# Riverrun, The Great Hall
*Three days later*
The great hall of Riverrun had been transformed into something that might have impressed even the Spider himself, had Varys been inclined toward honest celebration rather than whispered conspiracies. Ancient stones that had witnessed the rise and fall of kings now gleamed beneath silken banners, their colors bright as fresh blood in the light of a hundred oil lamps. The blue and silver trout of House Tully dominated the decorations like some aquatic lord surveying his domain, flanked by the grey direwolf of House Stark and surrounded by the heraldic menagerie of every house that mattered in the Riverlands.
Eddard Stark paused in the doorway, his weathered hands unconsciously adjusting the wolf-head pommel of Ice where it hung at his side. The familiar weight of the greatsword provided little comfort as his grey eyes swept the hall with that particular combination of duty and reluctance that marked every public appearance he'd endured since returning from King's Landing.
*All this pageantry,* he thought, noting how Lord Blackwood had positioned himself precisely far enough from Lord Bracken to avoid immediate bloodshed while close enough to exchange meaningful glares. *Hoster's made it as public as a royal wedding. Every lord who matters, every bannerman with pretensions, every knight with two coppers to rub together. When I destroy all their pretty assumptions, it'll be witnessed by half the Riverlands.*
His fingers drummed once against Ice's pommel—a nervous habit that had developed during his time as Hand, when every decision carried the weight of kingdoms. The gesture was barely perceptible, but those who knew Ned Stark understood it as a sign that the famously steady Lord of Winterfell was wrestling with something that made him profoundly uncomfortable.
"Seven hells," he muttered under his breath, so quietly that only the stone walls could hear. It was perhaps the strongest language Ned Stark had used in public since returning from the capital, a slip that spoke volumes about his state of mind.
The assembled nobility moved through the hall like pieces on a cyvasse board, each positioning themselves according to ancient protocols of precedence and modern calculations of advantage. Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken maintained their eternal dance of civilized hatred, speaking pleasantries while their eyes promised violence. Lord Mallister discussed trade routes with Lord Vance as if the movement of grain and wool were matters of life and death—which, in truth, they often were.
And there, at the center of it all, sat Lady Catelyn Tully—*Lady Catelyn Stark,* Ned corrected himself with the familiar twist of guilt—holding their son as if he were spun from gold and starlight rather than flesh and bone.
Catelyn looked radiant despite the sleepless nights that came with new motherhood, her auburn hair braided with silver ribbons that caught the lamplight like captured flame. Her gown was Tully blue silk, cut to complement her coloring and announce her dignity, and when she caught sight of Ned across the hall, her smile bloomed with that particular combination of relief and joy that made his chest tighten with approaching dread.
She lifted baby Robb slightly, angling him so Ned could see their son properly—a gesture both maternal and political, presenting the heir she had created with pride that rang in every line of her posture. Her blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears of happiness, and she mouthed something that might have been "our son" across the crowded hall.
*She looks so proud,* Ned realized, his heart clenching like a fist. *So certain of our future, so confident in what she's accomplished. In a few moments, I'm going to take all of that certainty and crush it to powder.*
"Ned, my boy!" Lord Hoster Tully's voice boomed across the hall with the kind of theatrical warmth that commanded attention while suggesting volumes about the speaker's mood. The Lord of Riverrun approached with that particular combination of swagger and calculation that had made him one of the most formidable political minds in the realm, despite the illness that had begun to silver his temples and line his face.
Hoster moved through the crowd like a man conducting a symphony, nodding to this lord, clasping that knight's shoulder, managing the complex social dynamics of his hall with the ease of decades of practice. But his sharp eyes never left Ned's face, and there was something in his expression that suggested curiosity mixed with the faintest edge of concern.
"My lord father," Ned replied, accepting Hoster's embrace with the stiff formality that marked every public interaction he'd endured since becoming Lord of Winterfell. His voice carried that particular Northern cadence—measured, honest to a fault, utterly incapable of the comfortable lies that made southern politics bearable.
