Chapter Text
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A/N: This is my most ambitious project yet, probably spanning about 150 chapters. I aim to finish this by the end of Fall 2025. Of course, if you have any questions in the plot or houses all you have to do is ask. As for updates, expect a 5 chapter update every month or so. Without further ado let's begin!
Chapter One: The Trial Declared
The plaza was silent, save for the rustle of banners in the wind and the distant caw of a crow overhead. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of the moment, with the hundreds of eyes fixed on him—watching, waiting.
Eddard Stark stood in chains, the weight of the iron biting into his wrists, the bruises along his body throbbing from the rough handling of the Goldcloaks. His leg still ached from the wound that had nearly killed him, but he kept his stance firm. A Stark did not kneel unless he chose to kneel.
“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,” he said, his voice carrying across the plaza, steady despite the tightness in his throat. “And I come before you to confess … to confess …”
The words caught.
He could not force them out.
The mob stood before him like a living, writhing beast—a sea of faces twisted with hatred, glee, and something even worse—hunger.
Hunger for his humiliation. Hunger for his blood.
He would not leave King’s Landing alive.
“Confess what, Lord Stark?” Cersei Lannister purred, her fingers trailing lightly along Sansa’s shoulder, the touch almost motherly—a performance for the crowd.
The smirk on her lips, however, betrayed the truth.
Rage swelled up within him, swallowing his shame, drowning the ache in his limbs, the humiliation of standing here, beaten, in chains, paraded before the people like a common criminal.
Rage at the woman who had orchestrated it all.
Rage at the boy-king on the throne, who had butchered his men in the Red Keep, who had stolen his honor, who now demanded he kneel and beg for mercy that would never come.
Rage at himself, for ever trusting in the honor of these southerners to protect his family in a city that knew nothing of it.
He lifted his chin. The chains rattled.
“To confess nothing,” he declared, his voice stronger this time, carrying across the plaza like the cold winds of the North.
A ripple passed through the gathered crowd—a shift, a hesitation.
Joffrey Baratheon, sitting above them on the dais, stiffened in his seat. His pale, petulant face twisted in fury, his fingers clenching around the armrest of his throne.
“What did you say?” the boy-king demanded.
Ned turned his gaze upon him, cold and unyielding.
“I said that I will confess to nothing. That you are no king,” he continued, “that you are no son of Robert Baratheon, but a bastard born of incest, and that your claim to the Iron Throne is a lie.”
The crowd gasped as one.
Cersei’s smile vanished.
Joffrey’s face turned red with fury.
The weight of it settled in the air like a storm gathering over the city.
“I demand a trial to prove my innocence,” Ned said, his voice never wavering. “I demand a trial by combat.”
For the second time that day, King’s Landing fell still.
Cersei’s face paled, but only for an instant. Then the steel returned to her gaze, quick as a blade sliding into a sheath.
“So be it, Lord Stark,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying no trace of hesitation, though Ned knew her well enough to see the calculations turning behind her green eyes.
She turned toward the Kingsguard. “The Gods will judge, and the people of Westeros shall see the truth. We will have the trial now. Ser Jamie Lann-”
She was cut off by Joffrey’s shrill voice. “The Hound will stand as the champion for the Crown.” He turned toward the Hound, malice brimming in his eyes. “Prove yourself dog,” he snarled.
For an instant, a look of supreme annoyance swept over Cersei’s face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Ned felt a flicker of something close to amusement, despite himself. How quickly she had moved to stamp out the risk. But he had expected this.
“Then I too demand a champion to prove my innocence,” he said.
Cersei’s smirk returned. “Very well, Lord Stark. Choose.”
Ned lifted his chin. “I choose Lord Umber, the Greatjon.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd.
“The Greatjon?” Cersei’s voice was honey-sweet with mockery. “Lord Umber is hundreds of miles away, marching with your son’s army. He will not ride in to save you now, Stark.”
Ned said nothing.
The Queen leaned forward, her smirk widening. “Find another champion, if you can. You have until tomorrow. And if you find no champion to take on your cause, then you shall fight yourself.”
“My leg is badly wounded,” Ned said.
“You should have thought of that before demanding a trial by battle,” Cersei replied. “If you are innocent, then the Gods shall provide.”
She turned toward the Goldcloaks. “Take him back to the dungeons.”
“How am I to find a champion in the—”
“Silence.”
The command rang out like a blade clashing against steel.
“If anyone in this city wishes to champion Lord Stark,” Cersei continued, “they may present themselves before the Throne and will be permitted to fight on Lord Stark’s behalf.” Her eyes gleamed with something close to amusement. “If they dare.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then—from the depths of the crowd—a voice rang out.
“I will champion Lord Stark.”
The voice was old but strong.
The plaza stilled.
The voice rang out again. “I will champion Lord Stark.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The people turned, craning their necks to see the speaker.
An old man stepped forward, clad in a tattered cloak, a wooden staff in his hand, his boots caked with the filth of the city streets.
