Blood in the Water

by margotdavid

Summary:

Aly was blessed by the Gods with a soulmark, a rare and mystical bond that destined her for a particular fate. For years, she wondered who her mark pair might be, until a Velaryon bastard arrived at her door and transformed her life in ways she could never have imagined.

Years later, she encounters a man with fiery hair and river eyes, a meeting that changes everything. Yet, this connection comes with a web of secrets and heartaches, leaving her life forever altered and fraught with challenges.

Notes:

This is a story I have long promise you all... The title is still very much on the works but I was listening to Blood // Water when I wrote this chapter and it stuck.. it would sure be Catelyn theme song.

Chapter 1: House Velaryon

Chapter 2: Catelyn I

Chapter 1 – Catelyn I

              289 AC

When the news of the war reached Winterfell, Catelyn was not pleased that her Ned would leave their home for battle once more. Worse, when Catelyn had broached the subject of sending the girl away, Ned had been furious. She had calmly suggested that Benjen might like to keep the girl for a time, perhaps even foster her, and he acted like Catelyn was trying to permanently sent the girl away.

Instead, Ned had summoned Benjen back to Winterfell to serve as regent while he was off at war. Catelyn was disappointed with Ned’s decision, even when she knew that if Ned appointed her as regent, it would not sit well with the Northern lords, especially when there was a Stark of age to do so. And Benjen had the experience from the Rebellion.

But Catelyn knew that Lord Benjen had a great love for his niece and would keep her close. The first weeks in Winterfell confirmed it. By Benjen’s right side was always Robb, as it was proper for the heir, but Aly Snow followed at his left, her curious eyes and tentative expression ever present. Catelyn had been furious that Benjen would do such a thing, especially when the gossip about the girl was relentless.

Aly Snow was, and Catelyn hated to admit it, a girl of surpassing beauty. Her long face was softened by uncanny pretty features. Her pale, almost translucent skin made her large eyes even darker. She would grow as beautiful as Ashara Dayne, Catelyn couldn’t help but admit.

A girl bastard would pose little threat to Catelyn’s boys, but she would no doubt be a threat to her own daughters. Sansa was a pretty child, and Catelyn had known from the moment her firstborn girl was placed in her arms that she would be a queen, but bastards were often lustful and treacherous. One day, that girl might grow up to outshine Sansa and Arya in her jealousy, ruining their futures. Worse, given the king’s known tastes, who was to say Prince Joffrey wouldn’t inherit the same lustful nature from his sire?

Catelyn shook her head and tried to focus on her letters. Lysa had just lost another child and was traveling to Heathersage to find rest in her homeland. Catelyn was puzzled as to why Lysa would choose Heathersage and not Riverrun, but in her letter, Lysa had been almost angry at Catelyn’s suggestion of a trip to their father.

Catelyn was truly considering it. Sansa was old enough to travel safely, and Benjen Stark’s clear preference for the bastard was grating on her nerves. The man was still unmarried despite Catelyn’s many attempts to see the Lord of Stony Shore wed.

The Stony Shore had long been the lordship of Rodrik Stark and many of the Stark family's second and third sons before him. The Wandering Wolf had never been keen on expanding the settlement, but Arya Flint, a mountain clanswoman, understood the importance of the salt mines and good land. While Stony Shore would never rival the grand lordships of the Manderlys, Dustins, or Boltons, it was certainly a competitor with houses like the Karstarks and Umbers, not in terms of land area, but in its potential.

Lyarra Stark had seen this potential firsthand. As the Dowager of Winterfell, she ruled Stony Shore almost as much as Benjen did. But even before, during her time as Lady of Winterfell, Lyarra had transformed the place into a modest hub for wool production.

Catelyn was pleased with her kin’s success, but Lyarra Stark had been furious with Ned ever since the Sept was built in Winterfell. She blamed Catelyn for marrying off her ladies to vassals who turned away from the Old Faith. The Wells had been followers of the Seven for decades, and sure Lord Blackpool had indulged his wife, Barbara Perryn, allowing her to practice her faith but it was not near as bad as her goodmother made it to be.

