They called it the winter fever, later when I woke.
I heard them scurrying about, around the...
I heard them scurrying about, around the...
For Lack of Honor (ASOIAF SI)
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Chapter 1
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
They called it the winter fever, later when I woke.
I heard them scurrying about, around the bed, but their words were as if spoken from a great distance, incoherent, mumbled.
And even if I had heard them clearly, I would have ignored them and focused on more pertinent matters.
Cruel of me, I know, what I set out to do.
Crueler still as I was a man four times his age when we met in the limbo of his existence.
I knew not how I found myself sharing that ethereal plane with him, while he hovered between life and death. The last time I closed my eyes, I was lying down in my own bed and the next time I opened them, albeit metaphysically so, I knew I was dying.
And that would simply not do.
I am a selfish man, filled with more flaws than virtues, and over the life of a stranger, even that of a small boy, I choose my own.
The boy was not dead yet, I knew with the same certainty that I knew of my own imminent demise; unless something changed.
He was all alone (vulnerable) in that lightless place, and his own light was all too precious, his soul's warmth all too tantalizing.
"Greetings," I spoke to him.
Surprised at first, even panicked perhaps, but he held silent, proving himself true to the monicker already given to him.
His eyes tried to pierce the darkness with which I obscured myself, but to no avail. It would not dissipate unless I let loose.
"Who are you?" he tried to ask in firm voice, but failed. No surprise there, he was so very young, especially in a place like this.
"A friend," I answered.
His brow furrowed. "I've never met you before. I don't know you."
"You have. You do."
Then he stood up, his eyes turning to stone. "Don't lie to me!"
"I'm not. We have met many, many times over and you've known me all your life."
"No, I haven't," he persisted. "I don't remember anyone with your voice and your face... I cannot see it. Show it to me!"
It was a gamble on my part, but one I had to take.
With my fingers, I pulled at the threads of darkness concealing me and showed him myself, such as I was.
The boy gasped, minutely, and stood there, disbelieving. He tried to take stock of me, as much as he could, but in vain.
It was all a lie. The clothes were not my own, nor was the body or the face I wore.
"I told you," I said to him, a gentle, friendly smile on my face, "you've known me all your life, for I am you."
"You're lying."
I resisted rolling my eyes, for the gesture was as alien to him as remorse to me and would only reveal the deceit.
"No, I'm not, and you know it. In your very heart, in your soul, you know I am you, not as you are, but as you will be."
Whether he believed me or not, it mattered not, he came closer and I remained rooted to the spot I appeared in.
"You're from the future?" A trickle of doubt in his voice was a point in my favor. I nodded to him. "Why are you here then?"
"Terrible things will befall us and our family if the past stays the same and I am here to insure it does not come to pass."
"What things?"
"Death. Winter. War, most of all."
Another step closer. "War with whom? Who would wage war wit—"
"Who would not, if it was beneficial to them? Even in our own lands, we find such men. Ancestral enemies, yet we pretend we are anything but, while we merely wait for each other to make the first move, and spark the enmity anew. Old blood. Bad blood. Dragon's blood."
I overreached, it seemed, in my eagerness to see the matter done and dealt with. The boy took a step back.
"They couldn't, the realm would rise up against them."
"Aye, it would, but will that be of any comfort when half of our family lies dead?"
His boyish face took on such a determined look, unfit for one so young. "Tell me how to avoid it then. Tell me everything."
I shook my head. "There is too much to be told, and I have little time to spare. I feel myself already fading from this place and soon enough I will be gone, my knowledge of the future lost with me and the past will remain unchanged."
"It won't! I've met you, that changes everything, and I know now to watch out for anything that might threaten our family."
"You're naive, foolish, to think it will suffice. No, lest you take in all of me within you, all will be lost, and we shall suffer for it."
His eyes narrowed down. "What do you mean? What would that do?"
"You must open your heart, mind and soul to me. Welcome me as an old friend, embrace me as if you would our brothers and sister. It matters not how you do it, but it must be done soon." Seeing him still wary, I added, "If I am to pass away without us two becoming one, warn father not to look to the south, their lies his doom. Our brother's and sister's too. Remember that."
Played against his own instinct to protect his kin, he fell for my deceit.
Step by step he came closer, until he took me by the hand and saw the illusion undone.
My hair no longer dark nor my eyes grey any longer.
He shut his eyes close and cursed himself for being tricked so easily.
"You lied," he spoke with a calm I could not have mustered were our places switched.
"Aye, I did. 'Tis a merging, but not the one I described."
Brave little boy, so brave in the face of death. "What happens now? To my family? Were those lies too?"
"They'll live. I'll protect them as if they were my own. In that, I had not lied. The threats I spoke of are real."
He could not let go of my hand, but that was not his intent. With his other arm, he encircled me around my legs.
"Promise me, then. Swear it by whatever gods you hold sacred, swear that you'll see them kept safe."
Where was the harm in giving assurance (and comfort) for what I would see done of my own free will?
"I swear. Now, close your eyes. Sleep and dream, Ned." With a burst of willpower, I gave him a fraction of my memories, good and happy things that would make any lay their head on pillow and smile in their dreams. Love that he would never know, I gave freely.
Hair as black as a night without stars and eyes of blue like precious jewels; this filled his soul when darkness engulfed us both.
My throat was parched, my lids as heavy as lead, but I woke, and that was all that mattered in the end.
Within me laid a seven years worth of memories, now all mine. Would that I could've dug deeper into them.
But that time was to be delayed, for I was attended upon by a number of people: three adults and three children.
The closest one to me had his head bowed low, lips in motion as he mumbled to himself. I saw that he wore grey robes (grey rat) and that he was a tall and thin man. Later, I would come to think him unfit for his station, or at least his placement here.
The second one was a much bigger man, with a broad chest and broader shoulders, thick dark hair and beard. He was dressed in clothes of fine making, albeit ones more fit for the colder climates, sans any elaborate pattern or design. His face was as rough as the rest of him.
The third was no man at all, but a woman. She had a fragile look about her, as if she was perpetually short of one wind-burst from being knocked down. Yet it seemed to be an infliction only of the body, for her grey eyes showed clarity and intelligence.
As for the three children, well... suffice to say they would prove more exhausting than the adults. The oldest one sported a wide grin on his face. The middle one, a girl, nibbled on her lips and looked worryingly at me. Whereas the smallest one looked utterly bored. From time to time, he'd look at me, smile briefly, and then his eyes would fleet back to the door, the unspoken thought 'Can I go back out and play?' clear on his face.
"Father," I managed to say with a raspy voice. The woman that stood so close to him could only be... "Mother."
While he might have been reserved about approaching me in so bold a fashion, she had no such concern as she went down to her knees quickly and embraced me in her arms, burying my face in the hollow of her neck.
I heard her utter, "Gods be praised," in a whisper, more to herself than anyone else there.
For a moment, I was confused, but no more than by her presence here. If my memory hadn't failed me, and the wretched thing was never in good form to start with, by all rights this woman that enveloped me in an embrace should be long dead.
As it would turn out, her presence would be the least of changes that I'd come to know.
Forced as I was to remain in bed, save for when relieving myself, I took to reading. Though he seemed somewhat disapproving of some of the titles, Maester Walys did as I asked him, and brought me the dozen of books that I requested. Naturally, I had not gotten through half of them by the time I was allowed to leave my chambers, but one in particular nearly gave me a fit.
It was several years out of date, yet no matter how long I looked at the ink inscribed upon its pages, the words would not change.
In the grand scale of things, the information it imparted was of no great importance to the people already living in the world. But to me, who had only just arrived in it, who had come to inhabit the body of one Lord Stark's sons... it was world shattering.
Three children, where there should have been but one. Three dragonspawn from the (not quite yet) Mad King and his sister-wife.
Rhaegar, Shaena and Daeron.
Gods be good, Rhaegar alone brought enough ruin and death for the whole of Westeros with his foolish actions.
What would the Seven Kingdoms be like with two additional Targaryen children? Could they even survive such a thing?
Once, when Maester Walys had come to check on my health, I decided to ask him a few questions, which hopefully wouldn't reveal the true extent of my ignorance, or would at least be passed off as just a side-effect of the winter fever.
"Maester Walys, I've a question or two to ask, if you'd answer."
The break in the daily routine of his visits seemed to improve his mood somewhat. "Of course, my lord. What is it you wish to know?"
"I've been rereading the Westeros: Kings of Old and New and at the end of it came across mention of King Aerys and his children. The Targaryens occasionally hold to the practice of marrying off their sons to their daughters, as was the case with the king himself. Has it been ever said why they do this and whether it will be continued in the future?"
"An odd question, my lord. Yes, it is true they do indeed follow such practices, even though they've converted to the Seven, back when Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters still lived, but the reason for it tends to differ. One Targaryen king said it was to keep the bloodline pure and strong. It was mentioned in the odd book or two that he did so because he feared they might lose their dominion over their dragons if they mingled with any of the Westerosfolk, be they Andal, First Men or Rhoynar. Another spoke that it was simply done in accordance with the traditions of Old Valyria, where such practices were common and wide-spread among the ruling families of the Freehold. As for His Grace, King Aerys II, it is said that on the day of his first daughter's birth she was betrothed to Prince Rhaegar."
"First daughter?" If my voice had faltered in the question, I didn't notice.
Rather than answer me, Maester Wylas brought up his wrinkled hand to my forehead and pressed his palm against it.
"Hmm, no heightened temperature," he mumbled to himself, before he addressed my inquiry. "Yes, my lord. His first daughter, Princess Shaena, was betrothed to her brother, the Crown Prince. Perhaps it was his wish to do so only for the heir, rather than every member of his dynasty, as neither Prince Daeron nor either of the Princesses, Daenerys and Rhaena, had been betrothed to anyone thus far."
I thought the world had gone mad when I knew Rhaegar had two siblings in a time where should have had none yet.
Now that I knew he had an additional two, and a Daenerys among them (I could only hope the coin had landed differently for her than the younger counterpart of whom I'd read about), I thought all my knowledge of possible future events was for naught.
Knowledge alone would not suffice. With grim determination, I realized I would have to do more than try to meddle in from the sides.
Shortly after my health improved Brandon was quick about trying to rouse me up for all manner of mischief. His visits to my chambers, when I was still bed-ridden, were few, but now that had changed. It was a distraction, one which I'd not needed, not now after what I'd found out.
He'd almost given up on me entirely until he saw me asking the master-at-arms for my weapons training to resume. The man had been quick to deny me, citing my health and lack of commitment from before, but Brandon overrode his opinion and said he wanted his little brother to join him in the morning exercises. I was given the impression this was not something that usually happened.
Brandon proved the better of us two, naturally. He'd already been practicing for two-three years, if not more, when I took up the wooden weapon and started learning the basics of sword-fighting. But I was nothing if not persistent. Or stubborn, depending on whom you asked. Time and time again wood would strike, clothed though I was in padded armor, and a bruise would form.
It did me little good, practice. I was just barely managing to be average at the best of times, and outright horrid at the worst.
As all brothers would, Brandon too took joy in teasing me. "Chin up, little brother, it can only get better." And then he had laughed, and his laughter was an infectious thing and I laughed alongside him. Despite the face I presented to Winterfell, to those that Eddard Stark would call kin and friends, I found myself missing my own family, my own siblings, even though they drove me to fits sometimes. It was a long road to fully accepting it, but I would never see any of them ever again. And so in the gaping hole of their absence, I embraced the family that was with me, here and now, rather than try and pointlessly long for that which could never be mine again.
So I laughed at Brandon's japes when they amused me and lied for him when I thought it necessary, as any brother would.
His face was filled with wonder and affection, after he had seen me spin a bold-faced lie to our lord father about whether I knew who might have taken a pitcher of wine from the pantry one morn when I'd gone in for a munch or two. Brandon was quite surprised by it.
Well, that and the incident with the Whitehill boy that followed soon after.
Racks of weapons lined the walls and long oak-wood tables were crowded with all manner of iron and steel, man-wrought for the purpose of wounding, maiming and killing. There was something serene about the sight. A purity of sorts that could not be denied.
When I left the armory behind I bid the men standing guard outside it goodbye and crossed the covered bridge, back to the Great Keep. My next destination were the kitchens, as I knew they'd be sparsely populated at such an early hour of the day.
Or not.
"— piss-poor sight, isn't he? The little lordling."
"Thinks he can swing a sword a few times for a few turns of the moon, as if that'll make him the Dragonknight."
"Brandon does the same, and his swordsmanship keeps improving."
I'd barely just entered the kitchens and found them to be nearly empty when I heard a pair of voices. Given that they were nowhere in plain sight, it was fair to assume they'd gone into the pantry and sat on some barrels. Were something else the topic of their discussion, I wouldn't have paid heed to them whatsoever. But fate, it seemed, had other things in mind.
"I'll give you that, but don't you think it strange how where one brother excels, the other stumbles around in mediocrity? I suppose that's the risk one takes with his children when marrying a close cousin. And that's not even the worst that could've happened. Imagine if he was born deformed or a lackwit. Come to think of it, one outta four 's not such a bad deal, so long as that one is the heir, eh?"
"Idiot!" his friend hissed at him. "If one of the Starks, or their men, heard you spewing shite like that, you'd get a thrashing. Or worse."
"Or worse," I agreed.
I was on the other boy before he even had a chance to turn around and face me. Older, taller and stronger, had he not been surprised by me appearing behind them, he could have prevented me from doing him any significant harm. But I was quicker, and full of wroth, my knee hitting his leather-padded groin while my thumbs went straight for his eyes. Fool that he was, he tried grabbing me by the wrists and pulling my hands down, but it availed him nothing, even as pain flared in my bones from the pressure.
Only when his friend struck me across the face, thrice, did I start to relent. There was blood in my eyes.
It couldn't have lasted more than a few brief moments, but the damage was done. By the time someone had appeared to separate us, the boy who so carelessly spoke his words of offense was wailing from the pain, writhing on the floor.
I was smiling, blood and all.
The action did little to endear me to Rickard.
"It was an ill done thing, no matter what the boy said. Control yourself better in the future, you're not a mindless beast."
"I'm not. And I've done no wrong."
I've not done enough, I wished to say, but knew better and stayed silent.
He looked at me, as if I was the opposite of reason, and then sighed.
"The boy was drunk. Even the best of men lose hold of common sense when plied with enough wine. Had you come to me and told me of it, I would have made my displeasure more than clear, and by sending him back to his home, his family would've known they were out of favor. Now? Now I must send the boy, crippled in one eye, back to his uncle and father, and my son's reasoning for doing so will seem like paltry excuse to justify his rabid nature. We are fortunate that he is but a nephew, rather than one of Lord Whitehill's own sons."
Remorse for what I'd done was absent, but I felt a shame, of sorts. "Father, I —"
"Leave, Eddard" he waved me off, "I've letters to write. Go to your mother, she has a few choice words of her own to say."
I bowed my head and left the Lord of Winterfell's solar.
The first thing that greeted me upon entering Lyarra's chambers was her hand. She did not strike me with great force and in the next moment, before I could even utter a single word, she embraced me. What followed was a feverish expression of concern for my well-being. She was less concerned about what I'd done to the other boy, than what could have happened to me in our short brawl.
"Lyam Whitehill is a fool, who seems to have raised an even greater fool for a son. He presumes much, using his brother's status to try and assert his position, feeble though it may be. You've won yourself no friend with the Whitehills and their allies. I doubt the Boltons will care much for what has happened, even though they're their liege lords, but they might yet use the incident for their own ends."
She had much insight to share in matters of the North, as I would come to find out in the coming months and years.
"Tell me, why did you attack the boy?"
"He insulted Benjen and Lyanna. You and father, too. He spoke badly of our family. Said we were akin to the Targaryens."
Lyarra placed a finger beneath my chin and bid me look up at her. "That is not what I asked, Ned."
I wanted to bow my head low, I wanted not to be facing those stormy eyes, but she wouldn't let me look away. "I don't know."
It was a lie and we both knew it.
Before the incident, I had been steadily working on bettering my relationship with Lyanna. She was not someone I could ignore, not if Rhaegar showed any interest in her come the tourney at Harrenhal, sister-wife or not at his side. It was so strange to look upon a girl so young, so small, and think she might be the spark that lights the fire that would consume the Seven Kingdoms.
I worshiped no gods, but I prayed all the same that Rhaegar Targaryen never came across any mention of prophecies in his life.
And so I watched over my little sister, keenly aware how important our relationship might be in the future. Yet I still could not shake the feeling of dread when I looked upon her, for she was yet another discrepancy in this world. Born only a year after Ned, rather than four.
We'd read books together, with Lyanna oft accompanying me to the great library of Winterfell. But she'd never stay for too long, and I'd follow after her, as she was ever drawn to the outside. The wild blood was in her, as it was written.
She craved the excitement, the rush of horses racing, the yelps and joyous screams.
More than once, we'd both been reprimanded and punished, in small measure, by our father and mother for riding in the rain or riding too far ahead from the Winterfell guards that were our escorts. The shared duties in the kitchen only served to make us bond quicker.
But Lyanna Stark was not all wilfulness and wildness. In her, I recognized a kind spirit, one that would lament the injustices suffered by others and herself, and would then try to right them. Many times did I hear her say "It's not fair!" whether it was when she brought up that Brandon and I practiced with weapons while she was to be denied, or whether it was one of the local smallfolk asking for help that was to be refused simply for the scarcity of resources up there in the North. It was a harsh life for any born to common men and women.
Lyanna seemed ever set on trying to change the world, without ever realizing what folly it would be to attempt such a thing on her own.
Yet I could not refuse her, no more than I could have refused the sisters of my first family. She would never have the strength of a full-grown man, nor perhaps the skill of sword-masters, but she had speed on her side and I could at least give her a chance.
In the mornings, my time was spent with Brandon, but my evenings were split between Lyarra and Lyanna. With one I learned ever more of the North and its lords, its ways and history. With the other, I taught. Though I was never that good at taking to lessons with a sword myself, Lyanna seemed a natural. She learned swiftly, and was better at evading the wooden blade.
Perhaps it was all just because she wished to avoid hiding the bruises on her thin frame, as they'd linger for a while.
Instead of the yard, we practiced in the First Keep. Abandoned and rarely ventured in, it was perfect for staying out of sight.
Once, I'd bopped her by accident across the shoulder a tad too strong and she cried out. Naturally that attracted a passing guard to take a peek inside and look about for any that might have been there. One hand across her mouth, to stifle any further cry of pain, we kept to the shadows of one the upper floors and waited for him to leave. When he did, Lyanna bit me on the hand and then laughed in a way all too hauntingly similar to Brandon. Wolf blood. What was I to do with the both of them? Protect and care for them, as promised.
However, our relationship changed for the worse, and looking back on it, I should have expected as much.
I'd evaded the notice of the guards and servants of Winterfell and under the cover of night snuck into the fortress. Not long after I'd settled on one of the few covered surfaces (a rug in very poor state) Lyanna came. Whereas I was keen to start with our practice and smiled at the sight of her, she seemed almost hesitant and wary. No smile to greet me back with.
"Is it true?" asked Lyanna, without preamble, staring into my eyes.
Her approach confused me. "Is what true?"
"That you attacked some boy, simply because he spoke poorly of you?"
That blasted affair, why did it hound me so? A few days had passed from since, and I'd already put it out of my mind.
"What? Lyanna, that's not it at all. Who told you that?"
"But you maimed him, didn't you?"
I refused to grit my teeth, but came close to it. "Yes, I did. What of it? Why care for a boy that insulted us all with such glee?"
"It was not just of you."
Just? She would speak to me of what was just when she was still a child in heart and mind?
"Should I have waited for him to spew more filth, wait until he spoke of our mother and father in far baser tongue? Mayhaps I only ought to have voiced my protest and he'd have ceased? His kind doesn't learn when reproved with words alone, they know and understand no lessons but ones taught with violence and fear." I could have gone further, but I stopped myself and sighed. "Enough, Lyanna. I would speak no more of him when we have far better things to do."
She stepped back "Not now. Not tonight."
Lyanna turned away and left, leaving me alone in the decrepit fortress.
There was no practice that night, nor the ones that followed after it. I went and waited many days, but Lyanna never showed up. A chasm had spawned between the two of us and I knew not of how to mend us back to how we were before.
The loss of a sister... I did not take it well.
Rickard and Lyanna might have disapproved, but Brandon was proud of me when he heard about it.
"The wolf blood," he'd said that very same day, when we sat next to each other at the table for dinner, "you're like me."
If he sounded relieved at that, that he was no longer the only wild Stark with a violent temper in the family, I paid it little heed.
In the practice yard, I had all but given up on trying to better my sword-play (it mattered not whether I wielded a bastard, a short one or a two-hander, I failed to improve), and had started looking to master one of the other weapons available from the armory.
After a number of times I tried my hand at several types of weaponry (the less said about axes, the better), I'd settled for a mace.
The Winterfell blacksmith was not pleased when I came to him and asked for one. Instead, he directed me to one of the carpenters who'd undertaken the task he set out, for a few coins, and presented me with my very first wooden mace.
Brandon thought me mad for choosing a weapon with a shorter range, but after a few times we'd fought each other, he changed his opinion and his preferred approach when fighting me. No longer could he try to dance around me as he used to, for fear of the mace's head smashing him with blunt force. After that, more often than not, Brandon would end up the one more bruised of the two of us.
Lyarra remained protective of me, though not to the point of smothering. Watchful, but always from a distance.
Even when I practiced in the yard with Brandon.
Twice she came to watch us have a go at it in person, but afterwards her presence wasn't quite so obvious.
I'd still spy her, looking down on the yard from one of the windows of the keep. Every time Brandon scored a hit on me, she would frown worryingly or clench her hands in the furs she wore across her dress. Every time I would go to her later in the evening and comfort her, assure her all was well and Brandon did no more harm to me than I would have to him if I'd the chance.
"Boys and their swords," she'd cluck her tongue, "foolish." Then she'd bring me close for another embrace, which had become a common thing whenever we met in private. We'd plenty of that, private meetings, as I hungered for knowledge and she was a veritable walking and talking library who volunteered all she knew without second thought to her second-born son, which was more than Maester Walys ever did, as he always seemed displeased whenever I inquired about certain matters.
The grey rat was oft put off when I asked about the North from times past (before the Targaryens came, before the Andals ever invaded) and the old ways, the old gods, the old tongue, runes, the children of the forest, grumkins and snarks.
"The past is the past, young lord Stark. We must ever strive to learn from it, but not seek to repeat it and its many mistakes."
No surprise there, that a Reachman would disapprove of the North.
Lyarra preferred to give her lessons on the North in the expanse of the godswood, most oft in front of the heart tree.
It was beyond words, the peace I felt in that place, before the carved face of the old gods, before that pool of black water. A haunting beauty, one to stalk my dreams in years and years to come. A place so ancient, what was my life compared to a mere tenth of its existence?
Much have I sought out the place for solitude and calmness, even more so after that night with Lyanna.
"Never worship blindly. Never follow a man's words on what the gods might wish of us. We are of the North. Our gods are of the earth and tree and stone. They were here before we ever set foot in these lands, and here they will remain, long past either of us."
Not strong, not omnipotent nor omniscient, but they were there, in every rustle of the blood-red leaves, in every creak of a branch.
Still, I did not worship.
"Why do you visit the godswood so often, mother?"
"To pay my respects. To pray, sometimes." She smiled. "To listen."
This was not merely tradition for her. This was not about merely emulating those that came before. This was belief.
Unshakeable faith. Were she of the South, I might have thought her a zealot, but the nature of Northern ways didn't allow for it.
Yet she believed, though at the time I knew not the cause of it, nor the source of her belief's strength.
Benjen I could not get rid of, no matter whether I was pouring through dusty texts in the Library Tower, if I roamed through the ancient castle and its towers and crypts and hallways, always in search of its secrets (in vain), or even at meal-times. He was like a tick, attached to me, intent on distracting me, stealing what little remaining time I had before I was to be shipped off south; but such is the bane of all older brothers, to be hounded by their younger siblings. I knew that well.
When Lyanna and I raced, he cheered us on. When Brandon and I fought each other, he whooped for whoever scored a hit on the other. Quick to make a jape, to make all around him laugh, to tease and to taunt... even as a four year old boy, Benjen was a trickster, waiting for the world to notice the japes it played on it. How could such a boy ever choose for himself a life with the brothers in black?
I could say that I merely tolerated it all, that all of them were a means to some vague end, but it would have been a lie.
And then it came, so suddenly. The day I was to depart from Winterfell was set, the arrangements made and my few belongings packed.
Lyarra and Rickard had spoken to me about it many moons ago. In a way, I both anticipated it eagerly and dreaded it. I was to be shorn from what had become a new home for me, yet if I were to remain in Winterfell, how much misfortune might befall the Starks?
Even if it had been a choice to be offered and contemplated, it was no choice at all, in truth. Not for me.
I'd given my farewells to Brandon and Benjen before I'd left the Great Hall. Benjen had not understood fully what a fostering meant, but he knew I was leaving and he was saddened by it. My own departure coupled with Brandon's, who would leave the next day early in the morn for his fostering with the Dustins, had dampened Benjen's otherwise cheerful mood and made him sullen.
Outside, a light autumn snow was falling, just enough to muddy the ground.
Rickard Stark had given me few words before I was to mount my horse, mostly about restraint and behaving myself properly.
Lyarra was the more affectionate of the two and did not shy from expressing it openly, by lowering herself and scooping me up in her arms and pressing me hard to her bosom. Her affection was returned when I wrapped my arms around her and promised to write.
When we separated, I had thought all partings and goodbyes had been done and dealt with, and I was set to leave.
It was not so.
Faster than I could see, or turn around to properly greet her, I had been suddenly enveloped in a firm hug from Lyanna.
I can't say I've forgotten about her in all the months of silence since our last meeting in the First Keep, but I tried not to dwell too much on her, knowing it would do me no good to try and force her to reconcile with me. I only wish it had happened sooner.
Not dressed appropriately for the weather, her smaller form hung off mine and her voice trembled in the cold air when she spoke.
"Come back safely, come back home to us, Ned."
Spoken in a different tongue, addressed by a different name.
I could almost forget that this sister of mine had dark hair and grey eyes.
"I will, and in the meantime, I'll write."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Tongue-tied, I gave a feeble smile to my kin from the saddle and on we went.
Winterfell was soon left behind and with it a part of my heart.
I had found out one unpleasant fact once we boarded a ship at White Harbor - where we'd been warmly welcomed by Lord Wyman Manderly in the Merman's Court - and set sail across the open sea: I hadn't the stomach for it. Whether it was because their method of crossing the distance over water was so antiquated in comparison to the world I was born in or whether I was just plainly seasick no matter what kind of ship I was on, it didn't matter, the fish were well fed either way.
What mattered, however, was the length of the journey to Gulltown. It was... more than I expected. More than I hoped, certainly. Two-three weeks in ideal conditions, so I'd been told, but the ones we encountered were anything but ideal. The first week had been fine, for while the sky was cloudy and the wind occasionally blew too hard, it was smooth sailing.
But on the tenth day, things started getting worse.
The ship was being beset by heavy wind and strong waves, and a storm was fast approaching from the south-east.
Many of the sailors still manned the ship atop, but the few passengers that there were, myself included, retreated below deck to the cabin we shared, under the captain's orders; not that I had any wish to expose myself to the elements to begin with, mind you.
As I was being occupied by the occasional dry-heaving into a bucket before me, I failed to notice when the captain had come down below as well. Only when he passed near one of my personal guards and was addressed by him did I pay any heed.
"We must find a place to set down anchor, soon, else we'll be smashed to pieces."
When I turned my eyes aside to look at the Winterfell guard that spoke, Wallace I think his name was, I saw that he'd grabbed the captain by the arm. A bad move, given that the captain was by no small measure the bigger of the two and could easily overpower him if he wished to do so. But he didn't, and instead the captain only gave a dark, meaningful look to the guard, who realized that he'd overstepped and released him promptly.
"It's just a storm," the captain's gruff voice boomed, "you needn't fret for your safety, greenlander."
The guard's face darkened at the monicker, but said nothing of it. That the captain was Ironborn came as no small surprise, but given that he was being employed by the Manderlys for my conduct to the Vale, I doubt he was ever a reaver, else his head would have been parted from his shoulders long ago. Of all the realms in Westeros, the North had the least tolerance for pirate scum.
"Bugger yourself, you salt-struck fool, it's not myself I worry about." The guard took one glance at me, and the captain followed the look with one of his own. "It's Lord Stark's son we have with us. An autumn storm is not to be taken lightly."
The captain viewed the guard somewhat less hostile than before. "Sailed before, have you?"
"Some, not much. Bear Island and the occasional trip to the Three Sisters."
"The Sisters, hmm. They spit in your stew?"
"And how do you tell the difference between the two?"
At that, both of them cracked a grin. There was no love lost where the Sistermen were concerned.
"Is there a port near?"
The captain stayed silent for a moment and then replied with, "Aye, there is."
"And? Why not press on there? Why risk the ship in a storm when we're already almost past the Fingers?"
"It's no place I'd choose to sail, if I could avoid it, if there were other ports close to us..."
"And are there any?"
"The Paps," the captain grumbled, "if we turn back now on and try to outrun the storm. Unlikely we'd succeed. Or we could try and navigate between the Fingers for some shelter from the weather, but we'd as likely find ourselves breaching the lower deck on some rocks. If this weren't in front of us, I'd set forth for Longbow Hall - they maintain a small harbor on their shores along with a small village - and stay there for a day or two, until the storm passed us."
"So there isn't really any choice to this?"
"No," the captain finally agreed.
"What's the name of this place that we'll be sailing to?"
"Witch Isle."
It was a quaint place, if anything. Neither large nor small, it seemed just the right size for the castle that was built atop it and the small copse of pinewood that surrounded it. Didn't seem as if it warranted any of its ominous reputation among the sailors. I could understand, to a point, that the captain had no wish to dock here in the first place, for there were few, if any, opportunities for trade and profit, but we were about to face a storm; not exactly a position where one gets to cherry-pick at leisure.
Once we had started to approach the island, the storm had seemed to ease up a bit, though the rain still fell as hard as it did on open sea, and the crackle of lightning was heard anew after each flash that tore through the night-sky. But we were safe now.
The Lord of Witch Isle was nothing if not courteous, even before he learned of my presence on the ship.
I was up on the deck when some men arrived, shortly after the ship had been secured, asking if there were any who needed the care of a Maester, if the ship was short on provisions and such. After taking a few moments to look at them, I saw they wore fine steel and iron, and all of them had the resident lord's coat of arms decorating their front: a field of black, with a cresting sea-green wave across it.
Men from the castle atop the isle's hill.
I might have pondered a bit more about their lord had Irritation not flared in me as the Ironborn captain turned to look my way when the Maester had been brought up. I may have been a boy of eight in the flesh, but I was a man grown in soul and mind, with pride and ego to match. I shook my head curtly enough and the matter was dropped as the captain resumed his talks with the other men.
But the guards had noticed our brief exchange and they looked upon me with more than a cursory glance.
Once the direwolf's engraving was spotted on my chest and the men that accompanied me, an invitation to the keep followed.
Harras Upcliff was a man much like any other, but a rare breed of a lord, as I would come to find out.
Bald and clean shaven, with pale green eyes, he was not particularly tall, but tall enough to a boy barely eight years old. I couldn't guess accurately at Lord Upcliff's age; at the very least he had to have been in the fourth decade of his life, if not the fifth. The crow's feet around his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth told as much. A widower and a lord that kept to his own domain, lest his liege called upon him (a rare event indeed), he greeted me when I arrived to his forefathers' halls.
"Hail, Eddard Stark, and be welcome. Bread and salt are yours, as is wine and water. Come, sit."
A place was made for me at Lord Upcliff's table, next to his son and heir, Ulwyck, who wore his hair long and loose, but his beard short and trimmed. One of the ships we'd seen in harbor was his own, The Sea Green, gifted to him by his father upon reaching majority, which was now six years behind him. He had the curse of wanderlust in him, from what I could tell.
Ulwyck wished to sail forth towards distant waters and explore little-known and unknown lands.
"Qarth, Yi Ti, Leng... even now, so much remains unknown about them. The books speak scarcely about them, and whether that is because the Maesters have little knowledge about them, or something else entirely, is unknown. It is a shame though."
"Would you then sail east, as Corlys Velaryon once did, and visit fabled Nefer?"
At that, Ulwyck scoffed. "I've no fleet to follow after me, as he did, nor the funds to hire new ships along the way. And though the Sea Snake had sailed much of the world, he limited himself on purpose. His purpose might have been two-fold - to explore and bring back riches - but it didn't take long until he turned back with his holds full. Explorer by happenstance rather than design."
Of the three daughters Lord Upcliff had, the eldest, Rhea, was a gracious host, albeit she was interested in me solely due to my ancestry and thus our conversation at her father's table was kept strictly non-personal. I didn't blame her for a lack of interest, given that she was my senior by seven years in this world. She was a fine conversationalist and easily roped me into discussing the odd bit of history or two regarding my family, while the others dined and talked amongst themselves.
"But what if the Pact had been upheld?" she posed a question, one of many, to me. "What if Cregan Stark had taken a Targaryen for his bride, rather than a Blackwood? Strange, was it not, how he settled for less than what was promised and owed."
I shrugged. "Who knows? It was for the better perhaps, safer even, to wed a woman of the First Men, than one of Valyrian blood, especially so soon after the Dance. And in truth?" I leaned closer to Rhea, as if to conspire of fell deeds; a comical sight for one so young as myself. "I'm not fond of the Targaryen coloring. Would look quite unseemly on a face as plain and long as my own."
She snorted and wine almost came running from her nose. That attracted the attention of Lord Upcliff's second daughter.
Arabelle tested my patience. It would be people like her that would often make me forget my apparent young age in this world. She did not like me, I think, or rather she considered me not at at all, but kept her feelings veiled behind her southron courtesies. Always so proper, always so polite, even when her eyes betrayed boredom while she sought to entertain me. Her father's bidding, I suppose.
But where her sisters were women grown, the youngest one, Ursula, was a skinny little thing with her father's eyes, and though all her siblings had black hair, Ursula's was that of young wheat; fair when bathed in the rays of sun and light of fire, dark when shadows fell upon her or storm-clouds obscured the sky as they did now. Whether she emulated her siblings consciously or not, she resembled them in the most innocuous of ways. Like Ulwyck, she too had a curious nature, if aimed in a different direction, but was less blunt, more sly.
"Lord Stark," she'd addressed me, "would you mind if I were to ask a few questions of your home?"
What a strange feeling, to be referred to as such, when Rickard and my brother still lived. "Not at all, ask all you like."
What a mistake that turned out to be. Her charm she used to full extent, until I found myself telling her all that I knew of Winterfell. In truth, I wanted to speak of it too. For while I may have had the boy's memories of the place, experiencing it was something entirely else. Exploring the castle, wandering across its walls, going up its towers, wandering through the vast and dark godswood... I was filled with much awe.
Even as I told of it, I saw part of that awe reflected in Ursula's eyes.
"I should very much like to visit Winterfell's godswood. It sounds beautiful."
"It indeed is, Lady Ursula," I replied, not noticing a small stiffness in her posture at being addressed so.
Before I could continue our conversation, Rhea once more started throwing questions at me and before I knew it supper was over and it was time to retire to our respective chambers. Just as I was about to lie in bed for the night, someone knocked on the door.
"Enter," I called out, somewhat surprised at this late hour visit from whomever it was.
'Whomever' turned out to be Ulwyck, looking oddly serious.
"Eddard Stark, my apologies for keeping you from sleep. I'll be short."
"And yet, you're still quite tall, Ulwyck Upcliff," I japed nonsensically, to bleed off some of the tension that came out of nowhere.
It worked somewhat, as his mouth didn't seem quite so sternly leaning towards a grimace anymore.
"I come to offer my apologies."
Now that was surprising. "I wasn't aware there was anything to apologize for. Your father hosted us most graciously, welcomed us to his halls when the ship's cabin would have sufficed. If anyone should apologize, it is me, for not thanking you properly."
Ulwyck just shook his head. "It is the least we could do for a guest of your esteemed rank."
"Then I suppose we should thank the storm for arranging this meeting between us." His mouth turned to a soft, brief smile. Well, I suppose I could repeat myself. "So please, if you would, tell me what you think you ought to apologize for."
"Ursula," said Ulwyck, frowning. "She overstepped, but meant no insult. Her eagerness overcame her manners."
Blinking confusedly, I asked, "Overstepped? She but asked a few questions of my home and I answered. No insult to be had."
"She ought not to have been so bold with a lord, even one so young as yourself."
I felt like I was missing some piece in the puzzle that was our conversation. "Why not?"
"Because she's a bastard and she ought to have known better."
Ah, there we go. "I suppose this has something with me calling her a lady then, yes? I assure you, no offense was taken. Nor do I mind her having been seated at the same table as me. Given that you all were sitting there before we'd even arrived, I'd interrupted a family dinner, and so I should be the one to offer apologies. Natural born or not, no one should be forced to sit apart from their kin."
Seeing me so easily accept that there was a bastard girl seated at a table for highborn, that she dined at the same table as I, that she conversed freely and boldly, and that I took no offense at all, made all tension dissipate from Ulwyck almost instantly.
"Not many in Westeros possess such attitude. Not in the Vale, for certain. Bastards may be acknowledged, but they are rarely brought to their parent's home. If you don't find me intruding too much, might I ask if this is the behavior one could find common in the North?"
"In truth, I could not say. As far as I know, I have no half-siblings, and I've not traveled to the keeps and holds of other lords. For myself, I hold nothing against any bastard, save if they prove hostile, as no child ever chose what side of the bed they were born on."
Having said that, I felt all too pompous, like a peacock, and invited Ulwyck to sit down and talk with me some more about his half-sister. From what little and his sisters knew, the girl was conceived while Lord Harras was traveling abroad, in Pentos. Their mother having died years and years before that, they had little issue with accepting the newest arrival as it slighted not the late Melyssa Moore (a raven haired beauty from whom the three of them inherited their hair), and Rhea and Arabelle took to her keenly, glad for yet another sister. At times, it lead him to despair, to be surrounded by sisters from all sides, but Ulwyck gave off the impression he wouldn't have it any other way.
Much like myself, then.
We stayed up for another hour or so before realizing how late it was and then bid goodnight.
We didn't wait two days for the storm to pass us by. We waited four. The wind and hale grew so harsh outside that even the men that previously slept on the ships docked in the harbor left them behind and settled in the modest inn for a short time, while satiating some of their baser urges in the local brothel. By the end of my stay on Witch Isle, I learned quite a bit about the Upcliffs.
Like the Royces, the Redforts, the Hunters and several other families of the Vale, they too were descendants of First Men.
A bit of a grim and bloody past, rumors of witchcraft and sorcery, but then again that sort of thing was present even in the Stark family history. Tended to happen with any longer-lasting families, it seemed. Some bits of their history made me curious, I admit. A notable member of their bloodline was actually married to a ruling Arryn of the Vale to bring them into the fold. One had to wonder why that was necessary, why the Arryns didn't try military subjugation rather than vassalization through marriage. Rhea had no answer to that.
Arabelle was... well, Arabelle. Our relationship didn't change by much, she wasn't any more interested in me than she was before.
Ursula had a wide grin on her face whenever she saw me, hounding after me, asking me all manner of things. Why she thought I knew the exact number of trees in the godswood, which spanned three acres, I have no idea. She asked the oddest of questions.
"Would I be welcome up North?" she asked one day as we sat in the castle's library.
Shrugging, I replied, "I couldn't say. Depends where you might wish to go."
"What about Winterfell? Would you show me to the godswood, if you could?"
"If I were there, and not in the Vale, I would." It is not as if she asked for much, and no one likes to shatter little children's hopes and dreams. Yet they ought to be tempered with a measure of reality. "I cannot guarantee anything if I am not there."
"Then, when you go back North, for a visit or otherwise, I might come and visit too and you'll show me the heart tree."
Her interest struck me as odd. I didn't inquire on matters of faith with the rest of the Upcliffs, but I assumed they worshiped the Seven, like the other First Men descendants that intermarried with the Andals that invaded and conquered the Vale.
"Do you pray to the old gods or the Seven, Ursula?"
She laughed at that, a small tinkling sound echoing in the silence of the library. "How could I, without a godswood? There's a septry here, but it's not used much. Besides, from all sides we're surrounded by the sea. Would be odd to pray to either of them."
"Do you worship any of the gods then?"
Ursula bit her lip and looked unsure of herself for a moment. "I don't worship or pray. But I like talking to the Lady."
Besides the broad specifics of some of the faiths in Westeros, I knew nothing about them. "The Lady?"
She rose from her chair and took me by the arm, pulling me up. Having nothing better to do, I followed. We didn't go far, just barely past the library, to one of the nearby windows, from where we could see the open sea, in rage, waves rising and falling.
"The Lady of the Waves. It's said that storms are the result of her bedding the Lord of the Skies."
A bit of teasing was in order. "What must their children be like then?"
For that I received a light slap on the arm and a giggle from Ursula as we turned back towards the library.
We were seen off by Lord Upcliff when the storm finally passed. Along with his children, he came down to the harbor. Ulwyck had this expression of pure longing on his face, watching The White Gray, our ship, prepare itself for departure. Not longing for a ship like it, I think, but rather the chance to set out. In the few days I spent in his home, he expressed some discontent with being forced more and more often to remain at Witch Isle, learning ever more of his lordly duties, when he'd rather be out sailing. Rhea and Arabelle were perfect ladies, whereas Ursula had discarded her courtesies ever since she came to know I cared not whit about her being a bastard.
Harras Upcliff had to gently clear his throat before his youngest tore herself away from me.
To show I was not bothered, I smiled and returned the hug, albeit less enthusiastic than Ursula's.
"Remember what you promised," said Ursula.
"I promised nothing," I corrected her, and when she frowned I grinned. "But I'll see what I can do."
Satisfied, she nodded. "Good!" And then she moved back to stand with her siblings, while her father gave his farewells.
"You shall always be welcome to the Depths, Eddard Stark. Whether I still rule, or my son has succeeded me, know you have made yourself a friend with House Upcliff. It has been some time since any of the North came to visit, but we shall remember you."
"Thank you for your kind words, Lord Upcliff. For what it's worth, you have a friend in me as well. I can promise little, for I know not what future awaits me, but if I should ever hold lands and a keep of my own, you and yours shall always be a glad sight to see in them."
They were no kin of mine, but that didn't make them any less fond to me. The little tyke, most of all. She reminded me of Lyanna.
I told Wallace as much, who shook his head and replied, "For your sake, let us hope otherwise."
I heard them scurrying about, around the bed, but their words were as if spoken from a great distance, incoherent, mumbled.
And even if I had heard them clearly, I would have ignored them and focused on more pertinent matters.
Cruel of me, I know, what I set out to do.
Crueler still as I was a man four times his age when we met in the limbo of his existence.
I knew not how I found myself sharing that ethereal plane with him, while he hovered between life and death. The last time I closed my eyes, I was lying down in my own bed and the next time I opened them, albeit metaphysically so, I knew I was dying.
And that would simply not do.
I am a selfish man, filled with more flaws than virtues, and over the life of a stranger, even that of a small boy, I choose my own.
The boy was not dead yet, I knew with the same certainty that I knew of my own imminent demise; unless something changed.
He was all alone (vulnerable) in that lightless place, and his own light was all too precious, his soul's warmth all too tantalizing.
"Greetings," I spoke to him.
Surprised at first, even panicked perhaps, but he held silent, proving himself true to the monicker already given to him.
His eyes tried to pierce the darkness with which I obscured myself, but to no avail. It would not dissipate unless I let loose.
"Who are you?" he tried to ask in firm voice, but failed. No surprise there, he was so very young, especially in a place like this.
"A friend," I answered.
His brow furrowed. "I've never met you before. I don't know you."
"You have. You do."
Then he stood up, his eyes turning to stone. "Don't lie to me!"
"I'm not. We have met many, many times over and you've known me all your life."
"No, I haven't," he persisted. "I don't remember anyone with your voice and your face... I cannot see it. Show it to me!"
It was a gamble on my part, but one I had to take.
With my fingers, I pulled at the threads of darkness concealing me and showed him myself, such as I was.
The boy gasped, minutely, and stood there, disbelieving. He tried to take stock of me, as much as he could, but in vain.
It was all a lie. The clothes were not my own, nor was the body or the face I wore.
"I told you," I said to him, a gentle, friendly smile on my face, "you've known me all your life, for I am you."
"You're lying."
I resisted rolling my eyes, for the gesture was as alien to him as remorse to me and would only reveal the deceit.
"No, I'm not, and you know it. In your very heart, in your soul, you know I am you, not as you are, but as you will be."
Whether he believed me or not, it mattered not, he came closer and I remained rooted to the spot I appeared in.
"You're from the future?" A trickle of doubt in his voice was a point in my favor. I nodded to him. "Why are you here then?"
"Terrible things will befall us and our family if the past stays the same and I am here to insure it does not come to pass."
"What things?"
"Death. Winter. War, most of all."
Another step closer. "War with whom? Who would wage war wit—"
"Who would not, if it was beneficial to them? Even in our own lands, we find such men. Ancestral enemies, yet we pretend we are anything but, while we merely wait for each other to make the first move, and spark the enmity anew. Old blood. Bad blood. Dragon's blood."
I overreached, it seemed, in my eagerness to see the matter done and dealt with. The boy took a step back.
"They couldn't, the realm would rise up against them."
"Aye, it would, but will that be of any comfort when half of our family lies dead?"
His boyish face took on such a determined look, unfit for one so young. "Tell me how to avoid it then. Tell me everything."
I shook my head. "There is too much to be told, and I have little time to spare. I feel myself already fading from this place and soon enough I will be gone, my knowledge of the future lost with me and the past will remain unchanged."
"It won't! I've met you, that changes everything, and I know now to watch out for anything that might threaten our family."
"You're naive, foolish, to think it will suffice. No, lest you take in all of me within you, all will be lost, and we shall suffer for it."
His eyes narrowed down. "What do you mean? What would that do?"
"You must open your heart, mind and soul to me. Welcome me as an old friend, embrace me as if you would our brothers and sister. It matters not how you do it, but it must be done soon." Seeing him still wary, I added, "If I am to pass away without us two becoming one, warn father not to look to the south, their lies his doom. Our brother's and sister's too. Remember that."
Played against his own instinct to protect his kin, he fell for my deceit.
Step by step he came closer, until he took me by the hand and saw the illusion undone.
My hair no longer dark nor my eyes grey any longer.
He shut his eyes close and cursed himself for being tricked so easily.
"You lied," he spoke with a calm I could not have mustered were our places switched.
"Aye, I did. 'Tis a merging, but not the one I described."
Brave little boy, so brave in the face of death. "What happens now? To my family? Were those lies too?"
"They'll live. I'll protect them as if they were my own. In that, I had not lied. The threats I spoke of are real."
He could not let go of my hand, but that was not his intent. With his other arm, he encircled me around my legs.
"Promise me, then. Swear it by whatever gods you hold sacred, swear that you'll see them kept safe."
Where was the harm in giving assurance (and comfort) for what I would see done of my own free will?
"I swear. Now, close your eyes. Sleep and dream, Ned." With a burst of willpower, I gave him a fraction of my memories, good and happy things that would make any lay their head on pillow and smile in their dreams. Love that he would never know, I gave freely.
Hair as black as a night without stars and eyes of blue like precious jewels; this filled his soul when darkness engulfed us both.
My throat was parched, my lids as heavy as lead, but I woke, and that was all that mattered in the end.
Within me laid a seven years worth of memories, now all mine. Would that I could've dug deeper into them.
But that time was to be delayed, for I was attended upon by a number of people: three adults and three children.
The closest one to me had his head bowed low, lips in motion as he mumbled to himself. I saw that he wore grey robes (grey rat) and that he was a tall and thin man. Later, I would come to think him unfit for his station, or at least his placement here.
The second one was a much bigger man, with a broad chest and broader shoulders, thick dark hair and beard. He was dressed in clothes of fine making, albeit ones more fit for the colder climates, sans any elaborate pattern or design. His face was as rough as the rest of him.
The third was no man at all, but a woman. She had a fragile look about her, as if she was perpetually short of one wind-burst from being knocked down. Yet it seemed to be an infliction only of the body, for her grey eyes showed clarity and intelligence.
As for the three children, well... suffice to say they would prove more exhausting than the adults. The oldest one sported a wide grin on his face. The middle one, a girl, nibbled on her lips and looked worryingly at me. Whereas the smallest one looked utterly bored. From time to time, he'd look at me, smile briefly, and then his eyes would fleet back to the door, the unspoken thought 'Can I go back out and play?' clear on his face.
"Father," I managed to say with a raspy voice. The woman that stood so close to him could only be... "Mother."
While he might have been reserved about approaching me in so bold a fashion, she had no such concern as she went down to her knees quickly and embraced me in her arms, burying my face in the hollow of her neck.
I heard her utter, "Gods be praised," in a whisper, more to herself than anyone else there.
For a moment, I was confused, but no more than by her presence here. If my memory hadn't failed me, and the wretched thing was never in good form to start with, by all rights this woman that enveloped me in an embrace should be long dead.
As it would turn out, her presence would be the least of changes that I'd come to know.
Forced as I was to remain in bed, save for when relieving myself, I took to reading. Though he seemed somewhat disapproving of some of the titles, Maester Walys did as I asked him, and brought me the dozen of books that I requested. Naturally, I had not gotten through half of them by the time I was allowed to leave my chambers, but one in particular nearly gave me a fit.
It was several years out of date, yet no matter how long I looked at the ink inscribed upon its pages, the words would not change.
In the grand scale of things, the information it imparted was of no great importance to the people already living in the world. But to me, who had only just arrived in it, who had come to inhabit the body of one Lord Stark's sons... it was world shattering.
Three children, where there should have been but one. Three dragonspawn from the (not quite yet) Mad King and his sister-wife.
Rhaegar, Shaena and Daeron.
Gods be good, Rhaegar alone brought enough ruin and death for the whole of Westeros with his foolish actions.
What would the Seven Kingdoms be like with two additional Targaryen children? Could they even survive such a thing?
Once, when Maester Walys had come to check on my health, I decided to ask him a few questions, which hopefully wouldn't reveal the true extent of my ignorance, or would at least be passed off as just a side-effect of the winter fever.
"Maester Walys, I've a question or two to ask, if you'd answer."
The break in the daily routine of his visits seemed to improve his mood somewhat. "Of course, my lord. What is it you wish to know?"
"I've been rereading the Westeros: Kings of Old and New and at the end of it came across mention of King Aerys and his children. The Targaryens occasionally hold to the practice of marrying off their sons to their daughters, as was the case with the king himself. Has it been ever said why they do this and whether it will be continued in the future?"
"An odd question, my lord. Yes, it is true they do indeed follow such practices, even though they've converted to the Seven, back when Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters still lived, but the reason for it tends to differ. One Targaryen king said it was to keep the bloodline pure and strong. It was mentioned in the odd book or two that he did so because he feared they might lose their dominion over their dragons if they mingled with any of the Westerosfolk, be they Andal, First Men or Rhoynar. Another spoke that it was simply done in accordance with the traditions of Old Valyria, where such practices were common and wide-spread among the ruling families of the Freehold. As for His Grace, King Aerys II, it is said that on the day of his first daughter's birth she was betrothed to Prince Rhaegar."
"First daughter?" If my voice had faltered in the question, I didn't notice.
Rather than answer me, Maester Wylas brought up his wrinkled hand to my forehead and pressed his palm against it.
"Hmm, no heightened temperature," he mumbled to himself, before he addressed my inquiry. "Yes, my lord. His first daughter, Princess Shaena, was betrothed to her brother, the Crown Prince. Perhaps it was his wish to do so only for the heir, rather than every member of his dynasty, as neither Prince Daeron nor either of the Princesses, Daenerys and Rhaena, had been betrothed to anyone thus far."
I thought the world had gone mad when I knew Rhaegar had two siblings in a time where should have had none yet.
Now that I knew he had an additional two, and a Daenerys among them (I could only hope the coin had landed differently for her than the younger counterpart of whom I'd read about), I thought all my knowledge of possible future events was for naught.
Knowledge alone would not suffice. With grim determination, I realized I would have to do more than try to meddle in from the sides.
Shortly after my health improved Brandon was quick about trying to rouse me up for all manner of mischief. His visits to my chambers, when I was still bed-ridden, were few, but now that had changed. It was a distraction, one which I'd not needed, not now after what I'd found out.
He'd almost given up on me entirely until he saw me asking the master-at-arms for my weapons training to resume. The man had been quick to deny me, citing my health and lack of commitment from before, but Brandon overrode his opinion and said he wanted his little brother to join him in the morning exercises. I was given the impression this was not something that usually happened.
Brandon proved the better of us two, naturally. He'd already been practicing for two-three years, if not more, when I took up the wooden weapon and started learning the basics of sword-fighting. But I was nothing if not persistent. Or stubborn, depending on whom you asked. Time and time again wood would strike, clothed though I was in padded armor, and a bruise would form.
It did me little good, practice. I was just barely managing to be average at the best of times, and outright horrid at the worst.
As all brothers would, Brandon too took joy in teasing me. "Chin up, little brother, it can only get better." And then he had laughed, and his laughter was an infectious thing and I laughed alongside him. Despite the face I presented to Winterfell, to those that Eddard Stark would call kin and friends, I found myself missing my own family, my own siblings, even though they drove me to fits sometimes. It was a long road to fully accepting it, but I would never see any of them ever again. And so in the gaping hole of their absence, I embraced the family that was with me, here and now, rather than try and pointlessly long for that which could never be mine again.
So I laughed at Brandon's japes when they amused me and lied for him when I thought it necessary, as any brother would.
His face was filled with wonder and affection, after he had seen me spin a bold-faced lie to our lord father about whether I knew who might have taken a pitcher of wine from the pantry one morn when I'd gone in for a munch or two. Brandon was quite surprised by it.
Well, that and the incident with the Whitehill boy that followed soon after.
Racks of weapons lined the walls and long oak-wood tables were crowded with all manner of iron and steel, man-wrought for the purpose of wounding, maiming and killing. There was something serene about the sight. A purity of sorts that could not be denied.
When I left the armory behind I bid the men standing guard outside it goodbye and crossed the covered bridge, back to the Great Keep. My next destination were the kitchens, as I knew they'd be sparsely populated at such an early hour of the day.
Or not.
"— piss-poor sight, isn't he? The little lordling."
"Thinks he can swing a sword a few times for a few turns of the moon, as if that'll make him the Dragonknight."
"Brandon does the same, and his swordsmanship keeps improving."
I'd barely just entered the kitchens and found them to be nearly empty when I heard a pair of voices. Given that they were nowhere in plain sight, it was fair to assume they'd gone into the pantry and sat on some barrels. Were something else the topic of their discussion, I wouldn't have paid heed to them whatsoever. But fate, it seemed, had other things in mind.
"I'll give you that, but don't you think it strange how where one brother excels, the other stumbles around in mediocrity? I suppose that's the risk one takes with his children when marrying a close cousin. And that's not even the worst that could've happened. Imagine if he was born deformed or a lackwit. Come to think of it, one outta four 's not such a bad deal, so long as that one is the heir, eh?"
"Idiot!" his friend hissed at him. "If one of the Starks, or their men, heard you spewing shite like that, you'd get a thrashing. Or worse."
"Or worse," I agreed.
I was on the other boy before he even had a chance to turn around and face me. Older, taller and stronger, had he not been surprised by me appearing behind them, he could have prevented me from doing him any significant harm. But I was quicker, and full of wroth, my knee hitting his leather-padded groin while my thumbs went straight for his eyes. Fool that he was, he tried grabbing me by the wrists and pulling my hands down, but it availed him nothing, even as pain flared in my bones from the pressure.
Only when his friend struck me across the face, thrice, did I start to relent. There was blood in my eyes.
It couldn't have lasted more than a few brief moments, but the damage was done. By the time someone had appeared to separate us, the boy who so carelessly spoke his words of offense was wailing from the pain, writhing on the floor.
I was smiling, blood and all.
The action did little to endear me to Rickard.
"It was an ill done thing, no matter what the boy said. Control yourself better in the future, you're not a mindless beast."
"I'm not. And I've done no wrong."
I've not done enough, I wished to say, but knew better and stayed silent.
He looked at me, as if I was the opposite of reason, and then sighed.
"The boy was drunk. Even the best of men lose hold of common sense when plied with enough wine. Had you come to me and told me of it, I would have made my displeasure more than clear, and by sending him back to his home, his family would've known they were out of favor. Now? Now I must send the boy, crippled in one eye, back to his uncle and father, and my son's reasoning for doing so will seem like paltry excuse to justify his rabid nature. We are fortunate that he is but a nephew, rather than one of Lord Whitehill's own sons."
Remorse for what I'd done was absent, but I felt a shame, of sorts. "Father, I —"
"Leave, Eddard" he waved me off, "I've letters to write. Go to your mother, she has a few choice words of her own to say."
I bowed my head and left the Lord of Winterfell's solar.
The first thing that greeted me upon entering Lyarra's chambers was her hand. She did not strike me with great force and in the next moment, before I could even utter a single word, she embraced me. What followed was a feverish expression of concern for my well-being. She was less concerned about what I'd done to the other boy, than what could have happened to me in our short brawl.
