Eddard V

The room was cold, even though the fires blazed in the hearth. It was a type of cold Eddard Stark never would have thought he would feel so far south. Yet as he stood by the window, staring out at the landscape of Harrenhal and beyond, he could see trees blooming, the grass being as green as ever, and the sun casting long shadows over the sea of tents.

When he first entered this room, he swore that he could see his brother Brandon cheering a young version of Ned himself on for 'growing a spine' and claiming a dance with Lady Ashara Dayne. As well as Lyanna and Benjen giggling. It was a beautiful sight. He had been seven and ten then, and he allowed himself a tiny smile as he remembered Benjen's eyes widening in awe when he saw the sea of tents, from this very height, from a very different time. ''They seem so insignificant. Is this how Aegon the Conqueror beheld us mere mortals from the back of Balerion the Black Dread?'' Benjen had asked then, with Brandon and him only laughing as a reply.

Yet mayhaps Benjen had a point. Men did look so little from up here, like ants in that one colony Robb and Jon had found in the Godswood of Winterfell, a few moons before Ned had called his banners to fight in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Men had always said that the House Targaryen considered themselves closer to gods than mortal men. If this is how Targaryens saw the rest of us from the back of dragons, he did not blame them. Robert Baratheon had proved that saying wrong, yet would they have had any chance at the Trident against Mad King Aerys atop a fire breathing beast? Ned shuddered at the thought.

''You should have spoken to me first, Robert.'' Ned eventually said.

''Hah!'' Robert bellowed. ''Ned, you've always been too damned stubborn.''

Ned turned around to face his king, Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, who was leaning back on the chair he sat on, with a goblet of wine in hand. Jon Arryn sat next to him, with an expression that Ned knew very well. A face of a judge at a trial—a face he wore every time things got heated between Robert and him at the Eyrie.

''He is my blood, my responsibility. You had no right.''

''No right?'' Robert frowned, and he could hear him already losing his patience by the tone in which he spoke. ''I'm the king. I don't need to ask for permission to reward loyalty, even if it's your bastard who reaps said reward.''

''Aye, you claim to honour my house with great fervour, yet when the North calls for aid, you remain idle.''

This time, it was Jon Arryn who spoke. ''The King has sent all the volunteers that King's Landing could muster, and we've let The Night's Watch have the pick of the black cells. We cannot compel innocent men to take the black, Ned.''

Ned's fists clenched. ''Be that as it is, Dragonstone is no mere 'reward'. 'Tis a seat of royalty; to give it to Jon—it will paint a target on his back. It already has, Robert! He is too young.''

Robert slammed his goblet down on the table, wine sloshing over the edge. Jon Arryn, who was sitting between the two old friends, startled slightly. ''Too young?And who wastoo youngwhen they put a hammer in my hand and told me to fight for a crown?'' Robert bellowed.

''You would place him besides old dragon loyalists, while Viserys Targaryen runs free in Essos?'' Ned said dangerously low.

''They would not dare harm him, not with King's Landing but a few days' sail from them. Dispatch some of your own men if need be. This is what I command.'' Robert took a chug of his cup before continuing. ''Besides, the lad has a bloody direwolf and has survived alone beyond the Wall for a span known only to the gods. I say you greatly underestimate him.''

''While the Three Daughters grows ever more threatening?'' Ned continued.

''Damn the Three Whores! Damn your ingratitude! You should thank me; 'tis an enormous honour!''

''Peace, both of you.'' Jon Arryn said, he seemed tired now.

''Spare me your objections! I am well acquainted with your thoughts on the matter.'' Robert roared.

Ned's face darkened. ''Have you considered the danger you're putting him in?'' Ned said, and he could see Robert's eyes narrowing.

Robert rose from his seat, and he approached him surprisingly gracefully. He halted just in front of him, and Ned braced himself for one of his rants, yet it did not come. Instead he was frowning, with a look as if he were trying to solve a great mystery or plan a difficult military campaign.

