Autumn Wind - Part I

There was a quiet that could not penetrate the Tower of the Hand. High above, into the cold bitter autumn sky, there was a silence that weighed heavily upon every stone, every shingle, and every soul that greeted the bright, frigid mid-morning with a heavy conscious, and an anxious heart. The halls should be bustling with the noise of the everyday mundane tasks and chores echoing through the stone walls, and marble halls of what might arguably be the most important tower in all of the Seven Kingdoms. But today there was not a clack, not a scrape, and not a squeak that could be heard through the corridors or the yard.

But it was not just the Tower of the Hand, nor was the sentry Red Keep itself— the entire city quiet. The Capital's only offering- the whimpers and howls of the cold wind rushing a balmy smell of salt and sea through the gridded and curving streets below. Sometimes, in the early of the morning, the sound of venders, the shouting and chaos of the markets and the working hammer of the Street of Steel all crowded amongst themselves and washed over the hollow halls and through the opened windows. All of it hitting you at once, making you believe that the entire stinking, festering city below had overcome you at once. But there was none of that this morning.

The city had emptied for the day. Every lord, lady, lordling, merchant, sailor, and fish wife had left their posts, their daily lives to journey a mile or so outside the red walls and across the bridge to witness the greatest gathering of nobility, of knights, of mummers, and fools. Never before had anyone who lived seen such a sight as what King Robert Baratheon had taken months to plan. Never had such a feast, such a spectacle, such grandeur been made of the slighting of a man's pride and legacy as what had been built from the betrayal of Queen Cersei. Just a mile or two down the road upon a crossroads lay the hinge to the door of fate that would close and open for a new era of history.

But Eddard Stark couldn't think that far ahead, couldn't bring himself to consider what tonight's fortunes would wrought. It had always been said of Ned Stark that he was a simple lad, with simple tastes, who lived for today. Some would say that was why he was a poor Hand, and why others said he was an irreplaceable man in times such as they were. Eddard was not a man who thought ahead, who planned out every little thing with contingencies if they failed. He would face his foe on the field of battle and best him there on that day. But never had he lived to think he would ever consider whether he would even face a foe. He had fought many battles in his years, and every man he killed was on that field looking to kill him. Now sitting in the solar, staring at the ashes of the last embers of the night's fire, he felt out of his element. For he had a choice before him, would he pick this fight, and kill a righteous man, or would he be the honorable man he strove to be and let justice find the cause of such bloodshed.

Robb Stark sat next to him at the second chair in front of the fireplace, and he had not said a word. He knew Eddard's mind the way his mother had. Catelyn had sat there just as their son had, and watch him, a silent companion to long hours of contemplation. Sad, grey eyes staring at the great sword lying on the table between them. One look, maybe two from Eddard and the handsome youth, like his mother knew what great problem plagued his father's mind. For a time he might have protested the very thought of conflict. He'd bring Bran, and Jon Arryn to the front of his mind in outrage. But war had taken a boy, and in his place brought a shrewd and thoughtful man.

Blood, gore, and struggle had tempered youthful righteousness, and brought prospective. Robb Stark had watched his friends die at the hand of the Kingslayer and the Mountain. He had suffered those losses alone, without a mother, father, or lover to pour boiling wine over those deep wounds. Arriving in the capital as a hero seemed empty and bitter. In the light he was as dashing and strong as a young lord could be, the talk of the council chambers, and the Maiden Vaults. But in the dark of the night he clung to Sansa, buried his auburn haired head into his sister's pale bosom. The long hours crying of the horror and "Heroism" his arm and losses had earned him. Under the sheets the sad eyed fairytale beauty carrying with a great sorrow of her own, filled her heart with all the love she had within herself and in that hour, that minute, and that second took the place of whoever her brother, her great protector needed her to be when he was so afraid of the man this war had made him. Waking this morning from such a night as that. Robb Stark could not judge his father on how he dealt with the loss of Catelyn, who he took comfort with to help him through all of the pain, and most importantly how hard he'd fight to keep it, to keep her.

Both men sat now in the Hand's chambers absorbing the quiet of the morning, the same tortured expressions on grim faces of what awaited when the new sun fell beyond the waterline. Neither knowing what the many tomorrows would bring, and if one of them would be returning home, if both of them would, or would one of them follow the escort of the Silent Sisters all the way back to the crypts under Winterfell.

