# Riverrun, The Lord's Chambers
*Later that night*
The fire had burned to sullen embers in the great hearth, casting restless shadows that danced across tapestries depicting the ancient victories of House Tully. The chamber felt smaller in the dying light, intimate in the way that only shared spaces could become when the weight of the world pressed close against stone walls and leaded windows.
Catelyn sat curled in the deep window seat, her auburn hair spilling loose about her shoulders like burnished copper in the firelight. Baby Robb slept against her breast, one tiny fist tangled in the silk of her nightrobe, his breathing soft and even against the storm of emotion that had swept through the evening like wildfire through dry wheat.
Her blue eyes—Tully blue, her father had always said with pride—were fixed upon the Tumblestone far below, where moonlight turned the flowing water to molten silver. Yet she saw none of it, her mind turning over the revelations of the night like a woman examining a tapestry for flaws, finding each thread more tangled than the last.
Ned stood by the dying fire, still dressed despite the lateness of the hour. His brown hair was disheveled from the habit of running his fingers through it when deep thoughts troubled him, and the grey wool of his doublet bore wrinkles that spoke of a man who had forgotten to care for such small vanities in the face of larger concerns.
His hands were clasped behind his back in that particular way that marked him as his father's son—shoulders square despite the weight they carried, chin lifted with stubborn Northern pride, grey eyes holding depths that few ever plumbed but which spoke of ice and iron and the long winters that shaped the blood of Winterfell's children.
The silence stretched between them like a bridge neither dared cross, fraught with words unspoken and truths that cut deeper than Valyrian steel.
"Well," Catelyn said at last, her voice carrying that particular crystalline quality that came when she was working very hard to keep her emotions tightly leashed. "I suppose I should congratulate you, my lord husband. You've managed something I would have thought impossible—making a Tully feel like a fool for trusting in bargains made in good faith."
Ned winced as if she had struck him, though he made no move to defend himself. That was his way—to take the blow, examine it for truth, and bear whatever justice it contained without complaint or excuse.
"Cat..." he began, then stopped, shaking his head with the weary gesture of a man who had found no good words in all his searching. "By all the old gods and the new, there are no words that can make this right. No apologies that can undo what's been done."
"Oh, but there are words," she said, turning from the window to fix him with eyes that blazed like blue flame. "Simple words that might have saved us all this pain. 'My brother had a son.' Four words, Ned. Four words that could have been spoken months ago, before I bore your child believing he would inherit the North. Before my father spent a fortune preparing celebrations for alliances that never existed."
She shifted the baby against her chest, her voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that those who knew Catelyn Stark had learned to fear above her shouts.
"Before I fell in love with dreams that were built on lies."
"They weren't lies," Ned said quietly, moving away from the fire to pace before the hearth like a caged direwolf. His voice carried that particular Northern cadence—measured, deliberate, honest to a fault even when honesty cut like a blade. "When I married you, I believed myself Lord of Winterfell. When you bore my son, I believed him heir to the North. The lie was in what I didn't know, not in what I told you."
Catelyn's laugh was sharp as breaking glass, musical and bitter at once. "A distinction that philosophers might appreciate, my lord, but which provides precious little comfort to wives who find themselves married to men whose inheritance exists only in their own ignorance."
"And what would you have had me do?" The words came out rougher than he intended, frustration bleeding through the careful control he wore like armor. "When the raven came from Dorne, when I learned the truth—should I have kept silent? Let my nephew remain hidden while I ruled lands that were never mine by right?"
He stopped his pacing, grey eyes meeting blue with the kind of direct honesty that made him impossible to hate despite everything.
"Should I have chosen my comfort over his birthright? Your dreams over his inheritance?"
"I would have had you tell me," she said, her voice rising despite her efforts to keep it controlled. Baby Robb stirred against her chest, and she immediately gentled her tone, though the fire in her eyes burned no less bright. "I would have had you trust your wife with truth, rather than leaving her to learn it before half the Riverlands nobility like some... some merchant's daughter discovering her husband's debts at market."
