Eddard II
Ned found himself walking down the black stairway to the crypts again, his way illuminated by the unwavering weak flame of a black candle. The ghost light cast unearthly shadows upon the walls as he made his descent, shapes he must not look at, that twisted and broke in an endless carnal dance. Though the candlelight did not reveal him, Ned knew he was following the footsteps of a man who was not there, who only showed himself in the absence of the sound of shoes scuffing on the stone, the lack of a breath to disturb the utter quiet of the tomb.
Ned did not want to follow, yet still he was dragged deeper down to where the stone kings and their wolves held court. Starks from a hundred tales were animated by the unlight he bore, the rust on iron swords was dripping to the ground, and direwolves lapped hungrily where it fell. Their snouts were crimson, and all their eyes Ice. "You are a Stark of Winterfell", the lords and kings soughed, with speech which whispered through the bleached branches of the skeletal trees, the hungry roots of which lay well above the pit. "You must remember". With their incantation the empty torches about the crypt sprang into the same spectral light as his candle, casting an impossible view to the very end of the hall, where his ghosts waited.
His guide halted in the middle of the tunnel, and without a sign bade Ned to look upon the king enthroned before him. Even his living image reminded Eddard as so much of a corpse; hollow cheeks collapsed into the stone, while his cavernous eyes resisted the light where they folded into pools of quiet shadow. Yet Ned sensed the life within, the boundless rage, the ceaseless desire for vengeance.
"No." Ned spoke to his escort, in a voice that expressed calmly, but faded into weakness as it reflected off the walls to quaver in the dark. "I am no Hungry Wolf, I will not."
The shadows crowded about him. "Lord of Winterfell you are, and you stand upon our labours. We bones that are here, for yours will await." The shadows began to dance about him as he was summoned. "Stark of Winterfell, heir to death."
"No." Eddard spoke again, though his utterance was less certain than the first, and the words were echoless dust in the air. "I am not a butcher, nor was my father before me." Ned knew the words were hollow as he spoke them – how dare he claim to know?
Again the shape tugged Eddard inexorably forward and down. Ned could not even attempt to run, he moved ever deeper through the granite tunnels with the will of a hollow man. Again they came to rest at the feet of a figure more terrible than any other that lined the hall. The light gave him more force than the other statues, flickering between stone and glacial flesh. So bloody was his sword the pool reached Eddard's feet and seemed to climb up his legs as he stood unwilling. The throne upon which the ghost king sat was garlanded with fleshy ropes that bound him, no, moved through him, snaking in and out of the dead man like demented stitches to hold him in place, lest he attempt to rise again. Though in all else he resembled Ned but little, his eyes were Ned's eyes.
"Only blood can pay for blood," the king spoke wordlessly though gagged lips. "Only sacrifice can purge shame. They have befouled us, the gods demand punishment. The gods demand blood. Cast off your bonds and gift the meat of your foes to the tree."
The last syllable fluttered about the tunnel in a new voice: "Tree," it quorked, "tree, tree, tree."
Ned had no words of refusal, but he had heard enough. He walked again in the other's footsteps to where he least wanted to go, to the final tomb that awaited him, past the expectant rows of the Wardens of the North. He walked until the last torch awaited, and afore him was sheer blackness. There he turned to see his father confined to a cold seat, with Brandon standing at his side.
Lord Rickard Stark was more tangible than any who had preceded him, and it was a ghastly sight. His face was papered in burned flesh, which sloughed off in tumbling curdled sheets as he regarded his son. It was more skull than anything else that looked on Eddard, bones black and twisted and melted into a mishappen mass. He was clad as for battle, in silvered steel that ought to have shone. But the light would not allow it, and the armour was a black mirror. Smoke arose from Lord Rickard where he sat, pooling languorously about the ceiling above in serpentine coils.
Brandon if anything was worse, perhaps because he had a face to be looked upon. Ned was struck even in the horror by his brother's looks, the long dark hair that hung easily from his brow, and the smile that cut him to the quick. Yet Brandon's face bulged outward and held the colour of a deep bruise so purple as to be black. He wore a necklace of blood and crushed flesh that made a second smile across his throat, and through its lips seeped an endless flow that dripped onto his father's right hand.
"You do not mourn me." LordRickard hissed through non-existent lips. "What son forgets the face of his father? This is how I shall be remembered by you forever more, Eddard. Down in the dark, a monster among monsters. You do not mourn me. You name another, Father."
