Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.
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[Cycle - August, 283 AC]
"...and we are honored that the Lord of Winterfell would make such a journey himself. Even if it is to return a sword that has not left this castle in generations."
Lord Vorian Dayne stood beneath the ancient portcullis of Starfall, his weathered face a mask of courtly dignity that couldn't quite hide the grief etched into every line. The old man was tall still, despite his years, though his shoulders had bowed under the weight of recent loss. His hair, once silver-gold like his granddaughter's, had gone white as winter snow.
Eddard Stark dismounted from his destrier with movements that felt carved from lead. Every muscle in his body ached from the hard ride from the Tower of Joy, but the pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the weight crushing his chest. "The honor is mine, my lord. House Stark owes House Dayne a debt that can never be repaid."
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The finest knight who ever lived, and I killed him. We killed him. Howland and I, like a pair of cutthroats in an alley.
"Dawn belongs at Starfall," Ned said, his voice rougher than he intended. He gestured to one of his men, who approached bearing a wrapped bundle with the reverence due a holy relic. "Your nephew died with honor. He was... he was the finest man I've ever known."
Lord Vorian's pale eyes studied Ned's face, searching for something. Lies, perhaps. Pretty words to soften the sting of death. "Arthur died defending a Targaryen prince. You fought for Robert Baratheon. Yet you speak of him with such regard."
"I speak of him as he was." Ned unwrapped Dawn with careful hands, the pale blade gleaming like captured starlight even in the muted daylight. "He could have slain me twice over. Should have. He was worth ten of me."
And yet I live and he lies rotting in a crypt beneath the Red Mountains. Where's the justice in that?
Lord Vorian accepted the sword with hands that trembled slightly, whether from age or emotion Ned couldn't say. "Come," the old lord said. "We'll not conduct this business in the courtyard like merchants haggling over grain. You'll take salt and bread with us, as your father did when we were young men."
The Great Hall of Starfall was a wonder of pale stone and sea-glass windows, but grief had settled over it like a shroud. The servants moved quietly, their faces pinched with sorrow. Tapestries depicting the ancient glory of House Dayne hung from the walls—the falling star, the first Dayne king, the forging of Dawn itself. All of it felt distant, like looking at relics from a dead world.
This is what we've all become. Relics of a war that killed too many good men and left the rest of us to pretend we know what we're doing.
They sat at the high table, just the two of them, while servants brought bread and salt, wine that tasted of summer, and a meal Ned barely touched. His stomach had been a knot of iron since the Tower of Joy. Since Lyanna's blood on his hands and her final words ringing in his ears.
Promise me, Ned. Promise me.
"You look like a man carrying the weight of the world," Lord Vorian observed, cutting into his meat with precise movements. "The war cost us all, but you've paid a steeper price than most."
"My father. My brother. My sister." Each word fell like a stone into still water. "House Stark has given enough to Robert's cause."
"Ah, yes. Brandon." Lord Vorian's voice softened, and for the first time, real emotion cracked through his formal composure. "My niece spoke of him often. Called him her wolf, her wild northern love."
Ned's wine cup stopped halfway to his lips. "Your niece?"
"Ashara." The name came out like a prayer, heavy with loss. "You didn't know? Of course you didn't. It was meant to be a secret until after the war. A whirlwind romance, she called it. They met at Harrenhal during the tournament, and within a fortnight she was mad for him. Brandon was... persuasive."
Brandon. Always Brandon. The heir, the wolf, the one who could charm the birds from the trees and maidens from their beds.
"They were married?" The words felt foreign in Ned's mouth, impossible.
"In secret, before a heart tree in the godswood at Harrenhal. Howland Reed bore witness, along with that young knight Brandon befriended—Ethan Glover, was it? The ceremony was rushed, but no less binding for it. Brandon made her promises. Vows of love and devotion that died with him in King's Landing."
The hall seemed to tilt around Ned. Brandon, married. His wild, reckless brother had found love and hidden it from everyone, even him. The irony was bitter as wormwood. Here he sat, the supposed honorable son, lying with every breath about Jon Snow, while Brandon—Brandon the careless, Brandon the fool—had actually done the right thing.
"She was with child when word came of his death," Lord Vorian continued, his voice growing thick. "The grief nearly killed her then. She carried the babe to term, though the maesters feared for her health. In the end, it was the birth that took her. The same day you arrived at the Tower of Joy, by our reckoning."
The same day Lyanna died. The same day everything ended.
"I'm sorry," Ned managed. "She was... she was a good woman. Beautiful and kind."
"She was foolish and in love, which amounts to much the same thing." Lord Vorian drained his wine cup in one long pull. "Brandon Stark was a force of nature, Lord Eddard. Like a storm that sweeps in from the sea, beautiful and terrible and impossible to resist. She never had a chance."
Neither did any of us. Brandon was meant for greatness, meant to be Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Instead, it's me. The quiet one. The spare.
They sat in silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Ned picked at his food while his mind raced. Jon Snow waited back at their camp, the bastard son who wasn't a bastard at all, the secret that would get them both killed if Robert ever learned the truth. And now this—Brandon had been married, had left behind more than just memories and regrets.
I bring them a sword of honor while my own honor lies sleeping in a tent, a bastard of my own making. What would Father think of me now?
A serving woman approached the high table with tentative steps, curtsying low before whispering something in Lord Vorian's ear. The old man's face, already etched with grief, seemed to crumble further. He looked at Ned with an expression that was equal parts sorrow and something else—hope, perhaps, or fear.
"There is..." Lord Vorian's voice broke slightly, and he had to clear his throat to continue. "There is something else, Lord Stark. A final legacy of my granddaughter's love for your brother."