''Why are you so intent on keeping the boy from this? It is an honour most lords would shed blood to claim. Why deprive him of such a chance?'' Robert asked, his tone genuine.

Ned's blood ran cold, and he hesitated, the mind racing. He could feel Jon Arryn's gaze on him as well as the King's, steady and just as confounding. Eddard Stark trusted The Hand with his life, but even he could not know the full truth. No one could. Silence began to reign in the room, and Jon Arryn rose slowly from his seat to once more try to defuse the predicament. Ned swallowed his objections, forcing the words out as though they burned his throat.

''If he consents to it... then so be it. Yet the choice must be his own, not yours or mine to impose.''

Robert's expression softened, the tension easing from his broad shoulders as he grinned. ''Of course, of course.'' He said, satisfied, turning back and walking towards the door. ''We shall grant him his choice. But mark my words, Ned, he will acquit himself admirably.'' He bellowed, before walking out the door. Ser Barristan Selmy, who had been standing guard just besides the entrance, followed close behind him.

Ned sighed, and began to rub his forehead, trying to soothe the headache that had begun to form.

''I was every bit as uncertain as you are now. I still am, truth be told.''

Ned lifted his gaze, and saw his foster father's keen eyes observing him. Jon Arryn always observed quietly, his sharp eyes never missing a detail. He had seen many such disputes between the two friends over the years. Jon Arryn sat down on his seat again, and signalled for Ned to join him. Suppressing a sigh, Ned did so and took the empty seat closest to him.

''I chanced upon him recently, on the training grounds. He fights with considerable skill for his age; I daresay he would have knocked the young Redfort lad on his arse.''

Ned allowed himself a faint smile, but it disappeared just as quickly. ''I worry for him, Jon. Northerners often struggle in the South, and I dread the weight of such a burden may prove too much for him to bear.''

Jon Arryn smiled, though the smile was more of pity than anything. Silence lingered for a moment before Arryn chose to speak. ''Do you recall when I had to deliver the news of your father and brothers demise to you and Robert? When I spoke of Lyanna Stark's abduction and Aerys' demands?''

Ned's face tightened at the memory; the old wounds cut deeper than swords in his mind. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

''You were of a similar age then, just a few years his senior. I was as concerned for you then as you are for him now. You were but a boy in my eyes, and I chose to call the banners and thrust both you and Robert into the horrors of war, because I had no choice.''

Ned blinked, compelety caught off guard. Arryn must have seen it as he allowed himself a brief chuckle. ''You were young, yet you faced those trials with admirable courage and resolve. Not because you were prepared, but because you had no choice. For the world does not pause for us to find our readiness. Now, you stand in fear for your son, who will most likely have no choice but to serve under a king's command. And, though young, has already served in an army and engaged in battle. He has grown under your watchful eye, just as you did under mine. At times, the greatest challenge lies in letting go and trusting those we hold dear to rise to the occasion.''

Ned's gaze dropped to the floor, reflecting on his words. Jon Arryn always had a way with words—some mysterious gift to know exactly what to say. He felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ''Have you taken the time to speak with him about his thoughts on the matter?'' Arryn asked.

''It was the first thing I did upon his arrival. He is eager to prove himself, yet he does not yet fully grasp the ways of the world.'' Ned answered, his voice quiet.

''I admit, I do not know much about my namesake. Yet I do know that he was born a bastard. 'Tis a stain that is impossible to wash away, even with the help of the king.''

Jon Arryn squeezed his arm gently, making Ned lift up his gaze from the floor and meet his soft blue eyes. ''I imagine the very day he learnt what that word meant; he has worked his arse off to prove himself a worthy member of your house, and an opportunity such as this.'' Arryn countinued softly.

Jon Arryn let go of his shoulder. He rose from his seat, and Ned felt like a child once again under his foster father's stern but soft gaze. ''You love him, Ned. That much is plain. But there are times when we must allow those we love to forge their own paths. He may be ready for this, or he may not be. Yet you will never know until you let the pup leave the den.''

