Chapter Text
Eddard
The Trident would run red come the morrow. Eddard Stark had no doubt of that. The only question was how many men would water its shallows with their blood.
He stood upon a low rise above the rebel camp, cloak stirring in the chill spring wind, and watched his men make ready. Some sharpened blades until sparks leapt like fireflies in the dusk. Others bent to their bowstrings or whispered to their gods before the cooking fires. Horses stamped and snorted, sensing the storm to come. All around him, the banners of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands lifted and dipped, four great houses bound together by grief and vengeance.
How many would be ash on the wind by tomorrow?
He thought of Brandon then. Of his brother’s wild laughter, quick temper, reckless courage. He tried to picture what Brandon had seen in the throne room that day — his father burning, the air thick with smoke and screams, the stench of charred flesh in his nose. Did he rage? Did he pray? Did he despair? Eddard would never know. The memory was his own kind of torment, that unanswered question gnawing like a rat in his belly.
Below, the banners cracked in the wind: a crowned stag on gold, a direwolf on grey, a falcon in flight, a leaping trout. His eyes lingered on the trout. Riverrun’s colors. His wife’s colors.
Catelyn. She was meant for Brandon, not him. Yet she shared his bed now, carried his child beneath her heart. A son, perhaps. Or a daughter. What legacy was he leaving them? Fear coiled in him, cold and sharp. Tomorrow he might die upon the riverbank, and his babe would never know him. He could picture a girl with black hair, a boy with his mother’s eyes, left fatherless before they had even drawn breath.
Benjen would raise them, if it came to that. Benjen, who had always dreamed of the Wall, of black cloaks and vows and the endless cold. The thought of his younger brother chained to Winterfell’s duties instead of ranging free filled Ned with a deep, quiet dread. He trusted Benjen, yes, but he did not want him to bear the weight of Lord Stark before his time. It was Brandon’s burden once, now his, and he would not see it passed again so soon.
He clenched his jaw, forcing down the tide of doubt. A Stark could not falter, not before battle.
A shadow loomed beside him. “My lord,” said Walder, broad-shouldered and thick through the arms, his voice a low rumble.
Walder — the Giant of the north. He had been with them all his life, raised within Winterfell’s walls, sparred beside him, Brandon and Benjen in the yard under watchful eye. When the banners were called, Walder was among the first to step forward.
Eddard turned. “What is it?”
“A rider has come from the royal host,” Walder said. His eyes held no fear. “He bears a white banner.”
Ned fell into step beside Walder as they descended the rise. The camp stretched wide before them, a sprawl of canvas and smoke and restless men. Blacksmiths hammered at dented mail and bent spearheads, the ring of iron sharp as bells. Squires ran with buckets, fetching water from the river. Hounds barked, horses whickered, and the air was thick with the mingled smells of sweat, leather, and cooking meat.
Women moved through it all — camp followers, washerwomen, girls with painted mouths and kohl-darkened eyes who laughed too loudly as they clung to soldiers’ arms. They clustered thickest around the great tent at the camp’s heart, where the crowned stag of House Baratheon flew high against the dusk.
At the sight of them, Ned’s thoughts went to Lyanna. Where was she now? What had she endured? He tried not to picture her in some dark chamber, frightened and alone. He had promised Brandon he would keep her safe, and he had failed.
Robert had not spoken of her in weeks. Since the Battle of the Bells he had taken to passing his nights with a different woman near every night, as if wine and flesh could quench the fire in him. Ned remembered the look in Walder’s eyes the first time he had seen it — disappointment, plain as day.
Walder had grown with them, in Winterfell’s halls and yards. He had known Lyanna’s temper, her laughter, her love of horses, as well as Ned did. He had known Brandon’s swagger and Benjen’s boyish jests. Of them all, Walder had always been the truest, and his silence on Robert’s bed-hopping spoke louder than any rebuke.
