Reading Time: 100 Minutes
Title: Adjusting the Sails
Series: From Experience
Series Order: 2
Author: Saydria Wolfe
Fandom: ASOIAF/GoT
Genre: Time Travel
Relationship(s): Eddard Stark/Ashara Dayne, pre-Eddard Stark/Rhaella Targaryen, pre-Eddard Stark/Janna Tyrell, Eddard Stark/Jorah Mormont, past-Eddard Stark/Catelyn Tully
Content Rating: NC-17
Warnings: *No Mandatory Warnings Apply, Canon-level Violence, Dark Themes, Discussion of Child Loss, Discussion of Suicide, Discussion—Violence against Women, Familial Betrayal (Benjen)
Author Note:
Beta: Claire Watson
Word Count: 25,062
Summary: Eddard’s first day as King.
Artist: Mizu Sage
“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.”
-William Arthur Ward
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ser Karsan, the heir of House Rosby, kissed his hands again. “Thank you, thank you.”
“It is merely my duty to address the threats to the Realm,” Eddard assured the man, trying to get his hands back. Mostly so he could dry them. “I, too, pray that we can see your sister returned to your House, but she is with child and in the Twins. The best I can promise is that her surviving children will be returned to your House.”
“That is more than I had hoped for, My King.”
Another Godsdamned kiss.
Eddard was going to need a bath at this point, with all the sloppy, flying spittle.
“Yes,” he freed his hands to grasp the man by both of his shoulders. Mostly in an effort to regain his personal space. Ser Karsan was significantly shorter than him and therefore could not reach Eddard’s shoulders in turn. Instead, the Walking Rain Cloud hooked his hands over Eddard’s elbows. “Now remember—”
“Turn over all ravens and contracts I have from my father and House Frey over to Lady Whent,” Ser Karsan said before Eddard could.
“And do not. Tell. Anyone.” Eddard shook the man for emphasis.
“Yes, Your Grace. Your will be done, Your Grace.” Eddard opened the door to Myrsden’s space.
Ser Karsan bowed again. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace. Ser Myrsden.”
Eddard retreated the moment Myrsden took Ser Karsan Rosby literally in hand. He did not care who recommended the lad or for what position in Eddard’s household the fool was recommended to him for; Eddard’s answer was NO.
He could not deal with that mess of a man for a single moment longer than he absolutely had to.
Eddard threw himself down on a couch and scrubbed his hands over his face, reconsidering, yet again, joining Robert in his pending exile. But, no. He had saddled this horse; he had to ride it. His father had taught him better than to go back on his word. He would not run away from his responsibilities like a craven.
More than Lord Rickard, Lord Jon, his foster father, had taught him better.
“Are you sure you cannot take Lady Whent as your Hand, My King?” Myrsden asked from the doorway between their spaces. Eddard looked up to see the man smirk ironically. “Her timing is a gift.”
“I already asked. Twice,” Eddard lowered himself to mope. “She said no.”
Eddard had felt entirely foolish when the Blackfish had come to him after his luncheon with Lord Lannister, Lady Whent at his side. Somehow it had slipped his reckoning that Lord Walder Frey’s Whent wife had been Lady Shella Whent’s one and only daughter, Sarya.
The Lady of Harrenhal had practically gone feral at the mention of Walder Frey—and Eddard was a Northman! He knew feral people!
He had hardly mentioned his suspicions of the Lord of the Crossing before Lady Whent started providing him raven after raven of shady implications on the part of Lord Walder Frey. Then she had produced a marriage contract that read more like a vassal agreement—one that would have made House Whent the vassal of House Frey rather than House Tully for as long as Sarya’s children with Lord Frey had lived. Or it would have made House Whent junior to House Frey, if Lady Sarya had not thrown herself from the top of the Eastern Twin less than two moons into her marriage to Lord Frey.
From the conversations Lady Whent had relayed to him, Lord Whent was entirely lucky he was dead. Otherwise, Eddard would probably have to fix that. And soon.
Myrsden laughed at Eddard’s face and stepped fully into the room. He watched his valet hold up one finger in a signal to wait to whoever was on the other side of the door before he closed it.
“Myrsden?” he sat up, frowning.
Rosby was supposed to be his last meeting until after he was crowned.
It would be entirely in keeping with his luck since his father died if something happened and he did not get to hold the traditional vigil in the godswood until the hours just before dawn.
“Lord Jon of House Arryn has requested permission to have luncheon with you, Your Grace.”
Oh. That was okay, then. “See him in.”
He did not bother to have Myrsden advise Lady Whent of the increased number of diners. The Lady of Harrenhal never sent food for less than a dozen people to his private table.
Lord Jon entered his workspace with a small smile. “No Lord Lannister today?”
Eddard groaned. “Negotiating with that man—”
Negotiating with Tywin Lannister was not actually difficult, but it served both the Iron Throne and Lord Lannister for others to think they were in a deadlock and slowly working their way into a compromise. Particularly with all the benefits the Realm would experience from their joined efforts. Most of their lunches had actually been spent with Maester Luwin designing the new King’s Landing. He wanted King’s Landing to become the crown jewel of Westeros; with all of the most advanced technology they had—just as Winterfell was in the North.
Lord Lannister’s wergild for the Sack, the Alchemists’ Guild’s penalties for misplacing over a thousand barrels of wildfire, and the Faith’s penalties for undermining the structural integrity of the city were going to pay for the new capital city of Westeros so no taxes would have to be raised to make his aims happen.
Lord Jon opened his arms to him.
Eddard shook his head ruefully as he went in for a hug.
He had no memories of his own father, Rickard Stark, hugging him. Partially because no, Brandon, huddling for warmth on a hunt did not fucking count as affection. Practicality and affection were separate matters. He knew the lack of hugs was probably because he was the second of four children, all born in quick succession—four children in five years, to be exact—and his father only had two arms but, still. No hugs.
It made Lord Jon’s—rare, but existent—offerings of hugs incredibly special to Eddard. Even as a man of twenty years with two children of his own, a single day away from ascending the Iron Throne.
He pulled back. “Come, let us sit. Tell me what is bothering you.”
Lord Jon laughed as he sat. “I had hoped to relieve your mind, not burden it.”
“A lord’s work is never done,” Eddard offered Lord Jon’s oft-repeated refrain back to him cheekily. “Whether he rules one kingdom or eight.”
“The High Septon is not pleased that you have claimed eight kingdoms in your title rather than the traditional seven.” Lord Jon picked up his wine goblet and swirled the liquid moodily. A sign, Eddard knew, that the Lord of the Vale was conflicted over something.
“Anyone who has seen a map and can count knows that there are currently nine recognized political regions of Westeros,” Eddard pointed out. “Eight of those were at different points in their history independent kingdoms.
“The High Septon’s preference for dominating Westerosi culture does not change the facts.”
“You are breaking with the Faith, then.” Lord Jon paused, seemed to realize what he had said, and shook his head ruefully.
“One cannot break with something they have never been a part of, Lord Jon,” Eddard pointed out kindly.
“You are, of course, correct, young Eddard.”
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of their meal.
“Have you spoken with young Robert recently?” Lord Jon asked, probably assuming the missing third of their little family was a safe topic for the servants to overhear.
Eddard grimaced. “I have. I would prefer that conversation to remain private.” He did not think Lord Jon would hate them both for the subject of their conversation, but he also knew children were horrifically transparent and equally oblivious to their transparency.
Lord Jon possibly already knew the true depths of Robert Baratheon’s feelings for Eddard. He probably also knew that there had been a time—now, long in the past—where Eddard had returned Robert’s feelings. Hells, Lord Jon probably knew about those four perfect weeks where Eddard had thought he and Robert had a future together before Robert had turned to denying their mutual regard with every maiden that deigned to look at him.
That did not mean Eddard wanted to talk about it.
Nor did he want to talk about the ugly, soul-baring conversation Robert had insisted they have after the man had realized that not only was Lyanna alive, but that she had married Rhaegar in part to escape Robert.
“Have you considered joining young Robert in his exile?”
“No,” Eddard said too quickly.
Lord Jon raised both eyebrows at him in challenge.
Eddard huffed. “Once. Briefly,” he admitted. “But everything I know and everyone I love is here. Westeros has a deep need for justice if we are going to remain united. Anything else and we will devolve into a mess of petty kings, making war upon each other for the most temporary of gains.”
The War of Five Kings was not a foolishness he would abide repeating itself.
Their duties completed, the servants bowed and left.
“Your Northern Lords insist that no one brings justice like a Stark King of Winter,” Lord Jon offered.
It was true, so Eddard focused intently on filling his plate.
“I had intended to seek a private luncheon with you tomorrow,” Eddard admitted.
“Young Lord Edmure came to me,” Lord Jon said by way of answer. “He is too small to help finish the decorating of the new tourney grounds, but he is a clever fisherman and so was working at the docks to keep our massive armies fed.
“He saw your sister return from the Isle of Faces.”
Eddard frowned. “I have heard no whispers of her return.”
“Good.” Lord Jon nodded. Once. “That is for the best, My King.”
“Why?” Eddard demanded.
“My banners and I are encamped on the eastern side of Harrentown, where Lord Edmure met your sister. He hid her party in a supply tent and came for me. You see, Lord Tully has said—several times and within Young Edmure’s hearing—that Princess Lyanna is ruined and that it would be better for House Tully and House Stark if she did not return from her Heathen Respite upon the Isle of Faces, but Lord Edmure knew that you were anticipating her return. He also knew Lord Lannister is anticipating a match with his son and Princess Lyanna.
“This gave Lord Edmure a conflict. Wardens and Kings outrank Lords Paramount, but Lord Paramount Tully is his father, and it is his duty to obey his father. Princess Lyanna ordered him to seek my advice to end his distress at the apparent conflict.”
House Tully’s Words were Family, Duty, Honor. Lord Edmure’s conflict must have been extreme. “And?”
“And Princess Lyanna, Queen Rhaella, and Aerys’s four surviving Kingsguard are staying with me in the guard station I have made my base of operations.”
“None of your men will reveal my sister to Lord Tully?”
“No, Eddard, they hate him and love her, especially after she insisted to my captains that they keep her return quiet because tonight and tomorrow are supposed to be about you while Hoster is out there strutting about and bullying people because he is going to be Hand of the King.”
What a wretched thought. “You are going to put me off my meal.”
Lord Jon laughed. “Regardless, my men find your sister’s intentions towards you honorable and her behavior charming.”
“How fares your relationship with Lady Lysa?” Eddard had to ask.
“Unconsummated,” Lord Arryn said bitterly.
Eddard blinked. “Maester Luwin told me that he suspects she is with child.”
“That is what he told me as well,” Lord Jon nodded. “When he was asking for permission to examine her. She is four to five moons along, he said after.”
“Oh,” Eddard said smartly. It had been a long several weeks—months, honestly—since he had returned to this life, so he decided to forgive himself for being a touch slow. “Four to five moons ago, we were fighting on the Trident and then we rode for King’s Landing. The child cannot be yours.”
“I moved out of our tower quarters when I realized her faithless nature,” Lord Jon said sadly. “Since, I have learned a great deal about my wife and her love for Petyr Baelish.
“She told me before our bedding that she should not lie with me because her father had forced the moontea upon her and she had only recently lost the child. Riverrun’s maester had confirmed that it would be dangerous for her to become pregnant so soon. I did not care. In fact, at the time I was thrilled with what I saw as a sign of excessive fertility because the one thing I needed from her was a child of my own. Two, preferably.
“Now, if she gives birth to that child, all will assume that it is my child.” Lord Jon looked up at him seriously. “I cannot force the moontea upon her as her father did, but I cannot allow Petyr Baelish’s child to inherit House Arryn, either.”
Was this what had driven Lady Lysa around the twist in his last life? Her obsession with the man had made her entirely unhinged later in life—to the point that they had murdered her husband together and framed House Lannister for the deed. Was she at that level of madness over Baelish already? Had she always been?
No, focus, Eddard reminded himself. But… had Lady Lysa been pregnant at this point the last time around? Mayhaps.
In his previous life, Lord Jon had gone to the Eyrie to fetch his wife for Robert’s coronation. There had been no delays, no time spent travelling to or time spent in Harrenhal that time around. But. If Lord Jon had found his wife pregnant in the Eyrie? He would have been furious. He possibly would have forced the moontea on her in his temper, just as her father had.
Even now, Lord Jon’s face said he was tempted.
Eddard thought mayhaps Lady Lysa had been sick in the days following Robert’s marriage and coronation? Mayhaps? But he could not be sure if that was true or if his mind was supplying him with those memories because he hoped she had been.
What he was sure of was that, at the time, he had been wildly jealous that Lord Jon had been able to travel home and back while preparations had been made for Robert’s coronation. Particularly when Eddard had barely gotten a raven from Winterfell to tell him that he had a son in that same time.
Was being forced to lose Petyr Baelish’s child twice the thing that had turned Lady Lysa into the cold, harsh creature that had no desire to help her own sister in a moment of extreme need, as she had in his last life? Eddard could not be sure.
One thing he was sure of was that if Lord Jon had known the depths of his wife’s infatuation with Baelish last time, Littlefinger would have never become Robert’s Master of Coin. Baelish would not have survived Lord Jon’s discovery of his relationship with Lady Lysa, and that was the truth of it.
Eddard shook his head. None of that helped Lord Jon right now.
“Lady Catelyn called out Brandon’s name during our bedding,” he admitted.
Lord Jon choked on his carrots for a moment before ejecting them into a napkin. “Your pardon?”
“You heard me.” Eddard was not saying that bullshite again. It had sucked to have happen in the first place; he was not going to talk about it unless he had to.
“By the Seven.”
“At this point, I confess myself relieved that she did not name our son Brandon.” He had not wanted to name their second son Brandon either, but mothers named the children they carried and birthed in the North. He had not felt able to deny her.
“Tully certainly knows how to raise daughters,” Lord Jon offered sarcastically.
“I do not understand where the superiority he conducts himself with comes from,” Eddard admitted. “There are no actually great people in the history of House Tully—being the first man to hit your knee after your king was brutally slain by a dragon does not count as great in my mind.”
“Do you actually have room to say such a thing?” Lord Jon asked, amused. “Considering House Stark’s history with that same king-slaying dragon?”
Eddard gave Lord Jon the disbelieving look that statement deserved until Lord Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Eddard made a show of pinching the bridge of his nose. “I also do not understand this stubborn Southron belief that Torrhen Stark was a craven.
“Why can not a single one of you south of the Neck recall that King Torrhen negotiated with Aegon the Dragon for three days before he knelt?” Eddard looked Lord Jon in the eye. “Torrhen Stark did not slip. He did not get a poorly timed cramp. He was not a fool.
“Do you know the nerve it took to stand up to a dragon and negotiate? Can you even imagine a creature the size of Balerion the Black Dread? And to then hear out Aegon’s argument for Westerosi unity—which was not kneel or I will kill you, for the record—make your own decision and then negotiate a peace treaty? Have you read the Pact of the Dragon and the Direwolf?”
“I have not,” Lord Arryn admitted.
