With a weary sigh, Ned Stark rose from his bed and stared out the window as the sun slowly rose to its throne in the sky. He had tossed and turned throughout the night, hearing Cat's heartbreaking sobs.
This could not go on.
Ned wrote a quick letter to the Lord of the Dreadfort and had a sleepy Maester Luwin send it at once. He hoped a quick reply would soothe Catelyn's fears. Ned's own heart tightened as he headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Usually the smell of a hearty breakfast warmed him up; today it made him feel ill. What if Sansa is not used to food at the Dreadfort? He thought worriedly. Sansa was not a particularly fussy eater but she did have a rather delicate stomach. That day with the deer and the stew…he shuddered. He'd told Roose about it – hopefully Roose wouldn't order his cooks to serve venison stew to Sansa.
He pushed the oak and iron doors open and walked to the raised platform. Not many people were awake yet. Only Jon was there, poking at his breakfast of eggs and bacon. Ned sat down beside him and glanced at the eight long rows of empty trestle tables. Most of the Winterfell household must still be asleep.
"Jon." Ned nodded at his bastard son. "You are up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Oh? What is on your mind?"
"Nothing much I suppose." Jon chewed on a piece of bacon. "Winterfell is more quiet without Sansa."
Sansa hardly spoke to you when she was here. "Aye," Ned agreed, grabbing a slice of bread and scooping up a good portion of scrambled eggs. "It's been only a few days though. Surely by next week all will hopefully…" His voice trailed off. He would never cease worrying about Sansa. Neither would Catelyn nor anyone else in Winterfell. Perhaps it was a mistake sending Sansa to the Dreadfort at such the tender age of eleven.
You were fostered at the Eyrie at the age of eight, a voice in Ned's head pointed out. Not many girls were sent away to be fostered. It was usually the young boys lords sent for fostering, not their daughters.
He smiled as he remembered a pleasant thought from his childhood. "What is it Father?" said Jon, noticing it at once. Ned chuckled quietly. "A thought," he said, still smiling. "Before I left to be a ward of Lord Arryn's, my brother Brandon was about to leave for Barrowton. My father had arranged for him to be Lord Dustin's ward even though Brandon spent most of his time riding in the Rills. During one of Brandon's visits home, he told us of the fields he rode on and the streams he rode passed with such vivid description that our sister Lyanna demanded to be a ward of Lord Dustin too. Of course it is Lord Ryswell who ruled the Rills, but the Ryswells and Dustins have always been close allies in the past.
"When Father said one Stark at Barrowton, Lyanna waited until Brandon left for Barrowton and followed him on her little pony. Back then, Lyanna was only a girl of what…four or five, yet she could ride as well as any man thrice her age. At the time, my father was busy with final preparations for my fostering at the Vale and was unaware of Lyanna's little escape. Lyanna successfully trailed Brandon up to Torrhen's Square before Brandon discovered her stealing an apple from his supplies. He informed Father by raven and asked Lord Cerwyn to escort Lyanna home. It was astonishing how Lyanna followed Brandon and his guards for over two days without them noticing."
Jon laughed a little. "She sounded determined," he remarked.
"Aye. She was." Ned gazed at his dark haired son with grey eyes so dark that it bordered on black. He abruptly stood up.
"Father?" said Jon Snow, startled.
Mumbling an apology, Ned left the Great Hall in a hurry. He hated himself for this. How could he apologise and explain everything to Jon when he'd reminded him of everyone he had lost? Of Brandon, Lyanna, his father Lord Rickard Stark and everyone who had died in Robert's war. Ned sighed. When was there ever a day he did not need to worry?
He paused as he found himself in the courtyard. Just yesterday afternoon Ned watched the master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel shout at Robb, Jon and Theon in a sparring session. He even caught sight of Arya stealing Jon's wooden sword after he discarded it for his bow. Ned was relieved Arya wasn't interested in archery – as of yet. Defending her desire to learn swordplay was one thing; to be an expert archer was another matter.
Catelyn might accept the reason for Arya learning swordplay as a sort of self-defence purpose, but archery? She would not be pleased. Ned almost laughed at the thought of Catelyn's reaction to the idea of Arya as a ward of the Mormonts in Bear Island. Catelyn would not like it at all. Arya would love an opportunity to be trained like the women of House Mormont…
"Ned?"