The accusation hung between them like a sword, and Ned felt the justice in it settle into his bones like winter cold. She was right—whatever necessities had driven his choices, she deserved better than public humiliation built on private ignorance.
"You're right," he said simply, the admission costing him nothing because it was true. "You deserved to know. You deserved time to understand, to prepare. I failed you in that, Cat. I failed us both."
The ready acknowledgment seemed to rob some of the wind from her sails, though her eyes remained wary. She had married a Stark, after all, and Starks were dangerous in their honesty—liable to admit faults so readily that anger had nowhere to take hold, like trying to strike fog with a sword.
"Don't," she said warningly. "Don't you dare try to manage me with that Northern honor of yours, Ned Stark. Don't think you can make this disappear with noble admissions and self-recrimination."
"I'm not trying to manage anything," he replied with a slight smile that held more sadness than humor. "I'm trying to survive a conversation with my wife, who happens to be the most intelligent person in this castle and considerably angrier than I've seen her since she caught me trying to teach Robb swordwork at six months old."
Despite herself, despite everything, Catelyn felt her lips twitch at the memory. "He couldn't even hold his head up properly."
"He showed promise," Ned said solemnly. "Good grip strength. Natural warrior instincts."
"He was trying to eat the pommel, you impossible man."
"Exactly. Testing the weapon's balance and construction. Very thorough approach to martial evaluation."
The brief moment of shared humor flickered between them like candlelight, illuminating the deeper currents of affection that ran beneath the surface anger. But it could not last, not with the weight of revelation still settling between them like stones.
"So," Catelyn said, her voice resuming its careful neutrality. "My son will inherit nothing save his name and whatever charity his cousin sees fit to provide. The political alliance my father negotiated has proven as substantial as morning mist. And I find myself in the position of... what, exactly? The wife of a younger son who serves as regent to the child who supplanted him?"
Each word was chosen with the precision of a master archer, designed to find the gaps in his emotional armor and lodge deep. Yet Ned made no move to deflect them, accepting each barbed truth as his due.
"If that's how you see it," he said quietly.
"How else should I see it?" The question came out sharper than she intended, frustration bleeding through diplomatic composure. "What pretty words will you use to dress up the reality that everything I believed about our future was built on ignorance and maintained by silence?"
Ned was quiet for a long moment, grey eyes distant as he searched for words that might bridge the chasm that had opened between them. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of careful thought and deeper understanding.
"I would say that your son—our son—will inherit something more valuable than lands or titles. He'll inherit knowledge, Cat. Real knowledge, hard-won and practical, about how to build things that matter. How to take raw stone and mortar and men's sweat and create something that serves the realm for generations."
He moved to the window, looking out at the moonlit river as he organized thoughts too complex for simple explanation.
"The Crown is funding massive construction projects in the North. Part of Princess Rhaenys's dowry, since she's been betrothed to Cregan by royal command. The complete restoration of Moat Cailin—not just repairs, but full reconstruction to original defensive capability. And the creation of a major deepwater port at Sea Dragon Point, with all the infrastructure that requires."
Catelyn's tactical mind immediately began working through implications, her anger temporarily set aside in favor of the kind of political calculation that had made her father's most valued advisor.
"Someone needs to oversee such projects," she said slowly. "To manage the construction, establish the administrative systems, govern the territories that grow around them."
"Exactly. I've spoken with Ashara—as Cregan's mother, she needed to be consulted about any arrangements affecting his holdings. We agreed that the most sensible approach would be to make Benjen lord of the new port city at Sea Dragon Point, while I take responsibility for Moat Cailin's restoration and governance."
The implications hit her like a physical blow. "Moat Cailin," she breathed. "The gateway between North and South. You're talking about one of the most strategically vital positions in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I'm talking about work worth doing," Ned corrected gently. "About building something that will matter long after we're all dead and buried. About giving our son—our children, gods willing—the chance to prove their worth through achievement rather than accident of birth."