“It is entirely generous. Torrhen Stark also wrote the Charter for the Iron Throne of Unified Westeros. These two documents are the foundation all of Alysanne and Jaehaerys’s laws stand on, and the Pact is the basis of King Daeron the Good’s Treaty of Dorne that finally united everything south of the Wall in Westeros.”
Lord Jon was quiet for an extended moment before he cleared his throat. “I stand corrected, My King.”
Eddard stared his foster father down for another few moments.
He loved the man dearly. That did not mean that the man would get special treatment or be allowed to embrace the Southron preference for ignoring the truth and power of the North.
The North had stomped them a new mudhole already—twice, if one counted the North’s effectiveness during Dance of the Dragons.
Eddard was not afraid to do it a third time, if need be.
He focused on his food for a time, allowing his temper to flow through him and into the ground far below him to enrich the Gods.
“Have Lord Baelish and Lady Lysa committed any other crimes?” Eddard asked.
An oath-breaking bride was enough to end even a consummated marriage in Westeros, and the Arryn-Tully marriage was unconsummated. Carrying the child of a man other than her husband would get a lady of even Lysa Tully’s rank flogged. Just from getting her pregnant, Baelish and Lady Lysa would both be socially and politically ruined in a way they would never recover from, but Eddard wanted Lady Lysa and Lord Baelish dead. He did not want to have to watch his back for either of them in the future.
And he did not want his children to have to, either.
Of course, if it ever got out that he had executed a woman he knew to be pregnant? One widely considered his good-sister. Eddard winced. He was unsure how the Southrons would react to that, but it would probably not go well for him.
“There have been a few suspicious disappearances, but no outright murder,” Lord Jon assured him.
“Did they check the ground beneath the Moon Door?”
Eddard hated the Moon Door, if he was going to be honest about it. The Door made killing too easy and took the burden—the intentional, necessary, honorable burden—out of swinging the sword oneself away from the action of executing criminals. In throwing someone out the Moon Door, there was a disconnect created between the action and the result of the execution that cutting off someone’s head did not have. And there was a complete lack of remains to look upon and understand the fresh horror you had made.
“No one goes down there, Ned.” Lord Jon frowned at him. “You know that.”
Eddard wanted to roll his eyes. Viewing remains thrown from the Moon Door was considered dishonorable in the Vale because the people had been denied proper burials, left to the scavengers as they were. Eddard still did not see how looking for and finding evidence of crimes being committed was dishonorable.
“Get me a list of names of those who have disappeared,” Eddard urged.
“You cannot force people to speak the truth,” Lord Jon chided him gently, “but I will get you the list, regardless.”
Lord Jon was wrong, but he would learn the truth with every other southron in the coming days.
“You will need a new wife,” Eddard pointed out. “I have a lord with a sister who will soon need a new husband.”
“A Northerner?” Lord Jon asked. “Not every woman can flourish in the cold of the Eyrie.”
Eddard snorted. “That’s the curse on your line, and you know it.”
One of Eddard’s defense squads in the Vale had been captured by the Mountain Clans back when he was twelve. Eddard had been the only survivor because he had been the only follower of the true gods in the group. In the time they held him, the Mountain Clans had explained exactly why they would never follow a House dedicated to the Faith, and it had been nothing like Eddard had expected.
Lord Jon made a face that would have gotten Eddard’s hands smacked as a child had he been bold enough to make it in Lord Arryn’s own keep.
“We found records of the sacrifice of the Eyrie’s crone,” Eddard reminded Lord Jon. “House Arryn sacrificed a living avatar of the Crone to the Seven in thanks for their conquering of the Vale. You know it happened.”
“It had to be an honest mistake,” Lord Jon protested.
“Why would your gods punish your entire line for an honest mistake?” Eddard countered. “Why would you continue to cling to gods that would punish your line for a dead man’s honest mistake?”
Lord Jon groaned.
“Pride is the death of honor,” he told his foster father, entirely done with this foolishness only found in the Arryn line. “You must do what is best for your House.”
“Would you abandon your gods in my place?”
“If I were the last of my line, about to claim my fourth wife without a single child of my own to show for it?” Eddard gave his foster father a significant look. “You have tried everything else! What else can you do?
“Lady Rowena tried everything to give you a child,” Eddard pointed out softly. Mayhaps bringing up the love of the man’s life was a mistake. But. It could also be the key to solving this problem. A calculated risk. “She ate and drank things best left unnamed in the hope that they would help her give you a child. She debased herself with all manner of practices found from here to Asshai to give you a child.
“You owe it to her to do just as much for your House as she did.”
Lord Jon huffed. A refusing huff, not a conceding huff. And people thought Baratheons were unreasonably stubborn.
“When the Old Gods give me a child of my own, then I will kneel for them.”
Eddard narrowed his eyes. He had reason to believe the curse was on their keep where the sacrifice was made, not actually on House Arryn. He could not prove it. But. He could keep Jon out of the Vale until he had several children because someone had to oversee the rebuilding of King’s Landing. Someone seen as neutral would be best and, in this issue, compared to House Lannister, House Arryn was certainly neutral.
“There was only one battle in the Vale during the Rebellion, correct?”
Lord Jon snorted. “If you can call it that. Robert smashed them to bits, and Gulltown will need a new headman soon.”
It was just another reason Lord Jon needed multiple children, in Eddard’s mind. Gulltown was typically held by a cadet line of House Arryn, though Lord Marq Grafton had somehow claimed it for King Aerys at the start of the Rebellion. A son of Lord Jon’s would never have held to king over kin.
“Your people are well-accustomed to your leadership. They do not need you the way other, more war-torn kingdoms do. Correct?”
“Some days I would be surprised if they needed me at all,” Lord Jon japed.
“I need someone to handle the rebuilding of King’s Landing for me. I think you and your soon to be new wife should do it.”
“Not the position I thought would be in my future,” Lord Jon admitted.
Eddard nearly groaned. Had Lord Jon had his eyes on Hand of the King as well? Even after Eddard had declared that no lords paramount would sit on his Small Council?
“But I would be honored to make your home safe for you. I am not entirely sure why it needs to be rebuilt, though. The city was intact when we left it.”
“It is complicated,” Eddard admitted. “I would rather not speak of it again until I disclose it officially to the nobles.”
“As you will, Eddard, My King,” Lord Jon accepted softly.
“I will have some documents for Queen Rhaella to review. If you would be willing to take a sealed package to her when you leave, I would appreciate it.”
“I can do that.” Lord Jon eyed him for an extended moment. “Did I ever tell you about the time Lady Rowena and I were forced to share a single horse when we were younger?”
Eddard, knowing this meant the serious Realm-business part of the conversation was over, smiled. “No, I cannot recall ever hearing it.”
“Well, it was raining—”
-*-
“And you wish for the Lords and Ladies to enter the godswood from the two entrances on either side of the eastern corner,” Lady Whent said, waving illustratively back at the entrance they had used several moments before.
“Yes,” Eddard agreed. The eastern entrances were the furthest from the King Tree of this particular godswood.
Harrenhal’s godswood was twenty acres of various plants and trees, including a small army of weirwood. Every stand of weirwood trees was a collective. A person well attuned to the Gods of Forest, Steam and Stone could locate the senior tree among the weirwoods, the King Tree, was the key to binding the magic of the stand to themselves. He had spent the last three nights giving the Harrenhal King Tree his blood to bind them together. He would hold his vigil before the King Tree as well, but he could not risk either one of the few First Man lords left swaying the tree from him or otherwise interfering with the blood bond that put all the weirwood in this godswood under his sway.
Nor use his connection with the Wood to sway him.
So, it was in his best interest to keep everyone far away from the King Tree without making it clear in any way that that was what he was doing.
“I have provided every Lord Paramount with the vow you determined they and their people need to swear. The Lords Paramount have agreed to distribute it to their people. Every noble present will be required to swear.
“I want to confirm the order of swearing, Your Grace.”
“The North, the Vale, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the West, the Iron Islands, Dorne, and the Reach,” he rattled off. “If anyone is bold enough to ask, it is the order they accepted me as their king.”
“Very good, My King.” Lady Shella confirmed. “The throne platform.” She pointed at it with her quill.
One of the ponds that always seemed to form in godswoods was barely visible under the heavy wooden platform. There were four steps, as they had discussed. There were four chair-shapes on the platform, one on the highest step with three one step down. All four chairs—thrones—were covered in oiled canvas. All four were facing the entrances he had chosen for the nobles to use.
Interestingly, the wooden platform was branded with runes. First Man runes.
“House Royce was involved in building the platform?” Eddard asked as he spied combinations for blessings of strength and insight. Justice, here. Protection as well. A firm foundation. There was even a blessing of fertility—did a man claiming three wives really need such a thing?
“I have been told that three of House Royce’s Rune Masters insisted on preparing the materials and overseeing the build of the platform, Your Grace,” Lady Whent said. “Though I admit, I was not permitted to witness any part of their preparations.”
That tracked. Hiding who had certain skills was how First Men had protected those with special powers among them for time immemorial.
Unless the power was skinchanging, of course, but Skinchangers were rarely vulnerable to misuse of their gifts by their gifts, particularly Skinchangers were protected by the animal they bonded to with their gifts.
“I will have to give them my thanks,” he muttered mostly to himself. He also needed to talk to Bronze Yohn’s younger sister, Lady Jeyne, about standing as Regent for Robb until he was ready to claim his future title. She would be Robb’s foster mother for finishing the lad’s training, and Eddard wanted to take the measure of her.
“There is a question about the banners that will hang as a backdrop for the platform, My King.”
“Yes?”
“Your lords provided me with plenty of smaller Stark standards that we have hung in the trees,” she gestured around them, as if he could have missed them. “My ladies have woven and embroidered several larger Stark banners, half of which have the Crown of Winter above the running direwolf. Lady Olenna, however, had her ladies weave a Tully banner, only the silver fish were replaced with silver direwolves chasing each other.”
Eddard considered that. He had not discussed his feelings and opinions about House Tully and their crimes with the Queen of Thorns. Was she warning him that he was not as subtle as he had hoped? Or was that supposed to be Catelyn’s standard as his queen?
“Did Lady Olenna have any other standards made or altered?” he wondered.
Lady Whent checked her book. “Lady Olenna had two Tyrell standards made—one on white, one on green—but the bloom of the rose is blue rather than gold on the white field standard.”
Declaring her daughter his Winter Rose, Eddard nodded. Lady Olenna was making a statement about his queens and not House Tully’s crimes, then.
Still, a Tully banner with wolves rather than fish would be useful. Later.
“Have both the Tully Wolf banner and the white Winter Rose banner mounted on movable stands. Position them away from the area the nobles will fill, faced towards a wall.”
“Will I need to station men to bring the banners forward?”
“Yes.” Eddard paused. “Mount a Targaryen standard on a movable stand and have men stationed to move it as well.”
“We will not need them tomorrow,” he said to actually answer her question.
Lady Whent made a note. “You will do your vigil tonight. Your valet, Myrsden Yew, will handle your needs personally. Breakfast—simple, alone. At your signal, all nobles will assemble in this area,” she gestured to the semi-circle in front of his throne. “Your vassals will speak their vows. You will speak your vow.” They were going to hate the heathen ritual of it, but once the North committed to him in the ancient fashion of the North, their southron pride would not let them back out. “North, Vale, Stormlands, Riverlands, Westerlands, Iron Islands, Dorne, Reach, and Crownlands.”
Eddard swallowed back a wince. He had not considered the Crownlands, but they were there and needed a spot, too.
“Luncheon, probably late, with family. Naming of the Queens in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.”
“There will be some Justice at that point, to clarify some things,” Eddard interjected.
“Will you be announcing the Paramount matches you have made at that point, Your Grace?”
“If I thought the vow section of our program would not take most of the day, I would.” Eddard shook his head. “I will announce the matches after the War for the White Cloaks.” And after the Day of Justice that he was still planning.
“Very good, My King.”
An excessive number of people would die before Match Day, he knew.
“Why have you not asked me to intervene on the questions and whispers about the rule of Harrenhal?” he asked.
Lady Whent sighed. “Because I know Harrenhal is mine. Tranis knows Harrenhal is mine. What else matters?”
“And Tranis’s companions? When they get stupid and ambitious? Or his children and their companions? What if some Faithful Lord decides to do Master Tranis a favor?”
“I will be seen as weak, for turning to the king to fix a problem that does not yet exist, Your Grace.”
“I will be seen as a fool for not preventing an easily foreseen and prevented problem,” Eddard countered.
“My place was determined by the agreement of a Targaryen king, not a Stark.”
“My entire rule hinges on honoring the agreements of Targaryen kings and queens. Supporting you supports me.”
Lady Whent stared at him for a long time. He could not imagine what she had gone through to keep what had always been hers.
Shella Whent was the firstborn child of Princess Rhae of House Targaryen, daughter of King Maekar I, and Lord Nithan of House Whent, the previous head of House Whent and Lord of Harrenhal. Her grandfather, King Maekar, had been dead before she was born. With Maekar dead before her father and King Aegon V busy with his many reforms of the Realm, young Lady Shella’s rule of Harrenhal would have been challenged by all comers.
It was telling, to Eddard, that Lady Shella had married Lord Walter Whent, her first cousin, the brother of Ser Oswell and firstborn son of Lord Nithan’s younger brother, Ser Whyll. From the letters Eddard had read, Walter Whent had certainly conducted himself as Lord of Harrenhal rather than Lady Shella’s consort—which he legally had been.
Add to that, Lady Shella and Ser Walter Whent had married before the Faith, despite most of their House following the Gods of Forrest, Stream, and Stone. There was not much Lady Whent could do to assert herself as Ruling Lady after that. Not after she had sworn her obedience to her husband, as the Faith made all wives do.
“If you had reached out—” Eddard stopped. The timing would have been in issue, certainly.
Jaehaerys II, heir of Aegon V, might have been sympathetic to his cousin’s plight, but he spent most of his reign wrapped up in the War of Ninepenny Kings, and then he died young.
Aerys II, the Mad King, would not have been sympathetic to Lady Shella in any single way.
“If I had reached out to my cousin, King Aerys, he would have taken Harrenhal from me for embarrassing him with my weakness. Or to punish me for daring to call him family,” Lady Whent said, understandably bitter.
“That is fair,” Eddard had to admit. Aerys II had felt free to murder a warden and his heir, and that was the least of the Mad King’s failures, in many regards.
Lady Whent studied him silently for several moments before nodding to herself. “If you make it clear to the Realm that Harrenhal is rightfully mine and Tranis is my heir, I will be your Hand.”
Eddard did not cheer. He might have rocked up onto his toes and bounced a bit in celebration of getting something he truly wanted, but he did not cheer. “I will.”
He would also have to re-arrange his tentative Small Council list, but that was just fine. The current Lord Velaryon was more suited to Master of Coin than Lord Hand anyway. He and Lady Whent would certainly keep a better eye on Lord Velaryon’s fingers in the pie than Robert and Lord Jon had on Petyr Baelish, as well.
“I will need a copy of your mother’s wedding contract for my personal archive.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Satisfied that they had planned the events for the next day as thoroughly as they could, Eddard offered Lady Whent his arm and escorted her to dinner.
