The Corridor of Death
The air inside Maegor's Holdfast was different from the rest of the Red Keep. Outside, the air stank of smoke, ozone, and the copper tang of fresh blood spilled in the open. Inside, the air was heavy, still, and suffocatingly cold. It smelled of old stone, dust, and the terror of centuries.
Ned Stark moved through the lower levels like a ghost. He had left Rickard Karstark to secure the perimeter, ensuring no more of Tywin's "lions" could pour into the sanctuary of the royal family. Now, he was alone.
He didn't run. He stalked.
His boots made no sound on the thick Myrish carpets that lined the hallway leading to the Royal Apartments. The torchlight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that looked like grasping claws.
Ned closed his eyes for a heartbeat, tuning out the distant roar of the Sack outside. He reached out with his senses, pushing his awareness down the corridor.
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
He felt them. Not the bright, chaotic fires of men fighting for their lives, but the cold, muddy signatures of men waiting to do murder.
Six of them, Ned analyzed. Guard duty. Protecting the predators for the prey inside.
And beyond them... a black void. A gravity well of malice so dense it felt like it was warping the air around it. The Mountain. And beside him, a smaller, sharper stain of cruelty. Amory Lorch.
Ned opened his eyes. His grip tightened on the hilt of his castle-forged longsword. It wasn't Ice—Ice was still somewhere in this castle, likely in the hands of the Mad King or his executioner—but it was good Northern steel. It would hold.
He turned the corner.
The hallway was wide, lined with tapestries depicting the conquests of Aegon the Dragon. Standing before the heavy oak door at the far end were six Lannister guardsmen. They wore crimson cloaks and half-helms, their swords drawn. They looked nervous, jumping slightly as Ned appeared.
"Halt!" one of them shouted, leveling his sword. "This area is secured by order of Lord Tywin Lannister! No entry!"
Ned didn't stop. He didn't slow down. He kept walking, his pace steady, his eyes locked on the door behind them.
"I said halt!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "Kill him!"
The soldiers surged forward. They were disciplined men, veterans of the Westerlands, but to Ned, they moved underwater.
His reflexes kicked in. The world sharpened. He saw the sweat on the attacker's brow. He saw the notch in the second soldier's blade. He saw the fear in the eyes of the man at the back.
The first two soldiers swung—a clumsy pincer movement meant to trap him.
Ned didn't parry. He flowed.
He stepped inside the arc of the left soldier's swing, the blade passing inches from his ear. With a fluid motion, he drove his elbow into the man's throat.
There was a sickening crunch of cartilage. The soldier dropped his sword, gagging, collapsing to his knees.
In the same breath, Ned spun. His sword flashed in the torchlight. He didn't hack; he sliced. A precise cut across the unarmored back of the second soldier's knee. Hamstring severed. The man screamed and fell.
The remaining four hesitated. They had just seen two of their comrades disabled in the blink of an eye by a man who hadn't even raised his voice.
"You are in my way," Ned said. His voice was low, vibrating with a cold intensity that made the torches flicker.
"Get him!" the captain roared, lunging with a thrust.
Ned slapped the blade aside with the flat of his own sword. He stepped in, grabbing the man by the gorget. With a burst of Force-enhanced power, he threw the man—armored and heavy—down the hall. He flew ten feet and crashed into the wall, sliding down unconscious.
The last three broke. They scrambled over each other to attack, desperate to end the threat.
Ned met them with a whirlwind of steel. He ducked a high cut, slashed a belly, parried a thrust, and delivered a pommel strike to a temple.
One. Two. Three.
Silence returned to the hallway, broken only by the groans of the wounded.
Ned stepped over the bodies. He didn't look down. His eyes were fixed on the door. The oak was thick, banded with iron, but it was slightly ajar.
From inside, he heard a scream. A woman's scream. High, terrified, and desperate.
And then a sound that made his blood freeze. A wet, heavy thud. Like a melon being smashed against a wall.
