a/n: slowly updating this story (and by slowly I mean at a snail's pace)
"and i never knew if you were the storm
or the silence."
— g.a
There was an uncomfortable silence that wafted through his solar, one that was quickly broken by the screech of a raven sitting at his window.
Dark wings, dark words.Ned could hear Cat's voice, burrowing itself into the deepest parts of his mind, filling those spaces with her fear. He eyed the small scroll tucked discreetly into its wing and with a hesitant hand reached for it. The raven squawked before diving from his window, fading into the distance then…gone.
He unfurled the scroll, reading its contents and a flurry of dread had become of him.
"Lord Stark, Lady Arya awaits you." chortled Myles, pushing the solar door open. "She's been an impatient one, m'lord."
"Father, Sansa is still heaving her breakfast into the chamber pot. Laisa said she may not be able to—" Arya looked over her father's demeanor and lowered her Needle. "Father, is everything all right?"
Ned was not unfamiliar with the spoils of war, to step over and to add to the bodies that laid dead at his feet. Ned had the disposition of a soldier; one made of many rules to live and die by. Thusly, a hardened man as himself could not flinch at the sight of Ser Hugh, choking on his own blood by means of the Mountain's broken lance still lodged in his throat.
His daughters were not spared. Sansa's face, once full of color, flushed to a pale and sickly shade of grey; her hand tightened into a shaking fist of his wool tunic. A bead of blood hit her cheek, rolling down her chin as though she wept a single, red tear. Aside her, Arya's attention was solely focused on the body of the young man, her eyes sparked with a blend of vigor and unease. She could not tear her eyes away. Laisa…she clung to Arya, as though she had meant to shield her.
Ned could do nothing to protect them to something his girls knew nothing of.
His absence from his tourney had since been noted, having tended to his daughters well beings. Sansa's septa had spoken to her on his behalf; Laisa suggested he speak to Arya as she would be of no use to her, and it would have been comforting for it to come from himself.
Ned feigned his interests long enough in Robert's charades, throwing gold he did not have around for all to take if they so much as smelled of war. To indulge and live vicariously through the young men wielding their lances and handsome armor in the melee.
To smell the blood, he said.
Arya had since taken up space in his solar soon after the loss of Ser Hugh, sending Jory with her sisters in the events the Mountain may lay claim to another poor man's life.
She curled up into the seat across his desk, peering into the strewn raven's scroll, discarded at the head of his desk. "What's that?"
He answered shortly, palming the note and discarded it in a nearby drawer. "Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, love."
Ned swallowed the thick lump that rest uneasy in his throat. It was a message meant only for his eyes, to feign ignorance to protect his family, what little he could do, he would stomach the pain of it for as long as he could.
Arya displayed her disinterest and pushed herself from her seat, pacing carefully, one step quieter than the last. She took her lessons with Syrio seriously, though it made him nothing but proud. He relived his days on the field of battle whilst watching his daughter swing that practice sword with tenacity. Even as far as recalling the sound of steel against steel, the metalwork singing and the unsavory sound that soon followed after that.
"Syrio must be expecting you."
"Yes, he is," She answered, carefully practicing her footwork, "But I asked for a day to myself."
Ned chuckled. "And might I ask why."
"To protect you."
Yes, he was reminded of the potential threats against his life that she had brought to his attentions and watched as assigned his household guard to protect them. He thought she took the termwolves are not welcomed in the southfar too seriously; however, he was predisposed. A threat, one that came in the form of whispers of an honorable man such as himself was a cause for concern, and the many who saw him as such would have no quarrels with conspiring to murder another Hand.
No,Ned thought,Jon wasn't murdered.
He spoke of his second father and of his passing, so determined to believe it was more than a sickness that killed him had him gazing upon Arya, sharply.
The seed is strong.Of his children, it was Laisa and Arya that were gifted with strong Stark traits: dark haired and grey of eye, pale complected, long faced; unruly, and touched with the 'wolf blood'. As for his other children, they took after their mother in appearance but no matter the auburn of their hair of the Tully blue of their eyes, they were Starks of Winterfell. Children of the North.