The Hand of the King's words had struck him deeply, but he could not see the full conundrum in front of him. The King had offered him a seat on the Small Council, a royal match, and a lordship for Jon. Yet Ned found himself unwilling to accept any of them.

Mance Rayder was looming from Beyond the Wall with a hundred thousand men, and The Night's Watch is severely weakened. The North would need its Warden in Winterfell when he launched his invasion, yet he did not know when Rayder would do so. Ned was a servant to King Robert, and he greatly feared for his safety after Renly's murder and Stannis' suspicions. But he was Warden of the North first. His lands and his family will always be his most pressing matter.

Ned had also never told Sansa about the betrothal Robert had proposed, preferring to speak to her about it after the tourney. Those plans had been ruined when Sansa had come rushing into the tent, babbling about her sewing with Queen Cersei, the gallant Prince Joffrey she had spent time with. Then, she nervously asked why he had never told her about it, before she had begged him to accept it. Eddard Stark did not doubt that Cersei Lannister had put her up to it; The Queen had spent some time with her during The Storm King's Tourney. Tywin Lannister's daughter was the queen, and Ned could not refuse a queen's request. But that did not mean he liked it one bit. The bethrothal would be the easiest of the three to accept, but Ned still wanted to learn more about the boy prince he would give her to. He had no desire to mould another Lyanna, and Sansa was not staying alone in King's Landing; Cersei Lannister could whine how much she wanted about that. That will never happen; if she was going to court, Ned was going with her.

Jon's appointment would be the most difficult to refuse; after all, he was his bastard. His objections have already raised Robert's eyebrows. To refuse the king such an honour for a bastard would raise even more eyebrows, and more dangerously, it would raise questions. He had realised that the very moment Jon passed Harenhall's gates, that choice was never his to make. It had been Jon's, so Ned had given it to him.

The days passed, and the tourney seemed to grow bigger as the days came and went. Ned had been preoccupied with the defensive building projects in the North and sending ravens to Castle Black, seeking reports. Eventually, the day of the horseracing arrived. Ned had no desire to see steeds galloping, so he had sat that one out, and had been grateful for Jon for taking his brother and sister to see it. Jon had looked so different from when he first left Winterfell. He had a visible scar on his face now; three jagged lines ran from Jon's left temple down to his jaw. But Ned suspected he bore more scars—a type of scar that is visible only to oneself. Eddard noticed his shoulders looking more heavy, and his grey eyes turning grim more often than before. Ned wanted to learn all about what he had seen beyond the wall, but when he truly noticed his changed state, Ned suspected that he had taken his first lives during the ranging, so he thought it best for Jon to come to him and talk about it, when he was ready. But he had not, and Ned's patience was running thin.

Then Lady Maege Mormont sought an audience with him. Holding a sword inside a scabbard in hand.

''Lord Stark,'' Maege began, her voice firm but not unkind, ''I bring you something that was given to me.''

Ned's gaze dropped to the sword, and he suppressed his eyebrows from raising when he noticed the pommel. ''Longclaw.'' He murmured.

Lady Maege's eyes narrowed, and she handed the sword to Ned, who accepted it, frowning. ''Your son came to me earlier today, weaving some tale that my brother wished for the sword to be returned to Bear Island.''

Ned's frown deepened; he drew the sword slightly from the scabbard, inspecting the dark ripples. ''The nature of this tale?'' Ned asked.

''He claimed that Jeor told him he could retain the sword only if he swore their vow.''

Ned nodded slowly. ''You suspect that he is lying?''

Something passed over Maege's face. ''I know my brother. Jeor, was a man of honour; he would never demand such a thing. I don't claim to know why my brother chose to pass it to him, but it wasn't so he could hand it back the moment he felt unworthy or burdened by it.''