Catelyn had come North with her three closest friends: Barbara, Beatrice Deddings, and Marianne Paege. Only Marianne remained in Winterfell, after Catelyn arranged her marriage to Vayon Poole. Catelyn wanted to ensure her friends married Northerners who would respect their customs.

Lyarra Stark seemed to believe that Catelyn was singlehandedly trying to undermine Northern culture. Consequently, the Dowager of Winterfell made no effort to hide her displeasure, showering Aly Snow with the finest gifts and excessive attention. It infuriated Catelyn, but she was determined to keep her anger in check.

Yet, there was something Lyarra was hiding. The Dowager had arrived a fortnight after Ned left and, for the five days that followed, had kept almost exclusively to her youngest son and the bastard. Marianne and Septa Mordane were the only ones willing to share their suspicions with Catelyn: Lyarra and Benjen likely intended to make Aly Snow the heir to the Lordship of Stony Shore.

Catelyn could not allow that to happen.

The girl had an unusual obsession with her schedule, praying at the exact hours every day. Catelyn knew that she would find the bastard in the Godswood, alone save for the lone guardsman loyal to Cat. This allowed her to approach the girl without the ever-watchful wolves.

Instead of kneeling to pray, Aly Snow was perched on a large white root, a bird—a redpool, as Catelyn noticed as she drew closer—in her hand. The girl was speaking to the bird as if it were a regular companion, a sight that struck Catelyn as particularly peculiar.

The bastard truly was a strange child.

Septa Mordane was frightened of her. Aly Snow was quiet and solemn, yet remarkably precocious. She had mastered the common tongue so thoroughly that Maester Luwin was teaching her Braavosi and High Valyrian. She had surpassed Robb in arithmetic years ago and could recite entire passages from scholarly texts.

When Aly Snow turned six, Maester Luwin had come to Ned and Catelyn, declaring that the girl possessed a formidable intellect, an inquisitive nature, and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. It seemed she did not care what she learned, so long as it was something new, and they all knew that was very dangerous. Ned had remained silent on the matter for days, but Catelyn knew he had written to Lady Lyarra and Lord Benjen. During this time, Mordane lamented the evils of women who aspired to act like men, comparing Aly Snow to Shiera Seastar, a woman known for her disgrace.

Marianne had suggested sending Aly to a motherhouse, where women were taught the arts of healing and midwifery. Perhaps, Catelyn thought, the girl could be guided onto a more appropriate path. Maybe she could learn some humility. Aly Snow often spoke with Ned, Robb, or others about whatever caught her interest in her books. It seemed half the North already knew of her precocious nature, a contrast to Catelyn's own children.

So, when Catelyn found Aly talking to a bird, the strangeness of the scene struck her first. Only moments later did the Lady of Winterfell notice what the girl was revealing: a red mark on her white wrist.

A very familiar mark.

Catelyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The girl remained absorbed in her interaction with the bird, oblivious to Catelyn’s presence, only the guard was aware of her.

Her heart pounded as she approached the guard and whispered, “I was never here, and you saw nothing.”

The man nodded in understanding. Regardless, Catelyn resolved to take his daugghter with her to Riverrun. It was a valuable opportunity for a common girl to learn her letters and sums—perhaps even secure a modest dowry that might attract a hedge knight or a merchant's interest.

Once alone in her room, Catelyn knelt before her window, praying and focusing her mind on her chosen path. Before she could be certain of her direction, she went to the sept to speak with the gods and Septon Timott.

.

.

Edmure was taller than the last time Catelyn had seen him. His hair remained a vibrant red, with even fewer hints of brown, and his eyes still reminded her of a summer sky. At six-and-ten, he was leaner rather than broader, though their father’s stocky build seemed to be emerging in him.

He greeted her with youthful energy and brightness, but that vivaciousness had since dimmed. Catelyn could see that Edmure was struggling to hold back tears. She almost wanted to shake some sense into her brother. Why would he weep for someone he had never met?

“Gone?” he whispered, his voice breaking as Lysa clung to him. If Edmure was growing handsomer, Lysa’s pretty face was becoming rounder, and her figure fuller.

“She perished from the pox,” Catelyn explained softly. “You were right, Eddie. She was from the North. Her mother came to me when she discovered the mark on her child, but the girl fell ill.”

