Author's Notes:
Better later than never – to gift this fic to the fabulous and talented DKNC!
I LOVE her canon-based sprawling fics, which have had a big influence on me and actually inspired me to start writing this fic – so I want to thank her so much for that! Once again I am also grateful to Hardlyfatal for tirelessly betaing this chapter.
Catelyn
Catelyn felt an approaching headache circling her, and not even closing her eyes and rubbing her brow was enough to keep it at bay.
Why are sons so stubborn?
She had had yet another disagreement with Robb, prevented disintegrating into a shouting match only by her years of being schooled in self-control and diplomacy, even with her own children.
Catelyn shifted in her seat, just a flimsy tent stool. Being on the road meant that living conditions were simple, but at least she had the luxury of privacy in her own tent, unlike many others in the campaign trail.
Her thoughts trailed back to the discussion after the war council earlier that day. After all the lords had left, she had asked Robb for a private word. Her request was a basic courtesy to the man her son had grown up to be, although Catelyn would never stop thinking of him as the boy whose nose she had wiped clean not that long time. Yet she wouldn't dream of offering counsel for him in front of his men like he was still a young boy to be tutored by his mother.
Robb had wanted to send Theon Greyjoy to his father to ask him to join his forces with Robb in the newly started campaign. Catelyn didn't want to think of it as a full-blown war as yet - she simply couldn't. Wouldn't. Wars were cruel, they had broken her world once before already – this one must not escalate to that. For that, and for other reasons, she had opposed Robb's suggestion vehemently. Also, she didn't really trust young Theon. Not that she expected him to outright betray them, knowing how much he loved and idolised Robb. Nonetheless, he was weak and often unsure of himself despite all his outward cockiness, which could be exploited by someone unscrupulous enough, Catelyn suspected. And Balon Greyjoy was, if nothing else, scrupulous and cunning.
They had argued, they had presented their cases, they had disagreed, but they had not reached an understanding. Finally, Catelyn had left, entreating vowing Robb not to take any hasty actions, which he had promised. He still had healthy respect and appreciation of his mother, instilled in him by his father, but Catelyn wondered how long it would last. He was, after all, surrounded by people who looked at him seeing only their invincible commander, not a confused young man who had been thrust into an unreasonable position much too young.
And then there was the news of Ned. Still held in the black cells, waiting for a trial against trumped-up charges of treason. Catelyn sighed.
Oh Ned... I wish you were here!
And to top it all off, there was the issue of the Kingslayer: what to do with him. Catelyn swore to not let this one go quite as easily as his brother, the Imp. She had already the beginning of a plan in her mind – a plan that would also resolve the issue of approaching the Greyjoys, at least for the time being. All she needed was to convince Robb to agree to it.
Oh well, no time for rest – too much to do. She stood up, patted down her skirts and pulled the flap of the tent aside. Time to start putting her plan into action.
Jaime Lannister was not quite as dashing as the last time Catelyn had seen him in Winterfell. He was dirty, dishevelled, a bloody gash in his forehead smearing blood on his face – and yet he was just as cocky as if he would have been sitting in the high seat in the Lannisport great hall, rather than languishing on the muddy ground, tied up to a pole.
"Lady Stark, always a pleasure to see you! I trust this outing in the woods has been to your enjoyment?" A smile that looked only slightly forced spread on the golden warrior's handsome face as he saw Catelyn and Robb approaching – just the two of them. This discussion was best to be had in private.
"Shut up, Kingslayer." Robb had no time for fake pleasantries, and Catelyn took guilty satisfaction of witnessing the well-deserved put-down of that arrogant man.
"My, my, we are in a bad mood, aren't we?" The Kingslayer's smirking continued unabated.
"'We' are not anything – except you are my prisoner and besides the pleasure of seeing you there tied like a hog on a spit, I now have to think of how to best use you," Robb responded calmly.
"I confess I'd rather Lady Catelyn would 'use' me than you, as comely as you are. I assure you I am at my best when being 'used' by a handsome lady like her." Jaime bowed his head in Catelyn's direction, his lips curling into a sardonic smile again.
Catelyn started to regret ever presenting Robb her suggestion. It was going to be a long and tedious journey if the Kingslayer was going to keep up like this.
Robb ignored the last barb and stared at his opponent thoughtfully, his brows knitted together. Finally he spoke.
"I am going to send you to Lord Stannis. It is time the Starks and Baratheons renew their alliance, and what better way to smoothe the way than to show our trust in him by offering our most valuable possession to his safekeeping? Until we know how best to benefit from you, that is. Besides, I can be sure that with Stannis, you'll have no chances to slip away – Dragonstone has much deeper dungeons than these woods or even Riverrun."
If Jaime was surprised, he didn't let it show.
"I can't afford men to send you on your way right now, but as soon as I have, I will trust your transport to a hand-picked team of my best men. They will be led by the one I trust most in the whole wide world." Robb turned to Catelyn. "My mother, Lady Catelyn."
