Here's chapter three.
Gotta say, this story is getting a lot more attention than I thought it would. Huge thanks to you guys!
Now, on with the story!
298 AC
The crisp shill of the clear dawn sent a shiver down Arthur's spine. He rode next to Ned, a slow trot down the thin and worn road hidden in light dusting of last night's snow. They headed a column of twenty men of House Stark, each bearing iron armor and furs along with their shield and swords, riding in two files. Arthur felt that they were of little need, a mere show to any one who happened to catch them so early in the morning as they passed by a small, nearly empty farmstead. But it mattered little.
"I bet he's a wildling." Robb muttered aloud. "A sworn sword to Mance Rayder." Arthur rolled his eyes as he heard little Bran gasp.
Robb, Bran and the twins rode behind himself and lord Stark, yet ahead of the Winterfell men-at-arms and Theon Greyjoy, who mingled amidst the guards with his usual cocky smirk. Looking over his shoulder to spy the heir to the North behind him, Arthur smiled. A boy of four and ten, Robb was leaning down to whisper bed time horrors of savage wildlings and Others into his younger brothers ear. Bran, for his part, was doing his best to not look like he believed the stories, and doing a horrible job of it, as he rode his little pony beside his brother.
"If he were a wildling, then he would have met his end at the sword of the first man who found him, and not be sentenced to something like the King's Justice." Jon interrupted Robb, who looked back to give him a cheeky smile. Jon gave his own small smile in return as Bran let out a long breath.
Jon side by side with Torrhen, with the twins clad in their riding leathers, though distinctly lacking the Stark coat of arms, and live steel at their hips; as befitting his squires. Behind them rode Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy, however Theon was hanging back and talking in hushed voices with the two men-at-arms, though if the ward's lecherous expressions and over exaggerated faces were anything to go by, the heir of the Iron islands was regaling the men with one of his many escapades to the brothel of Winter town, or perhaps this story was of the miller's wife along the Acorn Water.
"We're here." Intoned lord Stark, his voice bare of emotion as it always was when he was to fulfill his duty and doll out the King's Justice. Looking back ahead, Arthur set his mouth in a grim line. In front of them, coated with a few inches of snow, was the small gathering of buildings in a gathering of farmsteads gathered around the stump of what must have been a huge Ironwood tree, a woman standing in the doorway of a small home, small babe in her arms and a toddler hiding behind her skirts as she watched the coming men wearily.
Arthur offered her his most charming smile and respectful nod, though given the smiling wrinkles about his eyes he had grown in his forty and eight namedays, he didn't think his smile to be what it once was. His mousy brown hair had begun to grey along his temples, and he now wore a sharp, well groomed beard along his jaw. The thorough grooming of his beard had earned him some jest by the guards at Winterfell, having it kept angled, trimmed, brushed and sharper than an arrow head, but Arthur refused to stop. If he was to have a beard to warm his face in the cold winds of the North, then he'd look bloody well dignified with it.
Judging by the small blush to appear to the woman's cheeks as she bowed her head and muttered her 'Mi'lord' before ducking back inside with the children, Arthur felt a small swell of pride. He still had it, even at his age.
The men slowly made their way into the center of the farmstead's square to find the man bound at his hands and feet, tied to the wall of the holdfast and gagged with a leather strip. He wore not the patchwork furs of a wildling raider, but greasy and ragged black furs of the Night's Watch. A scrawny and thin old man no taller than Robb. Seeing as he was not a wildling, Jon looked to Robb to give him a smug smile, one that earned a roll of the eyes.
Spreading out as they dismounted, the guards took up a circle around the tree stump with the crunch of snow underfoot, Wayn and Porther marching up to the deserter and unbinding him and removing the gag, Alyn and Heward standing tall and proud to the side of the farmstead square with the banners for House Stark fluttering in the gentle breeze.
"You're a deserter from the Night's Watch, yes?" Eddard spoke as he and Arthur stepped towards the man. Behind them, Jon whispered to Bran and the small boy of seven tried to stand up straighter, trying to look older no doubt, but none present thought it changed anything, none of them simply had the heart to tell him. Theon took Ice from Eddard's saddle, holding it with an almost reverent touch.
The former ranger mumbled something under his breath, his lips quivering as he did, and the odd word Arthur could make out was either 'Cold' or 'White'. Looking to his sworn sword, Eddard asked without words, but all Arthur could do was offer the same confusion that Eddard felt. Neither could make sense of what was babbled. Stepping in closer, Arthur found a grisly sight of the man.
Bags hung low and dark under his eyes, he hadn't slept peacefully in a while, and his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes gave him the look of a corpse walking. The white of his skull showed through blackened skin and dried red flesh were sure signs of frostbite having taken both his ears. A nasty hazard from taking the black, the cold was, but a hazard many suffered through nonetheless.
"You deserted the Night's Watch, did you not?" Eddard tried again, though this time the rangers words were clear for all.
"Others! The white took them!" He cried, head whipping up as eyes wild and frantic as they searched every face he could find from his held position. "Cold ones take us all! The cold comes and with it comes the blades of ice!" He howled, voice cracking until he broke out into a near sob. "Take us all... Burn them all. Burn them and never see the blue eyes and milk skin! Burn them all!"
Arthur sighed, his breath a small cloud of mist in the cold air as he looked to Eddard, an understanding passing between them; This man was insane, and no sense would be made from his words. Yet he spoke words that sent a chill through both of them. The last time either lord had heard the phrase 'Burn them all' had been in annals of history, in the Mad King's inane ravings.
Grim in eyes and somber in voice, Eddard had Porther and Wayn drag the deranged and mumbling deserter to the black wood of the stump, clearing the snow before forcing him to kneel and shoving his head downwards to expose his neck. Theon quickly stepped forward and presented a sheathed Ice to Eddard, hilt first. Jory then stood at his lords side as Ned removed his riding gloves and handed them to guard captain before reaching for Ice's hit. With a firm grasp, he pulled, and the clean, smooth dark steel was bared to the chilled air with a rasping sound that had Arthur's fingers twitch to reach for Dawn.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the awe of Bran's face at the sight of the Stark's ancestral blade, and a small smile tugged at his lips. Ice was indeed impressive; As wide as Eddard's hand and as tall as Torrhen, the tallest of the Stark brood, the greatsword was a sight to behold, white leather bindings and the overly simply cross guard doing nothing to hide its beauty.
Ned held Ice's hilt close to his chest, the smoke colored tip of the blade sinking ever so slightly into the root of the black ironwood stump. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."
Eddard held the sword high over his head, the edge gleaming in the sunlight, and Jon whispered words in Bran's ear. The blade fell and so with it did the deserters head. Arthur sighed a shallow sigh as he watched the head roll and blood stain the snow, the wine red color spreading quickly. The deserter's head came to a stop near Theon's foot and the Greyjoy made to kick it with a chuckle, but a firm grip on his shoulder had him turn to see Arthur with narrowed eyes. Thinking better of it, Theon stepped away from head.
Looking to Ned, Arthur found him brooding once more, staring with a distant look in his eyes as the red crept through the snow and deeper still into the ground. He never liked death, especially after the rebellion, but less so after every swing of his sword. Arthur stepped beside his friend, shoulder to shoulder, and watched as his lord lifted his head to see his youngest son.
Catelyn had screeched over how she thought her 'Baby boy' was too young for such things, something that had given Arthur a great throbbing in his skull, but she may as well have petitioned for The Wall to stop standing, for Eddard gave no ground. Looking over at Bran now and the stunned, hollow look in his eyes, it was easily known that he hadn't looked away. There was a certain withering of innocence that came along with witnessing your first man die, and while it was never a happy ordeal, Arthur was glad that Bran's was such a tame experience, as opposed to seeing it in the confusion and chaos of a battle.