“Her mother? Her father? Do they need anything?” Edmure asked, his voice breaking further. “Did she have any siblings?”

Catelyn maintained a mournful expression, though she felt a twinge of irritation at the way Lysa was coddling Edmure.

“None. Her mother soon died of a broken heart. Her father went off with Ned to war, likely to die in glory and for his country.”

Edmure’s sorrow seemed to leave him unable to ask further questions. Catelyn placed a comforting hand on his, saying, “It’s better to move forward, Edmure.”

“Why would the gods do this?”

“The Old Gods are often crueler,” Catelyn said, her hand gently brushing the sleeve that concealed the mark of the Old Gods. “I am sorry they have made you suffer so.”

.

.

Catelyn gazed at the water surrounding her childhood home, her heart heavy with concern. Lysa had stayed behind with Edmure, but Catelyn felt unable to offer further consolation. She found her brother’s reaction to the situation somewhat irrational; he was still very much a greenboy, and she doubted he would welcome her insights.

“You did the right thing, little Cat,” her father said from behind her. She felt his warm hand on her shoulder and turned to face him.

Hoster Tully had shared Catelyn’s mindset when she arrived at Riverrun with the news.

“We have enough problems with our vassals without allowing Edmure to waste our bloodline and connections on a mere bastard. Especially one who brings nothing of value to the table.”

“Why would the gods do this?” she asked him, hoping that her father, usually so strong and resolute, might offer some clarity.

“The Old Gods care little for bastardy and titles,” Hoster replied. “They are barbaric, more concerned with blood sacrifices. This could ruin Edmure and our family. You did the best thing for us.”

“Family, Duty, Honor,” she whispered the words, contemplating their weight. “What happens when the girl comes of age? Ned will want to look for her marked pair.”

“We have at least half a dozen years to prepare for that,” her father said wisely. “I will see to it that Edmure is married by then, hopefully with a proper heir and a spare.”

Catelyn bit her lip, anxiety still gripping her. “Ned might try to annul the marriage, Father. The High Septon might find sufficient grounds for it.”

Hoster gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “He won’t. Not with the political ramifications and the reputation of his house at stake. If the truth comes out, your husband might have to settle for a friendship or a paramour, should Edmure wish it. But I won’t have your husband’s bastard replace Minisa.”

The thought of the bastard in her mother’s dresses fueled Catelyn’s anger towards the Old Gods.

“What will happen when Ned discovers that I lied?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Hoster gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t fret. The girl you spoke of did exist. No one would know if she had a mark or not. If Ned should blame you, I will stand by you. You had just given birth and were feeling isolated. Or, I will ensure that Edmure keeps his silence. There are many ways to absolve you of any blame, especially concerning your brother. You’ve fulfilled your duty, Catelyn. I won’t let you suffer for it.”

Feeling her resolve strengthen, Catelyn stood and embraced her dear father, deeply grateful for his unwavering support.

Notes:

I hope you all liked the first chapters... Also, I am more than open to suggestions for the title.

Next up: Aurane Waters probably shows us why he is the blood of Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon.

As for Benjen possible relationships:
a) Marry a Northern woman
b) shocks the world by marrying some foreign that everyone will just love
c) is the gay uncle

Chapter 3: Aurane I

Summary:

Aurane discovers something and his continues on with first love - ships

Chapter 2 – Aurane I

              289 AC

Aurane might have been only eleven, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew normal people didn’t grow up with strange marks on their wrists—especially not ones that only they could see. So when his little cousin Aemma burst into his bedchamber—demanding and completely shameless, as four-year-olds often are—and asked him what was on his arm, he panicked.

“What’s that?” she chirped, pointing at his wrist with all the subtlety of a warhorn.

Aurane clapped his hand over the mark, heart hammering. “It’s nothing!” he blurted. But Aemma wasn’t convinced. Her big purple eyes narrowed, and she planted her hands on her hips like some miniature of the Dowager Lady.

After a long moment of frantic thinking, Aurane knelt before her.

“You can’t tell anyone, Aemma. Swear it on your doll, or—on your favorite honeycakes—swear it!” what did four years old swore on anyway?

