Chapter 45: The Reckoning
The death of the last Baratheon king cast a long, somber shadow over King's Landing. The victory against Stannis was not celebrated with feasts and tourneys; it was observed with a grim, city-wide solemnity. Ned Stark had won the wars, but the cost had been the very fabric of the old realm. Now, he was left with the monumental task of sweeping away the last of the rot, so that something new could have a chance to grow. The final act of the bloody drama that had begun with the death of Jon Arryn was at hand: the trial of the Lannisters.
But before the lions could be judged, the serpent who had poisoned the garden had to be caught. Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish had been conspicuously quiet since the fall of the Red Keep. He had attended the Great Council, a whisper in the ears of the Tyrells, a charming smile for the lords of the Vale. He was a creature of chaos, and while the city had been burning, he had thrived. But in the new, stark order of Ned Stark's rule, a man like Littlefinger was a cancer. Ned knew he was a traitor, but he lacked the proof to move against a man so well-connected, a man who could hide his treason behind a thousand layers of plausible deniability.
The proof came, as it so often did, from the shadows. Lord Varys requested a clandestine meeting, not in the Red Keep, but in the sprawling, dusty crypts beneath the city, a place of secrets and the dead.
"Lord Hand," the Master of Whisperers began, his voice a soft echo amongst the tombs. He held a single, flickering candle. "I have always maintained that I serve the realm. And the realm, for the first time in a very long time, has a chance at peace, a chance at justice. Your rule, and the… power that supports it… is the best hope the smallfolk have had in a generation."
"You are a man of many loyalties, Lord Varys," Ned said, his voice wary. He did not trust the Spider, but he understood his value. Thor stood behind Ned, a silent, immovable shadow that made the candlelight tremble.
"My loyalties are to the realm itself," Varys said. "And Lord Baelish is a threat to the realm. He does not seek power, as the Lannisters do. He does not seek justice, as you do. He seeks only chaos. He is a man who would watch the world burn, so that he might be king of the ashes."
Varys then produced a small, leather-bound ledger and a handful of letters, tied with a silken ribbon. "Lord Arryn, before his death, was investigating not just the royal children, but the Crown's debts. He found that the treasury had been systematically bled dry by Lord Baelish, the funds funneled into his own enterprises. These letters," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "are from Lysa Arryn to Petyr, written before she fled the city. They speak not of Lannister plots, but of their own plot. A plan to poison her husband and blame the lions, to throw the great houses into a war that would allow Baelish to rise."
It was the key. The final piece of the puzzle. The truth that laid the blame for the entire war not at the feet of the Lannisters, but at the feet of the smiling, mocking man from the Fingers.
The arrest of Petye Baelish was a quiet, anticlimactic affair. Ned, with Thor and a dozen of his best guards, went to Littlefinger's lavish manse. They found him in his solar, surrounded by luxury, a self-satisfied smile on his face as he entertained two of the Tyrell cousins. He was utterly confident in his own untouchability.
When Ned walked in, Littlefinger's smile did not falter. "Lord Stark! An unexpected pleasure. Have you come to sample my wine? It is a fine vintage from the Arbor."
"I have come to arrest you for treason, Lord Baelish," Ned said, his voice cold as a winter grave.
The smile finally vanished from Littlefinger's face, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock, the first Ned had ever seen. He looked from Ned's hard face to the terrifying, silent giant standing behind him, and for the first time, the master manipulator realized he had miscalculated. He had played a game of men, and he had not accounted for a god.
The final trial was held in the Dragonpit, the venue now the established seat of the Great Council's justice. The atmosphere was electric. The lords of Westeros were assembled not just as a jury, but as witnesses to the final act of the war.
The prisoners were brought forth. Joffrey came first, a weeping, hysterical mess, his royal finery replaced with a simple tunic. He had to be half-dragged by his guards. His mother, Cersei, came next. She was pale and thin, but she held her head high, her green eyes burning with a defiant, impotent hatred. Tyrion Lannister followed, his expression one of weary resignation. And finally, Petyr Baelish was brought out, his fine silks rumpled, his face a mask of cold fury.
Ned Stark, as Lord Protector, presided. He sat not on a throne, but on a simple, high-backed chair of northern oak, Ice laid across his lap. To his left sat Catelyn, her face a pale, grim testament to all she had endured. To his right, on a slightly lower dais, sat the Lords Paramount of the great houses. And behind them all, standing in the shadow of one of the great ruined arches, was Thor. He was the silent guarantor of this proceeding, his presence a constant reminder that the age of lies was over.
