# Riverrun, Lord Hoster's Private Solar
*The following morning*
The morning light filtered thin and pale through the high arched windows of Lord Hoster Tully's solar, gilding the motes of dust that drifted lazily above the great oak table. The chamber was smaller than Riverrun's hall, but warmer, more intimate, a room where kingdoms were not proclaimed but shaped—through whispers, bargains, and the slow carving of words.
Lord Hoster sat in his great carved chair, his back stiff with the effort of maintaining dignity against the pain that gnawed at him. Age and illness had silvered his hair, hollowed his cheeks, but his eyes—those sharp, Tully-blue eyes—missed nothing. He had made a life of peering through men's words to their intentions, and this morning would be no different.
To his right loomed Ser Brynden, clad in mail despite the morning hour, his short-cropped grey hair and grizzled face marking him every inch the soldier. He leaned forward with the restless energy of a man who longed to be in the saddle rather than seated at a council table.
Across from them sat Lord Eddard Stark and his lady. Catelyn cradled the sleeping babe in her arms, as if her son might be a shield against her father's questions. Ned Stark, long-faced and solemn, met Hoster's scrutiny with the same steadiness he might have offered an enemy lord across a battlefield.
Hoster's voice was dry, clipped, and precise, as though he were pronouncing sentence. "So. Let me see if I grasp this correctly. My daughter wed the Warden of the North—or so I thought. And now it transpires that her lord husband intends to set aside his rights in favor of a swaddled infant, for whom he means to play nursemaid and regent until the boy can grow whiskers. Which leaves House Tully… precisely where?"
The words fell like knives upon the table.
Catelyn stiffened. "Father—"
"No, Cat," Ned said softly, laying a hand on her arm before she could rise to the defense. His grey eyes never left Hoster's. "Your lord father speaks truly, though not kindly. The truth is as he says: Cregan is the Lord of Winterfell, and I shall serve him until he comes of age."
"Truth," Brynden snorted. His mouth curved in a humorless smile. "I've learned to mistrust that word when it comes clothed in so many fine wrappings. In my experience, when knights and lords call a disaster 'truth,' they're only fattening the goose for the spit."
Catelyn shot her uncle a reproachful glance. "You speak as though my husband has betrayed me."
"I speak," said the Blackfish, "as though we have all been made fools of, if we do not look closely at what's before us."
Hoster arched one brow, his expression weary but sharp. "And what is before us, good-son? An alliance with a lord who no longer lords. A marriage that yields neither lands nor influence. A grandson, aye, but the babe will not sit a high seat. Forgive me if I fail to swoon with delight at the prospect."
Ned's reply came calm, measured, as if each word had been weighed against a set of northern stones. "If all you sought was lands and titles, then yes, you have reason to think yourself cheated. But there is more at play. The Crown has recognized… the disruption… my change of station has caused."
"'Disruption,'" Brynden repeated, the corner of his mouth twitching. "A fine word for a cock crowing at the wrong dawn."
Ned's lips twitched faintly, the closest thing he ever came to a smile. "Call it what you will. The king's hand has offered recompense. The rebuilding of Moat Cailin. Not patchwork repairs, but full restoration—stone by stone, wall by wall, with new towers, new gates. As strong as in the days of the First Men."
That caught Hoster's attention. His fingers, mottled with age spots, tapped the arm of his chair. "Moat Cailin… the chokehold of the Neck. Whoever holds it commands the road between North and South."
"And more," Ned continued. "The Crown will fund a deepwater port at Sea Dragon Point. Fortified, provisioned, with docks enough for a fleet. Not cogs and fishing boats pressed into service, but warships, built and berthed upon the western coast."
Brynden let out a low whistle. "A port and fleet in the North. The Ironborn will find less sport if they have to face steel hulls instead of timber walls."
Hoster leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing. "The Ironborn have harried our coasts for generations. You would plant a thorn in their side—and one strong enough to draw blood. The North becomes less a frozen backwater, more a shield wall for all the realm."
