Everything was a blur.
One minute Ned was sitting under a canopy at the melee stands; the next he'd found himself on the melee field at an unconscious Bran's side. Ned wretched off the helm and gently shook Bran's shoulders, praying he wasn't dead. "Fetch me a maester!" Ned heard himself shout. "FETCH ME A MAESTER!" His fingers brushed through Bran's thick dark hair. When Ned glanced down at his fingers, he noticed they were red and sticky with blood.
Bran's blood.
"A MAESTER!" Ned bellowed at the crowd of spectators. "SOMEONE FETCH ME A MAESTER! NOW!" He almost jumped when he felt someone touch his arm.
Ashara.
"Maester Colemon is coming," Ashara said softly, her violet eyes fearful and no doubt intensified with grave concern. "He is coming. Bran will be fine." She didn't sound fully certain. "Bran will be fine," she repeated.
Ned stared at Bran's pale, serene face caked with sweat. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he pulled out his dagger and placed the blade against Bran's lips. It came as a great relief when thin puffs of steam fogged up against the gleaming blade. He is alive. "Bran is alive," Ned said aloud to reassure himself. He looked up at the clear sky. The old gods were watching over Bran. Ned wasn't a fully devout man as say a previous Lord Cerwyn, yet at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to run and kneel in front of a heart tree to pray for Bran's safe recovery.
"Is he still alive?" Arya appeared, her voice shaky. "Is Bran alive?"
"Please make way! Make way!" A thin, nervous-looking man with too little hair, quite a lot of neck and garbed in grey approached, his heavy chinking. Taking one look at Bran, the maester announced, "Unconscious, but he will live." His greyish-blue eyes met Ned's. "I will bandage his head," the maester told him, "to stop the bleeding. Apart from that, all we can do is wait for him to wake up."
"How long will it take?" asked Ned, lifting Bran's head for the maester to wrap a bandage around the wound.
"It depends, my lord," answered the maester truthfully. "Some may wake up in two weeks and other times it lasts a month. All we can do is pray the gods will be merciful and save your son, my lord." He paused momentarily. "It will be in your son's best interests if he remains here in the Eyrie, until maybe after he wakes up and is fully recovered. The journey to King's Landing will be strenuous – it might cost your son much-needed recovery days my lord. I will ensure your son will be comfortable and settled in guest chambers here."
"He will not return to King's Landing," said Ned tightly. "Once he is awake and fully recovers, I'll be taking him home to Winterfell."
The maester blinked. "I…I see, Lord Stark." He finished wrapping the bandage around Bran's head. Ned stood up, Bran in his arms. "The melee can resume once I'm gone," he muttered to his good-son Prince Orys, wishing he hadn't consented to Bran's request to participate in the melee. I'm a fool for allowing him to fight. I should have told him no. Bran was a good boy – he would have complied to Ned's answer without much protest. Ned sped up his stride to the castle, Ashara, Arya and the Eyrie maester hurrying after him.
How could this have happened? Everything was running smoothly, ready for a long winter when disaster upon disaster suddenly struck House Stark. Robb had married Daenerys in secret, Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric was forcibly broken in order for Lyarra to wed Orys Baratheon, Ned had to return to his former position of Master of Laws, Arya had to attend court against her will, Robb was now in the Hornwood fighting brigands and Jon missing or possibly dead…and now Bran in a state of unconsciousness for up to a month.
What could I have possibly done wrong?
"Lord Stark?" said a tentative voice.
Pushing his bowl of spiced potatoes – now potato mash – away from him, Ned looked up. Standing in front of him nervously was a young boy who looked a year or two older than Bran. He was in silks of green, the golden Tyrell rose blazing on his breast. Under his brown eyes were bruises and light and dark scratches most likely from the melee.
"Yes?" said Ned warily. "And you are?"
"I am Lucas Tyrell my lord," said the boy timidly. "I was the one who'd injured your son Lord Brandon in the melee earlier today. My sincere apologies my lord. I didn't mean to hit him so hard with my warhammer." Before Ned could answer, Lucas Tyrell gabbled on. "My weapon of choice would usually be the sword but it was my father's uncle Lord Mace Tyrell insisted I try the warhammer today. I had not practised with the warhammer in quite some time and I underestimated the strength of the warhammer. My sincere apologies my lord! I truly didn't mean to hurt Lord Brandon to such an extent-" Ned raised his hand to silence him. "It was a melee," Ned said tightly. "I am thankful you did not kill Bran."
"I never would've my lord!" squeaked the frightened Tyrell boy.
