Chapter Text
No matter what any Southerners said, the North did not intentionally keep the Awakening of the Others from them. It was just that the North thought that everyone had noticed the arrival of the Short Days that preceded the Long Night. They hadn’t. And even if they did, the Faith of the Seven taught that they were ‘silly Northern superstitions’ and not very real and very dangerous enemies, so the Southern Kingdoms would have no idea what to do anyway. It was the North’s ancestral duty to protect the rest of the realm from the horrors from the Land of Always Winter, so they did not even ask for reinforcements from other kingdoms, having prepared for this since the last time it happened, just before the dragonlord of doomed Valyria marched into the already devastated North and Torrhen knelt instead of letting his surviving men burn in dragonfire.
It wasn’t completely the North’s fault either, since the Southern Kingdoms didn’t even notice that the North was at war for over four years before they managed to slay the Night King and as such, ended the Short Days and the Others went back to whence they came to hibernate until the next time the winters became long and cold enough for them to initiate the process all over again.
They didn’t notice that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and the Lord Paramount of the North’s reports never came. They didn’t notice that every able bodied man and even every widow with no children and every barren woman in the North were raised to bolster their liege-lord's armies or as people to man the the forts-along-the-Wall, repair them, and do the servant’s tasks to keep the whole place working smoothly as the Quiet Wolf and his bannermen and their armies joined the Night’s Watch in ranging beyond the Wall to push back the Others’ raids. They didn’t notice as the very earth itself froze down to the Neck and the remaining woman and children had to use their all of their ancestral and ancient First Man and Free Folk and even Children of the Forests’ techniques to coax out the tiniest bit of grain. They didn’t notice as blood watered the snow.
They didn’t notice as the North bared its teeth in the snarl of direwolves defending their pack and territory, fighting fiercely and stubbornly, whether it be against the earth itself or against the creatures of burning cold and camouflage-ice and starlit-eyes. They didn’t notice as the North weathered the fear and despair and hunger with ancient stubbornness and snow-bright hatred.
They didn’t notice.
So, it came as a surprise for everyone involved after King Robert Baratheon called all of his Lords Paramount (including you, Ned, no excuses, we haven’t seen each other for far too long, bring your family, I want to meet them for the first time) to the tournament in celebration of the betrothal of the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon to Margaery Tyrell.
*****
“We’re going to be the last ones there,” Robb, called the Bloody-Haired and a general in his own right, groaned to his father, looking every inch a regular sixteen year old. “What if they start the tournament without us?”
“If they wanted us to come on time, they should’ve sent that raven a week or two before it was, at least,” Bran, called the Wolf-Eyed and who had been Lord Regent of Winterfell for two entire years with Sansa the Patient as the Lady Regent when their elder brothers joined Ned at the Wall, muttered on the other side of their father. “They do know how long it takes to get from the Wall to Harrenhal, in the middle of the Riverlands, don’t they? And you had to stop at Winterfell to collect Arya and myself too.”
“They had likely expected us to be back at Winterfell,” Ned said before the two could start an argument. Again. “It has been several months since the war ended after all.”
“Hmm, good point, they probably didn’t expect the tangle of logistics that it is to send everyone back to their holds and lands,” Bran said.
“I do not envy Jon, stuck with all that paperwork as Lord Commander,” Robb chuckled.
“You’ll be helping complete it when we get back,” Ned reminded him, quirking his lips into what would only count a smile in the North at Robb’s despairing face at the reminder. “And do not worry, the King assured me that the tournament will not start until everyone is there.”
“Less than a day left until we get there!” Arya shouted excitedly from her pony behind them. “And I’ll join the melee!”
“You’ll join the squire’s melee,” Ned reminded her. He had learned from the last tournament at Harrenhal, the disaster that it was, and would not forbid a she-wolf from competing since she’d likely do the same as her aunt and join anyway. At least the squire’s melee was open to anyone under the age sixteen with the patronage of a noble, and many of it’s members weren’t even squires, simply older pages.
“How much do you want to bet that she wins the whole thing,” Jory Cassel murmured in an undertone to the older Starks.
“That’s a fool's bet,” Bran said immediately, giving his younger sister a wary glance. She’d been training to fight ever since the Others Awoke and was very, very good at it. She could win against Robb, blooded and experienced and much taller and bigger Robb, about half of the time.
