Eddard Stark rode south through the Red Mountains with his six companions, their horses plodding along the stony Dornish trail, dust rising in their wake. Howland Reed rode on his left, small and quick, his green cloak fluttering, while Lord Willam Dustin stayed on his right, his red stallion snorting. Behind them came Mark Ryswell, watching the cliffs, and Martyn Cassel, hand on his sword. Theo Wull followed, grumbling under his breath, and Ethan Glover, held the rear. They reached the Tower of Joy, a blunt stone keep pressed against a cliff, its walls pitted by years of wind. Three Kingsguard stood below—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, in the center, white cloak stark against his armor, Dawn gleaming in his grip; Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, on his right, helm off, gray hair damp; and Ser Oswell Whent on his left, kneeling, running a whetstone over his blade.
Ned halted his horse, raising a hand to stop his men, and dismounted, boots crunching on the dry earth. He stepped forward, facing the Kingsguard, and said, "I looked for you on the Trident." Arthur met his eyes, calm. "We weren't there." Oswell stood, smirking. "Woe to the Usurper if we had been." Ned pressed on, "When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were." Gerold growled, "Far away, or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells." Ned's voice sharpened. "I come down on Storm's End to lift the siege, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners—yet here I find you still." Arthur nodded. "Our prince wanted us here." Ned's jaw set. "Where's my sister?"
Arthur fully drew Dawn, its pale blade flashing, and said, "The king charged us to guard her—you'll not pass." Ned unsheathed Ice, the great Valyrian steel sword light in his hands, and said, "Then it's a fight." Gerold hefted his longsword, grunting, "Our knees do not bend easily."
Arthur walked forward, adding, "And now it begins."
Ned shook his head. "No. Now it ends."
The fight erupted. Willam charged Gerold, sword slashing—Gerold parried, but Willam sidestepped, driving his blade through Gerold's chest, piercing armor, blood spurting as the White Bull fell. Martyn rushed Oswell, sword swinging—Oswell blocked, but Martyn feinted, then thrust under his guard, stabbing Oswell's gut, twisting the blade as he dropped, groaning. Ned and the others closed in, but Arthur stepped forward, slashing Dawn a blur. Theo swung his axe at him—Arthur dodged, slashed once, cutting Theo's throat, blood gushing as he crumpled. Mark thrust his sword at Arthur's side—Arthur parried, spun, and drove Dawn through Mark's chest, ripping it out as Mark collapsed. Ethan lunged, blade high—Arthur sidestepped, slashed Ethan's legs out, then stabbed down, pinning him to the dirt, dead in a breath.
Willam attacked next, sword arcing—Arthur blocked with Dawn, pushed him back, then swung low, slicing Willam's belly open, guts spilling as he fell. Martyn charged, yelling—Arthur met him, parried two strikes, then thrust Dawn through Martyn's eye, the point bursting out the back of his skull, dropping him instantly. Ned and Howland circled, Ned swinging Ice—Arthur deflected, metal screeching, and countered, cutting Ned's arm shallowly. Howland darted in with a knife, aiming for Arthur's leg—Arthur knocked it aside, slashed Howland's arm, and raised Dawn to finish him. Ned dropped Ice, shut his eyes, and slipped his mind into a gray mare tethered by the tower, feeling its fear, its strength. He pushed it forward, hooves pounding as it reared and crashed into Arthur, knocking him flat, his head smacking stone, unconscious.
Ned snapped back, breathless, and grabbed Ice, turning to Howland, who pressed a hand to his bleeding arm. "Tie him up," Ned said, pointing at Arthur. Howland nodded, pulling rope from his pack, and bound Arthur's wrists and ankles, knots firm. Ned sheathed Ice and ran for the tower, shoving the door open, wood cracking as it hit the wall. He climbed the spiral stairs, steps tight and worn, but something felt wrong the air wasthick with an unease he couldn't name. The walls pressed in, the light from slits faint, like the day itself had weakened.
