This is a prelude to set up the main chapters. Don't expect much plot and dialogue for these chapters.

THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REWRITTEN 2023/02/11

A short chapter featuring Ned x Depression.

Winterfell

Mid 282AC

Winterfell was haunted by ghosts.

There was the ghost of his father in his solar, stern-faced, and reading letters from the lords or thinking of ways to improve the lives of the people. Father had been strict and severe, particularly on Brandon and Lyanna, but he was fair and upright. While life in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn played a part in who he was, it was growing up under his father's rule that had given him his nature and disposition. It was father who taught them of the importance of the pack, of what it meant to be a Stark, of the Old Way, and of the North and its people.

There was his mother floating all around the castle. She had been its Lady, and while she may have been sickly most days, she was always there to fulfill her duties. Mother was also in the glass gardens. He could still see her digging into the soil, her deep blue eyes shining like sapphires in the sunlight. When he was much younger, his mother would hold him in her lap, despite the paleness of her cheeks and the roundness of her belly, while Brandon would be lying on the floor next to Lyanna, and she would tell them stories that had been passed down from her Flint grandmother to her mother and then to her. Stories about the Old Gods who watched from the eyes of the weirwoods, about the Woh dak nag gran who could speak to animals and the dead and sung songs in a Tongue that brought tears to the eyes, and of their wolf's blood. "Wolf-blooded and ice-veined. That is who we are. You may be different from Brandon, sweet Ned, but both of you are Starks."

There was Brandon joking in the courtyard with the guards or causing mischief for the servants. Brandon who woke up early just so he could go to each of their rooms and drag them from their beds. There was Lyanna and Benjen dancing across the Godswood, leaping onto rocks, and hooting at one another as they dueled with broken branches. Lyanna and Brandon were again in the stables, arguing over a horse race. "You cheated!" the girl yelled, glaring up at her brother. Brandon raised a mocking brow, "Not if you can't prove it, stupid." There was Benjen again, hiding in corners from Brandon who wanted to use him as a practice dummy.

They were everywhere. Even in the people of Winterfell. In Old Nan and Hodor, in Vayon Poole and Rodrik Cassel. In Mikken the Blacksmith and Hullen the Master-of-Horse. In Catelyn, Jon, and Aregelle.

The bodies of the ghosts themselves had been laid in tombs side by side down in the crypts. He had stonemasons craft statues for them all. Usually, it was only the Kings of Winter who were given statues, with some exceptions, but he felt that they each deserved one for all that they went through.

Father sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In four smaller sepulchres, with two on either side, were his wife and children. On his right was mother, the stonemason had somehow managed to capture her tender nature and he felt his heart ache at the expression on her face. Next to her was Benjen, for he had been the youngest and dearest to her. On the left was Brandon, face stern in death like it had never been in life. He had only been twenty when he died - the same age as Eddard was right now. Next year, he would be older than Brandon. And finally, Lyanna. He told the mason to carve her out a smile, for she was fond of smiling and had died with one. He loved them with all of his heart, and brought them flowers when he could, hoping that father and Brandon would not mind the scent of them.

He laid another garland at Brandon's feet, for the secret little girl who was buried there. He had dug open a space next to Brandon so his niece could rest alongside her father, as Ashara wanted. She would not have a name on her tombstone, nor would it ever be known that she was buried here. He left her in the little box and closed it up with dirt. The guilt sat heavy on his shoulders, so heavy he could not hold his back straight whenever he was faced with his brother. Forgive me, Ashara, Brandon, Dyanna.

He could not let it be known that the girl Ashara gave birth to was Brandon's, for then people would wonder about Jon's birth. He was aware of the many rumors floating around that pointed towards a lady with purple eyes as the mother of his bastard and he did nothing to put a stop to them. He did not care for his honor in the sight of their eyes, but he prayed the gods would forgive him for besmirching Ashara's name like this.

