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Ned Stark wondered whether he’d leave the Red Keep alive as he rode through its gates.
He was followed by a dozen of his best men. Each was a hard eyed, loyal veteran armed and armored in battle-scarred, castle-forged steel. He’d led them in a dozen battles and they’d never let him down.
They were not men to cross. But here and now they were a mere honor guard. They were too few to resist if Robert decided upon murder.
He again cursed himself for his lack of foresight. He’d sent his Northern host home after they’d lifted the siege of Storm’s End. The campaign had been done and he had not wanted to keep his men from their families and fields.
He’d only held back only a few hundred, anticipating his - and, he hoped, Lyanna’s - need to travel back to Winterfell from the Tower of Joy across a war-torn Westeros. A few hundred veteran warriors were more than sufficient escort, even for the greatest of lords.
It had made sense at the time; it was what a good lord would do. But now it might spell his death.
You’ve rolled the dice, he told himself impatiently. Besides, not all the swords in the North will save you if you misjudged Robert Baratheon’s character.
Even if he had his Northerners at hand, all twenty thousand camped before the gates of King’s Landing, it would not deter Robert. His friend feared nothing. He might even have taken it as a challenge; like a red cape waved in front of a raging bull.
No, I have to rely on Robert’s basic decency, he decided for the thousandth time. Only to immediately once again begin the process of questioning his own judgment.
His doubts were not groundless. He wasn’t sure if he really knew his oldest friend, a man he’d thought of as a brother, after his failure to punish the murderers of Elia and her children. Relying on either Robert’s mercy or his sense of justice was a chancy proposition.
The Daynes had suggested another way - a lie to cover Jon’s birth. If he had Targaryen features, Lady Ashara would claim him as her son. If he favored his Stark kin, a wetnurse named Wylla would claim him. She was a mature woman, he’d been assured, discrete and loyal. She would hold true to the lie.
On the long road from Starfall to King’s Landing, he’d decided against the deception, more the fool he. He’d worried that too many knew the secret. The Daynes, Wylla, and perhaps any of Starfall’s keen-eyed and sharp-eared servants they might have missed, not to mention Howland Reed.
Each one he was sure was individually worthy of trust. But each one would always be a risk of letting the secret slip, no matter their oaths or how well intentioned. People spoke carelessly around their loved ones, and even more carelessly when deep in their cups. And a secret as large as his would always be on their minds, always at the tip of the tongue.
The Dayne plan was very clever, very Dornish. But like many things Dornish, he’d judged that betrayal, even if inadvertent, was a matter of when, not if.
Still, at least he would not be riding into the Red Keep and facing imminent death if he’d agreed to the Daynes’ scheme. The discovery of his treason could have been pushed back months, years even. Precious time he could have spent with Cat and Robb, the infant son he had not yet seen.
A son he might never hold, if he misjudged Robert’s mercurial temper.
But you would always be looking over your shoulder, he reminded himself, always waiting for the ax to fall. Better to take the bull, the stag, by the horns.
Besides, it was too late to change course. The raven had been sent as soon as he left the Dornish Marches. What would come, would come.
Ser Barristan Selmy was waiting for him. He was standing at strict attention despite his many wounds. Wounds he’d received resisting Robert and defending Jon’s father, mad as he was.
He wondered if Ser Barristan thought like Arthur and now regretted bending the knee, knowing what he now knew. He wondered if he would still have those regrets if he’d known how mad Rhaegar had been, obsessed about lunatic ramblings and prophecies found in moldering scrolls.
The older knight raised his hand, bidding him to halt. The old knight’s eyes were full of compassion, and to Ned’s surprise, respect.
“The King and Hand will see you now, Lord Stark.”
The knight’s words brought him out of his conflicted, doubt ridden mind. Focus, Ned! he chastised himself. This place is as dangerous as any battlefield. More so even, as there is no Robert covering your back.
He looked around the courtyard he found himself in. Black armored Baratheon men and red armored Lannisters milled about in numbers, with a few wearing the blue of the Vale. They seemed curious, but were not organized for battle.
