Prince Eddard

"Let's run away." Dancy's breath felt hot on his throat as she shifted at Eddard's side. She was sleek with sweat, her freckled face shiny in the candlelight, while her long red hair had found itself plastered over his chest, as it had been since the whore took to resting her head there some ten minutes ago. "To Braavos, or Lys. Anywhere, really."

For the longest time, Eddard said nothing. Head turned to the side, he stared at the flickering candle on the bedside table, watching the little flame dance on the black wick. Father would have said yes, he knew. The King would abandon his throne to run off to the free cities with nothing but the whore in his bed and the sword at his hip. But I am not Robert.

"No," he said finally, voice soft. His fingers traced her spine, and he felt her breasts press more firmly against him. "I have a duty to my blood. My ancestors, and my descendants."

"Save the speech, Your Grace." There was a teasing tone in her voice, but Eddard felt a tear run down his chest. He held her closer as she said, "Is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?"

He shook his head. Feeling cruel at the action, he was quick to say, "Had I been born one of my father's some twenty bastards, I'd follow you across the Narrow Sea without a second thought."

"Had you been born a bastard," she said, "I never would have let you into my bed."

His laugh caused the girl's body to jiggle atop him. "Please," he teased, "you were dripping the moment you saw me."

"Fourteen, too tall for your own good, and incapable of not walking into walls." She hummed. "Yes, my cunny ached at first sight."

"I was thirteen," he corrected, unable to keep his voice stern. "And clumsiness has never been a trait of mine. It was simply my fist time in a brothel, and breasts are distracting at that age."

She snorted a laugh. "Tits are distracting for you still."

"Hardly. I've spent my entire life training to be the perfect prince. My thirteenth year aside, my skill at ignoring distractions has remained constant."

He felt her move, a glistening leg swung over him as she straddled his belly. He'd have asked her what she was doing, but his eyes locked on the white breasts hanging over him. Her nipples were small and pink, and surrounded by freckle over freckle. She was covered in them from head to toe, every little bit of her body painted over in little speckles, of that he could attest.

"Point taken." His hands fell on her hips, slowly sliding up the girl's sides before they cupped her breasts, thumbs rubbing at the now hardened nipples. Dancy's eyes screwed shut, teeth pressing into her bottom lip, a poorly held moan clawed its way out. "But you have to admit, I can manage my distractions quite well."

"Round six," she said, voice hoarse. "Now."

He flipped her over with ease, rolling on top. His lips found her neck with no less speed, trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone. Head rearing back in a willing retreat, his eyes bore into hers. "Is that an order?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, it's a bloody order."

"Princes don't receive orders, I'm afraid." He seized her wrists, pinning them above her head. "You may make requests, of course."

She thrashed some below him, falling still once it was clear she could not break from his grip.

"M'lord," she began, teeth gritted, but he silenced her with a kiss.

"I'm not a lord," he told her once their lips broke apart. "I'm your prince."

"My prince," she said, face red as her hair. "I implore you, fuck me until I can't walk no more. Please."

He obliged her without complaint.

Three months later, the events were still fresh in Eddard's mind. He replayed the scene over and over again, feeling flustered whenever memory of Dancy's body flared up in his imagination. Even the palms of his hands tingled while he recalled the feeling of her soft flesh. That's all she was now though, all he'd allow her to be. A memory so distant it felt like a dream, one that tortured him day and night.

Dancy had been his first whore, but not his first love. Eddard would not allow himself to fall in love, nor become a slave to his own passions. And though he'd only ever shared his bed with her, he told himself it was only out of possessiveness. You had to rent whores, to share them with others. Sharing had never been something he cared for, so he opted to rent Dancy long term, making her swear to never bed another for as long as they were together. From the day Father had dragged him to the brothel on his thirteenth nameday, to his eighteenth year on the eve of his departure to Winterfell, Dancy was his and no one else's. For this he was tolerant of her, or so he tried to tell himself whenever he saw her face in his mind. I don't care for her, he'd say, and sometimes he even believed himself. Tonight was not one of those times.