Ned kicked the door open.
The Nursery
The room was a scene from a nightmare.
It was a nursery, painted in soft pastels, filled with expensive toys and carved wooden horses. Sunlight streamed through the balcony windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
But the peace was shattered.
On the left side of the room, Ser Amory Lorch was on his knees, peering under a large four-poster bed. He was grinning, a cruel, rat-like expression. He was reaching underneath, his gauntleted hand grasping for something.
"Come here, little dragon," Lorch cooed. "I have a present for you."
A small whimper answered him. Rhaenys.
On the right side of the room, Princess Elia Martell was backed against a wardrobe. She was frail, her dark hair wild, her dress torn. She was shrieking, clawing at the armored giant who loomed over her.
Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain That Rides.
He was a tower of yellow steel. His fists were coated in red.
And on the floor, against the far wall... a smear of crimson. A bundle of white cloth that was no longer white.
Aegon.
Ned stared at the broken form of the baby. The head was... gone. Crushed against the stone.
A cold, white rage washed over Ned. It wasn't the hot fury of Robert; it was the absolute zero of the winter storm. He felt the Force swirling around him, responding to his anger, darkening the edges of his vision.
"Hey!" Ned barked.
The sound cracked through the room like a whip.
Both knights froze.
Amory Lorch pulled his head out from under the bed. Gregor Clegane turned slowly, his massive boots crunching on broken glass.
They looked at Ned. A lone figure in grey wool and battered mail, holding a sword that looked like a toothpick compared to the Mountain's greatsword.
"Stark," Lorch sneered, standing up. "You're lost, Wolf. This is Lion work."
"I see no lions," Ned said, his voice deadly calm. "I see dogs. Mad dogs."
He stepped into the room, putting himself between the knights and the door.
"Why don't you pick someone your size?" Ned asked.
The Mountain laughed. It was a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated in the floorboards. "There is no one my size."
"I'm here," Ned said.
Amory Lorch, eager for glory and annoyed by the interruption, drew his sword. "I'll handle him, Gregor. You finish the woman."
Lorch charged.
He was a knight of landed gentry, trained at arms, but he was arrogant. He ran at Ned with his sword raised high, screaming a war cry, leaving his entire midsection open.
Ned didn't even raise his guard. He watched Lorch come. He watched the sloppy footwork. He watched the telegraphed swing.
Too slow.
When Lorch was three paces away, Ned moved.
He didn't dodge backward; he stepped forward and to the left, slipping inside Lorch's reach. The maneuver was so fast it blurred.
Lorch's sword chopped empty air.
Ned spun. His blade, honed to a razor edge, flashed in the sunlight.
Slash.
The sword passed through Amory Lorch's neck. It was effortless. The steel met resistance, then nothing.
Lorch took two more steps, his momentum carrying him forward. His head slid from his shoulders, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His body collapsed a second later, twitching.
Ned flicked the blood from his blade. He didn't look at the dead man. He looked at the Mountain.
Gregor Clegane stared at his companion's headless corpse. Then he looked at Ned. The amusement was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dull, confused anger.
He shoved Elia aside. The princess fell hard, hitting her head on the wardrobe, and slumped into a daze.
Gregor drew his greatsword. It was a monstrosity of steel, six feet long, heavy enough to cleave a horse in two. He held it with one hand.
"You're fast," Gregor rumbled. "Like a fly."
"And you're slow," Ned replied. "Like a stone."
Gregor roared. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. He charged, raising the greatsword.
The floorboards groaned under his weight. He was a tank in human form. Unstoppable. Immovable.
He swung. A horizontal slash meant to cut Ned in half at the waist.
Ned didn't block.
He dropped into a crouch. The massive blade whistled over his head, slicing through a heavy oak table behind him as if it were parchment.
Ned exploded upward. He didn't strike at the Mountain's chest or head—the armor was too thick there. He struck low.
Swipe.
