Chapter 150: The Lord of Winterfell — Eddard Stark
"Move!"
Eddard Stark was shoved forward by two Gold Cloaks. The thin prison clothes on his body offered no protection against the biting cold wind, yet he still forced his back straight.
"Kneel!"
The captain barked the order. A brutal kick struck the back of Eddard's knee. He let out a muffled grunt and crashed down onto the freezing stone floor.
So… it's finally time.
Kneeling there, Eddard lifted his head.
Above him loomed the vaulted ceiling of the great hall. At its far end stood the Iron Throne—an abomination of twisted blades fused together, casting jagged shadows beneath the flickering torchlight.
The king sat upon it, crown upon his head, gazing down at him with a look that mingled amusement and contempt.
Eddard had never truly believed that the young Lannister from yesterday could help him. The man had looked scarcely older than himself.
"Heh…"
But to Eddard's surprise, the king did not pass judgment at once. Instead, he frowned and pointed at the Gold Cloaks.
"You are being far too rude."
"How could you treat Lord Stark in such a manner?"
Lord… Stark?
The words struck Eddard as strange.
He was only fifteen years old. He held no title, no lands. Since when did "my lord" apply to him?
Before he could think further, several Gold Cloaks hurried into the hall, carrying thick blankets, water, food—and even a chair.
Once seated, wrapped in warm wool, with steaming meat and clean water before him, Eddard felt his throat tighten. He almost cried.
Almost.
He held it back.
After everything he had endured—after witnessing his brother's death and his sister's execution—his heart had grown eerily calm.
Whatever awaited him now—the gallows, lifelong imprisonment, or death in darkness—he would accept it in silence.
"My king."
During Eddard's meal, the Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, stepped forward, his voice oily with deference.
"Since Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne were struck from the rolls, the Kingsguard now numbers only five."
"Ser Harlan Grandison lies gravely ill. The maesters say he may soon be taken into the Seven's embrace."
"For the safety of Your Grace and the royal house, I believe we should begin selecting worthy knights from across the Seven Kingdoms without delay."
"A fair point."
The king nodded, then turned his gaze toward the white-armored knight standing nearby.
"Ser Lance, you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Do you have any thoughts… or candidates?"
The knight resting both hands upon his greatsword lifted his eyes slightly. After a brief pause, he spoke in a steady, measured voice.
"The Kingsguard exists to protect the royal family. Loyalty and skill are both indispensable."
"As for candidates… I do have some in mind."
Under the watchful eyes of the court, Lance raised two fingers.
"First—Brynden Tully."
At those words, Qarlton Chelsted's eyelid twitched uncontrollably.
Then, Lance continued calmly, offering his reasoning:
"House Tully's Blackfish distinguished himself during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. In terms of merit and martial ability, he is unquestionably worthy of donning the white cloak."
"And from what I hear, the man has repeatedly rejected the marriages arranged for him by his elder brother, Lord Hoster. He clearly has no interest in wedlock. Serving in the Kingsguard would suit him perfectly."
"Hahahaha…"
Rather than objecting, the king let out a low chuckle.
Ever attentive to the mood, Lord Qarlton followed with an awkward laugh of his own.
Benjen Stark was about to marry Catelyn Tully. Appointing Hoster Tully's brother to the Kingsguard at this moment was a blatant warning—a reminder to that old trout that before making any moves, he'd best remember whose hands his brother would be in.
"Second—Lyn Corbray."
After a brief pause, Lance continued, "I've never met the boy personally, but reports say his swordsmanship is unmatched in the Vale. More importantly, House Corbray possesses a Valyrian steel blade—Lady Forlorn."
"Beyond that, House Corbray once produced a Hand of the King. At the Battle of the Redgrass Field, Lord Gwayne Corbray gave his life for House Targaryen. Their loyalty is proven."
The gathered lords nodded in agreement.
Both men were younger sons—no inheritance disputes to worry about. Bringing them to King's Landing would both deter the Riverlands and exert pressure in the Vale. If Jon Arryn harbored any thoughts of dissent, House Corbray would hardly risk everything for him.
A clean, efficient move.
"However…"
Qarlton still raised a cautious objection.
"Though unlikely, what if they refuse the summons to serve His Grace?"
"No need to worry."
Lance grinned, resting one hand on his sword hilt, his confidence unmistakable.