Eddard wiped Ice clean on the deserters body before sheathing it, no doubt the blade would receive some proper attention once they were back in Winterfell, and had Quent and Desmond ride out with the body and head to dig a shallow grave on the edge of the farmstead's land as the rest of them mounted up before making their way out of the farmstead.
"The deserter died bravely." Robb said into the silence. "He had courage, at the least."
"He died a crazed oathbreaker." Torrhen sighed lazily, his voice as hoarse from disuse as ever, and Robb bristled. Arthur frowned as he looked back at the boys.
"He did not beg for his life." The heir of Winterfell said, each word said as though he was stabbing angrily at a meal he was displeased with. "He died well." Torrhen merely let out a long breath. He was always short of words, though it looked that he simply deemed this not worth the effort. Robb, meanwhile, looked satisfied with his brothers silence, taking it as acceptance.
Robb had grown strong and broad shouldered, much like his father, and was his fair of skin, but he still had those bright blue Tully eyes and rust colored curls. He wore dark brown riding leathers with the Stark Direwolf emblazoned over his heart and across the back of his shoulders, a longsword sheathed in a plain black scabbard rested at his hip; Arthur had made sure he damn well knew how to use it.
Turning about in his saddle, Robb grinned at Jon. "Race you to the bridge." He challenged.
"Done." Jon quitely accepted and dug his heels into his steeds flanks, taking off at a near sprint. Robb cursed as he soon found himself being left behind, and followed suit. Soon, the two were kicking up dirty snow off the road as they tore down the trail and into the woods, the thundering of horses racing echoing until they grew too far to hear. Looking back, Arthur spied Torrhen on his own now.
"Not going to join them, Tor?" He asked curiously. Torrhen merely shook his head once, still staring off into the distant horizon, as though he had found something of great interest. Seeing the far off look in his normally sharp and keen eyes and the way that his fingers brushed along his jaw, Arthur knew he was deep in thought, though he so often found Torrhen like this that Arthur found himself wondering what he was thinking about. A sly smirk wormed its way across his face. "Thinking of Alys?" He teased.
Immediately, Tor's thoughtful look turned to a scowl, and he fingered the braids in his hair lightly. Just yesteryear, the Karstarks had visited again, with lord Rickard bringing his heir, Harrion, and his young daughter, Alys. It seemed that Alys had been the catalyst for most of the Karstark's visits to Winterfell, as she had been coming to Northern seat of power as often as she could since the Greyjoy Rebellion.
But instead of doing what the lady Catelyn had expected of a lady and sitting around doing her needlework with Sansa, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, Alys ran off with Robb and the twins. Though this year just gone, she had seemed fascinated by the hair of the twins. Jon had kept his at shoulder length, where Torrhen's had been kept at a length where it ended between his shoulder blades, and she had grown fond of playing with their rich black locks.
This, of course, resulted in several of the house guards and Theon teasing the twins, but they never seemed to pay them any mind, and by the end of the Karstarks stay, Alys had braided their hair from their temples and tied them together at the back of their heads in small, tidy knots. When Arthur had first asked about their hair, they had simply said that it kept their hair out of their eyes. The braids had stayed ever since.
Arthur smiled at the light pink on Tor's cheeks. He wasn't sure just what was going on between the twins and Alys, but he was confident that neither would take it so far as to dishonor her. They had Eddard filling their heads with far too much northern honor for that to ever happen. Yet still, Arthur found himself happy for his nephews, but worried also.
Either they had grown extremely close with Alys or one, perhaps even both, had fallen for the girl. It mattered not that they wouldn't be able to act on that love while the title of bastard hung over their heads; in Arthur's eyes, the struggle was all part of becoming men. But still, if they both felt such for the girl, it would only brig conflict between them, and that was not something that he would want to see.
Nevertheless, Arthur was proud of the men Jon and Torrhen had grown to be. He was proud of Robb too, having had a hand in raising the heir to Winterfell as well, if he were to be honest to himself. Eddard, maester Luwin and himself being the major influences of the growth of the Terrible three, Arthur had trained Robb and the twins harder and longer in the way of the sword than he had been taught himself, oft drilling them from first light till the last rays of the sun had dipped over the horizon. They'd spend a day with him, then a day with Luwin and Eddard, applying similar training to their minds with equal fervor.
Of course, Catelyn had protested, and rather loudly, about the twins taking part in the same lessons as Robb. In her mind Robb ought to be taught more than them, in both sword and mind, but Arthur and Eddard were having none of it, and in the end they both thought it had born better fruits; Robb had competition in his learning. The three brothers pushing one another to be better than each other better than any of their teachers could. Unfortunately, Arthur had begun to fear for the twins as they grew older.
Jon had taken after his Stark blood more than his Targaryen. If anything Arthur could only see traces of his father in the boy. His jaw, nose, mouth and love of the arts; He was a prodigy with the lute as much as he was with the sword. His body was also like that of a true Stark, stocky and strong with a broad chest and shoulders.
To Arthur, it was easy to see the hatred that Eddard's lady wife held against the boy for this. Arthur had heard the whispers of Winterfell of how Jon looked more Stark than any of Eddard's trueborn children, and knew that each and every word drove Catelyn further into a frenzy over the boy. The knight would have found it amusing if not for the wrath it brought upon Jon when Eddard wasn't looking.
Torrhen, on the other hand, only seemed to have his mothers hair; His face was a spitting image of Rhaegar, and his mind was all Targaryen as well, and that terrified Arthur. He was taller than any of the Stark brood by a half head and more driven when he put his mind to it, to the point where all else mattered little and one needed to shake his attention from whatever he had invested himself in.
The only thing he could not place from his father on the boy, and nor his mother for that matter, was his penchant for silence. He perhaps took after his uncle in that regard, but even the Quite Wolf was not so quite as Torrhen. He rarely spoke more than a few sentences a day, and fewer still were not pleasantries to those of higher standing than himself. The disuse left his voice rough and gravely when he used it, almost the voice of an older, grizzled man.
Chasing the thoughts from his head with a simple shake, Arthur caught the words Eddard spoke to young Bran; words of bravery and fear, words of the justice of the First Men and the Starks. The southern knight found the ways of the northern lords to be admirable, and even more agreeable than the laws of the south. He'd like to see monarchs do their own dirty work for once, just to see if half of them actual had the stomach to take a life. Though, with Robert on the throne, he might enjoy it. With that dark thought, he voiced his own thoughts on the northern justice.
"Not only that." He began, feeling both Eddard's and Bran's eyes on his back as he spoke. "But it inspires the loyalty of your people. To know that their lord would go so far as to dirty his hands to uphold the peace of the people and see justice served fairly is a privilege many of the southern smallfolk have not shared in. Their lords have a headsman do their work and watch death with an unhealthy detachment from the consequences."
"Ser Arthur speaks truly." Eddard smiled approvingly. "Our brand of justice would be something that many southerners would shy away from faster than a shadow does the sun." Bran, for his part, looked to be letting the words sink in. It was then that Jon appeared on the crest of the hill before them, framed by tall and thin dark wood trees.
"Father, Uncle, Tor! Come quickly, see what Robb has found!" His voice carried through the woods, his horse rearing back and vanishing back beyond sight. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the spot Jon had stood. Had it been wildlings or bandits then Robb would have been with him and they would have told their lord father immediately, yet this was not the case. This was something else, something decidedly less dangerous.
"Trouble, my lord?" Jory asked and he rode up the column, Wayn behind him.
"Undoubtedly." Ned sighed in good natured humor. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have managed to root out." With that, Ned led the column at a quick trot, the men-at-arms riding after their lord and captain while Bran struggled to keep up on his pony. Arthur smiled at the small beast of burden's valiant attempt, and slowed his own steed down until he rode abreast of the little lordling. Nothing was said between the two, but Bran tried to make sure his relief wasn't too obvious. Arthur simply smiled and enjoyed the relaxed pace, observing the woods around them leisurely.