"Just so," Ned said, his tone level, unbending as the pines of Winterfell. "This is no loss, Lord Hoster. It is not the inheritance you bargained for, but it is strength all the same. Strength that will endure long after men forget whose crown paid for the stones."
Brynden's mouth curved wryly. "Well, Cat, it seems your husband has a talent for turning ruin into opportunity. If he were a tourney knight, I'd call it a neat tilt. Still… I've yet to meet a lord who could build castles from promises."
"You'll meet one now," Catelyn said sharply, her voice tight with pride and lingering hurt. She shifted Robb in her arms, brushing a lock of auburn hair from her face. "Ned has never broken faith, not with me, not with his bannermen. If he says the Crown will see it done, then it will be done."
Her father regarded her with something between amusement and resignation. "My daughter, always fierce when her wolf is questioned. Very well. If Lord Stark can deliver what he promises, then perhaps I will forgive him yet for depriving me of a northern lordship." He allowed himself the faintest smile. "I suppose a fleet is no poor consolation."
"Not poor at all," Brynden agreed. "If the Starks can hold it. And that, my lord nephew, will be the true test."
Ned met his uncle's challenge without flinching. "The Starks have held the North for eight thousand years. We will hold this too."
Silence settled over the solar, broken only by the soft breath of the sleeping babe.
"The administrative positions for these projects," Ned Stark said, his voice calm, deliberate, like a man placing stones one by one upon a cairn, "would fall naturally to experienced northern lords with a record of loyalty and proven competence in governance and defense. Men trusted by both their people and the Crown."
Hoster's lips twitched, the faintest curve of a smile creeping through the sharp angles of his face. He looked as though he wanted to be angry still, but calculation was already tugging him another way. "Lords like yourself, you mean. Regional governors of newly forged strongholds, with powers extending beyond their ancestral halls."
Ned inclined his head slightly, the gesture respectful yet unbending. "If I prove equal to the task. The king's writ can name a governor, but no ink holds stone in place. The responsibility must be earned. What is given can be taken away. Still… the lordship of Moat Cailin is no bauble. It will be mine, and after me, Robb's. Not by the accident of birth, but through the strength of service. A lordship proven, not merely inherited."
"Gods," Brynden said, leaning back with a laugh that filled the room, gravelly and booming, "listen to him. You'd think he was apologizing for winning a battle. Instead of inheriting Winterfell, you build your own fortress and crown it with royal favor. Instead of claiming the North through birth, you hold its gates by appointment and blood. That's not failure, nephew—that's adaptation."
Ned's mouth tightened, not quite a smile. "I've little interest in crowns or failure, uncle. Only in duties rightly done."
Catelyn stirred beside him, her eyes—so like her father's—alight with calculation. "It may be more secure," she said, her voice quiet but firm, like water carving stone. "Bloodlines can be questioned, twisted, usurped. An administrative charge based on proven ability is harder to undo. Our children will inherit a stronghold built on deeds as well as name." She looked down at Robb, sleeping against her breast. Better that he learn a lordship must be earned, not merely grasped by birthright.
Hoster gave her a wry look, half amused, half chiding. "My daughter speaks like a maester. Once you were content with songs of gallant lords and noble houses. Now you speak of governance and inheritance as though you'd been born in Oldtown."
Catelyn did not flinch beneath his gaze. "I've been wed to a Stark of Winterfell, Father. Dreams give way to winters soon enough."
Brynden chuckled into his cup. "Ha. The girl has sharper teeth than the fish on our banners."
Hoster gave him a long-suffering look, then turned back to Ned, his tone sharpening again. "What of force? A fortress is no fortress without men to hold it. Governing such keystones requires more than scrolls and coin. What provisions for soldiers, for training, for commanders who know their craft?"
"The king will provide for a permanent garrison at Moat Cailin," Ned replied, his voice steady. "And for the training of men to hold the port. More than gold, though, he has given leave for the Sword of the Morning to serve as master-at-arms at Winterfell."
The name fell into the room like a hammer striking an anvil.