To relieve some of the guilt, he moved Aregelle's room from the Snow Tower to the family chambers where she would stay until she came of age. He had already put Jon in the nursery that was once his own and his siblings, and now he put another girl in there. But she was not just any girl, she was Brandon's blood. The only thing he left behind of himself after having the life choked out of him. Despite being bastard-born, Brandon loved the little girl and already made his intentions clear of having her grow up within Winterfell. Eddard could never send her away knowing that his brother wanted the opposite. As for the mother, a lady of House Condon, he invited her to visit her daughter regularly. No matter how it might look to the outside world; it was what Brandon would have wanted.

Catelyn, of course, was not happy with this. The chambers and the nursery belonged to the trueborns, while the Snow Tower was where it was clear the bastards were meant to reside. She had been in a dark mood for weeks after that, hardly speaking to each other and rarely sharing a bed. On the nights that they did lay together to perform their duties, he would leave the chambers immediately afterwards.

Eddard did not want his marriage to be this way, but it must have been inevitable for he had not wanted to marry Catelyn and she had not wanted to marry him. It was a political marriage. He was sure that she too wondered whose child Jon was, but perhaps courtesy prevented her from outright confronting him. She must think it to be Ashara as well. How could he tell her that the one who laid with Ashara was not himself, the second brother she hadn't wanted, but rather her beloved Brandon? Clearing up the matter would also bring more questions and suspicions of who Jon's mother was, if not Ashara, and Eddard did not know Catelyn enough to trust her with the truth. She was close to her family, and perhaps would approach one of them for advice if she felt she needed some. She was also a very proud woman, he knew, and he feared one day she might let it slip that Jon was not her husband's bastard if someone were to slight her with the matter.

If everyone had their own thoughts, then let them think that. As long as it prevented them from thinking too deeply about timelines or how a strong 16-year-old girl died so suddenly from a fever or why there were three Kingsguard present at the Tower of Joy where she was held. He was not lying or deceiving, per say, Ashara had lain with a Stark and gave birth to a bastard as everyone believed. Just not with him, and just not Jon.

Catelyn deserved better than his deception. Especially when she was a great help in managing the household alongside Vayon Poole, taking on her duties like a fish to water. He wondered if losing Brynden drove her to work so hard, so she would not have to think of the child she lost. It seemed to work well for her if that were the case. Unlike Catelyn, he did not do so well to cope. He struggled to maintain his attention on his lordly duties. He ate little, slept little, and barely managed to pull through when he held court for the smallfolk.

Grief passes with time. But how could he when the ghosts would unfailingly remind him every night of how he had given in to Benjen's pleas, for not arriving at the Tower of Joy sooner, for leaving mother all alone? How could it get easier when all it felt like was dragging around a massive stone, one that was holding him back and weighing him down from even moving forwards? How could the grief pass when all he wished was for the gods to take him as well.

/~~/

283AC

In the Godswood the snow was still dissolving as it touched the earth. Steam rose off the hot pools, fragrant with the smell of moss and mud and decay. And in the heart of the wood the weirwood watched the family of four with its knowing red eyes.

Both Jon and Aregelle were at an age where they could walk and talk, but his own daughter was still a little pup who couldn't stand straight yet, so he kept her close in his arms. "Be careful," he called, when they got a bit too close to the murky waters.

Seeing the other two running and laughing, Sansa began to struggle against him. "Dada!" She pulled on his hair, making him wince. Not even yet two-years-old, and she already had a mean grip. He let go of her, and she toddled over with unsteady legs to where her cousins were playing in the snow. He resisted the urge to go over and check up on her when she tripped. It was normal for children to fall over while practicing walking, he reminded himself. She would not die because of a cut on the knee. When she finally reached them, she was quickly welcomed and instructed to help in building their tower.

Sansa shared her mother's looks of red hair and blue eyes, while Jon and Aregelle looked to be Stark siblings, something which relieved him immensely. Jon, at first glance, shared little with his father's side. But Ned, who had seen Rhaegar, could see some likeness to the prince. It was in the contour of his brows, the slimness of his face, the shape of his lips.

Dragonspawn. What would Robert do if he knew that Eddard hid the son of Rhaegar, and the heir to the Iron Throne, within his castle? Would he declare war on the North, and Eddard a traitor to the crown? But he's Lyanna's babe as well! He wondered if this would hold the king back or would it only cause the storm to become more ferocious? He could still clearly see Robert's fury when it came to anything Targaryen. The way he treated the deaths of the dragon children said much. Not even Eddard could say anything to his friend to change his mind, and it tore them apart.