He burst into Lyanna's room, stopping cold. Blood soaked the bed, a red tide drenching the straw, pooling on the floor in thick, dark clumps. Lyanna lay sprawled, her shift torn wide, thighs slick with gore, her belly ripped open from a brutal birth—flesh shredded, entrails leaking out, the reek of blood and decay choking him. Beside her, a baby—Daeron—lay still, cord tight around his neck, skin purple and bloated, lifeless. Ned clapped a hand to his mouth, muttering, "This isn't right," and shouted, "Lyanna!" Silence answered. Tears burned his eyes as he stumbled forward, dropping Ice, grabbing her shoulders, shaking her. "Wake up, Lyanna—please!" Her body sagged, head flopping, dead weight, and he lurched back, screaming, "This isn't right! This wasn't supposed to happen!" He sank to his knees, fists hammering the floor, sobs tearing out.
Her eyes snapped open, black and empty, head jerking toward him with a wet snap. Ned recoiled, heart slamming, as she rasped, "This is what you wanted, Ned—you killed us both. You wanted us dead, and now we are." Her voice warped, deep and jagged, echoing like a dozen throats. The room twisted, shadows stretching into claws, air turning foul. Ned yelled, "No, it's not true!" clutching his head, eyes shut tight as she shrieked, "PROMISE ME, NED! PROMISE ME! PROMISE!" The words burrowed into him, splintering his skull, the floor buckling beneath.
Silence fell, sudden and heavy. A voice said, "Father." Ned's eyes opened, hope sparking—Robb's voice. He looked up, but it died fast. Robb stood there, pale as a corpse, blood streaking his face, chest caved in, ribs poking through torn flesh, skull cracked, brain oozing out. "Is something wrong, Father?" Robb asked, voice flat, head tilting at a broken angle. Ned scrambled back, muttering, "No, no, no, no," boots slipping on blood. He hit the window, frame rotting, and fell backward, screaming as he dropped, wind roaring past, the ground rushing up—then black.
He jolted awake, gasping, cold damp stone cold beneath him. He coughed, the harsh sound clawing at his throat as he pushed himself up from the cold damp stone, hands fumbling against the rough surface in pitch-black darkness. He couldn't see a thing, not his own hands, not the walls, not even the faint outline of his boots. He sat there for a moment, breathing hard, letting his racing heart settle as he tried to piece together where he was. His mind churned, dragging up fragments; Sunspear, the tunnels beneath it winding deep into the castle's belly. He'd come here with Oberyn and Aegon, a reckless plan to slip inside and save his family, to kill whoever was responsible for this. The last clear memory hit him like a blow from Robert's hammer, they'd been cornered, those monsters, closing in as Oberyn's torch hissed and died. He'd heard Aegon shout, felt Oberyn's hand shove him back, then nothing. Just this endless black. He whispered, "Oberyn? Aegon?" keeping his voice low, barely a breath, not daring to call those creatures back. Silence pressed back against his ears.
He stood, legs unsteady, and stumbled as his boot caught a jagged edge of stone, nearly pitching him forward. He reached out, fingers brushing a slick wall, cold as ice, and steadied himself, the damp seeping into his skin. What had happened after the light went out? He tried to claw the memory back but it slipped away, leaving a void where the fight should've been. He shook his head, muttering, "Got to find them," and took a step, hand trailing the wall, boots scuffing the uneven floor. These tunnels were their path into the Castle. They'd get inside, find Oberyns brother and paramour, and kill anyone else. Now he was alone, lost in the dark, and they were somewhere here aswell, he had to find them and maybe he could convince Oberyn of this fools errand.
The air grew colder, biting through his cloak, and he shivered, breath fogging though he couldn't see it. This made his thoughts drift to Winterfell, the godswood's red leaves rustling, the warm glow of the hearth where Catelyn would sit, mending or reading. She'd be there now with Bran and Rickon... waiting for him to come home, hoping Sansa and Arya would be with him. He missed his daughters too, more than he could say, he could only be thankful that they were not dead—that they were safe. This caused thoughts of Robb to come to him, he remembered his first born much more than any of his other children seeing him as a happy child and then grow into a man, one with enough courage to defy his father for what he believed... he was so proud of him, but he was gone, killed by Robert Baratheon in the Prince's Pass, steel crashing through bone in a battle Ned should've fought instead, it should've been him fighting for Daeron, fighting for his blood, but he didn't. And his best friend, his brother in all but blood, Robert's hammer had taken his son, and Ned's chest ached with the weight of it. Honour had been his shield, but it hadn't saved Robb, hadn't kept his family whole.
