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The years had not been kind to Robert, in more ways than just the girth of his sword belt or the heavy grooves lining his eyes and face, the puffy redness from drink in his wide cheeks, and the gray that stood out in his once raven-black hair. The animosity, the hatred, the jealousy, it was still there, for him and for them. It was as if he had stewed for the last sixteen years in his grief and had built up the Targaryens to be greater foes than they ever were, into demonic creatures Old Nan used to warn him about, who came from the shadows and the ice fields to steal his soul and warmth.
Ned understood his position very well, he always had. He was the second son, meant to marry perhaps for love, to choose his position within the household, an advisor to his brother who would be the Lord of Winterfell, able to spend time with his children whenever he pleased, and perhaps even his lady wife. Perhaps even someone as lovely as Ashara Dayne, should he ever get the courage to ask her to dance, and then he never did, and Brandon did, and possibly even ruined her, because that was what Brandon did.
And when he became the Lord of Winterfell, because Brandon had done a foolish, foolish thing and challenged the Mad King outright and their father had trusted in honor and dignity, forgetting the man he was negotiating with had neither, Ned learned his new position and he understood it. He did what was expected and he followed the codes, he married Lady Catelyn Tully, he defended his family name, and he sought to recover his kidnapped sister and restore the realm to the peace it had not seen since Aerys Targaryen became King.
Or so he thought.
He slid his gaze sideways, watching Robert guzzle his drinking horn, ale spilling over the rim and into his unkempt beard, to drip onto his extended stomach. He once envied his best friend, when they were boys in the Eyrie, for Robert was always better at everything he did, sometimes without even trying. With women and fighting, at least. In those days that was all that mattered.
Now he saw his best friend for what he had become, what he’d allowed that hate and grief to do to him, destroying him. He might have been naïve and shy as a boy, but he also did not pretend to believe his best friend was anything different. He tried, when Lyanna had been upset and resigned to her marriage pact, to cheer her and try to get her to see that Robert was a good match, the Lord of Storm’s End, the descendant of some of the greatest fighters, lords, and even Hands of the King there ever was. He dared to even suggest that the Baratheons were related to the Targaryens, that there was maybe even king’s blood within Robert, if that was what Lyanna might fancy.
She laughed at him, patted his cheek, her beautiful smile curving into a twisted sneer. “Oh darling Ned, you are sweet, but I am not stupid. He will betray me for he talks of loving me. He wants me because I am just another trophy he can display in his great halls at feasts and another conquest to boast.” And then she had gazed away from him, somewhere far away, in her head, and murmured: “And if I wanted king’s blood, there are others out there who are true kings.”
He hadn’t understood what that meant at the time.
Robert belched loudly, bringing him from his brooding, returning them to the field on the side of the Kingsroad, where they had just been discussing the Targaryen girl. He was raving about Rhaegar again, his eyes glassy and the drink coming faster now, the horn refilling, practically of its own accord. Ned tried to signal to the squire to cease filling the horn, but it was no use, either the boy did not understand his hand movements or else he feared Robert’s wrath more.
Smart boy, Ned figured, if that was the case.
He shifted in his seat, his furs growing uncomfortably heavy and warm, the farther south they went. He had not been to the South since he left it the first time, after the sack of King’s Landing, the dead king at Jamie Lannister’s feet and the red shrouds of Rhaegar’s children wrapped at Robert’s feet. He said prayers for those babes, when he returned to Winterfell and spent days in the godswood, praying for his sins and his faults, begging the gods for assistance in his new role as Warden of the North, and for guidance in what he had done.
Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw those bloody shrouds, so tiny and light when he touched them, their blood as red as his.
Their blood the same that pulsed inside the child who slept peacefully in a cradle, mere feet away from him.
And every time he saw that child’s face, he saw the shrouds and he saw his sister, and he saw the bloody linens beneath her, and he heard her voice, faint and whispery, begging.
Promise me Ned, promise me.
“Ned!”
He blinked hard, returning to the field again. “Apologies, Your Grace,” he mumbled. He feigned the heat, like a fucking maiden. “The farther South we go, the hotter it gets…the worse it stinks.”
Robert guffawed, agreeing, and drinking deeper. He slammed the horn down on the table beside them, belching again and pointing a thick finger at him. “You understand, you know what I need to do.”