The great hinges creaked and groaned as the western gate of Winterfell slowly opened, the thick and heavy Iron wood doors shifting small mounds of snow as they went. Catelyn stood tall and pale in the cold, a shawl over her shoulders, yet she refused to shiver. She had been the lady of Winterfell for four and ten years now, and she still had that whispering voice in the back of her skull that spoke of how soft the northern lords thought her to be.
Beside her stood Sansa, wearing a thick and pretty light blue dress, a shawl over her own shoulders as well, though she looked substantially more composed in the snow. It didn't surprise Catelyn, if anything she felt pride in her daughter. She was prettier than many southern ladies wished to be and could hold the elements at bay like her father. Truly, Catelyn smiled to herself, Sansa was what all northern ladies aspired to be.
Rickon was at his mothers ankles, a curious glint in his eyes as the first of the horses crossed the drawbridge over the moat and finally over the threshold of the castle itself. He was but three namedays old, but he had the wolfsblood in him, or so Eddard said. He was temperamental and stubborn, and fiercely tries to emulate his older brothers, often finding ways to escape his mother's sight to do so. Eddard oft compared him to his own siblings, Brandon and Lyanna, and their similar ways. In Catelyn's mind, she was happy for it, as it made him that much more Stark, and proved to the North that she was able to produce proper heirs for their lord.
Yet they thought not. Rickon, like Robb, Sansa and Bran, had his mothers coloring. While Sansa's was a brighter red, like flame, the boys had much darker hair, like old rust on a blade. In fact, the only child she had born that had Eddard's coloring was Arya, a true child of the wolfsblood if she had ever known one and the only child currently absent, a fact that had Catelyn gritting her teeth behind her polite smile as her lord husband appeared through the gates.
Riding beside him was his sworn sword and the only other southerner in Winterfell, Ser Arthur Dayne. The appearance of the knight was both a relief and a sore subject for Catelyn. She was glad that a swordsman of such renown and skill was under her lord husbands service, yet he had said himself that after the destruction of the Targaryen dynasty he only followed Eddard to care for his nephews, and such was the sore subject. The bastard twins.
They rode in behind Robb and Bran, Jon as sullen as always with his profoundly Stark features, something that had infuriated Catelyn to no end, while Torrhen was still his attentive self, those quick and sharp purple eyes of his and southern looks slightly easier for her to bear than his brothers. The less either of them looked like a Stark, the better, in her mind. But she discarded them from her mind as soon as they appeared and looked to her sons.
Robb looked as he always looked after joining his father for an execution; sullen and in deep thought, though he was using his arms to cradle something to his chest. She thought that such a sullen look made him look that much more like a Stark. Bran, on the other hand, brought a pang of pain to her heart. His eyes had a distant look to them, grim and dark. The look of lost innocence. Seven hells, she had told Ned that he was too young, but her words had fallen on stubborn ears.
"Catelyn." Eddard smiled a smile as troubled as any she had ever seen on his face before and his voice was formal and distant. It always was after he took a life, right up until he returned from the Godswood. Catelyn smiled back with a curtsy.
"Eddard." She greeted as homely as she could. Ned never liked taking lives, not even those of deserters and bandits, but he put his duty before his own likes time and time again. For the North, he would always say, and then continue on to do what he had to. She admired it greatly, that resolve and responsibility that he carried so truly, but she knew that everyone, no matter how strong, would need help with such a weight on their shoulders, and thus she took to helping Eddard and Luwin as best she could when it came to the stressful duty of running the North, even having Robb join them in doing so to prepare him for when he would eventually take on the title of Warden of the North.
"Where are you going, Jon?" Robb suddenly called out. Catelyn looked past her husband to see her eldest son giving a cheeky grin to the retreating backs of the twins and Ser Arthur. Though the knight was taking Torrhen into the yard, Jon looked like a child caught in the sweets pantry, standing in the doorway to the keep as he was. "Off to ponder how to craft the next love letter to Alys?" Robb grinned, several of the men, Theon too, chuckling at the brotherly teasing. "I wonder what lord Karstark thinks of you and her daughter?"
Catelyn frowned. It was well known that whenever visiting, Alys Karstark would spend her time ignoring both her lord father's wishes, to woo Robb, and Catelyn's, which was to be a friend to Sansa or an example of a northern lady to Arya. But no, she'd always run off and vanish with the twins. Such impropriety made Catelyn shudder, and the rumors surrounding them left her pitying the lord Rickard. The whispers of what she and those bastards got up too...
Jon raised an eyebrow. "You jealous, Stark?" He asked, several of the nearby guards guffing at the simple and sharp jape, while Robb colored in embarrassment. Catelyn scowled at the boy, angered by the lack of care he had for taunting his future lord so, though Eddard merely grinned easily at what he thought to be harmless banter between what he saw as brothers, but as she was prone to hearing the whispers of the castle staff, she knew the damage these remarks were doing.
'Sharper wits than the trueborn' they said. 'Quicker thinkers' others would whisper, and she felt a fire in her at their implications. That Jon and Torrhen were smarter than her son. That they were better in the sword than the heir to Winterfell. That they were better than Robb. That they would be better lords than Robb Tully, not Robb Stark. It made her blood boil, and the castle had lost many a staff members to her growing temper with the whispers of the smallfolk. In her stewing, she watched the younger twin smile.
"No, I'm not writing lady Karstark." He said with that sullen voice, though there was a small grin on his lips. "I'm writing my lady mother." Catelyn clenched her teeth, and she could have sworn that the little shit's eyes darted over to her. He wanted to hurt her, to shame her in public! Were she in the south, she'd have him flogged for such, but no. Eddard would not allow it, and he'd be furious that she would suggest such a thing.
Catelyn's fists clenched and she felt a flush of fury in her cheeks. Before she could snap, before she could rant and rage at the insolent bastard, a hand fell upon her shoulder, warm and understanding, but also reminding. She was in public, in front of the entire castle. She could not show that he got to her with his viscous wit. Looking up from where he hands had clenched her dress, she looked into those eyes the color of storm clouds. Eddard stood before her, one hand on her shoulder and the other handing the reins of his horse to a stable hand. The remainders of the party dismounted behind him, but to her the sound was impossible to hear. She was far too focused on her husband.
"Later." He whispered, and she knew that he knew of her fury. "You can tell me all, but later. Not here." Glancing behind herself, she caught Sansa giving her a worried look, but she dismissed it with a small smile to her daughter. She was too young to see the game of words that was played in politics. Pushing her anger down, Catelyn forced herself to calm. Breathing deeply, she sent an impassive look to the twin in the doorway, but he was long gone. With a huff, she looked to where the other twin had been walking towards the training yard with Ser Arthur, but all she caught of him was his retreating back and braided strands of hair.
Frowning, Catelyn looked to Sansa, then back to the now empty walkway to the yard, and finally the open keep door. A pull of confusion and dread tugged at her gut. Why did Sansa have her hair so similar to the twin's? Sansa's twin braids from the temples held the long red hair out of her eyes, just like the twins, the only true difference being in that instead of tying her braids together like they did, Sansa's braids met and became one to end at the bottom of her neck. She looked beautiful, but she couldn't help but be weary of the similarities between her Sansa and the bastards.
It was Eddard who jolted her from her inner turmoil, his brogue northern accent cutting through the small silence. "Where is Arya?" He asked, looking about the small yard of the hunter's gate curiously. It was not like her to be absent when her father and brother returned. She'd often pester Robb and the bastards for details of what happened; Who was it? What was said? Did they die well?
Catelyn was always horrified by the questions, of course. No lady should ever speak of such things, and certainly not with such excitement. But no mater how many times she scolded Arya for it, she asked again the next time, and the older boys would indulge her with almost encouraging detail. She had scolded the twins more times than she cared to count, always leveling them with an icy glare as she reminded them of their place, but the younger one, Torrhen, oft reminded her that their station left little room to deny a lady such as Arya Stark. Damn him and his ability to twist her own logic back at her. Damn him and his brother to the seven hells and back.