He pushed forward, the tunnel stretching on, endless and silent save for his own steps. A faint sound, a drip, reached him and he followed it, hishand never leaving the wall. For some reason his mother's voice crept into his mind, telling tales by the fire when he was a boy, Brandon and Lyanna huddled close. She'd spoken of the White Walkers, the Others, cold shadows from the far north, eyes blue as frost, stealing children in the night. "They come when the winds blow bitter," she'd said, "when the dark grows long, the dead rise to serve them." He'd shivered then, half-believing, half-laughing, but the memory chilled him now, here in this black pit. Another tale surfaced, a nursery rhyme she'd sun.
"In the dark where shadows creep,
Beneath the stones the old ones sleep,
Hush your breath, don't make a sound,
Lest cold hands pull you underground."
He'd squirmed under his furs, Brandon poking him, making fun of him, but Lyanna had clung to their mother's arm, wide-eyed. Now, the rhyme echoed in his head. The creatures that infested this city, the dark priests. Dead men come alive. He had hoped they were just tales as a child, and thought he knew so as a man. He was wrong and now he was trapped in a nightmare.
The tunnel turned, or he thought it did, he couldn't tell, just felt the wall curve under his hand. The drip grew louder, and he stumbled over something soft, cloth, maybe a cloak. He knelt, feeling it, fingers tracing a torn edge, damp with what smelled like blood. His stomach twisted. "Oberyn?" he whispered again, louder now, but the silence mocked him. He stood, leaving it, and kept going, the floor sloping down, steeper than before. The air thickened, heavy with rot, and he gagged, sleeve pressed to his nose. How long had he been walking? Minutes? Hours? Time blurred in the dark, and he thought of Winterfell again, the crypts, the statues of his kin, their stone eyes judging him. He'd failed them too, hadn't he? He couldn't save Brandon or his father from the Mad King, forced Lyanna into the arms of Rhaegar because of his suggestion, forced Robb to face Robert's wrath because he didn't support his family. Was he even a Stark?
He paused, leaning against the wall, catching his breath. The silence was too perfect, no wind, no echo beyond his own sounds. He pushed off, moving again, and the tunnel widened slightly, the air shifting. His boot hit something hard, a rock, and it skittered away, the noise sharp in the stillness. He froze, listening, but nothing followed. The rhyme looped in his head—"Hush your breath, don't make a sound." He tried to cast it from his mind but it wouldn't leave, even worse it felt as if he was being watched. It felt like the darkness in front of him could see him as if it was waiting for something.
The wall under his hand grew rougher, pitted, and he stumbled as the floor dipped, catching himself before he fell. The drip was close now, and he reached out with his free hand, feeling wet stone ahead—a trickle ran down, pooling at his feet. He crouched, dipping his fingers in it, bringing them to his nose: water, clean, not blood. He drank a little, the cold shocking his throat, and stood, wiping his hand on his cloak. "They've got to be near," he muttered, though doubt gnawed at him. The tunnel could stretch for miles, twisting under Sunspear, and he had no map, no light. He pressed on, the drip fading behind him.
Eddard Stark froze as a metallic scrape echoed ahead, steel grinding against rock. His hand dropped to Ice's hilt, the sword feeling heavier than usual. He crept toward the sound, and the tunnel widened, faint torchlight flickering from sconces he couldn't see. Chains dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly, and a robed figure stood in the center, hood up, face shadowed.
