A/N: Hey all. hope things are going well.
Enjoy and please comment :D
Chapter 44: Duty is the Death of Love
It felt like a chain weighing on him. Ice, the mighty Valyrian steel greatsword of House Stark,
as a prize of lifetimes. Yet for Ned Stark the belt that held the sheathed sword felt like a Sothoryos python slowly crushing him.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North… The shouting voices to either side of his perch at the head of the map table were essentially inaudible. I didn't deserve this… my father is supposed to be here...
"My Lord, it is time!"
Blinking, Ned shook aside his daze to find the gathered Lords of his war council either staring at him or glaring at Ethan Glover. "You ask us to be fools," replied Wyman Manderly, wider than when he was last here. "To betray our King."
Greatjon Umber snarled. "The King you speak of burned our Lord and future Lord alive!"
"He speaks not of Aerys, but of Rhaegar Targaryen, husband of our she-wolf and the rightful King," Howland Reed remarked, remaining calm. "Do you dare betray Queen Lyanna Targaryen?"
"Shut up, frog-man," Lord Glover hissed back. "Rhaegar and Aerys can fight for the Iron Throne. It is time to fix a centuries long obscenity. It is time for Eddard of House Stark to reclaim the mantle of House Stark - King in the North!" He smacked his hand on the table.
Lord Manderly smacked his hand in return. "Quiet yourself with that shit! We'd be foolish cunts to toss ourselves in the blizzard rather than bring the blizzard to our enemies."
"What use do we have with the south?! Or with the damned dragons?! Lord Rickard did so and was burned alive by Aerys Targaryen. I say fuck them all! We'll do better on our own like northmen always do!"
"We'll fucking starve without the south, you idiot."
His words drew scorn from Helman Tallhart. "Of course Manderly, you've always been a southern bootlicker, too desperate for that trade with your former masters in Oldtown than the welfare of the North."
Wyman flushed bright red. "Say that to my face you cunt."
"I'll say it as I shove my sword up your fat ass…"
"Enough!" Head pounding, Ned glared at his bannermen. Now mine. "You deign to speak for House Stark? As far as I'm concerned, it is my decision for what course the North takes. I will hear your concerns and ideas, but if you seek to toss me aside and bicker like spoiled babes then I'll find Lords that are more agreeable."
Snorting, Roose Bolton looked over Ned with a thinly veiled respect. He was rising to the occasion surprisingly enough. Time to tie the anchor…
"Cousin, it is our decision for proclaiming a King in the North," Rickard Karstark observed. "Pushing aside your council will only…"
"There won't be any Kings in the North, nor will I ever entertain such from my bannermen," Ned shouted. "My goodbrother has informed me that he is seeking the Iron Throne as the rightful King, and that's the path we will take. The North will stand with King Rhaegar and Queens Lyanna and Elia of House Targaryen, for better or for worse." He eyed each of them, daring Glover or Tallhart or Karstark to disagree with him. No one did. "Good, now, Lord Umber. Have the final forces of the Mountain Clans arrived close to Winterfell?"
Chuckling, eying Ned with a proud glint, Smalljon Umber shrugged. "I suppose they'll be here within the next day, but the ones we're still waiting on are Glover's men."
Ned glared at Ethan Glover. "Lord Glover, is this true?"
Ethan flushed. "I gave the order for my cousin Robett to march with all haste, and you received a raven indicating their departure three days before…"
"Oh, don't expect them to get here for at least a moon," Lord Karstark offered snidely. "Robett Glover is more craven than a sword-swallowing pansy." Ethan pricked, enduring the jeers of the other Lords.
Sighing, Ned eyed the map. "Well, it looks as if we'll have to march south piecemeal. First to move will be the Mormonts, Manderlys, and Boltons. We should say prayers that none of Aerys' forces ambush our men marching down the Kingsroad…"
"My Lord, there is another issue that precludes anything tactical or logistic in nature." Ned's attention was taken by Roose Bolton, tone so cold and emotionless as if dipped in ice - was the man ever warm? The running jape was that he was so frigid that his first wife died of hypothermia in the bedroom. "How do we know Lord Hoster will allow us passage."
Blinking, Ned didn't seem to understand. "Why do you doubt that?"
"He was only allied with us due to your brother's betrothal to Lady Catelyn. With his unfortunate death…"
Silent for the longest time, Ned found his blood going cold. Roose had a point. "I… I…"
Clearing his throat, Martyn Cassel stepped forward. "Actually, my Lord. A raven arrived from Riverrun this morning bearing the seal of House Tully. I was planning to give it to you after the meeting, but now that the topic…"
Ned took the letter, with a mumbled thanks, breaking the seal with his knife. Reading the letter in front of all the men.
Roose waited patiently while Ned read the letter. His expression remained calm, while inside he was truly nervous about his plan. A silver stag to the man that fed the ravens allowed his agents to obtain the raven from Riverrun, one Roose read before anyone else did. It contained the expected condolences from Hoster Tully for the death of Brandon and concern over his daughter… along with the following:
Your brother's death disturbs our alliance that your father so negotiated. If you wish to ratify it, then you have my blessing to marry my daughter yourself. If not, I shall not be offended, and my alliance with his Grace the Crown Prince will not waver.
