The Warden of the North
Eddard Stark, the quiet Wolf, Warhero, and the Stark in Winterfell, sat with a noiseless sigh in his seat at the hightable. For all other people might call him a young man still, in truth he did not feel it.
He looked over his family with tired eyes that still held whatever warmth he could muster.
The Gods had deigned it to gift him a healthy family. In years past that was all that he had wished for in this life, a happy and healthy family with enough land to live a comfortable life away from strife.
He still remembered his foster father and brother both offering him the latter once they would return to their families.
"You know by now that I see both of you as mine own flesh and blood. Offering you a holdfast is the least I can do." Jon told him with a fatherly touch on his shoulder.
"Your Others take your damned sense of propriety Ned!" Robert roared with his face an interesting shade of purple "You're a brother to me and I will have you by my side!"
One corner of his lips tugged upwards as he remembered his own reply.
"Propriety is a big word for you Robert. I'm surprised that you know what it means, let alone know how to voice it out loud properly."
The ensuing wrestling match was one that he remembered with warmth and fondness. For all the scolding of them was sharp, both their smiles could not be erased. It was the day he realized that no matter what may come, there would be a place in this world for him.
Of course, while man made merry plans, the gods laughed.
The day that Jon Arryn came to the practice ground with a crumpled piece of parchment in his white-knuckled fist, coupled with a look on his face that he usually reserved for mountain clan hunts, was the day that those easy japes died together with rest of childhood and family.
It felt surreal. One day he and Robert were making grand plans of their future together as good-brothers, the next, Jon put a warhammer in Robert's hands and told him to fight for a crown he didn't want.
Told him to fight for a seat that was meant to be his brother's. Take a woman to wife that was meant to be his brother's. Lead the North in place of his brother.
The entire time, from then till now, he felt like he was wearing shoes that were too big for him to fill, like wearing a mantle of someone you knew all too well was your better in every way. He was unprepared for it, even if the other northern lords praised him for leading them in battle, like a Stark ought to, it felt like they were not seeing him for true. It felt like pulling the wool over their eyes every time he heard such high praise, an imposter to the world and his vassals.
The sigh he let out this time was definetly audiable, if the hand that was trying to uncurl his fist was anything to go by.
He laid his eyes on his wife, who was looking between him and his clentched fist pointedly. He did not even realize he was doing so and it took concious effort to uncurl his fist and interlace his fingers with the ones of his wife.
While he had not loved her the first few years of their marriage, it came to be over time, brick by brick they build their love with strong foundations to what they have now.
She was still too much concerned with what other thought for his taste, always prim and proper with one part of her mind fixed on what they did look like to others.
It was the kind of grace that came to be though constant, hard effort, not effortless like his Asha-
He squashed that thought like a campfire during a blizzard.
All he needed to do that was to switch his look over to his children.
Robb with his Tully features and northern build already shining through, sat with his younger brother Bran, entertaining him about some grand adventure he had been on, much to the the toddlers enjoyment, gifting him with a chubby smile and claps of his small hands.
His daughters, sat side by side like a study in contrast. His eldest was much like her mother in her looks and mannerisms, held a talent for all the womanly arts, yet she held a wild streak that she tried to hide underneath a thick layer of manners and courtesy.
His youngest on the other hand, inherited the Stark look almost exclusively, which included their families wolf's blood, much to their mothers chagrin. Altough he got the feeling that her wildness hid a certain layer of vulnerability.
Both were quietly arguing about one thing or another being "stupid" as far as he could tell, altough didn't pay too much mind about it.
The flexing of the hand in his own alerted him that it was his wife's time to be distracted by something unpleasent and judging by the angle of her gaze, together with the expression of someone who had smelled something rancid, it could only be one source. The one crack in the foundation of their relationship.
Far away, isolated from the rest of his family, sat what the rest of the world knew to be his greatest shame. Jon Snow was placed at the lower tables together with servants and a few men of the Watch, which he was listening to with an ardent ferver and a mixed look on his face, like someone who had expected a obvious answer, yet was given something wholly different and felt confused and lost over it.
When the boy looked up from his conversation and looked their way, he could see the enthusiasm of him melting away like a snowball under the sun of Dorne. He tried to smile at the boy, but even he could feel the lack of warmth to it.
It was like this ever since he brought the boy home with him. He promised to himself and his sister that he would keep him safe, treat him like his own, and yet..
Every time he looked at him, all he could see was his sisters eyes and be remembered of how she ran away from him, her betrothed, her duty, and her family and how it set the seven kingdoms ablaze.
