There was a bastard in Winterfell right under her nose.
Lord Stark's bastard.
Oh why could it not be…be the cook's bastard or the steward's? Why in the Seven did it have to be Lord Stark's? Lysa hurried through the maze of unfamiliar corridors, tears running down her cheeks. Why, Eddard? Why? She pushed open a random door – all the doors in Winterfell looked identical – and sobbed with relief as she discovered it was an unoccupied bedchamber with a window.
Shutting the door behind her, she almost ran to the window. At Riverrun, everywhere she looked were long winding rivers and vast green fields. Here? Granite walls. It felt as if she was locked in a tower like the damsels she sang about. I am trapped, she thought, a tear splashing onto her hand. I am trapped at Winterfell…and in this marriage.
A bastard!
Lysa had thought good fortune smiled upon her the day her father told her she was to wed the handsome, brooding Eddard Stark of Winterfell. That day, she feared Cat would have Eddard as her husband (good fortune always beamed at Cat) while she'd be forced to marry the old Lord Arryn. That day, she even felt a little smug that for once in her life, Cat was not fated to be the pretty maiden married to a strong and chivalrous knight and was saddled in marriage with a man at least twice her age.
What could have gone wrong?
Once Lysa had entered through the gates of matrimony, she'd been blessed with joy and happiness. A handsome husband, a beautiful baby boy…
What could have gone wrong?
That bastard…
I will strangle him the next time I see him, Lysa thought savagely, anger raging through her body. She had never been so furious before! Not even those nights when…
"He will die," she abruptly muttered aloud. She began to pace, rocking Robb absently. Oh, that little bastard would never see the light of day again. "He will die," she said again in an effort to console herself. "He will die." She shivered with excitement and eagerness as her thoughts wandered into the field of bloodshed. Bastards were the product of sin – they should not even be brought into the world. She would be doing the gods a favour if she…removed the bastard from under her roof. She giggled. How in the Seven would she eradicate the bastard? Poisoning? No. She never wrapped her head around potions and herbs that were deadly. Stabbing? By the gods no. When she caught sight of a dead deer, she had almost fainted. Smothering? An ideal option but the thought of that boy's dark grey eyes staring back at her…
No, that would not do at all.
The last thing she needed was the bastard's ghost haunting her in all of eternity. Lysa sighed. Oh why couldn't Petyr have come with her? He was so clever…he would've been able to help her now…
Lysa looked lovingly at her son. He was so beautiful, so perfect. He did look more like her than Eddard, but he was a Stark at heart. Resentment augmented in her heart as the image of the bastard reappeared in her head. Though only a babe, the bastard looked a Stark – more Stark than her dear Robb. With his tuft of curly dark brown hair and those big, grey eyes so dark they bordered on black…upon glance, he would be more mistaken as the Stark heir, not Robb. Oh why couldn't he have looked more like his whore mother? She must have been very beautiful, Lysa thought bitterly. Attractive enough to lure Lord Stark to her bed. Whore. She wondered who it could've been. A plain northern girl that might have caught his attention during the long march from Winterfell to the south? A girl from the Riverlands perhaps. Whatever the case, the slut must've been noble; even a worthy, honourable lord like her husband would never have brought a lowborn bastard into his home.
A thought struck her. What if that bastard was older than Robb? What if…the men of the North decided they preferred a liege lord with the Stark look rather than a trueborn Stark who favoured the Tully features?
That bastard must die.
There was no room in Winterfell for the heir of Winterfell and the bastard.
"I'll be doing it for you my darling," Lysa murmured, pressing Robb closer to her. "I'll be doing it for you. Everything I do will be for you, my sweet child. Your father will want you to befriend…that bastard, but it will end in naught but disaster. Bastards bring you nothing but trouble. It all comes to bad blood. You are descended from the most noblest of Houses in all of Westeros, my child. Houses Stark and Tully. Tully blood flows in your veins and you carry the Stark name. You are my perfect child."
It felt like her mind cleared for the first time since Lord Stark cruelly presented that bastard to her. It was so…obvious. To secure Robb's place as the heir of Winterfell, as his mother, it was her duty to remove any obstacle in his way. She'd never be able to rest at all, knowing that bastard remained alive and well in Winterfell. Horror chilled her. What if Robb becomes ill? What if he dies of a fever or a cold? She would rather die a horrible death than witness the bastard become Lord of Winterfell instead of Robb. Bastard that boy might be now, but anything was possible. Bastards could be legitimised; they might be chosen to be the next lord in the event all his trueborn relatives died.