A man in his employ that specialized in calligraphy duplicated the letter in all respects, except by omitting the last two sentences. Making it seem as if there was no choice in the matter. An alliance only for marriage, nothing else. Watching Ned's expression harden, and then turn into agony, Roose hid a smile. Suppressing his triumphant mood for later.
Ned let his hand drop to the side, still clutching the letter. "So that's it then? I marry Catelyn or the Riverlands will not fight with us."
"My Lord, you must marry her," Rickard Karstark urged.
"No," Howland Reed countered. "He can serve our cause more by wedding Cersei Lannister… or perhaps the remaining unwed sister of Lord Tyrell," he added quickly, knowing only the former was an option Ned could push. "Tywin Lannister provides more men than Hoster Tully could ever field…"
"But only the Riverlands can block us before we even get into position," Roose said. "Catelyn Tully will win us the war, I'm sure of it."
And so it went, the various Lords arguing between each other before Ned hushed them once more. Making his decision for good or for ill.
Ill it would have to be, at least physically for Ned as he arrived at Catelyn's private chambers. Greeting the Tully guards outside, trying desperately not to look like a wight from the weight of what he had chosen. The part of him he had to kill in the pursuit of duty. "How is she?"
One of them winced. "She's barely eaten anything."
"I was afraid of this. May I enter." Ned found Catelyn sitting by the window, staring outside motionlessly. "Lady Catelyn…"
She turned. "Ned…" Her eyes were sunken, face pale. Cheeks stained with long dried tears. She looked like a wraith. "You shouldn't be here."
"I will not dishonor you…"
"It's not that… I'm sorry." The look in her eyes, it was as if she had endured a lifetime of combat and torture. "It is my fault… Brandon's death…"
That shocked him. "Why? What in the gods' name would you think that?" Ned had been worried she'd blame Lya, but not herself.
"I gave him my maidenhead before we were wed, therefore cursing him. It defies the will of the gods to lay before marriage." Panicking for a moment, a mumbled prayer followed. "He was branded by my weakness, and now he was forced to burn… oh gods. How he must have suffered…"
Unable to know what to do, Ned walked to Cat and hugged her. It was stiff and awkward, but she seemed to appreciate it. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yes it was…" came the murmur, but after minutes she seemed to calm down. "What did you wish of me?"
Ned gulped. "Your father betrothed us to be wed." She looked up at him in surprise. With that, Ned handed her the letter. "He gave me a choice, and I've chosen to accept it… you'll be Lady Stark after all." He waited for her to finish, the time interminable.
She gave no expression till the end. "My father truly sent this?"
"Aye, he did." Part of him hoped she would refuse, and he would have an honorable way out.
Catelyn looked to be in a trance. "'The maiden fair is bound to her father, willed to serve his commands…' I must follow his wishes," she murmured.
Ned recognized excerpts of the Seven Pointed Star. He didn't feel it could have gotten any more awkward and unappealing. That proved him wrong. "Are you accepting, my Lady? I shan't force you."
"'Woe to the fair maid that disobeys thy father, nor the wife that runs from thine husband,'" she continued in a daze. "'They have both committed grievous blasphemy against the Mother, as a coward in battle does upon the Warrior..'" Catelyn looked at him. "If such is my duty, it is my duty." Her voice was of a quiet resolve, not the passion and declarations of love Ned had imagined his betrothal would involve. "Brandon always spoke highly of you and you are honorable." Catelyn rose, heading for her chest. "Shall we have it on the morrow?"
"The morrow?" It just seemed so… surreal. "Sure, why not?"
It's not like it will be any different in a week or a moon. No matter what, she would never be Cersei, and Cersei would always have his heart.
Lya, this is for Lya… But deep down Ned knew that Lya would never have asked this of him.
A winter's gale lashed the thick walls of Storm's End with a terrifying howl. Lightning crackling through the darkness and waves bashing the cliffs with an intensity that could rival the legendary storms of Durran Godsgrief. "The time has come!" Lord Robert announced, hair and beard matted to his face as he stuck his head out of the window, rain assaulting him without care. "Hear that Rhaegar! You're going to face the Fury!"
"Brother, please listen." Running a hand down his face, Stannis had an uneasy feeling in his gut. Nothing about this smelled right. "Are you sure about this course of action…"
"Of fucking course I'm sure, Stannis! You told me of what Connington negotiated, of the coming threat to the Realm!" He sideled over to the mounted warhammer upon the wall, hefting it dangerously. "Never thought it would be fucking Rhaegar that turned traitor." The Starks were supposedly part of some conspiracy, but he didn't believe it. Lyanna was bewitched by that rapist! "We call the banners! We go to war against the dragonspawn!"
Ser Corlen Greenpools, the aging Master-at-Arms and a veteran of many a conflict was just as wary about this. "Brother, Dorne is undoubtedly to declare neutrality as is Tywin Lannister. Fighting against Rhaegar will put you against the Starks and the Arryns…"
"Pish," laughed Meryn Trant. Knighted by Robert himself after years as his squire, the fool's smugness irked Stannis greatly. "Why the fuck would they side with that pansy?" To Trant, anyone that didn't leave a string of bastards in dozens of women - or twelve-year old maidens just flowered in his case - wasn't a real man.