The thoughts made it too loud to sleep. He'd close his eyes and Dancy was there, hiding under his eyelids. He saw her as a girl of fifteen, looking at him with laughing eyes as he made a fool of himself in attempt to prove his manhood to his father. He saw her giggling as he tried to put it in for the first time, not entirely sure where it went, and then panting madly once he finally figured it out and learned just how good it felt to move in such away. He saw her as a woman of twenty, full breasted and womanly, with a voice strong and confident. A voice that now echoed in his ears, bringing with it laughs and moans and teasing quips.

After much grumbling, Eddard found himself crawling out from his bedroll. Standing at full height within the black and yellow striped tent, he felt for the briefest of moments that he had been swallowed by a giant bee. A giant bee whose stomach he shared with a ridiculously large wolf, which had chosen that moment to wake.

Summer's head rose smoothly, golden eyes shining in the dark of the tent. He looked at the prince in what Eddard could only assume was curiosity.

"Prince Eddard?" Bran said behind him, lifting his head from the ground. "Can I fetch you something?"

"No," he said, doing all he could to keep his movements graceful as he stepped over the mound of fur. "I'm quite alright. Go back to seep."

The soft snores proved the order unnecessary. Looking over his shoulder as he lifted the tent flap, he watched as Summer watched him right back, though at least the wolf had set his head down. Starks and their pets.

"He's well behaved," Bran had told him years ago when he took the boy on as his squire. Summer was only a pup then, a clumsy little thing with a head too big for its body. A far cry from the small pony he'd grown into since. He allowed it on one condition: the beast sleep outside. In the stables while they stayed in King's Landing, or any other keep for that matter, and anywhere but in the tent while they traveled. The rule was obeyed, for a time. Though the boy took to sneaking the pup inside, and eventually started to steal out into the night to sleep with the creature. By the end of it all, Eddard's condition morphed into simply requiring Bran to clean up any fur Summer would shed, an agreement his squire managed to honor.

The night air was chill on his face as he weaved between tents, wandering aimlessly through the royal camp. The stream they settled beside was bright under the moonlight and the torches placed by the sentries, and it was here on the mucky riverbank he found himself standing. There was a good scent to the Riverlands, fresh and clean, so unlike the stinking streets of King's Landing.

They'd left Winterfell following Lord Robb's twentieth nameday, an exciting event for the entire Stark family, as Lady Wynafryd gave birth the same day. His friend was certainly ecstatic, Eddard had never seen Robb smile so much as he did when holding his newborn son for the first time. "His name's Cregan," the Stark heir told him when Eddard had gone to meet the babe's acquaintance. "As tribute to both my family and Wynie's. King Cregan Stark gifted the Manderlys their land, after all."

Turning, he looked back on the sea of tents and the dozen fires where clusters of men sat drinking and laughing. Perhaps his father was among them, he was always happiest drunk on wine and war stories. It was a relief, though, to know the Queen wasn't out here skulking about. He had no desire to have a run in with the woman.

Looming over the tents and men, Cersei's wheelhouse stood out like a sore thumb. It was a bloated monstrosity that dwarfed many of the hovels they'd passed on the road, built atop wheels as tall as he was, and far too breakable for the royal host's convenience. They must have broken half a dozen times just since the departed from Winterfell, and had gotten stuck thrice that many times while they made their way down the Neck. They'd lost a poor bastard to a Lizard Lion while trying to dig the damn think out of the mud, not that the Queen cared. If anything, she probably enjoyed the show.

Sympathy was not one of Cersei Lannister's strong points, nor was affection. She had passion in spades, though. Eddard couldn't imagine a woman shattering a wine glass on her son's head without being properly passionate.

A guilty pain struck his chest then as he remembered that Myrcella was locked up in there with the Queen. If his poor sister was lucky, Cersei would be asleep, or too drunk to berate her daughter over breathing the wrong way. Maybe Uncle Jaime would be on duty, in which case the kingsguard would be the one stuck listening to the woman's ramblings of her fool of a husband and devil of a son.

He'd spent little time with his sister these past few months, much to his own regret. He knew it was wrong of him to ride off on her back when the royal party was making their way up the King's Road. But he just couldn't take it anymore. He had to get away, to ride swift and free and forget about it all. Had it been allowed, he'd have taken Myrcella with him, and Shireen, too.