After much haggling, Aemma finally agreed. In return, she demanded he take her aboard a ship before the next moon’s turn. Aurane, cornered and out of options, grudgingly promised. As she skipped out of his room humming, out of tune, he flopped onto his bed with a groan. What in the seven hells had he just agreed to?

The mark had been with him as far back as he could remember, but it wasn’t until he was seven that he started to wonder what it meant. It had been when Aunt Daenaera had gathered the children around the hearth to tell one of her hundred stories. On that day she told them about soulmarks—those rare, magical bonds that supposedly tied two people together.

“It’s a blessing from the gods,” she had said, her voice soft and full of awe. Aurane had gone quiet, his gaze dropping to his wrist, but ears perked up. He had always thought the faint, silvery mark there was nothing important, just something... odd. Perhaps a sign that he was not trueborn like his cousins. But as Aunt Daenaera described the soulmarks—how they were supposed to appear on one’s skin like a whisper from fate—his chest tightened. Could his mark be one of those?

After that, Aurane couldn’t stop thinking about it. He started asking questions, though he quickly learned most adults didn’t like talking about soulmarks. When he did manage to wrangle answers, they were usually vague, full of mystery and half-truths.

When did soulmarks appear? The Maesters had theories. One said they showed up when a child lost their first tooth. Others claimed they appeared when someone was ready to meet their destined partner. Aurane thought both sounded ridiculous, but it didn’t matter—no one really knew.

How did soulmarks work? And when were you supposed to tell someone about yours? Everyone had an opinion. The Valyrians believed you should wait until you came of age. The First Men said you should share the truth the moment your mark appeared. The Andals tied it to a girl’s first moonblood, which Aurane thought was disgusting. He’d made the mistake of asking his older cousins what moonblood even was, and their laughter had made him want to crawl into the sea.

The Rhoynar were the strangest of all. They didn’t hide their marks, didn’t fret about when or how to reveal them. They just believed destiny would take care of everything. “

 “The river always flows toward the sea.” Aurane read that somewhere and thought it sounded nice to describe it.

For all his questions, he hadn’t come any closer to figuring out what he should do. His father, Lucerys Velaryon, had been a great lord who followed the Seven like most of his kin, though Aurane barely remembered him. His father had died when Aurane was only three. His mother, Calla, came from an ancient Lyseni family and worshipped the Valyrian gods, especially the two daughters of Lys: the Weeping Lady and Pantera. Aurane didn’t know which path he was supposed to follow, or if the gods even cared about his mark.

So he decided not to think too hard about it. He’d wait—until he was older, until he was ready, like the Valyrians said.

Of course, things wouldn’t be that simple. They never were.

.

.

It wasn’t Aemma who finally forced him to speak of the mark—it was Aurane himself. He’d always thought it would be Monterys, his older brother, who would eventually figure it out since he spent to much time with him.

When Monterys returned home after being released from his fostering, Aurane had expected him to settle into his new role as the Lord of the Tides’ heir, moving into the grand apartments and taking on his responsibilities. Monterys did that—but still visit Aurane’s bedchamber at night, just like he had when he would visit home during his fostering. Even with all his new duties, he always found a moment to check on Aurane. And he always had questions for Aurane.

“How are your studies?” Monterys often asked.

Aurane groaned. “Terrible. I hate reading about the Faith of the Seven. And mother Calla’s books are so boring. Painting and drawing are dull, too. But I do like cartography—even if I’m awful at drawing Westeros. Astronomy’s fun, and I love watching the people building ships at Hull Town. I’d rather be there than stuck inside, playing the lute or the flute. My voice is almost as bad as Aemma’s!”

Monterys chuckled at that. “And the sword? The bow? The lance?”

“The bow, ten times over,” Aurane replied. “And I’ll tell you, Monterys, I’m going to sail to Essos on the Harridan one day. Then, I’ll go to the Sunset Sea and find those islands no one’s seen in years.”

Monterys smiled, his usual smile when Aurane got excited. “Good. Keep dreaming.”

One night, when Monterys was stil fostering, Aurane asked, “Do you see the King much?”