"You look like a man who's been carrying the weight of kingdoms," Hoster observed with characteristic directness, pulling back to study his son-in-law's face with eyes that missed nothing. "Which, I suppose, you have been. Tell me, did Robert prove as difficult to manage as a king as he was as a rebel? I imagine trying to keep him focused on governance rather than wine and whores was... challenging."
A few nearby lords chuckled at the jest, the kind of masculine humor that acknowledged Robert Baratheon's legendary appetites while carefully avoiding any suggestion of criticism that might be construed as treason.
"Robert is... Robert," Ned replied with diplomatic precision that managed to convey volumes while saying nothing actionable. "The crown weighs heavily on him, as it does on any man who takes kingship seriously."
*Which Robert most certainly does not,* Hoster thought with amusement at his son-in-law's careful phrasing. *Ned never did learn the art of character assassination by implication. Far too honest for his own good.*
"And what of this precious cargo you mentioned in your letter?" Hoster continued, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to suggest he expected a proper answer. "You spoke of complications requiring delicate handling, of political sensitivities that demanded careful management. Surely not just correspondence from the capital—though I imagine the ravens have been busy carrying news of Robert's... administrative decisions."
Ned's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—a tell that Hoster recognized from years of watching men wrestle with uncomfortable truths. "All in good time, my lord. First, let me greet my wife properly, and meet the son who entered this world while I was away learning that kings make poor listeners and worse friends."
The slight bitterness in that last observation drew sharp looks from several nearby lords. Lord Eddard Stark criticizing the king he had helped place on the throne was notable enough to be worth remembering, though none were fool enough to comment directly.
*Interesting,* thought Lord Blackwood, filing the information away for future consideration. *Stark sounds like a man who discovered that victory tastes different than he expected.*
Hoster guided Ned toward the high table, noting how his son-in-law's eyes fixed on Catelyn and the baby with an expression that combined love, guilt, and something that looked disturbingly like dread. Whatever news Ned carried, it was going to complicate more than just dinner conversation.
The crowd parted before them with the automatic deference shown to great lords, but conversations continued in lowered voices—speculation about what Lord Stark might have brought from the capital, gossip about court politics, the kind of calculating chatter that filled every gathering of ambitious men.
"My lord husband," Catelyn said as they approached, rising from her chair with fluid grace despite the infant in her arms. Her voice carried clearly across the suddenly attentive hall, warm with genuine affection but edged with curiosity about his prolonged absence. "Welcome home. I trust the roads from King's Landing treated you kindly? We've had reports of brigands in the riverlands—men displaced by the war, they say, though I suspect some were always brigands who merely found better excuse for their trade."
She held out their son with maternal pride that transformed her already striking features into something approaching radiance. Baby Robb studied the approaching stranger with alert grey eyes that already held hints of the Stark intensity that marked his father's line.
"The roads were... eventful," Ned replied, accepting his son with the careful reverence of a man who understood exactly how precious and fragile the bundle in his arms truly was. "But we traveled with sufficient escort to discourage most troublemakers. Those few who attempted... discouragement... learned that Northern steel cuts as keenly in the south as it does beyond the Neck."
*We,* Catelyn noted with the kind of attention to detail that had made her father's most valued advisor. *Not I. We traveled. Which suggests companions significant enough to merit mention but sensitive enough to require careful introduction.*
"He's grown," Ned continued, studying baby Robb with wonderment that couldn't be feigned. "Four months, and already he looks like he's taking the measure of the world and finding it wanting. That's Stark blood showing true—we're born suspicious of easy answers and comfortable lies."
"He's strong," Catelyn agreed, her pride ringing in every word. "Healthy, alert, already showing signs of the stubbornness that runs in his father's family like a particularly persistent fever. The maester says he'll be walking early, probably into all manner of trouble before his first nameday."