"…Sansa and Laisa seem to have forgiven each other after their squabble. They've been spending far too much time together, she used to come to my dancing lessons, every morning, but now that they made their amends, Sansa has taken her all for herself."
Arya continued to bicker, "It's not fair! Laisa didn't care for that stupid prince in the first place, Sansa had no right to be as angry as she was!"
"Sansa must have not understood his intentions." He tried to reason, however reasoning with his daughters made to be an impossible task as of late.
Arya rolled her eyes, following the jagged lines of the stones underfoot with her arms outstretched to hold her balance, "Laisa is our sister, our elder. She should not be speaking ill of her for a dance. Who knows, the stupid prince may be a lecher just as his father is and treat her all the same. Thinks because he has golden hair and he's a prince means he's valiant. He's all she talks about with her maids, with Laisa, she hadn't spoken a word of him to me."
She snorted, loudly. "Perchance, she knows I will jump from the tallest window in the Red Keep if she speaks of him as highly as she does."
Then, she became quiet. She slowly turned her shoulder, her big gray eyes downturned with a nervous foot toeing the stones below.
"Bran..." Arya mumbled suddenly "Now that he's awake, will he come live with us?"
At first, Ned was hopeful that Bran could come join them once he was well enough to travel. To learn he may never walk again, having to be heaved from one place to another…in truth the capital would not be kind to him. He thought of the dangers of what may come of him should he be left unattended. Or perhaps, what he may feel watching his sisters scour the keep as they so pleased, unable to do it himself. No longer running nor climbing; riding or hunting.
The raven's scroll carefully informed him of the recent attempted on his son's life.
As well as Cat's impulsive decision to ride South in search of answers.
"He needs to gather his strength first."
Ned scribed few words regarding the debts the crown swam in, one of many qualms while still addressing the vast concerns on Robert's behalf. The troubles that poisoned the furthest pit of his mind had much to do with the book he set aside. Where did he expect the investigation of Jon Arryn's death to lead to?
"Father, are you listening?"
A pool of black ink soaked into the parchment due to his neglect, staring at the quill that unknowingly fell from his hand. Ned met Arya's large eyes, a visible pinch between her brows. He sharply exhaled the tension in his shoulders, and shook his head, "Forgive me, what is it you were saying."
Her mouth opened but the door to his solar was thrown open before she had a moment to speak.
"My lord, her grace the queen."
Ned's weary eyes lifted to the door, watching her grace flitter through his solar with a lion-headed guard at her behest. He rose still, bowing his shoulders and motioned towards Arya to do the same.
"My queen." His young one could not hide the disdain in her little voice, struggling to curtsey and keep her Needle pointed to the ground.
"My queen," Ned echoed, "What do I owe the honor of your presence."
Her grace delicately stepped forward, seeking out Arya's chin as her spindly fingers took hold of his daughter and tilted her head high. The smile the queen wore sent a right chill down his spine, one he cast at her then at himself with a hint of teeth. With that same finger, she swiped some crusted blood from Arya's cheek and cleaned it on her own gown. A dull shade of brownish red against the gold of the fabric.
"I have come to apologize for the brutality at yesterday's melee," Cersei spoke quite softly, as if her former intention was to be kind. "It must have been a dreadful sight, that poor young man a victim to my husband's loyal dog."
Arya steeled her gaze, in attempt to pass herself as brave. Ned could see her little fists, balled up at her sides and shaking. "It was not dreadful."
To that, Cersei simply smiled and brushed a thumb over Arya's cheek. "A brave little girl you are, that must be a trait you received from your father. Isn't that so, Lord Stark?"
There was a tension or a right stiffness that seeped into the muscles of his back and shoulders. Ned was unable to ignore the bitter silence that prompted the assumption that she knew.
she can't know.Ned attempted to satiate his thoughts, swallowing the hard lump in his throat.