Ned turned around. A sleepy Catelyn stood behind him, her abundant auburn hair trapped under the grey furred trim of her cloak. Her bright blue eyes looked at him inquisitively. "You were not in bed," she explained, stepping closer to him. She reached out and squeezed his hand. "I thought you would go for a walk. That was what you did when you were agitated or uncertain when we first married in the sept at Riverrun. I would wake in the early morning, alone in bed. You would have already risen from our bed hours earlier and would be pacing around with Ice strapped to your back.
"Being the curious girl I was, I would wonder what was on your mind. At times I even hoped you would speak to me about them. I was a fool was I not? We met once before, but I viewed you a stranger as you did to me. You would walk alone for hours before speaking to my father, Robert Baratheon or Lord Arryn."
Ned nodded. "You should sleep more, Cat."
"How can I sleep when all I think about is Sansa all alone in the Dreadfort? It was wrong of Jeyne Poole to shirk away from joining her. If Arya isn't so…wild, I would've asked Septa Mordane to accompany Sansa."
"Lord Bolton will be a fool to harm Sansa."
"I don't care if Lord Roose Bolton is a steadfast bannerman or not Ned. Do you know what people call him behind his back? The Leech Lord. How can I possibly sleep well here whilst knowing Sansa is living under his roof?" Catelyn gripped his hand tighter. "Ned, I want my daughter back. Please."
Ned sighed. "A pact is a pact, Catelyn. I cannot go back on my word. Sansa will be Lord Bolton's ward until she is of marriageable age-"
"A horrible pact," Catelyn cut in as sharply as a knife slicing through a block of freshly churned yellow butter. "Who gives away their daughter at a young age of eleven? Do you intend to only see her on her wedding day and never again after that? Sansa may not get along well with Arya, but what of her other siblings? She will never know them! She will be like…like…" Ned frowned slightly. Like Jon? He wanted to ask testily. Not today, he silently told himself. Catelyn was grieving for the departure of their daughter; the tiniest mention of Jon would anger her. Ned gently led her towards the Great Keep.
"Go and rest," he murmured. "You have other children who need their mother, Rickon for one. Robb will need you too."
Catelyn managed the tiniest of smiles. "Our children are growing up, but I will always think of them as our children. Imagine the day Robb presents us with his first child – our first grandchild. It will not be long now."
Ned nodded in agreement. "Go and rest," he said again. "You are tired. I'll have a servant bring you your breakfast on a tray. Stay in your chambers, Cat. You will need your strength back."
"I am not ill," Catelyn protested feebly.
"You are sick with worry about Sansa. Would you like to hear Maester Luwin's opinion? I'm certain he will agree with me and implore you to rest in your room for at least two days. By then, you will be told at least a dozen of Arya's schemes in avoiding sewing or whatever it is she despises."
"She despises everything Sansa loves. Dancing, singing, sewing…" She sighed a little and glanced longingly at her flat stomach. "I am not too old to bear another child," she said, her tone hopeful. "If I do carry your child, I wish for another girl, Ned. I want another daughter."
"We still have Arya. Do you not think five children are enough, Cat? Your lady mother died in childbirth and your sister suffered many miscarriages before she gave her husband a son. It seems the will of the gods that those of Whent blood will suffer in childbearing. Chances of you surviving childbed are slimmer every year. I…I don't want to lose you too."
"I have survived five times, Ned. Once more will not hurt. Do you not want one more daughter? We can name her Lyanna, after your sister."
That was the last thing Ned wanted. Every letter his friend and foster brother King Robert sent (fewer now), mentioned her name. Seven Hells Ned, he recalled from the latest letter. If I had Lyanna at my side instead of my Lannister wife, I'd no longer have to rely on wine to remain sane. Clearly Robert's marriage to Lady Cersei Lannister was unhappy from the start. From what Ned retained, Cersei of House Lannister was a beautiful woman. Slightly cold, but beautiful. Robert loved beautiful woman – surely he would have learnt to love his wife? Ned realised in a few days after Robert and Cersei's wedding that with Robert's obsession over the deceased Lyanna and Cersei's icy nature, their marriage was doomed. However, Cersei did give Robert three children: Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. Ned hadn't met them but always imagined the boys to look like Robert.
"We will see Sansa again," said Ned, hoping to change Catelyn's mind of having another child. "Give it a few months Cat, and then maybe we can invite both our daughter and Domeric Bolton to Winterfell for a few days. I am quite interested in meeting our future good-son."
