Of White Trees and Blue Roses

I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.

Please forgive any canon errors. I've loaned my brother Game of Thrones and I'm piecing the history together by A Wiki of Ice and Fire and Westeros dot org only.

~X~

Chapter Thirty Seven – Homecomings

Storm's End

Robert paused for only a second as he saw the huge fist of Storm's End's main tower rising over the horizon, but this was no time to be sentimental. He might be Lord of the Stormlands, this might be the place of his childhood, but he was also a fugitive from the king. The men—his men—inside that castle hadn't seen him for a year or two. Where did their loyalties lie?

When he'd left he'd been a boy, angry and full of untamed hormones, sent away to the Vale to learn how to be the Lord he'd become at such a young age. Now he was returning home to demand these people fight and die for him.

And to secure Lyanna's safe return, his heart reminded him. Not that he was likely to forget.

Thinking of Lyanna always left Robb in a fit of rage, fantasizing about tearing Rhaegar apart with his own hands. This dream kept the fires of war burning in Robert's chest, motivating him and making him keen to kill Targaryens on the battlefield, but right now he held back the spiral of emotions. He would need to have his wits about him as he entered his own castle.

Since Jon had convinced both him and Ned to rebel against the throne, Robb felt like he'd aged ten years. It wasn't until he was on board the ship that brought him south, avoiding the roads that would have taken him too close to King's Landing via land, that he'd noticed he also looked older. Instead of the soft wisps that had grown previously, he had the thick, coarse carpet of a real man's beard beginning on his jaw. Robb had been so preoccupied that he'd forgotten about mundane matters like shaving.

Rather than removing his new beard, he'd decided he liked the change and kept it. He was glad of it now as a strong wind straight off the sea buffeted him. And maybe his facial hair would make the men he was about to face think that he had grown to be one of them—he certainly had the dark hair his family was famed for.

The yellow and black banners of Houses Baratheon rippled in the wind beside him, signalling to those on the cliff mounted stronghold who it was marching their way with a considerable company of infantrymen.

Just in case they couldn't recall his face, Robert made sure he'd wore his antlered helm this morning, but beneath his armour and the show of strength, the boy inside worried about what was in store. Would he be arrested on sight? Had he earned the loyalty of those he had been made lord of on his father's death, even at a distance?

Though he longed to race ahead and find out sooner rather than later, Robert remained with the soldiers who had made the journey by his side. Jon Arryn was raising his own banners, gathering together a force from the Vale and fighting the Targaryen loyalists that had come along the East Road, forcing Ned and Robb to head in opposite directions on less travelled routes.

Robb felt a little naked and green without his older, more experienced mentor and his cavalry, but this was the time to step up and become an adult. This was his chance to show who he was and what he was capable of; he'd played at war for so long and now it was for real. The usual flush of excitement he felt about practising in the Eyrie or fighting in the melee curdled with the churning nervousness in his bowels.

Ned was heading further North to Winterfell, though he had the advantage that his men would already be incensed and ready to start a war over their executed sons, brothers, and fathers. Here, Robert was asking people to fight just to keep his own head on his shoulders. It was a lot to ask, to rebel against the crown for one person, their absentee lord who had been a young boy when he had left for his education in the Eyrie.

Marching through the gate, he sat tall and made a point of looking as many burly men and knights in the eye as he could. When he reached the main yard, Robb resisted the urge to take in the familiar stones and faces and brought his horse to a halt. When he spoke, he made sure he was loud and clear.

"It's been a long time since I returned home, and I do now as a rebel against House Targaryen. Somehow, even out of sight in the Vale, I have caused the king offence and he calls for my head—though it is his son, Rhaegar, that has taken Lyanna Stark, the woman I love and your future lady." Robert dismounted and collected his war hammer.

"If any man feels tempted by the rewards King Aerys has promised in return for this." Robert tapped the side of his helm with the palm of his hand. "Then by all means come and try to remove it from my shoulders. But bear in mind the king's idea of fairness. Brandon Stark rode to King's Landing with a genuine grievance, and no doubt you've already heard of his fate—and that of his father and the other northerners. That is not justice, and I mean to fight against it."

