AN: For those who missed it. A few days ago, I uploaded my first chapter of a new OC asoiaf story i'm writing. You don't need to of course, but if you are interested, you can check it out on my profile. Have a nice day! :)
Eddard VI
''I see no purpose in it, save to stir the embers of grief and meddle where none are needed.'' King Robert said firmly.
''The Martells will not be soothed by silence,'' Arryn said.
Robert frowned. ''There is naught to investigate. No man saw anything, and the boy was deep in his cups. It is not the first drunken folly, nor shall it be the last.''
You'd know that better than anyone, Robert, Eddard thought. How many drunken follies had he not dragged his friend out of in the Vale? Or worse yet, here in Harrenhal, during the last great tourney? Some he had managed to prevent, but others—others had been beyond even his reach. And some were worse than others. One folly, in particular, lingered in his memory, the kind that left more than a sore head come morning—a peasant girl, a night of ale-soaked recklessness, and a babe born moons later.
Robert had often dragged Ned along on his daily visits to see Mya Stone, even after his interest in her mother had long since waned. He would ruffle the girl's coal-black hair, chuckling at her scowls, and though Robert never spoke of it outright, Ned had seen the truth plainly enough. There was love there, however unspoken, however fleeting—but love nonetheless.
He thought of Lyanna then, on that night long ago when their father had pledged her hand to the young Lord of Storm's End. She had been unhappy, though she hid it well. Ned had tried to soothe her, to assure her that Robert's past dalliances were of no consequence. What he had done before their betrothal did not matter—Robert was a good man, a true man, and he would love her with all his heart.
Lyanna had only smiled at him then, sad and knowing in her storm-grey eyes.
''Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature.''
''It may well be nothing, Your Grace, yet accusations have already been cast, and whispers left unchecked have a way of turning to open strife. The Crown must be seen to take this matter seriously, lest inaction be mistaken for indifference.''
''If Quentyn Martell had died tumbling from his steed, Prince Oberyn would still cry, claiming we cursed his horse.'' Cersei Lannister said dismissively, turning toward Robert. ''You cannot bend to them, husband—yield once, and they shall ever press for more.''
''Quiet woman!'' Robert said loudly and ruffled.
Queen Cersei remained expressionless. ''Are you a king or not? The boy's leeches, Yronwood and Drinkwater, saw nothing. The only witness is a serving girl who claims she saw him drunkenly pawing at her daughter, too far gone to stand upright. Would you have the Crown grovel over such whispers? You would have us chase Harren the Black's ghosts?''
King Robert turned a deep red with anger. For a second, Eddard thought he would leap toward her. ''Kingslayer! Take your damn sister back to her chambers!''
Cersei Lannister's eyes lit up with wildfire. But she begrudgingly let her brother escort her out of the room.
King Robert was still angry, though. ''Ned! What do you think? Speak!'' He demanded.
Ned did not hesitate. ''I am of a mind with Jon, Robert. The wounds of Princess Elia's murder and the injustice done to House Martell are yet raw. If we handle the death of Prince Doran's son with the same indifference, we risk turning old grief into fresh vengeance.''
Robert grumbled. ''Stannis?'' he asked.
Stannis Baratheon had remained silent until this very moment. ''I have as little love for the Dornish as you do, but duty demands that we see this inquiry through.''
''Very well, then.'' Robert boomed. ''Go chase the damn ghosts! But the tourney continues on the morrow.''
Jon Arryn's eyes widened. ''Your Grace, it wi—'' he tried, but he was shut down quickly.
''Enough! Your king has spoken!'' Robert boomed once more.
Jon Arryn had obeyed, but the disapproval was plain in his blue eyes. ''I'll go find Princess Arianne and see that all is in order.'' He said, and was soon out of the room.
''Damn it all!'' Robert continued booming. ''Can you believe this, Ned? Whispers, ghosts, and all manner of damnable follies. The Three Whores circling, my wife forever at my bloody throat—and Viserys Targaryen, damn him to the seven hells! Do you not long for the old days? When we were but young lads, swords in hand, the whole world set against us?''
