Chapter Text
Chapter 1
He took hold of Ice with both hands and said the words that needed to be said.
“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.”
The blow was clean. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, always tried to ensure that it was when he had to perform the duty. His eyes looked over at the corpse and then to his children. Robb, Sansa, and Bran watched. Robb had seen the King’s Justice done before, but it was the first for Sansa and Bran. It had still surprised him that Sansa had said it was rather silly for Bran to go, but not her.
There is more than a bit of Lyanna in her.
Bran’s eyes were a bit wide, but he did not react otherwise. Sansa had no reaction at all. Sometimes he was not sure what to make of his clever daughter. Maester Luwin was driven to distraction by her constant queries and at such a young age. Ned knew that he spoiled her in how much he had spent on books from the Citadel and Essos for her, but she loved them quite a great deal. Dresses and jewels did not excite her one bit, though his lady wife insisted she be properly attired.
Jon, the boy who he raised as his own, and Robb had ridden ahead racing each other, while the rest of the party returned at a statelier pace. Bran was speaking with Sansa as he rode up on them.
“Are you well, Bran, Sansa?”
Sansa merely nodded, while Bran answered, “Yes, Father.” The lad paused for a moment. “Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.”
“What do you think?”
“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”
“That is the only time a man can be brave,” Ned told him.
Sansa cleared her throat and Ned laid a wary eye on her.
“While correct in the specific, we should consider that when folk speak of bravery they cannot know the internal workings of another’s mind. We say someone is brave when they do things that appear to be brave. In that sense, it matters not if a man does something due to being fearful or having no fear at all, if most people would view it as an act of bravery that colloquially we would call him brave.”
Ned just shook his head and moved on with the actual lesson he had for Bran.
“Do you understand why I did it?”
“He was a wilding,” his son replied. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”
Ned had to smile at that. “Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night’s Watch. The question, however, was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.”
“Tradition,” Sansa answered. “We Starks have long held the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”
He nodded. “If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. One must not take pleasure in the task, but neither can you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”
Jon appeared on the crest of the hill before them.
“Father, Bran, Sansa, come quickly, see what Robb has found!”
Jory, the captain of his household guard, rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?”
“Judging by the excited tone of voice, I would wager not,” Sansa replied and patted Bran on his back.
They set their horses to a trot and found what had been discovered. A direwolf dead and pups that may or may not have been birthed before she died. An antler had been stuck inside the direwolf, just under the jaw.
An ill omen.
The pups were still alive, and as Ned considered the situation an argument sprang up as Robb and Bran wished to keep them alive while Theon, Hullen, and Harwin wished to give them a quick and clean death. Jon broke the impasse by directly speaking to him.
“Lord Stark,” Jon said. “There are five pups. Three male, two female.”
“What of it, Jon?” Ned replied.
“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups my lord.”
He sets himself to the side to make the count right.
“I do not know about all that,” Sansa said before Ned could speak. “If you want to have mine, you may, Jon.”
Jon shook his head. “No, Sansa. There are five and five trueborn children. And of the right kind. What are the odds of that?”
“If we assume five pups with equal odds that each can be male or female, it is about a third of all possibilities. Five sixteenths to be precise,” Sansa replied. “Granted, there was the possibility of more or less pups but I do not know the average litter of a direwolf.”
Ned tilted his head, distracted by how that had been calculated, and then focused on what actually mattered.
“You want no pup for yourself, Jon? Sansa does not appear to mind.”
“The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”
Sansa sighed while Robb and Bran promised to nurse the beasts. He was not one to always believe in signs and portents like some did, but it felt right to keep them. After admonishing his children that it would be up to them to take care of the beasts, not the kennelmaster, he had Jory and Desmond gather them up.
“You seem less enthused than your brothers,” he remarked to his daughter.
“It will be an added responsibility, but I see the sense in it. If they can be trained it will be a morale-boosting symbol of our house. Additionally, it gives us something to care and be responsible over. If we do well, we might be trusted with other tasks. If we do poorly, you can correct us and create a lesson to improve our future endeavors.”