"Because he killed Rickard and Brandon Stark you little insect!" Stannis hissed back, advancing on the whelp to smack the shit out of him.
But Robert stepped in front of his brother. "Stop it, Stannis! There will be no war in my household, only upon the dragonspawn." He regretted the murder of the Starks and Jon Arryn -
gods, how he had cried after that… but the true villain was Rhaegar. "Ned and Elbert will never side with a rapist."
"My Lord, Lord Arryn has already declared war against King Aerys," Corlen remarked. "The Starks will be next."
"Our fight for Aerys can be temporary," mused Ser Cortnay Penrose. "Kill Rhaegar, then ally with the Vale and North to depose Aerys and install Viserys on the throne."
Robert smacked him on the back. "That's what I'm talking about!" He turned to the one person who hadn't spoke. "Renly! What do you think about that?!"
Quiet and distracted, it took a moment for Renly to hear what his brother said. "Um… All I know is that Stormbreaker will taste plenty of blood."
A bellowing laugh. "Oh brother, you finally say something worth listening too!"
"My lord…" Corlen said, trying one last time to end this madness before it happened. "I've fought in many wars alongside your father and grandfather... Nothing ever goes according to plan, and victory is often bathed in oceans of blood. Would corrupting yourself on the altar of Aerys Targaryen and alienating your greatest friends be worth the cost…"
"Saving my Lyanna from that rapist is always worth it!" the Lord snarled smacking Stormbreaker against the floor. "Call the banners!"
Later, in his chambers, Renly shut the door. Falling against it with a deep exhale. It had taken all of him not to speak during the meeting, all of him not to feel terror at the prospect of war. Bitter as he was, actual blood and death scared him greatly…
But it was the tiny letter in his pocket that kept his resolve. For what had to be the dozenth time, he pulled it out.
Dearest Renly,
War comes, and I know I can count on House Baratheon's armies, but I must count on you as well.
Rhaegar is at Starfall, and he will not risk his family in the coming war. They will stay there at the protection of House Dayne.
Hear me, Renly, Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell are dangers to peace and to House Targaryen. They must be controlled by those loyal to the Realm or else their poison will destroy all we love.
A ship of fifty thousand gold dragons will arrive in Storm's End harbor by the end of the moon. Use them to raise an army to take Starfall once the war truly commences. Ensure that the two whores are brought to me with all haste.
I am counting on you, my sweet Stag. Once all is done, you and I can be together.
Jon
Holding the letter to his breast, Renly swooned of a man in love. For Jon, he would do anything.
Even the most brutal acts.
He could smell it even from here in the Tower of the Hand. No matter how many candles of scented oils or braziers packed with herbs that he burned, the stench of wildfire and burning bodies wafted up the countless stories to his nostrils. Jon Connington blanched every ten minutes, but kept up his work. If Willam Darry and Owen Merryweather were set on burning half of court upon the pyres in the courtyard to please the King, then that was alright.
Not that the people condemned to the fire were useful anyway. It kept the King occupied in his mad rants between bouts of taking the Queen in her chambers. Connington had more pressing matters that he would rather not be interfered with.
Desk more cluttered than usual, he kept a checklist close by of the great houses. Already all of the North and Vale were written off, while the Westerlands were conspicuously neutral, as was most of Dorne. The entire Reach was behind Aerys aside from a glaring X next to House Peake. Figures. Connington preemptively got the Stormlands as allies, while the Riverlands was a question mark.
The door thereby entered and in walked Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard and Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the new Master of War. The former was professional, if ruthless - Connington regarded the latter as craven… as well as ruthless. "You sent for us, Lord Hand?" asked Chelsted, taking a seat. Ser Jonothor said nothing, merely leaning against the wall and observing.
Connington nodded, holding up the checklist for the Crownlands. "All houses are behind us except House Celtigar. They've declared for Rhaegar."
"Send me to Claw Isle. I'll burn it to the ground."
"I already sent Lord Velaryon there… and it's deserted aside from smallfolk. Lord Adrian left with all his fighting men and is likely in Maidenpool right now."
This perked Ser Jonothor's interest. "Think they'll use Maidenpool as staging grounds." It was a major keep and close to the Vale and Kingsroad.
"Either that or Harrenhal would be obvious, or Riverrun if they were to seek something farther back." Connington trusted Hoster Tully to keep his alliance with the Starks even with Brandon dead. "Varys says that the Tullys have called their banners, so we better take both keeps to protect against the Vale and the North." It was shorter from the Eyrie to Maidenpool than it was from Highgarden to King's Landing - and Mace Tyrell wasn't known to be fast.
Ser Jonothor quirked an eyebrow. "Take the keeps? And what to do about the Lords if they resist?"
Leaning back, Connington sighed. "You, Ser Jonothor, will lead half our forces to Maidenpool. Lord Chelsted, you take the rest to Harrenhal. If they do not surrender, end their lines." He produced written orders to wit, signed by Aerys himself.