He swallowed his fear. If Robert meant to kill him, he and his men would already be surrounded. He tried to take courage from that thought, but failed. It was just as likely that Robert meant to kill him and the babe personally.
He schooled his expression, as he dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men. “Await my return,” he ordered.
Ser Barristan said nothing until they’d left behind the courtyard and the men it contained. “The King is most wroth,” he said, as he took the steps of the stairs two at a time despite his injuries, “but the Hand supports you.”
Ser Barristan prided himself on doing his duty, no matter the personal cost, and was famous for his loyalty. Ned knew it must have cost the white haired knight much to speak those words.
“Thank you,” Ned murmured.
He was indeed thankful. He wouldn’t win the coming dispute with swords, but rather words. And words needed knowledge just as a sword needed a guiding hand, if they were going to cut as deep.
Ser Barristan had just informed him that the North and the Vale stood aligned on the issue of what to do with Jon. And if the North and the Vale stood together, that meant the Riverlands stood with them. Hoster was not a man to abandon family, which included the husbands of his daughters.
The tiniest sliver of hope blossomed in his heart. The alliance between the North, Vale, Riverlands and Stormlands had pulled the Mad King down. With three of four united on the issue, Robert would have to listen to reason.
When they reached the Chambers of the Small Council, they found Jaime Lannister standing guard before the door. His golden armor gleamed in the light even as he bowed his head respectfully. “Lord Stark.”
The golden knight neither looked nor sounded anywhere near so arrogant as when Ned had found him sitting on the Iron Throne, his blade covered in the blood of the King he’d sworn to protect. Ned wondered if he finally realized the enormity of his crimes.
He’d betrayed his oaths. He’d murdered his king. He’d failed to protect Elia and her children. Despite looking every inch a storybook knight, Jaime Lannister was rotten to the core.
“Lannister,” he acknowledged as the golden knight opened the door to the Council’s Chambers.
He nodded briefly to Ser Barristan as he entered the room. The white haired knight gave him a reassuring look before taking position outside the door alongside Ser Jaime, who pulled it closed.
Robert and Jon Arryn were seated at the Council table. The King sat at its head. He was scowling with a large cup of wine held in his oversized hand. He refused to meet Ned’s eye, instead preferring to look out the window past Jon, his mouth set in a grim line.
Jon was far more welcoming. “Ned,” he proclaimed, obviously pleased to see his foster son. He motioned across from him. “Please, sit.”
Ned moved to stand behind the chair indicated. “Your Grace,” he bowed his head briefly. Not receiving a response, he sat.
Robert was now flanked by Ned and Jon. Having no choice, he turned his attention to his old friend. “I’m sorry to hear about Lyanna, Ned.” His voice was conflicted but still thick with grief.
Ned nodded, trying to blink back the tears that threatened to rise up in his eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Jon collapsed back in his chair, his face etched with relief that his sons in all but blood were speaking. “The raven's message was too brief. Tell us what happened.”
A lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He wasn’t able to speak until Robert finally offered him a cup of wine. His old friend appeared distressed as he felt, and even more on edge.
“I had just lifted the siege at Storm’s End when I received a message from Lady Ashara informing me that Lyanna was at the Tower of Joy,” he finally choked out. “An army on the march is slow, so I gathered a small party to rescue her. We took remounts and traveled as fast as they could carry us.”
At that he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut as if to deny what happened next. Finally, he continued, “Lady Ashara’s information proved true. The missing Kingsguard barred the way. We fought. They died, as did all of my party except Howland Reed.”
Ned neglected to mention that the ‘they’ who died were Gerrold Hightower and Oswell Whent, and did not include Arthur Dayne. Lord Alaric was honorable, but he doubted he and Howland would have left Starfall alive without giving their oaths to keep that secret, and others.
Like the Starks, the Daynes valued family above all else.
He was lost in his memories again. For a time, he said nothing. Finally Robert growled, “And Lyanna?”
The tears were welling up and threatened to unman him. “She was with child. The Kingsguard had secured a wetnurse to help with the delivery. They refused a maester’s help even though Lord Alaric offered his own. They didn’t trust the maesters, not after they heard of Pycelle’s treason.”
