"An old man stood before me. He looked frail, with a long beard and tired gray eyes. His beard wavered below a dipped chin, and portions of his back were illuminated by the fires behind. Both of us, the man and I, are Northmen, of course. In my village, as children, we were taught that due to adherence to pagan Gods, this man, his peoples, carried curses within their blood.
I am not sure if I ever believed that, though his skin, the man's, was almost cloudy, and despite his age, his hair was long, nearly black, even in the light of the flame.
Screams filled the air, shouts and laughing. Many more of them, our prisoners, were lined about on either side of the man, and I was the one who stood right before him. I remember he looked at me, once, before the order. The rifle in my hand shook. Then, the order came. 'Fire!' the man fell as if he had been struck on the head, blood spilling along with the sound of bodies falling. Then, I heard crying, screaming- I saw, at that moment, our general emptied the home where we gathered surviving women and children, saved for sale to the markets further south. Wailing and devastated they rushed towards us, some making it to the dead bodies- looking for fathers, brothers, grandfathers, husbands. During this procession, they were abused and killed by my comrades, wanting sate towards cruelties, God's justice. I return to the day often, thinking about those that died." -
Sarle Issobel, famed Bolton crusader during the Hollene 'Great Northern Pogrom' (411 years before Robert's Rebellion)
GAME OF THRONES
EDDARD
THE WIND OF these lands, of the north, always calmed Eddard. Upon the high battlements of Winterfell, he felt as if he was in the sky itself. The fur of his wolfskin cloak teased freshly shaved cheeks, while long dark hair trailed behind his steady walk.
King Robert is delaying his visit, and the Hand has been instructed to wait for him.
Uncertainty splashed across Eddard's thoughts- an uncertainty that not even the comforts of his home could abate. A wordless dread that he carried ever since the day Aerys killed his father and brother curled around Eddard's throat, akin to cold hands from an enemy yet unseen.
The Lord of Winterfell inhaled deeply, filing his lungs with crisp air.
Eddard's gray eyes looked down to the inner workings of Winterfell below.
He and Lyanna often chased each other along these very same cobbled stones, gasping and laughing as they went. Eddard was coming upon a segment of embrasures- here, Eddard remembered distinctly how Lyanna had goaded him to jump upon the embrasures, standing within the gaps of the battlements themselves.
Ned smiled softly.
For the longest time, he was too scared. He would watch Lyanna as she pranced between the wall's gaps, hopping in place on old stone. She would constantly reassure him that it was fine, that his cautious nature would actually keep him from falling.
One day, on Ned's seventh birthday, he finally joined Lyanna.
He remembered looking up at her, her face beaming in delight as she laughed.
Eddard came back to the present, staring at the spots where he and Lyanna once stood long ago.
He shivered.
As always, thoughts of Lyanna brought Eddard to Jon.
Jon.
A new bout of pain welled up within Eddard. Jon...
Eddard hosted a council some nights ago- a council attended by local nobles and those in administrative positions within Winterfell.
The meeting was held inside the underground tunnels of Winterfell; Eddard directed soldiers to begin patrolling these old passageways, looking to find hidden paths and tunnels... in the event of a siege, they would come in handy.
An action such as this obviously incurred the curiosities of local Lords, Lords who then demanded a private audience.
Eddard closed his eyes, wind again rushing through his hair.
Now however, he was enraptured by recent memory, again smelling the warm blanket of dust that covered subterranean walls, the slight odor of old metals, smelted thousands of years ago.
Eddard made the mistake of bringing Robb with them- to which, of course, Robb accompanied Theon. Robb and the Ironborn boy kept silent and respectful, not speaking once during the liaison.
However...
"He is a danger." Iacob Phelan had whispered. His eyes, creased with wrinkles, were an icy blue. The old man's voice was quiet, a trait unbecoming of the often boisterous noble Lord.
The others nodded in agreement, Eddard remaining silent while gray eyes watched every reaction.