Once there, Princess Mariah of Dorne joined him at the High Table, as had become their custom the last several days.
“Alas,” the Princess said at the end of the meal, “I shall miss your forthright and honest company at meals, My King.”
Eddard smirked at her teasing tone. “And I shall miss the view I have enjoyed during our meals together.”
Princess Mariah laughed and gently slapped his arm for the teasing.
“Once my queens are settled in my life, you will always be welcome at my table,” he told her honestly.
“So, after about six children.”
Eddard snorted and shook his head. “I hope to earn their trust and respect more quickly than that,” he admitted.
Princess Mariah leaned forward to whisper urgently before her son was close enough to hear. “I have heard the most horrible whispers about the state of King’s Landing, My King.”
“And I have read the most horrible ravens about the state of King’s Landing, my princess,” Eddard admitted. “But fear not. There is crisis management in place, and a plan will soon be deployed. All will be revealed in time.”
“I trust you, Your Grace,” Princess Mariah said with appropriate gravity for such a shocking statement.
Mayhaps that was what made Eddard feel bold enough to ask, “How would you feel if certain Rhoynish customs spread beyond Dorne?”
“That would depend on the customs in question, My King,” she pointed out. “Staking prisoners out to drown in sand is not particularly viable north of the Red Mountains.”
“Absolute primogeniture,” he told her, “And, with it, the Dornish styling of Prince and Princess.”
Princess Mariah narrowed her eyes.
Eddard answered the most obvious question before she was forced to ask it. “Wardens and Lords Paramount would gain the title Prince or Princess along with their immediate children and down the line of succession. As children marry out, they become Lords or Ladies, as you already practice in Dorne. To earn the title Prince or Princess, Wardens and Lord Paramount will have to practice absolute primogeniture within their Houses and enforce it among their vassals.”
“And when they murder their gods-given female heirs?” she asked.
“Then they would be guilty of murder and interfering with the Will of the King, which is treason. They would lose their heads or go to the Wall. Along with anyone who helped carry out or cover up the crime.”
Princess Mariah huffed and sat back, tapping her fingers on the table as she thought. For quite some time.
“As confident as I am that my gender will perform admirably as long as we are adequately trained, I do worry that you will push for too much change too quickly, Your Grace.
“Impatience now could be the end of your House,” she warned.
Eddard sighed. She was right that he had to protect his House. It was only he and Lyanna left.
And two tiny, tiny babies.
“I will put women on my Small Council, to accustom Westeros to the wisdom and success of women.”
“Not more than half,” she insisted.
“Not more than half,” he agreed, though it chafed.
Realistically, the lack of absolute primogeniture and the general treatment of women in the greater part of Westeros had to chafe more for her than it did for him, seeing as she was a woman. And a woman in power. Being second born, he was more sympathetic to people who were thought of as less due to the circumstances of their birth than most male heirs, but he was still male. No one questioned his ability to rule for the simple reason of his having a cock.
It was ridiculous.
The Mad King had had a cock, too, Eddard thought darkly. Having a cock had certainly not made him fit for the Iron Throne.
“Your Grace.” Myrsden called his attention toward the end of dinner.
“Ser Yew,” he greeted just as formally.
“You have received contracts from your vassals. One for your records and two for your consideration.”
Eddard looked over the three. He passed Princess Rhae’s wedding contract back to Myrsden and settled in to read the other two, nodding to Princess Mariah as she excused herself.
The first contract was a marriage contract from House Dayne. It specified the date of his and Ashara’s first wedding beneath a weirwood on the Three Sisters as the beginning of their marriage. It also specified that there would be a second, public royal marriage in the unspecified future. A note hidden inside the roll from Ashara assured him that she was looking forward to meeting him beneath the tree a second time for all the Realm to witness—she always seemed to know the tracks his mind would take before it ever caught the scent and, now, he was grateful for it.
Lord Dayne did not specify little Jon Stark as the heir to Winterfell in the contract, but he did specify that Eddard and Ashara’s first child would inherit Winterfell from Eddard while their second would inherit Starfall from Ashara as a Dayne, regardless of the children’s genders, in the Dornish fashion.
All things Eddard could and did agree with, but Eddard held off signing the contract. Lady Whent as his future-Hand and Lady Ana Selwyn as his future-Master of Laws would have to read the document and agree before he affixed his signature and seal as King.
The second contract was from House Tyrell for Lady Jana.
As he had never involved himself with that particular rose or her family, the contract was fairly standard for an arranged marriage. Lady Olenna’s only specification was that his first female child with Lady Jana would marry the current Lord of Highgarden, Lord Willas. It would be a match of first cousins, which was legal, if not Eddard’s preference. He would have to double check but he felt like the main line of House Tyrell had almost exclusively married first cousins in the last hundred years or so. They needed to branch out if they were going to continue to Grow Strong, per their House Words.
Again, he closed the contract without signing it. Not only would he have his advisors look for loopholes, he would have to negotiate some with Lady Olenna on the matter of her grandchildren matching to each other.
Eddard looked around until he found Lady Whent. At his signal, she came to him.
“It occurs to me that we skipped something important in our planning for the morrow.”
“Your Grace?” she frowned.
“The naming of the Small Council.”
“Ah.” She waved at Princess Mariah’s chair, silently asking permission to sit.
Eddard, of course, nodded and waited as she pulled out her Damned List.
“Breakfast, your oaths, vassal oaths—North, Vale, Stormlands, Riverlands, Westerlands, Iron Islands, Dorne, Reach, and Crownlands— luncheon with family, naming the Small Council—”
“A Small Council meeting,” he interjected. “The Oath of Service must be formalized before they partake in any official functions as members of my Council. And there are several recent events they will need briefed on while we are at it.”
“Small… Council… Meeting,” she scratched in her notes. “Then dinner.
“How do you wish to handle naming your queens, Your Grace?”
“After my Small Council reviews the wedding contracts…” he waited significantly.
Lady Whent nodded sharply.
“I will announce one each morning, starting the day after tomorrow. The queen announced that day will sit at my side in the Royal Box for the War for the White Cloaks. Public marriage beneath the tree, her crowning, then dinner.”
“Very well, My King.
“Will there be a bedding?”
“No,” he said immediately, thinking of Lord Tully witnessing him take Lady Catelyn for the first time and trying not to shudder in disgust. The man had not even turned his back as Eddard took his daughter; Tully had trusted him so little.
“Your Grace?” Lady Whent asked, clearly startled.
“My apologies,” Eddard sighed. “I did not intend to be sharp with you. Traditions bring comfort, I suppose?”
“To the masses,” she agreed. “And to more nobles than would care to admit a need for such common practices.”
“My first marriage will be more of a public re-marriage for the Realm to attend; there is no need for a bedding there. The woman in question has already given me a son.” That was vague enough, he thought. Most would assume he was talking about Lady Catelyn rather than his Ashara.
“The second,” Eddard hesitated. Queen Rhaella had been sexually abused more than enough for a dozen lifetimes by her first husband. A Bedding was not supposed to be abusive, but who could tell where an abuse victim’s boundaries would lie? They were much too easy to trip over, and he would prefer her second marriage bring Queen Rhaella nothing but joy—or at least no more trauma. “I will not put her through any such thing.” Especially not while she was both pregnant and bearing scars that were still stinging from King Aerys’s abuse.
“The third.” Eddard could not see a Tyrell skipping such a tradition. Especially not when it was her first marriage and to a new king. Eddard sighed. “I will speak with the head of her House, but I find it likely.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
Eddard nodded back to his Hand and stood. The hall fell silent. “Tomorrow, we begin binding the Realm into a united whole once more. Sleep well; the future will be here when we wake.”
Eddard left the High Table, letting Robert and Ser Brynden fall into step with him.
“There will be nothing for you to do while I am in the godswood,” he told his guards. “Nothing will harm me while I hold my vigil.” Not physically, at least. “And I will have Ice.”
“Ser Myrsden and your boys—” meaning the pages he had adopted from King’s Landing “—already have plans in place for your breakfast and wardrobe on the morrow, Your Grace,” Ser Brynden said.
Eddard already knew that, but he actually appreciated the double-check so he just nodded.
He turned them down what should have been an empty hall—a hall emptied on purpose specifically to protect his vigil—to find his good-brother, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy guarding a door. Neither of them was dressed as a Kingsguard.
Someone was being sneaky.
“What in the Seven Hells…” Robert muttered softly.
Eddard felt exactly the same.
He walked right up to the not-so-subtle guards. Though. Mayhaps they were the best Aerys’s Kingsguard could offer for being sneaky in these circumstances. Ser Oswell Whent would certainly be recognized in the castle where he grew up and no one had blond hair and green eyes like a Lannister without being a Lannister so Ser Jaime would not have been a subtle choice.
Despite their massive fame, Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan were most famous for being Kingsguard. Take them out of the white raiment, and they were knights. Just like any other.
A Marcher and a Dornishman in the armor of their native cultures.
The only odd thing about them would be that they were standing together. Peacefully.
Eddard stopped in front of the pair. And waited.
Ser Arthur spoke first, “Queen Rhaella wishes to speak with you.”
Eddard nodded. He had figured it had to be one of the women currently semi-hiding with Lord Jon. He and Lyanna had been sending notes back and forth for most of the day, so he had doubted it was her.
He would see Lyanna tomorrow, bright and early.
Eddard entered the room. Queen Rhaella stood automatically. It was a little off-putting. He hoped he found it off-putting because the woman was incredibly pregnant, but he unfortunately could not be sure.
He would sort himself out later.
“My Queen,” he gave her a shallow bow.
“My King, I hope you will forgive me if I forgo a curtsy.”
“I would prefer it if you took a seat,” he admitted.
The dragon queen complied. “I fear I do not know where to begin. I had no idea the details you have revealed about the agreements between our two Houses even existed until I read the formal declaration of wrongdoing you sent me.”
“I have found most southron nobles do not read legal contracts unless they are told that they have to,” he admitted, “and even then, they read as little as they can get away with. Rarely the entire document.” Lord Lannister was the only exception to this rule he had encountered so far. And that was probably related to trauma rooted in the Frey Situation with Lord Lannister’s sister.
“An unfortunate condemnation of nearly universal sloth,” she pointed out. “Is it so different in the North?”
Eddard patted the Legal Pouch Lord Lannister had returned to him after luncheon that very day. “Every Northern lord and lady carries a pouch with Aegon’s Charter, the Laws of the Realm, and the Laws of War on them at all times. We take pride in passing down our pouches through the generations of our Houses. This is the one carried by King-turned-Lord Torrhen Stark himself.”
“And now it is carried by a Stark Lord-turned-King,” she gave him a sad smile. “His descendant.”
“And it may one day be carried by one of our children or grandchildren,” he offered.
“Is that why you want me to marry you? For children? I have not been successful in this endeavor, Your Grace.” The bitterness in her tone was hard to swallow, though he had to admit that it was justified.
“I want you to marry me because I do not trust anyone else to keep you safe. There is not a lord or knight or lady in Westeros that I trust to respect you or your boundaries,” Eddard admitted. “There was a time when I would have trusted you to my younger brother Benjen and sent you to Winterfell so you never had to set foot in the Red Keep again, but the crimes he committed during the war have shown that I would have been proven a fool to do so.”
“What,” Queen Rhaella hesitated, “what did he do, Your Grace?”
“He sheltered Rhaegar and Lyanna in Winterfell, knowing they were married, and did not tell anyone in the hope that the war would kill me and he would inherit Winterfell after peace returned to the Realm.”
“And none of the staff saw them?” Queen Rhaella questioned.
“We were in the crypts, My Queen,” Ser Arthur admitted. “We only ever saw Lord Benjen in the moons we were there.”
“Moons without sun?” Queen Rhaella asked, doubtfully. “With only each other for company? How did you not murder each other? How did you bathe?”
“We found a hidden passage, we assumed it was an emergency exit, to a mountain side and used it to hunt and gather. And there is a hot spring grotto beneath the castle as well.”
“Were there dragon eggs?” Eddard asked, curious. “The old tales say Vermax laid eggs in a hot spring within the crypts, but no one has ever found the hot spring. Not to my knowledge.” Nor had anyone found how a dragon large enough to ride to war managed to enter the crypts. Eddard hoped Lyanna would be able to lead him to the hidden passage. And the eggs.
“There were stones to mine eyes but my prince identified as dragon eggs,” Ser Arthur said. “Live, not fossilized dragon eggs. He did not let any of us touch them. They were wet and gleamed like metal in torch light.
“Scaly, the size of a large cat.”
That matched the description Eddard had of Daenerys’s eggs from another life close enough for him to accept it, at least.
“Colors? How many?”
“Five, in all manner of colors, Your Grace.”
“Where are they now?” Queen Rhaella asked.
“We left them. My prince did not wish to risk the eggs in any way. He felt it wise to heed their layer’s choice of where to leave them.” Ser Arthur wet his lips, a sign of nerves—Ashara had told Eddard once upon a time. “He said it was a sign that he had chosen his second queen correctly. A sign of prophecy.”
Eddard rolled his eyes so hard that his upper body went with it and he almost fell out of his chair. “Prophecy is a sword without a hilt. Try to wield it and the only person you will be a danger to is yourself.” It was an old Northern saying, though Eddard used the rare, gentle ending for Queen Rhaella’s benefit.
“What would you do with them? My husband’s Kingsguard?” Queen Rhaella asked him suddenly.
Eddard knew well what a test sounded like. “Ideally, they would go to the Wall.”
“Why?” she pressed.
“The only thing less tolerable than a rapist is a man who abides rape and claims doing so to be noble.” Both Kingsguards’ mouths dropped open. “I will not tolerate such men around my wives. I would prefer if they pressed their presence upon none of the women under my protection.”
An odd look crossed the queen’s face. “That would remove them from all of Westeros, Your Grace.”
“Hence the Wall,” Eddard pointed out.
“He was the king!” Ser Barristan objected.
“And vows to kings are more important than basic decency? Basic morality?” Eddard demanded in turn. “More important than the vows you give the gods to gain the rank of knights?”
“There was no counselling him, Your Grace. He took no guidance or correction—” Ser Arthur tried.
“Then you should have killed him!” Eddard tried very hard not to yell. “And gone to your punishment content that you had done the right thing and maintained true honor. You want to know why Dawn will no longer tolerate you?” Eddard waved at the man’s empty scabbard. “Because you are a craven. Because you are lying to yourself about what is good and what is right.
“Kings do not matter. Our duty—the duty of the Sword of the Morning—is to the Living. The Sword of the Morning’s duty is the dignity and continued survival of every man and woman in Westeros, and you have forgotten that.”
“How can say that?” Ser Barristan asked. “How could you possibly know anything about the Sword of the Morning?”
“Because the North Remembers,” Eddard snarled. “I know where that sword came from.
“I know her true name.”
Eldric Shadowchaser had been the younger of two brothers. While the elder brother, Brandon the Stark, had held their people together, sheltered them, and provided for them as a leader should during the Long Night, Eldric had gone adventuring for help to bring the dawn. Eldric had found a sword and, in turn, had waged war that could never be won—not when every loss among his warriors immediately replenished the other side with fighters already in position to stab the Living in the back.
