Northern Camp Outside King's Landing, 283 AC
The oil lamp flickered like a dying star in Lord Eddard Stark's command tent, casting restless shadows across maps of the Seven Kingdoms that suddenly seemed to chart an entirely different world than the one he'd awakened to that morning. The Northern lord sat hunched over his campaign desk, his weathered hands pressed flat against the rough wood as if it were the only solid thing left in a reality that had shifted beneath his feet like quicksand.
His grey eyes—the color of winter storms—stared unseeing at the campaign maps, his mind churning through implications that rewrote everything he thought he knew about honor, duty, and the price of keeping one's word.
*Everything I thought I knew was a lie.*
Princess Elia's words still echoed in his mind with the force of a physical blow, each syllable precisely enunciated in that musical Dornish accent: *"Lyanna wasn't kidnapped, Lord Stark. She eloped. She married Rhaegar willingly—both of us did, in the old Targaryen fashion. Your sister is carrying his child, and she has never loved Robert Baratheon. Not for a single day."*
The revelation had hit him like a war hammer to the chest, driving the breath from his lungs and leaving him reeling. The war that had consumed the realm, the deaths of his father and brother, the destruction of an ancient dynasty—all of it based on a fundamental misunderstanding.
*Father died thinking Lyanna was being raped by a madman. Brandon died trying to save a sister who didn't need saving. And I... I helped destroy a kingdom to rescue someone who was exactly where she wanted to be.*
He pushed back from the desk with sudden violence, the chair scraping against the tent's wooden floor with a sound like fingernails on stone. The irony was bitter as winter wind, cold enough to freeze the marrow in a man's bones. He'd spent months planning this campaign, months coordinating with Robert and Jon Arryn to bring down the Targaryen regime and "rescue" his sister from her supposed captivity.
Every battle, every death, every strategic decision had been driven by the certainty that Lyanna was suffering, that she needed him to save her. The image of his proud, fierce sister broken and brutalized had haunted his dreams and driven his waking fury.
*And all this time, she was married. Happy, perhaps, or at least content with her choice. Carrying a child conceived in love rather than violence.*
He began to pace the confines of his tent like a caged direwolf, his long legs eating up the small space in measured strides. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the camp settling in for the night—men talking around cook fires, their voices carrying the easy camaraderie of soldiers who'd shared victory and survived to tell the tale. Horses nickered softly in the picket lines. Someone was playing a lute badly, the melody stumbling over itself like a drunk in an alley.
They had no idea how hollow that victory was. How meaningless their triumph seemed when weighed against the truths that had driven them to war.
*And Lyanna... gods, Lyanna never loved Robert at all. How could I have been so blind?*
The more he thought about it—really thought about it, without the comfortable assumptions he'd wrapped around his sister's situation like a warm winter cloak—the clearer it became. The signs had always been there, bright as wildfire if he'd bothered to look.
Lyanna's pointed comments about not wanting to marry "a man who keeps whores and drinks himself senseless." Her questions about whether she truly had to honor a betrothal arranged when she was a child, before she'd even flowered. The way she'd gone quiet and withdrawn whenever Robert visited Winterfell, how she'd found excuses to avoid his company, slipping away to the godswood or the practice yards or anywhere else she might escape his booming laughter and increasingly possessive attentions.
*She tried to tell me, didn't she? In her way, with that stubborn Stark pride, she tried to make me understand. But I was so focused on Robert's happiness, on honoring the agreement between our fathers, that I refused to hear what she was actually saying.*
He'd put blinders on himself, convinced that his sister would learn to love Robert once they were wed, that duty would transform itself into affection given time and proximity. It was what lords told themselves when arranging marriages—that love would follow where duty led, like a faithful hound trailing its master.
*How arrogant of me. How typically, blindly male. Assuming I knew what was best for her, what would make her happy, without ever truly asking what she wanted for herself.*
The memory came unbidden: Lyanna at sixteen, wild and fierce as a winter storm, her grey eyes flashing with the kind of righteous anger that had gotten more than one Stark killed over the centuries.