Ned looked back down at Longclaw, the blade surprisingly light in his hands, and nodded. Maege gave him a curt nod back, her expression softening slightly as she turned to leave. Ned remained where he was, staring at the sword in his hands. That had been the nail in the coffin; something was eating away at Jon, and Ned would find out what. He would summon Jon, and they would talk. Whatever was troubling the boy, they would face it together. He would not let Jon bear this burden alone.

Night had draped its dark cloak over the lands surrounding Harrenhal; the distant murmur of festivities and the faint echo of laughter drifted on the wind as Ned made his way towards Jon's tent, Longclaw in hand. Outside the tent, Olaf gave him a nod of recognition and stepped aside, allowing Ned to enter. The interior was dimly lit by a few candles, and Ned quickly spotted Jon and Loras Tyrell seated at a small table, cups of wine in hand, their conversation animated and their demeanour relaxed. Jon's face was lit with a rare smile; the sight did not at all ease Ned's concern.

''Jon,'' Lord Eddard Stark said firmly as he entered. The tone of his voice brought both their attention to him.

Loras and Jon rose. ''Lord Stark,'' Loras greeted, smiling politely.

''Ser Loras, may I have a moment alone with my son?'' Ned asked.

''Of course. 'Tis getting late anyhow; I shall take my leave.'' Loras said, before shifting his gaze to Jon. ''Do let me know if you require any assistance with registering for the melee on the morrow. If not, I shall take care of it on your behalf.'' With a final nod, Loras exited the tent, leaving Ned and Jon alone.

The tent turned slightly cold as Loras left. Ned looked at Jon, his gaze unwavering. Jon's face, already flushed from wine and conversation, hardened slightly. He took a swig from his cup before setting it aside. ''What is it that you seek, Father?''

Ned glanced around the tent, his eyes eventually falling on the half-empty cup Jon had been drinking from. ''Where did you come by the wine, Jon?'' he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

''Here and there. 'Tis hardly a secret during an event such as this.'' Jon answered, dismissive.

Ned took a deep breath and then held out Longclaw. ''Lady Maege Mormont delivered this to me, asserting that you declared Lord Commander Mormont wished it returned to his family. Is there truth to this?''

Jon's gaze dropped to the sword; his expression seemed pained as he gazed at it, but his face froze when his eyes met Ned's again. ''He never voiced it directly, but it is what he would have wished.''

Ned's disappointment flared into anger. ''You never told me you were one for lies, Jon. I never taught you to deceive.''

Jon's eyes flashed with defiance. ''Why do you care?''

''Jon...'' Ned warned, his voice low.

''You profess to care for all your children, yet when I am presented with an opportunity to rise beyond my wildest dreams, you would have me reject the king's favour to guard some forsaken ruin in the Gift—conveniently tucked away from the world, your greatest shame.'' The anger in Jon's voice was raw, and his speech was a little slurred. Ned considered leaving right there and then, and try again when he was of a better state, but he didn't. Instead, he took a moment to steady himself before responding.

Jon continued, however. ''You presume to know everything about me—my desires, my failings. Yet you do not. You don't know what I've seen, what I've done.''

Ned's expression softened, his anger flowing away as Jon spoke, giving way to concern once more. ''Then speak with me, Jon. Share with me what you have seen and endured.''

Jon's anger seemed to ebb slightly as he looked at Ned, the struggle within him evident. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken emotions. Finally, Jon's shoulders slumped, and he sighed deeply. ''I... I cannot shake this uneasy feeling, as though I'm standing in boots that don't quite fit, slipping with every step.'' Jon paused for a moment, as to properly gather his thoughts, rubbing his forehead as he did so. ''I ranged with two hundred men—all good men, better men than me. Uncle Arthur, the finest swordsman I've ever known. Lord Commander Mormont; and Qhorin Halfhand. Lophand and Edd. Yet all fell, and I alone remain. It does not feel right.''

''You cannot be certain of that, Jon. I've seen battles, just as you have. There are always survivors—some manage to escape, others are taken as prisoners. Mance Rayder is no fool. Men like Mormont, Ser Arthur, the Halfhand—they are all valuable captives.'' Ned said softly yet firm.

