Brynden Tully still carried the night chill about him as he swept into Ashara's library turret, bowing briskly before Ned offered him a seat. His hair was stiff so that it appeared frozen, and his lips seemed to disappear into his face from the cold.

Ashara poured water from the clay pitcher that hung over their fireplace embers at night, and Brynden nodded gratefully, but he did not keep them waiting on his purpose. The Blackfish had even less use for small talk and pleasantries than Ned did. When he had downed the contents of the pewter mug, he levelled a long, grim look at them both.

"Lady Arryn has related a grave tale," he said. "She tells me that Jon Arryn was murdered, and it was the Lannister queen who slipped in the poison."

At once, Ned felt his chair had sprouted icy roots that crept up his back and bound him in place. Yet in a moment, reason returned.

"You believe this story, Ser Brynden? Lady Arryn—surely she is sick with grief. She cannot know what she is saying."

Brynden's leathery brow creased along its deep lines. He sighed and shook his head.

"There is much I cannot know for certain. She seemed sure of her words. Yet, I cannot deny that the woman who received me in the Vale was not the girl I knew at Riverrun. She is most changed, and I do not know if it is from grief or the years—"

His voice died in his throat as Ashara bolted to her feet beside Ned, nearly toppling her chair. There was a terrible look of distress about her eyes, and her breath was rough and erratic.

"Ashara?" Alarmed, Ned made to rise, but she shook her head.

"No, I…I beg your pardon ser, I must…"

As if possessed, she dashed past them and up the stairs leading to the upper level of her library, her footsteps uneven on rough stone. Ned could not keep the frown from his face but turned back to the Blackfish.

"Has she proof?"

"Nothing solid."

"If she has no proof, how can she be so sure?"

Brynden shook his head again.

"If I speak plain, you were right that she was sick with grief. Mad with it, even. But she was adamant that the Lannisters had poisoned Jon—would not let go of my arm until I had promised to relay the news to you."

"To me? But she does not know me."

Brynden gave him a wry smile.

"Oh, she remembers you well enough from your days at Riverrun." Ned felt the old pang of guilt but pushed it down. "She half begged me to tell you. 'Eddard Stark must know,' she kept saying to me, 'Eddard Stark must be told, Uncle.'"

"What use does she have of my knowing?"

Brynden shrugged.

"She did not say. As I tell you, she…" he heaved a great sigh. "She is much changed. My brother did her a great wrong in her youth, and I am afraid that since then, she has not been…right."

"Then surely her words…it seems an incredible story, Brynden. Even the Grand Maester ruled Jon's death as an infection."

"But what if it was not?" It was Ashara who broke in. She stood at the base of the stone stairs, eyes bright with determined certainty. In her hands, she clutched a small gilded book, and she beckoned them over to the desk beneath the thin window.

"An infection, I mean. See here," she said as Ned and Brynden approached her, opening the book to the page where her finger kept place. The book was bound in vellum, but the gold-lined pages within were made of the reedy paper used across the Narrow Sea. It took Ned a moment to recognise the High Valyrian, though he could remember only choice words. Brynden saw it too, and offered a dry chuckle.

"You'd best translate, Lady Ash. The maester never could stuff High Valyrian into my head."

"This is a book of tonics and poisons from Essos," she said. "It includes general ingredients and instructions for each brew, appearances, symptoms and effects, and a brief history of known use. Here is the page for the brew known as Tears of Lys, a rare and expensive poison." Her finger traced over the words, her fair skin stark against the yellowing pages and fading ink.

"Churning and sharp, burning pain in the stomach and intestines; fever; chills. Victim shows signs of stomach and intestinal infection. Death arrives in days. Does this not sound exactly as King Robert described Jon Arryn's symptoms, Ned?"

Now the chill returned tenfold, creeping vines slithering up his spine, drawing beads of cold sweat to the back of his neck. Poison. Jon was poisoned.

"How in seven hells do you have a book like this?" asked Brynden, looking at Ashara with a newfound alarm. Ned looked up too. Ashara had a great array of books in this personal library, accumulated over the years or brought from her rooms at Starfall. She usually allowed the children—mostly Arthur and Sam—to access it whenever they wished, but she had always insisted they show her the title before they took anything, and now Ned understood why.

"Prince Oberyn Martell gave it to me. He travelled in Essos for many years of his youth. He knew I liked old and rare books and thought this…ahem, might be of interest."