"Lyam Whitehill is a fool, who seems to have raised an even greater fool for a son. He presumes much, using his brother's status to try and assert his position, feeble though it may be. You've won yourself no friend with the Whitehills and their allies. I doubt the Boltons will care much for what has happened, even though they're their liege lords, but they might yet use the incident for their own ends."
She had much insight to share in matters of the North, as I would come to find out in the coming months and years.
"Tell me, why did you attack the boy?"
"He insulted Benjen and Lyanna. You and father, too. He spoke badly of our family. Said we were akin to the Targaryens."
Lyarra placed a finger beneath my chin and bid me look up at her. "That is not what I asked, Ned."
I wanted to bow my head low, I wanted not to be facing those stormy eyes, but she wouldn't let me look away. "I don't know."
It was a lie and we both knew it.
Before the incident, I had been steadily working on bettering my relationship with Lyanna. She was not someone I could ignore, not if Rhaegar showed any interest in her come the tourney at Harrenhal, sister-wife or not at his side. It was so strange to look upon a girl so young, so small, and think she might be the spark that lights the fire that would consume the Seven Kingdoms.
I worshiped no gods, but I prayed all the same that Rhaegar Targaryen never came across any mention of prophecies in his life.
And so I watched over my little sister, keenly aware how important our relationship might be in the future. Yet I still could not shake the feeling of dread when I looked upon her, for she was yet another discrepancy in this world. Born only a year after Ned, rather than four.
We'd read books together, with Lyanna oft accompanying me to the great library of Winterfell. But she'd never stay for too long, and I'd follow after her, as she was ever drawn to the outside. The wild blood was in her, as it was written.
She craved the excitement, the rush of horses racing, the yelps and joyous screams.
More than once, we'd both been reprimanded and punished, in small measure, by our father and mother for riding in the rain or riding too far ahead from the Winterfell guards that were our escorts. The shared duties in the kitchen only served to make us bond quicker.
But Lyanna Stark was not all wilfulness and wildness. In her, I recognized a kind spirit, one that would lament the injustices suffered by others and herself, and would then try to right them. Many times did I hear her say "It's not fair!" whether it was when she brought up that Brandon and I practiced with weapons while she was to be denied, or whether it was one of the local smallfolk asking for help that was to be refused simply for the scarcity of resources up there in the North. It was a harsh life for any born to common men and women.
Lyanna seemed ever set on trying to change the world, without ever realizing what folly it would be to attempt such a thing on her own.
Yet I could not refuse her, no more than I could have refused the sisters of my first family. She would never have the strength of a full-grown man, nor perhaps the skill of sword-masters, but she had speed on her side and I could at least give her a chance.
In the mornings, my time was spent with Brandon, but my evenings were split between Lyarra and Lyanna. With one I learned ever more of the North and its lords, its ways and history. With the other, I taught. Though I was never that good at taking to lessons with a sword myself, Lyanna seemed a natural. She learned swiftly, and was better at evading the wooden blade.
Perhaps it was all just because she wished to avoid hiding the bruises on her thin frame, as they'd linger for a while.
Instead of the yard, we practiced in the First Keep. Abandoned and rarely ventured in, it was perfect for staying out of sight.
Once, I'd bopped her by accident across the shoulder a tad too strong and she cried out. Naturally that attracted a passing guard to take a peek inside and look about for any that might have been there. One hand across her mouth, to stifle any further cry of pain, we kept to the shadows of one the upper floors and waited for him to leave. When he did, Lyanna bit me on the hand and then laughed in a way all too hauntingly similar to Brandon. Wolf blood. What was I to do with the both of them? Protect and care for them, as promised.
However, our relationship changed for the worse, and looking back on it, I should have expected as much.
I'd evaded the notice of the guards and servants of Winterfell and under the cover of night snuck into the fortress. Not long after I'd settled on one of the few covered surfaces (a rug in very poor state) Lyanna came. Whereas I was keen to start with our practice and smiled at the sight of her, she seemed almost hesitant and wary. No smile to greet me back with.
"Is it true?" asked Lyanna, without preamble, staring into my eyes.
Her approach confused me. "Is what true?"
"That you attacked some boy, simply because he spoke poorly of you?"
That blasted affair, why did it hound me so? A few days had passed from since, and I'd already put it out of my mind.
"What? Lyanna, that's not it at all. Who told you that?"
"But you maimed him, didn't you?"
I refused to grit my teeth, but came close to it. "Yes, I did. What of it? Why care for a boy that insulted us all with such glee?"
"It was not just of you."
Just? She would speak to me of what was just when she was still a child in heart and mind?
"Should I have waited for him to spew more filth, wait until he spoke of our mother and father in far baser tongue? Mayhaps I only ought to have voiced my protest and he'd have ceased? His kind doesn't learn when reproved with words alone, they know and understand no lessons but ones taught with violence and fear." I could have gone further, but I stopped myself and sighed. "Enough, Lyanna. I would speak no more of him when we have far better things to do."
She stepped back "Not now. Not tonight."
Lyanna turned away and left, leaving me alone in the decrepit fortress.
There was no practice that night, nor the ones that followed after it. I went and waited many days, but Lyanna never showed up. A chasm had spawned between the two of us and I knew not of how to mend us back to how we were before.
The loss of a sister... I did not take it well.
Rickard and Lyanna might have disapproved, but Brandon was proud of me when he heard about it.
"The wolf blood," he'd said that very same day, when we sat next to each other at the table for dinner, "you're like me."
If he sounded relieved at that, that he was no longer the only wild Stark with a violent temper in the family, I paid it little heed.
In the practice yard, I had all but given up on trying to better my sword-play (it mattered not whether I wielded a bastard, a short one or a two-hander, I failed to improve), and had started looking to master one of the other weapons available from the armory.
After a number of times I tried my hand at several types of weaponry (the less said about axes, the better), I'd settled for a mace.
The Winterfell blacksmith was not pleased when I came to him and asked for one. Instead, he directed me to one of the carpenters who'd undertaken the task he set out, for a few coins, and presented me with my very first wooden mace.
Brandon thought me mad for choosing a weapon with a shorter range, but after a few times we'd fought each other, he changed his opinion and his preferred approach when fighting me. No longer could he try to dance around me as he used to, for fear of the mace's head smashing him with blunt force. After that, more often than not, Brandon would end up the one more bruised of the two of us.
Lyarra remained protective of me, though not to the point of smothering. Watchful, but always from a distance.
Even when I practiced in the yard with Brandon.
Twice she came to watch us have a go at it in person, but afterwards her presence wasn't quite so obvious.
I'd still spy her, looking down on the yard from one of the windows of the keep. Every time Brandon scored a hit on me, she would frown worryingly or clench her hands in the furs she wore across her dress. Every time I would go to her later in the evening and comfort her, assure her all was well and Brandon did no more harm to me than I would have to him if I'd the chance.
"Boys and their swords," she'd cluck her tongue, "foolish." Then she'd bring me close for another embrace, which had become a common thing whenever we met in private. We'd plenty of that, private meetings, as I hungered for knowledge and she was a veritable walking and talking library who volunteered all she knew without second thought to her second-born son, which was more than Maester Walys ever did, as he always seemed displeased whenever I inquired about certain matters.
The grey rat was oft put off when I asked about the North from times past (before the Targaryens came, before the Andals ever invaded) and the old ways, the old gods, the old tongue, runes, the children of the forest, grumkins and snarks.
"The past is the past, young lord Stark. We must ever strive to learn from it, but not seek to repeat it and its many mistakes."
No surprise there, that a Reachman would disapprove of the North.
Lyarra preferred to give her lessons on the North in the expanse of the godswood, most oft in front of the heart tree.
It was beyond words, the peace I felt in that place, before the carved face of the old gods, before that pool of black water. A haunting beauty, one to stalk my dreams in years and years to come. A place so ancient, what was my life compared to a mere tenth of its existence?
Much have I sought out the place for solitude and calmness, even more so after that night with Lyanna.
"Never worship blindly. Never follow a man's words on what the gods might wish of us. We are of the North. Our gods are of the earth and tree and stone. They were here before we ever set foot in these lands, and here they will remain, long past either of us."
Not strong, not omnipotent nor omniscient, but they were there, in every rustle of the blood-red leaves, in every creak of a branch.
Still, I did not worship.
"Why do you visit the godswood so often, mother?"
"To pay my respects. To pray, sometimes." She smiled. "To listen."
This was not merely tradition for her. This was not about merely emulating those that came before. This was belief.
Unshakeable faith. Were she of the South, I might have thought her a zealot, but the nature of Northern ways didn't allow for it.
Yet she believed, though at the time I knew not the cause of it, nor the source of her belief's strength.
Benjen I could not get rid of, no matter whether I was pouring through dusty texts in the Library Tower, if I roamed through the ancient castle and its towers and crypts and hallways, always in search of its secrets (in vain), or even at meal-times. He was like a tick, attached to me, intent on distracting me, stealing what little remaining time I had before I was to be shipped off south; but such is the bane of all older brothers, to be hounded by their younger siblings. I knew that well.
When Lyanna and I raced, he cheered us on. When Brandon and I fought each other, he whooped for whoever scored a hit on the other. Quick to make a jape, to make all around him laugh, to tease and to taunt... even as a four year old boy, Benjen was a trickster, waiting for the world to notice the japes it played on it. How could such a boy ever choose for himself a life with the brothers in black?
I could say that I merely tolerated it all, that all of them were a means to some vague end, but it would have been a lie.
And then it came, so suddenly. The day I was to depart from Winterfell was set, the arrangements made and my few belongings packed.
Lyarra and Rickard had spoken to me about it many moons ago. In a way, I both anticipated it eagerly and dreaded it. I was to be shorn from what had become a new home for me, yet if I were to remain in Winterfell, how much misfortune might befall the Starks?
Even if it had been a choice to be offered and contemplated, it was no choice at all, in truth. Not for me.
I'd given my farewells to Brandon and Benjen before I'd left the Great Hall. Benjen had not understood fully what a fostering meant, but he knew I was leaving and he was saddened by it. My own departure coupled with Brandon's, who would leave the next day early in the morn for his fostering with the Dustins, had dampened Benjen's otherwise cheerful mood and made him sullen.
Outside, a light autumn snow was falling, just enough to muddy the ground.
Rickard Stark had given me few words before I was to mount my horse, mostly about restraint and behaving myself properly.
Lyarra was the more affectionate of the two and did not shy from expressing it openly, by lowering herself and scooping me up in her arms and pressing me hard to her bosom. Her affection was returned when I wrapped my arms around her and promised to write.
When we separated, I had thought all partings and goodbyes had been done and dealt with, and I was set to leave.
It was not so.
Faster than I could see, or turn around to properly greet her, I had been suddenly enveloped in a firm hug from Lyanna.
I can't say I've forgotten about her in all the months of silence since our last meeting in the First Keep, but I tried not to dwell too much on her, knowing it would do me no good to try and force her to reconcile with me. I only wish it had happened sooner.
Not dressed appropriately for the weather, her smaller form hung off mine and her voice trembled in the cold air when she spoke.
"Come back safely, come back home to us, Ned."
Spoken in a different tongue, addressed by a different name.
I could almost forget that this sister of mine had dark hair and grey eyes.
"I will, and in the meantime, I'll write."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Tongue-tied, I gave a feeble smile to my kin from the saddle and on we went.
Winterfell was soon left behind and with it a part of my heart.
I had found out one unpleasant fact once we boarded a ship at White Harbor - where we'd been warmly welcomed by Lord Wyman Manderly in the Merman's Court - and set sail across the open sea: I hadn't the stomach for it. Whether it was because their method of crossing the distance over water was so antiquated in comparison to the world I was born in or whether I was just plainly seasick no matter what kind of ship I was on, it didn't matter, the fish were well fed either way.
What mattered, however, was the length of the journey to Gulltown. It was... more than I expected. More than I hoped, certainly. Two-three weeks in ideal conditions, so I'd been told, but the ones we encountered were anything but ideal. The first week had been fine, for while the sky was cloudy and the wind occasionally blew too hard, it was smooth sailing.
But on the tenth day, things started getting worse.
The ship was being beset by heavy wind and strong waves, and a storm was fast approaching from the south-east.
Many of the sailors still manned the ship atop, but the few passengers that there were, myself included, retreated below deck to the cabin we shared, under the captain's orders; not that I had any wish to expose myself to the elements to begin with, mind you.
As I was being occupied by the occasional dry-heaving into a bucket before me, I failed to notice when the captain had come down below as well. Only when he passed near one of my personal guards and was addressed by him did I pay any heed.
"We must find a place to set down anchor, soon, else we'll be smashed to pieces."
When I turned my eyes aside to look at the Winterfell guard that spoke, Wallace I think his name was, I saw that he'd grabbed the captain by the arm. A bad move, given that the captain was by no small measure the bigger of the two and could easily overpower him if he wished to do so. But he didn't, and instead the captain only gave a dark, meaningful look to the guard, who realized that he'd overstepped and released him promptly.
"It's just a storm," the captain's gruff voice boomed, "you needn't fret for your safety, greenlander."
The guard's face darkened at the monicker, but said nothing of it. That the captain was Ironborn came as no small surprise, but given that he was being employed by the Manderlys for my conduct to the Vale, I doubt he was ever a reaver, else his head would have been parted from his shoulders long ago. Of all the realms in Westeros, the North had the least tolerance for pirate scum.
"Bugger yourself, you salt-struck fool, it's not myself I worry about." The guard took one glance at me, and the captain followed the look with one of his own. "It's Lord Stark's son we have with us. An autumn storm is not to be taken lightly."
The captain viewed the guard somewhat less hostile than before. "Sailed before, have you?"
"Some, not much. Bear Island and the occasional trip to the Three Sisters."
"The Sisters, hmm. They spit in your stew?"
"And how do you tell the difference between the two?"
At that, both of them cracked a grin. There was no love lost where the Sistermen were concerned.
"Is there a port near?"
The captain stayed silent for a moment and then replied with, "Aye, there is."
"And? Why not press on there? Why risk the ship in a storm when we're already almost past the Fingers?"
"It's no place I'd choose to sail, if I could avoid it, if there were other ports close to us..."
"And are there any?"
"The Paps," the captain grumbled, "if we turn back now on and try to outrun the storm. Unlikely we'd succeed. Or we could try and navigate between the Fingers for some shelter from the weather, but we'd as likely find ourselves breaching the lower deck on some rocks. If this weren't in front of us, I'd set forth for Longbow Hall - they maintain a small harbor on their shores along with a small village - and stay there for a day or two, until the storm passed us."
"So there isn't really any choice to this?"
"No," the captain finally agreed.
"What's the name of this place that we'll be sailing to?"
"Witch Isle."
It was a quaint place, if anything. Neither large nor small, it seemed just the right size for the castle that was built atop it and the small copse of pinewood that surrounded it. Didn't seem as if it warranted any of its ominous reputation among the sailors. I could understand, to a point, that the captain had no wish to dock here in the first place, for there were few, if any, opportunities for trade and profit, but we were about to face a storm; not exactly a position where one gets to cherry-pick at leisure.
Once we had started to approach the island, the storm had seemed to ease up a bit, though the rain still fell as hard as it did on open sea, and the crackle of lightning was heard anew after each flash that tore through the night-sky. But we were safe now.
The Lord of Witch Isle was nothing if not courteous, even before he learned of my presence on the ship.
I was up on the deck when some men arrived, shortly after the ship had been secured, asking if there were any who needed the care of a Maester, if the ship was short on provisions and such. After taking a few moments to look at them, I saw they wore fine steel and iron, and all of them had the resident lord's coat of arms decorating their front: a field of black, with a cresting sea-green wave across it.
Men from the castle atop the isle's hill.
I might have pondered a bit more about their lord had Irritation not flared in me as the Ironborn captain turned to look my way when the Maester had been brought up. I may have been a boy of eight in the flesh, but I was a man grown in soul and mind, with pride and ego to match. I shook my head curtly enough and the matter was dropped as the captain resumed his talks with the other men.
But the guards had noticed our brief exchange and they looked upon me with more than a cursory glance.
Once the direwolf's engraving was spotted on my chest and the men that accompanied me, an invitation to the keep followed.
Harras Upcliff was a man much like any other, but a rare breed of a lord, as I would come to find out.
Bald and clean shaven, with pale green eyes, he was not particularly tall, but tall enough to a boy barely eight years old. I couldn't guess accurately at Lord Upcliff's age; at the very least he had to have been in the fourth decade of his life, if not the fifth. The crow's feet around his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth told as much. A widower and a lord that kept to his own domain, lest his liege called upon him (a rare event indeed), he greeted me when I arrived to his forefathers' halls.
"Hail, Eddard Stark, and be welcome. Bread and salt are yours, as is wine and water. Come, sit."
A place was made for me at Lord Upcliff's table, next to his son and heir, Ulwyck, who wore his hair long and loose, but his beard short and trimmed. One of the ships we'd seen in harbor was his own, The Sea Green, gifted to him by his father upon reaching majority, which was now six years behind him. He had the curse of wanderlust in him, from what I could tell.
Ulwyck wished to sail forth towards distant waters and explore little-known and unknown lands.
"Qarth, Yi Ti, Leng... even now, so much remains unknown about them. The books speak scarcely about them, and whether that is because the Maesters have little knowledge about them, or something else entirely, is unknown. It is a shame though."
"Would you then sail east, as Corlys Velaryon once did, and visit fabled Nefer?"
At that, Ulwyck scoffed. "I've no fleet to follow after me, as he did, nor the funds to hire new ships along the way. And though the Sea Snake had sailed much of the world, he limited himself on purpose. His purpose might have been two-fold - to explore and bring back riches - but it didn't take long until he turned back with his holds full. Explorer by happenstance rather than design."
Of the three daughters Lord Upcliff had, the eldest, Rhea, was a gracious host, albeit she was interested in me solely due to my ancestry and thus our conversation at her father's table was kept strictly non-personal. I didn't blame her for a lack of interest, given that she was my senior by seven years in this world. She was a fine conversationalist and easily roped me into discussing the odd bit of history or two regarding my family, while the others dined and talked amongst themselves.
"But what if the Pact had been upheld?" she posed a question, one of many, to me. "What if Cregan Stark had taken a Targaryen for his bride, rather than a Blackwood? Strange, was it not, how he settled for less than what was promised and owed."
I shrugged. "Who knows? It was for the better perhaps, safer even, to wed a woman of the First Men, than one of Valyrian blood, especially so soon after the Dance. And in truth?" I leaned closer to Rhea, as if to conspire of fell deeds; a comical sight for one so young as myself. "I'm not fond of the Targaryen coloring. Would look quite unseemly on a face as plain and long as my own."
She snorted and wine almost came running from her nose. That attracted the attention of Lord Upcliff's second daughter.
Arabelle tested my patience. It would be people like her that would often make me forget my apparent young age in this world. She did not like me, I think, or rather she considered me not at at all, but kept her feelings veiled behind her southron courtesies. Always so proper, always so polite, even when her eyes betrayed boredom while she sought to entertain me. Her father's bidding, I suppose.
But where her sisters were women grown, the youngest one, Ursula, was a skinny little thing with her father's eyes, and though all her siblings had black hair, Ursula's was that of young wheat; fair when bathed in the rays of sun and light of fire, dark when shadows fell upon her or storm-clouds obscured the sky as they did now. Whether she emulated her siblings consciously or not, she resembled them in the most innocuous of ways. Like Ulwyck, she too had a curious nature, if aimed in a different direction, but was less blunt, more sly.
"Lord Stark," she'd addressed me, "would you mind if I were to ask a few questions of your home?"
What a strange feeling, to be referred to as such, when Rickard and my brother still lived. "Not at all, ask all you like."
What a mistake that turned out to be. Her charm she used to full extent, until I found myself telling her all that I knew of Winterfell. In truth, I wanted to speak of it too. For while I may have had the boy's memories of the place, experiencing it was something entirely else. Exploring the castle, wandering across its walls, going up its towers, wandering through the vast and dark godswood... I was filled with much awe.
Even as I told of it, I saw part of that awe reflected in Ursula's eyes.
"I should very much like to visit Winterfell's godswood. It sounds beautiful."
"It indeed is, Lady Ursula," I replied, not noticing a small stiffness in her posture at being addressed so.
Before I could continue our conversation, Rhea once more started throwing questions at me and before I knew it supper was over and it was time to retire to our respective chambers. Just as I was about to lie in bed for the night, someone knocked on the door.
"Enter," I called out, somewhat surprised at this late hour visit from whomever it was.
'Whomever' turned out to be Ulwyck, looking oddly serious.
"Eddard Stark, my apologies for keeping you from sleep. I'll be short."
"And yet, you're still quite tall, Ulwyck Upcliff," I japed nonsensically, to bleed off some of the tension that came out of nowhere.
It worked somewhat, as his mouth didn't seem quite so sternly leaning towards a grimace anymore.
"I come to offer my apologies."
Now that was surprising. "I wasn't aware there was anything to apologize for. Your father hosted us most graciously, welcomed us to his halls when the ship's cabin would have sufficed. If anyone should apologize, it is me, for not thanking you properly."
Ulwyck just shook his head. "It is the least we could do for a guest of your esteemed rank."
"Then I suppose we should thank the storm for arranging this meeting between us." His mouth turned to a soft, brief smile. Well, I suppose I could repeat myself. "So please, if you would, tell me what you think you ought to apologize for."
"Ursula," said Ulwyck, frowning. "She overstepped, but meant no insult. Her eagerness overcame her manners."
Blinking confusedly, I asked, "Overstepped? She but asked a few questions of my home and I answered. No insult to be had."
"She ought not to have been so bold with a lord, even one so young as yourself."
I felt like I was missing some piece in the puzzle that was our conversation. "Why not?"
"Because she's a bastard and she ought to have known better."
Ah, there we go. "I suppose this has something with me calling her a lady then, yes? I assure you, no offense was taken. Nor do I mind her having been seated at the same table as me. Given that you all were sitting there before we'd even arrived, I'd interrupted a family dinner, and so I should be the one to offer apologies. Natural born or not, no one should be forced to sit apart from their kin."
Seeing me so easily accept that there was a bastard girl seated at a table for highborn, that she dined at the same table as I, that she conversed freely and boldly, and that I took no offense at all, made all tension dissipate from Ulwyck almost instantly.
"Not many in Westeros possess such attitude. Not in the Vale, for certain. Bastards may be acknowledged, but they are rarely brought to their parent's home. If you don't find me intruding too much, might I ask if this is the behavior one could find common in the North?"
"In truth, I could not say. As far as I know, I have no half-siblings, and I've not traveled to the keeps and holds of other lords. For myself, I hold nothing against any bastard, save if they prove hostile, as no child ever chose what side of the bed they were born on."
Having said that, I felt all too pompous, like a peacock, and invited Ulwyck to sit down and talk with me some more about his half-sister. From what little and his sisters knew, the girl was conceived while Lord Harras was traveling abroad, in Pentos. Their mother having died years and years before that, they had little issue with accepting the newest arrival as it slighted not the late Melyssa Moore (a raven haired beauty from whom the three of them inherited their hair), and Rhea and Arabelle took to her keenly, glad for yet another sister. At times, it lead him to despair, to be surrounded by sisters from all sides, but Ulwyck gave off the impression he wouldn't have it any other way.
Much like myself, then.
We stayed up for another hour or so before realizing how late it was and then bid goodnight.
We didn't wait two days for the storm to pass us by. We waited four. The wind and hale grew so harsh outside that even the men that previously slept on the ships docked in the harbor left them behind and settled in the modest inn for a short time, while satiating some of their baser urges in the local brothel. By the end of my stay on Witch Isle, I learned quite a bit about the Upcliffs.
Like the Royces, the Redforts, the Hunters and several other families of the Vale, they too were descendants of First Men.
A bit of a grim and bloody past, rumors of witchcraft and sorcery, but then again that sort of thing was present even in the Stark family history. Tended to happen with any longer-lasting families, it seemed. Some bits of their history made me curious, I admit. A notable member of their bloodline was actually married to a ruling Arryn of the Vale to bring them into the fold. One had to wonder why that was necessary, why the Arryns didn't try military subjugation rather than vassalization through marriage. Rhea had no answer to that.
Arabelle was... well, Arabelle. Our relationship didn't change by much, she wasn't any more interested in me than she was before.
Ursula had a wide grin on her face whenever she saw me, hounding after me, asking me all manner of things. Why she thought I knew the exact number of trees in the godswood, which spanned three acres, I have no idea. She asked the oddest of questions.
"Would I be welcome up North?" she asked one day as we sat in the castle's library.
Shrugging, I replied, "I couldn't say. Depends where you might wish to go."
"What about Winterfell? Would you show me to the godswood, if you could?"
"If I were there, and not in the Vale, I would." It is not as if she asked for much, and no one likes to shatter little children's hopes and dreams. Yet they ought to be tempered with a measure of reality. "I cannot guarantee anything if I am not there."
"Then, when you go back North, for a visit or otherwise, I might come and visit too and you'll show me the heart tree."
Her interest struck me as odd. I didn't inquire on matters of faith with the rest of the Upcliffs, but I assumed they worshiped the Seven, like the other First Men descendants that intermarried with the Andals that invaded and conquered the Vale.
"Do you pray to the old gods or the Seven, Ursula?"
She laughed at that, a small tinkling sound echoing in the silence of the library. "How could I, without a godswood? There's a septry here, but it's not used much. Besides, from all sides we're surrounded by the sea. Would be odd to pray to either of them."
"Do you worship any of the gods then?"
Ursula bit her lip and looked unsure of herself for a moment. "I don't worship or pray. But I like talking to the Lady."
Besides the broad specifics of some of the faiths in Westeros, I knew nothing about them. "The Lady?"
She rose from her chair and took me by the arm, pulling me up. Having nothing better to do, I followed. We didn't go far, just barely past the library, to one of the nearby windows, from where we could see the open sea, in rage, waves rising and falling.
"The Lady of the Waves. It's said that storms are the result of her bedding the Lord of the Skies."
A bit of teasing was in order. "What must their children be like then?"
For that I received a light slap on the arm and a giggle from Ursula as we turned back towards the library.
We were seen off by Lord Upcliff when the storm finally passed. Along with his children, he came down to the harbor. Ulwyck had this expression of pure longing on his face, watching The White Gray, our ship, prepare itself for departure. Not longing for a ship like it, I think, but rather the chance to set out. In the few days I spent in his home, he expressed some discontent with being forced more and more often to remain at Witch Isle, learning ever more of his lordly duties, when he'd rather be out sailing. Rhea and Arabelle were perfect ladies, whereas Ursula had discarded her courtesies ever since she came to know I cared not whit about her being a bastard.
Harras Upcliff had to gently clear his throat before his youngest tore herself away from me.
To show I was not bothered, I smiled and returned the hug, albeit less enthusiastic than Ursula's.
"Remember what you promised," said Ursula.
"I promised nothing," I corrected her, and when she frowned I grinned. "But I'll see what I can do."
Satisfied, she nodded. "Good!" And then she moved back to stand with her siblings, while her father gave his farewells.
"You shall always be welcome to the Depths, Eddard Stark. Whether I still rule, or my son has succeeded me, know you have made yourself a friend with House Upcliff. It has been some time since any of the North came to visit, but we shall remember you."
"Thank you for your kind words, Lord Upcliff. For what it's worth, you have a friend in me as well. I can promise little, for I know not what future awaits me, but if I should ever hold lands and a keep of my own, you and yours shall always be a glad sight to see in them."
They were no kin of mine, but that didn't make them any less fond to me. The little tyke, most of all. She reminded me of Lyanna.
I told Wallace as much, who shook his head and replied, "For your sake, let us hope otherwise."
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Chapter 2
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
When I'd first come to White Harbor I thought it a bustling place, even though I knew it was the smallest of all the cities in the Seven Kingdoms, but then we arrived to House Grafton's port city, Gulltown, and its teeming mass of humanity and White Harbor could not even begin to compare. It was not merely the scale of it, nor the number of folk passing through. It was the constant flow, the ebb and influx of men and women, Westerosi and Essosi, the noises... Though the common tongue held sway, passing through Gulltown's streets, I could still hear the occasional conversation carried in bastard Valyrian and other foreign languages.
There was a brief meet with Marq Grafton, the Lord of Gulltown, head of the Andal family that ruled these lands. Neither cold nor particularly welcoming, all the same he gave us bread and salt and we spent one night under his roof before giving thanks and setting out for the Eyrie. Whether it was common courtesy extended to any noble-born venturing forth from Gulltown, I know not, but we were offered fifty men to accompany us on our way to the Bloody Gate, as a precautionary measure against any Mountain Clan attack.
The men from Winterfell breathed easier once the Grafton men joined up with us. These were not city guards for whom tavern brawls and troubles of the smallfolk were the only enemies they faced, but seasoned soldiers, who waged war and killed on their lord's command. They wore a number of varying armors and weapons, but no one could contest they were all battle-tested.
Yet they would crumble all the same in the onslaught and fury of the stag should history, that I alone knew of, repeat itself.
Still, no reason not to be grateful to the man, even though he didn't know it might eventually pave the way to his doom.
Along the way, Wallace remarked to one of the other Northman guards, when he thought he was out of reach of my ear, that perhaps the Royces might find some offense to us not visiting their lands and keep, while we chose to dine with an Andal lord. I thought it a foolish thing if they did, for I was only a second-born son, and not the heir of the North. Still, once acclimated to the Vale and its people, I suppose a visit or two would be in order. No need to estrange the high-born descendants of the First Men that remained in the South, especially ones that had married off their daughters into the Stark family and wed daughters of Starks in equal measure.
Our company did however stay two days at the Redfort (one more than necessary, due to poor weather) where I was welcomed as if I was a son of their own liege lord. The castle was clearly of First Men's design, with a distinct lack of round towers, built from red stone that was mined from a quarry in Redfort lands. Not very creative when it came to names, were they?
Never did I think I could miss the sight of plain, grey rock as much as I did while dwelling under the roof of Redforts.
Lord Horton was a most gracious host, dining and wining the men of both Stark and Grafton. He was not too sure how to converse with me, leaving to his heir, Jasper, to engage me at first. Given that the boy was a few years younger than me, and we had only so much to talk about, our conversation did not last long. But once the Lord of Redfort had perceived I was somewhat unusually more mature than the average eight year old (highborn or not), he talked to me more often and freely.
His lady wife, Gwen Arryn (not of the main branch), was not much one for talk of Northern things and excused herself early in the evening.
When we left the halls of Lord Horton, it was with an additional two dozen men-at-arms that bore the Redfort coat of arms.
Little wonder then that our journey to the Bloody Gate was undisturbed. Sadly, the good fortune that followed us ever since we docked in Gulltown had taken a leave of absence once we came face to face with the Knight of the Bloody Gate.
"Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" a man's voice boomed from the bridge above the road.
The gate was shut, its portcullis down and armed, armored men lined the walls, bows and crossbows at the ready.
Personally, I thought the posturing was a tad silly. We had not the numbers, nor the intent, to try storming the Gate.
"Men of Winterfell, Gulltown and Redfort, escorting Eddard Stark, son of Lord Rickard Stark, to the Eyrie for fostering with Lord Arryn."
Had any other been the commander, that was where the exchange would have ended and we would have passed without issue.
I could not see all that well from afar, and I did not have the advantage of a higher perspective, but something was going on in front.
"Who among you has the authority to come and treat with the Knight of the Gate?"
What? What treating was he talking about? He was supposed to order the portcullis raised and let us through.
The men in our company, Vale and North alike, seemed confused by this as well.
After several minutes had passed with no reply, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I lightly nudged my horse and rode onwards, ahead of the column and the men that surrounded me. There was a brief moment where the Winterfell men seemed ready to shout and beckon me back, but one determined look to the man that led them, Wallace, had them keep their voices down.
"Hail, Knight of the Gate and men of the Vale. I am Eddard Stark and I ask permission to enter your keep, to come and treat with you."
I could scarcely hear what they talked about, but I imagined it wasn't really anything flattering.
What could they think of a child riding ahead of a company of grown men and thinking himself fit to treat with anyone?
"Eddard Stark," the same voice from before spoke again, "you have my permission. But bring only yourself and no other, else the gate shall be shut once more. I, Ser Cleyton Lipps, vouch for your safe return, providing no blood is spilled."
"I accept."
Onwards I rode, before the Bloody Gate, waiting for the portcullis to rise.
When it did, it was only by a small fraction, just enough to let me pass and as soon I was through it was lowered back down.
Once dismounted from my horse, I was taken by two men-at-arms to meet their commander in one of the twin watchtowers.
Cleyton Lipps was tall, even while sitting down in a chair. Resting against the nearby desk was a greatsword, which I presumed to be his own. My eyes were drawn to the oddest sigil I've ever seen on any banner: atop the blue background, which I presumed to be part of his coat of arms, laid a pair of pink lips. Another time I might have snickered at the sight.
Not now, not when this ser barred us passage for no reason.
He was a fairly ugly man, with the left half of his upper lip missing and an ugly red scar rising from bellow the collar of his coat and armor and reaching up to where his left ear should be, yet nothing but scarred flesh remained. Before the injury, he might have been a better looking sort, what with his dark blonde hair that sat on top of his head and the beard that covered much of his lower face, save the places where the scar tissue from the wound laid.
"Ser Cleyton," I greeted him, but received no greeting in return. He sat there and watched me.
Judged me.
Loathed me.
Hated me.
He'd have liked nothing better than to use his two-hander and split me open, from face to groin.
'Twas a wonder I was not already in the ground.
"Ser Lipps," he corrected, voice rather surprisingly lacking in anger, but still rough.
I inclined my head in respect, as false as it came, and repeated, "Ser Lipps."
His eyes narrowed by a margin before he asked, "Tell me, Eddard Stark, how was your journey thus far in the Vale?"
It was no polite inquiry that, but I was clueless as to why. "With the weather fair as it was, a pleasant one."
"Pleasant weather, yes," he muttered into his beard. "On your way to the Bloody Gate, did you stop at any place in particular?"
Nodding, I said, "Aye, Ser Lipps, we did. First at Lord Grafton's keep, in Gulltown, and later we were hosted by Lord Horton of Redfort. Both of the lords were kind enough to give us men to accompany us through the Vale, until we reached the Bloody Gate."
He was mulling over my answer, though I knew he had to have seen, from up high, the banners of both Valelords among the men.
"Very kind of Lord Grafton and Lord Redfort indeed. There had been some sightings of the mountain savages these past few months, and had it been just you and your Northmen, no doubt they'd have chanced an attack in the night, hoping for good spoils." Then he smiled, a thing uglier than his face, with his yellow tinted teeth showing. "Provided they did not think you one of their own. From afar, I imagine there's not much difference, draped with furs as you are and not one Faithful of the Seven among the lot." He chuckled darkly.
"Even had they thought us one of their own, no good would have come of that, Ser Lipps. These clansmen you have, they're little different from the wildlings that plague the North with their incursions and raids past the Wall. We have no tolerance for their kind."
"So you say," said Cleyton Lipps. "Hmm, no men leaving the camp in the night then and returning at dawn?"
"None, Ser Lipps. All men of Winterfell are loyal to the Starks and I doubt any true Valesman would consort with a clansman."
"Of course, of course, 'tis as you say, Eddard Stark, no true Valesman would." He sighed, as if tired of it all. "Very well, you shall have passage, as well as bread and salt should you choose to spend the rest of the day and night with us here at the Gate."
As with much false content I could muster, I replied, "Thank you for your offer, Ser Lipps, but the day is still young and past the gate, we shall be lessened in numbers and travel swifter, so reaching the Gates of the Moon would be no problem."
He looked at me, his expression somewhere between scorn and amusement. "Do as you like, boy. Oh and welcome to the Vale proper."
Cunt should have been moon-tea'd and then the fetus thrown to shadowcats as a ball of yarn to play with.
Once outside the watchtower, I saw the gates being raised and the men beyond sighing with relief as they started slowly riding forward.
There we parted with our escorts and thanked them for their efforts. The men of Gulltown chose shelter and rest for the day, while the Redfort's quickly turned away and without a single exchange of greetings between them and the gatemen, left on their way.
When we were sufficiently far from the Bloody Gate, Wallace rounded down on me.
I told him all I could about Ser Cleyton Lipps and could only offer guesses as to why the man grew angry at the sight of us.
"Don't matter why, he's not right in the head, acting like he did. Didn't even pay heed to your rank, my lord."
"He has command of the Bloody Gate, and for all I know might hold the post for many more years. I saw no reason to foster any enmity with the man. If all I had to do was ignore his lack of decorum and his obviously foul mood, 'twas of no consequence at all."
Or so I at least spoke, but I don't think Wallace believed me for a second.
Gates of Moon were a sight to behold. It was hard to imagine castles and moats built in such a mountainous area, yet there it was. From rock to rock, its walls stretched, high and strong. A stout castle, with two towers nestled against the mountain rock, sitting alongside the large gatehouse, and four more, larger and taller, in the back. How could one even begin to besiege this place?
We've had no issue here and passage was granted swiftly, along with an offer to spend the night, which was taken.
Lord Nestor Royce was barely polite towards me, but ultimately it concerned me little so long as he didn't act cuntish like Lipps did.
During meal-times in the Gates of the Moon, I spoke very little, only when addressed to. The occasional scowl, a hushed exchange and odd glare or two... none of it phased me. They could think what they like, these prissy ninny little twats, and I'd sit all proper, smiling while imagining what delight it would be to drive spikes through their eyes. Sad, how low these once-First Men had fallen.
We left as soon as dawn broke and gave our thanks to Lord Royce; as much as I might've given a Frey.
Even from below, the Eyrie itself inspired awe. Much like Winterfell, though significantly younger and smaller, it too seemed to hail from a distant, almost mythical age, when feats of wonder (and horror) were far more commonplace.
Seven slim, white stone towers, crown-spikes of clouds upon which the Eyrie rested.
The way to it was almost as treacherous as southron court games.
Beyond the Gates of the Moon, across goat trails, through forests and caves, past Stone, Snow and Sky... up and up we went.
A sense of childish wonder and awe beyond measure (and vertigo too) filled me at the sight of the Eyrie.
Reaching it had been no small feat and it was not just I who sighed with relief when we finally entered the Eyrie's halls.
Our journey was over, but my true task had only just begun.
The dozen of Winterfell men were given refreshments. Lord and Lady Arryn were currently indisposed and would be joining us later in the High Hall. I sat with the men in the Crescent Chamber, warming my bones beside the fire, but didn't partake in any of the food, and only drank some watered wine. I never thought I'd long for a single cup of cold and clean water as I did when I arrived to this world.
Not an hour past, two servants came, one to fetch me and bring me to the High Hall and the other to show the guards their assigned quarters in one of the towers. I bid Wallace and his men goodbye and goodnight for the day and followed after the servant.
Though late in the day, the sun still shone brightly and illuminated much of the austere hall through the narrow arched windows.
The iron sconces held lit torches to chase away what few remaining shadows there might have been in the white marble hall.
There were several tables placed around, a few for those of lower rank, honored servants and guards, with benches and one for Lord Arryn himself and other noble-born guests, where both benches and chairs were used as seating.
And beyond that, at the end of the hall, on a raised dais, rested the weirwood throne of the once Kings of Mountain and Vale.
There he sat, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East, Jon Arryn and his lady wife Rowena Arryn.
Old, but not humbled by his age. Stout and sturdy, firm and unyielding as the mountains that populated his realm. Sharp, clear blue eyes and bright blonde hair that was only just now turning towards the distinguished silvery grey of the man's many years.
His wife was significantly younger than him, a woman just past her mid-twenties, whose beatific features shone undiminished.
I went forwards a few steps, knelt before the Arryns and bowed my head. "Lord Arryn. Lady Arryn."
When no response was forthcoming, I raised up my head, fearing yet another bad impression. But no, it was not that. The Lady of the Vale was smiling down at me, amused by something, and her lord husband had a corner of his mouth crinkling towards a smile too.
Then Jon Arryn laughed. Not a booming laughter, but a heartfelt one.
"Stand up, Eddard Stark. By the gods, boy, I thought Lord Horton's letter an exaggeration."
Somewhat confused, I rose. What had Horton Redfort written of me to Jon Arryn, and why had he done so in the first place?
"Lies and slander, he can't prove anything." That stunned both of them and now they were the ones looking confused until I cracked a grin. "Forgive me, Lord Arryn, this jape in poor taste. Lord Redfort has been a most benevolent host when he received us under his roof, and he went above and beyond common courtesies when he provided us with his own men as additional escort to the Gates of the Moon."
"Most precocious indeed," said Rowena Arryn, "my lord husband."
Jon Arryn rose from the weirwood throne and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Come, we shall eat and drink now."
Servants were called upon and set the table, filled it with food and beverage aplenty.
Wallace hadn't joined us for the feast, one of the serving women relayed. None took offense at that, thankfully.
When the feasting had started in truth, the hall resounded with echoes of various conversations, chewing and drinking.
Lady Arryn ate like a little bird, sparingly, talking with a few of the noble-born ladies that sat near her. From time to time, her eyes would stray my way and she would grace me with one of her faint, benevolent smiles. But her eyes belied the facade she presented.
At the head of the table itself sat Lord of the Eyrie, and I sat on the closest seat to him. There weren't many words spoken my way, but what few there were I returned courteously and genuinely. If this was how he behaved at all times with Ned, no wonder he came to think of Jon Arryn as his second father. How could he not, indeed, when he spent more than ten years in the Vale?
"Lord Arryn, if I don't presume too much, what of Lord Baratheon's son? My father told me he would be fostered here as well."
After taking a deep sip from a goblet of wine, Lord Arryn wiped his mouth clean and replied, "Yes, Steffon Baratheon is sending his boy here too. Robert would have arrived already had there not been an outbreak of storms down south. They'd been troubling the whole eastern coastline for the past few months. But now that they've passed, I imagine we'll be seeing him here in a few weeks."
I'd hoped that Robert would be already here, as much depended on developing a friendship with the boy, tying the Stormlands and the North together in ways unrelated to marriage alliances and any such nonsense. And I didn't even want to begin to contemplate that.
"Your lady mother, I trust she is well?" inquired Rowena at one time during the meal, surprising me with the question.
"She is, much of her weakness since my brother's birth has left her long ago."
Whereas in the unchanged timeline she died shortly after, plagued by weakness from the birthing bed, here she lived.
"And you've a younger sister? Lyanna, correct?"
"I do, and you are, Lady Arryn."
"Do tell us of Winterfell and the North. None here have seen much, if at all, of that region, and would appreciate a tale or two."
A bard I was not, yet I tried my best to frame my thoughts aptly enough. Certainly, not all were truly interested, and I don't think Lady Arryn was either when I first started to speak, but that changed with her once I'd described the glass garden and blue winter roses.
If I should ever go and visit Winterfell while my fostering still lasted, I promised to Lady Arryn at least one of them as a gift.
The conversation went off from there, with myself sharing a tale or two of my adventures and mischief with one of my siblings.
It was a good day in the Eyrie and I had high hopes for my fostering, more so as nothing was spoken of the Bloody Gate incident.
Would that it could have stayed that way forever.
When the Lord and Lady of the Vale retired for the night, they went to their shared chambers.
Twice her age, Jon Arryn was, but unlike any other lord in that he did not covet Rowena's flesh for its youth. While his eyes might roam her body appreciatively, as any husband's ought to, there was no dishonor in that, no mockery of their vows with the basest of carnal needs.
They had not loved each other at first, what with being wed to one another out of necessity and convenience rather than love, but with years passing by, with Jon and her coming to know each other, it had become a marriage filled with affection.
Now if only it could become a marriage with children.
Rowena wished to give her husband at least an heir of his own, if nothing else.
There were voices, whispering, even in the Eyrie's court, who would swing subtle jabs her way about the lack of sons and daughters.
Harridans and hagglers, they would see her dethroned and some other, more to their liking, adorned with the cloak of falcon.
Jon, sweet and gentle with her, made it harshly clear that no such thing would ever happen. "I have an heir," he had told them, "in Elbert Arryn and any who think him not worthy should come out and say so here and now, like men. If they are men in truth."
No one said anything again to Jon Arryn about an annulment. But they still weaved their webs, spindling like hags.
For threatening the happiness that she made with her husband, she'd see them cast out and destroyed.
"What do you think of Rickard's son?" he asked her that night after they were done with their husbandly and wifely duties that had long since ceased being duties to both of them.
And as she prayed after each time, so too did she pray again then.
A plea to the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone; to the aspects of the Seven-in-One that mattered most to womenfolk.
Prayers spoken in vain, as they've been every time, but she did her duty nonetheless and kept with it, hoping for a different outcome.
"Young Eddard?" she replied, only her head above the blankets. "He has a certain charm to him, but his eyes look a tad too sharp at people, assessing them and their worth. Were he the heir of his father, it could be understandable, but he is not and so I worry."
It was not a lie, but nor was it the whole truth. The boy's eyes spoke of a sharp mind, a mind that would remember grudges, a mind that would not allow Cleyton Lipps much leave. She'd use that, as she would anything, against Ser Cleyton. He was no ally to her, despite the oaths of allegiance to her lord husband. Along with others, he too sought her removal from the Eyrie, befuddled and led astray though he was by his late wife's sister in such folly. But deceived or not, he was her enemy, and the likes of him she would not abide.
Jon took her hand in his beneath the covers and brought it to his mouth where he kissed her on the knuckles. "My lady wife, what keen eyes you possess to see so much on a boy of eight. I think it more likely that he is cautious after passing through the Bloody Gate. I had received two ravens about him, contradicting each other. Where Redfort praised the boy, Ser Cleyton had little good to share. Lack of decorum, disrespect for his elders and a nature of low cunning. And yet we saw just the opposite when he arrived."
"He is still grieving, I think," said Rowena, honest in her assessment of the man. "The wounds are still too raw to heal and seeing the Northmen, garbed as they were, it could not have been an easy thing for him. And yet... he ought to have known better, to try and badger a son of a Lord Paramount. Luckily for him, Eddard Stark seems to bear him no grudge or gives no second thought to their meeting. Gracious of him, if true." It would not take much for the boy to remember the slight, and if it were to be kindled into something more, well... she could hardly stand to lose from any enmity that spawned between the two.
"We shall see, my love. Wait and see, that's all we can do. I hope that he and Robert will get along fine when they meet."
"Boys will be boys."
Would that we had but one of our own to speak so of, my love.
She uttered not a word of her thoughts, but her husband knew her well and saw it when her gaze grew wistful.
Comfort and care he provided forthwith, love freely given.
The difference of years mattered little in the dark, when shadowcats prowled the night and wolves howled at the moon.
It would be three weeks before Robert arrived. In that time, I took to exploring the Eyrie as I had Winterfell when I first woke. Naturally, I wasn't granted the same liberties or had as much free time allotted to myself, as Jon Arryn considered the various lessons, taught by Maester Osric, a man younger than Lord Arryn but well educated and adept at teaching, an important element of one's upbringing.
I could not say I disliked the man, but I didn't care much for the knowledge he tried to impart to me. What possible use was there for knowing whether it was the Sons of the Mist or Sons of the Tree who failed in their raid on Ironoaks? This was information dating back more than a century, but Maester Osric spoke of it as if it still held some significance to the present.
Hearing about children being fostered was one thing, experiencing it another.
Listen to me, whining like a petulant child. Was it the youth of my body influencing my moods or just the fact that many saw me as a child and would view me as such for the foreseeable future that turned me grumpy? Bah, there was no use thinking about it.
One non-maester related activity of which Jon Arryn had approved was my weapons training. Trying to better my sword-play was an endeavor in futility, so I had given it up, for now, and wholly embraced fighting with a mace. It lacked the finer points in footwork, and relied more on innate strength of the wielder rather than turning of the wrist, the angle and swing of the blade.
Good for smashing armored foes, as well as any less so well-equipped.
The mace that the Winterfell carpenter made for me I turned into a ruin through sheer number of solid hits against the hardened wood and so I had been given a replacement.
The Master-of-Arms had given me a pensive look before doing so and asked to see how I handled my usual one. Once I proved adequate enough, or so he judged my performance out loud, I was tasked with practicing anew, this time wielding the real thing.
It was a simple flanged mace, but it weighed heavily on my arm and I could not use it for more than a tenth of an hour before the muscles of my arm ached and my fingers lacked the strength to hold onto it properly in a firm grip.
In addition to the exercises, meant for increasing my stamina for the weapon and general endurance, I was also told that I'd not receive a partner to spar with until I could go at it for at least half an hour with no obvious sign of being tired out.
I had a few choice words for Master Narbert, but wisely kept them to myself.
Being that the Eyrie was nestled on a mountain peak, the air was thin and rare, which made my end-goal even harder to reach.
Yet still I went at it, like a mad dog.
I was practicing with a mace against one of the wooden dummies in the Eyrie's yard, adjusting my body to exertions required to wield such a heavy weapon, when the company of two dozen men had arrived to the castle. Soaked with sweat, and panting, my lungs burned for air.
All I could think of was a nice hot bath, and how I would just dip into the tub, wishing I was back in Winterfell where at least the warm springs beneath the castle provided quick and easy access to heated water, while here it had to be warmed with a fire lit from beneath.
I didn't see the boy clearly when he approached me and so when he clasped me by the shoulder I was startled and reacted poorly.
Owing more to surprise than anything else, the boy's nose had been bloodied when my elbow rammed itself into his face.
"Bloody 'ell!"
Seeing his state, I discarded the mace and shield promptly, letting them fall to the ground (an act which had seen me earn kitchen duties before, by order of Master Narbert) and grasped him by the forearm and pulled him up.
"My apologies, I didn't see you there. You'd come out of nowhere behind me."
Squinting with one eye from the pain, he looked at me with his remaining one narrowed. "You poncy arse-pissant!"
And then he lunged at me.
Tired as I was, I could only give some meager resistance whereas this boy was wrothful and simply slammed his fists at my face.
The end result? Not a pretty sight. Could have been much worse if one of the guards hadn't notified Master Narbert, who lifted him off me and told the guard to keep him restrained. I couldn't even see him before me properly, dazed as I was from the battering.
As I stood before Jon Arryn, with one of my eyes swelled up and my nose broken and set right, I managed to take a proper look at the boy who attacked me so ferociously. Blinking with my one good eye, disbelievingly, I started to laugh. No doubt they thought me mad.
They just couldn't see what was so funny about a brawl between a son of the North and the heir to the Stormlands.
In a different world, Robert Baratheon was a great (and flawed) man. When reading about him, one could understand how he might have so easily turned foe to friend, but his prepubescent-self, scowling and frowning at me by his side in the kitchens, was far from that.
Jon Arryn wouldn't have assigned me to kitchen duties were it not for Master Narbert who insisted. At the time, I only cursed the man for it, never knowing he actually had it done solely for my own good. Years later, I would understand that I had been going at it wrongly, trying to push myself to the point of blackouts, at such a high altitude. At the time, well... I was not much better than the average child.
I brooded. I trained with sword, mace, bow and horse. I brooded some more. I attended my lessons with Maester Osric. Then I brooded anew when Robert had joined us, needing no catching up or so they said to me at least. When he proved too willful for the Maester, Lord Arryn himself had stepped in. Seeing the young, largely-built boy being almost frogmarched into the room by the elderly lord made my nose twinge with echoes of pain as I laughed. Naturally, that won me no points with Robert, nor with the Lord of the Eyrie.
It was an uphill battle, trying to foster some semblance of friendship with Robert. Terrible of me, I know, but I tried playing on a future weakness of his: drink. I'd nicked a sack of fine Arbor gold from the kitchens and offered to share it. The cunt ratted me out to the cook.
Which again saw Lord Arryn's respect for me diminish further.
Of the highborn in the Eyrie, I remained on good terms only with Lady Arryn, who was oft enough the one to remind me about writing my monthly letters that were to be sent to my kin up North, and occasionally asked me to accompany her on her walks.
Fueled by rage and irritation, I craved weapons practice, but Master Narbert kept making me leave earlier and earlier, thus preventing me from building up the stamina necessary for an even longer practice session. I was angry, angry at the world that seemed ever destined to foil whatever attempt I made at bettering my situation. This went on for nearly my whole first year in the Vale.
Then, as the seasons were slowly turning from autumn to winter, I fell ill and it all changed.
I could hear Maester Osric's voice somewhere from above me, telling someone how it was the winter fever come again.
Knowing absolutely nothing of Westerosi diseases and common illnesses, I thought it something that would merely pass with time.
It didn't. With every day spent in bed I felt my strength leave me, my will to live sapped by an enemy I could not fight head on.
They tried skirting around the issue when they were around me, but after one meeting with Lady Arryn I knew the truth.
"I am sorry," said Rowena sincerely, "there is nothing we can do." She lowered herself and kissed me on the brow. Something on my face must have shown some of my thoughts for she spoke again. "You deserve the truth, not lies or false hope, not now."
"Thank you," I replied feebly. I watched her leave the room, sorrow clear on her face.
This wasn't how it was supposed to end. I wasn't torn from my kin only to suffer a fate as ignoble as this.
What would become of Brandon? Of Lyanna?
The Starks had become a family to me, and should events come to repeat themselves, all would be lost.
What of my promise?
Days turned to weeks and the end was approaching ever nearer. "Tell my family I love them." My voice was raspy and weak. No amount of fluids, herbs or medicine would restore my health to what it once was. "Tell my sister that I am sorry that I didn't write more."
A woman that was looking over me could not stay and begged excuse to leave the room, tears held back at the brink from falling.
There came a day when sleep overtook me and I was ushered into the embrace of a familiar darkness.
Dark wings, dark words.
The letter crumbled between her fingers and fell to the floor. Rickard was there, quickly appearing from behind to keep her standing when her legs failed her. In his arms, she wept for their boy, cursing the world for its indifferent cruelty. But not all was lost. Not just yet.
Lyarra pulled herself together, summoning strength and willpower to see her through the ordeal.
"Ri—"
"No," said the Lord of Winterfell. "Do not ask this of me again. Not if you care for our family at all. Think, just for a moment think what this could mean if it ever reached the ears of any outsiders. We are not so far removed from the other realms that we would be ignored."
"Damn their gods, damn the games of court, damn them all, Rickard, and remember that we are of the North. The North! We are not foolish to put stock and faith in gods removed far from sight and heart. Ask any Northman! Even the Manderlys would not deny them!"
"This is not about denial. This is about appeasment. You would bargain with forces beyond our ken. For all that they are our gods, do you think their ways resemble any of ours? That they do this simply because you offer something? Is it even our boy anymore, Lyarra?"
Weak she might have been, troubled by the turmoil in her heart, but a hard slap she still delivered to her lordly husband's face.
"When Benjen comes and asks for his brother, when Lyanna asks for a letter from him to arrive, what will you tell them? What will you tell Brandon when he asks why Ned is dead when we could have prevented it? He's our son, and you should be ashamed to have ever questioned that. Born of my womb and your seed! Or do you doubt the loyalty of your wife? Think him another man's babe?"
Rickard Stark, no matter appearances, always had a soft spot in his heart for Lyarra. Never doubting her, never ignoring her. Theirs was a marriage of both politics and love, a rare thing to be found in the Seven Kingdoms. Always, they were together. Of the two, he was one more inclined to do the pragmatic thing, to follow the rational and common-sense choice. Of the two, she was ever the believer.
Like all Starks before him, he prayed to no gods but those of weirwoods and heart trees.
But he did not believe.
Not even as he watched the man given to the gods. Not truly. Not until he saw his son's health restored.
He did not address the ancient, and inhuman, presence that he felt observing him through the carved face. He acknowledged no being of higher power nor sought to plea or bargain with them for anything. Men were what mattered for him, men and their lives were what he weighed for the final count, whether they served him, furthering the interests of both his family and the North, or opposed him.
Only men. No gods.
At least, not until Ned had fallen ill for the first time, just a few weeks short of his seventh nameday.
One night, when all had seemed lost and in his heart he'd already buried the boy, his wife came to him.
"It's madness," he told her, "what you speak of. It is not done. It has not been done, if it ever was, for hundreds, if not thousands of years."
"That we know of. Why would they inscribe it in books, where others could come across it?"
More to assuage his own guilt, than anything else, for giving up on their child, he gave her permission to do as she saw fit.
He accompanied her, along with three of his most loyal men, down to the dungeons. It was Rickard who denied him the Wall, Rickard who ordered the men to knock him out and drag him to the godswood, where Lyarra already had a blade ready, shining in the dark.
He partook in the cup of madness, despair driving him to that final gulp. Or so he told himself afterwards.
Ned lived, but Rickard could no longer gaze at the child and think of him as he did before. It wasn't that he had changed since his awakening, all children were subject to abrupt changes at such a young age, but that Rickard could not look to the boy's face and eyes with sincere affection. What right did he have to it, to claim anything from Eddard when he'd done his grieving while he still lived?
"I have never doubted you, nor do I do so now. Forgive me, my wife."
Lyarra relented, knowing some of her husband's troubled mind, but regretted nothing of what she said, so long as it saved their child.
"There is nothing to forgive." She placed a hand on his face, cupping his bearded cheek. "I would know your thoughts on this, as always. This is not something that concerns just myself. I've known all along what risks this carried for us, and yet I would do it again, with haste. If you but let me. I cannot, I will not, do this without your permission. We are either one of mind on this or we are parted."
Manipulative of her, they both knew it, and the outcome easy to predict.
"We are one," he whispered in the shadows of the candlelight. "You've my support in this, as you did before."