Ned could only ruefully shake his head at the way his daughter viewed things. She was not wrong, and yet, these were the thoughts and words that he would expect from someone much older.
Perhaps it is all the books she reads. She has become half-maester!
Jon ended up finding another offspring of the deceased direwolf.
“An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”
There were times when Theon tried Ned’s patience. He had taught the Greyjoy the ways of the Starks and the North, but he wondered how much had truly sunk in.
“I think not, Greyjoy,” Jon said. “This one belongs to me.”
***
It appears I was now the owner of a direwolf. In the North, well, probably all of Westeros, symbolism was important. It would be a poor reflection on me if my own wolf died while my siblings managed to take care of their own. What I had told my father was true, as an exercise in demonstration of personal-responsibility, caring and training for the pup would be good.
I’ll need to think of a name.
It was eerie that the number of direwolves so fit Ned Stark’s children, but did that mean some sort of supernatural shenanigans were going on, or were we, like humans tended to do, seeing patterns that were not there. If there were five wolves, Jon’s earlier comments would fit just as well as six would. If there were three, one could make the case it was one for each trueborn son of Lord Stark. If it were four, then it would be each son of Lord Stark.
I did wish there were some supernatural elements in the world, because that could be a sign that my pursuit of being able to once again fly was not a complete dead-end. Magically, I could not sense my internal circuits. I could not accomplish the magic of my second life as an Imperial Mage.
This was now the second time I had been reincarnated, with my memories intact. I was shocked because I had expected Being X to either consign me to oblivion, show up to taunt me, put me in some sort of eternal torment, or if he reincarnated me, put me in an incredibly awful existence. Westeros was awful in many respects, especially if one was part of the smallfolk, but that was not the case for me. I was a highborn, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, rule of one of the Seven Kingdoms that made Westeros. Well, more like nine distinct regions, but the name had stuck.
Sure, I lacked modern conveniences, but I had all my basic needs met and servants to wait on me. I was in a comparative lap of luxury, even if I missed so many things from my first and second life. I also had parents that genuinely cared for me in a way that seemed a mite strange for a world such as this. It seemed on the surface like England in the middle ages, but in truth, that really wasn’t the case for many reasons. Most likely Being X was just being sloppy and lazy, which was fitting for such a slovenly and incompetent charlatan.
For one, the seasons were quite wrong. Bafflingly so. Summers and winters could last years, sometimes for over a decade. The fauna looked quite similar to that of my first two lives, but clearly there was something else going on with it; otherwise, it could not possibly have survived in regions that it did. I had no astronomically sound explanation for why the seasons acted the way they did, and that was deeply troubling. Nature, like everything else, ought to work rationally.
When I came to my senses at around the age of three, I quickly tried to make sense of my surroundings. I probably confused my parents a great deal with my abrupt change so suddenly, but if there were any lingering concerns they had about my development, they were not noticed by me. Learning to read at an early age soon had me devouring every book in the library of Winterfell. Winterfell was my home and a castle built on dimensions that beggar’s belief had I not seen it with my own eyes.
The outer wall was eighty feet high, and the inner wall a hundred feet. There was a three-acre godswood inside the walls, and there was even a greenhouse, though they called it a glass garden here in Westeros. Winterfell also had the advantage of being partially built over hot springs, which made growing things during the long winters plausible. Though the amount grown would not be sufficient to actually feed everyone, it would prevent some needed nutritional variety, and of course, every little bit helps when true winter arrives.
All houses had noble words, and the Starks, being the most powerful house of the North, had fitting ones.
Winter is coming.
My mother, from House Tully, had said to me that the Starks were quite different in how they chose their words. Her own house’s words were Family, Duty, Honor. Others, like the Baratheons, the current ruling kings, were Ours is the Fury. One thing that did disturb me about the current sense of national stability was that the current king was the first of his dynasty. The Baratheon dynasty was only about sixteen years old. Technically, he was also a scion of the prior dynasty, which he overthrew through his grandmother, but that connection was distant enough – and, given the king’s view on the Mad King, he likely would not appreciate his rule being seen as a continuation.
