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Chapter Text

The day Brandon Baratheon is born, the bells ring from sunrise to sunset. They give Ned a terrible headache, but they don’t stop her sleeping – the labour had been long and hard, and nothing could have kept her from falling into slumber once she had done her duty.

Finally.

Ned’s second child, and Robert’s first trueborn one (she knows about Mya, in the Vale, and Gendry in King’s Landing. Gendry had hurt, although he had been conceived before rumours of her survival reached the city. She knew there must have been others from the battles. Robert admitted to fucking a lot of women, a few of them must have become pregnant. There’s more than Ned cares to know about. Robert certainly has lost count. It hurts, but Ned tries not to count the blows Robert has dealt her without even knowing it) was a girl.

Strong, healthy and happy with her father’s colouring and good looks, the baby was a joy, but she was a failure in many ways. Robert was a conqueror, she was reminded every day, as if she could forget – a conqueror needed a son, not daughters. Daughters could be good for marriages and alliances and many other things, but they weren’t recognised as heirs, not really.

 They had called her Sansa after the famous she-wolf of Winterfell, and whilst Robert was not displeased, telling Ned that he knew she could do it, he knew she was strong enough and hardy enough and wonderful enough to give him a child, they both knew that Sansa, as sweet and beautiful as she was, was not what the kingdoms needed.

It took another three years for her to become pregnant again, and everyone had thought that would be a boy. They had all been so very sure. Because with Sansa she had carried high and this time she was carrying low, and as soon as the baby was moving it hit and kicked the inside of her with all its might.

“This one’s a warrior,” Robert told her, spending most nights lying next to her with his hand resting on her round middle, grabbing little limbs through her skin to make the unborn child wriggle more and more like a fish caught on a hook.

Of course, their second child is another girl, despite all the kicking and punching.

“Well,” Robert says, looking at their second little girl, who blinks up at him with her large eyes, “she’s most definitely taking after her mother.”

He had wanted to call her Lyanna, and Ned had barely managed to stop him – she wouldn’t let him make their daughter into the ghost of her aunt. She was enough of one already, she thought sadly. The second child’s face was all Stark, from her long features to her narrow chin and high cheekbones but her colouring again belonged to the Baratheons: their second girl had black hair and stormy blue-grey eyes, and Ned sang her The Wolves of Winterfell as a lullaby because she wouldn’t quiet to any other tune.

Arya, they agreed in the end, for Ned’s grandmother, a fearsome woman of the Flint clan whose skill in battle had been legendary even in the South.

No matter how rough-and-tumble Arya was, they still needed a son.

It is pure good fortune that Ned yet again becomes pregnant whilst she is still weaning Arya off of her mother’s milk. Robert had all the wet nurses anyone would ever need, but Ned wanted to give her children a fighting start herself, as her mother had done for her and her siblings.

“That’s impossible,” she’d told the Grand Maester when he’d informed her.

“Rare,” Pycelle told her, wheezing, “but not impossible. Perhaps the gods have smiled upon you.”

When Ned goes to tell Robert, he reacts as he has done every time she’s informed him of another child – he drops what he is doing, picks her up in one smooth movement and spins her round until the room blurs. He does it anywhere, as well – in the throne room for Sansa, the courtyard for Arya – just as he was leaving to put down the Greyjoy Rebellion – and now in the Small Council chamber. The members of said council quickly give their congratulations, barely one of them sounding sincere, although she can forgive it as today is of course the one day of the week Robert attends and they need to get him to sign proclamations, hear Lord’s complaints and amend laws before he runs away after three hours.

Robert hadn’t wanted to come at all, in the beginning, and Ned had had to drag him there until he realized that the country was not going to run itself. “I hate counting coppers,” he grumbled, “perhaps we should just give the crown to Stannis, run off to the Free Cities and be done with it.”

“Stannis wouldn’t take it,” she tells him matter-of-factly “Not while you lived. And anyway, the crown would fall to Sansa if you and I were to disappear.”

Robert grumbles, “Well we’d take her with us, wouldn’t we? Me and you, Robb, Sansa and Jon, living in Braavos or Pentos or Myr. They wouldn’t have to learn courtly manners and I could fight every day and you could come fight with me, if you wanted-”

“I remember,” she tells him, amusement warm in her tone, “When you used to dream we’d marry. Then we did. I think King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is enough of a dream for a lifetime.”

“But when we’re older...?” Robert whines from next to her.

“Well, I’m sure nobody would object to us holidaying, especially if the children stay home to look after the kingdoms.”

“Why can’t they just grow up already?” her husband grumbles, “I want to go now.”

“How about this,” Ned proposes, resting a hand on the back of Robert’s neck, “you go and play with the girls and I’ll see if I can convince the Small Council to throw a tourney in honour of... something. Would that work in exchange for going to the Free Cities?”

“Stannis just had a babe.” Robert suddenly remembers, and Ned marvels at how quickly he comes up with an excuse for a tournament. “A girl – the Lady Shireen Baratheon.” He said the last part in a pompous tone that she supposed was meant to be an impersonation of Stannis’ proud wife.

“Right,” she said, “then we throw a tourney in Shireen’s honour so then Stannis can’t object.”

“I still can’t believe that we have an allowance,” Robert moans, “I’m the bloody king, I should be able to throw a tourney when I want.”

“The one thing the Manderlys know how to do is manage money,” Ned says, “But I’m sure that this won’t be too much for the coffers to hold.”

“The coffers could hold a month of tourneys,” Robert says, crossing his arms.

“And then there would be after that month? For the rest of our lives?”

“I do hate it when you’re right.”

“Darling, I’m always right.”

In the end, the tournament was in honour of their son and heir’s birth, not Stannis’ daughter, although the babe is sleeping soundly in his nursery at the time of the festivities in his honour, barely a few days old. His older brothers and sisters enjoy the tourney for him.

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Ned’s marriage is not perfect. She had not expected it to be, because neither she nor Robert is perfect. Ned knows she pushes him too hard sometimes, and then he storms off to hunt for a week with barely any warning, leaving her to run the Red Keep until he comes back, ready to forgive her for being too insistent on one topic or another, and she him for disappearing unexpectedly, usually at a very inopportune time.

Other times, Ned cannot help the uneasiness she feels at balls, feasts and other social events wherein her husband has a little too much to drink, and acts improperly: practically attached to her, not talking to anymore but her, kissing her and asterng her and whispering huskily in her ear the more Arbor Gold he consumes. She tries to talk to him about it, before every single event, making him swear to pay attention to the guest of honour or whichever ambassador he needs to charm, and every time he swears, and every time he doesn’t even look in their direction after a couple of goblets of wine.

Robert was not a man made for ruling, or politics, and Ned definitely was not a woman made for either, but she was made for duty and running the kingdom was her duty, even moreso than being Robert’s wife, or even mothering her children. She has her own solar, and her own daily schedules where she greets foreign diplomats, the people who run the orphanages and schools she patrons, petitioners, lords, ladies, organizes the daily running of the castle, competes with various members of the small council and at the end of all that she allows herself to be a mother.

When Bran – as they quickly begin calling him – is a year old Robb is ten, Jon is eight, Sansa is five and Arya is three, and Ned loves them with all her heart.

Sansa and Arya both remind her so much of Lyanna it hurts sometimes – Sansa has her Northern beauty and love of romance and songs, and Ned already knows she will outshine Ned far before she even flowers. Arya, in comparison, has Lyanna’s spirit – she is but a babe, yet still follows around older children, her brothers, kitchen maids, gutter waifs, trying desperately to keep up with their frolics.

(When she grows older, the little princess will have a court all of her own, just like Sansa – hers being made up of rough and tumble children and urchins who she picks up in one of her many escapes from the keep, which sends Ser Brynden to distraction looking for how she exits locked rooms whilst Sansa chooses to be surrounded by soft skinned, sweet tempered ladies who are as gentle as she. Someone will write a song about her daughters some day, A Princess Dark, A Princess Fair, and Sansa will be mortified by the bawdy lyrics whilst Arya knows all the words.)

Robb and Jon are joined at the hip, hardly ever seen inside the castle walls but always in the courtyard or the training yard, often following Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden around like little ducklings. One day, Jon and Robb will be fine swordsmen in their own right, but for now they simply follow their idols (as Arya often follows them) as if they hang the stars. She had apologized to the two white swords, and offered to dissuade her son and nephew, but the two old knights refused, saying they could handle two over excitable boys. They were kingsguard, after all.