It struck him then with bitter weight — it was he who had urged his father to accept the Baratheon match. He who had spoken for Robert, sworn he would be a good husband to Lyanna. He had thought he was giving his sister joy, and his house a strong ally. Yet Robert’s love burned as hot and wild as his temper, and just as quick to turn to ash.
They reached the Baratheon pavilion at last, its hide walls looming high, the golden stag rippling proud above it. Men-at-arms lounged at the entrance, ale cups in hand, but straightened when they saw him approach.
“Wait for me here,” Eddard told Walder quietly.
His old friend inclined his head and took his place by the door, hand resting on the hilt of his axes. Eddard drew a long breath, pushed past the tent flap, and stepped inside.
The air inside the pavilion was thick with torch smoke and fury.
Robert paced like a caged bull, greathammer in hand, his face red with rage. Each time he turned, the stag on his breastplate caught the firelight and flashed. In the center of the tent a man knelt, hands bound, his face swollen and bloody. His torn surcoat still bore the three-headed dragon, though crusted with mud and blood.
Jon Arryn was seated to one side, grave and composed. Hoster Tully stood with arms crossed, his mouth a thin hard line.
“Ned,” Jon said, rising first. His pale eyes softened. “I am glad you came.”
“Lord Stark,” Hoster added stiffly, inclining his head.
Ned’s gaze moved to the bruised prisoner. “What is this?”
“What is this?” Robert thundered, whirling toward him. Spittle flew with his words. “This, Ned, is Rhaegar’s insult. He thinks us fools, does he? That we’ll trot along like good dogs to his trap? He dares send me—me—a message of peace, after he’s stolen your sister, after he’s murdered your kin? By the gods, I should have his envoy flayed!”
The man stirred weakly, but Robert’s roar drowned him out.
Jon raised a hand. “He is an envoy, Robert. He came under a white banner. We are bound to hear him.”
“Hear him?” Robert barked a laugh. “I heard enough. A snake’s hiss is all it was.”
Hoster’s voice was low, but firm. “He claims the prince wishes a parley, Lord Stark. To resolve this without battle.”
Ned looked to the prisoner. “Is that so?”
The man’s lips moved, but the sound was lost beneath Robert’s curses.
“Quiet,” Ned said.
Robert rounded on him, chest heaving. “You cannot mean to—”
“Quiet.” Ned’s voice was harder this time, cold as ice on steel.
For a long moment Robert glared at him, nostrils flared. At last he dropped his gaze and began to mutter under his breath, pacing slower, the hammer dragging behind him.
The envoy lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut, but the other fixed on Ned. His words came hoarse, but clear now. “My prince bid me place this in your hands, Lord Stark.”
He twisted, wincing, and drew a folded parchment from his boot. His fingers shook as he held it out.
Ned took it. The seal was unbroken, the vellum damp with sweat and dirt, but the hand was Lyanna’s. He knew it at once — the sharp, hurried strokes, the half-formed loops she made when she rushed her quill. His breath caught.
Forgive me, Ned, she had written. I never meant for this. Father, Brandon… gods forgive me…
Ned’s throat closed. The words swam before his eyes. His sister’s hand. His sister’s voice.
He forced himself to look up. “What does the prince want?”
“The same,” Jon Arryn said. His voice was steady, calm. “A meeting. He wishes to speak with us, here, before swords are crossed. He asks we come with a handful only, to spare needless bloodshed.”
Robert barked another laugh, harsh and bitter. “Blood has been spilled already! Rickard. Brandon. Thousands dead! And now he would have us believe his honeyed tongue? He’s a liar, a thief, a rapist. I’ll not hear him.”
Hoster gave a curt nod. “It is too late for parley. The die is cast.”
Jon spread his hands. “If there is a chance — one chance — to avoid a slaughter on the morrow, should we not hear it? Let him speak, Robert. We need not yield. We need only listen.”
“Listen?” Robert thundered. “To him? I’ll give him his answer in steel. That’s all he deserves.”
Ned kept his eyes on the envoy. “What else did your prince bid you say?”