Of course, all this was secondhand from my father, as I had never met King Robert Baratheon. Without seeing any sign of Being X, I can only assume he was going to throw me into some fresh horrific war soon. And yet, without any sort of magical ability, and being a girl in a time where raw brute strength mattered more than nearly anything else, I felt quite unprepared.
I did exercise regularly. I also practiced with a small knife I kept secure on my person, but that was more for personal defense. A swift draw and slash to the throat, eyes, or inner thigh depending on the situation would be the plan. My greatest defense in a situation where I was attacked would be surprise. As a trained, heavily armored warrior would not expect a girl of eleven to stab them in the eye without hesitation. If they knew I had the blade or that I was proficient with it, yeah, I’d almost certainly be toast.
Which is why I keep that a secret even from my family.
The odds of being accosted were slim. Guards were everywhere in Winterfell and I rarely left it. The Starks were well liked as my father took pains to get to know his staff. Eddard Stark was a dutiful and serious man who was responsible in his charge as Lord of House Stark and the Warden of the North. All the houses of the North were in vassalage to him. From the far northern reaches near the Wall, such as House Umber, to the Mormonts of Bear Island, they paid homage to him.
Aside from just the wolves, things may soon be changing. Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, effectively the king’s right hand who did much of the governing, had died. No new Hand had been announced and Father had said that King Robert was coming to Winterfell. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he most certainly was going to offer my father the role.
I wasn’t sure if I even wanted my father to take the role. I quite liked the quiet life I had in Winterfell. I would soon face the prospect of marriage and up until this potential change, I had assumed I would likely marry a lord of the North, since my own father had already married someone from the south. Perhaps it would be Harrion Karstark, heir to Karhold. Or maybe Daryn Hornwood, heir to the Hornwood. One of the amusing things about this world is that at times Houses named their fortresses after their family name.
The medicinal knowledge of this world was quite primitive compared to the modern era. It was more advanced compared to the middle ages of my first two lives, but still a far cry from what I was comfortable with. Childbirth made me queasy but I could see no good way to avoid it without outright fraud such as taking substances to ensure I didn’t get with child.
No, I’d long resigned myself to doing that duty. I had once said in my second life that I would lap up muddy water if it meant survival, and I meant it. As a highborn lady, I would at least have a maester who understood the basics of medical care to help ease the birthing process.
This change in potential direction for my family’s fortunes changed quite a few things. If my father intended to go south, then we would be taking a large role in the management of the kingdom. In order to secure our presence and maintain alliances, I would almost certainly be used. In that case I might well marry into greater houses. Renly Baratheon, Willas Tyrell, the very young Robert Arryn, or Quentyn Martell would all be potential matches of similar station.
My mother and I did not always see eye to eye, but I pestered her and Maester Luwin to understand the wider world beyond what my lessons gave me. Renly was the king’s younger brother and quite courtly. Being married to the master of the Stormlands had pros and cons. They were fierce fighters but had a reputation for being battle maniacs as opposed to learned men. Renly was the Master of Laws on King Robert’s small council, so perhaps he was an exception.
Willas Tyrell had a pronounced limp due to a jousting accident, but was heir to Highgarden, and his family ruled the Reach. The breadbasket of Westeros was second only in wealth to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Young Robert Arryn was my cousin, but cousin marriage was fairly common in Westeros. There was taboo, that had long been ignored by the previous dynasty, of sibling marriage but no such concern for sharing a set of grandparents. Him being young was in some ways preferable since it delayed my own motherly duties.
Quentyn Martell was a complete mystery to me as my mother’s knowledge was thin about the southernmost region of Westeros. The Martells were on the opposite side of Robert’s Rebellion against the Targaryen dynasty, so that could both raise or lower the odds depending on their temperament now nearly two decades past.
While all this was purely hypothetical, it was something I couldn’t help but think about. Whom I married would have profound implications for my future life and eventual retirement. When I had asked Father if he intended to accept the position, he had replied that Robert had made no such offer yet.
“And if he does?”
“My place is in Winterfell.”