“Grand Maester Pycelle has been pardoned of any and all crimes,” Jon said reprovingly, before Robert could react.
Ned knew that Robert would never hold Pycelle’s decision to open the gates to the Lannister army against him, just as he never held the Sack of King’s Landing or Elia’s rape and murder against Tywin. But it still grated.
Pycelle had given false counsel to Aerys, his sworn king. Why could Jon and Robert not see if he deceived one king, he might deceive another?
But he knew better than to argue. His intent was to get Jon and himself out of here safely, not debate the merits of faithless men that Robert had already forgiven.
“Of course,” he agreed. He drank some of the wine Robert had passed him. It wasn’t to his taste. Too sweet.
Robert interjected again, impatient. “And Lyanna?” he rasped. His knuckles turned white as he grasped his cup..
Ned couldn’t bring himself to care as his tears finally poured freely. “The birth went poorly. She bled too much and there was nothing Wylla could do to slow the bleeding. She was at death’s door when I finally reached her bedside. She didn’t last long.”
Robert choked as he stood, even as the gold of his wine cup finally collapsed under the strength of his hand. He reached for Ned and pulled him close. “I’m sorry brother.” The king wiped the tears from his own eyes. “Death was too good for those whoresons.”
“Aye,” Ned agreed hoarsely.
He knew the Kingsguard were only holding to their oaths, that they’d been honorable men, but their fanatic loyalty had killed his sister. He couldn’t help but wish they were suffering in whatever hell they found themselves.
Even Ser Arthur. He’d refused to forgive Ser Arthur for his role in Lyanna’s death. He’d refused all oaths, refused all concessions, until the sole surviving Kingsguard agreed to take the Black.
He’d needed some justice for Lyanna, no matter how petty.
In the end, he’d prevailed. He knew, despite the poor terms under which he and Robert had last parted, that if he died his friend would have torn apart Dorne to find out the hows and whys. He would have been avenged. His death would have doomed the Daynes; and the only question was if it arrived tomorrow or next year.
Ser Arthur had known that too. So despite his initial insistence that he be allowed to stay with Jon and serve as his protector, he’d acquiesced and taken the Black.
Besides, what use was a maimed Kingsguard? Ser Arthur couldn’t even hold a sword properly. Howland had seen to that; he’d taken Arthur’s fingers when the knight had desperately tried to prevent his throat from being cut.
“And the child?” Jon asked. He gave every appearance of sympathy, but he had a hard look in his eye when he asked the question.
So much so that Ned wondered if Ser Barristan had spoken true when he heard his foster father’s tone.
“The child lived. A boy I named Jon,” he replied, nodding his head toward the child’s namesake. “Lyanna was too weak. She only had the strength to make me swear to protect the boy, to raise him as if he were my own.”
Robert looked betrayed as he pushed himself away. “Protect him? Dragonspawn? How could you, Ned? After what Rhaegar did to Lyanna?”
This is the moment. He gathered his courage. “I swore because the sister I loved more than anyone was dying and asked it of me. I swore as it was all I could do to ease her passing. I swore because the boy is of my blood. I swore, Robert,” he said, raising his voice and injecting steel into it, “because I remembered what the Lannisters did to Rhaenys and Aegon, one a sweet little girl and the other a helpless infant, neither of whom were a danger to anyone.”
Robert stared at him, shocked. Then he cursed and threw his cup against the wall.
Not content with that, he seized the heavy table and flipped it, sending it flying across the room. A chair tumbled into his path and he picked it up, only to smash it to pieces against the floor and wall, roaring all the while.
Jon Arryn had removed himself to the far wall and watched his foster son rage. Ned joined him and received a wane smile in return.
“Robert’s a good man,” he half-whispered. “He’ll do the right thing.”
Ned was not reassured. He hadn’t even mentioned those things which might truly arouse Robert’s ire.
Despite his wounds and a long campaign, Robert Baratheon did not exhaust easily. He did, however, finally, cease his destructive tirade once every stick of wood in the room had been reduced to kindling.
The king’s head was resting against the stone wall, bowed as if he was gathering his wits. “And why would Lyanna ask you to protect Rhaegar’s rapespawn?”