*Walking early into trouble,* Hoster thought with grandfatherly satisfaction. *That sounds like proper Stark behavior. Though I notice Ned's still carrying that particular weight in his shoulders that suggests our conversation about precious cargo is going to be more complicated than I anticipated.*
"My lords and ladies of the Riverlands!" Hoster called out, raising his voice to command the attention of every soul in the hall. His words carried the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed, but there was genuine warmth beneath the formality—a grandfather's pride in his daughter's accomplishments and his own political acumen.
"I present to you Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, hero of Robert's Rebellion and true friend to our house! The man who helped break the Targaryen dynasty and forge a new kingdom from the ashes of the old! And his son, Robb Stark—future Lord of Winterfell and the next generation of the great alliance between North and Riverlands that shall strengthen both our regions for generations to come!"
The cheer that rose from the assembled lords was genuinely enthusiastic—the sound of political allies celebrating successful maneuvering, of bannermen honoring their liege's wisdom in forging beneficial alliances, of men who understood that such unions created stability in an inherently unstable world.
*Future Lord of Winterfell,* echoed through the hall as lords raised their cups in toast, each calculating how this alliance might affect their own family's prospects in the generations to come.
But Ned's expression remained carefully neutral as he handed baby Robb back to Catelyn, his grey eyes holding that particular gravity that suggested approaching storms.
"My lords," he said, his voice cutting through the celebratory noise with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to command, "before we celebrate, there are matters that require immediate address. Matters of succession and legitimacy that affect not only House Stark's future, but the nature of every alliance built upon the assumptions we have all shared."
The hall fell silent with that particular quality of attention that marked moments when everyone understood that history was being made, though none could predict what form that history would take. Lords who had been raising cups in toast now held them suspended, their contents forgotten as political instincts sharpened like blades being drawn.
*Oh, bloody hell,* thought Lord Blackwood with the resignation of a man who had lived through enough political catastrophes to recognize the warning signs. *Here we go. Whatever Stark's about to tell us, it's going to make someone very unhappy.*
"What matters?" Hoster asked, his voice carrying that edge of controlled concern that had once made lesser lords reconsider their words very carefully indeed. Sixty years of politics had taught him to recognize disaster approaching, and his son-in-law's tone carried all the warmth of a Northern winter. "Some challenge to your legitimacy? Some rival claimant seeking to contest your inheritance? If there are Targaryen loyalists still foolish enough to—"
"Not to my legitimacy, my lord," Ned interrupted with the kind of gentle precision that somehow made interrupting one's goodfather sound perfectly reasonable. "To my inheritance. Which, as it happens, was never mine to begin with."
*Never his to begin with.*
The phrase hit the hall like a physical blow, conversations dying mid-syllable as every lord present began calculating implications faster than their conscious minds could follow.
"I beg your pardon?" Catelyn's voice carried a note of confusion that was rapidly sharpening into something more dangerous. Her blue eyes fixed on her husband's face with the kind of intensity that suggested she was prepared to dissect every word that followed. "What exactly do you mean, never yours to begin with? You're Rickard Stark's second son, Brandon's brother. With Brandon's death, the inheritance passes to you by right of blood and birth and every law that governs succession in the Seven Kingdoms."
"It would," Ned agreed with characteristic honesty that somehow made devastating news sound perfectly reasonable, "if Brandon had died without a legitimate male heir. As it happens, he didn't."
The silence that followed was profound and terrible—the kind of quiet that preceded either violence or the complete collapse of everything everyone had believed they understood about the world.
"Brandon had no children," Hoster said with the slow precision of a man working through a logic problem that made less sense the more he considered it. His sharp eyes never left Ned's face, searching for some sign that this was elaborate mummery rather than genuine revelation. "He was betrothed to Cat, yes, but the marriage never took place because of his... unfortunate encounter with Aerys's creative interpretation of justice. There was no wife, no children, no heir that any living soul has mentioned in the eighteen months since his death."