Which surprised me, but Mother gave him a look that had promised a talk later with him. Rejecting the king’s offer could be bad, especially if the next winter that occurred was harsh. According to the histories the Citadel kept, the winters after a long summer tended to be longer than the norm. And this had been quite the long summer, nearing a decade in length!
If my father declined the king’s request, I would likely have a husband of the North, and though the winters would be cold, and with fewer luxuries than I’d like, it would probably be better. I feared what Being X would do to disturb me in this life. Almost certainly a conflict would rage, but the odds of it coming from savage wildlings even further north, was rather unlikely. The Wall guarded the north, an absurd construction, that was built on an even larger scale than Winterfell. Though even if it were not there, the wildlings did not have castle-forged steel or plate armor, meaning they were little threat beyond raiding.
No, if war descends it will be in the heart of Westeros, not up here. The choice will be beyond my doing, regardless. I just have to be patient and wait to try to influence my parents when an opportunity arises.
***
Jon Snow was four-and-ten and basically a man grown. At least in his own mind. Thoughts of the future had always harried him, for he knew he was a bastard. The one blemish on the honor of the greatest man he knew. Lord Eddard Stark had lain with a woman, a woman who Jon never knew, and raised him. The fact that he was a bastard was never forgotten, for he was not the heir of Winterfell. That was Robb.
Jon did not begrudge his brother. He was envious, but it was not Robb’s fault, and Robb was his brother in word and deed. They had played together, fought together, and were fast friends. The coldness never came from him, but his mother, the Lady Stark. Things had thawed, and he knew it was his siblings to whom he must credit it.
Sansa in particular. His sister had warred with his mother with a stubbornness that filled Jon’s heart with a warmth that had brought a tear to his eye. The talented eldest Stark daughter was oft a mystery to him, for she spoke in a way that made him feel the younger instead of the older. It was not arrogance, exactly, but a surety of her beliefs that was unshakable. As if the thought of her being wrong was as foolish as believing the sun would not rise on the morrow. When that had clashed with her mother’s desire to remind Jon of his place as a bastard, the entire castle went on edge as the girl of six would not be swayed despite the loss of her ability to read in her beloved library.
He had never been openly mistreated, but, after their clash, things had changed. Lady Stark was more cordial. Jon could still feel her cold gaze at times, but when he caught it, she would look away, instead of stare him down imperiously. She never spoke unkindly, and even occasionally complimented him when he achieved a feat of horsemanship or a lesson from Maester Luwin.
Jon had thanked Sansa, and she had simply said that they were family and should always stick together. She had gone on to say that it was understandable for her mother to be nervous about a bastard who looked so much like their father. In the past, bastards had tried to usurp a legitimate child’s heritage. Sansa had claimed that since she assessed Jon as a rational brother who would never do such a thing, there simply was no need for her to treat him with disdain.
Despite everything, he still felt out of place. What was to be his lot in life? To be Robb’s right hand, perhaps a captain of his guard, when Jory became too old to carry out his duties? Would he perhaps be granted some bit of land to raise his own family on? Whatever he ended up doing, he knew there was only so far he could truly rise in the world, and it gnawed at him in a fierce way. He had once confessed that to Sansa, and she had promised to find him a place within her own household and, depending on who she wed, she would even push her husband to try to find a match for him. Perhaps a daughter of a lower house. She had meant well, but against the prestige that Robb had, it seemed a paltry thing.
I hate feeling bitter about this. ‘Tis no one’s fault save my father and my mother, whoever she is. And my father has treated me better than most. By all rights, I should account myself blessed, and yet I dream of making a name for myself somehow. Perhaps a sellsword or brother of the Night’s Watch. Uncle Ben has risen high, though he had high birth to aid him, perhaps I could do the same?
Sansa would be disdainful of that choice, he knew. And the thought of not being by Robb or Sansa’s side hurt. He would especially miss Arya, his youngest sister. Sansa had championed him, and he would love her forever for it, but she was not fun, or as entertaining as little Arya. Sansa could explain and out-reason any, but Arya could make him laugh. Arya had her own grievances with her lot in life, the little minx wished to be a warrior, but the Starks were not Mormonts, and she was likely not to grow to the size of a Mormont woman to make such a thing practical.