"I'll go invite them personally. If they can defeat the sword in my hand—then we can talk."
"Gulp…"
Recalling the spectacle at the tourney grounds days earlier, Qarlton swallowed hard and wisely retreated into silence.
After all—if even the Sword of the Morning had fallen so decisively, who in the Seven Kingdoms could truly stand against this man?
What Qarlton did not know was that the moment Arthur Dayne fell, Lance' strength had surged yet again.
---
[Advancement Quest Completed]
Defeat the Sword of the Morning in a public duel while urinating.
Current Template: SS — Arthur Dayne (100% Fusion)
Title: Sword of the Morning, Greatest Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
A man who could urinate with his right hand while cutting down five Kingsguard with his left—had he not fallen to treachery, his legend would have grown even greater.
Passive (Permanent): Sword of the Morning
Your swordsmanship has reached its absolute peak. No one in this world can rival you in pure blade skill.
Swordsmanship +4
The meaning of Swordsmanship +4 was staggering.
At +2, Lance had already been capable of cutting down over a dozen elite knights alone. Now, with two further levels added, even he could not fully grasp the limits of his own ability.
Perhaps—wielding two blades—he could cleave through a charge of a hundred knights.
A hypothesis… one that would require testing.
---
Just then, the Hand of the King strode into the hall, his voice ringing with urgency:
"News from the Riverlands. Near Harrenhal, three villages were attacked. All grain stores looted. The villagers—slaughtered."
"What?!"
Aerys shot to his feet, nearly cutting himself on the Iron Throne's blades.
"Who did this?!"
"Evidence is scarce, but nearly twenty bodies were found flayed and hung from burned rafters."
"Bolton!"
The name echoed through the hall.
Flaying—such cruelty belonged only to the dread house of the Dreadfort.
Bolton forces in the Riverlands could only mean—
"Impossible!"
"Absolutely impossible!"
Eddard Stark dropped to one knee, voice ringing with conviction.
"Your Grace, my brother Benjen's betrothal to Catelyn Tully is known throughout the realm. The Riverlands are the North's closest ally!"
"Even if my brother and sister violated the law and paid the price, my father would never raid Tully lands at such a moment. There must be a misunderstanding!"
Before Aerys could respond, Tywin Lannister stepped forward, voice iron-hard.
"Whoever did this has defied House Targaryen and trampled the realm's dignity. The response must be absolute."
"I advise dispatching Crownlands forces under my brother Kevan to eradicate them."
Then his gaze shifted to Eddard.
"As for this Stark traitor—his family has abandoned him. He holds no further value."
"Rather than execution, let us follow ancient custom. Send him to the Wall."
"A final mercy… shown by Your Grace."
The Wall…
Eddard let out a quiet breath.
So the golden-haired youth had spoken truthfully after all.
The Wall wasn't so bad.
Benjen was now Winterfell's heir. Better the frozen silence than rotting in a black cell.
At least there, he would still have purpose.
---
"Heh…"
Just as Eddard resigned himself to that sliver of mercy, a white cloak stepped forward.
"Lord Tywin is truly tireless in his concern for House Targaryen."
The tall knight advanced, pressure radiating from him with every step.
"Where is that mountain of a knight who follows you everywhere, my lord?"
Tywin's green eyes narrowed.
"He returned to the Westerlands."
"Hahaha!"
Lance laughed—but did not pursue the matter.
Instead, he turned to the council.
"Sending the Crownlands army to deal with petty raiders is excessive."
"I will personally lead three hundred knights to the Riverlands and slaughter anyone daring to challenge Targaryen authority."
The hall fell silent. Even Tywin could not refute him.
Then Lance turned to the kneeling Eddard, smiling brighter still.
"Sent to the Wall?"
"No."
"I've looked into this. Eddard Stark has upheld the law his entire life. He is nothing like his kin."
"The raids south of Harrenhal—Bolton or not—prove one thing."
"The North is out of control."
"Rickard Stark has failed in his sacred duty to guard the North and uphold the realm."
He stepped forward, voice crashing like a hammer.
"Your Grace!"
"I propose Eddard Stark be named the new Warden of the North—Lord of Winterfell."
"And ordered to return at once, in the Iron Throne's name, to restore order, crush rebellion, and bring the North back into the realm's embrace!"