-Jamie Lannister-
The hunt has been going pretty well if he had to say so himself.
Riding besides him, were several knights and a dozen Stark men-at-arms spread out in a loose formation.
Joffrey and Sandor Clegane rode at the king's side.
The hunt master, a grizzled man named Farlen who had tracked beasts through the Wolfswood for forty years, led them to a clearing where a stag had been spotted the day before.
The hunting party had split. Robert, impatient as always, had ridden ahead with Sandor Clegane and Joffrey, with other several knights, chasing the stag deeper into the Wolfswood. Ned had stayed with the main group, his sense of caution overriding his king's enthusiasm.
Jaime Lannister found himself riding alone at the rear.
Jaime's horse stepped carefully over exposed roots, its breath misting in the cold air.
Jaime's hand went to his sword, but he didn't draw. Not yet. His eyes scanned the treeline, searching for the first wolf came from his left.
It was a grey beast, lean and hungry, its teeth bared as it launched itself at his horse's flank. The mare screamed, reared, and Jaime was already moving, his sword clearing its scabbard in a flash of steel as he threw himself from the saddle.
He hit the ground rolling, came up with his blade ready.
The second wolf came from behind.
Jaime spun, his sword carving an arc through the air that should have opened the beast from throat to belly. But the wolf was faster than it had any right to be, twisting mid-leap, and Jaime's blade only grazed its flank as it crashed into him.
Jaime's head struck a root, and for a moment the world swam. He felt teeth close on his vambrace, heard the screech of metal against enamel, and drove his knee upward into the wolf's belly.
The beast yelped, its grip loosening, and Jaime rolled free.
He was on his feet again, sword raised, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. The first wolf circled to his right, its muzzle wet with saliva. The second crouched before him, its flank bleeding from the wound he'd given it.
Then out of nowhere more wolves are coming… today was definitely not a good day for him.
-Jon snow-
The pain hit him all at once a wolf's throat torn open by a steel blade, another's skull caved in by a swinging mace that had appeared from somewhere, a third's spine shattered by a horse's kick. Each death was his own. Each wound carved into his flesh, his mind, his soul.
He convulsed on the floor of the Guest House, blood pouring from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. Ghost was on his feet now, the direwolf howling, his great head pressed against his chest as if to anchor him to his body.
The crows were dying too. Men with swords and torches, hacking at the swarm that had descended on the hunting party. He felt each one blink out, felt his awareness shrink, felt the world narrow to a single point of agony.
But he held on to the wolves.
The iron-furred alpha lunged, its jaws closing on Jaime Lannister's sword arm. The knight drove his blade into its shoulder, and Jon felt the steel pierce his own flesh. He bit down on his tongue, tasted copper, and pushed.
It dragged Jaime down, its weight crushing, its teeth grinding against his armor. The other wolves, the ones still alive, piled on. He felt their jaws snap, felt the man beneath them twist and fight, felt the hot spray of blood that was not his own but might as well have been.
A horn sounded in the distance. Men shouting. The hunting party had heard the commotion.
The wolf's jaws found Jaime's face. They closed. The blade came down. He felt the wolf's skull split, felt the darkness claim it, and let go.
The moment he did, he started feeling rapidly phantom pain. Every wound the wolves had suffered was etched into his nerves. He could feel the sword in his shoulder, the mace against his ribs, the horse's hoof that had crushed his spine.
-Jamie Lannister-
Men rushed past carrying the wounded, maester Luwin directing them toward the Great Hall where tables had been cleared to serve as beds.
Jaime Lannister was carried in on a stretcher, his golden armor slick with blood, a Stark cloak pressed to the ruin of his face.
Cersei pushed through the crowd, her face white, her hands already stained red from touching her brother's wounds.
"Make way!" she shrieked. "Get out of my way!"
Maester Luwin met her at the door, his face grim. "My lady, I need room to work…"
"You will do nothing until I say!" She was at Jaime's side now, her hands cupping his face, her eyes drinking in the damage. The left side of his head was a ruin three long furrows where the wolf's jaws had closed, the eye socket empty and bleeding, the cheekbone shattered.