Catelyn was quiet for a long moment, her sharp mind working through possibilities she hadn't considered in the first shock of revelation. When she spoke, her voice carried thoughtful consideration rather than accusation.
"At least we'll be closer to Riverrun," she admitted. "Moat Cailin lies in the southern reaches of the North—I could visit my family without undertaking a months-long expedition through hostile territory."
"There's more," Ned continued, his voice taking on that note of careful revelation that suggested additional complications were about to be shared. "Ser Arthur has offered to train Cregan when he's old enough for proper instruction. The finest sword in the Seven Kingdoms, dedicating himself to the boy's education in combat, strategy, and the protection of those who cannot protect themselves."
Catelyn's eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. "Ser Arthur Dayne? The Sword of the Morning himself? He would serve as master-at-arms to a child?"
"He's already dedicated himself to protecting that particular child," Ned said with gentle correction. "The training would simply be the logical extension of that protection. And his offer extends to our children as well—Robb would train alongside Cregan, learn beside him, grow up as his brother in all but blood."
The significance of that struck her immediately. Boys who trained together, bled together, shared the intimacy of shared instruction under a master like Arthur Dayne—such bonds ran deeper than law or inheritance, deeper than politics or ambition.
"That changes the calculation considerably," she admitted, her voice losing some of its earlier edge. "If Robb grows up as Cregan's closest companion, his most trusted advisor..."
"Then his position becomes unassailable regardless of formal inheritance," Ned finished with satisfaction. "Not the dispossessed cousin dependent on charity, but the indispensable brother, the man the Lord of Winterfell turns to when decisions must be made."
Catelyn fell silent, nursing baby Robb while her mind worked through implications that extended far beyond their immediate family situation. The fire had burned even lower, casting the room into deeper shadows that seemed to mirror the complexity of their circumstances.
"You've thought this through quite thoroughly," she said at length, and there was grudging respect in her voice for the careful planning that had gone into arrangements she was only now learning about.
"I've had considerable motivation," Ned replied with dry humor. "My wife's happiness, my son's future, my nephew's safety, the political stability of the North—all of it hanging in the balance while I tried to find solutions that served everyone rather than just the easiest path forward."
"And what of our future children, should the gods bless us with more?" Catelyn asked, her voice carrying that particular tone mothers used when considering all possibilities, no matter how distant. "What grand plans have you made for daughters who'll inherit nothing, younger sons who'll have even less than Robb?"
"The same opportunities," Ned said immediately, his voice carrying absolute certainty about commitments already made. "Arthur's offer extends to all our children—the finest education available, preparation for lives of meaningful service rather than dependence on inherited position."
He paused, studying her face in the dying firelight before continuing.
"And for daughters, Princess Rhaenys will need companions, advisors, ladies-in-waiting who understand both Northern values and Southern politics. Girls raised in that environment will have opportunities most ladies never dream of—real influence, meaningful responsibility, the chance to shape kingdoms through intelligence rather than just strategic marriages."
"Meaningful responsibility for daughters," Catelyn mused, and there was something almost wondering in her voice. "That's not... traditional."
"Traditional approaches have given us centuries of women with brilliant minds wasted on embroidery and gossip," Ned replied with more heat than usual. "I'd rather raise daughters who can protect themselves and serve the realm than ones who simply wait to be traded for political advantage."
The passionate declaration surprised them both—Ned because he hadn't realized how strongly he felt about it, Catelyn because she had never heard him speak so forcefully about women's roles and capabilities.
"You sound like a Dornishman," she teased gently, though her eyes held warmth for the first time since the evening's revelations began.
"I sound like a man who's spent time with women of quality and noticed they possess the same intelligence as men, only with better sense about when to use it," he corrected with a slight smile. "Present company being the finest example of the principle."
"Flattery, my lord husband?" Catelyn raised an eyebrow with mock severity. "How very unlike you. Should I be concerned that marriage to a Tully has corrupted my Northern lord into Southern courtliness?"
"Marriage to a Tully has taught me that survival sometimes requires tactical use of truth," Ned replied solemnly. "Even when that truth happens to sound like flattery."