*"You men," she'd said, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant someone was about to get their pride handed to them in bloody strips, "you're all the same, aren't you? You make your plans and your bargains, trading us about like prize mares, and you never think to ask what we might want. What we might dream of. What might make us happy instead of just... useful."*
He'd dismissed it as the complaints of youth, the natural resistance any spirited girl might have to an arranged marriage. He'd told himself she'd understand when she was older, when she saw how good Robert was, how much he loved her.
*Love. What did I know about love? I was seventeen years old and thought I understood the human heart.*
But it was the final revelation that truly staggered him, the one that threatened to overturn not just his understanding of the war but his entire conception of his own identity and responsibilities.
*Brandon married Ashara Dayne. They had a son—a legitimate son. Which means...*
The implications crashed over him like a tide of ice water. If Brandon had died leaving a trueborn male heir, then Ned was not the rightful Lord of Winterfell. He was not the Warden of the North. Everything he'd inherited, everything he'd assumed was his by right of birth and death, belonged to a child he'd never met.
*A one-year-old boy somewhere in Dorne, probably unaware that he's one of the most powerful lords in Westeros.*
The thought should have devastated him. Should have filled him with resentment or anger or at least regret for the life he was about to lose. Should have made him question Princess Elia's motives, wonder if this was some elaborate Dornish plot to destabilize the North.
Instead, what he felt was something like... relief.
*I never wanted this. I never wanted to be Lord of Winterfell, never wanted the burden of ruling the North. I was always meant to be the spare, the younger brother who found his own path in the world.*
Brandon had been born for leadership, had worn command like a second skin from the moment he could walk. Where Ned was cautious and thoughtful, Brandon had been bold and decisive. Where Ned preferred to listen before speaking, Brandon had possessed that rare gift of making men want to follow him into the jaws of hell itself.
*It seems fitting that his son should inherit what was always meant to be his father's. The wheel turns, and the Stark line continues through its rightful heir.*
Still, the practical implications were staggering. A child couldn't rule, which meant years of regency, political maneuvering, potential challenges to the boy's claim. Lords who'd bent the knee to Ned Stark might balk at accepting a one-year-old they'd never seen, whose very existence called into question months of established authority.
And all of this assuming the child had survived the chaos following the fall of King's Landing. Tywin Lannister's reputation for thoroughness was well-earned, and loose ends had a way of disappearing permanently when the Lord of Casterly Rock decided they were inconvenient.
*Princess Elia said Ashara went to Starfall to help with the birth. If the child is alive, if he's truly Brandon's legitimate son, then I have a duty to find him. To protect him. To ensure his birthright is acknowledged.*
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his brooding thoughts—familiar voices outside his tent, the particular cadence of men who'd shared battles and bloodshed and the peculiar intimacy of war. His bannermen, probably coming to discuss tomorrow's logistics or share wine and companionship after their victory.
The Greatjon's booming laugh cut through the night air like a friendly thunderclap. "—telling you, the look on that Lannister knight's face when he saw our banners! Like he'd swallowed a live toad! Thought he was going to piss himself right there in the saddle!"
"Language, my lord," came Lord Cerwyn's mild reproach, though there was amusement in his voice. "There might be ladies about."
"Ladies?" The Greatjon's voice rose another octave. "What ladies? Unless you're counting that Bay gelding of yours, and I've got my doubts about his pedigree—"
But Ned found he had no stomach for celebration, no desire for the kind of military camaraderie that had sustained him through months of campaign. How could he drink to their triumph when he now understood the cost? How could he celebrate the fall of King's Landing when he knew it had all been built on a lie as fragile as spun glass?
"My lord?" Ser Rodrik Cassel's voice carried through the tent flap, respectfully cautious in the way of a man who'd served the Stark family long enough to read the moods of his lords like a farmer reading weather signs. "The Greatjon and Lord Cerwyn wish to speak with you about tomorrow's arrangements. Something about billeting and supply lines, though between you and me, I think they mostly want an excuse to finish that cask of Dornish red they've been nursing since Harrenhal."