The man’s breath rattled in his chest. “Only… that I was to give the letter to Lord Stark, and beg him for parley.”
The tent was silent for a moment, save for Robert’s heavy breathing.
Ned closed his fist around the letter. “Then I will hear him.”
Jon let out a slow breath, as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Wise, Ned. Wise.”
“You’ll hear him?” Robert’s face darkened. “Seven hells, Ned, do you mean to betray your sister, your father, your brother?!”
Ned met his fury with quiet steel. “I mean to hear him. Nothing more.”
Robert’s hammer crashed down on the table, splitting wood with a crack that made men start. “Damn you all! Damn him, and damn his lies. Go then, hear your silver prince. When he stabs you in the back, don’t say Robert Baratheon didn’t warn you.”
He shoved past them and stormed out into the night, his curses echoing after him.
Ned stood rooted, Lyanna’s words trembling in his hand.
The Trident whispered below them, dark and swollen with spring melt, its waters silvered by the moon. They stood upon a low ridge above the shallows, four lords and a knot of chosen men. The night smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and every sound seemed loud in the stillness — the creak of leather, the shifting of mail, the faint stamp of a restless horse.
Ned’s hand lay on the hilt of his sword, though he had no wish to draw it. Around them, the guards of each house waited in a taut silence: Arryn men with their falcon badges, trout of Riverrun, crowned stags, and his own grey direwolves. Every face was grim. This was no feast hall nor tilt-yard — if peace failed, the ridge would be their grave.
Robert had not spoken since they left camp, save to curse under his breath. He paced at the edge, great hammer across his shoulders, muttering like a man with a fever. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding in his beard.
Jon Arryn stood still and solemn, eyes fixed on the river. He had the air of a man who bore a burden too heavy for his frame, yet would not set it down. Hoster Tully shifted uneasily beside him, broad shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow.
Ned glanced back once. Walder stood a step behind them, tall and broad as an oak, his double-bladed axe in hand. Beside him was Ser Vardis Egen, falcon bright upon his surcoat, steel catching moonlight. Walder’s presence steadied Ned’s heart. If treachery came, Walder would die before he let harm touch a Stark.
Robert broke the silence at last. “If we die tonight,” he said darkly, “at least know I warned you. You’ll have only yourselves to curse.”
Hoster gave a short snort. “Parley is parley. The gods themselves watch over such a meeting. No prince would dare break faith beneath their eyes.”
Ned knew well enough that those words were not meant for Robert, or for him. They were meant for Hoster himself.
The night air stirred, carrying the distant clop of hooves. Jon raised a hand. “They are here.”
Ned turned his gaze down the slope. Out of the darkness came three riders only, no more. The moon glimmered upon bright steel and silver hair. At their head rode Prince Rhaegar, tall in the saddle, his cloak pale as starlight, long hair flowing loose about his shoulders. To his right rode Ser Barristan Selmy in white, his face solemn, his honor plain as the sword at his hip. To his left, Prince Lewyn Martell, lean and sharp-eyed, sun-and-spear upon his surcoat.
Three against their score. No banners, no columns of men lurking in the shadows.
Ned’s hand eased on his belt. If this was a trap, it was a poor one.
For a long moment there was only the river’s murmur and the breathing of horses. Steel gleamed in the moonlight, white and silver and grey. No man moved, no word was spoken.
At last the prince broke the silence. His voice was low, and weary. “I did not think you would come.”
Robert grunted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl. Ned felt the heat of his friend’s hate beside him, raw as a wound.
Before Robert could loose his tongue, before Jon Arryn could speak reason, Ned stepped forward. The letter was heavy in his hand. He held it out.
“Do you know the words of this?”
Rhaegar’s pale eyes flicked to the parchment, then back to Ned. “No. They are for you, Lord Stark, and no other. Lyanna made that plain.”
At the name, Robert stiffened as if struck. “You dare speak her name?” His voice was a roar that shook the night. “After what you did? After the shame you heaped upon her?”