He was ashamed to say this, but he knew he would eventually end up overlooking Robert's lack of action towards the Lannisters. They had spent almost half of their lives together and he could not imagine himself completely cutting Robert off. They were brothers in everything but blood. Eventually the outrage of Elia and her children's murders would fade, and he would find himself wishing for his friend once more. He just didn't think it would be Lyanna's death that would reconcile the worst of what had happened between them in the throne room.

Since then, he received many ravens from King's Landing, written in Robert's messy hand, filled half with good cheer and half with obscenities, as was his way of speaking. Sometimes demanding he come to King's Landing, others saying to expect a stag up North. He knew neither of the two would happen. The King couldn't leave the capital rashly, and Eddard had no desire to go south of the Neck for a long, long time.

Their friendship briefly went cold once more when a few moons back he learned that Robert had married Cersei Lannister; a great reward for a House that only joined right at the end. He knew that Robert would need to give the Lannisters something to bring the Westerlands fully into the fold, and what better than to make the Light of the West his queen? Jon Arryn also privately told him about the gold they needed from Casterly Rock.

Is gold worth more than the life of Elia Martell and her children? He wrote, but immediately burned the letter. Eddard was a weak man who wanted his friend back. He had little strength to continue quarreling with Robert.

What happened to Elia and her children, he swore to the gods that he would never allow that to happen to Jon. He would protect this child, love him, and give him all the happiness Lyanna would have given him had she been alive.

For Brandon's girl as well. Lady Arsa had decided to raise Aregelle with her on Cerwyn lands and he let her do so, not wanting to keep mother and child apart, but they visited often enough that both Jon and Sansa were familiar with her face and recognised her as kin.

He felt a smile crack on his face as he watched them playing together, the movement so strange that his cheeks felt tight as they stretched out. It pleased him to see them together like this. "Let them grow up as close as blood siblings, with only love between them," he prayed softly to the gods. A screech of laughter from Jon made him add on, "...and let my lady wife find it in her heart to forgive."

"Bran…" the voice was a whisper in the wind, a rustle in the leaves. "Brandon…" His head whipped up to the weirwood. Strangely, it seemed as if Benjen's face was carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Benjen's ghost, he thought, but that was madness.

For a single, desperate moment, Eddard wished that it was his brother. Old Nan told stories about the dead living on in the trees. Mayhaps it was his brother, watching him from beyond.

...No, that was only cradle-tales. Benjen's bones were in the Crypts, alongside Brandon's, and alongside the rest of his family, their souls kept in place by iron swords. And it would stay there, amongst the other dead Starks, until one day he too would be buried there.

/~~/

In the daytime, he thought of his family. At night, he dreamt of them.

He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares.

They had all died painful deaths, he knew. The thought of what they went through still made his stomach tighten even two years later and he often found himself on the verge of tears as he lay in bed alone. Brandon had been strangled to death, father boiled alive in his armor, Benjen struck down by arrows, Lyanna during childbirth, and his poor mother who could not endure the agony of losing three of her children. Some nights were filled with one of them, some nights it was all of them.

That night though, he dreamt of Rhaegar Targaryen.

It was the year of false spring, and he was eighteen again, down from the Eyrie to the tourney at Harrenhal. He could see the deep green of the grass and smell the pollen on the wind. Warm days and cool nights and the sweet taste of wine. He remembered Brandon's laughter and berserk valor in the melee, the way he unhorsed men left and right. He remembered Benjen's cheering and clapping for the knights he admired.

His brothers quickly disappeared as Rhaegar Targaryen rode forward on his armored steed. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: the plates gleaming black with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne. Despite their losses, his family had been happy and smiling. Then he remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar urged his horse past his wife, Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost. Eddard reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, and saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers.

The dream continued on. Despite not being there to see it, he still saw the prince battling Robert on the Trident, saw the rubies fly like drops of blood from his chest as it was hammered in. The prince sunk into the river, with a name on his lips. Lyanna.