Lyarra was no maid, no more than he was a lad, but she still showered him with kisses and half-hushed words of affection.
The things he did for family and love.
I woke to the light of sun on my face.
Much like the first time I awoke in this world, I felt weak and my throat was sore and raw.
There were people coming and going, but no tears or sorrow made themselves known on their face. Rowena Arryn was smiling once more when her visits to my sick-bed resumed. The first time she was accompanied by her lord husband, who looked relieved as well.
"You are looking well, Eddard," said Jon. "Osric says the worst of the fever has passed and you'll be back on your feet in no time."
"Though not quite fit for the practice yard, I'm afraid," added Rowena somewhat sternly.
The servants coddled and attempted to spoil me. They'd grown somewhat fond of me, I suppose, what with us seeing much of each other whilst I was performing various duties in the kitchen and around the castle during my punishments. They fussed about me as if I were one of their own's babe. The serving women's attentions were in particular hard to fend off, especially in my weakened state.
A fairly humbling (and humiliating) experience was when I needed help in getting a bath. I was carried in the arms of one particularly old woman, who looked as if she might be Jon Arryn's grandmother. I grumbled, yelped and complained, but the hot sponge bath was ultimately very soothing and I was eager in ridding myself of the sweat and filth that accumulated on my skin.
"All that fussing about, milord, when you know it's good for you. You remind me of my boy, Samwell..." she would go on after each time. By the time I no longer needed her assistance, I knew and remembered more about Sam than he probably did himself.
Little by little, I managed to leave my bed, and always with an escort, lest my body tired too rapidly and I lost my footing.
What few encounters I had with Robert in those days were civil enough, without either sniping at the other, even though I had grown jealous of him in a way. Just a year older than me, just a ten-year old, and one could easily see his future large stature. Sprouting like a weed, that one, and bulking fast in muscles too. Granted, no surprise there, given that I heard of his ever increasing sessions in the yard with Narbert. Strangely, he had not yet taken to a warhammer, and was content to learn sword and axe and shield.
My ninth nameday had come and in celebration of it (and my fortuitous recovery) and the tenth anniversary of Aerys' reigning as king, Lord Arryn was arranging a small feast, which would be attended not only by the folk in the Eyrie, but a few of his bannermen as well.
He claimed they were coming round for some affairs of the realm, and asked me if I would mind their presence, as if my thoughts truly mattered or that he'd give them any consideration. What a strange man he was, to be so accommodating to a child.
Still, when he had none of his own, I suppose that was his way of compensating. Or perhaps a form of atonement for the rift between us before I fell sick. Either way, I planned on taking full advantage of it and placing myself further in his good graces.
I'd given up on trying to force a friendship of any sort between myself and Robert. It did me little good in the past and the relationship we had for now, after my bout of illness, was amicable enough. No longer snapping at each other and brawling. An odd change, I admit.
In the meantime, I had letters to read and letters to write in response.
Among the lot from Winterfell was Benjen's, Lyanna's, Lyarra's and, surprisingly, Rickard's.
Brandon had sent a letter too, from Barrow Hall in Barrowton. He wrote to me of many things, amongst the chiding he gave me for falling ill yet again and coming so close to death's door without his permission. One of them was how he'd had his first kiss. Bartered away, as it seemed, for a night out when he'd been caught by some serving woman's daughter. He talked how silly the whole thing was, yet didn't say anything about whether he liked it or not. Knowing his temperament and future proclivities, I knew he'd come to like a whole lot of things to do with the womenfolk. I just prayed I wouldn't become an uncle in the next few years or so.
Lyanna's letter had a feverish tone to it, asking me a dozen questions about my health, whether I'd be returning home now that I was better. In addition to that, she spoke how she coaxed one of the guards (blackmail of some sorts, I imagine) to let her occasionally into the armory, so that she could look upon the weapons within. Safe to say, looking was not all she'd done. She tried a few of the weapons, but found much of them to be heavy, especially the ones made of iron. In reply, I wrote to her to give attempt at lessons with a bow; surely our father couldn't begrudge her that little, and if it would help I could write to him and mother about it.
Benjen's was full of nonsense, as befitting a boy just barely five. Some bits were written in his own barely legible scrawl and others in our mother's hand. He had a lot to say and a lot more to ask. Writing a reply to him was quite the effort. How does one talk to toddlers?
The letter from Rickard was oddly sentimental. Not the sort of thing I expected from the man, but I guess coming close to losing his son once again shook him up. He asked about my lessons with both the master-of-arms and the maester, how I was getting along with Robert, whether I was giving Lord Arryn any problems, and so on and so on. And then, near the end of it, he told me that should I wish to follow my mother's wish, I only had but to reply in my letter so and he would arrange it all.
This vague mention of whatever Lyarra wished of him confused me until I'd taken to reading her letter. She didn't say anything outright, but a lot of the wordings in the letter struck me as odd. Thanking the old gods for my better health, she asked if I would come to Winterfell once my nameday feast had passed. Not permanently, but because she had much to share with me, things I ought to know even while I was being fostered in the Vale. The vagueness and the mystery intrigued me. Seeing no reason not to, I told her I would come home, for a month or two, and would be going back to the Vale before winter could truly set in and prevent me from doing so.
Once I was done with it all, I set out on my morning stroll through the Eyrie. I avoided the outside as the wind blew slightly too strong for me, and I wished not to catch a cold or anything so soon after I'd gotten out of sick-bed. There were many parts of the castle that made me feel as if I was the only person there, something I would come to appreciate much when I craved my self-indulgent solitude.
One of those times, I was unexpectedly joined by Jon Arryn on one of the enclosed balconies.
I was staring out into the distance, noting the movement of clouds and how they obscured the mountains surrounding us, when I heard footsteps behind me, deliberately made louder than necessary, so as to not startle me and send me stumbling or tumbling over.
"Lord Arryn," I greeted him.
"Eddard," he nodded in return, "my wife tells me you wish to return to Winterfell for a short visit."
"I do, my lord. My mother had asked me to come and I could not find it in my heart to deny her. I apologize for the inconvenience."
He waved it off. "It is no inconvenience. Winter will be soon here and the whole of the Eyrie is doing their packing, readying the household for our descent to the Gates of the Moon. For all the grandeur about the place, it is a most uncomfortable home in the cold season. We shall depart together and from the Gates I will send out a company of men to escort you to Gulltown. A number of clansmen had been sighted along the road, scouting mostly, but also readying themselves for a raid. No doubt they'll want to pillage a merchant's caravan, for they are in dire need of supplies, but their ways will avail them nothing and we shall see them repelled."
"Winter is coming," I echoed my family's words.
"Aye, that it is, lad. Let us head back now to the High Hall, our guests should be arriving shortly." Surprise was probably fairly obvious on my face as he continued to speak. "Yes, I'm afraid you've lost track of time. Be grateful to Marya," the old serving woman, "she was kind enough to tell me where to find you."
"I will, my lord. She has been of great help to me lately. Perhaps... perhaps you could tell me if there was something she wished for, something with which I could repay her for the aid she'd given me in these last few weeks of my recovery."
"A modest gift would suffice, if you feel so indebted to her. She'd accept no coin from you, it's been some time since she'd taken any from me or my father. Old crone, even when I was a boy myself, difficult to appease, save when heeding her words. Like all women, she likes that best. Now, come, we must be off."
I laughed at the small jest and we went on our way.
At the feast I saw many, many faces.
Some known and most I would only come to know that day. The latter of which I mostly recognized by their coats of arms.
Of the highborn lords, I recognized Lord Horton Redfort. From his place at the main table he raised a cup my way and took a deep gulp, smiling. Marq Grafton was there as well, which I thought odd as reaching the Eyrie in such weather from such a distance meant his business had to be important. With him, there was only a exchange of nods before he took his seat near Jon Arryn. The places closest to the Lord of the Eyrie were filled by his most closest friends and allies, including his heir, Elbert Arryn, whom I'd met briefly.
Lady Arryn herself was surrounded by a dozen or so noble ladies, none of which I'd seen before and I could only guess to their identities by looking to the men with whom they came to the feast. There was a Waynwood woman there, not quite Lord Arryn's age, but close. Lord Redfort's wife was sitting near as well, along with a Belmore, a Grafton and a Royce, the last of which'd come in the company of Bronze Yohn Royce himself. When he'd entered the hall, my eyes were drawn to the man and the bronze, rune-engraved armor he wore.
I'd hoped for making a better impression on the man, but judging by the apathetic glance he gave me I wagered he'd heard something of me from the Royce that commanded the Gates of the Moon. Pity. Perhaps I ought to have made that brief stop in Runestone when I first arrived to the Vale after all. Fortunately, I had years and years ahead of me to work on bettering our relations.
Aside from Robert, myself and a few of the serving-folk's sons and daughters, there were no other children present. Not that I truly minded, I'd had enough of contending with Robert and trying to steady our rocky relations, and could not spare much effort for any other if they'd been there. Yet surprisingly enough, it was with no child that I made friends that day, but a man of Arryn.
Denys Arryn. From what I could recall his marriage was one for pure gain, that only time would tell if it truly worked out for the best. Having married a niece of Jon Arryn himself, a girl by the name of Janyce, he had moved up in the world significantly.
We didn't come across each other directly. I was having some talk of Winterfell with Lord Redfort and Denys had politely eased himself into our talk of the ancient castle before realizing who exactly, and how young, I was. Appraising of my verbosity and apparent maturity, he'd only started to talk to me out of politeness, as this was after all, in part, a feast for my nameday.
But as time passed, he found himself laughing whenever I made quick jape of someone; nothing too maliciously of course. I'd come to learn he'd arrived to the Eyrie on his own, his wife left at home, what with being with child and of delicate health. Travel would do her little good and he wished not to expose her to the elements or the threat of a clansmen raid in the night.
As I would come to find out more intimately in the next few years, Denys Arryn was the epitome of a knight. Or at least of what a knight ought to be by Westerosi standards. Charms, jousting, the whole package. Darling of the Vale, they'd name him. I admit, my interest in him grew once I heard Lord Redfort sing his praises as far as jousting was concerned. He'd already won three Vale tourneys, one with meager competition, and two where highborns educated in martial arts competed against each other, so it was justly deserved praise.
Then and there, I decided to do my best and convince the man to teach me all he could about jousting, one thing I was sorely lacking in. Granted, I had just turned nine years old and most of my experiences on the back of a horse consisted of racing against Lyanna.
As I moved about, listening to nobles air their amusements and petty grievances, I stopped abruptly once I came across a rather familiar, rather ugly, face. Though he didn't acknowledge me I knew Cleyton Lipps had seen me looking at him.
Like the other nobles he wore a finely-made doublet, his a deep blue, which made his coat of arms look even preposterous than I remembered it to be. How in the seven hells did his ancestors think a pair of pink lips to be anywhere near appropriate for a banner, I've not the slightest idea. I stayed out of his way as best I could, as I had no intention of disrupting the peace of Lord Arryn's feast.
Not unless provoked.
Soon enough, I wasn't the only one who noticed him. Most of the lords who greeted him were genial enough, but a few gave him unpleasant looks that others might've thought rather rude in such esteemed company. Some of the ladies, both the married and the unattached ones, spoke of the man (convenient how unnoticed you are as a child when keeping quiet) wistfully. Apparently, he was considered quite the looker before his disfigurement. Ever since the event, he'd become a private person, not as outgoing as he once was.
Before I could hear what exactly was the cause of this change, and who exactly had wounded him so harshly, I was tapped on the shoulder and turned around to face whomever it was. Admittedly, the last person I expected to see willingly speaking to me was Robert, yet there he was, asking me to follow him to one of the unoccupied corners of the hall. It didn't take long for us to reach it.
"Gah, finally, I thought we'd never get out! All that perfume, how can they even breathe?"
"What?" I asked, a tad bewildered at the topic he chose.
"All those," he waved his hand about, indicating the group of ladies that I was eavesdropping on, "women and it's like they're competing with one another to see who chokes first and runs away for some fresh air."
It was not particularly funny, not truly. Yet I smiled all the same. "Your lady mother doesn't use perfumes?"
His nose crinkled, voice sour with dislike. "Nothing like those. At times, there's a light scent of trees from our gardens around her, but it's not such a strong smell that could make a man gag. These... these are like snakes, waiting for you to choke so they could gobble you up! And their hands! By the gods, if one more of them tries ruffling my hair I'll shear them bald!"
Robert's rage, or rather tantrum, was most amusing, much much better than the japing from a moment ago.
It was so easy to fall under the boy's charm, the easy camaraderie he exuded in such surroundings.
"I presume you'd rather be doing something else?"
"Yes! Anything! I'd even go find Berthram and ask for plates to wash, anything but this!"
"At least you have weapons practice available to you. I'm forbidden from coming anywhere near it in the foreseeable future."
His blue eyes looked me over, taking measure of me before they rose back up and met my grey ones. "There's that at least, aye. But you'll be rejoining us there as soon as the Maester says you're healthy enough. Master Narbert said as much."
"Truly?" I asked, the tone of the word giving off my skepticism.
"Said it'd be a waste if you were made to just sit around in dusty library when you were making good work in the yard. All that effort you put in before would go to waste, and you know the man, he hates nothing more than being wasteful."
Just as I was to reply to him, Robert's face shifted to pure glee.
Turning around to see the cause, I witnessed a pair of children, presumably our own age or close to it, slowly approaching us.
"Alric, Adria!" Robert called out to the boy and girl.
I'd seen them earlier in the evening, but didn't give them more than a few fleeting glances as my eyes roamed the hall. Up close, I could see that their clothes, though of decent make, weren't exactly the type that children of nobles wore. The material seemed worn, washed oft enough that it'd left small traces on the collars and sleeves. But that was irrelevant, in truth, for what could I say on other people's choice of clothes when I still dressed in, more or less, plain leather. The one I was wearing that night was a gift from Lyarra, and the direwolf's head pattern was sewn in with a grey thread over the field of white that covered the right side of my chest.
Robert had his family's colors in full display too, but his were much easier to work with, and the proud black stag on a field of gold was practically placed everywhere possible, from sleeves, to collars, across his chest and I think there were some on his boots.
Say what you will about Westerosfolk, they certainly took their heraldry serious.
Which is what gave away the girl and the boy of being lower rank, what with the absence of any insignia on their blue clothes.
I was surprised when the girl disentangled her arm from the boy's, went forth and hugged Robert, and hoped I didn't show it.
"We missed you, Robert," said Adria. She then pouted, playfully I think. "You've not written us, and you said you would."
He'd responded well to her hug and returned it promptly, but when she said that he almost stammered. "Not on purpose, I swear. It's just — things were so busy here at the Eyrie, and Lord Arryn took me right from the start to study with him. And," he turned his gaze towards me for a moment and held it there, grinning, "I've had other diversions as well."
"You've not even introduced us to him, Robert. Who is your friend?" asked Adria, a small note of chiding for the oversight.
Alric, it seemed, was content in keeping quiet and observing the exchange up to that part.
His eyes, dark in the poor lighting, moved away from Robert and Adria and met mine, as we took in each other. Beside the aforementioned clothes that denoted his rank, he had wavy, dirty blonde hair, like the girl, though hers was much longer.
I presumed them to be either siblings or first cousins. They shared too many features for them to be anything more distant.
"Right, forgot myself." He cleared his throat. "This is Eddard Stark, also a ward of Lord Arryn. Eddard, this is Alric and Adria, friends of mine."
A brief, awkward silence abruptly forced itself between us. At hearing my name, the girl's genial smile turned rigid and the boy frowned.
"Eddard Stark," said Alric in a weak voice, "son of Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North."
Lacking anything better to say, I merely affirmed the statement. "Aye."
His frown grew more pronounced. "Father's mentioned you."
Boys so young ought not to frown, it looked unnatural. And I didn't like the sound of those mentions at all.
What cause had he to disapprove of me, this father figure of his?
The girl seemed to be equally disapproving of me, and though she did her best to hide it behind a smile, sourness tainted the expression.
"You're quite right, Alric. Father did say something about a Stark in the Vale, didn't he?"
Tired of this exchange, and the vague tone of their words, I asked, "And who is your father?"
I didn't expect Robert to give reply nor did I even think the name, "Ser Cleyton!" could be part of it.
But then I heard a person approaching behind me and understood it was no reply. He came to a halt a few feet shy from us.
"My lord," the rough-voiced knight greeted Robert, head inclined with respect, his eyes glancing in my direction but once before he directed them to other children before him, "you're well, I trust? Enjoying the hospitality of our Lord Paramount?"
Robert's face was filled with cheer when the Valesman addressed him. It was most unsettling. And disgusting.
"Oh yes, Lord Arryn's been good to me, though I wish he'd allowed me more time in the yard with Master Narbert!"
A sensible chuckle was Cleyton's response. "Be patient, my lord. You'll be a guest of Lord Arryn for quite a while, there'll be time enough for that. And you mustn't neglect your other studies either, after all, you'll be a Lord Paramount yourself one day."
Oh gods, why was Robert all but preening at this man's words?
He must have noticed my gaze on the two of them because Robert thought it a good time to introduce us two.
"Ser Cleyton, beg pardon, this is — "
"Eddard Stark," Cleyton named me, eyes still as disdainful as ever when they fell upon me. "We've met," he added and turned again towards Robert, "or do you think, my lord, that someone else held the Bloody Gate just so shortly before you arrived as well?"
Looking a tad abashed at the mild rebuke, Robert stayed quiet. But Cleyton didn't.
"And now it seems he's met my youngest as well."
Oh fucking hell.
"Alric, Adria, you've presented yourself properly, I trust?"
Whatever rigidness there was about them vanished as the boy bowed and the girl curtsied towards me.
"Milord," said Adria, "do forgive us for our lack in decorum. It was not on purpose, but from joy at seeing our friend."
This was a worse insult than whatever disrespect they did on purpose before, for falsity from others angered me like nothing else.
"Nothing to forgive," I replied with an easy smile on my face, "quite understandable that, from someone with your upbringing."
This was supposed to be a celebration. Not much chance for that now, I'm afraid.
Gretchell Waynwood was a gossip-monger. She might have as well have been born a fish-wife, for all how fast her mouth ran, eagerly jumping from one topic to the next, unveiling half-rumors and half-truths to any and all that listened, as if they were her flock and she their septa.
Rowena didn't despise her for it, but the girl was still an annoyance she had to suffer that night, amongst many others of her kind.
Still, at least it gave her ample time to think things through while listening to perhaps every other word that the girl uttered.
Anya Waynwood was there too, somewhere, eluding Rowena's questing eyes in search of the Lady of Ironoaks. Always moving, that one. Always turning the wheel. Thankfully, the old woman was one of those who were firmly in support of her and Jon's marriage.
Not in spite the lack of children produced from their union, but rather because of it.
Elbert Arryn had naught but a daughter with his Ruthermont wife, and were anything to happen to him, the next in line for the seat of the Eyrie and the Vale was Denys Arryn, who'd married a girl that was sired by a Waynwood and birthed by Jon's sister. Having wedded the girl for no other reason than pure ambition and bettering his station in life, he depended much on the good graces of Waynwoods.
He seemed like a good man, given what she knew of him. Mayhaps with time, he'd pull away and be his own man. Mayhaps not.
It was useless to entertain the what if's, they only made everything messier.
She decided to listen more attentively to her companion, lest Gretchell noticed Rowena's mind being on other things.
"— dashing forth, like a pronghorn! Of course, Luthor detested the comparison and told the man that —"
Well, nothing new there, the girl was still going on about her last visit to Gulltown, where she met some sellsword or another.
Rowena could have warned her, but the silly girl wouldn't have heeded her words, thinking herself the more wiser of the two, despite her age. If things went the way Rowena thought they might, Gretchell would end up with a bastard in her belly and her lover would vanish more swiftly than snow in summer. Then what? Sobbing and bawling her eyes, Rowena supposed, and then married off to a minor noble or a knight.
Her eyes scoured the room, taking in everything of interest: Jon with Lord Horton and Lord Marq at the table, worry clear on his face; Denys and Elbert conversing and smiling, as if they were not both hoping that the other be a victim of an unfortunate rock-slide; Bronze Yohn, with his bulky plated armor sitting on a bench, whiskers dripping with pork fat from the meat he still held in one hand, and by his side — Ah, she was not there before — sat Anya Waynwood, nodding and shaking her head as they exchanged words. Perhaps arranging a betrothal or a marriage? Yohn did have two boys, with the heir just a year or two shy from his majority. Never too soon to look for a proper wife, and the gods knew that the only thing more fertile in the Vale than its farmlands were Waynwood wombs.
On and on and on it went until...
She'd not have even looked that way had she not seen a servant, ill at ease, with an empty plate coming from that corner of the hall.
There, just beneath a row of torches were her husband's wards. But they weren't alone.
She refused to let worry show on her face or panic of any sort, yet she felt it gnawing at her from the inside. For how could it not, when Ser Cleyton Lipps was there, with his spawn. Hmm, at least his good-sister was absent. Wise of her to stay put in their lands.
And the little chit, she clung to Lord Steffon's boy as if he were the only thing separating her from the ledge of a cliff and its enticing bottom.
Not even flowered, yet looking for a husband to wed. You've trained her well, Ser Cleyton.
He was a worse fool than she thought if he was hoping for a union between his daughter and a son of a high lord; he was going to be sorely disappointed. Or perhaps the man had no such ambition, and merely wished to foster good relations? Who could say?
No, these were distractions and she shooed the thoughts away, as she took to slowly, but surely, redirecting Gretchell and herself on the path towards the small gathering. Whatever Ser Cleyton's plans, they'd not be allowed to come anywhere near fruition.
But as she approached near them, and moved away from the noise of the crowd, Rowena Arryn grew concerned.
She didn't know the boy as well as she might've wanted, but the tightness of his smile and the hand that he held behind his back, a tightly wound fist, coupled with his grey eyes that now resembled harsh, cold stone... it was worrying.
Surely, Cleyton was not making that much of a fool of himself.
But if he was... she'd seize the chance.
Closer and closer they approached and even Gretchell seemed to notice where they were headed, shutting her mouth for once.
She was about to address them when the boy, Alric, moved one step, in a fairly threatening manner, towards Eddard.
"— our better?" his weak voice was filled with much scorn. "You're fooling no one."
"'Tis not a hard thing, you know," Eddard nonchallantly replied, "to be better than you. All it requires is good breeding, and well..."
His smile was mocking the boy, taunting him to lunge and he might've, were it not for the father pressing a hand on his shoulder.
"Peace, my son. Let the boy speak his mind, let him show his true nature to all. Breeding, he says. What a big word, for a Northman."
In the middle of it all, poor Robert looked so confused and torn. He couldn't quite decide on which one to support, or if any. And the Lipps girl, whispering in his ear, didn't help matters either. Before things could escalate further, Rowena decided to step in.
"Ser Cleyton," she said and the man turned on the spot, presenting his ugly (and only, as far as she was concerned) side to her first.
He bowed his head as little as possible, before replying, "Good evening to you once again, Lady Rowena."
Always Rowena, never Arryn, as though not speaking her family name would somehow diminish or deny her. The fool.
"What is the meaning of this? I come to see if our wards are enjoying themselves and find you insulting the one for whose nameday this feast was arranged, in part. You're showing yourself in poor light as a guest, Ser Cleyton."
Lipps feigned confusion. "Was it truly, Lady Rowena? And yet at the beginning of the feast we toasted to King Aerys II, long may he reign, to his health, to his wife, to his many children and to many more years of prosperity on the Throne. I recall naught of any mention of a nameday, for anyone. As for my conduct, do forgive me, Lady Rowena. A mere misunderstanding here, no offense was intended."
He had a point there. It was not presented as such to the bannermen that came, as Eddard had asked if it were possible to not bring it up during the feast, but they still knew that Lord Rickard's son was celebrating a nameday, even if somewhat privately.
Words. So many words with which to excuse himself. So many words for one who was supposed to be a knight.
"Is that so?" asked Rowena. "You'll excuse me if I were to ask another's opinion on that." Cleyton thought he had the know of what she would ask and whom she would ask, but she surprised him. "Robert, would you care to explain what happened?"
The Baratheon boy looked more torn than ever, eyes fleeting from the girl still holding onto his arm, to her brother and father and then finally to Eddard Stark, who looked at Robert almost indifferently, dispassionate... but he was not quite apt at playing the game as he thought himself to be. He looked to Robert with hope. Hoping that he would tell the truth. Hoping for a friend.
Robert Baratheon opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Ser Cleyton interjected, "If we had offended you, my lord, I ask for forgiveness on behalf of my son and myself. We spoke without thought, and it has led us to this. Once more, my apologies."
It could have ended there, prevented the troubles ahead, if only Eddard Stark chose a different reply.
"No," said the son of Rickard Stark. "No, you don't have it, neither of you."
And then he turned from Cleyton Lipps and walked away from it all, but not before giving his thanks to Rowena for the intervention.
In the wake of his leaving, Robert looked crushed, no matter what the girl said in a hush to him, and his eyes followed Eddard as he walked through the hall, before he was lost among the crowd of servants and lords.
"I trust I needn't instruct you not to badger the boy any further during your brief," she put emphasis on the word, "stay at the Eyrie?"
"No, Lady Rowena. We shan't approach him, unless he asks us to do so first." He turned to his children then. "Come Adria, Alric, you've not eaten properly yet and there are still some folk that I'd like you to meet." To Robert he said, "My lord, until we meet again."
"Ser Cleyton," started Robert, "I —"
"Worry not, my lord" replied Cleyton, voice no longer so rough, "we shall be as we were before, friends, if you wish it still."
"Friends," repeated Robert after him, somewhat uncertainly, eyes sliding off the Lipps' trio, trying to find Eddard.
"Do remember to write this time, Robert," said Adria, leaned forth and kissed him on the cheek, which the boy barely registered.
"I will."
"Robert," the son of Cleyton said, "I hope that we have a chance for that spar in the yard one day. I will be looking forward to it."
"We will," Robert nodded absently, "one day."
Rowena watched it all from the sides, well aware that word of this would soon spread, thanks to Gretchell, but that needn't be bad, given that it would be the reputation of Ser Cleyton that'd be besmirched, for who could blame a boy so young for acting as he did?
Just as he seemed to set out on looking for Eddard, Rowena addressed him, "Robert, would you do me a kindness?" When he nodded, she continued, "Go and ask my husband if he could spare me a few moments."
"And should he ask for reason?"
She smiled gently, "Just tell him we need to have a talk, that's all. Off you go now."
Robert had barely gone five feet away from them and Rowena was already deep in thought how she would put this to good use, but unfortunately, Gretchell opened her mouth. "Why, I never! Did you see that, my lady? The nerve of the man, why he ought —"
Perhaps a drop or two of the milk of the poppy in the girl's drink was in order. It would certainly ease Rowena's budding headache.
I had not left the High Hall right away and though I still gave the occasional smile to anyone who greeted me or asked me anything, I was not exactly as warm or welcoming or looking as if I were eager for company as I was before. My smiles were brittle, my words curt and to the point. Cleyton Lipps, that fucking arsecunt of a rat, and his brats had properly pissed me off.
Oh how I longed I was in my former body, so I could clasp my hands around Cleyton's neck and squeeze until life twinkled no more in those fetid eyes of his. Shitgobbling son of a Dornish whore that he was, he was my better in arms, and would have no doubt bested me.
For now.
But in the future... well, accidents do happen, no?
I'll just have to find a way to explain the accident of a mace being repeatedly smashed into his head and that of his children.
At that point, I was so engrossed in vivid imaginings of what I'd do, I collided with a servant without even seeing him come close.
"My apologies," I hastily said and moved aside to go on my merry way. Might as well go to bed, given my foul mood.
"Ah, milord, I was just looking for you. Lord Arryn has asked for your presence in his solar."
I wasn't particularly surprised, but still... "Now?"
"Aye, milord, now. If you please, follow me."
It was just in the nick of time that we left the feast, for I'd noticed on our way out that Robert was looking for me.
I knew he was still a child, that the man he was yet to be had not come to the fore, but that he kept silent, that he said nothing of what had happened to Lady Arryn... I expected better of him, time and time again, but he kept turning out to be such a disappointment.
Working around him was going to be a bitch, but it seemed I had little choice about that.
I've been to the solar on several occasions before, but never late at night.
During the day, the room required no torches or candles, illuminated by sunlight as it was. Not so now. It looked ominous.
There was a pitcher of wine on the desk and two goblets.
Jon Arryn looked most grave and solemn when I entered the room.
Troubled too.
"Ah, good, good, Dywen found you quickly then. Sit, lad, sit."
I did as bid and tried to remain sitting upright, for the high-backed chair was soft enough for one to fall asleep in it. But my legs dangled off the edge and I most probably looked ridiculous, trying to act all so grown up in a body ill equipped for it. When offered a goblet I took it in hand, but did not drink.
Jon Arryn seemed to be mulling over what approach to take with me. I was not much inclined to say anything before him.
"How much do you know of Ser Cleyton Lipps?"
Straight for the jugular then. "Nothing beyond the obvious, Lord Arryn. He commands the Bloody Gate, he has a son and daughter, which I'd only just found about now, but more than that, nothing."
"I see. What I will speak of is not mean to invoke sympathy in you for the man, nor is it a secret of any kind. If you asked any here at the Eyrie about Ser Cleyton and his past, they could tell you much the same as I will now. 'Tis a tragic tale, but it does not give him the excuse to act as he did." His face turned somber. "It's a shame, truly, what happened to him. He had much potential and promise to him, but the event that made him into what is today cannot be simply forgotten. Had you met him as he was six years ago, chances are you'd have only fond thoughts for the man, but two months shy those half a dozen years, and you'd have met the shade of his future self."
Again, silence. During which Jon Arryn wet his throat with a gulp of wine from his goblet before he spoke again.
"They were traveling the road with a merchant caravan, acting as part of the guards and travelers themselves."
"They?"
"Ser Cleyton, his wife and their children," Jon clarified. "She was born to minor nobles, like him, and they were wed out of love, when he'd won enough coin from tourney melees around the Vale. He was not a hedge knight, not like Ser Duncan the Tall, but a good man, a good fighter. He'd fought his fair share against the Mountain Clans, distinguished himself when he saved a dear cousin of Lord Coldwater from a clansman's axe, which earned him a small abandoned keep in a small mountain pass, in the south-western part of their lands."
"What was its name?"
"The Tower of the Sickled Moon. Thus renamed by him, supposedly for how he'd met his wife on a night with such a moon in the sky."
Jon took another deep sip from his own goblet, while mine rested on the armrest, untouched. "The clans always raid most often in the months before winter. They've little arable lands of their own up in the mountains, and so they steal and pillage from us 'lowlanders'. Such a raid happened to the caravan that Ser Cleyton was part of. The clansmen were bested, but the price was bloody. Amidst the chaos of battle, of blade and bows, his wife was felled by a stray arrow. It could have been worse. Their children could have died. She could have been taken, and that kind of thing can drive any man, low or highborn, into madness and despair. Yet with her death, Ser Cleyton had lost not only his wife, but the babe that she carried in her belly too. It was that saw him unravel shortly thereafter."
"If you come across any Valesman bard, and ask for the "Cry of the Moon", they might yet sing it to you, provided you have the coin. But not many dare to do so in these lands, for Ser Cleyton cares not for it. His rage, fueled with righteousness, saw him unleashed on the Mountain Clans for the next three years. Joining with every party of armed men that passed through the lands where he lost that which was dearest to him, he scouted and he hunted and he killed. He killed their men, he killed their women and he killed their babes."
Would I have done any differently than this man in his situation? Aye, I would.
I'd have done much, much worse.
"There were a few that said it was a dark deed, killing the young ones, but when bloodshed is on a man's mind and soul, it oft cannot be pushed aside, lest you wish to see your own blood spilled instead. In truth, no one condemned him for it, but neither did they praise."
"And when he looks upon me," I spoke, "he sees a child of First Men, garbed in leathers and furs, much like those that killed his wife."
Lord Arryn nodded. "Astute of you. You are not the only one with whom he had issue. Among my bannermen there are a few who claim descent of First Men and keep to some of their customs, even though they've long ago abandoned the old gods and taken the Seven as their own. Every now and again, one among them would voice a complaint. A lack of respect and a foul attitude was the worst of it."
"Was?"
"Aye, was, 'til this very night. Though you've had every right to refuse his offer of apology and deny forgiveness, it might've been better if you'd done so, if you could have put it behind you two. But you've not acted dishonorably or promised any retribution, so I am content."
There had to be more to this. Why bother telling me all that?
"What would you ask of me, Lord Arryn?"
"There will be censure on my part. It might do him well to see him returned to his own lands, so for the next two-three years, he shall be Knight of the Gate no more. After which, the matter shall be brought up to review, and if he has learned from this lesson, he shall be reinstated to his post. What I ask from you is to not seek recompense against him and his kin, that there be no bad blood between you for words poorly spoken, for I fear a feud would be the inevitable outcome of prolonged enmity, and they would not survive it."
I pushed my outrage from the evening aside and thought it through, carefully.
"You have my word then, for what it's worth. Unless attacked or given grievous offense, I shall not seek out Ser Cleyton Lipps or his kin. Unless they would see me harmed first, I shall bring no harm upon any of them myself or through others. Will that suffice, Lord Arryn?"
He nodded and smiled, for the first time since I'd come to the solar. "Aye, Eddard, it will more than suffice. You've my gratitude."
I was exhausted. I had had enough. I wished for the comfort of my own bed and the comforting darkness that was the void of dreams.
It was not to be, for a short distance away from my chambers, I was accosted by Robert.
Having no patience or the will to wait for him to talk first, I asked "What?" bluntly.
"Where were you now?" he asked instead of answering my question.
"With Lord Arryn, in his solar. And now, I'm heading off to bed. I'm tired and all the wine from the feast isn't helping either."
I tried going past him, but he grabbed me by the arm. "We need to talk."
"Talk? Oh so now you open your mouth and spill words? Would that you'd done so when Lady Arryn asked you a question."
He did not back down. "I was going to, but Ser Cleyton started speaking first."
"Why hesitate in the first place? Why wait and allow him to talk? Never mind, I don't want to know."
Shaking his grip off me was easier than it seemed.
What a fool I was when I thought that'd be the end of it.
I was slammed into the wall for ignoring him. "Will you just bloody stop and listen? I was going to talk, but I didn't know what to say. You were an arse back there!" he practically yelled and I'd have rebutted if he hadn't cut me off with, "And so were they. I've not a clue why you're so eager to bash heads against each other, but by the gods you'll tell me so or I'll break your nose! Again!"
Thinking back, headbutting Robert Baratheon was not my brightest idea. I was still somewhat weak from the illness, but I was pissed off.
"You cunt!" he bellowed and returned the favor.
Getting my nose battered so much thus far did not make it any easier for the next time.
We might have escalated it further, but then we'd heard the clanking of one of the Eyrie's guard's armor coming our way.
Looking at each other, noses bleeding and only our hands to stem the flow of blood, we'd raced from the corridor and coincidentally ended up in my room. We weren't thinking really, just stood there at the door, listening for the footsteps of anyone passing near.
And when we looked at each other, what did we do?
We laughed. We laughed because what the fuck else we were supposed to do?
I did end up sharing with him what Jon Arryn had told me.
"It's not right, what happened," said Robert. When I looked at him with a raised brow, he elaborated. "All of it. His wife, their baby. It's foul. And him doing that to theirs... it's — I don't know. It's all wrong. And Ser Cleyton, Alric and Adria too. They're wrong about you. They've no right to hate you for something you had no hand in, for something you've not done."
"Tell that to them. I don't understand how you got so friendly with the man in the first place, but I imagine he wasn't as nasty with you as he was with me. And before you even dare to think it, there'll be no nonsense about making nice with any of them. Be friendly all you like with them, just leave me out of it, my life's interesting enough as it is."
Robert's eyes narrowed slightly at that, but he said nothing of it.
We sat in silence for a while, until Robert made a sound. "Oh, I nearly forgot!" Somewhere from beneath his clothes, he had procured a small sack of wine, nowhere near full, that he'd taken from the main table in the High Hall before he left the feast.
So that's how I ended my ninth nameday, sitting in the dark and getting drunk on wine with Robert Baratheon.
A role model I was not.
I thought traveling to the Eyrie had been a task unto itself, but leaving it? With the whole household, with every man and woman and squealing babe? Down those treacherous paths and weather that could topple any of us from the steps? It seemed impossible.
Both Robert and I cursed the morons who never saw fit to build a more approachable way to the Eyrie, at least for its highborn guests.
As we descended down the mountain, the weather was growing colder, rather than warmer. No snow had fallen yet, not in the Vale at least, but I could surely count on the North being covered in winter's most common gift to children 'round the world.
And so we went, parting at the Gates and promising to return as swiftly as possible.
Lord Arryn had sent a company of six dozen men, Narbert included, to accompany the thirteen of us back to Gulltown.
It was a quick journey, all things considered. We'd not looked to stay at Redfort, but took some shelter in Lord Horton's halls when one of the horses injured its leg on a rock that fell from somewhere above us and struck him right on the bone. We left the man and his horse behind us, asking Lord Redfort if he could see to hosting him until the others came back, so he could return with them.
Having been given assurances, we left the halls of Redfort behind and set out for the road at first light.
A few of the nights, the men stayed vigilant, sensing eyes on our camp. Clansmen, no doubt. But they didn't attack and Narbert explained that they stayed away because we had nothing in manner of provisions for them to loot and steal, and while they could afford to lose a few hungry mouths to feed come true winter, they'd rather not lose them on meaningless skirmishes they couldn't win.
One night, one of the Northmen took up humming a tune. The others joined the longer it went on and sure enough, they sang.
Oooh brave Danny, to the stables you sneak!
Oooh brave Danny, the cloak of night is heavy!
Oooh brave Danny, where does the winter weep?
Oooh brave Danny, why does the North beckon at thee?
Danny she was, of fingers quick, more fit for lute than blade,
Danny she was, of Flint's hearth and steel in 'er heart ,
Danny she was, pure and white until the fort of brothers in black!
No soup or stew for brave Danny, no dance beneath the trees,
No vows exchanged before the gods, no babes for her teats!
Oooh brave Danny, they took and they took until nothing was left!
Oooh brave Danny, pale and pretty and ruined in the dirt!
Oooh brave Danny, they took yours and the gods took theirs!
Oooh brave Danny, won't you let the roots bring you to sleep?
Oooh brave Danny Flint...
Compared to how Gulltown was when I first arrived in autumn, its streets were not nearly as crowded. If any wandered outside, they were wrapped in such thick cloaks and furs that one could not tell anything if beneath them they were man or woman.
This time, we sailed out to White Harbor in a ship owned by a Valesman and despite the worsening weather we encountered no storm and needed no port or harbor in which to seek shelter. Less than three weeks later, we reached land. The fish would miss me sorely.
The land was much changed from the last time I beheld it. Where once the ground was muddy with melted snow, now it was frozen solid and the snow itself no longer melting, but piling up. The streets of White Harbor were kept clean but outside it, only the road was kept somewhat free of snow, while the landscape had been adorned with a coat of blinding white.
Gods, I was never more grateful for the furs Lyarra had packed for me than I was then.
Joy and happiness warmed me, and suffused my heart, when Winterfell appeared before us on the horizon.
Almost two months hence, I would depart from it wiser, but sadder for it, and burdened with purpose I could not have imagined.
I should have known better. I should have known there was a price to pay.
There was a brief meet with Marq Grafton, the Lord of Gulltown, head of the Andal family that ruled these lands. Neither cold nor particularly welcoming, all the same he gave us bread and salt and we spent one night under his roof before giving thanks and setting out for the Eyrie. Whether it was common courtesy extended to any noble-born venturing forth from Gulltown, I know not, but we were offered fifty men to accompany us on our way to the Bloody Gate, as a precautionary measure against any Mountain Clan attack.
The men from Winterfell breathed easier once the Grafton men joined up with us. These were not city guards for whom tavern brawls and troubles of the smallfolk were the only enemies they faced, but seasoned soldiers, who waged war and killed on their lord's command. They wore a number of varying armors and weapons, but no one could contest they were all battle-tested.
Yet they would crumble all the same in the onslaught and fury of the stag should history, that I alone knew of, repeat itself.
Still, no reason not to be grateful to the man, even though he didn't know it might eventually pave the way to his doom.
Along the way, Wallace remarked to one of the other Northman guards, when he thought he was out of reach of my ear, that perhaps the Royces might find some offense to us not visiting their lands and keep, while we chose to dine with an Andal lord. I thought it a foolish thing if they did, for I was only a second-born son, and not the heir of the North. Still, once acclimated to the Vale and its people, I suppose a visit or two would be in order. No need to estrange the high-born descendants of the First Men that remained in the South, especially ones that had married off their daughters into the Stark family and wed daughters of Starks in equal measure.
Our company did however stay two days at the Redfort (one more than necessary, due to poor weather) where I was welcomed as if I was a son of their own liege lord. The castle was clearly of First Men's design, with a distinct lack of round towers, built from red stone that was mined from a quarry in Redfort lands. Not very creative when it came to names, were they?
Never did I think I could miss the sight of plain, grey rock as much as I did while dwelling under the roof of Redforts.
Lord Horton was a most gracious host, dining and wining the men of both Stark and Grafton. He was not too sure how to converse with me, leaving to his heir, Jasper, to engage me at first. Given that the boy was a few years younger than me, and we had only so much to talk about, our conversation did not last long. But once the Lord of Redfort had perceived I was somewhat unusually more mature than the average eight year old (highborn or not), he talked to me more often and freely.
His lady wife, Gwen Arryn (not of the main branch), was not much one for talk of Northern things and excused herself early in the evening.
When we left the halls of Lord Horton, it was with an additional two dozen men-at-arms that bore the Redfort coat of arms.
Little wonder then that our journey to the Bloody Gate was undisturbed. Sadly, the good fortune that followed us ever since we docked in Gulltown had taken a leave of absence once we came face to face with the Knight of the Bloody Gate.
"Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" a man's voice boomed from the bridge above the road.
The gate was shut, its portcullis down and armed, armored men lined the walls, bows and crossbows at the ready.
Personally, I thought the posturing was a tad silly. We had not the numbers, nor the intent, to try storming the Gate.
"Men of Winterfell, Gulltown and Redfort, escorting Eddard Stark, son of Lord Rickard Stark, to the Eyrie for fostering with Lord Arryn."
Had any other been the commander, that was where the exchange would have ended and we would have passed without issue.
I could not see all that well from afar, and I did not have the advantage of a higher perspective, but something was going on in front.
"Who among you has the authority to come and treat with the Knight of the Gate?"
What? What treating was he talking about? He was supposed to order the portcullis raised and let us through.
The men in our company, Vale and North alike, seemed confused by this as well.
After several minutes had passed with no reply, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I lightly nudged my horse and rode onwards, ahead of the column and the men that surrounded me. There was a brief moment where the Winterfell men seemed ready to shout and beckon me back, but one determined look to the man that led them, Wallace, had them keep their voices down.
"Hail, Knight of the Gate and men of the Vale. I am Eddard Stark and I ask permission to enter your keep, to come and treat with you."
I could scarcely hear what they talked about, but I imagined it wasn't really anything flattering.
What could they think of a child riding ahead of a company of grown men and thinking himself fit to treat with anyone?
"Eddard Stark," the same voice from before spoke again, "you have my permission. But bring only yourself and no other, else the gate shall be shut once more. I, Ser Cleyton Lipps, vouch for your safe return, providing no blood is spilled."
"I accept."
Onwards I rode, before the Bloody Gate, waiting for the portcullis to rise.
When it did, it was only by a small fraction, just enough to let me pass and as soon I was through it was lowered back down.
Once dismounted from my horse, I was taken by two men-at-arms to meet their commander in one of the twin watchtowers.
Cleyton Lipps was tall, even while sitting down in a chair. Resting against the nearby desk was a greatsword, which I presumed to be his own. My eyes were drawn to the oddest sigil I've ever seen on any banner: atop the blue background, which I presumed to be part of his coat of arms, laid a pair of pink lips. Another time I might have snickered at the sight.
Not now, not when this ser barred us passage for no reason.
He was a fairly ugly man, with the left half of his upper lip missing and an ugly red scar rising from bellow the collar of his coat and armor and reaching up to where his left ear should be, yet nothing but scarred flesh remained. Before the injury, he might have been a better looking sort, what with his dark blonde hair that sat on top of his head and the beard that covered much of his lower face, save the places where the scar tissue from the wound laid.
"Ser Cleyton," I greeted him, but received no greeting in return. He sat there and watched me.
Judged me.
Loathed me.
Hated me.
He'd have liked nothing better than to use his two-hander and split me open, from face to groin.
'Twas a wonder I was not already in the ground.
"Ser Lipps," he corrected, voice rather surprisingly lacking in anger, but still rough.
I inclined my head in respect, as false as it came, and repeated, "Ser Lipps."
His eyes narrowed by a margin before he asked, "Tell me, Eddard Stark, how was your journey thus far in the Vale?"
It was no polite inquiry that, but I was clueless as to why. "With the weather fair as it was, a pleasant one."
"Pleasant weather, yes," he muttered into his beard. "On your way to the Bloody Gate, did you stop at any place in particular?"
Nodding, I said, "Aye, Ser Lipps, we did. First at Lord Grafton's keep, in Gulltown, and later we were hosted by Lord Horton of Redfort. Both of the lords were kind enough to give us men to accompany us through the Vale, until we reached the Bloody Gate."
He was mulling over my answer, though I knew he had to have seen, from up high, the banners of both Valelords among the men.
"Very kind of Lord Grafton and Lord Redfort indeed. There had been some sightings of the mountain savages these past few months, and had it been just you and your Northmen, no doubt they'd have chanced an attack in the night, hoping for good spoils." Then he smiled, a thing uglier than his face, with his yellow tinted teeth showing. "Provided they did not think you one of their own. From afar, I imagine there's not much difference, draped with furs as you are and not one Faithful of the Seven among the lot." He chuckled darkly.
"Even had they thought us one of their own, no good would have come of that, Ser Lipps. These clansmen you have, they're little different from the wildlings that plague the North with their incursions and raids past the Wall. We have no tolerance for their kind."
"So you say," said Cleyton Lipps. "Hmm, no men leaving the camp in the night then and returning at dawn?"
"None, Ser Lipps. All men of Winterfell are loyal to the Starks and I doubt any true Valesman would consort with a clansman."
"Of course, of course, 'tis as you say, Eddard Stark, no true Valesman would." He sighed, as if tired of it all. "Very well, you shall have passage, as well as bread and salt should you choose to spend the rest of the day and night with us here at the Gate."
As with much false content I could muster, I replied, "Thank you for your offer, Ser Lipps, but the day is still young and past the gate, we shall be lessened in numbers and travel swifter, so reaching the Gates of the Moon would be no problem."
He looked at me, his expression somewhere between scorn and amusement. "Do as you like, boy. Oh and welcome to the Vale proper."
Cunt should have been moon-tea'd and then the fetus thrown to shadowcats as a ball of yarn to play with.
Once outside the watchtower, I saw the gates being raised and the men beyond sighing with relief as they started slowly riding forward.
There we parted with our escorts and thanked them for their efforts. The men of Gulltown chose shelter and rest for the day, while the Redfort's quickly turned away and without a single exchange of greetings between them and the gatemen, left on their way.
When we were sufficiently far from the Bloody Gate, Wallace rounded down on me.
I told him all I could about Ser Cleyton Lipps and could only offer guesses as to why the man grew angry at the sight of us.
"Don't matter why, he's not right in the head, acting like he did. Didn't even pay heed to your rank, my lord."
"He has command of the Bloody Gate, and for all I know might hold the post for many more years. I saw no reason to foster any enmity with the man. If all I had to do was ignore his lack of decorum and his obviously foul mood, 'twas of no consequence at all."
Or so I at least spoke, but I don't think Wallace believed me for a second.
Gates of Moon were a sight to behold. It was hard to imagine castles and moats built in such a mountainous area, yet there it was. From rock to rock, its walls stretched, high and strong. A stout castle, with two towers nestled against the mountain rock, sitting alongside the large gatehouse, and four more, larger and taller, in the back. How could one even begin to besiege this place?
We've had no issue here and passage was granted swiftly, along with an offer to spend the night, which was taken.
Lord Nestor Royce was barely polite towards me, but ultimately it concerned me little so long as he didn't act cuntish like Lipps did.
During meal-times in the Gates of the Moon, I spoke very little, only when addressed to. The occasional scowl, a hushed exchange and odd glare or two... none of it phased me. They could think what they like, these prissy ninny little twats, and I'd sit all proper, smiling while imagining what delight it would be to drive spikes through their eyes. Sad, how low these once-First Men had fallen.
We left as soon as dawn broke and gave our thanks to Lord Royce; as much as I might've given a Frey.
Even from below, the Eyrie itself inspired awe. Much like Winterfell, though significantly younger and smaller, it too seemed to hail from a distant, almost mythical age, when feats of wonder (and horror) were far more commonplace.
Seven slim, white stone towers, crown-spikes of clouds upon which the Eyrie rested.
The way to it was almost as treacherous as southron court games.
Beyond the Gates of the Moon, across goat trails, through forests and caves, past Stone, Snow and Sky... up and up we went.
A sense of childish wonder and awe beyond measure (and vertigo too) filled me at the sight of the Eyrie.
Reaching it had been no small feat and it was not just I who sighed with relief when we finally entered the Eyrie's halls.
Our journey was over, but my true task had only just begun.
The dozen of Winterfell men were given refreshments. Lord and Lady Arryn were currently indisposed and would be joining us later in the High Hall. I sat with the men in the Crescent Chamber, warming my bones beside the fire, but didn't partake in any of the food, and only drank some watered wine. I never thought I'd long for a single cup of cold and clean water as I did when I arrived to this world.
Not an hour past, two servants came, one to fetch me and bring me to the High Hall and the other to show the guards their assigned quarters in one of the towers. I bid Wallace and his men goodbye and goodnight for the day and followed after the servant.
Though late in the day, the sun still shone brightly and illuminated much of the austere hall through the narrow arched windows.
The iron sconces held lit torches to chase away what few remaining shadows there might have been in the white marble hall.
There were several tables placed around, a few for those of lower rank, honored servants and guards, with benches and one for Lord Arryn himself and other noble-born guests, where both benches and chairs were used as seating.
And beyond that, at the end of the hall, on a raised dais, rested the weirwood throne of the once Kings of Mountain and Vale.
There he sat, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East, Jon Arryn and his lady wife Rowena Arryn.
Old, but not humbled by his age. Stout and sturdy, firm and unyielding as the mountains that populated his realm. Sharp, clear blue eyes and bright blonde hair that was only just now turning towards the distinguished silvery grey of the man's many years.
His wife was significantly younger than him, a woman just past her mid-twenties, whose beatific features shone undiminished.
I went forwards a few steps, knelt before the Arryns and bowed my head. "Lord Arryn. Lady Arryn."
When no response was forthcoming, I raised up my head, fearing yet another bad impression. But no, it was not that. The Lady of the Vale was smiling down at me, amused by something, and her lord husband had a corner of his mouth crinkling towards a smile too.
Then Jon Arryn laughed. Not a booming laughter, but a heartfelt one.
"Stand up, Eddard Stark. By the gods, boy, I thought Lord Horton's letter an exaggeration."
Somewhat confused, I rose. What had Horton Redfort written of me to Jon Arryn, and why had he done so in the first place?
"Lies and slander, he can't prove anything." That stunned both of them and now they were the ones looking confused until I cracked a grin. "Forgive me, Lord Arryn, this jape in poor taste. Lord Redfort has been a most benevolent host when he received us under his roof, and he went above and beyond common courtesies when he provided us with his own men as additional escort to the Gates of the Moon."
"Most precocious indeed," said Rowena Arryn, "my lord husband."
Jon Arryn rose from the weirwood throne and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Come, we shall eat and drink now."
Servants were called upon and set the table, filled it with food and beverage aplenty.
Wallace hadn't joined us for the feast, one of the serving women relayed. None took offense at that, thankfully.
When the feasting had started in truth, the hall resounded with echoes of various conversations, chewing and drinking.
Lady Arryn ate like a little bird, sparingly, talking with a few of the noble-born ladies that sat near her. From time to time, her eyes would stray my way and she would grace me with one of her faint, benevolent smiles. But her eyes belied the facade she presented.
At the head of the table itself sat Lord of the Eyrie, and I sat on the closest seat to him. There weren't many words spoken my way, but what few there were I returned courteously and genuinely. If this was how he behaved at all times with Ned, no wonder he came to think of Jon Arryn as his second father. How could he not, indeed, when he spent more than ten years in the Vale?
"Lord Arryn, if I don't presume too much, what of Lord Baratheon's son? My father told me he would be fostered here as well."
After taking a deep sip from a goblet of wine, Lord Arryn wiped his mouth clean and replied, "Yes, Steffon Baratheon is sending his boy here too. Robert would have arrived already had there not been an outbreak of storms down south. They'd been troubling the whole eastern coastline for the past few months. But now that they've passed, I imagine we'll be seeing him here in a few weeks."
I'd hoped that Robert would be already here, as much depended on developing a friendship with the boy, tying the Stormlands and the North together in ways unrelated to marriage alliances and any such nonsense. And I didn't even want to begin to contemplate that.
"Your lady mother, I trust she is well?" inquired Rowena at one time during the meal, surprising me with the question.
"She is, much of her weakness since my brother's birth has left her long ago."
Whereas in the unchanged timeline she died shortly after, plagued by weakness from the birthing bed, here she lived.
"And you've a younger sister? Lyanna, correct?"
"I do, and you are, Lady Arryn."
"Do tell us of Winterfell and the North. None here have seen much, if at all, of that region, and would appreciate a tale or two."
A bard I was not, yet I tried my best to frame my thoughts aptly enough. Certainly, not all were truly interested, and I don't think Lady Arryn was either when I first started to speak, but that changed with her once I'd described the glass garden and blue winter roses.
If I should ever go and visit Winterfell while my fostering still lasted, I promised to Lady Arryn at least one of them as a gift.
The conversation went off from there, with myself sharing a tale or two of my adventures and mischief with one of my siblings.
It was a good day in the Eyrie and I had high hopes for my fostering, more so as nothing was spoken of the Bloody Gate incident.
Would that it could have stayed that way forever.
When the Lord and Lady of the Vale retired for the night, they went to their shared chambers.
Twice her age, Jon Arryn was, but unlike any other lord in that he did not covet Rowena's flesh for its youth. While his eyes might roam her body appreciatively, as any husband's ought to, there was no dishonor in that, no mockery of their vows with the basest of carnal needs.
They had not loved each other at first, what with being wed to one another out of necessity and convenience rather than love, but with years passing by, with Jon and her coming to know each other, it had become a marriage filled with affection.
Now if only it could become a marriage with children.
Rowena wished to give her husband at least an heir of his own, if nothing else.
There were voices, whispering, even in the Eyrie's court, who would swing subtle jabs her way about the lack of sons and daughters.
Harridans and hagglers, they would see her dethroned and some other, more to their liking, adorned with the cloak of falcon.
Jon, sweet and gentle with her, made it harshly clear that no such thing would ever happen. "I have an heir," he had told them, "in Elbert Arryn and any who think him not worthy should come out and say so here and now, like men. If they are men in truth."
No one said anything again to Jon Arryn about an annulment. But they still weaved their webs, spindling like hags.
For threatening the happiness that she made with her husband, she'd see them cast out and destroyed.
"What do you think of Rickard's son?" he asked her that night after they were done with their husbandly and wifely duties that had long since ceased being duties to both of them.
And as she prayed after each time, so too did she pray again then.
A plea to the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone; to the aspects of the Seven-in-One that mattered most to womenfolk.
Prayers spoken in vain, as they've been every time, but she did her duty nonetheless and kept with it, hoping for a different outcome.
"Young Eddard?" she replied, only her head above the blankets. "He has a certain charm to him, but his eyes look a tad too sharp at people, assessing them and their worth. Were he the heir of his father, it could be understandable, but he is not and so I worry."
It was not a lie, but nor was it the whole truth. The boy's eyes spoke of a sharp mind, a mind that would remember grudges, a mind that would not allow Cleyton Lipps much leave. She'd use that, as she would anything, against Ser Cleyton. He was no ally to her, despite the oaths of allegiance to her lord husband. Along with others, he too sought her removal from the Eyrie, befuddled and led astray though he was by his late wife's sister in such folly. But deceived or not, he was her enemy, and the likes of him she would not abide.
Jon took her hand in his beneath the covers and brought it to his mouth where he kissed her on the knuckles. "My lady wife, what keen eyes you possess to see so much on a boy of eight. I think it more likely that he is cautious after passing through the Bloody Gate. I had received two ravens about him, contradicting each other. Where Redfort praised the boy, Ser Cleyton had little good to share. Lack of decorum, disrespect for his elders and a nature of low cunning. And yet we saw just the opposite when he arrived."
"He is still grieving, I think," said Rowena, honest in her assessment of the man. "The wounds are still too raw to heal and seeing the Northmen, garbed as they were, it could not have been an easy thing for him. And yet... he ought to have known better, to try and badger a son of a Lord Paramount. Luckily for him, Eddard Stark seems to bear him no grudge or gives no second thought to their meeting. Gracious of him, if true." It would not take much for the boy to remember the slight, and if it were to be kindled into something more, well... she could hardly stand to lose from any enmity that spawned between the two.