*No heir that any living soul mentioned,* several lords thought simultaneously, their minds seizing on the careful phrasing like hounds catching a scent. *Which doesn't mean no heir existed, merely that it wasn't convenient to discuss.*
"There was a wife," Ned replied with gentle firmness. "And there is an heir. Both were kept from public knowledge for reasons that seemed wise at the time, but which circumstances now require be addressed openly."
Catelyn's face had gone pale as Northern snow, her knuckles white where she gripped baby Robb against her chest. "A wife," she repeated, her voice carrying a complexity of emotions that defied easy classification. "Brandon was married. To someone other than me. While betrothed to me."
"The betrothal was arranged by our fathers," Ned said carefully, "but Brandon's heart chose differently. The marriage that took place was for love, witnessed by gods and men, performed according to all rites that make such unions binding."
*For love,* Hoster thought with growing anger that he was too politically experienced to let show in his expression. *How perfectly romantic. And how perfectly convenient that this love match has remained secret until exactly the moment it becomes advantageous to reveal.*
At that moment, as if summoned by the weight of revelation, the great doors of the hall opened with their characteristic groan of ancient hinges bearing heavy burdens. The Northern party that had remained outside during the initial family reunion now entered with the careful dignity of people who understood they were walking into a political minefield.
Princess Elia Martell entered first, moving with that particular combination of grace and caution that marked someone who had survived court politics and royal marriage. Her legendary beauty had been refined by recent trials into something that suggested both fragility and unexpected strength, her dark eyes assessing the room with intelligence that missed nothing.
*Targaryens,* every lord in the hall thought simultaneously, their political instincts cataloguing implications faster than conscious thought could follow. *Princess Elia and her children, under Stark protection. But why? What possible reason could justify harboring the former royal family?*
Behind her came Arthur Dayne, Dawn at his side, his violet eyes scanning the assembled lords with professional assessment that catalogued threats as naturally as breathing. Even in civilian clothes, he moved with the fluid precision that marked him as one of the finest swords in the Seven Kingdoms.
*Ser Arthur Dayne,* several lords thought with the kind of recognition that carried equal parts respect and unease. *The Sword of the Morning himself, in the flesh. Whatever game is being played here, it's serious enough to require his particular talents.*
Then came Ser Jaime Lannister, golden hair catching the lamplight like spun metal, moving with that dangerous grace that reminded everyone present why he was called the youngest knight ever to serve in the Kingsguard. His green eyes held the kind of bitter amusement that suggested he found the entire situation more entertaining than troubling.
*The Kingslayer,* whispered through the hall in voices too low to be overheard but distinct enough to be understood. His presence transformed speculation into certainty that whatever was happening involved the highest levels of kingdom politics.
But it was the final figure who caused the real stir—Lady Ashara Dayne, carrying an eighteen-month-old child with dark hair and violet eyes that seemed far too alert for his age, while a three-year-old girl with silver-gold hair held onto her skirt with casual familiarity.
"My lords and ladies," Ned continued with formal gravity, his voice carrying to every corner of the now-silent hall, "I present Princess Elia Martell and her children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, who have accepted the protection of House Stark following the recent... difficulties... in King's Landing."
Murmurs began to rise from the assembled lords—confusion, speculation, the beginning of political calculations as sharp minds worked through the implications of harboring people who had been officially declared enemies of the realm.
"Protection," Lord Mallister said carefully, his voice pitched to carry just far enough to be heard by those who mattered. "That's... a remarkably charitable interpretation of circumstances, my lord. I was given to understand that the former royal family had been... dealt with... according to the new king's justice."
*Dealt with,* Arthur Dayne thought with cold amusement at the euphemism. *Yes, I'm sure that's exactly how the massacre of children was described in polite company.*
"Reports of their deaths were... greatly exaggerated," Jaime Lannister drawled with the kind of bitter humor that had made him simultaneously famous and infamous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. "As it happens, some of us found the idea of murdering children distasteful enough to arrange alternative solutions."