"You will take all that should have been mine." Brandon choked, sending red spittle flying into Ned's face. "My hall, my birth right, my bride, my life. All shall be yours. Yet you will not take up the blade I let fall. You do not burn to avenge me brother."
"Do you know what it is to burn, my son?"
"Do you, do you?" the shadows mocked.
Shame spilled forth as Ned began to cry. He had not cried for them since he had heard Jon's message, he had not cried for them in the waking world. Yet the tears were salty on his cheeks, and fell to be swallowed by the stone wolf that prowled at his father's feet.
"I loved you father; I swear by all the gods I did. I did not wish for this, I promise you father, I promise you Brandon." Eddard all but begged. "But I do not want the burden you leave to me. Please, do not ask it of me."
All the ghosts spoke with one voice as they danced nearer, the shades of a thousand kinsmen. His father's voice, Brandon's voice, Ned's voice. "You must remember Lord Stark. We remember. Avenge us, honour us, feed us. Do your duty."
"Please," Ned pleaded, "tell me where Lyanna is to be found. Is she among you, is she here? Please!"
The entreaty was powerful enough to halt the swirling mass that stood between him and the way he had come.
"That which rests eternal cannot truly die. Await us, bring the blood."
"No!" Ned shouted into the void, "No!" But the shadows pushed him forward, into the lightless depths where the other waited for him, no longer leading, but standing by a stone grave. His candle whistled out, and Ned was swallowed by the dark.
With a start he awoke, resting on the barge's bench, being carried north against a thin, fast-moving river. The moon shone mockingly into his eyes with a knowing face full against the stars. Ned groaned as he roused himself. His neck had turned to stone, and his legs were stiff as boards, but he persisted in the rising, feeling the drench of cold sweat settle on his limbs. His was the foremost of the fleet of river vessels that wound up the White Knife, rowing constantly against the powerful summer current, and packed with Manderly knights, horses, and men-at-arms. All told four thousand men formed Lord Eddard's honour guard to escort him home, amongst them perhaps five-hundred knights. Ned was grateful for that, if half of what Lord Manderly had informed him of the state of the North was true, it was better that he come to his seat in a show of strength.
To hear Wyman Manderly tell of it, the North had been in disarray since the death of Lord Rickard and his heir. Eddard's kin amongst the Flints of the mountains, alongside the Karstarks and Lockes were advocating for breaking with the Iron Throne and raising Ned to the ancient title of King in the North, whether he will it or no. According to the Greatjon, Skagos was flirting with rebellion in the chaos, with reports from the Last Hearth of ships being built in the Bay of Seals against the edicts of Brandon IX. Worst of all, the Glovers of Deepwood Mott were on the verge of an all-out war after Lord Edric had fallen from his horse hunting in the Wolfswood; his only son Ethan had been captured with Brandon, and it was assumed by many the boy was safely dead. Lord Mormont's son Jorah had put forth a claim on the seat by virtue of his marriage to one of Edric's cousins, while the sons of her great uncle, Galbart and Robett, contested this furiously.
All this and more awaited Ned in Winterfell, where the lords of the North had gathered at his command and their levies poured into the surrounding countryside. If he blundered, the North might well erupt in civil war regardless of their desire to take the fight to the King. The longer Ned remained here, the more vulnerable Jon Arryn and Robert's position would become. Even the men at his back could not be wholly trusted – fat Lord Manderly might seem a genial lord and the self-proclaimed soul of obedience; after all his was silver that Ned had given to poor Wylla against the death of her father, swept from the boat amidst the storms that had delivered him north. But Eddard had noted the sly assertions to rights along the waters of the Broken Branch, and the northern slopes of the Sheepshead Hills in their speech together, as well as a degree of rising elaboration on the North's dire instability, which he was of course happy to support Lord Stark against. Ned had been absent from the North these last ten years, and everyone seemed to know it.
It was with the coming morning that the armada reached Castle Cerwyn along the banks of the western tributary of the Knife. The sky which had opened itself to starlight the previous night had opted to wrap itself in a uniform sheet of steely grey, leeching the vibrancy from Ned's surroundings. Still the castle was a welcome sight, if only for its rare familiarity. As a boy Ned had visited here often with Lord Rickard, furthermore Lord Cerwyn's son Medger had been fast friends with Brandon as any number of innkeepers could have attested. While the porters readied his baggage and the knights of his escort lined their horses out from the ship's hold, Ned stepped onto the rude docks, stumbling as the world turned solid after a week of tumbling against the river. Ned had to steady himself so as to not fall from the planks back into the water. And what an entrance that would be.