“Do?”
“I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on until they are as dead as their dragons.”
The same sentiment he repeated, each and every time the Targaryens were mentioned. Ned remembered his sons, laughing and running in the yard, pretending to be Targaryens. Daeron the Young Dragon and Aemon the Dragonknight, able to recite their dragon names and riders faster than they could their sums, and Arya’s preoccupation with Visenya the Dragon Queen, the warrior with her blade Dark Sister.
He shifted again, dropping his hand to the table, trying to temper Robert’s increasing ire. He had been drinking so much, there was no telling how this could go. He was consumed, seeing nothing but Rhaegar. Long dead, body crumpled in the Trident, and forgotten to history, and yet it was all Robert could think about. “They are on the far side of the Narrow Sea, in Essos, they are no threat to you.”
“He has married the little bitch to a Dothraki horde, for 40,000 of their men.”
“You have a hundred thousand men and more at your disposal.” He did not think to say that the Dothraki did not ride their horses across the sea. From what little he knew of the tribal horse lords; they feared the sea for it was salty unlike the fresh waters of the rivers and lakes in Essos. He wondered if Viserys Targaryen had thought of that. He had seen the child only once in his life, a thin, sallow-faced child, terrified of his shadow and clinging to his mother’s skirts.
To believe that that child was the rightful king, that anyone would follow him, it was laughable.
He shifted again, wishing they could get off this topic. “It does not matter Your Grace; they are no threat to you.”
“I want them all dead. An alive dragon is still a threat to me.”
“There are no Targaryen sympathizers, they are all at the Wall, taken the Black, or dead.” Or pledged to you, he figured, but did not say.
The king did not listen, staring into space, mumbling. “I won the war, but Rhaegar won. He got her, she’s dead and so is he, and now I have nothing.”
“You have the Seven Kingdoms. You have a strong son.” He wasn’t sure about Joffrey Baratheon, who took to after his mother, and had nothing of the strength that he remembered in Robert at that age. He chuckled. “You have a beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms as your wife.”
Robert snorted. “Careful Ned, don’t let Cat hear that.”
He tried to smile, but he was already doing what he knew he had to do, as the Hand. Temper the King’s moods, so to speak. He already hated it, his stomach curdling in his belly, from the fine foods and drink, and remembering his vows, his honor and code. “Lyanna is at peace now,” he murmured, not wishing to speak more of her than they absolutely had to.
For when he spoke of Lyanna, his heart ached, and his shame heightened. His regret threatened to consume him and he could not afford to have that happen now. They were too far from a godswood. He would need to simply pray in silence in the comfort of his tent when they bedded down for the evening.
Robert clutched the horn tighter, his knuckles going white. “I want them gone. Every last one of them, so they pay.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth. “You can’t get your hands on this one, can you?”
Roaring laughter, he shook his head, glaring at him. “No, I cannot, and you know I need to finish the hunt.” He slammed the horn down again, ale sloshing within it, and the squire hurried over to refill the cup. He drew it up towards his mouth once it was refilled and took a gulp, laughing again, maniacal. “This is just another hunt Ned. I want their heads mounted on my wall. For all to see, so there is never any question about my rule, about who won in the end.” He grinned, his teeth yellowed, cracked. “And then the histories will tell that it was Robert Baratheon who ended the great dynastic dragon line.”
And he stood, swaying, shouting for someone to get him a woman and stumbled off towards the woods, screaming something about needing a piss first.
Ned sat, rooted in his seat, and closed his eyes.
His fingers closed in a fist, resting on his knee, and he tried not to see what he saw. A bloody bed. Lyanna dead. A crying babe. Red shrouds. Dark hair. Gray eyes. Indigo eyes.
His son. His nephew. His son. His nephew.
”He’s a bastard, Ned! He should not be training with our son! With the future Lord!”
”So it seems even the great, honorable Ned Stark has a chink in his armor, betraying his marriage vows, who was the woman that could make you do that?”
”Father, am I a bastard? I look like Jon and not like the others and he is one, so am I?”
”Promise me, Ned.”
”Is she alive, does she know about me?”
”As dead as their dragons.”
Jon.
”As dead as their dragons.”
Jon Snow.
”As dead as their dragons.”
”His name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen.”