Robert paused. "Anyone wanting to come and face me, do so now." He looked around at the sea of faces gathered around him, not one looking as if they were considering the idea. He saw quiet interest, stern, nodding agreement, and others who looked as if they were ready to march on the Red Keep that very moment.

"Good. I will raise the Stormlands, and together with the Vale and the North we'll show the Targaryens that we won't lie down and let them ride over us. The time of dragons is over."

There were cheers and murmurs of approval. Relieved, Robert climbed the steps and walked through the heavy, familiar door. It was here that he finally saw Maester Cressen and his two younger brothers, Stannis and Renly.

Stannis was exactly as he remembered him, his hair neatly combed and a serious expression on his pinched face, only he was now taller and much more awkward-looking within his own skin. Renly, still a young child, hid behind Maester Cressen's robes, fat baby-like cheeks and unsure eyes peeking out behind the brown cloth.

"My lord, haven't you grown since I saw you last. How was your journey?" The old maester gave a friendly smile but Robert only had his head set on serious business and wine, not pleasantries.

"Long, tiring, and with the constant threat of someone wanting to take my head hanging over me. Not to mention dry." Robert continued to walk towards the main hall. "Tell the steward to organise a feast tonight and tomorrow. We're going to need plenty of meat and ale to talk my guests into giving up their lives for me. Send ravens—I'm calling the banners. We're going to war."

Stannis watched in awe as his older brother stormed away. Robert looked just as strong, fierce, and uncompromising as had been made out in the tales from Harrenhal. He'd rode up to the castle looking every bit the great lord, splendid in his antlered armour, looking very much like the black stag on the Baratheon banner made flesh.

Part of him had wanted to cry out his name and run in for a bear hug, but Stannis wasn't the one for such displays. He had missed Robert and was glad for his return, but there was something different about his older brother, something imposing.

Could it be the determined flash in his eyes, or maybe it was just the wiry beard? Stannis wondered if he might be able to grow one himself.

~X~

Winterfell

Even though it was the final hours before dawn, it was the thought that he might miss the first sight of his childhood home that kept Ned awake, though his body burned with fatigue. He'd been travelling for almost a month, staying off the King's Road and away from any major castles or forts, lest he be recognised by anyone less than friendly.

He and the few soldiers making the journey with him had paid a fisherman to take them across the Bite to White Harbour, but during the crossing storms hit. The fisherman had been killed, but thanks to the keen seamanship of his daughter they'd at least made it to Sweetsister, one of the Sister Isles.

Feeling as if he'd aged ten years in a night, Ned had never been so glad to see dry land. Coughing out saltwater, he'd collapsed on the pebbled shore and given thanks to the gods for seeing him through that black night.

They'd spent a week hidden on the island, under the care of Lord Godric Borrell, and whilst there he'd become overcome with awe for his saviour, the young fisherman's daughter.

It hadn't been the same as it was with Ashara—that feeling of being struck by lightning, paralysed. Instead it had been a warm glow of admiration over her bravery and determination, which grew into an appreciation of her pretty features and plain way of speaking. Selye was her name.

One night, in the simple hut where she was hiding Ned and his surviving men, they'd both found themselves unable to sleep. While the others snored, they had stayed up for most of the night talking about the mutual losses of their fathers. At one point, Selye had dropped an item on the floor, and in reaching for it, they'd found their faces within inches of one another's.

The moment seemed to take an eternity to pass, and two voices had waged war within Ned. As he noticed her gaze drop to his mouth in a way that screamed invitation, it would have been so easy to press his mouth to hers. But she was vulnerable, he'd told himself. She had just lost her only parent, and to take advantage of her would be wholly wrong.

And so the moment had passed, but they had continued to talk until they fell asleep, only this time with a definite charge to the atmosphere. He'd woken up with her curled up against his body, with her head on his chest.

The over familiarity of his waking position and the almost kiss had stayed with him for the rest of the day, and made it difficult to be in her presence.

Without Selye, Eddard would be in a watery grave. The title, Lord of Winterfell, would have passed to Benjen, and it would be up to him to answer Jon's request to raise the North. Ned didn't doubt that Ben would do it, but valuable time would be lost, and as much as he would like to be a knight, Ben was still young and inexperienced.

