Author's Note

I do not own Game of Thrones.

Lordling accompanied him onto the shores of Pyke. Ned was wariest of that. He was still a juvenile, growing into himself, even if he was nearly as big as an adult wolf.

But if his attack on Jaime Lannister was anything to go by, he could handle himself.

And if his past behaviour was anything to go by, he'd not be left behind on the ship.

He stayed by Ned's side as the siege machines were assembled and the Ironborn came pouring down from their castle walls, wielding axes and stubby spears.

After Lordling tore the throat from the first man to near him, Ned stopped worrying.

The presence of the large wolf froze some of the Ironborn in place. Others stayed clear, allowing Ned to charge onwards and cleave a path through them at Robert's side.

Red foam dripped from Lordling's jaws.

The main watchtower fell, bringing with it large sections of the surrounding wall. Those inside screamed as the heavy stone crushed them. First through the breach was that ridiculous Red Priest of Robert's, soon after followed by a far more sensible Northman, Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. He and Robert entered amidst a steady stream of men, their steel slicing through flesh and muscle. Robert was in his element here, men falling to the fury of his hammer all around him. Lordling remained near to Ned himself, though his several detours to assist Rodrik and a smattering of the other Stark men didn't go unnoticed. He'd chosen his favourites.

In a blur of blood and death they arrived in the throne room, and it was only then that Lordling left him, charging away through the fray with a furious snarl. Ned hesitated to follow. He should be by Robert's side, but–

That was unusual for the wolf from what he'd seen.

He found him again on a flat stretch of stone behind the castle, evidently intended to have a ship moored there, though currently there was none. Two children were huddled at the edge of the stone, clutching axes against the encroaching Lannister men.

Images of those red stained bundles in the Throne Room all those years ago flashed behind Ned's eyes.

"Stop!" he thundered. "Those are children!"

Lordling snarled, rushing in front of the pair.

Had he known a child some time before?

"They're Greyjoys–" started one of the men.

"Stop, or lose your heads."

If Lordling didn't take their throats first.

Between Ice, and the large, angry wolf, they capitulated.

By the time he returned to the Throne Room with the two sniffling children, Balon Greyjoy lay dead on the cold stone. The boy screamed, and the girl laid her arm over his shoulders, her eyes blazing with a cold terror.

"What's this?" asked Robert.

"The surviving Greyjoy heirs," Ned replied.

"Bring them here then."

Ned laid a hand on each child's shoulder. "You shan't be executing them."

"Their family will pay the price for treason!"

"It wasn't treason," said the girl. "No Greyjoy ever swore fealty to a Baratheon. We swore to the Targaryens, and the Targaryens are all dead."

Ned squeezed her shoulder. "Then swear one now, and you and your brother can lead your house."

Robert spluttered, eyeing the boy. "Perhaps the girl can be married off, but that boy will rise again, Ned."

Ned looked down at the boy. "How old are you, boy?"

"Nine," he whispered.

Nine.

"Then let me take him as a ward," Ned said. "Until he's old enough to rule."

Unspoken: he could teach him to be loyal.

Robert shook his head. "I don't believe this wise, Ned."

"I won't be a childkiller. Let me take the boy."

Robert never could deny him anything.