“At least she doesn’t have Nymeria with her,” Robb said with a shudder that was only half-theatric. “That would have been a disaster.”
“You only say that because she keeps winning against Grey Wind,” Bran said.
“As if she never won against Summer,” Robb shot back. He glanced at their father and said, “The only one she can’t defeat is Oath.”
“Oath is her mother and full-grown,” Bran answered.
“Why couldn’t we bring our direwolves down here, father?” Arya asked, voice edging into whining territory.
Ned withheld a sigh. It was far, far from the first time she asked. “It’s too hot for them. Spring has long since settled into the South as you can tell. It would be miserable for them.”
“It’s almost too hot for me,” Robb complained, “How did you manage it, to stay down here for years?”
“It was through that winter,” Ned answered, “The Vale it is at a high enough elevation that it is not too uncomfortable, though it rarely snows there. You are also accustomed to the weather at the Wall in the depths of winter, which is quite different than Winterfell in summer.”
An outrider dressed in Baratheon gold and black trotted out of the woods as they took a bend. “Ho there,” the rider called, “Are you the Northern party?”
Dressed in Stark gray and white over their habitual chainmail and leathers (not wearing the usual fur over them only because of the heat), riding the characteristic shaggy and sturdy Northern horses, and with Ice slung prominently across Ned’s back, it was impossible to mistake them for anything else. “We are,” Ned replied.
“Good, we were wondering if something had befell you on the journey,” the rider said.
“Nothing more than distance,” Robb answered the unspoken question.
“Truly? Good. Follow me, my Lords, I’ll lead you to Harrenhal,” the rider said, turning his sleek and delicate Crownland horse down the road.
“What is you name, ser?” Arya asked, trotting her pony a little ahead of the others, though not in front of Jory.
“Ah, my apologies, my Lady,” the rider said, “I am Justen Massey, third son of Ser Hollind Massey.”
They followed Justen for a little over three hours, first seeing the towers of Harrenhal over the trees, silhouetted against the setting sun, and then, turning down a bend in the road, finally the ruins itself. After Justen led them through the open gate, the Starks were assaulted with color and sound as they waded their way through the market where the peasants and hedge knights resided. The inner parts of the keep, where it was still partly intact, were home to different tent-towns in many colors of major and minor Houses. They rode up to the largest standing hall, where Ned assumed the King and the major Houses were feasting. An assumption which was proven correct after they dismounted and handed their horses to some servants.
The hall was large and well-lit, full almost to the brim. For someone who had been living in various forts-along-the-Wall for five years with nearly five thousand warriors, two thousand of the Night’s Watch, and just as many servants on average to each fort, it felt practically empty. A Herald noticed them, hurried over, and led them to the High Table, where Robert was grinning broadly down at them.
“Announcing the arrival of the Northern party, with Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, Warden of the North, and Lord of Winterfell,” the Herald called out in a resounding voice.
Ned knelt, the rest of his household following him.
“Oh, stand up, Ned. It’s good to see you, you should write more,” Robert said, grin blinding.
Ned stood, “Apologies, your Majesty, it has been a busy winter.”
“These are your children? I thought there were more of them?” Robert asked.
“A Stark must always be in Winterfell, your Majesty,” Ned reminded him, “As such, my eldest daughter Sansa is ruling as Lady Regent. Rickon is too young to travel this far and Jon has taken the Black.”
“Always one for tradition, you are. Come sit, feast. I imagine you have not had one in a long time,” Robert said, eyeing at the gauntness visible on all of them from the harsh winter and fighting. Ned could see the same concern in his eyes now as there had been many times during their childhood and in the days of the Rebellion. He was glad he could still read his old friend so well, despite the time that has passed since they last spoke. It warmed something inside of him that he thought the recent war had re-frozen, just after it thawed from the Rebellion.
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Ned said. He turned towards the low tables spread around the room, but Robert interrupted him.
“No, up here,” Robert said with a roll of his eyes, and called the Lannisters who were sitting at the High Table, “Oi, you lot, shoo.”
“You Majesty,” Tywin Lannister, dressed in yellow silk that did not suit him at all, started at the same time Ned did. The younger Lord nodded to the Lannister to keep speaking and quieted. “Your Majesty, I am sure that they want to rest after their… long journey.”