It was sudden. Queen Cersei had flicked her wrist, sending her guard far from their words and raised a golden brow to his daughter, wordlessly demanding the same. Ned came to Arya's side and gripped her shoulder sternly before giving her a gentle push towards the door, too.
"Myles, see to it she is back at the tourney grounds with Sansa and Laisa," Ned's order was swift, meeting Myles' dark eyes, "I will join the festivities shortly."
"Yes, m'lord." He bowed his head, pressing the flat of his hand to Arya's back to guide her swiftly from the solar despite her chittering about what was to happen if either of them were to leave.
Once the heavy door had shut, a moment of silence stilled the air through the solar. They stared about one another, almost frozen in either's gaze, tempting a shift or an exhausted sigh to crack the silence. The wolf and the lion stood at a draw, once more.
Ned expected tooth and claw to be borne.
"I thought we might put what befell us on the Kingsroad behind us." Cersei proposed, her smile beginning to wane. "The confrontation between I and your daughter, the ugliness with the wolves, surely this dispute would not go over well…considering our latest affair."
Ned should not have gone as rigid as he allowed, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one heel to another.
"Has your daughter been matched before, Lord Stark?"
Many have tried.He thought, carefully adhering his next words to ensure their conversation went without issue. "No. She has had potential matches in the past, all have been denied. A fault of my own, your grace, a selfishness all fathers experience."
Cersei invited herself into the empty seat before him, gesturing to his own. "I fear the day my daughter is to be pursued and shipped off, a day that is slowly approaching. I could not imagine having to do such a thing three times over. Losing one daughter is painful, now another one of yours is being wed off. Tell me, my lord, is she as excited over this arrangement as Sansa is?"
Her smile unnerved him. "So eager, that one."
Ned pressed his lips into a hard line—the queen had meant for those words to come across as a threat. He rounded his desk intending to discard the ruined parchment scrap, thankful that the ink had soaked across his ineligible message.
"Laisa has yet to be informed, your grace." A lie, one that should not have come so easy to him but a feasible one at best. Recalling their conversation regarding the matters at hand, Ned could feel the constriction of a lion's claws grasping tautly around his daughters. Another one of Robert's ploy's…one of the few he was grateful for.
"I'm certain she will be overcome with joy at the news."
…
He's angry with me. She thought, wistfully.He won't even look at me.
Sansa aimlessly followed through the tourney grounds with Lady at her feet, arm in arm with Laisa though she hardly noticed her limb falling slack. What brewed her thoughts was the prince's sudden coldness. Was it her behavior at the feast or, perhaps, it was her childishness? Lady accompanied her on most mornings, she was hardly a disturbance whence she and the prince had passed one another in the halls, yet he shrunk away from her. Did he fear her sweet pet, would he want her to rid of Lady if she bothered him so? Did he blame her for the attack at the riverbank?
I proved myself loyal to him and only him.Sansa thought.
Then, the thoughtless accusation wormed its way into her mind.Was it Laisa?The faulty proposal between herself and Joffrey was voided by the king, admitted it was a farce, an inept match, or so Laisa had described.
Arya was right, though it was quite unlike her. Their elder sister prided herself by means of honor and loyalty pledged to her family and Sansa faulted herself for being so foolish.
Her nose scrunched.
"Is it true, what father says." Sansa questioned, a small attempt to distract herself of the glorious sights and scents, carrying forth through the myriads of tents at their leisure, "About—"
Laisa's look was soft, bereaved, "Aye, it be true."
Sansa beamed, squeezing her arm tightly, "Are you not happy, sister, to be wed? Perhaps it is quite longer than father anticipated—"
"If father's word was last, you would not be betrothed until you were my age, too." Laisa sighed, a hint of cherished laughter in her voice, "Tell me, little sister, what pleases you of marrying a man—boy—to whom you do not know."
does she wish for my counsel?She thought, her lips turning upward in a smile. "The tales, the poetry, even the songs speak of a true love, of honorable men and valiant kings. To be queen…it is the only thing I've ever wanted."
