from the affairs of Southern Lords.
Alas, he hadn't. His damnable honour had driven him South, forced him to give Cersei a chance at escaping Robert's wrath, had made sure that he did his all to put Stannis on the Iron Throne, as his right declared. Silently, Ned swore to the Old Gods and the New that if he made it out alive, he wouldn't allow his honour to cloud his judgement ever again.
Out into the roaring masses, out into the open air beneath the Sept Of Baelor. Winter was coming for Ned Stark, and by the Seven, was it /hot/. Stepping into the light, Ned's sun-deprived eyes burned in bright pain, sweat flooding out of every pore of his dirty skin like water through a leaking dam. The peoples of Kings Landing bellowed "Traitor!" until their throats were hoarse, pelting the former Hand with rotten fruit, stones, horse dung and spittle. A hefty chunk of granite slammed into his face, and the Stark felt his jawbone crack, a fresh stream of blood flushing down his neck and across his stained tunic. He lost his footing, fell to the ground, and was dragged ever onwards towards the steps of the great temple, and tossed in chains before the boy King like a flea bitten cur.
Powerful hands seized him (those of the Hound and Ser Illyn Payne), lifted him roughly from the stone, and slammed him onto his feet. He felt his bad leg wanting to buckle, but he grit his teeth against the agonising pain, restricting the fall to a miserable stagger. "You have been brought here, Eddard Stark, to face the King's justice, in result of your treasonous words before the Iron Throne." Grand Maester Pycelle's reedy, quavering voice called out across the crowd, bringing a sudden and deafening silence. Up above, a raven cawed, the banners flapped in the breeze with booming resonance. Eddard turned his eyes to the pristine blue skies; it seemed that even the heavens mocked his fall from grace. "What say you, Lord Stark?"
["What are our words, Ned?"]
"My Lords and Ladies, Knights of the realm, the people of Kings Landing, your Grace..."
["Speak them, and speak them true."]
"My words in regards to King Joffrey's claim to his Father's throne were spoken foolishly, and without wont or cause. At the time of King Robert's death, I was struck blind and dumb with grief, and I spoke my fallacies under the influence of fever and milk of the poppy. I say this now, under the eyes of the Seven, and to the ears of every man, woman and babe standing before these hallowed halls..."
["Winter is Coming"]
["And what do they mean, son?"]
"... Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name, son of Robert Baratheon, the first of /his/ name, is the one true King, and by right of birth, the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne. I am prepared to face whichever fate his Grace bestows upon me for my poisonous words, but let it be known..."
["They mean that trials and hardship are always just around the bend. As sure as Winter follows Summer. Our words remind us to be ever wary, ever vigilant, ever prepared. Do you understand?"]
"... That the Starks of Winterfell stand behind the King of the Andals, as they have done since the day King Robert claimed the throne, and will do so until the end of days."
With great effort, his leg aching as though it were filled with burning dragon fire, Lord Eddard Stark turned, faced the boy King, falling to a knee and bowing his head. "I beg of you, your Grace. Take my life if you will, but hold mercy in your heart for my family. They have wronged you in no way, and will bend the knee to you, as I have."
"Your words are fair indeed, Lord Stark. Far fairer than the words you spoke before the Iron Throne regarding my claim to the throne." Ned mentally recoiled, as if from a harsh slap, but no sign of such showed on his face. "And so sweet were your daughters words, that I have decided to show you mercy. In light of my mother's counsel, you will be stripped of any lands and titles, and live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, alongside your bastard. I advise you to spend your time thinking hard on the follies of treason."
A loud roar issued from the crowd below, all of them waving and cheering for the good graces of his majesty. A fine rule he would have, they believed at that moment, if such understanding wisdom flowed forth during the rest of his reign. The brief love and adoration, though, was soon to be replaced with fear, disgust, and hatred.
"However..." He raised a hand, drawing silence from the people, and a confused stare from the former Lord of Winterfell. "... Treason comes in many forms. To a King, to a Lord, to a Captain... But worst of all, to a father."
"No..." Ned knew instantly what the King meant to do next. His face drawn with misery, fury and pain, Ned struggled to rise. "No, your Grace! Please, I beg of you! Not my daughter! She has done you no wrong-"
"I cannot allow this treacherous woman to be my bride, and my conscience would not allow me to send her to another. Ser Boros, I order you to seize Sansa Stark, and put her on her knees."
Everything seemed to be in slow motion, and all sound faded to a distant rumble. His own begging yells sounded dim and far away to Eddard's own ears, as a trio of Goldcloaks took hold of his chains, dragging him backwards and away from the Sept. Sansa's screams were silent with terror, tears cascading down her face, pleading with her King, her Love, her Betrothed. The Queen looked on in horror of the unfolding situation, too stunned to even move. Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard wrapped a gauntleted fist into Sansa's hair and dragged her to the ground. Ser Illyn Payne drew Ice from it's sheath, pulling a black hood over his features.
"SANSA! NO! HAVE MERCY!"
"I Joffrey, of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die."
On Joffrey's command, Ser Illyn swung Ice in a wide, vertical arch, and the honed steel tore through Sansa Stark's neck like a hot knife through butter. Her dying cries were immediately extinguished, and her head fell to the ground with an unimpressive thud.
"NO!" Ned felt his throat cracking from the myriad of pain behind the drawn-out, agonised scream. Hot tears of rage and loss slid down his cheeks as he fought at his bindings, struggling with all his strength, causing the restraining Goldcloaks to slip and stagger.
"Let this be a warning, Eddard Stark. Let this be a warning to your sons and bannermen in the North. Let them know the penalty for treason is a fate worse than death. Now go. Go live out your days on the Wall, knowing that your disloyalty to me was the death of your beloved daughter..." These words were said quietly, spoken only for Eddard's ears. This was his true punishment.
The true price for his honour.