Ned paused in his pacing, one hand coming up to rub at his temples where a headache was building like storm clouds on the horizon. "Not tonight, Ser Rodrik," he called back, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears—hollow, distant, like an echo from the bottom of a well. "I need... I need time to think. Alone."
There was a pause, filled with the kind of significant silence that passed between men who'd known each other for decades. Then came the sound of Rodrik's weathered voice, pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry to the disappointed lords, explaining with the diplomatic skill of a man who'd spent twenty years managing the moods of Stark lords.
"Another time, my lords. His lordship has... matters of state to consider. You know how it is after a victory—reports to write, prisoners to catalogue, widows to notify. The work of lords is never done."
Ned was grateful for his master-at-arms' discretion. Rodrik had served the Stark family since before Ned was born, had been there when Brandon took his first steps, had taught both brothers how to hold a sword and how to die with dignity. If anyone understood the weight that could settle on a man's shoulders after a battle, it was Ser Rodrik Cassel.
*And this is certainly difficult. The most difficult decision I've ever faced.*
Because Robert would be here tomorrow, riding into camp with that booming laugh and those fierce blue eyes bright with victory and anticipation. His oldest friend, his king, the man who'd fought beside him to "rescue" Lyanna from her supposed captivity. The man who'd dreamed of her for over a year, who spoke her name like a prayer and planned their future like a fairy tale.
And Ned would have to look him in the eye and... what? Tell him the truth? Lie by omission? Find some middle ground that satisfied honor without destroying the man who'd trusted him above all others?
*Robert will want to know where Lyanna is. He'll want to claim his bride, to finally marry the woman he's dreamed of for over a year. He'll want to see justice done to those who "kidnapped" her, who kept her from him all these months.*
*How do I tell him that she never wanted him? That she's carrying another man's child? That everything we fought for was meaningless from the very beginning?*
The answer, he realized with growing certainty, was that he couldn't. Not directly. Not in a way that wouldn't shatter Robert's spirit and probably lead to even more bloodshed.
*Because Robert won't accept it quietly. He'll rage, he'll demand vengeance, he'll want to hunt down everyone involved in this "deception." And that means Lyanna, her unborn child, Princess Elia and her children—all of them would be in mortal danger.*
The thought of innocent children being murdered because of his revelation made Ned's stomach clench with nausea. Whatever else might be said of Robert's character—and there was much that could be said, not all of it flattering—his friend had a blind spot when it came to Targaryens that was both predictable and terrifying.
The massacre at King's Landing had proven that beyond any doubt. Hearing the increasingly gruesome accounts of what the Lannister forces did sickened him.
*I can't let that happen again. I won't be responsible for more dead children, no matter what the cost to myself or my friendship with Robert.*
Which meant protecting them all—Princess Elia and her children, Lyanna and her unborn babe, even the nephew he'd never met who was apparently his lord in truth. It meant lying to his oldest friend, betraying the trust between them, carrying secrets that would poison every future interaction.
*But some betrayals are necessary. Some lies serve honor better than truth.*
The philosophical implications made his head spin. Honor had always been his lodestone, the fixed point around which his entire identity revolved. Honor was what separated a knight from a sellsword, a lord from a tyrant, a man from a beast. Honor was what his father had died for, what Brandon had died for, what he himself would die for if necessary.
But what happened when honor demanded dishonor? When keeping one's word meant breaking another? When protecting the innocent required deceiving the righteous?
*Perhaps Brandon would have found a third option. Some clever solution that satisfied all parties and left everyone happy. He was always better at that sort of thing—seeing the angles I missed, finding the path between the rocks that I couldn't navigate.*
But Brandon was dead, killed by a madman's spite and a misunderstanding that might have been avoided with a single honest conversation. And Ned was left to clean up the mess with whatever tools he had available.