Brynden's brows shot up. "Arthur Dayne?" His laugh this time carried genuine awe. "Seven hells, Stark, you've gone and caught yourself a god of war. That man's quicker than lightning and twice as sharp. A boy trained by him won't just know which end of the sword to hold—he'll be a weapon himself. Dangerous, and more dangerous still because he'll know he's dangerous."
Hoster's expression was more cautious, his mind already racing down the paths of politics. "Dayne's name carries weight from Dorne to King's Landing. He is more than a sword, Eddard—he is a banner, a reputation. To have him training your heirs…" He shook his head, almost in disbelief. "Enemies would think twice before striking at a fortress guarded by Dayne's disciples."
"Just so," Ned agreed. He spoke without flourish, but there was quiet satisfaction in the way his grey eyes held Hoster's. "And more—this arrangement binds us to the Crown's interests. We do not oppose their policy; we carry it out, make it succeed. They have no reason to look upon us as rivals, so long as we remain the hand that strengthens their hold."
Catelyn's mind turned quickly, connecting the threads Ned had laid. Not rivals, but instruments. Valuable rather than tolerated. So long as we serve the realm, the realm has reason to protect us. And the day may come when those protections are worth more than Winterfell itself.
Her father drummed his fingers again, slow and thoughtful. "A fortress at Moat Cailin. A port strong enough to bloody the Ironborn. A master-at-arms who could make even the greenest boy dangerous. Gods help me, Stark, you may have wrung more from losing your inheritance than most men gain by keeping theirs." He allowed himself a thin smile. "Perhaps I misjudged you. Perhaps you're not so unlike me after all."
Brynden barked another laugh. "Careful, Ned. That's as close as my brother will ever come to a compliment."
Ned gave the faintest of nods, the flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips before fading into solemnity once more. "I will not fail my charge. Not Robb's inheritance. Not Moat Cailin. Not the realm."
"These works you speak of," Ser Brynden said, leaning forward, his arms crossed upon the table, his dark eyes alight with that fierce, tactical gleam that had made men follow him in battle without hesitation, "they do more than raise stone. They give the smallfolk work. Roads to build, ships to man, ports to load and guard. A man with wages and bread for his children is far less likely to gamble his life for a rebel's cause. Stability born not from oaths or banners, but from full bellies. That's a kind of loyalty no lord's sword alone can command."
Lord Hoster gave a dry chuckle, the sound edged with weariness yet brightened by calculation. "Listen to my brother play the philosopher. Still, he's not wrong. Prosperity in the North means safer trade for the Riverlands. Fewer bandits, fewer raids. A merchant with fewer losses has more to spend, and where do you suppose he spends it? Why, on Riverlands grain, on Riverrun wine, on Tully fish." His eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. "Your wolfish inheritance may yet fatten the purse of every trout from here to Seagard."
Catelyn shifted Robb against her shoulder, her gaze moving from uncle to father to husband. Not through swords alone, she thought, but through coin and common cause. That is how you build ties that endure storms of succession.
"And how long?" she asked aloud, her practical nature cutting through their momentary enthusiasm. "These are vast undertakings. Not a tower patched in a summer, but works that will take years. Where do we live in the meantime? Where do the children grow? How do we ensure their safety, when such projects will draw eyes eager to disrupt the king's policy or wound us through our household?"
Ned's voice came measured, the careful cadence of a man who had already wrestled with these questions in silence long before speaking them. "At first, Winterfell. Cregan must be established there, amongst his bannermen, seen and known, with family close to steady him. Once the works at Moat Cailin and Sea Dragon Point are begun, we'll maintain presence at both—residences for the family, command posts for administration. We'll move as need dictates. The Crown understands this and has made provisions."
"Multiple seats," Hoster mused, his fingers drumming lightly against the carved arms of his chair. "Not only respectable—useful. Flexibility to answer threats in different quarters. Two power bases, one inland, one at sea. You could strangle foes in the Neck while striking raiders off the western coast. A family with wings." His lips curved in that sardonic, weary smile of his. "Quite a bit more impressive than the boy I thought I was gaining when I gave him my daughter's hand."