Chelstead grinned savagely. "Consider it done."
The Kingsguard was skeptical - practically so. "Thorne won't go for it." The Young Captain of the Household Guard was known for his honor as well as his loyalty.
"Don't worry about him. I sent him to the Reach to find Rhaegar." Not that he could.
Queen Elia
There is no need to worry about the loyalty of House Arryn. By the Grace of the Gods, Aerys the Mad and his vile council will suffer for the despicable murder of my uncle. No Lord that I spoke with will stand against me as I advance to join your husband's cause.
While my uncle in a remarkable act of foresight had called the banners of the Eyrie, the delays in calling up the remaining levies of the Vale will cause several moons delay to be ready to march for the Riverlands. I regret that we cannot meet your timetable, though my impending marriage to Lysa Tully of Riverrun will ensure that our alliances will remain strong.
Elbert Arryn
Lord of the Eyrie
Groaning, Elia dropped her head to the table in frustration. In dozens of letters sent by raven, depleting the rookeries of House Dayne and many of House Blackmont, Elbert Arryn's had been the most supportive aside from the North. Yet even he wasn't rushing to give aid to Rhaegar's cause. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…"
"I didn't think Elia Martell knew how to speak profanity." Elia raised her head to see Ashara leaning in the doorway, smirking and holding a candlestick in her hand. "But from the noises out of your shared quarters, it seems the dragon and wolf have brought you out of your shell."
Reddening, Elia averted her eyes. It was like being with Ellaria… only that Ashara had some desire to hold her tongue. "Did you only come to tease me?"
A snort. "No, but it is amusing." Unbidden, the Lady of Waiting to the Queen made her way to a plush seat across from Elia. "Burning the midnight oil?"
"There is a war on, Ash. I have to do my part so that my husband can come home safely."
"And by home, you mean the home he can come in?" Catching an annoyed glare from her Queen, Ashara laughed. "I'm sorry, Ellaria used that on me when I was ten and four and I've been waiting to use it ever since."
Elia rolled her eyes. "Gods, she's all the way in Sunspear and she's still finding ways to jape with me." But yes… Elia did want Rhaegar to come in her. Every night. "So what truly brought you here?"
Ashara sighed. "Lyanna's stomach was roiling worse than it's ever been." That quickly caught Elia's attention, her expression fearful. "Qyburn settled her stomach with a calming tea and now she's sleeping. She asked for you too."
Hanging her head, Elia felt so conflicted. "Seven hells, I'm neglecting even my own family."
Reaching out, Ashara clasped Elia's hand. "You're a good wife and mother, Elia. As good as you are a Queen, and honestly…" She spread her arms at the papers scattered on the table. "You're fighting for them all the same. Once Rhaegar wins, you'll be the most powerful Queen since Rhaenyra."
"Hopefully I don't end up like her." They shared a weak grin at her quip.
About a quarter of an hour passed with the two of them reviewing the various dispatches. To their relief, even the more intractable upper Riverlands houses such as the Brackens were amenable to backing Rhaegar's cause… all conditioned on Hoster Tully's approval.
"Elia?"
"Hmmm?"
"What's it like, sleeping with a Stark?"
Almost choking on her own spit, Elia looked up with wide eyes. "Why… why would you ask me that?"
"Everyone tells me that Targaryens are like Valyrian gods in bed - I mean, Maekar Targaryen's wife was a Dayne and I've read her diaries." She shrugged. "Was curious as to if Starks were the same. They have magical blood too."
Pursing her lips, Elia slowly smiled. Thinking of her lovely Lya. "It's amazing." The things her wolf's tongue did to her… "It really is like having a wolf in bed, though I can't speak for the men of House Stark." Something clicked in her mind. "Are you pining for the House of the Direwolf?"
It was Ashara's turn to blush. "No."
"Don't lie to me. You were always a terrible liar."
She groaned. "I can't help… but look." Ashara laughed lightly. "I mean, Arthur has the white cloak and now he and Dacey are having my niece or nephew. If one kingsguard can then another kingsguard…"
Oh Benjen, you do not know how lucky you are. Many men propositioned the lovely Ashara Dayne, but this was the first time Elia had seen her truly smitten. Something's there about the Starks. One wouldn't think they were great beauties… but they truly are irresistible and priceless. "I have no doubt that if you fancy him, Ash, he fancies you. I know my goodbrother."
A radiant smile came her way. "Thank you." Another ten minutes of going over reports before Ashara excused herself, yawning.
She hadn't been gone a moment before there was a shadow at the door.
"Muna."
Elia looked up to find not Ashara, but the haphazard curls of her baby girl, two wide violet eyes looking at her. "Oh sweetling. What brings you here."
"Can't sleep," she murmured, soft enough so Elia only barely heard it.
Smiling, the Queen opened her arms. "Want to sit with muna?" With the decisiveness of a dragon, Rhaenys didn't wait before she ran to Elia. Jumping into her lap. "Ooof, careful, little dragon," she chuckled.