Jaime's remaining eye opened. It found his sister's face, focused with an effort that cost him dearly.
-Catelyn stark-
As her Lord husband, relax next to her one in their chambers bed surprising her since the last couple of moons he had been sleeping late.
She didn't mind it was better that he was busy than him touching her after all.
"I will refuse him," Ned said as he turned back to her. His eyes were haunted, his voice
thick with doubt. Catelyn sat up in the bed. "You cannot. You must not."
"My duties are here in the north. I have no wish to be Robert's Hand."
"He will not understand that. He is a king now, and kings are not like other men. If you refuse to serve him, he will wonder why, and sooner or later he will begin to suspect that you oppose him. Can't you see the danger that would put us in?"
Ned shook his head, refusing to believe. "Robert would never harm me or any of mine. We were closer than brothers. He loves me. If I refuse him, he will roar and curse and bluster, and in a week we will laugh about it together. I know the man!"
"You knew the man," she said. "The king is a stranger to you." Catelyn remembered the direwolf dead in the snow, the broken antler lodged deep in her throat. She had to make him see. "Pride is everything to a king, my lord. Robert came all this way to see you, to bring you these great honors, you cannot throw them back in his face."
"Honors?" Ned laughed bitterly.
"In his eyes, yes," she said.
"And in yours?"
"And in mine," she blazed, angry now. Why couldn't he see? "He offers his own son in marriage to our daughter, what else would you call that? Sansa might someday be queen. Her sons could rule from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne. What is so wrong with that?"
"Gods, Catelyn, Sansa is only eleven," Ned said. "And Joffrey . . . Joffrey is . . . "
She finished for him. " . . . crown prince, and heir to the Iron Throne. And I was only twelve when my father promised me to your brother Brandon."
That brought a bitter twist to Ned's mouth. "Brandon. Yes. Brandon would know what to do. He always did. It was all meant for Brandon. You, Winterfell, everything. He was born to be a King's Hand and a father to queens. I never asked for this cup to pass to me."
"Perhaps not," Catelyn said, "but Brandon is dead, and the cup has passed, and you must drink from it, like it or not."
Ned turned away from her, back to the night. He stood staring out in the darkness, watching the moon and the stars perhaps, or perhaps the sentries on the wall.
Before any of the both of them could continue their argument the door was knocked loudly.
Ned turned, frowning. "What is it?"
Desmond's voice came through the door. "My lord, Maester Luwin is without and begs urgent audience."
"You told him I had left orders not to be disturbed?"
"Yes, my lord. He insists."
"Very well. Send him in."
Ned crossed to the wardrobe and slipped on a heavy robe. Catelyn realized suddenly how cold it had become. She sat up in bed and pulled the furs to her chin. "Perhaps we should close the windows," she suggested. Ned nodded absently. Maester Luwin was shown in.
The maester was a small grey man. His eyes were grey, and quick, and saw much. His hair was grey, what little the years had left him. His robe was grey wool, trimmed with white fur, the Stark colors. Its great floppy sleeves had pockets hidden inside. Luwin was always tucking things into those sleeves and producing other things from them: books, messages, strange artifacts, toys for the children. With all he kept hidden in his sleeves, Catelyn was surprised that Maester Luwin could lift his arms at all.
"My lord," he said to Ned, "pardon for disturbing your rest. I have been left a message."
Ned looked irritated. "Been left? By whom? Has there been a rider? I was not told."
"There was no rider, my lord. Only a carved wooden box, left on a table in my observatory while I napped. My servants saw no one, but it must have been brought by someone in the king's party. We have had no other visitors from the south."
"A wooden box, you say?" Catelyn said. "Inside was a fine new lens for the observatory, from Myr by the look of it. The lenscrafters of Myr are without equal."
Ned frowned. He had little patience for this sort of thing, Catelyn knew. "A lens," he said. "What has that to do with me?"
"I asked the same question," Maester Luwin said. "Clearly there was more to this than the seeming."
Under the heavy weight of her furs, Catelyn shivered. "A lens is an instrument to help us see."
