Ned XI
The moon had waxed and waned three times and was halfway through a fourth cycle since Ned had been confined to his room in the Maidenvault. Locked in the chambers as he was, he found his biggest foe to be boredom. There was only so much entertainment one could get from gazing out a window, and he had reached his limit within the first week. The comet had provoked deep thought with its appearance - what did it mean and who was the omen for? - but it had soon vanished from the sky; first the day and then the night.
His thoughts drifted often to his family. Had Sansa made it safely back to the North? He trusted Ser Baristan and Jory to see her home but the land was at war and Cersei would not allow his daughter to escape so easily. How were Robb and Jon doing leading armies and fighting battles? War was never something he wanted his children to see, let alone fight in and though he trusted the two of them, that did not mean he was not worried about them. Was Bran safe in his travels with Ser Robar? Last he had heard they were in the Reach near Oldtown, far away from the fighting in the Riverlands, and he hoped it stayed that way. Was Arya's sword training teaching her the patience she lacked? While he loved Arya dearly, his daughter needed to temper her wolfblood less she go the way of his sister. What of Rickon, did his son even know who he was anymore? Ned had been gone over a year, during some of the most important years of Rickon's life and it would not surprise him if his youngest did not recognize him should they meet again.
And what of Cat? This was the longest they had been separated since he had marched off to war shortly after they had wed in Riverrun. They had been strangers then, married to honor an agreement made by a dead father for the hand of a dead brother. Ned had stepped up, doing the honorable thing, even if it meant scorning a woman he had loved. Over the years together he had grown to love Cat and she him. He yearned for her in a way he did not think he would ever have felt about her all those years ago. He missed playing with her hair as they lay in bed together. He missed the way her blue eyes would gaze into his own and the world around them would fade away.
Thoughts of the family that is drifted to thoughts of the family that was. Of a loving mother who died of illness while he was in the Vale. Of a stern father who fostered him hundreds of miles away and died by wildfire at the hands of a Mad King. Of a wild brother, always the center of attention, who choked to death trying to save their father. And of an equally wild sister who indirectly started a war that killed thousands and died in a pool of blood.
Promise me, Ned.
Promise me.
Although there was not much space, he did his best to keep himself fit as a way to distract himself from his own thoughts. Being stagnant for so many months would mean his body would waste away; he'd lose muscle, and would either get thin or fat, depending on how much the Lannisters continued to feed him. Though keeping fit proved difficult with his lame leg preventing him from doing anything strenuous. Even something as simple as walking the space around the bed was a grueling task without his cane. Yet he persisted in his efforts for he lacked anything else to do.
Within the first few weeks of his confinement he had been visited by Ser Jacelyn Bywater. The Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks was outraged that he had been duped with a Littlefinger started riot on the day of Ned's capture. He had pledged to free Ned from not just the Maidenvault but the city proper.
"I have five hundred loyal men," Ser Jacelyn had vowed to him. "Each of them ready to fight."
If there was one thing Ned remembered it was loyal men. He remembered William Dustin, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, Martyn Cassel, and Mark Ryswell. He remembered Wyl and Fat Tom and Varley. They visited his dreams often, a handful of the hundreds of faces that visited, a reminder of his failures to the loyal men sworn to him.
"No," he had whispered, bowing his head. "Enough loyal men have died for me. No more."
"My lord?"
"Do not put your lives in danger for my own. Besides which, your plan is likely well known by both Baelish and Varys. They will be prepared, the men under you will be killed or imprisoned, and all you have planned will be for nought."
"What would you have us do?"
"Your duty to the people of this city."
Ser Jacelyn had conceded to Ned's point and did not make any attempts to free Ned. He did post loyal men outside his doors, who passed along whatever rumors and information they had. It was how he knew Sansa had escaped the city and was spotted near Sow's Horn. That is until someone, who Ned suspected was Tyrion Lannister, must have realized the Gold Cloaks were providing him with information because they were eventually replaced by Lannister men.
There was a knock on his door before it was pushed open and Tyrion Lannister entered the room. Ned hasn't had any proper visitors since the last time Lord Tyrion had visited him several sennights ago.
