Late December, 298 AC

The darkness was absolute, and it weighed upon Ned as though he lay at the bottom of the frozen sea. There was no time in the black cells, and yet each moment of pain seemed an eternity. No windows marked the rising and setting of the sun. Had it been weeks, or months since Littlefinger held the dagger to his throat?

Ned had never quite understood the terror that Old Nan's tales of the Long Night held for his children. But now... if this torment could break him so quickly, how had men survived years of darkness?

When Varys came in the guise of a turnkey, a spiked steel cap upon his head, a ragged black cat at his heels, his torch was agony. But the pain in Ned's eyes was nothing to the shame and terror that wrapped around his heart. He had offered mercy, like the honorable fool he was, and his men were slain, Arya missing, and Sansa trapped in Cersei's claws. He never should have brought her south, he should have told her of the rot beneath the jewels and songs. No child of eleven should have to beg for her father's life.

Varys' voice was as gentle as sweetsleep as he explained what had happened while Ned languished in chains. Cat had released Tyrion, but the Riverlands were aflame as Lannisters fought river lords. The North was marching down the neck, Robb leading the host. That was the moment a tear finally dripped down Ned's cheek. My firstborn. Robb's just a boy, barely fifteen. He still practices with blunted tourney swords. Dorne and the Eyrie brooded on their wrongs, and the Queen's greatest fear, Stannis Baratheon, remained on Dragonstone, his movements unknown but his wrath a certainty.

At last Varys came to the point. Cersei Lannister would visit on the morrow, and Varys counseled that Lord Eddard Stark bow before her every demand. Even with the world blurring on the wine Varys served him, Ned could see the path laid before him clearly.

"You want me to serve the woman who murdered my king, butchered my men, and crippled my son?" Ned demanded, surprised at Varys' boldness.

Varys laughed as he shook his head. No, it was the realm Varys claimed Ned would serve by abandoning his honor. For a pack of lies and the promise of peace, Cersei would let him take the black. Life was sweet, but how did it serve the realm to leave the cruel Lannisters in power with a bastard on the throne? Eddard could not, he would not, and he told Varys so.

"Pity." Varys stood and gave a great sigh, the sigh of a mummer. The ragged cat with the torn ear moved out of Varys' way, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.

"And what of your daughter, my lord? Sweet Sansa pled for your life with grace beyond her years, it would be a shame to see a flower cut down before it bloomed."

If Varys had thrust a dagger through Ned's heart, it would have cut less deep.

"No," Ned begged. "Varys, gods have mercy, do as you like with me, but leave my daughter out of your schemes. Sansa's no more than a child."

"Rhaenys was a child too. Prince Rhaegar's daughter. A precious little thing, no more than three. She had a small black kitten she called Balerion, did you know?" The black cat at Varys' feet hissed, and darted into some dark corner of the cell. Varys laughed.

"That mangy cat is the terror of the keep, perhaps even Rhaenys' lost kitten, but there was no dragon to defend her when Lannisters broke down her door. Did you see her, afterwards?"

The question was asked with all the innocent sincerity of a child, and Ned cursed him for it. He had seen her, he had seen them all, and Varys knew it. The infant Aegon with his skull smashed apart, the blood seeping into the crimson Lannister cloak. Elia with her bloody skirts and shattered hips. And Rhaenys, little Rhaenys, her golden brown skin marred by a thousand wounds. Varys was still talking, and Eddard forced himself to listen.

"The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that's true, Lord Eddard, tell me... why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones? Ponder it, if you would, while you wait upon the queen. And spare a thought for this as well: The next visitor who calls on you could bring you bread and cheese and the milk of the poppy for your pain... or he could bring you Sansa's head.

"The choice, my dear lord Hand, is entirely yours."

Varys left, and the darkness took Ned, his thoughts as somber as the silence. Had Rhaenys lived, she would be a woman of eighteen now, a septa or a hostage awaiting marriage to Joffrey. Aegon would be sixteen, a boy coming into manhood at the Wall or the Citadel. Princess Elia would be in her mid forties, longing for her children from the safety of Dorne.

But Tywin Lannister had cut their lives short, and now Cersei might do the same to Sansa. Had Lewyn Martell felt this way, when Aerys commanded him to fight or condemn his niece and her babes to death? Ned had seen him at Harrenhal, a brave and noble man who smiled at little children, yet he fought for a madman because he had no other choice.

Something warm brushed against Ned's hand. He jerked, and his leg screamed in pain. The cat, the cat had not followed Varys out. Soft fur rubbed against Ned's palm.