"Your actions here- mobilizing the forces, undertaking late patrols.. They are incurring suspicions." Iacob rasped.
Eddard shook his head, just as angry as he had been nights before, listening to Iacob's words.
"He's just a child." Eddard had replied steely within the dark crypt. He remembered then how he looked at the assembled nobles- his eyes pausing for a moment on Catelynn's expression. She glanced away from him, to which he turned his attentions towards the runes that were etched onto the ancient Winterfell stone, meant to enchant those within, and protect them from prying eyes aided by spirits long departed from this world.
"Our enemies do not care if he is a child," Danaid Cailan whispered. Danaid was another noble, a man who owned lands near Torrhen's square. Nominally Hollene lands under Bolton administration, Danaid was one of the few Hollene landowners who directly heeded Eddard's orders.
"There are whispers of House Stark's weakness. The wounds dealt by Robert's Rebellion have not healed. As the boy grows older the machinations of those who would work against you will see him as a yet unused tool. You are no fool, Lord Stark."
Danaid's words echoed within Eddard's thoughts.
"He is my son." Eddard had replied, tiredness painting his voice.
"Do you suggest we allow harm to come to him?" Eddard asked, gray eyes dark.
Danaid returned Eddard's gaze.
"I wish no harm towards your son, Lord Stark. But my wish cannot stem the tide of reality, of violent possibility. You saw yourself, during the war, how quickly alliances are broken, and how fast new ones are formed. House Stark- we control the North now, but what if the King dies? What happens when Prince Jofferet claims his crown, a boy with no memories of camaraderie, a boy who has not fought with you, a boy who owes you nothing..." Danaid's warning crawled once more into Ned's ears.
Eddard turned from the battlements then, wrapping the wolfskin cloak around slight shoulders. The mixture of coldness and warmth invigorated him, but only slightly.
We have the chance now to make a decision on him before our enemies do. Will you wait, Lord Stark? What would you prefer, the control of a just decision, or the cruelty of a civil war? The north is no longer assured by House Stark- and right now, the weakness within it will encourage usurpation.
Jon... he would be a clear instrument towards that.
Iacob's closing statements nights ago battered at Eddard's thoughts. He remembered looking towards Robb, seated tall and regal between Catelynn and Theon. Robb's face was blank, but despite this, Eddard recognized an expression he himself had worn many a time- when he was trying to mask his true emotions. It seemed Robb had inherited this trait from Eddard, a rarity from a boy who's height favored Eddard's brother, and who's hair favored his mother.
Eddard had a responsibility to Robb- to all of his trueborn children. He knew this- and he knew taking on Jon carried risks that would threaten his children, his House. Eddard also knew the feeling of Jon's first heartbeats, his first breaths. How Jon's eyes opened, revealing gray pupils identical to Eddard's own.
Promise me, Ned.
Promise me.
Lyanna's face tormented Eddard as he left the battlements, the memory of her blood and cries almost as tangible as the wind that beat against his cheeks.
I will not fail you, Lyanna.
Soldiers saluted Eddard, gracing him with proper honorifics as he passed into the main courtyards of Winterfell.
I will find a way to protect him.
Tears welled up behind Eddard's eyes. He wiped at them with thick gloves, unsure if it was due to the growing tempest of stormwinds, or if it was from the sadness that berated him with mocking jeers.
He buried that emotion, replacing it with strength gained only by the sufferance of loss and pain. A strength unknown to those that had experienced nothing but simple joys, a strength unknown to Eddard until the passage of the war.
I will find a way to protect all of them.
Jon Arryn sent word- this time, directly to Eddard. He wished to speak to Eddard, telling him they would convene by way of a proxy within a day and its adjoining night.
Something is out of place, Eddard.
Jon's warning swam amongst Eddard's other troubles, and as Eddard walked about his Keep, he wondered just how long this cruel world would allow him to suffer like this- how long it would be until he joined father and brother and sister.
Eddard made way to his study, leering silence striding closely behind.
NEXT TIME: JON III