The entire castle was making ready for the royal visit, and during the meal that evening his father broached a difficult subject at the high table.
“Robert is the king. He is, or at least was, not one to take stock overmuch in flattery and courtesies. His wife is a Lannister, and they are proud to a fault. Jon, you have always been welcomed at my table, and always will be, but I would not wish to offend the queen and make needless difficulty.”
Jon wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to make difficulties for anyone. Was his father asking him or ordering him? Sansa broke the silence.
“Father, it is the king who is coming to us,” Sansa said, poised as ever. “He is most like to ask you to be his Hand. If you present Jon as your natural-born son to him, what will he say? Will he grow offended if you greeted him with a bastard in your midst? Your stories paint a different picture of the man. The king will not wish to offend his friend when asking for you to become the Hand, so that is the time to establish early on that Jon is indeed a part of this family. If the king does not object, how can anyone else? But if you wait until a later time, the opportunity may be lost.”
Lady Stark frowned. “It is not the king I worry over. It is the Lannisters. They are prickly and have long memories.”
“We are of the North. We have strange customs, keep to the worship of queer Gods. A change in how we view bastards can be viewed as just another oddity.”
“How can you say they are strange?” Robb asked. “’Tis all you’ve ever known, sister.”
Sansa laughed lightly. “Strange according to them. Tell me true, Mother, did you find our customs quite different when you first arrived?”
Lady Stark shook her head in expression. “Yes, child, I did. More than Jon, I worry over you. You cannot argue with the likes of the king, queen, or her family.”
Sansa gave her mother a sweet smile. “I’ll be on my best behavior, and with Jon nearby, he can remind me or kick me under the table if my tongue grows too saucy.”
His father snorted lightly in amusement. “Sometimes I wonder who runs this household. We shall see. I will present Jon to the King upon his arrival with the rest of the family. If it goes to ill, needs must; I will ask Jon to be scarce just for the duration of the visit. As to Robert asking me to be the Hand, I intend to refuse him. My place is here in Winterfell.”
Jon wondered what the south was like. He also knew that time was coming for a decision soon. Did he want to live in Robb’s shadow all his life? Serve in Sansa’s household when she married, or did he want to make something of himself alone? It was a hard decision, but one he still had time to make.
***
Sansa and my wife were both correct. He has come to ask me to be his Hand.
Ned had taken the king down into the crypts so that he could pay his respects to Lyanna Stark, his one-time betrothed.
Promise me…
The words echoed in his mind so often. The king had been taken aback when Jon Snow had been presented to him right after Robb Stark. He had not said anything untoward or taken umbrage, but the shock had been there. Robert’s eldest son, Joffrey, had sneered at Jon, but nothing else had happened. Perhaps his bastardry would not be an issue of concern.
“Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King.”
He dropped to one knee. He had suspected it even before Sansa had made her prediction, but he had also hoped it would not come to pass, for it was the last thing in the world he wanted.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I am not worthy of the honor.”
Robert groaned and spoke of Hands and shit, and Ned did not laugh at his quip.
“Come south with me, and I’ll teach you how to laugh again,” the king promised. “You helped me win the damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses as Lyanna and I might once have done.”
This offer did surprise him. “Sansa is only eleven.”
“Old enough for a betrothal. The marriage can wait a few years,” the king smiled. “Now stand up and say yes, curse you.”
He stood up. “Your Grace, Sansa is somewhat unique. She has a head for sums, as graceful as a cat, and a dutiful daughter. Yet, I have doubts that she would do well in the south with her manner.”
“Oh?” Robert looked befuddled.
“She has a certainty of self that has never fit her age. It will take a very particular kind of man to sit next to a woman as assured as she is, and I worry that will cause offense.”
Robert laughed. “That’s perfect then. My boy, eh, well, let us say my Joff still has some growing yet to do. Come,” he clapped Ned on his shoulder, “give me your answer.”