Baby Robb chose that moment to demonstrate his opinion of late-night political discussions by making soft fussing sounds that indicated his patience with adult conversation had reached its natural limits. Domestic necessity immediately took precedence over even the weightiest political considerations.
"He's hungry," Catelyn said with maternal certainty, already beginning to adjust her clothing with the practiced efficiency of new motherhood. "And probably wondering why his parents insist on conducting important conversations in voices that disturb properly conducted sleep."
"Wise child," Ned said with fond amusement, settling back in his chair as the familiar rhythm of family life temporarily displaced the chaos of political revelation. "He understands that some problems are best solved after everyone involved has had proper rest and nourishment."
The sight of his wife nursing their son—peaceful, natural, utterly domestic despite the earth-shaking revelations that surrounded them—seemed to ease something tight in Ned's chest that he hadn't realized was clenched like a fist.
"Cat," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of emotion that spoke of approaching territory more dangerous than any battlefield, "I know this isn't the life you expected when you married me. I know my choices—the necessities I've been forced to accept—have cost you things you had every right to expect from our union."
She looked up from the baby, her blue eyes reflecting the dying firelight with an expression that combined love and frustration and something that might have been the beginning of understanding.
"No," she agreed with characteristic honesty, her voice gentle despite the truth it carried. "It isn't the life I expected. But then, Ned Stark, you've never been quite what anyone expected, have you?"
She paused, studying his face with the kind of attention that came from months of marriage and genuine affection despite recent upheavals.
"I didn't marry you for your inheritance, though I won't pretend that wasn't part of the arrangement. I married you because you were the kind of man who would ride into a blizzard to save a stranger's sheep. The kind who would give his cloak to a beggar and spend the night cold rather than see another man shiver."
Her voice grew stronger, more certain as she continued.
"I married you because you have this absolutely maddening tendency to do the right thing even when it costs you everything you value most. Even when it makes everyone around you furious with your stubborn adherence to principles that more practical men would abandon at the first sign of inconvenience."
Ned felt something ease in his chest, a knot of tension he'd carried for weeks finally beginning to loosen.
"Those qualities haven't changed," Catelyn continued with growing conviction. "Your honor led you to acknowledge your nephew's claim even when silence would have served your own interests. Your integrity forced you to reveal truths that other men would have taken to their graves. Your sense of justice drove you to find solutions that protect everyone rather than just advancing your immediate family."
She looked down at baby Robb, then back to her husband with eyes that held all the complexity of love tested by crisis and found to be stronger than expected.
"So no, this marriage may be politically meaningless in the way my father intended. But it's not meaningless to me, you impossible, honorable, infuriating man. Our children may not inherit ancient titles, but they'll inherit something better—parents who choose principle over convenience, who build their family on love and trust rather than just political calculation."
The words hit Ned like a physical blow, washing away weeks of guilt and uncertainty about whether he'd destroyed everything that mattered in pursuit of abstract ideals about justice and legitimacy.
"Thank you," he said quietly, the words carrying volumes about gratitude and relief and the kind of love that survived even catastrophic revelations. "I was afraid... I thought I'd lost your trust entirely. That you'd see my choices as betrayal rather than necessity."
"Your choices were necessity," Catelyn replied with gentle firmness, her attention returning to their son as he continued his determined attack on immediate hunger. "Betrayal would have been continuing to claim inheritance that belonged to someone else, allowing a child's birthright to be stolen for adult convenience."
She paused, her expression growing more thoughtful as she processed implications that extended beyond their immediate circumstances.
"Though I have to admit, I'm curious about the practical aspects of this grand arrangement you've constructed. Serving as regent to a child lord, overseeing massive construction projects, training multiple children, maintaining the delicate political relationships that keep former members of the royal family from being quietly murdered in their sleep—that's quite an ambitious program for a man who claims to prefer simple solutions to complex problems."
Ned had the grace to look slightly abashed. "It will be... challenging."