Still, his welcome was warm by any standard, Lord Donnel and his household had gathered to meet him where he landed. As Ned stepped toward them, he was gratified, but still somewhat uncomfortable to see every man of them kneel at his coming. He bid them rise and accepted Cerwyn's oath with all the courtesy he remembered, but the reply felt stilted as he gave it, Ned could not help but think his brother could have received this with better grace. Brandon would be more at ease. Brandon would revel in this display, yet it only serves to make me uneasy.
"I thank you, Lord Cerwyn, for your hospitality, but I fear I cannot stay to enjoy it. I ride for Winterfell with my host with all speed once they have landed. Will you be joining us?" Ned inwardly cursed himself for making it a question, Brandon would not have, but if Cerwyn thought it odd he did not trouble himself to indicate as much.
"I would already be there already my lord, but for the news of your coming. Our muster is already prepared, but I must say compared to the force that awaits you, it is but a drop in the bucket."
Ned thanked him and took his leave as if to stretch his legs, but Lord Donnel's comment troubled him. He had made it out as if Ned were riding to relieve a siege rather than find a willing host to command. If they have threatened Benjen, I will begin my rule with blood.
Thus when Ned set out for Winterfell, he did so ensuring the entire force was at his back and emphasised to their commanders his wish that good order be maintained. Cerwyn rode at his right hand, and fat lord Manderly on the left. The rotund lord had grown since Ned had last taken ship from White Harbour to Gulltown, so much that it took two grooms to help him to his horse, but he laughed all the same as his arse was firmly positioned on the back of a poor destrier, built as it was like a Shire dray. Though half a day's ride from his seat, Ned knew he was not necessarily in friendly territory.
He should not have been concerned. As he approached the walls of the Winter Town the direwolf of house Stark was everywhere in evidence. The gates were thrown open at his coming, and Ned saw endless waves of troops in a hundred liveries emerge from oaken houses that had been empty for as long as even Old Nan could remember. As he wound his way up the dirt road to the castle looming above, men cheered at his coming, and knelt on a hidden cue as the whiskers of his horse passed them. Such was the throng Ned's column was forced to thin itself to a single line where the crowd pressed inward. The cries of "Stark!", "Winterfell!" and "Vengeance!" were called out. Men reached for him as Ned passed, seeking to touch his foot or bridle – fondling him like a living relic.
They cheer for father and for Brandon, their fiery young lord. For eight thousand years of Starks in Winterfell. Should I die tomorrow, they will cheer for Benjen just as loud. The thought queerly comforted Ned as he approached the massive outer walls of the castle, where the bannermen of the North awaited him in a proud line of silk and mail with Benjen at the fore, his face torn between excitement and worry. In his grey silk doublet and white ermine mantle he looked older than Eddard remembered from their farewell at the gates of Harrenhal that long year ago. For the first time in ten years, Lord Eddard Stark was home.
It took all Ned's willpower not to scream. It had started well enough of course. He had been welcomed to his seat with a feast to rival the autumn revelries, with a concourse of lords attending him in the great hall, each vying for a place beside him, to share his meat and mead and whisper in his ear. For the first time Ned understood the purpose of the great high seat of the Starks. Though the great stone wolves carven into it had given him pause (after all their eyes seemed to glare up at him as he took Father's seat and their frozen snarls reminded him of the crypt) without the chair Ned would have been suffocated by anxious attendants. By sitting high above them, Ned realised the lords of the North funnelled their retainers so as to be keep from being outnumbered. Oaths he had taken, oaths they had sworn in a whirl of words and drink he scarcely remembered. He had promised them justice, and they had cried out for vengeance.
It had not taken long for the offers to begin. Hoary old Lord Rodrick Ryswell offered to lead his host South against the throne while Ned brought his lands to order. Coincidentally he had a lovely younger daughter, perchance Lord Stark might wish to meet her? After all the castle needed someone to manage its affairs, and Benjen was still young enough to benefit from having a lady about. Whispery Lord Bolton had approached him with his ageless eyes, he too asked for a command, in far plainer tones than Rodrick had, forcing Ned to be brusquer with him than he would have liked. Even the brawny Lord Mormont was come from his distant isle, begging forgiveness for his son's behaviour at Deepwood, and asked Ned his leave to put forward the case to Winterfell. Lord Flint had brought no less than four daughters and a sister from his Finger, who ranged from being a decade older than Ned to one that stood as tall as his knee; "And as you can see not a one looks like me my lord, you'll be grateful for that I know." The effect was rather spoiled by the youngest tugging on Ned's cloak asking for his leave to use the privy.
