Eddard I
He eyed the first lines of the raven's message from King's Landing once, then twice, thrice—struggling to believe what he read. Renly Baratheon is dead? Gods be good, the boy was but nine and ten. Eddard Stark had not laid eyes on him in years, not since that business with Mace Tyrell's siege, when Renly was little more than a lad.
He read onwards, his frown deepening. Murdered. The notion set his mind racing. Who would wish the king's youngest brother dead? A Lord Paramount, no less. Could it be Viserys Targaryen? Prince Doran? Or some other foe altogether?
Whatever the cause, Storm's End and the Stormlands would fall to Stannis now. Despite all that had passed, Eddard could not deny that much was just. He remembered well how Stannis had brooded, resentful of Robert's decision to grant Storm's End to Renly. It was Stannis who was the elder brother, and by right the seat ought to have been his.
Ned sighed, setting the message aside. A king's brother murdered—and yet another war brewing in men's hearts. The realm was never more than a breath away from bloodshed, and the raven's tidings came as further proof.
He fretted that at any moment another raven might come winging its way from King's Landing, commanding his presence in the capital. The king would be in need of a new Master of Laws, he supposed, but if it were in his power, Eddard Stark would never set foot there again. His thoughts turned to the first time he had ridden through the city's gates, Ice strapped across his back. He could still see the Street of Seeds awash in crimson, steeped in the horror of Lannister butchery. He had tried to restore order then, had commanded his men to stay the bloodshed, but it was far too late. The cruelty was done; maidens would bear their violators' bastards, children would live father- and motherless, and Princess Elia and her babes had been cut down in monstrous fashion.
A sudden knock at the chamber door pulled him from those haunted recollections.
''Come in.'' Ned said firmly.
The door opened to his wife, Catelyn. She was wearing a brown woollen dress with freshwater pearls on the bodice and a leather strap around the waist.
''Renly Baratheon is dead… murdered.'' Ned's voice was grim as he passed the note to Catelyn, who had just seated herself across from him at the table. Her eyes widened at his words, and she seized the parchment in trembling hands.
''My sister? And her son?'' She asked, worry plain upon her face.
''The message makes no mention of them,'' Ned replied gently. ''But I've no doubt they are safe, Cat. Were it otherwise, the news would have reached us.''
Catelyn let the note slide from her grip onto the tabletop. ''Why would anyone wish to kill the king's own brother?''
''I do not know,'' Ned answered solemnly.
''Have they named his killer?'' she pressed.
''I do not know,'' he repeated, quieter still.
A sigh escaped Catelyn's lips. She placed her hand over Ned's, which rested on the table. ''Do you think the king will summon you?''
''I hope not," Ned said, his voice low with distaste. ''I've no desire to set foot in that viper's nest again.''
''You might have to...''
''I can't leave Winterfell, Cat.''
''The king will be in want of a new Master of Laws,'' Catelyn said, her tone earnest. ''You're known as one of the most honourable men in the Seven Kingdoms, Ned.''
''Robb is too young to rule in my stead,'' he countered, ''nowhere near ready.''
''You said much the same of that boy.'' Catelyn reminded him, a small harshness in the tone. ''You thought him too young, yet he's bound for the Wall even now—if he's not arrived already.''
''There is a world of difference,'' Ned answered, steel creeping into his voice, ''between marching with a hundred men on a scouting mission and being the acting Lord of Winterfell.''
Catelyn pursed her lips, conceding the point with a silent nod.
'That boy' has a name. Ned thought, frowning. But he could not ask Catelyn of that. He had dishonoured himself and dishonoured her in the sight of gods and men by bringing him here to raise. She could have been a lot worse to him; he knew. Lords and ladies from the South, raised in the Faith, tended to save a certain cruelness for bastards compared to the lords and ladies of the North, where bastards were more frowned upon than anything. She only ignored him and refused to acknowledge him by name, which he knew took a lot from her. It did not hurt any less, though.
''Why are you so adamant on this?''
''Renly was murdered, Ned. The king is in coherent danger. How do we know that the men that murdered him won't go after Robert next?''