The smaller man wrinkled his nose as the smell of the room hit him. It had been a while since Ned had properly bathed. There was only so much one could do with a bucket of lukewarm water and a piece of soap.
"I think a bath once a sennight would be for the best. At least for the sake of anyone visiting you."
"To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" Ned asked, ignoring the comment.
"My father has never been proud of me," Tyrion said as he climbed into the chair by the door. "I was born a dwarf and killed my mother in the process. When I was a babe, he had my chambers in one of the deepest parts of Casterly Rock. The only ones I saw until I was five were my nursemaid and my brother before he left to become a squire. I hate my father. I started to drink and whore because it was the only way to get him to look at me, really look at me, even if it was in disgust."
Tyrion was not looking at Ned while he spoke. Instead he stared at a spot on the wall several feet to Ned's left. Was there a point to the Imp's rambling?
"Yet when the opportunities presented themselves I always did everything in my power to make him proud. He assigned me to oversee the sewers of Casterly Rock. No doubt he meant it to insult me but I took to it with a gusto and those sewers never flowed so well. He had me negotiate trade deals with the Arbor and the Lannisters never made as much profit on trade as we did those years."
"Is there a point to this?" Ned asked as Lord Tyrion took a pause in his talking.
Tyrion shook his head and looked at Ned for the first time since entering the room.
"I have news. News that I am sure will make any father proud of his sons. A feeling I have never known." Tyrion sighed, exhaling years of neglect and abuse. "Your sons fooled my father. They sent their infantry down the King's Road to make my father think the entire northern army was giving battle. In reality it was a diversion. Their cavalry crossed at the Twins. They broke the siege of Riverrun and captured my brother in battle."
Tyrion was right as Ned felt himself swell with pride. To think that Robb and Jon, who were only sixteen years old, were able to not only outwit the Old Lion, but re-capture the Kingslayer in the process. He knew Tywin Lannister's reputation was based more on fear and reputation than actual military command, but this was more than he could have hoped. How could he not be proud of the two of them?
"I have always been proud of Robb and Jon."
"Yes, I imagine so," Tyrion said, a sad smile making its way onto his face. "They have already sent terms for peace, including an exchange of you for Jaime. Of course my father has rejected them because the terms do not have the Lannisters coming out as the undisputed winners in the conflict, and he will accept nothing less. I, however, will make sure an exchange of you and my brother goes through, regardless of the other terms. I am the acting Hand of the King, afterall."
Ned remembered the Kingslayer's skill as he cut through Ned's guard, even after hours of manual labor had robbed him of much of his strength. He remembered the man's poor temperament and anger. It would benefit his son none to have such a man opposite them on the battlefield again, even if that meant Ned's own freedom.
"I don't want to be freed," Ned said. "Leave me here."
Tyrion's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Well that's a first. Be that as it may, I will see it done."
"Your brother -"
"My brother loves me," Tyrion interrupted, voice harsh. "He's the only one who has ever done so. No matter what you claim, no matter what you wish, I will see him freed. Exchanging you for him is the best way to see that done. Though, I'd be remiss if I didn't say that part of the reason I wish to see you free is for Jon Snow's benefit. He is a friend after all."
Ned grunted but did not rise to the bait Tyrion was trying to dangle in front of him. He had been the one to send Jon with Lord Tyrion on his journey to Castle Black. Any friendship that existed between the two of them was of Ned's own doing. Instead he decided to change the topic.
"Did you return that book to Maester Luwin?"
"I have not. It slipped my mind."
"Please see to it that you do return it to him as soon as possible. I figure you out of anyone else in this wretched city understand the importance of a well stocked and organized measter's library."
Tyrion frowned. A heavy silence hung in the air between them. After a moment, Tyrion leaned forward in his chair.
"What is it you want me to see?" Tyrion asked.
While he hadn't said it outright in his letter all those moons ago, Jon appeared as fond of Tyrion as the dwarf appeared to be of Jon. The Imp's intelligence and wit were two things Jon noted in his letter, two things Ned hoped the man truly had in spades. He could just come out and say it, but he needed the man to see with his own eyes what his sister and brother had done. And when it was found out that Ned knew the terrible secret, there was no way Cersei would allow him to go free. Any thoughts of exchanging him for the Kingslayer would go out the window.