Ned had dealt with them as Jon Arryn would have, putting as much steel in his gaze as he could, and meeting their offers with cool courtesy. By the end of the feast, with the much-needed lubricant of the wagons of beer Lord Wyman had craftily brought from White Harbour, he had brought some semblance of order to the pack of them. It was only when the lords and ladies had stumbled to their beds at the hour of the wolf Ned had snatched an exhausted conversation with Benjen. What he had heard had not pleased him. 'The fool boy might well have damned us all', Ned thought later as he angrily tore off his breeches, with such force they split around the waist. For the first time, Ned considered simply burying his head in the snow and waiting for winter. At least he could be certain of that. Yet he had no choice now, more than twenty-thousand men had gathered at Winterfell with more arriving every hour. Benjen, Rhaegar, Robert, Aerys, his title, all had conspired to force his hand.
Then there was that letter. Maester Walys had handed it to him as the feast began to dwindle. Ned was not best pleased to see the seal had been broken, though he knew father had trusted the old man beyond a shadow of doubt. Still, Ned would rather have had burned it, leaving all knowledge of its existence turned to ash. Jon had written to him from Gulltown, having claimed a great victory in the taking of the city. This was old news, Ned had heard it in White Harbour, though it pleased him all the same, especially Jon's account of Robert's valour in the conquest, though he sensed no small amount of displeasure hidden between those lines. Lord Borrell's information had not been wrong, his friend had done great deeds at Gulltown. Further, the news that Robert was sailing south to gather his men at Storm's End was also welcome. No, Jon had done the unthinkable in the space a hastily worded post-script, like a small child quietly confessing to a misdeed in the hopes that it might go unnoticed.
Damn the man, him and Tully, Walys and all his letters. Ned began to pace about the lord's bedchamber, which was an ideal size for such an endeavour. The great bed looked forlorn, and Ned more fatigued than a week of sailing through a tempest had left him, but he knew he would get no sleep tonight, least of all in father's bed. Once again, he grabbed the letter from where he had let it fall, read those last two damnable lines, and once again crumpled it in his fist to be thrown against the wall. Ned shivered with fury despite the warmth of the castle and went to pick up the letter again.
"As my ward, I felt I had a duty to…" Arryn must have known how that sounded, what a ripped veil around Jon's honour that was, how much that would hurt so soon after the death of father, and all his plans and hopes with him. And Brandon, poor Brandon who had stood to inherit them. Walys had been sympathetic of course but had made it clear he agreed with Lord Arryn on all counts. Jon could not stay bottled in the Vale for ever, and gods only knew he needed more strength after the trial of Gulltown. All this Ned knew, but he fairly resented being used as a bargaining chip. "I am no longer his ward," he growled to the empty air, "I am a man grown, as much as Robert. He had no right." Yet a sly voice at the back of his mind whispered back, 'not his ward, or not his son?'
Ned shook his head in a spasm of disgust and threw the paper down again. That he must do this duty after what he had heard today was more than he could bear. He fled the keep half-clothed, avoiding the last, most determined revellers as he wound his way through the castle. At one point in his anger, and yes partially in mild inebriation, he was ashamed to find he became briefly lost. Lord of Winterfell, the stones taunted him when he stopped to curse. Nonetheless as the dawn broke on the granite Eddard finally reached the godswood, with its steaming pools and watchful tree. He knelt at its feet, and tried to pray, though for what or for whom he did not know. Stung by his own failure he drifted to sleep, gathered by the lullaby of the wind and water into fitful rest accursed by dreams.
Ned was rudely awakened to find men flocking to the godswood, earlier than he could have imagined given the how much he had seen them indulge the night before. He had been the soul of moderation in comparison, but still his head pounded, and his eyes rebelled against the light. He tried to scramble to his feet before he was noticed, yet it was too late. If any there thought to find the Lord of the North asleep near-naked in the grass odd, they neglected to say so. Some even seemed to look upon him with greater admiration as he rose. Men would see what they wished to see, and they preferred to look at their lord as having spent the night in natural communion with the gods, rather than having run in drunken petulance from his bed. They were also all too happy to ignore the dog shit that clung to his bare legs.