The charges were read against the Lannisters first. Treason, incest, conspiracy, murder. Cersei denied everything, her voice ringing with a false, theatrical indignation. Joffrey could only sob.
It was Tyrion who spoke. "My lord Hand," he said, his voice carrying through the silent arena. "Of the charge of treason against my house, I cannot deny we fought against you. Of the charge of incest… I have long had my suspicions, but I have no proof. But of the charge against me personally, that I conspired to murder your son Bran… on that charge, I am innocent. And I have always been."
Catelyn Stark flinched as if struck. The memory of her own misguided vengeance against this man was a fresh, burning shame.
"The truth of these matters has been… difficult to ascertain," Ned said, his gaze sweeping the assembly. "It has been a web of lies, spun by a master manipulator to plunge this realm into war for his own gain." He then turned his cold, hard gaze on the last prisoner. "Bring forth Petyr Baelish."
Littlefinger was brought to the center of the pit. He looked around, at the hostile faces of the lords he had played against each other, and his bravado returned, a final, defiant sneer on his lips.
"You have no proof of anything, Stark," he said.
"I have the word of your lover, Lysa Arryn, in these letters," Ned countered, holding them up. "And I have the accounts of the royal treasury. But I find myself in need of a full confession, to be heard by all the lords of the realm." He looked at Baelish, his eyes like chips of ice. "You will confess your crimes, all of them. In exchange, I will grant you the mercy of a quick, clean death. Refuse, and I will hand you over to him."
Ned gestured with his head towards Thor. Littlefinger's eyes followed his gaze, and for the first time, true, abject terror entered his eyes. He looked at the silent, watching god, and he knew that whatever fate the Thunderer had in mind for him would be infinitely worse than a headsman's axe. The choice was made.
And so, the Mockingbird sang his final, terrible song.
With a smug, self-aggrandizing air, as if recounting a series of brilliant jests, he told them everything. He told them how he had loved Catelyn, and how he had convinced her sister, Lysa, that he loved her instead. He told them how he had persuaded Lysa to poison her own husband, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, and to send the letter to her sister accusing the Lannisters.
"It was so simple," he said with a small, proud smile. "A single drop of poison, a single letter filled with lies. And two of the greatest houses in the realm were at each other's throats. All it takes is a little push."
Catelyn Stark let out a strangled sob, her hand flying to her mouth. The entire war, the death of her husband's friend, her own mad quest for vengeance… it had all been built on this man's lie.
He then turned to Tyrion. "And the dagger… oh, the dagger was a masterpiece." He laughed. "I knew Cat would never believe that a boy like Joffrey would own such a fine Valyrian steel blade. But the Imp? The debauched, gambling Imp who was known to carry such trinkets? It was the most logical lie. I lost the dagger to him in a wager, yes. But I had won it from King Robert himself. It was never Tyrion's to begin with."
Tyrion stared at him, his face a mixture of bitter vindication and absolute disgust. Seventeen years of his father's contempt, a lifetime of being blamed for his family's woes, and now this. The single greatest source of his family's recent suffering, the war that had cost his brother his freedom and his family its fortune, had started with a lie about him.
Littlefinger's confession went on, a litany of betrayals and manipulations that had destabilized the throne for years. He admitted to arranging Robert's 'hunting accident' by ensuring the king's wine was strong enough to make him foolishly brave. He admitted to betraying Ned in the throne room, pledging the City Watch to him and then selling them to the Queen.
"Why?" Ned asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "All this chaos, all this death… for what?"
Littlefinger looked at him, and his mocking smile returned, but it was tinged with madness now. "For the game, Lord Stark," he said. "I grew up with nothing. A small, insignificant lord from a pile of rocks. And I was surrounded by you great lords, with your ancient names and your high castles. You played the game of thrones, and you never even noticed me. So I decided to teach you all a lesson. I decided to show you that a man with nothing but his mind can be more powerful than any man with a crown." He spread his arms wide. "Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. And I was climbing."
When he was finished, a profound, horrified silence hung over the Dragonpit. The lords of Westeros stared at this small man who had single-handedly engineered their ruin.
