For Lack of Honor (ASOIAF SI)
- Thread starter Odran
- Start date
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
No, maces is what Ned will be sticking to, for the most part.
Doesn't mean he'll be completely inept at everything else, just that out of all things this is the preferred weapon of choice.
A Nation's Virtue
南國山河南帝居
You've never talked to Bizuneh for prolonged periods of time, have you?
Either way, looking forward to this @Bizuneh.
Interesting. A honorless Eddard Stark SI? I can only imagine what the Vale will be like for him. :lol
Has he tried his hand at archery?
Has he tried his hand at archery?
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
He has, as much as any other son of a high lord does in their upbringing. It was poor at first, but he improved to average.
Corvus Black
The Inestimable
- Location
- England
Asshole Ned Stark? Moar please.
Fluffy
Destroyer of.......most worlds
- Location
- High Earth Orbit
hmmm this is interesting so far.
also i envision an older SI Ned wielding this bad boy
- Location
- United Kingdom
You'll be happy to know that Odran (Bizuneh) has the same idea.hmmm this is interesting so far.
also i envision an older SI Ned wielding this bad boy
Dorben
Mediocre RS Player
Is that...Sauron's mace?hmmm this is interesting so far.
also i envision an older SI Ned wielding this bad boy
Now all we need is the ability to create shockwaves with every strike.
Edit: It's time to start lifting, boys.
Hachichiyyin
Team Tron
- Location
- Earth
Welp. First work, Odran? If it is, it's quite good.
Decent technical writing, and I actually like the SI. Most likely because he reminds me somewhat of myself
I wonder how you'll characterize Robert Baratheon as a child though. Could make it or break it, I guess.
Watched.
You have no idea how much I like the fact that you're not doing any of the aforementioned things.
Decent technical writing, and I actually like the SI. Most likely because he reminds me somewhat of myself
I wonder how you'll characterize Robert Baratheon as a child though. Could make it or break it, I guess.
Watched.
You have no idea how much I like the fact that you're not doing any of the aforementioned things.
Fluffy
Destroyer of.......most worlds
- Location
- High Earth Orbit
yes
after he gets that all he will need is some black foreboding armor and a shiny gold ring and the image will be perfect.
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
Nah, not the first piece I've ever written. Trust me on this, you don't really want to see the first pieces of fiction I ever wrote.
Should I have it forged on Dragonstone then? Or head out for Valyria?
And let's not forget, the Vale, with all those mountains surrounding the land, awfully resembles another place, no?
Fluffy
Destroyer of.......most worlds
- Location
- High Earth Orbit
oooh good idea.
then he could corrupt the valemen into orcs.
Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
I feel like I ought to point out that this is all spoken in jest by me, just in case anyone thinks we're being serious here.
That said, I'd not want to corrupt/mutilate the men of the Vale into Orcs.
Ironborn and Dornish would serve that purpose quite well. Not like anyone would genuinely notice the difference.
Fluffy
Destroyer of.......most worlds
- Location
- High Earth Orbit
oh i know it is in jest.
i do however hope he will get that mace though.
and maybe a shiny precious ring
Tomio
Designated croisant
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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Hachichiyyin
Team Tron
- Location
- Earth
Gates of the Moon
frame
Lacks a bit of subtlety, tbh. The entire sentence feels heavy-handed.
And the POV change reads a bit sudden, at first, too.
What do you think
Barrowton
Bottle fits better than 'sack'.
------
I like this. Robert feels like Robert, too, which is always a plus. A bit description-heavy at times, but it is ASOIAF, so not really a bad thing.
The break from canon is seamless, but now comes the hard part: character development.
Will you skip the early teenage years, or write Robert and Eddard's budding friendship in depth?
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Ah, this is why I read your stuff.
Robert Baratheon refusing a drink? Even as a child?
Suspension of disbelief broken. /jk
I do wonder though if your SI's focus on First Men comes from his education in the North, your own personal interest or the ritual Lyarra performed changed his personality a little.
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Odran
Curmudgeon
- Location
- The land of Nod
Yeah, I agree with you on that. I just did it to get it out of the way, without having to write more on it.
Probably gonna happen from time to time when I'm not really in the mood for writing extra paragraphs on something.
Barrowtown works too, from what I recall on the wiki, but I'll change to this anyway, it's not like there's a lack of places in Westeros with the -town suffix.
Not so easily hidden underneath clothes though.
I feel like I'm doing enough of a slow-burn as is on their years, and while there'll be mentions of what the two of them are up to, chances are I will resort more to tell than show here, lest the fic gets bloated out of proportion.
Like this chapter isn't bloated enough already. Original draft for it was at 11k words, the extra 5k just popped in out of nowhere.
Apparently this was a joke and my sluggish brain didn't register it properly at the time.
Now that would be telling.
So I'll tell.
It's personal bias coming through, as this is a self-insert fic, and in truth I prefer the simplicity (hah) of the North and the First Men in comparison to the Andals or the Ironborn or Dornish. Really, the latter two barely count as part of Westeros, and bring little of worth.
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- Location
- Eh
Really liking this so far. I am looking forward to all the changes in this world.
It seems that the possession of Ned's body comes at a somewhat terrible price. My guess would be that the Old God's ritual has to be preformed to keep new Ned alive. Could have some interesting repercussions if it was found out.
Can't wait for friday, cheers.
It seems that the possession of Ned's body comes at a somewhat terrible price. My guess would be that the Old God's ritual has to be preformed to keep new Ned alive. Could have some interesting repercussions if it was found out.
Can't wait for friday, cheers.