Reading Time: 122 Minutes

Title: War for the White Cloaks
Series: From Experience
Series Order: 3
Author: Saydria Wolfe
Fandom: ASOIAF/GoT
Genre: Time Travel
Relationship(s): Eddard Stark/Ashara Dayne, Eddard Stark/Rhaella Targaryen, Eddard Stark/Janna Tyrell, Eddard Stark/Ellaria Sand, 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)
Beta: Claire Watson
Word Count: 30,634
Summary: War for the White Cloaks plus Eddard gets married… three times.
Artist: Mizu Sage

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Part One

“Remember,” Lady Ellaria whispered to herself as she took Eddard‘s arm, “Varys stormed out of the meeting and we have not seen him since; Pycelle fell ill and is in Luwin’s care.”

Eddard looked at Lady Ellaria with amusement. “Is all well?”

“No!” She flapped her free hand. “My maids packed the wrong shoes for this gown and now it is too long. I am going to fall on my a—” She cleared her throat. “I am going to fall and embarrass us both.”

“I will catch you,” he promised. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I am a Dornish bastard about to walk into my King’s first official ball on my King’s arm. I have everything to worry about,” she countered.

“Do not let the bigotry of the fucking Faith ruin this for you,” he ordered.

She gave him a startled look, then started laughing. She was smiling as they led the Small Council into Harrenhal’s ballroom.

Lord Commander Tully entered the ballroom first and moved to one side to call, “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 of Westeros. Protector of the Realm. Accompanied by Lady Ellaria Sand of House Uller, holder of the Dornish Seat on the King’s Small Council.

“Lady Shella of House Whent, Lord Hand of Westeros. Accompanied by Lord Monford of House Velaryon, Master of Coin of Westeros.

“Lady Ana of House Selwyn, Master of Laws of Westeros. Accompanied by Lord Gerion of House Lannister, Master of Ships of Westeros.”

The attendees all clapped, pro forma, as Eddard led his Small Council down the entrance stairs and directly to the dance floor. His Small Council would lead the first dance.

“Lord Randyll of House Tarly, Lord Dissenter of the King’s Small Council. Accompanied by his betrothed, Lady Melessa of House Florent.”

Eddard turned to the conductor of the musicians and nodded.

This was a celebration. The band struck up a lively tune.

Lady Ellaria leapt into the first lift, and he huffed as he worked to smooth out the motion between them.

“You do not have to leap so, my lady; I can lift you.”

“I do not enjoy being held in the air like some naughty kitten, Your Grace,” she countered.

“That would imply you are, in fact, not a naughty kitten,” he disagreed. Lady Ellaria threw her head back as she laughed. “Did you not command me to take you on a table this very afternoon?”

Lady Ellaria was giggling too hard to leap into the second lift.

Eddard noted the Lords Paramount joining the floor. Lord Arryn with his wife; Lord Tully and Lord Lannister, each with their daughters; Lord Baratheon with a maid of House Swann, based on her black and white gown; and Princess Mariah with her son, Prince Oberyn. To Eddard’s unending surprise, Lady Olenna entered the floor with Lord Greyjoy on her arm.

Eddard prayed to the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone that no one told Lord Greyjoy what that particular hold meant any time soon.

They finished that dance after a half-dozen more leap/lifts and moved on to the next—a very Andal number where none of the partners touched, but still risqué in that dancing partners changed with every turn.

Eddard used this dance to exit the floor. He did so directly in front of Lady Olenna. Next to her was an absolute spearwife of a woman. Tall and strong—taller than Eddard! with shoulders nearly as broad as his. She wore a green gown covered in interlocking golden roses.

If this was not Lady Janna, he was going to be wildly disappointed.

“Lady Olenna,” he greeted the woman he knew.

“My King,” she gave him something of a curtsy. He was not going to lose his mind because she was old and moved slowly. “May I introduce my daughter, Lady Janna.”

Lady Janna dipped into a curtsy so low that her knees had to be resting on the floor when she stopped.

Eddard held out a hand and helped her back up, though she did not remotely need the assistance.

He shot Lady Olenna a dark look. “I am cross with you.”

“Cross?” she asked, smiling as if she was amused.

“More than disappointed but less than wroth,” he explained before focusing on Lady Janna entirely. “May I have this dance?”

“It would be my pleasure, My King.”

He led her onto the floor as a new song began.

“Why are you cross with my mother, My King?” Lady Janna asked, not meeting his eyes.

“She led me to believe you were some useless Flower, not…this.”

“This?” Lady Janna chanced a glance at him—still having to look down to meet his eyes, to his glee—before returning her gaze to his cloak clasps.

“You are an archer, are you not?” he asked instead. “What is your weapon of choice?”

“The longbow,” she admitted hastily, clearly seeking to please him. He watched as she registered what she had just said, and she frowned. “What?”

“I had no idea women of as gentle birth as yours ever held weapons in the South. Who was your instructor?”

“Jyanna Thistle, a vassal of House Reed.”

“House Reed produces some of the best archers in the North, but they are by no means our best-known noble house. How did a maiden of House Tyrell come to learn of them?”

“I have a Redwyne uncle at the Citadel. He is the Archmaester of Warcraft, Your Grace. He arranged my lessoning with my mother’s consent.”

“I should like to meet him.”

Lady Janna smiled at him, and this time she did not look away. “He will be thrilled to be told. He would love to dissect Robert’s Rebellion and all of the choices you made over the course of it. Though, with your coronation, Uncle Maester does now think that it should be called the Wolf’s War.” He had no idea what face he made at that, but it drew her up short. “Your Grace?” Her hands squeezed his nervously.

“War is not a legacy I want,” he admitted. “I recognize that I have very little choice in the matter—that the histories will say whatever they say—but happy wives, honorable children, healthy and well-fed smallfolk. Those are the legacies I want.”

She was quiet for a time. Thoughtful, as one song moved into another. Thankfully, it was another dance he could continue to hold her close for.

“You must recognize your talent for warcraft, Your Grace,” she urged.

“I do. And I endeavor to keep those skills sharp for when the Realm has need of them again. That is why I am so pleased with you.”

“Because I am an archer.”

“Lady Jyanna would have told you that we take pride in the fortitude of our women in the North.” He paused pointedly, and she nodded, though reluctantly. “That is not just mental, emotional, or even spiritual fortitude.” He could see by the look on her face that he was not expressing himself well. “My mother’s mother, Arya Flint, she was the daughter of the Flint of the Mountain Clans of the North. For her father to accept her marriage, even to a Stark of Winterfell, my maternal grandfather had to steal her.”

“Steal her?” Lady Janna repeated. “Your Grace?”

“It is a tradition going back to before the Long Night,” Eddard explained. “It is, essentially, hostage taking. If a groom cannot steal his bride and keep her for a certain period without permanently damaging her, he is determined to be unworthy of her. The tradition lingers in First Men culture today with brides being encouraged to come Beneath the Tree armed and surrounded by as many as she feels she needs to protect her consent from the groom and his party.”

“I do not know what to say to that, My King.” She gave him a mystified look.

Eddard grinned. “It should also be said that bride and groom are not as well defined in the North as they are in your South. In the North, the groom is whoever does the stealing or, in more modern usage, the person of greater social rank. There are exceptions, of course.” Eddard had intended to be Ashara’s bride when he had just been the spare of Winterfell and she the next ruler of Starfall, with one older brother being childless and the other having chosen to join the Kingsguard. Because he had intended to leave House Stark and join House Dayne.

That, of course, had not happened.

“So, if I stole you, ours would be the Tyrell Dynasty?” she asked, thoughtlessly bold.

Eddard threw his head back and laughed. He ignored the startled jumps from the dancers around them and focused on Lady Janna’s grin.

He was still grinning even as he shook his head. “Mayhaps one day we will have the joy of arms practice together, but that is not this day.” The song was ending. “Unfortunately, I must return you to your mother. I am under strict orders from my Hand that I will indulge in no more than two dances per maiden.”

“That is the second time you have called me that.” Lady Janna sighed heavily. “I fear I am no maiden, Your Grace. I have a son, Thyron Flowers.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” Eddard said without hesitation. “Is he here?”

“He is,” she confirmed.

The song ended, and they bowed to each other. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her mother.

“He is nearly two turns old.”

Ah. “You conceived him at the Tourney of Harrenhal,” he guessed.

She nodded.

“Are you one of the many maidens whose hearts Robert claims to have stolen over the course of the tourney?”

“My heart? No,” she laughed softly. “My maidenhead? Yes.”

He laughed softly with her. “I do hope to meet him soon. He will be my responsibility, culturally, very soon.” And he would not be the first child of Robert Baratheon he saw to the care of.

They made it to Lady Olenna’s table just then. “Lady Olenna,” he greeted his future good-mother, “I would love to know who you would choose for the Seat of Dissent on my Small Council.

“You had been one of my top choices for the seat before you disqualified yourself by becoming Regent Paramount of the Reach.” Not true. She had been his only choice for Lord Dissenter until his own rules had disqualified her, but he could not undermine Lord Randyll’s place on his Council by saying such a thing aloud.

“I will consider the issue, Your Grace. Am I limited geographically?”

“A Southron,” he said. “You will, in effect, be vouching for this person should I come to need them, so do consider carefully.”

“I will, My King.”

He nodded and left them. The room was hot. He needed a drink.

No, he decided, it was better to get unpleasant duties over with. He caught his Hand, Lady Whent’s eye and held it for a moment as he made his way toward the Tully table. Lady Whent nodded back and signaled the conductor of the musicians. Another passionless Andal song began to play.

Eddard focused on Lady Catelyn and gave her a half-bow. “My Lady,” he swept an arm toward the dance floor in silent invitation.

“My King,” Lady Catelyn stood and curtsied—not as deeply as Lady Janna, but certainly an appropriate depth from a queen to her king, if that had been their relationship.

He ignored her as she grinned to her sister and sent the other riverladies around them a smug look.

Lady Lysa, he noticed, was looking longingly toward the Vale tables. At Lord Baelish, he assumed, but he played ignorant. “Lady Arryn, should you not be with your husband for an event such as this?”

Lady Lysa was as startled to be addressed.

Nearly as startled as Lady Catelyn was that he was speaking to anyone other than her.

Lord Tully briefly looked put out, but recovered more quickly than either of his daughters. “The King is quite correct, Lysa.” The senior fish stood. “Allow me to escort you back to Lord Arryn.”

Lord Jon would not be pleased with Eddard’s maneuvering, but the more people that saw Lady Lysa fawning over Littlefinger and openly dishonoring her husband, the better for Eddard’s plans it would be.

Lord Tully’s forward position would be entirely compromised by the time Eddard called for the charge against it, after breakfast on the morrow. If he was lucky, Lady Ellaria would be spreading the Whispers against Lord Tully and his daughters already. He had not asked the woman to work outside of her place on his Council, but he had made it clear to his Small Council that House Tully did not have his protection. And Lady Ellaria hated Lord Tully with a stubborn passion he had never seen outside of his own Northern lords.

Eddard had decided to let nature take its course on the matter of Hoster Tully and his daughters. The number of frowns pointed Lord Hoster and Lady Lysa’s way as they left his presence proved that had truly been his best option.

Lady Catelyn spent most of their first dance together making sure everyone around them was seeing them together.

Eddard had to remind himself that this was not the Lady Catelyn he had decided to love after he had lost everything else worth having in his last life. This was not the woman he had claimed and claimed and claimed to love until he had eventually learned to actually love her. This was a stranger wearing that woman’s much younger face.

This was a stranger who thought she would be declared a queen in the morning.

There was a pause between dances for the musicians to switch out. As the room applauded the retiring musicians, Lady Catelyn moved close enough for them to touch. He made sure they did not.

She lifted her chin, and he obligingly leaned down to hear her. “You will not be keeping those giant beasts with you at all times in the future, will you?”

When he frowned in confusion, she nodded to where Smoke and Shadow were reclining around the throne that he doubted his evening plans would give him the time to use.

He focused back on the stranger beside him. “I am afraid, my lady, that my direwolves are none of your concern.” He hoped she heard the yet he would not say and did not mean at the end of his sentence.

Her incandescently pleased smile told him that she had.

The music began again, and they went back to dancing but not touching. She tried to speak to him, so he overly focused on the steps—as if Lord Jon would have let him go to a Southron anything less than overly prepared—until she stopped trying to speak and let him focus. When that song was done, he took a pointed but polite step back to indicate he was done with her as his partner. Some Southron bootlicker had Lady Catelyn swept up in his arms and was spinning her in stompy circles before she could recognize what he had done.

Finally, Eddard went in search of the drink he profoundly needed.

He found it at the refreshment table set up for him alone, not far from the throne his wolves held and guarded by three of Aerys’s former Kingsguards. The fourth—Barristan the Bold—was wandering the perimeter of the ballroom at Lord Commander Tully’s side.

The Day of Justice he had planned could not come soon enough for his peace of mind. As much as he was forced to acknowledge that their presence—four Kingsguards fully armored in whites so pristine that they glowed—gave his reign the appearance of power and legitimacy, he also wanted the dishonor he saw in them as individuals—the dishonor that he could not ignore—far from his sight at the first opportunity.

Prince Oberyn and Ashara wandered over to him. Ser Jaime and Arthur Dayne crossed their arms to keep the two at bay until he nodded to let them through.

“I was wondering who this fancy, guarded table was for,” the Red Viper said as he reached for a grape.

Eddard smacked his hand gently. The prince dropped the grape in surprise, and Ashara laughed. “Not for you,” Eddard explained himself.

The snake could at least pretend to be sneaky.

Prince Oberyn pouted, complete with protruding lip. Eddard ignored him.

“Do you have any contacts in Essos?” he asked Ashara, though the question was really for Prince Oberyn.

“Mayhaps,” Prince Oberyn answered regardless—proving that he was as astute and intuitive as had been implied to Eddard on several occasions.

“It occurs to me that there will be some lordless lands soon in Westeros,” Eddard said bluntly. He fully intended for Riverrun and the Twins to need new lords, but that was, in fact, the least of it. “If House Blackfyre is out there. If they are willing to return certain Targaryen relics to the Iron Throne and accept that their claim to said throne died alongside House Targaryen’s own claim, I would be willing to accept them as vassals and provide them keeps and lands of their own to hold in perpetuity.”

“That is most generous, Your Grace,” Prince Oberyn offered doubtfully. “A secure, familial legacy for a single sword is quite the bargain.”

Eddard inclined his head because he agreed that it was. Though Blackfyre was hardly just a sword. “If you know anyone who is both qualified and interested.”

“If I know anyone qualified and interested,” Prince Oberyn repeated, “why would they trust such an offer? The last time a scion of House Blackfyre was invited to Westeros, he was murdered the moment he set foot on our shores.”

“The man who made that promise was not a Stark,” Eddard pointed out reasonably. “The man who broke that promise was not a Stark. House Stark has held the respect of the North for eight thousand years because we keep our word.

“Even when the promise is, you will die screaming; we keep our word.”

Prince Oberyn stared at him, flushed and shocked. The Red Viper huffed. “I understand now why Ellaria said you were a threat to smallclothes everywhere.”

Ashara laughed in delight. “I told you! Years ago, I told you.”

“I cannot even blame you,” Prince Oberyn admitted, leering at Eddard. “I would choose him over you as well.”

Eddard gave the man a look up and down. He was nearly as smooth-skinned as his namesake. “I prefer my men with more hair on them.” It reduced the chance of a rub burn, in his experience.

Ashara laughed again, harder this time, and Prince Oberyn’s mouth fell open in surprise. Wordlessly, Eddard held out his hand. Ashara—his wife—took it and he led her out onto the dance floor.

A king’s work was never done.

Part Two

After breakfast, Eddard stood in front of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. It was full to the brim with hungover nobles. Once they all stood with him, he held up his arms for them to be seated.

“The time has come for all of Westeros to learn the identity of my first queen. She and her family will join me today in the Royal Box so that you all may see and know her. After the day’s War for the White Cloaks events have ended, she and I will remarry beneath the tree. You are, of course, all invited to witness our joyous occasion.”

Eddard waited through the chuckles he earned himself. No matter how flippantly he worded it, an invitation from your sworn king was an order his vassals had to follow, and they all knew it.

He had been waiting for this moment for days, debating how it would go. Eddard had dreamed about it more than once. He could ignore Lady Catelyn and let Hoster Tully tarnish what little honor he had left. Such would be his preference, to be true, but it would be better, politically, to lay out the facts and deny the Senior Fish any opportunity to argue with him.

“House Tully, come forward.”

Hoster Tully puffed up with so much pride that it would only be justice if the man were to burst from it.

Unfortunately, Eddard would have to make his own justice in this scenario as the man strutted down the center aisle, healthy and whole. He was flanked by his daughters, who were in turn followed by young Lord Edmure and Lord Baelish.

Interestingly, neither Lord Commander Tully nor Lord Jon Arryn left their current seats to join the doomed school of fish.

At his nod, Arthur Dayne led Aerys’s four remaining Kingsguard to surround House Tully. Something Hoster Tully clearly took as a sign of honor, nodding to each man with great geniality.

“Lord Hoster of House Tully,” Eddard greeted when the Fish stopped a respectful distance from the High Table.

“My King.” Hoster Tully gave a deep, flourishing bow, echoed almost eagerly by the rest of the party.

Eddard stared at them in silent judgement until every Tully—and Baelish—was showing signs of discomfort.

“Are you aware,” he asked gently, “that it is a violation of the Laws of the Dragon for a married man to wed a second time, if he is not a Targaryen?”

“Well, of cour—” Tully stopped himself with a frown. “My King?”

“Are you also aware, Lord Tully, that marriages held by force are not considered binding?”

“I held no sword to you when you married my daughter!” Tully objected hotly because he was not, in fact, too stupid to piece together clues when they were laid out plainly for him.

“Mayhaps not directly, but the law does not require the direct force of an unsheathed sword. That is a colloquialism. Do not be confused. When Lord Arryn and I came to you, the sworn ally of House Stark, for aid to save the lives of our foster son and foster brother, respectively, you withheld your aid until your daughters were wedded and bedded.”

Tully scoffed.

“We will find in the coming days that you were largely involved in starting the war that endangered that man Lord Arryn and I both loved so fiercely, Robert Baratheon.” Tully froze mid gesture of doubt and paled. “That war—Robert’s Rebellion—which you started by withholding critical information from both my brother and my father was your sword. Robert Baratheon himself was your captive, no matter who held him. You were the architect of a great deal of death. It is only luck—” and skill, Eddard could admit “—that Robert’s Rebellion did not kill me and leave you effectively ruling both the Riverlands and the North through my widow and assumed heir once peace had returned to the Realm.”