"I'm sorry," he told her the day after the welcoming feast, once they managed to have a moment alone. "I shouldn't have left you alone with them."

"No," she'd said, arms crossed. "You shouldn't have."

He vowed then and there that he'd make it up to her. And when she asked how, he replied simply, "I'll give Joff a beating, just for you, little sister."

It should be noted that his words were but a jape, and purely coincidental to the breaking of Joffrey's ribs. Regardless, he managed a smile from Myrcella, and his sister's anger vanished without a trace, for a time. She had grown distant since then, barely speaking two words to him in well over a month. When exactly she started avoiding him was hard to say, his daily schedule had been disrupted while they stayed in Winterfell, and again when they took to the road. He had a betrothed to entertain, there was less time to spend with his sister, unfortunate as it was. Her coldness hadn't been apparent until he invited her to spend an evening with him in the Gods Wood of Winterfell, an offer she declined as fast as he suggested it. It had occurred to him that she may have been angry over the injuries he'd dealt their brother, as the times coincided. Then he remembered Joffrey was Joffrey, and he had a good laugh over it.

Maybe it was Lady Sansa after all. Myrcella certainly didn't like the girl, but fondness, or lack there of, had no foundation in their lives. It didn't matter who you liked or didn't like, only the image of things mattered. Something few seemed to realize.

We all have a role to play. And I am not blind to mine.

He didn't love the Stark girl. He hardly knew he, after all. But he'd wed her just the same, wed and bed and get an heir on her.

I'll take care of her, he'd decided one afternoon as they walked through the Wintertown market. She humored him, almost. The way she followed every rule of etiquette to the letter, curtsying and all. There was something endearing about it, and the girl looked well on his arm, besides.

Surely Myrcella understood, she wasn't a simpleton. But why then had she grown so cold?

His feet started moving without a thought on his part, carrying him back through the camp. The sentries bowed their heads as he passed, the more energetic guards greeting him verbally. They all received smiles in return, a few he took a moment to speak to. "How goes it?" He'd ask, checking afterwards how their meals had been, and if their captains were letting them get enough sleep. Conversation with the men was a habit he picked up long ago. It was a foolish thing to place your life in the hands of those who cursed your name, so Eddard had taken it upon himself to ensure they loved him.

The guardsmen grew more numerous as he walked, and more blond. His feet, it seemed, had chosen to carry him to the wheelhouse. Noticing just how close he was, only a few yards, he turned swiftly to leave, to get as far away as he could, but the white-cloaked kingsguard standing out front the door caught his eye.

"Barristan," he greeted, smiling true for the first time that night. "I thought you'd be with His Grace."

"Not tonight," the old knight said. "Its good to see you, My Prince."

He scratched at the back of his head, black curls bouncing around his white fingers. As little time he'd spent with Myrcella, Eddard had spent even less with the man he trusted most. The man who taught him how to hold a sword. He searched his mind for the right words to say, but Barristan spoke first.

"Third window."

"Pardon?"

"Third window from the back," Barristan said, "other side."

Eddard's forehead crinkled. "I don't understand."

"You're here for Princess Myrcella, are you not?"

"No," he said. "I was just taking a walk is all."

"May I speak freely, Prince Eddard?"

"Always. You know that."

The knight nodded. "You've always been a good actor, good enough to trick most, anyways." A smile quirked his lips. "But since you were a boy no taller than a sword, i've been able to smell deceit on you better than a dung pile in a stable."

It was a rare thing, Eddard considered, for a man to see your actions more clearly than you yourself can.

"Third window?"

"Third window," Barristan said. "But be quiet about it, the Queen has been displeased as of recent. It wouldn't be good to wake her."

He didn't need the final bit of advice, not with his experience. But he headed the words all the same, rounding the wheelhouse on silent feet. From the dirt he plucked the tiniest of pebbles, taking aim at the window and tossing lightly. It hit the pane, bouncing off with a clink. He picked it back up, tossed, and repeated several times until a pair of blue-green eyes were staring down at him.

