The Great Square before the Great Sept of Baelor.
Upon a hastily built platform, Cersei sat beneath a canopy, her face tense beneath the veil.
Sansa Stark stood in a corner a short distance away, "accompanied" by two Septas. Her face was as pale as paper, her body trembling slightly.
Below the platform, the people of King's Landing surged like a roaring tide, their shouts echoing through the square.
Eddard Stark was escorted onto the platform by two Gold Cloaks. He looked even more worn than he had in the dungeons—his steps unsteady, yet his back remained straight.
His gray eyes swept over the sea of faces, passing over Cersei before settling on Sansa. A deep sorrow flickered within them, soon replaced by quiet resolve.
When Eddard learned of Robert's death, despair had consumed him. His dearest friend was dead at Lannister hands, and now he himself was branded a "regicide."
He thought of the past—of the days he and Robert rode together across battlefields, full of fire and laughter—and tears of regret had once streaked his face.
Joffrey stepped to the edge of the platform, overlooking the masses below.
He cleared his throat, his voice carrying clearly over the square.
"People of King's Landing! Before you kneels Eddard Stark, guilty of unspeakable crimes!
He betrayed his king—my father, Robert Baratheon the First—abusing his trust to commit vile murder! Worse still, he harbored treachery in his heart, adopting Rhaegar's son and plotting with the remnants of House Targaryen to overthrow our rightful rule and restore the false dynasty! He is a traitor, a regicide, a cancer upon the realm!"
The crowd erupted in fury, roaring curses and cries for blood.
Silent tears slipped down Sansa's cheeks. She knew every word was a lie.
Joffrey paused, as though choosing his next words carefully. His gaze drifted across Cersei's anxious face, then down to the restless crowd below. A cold, cruel smile curved his lips.
"As a king, mercy is a virtue taught to us by the Seven."
Cersei's body relaxed slightly, and a flicker of hope returned to Sansa's eyes.
But Joffrey's voice suddenly rose, sharp and venomous.
"But mercy must never be an excuse for weakness! How can a weak king defend his realm? How can he strike fear into the hearts of traitors?"
He pointed furiously at the kneeling Eddard.
"Look upon this traitor! He murdered the great King Robert Baratheon! If such crimes can be forgiven—if such betrayal can be dismissed in the name of 'mercy'—then where is the majesty of the crown? Where is the sanctity of the law?! What will the realm think of your king? They will see Joffrey Baratheon as soft and cowardly!"
Cersei's face turned deathly pale. She shot to her feet.
"Joffrey, no!"
The light in Sansa's eyes went out completely, replaced by utter despair. Her knees gave way, and she would have fallen if the Septas hadn't caught her.
Joffrey ignored his mother's cries. His face twisted red with rage, his voice shrill and shaking.
"Therefore, I, Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby decree: Eddard Stark, guilty beyond question, is sentenced to death—execution to be carried out immediately! Ilyn Payne, do your duty!"
"No—!"
Cersei's desperate scream was drowned in the roar of the crowd's cheers and shouts.
Ilyn Payne, the silent King's Justice, stepped forward without expression, holding House Stark's ancestral greatsword—Ice.
Eddard was forced down onto the cold blackwood block. He closed his eyes.
Ilyn Payne raised the massive sword high, its tip gleaming inches above Eddard's neck.
Sansa let out a silent scream, her vision going dark.
At that very moment—
"STOP—!!!"
A hoarse but powerful roar split the air, accompanied by the thunder of hooves.
The crowd parted violently as Tyrion Lannister burst into the square on a small horse, followed by the grim-faced Bronn and several sellswords.
Bronn's horse barreled through, knocking over a Gold Cloak who stood in the way.
Tyrion nearly tumbled from his saddle, stumbling toward the base of the platform. His mismatched eyes blazed with fury and urgency.
"Stop! Ilyn! Lower your sword! By the king's command—stay the execution! Lord Tywin's orders! Spare his life!"
Ilyn Payne froze mid-motion.
The massive Ice hung suspended in the air, its edge a hair's breadth from Eddard's neck.