He moved to the tent's entrance, pushing aside the heavy canvas flap to step into the cool night air. The Northern camp sprawled around him under a canopy of stars, cook fires dotting the darkness like fallen constellations. His men—*Brandon's men, if I'm being honest about it*—settled in for the night, confident in their victory and trusting in their lord's leadership.
If only they knew how unworthy of that trust he felt tonight.
*I'll need to double the guard around Princess Elia and the children. Make sure no one can get to them, but also that they can't leave camp without my knowledge. For their own protection as much as anything else.*
It wasn't quite imprisonment—he told himself it was protection, security, ensuring their safety in a chaotic time when loyalties shifted like sand and old grudges demanded blood payment. But he wasn't fool enough to ignore the reality of the situation. He was essentially holding them under house arrest until he could figure out how to navigate the political minefield their very existence represented.
*And I'll need to leave as soon as Robert arrives. Find some excuse to ride out immediately, before he can ask too many questions or demand too much information.*
The Tower of Joy. Princess Elia had mentioned it specifically—an ancient Dayne stronghold where Lyanna was supposedly waiting out her pregnancy under the protection of Kingsguard knights who should have been defending their king at the Trident. It made sense, in a twisted way. If you were going to hide from the world while empires crumbled around you, what better place than a remote tower in the middle of the Dornish mountains?
*I'll tell Robert I've received intelligence about Lyanna's location. That I need to investigate immediately, before the trail goes cold. He'll want to come with me, of course—probably insist on it—but I can convince him that his presence is needed here, that the realm needs its king to consolidate power rather than chase after shadows.*
It wasn't exactly a lie—he had received intelligence about Lyanna's location. He just wasn't mentioning the source or the full context of that intelligence. The kind of careful omission that would have made his father frown with disappointment.
*Father always said that honor was like maidenhood—once lost, it could never be truly recovered. I wonder what he'd think of his son now, preparing to lie to his king and closest friend.*
The sound of approaching horses interrupted his dark thoughts—late arrivals to the camp, probably scouts returning with reports or message riders bearing news from other fronts. He watched the torchlight bob through the darkness, noting the disciplined way the riders moved, the quality of their horses and equipment.
*Good men, loyal men. Men who've followed me through months of war because they believe in the cause we've been fighting for. How do I tell them that cause was built on a misunderstanding? How do I lead them forward when I'm no longer certain what we're leading them toward?*
But even as the doubts plagued him like winter fever, Ned found his resolve crystallizing. He might not be able to control the larger situation, might not be able to undo the lies and misunderstandings that had led to so much death and destruction. But he could control his own actions, his own choices.
*I'll protect them. All of them. Princess Elia and her children, Lyanna and her child, my nephew who should be sitting in my place. Whatever the cost to myself, whatever lies I have to tell or truths I have to conceal, I'll keep them safe.*
It was, he realized, what Brandon would have wanted. What his brother would have done, if their positions were reversed. Brandon had always been willing to sacrifice for family, to put the welfare of those he loved above his own interests. He'd died trying to protect Lyanna, even if he'd been protecting her from the wrong threat.
*And if that makes me a liar and an oath-breaker, so be it. Some oaths are worth breaking when they serve a higher purpose.*
The philosophical implications still troubled him—they probably always would—but he could live with being wrong about honor if it meant keeping children alive. He could bear the weight of deception if it meant protecting the innocent from the consequences of other people's mistakes.
"Brooding again, my lord?"
The voice came from behind him, dry as old leather and carrying just enough amusement to take the sting out of what might have been criticism. Ned didn't turn around—he didn't need to. There was only one man in the entire army who would approach him with such casual familiarity.
"Ser Rodrik." Ned's lips quirked in what might have been a smile under different circumstances. "I thought you were redirecting disappointed lords away from my tent."
"I was. Job's done." The sound of footsteps on grass, the creak of old leather and older joints as his master-at-arms settled into a comfortable stance nearby. "Greatjon's drowning his sorrows in that Dornish red, Lord Cerwyn's writing letters to his wife, and the rest are playing dice and telling lies about their prowess in battle. Standard post-victory entertainment."
"And you decided to check on your brooding lord instead?"