"We shall see, my love. Wait and see, that's all we can do. I hope that he and Robert will get along fine when they meet."
"Boys will be boys."
Would that we had but one of our own to speak so of, my love.
She uttered not a word of her thoughts, but her husband knew her well and saw it when her gaze grew wistful.
Comfort and care he provided forthwith, love freely given.
The difference of years mattered little in the dark, when shadowcats prowled the night and wolves howled at the moon.
It would be three weeks before Robert arrived. In that time, I took to exploring the Eyrie as I had Winterfell when I first woke. Naturally, I wasn't granted the same liberties or had as much free time allotted to myself, as Jon Arryn considered the various lessons, taught by Maester Osric, a man younger than Lord Arryn but well educated and adept at teaching, an important element of one's upbringing.
I could not say I disliked the man, but I didn't care much for the knowledge he tried to impart to me. What possible use was there for knowing whether it was the Sons of the Mist or Sons of the Tree who failed in their raid on Ironoaks? This was information dating back more than a century, but Maester Osric spoke of it as if it still held some significance to the present.
Hearing about children being fostered was one thing, experiencing it another.
Listen to me, whining like a petulant child. Was it the youth of my body influencing my moods or just the fact that many saw me as a child and would view me as such for the foreseeable future that turned me grumpy? Bah, there was no use thinking about it.
One non-maester related activity of which Jon Arryn had approved was my weapons training. Trying to better my sword-play was an endeavor in futility, so I had given it up, for now, and wholly embraced fighting with a mace. It lacked the finer points in footwork, and relied more on innate strength of the wielder rather than turning of the wrist, the angle and swing of the blade.
Good for smashing armored foes, as well as any less so well-equipped.
The mace that the Winterfell carpenter made for me I turned into a ruin through sheer number of solid hits against the hardened wood and so I had been given a replacement.
The Master-of-Arms had given me a pensive look before doing so and asked to see how I handled my usual one. Once I proved adequate enough, or so he judged my performance out loud, I was tasked with practicing anew, this time wielding the real thing.
It was a simple flanged mace, but it weighed heavily on my arm and I could not use it for more than a tenth of an hour before the muscles of my arm ached and my fingers lacked the strength to hold onto it properly in a firm grip.
In addition to the exercises, meant for increasing my stamina for the weapon and general endurance, I was also told that I'd not receive a partner to spar with until I could go at it for at least half an hour with no obvious sign of being tired out.
I had a few choice words for Master Narbert, but wisely kept them to myself.
Being that the Eyrie was nestled on a mountain peak, the air was thin and rare, which made my end-goal even harder to reach.
Yet still I went at it, like a mad dog.
I was practicing with a mace against one of the wooden dummies in the Eyrie's yard, adjusting my body to exertions required to wield such a heavy weapon, when the company of two dozen men had arrived to the castle. Soaked with sweat, and panting, my lungs burned for air.
All I could think of was a nice hot bath, and how I would just dip into the tub, wishing I was back in Winterfell where at least the warm springs beneath the castle provided quick and easy access to heated water, while here it had to be warmed with a fire lit from beneath.
I didn't see the boy clearly when he approached me and so when he clasped me by the shoulder I was startled and reacted poorly.
Owing more to surprise than anything else, the boy's nose had been bloodied when my elbow rammed itself into his face.
"Bloody 'ell!"
Seeing his state, I discarded the mace and shield promptly, letting them fall to the ground (an act which had seen me earn kitchen duties before, by order of Master Narbert) and grasped him by the forearm and pulled him up.
"My apologies, I didn't see you there. You'd come out of nowhere behind me."
Squinting with one eye from the pain, he looked at me with his remaining one narrowed. "You poncy arse-pissant!"
And then he lunged at me.
Tired as I was, I could only give some meager resistance whereas this boy was wrothful and simply slammed his fists at my face.
The end result? Not a pretty sight. Could have been much worse if one of the guards hadn't notified Master Narbert, who lifted him off me and told the guard to keep him restrained. I couldn't even see him before me properly, dazed as I was from the battering.
As I stood before Jon Arryn, with one of my eyes swelled up and my nose broken and set right, I managed to take a proper look at the boy who attacked me so ferociously. Blinking with my one good eye, disbelievingly, I started to laugh. No doubt they thought me mad.
They just couldn't see what was so funny about a brawl between a son of the North and the heir to the Stormlands.
In a different world, Robert Baratheon was a great (and flawed) man. When reading about him, one could understand how he might have so easily turned foe to friend, but his prepubescent-self, scowling and frowning at me by his side in the kitchens, was far from that.
Jon Arryn wouldn't have assigned me to kitchen duties were it not for Master Narbert who insisted. At the time, I only cursed the man for it, never knowing he actually had it done solely for my own good. Years later, I would understand that I had been going at it wrongly, trying to push myself to the point of blackouts, at such a high altitude. At the time, well... I was not much better than the average child.
I brooded. I trained with sword, mace, bow and horse. I brooded some more. I attended my lessons with Maester Osric. Then I brooded anew when Robert had joined us, needing no catching up or so they said to me at least. When he proved too willful for the Maester, Lord Arryn himself had stepped in. Seeing the young, largely-built boy being almost frogmarched into the room by the elderly lord made my nose twinge with echoes of pain as I laughed. Naturally, that won me no points with Robert, nor with the Lord of the Eyrie.
It was an uphill battle, trying to foster some semblance of friendship with Robert. Terrible of me, I know, but I tried playing on a future weakness of his: drink. I'd nicked a sack of fine Arbor gold from the kitchens and offered to share it. The cunt ratted me out to the cook.
Which again saw Lord Arryn's respect for me diminish further.
Of the highborn in the Eyrie, I remained on good terms only with Lady Arryn, who was oft enough the one to remind me about writing my monthly letters that were to be sent to my kin up North, and occasionally asked me to accompany her on her walks.
Fueled by rage and irritation, I craved weapons practice, but Master Narbert kept making me leave earlier and earlier, thus preventing me from building up the stamina necessary for an even longer practice session. I was angry, angry at the world that seemed ever destined to foil whatever attempt I made at bettering my situation. This went on for nearly my whole first year in the Vale.
Then, as the seasons were slowly turning from autumn to winter, I fell ill and it all changed.
I could hear Maester Osric's voice somewhere from above me, telling someone how it was the winter fever come again.
Knowing absolutely nothing of Westerosi diseases and common illnesses, I thought it something that would merely pass with time.
It didn't. With every day spent in bed I felt my strength leave me, my will to live sapped by an enemy I could not fight head on.
They tried skirting around the issue when they were around me, but after one meeting with Lady Arryn I knew the truth.
"I am sorry," said Rowena sincerely, "there is nothing we can do." She lowered herself and kissed me on the brow. Something on my face must have shown some of my thoughts for she spoke again. "You deserve the truth, not lies or false hope, not now."
"Thank you," I replied feebly. I watched her leave the room, sorrow clear on her face.
This wasn't how it was supposed to end. I wasn't torn from my kin only to suffer a fate as ignoble as this.
What would become of Brandon? Of Lyanna?
The Starks had become a family to me, and should events come to repeat themselves, all would be lost.
What of my promise?
Days turned to weeks and the end was approaching ever nearer. "Tell my family I love them." My voice was raspy and weak. No amount of fluids, herbs or medicine would restore my health to what it once was. "Tell my sister that I am sorry that I didn't write more."
A woman that was looking over me could not stay and begged excuse to leave the room, tears held back at the brink from falling.
There came a day when sleep overtook me and I was ushered into the embrace of a familiar darkness.
Dark wings, dark words.
The letter crumbled between her fingers and fell to the floor. Rickard was there, quickly appearing from behind to keep her standing when her legs failed her. In his arms, she wept for their boy, cursing the world for its indifferent cruelty. But not all was lost. Not just yet.
Lyarra pulled herself together, summoning strength and willpower to see her through the ordeal.
"Ri—"
"No," said the Lord of Winterfell. "Do not ask this of me again. Not if you care for our family at all. Think, just for a moment think what this could mean if it ever reached the ears of any outsiders. We are not so far removed from the other realms that we would be ignored."
"Damn their gods, damn the games of court, damn them all, Rickard, and remember that we are of the North. The North! We are not foolish to put stock and faith in gods removed far from sight and heart. Ask any Northman! Even the Manderlys would not deny them!"
"This is not about denial. This is about appeasment. You would bargain with forces beyond our ken. For all that they are our gods, do you think their ways resemble any of ours? That they do this simply because you offer something? Is it even our boy anymore, Lyarra?"
Weak she might have been, troubled by the turmoil in her heart, but a hard slap she still delivered to her lordly husband's face.
"When Benjen comes and asks for his brother, when Lyanna asks for a letter from him to arrive, what will you tell them? What will you tell Brandon when he asks why Ned is dead when we could have prevented it? He's our son, and you should be ashamed to have ever questioned that. Born of my womb and your seed! Or do you doubt the loyalty of your wife? Think him another man's babe?"
Rickard Stark, no matter appearances, always had a soft spot in his heart for Lyarra. Never doubting her, never ignoring her. Theirs was a marriage of both politics and love, a rare thing to be found in the Seven Kingdoms. Always, they were together. Of the two, he was one more inclined to do the pragmatic thing, to follow the rational and common-sense choice. Of the two, she was ever the believer.
Like all Starks before him, he prayed to no gods but those of weirwoods and heart trees.
But he did not believe.
Not even as he watched the man given to the gods. Not truly. Not until he saw his son's health restored.
He did not address the ancient, and inhuman, presence that he felt observing him through the carved face. He acknowledged no being of higher power nor sought to plea or bargain with them for anything. Men were what mattered for him, men and their lives were what he weighed for the final count, whether they served him, furthering the interests of both his family and the North, or opposed him.
Only men. No gods.
At least, not until Ned had fallen ill for the first time, just a few weeks short of his seventh nameday.
One night, when all had seemed lost and in his heart he'd already buried the boy, his wife came to him.
"It's madness," he told her, "what you speak of. It is not done. It has not been done, if it ever was, for hundreds, if not thousands of years."
"That we know of. Why would they inscribe it in books, where others could come across it?"
More to assuage his own guilt, than anything else, for giving up on their child, he gave her permission to do as she saw fit.
He accompanied her, along with three of his most loyal men, down to the dungeons. It was Rickard who denied him the Wall, Rickard who ordered the men to knock him out and drag him to the godswood, where Lyarra already had a blade ready, shining in the dark.
He partook in the cup of madness, despair driving him to that final gulp. Or so he told himself afterwards.
Ned lived, but Rickard could no longer gaze at the child and think of him as he did before. It wasn't that he had changed since his awakening, all children were subject to abrupt changes at such a young age, but that Rickard could not look to the boy's face and eyes with sincere affection. What right did he have to it, to claim anything from Eddard when he'd done his grieving while he still lived?
"I have never doubted you, nor do I do so now. Forgive me, my wife."
Lyarra relented, knowing some of her husband's troubled mind, but regretted nothing of what she said, so long as it saved their child.
"There is nothing to forgive." She placed a hand on his face, cupping his bearded cheek. "I would know your thoughts on this, as always. This is not something that concerns just myself. I've known all along what risks this carried for us, and yet I would do it again, with haste. If you but let me. I cannot, I will not, do this without your permission. We are either one of mind on this or we are parted."
Manipulative of her, they both knew it, and the outcome easy to predict.
"We are one," he whispered in the shadows of the candlelight. "You've my support in this, as you did before."
Lyarra was no maid, no more than he was a lad, but she still showered him with kisses and half-hushed words of affection.
The things he did for family and love.
I woke to the light of sun on my face.
Much like the first time I awoke in this world, I felt weak and my throat was sore and raw.
There were people coming and going, but no tears or sorrow made themselves known on their face. Rowena Arryn was smiling once more when her visits to my sick-bed resumed. The first time she was accompanied by her lord husband, who looked relieved as well.
"You are looking well, Eddard," said Jon. "Osric says the worst of the fever has passed and you'll be back on your feet in no time."
"Though not quite fit for the practice yard, I'm afraid," added Rowena somewhat sternly.
The servants coddled and attempted to spoil me. They'd grown somewhat fond of me, I suppose, what with us seeing much of each other whilst I was performing various duties in the kitchen and around the castle during my punishments. They fussed about me as if I were one of their own's babe. The serving women's attentions were in particular hard to fend off, especially in my weakened state.
A fairly humbling (and humiliating) experience was when I needed help in getting a bath. I was carried in the arms of one particularly old woman, who looked as if she might be Jon Arryn's grandmother. I grumbled, yelped and complained, but the hot sponge bath was ultimately very soothing and I was eager in ridding myself of the sweat and filth that accumulated on my skin.
"All that fussing about, milord, when you know it's good for you. You remind me of my boy, Samwell..." she would go on after each time. By the time I no longer needed her assistance, I knew and remembered more about Sam than he probably did himself.
Little by little, I managed to leave my bed, and always with an escort, lest my body tired too rapidly and I lost my footing.
What few encounters I had with Robert in those days were civil enough, without either sniping at the other, even though I had grown jealous of him in a way. Just a year older than me, just a ten-year old, and one could easily see his future large stature. Sprouting like a weed, that one, and bulking fast in muscles too. Granted, no surprise there, given that I heard of his ever increasing sessions in the yard with Narbert. Strangely, he had not yet taken to a warhammer, and was content to learn sword and axe and shield.
My ninth nameday had come and in celebration of it (and my fortuitous recovery) and the tenth anniversary of Aerys' reigning as king, Lord Arryn was arranging a small feast, which would be attended not only by the folk in the Eyrie, but a few of his bannermen as well.
He claimed they were coming round for some affairs of the realm, and asked me if I would mind their presence, as if my thoughts truly mattered or that he'd give them any consideration. What a strange man he was, to be so accommodating to a child.
Still, when he had none of his own, I suppose that was his way of compensating. Or perhaps a form of atonement for the rift between us before I fell sick. Either way, I planned on taking full advantage of it and placing myself further in his good graces.
I'd given up on trying to force a friendship of any sort between myself and Robert. It did me little good in the past and the relationship we had for now, after my bout of illness, was amicable enough. No longer snapping at each other and brawling. An odd change, I admit.
In the meantime, I had letters to read and letters to write in response.
Among the lot from Winterfell was Benjen's, Lyanna's, Lyarra's and, surprisingly, Rickard's.
Brandon had sent a letter too, from Barrow Hall in Barrowton. He wrote to me of many things, amongst the chiding he gave me for falling ill yet again and coming so close to death's door without his permission. One of them was how he'd had his first kiss. Bartered away, as it seemed, for a night out when he'd been caught by some serving woman's daughter. He talked how silly the whole thing was, yet didn't say anything about whether he liked it or not. Knowing his temperament and future proclivities, I knew he'd come to like a whole lot of things to do with the womenfolk. I just prayed I wouldn't become an uncle in the next few years or so.
Lyanna's letter had a feverish tone to it, asking me a dozen questions about my health, whether I'd be returning home now that I was better. In addition to that, she spoke how she coaxed one of the guards (blackmail of some sorts, I imagine) to let her occasionally into the armory, so that she could look upon the weapons within. Safe to say, looking was not all she'd done. She tried a few of the weapons, but found much of them to be heavy, especially the ones made of iron. In reply, I wrote to her to give attempt at lessons with a bow; surely our father couldn't begrudge her that little, and if it would help I could write to him and mother about it.
Benjen's was full of nonsense, as befitting a boy just barely five. Some bits were written in his own barely legible scrawl and others in our mother's hand. He had a lot to say and a lot more to ask. Writing a reply to him was quite the effort. How does one talk to toddlers?
The letter from Rickard was oddly sentimental. Not the sort of thing I expected from the man, but I guess coming close to losing his son once again shook him up. He asked about my lessons with both the master-of-arms and the maester, how I was getting along with Robert, whether I was giving Lord Arryn any problems, and so on and so on. And then, near the end of it, he told me that should I wish to follow my mother's wish, I only had but to reply in my letter so and he would arrange it all.
This vague mention of whatever Lyarra wished of him confused me until I'd taken to reading her letter. She didn't say anything outright, but a lot of the wordings in the letter struck me as odd. Thanking the old gods for my better health, she asked if I would come to Winterfell once my nameday feast had passed. Not permanently, but because she had much to share with me, things I ought to know even while I was being fostered in the Vale. The vagueness and the mystery intrigued me. Seeing no reason not to, I told her I would come home, for a month or two, and would be going back to the Vale before winter could truly set in and prevent me from doing so.
Once I was done with it all, I set out on my morning stroll through the Eyrie. I avoided the outside as the wind blew slightly too strong for me, and I wished not to catch a cold or anything so soon after I'd gotten out of sick-bed. There were many parts of the castle that made me feel as if I was the only person there, something I would come to appreciate much when I craved my self-indulgent solitude.
One of those times, I was unexpectedly joined by Jon Arryn on one of the enclosed balconies.
I was staring out into the distance, noting the movement of clouds and how they obscured the mountains surrounding us, when I heard footsteps behind me, deliberately made louder than necessary, so as to not startle me and send me stumbling or tumbling over.
"Lord Arryn," I greeted him.
"Eddard," he nodded in return, "my wife tells me you wish to return to Winterfell for a short visit."
"I do, my lord. My mother had asked me to come and I could not find it in my heart to deny her. I apologize for the inconvenience."
He waved it off. "It is no inconvenience. Winter will be soon here and the whole of the Eyrie is doing their packing, readying the household for our descent to the Gates of the Moon. For all the grandeur about the place, it is a most uncomfortable home in the cold season. We shall depart together and from the Gates I will send out a company of men to escort you to Gulltown. A number of clansmen had been sighted along the road, scouting mostly, but also readying themselves for a raid. No doubt they'll want to pillage a merchant's caravan, for they are in dire need of supplies, but their ways will avail them nothing and we shall see them repelled."
"Winter is coming," I echoed my family's words.
"Aye, that it is, lad. Let us head back now to the High Hall, our guests should be arriving shortly." Surprise was probably fairly obvious on my face as he continued to speak. "Yes, I'm afraid you've lost track of time. Be grateful to Marya," the old serving woman, "she was kind enough to tell me where to find you."
"I will, my lord. She has been of great help to me lately. Perhaps... perhaps you could tell me if there was something she wished for, something with which I could repay her for the aid she'd given me in these last few weeks of my recovery."
"A modest gift would suffice, if you feel so indebted to her. She'd accept no coin from you, it's been some time since she'd taken any from me or my father. Old crone, even when I was a boy myself, difficult to appease, save when heeding her words. Like all women, she likes that best. Now, come, we must be off."
I laughed at the small jest and we went on our way.
At the feast I saw many, many faces.
Some known and most I would only come to know that day. The latter of which I mostly recognized by their coats of arms.
Of the highborn lords, I recognized Lord Horton Redfort. From his place at the main table he raised a cup my way and took a deep gulp, smiling. Marq Grafton was there as well, which I thought odd as reaching the Eyrie in such weather from such a distance meant his business had to be important. With him, there was only a exchange of nods before he took his seat near Jon Arryn. The places closest to the Lord of the Eyrie were filled by his most closest friends and allies, including his heir, Elbert Arryn, whom I'd met briefly.
Lady Arryn herself was surrounded by a dozen or so noble ladies, none of which I'd seen before and I could only guess to their identities by looking to the men with whom they came to the feast. There was a Waynwood woman there, not quite Lord Arryn's age, but close. Lord Redfort's wife was sitting near as well, along with a Belmore, a Grafton and a Royce, the last of which'd come in the company of Bronze Yohn Royce himself. When he'd entered the hall, my eyes were drawn to the man and the bronze, rune-engraved armor he wore.
I'd hoped for making a better impression on the man, but judging by the apathetic glance he gave me I wagered he'd heard something of me from the Royce that commanded the Gates of the Moon. Pity. Perhaps I ought to have made that brief stop in Runestone when I first arrived to the Vale after all. Fortunately, I had years and years ahead of me to work on bettering our relations.
Aside from Robert, myself and a few of the serving-folk's sons and daughters, there were no other children present. Not that I truly minded, I'd had enough of contending with Robert and trying to steady our rocky relations, and could not spare much effort for any other if they'd been there. Yet surprisingly enough, it was with no child that I made friends that day, but a man of Arryn.
Denys Arryn. From what I could recall his marriage was one for pure gain, that only time would tell if it truly worked out for the best. Having married a niece of Jon Arryn himself, a girl by the name of Janyce, he had moved up in the world significantly.
We didn't come across each other directly. I was having some talk of Winterfell with Lord Redfort and Denys had politely eased himself into our talk of the ancient castle before realizing who exactly, and how young, I was. Appraising of my verbosity and apparent maturity, he'd only started to talk to me out of politeness, as this was after all, in part, a feast for my nameday.
But as time passed, he found himself laughing whenever I made quick jape of someone; nothing too maliciously of course. I'd come to learn he'd arrived to the Eyrie on his own, his wife left at home, what with being with child and of delicate health. Travel would do her little good and he wished not to expose her to the elements or the threat of a clansmen raid in the night.
As I would come to find out more intimately in the next few years, Denys Arryn was the epitome of a knight. Or at least of what a knight ought to be by Westerosi standards. Charms, jousting, the whole package. Darling of the Vale, they'd name him. I admit, my interest in him grew once I heard Lord Redfort sing his praises as far as jousting was concerned. He'd already won three Vale tourneys, one with meager competition, and two where highborns educated in martial arts competed against each other, so it was justly deserved praise.
Then and there, I decided to do my best and convince the man to teach me all he could about jousting, one thing I was sorely lacking in. Granted, I had just turned nine years old and most of my experiences on the back of a horse consisted of racing against Lyanna.
As I moved about, listening to nobles air their amusements and petty grievances, I stopped abruptly once I came across a rather familiar, rather ugly, face. Though he didn't acknowledge me I knew Cleyton Lipps had seen me looking at him.
Like the other nobles he wore a finely-made doublet, his a deep blue, which made his coat of arms look even preposterous than I remembered it to be. How in the seven hells did his ancestors think a pair of pink lips to be anywhere near appropriate for a banner, I've not the slightest idea. I stayed out of his way as best I could, as I had no intention of disrupting the peace of Lord Arryn's feast.
Not unless provoked.
Soon enough, I wasn't the only one who noticed him. Most of the lords who greeted him were genial enough, but a few gave him unpleasant looks that others might've thought rather rude in such esteemed company. Some of the ladies, both the married and the unattached ones, spoke of the man (convenient how unnoticed you are as a child when keeping quiet) wistfully. Apparently, he was considered quite the looker before his disfigurement. Ever since the event, he'd become a private person, not as outgoing as he once was.
Before I could hear what exactly was the cause of this change, and who exactly had wounded him so harshly, I was tapped on the shoulder and turned around to face whomever it was. Admittedly, the last person I expected to see willingly speaking to me was Robert, yet there he was, asking me to follow him to one of the unoccupied corners of the hall. It didn't take long for us to reach it.
"Gah, finally, I thought we'd never get out! All that perfume, how can they even breathe?"
"What?" I asked, a tad bewildered at the topic he chose.
"All those," he waved his hand about, indicating the group of ladies that I was eavesdropping on, "women and it's like they're competing with one another to see who chokes first and runs away for some fresh air."
It was not particularly funny, not truly. Yet I smiled all the same. "Your lady mother doesn't use perfumes?"
His nose crinkled, voice sour with dislike. "Nothing like those. At times, there's a light scent of trees from our gardens around her, but it's not such a strong smell that could make a man gag. These... these are like snakes, waiting for you to choke so they could gobble you up! And their hands! By the gods, if one more of them tries ruffling my hair I'll shear them bald!"
Robert's rage, or rather tantrum, was most amusing, much much better than the japing from a moment ago.
It was so easy to fall under the boy's charm, the easy camaraderie he exuded in such surroundings.
"I presume you'd rather be doing something else?"
"Yes! Anything! I'd even go find Berthram and ask for plates to wash, anything but this!"
"At least you have weapons practice available to you. I'm forbidden from coming anywhere near it in the foreseeable future."
His blue eyes looked me over, taking measure of me before they rose back up and met my grey ones. "There's that at least, aye. But you'll be rejoining us there as soon as the Maester says you're healthy enough. Master Narbert said as much."
"Truly?" I asked, the tone of the word giving off my skepticism.
"Said it'd be a waste if you were made to just sit around in dusty library when you were making good work in the yard. All that effort you put in before would go to waste, and you know the man, he hates nothing more than being wasteful."
Just as I was to reply to him, Robert's face shifted to pure glee.
Turning around to see the cause, I witnessed a pair of children, presumably our own age or close to it, slowly approaching us.
"Alric, Adria!" Robert called out to the boy and girl.
I'd seen them earlier in the evening, but didn't give them more than a few fleeting glances as my eyes roamed the hall. Up close, I could see that their clothes, though of decent make, weren't exactly the type that children of nobles wore. The material seemed worn, washed oft enough that it'd left small traces on the collars and sleeves. But that was irrelevant, in truth, for what could I say on other people's choice of clothes when I still dressed in, more or less, plain leather. The one I was wearing that night was a gift from Lyarra, and the direwolf's head pattern was sewn in with a grey thread over the field of white that covered the right side of my chest.
Robert had his family's colors in full display too, but his were much easier to work with, and the proud black stag on a field of gold was practically placed everywhere possible, from sleeves, to collars, across his chest and I think there were some on his boots.
Say what you will about Westerosfolk, they certainly took their heraldry serious.
Which is what gave away the girl and the boy of being lower rank, what with the absence of any insignia on their blue clothes.
I was surprised when the girl disentangled her arm from the boy's, went forth and hugged Robert, and hoped I didn't show it.
"We missed you, Robert," said Adria. She then pouted, playfully I think. "You've not written us, and you said you would."
He'd responded well to her hug and returned it promptly, but when she said that he almost stammered. "Not on purpose, I swear. It's just — things were so busy here at the Eyrie, and Lord Arryn took me right from the start to study with him. And," he turned his gaze towards me for a moment and held it there, grinning, "I've had other diversions as well."
"You've not even introduced us to him, Robert. Who is your friend?" asked Adria, a small note of chiding for the oversight.
Alric, it seemed, was content in keeping quiet and observing the exchange up to that part.
His eyes, dark in the poor lighting, moved away from Robert and Adria and met mine, as we took in each other. Beside the aforementioned clothes that denoted his rank, he had wavy, dirty blonde hair, like the girl, though hers was much longer.
I presumed them to be either siblings or first cousins. They shared too many features for them to be anything more distant.
"Right, forgot myself." He cleared his throat. "This is Eddard Stark, also a ward of Lord Arryn. Eddard, this is Alric and Adria, friends of mine."
A brief, awkward silence abruptly forced itself between us. At hearing my name, the girl's genial smile turned rigid and the boy frowned.
"Eddard Stark," said Alric in a weak voice, "son of Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North."
Lacking anything better to say, I merely affirmed the statement. "Aye."
His frown grew more pronounced. "Father's mentioned you."
Boys so young ought not to frown, it looked unnatural. And I didn't like the sound of those mentions at all.
What cause had he to disapprove of me, this father figure of his?
The girl seemed to be equally disapproving of me, and though she did her best to hide it behind a smile, sourness tainted the expression.
"You're quite right, Alric. Father did say something about a Stark in the Vale, didn't he?"
Tired of this exchange, and the vague tone of their words, I asked, "And who is your father?"
I didn't expect Robert to give reply nor did I even think the name, "Ser Cleyton!" could be part of it.
But then I heard a person approaching behind me and understood it was no reply. He came to a halt a few feet shy from us.
"My lord," the rough-voiced knight greeted Robert, head inclined with respect, his eyes glancing in my direction but once before he directed them to other children before him, "you're well, I trust? Enjoying the hospitality of our Lord Paramount?"
Robert's face was filled with cheer when the Valesman addressed him. It was most unsettling. And disgusting.
"Oh yes, Lord Arryn's been good to me, though I wish he'd allowed me more time in the yard with Master Narbert!"
A sensible chuckle was Cleyton's response. "Be patient, my lord. You'll be a guest of Lord Arryn for quite a while, there'll be time enough for that. And you mustn't neglect your other studies either, after all, you'll be a Lord Paramount yourself one day."
Oh gods, why was Robert all but preening at this man's words?
He must have noticed my gaze on the two of them because Robert thought it a good time to introduce us two.
"Ser Cleyton, beg pardon, this is — "
"Eddard Stark," Cleyton named me, eyes still as disdainful as ever when they fell upon me. "We've met," he added and turned again towards Robert, "or do you think, my lord, that someone else held the Bloody Gate just so shortly before you arrived as well?"
Looking a tad abashed at the mild rebuke, Robert stayed quiet. But Cleyton didn't.
"And now it seems he's met my youngest as well."
Oh fucking hell.
"Alric, Adria, you've presented yourself properly, I trust?"
Whatever rigidness there was about them vanished as the boy bowed and the girl curtsied towards me.
"Milord," said Adria, "do forgive us for our lack in decorum. It was not on purpose, but from joy at seeing our friend."
This was a worse insult than whatever disrespect they did on purpose before, for falsity from others angered me like nothing else.
"Nothing to forgive," I replied with an easy smile on my face, "quite understandable that, from someone with your upbringing."
This was supposed to be a celebration. Not much chance for that now, I'm afraid.
Gretchell Waynwood was a gossip-monger. She might have as well have been born a fish-wife, for all how fast her mouth ran, eagerly jumping from one topic to the next, unveiling half-rumors and half-truths to any and all that listened, as if they were her flock and she their septa.
Rowena didn't despise her for it, but the girl was still an annoyance she had to suffer that night, amongst many others of her kind.
Still, at least it gave her ample time to think things through while listening to perhaps every other word that the girl uttered.
Anya Waynwood was there too, somewhere, eluding Rowena's questing eyes in search of the Lady of Ironoaks. Always moving, that one. Always turning the wheel. Thankfully, the old woman was one of those who were firmly in support of her and Jon's marriage.
Not in spite the lack of children produced from their union, but rather because of it.
Elbert Arryn had naught but a daughter with his Ruthermont wife, and were anything to happen to him, the next in line for the seat of the Eyrie and the Vale was Denys Arryn, who'd married a girl that was sired by a Waynwood and birthed by Jon's sister. Having wedded the girl for no other reason than pure ambition and bettering his station in life, he depended much on the good graces of Waynwoods.
He seemed like a good man, given what she knew of him. Mayhaps with time, he'd pull away and be his own man. Mayhaps not.
It was useless to entertain the what if's, they only made everything messier.
She decided to listen more attentively to her companion, lest Gretchell noticed Rowena's mind being on other things.
"— dashing forth, like a pronghorn! Of course, Luthor detested the comparison and told the man that —"
Well, nothing new there, the girl was still going on about her last visit to Gulltown, where she met some sellsword or another.
Rowena could have warned her, but the silly girl wouldn't have heeded her words, thinking herself the more wiser of the two, despite her age. If things went the way Rowena thought they might, Gretchell would end up with a bastard in her belly and her lover would vanish more swiftly than snow in summer. Then what? Sobbing and bawling her eyes, Rowena supposed, and then married off to a minor noble or a knight.
Her eyes scoured the room, taking in everything of interest: Jon with Lord Horton and Lord Marq at the table, worry clear on his face; Denys and Elbert conversing and smiling, as if they were not both hoping that the other be a victim of an unfortunate rock-slide; Bronze Yohn, with his bulky plated armor sitting on a bench, whiskers dripping with pork fat from the meat he still held in one hand, and by his side — Ah, she was not there before — sat Anya Waynwood, nodding and shaking her head as they exchanged words. Perhaps arranging a betrothal or a marriage? Yohn did have two boys, with the heir just a year or two shy from his majority. Never too soon to look for a proper wife, and the gods knew that the only thing more fertile in the Vale than its farmlands were Waynwood wombs.
On and on and on it went until...
She'd not have even looked that way had she not seen a servant, ill at ease, with an empty plate coming from that corner of the hall.
There, just beneath a row of torches were her husband's wards. But they weren't alone.
She refused to let worry show on her face or panic of any sort, yet she felt it gnawing at her from the inside. For how could it not, when Ser Cleyton Lipps was there, with his spawn. Hmm, at least his good-sister was absent. Wise of her to stay put in their lands.
And the little chit, she clung to Lord Steffon's boy as if he were the only thing separating her from the ledge of a cliff and its enticing bottom.
Not even flowered, yet looking for a husband to wed. You've trained her well, Ser Cleyton.
He was a worse fool than she thought if he was hoping for a union between his daughter and a son of a high lord; he was going to be sorely disappointed. Or perhaps the man had no such ambition, and merely wished to foster good relations? Who could say?
No, these were distractions and she shooed the thoughts away, as she took to slowly, but surely, redirecting Gretchell and herself on the path towards the small gathering. Whatever Ser Cleyton's plans, they'd not be allowed to come anywhere near fruition.
But as she approached near them, and moved away from the noise of the crowd, Rowena Arryn grew concerned.
She didn't know the boy as well as she might've wanted, but the tightness of his smile and the hand that he held behind his back, a tightly wound fist, coupled with his grey eyes that now resembled harsh, cold stone... it was worrying.
Surely, Cleyton was not making that much of a fool of himself.
But if he was... she'd seize the chance.
Closer and closer they approached and even Gretchell seemed to notice where they were headed, shutting her mouth for once.
She was about to address them when the boy, Alric, moved one step, in a fairly threatening manner, towards Eddard.
"— our better?" his weak voice was filled with much scorn. "You're fooling no one."
"'Tis not a hard thing, you know," Eddard nonchallantly replied, "to be better than you. All it requires is good breeding, and well..."
His smile was mocking the boy, taunting him to lunge and he might've, were it not for the father pressing a hand on his shoulder.
"Peace, my son. Let the boy speak his mind, let him show his true nature to all. Breeding, he says. What a big word, for a Northman."
In the middle of it all, poor Robert looked so confused and torn. He couldn't quite decide on which one to support, or if any. And the Lipps girl, whispering in his ear, didn't help matters either. Before things could escalate further, Rowena decided to step in.
"Ser Cleyton," she said and the man turned on the spot, presenting his ugly (and only, as far as she was concerned) side to her first.
He bowed his head as little as possible, before replying, "Good evening to you once again, Lady Rowena."
Always Rowena, never Arryn, as though not speaking her family name would somehow diminish or deny her. The fool.
"What is the meaning of this? I come to see if our wards are enjoying themselves and find you insulting the one for whose nameday this feast was arranged, in part. You're showing yourself in poor light as a guest, Ser Cleyton."
Lipps feigned confusion. "Was it truly, Lady Rowena? And yet at the beginning of the feast we toasted to King Aerys II, long may he reign, to his health, to his wife, to his many children and to many more years of prosperity on the Throne. I recall naught of any mention of a nameday, for anyone. As for my conduct, do forgive me, Lady Rowena. A mere misunderstanding here, no offense was intended."
He had a point there. It was not presented as such to the bannermen that came, as Eddard had asked if it were possible to not bring it up during the feast, but they still knew that Lord Rickard's son was celebrating a nameday, even if somewhat privately.
Words. So many words with which to excuse himself. So many words for one who was supposed to be a knight.
"Is that so?" asked Rowena. "You'll excuse me if I were to ask another's opinion on that." Cleyton thought he had the know of what she would ask and whom she would ask, but she surprised him. "Robert, would you care to explain what happened?"
The Baratheon boy looked more torn than ever, eyes fleeting from the girl still holding onto his arm, to her brother and father and then finally to Eddard Stark, who looked at Robert almost indifferently, dispassionate... but he was not quite apt at playing the game as he thought himself to be. He looked to Robert with hope. Hoping that he would tell the truth. Hoping for a friend.
Robert Baratheon opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Ser Cleyton interjected, "If we had offended you, my lord, I ask for forgiveness on behalf of my son and myself. We spoke without thought, and it has led us to this. Once more, my apologies."
It could have ended there, prevented the troubles ahead, if only Eddard Stark chose a different reply.
"No," said the son of Rickard Stark. "No, you don't have it, neither of you."
And then he turned from Cleyton Lipps and walked away from it all, but not before giving his thanks to Rowena for the intervention.
In the wake of his leaving, Robert looked crushed, no matter what the girl said in a hush to him, and his eyes followed Eddard as he walked through the hall, before he was lost among the crowd of servants and lords.
"I trust I needn't instruct you not to badger the boy any further during your brief," she put emphasis on the word, "stay at the Eyrie?"
"No, Lady Rowena. We shan't approach him, unless he asks us to do so first." He turned to his children then. "Come Adria, Alric, you've not eaten properly yet and there are still some folk that I'd like you to meet." To Robert he said, "My lord, until we meet again."
"Ser Cleyton," started Robert, "I —"
"Worry not, my lord" replied Cleyton, voice no longer so rough, "we shall be as we were before, friends, if you wish it still."
"Friends," repeated Robert after him, somewhat uncertainly, eyes sliding off the Lipps' trio, trying to find Eddard.
"Do remember to write this time, Robert," said Adria, leaned forth and kissed him on the cheek, which the boy barely registered.
"I will."
"Robert," the son of Cleyton said, "I hope that we have a chance for that spar in the yard one day. I will be looking forward to it."
"We will," Robert nodded absently, "one day."
Rowena watched it all from the sides, well aware that word of this would soon spread, thanks to Gretchell, but that needn't be bad, given that it would be the reputation of Ser Cleyton that'd be besmirched, for who could blame a boy so young for acting as he did?
Just as he seemed to set out on looking for Eddard, Rowena addressed him, "Robert, would you do me a kindness?" When he nodded, she continued, "Go and ask my husband if he could spare me a few moments."
"And should he ask for reason?"
She smiled gently, "Just tell him we need to have a talk, that's all. Off you go now."
Robert had barely gone five feet away from them and Rowena was already deep in thought how she would put this to good use, but unfortunately, Gretchell opened her mouth. "Why, I never! Did you see that, my lady? The nerve of the man, why he ought —"
Perhaps a drop or two of the milk of the poppy in the girl's drink was in order. It would certainly ease Rowena's budding headache.
I had not left the High Hall right away and though I still gave the occasional smile to anyone who greeted me or asked me anything, I was not exactly as warm or welcoming or looking as if I were eager for company as I was before. My smiles were brittle, my words curt and to the point. Cleyton Lipps, that fucking arsecunt of a rat, and his brats had properly pissed me off.
Oh how I longed I was in my former body, so I could clasp my hands around Cleyton's neck and squeeze until life twinkled no more in those fetid eyes of his. Shitgobbling son of a Dornish whore that he was, he was my better in arms, and would have no doubt bested me.
For now.
But in the future... well, accidents do happen, no?
I'll just have to find a way to explain the accident of a mace being repeatedly smashed into his head and that of his children.
At that point, I was so engrossed in vivid imaginings of what I'd do, I collided with a servant without even seeing him come close.
"My apologies," I hastily said and moved aside to go on my merry way. Might as well go to bed, given my foul mood.
"Ah, milord, I was just looking for you. Lord Arryn has asked for your presence in his solar."
I wasn't particularly surprised, but still... "Now?"
"Aye, milord, now. If you please, follow me."
It was just in the nick of time that we left the feast, for I'd noticed on our way out that Robert was looking for me.
I knew he was still a child, that the man he was yet to be had not come to the fore, but that he kept silent, that he said nothing of what had happened to Lady Arryn... I expected better of him, time and time again, but he kept turning out to be such a disappointment.
Working around him was going to be a bitch, but it seemed I had little choice about that.
I've been to the solar on several occasions before, but never late at night.
During the day, the room required no torches or candles, illuminated by sunlight as it was. Not so now. It looked ominous.
There was a pitcher of wine on the desk and two goblets.
Jon Arryn looked most grave and solemn when I entered the room.
Troubled too.
"Ah, good, good, Dywen found you quickly then. Sit, lad, sit."
I did as bid and tried to remain sitting upright, for the high-backed chair was soft enough for one to fall asleep in it. But my legs dangled off the edge and I most probably looked ridiculous, trying to act all so grown up in a body ill equipped for it. When offered a goblet I took it in hand, but did not drink.
Jon Arryn seemed to be mulling over what approach to take with me. I was not much inclined to say anything before him.
"How much do you know of Ser Cleyton Lipps?"
Straight for the jugular then. "Nothing beyond the obvious, Lord Arryn. He commands the Bloody Gate, he has a son and daughter, which I'd only just found about now, but more than that, nothing."
"I see. What I will speak of is not mean to invoke sympathy in you for the man, nor is it a secret of any kind. If you asked any here at the Eyrie about Ser Cleyton and his past, they could tell you much the same as I will now. 'Tis a tragic tale, but it does not give him the excuse to act as he did." His face turned somber. "It's a shame, truly, what happened to him. He had much potential and promise to him, but the event that made him into what is today cannot be simply forgotten. Had you met him as he was six years ago, chances are you'd have only fond thoughts for the man, but two months shy those half a dozen years, and you'd have met the shade of his future self."
Again, silence. During which Jon Arryn wet his throat with a gulp of wine from his goblet before he spoke again.
"They were traveling the road with a merchant caravan, acting as part of the guards and travelers themselves."
"They?"
"Ser Cleyton, his wife and their children," Jon clarified. "She was born to minor nobles, like him, and they were wed out of love, when he'd won enough coin from tourney melees around the Vale. He was not a hedge knight, not like Ser Duncan the Tall, but a good man, a good fighter. He'd fought his fair share against the Mountain Clans, distinguished himself when he saved a dear cousin of Lord Coldwater from a clansman's axe, which earned him a small abandoned keep in a small mountain pass, in the south-western part of their lands."
"What was its name?"
"The Tower of the Sickled Moon. Thus renamed by him, supposedly for how he'd met his wife on a night with such a moon in the sky."
Jon took another deep sip from his own goblet, while mine rested on the armrest, untouched. "The clans always raid most often in the months before winter. They've little arable lands of their own up in the mountains, and so they steal and pillage from us 'lowlanders'. Such a raid happened to the caravan that Ser Cleyton was part of. The clansmen were bested, but the price was bloody. Amidst the chaos of battle, of blade and bows, his wife was felled by a stray arrow. It could have been worse. Their children could have died. She could have been taken, and that kind of thing can drive any man, low or highborn, into madness and despair. Yet with her death, Ser Cleyton had lost not only his wife, but the babe that she carried in her belly too. It was that saw him unravel shortly thereafter."
"If you come across any Valesman bard, and ask for the "Cry of the Moon", they might yet sing it to you, provided you have the coin. But not many dare to do so in these lands, for Ser Cleyton cares not for it. His rage, fueled with righteousness, saw him unleashed on the Mountain Clans for the next three years. Joining with every party of armed men that passed through the lands where he lost that which was dearest to him, he scouted and he hunted and he killed. He killed their men, he killed their women and he killed their babes."
Would I have done any differently than this man in his situation? Aye, I would.
I'd have done much, much worse.
"There were a few that said it was a dark deed, killing the young ones, but when bloodshed is on a man's mind and soul, it oft cannot be pushed aside, lest you wish to see your own blood spilled instead. In truth, no one condemned him for it, but neither did they praise."
"And when he looks upon me," I spoke, "he sees a child of First Men, garbed in leathers and furs, much like those that killed his wife."
Lord Arryn nodded. "Astute of you. You are not the only one with whom he had issue. Among my bannermen there are a few who claim descent of First Men and keep to some of their customs, even though they've long ago abandoned the old gods and taken the Seven as their own. Every now and again, one among them would voice a complaint. A lack of respect and a foul attitude was the worst of it."
"Was?"
"Aye, was, 'til this very night. Though you've had every right to refuse his offer of apology and deny forgiveness, it might've been better if you'd done so, if you could have put it behind you two. But you've not acted dishonorably or promised any retribution, so I am content."
There had to be more to this. Why bother telling me all that?
"What would you ask of me, Lord Arryn?"
"There will be censure on my part. It might do him well to see him returned to his own lands, so for the next two-three years, he shall be Knight of the Gate no more. After which, the matter shall be brought up to review, and if he has learned from this lesson, he shall be reinstated to his post. What I ask from you is to not seek recompense against him and his kin, that there be no bad blood between you for words poorly spoken, for I fear a feud would be the inevitable outcome of prolonged enmity, and they would not survive it."
I pushed my outrage from the evening aside and thought it through, carefully.
"You have my word then, for what it's worth. Unless attacked or given grievous offense, I shall not seek out Ser Cleyton Lipps or his kin. Unless they would see me harmed first, I shall bring no harm upon any of them myself or through others. Will that suffice, Lord Arryn?"
He nodded and smiled, for the first time since I'd come to the solar. "Aye, Eddard, it will more than suffice. You've my gratitude."
I was exhausted. I had had enough. I wished for the comfort of my own bed and the comforting darkness that was the void of dreams.
It was not to be, for a short distance away from my chambers, I was accosted by Robert.
Having no patience or the will to wait for him to talk first, I asked "What?" bluntly.
"Where were you now?" he asked instead of answering my question.
"With Lord Arryn, in his solar. And now, I'm heading off to bed. I'm tired and all the wine from the feast isn't helping either."
I tried going past him, but he grabbed me by the arm. "We need to talk."
"Talk? Oh so now you open your mouth and spill words? Would that you'd done so when Lady Arryn asked you a question."
He did not back down. "I was going to, but Ser Cleyton started speaking first."
"Why hesitate in the first place? Why wait and allow him to talk? Never mind, I don't want to know."
Shaking his grip off me was easier than it seemed.
What a fool I was when I thought that'd be the end of it.
I was slammed into the wall for ignoring him. "Will you just bloody stop and listen? I was going to talk, but I didn't know what to say. You were an arse back there!" he practically yelled and I'd have rebutted if he hadn't cut me off with, "And so were they. I've not a clue why you're so eager to bash heads against each other, but by the gods you'll tell me so or I'll break your nose! Again!"
Thinking back, headbutting Robert Baratheon was not my brightest idea. I was still somewhat weak from the illness, but I was pissed off.
"You cunt!" he bellowed and returned the favor.
Getting my nose battered so much thus far did not make it any easier for the next time.
We might have escalated it further, but then we'd heard the clanking of one of the Eyrie's guard's armor coming our way.
Looking at each other, noses bleeding and only our hands to stem the flow of blood, we'd raced from the corridor and coincidentally ended up in my room. We weren't thinking really, just stood there at the door, listening for the footsteps of anyone passing near.
And when we looked at each other, what did we do?
We laughed. We laughed because what the fuck else we were supposed to do?
I did end up sharing with him what Jon Arryn had told me.
"It's not right, what happened," said Robert. When I looked at him with a raised brow, he elaborated. "All of it. His wife, their baby. It's foul. And him doing that to theirs... it's — I don't know. It's all wrong. And Ser Cleyton, Alric and Adria too. They're wrong about you. They've no right to hate you for something you had no hand in, for something you've not done."
"Tell that to them. I don't understand how you got so friendly with the man in the first place, but I imagine he wasn't as nasty with you as he was with me. And before you even dare to think it, there'll be no nonsense about making nice with any of them. Be friendly all you like with them, just leave me out of it, my life's interesting enough as it is."
Robert's eyes narrowed slightly at that, but he said nothing of it.
We sat in silence for a while, until Robert made a sound. "Oh, I nearly forgot!" Somewhere from beneath his clothes, he had procured a small sack of wine, nowhere near full, that he'd taken from the main table in the High Hall before he left the feast.
So that's how I ended my ninth nameday, sitting in the dark and getting drunk on wine with Robert Baratheon.
A role model I was not.
I thought traveling to the Eyrie had been a task unto itself, but leaving it? With the whole household, with every man and woman and squealing babe? Down those treacherous paths and weather that could topple any of us from the steps? It seemed impossible.
Both Robert and I cursed the morons who never saw fit to build a more approachable way to the Eyrie, at least for its highborn guests.
As we descended down the mountain, the weather was growing colder, rather than warmer. No snow had fallen yet, not in the Vale at least, but I could surely count on the North being covered in winter's most common gift to children 'round the world.
And so we went, parting at the Gates and promising to return as swiftly as possible.
Lord Arryn had sent a company of six dozen men, Narbert included, to accompany the thirteen of us back to Gulltown.
It was a quick journey, all things considered. We'd not looked to stay at Redfort, but took some shelter in Lord Horton's halls when one of the horses injured its leg on a rock that fell from somewhere above us and struck him right on the bone. We left the man and his horse behind us, asking Lord Redfort if he could see to hosting him until the others came back, so he could return with them.
Having been given assurances, we left the halls of Redfort behind and set out for the road at first light.
A few of the nights, the men stayed vigilant, sensing eyes on our camp. Clansmen, no doubt. But they didn't attack and Narbert explained that they stayed away because we had nothing in manner of provisions for them to loot and steal, and while they could afford to lose a few hungry mouths to feed come true winter, they'd rather not lose them on meaningless skirmishes they couldn't win.
One night, one of the Northmen took up humming a tune. The others joined the longer it went on and sure enough, they sang.
Oooh brave Danny, to the stables you sneak!
Oooh brave Danny, the cloak of night is heavy!
Oooh brave Danny, where does the winter weep?
Oooh brave Danny, why does the North beckon at thee?
Danny she was, of fingers quick, more fit for lute than blade,
Danny she was, of Flint's hearth and steel in 'er heart ,
Danny she was, pure and white until the fort of brothers in black!
No soup or stew for brave Danny, no dance beneath the trees,
No vows exchanged before the gods, no babes for her teats!
Oooh brave Danny, they took and they took until nothing was left!
Oooh brave Danny, pale and pretty and ruined in the dirt!
Oooh brave Danny, they took yours and the gods took theirs!
Oooh brave Danny, won't you let the roots bring you to sleep?
Oooh brave Danny Flint...
Compared to how Gulltown was when I first arrived in autumn, its streets were not nearly as crowded. If any wandered outside, they were wrapped in such thick cloaks and furs that one could not tell anything if beneath them they were man or woman.
This time, we sailed out to White Harbor in a ship owned by a Valesman and despite the worsening weather we encountered no storm and needed no port or harbor in which to seek shelter. Less than three weeks later, we reached land. The fish would miss me sorely.
The land was much changed from the last time I beheld it. Where once the ground was muddy with melted snow, now it was frozen solid and the snow itself no longer melting, but piling up. The streets of White Harbor were kept clean but outside it, only the road was kept somewhat free of snow, while the landscape had been adorned with a coat of blinding white.
Gods, I was never more grateful for the furs Lyarra had packed for me than I was then.
Joy and happiness warmed me, and suffused my heart, when Winterfell appeared before us on the horizon.
Almost two months hence, I would depart from it wiser, but sadder for it, and burdened with purpose I could not have imagined.
I should have known better. I should have known there was a price to pay.
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Chapter 3
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
Winter had turned the old castle into a fortress of ice fit to frighten men and children alike.
Here be giants, grumkins and snarks.
Or so it seemed from the outside, as we waited for its gates to open and welcome us.
In the yard, I had barely dismounted my horse when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
It was Rickard and he looked most odd; his face, which I had last seen looking at me sternly, was showing signs of affection. It was there, in his faint smile, in the crease of his brow, and yes even in his touch. Had he been a different kind of man, he might've lowered himself and embraced me in his arms. But that was not his way and this alone was telling enough.
"Father," I greeted the man, "I'm home."
The others waited for us inside the Great Hall and so we entered the keep.
Gods, how I had missed Winterfell's heated walls and warm hallways.
Having no need for the heavy furs any more once we ventured inside, I gladly discarded the snow-laden clothes, leaving it to a servant to dry them out by a fire. Passing through its corridors, many a man and woman greeted me with a smile on their face.
One step inside the Great Hall and I was toppled over, Benjen and Lyanna on top of me. Father and mother laughed, as did a number of others, at the sight, and I joined in their laughter, glad for the welcoming, glad that I had finally come back home.
Once pried loose of my brother and sister, I was greeted by Brandon as well. He was here too! It would seem our parents had sent word to Barrow Hall that I was to arrive for a brief visit home and that they wished all their children gathered together.
"Later, you'll show me if you learned anything down there south, but I somehow doubt it," taunted Brandon, with a crooked smile on his face. "Bet they made you wear fine silks and dress up for all their courtly ladies! Bet they put flower scents on you!"
We both gave as good as we got, as it turned out, having improved with our respective weapons, he with a sword and I with a mace. Naturally we did that before an audience in the hall, rather than have at it in the yard where it snowed and cold bit at the bones.
I was seated at the table with Lyanna on one side and Lyarra on the other, while Benjen kept firing off one question after another about the Vale and my time spent there. For the sake of polite conversation, I gave them all an edited version, though judging by the look Rickard sent my way, he was seemingly aware of what had truly been going on. Suppose I'll find out about that later in private.
Lyarra's fingers trailed down the length of my nose. "You've had it broken. How?"
Doing my best to seem nonchalant, I replied, "A friendly brawl, with Robert Baratheon. Long past us now, we've become fast friends."
She clucked her tongue at me and muttered something about the idiocy of boys and children in general.
When Benjen finally tired of asking me questions and started busying himself with the food in front of him, Lyanna took his place as chief interrogator, paying no heed to the fact that I was yet to taste one bit of the warm meal in front of me.
"What was the Eyrie like?"
"Strange, but beautiful. Smaller than Winterfell, but at the same time you can't imagine anything bigger on a mountain peak."
Barely finished with answering that question, Lyanna asked another. "Did you fight any of the Mountain Clans?"
I'd have sooner expected this sort of thing from Benjen or Brandon, not Lyanna. "No, and thank the gods for that."
She frowned, as if disappointed with my reply. "What about shadowcats? Did you hunt any down? Did Lord Arryn?"
"What? No. Who's been putting these things in your head?" I mock scolded her. "You're being awfully nosy here."
A light punch to my shoulder and Lyanna sticking out her tongue at me was her response. "You try sitting cooped up inside all the time, without even being able to ride horse or do anything outside." Her annoyed expression was swept away quickly and concern replaced it. "Mother and father had word there were storms when you'd just barely left White Harbor. Did you make it alright?"
I didn't delay in assuring her that it went all right. "We'd avoided the worst of it with refuge at one of Lord Arryn's bannermen, whose island was near enough for us. Made some friends while we were there. Met the lord's children and his youngest daughter reminded me of you."
"How so? Does she like riding?" Her eyes widened and she asked, in a low voice, "You didn't practice with her too, did you?"
Lyarra, who'd clearly heard us, just rolled her eyes in amusement. Well, I suppose we weren't all that clever in sneaking about Winterfell.
"Of course not, do you think I'd do that for just anyone? Only for the brattiest of girls, I solemnly promise."
This time it was a kick to the shins under the table, or rather an attempt at that. Lyanna nearly fell off her seat when she over-swung and missed, but I caught her by the arm and pulled her back up. Chancing a glance at Rickard, I saw that his eyes weren't on us. Last thing I needed was for a fresh scolding regarding table manners from the man just as our relationship was thawing.
When she straightened out her dress and looked around to see if any noticed our messing about, Lyanna looked quite silly. Like pretending to be a lady, when she was anything but. I assume Lyarra had a hand in that, if anyone did.
Her next question, and the tone she voiced it in, came as a surprise to me, truly. "What of Lady Arryn? Is she beautiful?"
With a shrug, I replied "She's pretty, I guess." I pushed aside her hair, to reveal her face. "She has nothing on you, dearest sister."
No one at Winterfell called her Lyanna Horseface, not like they've done to Arya, but she had the long face of Starks, a touch too strong of a jaw and a nose that she'd grow into as she matured. She'd have suitors going after her for more than the prospect of marrying a Lord Paramount's daughter. I just hope she'd be wise enough to see right through them, and if not... well, what were older brothers for?
A faint blush had shown itself on her pale cheeks, but to Lyanna's credit she didn't avert her eyes from mine or stutter when she asked her next question. "What about tourneys? Have you seen any yet? Have you competed? Oh I just know you'd be good, no one's as good on a horse as you, Ned." Her words were quickly followed by a cocky grin. "Well, except me, of course."
Shaking my head, I said, "No, I've not seen any yet. And to compete? Lyanna, I'm barely nine years old, I don't think they'd let me."
But that only encouraged her imagination. "You could go in as a mystery knight! No one would know it was you until you won!"
"And I suppose it wouldn't be suspicious at all that this mystery knight was so small and I was missing from Lord Arryn's presence?"
Lyanna frowned and her shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I forgot about that."
I put aside the cutlery and ceased any attempts at eating, clearly it would avail me naught. With one arm around her shoulders, I pulled Lyanna close to me and kissed the top of her head. She fought it at first, muttering something about not being a little girl — dear gods, I missed hearing that so much — but she eased up when she noticed I wasn't squeezing too hard and was allowing her the chance to flee.
She stayed, and I told her, in a gentle, assuring voice, "One day, I will compete in tourneys, ride the lists and fight in the melees, and if there are to be any so grand as to have a Queen of Love and Beauty crowned, I promise, you will be mine."
Lyanna was quiet and said nothing, just leaned further into me.
I knew it before, as one knew of a vague thing, like the stars in the night-sky, but now it was a certainty, as part of me as my bones and skin: I would do murder and commit as many atrocities as necessary to keep the Starks safe. And if there were any gods that cared for Rhaegar Targaryen's well-being at all, they'd keep him away from my kin, make him overlook my sister, else I'd find myself with a dragon's hide.
The first few days there were bliss. Then a familiar routine set in. Just because I was not a guest of Lord Arryn did not mean my education was to be halted, and Maester Walys was keen to test my knowledge, expand and improve it if found lacking.
