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Ned was yet to get used to the sight of the sea. Winterfell was located squarely inland with the wolfswood to the west and the White Knife to the south; the Eyrie had been too high up the mountains to smell the sea salt, and though there was the waterfall Ned had quickly learned the difference between Alyssa’s Tears and Shipbreaker Bay. His husband, after all, loved the sea. It seemed to Ned one of the few things that he loved.
When the castellan had informed him that Lord Stannis was not in his solar, Ned knew at once where to find him. It was a long ride down to the beach, and halfway through the journey Ned was forced to dismount his horse and continue on foot. The rocks were too steep; he would not risk his neck riding down them. Soon enough he saw his lord husband in the distance, standing atop a mossy rock jutting from the sea.
Stannis acknowledged him with a curt nod of the head. “Lord Stark,” he said.
“Lord Baratheon,” was Ned’s polite response. Of course, it was. Theirs was a polite marriage. Robert had thrown the two of them together following his coronation, insisting that one way or another he and Ned will become brothers. Lyanna ought to have cemented them as such. Her marriage would have bound their families together. But Lyanna was dead, and her bones Brandon took to Winterfell alongside his bastard babe, so it was through Stannis that they must needs become brothers.
Although they had been married for well over a month now, Ned knew little and less of his lord husband. Stannis was not Robert. That he understood at once upon their introductions, yet it was shocking to him how different two brothers could be. From personal experience Ned knew better than to assume that just because children were born to the same set of parents there would be any similarities in character beyond shared physical features – he and Brandon were as different as the moon and the sun – but the Baratheon brothers went beyond that even. Between them was real discord, one that had never existed among the Starks.
And yet, thought Ned, Stannis had held Storm’s End for Robert. He had rebelled against the king for the sake his brother.
The siege had left its mark on Stannis. While the man was only nineteen, younger than Ned himself, the war had hardened him in ways that eluded Ned. Several months had passed since the end of the siege, and still the shape of his skull was visible underneath his skin. The crop of black hair had just recently strengthened enough to withstand a comb and his eyes were sunken deep into the sockets, two raw wounds hiding the man behind them.
When Ned had lifted the siege and entered the redoubtable castle, it had not escaped him that Stannis was thinner than his men. He had later heard from Ser Davos that the young lord saw to it that his men and his younger brother ate first before breaking fast himself. Ned remembered the fierceness in those deep blue eyes that met him at the gate. Those eyes had gone bitter when Stannis realised that his brother, the brother for whom he starved, had not come himself to relieve him.
Stannis was not a comely man, but there was a quality to his eyes that captivated Ned. They were the Baratheon blue, yet theirs was a dark, stormy blue of the waves beating at Shipbreaker Bay whereas Robert’s were those of mountain lakes.
Those dark blue eyes watched him now. They were guarded, as always, but when a hawk cried overhead they looked up and softened.
Ned moved to stand beside his lord husband on the rock. He looked up at the bird, watched it fly higher and higher until it swept towards the castle. “Are you fond of birds, my lord?” he asked carefully.
Stannis stiffened. “I am.”
Ned would be lying if he said he was not frustrated. They had to make this work. Neither of them asked to be married, but now that they were it would be prudent that they at least learned to talk to each other. “We would go hawking sometimes at the Eyrie, your brother and I,” he said. “We did not have much luck, truth be told. Robert was impatient with the birds, and I think they could tell that the sigil of my house was their enemy.”
Stannis had the courtesy to look at him, so that was a start. Once he was done, his husband had returned his gaze back onto the sea. The waters were calm now, though the stormlanders had assured their northern lord that once night fell the waves would beat at the castle and the beach as if the gods were in search of their daughter again. Ned waited for a while for Stannis to speak, listening to the water lap at the rock beneath them. Then, just as he was about to accept another day of awkward silences and stilted conversation, Stannis quietly said, “I had a goshawk.”
“A goshawk?” repeated Ned.
“She was injured,” said Stannis, his blue eyes hazing as the memory came. “I had nursed her back to health myself. She liked to perch on my shoulder and flutter around the castle, following me from room to room and eating from my plate.”
Ned smiled. This was more than he had expected from his reticent spouse. His hope sparked brighter when the smallest of smile tugged at Stannis’ lip.
“Proudwing, I named her.” Obvious pride dripped from Stannis’ voice. “She was loyal to me as any hound to its master. She would not heed the fowler of Storm’s End. Once she was healthy, the fowler had come to take her under his care with the rest of the birds, but she caused such a fuss that before the end of the week she was restored to my chambers.”
“With a name like Proudwing, I imagine she must have been quite the hunter.”
That was the wrong thing to say. No sooner had Ned uttered those words than the small, rare smile was dropped to make way for the customary stony mask. Yet suddenly he appeared to Ned younger and more vulnerable. Nothing at all like the haggard soldier that Ned had met at Storm’s End, or the stern tight-faced groom whom he had wed in the sept shadowed by that very castle. Instead he looked every bit the nineteen-year-old youth that he was.