"I am too," Catelyn said with a worried look. "I hope Domeric Bolton is nothing like his ancestors. What if he harms Sansa?"
"Do not fear," Ned soothed her. "Domeric sounds like a decent young man – he was fostered at the Redfort in the Vale no less. Give him a chance, Cat. He might be the perfect husband for our daughter."
Waiting for him on his desk were a stack of new letters. Ned sighed heavily to himself and sat down. No doubt the majority of them were betrothal proposals – a couple of which most likely from Walder Frey of the Crossing, an old, bald and frankly unpleasant River lord. How many times must I decline his offer? Catelyn informed him once that when she and her siblings Lysa and Edmure were born, Walder Frey sent offers of marriage between them and his numerous offspring. It was said that he told Lord Hoster Tully that when Edmure was old enough to be wed, he could pick any Frey girl to his fancy and her dowry would be her weight in silver. It was generous, but Lord Tully declined.
The solar door opened and Maester Luwin, quietly shuffled in, the clinking of his chain interrupting the moment of silence that had settled in Ned's solar. "My lord," Maester Luwin greeted him. "You called for me?"
Winterfell's maester followed a sort of schedule he created for himself when he arrived at Winterfell many years ago. When Ned questioned him about it, he'd replied, "A habit I brought from the Citadel Lord Stark." Every morning Maester Luwin would appear in the solar whether Ned summoned him or not; after about an hour or a little more, he would go to the schoolroom and teach Arya and Bran their letters and numbers; soon Robb, Jon and Theon would arrive and he would educate them on a range of subjects in the early afternoon ranging from history of Westeros, history of the noble houses, geography and basic politics. If that was not enough, the tireless maester would return to his tower to collect or send any letters and reappear in the solar for another hour or two of discussion. Only the old gods knew what time Luwin rose in the morning and retired at night. Ned felt more than grateful for the Citadel to send such a helpful and reliable maester – a more suitable maester than his predecessor by far.
"Maester Luwin." Ned gestured for him to sit down. "Have you eaten?"
"I have," Maester Luwin replied. He reached into one of his many pockets and drew out a folded letter sealed with the Bolton seal. "An early raven my lord – it's from Lord Bolton."
"Thank you Maester Luwin." Ned took it and opened it at once.
Lord Stark,
Your daughter will return to you a true Northern girl. I will see that no harm will come upon her as long as she remains my ward.
Roose Bolton,
Lord of the Dreadfort.
Unsurprisingly it was short and to the point. It was still slightly comforting to hear though. For a faint second, he wondered if Roose knew how to raise a child, let alone a girl. From what he heard, Domeric was as much a stranger in his own home as Sansa was in the Dreadfort.
"Is that another letter from Lord Frey?" The maester nodded at the top letter sealed with the familiar blue bridge of House Frey.
"That man does not know a refusal when he is given one," Ned complained. "I do not remember how many refusal letters I sent to him."
"Quite a good many my lord."
"Was it a wise decision to keep my sons here, Maester? I was fostered, my lord father was fostered, his father before him was fostered too. Young boys are also fostered in the south too. Was I too cowardly to keep my sons here?" Catelyn did not want their sons fostered either. He already hurt her greatly by having Jon at Winterfell; he did not wish to upset her further. He was curious about what Lord Tully thought of fostering. He had a boy fostered at Riverrun, but he had kept his only son at Riverrun.
"Not all Northern lords were fostered," said Maester Luwin calmly. "You have your reasons for keeping your sons at Winterfell."
"The king always wanted Robb or Bran raised at King's Landing along with his sons – a closer alliance and all – and perhaps I should have agreed."
"It is not too late my lord."
"Hmm. Catelyn will not be impressed if I begin considering marriage alliances without her, but as you know, she isn't ah, well at the moment. With Sansa set to marry Domeric, I must turn my attention to Robb."
"Of course. Lady Sansa's betrothal to Domeric solidifies the North – maybe my lord, you will consider a southron match for Robb?"
Ned instinctively frowned. "A southron match?" His siblings were betrothed to Catelyn and Robert – neither of those matches fell through. Perhaps the old gods deemed it fit for Starks to wed within the north of Westeros.
"Summer will not last forever," Maester Luwin pointed out. "When it ends and winter comes, it will be a long winter my lord. The North will be ready with furs and firewood, but what of stores? The southron regions flourish in the fields but not much with furs. A southron match would benefit the North significantly Lord Stark, especially a match with the Reach."