Every time he looked beneath the stark coloring, all he could see was the dragon prince that eloped with a ten and four year old girl, that happened to be a future paramount's betrothed, while leaving his wife and two children in a castle together with a madman who had a known dislike of them, and how the trident was dyed red with the blood of thousands because of his apparent dreams of a Darkness to come.
Some of his feelings must have shown, because soon enough he turned away from their gaze with hurt written all over his face as plain as day.
He sighed again, this time not even trying to hide it while closing his eyes, equal parts of regret and vindication swirling in his chest, which only invited his frequent guest of shame.
When he opened his eyes again it was to see his wife looking at him with a sense of shared triumph, which didn't help the roiling beast that wanted to claw it's way out of his chest. Robb was looking at him with an unsure expression, as if he had seen something new and didn't really know what to do, or think about it.
Sansa and Arya had stopped their bickering and were looking at him with looks that were both similar and different. One was doing her best to hide her anger behind a facade of polite inquiry, while the other choose the anger to hide other emotions.
He would have loved to see his girls showing a united front on any other day, just not united against his actions.
Bran looked like he picked up on the mood, but not what caused it, so looked from person to person, trying to figure out the source.
When he looked back at the lower tables, some of the servants had croweded over to him as if to ward off the evil looks coming from up high with two of the Night's Watch men in particular managing to lift up the boys spirits with whatever they were saying to him. It made the beast in his stomach settle for a bit, only for what happened next to make it feel as if there was a red-hot anvil dropped in it instead.
The Night's Watchmen pulled something out of his bag and brandished it towards Jon. It was nothing to threaten anyone with, he didn't think Lord Commander Qorgyle was fool enough to bring the more unsavory men serving under him into the Walls of Winterfell, yet what the man just presented the boy was the stuff of his nightmares when in this context.
It was a Harp.
The Warden of the North was ashen faced as he could only watch as the boy gripped the instrument with long, slender fingers, that he definetly did not inherit from his Stark side, and wrapped them around it as sure as a veteran would around a sword, with a curious look on his face
Panic started to build and he was just about to inhale to shout for whatever was happening to stop, damn how it looked like to everyone in attendance. The boy had no idea what he was doing or how dangerous is was for him to do so. It was like watching a small child stepping on a anthill, and him being the only one in the know that it was, in fact, a volcano.
There was a damn good reason why he made damn sure there were no instruments near him and described singing as a womanly art to his boys.
Yet all seemed for naught as a hauntigly beautiful melody started to play as if from the hands of one of the old gods or the children of the forest themselfs.
All gathered air left his lungs in a wush. Despite himself, he felt some of his lasting tiredness leave with it as a more peaceful expression began to take hold of him.
Mance Rayder
Mance was a Man of the Night's Watch, just like his father was before him. It had nothing to do with some grand family tradition or sacred duty to protect the land from raiders.
His father had him on a wildling woman, he was taken in after his mother died shortly after his birth and his father some years after on a ranging.
The Black Brother's were kind enough to feed him enought to grow and even gave him a education under the kind, old, blind maester.
Yet, not all kindness lasted or was rarely given without their own motifes. So by the ripe old age of three and ten, he was to say the vow that bound his life to the wall together with murderers, rapist and the scum of the kingdoms.
At first, he held onto his sense of duty and gratefulness, but such feelings only warm you for so long on a place like the wall with such illustrious company.
Every new condemned that made his way under the shadow tower had their own story and Mance was a keen listener. While most of them did not inspire glory, within Mance it inspired something different. Freedom.
Every man's story was like a window to a life that he had squandered away without a care in the world. Glory was nothing that held his interest, there were more than enough glorious people on the wall that had outlived their usefullness and landed here all the same. What was truly something he wanted was the freedom to make his own mistakes in this world.
He was beginning to think that the only mistake that he was allowed to make in his life was to swear it away, not knowing what he was losing.
At least the Lord Commander could take him to Winterfell and other holdfasts when the first ranger was out on a patrol, unlike some others he could name.
So when he heard a young boy inquire about life on the wall and the glorious duty that was the life of a black brother, he made a decision.
The Wall would not get another naive boy that did nothing wrong in this life other than being born. The star-struck expression when he had seen them was hard enough to bear already. Some of his brothers were already puffing out their chests and about to tell the boy some embellished tale of the Watchers on the Wall, when he cut it.
"The Wall is the last station in life for the dregs and wretches of the realm." All the while his brothers shot him looks of disappointment and slight anger. He would deal with it later.
The light in the boys eyes seemed to dim, taking the slight colour they had with them, making them look the grey of a rainy sky.
"But the Night's Watch is an honorable calling!" The boy said, somewhere between an demand to agree, and a question.