"Lord Stark," it rasped, voice like brittle leaves, "your companions are lost." Ned drew Ice, stepping closer. "Where are they?" The figure chuckled, a wet low sound, peeling back its hood to reveal worms writhing where a face should've been, spilling from empty sockets. Ned swung Ice, but the blade sliced through smoke, worms scattering across the floor.
He backed off, pulse racing, and a child's voice whispered, "This way, Ned." He turned, saw nothing, shook his head, ignored it, and pressed deeper into the tunnel.
The passage bent, stone shifting to wood then back, and he stumbled into a chamber. Cages lined the walls, holding bodies, their skin peeled away, limbs stretched on racks, faces locked in silent screams. A dark-robed man turned, knife dripping blood, grinning with blackened teeth. "Home at last, Ned," he said, and the room flickered, transforming into Winterfell's great hall, the table set with corpses. Brandon sat at the head, his face was purple and his eyes bulging as a tight noose was wrapped around his neck; Rickard beside him, his skin charred and cracked steam rising off his body.
Ned staggered, muttering, "This can't be real,"
The priest lunged, knife flashing. Ned parried, sinking Ice into his chest, and the man melted into tar, sticking to Ned's boots. The voice came again, "Go left." Ned snarled, "Quiet," and went right, refusing the shadows' tricks.
The tunnel tightened, air souring, and he pushed into a cavern, walls glistening with dampness. A creature melted out of the wall and stood up, it loomed eight feet of fused flesh and bone, arms sprouting like branches, claws twitching. Faces bulged from its chest, mouths gaping in silent wails. Ned raised Ice, and it charged, swiping at him. He ducked, slashing its leg, black blood spurting out. An arm grabbed his cloak; he tore free, stabbed its gut, and it shrieked, collapsing into crawling scraps. He leaned on Ice, panting, thinking of home, Cat's hands on his, the boys' laughter. Arya sneaking out to practice with Robb and Jon.
A weirwood-carved door appeared, and he stepped through, looking around he realised he was in Winterfell's crypts, statues staring down at him their heads moving as he walked. "How is this possible?" He muttered. "How could I be here... what madness has afflicted me..."
He passed Lyanna's tomb, her stone gaze heavy, and reached the end, where Daeron, had stood last, before casting off his Stark name. A figure rose, cloaked, pale, Daeron, eyes red, mouth sewn shut. "You lied to me...," he spoke in a deep voice though it did not come from his mouth. Ned backed off. "I had to keep you safe." It lunged, and Ned swung Ice, cutting it down, but it split into three Daerons, then five, chanting, "You failed me." Ned ran, shoving past, and the tunnels swallowed the crypts.
He stopped, catching his breath, and the thoughts hit. Daeron, the boy he'd raised, he'd never told him of Rhaegar, Lyanna. He'd called it honour, shielding him from Robert's wrath, but it was cowardice, fear of losing more. He'd pushed him away and not supported him when he claimed his Targaryen blood and it ended with his son's death. "I should've stood by him," he whispered, voice echoing.
Tears streaked down his face as he thought of it, his nephew and his son, how badly he had failed them. He wouldn't do it again, he would avenge Robb and he would make it up to Daeron... to Lyanna. He wiped his eyes and sucked in a deep breath before continuing down the dark tomb. A chamber opened at the end of the tomb and Ned walked through with his sword held out as he prepared himself for any attacks, but what he saw instead nearly made him droop it.
Robb hung from chains, chest smashed from Robert's hammer, blood dripping. "Why'd you let me die, Father?" he croaked, skull splitting wider. Ned turned, gagging, and ran into another chamber where dark priests ran knives through a woman's skin as she screamed, they flayed the skin right off her body. Ned moved closer and realised the girl was none other than his daughter, Sansa. "NO!!!" He charged, but they vanished as he swung his sword and so did Sansa her ashes crumbling in his hands. "Sansa! Where are you!" He said turning whipping his head aroudn.
That was when the whisper returned, "The key, under the stone." He ignored it, pushing on and trying to find any way out of this nightmare, but the tunnel dropped into a pit. Dead clawed out, Robert with his gut split, laughing; Theon, eyeless; Sansa, neck twisted. They dragged at him, and he kicked free, climbing, hands torn.