"Wings, aye," Brynden said with a bark of laughter. "But wings need feathers, and feathers cost silver. Two keeps, two staffs, two guards for the lady and the children. Twice the men-at-arms, twice the stewards. I've seen lords beggar themselves trying to play greater than their means. You cannot defend the Neck with empty purses."
"The stipends cover the posts," Ned said evenly. He had that Stark look about him, steady as an anvil under the hammer. "Trade fees from the harbor. Duties on goods moving through the port. Assessments levied for defense. Moat Cailin guards the road; those who pass through will pay their part. The works feed themselves once they're established."
Catelyn tilted her head, considering, her auburn hair catching the light. "Self-sustaining. Not chained to a king's purse. Less risk if a crown grows hostile or forgetful. You've thought this through."
Brynden gave her a crooked grin. "Your husband doesn't waste words, Cat, but the words he does spend buy a great deal. A quiet wolf, perhaps, but with sharper teeth than most lions I've met."
Hoster chuckled again, though there was admiration now where earlier there had only been doubt. "Gods, Ned, you've managed to turn being stripped of your inheritance into something larger than the thing itself. I expected sulking and excuses. Instead, I hear strategy and foundations. Are you sure you're a Stark? You speak more like a Tully who's been taught to hold his tongue."
Ned gave the faintest ghost of a smile. "A Stark I was born, my lord, and a Stark I'll die. But the wolf runs stronger with trout beside it."
"Ha!" Brynden's laughter shook the beams. "There's a line for the singers. Write that one down, Cat."
Catelyn only smiled faintly, looking down at the babe in her arms. Robb's small fist had curled tightly in his sleep, as if he were already grasping for the weight of what lay before him.
"When do you begin?" Hoster asked at last, fingers drumming impatiently against the carved oak of the table. His voice bore the clipped sharpness of a man who had shifted, with visible effort, from skepticism to reluctant planning. "What immediate steps are required to secure these positions and begin this grand new arrangement? Or is this one of those Northern things where you sit about staring into the snow until the Seven themselves send you a sign?"
"Immediately," Ned replied, calm as a winter stream. His tone was soft but carried that particular steel that had served him well in rebellion and in rule. "Cregan must be at Winterfell before the snows deepen, both for his safety and to establish his place with the Northern lords. The works at Moat Cailin and Sea Dragon Point must begin with the thaw. Which means planning begins now, before the weather closes the roads."
"Travel," Catelyn murmured, though not in complaint. Her words carried the measured concern of a woman weighing risks with a mother's eyes. "Through lands not yet fully settled, with brigands scattered like wolf packs, displaced smallfolk wandering hungry, and whispers enough to put blades in the hands of any who'd rather see us fail. We carry children, an infant, and companions whose presence will stir gossip enough to warm a dozen courts."
"Which is why we travel with an escort sufficient to still any gossip," Brynden said dryly, leaning back in his chair. His weathered face broke into something between a smirk and a sneer, though his eyes held only calculation. "Steel is an old tongue, easily understood. A hundred Northmen returning home, Riverland riders for safe passage, and enough blades to persuade outlaws to look elsewhere for easier prey. The Seven Kingdoms may squabble, but even cutthroats know better than to charge a wall of spears."
"A hundred men?" Hoster arched an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement. "Why not five hundred? Perhaps we should announce your progress through the countryside with trumpets, flags, and a crier to list the Crown's new policies. If discretion is the goal, brother, your plan seems somewhat… unsubtle."
Brynden snorted. "Better unsubtle and alive than discreet and gutted in a ditch."
"An excellent family motto for the Blackfish," Hoster replied, lips twitching. "I can see it stitched proudly on banners."
"Better than 'Delay, Doubt, and Dithering,' which has been the Tully watchword these past years," Brynden shot back.
"Gentlemen," Catelyn interjected, her tone sharper than steel. She fixed both men with the look she reserved for squabbling siblings and stubborn bannermen alike. "If the goal is to make this venture succeed, perhaps we save our wit for courtly audiences and turn our minds to practicalities. What sort of life are we building here, day by day? What do our children inherit, not in title or lands, but in the shape of their lives?"
