283 AC

King's Landing

"Ned! Ned, wait! Wait!"

It was Jon Arryn' voice that called to Ned as he crossed one of the little courtyards in Maegor's Holdfast, forging headlong out of the Red Keep. For a moment, he considered ignoring Jon entirely, his rage still ice-cold and cutting, but his legs stopped of their own accord. He turned, armour clinking softly, and watched in silence as the only father he had left half ran to meet him.

"Please Jon. Don't try to dissuade me. I cannot bear to be in this city, let alone in this castle, and surely Storm's End must be relieved posthaste." And Lyanna. The sooner Storm's End was retaken, the sooner he could look for her.

He could not bear any of the men around him. Not Jaime Lannister, who slit the throat of the king he had sworn to protect. Not Tywin Lannister, who presented the mutilated bodies of a helpless woman and her babes as if he had done a service to the realm.

And least of all Robert, who had smiled at the bloodied children and declared them dragonspawn. They had been brothers for more than half his life, yet today Ned looked upon his face and saw a stranger.

Dragonspawn. If Ned was right—and gods help them all if he was—is that what Robert would say of a child Lyanna carried? If Rhaegar has gotten her with child, the babe could already be months old by now. Like the little prince he had forced himself to see.

Dragonspawn. He could even imagine it now: Lyanna screaming as Robert let Tywin Lannister's beasts crush the skull of his niece or nephew.

He felt bile in his throat, sour and burning. Ned needed to leave this accursed place. The thought rose in his mind then, unbidden. Perhaps Ashara had been right. This filthy city has the power to pollute the conscience.

But no, he must keep memories of Ashara from his mind now. He was married to another—had a duty to his new wife. Whatever love Ned had shared with Ashara Dayne, there was no place for it in the heart of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

"No, I do not intend to stop you, Ned," said Jon, who had caught up to him now. Ned still said nothing, but Jon just handed him a roll of parchment, its blue seal still intact.

"I only wished to give you this." He took Ned's helm and gauntlets to free his hands. "A raven just arrived from Riverrun."

Ned could not help his startled look then. Jon had sent out ravens from King's Landing just yesterday, announcing Robert's coronation. For news to arrive this urgently from Riverrun, and for him alone…

His hands were suddenly trembling with anticipation, his limbs soft as jelly. Four moons ago, he had received a similar missive, sealed in blue, with news that his new wife was carrying his child.

He had felt intoxicated then, his head swimming, drunk beyond drunk. His chest had swelled with sweet anticipation, for all that it was laced with the bitter aftertaste of finality. He was well and truly married to Catelyn Tully, and she would bear his children, and share his life. That boy who had fallen in love during those magical days at Harrenhal was no more, and he would never see laughing violet eyes again.

But this new letter—surely it was too soon. His mind spun as he tried to recall how many moons his mother had carried Benjen, but he had been barely four, and time still meant nothing back then. Shaking his head to clear it, Ned broke the trout-stamped seal and unfurled the parchment.

To my good-son:

I hope this raven finds you well and uninjured.

Nine days ago, Catelyn took to early labor, and gave birth to your son. He is small, but the maester says he is strong and healthy, and will thrive with careful tending. My daughter asked that he be named Robb, after the new king. She remembered you saying you are like brothers, and she hoped the name would please you.

Two days later, my daughter succumbed to childbed fever. She is with the gods now. Cat wished me to tell you that she was blessed to have known you for her husband, even for so short a time. Once I have laid my daughter to rest, I will ride to King's Landing to swear fealty to the king. We will meet then to settle the upbringing of my grandson.

You must forgive a grieving old man his curtness, for I know nought else to write you. May the Father keep you, and the Warrior aid you in your remaining endeavours.

Hoster Tully

When he had been two and ten, Ned had fallen violently ill after a ride through a storm in the Vale. In his fevered dreams, scenes of ordinary life overlapped with the strange and terrible, as if he looked out upon his life through tinted glass. He felt that sense of unreality now. He world seemed to spin, and he could not be certain that his legs would hold him upright.

His weight of his armour suddenly felt enough to crush in his chest as Robert had done to Rhaegar at the Trident, and for a moment Ned wondered if he were capable of continuing breath.

"Ned? What is it, son?"

Jon Arryn's voice sounded again, cutting through his stifling haze, and like the little boy he'd once been, Ned reached out blindly for the man's arm. A strong hand on his elbow steadied him, and Ned could say nothing, only hand Jon the parchment.

The next moment, Jon had pulled him down to one of the stone benches under an archway and loosened the straps on the side of his breastplate. The extra room to breathe helped clear his head, but now the grief and guilt were sharp and biting in his gut.

"I cannot express how sorry I am, Ned, truly. I understand this pain. I wish you do not have to know it."

He was glad that Jon had not first congratulated him on his son, as a lesser man might have. He understood that Ned would not want to hear those words now.

Ned felt a warm palm over his own hand, and looked up into Jon Arryn's kind blue eyes. Jon had suffered the bite of this grief more than once, he remembered distantly, and it was with this knowledge that he finally found his words.

"She was barely eighteen," he choked out. "The maesters say it is more dangerous for a woman to carry a babe before she is eighteen. Perhaps, if I had waited—"

"How could you have waited? You did your duty, as she did hers. The marriage needed to be consummated, and you needed an heir. Would you rather have left your brother the only Stark remaining should something happen to you?"

"But at what cost, Jon? I barely knew her, but she was so full of life, and because of me, she—" She had been so bright, like a flame, now snuffed out as easily as one blows a candle. First his father, then his brother, and now Catelyn, who had been nearly a stranger, yet still his wife. Who would be next, Ned wondered. And the Dornish princess? Hadn't Ash spoken so fondly of her? That poor princess and her mutilated children, a crimson mess on the floor. Who would this bloody war claim next? When he found Lyanna, would she even be alive?

"Eddard Stark, you listen to me." The fingers on his hand had tightened into a vice grip, pulling Ned out of his spiralling despair.

"Listen to me, son. This is not your fault, do you hear me? You did nothing wrong. Just as she did nothing wrong. The gods are cruel at times, and they have chosen to take Lady Catelyn from this world. There is nought to do now but honour her memory. Grieve for her, and love your son. What else would she have wanted from you? Did Hoster not say she was happy to be your bride?"

"I…I don't know, Jon, I just don't know." He buried his face in his free hand, feeling sick from the fresh wave of agony. "It just hurts. I don't know anything else."

Jon sighed. "If you forget everything else I've taught you, know this: the grief and guilt seem higher than the Wall now, but as with anything else, they will dull with time. All is not lost. And you will feel beyond the pain again, I promise."

An hour hence, Ned led his men south to relieve the siege at Storms End.

A/N: Poor Ned. Things aren't going to get better anytime soon.