He looked at Tyrion in his mismatched eyes
"The truth."
Bran IV
The march to Storm's End was a far more grueling affair than the march to Bitterbridge had been. The pace was relentless, a desperate urgency hanging over the men of the Reach and the Stormlands like a storm cloud. But it was not just exhaustion that made the journey miserable. It was the knowledge that it had all been a lie. That every kind word, every assurance of safety, every promise of honorable treatment had been hollow. From the moment he had stepped foot again into Highgarden, he had been nothing more than a well kept hostage.
Bran had suspected something was amiss when they had been denied leave to ride north toward the Riverlands, but he had not fully grasped the truth until that moment in the command tent when the words had been spoken. They would march south, not north, and accompany Renly Baratheon to Storm's End to break his brother's siege.
The moment had been surreal, a slow, dawning horror that left him too numb to argue as he was escorted back to his tent. His life for guarantees that the North and the Riverlands would not act against Renly in his quest to be King, including pledging loyalty to Stannis. Bran had barely noticed his surroundings, his mind spinning with thoughts of home, of his siblings, of Winterfell so very far away. But all of that had been shoved aside the instant he noticed something missing.
Summer was gone.
He had known this would happen. Had known, in the back of his mind, that they would never allow him to keep a direwolf at his side, not when they meant to use him as leverage. And yet, the knowledge did nothing to dull the ache in his chest when he saw the empty space where Summer should have been. His first thought had been that they had killed him, that they had taken his wolf while he was off finding out the truth, and ended him before Bran could fight back. The rage that thought had inspired had been blinding, the sharpest emotion he could ever remember feeling. But it had only been temporary because deep in his heart, he knew.
Summer was alive. Somewhere out there, in the lands of the Reach, his direwolf still roamed. He could not say how he knew, he just did.
Ser Robar had noticed his distress but said nothing, offering only a solemn nod before retreating to his own duties. Like Ser Robar, Bran now barely spoke with the Reach knights assigned to watch over him. Sers Reynard, Humphrey, and Adam were courteous enough, but Bran did not trust them. He answered their questions with as few words as possible, giving them nothing beyond what was required. Many times growing up he had watched Jon sulk through Winterfell with a sour demeanor, snapping at anyone who came near when he was in one of his moods. Bran felt like he could finally understand how Jon felt in those moments.
Each night, Renly met with his commanders—Lord Tarly, Lord Merryweather, and Lord Rowan, along with Ser Garth Tyrell and Ser Loras Tyrell. Their discussions carried late into the night, their voices a low murmur beneath the flapping of banners and the crackling of campfires. Ser Robar had explained that no true strategy could be decided upon until they had more information on Stannis' host. They needed numbers, terrain, and positioning, but the discussions continued nonetheless, a constant preparation for whatever lay ahead.
Lord Randyll Tarly, according to Robar, was among the greatest military minds in Westeros. The only man to win a significant victory for the Targaryens during Robert's Rebellion, defeating Robert himself at the Battle of Ashford. Lord Tarly's military acumen was so highly thought of that the only other commanders considered his equal were Stannis Baratheon, Tywin Lannister and, much to Bran's surprise, his own father.
That knowledge filled him with an odd mixture of pride and sorrow. His father had been respected even by his enemies, and yet his father could do nothing against his own arrest for treason.
Three sennights passed before Storm's End finally came into view. It loomed against the horizon, its curtain walls a hundred feet high, an impenetrable fortress standing defiant against the waves. The encirclement around it was faint at this distance, little more than a blur of banners and movement. Beyond the castle, in the sea that lapped against the castle walls, dozens of ships bobbed in the water. Although he could not make out the banners of Stannis' camp or the sails of the ships, the colors were the same.
"Lord Stannis was the master of ships for King Robert," Ser Robar explained as they observed the scene. "He had, and appears to have kept, the loyalty of many of the captains within the fleet."
A fleet meant supplies. A fleet meant reinforcements. If Stannis could hold out long enough, if the siege could not be broken, then Renly's forced march would have been for naught.
