Night had fallen over King's Landing, but the city was far from quiet.
Even though the King was dead, human indulgence had not stopped. Brothels remained open, gambling dens were filled with shouting patrons, and fighting pits echoed with the roars of spectators. Music drifted through the streets, mixed with drunken laughter and the clatter of tankards.
In the fading twilight, Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger, arrived at a shabby three-story wooden building.
The structure looked unstable, its timbers worn and crooked with age. Yet warm light poured from its windows, glowing brightly against the darkness. The sound of music and raucous laughter spilled out from inside.
A heavy chain hung beside the entrance, holding an ornate oil lamp covered by a red glass shade.
Littlefinger glanced up at it with amusement.
"This place spreads joy," he remarked lightly.
Then he sighed theatrically.
"It's a pity Eddard Stark isn't here anymore. I remember the last time we were together."
He turned toward the man walking beside him.
"How tragic, Stark."
The man accompanying him was Rosso Brenn, a mercenary who served Littlefinger.
Rosso said nothing.
Littlefinger knew him well enough by now. Rosso was a quiet man by nature—silent, loyal, and capable.
Those were precisely the qualities Littlefinger valued most in a subordinate.
The two men entered the building.
Inside, the hall was crowded and lively. A plump woman stood on a small stage singing an obscene song while drunken patrons cheered. Beautiful girls wearing thin silk robes lounged across the laps of their customers, whispering sweet promises and collecting coins.
Littlefinger ignored the chaos and led Rosso directly upstairs.
They climbed to the third floor, where the noise from below faded slightly.
Littlefinger poured a cup of warm drink and handed it to Rosso.
"Now that our dear King Robert is dead," he said casually, "the situation in King's Landing will become far more interesting."
He smiled faintly.
"Especially tomorrow."
Rosso drank the cup in one gulp but remained silent.
He showed no concern about the King's death.
In truth, he acted like a man who cared only about the gold he received and the favor of his employer.
Littlefinger chuckled softly.
"Ah, I forgot. You prefer swords and spears to politics."
Rosso lowered his head slightly.
"Forgive me, my lord."
Littlefinger waved his hand dismissively.
"No need for apologies."
He leaned back in his chair.
"I like your silence. Otherwise, a mercenary would hardly be worth trusting."
He paused, swirling wine in his glass.
"Still, I doubt we'll remain in King's Landing much longer."
Littlefinger's eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Let Stark rot beneath the Red Keep," he continued.
"And let the hounds fight over the lion's legacy."
Rosso looked confused.
Seeing his expression, Littlefinger decided to explain.
"King's Landing is not my home," he said calmly.
"In fact, it is becoming increasingly dangerous."
"My true home lies in the Vale, on the Fingers Peninsula."
Littlefinger had already sensed the growing danger surrounding him.
He had spread the lie about the Valyrian dagger.
Sooner or later, Tyrion Lannister would realize the truth.
And when that happened, Tyrion would certainly harbor resentment toward him.
Furthermore, Littlefinger's control in King's Landing was limited. His forces were few, and his influence was fragile.
And then there was a third looming threat.
A young man across the Narrow Sea.
Littlefinger could not clearly explain why, but the thought of that boy filled him with unease.
The feeling reminded him of facing dangerous men like Brandon Stark or Gregor Clegane.
Littlefinger was convinced that The Mountain's death had something to do with the mysterious Blacksmith Boy.
Given all these uncertainties, the safest place for him was the Vale.
"I will be ready," Rosso said simply.
Littlefinger nodded approvingly.
"Good. Just follow my orders."
The Vale had its own dangers—treacherous mountain clans, the unstable Lady Lysa Arryn—but it was still far safer than the volatile capital.
Littlefinger lifted his wine glass.
"For people like us, opportunities are rare."
"And when they appear, they vanish quickly."
Rosso inclined his head respectfully.
"You are a great man."
Littlefinger burst into laughter.
"Haha! Even you flatter me now?"
He shook his head.
"I am no great man."
"I am merely someone who keeps climbing."
"A man always searching for the next ladder."
He gazed out the window toward the dark city.
"But before I leave King's Landing…"
"My ship must carry one or two passengers."
His voice lowered to a whisper.
"That is where my true interest lies."
The next morning dawned clear and bright.
Sansa Stark wore a beautiful sky-blue silk gown. Her long auburn hair flowed down her shoulders in soft curls, and several silver bracelets gleamed on her wrists.
Today she would accompany King Joffrey and Queen Regent Cersei to the Great Sept of Baelor.
Sansa was still just a girl—not even twelve years old.
Alone in the hostile city of King's Landing, she felt frightened and helpless.
But today she clung to a fragile hope.
Perhaps this day would bring good news.
Since her father's arrest, Sansa had lived in quiet misery.
Her friend Jeyne Poole had been taken away.
The servants avoided speaking to her.
She had heard whispers about people disappearing from the Tower of the Hand.
