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Rickard raced up the stairs of the Tower of Joy much faster than he would have thought his ageing legs would have allowed. He was so, so weary, but the promise of his stubborn, wilful, darling daughter waiting at the end kept him going. And so he pressed on, taking the small, steep steps two at a time while his hand clung to the rope at the inner wall to help keep his balance. He stumbled to a halt outside an open door and propelled himself inside. His breath came too fast and his heart seemed to pound in his chest. Still, he forced himself to stand tall and take in what lay before him. When he did, he thought he almost felt his heart give out. "Lyanna," he gasped, his long legs eating up the distance separating him from his sweet girl within in few quick strides. He sank to his knees at her bedside, gripping her hand. "Lyanna, sweetling."

She turned towards him, her movements slow and sluggish. Her face was pale as snow, the dark grey of her eyes glazed with fever and pain. Her wild, black curls clung to her clammy skin, and Rickard thought, with too much pain, of teaching all four of his children to swim in the hot springs in the Godswood at Winterfell years and years ago. Another lifetime entirely, it felt suddenly. "Papa," she croaked, voice breaking. She almost smiled, but she was too weak to pull the expression off entirely. "Papa, is that you? Is that really you?" She sounded so young and scared and defeated, so unlike the stubborn, strong girl, so full of life, whom he had always tried to nurture, even as he did the best he could to tame her, to make life easier for her. He had been wrong, been so, so wrong. Lyanna was of the North, had the wolfsblood. He never should have let her leave the North for a second.

He gripped her hand, felt the sticky wetness of it. He did not have to look down to see the blood. He remembered all this all too well, the bed of blood, the squalling babe, the utter, incomprehensible pain as his heart broke. He remembered Lyarra, dying even as she gave him their dear, little Benjen. He remembered Brandon, strong and glorious and so dangerously wild, remembered riding as hard and fast as he could towards King's Landing, to protect his heir. Remembered the unsigned note from the capital, telling him his son was already dead and to call his banners if he wanted to live. He remembered leaving Benjen in Winterfell, young and scared and confused and so wracked with guilt over letting his sister go. As if sweet little Benjen could have ever stopped her. "It is me, sweetling," he said. It took what restraint he had left to keep his voice even.

"You are not dream," Lyanna whispered. Her fingers tightened around his hand, but her grip was less strong than it had been when she had been a babe, her fingers slipping in the blood, scrambling rather than holding. He leaned in closer, gathered her up in his arms. She trembled in his hold, from weakness and pain and fever, and Rickard bit back a sob. He had been hardened by fighting and wars. He had been hardened by the death of his Lady Wife, whom he had loved since they were children, by Brandon's death, by everything that had happened. Even, he could admit, by Lyanna's own betrayal. Seeing her like this, however, made all the callouses fall away, and all he saw was the grinning little girl who had begged Old Nan for her scariest stories, who had snuck away to play at swords with Benjen, who had hugged him tight every day of her childhood, just because, the girl who had begged and pleaded and raged to stay home. He had denied her. He had caused all this, and by the Gods, he would carry that guilt with him for as long as he lived. And, it seemed, he still had enough of a heart left that it could break.

"No," he managed, leaning in and pressing his mouth to her clammy, hot forehead. "No, sweet girl, I am not a dream." He sucked in a breath, managed something resembling a smile. Something reassuring, he hoped, for all he knew he had been too late, for all he knew she was moments away from dying. "I am here. Right here."

She managed a distant smile at that, though it looked as much a grimace as he suspected his own did. Her eyes burnt with her pain, and the fever had sucked every last bit of colour from her skin, and Rickard wished this might be all as simple as holding her close and singing songs in the Old Tongue until her nightmares went away. He knew it was not. "I have missed you, Papa," she managed, voice so faint it hurt to hear. Her breath shook, seeming to become more laboured by the moment.

"I missed you too," Rickard said, and he could not remember the last time he had ever meant anything so sincerely. He had missed her even before she went missing, from the moment she went South for Brandon's wedding. He had missed her when she had left with her brothers for the Tourney at Harrenhal. He missed Ned and Ben as well, of course, and Brandon, so much it hurt. But Ben was safe in Winterfell and Ned, hopefully, had recovered enough that he was headed back to the Riverlands by now, to bring home his wife and son. They were safe. Lyanna was not. And even so, daughters were different from sons. Maester Walys had told him long ago to detach himself from Lyanna, to get her a septa even. One day she would be lost to him, far far away, wife to some man who probably did not deserve her, and he had better get himself used to it. He had never managed it. She had always been so real, so alive, so full of something he could not even name. Until now. "I want to be brave," Lyanna managed, and she was holding back sobs now; Rickard remembered the sound of it all too clearly from her childhood, and he wanted to clutch her to him and apologise, promise that she would never have to leave Winterfell, so long as she would only stay, stay with her fool father rather than leave him alone to face his own guilt.

"You are," Rickard said, carefully stroking her matted curls out of her long, beautiful face. And she was. She always had been. Wilful and stubborn and the cause of so many headaches, yes, but always brave. Even now, when his mind was struggling to catch up with what he thought his heart and soul already knew, he still knew that going through what she had made her no less brave than Lyarra had been, and he had admired Lyarra as much in death as he had in life.

"I am not," she managed, a few tears breaking loose from those beautiful eyes of hers, her mother's eyes. The tears forged glittering paths down her cheeks, still soft and apple-rounded with late childhood, and Gods, he was going to lose her. How could he lose her? Even if she was crying now, he would never think her anything but brave. He was not sure he could be, not with what was about to come, not even for his only daughter. "I do not want to die," she managed, voice trembling again, and Rickard had to look away. He no longer possessed the strength to face her, to remain her strong, unflappable father, not in the face of this.

"You are not going to die," he lied, and he still could not look at her, at the way her breath and her sobs both caught in her throat, too heavy for her fragile body. She was coated in her own blood. As was he, he supposed. For a moment, he remembered the bright, incredible joy he had felt at holding his only daughter in his arms when she had just been born. Her hair had been curling even then, and her eyes as grey as the dusk, and the love he had felt had been immediate and so natural. He had never meant to outlive any of his children, not Brandon, not Lyanna, and he did not know what he was going to do when this moment passed and he was left holding only ash. He forced himself to turn his head back towards her, to face her and take in those dark grey eyes of hers. They were so old now, far older than her years, full of aches and sorrows he would have protected her from if he could, if he had thought for a second this was what awaited her. She sobbed in his arms, and Rickard considered demanding a maester, demanding someone else take this burden from them, but he was no child and Lyanna was the very image of Lyarra as she had died exactly the same way, in his arms, four-and-ten years ago.

"Papa," she sobbed. "I am sorry. So sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have..." She broke off, eyes shutting for several long, painful moments, and Rickard could not even bring himself to breathe until she looked up at him again. "Papa," Lyanna said again, and then she reached for him with his free hand, spending whatever strength she had left in her to pull him down so his ear hovered over her lips. "His name is Aemon of the House Targaryen. He is Rhaegar's trueborn son. If Robert finds out, he will kill him. You know he will." She let out a sob. "You have to protect him, Papa." She collapsed back into her pillows, looking up at him with wide, exhausted, dark eyes. "Promise me, Papa," she managed. Her breath hitched, far too audible. "Promise me," she repeated. She let her eyes droop back shut on another sob, and for all that Rickard had half expected this, had feared it even before he found his way to the Tower of Joy, he was still stunned when the handmaiden pushed an infant into his arms.

The babe let out a brief little wail before looking up at him with eyes even darker than his mother's. Rickard's own eyes. His dark hair was mostly downy fuzz, but it already curled at the ends, and his face was long, and solemn, with every mark on their ancestors crying out at Rickard even after the babe fell silent.

"Papa, promise me," Lyanna managed, even as she breathed her last, rattling, painful sounding breaths. Rickard leaned close and kissed her brow, holding her in one arm and the babe in the other as she began to fade.

"I promise," he managed, his own voice shaking, and then she was no more. Rickard turned his attention back to his grandson. He was the very image of Brandon and Benjen, and himself before them. Paler of skin and darker of hair and eye than either Lyarra or either of their older sons. Still Stark to the bone. And Rickard's heart clenched with more than just sorrow for his dead daughter, for all this war had cost him. It clenched with the pure, instinctive love of blood calling to blood, as it had for each of his children, as he was sure it would for Robb once he met the boy. The babe blinked, and looked up at him, and suddenly his eyes looked a hundred years old, too weary and too full of knowledge, as though he knew he was born from a dead House, both his parents dead, both his siblings dead, the very symbol of a war that had brought Westeros to its knees. Rickard choked on his sob, and he was not sure if it was for the babe, or for Lyanna, or Brandon, or everything else that had gone so wrong. He cradled the babe to him with both arms, tucked in his swaddling clothes with careful fingers and kissed his downy hair. "Your name is not going to work, sweetling," he muttered. "Not if we mean to keep you alive. From this day forwards, you are Jonnel Stark, my son, and you will never want for anything." As his tears dried on his face and his only daughter grew cold beside him, Rickard grasped onto some semblance of hope when his grandson - his son - fell into an easy sleep, safe in his arms.

It was hours before Rickard managed to tear himself away from his daughter, hours before he truly admitted that she was lost to him forever. In truth, it was only when the babe - Jonnel, his son - woke back up and began screeching in that way Rickard recalled all too well from when his own babes - his first four babes - had been hungry, that he was forced back into the reality of the situation. "You," he called out to the nearest handmaiden. "Is either one of you a wet nurse?"

"No, milord," one of them finally said after they had spent an aggravating amount of time looking back and forth between each other. "My sister is, though. She is in the employ of Starfall."

Rickard gritted his teeth and looked down at the babe, who was clearly hungry, and Rickard knew enough to know how quickly babes could die from hunger. Right now, he did not even care to examine why Starfall, which had no highborn babes that he knew of, would need to employ a wet nurse. "Bring me Ser Arthur Dayne," he instructed, praying to the Gods this all would go well. He knew his reputation as an honourable Lord of Winterfell who would abide neither childslaying nor kinslaying was the only reason the Kingsguard knights had let himself and Rodrik Cassel into the Tower. He could only hope the knight would answer the summons now. In the meantime, he pushed to his feet, knees aching from how long he had spent on the floor, and he slowly circled the room, gently bouncing the babe in his arms until Jonnel's cries died down into soft, miserable whimpers.

"My Lord," a deep voice interrupted him, and Rickard paused his pacing for barely a moment to glance at the white knight. "You called," Ser Arthur added, sounding strangely uncertain.

"My son needs a wet nurse," Rickard spat. "Is everyone here an utter idiot?"

Ser Arthur blinked, and glanced down at the babe in Rickard's arms. "My Lord," he said slowly. "That is not..."

"The babe is my son, Ser Arthur," Rickard said. "During the War, I met a wench and fell into bed with her. I have been widowed so long, after all. When I found out she was with child, my honour bid me wed her. I did, and she birthed me a son. Sadly, she died doing so. The fourth son of Rickard Stark will survive with all his House protecting him. He will have everything I and my name can afford him." He paused, swallowed. "Daeron Targaryen would die the moment King Robert learnt of his existence."

Ser Arthur's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. "That is the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen," he said. "He was the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms from the moment he first drew breath."

Rickard sighed and glanced down at the babe, so Stark in appearance. Yet Aerys Targaryen, Jonnel's other grandfather, had burnt Brandon, Rickard's heir, alive, had called for the heads of both Rickard and Eddard. He had held his own gooddaughter and grandchildren hostage for Dorne's cooperation, and thus doomed them. He had, if reports were right, raped his sister-wife, the gentle Rhaella, for almost as long as they had been wed. He had burnt people other than Brandon alive, simply because he enjoyed watching them burn. Viserys Targaryen was said to be a weak boy with a fallible, fragile mind as well, though it had not yet gone so far as to leave him with father's afflictions and twisted heart. Rhaegar, however much he had seemed like the perfect prince, had been known to obsess over prophesy. And madder, Rickard could not help but think, than anyone ever wanted to believe. What kind of sane man would run away with a maiden of five-and-ten namedays, promised to another man - his cousin, at that - and then hide away and care not a whit about the war he had started until long after it would have been possible to stop it, all while his wife and children were locked up by his insane father? Rickard loved Jonnel with all his heart, with an immediacy he had never felt for anyone other than his children, but he knew that Targaryen blood ran through the babe's veins, alongside Lyanna's own wolfsblood. He knew the risks of that. "He may be just as mad as the last King of Westeros," he said. "If that is the case, he belongs with family who will love him and care for him, but never indulge him."

Arthur Dayne looked at him for long moments. Then he swallowed. "Perhaps you should be speaking to Lord Commander Hightower," he said at last.

Rickard cocked an eyebrow. "I believe I should," he said. "I had no intention of discussing my son's future with you. I only wanted you to get a wet nurse for the babe, given that the nearest holding we might trust is Starfall. Did you or your brothers have any solution until then?"

Ser Arthur grimaced and nodded. "We have a goat," he said. "I will ask Ser Gerold to bring it up. Hopefully the handmaidens will know what to do. I will go to Starfall for a wet nurse immediately." He paused a moment, looked nearly pained. Then, "I will say it is for Lord Stark's youngest trueborn son, and that the Starks will reward my brother's people with friendship, regardless of the follies of my sister and your older sons."

Rickard winced. He was going to have to figure out some way to sort out that mess at some point. Until then, all he could do was nod. "Please," he said. "And Ser Arthur, I know your family is blood of the First Men, even if you worship the Seven these days. Do you or your brother know of anyone who might discretely handle..." He felt himself stumble on the words, felt suddenly sick of it all. Lyanna, Gods, his sweet, stubborn, darling girl, what was he supposed to do, Gods, what-- He pulled himself out of it with a sharp, stuttering breath. "Handle the body of a newly deceased in a proper way befitting her heritage, without spreading her secrets throughout the whole of Westeros?" he finally managed.

Ser Arthur nodded. "I might know someone," he said. "It will take at least two days to get to Starfall, and perhaps longer to return," he added.

Rickard gave a sharp nod. "I understand," he said. "I will work with Ser Gerald and make sure nothing touches us here. We might meet you on the road," he added, letting his voice harden at the thought that anyone might dare attempt to hurt this tiny, fragile babe of his. "And if you find word of any wench of Dorne who was recently in a rebel camp and died, please spread the rumour," Rickard added. "I do not care how low my name is brought. I have two sons left to me whose mother has an impeccable reputation. An old man can be excused for his follies. But I will not have Jonnel seen as anything other than trueborn, even if his mother will be known as lowborn. At this point, I can afford that much."

Ser Arthur nodded, though he still looked conflicted about the whole thing. Still, finding a wet nurse must be something they could find common cause in. Even if the babe took to goat's milk, it would only sustain him for so long. Given the dedication Ser Arthur had for Rhaegar Targaryen, hopefully finding a wet nurse for his only remaining son was something that would spur him on. Against Rickard's shoulder, Jonnel let out a small, exhausted, anguished wail, and Rickard picked back up his pacing, bouncing the child as he had all the four that had come before him, stroking his soft hair and tiny back, keeping the babe as safe as he could within the strength of his own arms and hands.

Ser Gerold Hightower entered a few moments later, and with him the second handmaiden, who Rickard had not even noticed leaving. She held a skin of goat's milk in her hands, the skin topped by an artfully crafted nipple that would make it easy for the babe to latch on. Rickard snatched it from her hands immediately and held it to the babe's mouth, watched as he latched on and began suckling. Despite himself, despite the strength he had somehow managed to retain, Rickard felt himself deflate in relief. He watched, near enchanted, as the babe ate, reminded all over again of Benjen and Lyanna, even Brandon and Ned, though they had looked less like this, less like himself and more like their dear departed mother. "I suppose I should be grateful he is still alive," Ser Gerold said.

Rickard did not even bother flashing him a glare. "I told you," he said. "I am no kinslayer. I would never in a million years lay a hand on my grandson." He paused a moment, glanced up at the White Bull. "What father, after all, would lay a hand on his own trueborn son?" he finally asked.

Ser Gerold seemed to grit his teeth for a moment before his countenance softened at the sight of Jonnel solemnly suckling out the goat's milk. Solemnly, he seemed to do everything that way. It reminded Rickard of Ned. He could only hope that was the true resemblance, another Stark link, rather than a resemblance to Rhaegar Targaryen, who had been known to be as solemn and prone to melancholy as he was intense and obsessive. "That is the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms you hold," Ser Gerold informed Rickard.

Rickard snorted. "Is that what you think?" he asked. "All the Kingdoms are sick and tired of war," he said. "Everyone, smallfolk and lord, has lost someone or something dear in this Rebellion. The Reach has bent the knee. Dorne withdrew. The loyalist forces have been broken. Even Barristan the Bold bent the knee." Rickard let out a long sigh. "This is not how I would have seen things turn out. Aerys had to die; he killed my fool son with wildfire, called for mine and Eddard and Benjen's heads, and called it justice that he wanted to wipe out an entire House Paramount. Rhaegar... Even you must have known that however goodhearted he was, he could have never been king. Aegon, with good regents, might have been raised to be a better king than his predecessor, but Tywin Lannister took that away from us." He paused, sucked in a sharp breath. "Robert Baratheon sits the throne. For now. For now, he is the best choice. I will raise my son, and I will protect him with everything that I have in me. But even if I had the armies, I would not seat an infant on the Iron Throne before I knew his honour and his soundness of mind, not when the man currently there is a strong warrior and ally, even if he will be a mediocre king." He paused, glanced down at his babe once more. "For now, the most important thing is to keep Jonnel safe. And for that, he must be secret."