His sword carved a deep line across the back of Gregor's right knee, finding the gap in the plate armor.
Gregor bellowed in pain. His leg buckled. He stumbled, catching himself on a heavy chest of drawers. He spun around, favoring his right leg, his face twisted in a rictus of hate behind his visor.
He reached down, clutching his leg, glaring at Ned with eyes like black pits.
"I'll crush you!" Gregor screamed. "I'll squeeze your head until it pops!"
Ned stood ten feet away, sword held loosely at his side. He wasn't panting. He wasn't sweating. He looked bored.
"Come and try," Ned taunted. "Or do you only fight women and babies?"
The insult pierced through the Mountain's pain. With a roar of incoherent rage, Gregor lunged. He ignored his wounded leg, driving himself forward with pure hate. He brought the greatsword down in a vertical chop, putting all four hundred pounds of his weight behind it.
Predictable.
Ned stepped sideways. Just a single, graceful step.
The greatsword smashed into the floor, burying itself six inches deep in the wood and stone.
Before Gregor could wrench it free, Ned moved.
He stepped in close. He swung his sword at the other leg—the left one. A brutal, two-handed slash at the thigh.
The blade bit deep, shearing through mail and muscle.
Gregor's remaining support vanished. With a sound like a collapsing tower, the Mountain crashed to his knees.
He was still huge, even kneeling. He looked up at Ned, his hands still gripping the hilt of his stuck sword, his expression one of shock. He wasn't used to looking up at anyone.
"You're just a man," Ned whispered.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't monologue. He swung his sword with all the strength and anger he could muster.
The blade struck Gregor's neck, right between the helmet and the gorget.
It sheared through mail, leather, muscle, and bone.
The Mountain's head rolled across the floor, coming to a stop near the boots of Amory Lorch. The massive body slumped forward, a fountain of blood soaking the rugs.
Silence filled the room.
Ned stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, cycling the adrenaline out of his system. He cleaned his sword on the Mountain's yellow tabard, the bright fabric now stained dark crimson.
He sheathed the blade.
He turned to the corner.
Elia Martell was watching him. She had pulled herself up to a sitting position. Her eyes were wide, glassy with shock, staring at the headless giant who had been moments away from raping her.
Ned approached her slowly, showing his empty hands.
"Princess," Ned said softly. "Are you injured?"
Elia blinked. She looked at Ned, then at the dead men, then back at Ned. She touched her head, her fingers coming away bloody, but she shook her head.
"I... I am alive," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You... you killed him."
"He needed killing," Ned said simply. "Are you okay?"
Elia nodded slowly, tears beginning to spill down her dust-streaked cheeks. "I... yes. Thank you. Thank you."
Ned looked toward the bed.
"Tell her to come out," Ned said gently. "It's safe now."
Elia swallowed a sob. She crawled across the floor, ignoring the blood, reaching for the space under the bed.
"Rhaenys?" Elia called, her voice breaking. "Sweetling? Come out. The bad men are gone. The wolf chased them away."
There was a rustling. A moment later, a small face peered out from under the dust ruffle. Rhaenys Targaryen. She was clutching a black kitten so tightly her knuckles were white. She looked at the bodies on the floor, her dark eyes wide with a child's incomprehension of death.
"Did you kill the monsters?" Rhaenys asked, looking at Ned.
"I did," Ned said, crouching down to be on her level. "They won't hurt anyone ever again."
Rhaenys looked at him, her lower lip trembling. She tugged on Ned's grey cloak with a small, shaking hand.
"Is the Stag man coming?" she whispered, her voice thick with fear. "Mother says the Stag wants to hurt us."
Ned felt a pang in his heart. He stayed low, looking the child in the eye.
"The Stag is my brother," Ned said firmly. "And he listens to the Wolf. No one is going to hurt you, little one. You are safe. I promise."
Elia pulled her daughter into a fierce hug, burying her face in the girl's hair, rocking back and forth.
