Chains and Choices

The darkness of the cells beneath the Red Keep was absolute.

The damp, suffocating air clung to Eddard Stark's skin, heavy with the stench of rot and decay. Water dripped somewhere beyond the iron bars, a slow, rhythmic sound that served as his only marker of time.

His breath was shallow, the pain in his leg a constant, dull ache that flared with every movement. Even in the dim torchlight that barely reached his cell, he could see the swelling and the sickly red hue creeping along the wound. The gash Jaime Lannister had left him with had festered, the infection spreading like wildfire through his body. If he survived, the leg would need to be taken.

But survival seemed a distant thing now.

Lying against the cold stone, he closed his eyes and thought of his daughters. Sansa and Arya. His little girls, now trapped in the viper's nest of King's Landing, at the mercy of the Lannisters. Sansa, with her gentle nature and love of songs, had no idea what the court was truly like—what Joffrey was truly like.

As for Arya, she was too wild, too willful to be tamed. He prayed she had managed to slip away somehow. But prayer was a weak man's comfort. They were in danger, and he was powerless to help them.

His thoughts turned to Catelyn. If anyone could keep their sons safe, it was her. She was fierce when it came to her children, sharp as any blade. But whether she would succeed, he did not know. He had no way of knowing.

Bran and Rickon. Still so young. Too young to understand the storm that had broken over their family. They had been safe the last he knew, protected within Winterfell's walls. But how long would that last? How long before the Lannisters decided that two Stark heirs, no matter how young, were threats? He prayed Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik could keep them safe.

Jon. His bastard son, now a man grown, stationed at the Wall as a soon to be sworn brother of the Night's Watch, if not one already. Ned had sent him away to spare him the shame of his name, to give him purpose, to keep him safe. But Jon was his son, no matter how he was born, and now he was lost to him. Even if Ned escaped, he would never see Jon again. The Wall was a lifetime's sentence.

Finally, his thoughts turned to Robb. His firstborn. His heir. His boy who was now a man grown too soon, marching to war.

Ned had fought in two wars, had done things he wished never to speak of, all so his children wouldn't have to. Now, it was happening again. Robb was only fifteen, yet he had taken the mantle of war upon his shoulders. He had always been a good boy—proud, dutiful and eager to prove himself. But war changed men. It took the best of them and left them hardened, cruel, or broken. If he survived this war, Robb would never be the same.

None of them would be.

Eddard let out a slow breath, pressing his head back against the stone. He was growing weaker. His body was failing him. The chill of the cell seeped into his bones, the pain in his leg gnawing at him. How much longer would they keep him here?

His mind wandered again, to a younger Robb—just a boy, no older than Bran was now, learning to swing a sword for the first time. How his face had lit up when he had bested his first opponent. How he had once dreamed of being a knight, not a commander leading men to die. Ned had been proud of him that day.

He was proud of him now.

If Robb was to go to war, he hoped he would not let honor blind him. It had cost Ned dearly. If Robb wanted to win, he would have to be smarter. He would have to be ruthless.

A rat scurried across the floor near his foot, its tiny claws scratching against the stone. He didn't have the strength to move away from it. The Red Keep's dungeons were riddled with them. The Black Cells, the gaolers called them.

Where men were sent to die.

He was one of those men now.

Soon, the world would march on without him.

He was drifting between consciousness and fevered dreams, his mind conjuring images of Winterfell, of his family, of a home he would likely never see again.

Then—noise.

At first, it was distant. The low murmur of voices, hurried and hushed, echoing down the corridors of the dungeons. Then came the sound of footsteps—quick, purposeful, growing closer with every second. Eddard's eyes snapped open. His instincts, dulled as they were by fever and pain, screamed at him to pay attention.

A shadow passed through the dim torchlight beyond the bars of his cell, followed by another. More whispers, indistinct and rushed. He could make out fragments of words but not enough to piece them together.

"This is the one." The words were spoken firmly, with certainty. The jangling of keys followed, metal scraping against metal as a key was shoved into the heavy iron lock. The mechanism groaned, stiff from rust and disuse.

Eddard shifted, biting back the grunt of pain that rose in his throat. His leg throbbed, the infection burning like fire through his veins. He could do nothing but watch as the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

Armed men. Three of them all cloaked in darkness, their faces partially obscured by the dim torchlight. The first one stepped forward, scanning the cell before his sharp gaze settled on Eddard. "Lord Eddard Stark?"

Eddard's eyes narrowed. "Aye, that is my name."

The lead man nodded, his expression tight with urgency. "We've come to get you out."

Eddard frowned. A rescue? Now? His mind worked through the implications, the dangers. He pushed himself up slightly, suppressing the pain. "Who sent you?"

"There's no time for that," the man said. "We need to move, now."

Eddard's jaw tightened. "I am to stand trial."

The man scoffed. "A mummer's farce, my lord. Joffrey has already decided your fate. He means to have your head."

Eddard inhaled sharply through his nose, though the words did not surprise him. He had suspected as much. 'So, the game is over then.' His honor had cost him everything, as he always knew it might. Still, something did not sit right. His eyes flickered between the men before him. "I don't know you," he said, voice steady despite his weakened state. "For all I know, this could be a Lannister trick."

The lead man shook his head. "We don't have time for doubt, my lord. We came here at great risk. We need to go. Now."

Eddard remained unmoving. "I will not leave my daughters."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Then, the man spoke again, his voice quieter but no less firm. "We've already sent men to get them out."

Eddard's breath caught in his throat. His heart, so heavy with dread, seemed to beat a little faster. "Sansa and Arya?"

"Aye," the man confirmed. "They should already be making their way to the Blackwater Rush. We have a boat waiting there. From there, they'll be taken to a ship in Blackwater Bay."

Shock coursed through Eddard. It had been so long since he had felt anything but numb resignation, but now there was something else. Hope. He was afraid to trust it, afraid to believe it. "Who sent you?" He asked again, voice quieter this time, almost disbelieving.

The man stepped closer and pressed something into his hand. It was cold, smooth, familiar.

A brooch.

Eddard looked down, his breath catching as the dim torchlight revealed what it was.

A falcon in flight, clutching a crescent moon.

The sigil of House Arryn.

Eddard exhaled, slow and measured, before his lips curled into something resembling a smile. "Yohn," he murmured. Yohn Royce. Loyal to Jon Arryn, loyal to the Vale. Loyal to him. He clenched the brooch in his palm before looking up at the men before him. "Take me to my daughters."