Chapter Text
Ned does not think he has ever held a baby before. Or if he had it was Benjen when Ned himself was tiny.
Surely he has never held one as young as his nephew tiny and fragile and his to protect.
Because for all this is his sister's child, the boy is his. There is no one else. Rhaegar died on the Trident. Lyanna in her bed of blood.
He had knelt next to her all afternoon the baby between them. She had stroked his tiny cheek and tried to sing to him through her weeping.
And then she had died.
The queen, prince and princess were yet at Dragonstone. He could have ride for it and give the child to them. The last living son of the last dragon, as they were already calling Rhaegar.
He would be rid of the burden, rid of the memory of Lyanna's suffering, her grief and her death. But he had promised her he would protect the boy.
And more than that. He hates the Tagaryens as he has never hated anyone or anything. They had done this. All they'd needed to do was give her back! And they had not. They do not deserve the hope the last son of Rhaegar would bring them. They do not deserve to have this child of the north.
Because, his nephew is tiny and helpless and precious.
Were he more like Robert, Ned could hold him with one hand, but Ned has never been as careless as his friend, and he won't risk the tiny baby on a lark.
He leaves the woman to see to Lyanna's body and walks down the steps. Howland is waiting for him with the bodies. He raises his head when he hears the baby fussing.
The crannogman stands and walks over. He needs to stand on tiptoe to see what it is that Ned has cradled in his arms.
“Lyanna had a baby.” Ned tells his friend, stating the obvious.
Howland nods. “So I see.”
Ned laughs brokenly. “What do you even do with a baby?” he asks.
Howland looks at him sympathetically. “I'm not entirely sure. Feed it perhaps?”
Ned stares at the little baby who blinks up at him, a dark unfocused gaze.
He has Stark eyes, unlike Ned, whose sandy hair and blue eyes set him apart. Rhaegar's son has brown eyes, like Benjen, and Brandon, Lyanna and Lord Rickard.
The baby makes a small unhappy sound, and Ned collapses slowly on the steps clutching the child close and sobbing.
Wars end but are never won.
He rides North with his sister's bones and a bastard child. That it is not precisely his bastard is neither here nor there. It was Ashara who came up with the plan. Ashara who found Wyla to nurse the child, and clothes for him and told Ned what he must do.
He had looked up at her as she handed things to him, pale and wan and still the loveliest woman alive and remembered when they last spoke. The future they had almost had together.
It was a different life then, he would have followed Lyanna to Storm's End and served Robert as his master of Arms or his Castellan perhaps. He would have asked his father to inquire about the hand of the lady of Starfall and taken her even if she had had a bastard.
After all, the second son of Winterfell need not be so careful of his honour as the lord must be.
She had looked back at him sadly, perhaps also remembering a smaller more welcoming future that would never be, or perhaps only seeing the shy foolish boy who'd once asked her to dance and who she'd half forgotten until he brought her her dead brother's sword and an infant.
It's impossible to say, and he dared not ask her then. Despite his new position, he's still the boy unused to speaking. Shy, solemn or sullen that had called him once. Now that he's a great lord they'll say he's dignified, and reticent, noble in his silence.
They travel north and Jon cries. The boy tends to scream if he is not being held, Wyla does her best, but she has an infant of her own to tend to, and Jon is relentless. So they all find themselves desperatedly rocking the boy. Ned tries to sing him the songs Lyanna sang as she lay dying which mainly seems to confuse the infant into silence, but at least he is silent.
Sometimes the child quiets and is tucked safely into a basket next to his milk-sister to ride in the wagon with the wet-nurse.
Ned pretends he doesn't miss the familiar warm weight in his arms on those days, and that he doesn't worry something must be wrong when Jon stays quiet for more than an hour at a time.
They take ship before they reach King's Landing, because Ned hasn't the heart to lie not yet and can't face Robert until he can tell the story they've concocted without hesitation. So they huddle in the cabin of their ship and Ned holds the baby and wonders what he'll tell his wife.
He has a son, he knows though he's never seen the boy. He has a wife, though he hasn't seen her since their wedding.
Howland sits next to him and tries to tickle Jon into smiling.
Jon doesn't smile, which worried Ned at first but Wyla assures him that the baby is still too young.
Ned thinks it fitting that we come into the world knowing how to scream and cry, but that it takes time to learn to smile.
There's not much to do on a ship when you're a High Lord so he spends most of his time with his nephew. Ned learns the what soothes the boy and what riles him. He let him gum softly at his finger and that, while Jon apparently is happy enough to be sung to by everyone else and tends to gurgle appreciatively when Howland or Wyla sing lullaby's, he is confused by Eddard's singing voice on only stares at him as though he's grown another head when he tries.