Eddard held up a hand when Tully opened his mouth to object. He was certain that it was only Lord Tully’s vows to him, bound in blood on a weirwood as they were, that kept him from breaking Eddard’s wordless command for silence.

He nodded to the pair of Umbers that pushed through the—shocked, wordless—Fish to gather their leader.

“My son by Lady Catelyn is all that keeps your head safe from me.” Eddard said it because he wanted no one to doubt how severely he held Lord Hoster’s crimes against him. “Do not think you or your House will avoid facing extensive punishment for your crimes in the days to come.

“House Tully is officially attained—” gasps echoed around the massive Hall. Removing a Lord Paramount or his living line from power was the right of the King, but had never been done in this time. He was making history, but he was hardly the only one. “—by the will of myself, King Eddard the First of Royal House Stark.

“Take him,” Eddard ordered the Umbers. “Contain him in the chambers Lady Whent has prepared for him. He is to come to no harm and remain healthy until the coming Day of Justice, when he will be questioned. Thoroughly.”

Eddard waved for the Umbers to leave. Lord Fish did not put up any sort of protest as they physically led him away.

“Lady Catelyn.” The woman was silently crying.

“My—King—” she sniffled.

Eddard was not moved. “I do not hold you accountable for what has happened between us. You were only following your father’s orders, as every maid must in Westeros, but I cannot accept you as one of my queens. Your father’s line is tainted beyond repair by his greed and ambition.”

“I understand,” she admitted through her distress.

“Our son, Robb, is similarly innocent. He did not choose his parents. Nor did he have a hand in his grandfather’s crimes, whether they were actually committed or merely Hoster Tully’s plans for the future.

“Therefore, I name our son Prince Robb Stark, Lord of House Stark of the Rivers. He is Lord of Riverrun and will be Lord Paramount of the Riverlands when he comes of age.”

Lady Catelyn’s shoulders slumped in something like relief. Had she thought he would kill their son? Had she assumed he would condemn Robb to the life of a Snow? Her belief in her Southron superiority and his cruelty as a Northern barbarian had never been more irritating.

“I cannot allow you to remain within the Riverlands due to House Tully’s attainment. You will have no contact with Lord Robb going forward. You will have a year and a day to mourn his loss to you, and then you will wed Ser Wylis of House Manderly, the heir of White Harbor. House Manderly is deeply loyal to House Stark, and I trust them to care for you despite your House’s diminished status. As well, I believe you will be most comfortable in the North in White Harbor. It is the only place you will find a sept within the entire North.” As long as she did not go to the Wall, at least, but the Wall was no place for a woman. Nor was it, legally, part of Westeros’s Kingdom of the North.

“Thank you, My King.” She gave him a shaky curtsey of appropriate depth to show her penitence.

Eddard nodded to the merman who had come forward to fetch his bride. “Ser Wylis.”

“My King, I would take my betrothed to my House’s chambers for a respite. I do not believe she need be part of the rest of this.”

“I agree.” Eddard waited for Ser Wylis to urge Lady Catelyn to her feet and for them to be gone from the room before he continued. “Lord Edmure.”

The boy stepped forward, chin high and shoulders straight. Eddard was proud of him. “My King?”

“You have recently reached nine namedays, correct?”

“Just a moon gone, Your Grace.”

Eddard nodded. “You are a boy and too young to be involved with or punished for your father’s crimes.” And the Greenseers on the Isle had confirmed that Lord Edmure had no part in the commissioning of said crimes. “It is too soon yet to know what you will become. Should you choose to go to the Citadel to forge a chain, I will support you. Should you choose to join your uncle in the Kingsguard or merely become a knight and earn your own name, I will find a knight to squire you. Should you choose to join the Night’s Watch, I will take you to the Wall myself.

“Until you—Lord Edmure Tully of House Stark of the Rivers—decide what you will be, you will foster with Lady Maege of House Mormont, Regent of Dragonstone.”

Lord Edmure turned to the she-bear when she stepped forward. What the boy saw in her, he could not say, but the boy nodded silently to himself.

Then he looked to Eddard for permission.

Eddard nodded, and the boy went to Lady Maege. She clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into her. The two of them left the Hall in an easy, silent peace.

Eddard stared thoughtfully down at Lord Baelish and Lady Lysa.

Not that Lady Lysa noticed. She was too busy staring dreamily at Petyr Baelish.

“Lady Lysa,” Eddard said softly.

“Your Grace,” she sighed back, not bothering to stop her waking daydreams.

“You are wed to Lord Arryn.”

“Not anymore,” she smiled, eyes still on Petyr Baelish.

That was a good point. In ending his own marriage, he had ended Lord Jon’s because they had been married in the same forced situation. “You did believe you were married to Lord Arryn for a time.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Your marriage was never consummated because when you married, you were recovering from losing a child.”

Lady Lysa nodded. “My father tricked me into drinking the tansy tea instead of allowing me to marry Petyr.”

“Lysa,” Petyr tried, grabbing her by the arm.

“Your marriage is still unconsummated, and yet you are again pregnant.”

“I can marry Petyr this time,” she said in a disturbing, dreamy tone of voice. “Father cannot stop us now.”

“You could,” Eddard agreed, “if Lord Baelish was not facing the possibility of his own execution for his efforts in starting Robert’s Rebellion.”

“It was just a letter,” Lady Lysa said dismissively. Then she frowned thoughtfully. “Or two.”

That stopped Eddard in his tracks. He had not thought Baelish had involved Lysa in his crimes. He had been certain the man was smarter than that. But. Baelish had involved her in his murder of Lord Jon last time, had he not?

Eddard looked to Baelish.

Baelish was glaring at him with a fury so black—the sort of look he had only received one other time, and not in this life. It had been on Baelish’s face that time, too, now that he thought about it.

Eddard needed to consider his options—.

“Do you really think Robb Stark is your son, My King?” Only Baelish could make what should be a standard acknowledgement of Eddard’s rank sound like a foul name. “Blood of your blood?”

“Lady Catelyn was no maid when I took her, that is true,” Eddard allowed. Baelish smirked like he had won something. “But if anyone took her maidenhead, it had to be my brother, Brandon Wildwolf.” It was a guess based entirely on the fact that she had called out Brandon’s name multiple times during their coupling.

That it infuriated Lord Baelish was merely an added treat.

It had to be said that Lady Catelyn was well known, even before she met Brandon, for riding astride her horse—an action well known to ruin a girl’s maidenhead before she ever knew what it was or understood its importance in their society. Lady Catelyn had certainly not been accustomed to penetration when he had bedded her. He had assumed she had not had a maidenhead by the time he had touched her.

He still felt that horseback was the best explanation for the facts that he had.

Even in the light of Baelish’s claim.

“But the timing does not work for Robb to be my brother’s son. Lady Catelyn would have been undeniably showing when we wed. Much like Lady Lysa would have been when she wed Lord Arryn, if not for her father’s tricking of her.”

Baelish snarled. “Lysa is mine. Catelyn is mine. Robb is mine.”

Eddard knew he could order Baelish to tell the truth because the fool had willingly bled for him upon a weirwood. The Gods would make him speak the truth—even if Baelish did not know the truth before he spoke it—to keep the man’s vassal oath. But. Baelish was not worth executing that maneuver so early.

Too early.

“Unfortunately for you, Lord Baelish, I am constrained by the Law. Were I not, once you were proved wrong, I would slit your throat before a weirwood tree and throw your bowels into the branches to feed the Gods.”

Baelish scoffed. “And when I am proven right?”

“I would not slit your throat.”

That gave Baelish pause. He rallied quickly, “Too bad there is no way to prove the boy’s true paternity.” Leaving Eddard’s son in disgrace, which had no doubt been Baelish’s intent all along.

“And yet you show your ignorance,” Eddard said almost gently. “As it is, you will die screaming.”

Eddard caught sight of Lady Ellaria fanning herself in her seat toward the front of the Hall. He nearly rolled his eyes at her.

Instead, he gestured to several Northern guards. “Isolate them,” he ordered, pointing to the smaller rooms off the side of the Hall. “Lady Whent will need time to prepare their new rooms.”

Once they were gone, he spoke to the Hall, “All Lords Paramount are invited to travel with me to Winterfell after the conclusion of the Tourney that will close our gathering here at Harrenhal. Those of you who accept this invitation will be expected to witness a ritual of the Old Gods that will confirm Prince Robb’s paternity. It will then be your duty to spread this information to the other nobles across Westeros.”

That was when Eddard realized he had not prepared his chosen regent for the Riverlands for their role.

Fuck.

“For now, the Riverlands will answer directly to me,” was what he said. It would make the changes he intended to make easier politically if there were no regent’s feelings for him to be careful of.

He would name a regent after the issues Baelish had raised with Robb were settled. If possible. It would be his luck to have the issue forced upon him before he was prepared.

He took a deep breath.

Just because House Tully had run him out of patience was no reason to insult his actual good-family with his temper. Or his anxiety.

“House Dayne, come forward,” Eddard ordered.

Arthur Dayne remained in place as his sworn brothers returned to Eddard’s dais. Lady Ashara and her brother, Lord Adarien, the current ruler of Starfall, walked up the center aisle with all of the grace and dignity House Tully had failed to present. A pace behind and between them came Wylla, the wet nurse, carrying Jon.

Lord Dayne and his younger brother, Ser Arthur, each took a knee before Eddard. Ashara curtsied easily to the floor and looked like she could stay there all day.

Mayhaps she could; Eddard had no idea how curtsies were done.

“Rise,” he ordered and was immediately obeyed. “Lord Adarien of House Dayne.”

“My King.”

“Your sister, Lady Ashara, and I were wed when Hoster Tully assumed for himself the powers of a king and declared our marriage void because it was not carried out in the Light of the Seven.”

“Yes, My King,” Lord Dayne agreed. “You married my sister beneath the weirwood outside of Sisterton. It was not the timing our fathers had intended, but allowances must be made when one considers that you were on your way to call your banners to fight in Robert’s Rebellion. Your pairing had the written approval of both of our fathers.”

“It is my intention to marry Lady Ashara a second time so that none may doubt or deny our marriage.”

“House Dayne is honored, Your Grace. I am glad to have the privilege of participating in my sister’s second marriage to you,” Lord Dayne agreed. “And so that none may doubt what my sister brings to your marriage, I hereby yield rule of Starfall to her so that one of your children with her may inherit the ancient seat of House Dayne. My only request is that the child that inherits Starfall do so under the Dayne name.”

“I can agree to that,” Eddard said, because he already had agreed to that condition years ago. He did not see how his rise to kingship changed that previous agreement. “Other concerns?” he pressed.

“None, My King.”

Eddard walked around the High Table. Once he was in the middle again, he held out a hand to Lady Ashara. His wife, the first woman he had ever loved, came to him. The woman he had always loved. Ashara. She took his hand and stood at his side proudly.

“This evening, I will again wed Ashara of House Dayne beneath the tree,” he told the gathered nobles. “There she will be crowned, the first queen of the Royal House Stark.”

His Northern Lords were the first to cheer, but they were not the last.

Eddard let them have their head for about two minutes before he held up his hand for silence.

“My King, may I introduce you to your firstborn?” Ashara asked loud enough for the entire Hall to hear it.

“Please do.”

Wylla approached and offered Jon up.

Ashara took Jon from her and, in turn, offered their little star-wolf to him.

Eddard marveled at his boy all over again. Over a year old, but still so small. Perfectly Stark with the purple eyes of his mother’s line.

“My lords and ladies,” Eddard said to all of Westeros. “My firstborn son, Prince Jon, Lord of House Stark of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and future Warden of the North!”

The Lords of the North surged forward to meet their new lord—much to the alarm of Eddard’s very small Kingsguard.

“Peace, my lords, peace!” he cried, and they backed off. He checked in on Jon only to find his boy nearly asleep upon his chest. “I will Name Jon under the heart tree at Winterfell,” Eddard promised. “You may bear witness to the ceremony and introduce yourself to your lord then.”

A muffled growl called his attention to his left.

There, he saw Smoke holding a direwolf pup in her mouth. A white direwolf pup. Eddard turned, offering Jon to the wolf, and Smoke laid her pup over his pup in his arms. Jon immediately made a happy noise and curled up with the wolf cub as much as he could.

When the pup stretched and yawned, Eddard caught a glimpse of yellow eyes, exactly like his father’s. He knew in his bones that this was Jon’s Ghost from Before, but Ghost was no longer the albino runt of the litter.

Just. Like. Jon.

The clear signs of a warg bond made his Northern lords cheer.

Eddard stepped back to protect Jon’s peace as Ashara stepped forward, flanked by Arthur and Lord Commander Tully.

“Go,” Ashara hissed at men twice her size, shooing them with her hands like a clowder of stubborn mousers. “Get out! Before you wake the babies!”

The rest of the nobles of Westeros did not need to be told twice, and people started streaming out of every available door, no doubt chattering about everything they had seen.

His Small Council gathered around them to officially meet their first queen.

More than one of them looked at Jon like they wanted to steal him and keep him. Eddard swore to himself that he would beat them like criminals himself if they tried.

“Lady Dayne, meet Lady Whent,” he offered awkwardly.

“We have met,” Ashara assured him as she and Lady Shella clasped hands like favored acquaintances—almost friends.

“I must leave to deal with our unexpected prisoners—” To his shame, Eddard had intended to execute Baelish today, and he had not thought to have the Greenseers watch Lady Lysa at all “—but I will be back for that baby, King Neddard.” Lady Shella shook a threatening finger at him. “Do not think you can keep him from me.”

“As long as you do not keep him from me, we have an accord,” he agreed.

“I suppose we will have to make our own accord, Lady Hand,” Ashara japed at them both.

Eddard opened his mouth the apologize, but without even having to look, Ashara put a reassuring hand on his arm and assuaged his anxiety over accidentally tasting his own foot.

“I am certain we can come to an agreement, Your Grace. My King, if you will excuse me.”

“We will provide a full report on any new drama he creates,” Lady Ellaria promised Lady Whent, shooting him a speaking look.

“Tully nonsense is Tully nonsense,” Eddard objected. “I claim nothing but the ending of it.”

Ellaria laughed a little meanly.

“I find you ten percent more attractive when you are mean to or about people I do not like,” he admitted to her.

Lady Ellaria gasped and clutched a hand to her chest dramatically. “My King! Not in front of your wife!”

“Why not?” Ashara frowned. “I would love to watch my husband at work.” The hot look Ashara gave them both removed any possible innocence from her statement.

Ellaria squinted at his wife speculatively. “My father would seek to claim whatever child King Neddard gave me as his heir.”

“I see no problem with that,” Ashara admitted. “House Uller is the most powerful House in Dorne after House Nymeros-Martell. House Dayne stands third in Dorne, after House Uller. Binding both House Uller and House Dayne to us is only to the Royal House Stark’s benefit.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Eddard asked curiously.

Both women looked at him as if they were doubting his intelligence, and he decided to leave them to it. As long as Ashara did not expect him to put children in every woman that semi-seriously expressed interest, he would keep his peace.

Mostly keep his peace, he promised himself. “I am not some stud you can send off with your neighbors to service their mares, you know.”

The “Yes, dear,” and the “Of course, My King,” he earned himself were both delivered in the same bored, patronizing tone.

Eddard turned to find someone reasonable to speak with.

Dromen the Page was the first victim to meet his gaze. “Go tell Lady Jeyne of House Royce that I wish to speak with her sometime today or tomorrow. Her convenience. Not urgent.”

“Yes, My King.” The boy gave him a quick bow and was gone.

His brother stepped forward into Dromen’s spot. “Jorvan,” he called the boy, who straightened so much that it had to hurt. “Tell Lord Roose of House Bolton that I need to speak with him. Today, minorly urgent. Be sure I see you when you return.”

Eddard did not believe Roose Bolton would publicly abuse a page. Not a page in Eddard’s direct service and certainly not while they were both in the South, but keeping up appearances made up about forty percent of politics, as far as he could tell.

“Yes, My King!” And the boy was gone as if he had learned some new magic Eddard had never heard of in two different lives.

“My King?” Lady Ana asked. She was the youngest of his Small Council and the most in tune with him.

“I know living in the South is not your preference,” he offered her.

“Yes, My King,” she agreed. Whether her preference for the North was because the South was too hot or too frustrating did not matter at all. She was uncomfortable. She did not wish to stay. That was all he needed to know.

“You have agreed to give me five years. In two years—three at the most, depending on the recovery of their lands—I expect you to begin training your replacement.”

“Have you chosen them, My King?” she asked eagerly.

“Lord Baratheon would be my first choice.” He had, in fact, been Eddard’s only choice for his Master of Laws before Stannis had become a Lord Paramount in his own right. Before he became more than Robert’s inevitably-replaced heir.

“I will speak with him today, Your Grace.”

Eddard nodded. That should not be difficult for her to manage. He had invited all of the Lords Paramount and Wardens to sit with him today, and he had allowed that they could bring one guest into the Royal Box with them.

“Did you have time to review the Warden and Paramount rights and duties lists we were working on? Have you made changes?”

“Of course, I finished it and made changes,” she frowned at him. “I stayed at the ball the required hour and returned to my rooms to make a fresh copy with all my changes in it.”

“I want to read it,” Eddard said. “Then, I want you to pass it around. Lord Lannister first, then the other two Wardens.” He figured he would finish reading the Paramount document and have it passed on immediately. The Warden document would take longer for him to review.

“Lord Lannister?” she frowned. “Not Lord Arryn?”

“My foster father may be inclined to praise my work without truly considering all of it,” Eddard admitted. “Lord Lannister, I know I can trust to criticize honestly.” If a little harsher than necessary at times.

“Lannister, Nymeros-Martell, Arryn,” Lady Ana nodded seriously.

“Bring scrolls for them to make notes upon.” Eddard waved both hands to send her off to gather all she needed.

“Thank you, My King!” she cried as she ran off.

“Wylla will stay close,” Ashara assured him as she latched onto his free arm. “If the tourney grounds are too rowdy for Jon, she and Arthur will retire to your rooms.”

Eddard hated the thought of letting Jon go somewhere without him, but he was also opposed to anything that would damage his son the way the massive amounts of noise tourney grounds generated could. “Arthur and Ser Jaime,” Eddard corrected. Ser Jaime sent him a grin, clearly pleased with his trust. “And Barristan.”