The Blackfish still looked half appalled. The knight had softened to Ashara over the years and often remarked what a sweet-natured and kindly wife Ned had been blessed with. Still, Ned did not know why he should be surprised his wife would own such a book. Did he not know she read any book she could get her hands on? Did he believe Ashara was studying the Seven-Pointed Star when he inevitably saw her reading all around the castle when she had a moment to spare?

"I think we can be fairly certain that Jon Arryn died from poison," Ashara said softly now, looking up at them both. "But Ser Brynden, do you think Lady Arryn truly has the right of it? That it was the Lannisters?"

Brynden shook his head and repeated his earlier words, and Ashara put down the book to pace the small room.

"Nonetheless," she said, wringing her hands, "Lady Arryn must have had her reasons for believing it. Did she not tell them to you?"

Brynden paused.

"Not directly, though she is not the only one who suspects poison. Many of the Vale lords believe the manner of Jon Arryn's death strange, though I have not heard the Lannister name from them. Lysa did say, though, that Jon Arryn had intended to foster young Robert at Casterly Rock."

Ashara stopped and narrowed her eyes.

"If they did murder Jon, with his son at Casterly Rock, they would have total control over the future Lord of the Vale. Mould him however they wanted. They could even find someone of their persuasion to marry Lady Lysa, and gain control through her."

Ned frowned.

"But why would the Lannister care about the Vale? It does not border them, and they have to know the Vale lords would be a difficult lot to corrupt with their gold."

"Hmm, why indeed? That cannot be the reason, then," she said, continuing her pacing. "What else did the king tell you this afternoon?"

But it was Brynden Tully's fist on the table that answered her.

"Hells, it's nearly escaped my mind. The Vale lords are all simmering, angry because the king has not seen fit to bestow Lord Robin with the title Warden of the East."

Ashara's eyebrows shot up.

"Did the king truly do this? Did he tell you, Ned?"

"Well, yes." Now she looked at Ned with that faint expression he recognised to mean, 'And you did not think this worthwhile information to tell me?'

Ned spread his hands.

"The king was set on the choice. I tried to dissuade him, but he quickly moved on to more pressing matters."

"Did he tell you whom he will name instead?" Ned shook his head.

"Are there whisperings in the Vale, Ser Brynden? It is all well and good if he names a Royce or a Corbray, but I fear…"

"Oh, people are always whispering, Lady Ash, but no one knows a thing. They all grumble though, for it will cause an uproar in the Vale no matter what the king decides."

Ashara worried her lip, stilling again from her pacing. She closed her eyes for a moment.

"Perhaps 'tis another reason for the Lannisters to wish Jon Arryn dead." She looked uncertain but carried on. "So that they might push the king into naming Jaime Lannister Warden of the East. I know the title is but an honour in peacetime, but perhaps Tywin Lannister would jump at such an acquisition for his son."

Brynden seemed to balk. "Enough to murder a man? What, is Lannister planning to overthrow the king? Why else would he want so desperately to hold half the armies in the kingdom? To want it enough that he'd murder the Hand?"

Ashara sighed and dropped into a chair.

"No, you are right, of course. Surely that is not why," she conceded. "Though I fear the king will give Jaime Lannister the honour now that Jon Arryn is dead."

She shook her head.

"I cannot think of another reason the Lannisters might want Jon Arryn gone, and yet I am most certain now that he was poisoned," she said. She looked up at him then, her eyes glittering with worry and regret.

"What is it?" he asked when she did not speak. Her brow knotted.

It was Brynden who spoke.

"Well, Ned. The king's asked you to be his Hand, hasn't he?"

Ned looked over at him in alarm. How…

"Oh, don't look at me like that. Why else would he come up here trailing half his court with him? To have a picnic?"

"I—yes, he did ask."

"Well, I think what Lady Ash wants to say is that you need to take the post!"

"What? No, I cannot! My place is here, not in that adders' nest of a city."

Taken aback completely, Ned turned his wide eyes to his wife. She shook her head and put her head in her palm.

"I do not think you should. Gods help me, I certainly do not want you to take it. But...Robert has poisoners around him. Perhaps that poisoner shares his bed. I cannot deny that the Hand of the King holds great power, Ned. Power to learn the truth. Power enough to protect Robert." Her eyes flicked to Brynden for a moment. "Power enough to protect Lady Arryn and her son."

He understood. She was right. Damnation, why was she so right about it all? And though Ned trusted Brynden Tully with his life, there was no denying that the man would wish him to take the post. For the sake of his remaining niece and her boy. By all reckoning, Robert Arryn was his nephew, was he not, no matter that Lady Catelyn was dead and gone these many years? Damnation.