"And I will tolerate no base jokes nor sarcasm from you, Kingslayer. If necessary, I will have you gagged – it makes no difference to me how you arrive in Dragonstone, as long as you do." Catelyn's voice was cold. She wanted this part to be over already, and couldn't wait to leave the presence of that unpleasant man. He had been defeated and taken hostage – didn't he have common sense to tone down his behaviour?
Jaime blinked, for once thrown off balance. Catelyn could almost see the machinations in his head behind his frozen countenance; was it an insult to be trusted to a woman? Or an honour, if the woman in question was Robb's most trusted advisor and the Lady of Winterfell? Then his expression changed.
"As long as we are chatting amicably amongst friends, have there been any news of my brother, Tyrion? We heard he was accosted by you a while back, Lady Catelyn, but no word of his whereabouts since then. He wouldn't happen to be here, now?" He looked up. The defiance was still there, but mixed with something else. Something that made him look almost human.
Catelyn remembered that he was rather close to his brother, as strange as it sounded. The dwarf and the warrior – nobody would have thought it odd had Jaime eschewed his company, like their sister did. Yet during their stay in Winterfell, Catelyn had noticed the protective stance Jaime took over Tyrion, and the seemingly good-humoured discussions and laughs the brothers shared. For the first time, she felt just a smidgen of sympathy. The bond between siblings was meant to be strong, and to see that the Kingslayer had it made him feel more like a human and less like the arrogant rogue he was. But then again, there was his sister and the rumours…
"He is not in my possession anymore. He was charged, demanded a trial by battle, and won it. I released him a while ago and he is probably on his way to the capital or to Lannisport or wherever he wants. I don't care." Catelyn didn't enjoy having to admit her defeat.
"Tyrion won a trial by battle?" The wide-eyed look on Jaime's face would have been amusing if the subject had not been so vexing.
"Not him. A sellsword fought in his stead."
The smile that now spread on Jaime's face exasperated Catelyn. To be tricked like that, and not even by her own doing, but by Lysa's foolish actions… Well, what was done was done and couldn't be helped. And in any case, with Jaime they had an even better hostage. A valuable asset.
"Until the convoy sets on its way, you will be housed in a tent in the middle of the camp. It will be guarded at all times and the cage and shackles will remain – but I'll not have it said I have left a prisoner under my care to succumb to poor treatment. You'd better get rest while you can. It is going to be hard riding ahead for you once you leave, Kingslayer."
"Oh, I don't mind, as long as I have such a lovely company to ride with." Jaime bent his head again, his devil-may-care mask fully back on. Catelyn didn't dignify it with a comment but turned away, mentally calculating the days she would have to spend in the company of that annoying man.
"I hope he is worth it," she muttered to Robb as they walked away.
"He'd better be – we could really use Stannis in our corner," his son said with a sigh. "Whatever you do, don't let him escape, mother."
Catelyn tried to ignore the implied rebuke, knowing Robb didn't truly mean it.
"I promise, I won't," she said instead, sneaking her hand to touch his shoulder instead. Nothing wrong with a mother simply touching her beloved son, surely?
Sansa
Sansa didn't know how she managed to get through the rest of that evening, nodding and smiling to her betrothed, Queen Cersei and the many other well-wishers who thronged around her.
He is alive.
Sansa searched the eyes of those with whom she had discoursed earlier, at a loss as to why none of them had deemed it worthwhile to mention her that tiny little detail, that insignificant little snippet of information.
Lord Eddard Stark lives still.
That changed everything. She wasn't yet sure how, but she knew it.
The Hound – Sandor - escorted her to her room that evening, but she was angry at him as well. Even he, so outspoken and straight, had held that crucial piece of information from her. Sansa was planning to bide her time before accosting him, but as soon as they were out of the earshot of the others, she couldn't hold back any longer.
"Why didn't you ever tell me that he was alive?" Sansa turned angrily to her escort, dressed in his snowy-white Kingsguard armour, his heavy weapons clanging against each other as he walked.
He glanced at her, unfazed as usual. "You never asked."
"I never asked?!" Sansa was speechless. "Of course I asked! I asked about everything that could be important! That my father was still alive rather than dead probably seemed unimportant to you, but for me it is extremely significant!"
That infuriating man only shrugged his shoulders. "Languishing in the black cells, injured and without friends, accused of high treason – one might as well be dead already."
"But he is not! And he is not going to be! Didn't you hear what Joffrey said?" Every now and then, Sansa forgot the correct decorum and addressed people with their first names. So far she had done that only with Sandor, who usually looked at her quizzically as he did now, raising his eyebrow.
"Did he, then?"
"Yes!" Sansa was seething, but seeing how little impact her outburst had on him, she lifted her chin and walked faster.