"Indeed it is." He fingered the collar of his order; a heavy chain worn tight around the neck beneath his robe, each link forged from a different metal.
Catelyn could feel dread stirring inside her once again. "What is it that they would have us see more clearly?"
"The very thing I asked myself." Maester Luwin drew a tightly rolled paper out of his sleeve. "I found the true message concealed within a false bottom when I dismantled the box the lens had come in, but it is not for my eyes."
Ned held out his hand. "Let me have it, then. Luwin did not stir. "Pardons, my lord. The message is not for you either. It is marked for the eyes of the Lady Catelyn, and her alone. May I approach?"
Catelyn nodded, not trusting to speak. The maester placed the paper on the table beside the bed. It was sealed with a small blob of blue wax. Luwin bowed and began to retreat.
"Stay," Ned commanded him. His voice was grave. He looked at Catelyn. "What is it? My lady, you're shaking."
"I'm afraid," she admitted. She reached out and took the letter in trembling hands. In the blue wax was the moon-and-falcon seal of House Arryn. "It's from Lysa."
Catelyn broke the seal. Her eyes moved over the words. At first they made no sense to her. Then she remembered. "Lysa took no chances. When we were girls together, we had a private language, she and I." "Can you read it?"
"Yes," Catelyn admitted.
"Then tell us."
"Perhaps I should withdraw," Maester Luwin said.
"No," Catelyn said. "We will need your counsel." She threw back the furs and climbed from the bed.
Maester Luwin averted his eyes. Even Ned looked shocked. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Lighting a fire," Catelyn told him. She found a dressing gown and shrugged into it, then knelt over the cold hearth.
She slid the paper in among the kindling and placed the heavier logs on top of it.
Ned crossed the room, took her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. He held her there, his face inches from her. "My lady, tell me! What was this message?"
Catelyn stiffened in his grasp. "A warning," she said softly. "If we have the wits to hear." His eyes searched her face. "Go on." "Lysa says Jon Arryn was murdered."
His fingers tightened on her arm. "By whom?"
"The Lannisters," she told him. "The queen."
Ned released his hold on her arm. There were deep red marks on her skin. "Gods," he whispered. His voice was hoarse. "Your sister is sick with grief. She cannot know what she is saying."
"She knows," Catelyn said. "Lysa is impulsive, yes, but this message was carefully planned, cleverly hidden. She knew it meant death if her letter fell into the wrong hands. To risk so much, she must have had more than mere suspicion." Catelyn looked to her husband. "Now we truly have no choice. You must be Robert's Hand. You must go south with him and learn the truth."
If she had received the letter before Ned could know about it she would have informed her master but unfortunately Luwin had brought this to her husband's attention.
She saw at once that Ned had reached a very different conclusion. "The only truths I know are here. The south is a nest of adders I would do better to avoid."
Luwin plucked at his chain collar where it had chafed the soft skin of his throat. "The Hand of the King has great power, my lord. Power to find the truth of Lord Arryn's death, to bring his killers to the king's justice. Power to protect Lady Arryn and her son, if the worst be true."
Ned glanced helplessly around the bedchamber "You say you love Robert like a brother. Would you leave your brother surrounded by Lannisters?"
"The Others take both of you," Ned muttered darkly. He turned away from them and went to the window. She did not speak, nor did the maester. They waited, quiet, while Eddard Stark said a silent farewell to the home he loved. When he turned away from the window at last, his voice was tired and full of melancholy, and moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eyes. "My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again."
"A different time," Maester Luwin said. "A different king." "Yes," Ned said dully. He seated himself in a chair by the hearth. "Catelyn, you shall stay here in Winterfell you must govern the north in my stead, while I run Robert's errands. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Robb is fourteen. Soon enough, he will be a man grown. He must learn to rule, and I will not be here for him. Make him part of your councils. He must be ready when his time comes."
"Gods will, not for many years," Maester Luwin murmured.
"Maester Luwin, I trust you as I would my own blood. Give my wife your voice in all things great and small. Teach my son the things he needs to know. Winter is coming." Maester Luwin nodded gravely. Then silence fell, until Catelyn found her courage and asked the question whose answer she most dreaded since of what she knew her master had planned for all her children. "What of the other children?"