"Is it now."
"What doyouwant, Laisa." Sansa asked, allowing Lady to have a foot more from her lead, "You mustwantsomething,anything."
Her shoulder shrugged, "I care not for what I want, sweetling, I care for what I need. A lord husband is a want whether the men who rule their kingdoms want to admit it or no."
Sansa almost missed it, the smile that graced her sister's face. It glimmered like freshly oiled steel, was as beautiful as their winters and could draw many a curious person. It was her happiest and Sansa knew it well.
"Home," Laisa answered lightly, "Winterfell, its grey halls, and perpetuating winter—"
"And Jory," She murmured, "I hardly understand why. He's father's captain, Ser Rodrick's nephew; of a minor house that holds no titles nor advancement."
A slip of the tongue had nearly cost her own. Sansa knew better; her recent attitudes have not been becoming…their septa would be displeased.
It was common knowledge amongst the souls of Winterfell to know of her sister and Jory—what septa namely described a match not worth the thought. Jory was not unkind; he had a sweetness to him, one of few honorable men she knew of by name and by action. Though his wry smiles and allure was not the kind of beauty Ser Alyn held, he was...Jory. A son of House Cassel; nephew to Ser Rodrick, and above all, one of father's most trusted men.
During his turn at the joust, challenged by Ser Horas Redwyne; Ser Rowlan Frey, his victories won him more than his opponent's horse, armor and surpassing to the next rounds.
She had seen the way Laisa smiled for him, offered her cheers and adoration from the benches. And her favor: a silver direwolf ring, discreetly knotted into the laces of his tunic. One could only see such a thing from afar, glinting in the sunlight at his wrist.
Sansa lowered her chin, biting her lip, "Forgive me, that was uncouth."
"A man of the north, loyal and honorable. No need for fat purses or these useless royalties the southern lords strut about." There was a notable glint in Laisa's eye, and a smile that became a grin. "Who better to withstand a storm that is named Stark."
A storm she says.Sansa thought,as though such a thing can be tamed.
They continued their walk through the grounds, a handful of colorful tents pitched on the outskirts of the Red Keep. Many banners snapped in the summer breeze; glinting steel and armor of silver and gold, though but a distance she could still hear the banter of the crowd. To be reminded of how silent each man, woman, and child became whence Ser Hugh lied in the dirt…the only sound one could hear for yards, perhaps miles were a knight, choking on his own blood. She closed her eyes many a time, praying to the Mother to relieve her of such sights. The further they walked, the quieter it became.
Her wandering eyes came upon the tent that housed the body of Ser Hugh. Cream colored and dull, to not draw an attraction, she assumed. The billowing of smoke from incense and the rattling of chains of the Silent Sisters poured from the parted curtains. Laisa remained where she stood, aimlessly staring into the pitched tent, as though she were hoping to see the knight of the Vale arise from the table, to return to the joust.
"Sansa?"
Ser Barristan stood vigil. The smell of aging blood mixed with the smokiness of spices, of melted copper and pine. Her hand mindlessly tightened about the lead and Laisa's hand, quivering in the sight of the elder Kingsguard, solemn smiling.
The texts never touched upon the deaths of knights. However, Sansa confidently believed that all knights died with honor, amidst battle and defending the innocent.
Not here. Not at the hand of a killer, not one with the likeness of Ser Gregor.
"Come…" Laisa murmured, taking hold of her shoulders to turn her back towards the jousting arena, "Let us enjoy the knights in handsome armor and all their valor."
Like the songs and stories…
Sansa showed little resistance, her eyes lowered to the grass underfoot as she was led by Laisa's affectionate touch. She dragged her feet, putting much distance between herself and the joust, for hearing the wild cries and the whinnying of horses; the whispers of bets being placed and rousing knights unseating their opponents. Where the dirt remained red and stained and thusly covered by the kick of a squire's boot.