“Barely,” Monterys answered, his voice distant. “And that’s probably for the best. He doesn’t like people with our hair.”

Aurane blinked, confused. “Why not?”

“One day you’ll understand,” Monterys said, his tone strange.

Aurane didn’t ask more about the King. Monterys like talking about the King, nor his time fostering, so one day he asked about the Queen who Aurane heard was the most beautiful woman in the realm. “What about Queen Cersei?”

Monterys scoffed. “The queen doesn’t care about anyone unless they’re a Lannister. She barely even does her duties.”

Aurane frowned. “What do you mean? Doesn’t she run the country, like Lady Mother Prudence runs Driftmark island?”

Monterys laughed, shaking his head. “No. She doesn’t even run the Red Keep, let alone the realm. That’s the King’s job. Well, mostly Lord Arryn’s.”

“But…” Aurane struggled to understand. “Doesn’t she meet with traders and handle the castle’s finances? Doesn’t she oversee the treasury, like Mother Calla?”

Monterys smirked. “If Queen Cersei knows arithmetic, she doesn’t show it.”

Aurane thought for a moment. “Then she must be like Aunt Daenaera—organizing events and taking care of charities.”

That made Monterys laugh even harder. “Queen Cersei? Charities? The only things she organizes are commands to fetch her and her children more things. I doubt she even knows what charities are.”

Aurane was even more confused now. “Then she must paint, or write poetry, like Aunt Naerys?”

Monterys shook his head, clearly amused. “She’s got singers to entertain her. I’ve never seen a painting or verse from her hand.”

“What about her children?” Aurane asked, hesitant.

Monterys’s smile disappeared, and his tone colder. “Best not to think about them.”

Despite the nights spent talking and the days spent sparring, Monterys insisted on training with them every morning before his duties called him away. Aurane cared little for the sword, but at least he gets to see Cousin Vaemond get knocked to the ground for once.

Monterys never noticed Aurane’s mark, and since he didn’t ask, Aurane didn’t feel the need to tell.

It was Cousin Victor who discovered it. Victor, endlessly curious and, as Aunt Naerys often said, “too involved in everyone else’s business,” spotted the mark one day while they were bathing in the River Volaena, near Volantis. They’d just been given allowed to work as oarsmen aboard the Harridan for a trip that would take them half a year away from Driftmark! And maybe it was because Aurane was so distracted that he didn’t remember.

Victor was splashing water at him, laughing, when he froze. His eyes locked onto Aurane’s wrist. “What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s nothing!” Aurane tried to hide his wrist, but Victor was faster. He grabbed Aurane’s arm and held it firmly.

Then, Victor’s grip loosened, his face turning pale. “It’s a soulmark,” he whispered in awe. “How could you not tell us? Tell me?”

Aurane felt a pang of guilt, seeing how hurt his cousin looked. But he managed to keep his voice steady as he replied, “I’ll tell everyone when I’m six-and-ten.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “That’s stupid. Why hide it from the family? Especially from Dowager Prudence. You know she always finds out! Like that time we hid Monford’s things so he wouldn’t go back to the Red Keep.”

Aurane didn’t have an answer, but Victor’s words stuck with him like a weight in his chest.

Months later, when they returned to Driftmark, their ship laden with bolts of fine silk, jars of saffron and pepper, and casks of ink in more colors than Aurane could name, he knew he couldn’t avoid the truth much longer. He had to speak to the Dowager.

But as soon as he stepped ashore, he learned of the war. The Greyjoys had declared war on the Crown and were defeated. Monterys was full of stories about the battles, and normally, Aurane couldn’t care less. But this time… this time, it was different. The battles had been fought at sea!

Still, the weight of his mark grew heavier with each passing day.

.

.

Aurane entered Dowager Prudence Celtigar’s solar with a mix of fear and resolve. It wasn’t fear of the woman herself; Lady Mother Prudence was always proper and ladylike, never showing her feelings outside the family chambers. But she was his Lady Mother. Aurane knew now, at eleven, that most people didn’t grow up with two mothers like he did. Monterys had said that just as Aurane couldn’t call Mother Calla by her name, he couldn’t call Lady Mother Prudence anything other than that. Outside, she was Dowager Lady, but inside their home, she was his graceful mother.