It was that train of thought that had convinced Ned that Selye was the pin that held together the entire hopes of the rebellion. His admiration became exacerbated by the fact that in her presence, he now found himself distracted by her manner of breathing, and her slightest movement seemed to wind him tighter and tighter.

Almost driven to madness by the rescuer he felt he owed so much to, when it was time to leave on the ship Lord Borrell had found to smuggle him into White Harbour, he was on the verge of asking Selye to marry him and become his wife. Luckily, he'd had enough of his senses remaining to remind him of his place and duty.

He was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Good lords didn't marry attractive young common women on a whim, no matter how indebted they felt to them. He could have loved her, Ned's conscience had whispered. She would be a fine wife despite her simple roots, but then another argument had dismissed the matter entirely.

Lords made political alliances, and to wed someone beneath their station, especially in desperate times, was a waste. Besides, now he was Lord of Winterfell, maybe he could initiate an alliance with Dorne, more specifically Starfall...

Would whatever it was that had caused Ashara so much trouble in Harrenhal's godswood be swept away now that he was a great lord? Once more struck with lightning, Ned dared to hope, at least until he reasoned that he was a rebel against the crown, and no one wanting to remain on the side of the king would give him a second look. Especially not Ashara Dayne, handmaiden to King Aerys' daughter-in-law.

And so it was that he satisfied himself with kissing Selye's hand, leaving her on Sweetsister with the promise that he would send her financial reward for her actions, though the gesture seemed empty. What price could possibly be paid to compensate the loss of a father?

Still, he'd stayed on board as he sailed away from Sweetsister and Selye, until the night had concealed her figure as she stood on the seashore, and the torch that marked her position disappeared into the blackness.

In White Harbour he'd found horses and supplies to replace that what was lost, and his journey across the wild ways of the North had begun.

There was a chill in the air on those early spring mornings, as he woke in his outdoor bedroom to find that night had been gnawing on his bones, leaving him feeling frozen to the core. Now, tired, cold, and mentally lethargic, he went over and over thoughts of comfortable Winterfell to keep himself moving forward each day. Every night, thoughts of Ashara or Selye spontaneously came to mind, keeping his mind and other parts of his body warm.

Whatever had changed in Ned, he found himself understanding Robb more, though Ned would never dishonour a woman by lying with her out of wedlock as his friend had often done.

Eddard thought often about where Robert was, and whether his journey had found smoother seas. How was Jon Arryn faring in the Vale? Would Ned himself be able to lead the armies of the North south to avenge his father and brother's death, and see justice done for the families of the knights and soldiers who had died alongside their Stark lord and his heir?

Many men and boys who had not expected to become heads of their household had lost family that day. It would be these men that he'd have to listen to as he sat in his dead father's seat, in halls that had once echoed to the sound of Brandon's powerful voice. In comparison, would the quiet second son seem weak?

What was the difference between a good lord and a bad one? Morals? Honesty? Strength of character and a talent for public speaking? Ability on the battlefield? Ned measured himself against his father and older brother, finding himself lacking.

It felt as if he'd been travelling forever when the first light from Winterfell came into view. It was just as good as setting foot on the dry land of Sweetsister all over again. Revitalised, he and his men broke into a canter.

As they rode up to the gates, even so close to home Ned's return did not get any easier. It wasn't until he'd removed his hood and made sure the soldiers on the battlements could clearly see that he was Eddard Stark, new Lord of Winterfell, that the order to open the gates was given. Despite the delay, it pleased him to see that Benjen had made sure their home was well defended.

Once finally inside, Ned dismounted, still finding his way barred by people who wanted to speak to him.

"I'm sorry for what they did to your brother and your father, m'lord."

"Always said you'd make a good Lord Stark."

"My uncle went to King's Landing with Ser Brandon. Left two children and a sickly wife..."

Ned replied appropriately, still pushing through the human obstacles that hampered his progress. After placating Maester Walys with a promise that he'd deal with the issues that had built up in the absence of a Lord Stark after sleep and a good meal, Ned finally reached his destination.

Treading carefully across the rushes and noticing the orange glow of dawn through the window, Ned sat on the edge of Benjen's bed. His youngest brother stirred a little, opening his eyes just a little and murmuring, "Ned?"

After a few moment of recognition, Ben sat bolt upright. "Ned!"