She climbed the short step to the stalls that held the audience, wedging herself between Septa Mordane and Laisa. Lady nestled warmly between her knees.
"My lady," Mordane greeted, "Have either of you seen Arya?"
"At her dancing lessons, perhaps, she is still locked in father's solar." Sansa retorted, then suddenly yelped at the light pinch on her ear.
"Sansa, mind yourself."
Her mouth fell open in attempt to snap at Laisa's action until the bellowing of King Robert came about; raving and ranting, waving his drinking horn about in a stupor. Sansa witnessed this act and looked upon Queen Cersei with saddened eyes following her departure. To the farthest right sat Joffrey, her prince, her beloved. He seemed lost in thought, having a sort of handsomeness in the midmorning light.
Joffrey's eyes fell upon her, steadily; her smile for him was small and sweet. And short-lived, too.
"Mind him not, sweetling," Laisa assured as brushed a stray tear falling down her cheek, "He will come to his senses."
"Will father do the same."
Laisa chuckled, "Not as long as he is alive."
Sansa faced the jousting opponents, recognizing the black courser and its rider; a significant feature was the helm worked into the image of a snarling hound. His opponent strode gallantly aside, saddled atop a groomed white stallion. Though, his armor was not white-and-gold, instead black-and-crimson, and embellished with the heads of lions.
The white stallion urged forward towards the starting lines of the post markers, his helm being removed and placed onto the pommel of the saddle.
Ser Jaime Lannister. Lean and gold and fierce…a lion amongst men.Sansa thought.
"A hundred gold dragons on the Hound!"
Another gambler announced, "Two hundred on the Lion of Lannister!"
"Hundred and fifty to Ser Jaime!"
The purse grew as amounts flew across the aisles, the shouting of an excited crowd, and the scribbling of a quill to pad scratching loudly just behind.
Sansa fumbled with the ornamental flowers sewn to her neckline, anxiously awaiting what came shortly after their lances met. Lances snapped like twigs, a draw was called, ending the first tilt. The sea of people grew restless, shouting their demands and larger sums to one opponent or the other.
"Had no one asked for your favor?"
Laisa grimaced, "I have not found a of champion worthy or suitable of my favor."
"Is your betrothed not worthy of your favor, my lady?" From the row behind, Lord Baelish took a moment from his bidding and collecting.
His wormy smile, his closeness made Sansa shrink closer to her septa. Whether the man knew it or no, Lord Baelish frightened her. Be it his accurate retelling of awful tale of the Mountain and the Hound; his vast interest in businesses akin to inns with women as guests or workers; or perhaps the relationship he and their mother shared, once so very long ago.
Sansa shied away from their conversation, paying closer attention to the joust, in its second tilt. The riders charged one another, lances pointed and aiming for more than their shields. The collision resulted in a second tilt, second draw, and a second broken lance from Ser Sandor.
Once more, the gambling ensued and the number of dragons they threw so willingly into the pockets started to lessen. They seemed to have lost hope, or perhaps they bet on the wrong champion.
"I take it your father would not want another incident to occur, your dear aunt Lyanna was crowned, at a tourney, too, my lady."
To be crowned queen of love and beauty.Sansa thought blithely.
A roar of appraisal erupted the tourney grounds. In a moment, Ser Sandor Clegane was unseated, and Ser Jaime victoriously wove his broken lance in the air for all to admire.
Sansa watched as he kicked his stallion forth, still amusing the wildness of the audience. He then exchanged his broken lance for his earned purse…and a laurel of winter roses.
…
The march to the Eyrie would be treacherous,Catelyn thought, reaffirming her grip on the reigns of her soot-colored mare.It is a journey worth the risk.
Bran had awoken in the time of her travels. Dark words carried by a raven's wing, the sound mind of her little boy and the uselessness of his legs.One day, he will understand.she retold, time and time again in her moments of impugn. Her drastic actions were driven by a course of motherly love, seeking justice for the act done on the order of a Lannister.