Cersei’s brows furrowed. “Who dares speak for this traitor?”
The old man lifted his head.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he threw back the hood of his cloak. Gasps rippled through the square. The sunlight caught on his silver-white hair, his strong, lined face.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Cersei stiffened.
“You,” she breathed, her fingers tightening around the arms of her seat.
“Ser Barristan?” Sansa whispered, eyes wide with shock.
Barristan’s voice was steady, unyielding. “A knight.”
“You!” Cersei repeated, regaining herself. Her voice turned sharp, commanding. “Guards, seize him immediately! Ser Barristan is to be arrested himself for—”
The mob erupted.
Shouts of outrage rang through the air. Rocks and rotten fruit flew, not at Eddard Stark, but at the Goldcloaks, at the Kingsguard, at the Queen herself.
Joffrey leapt from his seat, face twisted in fury.
“I WILL HAVE THEIR HEADS!” he shrieked. His voice was sharp, shrill, almost childish in its petulance. But his screams were drowned beneath the voice of the crowd—one word, chanted over and over again.
“Trial!”
Cersei’s mind raced.
The crowd had turned against her. She had lost control.
But could she risk the trial?
Ser Barristan was old—but old enough to lose? The Hound was stronger, but strength was not everything. Barristan had been the finest knight in Westeros for decades. Jaime had beaten him once, but not without great difficulty, and under low stakes.
Could she have him killed before the trial? Could she weaken him?
Barristan strode forward, the crowd parting around him.
“Tomorrow, at first light,” he declared, his voice carrying through the plaza like a tolling bell. “At the Dragonpit, before all of King’s Landing, I will stand as Lord Stark’s champion. And if justice still holds meaning in this realm, I shall wield Ice, the sword of House Stark, to prove his innocence.”
He turned to Ned, meeting his gaze.
"If you will allow it, my lord."
A long pause.
Ned lifted his head, meeting the knight’s steady gaze.
"You have my blessing, Ser Barristan," he said.
Barristan nodded once.
And with that, he turned and walked back into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of faces.
—
Dawn broke over King’s Landing, pale and uncertain, as if even the sun hesitated to witness what was about to unfold. The Dragonpit, once home to the great beasts of House Targaryen, now stood in ruins—a fitting stage for the gods to decide the fate of Lord Eddard Stark.
The city had been restless through the night. Word of Ser Barristan’s challenge had spread like wildfire, whispered in taverns, muttered in alleyways. The people were tired of Lannister rule, tired of the Queen’s games and the boy King’s cruelty, and a sort of breathless hope gathered the masses in numbers unseen since the days of Robert’s Rebellion. The trial was no longer just about Ned Stark—it had become something more, something greater. It was the promise of a reckoning.
Ned stood at the edge of the pit, his leg weak but his heart steady. He had not seen Sansa since the square. Had she been taken back to her chambers, or was she somewhere in the crowd, watching? He prayed she was safe. He could do nothing for her now. His eyes found Ser Barristan, who stood tall despite his age, clad in steel that had seen a hundred battles. Ice rested in his hands, the greatsword of House Stark, its dark rippling steel a stark contrast to the soft morning light.
On the opposite end, Sandor Clegane loomed like a specter of death, clad in blackened mail, his hound’s helm casting an eerie shadow over his face. He did not speak, did not sneer. He simply waited, his massive longsword resting easily in his hands.
The Queen sat on a high dais with Joffrey, her face a mask of cold calculation. The boy king’s lips curled into a sneer, but his fingers drummed anxiously against the armrest of the Iron Throne. Varys, Littlefinger, and Grand Maester Pycelle were at her side, though even they seemed distracted by the spreading unrest.
Ser Barristan stepped forward, lifting Ice in both hands. His voice, clear and steady, carried across the pit.
"I stand for Lord Eddard Stark, falsely accused, falsely imprisoned. Let the gods judge us."
Sandor Clegane simply huffed and rolled his shoulders. "Then let’s get this over with."
The trial began.
Sandor moved first, a brutal overhead strike meant to split an opponent from skull to groin. His longsword, heavy and well-worn, whistled through the air with lethal intent. Against a lesser man, the fight would have ended in a heartbeat.
But Barristan Selmy was no common knight.
He sidestepped with practiced ease, turning Ice at just the right moment to deflect the Hound’s blade. The Valyrian steel rang as it met Sandor’s iron, the force of the impact shaking the sand beneath their feet. Barristan flowed like water, his every step deliberate, every movement controlled.
The two warriors circled, their blades flashing under the midday sun. The Hound fought like an animal, all raw power and relentless aggression. He came at Barristan with unrelenting fury, hacking at his defenses with savage swings.
But Barristan Selmy had not survived a lifetime of battle through brute strength alone.
He was patient, disciplined. Every strike from the Hound was met with a precise parry, a calculated deflection, a subtle shift of weight that made the attack fall short.
A lunge. A sidestep. A feint. A counter.
Every motion was a lesson in mastery.
