In the study of the Tower of the Hand, Ned Stark sat alone before the fireplace.
Flames licked the logs with soft crackles, casting flickering light across his resolute face.
He let the firelight swallow him.
An untouched cup of Dornish Strongwine stood on the table, its amber liquid gleaming invitingly in the firelight.
But he had no desire even to drink.
The bloodshed at the Tournament Grounds replayed in his mind again and again, along with Robert's face, twisted with madness, and the moment he had knelt in humiliation.
Disgrace.
Disgrace that cut to the bone!
He, Ned Stark, Warden of the North!
Had he truly knelt like a criminal before that madman, begging for his laughable mercy?
And all of it had been to protect his family.
He had to send Sansa and Arya away.
Now. Immediately!
King's Landing was a vast meat grinder that would devour everything good.
He had already lost a friend. He could not lose his daughters too.
Just then, the study door was gently pushed open.
Ned did not turn. He assumed it was Arya.
His younger daughter was always worrying about him.
"Arya, go to bed. I'm all right."
Ned's voice was weary.
But the figure that entered was not the lively little wolf he had expected.
"Father."
A soft voice rang out.
Sansa?
Ned stiffened.
Of all people, his elder daughter was the one he least knew how to face.
How could he tell her?
The King's Landing she had once yearned for, the fairy-tale world she had imagined full of princes and knights...
Was actually a hell a hundred times crueler than the winters of the North?
How could he tell her that they had to slink back to Winterfell like beaten dogs?
"Sansa."
Ned turned around.
In the dim