Ser Hightower looked at him for a long time, eyes sharp and measuring. Then he gave a nod. "My niece, Leyla, was reported dead less than a moon's turn past," he said at last. "She was wed to Jon Cupps, a hedge knight. It was the disgrace of my family. He died a few years past in a jousting accident. She has been alone ever since. Apparently, she sought the learning of the maesters, enough to be of help on the battlefield. She vanished a year past, and no one knows of her circumstances save my family. She was killed trying to patch up some brute while some other brute tried to kill the first one. No one knows whose side she tried to heal or what all she was trying to do." He paused, shrugged his shoulders. "It might do her memory good if a Great House claimed her as a wife and mother of their son. Surely no one could gainsay them. I believe my brother might even be grateful. And I am led to believe she was large enough that she might have hid a pregnancy towards the end."

Rickard drew in a breath. His war against his own honour was a brief one. He might be more rigid than Brandon, but he was nowhere near as unbending as Ned's time in the Vale had made him. 'As High as Honour', pah. Letting this child be highborn was worth anything and everything. He had loved Lyanna that much and more; her child would never be seen as some stain, and a Hightower with a dubious history was still a Hightower. "I hope you can have the Citadel make up the papers," he said. "And if they have the ones for my daughter and her husband, please have them sent to me. We may need them before the end."

Ser Gerold gave a deep nod of his head. Then he looked up at Rickard with cunning eyes. "Given the fact that the King and the whole line I was meant to serve has died out, and that I am the younger brother to a man with more children than anyone would care to count, would it be too much to ask that I follow my dear niece's Stark babe North and beg your employ, Lord Stark?"

Rickard bit back his grimace by some strength of character he had never known he possessed, then sighed and shook his head. "I am sorry, but I must decline, Ser Gerold," he said. "Your presence might become suspicious, and throw suspicion upon myself and my House in turn. I refuse to take that risk." And he refused to take the risk of Hightower filling his son with Southron nonsense. "I would ask that your sworn brothers and yourself either bend the knee to King Robert or go East and make your own fortunes. At least for now."

The look in Ser Gerold's eyes was almost ferocious. Yet, he nodded. "Of course, Lord Stark," he managed through gritted teeth.

Rickard nodded back before he returned his eyes to his youngest son, who had finally finished eating. Rickard could not help but smile down at the babe, whatever his tiny body's blood might hide. Carefully, he brought the babe to his shoulder, and paced and patted that tiny back until Jonnel let out a burp and a load of barely digested milk that made Rickard's tunic and armour something he could probably never wear again and still command the respect of his men. To be entirely truthful, he did not much care. He shed the armour and tunic to the too-warm Dornish night and held his babe close to his chest. Jonnel of House Stark would be safe, however strong or fragile his mind turned out to be. Mayhap Rickard's Southron ambitions, his wish to safeguard the North against whatever threat it was he could feel nagging at his bones, would one day carry more fruit than he had ever imagined, or it might come to nothing more than Ned's marriage to the Riverlands and his friendship with Robert Baratheon. Either way, House Stark was far, far stronger than it had even aspired to be when Rickard first took the helm, even diminished as it might look for now. And either way, this babe was his and he would love him and protect him as such until his last day. Whatever the cost.

He waited for the Kingsguard to leave, and for Jonnel to fall asleep. Then he hardened himself to what had to be done. He did not use Ice; the stairs and corridors of the Tower were too narrow for a greatsword. His dirk did the job just as well, and Rodrik Cassel was loyal enough to not ask questions when Rickard bade him help bury the two handmaids. He did not feel regret. He disliked having had to do it, disliked the idea that he might have just caused other fathers as much pain as he felt. But he would keep that boy safe whatever it took, and that meant only the most trusted people could know the truth of his birth. For a moment, Rickard wondered if he had made a mistake in letting the Kingsguard knights live, but he doubted he could have killed them if he tried. He had to trust that their oaths would keep Jonnel safe.

The next morning, he packed up whatever could be moved, and wrapped Lyanna's body in linen. Then he took the babe, the goat, Rodrik and the horses and set out, determined he would meet Ser Arthur on the road. He would have to have Lyanna sent after them, as much as he hated leaving her out of his sight before he could put her to rest. But for Jonnel's sake, the further they were away from the Tower of Joy once anyone saw him, the better, and taking Lyanna with them would cause people to ask questions he could not afford for them to answer.

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Viserys was a warm, comforting weight against Rhaella's side, blessedly asleep. Rhaella tugged him closer, careful not to wake him. She wished she might sleep as well, but fear thrummed through her body, made her limbs feel weak and shaky. Her free arm, she wrapped around her pregnant belly, as though by doing so, she might keep the babe she carried safe. She might have laughed, if she did not feel so cold. Nothing could keep the babe safe, nor her or Viserys. She was under no illusions that the Dragonstone garrison would remain loyal if they had truly lost the war, as rumour would have it.

Ser Willem stood guard at the door. His shoulders had been squared and his sword drawn since they had heard the first shout about an approaching ship.

Rhaella tried to straighten her back, tried to fend off the fear. A single ship would do them no harm. A single ship would not be able to make the garrison surrender. She had to believe that much, at least. But lately, all she had been able to feel was fear, fear for Viserys and the babe in her belly, for Elia and Rhaella's sweet grandbabes back in the Red Keep. She could not bear to lose them as she had--

She cut that thought away before it could come to its conclusion. It did not bear thinking about. And still, even without thinking the words, she felt a sob rise in her throat. The pain was no less potent, no less unbearable, for being months old now. Rhaegar, Gods-- She squeezed her eyes shut and dropped a kiss to the top of Viserys' pale head, clutched at her belly where she had felt the first stirrings of movement barely a sennight ago. Her breath caught on the lump in her throat and her eyes stung behind her closed lids. Fear, and sorrow, was that all that was left to them now?

Someone banged a fist against the door, and Rhaella jumped, a gasp escaping her lips. Pressed against her side, Viserys blinked himself sleepily awake, raising one small fist to rub at his eyes.

"Who is there?" Ser Willem demanded, voice gruff and implacable. He would die for them, she knew. In the end, it might make no difference, but it still made a heavy, painful mixture of fondness and gratitude and guilt rise through her.

"Marlon, Milord," came the answer, and Rhaella let out a relieved breath when she recognised the footman's voice. "The ship has landed. Whoever they are, they are waving the Targaryen banner."

Rhaella let her shoulders slump in relief. It might still be a trick, of course, but she dared, just barely, to hope it was not.

"Thank you, Marlon," Ser Willem replied. He did not sheathe his sword, Rhaella noticed. Nor did he relax his stance even a bit. "Go see if you can find out who it is and report back here immediately."

"Yes, M'lord," came the answer, and then Rhaella heard the scampering of a set of feet running away.

"Mama," Viserys said, picking up on enough of the mood that his sweet, high voice remained soft. He was so good at that, her boy, at sensing the mood and figuring out when he should make himself scarce and when he could afford to draw attention. For all that he was Aerys' favourite, and sometimes disconcertingly like the brother she had known all those years ago, he had not escaped his father's attentions as well as Rhaella would have wished. "What is happening?" he asked, looking up at her with those wide, trusting eyes of his. Tenderness squeezed Rhaella's chest in a vice, and it was all she could do not to clutch him to her desperately. He, at least, still remained to her.

"I do not know, Sweetling," she said, carefully pushing his hair out of his face. She wanted to tell him he need not be afraid, but she would not lie to him. And she would rather have him be on guard, at least a little. That way, just maybe, he could run and find some nook or cranny to hide in. Hopefully whoever found him was, if not loyal, someone who did not stoop to killing children.

He gave a small, serious nod, and even as he settled against her, his watchful eyes remained on the door. His body trembled ever so slightly against hers. He was frightened, she knew. Had been ever since they learnt of Rhaegar's fate and were spirited out of King's Landing. He had nightmares, and it broke Rhaella's heart to know her little boy was in as much pain as she was.

Rhaella did not know how much time passed, how long she simply sat there and stroked her son's hair, doing her very best to keep them both calm. At long last, she heard the sound of a pair of running feet again. This time, Marlon, seeming to have forgotten every last thing he knew about etiquette and proper behaviour, threw the door open and skidded to a halt just short of barrelling into Ser Willem. He was panting, but his eyes were bright. "M'lord," he gasped. "Your Grace. They say it is the Kingsguard. The Lord Commander, and the Sword of the Morning, and that- that." He stopped short, blinked. "The mean one," he said at last.

Rhaella's breath came out on a sob as relief swept through her. Dear Gods above, that was better news than she had dared hope. "And companions?" she asked. "Do they have anyone with them? A woman? Babes?"

Marlon's face fell, and he shook his head. "No, Your Grace," he said. "I am sorry." He must have heard the rumours. They all had. But Rhaella did not believe them. Not yet. She could not, did not think she could bear it if it were true. Ser Gerold would know. He must. And oh, but it would be good to see them again. Ser Willem was a good man, and he had been a great warrior once, fighting with her father in the War of the Nine-Penny Kings. But he was an old man now, half-blind. She would be forever grateful for his loyalty, but oh, to feel safe again, just a little. If nothing else, the Kingsguard knights might give her that.

And then the door opened once more and Rhaella could have cried like a babe at the sight of the stern, familiar face of Ser Gerold Hightower. He walked inside with long, strong strides, followed by Sers Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent, and Rhaella felt as though a boulder had been lifted from her chest, as though she could breathe freely again for the first time in several turns of the moon. Sers Arthur and Oswell took up posts by the door while Lord Commander Hightower stepped closer and bent his head in respect. "Your Grace," he greeted. He repeated the movement for Viserys. "My Prince."

'My Prince.' That meant Aegon was alive. It must, or Viserys would have been 'Your Grace' as well. But if Aegon truly did live, where was he? Why were they not with him? "Ser Gerold," she managed, and years of practice let her hold her voice steady despite the hope and fear and pain creating a turmoil within her. "It gladdens my heart to see you well." She paused a moment, tried to calm her pounding heart. "Please, I would know what has been happening. All we have had here has been rumours. Terrible ones."

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I am afraid they are likely true, Your Grace," he said. "Tywin Lannister sacked King's Landing with his Westerlands army. Ser Jaime," and that name he all but spat, "slew His Grace, King Aerys. Elia and the babes were--" He stopped himself, glanced at Viserys. "Lost in the fighting," he finished, and Rhaella dreaded to imagine what he might have said if her son had not been there to hear it.

"Then Viserys..." She trailed off, swallowed, glanced down at her darling boy. Even as horrified grief welled up inside her at the thought of Elia and the babes, a new fear took root in her heart. She loved Viserys, with everything she was. But she was not blind to his faults. He was so very like Aerys at that age. Sweet and clever most of the time, but prone to fiery, insensible fits of temper. A crown was a terrible weight for a troubled soul, and the Iron Throne had turned stronger men than her son mad. She dreaded thinking on what fighting for it with all odds against him might do to little Viserys, how long it would take him to lose his sweetness and gentleness, like Aerys had before him.

Ser Gerold shook his head. "No, Your Grace," he said. "Rhaegar's second son still lives."

Rhaella opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it back shut as everything swept over her, through her, swept her off her feet all over again. Gods, the babes. Her darling grandbabes were... She could not complete the thought, feared she would lose her mind if she tried. She sucked in small, sharp breaths, squeezed her eyes shut against the burn within them. For a moment, she felt that all hope was lost, felt the way the ground seemed to have been ripped out from underneath her feet. She forced her breaths back under control, sucked air in through her nose and mouth both, until she could think again. Then she forced herself to replay Ser Gerold's words within the privacy of her own mind. "Second son?" she asked. Elia could have no more children; the maesters had been clear about that. And Rhaella would have known if she had been expecting either way. "The Lady Lyanna?" she heard herself ask, suddenly as if from far away. Her stomach seemed to sink towards the floor; the last thing they needed in the midst of all this was a bastard to deal with. Rhaegar would have had some plan in place to have the babe legitimised, she surmised. But that did not help them now. That only--

"The Princess Lyanna," Ser Gerold corrected. "They wed on the Isle of Faces, beneath the weirwood trees. Arthur and Oswell stood witness. We have one copy of the documents with us; Lord Stark is in possession of the other." A wry, joyless smile stretched his face. "No rule was ever put in place to prevent a Targaryen from having two wives, Your Grace."

Rhaella sucked in a sharp breath, and for a moment she could not seem to figure out how to let it back out. Thoughts stuttered through her mind, fighting their way through a maze of emotion and coming out distorted and incomprehensible. Rhaenys, her soul cried. Aegon. The dear darling babes. And Gods, it hurt, threatened to cave in her chest and break her mind into pieces. But still there, in the back of it all, behind all that tragedy, were Ser Gerold's other piece of news. Rhaegar's second son still lives. "Where is he?" she managed at last. "Where is my grandbabe? How dare you come before me without him?"

Another man might have looked chagrined, but Ser Gerold had spent so long serving under Aerys that he remained perfectly stoic in the face of her meagre temper. "King Aemon is with his grandfather," he said after a long while. "Safe. Safer than any of us, Your Grace."

Aemon. Somehow the name was the first thing to hit her, and despite herself, she went through and catalogued every bit of family history relating to that name. Aemon, son of Jaehaerys, Prince of Dragonstone upon the death of his brother, Aegon, had been a brave warrior. He died ridding Tarth of pirates, and never ascended the throne. Aemond, brother of Aegon the Second, had died in the Dance of the Dragons, fighting for the losing side, but fighting cunningly, valiantly and loyally. Aemon the Dragonknight, brother of Aegon the Fourth, had died protecting his brother, forever the most shining example of a true Kingsguard, loyal to his brother in spite of a life full of strife and rivalry. Aemon, brother of Aegon the Fifth, her own Lord Grandfather, had taken the Black to protect his brother's claim to the throne, and had served the realm with his wisdom every day since.

Aemon was the name of the lesser brother, younger or not. It was a name no Targaryen king had carried. But to Rhaella's recollection, everyone who had borne the name had been strong and clever and, above all, loyal. It was not a king's name, not truly. It was a name suited for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, or the Hand of the King, even. If was the name of sons never meant to rule. It frightened her, that her sole surviving grandbabe should carry that name.

She forced herself to suck in another breath. Perhaps the time of the Aegons in her family was done. The greatest king in the history of Westeros had been an Aegon, but ever since, perhaps excluding her dear grandfather, the Aemons of her line had tended to be better men, stronger of mind or body or both. They had been the defenders of the family. Perhaps, in these bleak times, with the line broken, however much that thought pained her, it was time for an Aemon, a defender, to be King. And however ill the omens that name carried, little Aemon was all they had now, truly. He would shield her Viserys from wearing a crown, he would be the one in whose name they would all fight. The past of a name, she could not help but think, could not decide its future. Not this time.

"He should be here," she heard herself say. "With his family." Her arms ached for him, she realised. Her eyes ached to look upon him, to see this dear grandbabe of hers, this hope of her whole line. It was a near physical pain, this need to hold him, love him, know him. Gods, she had never known something like it before. "Why did you not bring him? How could you leave him behind?"

Ser Gerold did not answer, and for a moment, Rhaella thought he would not, thought perhaps they would be caught in this impasse forever. Then Gerold's spine straightened. "Your Grace," he said. "Lord Stark can keep him safe. Far safer than we can. Wherever we go, we will always have spies on our tail. If we do something that can be perceived as threatening, assassins will be sent. Every last person who keeps our company will be known to the Iron Throne. How long before the Usurper finds out about Aemon, if we were to take him with us? How long until he focuses all his efforts on the King, thinking he can make us lose hope by killing yet another one of our babes?" He paused a moment, and Rhaella could not help but note his choice of words. 'Us'. 'Ours'. He had been part of the Kingsguard for as long as she could remember, had been Lord Commander since Rhaegar's birth. Somehow, remembering that calmed her down.

Chills went down her spine at the knowledge that in Aemon's stead, she and her children would be the ones hunted by assassins and spies. But they would be regardless, would they not? If no one knew about Aemon, he would be safe. Still, she could not shake off her longing, that ache of hers to hold him in her own arms, to look upon his face, to love him and raise him to be the greatest king of her line, the way she would have raised Rhaegar, had she had the freedom to do so. She gritted her teeth, steeled her own spine. "You are certain he is safe?" he asked.

"He has the Stark look," Ser Gerold said. "Lord Stark and I made arrangements. For all the world to know, Aemon Targaryen is a trueborn Stark, son of Rickard Stark and my great niece. He will be raised within Westeros, have the education of the son of a Lord Paramount. And we have already seen how far the wolves will go to protect their own." Ser Gerold paused, and Rhaella saw the apple of his throat bob as he swallowed. "I truly believe this is the best course, for all of us. If everyone is in the same place, it becomes too easy for the Usurper. This way, even if he gets to us, Aemon will still be alive and under the protection of the Warden of the North."

Rhaella forced herself to nod, forced herself to ignore the aching emptiness of her arms. The Stark look, Ser Gerold said. Within her mind's eye, she imagined a babe with a head full of dark curls, a tiny, chubby face dominated by wide, grey eyes. She imagined all that, and her darling Rhaegar's fine features hidden within a long face. A Northern child, but prettier than any Northern child that had come before. She squeezed her eyes shut for long moments to hold back her tears. Loss and longing tore at her, threatened to wear her down, make her old before her time.

That must have been why it took them so long to get here, Rhaella surmised. Business in Oldtown, concealing some evidence, carefully introducing something different. She would have to light a candle at the Crone's altar when she got a chance, thank Her for giving Rhaella's King Grandfather the foresight to admit a Hightower to the Kingsguard. She gave one more nod, tightened her arm around Viserys, who seemed, just barely, to be following the conversation. She leaned in and kissed his pale, silken hair.

"Still," Ser Gerold said. "Even if our deaths might serve a purpose, I believe our lives will serve a bigger one. We must leave, Your Grace, before the Usurper builds enough of a fleet to pursue us here."