"Someone has to." Rodrik's voice carried that particular blend of affection and exasperation that had characterized his relationship with three generations of Stark lords. "You've got that look about you—same one your father used to get when he was wrestling with decisions that kept him up nights. Same one your brother got before he did something spectacularly noble and completely stupid."
*You always were too perceptive for your own good, old friend.*
"Perhaps I'm just tired," Ned said, though he knew it was a weak deflection. "It's been a long campaign."
"Aye, it has." There was a pause, filled with the comfortable silence of two men who'd shared enough battles to understand that some truths couldn't be rushed. "Long enough for a man to start questioning whether the thing he's been fighting for is the same thing he thought it was when he started."
Ned turned then, studying his master-at-arms' weathered face in the flickering torchlight. Ser Rodrik Cassel looked like what he was—a man who'd spent forty years in service to House Stark, who'd seen lords rise and fall and learned to read the signs that preceded both. His grey hair was thinning, his face was mapped with lines earned through four decades of Northern winters, and his pale eyes missed very little.
"What makes you say that?"
"Experience." Rodrik's smile was sharp as a blade and twice as cutting. "I've seen enough campaigns to know the difference between a lord who's satisfied with his victory and one who's discovered that victory tastes like ashes in his mouth. You're wearing the second look tonight, my lord."
*Of course he'd notice. Of course he'd see through whatever mask I thought I was wearing.*
"The war is won," Ned said carefully, testing the words like a man prodding a suspicious wound. "Robert will be king, the realm will have peace, justice will be served. What more could any man want?"
"Justice." Rodrik repeated the word like he was tasting wine, rolling it around his mouth before deciding whether to swallow or spit. "That's a fine word, my lord. Noble. Means different things to different men, though. What's justice to one man might be murder to another. What's mercy to one might be cowardice to his neighbor."
The observation hung in the air between them like smoke from a dying fire, laden with implications that neither man wanted to address directly. Ned found himself thinking of Robert's proclamations to kill any and all Targaryens.
*Justice. Yes, we've certainly seen Robert's brand of justice at work.*
"You disagree with the king's... methods?" Ned asked, his voice carefully neutral. This was dangerous ground—questioning a king's justice could be construed as treason, even in private conversation between old friends.
"I'm a knight, my lord. I follow orders and keep my opinions to myself." Rodrik's tone was equally careful, but there was steel beneath the diplomatic words. "Though I will say that in forty years of service, I've learned to tell the difference between justice and vengeance. They may look similar from a distance, but up close, the smell is different."
*The smell is different.* Trust Rodrik to reduce complex moral philosophy to something as simple and immediate as a man's senses.
"And what do you smell now, Ser Rodrik?"
The older knight was quiet for a long moment, his pale eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the camp's perimeter. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom and carefully considered words.
"Trouble, my lord. The kind that comes when good men make hard choices and have to live with the consequences. The kind that follows a man around like a lame dog, always there, always needing attention."
The accuracy of the assessment was almost painful. Ned felt something in his chest tighten, a knot of tension and guilt and desperate hope that somehow, someone else might understand the impossible situation he found himself in.
"And what would you counsel a man in such circumstances?"
"Depends on the man." Rodrik's smile was grim as winter. "Some men are built to carry heavy burdens. Others break under the weight. The trick is knowing which kind you are before you pick up the load."
*And what kind am I? What kind was Brandon? What kind should I be?*
"I've been thinking about Brandon lately," Ned said, surprising himself with the admission. "Wondering what he would have done in my place. Whether he would have made different choices."
"Lord Brandon was a fine man," Rodrik said carefully, and Ned could hear the affection in the older knight's voice, tempered by a lifetime of serving Stark lords and watching them make both brilliant and catastrophic decisions. "Bold as brass and twice as bright. But he had a talent for seeing things in simple terms—black and white, right and wrong, friend and enemy. Sometimes that served him well. Sometimes..."
"Sometimes it got him killed."
"Aye." The word was soft, but it carried the weight of grief that had never fully healed. "Sometimes it did."