"The Reach?" The Siege at Storm's End immediately flooded his mind. "You are suggesting I offer Arya to a Tyrell? She is much younger than all of Lord Tyrell's sons and I doubt she will settle to a demure, ladylike life in Highgarden."
"My lord, I believe Lord Tyrell has a daughter."
Ned bit his lip. "Do you think it is wise, Maester? Having an alliance with the Reach for food supplies is one thing, but the southroners hardly lived through a harsh winter! Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island married the girl's aunt, Lynesse Hightower, and look how that turned out! Besides, what will my lord bannermen think? They will take offence that Robb weds a lady of the Reach rather than one of their own daughters." He did not even need to imagine Lord Greatjon Umber's furious expression or Lord Rickard Karstark's. Both had daughters about Robb's age and many Starks had married Umbers and Karstarks in the past. Lord Tyrell would certainly not accept a second son for his only daughter and Lord Karstark would not be pleased at all if his daughter was rebuffed for the Tyrell girl.
"Lord Karstark has three sons," noted Maester Luwin.
"Three sons…" Arya hated the thought of marriage, but what other choice was there? From what Ned recalled, Lord Karstark's youngest son was the closest in age to Arya. If Arya and Lord Karstark's son Eddard were to wed, it would most certainly please the Northerners. Starks and Karstarks have married for decades – though not recently. Ned inwardly groaned as he suddenly remembered the fat Lord of White Harbour. He would want a Stark good-son…and relations between House Stark and Houses Dustin and Ryswell had not improved since the end of Robert's war when Ned rode to Barrowton. He could not help but wonder if all the betrothal dilemmas would end if Jon was one of his trueborn children. One of the betrothal problems would be solved if he married Alys Karstark or one of the Manderly girls. A thought crossed his mind.
"Theon is old enough to marry." Maester Luwin did not look surprised that he suddenly mentioned his Greyjoy ward. "As his guardian, it is my duty to secure a bride for him," Ned continued. "I had considered Alys Karstark, but in truth she is betrothed to Daryn Hornwood and the only other young man her father Rickard would accept as good-son is Robb. One day I would be obliged to return Theon to the Iron Islands, and when that day comes, I want the North and the Iron Islands to remain on good terms with a guarantee that the Ironborn would not retaliate and raid our shores. The Iron Islands is a cold, damp place and the Ironborn will not treat kindly to their future Northern Lady of Pyke."
" The Mormonts will not fear the Iron Islands."
"Indeed, Maester, but not all the Ironborn will be pleased." He doubted any of the Ironborn would be pleased with a Northern Lady of Pyke, Mormont or no. "It was said that one of my ancestors, Rodrik Stark, won Bear Island from a King of the Iron Islands in a wrestling match. However, I will still broach the matter of a betrothal between Theon and one of the Mormont girls to Lady Maege Mormont. I will write the letter in the afternoon."
"Very good my lord. Shall I procure Lady Stark a cup of dreamwine to help her sleep? I understand the ah, departure of Lady Sansa can be quite distressing for a good mother like Lady Stark." Ned nodded in agreement. He hoped his wife was already settled back in bed, but if not…perhaps dreamwine would be good. Even though Sansa left for the Dreadfort less than a few days ago, Catelyn had not had a good night's rest in weeks. "Give her a cup," Ned muttered. "Only today though. If she hasn't fallen asleep."
"Very well Lord Stark." Maester Luwin rose. "Will that be all?"
"Yes." Ned needed to have a long conversation with Arya. Lord Karstark would agree to the match within an instant. Convincing Arya… that would take at least a few hours, if not more. Where was she anyway? He doubted she was sitting with the other girls, attending her needlework. Without Sansa threatening to tell their mother about Arya avoiding sewing sessions, keeping an eye out on Arya would be harder than ever. He worried for Cat. She always wanted her daughters to be perfect ladies – it was not her fault that Arya was more Stark and was more wolf-blooded like Brandon and Lyanna.
By chance, Ned glanced out the window to the courtyard. As he guessed, Arya was there, lingering near the practice dummies, a small wooden sword in hand. However, something was different. Ned squinted. Arya was not sparring or even stabbing the practice dummies. She looked…sad.
Honestly, I didn't really enjoy writing this chapter. Personally I prefer writing AUs and totally messing relationships and marriages around like I did in The Dance of Spring, but I hate leaving a story unfinished so I'll continue with this one - I'll spend more time on The Dance of Spring of course :)