The meeting which I expected to have with Rickard on the day of my arrival didn't happen until I was less than a week from departing.
I had gone to him to ask for permission to visit the glass gardens and pluck a single rose for Rowena Arryn.
"Sit, Ned. You wished to talk?"
"Father, I'd come to ask your permission regarding a gift."
His bushy brows rose in question. "Oh? And what sort of gift is it, that you need ask my permission?"
"Our glass garden, father, I would go to it and take one winter rose with me back to the Vale and gift it to Lady Arryn, who'd watched over me when I fell ill, and cared for me as if I were her own child and not merely a guest."
He smiled at my words. "It is understandable you would want to express your gratitude to Jon's wife like so, but are you certain that a just a single rose would suffice for such kindness? Nay, my son, you shall not give her one, but a dozen instead. It is the least we can offer in return for her having taken care of you in your time of need."
"Thank you, father."
"Continue as you've done so far with Lord Arryn and that will suffice as thanks." His lighthearted mood quickly turned to solemn. "Now, about that Vale knight I've heard, Ser Cleyton. What happened between the two of you?"
I had no wish to involve Rickard in whatever potential disputes there might be in the future, but I owed him the truth.
"Troublesome. It was wise of Jon to send him away, before he overstepped again. I trust you will hold back from seeking him and his kin out?"
"Of course, father. I gave my word to Lord Arryn and I intend to honor it."
"Good, good," said Rickard, relieved. "Now, unless there is anything more, your mother would like to see you. Go to her chambers, and if she is not there, then look to the godswood, she has been spending much of her time there lately."
I bowed to the Lord of Winterfell and left his solar.
And it was as Rickard had said, I couldn't find Lyarra in her chambers and a nearby servant told me she was in the godswood.
Having dressed myself warmly enough, I ventured outside the keep and passed under the main iron gate. Even from a distance, I could see steam rising from several of the pools and ponds, the warm springs from beneath the earth preventing the water from frosting over.
I spotted Lyarra sitting by the heart tree, on a small log that had been recently cleared of snow.
On seeing me, and hearing the snow crunched under my thick winter boots, Lyarra's previous contemplative face changed to a bright smile that instantly shifted her whole demeanor. With her hands she bid me come closer, as if that was not my intent from the start.
"Mother," I greeted her and proceeded to clear a nearby stump of snow and sit down on it. "Father's told me you wished to see me."
"Indeed, Ned."
"Any particular reason? I've not misbehaved lately," or rather you had no proof I did, so long as Lyanna kept mum.
"Mischievous child," she ruffled my hair, and I endured it. "Sometimes I wonder, who among you four will grieve us the most with your foolishness and children's play? Benjen continues his small pranks against the servants, Lyanna vanishes from the sight of her minders to look at pointy things in the armory and Brandon does as Brandon likes. And yet I would not wish it otherwise."
"Mother," I gently reminded her, "was there something that needed to be addressed before my return to the Vale? You spoke of things in your letter that I needed to know of, but your words were vague. Is it an important matter?"
At that, her smile dimmed by a little. "In a way, yes. It is something quite paramount for you to know. And understand, if possible."
I did not like the change in her tone, the swirl in her mood that darkened it, made it more solemn and grave. "Mother?"
"Do you remember your first bout of the winter fever?" she asked out of the blue.
"Aye, I do," I replied with truth. Though the memories were not entirely mine to start with, they were now as such.
Lyarra stretched out her arms and bid me come sit in her lap. For a moment I hesitated, thinking myself beyond that age, but in the end decided to indulge her. No harm could come of it, and I would give her some small comfort until my next visit to the North.
Soon, her warmth started to seep through the clothes and combined with my own, as mine did with hers.
"You were so weak, growing weaker by the day. Walys said there was nothing he could do, that you would either live or you would not. Weeks of despair followed, and the mood in our family turned darker. Everyone was jumping at each other's throats, as if that would help, but when one is powerless, they often lash out irrationally. Days gone by with only a few days left until the very end, or so Walys estimated. For all his learned ways, all his wisdom from parchments and texts and books hundreds of years old, he is not all-knowing. No man is, and to claim so is the ultimate ignorance. He couldn't know when you would die and I would not let it happen."
Let it happen?
"It was silly of me to even think of stories I heard told when I was but a young girl, younger than you even, and hope that they might prove true. They were silly and delusional so long as they remained but mere thoughts. But I was not content with that. I would not let my son go into the early night, when his time was not yet past. To never see you father your own children, to never see any grandchild with your long nose," she traced it with a finger, "or your strong chin. To never see you happy and in love and married, that I could not abide by, that I would see averted and undone. And so I turned thought into deed. I did what perhaps ought not to have been done, yet I would do it again without hesitation. In fact, I had done it again when you, my son, had dire need of me."
Her embrace had turned harsher, more possessive than anything else, filled with a desperate sort of love. I turned my head to the side and looked up into her face. She kissed me on the brow, lips trembling. Something wet fell on my face. Tears, trickling from the grey.
"Only life could pay for life."
No. No. Tell me it was not so! Tell me you bargained not with devils and demons of the East to bring me here to this world!
"There, what do you see?" asked Lyarra of me and pointed a finger at the heart-tree's carved face.
Eyes and nose and an open mouth, with dried tree sap covering it. I said as much.
"Not tree sap, my son. Blood. Blood of a man, guilty of a crime for which the Wall would be a mercy. What I gave him was not mercy. It took him a dozen hours or more to die, stomach cut wide, guts just barely held from spilling. His lifesblood watered the earth and fed the roots their most precious sustenance. Perhaps the Children, if they still lived, could have known of a different way of appeasing the Old Gods, but what I had were but words of my great-grandmother's great-grandmother passed down through the generations. It was never more than a mother's last hope, that I would see you hale and hearty once more. And then... I did. Your strength was returning, the fever banished by what many would call witchcraft and sorcery, but I considered a fair bargain struck."
My mind was beset by chaos. I felt nauseous and exhilarated at the same time. No fickleness of the Red God, no scorching fire to keep my limbs in motion, no hellish flame to devour my memories. No, the darkness to which I woke in this world, the darkness that ever beckoned me was of the earth; the Old Gods calling me to their realm, their roots entwining themselves around my soul.
I knew it, yet I could not say how. Darkness and cold were ever the domains of the North, and what was I if not one of its sons, in truth now? More than the former Ned Stark ever could have, I was to tie my fate to that of the Old Gods that I'd not worshiped, that I'd never spoken to. I'd have laughed, if I could have. Laughed and cried for the madness that would become central figure in the stage of my life.
I mourned not for the life taken and given, for blood was shed and fed to the carved face of the gods so that I would live.
"When a whole year had passed and you still remained healthy, I sighed with relief, for the bargain was kept. Then we sent you to the Vale, to foster with Jon Arryn, and all I ever thought of was you coming home back day, perhaps accompanied by a girl of your own, to give you sons and daughters, to make you happy." Her tears ran dry. "And then that blasted raven had come, bringing word of your illness come again. Nothing worked, as I knew it wouldn't. A letter a week, and all it kept bringing was more and more certainty that your end was near, that I was to lose a son. But as before, I would not allow it."
"This time, it was a woman, who'd killed her babe in a fit of madness."
Who would be next? Would there always be a need for one? A life of ritual sacrifices for another year or two of extension?
"I fed her the milk of poppy and then bled her dry before the tree. She died and you lived."
For all my supposed age, I curled against her, my mother, weak and afraid, wanting nothing more than darkness to take me again.
It was summoned by her gentle and loving words, a Northern nursery rhyme that would stay with me for as long as I walked the earth.
For a life, you spill a drop or three and feed the tree
For life or death, ask the Gods not where it dwelt
For life, when the flesh is cold, warmth must come and go
For death, the flesh is stretched and torn and a river borne
'tween leaves they wait, darkness the gate, dream the key
Root and tree, life and me,
Tree and root, for now and for good.
Dark my dreams, dark my moods, but never when around family.
Rickard knew. He had to. Men and women did not vanish from Winterfell's dungeons without him learning of it. They couldn't. He knew and... he loved me. Or the son that he thought I was, at least. He loved me enough that he'd given the two over to Lyarra, to murder in cold blood. After that day, in my eyes he was Rickard Stark no longer. My father had people murdered for me.
How could I not love the man for that? How could I deny him and Lyarra their rightful claim any longer: mother and father.
Brought together by murder, twice sacrifice-bound, united by the Old Gods in purpose and ways I could not have even imagined.
In snow, I buried my secrets. It would hold my love until spring skies came and I confessed it anew. It would hold my soul.
To earth and rock and tree, I vowed, so the Old Gods would hear and witness.
With this newfound knowledge, I began bringing my siblings to the godswood more often.
Lyanna was the easiest to entice. I had asked her one day to join me in the godswood, in the morn, and though she had been grumbling at first when she saw me sitting before the heart tree, complaining about being roused so early in the day, once all notion of sleep was banished from her eyes, she shrieked with joy and tried her best to barrel me over into the snow.
"Thank you, thank you," she kept saying in a rush, "thank you, thank you!"
"I did say I would ask father about it, did I not?"
Lyanna's grin could barely be restrained from splitting her face wide open. "I know, but I didn't expect he'd actually agree! Oh, Ned!"
Strange, no? That a simple bow and arrow would give her so much joy.
But no stranger than me being glad that my sister was happy.
It had taken some doing, and I'd paid for it myself, rather than simply command the craftsman from the winter town. The material was supplied from one of the weirwood trees, and a bow was fashioned from one of its branches. It was a simple thing, with no decorations.
But Lyanna loved it, and would cherish it for many years to come, and that was all that mattered.
Brandon did not return to Winterfell alone. Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce and Willam Dustin were his companions.
If I remembered correctly, Ethan and Kyle were nephews to the ruling lords of Deepwood Motte and Runestone. I had no way of knowing if their fostering was arranged in conjunction with father's plans, or whether their uncles sent them to Lord Dustin beforehand.
We spoke little to each other save for daily greetings and such, as we had little in common, my brother aside.
We did however get to test our mettle against each other.
They'd watched the duel between Brandon and I in the Great Hall, along with everyone else present.
Impressed as they were with our display, they were wary of likewise testing themselves, despite the desire plain on their faces.
I was in the Great Hall one morn, breaking fast with my brother, when I asked if he knew anything about the cause of their caution.
"You frighten them, little brother," said Brandon in between mouthfulls of salted pork.
"What are you talking about?"
Before answering, he drank deeply from the tankard of ale. "Ah, that hit the spot. What? Oh yes, you frighten them, Ned." Brandon chuckled. "How could you not when they've heard tale of my fierce brother fighting an older, stronger boy and blinding him?"
My eyes widened by no small amount in surprise. "You tell people stories about me? About that Whitehill cunt? To this day?"
"Hah, cunt he was, aye!" To my glare, he rebutted with, "Oh come now, Ned, don't tell me I ought've kept quiet. How could I? Who else has brothers barely past their seventh nameday that fought so hard and good against the odds and won?"
"How do you even have the time, I wonder," shaking my head, I asked, "when you've got that girl — Bessa, was it — to keep you busy?"
Brandon, being Brandon, was completely unfazed by this. "Aye, sweet Bessa is good for that. What of you, Ned? Found yourself a nice kitchen girl up there in the Eyrie? Trading kisses for sweets?" He grinned. "Or is it the other way around?"
"What do you think is more likely of the two?" I asked him.
My brother's grin was gone and he frowned. "Knowing you, you're stuck in whatever library they got in the Eyrie, or in the yard, training hard." He didn't pout, but he came close. "No fun, Ned, you just don't know how to have any fun."
"I've plenty of fun," I rebelled against the accusations. "Not my fault you're a simpleton who's easily entertained by kissing girls."
As punishment, he grabbed me in an arm-hold and ruffled at my hair, whilst I fought back. "Simpleton, am I? Oh do pray forgive me, your lordship of stuck-up-arse, for my insolent behavior. Please, do enlighten us misguided folk on how we ought to have fun."
I managed to set myself free and challenged him. "Come to the godswood tonight then and I'll show you, if you're not scared, Brandon."
After that, it was child's play.
Much of Winterfell was abed, as we should have been, but instead we sneaked past the guards and past the guest house, our path illuminated by the moon's silver light, making our way through the snow on the ground, even as it continued to fall from the night sky above, knowing our tracks would be be covered by the next morn.
Even in the dead of night, when it was coldest, the pools refused to freeze and steam rose up in the air.
"Ned," whispered Brandon, "what are we doing here? I can hardly see how freezing our arses is any fun."
"Hush, brother, less complaining back there. You'd think it wasn't me who fostered down south the way you whine about a bit of chill."
"A bit?" Brandon snapped, though thankfully still in low voice. "A bit is when the first snows start and we make sport in it. This is right about when our piss turns solid and spears the ground. This is just when our balls turn to ice and drop like acorns from a tree."
"All this talk of arses and balls, you'd think it was boys you spent your time kissing at Barrow Hall rather than girls."
That distracted him well enough, I think. He tried to grab me and shove me down in the snow, but I laughed at him and taunted him to follow me further. It took a bit of doing, but we were finally there, before the heart tree of Winterfell.
When I started undressing, Brandon looked at me as if I was mad. Chances are, he was right.
"Have you completely lost it? Get those back on you, father will — actually, never mind what father will do to punish us, mother will peel our skin by the inches and hang us by the toes in pantry, like a pair of dried ribs, and by the time she's done, we'll call that a mercy."
I won't lie and say that I felt no cold. I felt it to the bone. And just as quickly as it seeped into my body, so it was banished by the pool's underground springs. Keeping my head above the water, however, was an effort; I very much wished to just dive below and never come out for air again, as the warmth that the earth so generously provided was a magnificent sensation.
"Oh come on, it's not like we've never done this before. It might even do you some good, put some hair on your chest!"
He grumbled. He bitched and whined and muttered about the trouble that we'd would get into for such foolishness late at night. He still left his clothes and furs beneath the branches of the heart tree, teeth chattering, and joined me in the pool of black water.
"G-gods, that feels so fucking good!" he stuttered and shook slightly at first, but gradually became accustomed.
"Of course it does, did you think I'd lead you out here for something stupid? Who do you think I am, a Whitehill?"
We both had a laugh at that, though we did our best to keep it quiet.
An awkward silence followed, during which I took time to ponder my brother's relationships with his friends. It must have been easy for one such as him, to simply pull the others under his sway, to have them follow him wherever he went, even to the domain of a madman. A madman who sired an equally mad son, who would drag the Starks on the road to war and ruin, if given the chance.
I would deny them that. I would deny Rickard's unjust and torturous execution. I would deny Brandon ever watching our father die. I would deny our mother mourning them both, I would deny Benjen the very idea of ever going to the Wall and becoming one of the brothers in black. And I would deny Lyanna even the hint of a chance to ever think good of Rhaegar and running away with him.
That was poor of me, judging her for acts she might not even commit. Yet I did the same for everyone else, so why not her as well? Because she was my sister? Because I had grown to care for her? Love her even? Love blinds, love restricts, love is... foolish. But it can't be denied.
"You're brooding, Ned," Brandon's voice reached me. "Don't tell me you dragged me out here to brood with you. My face's not so plain as yours and the womenfolk would notice if I'm not as handsome as I was before. Lines and frowns. We can't have that, now can we?"
Cheeky cunt. "Not brooding, just... thinking, that's all." As if I was the only one enjoying the silence and peace of the night.
He moved about in the pool, resting his back against one of its edges, while I did the same against another. "About?"
"About home. About Winterfell. Mother and father. Lyanna and Benjen and, yes, even you, my oaf of a brother."
"What of it?"
"I've missed you all. I missed being here." I sighed. "The Eyrie's so small. I can't even go riding unless it's to run circles in one of its yards. There's no heart tree there, no godswood whatsoever, the only snows I see are on peaks of other mountains, it's —"
"— not home," Brandon finished for me. He had a thoughtful look on his face. "Don't get me wrong, Ethan and the others can be great fun, but all they do is just wait for me to do something first. Even Willam is acting like I'm the lord of his father's lands, and that's just boring. When we take to the stables, we don't really ride, it's more.. more like what mother and father do when they go out together in spring-time. They don't run! They don't fight! Not like you and I do! Or did, at least, when we were all here."
"Imagine what it's like for Lyanna and Benjen then without us to keep them on their toes."
They clearly weren't all that often on his mind, and it was a guilt-ridden silence that he broke with, "Mother's not had any complaints?"
"Doubtful, but even if she had, she likely overlooked them because we're all back where we belong."
"There's that at least." He smiled in fond remembrance of days past. "We weren't all that bad, were we?"
I snorted. "Not nearly as bad as we thought ourselves to be, but not nearly as good as we ought to have been."
"Good! The way it should be then! Tell me about this friend of yours, Robert Baratheon, who broke your nose, how did that happen?"
So I did and by the time I was done, Brandon tried his best, and failed, to contain his laughter.
"Only you, Ned!" He shook his head. "My little brother, it seems you either make enemies or you make friends with those you fight."
I allowed a single note of wistfulness to permeate my next few words. "Still haven't fought your friends."
"True. But I could see something done about it. Mind, they'd probably be more comfortable if you promised not to maim them."
Ignoring his taunting, I replied, "On the morrow?"
"On the morrow, if you like. Now, I think it best we get out of the water, before we turn to prunes, and don our clothes quickly, if we don't want the guards to find a pair of snowmen here come the morn."
"Alright, alright," I grumbled.
Except neither of us was leaving the pool.
We were still submerged below the neck in the water. We didn't quite fancy getting out barefoot and barearsed in the cold.
"Right," said Brandon, just as he turned his back on me, "last one to the keep has to tell father who it was that left salt in the servant's wine."
Oh you fucking —
As it turned out, Brandon didn't do the whole contrition thing well enough, so he was assigned to helping out the folk in the winter town.
His glares only amused me, and his friends' too.
None of the three were as inept as Brandon described them to be. Perhaps in fear of wounding our father's heir they held back with him? It hardly mattered where our own spars were concerned, for we all gave the best that we could. Of the three, Kyle Royce was the one that vexed me the most with his morningstar. Equal in reach with weapons, aye, and its spikes were dulled enough that no perforation would happen, but it still hurt like a bitch when it crashed against my shield.
But I wager it hurt no more than when the mace connected to his exposed wrist and made him drop the weapon.
They were good sports about it and though we'd not become friends, they were no longer as restrained in my presence.
"Hah, you bested them!" Brandon cheered that day. "Now, if we could only find you a girl of your own..."
My entreaties for help from mother fell on deaf ears. The woman took delight in my brother trying to pair me off with girls.
It was no easy thing for me when the time came, and if I clung more tightly than ever before to mother and father, who could blame me?
There is nothing sweet about parting, only sorrow. Even though I knew I'd see them again, I loathed leaving my home.
And so I departed from Winterfell once more, uncertain of my future, uncertain of what awaited, uncertain of so many, many things.
With me I carried nothing save a wooden box, where frost-kissed roses were kept pristine, and a leather pouch with thirteen seeds.
The sea was a cruel mistress, yet not so wicked as a woman might be. The waves tested us, battering the ship's hull, while their brothers, winds of south and east, howled their outrage at us. And in between, I heard the voices of the Lady and her Lord, making merry, whilst we almost drowned. Such fierce children they must have conceived with offerings so freely given in men's lives.
Some thought me mad to stay up on deck, watching the lashing of the sea, the bitch's taming, the pleasure of a goddess.
Perhaps they were right and I was insane. What did any of it matter? I was of the North and the North was strong in me.
None of the men of Winterfell said a thing, though their minds must have questioned and doubted my sanity. Well, all barring Wallace, who stood by me, in silence, and watched the grand coupling of sea and sky, retreating below deck only when I did.
Fourteen days, that was all it took to reach Gulltown this time around and men kissed the cold ground of the harbor when we docked.
As usual we were offered the customary lodgings beneath Marq Grafton's roof and took them. A bit of sleep where the beds didn't sway about would do the men some good and I could perhaps eat something and manage to keep it in my belly for longer than an hour.
We were given twenty men this time, as Grafton forces were stretched thin in keeping other parts of his lands secure from raids.
Would that he had given us thrice as much, for there came a day on the road that their swords and arms would be much needed.
Our camp was set amidst one of the Vale's smaller gorges - three or four hours away, at a steady horse's pace, from Redfort - a good spot for defense against any attack that came from the front or back. The cliffs were fortunately too rough and uneven for any man to stand on them and try pelting us with arrows or rocks from above. But that didn't mean that we were safe.
It was Wallace who approached me, though in truth I intended to go to the man myself. I've seen him arguing something with one of the Grafton men, each of them eager to bellow and shout, bodies tense with promise of violence, but keeping their voices down.
"Milord."
"Wallace, am I going to have to ask you what that was about or will you tell me on your own?"
"A disagreement. In addition to another matter, the lad thought you ought not to be told, but I am of a different mind."
Well now, this didn't sound ominous at all. "Told what?"
Even though only our own men watched us, Wallace looked to the distance first before replying, in a low voice, "Clansmen. They've been following us for the past three days, but as they were in lower numbers than our company, we thought that them no threat."
I ventured a guess. "And now, those numbers have increased?"
Wallace nodded. "Aye, milord. By a great many. They'll attack, mayhaps on the morrow, mayhaps within the hour. Who could say what goes on in their heads? We clearly carry no significant supplies for them to steal. All we've got are our horses and weapons."
Silently, I cursed whomever it was that ordained highborns announce their passage with banners. It was an unlikely chance, but some of them could have known to whom the direwolf belonged, and there it stood, planted in the middle of our camp, fluttering in the wind.
Why bother bloodying themselves against well-guarded caravans when a highborn hostage could fetch them just as much, if not more?
"Doesn't matter," I told Wallace, "they'll attack and that's that. Would the men stand and fight or would they run?"
Looking bolder, more sure than ever before, Wallace said, "We will stand and fight and die, if that is to be how the day ends." Then his righteous glare shifted to something different. "But you, milord, should leave. The dispute you saw me having with Roderick, 'twas about you. I asked which among our horses was the fastest, and which man the lightest, to send you two together on its back. We could not make it as we are to Lord Redfort's keep, but you might. Roderick disagreed and said that would trigger the attack the moment the clansmen saw us preparing you and the horse to ride forth."
For all that he addressed me like a grown man, he still looked at my flesh and saw a child. I couldn't blame him for that.
"I'm afraid Roderick has the right of it, Wallace." Before he could express his dislike, I sped on ahead, "But your thought was not without merit. Instead of two, we ought to send just one, one that could ride as fast as the wind, or faster if need be, for Redfort and ask for aid."
"They'd still attack us the moment they saw the horse sprinting, it would change nothing, milord! At least this way —"
I brought my hand up. "Peace, Wallace. I did not intend to have the man ride out in plain sight and light of day, but rather, if we are fortunate enough that they do not go against us today, we send the man out tonight, when all is dark, to carefully lead his horse away from camp, reins in hand, and once sufficiently far away jump on it and run for Redfort with all haste."
He tried arguing, but it did him no good, for it was the best plan we could have come up with and suffer minimum casualties.
I'm no fool to think of dying in battle, facing savages in a last stand. I do this out of self-preservation, for to mount a horse and try to run away would have been folly, it'd have made me a more tempting mark for any clansmen with a bow or a throwing axe that most certainly lurked on the other side of the gorge, undoubtedly having gotten there previously by way of a goat trail. They probably did not possess large numbers, but they needn't have, only enough to harass and slow us down if all of us tried to run.
As covertly as possible, matters were being arranged and Hobb was the man chosen for the duty to ride to Redfort, but not before he asked for a brief note written by myself, to warrant his safety should we all fall in battle and if any sought to call him craven for running.
The whole camp was ill at ease and all anyone did was make themselves ready to do battle at a moment's notice.
Hours passed at a snail's pace, the sun's setting only placing us further on edge.
Wallace and Roderick planned the best way to fight in the gorge, using its narrow points to form a bottleneck if need be. Other men argued that all horses ought to be mounted and they should give charge into the clansmen horde, but that was chosen only as a last resort.
Strange as it may sound, I slept like a babe in the night.
They came at us with first light, thinking they'd catch most of the men unaware and have only guards to kill as the rest of the camp roused from slumber in fear and terror. But that was not what happened. Save for myself and two more men, all else were awake long before the clansmen's battle cries resounded across the length of the gorge.
Ten men, Vale and North mixed together, stood at the choke-hold, swords and shields in hand, with another five behind them with what few spears we had to probe in the holes between the men, and two more wielding the bows that the men brought along.
The rest were mounted a small distance away, waiting for a time when their aid would be needed.
I was sitting on my horse even further away, palm pressed against the beast's head, as if to calm him; the jape was on me, for it was I that trembled in the saddle and my steed, bred for bloodshed and battle, who stood calm, only his nostrils flaring at the smells that reached him. Around me were five of Winterfell men, Wallace included, to guard me with their bodies.
I saw an axe sail over the heads of the men on foot as it struck one of the mounted ones, right on the shoulder. Such was the force of it that he fell from the saddle and down on the ground. Several others near him jumped down to help him back up, even as the blood flowed freely from the wound and distressed his horse.
Again and again, they clansmen clashed against the men in the front. Each renewed attack saw at least one of ours wounded or dead.
We numbered less and less every time they charged forth.
Short of breath, heart pounding in my chest, my fingers tightening against the reins, I turned to Wallace.
"We ride. We ride with the others and kill them. We ride and we may live yet, we stay here and we die when they come for us."
On his face I saw common sense and duty warring with each other.
"Milord —"
"Ride or die, Wallace."
Ride we did, bellowing at the enemy.
The men took up their swords and axes and I took up my mace in one arm, shield strapped and tied to the other.
"Winterfell!" I feebly cried and charged.
Others took up my battle-cry. "WINTERFELL! STARK AND THE NORTH! WINTERFELL!"
The men in front made a gap for us ten-and-seven astride our steeds and mares to pass, to do battle.
Seventeen against... I could not tell how much, save that they were many times our numbers.
Sixteen men and a single boy.
Spittle flew from our mouths and we drenched ourselves in their blood, halting their incursion.
Two clansmen died beneath the hooves of my steed, necks and faces broken by their iron.
My first? I barely saw him, but I felt his face, keenly, when it smashed against my mace.
Blood and brains I spilled as my elbow bucked when we hit them head on. Chancing a brief glance back, I saw a corpse stumble and fall to the ground, his shoddy, bronze sword slipping from hand. I turned to face front again when I felt hands grab at my legs and horse, but then saw those same grubby hands parted from their arms with a single blow from Wallace's sword.
"Winterfell!" he yelled, cutting another's life short before he moved onto the next. "The blood of winter! WINTERFELL!"
Lost to the call of blood, but he still kept near to safeguard me from any that sought me harm.
Good men died so that I lived. Good men died and I was weak with shock when rage took hold of me.
Swinging almost heedlessly I bashed my mace against their faces, against their arms and necks. I killed and I killed and I killed.
Still they came, with axes and swords seeking to rend our flesh apart.
There was no end to them and the rush was all too soon gone from me, taking my strength along with it.
More of them came. More of them swarming forward, like a tide of vermin that sought to devour everything in its path.
And they might have yet done that to us, were it not for the aid that came to us.
We saw them not approaching, for we could not afford to look back when there were yet foes to be killed in the front, but we heard them crying out to the heavens, to the gods, and us, heard the trampling of hundreds of pairs of hooves against the ground.
"REDFORT! REDFORT! FOR LORD AND LAND OF RED STONE!"
It was hideous. Death and ruin all around us, spilled blood singing to all our hearts. It was beautiful.
In the end, the day was won by the men of North and Vale. The day was ours, as were their deaths.
Hundreds of blades stained red, the earth drunk on lifesblood, entrails and brains scattered in the snow.
I never felt more alive.
It was not just the men of Redfort who came to our aid, but Lord Horton himself, wielding a sword, commanding a hundred of his finest men as they rode down the savages. By the end of it, his sword had bathed in a river of blood. During the battle itself, we could not count the clansmen's numbers, but when it was finished and a count was taken, there were more than two hundred of their corpses.
Being the enemy that they were to the Valesmen, they received no proper burial, only a bonfire so the stench didn't attract wild beasts.
We feasted in Horton's halls for a night and a day. We mourned our lost - eight of Gulltown, three of Winterfell and ten of Redfort.
The call of blood was strong and I vowed vengeance for lives they took from me.
I wept, like an old woman mourning her grandsons dying before their time; too young, too young.
Edwyn deserved more than to die of a festering wound gained in battle. Bowen would never see his child again and by all that was holy and unholy, I would see to it that the boy enjoyed a good and long life for the one that his father gave in my service. And Beor? He had no one. No kin or lover. Alone in the world. I mourned him the most, for who else would take note of his passing and regard it as more than just one life lost?
I wept and I grieved and celebrated that I was alive and that the enemy was not.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough for the likes of me.
This I vowed. This I swore. The earth would cry out in anguish and vomit before my bloodlust was sated.
"It is always a terrible thing, to see men you know die. If they're young, you mourn for they have not yet lived. If they are of age, you wish to praise the lives they led, yet joy turns to ash in mouth and wine tastes as the worst swill possible. No amount of spirits will drown your rage, boy, no amount of blood will sate it. Grab hold of it, grab it by the horns, and leash it for your own purpose!"
Lord Horton rambled in his half-drunken state, oft switching from one approach to the next, praising me for my lack of shock, for not faltering in the midst of battle, praising my strong arm for felling a number few boys of nine could boast of, even though of the seven dead attributed to me, two were trampled by my mount and two I could not have killed without the aid of the now late Beor.
By the time I had come awake, I regretted the wine I'd drunk on the previous night. My bladder was full and my head pounding.
It was kind of Lord Redfort to give us the time to recuperate from both battle and feasting. The men needed the rest, sorely, and while they rested I went amongst them, finding out the names of those who had died in defense of me: Pate, Criston, Kyle, Jonos, Adrian, Symond, Wyl, Eustace, Jon, Hugh, Morgan, Gareth, Morton, Harlan, Gerold, Bryen and Gawen.
I would not forget what they had done for me.
From there I went to see the wounded, clasping them by the arm and hand, poorly trying to express the gratitude owed.
I found Hobb among the wounded as well. He'd been been the target of a loosed arrow from somewhere in the darkness surrounding the camp, just as he mounted his horse to run for aid. When Lord Redfort rode out, he commanded Hobb stay behind and get treatment for his wound. The shaft of the arrow was removed since then and his leg was bandaged, laid up on the bed.
"Milord," said Hobb, trying to right himself up from the bed. Given the way he winced when he moved his leg, the injury still hurt.
I put a stop to that notion and pressed him on the shoulder, gently easing him down against the pillow. "No 'milords' now, Hobb. Not when you more than earned the right for us to dispense with such trivialities. Eddard will suffice, if you please."
"M—," he tongue tied himself, having obviously not expected neither a visit nor such familiarity from a highborn boy. "Milord," he pressed on, "wouldn't be right to call you that, just not proper."
When I laughed, he frowned. "Oh Hobb, what care I for what is proper when presented with a man who saved our lives. No, I won't have that between us, Hobb. You saved your fellow Valemen, and us Northmen too, when you rode on despite the wound in your leg and sent Lord Redfort with his men to aid us. We'd not be alive were it not for you."
"If you say so, milord."
His persistence with that was annoying and I sighed in surrender. "Very well, I see I'll not change your mind on this then. But at least, there's other ways I can see you repaid for your service to me."
Blinking in confusion, it was clear that to this man little of any such notion, of a reward given, had passed through his mind.
"Milord?"
"You are a man of Gulltown, aye? Live there, raising a family perhaps?"
Nodding, he replied, "Aye, Gulltown born and raised, milord. No family yet, just me and the wife."
"Good, good. Then I'm sure you won't mind this," I reached for a little bearhide pouch that I brought with me beforehand, "little contribution to your household." I did not wait for him to ask what it was that I took from it, but pressed it into his hand.
When he saw what I placed in his palm, his eyes widened. "Milord, 'tis too much! I only did my duty, no more!"
"Duty well done, duty well rewarded," I intoned one of the many sayings of Westeros. "You've earned that, it's yours, Hobb."
The man was speechless, for a gold dragon was no small thing to any of the commonfolk.
In truth, it was not mine, for I had only a little more than a hundred silver stags from the monthly allowances I've saved up so far. I'd gone and asked Lord Horton for a loan, promising to see it repaid as soon as possible. When he asked why I had need of a gold dragon and I elaborated, the man was quick to give me the coin as a gift, rather than a loan, no matter what I said.
There were more debts to be repaid, to Grafton and Redfort men, and I would see to it in the coming years.
For now, I committed faces and names to memory. That would have to suffice for the time being. I could do no more.
Lord Horton and I exchanged oaths of friendships between us, strengthening the bond between Redfort and Winterfell.
"You have my gratitude, and that of my father's men, Lord Redfort. If you ever have need of me, give word and I will come."
"Why, I believe you would indeed! Have no fear, my young lord, if I ever call upon you, it shall only be as a friend. I do beg apology for Jasper not being here to give proper farewell, the boy is helping his mother with an upset stomach, even though she had little to drink."
"None needed, Lord Redfort. Your family has been more than kind these past few days and I owe you much."
He looked at me appraisingly for a few moments. "I see in you the Stark blood of old come again. Woe to those that become your foes, naught but death and ruin awaits them. But many and merry shall your friends be, I think, if you continue to act as you have thus far."
I bowed my head, once more suffused by sincere gratitude and respect for the Vale lord.
"Kind words, Lord Redfort, that I've yet to truly earn, but I thank you for them."
Horton Redfort waved it off. "Bah, they are but words, and you shall yet prove me true, I've no concern in that. Fortunate then, that we are friends, Eddard, and friends I hope your house and mine shall remain even when both of us are gone one day."
"Friends," I replied with a grateful smile. "Aye, my lord. Friends for as long as our bloodlines endure."
He clasped me by the arm and wished us farewell.
We left his halls with no less than two hundred fresh men, ready to do battle should we be challenged on our way to the Gates.
We were not. All signs of life were gone from the road. Our arrival to the Bloody Gate was uneventful and very solemn. A time for introspection, I imagine, for many of the men. I knew father would send more to replace the three that had died in my service, but that would not happen any time soon, not before this winter's end certainly.
I did not look to the Knight of the Gate, nor recognized who it was, as they let us pass quickly and without issue. If some of the men stationed there gave me dark looks for displacement of their former commander, I noticed none of it.
The weather had made many of us tetchy and of clamped mouth.
No tongues wagged on the road, no songs were sung around campfires.
The arrival at the Gates of the Moon had coincided with daybreak, so none besides the guards standing watch were awake. When we were met with Keeper Royce, I asked him not to rouse any of the highborn household from their slumber, and he acquiesced.
I had failed to notice it then, but the way Nestor Royce looked at me was different. Had it changed back when Ser Cleyton was discharged or had word of our battle with the clansmen reached them here already? I did not know nor did I care to find out.
Our horses were stabled in closed, warm quarters where the animals could get some rest of their own and feel blood flow through their limbs without the chill biting at them. Bred though they were for these mountainous areas, that didn't mean the poor beasts had to be ridden to the point of exhaustion or death. I'd taken care of providing my steed, a dark haired stallion, with the occasional apple a day, poor repayment though it was for his deeds in battle. Would that you could satisfy a man blooded as easily as that.
Still in my furs as I dined in the hall for highborn guests, I hadn't expected company lest Wallace finally accepted my invitation and joined me on the bench, and yet company I found. Robert's eyes widened at the sight of me. No need to inquire whether he heard of the battle, as he started tongue tying himself when he couldn't figure out which question he wanted to ask first.
"Robert, leave the boy be." a voice echoed through the hall.
I rose from the bench to show my respect to Lord Arryn, but he bade me stay put and clasped me by the shoulder.
"Truly, yours is an interesting life, young Eddard. Barely back in the Vale and already doing battle with the Mountain Clans."
"My lord, I was but one of many who fought, and my part in battle pales in comparison to the sacrifices that others made."
"There's being humble and then there's self-depreciating. You would do well to steer yourself towards the former rather than the latter. Lord Redfort praised you mightily, as did several men of Gulltown that traveled and fought by your side. Not many might have proven themselves stout and steady when battle ensued, certainly not many boys of such young age."
"I would've!" Robert was quick to add.
Jon only smiled fondly at the boy. "Yes, I've no doubt you would, Robert, but I'd much prefer you stayed behind these walls than let you roam outside them, in this weather, while on hunt for clansmen that no doubt have retreated further up into the mountains."
Robert pouted most childishly at that and the sight was comforting for some reason. He quickly recuperated and launched a new barrage of questions at me, but thankfully Lord Arryn was there to save me. "Peace, boy, let him breathe. Do you think yourself the only who would hear him speak of this? Allow the others to join us for the first meal of the day on this morn, so as to not make Eddard repeat himself too often in the coming days." At this, he directed a faint smile at me. "I'm afraid that your tale shall be the subject of many, many suppers yet to come, as nothing happened in the Gates of the Moon, or near, to occupy folks' minds."
"You have my gratitude, Lord Arryn." Then I remembered something. "If you don't mind me asking, has Lady Arryn woken up as well?"
A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his lady wife. Robert lost much of his cheer too.
"She is awake, but I'm afraid that she'll not be joining us for meals any time soon. My lady wife is ill for the time being, but Osric says she'll be fit enough to take her food in the main hall in a few weeks, if not sooner."
Nothing more was said, nor did it need to be. I would find out the reason another time.
As more and more arrived to break their fast, so too did I feel the number of eyes on me increase.
When the time had come to tell the tale, I had been forced to repeat myself more times that I'd liked to count, smiling all the while. All the men there were battle-tested and they asked sound tactical questions, to which I sadly lacked the answers as I was neither in the position to observe such things clearly nor I was apt in such matters to begin with. The womenfolk on the other hand... they bored me. They ooh'd and ah'd at certain points when I told and retold of the fight, as though it was all a mummer's play. Occasionally, I allowed a grimace to cross my face when I wished a certain line of inquiry avoided. An insipid Waynwood girl was particularly irritating.
Later, in private, I would receive commendation and words of praise from Jon Arryn himself, and when I went to the inner yard for my weapons practice to resume, Master Narbert gave rare praise too. It seemed such an odd thing, the less I talked of my own part in the battle, which was truthfully miniscule to start with, the more they talked of it, as if I was the one who won the day and not the men.
While there was still some daylight, I penned a letter for my mother and father, back in Winterfell. I spoke of what happened, of the men that were lost and the men that lived. Each and every one of our original company I commended to father, and asked, when this winter ended, to grant me funds, if possible, or ask Lord Arryn to provide them instead so I could reward those that kept me alive. I told him of Wallace in great detail, how he defended me, kept me out of the hands of the savages who seemed intent on taking me hostage.
I hoped he was agreeable in terms of gifts I asked for our own guards. They certainly earned more than mere words of praise.
By accident or design, I do not remember which, I ended up sharing most of my thoughts with Robert that night.
He was quiet and focused when I told the story to him again, sans the prettied up parts.
I told him about the gore lodged in between the mace's flanges that I had to dig out with my fingers, the blood washed from my steed's coat of hair, my own leathers and my face too. I told him about the sheer horror in Beor's eyes at the moment of his violent demise.
I told him about my rage; a never-ending font of hatred that now flourished within me for all the clans that had attacked us: Howlers, Milk Snakes and Redsmiths. I remembered the markings on their faces and skin before they burned. I remembered the way they dressed themselves, the piles of broken weapons of bronze that Lord Redfort had ground into fine dust before scattering it to the four winds.
I remembered it all so I could one day put a final note on their existence and repay the deaths of men that sacrificed themselves for me.
As we passed the sack of wine around, my thirst for it stronger than before, I saw sympathy aplenty on Robert's face, but also a hunger.
Hunger for blood, hunger for battle. A terrifying thing to witness in candlelight. I imagine he saw much the same on mine.
"When you go out riding for them, I will come too." It was no request, but a statement. "And then we'll kill them, we'll kill them all."
"Aye," I tiredly agreed with him, "we will."
My dreams that night were of darkness and winter.
We spent the next sixteen turns of the moon at the Gates, before a raven from the Citadel arrived to tell us of winter's end.
Though larger than the Eyrie itself, it was not quite fit for one who would rule the Vale. I could understand why the Arryns of old wished for a proper seat for the King of Mountain and Vale that they made themselves into.
I still cursed the cunt that didn't think of a better way to reach it.
In the time we spent there, several things had happened.
Foremost of all, I found out the cause of Lady Arryn's bout of weakness: a failed pregnancy.
She had been three months heavy with child when she woke one morn and found the bed sheets soaked in blood between her legs. This caused a panic, and while Maester Osric had certainly done a miracle in assuring Rowena Arryn lived, her child did not. It was more sickness of the mind than the body, I think, that kept her confined to a bed. Many times I had seen a despondent Jon Arryn when I roamed the Gates and came across him by accident. All those times I stayed silent on the matter, for I knew not how to help. Lord Arryn had already buried a daughter and a wife before. What could I possibly offer or say to try and heal such a terrible wound?
I was told that Rowena smiled when she opened the wooden box in her room and found Winterfell's roses within.
It was the first time I'd seen her ever since I'd arrived back to the Vale, when she came to thank me. Sad to say, but she looked terrible, having lost much of her beauty with the way how gaunt her face had become and how sickly and fragile she generally appeared. But month after month saw her health improve and the broody moods that plagued the Lord of the Eyrie subsequently dissipated.
I could not be credited with the lady's improving health, but Jon still saw my gift as a turning point and thanked me effusively.
As far as the regular routine of the day was concerned, they were spent either in lessons for the mind or the honing of my body.
In the former, I delved deeper into recent history of Westeros, discovering more discrepancies along the way, one of which was Robert's own family, fairly larger than what I was expecting it to be. I admit, I was a fool for not asking him before anything about it, but it didn't cross my mind that there would be more than one or two divergences I'd already encountered. One such concerning the Baratheons was that they had seven children; the eldest, the third-born and the youngest being daughters with the rest being sons.
Of Shireen, the eldest, Robert talked plenty. Despite the two years of difference, Robert was close to his sister in all the ways he was not to Stannis, who appeared to be very much the same boy that I've once read about. Still, here remained a chance for that stubborn, hard-headed streak of his to be mellowed, as Steffon and Cassana Baratheon still lived and would live for many, many years to come. With Rhaegar's betrothal to his sister, there was no need for Aerys to send his cousin on a foolish quest for a bride of Valyrian blood.
Then again, who knew what the whims of a madman were capable, more so when one such was called king by a whole continent?
Argella, Robert had little to speak of, the girl spending much of her time with other highborn girls for companionship and Robert simply disliked that sort of company. Understandable, really. He mentioned Renly occasionally, but again, it was clear he gave him little thought, if any. Durran was born shortly after Robert had left Storm's End and Elenei had been born just one moon into the year 274 AC, so Robert had nothing to say as he knew very little about either of them, and all of it through what his mother told him in her letters.
I could not even begin the imagine the sheer chaos this alteration to the Baratheon family could cause to the events as I knew them.
Yet numerous as they were, they were not the only altered factor in the grand equation that was the Seven Kingdoms.
Another family of a Lord Paramount had also experienced a divergence. Whereas the Doran Martell I knew of had only Oberyn and Elia for siblings, this one had a brother older than either of the two, but younger than himself: Mors Martell. Whereas Oberyn kept to his ways of siring bastards left and right, bedding Edgar Yronwood's paramour, fighting the man with poison that saw him eventually dead, Mors Martell seemed to be the sword-arm of his elder brother, oft out on the sea, fighting pirates that dared tread Dornish waters.
The Tullys too had benefited from the world's path shifting ever so innocuously. Where before there were only three, now there were six. Lucas Tully was the same age as the Crown Prince, with his younger brother, Axel, born just two years after. After them followed the already known to me births of Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure Tully, in 264, 266 and 269 AC respectively, with one more child being born, another boy, by the name of Nathaniel, whose birth saw to Minisa Whent's demise in the year 273 AC. At least, this time, Hoster had heirs aplenty.
Some things had stayed the same, however. Word had come to the Gates of the Moon that Tywin Lannister's wife had died in childbirth and that his second son was born a dwarf, malformed and ugly, with one eye as black as night and the other emerald green. At the time, he still had the twins, Cersei and Jaime, with which to try and maintain some semblance of a legacy. Sadly, he knew not what a fierce opponent Cersei's cunt would be to all his ambitions, making a mockery of things as she pulled her brother further into degeneracy.
Going by the latest rumors, Tywin Lannister was firmly set never to remarry. Typical, the man did not practice what he preached.
Meanwhile, there had been two more royal births: a Prince, born in 272, named Jaehaerys and two years later followed by the birth of Princess Elaena. Of all the families in Westeros to become abundantly fertile, why the Targaryens? This did not bode well.
But sadly, there were none with whom I could share my concerns, as they'd be seen paranoid at best, treasonous at worst.
What a world.
Still, I could spend only so much time in Maester Osric's presence before my ever-ongoing quest to improve my weapon skills reared its ugly head. By the time my eleventh nameday had passed, I still wielded the mace best of all, followed by the bow and horse-riding. Swords I could now handle properly, but my aptitude was nowhere near the height of my skill with aforementioned crushing weapon.
And when Robert had finally discovered warhammers, Master Narbert despaired.
It was no use trying to convince Robert to opt for another kind of weapon, no matter what sorts of arguments the master-of-arms presented, no matter how sane or sound they were. Robert wanted a warhammer and he got one. In an attempt to discourage the youth from trying to limit himself to such a specialized weapon, Narbert had ordered a two-handed warhammer to be crafted for Robert, never knowing, nor understanding, that challenges was what Robert lived for. That he couldn't lift the damn thing with both arms at first was not an impediment in his eyes, but rather an obstacle to be overcome. Even as a boy, Robert's appetite was monstrous, but at the time being, most of that mass was being burned away by every day exercises and slowly refined to pure muscle.
Would that I could have grown at his rate, might have made things easier on me. But that was not to be my fate, I would ever be the lean fighter, moving fast, aiming to strike faster than the eye could see, despite the fact that my weapon of choice was a flanged mace.
And after a while, I admitted to myself that I felt a small amount of envy at how easily Robert finished his tasks, with nothing but sheer strength. Even at the age of two-and-ten, he possessed quite a lot of it and was not shy about putting it to good use.
Or showing off. That worked too.
It worried me, for when fully grown, I feared his carnal hungers would dim his mind and make him unbearable to be around with.
While in the Eyrie we never had companions close to our age and rank, it seemed as if the Gates of the Moon housed at least one of every great noble house of the Vale. At first, they were friendly, but me being the moody cunt that I could be at times they were put off by my self-imposed bouts of solitude, and saw it as a rejection, rather than just a quirk of my personality. Another problem was that there were far more highborn, unbetrothed, girls than I had expected. They were on the prowl and boys were their choice of prey.
Luckily, my status as a second-born son meant I was overlooked by them, which suited me just fine. Despite my brief fame after the fight with the clansmen, they were quick to tire of me and move onto more juicier prospects, namely Robert or one of the other heirs. I laughed at their misery and more than once I made my way to the inner yard for practice while my friend was otherwise occupied.
But not all was laughter and joy in the Vale.
Roughly a year since my second departure from Winterfell, while winter still reigned, I had felt a wave of weakness overcome me. Knowing what was to come next, I set out for my chambers to pen a brief letter and send it home, as quickly as possible. To avoid attention and anyone noticing my temporary frailty, I feigned another burst of interest for books and so neglected my physical training.
Robert could be fooled for only so long.
"It seems as if each year, you fall sick. Is it the fever again?"
"No, Robert," I reassured my friend, "it's nothing. A cold or something like it, but no fever. Should pass soon enough, I think."
When next week I woke to fleeting memories of darkness and strength renewed, I knew my mother and father had done their part.
Yet I would see this burden removed from them and so I searched for anything that could help.
However, I could do nothing before winter ended and Lord Arryn ordered a return to the Eyrie.
When the raven finally arrived and told us of winter's end, the whole of the Gates was set into motion. As they did every time with the changing of the seasons, they were preparing for the trip back to the Eyrie. Like so many others I did not look forward to the climb.
The snows had not yet melted and peaks of mountains would be covered in white for months and months to come, but there was a noticeable, gradual, shift in the weather. The cold was slowly ebbing away, and while we still had to dress warmly, we no longer wrapped ourselves in bundles of clothes nor were the fires stoked so high by the servants.
For our journey we were joined by one more Arryn. Elbert had come to petition his uncle regarding something in his lands. What it might have been, none of us were privy to. What quickly became commonly known was that his wife was pregnant yet again. Perhaps, the servants whispered amongst themselves, this time it would be a boy. Matters of succession were a rather serious issue, after all.
I had hoped to see Denys Arryn visit too, if only to have the opportunity to ask his help for learning the lance. Instead, the Gates received a raven by him, informing Jon Arryn of his niece giving birth to a healthy baby boy, named Rolland after an ancestor of theirs.
That helped put a smile on the Lord of the Eyrie's face, and though Rowena smiled as well, her eyes were bereft of the sentiment.
In response to Denys' letter, Jon Arryn sent back a standing invitation to the Eyrie, for when Janyce and the babe were fit to travel.
And then, we were off.
Clearing out the snow was not the issue, breaking apart the icicles that formed along the castle's ledges and corners was.
What skills I had with a bow, I put to use, along with dozens and dozens of Eyrie men, in clipping short the ones placed too high for any hand or spear to reach. Robert was there too, but his enthusiasm quickly waned when he realized how much work there actually was.
It took two weeks of steadily chipping away at the remnants of winter to make the castle safe to walk around.
A moonlit night was what I waited for, day after day, until the phases turned and shifted, and finally my path easier to take to.
It was the hour of the wolf, when most of the Eyrie was abed, and I battled the ever alluring call of dreams lest I lost my chance.
Child I might have been, but that made me more easily known, should my form be seen by any eyes in the night. Tip toeing through corridors, holding my breath while my lungs ached for air, and teeth chattering from cold, I made it. Any who looked downwards from high above in one of the towers might see a figure moving about on the grounds, but like as not, I was too far for them to know it was I.
Four white walls surrounded the enclosure and all was still. Not a sound was heard, not even a single creak from the wind.
Kings of Mountain and Vale had intended it to be an olive branch to the First Men among their newly conquered vassals.
It was a branch that never came into bloom, never bore the fruit it was always meant to.
Trees common, aye, those sprouted plenty from the stony soil, a canopy beneath which to hide should any look downward.
But no weirwood or heart tree did I see with my eyes, no carved face of the Old Gods to watch over this once domain of First Men.
Only oak, pine, hawthorn and a statue of a woman weeping standing in the very center of it.
The ground had not fully thawed from winter's embrace and to my fear I thought I might have to wait for spring to come in full strength.
But that might mean another man or woman given to the roots, another year of dependency on sacrifice and I would not allow my parents to risk so much, when there might yet still be a better way. It was a fool's hope, but then so was my mother's when she called me from darkness the very first time around. It was a fool's hope, yet it was all I had to go by. I would not suffer any weakness.
I nearly bloodied my hands that night before realizing my efforts were for nothing. So I returned to my chambers and brooded and slept.
Over the coming days and weeks, I went more and more to the enclosure, working at the ground with tools no one might miss.
If only I could have lit a fire there and made the task easier, but that would have undone my attempts in avoiding detection.
Soon enough, dark circles started appearing under my eyes. I thought none would pay heed too much, but instead I was brought to the solar of Jon Arryn and instructed to not linger so much in my chambers awake, up with one book or another, when sleep was what my body wanted and needed. I might've laughed off his concern, but he had a look in his eyes and I dared not say anything back.
Relying on nothing more than a feeling, I decided to stay in my chambers, abed, for the following few nights.
When my doors opened at odd hours, when all else should have been asleep, it confirmed what I suspected and expected of Jon Arryn.
In the dim lighting of sputtering torches, I saw Marya's wrinkled face and the softening of her mouth when she assured I was in my bed.
So I spent the following two weeks, before losing all signs of a lack of sleep and with it gone, so too was the nightly checkup.
Once returned to the task at hand, at digging through the earth, I only went there every third night, lest I incurred another round of watching. And in that time, the ground had thawed, though it being stony meant I had to go slow about it, lest too much noise was made and then promptly investigated if someone were to wander near the area. No need for additional risks on my part.
In the meantime, things had gone on, more or less, as usual. One thing that I did get to skip out on, but Robert couldn't, were visits from the Eyrie's septon. Even before the revelations from my mother I felt no inclination to pay obeisance to any gods, and now that I knew my continued survival depended on forces that many of the Seven's followers cared not for or would oppose and burn out if they could, I stayed clear of grounds they deemed holy. For all I knew, the Old Gods had no thoughts on the matter, but why risk it?
Besides, the septon, an elderly, highly devout man, was a bore and removing myself from his presence was a bonus.
Jon Arryn was not surprised with my decision to not attend the lessons from Septon Ben and respected it.
Robert was not so accommodating. He thought I should suffer the man's sermons as he did.
"You could always convert to the Old Gods, no lessons to attend there."
He was confused at that. "How do you call it a faith, or believe, when you have no one to preach it?"
"They are the gods and that is all you need to know. They command no man to spread belief in them or wage wars in their name."
Years later, upon visiting my home, he would remark, with bellowing laughter, "I know now why all attempts at conversion failed. They've buggered off south when their cocks turned to icicles and dropped off!"
But at that time and day, he had no such reply, only complaints about Septon Ben and his breath that stank of foul things.
Maester. Mace. Bow. Horse. Maester. Jon. Robert. Rowena. Letters.
An apt summation, I think, of how most of my days at the Eyrie were spent.
It was four months since we had moved back that I finally made some significant progress in the enclosure.
Yet the seeds remained in my pouch as I thought on these things. I couldn't help but recall my mother's voice.
Only life can pay for life.
Why else had a proper godswood not been raised in this place? For the weather here was far more temperate than the North, where many godswoods flourished and kept strong, for thousands and thousands of years. In the brief visit to Winterfell, and after the words shared between mother and myself, I'd plundered our library for all its worth and taken with me any texts that might provide some clue to the ways of old. Among them was a rare text penned by a Maester Yorick, who spoke of blood sacrifices to the Old Gods.
I knew what some would think of me if they knew why I researched such things.
Savage, they would name me, for worshiping trees they deemed foul.
Heathen, as if my skin ought to burn upon entering Andal lands and their septries.
Madman, for daring to think of the old and ways to bring it back anew.
Sorcerer, witch and unholy demon, they would accuse if they had the slightest inkling of what I'd do.
Not skin-changer, sadly enough. Not unless we count my arrival as such and I didn't.
And so I pondered and waited and pondered some more, before I realized too much thinking was doing me no good.
It was past time for merely entertaining the thoughts, it was long past since I ought to have turned them to deeds.
Another three months would pass, worry gnawing at me from the inside, before an opportunity presented itself.
The Eyrie was not a place where one usually held prisoners, not unless you cared not for whether they died by your hand or their own.
Having been to the Sky Cells a few times in passing, I could see why so many of them jumped, for whether they received judgment from the Lord of the Eyrie or not, they'd fly into the blue all the same, be it through the Moon Door or from their cells.
Even from the other side, with the iron doors to the cells locked, I could still feel it pulling at me, calling me to embrace it.
How was I even supposed to handle it then to acquire myself a sacrifice from there?
The logistics of dragging a man or woman to the enclosure, undetected, were troubling enough.
It couldn't be done at any other time than night, of course, but still... gods, I fucking hated heights. I hated them so much.
I do not recall what day it was, nor the food or drink I tasted that day. Having been accustomed to lying to people, feigning my moods was easily done, so while I might have been considering all possible complications on the inside, on the outside I was nothing but my usual self. Which is not saying much, I grant you that. But I think Jon Arryn thought me merely distracted by the first execution Robert and I had seen ever since arriving to his ancestral castle. Like all men, this one too was offered death or the Wall. For a moment, it seemed as if he might try his luck at the Wall, but then something changed his mind and he chose death.
Death by being tossed through the Moon Door.
Oh how he howled on his way down. Or was that just the wind, welcoming him?
His crime, you ask? I cannot recall. Murder or treason of some sort, no doubt.
The crime of the one whom I took from the Sky Cells? Yes, I remember that one. I think I always will.
It was the dead of night, the hour of the wolf having already passed, when I stole the keys from the jailor's cot. The man had gotten stinking drunk on wine I procured for him earlier and was now thoroughly knocked out, snoring and drooling.
I had to be careful and quiet, for my mark was not alone in the cells, though two of them had gone slightly mad and their words could not be trusted about what they saw. Still, no reason to chance it, they were fed the milk of the poppy. Acquiring so much of it had been a task unto itself. I could only ask so often for it to be sent to my chambers, lest they thought I was addicted to it. Once every month, no more, and only enough for a child to fall asleep that claimed sleep would not come to him naturally. The effects would not last long.
Though I'd much improved my strength and endurance since the first day I arrived, it was still a heavy burden for me. The pace by which I moved displeased me mightily, yet I could not afford to try and rush ahead, lest someone came across me.
Dawn was perhaps only an hour or two away when I reached the enclosure.
And the effects of the drug were wearing off, I could see her lids fluttering, eyes slowly turning open.