So Ned tells him stories. He talks about his brother, and his sister, and the war. He tells Jon about baby Robb who will be his brother and who Ned has never met.
He tells him all the stories and secrets that he will never be able to share once the boy is old enough to understand. He tells himself the story of Jon Snow, the bastard son Ned Stark brought back from the war so many times that, in his heart, he forgets that it's a lie.
When they make landfall in White Harbour he is sad to put the baby back in the wet-nurse's arms. It's a ride of a few days to reach Winterfell and the wagon is slow, but the war has hardly touched the North. It's as safe a journey as two men, a woman and a baby could make in the North.
Catelyn hadn't even wanted to marry him, Ned tells himself. It was Brandon she was meant for. Perhaps she wouldn't care that he'd brought back a bastard, or perhaps she'd make that noise women make when presented with babies and be pleased that her son had a brother to play with.
Howland looks at him skeptically when Ned voices these hopes and muses aloud about how Ned really doesn't know much about women, before they part ways and he turns south towards the Neck.
Ned flushes red, but is glad for the warning when he arrives back at Winterfell and is immediately presented with his trueborn baby son- Robb, who's hair is red and who gurgles happily and doesn't scream bloody murder the way Jon would have if Wyla had deigned to try and hand him off to a stranger.
Ned stands there holding his son and wanting to cry. Catelyn's face is a cold mask of courtesy and Ned can't blame her. He's shamed them both by bringing a bastard home, and she must have had her own hopes as well that were dashed as surely as his have been by this foolish wasteful war. She sends Wyla back to White Harbour almost immediately, Jon is old enough to weaned she declares, and they have nursemaids enough for both babies.
That night Ned and Catelyn lie next to each other stiff and uncomfortable. Neither moves to close the distance. They lie there staring up at the canopy and hearing the faint wailing of Jon in the distance.
Ned has heard that baby cry enough to know he's not hungry, or dirty. He's just distressed. He hasn't had to fall asleep anywhere but in someone's arms since the day he was born. The child's never had a proper cradle, or slept in a nursery, and with Wyla and Howland gone, the poor little thing must think everyone has abandoned him.
Finally Ned stands and slips his feet into slippers.
“You should leave him, Ned.” Cat's voice comes detached and cold from the darkness.
Ned sighs. “It's best I go. Unless you want to listen to him crying all night. And have him wake Robb as well.”
Catelyn doesn't say anything, just rolls over to face away from him in bed. Ned pads down the hallway towards the nursery.
The nurse stands over Jon's cradle making shushing noises.
She turns to Ned with a tear streaked face when he enters. “I'm sorry m'lord. I've tried everything that the little ser likes, but he won't quiet! I can't make him quiet, maybe it's the bastard blood but-”
Ned holds up a hand. “Do not trouble yourself. You can go, I'll sort him.” She looks at him with wide fearful eyes, but nods shortly before all but fleeing from the room.
He walks over to stand over the cradle. Jon has twisted himself free of his swaddling and is red faced and squalling. He looks a little devil. Ned reaches down carefully to pick him up. The baby's eyes open, he looks up at Ned and he quiets, still crying but softer-small hiccups and grizzles instead of screeching wails.
Ned walks over to the rocking chair in the corner, trying to carefully tuck the boy into his blankets and failing miserably.
“Aye, yer alright, lad.” Ned whispers. “You thought we'd all left ye, didn't ye?” He rocks the chair a bit. Jon quiets even more. “Most of 'em are gone.” Ned admits. “Ye'll not see Wyla or Howland again in this life I'd wager. But, you've got me little lad.” He holds the baby up to look him squarely in his little face. “I made a vow, and I shall see you grown and cared for. No matter what I'll never cast you off or renounce you.” Jon's quiet now and trying to stick his entire fist into his mouth.
Ned smiles softly. “Ye'll be alrigh'. Nothin' to fear while yer with me. Not in these wall. Your a Stark though your haven't the name. This is your place.”
He places the baby back in the crook of his arm and rocks the chair some more. Jon has stopped crying but he doesn't look any nearer to sleep. “You mustn't get used to this.” he chides the infant. “I can't be rockin' you to bed every night. I've your brother to think of- wouldn't want him to get jealous. Ye'll have to get used to sleepin' on yer own.”
Jon just stares up at him with those big black Stark eyes. Ned knows better, but he starts to hum the song Lyanna sang as she lay dying, mumbling the words and the tune.
Jon blinks up at him for a moment with his usual bewilderment at Lord Stark's insistence on trying to sing when he was such a poor voice, but then he smiles.