The voice pressed, "Lift the slab!" Ned growled, "Leave me be!!!" and ran, but the pit looped back, dead rising higher. He fell, exhaustion clawing, thinking of Robb that maybe he would join him.
The pit shifted and he fell tumbling across the ground before he landed in a cave, a flat stone ahead. The voice said, "There, take it." He hesitated, then lifted it, revealing a rusted key beneath. He grabbed it, and the walls shook as creatures burst out, flesh melded with shadow, limbs bent wrong, eyes leaking black. They screeched, charging, and a crow darted past, cawing, leading him. Ned ran, key tight in hand, the mass swelled, faces forming: Lyanna, Robb, Cat, twisted, yelling, "Stay, Ned!"
"STAAAYYY!!!"
"FATHERRRR!!"
"TRAITORRR!!!"
He stumbled, key slipping out of his hands and hitting the floor, he reached down trying to grip it turning as he watched them get closer and reach for him, he snatched the key and got up running away, legs burning as he followed the crow to a splintered door. His hands trembled, key fumbling, it fell, clattering, he grabbed it, jamming it in as the mass surged, voices howling. He twisted, the door creaked open, he dove through, slamming it shut.
...
He gasped awake, air rushing into his lungs as he jolted upright, the nightmare's grip snapping like a brittle thread. His head throbbed, and he coughed, the sound echoing faintly as he blinked into his surroundings. A vast cavern stretched around him, its ceiling arching high above, broken by a single circle of light piercing through a hole far overhead. The beam stabbed down, illuminating an underground lake in the center, its surface glinting red under the glow. He squinted, straining his eyes, and his stomach turned—it wasn't water stained with rust or mud, but blood, thick and dark, rippling slightly as if something moved beneath. The cavern hummed with the presence of thousands upon thousands of people, sprawled across the stone floor, some sitting, some lying still, their clothes tattered, faces pale and vacant. Ned's mind raced—these had to be the missing folk of Sunspear.
He shifted, scanning the chamber, and spotted dark priests moving along the lake's bank, their robes black as pitch, hoods casting deep shadows over their heads. They dragged unconscious bodies—men, women, even children—to the water's edge, pulling knives from their belts. One priest grabbed a limp arm, slit the wrist with a quick slash, and held it over the lake, blood dripping in steady streams, merging with the crimson surface. Another did the same, letting the life drain out before tossing the body aside like refuse. Ned's breath caught. Why were they doing this? What in the seven hells was happening here? His gaze flicked back to the lake, and a shadow stirred beneath—a massive shape, vaguely man-like, too large to be natural, sliding under the bloodied water. The hairs on his neck stood up, a primal chill running through him, but he shoved it aside, focusing on what he could grasp.
He glanced to his side and saw his sword still there, its scabbard resting against the stone. He exhaled, relieved—the blade wouldn't do much against those creatures from the tunnels, but it was something, a tether to reality. He looked around again, searching the sea of bodies, and his heart leapt as he spotted Oberyn Martell and Aegon Targaryen a dozen paces away. They knelt like him, heads slumped, eyes shut, hands limp at their sides. Ned pieced it together—when those things cornered them in the tunnel, when Oberyn's torch went out, they must've been overrun, captured, dragged here to this pit. He checked the priests again—none were near, their focus locked on the lake, where some knelt, tracing intricate symbols into the dirt with sticks or knives.
Ned ignored that for now and dropped low, crawling toward Oberyn and Aegon, weaving between unconscious bodies, keeping his profile small to avoid notice. He brushed past a woman, her face slack, breath shallow, then a man whose arm twitched faintly, their stillness was unnerving. He reached Oberyn, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him, whispering, "Oberyn, wake up." The Dornishman didn't stir, his head lolling to one side. Ned tried Aegon next, gripping his arm, shaking harder. "Aegon, come on." Nothing—his eyes stayed shut, face blank. Ned muttered, "hells," under his breath, leaning close. "Wake up, both of you, come on." They remained still, like the dead, and he sat back on his heels, mind racing.