This is it, Ned thought, this is when I die.
“Because the boy is not rapespawn,” he answered, surprised at how steady his voice sounded, “Lyanna went with Rhaegar willingly.”
Robert slid to the floor, his legs suddenly boneless, surrounded by the splinters of his rage. Disbelief was etched across his face. “What? Why?”
Against his will, his feet carried him toward his friend. He slid down the wall at an angle to the man he loved like a brother until their knees were touching.
His heart threatened to break again as he spoke the truth that might kill him and Jon both. “Lyanna was a foolish girl of fourteen, swept off her feet by a handsome Prince almost a decade her senior. He whispered sweet nothings and made promises, and she chose to believe them because she was angry with us all; father, me, and you.”
The king shook his head in denial. “Why would she be angry? I would have given her the world.”
His face was no longer red with rage, but was pale and withdrawn. He looked close to collapse, his hands trembling. Ned understood as he felt the same.
“As would I have,” Ned agreed, grief threatening to overwhelm him again as a memory of her smiling arose in his mind’s eye. “But she was a wild, fey thing, used to doing as she pleased. When we betrothed her to you, we took her freedom without even so much as a thought of what she might want, how she might feel. She began to hate us and this was how she lashed out at us.”
In hindsight, her reaction was inevitable. Lyanna had never been a meek girl who would sit quietly in a corner and do what she was told. She’d been a wild thing, more comfortable on horseback and with a sword in hand than practicing needlework. As soon as they threatened to cage her she would have run. The only question was when and with who.
Robert’s eyes were staring vacantly, despondently across the room. “So the war, was it for nothing?” Robert half-groaned, his head falling into his hands.
Ned asked himself that same question, every night. The question haunted his nightmares. All the death, all the loss, caused by an angry girl, an irresponsible prince, and a mad king whose decisions had come together in a perfect, tragic storm.
He gave his friend the answer he needed to hear; the answer Ned had to believe was true if he was to keep his sanity. “No. Aerys murdered my father and brother, just as he murdered - burned - so many others. He demanded your death and mine. He was a madman. We needed a new King for all our sakes, and Rhaegar wasn’t the answer. He was already halfway down the same road as his father.”
Every word he spoke was true. But it was also true that many who were lost might have lived if they hadn’t tried to force Lyanna into an unwanted marriage, if she hadn’t caught Rhaegar’s eye, or if she hadn’t run. The ambitions of Lord Rickard, the hopes of Ned and Robert, the honor of Jon Arryn - the only man he held blameless in all of this - and the madness of a prince obsessed with prophecy, and the wildness of a young girl had brought nothing but war, death and misery to tens of thousands.
Nothing was said for a long while. Ned pretended not to hear his friend weep, though he moved so they now sat shoulder to shoulder. He wanted to weep too but he had wept almost daily since he found his sister and now his tears were nearly dried.
It was Jon who interrupted their shared heartache. He had stood well away, grief stricken as he listened but now he asked, “I didn’t know Lyanna as well as you Ned, but I doubt she would have run off to be a prince’s paramour.”
The dread pooled in Ned’s heart again. Truth is your shield, he reminded himself, even if anger made him reluctant to speak.
Still, he did. Duty demanded it.
“She wouldn’t,” he agreed, struggling to speak clearly despite his anger. “But he seduced her with lies, with a promise of marriage. And he fulfilled that promise, in a fashion. A ceremony was held before a weirwood, and witnessed by the Kingsguard. He even placed a Targaryen marriage cloak over her shoulders as they said the words.”
Robert looked at him, stunned. “Are you saying the boy is king?”
Ned’s anger with Rhaegar intensified, overwhelming his grief. He’d been praised as a thoughtful, wise prince. Instead, he’d proven to be as spoiled and as entitled as any other.
“No,” Ned finally answered, as regained control of his voice, his emotions running rampant. “I’m saying that Rhaegar had taken leave of his senses, thinking he could take a second wife like the Targaryens of old. I’m saying my foolish sister believed his mad lies, because she was too young, too naive, to know better. The boy is a bastard, just as surely as if he were a rapespawn.”