He dreamt of the children next, of their bodies wrapped in red cloaks. He could see it clearly as he did that day in the Throne Room. Murder, murder, murder. When the cloaks were unwrapped, what Eddard saw was not the silver-blond hair of little Aegon, but the hair on the crushed skull was dark and the dead eyes that stared back at him were as black as the night. Promise me, Ned, his sister whispered from her bed of blood.

The dream left him gasping and scrambling down the hallway to the nursery.

Jon quietly lay in his crib. His head was still fully intact, there was no blood in sight, and his chest was gently rising and falling. Safe, he's safe. Alive and safe. It was only a dream. He took Jon's hand and held it in his own. It was warm, so unlike what Lyanna's had been like when he last held her.

He kissed the little hand and gently placed it back down. When he let go rose petals slipped from his palm, dead and black, and he violently flinched back. Quickly, he held it up in the candlelight. There was nothing. Only his unstained, trembling hand. Was he beginning to lose his wits just like his mother?

"Gods save me," he wept. "I am going mad." The gods did not deign to answer. They would not help him with this burden. It was his alone to bear.

A long time ago, he remembered his father saying that when the cold wind blows the lone wolf dies but the pack would survive. Father had it all backwards. Eddard, the lone wolf, still lived, but the wolves of the pack had all been taken. Alone, and on his own, he was beginning to lose his mind.

Eddard felt like a part of him had died in the Tower alongside his sister. The loss of his family left his heart cold and barren. Some servants said the same; he could hear their whispers following him in the hallways. The sad lord of Winterfell. The wolf who had lost his entire pack.

He grieved for each one of them, of their lives stolen so violently, of the injustice of it all. He grieved for long-lost happiness and grieved for happiness that could have been. He felt the pinpricks of loneliness and felt the hole of emptiness that had been carved in his chest. It was like he was lost in a sea of darkness, with rough waters, trying to thread through, knowing that he would soon run out of stamina, and eventually one wave would be enough for him to sink under.

Tonight, might just be that wave that would drown him.

Just when he thought he was falling into darkness, a little boy's voice broke through. Eddard's cries had disturbed Jon's sleep, and he started fussing in his crib. He hesitated to touch him, remembering the dead roses. In the end, his need to comfort his nephew won, and he picked Jon up and held him close, gently tapping his back. Seemingly, in response to both Jon's and his own distress, the cries of a girl sounded from the room next door. He heard the rushed steps of the nanny on night-duty and her soft crooning to the child, trying to calm her.

Eddard huffed in amusement, despite his low spirits. It was like the gods were telling him that they hadn't left him alone. They gave him children, two belonging to his brother and sister, and one of his own. It was the start of a new pack.

He felt himself calming as he listened to the sounds of their breathing. He didn't think that just hearing someone breathing could be a source of comfort. He might never fill the hole in his heart, he might never be as happy as those days before Harrenhal, he might never have a peaceful dream again. But he was not alone. There were others. And soon, he thought, soon there would be more.

Eddard fell asleep holding onto his nephew. His dreams that night was filled only with the light breathing of children.

About Sansa's age: Reason for Sansa being so much older (she's 11 in the books! And only 13 in the show) is because I want to bring her character arc forward, rather than it being drawn out because of her age and naivety. As the oldest, she will also have a sense of responsibility that I felt was lacking. Also, I'd feel really awkward if I wrote a scene of such a young girl striking deals with the other players of the game, or her having scenes with sexual tension in. She's now a decent Westerosi age, 15-16, to be having moments with older men. I'm looking at the Hound, Tyrion, and Baelish. And later, other older love interests will appear. It really will be so disturbing if a girl of 11/13 is having all these romances.