The prince did not flinch. Only sorrow passed across his face. “I grieve for you, cousin. But she did not love you.”
Robert’s hammer lifted a finger’s breadth, his shoulders bunching. Ned saw it in his eyes — he meant to charge, meant to crack the prince’s skull and damn the parley.
“Robert,” Ned cut in sharply. His voice was harder than he meant. He forced it steady. “The letter speaks of choice.” He turned to the prince. “Of her going with you by her will. She says she left word for Brandon at Riverrun.”
A sharp breath from Jon. A muttered curse from Hoster.
“No such letter was found,” Hoster said gruffly. “When Lyanna was gone, Brandon swore you had stolen her. He rode to King’s Landing demanding her back.”
Rhaegar turned to him, calm as still water. “And how did Brandon know where she had gone? Who told him? Did he see her taken?”
Hoster’s mouth worked soundlessly. “He—he never said. Only that men had seen your banners—Targaryen banners—near Riverrun.”
“A misunderstanding, then.” The prince’s tone was bitter as ash. “And from it a fire that has near consumed the realm.”
Jon Arryn’s voice was grave. “Enough riddles, Your Grace. You asked for this meeting. What do you mean by it?”
Rhaegar drew himself straight in the saddle. His hair shone silver-white in the moonlight, his face as solemn as any statue. “I mean to end this. I mean to stop the killing. Justice must be done, but not by slaughtering thousands more.”
Robert’s roar cut across his words. “Justice? Justice was lost the day you stole and raped my betrothed!”
The words rang, echoing, hateful. Yet the prince did not answer anger with anger. His violet eyes rested on Robert with a sorrow that seemed almost like pity.
Ned’s fingers clenched tight about the letter. “Is it true?” he asked hoarsely. “What she wrote?”
“I do not know what she wrote,” said Rhaegar, “but they are her words, not mine. Of that I swear.”
Ned closed his eyes. He saw Lyanna in the godswood at Winterfell, flowers in her hair. He saw Brandon laughing in the yard, Benjen chasing after them, their father’s proud, stern face. All gone, or near enough. He opened his eyes again. “Then what is it you ask of us?”
The prince’s gaze did not waver. “That you stand with me. That you end this war not by drowning the Trident in blood, but by deposing the tyrant who set it alight. I grieve for Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark, and I swear to you, Lord Stark, my father will answer for it. He will be brought to justice.”
“Justice?” Ned’s voice was iron. “There is but one justice for Aerys Targaryen.”
Barristan Selmy shifted in his saddle, as if struck, but Prince Lewyn did not stir.
Rhaegar inclined his head. “Aye. And the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But I am no kinslayer, Lord Stark.”
Ned found himself nodding.
Jon Arryn’s question cut the silence. “And us? We who raised banners in rebellion, who defied the Iron Throne?”
Rhaegar’s gaze swept them. “When I am crowned, there will be pardons. You will keep your lands, your titles, your honor. My father is not fit to rule. He should have been curbed long ago. I have come too late to that truth, but I have come nonetheless.”
Ned marked the flicker of shock on Ser Barristan’s face.
“Join me now,” the prince said, “and we march together to King’s Landing. To end this. To restore peace.”
“Peace?” Robert spat the word. “With a liar, a thief, a—” His curse choked off, but his fury did not. “You’ll never have my trust, Targaryen. Seven hells take you!”
Ser Lewyn’s hand drifted to his sword, Barristan’s jaw clenched, but Rhaegar only looked on in silence.
Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully exchanged glances. Their faces were grave, thoughtful.
Ned looked at them all — at Robert’s seething rage, at Jon’s wary hope, at Hoster’s weariness, at the silver prince who stood before them with Lyanna’s ghost between them. He looked down at the letter again, the words that cut his heart open.
He lifted his head. “Aye.” He spoke. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” A pause. “Aerys must die.”
The prince inclined his head slowly. “Then we are agreed.”
And there, beneath the moon and the eyes of gods and men, the rebel lords and the prince who would be king came to a perilous understanding.