That had been another diplomatic nightmare: choosing who would replace Aerys’ fallen kingsguard after the Rebellion. Ser Barristan had bent the knee, much to both Ned and Robert’s relief, as neither wanted to execute the legendary knight. He and Ser Jaime Lannister had been the only survivors of the Rebellion – Ser Jaime being the more difficult case. Jaime Lannister was an oathbreaker, a kingslayer, and whilst Ned was disgusted by the boy’s lack of honour, he had been a boy. A sixteen year old forced to watch Aerys burn people over the course of two years, and Ned had to admit she was pleased he was dead. But still – an oathbreaker. A kingslayer.

Ser Barristan had washed his hands of him – and Ned felt tempted to do the same. But she could not. It was her job to make Robert see the correct course of action, and she petitioned that Robert send him to the Wall instead of killing him. “What?” Robert had said, as if the idea of doing so was genuinely shocking, “And that is the reward I give Tywin Lannister for his fealty?”

Ned’s stomach turned at the reminder of Tywin Lannister’s ‘fealty’. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were dead, at least, but it took six loyal men to subdue the Mountain. Ned had sent their skulls to Dorne, in a separate party to Elia and her children’s bones, hoping to at least heal some of their anger, and had received a short, polite note of congratulations and gratitude from Prince Doran. From Prince Oberyn, there had been a longer letter, filled with far more expletives and it swung between curses and thanks. It was the best they would get at any rate.

“Dead babes and an innocent woman raped,” she reminded him, “that was his fealty. And you are rewarding him – his son will live, and perhaps regain some of his lost honour in the Watch.”

“You know that the South does not see going to The Wall as honourable in any way, Ned. It would be a slap in the face to the man, and he’s on edge enough as it is.” That was an understatement. Tywin Lannister had expected to be able to crown his daughter. And then Ned had come and ruined all of his carefully thought out plans.

“Well, what would you do?” Ned asks, raising her eyebrows at Robert.

The king shrugged, “Send him back to Casterly Rock. That’s what old Tywin wants, anyway, and we won’t have to deal with him being on the Kingsguard.”

Ned looked at him, open mouthed. “That’s not a punishment, Robert, that’s a reward! You can’t reward a kingslayer! Plus, if he’s at the Rock, there’s no way we could keep an eye on him, and we’ll have nothing on the Lannisters, whose dedication to the cause is only here as long as it is their best option. Look at the precedent it sets – unless you’d like a sword in the back as well?”

“If we send him to the Wall,” Robert pointed out, “there’s no way of keeping an eye on him either. What if his party gets interrupted on the way there? I wouldn’t put it past Lannister, and then we have the same result without the goodwill fostered.”

Ned snorts, and begins to pace, “Goodwill.”

“We meet in the middle.” Robert says suddenly, “he stays at court, as a kingsguard, under the watch of Ser Barristan and the rest.”

She stared at her husband. “You’re insane. You’re practically inviting-”

“Ned, I’m not beheading him, or sending him to the wall.” Robert said frankly, “It’s either this or he’s going back to Casterly Rock.”

Ned sat down to knead her forehead. “I don’t like this,” she said bitterly, “I don’t like this at all.”

“You think I do?” Robert muttered, looking longingly at the practice yard outside his window.

“Send him back to Casterly Rock,” she snaps suddenly. “I won’t have a kingslayer around our children.”

Robert smiles a little at the mention of their children. She had been pregnant with Sansa then, barely, and her belly had just began to swell with new life.

“Right, that’s settled then,” he said, and called Maester Pycelle over to write the missive. The old maester looked a little too happy at the pronouncement, and immediately she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake – the grand maester was a Lannister man, through and through – but there was little Ned could do about it now.

And so, Jaime Lannister was removed from the Kingsguard, both as a punishment for breaking his vows, but more of a reward for Tywin Lannister. The smug look on the old Lion’s face as his son was stripped of his white cloak made Ned want to vomit. Although that could have also been the morning sickness.

(Within a year, Jaime has been married off to Catelyn Tully, the woman who had once been engaged to Brandon. Ned doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.)

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Filling up six of the seven spaces on the Kingsguard was a feat of incredible manoeuvring and political savvy – everyone wanted their younger son, brother, or nephew to have a place in the order. In the end, they rewarded Brynden ‘Blackfish’ Tully with the first vacant spot, as thanks to his family for their involvement in the rebellion.

House Arryn would also have been given a space – if poor old Jon Arryn had any heirs to spare. As it was, he had Robb and some sister’s great grandson, the rest of his heirs wiped out in the war, and taking him to the kingsguard would have spelled extinction for House Arryn, even if he wasn’t far too young. Technically, Jon’s young Tully wife could give him a son, but Ned sensed resentment in the girl and didn’t see her sharing the old man’s bed often. Instead, the old man who had bought up both Ned and Robert as if they were his own children, and who had raised his banners in rebellion for them, was made Hand of the King.

Ser Mandon Moore was suggested by Lord Arryn instead of anyone from his own house, who described him as an honourable, deadly man who was married to his duty, and so it was done. His eyes were almost white, and Ned thought they looked as if they belonged on a fish rather than a man, but when he rose from Robert’s feet, bedecked in his white cloak, Ned thought she saw pride shine in those pale depths for a moment.

They played with offering Dorne the choice of a knight, but in the end decided against it as they couldn’t be sure of that knight’s loyalties, nor if Dorne would see it as an insult. They had been dealt too many in the war as it was.

The rest of the positions were harder to give out. Balon Swann was given a white cloak, after he had distinguished himself in the early months of the rebellion, immediately coming over to Robert’s side as one of the first in the Stormlands to do so, joining his liege in beating down those banners who were loyal to Aerys, and performing ably throughout the war, even saving Robert’s life in the Battle of the Bells and crushing Jon Connington’s royal forces. He was young, but more loyal than many elder lords, including his own father.

Ser Richard Horpe, a pock-scarred man, lean and dark, was granted a cloak after he was nicknamed ‘The Slayer’ for his service in the battle of the Trident. He took down fifty men, or so the songs told, and his gratitude for his appointment was deeply felt – in the following years, Ned and he grew a deep, respectful friendship, as he was assigned to be her sworn shield, and Robert often said that should an assassin come to the Red Keep, he would not think to worry about Ned for Ser Horpe was absolutely devoted to her protection, even going so far as to seek audience with the king to think up new ways for her to be flanked by more well-placed guards at royal events, in addition to his own protection.

The next positions to be filled were more for political reasons than from any distinguishment, but all the men who took the white cloak were worthy, in Ned’s mind. Ser Lyle Crakehall took the white cloak, a man that reminded Ned so keenly of Robert with his booming voice that she almost couldn’t take him seriously – until she saw him take on three men at once in the practice yard, and beat them all.

Ser Garth ‘Greysteel’ Hightower was the final addition – the Hightowers had supported the Targaryens, but less ardently than the Tyrells and had been the first in the Reach to bend the knee. As such, Robert took on Ser Garth – a fierce man whose main strength was his speed. He was the most junior member of the kingsguard, the last to be awarded a white cloak, and Ned knew that for the first few years of service, he was watched warily by his sworn brothers for any sign of disloyalty that thankfully never appeared.

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Barely had Ned and Robert decided on the Kingsguard appointments, when they had to move onto what to do with the Small Council.

Varys and Maester Pycelle kept their seats, but all the rest of Aerys’ small council were dismissed. Pycelle only kept his place because they could not dismiss the Grand Maester, and Varys because he was too valuable to let go of, lest he go tell their enemies of whatever his little birds uncovered that he had decided it wasn’t prudent for them to know yet.

Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King, Ser Barristan was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, so he had a place, and Ned convinced Robert to give Wyman Manderly the appointment of Master of Coin, although Jon had pushed his own candidate, a lord from the fingers who made Ned’s skin crawl. Stannis Baratheon was given the title Master of Laws, although Robert had waned to give him Master of Ships. When Ned asked why, he had said offhandedly that he planned to give Stannis Dragonstone, so he would need to know about ships if he lived on an island.

“Robert, you can’t,” she said empathetically, “Stannis will see it as a great insult, especially considering how terribly he and Renly suffered for you in Storm’s End.”

Robert blinked. “It’s not meant as an insult,” he said slowly, “until we have trueborn babes,” he looked meaningfully at her round belly, “he is my heir. The heir to the Iron Throne’s seat is Dragonstone.”

“For the Targaryens, perhaps,” Ned reminds him, “but Stannis would hate it there. He will think Storm’s End his due. Give it to him, husband, else he may never forgive you.”

“Why did the gods curse me with brothers,” Robert laments, “fine, dammit, he’ll have Storm’s End. But then what to give Renly?”

“Dragonstone.” Ned said immediately, “You still need a loyal lord watching your shores. Have it be Renly. It will not be an insult for a third son. When he grows old enough, he can be master of ships. Until then, install an able, trusted castellan and have him stay with Stannis at Storm’s End, or here with you. Renly is young – he shouldn’t be left alone after all he’s gone through.”