Lysa shuddered. The bastard will not be Lord of Winterfell, she thought determinedly. There were not many Starks left. Her good-brother must wed and sire children. She did not care who he married – by the Seven, he could even wed a Frey if he must! – but the woman must be fertile and he must have children. Any Stark would be better as Lord of Winterfell than that bastard.
With a deep sigh, she looked around. Whose chamber is this? She wondered. Leaving Robb on the bed, she stood up and returned to the window. Her slim fingers ran across the table under it. No dust. Wiping away her tears, she noticed Stark banners hanging all over the walls. She opened a drawer and spotted a clumsily stitched image of a wolf on a square piece of linen. Could this have been Lyanna Stark's room?
The door creaked open. "Lysa?"
Though Lysa hated Eddard for imposing his bastard under their roof, it was still quite thrilling when he called her name. Lysa's heart fluttered as he said her name again. She looked away as she heard him approach her. It was like one of the songs she loved! Like a chivalrous knight, Eddard was about to apologise for his actions and be on his knees to beg for her forgiveness. "No," Lysa imagined herself saying. "There is naught you can say or do that will earn my forgiveness…unless you rid Winterfell of that bastard. I will not have him near our son." In a moment of desperation, Eddard would agree. Lysa wanted to squeal with joy and clap her hands happily.
All would be well soon.
"Lysa," Eddard said gently, sitting on the bed beside her. "I apologise if I shocked or hurt you by showing you Jon so soon." Lysa remained silent. "You must know that I will never abandon those of mine blood," he continued. "Bastard or no, it is not right to leave a child alone in the world when you have the chance to raise him."
"You should not have made him in the first place!" Lysa snapped.
Eddard was unfazed. "Whatever the case, one never abandons family. Will you forget your Tully words, Lysa? Family, Duty, Honour. Jon is as much a part of this family as our Robb. Give Jon a chance, Lysa. Please. Give Jon a chance. He is still a babe. Forget that he is not your son by blood; he is still a child. He needs a mother's love and a mother's care. Please be his mother Lysa."
Fury flashed in Lysa's eyes. "No! How can you ask this of me, Lord Stark? You are the most wicked man I know! I will never accept your bastard as my son." Eddard winced a little. "Bastards are bad influences," Lysa continued recklessly. "Do you want Robb to be friends with him?"
"They are brothers," Eddard told her flatly. "They will grow up together as brothers, not just friends. What do you want me to do Lysa, leave Jon to the wolves?"
"You will always love your bastard more than every child I give you." Tears appeared in Lysa's eyes again. "Don't deny it! Many highborn women die unhappy because of their husbands loving their bastards more than their trueborn sons and daughters. You have sentenced me to a wretched life Eddard, a miserable life. Is that what you want? Do you want me to die unhappy too?"
"Lysa, you are hysterical. Calm down. You will not be unhappy here."
"I will!" Lysa declared persistently. "As long as your bastard remains under our roof, I will remain unhappy. Every time I look at your bastard, my heart will break. I'll not have it, Eddard. I will return to Riverrun with Robb. At least there he will be raised in a happy environment. No bastard is – or ever will be – welcomed at Riverrun."
Eddard sighed. "I will not stop you leaving," he said simply. "However, as the heir of Winterfell, Robb must stay here. He must learn the ways of the North if he'll be the next Lord of Winterfell."
"You will deprive him of his mother!"
Eddard met her horrified gaze. "Better his mother than his future dominions."
"You will not even consider sending…Jon away?"
Eddard's expression softened. "We will see," he answered. "If say, by the end of a few months and you still find living with Jon unbearable, I will look around for a lord willing to foster him." Speckles of guilt covered Lysa's heart as she caught sight of sadness in his eyes. Family, Duty, Honour…"You must never forget your family comes first," her father had told her and Catelyn when they were little. "Family first, then your duty, and finally honour. Never sacrifice family for honour."
No doubt taking her silence for thought, Eddard spoke again. "This was my mother's chamber when she was a girl," he remarked. "Even after she married my father, she had decided to keep her girlhood rooms as a place of comfort. I thought it would've gathered dust during the war, but it seemed Benjen had the servants maintain it well. Did you see my mother's needlework? It was not as fine as yours. She said that she would rather be off hunting in the woods than at home sewing. Her mother, a Flint of the mountains, had not forced her to hone her sewing skills."
Lysa wrinkled her nose. "What else would a lady do if not sewing?"
Eddard shrugged. "Apparently hunting. My mother dwelled here with her sister for a summer before returning to her home in the mountains. My father enjoyed hunting with her. He never admitted it, but I oft suspect it was due to hunting that they fell in love and married. There were no particular political benefits in the match."
"How…romantic." Lysa suppressed a shudder. The thought of a highborn lady doing anything but sewing was…strange. Riding was acceptable as was splashing about in the river, but hunting? How positively...vile.