“That would leave more guards with him than with us,” Ashara tutted in disapproval.

Mayhaps Ashara did not understand that no one was going through Shadow to get him? The guards were really for her and Jon. Eddard sighed. “Barristan can return to us once Jon and Wylla are secure. If they are forced to retreat.”

“That will do,” his wife—his wife!!—agreed.

The Royal Box at the Tourney grounds was made of massive blocks of pale stone, arranged in a series of wide steps with wooden chairs—because Eddard hated benches and, unlike Robert, refused to seat his personal guests in anything without back support—and railings made of finely carved wood.

The blackened Ironwood throne from his coronation was placed alone on the highest step. It was also the furthest seat back from the noise and the one guaranteed to be shaded by the box’s gray awnings all day.

A half step down from his throne and to his left was the golden royal couch Jaehaerys I had used as a throne during the Great Council of 101AC. Eddard approved of its presence now, especially because the couch meant that there was room for Ashara, Jon, and Ghost to rest in one place within his reach.

Jon and Ghost even had room to nap together, if Eddard ever felt the need to put them down.

There was a chair and not a throne placed on the same level as Ashara’s throne, to Eddard’s right. Clearly meant for Lady Shella Whent. A step below them sat the rest of his Small Council. Down from them all of the Lords Paramount and Wardens were arrayed.

Arthur Dayne and Ser Jaime remained in the box with them while Lord Commander Tully and Barristan the Bold sat as close to the ring as possible, though at different angles to maximize their view of the oncoming fights. Oswell Whent had shed his white cloak and was already in the ring to help Robert whittle down Eddard’s options. Prince Oberyn shed his own cloak and jumped into the ring, spear in hand, to help.

It was not part of the plan, but Eddard appreciated a well-placed and well-chosen volunteer. When the nobles in his box turned to see his reaction, Eddard nodded his thanks to Princess Mariah.

The smug look the Princess of Dorne sent the rest of their box was entirely amusing.

The best part about being honest in his hatred of tourneys was that Lady Whent had arranged a herald to direct and introduce all of the events. All Eddard had to do was listen and nod majestically—Lady Whent’s words, not his—in the right places.

Eddard could hardly be bothered to watch the first rounds.

The first day of his War for the White Cloaks was just an elimination round. If anyone became Kingsguards today, they would have to prove themselves truly exceptional.

Ashara took Jon from him rather quickly to lay him and Ghost out on her couch for a proper nap but, as much as Eddard hated it, it made sense. Eddard had work to get done today, and sleep was important to tiny, growing bodies.

That did not mean he had to like it.

Still, he did the work he needed to do—reading over the Paramount document and then jotting down a quick note explaining what the document was and what Eddard needed before sending Dromen down to Lord Lannister with both papers.

Lord Lannister read the note and turned in his seat to give Eddard a nod before the Lion of Lannister settled in with the Paramount document.

Eddard focused on the Warden document. Well, documents. Part of the package was a map drawn with keeps but not kingdoms on it and divided four ways. A clarification, as it were, of the Wardens’ territories—the places they were expected to act as Wardens of even outside of the territories where they were Lords Paramount.

Eddard was reading the list of threats the various Wardens had to be aware of and manage or support Westerosi defense against when he saw the Ironborn on the list. The Ironborn were certainly a threat to any coastline that took their fancy, but they were Westerosi. Technically. Certainly, naming them as a specific threat to Westeros would be insulting.

Then Eddard thought about Theon.

He had loved Theon, more than had been good for either of them, considering Theon’s many crimes against House Stark last time. All committed to prove he was a true Ironborn. To prove that he was a threat despite his Greenlander fostering.

Thinking of Theon, Eddard left the Ironborn on the list.

Contrary as they were, the Ironborn would be insulted if he did not list them.

Eddard finished his review and watched Jon sleep until he caught Lord Lannister calling Lady Ana over with a raised finger. Their brief conference ended with many nods. Lady Ana then took the document to Princess Mariah and came back to her seat, but he caught her eye and handed her the Warden document.

It startled Eddard when Jon started to cry. The boy he had raised Before had never cried; he had gotten a bit huffy when he had problems, but he had not outright cried.

“It is the noise,” Ashara told him. “Wylla and I will get him settled.”

Eddard frowned but sent every guard he had with the two most important people in his world.

Smoke took herself off with them, as well, to Eddard’s relief.

It was a good wake-up call, Eddard realized.

While Jon was the same baby with the same parents, this Jon would never be the boy who felt the only place there was for him was the Wall. This time he would grow up with not just a loving father, but a doting mother as well. Full siblings as well as half siblings. And he had a place, a duty, already waiting on him.

Winterfell would truly be Jon’s.

Riverrun would be Robb’s, this time. It was not anywhere near as old or as majestic as Winterfell, but it would be Robb’s, and that was more than Eddard had been born to as his father’s second son.

He wondered about the rest of the children he had raised.

Theon would be five now, but still Balon Greyjoy’s son, not Eddard’s. He would probably never know his little Seawolf in this life. And that was for the best, honestly, after all Theon had done.

Sansa, he had long thought had been more Catelyn’s child than his until he had seen her rule Winterfell and the North as fiercely as any Stark man ever had. She would not be betrothed to a future-king this time, however, and she certainly would never endure the abuse of that bastard king’s court that had forged her into Valyrian steel.

Arya had certainly been his child, with her wolfblood. Mayhaps Ashara would be her mother this time. No one would be cruel to her or call her ugly then, if Ashara was her mother.

Nor could Eddard imagine a murdered and resurrected Ashara becoming Lady Stoneheart. There was a hate in the Lady Catelyn he had known that his Ashara lacked. Nor would Ashara ever put herself in a place where their own daughter had to kill her—while warging her wolf or by her own hand.

Brandon. Bran gave him pause. He had loved the boy. Bran had been Catelyn’s favorite for reasons Eddard had never wanted to explore too closely, but the future Eddard had witnessed for him? Bran the Broken and the Three-Eyed Crow? That, Eddard regretted.

No good man wanted so much pain and sacrifice to find any child, much less one of his own making.

Rickon. Eddard had never truly known Rickon. The boy had been so young when he died. Barely more than a toddler, in truth, but what he had grown up to do? Lead the Skaagosi and take revenge for the Red Wedding? Rickon had been an excellent Lord of the Crossing. A true guardian of the North, as all Starks should be.

“You are brooding again,” Ashara said.

Eddard looked up in surprise. “You have returned.”

“I am starting to fear Jon prefers Wylla over me,” she huffed playfully.

“You are his mother,” Eddard assured her, “you will always be his favorite.” That had certainly been the case for Eddard. In his memories his father was all obligations, and duty, and lectures. His mother had been love, and comfort, and security.

Ashara’s face softened.

Eddard gave into the urge to stand and kiss her. By the time her pulled back, she was panting.

“You bastard,” she said. But when she opened her eyes, they were deep purple pools of joy and burning with desire.

“My parents were wed when I was born,” he reminded her seriously.

Ashara chuckled softly. “Lord Bolton is here at your request.”

Eddard looked past his wife to see the Red Lord in the flesh. “And so, he is.” Eddard released Ashara, and she took a deep, calming breath before walking away.

She was immediately ambushed by Lady Ellaria and Princess Mariah. Eddard turned away before he let his suspicions show on his face. Those three would be the cause of so much trouble for him. He did not know how he knew, but he was certain of it. Unfortunately, he genuinely liked all three of them, and the only one he could send away anytime soon was Princess Mariah—the one politics demanded he be the most diplomatic with.

Eddard walked over to the sideboard filled with sweating carafes of various wines, waters, and herbal infusions.

He summoned Bolton to him with a silent finger and waited.

Lord Bolton did not greet him. He just stared at him in silence. Eddard did not allow this behavior to bother him—he had taken his tendency to stare silently when someone was being a fool in front of him from Roose Bolton. It would be silly to fall victim to a trick they shared.

Once the table taster had tried the herbal tea that he had poured himself, Eddard sent the boy off and turned to the Lord of the Dreadfort. “Have you ever flayed a titan?”

For the first time in two lifetimes, Eddard saw interest sparkle in Roose Bolton’s eyes. “No, My King. I cannot say I have ever had the opportunity.

“Nor has anyone in my House,” Bolton said after a significant pause.

“Want to?” Eddard asked simply.

“It is illegal for House Bolton to flay humans, Your Grace. Be they living or dead.”

“In the North,” Eddard agreed. He took a drink and waited for Lord Bolton to shift, his excitement at the very possibility of getting to openly flay people warring with the Red Lord’s self-control. “They keep telling me that I need a Lord Confessor. I told them Stark Kings swing the sword themselves, but these Southrons insist.”

“You want them to regret that,” Lord Bolton guessed.

“I will not be controlled or manipulated by Andals,” Eddard grimaced. “And I did promise Lord Baelish that he would die screaming. I do not have the time, the patience, or the skills to keep that promise.

“You do.”

“I would be pleased to be your Blood Wolf, My King.”

Eddard did not freeze, because that would give away his surprise.

A Blood Wolf was an ancient thing. A Left Hand. An evil doer who worked on behalf of the King of Winter in everything from the Game of Whispers to assassinations with a side of plausible deniability, and, of course, torture. Since House Bolton knelt for the Kings of Winter, nearly a thousand years ago, there had been two Blood Wolves, both Boltons.

Roose would be the third Bolton Blood Wolf. Three of something was significant in their culture.

The oaths of a Blood Wolf to his King of Winter were significant and magical. It would form a bond between them. Eddard would be the first to know when Lord Bolton lied, and Roose would never be a threat to Winterfell again.

And Bolton was offering Eddard this service so that he could openly murder people in horrific ways. Eddard would never get Boltons, but he did not have to.

He would have to put Roose Fucking Bolton on his Small Council.

Or, at the least, arrange for him to witness the meetings. Attendance did not mean membership. Nor did the rest of the Council even have to know about it. The Red Keep was riddled with secret passages. There had to be at least one positioned to eavesdrop on the Small Council chamber.

Eddard glanced at Shadow and offered his idea.

Shadow chuffed his agreement. He could absolutely track down secret passages. And he would, anywhere they went.

That might be a mistake, and an invasion of his vassals’ privacy, but Eddard hardly cared.

“Have Domeric sent to join you here,” Eddard ordered casually, “or he can meet my party in Winterfell, if you prefer.” Then he remembered that the boy had not lived long enough to claim a wife or sire a son. And why. “If you value young Domeric at all, send all of your bastards to the Wall as soon as they can physically speak the oath.”

“Your Grace?” Roose Bolton’s eyes were wide with surprise for a whole heartbeat before the man was stone-faced again.

Domeric Bolton was just ten years old, if Eddard remembered correctly, and he had died at six-and-ten in Eddard’s first life. He had been an only child because his mother had died birthing him. Before Eddard had seen Lord Bolton with his Lady Bethany, he would have said Boltons did not know how to love.

The frozen fury dancing around the edges of Lord Bolton’s face said that even now, Eddard had been wrong about Boltons. They could love.

Or, at least, they could obsess.

No threat to Domeric, that last remaining piece of Lady Bethany Ryswell on this good earth, would be tolerated by Roose Bolton.

“One of your bastards—” Eddard decided against naming the boy. That would just lead to the boy getting a different name while his fate remained the same. “—will be the end of your House. He will kill your son. He will kill your third wife while she carries your child—because she carries your child. He will kill you. He will try for Winterfell and he will be put down by my Jon.” That was one way to say what all Eddard had witnessed from the Grove of the Gods, anyway.

Lord Bolton was very, very still until he said, “As you say, My King. To the Wall, as soon as they can speak the oath.”

Lord Bolton held out a raven scroll to him. The end knob was painted with the sigil of the King of Winter. The scroll was sealed with the Reed lizard-lion pressed into green wax.

Eddard opened it.

My King,

The Gods told us you would require Riverrun’s maester. We found him exactly where They showed us that we would find him. He is currently secured to the rooms of House Reed in Harrenhal.

Your Servant,

Lord Jedrick of House Reed

Eddard wondered why he could possibly need the maester of Riverrun. Then he nearly kicked himself. Lord Tully and Lord Baelish had interfered with the delivery of letters—of ravens to his family, thereby causing the war.

Ravens were received by maesters.

Eddard knew from his future friendship with Maester Luwin that during the time he worked at Riverrun as Lady Catelyn’s personal maester, waiting to go North with her, that Maester Vyman of Riverrun had strictly controlled the rockery to the point of banishing Luwin entirely to Riverrun’s Healing Hall.

That made Vyman a key witness against House Tully in the case of Robert’s Rebellion.

And a witness against the Citadel because, unless specifically ordered not to, maesters could and would send anything they learned from their lords’ ravens to the Citadel. That fact was written in the book that every maester was required—by tradition and law—to present to their new Lord or Lady when they arrived at their assigned keep. Eddard had already proven that Southrons only read what they had to. How many read the book of service and oaths their maester presented them? How many just used the same oaths their fathers had and never thought twice about it? How many did not even require oaths of service and loyalty from their maesters? How many blindly trusted the chain?

Eddard looked up to find Bolton still watching him. “My thanks for the delivery, Lord Bolton.” He pocketed the scroll. “I will research the oaths available to us and pick one. We will have to swear before I give you Baelish.”

Not that Eddard actually cared if Bolton went too far with Baelish. The man was going to die either way, but it was the principle of the thing.

Probably.

“These oaths are best carried out at dawn,” Lord Bolton offered.

Eddard wondered which one of them it would be best for. Still. He nodded and waved a dismissal at the man.

Lord Bolton bowed and left.

Eddard looked around his box. Lady Ana was in deep discussion with Lord Lannister.

“Myrsden,” he called.

“Sire,” his valet appeared at his elbow.

“Remind me to ask Lady Ana for legal literature regarding Blood Wolves.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Myrsden had recently received a book of blank pages from Lady Whent for his own Damned List. Myrsden made a note in the book. Eddard was surprised that it was not his first one. “Priority?”

“Immediate, but not urgent. If you get a chance to bring it up before me, do it.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Nothing else to do, Eddard settled back into his throne to watch the War for the White Cloaks.

The men—and women!—participating in the War were all using wooden weapons at Eddard’s insistence. He knew very well that steel, even blunted tourney steel, could permanently damage or even kill. He had no interest in murdering anyone lucky or skilled enough to have survived Robert’s Rebellion in one piece.

Ser Barristan was putting them through short, rapid brawls—three or four brawls an hour, depending on how long it took them to eliminate the majority of the group. The idea was to eliminate the ones that did not have the stamina for all-day guard duty.

Eddard very carefully did not look at Lady Olenna when he realized that a massive percentage of Reachers were dropping like flies. Apparently, sitting on your arse and feasting for nearly an entire year were not good for your stamina as a warrior. Who knew?

Eddard did notice something very interesting.

Ser Tygett of House Lannister and Ser Lyn of House Corbray. In every round, the men would find a partner and they would fight with that partner, defending each other. As a pair—with whomever they had chosen if the other was not called to fight in that particular round—they were most often the last two standing.

“Jorvan,” Eddard called.

“Sire,” the boy said as he appeared at Eddard’s side.

“Tell Lord Commander Tully that I wish to speak with him.”

“Right away, Your Grace.” The boy bowed and was gone.

It was rewarding how Lord Commander Tully immediately turned and followed Jorvan back to Eddard. Though Eddard had to acknowledge, such was merely the man’s sworn duty.

“Your Grace,” the now-Whitefish greeted him with a short bow.

“How are you?” Eddard wanted to know. He did not feel like he could specifically ask the man how he felt about his family’s fate, but asking a more general question might just provide him with the information he sought.

And it did.

Tully frowned. “I am pleased with the match you made for Cat, Your Grace. It was thoughtful and kind. Your support of Edmure was a surprise. Do you mean for me to encourage him to join the Kingsguard?”

“Not at all,” Eddard said honestly. “The boy demonstrated a thoughtful, loyal demeanor when separated from his father—” or, more likely, separated from his father’s expectations. “—it is my thought to nurture that. He has also never known a mother. Lady Maege has never known a son. I hope to match him to a female heir or ruler, should he not choose a path that makes marriage impossible.”

“What match?” Tully probed. “Your Grace.” The honorific was an afterthought in a way that amused Eddard.

“I had thought Lady Ana,” Eddard admitted. “He would be of an age eligible to wed when she plans to retire from the Small Council, but Princess Mariah has sent me a note, asking after him for her granddaughter, Princess Arianne, who is closer to the lad’s age, with him being only two years her senior.”

Tully nodded. “A good, faithful man can be hard to find when one is looking for someone to follow a woman in power. It would be a boon to the blood of my blood.”

“And it would bring House Nymeros-Martell closer to the Iron Throne in the way that brings them the least risk,” Eddard pointed out. “The maternal uncle of the King’s son is not often a highly sought-after match, but Lord Edmure is a member of House Stark of the Rivers. Princess Mariah knows me well enough to understand what that means to me.”

Tully grimaced. “Princess Elia’s fate will not soon be forgotten by House Nymeros-Martell.”

“Nor should it be,” Eddard agreed. “But they will have justice.”

“It is the most anyone can offer or hope for, My King, and certainly more than I would have expected were I in their place.” The Whitefish paused, “Under a Targaryen King.”

Eddard inclined his head to the implied compliment.

“As for Lysa, I cannot claim surprise that Baelish ruined her. I suspect he did so at an age younger than any of us want to contemplate. The son of such a minor lord from the Vale should have never been allowed to foster with a Lord Paramount or outside of the Vale.” Lord Commander Tully sighed. “I agreed with Hoster that House Tully owed House Baelish a debt for saving Hoster’s life, but I felt we should negotiate the fostering with House Corbray, rather than do it ourselves.”

House Corbray was an old but poor House. They certainly would have accepted coin to foster a single boy.

“House Corbray and House Baelish would have been much closer to each other,” Eddard allowed. “In both rank and geography.”

“And, look at what he could have become,” Tully gestured toward the ring where Ser Lyn had just re-entered for yet another bout. He was standing with and was clearly prepared to work alongside Lord Victarion of House Greyjoy, of all people.

“About that, did you order them to fight in pairs?”