"Sorry, muna." The two settled into a rather cozy arrangement. Elia going over more letters from each of the Dornish Lords - more demurrals in light of Doran's inaction - while Rhaenys buried her face against Elia's side.
It stopped when Elia heard soft sobbing. "Sweetling… what's wrong." She dropped all she was doing and hugged her daughter, kissing the crown of her head.
Rhaenys stopped sobbing, but her eyes were red and tortured. "I miss kepa."
Her soft words broke Elia's heart. "I miss him too, my darling daughter." Her eyes were exactly like Rhaegar's, it made Elia both smile and tear up. "Your father is the greatest man I've ever known. I love him very much."
That seemed to make Rhaenys a little happier. "Muna… I… I think, you and kepa… no very close before muna came."
A sigh. Children were more astute than one thought, and Rhaenys was particularly smart. "He and I… we had bad people that gave us a lot of pain. We were wrong to, but it kept us distant." Lyanna not only gave her love, she gave Elia her husband back and for that Elia could never begin to repay her.
Knotting her brows, her violet eyes looked almost… hardened. "Because of grandfather?" The latter was said as if the child was speaking of a demon.
And Rhaenys saw first hand what Aerys was capable of. "Yes, sweetling. Because of grandfather." She wouldn't lie to her daughter.
"I want him burn." There was no levity in Rhaenys' voice. Just certainty in what she wanted. "Kepa burn him like Maegor."
Exhaling, Elia merely hugged her closer. So do I, sweetling. So do I.
"I'd advise that you not look like you are watching Winterfell burn, Ned."
Ned frowned hard - apparently the cordial mask he thought he wore well simply wasn't… or Howland was extremely observant. "I'll be fine, Howland. Catelyn is a wonderful girl." Objectively true… if the man waiting by the Weirwood - or Septon rather - had been named Arryn, Tyrell, or even Manderly. But for a Stark of the North… Howland raised his eyebrow, but said nothing. "Something on your mind, Howland?"
The Crannogman shifted his feet. "It's not too late, you know." They spoke in whispers. "You can still back down. Go with your brother's plan to betroth her to Elbert."
Closing his eyes, the Lord of Winterfell - it still felt like bile thinking of himself in his father's boots, far before his time - shook his head. "No. I have my duty." He couldn't lie in front of the Heart Tree. "The North is counting on me. Lya and Rhaegar count on me. My father and brother's memories count on me."
"House Lannister is a far stronger alliance than House Tully." He had agreed to preside over the ceremony, but that didn't mean he agreed with Roose Bolton's reasoning. The Lord simply looked… smug at the front of the guests.
"It isn't the alliance we need at this moment, Howland. We need the Tullys, Rhaegar needs the Tullys." I am the Lord of Winterfell now. For my people… sacrifices must be made. "What sort of Lord would be if I sully my honor by choosing myself over them?" His friend said nothing. What else could be said?
Ned watched the torch-lined path through the godswood. There walked his bride, Catelyn Tully, escorted by the lead of her guards. She wore a long, white gown of Myrish lace and the finest wool of the Riverlands. About her shoulders was draped the blue and red cloak of her House. He hitched his breath, imagining she Cersei for a moment… Don't torture yourself.
Coming to a stop just before him, Catelyn shivered as Ned gently pulled back her veil - eyes fluttering shut. A sheen of silk that the bride insisted upon, not that he truly minded or cared. Her skin was paler than usual, the cold air and snowfall accentuating the red of her hair. Kissed by fire as was said in the North, a good omen for those born with it. And yet, her eyes remained closed.
"Cat," he murmured softly. "It's alright." Slowly her eyes opened, revealing the glistening cerulean pools. A slight redness remained from recent tears, but there was no denying that Catelyn Tully was beautiful. No doubt one of the most beautiful maidens of the Realm.
But not the most. Forgive me, Cersei. Feeling Catelyn's freezing hand take his own, Ned accepted his fate. Turning so that both of them faced the Heart Tree.
Howland cleared his throat. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"
Behind, the head of the Tully guard cleared his throat. "Catelyn, of House Tully, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods." Ned felt her squeeze his hand tighter. Not out of affection, but of fear - Ned could tell. "Who comes to claim her?"
Gods be with me. "Eddard, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
Howland's eyes conveyed a flicker of sympathy to Ned before looking directly at his bride. "Lady Catelyn, do you take this man?"
Catelyn seemed to steady herself. "I… I take this man."
Normally, this would be the end of it… but on Ned's orders a little tradition of the Faith of the Seven was added to the wedding - hoping to ease Catelyn's tension. "You may now…" Howland looked uncomfortable but nevertheless continued. "Cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."
Ned drew back, removing her blue cloak. He folded it carefully but quickly - noticing her shivers. Ser Rodrik came forward with the grey Stark cloak, to which Ned slipped it upon Catelyn's shoulders - taking her under the protection of the direwolf. A tiny glint in her eyes belied her gratefulness at the thoughtful gesture.
It's a start.
Now clad in the cloak of House Stark, Ned lightly held her chin and brought his new bride for their first kiss. It was cold, her eyes scrunched shut as if picturing someone different.