Eddard chuckled. "You do not enjoy hunting?"
"The sight of blood…" She shivered.
"Lysa, will you try and accept Jon as your own?"
Lysa could not help but frown. "He…" Her voice trailed off. If she killed the bastard, all signs would point to her immediately. Say she accepted him for a few years…if she was blessed by lady luck, perhaps a winter fever would kill Jon. It was rumoured that natural children were often more robust than trueborn ones…in the south. Maybe the northern winds would blow the bastard out of her life once and for all. "Yes," she said grudgingly, earning herself a broad smile from Eddard.
"You will?" Eddard pressed. "You swear by the old gods and new you will care for Jon as if he is your own son?"
No. For as long as I live, I will never accept him as my own. "Yes," Lysa lied. "I swear it by the old gods and new that I will care for…Jon as if he is my own son."
That evening was no better.
Eddard had unkindly insisted for her to spend more time in the nursery with both the boys. Lysa sat on the plain, hard chair, glowering at that bastard infant. If he wasn't fast asleep, he was staring at her unblinkingly with his wide dark eyes. It was so…unnatural. Most babes smile, not stare expressionlessly! Does he know I wish him dead? Lysa could not help but wonder queasily. How could he? He was a babe. Surely a little infant would not know if one despised him or not. Deciding to ignore him, Lysa turned and watched Robb sleep peacefully. She smiled. He was such a good child, a sweet baby. She was very fortunate in having such a well-behaved infant.
He will look so beautiful wrapped in a grey and white blanket, Lysa pondered, smiling at her sleeping son. Her smile widened as she tried to imagine her baby boy as a young man. One day he would marry a pretty girl and have his own children. Lysa wrinkled her nose at that. Having grandchildren…it made her feel old. She winced at the prospect of the bastard siring his own offspring. More Snows. Horrible.
"How are the children?" Eddard came in again. Ever since she promised to view that bastard as her own son – which she had no intention of doing – Eddard had treated her more kindly and spoke to her more. I still won't forgive you for the bastard. A fresh batch of tears was about to well up in her eyes when she blinked them away. No matter how much she cried, it was ineffective to her stoic husband.
"Robb is sleeping," Lysa replied.
"And Jon?"
"Awake."
Eddard walked over to the bastard's cradle and smiled at him. To Lysa's chagrin, the bastard smiled back at him. She reluctantly joined Eddard and to her horror, noticed at once that someone had placed the bastard in an old crib.
The Stark crib.
One night over supper in Riverrun (this was a year or two ago), her father had drank a little too much Arbor gold and revealed that both Catelyn and Edmure had slept in the Tully cradle when they were babes. Lysa remembered that cradle well. It was an ancient thing, constructed from weirwood with the Tully sigil at the two ends of the cradle now almost completely faded. Father had said it should be repainted, but the Tully crib had remained in a spare chamber ever since Edmure outgrew it. "The Tully crib is a special crib," Father had told her, Catelyn and Edmure. "Only the oldest child and the Tully heir sleep in it. Our ancestor Axel, the first Lord of Riverrun, had the Tully crib made for his own heir. Every Lord of Riverrun had slept in that very crib. Every Great House in all of the Seven Kingdoms have cribs like this, some made much earlier than House Tully's. No doubt one day, Cat and Lysa, your sons will sleep in old cribs too."
The wet nurse must have made a mistake. It should be Robb in the Stark crib, not the bastard! "Eddard," said Lysa cautiously, curling her fingers into a fist to calm herself. "It is only a…little matter, but um, why is…Jon in the Stark crib? Should Robb not sleep in it instead? He is the Stark heir."
"Stark crib?" Eddard frowned, a look of confusion written all over his face. "What…do you mean, Lysa? Stark crib?"
Lysa pointed to the crib the bastard occupied. "That crib. It's much older than the crib Robb is sleeping in. That is not right, Eddard. Robb should be the one sleeping in the old Stark cradle, not…Jon."
"Lysa…we don't have Stark cradles…"
"All Great Houses do," Lysa insisted. "My father said so."
"Um, perhaps the Great Houses in the south have…special cribs, but here in the north, we do not have special cribs for babes. Either all the babes have their own cribs or they reuse those slept in by their elder siblings and perhaps ancestors." His gaze softened. "It is my crib that Robb is sleeping in."
"What of Jon's?"
"My brother Brandon's and Lyanna's. Lyanna was born three years after me – by then, Brandon had no need of a crib."