A thought struck him—maybe they were trapped, like he'd been, in that nightmare of crypts and corpses. Maybe everyone here was caught in some twisted dream, woven by whatever foul magic ruled this place. He rubbed his face, frustration mounting. He knew nothing of magic, not truly—Old Nan's tales of wargs and greenseers were all he had, half-remembered stories from a boyhood. How could he break this? He didn't understand the priests, the blood, the shadow in the lake—none of it.
Then an idea sparked, sharp and risky. He could warg into Oberyn, slip into his mind, pull him out. His gut twisted at the thought, and a memory flared—Old Nan, her voice severe, sitting him down when he'd first slipped into a wolf's skin as a boy.
She'd grabbed his arm, nails digging into his skin. "Listen, Ned, there's rules to this gift, three you'll never break if you've any sense." He'd nodded, eager, and she'd gone on. "First, never enter an animal's mind when it's rutting—twists you up, makes you less a man. Second, never join one eating human flesh—you'll taste it forever, and it'll rot your soul."
She'd leaned closer, voice dropping. "Third, and mark this deep, lad—never, never try to take a man's mind. It's not yours to claim, and the gods'll curse you for it." He'd swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking in, and he'd lived by them ever since.
Now, though, he stared at Oberyn's still form, then Aegon's, and clenched his fists. Rules be damned—he didn't know what else to do. This was survival, for them all. He took a breath, steadying himself, and reached out with his mind, feeling for Oberyn's presence, a flicker of life in the dark. He pushed, slipped in, and the world shifted.
...
Oberyn thrashed under a pile of dead hands, Ellaria Sand, his paramour, her face gray, eyes sunken, pinning his arms; his daughters, the Sand Snakes, their bodies cold, clutching his legs. Ahead, Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, loomed over Elia Martell, her dress torn, blood streaking her thighs. Rhaenys and Aegon, the children, lay broken at her feet, skulls crushed, and the Mountain raised his sword, grinning as Oberyn screamed, "ELIA!" His voice tore through the air, raw and helpless, over and over, struggling against the corpses holding him down.
A door flickered into being, splintered wood creaking open, and Ned stumbled through, boots hitting soft ground. He blinked, confused, then saw the Mountain, massive and cruel, and drew Ice, charging. The blade sank into Clegane's back, steel crunching through armor, and he roared, collapsing in a heap, blood pooling. Ned turned, spotting Oberyn, and ran to him, kicking the dead hands off—Ellaria's arm flopped away, a Sand Snake's grip loosened—and grabbed Oberyn's shoulders, hauling him up. Oberyn shoved past, lunging for Elia, screaming her name, tears streaming as he reached for her still form. Ned seized his arm, pulling him back. "This isn't real, Oberyn—it's a nightmare, an illusion!" Oberyn fought, elbowing Ned, eyes locked on Elia. "She's dying—I have to save her!" Ned tightened his grip, dragging him toward the door. "It's not her—come with me!" Oberyn resisted, boots digging in, but Ned yanked harder, shoving them both through the threshold.
Oberyn jolted awake in the cavern, a scream rising in his throat—Ned lunged, pinning him down, clamping a hand over his mouth. "Quiet," he hissed, eyes darting to the priests by the lake. Oberyn's wild gaze met his, chest heaving, and he nodded, slow and shaky, as Ned eased off, whispering, "We're in deep shit, but we're alive."
Oberyn Martell blinked hard, his dark eyes fluttering as he came to, squinting into the dim cavern. His head turned slowly, taking in the vast space, the circle of light stabbing down from the ceiling hole, the blood-red lake glinting under it. Thousands of bodies sprawled around them, some stirring, most still, and he frowned, trying to make sense of it. Ned Stark leaned close, his hand still clamped over Oberyn's mouth, and whispered, "Keep quiet." Oberyn nodded, and Ned pulled his hand away, resting it on the stone. Oberyn sat up, leaning forward, scanning the cavern—dark priests moved along the lake's edge, dragging limp figures, their knives flashing as they slit wrists, blood dripping into the water. He turned to Ned, voice low and rough, "What in seven hells is going on?"