Rhaella rested her free hand against the swell of her belly, felt around until she could just barely make out the shape of a tiny shoulder through her own skin. "I cannot go anywhere," she said. "It is not safe to travel. Not when I am--"

Ser Oswell turned around from where he had been stationed by the door, eyes narrowed as they met hers. "The maester here is so old and feeble he cannot tell a cat from a hat anymore," he said. "He will be of no help to you. I would say it is less of a risk to cross the Narrow Sea for a proper healer than to stay here. Your Grace." With a roll of his eyes, he turned back to his post.

Ser Gerold glared at Ser Oswell's back before turning to Rhaella. He let out a sigh. "While Ser Oswell could do to learn more tact," he said, sounding like a weary father for a strange, surreal moment. "He is right. We need to leave, Your Grace, before it is too late."

Rhaella clenched her jaw shut for a moment, and her eyes too. Gods, how could they-- "What about the smallfolk?" she asked. "I cannot leave them for the Baratheons to cut down."

Ser Gerold looked almost broken then. "The war is over, Your Grace. At this point, I doubt your cousins would want to cause more bloodshed, except when it comes to you and your children." He let out a long, deep breath. "We can take them with us," he said at last. "Those who want to leave Dragonstone. You have a whole fleet here, Your Grace."

Rhaella blinked, wondered for a moment why she had not seen it that way before. She need not stay to shield the smallfolk; she needed to give the smallfolk who wished to remain in her service a way off this barren, dear rock. "Spread that message, Ser," she said, before she turned to Ser Willem. "Gather up the valuables and the contents of the treasury," she ordered. "Have it put in the cargo hold of the Kingsguards' ship. We leave at dawn."

Perhaps she only saw what she wished to, but she was almost certain she spied a relieved smile on Willem Darry's careworn face. "Yes, Your Grace," he said.

Within what felt like moments, the room was suddenly empty, but for herself and Viserys. She turned to the boy, cupped his face within her hands, and despite her sorrows, she found it within herself to smile. After all, they did still have hope. "Did you hear what they said, Sweetling?" she asked.

Viserys looked upon her with eyes much too intelligent for his five namedays. "Rhaenys is gone," he told her, voice all too solemn for his years. "Just like Rhaegar." He did not mention Aegon. Then again, Aegon had never really been more than a tiny, life-like doll to him. "There is a new King," he said then. "Not Aegon; Aemon."

Rhaella nodded, did her best to make sure her whole being imparted the importance of all this to her darling boy. "Aemon," she repeated. "Rhaegar's son, and our king." She stroked her thumbs over his cheekbones. "He must be secret to be safe, but we may never forget about him. Do you hear me, Sweetling?"

Viserys nodded his head empathically.

"You are the Prince of Dragonstone, my Sweet," she told him. "Do you know what that means?"

He looked at her for long moments, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Then he shook his head.

"It means you are the most important person to the King," Rhaella told him. "It means that if he cannot take the crown himself, you must take it in his name and give it to him. It means you will always have to think of him and of the realm before you make a decision. You must keep him safe, and keep him clever, my boy." She leaned in, pressed her lips to his forehead. "We will not meet your King Nephew for years, Sweetling, no matter how much we may wish to. But he is the King, and we live to serve him. He is the future of our House. And you, my boy, you will be his defender, and his fist, and his voice of reason. From this day till the day you die. Like you would have been for Rhaegar. Love him like Rhaegar, and help him like you would have Rhaegar. Can you promise me that, my sweet boy?"

Viserys looked at her for long moments, his small brown furrowed as he struggled to understand her words. At long last, he nodded. "I promise, Mama," he said, flashing her a wide grin. "Do you think he will like me?"

"Sweetling," she said softly. "You will be his most important advisor. He will not always like you, but he will always love you, and that is the most we can ask of our King."

A grin lit up his whole face. "We will burn them all," he said, and even through the frightening chills racing up and down her spine at the words, Rhaella could not help but to feel a certain sense of pride in her precious, little boy who, thank the Gods, would never have to bear the weight of a crown. Gods be willing, little Aemon would be better suited for the burden.

"Fire and blood," she told her son. "That is true. But before any of that, we need to be clever, Sweetling. And you can be clever; I know you can. I will help you, Darling. And you will help Aemon."

A small, genuine smile spread across her son's face, more real than anything she had seen from him for several turns of the moon. "I promise," he said.

Somehow, despite her slain son and her doubtless slaughtered grandbabes, despite the fear and rage and despair, she found it within herself to return his smile. "Me too," she told him.

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Benjen did not think he had ever felt more relieved in his life than when Ned rode through the gates of Winterfell, wounded but alive, with a pretty wife and babe in tow. He was a Stark of Winterfell again, no longer the Stark in Winterfell. No longer did he have to keep attempting to hide how bad his own judgement was because the whole of the North was relying on him, no longer would he have to be faced with the kinds of decisions that made him want to cry. His shoulders slumped, and he felt suddenly like an old, old man, many times his five-and-ten namedays. Ned was home, and soon Father would be too, and Benjen would be allowed to join the Night's Watch. Not for honour and glory, as he had once dreamt, or even for duty. It was for penance, and of that, he owed more than anyone alive. He pushed those thoughts away, forced a smile onto his face for his brother's sake, and walked towards him.

They stopped, almost as one, with a few paces between them, him and Ned, neither of them, Benjen thought, entirely certain what to do with the other. They were brothers, neither of them could doubt that, but Benjen remembered Ned in bits and pieces, and Ned, most likely, still saw the little boy Benjen had been when Ned left for the Eyrie, a decade ago now. They were blood, but they had never known one another, and suddenly the leagues upon leagues between the Eyrie and Winterfell felt like a physical barrier between them, nearly impossible to overcome. It made Benjen's chest feel tight, made his eyes burn. Ned was the one sibling that remained to him. The one he knew least, perhaps, but still his brother, and Gods, he needed-- He did not even know what.

Ned was the one to finally close the space between them in a few long strides. Then he wrapped his arms around Benjen like he had when he first left for the Eyrie all those years ago. One hand on his nape and the other encompassing half his back, and it was all Benjen could do to bite back his sobs, of sorrow and relief and guilt and regret and so many other things, and Gods, he felt like a babe of five all over again. Ned clutched him almost tightly enough to bruise, and Benjen clung to him, digging his face into Ned's shoulder, never mind that he was too tall for it now, almost of a height with Ned, or that they were out in the middle of the courtyard where anyone might see. He had needed this so much, had needed to not be alone, to not be the one in charge of everything. Ned might not know everything he had done, what he had caused. He probably would not hold him like this if he did, but for right now, Benjen forced himself to believe it did not matter.

"Little brother," Ned was whispering. "You did so well. You held Winterfell. I saw the smallfolk in Wintertown; they were thriving, no signs of the war at all. You did so well. I am so proud of you. Father will be so proud of you."

Benjen thought, for a moment, that his guilt might choke him to death where he stood. Instead, he forced some of that Stark steel Father always spoke of back into his spine, pulled back so he could look his brother in the eye. "I heard of everything you did," he said. "You are a warrior now, Ned. You are a hero." He sucked in a breath, and suddenly his own weakness was too much to hide. "I am so glad you are back. I was so scared, Ned. I was so--"

Ned shushed him, gripped the back of his neck tightly and pressed their foreheads together. "So was I," he said. "Every second of it, I was frightened. I hated it. I am so glad to be back, Ben. Thank you, for making sure there is a home for us all to return to."

For a single, short second, Benjen allowed himself a flash of pride, before the guilt flooded him once more and overtook it all. He forced a smile regardless. Bit by bit, he straightened the rest of the way up, once again shocked by how little difference there was in height between Ned and himself now. Brandon would still have been taller than them both, but Benjen would have been taller than Lyanna now. He pushed those thoughts away before they could bring him to his knees. "Introduce me to your family, big brother," he said, and if the words cracked, most people would still let him use his age as an excuse.

Ned wrapped an arm around his shoulder and gave a quick, tight hug before leading the way back to the wagon where beautiful, auburn-haired Catelyn Tully had been watching them. "Ben," he said, seeming ever so slightly embarrassed, and Benjen, at least, could understand that. Along with all the rest of the North, he knew that Catelyn Tully had been Brandon's betrothed first. Not to mention that aside from whatever they had learnt about one another on the road between Riverrun and Winterfell, they had known each other for less than a fortnight. "This is my Lady Wife, Catelyn Stark. Lady Catelyn..." He paused for a moment, and looked suddenly younger than Benjen felt. "This is my brother, Benjen, who has held Winterfell all these moons." Then, very carefully, he took the bundle out of Lady Catelyn's arms. "Ben, this is my son, Robb," he said, holding him out.

Ever so carefully, Benjen grasped hold of his nephew, allowing Ned to rearrange his arms so he would not hurt the babe. Finally, he was confident enough to look down and actually take in the sight before him. Robb Stark looked very much like his mother, even if his hair was a darker auburn and his eyes, when the light hit them right, seemed to have just a hint of grey. He was a bonny babe, and his Southron looks made him so unlike any child Benjen had ever seen before that he felt almost enchanted. Robb wriggled, his arms pulling free of his heavy swaddling, and he grabbed tight hold of Benjen's tunic sleeve. Benjen felt himself grin for the first time in months. "He is a strong lad," he said, and basked in Ned's proud smile for long moments before he finally handed the babe back, helped Lady Catelyn off her wagon and greeted her with a quick Southron kiss to her knuckles. "Welcome to Winterfell," he said.

She graced him with a smile. "Thank you, Benjen," she said, her voice soft and her accent gratingly foreign. "I am glad to be here, and it is good to meet you. I have heard so much about you."

Benjen forced a smile. Who had she heard about him from? Ned, who did not know him, or Brandon, who had always thought him a silly child? He pushed the thought away. It did not matter. Soon enough, he would be a man of the Night's Watch. He would pay off his sins, and he would not have to be here day in and day out and see all these changes in his family. He would not have to face Ned's babe who should have been Brandon's, Ned's Lady Wife, who should have been their brother's. He would not have to face Lady Catelyn, Southron and proper and foreign, in place of Lyanna. He would not-- He sucked in a deep breath, forced himself calm. He could do this. He could. All he had to do now was wait for Father to return home, and he could make things as close to acceptable as they could be anymore. Just a little while longer.

Father did not send word ahead. Not a raven, not an outrider, not anything at all. No one knew he was near until he declared himself at the Hunter's Gate late one evening after Lady Catelyn had already gone to bed and Benjen and Ned had attempted, rather awkwardly, if Benjen were honest, to pass the time between the two of them.

Benjen hated the awkwardness between them, but they did not know one another, and Ned was nothing like either Brandon or Lyanna, more like their Lord Father and Benjen himself. The people of Winterfell had always claimed Benjen was more like his father than any of his siblings, but yet Ned, who was supposed to be like them, was sterner and more rigid in a way Benjen did not quite know how to handle. Benjen was used to the wildness of Lyanna and Brandon, was used to being the calm and sensible one, even as he was used to being the little brother who, when he could not talk them out of their schemes, went along with them. He was not used to being the wild one. Nor was he used to being looked upon as an adult, someone responsible for the things around him, not by his own family, never mind that he had held Winterfell for longer than he cared to. He felt wrong-footed around this brother he did not know. He longed for Brandon and Lyanna, and felt like a monster for it. Not only was it his fault that they were gone, but why could he not just love and accept Ned for who he was? Why did he look at him and wish to see Brandon there? Somehow, Ned's presence only made everything worse, and all Benjen wanted was to get away, far, far away where he could not mess everything up again, where he would not have to replace the brother and sister he had known best with the brother who was an utter stranger to him. Even Winterfell did not feel like home anymore. But then it had not for a long time, really, not since Lyanna ran away.

Father returning was like a breath of fresh air, like the promise of the weight of the world being removed from his shoulders. Ned's presence had lessened his duties, sure enough, but the guilt had only seemed to multiply, grow worse and worse until Benjen thought it might eat him alive. So when he heard the first shout, even as he and Ned were facing each other silently in Ned's solar as they drank their ale and pretended they knew what to do with one another, he got up, probably upturned his cup, and ran down towards the courtyard. He heard Ned behind him, and when Ned matched his speed, his desperation, Benjen felt, for the first time since the war, since much, much earlier, as though he knew his brother at all. They were both there in the courtyard when Father jumped off the rickety old wagon he had apparently travelled in. Benjen did not bother to stop and think, pushed away his shame, his own knowledge of the fact that he was a man grown, far too old for this. He simply rushed straight at his father and let himself be caught up against that broad, powerful chest and held tight.

Rickard Stark's arms closed around him, and his father rocked him like a babe, and somehow Benjen felt closer to him than he ever had, as though some part of his father that had always been hidden to him had suddenly been unveiled. Throughout Benjen's childhood, Father had always been a stern figure, kind and loving but also severe and somewhat distant. Somehow, that seemed to no longer be the case, at least not now, not in this very moment when Benjen clung to his father and his father held him back so tightly it was all Benjen could do not to weep like a babe.

After what felt simultaneously like an eternity and nowhere near long enough, Father let Benjen go and Benjen took a step back, straightened his own back with some measure of strength he had not known he had. He watched as Ned grasped Father's hand and Father embraced him briefly, but tightly. Then Benjen's gaze was caught by movement in the wagon. He recognised Ser Rodrik Cassel immediately, but he had never seen the woman he helped out before now. She carried a bundle against her front. Very like Lady Catelyn, just a moon's turn or so ago. Benjen's breath caught in his throat. "Father?" he heard himself ask.

Father sent him and Ned both a smile that was somehow warm and stern all at once even as he reached behind himself and took the bundle out of the woman's arms. He took a step closer to the two of them, cradling what was no doubt a babe in his large hands. "This is Jonnel Stark," he said. "Your little brother."

Benjen blinked, and for long moments he could not think of anything to say. Part of him wanted to feel betrayed on behalf of the mother he had never known, but she had been dead for near as long as he had been alive. Part of him wanted to laugh because, Gods, how could he have a little brother when he had been the babe his whole life? Mostly, he did not know what to feel, what to say or what to think. He glanced towards Ned, caught his gaze, and somehow thought that for the first time in their life, they were connected by more than blood. They thought the same, felt the same, were equally confused. For all that was wrong, all that was all on its head, that, at least, made everything a tiny bit better.

Ned, Benjen remembered, had always been quiet, always been dutiful. For all that he had fought a war, he had been raised to follow commands and accept without question. Benjen, as the third son, had been allowed more freedom, more leave to run his mouth and ask impetuous questions. That meant that somehow, it fell to him to express the confusion they both felt. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Father sighed, and suddenly he looked much older than his one-and-forty years. "Things happen in war that we are never prepared for, boys," he said at last. "We will talk tomorrow. For now, please greet him."

Please love him, was what Benjen heard, even though it was far from what Father actually said. Slowly, Benjen made his way closer, looked down at the babe. The boy blinked up at him with the same dark grey eyes Benjen shared with his father, had shared with Lyanna before everything went wrong. His hair was near black, curling at the ends already. Despite the baby fat, his face was already long, Stark to the bone. Slowly, carefully, Benjen took him from their father's arms, held him to his chest and felt something within himself clench tight and release. Never in his life had he been the older brother. He had never had anyone to teach or protect. Suddenly, he wanted to have that so badly it hurt. And all the while, he was painfully aware of his own shortcomings, of everything he had done wrong. He clenched his jaw, held himself tight to keep the emotion from leaking out of him. And then Ned wrapped an arm around his back, looked down over his shoulder. Benjen looked to his side, caught his big brother's grin. "He looks like Ben," Ned said. And despite his fears, Benjen could not help but smile at that.

"That he does," Father confirmed, and the smile on his face was so full of warmth that for a moment, despite all the confusion, despite all the guilt, Benjen thought everything might be all right after all.

After spending the morning and half the afternoon in the training yard, Benjen found himself wandering Winterfell aimlessly. All those duties he had resented so much as the Stark in Winterfell, the ones that had taken him away from his time in the training yard, from caring for Brandon and Lyanna's horses, from spending time with the few friends he had left here... Now that those duties no longer fell to him, his days felt empty. It was too easy, with no administrative problems clogging up his brain at all hours of the day, to let the guilt weigh him down. And after he had trained until he ached and spent an hour spoiling the horses, he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself.

Ned was busy, he knew. He had not seen hair nor hide of Father since they had all broken their fast together - Winterfell, and all the decisions neither Benjen nor Ned had had the authority to make must be keeping him at least as busy as Ned. His friends were either dead, not yet returned home, or ensconced with their families, celebrating those who had survived and mourning their dead. Something within Benjen rebelled at even thinking about seeking out Lady Catelyn and little Robb. She made him feel so terribly awkward, and something about her foreignness made him beyond uneasy. It would not always be like that, he hoped. Someday, she would learn to integrate herself. That, or they would all become so used to her foreign ways they no longer seemed strange.

Benjen came to a stop outside a shut, wooden door, and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes stung. Out of sheer habit, his feet had taken him to Lyanna's room. She had not spent much time there, except to sleep. But when they had still been little and something had made Benjen scared or confused, he would come here in the middle of the night and they would huddle together under the furs, whispering and giggling and making up stories until Benjen forgot what had made him come in the first place. They would never get to do that again. They had not for years, of course, but the option had still remained, the possibility. Now even that was gone, and Benjen felt painfully untethered in the midst of everything that was wrong and new and gone.

It was then that he remembered Jonnel, so small and probably all alone with just a wet nurse and maybe Old Nan in a new place where his small eyes and young mind would not be able to recognise a single thing. With a goal in mind now, his back straightened and his stride lengthened, and not too long after, he found himself in the nursery. There was an empty cradle to one side - Robb's, he assumed - and another opposite it. That was where Benjen's feet took him, and carefully, not wanting to wake the babe in case he slept, Benjen lent over the cradle and found himself looking into a pair of unfocused eyes the exact same shade of grey as Father's and Lyanna's. And, he supposed, his own. Benjen blinked, and the babe seemed to realise he was there. Those dark eyes focused and looked up at him and for long moments, little Jonnel seemed to be considering him. Then a sweet smile stole over his face and the hand he had twisted out of his swaddling came up to bat at Benjen's nose. Somehow, despite everything that was wrong, still confusing, even about this babe, Benjen could not help but smile back.