Ned was silent for a heartbeat, his grey eyes distant, as though seeing something beyond the walls of Riverrun.
"Busy," he said at last, in the understated way that made Catelyn want to both kiss him and shake him. "Hard. Worthwhile. They will learn that leadership is work, not privilege. That honor lies in service, not in banners or songs. They will know their duty, because they will live it. That will be their inheritance."
Brynden leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying his nephew with a soldier's unblinking scrutiny. "A fine sermon, Ned. But children grow weary of sermons. What of opportunity? What of reward?"
"They'll have both," Ned replied, firmer now. "The finest tutors, masters of sword and statecraft alike. Exposure to lords, maesters, builders, sailors, and soldiers. They will see the realm from vantage points few can imagine—Winterfell's hearth, Moat Cailin's causeway, a port open to Essos. They'll be ready for whatever paths they choose."
"And," Catelyn added, her voice softening but no less steady, "they will not grow up alone. They'll have companions—peers, allies—raised together, bonded by trust, not rivalry. They will share burdens rather than fight for scraps of inheritance."
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the nursery, where Rhaenys Targaryen lay sleeping under Northern furs. Already, bonds are forming. Strange, unexpected bonds. Perhaps the gods are at work here, in ways none of us yet understand.
"So," Hoster said with a flourish of his hand, the gesture theatrical even in his illness, "instead of the stale comforts of tradition, we build something novel. Instead of inheritance, appointment. Instead of ruling by name, ruling by competence. Instead of raising children as banners, we raise them as people." He leaned back, eyes glinting, his voice turning sly. "Ambitious. Dangerous. Likely to collapse spectacularly if even one beam gives way."
Brynden's growl carried agreement. "If even one link weakens, the chain snaps. Crown support falters, the projects fail, the governance stumbles, the children fall short of what you imagine. One failure is all it takes, and the whole structure collapses like a bridge with a rotten plank."
Ned's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "Then we do not fail. We plan as though winter itself conspires against us. We build so well that no man finds cause to break what benefits him. We give our children more than walls—we give them purpose. And when purpose is strong, men do not betray it lightly."
There was silence then, the kind that settles when words spoken cannot be easily countered. Firelight flickered across stone walls, painting the faces around the table in hues of red and gold.
Finally, Hoster exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Very well. Let us build this brave new thing. If nothing else, it will be more entertaining than watching the Freys squabble over bread and bridges."
Brynden chuckled, low and rough. "I'll drink to that."
Catelyn smiled faintly, though her fingers tightened around Ned's beneath the table. He squeezed back once, steady as ever.
"And if circumstances change?" Catelyn asked, leaning forward, her auburn hair catching the firelight as though to sharpen the edge of her words. Her tone bore no reproach, only that practical concern which came from counting her children's lives in every calculation. "If the Crown's priorities shift, if passing time bring different policies, if our children grow to hold notions that no longer match the roles we lay before them?"
"Then we adapt," Ned said at once, the certainty in his voice carrying the quiet weight of bedrock. He did not hesitate, did not glance to Hoster or Brynden for approval, but spoke as one who had lived long in a world that shifted beneath men's feet like thawing ice. "We raise them to think, to choose, to know the difference between serving themselves and serving the realm. Whatever changes come, they will be prepared to meet them with clear eyes and steady hands."
Brynden gave a low grunt, part skepticism, part grudging respect. "Clear eyes, steady hands. Sounds like a recruiting cry for green boys sent to the Wall. Fine words, but I've yet to see a child raised on principle alone who could stomach the world as it is."
"Then we do better," Ned said, still calm, though his grey eyes sharpened like frost forming on steel. "We do not give them false songs of glory, nor empty promises of comfort. We give them the truth, hard as the North itself, and trust that truth to make them stronger than lies ever could."
Hoster chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that might have been a cough in another man but in him carried something like amusement. "The truth, eh? That will make for lively lessons. I imagine the first maester you set before them will be petitioning the Citadel for transfer within a year. Nothing so exhausting as earnest children intent on saving the realm."