''More like Jon Arryn against us, Your Grace.'' Ned said dryly.
Robert Baratheon roared in laughter. ''Aye, you have the right of it! Gods, but it was simpler then.''
''Simpler indeed, Your Grace.''
King Robert frowned. ''None of that 'Your Grace' or 'my king,' Ned, I beg you. Gods, I'll swear to the Mother above, if you keep at it, I'll mount a damn horse myself and ride in the tourney.''
''That would be difficult, Robert.'' Stannis said.
''Why? You saying I'm too fat, is that it, brother?'' His king asked, one eyebrow raised.
Stannis gritted his teeth in annoyance, but Ned actually chuckled. ''You damn oaf. The final tilt is on the morrow, as you yourself just commanded. You can't enter now.''
Realisation dawned on him then, and he bellowed with laughter, louder than before. ''Gods, I need a bloody drink, I think.''
''But enough of my troubles. What of you, Lord Eddard? Have you given any thought to my offers?''
Ned shifted in his seat. ''Have you given any thought to mine?''
He could see that Stannis did not take kindly to his deflection. The man had written to him, after all—sent a rider through the night, instead of a raven, bidding him to take the post. But for Ned, the choice was no simple thing. It was as it had been years ago, when Sansa and Arya pulled him in opposite directions. Only now, it was Robert Baratheon yanking him one way and Mance Rayder pulling him the other.
''As a matter of fact, I have,'' Robert said, grinning. ''I'll accept your terms—you may station your own men along the Wall. They need not take the black, but only with the Lord Commander's blessing. Arryn insisted on that much. The Gift is yours.''
Ned let out a breath, relief washing over him. But Robert was not yet finished.
''But—'' he leaned forward, his grin turning sly, ''only if you take the post as my Master of Laws.''
Ned nodded slowly with a thoughtful face.
Robert saw his expression, and the face fell once more. Revealing something more serious as he spoke. ''I know you do not wish to leave the North, Ned. I see it plain on your face. And by the Old Gods and the New, I do not fault you for it. But I need you, Ned—now more than ever before.''
''I give you my word, Robert—you shall have my answer before the tourney's end.''
Robert nodded. ''My namesake—what was the lad's name? Robb? Aye, Lord Robb. How does he fare as Lord of Winterfell?''
Ned smiled. ''He is well. Robb has taken to lordship far better than I had thought.''
''Your eldest,'' Stannis mused, nodding to himself.
''Good,'' Robert said. ''The North needs a strong hand to guide it while you are away.''
''Indeed,'' Ned said with a nod. ''And what of you? Prince Joffrey, Tommen, and Princess Myrcella—how do they fare?''
Robert smiled, but a certain darkness flickered in his eyes. ''Fine, fine, they are,'' Robert said with a wave of his hand. ''Though Cersei—gods spare me—she spoils them rotten.''
''Every mother does, I suppose,'' Eddard said.
''Well, that's true. I remember our own mother promising us the whole world.''
''She promised you, the entire world.'' Stannis corrected, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone.
Though Robert only laughed. Paused, then grimaced. ''But Cersei…'' He looked as though a shiver had run down his spine.
''Lions are ever a proud breed, and my wife frets over Joffrey as if he were made of spun glass. If the boy so much as holds a sword, she all but wails. And don't get me started on how she's been on my neck about Margaery Tyrell.''
''Margaery Tyrell?'' Eddard asked.
''Yes, damnable flytraps, the lot of them. That's all the realm is now, Ned—arse-lickers and schemers.''
Robert huffed, shaking his head. ''She's taken it into her head that the Tyrell girl means to seduce my son. Good, I told her. A maidenhead is a maidenhead, and the boy could do well with a few.'' He roared with laughter, making Stannis frown, while Ned suppressed a grimace.