The babe gurgled and wriggled, pulling his other arm free too and swinging both through the air in an utterly uncoordinated manner. Just as it had last night, something clenched tight and painful in Benjen's chest, but it was a good kind of ache. He would know; he had felt the bad one often enough in the last year. Maybe he ought to stay in Winterfell after all, if only for this new brother of his. Benjen, when he was a child, would have been so lost without Lyanna. While not as shy as Ned, he had never been the most outgoing boy; most of his friends had been Lyanna's first. They had learnt everything together, shared all their secrets, spent nearly every waking moment together. While Brandon fostered, they only saw him for a few days every few moons. With Ned, it was years, sometimes, between his visits from the Vale. Benjen had never known his mother, and Father had always been a stern, distant figure. Without Lyanna... Benjen swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat.

Who would Jonnel have, with his siblings grown or dead and his mother gone? There was Robb, of course, and with the fact that there were only a few moons' turn between them and the blood they shared, Benjen knew they would they would grow up together, share the same lessons and teachers. Hopefully, they would be close. But Robb would have a mother Jonnel could not share, and more siblings eventually, and a whole life and family Jonnel would only be on the periphery of, for all that they lived in the same castle. Perhaps Benjen should stay, look after his little brother the way Lyanna had looked after him. Perhaps he could ease some of the difficulty Jonnel would find himself facing as he grew up, if he was anything like Benjen and Ned.

No, he reminded himself firmly. He had set this path for himself, where only true service had any hope of redeeming the wrongs he had done his House, his brother and sister, his friends, the whole of the realm. He had to go to the Wall; there was no other way.

"He is a bastard, you know."

Benjen jumped at the sound of the voice, biting back the curse that threatened to make its way out of his mouth. Little Jonnel, startled by the sudden movement right before his wide eyes, began to wail. Benjen shushed him almost desperately, uncertain, all over again, about how to handle a babe. Stroking the downy-soft curls on top of the babe's head and making actual shushing noises seemed to work, because although he did not return to the smiling, wriggling state of before, Jonnel did stop crying. Benjen finally allowed himself to turn around and face their goodsister. "Lady Catelyn," he greeted, keeping his voice calm with some effort now that the actual words she had spoken penetrated. "I did not see you there."

She did not answer, merely made a show of not even looking in Jonnel's direction as she fussed over putting a sleeping Robb in his crib, fixing his swaddling, stroking his auburn hair and making sure he was well situated under the blanket she or someone desperate to suck up to her had embroidered with jumping trout and frolicking wolves. Benjen glanced down at his brother and rolled his eyes conspiratorially. Jonnel, of course, merely babbled in response. "It is shameful," she continued. "Making Robb, the heir to Winterfell, share a nursery with him, to make you and Eddard treat him like a true brother."

"The heir to the heir," Benjen muttered, pulling a face at Jonnel, who finally gave him another grin. It was difficult to focus over the sudden rage inflaming his blood. He did not have Brandon and Lyanna's temper, thank the Gods, but that did not mean he was some placid little boy she could treat like her confidante. Did she actually think he would agree with her? "My Lord Father yet lives. And you are in Winterfell now, My Lady. Lord Stark's word is law here." He reached a hand down, let Jonnel grab hold of his finger and jostle his whole arm in his excitement. "Besides, he is our true brother. If you looked at him for even a moment, you could not deny it. Jonnel Stark is as Stark as any that ever lived. Even his name is nearly as old as the line itself."

She flinched, and Benjen could not help a brief stab of contrition. He had not meant to use Robb's looks and name against her. The boy could not help his looks, and he was no less Benjen's nephew for it. But for a moon's turn now, he had watched Lady Catelyn turn up her nose at everything and anything he held dear about the North. And now that that included his brother, he could not hold his tongue anymore. He heard her suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. Then, "It does not matter what he looks like. He is the bastard your father got on some camp follower. Feel a little shame, on your Lady Mother's behalf if nothing else."

"I never knew my Lady Mother," Benjen said. "From everything I have heard about her, though, she would not begrudge my Lord Father finding some happiness after mourning her for four-and-ten years."

Lady Catelyn huffed. "You may not find it all so worrisome," she said. "After all, Eddard and Robb are your shields against any treachery. But I know what bastards are like, and as soon as I have finished arranging for it, I will have Robb moved to my chambers."

Benjen clenched his jaw. He did look away from the babe now; he did not want his little brother seeing him so angry. "What do you think he is going to do?" he asked. "Jump out of his cradle and kill us all so he can be the cruel infant lord of Winterfell?" He stood up straight, squared his shoulders. He could not help but be a little pleased, even in the midst of his anger, that he was taller than her. "Even if he were one, bastards are a fact of life, and no more treasonous than anyone else. For longer than we have even used that name for them, the Snows of Winterfell have been their brothers' generals and advisors and most loyal subjects. Brandon Snow was willing to try to sneak into the Targaryen war camp and slay three dragons to save the North and Torrhen's crown. Lonnel Snow was instrumental in solving the succession crisis between the She-Wolves of Winterfell. On and on it goes; not a bad thing to say about them. And even so, my brother is not a bastard. My Lord Father has named him a Stark and you will not find a man or woman in the North who will gainsay him. Insisting on it will only enrage my father, hurt my brother and rob your own son of the friendship of what might one day be one of his key bannermen." With that, he strode out of the room.

It was only when he was out on the battlements, sucking in lungfuls of fresh, cool air that he wondered if he should have taken Jonnel with him, away from that wretched woman. He let out a sigh; he would check up on his little brother later.

After supper, Benjen headed up the stairs towards Father's solar. Nerves churned in the pit of him stomach until he was near certain he was about to lose his supper. He had made the choice to take the Black. Even though it made him doubt himself, even though it frightened him and half of him wanted to back out most of the time, it was what he had to do. Telling Father, however, would not be easy. There was honour in taking the Black, Benjen reminded himself; the Starks had manned the Wall for thousands of years. And Ned had an heir. Even Father would have a spare remaining after Benjen left. The Starks had come a long way from looking in danger of going extinct. There was no need for Benjen anymore, but he needed to make something of himself, he needed to serve, to make amends. It would never bring his brother and sister back, he knew. It probably would not ease his guilt much either, but he thought, if he did this, he might be able to live with himself. He just had to make Father understand.

He stopped outside the door, sucked in a deep breath. Then he reached up and rapped his knuckles against the solid old oak. He waited several long moments before he heard Father call for him to enter. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, steeled himself. Then he walked inside, found himself fidgeting for a moment, not at all sure what to do with himself. For all that he had spent more time in Winterfell than either of his brothers, he had never spent much time in Father's solar. Nor really that much time with the man himself. Benjen was not ruled by his wolf's blood, as Lyanna and Brandon had been; he had given far less cause to be called to Father's solar for a reprimand. He had taken far more easily to the Maester's lessons, and so had not needed special attention there, the way Brandon had. He had not needed much at all, and so he had been left to Old Nan as a child, and he and Lyanna much to their own devices later. He supposed maybe Father just had not known what to do with his children without his Lady Wife there. Benjen did not blame him. He had Winterfell and the whole of the North to think of as well, after all. Still, it made this whole situation uncomfortably unfamiliar.

"Benjen." Father said. His face pulled into a grimace, except Benjen thought it was not so much a grimace as a smile on the face of a man who had forgotten how to smile. He had felt the same contortions on his own face often enough lately to recognise them. "Have a seat," Father added, nodding at one of the two chairs across the massive desk from his own.

"Yes, Father," Benjen muttered, and sat down. For a moment, there was nothing to do but sit silently and watch as Father finished writing out whatever it was he had been writing when Benjen arrived. Then, finally, Father looked up at him once more with that smiling grimace.

"I have gone over the books from when I was gone," Father said. "I spoke to Maester Walys and Vayon Poole, had them report to me." He was silent for a moment, but the hard, dark grey of his eyes seemed suddenly softer, warmer, than what Benjen was used to seeing. "You have done me proud, Benjen. You may not have gone to war, but your actions here in Winterfell have proven you a man grown and a Stark worthy of his name."

Benjen felt flooded with warmth even as more guilt seeped in through the cracks. His eyes stung, and he had to swallow convulsively to get rid of the lump in his throat. "Thank you, Father," he managed. Then he had to take a deep breath and look away. "But I am not. I-- Father, I shamed us all." He tried for another breath and nearly choked on it. "It is my fault. Bran, Lya, all those thousands of people who died. It is all my fault. I am sorry." He heard his voice crack, heard it all, now, as though someone else was speaking, as though it was just too much for his mind to wrap around. "I am so sorry."

And then Father did something he had not done since Benjen was a little boy: He got out of his chair, walked around the table, knelt down in front of Benjen and wrapped him in a warm, if slightly awkward, embrace. And Benjen could not hold it all back anymore. The sorrow, the pain, the biting guilt that had gnawed and eaten at him since he had first learnt of Brandon's death, it all bubbled to the surface, pulled him under, and he leaned against Father's chest, pushed his face into Father's shoulder. And it all came out, in great, heaving sobs and the fat, ugly tears he had not let himself cry before. But he was no longer the Stark in Winterfell. For a moment, at least, he could allow himself to be weak, even if he did not deserve it.

It was long moments before he could speak again, and even then he was mostly babbling. "I helped her," he gasped. "I snuck the letters for her. I saddled her horse for her, and I did not tell anyone. It is all my fault, Father. Bran, and Lya, and... All my fault." He sucked in a sharp, sobbing breath and pushed himself up straight, looking at Father through a veil of tears. "I want to take the Black," he said.

Father looked back at him, somehow managing to be warm and stern all at once in that way he sometimes had about him. He reached out, put his hands on Benjen's shoulders and squeezed. Then he shook his head. "Absolutely not," he said. He straightened back up, gave Benjen's shoulders another squeeze before returning to his chair and sinking into it. "Ben," he said, and his voice sounded old all of a sudden. Weary. "Did you think I did not know? I wanted to have all the facts before I went to King's Landing for Brandon. I searched Lyanna's room. I found the letters, and I knew she could not have managed that herself. She did not spend enough time with Maester Walys to be able to use the ravens without getting caught. As for helping her run..." He sighed. "You knew your sister better than anyone. Do you think for a moment that she would not have done it without you? Benjen, I knew. I do not blame you. I knew, and I left you in charge of Winterfell and took Ned to war, knowing that if we lost or fell, you would be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I trusted you to be a good one. Do you understand me?"

Benjen swallowed, tried to hold those words tight to him, to let them bolster him up with pride as they should, but they slipped away between his fingers, lost in the roar of his guilt. He tried not to think about the secondary meaning of it; not only had Father trusted him. He had, in a way, trusted him above Ned. "I blame me," he said. "Father, I need to take the Black. I need to do something, something honourable. I need to make up for what I did. I need to--"

"I need you here," Father said, voice sharp now. "I need you here, with me, with our family. We need to keep the pack together right now. I have things I need you to do; you may choose to see them as your penance if you will, but know that is not why I ask it of you. But you will not take the Black; I forbid it."

Benjen swallowed again, nodded, felt his shoulders sink in resignation. "What would you have me do?" he asked.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Here is the story we will tell the world," Ned's Lord Father said, almost the moment Ned had entered the solar and sat down in the free chair. Next to him, Benjen's eyes were suspiciously red and puffy; Ned knew better than to mention it. It had not been so terribly long since he and Robert were five-and-ten.

"While at war, there was a woman, a medic, who worked on whichever of the wounded were brought to her, regardless of the side they had fought for. When I received a slash to the thigh in battle, there was no Maester to be found, so my men brought me to her," Rickard continued, voice deep and matter-of-fact.

Ned frowned. He remembered that wound. It was from the Battle of the Bells, before they had taken separate ways to the Trident. Ned knew very well that Lord Rickard had been seen to by a Maester; he had grumbled on about the man's incompetence for days. "There was a Maester," he heard himself say. Then winced. As a boy, he had known better than to interrupt his Lord Father. His years in the Vale, it seemed, were betraying him. While not too soft-handed, Lord Arryn had definitely been less strict than Lord Stark.

"True," Rickard said. "But when it got infected, there was no Maester nearby, and I was brought to the woman. She patched me up and I spent some days in her company. Things... happened, as they do in war camps." He still showed a surprising lack of emotion given the story he was telling, obviously of Jonnel's mother. A story that seemed more than a little frayed around the edges. "Only later did I discover that her name was Leyla, a widow and the daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower." He paused for a moment, seeming hesitant for the first time since he had begun. Then his face firmed, and he forged onwards. "I got her with child. Naturally, I wed her. Rodrik Cassel and Edwyle Mazin stood as witnesses, and the papers are registered in the Citadel." He paused a moment. Then, "Lady Leyla died in the birthing bed."

Ned blinked. There was definitely something more to this, something he could not quite put his finger on. He knew that Edwyle Mazin, younger brother of Lord Mazin, had died on the Trident, and that Ser Rodrik was almost blindly loyal to Ned's Lord Father.

Benjen, eyes narrowed, was the one who remembered their Lord Father's first words in the story. "And the story we do not tell the world?" he asked, voice sounding a bit rough around the edges.

"Check outside the door," Lord Rickard instructed, and Ned got to his feet immediately to do just that, opening the door and looking to either side, making sure the hallway was clear. Then he shut the door behind him and latched it before getting back in his seat. "What I am about to say can never leave this room," Ned's Father said, voice as stern as ever for all that it was barely louder than a whisper. His face, however, was almost imploring. "Swear it."

Ned and Benjen both did as requested, and Ned found himself sharing a glance with his brother, seeing the sense of dread settling within him reflected on Benjen's face.

"Jonnel is Lyanna's trueborn son by Rhaegar Targaryen," Lord Rickard said, voice still so low as to be barely audible.

Ned felt the breath leave his body in one fell swoop, as though someone had punched him in the stomach. When he sucked in a mouthful of air, it left him dizzy. He could barely comprehend it, did not know how to wrap his head around it. So many thoughts and emotions swirled through him in that moment, and he did not know what to do with any of them. He thought of Lyanna, dear, wild, dead Lyanna, and the wound she and Brandon had left on his heart ached. He thought of Robert, his brother in all but name, thought of how this would hurt him, thought of how wrong they had both been, wondered how they could ever have believed anyone could have taken the She-Wolf of Winterfell anywhere she did not want to go. Thinking of Robert made him remember the sight of Aegon and Rhaenys and Elia, their broken, mutilated bodies wrapped in Lannister cloaks. Even the red fabric had not been able to hide the blood, the terrible clumps of bone and worse, and... Ned's stomach turned all over again, and he shut his eyes tight, forced himself to stay in control, to stop thinking about things that did not bear thinking about.

"Lyanna's?" Benjen whispered, and he sounded almost breathless, suddenly younger than his years. For a brief moment, Ned wanted nothing more than to hold his little brother close, to remind him that they had both lost much, but they still had each other, if they could only figure out how that would work.

Ned opened his eyes in time to see their father nod, eyes solemn. "On her dying breath, she begged me to protect him, to keep him safe. And so that is what I will do."

Ned felt his brow furrow, almost against his will. But he knew his father's ambitions, knew how they had shaped the realm, the hand they had played in this war happening in the first place. Ned did not want to blame him, but he did not know how not to, not when he did not know the reasoning behind it all. And the last thing he wanted right now was another war, let alone against Robert. "Robert is King, Father. We cannot--"

Lord Rickard shook his head. "I do not mean to challenge Robert's rule," he said. "Not now, perhaps not ever, not if it is not needed. The last thing we need is an infant on the Throne, especially an infant who might grow up to be as wild as Brandon and as mad as Aerys. What I mean to do is keep my promise to your sister. I will keep him safe, and Jonnel Stark can be safe. Aemon Targaryen would be hunted to the ends of the world the moment your friend learns of his existence." He let out a breath.

Ned winced, and before his mind's eyes he saw those small, broken bodies all over again. He had not had much of a chance to spend time with Jonnel yet, to memorise his face, to get to know the babe. But he did remember silken, flyaway curls and Stark features, and for a moment it was all he could do not to imagine that tiny little boy, a boy of his own blood, smashed against the wall like an unwanted doll. Like his brother Aegon. No, Ned reminded himself. If this lie were to hold, they could not be constantly going around telling themselves the truth. And whatever the truth had been for Aemon Targaryen, Jonnel Stark had never had a brother named Aegon, not if Rickard Stark said otherwise. Benjen was his brother, and Ned himself, and Brandon and Lyanna had been his siblings too. And he would repeat that truth to himself as often as it took.

"He is a Stark," Lord Rickard said. "He is blood of our blood, he is family. Pack. And the last piece that remains of Lyanna. For that, I thank the Gods for him." He paused, and Ned saw the apple of his throat bob. Something about the sight made his father look almost vulnerable, for a moment, and Ned felt something within himself flare up in response, not to take advantage, but to close ranks. Pack, that was what they were. He may not have been hounded by the wolf's blood as his brother and sister had been, but he knew what family meant, even if he had spent much of his life apart from the rest of them. "We must keep him secret," his father said. "But we must also prepare for the eventuality that he is discovered and all the might of the South comes for him." A wolfish smile stretched over Lord Rickard's face, cold as the winter they all felt in their bones. "I do not plan to make it easy for them. Lord Arryn and King Robert were most generous in sharing the spoils of the royal treasury as war reparations. I mean to put it to good use."