Ser Arthur had disagreed, of course. But Ser Arthur would hear Rhaegar pass wind and think he’d played a symphony. Even his brother Alaric had been skeptical of Arthur’s claims that the boy was king.
Robert looked at Ned in disbelief before he shot to his feet and began pacing. Ned’s heart broke for his friend, despite his fear and anger.
It was Jon who dispelled Robert’s confusion. “Rhaegar already had a wife. The High Septon would not have granted him the right to take a second; the Faithful have rebelled over less. Even in the North,” he continued with a nod towards Ned, “a man only takes one wife. His children with all other women are bastards.”
Robert kept moving, looking for all the world like a caged animal. His friend had never been one for quiet contemplation. He needed to move, needed action, if he was to gather his thoughts.
Finally, he stopped. He stared at Ned, and then Jon, with red-rimmed eyes. “But some will still think he’s king.”
“Targaryen diehards only, Robert,” Jon disagreed, seemingly confident. “Those who follow the gods, both old and new, will see only a bastard.”
Robert’s features took on a stubborn cast. “The boy is still dangerous.”
“No,” Ned disagreed. “He’s naught but a babe.”
“Babes grow, Ned.” Robert was pacing again. “Can you not see it? If the boy lives, he’ll grow to be dangerous. Swords will flock to him. He’ll only bring more war, more death. It’s best if the boy did not live,” he concluded, his bloodshot eyes challenging Ned.
Ned glared back. “There are many dangerous men in the world, Robert. What of it? We ourselves are dangerous men.” Ned gestured to the three of them. “Should we fear infants because of fevered imagining of what some distant future might bring? Have we become women that we now fear shadows and dogs barking at night?”
“This is not some imagined fear, Ned! The boy is real. The threat he poses is real!” Robert loomed above him, so near he could smell the wine on his breath.
It was Jon who broke the tension. “Robert, the boy is less of a danger than Viserys. He can be raised to be a loyal subject. And,” at this he cast an apologetic look at Ned, “if I’m proved wrong, we can deal with him then. Just as we dealt with Rhaegar and Aerys.”
Robert broke away. He was staring at the wall, refusing to look at Jon and Ned.
“Fine,” he finally growled. “But the boy remains here, under my eye. If there is so much as a hint of treason, I’ll have his head.”
In Ned’s dreams, he had not dared to hope for so much. But it still wasn’t sufficient. He’s made a vow. He’d fulfill it, or die trying.
“No,” Ned refused the man he’d grown to consider a brother. “I won't have Jon in King’s Landing. This place is a snake pit.”
Robert turned on him, raging, as he gathered a broken chair leg and loomed over Ned again. “You won’t have it? I am King! You’ll have what I say!”
Ned closed what little distance remained between him and the man he’d helped make King. “I’ve defied one king to avenge my blood. What do you think I’ll do, Robert, if some Lannister bannerman bashes his head against a wall like they did Aegon?” He couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice. “What would you do then? Grant them your pardon again?”
To his shock, but not his surprise, Robert raised his makeshift club as if to strike him only for Jon to try to push himself between them. He didn’t get far as neither wanted to give ground. Ned’s blood was too hot and, judging by Robert’s flushed face, so was his.
As always, that didn’t stop Jon from trying play peacemaker. “You’re both right,” he said, as he continued to try to physically interpose himself between his two foster sons.
He gave up trying to physically separate them. “Robert is right, Ned, the boy is a risk,” he continued, putting a reassuring hand on Ned's shoulder. He turned to Robert, his frail, slender frame dwarfed by his foster son’s. “And Ned is right, Robert. We don’t make war on children and King’s Landing is too dangerous. Both for him and for us.”
Ned couldn’t take his eyes off Robert. He ignored the club. His friend would use it or not, and there was nothing short of sacrificing his honor, his blood, that he could do to prevent it. He’d rather die.
Slowly, reluctantly, Robert lowered his broken table leg. “What do you suggest then, Jon?” he asked, shamefaced but still angry.
A part of Ned exulted; his friend, the brother he’d grown to love, was still there. He barely heard the words Jon spoke, such was his relief.