“And they will rest up here,” Robert answered with a glare, “I’m tired of you lot and I haven’t seen Ned in forever. I am King, obey.”
Tywin grimaced, but stood up, chair sliding along the floor with a screech. The other Lannisters followed with equal reluctance, sneering and glaring down at the Starks, who didn’t really notice, as war-worn and travel-tired as they were. All of them would gladly eat sitting on the floor—and have at some point during the last five years. At least they had no chance of getting frostbite here and now. The Starks sat in the recently vacated chairs, all luxurious with padding instead of bare wood. Ned leaned Ice against the chair, easily accessible but not in the way.
“Help yourself, Ned,” Robert said, waving at the platters of food on the table. Slabs of beef, legs of rabbit, shoulders of pork, haunches of venison littered the platters along with fresh vegetables and fruits. He took a bite out of a turkey leg and asked, “So what was it that made you so late?”
Ned scarfed down half a steak in about the same time as it took the King to say that. All across the table, the Starks and their men were eating like ravenous wolves—or, rather, direwolves. It was the biggest and best feast they’ve had in years, especially with fresh vegetables and meat instead of half-rotted rations and the occasional prey from a hunt during a ranging. Ned swallowed and answered, “Just the distance, your Majesty. It’s a month and a half’s journey and you gave us half that.”
“Drop the ‘your Majesties’ Ned, I get enough of that already,” Robert said with an annoyed harrumph. “Well, in that case, you aren’t that late, only a week. Quite early in fact. Did you have to gallop the entire way?”
“Aye, most of it, Robert,” Ned said, giving him the small Northern smile before starting on a piece of venison. “We made it from Winterfell to Moat Cailin within a week and a half.”
“Must have went through a number of horses,” Robert remarked.
“Not as many as you expect,” Ned said. “I rode Oath, Robb Grey Wind, Bran Summer, and Arya Nymeria until we reached the Neck. That kept the numbers down enough that it was possible.”
“Those are the children you brought with you, right? Tell me about them. I’ve been wanting to meet your family for ages, Ned, ages,” Robert said, smiling, “Are any going to join the squire’s joust? I talked Tommen into it, though he’s only a passable jouster.”
“Not the joust, no,” Ned answered. “Robb wants to join the knight’s melee, Bran the horse race, and Arya the squire’s melee.”
“Arya, your daughter?” Robert asked, surprised.
“Aye,” Ned said.
“And you’re letting her join?” Robert asked.
“Aye, she’s of the wolf’s blood. It would be a waste of time to try to stop her,” Ned said.
“That’s not going to make many people happy,” Robert warned.
“Dorne lets their women compete, I don’t see why the North shouldn’t,” Ned answered.
Robert sighed, “If that is what you wish, my old friend.”
“How are things in King’s Landing? I haven’t had time to look south during the winter,” Ned asked, “What of the Queen and your own children?”
“It’s den of snakes, that’s what it is and what it will always be,” Robert spat, “And, please, don’t ask about that bitch, I have no desire to think about her. As of my children, well, Joffrey is always pleased when the kingdom’s attention is on him, so he’ll play nice for the next few months before causing an incident by insulting someone he shouldn’t. Tommen is mostly useless, but maybe he’ll grow a spine in the joust. Myrcella is more interested in flowers and clothes than anything useful.”
“They have time to grow and learn,” Ned said with a frown. He drank slowly from the mug of ale a servant set in front of him, savoring the first taste of good alcohol in years. They had home-brewed vodka and northern mead at the Wall, but Ned, due to his fostering in the Vale where it was unofficially the drink of the kingdom, favored ale over the rest.
“If you say so,” Robert sighed.
Ned saw all three of his children yawn in the corner of his eye and, stifling his own, said, “The rigors of travel have tired us all out, I believe, so I must beg your indulgence and retire.”
“Aye, you do look exhausted,” Robert said with a frown, “Go, I’ll send a servant to lead you to your quarters.”
“Thank you, Robert,” Ned said sincerely.
He stood, put Ice back across his back, and followed the servant through the winding ruins until they came to a large clearing surrounded on three sides by the burned stone of a fallen tower. Their horses were already tied to a string of wound silver-gray and white cloth across one side, neatly groomed and grazing contently. A stake in the center flew a Stark banner. It took little time for their tents to be pitched and a guard rotation to be hashed out with the ease of men who had been doing so in far worse conditions for years.