Ned Stark stood. The verdict was a formality. Petyr Baelish was found guilty of treason, murder, and high conspiracy. The sentence was death.
Then came the turn of the Lannisters. In light of Littlefinger's confession, the case against them was re-evaluated. Cersei was still guilty of incest and treason, and of her own conspiracies. Joffrey was still an illegitimate bastard who had terrorized the city. But the primary architect of the war, the man who had lit the fuse, was Baelish.
Ned, showing a wisdom that stunned the council, delivered his judgments.
"Tyrion of House Lannister," he began. "You have been falsely accused of crimes against my house. For this, you have my deepest apology." He looked at Catelyn, who lowered her head in shame. "You are guilty of serving a house at war with the realm. But you are also a man of considerable intellect, an intellect the realm is now in desperate need of. Your sentence is this: you will serve this Great Council as a master of coin and whisper, using your mind to help rebuild the kingdom your family's actions helped to break."
Tyrion stared at him, completely and utterly speechless. He had expected a dungeon or an executioner's block. He had been offered a seat at the table. It was an act of political genius, turning a powerful enemy into a valuable, if reluctant, servant of the state.
"Joffrey of House Hill, as you shall now be known," Ned continued, his voice hard. "You are a child, but you have a man's crimes on your soul. You are not fit for a crown. You are not fit for a lordship. You will be stripped of all names and titles. You will be sent to the Eyrie as a ward of House Arryn, under the stern tutelage of Lord Yohn Royce. There, you will learn humility, honor, and the fear of the gods. Perhaps one day, you will become a man worthy of respect. But you will never again hold power over another living soul."
Finally, he turned to Cersei. "Cersei of House Lannister. You have committed treason. You have broken the most sacred laws of gods and men. By right, your life is forfeit. But I made you a promise. And a Stark keeps his word." His voice turned to ice. "You will be stripped of your title as Queen. You will be confined to the Rock of your fathers, what is left of it, for the remainder of your days. You will never see your children again. You will live out your life in the ruin you helped create. It is a mercy you do not deserve."
The judgments were rendered. They were harsh, but they were just. They were a foundation upon which a new order could be built.
The executions took place at sunset. Littlefinger walked to the block with a strange, defiant dignity, a man who seemed to admire the sheer audacity of his own downfall. Ned Stark raised the greatsword Ice one last time, and the man who had started the War of the Five Kings died with a simple, quiet whisper of steel.
With the last of the judgments passed, a new era began. The Great Council, now a permanent fixture, began the long, arduous task of governing. The lords, stripped of their ultimate prize of kingship, were forced to learn a new and difficult art: compromise.
Ned Stark, the Lord Protector, oversaw it all, his quiet authority backed by the silent promise of Thor's power. He was a reluctant ruler, a man who still dreamed of the quiet snows of Winterfell. But he had a duty, and he would not shirk it.
One evening, weeks later, Thor found him on the battlements, looking out over the city. It was peaceful now, the sounds of rebuilding having replaced the sounds of war.
"You have done it, Ned Stark," Thor said quietly. "You have brought them peace."
"For how long?" Ned asked, his voice weary. "Men's ambitions are not so easily erased. There will be other wars."
"Yes," Thor agreed. "There will always be other wars." He looked out at the horizon. "But you have given them something they did not have before. A choice. A chance. You have broken the wheel they were all chained to."
He then looked at Ned, a strange, sad smile on his face. "My work here is done, I think. The Bifrost is almost healed. The path home is becoming clear."
Ned felt a sudden, sharp pang of loss. He had grown to rely on the god's strange wisdom, on his unwavering strength. "You are leaving?"
"My place is not here," Thor said. "I have a kingdom of my own to rebuild. A people to protect." He placed a hand on Ned's shoulder. "You are a good man, Eddard Stark. As good as any I have ever known. Rule them well."
And with that, he turned and began to walk away.
"Thor!" Ned called out. The god paused.
"Will I ever see you again?"
Thor smiled, a true, warm smile this time. "The universe is a smaller place than you think. And there are always storms to be faced." He raised Stormbreaker in a final salute, and then, in a swirl of rainbow light, he was gone.
Ned Stark stood alone on the battlements, the Lord Protector of a new Westeros. The war was over. The game of thrones was ended. He had won. And now, the long, hard work of living with the victory began.
(Sorry for rushing the ending I was getting bored of the story so I ended it quickly)