"She seems to have dissapeared again." Caetlyn sighed wearily. It was far from the first time that Arya had vanished within the walls of Winterfell, and it would be far from the last. Worse still, Catelyn heavily suspected the twins influence in doing so. They had vanished many a times as well in their youth, though it was becoming less and less frequent, but Catelyn suspected that they had told little Arya of their hiding spot.
"Of course." Eddard smiled. It was unlike his previous solemn and brooding smile when he had greeted her with such a disconnect, but one of warmth and amusement. He had always found the twins vanishing acts to be amusing after the first dozen times, and now treated Arya's disappearances with the same smile. Turning to look at his sons, his true born sons, Eddard nodded to them.
"See to it that you brother and sisters receive their own as well." He said cryptically before he turned and made for the Godswood, Ice sheathed and in his hand. It was his routine, Catelyn knew. Upon executing anyone, Ned would take some hours for himself to find peace of mind in the Godswood, where few stepped foot in lest they were praying. Following his odd words, though, Catelyn looked from his retreating form and to her sons. It was then that she saw what was held close to their chests.
Small and shifting, the little furs in their arms squirmed as though restless. Catelyn fronwed and out the corner of her sight she caught Sansa looking between her father and mother in her own confusion. That was, until one of the small mounds of fur in Bran's arms lifted its head and yawned a large and toothy yawn, the pup clearly tired. Bran seemed shaken out of his thoughts by the yawn. Looking down, he smiled a sweet and innocent smile at the little pups.
"Yes. Mother, Sansa, come look." Robb grinned as he slid from his saddle, three pups in his own arms. "We found them in the Wolfswood, on the way home." He said excitedly as he stopped in front his mother. He leaned close to her, and she watched the three pups struggle against his chest, one teething at his leather jerkin in search for milk. It had smoke grey fur as it squirmed, shoving aside the second, whose fur was as black as sin. The third that Robb held was the smaller of the three, with a lighter grey fur than the first.
"Are those..." She began, mouth running dry at the thought of what lay in her firstborns arms. "Wolves?" She asked with a quivering lip. By the gods, why...
"Wolves?" Sansa nearly exclaimed as she appeared at her mothers side. Catelyn spared her daughter a quick glance, hoping that she was of the same mind of herself, that wolves were wild and savage beasts that should not be held as pets, though with that simple glance, Catelyn felt defeat loom over her. Sansa's eyes were wide with wonder and her face glowing with delight. She was in love.
"Aye." Robb flashed a childish grin, yet Catelyn felt a flutter of fear in her chest. What in the name of the seven was Ned thinking? Or was he not thinking at all? He would let his children hold wolf pups?! Young as they may be, they were wolves! Wild beasts that would no doubt bite the hand that feeds not long before taking the arm as well. "Direwolf pups." Catelyn suddenly felt faint.
"Look mother!" Bran exclaimed as he rushed to her side, the two cradled to his own chest like babes being pushed up so that she could see them closer. Silvery grey and light grey writhed about in a search of food. Catelyn's heart seemed to crawl into her throat. "We found five of them, one for each of us. Father said we could keep them!" He flashed his lady mother a bright, toothy smile of untainted joy. Catelyn Stark would not win this day.
"Truly?" Sansa looked ready to burst with joy as she rushed forward, looking upon the three in Robb's arms with unabashed adoration. "Can I have this one?" She asked, Catelyn watching as it looked as though she lifted one to her chest, but Catelyn could not see which.
"My lady." Catelyn's inner turmoil was cut short by the voice of a trusted adviser of Eddard and the man who had assisted with the birthing of each of her children. Maester Luwin was emerging from a candle lite hallway, a rolled letter in hand and his lips pressed into a grim line. "News from Kings Landing, my lady." He said gravely, reaching out to give her the message.
"What is it?" She frowned, taking the paper from Luwin's hand and quickly unfolding it, her eyes quickly skimming over the elegant and flawless writing, though her eyes seemed to freeze part way through, and Luwin sighed deeply, tiredly.
"Dark wings." Luwin began. "Dark wings, dark words my lady." Slowly, them message fell from her grasp and on the cold dirt. Catelyn covered her mouth with her hand in shock. She couldn't help but look to the entrance to the Godswood, to where he lord husband sat in his quite contemplation. Eddard... Oh how this would hurt him. Oh, her poor Ned... "There came another, my lady." Luwin continued, producing another letter from his sleeves. "This one bringing news from you lady sister."
Eddard watched the yard with a critical eye from above, seeing every shift in footwork, every muscle flex under thin leather armor and every lunge and twirl of steel in hand. Arthur prowled the edge of the yard like a beast, stroking his beard absently as he noted every fault he could find, every hesitation made. Standing nearby was Ser Rodrick Cassel, the master-at-arms. Rodrick was scowling heavily as he leaned on the wall of the barracks. He had been sour ever since Arthur had challenged him to a duel for the right to train Eddard's sons.
In the center of the yard, Jon and Torrhen were whirlwinds of steel as longswords lashed out and danced through the air. Torrhen lanced forward, Jon deflected with an almost lazy sweep. Jon brought his blade down in a downward slash, but Torrhen merely inched his head and shoulders sideways and the blow sailed past him harmlessly. Jabs and doges, parries and slashes. Overheard strikes were met with unmovable blocks, lightning fast lunges went wide with pivoting footwork.
It was a spectacle that happened every second day, the dance of steel in the courtyard, and as always, it drew a small crowd of servants with spare time and off duty guards. Though usually, there were three swords in the yard; Robb taking the afternoon off to care for his new wolf pup that he had named Grey Wind, and Bran doing the same with his own pup, though he was likely shadowing Robb to copy all he did with his wolf.
All the while, Ned tried to keep his mind on the spar. But as his eyes moved with his sons, his thoughts wandered off in tangents of memories of Jon Arryn, his second father. Dead, one message had read. Murdered, another claimed. His father, gone, was all he thought. That, and the royal horde making its way to his doorstep up the Kings road.
Jon lunged forward, and Torrhen sidestepped. Using his momentum, Jon brought his knee up and rammed it into Torrhen's gut, the impact of the leathers making the small crowd wince, yet Torrhen stood strong. Keeled over Jon's leg, he wrapped a free arm around his brothers thigh and heaved up and around. Panicking as he was lifted off the ground, Jon brought his practice sword down upon Torrhen's back. Hard. There'd be bruises along the back of his ribs in the morning.
The younger brother grunted under the strike, but spun about and then upwards before bringing him down upon the dirt of the training yard with a heave, and all the breath left Jon in an instant, sword falling from his grasp. Seizing the dropped steel, Torrhen had both blades under Jon's chin in a heart beat. Silence filled the yard as the two stared at one another with a burning intensity that had been born with their spar, before they both broke out into smiles, Jon chuckling as Torrhen flipped the stolen Sword in his hand and offered his brother the hilt. Arthur watched wit his ever critical eye as they took up positions again. Torrhen had never had a problem lording his greater height and reach over his brothers, nor using his body to messy the fight, while Jon preferred clean and precise blade work, not liking the bodily contact that his brother oft forced into the fight.
Sighing, Ned gripped the hand rail of the balcony overlooking the courtyard from the Great Keep. He wanted to mourn, he wanted to hold Cat tight and be lost in the memories of his childhood. Back in the days when he and Robert were brothers in all but blood, back in the days where his father and older brother were still alive, back in the days when Lyanna's laughter was the music of his home. Back before Harrenhal. But alas, none but the gods could sway time.
"My lord." Brought from his brooding by the old voice of maester Luwin, Eddard found the aging man standing behind him. Luwin is a small old man, with thinning hair and grey eyes, his grey woolen robes looking several sizes too big for his thin frame. Ned smiled a welcoming smile for the maester, and took an offered roll of parchment. "From Starfall, my lord." Luwin said quietly, as though Catelyn would appear from the shadows and screech at him for even thinking of the southern castle.