Most of them had never been seen again.
Sansa dared not think about what had happened to them.
Lady Catelyn Stark had taught her daughters the manners of noble ladies—grace, courtesy, and court etiquette.
Sansa had always excelled at those things.
But now she realized something painful.
This was not an age for gentle ladies.
"Mother Above, please protect Father, Arya, and me," she whispered in prayer.
Sometimes she visited the Godswood, remembering the faith of House Stark.
The Starks believed in the Old Gods, not the Seven.
Ever since King Robert had died during the hunt—and her father had been imprisoned—the atmosphere in the Red Keep had changed drastically.
One day Sansa passed the Throne Room.
King Robert's favorite hunting tapestries had been torn down and piled in a corner.
The walls were now bare and cold.
Sansa understood what that meant.
She was no longer welcome.
She was the daughter of a traitor.
The Queen Regent allowed her to walk freely within the Red Keep as a "reward" for her obedience.
But guards always followed closely behind her.
"These are honor guards for my future daughter-in-law," Cersei once said.
Yet her tone left no room for refusal.
Sansa had once greeted many nobles in the court.
Now most avoided her completely.
They feared being associated with misfortune.
Among the courtiers she saw familiar faces—Jalabhar Xho, Ser Aron Santagar, the Redwyne twins.
But they either ignored her or pretended not to recognize her.
One man even turned away pretending to cough.
Despite everything, Sansa still believed today would bring good news.
She had pleaded with the Queen.
She had begged King Joffrey.
Today, at the Great Sept of Baelor, her father would receive mercy.
That was the only hope she had left.
"Come along, Lady Sansa."
The harsh voice belonged to Ser Boros Blount, one of the Kingsguard.
Sansa lowered her head and followed him.
Soon she stood beside King Joffrey and Queen Cersei.
Joffrey wore magnificent crimson robes embroidered with stags and lions.
A golden crown gleamed on his head.
Cersei stood beside him in a black mourning gown threaded with red.
"I hope Father will be safe," Sansa whispered to herself.
When they arrived at the Great Sept, a large crowd had already gathered.
Knights, nobles, and curious citizens filled the marble plaza.
The High Septon approached respectfully.
"I have ordered the bells to ring, Your Grace."
Joffrey nodded.
"Well done."
The bells began to toll.
People poured into the square.
Soon the plaza became packed with bodies.
The citizens of King's Landing loved spectacles.
Executions were their favorite.
Especially when the condemned man was a great lord from the North.
Rumors spread through the crowd.
"They say Northerners can turn into wolves!"
"I heard Stark murdered King Robert!"
"No, it was Renly!"
"You're all wrong—someone across the Narrow Sea used magic!"
The noise grew louder and louder.
Finally, Eddard Stark was brought forward under guard.
He stood on the platform before the High Septon.
Nearby stood the King, the Queen, Sansa, and many nobles.
Hidden among them was Littlefinger.
And not far away, Rosso Brenn watched silently.
Arya Stark had also forced her way through the crowd.
Only nine years old, she climbed onto the statue of Baelor the Blessed to see better.
From there she saw her father.
But something seemed strange.
He looked thin and exhausted.
His face was darkened by grime.
When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"Speak louder!" shouted Janos Slynt, commander of the Gold Cloaks.
He shoved Stark roughly.
"I… I am guilty…"
The confession continued.
Janos Slynt shouted the charges loudly.
"Eddard Stark, you betrayed your King!"
"You conspired to place a bastard on the throne!"
"Do you confess?"
"Yes," Stark answered weakly.
The crowd roared with anger.
Stones began to fly.
Blood trickled down Stark's face.
The High Septon raised his voice.
"This man has confessed his crimes before gods and men."
He turned to the King.
"How shall this traitor be punished?"
The mob screamed.
"Behead him!"
"Behead him!"
"Behead him!"
Joffrey stepped forward smiling.
"My mother suggested sending Lord Eddard to the Wall."
"And Lady Sansa begged for mercy."
He glanced at Sansa.
"But that is the weakness of women."
"As long as I am King, treason will be punished."
He raised his hand.
"Ser Ilyn Payne."
"Bring me his head."
Chaos erupted instantly.
Cersei stared in shock.
Varys panicked.
But it was too late.
Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward and drew the massive greatsword.
The blade gleamed in the sunlight.
It was Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark.
The guards forced Eddard Stark onto the marble block.
Arya fought desperately through the crowd.
"No!"
But she could not reach him.
The sword fell.
The blade flashed.
Blood spilled across the white marble.
Sansa screamed.
A severed head rolled across the platform.
For a brief moment, Sansa noticed something strange.
The face looked different.
Pockmarks were visible on the skin.
Her father had never had such marks.
But the moment passed too quickly.
"Put the head on a spear," Joffrey commanded coldly.
Sansa collapsed to the ground in horror.
"No…" she whispered.
The crowd cheered wildly as the execution ended.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)