"Maybe it used to be that way, but times change boy. The watch is mostly manned by criminals nowadays, those who prefer the watch over the noose, or losing some appendage"
He gave him a look that suggested that hands or feet would not be the only thing they took from you, should you run afoul a ill-tempered lordling.
He flushed and asked in a quieter voice. "But.. But why would they lie to me?" he looked around, "why would my uncle and father lie to me about the Watch?"
One if his brothers was the next to speak, "Y'er uncle most likely want's t'ah talk it all nice an' shiny like for yah." all earlier annoyence gone in the face of a child that just didn't know better. "Meh' thinks y'er folks'll want yah tah join up with us once y'er old'nought. Did they talk all nice like abu' us on tha Wall?" Tomard asked him, his Flee Bottom accent readily apparent.
The boy, he realized now, the bastard of Winterfell, nodded his head.
Tomard sighed as he looked around his brothers and further on to the high table with a wry expression that was mirrored by now by most of them. "Then they's be lyin' to yah." He said, without giving his words a softer tone, making sure that the servants around heard all of it. He thought Tomard to be a loud oaf most of the time, but clearly he knew how to utilize it without giving suspicion.
"Don't be throwing y'er life away like dat, tha Wall will always be dere, and is for greybeards and lads down on their luck besides."
Mance found it amusing that it would be Tomard of all people to talk sense into the boy, since it was him that made that pile of snow drop on his head and given the bastards slightly guilty expression, it contributed greatly to the fact that the boy listened to them as much as he did. He had the feeling he would be shouting denials at them and calling them liars if it weren't for that.
The stubborn set to his brows set to his brow shoulders and jaw lessened with every word spoken, yet Mance knew that he needed another push.
"Take it from me boy, I was not much older than you when I swore my vows before the weirwood, but I never really had my own life, never knew what it was like to hold a son or have a wife. I swore my life away before I could learn what it meant to truly be alive"
Many of the nearby servants gave them appriciative glaces, and all of a sudden their table was served with better fare than before, which made him smile in turn at them
The last part seemed to resonate with the boy, but he started to look unsure, not of himself, but of life and where he belonged in it, like he just shipwrecked him was lost at sea without a guiding light.
"But what is there for a bastard like me? Father won't allow me to join the Watch, saying it's too early, he won't let me out to foster because it is too dangerous, what is there for me?" he had a sheen in his eyes, looking around as if to find the answer that eluded him.
When the boys gaze landed in the direction of the high table, he gave a flinch, so he was curious what gave him that reaction.
Turning, he saw the borderline disgust on Lady Starks face, that not even the most dense of fools could mistake as anything but hostile. What surprised him more was the look of the wolf Lord. He would usually view them with a visage made out of stone and ice, yet he was looking at the boy with a mixture of emotions. The worst part was that he somehow tried to smile, which gave the look a more macarbe appearance than anything else. He repressed a shudder under those twin gazes. No wonder the boy wanted out of this place. A nice cage it may be, but still a cage. Plus, he was not the only one to notice.
Some servants were all of a sudden more busy in the direct line of sight from the high table to theirs, covering the bastard boy as best they could. The show of solidarity made him smile.
Turning back to the boy, he met his eyes that were looking for direction and gave him an answer. "Well if I were a young man like you, I would probuably become a travelling Bard, rather than a hedge knight. I'm not helpless with a sword, mind you, but I always preffered the music over screams." A low chuckle accompanied his statement.
He was given a politely confused expression in return. "Isn't that a womanly art?" The question came with louder chuckles around the table, to which the boy only looked more confused than before, so with a last laught, he told him
"Nay, it depends on how good you can play and sing, you might not be very good at it and only play for smallfolk, to keep your belly full and bed dry, but the best ones get invited to seats like Highgarden or the Red Keep and play for royalty and be richly rewarded. One could make a name for oneself out there, and have some glory without spilling the blood of fellow man."
There was something in the boys eyes now, something that seemed almost hungry. So before he could ask another question he took out his own harp and showed it to the boy.
"Do you want to try?"
He watched, slightly befuddeled, as the his young new friend of the arts, grabbed his harp with the familiarity that came from hours of practice and put his fingers to the harp.
When he looked at him for permission, all he could do was give a nod.
What followed was something he would remember till his dying day.
The boy started to pluck the strings with his long, tapered fingers and it was like he did not pluck strings, but the music of the seven heavens themselfes and sprinkeled it down upon them. He did not even know his harp could make such sounds.
After his first melody, the entire hall was swaying, as if punch drunk. Then he continued with his mouth open, and all of a sudden he knew what that next place sounded like. And if it did not, he would not want it, so entrancing was it.
"Rest now, my warrior. Rest now, your hardship is over."