In the end, Renly chose to stay at Storm’s End, and Stannis as well. As an interim Master of Ships, Gerion Lannister was appointed: it was brilliant, and Jon Arryn deserved all the credit for it. His appointment made it so the Lannisters could not complain about being passed over, Gerion did actually have a lot of sailing experience, he was genial, outgoing, and best of all? He and his brother Lord Tywin were not on good terms.

Stannis did not thank Robert for Storm’s End, as Ned predicted, as he thought it his due. But he always gave good, just council and constantly communicated with the small council by raven, even coming to the city in person every month to preside over the worst trials of the past moon in person. Although he’d never admit it, Ned knew that Robert depended on him.

Under Stannis’ reforms, the crime rate practically halved, even petty thieves having second thoughts about committing crime, knowing that if they were caught they’d lose an ear for their trouble, and that was only if it was a first offence. The only thing that Ned had to talk the man down from was closing all the brothels in the city, instead convincing him to limit the hours of the houses of sin instead. He also decided, in a stroke of utter genius, to set up safe houses for whores who needed some respite from the owners of the establishments, or overly obsessed clients. If they wanted, they also trained the woman who wanted to leave the trade in skilled arts, Stannis deciding that more skilled workers who were grateful to the Iron Throne would pay for itself.

He was right.

The safe houses were more popular among whores than anyone predicted, and soon they had women who hadn’t been whores asking to be educated as well. Ned took over then, Stannis saying that he hadn’t the time to run the multiple training schools for women appearing all over King’s Landing.

She handpicked twelve women she felt were sensible and quick studies, and hired masters in woodwork, bricklaying, butchery, textiles, smithing, agriculture and cooking to teach them all they would need, and then sent one to each of the twelve schools to teach any who came there. Robert had been sceptical that women could do such things, some of which were considered to be solely men’s work, and that made Ned all the more determined. He also came crawling back after a month of her shunning him from her bed.

The schools ended up costing five copper stars a day, as it was impossible to keep them free with the amount of women going to them. Within three years, the coffers began seriously benefiting from a huge surge in the workforce, as everything grew cheaper in price but not in quality, the roads were made better than they had ever been before, huge groups of these women banded together to create guilds of people schooled in a particular art.

(In a hundred years, although Ned would not live to see it, these groups would band together to become an organization as wide and varied as that of the maesters, except they were still allowed to marry. The original twelve women Ned had chosen to educate the masses would be considered the original apostles of women’s education, each of them remaining devoted to the cause until they died. Ned’s own role would fade in time, but she would always be remembered as the champion of women, if not the creator of the Women’s Institute. Robert also got a look in at the glory in later centuries as the king who saw the potential in women in the first place, and allowing his wife to go ahead with the project. Anyone who was around at the time could have told these future historians that Robert didn’t ‘allow’ Ned to do anything.)

Occasionally, Stannis would see promise in some young outlaw, gutter rat or desperate mother who stole to feed her babes: these he offered a place in his household, either in Storm’s End or in his personal service. Many of these were fanatically loyal, from washerwomen to Stannis’ right hand, Davos Seaworth, the first to taste Stannis’ strange brand of mercy.

Stannis prospered as Master of Laws. Less so as a husband.

Cersei Lannister and Stannis seemed to have as little interest in one another as was possible. He was stern, steel eyed, stubborn and dutiful to the point of madness, she a loud, lovely, lethal woman who was viciously manipulative, independent and ambitious.

Everybody knew that until Ned gave birth to a son, Stannis was Robert’s heir, and after Ned gave birth to Sansa in a long, difficult labour, Tywin Lannister decided that he was a good enough bet to marry his darling daughter to. A Lord Paramount, with royal blood, who could one day be king, or one of his children or grandchildren could be.

Ned had no intention of that ever happening, but she sat through the ceremony as the golden bride and dour groom kissed briefly. Something sharp flashed in Cersei’s green eyes when her and Ned’s eyes met, and Ned knew that Cersei was more dangerous than either Robert or Jon realized.

Cersei spends the majority of her time in King’s Landing, even though Stannis prefers Storm’s End – even so, they manage to conceive a babe in the time between the overlap, and Stannis insists Cersei give birth in Storm’s End. When the lady returns from her confinement, she looks put out to the extreme when she presents Robert with his niece, Lady Shireen Baratheon, who has the dark hair of her father and the features of her mother. Once Shireen is born, Ned notices that Cersei and Stannis seem to get on better, simply because they are united in protecting their daughter’s best interests.

Ned prays to the old gods that the little lady of Storm’s End has no interest in her cousin’s crown. For whilst she doesn’t worry about Stannis, she worries about Cersei. She worries about Cersei’s father. She has lived through too many wars, and prays for peace in not only her lifetime, but her children’s.

She feels as if the gods are mocking her when the news of the Ironborn rebellion comes, and Robert prepares for war, when Ned’s stomach begins swelling once again.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Ned feels like she spends half her life worrying, mainly about Robert.

The reason she worries about him, although he is almost seven foot tall and built like a god, is because he has never worried about anything a day in his life. When he hears of Balon Greyjoy crowning himself the king of the Iron Islands, and the pillaging of Lannisport, he does not worry about the cost of the men, what his children will think of him disappearing, what ideas it may place in the minds of other Lords Paramount.

No, he doesn’t worry. Robert was not fashioned for worry.

Instead, he roars his fury, spits his revenge, swears his retribution. He orders warships, banners, swords and doesn’t even consider the possibility that he might not win this fight. He is glorious, and terrifying, and he looks more alive than he has in...

Ned remembers the day they got married, he had looked a bit like this. Godlike and impossible to refuse. Lords Manderly and Redwyne send ravens for their fleets to set sail, Tywin Lannister has already gathered all his men after the attack was launched on his city, and is marching down the kingsroad, armed with Casterly Rock’s gold and power. Stannis is made battle commander, and he marches out of the Red Keep with a hard jaw and steely eyes, looking to the world like a man on a mission as Cersei watches him go, baby Shireen squirming in her arms as her father disappears off to war.

She tells Robert she’s pregnant in the courtyard, wanting to give him something to keep him warm throughout the campaign. Something other than another woman’s embrace. He swears, he swears he won’t, he swears he’ll be good, promises her with such sincerity in his blue eyes that Ned wants to believe him, wants to believe more than anything else in the world.

When he has done his usual ritual of spinning her around until she feels sick to her stomach after learning of her pregnancy, he moves onto the children, who are lined up by Ned’s side. Robb and Jon are not Robert’s children, and they know it – Robb has been told stories of his father all his life from Jon Arryn, and guiltily, Ned tells Jon about Brandon as well. She tries to tell stories where he and Lyanna are together, so he learns of his mother as well, even if to him she is but an aunt, like Ned. But he is still the closest thing the two of them have to a father.

Robert goes down the line, and squats down to Robb’s height. “When I get back,” he says to the seven year old, “you’ll be as big as me.” He ruffles his copper hair, with one big hand, “Look after your mother and sister for me.”

To Jon, he smiles, and holds out his hand. Jon, four years old, almost five, wraps his arms around the king’s legs instead of going for a formal handshake. Robert smiles down fondly at the boy. “You be brave, my boy,” he says, “as brave as your father.”

Ned swallows, hard. Nobody looks at her, and she’s grateful. She doesn’t know what her face looks like as she watches the scene.

Sansa is too little to understand that her father is going away, and simply giggles when Robert picks her up and gives her a kiss on the top of her head, “My little lady,” he said, tweaking her nose. Sansa kicked wildly as he tickled her sides, before placing a sloppy kiss on her father’s cheek when encouraged by her septa.

And then, he is gone. It’s so quick, only a week before had they been at peace, but Ned had forgotten how quick war was. It moved along with no cares for goodbyes, or the lack of time that had been spent with one’s spouse.

If you had told Ned then that Robert would come back to meet their child, she would have been filled with relief. But if you had told Ned then that Benjen would not, she would have been wracked with grief.

But nobody told her anything.

It was too dangerous to send non-essential ravens in case they were shot down, and the battle plans were lost. Her brother had died slowly, and Ned cried when she heard, but at the time she felt no pain, just relief that she’d had no news of the king falling. She hates herself later for not thinking of Ben. But she had never imagined there could be a world without her brother in it, a world where she was the last of her siblings, the last child, the last...

She is seven months round when the war ends, Robert having crushed the rebellion to ash. Greyjoy had knelt, after he was given the choice between doing that or dying, and his two elder sons were with their Drowned God. His last son was to be sent to King’s Landing to serve as a hostage – the boy was only ten, and Ned tried to be as gentle as she could be with him. The boy ended up arriving ahead of her lord husband – and the rest of the men who rode off to war, at that.

