Third Person POV
299 AC, King's Landing – Morning
The Red Keep's throne room was a cauldron of barely contained fury, its air thick with the scent of wax and iron. The Iron Throne, a jagged monstrosity of twisted swords, loomed over the hall, its occupant—King Joffrey Baratheon, a boy of fifteen—slouched in its embrace, his golden curls framing a face twisted with rage. His green eyes, venomous as his mother's, glinted under the morning light streaming through the high windows. Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent, stood beside him, resplendent in crimson silk, her golden hair coiled, her expression a mask of calculated calm belying the storm within. The court—lords, ladies, and gold cloaks—stood silent, their breaths held as news of the Starks' escape spread like wildfire.
Joffrey's voice cracked through the silence, shrill and petulant, his fists curled around the throne's armrests. "Gone? GONE? How dare they escape my justice! Eddard Stark, that traitor, and his wretched daughters—slipped out of my dungeons, my keep, like rats in the night! Who allowed this? Who failed me? I want their heads, Mother! Every gold cloak who patrolled last night, every man who stood watch—line them up in the courtyard, and I'll see their blood stain the stones for their incompetence!"
Cersei's lips tightened, but her voice was honeyed, soothing, a velvet glove over her iron will. "Joffrey, my sweet, my king, calm yourself. We cannot slaughter our own men, loyal soldiers who serve House Lannister and your crown. They are not the ones who orchestrated this—this was no mere oversight, no simple failure of duty. Someone aided the Starks, someone with cunning and resources. To kill our guards would weaken us, sow fear among those who protect you. We must be strategic, not reckless."
Joffrey's face reddened, his voice rising, his fingers digging into the throne's sharp edges, heedless of the cuts they left. "Strategic? Mother, they mocked me! Eddard Stark spat on my mercy, and his daughters—Sansa, that simpering fool, and Arya, that feral brat—slipped through my fingers! The court will whisper, I know they do! They think me weak, a boy-king who can't hold his prisoners! I'll show them strength! I'll have the city torn apart—every hovel, every alley—until they're dragged back to kneel before me. And when they are, I'll take their heads myself, starting with that traitor Ned!"
Cersei stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her voice low, coaxing, though her green eyes burned with her own fury. "And you will, my love. They will face your justice, I swear it. But think, Joffrey—killing our men now would only embolden our enemies, make martyrs of the Starks. They cannot have gone far; King's Landing is sealed, the harbor watched. They're hiding, skulking like cowards, but they're still within our grasp. We'll turn the city upside down, root them out, and make an example of them. Your strength lies in your cunning, not in spilling loyal blood."
Joffrey's scowl deepened, his voice petulant but relenting, his anger simmering rather than boiling over. "Fine, Mother. But I want them found—today! I want Sansa back in her cage, Arya's head on a spike, and Ned Stark begging for mercy before I send him to the block. If the gold cloaks can't do their job, I'll find men who can! Ser Meryn!" He snapped his fingers, his voice sharp as a whip.
Ser Meryn Trant, a hulking figure in white Kingsguard armor, stepped forward, his face hard, his eyes cold. "Your Grace," he said, bowing stiffly, his voice devoid of warmth.
Cersei's voice cut in, smooth but commanding, her gaze locking onto Meryn's. "Ser Meryn, you will lead the search. Take the gold cloaks, scour every corner of King's Landing—Flea Bottom, the docks, the septs, every tavern and brothel. The Starks are here, hiding, and someone helped them escape. Find them, Ser, at any cost. Question the smallfolk, break doors if you must, but bring them back alive—or dead, if they resist. Fail, and the king's displeasure will be your burden."
Meryn nodded, his voice flat but resolute. "It will be done, Your Grace. I'll turn the city inside out. The Starks won't slip through again."
Joffrey leaned forward, his voice dripping with malice, his green eyes glinting. "And when you find them, Ser Meryn, make them suffer. I want them to know the price of defying their king. Drag them through the streets, let the smallfolk see what happens to traitors. And if you find whoever helped them—some lord, some spy—bring them to me. I'll flay them myself, strip by strip, and hang their corpse from the walls!"
Cersei's smile was a razor's edge, her voice soft but approving. "Well said, my king. Go, Ser Meryn. Do not return without results."
Meryn bowed again, his armor clanking, and strode out, his heavy steps echoing. The court remained silent, fear and ambition swirling in their eyes, each lord and lady calculating their next move in the game of thrones.
Varys's Web
In a shadowed chamber deep within the Red Keep, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, stood by a window, his powdered face serene, his lavender robes rustling as he clasped his hands. The news of the Starks' escape had reached his ears before it hit the throne room, carried by his little birds. His mind churned, his plans—delicate as a spider's web—strained by this unexpected twist.
"Troublesome," he murmured, his voice soft, lilting, his eyes distant. "Eddard Stark free, his daughters with him… this upends the balance I so carefully nurtured. The North will rally, Robb Stark has called his banners, and the Lannisters' grip on the throne weakens. Yet, who could have spirited them out? No mere smuggler, no common sellsword. This reeks of greater powers, shadows I've not yet seen. My plans for Aegon across the sea… they must adapt, or all is lost."
He turned, his slippers silent on the stone, his mind weaving new threads. "The game grows chaotic, but chaos is opportunity. I must watch, listen, and nudge the pieces where they must fall. For the realm, always for the realm."
Baelish's Gambit
In his opulent chambers, Petyr Baelish, Lord of Littlefinger, sat at a polished desk, a goblet of Arbor gold untouched, his grey-green eyes sharp with calculation. The news of Eddard Stark's escape had sent a chill through him, his betrayal in the throne room—a dagger in Ned's back—now a noose around his own neck.
"Eddard Stark lives," he muttered, his voice smooth but laced with unease, his fingers tracing the desk's edge. "Honest, honorable Ned, free to rally the North, to hunt those who crossed him. And who did he trust, only to see my knife? Me. He'll come for my head, that much is certain, and his wolf pups will howl for my blood. Catelyn's face when she learns… oh, that will sting."
He leaned back, his smile sly, his mind racing. "But this is not the end of Littlefinger. The Starks are fled, the Lannisters weakened, and the board is ripe for play. Cersei and Joffrey are desperate, clinging to a throne that slips through their fingers. If I play my hand right—whisper in the right ears, move the right coins—I can rise higher still. The Baratheons squabble, Stannis and Renly each claiming the crown. Perhaps I align with one, or neither, and carve my own path. Chaos is my ladder, and Eddard's escape is but a rung. I'll climb eventually, and I will have what is mine."
Pycelle's Missive
In the Grand Maester's chambers, Pycelle hunched over a desk littered with scrolls, his quill scratching furiously, his chain of office clinking. His eyes darted, his hands trembling as he penned a letter to Tywin Lannister, the true power behind House Lannister. The news of the Starks' escape demanded swift reporting, lest Tywin's wrath fall on him.
"My lord Tywin," he muttered, reading aloud as he wrote, his voice quavering. "It grieves me to report a dire calamity. Lord Eddard Stark, Lady Sansa, and Lady Arya have escaped the Red Keep, vanishing in the night despite our vigilance. His Grace, King Joffrey, is wroth, and Her Grace, Queen Cersei, has ordered a city-wide search led by Ser Meryn Trant. I fear this bodes ill for our cause, as the North may rise under Robb Stark's banner. I await your guidance, my lord, and pledge my loyalty to House Lannister."
Pycelle sealed the letter with wax, his hands shaking, his voice a whisper. "Lord Tywin will not be pleased. The game grows perilous, and I must tread carefully, lest I fall with the lions."