He swore aloud and dropped into the chair beside his wife. He could feel her bright gaze on him, not to mention Brynden Tully's intent eyes, but he kept his head buried in his hands.

"You do not have to go, Ned," came Ashara's soft voice. "The choice is still yours to make. You do not have to go."

But was there still a choice? Between honour and cowardice, perhaps.

"My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again."

"A different king," said Brynden. "This one—we both put him on the throne."

"Yes," Ned heard himself say. His throat tight, he rose and walked to the window, peering out into the moonlit night. The very thought of King's Landing left a sour taste on his tongue, and again he saw before him the mangled bodies on the marble floor, the crimson of blood and Lannister red stinging his eyes. He never wanted to enter that accursed city again. He belonged up here, with the wind and snow and the people of the North. He belonged here with his family and his men.

His father, Brandon, Lyanna…all had died when they rode south. Starks did not fare well past the Neck. His father roasting in his armour; Brandon's face turning black as death; Lyanna lying in her blood-stained bed, smoke and blood burning his nose, her voice desperately pleading…

And yet.

"Yes," he said again, turning back to face the room.

"Ser Brynden, you must stay at Winterfell. You are most needed here. Please, give my son council. He will need it."

Brynden nodded. Ashara stood, her face chalk white and pained.

"Well," she finally said, her voice like dust. "Thank you for coming to us so urgently with the news, Ser Brynden. There will be much to prepare."

Brynden left the library. Back in their chambers, Ned turned back to his wife. She had settled herself on the bed, half-dazed as she stared at a spot on the wall.

He felt his chest close painfully, and he frowned against the sudden pang.

"I do not wish to go," he said, his voice barely a whisper. She reached blindly for him, and their hands found each other on the quilts.

"I do not wish you to go."

Ned sighed.

"Ashara, the thought of leaving the North, of leaving you here—"

She bolted upright then, making him jump, and when she looked at him it was as if he had begun juggling on the spot.

"What did you say?"

"What did—"

"The thought of leaving me here? Ned, are you mad?"

"I—what?"

"I am coming with you! How could you think I would do otherwise?"

It was his turn to gape at her.

"But—you—the children—"

She bit her lip but did not turn away.

"All I know at this moment, Ned Stark, is that if you go alone, you won't survive that accursed city. I am coming with you."

O~O~O~O~O

Her children would be leaving her, and Ashara wished to curl up in her bed and shut out the world.

In the early hours of the next morning, amid their furs and quilts, she and Ned determined where each of the children would be when they moved their household to King's Landing. She had been reluctant to even speak on the matter—not so soon after she had accepted she would now spend years back in that vile, suffocating place, flitting about at court amongst the people who hid their faces behind so much mummery and silk.

Yet part of her wished her babes would come with her all the same, a thought so impossible it bordered on the absurd, yet nonetheless fluttered hopefully in her mind. She remembered that year Sansa had been with Dev in Starfall, and felt her heart sink into her stomach. How was she to survive these next years?

Robb would naturally stay North and rule Winterfell in his father's place. And Jon, naturally, would be with him.

"It will be good for them both," Ned had told her. "They will work thus the rest of their lives. It will be a good start."

"I am hardly worried Robb will lack for counsel or Jon will not provide it," she said, staring at the canopy. "It's only...Oh, they are so young, Ned. Still boys, in truth, and Robb will have the final say in all things."

Theon and Sam would naturally both be staying as well. Theon would be at Winterfell until Balon Greyjoy died, and Sam...poor boy. Randyll Tarly did not summon him home to learn the ways of running Horn Hill, and Sam's letters to his father that he be allowed to spend some years at the Citadel never received replies. Sam was surely due for a visit home, but Lord Tarly was still in his prime. Sam would not be needed back home for many years yet, and would no doubt return to Winterfell soon enough.

No, Robb would not want for council, but the thought of the four boys putting their minds together without Ned's tempering influence—that worried her more than she could say, even with the presence of Ser Brynden and Maester Luwin.

"Not so young. You must trust we have taught them well. They are men grown, Ash. Seventeen…I was but eighteen at Harrenhal, and nineteen when I led an army to avenge my father and brother. At seventeen, you were already living in court intrigue."

"And we were young then! Naive and impulsive and far too sure of ourselves. Full of illusions about the world. It was only war and what came after that made us hard and weary."