*Alternative solutions provided by the Kingslayer himself,* several lords noted with growing fascination. *This tale becomes more interesting by the moment.*
"And," Ned continued, his voice cutting through the growing speculation like a blade through silk, "I present the true heir to Winterfell—my nephew, Cregan Stark, trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne, rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North by blood, birth, and lawful inheritance."
The silence that followed was absolute and terrible—the kind of quiet that preceded either violence or the complete collapse of everything everyone had believed they understood about the world.
*Trueborn son,* Lord Hoster thought as his carefully constructed universe rearranged itself with sickening speed. *Brandon Stark had a son. A legitimate heir. Which means Ned was never the rightful lord. Which means Catelyn married a man with no inheritance. Which means Robb will never...*
"When?" Catelyn's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried clearly in the profound silence. Her blue eyes had gone wide with shock and something deeper—the growing understanding that every assumption she had made about her life, her marriage, her son's future, had been built on foundations of sand. "When did this marriage take place? Where? Who witnessed it? And why, in all the gods' names, was I never told?"
"The ceremony took place in the Godswood at Harrenhal," Ashara replied, her musical voice carrying that particular combination of dignity and defensiveness that marked someone explaining actions they knew would be controversial. "During the great tournament, with Princess Elia and several others as witnesses. It was performed according to Northern custom, before a heart tree, with all proper words spoken and vows exchanged."
*The tournament at Harrenhal,* Hoster repeated mentally, his sharp mind immediately calculating timelines and implications. *Which would place the marriage... gods help us, while he was still betrothed to Cat. While I was negotiating terms with Rickard Stark for their eventual union.*
"Northern custom," he said aloud, his voice carrying that particular edge that had once made lesser lords very nervous indeed. "How wonderfully... traditional. And this marriage, performed in secret, with discrete witnesses, resulted in a child whose existence has been concealed for over a year while my daughter married his uncle and bore a son she believed would inherit the North."
The accusation hung in the air like a blade, sharp with implications of deliberate deception and carefully managed timing that had cost his family dearly.
"The secrecy was necessary," Arthur Dayne said quietly, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from years of protecting royalty and understanding the deadly realities of succession politics. "The realm has been... unsettled... these past months. Infant heirs have not proven notably safe from those who find their existence politically inconvenient. We thought it best to wait until circumstances allowed for safe revelation."
*Safe revelation,* Lord Blackwood thought with grim appreciation for the euphemism. *Meaning they waited until they could be certain the child wouldn't be murdered for the convenience of his existence not complicating adult plans.*
"Safe revelation," Hoster repeated with the kind of controlled anger that suggested volcanic forces barely contained beneath diplomatic courtesy. "How remarkably thoughtful. Tell me, when exactly did circumstances become sufficiently safe for this revelation? Before or after my daughter's marriage ceremony? Before or after she bore a son who will now inherit nothing but his father's good name and whatever charity his cousin chooses to provide?"
The brutally accurate summary hit the hall like a physical blow, stripping away diplomatic niceties to reveal the raw political reality beneath. This wasn't just about succession—it was about the destruction of carefully made plans, the transformation of expected triumph into irrelevance.
"Lord Hoster," Ashara said with quiet dignity that somehow made her next words sound reasonable rather than inflammatory, "I understand your anger. But neither Brandon nor I chose the timing of his death, nor the circumstances that made concealment necessary for our son's safety. We acted to protect our child, as any parent would."
"Any parent would also inform the child's family of his existence," Catelyn interjected with growing heat, her maternal instincts warring with political devastation to create something approaching fury. "Any parent would ensure that succession was handled properly, that marriage contracts were honored, that people weren't allowed to make devastating errors based on incomplete information."
*She's not wrong,* thought every lord present, their sympathy for Lady Catelyn warring with fascination at watching such a complete reversal of fortune play out before their eyes.