About Eddard/Catelyn: Ned is only a 19-year-old when the Rebellion breaks out and over the course of a year loses all of his family. His father, his brother, even Benjen, then his mother, and sees his sister on her deathbed. For an entire year the only blood he had left was his siblings' children, who are too young to provide actual emotional comfort. He's going to want to keep that child(ren) close, and Ned isn't the type to throw them away as an emotional crutch when he finally gets his own child. Ned does feel guilty towards Catelyn for dishonoring her, but the same way he chooses to tell the world that Jon is his, never mind his honor, he chooses two children over Catelyn and her honor. I'm not saying Catelyn is being an unreasonable b**** for wanting them gone, because anyone else would feel the same, but for Ned between his wife (that he doesn't know that well and didn't want to marry) or his own blood, it's an obvious choice. Also keep in mind that Ned and Catelyn are around 21-22 years old right now, so their ages are also playing a factor in them not communicating properly. Maybe if they were older and more experienced, they would have had an easier time dealing with each other's grief.

AUTHOR RANT AHEAD: I always disliked how Ned seemed to put his head in the sand when it came to the issue between Cat/Jon, again she's allowed to feel that way and Ned did do her a disservice, but I also feel like Ned as the caretaker should have paid more attention to the child who was entrusted to him than to the feelings of an adult Catelyn. I'm not saying this because I'm a Cat-hater and a Jon-fan, honestly neither of them are my favorite characters (if it isn't obvious, Robb is my fav then probably Bran and Arya) but I don't intend on writing bashing because of my feelings (I'll try), I'm mostly ranting right now because Ned and his indecisiveness pisses me off. On one hand he loves Catelyn and knows she dislikes Jon immensely, but he looks the other way because of his guilt and doesn't stop her from making Jon feel like an outsider. He does put his foot down occasionally, like the issue on Jon's mother and him staying in WF (which gives Catelyn Blackfyre Rebellion flashbacks), but I personally feel like it's not enough, especially that scene where Catelyn wants Jon gone when Ned leaves for KL and he's just like "Cat, please. He's only a boy", put your damn foot down and make a damn plan man, how would he have gone about it if Maester Luwin didn't pipe up about Jon wanting to go to the Wall? Was he going to tell Jon to just roll out? "sorry son I love you but the wife wants you gone." (Well, he was about to get angry until Luwin intervened, so maybe Eddard would have shot her down.) On the other hand, he turns to Jon and assures him "you muh blood", dances around the issue of his mother (we all know the reason, but Jon doesn't) and never really leaves him with something that he can hold onto. Like why not tell him one day he will be given a holdfost, or he will be given a new name maybe, or he can be fostered with his bannerman so he can see what's going in the world and choose his own path. He kinda just leaves Jon hanging there and makes him feel as if the Wall is the only thing for a bastard. He did his best protecting Jon, still I don't think Lyanna would smile when she finds out that her son was sent to a glorified prison. Never mind that Northerners see it as an honor, the place is now rundown and filled mostly with unwantables and Ned must have had some idea of what the Wall really is like, he couldn't have been that ignorant of the reality. I know Ned is so honorable and everything, but it's also like he's so wishy-washy towards many things because of that. I mean, if it was another Stark of the past, they would have been like "bish pls" instead of "Cat pls" and put the matter to rest, since it seemed like bastards did reside in WF in the past. That's just my opinion though.

In the whole Cat or Jon - who fans side with- thing, I personally lean more towards Jon, but that's more because he's so young - only 14yrs at the start of the series - and Catelyn is already mid 30's than me liking Jon over her. I find it sadder imagining a child grow up with such a psychological shadow looming over him and then ending up at a cold, lonely place like the Wall, than I would find it sad that an adult woman has to endure a bastard in her presence.

Look, I get that Jon was living the best life compared to other bastards it could have been much worse he's so lucky it was her he ended up with and she never physically or verbally abused him and she loves her children so much she would do anything for them, I get it. Can I not understand all of this, read her chapters and sympathise with a mother's feelings, acknowledge that she is a flawed character who can be horrible at times, and still dislike her as a person? On that note, reason for actions, doesn't excuse the action. As someone who skipped school days to avoid girls who "just looked at me badly", let me tell you that those "just looks" can really ruin an entire person's school life and follow you all the way to adulthood.

Whew...finally got that off my chest. I don't think I will be bringing that up again. So just to be clear from now onwards, this isn't a Catelyn Bashing fic. I get her. But I'm siding with the feelings of a child on this one and making his pov more on the sympathetic side.