They stood in comfortable silence for a while, two men who'd lost someone they cared about and learned to live with the empty space he'd left behind. Around them, the camp continued its nightly routine—guards changing shifts, horses stamping and snorting in the picket lines, the distant sound of men's voices raised in song or argument or simple conversation.
"There's something else troubling you tonight," Rodrik observed eventually, his tone suggesting that it wasn't really a question. "Something more than the usual post-battle blues. You've got news, haven't you? News that changes things."
*Too perceptive by half.*
"What makes you think that?"
"Because you've been standing out here for the better part of an hour, staring off into the darkness like you're seeing visions of the future. And because in all the years I've served your family, I've learned to recognize the look a man gets when he discovers that everything he thought he knew was wrong."
The observation was so close to his own thoughts that Ned almost smiled despite the grimness of the situation. "You always were too clever for a simple knight, Ser Rodrik."
"Simple knight, my lord?" Rodrik's chuckle was dry as dust. "I've been managing Stark lords for forty years. If that doesn't make a man clever, nothing will. Though I have to say, you boys have certainly kept me on my toes. Never a dull moment in service to House Stark."
*If only you knew how interesting things are about to become.*
"Ser Rodrik," Ned said, his voice taking on the formal cadence that meant business was about to be conducted, "I need you to do something for me. Something that may seem... unusual."
"I'm listening, my lord."
"I need you to select a dozen of our most trusted men. Veterans, men who've served House Stark for years, men who understand the value of discretion and won't ask inconvenient questions about orders that don't make immediate sense."
Rodrik's expression didn't change, but Ned could see the sharpening of attention that meant his master-at-arms was cataloguing implications and possibilities with the speed of long experience.
"For what purpose, my lord?"
"To ensure the safety of our... guests. Princess Elia and her children. They're under our protection now, and that protection needs to be absolute. No one enters their quarters without my direct permission. No one leaves without the same. And if anyone asks why..."
"Security concerns," Rodrik finished, his understanding immediate and complete. "Standard precautions for high-value prisoners during a chaotic period when loyalties are uncertain and old grudges run deep."
*Prisoners.* The word sat uneasily in Ned's mind, but he couldn't argue with its accuracy. For their own safety, for the safety of everyone involved, Princess Elia and her children were effectively his prisoners now.
"Exactly. Can you handle that without drawing undue attention?"
"My lord," Rodrik said with the confidence of a man who'd been solving complex problems for four decades, "I once managed to keep Lord Brandon from starting three separate wars in a single week, convince your father that his younger son wasn't actually plotting rebellion, and arrange supplies for a thousand men without anyone noticing we were preparing for campaign. I think I can manage a few guards and some creative explanations."
*Of course you can. I should have known better than to question your capabilities.*
"There's more," Ned continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "When Robert arrives tomorrow, I'll be leaving almost immediately. There are matters I need to attend to personally, things that can't wait for proper delegation or political convenience."
His master-at-arms studied him with the keen eye of someone who'd served the Stark family long enough to recognize the signs of impending disaster. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Lady Lyanna, would it?"
The question hung in the air between them like a sword blade, sharp and dangerous and impossible to ignore. Ned met his old friend's gaze steadily, seeing decades of loyalty and service and discretion reflected in those pale eyes.
"It might. Why do you ask?"
"Because in all the years I've known you, my lord, I've never seen you look quite so much like your brother did when he was planning something that would either save the world or get him killed." Rodrik's smile was grim as winter steel. "Usually both at the same time."
*An apt comparison. Let's hope I have better luck with the 'not getting killed' part.*
"Some things are worth the risk, Ser Rodrik."
"Aye, my lord. They are indeed." The older knight paused, his expression becoming thoughtful. "Though if I might make a suggestion?"
"Of course."
"When you ride out tomorrow—and we both know you will, whatever excuse you give the king—take good men with you. Men who know how to keep their mouths shut and their swords sharp. Men who'll follow you into the seven hells if necessary and won't ask stupid questions about why they're going there."