"You're right," Ned said quietly, his characteristic honesty cutting through the growing tension like a blade through silk. "The handling of this situation has been... imperfect. People who deserved truth received silence instead. Decisions were made that affected lives and futures without consulting those whose lives and futures were being decided."
He paused, his grey eyes meeting Catelyn's with an expression that combined love, guilt, and something that might have been shame.
"But the choice before us now is not whether past decisions were wise or foolish," he continued. "The choice is whether we acknowledge the truth as it exists, or allow a lie to continue indefinitely at the cost of my nephew's birthright and our own honor."
*Our own honor,* Catelyn thought with bitter accuracy. *Because Ned Stark would rather destroy his wife's happiness than compromise his precious honor. How perfectly characteristic.*
But before the situation could deteriorate further into recriminations and political catastrophe, baby Cregan chose that moment to demonstrate why infants were generally excluded from formal negotiations of any kind.
Looking around the great hall filled with increasingly hostile adults, sensing the tension that crackled through the air like lightning before a storm, he made the kind of sound that expressed his opinion of the entire situation with remarkable clarity for someone who hadn't yet mastered actual words.
The noise was part protest, part displeasure, and entirely indicative of someone who found the adults' behavior completely unreasonable and would very much prefer they return to more civilized discourse involving food, warmth, and significantly less shouting.
*Well,* Arthur Dayne thought with wry amusement, *at least someone in this hall has their priorities straight.*
Princess Rhaenys, apparently deciding that adult politics had become tediously complicated and that meeting new family was infinitely more interesting than watching grown-ups argue about things that seemed perfectly simple to anyone with common sense, released her hold on Ashara's skirt and walked across the charged space between the two factions.
Her small feet made soft clicking sounds on the stone floor, each step carrying her with the kind of confident determination that reminded everyone present she was still essentially a toddler despite her remarkably composed behavior in the face of adult foolishness.
"Hello," she said to Catelyn with perfect courtesy, her clear voice ringing in the silent hall like a bell. "You must be Lady Catelyn. I'm Rhaenys Targaryen, and this is Prince Aegon, though everyone calls him Egg because he's too little to care about proper names yet. We brought presents for baby Robb because that's what you do when you meet new family, but they're still with the baggage because Uncle Arthur insisted we needed to wait for all these important grown-up conversations first."
She paused, studying the adults around her with the kind of frank assessment that only children could manage without giving offense.
"Though if this is what important conversations are like," she continued with devastating innocence, "I think I prefer regular ones. They're much less shouty and no one's face turns that interesting color purple."
*Interesting color purple,* Lord Hoster realized with growing embarrassment as he became aware that his anger had indeed manifested in ways visible to perceptive three-year-olds. *Out of the mouths of babes and Targaryen princesses.*
The innocent observation—delivered with the kind of devastating honesty that only children could manage—somehow punctured the growing tension in the hall more effectively than any diplomatic intervention.
"She brought presents," Catelyn said wonderingly, her voice carrying a complexity of emotion that suggested she was having difficulty processing the simple human kindness in the midst of political catastrophe. "This child, whose very existence... who represents..." She stopped, unable to complete the thought without descending into either tears or language inappropriate for young ears.
"Yes, well," Ashara said with gentle humor, stepping forward to reclaim her charge before Rhaenys could offer any additional observations about adult behavior, "she's very thoughtful that way. Though I suspect the presents were as much her idea as anyone's—she has very definite opinions about proper protocol when meeting new family."
"I wanted to bring the mechanical horse from Myr," Rhaenys confided to Catelyn with the casual frankness of someone sharing important information, "but Uncle Arthur said it was too big to travel properly and might frighten the real horses. So we brought books instead, and a silver rattle that makes the most wonderful noise, and some honey cakes that Cook made specially because babies' mothers get hungry and need good food to make good milk."
*Honey cakes for the nursing mother,* Catelyn thought with the kind of emotional complexity that defied rational analysis. *She thought of honey cakes for me. A three-year-old princess whose family I've never met considered my comfort when planning gifts for my son.*
"That's... that's incredibly thoughtful, sweetheart," she managed to say, her maternal instincts overriding political devastation to respond appropriately to innocent kindness. "I'm sure Robb will love meeting you both. Won't you, my darling?"