This was because Lord Tywin had decided to host a tourney in Lannisport, and she was unsurprised when Robert decided to put off coming home until the tourney was over, his weakness for sporting events well known to her, instead deciding to compete in the melee. Whilst Ned herself cannot travel, as heavily pregnant as she is, she sends the children along with Jon Arryn, knowing that they’d love the jousting and battles – especially Sansa. Cersei goes, both for the tourney and to see her home, Stannis grudgingly accompanying his wife. She imagines her little daughter squealing with delight as the valiant knights rode against one another, and it almost makes the pain of Ben’s loss lessen.

The Greyjoy boy – Theon, she makes herself use his name – is not a shy child by nature, but he barely speaks a word to anyone in the first moon of his wardship – and he is officially a ward. But unofficially, he’s a hostage. Should Lord Balon ever reave again, the boy will die. It was all that kept Robert from turning Pyke into an island of the dead. The child knows it, and keeps his eyes downcast, but sometimes, when he feels particularly brave, he bursts out in fiery fury, screaming that he is Ironborn, he is Ironborn and he won’t be any greenlander’s whore. Other nights, he just cries, and Ned feels the same helplessness she felt with Benjen at the end of the war begin to envelop her again. Ben – Ben who she never truly knew, and never understood.

Ned wonders what his father had told the boy about them, and despairs.

.

Robert returns, the winner of the melee, crusher of the rebellion, a conquering hero. The people throw rose petals to him in the streets, music plays in the halls of the Red Keep all night long, and Ned doesn’t see any of it, as she is bed bound. And he does not return alone, but comes back flanked by their children – with Robb, who has decided he wants to be a knight when he grows up, with Sansa, who was given a crown of flowers if not the crown of flowers given to the Queen of Love and Beauty and won’t take the garland off, and with Jon – who is now Jon Stark.

“Your brother wanted him to succeed him,” Robert shrugs when Ned asks him about why he did it without consulting her first, “it was one of his last wishes. Plus, the North needs a lord. Until he’s old enough, we can install a castellan, and then Brandon’s son will inherit Winterfell, as it was always meant to be. He needs not feel inferior to Robb in anyway way, now they are both trueborn scions of their own great houses.” Ned doesn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him. She decides on the former.

“Our son has grown strong in my absence,” Robert said, rubbing at the large bump which would later turn out to be Arya. A kick landed right in the king’s palm, and he laughed in astonishment. “He knows I’m here!”

“He feels my joy at your safe return,” Ned comments, and Robert’s eyes sparkle like sapphires. There is something different about him. Something revitalized. Robert was not made for court, Robert was made for war, something that Ned hates to admit, even to herself. But the proof sits in front of her, in his wide grin, thick biceps and hard muscles. The last five years seem to have dropped away from him, whereas Ned feels like she wears them on every line of her face.

“I’m here now,” Robert says, and he smells of oil and iron and thick perfume as he leans in to kiss her. Ned freezes, but he’s too close to see her expression change, and by the time he’s pulled away she has her features under control. Clearly, she’s not as good at it as she thought she was. “Ned? Are you alright?”

“Mm,” she hums, trying to look as pitiful as she can, “the babe is just a little boisterous. If you wouldn’t mind giving me a moment-”

Robert all but runs out of the room.

Ned breathes out, relaxing back into the pillows, mind spinning around at several miles a minute, jumping from point A to point B as quick as a wink. A cold hand clenches around her heart as she comes to the inevitable conclusion.

Robert did not wear perfume. Neither did Ned.

But other women did.

.

Arya’s arrival – a fortnight early - distracts Ned from Robert’s unfaithfulness, and the clamour that follows that the king still has no son and heir makes Ned feel like she is carrying the sky at times. It is made no easier by Cersei Lannister announcing that she is pregnant the day after Ned gives birth.

If she has a son...

Another piece of important news from Lannisport was that Jaime Lannister now has twins with his Tully wife, just old enough to toddle around at the tourney. Robb and Jon told her that they were just babies, and boring, but Sansa said they were sweet little babes, as if she wasn’t a sweet little toddler herself – Tommen had shown her his kittens, and Celia had shown her her favourite hiding places inside the Rock’s corridors.

Against her will, Ned’s mind began matching her children with others in the realm – Robb would be old enough for Margaery Tyrell, Sansa and Tommen Lannister were practically the same age, as were Arya and Tommen, and Jon could marry to the North, which had multiple girls of an age with him. Mainly, Ned had to nullify Shireen, and this sibling that could be third in line to the throne with weaker marriages, but not so weak they were insulting – the Royces had a young daughter, and three sons, the youngest of which was still very little, and they were loyal to her and Robert. Any houses in the North would work, as would Howland Reed’s children – he had a boy and a girl, and he had said that he hoped their children would be friends. Whther he was thinking like she, Ned didn’t know, but she doubted it. Ned had to protect a throne, a husband, a hidden prince, an heirless kingdom, a high-lord to be, and no less than four of the great house’s heirs.

 Ned knows, deep inside, that this is what her father had done once, with his southern ambitions, those plans and schemes of his that never came to the result he wanted – whatever that was. Instead, they helped lead to his death, and Brandon and Lyanna’s too. Aegon the Unlikely had thought this way as well – he had made good matches for all his children, and all ended up broken, plunging the kingdom into civil war. So whilst Ned thinks, makes notes, plans, she says nothing to Robert about betrothals. She sends no letters, and decides to leave her children unanchored.

Things change. Ned knows that, better than most.

Robert still comes to her, obviously – Bran was conceived, and still her mind wouldn’t settle. What if, she worried, this was another girl? What if Robert began looking elsewhere, thinking of putting her aside? Plenty of houses desired their daughters to take her place. What if Cersei Lannister has a son, what if Robert doesn’t love her anymore?

After that first night, returning from the tourney, he doesn’t smell of perfume anymore. She lets herself breathe, thinks perhaps it was just the once, just one weakness, and she hadn’t expected him to be faithful, no matter how he swore. She thinks, as she begins swelling again, that it will all be alright.

And then, she sees a love bite on his neck as he changes out of his training armour at the end of the day.

“Who is she?” Ned says, suddenly, unable to bite her tongue any longer. She is heavy with his child, for the third time, she has kept quiet for so long, never questioned, never attacked, but he has let her down, again. Again.

Robert turns to look at her so fast she misses the movement, and his face, which moments before had been red and ruddy with exercise from the practice yard and laughter at Jon and Robb’s antics at dinner, has turned white.

She was right.

The thought brings her no joy. “I-” he tries to speak but the words seem to be trapped, so he just stands there, mouth gaping, “I-”

Ned had thought she’d cry when her worst fears were confirmed. But instead, all she has left in her is emptiness. She keeps looking at him, and Robert, hulking, tall, muscled Robert, seems to shrink before her very eyes. “Who is she?” she asks again.

“Ned-” he begins, taking a step forward.

“Who is she?”

“A mistake,” he stutters, “I made a mistake-”

“How many times?”

“Ned, darling-”

“How many times?”

“Three.”

Ned had counted two times. She wonders when she missed one. She does not cry. She does not weep. She does not break down, or beg, or curse.

“How many women?”

He swallows, and looks down to the ground. “Three.”

Nobody special. Nobody in particular. Ned doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse.

“Tell me.”

And he does. He does. He almost trips over the words, almost choking on them, they flow out of him so fast. The first, she was in the Iron Islands. He had just won the war, properly won it, and his blood had been up. He had tried to think of her, and the promise he made, but there was this one ship wench, she had close cropped hair, like hers had been on their wedding night, and he just couldn’t help himself. He had hated himself, and told himself he wouldn’t do it again.

The second time was at Casterly Rock, a serving girl, he’d been hunting around for Sansa – their daughter had disappeared with Celia Lannister and he hadn’t been able to find her. The girl had said she’d help him look, but when they got into cramped quarters- well, he’s only human, and it was the last day of the tourney, and he missed her so much, and in the dark he could pretend-

(Ned almost cuts him off there. She wishes she had.)

He’d been in King’s Landing, and Arya had just been born, and he had been downcast. He needed a son, not that it was Ned’s fault, of course not, but then a letter came from the Rock, from the serving girl. She was pregnant. All he’d been able to think about was Ned – here, he tries to touch her, and she slaps his hand away. He looks like a kicked puppy, and Ned doesn’t have it in her to feel even the slightest bit sorry – and he’d felt overwhelmed. He’d said as much to some knight, and then Varys had been there, and there’d been a girl, and he was so damn desperate for something, anything-

“You bastard.” Ned hisses. “You fucking bastard.”