Catelyn's lips twitched despite herself. "Better earnest than idle, Father. Better they grow weary from striving than soft from neglect."
"Spoken like a true Tully," Brynden muttered, though not without pride. He glanced to his niece, eyes narrowing in that way of his that measured people not by their words but by what they chose to do with them. "The girl has the right of it. Better a house raised on effort than one fattened on privilege. Gods know we've seen what becomes of those."
Hoster sniffed, feigning injury. "Must every family council turn into a lecture upon my supposed failings? One would think I'd raised a brood of septons instead of soldiers and statesmen."
"A brood of septons would argue less," Brynden said.
"And drink more," Hoster retorted. "Don't pretend you'd not find that preferable."
"Father. Uncle." Catelyn's voice carried a note of command sharp enough to slice the gathering tension. She looked from one to the other with that quiet firmness Ned often found more disarming than shouted orders. "The question is not whether we can find fault with each other's houses. The question is what sort of house we are building for our children, and whether it can endure what time and chance will surely bring against it."
Hoster's eyes softened as they lingered on her face, but his words remained edged. "Endure? My dear, what we are discussing is not merely endurance. This is ambition dressed as duty, and duty dressed as legacy. If it works, it is genius. If it fails, it is folly writ large across the kingdoms."
"Most things worth doing are," Ned said simply. His words came like stones set into the foundation of a wall—one after another, steady, unyielding. "The realm has had enough of men who chase profit and vengeance. If madness it be to build for the next generation rather than the next feast, then let us be mad."
Hoster leaned back, blue eyes glinting with sly amusement. "Madness, yes. But useful madness, perhaps. If nothing else, it will keep the realm guessing. And it will keep the Freys gnashing their teeth, which is almost reward enough."
Brynden barked a laugh at that, deep and rough as gravel. "Aye. I'd march a hundred leagues for the pleasure of keeping old Lord Walder miserable."
Even Catelyn smiled at that, though her gaze found Ned again, searching his face for the certainty she needed and found, as always, in his quiet resolve.
"Very well then," Hoster said at last, his voice carrying the crisp authority of a man used to ending debates with the weight of final judgment. "We embark on this venture—ambitious, dangerous, mad. We build bridges rather than grudges, raise children as leaders instead of symbols, and pray the Seven—or whichever gods you Northerners pray to—that it proves more durable than our doubts."
He paused, surveying each of them in turn, his gaze softening when it fell on his daughter. "If the kingdoms think us fools for choosing service over dominance, well—let them. The world has been ruled by cunning and cruelty long enough. Perhaps it is time to see what comes of principle."
"Perhaps," Ned agreed, and when he smiled—small, fleeting, rare—the whole room seemed to lighten, as though winter's long night had briefly given way to dawn. "Perhaps the realm needs less gold and glory, and more fathers who build for sons they will never live to see grown."
The chamber fell quiet then. Outside, the mists of the Red Fork were burning away beneath a sun climbing toward its zenith, and the sound of the river filled the silence like the heartbeat of the land itself.
What they had agreed to was ambitious beyond reason, dangerous beyond calculation, and idealistic past the patience of any maester. Yet in that moment, in the stillness after words too heavy to dismiss, they each felt the dangerous spark of belief.
It was folly, yes. It was risk. It was also, perhaps, the only kind of dream worth chasing in a world that had seen too many pyres lit in the name of lesser things.
"When do we leave for Winterfell?" Catelyn asked at last, her voice steady, efficient, the sound of a woman who had shifted from argument to action. She sat straighter, Robb nestled against her shoulder, though his small, restless sighs made it plain he had little interest in matters of state.
"Within the fortnight," Ned replied. His tone was plain, but his words came with the quiet gravity of one who had already considered the question from every angle. "As soon as I can set the household in order for travel, and proper escort arranged. Not sooner, not later. Children and carts move at their own pace."
"Children and carts," Brynden repeated, his mouth twitching like a man tasting sour wine. "Let's call things what they are, Stark. This isn't a summer pilgrimage. You're not marching a household—you're moving a prize convoy, and every brigand with half a brain between here and the Neck will smell the weight of it."