As it was the most easily defensible position, Ned shared the largest and most central tent with his children. None of them wanted to be parted after so long with himself away, and he couldn’t bare it either. It already tore at his heart that Jon, Sansa, and Rickon were still in the North, the elder two figuring out how to bring their war-torn people back to peaceful living, the youngest who he hadn’t seen for more than two months combined since the war started. The children he was with pilled around him, and on top of him, as they laid on the wolf-fur bedroll. Full, warm, and relatively safe, all of them were out in an instant.
Ned looked through Oath’s eyes, curled around the sleeping form of Rickon and Shaggydog, keeping an ear and nose out for any intruders. Her presence was calm and warm, easily accepting his mind into hers. They stood watch for a while before Ned slipped back into his own mind and dreams.
The Starks awoke early the next morning, soon before the sun rose, a habit left over from the war, where it was the safest to travel during the light of day, as the Others could not stand the sun. Robb, Bran, and Arya all groaned, rolled over, and went back to sleep when they realized they could, but Ned carefully extracted himself from the puppy pile and refreshed himself before exiting into the warm spring dawn.
“My Lord,” a guardsman nodded respectfully from where he was servicing his sword on a stump just outside Ned’s tent.
“Anything to report?” Ned asked.
“Nothing dangerous, my Lord,” the guardsman said, “But a messenger from Lord Arryn was just here, asking to meet you at your earliest convenience.”
“Lord Arryn? I’ll leave now. And tell my children where I am if I’m not back by the time they wake up. We don’t want a repeat of the Second Wolf’s Den Incident,” Ned said.
“No, my Lord, we don’t,” the guardsman shuddered, “At least Lord Commander Snow isn’t here. But please take a guard with you, my Lord.”
“Aye, I’ll bring Jory,” Ned sighed.
The guard captain was already armored and waiting for Ned. They followed a helpful servant to Lord Arryn’s quarters, which were in one of the only almost completely intact buildings, the same one where the rest of the Small Council resided. The King and his family, plus the Lannisters, were in the other, better maintained building just across a small courtyard. They gained more than a few glances from the servants and guards as they climbed the stairs up to the third floor, where the Hand’s quarters were, though Ned wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it was the first time they had seen Northerners since the war?
(He did not realize that he still looked like he was fighting in a war, in his chainmail and leather, with Ice slung over his back, and the coldness of his expression.)
The guards for Lord Arryn’s door let him in without a word, Jory joining them outside.
“Oh, Ned,” Jon Arryn smiled warmly as he looked up from a pile of parchments in the makeshift solar. “I wasn’t expecting you here so early. I used to need to have servants pry you and Robert out of bed in the mornings. Still do for Robert.”
“Habits can change,” Ned said as he took a seat across from his foster father, setting Ice where it wasn’t in the way. “What did you summon me to discuss?”
“Several things, but mostly just to see your face once more. It’s been since our marriages, hasn’t it?” Jon said, setting down his pen.
“Aye, how is Lysa? How did she take Catelyn’s death?” Ned asked, old grief welling in his chest. He did not fall in love with his wife, exactly, but they had become close due to their shared love of their children. Her dying of Winter Fever only days after Rickon’s birth had all but destroyed Ned, but he had forced himself to pull together when, barely weeks later, the first report of an Other sighting came from the Night’s Watch and the Twenty-Second War for the Dawn began.
“Not well, not well at all. She’s resting in the Eyrie with her maids and ladies-in-waiting and has been since we got the news. Thankfully she agreed to foster my son Robert with her uncle Brynden. She was in no state to raise him herself, and I am too swamped with work to do it,” Jon said sadly.
“My condolences,” Ned said.
Jon shook his head, “I asked you here to talk about happy things, not about old sorrow. How are your children? I heard from Robert that you only brought three of them here?”
“Aye, Robb, Bran, and Arya are the ones who wanted to compete in the tournament,” Ned said.
“How old are they now? I must admit that I haven’t been keeping track, unfortunately. The two younger ones you brought are about the age of Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, are they not?” Jon asked. “And the older one is the same age as the Crown Prince?”
“Robb is a year or two older than the Crown Prince, I believe. He’s sixteen. Bran is eleven and Arya nine, though I must confess I do not actually know how old the Prince and Princess are.”