In the end, Brandon the Stark negotiated the pact that had actually brought the dawn, but Eldric had been beloved by the people. He had gotten hundreds of people killed in a fight they could not win, but was remembered for his heroism over his brother’s acceptance of the burden of thousands of years of sacrifice on his upon bloodline.
Shadowchaser had been a name Eldric had given himself—a mantle of shame for his foolish choices and the lives he had so carelessly spent. But his story was a bard’s dream, so long as one did not care for all the facts. And so, he was remembered as a hero from the Wall all the way to Asshai while the Stark was remembered as just another Stark named Brandon.
After the dawn had returned and the Long Night was broken, Eldric had sailed south to Dorne and married a Dayne, so as to not endanger his brother’s rule or the pact his brother had made. Eldric had taken the legendary, original Ice with him and renamed her Dawn in honor of his brother, Brandon the Stark, who had truly brought the dawn.
In turn, every Stark King’s sword since the Long Night had been named Ice because the sword Shadowchaser had wielded in his war had appeared made of ice. The naming was done in honor of Eldric’s sacrifice of his place in the North for House Stark’s integrity and safety.
“As far as I am concerned, Ser Jaime is the only Kingsguard at all deserving of the title ‘Ser’.”
Arthur Dayne hung his head. “I have to take Starfall so my brother can live his dream. It was our plan all along and—”
“There you are, being craven again,” Eddard said softly.
Arthur Dayne looked up at him sharply.
“Where was your care for your brother’s dream when you ran off to join the Kingsguard? When I know he urged you not to.” Eddard asked. “Others may not know you volunteered for the King’s service or why, but I do. Why has this concern for your brother returned now? You were so in love with Queen Rhaella that you set out to spend every day at her side, keeping her safe from all comers. With your life, if needs be. Your brother’s dreams did not matter in your love.
“Then. Once reality set in and you realized the honor you sought was not what it seemed on the surface, you abandoned your great love without doing anything to save her and clung to her son. A prophecy-mad man-child that rather than doing his duty to the Realm, started a civil war because doing his duty like an adult was too hard.”
“Rhaegar was not mad,” Arthur denied. “The prophecy is true! The signs—”
“The prophecy is true?” Eddard shook his head. “Fine. Follow the prophecy to the Wall. That is the first place the Long Night will fall, and it will fall there the hardest. Give everything you have for the Night’s Watch and take Dawn with you, for that is where she will be needed most.
“Mayhaps in time, you will earn the honor of wielding her again.”
Arthur Dayne started nodding slowly, but his head quickly gathered speed. “You are correct, My King. I must finish my prince’s quest to protect the Realm from the Long Night. I am no prince of prophecy, but I can do much. And Ser—Oswell Whent will go with me. He believes just as I do. As Rhaegar did.”
“Ser Jaime will stay here,” Eddard told the man. “I have duties for him that only he can fulfill.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Eddard turned to Ser Barristan and waited.
“It pains me that you see a Kingslayer as the most honorable of the White Sword Brotherhood,” Selmy admitted.
“And what a king he was,” Eddard offered. It might have been snide.
Ser Barristan took it as a blow. Which he should. Had he not interfered at Duskendale, Lord Lannister would have seen Aerys deposed when Rhaegar was six-and-ten. The young dragon would have been too involved in the ruling of the Realm to read prophecy, and mayhaps Cersei Lannister’s ambitions would have been appeased. Eddard’s father and brother would be alive, and Eddard would be the Consort Lord of Starfall.
Eddard shook his head. He had no time for such fancies.
“There are many crimes Aerys’s Kingsguard is guilty of,” Eddard stated conclusively. “Not all of them are crimes by the standards of the Iron Throne, but they were certainly dishonorable and intolerable.”
“I was pardoned, Your Grace,” Barristan Selmy tried.
“You accepted a King’s pardon from a Lord Paramount,” Eddard corrected, ignoring Robert’s huff. “While it was certainly bold, accepting such a pardon was neither intelligent nor binding.
“You may not have participated in my sister’s kidnapping or rape, but you still stood by as Queen Rhaella was abused, and I will not have you in my service.”
Arthur looked alarmed. “Princess Lyanna was not raped. Nor was she kidnapped.”
“By the Iron Throne’s legal definitions, that is exactly what happened to my sister. She is female and, at the time, was legally still a child. The moment Prince Rhaegar decided to escort her to the Isle of Faces despite knowing she did not have her living father’s permission to go there, he kidnapped her.”
Arthur Dayne sputtered.
“The laws of Alysanne and Jaehaerys make no room for the fact that he did not physically abduct her. It is legally irrelevant that she left our father’s party of her own will. Prince Rhaegar was an adult, and he was a man of greater rank than the third child of a Warden. His legal duty was to return her to our father, and he failed.”
As far as Eddard could tell, Rhaegar’s legal duties rarely occurred to him, if they in fact ever did.
“By those same laws, he could not legally marry my sister without our father’s permission. The ceremony she had told me about was a parody of both our faiths, so every single time Rhaegar did husbandly duties on my sister—especially after she learned the true depth of our family’s losses, begged to go home, and was denied. Especially every time she rejected his advances because he refused to let her go—it was rape.”
Arthur Dayne was shaking and pale by the time Eddard finished. Point made.
Eddard did not mention how he did not agree with the Iron Throne’s current legal definitions for most crimes. That information would not help the man now. Or ever, probably.
“I will also swear myself to the Wall, Your Grace,” Barristan Selmy conceded, looking faint. Eddard understood the man saw Prince Rhaegar as a son, much like Eddard had once viewed Theon Greyjoy as a son. The man had to feel betrayed to see what the man he helped raise was capable of—Eddard knew he certainly had been.
“I urge you all to join my War for the White Cloaks,” Eddard said. “To ensure those who take up your mantle have the skills they need. You may announce your intentions to go to the Wall on the Day of Justice that I will hold after the White Cloaks’ events.”
Arthur and Barristan exchanged looks
“It would be our honor.”
“With your leave, My King,” Ser Brynden interjected. Eddard had honestly forgotten that the Blackfish had entered the room with him. “I would speak with the four Kingsguard we have for their opinions regarding the new Kingsguard oaths we have written.”
“You have my leave,” Eddard agreed. Because the more points of view, the better, in his mind. He would not take recommendations he did not agree with, but he would hear them all. That was his most basic duty as lord, both in his previous life as a warden and now as king. “Also take the time to remind the First Men out there that my Kingsguard will be knights because of their vows to me. Vows to the Seven will not be required.” Eddard held up a hand before Dayne and Selmy could object. “Knighthood has been a tradition of Westeros far longer than the Faith of the Seven has been. Do not let the High Septon’s bluster make you a fool.”
Eddard turned his focus pointedly away from the rusted white swords to look at Queen Rhaella.
“I accept your proposal of marriage,” she said boldly.
Eddard gave her a small smile and finally sat across from her.
“I agree that our firstborn son will inherit the Iron Throne.” She gave him a look before he could object. “Officially, at least.
“As your Queen, I agree that I will work as the Lord Paramount of the Crownlands, but I do not feel separating the Lordship of the Crownlands from the Iron Throne will serve your House in the long term. Nor do I think giving Dragonstone back to House Targaryen serves Royal House Stark.”
“It is your ancestral home,” he objected.
“So is the Red Keep.”
“No,” he immediately denied. “The Red Keep was built specifically to shelter the Iron Throne. The Iron Throne belongs to the ruler of Westeros; therefore, the Red Keep that shelters it also belongs to the ruler of Westeros.”
She smiled at him for a heartbeat before she was serious once again. “Dragonstone is key to the coastal defense of King’s Landing. It must remain with the Iron Throne if the Iron Throne is to be held.”
He had been trying to do what was right by House Targaryen. “I would not be able to release Winterfell to another House. For any reason.”
“Around four hundred years of occupation is nothing on eight thousand,” she countered. “More importantly, in this instance, House Targaryen did not build Dragonstone from the ground up. Mayhaps if dragons still flew, we would have something to discuss on this matter, but they do not and we do not.”
House Targaryen would have never fallen from its standing as the most powerful House in Westeros if dragons still flew. He had mayhaps twenty years to ensure his dragon bride and her children loved him enough for the Royal House Stark to survive the return of their House beast.
Ten years, to be safe.
“Truly, I do not understand your determination for the child I currently carry to have an inheritance.”
“It is a social—” Eddard shook his head in frustration, “I cannot think of the word for it in Westerosi Common but, once we are wed any child either of us had any part in making—whether they are the blood of both of us or just one, whether they are trueborn or natural-born—we will both be considered responsible for the child’s training and future. Not to the point of them inheriting from us, necessarily, but we must parent them properly and treat them as family, the same as our other children, or we will lose all standing among First Men.”
“That would be a major blow since First Men won the war and are your primary support.” She frowned at Eddard.
“This goes for you parenting my other wives’ children as well. And them parenting yours. This will be a group effort. You will all need to come to trust and respect each other, just as I hope to earn your trust and respect.”
“And your trust and respect for us?” she asked.
“I respect all three of you,” Eddard admitted. “All three women I have chosen are fierce, proven warriors within the game of thrones from old, noble Houses. I want to learn your strengths and to come to count on you.”
“But?” she prompted.
“Trust is a journey,” he admitted obliquely. “It takes time to develop in truth, but the door is open. I want to trust you.”
She looked at him, weighing. “Neither father nor Aerys ever listened to me, but I do suggest to you—as I did to them—that you add a seat to the Small Council. A Master of the City to manage King’s Landing. The city is much too large for one person to rule it and the Realm and the Crownlands all at the same time.
“That position can be hereditary,” she added as an afterthought.
Eddard nodded. “I can see the wisdom of it.” And he could. Someone needed to handle building maintenance, home and building assignments, keep the city clean, and manage the gold cloaks. And that was after the city was rebuilt.
White Harbor was a well-run city, mayhaps he would choose a Manderly.
“I am considering adding a Lord-Dissenter to the Council,” he told her. “A lord or lady whose entire duty is to disagree with the rest of the Council and ask the hard questions to make sure every decision is fully considered. Under the King of Winter, it was always a family member, but we do not have enough family for such a thing.”
“I like the idea,” she agreed. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“I was thinking the heir of House Tarly,” Eddard admitted. “There has yet to be a day here in Harrenhal where I have not heard him or heard of him disagreeing with someone.
“He might as well get paid for it,” Eddard muttered.
Queen Rhaella laughed, a gentle, almost tinkling sound.
“My personal maester, Maester Luwin, has trained himself into the Citadel’s foremost expert on women’s health and childbirth. I urge you to speak with him when you can.”
Eddard helped himself to the stack of three example settlement contracts he had sent to Queen Rhaella with his declaration. He pulled the most restrictive one from the pile and read it to make sure it covered the points they had agreed upon. Their marriage and one of their children inheriting the Iron Throne had been in every contract. Relinquishing all claim to Dragonstone, doing work as Lord Paramount of the Crownlands without such a title for her, and no set inheritance for the child she was currently carrying were all specified in this contract.
“Would you like me to assign Dragonstone a regent until our heir is old enough to manage the island?”
“Did you have a regent in mind?” Queen Rhaella asked after a thoughtful pause.
“Lady Maege of House Mormont.”
“That was fast,” she commented.
“I have had several days to consider it,” Eddard pointed out. “Lady Maege has three daughters. The eldest, Dacey, is six-and-ten and currently ruling Bear Island so that Maege, her elder brother and lord, Jeor, and Jeor’s son, Jorah, could fight in the Rebellion.
“The North and the Iron Islands have been disputing the ownership of the island for a thousand years.
“House Mormont used to be a line of castellans for House Stark, much like House Poole is today. Until King Rodrick Stark pushed all of the Ironborn off Bear Island and entrusted it to House Mormont about five hundred years ago. The Ironborn have not gotten a foothold on Bear Island since.”
“You trust them immensely,” she said in a leading fashion.
“They have earned my trust—historically and personally. Lord Jeor is the current Lord Regent of Winterfell. He will be named Warden of the North upon my crowning, and he will foster the son I give to the North as their Stark.”
“What age will the fostering begin?”
“Eleven, by the will of his mother.”
Queen Rhaella nodded. “Then, if Lady Maege is willing to give the time to us, I would have her care for Dragonstone until one of our children is ready to be responsible for it. Mayhaps she will foster that child for a time, as well.”
“Would you like to meet her before I officially make her Regent of Dragonstone?”
Queen Rhaella raised a single eyebrow at him. “She and I have met.”
Eddard’s mind raced, trying to figure out when that could have happened. Oh. “She insisted she would go with Lord Lannister and Barristan Selmy to Dragonstone when I sent them to invite you to this meeting.”
Queen Rhaella snorted.
Eddard gave her a sheepish smile. Invited was a polite euphemism for his demand that the last two living dragons come to Harrenhal.
“Two Westerland knights crowded me on the road. Lady Maege beat them both like common criminals.” Queen Rhaella swallowed hard, looking pale. “She demanded the right to behead them from Lord Lannister on the grounds that they were abusing a captured enemy.”
No one had told him that. Not even Lord Lannister, at any point in their days of negotiations. “And?”
“And Lord Lannister granted the request.
“She made them strip to their small clothes, cut off their heads, and branded the bodies with a First Man Rune.”
He took Queen Rhaella’s hands only to find them cold as ice and shaking. He started rubbing them to encourage blood flow and warmth.
“The bodies were left where they fell,” he guessed.
“Yes. But she took the heads. Why did she take the heads?” Queen Rhaella looked at him with eyes that did not seem to focus.
“The rune would have been their crime,” Eddard explained. “Leaving them where they fell, first, shows their deaths were dishonorable and, second, makes them a warning to anyone else that would think to act as they did. Every man in that army would have had to ride past the bodies and see the very serious consequences for themselves, further ensuring none of them tried again.
“She would have given the heads to a weirwood, so that the Gods may know their crimes and punish them after death as well.”
“A Northern tradition?” she asked.
“An alternative,” he allowed. “Historically, criminals such as those men would have had their throats slit before a weirwood, their intestines given to the branches, and bodies left to rot in the roots.”
She swallowed hard. “You do not do things by halves, do you?”
“Half-measures are a waste of effort and resources. They almost always cause repeat events.”
“House Targaryen could have used the lessons of the North three hundred years ago.” Queen Rhaella sighed. “And we would have had them, if we had followed our own agreements.”
There was nothing for Eddard to say to that. She had just stated the obvious in his mind. But. There was no reason for him to rub anything in when his so-called side was winning.
“Tell me about Northern marriage customs,” she commanded more than asked, but he let it slide. She would be his wife soon.
“Do you have a weapon that you carry and know how to use?”
“Lord Lannister gave me my husband’s dagger,” she patted a twisted dragonglass hilt he could see at her hip. “It is said that it first belonged to Aegon I. I had some lessons with it as a girl, but that was long ago.”