Sandor snarled in frustration, gripping his sword with both hands as he swung again, this time aiming for Barristan’s ribs. The old knight caught the blow on Ice’s flat edge, twisting his wrist to push Sandor’s sword away. The strength behind the strike sent a tremor through Barristan’s arms, but he did not falter.
The crowd watched in stunned silence. The trial by combat had become a spectacle—more than justice, more than politics. It was a contest between two of the greatest swordsmen of the age.
Then came the first true opening.
Barristan feinted high, drawing Sandor’s guard up, before suddenly dipping low. Ice swept toward the Hound’s leg in a lightning-quick stroke. Sandor twisted away, but not fast enough.
The Valyrian steel bit through chainmail and flesh alike, carving deep into his thigh.
The Hound grunted in pain, stumbling back as blood darkened the sand beneath him. He cursed, his grip tightening on his sword. But pain did not slow him. If anything, it made him wilder.
With a furious growl, Sandor surged forward, swinging wildly. His blade crashed against Ice again and again, the force behind his strikes forcing Barristan back, step by step.
Steel clashed in rapid succession, the sound ringing sharp across the courtyard. Sparks danced between them as Sandor struck harder, each blow seeking to batter down the old knight’s defenses. There was no finesse to it; only raw, relentless aggression.
But Barristan was not shaken.
He met every strike with an effortless economy of movement, never overextending, never exposing himself. He stepped lightly over the bloodied sand, letting the Hound wear himself down. For every savage swing of Sandor’s greatsword, Ice answered with precise deflections, smooth as flowing water.
The Hound bared his teeth, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. “Fucking stand still,” he snarled, wrenching his blade back and sweeping it in a deadly arc meant to split Barristan in two.
The old knight sidestepped. Barely. The wind of the passing sword stirred his cloak.
Sandor pivoted immediately, coming in close with a brutal shoulder-check. A lesser man would have stumbled. Barristan, however, absorbed the impact, twisting with the force rather than resisting it. He turned into the momentum—and suddenly, Sandor found himself overextending.
It happened in an instant.
Barristan dropped low, his foot sweeping out behind Sandor’s knee. The Hound faltered. Just as his balance wavered, Ice lashed out.
A flash of silver. A sharp hiss of steel cutting flesh.
The blade sliced across Sandor’s wrist, a deep but clean cut. Blood welled from the wound, dark against his armor.
The Hound snarled, his grip faltering for a fraction of a second—but a fraction was all Barristan needed.
He twisted his sword, turning it in a smooth, practiced motion. Before Sandor could react, Ice hooked beneath his greatsword and wrenched it free from his grasp. The blade spun once in the air before clattering onto the ground with a heavy, final thud.
Sandor’s breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy heaves. Blood trickled down his thigh, staining his armor, pooling in the dirt.
And then, suddenly, he went still.
The point of Ice was pressed against his throat.
Barristan’s grip was steady. His stance was unshaken. His pale blue eyes, calm as a still lake, met Sandor’s wild, dark glare.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
The moment stretched, drawn taut like a bowstring. The watching crowd was silent. The weight of the duel—the weight of what had just happened—hung thick in the air.
For a long beat, Sandor Clegane simply stared at the blade against his throat.
Then he exhaled sharply.
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and humorless.
“Fuck this.”
His knees buckled, and he let himself drop heavily to the ground. His sword-hand hung limp at his side, blood dripping from his fingers. His head tilted back, sweat rolling down his burned cheek.
He turned his eyes toward Joffrey and Cersei, shaking his head.
His sword lay discarded in the dirt.
The Hound had yielded.
Silence fell over the Dragonpit.
Then the crowd erupted. Some screamed in triumph, others in fury. The city had demanded trial, and the Gods had given their judgment.
Barristan turned to the dais, his blade still slick with blood. “The trial is over,” he declared, his voice calm, steady. “The Gods have spoken. Eddard Stark is innocent.”
All eyes turned to the Queen.
Cersei Lannister was still as a statue, her green eyes unreadable, her mind already whirring, calculating her next move. She could not openly defy the trial—not here, not with thousands watching—but neither could she simply let Stark walk free.
Then Joffrey stood.
“No,” the boy king spat, his face twisted in fury. “No, I won’t have it. He is a traitor! Kill them both!”
The Goldcloaks hesitated, their hands twitching toward their swords.
And then, from the steps of the pit, came a different sound. The sound of steel being drawn.
Men in northern cloaks. Sellswords, old knights, even former City Watchmen. Men who had once followed Barristan Selmy. Men who still followed Ned Stark. They had waited, hidden among the crowd. Now they stood with swords in hand.
Varys watched with satisfaction hidden in his normally implacable visage. He had sent his whispers, had placed the right men in the right places. The city was on the edge of the knife.
The people would not stand for treachery.
And so, after a long, tense silence, Cersei smiled—slow, thin, and dangerous.
“Of course,” she said smoothly. “Lord Stark is free to go.”
But even as Ned was led away, he glanced back at the Queen. Cersei Lannister’s smile had already faded.
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