Eddard's chair creaked as he leaned forward and placed his forehead on his open palm. Robb watched him with a blink, his Tully blue eyes flecked with worry and anxiety. He wanted to say something, Ned could see it. But the young lord wasn't sure who should speak, the son, the solider, or the boy. Would he be the son, who respected and defended his father's decision no matter the course? The soldier, who would encourage him to fight the King's champion? Or would it be the boy, who didn't want to lose anymore, who just wanted his father to come home. Who was right, who was wrong, and who had the claim? Eddard Stark wished his son knew that all of them would have Eddard's heart and ear in this moment of doubt.

CRISH!

"GET OUT!"

Robb turned in his seat, to the closed door of the Hand's bedchamber where a woman's voice roared in frustrated command. There was the clattering of an aluminum tray, jewels and bobbles cascading on the floor, and the sound of glass shattering. The boy quickly turned to his father, but Eddard continued to sit thoughtfully, his eyes veiled as the struggle and shouting continued. Suddenly the door flew open and serving women came rushing out, a look of fear and fluster on their faces as a flying chrome challis crashed against the open door. All of the disarrayed northern women rallied to Eddard who still hadn't said a word or acknowledged anything else was happening. They stood huddled, partly confused and partly frustrated. For whatever could be said about Catelyn, and even more so her complicated and style conscious daughter, neither were this troublesome. But still Eddard said nothing, gazing into the ashes pensively. For a long beat they all looked amongst themselves, while Robb watched his father. After a moment of quiet, the young lord took command.

"Give us a moment." His nod was reassuring to the girls. They all gratefully bowed in unison and exited the apartments, leaving the men alone again. Robb turned back to look at the now open door in his father's chambers, but saw nothing. While he was surveying the mess on the floor, a hand reached out and touched his arm.

Eyes and a grim face the mask of aged lines were still covered but Ned Stark's large hand still rested on his son's arm. It was an unspoken request that only a parent could communicate to their child. The moment ticked away as the auburn haired lord looked back and forth between the door and his father. He finally agreed to remove himself, with a scrape of boots he clacked away. Sansa had left earlier, as the Tully's had no female representation for the tourney, she would take their grandmother and mother's place at their uncle Brynden's side in front of the whole realm. In all the years that will come afterward no lord, lady, or small folk would forget such a beauty as the girl with the auburn locks, the silky red and blue dress, and the sad crystal eyes that glimmered in the cold sunlight.

As he passed his father, Eddard reached out again, stopping his son. Hardened eyes looked up from their pensive torment to find the face of the boy they knew so well. Tully blue and Stark gray met once more while the youth waited for his father to say something. But Eddard didn't. Maybe all he needed was to see one of his children. Maybe he needed to see his wife's eyes one more time, hoping they'd tell him what to do, despite his love being bared for another. But instead of anything, he gave a stern but affectionate pat to Robb's strong sword arm, which gave him leave. Robb gave one last nod and left the chambers.

When he was gone, the stern man sat for a pace or two longer. The solitude came in waves, the pulse of consciousness rippling through the cold chambers. He drew a long hard breath and withdrew from his seat by the fireplace with a creak. He still walked with a limp, but he didn't need his cane for now. His walk was slow and shuffled as he limped toward the chambers where all the commotion had happened.

On the floor a small puddle of wine stained the sole of his boot as a silver cup rolled back and forth when nudged. Though the bed had been made up, its fine soft quilt was adorned with emerald and sapphire jewels, and tangles of chokers. On the far end table at the foot of the bed a pitcher of wine sat unmolested, while the cups had been flung. He observed the mess with clinical but judgment free gaze till they fell to his chair by the desk.

Emerald eyes were fierce and distracted as they looked off to the distance. Her dark blue silken gown was halfway open revealing a matching corset of sinfully smooth material that hugged her perfect pale figure. Her long tresses of satin hair were askew, a stylish hairdo only half done. Fizzles of loose waves fluttered in the cold autumn breeze, while an audacious silver tiara with sapphire gems fell askew on the side of her golden head. The immense beauty looked vengefully contemptuous, as she was petulant, nursing an unsavory look as she swirled a mostly empty wine cup.

