Chapter Text
Oh, my head.
The pain is not manageable. It’s the type of pain you get with your worst migraine, where the rest of the world is invisible as you screw your eyes shut and every minute movement of your muscles is an attempt to make the pain lessen; but it only gets worse, instead.
I don’t feel like myself. My body is heavy and weighted. Gravity is all wrong – and it’s too warm. I don’t know how much time passes, but the pain makes me feel delirious. Eventually, I start to hear voices and am able to actually listen to them. A woman is there, talking with an edge to her voice like glass about to crack – I don’t know who she is, but she cares, obviously.
There is a man, too. He sounds calm and familiar. A doctor, I think. It’s him I wake up to, when I can actually open my eyes.
He’s old. He’s also dressed in a monk’s habit. Very unusual, I ponder, watching his eyes fill with relief.
“Lord Stark, you're finally awake. It has been many weeks since your fall.”
“Fall?” I croak, realising my throat is dry. The man – monk? – shushes me, quiet as he brings me water to drink. I attempt to sit up and realise quickly that it will be an endeavour just to get the blankets off…
I draw my hand over the ‘blankets’.
“Lady Sansa insisted,” the man sighs, sounding fond. “Lady Catelyn could not deny her. She worked quite hard on it.”
“It is a patchwork fur,” I say, somewhat dumbly. “She…made this? For me?”
“Indeed, my lord,” the man chuckles – but though I feel lost, have no idea where I am or what happened to me or who this ‘Sansa’ is, I feel grateful to her. She made me this fur, had obviously sewn together each ragged end. It’s a conglomerate of different textures and shapes – obviously cut-offs, reused and recycled into a fur blanket. The thick threading is uneven, but whoever Sansa is, I know she sewed every last one.
I clutch it tight. “I love it,” I say fiercely, not expecting the radiant smile from the older man’s face – and nor do I expect the impossibly low growl emanating from my own goddamn mouth.
“As you should, my lord. The little lady will be pleased. Should I summon your wife?”
My eyes widen.
“I have a wife?”
It had been a trying time since Ned fell from his horse. Catelyn has been doing her utmost to keep the North from panicking – already she has had a letter from King Robert saying he is riding for Winterfell. Hearing that the Warden of the North is mortally wounded does not inspire peace.
And the children. Oh, Catelyn thinks morosely, tears stinging at her eyes. How will I explain it to them? Maester Luwin has already expressed his doubts that Ned will live through the nights for much longer. How can Catelyn explain death to her children? How can Robb be expected to take on the mantle of Warden of the North? He is only a boy, not yet eight years of age.
If Ned were to die…Bran is only a year old and Arya, three. Neither will remember him.
Approaching his sickroom, Catelyn expects there to be no change. But the guards are anxious, leaning their ears towards the doors and muttering to each other. She narrows her eyes.
“What is going on here?”
They glance her way, far from startled as they raise their weapons – they are still on guard, at least – but they do not answer, only looking between each other and the door.
Catelyn goes to ask them again when she hears it: muffled voices. For a moment she is frozen, wondering if her children have escaped their Septa, but no, she knows those voices. Maester Luwin is in there and the other voice…
“How long has he been awake?”
The guards fidget, the one closest to her whispering, “Over an hour now, my lady. But it’s not a good thing. It might be wrong, but we’ve been listening…it don’t seem like Lord Stark remembers much of the world, Lady Stark.”
Catelyn gasps, a hand flying to her heart, where it pounds harsh against her chest. She edges closer, craning her ears.
“-are, my lord.”
“Stop calling me that, please. Please don’t. I’m not a lord. I can’t be a lord!” Catelyn recognises her Ned, but she has never heard this- this desperation in him, before. He has always taken to lordship with a solemnity she could never emulate. “Luwin, I don’t want this. How can I go out there? I can’t pretend like I know what I’m doing, I- I don’t even know my own name. What did you say before? Edward?”
“Eddard, though most call you Ned, Ned Stark. This is not something you can run from, my lord. You would be leaving a tremendous burden upon the shoulders of your lady wife, who would act as regent for young Lord Robb – and furthermore, you have nowhere else to go.”
Catelyn claps a hand over her mouth. Ned wants to leave?