"You had killed two men by seventeen," he said very quietly, taking her hand before she flinched. "Do not think I've forgotten."

She bit her lip, eyes fixed on their joined hands, but had no words. She had spoken true, but she alone could not keep the world at bay forever. They must learn for themselves, and she could only hope Ned was right.

"Winter is coming, Ashara. They cannot be children forever."

She let out a shaking breath, her brows twisting. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned into his chest.

"Damn your Stark honour, and damn your winter," she said, her voice so low she did not know if he heard. Oh, how the bleeding half of her wished she had held her tongue about the poison! How she wished she had never tried to counsel him on this at all, and simply let him refuse Robert as he would.

Yet she knew herself. She could never have done such a thing—lie to him so and keep her thoughts hidden from him. And as soon as she had said the word 'poison' and showed him the book, this was where his honour would lead her. Back to that city of her nightmares. It was her fault, more than it was his. Yet what else could she have done?

Next, they spoke of Sansa, and the helpless ache throbbed in her chest. She and Dev had intended that Sansa live at Starfall when she was nine—had intended that she grow up there, knowing the land and people and the ways of the Daynes. In the early years of this long summer, she and Ned had taken their family to Dorne, and when they returned, Sansa had not come back with them.

But Ashara should have known she could not stomach leaving her sweet, gentle girl, and for all that Dev and Allyria tried to make Sansa feel at home, some months in, Dev had written to her of Sansa's quiet unhappiness.

'Your daughter grows thin and melancholy. Sometimes, when I see her wandering the gardens alone, I see you in my mind, seven-years-old and lost after our mother passed and Arthur left for the capital. I will not fault you if you instruct me to send her home to you.'

So she did, and she tried desperately not to remember that nothing had changed, despite her daughter's unhappiness. Sansa had flown from the ship and into her arms at White Harbour, pleading with her to make someone else the heir to Starfall, and Ashara had felt her heart shatter. But yet again, what could she do?

Dev could not marry now—he could barely spend an hour on his feet without the air constricting in his throat—and what other remedy could there be, save that she keep Sansa with her for as long as she could? And now...now that Sansa was of age, and she and Ned headed to the capital...

Sansa would travel with them, and once they settled in, she would send her to Starfall once more. Sansa would make her new home there. It was time. There could be no more delay. If she would rule the Dayne lands, she must learn their ways, and learn the mountains and river as Ashara once had. She must make herself known to the people, and Dev must teach her all he could before—another matter she wished not to dwell on.

And Sansa knew her duty—after that day in White Harbour, Sansa never again asked to shirk her future role—though seeing her fortitude gave Ashara more helpless pain than pride. Sansa told her siblings that she had named her wolf pup Lemons for the colour of her eyes, but Ashara knew better and saw in the name her daughter's quiet determination.

When she had asked Sansa, after her return, if there was anything at all she had liked of Starfall, her daughter had chewed her lip, her child's mind torn between truth and obligation. Finally, she had said,

"The lemons there are sublime."

Ashara had spent that evening weeping into Ned's chest.

Arya, too, would be headed to Dorne. Despite her words to the queen last night, Ashara knew that it would not be easy to find Arya a future that did not suffocate her fire, especially in the North. Most houses were not the Mormonts. The best chance to find such a place for her was in Dorne. She would write to Oberyn. Her daughter would go to live with those delightful girls of his in Sunspear, and perhaps learn that she need not always be ready with a thorny shell to defend against the constraints of the world.

And so she would lose all her children save for the twins, yet naturally, the thought of bringing Arthur and—gods help them all—Elia to King's Landing made her queasy.

"It will be for the best," Ned had tried to soothe her when she felt the blood drain from her face. "It can only do our family good to have the twins grow up with the royal children. For them to grow as close as Robert and I were. No matter what the Lannisters have or have not done."

"I cannot argue, but Elia? In King's Landing? She is even less suited to the place than her namesake, and I...I am so afraid, Ned."

"You will be there. You and me and our household guards. We will keep our children safe. And we cannot subject Winterfell to Elia's antics if we are not here."

She laughed despite herself.

"No, there wouldn't be a castle to come back to if we did. At least the capital will be good for Arthur." Ned had not agreed to Arthur's maester ambitions outright, but it would do him good to see more of the world, no matter the danger.

So it was settled. So, within a day, her life was to fragment into parts and be tossed about in the air. And as much as Ashara tried to believe it was all for the best—that surely nothing could go terribly wrong—she could not help the churning unease that had settled deep in her gut, refusing to calm.