Father! Ned shook his head. He'd finally gone mad. At least it was a sweet delirium, to hear Sansa's voice come from a ragged cat.

Father, father, what have they done to you? He could hear weeping as though Sansa sat beside him.

"I have done it to myself," Ned whispered. "I offered mercy and it will kill my honor as surely as it killed Robert and all my men."

A soft weight landed on Ned's lap. The cat paced in circles, then curled up.

I begged for your life, Joffrey promised to show mercy-

Ned laughed bitterly.

"If I swear Joffrey is trueborn, if I confess treason, if I order Robb to lay down his swords... then I will take the black. That is the mercy the Queen will offer."

I know, she said. That made no sense, no one heard him speak to Varys but the cat. But his mind was creating this delusion, so in his mind Sansa knew.

"I will yield."

Father, don't! It's not true, you can't-

"I can and I must, if I want you to live. I'd die for my honor, but I will not have my daughter die for it."

Father, no! Sansa's voice was a ragged scream. I dreamed it, you confessed your treason and Joffrey had Ser Ilyn cut off your head!

Ned's heart twisted. It was but a dream brought on by starvation and wine, but it felt as though he truly spoke to Sansa. He might as well savor speaking to her for the last time.

"A nightmare, nothing more," Ned soothed, stroking the cat. "It will be alright."

My girl dreamed of a man with a dagger , a ragged voice said.

It was the voice of a weary old man, beaten down by loss but full of rage. It was not a voice he knew. Ned's blood ran cold. This was no dream.

Father, it was real, we were on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Arya was in the crowd clutching the statue of Baelor the Blessed, you were dressed in Stark colors with goldcloaks holding you up, it was real!

What was the old gods' will, giving his child such terrible visions? He must tell Cersei he would bend the knee, or she'd kill Sansa. There were no men to rescue him before they reached the Sept.

But... what if he shouted the truth instead? Would the mob remember Lannister men sacking the city and come to his aid? Or would Joffrey kill Sansa himself before the mob could reach them? No. He dare not. There was no way to escape his fate without risking Sansa's life.

"Hush," Ned said, a shiver running up his spine. "It was a nightmare only. Even Joffrey would not be so foolish as to order an execution on the stairs of the Sept. Go to sleep, sweet girl."

As Ned drifted to sleep, Rhaenys' cat purring softly, he wished he could share the false comfort he'd given Sansa.


The torchlight hurt no less when it was born by a Queen. Cersei Lannister was dressed in mourning, but rubies dazzled on her black gown like drops of blood. As the Queen set the torch in a sconce on the wall, the heavy door began to close behind her. There was a dart of movement, and the cat slipped through the door just before it shut with a dull thud.

"I warned you," the Queen said, her smile cruel. Gone was the beauty he had glimpsed in the Godswood. "It was my wrath that was to be feared, not Robert's. We ate the boar, by the by- the sweetest meat I ever tasted."

"Get to the point, woman," Ned growled. He had no patience for this dance of words. If he refused Cersei, Sansa would die. If Eddard appeased Cersei, he would die, and the realm would doubtless plunge into the very war Varys feared. He accepted his fate, but not her mockery.

"Is this my thanks for keeping your daughter so safe?" Cersei asked, pressing a hand to her chest in feigned distress. "She spends her days embroidering a handkerchief for Joffrey and praying in the Godswood for you, my lord. Such a lovestruck girl, so innocent and dutiful."

Lovestruck? Sansa could not stand Joffrey. But Cersei Lannister was a practiced liar, a viper cloaked in beauty and jewels.

"And to keep her safe I must do as you wish," Ned said through gritted teeth. Cersei smiled triumphantly. Dimly Ned thought of Robert's smile when he dragged Rhaegar's corpse from the Trident.

"Littlefinger was right. Any man, even you, will set aside his honor for the right price."


Cersei Lannister had a talent for inflicting pain.

They brought Eddard to his old chambers in the Tower of the Hand. The ghosts of his men surrounded him as servants washed away his filth, leaving the water black. He could almost hear Jory's voice, see Vayon Poole's steady gaze.

The hands that lifted him from the tub were rough, and his broken leg banged against the tub, the cast grey and rotten. Alyn had helped him bathe, his hands near as gentle as Cat's- was Alyn still safe? Had he and Lord Beric defeated the Mountain, or would Cersei show him their heads as a final gift before he was brought before the city?

I am a Stark of Winterfell. I will die with dignity if not with honor , Ned resolved as they dressed him in grey and white. He had not faltered when he dismissed Sansa's dream. He had managed that small falsehood as a comfort. Eddard Stark would not falter now, when a great falsehood would save his daughter's life.