''But no, no,'' Robert went on, waving a hand, ''that would mean her father barking for a marriage. A crisis, she called it. Gods, I'll grant Cersei that much—when she speaks, it is Lord Tywin's voice that comes forth. It is our houses that shall be joined, Ned, and I'll not suffer some damnable flower whispering in my son's ear.''
''That's why you betrothed her to Jon?'' Eddard asked, feeling a bit colder.
Robert grinned. ''A fine match, and the boy shall have need of an heir before long—much as my namesake, Robb.''
Something must have shown in his own face, for King Robert's face quickly fell. ''Has something happened to your Robb?''
''No,'' Eddard answered dryly.
''Well, speak up then!'' Robert huffed, eyes narrowing. ''What's got you so glum all of a sudden?''
''I already told you, Robert—Jon, as your Lord of Dragonstone, I like it not. And now, what do you do? You go and betroth him like he is some piece in Cersei Lannister's game.''
Robert waved a hand dismissively. ''Is that my wife I see in you, Lord Eddard? The way you fret over your baseborn, one might think you were his mother.''
It was meant as a jape, but it only served to tighten Ned's jaw. Robert saw it at once, and when the laughter did not come, he let out a long breath, his tone growing more solemn.
''Your son is not my Joffrey,'' he said, quieter now. ''I hear he saved a village from an outlaw attack. You may not believe it, Ned, but I'll tell you true—what I would give to have a son like him.''
''He has a lot to learn,'' Stannis said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Robert's eyes narrowed at his brother. ''And what is this sacred thing, then, that he needs to learn?
''Wisdom,'' Stannis answered sternly. ''He is young.''
Robert scoffed. ''The Others take your wisdom! That may be had from the right advisors, the right Hand. But strength, Stannis—strength is what keeps men in line.''
''Of course, Your Grace,'' Stannis said, though his tone made it clear he was unconvinced.
Stannis Baratheon then rose from his seat quite quickly. ''May I take my leave, Your Grace? I've no doubt the Lord Hand has summoned the men required to begin the inquiry by now.''
''Yes, yes. Go!'' Robert said with a wave.
With a stiff and measured bow, Lord Stannis turned on his heel and left the room.
Robert shifted his gaze toward Eddard. He paused, shaking his head before adding. ''He can manage the rose girl well enough. And though I hold no love for that accursed lot, they must be bound to my rule. Now, they shall be—through your blood. And when they are parted from their precious flower, the very one they might have dangled before Viserys Targaryen when he makes his move... well, that shall be one less thorn in my side.''
''They would not dare rise against us,'' Ned said firmly.
''They absolutely would, Ned. Have the northern winds numbed your wits? They are dragon loyalists to the last, I tell you.'' Robert shot back, his voice edged with frustration. ''Besides, the boy has already given his consent to the betrothal, has he not?''
''He did.'' What choice did he have?
''See?'' Robert said with a smirk, spreading his hands. ''He seeks to take her to wife, and I would not trouble myself overmuch. She is a comely thing; that much is plain.''
'It is not her beauty that troubles me, Robert,'' Ned said, his tone grave.
It was then that Jon Arryn appeared once more by the door, his expression calm but expectant. ''Lord Stark,'' he said, steadily. ''It is time.''
Ned turned to Robert. ''Will you be joining us?''
For a moment, it looked as though the king might rise from his seat, throw back his shoulders, and nod his agreement. But then, something else won out—a weariness, a stubborn pride, or perhaps just Robert being Robert.
He waved a hand dismissively. ''Bah, go on without me. That's servant's work.''
Ned only nodded, saying nothing. He then rose from his seat, gave Robert a short, respectful bow, and turned to follow his foster father.
To Eddard Stark's surprise, it was not Arianne Martell who awaited him alongside Lord Stannis, Baelish, and Whent—but the Red Viper himself. All smug smirks and sharp, dangerous eyes.
It put him ill at ease. Prince Oberyn Martell was not a man to be taken lightly—he was as dangerous as he was unpredictable.