Baby Robb, as if understanding his cue in the strange performance surrounding his existence, made pleasant gurgling sounds and waved one tiny fist in what might have been greeting or simply random infant motion expressing satisfaction with the general improvement in adult behavior.
*At least someone's enjoying themselves,* Jaime Lannister thought with bitter amusement as he watched the interplay between children who had no understanding of the political implications of their existence. *Trust children to find the essential humanity in a situation that's driving their elders to distraction.*
"My lord," Arthur Dayne said quietly, addressing Hoster with the respectful formality due to a great lord in his own hall, "I understand this revelation comes as unwelcome surprise. But perhaps we might discuss the practical implications in more... private circumstances? Away from ears that might carry tales to places where such knowledge could prove dangerous to all involved?"
The suggestion carried weight beyond its diplomatic phrasing—a reminder that they were conducting sensitive political business before an audience of ambitious lords whose loyalties might not extend to protecting inconvenient secrets.
*Private circumstances,* Hoster thought with grudging recognition of necessity. Whatever his anger at the situation, broadcasting the details of Stark succession to every lord in the Riverlands would serve no one's interests, least of all his daughter's.
"Perhaps," he agreed with controlled courtesy that didn't quite mask his continuing fury, "that would be wise. Though I reserve the right to discuss this... revelation... at length once we have privacy enough for proper conversation."
*Proper conversation,* several nearby lords translated mentally. *Meaning the kind of discussion that involves significantly more shouting and possibly thrown objects.*
But before arrangements could be made for private family conferences, baby Cregan decided that he had been patient long enough with adult foolishness and wanted to meet his cousin properly.
Looking at baby Robb with the kind of focused attention that infants reserved for other infants, he made soft questioning sounds that clearly indicated his desire for closer inspection of this interesting new person who seemed roughly his own size and level of developmental sophistication.
Then, with timing that would have been impressive from a seasoned diplomat, he reached toward the baby in Catelyn's arms with both tiny hands, making the kind of welcoming gesture that somehow managed to suggest he found the entire situation much simpler than the adults were making it.
*Meet cousin. Play with cousin. Be friends with cousin. Why are grown-ups making this complicated?*
The message was clear enough that even politically sophisticated adults could interpret it correctly.
"Well," Catelyn said with a sound that might have been laughter or tears or some combination of both, "I suppose someone in this hall knows what's truly important."
She adjusted her hold on baby Robb, angling him so the two infants could see each other properly. Both babies studied each other with the kind of serious attention they typically reserved for fascinating objects that might prove edible, entertaining, or both.
*Children,* Lord Hoster thought with grudging recognition of a truth that cut through his anger and political calculations alike. *Whatever deceptions were practiced or truths concealed, whatever damage has been done to carefully laid plans, we're looking at children who had no choice in any of it. Innocent babes who deserve consideration regardless of how their existence complicates adult ambitions.*
The hall remained suspended in that strange moment between crisis and resolution, political catastrophe balanced against human decency, while two babies reached for each other across the divide that separated their factions.
"Right then," Hoster said with forced cheerfulness that didn't quite disguise his continuing anger, "I believe we have family business to discuss that would benefit from more... intimate surroundings. My lords, I'm sure you'll understand if we retire to address these... complex... matters in private."
*Complex matters,* Lord Blackwood thought with grim humor as the assembled lords began making polite noises about understanding completely while clearly hoping for more interesting revelations. *That's certainly one way to describe a succession crisis that's just turned the North's inheritance inside out.*
Whether this unexpected development would prove catastrophic or merely complicated remained to be seen.
But the children, at least, seemed convinced that everything was proceeding exactly as it should.
Which was probably the most encouraging sign anyone was likely to get in the immediate future.
---
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