Ned decided it would be best not to draw attention to the fact he felt three-quarters a fool and was inwardly cursing himself with certain choice phrases he had learned from Wylla and her father at sea, which were probably too rich for even the most thick-skinned northerner. He had acted like a child, and the one piece of certainty he had arrived on after weeks of confusion was that his father and Jon both would be ashamed. A quick-witted serving man brought him a heavy cloak, for which Ned thanked him with a smile and all the grace he could muster. Following that excess of gratitude he was able to query as to what had brought seemingly the entire population of the North to gawk at him.
"A deserter m'lord. From the Night's Watch." The man told him excitedly, his face torn between a grin and a mask of attempted solemnity. "Caught down by Long Lake way. Lord Leech – begging your pardons m'lord – that is Bolton, wants his headsman to do the deed. Longspurt – again sorry m'lord I'm all at sixes and sevens today – Lord Long claims he was found west of the Knife and wants to have a go hisself. Your man Rodrik holds him at the moment, but he's looking for you to judge."
Ned's brain was slow to work around the chatter and was caught between amusement and annoyance. Until an old memory intruded of a head rolling to the ground, and the flush of red to spoil the virgin grass. He looked down on himself and hated. This would not do.
"Again you have my thanks." he told the man. "And you will have them once more; fetch me Cassel with all speed, have him meet me here, and bring my good lords with him. I shall be back shortly."
Ned followed at a more sedate pace than the servant, who sped off to the castle. As he passed the murmuring crowd the wright of every eye fell upon him twice, but he refused the urge to break into a jog. Though so far a halfwit, he knew that much was proper. Ned went to dress as his father would have, pulling on mail and furs that he hoped would make him look more impressive. At least none of his lords had seen what was beneath, but that was small consolation. As he went to find Rodrik Cassel, he stopped and turned to see what leaned against his father's bed. There, untouched since Lord Rickard had left it for his journey to celebrate at Riverrun, lay the sword.
Ice lay innocuously enough for such an impressive weapon, at six feet long it just over an inch taller than Ned, and though hidden by a plain leather scabbard, he knew what lay beneath. Folds upon interminable folds of spell-forged steel, crafted with the magic and might of Old Valyria when dragons were safely across the sea, and not nestled at the heart of the realm. The unblemished steel was still sharp enough to shear a man's soul from his body centuries after its making. Ned went to take it up, but unbidden, an image of Jon Arryn and his headsman wormed his way into his mind. "A lord must remain clean," he had told Ned. "Those he rules must know justice flows from him, but he is impartial as the gods. No lord should take upon himself the visage of a hangman."
Ned almost wavered. His two halves seemed to stretch apart, and he stood between on a thin line like to snap at any moment. Then he remembered Jon's letter, and his father's voice echoing from the earth beneath his feet.
He found Rodrik Cassel in the castle ward, his path to the godswood blocked by an angry Lord Bolton and Galbart Glover, castellan of Deepwood. Ned recognised the stratagem for what it was; by insisting on representing Longspurt, Galbart was putting forth his claim to the Deepwood and the loyalty of its vassals in the bluntest manner possible. If he had his way, he would win round many of its subjects, and even if he lost out to the Boltons, Galbart would gain from having negotiated on behalf of the Glovers to Winterfell. Whatsoever judgement Ned gave would be taken as an endorsement of Galbart's rule unless he dared to insult the castellan's standing directly.
The master-at-arms stood his ground as firmly as he dared, though the grey of his mutton chops were set against a face turned beet red as he argued. Eddard approached unnoticed to the fray intending to set the matter to rights, when he saw a man between two of Ned's guards at the corner of the yard. The fellow was in all aspects, average as one could be. Of medium height, with dirty brown hair that lay lank across his pale face he was as common as a man could look. His clothes might once have been liberally described as blacks but had clearly turned to grey rags in his flight. The only mark of distinction he possessed, beyond the look of frozen terror that marred the deserter's face, was the ugly mark of a brand on his forehead. The letter "M" stood out on the old wound: Malefactor.