Ned gave him that faint half-smile that was more acknowledgment than humor. "Which is why we'll bring enough swords that no brigand, clever or otherwise, would mistake us for prey."
"Good," Brynden said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, eyes sharpening like a hawk's. "Because I've no wish to stand over my niece's grave while explaining to the Seven how we thought fifty men with spears would suffice. This requires steel, provisions, scouting, proper lines of communication. I'll not see it done halfway."
"Agreed," Hoster said, sounding uncharacteristically brisk. His blue eyes flicked toward Catelyn before fixing on Ned again, as though he were re-measuring the man he had once thought too dour for his daughter. "Better to overspend on guards than underspend on coffins. The cost of protection is nothing beside the cost of failure."
Catelyn lowered her gaze to Robb, whose tiny fist curled against her breast. His breath was warm through the fabric of her gown, and his little noises of protest struck her more deeply than all their talk of wars and escorts. The real work, she thought, as her son's dark lashes fluttered. Not merely reaching Winterfell, nor raising keeps from stone, but raising children who will do better than we have. Building alliances that outlive grudges. Building bridges instead of pyres.
She raised her eyes again. "And what of appearances?" she asked, her voice quieter, though no less firm. "The journey will be noted. Questions will be asked. What story do we tell? What do we say of this household of exiles and idealists, these Crown projects, these children in our care? What tale serves us best?"
"The truth," Ned said at once. His voice was calm, steady, Northern in its plainness. "As much of it as serves. We are Crown-appointed wardens of vital infrastructure. We are guardians to children who need both protection and education. Nothing more complicated than that."
Hoster arched one pale brow. "Nothing more complicated, eh? I've yet to hear of anything in this realm that wasn't complicated once a maester set quill to parchment about it."
"Truth requires less maintenance than lies," Ned replied with that plain directness that always made his words sound simpler than they were. "Discretion about what to say, aye, but no endless weaving of stories. Truth endures."
Hoster's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Practical. Sustainable. Gods, I might almost mistake you for a Tully when you talk like that. Though you'd never survive as one—you'd refuse to embroider the lies, and we'd be run out of Riverrun within a week."
"Not a week," Brynden said dryly. "Two days. They'd last two days before someone stabbed Stark for being too bloody honest."
Catelyn sighed, but her eyes softened despite herself. "I've no wish to spend this journey listening to the two of you wager my husband's life expectancy."
"You married him," Hoster said with mock solemnity. "You signed the warrant yourself."
"Father," Catelyn warned.
But Hoster only coughed—whether from sickness or laughter was hard to tell—and said, "Very well. The truth, then, carefully managed. I'll grant you that much, Stark. A house of half-truths and silken lies might stand for a season, but not for generations. Truth… with careful emphasis… will keep us upright."
The talk turned then to escorts, supplies, winter roads and river crossings, the thousand small details that make or break a great venture. They spoke of ravens to Winterfell, of guards drawn from both Riverlands and North, of the coin required and who would provide it.
But beneath all of it, something larger had already been settled. They would go. They would build. They would risk.
When the talk at last wound down, Hoster leaned back in his chair, studying the faces around him with eyes made sharp by both illness and long habit.
"So," he said. "We abandon convention, we pursue ambition. We raise children to rule by merit, we build projects the realm may not yet understand. If it succeeds, we will have built something greater than any single house. If it fails—"
"It won't," Ned said simply.
"Seven save me," Brynden muttered. "There's nothing more dangerous than a Stark convinced he's right."
"And nothing rarer," Catelyn murmured, earning a ghost of a smile from her husband.
The sun was climbing toward noon, burning away the river mists beyond Riverrun's walls. Inside, around the table, decisions had been made that would shape not merely their children's lives, but perhaps the fate of kingdoms.
It was ambitious, it was dangerous, and to most it would look like madness.
But it was their madness.
And sometimes, in a realm built on blood and lies, the only victory that mattered was choosing the right madness to follow.
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