“Robb – he’s the son you mentioned. My son.” Ned replies, voice quieter than before. “Sansa’s brother. Sansa made this blanket for me.”
“Yes, my lord. Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya and Brandon are all your children. Theon Greyjoy is your ward.” Luwin lists them with a patience Catelyn knows well. “And they have missed you terribly.”
“They have missed their father. I am not him. I can’t- I cannot lie to them and say I love them. That’s what real parents do. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong. I’m not that man – I’m not this Ned and I can’t pretend. I can’t replace him.”
Luwin sighs. “Well, at least your morals are the same.”
Catelyn cannot take any more. She backs away, feeling insecure and heartbroken. Ned does not remember their children. Ned does not remember his love for them. The children will know – the children will see. Even Jon, the bastard, will be roughly affected by this change. All he knows in the world is Ned, for Catelyn will surely never show him the kindness meant for his trueborn siblings and it is by far time for Robb to cease playing with him.
Wandering away, Catelyn finds herself back amongst her court of ladies – daughters and wives of Northern lords and the highly ranked in Winterfell. Hunna Karstark frowns at her distraught expression.
“My lady, whatever is the matter?”
Catelyn swallows her pride. “Ned does not remember anything. His memories are lost. Luwin seems to be supplying him with knowledge, but I heard-” her voice cracks, a sob falling loose from her chest. Hunna startles, arm winding around her waist as she draws Catelyn into an embrace.
“Oh, my lady,” she says in a hush, Catelyn feeling hands on her back and shoulders from Wren of Clan Flint, Jenna Cassel, Sandice Quagg and Chelly Condon. “Are you certain?”
“Certain as can be!” Catelyn cries. “He does not know who the children are!”
Her ladies exchange heavy glances full of uncertainty, before returning to consoling their lady.
I survey the papers, picking them up with delicate hands. I don’t want to damage them. They look old, weathered – and messy. I have to squint in the candlelight to read the minute scrawl of Eddard Stark.
Maester Luwin has been a great help the past week and a half I’ve been cooped up in this room. He won’t let me out or let anyone in to see me, but it’s for the best; they wouldn’t want to see an amnesiac Ned Stark and I, personally, wouldn’t want to meet anyone thinking I am Ned Stark.
Oh, golly-golly, this will be fun, I’m sure.
My sarcasm is top-notch. Maester Luwin has half a heart-attack whenever I make a joke. Apparently, Ned Stark was weighed down by grief and duty, something I can understand. His siblings, bar one – who apparently exiled himself to the mysterious ‘Wall’, capital letter W – are all dead and his wife, my wife, is his big brother’s former fiancée.
“The North is humungous,” I mutter, glancing down at the map. Eddard Stark – because I’m Ned, now, which must be some kind of switcheroo dimensional swap, a la Star Trek – didn’t keep a journal or diary, but his notes on local politics are supposed to be historically accurate, for the future reference of his descendants. Handy for me, but not so great when I’m trying to figure out whether he’s using euphemisms or Greatjon Umber actually bet a goat against the Karstark’s for land.
“What the North lacks in resources, it has in land,” Maester Luwin says sagely, as if that makes any sense whatsoever.
“Did we mine it all? Did the farmers not do farmer-things to make sure the dirt was alright?” I ask bluntly, wondering if I’ve inherited a giant plot of land that is completely, entirely useless. Luwin frowns.
“No,” he says, making me second-guess myself. “The North simply does not have those resources.”
“Are you sure?” I mutter, not quite rhetorically. It’s impossible for a piece of land this big to have nothing in the ground. Maybe it’s like Scotland – lots of land, all scenery, with barely any people to populate it. But Scotland still had resources, they just chose not to mine them, half the time. I’m not a farmer or an architect – I don’t know what to do with any of this. But squinting at the map of Westeros, I figure I might be onto something, something else entirely.
I think my niece used to read about this world.
The name of this place – ‘Winterfell’ – and my own name – ‘Stark’ – sound dreadfully familiar. I can almost picture Susanne telling me about this family. It’s enough of a stretch that I can nod thoughtfully when Maester Luwin says things, occasionally; I think I’m fooling him into believing I’m remembering though, which is cruel on my part.