“Ned, I swear, I’ll never-”

“Oh don’t, Robert,” Ned says, looking in his eyes. He’s crying, tears everywhere, but still all she feels is cold fury, building inside of her like a wall around her heart. “Save your promises. I’d be an idiot to believe anything you swore. I was an idiot to think you’d ever stop being that fifteen year old boy who was proud about getting his first girl pregnant.”

Robert just carries on crying, and he gets to his knees. “Please,” he says, trying to clutch at her hands, to turn her head. She looks away from him. She can’t very well walk away – she’s propped up against several pillows, consigned to bed rest for a week by Pycelle after she had some harsh contractions, and she will not risk this baby to prove a point. “Please, Ned, just give me a second chance, please, I’ll be better. I love you, I’ll be stronger, I’ll be-”

“Sleeping in your own chambers.” Ned finishes the sentence. She doesn’t turn her head to see if he goes, but the door clicks a moment later, and she is alone. Even then, she doesn’t cry. She rubs her tummy, and closes her eyes. After a moment, she feels the baby begin to hiccup. Maybe the baby is weeping for her. “Don’t be like your father,” she asks the unborn child, and already knows it’ll be a useless request.

.

Cersei gives birth to a girl, and the relief that Ned feels is indescribable. This time, the girl favours her mother – Myrcella Baratheon has wide green eyes, blonde ringlets and pink cheeks. Shireen and Sansa are both enamoured with the baby, squabbling over who gets to play mother to her when Cersei allows them to play with her youngest.

To Ned’s eyes, Cersei bonds more with her second child, perhaps because she favours her. Ned herself has no children that look like her – Jon most strongly resembles her, but he is technically not her child, followed by Arya, whose appearance is still mainly Robert. She is pleased to see that Shireen is not left out of her mother’s affections, for as much as she fears Cersei, she pities her too. Ned knows what it is to be married to a man you did not choose, and you do not love. She had occupied herself with Robb, and recognises Cersei doing the same with her own babes.

Ned had thought herself lucky, once, to be able to marry the man she wanted. Now, it feels like she is being mocked by the gods. She, unlike Cersei, unlike Lysa, unlike Elia, unlike Rhaella, had made her own choice, and chosen a man who could never keep to her bed.

Robert still makes sad eyes at her, sends flowers, poetry – something she knows he has no patience for – perfumes, jewels, ornate weapons, toys for the children. She sells them, all but the toys, and gives the proceeds to the Women’s Institute, who have their more artistic students carve a statue of her for their largest school.

Personally, Ned thinks the statue looks more like Lyanna than her, and likes it all the more for it.

Finally, Robert corners her, and passes her a letter. She takes it, and reads.

My king,

The serving girl Estelle went into labour at three in the morning in this most fortunate year, 289 AC. There she give birth to a boy and a girl, both black of hair and blue of eye. They are small but strong. As you and she both requested, I have baptized them in the light of the Seven.

As you asked, the girl was named Eddara Hill, after your most merciful queen, and the boy Steffon Hill, after your Grace’s own dear father. They will be provided a stipend to be educated, as we discussed, and will not be informed of their father’s identity.

Maester Creylen, Casterly Rock

Ned looks up at Robert, a thousand thoughts flitting in her mind, each more incredulous to the last, but blood thumping in her ears, a white pain behind her eyes. “Ned?” he says softly, somehow making her name a question.

She doesn’t know what he thinks this will do: make her angrier, make her forgive him, make her jealous – she doesn’t know herself. “Write back,” she says, pressing the paper into his hands, “have the girl and the two children sent for.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

.

The girl comes to a private audience, one arm each supporting a small bundle. The babes are wrapped in black and gold cloth, and the girl does, Ned thinks, vaguely have her look. They are of a height, and share the same shape eyes and tilt of nose. “Y’grace,” the girl mumbles, wobbling as she curtseys.

Robert is not here. She had said she wanted to greet the girl alone, and he consented. There had been fear in his eyes as he did so, however – fear of what she might do. She thinks it is no mistake that there are two kingsguard present – Ser Richard, for her, and Ser Brynden – she thinks, for the girl. She is part of Catelyn’s household, after all, and Ser Brynden’s words are Family, Duty, Honour.

Ned would not have chosen that particular order if she had founded the house. It sounded better than Duty, Duty, Duty but very few lived the life that Ned did. Sometimes, she wonders, if she had been born a man, it would have been different. If she had been able to choose her path, and not have it handed to her. Perhaps family would have come first in that life, or perhaps honour. But in this life, Ned lives by her duty, no matter how it pains her.

“How old?” she asks, stepping closer. She knows, of course, but it’s polite to ask.

“Three moons, y’grace,” the girl says, swallowing. Her eyes are fixed on the ground. She clearly wants to say something else, but is afraid.

“Speak your mind,” Ned tells her, and scared half to death, the girl does.

“I’m sorry about the name,” she rushes out, “I didn’t choose a girl’s name, the king said ‘e would, and I couldn’t question the king. An’ when the boy was born – ‘e came out first – I asked ‘e be named Steffon, but when the girl came out, the maester dinna ask an’ just named ‘er. Please, I didna mean to offend. I don’t want no castle nor title, I just wanta live peacefully. I didna ask the king for money, ‘e just sent it. Please, y’grace, ‘ave mercy. You won’t see us ever again.” A single tear tracked its way down the girl’s cheek.

Pity so strong it was almost crushing flooded through Ned. The girl thought she’d been brought here to be killed, along with her children. And she still came.

“Nobody is going to hurt you, Estelle,” Ned said clearly, “nor your babes.”

The girl looked up at her like she barely dared to hope she’d heard correctly. “I... y’grace...”

“I am aware that my husband can be charming,” Ned said, “and he is hard to say no to when in the moment. I don’t blame you for his infidelity, nor the birth of these two children. I have asked you here to give you three options, any of which you are free to choose. If you choose none, you are free to return to Casterly Rock.”

The girl clutched her babes close to her breast, and began to weep, properly this time. Relief was etched in every line of her face and one of the babes awoke and began to whimper. Without thinking, Ned took the child and rocked it, as she had rocked her own children, and the babe settled. The girl quickly got her sobs under control, perhaps out of shock at seeing the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms quiet a babe as expertly as a hardened midwife. “That’s Eddard, y’grace. Yer namesake.”

Eddara Hill had a sweet face, and Ned thought she could have passed for one of her own, Robert was so strong in her features. She had chubby cheeks and long eyelashes, and Ned was transported back to Lyanna’s birth. She had had the same eyelashes. “She’s beautiful,” Ned said, clearing her throat, before handing the child back. “Now, your options. Your first option is to go to Winterfell. There you’ll be given good work, and your children will be cared and educated for with all the respect the king’s children should be. You’ll be given a house in Wintertown, and start afresh.”

The girl looked too overwhelmed to say anything, so Ned carried on. “Your second option is to stay here, in King’s Landing. You’ll have a position in the Red Keep, and your children will grow up with their siblings, and be acknowledged by their father. I can’t promise a fresh start, but I can promise that here you’ll be among family.”

“Y’grace, I don’t know what to say...” Estelle looked close to tears again.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Ned told her softly. “Your third option is to cross the Narrow Sea, and go to Braavos. There you will be given the keys to a manse, and enough gold to live your life in comfort without working, free to raise your children however you please, being given a yearly allowance by the Iron Bank. Your children will not be acknowledged, and once you reach Braavos, you cannot return to Westeros. Your final option is simply to return to the Rock, where you will continue in the position you hold now, and your children will not be acknowledged, but will be given enough money to properly educate the twins.”

Ned felt drained. She knew which one she wanted the girl to pick, but honestly, Estelle was an unknown quantity to her. The offers were all genuine: if she chose one that Ned had hoped she wouldn’t, it would be done. These were, at the end of the day, her children’s siblings. Innocents. And she couldn’t find it in herself to blame Estelle for not denying the king.

“I... I’d like to go to Braavos, please, y’grace.” Estelle finally says, and Ned feels her own child kick so hard she has to focus on not wincing. That was what she had hoped the girl would say.

Ned smiled, feeling as if a little bit of weight had been lifted. “Of course, Estelle. You leave tomorrow, if that’s alright?” The girl nodded, “For tonight, you’ll stay in Maegor’s Holdfast. Ser Brynden will escort you.” She nodded, trying to seem kind, unsure if she pulled it off.

But the girl went, glancing back once, Ned still smiling. Only when the doors close did Ned allow her expression to fall, and relief to flood through her.