“These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife…”
“Yes, yes, of course. Tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must. Just don’t keep me waiting too long. I’m not the most patient of men.”
Ned had no desire to leave, but he felt a sense of deep foreboding. He had spoken true to his friend; Sansa was anything but ordinary. Even at an early age, she would press forward her desires with implacable logic. When he and his lady wife put their foot down, she would acquiesce, yet the sense of being judged and found wanting by a child was most unnerving. It was better now that she was older and it was not such a stark distance to adulthood.
Princes tend to be arrogant, they tended to be demanding, and they could be quite proud. He would see how the two interacted, but he was much discomfited by how they might clash in the future.
***
I had trained my direwolf well. She responded to commands, and there seemed to be some sort of sixth sense between me and her. It was odd in a way that I could not quantify, but I greatly enjoyed having her by my side. I wonder if direwolves in Westeros had some unique property that gave off some sort of refined scent for the person they were most attached to, that created some sort of physical dependency, like a drug. I didn’t feel like I was high, but it was one of several guesses.
Nonetheless, our closeness appealed to me, and so I named her Visha. I sometimes wondered what happened to her after that fateful mission. It still irked me at how desperate I was to try to make it look like I wanted to save Rudersdorf’s life. My whole purpose there was to assassinate him, so why then did I try to block all those spells from Albion mages? I hoped my subordinate managed to survive, she was an apt pupil, and had guarded my back for all that time.
I do miss her. And Weiss, Tospan, and Meybert. They were some of the best soldiers in the Empire.
Ending my musings, I returned my attention to the feast. Visha was not at my side, given how close we were to the royal family. I felt bad for Jon, who was getting more than a few looks by others. He seemed to shrink down into himself, and it irritated me. He was a good brother and talented with the blade and horse.
As for our guests, I found them an eclectic bunch. The king was not as my father had described him, which was fair, as people changed over the course of nearly a decade. The king was fat, slovenly, and openly fondled some of the ladies around him under his wife’s gaze. My father kept his lord’s face composed, but I could tell he was deeply unhappy.
The queen, Cersei Lannister, was particularly beautiful. Cold and disdainful of my family’s hall, she seemed to endure the feast more than participate in it. The Kingsguard were an interesting bunch. Robb had tried to say that only two Kingsguard had come north because Jaime Lannister shouldn’t count, as he was the Kingslayer, which was foolish, of course. Even if someone was not right for the job, it didn’t mean they didn’t have it. She had briefly harangued Robb about it before he had thrown up his hands and agreed with her.
Joffrey was handsome, as far as things went. He minded his courtesies during the feast and did not make a fool of himself like his father. His earlier sneer at Jon when the families had been introduced was a mark against him, but he was also a boy, and judging by the behavior of his father, it was probably good he wasn’t even worse.
Myrcella and Tommen were both young, nervous, but polite. I could find no fault with them, though it was clear Tommen was bored and not good at hiding it. I would most likely have to spend some time with Myrcella tomorrow with Septa Mordane. I was not fond of her, and I feared she took it as a personal failing that I was not a devotee of the Seven, but I rarely caused her to stress. Arya, however, may well have some sort of attention deficit disorder. It was difficult to say, but I had taken her aside more than once and offered additional help with her needlework or in the musical arts.
She was stubborn and refused aid, but we seemed to get along well enough. It was natural to have some jealousy over an older sister, and I suspected that because my competency was high when it came to learning, it was all the more of a sore point. I had mastered poetry, the high harp, the bells, the ledger duties, the histories, memorized all the houses and their sigils, and other simple things.
When the feast began winding down, the king showed no signs of slowing his alcohol consumption.
He will not last another decade. He will drink himself to death, or die of a heart attack. As the first king of a new dynasty, it would be far better if he lived for another thirty years. How disappointing.
I had no idea how I could possibly fix that, and it wasn’t my place even to try. My father seemed set on not accepting the position of Hand to the King, so it would be out of sight and out of mind. I suspected war would come to the North at some point, but I hoped I would at least be an adult before it did. The fat drunken lech could hold on for another five years or so, hopefully.