Ned watched them, a lump in his throat. He had saved them. He had actually done it.
Then, his eyes drifted to the wall. To the red smear. To the bundle.
The victory turned to ash in his mouth.
"I'm sorry," Ned said, his voice thick with grief. "I'm so sorry, Princess. I wasn't fast enough. I couldn't save Aegon."
Elia stopped rocking. She looked up at Ned. Her expression shifted. The panic faded, replaced by a strange, cold sorrow.
She shook her head.
"That is not my baby," Elia whispered.
Ned froze. "What?"
Elia looked at the broken bundle. "My son... Aegon... he died two days after his birth."
Ned stared at her. "Died?"
"He was sickly born," Elia said, her voice hollow. "He was frail like me. He stopped breathing two days after birth."
She looked at Ned with haunted eyes.
"I was terrified. Aerys... if he knew the dragon's heir had died of weakness, he would have burned us. He would have blamed me. He would have said I poisoned him."
She gestured helplessly to the bundle.
"I bought a baby. From a tanner in Flea Bottom. A newborn who had no mother. He had the hair... pale silver... likely a dragonseed's bastard from the Street of Silk. His father sold him for a flask of wine. I switched them. To escape Aerys. Even Rhaegar doesn't know about it, only my family knows."
Ned looked at the bundle. The horror was different now. It wasn't the death of a prince; it was the death of a nobody. A child sold for wine and murdered for a crown he didn't own.
"It was still a life," Ned said softly. "A new life. Innocent."
"I know," Elia wept, fresh tears falling. "I know. May the Mother have mercy on me. I sacrificed one child to save another."
Ned placed a hand on her shoulder. He didn't judge her. In this game of thrones, survival was the only victory.
"You did what a mother had to do," Ned said. "You are safe now. Both of you."
Heavy footsteps thundered in the hallway.
"NED!"
The Greatjon burst into the room, his axe covered in gore. He stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. He saw the headless Mountain. He saw the beheaded Lorch. He saw Ned standing over the Princess.
The Giant of Umber whistled low.
"By the Old Gods, Ned," Greatjon grumbled, stepping over Lorch's body. "You didn't leave any for me. I wanted a crack at the big one."
"He wasn't much of a fight," Ned lied, though with his new powers, it felt like the truth.
"How is the situation downstairs?" Ned asked, standing up.
"Handled," Greatjon grinned savagely. "The Lannisters are retreating or dying. We hold the Keep. Rickard has secured the lower levels. The gold cloaks have surrendered."
"Good," Ned said.
He turned to the Greatjon, his face serious.
"Jon, this is Princess Elia and Princess Rhaenys."
The Greatjon looked at the Dornish woman and the child. His grin faded, replaced by a solemn respect. He bowed his massive head.
"Princess."
"Jon," Ned commanded. "You are to guard them. Personally. Put ten of your best men on the door. No one enters. Not Tywin Lannister. Not Robert. Not even God himself unless I say so. Do you understand?"
The Greatjon straightened, puffing out his chest. "Aye, Lord Stark. They're under Umber protection now. Anyone who wants them has to go through me. And I'm harder to kill than that lump of meat on the floor."
"I know you are," Ned smiled.
He turned back to Elia.
"I have to leave," Ned said. "I have a meeting with the Mad King. You stay here. You are safe now."
Elia looked at him. For the first time, the terror in her eyes was replaced by something else. Gratitude. And trust.
"Thank you, Lord Stark," she whispered.
"Take care, Princess," Ned said.
He nodded to Rhaenys, who waved a shy hand at him.
Ned turned and walked out of the room. He stepped over the carcass of the Mountain, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the carpet.
He walked down the hallway, the adrenaline fading, leaving him cold and focused.
He had saved the innocents. He had killed the monsters.
Now, only one monster remained. The one who sat on the Iron Throne.
Ned checked his sword. It was still sharp.
"Time to end this," he whispered.