“That was well done, your Grace,” Ser Richard said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, and squeezing gently, before stepping back to a more formal distance of a guard, not a friend. “You handled it very ably.”

“Thank you,” Ned says, massaging her temples, “if only my husband could save me the trouble.”

.

The day Brandon Baratheon is born, the bells ring from sunrise to sunset. They give Ned a terrible headache, but they don’t stop her sleeping – the labour had been long and hard, and nothing could have kept her from falling into slumber once she had done her duty.

When she awakes, Robert is there, back from his quickly organized hunt. He was sitting, looking at their sleeping newborn, their heir, their son. When she groans from her aching- well, her aching everywhere, he turns to look at her and smiles.

“You have given me a son,” he says, pride practically bursting out of him like sunlight, “My fierce wife.” Ned raises an eyebrow, as he comes to sit at her beside, “My love. My darling. Ned, can we start again? I know what I have to lose, and it is too dear a price. You are the love of my life, the mother to my heir, my best friend. I can’t go on the way we have been.”

Ned swallows, and breathes, and looks at her little son. Dark hair caps his tiny skull, and Ned would bet the entire royal treasury that his eyes are blue, as blue as his father’s.

“Okay,” she says, “okay.”

Robert lets out a whoop, and pulls her into a searing kiss. “Robert,” she mumbles, “I haven’t washed in three days, I’m all grimy-”

“I don’t give a fuck, as long as I’m with you.” He says, stroking her hair in a way that sends shivers down her spine, “I don’t care if I have to wait months, or years between seeing you, there’ll be no one else. I don’t care if you’re covered in mud, or blood, or rags. I don’t care about anything else, not the fucking kingdom, not the politics, not the treasury, as long as I’m with you, and our children. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Ned. I’ll never be away from you if I have the choice to stay.”

This time, Ned’s the one that pulls him in. “I’ve missed you,” she admits, to him, to herself. She’s missed her husband, her friend, her lover, the father of her children. “but,” she adds after a moment, “if you ever do that again, I’ll leave. You won’t see me again.”

Robert nods, “I know.”

And so, Ned closes her eyes, and for the first time in months, sleeps with her husband beside her.

Chapter Text

A sharp rap on Ned’s door woke her, Robert beside her groaning and shoving his head beneath his pillow. With a quick glance around, Ned realized the sun had not yet risen, the pale sky painting the city in shades of grey.

“Come in,” she called sleepily, pushing her hair back from her face as she sat up, and stretched. From beneath his pillow, Robert muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fuck off.

The door opened, and Ser Brynden Tully and Ser Lyle Crakehall strode in, both already dressed in their white armour and cloak. They both bowed deeply, before Ser Brynden looked up at his queen, quickly taking in the king’s form beside her. “Your Graces, I apologise for the hour,” he began, “but she’s gone. Again.”

That got Robert’s attention. He pulled himself up, and stared at the kingsguard. “Fucking again?” he groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “You’ve been outsmarted by an eight year old again?”

To his credit, Ser Brynden held the king’s gaze, but Ned could see the telltale signs on his face to show his annoyance at the fact. In contrast, Ser Lyle flushed and remained silent as Brynden answered the king’s question. “Yes,” he said shortly, “as instructed, Princess Arya was taken to her room last night, without supper as punishment for her... jape yesterday, and Ser Lyle stood watch outside through the night. An hour ago I came to relieve him, and when I checked inside, she was gone. We have searched, hoping not to have to wake your majesties at this hour, but she cannot be found.”

Ned let out a sigh. “Have you checked all her usual haunts? The stables, the rookery? The kitchen, the dungeons, the street of steel?”

“Yes, your grace.” Ser Brynden said, “She appears to have... vanished.”

“She’s a bloody child,” Robert snapped, pulling on his tunic, clearly too agitated to bother waiting for his dresser. “The kingsguard have been outwitted by a bloody child.”

Ser Lyle’s nostrils flared, “Your Grace, I assure you, I was outside all night-”

“We don’t doubt your word, Ser Lyle,” Ned said to the knight placating, “Arya is a very resourceful girl.”

“Resourceful,” Robert snorted, “that’s one word for it.”

 Ned knew what word Robert would use. She thanks her lucky stars that he has the good sense not to use it now, as the kingsguard had been rubbed the wrong way enough already, and it isn’t even dawn yet. She pulled on her robe, a delicate thing in white and gold, to cover her nakedness – she barely wears it but she knows Robert loves the few occasions when she does. “Right,” she says, combing her fingers through her messy hair in an attempt to look even vaguely presentable, still unsure why she bothers, as all the servants of the Red Keep have seen her in various disastrous states whilst she was pregnant, and none of the courtiers will have roused themselves from bed yet. “I’m going to need five guards to search the lower town-”

She is cut off by a knock at the door. “Enter,” She calls, and she sees a familiar head of dark hair poke its way around the doorframe. “Jon?” she says, taking in her nephews rumpled appearance as he steps inside fully. “What do you need at this hour?”

“Well,” Robert mutters grumpily, “may as well wake the entire bloody castle up at this hour. There’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. Get the bloody petitioners, have dinner at lunch, and call it an early night before sunset. The day’s wasted.”

Ned cannot contain her eyeroll at her husband’s dramatics. “Jon?” she prompts, her shy twelve year old nephew seeming incredibly interested in the floor, “What was it you came to tell us?”

“Aunt Ned, it’s Arya,” he says quietly, and suddenly every eye in the room is on the boy, “I woke up and she was in my bed. I know how you worry, but I just thought I’d better... let you know.” He shrugs lamely, before clearly noticing the puce colour Robert is turning, “Please don’t be angry with her,” he says quickly, “I told her if she ever had nightmares she could come to my room.”

Not for the first time, Jon reminds her so much of Benjen that it seems more likely he is Ben’s son than Lyanna or Brandon’s. One day, she knows his quiet temperament and quick mind will make him an able and well loved Warden of the North. But at the same time, she remembers herself and Lyanna cuddling up to Brandon when there had been a thunderstorm so close Ned had been sure one of the lightning bolts would strike Winterfell itself. Once, of course, he gets out from his adopted siblings’ shadows.

“Oh for fuck’s-” Robert begins to roar, but Ned shoots him a sharp look that sets him to grinding his teeth instead, strangely reminiscent of Stannis, although Ned has the good sense not to mention it. Ever. Idly, she wonders which of the Baratheon brothers would find the comparison more insulting, before pulling herself back to the matter at hand.

“Thank you, Jon,” she says, “please, go and fetch your cousin for us.”

Ned can see the beginnings of regret on Jon’s face – he had clearly come to try and save Arya from trouble for disappearing again, and instead seems to have landed her right in it. Ned considered telling him that he probably did manage to lessen her punishment, as the longer she was missing the more angry Robert got, but decided against it. He gives a shallow, slightly wonky bow – which was to be expected, considering the early hour – and left, his bare feet slapping against the stone tiles as he broke into a jog.

“Fucking useless you lot are,” Robert growls at Ser Brynden and Ser Lyle, dismissing them with a final irate look. Ned supposes she has around ten minutes before Arya comes, at the latest – the girl knowing from experience to not keep her father waiting when he was in a mood – to make him calm down.

“Well,” she says sitting down on the bed, “at least she was still in the castle this time.”

Robert begins to pace, and Ned looks at her husband. He is still recognisable as the demon of the Trident from so many years before, at least to her, but he is softer now – not plump, nor round, but wider and with more lines in his face. He has taken to wearing a thick but neat beard of late, and Ned thinks it does a good job of hiding how ruddy his cheeks get sometimes at various state occasions where he has too much to drink. “We’ve told her a thousand bloody times,” he says, “she is a princess, if anything happened to her...”

Ned knows the worry all too well. And Robert is right: if Arya were not a princess, it wouldn’t be such an issue, although Ned knows she and Robert would be just as devastated if they were pig farmers and their little girl disappeared. No, as a member of the royal family Arya is vulnerable to people who want a ransom, to those who want to undercut court, she would be a bargaining chip of immense value – and, that is not even taking into consideration how her siblings would react, nor the smallfolk.

“Robert, you know it does no good to shout at her. She won’t listen. We have to talk to her-”

“I’m her father, and her bloody king. She should obey me!”

“Yes, she is your daughter. If you had grown up a prince, then I know you’d have rebelled at every turn, just as she is. Arya doesn’t feel as if she fits into the role of princess like Sansa does.”

“Buggering fuck,” Robert swears, “shit balling crapping tits.”

Ned looks at her husband though half lidded eyes, “Sit down.”