His tongueless face turned toward the sound, his hollow eyes seeming to ask a question.
The entire square fell into stunned silence.
Joffrey stood frozen for an instant before fury consumed him completely.
The execution he had so carefully planned to prove his "strength" had been publicly interrupted—by the dwarf uncle he despised most of all.
And worse, Tyrion had dared to invoke the name of the one man Joffrey feared and resented above all—his grandfather.
"You vile monster! You dare defy me?!"
Joffrey, like a crazed young lion, pointed down at Tyrion and shrieked, "I am the King! My word is law! Ilyn! Behead him! Now! Or I'll have your head next!"
"Joffrey! You fool! He's the key to getting Jaime back! Grandfather—"
Tyrion shouted from below the platform, his voice hoarse with fury as he tried to reason with him.
"I don't care! I want him dead!"
Joffrey had gone completely mad. He leapt from the throne, rushed toward Ilyn Payne, and, in full view of the horrified crowd, slammed into the executioner's sword arm with all his strength.
Caught off guard, Ilyn Payne lost his grip. The massive Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice, slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground.
Joffrey stumbled forward, nearly falling as he grabbed hold of the sword's hilt with both arms. The blade was longer than he was tall, and its cold, crushing weight made his limbs shake violently—but his face twisted into a grotesque smile of excitement and rage.
"Joffrey, no!"
Cersei's scream tore through the air like a knife.
Tyrion's eyes bulged. "Joffrey! Stop!"
But it was already too late.
Drunk on power and desperate to prove he was no "weakling," Joffrey let out a bestial roar. With every ounce of strength in his body, he hoisted Ice high, then brought it crashing down toward Eddard Stark's bowed neck with all his weight and hatred behind it.
A wet, slicing sound cut through the square.
The Valyrian steel bit deep, effortlessly shearing through flesh and part of the bone.
But Joffrey's swing was clumsy and weak. The cut went awry, failing to sever the head cleanly.
Blood burst forth like a boiling fountain, splattering across the platform.
Eddard's eyes flew open wide in agony. His pupils dilated as a strangled gasp tore from his throat.
"Ah—!"
Sansa's scream finally broke free, raw and piercing, before the world went dark around her. She collapsed in a faint, caught just in time by the panicked Septas.
Joffrey's arms went numb from the shock of the blade, almost losing his grip. Yet the sight of the gushing blood and Eddard's spasming body only drove him deeper into madness.
The rush of taking a life consumed him completely.
"Traitor! Die! Die!"
He roared like a butcher at his block, raising the heavy Ice again and hacking wildly at Eddard's neck.
The second blow struck deep into the spine.
The crack of breaking bone echoed through the square. The gash widened, spraying blood that splattered across Joffrey's face and chest like war paint.
The third strike came down crookedly, glancing off the shoulder with a sickening scrape of steel on bone.
Eddard's body went still.
The fourth strike—
Joffrey swung with all the fury and strength left in him, bringing the sword down in a final, brutal chop.
With a heavy snap, the head tore free—bone, blood, and all—rolling across the platform with a dull thud.
The entire square before the Great Sept of Baelor fell utterly silent.
Only the slow drip of blood from the platform's edge broke the stillness. Drip... drip...
The wild fervor on the faces of the crowd froze, replaced by blank horror and disbelief.
Tyrion stood below the dais, his body numb and cold.
He stared up at the nightmare before him—his nephew, drenched in blood like a demon; Eddard's mutilated corpse sprawled on the platform; his sister's face twisted in despair and hysteria. A fury unlike anything he had ever known surged through him, obliterating every trace of reason.
Before Bronn could react, Tyrion lunged forward, moving with startling speed. He charged up the steps two at a time, ignoring the stunned Gold Cloaks, ignoring Joffrey gasping for breath, still gripping the blood-slick sword.
With every ounce of his strength, Tyrion jumped and struck—his palm cracking hard across Joffrey's face.
SMACK!
The sharp, echoing slap thundered across the deathly silent square.
...
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