The window slid up, and Myrcella's pale face became clear. Her pink lips soured into a frown, her eyes hardening to a glare.

"What," she asked, voice a whispered hiss, "are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you," he said. "That's what princes do, is it not? Rescue princesses locked away by old hags?"

She smiled at that, looking away in an attempt to hide it.

"Come on." He motioned with his head. "Let's take a walk."

"I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

"Sleeping."

Eddard gave a grin. "You're not doing a very good job, are you?"

She mumbled something under her breath. Then, more clearly, "well, get over here already."

He moved below the window as she swung her legs over. Myrcella's feet found ground on his shoulders, her hands gripping the windowsill above. With some clumsy maneuvering, she managed to climb down her brother the way a laborer might climb down a ladder, though his sister had more grace about her.

"Maybe I should get Shireen," she said once on the ground, looking back to the window.

"Is she awake?"

"No, but I could get her up."

"Let her sleep," he said, motioning for Myrcella to follow him. "I want to speak to you."

"Oh?" She eyed him strangely. "About what?"

"Come with me, and you'll find out."

The world grew darker as they left behind the camp, walking further upstream. It was only when the wheelhouse looked nearly the size of a normal carriage that he spoke again.

"Tell me," he asked, voice soft. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been avoiding me." He turned to face her. "Why?"

"I haven't." She crossed her arms. "You're just imagining things."

Emotions could be controlled. It was easy. But here and now, Eddard couldn't stop the, the anger? No, not quite. But it was something close in relation.

"Don't do that," he said, hand raised as if in preparation to point at something. "Don't do that to me, Cella."

For a long while, they stood staring at each other, silent as a pair of mutes. A frog croaked somewhere, perhaps within Eddard's imagination, even. And finally his sister spoke.

"There's nothing wrong, honest. I'm just tired." She smiled, but he knew how to tell her masks from her face, and this was a mask. "It's been a long journey, and the North didn't agree with me. That's all, I swear it."

"You mean Lady Sansa doesn't agree with you." Was that all this was about?

Myrcella looked over the stream, stepping towards it. "I'm worried about her."

"I thought you hated her."

"I don't like her," she admitted, snorting a laugh. "She's annoying."

Adorable, Eddard thought.

"And stupid."

Innocent.

"Not to mention, she's completely spoiled."

He laughed. "Is that so, Princess?"

"You know what I mean." Myrcella glared at him. "And it's more than that. She's a snob, and absolutely obsessed with doing everything right. I wouldn't be surprised if she has a septa's guidebook shoved up her little arsehole."

Maybe I'll find it.

"But despite all these faults," she went on, "I have some speck sympathy for her. She's about to be dragged into our lion's den of a family, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"There's no need to worry," he told her. "I'll look after her."

"You have to do more than that." She turned to him, sucking her bottom lip. "You have to be her friend."

"Her friend?"

"Marriage is scary for a girl," Myrcella said.

"Do you think I'll have Arys beat her before the court?" He felt insulted by the implication. "Lock her outside the gates and have her chased through Fleabottom?"

"Of course not. But that doesn't change the fact that, that..." Her face screwed up in annoyance. "Do you want to be Father?"

Pining for a corpse and continuously hungover had never been his ideal future.

"No."

"No," Myrcella parroted. "And you don't want Cersei for a wife. Your marriage won't be a fairy story, other than appearance-wise. And that's alright. Really, it is. But you should be friends, Ned. She needs to know she can talk to you. She needs to be able to trust you. Because if you don't make sure of that, I shudder to think what your reign will be like behind closed doors."

Eddard scratched at his chin. She was right.

"I'll speak to her," he said.

"Good."

His sister looked as if she was going to leave, but he couldn't let her go. He needed to get things back to normal before the coldness split them forever.

"Are there any other tips you have for me, oh wise sister?"

"Make sure Mother doesn't humiliate her." Myrcella shrugged, her tone proved humorless. "And that Joffrey doesn't strip her naked before the entire court for a laugh."

"I'd kill him," he told her, voice hard and dark. His hands squeezed tight at the thought. "Same as if he ever dared to shame you."