Ned observed her for a moment. Could Robert be in danger? His wife might have the truth of it. But it could have just as likely been a rival to Renly, an enemy he made on his own accord. They simply knew too little. He and Robert's friendship was not as strong as it once was, but for what he remembered of him, he could not see how anyone could kill him. Strong, powerful, at least six and a half feet in height. Inspiring friendship from his defeated enemies, cementing his rule when he and Ned stormed Pyke. And with a wrath that could send shivers down Ned's spine.
He sighed lightly, freeing his hand from his wife's to rub his forehead. ''He has not as of yet summoned me in the eighth year of peace we've had. We can carry on this discussion if he bestows on me the honour of serving.''
He took his wife's hand and squeezed it, earning a sad smile from her before he rose from his seat and left his solar.
He watched Robb and Theon in the courtyard with Ser Rodrik, sparring. He could still close his eyes and still remember him and Robert going at it in a similar fashion with Lord Royce overseeing the sparring. That was over twenty years ago now; this short mortal life never failing to surprise him by how fast time went. His mind drifted to his triumphs, ending the Mad King's rule over Westeros and avenging his family, dancing with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with long dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and mesmerising violet eyes. When he held his first son in his arms.
His regrets, he had so many regrets. Being in the Eyrie and not helping his family when the events bringing the Rebellion started, seeing innocents suffer for the crimes of the guilty. Seeing his sister for the last time, powerless to do anything. Despair overcame him. He had failed his father, he had failed Brandon, he had failed Lyanna, he had failed Catelyn, he had failed Jon.
''At The Wall I could have honour; I could have a purpose.''
''You have a purpose here, Jon!'' Ned sternly pleaded.
''Aye, but what about in three years? Four? Five? Robb will be Lord of Winterfell, and Bran and Rickon will be lords of other hallfasts. Sansa and Arya will marry princes, or knights, or lords. Tell me the truth: what intentions do you have for me?!'' Jon said, growing slightly agitated.
In truth, he had not given Jon's future much thought. He had not even reached his majority yet. So Ned Stark did not have an answer for him, could not meet his grey eyes, the eyes of his father, of Brandon and Lyanna. His words got caught in his throat. Lord Rickard never told him this about having children of his own. How they could make one feel so vulnerable.
''You cannot stop me on this. 'Only volunteers,' you said. I am a volunteer. I will be your sword until I reach the Wall, then I will be the Lord Commander's.''
Ned met his eyes eventually after a long silence, putting on a stern face.
''Very well, I will write to The Lord Commander and see if we can find an agreement. I will allow you to take leave from Winterfell to look for Benjen. But I will not allow you to join the Night's Watch until you have returned from the ranging. Youneedto understand what cause you are pledging your life to.''
''Father...''
''No, Jon. Neither I nor your Uncle Arthur will have you blindly casting your life away for a cause you do not yet fully grasp. Go see the Wall, get to know the men that would be your new brothers. See what lives they live when ranging beyond The Wall; ask them about their lives before they joined the Night's Watch. If you are still adamant in joining after that, I will not stop you. That is the best I can do.''
Jon Snow's face grew red in anger, groaning before he walked out of his solar and smashed the door closed.
His mind strayed to Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, how adamant he seemed on Jon staying in Winterfell, that he would take Jon to Starfall before Ned forced upon him a black cloak.
Ned has calmed him, told him the truth of it. That Benjen must have put so many good words in about the brotherhood that nothing would sway him now. That he would let Jon go there and see the truth of it for himself, and that by the time he changed his mind, Ned would have found a solution, a future. Moat Cailin, mayhaps. What if he doesn't change his mind? He thought suddenly.
He sighed; if not, would Ned force him back here? Or let him do what his heart desired?
Still, once Ned had told Arthur his intentions, he had not hesitated in telling him that he would be by his Jon Snow's side and bash the harsh lesson through his skull.
The memory of it, of Ser Arthur's stubbornness, brought him back to the Red Keep once more, to Robert's eyes, blue with a fury he had seldom shown, when Ser Arthur first declared his intention to forsake his white cloak after the Rebellion. Ned recalled their second clash as well—by the time it was done, he had never felt so drained, nor would he ever forget the sight of Lord Tywin's unblinking green stare, cold and calculating as he stood aside. Tywin Lannister had raised no protest when Ned and Ser Arthur spoke of leaving the Kingsguard, but his reasons soon became all too clear.