A shame that, she might have grown up to be a pretty girl, found herself a minor noble to wed and be happy with, yet that was not to be for Sharra Osgund. Daughter of minor nobles herself, she had been found smothering her baby brother in his crib, for one reason or another. They'd arrived just in time to see the child's eyes close for one final time. Sent by her parents to the Lord of the Eyrie for judgment, for they could not bear to see justice done by their own hands, she was far from sight, far from heart, day after day passing with her sitting in the Sky Cells. Jon Arryn thought it best to allow the girl to live a bit longer before sending her to the Silent Sisters, if she survived the blue.
Come the morning, they'd find her cell empty, the jailor's keys returned to his cot, think she passed judgment on herself and forget her.
But I would not. How could I? Though I blooded myself with the clansmen, she was the first child I killed, after all.
The seeds were already in place, blanketed by the earth when I slit her throat open and held her head above them to water the ground.
It takes less time than one would think, and more than you'd want to wait out, for someone to die by loss of blood from the neck.
Once she was limbless in my arms, I pushed back the dirt atop the thirteen mounds and made it look like nothing was out of place.
In the end, she really did embrace the blue, even if it was with some assistance from myself.
Couldn't risk a body to be found by anyone and when she hit the ground there'd be no way to determine how she truly died.
The night was over, but I was not done yet.
Going off on nothing more than a gut feeling, I went back to the enclosure and lightly cut myself on the palm of my left hand.
Clenched into fist, I made sure the blood dripped on the same spots where the girl's lifesblood and the seeds mingled.
And that was that.
Or it would have been had I not turned around and saw Rowena Arryn standing behind me.
Here be giants, grumkins and snarks.
Or so it seemed from the outside, as we waited for its gates to open and welcome us.
In the yard, I had barely dismounted my horse when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
It was Rickard and he looked most odd; his face, which I had last seen looking at me sternly, was showing signs of affection. It was there, in his faint smile, in the crease of his brow, and yes even in his touch. Had he been a different kind of man, he might've lowered himself and embraced me in his arms. But that was not his way and this alone was telling enough.
"Father," I greeted the man, "I'm home."
The others waited for us inside the Great Hall and so we entered the keep.
Gods, how I had missed Winterfell's heated walls and warm hallways.
Having no need for the heavy furs any more once we ventured inside, I gladly discarded the snow-laden clothes, leaving it to a servant to dry them out by a fire. Passing through its corridors, many a man and woman greeted me with a smile on their face.
One step inside the Great Hall and I was toppled over, Benjen and Lyanna on top of me. Father and mother laughed, as did a number of others, at the sight, and I joined in their laughter, glad for the welcoming, glad that I had finally come back home.
Once pried loose of my brother and sister, I was greeted by Brandon as well. He was here too! It would seem our parents had sent word to Barrow Hall that I was to arrive for a brief visit home and that they wished all their children gathered together.
"Later, you'll show me if you learned anything down there south, but I somehow doubt it," taunted Brandon, with a crooked smile on his face. "Bet they made you wear fine silks and dress up for all their courtly ladies! Bet they put flower scents on you!"
We both gave as good as we got, as it turned out, having improved with our respective weapons, he with a sword and I with a mace. Naturally we did that before an audience in the hall, rather than have at it in the yard where it snowed and cold bit at the bones.
I was seated at the table with Lyanna on one side and Lyarra on the other, while Benjen kept firing off one question after another about the Vale and my time spent there. For the sake of polite conversation, I gave them all an edited version, though judging by the look Rickard sent my way, he was seemingly aware of what had truly been going on. Suppose I'll find out about that later in private.
Lyarra's fingers trailed down the length of my nose. "You've had it broken. How?"
Doing my best to seem nonchalant, I replied, "A friendly brawl, with Robert Baratheon. Long past us now, we've become fast friends."
She clucked her tongue at me and muttered something about the idiocy of boys and children in general.
When Benjen finally tired of asking me questions and started busying himself with the food in front of him, Lyanna took his place as chief interrogator, paying no heed to the fact that I was yet to taste one bit of the warm meal in front of me.
"What was the Eyrie like?"
"Strange, but beautiful. Smaller than Winterfell, but at the same time you can't imagine anything bigger on a mountain peak."
Barely finished with answering that question, Lyanna asked another. "Did you fight any of the Mountain Clans?"
I'd have sooner expected this sort of thing from Benjen or Brandon, not Lyanna. "No, and thank the gods for that."
She frowned, as if disappointed with my reply. "What about shadowcats? Did you hunt any down? Did Lord Arryn?"
"What? No. Who's been putting these things in your head?" I mock scolded her. "You're being awfully nosy here."
A light punch to my shoulder and Lyanna sticking out her tongue at me was her response. "You try sitting cooped up inside all the time, without even being able to ride horse or do anything outside." Her annoyed expression was swept away quickly and concern replaced it. "Mother and father had word there were storms when you'd just barely left White Harbor. Did you make it alright?"
I didn't delay in assuring her that it went all right. "We'd avoided the worst of it with refuge at one of Lord Arryn's bannermen, whose island was near enough for us. Made some friends while we were there. Met the lord's children and his youngest daughter reminded me of you."
"How so? Does she like riding?" Her eyes widened and she asked, in a low voice, "You didn't practice with her too, did you?"
Lyarra, who'd clearly heard us, just rolled her eyes in amusement. Well, I suppose we weren't all that clever in sneaking about Winterfell.
"Of course not, do you think I'd do that for just anyone? Only for the brattiest of girls, I solemnly promise."
This time it was a kick to the shins under the table, or rather an attempt at that. Lyanna nearly fell off her seat when she over-swung and missed, but I caught her by the arm and pulled her back up. Chancing a glance at Rickard, I saw that his eyes weren't on us. Last thing I needed was for a fresh scolding regarding table manners from the man just as our relationship was thawing.
When she straightened out her dress and looked around to see if any noticed our messing about, Lyanna looked quite silly. Like pretending to be a lady, when she was anything but. I assume Lyarra had a hand in that, if anyone did.
Her next question, and the tone she voiced it in, came as a surprise to me, truly. "What of Lady Arryn? Is she beautiful?"
With a shrug, I replied "She's pretty, I guess." I pushed aside her hair, to reveal her face. "She has nothing on you, dearest sister."
No one at Winterfell called her Lyanna Horseface, not like they've done to Arya, but she had the long face of Starks, a touch too strong of a jaw and a nose that she'd grow into as she matured. She'd have suitors going after her for more than the prospect of marrying a Lord Paramount's daughter. I just hope she'd be wise enough to see right through them, and if not... well, what were older brothers for?
A faint blush had shown itself on her pale cheeks, but to Lyanna's credit she didn't avert her eyes from mine or stutter when she asked her next question. "What about tourneys? Have you seen any yet? Have you competed? Oh I just know you'd be good, no one's as good on a horse as you, Ned." Her words were quickly followed by a cocky grin. "Well, except me, of course."
Shaking my head, I said, "No, I've not seen any yet. And to compete? Lyanna, I'm barely nine years old, I don't think they'd let me."
But that only encouraged her imagination. "You could go in as a mystery knight! No one would know it was you until you won!"
"And I suppose it wouldn't be suspicious at all that this mystery knight was so small and I was missing from Lord Arryn's presence?"
Lyanna frowned and her shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I forgot about that."
I put aside the cutlery and ceased any attempts at eating, clearly it would avail me naught. With one arm around her shoulders, I pulled Lyanna close to me and kissed the top of her head. She fought it at first, muttering something about not being a little girl — dear gods, I missed hearing that so much — but she eased up when she noticed I wasn't squeezing too hard and was allowing her the chance to flee.
She stayed, and I told her, in a gentle, assuring voice, "One day, I will compete in tourneys, ride the lists and fight in the melees, and if there are to be any so grand as to have a Queen of Love and Beauty crowned, I promise, you will be mine."
Lyanna was quiet and said nothing, just leaned further into me.
I knew it before, as one knew of a vague thing, like the stars in the night-sky, but now it was a certainty, as part of me as my bones and skin: I would do murder and commit as many atrocities as necessary to keep the Starks safe. And if there were any gods that cared for Rhaegar Targaryen's well-being at all, they'd keep him away from my kin, make him overlook my sister, else I'd find myself with a dragon's hide.
The first few days there were bliss. Then a familiar routine set in. Just because I was not a guest of Lord Arryn did not mean my education was to be halted, and Maester Walys was keen to test my knowledge, expand and improve it if found lacking.
The meeting which I expected to have with Rickard on the day of my arrival didn't happen until I was less than a week from departing.
I had gone to him to ask for permission to visit the glass gardens and pluck a single rose for Rowena Arryn.
"Sit, Ned. You wished to talk?"
"Father, I'd come to ask your permission regarding a gift."
His bushy brows rose in question. "Oh? And what sort of gift is it, that you need ask my permission?"
"Our glass garden, father, I would go to it and take one winter rose with me back to the Vale and gift it to Lady Arryn, who'd watched over me when I fell ill, and cared for me as if I were her own child and not merely a guest."
He smiled at my words. "It is understandable you would want to express your gratitude to Jon's wife like so, but are you certain that a just a single rose would suffice for such kindness? Nay, my son, you shall not give her one, but a dozen instead. It is the least we can offer in return for her having taken care of you in your time of need."
"Thank you, father."
"Continue as you've done so far with Lord Arryn and that will suffice as thanks." His lighthearted mood quickly turned to solemn. "Now, about that Vale knight I've heard, Ser Cleyton. What happened between the two of you?"
I had no wish to involve Rickard in whatever potential disputes there might be in the future, but I owed him the truth.
"Troublesome. It was wise of Jon to send him away, before he overstepped again. I trust you will hold back from seeking him and his kin out?"
"Of course, father. I gave my word to Lord Arryn and I intend to honor it."
"Good, good," said Rickard, relieved. "Now, unless there is anything more, your mother would like to see you. Go to her chambers, and if she is not there, then look to the godswood, she has been spending much of her time there lately."
I bowed to the Lord of Winterfell and left his solar.
And it was as Rickard had said, I couldn't find Lyarra in her chambers and a nearby servant told me she was in the godswood.
Having dressed myself warmly enough, I ventured outside the keep and passed under the main iron gate. Even from a distance, I could see steam rising from several of the pools and ponds, the warm springs from beneath the earth preventing the water from frosting over.
I spotted Lyarra sitting by the heart tree, on a small log that had been recently cleared of snow.
On seeing me, and hearing the snow crunched under my thick winter boots, Lyarra's previous contemplative face changed to a bright smile that instantly shifted her whole demeanor. With her hands she bid me come closer, as if that was not my intent from the start.
"Mother," I greeted her and proceeded to clear a nearby stump of snow and sit down on it. "Father's told me you wished to see me."
"Indeed, Ned."
"Any particular reason? I've not misbehaved lately," or rather you had no proof I did, so long as Lyanna kept mum.
"Mischievous child," she ruffled my hair, and I endured it. "Sometimes I wonder, who among you four will grieve us the most with your foolishness and children's play? Benjen continues his small pranks against the servants, Lyanna vanishes from the sight of her minders to look at pointy things in the armory and Brandon does as Brandon likes. And yet I would not wish it otherwise."
"Mother," I gently reminded her, "was there something that needed to be addressed before my return to the Vale? You spoke of things in your letter that I needed to know of, but your words were vague. Is it an important matter?"
At that, her smile dimmed by a little. "In a way, yes. It is something quite paramount for you to know. And understand, if possible."
I did not like the change in her tone, the swirl in her mood that darkened it, made it more solemn and grave. "Mother?"
"Do you remember your first bout of the winter fever?" she asked out of the blue.
"Aye, I do," I replied with truth. Though the memories were not entirely mine to start with, they were now as such.
Lyarra stretched out her arms and bid me come sit in her lap. For a moment I hesitated, thinking myself beyond that age, but in the end decided to indulge her. No harm could come of it, and I would give her some small comfort until my next visit to the North.
Soon, her warmth started to seep through the clothes and combined with my own, as mine did with hers.
"You were so weak, growing weaker by the day. Walys said there was nothing he could do, that you would either live or you would not. Weeks of despair followed, and the mood in our family turned darker. Everyone was jumping at each other's throats, as if that would help, but when one is powerless, they often lash out irrationally. Days gone by with only a few days left until the very end, or so Walys estimated. For all his learned ways, all his wisdom from parchments and texts and books hundreds of years old, he is not all-knowing. No man is, and to claim so is the ultimate ignorance. He couldn't know when you would die and I would not let it happen."
Let it happen?
"It was silly of me to even think of stories I heard told when I was but a young girl, younger than you even, and hope that they might prove true. They were silly and delusional so long as they remained but mere thoughts. But I was not content with that. I would not let my son go into the early night, when his time was not yet past. To never see you father your own children, to never see any grandchild with your long nose," she traced it with a finger, "or your strong chin. To never see you happy and in love and married, that I could not abide by, that I would see averted and undone. And so I turned thought into deed. I did what perhaps ought not to have been done, yet I would do it again without hesitation. In fact, I had done it again when you, my son, had dire need of me."
Her embrace had turned harsher, more possessive than anything else, filled with a desperate sort of love. I turned my head to the side and looked up into her face. She kissed me on the brow, lips trembling. Something wet fell on my face. Tears, trickling from the grey.
"Only life could pay for life."
No. No. Tell me it was not so! Tell me you bargained not with devils and demons of the East to bring me here to this world!
"There, what do you see?" asked Lyarra of me and pointed a finger at the heart-tree's carved face.
Eyes and nose and an open mouth, with dried tree sap covering it. I said as much.
"Not tree sap, my son. Blood. Blood of a man, guilty of a crime for which the Wall would be a mercy. What I gave him was not mercy. It took him a dozen hours or more to die, stomach cut wide, guts just barely held from spilling. His lifesblood watered the earth and fed the roots their most precious sustenance. Perhaps the Children, if they still lived, could have known of a different way of appeasing the Old Gods, but what I had were but words of my great-grandmother's great-grandmother passed down through the generations. It was never more than a mother's last hope, that I would see you hale and hearty once more. And then... I did. Your strength was returning, the fever banished by what many would call witchcraft and sorcery, but I considered a fair bargain struck."
My mind was beset by chaos. I felt nauseous and exhilarated at the same time. No fickleness of the Red God, no scorching fire to keep my limbs in motion, no hellish flame to devour my memories. No, the darkness to which I woke in this world, the darkness that ever beckoned me was of the earth; the Old Gods calling me to their realm, their roots entwining themselves around my soul.
I knew it, yet I could not say how. Darkness and cold were ever the domains of the North, and what was I if not one of its sons, in truth now? More than the former Ned Stark ever could have, I was to tie my fate to that of the Old Gods that I'd not worshiped, that I'd never spoken to. I'd have laughed, if I could have. Laughed and cried for the madness that would become central figure in the stage of my life.
I mourned not for the life taken and given, for blood was shed and fed to the carved face of the gods so that I would live.
"When a whole year had passed and you still remained healthy, I sighed with relief, for the bargain was kept. Then we sent you to the Vale, to foster with Jon Arryn, and all I ever thought of was you coming home back day, perhaps accompanied by a girl of your own, to give you sons and daughters, to make you happy." Her tears ran dry. "And then that blasted raven had come, bringing word of your illness come again. Nothing worked, as I knew it wouldn't. A letter a week, and all it kept bringing was more and more certainty that your end was near, that I was to lose a son. But as before, I would not allow it."
"This time, it was a woman, who'd killed her babe in a fit of madness."
Who would be next? Would there always be a need for one? A life of ritual sacrifices for another year or two of extension?
"I fed her the milk of poppy and then bled her dry before the tree. She died and you lived."
For all my supposed age, I curled against her, my mother, weak and afraid, wanting nothing more than darkness to take me again.
It was summoned by her gentle and loving words, a Northern nursery rhyme that would stay with me for as long as I walked the earth.
For a life, you spill a drop or three and feed the tree
For life or death, ask the Gods not where it dwelt
For life, when the flesh is cold, warmth must come and go
For death, the flesh is stretched and torn and a river borne
'tween leaves they wait, darkness the gate, dream the key
Root and tree, life and me,
Tree and root, for now and for good.
Dark my dreams, dark my moods, but never when around family.
Rickard knew. He had to. Men and women did not vanish from Winterfell's dungeons without him learning of it. They couldn't. He knew and... he loved me. Or the son that he thought I was, at least. He loved me enough that he'd given the two over to Lyarra, to murder in cold blood. After that day, in my eyes he was Rickard Stark no longer. My father had people murdered for me.
How could I not love the man for that? How could I deny him and Lyarra their rightful claim any longer: mother and father.
Brought together by murder, twice sacrifice-bound, united by the Old Gods in purpose and ways I could not have even imagined.
In snow, I buried my secrets. It would hold my love until spring skies came and I confessed it anew. It would hold my soul.
To earth and rock and tree, I vowed, so the Old Gods would hear and witness.
With this newfound knowledge, I began bringing my siblings to the godswood more often.
Lyanna was the easiest to entice. I had asked her one day to join me in the godswood, in the morn, and though she had been grumbling at first when she saw me sitting before the heart tree, complaining about being roused so early in the day, once all notion of sleep was banished from her eyes, she shrieked with joy and tried her best to barrel me over into the snow.
"Thank you, thank you," she kept saying in a rush, "thank you, thank you!"
"I did say I would ask father about it, did I not?"
Lyanna's grin could barely be restrained from splitting her face wide open. "I know, but I didn't expect he'd actually agree! Oh, Ned!"
Strange, no? That a simple bow and arrow would give her so much joy.
But no stranger than me being glad that my sister was happy.
It had taken some doing, and I'd paid for it myself, rather than simply command the craftsman from the winter town. The material was supplied from one of the weirwood trees, and a bow was fashioned from one of its branches. It was a simple thing, with no decorations.
But Lyanna loved it, and would cherish it for many years to come, and that was all that mattered.
Brandon did not return to Winterfell alone. Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce and Willam Dustin were his companions.
If I remembered correctly, Ethan and Kyle were nephews to the ruling lords of Deepwood Motte and Runestone. I had no way of knowing if their fostering was arranged in conjunction with father's plans, or whether their uncles sent them to Lord Dustin beforehand.
We spoke little to each other save for daily greetings and such, as we had little in common, my brother aside.
We did however get to test our mettle against each other.
They'd watched the duel between Brandon and I in the Great Hall, along with everyone else present.
Impressed as they were with our display, they were wary of likewise testing themselves, despite the desire plain on their faces.
I was in the Great Hall one morn, breaking fast with my brother, when I asked if he knew anything about the cause of their caution.
"You frighten them, little brother," said Brandon in between mouthfulls of salted pork.
"What are you talking about?"
Before answering, he drank deeply from the tankard of ale. "Ah, that hit the spot. What? Oh yes, you frighten them, Ned." Brandon chuckled. "How could you not when they've heard tale of my fierce brother fighting an older, stronger boy and blinding him?"
My eyes widened by no small amount in surprise. "You tell people stories about me? About that Whitehill cunt? To this day?"
"Hah, cunt he was, aye!" To my glare, he rebutted with, "Oh come now, Ned, don't tell me I ought've kept quiet. How could I? Who else has brothers barely past their seventh nameday that fought so hard and good against the odds and won?"
"How do you even have the time, I wonder," shaking my head, I asked, "when you've got that girl — Bessa, was it — to keep you busy?"
Brandon, being Brandon, was completely unfazed by this. "Aye, sweet Bessa is good for that. What of you, Ned? Found yourself a nice kitchen girl up there in the Eyrie? Trading kisses for sweets?" He grinned. "Or is it the other way around?"
"What do you think is more likely of the two?" I asked him.
My brother's grin was gone and he frowned. "Knowing you, you're stuck in whatever library they got in the Eyrie, or in the yard, training hard." He didn't pout, but he came close. "No fun, Ned, you just don't know how to have any fun."
"I've plenty of fun," I rebelled against the accusations. "Not my fault you're a simpleton who's easily entertained by kissing girls."
As punishment, he grabbed me in an arm-hold and ruffled at my hair, whilst I fought back. "Simpleton, am I? Oh do pray forgive me, your lordship of stuck-up-arse, for my insolent behavior. Please, do enlighten us misguided folk on how we ought to have fun."
I managed to set myself free and challenged him. "Come to the godswood tonight then and I'll show you, if you're not scared, Brandon."
After that, it was child's play.
Much of Winterfell was abed, as we should have been, but instead we sneaked past the guards and past the guest house, our path illuminated by the moon's silver light, making our way through the snow on the ground, even as it continued to fall from the night sky above, knowing our tracks would be be covered by the next morn.
Even in the dead of night, when it was coldest, the pools refused to freeze and steam rose up in the air.
"Ned," whispered Brandon, "what are we doing here? I can hardly see how freezing our arses is any fun."
"Hush, brother, less complaining back there. You'd think it wasn't me who fostered down south the way you whine about a bit of chill."
"A bit?" Brandon snapped, though thankfully still in low voice. "A bit is when the first snows start and we make sport in it. This is right about when our piss turns solid and spears the ground. This is just when our balls turn to ice and drop like acorns from a tree."
"All this talk of arses and balls, you'd think it was boys you spent your time kissing at Barrow Hall rather than girls."
That distracted him well enough, I think. He tried to grab me and shove me down in the snow, but I laughed at him and taunted him to follow me further. It took a bit of doing, but we were finally there, before the heart tree of Winterfell.
When I started undressing, Brandon looked at me as if I was mad. Chances are, he was right.
"Have you completely lost it? Get those back on you, father will — actually, never mind what father will do to punish us, mother will peel our skin by the inches and hang us by the toes in pantry, like a pair of dried ribs, and by the time she's done, we'll call that a mercy."
I won't lie and say that I felt no cold. I felt it to the bone. And just as quickly as it seeped into my body, so it was banished by the pool's underground springs. Keeping my head above the water, however, was an effort; I very much wished to just dive below and never come out for air again, as the warmth that the earth so generously provided was a magnificent sensation.
"Oh come on, it's not like we've never done this before. It might even do you some good, put some hair on your chest!"
He grumbled. He bitched and whined and muttered about the trouble that we'd would get into for such foolishness late at night. He still left his clothes and furs beneath the branches of the heart tree, teeth chattering, and joined me in the pool of black water.
"G-gods, that feels so fucking good!" he stuttered and shook slightly at first, but gradually became accustomed.
"Of course it does, did you think I'd lead you out here for something stupid? Who do you think I am, a Whitehill?"
We both had a laugh at that, though we did our best to keep it quiet.
An awkward silence followed, during which I took time to ponder my brother's relationships with his friends. It must have been easy for one such as him, to simply pull the others under his sway, to have them follow him wherever he went, even to the domain of a madman. A madman who sired an equally mad son, who would drag the Starks on the road to war and ruin, if given the chance.
I would deny them that. I would deny Rickard's unjust and torturous execution. I would deny Brandon ever watching our father die. I would deny our mother mourning them both, I would deny Benjen the very idea of ever going to the Wall and becoming one of the brothers in black. And I would deny Lyanna even the hint of a chance to ever think good of Rhaegar and running away with him.
That was poor of me, judging her for acts she might not even commit. Yet I did the same for everyone else, so why not her as well? Because she was my sister? Because I had grown to care for her? Love her even? Love blinds, love restricts, love is... foolish. But it can't be denied.
"You're brooding, Ned," Brandon's voice reached me. "Don't tell me you dragged me out here to brood with you. My face's not so plain as yours and the womenfolk would notice if I'm not as handsome as I was before. Lines and frowns. We can't have that, now can we?"
Cheeky cunt. "Not brooding, just... thinking, that's all." As if I was the only one enjoying the silence and peace of the night.
He moved about in the pool, resting his back against one of its edges, while I did the same against another. "About?"
"About home. About Winterfell. Mother and father. Lyanna and Benjen and, yes, even you, my oaf of a brother."
"What of it?"
"I've missed you all. I missed being here." I sighed. "The Eyrie's so small. I can't even go riding unless it's to run circles in one of its yards. There's no heart tree there, no godswood whatsoever, the only snows I see are on peaks of other mountains, it's —"
"— not home," Brandon finished for me. He had a thoughtful look on his face. "Don't get me wrong, Ethan and the others can be great fun, but all they do is just wait for me to do something first. Even Willam is acting like I'm the lord of his father's lands, and that's just boring. When we take to the stables, we don't really ride, it's more.. more like what mother and father do when they go out together in spring-time. They don't run! They don't fight! Not like you and I do! Or did, at least, when we were all here."
"Imagine what it's like for Lyanna and Benjen then without us to keep them on their toes."
They clearly weren't all that often on his mind, and it was a guilt-ridden silence that he broke with, "Mother's not had any complaints?"
"Doubtful, but even if she had, she likely overlooked them because we're all back where we belong."
"There's that at least." He smiled in fond remembrance of days past. "We weren't all that bad, were we?"
I snorted. "Not nearly as bad as we thought ourselves to be, but not nearly as good as we ought to have been."
"Good! The way it should be then! Tell me about this friend of yours, Robert Baratheon, who broke your nose, how did that happen?"
So I did and by the time I was done, Brandon tried his best, and failed, to contain his laughter.
"Only you, Ned!" He shook his head. "My little brother, it seems you either make enemies or you make friends with those you fight."
I allowed a single note of wistfulness to permeate my next few words. "Still haven't fought your friends."
"True. But I could see something done about it. Mind, they'd probably be more comfortable if you promised not to maim them."
Ignoring his taunting, I replied, "On the morrow?"
"On the morrow, if you like. Now, I think it best we get out of the water, before we turn to prunes, and don our clothes quickly, if we don't want the guards to find a pair of snowmen here come the morn."
"Alright, alright," I grumbled.
Except neither of us was leaving the pool.
We were still submerged below the neck in the water. We didn't quite fancy getting out barefoot and barearsed in the cold.
"Right," said Brandon, just as he turned his back on me, "last one to the keep has to tell father who it was that left salt in the servant's wine."
Oh you fucking —
As it turned out, Brandon didn't do the whole contrition thing well enough, so he was assigned to helping out the folk in the winter town.
His glares only amused me, and his friends' too.
None of the three were as inept as Brandon described them to be. Perhaps in fear of wounding our father's heir they held back with him? It hardly mattered where our own spars were concerned, for we all gave the best that we could. Of the three, Kyle Royce was the one that vexed me the most with his morningstar. Equal in reach with weapons, aye, and its spikes were dulled enough that no perforation would happen, but it still hurt like a bitch when it crashed against my shield.
But I wager it hurt no more than when the mace connected to his exposed wrist and made him drop the weapon.
They were good sports about it and though we'd not become friends, they were no longer as restrained in my presence.
"Hah, you bested them!" Brandon cheered that day. "Now, if we could only find you a girl of your own..."
My entreaties for help from mother fell on deaf ears. The woman took delight in my brother trying to pair me off with girls.
It was no easy thing for me when the time came, and if I clung more tightly than ever before to mother and father, who could blame me?
There is nothing sweet about parting, only sorrow. Even though I knew I'd see them again, I loathed leaving my home.
And so I departed from Winterfell once more, uncertain of my future, uncertain of what awaited, uncertain of so many, many things.
With me I carried nothing save a wooden box, where frost-kissed roses were kept pristine, and a leather pouch with thirteen seeds.
The sea was a cruel mistress, yet not so wicked as a woman might be. The waves tested us, battering the ship's hull, while their brothers, winds of south and east, howled their outrage at us. And in between, I heard the voices of the Lady and her Lord, making merry, whilst we almost drowned. Such fierce children they must have conceived with offerings so freely given in men's lives.
Some thought me mad to stay up on deck, watching the lashing of the sea, the bitch's taming, the pleasure of a goddess.
Perhaps they were right and I was insane. What did any of it matter? I was of the North and the North was strong in me.
None of the men of Winterfell said a thing, though their minds must have questioned and doubted my sanity. Well, all barring Wallace, who stood by me, in silence, and watched the grand coupling of sea and sky, retreating below deck only when I did.
Fourteen days, that was all it took to reach Gulltown this time around and men kissed the cold ground of the harbor when we docked.
As usual we were offered the customary lodgings beneath Marq Grafton's roof and took them. A bit of sleep where the beds didn't sway about would do the men some good and I could perhaps eat something and manage to keep it in my belly for longer than an hour.
We were given twenty men this time, as Grafton forces were stretched thin in keeping other parts of his lands secure from raids.
Would that he had given us thrice as much, for there came a day on the road that their swords and arms would be much needed.
Our camp was set amidst one of the Vale's smaller gorges - three or four hours away, at a steady horse's pace, from Redfort - a good spot for defense against any attack that came from the front or back. The cliffs were fortunately too rough and uneven for any man to stand on them and try pelting us with arrows or rocks from above. But that didn't mean that we were safe.
It was Wallace who approached me, though in truth I intended to go to the man myself. I've seen him arguing something with one of the Grafton men, each of them eager to bellow and shout, bodies tense with promise of violence, but keeping their voices down.
"Milord."
"Wallace, am I going to have to ask you what that was about or will you tell me on your own?"
"A disagreement. In addition to another matter, the lad thought you ought not to be told, but I am of a different mind."
Well now, this didn't sound ominous at all. "Told what?"
Even though only our own men watched us, Wallace looked to the distance first before replying, in a low voice, "Clansmen. They've been following us for the past three days, but as they were in lower numbers than our company, we thought that them no threat."
I ventured a guess. "And now, those numbers have increased?"
Wallace nodded. "Aye, milord. By a great many. They'll attack, mayhaps on the morrow, mayhaps within the hour. Who could say what goes on in their heads? We clearly carry no significant supplies for them to steal. All we've got are our horses and weapons."
Silently, I cursed whomever it was that ordained highborns announce their passage with banners. It was an unlikely chance, but some of them could have known to whom the direwolf belonged, and there it stood, planted in the middle of our camp, fluttering in the wind.
Why bother bloodying themselves against well-guarded caravans when a highborn hostage could fetch them just as much, if not more?
"Doesn't matter," I told Wallace, "they'll attack and that's that. Would the men stand and fight or would they run?"
Looking bolder, more sure than ever before, Wallace said, "We will stand and fight and die, if that is to be how the day ends." Then his righteous glare shifted to something different. "But you, milord, should leave. The dispute you saw me having with Roderick, 'twas about you. I asked which among our horses was the fastest, and which man the lightest, to send you two together on its back. We could not make it as we are to Lord Redfort's keep, but you might. Roderick disagreed and said that would trigger the attack the moment the clansmen saw us preparing you and the horse to ride forth."
For all that he addressed me like a grown man, he still looked at my flesh and saw a child. I couldn't blame him for that.
"I'm afraid Roderick has the right of it, Wallace." Before he could express his dislike, I sped on ahead, "But your thought was not without merit. Instead of two, we ought to send just one, one that could ride as fast as the wind, or faster if need be, for Redfort and ask for aid."
"They'd still attack us the moment they saw the horse sprinting, it would change nothing, milord! At least this way —"
I brought my hand up. "Peace, Wallace. I did not intend to have the man ride out in plain sight and light of day, but rather, if we are fortunate enough that they do not go against us today, we send the man out tonight, when all is dark, to carefully lead his horse away from camp, reins in hand, and once sufficiently far away jump on it and run for Redfort with all haste."
He tried arguing, but it did him no good, for it was the best plan we could have come up with and suffer minimum casualties.
I'm no fool to think of dying in battle, facing savages in a last stand. I do this out of self-preservation, for to mount a horse and try to run away would have been folly, it'd have made me a more tempting mark for any clansmen with a bow or a throwing axe that most certainly lurked on the other side of the gorge, undoubtedly having gotten there previously by way of a goat trail. They probably did not possess large numbers, but they needn't have, only enough to harass and slow us down if all of us tried to run.
As covertly as possible, matters were being arranged and Hobb was the man chosen for the duty to ride to Redfort, but not before he asked for a brief note written by myself, to warrant his safety should we all fall in battle and if any sought to call him craven for running.
The whole camp was ill at ease and all anyone did was make themselves ready to do battle at a moment's notice.
Hours passed at a snail's pace, the sun's setting only placing us further on edge.
Wallace and Roderick planned the best way to fight in the gorge, using its narrow points to form a bottleneck if need be. Other men argued that all horses ought to be mounted and they should give charge into the clansmen horde, but that was chosen only as a last resort.
Strange as it may sound, I slept like a babe in the night.
They came at us with first light, thinking they'd catch most of the men unaware and have only guards to kill as the rest of the camp roused from slumber in fear and terror. But that was not what happened. Save for myself and two more men, all else were awake long before the clansmen's battle cries resounded across the length of the gorge.
Ten men, Vale and North mixed together, stood at the choke-hold, swords and shields in hand, with another five behind them with what few spears we had to probe in the holes between the men, and two more wielding the bows that the men brought along.
The rest were mounted a small distance away, waiting for a time when their aid would be needed.
I was sitting on my horse even further away, palm pressed against the beast's head, as if to calm him; the jape was on me, for it was I that trembled in the saddle and my steed, bred for bloodshed and battle, who stood calm, only his nostrils flaring at the smells that reached him. Around me were five of Winterfell men, Wallace included, to guard me with their bodies.
I saw an axe sail over the heads of the men on foot as it struck one of the mounted ones, right on the shoulder. Such was the force of it that he fell from the saddle and down on the ground. Several others near him jumped down to help him back up, even as the blood flowed freely from the wound and distressed his horse.
Again and again, they clansmen clashed against the men in the front. Each renewed attack saw at least one of ours wounded or dead.
We numbered less and less every time they charged forth.
Short of breath, heart pounding in my chest, my fingers tightening against the reins, I turned to Wallace.
"We ride. We ride with the others and kill them. We ride and we may live yet, we stay here and we die when they come for us."
On his face I saw common sense and duty warring with each other.
"Milord —"
"Ride or die, Wallace."
Ride we did, bellowing at the enemy.
The men took up their swords and axes and I took up my mace in one arm, shield strapped and tied to the other.
"Winterfell!" I feebly cried and charged.
Others took up my battle-cry. "WINTERFELL! STARK AND THE NORTH! WINTERFELL!"
The men in front made a gap for us ten-and-seven astride our steeds and mares to pass, to do battle.
Seventeen against... I could not tell how much, save that they were many times our numbers.
Sixteen men and a single boy.
Spittle flew from our mouths and we drenched ourselves in their blood, halting their incursion.
Two clansmen died beneath the hooves of my steed, necks and faces broken by their iron.
My first? I barely saw him, but I felt his face, keenly, when it smashed against my mace.
Blood and brains I spilled as my elbow bucked when we hit them head on. Chancing a brief glance back, I saw a corpse stumble and fall to the ground, his shoddy, bronze sword slipping from hand. I turned to face front again when I felt hands grab at my legs and horse, but then saw those same grubby hands parted from their arms with a single blow from Wallace's sword.
"Winterfell!" he yelled, cutting another's life short before he moved onto the next. "The blood of winter! WINTERFELL!"
Lost to the call of blood, but he still kept near to safeguard me from any that sought me harm.
Good men died so that I lived. Good men died and I was weak with shock when rage took hold of me.
Swinging almost heedlessly I bashed my mace against their faces, against their arms and necks. I killed and I killed and I killed.
Still they came, with axes and swords seeking to rend our flesh apart.
There was no end to them and the rush was all too soon gone from me, taking my strength along with it.
More of them came. More of them swarming forward, like a tide of vermin that sought to devour everything in its path.
And they might have yet done that to us, were it not for the aid that came to us.
We saw them not approaching, for we could not afford to look back when there were yet foes to be killed in the front, but we heard them crying out to the heavens, to the gods, and us, heard the trampling of hundreds of pairs of hooves against the ground.
"REDFORT! REDFORT! FOR LORD AND LAND OF RED STONE!"
It was hideous. Death and ruin all around us, spilled blood singing to all our hearts. It was beautiful.
In the end, the day was won by the men of North and Vale. The day was ours, as were their deaths.
Hundreds of blades stained red, the earth drunk on lifesblood, entrails and brains scattered in the snow.
I never felt more alive.
It was not just the men of Redfort who came to our aid, but Lord Horton himself, wielding a sword, commanding a hundred of his finest men as they rode down the savages. By the end of it, his sword had bathed in a river of blood. During the battle itself, we could not count the clansmen's numbers, but when it was finished and a count was taken, there were more than two hundred of their corpses.
Being the enemy that they were to the Valesmen, they received no proper burial, only a bonfire so the stench didn't attract wild beasts.
We feasted in Horton's halls for a night and a day. We mourned our lost - eight of Gulltown, three of Winterfell and ten of Redfort.
The call of blood was strong and I vowed vengeance for lives they took from me.
I wept, like an old woman mourning her grandsons dying before their time; too young, too young.
Edwyn deserved more than to die of a festering wound gained in battle. Bowen would never see his child again and by all that was holy and unholy, I would see to it that the boy enjoyed a good and long life for the one that his father gave in my service. And Beor? He had no one. No kin or lover. Alone in the world. I mourned him the most, for who else would take note of his passing and regard it as more than just one life lost?
I wept and I grieved and celebrated that I was alive and that the enemy was not.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough for the likes of me.
This I vowed. This I swore. The earth would cry out in anguish and vomit before my bloodlust was sated.
"It is always a terrible thing, to see men you know die. If they're young, you mourn for they have not yet lived. If they are of age, you wish to praise the lives they led, yet joy turns to ash in mouth and wine tastes as the worst swill possible. No amount of spirits will drown your rage, boy, no amount of blood will sate it. Grab hold of it, grab it by the horns, and leash it for your own purpose!"
Lord Horton rambled in his half-drunken state, oft switching from one approach to the next, praising me for my lack of shock, for not faltering in the midst of battle, praising my strong arm for felling a number few boys of nine could boast of, even though of the seven dead attributed to me, two were trampled by my mount and two I could not have killed without the aid of the now late Beor.
By the time I had come awake, I regretted the wine I'd drunk on the previous night. My bladder was full and my head pounding.
It was kind of Lord Redfort to give us the time to recuperate from both battle and feasting. The men needed the rest, sorely, and while they rested I went amongst them, finding out the names of those who had died in defense of me: Pate, Criston, Kyle, Jonos, Adrian, Symond, Wyl, Eustace, Jon, Hugh, Morgan, Gareth, Morton, Harlan, Gerold, Bryen and Gawen.
I would not forget what they had done for me.
From there I went to see the wounded, clasping them by the arm and hand, poorly trying to express the gratitude owed.
I found Hobb among the wounded as well. He'd been been the target of a loosed arrow from somewhere in the darkness surrounding the camp, just as he mounted his horse to run for aid. When Lord Redfort rode out, he commanded Hobb stay behind and get treatment for his wound. The shaft of the arrow was removed since then and his leg was bandaged, laid up on the bed.
"Milord," said Hobb, trying to right himself up from the bed. Given the way he winced when he moved his leg, the injury still hurt.
I put a stop to that notion and pressed him on the shoulder, gently easing him down against the pillow. "No 'milords' now, Hobb. Not when you more than earned the right for us to dispense with such trivialities. Eddard will suffice, if you please."
"M—," he tongue tied himself, having obviously not expected neither a visit nor such familiarity from a highborn boy. "Milord," he pressed on, "wouldn't be right to call you that, just not proper."
When I laughed, he frowned. "Oh Hobb, what care I for what is proper when presented with a man who saved our lives. No, I won't have that between us, Hobb. You saved your fellow Valemen, and us Northmen too, when you rode on despite the wound in your leg and sent Lord Redfort with his men to aid us. We'd not be alive were it not for you."
"If you say so, milord."
His persistence with that was annoying and I sighed in surrender. "Very well, I see I'll not change your mind on this then. But at least, there's other ways I can see you repaid for your service to me."
Blinking in confusion, it was clear that to this man little of any such notion, of a reward given, had passed through his mind.
"Milord?"
"You are a man of Gulltown, aye? Live there, raising a family perhaps?"
Nodding, he replied, "Aye, Gulltown born and raised, milord. No family yet, just me and the wife."
"Good, good. Then I'm sure you won't mind this," I reached for a little bearhide pouch that I brought with me beforehand, "little contribution to your household." I did not wait for him to ask what it was that I took from it, but pressed it into his hand.
When he saw what I placed in his palm, his eyes widened. "Milord, 'tis too much! I only did my duty, no more!"
"Duty well done, duty well rewarded," I intoned one of the many sayings of Westeros. "You've earned that, it's yours, Hobb."
The man was speechless, for a gold dragon was no small thing to any of the commonfolk.
In truth, it was not mine, for I had only a little more than a hundred silver stags from the monthly allowances I've saved up so far. I'd gone and asked Lord Horton for a loan, promising to see it repaid as soon as possible. When he asked why I had need of a gold dragon and I elaborated, the man was quick to give me the coin as a gift, rather than a loan, no matter what I said.
There were more debts to be repaid, to Grafton and Redfort men, and I would see to it in the coming years.
For now, I committed faces and names to memory. That would have to suffice for the time being. I could do no more.
Lord Horton and I exchanged oaths of friendships between us, strengthening the bond between Redfort and Winterfell.
"You have my gratitude, and that of my father's men, Lord Redfort. If you ever have need of me, give word and I will come."
"Why, I believe you would indeed! Have no fear, my young lord, if I ever call upon you, it shall only be as a friend. I do beg apology for Jasper not being here to give proper farewell, the boy is helping his mother with an upset stomach, even though she had little to drink."
"None needed, Lord Redfort. Your family has been more than kind these past few days and I owe you much."
He looked at me appraisingly for a few moments. "I see in you the Stark blood of old come again. Woe to those that become your foes, naught but death and ruin awaits them. But many and merry shall your friends be, I think, if you continue to act as you have thus far."
I bowed my head, once more suffused by sincere gratitude and respect for the Vale lord.
"Kind words, Lord Redfort, that I've yet to truly earn, but I thank you for them."
Horton Redfort waved it off. "Bah, they are but words, and you shall yet prove me true, I've no concern in that. Fortunate then, that we are friends, Eddard, and friends I hope your house and mine shall remain even when both of us are gone one day."
"Friends," I replied with a grateful smile. "Aye, my lord. Friends for as long as our bloodlines endure."
He clasped me by the arm and wished us farewell.
We left his halls with no less than two hundred fresh men, ready to do battle should we be challenged on our way to the Gates.
We were not. All signs of life were gone from the road. Our arrival to the Bloody Gate was uneventful and very solemn. A time for introspection, I imagine, for many of the men. I knew father would send more to replace the three that had died in my service, but that would not happen any time soon, not before this winter's end certainly.
I did not look to the Knight of the Gate, nor recognized who it was, as they let us pass quickly and without issue. If some of the men stationed there gave me dark looks for displacement of their former commander, I noticed none of it.
The weather had made many of us tetchy and of clamped mouth.
No tongues wagged on the road, no songs were sung around campfires.
The arrival at the Gates of the Moon had coincided with daybreak, so none besides the guards standing watch were awake. When we were met with Keeper Royce, I asked him not to rouse any of the highborn household from their slumber, and he acquiesced.
I had failed to notice it then, but the way Nestor Royce looked at me was different. Had it changed back when Ser Cleyton was discharged or had word of our battle with the clansmen reached them here already? I did not know nor did I care to find out.
Our horses were stabled in closed, warm quarters where the animals could get some rest of their own and feel blood flow through their limbs without the chill biting at them. Bred though they were for these mountainous areas, that didn't mean the poor beasts had to be ridden to the point of exhaustion or death. I'd taken care of providing my steed, a dark haired stallion, with the occasional apple a day, poor repayment though it was for his deeds in battle. Would that you could satisfy a man blooded as easily as that.
Still in my furs as I dined in the hall for highborn guests, I hadn't expected company lest Wallace finally accepted my invitation and joined me on the bench, and yet company I found. Robert's eyes widened at the sight of me. No need to inquire whether he heard of the battle, as he started tongue tying himself when he couldn't figure out which question he wanted to ask first.
"Robert, leave the boy be." a voice echoed through the hall.
I rose from the bench to show my respect to Lord Arryn, but he bade me stay put and clasped me by the shoulder.
"Truly, yours is an interesting life, young Eddard. Barely back in the Vale and already doing battle with the Mountain Clans."
"My lord, I was but one of many who fought, and my part in battle pales in comparison to the sacrifices that others made."
"There's being humble and then there's self-depreciating. You would do well to steer yourself towards the former rather than the latter. Lord Redfort praised you mightily, as did several men of Gulltown that traveled and fought by your side. Not many might have proven themselves stout and steady when battle ensued, certainly not many boys of such young age."
"I would've!" Robert was quick to add.
Jon only smiled fondly at the boy. "Yes, I've no doubt you would, Robert, but I'd much prefer you stayed behind these walls than let you roam outside them, in this weather, while on hunt for clansmen that no doubt have retreated further up into the mountains."
Robert pouted most childishly at that and the sight was comforting for some reason. He quickly recuperated and launched a new barrage of questions at me, but thankfully Lord Arryn was there to save me. "Peace, boy, let him breathe. Do you think yourself the only who would hear him speak of this? Allow the others to join us for the first meal of the day on this morn, so as to not make Eddard repeat himself too often in the coming days." At this, he directed a faint smile at me. "I'm afraid that your tale shall be the subject of many, many suppers yet to come, as nothing happened in the Gates of the Moon, or near, to occupy folks' minds."
"You have my gratitude, Lord Arryn." Then I remembered something. "If you don't mind me asking, has Lady Arryn woken up as well?"
A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his lady wife. Robert lost much of his cheer too.
"She is awake, but I'm afraid that she'll not be joining us for meals any time soon. My lady wife is ill for the time being, but Osric says she'll be fit enough to take her food in the main hall in a few weeks, if not sooner."
Nothing more was said, nor did it need to be. I would find out the reason another time.
As more and more arrived to break their fast, so too did I feel the number of eyes on me increase.
When the time had come to tell the tale, I had been forced to repeat myself more times that I'd liked to count, smiling all the while. All the men there were battle-tested and they asked sound tactical questions, to which I sadly lacked the answers as I was neither in the position to observe such things clearly nor I was apt in such matters to begin with. The womenfolk on the other hand... they bored me. They ooh'd and ah'd at certain points when I told and retold of the fight, as though it was all a mummer's play. Occasionally, I allowed a grimace to cross my face when I wished a certain line of inquiry avoided. An insipid Waynwood girl was particularly irritating.
Later, in private, I would receive commendation and words of praise from Jon Arryn himself, and when I went to the inner yard for my weapons practice to resume, Master Narbert gave rare praise too. It seemed such an odd thing, the less I talked of my own part in the battle, which was truthfully miniscule to start with, the more they talked of it, as if I was the one who won the day and not the men.
While there was still some daylight, I penned a letter for my mother and father, back in Winterfell. I spoke of what happened, of the men that were lost and the men that lived. Each and every one of our original company I commended to father, and asked, when this winter ended, to grant me funds, if possible, or ask Lord Arryn to provide them instead so I could reward those that kept me alive. I told him of Wallace in great detail, how he defended me, kept me out of the hands of the savages who seemed intent on taking me hostage.
I hoped he was agreeable in terms of gifts I asked for our own guards. They certainly earned more than mere words of praise.
By accident or design, I do not remember which, I ended up sharing most of my thoughts with Robert that night.
He was quiet and focused when I told the story to him again, sans the prettied up parts.
I told him about the gore lodged in between the mace's flanges that I had to dig out with my fingers, the blood washed from my steed's coat of hair, my own leathers and my face too. I told him about the sheer horror in Beor's eyes at the moment of his violent demise.
I told him about my rage; a never-ending font of hatred that now flourished within me for all the clans that had attacked us: Howlers, Milk Snakes and Redsmiths. I remembered the markings on their faces and skin before they burned. I remembered the way they dressed themselves, the piles of broken weapons of bronze that Lord Redfort had ground into fine dust before scattering it to the four winds.
I remembered it all so I could one day put a final note on their existence and repay the deaths of men that sacrificed themselves for me.
As we passed the sack of wine around, my thirst for it stronger than before, I saw sympathy aplenty on Robert's face, but also a hunger.
Hunger for blood, hunger for battle. A terrifying thing to witness in candlelight. I imagine he saw much the same on mine.
"When you go out riding for them, I will come too." It was no request, but a statement. "And then we'll kill them, we'll kill them all."
"Aye," I tiredly agreed with him, "we will."
My dreams that night were of darkness and winter.
We spent the next sixteen turns of the moon at the Gates, before a raven from the Citadel arrived to tell us of winter's end.
Though larger than the Eyrie itself, it was not quite fit for one who would rule the Vale. I could understand why the Arryns of old wished for a proper seat for the King of Mountain and Vale that they made themselves into.
I still cursed the cunt that didn't think of a better way to reach it.
In the time we spent there, several things had happened.
Foremost of all, I found out the cause of Lady Arryn's bout of weakness: a failed pregnancy.
She had been three months heavy with child when she woke one morn and found the bed sheets soaked in blood between her legs. This caused a panic, and while Maester Osric had certainly done a miracle in assuring Rowena Arryn lived, her child did not. It was more sickness of the mind than the body, I think, that kept her confined to a bed. Many times I had seen a despondent Jon Arryn when I roamed the Gates and came across him by accident. All those times I stayed silent on the matter, for I knew not how to help. Lord Arryn had already buried a daughter and a wife before. What could I possibly offer or say to try and heal such a terrible wound?
I was told that Rowena smiled when she opened the wooden box in her room and found Winterfell's roses within.
It was the first time I'd seen her ever since I'd arrived back to the Vale, when she came to thank me. Sad to say, but she looked terrible, having lost much of her beauty with the way how gaunt her face had become and how sickly and fragile she generally appeared. But month after month saw her health improve and the broody moods that plagued the Lord of the Eyrie subsequently dissipated.
I could not be credited with the lady's improving health, but Jon still saw my gift as a turning point and thanked me effusively.
As far as the regular routine of the day was concerned, they were spent either in lessons for the mind or the honing of my body.
In the former, I delved deeper into recent history of Westeros, discovering more discrepancies along the way, one of which was Robert's own family, fairly larger than what I was expecting it to be. I admit, I was a fool for not asking him before anything about it, but it didn't cross my mind that there would be more than one or two divergences I'd already encountered. One such concerning the Baratheons was that they had seven children; the eldest, the third-born and the youngest being daughters with the rest being sons.
Of Shireen, the eldest, Robert talked plenty. Despite the two years of difference, Robert was close to his sister in all the ways he was not to Stannis, who appeared to be very much the same boy that I've once read about. Still, here remained a chance for that stubborn, hard-headed streak of his to be mellowed, as Steffon and Cassana Baratheon still lived and would live for many, many years to come. With Rhaegar's betrothal to his sister, there was no need for Aerys to send his cousin on a foolish quest for a bride of Valyrian blood.
Then again, who knew what the whims of a madman were capable, more so when one such was called king by a whole continent?
Argella, Robert had little to speak of, the girl spending much of her time with other highborn girls for companionship and Robert simply disliked that sort of company. Understandable, really. He mentioned Renly occasionally, but again, it was clear he gave him little thought, if any. Durran was born shortly after Robert had left Storm's End and Elenei had been born just one moon into the year 274 AC, so Robert had nothing to say as he knew very little about either of them, and all of it through what his mother told him in her letters.
I could not even begin the imagine the sheer chaos this alteration to the Baratheon family could cause to the events as I knew them.
Yet numerous as they were, they were not the only altered factor in the grand equation that was the Seven Kingdoms.
Another family of a Lord Paramount had also experienced a divergence. Whereas the Doran Martell I knew of had only Oberyn and Elia for siblings, this one had a brother older than either of the two, but younger than himself: Mors Martell. Whereas Oberyn kept to his ways of siring bastards left and right, bedding Edgar Yronwood's paramour, fighting the man with poison that saw him eventually dead, Mors Martell seemed to be the sword-arm of his elder brother, oft out on the sea, fighting pirates that dared tread Dornish waters.
The Tullys too had benefited from the world's path shifting ever so innocuously. Where before there were only three, now there were six. Lucas Tully was the same age as the Crown Prince, with his younger brother, Axel, born just two years after. After them followed the already known to me births of Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure Tully, in 264, 266 and 269 AC respectively, with one more child being born, another boy, by the name of Nathaniel, whose birth saw to Minisa Whent's demise in the year 273 AC. At least, this time, Hoster had heirs aplenty.
Some things had stayed the same, however. Word had come to the Gates of the Moon that Tywin Lannister's wife had died in childbirth and that his second son was born a dwarf, malformed and ugly, with one eye as black as night and the other emerald green. At the time, he still had the twins, Cersei and Jaime, with which to try and maintain some semblance of a legacy. Sadly, he knew not what a fierce opponent Cersei's cunt would be to all his ambitions, making a mockery of things as she pulled her brother further into degeneracy.
Going by the latest rumors, Tywin Lannister was firmly set never to remarry. Typical, the man did not practice what he preached.
Meanwhile, there had been two more royal births: a Prince, born in 272, named Jaehaerys and two years later followed by the birth of Princess Elaena. Of all the families in Westeros to become abundantly fertile, why the Targaryens? This did not bode well.
But sadly, there were none with whom I could share my concerns, as they'd be seen paranoid at best, treasonous at worst.
What a world.
Still, I could spend only so much time in Maester Osric's presence before my ever-ongoing quest to improve my weapon skills reared its ugly head. By the time my eleventh nameday had passed, I still wielded the mace best of all, followed by the bow and horse-riding. Swords I could now handle properly, but my aptitude was nowhere near the height of my skill with aforementioned crushing weapon.
And when Robert had finally discovered warhammers, Master Narbert despaired.
It was no use trying to convince Robert to opt for another kind of weapon, no matter what sorts of arguments the master-of-arms presented, no matter how sane or sound they were. Robert wanted a warhammer and he got one. In an attempt to discourage the youth from trying to limit himself to such a specialized weapon, Narbert had ordered a two-handed warhammer to be crafted for Robert, never knowing, nor understanding, that challenges was what Robert lived for. That he couldn't lift the damn thing with both arms at first was not an impediment in his eyes, but rather an obstacle to be overcome. Even as a boy, Robert's appetite was monstrous, but at the time being, most of that mass was being burned away by every day exercises and slowly refined to pure muscle.
Would that I could have grown at his rate, might have made things easier on me. But that was not to be my fate, I would ever be the lean fighter, moving fast, aiming to strike faster than the eye could see, despite the fact that my weapon of choice was a flanged mace.
And after a while, I admitted to myself that I felt a small amount of envy at how easily Robert finished his tasks, with nothing but sheer strength. Even at the age of two-and-ten, he possessed quite a lot of it and was not shy about putting it to good use.
Or showing off. That worked too.
It worried me, for when fully grown, I feared his carnal hungers would dim his mind and make him unbearable to be around with.
While in the Eyrie we never had companions close to our age and rank, it seemed as if the Gates of the Moon housed at least one of every great noble house of the Vale. At first, they were friendly, but me being the moody cunt that I could be at times they were put off by my self-imposed bouts of solitude, and saw it as a rejection, rather than just a quirk of my personality. Another problem was that there were far more highborn, unbetrothed, girls than I had expected. They were on the prowl and boys were their choice of prey.
Luckily, my status as a second-born son meant I was overlooked by them, which suited me just fine. Despite my brief fame after the fight with the clansmen, they were quick to tire of me and move onto more juicier prospects, namely Robert or one of the other heirs. I laughed at their misery and more than once I made my way to the inner yard for practice while my friend was otherwise occupied.
But not all was laughter and joy in the Vale.
Roughly a year since my second departure from Winterfell, while winter still reigned, I had felt a wave of weakness overcome me. Knowing what was to come next, I set out for my chambers to pen a brief letter and send it home, as quickly as possible. To avoid attention and anyone noticing my temporary frailty, I feigned another burst of interest for books and so neglected my physical training.
Robert could be fooled for only so long.
"It seems as if each year, you fall sick. Is it the fever again?"
"No, Robert," I reassured my friend, "it's nothing. A cold or something like it, but no fever. Should pass soon enough, I think."
When next week I woke to fleeting memories of darkness and strength renewed, I knew my mother and father had done their part.
Yet I would see this burden removed from them and so I searched for anything that could help.
However, I could do nothing before winter ended and Lord Arryn ordered a return to the Eyrie.
When the raven finally arrived and told us of winter's end, the whole of the Gates was set into motion. As they did every time with the changing of the seasons, they were preparing for the trip back to the Eyrie. Like so many others I did not look forward to the climb.
The snows had not yet melted and peaks of mountains would be covered in white for months and months to come, but there was a noticeable, gradual, shift in the weather. The cold was slowly ebbing away, and while we still had to dress warmly, we no longer wrapped ourselves in bundles of clothes nor were the fires stoked so high by the servants.
For our journey we were joined by one more Arryn. Elbert had come to petition his uncle regarding something in his lands. What it might have been, none of us were privy to. What quickly became commonly known was that his wife was pregnant yet again. Perhaps, the servants whispered amongst themselves, this time it would be a boy. Matters of succession were a rather serious issue, after all.
I had hoped to see Denys Arryn visit too, if only to have the opportunity to ask his help for learning the lance. Instead, the Gates received a raven by him, informing Jon Arryn of his niece giving birth to a healthy baby boy, named Rolland after an ancestor of theirs.
That helped put a smile on the Lord of the Eyrie's face, and though Rowena smiled as well, her eyes were bereft of the sentiment.
In response to Denys' letter, Jon Arryn sent back a standing invitation to the Eyrie, for when Janyce and the babe were fit to travel.
And then, we were off.