Alarm jabbed Lysa in the heart. Brandon's crib? The bastard was in Brandon's crib? It must be wrong…Eddard was wrong. Brandon was Winterfell's heir! If that bastard was in Brandon's crib…did it mean Eddard still entertained the ludicrous notion of declaring his bastard an heir of Winterfell? It was sweet that Eddard gave Robb his old cradle, but he was a second son! If Brandon Stark had not died, he would still be a younger son with not many bright prospects. Was giving the bastard Brandon's old crib signifying that the bastard would have a better career in life than her dear Robb?
Before Lysa could demand for the babes to swap cribs, a thought struck her. The crib was Brandon's and Lyanna's…both had met misfortune and death in the south. Perhaps one day the bastard would encounter bad luck too…
"I overreacted," Lysa said to the bewildered Eddard. "My apologies my lord."
"I…see." Eddard still seemed at a loss. "You uh, do not wish for the boys to swap cribs at all? I can arrange for that-"
"No, no. I overreacted, that is all. Both the babies can remain in their cribs." She gave him a rather forced smile. "Do they not look so sweet in their cribs? Hopefully one day I will give them a little sister or brother to play with. I know you wish for another son, my lord husband, and I hope not to disappoint you. We named Robb after the king and your best friend – will our next son be named in honour of your father? Perhaps if we have a little daughter, she can be called Lyanna, after your sister, or perhaps Lyarra, after your lady mother?" The thought of having more children with Eddard seemed to be the only notion able to make her forget about that dreaded bastard of Winterfell. No matter how deep her hatred towards Eddard was for bringing his bastard to her, Lysa still desired a great number of children to call her own. Many sons with Stark and Tully features and a good many pretty daughters who take after herself.
Lovely thoughts.
Eddard frowned. "Is it not too soon to consider more children? Robb's still a babe and there is your health to consider. We will have more children…soon. Our House is not at all close to extinction and we are both young. Children will come when the time is ripe. For now, I want you to settle and rest."
I do not want to rest! I want to see Winterfell littered with children – our children. I'll not rest until I bear you enough children to make you forget that bastard. All Lysa could do was smile tightly and agree. Why couldn't Eddard understand? They need more sons and daughters – the North required it. Was it not a wife's duty to give her husband many children? How was she able to fulfil it with Eddard adamant in her resting? Petyr would know his duty, Lysa contemplated as she excused herself and hurried back to the spare chamber she took a liking to. Petyr would want dozens of sons and daughters…and he'd want me to give them to him. Her thoughts flittered like butterflies as she remembered her father's former ward, sweet, thoughtful, kind Petyr. Why did it matter if he was from House Baelish of the Fingers, an impoverished House in the Vale? Why would it matter if he was not wealthy or from a Great House?
It was love!
Nothing could stand in the way of true happiness! Nothing!
There was Father, a voice in Lysa's head reminded her. Father was cruel to you…and to Petyr. He forced you to drink that horrible tea and sent Petyr away. He wouldn't even let him say goodbye to you. If he was a kind father, he would allow you to marry Petyr. If he did, you would be giving Petyr his second or third child by now. If they had a son, he would be called Petyr. If a girl, Pietra or Alayne. Petyr would be happy if one of their daughters was named after his mother.
Lysa suddenly brightened. Perhaps…perhaps she could convince Eddard to give Petyr a position here at Winterfell! Petyr was clever; he would be an excellent steward. Surely he was much wiser than the present Steward of Winterfell. Lysa smiled reminiscently as she recalled dear Petyr helping her with her numbers. Such a quick-witted boy…she had never met anyone so shrewd before. Yes, once dear Petyr was settled at Winterfell, the more tolerable life would be.
"Do you not wish to be taken to your proper chambers my lady?" Lysa almost clicked her teeth with annoyance as her new companion, some plump brown haired and brown eyed Northern girl, no doubt a daughter of one of his bannermen.
"I like this chamber," said Lysa stiffly. "I would like to be alone thank you."
"As my lady wishes." The girl dipped her head and left. Lysa watched her depart, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. It was never wise to trust a stranger – even one who had been appointed her companion by her husband. Lysa grabbed the quill on the table and a piece of parchment and began to write. Dear Petyr…
I enjoyed writing this chapter :) I meant to upload this yesterday, but such a heavy workload lately :( I know Lysa's thoughts of killing Jon were quite extreme, but she is still young and had lived a life dreaming about true knights, princes, faithful husbands etc. Even though Jon is a bastard, she still thinks (at the moment) that he is a threat to Robb. As for the seemingly random crib conversation, I kind of based that on this Tudor documentary I watched a few years ago about how King Henry VIII commissioned a gilded cradle for his future son by Anne Boleyn, but as she never gave him a son, that crib was never used (it's a David Starkey documentary - I highly recommend it if you're interested :D ).