“No, Your Grace.” Tully shook his head. “I did mention that we were recruiting enough people to the Kingsguard that no one would have to stand their duty alone, but I gave them no other hints about the life of a Kingsguard under the Royal House Stark. And I gave them no instructions on how to behave during the selection process. That said, I cannot say Ser Tygett’s application of my words does not please me.”

Eddard considered that. Was it critical thinking or an intuitive nature that led Ser Tygett? Neither was a bad trait in a Kingsguard. “I think we found your first Knight-Commander.”

“I agree, Your Grace. Will you tell him today?”

There were many pros and cons either way he did it. “Do you feel the need to test his skills in mounted combat?”

“I have ridden a fair few tourneys against him, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Tully gave him a wry smile. “I am well aware of what Ser Tygett can do on a horse. And it would serve our purpose to get his perspective of the other candidates, having been in the ring as one of them.”

“Agreed.” Eddard was glad Tully saw at least some of the same things he did. “Unless he fails for stamina, I will announce his place at the end of the day. He will give me his oath on a weirwood at dawn.” Dawn was the strongest time to make individual oaths of loyalty—

Oh, that was what Lord Bolton meant.

Eddard shook his head at himself.

He forgave himself the lapse; he had a lot going on, and expecting absolute perfection from himself would only cause undue stress.

“The High Septon is harassing Ser Myrsden again, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Tully offered.

“The arrogance of the High Septon is appalling,” Eddard commented idly.

“Well, there was that one Iron Banker who said Westeros had two kings and that the High Septon was the more powerful one.”

“In the time of King Aenys I,” Eddard said, because he knew his history, too. “I am no King Aenys.”

“Damn right,” the Whitefish agreed fiercely.

“I am no Targaryen. Nor am I afraid to bring justice to the High Septon.”

“And I have your back, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Tully started to move off, but then he stopped. “I will show it now by continuing to discuss important matters of the Realm until Ser Myrsden has gotten rid of the High Windbag.”

Eddard grunted his gratitude. Whether the High Septon wanted to knight him or crown him, Eddard was not going to submit to either.

He would not submit to an Andal ever again unless a specific one of his future wives had very specific tastes. And he would be shocked speechless if Lady Janna preferred such things. Lady Olenna, he could imagine wanting to rule her partners with a silk-covered fist of iron, but he was not marrying Lady Olenna.

That was when Eddard realized, “I am going to burn a great deal of the social capital I earned in the Rebellion taking down the High Septon.”

“Aye,” Lord Commander Tully drawled.

“And it will not matter how many laws he is proven to have broken when I take him.”

“Nay,” he agreed in the same tone.

“Fuck.”

Part Three

The day was finally over. The sun was setting and the Kingsguard hopefuls were lining up for his inspection, were he so inclined, under the gimlet eyes of Lord Commander Tully and Barristan the Bold.

The Bold had settled in to serve as Lord Commander Tully’s assistant without either ego or fury. Eddard could almost regret that the man had earned himself a place on the Wall.

Almost.

But Queen Rhaella deserved to feel safe in his care, and while she had not spoken against Selmy, she had not spoken in his defense, either. That was enough, right there, for Eddard to send any man as far from his service as possible.

Besides, his reign was too new for him to show even Areys’s Kingsguard mercy.

If he granted too much mercy at this point, justice would be denied and the newfound peace would fail. He would be seen as weak, and his family would suffer for it—all three of his Houses Stark.

Eddard could not allow any of that to happen, so he pushed the regret away in favor of doing his duty. He walked down the steps leading to the edge of the Royal Box. When he reached the ledge, he put his hands on it and gripped it, marking it as his territory in the minds of his audience.

The ring below him was filled to overflowing with dirty, tired warriors, clutching wooden weapons. He surveyed them all, trying to see each and every one.

He estimated that there were around three hundred left—down from the thousand he knew had been on Maester Luwin’s list originally. About fifty of the remainder seemed to be hedge knights, or at least bearing sigils he was not familiar with.

Despite the many estimates he had been provided, Eddard fully expected his Kingsguard would come to around a hundred warriors. A hundred knights would never all fit in the White Sword Tower of the Red Keep. He was already planning to transition the White Sword Tower into a Kingsguard operational headquarters where only the Lord Commander would live and actually house the majority of his Kingsguard around the keep in smaller but richly appointed barracks.

It made no tactical sense to keep all of the Kingsguard in one easily recognizable location. Not unless the Kingsguard were just a distraction for the benefit of the people that actually did the work of securing the Royal Family. Something that, as far as Eddard could tell, had never been true.

Once Eddard had looked over the gathered men and women, he had no idea what to say. He had put himself in a position that implied he intended to give a speech, yet he did not have the first clue as to what he was supposed to say.

With a quick prayer to the Gods, Eddard opened his mouth.

“Thank you,” was what came out, and he found it appropriate. “Many of you have had hopes and dreams that were changed or shattered by Robert’s Rebellion and the change of dynasty holding the Iron Throne. Many of you are men and women of rank. You are voluntarily giving up lives of luxury in favor of lives in service to the Realm, the King’s Peace, and my family.

“So, thank you.”

The people in front of him cheered. He had not actually said anything profound, so he held a hand for silence.

“Tomorrow will begin the mounted trials. I encourage you all to participate, but fear not. Tomorrow’s exercises are not intended to reduce your number. The mounted trials are to find those that will ride to war at my side when Westeros is inevitably threatened and our peace is broken.”

There was, indeed, relief to be found on several faces. As well as fierce determination. Several of them clearly wanted to ride to war with him, and he did not understand that. Last time—Before—he had been one of the most feared men in Westeros because he was known to have defeated Arthur Dayne in single combat. He was uncertain of the cause of whatever reputation these men were thirsting for a piece of.

“I had no intention of choosing amongst you today, but one of you has caught my attention.

“Ser Tygett of House Lannister.”

The man was in the third row of hopefuls. The group parted in front of him, and several clapped him on the shoulder as he moved forward to meet Eddard’s summons.

“For those of you who are wondering,” Eddard addressed the audience for the first time, “none of those gathered before me were given any instructions on how to behave today.

“They were,” Eddard emphasized, “treated to a very limited version of Lord Commander Tully’s vision for how my Kingsguard will function from now on, which included the fact that there will be enough Kingsguard that none of them will ever have to stand for their duty alone. Ser Tygett heard that very bare statement and realized teamwork would be important to the life of a Kingsguard. He then proceeded to partner with warrior after warrior—” because Tygett had partnered with at least one of the female candidates while Eddard had been watching.

“Some of you followed his wisdom once he explained it to you,” Eddard said to the competitors. He got several nods of agreement in return. “But he was the root of it.

“Lord Lannister,” Eddard called.

Lord Tywin of House Lannister stood. “Your Grace.”

“Will you confirm in front of all these witnesses that you consent to Ser Tygett being removed from the line of succession of House Lannister and the West?”

“I so confirm, My King.”

“Ser Tygett, do you confirm that you join my Kingsguard of your own free will?”

“I am honored, Your Grace.” Ser Tygett knocked his fist against his chest plate in salute. “Yes, I join your Kingsguard of my own free will.”

“My Lords and Ladies, I present to you, Knight-Commander Tygett Lannister of the Kingsguard.”

And the crowd went wild.

-*-

“Who comes before the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone?” Lyanna’s high, clear voice rang through the falling night, invoking the Gods.

“Ashara of House Dayne,” Lord Adarien called back, “the Lady of Starfall comes here to wed. She is a woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods upon her marriage.”

Eddard was relieved to note that House Dayne had left Arthur out of the ceremony. Dawn was invited, of course, as she was involved in all Dayne ceremonies whenever possible. Dawn was currently strapped across Ashara’s back, sparing Eddard from having Arthur and his dishonor shoved in his face in order to have the sword there.

“Who comes to claim her?” Lord Adarien demanded.

“Eddard of House Stark, King of Westeros,” Eddard said, as that was his line. “Who gives her?”

“Adarien of House Dayne, her brother. Sister, do you take this man?”

“I take this man,” Ashara confirmed.

Eddard held out his hand, and Ashara came to him. She pulled the laces tying her cloak on and turned her back. Eddard worked the cloak out from under Dawn’s belt and handed it off to Lord Jon. Then he unclasped the cloak he was wearing and slid it over Ashara’s shoulders. Dawn was a complication, but the sword let him pick her up—to the audible surprise of several Dornish—and slip his cloak under her sword belt. When Ashara turned to face him, Eddard secured the interlocking running direwolf brooch to keep the cloak on her.

Dromen appeared at his elbow holding a fine purple pillow with a queen’s crown on it. Eddard lifted the crown so the gathered throng could see it before he turned to his wife. He would never stop being giddy at calling his Ashara his wife.

He resolved to never stop being giddy at being fortunate enough to call Ashara his wife.

Eddard laid one of three identical queens’ crowns upon her head, and they shared a smile. Ashara, being Ashara, darted in to give him a kiss that had both the Dornish and the Northmen in their audience cheering rancorously.

Eddard pulled far enough away from Ashara to sweep her up into his arms—sword and all—and carried her from the godswood to the hall where they would dine and dance the night away.

“All hail King Eddard of the Royal House Stark!” Ser Jaime called as Eddard carried Ashara through the final set of doors. How the lad had gotten there ahead of Eddard would remain a mystery—for now. “All hail Queen Consort Ashara Dayne of the Royal House Stark!”

Eddard set Ashara down on her feet as Ser Jaime finished naming her.

Ashara grasped his hand tightly, and Eddard looked down at her. She was his entire world. For the first time in two lifetimes, she was back in his arms, and no one would send her away from him ever again because no one could. He was king and would not allow it.

After an extended period of cheering, Eddard turned to the gathered nobles and held up his free hand for silence. This was a celebration. He had no need for speeches.

Speeches would come later.

“Let us eat!” Eddard commanded, loosing House Whent’s servants like a deadfall.

That got another brief cheer as he and Ashara sat. Everyone else, as was only appropriate when in the hall of their king, sat after them.

-*-

“My King.”

Eddard broke his attention away from Ashara. They were standing at the edge of the dance floor with Selmy and his newest Lannister Kingsguard at their backs as Ashara caught her breath between dances.

“Lord Uller!” Ashara greeted the man warmly.

“My Queen.” The man bowed specifically to Ashara. Eddard prayed the display was intended as respect toward his wife and not an attempt to manipulate him. “I understand, My King, that you have volunteered to assist my House with our line of succession.”

That was news to Eddard.

Ashara squeezed his hand urgently, and Eddard understood. She had intended to talk him into this madness at a later date and had not anticipated Lord Uller’s approach.

She should have expected it, Eddard thought, amused. It was said that half of House Uller was half-mad and that the other half was worse.

“Volunteered would be overstating things, My Lord,” Eddard offered as vaguely as he could manage. “Willing to do much to maintain the peace, more likely.”

“Come, let us discuss this elsewhere, husband,” Ashara urged.

Eddard escorted Ashara and Lord Uller to the Royal Refreshment Table. Once they were behind the table’s Kingsguard escort, he asked his wife, “What did you do?”

Ashara rolled her eyes a bit and huffed. “Lord Uller’s one and only love was a water mage from Essos,” she explained. “Possibly the most powerful water mage currently alive. They met when she came to bless the Greenblood as a child of the Rhoyne River.”

“Does she love him in return?” Eddard asked, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Yes, of course, but a water mage is too important to wed. They must be available to serve all, and to serve the Mother Rhoyne. They cannot be bound to one keep or lord or land.”

Eddard nodded to show her he was listening. Certainly listening. Understanding was a separate matter.

“As a sign of their love, she gave Lord Uller the only daughter she would ever bear before she returned to the Mother Rhoyne. But there are conditions—”

“—I offered my love concessions, Your Grace,” Lord Uller interjected. “I swore Ellaria would be the only child I would ever have and that I would allow my daughter to live as her maternal line had for time immemorial.”

“Does she have her mother’s gifts?” Eddard asked. Had he taken a treasure from Dorne by putting her on his Small Council? Had he damaged them and no one been brave enough to say?

“No,” Lord Uller shook his head, answering all of Eddard‘s questions—both the asked and the unasked. “If she did, I trust Princess Mariah would have set you straight before you ever came close to naming my Ellaria to your Small Council.”

The statement should have been encouraging, a statement of faith in Lord Uller’s Lady Paramount, but to Eddard it felt ominous.

“Many have taken your direwolf companions as a sign that magic lingers in your line,” Ashara told him. “I have not heard you speak of it personally, but there are whispers that you Dreamed a future where Robert Baratheon was king and it was horrible. This excites many—especially those that look to House Dayne as the last remnant of the Age of Heroes and long for the days when magic walked freely among us.”

“Magic always comes with a price,” he warned her.

“That is not a deterrent to those who long for the return of dragons,” she pointed out.

Eddard was skeptical. “You think me, what, putting a child in Lady Ellaria will bring back dragons?”

“No,” Lord Uller denied, “House Uller’s Targaryen blood is much too far back for that.”

Eddard was tempted to ask what the frozen hell that was supposed to mean, but he could guess. Queen Rhaenys, beloved wife of Aegon the Conqueror, had been shot down over the Hellholt, the Keep of House Uller. There had always been rumors that she had survived her dragon’s death. And, of course, there was the letter that Princess Deriah, the Heir of Dorne at the time, had personally delivered to Aegon I in King’s Landing.

That letter that had made the Dragon leave Dorne alone for the rest of his life.

Eddard had never personally believed the rumors of Queen Rhaenys’s survival, but he had never had the first clue how a letter could stay Aegon the Dragon’s hand so firmly.

Now he knew.

His sister-wife must have lived, must have survived the death of her dragon, and remained captive in Dorne. For Lord Uller to confess to carrying Targaryen blood now meant Queen Rhaenys must have bred for his family then.

“So those empty spots in the family tree House Uller submitted to the Iron Throne?” Eddard asked pointedly.

“Queen Rhaenys the Beloved, her children, and grandchildren,” Lord Uller said. He raised a shameless, inquiring eyebrow. “I find it interesting that not a single Grand Maester has corrected the Iron Throne’s official record since Dorne joined the rest of Westeros.”

“Did House Uller pay for such protection from House Targaryen?” Eddard asked.

“No, Your Grace.”

Which meant that the Citadel was hiding a line of Valyrians—a line of possible dragon lords—from the Iron Throne. What that meant, Eddard could not say. He had so many questions, but one pressed on him most heavily.

The one question he thought every time he saw Lyanna, every time he held Ashara. “Was she treated well?”

“From the moment the maester declared her to be with child, her every wish was granted save her request to go home, Your Grace.”

Eddard did not ask about before Queen Rhaenys was found to be with child. He knew well what Southron men did to women during war, and the woman had to get pregnant somehow.

There was no good way to claim justice for a woman at least 200 years dead.

Eddard took a deep breath and forced himself to set the matter of Queen Rhaenys aside.

“House Uller’s magic has always been fire,” Ashara said, bringing them back on topic. “The majority of Dorne’s magic is sun-based. It is my hope that House Stark’s winter magic can bring forth the water magic in Ellaria’s blood so that her children may wield it.

“There is not a single kingdom in Westeros that would not benefit from the craft a water mage can offer.”

She was right. Dammit.

“Combine that with the fact that you have only sired sons, so far, and we could also resolve House Uller’s pending inheritance war before it ever starts.”

“I would call it ice magic, not winter magic,” Eddard offered. “I do have ancestors called Snowbeard and Ice-eyes, if you recall.”

Ashara grinned.

Eddard sighed heavily. “Next time, talk to me before you offer my services to your friends as a stud.”

Ashara had the grace to look a little sheepish.

It would do.

“The North has a history of breeding contracts,” Eddard told Lord Uller. “They are typically used to secure the bloodline of nobles that cannot create children within their lawfully wedded pairing—” mostly it was used for homosexual pairings but in this new life Eddard had learned that delving too deeply into ice magic could cause infertility as well. “—as ostensibly our shared goal is to secure House Uller’s bloodline, this counts.

“You will need to negotiate a breeding contract for Lady Ellaria and me with my Master of Laws, Lady Ana.”

“I will introduce you, Lord Uller.” Ashara dropped his arm and took Lord Harmen Uller’s arm instead. It was the most hateful thing Eddard had encountered all day. “And negotiate on my husband’s behalf.”

“A single-digit number of pregnancies, wife,” he demanded.

“Of course, husband,” she immediately agreed, and he realized his mistake.

“I want to count them on a single hand!” A single finger would be his preference, but he could not swear he would provide House Uller a son in a single pregnancy. Nor was one child truly enough to secure a bloodline.

“Up to five successful pregnancies is entirely reasonable, Your Grace,” Lord Uller agreed, over-cheerfully.

Eddard glared at Harmen Uller.

Lord Uller grinned at him in return.

The Rhoynar were all assholes. No wonder Old Valyria had done their best to wipe them out.

Too bad they missed Nymeria’s so-called fleet.

Eddard sulked into his ale. He changed his mind. The best part about today was not marrying Ashara. It was this proper Northern Stout. How Lady Shella had even gotten it, he did not know, but he appreciated it regardless.

“My King?”

Eddard turned to see Ser Jaime had left his post. He still had his eyes trained on his area of watch, but he had moved closer to Eddard than his duty required.

“Ser Jaime?” he prompted.

“I,” the lad hesitated. “I would ride to war with you.” The look he gave Eddard was fervent and hopeful.

It was a good thing Eddard—and Lyanna, honestly—were well accustomed to communicating with men who were absolutely shite with words.

“And you will,” Eddard assured him, “just not as a Kingsguard.”

Ser Jaime deflated.

“I have a duty for you that only you can do,” Eddard told him.

Jaime stared at him for a moment. “The Princess Lyanna told me on the Isle of Faces that we were to wed.”

“And you will,” Eddard confirmed.

“She said it was the best path forward for us both, Your Grace.”

“My sister is a Greenseer—her gift is a rare and powerful thing. One of your tasks going forward will be keeping her grounded in the present and making sure her Gifts do not take too much from her.” As they did with Bran the Broken, Eddard thought but could not say.

Ser Jaime rolled his lips in, bit down for a second, and then said, “I thought you hated me, My King.”

“I will say all this in public if a few days, never fear.” Eddard sighed. “I never hated you. I did not know you well enough, in truth, to know if you deserved my hatred.

“I hated what your father did. I hated the depravity he had brought to King’s Landing. I worked so hard for two years to make sure Robert’s Rebellion was a just war, and your father undid all of that in one fell swoop. I was furious that the Rebellion would be forever tainted by your father’s—” ignorance would be the wrong word to use, even if it was true. “By your father’s display of knowledge that he was denied. Legal knowledge all Southron lords have been denied.