"Rickon is very young," ned said gently. "He should stay here with you and Robb. The others I would take with me, Sansa must wed Joffrey, that is clear now, we must give them no grounds to suspect our devotion. And it is past time that Arya learned the ways of a southron court. In a few years she will be of an age to marry too and Ser Rodrik tells me there is bad feeling between Robb and Prince Joffrey. That is not healthy. Bran can bridge that distance. He is a sweet boy, quick to laugh, easy to love. Let him grow up with the young princes, let him become their friend as Robert became mine. Our House will be the safer for it."
He was right; Catelyn knew it. And it was in his right to do so she just hope her master wouldn't get angry at her. "Keep him off the walls, then," she said bravely. "You know how Bran loves to climb."
"Thank you, my lady," ned whispered. "This is hard, I know."
"But what of Jon Snow, my lord?" Maester Luwin asked.
This was her time, her master wanted to leave Winter fell and this could be an opportunity for him to leave.
"Jon must go," she said now.
"He and Robb are close," Ned said. "I had hoped . . . "
"He cannot stay here," Catelyn said, cutting him off. "He is your son, not mine. I will not have him."
The look Ned gave her was anguished. "You know I cannot take him south. There will be no place for him at court. A boy with a bastard's name . . . you know what they will say of him. He will be shunned."
Why not he would be hardly the only bastard in the royal Court, "I wouldn't be surprised if the boy end up joining to city watch or you can send him north the Wall takes all men, regardless of name. He would find purpose there. Honor, even."
Ned's jaw tightened. "He is fourteen. Too young for such a vow."
"Benjen was younger."
"Benjen chose." Ned's voice cracked slightly. "I will not force my son into a life of celibate exile because…" He stopped himself, but they all heard the unspoken words. Because my wife cannot bear his presence.
Catelyn felt nothing at the accusation. Once, such a look from Ned would have cut her to the quick.
Maester Luwin cleared his throat delicately. "If I may, my lord. There is another possibility, one that might serve all parties."
Ned turned to him, weary hope in his eyes. "Speak."
"The king's party will be well-guarded on the road south, but a royal progress is not without its dangers. A young man of Jon's... capabilities... might find service as a sworn shield to one of the young princes or could work as a men at arms or as a squire, you can also send him to work under one of your Bannerman, the young Jon could also work as a squire. It would remove him from Winterfell, give him purpose, and keep him close enough that you might still…." Luwin paused, choosing his words carefully, "maintain some oversight of his wellbeing."
Catelyn's heart quickened. That was better. Much better. Her master could watch the Lannister boys up close, could extend his reach into the very heart of the Red Keep before Ned even arrived.
Ned was already shaking his head. "The Lannisters would never allow a Stark bastard to guard their prince. They would see it as an insult, or worse, a threat."
"Then send him to one of your bannermen, as Maester Luwin suggested. Lord Cerwyn, perhaps. Or the Tallharts. There are honorable houses in the North that would take a strong young man with Stark blood, even a bastard." She repeated.
"Lord Manderly has often requested that more Stark men be sent to White Harbor. He is loyal, wealthy, and close to the neck. He could learn to manage a household, to trade, to…." said Luwin before being interrupted.
"No." Ned's voice was firmer now. "Jon is not a merchant."
Catelyn suppressed a flash of irritation. Her master needed to be in the south, not hidden away in White Harbor. "Then what would you have him do? Swear a vow he cannot undo at fourteen? Leave him here, where I will…" She stopped herself, letting the implication hang.
Ned looked at her for a long moment. Then he crossed to the window, staring out at the dark shape of the First Keep against the stars.
After sometime She give Maester Luwin permission to leave, leaving the both of them alone in the room.
"I will speak with Jon in the morning," Ned said finally. "If he agrees to go south i'll take him with me. I will speak with Robert. The boy is skilled with a sword. Perhaps a place among the household guard, or as a squire to someone who will treat him fairly."