"I thank the old gods and new that your warhammer was blunt. If it was sharp, I would have lost a son. What was done, is done. All is forgiven."
Lucas Tyrell beamed, relief written all over his bruised face. "Thank you, Lord Stark!" He even bowed a little. "Thank you!"
Ned nodded. "There are not many young um, men like you who would offer an apology for injuries done in melees. Go and enjoy the feast, Lucas." He went back to prodding his spiced potatoes. Worrying about Bran gnawed at Ned's stomach as a dog would gnaw at a bone.
"I can't stop thinking about Bran."
Ned glanced up and saw Arya who sat opposite him, poking her plate of meat and other Vale delicacies. "I can't stop thinking about Bran," Arya said again. "He is unconscious and here we are, feasting." She spat the last word as if it was a foul poison. "Stupid," she muttered, her eyes darkening. "So stupid."
"We are guests here," Ned told her. "It will be rude if all of us refuse to attend a feast hosted by Lady Arryn. She will view our absence as a slight – we don't need a slighted Great House as our enemy, especially House Arryn. The Vale and North have a good relationship, particularly in the last few centuries."
Arya flared up. "So Bran's life means nothing compared to stupid politics?"
Other nearby lords glanced in her direction out of curiosity.
Ned frowned at Arya. "Bran is as much my son as he is your brother," he said a little more coldly than he intended. "Of course I care for him and wish I am at his side rather than feasting. However, I am here to represent our House; Ashara's in Bran's chambers, tending to him. We will both be at the wedding tomorrow. The day after, I will be looking after Bran." He hesitated. "I received a message earlier, from Syrio Forel," he said reluctantly. Immediately, Arya brightened up. "He was delayed at Gulltown," Ned explained. "Apparently there were a lot of Essosi trade and merchant ships landing at Gulltown for the wedding festivities and they held priority over sword masters. Syrio is at the Bloody Gate now and will – if all goes well – arrive here in a day or two."
Arya smiled, but her happy beam didn't reach her eyes. "I heard the winner of the squire's melee was Lady Waynwood's grandson," she said casually.
"Aye." Ned forced himself to take a bite of potato. "He was just knighted by the king himself. A great honour."
"What else did he win?"
"He asked the king for permission to dance with his niece, Lady Cassana." Ned suspected that if Princess Lyanna was still unmarried or the Princess Minisa a bit older, Lady Waynwood's grandson would ask Robert for permission to dance or even court one of those girls. "The king granted it with a laugh, so I heard."
"There will be another squire's melee." Ned looked at Arya sharply. "Perhaps I can join as a…a mystery…squire."
"I thought you hated stories of knights," said Ned dryly.
"I want to fight!" said Arya hotly. She glared at Lucas Tyrell who seemed to be asking a noble maiden to dance. "I want to fight him for what he did to Bran!" She stabbed a freshly baked bun with her knife. Berry juice squirted out of the bun and all over Arya's clenched fingers.
"No." Ned didn't even need to consider his answer. "Water dancing with Syrio is one matter, but fighting in a melee is out of the question. Besides, I do not think you are allowed to fight due to your gender Arya."
"That's stupid! Lady Mormont fought in a melee before! She's a woman!"
"For your own safety, you will not fight in any melee or tourney here. If you do not want to watch the melees, contests and tourneys, you may visit Bran."
Arya huffed and pouted. "Fine. May I be excused?"
Ned nodded. "Try and sleep, Arya. We had a shock today, but we do need to be up early tomorrow morning for the wedding."
"Weddings, weddings, weddings." Ned heard Arya mumble irritably. "All that I am allowed to do is attend weddings these days."
Shaking his head, Ned stood up. It was time for a walk. Quietly Ned slipped out from the High Hall and stood outside, breathing in the fresh evening air. It'd been years since he breathed in Vale air. In fact, the last time he stood outside the High Hall alone was when he'd learnt of his father and brother's murders. Instinctively, he had wanted to run to a godswood; the Vale had no godswood. He knew then – even before Robert stormed around, declaring war – that blood would be spilled. Why do I have that feeling now? Ned contemplated, staring at the full moon. There is peace in the majority of the Seven Kingdoms and Robert's on the Iron Throne, not a mad Targaryen king. The Westerlands wasn't on the best terms with Robert but they wouldn't be strong enough to launch a war on their own against the rest of a united Westeros – Ser Kevan Lannister was aware of that. Yet…
Ned shook his head. He was over thinking again. Lately, he found himself over thinking quite a bit about the tiniest of matters.
Surely one would be assaulted with nostalgia – both bad and good – when one returns to his foster home; Ned was only hit with the bad memories. He did recall the time he and Robert sparred, but that was an ordinary memory. It felt good to remember it upon arrival, but now…it was common.