Once Robert yielded and gave Ser Arthur leave, Tywin pounced like a prowling lion, demanding the same right for his son—arguing that Aerys had only given Jaime the white cloak to keep a Lannister hostage within the royal fold. King Robert, already swayed by Ser Arthur's case, had no choice but to extend that choice to every knight who had served Aerys. Ned had felt a hollow pang of misgiving—perhaps he had set a precedent best left untouched. Yet in the end, the Kingslayer had spurned the offer, as did Ser Barristan Selmy. Tywin Lannister departed King's Landing soon after, his displeasure plain for all to see. Ned suspected he would not forget that day's work, nor forgive it.
The weeks passed quickly after the raven brought news of Lord Renly's demise, with nothing of note happening. It had now been a fortnight since Jon had left for the Wall, and Ned's children seemed to have recovered from his absence. Robb was starting to become his diligent self; Sansa excelled in needlework; Bran, to Ned's dismay, had started climbing Winterfell's walls again. While Arya was happily progressing in her own 'needlework' with Syrio Forel. Ned had hired him to teach her about how to handle a sword, believing the slender blade would suit the water dancer style of Braavos.
He seemed demanding and 'creative' in his teachings, having her chase cats around Wintertown, as the guards reported. He had even followed her along one time to oversee her progress; it seemed queer, but she was happy at least, and that was all that mattered to him for now. In time, she would have to become a proper lady,he thought grimly. She was so much like Lyanna, yet so different. Half a boy, half a pup. Where Lyanna had a little touch of the 'wolf blood,' as his father liked to call the wild personality. Arya had a bucket of it, like his older brother Brandon. Ned and Catelyn despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collected dolls and would say anything that came into her head. Jon and Robb seemed to be the only ones who could get through to her most days, and that would not do when the time comes for her to marry and further a family line.
He had received a raven today from Castle Cerwyn and some days before that from Moat Cailin about the approaching party from the capital. It seemed even Robert had answered the Lord Commanders' plea for more men, as Ser Loras Tyrell was going to stay the night here with a party of men for the Night's Watch. He had as of yet to meet Ser Loras; he was around the age of Robb and had earned his knighthood recently from the late Renly Baratheon, who he had been squiring for.Perhaps he could tell me more about his death,Eddard Stark thought as he and Robb stood tall by the East Gate, waiting for him to arrive. He saw Theon Greyjoy as well, standing perhaps a bit too pridefully among the household to the right of Robb next to Ser Rodrik.
Soon enough, as he heard the cumulation of men, the East Gate opened to welcome a young man with fancy silver armour, decorated with green steel flowers. Another man was behind him, dressed all in black, whom he recognised as Yoren, a recruiter for the Night's Watch. The man in silver armour could only be Ser Loras, smiling atop his horse as his eyes scanned Winterfell. A true knight of summer. He got off his horse and approached Ned and Robb, brown eyes burning with awe when his eyes met Ned's.
''Lord Stark, I have heard much of you. It is truly an honour,'' Ser Loras Tyrell said as he clasped Ned's hand in a firm shake.
''Ser Loras,'' Ned replied, inclining his head. ''I bid you welcome to Winterfell and offer you bread and salt. Partake, and know that beneath my roof, you are protected.''
''Of course, my lord.'' Ser Loras took a piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and ate it with brisk confidence. As he swallowed, his eyes found Robb's. ''You must be Robb Stark. I am Ser Loras of House Tyrell—it is a pleasure.'' He offered Robb his hand with a faint, knowing smirk.
''Ser Loras,'' Robb said simply, grasping the Tyrell knight's hand but offering no warm smile in return.
Ned surveyed Ser Loras with a cool, polite gaze. ''I must confess, I did not expect you to be the one to make this journey north. The Night's Watch owes you its thanks.''
''Oh, I merely wished to see the Wall,'' Ser Loras replied, his tone a touch too light. ''But rest assured, I've no intention of taking the black. The Watch is little more than a glorified penal colony, or so they say. I've greater ambitions than donning black robes.'' He chuckled.