“The Crown Prince just turned fifteen,” Jon said, “Bran is a year younger than Prince Tommen and Arya is of an age with Princess Myrcella.”
“Robert will want to introduce them to each other then,” Ned said.
“Most definitely. He has missed you, and so have I,” Jon said, eyeing him with the same concern and warmth as Robert had the evening before. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“Not yet,” Ned said, having honestly forgotten that he was supposed to eat more than one meal a day. He’d have to remind his guards and children as well. The North had been on rationing for as long as the war had been fought, what with the difficulty of farming through hoarfrost and the half-a-dozen feet of snow that fell almost every night, even down in the Neck.
Jon sent a servant for their breakfast and then sat back down behind his desk, looking down at the piles of parchment with a sigh, “These seem to get bigger every time I look at them.”
“I know the feeling,” Ned said with a small smile.
A servant in Arryn blue with the moon-and-falcon stitched over his chest brought a platter of fruit and bread rolls, which he set on the table between them before leaving with a bow. Strawberries and apples and cherries as red as blood, apricots and oranges so vivid a sunset orange, cubed melon in pale green like the first leaves of spring.
Ned politely didn’t demolish the platter in seconds. He picked some of everything so that he left enough for his foster father to have whatever he wanted.
“Have a bread roll, Ned,” Jon said, handing him one, “Now, there is something that I did want to talk with you about, besides your children. I’m thinking of retiring.”
“Hm?” Ned grunted questioningly, mouth full of the bread roll. Jon gave him a disapproving look, instantly sending him back to the many lectures on manners he endured through his childhood, all of which had been forgotten on the Wall, where warmth, security, and directness were much more important than politeness and the courtly manners of the South. Ned swallowed, feeling like a child once more, not a man of seven-and-thirty, and asked, “You want to retire?”
“Aye, I’m not a young man anymore, Ned,” Jon said. “And, well, I’m nearly certain that Robert would like you to be his Hand when I do.”
“When would this be?” Ned asked cautiously.
“A year or two,” Jon said.
Ned was already shaking his head, “I cannot. The North, it needs me now. In a decade, maybe, when we’ve recovered from this winter, but I can’t leave it so soon.”
“In a decade? Is the North truly so badly off?” Jon asked, shocked.
“We’ve not done an official census yet, but from my best guess we’ve lost half the abled bodied smallfolk, three-quarters of trained warriors, and several of the Houses of my major and minor bannermen have been wiped out completely. The Night’s Watch is almost decimated, having less than eight thousand when it started with nearly forty. Almost half of those are new recruits, less than a year of experience. My brother Benjen is dead, and Jon leads as Lord Commander now, but he is still inexperienced in the management side of things, so that means it will take a while for them to recover. There are also the Free Folk and Giants who live in the New Gift, who have lost entire tribes and much of the surviving ones. Our fleet is down to less than two dozen due to the Ironborn raiders, who scented blood in the water as they always do, but they didn’t manage to get close to any holdfasts or villages on the coast due to the amount of ice floes, one of the few good things of this winter,” Ned said grimly.
“My gods, Ned,” Jon said, chalk-white and breathless.
“The North will endure, as we always have,” Ned intoned, “Winter Is Coming, so we will rebuild, as we always have. The Short Days will come again and the North will be strong enough for it, as we always have.”
“I know how bad it was down here, but I-I didn’t think it would be that terrible for you,” Jon said, regret filling his voice and darkening his eyes, making him seem truly his age for the first time. He looked old and frail and Ned hated it.
“The last time we’ve survived the Short Days of a winter like this was just before Aegon the Conqueror arrived,” Ned told him in an attempt to reassure the older man that they’ve gotten through it before and can survive now, knowing that Southern records weren’t accurate from before the Targaryen’s rule, most having been lost or destroyed. “That was why Torrhen Stark knelt, he couldn’t win against a dragon with only a fifth of his army and he knew it.”
“I’ll talk to Robert, Ned,” Jon vowed, “He’ll give as much help as you need.”
“Just a trade for grain is sufficient,” Ned said hesitantly. He hadn’t even contemplated that he could ask Robert, the King, for aid, not once in the past five years. The Wars for the Dawn were a Northern thing, but was pride a good reason for his men to starve? No, it wasn’t.