"Ah, Ned. Thought I'd find you here." Ned smiled faintly as Robert lumbered to his side, wine goblet in hand.
"Does Catelyn know?" Ned nodded at the goblet.
Robert snorted. "It's a celebration Ned! Who am I? Baelor the Blessed? I wager that even blessed Baelor had a drink from time to time." He snickered and drank some more wine. "It's been a while, eh? The two of us, back here in the Eyrie. Did you see Jon Arryn's son? He looks like he could be blown away by the next strong gust of wind. Puny child. I was twice his size when I was his age."
"Aye." Ned's smile broadened. "You were much stronger too."
"I was thinking of appointing a new Warden of the East."
Ned stared at his old friend, startled. "The Arryns have always been Warden of the East. The title goes with the domain. Besides, we're the guests here. You'll be insulting the Arryns in giving the title to another. Robert Arryn is Jon's son. After what Jon had done for us all those years ago-"
"Yes, yes," Robert cut in, "but a nine year old boy is no war leader or soldier no matter how much training Stannis subjects him to."
"War?" Ned was astonished. "You believe there will be a war?"
"Raven from Stannis earlier." Robert drained the rest of his wine. "Apparently one of our cousins sent word from the Stormlands that there's a Dornish army on the border. Distrustful don't you think? It is probably a jousting tourney or spear practice. Stannis should learn to be less distrustful."
"If you think Stannis is lying, why are you considering giving another the title of Warden of the East?"
Robert shrugged. "It was suggested to me and it made sense."
A chill prickled the back of Ned's neck. What was it that Arya said earlier? She heard two individuals plotting? "Who suggested it to you?"
Robert shifted irritably. "Seven Hells, Ned! Why does it matter? It was Varys if you must know. For a eunuch, he does give good advice."
"Give it time," Ned advised. "Robert Arryn may grow into a war commander fit to be Warden of the East. Robert Arryn has already been Warden of the East for a number of years. It will be cruel to take the title from him, my king."
"My king?" Robert guffawed. "Bah, no titles between us Ned. I told you that. We are brothers after all." He stroked his wild, thick beard thoughtfully. "I'll think on the Robert Arryn matter," he decided at last. He pointed a thick finger at Ned. "No promises though." His expression softened. "I heard about Bran. Poor lad. How is he now? Resting?"
"Unconscious. Ashara is watching over him. She hadn't left his side all day."
"He'll wake up soon," Robert said confidently. "You Starks are strong. If you all can survive the harshest of winters, Bran Stark can survive a head injury that he received in a squire's melee."
Bran looked so peaceful, his eyes closed shut and his expression serene. It was as if he was in deep sleep, not in a state of unconsciousness. Before the sun began its slow ascent to the sky, Ned was sitting quietly beside Bran's bed, his grey eyes fixed gravely on his second son.
"How is he?" Ashara appeared at Ned's side.
"Still unconscious," Ned responded. "What is that?" He pointed at the bowl on the table next to the bed.
Ashara looked surprised. "Honey, water and herb mixture. It'll keep Bran alive. The maester mixed it for him yesterday. It is an easy concoction. We do not have to ask Maester Colemon to make it for us every day. We can make the mixture by ourselves." Ned nodded. His mind had been cloudy with worried thoughts of late; Robb in the Hornwood, Lyarra's pregnancy, Arya being Arya, Bran's injury, Jon (if he was even alive), the younger children…the thought of that mixture must have slipped his mind.
"…when you leave for Winterfell with Arya," Ashara was murmuring.
"What?" said Ned hastily.
"I will stay here with Bran," Ashara repeated, "and return to Winterfell the day he is well again. The North needs you."
"No," said Ned firmly. "Our son needs his mother and father when he wakes up, Ashara. Besides, what will my bannermen think if I return and you are not at my side? Do you remember what happened when you were at Dorne for two years, if not a little more?"
Ashara flinched. "I rather not remember that," she said stiffly, her lips forming a straight line. "Either way, whatever we choose to do, your northern lords won't be pleased at the outcome. Lord Umber would probably demand to know why it wasn't possible for us to leave for Winterfell with Bran in a litter after he says it's shameful for Bran to be in a litter." Her eyes shone with anger. "What will please him? Our unconscious son strapped to a horse?"
Ned was silent. What the Greatjon would expect would infuriate him, let alone Ashara. Ned preferred his bannermen to speak their minds as opposed to flattery like the southron lords, but at times when mercy and kindness ruled supreme, it was not the blunt truth Ned always wanted to hear.