"Challenging," Catelyn repeated with fond exasperation at her husband's gift for understatement. "Yes, I suppose managing the education and protection of a Targaryen princess, a future Lord of Winterfell, and however many additional children we might have, while simultaneously restoring one of the most important fortresses in Westeros—I suppose that could be described as 'challenging' by someone with a truly remarkable capacity for minimizing the scope of impossible tasks."
But her tone suggested amusement rather than complaint, recognition of difficulties that would be demanding but not insurmountable for people willing to commit themselves completely to the work.
"The children will help each other," Ned pointed out with growing confidence in their chosen path. "You saw how Rhaenys and Cregan responded to each other tonight. There's something between them—understanding, compatibility, call it what you will. They'll grow up as partners rather than rivals, supporting each other's development instead of competing for resources or attention."
Catelyn nodded slowly, remembering the evening's demonstration of unusual connection between children who should have been complete strangers.
"That was... remarkable," she admitted. "The way they seemed to recognize each other, the immediate trust and affection. Most children that age are shy around strangers, especially strangers from different regions and social circumstances. Those two acted like... like..."
"Like old friends meeting after a long separation," Ned finished when she seemed to search for words. "There's something there beyond normal childhood sociability. Something that suggests their partnership may prove more significant than any of us realize."
"And what of the politics?" Catelyn asked, her voice taking on that crisp efficiency that marked her as her father's daughter when it came to practical considerations. "You're proposing to raise former members of the Targaryen royal family alongside the future rulers of the North, while managing construction projects funded by the Crown. That creates... connections... that some might view as politically dangerous."
"Some will," Ned agreed readily. "But others will see the wisdom in building bridges rather than maintaining ancient grudges. Robert may hate Targaryens, but he's practical enough to recognize that children raised under Northern influence, educated in Northern values, married into Northern families—such children are more likely to be assets than threats to his dynasty."
"And if they prove otherwise?"
Ned was quiet for a moment, grey eyes distant as he considered possibilities he preferred not to contemplate but which political responsibility required him to acknowledge.
"Then we deal with that when it comes," he said finally. "But Cat, I've seen these children. I've watched them play, listened to them talk, observed how they treat each other and the adults around them. They're good children. Kind children. Intelligent enough to understand consequences but young enough to learn different lessons than their parents learned."
He paused, his voice taking on that particular gravity that marked his deepest convictions.
"If we can raise them right—if we can teach them that strength serves justice, that power exists to protect rather than dominate, that the greatest honor lies in making life better for those who depend on your choices—then the realm will be blessed by their leadership, whatever names they carry or titles they claim."
Catelyn studied her husband's face in the dying firelight, seeing in his expression the same idealistic determination that had driven him to support Robert's rebellion, the same unshakeable belief in the possibility of building something better than what had come before.
"You really believe we can do this," she said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"I believe we can try," Ned replied with characteristic honesty. "I believe the attempt is worth making, whatever the outcome. And I believe that children raised with love and wisdom have the best chance of becoming adults who make the world better rather than worse."
"Even if those children carry bloodlines that have been both blessed and cursed by history?"
"Especially then," he said with quiet conviction. "Because they'll understand, better than children born to unquestioned privilege, that power is not a right but a responsibility. That leadership must be earned through service rather than simply inherited through accident of birth."
Baby Robb had finished feeding and was now regarding the world with that alert attention that suggested he found adult conversation marginally interesting but would prefer activities involving more immediate entertainment. Catelyn shifted him to her shoulder with practiced efficiency, her maternal multitasking a reminder of the practical realities that would shape whatever grand plans they might make.
"When do we begin this great adventure?" she asked, her tone suggesting decisions made rather than questions still under consideration.
"Immediately," Ned replied with the kind of quiet determination that had carried him through war and political crisis. "Cregan needs to be established at Winterfell as soon as possible—both for his own safety and to begin the process of familiarizing the Northern lords with their rightful heir. The construction projects require immediate attention if they're to be completed before winter makes such work impossible."