Not as good a start as I hoped…
The feast was quite boisterous, a paradox to the somber reality they were faced with… but truly not. Whole-roasted meats, crusty black bread, and gallons of ale disappeared down the gullets of the revelling Lords, soldiers, and smallfolk alike. Not of their new Lord though liking him greatly, nor of their new Lady of whom they had a far lesser regard, but rather for one last chance to be merry before war clouded everything.
Ned could not fault them for this, even as he eschewed the merriment himself.
Beside him at the Lord's table - seated side by side in the places once reserved by his father and mother - Catelyn was equally sluggish. Barely picking at the morsel of roast boar in front of her. Aside from a single dance, his bride hadn't moved. She shifted from momentary glances of distaste at the drunken arm wrestling contests Greatjon Umber engaged with whomever fool was deep enough in his cups to challenge him to a sullen stare that his whatever she was feeling.
"Are you alright, my Lady?" Bidden to answer, Catelyn offered him a small smile. Genuinely glad at the company of someone she knew to be honorable, but… I'm not Brandon. A curse he would always live with, Catelyn or not. He and father deserved to be here.
"A toast!" Roose Bolton called out, his milky eyes twinkling. "To Lord and Lady Stark!" He hoisted his cup high in spite of likely being the only one other than Ned and Cat not to be drunk. Ned regarded him with deem suspicion, while Catelyn seemed happy at the gesture
Rickard Karstark was nowhere near sober though. "Aye! To Ned and Catelyn, may their union bring us victory!" Ale sloshed on the floor as he swayed unsteadily.
"Long live House Stark!"
"Death to the Mad Dragon!"
"The North Remembers!" Hollered toasts boomed within the great hall till it collapse right back into mindless frivolity. Many a bastard would be born that night, most willing from how frisky the maids were with whatever man drew their fancy.
"They mean well," Ned told Catelyn, chuckling.
The tight smile returned, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Forgive me, Lord Stark, but I must retire."
He blinked. "You've barely eaten."
"I ate before the ceremony." Catelyn silently pleaded with him. "Please, Lord Stark. I need a moment to regain my bearings." They had already discussed doing away with the bedding ceremony - given what happened to Brandon and Catelyn's feelings on the matter, being groped by a dozen drunken lords wasn't the best to reassure her.
Sighing, Ned nodded. "You may, my dear. It is not an unwise request." Squeezing his hand with a grateful relief, Catelyn stood. The hall too drunk and preoccupied with a brawl between Greatjon and Ethan Glover to notice her leave. Ned watched as Septa Mordane stood from the end of the Lord's table, following Catelyn with a frown on her face. Her, he was confident enough to admit he did not trust.
Alone at the table, the last true Stark at Winterfell, Ned waited for what seemed interminable. Emptying a tankard of ale with Catelyn's helping of boar and potatoes, it made him numb and warm rather than the tipsy insanity before him. Best to calm as he finally stood
"The conquering hero!" Theo Wull bellowed, drawing laughs and jeers. "Driving his spear into the depths of the Riverlands!" He made an obscene gesture with his hips, which the drunk Lords found hysterical. Ned merely sent back an equally obscene gesture, which was an even bigger hit. Honorable though he was, these were Ned's people and he knew just how to deal with them.
Upon entering his bedchambers, Ned noticed the candles faintly glowing upon the tables and dressers, casting flickering shadows upon the walls. Hushed voices filled the room. Ned quickly traced them to the Septa and his new bride, the former knelt as she clasped Catelyn's hands. The two of them praying in whispers. He wouldn't begrudge Catelyn this, but the presence of Septa Mordane suddenly angered him. Provoking his inner wolf.
Having cleared his throat loudly, the Septa glared but nevertheless stood. "My Lord…"
"Get out," Ned hissed.
"We haven't finished our prayers…"
"I gave you an order," he replied firmly. "I wish to be alone with my bride so I suggest you follow it." The Septa roiled in anger, but propriety won out. Curtseying, she left the bride and groom to themselves.
Catelyn had ditched her cumbersome wedding dress, instead clad in nothing but a woollen nightgown. Dressed-down, but rather modest compared to the outfit Cersei had worn during their first coupling - namely nothing at all. "Must you have done that?" she asked him softly, eyes wide.
He nodded. "A man deserves to be alone with his bride on their wedding night. I would have dismissed anyone." But most of all, her. Unfortunately, the Septa's influence wasn't gone as in Catelyn's lap rested the Seven Pointed Star.
Her eyes shifted down to the holy book. "'The Maid brought him forth a girl as supple as a willow,'" Catelyn read from one of the more famous passages. "'...the Mother made her fertile… and the Crone foretold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons…' I hope to be even an eighth as fertile, my Lord." If not her Brandon's seed, then his blood.
Ned's cock went limp even with the presence of such undressed beauty. "Here," he said, pouring two cups of Arbor Gold. "To our marriage." Perhaps some wine will loosen us up.
Setting aside the holy book with great care, Catelyn gladly accepted the cup. Sighing as she drank - hoping it would calm her. "The finest vintage… much better than bitter ale." Ned's grip on his goblet grew tight. "Thank you… husband." They drank in further silence.