”As dead as their dragons.”
Jon.
Jon.
Jon.
“Ned!”
He gasped, lurching up to his feet, staring at Robert, who had stumbled out of the woods, fixing up the laces on his breeches, not a care in the world for decorum. He bowed his head, Robert tripping to him, unable to fix his own breeches after a piss because he was so drunk. “Your Grace.”
Robert frowned at him. “Get some rest Ned. We’ll talk later.” He scowled. “I need a fuck now.” He waved his hand, turning and stumbling away.
It left Ned in place again, in that field, forcing away his thoughts, memories, and his shame.
As dead as their dragons.
He took a deep breath and turned to the woods, finding the largest tree it could find in the area, a small quiet little space, and knelt before it, his hand touching the gnarled root. It was not a weirwood, but it would do, and he closed his eyes, and he thought about his son. He thought about Jon, on his way to the Wall, the safest place in the world for him now. The days at Winterfell, with Robert there, had terrified him and he was grateful Jon had kept scarce, ostensibly not to offend the king or queen with his presence, but because he did not what Robert to notice anything.
To notice that Jon’s hair had the same curl as Lyanna, not the straight locks of the other Starks.
To notice that Jon’s cheeks ahd the same high arch as the Targaryens.
To notice that Jon’s eyes were not as gray as smoke, like the Starks, but almost black, maybe even indigo, like his father.
To notice that he was not a bastard. He was a prince. He might have been king.
“I do not regret it,” he whispered.
The hatred, the ire, and the determination in his best friend’s voice.
He frowned, shaking his head slightly, wondering, allowing himself to think of another world. Perhaps where his son could grow up with his mother and his father, with his birthright, and how he was meant to be.
Perhaps he would marry the Targaryen girl.
They were close in age, after all, and it was what the Targaryens did.
Except he was not allowed to live his birthright.
And he had grown as a bastard, not trueborn.
And he was going to serve at the Wall, not as a King.
For not the first time in his life, he thanked the Gods that his son had the look of his mother and not his father, and he thanked them for giving him the strength to carry on the lie again, and while he regretted that Jon had grown up in the shadows, on the periphery, his face a mask and his demeanor quiet and unassuming, to keep the attention as far from him as possible and only ever on Robb, the trueborn heir, and gods, gods he was so sorry for Catelyn. He was sorry for the shame she endured and for the pain it caused her and the pain it in turn caused Jon.
But he would be dead.
He would be as dead as those other babes.
Promise me Ned.
This was not a world where Rhaegar won, it was the world where Robert won and, in that world, his son was his son and he would serve his life at the Wall, protecting the realm, where he would not marry, and he would not have children.
The Targaryen line would die with him.
And for that, Ned thought, he thanked the gods.
The world was so very different when you were dead.
He gazed at the godswood, where he had spent so many hours of his life, brooding and dreaming and praying. He stood at the side, watching in fascination as the young man approached the great white weirwood, with its dripping crimson face. “It is such a shame it is crying; I imagine it is in happiness,” he breathed.
At his side, his sister stood, and she slipped her arms around his, holding his hand between hers, staring at her son. Her pale face was free of pain, blood or sweat, as it had been when he had last seen her. She might have been the carefree girl she had been at Winterfell or at the Tourney of Harrenhal, when she’d beaten those squires and refused to apologize when he’d discovered her lies. Her dark hair was pulled from her face and he gazed down at her gray eyes, the love beaming from her peaceful smile.
She chuckled, shaking her head slightly, and murmured. “You always thought the trees were crying, but I always believed they were laughing, and they are tears of happiness, if they are crying at all.”
“Then let it be happiness.”
“There is much to be happy about, there is a new Targaryen heir.”
He nodded, seeing the King of Westeros kneel before the tree and present the child to the Old Gods, while his wife the Queen stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder, a silver light in the dying sunlight. The stars were out in force, clear and bright, already standing out against the navy evening sky. She was beautiful, the most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms they said, perhaps the Known World.
All the assassins who had gone after her, they failed, each and every one of them, and she survived.
And all the lies and deceit that had protected him, he survived too.
“A little girl,” she said, sighing. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “A princess for the realm. The future queen.”