“Then I walked in on you; seated on the throne, bloody sword in hand, dead king at your feet.” Eddard shook his head.

Ser Jaime winced. “It looked bad.”

“It did not look bad; it was bad,” Eddard corrected, “but none of it was your bad, if that makes sense.”

“Would you really have gone to war with my father if he had opposed Aerys’s taking of me? Into his Kingsguard?” Jaime looked so young then. Only two years and some moons younger than Eddard in truth, but so, so young.

In this moment, Eddard could only tell him the truth. “Yes.”

Eddard sipped his ale as quiet reigned between them.

“I Dreamed on the Isle,” Jaime offered eventually. “I saw my life if Robert had become king. Cersei was his queen. I was a Kingsguard and—”

Eddard clapped a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder to interrupt him. “Grant me one boon.”

“Anything, My King.”

“Reckless,” Eddard chided, but he did his best to smile the sting out of it. “While you are in Winterfell, learn from Jeor Mormont. He is the best man I know. So, learn from him. Take his lessons—and your father’s—and become your own man.”

Ser Jaime nodded thoughtfully.

“Where is your sister in all of this?” Eddard asked.

Cersei was a wildcard. It did not matter that her father was on his side; she would destroy everything they built in the name of controlling something.

“She thinks that if she pays you no court, you will be driven to demand her hand in marriage from our father.” Ser Jaime snorted. “Soon she will realize that she is not prepared for a man like you—”

Eddard figured that was fair. Outside of their basic anatomy, Northmen had very little in common with Andals.

“—I hope I get to see her floundering.”

Eddard shook his head at Jaime’s almost sadistic glee, but. If Jaime had been forced to watch the life Eddard had already lived Before, Cersei certainly deserved her brother’s spite.

“Watch this,” Eddard commanded.

The Westerlands table was not far from his refreshment table, so Jaime would have a good view. He nodded to Lord Tywin as he approached the table. Lord Gerion had joined his family, like all of Eddard’s Small Council; Ser Kevan was still managing the disaster that was King’s Landing; and Ser Tygett was circling the hall on some sort of watch.

All of House Lannister was dedicated to pretending Lady Genna was in the West to keep her far from her Frey husband. Eddard knew for a fact that she was at the Inn of the Clanking Dragon. She would remain there, hidden, until his Day of Justice, when he would deal with House Frey among many other problems.

Lady Cersei was sitting on one side of Lord Tywin. Lord Gerion was sitting on the other and beyond Lord Gerion sat young Lord Tyrion.

Eddard walked right past Lady Cersei—ignoring the way she perked up and preened, she was honestly no better than Catelyn Tully—and went straight to her brother, Lord Tyrion. There, Eddard found himself in a quandary. Normally, he would kneel to speak with a child, to be on their level for their comfort. Lord Tyrion, however, was very small, and even kneeling Eddard would tower over him.

Then there was the fact that, as king, he was supposed to kneel to no one.

Eddard stopped directly beside the boy.

Lord Tyrion looked up at him in confusion for just a second before hastily standing to show respect for his king.

“May I pick you up?” Eddard asked.

The boy’s confusion grew, but he held his hands up in the universal signal of a child ready to be lifted. Eddard picked him up and placed him standing on the wide sill that encircled the ballroom beneath its many windows.

“I hear tell that you are a clever lad,” Eddard told him. “That you taught yourself to read at three.”

Lord Tyrion nodded, confusion clear in his mismatched eyes.

Lord Lannister cleared his throat pointedly, and the boy flushed. “Yes, Your Grace,

Lord Tyrion said aloud.

“I would be a fool to allow a man of your intelligence and breeding to go to waste because the Gods chose to make him short,” Eddard said bluntly. “Fools do not survive their first winter in the North.

“Has your father told you about your fostering?”

“I will be Master of Coin!” Lord Tyrion grinned.

Eddard nodded. “Unless you need to return to Casterly Rock to pack your things, you will be a member of my household from this day forward. I will raise you as my foster father, Lord Arryn, raised me from the age of eight. My wives will care for you as Lady Arryn cared for me. You will apprentice directly under Lord Velaryon, my current Master of Coin, and my personal maester will oversee the rest of your education. What say you?”

“Yes, please, Your Grace!” The boy was bouncing; he was so happy. “Thank you! Thank you!”

“Do you need to return to Casterly Rock to pack your personal belongings?”

“No, Your Grace!”

“Very good.” Eddard looked to Lord Lannister. “His fostering will begin now, unless you object, Lord Lannister.”

“As you will, Your Grace.” Lord Lannister stood and gave him a quick bow. “Do our House proud, Tyrion.”

“I will, father, I swear it.”

Lord Lannister nodded once to his son and resumed his seat.

“I will take you to Lord Velaryon now and introduce you to my wives once I have wed them all. Lord Velaryon has agreed to oversee your care until I can devote my attention to you.”

“I am very small, Your Grace, I do not require much attention,” Lord Tyrion said. As if that were a comfort.

“I suppose you will have to suffer my doting, then,” he japed lightly.

Lord Tyrion grinned, catching the joke despite his young age.

“I will instruct Lord Commander Tully to ensure that your brother, Ser Jaime, will have as much time with you as duty allows.”

“Thank you, Your Grace!”

“I hope you do not mind being an older brother. I have two sons already, and one of my wives has a son of her own.”

“I get—oh.” Lord Tyrion did not seem to know how to react. Then he took a deep breath and steeled himself. “My King, I will be the best big brother in all of Westeros.”

“I know you will,” Eddard assured the boy. “You have me and Jaime to guide you should you need advice.

“Ah, Lord Velaryon,” Eddard greeted his Master of Coin early so Lord Tyrion did not have to scramble for an appropriate response.

He sat the lad down on his feet easily. It was only appropriate for Lord Tyrion to greet his future on his feet. “May I introduce you to your charge for the next several days?”

“Yes! My apprentice! Lord Tyrion of House Lannister. Well met!”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Velaryon.” Young Tyrion bowed.

“Come, come, call me Lord Monford. You will find that our Northern company does not enjoy useless pleasantries.”

“Why you Southrons say more words than you have to, I will never understand,” Eddard admitted because that was his cue.

Lord Monford chuckled. The Master of Coin led the little lord over to his table and sat him between himself and his wife.

“Maester Luwin will be available to speak with him in the morning,” Eddard told Lord Monford.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Monford agreed.

Eddard focused on the boy. He could see a bit of nerves seeping in around the corners of his eyes. “You have nothing to fear from Maester Luwin,” he promised the boy. “He will check your health to ensure you are safe to be near my sons, Jon and Robb, because babies that young are very fragile.

“He will also be evaluating your education. Most children do not begin to learn as young as you began to teach yourself, and I have no desire to see you bored. Be excessively honest with Maester Luwin about what you know and what you want to know so that we can meet your intellectual potential as much as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“My King, the Iron Bank has offered a year and a day of fostering for any of your sons that are interested,” Lord Monford offered. “Mayhaps Lord Tyrion would do well with them.”

Eddard considered that. With how easily Lord Tywin gave the lad away, he did not think it would be great for the lad emotionally to be given away again so quickly. “Mayhaps in a few years,” Eddard allowed, “should Lord Tyrion decide he wants such a thing.

“For now, I bid you good night.” Eddard nodded and left, determined to find his wife.

He was found, instead, by Lady Cersei.

“My King,” she curtsied to the ground and held herself so that he could not regard her face without seeing straight down her bodice to nearly her bellybutton. “Would you care to dance?”

He pulled Lady Cersei to her feet and led her onto the floor, where she pressed herself against him so tightly that he was surprised she could move with the music.

They waddled together through half a song before he had enough of her antics.

“Lady Cersei, I feel I must be blunt with you.” He put both hands on her hips and lifted her away from him. He set her down with a respectable distance between their bodies. “You pursue me due to a prophecy you received from a Maegi. Maegi are tricksters, my lady. Even to the people they love, they offer only the hardest of lessons. And Maggie the Frog had no love for you.

“The king that she promised you was Robert Baratheon. I am not he. I will never be him. I have seen that future; you were not happy with a husband that could never be faithful to you and you alone. You were angry, desperately so, and constantly drunk.”

Lady Cersei froze, so he stopped trying to dance and began guiding her off of the dance floor.

“In this life, you will be the Lady of a Paramount House,” he told her. “Unlike Robert Baratheon, the man your father has negotiated for you would not touch a whore on pain of death. You will be your husband’s one and only love, but only if you embrace him and your duty to him with your whole heart.

“Forget Maggie the Frog and her twisted prophecies,” he urged, even as tears began to slide down Lady Cersei’s cheeks. “Embrace the wisdom I know your Aunt Genna has endeavored to share with you. She learned those lessons the hard way so you would not have to.”

Lady Cersei ran from him, crying.

“Do you often make little girls run crying from you?” Lady Ellaria asked.

Eddard turned to see her standing with Queen Rhaella. “It was not my intention, no,” he answered honestly, “but not everyone is as ready as they think they are for honest answers.”

Lady Ellaria frowned in confusion, but Queen Rhaella was nodding.

“The life of a queen is not as easy as the singers make it out to be,” Queen Rhaella explained to their younger companion.

“I shall ensure no one is blaming King Eddard for her upset,” Lady Ellaria said, “if I may, My King.”

He waved her a silent dismissal and offered Queen Rhaella a hand in silent invitation. Queen Rhaella took his hand, and they began to dance.

“I am ready to sign House Targaryen’s surrender, if you are ready to accept it, My King.”

“And our marriage contract?” he asked.

“Yes, though you will be consummating with another tomorrow night, Your Grace.”

Eddard sighed. “Ashara brought you in on her scheme.”

“It is brilliant,” Queen Rhaella assured him. “Never has Dorne been bound so tightly to the Iron Throne, and it has long been an oversight fueled by bigotry and grudges that should have died centuries ago.”

“I have a plan for that,” he told her.

“Ashara told me about that, too. We are expanding it beyond the Dornish Marches to include the border and coastal Houses across all of Westeros.”

He had no problem with that, truth be known. “Gods willing, our plans will work to bind Westeros into a single, unified whole.”

“Have you considered naming yourself emperor?” she asked. “By the actual definition of the term, United Westeros has always been an empire.”

“I have not considered it, no,” he had to admit. “There are some Lords Paramount that I would not trust to remain loyal to the Iron Throne had they the title of King.”

“Something to consider,” she said deferentially. He did not like how submission looked on her.

“I will add it to the List.”

She served him a small smirk. “Do you actually have a list?”

“It is in my solar,” he told her wryly. She laughed softly. “You can see it for yourself on the morrow.

“The Day of Justice will bring massive changes to Westeros. I will both burn and earn a great deal of social power that day. Any further changes I make must be heavily considered.”

“Our son, then,” she offered.

“I had hoped to pass the Iron Throne to a granddaughter, truth be known.”

She sighed at him. “It is a lovely dream.

“I believe Queen Ashara is ready to retire for the evening,” she said

Eddard turned them so he could see Ashara sitting at the High Table, watching them with hot, demanding eyes. To one side of her stood Master Luwin and Maester Eldyn. In front of each maester stood a small stack of scrolls.

He looked down at his dancing partner. “If you would excuse me.”

“Of course, My King.”

They stepped apart and bowed to each other. A pair of knights—one from House Velaryon and one from House Celtigar—took up posts on either side of the Last Dragon. Queen Rhaella seemed comfortable with them, so he hoped they were participating in the War for the White Cloaks.

Eddard made his way up to the High Table and waited. It did not take long for the music to stop, nor for everyone present to turn and face him.

He held out his hand to Ashara. She ignored his hand and slid under his arm, curling easily against his side. “My queen and I will retire for the evening. We have decided to forgo a traditional Bedding but, as you have all seen our mutual son, Prince Jon, Lord of Winterfell, you have proof that we can manage our marital duties without the aid of witnesses.”

That earned him some chuckles, though he had been entirely serious.

“My Lords and Princess Paramount, my maesters have final copies of the documents that will formally end Robert’s Rebellion on the morrow. Maester Luwin has copies for each of you of the declaration of war from House Stark to House Targaryen. Grand Maester Pycelle can confirm the Red Keep’s receipt of the document, as I sent the original, barebones document via raven. You will receive both a copy of that version and the full complaint for your records.

“I know the traditional standard is to send such declarations by rider, but I will accept no censure for refusing to sacrifice any more Northmen to Aerys’s appetite for fire and murder. My father, my brother, and their parties were too many victims fed to that man already.”

He waited for the Karstark to deflate from his outrage. If he ever again heard the man call him a craven for being smart about Aerys’s insanity, Karstark would be going to the Wall for the rest of his days—though their relation was distant enough, Eddard could certainly take the man’s head.

“Maester Eldyn has copies of House Targaryen’s formal surrender and acceptance of House Stark’s terms. All leaders of Paramount Houses will be expected to sign the official copies of these documents tomorrow as witnesses. You are being provided copies to read tonight as a courtesy. No suggestions, corrections, or objections will be accepted, regardless of source or reason.

“I also expect you all to sign the scrolls my maesters have, to confirm that you have taken possession of the documents for your review.

“The Citadel will receive full, signed copies after the coming Day of Justice,” he said because he could see that objection building in the gray rats that he had not included in his copying projects.

“I bid you all good night.” Eddard said. He scooped Ashara up in his arms and carried her, giggling, to his rooms.

He dropped her on his bed to make her laugh, and it worked.

Then he knelt, pushed up her lovely, full Northern-style gown of deep purple until he found her smallclothes. They were tiny and tied at either hip in the Dornish fashion. Only his awareness from another life that they had probably been made by her own hand kept him from ripping them from her body.

Instead, he pulled both sets of laces until one side came loose. He hastily pushed the little bit of nothing lace aside and went for the kiss he had been craving for the better part of two decades. He kissed and licked and sucked until she shouted in pleasure and his face grew damp. Then he brought his fingers to the party until she sobbed and his face grew even wetter.

He pulled back to look at her—lying in a puddle of dress, hair going in every direction, legs splayed wide. He had never wanted anyone so much before.

He unlaced the front of his trousers and stroked himself as Ashara recovered.

She was so tempting. So, so tempting. He ran the head of his cock up and down her slit. She felt warm and slick. Not as warm and slick as he knew she could be in a deeper embrace, but this he knew he could have.

Ashara pushed herself up on her elbows and growled at him. “Eddard Stark, if you do not put your cock in me—!”

So, he did. He slid just the head into her. He held himself there as she collapsed bonelessly and moaned.

Then he pulled out.

“Eddard!” she objected.

He gave her back just the tip right until he thought he would come from her burning clench before he pulled out again.

He teased—or tortured—them both three more times before she took violent hold of his doublet. “Eddard Stark, if you do not fuck me properly, I will murder you in your sleep.”

“Is that how you talk to your king?” he asked.

Or tried to ask.

There was no telling how coherent he had been with Ashara’s entire focus, and grip, on his cock.

“We said— Two years—” he tried. Because they had agreed—way back when they had been negotiating their betrothal—that they would wait two years between pregnancies. Eddard had been entirely aware that his mother had been essentially bred to death, bearing his father four children in five years.

He had wanted better for his lady-wife.

“Ed,” his wife smiled beatifically up at him, “give us what we both want.”

So, he did.

Twice.

And then three more times as the night went on because twenty was the best fucking age. Literally, the best age for fucking. He had only gotten to five and thirty the last time, but he was taking his twenties for every last fuck they were worth this time.

He was kissing his wife, contemplating going again when a knock came on the door.

“Go,” she urged him, clearly still asleep. “Tell Myrsden…” she trailed off with a whistling little snore.

He dropped a kiss on her brow, just because he could, and left her to it.

Myrsden had a tub of steaming water waiting for him in the antechamber of his suite. He climbed directly into the tub and accepted the soap from Dromen. Myrsden was showing Jorvan how to warm a towel over the hearth without setting themselves or the towels on fire.

“How long until dawn?” he asked after he came up from a dunk.

“A half-hour or so, Your Grace,” Myrsden said.

Perfect. “Has Lady Ana suggested a vow for my Blood Wolf?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Dromen, go fetch the book laid atop my desk, if you would.”

“Yes, Ser Yew!” and the boy was gone.

“Lord Bolton has already consented to taking that vow, so all we need is your approval.”

“Only two vows today?” Eddard had to check. His mind was still in bed with his Ashara.

“Yes, Your Grace. Lord Bolton and Knight-Commander Tygett Lannister.”

Excellent. “I want time in the yard after vows, before breakfast.”

“I am certain Lord Commander Tully will enjoy you knocking the stubborn off of some of his recruits, Your Grace.”

Eddard narrowed his eyes at Myrsden. “How stubborn?”

“A pair of Ironborn and at least one Stormlander.”

Eddard hummed to himself. He could certainly kick a few squids around. “Sounds fun.” Just like that ole Greyjoy Rebellion.

“Has Lady Olenna reacted to our counteroffer?”

Myrsden snorted. “She has, Your Grace. Apparently, Lady Alerie has birthed a daughter. Lady Olenna has expressed her willingness to accept the daughter of one of your other wives for her grandson, on the condition that you take Young Margaery as the bride for your royal heir.”

“Some people,” Eddard huffed and ducked under the water.

“I told her, of course, that as a Valeman I could not condone negotiating betrothals for children not yet born, as that was taboo in the Vale.” The kick of it was that such was a true superstition in the Vale that betrothing children not yet born would doom them an ill fortune—if they were even born. “I implied that your Vale fostering made you a believer in this taboo as well and suggested we disentangle the issues of her daughter’s, grandson’s, and granddaughter’s betrothals unless she would like to offer for Prince Jon or Prince Robb.”

That was not a bad idea. If this Lady Margaery looked anything like the portrait Lord Renly had shown him in another life, she would be a handsome match for his Robb.

“Robb, as the only member of his specific bloodline, will be allowed two wives,” Eddard pointed out. “One from outside of the Riverlands is no poor idea.”

Myrsden made a face like he did not agree. “I will throw her that one when she gives me a marriage contract Lady Ana can approve of.”

That seemed like a fair boundary to Eddard, so he let the subject drop. “Towel?”

Part Four

Another morning, another announcement, Eddard thought with amusement.

But first, he had to check some things. A quick review of the lists from the previous night showed that Lady Maege had claimed a copy of both House Stark’s declaration of war and the peace treaty as her brother, Lord Jeor’s proxy. That was not a surprise.