Ned's chest tightened. A letter, perhaps. Some token or keepsake. Brandon had always been one for grand gestures, romantic foolishness that made maidens swoon and mothers despair. Whatever Ashara had left behind, it would be one more weight to carry, one more reminder of all they'd lost.
Lord Vorian rose from his chair with the careful movements of a man whose bones had grown brittle with age and sorrow. "Come. There are things that cannot be spoken of in halls, even friendly ones. Walls have ears, and some secrets are too precious to risk."
They climbed the winding stairs of the Palestone Tower in silence, their footsteps echoing off ancient stone. Ned's legs felt heavy as lead, each step an effort of will. He was tired, bone-deep tired in a way that sleep couldn't cure. The kind of exhaustion that came from burying too many friends, from carrying too many secrets, from trying to be something he'd never wanted to be.
Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. Father to a bastard who isn't a bastard. Liar. Oath-breaker. What else will this day make of me?
The nursery door was oak bound with iron, old as the castle itself. Lord Vorian paused with his hand on the latch, looking suddenly frail and uncertain.
"My lord?" Ned prompted.
"Inside this room lies the future of House Stark," the old man said quietly. "Or its salvation. I'm not sure there's a difference anymore."
The door opened with a creak of ancient hinges.
The room beyond was awash in pale light from tall windows that looked out over the Summer Sea. Salt-sweet air stirred gauzy curtains, carrying the cries of seabirds and the distant crash of waves. It was a peaceful place, or should have been, but grief had settled here too like morning mist.
A nursemaid rose from a chair beside a carved wooden cradle, curtsying as they entered. She was young, with the dark hair and olive skin common to Dorne, her eyes red from weeping. "My lords," she whispered.
"Leave us," Lord Vorian commanded gently. "See that we're not disturbed."
When the door closed behind her, the silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Ned stood frozen, unsure what he was supposed to do or see. The cradle sat in a pool of sunlight, carved from what looked like weirwood, pale as bone and smooth as silk.
"Go on," Lord Vorian urged. "Look."
Ned approached the cradle on legs that felt like water. His heart hammered against his ribs, though he couldn't say why. Some instinct, some deep knowledge that his life was about to change again, and not in ways he could control or understand.
He looked down.
The infant was small, as all babes were, swaddled in silk the color of winter sky. But there was something about him, something that made Ned's breath catch in his throat. The child was awake, staring up at him with eyes that were far too alert, far too knowing for a babe of such tender years.
And those eyes—
One was grey, the deep grey of a winter storm, the Stark grey that ran true in his bloodline. But the other was violet, deep and rich as amethyst, the legendary purple of House Dayne.
Heterochromia. The word came from some half-remembered lesson with Maester Walys. He'd heard of it but never seen it, this rare condition where each eye bore a different color. The effect was striking, unsettling, as if the child were looking at him with the gaze of two different people.
The babe. The babe. The babe that Ashara had died giving birth to. He had heard all the words, understood every one of them—yet for some reason, his grief-addled mind had refused to make the connection until this moment.
"His name is Harold," Lord Vorian said quietly. "Brandon's son. Born two weeks ago. My Ashara's..."
The words hit Ned like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. His hands gripped the edge of the cradle to keep from staggering. Brandon's son. Not a bastard, but a trueborn heir. The future Lord of Winterfell lay before him, tiny and helpless and perfect.
Brandon has a son. The line continues. Winterfell has its heir.
The thought blazed through him like wildfire, burning away the fog of exhaustion and grief. He wasn't alone. The weight of House Stark's future didn't rest solely on his shoulders anymore. This child—Harold, named for kings—was Brandon's legacy, his bloodline, his continuation.
"He's beautiful," Ned whispered, and meant it. There was something in the child's face that spoke of Brandon, some echo of his brother in the set of the jaw, the shape of the nose. "He looks like him. Like Brandon."
"Aye. The resemblance grows stronger each day." Lord Vorian moved to stand beside him, both men gazing down at the babe. "He's a healthy child, strong of limb and lung. The wet nurse says he rarely cries, as if he's content to simply watch and listen."
As if he understands.
The thought was foolish, but Ned couldn't shake it. The child's gaze was too direct, too focused. Most babes that age saw little beyond shadows and light, but Harold seemed to be studying him, weighing and measuring like a lord taking stock of his holdings.
"What will you do?" Lord Vorian asked. "He is Brandon's trueborn son, which makes him—"
"The rightful Lord of Winterfell," Ned finished. "When he comes of age."
The old man nodded. "House Dayne cannot raise him. We are Dornish, followers of the Seven. He needs to be Northern, to learn the old ways, to rule as his father would have ruled. He belongs with you, Lord Eddard. He belongs in the North."
Another secret. Another lie. How many can one man carry before the weight crushes him?
But this lie, at least, needn't be a lie anymore. The realm would see Harold as his nephew, Brandon's posthumous son raised by a loving uncle. They wouldn't need to know about Jon, about promises made in blood and shadow. This child could carry the Stark name openly, proudly.
Ned reached down with one weathered hand, calloused from sword and rein. The child's eyes tracked the movement, and when Ned's finger brushed his tiny cheek, Harold turned toward the touch like a flower seeking sun.
"I'll protect him," Ned vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll raise him as Brandon would have wanted. He'll know his father's name, his father's honor."
Brandon. You fool. You magnificent, reckless fool. You left us. But you left this. You left hope.
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Author's note:
I wonder how many of you were confused at Ned's lack of reaction when Lord Dayne mentioned the baby. For some reason, writing it that way felt really funny to me.
But in any case, I hope you enjoyed reading this. Thank you.
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