He smiled, remembering how he had felt when Catelyn presented him with his son, the joy at having an heir immediately, when so many lords struggled. There was a difference though, when he’d laid eyes upon his daughters. A quiet strength there, in each one of them. “Queen Lyanna,” he murmured.
“He named her after me.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Oh gods Ned, how I wished I had been there for him.”
“You were. You were with him always.”
She nodded quickly. “I was. I wished I could have shown him I was there, the entire time, through all those horrible nights where he cried himself to sleep wondering about me…if I loved him and knew him. If I wanted him.” She sobbed. “And when he died and when he fell in love…gods I wish I could have been there to tell him it’s all worth it. All that pain in your heart. It was how I felt about his father.”
He nodded, watching as his son—for he would always be his son—lifted the child up and continued to hold her in her furs, while her mother fussed to ensure she was still warm in the chilly winter night. “Everyone wanted them dead, but they survived,” he said.
“It is funny how things happen.”
“How so?”
His sister peered up, smiling wryly. “You died for her and you did not even realize. You were planning to leave, because Robert planned to murder her and her unborn babe.”
“All I could think of was Jon.”
“And you protected him, all those years, and he survived.” She nodded, whispering. “And he’s the King and he’s married to her. They might have been married anyways. If things had been different. It is if the gods rearranged things to ensure they would be how they were supposed to be.”
Ned nodded. He took his sister’s hand and slowly approached the couple at the tree, listening in to the conversation, unable to believe this strong man standing there was the shy, quiet boy he had left at the break in the Kingsroad, with a promise to speak again about his mother. This was not a boy looking for his place in the world, but a man who knew exactly what his role in it happened to be.
Jon spoke, quiet, his burr rolling and raspy, soothing the fussy child in the furs. “Perhaps she should go inside now, it is getting cold.”
“Oh she will be just fine, she’s her father’s daughter,” the queen chuckled, gazing lovingly at the pink face in the bundle. She stroked the babe’s tiny hand. “This place is magical. I want to spend a few more moments here. It’s my favorite place here.”
“It was my father…” His son trailed off, pausing. He swallowed visibly, throat constricting. “It was Ned’s favorite place too. It became mine as well.”
Ned, not father. He had no reason to flinch at it, but he did so all the same.
Daenerys peered up at him, her gloved hand touching his jaw, stroking gently. “We can bring her to the crypts, introduce her to her grandmother and her grandfather. He was still your father Jon. He raised you. Do not forget that.”
“I wonder sometimes if he’s here.” His son gazed around the godswood, sighing hard. “Watching through the trees, like the Gods.”
“I am sure he is.”
I am, Ned wanted to scream. “I’m here.”
At his side, Lyanna approached her son and reached her finger out to touch his shoulder. “Jon,” she whispered, a breath on the wind, brushing over his cheek. A dark curl loose from the knot at the base of his neck came free, brushing over his forehead.
He pushed it aside suddenly, pausing, and turned his head slightly, directly to where Lyanna stood. Daenerys followed his sudden look and frowned, worried. “Jon? Issa jorrāelagon . What is it?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He shook his head again and smiled warmly at her. “Nothing, I just…I think you must be right. As always.”
She smirked, laughing. “Of course I am.”
“I love you,” he said. “My queen.”
“And I you, my king.” She rose on the toes of her boots, kissing him lightly, and peered down at the bundle, gently taking her from his arms, cuddling her to her breast, the baby fussing, a hand striking out to grab for a long strand of silver hair. “And we love you, īlva irudy .”
Ned frowned, not sure what that word in Valyrian meant, he knew so little of the language. He glanced at Lyanna, who translated. “Our gift.”
And a gift she was. He watched his son wrap his arm around his queen, walking with her out of the godswood, the moonlight casting an otherworldly glow around them. They were something else entirely, they had defied all the odds, had defied even death itself, and here they were.
Lyanna stared after her son, her fingertips pressed to her lips, laughing quietly. “Please tell me Ned, tell me it was worth it?”
He nodded. “It had to be.”
“Robert truly would have killed him, yes?”
“Undoubtably,” he breathed. He wished there had been another option. Ferreting him away to Essos, giving him to another couple to raise, but…he couldn’t. He took his sister’s hand and together they walked out of the godswood, following after the King, forever protecting him.
Because he made a promise and he kept it.
fin.