Eddard nodded, unsurprised. “Lineage, identity, and consent are the three major factors in a wedding beneath the tree. For consent to have any meaning, you must be able to say no and make it stick. Because you must be able to say no, you need to come beneath the tree armed and surrounded by those that would fight for you, in the event that you have to enforce your no.”
“Not a father or elder brother?”
“Family is often assumed to be part of the group. Unfortunately, not all family has our best interests at heart. I could have my brother stand with me beneath the tree, but I think he would stab me and steal you before actually having my back, so he will remain in his cell.
“As I have no interest in fighting you if you change your mind, I will have my sister stand with me as my Speaker, and mayhaps my foster father, Lord Arryn, to hold your maiden cloak after I take it off of you.
“Each side needs a Speaker. The Speaker confirms the identity and lineage of the marriage candidates as legal witnesses, so they must be familiar with yours.”
“I will have to consider who to invite, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Eddard gave her a nod. “Who you invite and how many walk with you can all send messages to your groom and the First Men in attendance. You can consult with my sister since you are staying together if you want a humorous history of all of the various insults brides have given with their choice of party members.”
“I will,” she promised, looking lighter than before.
“It is traditional that the cloak you wear as you come to me becomes the blanket our firstborn is most often swaddled with. This symbolizes the impact of the mother’s birth House on the child, now and in the future.”
“That is lovely, but I do not have a cloak suitable for wrapping a baby in,” she admitted. “All the Targaryen cloaks I have are covered in rubies.”
“I cannot say I am surprised by that.” House Targaryen had been a damned haughty lot. But they had to be, to ride dragons and unite Westeros. “You should send a note to Lady Whent—she has probably had one made and not bothered to mention it since I have not asked. Alternatively, my sister is a talented weaver and could probably make an appropriate cloak in the time we have.”
“I will speak with them both,” she decided.
Eddard closed his eyes, trying to jog his memory. “For the ceremony itself, I will start out beneath the tree with my party. You will approach with your party. Lyanna will invoke the gods. The Speaker within your party will provide your identity and lineage. I will identify my name and lineage. Your Speaker will ask for your consent to wed; you will confirm it and then come to me. I will remove your maiden cloak and give you the cloak off my shoulders, and then I will carry you into the feast to prove my strength to you.”
“No sermon?” Queen Rhaella asked.
“Who would give it?”
“No hymns?”
“The songs of my gods are in the rushing brook, the howling wolf, happy birds, and the night-singing bugs. Not human throats.”
“Thank the gods, how do I join this religion?” she japed.
Eddard gave her a small smile.
Queen Rhaella pulled one of her hands from his and touched his cheek. “You should smile more; it makes you look less dour.”
“I am dour,” he countered, and she laughed. “Lady Rowena Arryn told me long ago that smiling makes me look frightening—half a step from a murderer, I believe were her exact words.”
“Well,” Queen Rhaella frowned. “She was wrong.”
“You are too kind,” Eddard fought down a blush, though he doubted he was successful.
“No, I am not,” she disagreed sharply. “And you must accept that. You are not dragging me into this new family-group situation if you are going to get us all killed for some delusion or misplaced belief. Who are my allies in keeping you alive? Do not tell me that foolish Fish is one of them.”
Eddard pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. She needed to know that he took her seriously. Even when she resembled nothing more than an angry kitten—all spiky silver fur and foul temper—yelling at a direwolf.
“My other brides are Lady Ashara Dayne—”
Queen Rhaella relaxed minutely. “A strong player in the Game of Thrones. As long as you are smart enough to take her advice.”
Eddard figured that was fair. Ashara’s advice had gotten him this far.
“And Lady Janna Tyrell.”
“Huh.” Queen Rhaella looked at him like he was something she had never seen before. “Have you met Lady Janna?”
“I have not.”
“She is not the fluff-for-brains she and her mother pretend she is. She is a Listener. Because she is non-threatening and, most assume, stupid, they say all of the honest, hateful things they think in front of her. Things that wisdom would keep them from saying before a more clever-seeming audience.”
Eddard understood that. “Because she is perceived as harmless. But all those whispers go directly to the Queen of Thorns.”
“Yes.” Queen Rhaella nodded. “Lady Olenna is a formidable ally. So is Lord Lannister, who you seem to have gotten on side?”
“For now,” Eddard cautioned. “We both know these things can change faster than a trumpet flourish.”
“True.”
“My Queen,” Barristan Selmy interjected. “The hour grows late.”
The Queen nodded to the knight before refocusing on Eddard. “I wish to review both the complaint and the resolution treaty again after a night of sleep.”
“A wise choice,” he agreed. “We will sign it in the Hall after I announce you as my second queen. All Lords Paramount will be required to sign copies for House Stark and House Targaryen as witnesses.”
She blinked slowly—a sign, he thought, that he had surprised her. “Will we provide them all with copies of the complaint and resolution?”
“It seems to me to be the best option,” Eddard offered. “For clarity and understanding.” An attempt to keep the Citadel from twisting the truth, he could admit to himself.
“May future generations actually read these agreements,” she said bitterly.
“May it be so,” he agreed. When he stood, he offered her a hand up. She took it and he escorted her to the door. “Have a good night, My Queen.”
“And you, My King.”
Eddard waited until the queen and her guards were gone before he looked to his own companions.
“Can you give us the room?” Robert asked their mutual companion. It was the first time Eddard had heard Robert speak since they had had their discussion of all Robert had cost him.
Ser Brynden silently looked at him for permission. Eddard gave a silent nod.
“You are already a better king than I ever could have been,” Robert admitted quietly after the door closed. “I never would have considered the need for justice as you clearly have. And documenting it? Getting agreements from opposing sides? Never.
“I would have been all I won the war, my way goes!” Robert laughed at himself, deprecating.
Eddard nodded; that was exactly how it had gone. He thought for a moment of pointing out that Eddard had won that war, not him, but there was no point in hurting Robert in that way now. “Lord Jon or I would have been your Hand, holding the Realm together.”
“Sounds right,” Robert admitted. “You deserve better.”
“A lot of people deserved better than this war.” Eddard focused entirely on his foster brother. “What is this about, Robert?”
“The First Men were speculating at dinner,” Robert admitted reluctantly. “The vigil you are about to start requires a sacrifice. You did not hold a special hunt or order a special beast for your gods. You have not called for any criminals to be brought to you, either.
“Some of what they said,” Robert shook his head. “It was pretty racy.”
“The sacrifice that begins the vigil is supposed to tell the Gods what you want for your reign. I want Westeros to prosper and rebuild. I chose a sex ritual.”
“One you will perform with another man,” Robert said flatly.
Eddard did not respond. They both knew he had no other option. If he invited a woman to participate with him, he would, in effect, be naming her one of his queens. He did not have enough Kingsguard in place to be comfortable with such a thing. He had worked too hard and given up too much to conceal Ashara’s place in his life for him to give it away now.
“Could I—?”
“No.” Eddard did not let Robert finish the request. Whether he wanted to watch or participate, Eddard could not allow it.
To lie with Robert now—right before the man was going to fuck off to Essos—after loving him and wanting him for two lifetimes without ever actually having him? No. Eddard could not abide such a thing.
He did not have the time to heal from such a thing.
“Tomorrow, I will be sworn in as king. Once all the oaths are given, you will be free to go to Essos and never look back.”
Robert shook his head, looking surprisingly glum about the prospect of the freedom he would find in Essos. “I will wait until you have a Kingsguard to protect you.”
Eddard pinched the bridge of his nose. Was Robert changing his mind? Eddard would send him to the fucking Wall if he did.
He needed to remind Robert of the benefits waiting for him in Essos.
“Do me a favor, Rob.”
“Of course.”
“When you get to Essos,” Eddard paused until Robert nodded. “Find Jon Connington and break his nose. For me.”
Robert threw his head back and let out a booming laugh, befitting any storm god of old. “I will break his whole damn face, Ned!
“For you, My King!” Robert kept laughing.
Eddard shook his head and left. He loved Robert. He probably always would. But he would also be glad to see the back of him.
Finally, finally, finally, Eddard entered the godswood and made his way to the king tree.
Sitting on an exposed root, stripped down to his leather pants, was Lord Jorah Mormont. The young bear was nearly a decade Eddard’s senior, but he was fit and an excellent fighter, as all Bear Islanders were.
They had met, a lifetime ago, because Lord Jorah had had a hard time following Eddard’s orders at the start of the rebellion. Their discussion had devolved into a fistfight when Eddard realized that Lord Jorah was jealous of his father, Lord Jeor’s, regard for Eddard. Mostly because Eddard had, unthinkingly, spoken the realization out loud.
That fight had devolved into a hot fuck made of biting and rutting against each other like animals.
The next time Eddard had felt particularly stressed, he had given Jorah a look, and they had “gone hunting.” Just the two of them, with no special weapons and no extra tools. Only Robert had been dense enough to complain when they had returned calmer, but empty-handed.
“Who comes before the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone?” Jorah called, invoking their Gods, the Gods of the Weirwoods.
“Eddard of House Stark, second born to Rickard the Stark and Lyarra Stark.”
“Why do you come before the Gods this night, Eddard of House Stark?”
“I am to be crowned King of Westeros on the morrow. I seek the blessings of the Gods for my lands to prosper. I seek the blessing of justice to maintain the peace of my lands. I seek the blessing of plenty to feed my people. I seek the blessing of fertility for my people to multiply and stand against the Long Night.”
Jorah frowned at his words, but did not break from their plan. “Strip and kneel for the Gods.”
Eddard first laid Ice across the roots. Then he obeyed Jorah as the Speaker for the Gods. Once he had knelt, facing the king tree, Jorah started placing wide, gray leather straps around various places on his arms. Then Jorah folded his arms behind his back so that his hands each gripped the opposite biceps and pulled out a long, thick white rope.
Rope went over the leather cuffs—neither of them wanted him damaged by the ropes.
Jorah made a pleased noise and brushed a hand through Eddard’s hair. “So beautiful.”
Then another rope came out; this one was woven into his upper body harness, and the loose end was thrown over a branch to help support Eddard’s position.
Jorah kicked his legs further apart and brought out another rope, smaller and finer. The Bear Lord knelt in front of Eddard and started winding this gray rope around his cock and balls.
Eddard took a deep breath and sought a meditative state to reach out for the Gods.
The thing that Citadel failed to realize—one of the many things they failed to realize—was how broad the term First Man truly was. First Men were those peoples that were in Westeros before the Rhyonar and the Andals came. For each dynasty of petty kings that the gray rats could name, there was at least one unique people group with their own ways and beliefs.
All of them were First Men.
Not all of them had crossed the Arm of Dorne before it was broken, either. Some entered the Grey Wastes of Essos and came out in the Lands of Always Winter of Westeros. Some had sailed east from across the Sunset Sea. Some had no memory of how they had come to Westeros.
House Mormont was the final remnant of a group of ancient mariners. One of their ancient cultural traditions that the Lords of Bear Island kept alive was the art of decorative rope bondage.
Eddard had seen a small selection of their honored enemies—captured alive—be displayed in rope suspension and had been intrigued. The beautiful, symmetrical shapes had called his focus. The clean lines of the rope. Most interestingly, the art was not practiced for pain, but for control. Practiced for the many possible benefits it provided to both captor and captive. Once he had learned that one of the applications was to bring the captive closer to their Gods, to create an ecstatic experience, he knew what he had to do for his inevitable Ascension Ritual.
And this time he did not have a southron, Andal wife to get in the way.
“Ned.”
Eddard looked up. He was in the Grove of the Gods. Rickard Stark was grinning down at him. “Father?” His father pulled him to his feet and he pulled the man into a hug. It settled something in his soul that he was embraced with equal fervor.
A fist to the shoulder rocked them both.
Eddard released his father to find Brandon behind him, grinning.
“You jerk.” Eddard pulled his big brother into a hug.
“Arsehole.” Brandon hugged him back fiercely.
“Why did I not see you two Before?” Eddard asked. He had been dead before. He had been executed, and he had come to the Grove of the Gods. He should have been reunited with his family then, but he had not been.
“The Gods knew that we could not let you go once you were with us again.” Lord Rickard Stark cupped Eddard’s face. As if he were something precious. Eddard had to blink back tears. “It will be hard enough to let you go this time.”
“Next time,” Eddard promised rashly.
Then he had to close his eyes in shame at the boldness of the lie. They all knew full well that he would rest when the Gods allowed him and not a moment before.
But Brandon laughed and clapped him on the back. “We will not see you for a long time. You have so much to live for, brother! If Lady Janna Tyrell had come to Winterfell,” Brandon let out a sharp whistle of admiration.
Eddard poked him in the side, hard. “That is my bride you speak of.”
“Not yet,” Brandon countered.
He was technically correct. The betrothal contract had not been signed yet. Eddard shoved his brother anyway and let his father pull him close again.
“You will live a long life filled with many, many children and grandchildren, and mayhaps even great-grandchildren within your lifetime,” Rickard Stark told him. “Give Westeros what you can, but do not give it all you are. Make time for your family—every day, Eddard. You will have so much help in all you must do, but only if you accept it.
“Make sure your children know you, all of you, not just the things you have done right.”
Eddard nodded. That was what he had done wrong with his children Before. By never letting them see and understand the lessons that he had learned the hard way, he had doomed them to repeat those same, heartbreaking lessons.
Especially Robb and Jon.
Brandon was in a rare, serious mood when Eddard turned back to him. “The Iron Throne was always meant to be your burden, and I am sorry for it. Remember, you are taking no one’s place and standing in no one else’s shoes. Listen to your queens.”
“Your Hand is by far more excellent than I expected when you met her,” Father interjected.
“You are a direwolf,” Brandon said.
“Be a direwolf,” father finished, pushing him towards a growing light.
“And for fuck’s sake, do not name your son Brandon!” the Wild Wolf shouted as Eddard’s vision was eaten by light.
If asked later, Eddard could not have told anyone what it was like to stand before the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone. He had felt welcome. They had not treated him like an intruder. Their space had been warm and dry. Comfortable. But smell? He had no idea. Visual? Warm, white light? Maybe? Sounds? Nothing.
But after visiting his Gods, he felt stronger. Steady. Ready.
Eddard landed back in his body as it crested into an orgasm. The abrupt change hit him like a punch and sent him reeling.
When his eyes cleared, he was staring down at his own cock. It took some time, but when he realized his cock was secured in an intricate lattice of soft gray rope, he nearly came again—just as dry as the first time, from the look of it.
Eddard groaned.
Jorah Mormont laughed. It was a good laugh, surprised and breathy with the effort he was exerting.
Mormont’s cock was perfect for fucking ass. Not terribly long. Thicker in the head and base but narrower in the middle. Great for sucking, too, though Eddard had only allowed himself to do that once as the Bear Lord had refused to return the favor.
Eddard came again. Before he even understood what his body was doing, his cock jerked with nothing coming out of it. His balls ached, but it was a glorious pain.
Jorah slowed his strokes, moving slowly through Eddard’s peak as though he was fighting not to come himself. “What would the High Septon say?”
Jorah groaned when Eddard clenched around him harder in reprimand.