Jon's face paled, and Ned noticed his hands trembling slightly as he grabbed his cup. Ned frowned; his words had meant to be reassuring. ''I... It wasn't... Gods.'' Jon mumbled.

''Jon?'' Ned asked, concerned.

Jon's eyes looked haunted and glistening. ''It wasn't Mance Rayder. It wasn't wildlings. It was something far worse.''

Ned placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. He had never seen Jon in such a state; he needed to know. ''Tell me.'' He said firmly.

What Jon told him next was the stuff of nightmares. Old legends once dismissed, old tales Old Nan had told him. The Others. Seen with his own eyes—eyes blue as ice, cold as death. They had ambushed them at The Fist of the First Men during the night, and brought a darkness men where not prepared for. Bones creaking, limbs dragging across the frozen ground—with a queer, cold scent that caused panic to living animals when they caught a whiff of it. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Men, women, children, all dead and yet somehow still walking, and they had not stopped, had not felt pain, had not bled.

When Jon was fully done, Ned's face had frozen in place. A heavy silence fell between them.

''Jon?'' Lord Eddard asked hard and firmly.

Jon bristled slightly. ''Aye?''

''Are you telling true? Do you swear by the Old Gods that this is what truly happened?''

Something passed through Jon—a brief flicker of fire in his eyes. ''Aye, I swear it. Drag me in front of a heart tree if you must.'' he said, looking Ned straight in the eyes.

Ned nodded slowly, then he rose from his seat. His mind raced, and he could feel the heart pounding in his chest, yet he kept his expression measured, expressionless. He had too. Ned told the Lord of Dragonstone to get some sleep, before exiting his tent. It had only been when Ned was back in his bed, and when he closed his eyes to welcome uneasy sleep, when Ned realised that Longclaw was still in Jon's tent.

Ned woke up the next day, barely remembering the fast he had broken or his children bickering. His mind raced still. Sansa and Arya had been requested for sewing with the Queen and other ladies of the realm, while Bran had wanted to go with Jon and Ser Loras to the training grounds. He stared blankly at the map of the North. If anyone else had told him about the Others, he would not believe them. He dared think he would have doubted it even hearing it from the Lord Commander. He still doubted it in truth; it was a hard thing to believe. Yet it had been Jon who had told him—someone he trusts and loves deeply. Ned needed proof, something that would convince the Seven Kingdoms without all doubt. Something to convince myself. Yet how could one provide proof when even the mere mention of the Others would be met with scorn and disbelief? He begged the gods to grant strength to Benjen and Jory, to Ser Arthur and Jeor Mormont. He hoped to hear words of their return, and hoped they could disprove Jon's claims.

The Others, King-Beyond-the-Wall, it did not matter. The North is unprepared, and Eddard Stark was its warden. His mind turned to Robert's offer—the position of Master of Laws on the Small Council. He wanted to reject it initially, but now, with the knowledge Jon had shared, the prospect of accepting the offer loomed large in his mind. If he took the position, he could use the influence it afforded him to prepare the North, and gather the resources they would need to face the coming storm. His mind spiralled further to the harvests. This had been the longest summer in living memory, and the common folk say that a long summer means an even longer winter. How long could this winter last? A year? Five? A decade? Ned shuddered at the thought.

From King's Landing, he could keep a close watch on the realm and assist Stannis with his fears for Robert's life and reign. A war would be the absolute last thing Westeros needed. He could push for reinforcement to the Night's Watch, and ensure that the North's needs were met, and perhaps, just perhaps, find a way to convince the other lords, as well as himself, of the reality of the threat they faced. The thought of abandoning Winterfell, of leaving his home and his people, was a bitter one. But if Jon was even a fraction right, it was a sacrifice he had to make. Ned had always been a man of duty, and now, the weight of that duty pressed down on him more heavily than ever.