Every eye in the hall was fixed on him, waiting. Slowly Ned struggled to his feet, pushing himself up fromthe throne with the strength of his arms, his shattered leg screaming inside its cast. He did his best to ignore the pain; it was no moment to let them see his weakness. "The First Men believed that the judge whocalled for death should wield the sword, and in the north we hold to that still. I mislike sending anotherto do my killing...yet it seems I have no choice." He gestured at his broken leg.
"Lord Eddard!" The shout came from the west side of the hall as a handsome stripling of a boy strode forthboldly. Out of his armor, Sir Loras Tyrell looked even younger than his sixteen years. He wore pale blue silk, his belt a linked chain of golden roses, the sigil of his House. "I beg you the honor of acting in your place. Give this task to me, my lord, and I swear I shall not fail you."
Littlefinger chuckled. "Sir Loras, if we send you off alone, Sir Gregor will send us back your head with aplum stuffed in that pretty mouth of yours. The Mountain is not the sort to bend his neck to any man's justice."