The Dowager’s solar, like all the rooms in the keep, had marble walls. Painted frescos adorned the space, soft dragons curling with flames, and the images of Meleys and Tyraxes, the Goddesses, in various poses. The windows were large and let in plenty of sunlight, making the room bright and airy. The furniture was mostly oak, all from Claw Isle, with red velvet cushions on the chairs. On the floor, there were carpets—older ones – and some with crabs and sea eagles—reminding Aurane of how House Celtigar made their wealth from the ships passing through their small port, the crabs they used to make fertilizer, and the secret white pigment they produced for painters.

Lady Prudence was a lady of five-and-forty, but still beautiful, with silver-gold hair that had darkened slightly with age and blue eyes that reminded him of the summer sky. She was smaller of statue and graceful, and Aurane found himself silently hoping that his soulmate would be as clever and as kind as she was. Everyone on the island knew Dowager Prudence was clever.

She wore a simple blue satin gown, her hair pulled into a neat bun. Two ledgers were open before her when Aurane was announced, and she looked up, smiling brightly at him as he entered and took a sit in front of her.

Prudence seemed surprised when he asked to meet with her, especially since Aurane had chosen a time when Mother Calla was away on business in Lys. She raised an eyebrow as she looked at him, her concern growing with his restlessness. “What’s this, Aurane?” she asked gently. “What brings you here today?”

When he didn’t reply, she asked again, her voice growing a bit sterner, “Has someone said something bad to you?”

Aurane knew what she meant. She was asking if someone had called him a bastard—or worse. He remembered when he was younger, some of the squires had made cruel remarks. He had cried over it once, his face burning with shame as they mocked him. The memory of their laughter still stung. But then Cousins Vaemond and Victor had stepped in, fists flying. They didn’t care if they got more bruised than the squire, as long as he was put in his place.

When Monterys and Uncle Aemon found out, they didn’t just let it slide. Especially once Aurane confessed it was more than that squire. The squires had been summoned to Dowager Prudence’s solar. The next morning, they came to Aurane with downcast eyes, their faces bruised, lips bleeding. They apologized, and Aurane knew—Lady Mother Prudence didn’t hurt them but she made the apologize to him and the words stop. No one called him names after that. Her words, sharp and cutting, had done more damage than any sword could. They were sharper than even Aurane’s or Valaena’s arrows.

As he returned to the present, Aurane tried to speak, but his words tangled in his throat. He struggled three times, but all he could do was push his sleeve up, exposing the mark on his wrist. It was faint but unmistakable.

Dowager Prudence inhaled sharply, her eyes widening as she stared at the mark. “Oh,” she whispered, before looking at him with soft eyes. “Is this what you wished to speak of?”

 “I don’t want to be legitimized,” he rushed out. “I love Monterys and Cousin Vaemond and Cousin Victor. Even if Cousin Valaena is much smarter than all of them, I don’t want to rule Driftmark. I just… I want to see the world.” His voice faltered as he said it aloud.

Prudence stood from her chair and walked over to him. Kneeling down before him, she placed her hands gently on his shoulders. “I’ve always known you were special, Aurane,” she said, her voice full of warmth and love. “Not just because you are my son, but because the Gods have chosen you, too.”

Aurane looked at her, confused and afraid. “But what should I do?”

She smiled softly. “The Gods have marked you for something great. Perhaps a great love, or a great adventure. What is it that you wish to do?”

Aurane thought for a moment. “Can I take my soulmark on a ship?” he asked, his voice trembling with hope.

Prudence’s smile never faltered. “It’s not very usual,” she said.

“But Marilda of Hull did so,” Aurane uttered.

“She did,” Lady Mother said with bright eyes. “And she found her luck with the sea. Or our luck too, just as much as the Sea Snake did.”

Aurane’s eyes brightened at the mention of Marilda. “Will you write have to the King about my mark?”

Prudence’s smile faded, but only slightly. “You’re not sure, are you?”

Aurane shook his head. “I’m scared. What if my mark is a highborn lady who won’t want me?”

