Treason.

Treason infests this city worse than rats, from the Red Keep to the slums of Flea Bottom, it is a corrupted place, one fatal for a man of honor.

How long has it been now? Must be a few days. Although how could one know? The bloody black cells have not even a crack in wall, much less a window, each minute is the same as the previous, and each hour will not differ from the one to come next.

Gods, it's bloody damp in here.

'What of the girls?' - lord Stark thought, thinking is the only thing he can do here, thinking, worrying, praying, not for himself, for his daughters. If Cersei and that whelp of a 'king', that bastard, if they've done anything to the girls, no hell will be able to keep Ned in.

Pain. Pain is the only company Stark is allowed, the damned leg is aching like a bitch, the wound from Lannister spear still fresh and throbbing. Aside from that? Darkness. Only darkness.

'Gods, why haven't I listened to Cat...' - that thought comes too often for Ned's liking, but there is truth in it... Cat said 'don't go', 'stay home', should have listened, if not for himself, then for the girls.

Sansa.

Arya.

'Gods what I did drag you into...'

The disgraced Hand stirs in his place on the floor of the cell, sitting up a bit more straight, damn leg immediately letting itself be known. Not that bad, just so frustrating, to sit here, helpless, await whatever tyranny will those Lannister come up with.

No hope for much else.

But...

Stark glanced at where he thinks should be the door. Footsteps, coming from outside the cell. Ah, just the jailor doing rounds, what else... or...?