Her lips parted, tongue curled. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but the words just wouldn't form.

Speaking finally, her question caught him off guard. "What's your oldest memory?"

"I don't know."

"Ned."

"Father tossing me into the air," he admitted under her glare. "Higher and higher I go with each toss, always feeling as if I'll reach the clouds, but I fall back into his hands before I can touch them." The words came out fast as a rushing river. He hadn't meant to say so much, but the memory made him feel so numb, it was as if he was drunk on the sweetest of wines. "Yours?"

"I'm somewhere dark, alone and afraid," she said quietly. "I'm crying. Why? I don't know. But it's you who finds me, Ned. You kiss me and hold me tight, and I fall asleep in your arms. Perhaps it's only a dream."

"It's not a dream." His arm fell over her shoulders as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. "I remember the day all too well."

Cersei had been screeching, he could recall, and Myrcella had run off. He had searched all throughout the royal apartments, desperately throwing open every doo he came to, whether it led to wardrobe or chamber. When he found at last, his sister latched onto him, her tears hot on his doublet as she cried. The hours had passed one after the other, as they do, but still they remained on the hard, dusty floor of the closet. "I'll protect you," he vowed once she had finally cried herself out and sleep claimed her. "Always." But the little girl who had clung to him with all her strength had grown into a young woman, and she could not stand his touch.

She pulled away from him, and Eddard caught a sickened look on her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, a bite in her tone. "I'm just not in the mood to be hung on."

Myrcella was a stubborn little goat, there had never been any luck in getting secrets out of her. Though until now, he never needed to try.

"Here." He handed her his cloak, sure to keep his distance. "You look freezing."

She took it wordlessly, draping it over her own shoulders and pulling it tight. Her eyes searched his face, lips squeezed shut.

Speak to me, Cella. If only she'd say something, anything. Then he'd know there was hope that his sister didn't hate him for whatever offense he had dealt her. She obliged his silent prayer with yet another question.

"Do you ever wish we were children again?"

He looked up into the starry sky. Some said there was a story behind each star, others said they were the forgotten gods of ages long passed. Whatever they were, Eddard had once prayed to join them in the heavens. It looked so peaceful up there, far away from screams and shattering glass. He had told Myrcella as much, the night he found her in the closet. That's where we'll go, he said, where i'll take you. But perhaps she could not remember being so young.

"Never."

"Why?"

"I was weak." His eyes locked with hers. "And by all the gods I swear, I'll never be weak again."

...

...

Author's Note: I apologize for the late update, life got ahold of me and I haven't had time to work on this story.

I'm just about to post as i write this, but i decided to have a look at the comments as i've received a few more.

Yes, Joff is a disgusting idiot.

No, Myrcella is NOT interested in Eddard sexually or romantically. She could be argued as being a bit dependent on her brother emotionally, but considering their family, I think it's understandable. Within this chapter we see she's grown distant from Eddard, following Joffrey kissing her and accusing her of essentially being Eddard's whore. Being attacked by the brother she's already disgusted by, while also having her loving relationship with Eddard be painted as a perverted arrangement has definitely messed with her head.

I understand there's reason to be concerned about lack of conflict, I promise that won't be a problem. It's gonna be wild.

Eddard is certainly no saint, but I think he's likable enough. He could be seen as manipulative, but that's honestly required to protect himself and those he cares about. As we see he has a possessive view of romance, but I think we can attribute that to an emotional shield. He won't allow himself to be turned into a fool. But perhaps as he becomes friends with Sansa, his heart just might soften.

In regards to some trouble with pacing... Yeah, I completely understand. It's always been an issue for me. There are times when my view of things are a mad rush, and my writing reflects that with quick, arguably sparse narration. Other times I am suddenly detail obsessed and can't help but gettin mucked down. It's definitely something i'm working at, and hopefully i'll be able to establish an even balance.

Overall, I received some very positive reviews, which have been a joy to read. Though criticism is just as appreciated. A man who never made a mistake never made anything, and to know we've made a mistake we sometimes need it pointed out to us. So feel free to point out any mistakes you find noteworthy, it'll only help improve my work.

Until next time, have a good one.