When asked back at the wall, none of his companions could tell what the song was about, they would try to describe something about a deserved rest, and get laughed at by their brothers, to which they could only chuckle. How would one even start to describe the sky to someone blind?
"Live, wake up. And let the cloak of life cling to your bones."
The young bard looked like all the worries in the world had lifted off his small shoulders and he could for the first time in his life, truly breath. And to what great effect he used his breath.
The hall was completely silent. It felt almost as if there was something magical in the air.
Walder
He was walking to his livingspace he shared with Nan, after a long time working in the stabels to take a rest.
He passed by servants and guests alike, most ignoring him out of hand, the few greeting him with words or an inclined head. To which he could only smile and utter a "Hodor", before walk off.
It was all he could do.
He was a prisoner in his own mind and body. Not many remembered that day when his eyes rolled back in his head and he started to twitch and writhe in the dirt of the courtyard.
Many expressed sympathies to him and his Nan afterwards, saying it was somthing horrid to watch.
'They have no idea how horrid it truly was'
What they saw were only the ripples on the watersurface. What really happened was underneath.
They had no idea what it felt like to be stripped of most things that make yourself, yourself.
Not the slightest clue what it felt like to have most of what you could become burning away to ash in front of you, until all that was left for your future self was one purpose. One command.
He shivered, or he tried to. Not like his body was his own anymore. His cage had no bars to reach through, and he had no way of letting anyone know he was still here, still trying to break out of this horrid prison the Raven made.
He was getting tired again. It was sometimes years that had passed between one of his 'naps' with his body just doing simple chores on it's own, without his input. Him just being a passanger. Every time bringing him closer to the Door.
As he made his way towards his bed, he passed his Nan, the poor woman that had to watch it all happen. He tried to throw his spirituell weight against his confines, tried to beat his metaphorical hands bloddy against this wall, somthing, anything to let her know he was still in here somewhere.
All he got for his efforts was a weary smile and a patting hand on his chest.
He wanted to cry, but even that was to be denied to him. He made his way to his bed and lay down.
Just as he was beggining to drift away to sleep again, both mind and body, he heard it.
There was music coming from outside his window.
Everything else seemed to have gone awfully quiet and all he could hear was the music.
"Rest now, my warrior. Rest now your hardship is over."
He could feel it. The melody that flowed through the air was more than just music. It was magical.
"Live, wake up. And let the cloak of life cling to your bones."
With that realization, he sat up in his mind and felt it come all the way to this place. It felt like the first fresh breeze in the life of a cavedweller. With every breath he took, he gained strength.
Then, gathered himself and threw himself against his cage again.
"Wake up!"
What happened next made him want to cry all the more for it.
The vision of his future, the end to his journey, the command, began to break.
Invigorated with a new sense of purpose and despair, he threw himself against the cage, again and again, and was rewarded each time with more cracks.
"Wake up!"
He was vaguely aware of his Nan fluttering over him with worry and urgency plain as day over her features, just like back then.
He felt sorry for making her go through this again, but this might be the only chance he would ever get to break out of this wretched place.
So with one last angry shout, he crashed through this wall and was surprised when he heard himself yell.
His Nan was beside herself with worry and fear looking down at him. "Ohh my boy, what have I done to anger the gods so. Please don't take him away, you already took so much from us."
This time when he wanted to cry, his tears came freely. Like twin waterfalls that had finally broken through the winter ice and could not stop leaking.
"Nan."
That was all it took for her to freeze in her fretting and look at him. Really look at him and see him present.
His twin waterfalls were soon joined by two more as she gingerly took one of his hands in her own, as if afraid something bad would happen from her touch.
"Walder, is that you my boy?"
He gently placed his own hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze.
"I'm back."
He said with a hitch in his voice.
It was enough to break the damn. His Nan threw herself at him, wailing like a banshee. He hadn't seen her break down like this in a long time, he didn't think anyone had.
All the while he marvelled at the feeling of having his own body back, the ability to hold his Nan again in his arms as delicately as he could.
He knew what caused this, or rather what gave him the power to break his chains, and by the Old Gods, he would see this dept paid back a hundred times over if that is what it took. He would not squander this new gift at life.
That he swore to all the Gods that deigned to listen to him as he gently rocked his crying Great-Grandmother soothingly.
A.N.
I don't own anything. Neither Asoiaf/GoT or anything else you will recognize in this fiction.
Now that we cleared the obvious, I hope you enjoyed this little story I cooked up for you.
Please be aware that this is my first time writhing a fanfiction and that english is not my first language, so grammar or spelling errors may occure.
But please tell me what you thought of this chapter in the comment section, just be nice to one another
Just try to be nice with one another :)