Ned reached forward and ruffled Ben's hair. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"I didn't think you were coming back. After Father and Brandon, and then the king calling for your head, I thought I'd never see any of you again." Ben's voice was choked and his eyes watery.

"Of course I'd come back." Ned searched for the words to convey how much he needed to see the only traceable family he had left, but they didn't materialise. He also wanted to reassure Ben that he intended on never leaving Winterfell again, but that would be a lie.

Something in Ned's expression seemed to convey his message, and Ben visibly shrank.

"You're going again, aren't you? Once you've raised an army."

Ned nodded.

"And you're going to fight against the king's allies. Mace Tyrell. Randyll Tarly. The kingsguard. Prince Rhaegar..."

"Maybe. The north is the largest of the seven kingdoms of Westeros. The Stormlands are strong, and with the Vale, we're not a force to be taken lightly. It could be that the king sees that and wants to negotiate a peace."

Ben knew how to read Ned too well and saw how little he believed in a peaceful solution. He gave a grimace.

"If Rhaegar comes out to fight, then Lyanna might come home."

Ned smiled sadly. "Aye. That could happen."

A silence fell, neither wanting to say anything that might shatter the fictional future they were discussing. It was Ben that finally broke it.

"I don't want to be Lord of Winterfell. I don't want to be alone. Promise me you'll come back."

Ned shifted awkwardly. In his heart he didn't believe he'd be Lord Stark for long. If he was lucky, he might find himself languishing in the black cells at the king's pleasure, but he replied as best as he could.

"I promise that I'll do everything I can to make sure that I come home, and that I'll try my hardest to bring Lyanna home, too." Every single word was heavy, weighted with honesty and the realisation that the simple promise seemed almost impossible to achieve.

"You sound like father." Ben gave a look with hollow, red eyes, but climbed out of his bed, digging underneath it for a package wrapped in cloth. He handled it almost reverently. "When he went, he left this behind for me to give to Lord Stark when he returned. You're Lord Stark now."

Ned waited patiently for the wrappings to be removed, revealing Ice, his father's Valyrian steel greatsword, which had been passed down through the family for countless generations.

The blade was dark grey, and as wide across as Ned's hand. It was longer than Benjen was tall, and as Ned picked it up he was reminded of its weight. Once upon a time he'd tried to lift it, and his mind automatically went back to that day, back when Benjen was still a babe in his nursemaid's arms, Lyanna was no higher than father's knees, and Brandon had yet to leave for his fostering at Barrowton.

Had Brandon been as tall as Ice already at that age, or was that just his memory playing tricks with him? Certainly, Ned wasn't much taller than the greatsword himself even now as an adult. Ice was a formidable weapon, weighty and difficult to wield, but unexpectedly it was now his.

"You'll need to practice with it before you go to war," Ben said matter-of-factly.

"I will." Ned inspected the distinctive ripples in the blade, before laying it back down on Benjen's bed.

Ben found something else within the wrappings, and handed over a note written in their father's handwriting.

"Ice is a famous weapon. It's been in our family for longer than history remembers. Father left it behind because he knew he wasn't coming back. He wanted you to have it."

Ned fingered the small square of parchment, caressing the ink left there by the parent he'd never see again, unless it was the stone effigy that would need to be commissioned for the tomb under Winterfell. He recalled the dark, shadowy place where the bones of the old kings of the north and previous Lord Stark's lay at rest. Where his bones might one day lie with them. Brandon's, too, though he would only have been Lord Stark if he'd lived a few moments longer than their father.

"If you take Ice with you when you go into battle, then you've got to come back. Otherwise someone who's not a Stark might take it for their own."

"I won't let them."

Ned's voice was determined. For the first time, after holding the deadly heirloom, Ned truly felt like he was the Warden of the North, Lord Stark of Winterfell. He was descended from the northern kings of old, the first men, who had previously wielded Ice. Their strength flowed through his veins, and he felt every bit as single minded and fierce as the direwolf sigil of his house.

He wouldn't be remembered as Eddard the Weak, or Eddard the Coward. He would call the banners, and give his people a chance to avenge their murdered uncles, fathers, sons and brothers. His story would be that of a young lord, marching south in rebellion with his friends, defying the king who had so cruelly executed his father and brother, and he wouldn't rest until justice was served and the honour of his family restored.