It was well known in Winterfell of Catelyn's loathing for lady Ashara Dayne in her part of the twins birth, and one dared not speak of her in the presence of the lady of Winterfell without suffering her frigid glare. A southern lady she may be, but the winter snows could learn a thing or two from the ice in Catelyn's eyes when Ashara Dayne was mentioned.
"Thank you, Luwin." Eddard said with a small nod. Looking down, Ned took in the thin sword and falling star of the wax seal on the parchment. Ashara had been in correspondence with her sons ever since they had first written her at seven namedays, their writing supervised by Luwin and Ser Arthur. He had been happy for the boys when they began such endeavors, Ashara's letters bringing them much ease to know their mother when they were children.
Watching as the maester shuffled away, Eddard tilted the scroll and caught the smaller roll as it slid out. There was always two, Eddard smiled; one for the twins and one for her brother. He oft wondered what Ashara and Arthur wrote of, but then thought better of it. It was no his place to know their private thoughts. Turning to look back down at the courtyard in which The Sword of the Morning was training his squires, Eddard watched them take several more swings at one another before breaking apart, taking several steps backwards before readying to clash again. Unless stopped, the brothers could do this all day, as per how Arthur wanted them to be able to.
"Jon, Torrhen." Ned called down from the balcony. In an instant, their swords were lowered to point at the ground, as per Arthur's rules when someone interrupted their training. "You mother has written you." He announced, holding the larger scroll up for them to see. "Ser Arthur." He called out, the knight already knowing what he was called for even before Ned raised the second, smaller scroll.
It was a small grace that the letters had arrived, Eddard thought as he watched the twins and the knight vanish inside the Great Keep below him. It gave him good reason to call Arthur to him. Not that he truly needed to, as Arthur was his sworn sword, but he felt it polite that he gave such reason. But now that he would be coming to him, Ned could speak to him of the matter that weighted on his mind; Robert was coming.
It would be testing for the both of them; for Arthur as Robert had killed his best friend, Rhaegar Targaryen, and for Eddard, as the last few times they had met, shouting had rung out in viscous disagreements. The once brothers were slowly falling away from each other. This, however, did not sway Robert from coming to Winterfell in the wake of Jon Arryn's death.
The Hand of the King was dead.
Eddard grimaced as he imagined what Robert would want with him in the light of such tragic happenings. But it was just as these thoughts crossed his mind when a scream split the air. In an instant, Eddard was staring in the direction of the kennels, shouts of alarm and howls and savage barks could be heard. Something had happened, someone was likely hurt, and the hounds were agitated.
Spinning about, he rushed inside and down a set of stairs, through the passage and around a corner. He pulled open a door and marched out across the bridge that stretched between the Great Keep and the armory. Behind him, he heard the swift footsteps of the twins and the heavier, armored footsteps of Ser Arthur as they all marched quickly across the covered bridge behind him.
"What's happened?" Arthur asked, both impatient and anxious. It was not often someone screamed in the castle, and lesser still that it was one of pain.
"I do not know." Ned answered. "But the hounds are agitated and someone is hurt." He opened the door as more barking and a savage snarling was heard on the far side of the kennels, nearer the Godswood. Ned's fur cloak billowed in his wake as he stepped through the armory with all the speed and presence of a king, gliding past walls lined with swords, bows, arrows and spears, a heavy scowl on his face.
Bursting through the door on the other side of the building, Ned looked out over the dense canopy of the Godswood for a breif moment before turning to his side and marching along the walkway towards the kennels. It was as he did so that the feral howl ripped through the peace of the weirwoods.
"Sounds like a hound got free of the kennels and is in the Godswood." Jon noted uneasily.
"Aye." Ned nodded. "But why the screaming? What has happened?" The questions were soon answered when a guard came rushing along the walkway from the opposite end of the lord of Winterfell, having come from the second story of the guest house, a crossbow in his arms and several bolts ready to replace the one already loaded. "Donnis." Ned called out. "What's happened?"
Donnis went rigid at the unexpected meeting of his lord. "K-Kennel master Farlen says a hound went rabid, my lord." He stuttered out. "Bit one of the kennels boys and got loose. We've chased it into the Godswood, my lord." He reported stiffly and behind Ned, Arthur swore.
"Do you know any more?" Eddard pressed in urgency.
Donnis's mouth worked for several moments before words came out. "The kennel boy is being taken to maester Luwin, Farlen says the hound was frothing at the mouth and its eyes were savage and jaws snapping as it fled and now Greyjoy hunts the hound in the Godswood with his bow and two archers, my lord." The guard rattled off.
"Shit." Arthur swore again. "Jon, Torrhen, with me." The knight had spun about and with his squires on his heels, he was marching back into the armory. Three men in three acres wouldn't find a rabid hound unless it wanted to find them, no doubt Arthur was going to gather more men to take to the dense wood. Sighing, Eddard rested his hands on the hand rails of the walkway.
"Rejoin the effort, Donnis." He muttered wearily. Snapping a quick 'Mi'lord', Donnis scurried past Eddard and the open door of the armory, likely headed to the adjoining Guards Hall and the walkway that branched off from there to watch over the exit from the Godswood that led to the crypts and north gate, keeping the hound from escaping the Godswood. Watching as a breeze ruffled the top of the foliage. He frowned.
There was something in the air, in that very breeze that unnerved him. A shift in the feeling of his already tumultuous thoughts, and Eddard sighed. He didn't need more to brood over, yet this feeling would inevitably become another added to the list. Just what he didn't need. Before he could start brooding about this new feeling, however, shouts came from the Godswood, Theon giving orders and the sound of arrows flitting through the air.
Eddard sighed wearily under the canopy of the Godswood. The sunlight was fading above him through the thick layers of leaves, yet in spite of this it was dark as night in the woods, mere flickers of a golden glow making it through to the ground like stars in a night's sky. Arthur stood beside him, sweat on his brow under his leather armor and a bow in one hand.
The hound, gone savage as it did, had proved more tenacious than anyone would have thought. A single hunting hound gone feral had led the hunters and archers of Winterfell in a four hour pursuit through the three acres, leaving the men tired and damp with sweat, even though the snow was several inches deep outside the wood. But they had put the rabid beast down, at last, and the irony of its death was not lost on the Warden of the North.
It lay before him, chest still and blood matting its short fur, at the feet of the Heart Tree. It was a chilling sight, he thought, to see the giant moss covered walls of the Guest House looming over the pale wood and crimson leaves of the weirwood tree. Worst of all, the face carved into the white wood seemed to be almost... Smiling? It brought feelings of unease to him to see. There was something unnatural about the way those watching eyes stared down at the dead hound, and the fresh sap seeping from its mouth left him with a feeling of foreboding.
"My lord?" Theon spoke up. He and those who had partaken the hunt of the hound were all behind him, awaiting orders patiently as none dared approach what could have been a terrible omen without their lords consent. Eddard sighed.
"Take it away." He muttered, though he might as well have shouted it fro all the quite did t quell his voice. "And have all the woods searched for any stray bolts or arrows." He quickly added, turning to look his men in the eyes. "I'll not insult the Old Gods by leaving weapons of war in their garden." A murmured agreement and a few silent prayers for forgiveness answered his stern voice.
Alyn and Quent were the ones to lift the hound, gingerly picking it up off the roots of the heart tree and shuffling back towards the Kennels, where Farlen would be charged with disposing of the body. Beside him, Arthur shuffled his feet.
"I'll not let you hold you tongue, my friend." Ned spoke, though he paused after that. Gods, when had that happened? Four and ten years ago he and Arthur would have killed each other given half the chance. In the six years after that, a mutual respect had been forged between the two, yet now... When had he begun to call Arthur his friend? Oddest of all, it did not feel strange on his tongue, nor did it feel like Arthur hadn't earned such familiarity from Eddard, because he bloody well had. It just sounded odd, he thought, for him to hear himself say it aloud.