"Travel with an infant in uncertain times," Catelyn mused, though her voice held consideration rather than complaint. "Through territory that may still harbor those displaced by war, in company with people whose very existence some would consider treasonous. It promises to be... educational."
"Everything worthwhile is educational in some way," Ned observed with dry humor. "Though I admit this particular education may prove more comprehensive than most families require for their personal development."
"And Robb?" Catelyn looked down at their son, who was now making soft cooing sounds that suggested contentment with his immediate circumstances despite the cosmic upheaval surrounding his existence. "What role does an infant play in such grand designs?"
"He grows up as Cregan's closest companion," Ned said with the kind of certainty that suggested some futures were written in stone regardless of human planning. "Brothers in all but blood, partners in everything that matters, bound by shared experience and mutual trust rather than separated by competing claims to inheritance they're both too young to understand."
"Partners in everything that matters," Catelyn repeated thoughtfully, studying her son's face as if seeing possibilities there she'd never considered before. "There are worse fates for younger sons than growing up as indispensable allies to great lords. Much worse fates indeed."
The fire had burned to ash and ember, leaving only the faint glow that spoke of warmth still present but requiring careful tending to survive till morning. Outside, the Tumblestone continued its eternal flow toward the sea, carrying with it the detritus of human ambition and the promise of tides that brought both destruction and renewal.
Inside the chamber, a husband and wife sat in contemplation of futures that bore no resemblance to their original plans but which might, with careful nurturing and considerable luck, prove better than anything they had dared imagine when first they spoke their wedding vows.
"One more question," Catelyn said as the silence stretched comfortable between them. "When you spoke with Ashara about these arrangements, did she seem... pleased... with the prospect of sharing her son's upbringing with relative strangers?"
Ned considered the question with the careful attention it deserved, remembering conversations that had required delicate navigation of maternal instincts and political necessity.
"She seemed relieved," he said finally. "Relieved that Cregan would have companions his own age, that he wouldn't grow up isolated by the weight of early responsibility and the dangers that come with his position. She understands, better than most, what it costs children to be raised as symbols rather than as people."
"And Princess Elia? How does she view the prospect of her children growing up in the North, far from everything familiar, among people who fought to destroy her husband's dynasty?"
"She sees it as salvation," Ned replied without hesitation. "Safety for her children, education that will prepare them for useful lives rather than lives spent as targets for assassination or tools for others' ambitions. She's a remarkable woman, Cat—intelligent, pragmatic, devoted to her children's welfare above all other considerations."
"Even the consideration of their royal heritage?"
"Especially that," Ned said with conviction. "She's seen what crowns cost the people who wear them. If her children can find happiness and purpose without ever needing to claim thrones or fight wars over ancient grievances, she'll count that the greatest victory possible."
Catelyn nodded slowly, her understanding of their strange household's dynamics growing more complete with each revelation. It was not, perhaps, the family situation she had envisioned when she married Eddard Stark. But it was, she was beginning to realize, potentially something far more interesting than conventional arrangements might have provided.
"Very well then," she said at length, her voice carrying the crisp authority that marked decisions made and commitment given. "We build this impossible household of idealists and exiles. We raise children to be better than their bloodlines, stronger than their circumstances, wiser than the generation that came before them."
She looked directly at her husband, blue eyes bright with something that might have been anticipation despite everything.
"And if the Seven Kingdoms burn down around our ears while we're attempting this great work of family construction, well—at least our children will have learned to rebuild from ashes."
"At least," Ned agreed with a smile that transformed his entire face, making him look younger than he had in months, "they'll have learned that some things are worth the risk of failure. Some dreams worth pursuing even when success seems impossible."
Outside, dawn was beginning to touch the eastern horizon with pale light, promising a new day and whatever challenges it might bring. Inside, a family remade by revelation and choice prepared to face those challenges together, bound by love tested in the crucible of impossible circumstances and found to be stronger than fear, stronger than disappointment, stronger than the comfortable lies that made ordinary life bearable.
It would have to be enough.
In the game of thrones, it was often all anyone had.
---
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