“Ned will declare the boy a bastard before the entire Court. He will renew his oaths to the Crown, and so on behalf of the boy also. You will pardon the boy and grant his wardship to Ned. As part of that you’ll order that he never leaves the North. A partial exile if you will.”
Ser Barristan was right. Jon did support him. His words were everything he’d hoped to achieve by coming here.
Jon was the embodiment of House Arryn’s words, As High as Honor. He would not sacrifice his honor for Aerys’s madness, or Robert’s rage.
Ned loved him for it.
Ned was not so near as honorable a man. He deceived his King and the foster father by concealing Arthur Dayne still lived. He’d sacrificed a niece to save a nephew. He hated himself for the truths he concealed, even if he knew they were necessary to keep the peace and fulfill his vow.
There can be honor in a lie, he reassured himself for the thousandth time. A small lie to keep the peace, to save the realm, a small deception to save family, and to preserve a vow, that too can be honorable.
Robert looked conflicted, like he’d rather rage, but he visibly swallowed his anger, and spat, “Fine!” He breathed deeply, still obviously trying to control his rage. “But you’ll neither arrange any great marriages nor grant him any great estate. You can raise him but you will not raise him up. If you give the boy a castle, I’ll tear it down around him.”
It was better than he hoped. “Yes, Your Grace,” Ned acknowledged, bowing his head.
Robert gave both Ned and Jon one last hurt-laden glare before turning and storming from the room.
Jon watched Robert leave the Council’s Chambers, before he turned to Ned. His eyes were melancholy. “Where’s the boy now?”
“In camp with his nurse and surrounded by guards,” he answered truthfully.
He had thought of sending Jon to Winterfell by ship, as a precaution. No matter what his own fate, Jon might live.
He’d decided against it. Catelyn was a new mother. She would have no loyalty to the babe and would have readily surrendered the boy at the King’s command. He couldn’t expect anything less.
Benjen would have tried to resist, to protect his nephew, but he was a boy, barely thirteen. His bannermen would not have seen the need to fight, and possibly give their lives, for a bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen.
They’d bled enough to throw down the Prince. They’d not bled more to save his son, despite his Stark blood.
No, any resistance Benjen tried to put up would have been easily swept aside.
Besides, Benjen was desperately needed to protect Robb, if Robert proved merciless and slew Ned and Jon in his rage. There were too few Starks left to play at such defiance.
Though he hated himself, and while his vow weighed down on him, he’d judged it best to place himself and the child at Robert’s mercy. It was the only way to ensure the safety of Catelyn and Robb, not to mention Benjen.
“Good,” Jon said. “Keep him there. I’ll arrange the audience quickly. The sooner you and the child can return to the North, the better.”
Ned nodded numbly, relief threatening to overwhelm him. His gamble had succeeded. Jon would live, as would he.
Despite his relief, despite his assurances to himself, his victory tasted like ashes in his mouth.
TPoW
AN: As this was a one-shot, the vow, sacrifice and lies Ned references are:
His promise to the Daynes not to reveal that Ser Arthur lives. Instead, they negotiated that Arthur will go to the Wall under an assumed name (Qhorin).
The niece he references is Brandon, his older brother, and Ashara Dayne’s bastard daughter. The Daynes are stony Dornish so being a bastard has some negative connotations, unlike the sandy or salty Dornish. So they pretended Ashara’s daughter was born stillborn and coincidentally Lady Dayne gave birth to a daughter around the same time, Allyria Dayne. They refused to give the child up to Ned as he would have raised the girl as a bastard while they were Dornish enough to be perfectly content with lying so she could be raised trueborn.
Ned’s reference to keeping the peace was his promises given to Arthur to prevent him from trying to continue the war with Jon as a figurehead, which were similar to the promises he made to Lyanna. While Arthur didn’t have a lot of leverage, he was crippled and even his brother was not interested in fighting for Jon. However, his brother (Lord Dayne) was willing to mediate on his and Jon’s behalf.
The Daynes did not know that Ned would go to Robert. They assumed he would tell the lie they’d suggested as Ned swore he would protect Jon and raise him with his trueborn sons (to mitigate being a bastard). Ned decided that Jon’s best bet was the truth, hence this story.