Clearing out the snow was not the issue, breaking apart the icicles that formed along the castle's ledges and corners was.
What skills I had with a bow, I put to use, along with dozens and dozens of Eyrie men, in clipping short the ones placed too high for any hand or spear to reach. Robert was there too, but his enthusiasm quickly waned when he realized how much work there actually was.
It took two weeks of steadily chipping away at the remnants of winter to make the castle safe to walk around.
A moonlit night was what I waited for, day after day, until the phases turned and shifted, and finally my path easier to take to.
It was the hour of the wolf, when most of the Eyrie was abed, and I battled the ever alluring call of dreams lest I lost my chance.
Child I might have been, but that made me more easily known, should my form be seen by any eyes in the night. Tip toeing through corridors, holding my breath while my lungs ached for air, and teeth chattering from cold, I made it. Any who looked downwards from high above in one of the towers might see a figure moving about on the grounds, but like as not, I was too far for them to know it was I.
Four white walls surrounded the enclosure and all was still. Not a sound was heard, not even a single creak from the wind.
Kings of Mountain and Vale had intended it to be an olive branch to the First Men among their newly conquered vassals.
It was a branch that never came into bloom, never bore the fruit it was always meant to.
Trees common, aye, those sprouted plenty from the stony soil, a canopy beneath which to hide should any look downward.
But no weirwood or heart tree did I see with my eyes, no carved face of the Old Gods to watch over this once domain of First Men.
Only oak, pine, hawthorn and a statue of a woman weeping standing in the very center of it.
The ground had not fully thawed from winter's embrace and to my fear I thought I might have to wait for spring to come in full strength.
But that might mean another man or woman given to the roots, another year of dependency on sacrifice and I would not allow my parents to risk so much, when there might yet still be a better way. It was a fool's hope, but then so was my mother's when she called me from darkness the very first time around. It was a fool's hope, yet it was all I had to go by. I would not suffer any weakness.
I nearly bloodied my hands that night before realizing my efforts were for nothing. So I returned to my chambers and brooded and slept.
Over the coming days and weeks, I went more and more to the enclosure, working at the ground with tools no one might miss.
If only I could have lit a fire there and made the task easier, but that would have undone my attempts in avoiding detection.
Soon enough, dark circles started appearing under my eyes. I thought none would pay heed too much, but instead I was brought to the solar of Jon Arryn and instructed to not linger so much in my chambers awake, up with one book or another, when sleep was what my body wanted and needed. I might've laughed off his concern, but he had a look in his eyes and I dared not say anything back.
Relying on nothing more than a feeling, I decided to stay in my chambers, abed, for the following few nights.
When my doors opened at odd hours, when all else should have been asleep, it confirmed what I suspected and expected of Jon Arryn.
In the dim lighting of sputtering torches, I saw Marya's wrinkled face and the softening of her mouth when she assured I was in my bed.
So I spent the following two weeks, before losing all signs of a lack of sleep and with it gone, so too was the nightly checkup.
Once returned to the task at hand, at digging through the earth, I only went there every third night, lest I incurred another round of watching. And in that time, the ground had thawed, though it being stony meant I had to go slow about it, lest too much noise was made and then promptly investigated if someone were to wander near the area. No need for additional risks on my part.
In the meantime, things had gone on, more or less, as usual. One thing that I did get to skip out on, but Robert couldn't, were visits from the Eyrie's septon. Even before the revelations from my mother I felt no inclination to pay obeisance to any gods, and now that I knew my continued survival depended on forces that many of the Seven's followers cared not for or would oppose and burn out if they could, I stayed clear of grounds they deemed holy. For all I knew, the Old Gods had no thoughts on the matter, but why risk it?
Besides, the septon, an elderly, highly devout man, was a bore and removing myself from his presence was a bonus.
Jon Arryn was not surprised with my decision to not attend the lessons from Septon Ben and respected it.
Robert was not so accommodating. He thought I should suffer the man's sermons as he did.
"You could always convert to the Old Gods, no lessons to attend there."
He was confused at that. "How do you call it a faith, or believe, when you have no one to preach it?"
"They are the gods and that is all you need to know. They command no man to spread belief in them or wage wars in their name."
Years later, upon visiting my home, he would remark, with bellowing laughter, "I know now why all attempts at conversion failed. They've buggered off south when their cocks turned to icicles and dropped off!"
But at that time and day, he had no such reply, only complaints about Septon Ben and his breath that stank of foul things.
Maester. Mace. Bow. Horse. Maester. Jon. Robert. Rowena. Letters.
An apt summation, I think, of how most of my days at the Eyrie were spent.
It was four months since we had moved back that I finally made some significant progress in the enclosure.
Yet the seeds remained in my pouch as I thought on these things. I couldn't help but recall my mother's voice.
Only life can pay for life.
Why else had a proper godswood not been raised in this place? For the weather here was far more temperate than the North, where many godswoods flourished and kept strong, for thousands and thousands of years. In the brief visit to Winterfell, and after the words shared between mother and myself, I'd plundered our library for all its worth and taken with me any texts that might provide some clue to the ways of old. Among them was a rare text penned by a Maester Yorick, who spoke of blood sacrifices to the Old Gods.
I knew what some would think of me if they knew why I researched such things.
Savage, they would name me, for worshiping trees they deemed foul.
Heathen, as if my skin ought to burn upon entering Andal lands and their septries.
Madman, for daring to think of the old and ways to bring it back anew.
Sorcerer, witch and unholy demon, they would accuse if they had the slightest inkling of what I'd do.
Not skin-changer, sadly enough. Not unless we count my arrival as such and I didn't.
And so I pondered and waited and pondered some more, before I realized too much thinking was doing me no good.
It was past time for merely entertaining the thoughts, it was long past since I ought to have turned them to deeds.
Another three months would pass, worry gnawing at me from the inside, before an opportunity presented itself.
The Eyrie was not a place where one usually held prisoners, not unless you cared not for whether they died by your hand or their own.
Having been to the Sky Cells a few times in passing, I could see why so many of them jumped, for whether they received judgment from the Lord of the Eyrie or not, they'd fly into the blue all the same, be it through the Moon Door or from their cells.
Even from the other side, with the iron doors to the cells locked, I could still feel it pulling at me, calling me to embrace it.
How was I even supposed to handle it then to acquire myself a sacrifice from there?
The logistics of dragging a man or woman to the enclosure, undetected, were troubling enough.
It couldn't be done at any other time than night, of course, but still... gods, I fucking hated heights. I hated them so much.
I do not recall what day it was, nor the food or drink I tasted that day. Having been accustomed to lying to people, feigning my moods was easily done, so while I might have been considering all possible complications on the inside, on the outside I was nothing but my usual self. Which is not saying much, I grant you that. But I think Jon Arryn thought me merely distracted by the first execution Robert and I had seen ever since arriving to his ancestral castle. Like all men, this one too was offered death or the Wall. For a moment, it seemed as if he might try his luck at the Wall, but then something changed his mind and he chose death.
Death by being tossed through the Moon Door.
Oh how he howled on his way down. Or was that just the wind, welcoming him?
His crime, you ask? I cannot recall. Murder or treason of some sort, no doubt.
The crime of the one whom I took from the Sky Cells? Yes, I remember that one. I think I always will.
It was the dead of night, the hour of the wolf having already passed, when I stole the keys from the jailor's cot. The man had gotten stinking drunk on wine I procured for him earlier and was now thoroughly knocked out, snoring and drooling.
I had to be careful and quiet, for my mark was not alone in the cells, though two of them had gone slightly mad and their words could not be trusted about what they saw. Still, no reason to chance it, they were fed the milk of the poppy. Acquiring so much of it had been a task unto itself. I could only ask so often for it to be sent to my chambers, lest they thought I was addicted to it. Once every month, no more, and only enough for a child to fall asleep that claimed sleep would not come to him naturally. The effects would not last long.
Though I'd much improved my strength and endurance since the first day I arrived, it was still a heavy burden for me. The pace by which I moved displeased me mightily, yet I could not afford to try and rush ahead, lest someone came across me.
Dawn was perhaps only an hour or two away when I reached the enclosure.
And the effects of the drug were wearing off, I could see her lids fluttering, eyes slowly turning open.
A shame that, she might have grown up to be a pretty girl, found herself a minor noble to wed and be happy with, yet that was not to be for Sharra Osgund. Daughter of minor nobles herself, she had been found smothering her baby brother in his crib, for one reason or another. They'd arrived just in time to see the child's eyes close for one final time. Sent by her parents to the Lord of the Eyrie for judgment, for they could not bear to see justice done by their own hands, she was far from sight, far from heart, day after day passing with her sitting in the Sky Cells. Jon Arryn thought it best to allow the girl to live a bit longer before sending her to the Silent Sisters, if she survived the blue.
Come the morning, they'd find her cell empty, the jailor's keys returned to his cot, think she passed judgment on herself and forget her.
But I would not. How could I? Though I blooded myself with the clansmen, she was the first child I killed, after all.
The seeds were already in place, blanketed by the earth when I slit her throat open and held her head above them to water the ground.
It takes less time than one would think, and more than you'd want to wait out, for someone to die by loss of blood from the neck.
Once she was limbless in my arms, I pushed back the dirt atop the thirteen mounds and made it look like nothing was out of place.
In the end, she really did embrace the blue, even if it was with some assistance from myself.
Couldn't risk a body to be found by anyone and when she hit the ground there'd be no way to determine how she truly died.
The night was over, but I was not done yet.
Going off on nothing more than a gut feeling, I went back to the enclosure and lightly cut myself on the palm of my left hand.
Clenched into fist, I made sure the blood dripped on the same spots where the girl's lifesblood and the seeds mingled.
And that was that.
Or it would have been had I not turned around and saw Rowena Arryn standing behind me.
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Chapter 4
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
How much had she seen? Did she come here only minutes ago or was she witness to it all? If the latter, then all was lost.
"Ned."
I forgot myself for a moment, forgot that she had started addressing me as such ever since I'd brought the blue winter roses.
When she started towards me, I back-stepped once, but didn't try to run. What use would it be? Steadying my breathing as best I could, I willed myself not to show too much. Which failed spectacularly, of course. Such a vulnerable moment was not like to come again soon.
Lady Arryn surprised me though. Rather than ask what my purpose here was, at such a late (early?) hour, she took to seeing about my still-bleeding hand and covering it with one of her silk handkerchiefs. She tied it gently, but tight, and though the first layer of the cloth was damp with red, it held and not a single drop dripped through.
"Ned," she repeated herself, "what have you done to yourself?" Pressing her hand to my forehead, she added, "No fever. Come."
I followed after her, and cleared the bench before she pulled me down next to her on it. She looked uncertain of herself, and worried.
Dawn was just breaking and the garden was bathed in the red of sunrise.
"What was that I just saw?" Her eyes skirted aside to the small mounds of dirt. "Why cut yourself? Why spill your blood on the ground?"
"Lady Arryn, I beg apology for distress I inflicted upon you. I have done wrong, abused your hospitality and presumed much without asking permission." With head bowed and eyes closed, I feigned contrition. "Forgive me."
With her hand she raised my head back up and gazed at my face, blue trying to gauge the honesty in grey. Her features were affixed in a stern expression, one I'd seen few times so far, when she presided over judgments with her lord husband in the High Hall.
"You ask forgiveness, yet do not name what it is you wish to be absolved of. Child you may be, but I think we can all agree that yours is a rare breed. You've a way with words, even now. What is it that you are so reluctant to reveal?"
I stayed silent, unsure how to respond to her being so direct.
It seemed this mummer's farce, playing at being a child, was useless to me from here on, at least with Rowena Arryn.
"Would you hear my words then, Lady Arryn? Hear and not judge until I am done?"
Frowning slightly at me bringing up judgment, she nonetheless nodded.
"I am a Stark, Lady Arryn. Born and raised in the North, I've known of nothing else until I came to foster with your noble family. Starks were always faithful to the Old Gods, my lady, much like how Arryns were always devout of the Seven. I know little of your faith and worship, and I imagine that in the South, much is forgotten or plain unknown how we First Men keep to our gods and worship."
"Worship?" She tensed up, her thoughts no doubt aflame with suspicions of sorcery. "By blood letting? Those are foul magicks of the East. Though I cannot claim great knowledge of Northern customs, even I know no such thing is done there."
It came as no surprise to me, for how could she have ever learned? With the invasion of the Andals, with their feverish zealotry unto the Seven-in-One such practices became less common south of the Neck, until they were extinguished by force or forgotten with time's passing. When the Targaryens conquered Westeros and the North was made but one part of the whole, things had changed again.
"No, my lady. Think not that, for I would never befoul your lands with such blasphemies." I would burn all the septries across the Seven Kingdoms, put your men and women to the sword, if it gave me what I needed for the Starks to survive the coming winters and wars. "Even in the North, sorcery is looked down upon. A blade without a hilt, we call it. No, my lady, what I've done here was plant seeds."
Rowena Arryn's head snapped sharply towards the freshly moved dirt piles and back. "Seeds for what?"
"In the South, low and highborn alike pray in the septries built by the hands of men. No such thing in the North, Lady Arryn. We've only the forests, weirwoods and heart trees to go forth to and pray and worship our gods. I admit, I had thought myself adjusted during my first year well enough without one in the Eyrie. The castle has much beauty about it, but even so I still found myself longing for and lamenting the absence of a heart tree. I've never before been beyond the sight of my gods."
Truly, they were my gods, like no gods ever were of my own world.
Her face softened somewhat. "You needst only have asked and something could have been done."
"Perhaps I ought to have. But I worried; what if there'd been more aligned with Ser Cleyton's way of thinking, viewing me as nothing more than as a godless savage here in the realm where Faith held supreme? Hating me for nothing more than to whom I was born?"
"Then they'd have been fools for it." She did not wait for me to continue my tale. "It still does not explain the blood you've shed."
"It will. I only ask for your patience, Lady Arryn." When she nodded, I continued. "We've little in the way of books and texts to speak about the ancient history of the North. Runes, those we have plenty, but the old tongue is a thing forgotten south of the Wall, and even runestones do not shed light on all mysteries. Our traditions, our tales and songs, all those are passed from one generation to the next. From the elderly to the young, so it has been and so it shall always be. I have learned of ways that might make a weirwood seed grow into sapling, that a sapling might be rendered capable of flourishing even in the most unlikeliest of places."
"Learned how?" she persisted with her inquiry.
"From a crone, of whom the elderly folk talked of being old when they were babes themselves. Wives' tales, for all I know, but she knew stories, stories not oft heard in lordly halls of the North. The old shall know the old best, it is said. And so she spoke unto me, how blood freely given might help nourish a weirwood tree." And blood spilled by sword or axe or other means, blood forcibly taken from others. Once, executions were performed before heart trees and the land prospered for it, so the stories told. "Even so, for every word I could make sense of what she spoke, the next dozen few that followed after made no sense to any, save perhaps her unhinged mind."
"You'd trust in a mad woman's words, place your hopes in that?"
"It was only ever a fool's hope, my lady. Nothing more."
"And so you came back south, with seeds in hand and bloodshed in mind."
"Aye, my lady. Only that and nothing more, no harm to any save perhaps myself with a cut to my palm."
After time uncounted for, Rowena Arryn sighed and turned away from me. "Foolish of you, Ned. Most foolish."
"Lady Arryn?" I drew her gaze back to me. "I did this deed at such an hour so no other would know. Not many would understand, if any. I might be accused of being a witch or sorcerer. My kin would be attainted in the eyes of the realm and royal court, and I would not have such a mark of shame forced upon them for actions that I've wrought on my own. If any should suffer, then let it be I alone."
Silence reigned, until broken by the Lady of the Eyrie. "Our secret then." There was more to her eyes than kindness, she did this for reasons of her own, unknown to me. "Ours alone, but you must promise to come to me before ever setting out on any such endeavor in the future."
The promise I gave gladly, knowing all along that should it become a necessity I'd break it all the same.
We spoke no more of that day, not until years passed and seed had borne fruit.
There came a day which I dreaded and I felt no weakness of the body.
I dared not send a raven to my mother and ask if another had been given to the roots.
Life simply went on.
As the weather turned warmer, the Eyrie started receiving guests anew, among them Denys and Janyce Arryn, with their son, Rolland.
After the Lord of the Eyrie had tended to them first, Janyce was oft seen walking along Rowena, and I didn't know if it was mere chance or by design that many of those walks ended up in the garden. I'd stayed clear of them myself for the most part ever since that morn.
Denys hadn't much to discuss with Jon Arryn, his lands of little import and no pressing business to be attended to, so once he was done with it I approached him to ask for a favor. He looked surprised when I posed my question to him.
"It was my understanding that there were no tourneys in the North."
"You are correct, my lord. Yet I do not know if my future lies with my homeland or some other region of Westeros. My brother is the heir, not I, and once he has married and sired sons and daughters, my place shan't be at Winterfell any longer. I would make my own fortune, craft my own fate, rather than depend on kindness and benevolence of others, even if they be family."
He nodded, the topic somewhat familiar to him. The land he ruled was granted as wedding gift to his niece, rather than himself. Arryn might've been his name, but of poor wealth was his distant branch; yet still with a chance to improve his standing.
Unlike the Arryns of Gulltown of whom I'd heard only spoken in hushed rumors and whispers, he hadn't sought out material wealth alone.
I doubted I'd ever be told to depart from Winterfell. Most likely, Brandon would give me a keep of my own, gods knew there were plenty of abandoned ones in the North that needed lords to fill the vacancy. But even if that were something I wanted, I'd needed skills with a lance for events that would precede Brandon ever becoming Lord of Winterfell, if all things went as I hoped.
"Do you hope for a squiring then?"
The thought had entered my mind, but... "No, my lord. My aim is not knighthood." When he raised a brow in inquiry I continued, "The North has no use for such titles, and they'd not care one whit if I was to be knighted. But such an elevation would require swearing vows and oaths to the Seven, gods not my own, and that would cause issue. I am a Stark, even if no more than a second son."
"Sensible of you, I suppose, but understand that my time here at the Eyrie is limited. We will not be staying for long, and I can give you only so much instruction in the coming days. Does that sound acceptable to you, Eddard Stark?"
Smiling, I replied, "Indeed it does, my lord. And please, call me Ned."
Thus I started training with a lance.
Robert had little to say on my new training. He'd come a few times to watch Denys Arryn and I with the lances, but stopped soon after.
No surprise there, his passion for combat lied in the melee, not the games that the summer knights played in times of peace.
And yet, 'twas no game we played atop our mounts and even in peace-time men could still kill each other.
I had almost been crippled myself when my grip on the shaft of wood slackened and the point of it stabbed into the ground, launching me from the horse. Thankfully, the beast was well trained and stopped almost instantly once bereft of its rider, else I might've been trampled beneath its hoofs. Perhaps I was influenced, in part, by my body which was still in its childish state, but I'd instantly gone back and tried for another run at Denys, who shook his head at my foolish eagerness, yet still complied.
Lord Arryn approved, of course, of my desire to learn something of southron customs, for I was ever a growing annoyance to Septon Ben. He'd apparently been intimately acquainted with Robert's shallow lip-praise of the Seven and given up on trying to instill some deeper zeal into him. So what did he do instead? Why, he set out on trying to convert the heathen in his midst, of course!
Oh he never used that word. But misguided was ofttimes spoken in our brief encounters. Most of the time he caught me in the Eyrie's library as I pillaged its texts for all manner of knowledge. For all that they were Andal invaders, they did not outright destroy all they'd come across. It was in the Eyrie that I first considered the merit of runes. But that was something further into the future.
And in the meantime, I trained. I trained persistently and found that while I was getting better by the day with a mace, there were still some things lacking that came to the fore ever more as both Robert and I grew up. Chief among them? Range. When one is seven years old, a mace seems like a veritably large instrument for murder and maiming. Yet barely ten and two, and I outgrew the delusion.
When I asked Master Narbert's thoughts on the matter, he was not pleased, but still acquiesced to what I eventually requested.
He was a harsh taskmaster, but fair. Whiskers like that of a sea lion framed his mouth that rarely showed any expression, be it frowns or smiles. Though I do think that I've seen the corner of his lips twitch once or twice when I spied him talking with Lord Arryn.
Just when he thought one of his students had been taught enough to safely handle a dangerous weapon, there I came to plague him in Robert's stead. It took all this time before Robert was able to lift the damn thing with both arms, but lift it he did and wielded aptly. Master Narbert didn't like giving praise, lest it inflated our heads and egos like that of a cat, but he gave it when it was due.
With Robert having passed his final test (wielding the warhammer for more than half an hour), he thought his troubles over.
"You want what?" asked Narbert, eyes narrowed and suspicious.
"I have become accustomed to the mace, Master Narbert. I wouldn't say I've mastered it, not when I am so young and with so much more left to learn, but I've come to the point where I either start practicing with another, as Robert does now, or I move on to something different, something that would allow me to improve even more, while not abandoning the skills I've learned."
"The skills you've learned will avail you naught. Do you understand that? Wielding great weapons, be they swords or otherwise, is no thing to jape about. They carry advantages with them, aye, but also many flaws, many more ways to see yourself injured or killed."
"I understand."
"Hmph, do you?" he grumbled to himself. "Do you truly? No child games anymore. You'll be further behind your friend, boy. He'll be fighting live opponents, while you still whittle away at ones made of wood." His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "And I mean no insult to your endurance thus far, but great weapons also require great strength. Yours is a build more fit for speed."
"Strength can be acquired, strength can be earned."
"I see there's no changing your mind on this then. Very well, let us be done with it."
Though it was not forged specifically to deter me from attempts to wield it, this weapon of mine that I chose weighed heavily in my arms. I had done some growing over the past few years, and still had space to grew yet more, but the length of the weapon came close to my own height. What a sight I must have been, going out to the yard for practice, barely walking steadily as I balanced it in my hands.
Upon seeing me, a big grin stretched Robert's mouth. He cheered and whooped his fist into the air.
"Knew you had it in you! I knew it! Just catch up quickly now, or whom else will I take with me to battle? Not these ponces, for sure."
"Robert," I spoke through gritted teeth, grinding them from the very effort to speak, "shut up."
Any further exchange was beyond me as the great mace fell from my hands and nearly crushed my toes.
Robert nearly busted his gut from laughter.
I spoke before of how Master Narbert demanded I maintain constant use of mace for a tenth of one hour before allowing me to spend more time in the yard, yes? No such luck this time, I'm afraid.
"One third of an hour", he repeated when I continued to stare disbelievingly at him, "no more, no less."
One third! I could barely push myself to one third of a third and even then I was all but ready to fall to on the ground and sleep.
At times, I thought he had intentionally given me the heaviest, the most unwieldy of all great maces, but in truth it was the only one of its kind in the armory. It had laid forgotten, though clear of dust and well maintained, until my request brought it forth to daylight.
No small amount of folk had tried to dissuade me from it, no doubt pitying me at suffering so much for such an odd weapon of choice.
But I would not give in, I would best the limitations imposed on me by the flesh, I would push through the pain and win the day.
I thought myself well adjusted to training regimes before, but this had driven me to bone-aching exhaustion.
I could've begged off from jousting practice, Denys would've certainly understood. I could've spent less hours on mischief with Robert around the Eyrie. I could've given feeble excuses to Lady Arryn whenever she asked for my company. I could have done a great number of things differently if I but wished it, yet I did not. I would see it all done or see myself come undone.
Not all was so terrible and grim as I presented it and there were enough things around the castle to distract me.
My exchange of letters with my kin up North continued steadily throughout the months and years. Never would I allow for a fracture to appear between us, never would I forget them. Not Brandon, not Lyanna and not even little Benjen, devilish trickster he'd become.
A smile always adorned my face whenever I was summoned by Maester Osric to fetch my share of letters from the pile.
Lyanna's writings were most insightful.
She spotted changes between mother and father only around a certain time of the year, yet could not begin to guess at the cause, whereas I knew they'd become closed off to due to a foreboding date approaching. I was informed that father had allowed Lyanna to train with the bow in the yard with the men, and though she said she'd learned enough, in our mother's letter I was informed that she dropped the bow lessons soon enough. Apparently, once she had father's approval, it no longer interested her.
Instead, she had decided that spears were the weapons for her.
Well, she'd make a good spearwife, if nothing else she had the right temperament for it.
What could I say of Brandon's letters? Just a year older than me, like Robert, but what different worlds we lived in. As it was written, he was pursued by Barbrey Ryswell, when he was barely past ten-and-two himself and she his elder by three years. Aye, Brandon would no doubt find delight in bedding her if it came to that, I knew as much. But the chase was not started by Brandon. No, I had very strong reasons to suspect it was planned and arranged by the girl, with assistance from unknown others, mayhaps even her father, for they'd met one day when Brandon took to riding in the Rills and by mere chance, so he believed and said, encountered the 'lovely girl'.
Lovely girl, my arse. The bitch might have been young, but that mind of hers was as crooked as any old hag's.
That Lord Ryswell allowed such a pursuit to happen meant that our father had not divulged to anyone his plans for Brandon's betrothal, if my knowledge of the timeline still counted as valid. For all I knew, with Lucas as his heir, Hoster Tully might think himself in strong enough position to wed his daughters to Riverlords rather than a Northman, Stark heir or not.
The last letter I'd received from my brother spoke of a progress in the North when he reached his majority, with him visiting all of our father's bannermen. I did not worry too much, for he would visit the most loyal ones first, which were the Reeds, Manderlys and Mormonts. However, what I was concerned about was that he spoke of his intent to visit the lands of others, Boltons among them.
Thus my thoughts turned to Roose Bolton, the future Leech Lord, oathbreaker and traitor. Such a man I could hardly afford to live, not if I wished Starks to survive and their reigns to last. No, he would have to die, he and all his accursed kin and allies, if he had any.
Trapped as I was by my fostering and customs of a feudal age, I could hardly march up to the Dreadfort and bash in his head, could I?
So I read the letters, so I worried about my kin up North.
Mother and father remained as concerned as always, asking about my health, asking about my time in the Vale. I did share with them most of my stories, stripped of flowery words, sans of deceit, for I'd come to love them deeply, more than I thought I ever could've.
If I made enemies with anyone who could present a problem, I forewarned them.
When I made friends or mended relations previously frayed, I rejoiced and shared the good news.
Could I have ever guessed where some of my choices would come to lead me?
Would I have severed friendships if I had an inkling about the turmoil they'd cause?
In the years to come, I'd be called cruel and heartless, a monstrous savage from the desolate wastes of the North, but never a fair-weather friend.
His thirteenth nameday had come and gone and Robert despaired.
On the desk, in his chambers, laid that most fiercest of all his foes: letters.
He'd never been that good at writing and could hardly know what to say at the best of times.
Asking his mother and father about their health, their lives, was simple enough.
Shireen was easy enough to handle too, for she knew him like few others did. She understood Robert, knew that he cared for her even if he didn't write all that often. She didn't begrudge him, didn't seek to rebuke him or anything like that.
Stannis was a whole different matter.
Gods damn him! Even in ink-scribed words, Robert saw his little brother's disapproval. Not that he cared whether Stannis approved or not, but it was still irritating to be chided by a younger sibling. Argella, it seemed, shared Stannis' opinion, but knew better than to speak it so bluntly when she wrote to him. But it was still a sore point, to be told what was proper behavior from his juniors.
Fortunately, Renly, Durran and Elenei were still small and sent no messages that might've occupied his thoughts.
If he had a choice between being confined in his chambers and practicing in the yard again, there was no doubt Robert would have chosen the latter. But the choice was taken out of his hands by Jon Arryn's wife, who more oft than not was the one that reminded him of writing back home every few months or so. Really, she needn't have bothered. It was not as if Robert had much to share with his family, he'd yet to have an adventure of any sorts. Though he did share the tale of Ned's own past exploits when he had the chance.
He wrote to his father about Ned too, what great friends they'd become and in the replies sent back, his father's approval was clear.
Of course, he didn't share all that Ned had confided in him; after all, there was no need for Shireen or Argella to comment on the vulgarity and brutality of battle, they spoke of it enough even without being prompted. Honestly, he found that completely absurd because he had heard and seen the both of them praising many knights, and sighing for them in admiration, that took to riding in tourneys against each other. Did they think that was somehow more clean than actual fighting?
A man could still be skewered by lance whilst jousting, he'd be dead just the same as if he was cut down with a sword or impaled by a spear.
It took him hours to put his thoughts in order and then to place those onto parchment. The letters for Alric and Adria were the most troublesome. Even before Ser Cleyton had been temporarily relieved of his post at the Bloody Gate, Ned and the Lipps were not on best terms. To their credit, however, they'd not spoken poorly of Ned in letters that he received. In fact, they'd never even mentioned him.
Looking to preserve the uneasy peace, Robert never brought up Ned in the letters he sent back, but all that dancing around these issues and hurt prides and misguided dislikes tired Robert. He wished he could've just sat them all in one room and made them understand that they need not be so hostile with each other at all. That endeavor was a mighty one, however, and would take time.
When he was done, Robert cheered out loud, for he was finally free! Free to do as he liked for the rest of the day, without listening to the preachings of the fat septon or lessons about numbers from Osric or the arts of diplomacy from Lord Arryn.
Naturally, the armory was his first destination, where he gingerly picked up his large warhammer and hefted it across one shoulder. He was all set to leave for the yard when he spotted Ned's mace resting in a corner of the armory. Turning around, checking if any other were in the room besides him, he laid down his own weapon and approached his friend's. He'd not held it in his hands before, but that was about to change. For the space of a few breaths, Robert remained still. Then he grasped the thick iron handle of the weapon and slowly lifted it up. It took a bit of effort, but he'd managed to hold it up as he would his own.
Though there were undoubtedly a number of differences between the great mace and the warhammer, in weight alone he found none.
Gods, no wonder Ned struggled so much with it. He didn't underestimate his friend's prowess, but strength was not his forte. Granted, with how stubborn he went about trying to wield it effectively, he reminded him of Stannis in a way, though they were as night to day in comparison. Stannis would have never lied for Robert's sake to another's face or planned mischief for their shared amusement.
Jon Arryn explained it aptly enough to Robert when he asked why Ned persisted on with trying to wield a weapon too heavy for him.
"You are the first son of your father, Robert, the heir, are you not?"
Confused, he'd replied, "Aye, Lord Arryn."
Then Jon smiled. "Eddard is not. He is not the heir and while he might have a keep bestowed to him by his father if he proves himself worthy of one, the matters of inheritance are not set in stone. He does all this to make certain he has something of his own in life to depend. So he trains with all manner of weapons that he can. So he trained jousting with Denys. So he does this."
It was the truth, but not one Robert wished to ponder for too long. He had faith in Ned and one day the two of them would ride out of the Eyrie and set forth for the strongholds and caves of clansmen, bringing righteous vengeance with mace and warhammer alike!
But that was not now, that was yet to come, perhaps years and years ahead, so Robert returned the mace to its corner, took up his warhammer and left the armory. Once in the yard, he took to looking around and having spotted his mark Robert approached him.
"Roger!" he called out to him and the older boy's gaze quickly found him, followed by a sigh. "Oh come now, I've been locked inside my rooms for the whole morn, I've not even had a proper warm-up. Who knows, you might even score a hit on me this time!"
"Aye, milord," the boy acquiesced, "as you say."
From someone else, it might have been words of boasting and no more, but from Robert, they were as the truth spoken by the gods.
In the beginning, when he'd just started dueling live opponents, Robert was more about dodging or blocking the other one's strikes than trying to land one of his own. The steel shaft of the warhammer was a good way to catch a blade coming down and then throw it back.
But that was only for those that came at Robert with sword. There were others, like Roger, who favored axes or morningstars, though for the purposes of practice they all came with dulled edges or bereft of spikes for the latter. Even through both would be wearing helms, padded armors and brigandines on top to soften and absorb the force of their hits, there'd still be plenty of pain to go around.
Robert's warhammer might have been lacking in the traditional spike on one side of its head, but it still packed a good punch.
"Whenever you are, milord," said Roger, standing opposite him.
"Well then," said Robert, a smile on his face and smiles in his eyes, "let's get to it," and lunged forward.
Roger instantly brought up the shield strapped to his left arm, to absorb the coming blow and bounce it back.
But Robert was not content with attacking just once and when it bounced he slammed the warhammer again and again and again.
With no like for being on the defensive, Roger swung his long axe at Robert's greaves-covered legs, causing him to cease his attack and step back, out of reach of the deadly weapon. Both took the opportunity to breathe easier now that they weren't locked in battle.
In reach alone, they were more or less equal, so they circled slowly around one another, waiting to see who would commit to an attack.
Though brash in many things, and yes even when sparring, Robert knew how to wait for an opportunity to smash someone down.
By now, there were a few other men-at-arms in the yard, watching the duel, watching yet another of their folk battling the young lord.
The tension became unbearable and it was Roger who took the plunge. He rushed forward, his formidable shield in front of him.
When his long axe came sailing from the side, Robert welcomed it head on with his warhammer.
Dangerous trick that, for the blade could have slided past Robert's weapon and bounced to his face instead.
In the next moment, Robert almost fell down when he felt the shield slam against his side, even cutting him on the cheek when its edge reached his face. Bellowing with wroth for being actually hit, even though it wasn't with the weapon, Robert used up all his strength to wield the warhammer with one arm, while using the other to push off Roger. The boy was surprised, it was clear to see, and a moment's worth of hesitation on what to do landed him flat on his arse with the head of the warhammer following after.
"I yield!" yelled Roger with great distress.
When the warhammer landed, such was the power behind the blow that the stony ground beneath it burst aside and launched dust into the air. When the dust settled and the two were once more in clear line of sight of the folk who watched them fight, they saw that the warhammer had landed just a few inches shy of Roger's padded groin. Sadly, it did nothing to conceal the stain of pissing himself.
Congratulations on yet another victory in the yard for Robert and mockery for the defeated young man soon followed.
"Good one, milord!"
"Nicely done!"
"Haha, you'll never live this one down, Roger!"
Robert panted and laughed and rejoiced with the others.
His eyes however did not meet any of the other men's, but were moving about, in search of a pair of grey ones.
Having not found them anywhere in the yard, Robert's cheer deflated a tad and his smiling disposition soon left him.
He'd hoped, even though he knew it unlikely at this hour, that Ned would be there to witness him in combat.
Then he shook those thoughts away and focused on the men around him, including Roger who looked angry.
"Roger," he called to the older boy and when he turned his way the anger was still there.
"Yes, milord?"
Robert grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. "That was bloody amazing! I'd not expected you to charge with the shield at me and heft your axe from the side. Nearly did me in! Where'd you learn a thing like that?"
Just like that, the anger was gone, and its place confusion, followed by abashment. "I - nowhere, milord. I just thought to chance it."
"And a good chance it was, but I was lucky this time and surprised you when I took my weapon in one hand, didn't I?"
"Aye, milord," there, already easier now to talk with, easier with a smile on face, no matter that his breeches were soiled, "you did."
"'Twas a surprise I was saving for a special opportunity to show off in the yard and this match more than sufficed."
"Quite a surprise, milord. Master Narbert will want to know about it, I reckon."
It went on from there, some more small talk and near everyone forgot the boy had pissed himself from fright of the warhammer.
Then Robert was free to move away from the yard, return the weapon to the armory and dunk himself in a nice, hot bath.
The match had lasted less than a sixth of an hour, but it was exhausting nonetheless, even for Robert with all his strength. His shoulder ached from where the shield had slammed straight into his side, but it would pass. He'd just favor the other one for the time being.
While passing through the castle, going for the baths, he just so happened to pass near the library and took a peek inside.
Sure enough, there was Ned Stark, surrounded by parchments and texts all around him on one of the larger desks in the room.
"Ned!"
So immersed in whatever he'd been reading, his friend was startled and all but jumped from the chair when he heard his own name.
"Robert!" he rebuked his friend with a scowl and was about to no doubt say more but then sniffed and said, "You reek of sweat."
Robert laughed. "Of course I do, just finished sparring in the yard, went there after I'd done my letters, and now I'm headed for a bath."
His friend's long face shifted to disbelief. "A bath? In this part of the Eyrie?" Then it turned to mock concern and Ned came closer, pressed a hand against Robert's still sweaty forehead. "You've not received a blow to the head, have you? The baths are nowhere near here."
Caught, Robert coughed lightly. "Yes, well... I worried! Hadn't seen you today except when we broke fast."
"I've been busy. Didn't go to the yard." Ned's words were spoken with sourness. He waved his hand towards the desk. "Reading."
Robert sagely nodded, lips twitching with a hint of a smile. "I see. And you being here doesn't have anything to do with Becca, does it?" The very name caused Ned to scowl and Robert howled with laughter. "Hah, knew it! Saw her sitting next to you at the table this morn."
"She asked Lady Arryn for the seating. You can imagine how much it pleased me to have her tittering in my ear so early in the day."
Becca Shett was trouble. But only if one's name was Eddard Stark, for the girl had taken a great liking to him. Mayhaps it was there before his return to Winterfell, but they were still small children back then and such things eluded them. Mayhaps it came only after he got back and the tale of his deeds spread. It didn't matter. The blue-eyed girl, with her curly black hair, was in love with Ned.
Robert gave him no small amount of grief over that, occasionally even telling Becca where she could find Ned in the castle.
Fortunately for him, Ned had yet to realize it, but when he did, Robert expected some form of retribution, though not likely of the same kind. For while Robert wasn't all too keen on the company of girls and women, there were still things he found pleasing about them. Like kissing. Kissing was a good spot of fun and though she wasn't his first one, a plump serving girl from the kitchens did enjoy spending her time with Robert in the garden and teaching him how to use his tongue and mouth, to make it more enjoyable.
Unlike him, however, his friend showed little interest in kissing or doing anything of the sort with girls.
Oh Ned was a charmer when he wished to act like one, all polite and neat.
At times, Robert couldn't quite catch on how quickly his whole countenance would change in company of others.
With the womenfolk, he was sweet of tongue, carrying an easy smile on his face and appropriately averting eyes when necessary.
With the guards, both those of the Eyrie and others, he talked of battles and killing and weapons. Had it been any other, they might have not been as open about those things, but he was known for fighting and killing his first man before the age of ten. A deed few could claim, even among the highborn! Gods knew Robert envied him mightily for that.
Eddard Stark was a boy of many faces and tongues and smiles, unlike any other that he knew before in the Stormlands.
But he'd not minded that, because Ned never feigned anything when it was just the two of them.
They'd had quite the rocky start, true, but that was well behind them and of no import whatsoever. In truth, if anyone had asked Robert what their quarrel had started about he could scant recall it himself. It all changed when Ned fell ill and with the events that followed after. They'd spent many hours practicing with each other, whether it was in the archery range or in the yard with swords, and many more just scampering around the old mountain castle, trying to ferret out whatever secrets it might hold.
Yet there were times when they had to be separated for their individual lessons.
Robert was not quite fond of that, more so when it came to his private lessons with Jon Arryn. He understood they were a necessity, after all, one day he'd be the Lord of Storm's End (though he wished that day was postponed far, far into the future), he needed to know these things if he was to rule his lands well. That, however, didn't make the lessons any more appealing.
Battles, now those he could listen to being spoken of for days and not grow bored! He wondered oft enough how it would be to feel his blood rise properly, when surrounded by many foes, if he'd win the day, if he'd make them regret taking up arms against him. And as his friendship with Ned Stark grew, he knew, with absolute certainty, that no battle he fought would ever be fought alone.
Then Ned had taken up jousting, of all things, surprising all those who thought they knew him. Jousting!
When he asked him about it, Ned shrugged and replied, "Who knows when I might have need of it? Best to learn now than later."
Not much of an answer. And by the Seven, why would Ned ever have need of jousting?
Unless... well, yes, that was always a possibility. Far fetched one, but there it was. Could be Ned had a marriage to be arranged in the south? Mayhaps he wanted to impress his future lady wife? Oh by the gods, that would be a sight, Ned riding the tilts and throwing off those other flowery ponces off their horses, it'd be a right laugh! They'd frown and curse, but they'd be cowardly shits and Robert would be there to help him with any upstart lordling who thought he could raise a hand against his friend and not suffer the consequences.
Now if only Ned would finally just give in to Becca's advances, Arlan's fifty silver stags were as good as his!
Another session of training in the yard and I moved on to my chambers for a proper hot bath. Gods, those felt so fucking good after training. Even though I was no longer occupied by solely trying to wield the great mace (glory unto me, for I had now reached slightly over one tenth of an hour with it in my hands), weapons practice was no less taxing on my still developing body.
Truth be told, it was not I who decided to continue bettering myself with bow, sword and a regular mace, but by the command of Jon Arryn I was bid to do so. No doubt, Master Narbert had asked for said intervention, but I could hardly blame the man. Many months had passed and what had I to show for it? Barely anything. For all that Robert continued to encourage me and practice alongside me, I was hampering his practice more oft than not. Teeth grinding did little to improve my shifting moods.
As before, there were matters around the Eyrie to distract me.
Like dancing lessons.
Dancing! What had I need of that, I ask you all?
Rowena Arryn, however, could not be dissuaded from this course of action and in the end at least I had Robert to share my misery with. He was no more fond of the whole thing than I was. But at least he was not paired off to Becca Shett.
The infernal girl would not let go of me, not even for a moment before Lady Arryn herself told us to separate.
Why she developed an infatuation with me to begin with, I could not tell nor in truth did I wish to find out.
All that mattered was avoiding spending any time alone with her, lest she construe some acceptance of her presence on my part.
Even the library was no safe haven from her and I could not turn to Robert for help either as he seemed to have some underhanded motive for arranging Becca to find me whenever possible. A place where I'd found some refuge from her was in the yard, but only early in the morn when she was still abed. Sadly enough, she would go there during the day and find me when I trained with other weapons than the great mace. She seemed to like best of all when I practiced riding a tilt with one of few horses stabled in the Eyrie.
Once, she even offered me her favour, as though I were truly riding in the lists.
I feigned not hearing, but she, with her childish stubbornness and persistence, would not give up.
It was maddening.
When Robert and I had been invited to the High Hall one morn, we wondered what Jon Arryn wished of us so early in the day. There had been some talk of the Lord of the Eyrie venturing forth from his ancestral keep and visiting his bannermen. Mayhaps we were to go with him as he toured his realm and was hosted by the Valelords?
Alas for us, it was not Jon who asked for our presence, but his lady wife.
"Come, come now, it is high time you learned more of courtly manners. Yes, you too, Ned."
Grumbling and trying to put it off for another day, when we might have made ourselves scarce, availed us naught.
"Naturally, it would be best if you learned with ladies your own age, so I've arranged for some assisstance."
Rowena Arryn clapped her hands once and in they came through the hall's doors: Fiona Waynwood and Becca Shett.
Given the choice of twirling across the room for hours, hand in hand with Becca and pressed close to her blossoming body, or to be thrown in the midst of bloodthirsty clansmen with nothing but a cudgel in my hand and breeches to clothe me, I'd choose the latter.
Sadly, the gods did not care to oblige me.
"Good day, Eddard," said Becca, with an airy quality to her words, her eyes a-fluttering.
"Lady Shett," I greeted her and bowed, took the proffered hand and brushed my mouth against her knuckles.
She giggled at that. "No need to be so formal, Eddard. It's Becca, I insist."
And I insist you hurl yourself out the Moon Door, you incessant menace.
I shall not bother with the excruciating details of the event, of how many times I had to shift my hands to their prior position, and how I asked for breaks, even though I was not weary in the flesh. Suffice to say, it was a ghastly experience, one I'd have rather avoided.
Lady Arryn found it amusing. She bid me walk with her one spring day to the garden and talk on the matter.
"To think I thought you a breed apart from the rest of the boys, and yet it took but one infatuated maiden to turn you back to your rightful age. Most delightful, Ned. And most courteous of you not to speak your mind." I was about to open my mouth and give reply, but she continued speaking. "Oh hush, sweet boy, it's easy to see you've no wish for the girl's attentions, but you don't push her away with crude and blunt words as others might. I think she knows that too, and it only furthers her fancy of you."
Bloody fucking hell. "And I don't suppose you might find it in your kind heart, my lady, to redirect her attentions somewhere else?"
She patted me on the hand. "Worry not, she'll tire of the chase," said Rowena, and after a moment added, "eventually. And should you grow weary of being pursued and give into her, I expect to hear nothing poor spoken of your conduct towards Becca, Ned. 'Twould not be chivalrous of you to take advantage of a young girl's heart. Have I made myself clear?"
"Crystal, Lady Arryn."
I turned my head away from her, thinking our talk finally over, thinking of going to the yard for another round of practice.
Then I noticed our surroundings.
We were nowhere near the gardens.
A smile bloomed on Rowena Arryn's face just as the horror of understanding dawned on mine.
"Good! Now, let us be off, Becca is expecting us in the High Hall. We mustn't keep a lady waiting."
You bitch.
The gossiping among the servants proved true.
Jon Arryn, in his full capacity as Lord Paramount and Warden of the East, would set out from the Eyrie and make a progress that was long overdue. Many vied for the honor to host their liege lord and the castle's rookery was practically besieged by the number of ravens flocking to it. In the end, only seven were chosen, a most auspicious number and approved by all in the Vale.
Ravens were sent to the lords of Strongsong, Redfort, Heart's Home, Runestone, Gulltown, Ninestars and Ironoaks, informing them of Jon Arryn's intentions.
Robert, ever lacking in tact, asked outright Lord Arryn if we would be joining him.
Fortunately, Jon Arryn had long since grown accustomed to Robert's forthright, and blunt, nature. "Of course you'll be coming along, 'twould be a poor fostering were I to leave you behind while I journeyed through the Vale for the next eight or nine months."
"Eight or nine months?" Robert repeated after him.
"Aye, 'tis no small matter traversing the Vale proper, no matter the season. And we will not be traveling in light numbers either, so that will slow us down additionally. Worry not though, there will be events aplenty to keep growing boys from being bored."
I could not help but ask, "Tourneys?"
Jon Arryn nodded, smiling. "Tourneys and melees. Though for you two, the squire's melee only. And as far as jousting is concerned, I'm of two minds; you are not yet experienced in the matter yet riding in the lists can be no less dangerous than fighting in the melee."
That would not do. I was eager to test myself against others, to find out my true worth when pitted against flesh and blood.
I would find a way.
We left the Eyrie half a thousand strong. Men-at-arms for the most part, including Master Narbert.
Jon Arryn would risk nothing when it came to traversing across the Mountains of the Moon, more so as our first destination was Strongsong, the seat of House Belmore. At first, I had thought it strange that our party would head there first, as Redfort and Ironoaks were much closer, but Jon Arryn took to explaining our planned route through the Vale. After we were finished with the Belmores, we would then set out for Heart's Home and from there sail out to sea, visiting Ninestars on our journey towards Runestone. From Runestone we would go to Gulltown and afterwards to the lands of Waynwoods, with Lord Horton's keep as our final destination.
Traversing the mountains was no easy feat, hampered as we were by our numbers and our cargo, for it was no simple thing to venture forth from the Eyrie. Supplies had to be prepared in plenty, ranging from provisions for the men and our beasts of burden, to tents for Lord Arryn, Robert and I, and arms and armors and gifts for our future hosts and their kin.
This was a time of innocent joy, for while the Vale was a harsh land, it had a beauty to it, akin to the North. During the nights it was easy to forget the hardships of the day: the climbs across rocky hills, the unsteady ground and the ever-present threat of the clansmen. Once, we camped near one of the many mountain lakes that preceded the valley where Strongsong laid, and when the waters were found to be plentiful in game, a few of the men took to fishing. One morning, even Robert and myself had indulged in the sport, though I dare say he'd not been as adventurous as myself at first when I went into the shallows barefoot.
"Where are your boots? You'll freeze your toes off!"
True, the water was chilly, but it bothered me little. I said as much. "'Tis but a small thing, Robert. Or do you think the waters up North run warmer than your southron ones?" Kicking a little splash his way with my foot, I burst into laughter when he yelped at its cold.
It had a fairly predictable result of Robert charging at me and dunking me into the water, soaking me to the skin and bones.
In the end, we were brought out of the lake by our respective captains of guards, while the other men grumbled about us scaring off the fish. We were quite the sight, the pair of us, later on in Jon Arryn's tenth, teeth chattering as we said we'd not to act so foolishly again.
But the old man was smiling and knew our words were for naught. Still, appearances had to be kept.
We'd warmed ourselves by the camp fire and with a sack of wine laughed at how stupid we were about the whole thing.
As always, we regretted how much we drank when we woke the next day. Still wouldn't stop us from doing so again in the future.
From afar, it had not looked like a proper castle ought've, with a single building towering above all, even the keep itself.
As we descended down the river valley - passing farmsteads and the like along the way, many a smallfolk cheered us on and called out to Lord Arryn - it became clearer and clearer that it was a castle indeed; its fortifications were thick, its walls lined with men-at-arms, their liege lord's banner flying high. Our arrival was greeted with a great ringing of bells from the tall tower.
By the time we entered the main yard, the bells had stopped ringing - a fact for which many of us were grateful - and the household of Strongsong was lined up to welcome their Lord Paramount. When Jon Arryn dismounted, all had gone down to one knee.
"My lord, Strongsong is yours."
"Rise, Lord Gyles. I will not have you kneeling in the dirt in your own home. Rise, all of you."
One by one, they all rose. To each, Lord Arryn bestowed a gentle smile like that of a proud grandfather looking over his vast progeny.
After Jon Arryn had greeted the folk already known to him and was introduced to those yet not, Robert and I dismounted as well, but stayed near our horses. Protocol, drilled into us by both Lord and Lady Arryn, asked that much of us, at least until our guardian called out to us to be introduced as well, leaving the horses to the care of our men.
"Robert, Eddard, come!" commanded Lord Arryn.
We heeded his words and marched, almost in procession, front and center.
"Lord Gyles," he inclined his head toward us and we bowed, "I present to you my wards: Robert Baratheon, son of Lord Steffon Baratheon, and Eddard Stark, son of Lord Rickard Stark."
"Lord Belmore," both of us intoned, "it is an honor."
A fat man, with beady eyes, like that of a buzzard, ink-black hair and face just freshly shaved, he did not leave much of an impression on me, for all that he was one of the most powerful vassals of Jon Arryn. But I suppose Wyman Manderly wasn't much to look at either.
"Lord Arryn," he bestowed a faint nod to us, "and young lords, welcome."
Of the five hundred, only a fifth would dwell in the castle itself, whilst the others would camp outside so as to avoid crowding.
I had asked, and then arranged, for the Winterfell men be the ones situated in the castle's courtyard at all times. The Belmores had no hatred for me, or none that I could tell. I was simply being prudent. Never too young to die, and all that.
I was glad that there was no need for us to be introduced to each of the Belmores, as Jon Arryn was, for there was a great deal of them. During the coming days, I would learn some of their names, but the rest would be forgotten, given that I thought them of little importance. The most important ones were, of course, of Lord Gyles himself, his lady wife Aemma Lynderly, and their two daughters, Serra and Ryella. They had their family's coat of arms blazoned the most on their fine clothes, six silver bells on a field of purple.
Then there were the, so called, lesser Belmores: Ser Artys Belmore, Lord Gyles' only brother, was a widower with a son and a daughter, the former of which was talked about as a possible heir to Strongsong, should Gyles fail to provide one himself; Alys Belmore, oldest of the sisters, but still younger than her lord brother, had married a man of lower rank and thus kept the family name for herself and her three children, two girls and a boy; Andara Belmore, the middle sister, who'd done the same as Alys, had two boys and two girls to carry on and spread the Belmore bloodline. The last sister, Ronella, had been wed to a Coldwater, and bore him twin sons.
Though most of them had the right to bear the symbol of the house, none could put it in proportions larger than Gyles and his children.
Altogether, they were a noisy lot when assembled together in a single hall, even one as large as Strongsong's.
Perhaps they weren't keen on being friendly with me as they were with Robert, but I bore them no ill will over that.
I was content with continuing my training in the yard whenever I could, ofttimes doing so before any rose in the two weeks we stayed there. When I was not busy wielding steel, I was riding my horse through the valley. Across the shallow rivers and the pale-green glens, betwixt the trees of pine and oak, I found peace of mind and soul when else it might have eluded me.
Of course, that only lasted about as long as it took Robert to find me and drag me back to the castle.
The way Robert preened and bellowed after I trounced Ser Gyles' son, Gwayne, in a friendly spar, you'd have thought we were kin.
We had a bit of an audience for that, but mostly children our own age, and it happened because Gwayne overheard that Robert and I were trained by Master Narbert. At first I had no idea what that was about, but then found out that Narbert Nott was a veteran from the War of Ninepenny Kings, where he distinguished himself enough to become the Eyrie's master-at-arms; no small feat, that.
Gwayne challenged Robert first, but yielded quickly enough when the warhammer sprung forward, with speed that one simply didn't expect from such a heavy weapon, and sailed too close for comfort to his face; just hairsbreadth shy from scratching Gwayne's nose.
It had lasted but a few moments, which disappointed a great deal of folk, and I admit I was counted amongst them.
Whether he challenged me in an attempt to regain face in the eyes of his kin, I do not know.
Like his duel Robert should have been, it was to last only until one of us scored the first hit against the other.
A few had looked at me oddly when I entered the ring with mace and shield, perhaps thinking me foolish, for Gwayne, with his claymore, had the reach, and it was said oft enough that reach mattered the most in duels. Oft said, oft proven wrong.
Predictably, Robert cheered for me. "Come on, Ned! Smash him proper!"
I shook my head in amusement and bowed slightly to Gwayne after he'd done the same.
We were both dressed in padded armor, with byrnie atop it, plated gloves for our hands and greaves for the legs, with half-helms on our heads. It was what both Gwayne and Robert wore and it was what we had to as well, as we both carried steel in our hands.
There were other voices, I remember that. Cheering for Gwayne. Or not. The details eluded me.
I'd let the boy come at me the first few times we clashed, his sword scraping against the shield strapped to my left arm.
He favored swings over thrusts. He was quick on his toes, almost in dance-like motions stepping away from the mace when I went forth. He swung maybe a dozen times, aiming for whatever was easiest to reach. In my eagerness to see the match over, I'd almost lost when the claymore nearly grazed me with its tip on one of my legs when Gwayne swung it downwards rather than aim for my chest.
Aye, reach was his weapon's greatest strength, but also a flaw to be exploited by the daring.
He must've thought me of unhinged mind when I raised the mace overhead and began to charge, bellowing incoherently.
With both hands on the hilt of his raised sword, he waited for me to come close enough so he could cut at my exposed right side.
I wager he expected an easy victory then and there, rather than me lowering my arm and meeting the flat of his blade with the mace's crown head on. Caught between the spikes of its protruding flanges, his eyes wide in surprise, he never saw my shield coming for his face.
With one sure, strong strike he was out for the count, the claymore slipping from his hands.
The rush of blood, the pounding in my ears, was gone, replaced with sweat trickling down my spine.
Fortunately, no true harm was done, merely a light concussion. He'd heal quickly and would be no worse for the wear.
I admit, I feared the boy would bear a grudge against me for besting him before his family, but no such thing happened.
Once he had his wits about him, he rose from the circle of concerned faces in the yard and clasped me on the arm.
"Well fought, Eddard Stark. Master Narbert's teachings show their true worth, with his pupils proven to be my betters."
I admit, I had not expected that. That one could accept defeat so graciously. I know I wouldn't have.
Thereafter, we spoke little to each other, save for greetings and the like, but Gwayne would always incline his head just the slightest in a show of respect. He was a good lad. Shame we had not become friends in the aftermath of our fight, but I lacked Robert's gift for that.
And speaking of Robert, Gwayne was not the only opponent he fought at Strongsong. A number of Belmore men-at-arms tested themselves against him and were found lacking. His skill with the warhammer, and his strength in wielding it, earned him much praise.
"You were quite remarkable in the yard, my lord," said one of Gyles' daughters not an hour later as we sat in the halls of her father. Oh the bitch was sly, always pressing a touch here and there, trying to play Robert like a fiddle. But Robert knew better. Or so I hoped.
Both Jon Arryn and I, albeit on separate occassions, had told him how important it was that he remain courteous, but distant, with any and all daughters of nobles during our journey through the Vale. Undoubtedly, the words Jon gave him were more refined than mine:
"Don't cock this up, else they'll have you wedded and bedded before you even realize you've gone far enough for that."
So it was with a subdued smile on my face that I went to rescue Robert from the attentions of the highborn girl when she started praising his muscles and squeezing his arms more openly, while he looked at me beseechingly. Clearly, the girl had little care for propriety, or at least it was so when the hall was not occupied by her parents or the other elder Belmores.
"Robert, come," I took him by his arm, the one yet unoccupied by the Belmore girl, and pulled him up from the table, pulling him away from her grasp, "we mustn't neglect our horse riding either. Come, while the daylight shines strong and bright."
That earned me a harsh scowl from the older girl and gratitude unspoken from Robert.
We did go riding, and we rode far, far enough that I think they might not have heard me laughing (at Robert) back at Strongsong.
During our stay at Strongsong, I had given into pursuit of knowledge regarding the noble family that ruled it since time immemorial.
Being of First Men descent there was only so much that books alone could tell and so I sought out the maester of the castle, in hopes the elderly man would have answers for the questions that plagued my mind; and of those, there were many.
Despite his advanced age, Maester Erryk was filled with much vigor, with an easy and cheerful, most un-maester like, disposition to him.