He does, but immediately begins sharply tapping his foot. “Doesn’t she know what this does to us?” he snaps, “I mean, gods... what if she hadn’t been in the castle this time? What if she’d decided to go to Flea Bottom? I’ve heard she’s done it before. Flea bottom, Ned! Without any guards whatsoever! Anything could happen to a little girl down there, I mean dammit, it has, I’ve been dealing with those little girl’s brothers, families and rapists for goddamn years, as they always petition for justice, usually for the bloody dead. I mean, how does she-”

Two raps on the door. “Enter,” Ned calls, giving Robert one final warning glare before the chamber door opens again.

Arya steps inside, fully dressed, Jon probably deciding that she’d get off easier if she was properly attired. Her dark hair is brushed away from her face, and it presses so tightly to her skull that Ned thinks it must hurt a little, no doubt a desperate attempt to seem clean and tidy. “Hello father,” she says in a small voice, “mother.”

Robert stands, suddenly. Ned resists the urge to pull him back down, knowing he has to get his anger and worry out of his system. “Why did you do it?” Robert snapped, beginning to pace again. Ned reminds herself to ask for his rug to be replaced, as after years of it, the middle has become worn and faded. “Hmm? Give your mother and me the fright of our lives? For fun?”

Arya looks at her feet, and her chin wobbles. “No, father,” she says in a steadier voice than Ned expected, considering that grown men had quailed before Robert’s anger before, “I had a nightmare, and-”

“So, why not go to the door and tell Ser Lyle?” Robert demands, “I seriously doubt he’d stop you from going to Jon’s rooms if he knew why, and it’d save us a few grey hairs. But instead, you vanished. You could have been anywhere girl! What are we going to do one day when you can’t be found, when you’ve been hurt or-”

“Robert.” Ned says sharply, cutting off her irate husband before he says something he’ll regret. He grunts in acknowledgement of her intervention.

“I just... I mean...” Arya stutters, and begins to cry quietly. “I didn’t think of that, I was just scared and I find it easier when nobody’s watching me... and I didn’t know he’d let me out, because I was in trouble and I hadn’t eaten and I was cold and I just...”

“Oh for...” Robert rubs a hand across his face, “Have you eaten?”

Arya shook her head minutely. Ned addresses her lady’s maid, who has been standing obediently in the corner the entire time. “Wynafryd, please go and fetch princess Arya her breakfast.” The woman curtseys, and goes to leave.

“Get me some as well, while you’re at it,” Robert grumbles, before taking a step towards his daughter. Arya doesn’t look up at the movement, and not for the first time, Ned wonders how wise it is to let Robert’s anger be the main punishment for misbehaviour. They do also send them to bed without supper for a repeat offense within a week, and only twice have they ever had to go further than that. Robert’s wrath is usually enough of a deterrent.

Once, it was Robb and Theon, who had gotten drunk on the castle’s ale stock, just before a delegation from the Vale was to arrive, leaving the castle shorthanded: their punishment had been to work a week in the brewery to make up all they’d wasted: they had never repeated the infraction, the hard work, stink of hops and Ned’s orders to the overseer that he was to treat them like any of his other workers saw to that. Ned did not believe in whipping boys, believing that the children in her care should be held to the same standards as others.

 The second time, it had been Sansa, surprisingly, who had lost her temper and screamed at a seamstress who kept poking her with needles everytime she came to work on a dress. Similarly, Ned made sure the punishment fit the crime, and made Sansa work the same hours that the castle’s seamstresses did for a week, rising before dawn and going to bed after midnight, not being allowed to see her ladies, and sewing until she was hunched and her fingers were bleeding and numb.

Since, Sansa had made sure to always thank her seamstresses, and controlled her temper better. Still, it wasn’t completely solved, as she sometimes became very bitter at holding her emotions inward, and needed a good screaming, crying session in her room – she was a Baratheon, after all, and Ned wouldn’t change that for the world.

Now, Ned hoped she wouldn’t have to step up Arya’s punishment. She was still young, and Ned had felt guilty sending her to bed hungry, but knowing she couldn’t just ignore two breaches of the rules just because she was younger – Arya wouldn’t learn, and the other children would feel there had been special treatment, especially Sansa, who had been the victim of Arya’s most recent joke. “You have to promise me,” Robert said, resting on his haunches, looking directly into his daughter’s eyes, “that you won’t go anywhere without informing the guards first. I know you like to slip away, and disappear, but it isn’t safe. If you do it again, you won’t just be going to bed without supper – you’ll be going with two girls to sleep in your bed with you, to alert us if you so much as think of leaving. And I won’t care if they’re your friends or not.”

“But, you won’t let me go if I tell you.”

“Probably not,” Robert agrees, “but I might. If you do go, thinking you won’t get caught, you’re wrong. This entire castle is going to be watching you everywhere you go until you have earned your mother and I’s trust again. You don’t like being watched, my girl? I can understand that. But we all have to do things we don’t like. Your mother has to wear dresses. I have to go to small council meetings and hold court. Your sister has to learn numbers, your brothers have to learn from Pycelle, you have to stay in this bloody castle, or so help me, Arya, you won’t be leaving this keep until your wedding day. Am I understood?”

Her husband never raises his voice, lays out what will happen in a firm tone, and yet by the end Arya is bawling like baby Rickon. Robert clenches his jaw, and taps on her chin, forcing her to raise her head. “Am I understood?” Arya nods frantically, still hiccupping, and Robert stands, satisfied. Ned gets up and rubs circles on Arya’s back as the girl weeps.

“We wouldn’t do this if we didn’t love you,” Ned tells her, “if anything happened to you, our hearts would break.”

At that moment, Wynafryd arrives with a platter of breakfast – doughy rolls, back bacon still sizzling, sausages, black pudding, buttered toast and a large jug of orange juice. Sniffling, Arya begins to pile up her plate along with Robert, and Ned breathes out as she takes the first bite.

One disaster averted. Only a thousand more to deal with before nightfall.

.

Ned used to have more duties around the Red Keep. But Robert had hired a maester solely to look after the Red Keep’s personal accounts – not the kingdom’s, that was still the Master of Coin’s area – but just the castle’s. Ned still had to host guests, and meet ambassadors, but without the management of the household her duties were roughly cut in half.

Which was good, really, because she had a new set of duties: taking care of her children.

“Brandon Baratheon, get down from there this instant!” Ned’s voice almost breaks she screams so loud at seeing Bran’s small form halfway up the side of Maegor’s Holdfast. In the back of her mind, she knows that Bran won’t fall – he’s never fallen. He had been climbing before he could walk, and seems more comfortable scaling some building rather than using the stairs. But everytime, regardless, an icy cold hand wraps itself around Ned’s heart.

All it would take was one misstep, and her son would be dead: and not only that, but that would make six month old Rickon the heir apparent - something risky in the extreme considering children under two years of age were far more likely to expire than those past that age. Ned had lost two babes in the years between Bran and Rickon’s births, both younger than a year old – Orys, who died at four months old, and Lyarra, who perished the day after her birth.

Ned can still remember how shocking Orys’ passing had been – he had suffered a cradle death. She had just set him down, hearty and healthy, one night, and come morning a wetnurse was screaming bloody murder, finding him dead. Lyarra had been a couple of years after, and less of a shock – she had been born so small, so much smaller than all the others, and far too early. She hadn’t opened her eyes for her entire life, and her foot had been as small as Ned’s thumb, all her tiny veins and blood vessels visible through her see-through skin. When she passed, Ned had been holding her. It had easily been one of the worst days of Ned’s life, perhaps because they all knew it was coming. Ned had wanted to stop time, to spend years in that one day with her child, but it wasn’t to be.

Lightly, Bran drops to her side, his big blue eyes looking far too innocent for Ned’s liking. “Yes, mother?”

“Bran,” she sighed, heart battering against her ribs, putting her hands on the boy’s shoulders, “please, no more climbing. You know what could happen.” They had had Pycelle make a clay model of the prince, his weight and height, and tip it off the roof. It had shattered into a thousand pieces. Bran had simply shrugged and insisted that he never fell.

“Yes, mother,” Bran sighed looking at the ground.

“Brandon,” she said firmly, “promise me.”

Finally, the boy met her eyes, and not for the first time his similarity to Robert at the same age took Ned aback. But, unlike Robert, Bran was sweet to the core – he laughed, and played, and brought joy wherever he went, and he felt things as hard as Stannis did, but unlike his uncle, he felt no need to hide them. “I promise,” he said, and Ned smiled weakly. That should probably last a week, and after that she’d have Ser Garth, Bran’s favourite member of the kingsguard, watch the boy like a hawk.

“Good boy,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Now, aren’t you supposed to be in lessons?”

Bran’s shoulders slumped, “Yes, mother.” None of her children were particularly studious – Ned wondered whether they even had a chance with her and Robert as their parents.