They walked on in silence, until something he had said made Sansa stop. Sandor had followed her so closely that he almost bumped into her, and Sansa had a distinctive fleeting expression of overpowering strength and even tighter control of it in the way he halted, towering above her, then withdrew.
"What did you say?"
"What?"
Sansa turned to him fully. It was his habit to be cynical, mistrusting, but the way he had challenged her statement had carried something else in it.
"You questioned whether Joffrey was going to be true to his word. I know you did, don't you try to deny it!"
Sandor sighed and looked up, almost rolling his eyes.
"Are you really so daft, girl?"
"I'd like to think I'm not, but I find it hard to see what is so daft to take the word of the king, spoken in front of his whole court, for anything else than what it seems to be." Sansa crossed her arms and stared him down – or up, as it rather was.
Sandor hadn't seemed to be taken aback by her outburst, and neither did he act defensively now that she had openly challenged him. Sansa found it refreshing and real, which only reinforced her determination to get to the bottom of this. He, if anyone, would speak truly to her.
Sandor seemed to think of his next words carefully, looking at a spot above her head for a while before responding.
"You don't know Joffrey much, do you? Even before your accident you didn't, did you?"
Sansa started to open her mouth but then snapped it shut. She had no knowledge of the relationship between Joffrey and the real Sansa – but it didn't seem very warm or intimate. Not like it should be between betrothed.
"It is true, I don't know him much," she said, her posture rigid.
"I have been with him ever since he was a babe, and let me tell you, 'merciful' is not the word I'd use to describe him."
"But he said he was going to make him beg for mercy! And then let him take the black. Why would he kill him, then, when he would be out of the picture altogether anyway?"
Sansa had heard enough during her lessons in the court to know what 'taking the black' meant. Besides, everyone in Westeros – her Westeros - were familiar with that old and famous brotherhood of the North. It had been disbanded as an active military order several decades ago, but its history lived on. The order's new reincarnation as forest rangers preserving the vast national parks of the North had invigorated it, and Sansa had only fond memories of it. Hence Joffrey's announcement had felt such a relief. Sure, it was akin to a deportation, a way to get rid of a troublesome member of the society. Permanent, indisputable – but not as bad as being dead. It could work.
"Why would he exert revenge on someone who publicly dismissed him, denied his kingship, and even worse, named him a bastard of most abominable kind?" Sandor shrugged.
"Because…" Sansa started to explain how not executing Eddard Stark would preserve the peace, avert or at least minimise the threat of the Northern forces marching towards the capital that very moment, and overall be good for the realm, when it hit her.
The king never released him.
Lord Eddard Stark was executed at the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.
It had happened once, it was going to happen again. Whatever Joffrey had said, he hadn't meant it. And Sandor Clegane had seen through it, even without the benefit of the hindsight, as she had.
She didn't finish what she had intended to say, but stayed silent. What Joffrey had said, had been only for show. Why, she couldn't guess, but it seemed that logic or strategy was not Joffrey's strongest suit, and with all the advisors around him, including the Queen and the Small Council, maybe he was just playing for time.
"I… I see what you mean," she said finally, all her rage having deflated and leaving her feeling hollow. Once again, this man had shown her the truth, even more so than he himself probably realised. For him this was still just a conjecture; for Sansa it was an affirmation.
"Maybe not so daft after all," he muttered and grabbed her arm – not unkindly, but firmly, turning her around to the direction of her rooms.
Sansa acquiesced without protest and moved on. She needed to be alone as soon as possible, she had to think.
The rest of the way passed in silence and outside her room, when Sandor opened the door for her, Sansa mumbled her thanks to him quietly, her shoulders slumped. Both of them knew it was not for escorting her to her rooms, but neither acknowledged it. Just as Sandor didn't acknowledge her thanks, only brushing past her and closing the door shut without another word.
After having cooled down from her anger, Sansa had to admit to herself that she had not exactly asked about her father from any of the people she had conversed with. She had only assumed that he had been executed already, and it had never come up that he hadn't.
Gloomily, she reflected back to what she knew about the honourable Lord Eddard Stark. As was well known, it was the victors who wrote the history, and being that member of House Stark, under whose watch the demise of that old lineage had started, the history books had not been kind to him. She knew that he had been the last real Lord Stark, had ridden to the capital to serve briefly as the Hand of the King, and after King Robert's death, had been executed for treason. His eldest son's reign as the Lord, then the King in the North, had been so brief that the texts usually passed it by with only brief mentions.
That Eddard Stark's execution had been based on unjust accusations by the false king had been later confirmed by contemporary chronicles and modern historians alike. Yet that hadn't meant much, once the downfall of that magnificent house had been concluded, and the second conquest of Targaryens had wiped all the old arguments aside.
What shall I do?
Yet another night went by without much sleep for Sansa, she pondering and turning all possible options and scenarios of what she should do – what she could try to do – in her head. There were many, some more impossible than others, but as the pale light peered through the milky glass she finally knew the path ahead.