If Jorah could speculate on the High Septon’s reaction to a Lord fucking a King, the Bear was not putting in all of his effort. “Harder,” Eddard ordered.
“You. Will. Not. Wa—” Jorah pulled almost desperately at the rope around Eddard’s cock. The moment his balls were free, Eddard came—hot and messy, enough seed to drown a town hit the weirwood right across the face.
Eddard wobbled as his arms abruptly came loose. He barely got them under himself to keep from going face-first into the mossy ground. Hands on his ass pushed him forward. “Wha—” he did not get to ask the question before a whiskered face was between his cheeks and a tongue in his hole.
Jorah slurped and spat, adding his own seed to Eddard’s offering to the gods.
“Stop! Stop!” Eddard cried, way too sensitive for whiskers—though the tongue had been pushing him towards pain as well.
Jorah stopped. He helped Eddard roll onto his back and helped him drink from a waterskin. “That was intense,” Mormont commented.
Eddard nodded. Words were hard. “What happened?”
He wanted to know why Jorah had untied him so abruptly. His cock, he understood. He could not have come and completed the ritual with the lattice around his cock in place. But his chest and arms? He was fairly certain untying them so fast had been dangerous. Not to mention the danger of going face to tree.
“The Gods accepted your offering,” Jorah said.
Eddard frowned. What nonsense was that? Then the man brushed his fingers over the red lines flowing across Eddard’s chest.
They were not the red of skin too long compressed, but the red of weirwood sap. As though someone had painted the lines of the spun fibers that had held him onto his skin.
“Permanent?” he asked.
Jorah rubbed at one. Then he licked his fingers and rubbed again. Then he bent forward and licked a cluster of lines curling up Eddard’s stomach.
Eddard groaned. His stomach had never been an erotic area to him, but the lines had changed that.
“Looks like it.” The Bear Island Lord’s eyes were incandescent with lust.
“More,” Eddard ordered.
Jorah shot him a grin and started to worship Eddard’s Gods-given markings with his tongue, teeth, and lips. He even went down on Eddard’s cock, took him all the way down his throat until he choked to taste the red latticework he found there.
“Fuck,” Eddard groaned.
Jorah grinned and pulled off his nipple. “I would love to, but you have to walk tomorrow.”
Eddard took a deep breath and tried to focus. He had to get cleaned up and redress, but he could probably actually sleep among the roots of the king tree rather than kneel in vig— “But you could fuck me.”
Eddard’s brain stumbled to a halt. “Have you—?”
“Received a man?” Jorah shook his head to show a negative. “But I have fingered myself there. I want to ride you like you rode me that first time—I cannot get it out of my head.” Jorah shook his head. “I have to do the same to you.”
For a moment, Eddard wondered if Mormont had fallen in love with him, but then he dismissed it. Mostly because it was not his business until or unless Mormont made it his business, but also because they both knew Eddard was about to marry—and not just one but three women. Jorah, as the future Lord of House Mormont, would have to re-marry as well to continue his father’s line—a task made all that much more important with the long-term duty Lord Jeor would accept as Regent of Winterfell and Lady Maege as Regent of Dragonstone.
In all likelihood, they would never see each other again once Eddard dismissed his banners.
“Slick?” he asked.
Jorah walked over to his pile of leathers to retrieve something. He handed it over, and Eddard identified it as a small jar made of bone or stone. Exactly the kind of thing apothecaries across Westeros sold lotions, oils, and tinctures in.
It was not, Eddard noted, the one that Jorah Mormont had come to the war with. The lack of wear on the lid made Eddard think it was a new jar—possibly bought new for the benefit of Eddard’s ritual. The amount of missing material told him just how generous Jorah had been in preparing him.
Eddard grabbed the Bear Lord by the back of his neck and pulled him down into a searing kiss to show his appreciation for the older man’s thoughtful support. He let Jorah pull away from the kiss at the first hint he wanted it to end and urged the man to bring his hole within reach. Lord Jorah complied and focused on licking Eddard’s markings.
“They taste—” Jorah groaned and returned to his task like a starving man.
“Like what?” Eddard asked. Jorah just groaned. “Good?”
“Like summerwine and happiness.”
Eddard had no idea what to make of that answer. “Do they all taste the same?”
Jorah shook his head without letting his mouth leave its current spot at Eddard’s hip.
“What tastes best?”
“This.” Jorah pulled away only to take Eddard’s cock again in his mouth, though this time not as deep, sucking at the head. The man was not as talented as certain other partners Eddard had enjoyed, but the man’s enthusiasm was inspiring.
“Come on,” Eddard urged the man up.
Jorah complied, easily swinging a leg over Eddard’s hips. Eddard held his cock as Jorah accepted it inside him.
He had never been more grateful to be twenty years old again. To be hard and ready for this after three, four earlier orgasms? Amazing. A gift. Even if he had to focus on reciting his kingly oaths to keep from immediately going off in Jorah’s virgin clench.
“Go slow,” he reminded Jorah. “If it hurts or you don’t like it, stop.”
Jorah paused when Eddard was fully inside him. Eddard gripped his hips tightly, anchoring him as Eddard always needed in that moment. He was usually the receiving partner with men and the giving partner with women. It was simply his preference. He had never been in a man’s hole before. The lines he had drawn for himself in his head were useless now. Eddard let them fade away as Jorah clenched around him—more spasmodically than anything rhythmic or deliberate, but still good.
So. Good.
Then, Jorah started rocking on his cock experimentally. They both groaned as Jorah found his own prostate and clenched. Hard.
From there, things got hectic. The thrusting and the rocking. The gripping and the pinching. Sweat and slick everywhere.
Eddard bit the meat of Jorah’s shoulder, and the man came, driving himself harder into Eddard’s teeth. Eddard groaned in relief and followed the man over the peak into oblivion.
Eddard came back to himself first. So, he did what he would have done with any lover—other than Lady Catelyn, whose religious beliefs deemed such intimacies highly inappropriate even between a married pair. He rolled Jorah off him gently, making sure his head was safe from injury as he did so and that the root he rested on was a support rather than a pain. Eddard used the water from one of the ponds to clean himself, and then Jorah, who stirred under his ministration. They would both need proper baths, but at least now Jorah could put his clothes back on without ruining them or embarrassing himself.
When he was done with his self-appointed tasks, he grabbed a fresh waterskin and sat back down beside Jorah. He replaced the root under the other man’s head with his thigh and stroked the Bear’s short hair as he started to come around.
Eddard had read in the Arryn Archives about how some people could achieve an altered state of mind. That they would or could reach a vulnerable state of mind, using pain, bondage, and submission. Lord Jorah had certainly come from pain—specifically from Eddard biting him. He had followed Eddard’s orders easily, almost eagerly, which, he assumed, was submission. But Eddard had been the one in bondage, not Jorah. It left him unsure whether Lord Jorah had entered an altered mental state or not. His continued lassitude made Eddard think he was in a vulnerable state, despite the fact that he had not met all the requirements from the book.
Then again, it would in no way be a surprise that an Andal book had gotten something wrong.
If Lord Jorah was in an altered mental state, he needed Eddard—his partner in becoming so vulnerable—to support him. It was Eddard’s duty to support him, and Eddard would not start shirking his duties now! But this was his vigil.
His solo vigil.
“My aunt is waiting for me.”
Eddard stopped petting the man’s hair and looked down into blurry eyes. “What?” He helped Jorah drink from the waterskin before allowing him to answer.
“My aunt,” Jorah said slowly—for his own benefit or Eddard’s was unclear. “She is a more experienced rigger than I am, so I consulted with her. She is the one that insisted I get new slick.”
Eddard was not sure what he was supposed to say to that. “I appreciate the gesture.”
Jorah nodded. “I have never rigged a man for sex before. She is waiting for me.”
“To help you through the,” Eddard hesitated, “the after?”
“Yes.”
“I am both relieved and furious,” Eddard admitted.
Jorah laughed. “House Mormont supports you, Our King. We are honored that you trusted us to contribute to the success of your Ascension Vigil.”
Eddard narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “She told you to say that.”
“Wrote it down and made me memorize it so I would not forget,” Lord Jorah admitted.
Eddard shook his head, but he was smiling.
“I would not cross her, My King. For either love or money. Aunt Maege is terrifying.”
“That she is,” Eddard agreed. “Let me help you dress.”
Eddard was fussing with Lord Jorah’s cloak and ignoring the indulgent look the man was giving him when a growl rolled through the clearing.
Eddard stopped Jorah’s hand from reaching for an axe. “You should go.”
“What?” Jorah demanded.
“You should go,” Eddard repeated.
“And leave you with—”
Eddard’s mind was not entirely sure what the sound was, as he had only heard it from cubs in his last life, but his soul knew what they had heard. A direwolf. Fully grown and, if the Gods were feeling particularly kind, fighting fit.
“What can threaten me in a godswood?” Eddard asked. He had achieved the ecstatic state he had been searching for and communed with the Gods. His vigil was already a success. All he needed now was to spend the rest of the night in the godswood to see it done.
He might even get to sleep, if he was lucky.
The growl came again from a different direction. This growl seemed…almost lower? than the first. Had the Gods sent him a breeding pair? Could he be that blessed? “Go,” he ordered with as much authority as he could muster.
Lord Jorah went.
Eddard knelt, naked and defenseless on the ground moss, facing the king tree. There was no doubt in his heart. The Gods had done too much to kill him now. To let him down now.
Indeed, two direwolves came at him from each flank, a pincer maneuver—the hammer and the anvil, as the Southrons said. One was black with glowing golden eyes; the other was shades of white and gray with molten red eyes. Both were as tall at the shoulder as a draft horse, or the largest warhorse Eddard had ever seen.
And.
Unless he was mistaken, he had seen the gray and white one before. But she had been older. With a stag’s antlers buried several prongs deep in her soft tissues.
They padded over to him on soft feet.
The female reached him first. “Smoke,” he named her, thinking of her son, Robb’s Greywind. She nuzzled his outstretched hand softly.
The black, a male, nudged his shoulder for attention. When he had come close enough to touch, Eddard could not say, but he moved like a, “Shadow,” and Eddard named him thus.
The wolf huffed like Eddard was being a boring cliché—which, fair. Eddard smiled as he leaned into Shadow’s large, warm chest.
The two wolves shared a look and started nudging and shoving Eddard toward one of the warmer ponds in the godswood. Eddard laughed when he realized their goal.
“I stink that bad, huh?”
Shadow gave him a particularly hard shove in agreement, though Smoke’s sturdy shoulder kept him on his feet.
“That is fair,” he told the wolves—his wolves—surprised and pleased by the massive well of joy he found in his own heart. He had never felt anything like it.
He hoped he got to keep it.
Eddard chuckled as he slipped into the water. This was his life now, being bossed around by direwolves.
All he could think was: Catelyn would hate it.
-*-
Eddard was woken up by falling out of his cuddle against Smoke. Shadow was standing—as he must have done abruptly—and staring intently towards where Eddard knew one of the entrances to the godswood to be.
“What happened?”
He could not explain how, but Shadow gave him the smell of three people and the sound of their footsteps—one heavier than the other two. “That is my valet and pages,” Eddard told the wolves.
It had better be, anyway.
Eddard stripped out of the pants he had slept in and slipped back into his bathing pond before Myrsden and the pages found him.
At the sight of him, Dromen opened the leather pouch he was carrying and produced a bar of soap from within. Eddard held up his hands, and the boy tossed it to him. The boy’s brother carried a load of drying cloths. Eddard really hoped no one was going to try to help him get dry. He knew some Targaryen Royals had insisted on that level of body service, but it would make him wildly uncomfortable to have someone else dry him as if he were an invalid.
He found he had to ask. “You do not plan to dry me, do you?”
Myrsden snorted but did not stop laying Eddard’s clothes out on various bushes. “I prefer my head on my shoulders, Your Grace.”
That was a bit far. Eddard would not execute someone for being too attentive to his needs. He would talk to them so that they understood the boundaries of acceptable service. If they tried to force the issue after that, mayhaps, but Myrsden was not that sort.
He never would have gotten so far in Eddard’s service if he was.
Still, Eddard was relieved to scrub and dry himself. He even put on his small clothes—the finest small clothes he had ever been presented—before Myrsden took over lacing the clothes he had already put on.
“Your hair is so short,” Myrsden lamented.
Eddard laughed. “As if yours is any longer.”
Myrsden, like Eddard, normally kept his hair to the shoulders. But nearly two years at war had changed that. Wearing a helmet was a requirement for surviving said war, but head hair made that complicated, hot, and in some ways, extremely gross.
Two schools of thought had emerged in his army over the course of the war. Those with shorter hair, like Eddard, had kept their heads shaved and used cloths for sweat management as well as additional helmet padding. Those with longer hair, like Robert, had bound their hair—had it braided tightly to their heads—and left it that way for moons at a time, until they had a break in the fighting to deal with it or were forced to re-braid to account for growth.
“Your hair is little more than the fur of a peach,” Myrsden complained.
Eddard rolled his eyes. He truly did not care. Unless he was spending an extended period outside of Winterfell in the actual North, he preferred very short hair. Just long enough not to be bald.
Breakfast was an apple, sliced cheese, and left-over cuts from the previous night’s meal, served cold. Some cuts Eddard preferred cold, if he were to be honest about it, and these were those, so he was thoroughly pleased with his simple first meal.
“Why do you look so tired?” he asked the pages.
Myrsden also looked exhausted, but he was old enough to be allowed stimulants. As well as old enough not to be more transparent than glass.
“The wolves,” Dromen said. Then he shook his head as though those two words had required extensive effort.
Eddard frowned and turned to Myrsden. “What?”
The man huffed and rolled his eyes so hard his whole upper body went with it. “After you retreated for your vigil, all anyone heard throughout the keep and the camp last night was the howling of wolves.”
“It came from everywhere,” Dromen’s brother, Jorvan, interjected.
“There was a great deal of concern, but your Northern Lords—Umber, Selwyn, and Mormont,” Myrsden specified before Eddard had to ask, “assured us this was a good thing, it meant that your Gods were very pleased with you.”
Eddard narrowed his eyes at Myrsden. There was mischief in his face. “How many people had to be physically stopped from hunting the wolves?”
“Two,” Myrsden clapped once, too full of mirth not to. “Lady Maege beat a pair of belted knights like criminals. No one was brave enough to try again after.”
“To murder my House’s sigil on the very eve of my Coronation,” Eddard shook his head.
He did not used to take such omens seriously, but then he was murdered by a claimed-Baratheon after finding an older version of Smoke that had been killed by a stag.
He would not ignore such omens in this life. Not ever again.
“They have been lectured by Lady Olenna of House Tyrell and Princess Mariah of House Nymeros-Martell,” Myrsden assured him. “Separate lectures—that they could not escape with their injuries.
“Lord Tywin stared at them in disappointment until they cried. Lord Stannis has told them they should exile themselves to the Night’s Watch.”
“Where are they from?” And why were four different Lords Paramount involved when there were only two men?
“They are Riverlanders,” Myrsden explained. “Lord Tully is refusing to acknowledge that they did anything wrong and has been trying to put Lady Maege in a cell.”