Benjen, once again, was the first of them to find his tongue. "How?" he asked. He still sounded odd, but it was not much because of the tears in his voice, as it had been earlier, but rather, Ned imagined, with the overwhelmed shock and confusion and apprehension Ned was feeling himself.

"When Torrhen knelt, a lot of plans had to be scrapped," Lord Rickard said. "He and his brother, Brandon Snow, and their father before them had been hard at work for a lifetime to see the North prosper after two long winters in a row had decimated the population." He paused a moment. Then, "Aegon the Conqueror bade them cease the planning, since much of it doubled as fortification."

Ned felt his breath catch. Wonder made his chest tight. "Moat Cailin," he whispered. It was a dream of his, one he thought he probably shared with most of the Northern Lords. To see Moat Cailin rebuilt and prospering, functioning as it should, both guarding the North and opening them up to easier trade with the Vale and the Riverlands, finally seeing the lands just north of the ancient stronghold cultivated.

His father nodded. "Moat Cailin," he agreed. "And Sea Dragon Point. The holdfast there is from the Age of Heroes, but it is good, strong stone. Along with Bear Island it will provide safety for Deepwood Motte."

"Why is it suddenly so important to keep Deepwood Motte safer than anywhere else in the North?" Benjen asked.

Ned frowned, took a moment to work it all through before he looked up at his father and brother. "Just west of Deepwood Motte is one of the deepest and largest natural harbours in all the North, and where Brandon the Shipwright built his fleet." He swallowed, feeling a chill race up and down his spine. He could not, for the life of him, tell if it was from dread or anticipation. "You mean to build a fleet."

Lord Rickard gave another nod. "Lord Quellon Greyjoy is dead. His sons are a bad lot. The Iron Islands will cause us trouble again before long, mark my words." He raised an eyebrow, and looked directly at Ned. "Can I trust that will be what you tell Lord Arryn and King Robert when they ask you why we suddenly want a fleet?"

Ned swallowed, but nodded. No matter how deeply he cared for Robert and Jon, he was a Stark first. "I assume you will give permission to the Manderlys to expand the Eastern fleet as well," he said.

"Yes," his father said. "I do not believe they will need much encouragement. In fact, I mean to host Lords Glover and Manderly within the next few moons' turn a get everything started."

"And where will the money come from?" Ned asked. "No matter how generous Robert and Jon have been, this is probably more than was in the royal coffers to begin with."

Lord Rickard sighed. "We do have some gold in reserve," he said. "As for the rest, if we must go to the Iron Bank, we will." He did not add what a gamble that would be; he did not need to. If this fleet could not expand on their trade, they would have nothing with which to pay back the gold they would owe. The thought made Ned uneasy, but he had to trust his father. This was to protect their family, their blood. In the end, it would help protect the whole of the North. That had to be worth it, whatever it took.

"Who do you mean to hold the new seats?" Benjen asked. There was no ambition in his voice, the way there might have been in that of a younger son from the Vale. Only curiosity. Perhaps even a smidgen of apprehension, and somehow, in that moment, Ned felt such fondness for his brother it made his chest feel tight.

"Moat Cailin will take at least a decade to rebuild," their father said. "I imagine, in time, it will go to Jonnel or a younger son of Ned's. Sea Dragon Point will go to you and your wife."

Benjen blinked, and looked suddenly so frightened Ned wanted to reach out and muss up his hair. "Wife?" he asked.

Lord Rickard sighed, and cast an almost apologetic glance at Ned. Then he picked up a piece of parchment, read over the words he must have written previously. He nodded to himself and set about heating up wax. Ned and Benjen both watched, all but hypnotised, as the wax melted and their father dripped it onto the parchment before pressing his seal to it. "This will go to Starfall first thing tomorrow morning," he said. He looked straight at Benjen then, even as Ned realised the reason behind the apologetic look, even as he felt as though his stomach was dropping to the level of his feet. Cold swept over him, made him shudder. Still, he held his tongue, watched as his father looked at Benjen almost tenderly. "You wanted to make reparations, Ben," he said, voice gone very soft now. "The Daynes are an old House, at least as old as ours, and blood of the First Men. We owe them nothing but honour, and yet Brandon saw fit to shame their daughter. I am asking Lord Dayne for his sister's hand in marriage, on your behalf, in the hopes that we might salvage some of what he ruined."

Ned swallowed, feeling suddenly sick to his stomach. He forced the feeling down. He was wed, with a son of his own and he had no right to feel wounded by the idea of his little brother wedding Lady Ashara. The dance they had shared at Harrenhal, the evening walks, the letters, none of that mattered anymore. Nor did the plans they had made, the plans that would now amount to nothing. Still, he could not help but think on that future that he had known for a long time now would never be.

He had thought he had made peace with it, but it still hurt like an open wound, thinking of how they would have gone with Lyanna and Robert to Storm's End. Ned would have been castellan, or master-at-arms, and Ashara would help Lyanna run the keep; Gods knew Lyanna had not the head nor the patience for it. He had not even cared that Brandon had dishonoured his lady love; it had been before she and Ned had ever exchanged a word or even a smile. He had not cared that she carried Brandon's bastard. Brandon's son was his blood as well, and he would have raised his niece or nephew alongside his own children, would have loved them all the same. A second son could afford to make such decisions. An heir could not. He pushed all those thoughts away now, breathed in hard through his nose, and forced himself to keep a straight face.

Benjen was blinking dumbly next to him. "But the Lady Ashara..." He swallowed, and there was naked fear on his face now. "She must be Ned's age at least. She would not-- Why would she want a boy four namedays younger?"

Lord Rickard reached across the table, caught Benjen's hand and squeezed. "She bore Brandon a bastard girl," he said. "She was stillborn, but even without the child, enough people know the truth. She is unlikely to get many offers, for all that I hear she is a kind, intelligent woman. And exceedingly beautiful." He paused for a moment. "They may yet turn down our offer, but it must be made, for our honour and theirs. The Dornish bear us enough ill will already. We do not want more."

Benjen was silent for a long time. Then he shut his eyes and nodded. "As you wish, Father," he said, sounding very nearly strangled. The breath he took then shuddered audibly through his chest. "May I be excused?"

Their father gave Benjen's hand one last squeeze before letting go. "Do not stay in the Godswood too long," he councilled. "It is cold tonight."

Benjen nodded, and then he was gone.

Lord Rickard turned to Ned. "I am sorry," he said. "I know that was not easy for you. But it is what we must do. Do you understand?"

Ned nodded, because, really, the worst part was that he did understand. For the sake of their honour, for Ashara's sake, this was what must be. He doubted, sincerely, that Lord Dayne would say no. No other House Paramount was going to offer a son, even a younger one, to a Lady who had borne a bastard, and for all that Ashara was not like other women Ned had met, he knew for a fact that she did not want to stay cooped up in Starfall all her life. She would be kind to Benjen, and Gods knew his brother needed that. It would not be easy for any of them, not to begin with. But perhaps, in the long run, it would be for the best. "I do," he said. Part of him wanted to go to the Godswood too, to think, and pray, and try to make sense of everything, make peace with it all. He did not think he could bear to look at Benjen right now, though. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow he would manage, would be the brother he should be. But right now he--

"Ned," his father said. "What is this I hear about a Sept?"

Ned was not certain why he went to his Lady Wife's chambers rather than his own when his long conversation with his father had ended. He felt like he had been through battle, weary and so overwhelmed every thought felt like a physical thing slogging its slow, heavy way through his mind. He felt weary, yes, and devastated and scared, and so like a child it was unnerving. Never before had he truly felt the weight of the years he had spent in the Vale, how little understanding he might truly have for his own home, for the lands he would one day govern. He had so much to learn, and he had almost begun to make mistakes already. None, at least, that could not be undone.

Lady Catelyn opened the door at the sound of his knocks, looked him up and down and let him in. "You look exhausted, My Lord," she said, her voice soft and hesitant, and for the first time since they wed, Ned truly took in her accent, took the time to hear it the way a Northerner who had known nothing but the North might. Southerners tended to sound haughty to Northern ears, through no fault of their own; it was simply how they spoke. Ned remembered the feeling himself, from when he first arrived in the Eyrie, the sense of his hackles rising every time anyone opened their mouth around him. He could not ask her to change the way she spoke; after all, despite all the years that had passed since he first left Winterfell, he still sounded Northern. Accents were difficult things to change. The rest of it, though... "How was your talk with your Lord Father and brother?"

Ned forced a smile. "It was... a lot," he said. "It has been a long time since I spoke to either of them at length, and with all that has happened, there was much to discuss. I would not be surprised to find myself spending many more evenings in my Lord Father's solar. I have much yet to learn about being a Lord, My Lady."

"And your... brother?" Lady Catelyn asked. "The babe?"

Ned was not sure why she was so focused on Jonnel, why he mattered so much to her. Still, he forced himself to think only of his father's truth, rather than what may or may not have actually happened. Jonnel, his brother. "His Lady Mother was Leyla Hightower," he said at last. "My Lord Father wed her when he learnt she was with child. She died birthing Jonnel, and Father brought him home. He is to be raised here, and we will be kind to him. He is family."

Lady Catelyn looked at him for a long while, considering. Then she nodded. "It is good," she said. "That Lord Stark did the honourable thing. I am sure you prefer a trueborn brother, half or not, to a bastard."

Ned sighed. "I would have loved him either way," he said, and knew it for the truth. The truth of their relation did not matter. From this day forward, Jonnel was his brother, and Ned would care for him as such. Smalltalk about Jonnel was not what had brought him here, though, not truly. For all the lies, though, it was easier to speak of than what he actually meant to bring up. He took a deep breath, steeled himself against the disappointment of this woman he did not truly know, who he wanted to provide for and make happy. But, as his father had reminded him, he could not cater to her. Not entirely. "I fear I may have given you false hope, My Lady," he said at last.

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh?" she asked. "What about?"

Ned forced himself not to wince pre-emptively. "I promised I would speak to Father about building a Sept here in Winterfell." He drew in another breath. All he could pray was that this would not cause bitterness, would not cause strife between them. "He forbids it."

Her face fell and for a moment her mouth drew tight. She gripped one hand tightly within the other and glanced at the small altar she had set up within the chamber, the miniature statues of her gods standing on parade on top. A candle was lit by the one he thought was the Mother. If he understood the Faith of the Seven even a little, he would not be surprised if she lit one before the Crone when he left, for wisdom to see the situation as a whole. At least he hoped so. It would be better than so many other candles she might light.

"He said it was in the original betrothal contract," Ned added, inwardly cursing the desperation in his own voice. "That you may worship whatever Gods you see fit, but in private, and that our children must be brought up with the Old Gods. I would have thought your Lord Father would have told you."

She lowered her glance at that, remembering, no doubt, how she had named Robb in the Light of the Seven when no Stark had been around to stop her. "I had hoped that was a formality," she said, and her voice was weaker now. "That things might be more relaxed once we were wed and here."

Ned clenched his jaw. He hated this, disappointing her, taking away her chance to share this with her children. He had no doubt that her religion was as important to her as his was to him. But, as his father had reminded him, she had not only wed him; she had wed the North. "I am sorry. I know this must pain you, but this is Winterfell. I am a Stark. Our children will be Starks."

"The Manderlys--" she began.

Ned shook his head, could not let her carry on that argument. As much as he hated snuffing out her hope that she might change this, it must be better to do it quickly, since it must be done. And after his talk with his Lord Father, he understood that it truly must be done. He had been a fool not to see it sooner. "The Manderlys are not the leaders of the North," he said. "And when my ancestors invited them to the North, it was with the understanding that their family could practice the Faith of the Seven if they wished to, but they could not attempt to convert anyone, and those of them who wed into other Houses must let their children be raised with the Old Gods." He fell silent for a moment, reached up and pushed his hair out of his face. It must have escaped the leather string he tied it back with without him noticing. "I suppose the best way to explain it is that if, in the South, the royal family must be protectors of the faith, so too must the Starks of Winterfell be the protectors of the Old Gods."

She looked away, dropped down into her chair and picked up her stitching, though she made no move to actually stitch anything.

Desperation clawed at Ned, suddenly. He had to make her understand. He had to, or he did not know if he could ever salvage this marriage he did not know how to navigate in the first place. "You must understand, My Lady. Do you know how the other Kingdoms turned Andal?"

"The Andals conquered the First Men," she said simply, voice curt and trembling.

Ned shook his head. "Many of the noble Houses in the South still bear their First Men ancestors' name, or did, up until the time of Aegon the Conqueror. The Gardeners, the Durrandons, and many others besides. It is true that some First Men Houses fell from power in battle, but far less than children in the South are taught. Many times, the Andals found it much easier to simply offer up a beautiful young bride to a First Man king in exchange for peace. Then she would build a Sept, preach to the smallfolk, bring more Andals into the Household, and raise her children in the Light of the Seven. Eventually, they would grow up and wed more Andals and within a few generations, they would forget their House had ever been of the First Men. That is when the Godswoods would be cut down and the rest of the smallfolk forcefully converted, and Andal brides would be pushed on the bannermen. We avoided that in the North, for a long time. Even when my ancestors have wed outside the North, it has been to Blackwoods and Royces and others like that, proud First Men Houses who still follow the Old Gods, or at the very least are brought up in both religions."

She raised her head, looked up at him with wide eyes. "You think I am trying to turn the whole of the North to the Faith of the Seven?"

Ned bit back a groan, stamped down the impulse to push his hair out of his face once more. "While I do not think you would mind 'civilising' us a bit, no, I do not think you came here with that goal. But in the end, what I think is not what matters. What matters is what the bannermen think. The North is loyal to my family, but only because my family has always been loyal to the North, because we are all kin. And now... my parents were cousins. My only aunt wed into the Stormlands, and my father has no brothers or sisters. I was raised as much in the Vale as in the North; more, perhaps, and the bannermen do not know me. I wed a Southerner, and so will Benjen more than likely, even if the Daynes are an ancient First Men House. Our children." He sucked in a deep breath, finally allowed himself to plop into the chair that stood at an angle from hers. "They must be seen to be Northern, through and through. Or Robb, or his son or grandson will lose the North."

He heard the click when she swallowed, saw the tremble in her hands. He felt terrible for her, but he had to believe she wanted what was best for their children, both Robb and the ones that were hopefully yet to come, just as he did. Even if it meant she had to give up some of her hopes for them, she had to see this was for the best. She must. "So my children cannot follow my Faith," she whispered. "They cannot have Septons or Septas to teach them how to be proper Lords and Ladies. And they must all wed your Lord Father's bannermen. Everything I am, everything I know, everything I have ever wanted for them... Am I simply to forget all that?"

Ned swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "What do you want more?" he asked softly. "Perfect Southron ladies and knights named and raised and wed in the Light of the Seven? Or the future rulers of the North?"

She sniffled, but after long moments, she nodded. "It is not like your Lord Father gives us a choice," she managed, voice shaking. "Our Robb will grow up alongside your brother Jonnel, who for all his Hightower Lady Mother has the Stark look, and a Stark name, who has likely never, nor will he ever, see the inside of a Sept, who will be the perfect Northman. If Robb looks Southron next to him..." She trailed off, shook her head. "Robb cannot look lesser than." When, at last, she looked up, there was determination on her face even as there was the same sort of grief Ned had felt when he arrived at the Eyrie and realised there was no Godswood there, that no weirwood could take root on the Giant's Lance. "If Robb ever asks me why I do not go to the Godswood, or why I keep an altar for the Seven, I will still answer him."

Ned squeezed his eyes shut. "Answer him, but make sure to remind him they are Southron Gods, and not of the North." He forced his eyes back open and reached out hesitantly, took her hand. For a moment, he thought she would rip it away from him, but she did not. Instead, she looked up at him with those beautiful, sad eyes of hers. "I am sorry," he repeated. "I know how much this must mean to you, and I cannot imagine what it must be like for you. But our children must be Northern through and through."

She gave a small nod, eyes downcast again. "I understand, My Lord," she said, voice very soft. With that, she got up and carefully extricated her hand from his. "If it please you, I would retire. I find I am quite tired myself."

Ned nodded. He did not expect an invitation to stay. Nor did he receive one.

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Ashara went over the books with care, jotting down careful notes and changes as she balanced the numbers before giving a decisive nod, pushing the ledgers aside and grabbing a piece of parchment. She took the time to word the letter to Oldtown carefully; for all that they had been allies in this war, Dorne and the Reach had been feuding far longer than that and it would do no one any good to cause insult.

A hand settled on her shoulder, giving a small squeeze, and Ashara jumped in surprise. She glanced over her shoulder, considered attempting a smile for her brother. In the end she decided not to; it would only end up looking like a grimace. "Alyn," she greeted, grimacing at the hoarseness of her voice. "I am writing the Hightowers to ask them to send us more food. I already checked, and we can afford it. We need it too. With so many of the men dead or wounded or not yet home, the smallfolk are starving, and--"

Alyn squeezed her shoulder again. "Ash," he said softly. "When did you last sleep?"

Ashara felt her face tighten, felt how the whole world threatened to close in around her. "Last night," she lied, the words coming out sharp. "I went to bed late and got up early, but I did sleep." She did not want to sleep. Sleep brought her no peace these days, ruled as it was with pictures of her bed of blood, her dear sweet babe, who never drew breath. Of Brandon Stark, who she had not even liked, boiling to death in his own armour. Of Elia and little Rhaenys, and Aegon, who she had never even got to meet. Horror after horror, so much of it that she woke up nauseous, her eyes full of red and her nose full of blood and burnt flesh. It was better not to give the dreams a chance to get her, better not to think on it at all, or she did not know what would happen.

"Ash," Alyn tried again.

Ashara flashed him a glare. "I am a woman grown," she said. "I am not a child for you or your Lady Wife to order about, like Allyria. And I would thank you not to try."

Alyn, it seemed, was not to be deterred. "You are still my sister," he said. "I love you, and I only want you to be well."