He watched her with eyes unchanged. The Queen's appearance seemed to match the fury and madness within herself. She had slept an hour or two, short gentle naps between sunrise and midmorning. He hadn't left her side, and she his arms. All through the night she begged for more, hotly, angrily, desperately as they made love. Each time he'd spilled his seed and she released, he'd slip down to her sweaty firm belly to rest his head and she'd lift it back to her, shaking her curls, begging him not to leave her yet. Again and again they made love, as if racing the sun himself. And finally when her womanhood was soaked and seeping with his seed Cersei had her fill. Finally the beautiful Queen slipped away into a sweaty pleasant unconsciousness as the purple and orange rays of the morning touched the sky. He should've slept then as she fell into the sweet darkness of weary dreamless sleep. But then he saw how fragile and tender she was in the early morning light, and so he took her in his arms and held her closely. He let her have one last hour of peace in safety before she faced all the fear and anger that would come out in this moment of time.

Pacing forward, she had no interest in his presence. Even disheveled and half dressed, internally the queen wore her armor of uncaring. She'd have herself appear as crisp and cold as the weather outside. She would act like nothing fazed her, not the uncertainty that waited, and not the desperate need in the love making. She'd all pretend it didn't happen to shield from the storm within herself. She was angry for being abandoned, and angry for being sold off to Robert. She was enraged that it had all come to this, separated from her children, and her humiliation turned into a grand spectacle. But most of all she was mad at herself for needing another, for showing weakness in the want of a stranger's embrace and safety of his arms when her courage faltered in sight of the moon and the witching hours of night when she was not herself.

Eddard Stark grunted as he moved forward taking in hand the pitcher of wine on his end table. Shifting her jaw angrily, the queen held out her cup without looking. A reflex for a want in order to bolster the battlements she had built around herself. She however did take notice of the Hand when he passed her by. She blinked and turned in her seat to watch Eddard go out onto the balcony. Her eyes bulged watching the Lord Hand upturn the pitcher, spilling the thick alcohol into the sea. She stood with fire in her nerves at the site of his action. When he was done, the man limped back and slammed the empty pitcher on his desk.

There was a pause between the two while Eddard stood at full height of authority. It was seldom that Ned Stark enforced the rules of captivity and reminded the Queen that she was his prisoner. But he knew when she drank, she was unagreeable, and today of all days was not the time to be unagreeable. The cup of wine she was allowed to drink even on peaceful days was the one thing that the Hand and the Queen fought about constantly. He'd force her to find comfort in other things, and she'd force him to regret it.

Flinging her cup into his chest, the woman pounced on Eddard with a snarl. Her delicate slender hands struck his chest, her long nails digging into the beaten leather of his surcoat as she attempted to get at him. But when she reached back to strike him on the face, her flat palm was halted. An iron grip clamped down upon her wrist and another large hand held her arm tightly. She was quickly over powered, his hands forcing her shoulders up, curbing the violence that ripped through her upon seeing her only means of coping with this terrible day drained away. She spat and huffed, baring her teeth like they were fangs. But it was all useless gestures as she lay completely at Ned Stark's mercy. Fierce emerald eyes matched stalwart gray as she wrenched weakly in the last drops of defiance within her.

This limbo between physical altercations she started was not new to the queen. If it were Jaime, he'd smash his mouth against her, gnawing on her bottom lip till it was swollen, turning her anger into passion, her violence to lust. Had it been Robert, he would've brought his meaty hand down on her cheek like the hammer he used to wield as mightily as the turkey leg he does now. He'd knock her to the floor or the bed depending on if he was determined to bring her to heel in other ways. But this was neither Robert nor Jaime, this was Ned Stark. This man with the sad eyes, and tired demeanor never matched the queen's anger with his own. He had never struck her. He simply let her struggle herself out, till she understood she'd not win. But unlike Robert who would still be spat upon and scratched even as he mercilessly mounted and pounded her till she bit a silk pillow. With Eddard, after a moment of reprieve, she felt guilty for her violent outbursts, the petty tantrum of a spoiled child that led to her being restrained. Unlike fighting with Robert or even Jaime, she never felt righteous afterward.

Gently Eddard released her, and she responded in kind by ripping out of his grip aggressively. Retreating to the other side of the room, Cersei turned her back on him. Chest huffing, there was still a sense of guardedness to the woman. The Hand let out a long agitated sigh and looked out toward the horizon. There was no mistaking that Cersei Lannister knew how to make Eddard Stark mad, it was seldom that he showed it, but she knew how to push him. However this was not one of those times. He knew what it was like before a battle, the edginess, and the anger of having to be in this situation where it was your life on the line. Now he could only imagine how it must feel to know your life was at stake and you weren't allowed to fight for it. Whatever Cersei threw at him today, he understood why she did it.