Eddard went cold all over in fury. “I best not hear he succeeded.”
“Good gods, no. Everyone knows the Mormonts are your favorites. You made Lady Maege’s brother Lord-Regent of Winterfell! Many assume the elder Lord Mormont will be Warden of the North until he dies or you have a son old enough to take the title.”
Many were not wrong, it seemed.
Eddard trusted Jeor Mormont because he had a previous lifetime of trust and experience that told him he could. He trusted Lady Maege because he watched her earn his son’s trust and keep it—the same as her oldest three girls.
He trusted Jorah as long as the man did not take a rich southron wife. The man put love—lust? Obsession? Whatever Lynesse Hightower had brought out in him—before duty and, in that way, Jorah had destroyed himself by doing so.
Eddard walked to the dais built over one of the ponds, walked up three of the four stairs and stood in front of his chosen throne. The wood of the platform groaned as Shadow and Smoke joined him, flanking him on the otherwise empty third step. He said a prayer to the Gods that the platform would hold and nodded to Myrsden.
At Myrsden’s gesture, Dromen and Jorvan ran off into the woods.
Horns blew and drums boomed. Two parties entered the godswood from Harrenhal’s keep at equal angles from him and each other. From his right came the rebel lords, led by his sister Lyanna with the rebel wardens and lords paramount directly behind her. From his left came the Targaryen loyalists, led by Queen Rhaella with the loyal lords paramount and Valyrian lords directly behind her.
They all froze at the sight of Shadow and Smoke, scripted lines forgotten.
Eddard raised an eyebrow at his sister in a silent question. Lyanna smiled, looking wildly pleased.
“I believe we have some oaths to be getting on with,” he gently ordered.
Originally, Eddard had intended to give his vow first and then take his vassal’s oaths. The presence of direwolves—the sign of his Gods’ most ancient and long-lost blessings had returned to his House—had changed everything for him.
“You are correct, Your Grace.” Lyanna gave him a deep curtsy.
At his gesture, she stood, pulled the dagger on her belt, and moved to the weirwood he had chosen for the North’s vows. Without hesitation, she slit her palm, slapped her hand on the white wood, just to the right of the face, and recited her vow.
In the True Tongue.
A language virtually no one born south of the Neck could speak.
She repeated her vow in Westerosi Common without him having to intercede. “On behalf of House Stark of the North, I, Lyanna, trueborn daughter of Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra, swear the following: House Stark of the North will hold Winterfell and the North on behalf of the Iron Throne; House Stark will keep the King’s Peace and serve the King’s Justice in the lands that have been entrusted to our care; and House Stark will pay the Iron Throne all due honors and homage. House Stark of the North swears these things to the Royal House Stark from this day until our last day. These three promises we swear to King Eddard of the Royal House Stark, the first of his name; King of the First Men, the Rhyonar, and the Andals; Lord of the Eight Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm.”
“Thank you, I look forward to exploring this new future for Westeros together with you, Lady Stark of the North.”
Lyanna nodded and removed her hand from the tree.
The relief and confusion were equally audible as it swept through the gathered nobles. Relief because Lyanna’s hand was fully healed when she removed it from the tree. Confusion because she left behind a perfect, blood red, print of her spread hand on the bone-white bark.
Eddard knew that south of the Neck, the nobles in every kingdom played complicated games of politics for power and seniority. They used the results of those constant struggles to decide the order in which they would follow the representative of their Lord Paramount in swearing their oaths in situations like this.
In the North, precedence in situations was determined by either order of arrival—with each House giving their vows to the Stark as they arrived at Winterfell and then having the privilege of watching all of the later Houses swear their oaths as they arrived—or by House age. As all of the Houses of the North had arrived at Harrenhal together after the war, age was the determining factor for precedence. Starting with House Stark, Eddard was then offered and accepted the oaths from them all—House Reed, House Dustin, House Bolton, House Selwyn all the way through to House Manderly and, last, House Mormont as the House most recently entrusted with a keep and lands of their own by the Stark of Winterfell.
If there were multiple people from a single House, they all slit their hands and laid them on the tree while their Lord or Lady said the oath on behalf of their House, referencing their Houses’ keeps and lands. Each leader gave their oath first in the True Tongue and then in Westerosi Common.
Once Lord Jorah, as heir to Bear Island, and Lady Maege freed their hands from the tree and returned to the crowd of blended Northmen, Eddard turned to his foster father, Lord Arryn.
Lord Jon hesitated. “I do not know the first language the Northmen spoke, My King.”
“I would not expect anyone south of the Neck to speak the True Tongue, Lord Arryn,” Eddard admitted. “Though I must admit, every noble in the North is expected to at least understand the language. Speaking it is as much magic as it is faith, you see, because the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone protect the language themselves. One cannot lie in the True Tongue. That is why it is called the True Tongue and why official business within the North, particularly amongst only Northern peoples, is conducted in the True Tongue.”
“Fascinating,” Lord Jon said. “I can speak for no one else on the matter of their faith, but I look forward to learning more.”
“I am certain House Royce can teach you,” Eddard said.
He glanced at Lord “Bronze” Yohn of House Royce, who nodded back, fiercely affirmative.
“I will accept your oath in Westerosi Common, Lord Arryn, as long as it is sealed in blood on a weirwood.”
“You have my gratitude, Your Grace.” Lord Jon walked over to the tree Eddard had picked for the Vale, pulled what Eddard knew to be a ceremonial blade for House Arryn, and bled on the tree as he made his oath.
Eddard had been forced to create and memorize over 300 individual statements of acceptance for his many, many new vassals. There were traditional acceptance statements for each Northern House, but Eddard had been forced to alter them slightly to be sure that each statement of acceptance was individual. Any exact repeats, and the vassal oath would not be accepted by the Gods. Failure to have your oath accepted was a death sentence for the maker of the oath when one was made on a weirwood. The Gods would not release the vassal lord’s hands and draw out all of their blood until they died—along with every single person who had pressed their hand to the tree with them.
House Royce made their oath immediately after House Arryn. Bronze Yohn swore in both the True Tongue and Westerosi Common.
On and on the vows went. Vale, Stormlands, Riverlands, Westerlands, Iron Islands, Dorne, and the Reach.
Lady Whent’s servitors slipped through the crowd offering refreshments when Eddard failed to adjourn them all for luncheon. Eddard had nearly done it, had nearly sent them off for a respite, but some instinct stopped him.
They could not leave the weirwood until the Realm was once again united, this time under his rule.
To do anything else would offend the Gods and court ruin.
Finally, Queen Rhaella stepped forward and bled upon the tree. “On behalf of House Targaryen, I, Rhaella, trueborn daughter of King Jaehaerys II and Queen Shaera, swear the following: House Targaryen will hold Dragonstone and the Crownlands on behalf of the Iron Throne; House Targaryen will keep the King’s Peace and serve the King’s Justice in the lands that have been entrusted to our care; and House Targaryen will pay the Iron Throne all due honors and homage. House Targaryen swears these things to the Royal House Stark from this day until our last day. These three promises we swear to King Eddard of the Royal House Stark, the first of his name; King of the First Men, the Rhyonar, and the Andals; Lord of the Eight Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm.”
“You have my gratitude, Queen Rhaella, for your grace and fortitude in our settlement of the disputes between our Houses.”
Queen Rhaella freed her hand from the tree. “I merely did as duty and justice demanded, Your Grace.”
He nodded, and Lord Velaryon stepped up to the tree. Lord Velaryon, of all people, shockingly, made his oath first in the True Tongue and then in Westerosi Common.
Eddard had not seen that one coming.
When the final House in all of Westeros said their vows and were freed from the tree, Eddard took the final step up to his new throne. He turned, and with great dignity, sat on his throne.
Seamlessly, Lyanna and Queen Rhaella came together. They turned to approach Eddard together, with Lady Whent falling in behind them, holding a pillow with the newly re-forged Crown of Winter laid upon it. Aerys’s four surviving Kingsguard fell into step, in full whites, behind the women.
As much as it annoyed Eddard to accept, Aerys’s Kingsguard were a sign of power. He had to allow them to participate in his coronation ceremony as Kingsguards to drape his House in as many widely recognized signs of legitimate power as he could.
But Justice would find them with everyone else, after the War for the White Cloaks.
“My King, your oath?” Queen Rhaella requested.
“I, King Eddard of Royal House Stark, King of the First Men, the Rhyonar, and the Andals; Lord of the Eight Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm will, to my power: cause Law and Justice, in Mercy to be executed in all of my Judgements; protect the religious rights and practices of all Westerosi in accordance to their culture with respect the Law; I will demand no service of my vassals that will bring them dishonor. These three promises, I will uphold from this day until my last day. I swear this before the Old Gods and the new.”
Lyanna took the Crown of Winter from its gray bed, held it up to the sun, and then placed it upon his head with all due dignity.
Barristan Selmy stepped forward as the most senior—and, to Eddard, least openly objectionable—of Aerys’s Kingsguard and called in a tone of battlefield command, “All Hail, King Eddard of the Royal House Stark, the First of His Name; King of the First Men, the Rhyonar, and the Andals; Lord of the Eight Kingdoms; Protector of the Realm!”
The four Kingsguard all drew their swords and held them aloft. “Long live the King!”
The crowd all joined in, fists to the sky, “Long live the King! Long live the King!”
Eddard held up a hand to prevent a fourth round, and the crowd quieted. “First and most importantly for the stability of the Realm, all must know and recognize my heir, Princess Lyanna of House Stark of the North.”
Lyanna came forward and joined him on the dais. Dromen came forward with a royal purple cushion holding a beaten bronze circlet with black iron roses blooming around it.
Eddard stood and placed the circlet on his sister’s head himself.
When he returned to his throne, Lyanna joined him, standing at his right hand.
“Princess Lyanna will stand as my heir until my second queen provides me with an heir for the Iron Throne.” Eddard could see confusion dance through the crowd, but refused to explain it.
They would figure it out soon enough.
“In addition, I hereby confirm Lord Jon Arryn as Warden of the East and Lord Tywin Lannister as Warden of the West. I name Princess Mariah Nymeros-Martell as Warden of the South and Lord Jeor of House Mormont as Warden of the North.”
That caused a flurry of reactions amongst the nobles. The Dornish in particular were wildly thrilled. He could already foresee the fights that were bound to break out over the change in Wardenship between the Reachers and Dornish in the coming days.
Gods willing, they would leave their weapons out of it, and he would not have to execute too many people.
“I saw confusion among many lords and ladies during the swearing of the Riverland lords to me,” Eddard said. “I wish to clarify: Lady Shella Whent is the daughter of Lord Nithan Whent and Princess Rhae Targaryen. She is the granddaughter of King Maekar I Targaryen. Princess Rhae’s marriage contract to Lord Whent, written and signed by King Maekar himself, specified that their first child, regardless of gender, would be the next Head of House Whent. That child was Lady Shella. Swearing herself to me as the Lady of House Whent was no act of hubris or injustice, as I heard several lords mumble—it was Lady Shella executing her just rights. Because of their Targaryen wedding pact—again, written by a king—House Whent agreed to follow absolute primogeniture from the day House Targaryen married into the House until House Whent no longer exists.”
Many of the Dornish were smiling and pleased by the acceptance and spread of one of their major cultural traditions. The Reachers were torn on the issue—torn between their lingering loyalty to House Targaryen, whose word he was honoring, and the call of their Faith that entirely opposed women in leadership. The North were looking at Eddard’s direwolves like the sign of divine favor that they were and, accordingly, were ready to throw down to defend Eddard’s every edict.
“That said, I am proud to announce Lady Shella of House Whent as Hand of the King.”
Lady Shella joined the dais directly in front of him but on the lowest step.
The North, Dorne, and a handful of Riverlanders cheered for the appointment.
“Lady Ana of House Selwyn, the foremost legal scholar in the North, shall stand as my Master of Laws.” Lady Ana came to stand at Lady Shella’s left hand.
Again, the North and Dorne heartily expressed their favor. With few exceptions, everyone else clapped politely.
“Lord Monford of House Velaryon shall stand as my Master of Coin.” Lord Monford came to stand at Lady Shella’s right hand.
The reaction to that was more evenly mixed. Master Coin technically was a higher position than Master of Ships. The perceived increase in rank had the acceptance of the approval of the Crownlands, even though Master of Ships did traditionally go to House Velaryon.
“Lord Gerion of House Lannister shall stand as my Master of Ships.” Lord Gerion—wisely, in Eddard’s opinion—came to stand directly beside Lord Monford, showing their unification within his Small Council.
As much as Lord Gerion’s placement pleased the West—adding their audible approval to that of the North, Dorne, and the Crownlands—Eddard knew the appointment was controversial. The last time a non-Velaryon held the Master of Ships position, he had also been a Lannister. As a bonus, it had taken place leading up to and during the Dance of the Dragons.
It had been a conscious choice.
Eddard wanted to make it clear that he would honor and use Targaryen Royal Traditions, but he would not be a slave to them. He felt these two unexpected or, mayhaps, switched seats would make that point.
Along with expanding the Kingsguard, of course.
“Grand Maester Pycelle will maintain his position, and Lord Varys will also continue as Master of Whispers.”
Lord Varys and then Pycelle stood to Lady Anna’s right. This move gained him more approval, especially from Targaryen loyalists. Hopefully, none of them saw this as the trap it was.
Varys and Pycelle certainly walked into the trap as though they were unaware.
“For Lord Commander of my Kingsguard, I choose Ser Brynden of House Tully.” The Blackfish had taken the time between House Tully making their oaths and now to shed his black scales and House Tully cloak for white scales and the white cloak with a wide golden border that Lady Whent had had made for him.
Lord Commander Tully walked right past the rest of the Small Council to stand with Lyanna on the opposite side of Eddard from Aerys’s four living white cloaks. It was a pointed gesture that Eddard hoped the nobles of Westeros all understood, because he would not be explaining it for several days yet.
“By the will of House Nymeros-Martell, the Dornish Seat on my council will be filled by Lady Ellaria Sand of House Uller.” It was such a unique privilege that House Nymeros-Martell had, to name one of their own to the King’s Small Council. It was a legitimate shame that Dorne had almost never used it. Hopefully, his acceptance of their chosen representative without discussion or negotiation would be enough to keep House Nymeros-Martell naming a Dornish representative to the Small Council.
“There is a tradition in the North of placing a designated dissenter on any ruling council as it is formed,” Eddard explained, gaining nods and approval from his Northern Lords. “The Lord-Dissenter, or Master of Dissent in this case, is tasked with questioning every decision the council makes, regardless of their personal feelings on the matter. They do this to ensure that only truly thoughtful choices influence the future of the Realm.
“For the first Master of Dissent for the Stark Dynasty on the Iron Throne, I choose Lord Randyll, heir of House Tarly.”
Eddard briefly considered naming the last new position he would be adding to the Small Council, but decided that would go over better on the coming Day of Justice. Bringing Lord Jon up to speed with everything the rest of his Council would learn today would not be difficult.
“There is still a great deal of work for us to do to ensure the long-term peace of Westeros. Our first priority must be the security of the Royal House. In the next three days, there will be a War for the White Cloaks. With three queens, five white swords will not be enough men to protect the Royal House. Nor will seven white swords be enough to meet such an immense duty.”