What was a surprise was that Lady Jeyne of House Royce had signed for those same documents as Regent of the Riverlands.

Eddard looked up, frowning, and turned to Myrsden.

His valet cleared his throat and knelt. “There was grumbling from the Riverlanders about being left out last night. Lord Edmure flat out refused to stick his foot in the situation due to his family’s attainment. Then there was talk of dragging Lady Catelyn forward to claim copies.

“Luwin, Eldyn, and I know you are completely serious about separating House Tully from the Riverlands and any sort of power. And your notes written in Westerosi Common list Lady Jeyne of House Royce as your choice of Riverlands regent and Lord Robb’s foster parent. I spoke with her on your behalf. She has questions that only you can answer, but she has been keeping the Riverlanders well away from House Tully on our behalf.

“I apologize if I overstepped, Your Grace.” Myrsden bowed his head, an overt show of contrition that Eddard found off-putting.

“Oh, stand up,” Eddard growled, and Myrsden obeyed. “You did exactly what I needed you to do. I would have done it myself if I had had room in my head for anything other than my bride last night.”

Myrsden grinned. “Which head?”

“I can make you marry,” Eddard threatened his valet. “Do not think I will not, if I decide you need it.”

“King Eddard the Cruel!” Myrsden proclaimed, with a hand to his chest as if he was trying to staunch a wound.

“I would prefer ‘the Just’ for my moniker,” Eddard admitted, “but if cruelty is what Westeros needs from me, that is what it will get.”

Myrsden dropped his act with a frown.

Eddard waved off whatever Myrsden was going to say, even as he opened his mouth. “Fetch two legal briefs from Maester Eldyn for Queen Ashara and Queen Rhaella to review today.” Eddard paused to consider. “Make that three.” Lady Olenna was keeping a healthy guard on Lady Janna; it should be safe enough to bring her into the know.

“As you will, Your Grace.” Myrsden bowed and left.

Queen Rhaella joined him then. “Will Queen Ashara be joining us today, Your Grace?”

“Call me Eddard, please. Or Ned, but only if you must.” Eddard knew many found his familial nickname off-putting. He certainly did.

She gave him a small smile. “I would have to work my way toward Ned, Eddard. I am Rhaella, if you please. We will be wed this evening; I do not feel mutual, casual regard is misplaced.”

“Agreed, and no, Ashara will not be joining us for some time. She needs her rest and must attend our son, Jon.”

“I understand her ladies have had a difficult time rousing her. That you wore her quite thin in the night.” Rhaella shot him a sly look. “Lucky girl.”

Eddard was horrified to realize he was blushing. “If I did not know for true that her maids only spoke out of turn when ordered to do so, I would have them all replaced for that little tale.”

Queen Rhaella laughed.

“What was decided with Lord Uller?” Eddard asked. “I know that you involved yourself in his negotiations with Ashara and Lady Ana last night.”

“While you were in the Hall, Lady Ana mostly explained the origin and technicalities of First Men breeding contracts. I had no idea they were so complicated.”

“First Men or breeding contracts?” he teased.

“Both!” she laughed.

Eddard smiled. He was so glad to see so much fire in his Targaryen bride. She was so incredibly far from the beaten thing she had been when she died the first time. Strong, eternally strong to survive all she had, but sad. Lost. Heartbroken.

Her time on the Isle of Faces had done her an immense amount of healing.

“Five successful pregnancies is an incredibly generous offer,” she offered.

Eddard groaned. “I said no more than five, not five total.”

She smirked at him. “I cannot blame Lord Uller for taking everything from you that you are willing to offer.” She put a hand on his arm. “I do wish to caution you, Your Grace. Lady Ellaria has never known the touch of another. You will need to be much gentler with her than you were with Ashara last night.”

Eddard was speechless. He could not believe that he had wanted this woman restored to herself. “Are you possessed?” He asked.

She laughed.

“I have never believed in the Seven’s demons, but I must be talking to one right now. Should I seek out the High Septon for you?”

“I am well,” she assured him.

“That is exactly what a demon would say,” he muttered, though he did not actually know. He had heard more than one septon refer to demons in a clearly negative way but he had never what a demon was other than possibly bad? Assuming one trusted a Septon of the Faith to know good from bad or sacred from blasphemy.

“Truly,” she gripped his arm. “Thank you for sending me to the Isle of Faces. I was reluctant to go when you ordered it, but I feel more myself than I have since my first wedding.”

A wedding that happened when she had been eleven, good Gods.

“Your Gods tell me that you are sincere, that I am safe with you, and I believe Them.”

“Thank you,” was the only response Eddard could come up with. He had not expected an admission of trust from Rhaella for decades and certainly not before they had actually wed.

Eddard squinted at his betrothed.

It was odd that he was getting a confession of trust from an abused woman so easily and with so little effort on his side of things. He believed she was sincere, but he knew well that did not mean she was not also distracting him from their previous topic.

She could very well do both.

“So, what did you and Ashara decide with Lord Uller?”

Rhaella sighed heavily, but she was also smiling at him as if he had passed some unspoken test.

Which, rude. Tests should always be clearly labeled.

“As you know, the Rhoynish Empire was a collection of principalities connected by culture and religion that worshiped the River Rhoyne.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“The Rhoynar would choose a First Among Equals to lead them in times of crisis or war. The First would be granted the epitaph of ‘the Great’.”

“Like Garin the Great, Prince of Chroyane, who led the Rhoynish’s final war with Valyria.” Eddard nodded.

“Or Nymeria the Great, Princess of Ny Sar, who led that war’s survivors’ evacuation from Essos.”

“And?” he pressed.

“Every First Among Equals was expected to have an Official Mistress.” Rhaella frowned. “There is not a good gender-neutral word for the title in Westerosi Common.”

Eddard did not care one whit about linguistic accuracy, truth be known. “I will have three wives; I hardly need an Official Mistress.”

“And yet, you have got one,” Rhaella pointed out. “A woman you are not wed to that will have legitimate children sired by you. A woman that all three of your wives have agreed to give space and time in your bed.”

Eddard took a deep breath and blew it out heavily through his mouth. “Thanks, I hate it.”

Rhaella snorted. “Think it through. You have a large family already—two sons, three wives, one wife’s son and a second on the way, and one foster in Lord Tyrion. To hear Lord Adarien speak on the matter, you will be fostering every noble child born in Westeros for the foreseeable future.

“The Official Mistress works as a buffer between you and the nags, the lickspittles, and the fools. She will free you up to spend more time with both the children you are taking charge of and the ones you will be siring. She will also be a relief for your man, Ser Yew, because no one will get to him or any of our equivalent servants without an introduction directly from her.”

“I do not want to be inaccessible to my people,” he could admit it; he nearly whined.

“And you will not be,” she assured him. “You can make Progresses like Aegon I or Jaehaerys I. Or you can pack up some Kingsguard and ride hell for leather to meet with the Orphans of the Greenblood, or the Mountain Clans of the Vale, or your Northern Skaagosi.

“Whatever you need to do, Lady Ellaria’s job will be to maintain your boundaries so you have the time to do it.”

“Is she even willing to do this?” he asked. “To go down in history as my Official Mistress?” The fact that she was not trueborn would no doubt make the historical accounts more lurid than accurate.

“Are you kidding?” Rhaella asked in return. “She is already drawing up designs for her official boudoir!

“And an official solar.

“And an unofficial solar.

“She has enlisted Prince Oberyn for his assistance in both design and procurement. Prince Oberyn is pleased to be of assistance and to increase the challenge that dealing with Lady Ellaria will present to those frigid Andals.

“Princess Mariah herself is tickled and said to tell you this is a good step toward bringing other Rhoynish traditions more deeply into Westerosi culture.”

Which Eddard took to mean Princess Mariah saw his taking of an Official Mistress as a safe and solid step toward absolute primogeniture spreading to all of Westeros. He could not see how that would be the case. Not unless her aim was to horrify the Andals with a sultry, sensual Dornish Official Mistress only to later back off on the condition that absolute primogeniture was embraced by all of Westeros.

Eddard shook his head, he still did not see how such a thing would benefit his goals, but with Ashara, Rhaella, and Princess Mariah all in agreement. And with those three convincing Lady Janna which, at this point, actually meant convincing Lady Olenna of the idea, there was only one thing he could say.

“Fine,” Eddard conceded. “But she and her children will live on the royal levels of wherever we settle—” because it would be a while before they could safely take possession of Maegor’s Holdfast “—she will have her own Kingsguards, and her children will be raised with ours.”

“Of course, what is a fourth mother at this point?” Rhaella asked. “Though, Lady Janna has expressed concern over the lack of grandmothers our children will have. Lady Olenna is one, of course, but will she be able to love all of our children or just Lady Janna’s? Princess Mariah’s first husband was a Dayne and her second was an Uller, so we might be able to gain her agreement to dote on the little ones, but you and I have no mothers to offer.”

She seemed actually upset about this fact. Eddard was baffled.

“And grandfathers?” he asked. Just to see.

She waved his concern away. “I am certain Lord Tywin would do it, if you asked.”

Eddard snorted. Lord Lannister would laugh himself sick if Eddard tried to ask such a thing of him. It would only take a chuckle or two, considering the man’s contentious history with mirth, but still.

Eddard could not risk it. Lord Jaime was nowhere near ready to rule the West for himself.

“Lord Commander Tully might be a better bet,” he offered.

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Brilliant.”

“Tell me truly,” he paused. “Those two knights who have been following you about.”

“Ser Corlys of House Velaryon and Ser Jacaerys of House Celtigar,” she provided the names easily, as he had hoped she would.

“Ser Corlys Velaryon and Ser Jacaerys Celtigar,” he duly repeated. “Is it your desire that they join the Kingsguard?”

“Yes.”

“Is it their desire to join the Kingsguard? And do they have permission from the heads of their Houses?”

“Yes, and yes,” she agreed. “They carry the permission forms you made every presumptive Kingsguard get signed by their Lord. And they are, of course, signed and sealed.”

Eddard nodded. “They can give their forms to Ser Yew or Maester Eldyn. They will swear themselves in at dawn—in blood, on a weirwood tree, mind.”

“Thank you,” she smiled at him, and Eddard could not imagine how awful someone had to be to hurt her when her happiness was so beautiful and so easily achieved.

“Is either of them officer material?” he asked.

She frowned. “How would I know that?”

“If I were to put one in charge of ten knights to oversee for your protection, day and night, could one of them make fair assignments for their fellow knights and ensure you are protected at all times?”

“Oh,” she considered the question for a few moments. “Either, but Ser Corlys would be my preference.”

“Fitting,” he allowed, “as the first Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under Aegon I was a Corlys Velaryon.”

“Very,” she agreed.

Eddard looked out over the nobles breaking their fasts. The last one he saw enter—Prince Oberyn, of course—looked nearly done. What Eddard could see of his place setting was clean, at least. The man himself was attempting to chew so much food; he had squirrel cheeks even with a sausage link pointing out of his mouth. His short hair made a bird’s nest look orderly.

“I understand you mean to make Prince Oberyn your friend,” Rhaella said, clearly having followed his gaze. “I expect better manners from him when he sits at my table.”

“Agreed,” Eddard shook his head. “I do not particularly enjoy seeing another’s food as they chew it. Nor do I seek to have it shot at me or fall upon me from their mouths.”

Silence answered him.

In surprise, he turned to Rhaella. She was staring at him in horror.

“Teenage boys are disgusting,” he warned her more than told her, “and they are always seeking ways to outdo their previous attempts.” Particularly when one of them was a squid, he knew but could not say.

“It seems as though all is ready,” she said, changing the subject.

“It does.” He signaled his maesters that were waiting off to one side.

A wave of servitors rushed forward. Two brought forward a hardwood desk. Several brought forth jars of ink or goose-feather quills. Others brought forth sealing kits and wax in all manner of colors. Finally came his maesters, each holding a copy of the treaty between House Stark and House Targaryen.

Eddard and Rhaella stood together and walked in opposite directions around the High Table to meet on the other side. They each received a copy of the treaty from a maester, and they each reviewed it.

Eddard had reviewed that damn treaty so many times since it had been written that his eyes nearly crossed at seeing it again.

He trusted Maester Luwin, who he had ordered to personally copy each revision until Eddard was pleased with it. But. That trust was built in another life. In this life, Maester Luwin did not know him at all, and he, truly, did not know this Luwin. So, he would double-check the work done in his name until true trust had been earned and gained.

With the fate his family had suffered last time, no one was getting a pass this time.

He would be ready.

His children would be ready.

His wives were already ready because he got to pick them himself this time.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to check the high points. Marriage, all possessions and wealth of House Targaryen in Westeros and the Iron Bank. Red Keep, Dragonstone. Inheritance of the Iron Throne. Return to the Winterfell version of the Laws of the First Men with the guarantee of religious freedom.

He was annoyed to have to promise religious freedom in the treaty and in his vows as king. If someone read the damn laws, they would know their religious freedom was guaranteed. But. Queen Rhaella had made a valid point that it was better to address the issue before someone decided to have a problem with it.

He glanced up at Rhaella to see that she was still reading.

He addressed the watching nobles so they would not interrupt her. “Today, we officially end Robert’s Rebellion. Last night, all Lords, Ladies, Proxies, and Regents Paramount were given copies of both House Stark’s original complaint against House Targaryen and declaration of war. They were also given copies of the resolution of the complaint and the peace treaty between House Stark and House Targaryen.

“Today Queen Rhaella and I will both sign the peace treaty. The Laws of the Dragon will end, and the Laws of the First Men will take their place. Specifically, Northmen, you will need to return the Laws of Winterfell to your legal pouches.”

He waited as his Northern vassals all nodded.

“Anyone accused of wrongdoing during Robert’s Rebellion will, of course, be judged by the Laws of the Dragon, as those are what we were all living under during the Rebellion.” Eddard held up a hand before shared looks could grow into grumbling. Their jumping to conclusions had him already exhausted. “Before you bitch, read my laws. Within the Tower of Dread, my Lord Hand, Lady Whent, had her artisans carve the Laws of the First Men into the walls and painted. White letters are the words that King Jaehaerys lifted from the Laws of Winterfell entirely for his Laws of the Dragon. The red words are the parts he left out. The red words, you will find, are clauses and clarifications that make the laws more fair.”

The clauses and clarifications made things complicated, Eddard could admit. He was convinced Jaehaerys left them out either because he trusted his own judgement overmuch or because he was just lazy.

“If, after you have read my Laws, you can tell me exactly which parts you object to and why—and you better have an actual argument! —I will discuss your issues with legal scholars from across all of Westeros and consider making changes.

“’I do not like First Men things,’ is not a valid argument.

“Neither is, ‘But we have always done it this way.’ The Laws of the Dragon are barely over two hundred years old. The Laws of Winterfell go back to the Long Night—that is, eight thousand years of use, for those of you who do not already know.

“My laws have a whole lot more always behind them than Jaehaerys the First’s. Keep that in mind before you come crying to me.”

Eddard glanced at Queen Rhaella to see that he had her full attention. Others, he was sure, would swear she was horrified with him and, sure, calling future complaining bitching was probably harsh. But it was merited.

When he looked at her, all he saw was amusement.

“Our king has a team of maesters copying his laws so that every Paramount House will have a full copy before they leave our gathering,” Queen Rhaella promised smoothly. “It will be the Paramount House’s duty, along with the Citadel, to ensure every House within their domain has copies of and understands the Laws of the Iron Thone.”

“Quite right,” he agreed. He gestured for her to precede him. “Your Grace? You must sign first as the surrendering party.”

“Of course, My King.” Queen Rhaella left the dais with all of the grace her station required. “I require a mix of red and black wax, Maester Luwin.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Luwin nodded deeply and got to work.

Once the wax was melted and mixed, Luwin poured a dollop onto the first copy of the treaty. Queen Rhaella produced a House Targaryen sealing stamp and set it over the wax. Then she signed the treaty as the wax cooled into the correct configuration.

Maester Luwin freed her seal and Rhaella moved on to repeat the process on the second copy with wax Maester Eldyn prepared.

“White and black,” Eddard instructed Luwin, because he had changed the gray wolf on the King of Winter seal to a black one to both honor Shadow and to further differentiate the Royal House Stark from the Northern House Stark.

Eddard sealed and signed both copies of the treaty before he called, “Wardens.”

Lord Jon was the first to reach him. He sealed and signed as witness. Lord Lannister reached the front after him and followed. Then Princess Mariah, and finally Maege Mormont as proxy for her brother, Lord Jeor, Warden of the North.

“Lords Paramount,” he ordered.

Stannis was the first one to him this time. Then Lady Jeyne Royce as Regent of the Riverlands and Lady Olenna Tyrell as Regent of the Reach. Lord Greyjoy lingered behind, seemingly unwilling to participate, but unable to defy Eddard’s commands because of his oath sealed in blood upon a weirwood.

“Lords and Ladies of the Crownlands, you have never had a proper Lord Paramount, and it seems to me that you have suffered for this, despite supposedly having the direct attention of the Iron Throne. Queen Rhaella will be acting as your Lord Paramount on my behalf. This duty will be passed to the next King’s consort as well. As long as I have a say in it, you will not suffer without a Lord Paramount again.”

The Crownlands lords did not cheer, but they did clap at his announcement, which he decided was good enough.

“Now, the War for the White Cloaks has waited long enough,” Eddard said. Then he offered Rhaella his arm. “My Queen, may I escort you to the tourney grounds?”

She took hold of his arm with great dignity. “Yes, My King, you may.”

-*-

“I am surprised you joined me beneath the tree with only Lord Monford at your side,” Eddard offered as he and Rhaella walked arm in arm to his bedroom. The music and laughter from their wedding feast could still be heard echoing through Harrenhal’s black halls.

“I would have met you alone had Princess Lyanna not explained to me how failure to produce even a single witness to my lineage could become grounds to contest and end a royal marriage.” She looked up at him. “I told you that I trust you. That I believed your—our Gods when They told me that I was safe with you.” She looked forward once more. “I see no path forward where you will not have to reveal the monster my previous husband was so that we can be rid of his remaining Kingsguard. I thought to prove to all who witness our marriage that you are nothing like him—before they even think to ask.”

“Thank you.” This was why he wanted Rhaella and Ashara as his brides. They saw the traps heading his way and avoided them before he had imagined they could exist.