"You are not a maid," he said abruptly, wishing to just get it out of the way. She stiffened "I have no issue with it, if that's what worries you."
Cat shook her head. "No…" Suddenly tears formed. "Thank the gods we waited… they will bring blessings upon us, not curses."
It took everything in Ned not to roll his eyes. He knew not to criticize someone's piety, but Ned did truly want to. Enough of this. He brusquely pounded his cup on the table, startling her. "Let's get this over with."
Without delay, Ned crossed their gap and pulled her into an embrace. It took Catelyn off guard when he kissed her, his tongue rough as he plundered her. Pushing her onto the bed. Hiking up her nightgown touching her all over. It felt nothing like Brandon… pleasing enough, but without the love and tenderness… No, that was a curse… your duty is here. You must serve your husband, bear his sons…
His annoyance began to dissipate, eyes opening as Ned looked over his bride. She truly was beautiful - perhaps he'd best make the best of this. "Relax, my Lady," he said in a softer tone, fingers brushing over her skin. Flicking her nipples, stroking her sides, playing with her nub. She mewled, but her eyes were shut tight. Thinking of something… or someone. Sighing, Ned lined himself up. Breaching her entrance without fuss.
She squealed. It was abrupt… it hurt a bit, nothing like Bran's loving touches. His supple caresses that brought nothing but pleasure to her system. Only rough, uncaring, lustful, sinful… no, he was her husband. Ordained under the sight of the gods to be her master and her lover - she had sinned with Brandon, and his death was the punishment. Ned was her duty now... His kiss felt invasive, but Catelyn let him have her. The gods demanded she submit.
His wife was tight. Nowhere near fully soaked, but the pressure melding around his cock. This was her… not the one he wanted… not the one he loved. Cersei… Cersei… Her image popped into his mind. Moaning, legs wrapped around his hips as he split her open. How her eyes twinkled mischievously as she begged him to take her on all fours. Cersei… Without delay he spilled inside the woman beneath him. Not Cersei.
Guilt and hopeless longing filling him, Ned rolled off her unceremoniously. This was not how he had hoped his wedding night would be, holding his golden wife close as they lost themselves in countless pleasure… instead faced with his brother's sweetheart, both Bran and their father dead and himself one night away from marching to war.
"I will pray to the Mother that your seed takes root," he heard his wife say. My wife… "That I will bear you a son and heir, a great and noble Lord like Brandon… or yourself."
Her words… speaking of his brother after their coupling, Ned simply couldn't stand it. "Goodnight, wife," he muttered, turning his back to her.
He had fallen asleep before she could even respond, golden hair and emerald eyes haunting his dreams.
It had been over a week of constant galloping. Sleeping for a mere three hours a night or on the saddle as they raced through the Prince's Pass and into the Reach. Their horses were tiring, but Rhaegar had no choice in the matter. They needed to get to Riverrun by the next moon or else he could likely kiss his claim goodbye.
The hours and hours of traveling gave the King-claimant plenty of time to think. Of his mother, of his father, of his children and beloved brides. Often going half a day without saying a word - silently brooding. Sometimes the Kingsguards would try to speak to him. Sometimes Melisandre, the only woman among their complement. But they didn't get many words out of him.
This is your fault, their deaths are your fault. One voice constantly berated him, castigating him, sending his soul into the abyss. It was seductive yet dark. Enticing yet malevolent.
You can't blame yourself. You are the solution, dear dragon. Another voice would spur him on, soft and gentle - almost motherly. Fight for them, Rhaegar. Fight for your loves and children…
"Column ahead!" Ser Myles announced, their pointman. Rhaegar eased Moondancer, who neighed but otherwise complied. "Looks like pikemen and riders… a lot of pikemen."
Narrowing his eyes, Rhaegar shaded them to peer at the onrushing soldiers - marching along the road ahead of them. "Doesn't look like they're after us…" He motioned for his squire. "Do you recognize the column?" Rhaegar asked Garlan, who he kept close to him as they travelled through his ancestral lands.
Peering out, the young squire nodded. "Aye, House Fossoway of New Barrell - the personal sigil of Ser Jon, the intended to my Aunt Janna." He let out a breath in relief. "He's a kind man, we don't need to worry." The dashing knight he remembered was a jovial fellow always quick to jape. Charmed all the women in the family apart from his grandmother… no one charmed her.
Gerold frowned. "It's not worth it."
"I'm not lying, Ser Gerold," Garlan huffed.
"Not saying you are, but it's not you I don't trust." The Reach knight's eyes shifted to the far-off column. "House Fossoway was always grasping for more influence." He had seen it in his brother's court. "I could see them trying to take advantage of the bounty on your head for royal favor."
Nodding, Rhaegar nevertheless pulled his cowl tighter about his face. "We'll go beside them on the road. Slowly and nonthreateningly… I'm not taking any chances." Pulling his cowl over his silver locks, Rhaegar turned to Melisandre. "Any glimpse into our near future from your Lord?" She had been very close to the campfire the night past.