The Dornish prince wasted little time in informing everyone that Arianne had departed for Sunspear that very morning, sent away on Prince Doran's orders. For their princess was needed in Dorne for the funeral and the grieving.
Eddard Stark decided to start with looking through the chambers, which Whent thinks is most likely where he had fallen out. He had already looked through five of them before he came across Stannis alone inside of them. The room was cold, all silence save for the wind that howled through the open window.
He hadn't noticed it before, but now, as he stepped closer, he saw the shutters swaying, a breeze whipping through them, filling the chamber with eerie whistles.
A sound easily mistaken for spirits, for curses, for whispers in the dark, he thought.
He saw Lord Stannis crouched low to the ground, his face thoughtful. Between his fingers, he held something thin, something nearly invisible against the stone floor. Was that hair?
''Have you found anything?'' Ned asked.
''No,'' Stannis said after a brief silence. ''Take the next chamber. I am not so witless that I cannot see to a single room on my own, Lord Eddard.''
With a frown set upon his face, Eddard did as he said. Yet he found nothing in that chamber, nor in the one that followed, nor in the one after that.
Ned had made it his mission to avoid Oberyn throughout the inquiry, and to his relief, he had done so quite masterfully. Not that the prince had shown any interest in him either.
He had hoped—truly hoped—to find nothing. Nothing to suggest that this was anything more than a tragic accident.
The inquiry had stretched from morning into evening, a long, gruelling affair—interviewing witnesses, inspecting the scene of the fall, and, of course, combing through the many empty chambers from which it was believed the prince could have tumbled from.
And they had found nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary.
It was only the morning after, and the final tilt was approaching when all hope seemed lost.
Ned was headed toward Harrenhal's godswood, seeking a moment to think, to pray, to worry, and to wonder before the final tilt would commence. The search had yielded nothing, and Ned was certain that by now, Prince Oberyn had already convinced himself the Crown was hiding evidence.
Everything about Quentyn Martell, well, pointed to nothing. It did not speak of some shadowed assassin lurking in the dark, nor could he say how, in the name of the Old Gods, the boy had managed—drunkenly or otherwise—to stumble through an open window to his doom.
He might have leapt of his own will, of course. Ned considered the thought solemnly. But he knew full well that such a conclusion would do little to placate Dorne or Prince Oberyn.
Lord Eddard Stark sighed. He was not yet Master of Laws, and so the matter fell to Jon Arryn to resolve—for now. Though he knew well enough that would soon change.
He had spoken to Lord Stannis regarding the rider he had sent, but the man had revealed little. Stannis had merely reaffirmed his fears for his brother's safety and voiced his grave doubts that Viserys Targaryen had any hand in Lord Renly Baratheon's murder.
Had it been any other time, mayhaps Ned Stark would have found it easier to accept the position. But to do so now would be to heap even greater burdens upon Robb's shoulders.
Robb had handled himself well as Lord of Winterfell, and Ned could not be prouder of the boy. Yet it was not the ravens from Winterfell that troubled him most—it was the ones that came from Castle Black.
First Steward Bowen Marsh, who had taken temporary command of the Wall in Lord Commander Mormont's absence, had sent a raven to Winterfell. Robb, in turn, had forwarded it to him at Harrenhal.
And it spoke of nothing good.
At first, it spoke only of things Jon had already told him—wildling villages left abandoned. No sign of Benjen, of Arthur Dayne, of Jeor Mormont, Jory Cassel, nor of any man who had dared to step foot beyond the Wall. And always, the same whispered name carried on the cold northern winds—a King Beyond the Wall.
But then, it spoke of graver things still. Discontent was growing within the Night's Watch, supplies were dwindling. And worst of all—whispers of mutiny, of fear. The old Maester Aemon had called for an election—to bring some measure of stability before the unrest within the Watch turned to something far worse.