Ned kept his eyes on the priests, speaking fast. "We were cornered in the tunnel, torch went out, those things took us. I woke up here, the priests are bleeding them into the lake, feeding something, I don't know what. I was stuck in a nightmare till I got out, figured you were too. Warged into your head to pull you free."
Oberyn's jaw tightened, and he glanced around again, searching the sea of bodies. "My brother... Doran or Ellaria, are they here?" Ned shook his head, keeping his voice even. "I've no idea. Haven't seen them." Oberyn's eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer. "We need to look for them." Ned's brow furrowed, and he gestured at the cavern. "Are you mad? Look around—we're surrounded, outnumbered. We need to run, not push deeper."
Oberyn's lip curled, his voice cutting. "Stark, just because you care not for your family doesn't mean I'm the same." Ned's face hardened, anger flaring in his chest—Robb's death, Daeron leaving, all flashed through his mind—but he bit it back, keeping his tone flat. "We need a way out first. Even if we find them, how do we get two people—one crippled—out of this pit? We'd be dead before we reached the tunnel."
Oberyn growled, a low rumble in his throat, but he didn't argue, his gaze flicking away from Ned to Aegon, still slumped on his knees, unconscious. He didn't trust the boy—whatever his name was—claiming to be his nephew. Oberyn knew better, but the lad believed it, and that was enough for now. He could leave him here, let him rot, but they needed every sword they could get, and Aegon was skilled, plus the Golden Company's loyalty tied to him. Oberyn turned back to Ned, voice firm. "Bring him out of the dream."
Ned nodded, shifting over to Aegon, settling on the stone beside him. Oberyn watched as Ned's eyes rolled back, turning white, his body slumping forward, limp as a rag. Minutes dragged on, the cavern's hum unbroken—priests chanting softly, knives slicing, blood splashing into the lake. Oberyn kept his eyes on the lake's edge, noting the priests' slow work on those symbols, sprawling designs scratched into the dirt. Then Aegon jolted awake, gasping loud, and Ned lunged, covering his mouth with a hand, whispering, "Quiet, lad." Aegon's chest heaved, eyes wild, but he calmed under Ned's grip, nodding as Ned pulled back.
Oberyn waited a beat, then leaned in, keeping his voice low. "We're in a cavern under Sunspear. Stark pulled us out of nightmares they trapped us in. We're going to find a way out, then we'll make a big distraction and take the priests away from here, and come back for my family." Ned's jaw tightened, clearly unhappy with the plan—he wanted out, not back—but he didn't argue. Aegon swallowed, catching his breath, and nodded. "Aye, let's move."
They scanned the cavern, spotting a single exit—a narrow tunnel mouth on the far side, shadowed but open. They dropped low, crawling over bodies, keeping their heads down. Ned led with Oberyn and Aegon close behind. The priests stayed focused on the lake none glancing their way. They edged closer to the tunnel, stone scraping their knees, the air growing cooler as they neared the wall. Ned paused, checking the path and waved them on, the trio inching along.
*MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM*
A low roar rumbled from the lake, deep and guttural, vibrating through the stone. Ned froze, blood chilling in his veins, and Oberyn stopped mid-crawl, eyes darting to the water. Aegon gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. The surface rippled, that massive shadow shifting beneath, and Ned's neck prickled, the same unease he'd felt before clawing back. Oberyn muttered, "What is that?" but Ned shook his head, whispering, "No time, move." They pushed forward, reaching the tunnel's edge, slipping into its dark mouth, the roar fading behind them as they disappeared into the shadows.
(AN: So back to the boys. Will Ned finally get some redemption? Will Aegon find out the truth? Will they all die. Well they are side characters and with those familiar with my work no one is safe from me, hell I've been tempted to kill main characters sometimes probably will one day. Anyways there is something terrible going on in Sunspear, what is it? What are they doing and what are they doing in the Lake. Anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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