She looked at him, gaze unchanging. "Just that you shall find your destiny here." Cryptic as ever, Rhaegar shrugged his shoulders and urged his horse forward.
They grew closer to the column, almost a hundred pikemen of House Tyrell. Made sense that the Tyrells would allow the future intended for the Lord's sister to command their men, but Rhaegar would have vastly preferred one of the Tyrells themselves. "Off the road," said Ser Gerold, all of them pulling their cowls down further. Eventually passing by the marching pikemen. None of whom did anything.
It was halfway through the column when a voice rang out. "Halt!" Rhaegar thought for a split second to book it, but they were nowhere near a safe means to do so. "I'm Ser Jon Fossoway, sworn sword to Lord Mace Tyrell. Who are you?"
Rhaegar disguised his voice. "Just a group of hedge knights passing through."
"I'll bet…" came the sarcastic reply. Pushing up his visor, Fossoway regarded them suspiciously. "Wait, you look familiar," he said. Eyes focused on Rhaegar… suddenly widening. "You're Rhaegar Targaryen."
For his part, Rhaegar scoffed. Voice morphing into a sarcastic chuckle. "Yeah, that's why I'm wearin' dis fancy outfit." He motioned to his threadbare cloak of homespun wool - clearly not one any self-respecting highborn would ever wear. Had someone like Mace Tyrell found it even close to his clothes he'd have the whole lot burned.
While some among the Reach column laughed, Fossoway didn't seem to buy the bluff. "Perhaps." He urged his mount - a large Crakehall stallion - to pass in front of them. Circling the group with hard eyes. "Your horses are all purebred, but any good group of hedge knights would live on bread and water in exchange for a good horse."
Ser Oswell kept his eyes trained on the green apple knight, hard and narrowed. He hadn't been a Kingsguard far as long as Barristan or Gerold - the one Fossoway was least likely to recognize. "You have no authority to detain us on Tyrell land," he ground out.
"No, but I am, nonetheless." Fossoway pulled on the reigns, halting his mount. "That's a mighty fine sword you have," he said, slow grin spreading on his face as he spotted the hilt of Blackfyre poking out of Rhaegar's cloak. "Twin dragon hilt, ruby pommel… almost like Blackfyre." He drew his own blade, pointing it at Rhaegar. "Take off your cowl."
Rhaegar remained calm. "Fuck off and let us pass."
Fossoway frowned. "Take it off or I'll do it for you."
"You can try, but it would be very painful..."
"I doubt it."
"For you," Rhaegar finished, adding to the tension.
And yet, it was Garlan who threw the dice. "Ser Jon, as the second son of Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, I order you to stand down."
Wanting to groan, Rhaegar noticed the pikemen begin to chatter amongst themselves - hold growing looser on their weapons. Perhaps he has something on this after all…
If he was surprised, Fossoway didn't show it. "Ah, my soon to be nephew." He didn't sheath his sword, but did rest it against his shoulder. "Considering you are the squire to Crown Prince Rhaegar - though said title is now suspect - I presume I was correct about this one here."
Rhaegar rolled his eyes. "Alright, the mummer's show is over." He revealed himself, as did the Kingsguards and sworn swords. "And the title is not Crown Prince, Ser Jon."
"Hmmm, planning to surrender to your father? Too bad for this to end so weakly…"
"He is your rightful King, Fossoway," Ser Gerold barked, removing his cloak so that his Kingsguard armor was revealed in its glory. "You are to address him as such."
A laugh left the knight. "His ass hasn't sat on the Iron Throne, nor does he have the capitol… or an army that I can see." Fossoway looked over Rhaegar with a greedy glint. "But his Grace, Aerys II would love to get his hands on you… and reward anyone who does it." He motioned to his men. "Take their swords and escort our… guests."
"Do not resist," Rhaegar ordered. Now was not the time - they would be slaughtered if he resisted.
Garlan bristled though. "I demand to see my father and grandmother!"
"Shut up," Fossoway ordered.
"No, your right to pit and gallows does not extend to Tyrell lands. Only my father can issue that order." He knew his stuff.
Ser Jon didn't look happy at that, but he was boxed in. "Your father is in King's Landing and your grandmother is out of the keep… your mother will have to make the final decision then." He jerked his hand to the west. "Let's go."
"You're making a big mistake, Jon of House Fossoway," the Lady Melisandre said matter of factly. The only one among them who didn't hide her face.
"And just who might you be?"
She smiled. "The one who will warn you. The night is dark and full of terrors - be wary to actually wade into it where you can't see the enemy coming to knife you in the back."
He laughed again. "You doth scare me shitless," he smirked, rolling his eyes. "Now shut up and get moving."
Wanting to kill the man that took Blackfyre from him, Rhaegar hid his rage behind a mask. Looks like my life will be in the hands of Lady Alerie Tyrell. He's have to be on his best behavior…
Or his most ruthless...
A/N: Poor, poor Ned. Tricked out of marrying his love into an unhappy union. It's not going to be easy to him.
Elia is coming into her own as a Queen, and Rhaenys is growing into a little dragon.
Next time, Rhaegar faces the court of House Tyrell.