The Faith would hate it, but no one could call it a lie or blame him for doing what was necessary to adequately protect his wives, and that would do.
“Once my Kingsguard is fully manned, you will all be called upon to witness the Day of Justice, where we will resolve the causes and crimes of Robert’s Rebellion.”
For once, he got a unified round of applause for an announcement.
“My Small Council must remain behind; the rest of you are free until dinner, when we will celebrate this first step toward peace and reunification together.”
Lady Whent had promised him a ball, which was a term he had heard but not been entirely familiar with until she explained that it was a night of eating, drinking, and dancing. He would have to dance with the Cat-Fish, he had no doubt, to keep her father from becoming suspicious too soon. Fortunately for him, Lord Jon had ensured he knew all of the Southron dances, and there were several Andal dances that absolutely forbade touching. He would simply have to coordinate having the music for one of those dances played when he approached Lady Catelyn.
“Come,” Eddard ordered his Small Council once the majority of his vassals had fled the godswood. Lady Whent and Lord Commander Tully fell into step, flanking him and a step behind, immediately. The other seven—for now—members came after them in no sort of order.
Eddard knew they crossed nearly a half-dozen acres in what felt like ten steps.
The team necessary to meet the needs of Eddard’s copying projects had grown so large that Eddard had been forced to give up his intended meeting room in Kingspyre Tower. Instead, he had requested a second pond-clearing platform to hold a table and chairs for his meetings. It had been a better choice, in his mind, because there was a better guarantee of privacy in the godswood—unless it was the Gods’ own will that some specific person heard some specific pieces of their conversation—which was nothing Eddard would or could interfere with.
Off to one side was Eddard’s campaign tent. The front was secured entirely open, while the three sides were lined with bookshelves. A handful of men at arms he trusted to be discreet were in the tent, guarding the contents. The maester who Luwin had chosen to be Eddard’s personal scribe and the master of his personal archive was seated at a desk, ready to provide Eddard with the references he needed as well as record the significant events of this first meeting.
Smoke left Eddard to curl up in the archive tent. She seemed to like the young Maester Eldyn—a hastily chained acolyte, in truth—so much that Eddard had to wonder how much Stark blood the lad had. He was too old to be Brandon’s get, but the two of them could be half-brothers.
“How did we not see this place before?” Grand Maester Pycelle asked, frowning at the woods around them. “We should not have found this with all of us gathered together?”
“We are several acres away from the clearing we used for my Coronation,” Eddard explained. “Godswoods respond to the will of their bonded. I am currently bonded to this wood and wished for you not to have to walk too far at your age.”
“That is very considerate, Your Grace, thank you,” the grand maester said a few moments too late for Eddard to actually believe him.
Eddard glanced at Lord Varys to find the man pale.
He did not think he would end the day with the Spider on his Council, but they would see.
“Food first, and then business,” Eddard ordered.
He went first, dictating his choices to the girl filling his plate before taking his seat at the Small Council table. He had chosen a round table to encourage a sense of equality and open discussion during meetings, but his chair was slightly taller than all of the others so that none could doubt he was still first among them.
Lady Shella sat directly across from him, as he had instructed. Lady Ana and Lord Monford sat on either side of her. Grand Maester Pycelle sat on his left, which Eddard did not appreciate, but Lord Varys sat on the maester’s other side so at least Eddard did not have to worry too much about immediately getting poisoned. He could certainly put Pycelle between himself and any daggers Varys might decide to pull, if the Spider gave into any need for physical betrayal of Eddard.
Lord Randyll sat on Eddard’s other side with Lady Ellaria beyond him.
Eddard learned several things over the course of the meal.
First, Lady Ellaria could hold a conversation with a brick wall—or, at least, the glowering visage of Randyll Tarly.
Second, Lady Ellaria had enough funny or embarrassing anecdotes from all around the South that Eddard knew she would make a superior Master of Whispers. He already had Lord Varys’s replacement half-chosen, but he could see himself changing his choice.
Third, Lady Shella, Lady Ana, and Lord Monford got along far too well. Their mirth was so contagious that they had even Lord Commander Tully laughing. Their camaraderie made it all the more clear how much Varys and Pycelle did not belong in this group.
Fourth, Lord Monford and Lord Gerion got on like oiled kindling on fire. Lord Monford had a tendency toward seasickness—an embarrassment to a Velaryon—while Lord Gerion would circumnavigate the world if he were any less certain that Lord Tywin, his oldest brother, would hunt him down and murder him for abandoning the West.
Finally, Lord Varys hated the godswood. The man was trembling and pale, with sweat visibly beading along his brow. It probably did not help, at all, that Shadow had hated the man on sight and would not stop watching him. Eddard had asked him to stop for show, but he had not actually meant it and had been ignored completely by the direwolf.
Once House Whent’s servants had cleared the remains of their meals from the council table, Eddard stood and gestured to Maester Eldyn to bring the first tomes forward.
“First, your oaths of service to the Small Council and the Iron Throne.”
The young maester laid out a series of books bound in hard white leather with silver lettering and decorations. Each book was labeled with the Small Council seat whose oaths and resignations they would hold records for, for as long as they existed.
“There is a bit of history for each council seat in the front of the books,” Eddard said, sitting once more. “The place marker in each book is your copy of your service agreement. They are placed there so that you can compare them to the Iron Throne’s copy. It is your duty to ensure they match and to sign both.”
Grand Maester Pycelle huffed and huffed and huffed so much as he read that Eddard was afraid the old man was going to have some sort of fit before Eddard could put him on trial and execute him.
“This is outrageous,” the grand maester finally came out and said.
Eddard just stared at the man. “I will not entertain an argument over this matter.”
“How is this outrageous, Grand Maester?” Lord Monford demanded. “Agreements with the Iron Throne have always been done in writing, even the Small Council’s agreements to serve.”
“King Aerys never requested such a thing!” Pycelle objected.
“Aerys was mad,” the Velaryon countered calmly. “And lazy. I know for a fact that Jaehaerys II had his council sign agreements like these, and my mother spoke of Aegon V doing the same.”
“Personally, I prefer King Eddard’s way of doing things.” Monford waved his place marker for emphasis. “Getting a copy to keep for myself is new. He defines our role, lists out our duties, and even provides how long we are expected to serve and our monthly compensation for the posts we hold. What more could you ask for?”
“I am no longer the healer for the Royal House.” Pycelle, somehow, frowned harder at them all than he had before.
“As you never should have been,” Lord Randyll interjected. “The Grand Maester of the Realm is supposed to be concerned with the health of the Realm and report sickness or other troubles affecting the general population to king and council. Westeros is large enough that such constant correspondence with every occupied town and keep is itself a full, difficult occupation. And you have to maintain records of what you learn. And attend Small Council meetings. And whatever else is on your list.” Lord Randyll waved dismissively at said list.
“We do not practice slavery in Westeros,” Eddard offered. “If you wish to focus your time on healing, you may resign as Grand Maester. You can return to the Citadel for a new assignment, and I will submit my requirements for the position of Grand Maester of the Realm to the Conclave so that they may elect a suitable replacement.
“None of this is new,” Eddard said. “With the exception of Lord Randyll, all of your agreements are direct copies of the forms Aegon the Dragon established. All I did was adjust your monthly stipends to account for the modern value of a gold dragon.”
The agreements had gotten less specific under Viserys I and Aegon II; Eddard was merely returning them to the original intent.
Lady Shella closed her book and stood with it in hand. She paused briefly as the table turned to her. Then she walked around the table to him and laid the book open in front of him. She signed and sealed her copy and the one in the book.
Eddard signed and sealed after her.
At his gesture, Master Eldyn signed as witness, claiming the title Royal Archivist, to Pycelle’s extensive ire.
Lady Ana and Lord Commander Tully stood at the same time to follow Lady Shella’s lead. It was the most dignified race he had ever seen as they came up the opposite sides of the table to him. Lord Randyll beat them both, sliding his agreements—already signed and sealed—under Eddard’s hands without leaving his seat.
Once all of the agreements were signed and sealed, Eddard stood. “Again,” he ordered. “This time on the tree. Even if you did not participate before, you saw the way of it.”
All stood to join him.
All save Lord Varys.
“No,” the Spider said firmly. “No magic.”
“It is not magic,” Lady Ana Selwyn countered. “It is faith.”
“It is blood magic, and I will never submit to such again!” Varys snarled. Actually, snarled. Fiercely enough that Shadow would have been proud if he cared at all for the man.
“It is an order from your king,” Lord Commander Blackfish tried. “Refusing is treason.”
“I will not do it.”
“Very well,” Eddard interrupted before a full argument could break out. “We will meet later to discuss your concerns, Lord Varys. You may leave my table.”
But not the wood, Eddard thought pointedly. Shadow agreed with him entirely. The Spider was a slippery fellow. Chaining him was not a reliable method of containing him. Neither was caging him, but Gods-willing, letting him wander the godswood would keep him here where Eddard could find him.
And it would not be torture. By the time Varys began to realize the Gods were holding him hostage, Eddard would be calling him down for judgement on the Day of Justice, three days from now.
“Swear just the last three lines before your signature,” Eddard instructed once Lord Varys was beyond sight.
By the time his eight remaining councilors made their oaths in blood upon the weirwood, Maester Eldyn had laid out large white folders filled with loose documents for them all to review.
“Before you can represent my rule to the Realm, you have several documents to review. Some because you need to know and understand the context they provide. Others you will need to review so you understand the state of the Realm. A few need to be approved by this council before I sign and seal them as king.” Eddard opened his own folder, leading by example. “First, we have House Stark’s legal complaint and declaration of war against House Targaryen. This you need to review for context, but it comes from a time before I was king and, as such, does not require the council’s approval.
“Next, we have Queen Rhaella’s concessions on behalf of House Targaryen and the official peace treaty that establishes the Royal House Stark’s rights to the Iron Throne. This must be reviewed and agreed to by this council before it is signed by myself, Queen Rhaella, and all Lords Paramount as witnesses to the change in regime from Targaryen to Stark.
“After that are some legal concerns from before my reign that must be resolved before we go forward as a Realm.
“Specifically, Lord Tywin Lannister’s acknowledgement of his breaking the Laws of War against the Reynes and the Tarbecks, as well as the wergilds he has already paid to the Iron Throne, certainly need to enter the Game of Whispers as soon as feasible.” Eddard raised an eyebrow at Lady Ellaria.
The Dornishwoman just smiled and winked, promising nothing.
Eddard was, unfortunately, charmed. He was also entirely certain Lady Ellaria would hold her vows to him very seriously, so he did not pursue the matter any further.
“How did you find out about these marriage contracts with House Frey, Your Grace?” Lord Gerion asked.
“I talked to people,” Eddard deadpanned, earning himself snorts of amusement from Lord Randyll and the Blackfish.
Lord Gerion just shook his head, ignoring his fellow councilors with the appearance of good cheer. “I had no idea Genna’s marriage contract was so dangerous.”
“And yet you interfered with the possibly of her marriage being consummated, regardless,” Lord Commander Tully offered.
“There has never been a Frey born that was worthy of my sister,” Lord Gerion declared haughtily and yet somehow charming. “Particularly not that one—second born of a hundred sons.”
“You have accused the Citadel and the Faith of dereliction of duty, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Pycelle ground out as an interruption.
“Because they are,” Eddard pointed out. “The High Septon and the Most Devout signed their approval on marriage contracts that would have dropped Westeros into civil war a decade ago if House Frey were not, to a man, terrified of Tywin Lannister.”
“And the Citadel?” Pycelle asked stiffly.
“Did you not read the document?” Lady Ana asked, as impatient as Eddard was with the old fool’s games.
Pycelle ignored her.
“Have you not, yourself, denied Lord Tywin a copy of Devonson’s The Nature of War? More than once?” Eddard asked. “I have spoken to over half a hundred Southron lords in the last three days. Do you know how many of them even knew there were laws of war before I told them?” Eddard looked around the table, spreading the question around.
He gained several headshakes in answer.
“Under forty? One. Over forty? Two, but one could not have said what the laws were, and the other had wrestled Lord Randyll’s copy free of him by force very recently.”
Lord Randyll snorted and shook his head. “Lady Olenna is not to be underestimated.”
Eddard ignored the Reacher. “This is not just a failing on behalf of the maesters that educate us all. This is a deliberate denial of information we are all legally bound to know and uphold. This is an unlawful control of knowledge exhibited by the Citadel over all of Westeros, and it must cease.”
“If you are decided against myself and my brotherhood, why am I here?”
“So that your brotherhood does not see the danger that is coming for them,” Eddard answered simply. “In fact, I believe you are feeling unwell and will need to retire to your new rooms as a member of my Small Council, in Kingspyre Tower. One of my guards will see you there to ensure you do not fall ill on the trip.”
Pycelle stared at him dumbly before finally nodding. “Yes, I believe you are correct, Your Grace.”
His Small Council was silent as a Dustin man escorted Pycelle away.
“I say this with all due respect, Your Grace,” Lord Monford interjected once Pycelle was gone, “you are a scary man.”
“That was hot,” Lady Ellaria disagreed, fanning herself. “No, really. Take me on the table, Your Grace. Any way you please.”
Eddard laughed out loud.
Lady Ana and Lord Gerion were both nodding their agreement.
“Lady Ellaria is not wrong,” Lady Ana added.
“I require a bed, not a table,” Lord Gerion disagreed.
Eddard was tempted to prove Lord Gerion wrong, but he ignored the urge and it passed quickly. He was not Brandon. Or Robert. He felt no need to tumble everyone who would stand still for it.
“He has a point,” Lord Monford told Lady Ana.
“If we could return to the task at hand,” Lady Shella requested before Eddard could, but she was smiling, “rather than discuss the best places for us to seduce our King.”
Traitor.
Eddard ignored the giggles that solicited. Instead, grabbed the first thick ribbon he was using as a divider and turned to the next section of interest. “Then we have both of my marriage contracts from before I was crowned. Please note the dates and which one was a violation of the Laws of the Iron Throne. This will be important later.”
“Oooh, that foolish Fish,” Lord Gerion shook his head.
“Next, you will find an updated marriage contract for my first wife that acknowledges my place as king and hers as queen; consequences for the father of my second bride and her House; and as-yet unsigned marriage contracts for my second and third queen that must be approved by this council.
“The last section is a variety of legal issues generated by both sides of the Rebellion. Several legal assessments done by our own Lady Ana and the negotiated or assigned wergilds and punishments as appropriate.”
“King’s Landing—!” Lord Monford cut himself off.
“Yes,” Eddard agreed. “It will be some time before the regency can return to the Red Keep.” He closed his folder of documents, flipped them back over as one item, and opened to the first document. “Let us start from the top.”
Wonderful!
Thank you. This is a fabulous read and I’m eagerly waiting for book 3 💜. I’m hooked
Great Story
A wonderful second edition to your series. It was fun to see a different side to Eddard. I liked the appointing of his council and the setting up of things to come. I look forward reading of the upcoming Justice and consequences.