If matters worsened even a little, the Starks of Winterfell would have no choice but to intervene—the first time any Stark had done so since the days of the Night's King and his corpse queen during the Age of Heroes. When Brandon the Breaker, King in the North, and Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, set aside their enmity, joined forces, and put an end to the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
And if Ned was in King's Landing when the time came, it would fall to Robb to call the banners and intervene. The boy had ruled well thus far, but he had never been tested in such a manner—not yet.
When his eyes found the heart tree, he saw someone else beneath its ancient boughs—Jon.
Ned smiled, a quiet thing, knowing full well that the boy had endured hardships as great as his own, if not greater. He had watched him in the melee, seen the way he fought, the way he carried himself, and his heart had swelled with pride.
Jon, much like Robb, had conducted himself well. And Ned could not be prouder.
Ned's smile faded into a frown as he drew closer. Jon was whispering—soft, low, as if speaking to someone. At first, Ned thought he was praying, offering quiet words to the Old Gods.
But then he noticed Jon's gaze. It was not fixed upon the heart tree, not upon its weeping red leaves or its solemn, carved face.
He was looking at something else.
Jon must have heard him approaching, for he turned swiftly, grey eyes widening in surprise. His hand went to his hilt before he saw who it was.
Recognition dawned, and he let out a quiet breath, his shoulders easing as he calmed.
''Father, I did not know you were here,'' Jon said.
Ned smiled. ''It's alright, Jon. Was I interrupting you?''
''No, no... I was just...'' Jon exhaled, running a hand through his hair. ''I just needed some quiet.''
Ned nodded, studying the boy carefully. ''There is no heart tree on Dragonstone,'' he said after a moment. ''So I suppose you will miss it greatly once you are there. I imagine it would have been a sight to behold in Aegon's garden, had one ever stood.''
''Is there no way to plant a new one?'' Jon asked thoughtfully.
''If there was, that knowledge is long lost to history,'' Ned said solemnly. ''Only the children knew the way of it.''
Jon nodded, though Ned thought he saw something flicker behind his eyes.
''Did you read the raven scroll I left inside your tent?'' Ned asked.
''I did,'' Jon answered. He met Ned's gaze, searching. ''Will you march on the Wall, then?''
''No,'' Ned said with a sigh. ''Though I fear the day may come when I shall have no choice.''
''Has any word reached you from Greywater Watch?'' Jon asked.
Ned blinked. ''No,'' he said, before studying the boy carefully once more. ''Why do you ask?''
Jon opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could leave him, his gaze drifted past Ned—behind him. Then, the boy's eyes widened once more.
Ned felt a chill creep down his spine. He frowned, and his hand moved instinctively to his hilt as he turned, scanning the godswood for whatever had so unsettled the boy.
But there was nothing.
Above them, crows took flight, croaking wildly.
When he looked back at Jon, he found him still as a stone statue, with a pale face and frozen expression—like a man who had just glimpsed the ghost of Harren the Black himself.
''Jon?'' Ned asked, edged with concern.
''What do you want from me?!'' Jon burst out, though he kept looking behind him.
''Want?'' Ned asked, his blood running cold. ''I want nothing. Is something the matter?''
Jon did not answer. But his breath came quick and uneven.
Ned took a step closer, his voice gentler now. ''Jon.''
The weirwood cried crimson tears.
Then, suddenly, as quick as a blink, Eddard Stark found himself sitting inside the tourney arena.
Ned blinked, for he could not recall ever lowering himself to a seat, nor could he fathom how he had come to be here.
One moment, he had been standing in the godswood—Jon and the heart tree before him, with crows shrieking in the sky—the next, he was seated inside the tourney arena, with a roar from the crowd buzzing all around him.
He heard a bellowing roar; was that his king—his friend?
He turned around hastily, and there he was—Robert Baratheon, sitting upon his grand seat, a face red with fury as he bellowed something to a man standing dutifully at his side.
Beside him, a queen leaned in, her expression sharp with sudden interest, keenly attuned to whatever the king was ranting about. Two princes sat nearby, their faces indifferent. A princess, however, watched with curiosity, her head tilted ever so slightly.
