The Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
The morning chill had yet to be dispelled by sunlight, and the lofty Tower of the Hand was steeped in cold shades of gray and blue.
Eddard Stark slept beneath soft velvet bedding, the strain of the past several days having drawn him into a rare deep sleep.
Outside the window, the faint clamor of King's Landing awakening gradually drifted in.
Knock, knock, knock! Knock, knock, knock!
A burst of urgent, heavy knocking shattered the brief peace, piercing the thick oak door and stabbing at Eddard's eardrums.
Eddard jolted awake.
"My lord, something terrible-something terrible has happened!"
A desperately anxious voice came from beyond the door. It was Vayon Poole, the steward who had served him for years.
He had secretly made arrangements the night before to slip out of King's Landing at dawn that day and return to the North with his daughters.
Yet Vayon's cries now gave him a sense of foreboding.
He quickly rose, threw on a plain wool robe, suppressed the pounding in his chest, and pulled open the door.
In the dim light outside stood his steward, Vayon Poole, and three guards loyal to House Stark: Jory, Tommard, and Desmond.
Vayon Poole's usually composed, respectful face was now as white as paper.
He clutched a slip of paper tightly in his hand.
The guards all had their hands on their sword hilts, their bodies taut and their eyes full of alarm and wariness.
"My lord, this news has already spread throughout King's Landing!"
Vayon's voice was hoarse and dry, filled with undisguisable terror, as he held out the slip of paper to Eddard with a trembling hand.
Eddard's brows knitted tightly, and the unease in his heart swelled in an instant.
He took the paper and examined