"It's nothing worth worrying over, my lord." He sighed. "I am merely... Restless, I suppose." Eddard nodded. He understood why, and he was glad that Arthur was just restless. "I wonder who he's bringing with him." The knight wondered. "Of the Kingsguard, I mean."
Ned hummed in thought. "It's hard to say who else, but the Lord Commander most certainly." He scratched at the short beard on his chin.
"Ah, yes." Arthur growled. "The kneeler." Ned's eyebrow rose at that.
"Did you not do the same?" He said, cautious around the touchy subject.
"I offered my sword in service to you to stay near my nephews." Arthur quickly snapped. "I may have bowed, but not once did I kneel."
"Indeed." Eddard nodded. He'd say no more on it, but he remembered well how Catelyn had thought of the unorthodox method in which Arthur pledged himself to serve the lord Stark. He simply stood in front of Eddard, stated his intent and offered the hilt of Dawn in place of the traditional bow or kneel. Catelyn's southern blood had thought it an insult, but Ned had placated her. Eventually.
"Although if he is to bring one turn cloak, I would not put it past the King of Whores to bring the Kingslayer." Lord Dayne mused aloud, and they both grew silent in their brooding. It had been a bonding subject of sorts for the two; disdain for Jaime Lannister. Arthur may have been the one to have knighted him, but he had admitted that he regretted it ever since the sacking of Kings Landing. The hatred for the one who betrayed his oaths was a shared fire for both Stark and Dayne. "Though perhaps..." The knight began slowly. "He would not be happy if I were to train my current squires better than I did himself..."
"His pride would wilt." Eddard smirked. "Knowing that two bastards are better than himself."
"Indeed." A moment passed in silence before. "Jon, Torrhen, to me!" Arthur shouted out as he spun about. It took not even a minute before both brothers burst from the thick bush, each with a handful of arrows and bolts in hand.
"Uncle." Jon answered the summons for them both, both nodding respectfully before turning to Ned. "Lord father." He said in a much more reserved voice and another nod of respect. Ned nodded back.
"Not uncle." Arthur grinned. "Not until I say so." Shudders ran down the backs of the two squires. They both knew what it meant when they had to refer to their uncle as Ser. "To the training ground with you." He ordered. "By the months end, I want you two good enough to tear through the entire kingsguard." Both twins paled at the tall order, but as Arthur made a swift strided march from the Godswood, they were forced to follow.
Eddard pitied them, but that pity was outdone by the amusement he would get from this. It was entertaining seeing them trained on the best of days, trudging into the hall for meal times sweaty and bruised and tired. The following month would put all that to shame if Ned had read Arthur right. One month to be better than seven of the greatest knights in the lands...
A tall order indeed.
Looking back to the Heart Tree, several guards carefully stepping through the shrubs between it and the wall of the Guest House in search of stray arrows and bolts. Sighing, Ned looked to the face carved into the tree. It had sped the beat of his heart earlier to see it near smiling upon the body of the slain hound, but now it he felt that it seemed more... Content. It was odd, he thought, that he could feel the tree would have the moods of a man.
But it was in his staring that his eyes lowered, falling upon a sight that had him still in both fright and wonder. Like the main trunk and branches of the Heart Tree, the roots were a chalk white as well, and so the gorund was littered by roots rising from the top of the soil only to sink back into the earth, like ocean serpents. Yet here he stared, wide eyed and pale as he studied the perfectly white, unblemished white root on the top of the soil. The soil that was soaked in the blood of the hound.
There was a crimson pool about the root, soil nearly turned to reddish mud in the place where the body of the feral beast had drained. Yet that lone root, standing out amidst the pool of red, remained pale. It remained further pale too, as Eddard watched the bloody puddle slowly shrink. Smaller and smaller it shrunk in upon the white root, paler and paler the root grew as it drank the blood around it, and Eddard felt as though there were a cold steel pressed against his throat as he swallowed.
The Heart Tree was drinking the blood of the felled hound.
"Mi'lord, come see this!" Ned's head snapped upward, his bones popping at the speed as he was soon looking to the voice that had called him. He found Wayn standing between the black pond of the Godswood and the Heart Tree, staring at something that lay behind the Heart Tree. Eyes still wide and palms clammy, Eddard dared peek out the corner of his eye at the root in the blood before he made for Wayn, but paused. The blood was gone.
Had the Heart Tree drank it all? No, it couldn't have. It wasn't possible... Was it? Blinking, Ned stared at the root for a moment more, before dismissing the thought. He must have been seeing things, a trick of the light. Such things didn't happen. They couldn't happen. Impossible. He must have been tired. Shaking it from his mind, he walked to see what his guardsman wished for him to see.
Standing next to Wayn, he found Cayn and Heward standing opposite them, either pair on each side of the Heart Tree, though the guards were looking at the ground directly behind the tree. Frowning, Eddard did as well, and his back became rigid. Behind the tree was a lush, bright green grass. In the warmth and humid area of the Godswood, all thanks to the hot springs, the plants that needed little sunlight grew well underneath the canopy, and as such, this grass had grown very well.
Except in this one patch. It was a rectangular patch of dirt, brown and bland in the woods. Not even creepers grew over it.
"Is there something wrong with the soil?" Heward asked.
"Don't be daft." Cayn snapped. "Look at it, the shape of it... It's unnatural." He muttered.
"That it is." Ned agreed. "And I know why." All three guards looked to him, confused and curious. He was stern, sterner than usual, and glaring at the dirt like he was angry with it. "It is not something you should bother yourselves with." He said. "Off with you lot, then. You're needed elsewhere." The three guards shifted uncertainly.
"Mi'lord, are you sure that the Old Gods ar-" Wayn began
"This has nothing to do with the Old Gods." Eddard interrupted. "There are three acres of woods, I don't want a single arrow or bolt within it. See to it." He hated being rude and foul like this, but as the guards looked to one another and meekly nodded, biding their their dismissal with 'Mi'lord' or 'Yes, Mi'lord', they departed to search the rest of the wood. Eddard was soon left to stand alone, glaring at the patch of undisturbed dirt.
He'd have to move it. He'd hoped it would have stayed hidden here until he needed it, whenever that might have been if at all, but it seemed that he'd have to move it. He'd need help with that. He had buried it with lord William Dustin when they returned from Robert's Rebellion, but now... He'd ask Arthur, but not during the day, no. He'd have to do it tonight. After the evening meal. Yes, he thought as he marched from behind the Heart Tree, making for the Great Hall. He and Arthur would have to remove it and hide it elsewhere tonight.
It was because he had marched away, not looking back, that he didn't see the fresh drop of crimson sap trickle from the eye of the Heart Tree. He didn't feel the ripple that breathed through the Godswood, Winterfell and all the lands around it. He didn't see the way the leaves of the trees, the blades of grass, the fruits and vegetables and flowers in the Glass Gardens all swelled with a new breath of life. But most of all, no one but the Bloodraven and the Children felt the tingle in the air of old energy returning anew.
His breath misted in front of him and the air chilled his throat and lungs as he breathed back in. Arthur was thankful for the cloudless sky, walking under the great screen of starlight. Winterfell was slowly settling in for the night. Those of the castle trickled out of the Great Hall in small groups or alone, some stumbling from their cups, other laughing heartily after the warm meal. Serfs dashed across the cold ground with empty dishes in hand as they hurried for the kitchens. None wanted to be caught out in the cold.
One or two stopped to nod to him or greet him with quite voices and small clouds of breath that fell below their chins. No one questioned what he was doing. Outside of training the heir of Winterfell and his bastard brothers, many left his business to himself. He found it a curious thing, having thought many would taunt him for being a southern man in the North, but he supposed that the Northerners were more respectful than those of his homeland.
