The bells ring like hollow promises.
I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the smallfolk of King's Landing, hood drawn low, dirt smudged across my face. To them, I'm just another rat in the hay. Another forgotten back bent beneath the weight of a thousand lies. They cheer. They wave. They scream for their king.
I do not.
Instead, I watch.
"Power isn't real," I whisper under my breath. "Power is the shadow on the wall. The trick they play while we starve."
The procession winds its way through the streets. Lannister banners ripple in the summer breeze, red lions devouring gold. The Kingsguard gleams like a wall of ivory and steel. Then comes Robert, the bloated lion, half-drunk atop his horse, armor strained across a belly soft from years of feasting.
Behind him, the Lannister twins: Cersei, cold and coiled like a serpent in silk, and Jaime, arrogant as any Gold I've ever seen—though these men wear no sigils of Olympus. They wear lions, wolves, roses, krakens. Different beasts. Same game.
"The Golds wore their superiority in genes. These nobles? They wear it in silk and silver. Same godsdamn rot."
Then I see them.
The Starks.
Ned rides beside the king, his jaw like a carved stone, eyes full of the North's solemn fire. Beside him, Sansa, hair kissed by the sun, eyes lit with wonder. And Arya—sharp little wolf, already bored of all the pomp. They don't smile like the rest. They don't belong here.
Neither did I.
It's been two years since Winterfell. Since I left that frozen stone cradle behind, chasing rage like a shadow in my lungs. I remember the cold, the weight of that training blade, the contempt in Ser Rodrik's eyes. I remember watching Ned from afar, dreaming that a man like him could change things.I was a fool.
"Justice does not trickle from honor. It is taken with blood and fire."
Still… seeing them now, I feel something stir in me. A ghost of the boy I buried beneath the city's filth and flame.A ghost who believed in heroes.
Sansa waves. Arya looks lost. Ned… Ned turns to the crowd, scanning.
His eyes land on me.
Just for a moment.
They narrow—recognition flickering like a candle caught in wind. His mouth parts slightly, as if to speak.
I blink.
And I'm gone.
I melt back into the alley before his gaze can anchor me. Back into the shadows. Back to my war.
The wolves are here now.And the lions won't know what hit them.
Eddard Stark POV
The air stinks.
Not of piss or blood, though there's plenty of that beneath the perfume. No. It stinks of decay. Of indulgence. Of a realm bloated on its own lies.
Ned rides beside Robert, jaw clenched. His eyes scan the streets, the cheering faces, the crumbling stones.
"This city's not a castle," he mutters. "It's a corpse propped up on gold."
Robert doesn't hear him. Or pretends not to. The king's belly bounces with laughter, waving like a victorious knight. Behind them, the Lannisters bask in their beauty, and the people eat it up like sweetcakes.
But Ned sees what they don't.
He sees the skinny child digging in the gutter while guards swagger past.
He sees the maidservant with bruises hidden under fine cloth.
He sees hunger behind every cheer.
Then his gaze flicks to the crowd—and he sees a face.
A hooded figure. Dark eyes. Scarred cheek. Watching, not cheering.Darian.
It hits like a hammer to the chest. The boy from Winterfell. The one who vanished. No longer a boy.
Ned's breath stills. The crowd moves. Horses trot forward.
And just like that—he's gone.
Like smoke.
Like guilt.
Ned blinks, hand tightening on the reins.
He says nothing.
But something stirs in him. Something old. Something dangerous.