Genuinely, I don’t believe I can pass as the real Eddard Stark. We’re too different. For one, I’m not used to male genitalia – which is an interesting experience in itself, when I’m not thinking about it too hard. Another is that I’m from a modern world. There might be central heating in Winterfell, but their sewage system is still ‘shit in a chamberpot and add sawdust’.
I put the parchment down, groaning and rubbing my eyes. My migraine hasn’t fully gone away and I’m getting better at ignoring it, but it’s still there, a metaphorical pain in the neck. Luwin is worried it won’t ever go away. He hasn’t given me ‘milk of the poppy’ to reduce my suffering though, which I have keenly deduced is opium, so that’s a relief. It seems that Westeros is all about either living with pain or reducing it with high-class drugs. Not much different to my world then, I suppose.
A knock comes from the door. I glance up, watching Luwin crack it open to address whomever is outside. I hear a child.
“Maester Luwin, can we see Father, yet?”
Luwin shakes his head, chain of links clinking. “No, I’m afraid not. Your father is still recovering.”
“Is it true then? He doesn’t remember anything?”
“I’m afraid so, child.”
I crane my neck, but Luwin is in the way. It’s a boy, I think, but which one? Who could it be? I guess Robb, maybe – he’s my eldest son, apparently. It could be Theon or Jon, my other son not of my wife – which Luwin was not willing to talk about when I asked, making me suspicious; what had I done? – or even one of the girls. Sansa. Arya.
Wait, no – Arya is three. She wouldn’t be able to speak so well as the child outside. Not Arya, then.
“Is he asleep? Can he hear us – Father? Father, are you in there? Is Luwin hiding you?”
My breathing constricts. This isn’t fair, to them or me. I’m not their father. I wasn’t even anyone’s mother in my own world. Luwin glances back at me and I shake my head frantically. Don’t let them in!
Luwin looks away, sombre. “Children. Your father is not well. He will see you in time.”
“I want to see Papa!” That is a new voice – young, feminine. Is this Sansa, who made me the fur blanket? I groan, leaning back in my bed, grasping my head. Luwin glances back again, pursing his lips.
“You must be quiet, children. Your father suffers from severe pains in his head. Noise hurts him.”
“Oh!” one of them exclaims, before Luwin orders them back to someone – a Septa, who I remember is like a nun, here – and closes the door. There comes a pounding and a muffled yell, the clanking of armour and then heavy footsteps, fading into the distance.
“I believe the guards have taken them away,” says Luwin, sounding exhausted. He returns to his chair, looking at me in a beseeching manner. “My lord, too long have you laid in here. There are more folk than your family who worry.”
“Who would worry for me?” I ask, though I think carefully. I am taking on Eddard Stark’s life – it’s my life, now. I need to think. “I’m a Lord Paramount,” I recall, frowning. “My vassals?”
“Not only your vassals.”
“…other Lord Paramounts?”
“Not just the other Lord Paramounts,” Luwin replies gravely. I stare at him. Who else might wonder? Luwin leans forwards in the chair, serious. “Your best friend, King Robert Baratheon, rides for Winterfell. He will be here within a moon, if the rains are kind.”
“A moon.” A month. The king will be here in a month…wait. “Best friend?”
“Yes, my lord. You grew up together, fostered together in the Eyrie of the Vale. Lord Jon Arryn was your foster father, though he stays in Kings Landing as Hand of the King, reigning as regent in Robert’s stead.”
“Oh dear,” I say, voice weak. This is not good. How am I meant to fool this man? A king who could lop off my head at worst, not to mention the best friend thing. He won’t be happy to discover I’m not the man he knows. I shut my eyes, my migraine settling for once, barely an ache.
I’ll look weak in front of a king if I stay in bed. My vassals – and the other Lord Paramounts – will be wondering about me. If this world is as violent as I think it is, then the politics might be worse. Fuck, the politics. I look to my papers.
My papers. Not Eddard’s papers. My papers.
“I am Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Lord Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms.” I curl my hands into fists, looking at Luwin, who watches me with hawk-like eyes. I got the titles right, it seems. “I need to get out of bed.”
Luwin smiles grimly.
“Then let us get you out of bed, my lord.”