But the truth of it was that any trade with the South couldn’t have been possible in the depths of the Short Days and Ned knew it. With how much snow and ice blocked the roads and ports, a wagon simply wouldn’t have been able to traverse more than a half mile, at most, during the day. And that wasn’t even getting into the number of men that would have to protect the grain transports from bandits and deserters all the way from the Neck to the holdfasts and the Wall, taking away from those that could farm or fight. A ship full of grain and goods would have been instantly targeted and taken by the Ironborn. Now, though, now that spring was arriving? It was certainly possible. The snows had already been slowing from every night to four times a week during his journey from the Wall to the Neck, and snowing less, only to a woman’s shoulders at once instead of above a man’s head. Lots of men were out of work as well now that the fighting has stopped. There were certainly enough who would be able to guard the grain. A ship would have to wait until they rebuilt their fleet enough to fight off the Ironborn, however.
“I’ll send a servant to inform you of whenever Robert wants to meet with you, likely with the other Lords in attendance plus his Small Council,” Jon said, “But let us get back to happier topics again.”
“My apologies,” Ned said.
Jon shook his head, “You needed to tell me—and I’m glad you did, because I know your Northern stubbornness wouldn’t have let you ask for anything outright.
Before he could say anything else—the door was flung open and Arya appeared, panting and with snarl on her small face that could rival Nymeria’s. Ned was already standing and pulling Ice into position before she even spoke.
“Father! Robb’s in trouble. He stopped a knight from harassing a girl and the knight challenged him to a duel, but the knight is actually the Crown Prince’s bodyguard, Gregor Clegane and—” Arya said, panicked and trembling.
“Has the duel started?” Ned barked, heart almost stopping.
“No, the Crown Prince stopped him and said that it should be fought right before the Opening Feast,” Arya answered.
“Ned,” Jon stopped him from leaving with a hand on his arm, “Clegane is the Mountain that Rides, he killed Elia Martell. Robb will not win that fight.”
“I remember him,” Ned said, trying not bare his teeth at his foster father like Arya was.
He shook off the hand and followed his daughter to his son, Jory in step behind him. Snarling like direwolves who wanted to sink their teeth into anyone in their way, still savage-looking from the war with their hair long and unbound, the Southerners took one look at them and jumped out of the way, servants and guards and knights alike.
It did not take long to get to the market, truly, but it still felt far too long for Ned. A feeling he was, unfortunately, familiar with. Going after sightings of the Others, after patrols lost, even, in a particularly bloody month, after an entire army that disappeared. The very thought of Robb—his eldest and technically a veteran, yes, but still barely a man grown and someone who Ned still thought of a babe half the time—going against the Mountain, that honor-less and incredibly violent man that had killed so, so many, it horrified Ned. Made the wolf’s blood in him burn hot enough for him to survive naked in the winter snows at the Wall. The part of his mind that was Oath was aching for him to use his teeth to tear out the throat of the man who wanted to hurt his pup. He couldn’t deny that the image was satisfying.
“Father,” Robb said, grateful under the paleness of his expression, as Ned marched his way through the crowd that surrounded a small market square.
“Robb, report,” Ned ordered, flicking his gray eyes to the party on the other side of the square. Crown Prince Joffrey was unmistakable even though he had only heard descriptions of the boy, laughing at the Mountain’s shoulder. On the other side of the prince was the Mountain’s brother, the Hound. If he had not fought with, and against, Giants in the past few years, Ned would have been wary about their size. As it was, it was the look in their eyes that chilled him as much as the winter wind at the Wall did.
“He insulted my bodyguard, and therefore me,” Joffrey said, still laughing, a cold and amused tilt to his mouth. How very Lannister, Ned thought, somewhat uncharitably.
“He tore the dress off a girl not yet one-and-ten,” Robb said, lips pulled back into a snarl that didn’t even bother masquerading as a smile. Ned was just thankful it was directed at the Mountain and not Joffrey. His children were used to the bluntness and pragmatism that came with diplomacy between Ned himself and the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. But that had been for survival, all of theirs. They could disagree with each other but they always had to be on the same side, they couldn’t afford not to be. Southern courts didn’t work like that. Robert was right, they were a nest of vipers hiding in plain sight.
“And how is that your business?” Joffrey asked.