The lack of their own supplies had already begun to show. Men went out into the nearby woods to hunt every evening, as others moved to forage whatever berries and edible roots they could find. Most of the baggage train had been left behind with the infantry at Bitterbridge, along with the vast majority of tents. Lords and heirs still had shelter, but they were smaller, barely more than what a man-at-arms might use. And as hostages, Bran and Ser Robar received even less. They had bedrolls, at least, but nothing more.
Their usual placement in camp was close to where Renly and his commanders gathered, but far enough away that several guards stood between them and the self-proclaimed king. It was a quiet, isolated existence most nights.
Bran had been preparing for dinner when the commotion started. A distant uproar carried across the encampment, shouts rising near the edge of the camp facing Stannis' position. He couldn't make out the words, but he could see movement, figures gathering, urgency rippling through the ranks.
Then Renly's voice rose above the rest, sharp with protest.
"What are they shouting about?" Bran asked, turning to Ser Robar.
"It sounds like they are saying 'parlay.'"
Bran frowned, trying his best to remember the teachings of his father and Ser Rodrik. "Parlay? That means talking, right?"
Ser Robar nodded. "It means the leaders of both armies meet to discuss potential terms to avoid battle. Likely, Stannis wants to convince Renly to see reason as the younger brother."
"Do you think it will work?"
Ser Robar's answer was short and firm. "No."
And he was right. Word spread through camp that Renly had declined the parlay.
As the night stretched on, the tension in the camp thickened. Ser Robar did not know how Renly expected to win this battle. He had left his infantry behind, relying almost entirely on cavalry. Against an enemy entrenched with a strong infantry line, the advantage would be slim.
"A solid infantry line set with pikes and spears can not only withstand a cavalry charge," Ser Robar murmured, "it can slaughter one."
Bran listened, absorbing the lesson but understanding little of what it might mean for the day to come. He suspected he would soon find out.
Sleep did not come easily that night. And when it did, it did not last.
Screams tore through the camp.
Bran jolted awake, heart hammering as he sat up. The guards posted near them had stirred as well, shifting into action as shouts rang out across the camp. Footsteps thundered past their resting place, men rushing toward the command tents. Ser Adam rose swiftly, the others following at a slower pace.
"I'll go see what's happened," he muttered before disappearing into the night.
Bran, Ser Robar, and the others waited in tense silence. The minutes dragged into what felt like an eternity before Ser Adam returned, his face grim.
"There was an attack," he said, voice low. "An assassin."
The words sent a chill through Bran.
"An assassin?" Ser Humphrey echoed, still groggy with sleep.
"Did they catch him? Was anyone killed?" Ser Reynard demanded.
Ser Adam's jaw tightened. "Lord Tarly, Lord Merryweather, and Lord Rowan are dead." He hesitated, as if debating whether to continue. "His grace and Ser Loras claim the assassin was a shadow."
A shadow.
"They must have seen things in their grief."
"What of the battle?" Ser Humphrey asked, worried.
"Ser Garlan urges his grace to fall back to a more secure position and to summon the infantry. He does not think it wise to give battle. His grace refuses and will continue with the battle tomorrow."
"Come Bran, it is not for us to worry about a cause not our own," Ser Robar said, leading Bran back to their bedrolls.
Bran wanted to hear more of this shadow but did as Ser Robar wished. As he laid down, Ser Robar leaned in close. The knight looked briefly over his shoulder before turning back to Bran and speaking in a low voice.
"Depending on how tomorrow's battle goes," he whispered, "there might be an opportunity for us to escape. Keep alert. If I tell you to run, do not hesitate. Do you understand?"
Bran swallowed hard. Then, with barely a breath, he whispered, "I understand."
A/N: With Stannis having a larger army this time around, making his numbers much closer to Renly's, at least those Renly brought with him to break the siege, Renly doesn't have the swagger or confidence he had in the books and refuses the parlay. Without Renly to insult him, Stannis doesn't command Melisandre to kill Renly in his anger because he does not want to be a kinslayer. Rather he gives the word to kill the men who command his brother's army.