“Stannis?”
“She would not soar,” he said roughly. “Time and again I took Proudwing hawking, but she never flew higher than the treetops. Robert called her Weakwing. His own bird was a gyrfalcon whom he called Thunderclap; she never missed her strike. One day Ser Harbert – our great-uncle on the Estermont side – told me to try a different bird. He said I was making a fool of myself with Proudwing.” Stannis’ hands balled into fists. “He was right.”
Perhaps it was not the right thing to do given his earlier failure, yet Ned could not help himself when he placed a hand on the bony shoulder of his husband. “Your falconer must be a fool,” he said, voice hard as stone. “I would have thought a man of his trade would have known that it is unreasonable to expect a goshawk to soar. Proudwing was meant to weave through threes. She should not have been compared to a gyrfalcon whom the gods designed to soar.” Ned forced a calm onto himself; he knew not how to interpret the startled look Stannis cast onto him, and he would rather not further upset the man by his boldness. “In any case,” he nearly stammered, “I am sorry you had given up Proudwing.”
Here Stannis snorted. “I did not say that I have given up Proudwing, did I?”
Ned blinked. “My lord, I…judging by your words I had assumed—”
“Ser Harbert had told me to try another bird,” repeated Stannis emphatically. “I did not say I followed his advice.”
Slowly, Ned understood the careful phrasing of the sentence. “You kept her then?”
“I did,” he said, and the smile returned. “Even though she could not soar like Thunderclap, nor hunted half as well as her, I kept Proudwing.” Stannis upraised his head and watched the birds flying over the sea and castle. “I set her free three months into the siege. I’m afraid that was not very dutiful of me. I should have kept her as foodstuff. Better a bird on your plate than rat or bits of boiled leather.” But the expression on his face was far from apologetic. “Proudwing refused to leave Storm’s End. I had to have the windows in the tower locked to prevent her from seeking me.”
“How long did she stay?”
“A month. Every morning she peered through the glass into my chambers until one day she did not.” Stannis looked down back at the sea. “I hope she did not die in the wilderness.”
“She was born wild,” said Ned. “I’m sure she lives and is very grateful to the man who had cared for her.”
Stannis glanced at him. Curious was an apt description of his expression. “I misjudged you, Lord Stark. I had thought that you would be of a mind with Robert and Ser Harbert.”
“I might have in the past,” admitted Ned. “Yet after this horrid war I am of a spirit to appreciate the kindness in it. There must be kindness to counterbalance the cruelty.” Unbidden he thought of the broken bodies of Rhaegar’s wife and children.
“Then you must seek it elsewhere, my lord. I am no kind man,” said Stannis. “A kind man would not have had the strength of character to keep together a castle full of starving men.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Ned, “but I would not be so quick to disregard your kindness towards Proudwing.” Maybe if Robert had been the sort of boy to nurse a broken bird back to health then he would have been less quick to justify broken children.
They stayed on the beach for the remainder of the day. Stannis had gotten restless after speaking of his beloved bird. He wanted to walk along the stretch of sand and, most promisingly, had invited Ned to join him. To his pleasant surprise, the silence between them rapidly lost its clumsiness. They were amiable in their quiet companionship, and when appropriately addressed Stannis could be persuaded into talking at length about ships.
“I confess to be ignorant in most matters of the sea,” said Ned. “My sea legs never manifested, or mayhap I have never been aboard a ship for them to grow.”
Stannis started to grind his teeth, which was as ominous a sign as any. Ned wondered with concern if he had again cracked an eggshell when the most surprising offer was proposed to him:
“Lord Stark, if it pleases you then I would be glad to show you the workings of a ship myself.” The phrase sounded rehearsed; was it possible that Ned’s husband had been working up the nerve to ask him that?
“I would be honoured, my lord,” said Ned, ignoring the warm bloom in his chest. “I have heard from Maester Cressen that you are a most capable sailor.”
“And what would Maester Cressen know of being a sailor,” muttered Stannis, though by his tone it was clear that he was gratified by the comment. “We could set sail tomorrow if you’d like, my lord. I have a small boat of my own to use at my disposal. I suggest that we sail along the coastline on it tomorrow, early in the morning before the sea has time to rouse and irritate itself into temper.”
“That sounds most pleasant, my lord husband.”
“It pleases me to please you, Lord Stark.” Again, the phrase was obviously rehearsed.
“Please,” Ned offered him his arm, “call me Ned. We are married. Surely, we can dispense with the formalities?”
For half a heartbeat, Ned feared that Stannis would disagree with him. Then Stannis took Ned’s arm, saying, “Very well, my lord.” He closed his eyes. “Ned.”
The happiest grin spread across Ned’s face without any warning. While he would not go so far as to write Brandon about it just yet, he had an inkling that this marriage may very well be a success.