Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.”  
      —Jane Austen, Persuasion

On the night Ned finally came home, he had been gone from Winterfell above a month and there had been no word for all that time. No letter, no hastily scrawled lines entrusted to a footman who might have been slow to post them—nothing. Catelyn’s nails were bitten down to the quick.

Ned had left on horseback but returned driving a coach. This in itself was unusual; Catelyn suspected her husband had been born on four hooves and only walked on two feet with great reluctance. In the torchlight and upheaval of his arrival she saw that the carriage had a roof, which was the most that could be said for it. The pair of horses that drew it were not well matched. Catelyn wondered where Ned had got the other horse, and if he meant to keep it. She had plenty of time for wondering while she waited for him in her dressing-room.

Her first instinct had been to run down to the yard and fly into his arms and beat her fists against his chest until he explained his absence to her satisfaction, but she was Hoster Tully’s daughter and there were some things you did not say in front of servants. Cat had let her household believe that the young Earl of Winterfell had departed in haste to perform a secret errand to which she, the countess, was privy but not at liberty to discuss, and belowstairs there was lively speculation on the nature of his errand, and who had commissioned it (the Prince Regent of Dragonstone? the king himself?). Catelyn was worn thin by the grueling ordeal of hiding her anxiety from the servants.

She decided that waiting for Ned to come to her was good. It allowed her a moment to collect herself.

When the maid came to tend to the fire Catelyn could not stop the question crawling out of her throat, dry with anticipation, “Is Lord Eddard quite finished in the stables?” He would want to rub the horses down himself. He always did, and after a long journey he was doubly solicitous of the creatures.

“Why, his lordship’s in the nursery, m’lady.”

“The nursery,” said Catelyn.

Of course. Robb must be twice as big as he was when Ned last saw him.

Yet the more Catelyn thought about it, the less likely it struck her that Ned Stark, doting father that he was, would prioritize a sleeping babe over allaying the fears of an agitated wife. Ned had his faults, but thoughtless cruelty was not among them. Catelyn’s mind returned to the coach Ned had driven home in, and what it signified.

She heard him rap smartly on the door—she knew his knock as she knew his tread—and then he was before her, apologizing for not changing out of his traveling attire.

“Never mind that,” she whispered into his neck. Every particle of dust that he shed was proof of his impatience to see her.

“Cat, there are things we must discuss.”

“In a moment. Promise me this—promise you won’t do it again. Whatever called you away this time, I know nothing but great exigency could have prompted you to act as you did. I know you for a man of honor, Ned. But if you repeat this performance I fear my nerves will give out. You’ll have to put me in the madhouse and find yourself a new wife.”

Ned smiled at that, but a shadow lurked in his eyes. “Be easy, my love. The circumstances are not like to repeat. I promise never to keep you in the dark again.”

It was then that Catelyn’s heart resumed its regular rhythm after a monthlong hiatus. She had expected it to be harder to extract such a promise, but Ned had given it with all the good will in the world. Which was confirmation, if she had needed it, that Ned was one man in a thousand and she had been right to choose him. Here was the truth that Catelyn had learned early and often, and which Lysa, with her head in the clouds, never had: Men would disappoint you, as sure as water flowed downstream. You had no control over it; they went out and did whatever they pleased while women were confined to the domestic sphere. You could not prevent the disappointment, but you could regulate your own response to it.

Catelyn took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about the babe.”

“How—“ Ned started, alarm turning at once to ire. “Who has been telling you about the babe?”

“Nobody,” she replied with perfect truth. “You didn’t marry me because I’m dull of wit. It’s Brandon’s, isn’t it?”

She had been counting back the months since Brandon was lost at sea. It fit with what she knew of Brandon’s character—she had been engaged to him, once—and it fit with what she knew of Ned’s. Only, why all the secrecy? Why leave Catelyn without a word of reassurance, why leave her in suspense for weeks? Why was Ned so reluctant to speak of it even now, when she had guessed the worst? Every word that passed his lips was like passing kidney stones. He said stiffly, “You have a right to know that I have undertaken to raise the boy as my ward.”