Ned was amazed by the sheer gall of Southron justice. They could burn a man with hot irons and send him to die frozen in his boots on the Wall, but the gentle lords south of the Neck still felt it necessary to hide the misdeeds of rapists behind a decorous wall of euphemism. He veered away from the quarrel, trusting in the sheer bull-headed stubbornness Rodrik Cassel had so often demonstrated in the yard and turned towards the prisoner. At his approach the man seemed to shrink in his chains, as if he might escape the notice of this armoured lord and the shadow of the sword visible in his hands. Yet with a crook of Ned's finger, the guards (Martyn and Dawid, he remembered in a flash of inspiration) brought him the way they had come, through indomitable gloom of the inner walls and into the light of the outer yard.
Ned looked down at the deserter with a surge of pity and indigestion. He hated him for having raped some poor girl in some backwater village of the Westerlands or Reach. He hated him for swearing the vows of the Watch and for betraying them. He hated him for being one more decision Ned had to make that was no choice at all. He remembered the vow he had made on the road from Cerwyn; yet Benjen was unharmed, and he stood to bloody his hands regardless. I feared to rule over mine own people as a butcher, yet it seems that is what they wish of me.
"Inform the men in the godswood that if they wish to see the king's justice be done, this is where it shall be found." Eddard told the Dawid, before adding with the bare minimum of hesitation that he failed to suppress, "And fetch me a block."
What remained of the dead man's composure collapsed at that, it took Ned and the remaining gaoler much struggling and cajoling to stop him from attempting to take flight, irrespective of the hobble about his legs. Finally Eddard had had enough.
He grabbed the deserter by the lapels, feeling the shoddy material tear beneath his fingers as he met those frightened eyes with a granite gaze. The man continued to pull himself away, but Ned held firm, feeling himself to be the lowest scum in the world.
"I would like to know your name, before I condemn you," Eddard said more gently than he could have believed possible in the circumstances.
With that the prisoner's whole demeanour changed, his face turning from fear to shock to unabashed hatred in a split second, and without a word he spat full in Ned's face.
Ned reeled, as he did so he saw though the insult in his eyes Martyn's mailed fist come crashing down on the poor beggar, its clumsy strike only lessened by his clear surprise.
"Stop!" Ned shouted, leaving the spittle where it lay on his cheek. "Unlike to the injury intended for him, some spit had never hurt anyone."
He knelt by the man again and tried once more, knowing it made no difference to anyone. Even now a crowd was gathering, Roose Bolton and Galbart Glover at the fore. With more retainers arriving from the Winter Town and the Keep, Ned was trapped between them like a mummer in a crooked play.
"If you would keep your name, that is your own business." Eddard essayed as if nothing had happened. "But if you would have words with me before you die, say them now. Or else hold to the quiet of the grave."
The deserter glared at him again, and Ned was sure that he would only receive another volley of mucus, but at the last moment the prisoner's resolve collapsed and he let his head hang limply. The first man Ned would ever kill spoke his last words through calm tears in the deathly quiet of the yard.
"I don't want to die m'lord. And I meant no wrong to you and yours, but ain't right for you to make me a dead man. I've been punished enough without being carted the length of the world to that hellhole. I didn't want to take that oath or nothing, the gods don't count if that's so." The deserter wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shoulder, and for the first time he held Lord Eddard's gaze with unexpected boldness. "I heard before I left the Wall you're a traitor now too m'lord, how come you're not kneeling in the mud?"
For the first time that day Ned found himself with a choice, a true choice. Yes, if he released the deserter he would lose the respect of the host that had gathered before, and likely fail in ever leading this army south. But he knew that should not matter when it came to this sorry wretch's life, and the weight of it was on his honour alone. And he had his answer to the man. His answer to Aerys, father, Jon and Brandon all.
"You swore to be the shield that guards the realms of men. You elected to make that oath, and you betrayed it. Poor choice it may be betwixt that and gelding, but you made it when you chose the watch as just punishment for your deeds. You were given the chance to be redeemed, your life and honour made clean in the defence of all the innocent of the realm. Aerys swore the same thing – he is an oathbreaker more than you or I. I swore this past day to defend my people and to give them justice, and I give you my word that I shall not break it."
Dawid approached with a smooth wooden block in hand, and Eddard knew it was time.
"Kneel, if you would. I promise I shall make it quick."
In his final moments the man was brave, though the mask of fear had returned to his face. But he did not struggle nor shudder as he rested his head on the block.
Eddard brought out his steel in one quick motion, and kept his word.