His boots made as soft a sound on the ground as he could manage as he walked through the courtyard, in front of the smithy and stables, through the gate between the Library tower and the Maester's turret, the ravens fluttering and cawing as they settled in for the night. He quickly strode across the Kennel yard and in front of Hunter's gate before he finally came to where his lord had summoned him.
He had always thought the Godswood eerie; Thick growth and shadows dancing underneath the thick canopy made his soldiers nerves on fire. It made him jumpy being there, and that was during the light hours. Night in the Godswood made even the Sword of the Morning weary stepping foot there. Nevertheless, he refused to be frightened off by shifting shadows and groaning woods like some maiden too afraid to check under her bed.
He found Eddard staring at the face the Heart Tree, the face carved into the wood looking that much more malicious in the shadows and the bloody tears glittered sinisterly in the dancing leaves and moonlight. The water of the black pond rippled as a blood red leaf slid through the air to touch upon the surface. Ned looked in quite contemplation, as though he were searching for answers for questions he didn't know how to ask in that carved face. He stood still at first and Arthur remained at the edge of the small clearing.
"Ser Arthur." Eddard finally said. It seemed that this meeting would be more serious than Arthur had hoped.
"You wished to see me here after the evening meal, my lord." Arthur said with a small bow of his head.
"Indeed I did." Gingerly, Ned reached out and brushed his fingertips on the rough bark of the tree. "Nearly five and ten years ago, I came home from a war that tore the kingdom in two. I rode through the gates of Winterfell with lord William Dustin, two nurse maids, two infants and yourself." Arthur remembered the day well. It had taken nigh on two and a half months to ride from Starfall to Winterfell, and lord Howland Reed had left their little group when they passed through his home of Greywater Watch, leaving them seven in number, and William had left for Barrowton not three days later.
"I came home with my sisters body, and I buried her in Winterfell's crypts." The lord of the North continued. "But I also had her belongings with me. I placed them in a metal chest and buried it where I thought it would stay hidden. I didn't think how long to keep it there, but the time has come to move it." He turned around, his somber face littered with the fluttering leaves. "William helped me bury it because I did not know you, did not trust you, at the time. But now I would call you friend, even brother. I would ask your help to hide that chest again."
Arthur breathed out deeply. It did not mist in the Godswood. It never did, the hot springs kept the air too warm for that. When Eddard had leaned over and whispered of wanting to meet him in the Godswood after they had finished their evening meal, this had certainly not been what he had expected. He was there when Eddard had collected his sisters possessions in the tower, but had never thought to ask where he had kept them.
"I would gladly be of assistance, my lord." Arthur said, stepping closer as Ned smiled.
"Thank you, Arthur." The lord of Winterfell turned about and carefully stepped about the Heart Tree, Arthur following behind him. "I had thought the Godswood would be the best place to hide it. Few people come here, and those few simply pray and leave. No one comes here looking for anything out of place, nobody notices anything out of place."
They stood behind the large weirwood now, staring down at the dark ground between the ancient tree and the mossy wall of the Guest House. Arthur couldn't see anything in the shadows, but he followed Eddard's eyes nevertheless. "Nobody, until today." Ned sighed. Unsure, the knight watched as his lord took a few tentative steps and stopped, kicking at the ground. Arthur followed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. When they did, he frowned, looking down at a patch of bare soil in the shape of a rectangle in the middle of the grass. A lone, bare patch in otherwise luscious grass. "Three guards noticed the bare soil today when scouring for arrows and bolts. They asked questions, but I had them leave." He said.
"Would you mind if I asked questions?" Arthur asked, frowning as he stroked his beard.
"I would expect you to." Ned grunted, and scuffed his boot over the soil, a sound of old metal being brushed over coming from the ground. Silently, he lowered himself to his hands and knees, Ned brushed the loose topping of dry soil aside to reveal the top of a rusted iron chest, sitting but a scant few inches beneath the surface. "This needs to be hidden again, somewhere where I know no one will look." He muttered under his breath.
Arthur fronwed. "But..." He began, searching for words to express his confusion. "Why?" He asked.
"As I said, I would expect you to have questions, but like the guards who found it, it dose not mean I will answer them." Eddard said as he swept the dirt from the top of the chest, revealing it to be slightly larger than the bare patch itself had been, several creeping grasses having attempted to find purchase in the rust poisoned ground. Digging down by the side of the chest, Ned nodded to the other side. "Help me get it out."
Arthur felt like growling, he felt like refusing his lord, to stand his ground until he had answers, but he simply gritted his teeth and sigh. Clambering down to kneel beside Ned, he began digging through the dirt with his hands. "I take it all of Winterfell's shovels were in use, then?" He muttered, giving Eddard a sideways look. The lord of Winterfell looked sour as he lightly glared at the knight. Arthur merely chuckled and continued digging.
It took them a further half hour to finally find the handles on the sides of the chest. Gripping them tightly in their dirty and calloused hands, Arthur and Eddard heaved upwards, damp dirt and clumps of grass brushing against their arms and the iron chest as they were torn loose and fell into the hole as they did. It was not very heavy heavy, but it was old and it groaned in protest, though the chest was eventually wrenched from the earths hold and onto the ground just under the Guest House.
It was hideous in its half earth eaten state, worms writhing in the damp soil that still clutched the corners and sides like a possessive lover. The iron chest was the size of a small bale of horse feed, and though the decaying iron was heavy, the chest was lighter than one would expect one of its size to be, as though it was not half filled.
Arthur and Ned let out long, deep breathes as they sat on either side of it, simply staring at it under the night in the thick Godswood canopy. "Eddard." Arthur sighed. "I think I am owed an explanation, at least."
Eddard looked down at the ground in front of him, hair hiding his face from his sworn sword. "And just what, Ser Arthur, do you wish for an explanation of?" He asked tiredly.
Arthur's back straightened and he took a deep breath. "You said that you buried the chest of your sisters belongings, this chest, to hide it. Just what did you find among her belongings that made it something that needed hiding?"
Eddard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There are clothes in this chest. Some riding leathers... Things from both Lyanna's room here in Winterfell and the Tower of Joy." He said quitely. "But in the tower, I found papers. Letters, stacked and tied together. I read one of them and..." A shaky breath was the only sound he made for a moment. "I should have burned it. I should have destroyed it so no one could have read it. But should the twins find out about their parents and feel they need more proof than our mere words, then they would need that letter." He looked to Arthur then, looking so much more tired and so much older than before. "It is the letter in which Rhaegar discusses their names."
Arthur's mouth worked like a fish's, opening and closing for a few seconds before he clamped his jaw shut. It was a true reason for not burning the letter. If the twins were ever told of their true parentage, then they would need more than just the words of Eddard and himself. Physical proof of their mother and father writing about them before their births ought to be proof enough.
He sighed. "What of the other documents?" He pressed. "You said there were stacks of papers. What of those? What was written?"
"I don't know." Ned admitted in a small voice. "I couldn't... It hurt too much to read them when I found them, and I have not been able to bring myself to look upon them since the tower." Arthur nodded, resting a comforting hand tightly upon his friends shoulder. He could understand. Even after all these years, Lyanna's passing weighed on his shoulders. It was made all the worse, in Arthur's mind, that she died in Eddard's hands.
"What of the eggs?" He asked, thinking to change the topic.
Ned shook his head. "No, they are not here. They rest elsewhere, somewhere where they would be close to me most times." He said. "I think it best to leave it at such."
"Agreed." Arthur nodded. The two men rested for a breif few moments, Arthur taking in the revelation and Eddard relishing the slight weight lifted from his shoulders. Eventually Arthur sighed tiredly, pushing himself off the ground and offered a hand to Eddard. A slow blink and nod, Ned reached up and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "Well, my lord. Where do you pan on hiding it?" He asked, a soft breeze rustling leaves on the topmost layer of the canopy.
"This chest is of her belongings in life." Ned muttered. "They ought to be with her in her rest, too."