The blow was not the news so much as the manner in which he delivered it: You have a right to know, but no right to partake of the decision. Catelyn was not to be consulted. Catelyn’s wishes did not enter into it at all. She had not failed to notice, either, that Ned did not comment on whether the child was Brandon’s or not. “You know what they will say, Ned. They’ll say it’s yours.”

“That is a risk I must take.”

“You must take! I daresay you also undertake to raise him without my assistance? Right here under my own roof? If you are holding back out of consideration for my feelings, pray recall that I knew exactly who Brandon was when I accepted his suit. All I am asking is that you tell me if this child whom you propose to rear alongside ours is your brother’s by-blow. That you do not wish folk to think ill of Brandon is commendable, but if anyone has a right to know, surely it is the person most nearly concerned. I am not only your wife but the woman he jilted. Please, Ned, give me the truth.”

He stopped stroking her hair long enough to utter a strangled, “I can’t. I wish I could.”

“Just tell me it’s not yours,” she implored him. “Tell me you did not father that child who lies in the nursery beside Robb. Whatever you say now will not leave this room, I swear it.”

“I made a promise,” was all that Ned would say, and why did he have to look so pitiful as he said it that her heart went out to him. “I can’t. Some promises supersede all others.”

“You made a promise to whom? Brandon is dead these fourteen months. Did you know about this babe before he—no, of course you didn’t. You’re a terrible liar.” No-one could have been more shocked than Ned when the courier had arrived with the letter: He had hardly cracked open the seal before he had called for his horse to be saddled. He must have known the letter-writer’s hand very well indeed. Catelyn said slowly, “You had no doubt whatsoever as to the authenticity of the contents, did you? And you refused to take a groom, or your valet, or anyone at all.” Secrecy had been utmost in Ned’s mind even then.

“I took Howland.”

“Where is Howland now?”

“Left him at Greywater Watch on the way back.”

On the way back from the South, he meant, but Catelyn had already deduced as much. If Brandon Stark was sowing wild oats in the North they would have heard of it before now.

“Cat,” said Ned, wearier than she had ever seen him, “I will never lie to you.”

“I had no notion you were required to,” she returned acidly.

“Honor requires my silence on this matter,” he said, “but I mislike it. Truly I am loath to keep anything from you but a promise is a promise. The child is of my blood—one look could tell you as much. There are things I cannot speak of, and I have no right—I don’t expect you to forgive my abominable behavior—but on account of the love you bear me, I beg you to let it go. Press as hard as you like, it will do no good; it will only hurt me. I beg you will accept the only truth I can freely offer you: I have loved none but you.”

Damn him. Damn him for being the most decent of man, and damn him for loving her so well. She took his rough hand between her small dainty ones and said, “He has the Stark look, does this babe? Well, the next one of ours will have it too.”

“That is a promise, Lady Stark?” asked Ned, eyes sparking.

“A promise I am confident I can keep.” After all, Brandon and Ned and Benjen all had it, grey eyes and long face and dark hair. Even Lyanna, whom Catelyn knew only by reputation—a scandalous reputation; it was said that Lyanna had fled an engagement which was distasteful to her—Lyanna had had the Stark look too. A regular herd of centaurs, these Starks, thought Catelyn with fond irritation. She had given her husband an heir but it would be sweet, would it not, to give him a child who bore the unmistakable stamp of Starkness. Mayhap the next child would even be as horse-mad as its father.

Jon Snow grew up wanting for nothing except a name.

In the North “Snow” was a surname as common as “Smith,” and with as little cachet. It might mean he was the son of a chandler; it might mean he was a royal bastard. He didn’t, in fact, entertain dreams of a secret royal parentage, as he knew many boys in his position did: Other boys lived in orphanages, or were fostered to households that treated them like the hired help. Jon Snow had a family, and he wouldn’t exchange it for any other. Yes, Lady Catelyn was cold. But Arya’s warmth made up for it.