Ashara snorted, rather indelicately, and forced her eyes back upon her letter. She skimmed through it before nodding to herself, signing it and heating a stick of lavender wax to seal it. "I am closest to that when I am working," she said at last, dripping the hot wax onto the parchment. "Keeping busy makes it all easier to bear. And like this, I am at least doing some good."

Alyn sighed, and then he gave her that look again, so careful and full of concern, like he thought she might bolt, like a wounded animal, or shatter into a thousand pieces between his hands if he held her too tightly. Sometimes, when he looked at her like that, she thought she would. Break, that is. Break into more pieces than she would ever be able to find, let alone put back together. She hated it. "I only want the best for you," he said softly. "You know that, do you not?"

Ashara pressed the Dayne seal into the purple wax, pressed perhaps a bit more harshly than she needed to. When she lifted the seal, the star and sword of their sigil was less crisp and clear than she would have liked, but there was nothing for it now. "Of course I do," she said. And she was grateful for that, somewhere beneath it all. Some Lords would send their sisters to join the Silent Sisters if they brought half the shame on their House Ashara had on hers, even here in Dorne. Her brother, thank the Gods, was not like that. Their mother, the late Lady Dayne, had taught them all better than that.

Alyn was silent for a long moment, jaw working, as though he wanted to speak but could not find the words. Sudden, cool dread spiked through Ashara's whole body, made her hands shake. She put the letter down, fisted her hands beneath the table where he would not see them as clearly. "A letter came," Alyn said at last.

"Oh," she managed, and somehow her voice cracked on even that one nonsensical word. She sucked in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and steeled her back. So much bad news had arrived already. She should be used to it. She wished she were, wished she could be certain that more of it would not shatter her, would not make her look to the Palestone Sword Tower for her salvation. She wanted to be strong, but she was not sure how much more she could bear. In her darker moments, she sometimes thought she might already have reached her limits and it was only a matter of time before her mind understood what her soul already had.

"From Lord Stark," Alyn continued. "To ask for your hand in marriage, on behalf of his son."

A moment of mad hope rushed through her, set her body alight. She smothered it before it could do any damage. Ned, her heart had sung, but she knew that could not be. Ned wed Brandon's betrothed on his Lord Father's orders, to gain the swords of the Riverlands. She wished she could blame him, could hate him for it. If he had defied his father, they might still have been able to wed, and even if they could not have had the small, pretty life they had dreamt of, they might still have had something. The Riverlands might have declared for the Targaryens, and Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys would still be alive. Arthur would still be in Westeros, rather than fled to Essos with the Queen and her son. And Aerys, upon winning the war, would have killed Ned and his whole family.

She swallowed. Whichever way she looked at it, it would have ended in disaster. Nothing could have stopped it, not after Brandon decided to run to King's Landing like a raving madman and demand Rhaegar's idiotic head. "Which one?" she heard herself ask. Somehow her voice kept steady now. "The dead one or the one who already has a Lady Wife and a babe?" She spat that last bit, could not help herself. None of this was Catelyn Tully's - Catelyn Stark's - fault. That did not keep Ashara from despising her.

"Lord Benjen," Alyn said.

Ashara did not know what came over her. All she knew was that she was throwing her head back and laughing, even as finally, finally, tears were streaming down her face. She did not know how long she kept it up, only that when her laughter finally dried out, she felt drained and hollow and so, so tired, like the Gods had reached inside her and scooped out everything that mattered, leaving only pain and sorrow. "Benjen Stark is a child," she said, remembering the boy she had seen at Harrenhal two years ago. He had been a skinny little thing, all big eyes and awkward limbs, always in the shadow of his sister, following at her heels like a well-trained dog. "Is he even five-and-ten yet?"

Alyn gave another one of those sighs before reaching out and carefully wiping the tears off her face with his thumbs. "A second son now," he said. "And five-and-ten, yes, a man grown or as near as not to matter. Lord Stark promises a castle and a lordship, to pass to Lord Benjen's children after him." Alyn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his dark blue eyes sad and his mouth twisted in a pained grimace. "It is the best future I can possibly arrange for you," he said.

Ashara snorted. Or sniffled. She was not certain. "So Lord Stark has Ned clean up after Brandon in the Riverlands, and Benjen do the same in Dorne." She swallowed tightly. She did not like the bitterness in her own voice, but something about all this, for all she knew Lord Stark was trying to do the honourable thing on behalf of the son who no longer could, just made her want to-- Gods, she did know anymore. Laugh, or cry, or scream until she had no voice left. "Can I not just stay here?" she asked, and she hated how small her voice sounded all of a sudden. She was a woman grown, nine-and-ten. She had already been almost a mother and almost a wife. But for all that she hated begging, suddenly all she wanted was to stay in Starfall, stay with her brother and sister and try to pick up the pieces of her life.

"If that is truly what you want," Alyn said, "I would not deny you. But an offer like this will not come again." The fact that this had come at all, after she had been dishonoured and the word somehow spread to the whole realm, was more to do with duty and pity than anything else, she knew. He did too, although he would not say it. Her pride balked at the thought. But there was truth to Alyn's words. An offer like this would not come again, to be a Lady of a castle with a life of her own. If she were to stay, all she would ever be was sister to the Lord of Starfall. She would be an aunt to the children he would have, but never a mother. She would see her sister wed, but never wed herself. She would try to get along with Alyn's Lady Wife, but she would not, in truth, be a lady herself, would never have any true power or purpose.

The last thing she wanted, in that moment, was to wed the Wolf Pup of Winterfell. But she was not so stupid she could not see how much, in five or ten years, she would regret turning the offer down. "Tell them yes," she said at last before picking the letter back up and heading towards the rookery. She needed to send the letter, and she needed air, so badly it made her whole body tremble.

Ashara leaned back against the window's side, letting herself get lost in the sight of the Torrentine winding past far below. Her heels bumped against the brick wall of the Palestone Sword Tower. The height of it sent a strange sort of thrill through her. She was not going to jump, not truly, but she liked to come here anyway, liked to play with the thought, hold it close like a treasured gem, like a promise for if things ever got to the point where she could no longer stand it. Today was not that day. Truly, that day would likely never come. For all she had lost in the war, her siblings still remained to her and would remain, even if they were far away. With them alive, she thought maybe she would find her way back to life someday herself. Soon enough, the Palestone Sword would be another thing she would leave behind. It would still exist, but far out of her reach. While the thought pained her, she could not help but think that perhaps it was for the best.

The sound of pattering feet brought her out of her contemplations and she turned her face towards the door just in time to see it open. Allyria tumbled into the room, all wide eyes and mussed skirts. Ashara swung her feet back over the windowsill and levered herself down to stand on the floor, opening her arms to her little sister, who launched herself at her. "It is not true, is it?" Allyria asked with a sniffle, turning those big eyes on Ashara almost pleadingly. They were red, her eyes. Ashara's chest clenched at the thought of her sister crying.

"What is not true?" Ashara asked, reaching out to carefully wipe the tears off her sister's round cheeks the way Alyn had for her several nights ago.

"You leaving," Allyria managed through another stream of tears. "You cannot leave, 'Shara. You cannot. Mother got ill and left. Father went to war and Alyn says he will not come back. The babe left when you birthed her. Arthur went to Essos, and Alyn says he may never come back either. You cannot leave too, 'Shara." She made to stomp her feet, only to get them caught up in her skirts and stumbled into Ashara's grip again, clumsy as a colt. "Me and Alyn will be all alone."

Ashara shushed her gently, brushed a hand through her dark, wavy hair, still soft as a babe's. Her own eyes stung, and she swallowed down the sudden lump in her throat, tried not to let her heart break all over again, for Allyria, for herself, for everything that had gone so very wrong. "Alyn will still be here," she said, keeping her voice as steady and gentle as she knew how. "He will look after you. And Lady Rylene will return from Sunspear in a fortnight or two. They will have babes soon, for you to play with. You will be happy here. Do not worry yourself, sweet sister."

Allyria shook her head almost violently against Ashara's chest. "I do not want her," she said, her high little child's voice cracking. "I want you."

Ashara sucked in a shuddering breath. Already, she could feel her resolve begin to falter. Maybe she should stay. Allyria was still so young and she had lost so much. Could Ashara really bring herself to leave her too? Maybe it would not be so bad. She and Rylene might learn to get along someday. She could help raise Allyria, make sure her little sister did not make the same mistakes she had. She could care for Alyn's children too, be their favourite aunt. Keep taking care of the books, perhaps get more involved in the family's tradings and dealings. There would be bad sides, true. There might be days when she would want nothing more but to rip her hair out at the knowledge that she was living on her brother's love and mercy and had nothing to call her own. But it might be worth it for what she stood to gain. Could she ever hope to find peace elsewhere? Could she even bear to leave behind her baby girl's grave? She opened her mouth to answer--

The door opened and Alyn stepped inside, red-faced from exertion, his limp much heavier than usual from having climbed all those stairs. Still, the smile on his face made him look so much younger than his years, brought Ashara, for a moment, back to her childhood, to all the happy days spent chasing after her big brothers, trying to keep up with whatever they were doing. "A letter just came in with the ship from Lys," he said, and the look on his face was enough to tell Ashara exactly who the letter was from.

Despite how torn up she was over everything, despite all the things that had gone wrong, Ashara felt suddenly so light so thought she might be able to fly. Or laugh. Right now, both seemed possible. "Arthur," she breathed.

Alyn nodded, reaching down absently to pat the top of Allyria's head before handing Ashara a piece of parchment. She unrolled it immediately, rolling her eyes at the sight of smudged thumb prints along the corners. She was not sure if Arthur or Alyn was responsible. It could well be them both. The thought called an almost involuntary smile to her face as she began to read, unable, for the time being, to pay any heed to Allyria's pleas to know what was happening. Alyn must have figured out some way to distract her, for the insistent tugging on Ashara's dress stopped after a while and she could finally focus on her brother's notoriously messy handwriting.

For a moment, none of it made sense aside from the opening line's reassurance that he was well and safe. After that, it was at first glance a ramble about the legend of Vermax's eggs under Winterfell, and how Rhaegar had left an egg there as well, which-- Rhaegar had not had a dragon, and-- Oh. Oh, Gods. The final line was a plea, on behalf of a concerned grandmother, to keep in touch with the Quiet Wolf and impart what she learnt.

Suddenly unsteady, Ashara stumbled backwards until her back hit the stone wall. She leant back into it, let its cool solidity ground and support her while she sucked in sharp breaths, trying to steady herself, to get hold of all the emotion suddenly rioting through her whole being. She could not even begin to wrap her head around it all. But she did know one thing. Despite Allyria's pleas, despite her own misgivings and the safety she would be leaving behind, Ashara would be going North.

As White Harbour became visible in the distance, dread settled heavily in the pit of Ashara's belly. She pulled her furs more tightly about her shoulders, grateful all over again that Alyn had been thoughtful enough to have them made for her before she left. Had it been up to her, in the middle of the turmoil that seemed to have taken her over, she likely would have forgotten, and promptly frozen to death before she even reached Winterfell.

She could still feel Allyria's weight in her arms, could still hear her sister begging her not to go. She still felt the way her heart seemed to have shattered, what few pieces of it had still been near whole, when she had stepped onto the ship. Even now, part of her was desperate to go to the captain and beg him to turn around, to take her home, where she belonged.

She could not do this. She was not strong enough. How was she meant to live side by side with Ned, watching him with his wife and babe while calling his brother Lord Husband? She knew she would have to; according to Alyn, the Starks were nowhere close to finished rebuilding the castle she would one day call home, and until they had, she would have nowhere to be but Winterfell, staring straight at everything she had lost, to duty and honour and senseless war.

Arthur, she reminded herself. She was doing this for Arthur, who could not, himself, be in Winterfell to look over his infant king. For Arthur, she would look over him, make sure he was safe. For herself... She had no idea what she felt. For the whole of her journey, she had shied away from thinking on the babe, or Lyanna Stark, or the terrible pain she knew Rhaegar's abandonment had caused Elia. She shied away from thinking on Rhaenys and Aegon, dead and gone. She wondered which would be hardest to face, Ned or the babe.

She wondered what Elia would tell her to do, had she still been alive to council her. Elia had been kind and gentle, far more so than Ashara, but Rhaegar and Lyanna had hurt her deeply. Still, it was not the Dornish way to hold a child accountable for the actions of his parents. Perhaps Elia would have commended her, for going to watch over an innocent, motherless babe. Perhaps she would have told her to leave well enough alone, to let the Targaryen name die out and the madness along with it. Ashara wished she knew, but how could she? No matter how well she knew Elia, they were too different to ever truly know one another's heart.

The ship docked, and Ashara pulled herself together with a burst of will she had not known herself capable of. She held her back straight and her head high as she walked off the ship.

She barely recognised the boy who stood waiting for her at the bottom of the gangplank. She could not say she had paid much attention to Ned and Brandon's skinny little brother back at Harrenhal, but she was certain he had not looked much like the brooding young man stood in front of her now. He had shot up, standing at probably an inch or two taller than her and with over long arms and too-large hands that indicated he had not stopped growing yet. His hair was darker than Ned's, but just as straight. He was comely, certainly, but so, so young.

He need not have come all the way to meet her here. The part of Ashara that might once have appreciated those kinds of manners was either dead or buried so deeply she no longer knew how to reach it. She was no longer that girl, who would have thought it her due on account of her beauty and station. Still, she tried to dredge up a smile for him. She did not think she succeeded one bit more than he did at smiling back at her. A sudden stab of sympathy went through her. He had likely had even less choice in this than she did, and she did not think any brother of Ned's was stupid enough to not realise that he was here as a substitute for his brothers, to clean up their messes and salvage the honour of both their Houses. He might have been dragged, but he was still here, and Ashara could respect him for that, at least. Any boy who could bear that kind of burden, willingly or not, might grow up to become a man she could live with.

She reached him then and he leaned over her hand when she offered it, pressed his chapped lips to her knuckles. The movement was awkward, as though he were unused to the gesture. He probably was. The North was different from the other Kingdoms. More like Dorne, in some ways, but mostly its very own. Ashara distracted herself with a moment's gratitude that the children of House Dayne were still raised to keep both the Old Gods and the new. She may not know all the attitudes and manners of Northern culture, but at least she did not want to run away screaming when faced with a Godswood, like she knew some people raised only in the Light of the Seven did.

"My Lady," he greeted, his accent thick, but oddly pleasant. The Northerners tended to speak like they had all the time in the world. Not clearly enunciating, but taking their time nonetheless. Some people, she knew, might find it grating. She found it oddly relaxing normally. Right now, it only served to remind her how far she had left her home behind. "I hope your journey went well."

She attempted another smile. "Thank you, My Lord," she replied. "As well as can be expected. The winds were fair most of the way." Thank the Gods for that. The last thing she had wanted was to make a stop at King's Landing. If she never stepped foot there again, it would still be too soon. She raised her head at last, looked into his eyes. The sadness there, written clearly for all to see, was nearly enough to take her breath away, and she swallowed tightly against the answering rush of her own sorrow. He had lost people too, she remembered. A brother and a sister and probably more friends than she would like to think on. She was not the only one who had lost. She was not sure if that made her feel better or strangely worse.

Against her will, her mind went to the boy she had truly come here for, Arthur's King who she would watch over on his behalf. Still a babe at the breast, and he had lost his mother and father, an uncle, a brother and a sister, even a grandfather, though Aerys was not worth mentioning. His grandmother and uncle, the last people remaining of his father's family, were as far away from him as Arthur was from Ashara. She swallowed again, felt her heart begin to crack on behalf of that little boy who did not even know what he had lost.

Perhaps this was good, this remembering that she was not the only person who had lost. It had been so easy, back in Starfall, to brood on Elia and her children, on Ashara's own poor stillborn girl, on Father, on Arthur, on Ned, and forget the rest of the world. Perhaps, in not thinking on it all, she had kept it with her more strongly than she might have otherwise, but the fact was that the whole of the Realm had been at war, a devastating war. She doubted any soul in any of the Seven Kingdoms had not lost someone, some way or another. What right did she had to let it ruin her when others were worse off, when she was actually in a position where she might do some good?

It would take time to put those thoughts into actions, she knew. Perhaps she would never manage. But trying could not hurt.

Benjen offered his arm, neck slightly bent, as though he carried a weight much greater than his years. "We will stay the night at the New Castle with the Manderlys and set off for Winterfell tomorrow," he told her then.

Ashara nodded, and let him lead the way.

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The eyes of the Father weighed on her heavily, even as she knelt before the small, plain altar she had installed in the corner of her solar. Catelyn swallowed, could hardly bear to look upon him without shame. His judgement seemed to weigh heavily upon her whenever she knelt before her Gods. How would he judge her, she wondered? A woman who held fast to her ways, but could do nothing to bring up her children in the Light of the Seven? She already knew; his gaze told her well enough. Swallowing, she lit a candle before her small statuette of the Mother, begged her mercy and understanding. No woman, not even Catelyn, could perform miracles, and the North had resisted the Seven for centuries, millenia, before she had even been born. She bent her head and forced herself through her hymns, longing painfully for the sound of other voices surrounding her, for the feel of being part of a greater whole, for being part of a larger group of worshippers and not so alone. She shot the thought away.

Starks endured, her father had told her. He had told her that long ago when she had first been betrothed to Brandon and she had wondered why, when she was certain several of their own bannermen were richer and more influential than the Starks. She had cursed those words when Brandon had died and her father told her she was to marry his younger brother, was to still take up her position as Lady of Winterfell. She had not wanted any Stark but tall, handsome, dangerous Brandon. Then she had wed Ned and seen him off to war, and she had clung to those words, willed them to bring him back to her, back to their son, willed her son to live through them. Now, she clung to them for herself.