It was a lot livelier than most feasts, but it had not brought me joy. Instead, I was more concerned than ever as to the future of the Seven Kingdoms and, more importantly, my own.
***
Catelyn Stark sat with her husband and Maester Luwin and could only stare in horror at the secret message her sister, Lysa Tully, wife of the now decease former Hand, Jon Arryn, hand sent her.
“Lysa say Jon Arryn was murdered. By the Lannisters. The queen.”
“Gods,” her husband whispered, “Your sister is sick with grief. She cannot know what she is saying.”
Only she knew all too well. She explained how the hidden message and use of a childhood cipher were employed. Those were not the actions of a raving madwoman, but of one who was being exceeding careful to send a timely warning.
Both she and Maester Luwin worked to convince Ned to do what needed to be done. He must take the position of Hand. He finally had relented.
“Others take you both of you,” he muttered darkly. “Catelyn, you shall stay here in Winterfell.”
No, she didn’t want that. She needed to be with her Ned.
“No.”
“Yes,” Ned said, in words that would brook no argument. “You must govern the north in my stead, while I run Robert’s errands. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Robb is fourteen. Soon enough he will be a man grown. He must learn to rule, and I will not be here for him. Make him part of your councils. He must be ready when his time comes.”
“What of the other children? What of this the match between Sansa and Joffrey?”
Ned wanted Robb and Rickon to stay with her while he took the rest. She could not bear the idea parted from Bran and she worried deeply for both her daughters.
“The king is very set on the match. Sansa must wed Joffrey, that is clear now, we must give them no grounds to suspect our devotion.”
You do know, this is Sansa you are speaking of?
Her daughter had been a trial in so many ways. Her attitude toward Jon was inexplicable. Her reasoning had been quite vivid, and the notion that from the tender age of seven she was warning her that a bastard shown coldness would most like become a self-fulfilling prediction had been quite shocking. She had said that the best way to disarm Jon as a threat to Robb was to ensure they were close and that Jon knew nothing but love from his family.
Catelyn had thought her naive, despite her disturbing intellect. She had refused to change the way she treated Jon. Like a mirror, Sansa had begun to do the same to her. It was disquieting, her eldest daughter gazing at her with a coldness that pierced her heart. Catelyn was the parent. She punished Sansa, forbade her from access to her library, forbade her from riding her pony, and forbade her many things. But nothing broke her.
Finally, it had been Catelyn who had broken, and in one teary afternoon she begged Sansa to come back to her. The girl had said she would, as long as she tolerated Jon and ceased making him feel unwelcome. Catelyn had agreed, and it was as if the prior months of cold disapproval had melted away.
I still do not know if it had all been an act, or if she truly did hate me for the sake of her half-brother. It is the one thing I have ever been dismayed about, my lord husband. Starks are not like regular men, and the shame of having his infidelity paraded before me still stings. But, as Sansa has spoken, it is not Jon’s fault, and it would be irrational to blame the boy for something his father had done.
“Should we tell Sansa?” Catelyn asked.
Maester Luwin shook his head. “That poses great risk. She is but a child, it would be unfair to place such a heavy burden on her, no matter how advanced she is.”
Ned paced. “I wonder. She could be an asset, mayhaps even learn things from Joffrey or the queen if she knows about the letter.”
Catelyn felt her heart skip a beat. The risk was too much. She shook her head.
“No, it was foolish to even suggest. She is a child, let her stay a child, at least of sorts, until she is older.”
Ned grimaced, but nodded. “For now.”
“What of Jon Snow, my lord?” Maester Luwin asked.
Catelyn felt that familiar tension that she tried so hard to hide for her daughter’s sake.
“He and Robb are close, I had hoped he would stay here.”
Catelyn did not object, though she wondered if perhaps she should. The words almost left her mouth, but she shook her head.
“If you would prefer him here, that is well with me, my lord,” she replied.
Ned smiled at her, gratefully. “Our course is set then. In a fortnight I will make ready to leave with Sansa, Arya, and Bran. Let us enjoy these last days of summer, for Winter is coming.”