He wasn't quiet or subtle as he wandered back toward the Queen. She didn't track him, or turn to look. But he could tell when she was listening, and sneaking peaks at what he was doing. She didn't shrug off or deny the two hands that had restrained now gently lay on her. Tenderly he rubbed her arm with all the comfort and humanity of a man who had seen too much of the worst the world could offer. Her back fit against his chest and her shoulders rose and fell with heaves. He placed his nose against her hair as a stream of angry tears fell down the Queen's lovely cheeks.

She glared through tears when Eddard kindly turned her around so he could look upon her. There was a paternal side of the man that took over, as a single digit from his hand attempted to clear away a tear. The woman responded angrily, forcing it away and trying to turn away from him in embarrassment. But he wouldn't allow her. This time an entire hand cupped her cheek lovingly, gazing on her tears not with sympathy, but with understanding. As they fell, she stopped trying to fight him when she saw he did not give her pity or patronize her. Feeling respected even in her time of weakness, she allowed herself to rubbing her wet pale cheek hard into his strong hand. She received a chaste kiss to her rose red lips as she released his hand.

Sniffling, the woman watched in dazed fascination as Eddard began closing her gown around her. It was believed that men didn't know how to cloth a woman, and a woman how to fasten armor. But whither it was a lady in waiting or a squire to a great knight, both understood how to fasten and dress the complicated straps and harnesses of any outfit. While he worked, the Queen's slender hands reached out and traced the man's bearded face as he fastened her in her regal gown. He looked up for only a moment so that he could retrieve her silver belt. That's when he saw the look in her eyes that fell on him. She couldn't comprehend, didn't understand what was coming over her. He knew she was conflicted about everything she ever believed.

Eddard Stark was an enemy. He wasn't her blood, he wasn't her child, and he wasn't even her ally. Yet he was a man who took care of her, who warmed her in the cold nights, and who laid with her with such passion and promises. But even then somewhere in the back of her mind Tywin Lannister had always made it clear that there were limits to him. Cersei had thought she was incapable of loving someone who wasn't golden haired and rich beyond any Northman's wildest dreams. She was incapable because she didn't trust anyone to love her that wasn't a Lannister, and told since she was a girl that no one could. After seventeen years of punches, midnight rapes, and unhappiness she was so sure her father was true to his word. And yet there stood a man from the wilds of the north who protected her, slept with her, fed and clothed her when no Lannister dared. Now as he dressed her, she saw in his steady eyes that he had made a decision. A decision that went beyond any limits that even her own father would go for her.

For the first time, Cersei Lannister thought of the consequences for another due to her action. For the first time she realized what she had done, and the wrong of it without a sneer, or self-justification. When she framed Eddard Stark's face and saw what he would do for her today and every day after, she knew whatever happened next would be her fault. Cersei crushed herself into the man's chest, pressing her lips to his ear, eyes squeezed shut.

Cersei Lannister for the first time in her life finally understood what it was to truly, madly, love someone who wasn't a part of herself or her family.

And how terrified she was to lose him.

Author Notes

I can hear you guys right now …

"Five months, five months, and this is all we get?! You're making us look like a bunch of Assholes waiting for this story!" (Cause all of you have Stanton Island accents in my head.)

Listen, guys, I hear you and I know, I see the numbers this story pulls in. Here's the thing, I started on a Sherlock Holmes type mystery story right after the last chapter, and that lasted me all the summer all the way up till the end of October. Then in November I took a month off for development on other things. I had always intended to come back to this right after the Detective story, I just have this anxiety.

Look, guys, Game of Thrones is not home to me. I can write the "Sarah Connor Chronicles" characters in my sleep after five years, which makes it easy to update rapidly and go off cuff with stories in that fandom. But Game of Thrones comes much harder to me. Between old Martin hating Fanfic writers like cancer, and my basic winging of the characters based on gut instinct, I'm all but flying blind here. Yes, I've read all the books, including the "Dunk and Egg" adventures but it's been years.

I'm not saying it's an excuse, I'm just telling you how I feel on the subject when people ask why this doesn't get updated more regularly.

Now with that being said, the next chapter has been in planning for literally years, and it will most likely be the death of me in terms of a lot of characters, a lot of action, and a lot of dialogue with characters I've never written before. In fact this chapter was actually the opening to the big tourney chapter, but since it was running super long I figured it was enough to be a part one to a two part narrative that will change the status quo of the story.

So, if you're looking for a ton of action and a break from the romance, than you'll like what's coming up. But, if you read this for the straight romance than you might be disappointed, next chapter.

Expect the new chapter just before or on New Year's.