I, too, am a Stark, and I will endure, she reminded herself, even as she lit a second light and placed it before the likeness of the Crone. As she had every morning since Ned had brought her his Lord Father's edicts, she begged her for wisdom, for understanding, for the wits to make it through these trials. For acceptance, that life was not going to be what she had always dreamt.

Oh, how she had dreamt. As a girl, when she had first learnt of her betrothal, all she had wanted was to go North and show them all what a true wife looked like, how a true Lady acted. She had dreamt of how elegant and impressive she would be, how she would take all the Northern bannermen in with a look here and the perfectly placed word there. How, when it was time for her son to be Warden of the North, the North would be well within the fold, with a Sept in every town and village, with all the savage Northerners finally civilised and bowing before the true Gods as they should have done since the beginning, and all with Catelyn as the true instigator.

Reality was much different than her girlhood dreams, and perhaps that served her well for imagining herself a saviour. She was leagues and leagues away from the nearest Sept, and her Lord Husband and goodfather had both forbidden her from spreading the good word. The North would never bow to Andals, and to them the True Faith could not be separated from the Andals, as much as that infuriated her. Even the Targaryens had bent to the Seven, had they not? It may be a poor example these days, but it still stood. The Seven were more than emissaries of the Andalos the Northerners still somehow remembered how to hate.

The candle sputtered, reminding her to keep her calm, to stay gentle and strong as she had been raised to be. Catelyn breathed out slowly, bent her head. Let go of her anger. She was here for a reason. She knew she was. And that reason was clearer to her than anything. Robb. Her darling boy, so happy and comely, every mother's dream. One day, he would be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and that, as Ned had reminded her, was more important than anything. To rule the North, he had to be a Northerner. As much as it pained her, she had no choice but to concede that they were right on that. As much as it pained her that she could never share her hymns and songs and tales with her boy, it was more important that he one day become the Lord of Winterfell.

It was all the more important when he had an uncle his own age with all the Stark looks plain on his face, an uncle whose name was as Stark as his face, whose presence had never graced a Sept, who all of Winterfell adored. An uncle who brought the might of an alliance with the Reach, for all that he would never know the Light of the Seven. Robb could not be lesser than Lord Stark's youngest son, not in any way, Catelyn would not allow it. She thanked the Crone silently for reminding her. She could accept everything, her son being brought up Northern, taught blasphemy and barbarian ways, if it would make him measure up to little Jonnel Stark. That, more than anything, was why Catelyn had not fought harder.

Robb had been cursed with her Tully looks. If he had not, perhaps everything might have been different. As it was, the smallfolk of Winterfell still looked upon her and Robb as if they were foreigners, even as they cooed at Jonnel and spoke of him as though he were a blessing from their gods. They looked upon him as though he were the pinnacle of the North even as wagon after wagon of grain from the Tyrells rolled into Winterfell with Jonnel as the sole reason. No Hightower showed in little Jonnel's face, and so his Southron blood could be excused and the boons it brought celebrated, where assistance from the Riverlands, she could not help but think, would be scorned.

Somehow, Rickard Stark, despite his age and previous children, had managed to secure himself an alliance that rivalled her own marriage to Ned. Catelyn hated it, hated each caravan of wagons from the Reach. She hated how desperately the Tyrells were grasping for the Starks' goodwill in the wake of the Rebellion, and how Lord Stark with his scandalous secret wedding and youngest son had given them an opening. She hated what it might one day mean for her son. That, as much as the whispers of the Crone, convinced her. Robb needed to be as Northern as possible. He could never see the inside of a Sept again. He could never know the sweet peace of the Mother, the certainty of the Father's blessing, or the Warrior's touch in battle. But he would be a Northman, a worthy Lord of Winterfell. And that was more important than any of the rest of it.

She was interrupted from her worship when one of her Northern maids knocked on her door to inform her that Benjen had returned with his betrothed from White Harbour and that the family was required to go meet him. Catelyn felt her whole body run cold with those words. She had known, of course. She had known Benjen would not be gone but for just a little more than a moon's turn. She had known he would not return alone. She had heard the whispers of the servants, the sighs of her own maids, the tale of the maiden Brandon had dishonoured, whom Ned had loved and vowed to wed, of two lovers caught on either side of a war, help apart by the loyalties of their families. It had made her want to spit and rage. To throw up, most of all. Ned had loved this woman, the whispers were all certain about that one thing. Ashara Dayne had held his heart, yet honour had made him wed her for her father's soldiers, for justice for his brother and sister.

Had Benjen brought any other Southron bride to Winterfell, Catenlyn would have wept with joy. She would have cherished the thought of not having to be alone amongst these half-savage Northerners, would have latched onto anyone who shared her Faith. But she could not find it within herself to see any good in the woman who had seduced Brandon, caught Ned's heart and snared Benjen's hand in marriage. Ashara Dayne was a loathsome woman with her sight set on the Stark family, and Catelyn's heart clenched with fear when trying to imagine what plans that woman might have for her and hers.

It did not help that Lady Ashara was a Dayne of all things. From setting the one maid remaining to her of her Riverlands entourage to listening, Catelyn had learnt of the respect even the smallfolk of Winterfell afforded House Dayne. For all that it was not a House Paramount, was subservient to the Martells of all things, the Daynes enjoyed a strange kind of respect in the North, a similar place to the Blackwoods and the Royces, from what Catelyn could make out. An ancient House of First Men blood. For all the Daynes might have adapted better than the Royces and the Blackwoods, they apparently still knew the Old Gods and the customs of Old, which made them equal to the only other Houses outside the North the Starks had ever wedded. Before her, that was.

Facing Lady Ashara Dayne would have been difficult no matter the circumstances. The fact that her maid told her of how the North welcomed the wedding, how they saw Lady Ashara as a worthier bride than she could ever be in spite of her dishonour, made her grit her teeth and bite back her tears of rage and hurt more than she had ever imagined she would have to. She should have been the Lady of Winterfell. That was one of the first pieces of information she remembered from her childhood. And she would be, one day. But it would be nothing like she had imagined. It was not a society of grateful savages for her to convert and civilise; the North was a country of its own, and they did not care to keep up with her. It was for her to fit in with them if she ever wanted Robb and his future siblings to thrive.

Somehow, despite all her misgivings, she forced herself down to the courtyard where she took her place next to Ned. His hand trembled. The sight made bile rise within her throat. She forced herself to breathe through it, enfolded his nearest hand within both of hers and held on tightly. Best she hold onto him now that he was about to see his lost love, and Gods how those words hurt.

He turned towards her, flashed her a look more vulnerable than any she had seen from him yet, and a strange sort of tenderness overcame her, made her squeeze his hand that much more tightly. He shuffled closer, just the faintest bit, but it was enough to let her know he was frightened too. His reasons were different from hers, of course, but somehow, although her own fears still roared through her, it reassured her as well.

Would a man who meant to shame her with his brother's betrothed look upon her with eyes like those? Would he hold her hand so tightly? Was Ned Stark, in his heart of hearts, the kind of man who would lay with his own brother's betrothed while his Lady Wife and his son and heir stayed near him? She liked to think he was not. Brandon had laughed at Ned's honour, once upon a time. All Catelyn could do, now, was hope Brandon had been right about this one thing at least.

The gates swung open and the small party rode on through. Benjen and Lady Ashara were surrounded by household guards, but once inside Winterfell they quickly broke on through their honour guard. Benjen dismounted first and turned to the rider next to him. She sat astride her horse, and Catelyn bit back a snort. Of course, Lady Ashara was Dornish. Why would she not ride her horse astride? Yet, as she looked more closely, her scorn turned to ash in the pit of her stomach. Benjen, young and slight, carefully gripped the Lady by her waist and hoisted her down from the back, blushing a deep crimson all the while. And for good reason too. Lady Ashara Dayne was more beautiful than even her own reputation. Her hair was near black and as curly as little Jonnel's. Her skin was a pleasing shade of olive, dark enough to show her origins yet fairer than most Dornishmen Catelyn had seen. She was near as tall as Benjen and slender as a willow, yet as shapely as the Maiden for all Catelyn knew that was the last thing she was. Her face bore faint lines, youthful but marked by joy and sorrow alike in a way that seemed only to enhance her beauty. And her eyes, those damnable haunting violet eyes... even Catelyn, woman as she was, could see why those eyes would haunt men to the end of their days.

Catelyn swallowed. Swallowed down her fears and hoped she would not have to swallow her pride. Even if Ned did not care for her much, even if he could ignore Robb's needs, he could not possibly find it within himself to dishonour his brother, could he? That, she would take and hold onto with both hands. He was a better man than that; he must be, from everything she had ever heard about him. He must be.

To his credit, he did not move as Benjen led Lady Ashara to his Lord Father. Ned's hand held hers in a vice-like grip as Benjen and Lady Ashara bowed before Lord Stark. Catelyn squeezed back with all her might, hoping to her Gods she conveyed support rather than fear. Benjen said something and immediately coloured. Despite her anxiety, Catelyn could not help but smile; Benjen had a gift for saying the most awkward thing at any given time. Lord Rickard guffawed in response, and Lady Ashara reached out to smooth Benjen's wild hair out of his face, to which he coloured even further. The look on Lady Ashara's face was soft, caring. Not loving, perhaps, but perhaps one day it might be. Catelyn only wished she could put her faith in that look alone.

She knew better than that. For all that Lord Arryn had looked upon Lysa with that same gaze full of care, Catelyn knew better than to hope her sister would find love in her marriage. She knew better than to think Lady Ashara looked upon Benjen with anything other than the soft gaze of an adult caring for a child barely close to grown at all. But, by the Gods, she could still hope.

Rather than do the proper thing and let Benjen's betrothal and eventual wedding happen quietly and discreetly, Lord Rickard had invited some of the closest bannermen to feast his son when he brought home his future bride. The festivities, Catelyn had to admit, confused her. Why were everyone so jovial? There was no whispering in the corners, like there might have been in Riverrun if Catelyn's own family had somehow got itself in this situation. If anything, any comments on Lady Ashara's shame were loud and open, and Lady Ashara somehow managed to roll with the punches, throwing a quip here and a sharp comment there until the North was laughing with her, rather than at her.

Everything Catelyn had ever known of propriety, it seemed, she might as well throw out the window, and it frightened her. She had known the North would be different; she was not that stupid. She had not realised just how much so, though. And as much as she would like to just keep thinking it was their barbarian nature shining through, she forced herself to stop and observe, to see the subtleties of these strange politics and games of theirs. She did not understand them, could barely even see where and when they were played, but she forced herself to keep looking. If she did not somehow learn to understand the North, how would she ever be a proper support for her darling son?

Still, it all made her feel cold and alone, oddly desolate. With a force of will she had not realised she possessed, she pushed the fear and helplessness away and focused instead on the couple to be. Young Benjen was in a seat of honour at his Lord Father's side, with the Lady Ashara seated next to him. He blushed when he looked on her, while Lord Rickard engaged her in conversation. Lady Ashara was almost infuriatingly serene through it all, as though she had forgotten her own dishonour, or did not even see it as such. When a comment and a loud guffaw from Lord Stark made Benjen slump into his chair, cheeks an even brighter red, Ashara smiled as well, and her smile seemed to light up the whole room. Then she grabbed Benjen's hand and kissed his cheek, and rather than redden further, Benjen straightened up, joined in the laughter. Catelyn could not help but wish she knew what words had been exchanged. But it had to be a good sign. She had to believe that. And Gods, what an irony it was that she had never wished any couple a happier marriage than these two.

The dancing started soon enough, and Catelyn tried to participate when the bannermen asked it of her. She wished Ned would ask her as well. She knew, from Brandon, that he did not enjoy dancing, but still, could he not have at least made a show of it? For her sake? She gave it up after only a few songs; the Northern steps were as foreign to her as everything else about this place. They were fast and chaotic, nothing like the courtly, elegant steps her Septa had taught her and Lysa back in Riverrun. She was just about to sink back into her chair when a hand settled on her shoulder. She turned around and found herself face to face with a woman of perhaps five and thirty years. She was comely, despite her age, with lively eyes and a face marked with smile lines. "Would you do me the honour of joining me for a walk, Lady Catelyn?" the woman asked, curtsying more neatly than Catelyn would have expected of any woman of the North.

Catelyn took a moment to regain her bearings, uncertain of this whole thing. She glanced over her shoulder at Ned, who looked away from whichever Cerwyn it was he had been speaking to. He cast a glance at the woman who had spoken to Catelyn and gave an almost imperceptible nod. So whoever this woman was, she was safe. Or at least Ned thought so. She looked back at the woman and plastered on her most gracious smile. "I would love to, Lady..." She trailed off and raised her eyebrow just a tad.

The woman smiled back. "Donella Hornwood, child," she said. "Born Donella Manderly. You and I have much to speak of, I believe." With that, she took Catelyn's arm in a firm grip and led her out of the feasting hall. She did not speak as they crossed the courtyard, as they passed to the very edges of the Godswood. Lady Donella, Catelyn noted, made no move to get closer to the centre and the Heart tree they both knew would stand there, watching them like a demon in the dead of night.

"I am pleased to meet you," Catelyn said at last, and she was grateful it did not come out as a sob of relief. This woman, too, must worship the Seven. She, too, must know what it was like to be surrounded be people who knelt to trees, what it was like to know she could never raise her children in the Light of the True Faith.

"I thought as much, child," Lady Donella said. "Which is why I persuaded my Lord Husband it would be worth our while to make the journey." She was quiet for a while before glancing at Catelyn. They were almost of a height, Catelyn noted, both of them tall women. "I hope it was not presumptuous of me," Lady Donella added.

Catelyn bit back a smile at the courtesy. Gods, but she had missed that up here. Even Ned, who had been raised as much in the Vale as in Winterfell, had a certain gruffness to him that grated at her, as much as she wished it would not. "Not at all, My Lady," she said.

Lady Donella graced her with another gentle smile. "In my family," she said after a while, "daughters are given a choice. We can be wed to one of our bannermen, which does our family little good. We can be wed to the South and leave the North behind, or we can wed a Northern Lord with the knowledge of what that means for our children." She gave Catelyn's arm a faint squeeze. "More choice than you were given, I imagine," she added. "I made the choice to remain. I am a Manderly, with all that entails."

Catelyn swallowed. "And what does that mean, My Lady?" she asked.

"We are Northern," Lady Donella said. "Northern to the bone. We have been here so long we have near as much blood of the First Men in our veins as everyone else. We may be a different kind of Northern. But I could no more leave the North behind than I could stop myself breathing." She paused a moment. "It might be easy for you, I imagine, to see everyone here as savages, but they are not. We are not. You just have to let yourself see it, and perhaps the North will become beautiful to you as well." She carefully guided Catelyn into sidestepping one of the sentinel trees and around the small pond. She had walked this path before, Catelyn surmised. "My family owes everything to the Starks," she said. "We never stopped being us, but we adapted. We learnt how to be both. Andal and First Men, Northern and followers of the Faith. Those of us who were born women, we learnt what it meant to install the right values in our children, even as we watch them follow their Lord Fathers to the Godswood and take paths we cannot follow."

Catelyn swallowed again, and she could not help but wonder if someone had sent Lady Donella her way or if this sweet, clever woman had simply come of her own accord. Either way, she thought she might be grateful, if only for the fact that all of a sudden, she was far less alone.

"Your son does not have to follow the Seven to be your son, or to grow to be a good man," Lady Donella said. "My hope for mine own son is that he learn to embody all the best traits of a knight, even if he is never knighted, even if he laughs upon the title of 'ser'. That he learns to be a good lord of his people. The thing that my family has long since learnt is that outside of White Harbour and our own bannermen, a Northern Lord cannot be a good Northern Lord and follow the Faith of the Seven. The North remembers too well."

Catelyn frowned. "I have heard that," she said. "'The North remembers'. What does it mean?"

Lady Donella sighed. "It means the North watched as all their cousins and allies to the South fell to the Andals, through war and marriage, and they were capable of doing nothing more than saving themselves. They are frightened of the same thing happening to them, and they carry the anger and the fear in their very souls. They are fierce, and they will not allow the same thing to happen here. They would rather overthrow the Starks than welcome a Warden of the North who worships the Seven. Do you understand, sweetling?"

Catelyn swallowed, but nodded. She could not help the bite of disappointment that made her eyes sting and her stomach burn. Still, it was not so different from what Ned had said, if more plainly stated. "How do you do it?" she asked at last. "How do you-- How do you not try to save them? How do you let your children be lost to the North without mourning them?"

"Mourn them," Donella said. "But love them more than you mourn them. And give them to the North. Let the North pay you back, and trust that it will. And do not ever try to save those who do not want saving." She was silent for a moment. Then, "My family will always remember the way the Starks welcomed us when we were banished from the Reach. We will also always remember that they were here first. This is their land, and we live here on their mercy. If we do not fit in, we are the invaders, the wrongdoers. Never them. You would do well to remember as much, My Lady." She gave a small smile. "And if it ever becomes too much, White Harbour is but a fortnight away. The Sept there is beautiful, and there are enough people in the congregation that you never have to feel alone."

Catelyn managed a smile at that. She would visit White Harbour, she decided. It would do her good. Until then, she would take Lady Donella's words and store them in her heart as she would words from the Crone herself. They would help guide her through the years to come.

Somehow, walking around Winterfell with Lady Donella, Catelyn had lost track of time to a point where the feast was dying down when she returned to the Great Hall. Benjen and Ashara had both left, as had Ned, and Catelyn could not help the sudden pang of worry that struck her at the sight of both Ned and Ashara's seats empty. Lord Rickard was still there, sitting comfortably between two of his bannermen and speaking to them with a large cup of Northern mead in hand. Catelyn ignored him. She still had no idea what to make of Lord Stark or how to act around him, but she was fairly certain he did not need her presence right now, and so she left the Great Hall and made her way into the Keep, hurrying towards the nursery. Jonnel's nursemaid, she knew, had milk enough for two babes, but Catelyn hated having to leave her son with a nursemaid for even a single meal, let alone two, which was what it was leaning towards now.