The Gods only knew what the true cause of Bran's fall was. Tyrion Lannister, abhorrent and diminutive, was closer than she had been with a Valyrian dagger and a nameless, spineless, and throatless corpse who dared set foot into her home.
Perhaps, it was a blessing; a fortnight worth of prayers answered. The imp had waltzed into a crowded inn at the crossroads, seeking stay where there was none even for the man of his size. It, perhaps, was a plan too thoughtfully devised, to be amongst bannermen loyal to her father and to seek their strength where it was needed.
"M'lady, we've some hundred miles 'fore we enter the Neck. Maybe less." Ser Rodrick informed in a weary drawl, ensuring their prisoner remained unaware to their travels.
Catelyn urged the dark mare forward some yards, coming within a stones' distance of the rocky terrain of the Mountains of the Moon, and what awaited them between the passage of the bloody gate, and no further.
"We rest here." she announced, seeking no sight of approval.
Knights of House Whent saw to Tyrion Lannister's arrest; Frey and Bracken men stood side-by-side, guarding their temporary encampment. Catelyn remained atop her mare, looking into the mountains with little hope they would part at her command. She must have alerted many with her silence, her longing engrossed into the scenery to which lied between herself and her sister.
Time and soil were not the only thing that parted them.
Amid Jon Arryn's death, Catelyn was privy to her sister's silent departure with Robert. Whispers of Lysa's mind had grown feeble, delicate. She wondered how her little sister fared. Words spoken, shortly and through a raven scroll meant to accuse a noble House of killing her Lord Arryn. Catelyn was determined to believe Lysa was sound of mind, and these accusations were nothing but inflated words of mouth. A woman in mourning, said to be driven mad by the loss of her husband.
"You're troubled, m'lady."
Catelyn pursed her lips. "I'm in a state of dread…I feel it in my deep bones, Ser. The capital has consumed my husband, my daughters, too. During our stay I could not work the courage or risk our findings reaching the city watch. Bran…he much be…" Tears pricked her eyes; a slight tremble reached her lips. "I prayed to the gods, seven times, to all seven faces for his stay and my prayers were answered, gruesomely so."
Thick, grey clouds swirled overhead, and a slight breeze gust against her cloak, disheveling her hood. It was the scent of winter, as the seasons began to yield. A delicate reminder of what awaited her northward. Her sons, sweet and wild things; her daughters, perhaps as reckless as her sons if not more, and her Sansa...her sweetling who reveled in her tales and poetry. A lady, born to please and to curtsey with pride. Her Laisa and Arya, pricking themselves with sewing needles and practicing their archery in the dead of night.
Her husband, ruling from his ancestral seat and safe within the stone walls of Winterfell.
A child's fancy,she thought.Safety no longer exists.
A family divided, a family nearing ruin. Catelyn reached for the Valyrian dagger from Ser Rodrik, unsheathing and examining its blade; she admired its handsomeness in comparison to what it left behind. A cold, red bite scarred into the palms of her hands.
"This was no work of the gods, my lady." said Ser Rodrik, "Justice will prevail, and the shit imp will answer for his crimes." A sure reminder of his assurance, his confidence unwavering and perhaps growing bolder with every second passed as they traveled closer to the Eyrie.
Motherly love can blind every bit as much as rage, and she was ravenous for vengeance. There was no room for instances regarding the imp's culpability. It was Tyrion Lannister who ordered an assassination attempt on her son, her sweet boy, of ten and sleeping in his chambers. Her proof was the blade, a prize belonging to none other.
She found her reflection within the steel; a fury had sparked in the blue of her eye. A trait of the Stark's she may have not inherited through blood but adapted, having born wolves herself. A touch of the wolf's blood made her more she-wolf than trout. Her tears had soon dried, and her strength revived.
"He will," Catelyn replied with a profound amount of certainty, sliding the blade back into its sheath with a satisfactory click. "And the seven hells await his arrival, should he be so lucky."
phew. just a few more. thanks for everyone still sticking around, I appreciate ya'll :')