.

She finds Sansa eventually, and she is unsurprisingly not alone. Her two favourite ladies, Margaery Tyrell and Jeyne Westerling, are with her in the gardens, all of them equipped with sketchpads and charcoal, although Sansa is lying down whilst the other two draw, her instruments abandoned in the grass, her dark silky hair splayed out on Lady Margaery’s lap.

It is Jeyne that spots Ned first, and rises quickly, abandoning her drawing, just to fall into a deep curtsey. Lady Margaery struggled to follow her friend’s example, as she tried to push Sansa off her lap to enable her to stand unsuccessfully. Her daughter, eyes closed in the summer sun, frowns and looks at the cause of her friend’s movement, languidly moving her head up so she is in a sitting position, finally allowing Margaery to properly curtsey, the girl’s cheeks flaming red. Ned has to bite her tongue to stop herself laughing.

“Mother!” Sansa calls, smiling widely, “How lovely to see you!”

Her daughter, the model of a proper lady to strangers and acquaintances, always takes the opportunity to be informal with her close friends and family whenever possible – she stays sitting, the garden invisible to others, being surrounded by high walls, tilting her head to the side so her long, sleek hair falls over her shoulder.

Ned cannot help but smile back. “What have you been doing to poor Lady Margaery?” she asks, half teasing, “I am sure that the Tyrells did not expect their daughter to be used as a pillow when she was sent to wait upon you.” At the same time, she waves her hand, allowing Jeyne and Margaery to straighten.

For some reason, this causes all three girls to giggle, and Ned raises an eyebrow, but decides not to press. All girls must have secrets, for better or for worse. Despite her lack of questioning, Margaery  herself addresses Ned, her soft brown curls and doe-like eyes looking all the more beautiful in the sunlight, “Your grace, I am sure that my family will be pleased I can be of service wherever possible.”

“I am glad you do feel too abused,” Ned teases, before turning to Lady Jeyne, “and yourself, my lady? I do hope my daughter has not been using you as furniture as well.”

Jeyne blushes, but replies, and Ned thinks to herself what a good job her daughter had done of bringing the girl out of her shell – when she had first come to court, she had not been a lady in waiting, but just a small, shy presence that Sansa took a liking to, convincing Lord Westerling to allow to stay in the capital when he returned home, “No, my lady. Instead I am her spy in the kitchens, to see if lemon cakes are on the menu.”

Sansa gives a gasp of mock outrage, and throws a handful of grass at the lady, which falls well short. “Traitor!” she cries, dramatically putting her hand to her forehead and thumping back into the grass. Lady Margaery rolls her eyes at the princess’ antics, whilst Lady Jeyne chucks a handful of grass back at her, which lands directly on Sansa’s abdomen.

“Good shot.” Ned comments, as it finally gets Sansa to her feet, brushing the grass off of her gown before it can stain. “Sansa, darling,” she says, “may I speak to you in private?” Sansa nods, sighing, knowing what Ned wishes to discuss, the smile slipping off her face, no doubt remembering the night before when she had awoken to stained sheets for the first time. Lady Margaery and Lady Jeyne curtsey, knowing a dismissal when they hear it.

Mother and daughter walk silently to a stone bench, in memory of Queen Naerys, one of Sansa’s favourite spots. “Your father is still set on a betrothal, and soon,” she tells her daughter, the only response she receives being a quick swallow. “But he agrees with me, that you should put forward a candidate, and if the king approves, you may choose your own spouse.”

Sansa’s face is carefully blank, and she looks down at her hands, carefully folded in her lap. “I am younger than Robb, mother,” she says quietly, “and he has no betrothal.”

“Jon Arryn has the choice of Robb’s betrothed,” Ned reminds her daughter, “for he is the Lord of Robb’s house, and as of yet he has made no selection. I have no control as his mother, and whilst Robert could insist as the king, he holds Lord Arryn in too high esteem to force his hand. Worry not, darling, your father will never marry you to cruel man, and every man in the kingdom would treat you with the respect you deserve, knowing how lucky they are to be your husband.”

“Every man,” Sansa repeats, “yes, I suppose so. May I... may I have time to think, mother?”

“Of course,” Ned says, taking her daughter’s hands in hers. Ned realizes they are shaking after a moment, and gives them a squeeze. “But do not wait longer than a moon, else your father may make the decision for you. But whatever happens, you will not be married for a few years yet. You have time to be a child for a little longer.”

Sansa closes her eyes, and breathes out slowly. “Mother, did you ever... did you ever feel like you life was not yours to control?”

Now it is Ned’s turn to look away. “Yes, my sweet. But it is, if we fight hard enough for it. For highborn women, more than any other in the land. You’ll figure it out. You are a smart, beautiful woman, and I am proud of you.”

A single tear streaks down Sansa’s heart sharped face, and Ned pulls her daughter into a tight hug. She had no mother to comfort her when she was to be married. She will not deprive her daughter of the same.

.

A sennight later, Ned has a visitor to her solar. She looks up, and beams as she sees Robb poke his auburn curls around the door. “My son!” she exclaims, “What a surprise! I thought you were going to be in the Vale a few moons yet. Oh, come here, let me look at you.”

Ned cannot help her mothering – Robb has been fostered in the Vale for four years now, and whilst he visits at least once a year, her heart aches for her firstborn. As he steps fully into the room, Ned sees he has grown a few more inches, now towering above her – he is five and ten soon, but he already looks to be a man grown, his shoulders wide, beard thick and eyes steely grey. She sees Elbert in him, in his build, in his hair, but mostly he reminds her of Brandon – they would be of a height, she thinks, and he has the same smile as her elder brother.

“Mother,” he says warmly and embraces her, having to bend down to place a kiss upon her cheek, “I thought I would return early, after I received a letter from Sansa.”

Ned sighs. “You know of her moonblood then?”

Robb nods, “I had hoped it would come later, truth be told. Then she could have some sweetheart that she was set upon, instead of so many options that she knows too little about laid before her.”

“Me too,” Ned agrees, stepping away to her desk, and beginning to rifle through her drawers. “And you, my son? Is there some special girl back in the Vale?”

“No,” Robb says, “I think I am a little too intimidating for most, as the Queen’s son. And those who are not intimidated by me, are a little too forward for my tastes. I suppose I shall wait for Uncle Jon to choose a lady, and hope to have a good marriage with her as you and father do.”

“Well,” Ned said, finally finding what she was looking for, “when that day arrives, be it sooner or later, I have a gift for you to give to this girl.” She presents him with the thick, blue material, and sees understanding dawn upon him.

“Your cloak,” he says, in awe, lifting it up and letting it unfurl. The soaring Eagle of House Arryn flew proudly upon the velvet, silver embroidering around the bottom. “Is this-”

“Your father put it on me on our wedding day,” Ned confirms, and Robb’s face shifts to one of deep thought. The cloak remains clutched in his hands, and Ned knows she was right to keep it for when this day arrived, “he made me an Arryn of the Eyrie, if not for long. He was a good man... but I barely knew him. Don’t make the mistakes I did,” she tells her son, “make sure you know your wife, make sure you know her heart, before you put this cloak around her shoulders.”

Robb nods, too touched for words. Carefully, he folds the cloak, as if it is made from gossamer, and puts it under his arm. “Thank you, mother,” he finally manages, a lump in his throat. “This is... I...”

“It was always yours,” Ned tells him, realizing as she says it that it’s the truth. “Always.”

Robb looks up at her, and smiles weakly. “I’ll make him proud,” he says, “and you. I won’t be Lord of the Eyrie-” silently, Ned disagrees, thinking of weak Robert Arryn and his shaking sickness, but says nothing “- but I’ll be true, and honourable. I swear it.”

“You needn’t swear so to me,” Ned said, “I have known all my life that you were born with a good heart. Be kind to it.” For a moment, there is a comfortable silence, Robb’s right hand unconsciously stroking the cloak tucked under his left. “Have you seen anyone else?”

“I saw the King,” Robb says, “he rode out to greet me with Uncle Jon and Ser Barristan. But other than that, no one.”

“Your siblings will feel quite neglected,” Ned teased, “go and find your sister, particularly. She has missed you, and I believe she needs your counsel. There are some things a girl will never confide to her mother.”

Robb bows, smiling. “I shall do so right away, mother. And then I’ll need to go and show Jon how much better my jousting has become since the last time we met.”

“And I’m sure he’ll be anxious to show you how his swordsmanship has improved,” Ned quipped.

“We’ll see about that,” Robb muttered, before exiting. Ned smiled at nothing for a moment, and remembered Elbert, when she had told him she was pregnant. Thank you, he had said. Somewhere, Ned knew that he would be proud of their son already.