Eddard Stark was a man whom Jon both loved and respected—he did not think he would ever meet a better one—and Robb was the best brother a boy could ask for. The only difference was Robb called him Papa and Jon called him my lord. While Jon had never troubled himself about where his next meal was to come from, or if he would have clothes to wear or a place to sleep (he had read his share of novels about orphans), what preyed on him was his place in the world. Namely, that he didn’t have one. Lord Eddard had ensured he received the same education as Robb, but what he was going to do with a headful of poetry and geography was another matter—if he went into trade, for example, it would be scant help. Robb had privately expressed the wish to buy Jon a commission in the Prince of Dragonstone’s newly formed Navy “as soon as we are both of age,” and that was the thread on which Jon had pinned all his hopes. It was not a boon he felt he could ask of Lord Eddard, to whom he already owed more than he could ever repay, but Robb was different. A gift from Robb was a thing he might someday, conceivably, reciprocate.

Robb and Jon were enduring their third lecture of the week on the declension of Old Valyrian nouns when Turnip the scullery maid popped into the schoolroom to bob a curtsey and say, “Begging your pardon for the interruption, Mr. Luwin, but it’s Lady Arya. She’s gone and barricaded herself in the library again.”

“When did this happen?” demanded Jon at the same time as Robb said, “Does my mother know?”

“The countess is overseeing the work on the topiary hedge.” Jon let out a relieved breath, and Turnip continued, “It happened just now—Old Nan sent me straightaway.”

Robb and Jon had both scraped back their chairs, but Mr. Luwin said, “I do not see that this crisis requires both of you boys to resolve. We have lessons to finish,” looking pointedly at Robb, the heir. Also the one whose declensions and conjugations required attention.

Robb sat down with a thump. “Don’t let her get inside the china cabinet this time!” he hollered after Jon.

Jon took the stairs two at a time. He found Old Nan pacing back and forth before the library doors. “I almost mistook you for a dragon,” he teased, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“A dragon that’s lost half its hoard, belike! Oh, the countess was right—the girls are old enough for a governess. I can’t manage them on my own, what with the baby to look after too.”

“Why don’t you go and help Sansa with her sewing, Nan? You did right to send for me.”

“I couldn’t stop her. You know how she is—quicker than a snake.”

If Arya was a snake, Jon was confident in his ability to charm her out of a tree or a scrape or whatever pile of trouble she’d landed herself in. In his twelve years there were few enough personal triumphs that Jon could with justice lay claim to, but there had never been any doubt in his mind that he was Arya’s favorite person. “You may as well go,” he told Old Nan. “I have this well in hand.”

Nan fled for the nursery, and Jon rapped on the heavy oak door. “It’s me.”

“Go ‘way,” came the muffled response.

“Are you crying, little one?”

“No.” That was Arya’s first and favorite word: No. It preceded both Mama and Jon.

“I’ll wait out here then. Will you keep me waiting all day?”

A series of sniffles. “Don’t you have lessons?”

“Robb has lessons—Old Valyrian lessons. Dull as dust. I’d much rather go riding with you.”

A note of wistfulness crept into Arya’s voice. “Mama said I’m not to go near the stables till I finish my copybook. Why can’t I study Old Valyrian with you and Robb?”

“You must master your letters before you start on the dead languages,” smiled Jon.

“I hate making letters! Mine look like chicken poop, and Old Nan’s always saying Sansa how learned her letters when she was six, and I’m seven now!”

Jon silently clucked his disapproval of Old Nan, who should know better than to make unfavorable comparisons to Sansa.

Arya was not done airing her grievances. “I want Papa to teach me my letters. He promised, and then he went away to the as—assi—“

“Assizes,” Jon finished for her. Lord Eddard had been called to King’s Landing for the opening of Parliament. The session would last for some weeks yet. “Listen. How would you like it if I taught you your letters?”

If Arya was a horse her ears would have pricked forward. Jon could tell, even from the far side of a closed door. She said hopefully, “And then you’ll teach me Old Valyrian?”

“We’ll study my books together.”