She burst into the nursery with perhaps more urgency than was truly warranted, only to stop short just past the door. Lady Ashara, of all people, was there already. She had seated herself in the rocking chair Catelyn normally used, and there was an infant in her arms. A single glance let Catelyn know it was little Jonnel, all black curls and big grey eyes. All Stark. Seeing him in Ashara's arms, Catelyn could not help but feel a strange shiver of unease, though she could not have explained what brought it on. She shrugged it off, retrieved her own darling Robb from his cradle and sat in the spare chair, carefully arranging the babe in her arms to be ready for when he would need to feed.

It did not take long for the silent space between herself and the Lady Ashara to grow awkward and painfully loaded with so many things that Catelyn did not want to ever name aloud, right from Ned and Brandon and Ashara's stillborn bastard to the future that Catelyn still found so utterly frightening, all the more so with Ashara here.

"He is a beautiful babe, is he not?" Ashara asked when what felt like half an eternity had passed. Her eyes were set on baby Jonnel, never leaving his small, chubby face.

"He is," Catelyn acknowledged. She could afford that admission. Robb was bonnier, after all; his cheeks were fuller, and Jonnel's grey, white and black colouring, for all that the North might celebrate it, paled in the face of Robb's vivid, lively colouring.

"He looks like my little girl," Ashara said, and this time it was barely above a whisper, a broken kind of voice Catelyn recognised from her own sister when she had realised her bastard was no more, would never even be born. Catelyn quelled the screams of her own morals in the back of her head, dredged up every last bit of sympathy she might feel for the woman in front of her even as she swallowed down her judgement. She would welcome Lady Ashara as Benjen's betrothed. Failing to do so... she did not want to even imagine the consequences. "He has his sister's smile, though," Ashara added, head still bowed over little Jonnel's sleeping face.

Catelyn held her tongue, did not mention how Lord Stark would hate his son being compared to a bastard; Benjen had already pointed that out in vivid detail to Catelyn, and she had since seen the papers documenting his parents' wedding and his birth. Lord Rickard might have wed that Hightower woman after she had fallen pregnant, but they had been well wed when Jonnel was born, and in the end that was all that really mattered. The idea of her little goodbrother, for all her problems with his existence, being compared to a bastard Sand did not sit quite right with her. Still, she forced herself not to comment on any of that, to not offend Lady Ashara. Best to make her feel welcome, to make her like Catelyn, lest she go after Ned again. "Did you meet the Lady Lyanna, then?"

Lady Ashara blinked, seemed almost taken aback for a moment. Then she gave a strange, tight smile. "The Tourney at Harrenhal," she said. "The She-Wolf of Winterfell was always smiling. She was very beautiful."

Catelyn swallowed. Lady Lyanna would have to have been beautiful, would she not? A war had been fought for her honour. A dynasty had been toppled in her name. That Jonnel had his lost sister's smile might endear the smallfolk to him, but Catelyn could not help but think of it as a curse. A curse which, thankfully, Robb had no part in. Still, some part of her wished she had attended that tourney, same as everyone else, that she had more than the tales of it to inform her. She did not think it would necessarily afford her a firmer footing here in the North, but oh how beautiful it must have been, and how she would have loved to watch the honourable knights joust and to listen to the Silver Prince's songs.

A babe gave a small, impatient cry, but when Catelyn looked down at Robb, he was still fast asleep. She looked over at Jonnel only to see Lady Ashara loosen her bodice and free a breast, guiding that small, hungry mouth to it. Ashara caught her gaze as Jonnel latched onto her teat, gave a small, bittersweet smile. "The maester said I should have stopped producing milk moons ago, but I never really did. If I can bring him some comfort..." She fell quiet, ran a careful finger through Jonnel's already thick, black curls.

Despite herself, Catelyn felt her heart break for this mother who had lost her babe. This lady who had lost her honour. For all that it was almost perverse for a Lady to feed another's child at her own breast, for all that she had every reason to hate Lady Ashara, Catelyn silently vowed that she would never tell anyone of what she had seen here. Little Jonnel could do with someone willing to care for him, someone more than a wet-nurse, and Ashara, it was plain to see, could do with a babe to depend on her. In spite of everything, Catelyn was loathe to take that away.

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Rickard woke up with a gasp, chest tight and his breath coming in fast and laboured. He sat up in bed, leaning his forearms against his knees as he let his head slump forwards, face coming to rest in the scarred palms of his hands. His pulse pounded like a drum in his ear and all he could see for long, terrible moments were wide eyes, bluer than ice and colder than death. He did his very best to push the nightmare away, but that was easier said than done. The dreams had been with him too long, and as the years passed forgetting them became harder and harder.

When the nightmares had first started, perhaps five and twenty years ago, when he had been little more than a boy, they had frightened him, haunted him night and day, not at all helped by Old Nan's assessment that he had the Old Blood, the blood of the Children, even if it was stunted and diluted, incomplete. He had grown used to it, and there had been a time, years and years, when he had been able to mostly ignore it, even as he worked on his contingencies, even as he tried to make allies of the rest of the realm. Ever since the Rebellion, though, the nightmares had come back with a vengeance, haunting him like some savage beast that had tasted blood after it had been deprived for years. It ate and tore at him, made him wake up drained and shaky, full of a fear he had thought he had long outgrown.

He sucked in a sharp breath, forced himself to focus on the dream, pull it out of that sleeping world of nightmares and into a place where he could evaluate it, eliminate it. He endeavoured to ignore those hungry, dead eyes; dead things did not walk, nor fight, nor kill. He was no superstitious fool, and whatever lurked in the far North, it was not this. He made himself remember what else he had seen.

A man, lean and strong, Stark black curls framing his long face, a flaming sword raised against his enemies.

Rickard squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed the flesh around them even as he dragged himself out of bed, wrapped his body in a robe and stuck his feet into a pair of slippers. He had listened too much to Old Nan's tales as a boy, if he were dreaming of the Long Night and the War for the Dawn. He left his chambers and walked down the halls of the Great Keep. He reached the nursery in what still felt like half a daze, pushed the door open and walked inside. He let out a breath of relief when he saw the babes, healthy and unharmed. Without quite knowing why, he picked up Jonnel, held the dark-haired babe to his chest before letting himself slump into the rocking chair, eyes stuck on his sweet grandson. It took several moments before he realised Lyanna's darling boy was awake, looking up at him with wide, serene grey eyes.

Rickard reached out with a still trembling hand and carefully stroked his fingers through the babe's fledging curls, breathed in his scent, let the warmth of that tiny, fragile body bleed into him, bleed away his nightmares. He forced a smile onto his face, poked Jonnel's nose with the tip of his forefinger. The babe scrunched up his entire little face before letting out a babbling giggle. Something like peace settled into Rickard's bones. He knew better than to think it would last, but for now he grasped it and held onto it with both hands.

The door opened behind him and he heard the soft, determined footsteps he recognised immediately as belonging to Maester Walys. "My Lord," the maester said, chain clanging. "You seem troubled. I can get you some sweetsleep if you would like."

Rickard shook his head. He had accepted sweetsleep so often from Maester Walys. Too often. He had shared his fears with the man, listened to his advice. Not as much, he suspected, as Walys would have liked, but perhaps still too much. He swallowed down the sudden taste of bile. It was because of Maester Walys' council that Ned had been brought up in the Vale, and was now an ignorant heir to Winterfell. It was because of Walys that Rickard had promised his wild, sweet Lyanna to the Stormlands. It was because Rickard had been fool enough to listen to the maester that his daughter had run. Had died.

It was painfully clear, all of a sudden. For all Rickard did not know the man's intentions or motives, he could see all the ways Maester Walys had taken advantage of him, had taken his confidences and turned them against him. Rickard, deprived of his wife as he had been, had confided in his young, clever, comforting rock of a maester, had listened to his advice, and what had it brought him? Two dead children, a realm in chaos, a gooddaughter he could not trust, and not much more faith in his allies than he had had beforehand.

Doubt struck at him. Was he only looking for a scapegoat? Perhaps he was. But the fact of the matter was that whatever his intentions, Walys had led him down a path that had gained him little and could very easily have cost him everything. And Ned's wife, she had begged so sweetly for the maester she had grown up with. Rickard could not, would not, give her the sept and the Septa she so longed for, but perhaps he could give her something else. "Leave me," he instructed before turning his gaze back to his grandson, his son, showing Walys his back. He would send the letters on the morrow, requesting the reassignments. If Walys truly had been the caring, faithful servant he had seemed, he would forgive Rickard. If not, this would all be for the best.

Jonnel grinned up at him, displaying four tiny teeth and a pair of wide, grey eyes, and Rickard held him close. He would do it right this time around, would raise at least one child right, Gods help him. He owed Lyanna that much, for what he had doomed her to.

"Yes, My Lord," Maester Walys said, his Oldtown dialect suddenly grating on Rickard's ears.

"Your Grace," Arthur Dayne called, even as he stepped into her solar in their rented villa in Lys. "Your Grace, my Lady Sister wrote me," he told her, and he was shining like a sun, all joy and pride despite the losses he - all of them - had gone through. Yet Rhaella ignored all that, because Lady Ashara was in the North, was to be wed to the North. If anyone could send them word of Rhaella's grandbabe it would be her.

Chapter Text

I am very sorry to have to tell you all that this story will not be continued, at least not by me. It is up for adoption, if anyone is interested. I only posted it because I went back through some of the comments on Dragonstone and realised there was definitely a demand on seeing even some of what I wrote back then. I'll tell you some of the ideas I had of the further plot below. Some of them don't really fit together, but that's mainly because I never quite figured out the ending.

First off I should add, that this story came to be in part because I kind of maybe wanted to explore what Jon would've been like if he had never been known as a bastard to anyone, including himself. The other thing that spawned the idea was several comments I got while I was writing and posting Dragonstone that amounted to 'is anyone going to tell him, or will he discover it all for himself once he finds his arse sat on the Iron Throne with no clue how he got there?'. Basically, the idea is that Viserys takes the Iron Throne for Jon and Jon has absolutely no idea what's going on. Of course, if anyone adopts the story, feel free to only use the beginning and ignore the rest of my cracky ideas.

A quick note: I know Viserys's age here is different from canon. That is a remnant of an idea of mine to make some of the older young characters in canon a bit younger in general. See Asha Greyjoy.

Either way, here are some of my thoughts of where things could go from here:

- Jon is far more confident than in canon, having never had to deal with his bastard status. He is also more wolf blooded than he seems in canon, where he has repressed it in favour of being as much like Ned as he possibly can (Hulk like strength and flashes of rage are already canon for him. Here, the wildness would be more evident)
- Rickard really does do his best to raise Jon well and takes a great portion of his education upon himself, having dealt with Brandon before and wanting to do things right at least once
- Ned and Catelyn know an embarrassingly small amount of Northern history and still name their daughter Sansa. Once a still quite young Jonnel realises the implications of being a Jonnel with a 'half-niece' named Sansa, he insists on being called Jon, and nothing else
- The North and the Reach maintain close ties, since only Rickard, Ned, Benjen and Gerold Hightower actually know the truth. Following the war, the Hightowers and Tyrells want to ingratiate themselves with the winning side, and the Starks seem to be their way back into favour
- Robert/Cersei and Cersei/Jaime proceeds as in canon
- Ned and Catelyn's kids are raised far more Northern than they were in canon. Ned, too, eventually learns to be a bit less rigid in his honour. Rickard living and teaching him has to bear some kind of fruit after all
- The Greyjoy Rebellion proceeds as in canon, but Rickard is a bit more shrewd than either Ned, Robert or anyone else and realises Balon might just make Asha/Yara his heir instead (Rickard would've done just that in his shoes)

(This sparks off one idea I had for a storyline:
- Asha is brought to Winterfell; Theon is brought elsewhere
- Asha grows up with Jon and Robb, and is especially close with Jon
- Once they (particularly Jon, who is still a few years younger), reach their teens, Jon and Asha experiment and Asha gets pregnant (I found the idea of Jon not being a bastard and not having his canon reservations leading to him having a bastard of his own absolutely hilarious)
- For a bit, Jon and Asha are betrothed
- Asha, who still dreams of being a captain of her own ship, breaks the betrothal (she and Jon aren't actually in love anyway)
- Theon stomps in, demands a duel for his sister's honour, and Jon accidentally kills him
- Because of the no-no of harming a hostage whose father has done no new wrong (yet), Jon is banished from the North
- Asha wants nothing to do with the bastard daughter whose father killed her brother, so she's sent to be with Jon
(- There might be another war with the Iron Islands, which ends in Rodrik Harlaw being in power, which, yay, more moderate Iron Islands :D )
- Jon goes to his family in the Reach and stays at Highgarden and/or Oldtown for a while, but his daughter isn't treated very well there, so he moves on
- Dorne has intel, and he's invited to Sunspear
- This storyline ends in Jon/Arianne, and would probably have had me change Jon's Targaryen name to Daeron because I'm a nerd like that)

On the other side of the Narrow Sea:
- Rhaella and her kids live with the Kingsguard and some Dragonstone servants either in Lys or Volantis. They involve themselves in some kind of trade to keep the coffers full
- Viserys and Dany are raised by Rhaella and the Kingsguard to be loyal to their nephew (Viserys, with his mother and without the weight of a crown, never goes mad)
- There are attempts at creating betrothals with some of the major Houses in Westeros to play the game (Jon may or may not unwittingly break those, see above)
- Rhaella gets in touch with Jon Connington early on and secures his loyalty
- They get the Golden Company and possibly other allies
- It's all very political
- In the end, Viserys is the one to actually take the Iron Throne. He could've claimed it for himself, but it's his nephew's, so he sends for Jon instead

Pairings:
The fun one: Jon/Arianne (already explained above)
The easy one: Jon/Margaery (might of the Reach. He probably shouldn't have any bastards in this scenario, though)
The sensible one: Jon/Shireen (even in canon, if she survives, this pairing makes more political sense than any others. Two warring Houses who both have a 'right' to the throne? Marriage time)
The philosophical one: Jon/Allyria Dayne. Well, just take a look at the history between the Starks, the Targaryens and the Daynes, and remember that Maester Aemon 'love is the death of duty' Targaryen is half a Dayne himself.
The philosophical sad/happy one: Jon/Shireen, Jon/Allyria (Jon and Allyria somehow meet in their youth and fall in love, but Jon weds Shireen for duty and stays long enough to get heirs and secure the Seven Kingdoms (mirroring Ned) before faking his death and leaving with Allyria (mirroring Rhaegar). I find the Stark/Dayne/Targaryen and the Stark/Baratheon/Targaryen historical dynamics very fascinating)

I probably wouldn't have gone with anything involving Allyria, though, since we know so little about her she might as well be an OC, and I am vehemently against pairing a random OC with the existing main character in any kind of fanfiction.

Anyway, those were my bottled down thoughts on where this story might've gone. So why did I never finish it? Because it is such high time for me to focus on my own original fiction. I can't keep getting fanfiction ideas and striving to finish all those stories when my true wish has always been to write my own stories and create my own worlds, so I decided to focus on my own stories instead. If anyone is remotely interested in that, though (and I remember some commenters from Dragonstone were), please read the next 'chapter'

Chapter Text

After the Kingdom of Lesnar loses their years-long war against the Kingdom of Baragsen, Princess Faraline is sent south to serve as a hostage. The Baragsene court is foreign and unwelcoming, and not everyone wants peace. Fara is the only person standing between peace and another war, and if she can't figure out who is trying to kill her, she will die and the continent will fall back into chaos.

Third Child is in some ways the usual fantasy story, and in some ways it's very much not so. The story is told on a smaller, more personal scale, with just one narrator, although the consequences are far larger than just one person. It's an old idea of mine that I have finally refined to a point where I can't do anything else without help, and I desperately need that help.

I realise I could just pay a professional editor to help me out, but I have several reasons why I would rather avoid that:
1) As much as I don't regret my trip to Guatemala earlier this year, it has left me damn near broke
2) I find that I learn more through discussion, between myself and others, and through watching others discuss amongst themselves, than I do from simply getting a document with a few notes.
3) Not all the things I need help with fall under an editor's purview.

Let me elaborate on that last one. I tend to be a bit of a minimalist writer. I care about world-building, very much so, but not all aspects of it are easy to me. So rather than just a straight-up edit job, what I need are also people who really enjoy fantasy, immersing themselves in other worlds and all that comes with it. I need help polishing off the world-building and refining the lore weaving and everything to do with that.

So, what do I need?
- People to help with world building and lore weaving (this is not a regular beta job. It doesn't matter if you can't spell to save your life, or if you're too detail oriented to help with larger plot points. Your help will still be valued)
- Line editors (people who are brilliant at grammar and spelling and enjoy sifting through long bits of text and pointing out every single error)
- Avid readers who just love reading and giving their honest reactions as well as long, in-depth comments with plenty of constructive criticism to really help me make this story the best it possibly can be
- Plot editors, who will help me figure out where things don't make sense and where I have gone wrong and made the plot as solid as Swiss cheese
- People who can do things other than this to help me out, even if I have currently forgotten that aspect of things
- Any combination of the above

If any of that sounds like you and you'd like to help me out, please create a user on forumotion.com and put your handle in the comments below, and I'll send you an invite to the discussion board I created for all this. It takes a small village to finish a novel, and I am desperately searching for mine.

If you are not interested in helping with the editing process, but would like to read the finished book once it's published, please put your email in the comments below, and I'll put you on a mailing list so you'll know as soon as the book is out.

Thank you so much for sticking with me through all my notoriously long author's notes. I really appreciate it :D