"You look lovely," said Ned, swiftly changing the topic. Ashara was garbed in a simple, yet pretty gown of grey and white; around her neck was the star pendant wrought from pearls she'd received from her late brother Ser Arthur Dayne; and pinning her long dark hair back was a silver direwolf pin. "A bit early to be ready for the wedding isn't it?"
"I thought it would distract me…"
"Maybe finding Arya would distract you."
Astonishment and resignation appeared in Ashara's expression. "She is not at all sound asleep in her chambers?"
"I thought I saw her sneak out with Needle. Could just be shadows though." He paused. "Lyarra asked Syrio to continue training Arya," he said cautiously. "Syrio will be arriving here…soon." Ashara didn't say anything. "We both know that our daughter would continue training regardless of what we do," Ned went on. "If we forbid her, she'd train in secret and it would only isolate her away from us. More training from Syrio would probably benefit her if when the wildling war is over, I might send her to Bear Island for a while."
"You will have her fostered there."
Ned nodded. "Maester Luwin had sent me a list of solutions to draw our house closer to the other northern houses and I plan to use a couple of them."
"It is for the best." Ashara patted Ned's hand. "You should change." Her purple eyes twinkled. "You don't want to earn our hostess's ire, now do you? I heard the Lady Arryn will be furious if even one guest is late. Astonishing, as she was still a great deal unhappy about her future good-son yesterday afternoon…"
"A toast!" King Robert boomed, raising his goblet. "To the Lady Sansa and Ser Harrold Hardyng!"
Ned raised his cup and echoed, "To the Lady Sansa and Ser Harrold!" He could not help but smile at the newly wedded couple who sat side by side in the middle of the high table. The Lady Sansa was attired in a gown of ivory samite and cloth-of-silver lined with silvery satin. Her sleeves were long and dagged, the points of them almost touching the ground. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her stomach, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in a shade of sky blue. Her skirt was decorated with swirls of sky blue too. It was clear that Lady Arryn spared no expense for her eldest daughter's wedding. Ser Harrold wore a doublet of black velvet covered with swirls of red and white and over it a chain of alternating rubies and pearls. Emblazoned proudly on his doublet breast was his personal coat of arms: quartered with the Hardyng red and white diamonds and the Waynwood broken black wheel on a green field in the first and third quarters on the left and the sky-blue falcon soaring against white moon on a sky blue field on the second and fourth quarters on the right.
"They look more happy than Lady Arryn," Ashara remarked.
Ned chuckled in agreement. "I do not blame Lady Arryn though. Lady Sansa is her firstborn daughter and should be married to a great lord, not a knight. It was Jon who ordered her to be married to Harrold Hardyng for the sake of the Vale. If Robert Arryn was more robust and strong, Jon wouldn't have had to worry about the future of his lands if Lady Sansa becomes Lady of the Eyrie."
"She is still a girl," said Ashara, watching Lady Sansa blush at the comment her new husband whispered to her. "Yet tomorrow she will be a wife. Possibly even a mother in nine months."
"Children grow up," Ned said quietly. "Our children are growing up. Lyarra's a mother almost and Robb nearly a father. Soon it will be Bran, Gwenysse, Arthur, even Rickon." He smiled softly. "Time flies."
"Time flies…" repeated Ashara thoughtfully. "It does indeed."
Before anything else could be said, there was a sudden commotion at the high table. Robert had dropped his wine goblet onto the dais with a loud clang, scarlet red liquid spilling all over the platform and dripping down to the ground.
Ned stood up, his own cup slipping from his grasp. His eyes widened.
Robert.
Robert had collapsed on his seat, spluttering and coughing as his thick fingers began to claw at his throat. Shaking away the horror that cloaked all the wedding guests present, Ned ran to the dais, his heart pounding. Robert couldn't be dying, no, not like this…! When Ned reached his closest friend's side, he knew instantly, that it was too late. Robert's face was red – redder than usual – and his fingers all stiff and clutching his throat. His blue eyes were wide open, ripe with terror. Ned felt his own fingers curl into a fist as he dimly heard shouting and sobbing.
First Bran; now Robert.
As a terrified scream sharply pierced the air, Ned continued to stare at Robert. Robert was more than a friend – he was a brother. They sparred together, they'd drank and ate together, they had mourned together and they had even won a war together. And now…it felt unreal. It felt…wrong…but it was true.
Robert Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and a brother and friend, was dead.
Name suggestions for Dany and Robb's child/children are still welcome! :) Fejstroll, no need to apologise! I'm delighted that you are still reading this story :D