-Jon snow-
The training yard was quiet when I arrived before dawn. Ghost moved at my heel, the white direwolf already massive at eight months, his red eyes gleaming in the grey light. I had grown too, filling out the borrowed body I wore until the tunics his uncle seamstress had made for him strained at the shoulders.
I found what I was looking for near the armory: a practice sword that was heavier than most men would choose, balanced poorly, ignored by everyone else who trained here. I picked it up, testing the weight. Too light. But it would do.
I moved through forms rapidly doing each one with little or no mistakes.
"Jon."
His uncle stood at the edge of the yard. I lowered the sword, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "My lord."
His uncle winced, just slightly, at the formality. "Walk with me." They walked through the hall with him in silence before his uncle broke it "I am going south," eddard said. "To serve as Robert's Hand, I am taking Sansa and Arya with me. Bran as well, for a time." eddard paused. "I had thought to send you to the Wall. To your uncle."
The words hung in the air. If eddard had decided that, if he had announced it as a decision already made, all my careful maneuvering would have been for nothing.
"But Lady Stark suggested another path," my uncle continued. "One that might serve you better."
"I can offer you a place in my household I originally wanted you to stay in Winterfell but my lady wife would not allow".
"I understand, father I will greatly accept your offer thank you for giving me this opportunity" I said, simply getting a smile from the older man.
-Later-
The crypts of Winterfell stretched before me, darkness swallowing the torchlight as I descended step by step. Ghost padded beside me. Eight thousand years of Starks, I thought, passing the first of the carved figures. Kings of Winter, their stone fingers resting on iron swords across their laps.
The crypts went deeper than most living Starks had ever ventured. The oldest tombs were down here, the ones from before the Andals.
The darkness here was absolute, my torch struggling to push it back.
I moved deeper, past the tomb of Lord Beron Stark who died fighting wildlings, past Artos the Implacable who slew Raymun Redbeard.
Then I found it.
The statue had lost a good amount of it features but it still looks similar to the other statues in the crypts.
Cregan Stark.
The Stark during the dance of the dragons and years after I think, even living during the reign of the young dragon.
Well, that didn't matter at least not to him. He was only here for one reason to check if the strong Prince truly had left dragon eggs in Winterfell.
Most maesters called it a fanciful tale but I need to make sure, since those dragon egg can be an advantage if he could hatch them or sell them to gain a lot of gold.
I set my torch in a sconce on the wall, I pressed my palm against the stone of Cregan's tomb. The surface was cold, rough with age. I closed my eyes and reached out as I tried to use my magic to see if it would affect anything.
But I felt nothing…..
"This was a fucking waste of time" I murmured angrily getting up, grabbing my torch and making my way angrily outside of the crypts ghost following me.
-(bonus scene) Brynden Rivers-
His power was weakening. He felt it in the roots that had claimed more of his body this year than the last decade combined. He felt it in the ravens he could no longer reach, in the memories that frayed at their edges, in the future that grew darker each time he tried to glimpse it.
He was weathering and there was nothing he could do about it.
He had spent a lifetime forcing the hands of fate toward the creation of the prince that was promised. He had guided the Mad King's paranoia, whispered through the weirwoods at Harrenhal to Rhaegar and watch as he set the realm ablaze. He had waited through Robert's Rebellion, through the long peace, through the first stirrings of winter.
And now, when the cold came for them all, he was running out of time. He had thought Brandon Stark would be the one. The boy had the gift, the blood.
But Bran was still a child, and the Wall would not hold forever, and the roots were already curling around his throat.
So he looked instead at the other one.
Jon Snow.
Through the weirwood at Winterfell, as the boy train and he watched him take women to his bed oh the boy was truly a descendent of his father.
All men needed to die, but to a man like him who had lived almost double the time a man could live. It was very hard for him to imagine himself dying.
So he would have to do it, he would have to nudge the boy to travel beyond the wall to completely skin change to his body.
Gods he missed his younger body before he had decided to start on this path.
XxX
This shit was long. The Catelyn pov mostly came from the actual chapter, chapter 6 to be pacific of Game of Thrones, Catelyn 1. I think I got the age wrong of Jon and Robb in this chapter tho.