“I will speak with Arthur,” Eddard decided. “Mayhaps Aerys’s Kingsguard can volunteer to join the Night’s Watch—publicly at least—to signal a true separation between our dynasty and Aerys’s.”

“No,” Rhaella shook her head adamantly. “Westeros needs to know the kind of monster he was. They need to know exactly what you saved them from, or the Stark Dynasty will deal with accusations of usurpation and plans to overthrow them for as long as it exists.”

Eddard sighed. He hated it, but she was probably right.

They entered his rooms to find a cooling bath in a copper tub. The oils and perfumes lingering in the air told him that a woman had bathed there.

He glanced at Rhaella only to find her watching him, unsurprised. He raised an eyebrow at his wife.

“You are familiar with consummation by proxy,” she offered.

“I am,” Eddard said slowly, trying to buy himself time. “Usually in the context of a male relative stepping in for a boy-lord too young to do his wedding night duties.”

“Similarly, I want all of Aerys out of me before we—” she laid a hand on her forming stomach, and Eddard understood.

“You wish to, what, exactly?”

Lady Ellaria swept out of his bedchamber in naught but a silken robe—yellow, edged in crimson flames. Very House Uller.

“Ah.” Eddard understood now.

Now that he thought about it, Rhaella had mentioned something about this. He had not thought she was sincere. He would not make that mistake again.

“Lady Ellaria.” He held out a hand.

Lady Ellaria came to him immediately and sat with him when he guided her to a couch. She smiled. It did nothing to hide her confusion. “My King?”

“Lady Ellaria, I must ask you to tell me truly—” Eddard waited; he needed her consent. Gods, how he needed her consent.

“As you will, Your Grace,” she agreed easily.

“Do you want this?”

She opened her mouth. Then she closed it with a frown.

That was what he thought. He needed to be absolutely clear with the slightly younger woman. “You, me. Right now. Us. This, with Rhaella watching.”

“I—yes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“I would like a gentle first experience. I have heard some truly horrifying stories about Beddings, but Queen Ashara has assured me of your ability to meet my needs, Your Grace.”

Eddard stoically ignored the way his face heated. Women. Was there an end to the experiences they would share with one another?

But then, men were not so different.

Robert would tell anyone who lingered close to him long enough about the many times he had dipped his quill, the many ways he had dipped his quill, and who he was planning to use as inkwells in the future.

At the very top of his lungs, of course.

At least Ashara could be counted upon to have some discretion.

“Mayhaps you should call me Eddard,” he offered.

“Not Ned?” she teased. He could not have said what face he made, but she barked a short, sharp laugh in response. “Very well, my Eddard. You must call me Ellaria.”

“I have always preferred to be called Eddard. My brothers and father did not care for my preference. I was named for my grandfather, Edwyle, and Lord Edwyle had preferred Ned, so I was Ned. Whether I liked it or not.”

Ellaria’s face morphed into the absolute picture of sympathy without any pity in it.

“My mother enforced my preference upon my family while she lived, but Lya was the only one to embrace it. Once my mother died, only Lya called me Eddard. It was always Ned, Ned, Ned. Even with Robert—Ned, Ned, Ned.”

“Being called Ned puts you back in the time of the death of your mother,” Ellaria guessed.

He was so relieved she understood. That he did not have to say it. “Yes.”

She smiled at him. She was intelligent. She was beyond gorgeous. She wanted to have his children. Why was he hesitating?

“I guess,” Eddard sighed. “I do not understand why you would want to be involved in this—involved with ruling Westeros at all. I do not want to be part of it. I am,” he blew out a heaving breath. “If I could, I would go home to Winterfell and leave Westeros to crumble or stand on its own merits.”

“You could have let Robert Baratheon become king,” Lady Ellaria pointed out.

“No, I could not have. He would have been a horrible king. Just like he is a horrible brother. Do you know, he did not even consider lifting the siege of Storm’s End after King Aerys’s death? He never even thought about it. I had to remind him that his brothers were living off shoe leather and rats while he wanted to feast the end of the war.”

“He is a great warrior.”

“Yes,” he agreed. Because Robert was, there was no one that could deny that. “But that is not all that makes a king. If it did, Prince Oberyn would be king. Or Ser Arthur.”

“You could allow Westeros to become independent kingdoms again,” Rhaella interjected, reminding them both that she was there. “Dragons forged Westeros into one, but dragons are no more.”

“Winter is coming,” he countered.

Rhaella rolled her eyes. “Winter is always coming.”

“It is, but tis true. I can no more allow Westeros to crumble than—Do you know why Torrhen knelt?” Eddard asked. “Does House Targaryen remember Aegon’s Dream?”

“Which Aegon?”

“The only one that matters.”

“They all matter,” she huffed. “Aegon the First.”

“Yes,” Eddard agreed.

“What about him?”

“Have you not been told of Aegon’s dream?”

“Every Aegon has Dreamed,” she said dismissively. “Most Targaryens Dream, though few are tortured by it like Queen Heleana or Daeron the Drunkard were.”

“Lord Howland can help you to watch the conversation between Aegon I and Brandon Snow, when they negotiated the North’s entry into the Conqueror’s Kingdom. I watched it some time ago,” during his ecstatic experience just before he was crowned but that was some days ago, now, “and I aim to find the records of the event that I know must exist in Winterfell the very next time I am there.

“The short of it is that Aegon the Dragon dreamed of a night without end. A winter that blew out of the North from Beyond the Wall with beings of ice that aim to end all warm-blooded life.”

Rhaella opened her mouth to object.

Eddard held up a hand. “It has happened before. It was called the Long Night, and there are tales of it from here to Asshai. It is fact.”

“Is that why the Wall was built?” Ellaria asked, frowning and concerned.

“Yes,” he answered simply. Then he turned back to Rhaella. “The Second Long Night is coming. The first one was ended by a Pact. Westeros is dangerously close to failing to hold up its part because the worship of the Old Gods, as so many call them, is barely practiced south of the Neck. One or two Houses in every Kingdom keep my Gods currently.”

“That will change with an openly Old Gods-worshiping king on the Iron Throne,” Rhaella pointed out.

“That is a hope,” he agreed. “There always being a Stark in Winterfell is another part of the Pact. The blood of Brandon the Stark must remain in Winterfell or its immediate surrounds.” It was no coincidence that the autumn that grew into the New Long Night had fallen within the year of Theon Greyjoy running Eddard’s younger sons out of Winterfell in Eddard’s previous life. “There is very little room in the Pact to compromise on that condition.

“My sister will be the Stark in Winterfell until Jon is old enough to take her place. Any of my children who wish to join House Stark of the North must be encouraged to do so.”

“Otherwise, little Jon will be a prisoner.” Ellaria huffed. “Are there truly no other options in that Pact?”

“At this point, I am simply glad that there are no gender restrictions on the Stark of Winterfell,” he admitted.

Both women nodded.

“Speaking of family secrets,” Ellaria offered.

Eddard turned to focus on her entirely.

“I wish you would not do that,” she complained.

Eddard snorted and rolled his eyes. “My attention is yours, my lady.”

She made an unhappy face, but spoke regardless. “House Uller imprints on their first lover, in a way. We take on the sexuality of our first lover. My mother is entirely uninterested in sex, but she formed an unshakable emotional connection with my father. She laid with him and gave him a daughter so that he could keep a piece of her with him as she continued to carry out her duties to the Mother Rhoyne.

“After they laid together, my father lost all interest in sex. To the point where his—” she waved toward Eddard’s crotch “—became damaged from the lack of use.”

“Sweet Seven,” Rhaella muttered.

Eddard almost agreed.

“I find women to be beautiful,” Ellaria said, ignoring her own blush. “Enchanting. I find relationships with them to be emotionally very pleasing.

“But I want children. My father’s House requires that I have children if they are to survive without a war of inheritance. I cannot make children with another woman, so I need a man. Preferably one that likes both genders so that I may have my children and the relationships I desire with women. I have a strong relationship with Queen Ashara. She assures me you will not mind taking a romantic or sexual turn?”

Eddard nodded. “Same-gender relationships are normal in the North. Most consider them training relationships, as it were, particularly in the area of sexual congress.” Eddard rolled his eyes. “I am not explaining this well—if I were to take a man to my bed, it would not be considered infidelity in the North, or if I were married to a Northern woman.

“It is the same for some First Man Houses, but not all. The First Men were hardly a single cohesive group with a single set of social practices, and we all know it, so we adjust.

“If I had married an Andal woman—say, Catelyn Tully—I would never take a man to my bed because she would never accept such a thing was not a threat to her or her standing.” Gods of Stone was that an understatement. “I also would have never been able to take multiple wives if I were married to her. She is too,” Eddard did not have a good word for it.

“Proud?” Rhaella offered at the same time Ellaria said, “Rigid?”

“Yes,” he agreed, because Catelyn Tully was both proud and rigid.

“You mean to say that you would not be upset if we, as your wives, began emotional and sexual relationships with each other?” Rhaella asked.

“I would encourage it.” That way he would know they would all work together for the benefit of their communal children.

“But if we started relationships with men?”

“I would have a problem with you starting a relationship with anyone else that could put a child in you,” he told her as plainly and clearly as he could. “And I would encourage you to have any lovers you take examined by a maester. There are sexual diseases that could kill you or damage our ability to bind the kingdoms together as we must.”

“And you will not be threatened by these lovers?” Rhaella pressed. “You will not be a threat to them?”

“I will be a threat to them if you need me to be,” he admitted. “Or if they endanger or abuse you, but as long as they treat you well and you remain healthy, it is none of my business what you do in your bedchamber.”

“He is almost too good to be true,” Ellaria said to Rhaella.

“When I had a crush on a hedge knight as a girl, Aerys had him beaten to death,” Rhaella said by way of answer. “We had not yet married. Nor had we been betrothed.”

“Every day I get more jealous of Jaime Lannister for killing that—I do not have a word for your previous husband that I would like to say in front of the two of you.”

They laughed at him gently.

Time to change the subject. “So, to compensate for the impressionability of House Uller, you require a man that enjoys both genders to be your first lover so that you may enjoy both genders going forward. Do I understand you correctly?”

“Yes,” Ellaria agreed. “In my acquaintance, that leaves you or Prince Oberyn. My father needs sons from me. Oberyn has four daughters from four mothers. You have two sons from two mothers. My choice is clear.”

Eddard nodded, accepting her choice.

“How do we begin?” Ellaria asked.

Eddard considered that. Then he stood, placed his crown upon the mantle, and removed all of his upper layers down to his skin.

“What?” Ellaria was up and in his space before he could turn back around. Feather-light fingers brushed over the markings the Gods had given him after his ascension ritual. “What are these?”

“Blessings,” he said. He turned and caught her hand before she could pull it away. “I pleased the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone, and They marked me so that all who looked upon my flesh would know that I am their chosen king.”

“They are beautiful,” she told him, a hand fluttering between them like she wanted to touch his chest but did not quite dare. “Why this pattern?”

“They are the pattern of the ropes that bound me for the ritual.” He pulled her fluttering hand to the center of his chest.

Ellaria swallowed hard. Like she wanted to taste him.

“Let us sit,” he urged. “You may explore these markings, and we will see where the night takes us.”

“Yes,” she croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, let us sit.”

Part Five

“Have you figured it out yet?” Ellaria whispering on her side of the bed woke Eddard immediately, but he decided to pretend he was still asleep to give her some privacy.

“It was definitely a sex ritual; did you see his markings?” Ashara asked his Official Mistress.

“I would love to have seen him tied up like that,” Ellaria confirmed in a purr.

Ashara gave a hum of agreement. “I have eliminated most of the Northmen, as to the matter of who was his partner. I am left with either Roose Bolton or Jorah Mormont. There is an outside chance of it being Mors Umber, but I’m leaning toward Mormont.”

“The Young Bear that wants to join the Kingsguard?” Ellaria asked.

And that was news to Eddard. Jorah wanted to give up Bear Island to follow him around as a bodyguard? After everything he did for Bear Island and his materialistically-demanding wife last time? Eddard desperately prayed that the man was not in love with him. That would be incredibly awkward.

“Yes, him.”

“Are we even sure he was with a man?” Ellaria questioned.

“Definitely. I do not believe a woman could have handled him in the level of bondage he bears the marks for.”

“Maege Mormont, mayhaps?”

“She was in my sight most of the time of Eddard’s ritual, but House Mormont is said to maintain rope bondage practices. The whispers say Eddard allowed them to practice it on honored enemies during the war.”

“So, the Young Bear.” There was a pause. “At least we do not have to worry about some other woman carrying his child.”

Ashara snorted. “The rope marks on Eddard clearly say that he was the receiving partner during the ritual and he cannot bear children.”

Eddard almost snorted at that. He would be heavily pregnant by now, if he could bear children.

“How was it?” Ashara asked, soft in both tone and volume.

“Perfect,” Ellaria sighed. “Everything I wanted and did not know I needed. He is my new favorite mount.”

The bed shook under their giggles.

“Mine, too,” Rhaella admitted, lifting her head from his chest and proving herself to be awake. She had only ridden his face, but he supposed that could be enough.

All three women laughed.

“I am so pleased for you,” even Ashara’s tone was smiling. “Both of you.”

“I do not know how you can bear to share him,” Rhaella said.

Ashara sighed. “I have had nearly two years to become accustomed to the idea,” she admitted. “The moment I realized Westeros was at war and that House Dayne was on the wrong side, I knew I would have at least two wives at my side, at his side. It is the tradition of a conquering King of Winter to take multiple brides from high positions on the losing side.”

“The wrong side?” Rhaella said archly.

“Who Writes Remains,” Ashara said her House’s words in the tone of a reminder.

“My brothers were very attached to Prince Rhaegar, as I was to Princess Elia, but the North has never lost to the South. Never. Even in the days before the Conquering,” Ashara told them. “Westeros would have been united before the Dragon ever came here, if the Northmen did not find Southrons boring and tedious.”

“We do,” Eddard said, opening his eyes. All three women in bed with him looked both extremely comfortable—which made him feel settled and warm within his very soul—and surprised by his wakefulness. “The Winter Wolves’ performance during the Dance of the Dragons was not a fluke, wife,” he told Rhaella specifically. “Every person living north of the Neck is a warrior, regardless of gender, rank, or job. Our survival in the North proves this.

“Two thousand elderly Northmen would have been enough to win that war had they not been betrayed by a pair of dragonriders.” Those dragonriders known as Ulf the White and Hugh the Hammer, at Tumbleton.

Eddard hoped he would go down in history as being even half so fierce as Roddy the Ruin.

That was when Myrsden entered his chambers. Thankfully, without Eddard’s King’s Landing pages flanking him. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he greeted casually. Not even taking his eyes off the list in his hands.

“Lord Commander Qhorin Qorgyle has—” Myrsden froze at the sight of three nude women in Eddard’s bed.

Eddard refused to be embarrassed by his women’s comfort.

In fact, Myrsden would have to get used to a whole lot of naked since he decided to serve a King with three Queens. “House Qorgyle is Dornish, right?” he asked Ashara, even though he already knew.

“It is,” she confirmed, rather than bothering to cover herself.

“What can you tell me about the Lord Commander?”

“Qorgyle is an Andal House; their ancestral keep is Sandstone. They basically took control of the only well to be found for fifty leagues in the wastes and fortified it.

“The Lord Commander himself was the second son of Lord Qorgyle. His older brother and good-sister pre-deceased his father. Everyone expected he would take Sandstone for himself when his father died in a tourney, but he announced—with Princess Mariah’s support—that he was merely regent for his brother’s only child—a daughter, Lady Qharyn Qorgyle. When she was eight-and-ten, married and having claimed an heir, he gave himself to the Night’s Watch so he could not be used against his niece’s claim. That was nearly ten years ago now.”

Eddard nodded; that tracked with what he knew of the man. “He served within all three orders available within—stewards, builders, and rangers—which is unusual. It typically means the previous Lord Commander was grooming him as a possible replacement. I was in the Vale when Lord Commander Arron Stone died in a wench cage failure two years ago—just before the war, and Qhorin Qorgyle was elected to take Lord Commander Stone’s place.”

Eddard could use some time to speak with the Lord Commander, but it was odd that he had come so far south. “Any idea why he is here?” Eddard asked Myrsden.

“He said a Greenseer told him you needed to speak with him and to make haste,” Myrsden answered. “He did not specify which Greenseer, but he got on a boat at Eastwatch and sailed to Saltpans to get here with all due speed.”

“Ten years on the Wall is certainly long enough to teach a man to properly heed a Greenseer,” Eddard mused.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Myrsden ducked his head. “I will wait outside—”

“Arrange two hot baths,” he ordered. “For Queen Rhaella and Lady Ellaria. I will wash up after my time in the training yard. And have Lord Commander Qorgyle join me at the High Table to break my fast.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Eddard dressed quickly is leathers and was the only one to leave his sleeping chambers. His three women seemed to be going back to sleep. He felt like he should probably be jealous, but he was too much of a morning lark to truly consider it.

Myrsden was in the antechamber, giving instructions to Dromen and Jorvan.

“Myrsden,” he called.

His valet sent the two boys running with a wave. “Your Grace?”

“Are you well?”

Myrsden made a face.

Eddard had to swallow a laugh.

“I am not much for seeing myself naked, Your Grace.”

“I fear you must get used to it.” Eddard shook his head. “My wives’ comfort in my presence is a treasure of paramount importance to me. I will do nothing to endanger that. Would you prefer I choose another to fulfill your duties?”

“I would not trust another man as close as I am to your wives,” Myrsden admitted. “Other men hold lusts that are foreign to me. I will adjust, Your Grace.”

“If it becomes too much—” Eddard was truly not sure what comfort he could offer his friend and longtime attendant.

“It will not be. I will adjust.”

“And if you cannot?”

“I will find a woman of ability to take my place,” Myrsden said lightly.

Eddard snorted. “Just what I need, a sixth queen.”

“You are the one who agreed to three queens, an Official Mistress, and a Lady Hand,” Myrsden pointed out, though not without sympathy. “In fact, you chose to have a woman stand as your Hand. You demanded it, some might say.”

“I never expected to be called the Fivequeens King in whispers,” Eddard muttered.

Myrsden laughed at him, the scoundrel.

“What is this I hear about Jorah Mormont and the Kingsguard?”

Myrsden made a face. “The Young Bear is seeking a place within your Kingsguard, that is true, and he has written permission from his aunt, but she is not the head of his House.