Robb's eyes showed only discomfort, while Ned's expression turned stony. Theon Greyjoy, off to one side, gave a short snort of amusement.
''My son is presently at the Wall,'' Ned said, his voice tightening, ''fully intending to join that order. And my brother has served there many a year. I assure you, serving the Night's Watch is a true honour, not something to be taken lightly.''
Ser Loras's face went slightly pale, and he took a half step back. ''Forgive me, Lord Stark, a poor jape. They say I've inherited my father's talent for ill-timed humour.''
Ned had lost the desire for further talk. He turned to Robb. ''Robb, be so good as to escort Ser Loras to his chambers. Should he wish, show him more of Winterfell as well.''
''Aye, Father,'' Robb said with a dutiful nod, turning to the Tyrell knight. ''If you would follow me, ser, I'll show you where you'll be staying.''
''Lord Stark.'' Ser Loras acknowledged, nodding his head before following Robb. Ned approached Yoren, who was standing just outside the Guards Hall.
''Yoren, you're looking well.'' Ned said, shaking his hand and smiling.
''Lord Stark! You're getting older, as am I. I always tried to picture how Benjen would look after a couple of years.'' Yoren replied, grinning.
Ned chuckled, ''Aye, you don't have to picture it, though. We will find him, Winterfell, along with Glover, Umber, and Karstark, provided with volunteers. A hundred men, ready and willing to swear the oath. I've also sent out an additional hundred men sworn to Winterfell to find my brother and bring him back to The Wall. You needn't worry.''
''We know that we could always count on House Stark. Now if you'll excuse me, m'lord, I need to get meself to Wintertown and settle the men with me before the sun sets.'' Yoren said, before walking on foot out of the East Gate towards Wintertown.
Later, when the sun had set and after supper. He found Ser Loras in the courtyard, seeming to observe it. He sighed before approaching him. ''Ser Loras.''
Loras Tyrell turned, a flicker of surprise in his eyes—or so Eddard thought—before a smile curved his lips at the sight of Winterfell's lord.
''I know, ser. This castle is doubtless a humble sight compared to the Reach,'' Ned said. ''But it serves us well enough.''
''I find it quite charming,'' Ser Loras replied. ''Your son showed me around the grounds. Winterfell feels a welcome change of pace from the keeps south of the Neck.''
Ned inclined his head, though his gaze hardened. ''I understand you and Lord Renly were close. You have my condolences on his passing.''
The Knight of Flowers stiffened at once, alarm overshadowing the friendly warmth of his face. Ned could almost see the question in his eyes. What does he know?
''What do you mean, my lord?'' Ser Loras asked, indignation creeping into his tone.
''You were his squire,'' Ned answered simply. ''He knighted you.''
''Oh. Yes.'' The Tyrell knight exhaled, easing somewhat. ''Thank you for your concern.''
''I do not wish to pry,'' Ned said, ''but King Robert is an old friend, and the news of Lord Renly's murder troubles me still. Do you know aught of what befell him? Who might stand to gain?''
''I know little,'' Loras said, though his pause spoke volumes. ''He took ill a year ago—long enough that I feared the Stranger would come for him in his sickbed. Truth be told, he had always been hale and hearty before then. I cannot say why the gods chose to afflict him so.''
He looked away, as though some private grief or worry weighed upon him. Then, with a quick bow, he added, ''Forgive me, my lord. I find myself weary from the road, and my journey north has only just begun.''
Without awaiting Eddard's leave, Ser Loras withdrew to his chambers. Ned watched him depart, thoughts turning in slow circles. The death of Renly Baratheon seemed more tangled than he had first supposed. Ser Loras knew more, of that he was certain. Yet what cause could House Tyrell possibly have to kill the king's youngest brother?
With a heavy sigh—he did that far more now than he ever had—Ned recalled Catelyn's warning: King Robert might well be in danger. Whatever bad blood lay between them, Robert was still his friend. If another raven from the capital did come, summoning him to King's Landing... well, Eddard Stark feared he would have little choice but to go.