"Aye, my lord." Arthur agreed. It was sound northern logic. It may not have made sense to many southerners, but having become one of the northmen in the past four and ten years, he could see the meaning behind the decision and, as it was in its own way, the sign of mourning it represented. The Quiet Wolf still howled for the lost pack.
Reaching down, both took a handle on the side of the chest and lifted. Grunting as he repositioned his grip, Arthur nodded forward, and they began their slow, hobbling pace. The Godswood was three acres of dense wood and root riddled soil, making the walk feel that much linger than it was, and time slipped by as they shuffled through the woods, through the gate of the Godswood, across the North Gate and ducking under the arch that lead into the Lichyard. It was a chilling sight, sitting under the stars with the mists of a summer night creeping in between the headstones like ghastly tendrils of ill intent.
Undeterred by the theme of a bedside story of fright, Arthur and Eddard pressed on, skirting down the edge of the Lichyard and into the entrance of the Crypts. Slowly, steadily, the two noblemen made their way down the narrow stairway that led into the dark resting places of the Winter kings and lords. The crypts a had always unnerved Arthur.
Stone pillars lined the long walkway in pairs, and between them stood the stone sepulchers of Starks long dead, iron greatswords in their hands and snarling direwolves at their feet. Spiderwebs decorated old figures long forgotten and hairy black bodies scurried into the shadows as they passed by. Pale grey eyes carved from unseeing, unfeeling stone stared them at down as Eddard, torch in hand, lit the way onwards.
Soon enough, they came to a stop in front of the only statue of a woman in their entire crypt. She sat upon her seat, delicate looking with her braided hair sitting on her left shoulder and wearing an elegantly carved dress that rippled like water. Placing the chest on the stone floor, the two men took the time to simply stare at the statue of the woman, of the sister, they once knew. The flickering the firelight gave her eyes little warmth, and the shadows dancing behind her looked like some vile beast trying to swallow the last image of her they had.
"The stone mason had never laid eyes upon her, had he?" Arthur asked in a despondent tone.
"No." Ned said grimly.
"Figures." The knight huffed. Another moment of silence passed.
"Her nose was more rounded than that." Eddard sighed. "Her lips a little thinner."
"Aye, and her eyes are all the wrong shape." Arthur agreed. "Her hair was never braided, either. It was always free and blowing in the wind."
"Yes, it was." More silence, but this more of silent lamentation. If he had the handmaid ride to a nearby town to fetch a maester, would Lyanna still be alive? Would the twins still have a mother? He shook himself free of such thoughts. "Come, before we are missed and you lady wife sends half the castle searching for us." Arthur forced a smile, one that was mirrored by his lord.
Gingerly, they lifted the slab of stone that had been shaped into the top of Lyanna's tomb. It was slow work, heavy stone grinding against heavy stone, but they managed to shift it until there was space enough for them to lower the chest inside. Peering inside, both men caught sight of a thin body wrapped in a Stark banner. It was cold and smelt musty, several cobwebs stung up in the corners of Lyanna's resting place, and Arthur couldn't help but feel... Wrong, to be there, opening her tomb like this and placing something in her grave with her, even if it was to protect her sons.
Her sons. The thought brought a sullen breath from him. Would they ever find out the truth? He had mixed feelings on the matter. They deserved to know. They deserved to know more than anyone. But what would they do when they found out? Would they hate Eddard and Arthur for lying to them all this time? Would they accept the truth peacefully? Would they pursue their birth right?
"What troubles your mind, Arthur?" Eddard asked as they released the handles on the chest, the sound of its rusted bottom thumping to the floor of the tomb shaking throughout the crypts.
"The twins." Arthur admitted, grunting as he pushed the lid of the tomb from one side while Eddard guided it by pushing from the other. "The truth of them. The truth of what they are owed by blood."
"You speak of the Iron Throne?"
"Aye." The knight nodded as they turned and began to walk back to the stairs leading to the starlit sky. "We've raised them as best we could, but... Will they ever be told?" He asked, looking to his best friend as they turned away from the darkness that had taken Lyanna's body and her chest of belongings once again.
"I don't know." Ned sighed. "It would be safer for them if they didn't, but they should know. It is only right." On that, they could agree. "But even if it is, there is nothing they can do without the name Targaryen. They are bastards." The lord of Winterfell stated.
"They are the heirs to the throne." Arthur growled out. They had argued this back and forth several times over the years, but this would be the first time in nigh on five years that they had. "It is there's by blood."
"Rhaella named Viserys as king." Eddard pointed out with frustrating bluntness. "Jon and Torrhen have no birthright."
"Others take Viserys." Arthur swore. "He's spent the past thirteen years running and hiding from Roberts blades. He hasn't had the time to learn how to rule, he would have no idea how to run the seven kingdoms. The twins though... Aegon and Jaehaerys have been taught how to lord over lands and people since they were five, longer than Robb might I remind you." The knight said with an annoying air of smugness. "They know how to rule and they have to right attitude for it. People know them. No one knows Viserys save for those whose front doors he has prostrated himself on."
Eddard snorted at the imagery. "The people know them as bastards, Arthur. They would refuse them just as they would Viserys." He tried to reason.
"Not with the backing of the North."
Eddard Stark stopped in his tracks a mere few paces from the staircase, the flame of the torch and fleeting shadows casting a myriad of dark emotions on his face. "Do not ask treason of me." He said quitely, angrily.
"It would be treason against the rightful king if you didn't." Arthur said. "Robert took the throne because of a lie." He began. "With you supporting them and with the evidence in Lyanna's tomb, the only kingdoms that wouldn't want them on the throne would be the Westerlands and the Stormlands, and that's because they sit upon the throne now. You could have five kingdoms at your back, Eddard, if you do this the right way." There was an urgency, hushed and impatient, to his voice.
The silence was only staved off by the tiny crackles in the flame of the torch, otherwise, Arthur felt, the silence would have been ringing in their ears like a drum. Then, Eddard spoke. Quick and sharp. "I am tired, Ser Arthur. I will be retiring for the night." With that, he strode off, swift and long strides that soon carried both him and the torch up the stairs and out of sight, leaving Arthur is the oppressive darkness of the crypts.
He sighed into the shadows, misted breath unseen, and turned to look down the walkway, down into the deep gullet of the crypts of Winterfell. The crypts were oft called the vault, and the short walkway in front of him lead to a great cavern, housing the tombs for hundreds of the past kings and lords of winter and the North. Arthur had only been down so far into the crypts to see the cavern just the once, and that was mostly out of idle curiosity, but he could safely be sure that what he saw down there was bigger than the rest of Winterfell.
He though on Eddard's words, they way he reacted. He knew that Eddard was no longer certain about Robert. The last two times they had met had been nought but great arguments, Robert's famous Baratheon fury against the cold storm of Eddard's rage. He knew that what little friendship they had was now strained, but he doubted that it was over. It was why, he assumed, Robert was now coming north to name Eddard the Hand of the King.
Ned was a northerner. That meant that they didn't like political scheming and power plays down south. They preferred loyalty, honor and honesty. It served them well, too, so long as they didn't go south. Northern ways didn't fare well down in the southern lands, where every smile hid a knife behind their backs. He liked that about the North, though. You could trust people. They kept their word and you could figure out what kind of person they were in the first few moments of conversation.
Nevertheless, that same honor and loyalty he had grown fond of here in the North was what stood in the way of the twins taking their right by blood. Eddard was still on shaky terms with Robert, but they still considered each other friends, and Eddard refused to betray those he considered friends. With a shake of his head, he turned and left the crypts, feeling as though all the eyes of passed kings and lords were watching his back as he went.
This place never failed to make him feel uneasy.
And that is chapter three. I do hope you like it.
I've been receiving a few PM's and I must say I have been enjoying them. So, in light of such, feel free to send me PM's if there's something you want to discuss, any topic you'd like really.
Anyway, next chapter marks the arrival of the royal procession.
Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter, what you liked and/or didn't like.
Till next time.
Toodles.