“I have given him until the end of today to both provide a raven from Lord Mormont under his seal—with witness from Maester Talburn of Harrenhal that he received it, and participate in the War for the White Cloaks. If he does not compete in the War, I have told him he will have to wait a year to petition to join your Kingsguard.”

That…was complicated. “You are opposed to his placement in the Kingsguard?”

“I am aware that he was your Shield Mate during the war,” Myrsden offered cautiously.

“Yes,” Eddard agreed. Shield Mate was one thing to call it, he supposed. He certainly would not claim they had been lovers. Their pairing had begun with too much animosity for him to be comfortable making such a claim.

“I was not certain how your Shield Mate would react to your wives.”

“Are you afraid of jealousy?” Eddard asked, mystified.

“The vows you have chosen for your Kingsguard should prevent such a man from harming you or your wives, but love is almost a type of insanity in my reckoning. The reality a man in love lives in is not usually the same reality the rest of us inhabit.”

Eddard figured that was true. Had he not heard man after man wax poetically about one woman or another that they had decided they were in love with and that she was therefore perfect in every way?

Eddard pounded his fist gently on Myrsden’s shoulder. “Show me that damn training yard. I want to hit something.”

“This way, Your Grace.”

-*-

“Well fought, Your Grace.”

Eddard looked up from his wash bucket to see a man he did not recognize. He wore all black, from boots to hat. His hat was wide-brimmed, but curled up over his ears in a distinctly Dornish fashion. Holding his black cloak was a pendant of blackened silver bearing three scorpions.

Only one House used three scorpions for their sigil—House Qorgyle.

“I have been told that no Dornishman would ever kiss my ass to get ahead,” Eddard said.

Lord Commander Qhorin Qorgyle snorted. “That was before you made two Dornishwomen queens.”

“One queen,” Eddard corrected. “One Official Mistress in the Rhoynish style.”

“An Official Mistress is more powerful than any consort queen, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Qorgyle countered.

Eddard frowned. “How do you gather that?”

“A queen has no say in who her king meets with,” the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch said. “An Official Mistress controls the flow of favors from and access to the Iron Throne.”

That was a very good point. “Lady Ellaria has my trust.”

“A Sand,” Qorgyle emphasized, “has your trust. It is gratifying to have a king that may actually be worthy of Westeros.”

“Men of the Night’s Watch are not required to kiss my ass either,” Eddard pointed out.

Lord Commander Qorgyle laughed out loud. His joy honestly seemed to glow out of his craggy face. When he sobered, he asked, “How may the Night’s Watch serve the Iron Throne?”

This was not the place for that discussion. “Wait while I dress. We will discuss this issue as we break our fast.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Lady Shella had been forced to add tiers to the High Table to accommodate all of his wives; Lyanna as his heir; herself as his Hand; and Lady Ellaria because he refused to let her sit down amongst the crowd like the rest of his Small Council when she could be carrying his child.

He and Lord Commander Qorgyle sat at the highest High Table, one that could only seat two people.

Once they were served, Eddard said, “The first thing you should know is that the Laws of the Dragon make no allowances for ignorance in regard to the law. Not rank, not education. Specifically. If commoners are part of a group that broke the law, they are just as guilty of the crime as the nobles that gave them their orders.”

Lord Commander Qorgyle’s spoon fell out of his hand; he was staring at Eddard, pale and horrified. “The Siege of Storm’s End—”

“Exactly. Mace Tyrell led an army of over 100,000 to commit all manner of war crimes and called it a siege,” Eddard agreed grimly. “Under the Laws of the Wolf, all of the punishment would land on Noble Houses, and I could allow them all to pay damages to House Baratheon or the Realm. Under the Laws of the Dragon, all 100,000 are equally guilty, and I cannot accept paid damages when each and every man cannot pay them.”

“I cannot house 100,000 men, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Qorgyle said with barely concealed panic.

Eddard was pleased that the man was smart enough to jump to the conclusion before Eddard led him there one step at a time.

“Mayhaps when the Wall was new, but with so many keeps in disrepair. Without the funds, materials, and time to repair them. I cannot support such a force. Nor could I contain them to the Wall. If they chose to leave—”

“I know,” Eddard assured him. “I have some solutions in mind, but the Night’s Watch is yours. I cannot make any of it happen without your approval.”

“I am listening, Your Grace.”

“I have allowed Lady Olenna Tyrell to negotiate on behalf of the Reach as a whole,” Eddard explained. “Of the 100,000, every seventh man will be randomly selected to go to the Wall—the North has a traditional method using different colored stones and a blind draw. Of the 10,000 knights and nobles, you will have around fourteen hundred to house directly on the Wall.”

“That,” the man was still pale. “Should be manageable, Your Grace.”

“You may want to choose a new keep to open on the Wall,” Eddard offered, carefully hiding his amusement.

“I will send a raven immediately after the meal,” Qorgyle swore.

“The commons, however, will total nearly 14,000, but I have a plan for that.”

“Please, Your Grace,” the man pleaded for mercy.

Eddard supposed he had dragged the conversation out long enough. “There are older Night’s Watch vows,” he said, “ones that do not forsake holding lands or having families.

“My proposal is that for the commons, we use the older Night’s Watch vows—” from before the Andals had corrupted even that practice “—and create a fourth order within the Watch. The order of Farmers. We settle them in the Gift and set them to supporting the Night’s Watch by feeding the Wall. Their families—wives and children—will be encouraged but not forced to join them so that, Gods willing, there will be generations of farmers settled in the Gift to support the Watch going forward.”

Lord Commander Qorgyle nodded thoughtfully.

Eddard let him have the time he needed and focused on his meal.

“There was a time,” the Lord Commander offered, “before the Dance of the Dragons and in the days before, when the North would send every thirteenth man to the Night’s Watch.

“I read about it in the annals of the Watch.”

“Thirteen to honor the Last Hero and his twelve brave companions,” Eddard confirmed.

“Can we not do that with the Reach? Every thirteenth rather than every seventh? Even with your plan, which I like, every seventh is so very many men.”

Eddard knew the men would be needed at the Wall, with the Long Night under twenty years away. “No,” Eddard shook his head. “The thirteenth man was not a punishment. It was an honor. It also, honestly, served as population control—the North is not a land of plenty, as we both know. Sending every thirteenth man also worked as war prevention by limiting the claimants to the available resources.

“I allowed Lady Olenna to talk me down from executing or sending all of the men to the Wall, as the Laws of the Dragon require.” Eddard paused significantly until Qorgyle nodded. “My only stipulation was that it was more than every thirteenth. She chose every seventh with the argument that they are paying for war crimes, crimes against the Warrior. One out of Seven.”

Lord Commander Qorgyle sighed but nodded his understanding. “Should I expect every thirteenth man from the North anytime soon?”

“No,” Eddard shook his head. “Those laws are only active after 200 years of peace or other times when no Northmen are lost in conflict.”

“That would be why is stopped after the Dance of the Dragons,” Qorgyle realized.

“But not the Conquering. Because we did not fight Aegon the Dragon. No Northmen were lost because Torrhen knelt.”

“I understand.”

“My father had been preparing for,” Eddard hesitated, “an education cycle, as it were. To remind the people of the North of the great service and sacrifices of the Last Hero and his dead companions.”

“To prime the North for this traditional practice.”

“Yes,” Eddard nodded. “I want to find his exact plans before I commit to it, but I may continue with my father’s plans. After all, if something goes unspoken for too long, it becomes lost.” As the entire thing had been forgotten until Lyanna had made him Dream of the conversations between the King Who Knelt and his half-brother, Brandon Snow; Cregan Stark and his heir, Jonnel; and finally, their father and oldest brother.

The series of Dreams made the tradition very clear to Eddard, which, in turn, had been valuable to his negotiations, first with Lady Olenna and now Lord Commander Qorgyle.

“And I understand your final brother will be returning to the Wall with me?”

Eddard did not sigh. He wanted to sigh in a prolonged and dramatic fashion, but that was Robert’s influence on him and easily dismissed. “He was going to,” Eddard admitted, “and he will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” Qorgyle asked, incredulous.

“Having a Greenseer in the family is a rotten bitch.”

Lord Commander Qorgyle laughed in a startled fashion. “Your Grace?”

“The Pact for the Dawn,” Eddard said leadingly.

“The agreement that requires there to always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Qorgyle proved either the man’s memory for the reading he had done in the annals of the Watch or that the whispers his people were spreading had reached him.

“The Stark must be a male,” as Eddard had learned in his dreams just the night before. “And he must always be ready to give himself to honor the pact. This includes remaining within a certain distance of Winterfell and the surrounds.”

“Ah,” it was a sound of understanding if there ever was. “Your sister is not male.”

“Not by any definition of the term,” Eddard agreed. “I could rule from Winterfell until my firstborn, Jon, is old enough to foster directly with Lord Mormont, but that would not be fair to the people of the South or my other children whose destinies will lie in the South.”

Qorgyle grimaced. “I am glad I only ever had to consider one child in my time.”

Eddard both welcomed and hated the sympathy. Last time, with one wife to his name, he had had six children to concern himself with. This time he had three wives—four, if he was being entirely honest. It was a good thing he held the Iron Throne, else he would have nothing to do with all of those children.

“So, your brother will come to the Wall in ten years.”

“Closer to twenty,” Eddard corrected. “I will not release Benjen to the Watch until Jon’s fostering is over.” Jeor Mormont might even go to the Wall with Benjen; he had last time.

“Understandable,” Qorgyle allowed.

“With the sheer number of men going to the Wall, I cannot easily contain them,” Eddard warned the Lord Commander.

“Of course. None of us can.”

“I have every blacksmith within two days’ ride making black iron collars that lock,” he explained. “I had considered wrist or arm bands, but a man could easily sacrifice either for a life free of the Watch.”

“With a collar, their choices could not be more clear—death or the Watch.”

“Exactly so,” Eddard agreed. “Every man I condemn to the Watch, including my brother, will wear a black iron collar. I currently have all the keys. Once we get you back to Castle Black, I will give most of them to you.”

“I ask that you make that clear to every man you collar, Your Grace. I am an able fighter, but some twenty thousand men would take those keys from me easily, if they think I have them.”

“I will,” Eddard agreed. “There is something I will need from you.”

“If I can, it is yours, Your Grace.”

“Maester Aemon.”

“He is the maester of Castle Black.”

“He is the last living dragon other than my wife, Rhaella,” Eddard pointed out. “It would be a comfort to her to have some family returned to her.”

“He is one of only three maesters I have, Your Grace.”

“For now.

“Unless I am greatly mistaken, you will be lousy with maesters after my Day of Justice.”

Lord Commander Qorgyle considered that for a long moment. “He is an aging man and would do well in a gentler life than the Wall can afford. If there are so many maesters destined for the Wall as you have implied and Maester Aemon consents, you may have him.

“With my thanks.”

-*-

“Your Grace.”

Eddard turned from the refreshment table and his bride of the day to see Prince Oberyn with an Essosi-sellsword turned Valeman that he recognized at the prince’s side.

“Prince Oberyn, Ser Bronn.”

“Just Bronn. Ain’t no knight, Your Grace,” Bronn gruffed, as he was prone to.

“You wanted information about House Blackfyre,” Prince Oberyn interjected.

Eddard shot Lady Janna a look.

Quick as ever to pick up hints, she curtsied. “Excuse me, my lords. My son requires my attention.”

“You’re a Blackfyre,” Eddard said to Bronn.

The sellsword nodded.

“Tell me.”

“After the War of Ninepenny Kings, the remaining Band of Nine sold the female line of Blackfyre into slavery in Tyrosh, trying to make some back after the loss.”

Eddard nodded. “Without Maelys to guard the women, there would be no one to stop them.”

“Exactly. These women included my grandmother, Nerys, the sister-wife of Maelys, and two of her three daughters.”

“What happened to the third?” Eddard asked.

“My mother, Shaenerys, swore her oldest sister Maenerys was kept by a sellsail, by the name of Saan, but no one has been able to find her.

“My mother was sold to a pillow house. She ended up outside of Braavos. Her first son was sired by a Braavo. She was moved before Braavosi forces could move on that slavery ring, but the father got his son. Mother named him Daemon Blackfyre; his father named him Illyrio.”

“Illyrio Mopatis,” Eddard realized. “Varys advocated for him becoming my Master of Coin.”

“He would,” Bronn snorted and nodded. “My second older brother, Viserys Blackfyre. Or as you know him, Varys the Spider. We both escaped the pillow houses we were born in before they could sell us off or put us to work. I joined up with sellswords; he joined up with mummers.

“There was a sister after me, Jaene.”

“Who among them are threats to the Iron Throne?

“Jaene’s father is Old Blood of Volantis. She thinks she was born free, so not her.” Bronn shook his head. “Not me—though your former good-father did offer me a reward if I killed you.”

“Recently?”

“Day after you married his daughter. There were five of us of questionable morality there when he said it.”

Eddard wished he could be surprised. “Did he give a cause?” His survival would be one of Hoster Tully’s greatest regrets for the rest of the Damn Fish’s life. Eddard would be sure of it.

“No.” Bronn snorted. “Not like he would offer one to someone like me. Nor would he have answered if we had asked. Expects obedience from his lesser, that one.”

Hoster Tully was somehow worse than Eddard had even known. In two lifetimes. “Will you testify beneath the tree?”

“If you swear Lady Saera and my nephew will be safe in Westeros, yes.”

Well, the man was a mercenary.

“Tell me about them.”

“Illyrio bought Saera.” Ugh. “She’s a Brightflame. Looks more Valyrian than either of us. He bred her. Kid should be born by now.

“When I talked to my brother, he said Illyrio was taking care of a boy named Aegon. Said some nonsense about the boy being Rhaegar’s son with Elia, that Varys had smuggled him out of King’s Landing during the Sack, but there’s no way. If a Blackfyre got ahold of a Targaryen babe, it would be dead.”

Eddard nodded.

“And that tale assumes Varys managed to separate the boy from my sister,” Oberyn pointed out, speaking up for the first time. It was a remarkable show of restraint for the Red Viper.

Last time the boy known as Aegon Targaryen had been Rhaegar’s son, but by Lyanna rather than his older son with Elia. Ashara had posed as a Septa and helped Lord Connington to raise the boy with Winterfell’s current maester, Wyllis. Wyllis, going by Haldon Halfmaester, had swapped Lyanna’s boy in when the Blackfyre child had died.

Eddard had never truly asked what the Blackfyre boy had died from. He had assumed it was colic and let the matter lie. He trusted Ashara would not allow someone to kill a baby just to simplify things.

Any other way was the path to madness.

Still, it pleased him that he could provide that boy a future this time. Gods willing.

“Can you get Saera and Aegon away from Illyrio? Safely?”

“Prince Viper offered his help if you gave him leave to come with me.”

“You have it. Take Robert as well,” Eddard ordered. “He can distract Mopatis while you free your nephew and his mother. Oberyn, I charge you with the safety of Aegon Blackfyre. Return him to Westeros to foster at my court.”

“As you will, Your Grace.” Oberyn confirmed.

Eddard focused back on the sellsword. “There will be several keeps and lands in need of lords once the sun has set on the coming Day of Justice. I will hold one for your nephew and pardon the House of Blackfyre so long as you formally forswear any and all claim your blood thinks they have to the Iron Throne.

“All of you,” Eddard clarified, “will swear. In blood and in writing, mind.”

“There is not a thing or person in this world that could make me want that cursed chair,” Bronn huffed.

“Agreed,” Eddard admitted.

Bronn and Oberyn both laughed. The rat bastards.

“You need anything else from me?” Eddard asked. He had much prettier company waiting for him, and he wanted to get back to it.

“We will leave for Essos after I have slain my sister’s killers,” Oberyn promised silkily. “Mopatis is a cheesemonger working his way into a place on the council of magisters in Pentos. We will earn many favors killing him.

“My ship, the Red Viper, is waiting at Saltpans to see us across the Narrow Sea.”

“Be sure to return all relics of the Iron Throne to me,” Eddard ordered gravely.

“As you will.”

-*-

“Who comes before the Gods of Forest, Stream, and Stone?” Lyanna’s high, clear voice rang through the falling night, invoking the Gods, same as it had twice before.

“Janna of House Tyrell,” Lady Olenna answered. “She comes here to wed. She is a daughter of Highgarden and a woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods upon her marriage.”

Eddard was amused to note that Jyana Thistle, betrothed of Howland Reed, was standing on the other side of Lady Janna from her mother.

“Who comes to claim her?” Lady Jyana demanded, indicating she was on Janna’s defending team, if Janna decided she needed such a thing.

“Eddard of House Stark, King of Westeros,” Eddard stepped away from his sister and other two wives. “Who gives her?”

“Lady Olenna of House Tyrell, Regent Paramount of the Reach, and her mother,” Lady Olenna identified herself.

“Jyanna of House Thistle, vassal of House Reed and betrothed to their heir. Her teacher in the Old Ways. Student, do you take this man?”

“I take this man,” Janna confirmed. Then she shot him a cheeky smirk.

Eddard offered her his hand, and she came forward to claim it. Confidence was a good look on his new wife. He had not seen it before he expressed desire for her but, now he thought she might just be remembered in history as being just as beautiful as his other two wives.

She pulled the laces of her maiden cloak and turned her back to him. His fingers marveled over the fine texture of the cloak as he pulled it from her shoulders.

Eddard raised an eyebrow at his sister who nodded with a small smile. That she had personally woven the maiden cloaks his second and third bride wore was a gift. One that required time and expressed his sister’s welcome of them into House Stark. It also enabled them to follow the tradition of the North that required the firstborn to be wrapped in their mother’s maiden cloak.

Touched, Eddard passed the gold and green cloak he held to Rhaella, including her in the ritual. She would pass the cloak off to Dromen, but that was fine.

Eddard removed his own cloak of Royal House Stark and slid it over Lady Janna’s shoulders. When she turned to face him, he closed the third set of interlocking wolves, clasping his third wedding cloak onto his third bride.

Ashara stepped forward. In her arms was a pillow holding the third crown that matched the crowns Ashara and Rhaella both now wore.

Eddard held the crown high, exactly as he had with the other two, and laid it upon Queen Janna’s lovely dark hair.

He swept Janna into his arms and carried her to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. As they entered, Ser Jaime called, “All hail King Eddard of the Royal House Stark! All hail Queen Consort Janna Tyrell of the Royal House Stark!”

And that was it. Eddard never had to get married again—in this life.

Thank the Gods.

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