"Any recommendations?"
Rodrik's grin was sharp as a blade. "I know a few candidates. Men who've been with us since the beginning, who understand that sometimes the right thing to do isn't the same as the legal thing to do. Men who remember what honor actually means, not just what people say it means."
*Men like you, in other words. Men who understand that sometimes protecting the innocent requires breaking a few rules.*
"I would appreciate that, Ser Rodrik. More than you know."
"Just doing my job, my lord. Same as always." The older knight straightened, his manner becoming more formal as he prepared to execute his orders. "Though I will say this—whatever you're planning, whatever secrets you're carrying, be careful. The game's changed since the war began, and the rules aren't the same as they used to be. Men who might have been allies yesterday could be enemies tomorrow, and the line between justice and vengeance gets thinner every day."
*Wise words. I'll try to remember them when I'm explaining to Robert why I've disappeared in the middle of the night to chase shadows in Dorne.*
After his master-at-arms left to make the necessary arrangements, Ned found himself alone again with his thoughts and the growing weight of tomorrow's deceptions. He moved to the small table where he kept his writing supplies, pulling out parchment and ink with the deliberate care of a man who knew that the wrong words could destroy kingdoms.
If he was going to lie to Robert—and he was, he'd accepted that necessity with the bitter resignation of a man choosing between equally unpalatable options—then he needed to craft those lies carefully. They had to be believable, had to contain enough truth to satisfy his friend's suspicions without revealing the full scope of what he knew.
*A letter from Dornish sources, perhaps. Intelligence suggesting Lyanna's location, but vague enough to justify immediate investigation. Something that explains my urgency without revealing my certainty.*
He began to write, choosing his words with the care of a man who knew that lives might depend on their precision:
*Robert—By the time you read this, I will have departed for the Tower of Joy in Dorne, following intelligence that suggests Lyanna may be held there. The source of this information came too late to wait for your arrival, and I feared that delay might mean losing her trail entirely. You know how it is with these Dornish—they're like smoke, here one moment and gone the next. I go with a small party, hoping that speed and discretion will succeed where a larger force might fail. I have left detailed instructions for the army's disposition and the security of our prisoners with Ser Rodrik. Trust that I will send word as soon as I know more, and pray to the old gods and the new that we're not too late.—Ned*
He read it over twice, checking for anything that might raise uncomfortable questions. It wasn't entirely a lie—he did have intelligence about Lyanna's location, he was concerned about losing the trail, and he was indeed planning to go with a small party. The fact that his intelligence came from Princess Elia rather than Dornish spies, and that his real urgency stemmed from protecting secrets rather than rescuing a kidnapped sister... well, those were details Robert didn't need to know.
*At least not yet. Perhaps never, if I can find a way to resolve this without destroying him.*
He sealed the letter with his personal seal and set it aside, to be delivered after his departure. By the time Robert read it, Ned would be halfway to Dorne and well beyond the reach of his friend's questions or demands to accompany him.
*One more deception. One more step down a path that leads away from everything I thought I knew about honor and duty.*
But as he finally settled into his bedroll, staring up at the tent's canvas ceiling while the camp's night sounds surrounded him like a familiar lullaby, Ned found that he could live with the deceptions. What he wasn't sure he could live with was the alternative—watching innocent children die because the truth was too dangerous to reveal.
*Brandon died for a lie he believed was truth. I'll live with a lie I know serves a greater good. Perhaps that's the difference between us—he was always ready to die for his principles. I'm apparently ready to abandon mine to protect the people I love.*
Outside, a night bird called from the darkness, its voice carrying across the sleeping army like a prayer or a warning. Tomorrow would bring Robert, would bring the need for careful words and managed truths. Tomorrow would begin his journey toward revelations that might change everything.
But tonight, for just a few more hours, Ned Stark could simply be a man trying to protect his family, whatever the cost to himself.
It would have to be enough. Because in the game of thrones, sometimes being a good man meant being a bad king's friend.
And sometimes, honor demanded dishonor.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!