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and hinges creaking open. Arya gazed up at him, cry-red eyes rimmed in tears shed and unshed. He knelt down to gather her into a hug. “I’m in so much trouble,” she mumbled into his chest. “When Mama finds out…”

“She shan’t,” said Jon, firmly. “And by the time she does, we’ll have you writing a fairer hand than any maester of the Citadel. She will have nothing to chastise you for.”

The problem, as it often was with Arya, was lack of proper motivation. She could not see the point of taking such pains to form her letters when the reward for doing so was so murky and uncertain.

“Think of it!” said Jon encouragingly. “You could write letters.”

“To who?” wondered Arya.

“Well, wouldn’t you like to write to me?”

“I see you every day.”

“Yes, but what about when I leave for school?”

“School,” said Arya, rolling the world around like the pit of a fruit she had swallowed whole. She was sitting down at her little writing desk, elbows akimbo. Her legs did not quite reach the floor and she kicked one back and forth.

Jon pushed the inkwell towards her. “When Robb goes, I go too. If you don’t write me at least once a week I don’t know how I shall bear it.”

“Once a day,” pouted Arya.

He glanced meaningfully at the quill.

With great reluctance she picked it up, and Jon frowned. “Why are you holding it in that hand?”

“It’s the hand you write with,” said Arya, and she didn’t add stupid aloud but he could hear it just the same.

“It’s the hand I write with. Your left hand is your dominant one.”

“Domi—huh?”

“It’s the one you hold your fork with.”

“But everyone holds their pen in this hand! Whenever Old Nan or Mama catch me they make me switch hands.”

Jon was beginning to get an inkling why Arya’s lessons were each and every one an ordeal. “If you were on your pony and you needed to keep one hand free, which hand would you hold the reins in?”

“The right.”

“Because your left is the one you do things with. You keep your right hand on the reins because it’s automatic—you have a good enough seat you could probably ride blindfolded, bareback and reinless, I warrant.”

She beamed at the compliment. “Do you think so?” Then a cloud passed over her bright upturned face. “Mama will never agree to it. I heard her telling Old Nan to keep an eye on me. Don’t want the new governess to see me holding the quill in my left hand like a barbarian.”

Something turned over in Jon’s chest. “You’re left-handed, Arya. There’s no changing that. I’ll speak to the countess about it.”

“That will only make it worse! Mama always takes a pet against your ideas. It shan’t work, and she’ll give you a set-down while she’s at it. She’ll tell you it isn’t your place to interfere in my education. I don’t like it when my Mama hurts you, Jon.”

His heart seemed to expand to twice its usual size. “I know,” he said, and reached over to muss her hair. “The suggestion cannot come from me. But what if it came from Robb? What if Robb…noticed your difficulties, and consulted Mr. Luwin, who produced a long list of prominent left-handed luminaries stretching back to the Andals and the First Men, and perhaps a new ink blotter to help you avoid smudging the parchment? How do you think your mother would take that?”

“Yes, that would work! That’s brilliant.” But she was chewing her lip again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Robb would not have noticed. Not on his own. Oh, I might have gone to him and he’d not have rested until he’d set matters to rights. But he wouldn’t have noticed, the way you noticed. I wish Mama did not dislike you. I wish you were my brother for true.”

It was the most unaffected yet profound thing that anyone had ever said to him. Jon was perennially wary of usurping Robb’s fraternal prerogatives; he did not wish to give Lady Catelyn any more ballast than she already had. But this was Arya: Her first word may have been No but her second one was Jon.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said, making his voice low and conspirational. He checked to ensure he had re-bolted the door against interruptions. “We’ll make it real. From now on I’ll call you ‘little sister’ —when we’re alone, at any rate. How would you like that?”

Arya’s eyes were shining like stars. “Really? You would?” She clapped her hands together, delighted. “That’s the best idea ever! And it doesn’t just have to be when we’re alone. Robb never calls me that—I know he’d be a sport about it.”

Jon considered. “What does he call you?”

“‘Little demon,’” she admitted with a duck of her chin. “And Sansa calls me a nuisance.”

Sansa would. “It’s settled then. Let’s finish your copybook before we lose the light. I want to go riding with my little sister.”