Ned gave Robb a quelling look before the young man could answer. There was no way for that question to be answered safely. Ned spoke instead, “Your Highness, I was informed of a duel between my son and the Mountain?”
“Oh yes, wouldn’t it be so perfect, opening my tournament with a fight for my honor?” Joffrey giggled.
Before Ned could even begin to think of how to respond to that, the crowd parted once more, revealing a red-faced Robert and a cold-faced Cersei, plus a few kingsguard and Lannister men.
“What is going on here?” The king bellowed like the angry stag he was, “I get a report that you challenged someone to a duel, Joffrey. If you wanted some good fight you should have entered the tournament, not do whatever this mess is.”
“He insulted me,” Joffrey said, pointing at Robb and stomping his foot, making himself seem even younger than Arya, who was holding onto Robb. Good girl, this wasn’t a time for the wolf’s blood in him to get too hot and goad him into attacking the Crown Prince.
“Your Majesty,” Robb said, dipping into an unpracticed bow, “I stopped his bodyguard from taking the honor of a young girl.”
“That’s not true!” Joffrey shouted.
“Yes, it is!” Arya yelled back, showing absolutely no fear or manners, “I saw it! And so did Desmond and Hustor and Yliane.”
The guards mentioned bowed deeply to the king and murmured their agreements.
“How dare you lie about my son!” Cersei started, high-pitched and screechy enough that several people winced, especially the Starks, with their warg-enhanced hearing.
“Be quiet, woman,” Robert shouted at her.
Ned stepped forward and said, “Maybe we should bring this discussion inside, Robert?”
Or at least not in front of the quickly growing crowd. The numerous unknown men, armored and weaponed, surrounding them made the hair on the back of Ned’s neck stand up in anticipation of an ambush. There were too many scents and sounds mingling into one giant cacophony, one that he couldn’t parse. An assassin, a sell-sword, or even an enterprising hedge-knight could turn this whole thing into a brutal riot so easily.
“Lord Stark has a good idea, your Majesty. We should go somewhere with not as many prying eyes,” Ser Barristan told the king as the knight’s eyes darted through the masses, likely thinking the same thing as Ned.
And so the entire procession of Joffrey, his Clegane bodyguards, the Queen and her Lannister men, the King and the Kingsguard, Ned, his children, and his guards, move into the closest only semi-ruined building, which happened to be the Great Hall where they feasted last night.
The King stood over them from the High Table with his Kingsguard, while the Queen and her Lannister men, but not her brother the Kingslayer, interestingly enough, stood with the Crown Prince at one side of the hall. Ned stood with his children and guards on the other.
“Alright, what the hell is going on? Ned, report,” the King ordered as he sat heavily in Head Chair in the center of the High Table.
“Father!” Joffrey started, but was quickly cut off by his father.
“Quiet, you!”
“I was informed of a duel between my son and the Mountain, your Majesty,” Ned started, “Because Robb stopped the Mountain from dishonoring a young maid. I came from a meeting in Lord Arryn’s solar to defuse the situation.”
“I thought it was Joffrey who declared his intent to duel?” The King glanced at the Crown Prince.
“That filthy mutt insulted me! So I told him that he would duel my bodyguard for that!” The Crown Prince laughed, a sound which echoed unpleasantly in the empty hall.
Ned was seriously considering that there must have been a curse on the Iron Throne that caused the bloodline of whoever sat on it to go insane, because Joffrey sounded far too similar to the Mad King his uncle killed than the arrogant, spoiled brat like many people thought he was. Given how many First Men and Andals and Rhoynar, all of whom had different magic systems that were ruthlessly suppressed in the South, who died for the Targaryens to forge it, it wasn’t even that improbable.
“So Clegane is your champion,” Robert said thoughtfully, “Which means if this duel is to go forward,” here he paused for either party to rescind their challenges, as Southern protocol dictated. No one said anything, though Robb shifted next to Ned uneasily, “That Robb Stark is allowed to choose his own champion to duel the Mountain in his place.”
“Robb,” Ned said lowly, looking the boy in his eyes.
Robb bit his lip, but nodded, knowing what his father meant. Out of all the men the Starks brought down south, there was only one who fought for the entirety of the war, who had not only fought in the melee scramble of war but also in single combat with powerful opponents. “I nominate my father, Lord Stark, as my champion.”