I found him in the library of Strongsong, a smaller room than most I've seen in the castle, but packed with books from floor to ceiling on oak racks that lined the stone walls. He was fiddling with one book or another, checking its binding, keeping them clean of dust.
He'd not heard me enter, but he did hear the door closing.
"Yes, my lord?" he asked when he recognized me. "What can I do for you?"
"Maester Erryk, I've come to you seeking knowledge of the past, knowledge of these lands and the lords that ruled it before."
"Oh dear," said the maester, "I dare say this is not merely a question or two you wish to ask of me, is it?"
With a faint smile on my face, I replied, "No, Maester Erryk, I'm afraid it's not. It might be best if we were to sit down."
When the book in his hands was restored to its rightful place, when we acquired another chair for me to sit on, I asked my first question.
"How long have you served Lord Belmore's family, Maester Erryk?"
Thoughtfully stroking his long white beard, the old man answered, "Near forty years now, my lord. Half of those in service to Lord Godric and half to his son, Lord Gyles, unto whom lordship of Belmore lands passed upon his father's death."
"And you're knowledgeable to the history of the family you've served for four decades, Maester Erryk?"
"Extensively so, my lord," said Maester Erryk with no small amount of pride.
"I will not bore you with too many questions. Some of those have been touched upon Maester Osric at the Eyrie. But in history lessons he taught to Robert Baratheon and myself, Maester Osric never said a word on what happened to Strongsong's godswood."
"Osric's appointment was well earned. A most learned young man, one of the few who earned his chains so quickly. However, that he spoke not on this is a small failing on his part, one that I shall seek to correct now. Now then... you know of the Andals' coming to the Vale?"
"Aye, Maester Osric, and the theories behind it. Some texts speak that they were guided by a vision that spoke of a land to the west. Others speak of them preemptively escaping the ever-expanding grasp of the Valyrian Freehold and their dragons that conquered, ruled and enslaved much of Essos. There is no conclusive evidence for either, so the matter remains unresolved."
It was obvious my extensive reply pleased the man.
"Perhaps I spoke too quickly on Osric's failings if he's taught you that well. Where was I? Ah yes, the coming of the Andals. As you know, they'd defeated the alliance of the First Men, led by High King Robar II Royce, and in the aftermath of their defeat, much was taken from the lords of the First Men. Not all of them survived the first few decades of Andal rule. It was not a peaceful time, not by any measure. The lands once ruled by these First Men shrunk, chipped away and given to the victors. Their coffers were emptied, their sons and daughters taken hostage by the Andal lords."
"But it did not end there, for the Andals of that bygone age had no tolerance for any faith but their own. In a display meant to show the dominance of the Seven over any other they ordered the surviving First Men lords to cut down the godswoods in their castles. Naturally, such a thing was not done easily. There were several rebellious lords who did not heed the command of their liege lords and they suffered for it. The First Men were spent, their armies were defeated, and though they might've thought their cause a righteous one, it availed them little on the battlefield. Of the innumerable highborn bloodlines of First Men that once populated the Vale, only eight survived."
I recited their names. "The Redforts, the Royces, the Shetts, the Hunters, the Upcliffs, the Moores, the Coldwaters and —"
"— the Belmores," finished Maester Erryk for me. "They survived because they obeyed the command and the weirwoods and heart trees were removed from their keeps. Their conversion to the Seven did not happen overnight. It took many years before one of the First Men abandoned their gods and converted to the Seven. And over time, they intermarried with the Andals, their bloodlines mingling with each other's, leaving us with the Vale as we know of it today."
All that gave me much to ponder, but that would be done later. I still had more questions.
"Maester Erryk, did the Belmores always display six silvers bells on a purple field on their banners or was it a change with their conversion?"
"The latter, my lord. Though it had not occurred when they converted, but rather after a battle in these lands."
"What is the significance of the six bells on a purple field? What was the name of the battle?"
"Six bells for the six times the septry bells rang when reinforcements, sent by an Arryn king, arrived to a besieged Strongsong's aid. Purple for the color of the sky, at sunset. The battle has no name, but Belmores are reminded of it whenever they utter their family's words: Ever the bell tolls."
My curiosity satisfied (for the time being) I thanked Maester Erryk and left him to his books.
When we had finally left Belmore lands, our company had increased by a dozen men and boys. Whilst there was no tourney in Strongsong, all knew that one would eventually be made, whether in the lands of Grafton, Royce, Redfort or Waynwood, and so they asked, and received, permission from Lord Arryn to join us. Ser Artys was among those, along with his son and one of his nephews.
"You must be relieved, no?" I asked Robert in our tent, a few days after we'd departed from Lord Gyles' halls.
"Relieved about what?" he asked back, confused by my question.
"That we've left the Belmore girls behind us? Just them though, not your chastity I hope. Not unless you've something to confide?"
For my taunting I received a pillow straight to the face, followed by one of his boots aimed at the head, which I ducked.
Of course, that meant war.
When morn came and Jon Arryn saw the state of our tent, he was not amused.
But at least the servants were grateful for the help we provided around the camp.
"Ned."
I forgot myself for a moment, forgot that she had started addressing me as such ever since I'd brought the blue winter roses.
When she started towards me, I back-stepped once, but didn't try to run. What use would it be? Steadying my breathing as best I could, I willed myself not to show too much. Which failed spectacularly, of course. Such a vulnerable moment was not like to come again soon.
Lady Arryn surprised me though. Rather than ask what my purpose here was, at such a late (early?) hour, she took to seeing about my still-bleeding hand and covering it with one of her silk handkerchiefs. She tied it gently, but tight, and though the first layer of the cloth was damp with red, it held and not a single drop dripped through.
"Ned," she repeated herself, "what have you done to yourself?" Pressing her hand to my forehead, she added, "No fever. Come."
I followed after her, and cleared the bench before she pulled me down next to her on it. She looked uncertain of herself, and worried.
Dawn was just breaking and the garden was bathed in the red of sunrise.
"What was that I just saw?" Her eyes skirted aside to the small mounds of dirt. "Why cut yourself? Why spill your blood on the ground?"
"Lady Arryn, I beg apology for distress I inflicted upon you. I have done wrong, abused your hospitality and presumed much without asking permission." With head bowed and eyes closed, I feigned contrition. "Forgive me."
With her hand she raised my head back up and gazed at my face, blue trying to gauge the honesty in grey. Her features were affixed in a stern expression, one I'd seen few times so far, when she presided over judgments with her lord husband in the High Hall.
"You ask forgiveness, yet do not name what it is you wish to be absolved of. Child you may be, but I think we can all agree that yours is a rare breed. You've a way with words, even now. What is it that you are so reluctant to reveal?"
I stayed silent, unsure how to respond to her being so direct.
It seemed this mummer's farce, playing at being a child, was useless to me from here on, at least with Rowena Arryn.
"Would you hear my words then, Lady Arryn? Hear and not judge until I am done?"
Frowning slightly at me bringing up judgment, she nonetheless nodded.
"I am a Stark, Lady Arryn. Born and raised in the North, I've known of nothing else until I came to foster with your noble family. Starks were always faithful to the Old Gods, my lady, much like how Arryns were always devout of the Seven. I know little of your faith and worship, and I imagine that in the South, much is forgotten or plain unknown how we First Men keep to our gods and worship."
"Worship?" She tensed up, her thoughts no doubt aflame with suspicions of sorcery. "By blood letting? Those are foul magicks of the East. Though I cannot claim great knowledge of Northern customs, even I know no such thing is done there."
It came as no surprise to me, for how could she have ever learned? With the invasion of the Andals, with their feverish zealotry unto the Seven-in-One such practices became less common south of the Neck, until they were extinguished by force or forgotten with time's passing. When the Targaryens conquered Westeros and the North was made but one part of the whole, things had changed again.
"No, my lady. Think not that, for I would never befoul your lands with such blasphemies." I would burn all the septries across the Seven Kingdoms, put your men and women to the sword, if it gave me what I needed for the Starks to survive the coming winters and wars. "Even in the North, sorcery is looked down upon. A blade without a hilt, we call it. No, my lady, what I've done here was plant seeds."
Rowena Arryn's head snapped sharply towards the freshly moved dirt piles and back. "Seeds for what?"
"In the South, low and highborn alike pray in the septries built by the hands of men. No such thing in the North, Lady Arryn. We've only the forests, weirwoods and heart trees to go forth to and pray and worship our gods. I admit, I had thought myself adjusted during my first year well enough without one in the Eyrie. The castle has much beauty about it, but even so I still found myself longing for and lamenting the absence of a heart tree. I've never before been beyond the sight of my gods."
Truly, they were my gods, like no gods ever were of my own world.
Her face softened somewhat. "You needst only have asked and something could have been done."
"Perhaps I ought to have. But I worried; what if there'd been more aligned with Ser Cleyton's way of thinking, viewing me as nothing more than as a godless savage here in the realm where Faith held supreme? Hating me for nothing more than to whom I was born?"
"Then they'd have been fools for it." She did not wait for me to continue my tale. "It still does not explain the blood you've shed."
"It will. I only ask for your patience, Lady Arryn." When she nodded, I continued. "We've little in the way of books and texts to speak about the ancient history of the North. Runes, those we have plenty, but the old tongue is a thing forgotten south of the Wall, and even runestones do not shed light on all mysteries. Our traditions, our tales and songs, all those are passed from one generation to the next. From the elderly to the young, so it has been and so it shall always be. I have learned of ways that might make a weirwood seed grow into sapling, that a sapling might be rendered capable of flourishing even in the most unlikeliest of places."
"Learned how?" she persisted with her inquiry.
"From a crone, of whom the elderly folk talked of being old when they were babes themselves. Wives' tales, for all I know, but she knew stories, stories not oft heard in lordly halls of the North. The old shall know the old best, it is said. And so she spoke unto me, how blood freely given might help nourish a weirwood tree." And blood spilled by sword or axe or other means, blood forcibly taken from others. Once, executions were performed before heart trees and the land prospered for it, so the stories told. "Even so, for every word I could make sense of what she spoke, the next dozen few that followed after made no sense to any, save perhaps her unhinged mind."
"You'd trust in a mad woman's words, place your hopes in that?"
"It was only ever a fool's hope, my lady. Nothing more."
"And so you came back south, with seeds in hand and bloodshed in mind."
"Aye, my lady. Only that and nothing more, no harm to any save perhaps myself with a cut to my palm."
After time uncounted for, Rowena Arryn sighed and turned away from me. "Foolish of you, Ned. Most foolish."
"Lady Arryn?" I drew her gaze back to me. "I did this deed at such an hour so no other would know. Not many would understand, if any. I might be accused of being a witch or sorcerer. My kin would be attainted in the eyes of the realm and royal court, and I would not have such a mark of shame forced upon them for actions that I've wrought on my own. If any should suffer, then let it be I alone."
Silence reigned, until broken by the Lady of the Eyrie. "Our secret then." There was more to her eyes than kindness, she did this for reasons of her own, unknown to me. "Ours alone, but you must promise to come to me before ever setting out on any such endeavor in the future."
The promise I gave gladly, knowing all along that should it become a necessity I'd break it all the same.
We spoke no more of that day, not until years passed and seed had borne fruit.
There came a day which I dreaded and I felt no weakness of the body.
I dared not send a raven to my mother and ask if another had been given to the roots.
Life simply went on.
As the weather turned warmer, the Eyrie started receiving guests anew, among them Denys and Janyce Arryn, with their son, Rolland.
After the Lord of the Eyrie had tended to them first, Janyce was oft seen walking along Rowena, and I didn't know if it was mere chance or by design that many of those walks ended up in the garden. I'd stayed clear of them myself for the most part ever since that morn.
Denys hadn't much to discuss with Jon Arryn, his lands of little import and no pressing business to be attended to, so once he was done with it I approached him to ask for a favor. He looked surprised when I posed my question to him.
"It was my understanding that there were no tourneys in the North."
"You are correct, my lord. Yet I do not know if my future lies with my homeland or some other region of Westeros. My brother is the heir, not I, and once he has married and sired sons and daughters, my place shan't be at Winterfell any longer. I would make my own fortune, craft my own fate, rather than depend on kindness and benevolence of others, even if they be family."
He nodded, the topic somewhat familiar to him. The land he ruled was granted as wedding gift to his niece, rather than himself. Arryn might've been his name, but of poor wealth was his distant branch; yet still with a chance to improve his standing.
Unlike the Arryns of Gulltown of whom I'd heard only spoken in hushed rumors and whispers, he hadn't sought out material wealth alone.
I doubted I'd ever be told to depart from Winterfell. Most likely, Brandon would give me a keep of my own, gods knew there were plenty of abandoned ones in the North that needed lords to fill the vacancy. But even if that were something I wanted, I'd needed skills with a lance for events that would precede Brandon ever becoming Lord of Winterfell, if all things went as I hoped.
"Do you hope for a squiring then?"
The thought had entered my mind, but... "No, my lord. My aim is not knighthood." When he raised a brow in inquiry I continued, "The North has no use for such titles, and they'd not care one whit if I was to be knighted. But such an elevation would require swearing vows and oaths to the Seven, gods not my own, and that would cause issue. I am a Stark, even if no more than a second son."
"Sensible of you, I suppose, but understand that my time here at the Eyrie is limited. We will not be staying for long, and I can give you only so much instruction in the coming days. Does that sound acceptable to you, Eddard Stark?"
Smiling, I replied, "Indeed it does, my lord. And please, call me Ned."
Thus I started training with a lance.
Robert had little to say on my new training. He'd come a few times to watch Denys Arryn and I with the lances, but stopped soon after.
No surprise there, his passion for combat lied in the melee, not the games that the summer knights played in times of peace.
And yet, 'twas no game we played atop our mounts and even in peace-time men could still kill each other.
I had almost been crippled myself when my grip on the shaft of wood slackened and the point of it stabbed into the ground, launching me from the horse. Thankfully, the beast was well trained and stopped almost instantly once bereft of its rider, else I might've been trampled beneath its hoofs. Perhaps I was influenced, in part, by my body which was still in its childish state, but I'd instantly gone back and tried for another run at Denys, who shook his head at my foolish eagerness, yet still complied.
Lord Arryn approved, of course, of my desire to learn something of southron customs, for I was ever a growing annoyance to Septon Ben. He'd apparently been intimately acquainted with Robert's shallow lip-praise of the Seven and given up on trying to instill some deeper zeal into him. So what did he do instead? Why, he set out on trying to convert the heathen in his midst, of course!
Oh he never used that word. But misguided was ofttimes spoken in our brief encounters. Most of the time he caught me in the Eyrie's library as I pillaged its texts for all manner of knowledge. For all that they were Andal invaders, they did not outright destroy all they'd come across. It was in the Eyrie that I first considered the merit of runes. But that was something further into the future.
And in the meantime, I trained. I trained persistently and found that while I was getting better by the day with a mace, there were still some things lacking that came to the fore ever more as both Robert and I grew up. Chief among them? Range. When one is seven years old, a mace seems like a veritably large instrument for murder and maiming. Yet barely ten and two, and I outgrew the delusion.
When I asked Master Narbert's thoughts on the matter, he was not pleased, but still acquiesced to what I eventually requested.
He was a harsh taskmaster, but fair. Whiskers like that of a sea lion framed his mouth that rarely showed any expression, be it frowns or smiles. Though I do think that I've seen the corner of his lips twitch once or twice when I spied him talking with Lord Arryn.
Just when he thought one of his students had been taught enough to safely handle a dangerous weapon, there I came to plague him in Robert's stead. It took all this time before Robert was able to lift the damn thing with both arms, but lift it he did and wielded aptly. Master Narbert didn't like giving praise, lest it inflated our heads and egos like that of a cat, but he gave it when it was due.
With Robert having passed his final test (wielding the warhammer for more than half an hour), he thought his troubles over.
"You want what?" asked Narbert, eyes narrowed and suspicious.
"I have become accustomed to the mace, Master Narbert. I wouldn't say I've mastered it, not when I am so young and with so much more left to learn, but I've come to the point where I either start practicing with another, as Robert does now, or I move on to something different, something that would allow me to improve even more, while not abandoning the skills I've learned."
"The skills you've learned will avail you naught. Do you understand that? Wielding great weapons, be they swords or otherwise, is no thing to jape about. They carry advantages with them, aye, but also many flaws, many more ways to see yourself injured or killed."
"I understand."
"Hmph, do you?" he grumbled to himself. "Do you truly? No child games anymore. You'll be further behind your friend, boy. He'll be fighting live opponents, while you still whittle away at ones made of wood." His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "And I mean no insult to your endurance thus far, but great weapons also require great strength. Yours is a build more fit for speed."
"Strength can be acquired, strength can be earned."
"I see there's no changing your mind on this then. Very well, let us be done with it."
Though it was not forged specifically to deter me from attempts to wield it, this weapon of mine that I chose weighed heavily in my arms. I had done some growing over the past few years, and still had space to grew yet more, but the length of the weapon came close to my own height. What a sight I must have been, going out to the yard for practice, barely walking steadily as I balanced it in my hands.
Upon seeing me, a big grin stretched Robert's mouth. He cheered and whooped his fist into the air.
"Knew you had it in you! I knew it! Just catch up quickly now, or whom else will I take with me to battle? Not these ponces, for sure."
"Robert," I spoke through gritted teeth, grinding them from the very effort to speak, "shut up."
Any further exchange was beyond me as the great mace fell from my hands and nearly crushed my toes.
Robert nearly busted his gut from laughter.
I spoke before of how Master Narbert demanded I maintain constant use of mace for a tenth of one hour before allowing me to spend more time in the yard, yes? No such luck this time, I'm afraid.
"One third of an hour", he repeated when I continued to stare disbelievingly at him, "no more, no less."
One third! I could barely push myself to one third of a third and even then I was all but ready to fall to on the ground and sleep.
At times, I thought he had intentionally given me the heaviest, the most unwieldy of all great maces, but in truth it was the only one of its kind in the armory. It had laid forgotten, though clear of dust and well maintained, until my request brought it forth to daylight.
No small amount of folk had tried to dissuade me from it, no doubt pitying me at suffering so much for such an odd weapon of choice.
But I would not give in, I would best the limitations imposed on me by the flesh, I would push through the pain and win the day.
I thought myself well adjusted to training regimes before, but this had driven me to bone-aching exhaustion.
I could've begged off from jousting practice, Denys would've certainly understood. I could've spent less hours on mischief with Robert around the Eyrie. I could've given feeble excuses to Lady Arryn whenever she asked for my company. I could have done a great number of things differently if I but wished it, yet I did not. I would see it all done or see myself come undone.
Not all was so terrible and grim as I presented it and there were enough things around the castle to distract me.
My exchange of letters with my kin up North continued steadily throughout the months and years. Never would I allow for a fracture to appear between us, never would I forget them. Not Brandon, not Lyanna and not even little Benjen, devilish trickster he'd become.
A smile always adorned my face whenever I was summoned by Maester Osric to fetch my share of letters from the pile.
Lyanna's writings were most insightful.
She spotted changes between mother and father only around a certain time of the year, yet could not begin to guess at the cause, whereas I knew they'd become closed off to due to a foreboding date approaching. I was informed that father had allowed Lyanna to train with the bow in the yard with the men, and though she said she'd learned enough, in our mother's letter I was informed that she dropped the bow lessons soon enough. Apparently, once she had father's approval, it no longer interested her.
Instead, she had decided that spears were the weapons for her.
Well, she'd make a good spearwife, if nothing else she had the right temperament for it.
What could I say of Brandon's letters? Just a year older than me, like Robert, but what different worlds we lived in. As it was written, he was pursued by Barbrey Ryswell, when he was barely past ten-and-two himself and she his elder by three years. Aye, Brandon would no doubt find delight in bedding her if it came to that, I knew as much. But the chase was not started by Brandon. No, I had very strong reasons to suspect it was planned and arranged by the girl, with assistance from unknown others, mayhaps even her father, for they'd met one day when Brandon took to riding in the Rills and by mere chance, so he believed and said, encountered the 'lovely girl'.
Lovely girl, my arse. The bitch might have been young, but that mind of hers was as crooked as any old hag's.
That Lord Ryswell allowed such a pursuit to happen meant that our father had not divulged to anyone his plans for Brandon's betrothal, if my knowledge of the timeline still counted as valid. For all I knew, with Lucas as his heir, Hoster Tully might think himself in strong enough position to wed his daughters to Riverlords rather than a Northman, Stark heir or not.
The last letter I'd received from my brother spoke of a progress in the North when he reached his majority, with him visiting all of our father's bannermen. I did not worry too much, for he would visit the most loyal ones first, which were the Reeds, Manderlys and Mormonts. However, what I was concerned about was that he spoke of his intent to visit the lands of others, Boltons among them.
Thus my thoughts turned to Roose Bolton, the future Leech Lord, oathbreaker and traitor. Such a man I could hardly afford to live, not if I wished Starks to survive and their reigns to last. No, he would have to die, he and all his accursed kin and allies, if he had any.
Trapped as I was by my fostering and customs of a feudal age, I could hardly march up to the Dreadfort and bash in his head, could I?
So I read the letters, so I worried about my kin up North.
Mother and father remained as concerned as always, asking about my health, asking about my time in the Vale. I did share with them most of my stories, stripped of flowery words, sans of deceit, for I'd come to love them deeply, more than I thought I ever could've.
If I made enemies with anyone who could present a problem, I forewarned them.
When I made friends or mended relations previously frayed, I rejoiced and shared the good news.
Could I have ever guessed where some of my choices would come to lead me?
Would I have severed friendships if I had an inkling about the turmoil they'd cause?
In the years to come, I'd be called cruel and heartless, a monstrous savage from the desolate wastes of the North, but never a fair-weather friend.
His thirteenth nameday had come and gone and Robert despaired.
On the desk, in his chambers, laid that most fiercest of all his foes: letters.
He'd never been that good at writing and could hardly know what to say at the best of times.
Asking his mother and father about their health, their lives, was simple enough.
Shireen was easy enough to handle too, for she knew him like few others did. She understood Robert, knew that he cared for her even if he didn't write all that often. She didn't begrudge him, didn't seek to rebuke him or anything like that.
Stannis was a whole different matter.
Gods damn him! Even in ink-scribed words, Robert saw his little brother's disapproval. Not that he cared whether Stannis approved or not, but it was still irritating to be chided by a younger sibling. Argella, it seemed, shared Stannis' opinion, but knew better than to speak it so bluntly when she wrote to him. But it was still a sore point, to be told what was proper behavior from his juniors.
Fortunately, Renly, Durran and Elenei were still small and sent no messages that might've occupied his thoughts.
If he had a choice between being confined in his chambers and practicing in the yard again, there was no doubt Robert would have chosen the latter. But the choice was taken out of his hands by Jon Arryn's wife, who more oft than not was the one that reminded him of writing back home every few months or so. Really, she needn't have bothered. It was not as if Robert had much to share with his family, he'd yet to have an adventure of any sorts. Though he did share the tale of Ned's own past exploits when he had the chance.
He wrote to his father about Ned too, what great friends they'd become and in the replies sent back, his father's approval was clear.
Of course, he didn't share all that Ned had confided in him; after all, there was no need for Shireen or Argella to comment on the vulgarity and brutality of battle, they spoke of it enough even without being prompted. Honestly, he found that completely absurd because he had heard and seen the both of them praising many knights, and sighing for them in admiration, that took to riding in tourneys against each other. Did they think that was somehow more clean than actual fighting?
A man could still be skewered by lance whilst jousting, he'd be dead just the same as if he was cut down with a sword or impaled by a spear.
It took him hours to put his thoughts in order and then to place those onto parchment. The letters for Alric and Adria were the most troublesome. Even before Ser Cleyton had been temporarily relieved of his post at the Bloody Gate, Ned and the Lipps were not on best terms. To their credit, however, they'd not spoken poorly of Ned in letters that he received. In fact, they'd never even mentioned him.
Looking to preserve the uneasy peace, Robert never brought up Ned in the letters he sent back, but all that dancing around these issues and hurt prides and misguided dislikes tired Robert. He wished he could've just sat them all in one room and made them understand that they need not be so hostile with each other at all. That endeavor was a mighty one, however, and would take time.
When he was done, Robert cheered out loud, for he was finally free! Free to do as he liked for the rest of the day, without listening to the preachings of the fat septon or lessons about numbers from Osric or the arts of diplomacy from Lord Arryn.
Naturally, the armory was his first destination, where he gingerly picked up his large warhammer and hefted it across one shoulder. He was all set to leave for the yard when he spotted Ned's mace resting in a corner of the armory. Turning around, checking if any other were in the room besides him, he laid down his own weapon and approached his friend's. He'd not held it in his hands before, but that was about to change. For the space of a few breaths, Robert remained still. Then he grasped the thick iron handle of the weapon and slowly lifted it up. It took a bit of effort, but he'd managed to hold it up as he would his own.
Though there were undoubtedly a number of differences between the great mace and the warhammer, in weight alone he found none.
Gods, no wonder Ned struggled so much with it. He didn't underestimate his friend's prowess, but strength was not his forte. Granted, with how stubborn he went about trying to wield it effectively, he reminded him of Stannis in a way, though they were as night to day in comparison. Stannis would have never lied for Robert's sake to another's face or planned mischief for their shared amusement.
Jon Arryn explained it aptly enough to Robert when he asked why Ned persisted on with trying to wield a weapon too heavy for him.
"You are the first son of your father, Robert, the heir, are you not?"
Confused, he'd replied, "Aye, Lord Arryn."
Then Jon smiled. "Eddard is not. He is not the heir and while he might have a keep bestowed to him by his father if he proves himself worthy of one, the matters of inheritance are not set in stone. He does all this to make certain he has something of his own in life to depend. So he trains with all manner of weapons that he can. So he trained jousting with Denys. So he does this."
It was the truth, but not one Robert wished to ponder for too long. He had faith in Ned and one day the two of them would ride out of the Eyrie and set forth for the strongholds and caves of clansmen, bringing righteous vengeance with mace and warhammer alike!
But that was not now, that was yet to come, perhaps years and years ahead, so Robert returned the mace to its corner, took up his warhammer and left the armory. Once in the yard, he took to looking around and having spotted his mark Robert approached him.
"Roger!" he called out to him and the older boy's gaze quickly found him, followed by a sigh. "Oh come now, I've been locked inside my rooms for the whole morn, I've not even had a proper warm-up. Who knows, you might even score a hit on me this time!"
"Aye, milord," the boy acquiesced, "as you say."
From someone else, it might have been words of boasting and no more, but from Robert, they were as the truth spoken by the gods.
In the beginning, when he'd just started dueling live opponents, Robert was more about dodging or blocking the other one's strikes than trying to land one of his own. The steel shaft of the warhammer was a good way to catch a blade coming down and then throw it back.
But that was only for those that came at Robert with sword. There were others, like Roger, who favored axes or morningstars, though for the purposes of practice they all came with dulled edges or bereft of spikes for the latter. Even through both would be wearing helms, padded armors and brigandines on top to soften and absorb the force of their hits, there'd still be plenty of pain to go around.
Robert's warhammer might have been lacking in the traditional spike on one side of its head, but it still packed a good punch.
"Whenever you are, milord," said Roger, standing opposite him.
"Well then," said Robert, a smile on his face and smiles in his eyes, "let's get to it," and lunged forward.
Roger instantly brought up the shield strapped to his left arm, to absorb the coming blow and bounce it back.
But Robert was not content with attacking just once and when it bounced he slammed the warhammer again and again and again.
With no like for being on the defensive, Roger swung his long axe at Robert's greaves-covered legs, causing him to cease his attack and step back, out of reach of the deadly weapon. Both took the opportunity to breathe easier now that they weren't locked in battle.
In reach alone, they were more or less equal, so they circled slowly around one another, waiting to see who would commit to an attack.
Though brash in many things, and yes even when sparring, Robert knew how to wait for an opportunity to smash someone down.
By now, there were a few other men-at-arms in the yard, watching the duel, watching yet another of their folk battling the young lord.
The tension became unbearable and it was Roger who took the plunge. He rushed forward, his formidable shield in front of him.
When his long axe came sailing from the side, Robert welcomed it head on with his warhammer.
Dangerous trick that, for the blade could have slided past Robert's weapon and bounced to his face instead.
In the next moment, Robert almost fell down when he felt the shield slam against his side, even cutting him on the cheek when its edge reached his face. Bellowing with wroth for being actually hit, even though it wasn't with the weapon, Robert used up all his strength to wield the warhammer with one arm, while using the other to push off Roger. The boy was surprised, it was clear to see, and a moment's worth of hesitation on what to do landed him flat on his arse with the head of the warhammer following after.
"I yield!" yelled Roger with great distress.
When the warhammer landed, such was the power behind the blow that the stony ground beneath it burst aside and launched dust into the air. When the dust settled and the two were once more in clear line of sight of the folk who watched them fight, they saw that the warhammer had landed just a few inches shy of Roger's padded groin. Sadly, it did nothing to conceal the stain of pissing himself.
Congratulations on yet another victory in the yard for Robert and mockery for the defeated young man soon followed.
"Good one, milord!"
"Nicely done!"
"Haha, you'll never live this one down, Roger!"
Robert panted and laughed and rejoiced with the others.
His eyes however did not meet any of the other men's, but were moving about, in search of a pair of grey ones.
Having not found them anywhere in the yard, Robert's cheer deflated a tad and his smiling disposition soon left him.
He'd hoped, even though he knew it unlikely at this hour, that Ned would be there to witness him in combat.
Then he shook those thoughts away and focused on the men around him, including Roger who looked angry.
"Roger," he called to the older boy and when he turned his way the anger was still there.
"Yes, milord?"
Robert grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. "That was bloody amazing! I'd not expected you to charge with the shield at me and heft your axe from the side. Nearly did me in! Where'd you learn a thing like that?"
Just like that, the anger was gone, and its place confusion, followed by abashment. "I - nowhere, milord. I just thought to chance it."
"And a good chance it was, but I was lucky this time and surprised you when I took my weapon in one hand, didn't I?"
"Aye, milord," there, already easier now to talk with, easier with a smile on face, no matter that his breeches were soiled, "you did."
"'Twas a surprise I was saving for a special opportunity to show off in the yard and this match more than sufficed."
"Quite a surprise, milord. Master Narbert will want to know about it, I reckon."
It went on from there, some more small talk and near everyone forgot the boy had pissed himself from fright of the warhammer.
Then Robert was free to move away from the yard, return the weapon to the armory and dunk himself in a nice, hot bath.
The match had lasted less than a sixth of an hour, but it was exhausting nonetheless, even for Robert with all his strength. His shoulder ached from where the shield had slammed straight into his side, but it would pass. He'd just favor the other one for the time being.
While passing through the castle, going for the baths, he just so happened to pass near the library and took a peek inside.
Sure enough, there was Ned Stark, surrounded by parchments and texts all around him on one of the larger desks in the room.
"Ned!"
So immersed in whatever he'd been reading, his friend was startled and all but jumped from the chair when he heard his own name.
"Robert!" he rebuked his friend with a scowl and was about to no doubt say more but then sniffed and said, "You reek of sweat."
Robert laughed. "Of course I do, just finished sparring in the yard, went there after I'd done my letters, and now I'm headed for a bath."
His friend's long face shifted to disbelief. "A bath? In this part of the Eyrie?" Then it turned to mock concern and Ned came closer, pressed a hand against Robert's still sweaty forehead. "You've not received a blow to the head, have you? The baths are nowhere near here."
Caught, Robert coughed lightly. "Yes, well... I worried! Hadn't seen you today except when we broke fast."
"I've been busy. Didn't go to the yard." Ned's words were spoken with sourness. He waved his hand towards the desk. "Reading."
Robert sagely nodded, lips twitching with a hint of a smile. "I see. And you being here doesn't have anything to do with Becca, does it?" The very name caused Ned to scowl and Robert howled with laughter. "Hah, knew it! Saw her sitting next to you at the table this morn."
"She asked Lady Arryn for the seating. You can imagine how much it pleased me to have her tittering in my ear so early in the day."
Becca Shett was trouble. But only if one's name was Eddard Stark, for the girl had taken a great liking to him. Mayhaps it was there before his return to Winterfell, but they were still small children back then and such things eluded them. Mayhaps it came only after he got back and the tale of his deeds spread. It didn't matter. The blue-eyed girl, with her curly black hair, was in love with Ned.
Robert gave him no small amount of grief over that, occasionally even telling Becca where she could find Ned in the castle.
Fortunately for him, Ned had yet to realize it, but when he did, Robert expected some form of retribution, though not likely of the same kind. For while Robert wasn't all too keen on the company of girls and women, there were still things he found pleasing about them. Like kissing. Kissing was a good spot of fun and though she wasn't his first one, a plump serving girl from the kitchens did enjoy spending her time with Robert in the garden and teaching him how to use his tongue and mouth, to make it more enjoyable.
Unlike him, however, his friend showed little interest in kissing or doing anything of the sort with girls.
Oh Ned was a charmer when he wished to act like one, all polite and neat.
At times, Robert couldn't quite catch on how quickly his whole countenance would change in company of others.
With the womenfolk, he was sweet of tongue, carrying an easy smile on his face and appropriately averting eyes when necessary.
With the guards, both those of the Eyrie and others, he talked of battles and killing and weapons. Had it been any other, they might have not been as open about those things, but he was known for fighting and killing his first man before the age of ten. A deed few could claim, even among the highborn! Gods knew Robert envied him mightily for that.
Eddard Stark was a boy of many faces and tongues and smiles, unlike any other that he knew before in the Stormlands.
But he'd not minded that, because Ned never feigned anything when it was just the two of them.
They'd had quite the rocky start, true, but that was well behind them and of no import whatsoever. In truth, if anyone had asked Robert what their quarrel had started about he could scant recall it himself. It all changed when Ned fell ill and with the events that followed after. They'd spent many hours practicing with each other, whether it was in the archery range or in the yard with swords, and many more just scampering around the old mountain castle, trying to ferret out whatever secrets it might hold.
Yet there were times when they had to be separated for their individual lessons.
Robert was not quite fond of that, more so when it came to his private lessons with Jon Arryn. He understood they were a necessity, after all, one day he'd be the Lord of Storm's End (though he wished that day was postponed far, far into the future), he needed to know these things if he was to rule his lands well. That, however, didn't make the lessons any more appealing.
Battles, now those he could listen to being spoken of for days and not grow bored! He wondered oft enough how it would be to feel his blood rise properly, when surrounded by many foes, if he'd win the day, if he'd make them regret taking up arms against him. And as his friendship with Ned Stark grew, he knew, with absolute certainty, that no battle he fought would ever be fought alone.
Then Ned had taken up jousting, of all things, surprising all those who thought they knew him. Jousting!
When he asked him about it, Ned shrugged and replied, "Who knows when I might have need of it? Best to learn now than later."
Not much of an answer. And by the Seven, why would Ned ever have need of jousting?
Unless... well, yes, that was always a possibility. Far fetched one, but there it was. Could be Ned had a marriage to be arranged in the south? Mayhaps he wanted to impress his future lady wife? Oh by the gods, that would be a sight, Ned riding the tilts and throwing off those other flowery ponces off their horses, it'd be a right laugh! They'd frown and curse, but they'd be cowardly shits and Robert would be there to help him with any upstart lordling who thought he could raise a hand against his friend and not suffer the consequences.
Now if only Ned would finally just give in to Becca's advances, Arlan's fifty silver stags were as good as his!
Another session of training in the yard and I moved on to my chambers for a proper hot bath. Gods, those felt so fucking good after training. Even though I was no longer occupied by solely trying to wield the great mace (glory unto me, for I had now reached slightly over one tenth of an hour with it in my hands), weapons practice was no less taxing on my still developing body.
Truth be told, it was not I who decided to continue bettering myself with bow, sword and a regular mace, but by the command of Jon Arryn I was bid to do so. No doubt, Master Narbert had asked for said intervention, but I could hardly blame the man. Many months had passed and what had I to show for it? Barely anything. For all that Robert continued to encourage me and practice alongside me, I was hampering his practice more oft than not. Teeth grinding did little to improve my shifting moods.
As before, there were matters around the Eyrie to distract me.
Like dancing lessons.
Dancing! What had I need of that, I ask you all?
Rowena Arryn, however, could not be dissuaded from this course of action and in the end at least I had Robert to share my misery with. He was no more fond of the whole thing than I was. But at least he was not paired off to Becca Shett.
The infernal girl would not let go of me, not even for a moment before Lady Arryn herself told us to separate.
Why she developed an infatuation with me to begin with, I could not tell nor in truth did I wish to find out.
All that mattered was avoiding spending any time alone with her, lest she construe some acceptance of her presence on my part.
Even the library was no safe haven from her and I could not turn to Robert for help either as he seemed to have some underhanded motive for arranging Becca to find me whenever possible. A place where I'd found some refuge from her was in the yard, but only early in the morn when she was still abed. Sadly enough, she would go there during the day and find me when I trained with other weapons than the great mace. She seemed to like best of all when I practiced riding a tilt with one of few horses stabled in the Eyrie.
Once, she even offered me her favour, as though I were truly riding in the lists.
I feigned not hearing, but she, with her childish stubbornness and persistence, would not give up.
It was maddening.
When Robert and I had been invited to the High Hall one morn, we wondered what Jon Arryn wished of us so early in the day. There had been some talk of the Lord of the Eyrie venturing forth from his ancestral keep and visiting his bannermen. Mayhaps we were to go with him as he toured his realm and was hosted by the Valelords?
Alas for us, it was not Jon who asked for our presence, but his lady wife.
"Come, come now, it is high time you learned more of courtly manners. Yes, you too, Ned."
Grumbling and trying to put it off for another day, when we might have made ourselves scarce, availed us naught.
"Naturally, it would be best if you learned with ladies your own age, so I've arranged for some assisstance."
Rowena Arryn clapped her hands once and in they came through the hall's doors: Fiona Waynwood and Becca Shett.
Given the choice of twirling across the room for hours, hand in hand with Becca and pressed close to her blossoming body, or to be thrown in the midst of bloodthirsty clansmen with nothing but a cudgel in my hand and breeches to clothe me, I'd choose the latter.
Sadly, the gods did not care to oblige me.
"Good day, Eddard," said Becca, with an airy quality to her words, her eyes a-fluttering.
"Lady Shett," I greeted her and bowed, took the proffered hand and brushed my mouth against her knuckles.
She giggled at that. "No need to be so formal, Eddard. It's Becca, I insist."
And I insist you hurl yourself out the Moon Door, you incessant menace.
I shall not bother with the excruciating details of the event, of how many times I had to shift my hands to their prior position, and how I asked for breaks, even though I was not weary in the flesh. Suffice to say, it was a ghastly experience, one I'd have rather avoided.
Lady Arryn found it amusing. She bid me walk with her one spring day to the garden and talk on the matter.
"To think I thought you a breed apart from the rest of the boys, and yet it took but one infatuated maiden to turn you back to your rightful age. Most delightful, Ned. And most courteous of you not to speak your mind." I was about to open my mouth and give reply, but she continued speaking. "Oh hush, sweet boy, it's easy to see you've no wish for the girl's attentions, but you don't push her away with crude and blunt words as others might. I think she knows that too, and it only furthers her fancy of you."
Bloody fucking hell. "And I don't suppose you might find it in your kind heart, my lady, to redirect her attentions somewhere else?"
She patted me on the hand. "Worry not, she'll tire of the chase," said Rowena, and after a moment added, "eventually. And should you grow weary of being pursued and give into her, I expect to hear nothing poor spoken of your conduct towards Becca, Ned. 'Twould not be chivalrous of you to take advantage of a young girl's heart. Have I made myself clear?"
"Crystal, Lady Arryn."
I turned my head away from her, thinking our talk finally over, thinking of going to the yard for another round of practice.
Then I noticed our surroundings.
We were nowhere near the gardens.
A smile bloomed on Rowena Arryn's face just as the horror of understanding dawned on mine.
"Good! Now, let us be off, Becca is expecting us in the High Hall. We mustn't keep a lady waiting."
You bitch.
The gossiping among the servants proved true.
Jon Arryn, in his full capacity as Lord Paramount and Warden of the East, would set out from the Eyrie and make a progress that was long overdue. Many vied for the honor to host their liege lord and the castle's rookery was practically besieged by the number of ravens flocking to it. In the end, only seven were chosen, a most auspicious number and approved by all in the Vale.
Ravens were sent to the lords of Strongsong, Redfort, Heart's Home, Runestone, Gulltown, Ninestars and Ironoaks, informing them of Jon Arryn's intentions.
Robert, ever lacking in tact, asked outright Lord Arryn if we would be joining him.
Fortunately, Jon Arryn had long since grown accustomed to Robert's forthright, and blunt, nature. "Of course you'll be coming along, 'twould be a poor fostering were I to leave you behind while I journeyed through the Vale for the next eight or nine months."
"Eight or nine months?" Robert repeated after him.
"Aye, 'tis no small matter traversing the Vale proper, no matter the season. And we will not be traveling in light numbers either, so that will slow us down additionally. Worry not though, there will be events aplenty to keep growing boys from being bored."
I could not help but ask, "Tourneys?"
Jon Arryn nodded, smiling. "Tourneys and melees. Though for you two, the squire's melee only. And as far as jousting is concerned, I'm of two minds; you are not yet experienced in the matter yet riding in the lists can be no less dangerous than fighting in the melee."
That would not do. I was eager to test myself against others, to find out my true worth when pitted against flesh and blood.
I would find a way.
We left the Eyrie half a thousand strong. Men-at-arms for the most part, including Master Narbert.
Jon Arryn would risk nothing when it came to traversing across the Mountains of the Moon, more so as our first destination was Strongsong, the seat of House Belmore. At first, I had thought it strange that our party would head there first, as Redfort and Ironoaks were much closer, but Jon Arryn took to explaining our planned route through the Vale. After we were finished with the Belmores, we would then set out for Heart's Home and from there sail out to sea, visiting Ninestars on our journey towards Runestone. From Runestone we would go to Gulltown and afterwards to the lands of Waynwoods, with Lord Horton's keep as our final destination.
Traversing the mountains was no easy feat, hampered as we were by our numbers and our cargo, for it was no simple thing to venture forth from the Eyrie. Supplies had to be prepared in plenty, ranging from provisions for the men and our beasts of burden, to tents for Lord Arryn, Robert and I, and arms and armors and gifts for our future hosts and their kin.
This was a time of innocent joy, for while the Vale was a harsh land, it had a beauty to it, akin to the North. During the nights it was easy to forget the hardships of the day: the climbs across rocky hills, the unsteady ground and the ever-present threat of the clansmen. Once, we camped near one of the many mountain lakes that preceded the valley where Strongsong laid, and when the waters were found to be plentiful in game, a few of the men took to fishing. One morning, even Robert and myself had indulged in the sport, though I dare say he'd not been as adventurous as myself at first when I went into the shallows barefoot.
"Where are your boots? You'll freeze your toes off!"
True, the water was chilly, but it bothered me little. I said as much. "'Tis but a small thing, Robert. Or do you think the waters up North run warmer than your southron ones?" Kicking a little splash his way with my foot, I burst into laughter when he yelped at its cold.
It had a fairly predictable result of Robert charging at me and dunking me into the water, soaking me to the skin and bones.
In the end, we were brought out of the lake by our respective captains of guards, while the other men grumbled about us scaring off the fish. We were quite the sight, the pair of us, later on in Jon Arryn's tenth, teeth chattering as we said we'd not to act so foolishly again.
But the old man was smiling and knew our words were for naught. Still, appearances had to be kept.
We'd warmed ourselves by the camp fire and with a sack of wine laughed at how stupid we were about the whole thing.
As always, we regretted how much we drank when we woke the next day. Still wouldn't stop us from doing so again in the future.
From afar, it had not looked like a proper castle ought've, with a single building towering above all, even the keep itself.
As we descended down the river valley - passing farmsteads and the like along the way, many a smallfolk cheered us on and called out to Lord Arryn - it became clearer and clearer that it was a castle indeed; its fortifications were thick, its walls lined with men-at-arms, their liege lord's banner flying high. Our arrival was greeted with a great ringing of bells from the tall tower.
By the time we entered the main yard, the bells had stopped ringing - a fact for which many of us were grateful - and the household of Strongsong was lined up to welcome their Lord Paramount. When Jon Arryn dismounted, all had gone down to one knee.
"My lord, Strongsong is yours."
"Rise, Lord Gyles. I will not have you kneeling in the dirt in your own home. Rise, all of you."
One by one, they all rose. To each, Lord Arryn bestowed a gentle smile like that of a proud grandfather looking over his vast progeny.
After Jon Arryn had greeted the folk already known to him and was introduced to those yet not, Robert and I dismounted as well, but stayed near our horses. Protocol, drilled into us by both Lord and Lady Arryn, asked that much of us, at least until our guardian called out to us to be introduced as well, leaving the horses to the care of our men.
"Robert, Eddard, come!" commanded Lord Arryn.
We heeded his words and marched, almost in procession, front and center.
"Lord Gyles," he inclined his head toward us and we bowed, "I present to you my wards: Robert Baratheon, son of Lord Steffon Baratheon, and Eddard Stark, son of Lord Rickard Stark."
"Lord Belmore," both of us intoned, "it is an honor."
A fat man, with beady eyes, like that of a buzzard, ink-black hair and face just freshly shaved, he did not leave much of an impression on me, for all that he was one of the most powerful vassals of Jon Arryn. But I suppose Wyman Manderly wasn't much to look at either.
"Lord Arryn," he bestowed a faint nod to us, "and young lords, welcome."
Of the five hundred, only a fifth would dwell in the castle itself, whilst the others would camp outside so as to avoid crowding.
I had asked, and then arranged, for the Winterfell men be the ones situated in the castle's courtyard at all times. The Belmores had no hatred for me, or none that I could tell. I was simply being prudent. Never too young to die, and all that.
I was glad that there was no need for us to be introduced to each of the Belmores, as Jon Arryn was, for there was a great deal of them. During the coming days, I would learn some of their names, but the rest would be forgotten, given that I thought them of little importance. The most important ones were, of course, of Lord Gyles himself, his lady wife Aemma Lynderly, and their two daughters, Serra and Ryella. They had their family's coat of arms blazoned the most on their fine clothes, six silver bells on a field of purple.
Then there were the, so called, lesser Belmores: Ser Artys Belmore, Lord Gyles' only brother, was a widower with a son and a daughter, the former of which was talked about as a possible heir to Strongsong, should Gyles fail to provide one himself; Alys Belmore, oldest of the sisters, but still younger than her lord brother, had married a man of lower rank and thus kept the family name for herself and her three children, two girls and a boy; Andara Belmore, the middle sister, who'd done the same as Alys, had two boys and two girls to carry on and spread the Belmore bloodline. The last sister, Ronella, had been wed to a Coldwater, and bore him twin sons.
Though most of them had the right to bear the symbol of the house, none could put it in proportions larger than Gyles and his children.
Altogether, they were a noisy lot when assembled together in a single hall, even one as large as Strongsong's.
Perhaps they weren't keen on being friendly with me as they were with Robert, but I bore them no ill will over that.
I was content with continuing my training in the yard whenever I could, ofttimes doing so before any rose in the two weeks we stayed there. When I was not busy wielding steel, I was riding my horse through the valley. Across the shallow rivers and the pale-green glens, betwixt the trees of pine and oak, I found peace of mind and soul when else it might have eluded me.
Of course, that only lasted about as long as it took Robert to find me and drag me back to the castle.
The way Robert preened and bellowed after I trounced Ser Gyles' son, Gwayne, in a friendly spar, you'd have thought we were kin.
We had a bit of an audience for that, but mostly children our own age, and it happened because Gwayne overheard that Robert and I were trained by Master Narbert. At first I had no idea what that was about, but then found out that Narbert Nott was a veteran from the War of Ninepenny Kings, where he distinguished himself enough to become the Eyrie's master-at-arms; no small feat, that.
Gwayne challenged Robert first, but yielded quickly enough when the warhammer sprung forward, with speed that one simply didn't expect from such a heavy weapon, and sailed too close for comfort to his face; just hairsbreadth shy from scratching Gwayne's nose.
It had lasted but a few moments, which disappointed a great deal of folk, and I admit I was counted amongst them.
Whether he challenged me in an attempt to regain face in the eyes of his kin, I do not know.
Like his duel Robert should have been, it was to last only until one of us scored the first hit against the other.
A few had looked at me oddly when I entered the ring with mace and shield, perhaps thinking me foolish, for Gwayne, with his claymore, had the reach, and it was said oft enough that reach mattered the most in duels. Oft said, oft proven wrong.
Predictably, Robert cheered for me. "Come on, Ned! Smash him proper!"
I shook my head in amusement and bowed slightly to Gwayne after he'd done the same.
We were both dressed in padded armor, with byrnie atop it, plated gloves for our hands and greaves for the legs, with half-helms on our heads. It was what both Gwayne and Robert wore and it was what we had to as well, as we both carried steel in our hands.
There were other voices, I remember that. Cheering for Gwayne. Or not. The details eluded me.
I'd let the boy come at me the first few times we clashed, his sword scraping against the shield strapped to my left arm.
He favored swings over thrusts. He was quick on his toes, almost in dance-like motions stepping away from the mace when I went forth. He swung maybe a dozen times, aiming for whatever was easiest to reach. In my eagerness to see the match over, I'd almost lost when the claymore nearly grazed me with its tip on one of my legs when Gwayne swung it downwards rather than aim for my chest.
Aye, reach was his weapon's greatest strength, but also a flaw to be exploited by the daring.
He must've thought me of unhinged mind when I raised the mace overhead and began to charge, bellowing incoherently.
With both hands on the hilt of his raised sword, he waited for me to come close enough so he could cut at my exposed right side.
I wager he expected an easy victory then and there, rather than me lowering my arm and meeting the flat of his blade with the mace's crown head on. Caught between the spikes of its protruding flanges, his eyes wide in surprise, he never saw my shield coming for his face.
With one sure, strong strike he was out for the count, the claymore slipping from his hands.
The rush of blood, the pounding in my ears, was gone, replaced with sweat trickling down my spine.
Fortunately, no true harm was done, merely a light concussion. He'd heal quickly and would be no worse for the wear.
I admit, I feared the boy would bear a grudge against me for besting him before his family, but no such thing happened.
Once he had his wits about him, he rose from the circle of concerned faces in the yard and clasped me on the arm.
"Well fought, Eddard Stark. Master Narbert's teachings show their true worth, with his pupils proven to be my betters."
I admit, I had not expected that. That one could accept defeat so graciously. I know I wouldn't have.
Thereafter, we spoke little to each other, save for greetings and the like, but Gwayne would always incline his head just the slightest in a show of respect. He was a good lad. Shame we had not become friends in the aftermath of our fight, but I lacked Robert's gift for that.
And speaking of Robert, Gwayne was not the only opponent he fought at Strongsong. A number of Belmore men-at-arms tested themselves against him and were found lacking. His skill with the warhammer, and his strength in wielding it, earned him much praise.
"You were quite remarkable in the yard, my lord," said one of Gyles' daughters not an hour later as we sat in the halls of her father. Oh the bitch was sly, always pressing a touch here and there, trying to play Robert like a fiddle. But Robert knew better. Or so I hoped.
Both Jon Arryn and I, albeit on separate occassions, had told him how important it was that he remain courteous, but distant, with any and all daughters of nobles during our journey through the Vale. Undoubtedly, the words Jon gave him were more refined than mine:
"Don't cock this up, else they'll have you wedded and bedded before you even realize you've gone far enough for that."
So it was with a subdued smile on my face that I went to rescue Robert from the attentions of the highborn girl when she started praising his muscles and squeezing his arms more openly, while he looked at me beseechingly. Clearly, the girl had little care for propriety, or at least it was so when the hall was not occupied by her parents or the other elder Belmores.
"Robert, come," I took him by his arm, the one yet unoccupied by the Belmore girl, and pulled him up from the table, pulling him away from her grasp, "we mustn't neglect our horse riding either. Come, while the daylight shines strong and bright."
That earned me a harsh scowl from the older girl and gratitude unspoken from Robert.
We did go riding, and we rode far, far enough that I think they might not have heard me laughing (at Robert) back at Strongsong.
During our stay at Strongsong, I had given into pursuit of knowledge regarding the noble family that ruled it since time immemorial.
Being of First Men descent there was only so much that books alone could tell and so I sought out the maester of the castle, in hopes the elderly man would have answers for the questions that plagued my mind; and of those, there were many.
Despite his advanced age, Maester Erryk was filled with much vigor, with an easy and cheerful, most un-maester like, disposition to him.
I found him in the library of Strongsong, a smaller room than most I've seen in the castle, but packed with books from floor to ceiling on oak racks that lined the stone walls. He was fiddling with one book or another, checking its binding, keeping them clean of dust.
He'd not heard me enter, but he did hear the door closing.
"Yes, my lord?" he asked when he recognized me. "What can I do for you?"
"Maester Erryk, I've come to you seeking knowledge of the past, knowledge of these lands and the lords that ruled it before."
"Oh dear," said the maester, "I dare say this is not merely a question or two you wish to ask of me, is it?"
With a faint smile on my face, I replied, "No, Maester Erryk, I'm afraid it's not. It might be best if we were to sit down."
When the book in his hands was restored to its rightful place, when we acquired another chair for me to sit on, I asked my first question.
"How long have you served Lord Belmore's family, Maester Erryk?"
Thoughtfully stroking his long white beard, the old man answered, "Near forty years now, my lord. Half of those in service to Lord Godric and half to his son, Lord Gyles, unto whom lordship of Belmore lands passed upon his father's death."
"And you're knowledgeable to the history of the family you've served for four decades, Maester Erryk?"
"Extensively so, my lord," said Maester Erryk with no small amount of pride.
"I will not bore you with too many questions. Some of those have been touched upon Maester Osric at the Eyrie. But in history lessons he taught to Robert Baratheon and myself, Maester Osric never said a word on what happened to Strongsong's godswood."
"Osric's appointment was well earned. A most learned young man, one of the few who earned his chains so quickly. However, that he spoke not on this is a small failing on his part, one that I shall seek to correct now. Now then... you know of the Andals' coming to the Vale?"
"Aye, Maester Osric, and the theories behind it. Some texts speak that they were guided by a vision that spoke of a land to the west. Others speak of them preemptively escaping the ever-expanding grasp of the Valyrian Freehold and their dragons that conquered, ruled and enslaved much of Essos. There is no conclusive evidence for either, so the matter remains unresolved."
It was obvious my extensive reply pleased the man.
"Perhaps I spoke too quickly on Osric's failings if he's taught you that well. Where was I? Ah yes, the coming of the Andals. As you know, they'd defeated the alliance of the First Men, led by High King Robar II Royce, and in the aftermath of their defeat, much was taken from the lords of the First Men. Not all of them survived the first few decades of Andal rule. It was not a peaceful time, not by any measure. The lands once ruled by these First Men shrunk, chipped away and given to the victors. Their coffers were emptied, their sons and daughters taken hostage by the Andal lords."
"But it did not end there, for the Andals of that bygone age had no tolerance for any faith but their own. In a display meant to show the dominance of the Seven over any other they ordered the surviving First Men lords to cut down the godswoods in their castles. Naturally, such a thing was not done easily. There were several rebellious lords who did not heed the command of their liege lords and they suffered for it. The First Men were spent, their armies were defeated, and though they might've thought their cause a righteous one, it availed them little on the battlefield. Of the innumerable highborn bloodlines of First Men that once populated the Vale, only eight survived."
I recited their names. "The Redforts, the Royces, the Shetts, the Hunters, the Upcliffs, the Moores, the Coldwaters and —"
"— the Belmores," finished Maester Erryk for me. "They survived because they obeyed the command and the weirwoods and heart trees were removed from their keeps. Their conversion to the Seven did not happen overnight. It took many years before one of the First Men abandoned their gods and converted to the Seven. And over time, they intermarried with the Andals, their bloodlines mingling with each other's, leaving us with the Vale as we know of it today."
All that gave me much to ponder, but that would be done later. I still had more questions.
"Maester Erryk, did the Belmores always display six silvers bells on a purple field on their banners or was it a change with their conversion?"
"The latter, my lord. Though it had not occurred when they converted, but rather after a battle in these lands."
"What is the significance of the six bells on a purple field? What was the name of the battle?"
"Six bells for the six times the septry bells rang when reinforcements, sent by an Arryn king, arrived to a besieged Strongsong's aid. Purple for the color of the sky, at sunset. The battle has no name, but Belmores are reminded of it whenever they utter their family's words: Ever the bell tolls."
My curiosity satisfied (for the time being) I thanked Maester Erryk and left him to his books.
When we had finally left Belmore lands, our company had increased by a dozen men and boys. Whilst there was no tourney in Strongsong, all knew that one would eventually be made, whether in the lands of Grafton, Royce, Redfort or Waynwood, and so they asked, and received, permission from Lord Arryn to join us. Ser Artys was among those, along with his son and one of his nephews.
"You must be relieved, no?" I asked Robert in our tent, a few days after we'd departed from Lord Gyles' halls.
"Relieved about what?" he asked back, confused by my question.
"That we've left the Belmore girls behind us? Just them though, not your chastity I hope. Not unless you've something to confide?"
For my taunting I received a pillow straight to the face, followed by one of his boots aimed at the head, which I ducked.
Of course, that meant war.
When morn came and Jon Arryn saw the state of our tent, he was not amused.
But at least the servants were grateful for the help we provided around the camp.
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