And then there was the little lady with auburn hair.
Nay—that was Queen Cersei, he remembered now. And the princes were Joffrey and Tommen, with the princess Myrcella seated beside them. The man King Robert had been speaking to was Petyr Baelish.
And the little lady... that was his daughter. Sansa Stark.
Wait...
How could he forget that?
What is happening?
''Next up, we have Ser Edmure Tully facing Ser Jaime Lannister, brother to Queen Cersei—the Golden Lion!'' A steward boomed, his voice carrying across the tourney grounds.
The crowd roared in reply.
Memory crept back as Eddard Stark's gaze shifted to his surroundings.
To his left sat little Arya and Bran. They were both barely able to keep themselves tied to their seats. Arya bounced slightly, eyes wide with wonder, while Bran leaned forward eagerly, as if he might leap into the lists himself.
To his right sat Jon Arryn, his expression calm yet watchful. The Lord of the Eyrie was looking at him.
''Ned? Has something happened?'' Jon Arryn asked.
Ned forced a smile onto his face. ''I am well, Lord Hand.''
Jon Arryn looked at him a moment longer than usual. Then, with a small nod, he turned away, shifting his gaze toward the tourney grounds.
''Arya, Brandon—where is your brother?'' Ned found himself asking his children, a bit harsher than intended.
All the excitement that had lit their faces only moments ago vanished. Arya and Bran turned to him, their wide-eyed shock plain to see.
''There,'' Arya said, pointing. ''You spoke to him mere moments ago, Father.''
Ned followed Arya's finger, turning his gaze a bit further to the left.
And there he was.
Jon sat with a thoughtful expression, his brow slightly furrowed, lost in whatever thoughts he was thinking. Ned let out a quiet breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding.
Beside him, sat his regent, Ser Justin Massey, with a smile on his face.
A clash of armour jolted Ned back to the present. Ser Edmure had fallen to the ground, and Jaime Lannister raised his lance in victory.
Meanwhile, Ned felt a lump settle in his stomach. The roar of the crowd, the clash of hooves on dirt—all of it seemed distant, muted beneath the unease gnawing at him.
For the life of him, he could not recall how he had gotten here. And that troubled him more than he cared to admit.
He tried to think of an explanation, some reason—but the answer proved to be as elusive as mist on a northern field.
''Lord Stark. Lord Hand.''
A voice called from behind. Both men turned, finding Petyr Baelish standing there, a kind smile playing at his lips, though his eyes were unreadable.
''The king requests your immediate presence,'' he said smoothly. ''Follow me, and I shall escort you.''
''What has happened, Baelish?'' Jon Arryn asked, his tone calm but firm.
''They say that the walls of King's Landing have ears,'' Baelish said with a sly smile, ''and here, there are none. Follow me, and all shall be explained.''
His smile faded slightly, and his tone turned more serious. ''The King stressed the importance of it.''
''Very well,'' Ned said, rising to his feet. He turned to his children. ''Stay here, Arya. Brandon. And do not leave Jon's sight. Is that understood?''
''Yes, Father,'' Bran said, while Arya nodded.
Ned and Jon Arryn followed Baelish out of the arena and toward a nearby tent.
Inside, King Robert sat with a fist clenched tight around a goblet of wine and with a face still flushed red with fury. Across from him stood Lord Stannis, with an expression no less severe.
''Your Grace, Lord Stannis—what has happened?'' Jon Arryn asked.
''You have not told them?'' Stannis asked firmly, with a piercing gaze onto Baelish.
''I did not find it wise to tell them until now,'' Baelish said smoothly.
''Tell them, Baelish!'' King Robert roared, his anger boiling over.
''It would appear, my lords, that the ghosts of Harrenhal has struck once more,'' Baelish said.
The ghosts of Harrenhal? Ned wondered, a chill running down his spine as he remembered the Godswood.
''Kallio and Myron—the two Triarchy diplomats—are dead.''