Prudence’s expression softened, and she looked at him with soulful eyes. “Your mark could be a lady, or a common born, or a princess. But above all, Aurane, she will be your other half. She will be Velaryon too, and we’ll will adore her no matter where she comes from.”

Aurane hesitated, biting his lip. “She might be from Essos.”

Prudence nodded. “If she is, then it is all the more reason for you to reveal your mark. She could be far away, and you will need to learn her tongue before she comes to you. And allow her to learn too.”

Aurane thought about this. He had already been learning some of the languages of Essos, but the idea of his soul mate being from fair away, a place he could travel to, made him excited.

“The North doesn’t speak the common tongue either. And they are not that far away.”

Prudence smiled, as if reading his thoughts. “I see you’ve been paying attention in your lessons.”

Aurane smiled back, feeling proud of himself.

Prudence stood up and walked to her writing desk. “I’ll write to the King, then. And we’ll have a celebration with the family. We will make sure that everyone knows of your mark.”

Aurane felt his heart tightened with excitement. He hoped whatever she was, he could go to her in a ship.

Notes:

Thank you so much for the kind words!!!

I have added a chapter at the begining that is a family tree of House Velaryon. Hopefully you can all see

Chapter 4: Ned I

Chapter 3 – Ned I

              Early 290 AC

Ned sat by the hearth in his solar while his mother, the Dowager Lady Lyarra Stark, stood near the window. Her presence was as commanding as ever, her icy blue eyes piercing from behind her widow’s veil, even as she remained silent for a moment too long. Ned braced himself for what would come out of that silence.

“She abandoned her post,” Lyarra said at last. “Your lady wife took Sansa and fled to Riverrun. Left her duties, her place, to scurry back to her father’s halls. The North whispers of it, Eddard.”

Ned sighed, leaning back in his chair. The exhaustion of the Greyjoy Rebellion still clung to him like a shadow, and he had little patience for more arguments. “Perhaps she missed her family. -Cat told me before how she wished to see her homeland and show it to the children.”

Lyarra scoffed, her lips curling in disdain. “Missed her family? What of the family she’s meant to keep here? The North has little respect for a woman who abandons her post at the first pang of homesickness or hardship. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s that sept you built for her.”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “I built it out of respect for my wife. Is there harm in that?”

“Respect?” Lyarra’s voice cut like a blade. “You’ve shown the clans and the Umbers that you can be led like a lamb – a fish. They respect you as a warrior and a lord, but don’t think they’ve forgotten you were raised in the Vale, steeped in their pieties. The sept makes you look weak, Eddard.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a sept in the North,” Ned countered, his patience fraying. “The Manderlys have one. The Wells, too.”

“The Manderlys and Wells,” Lyarra snapped, “are not the example you should be following. You are Stark of Winterfell. The clans follow you because of your blood, but they look askance to the sept. if they think you are more South than North you’ll lose what loyalty you’ve earned.”

Ned rubbed a hand over his face, weary of the same argument they’d had a dozen times before. Could he not have peace between his mother and wife? Brandon would have been all North, Ned thinks. His brother would have the love of the Clans and the older houses. But he would also never allow a sept. And Ned knows how miserable not having a place to pray her Faith would make Cat. But at times, when Ned felt like he was failing as a lord and husband, he couldn’t help but think Brandon would have succeeded.

His mother’s gaze softened slightly, though her tone did not. “You must do something to steady this, Eddard. Foster Robb with the Umbers or the Karstarks. Let the North see you’re not abandoning their ways.”

“My children stay with me,” Ned said firmly. “I won’t send them away.” He hesitated, knowing how this would sound. “And Catelyn would use it as an excuse to foster Aly, too.”

Lyarra’s eyes narrowed, her voice turning colder. “If it comes to that, I will foster her myself. Gods know she deserves better than what you’ve made of her life.”

Ned’s jaw tightened, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air. His mother had seen through him the moment she’d laid eyes on Aly, the newborn babe he’d claimed as his bastard. Lyarra Stark had always been too sharp for her own good, and for his. He’d confessed the truth to her then, as much for his own sake as hers. Still, there were thinks they disagree a lot with, and Aly’s education and life was one of them.

“I swore to her mother I’d keep her safe,” Ned said quietly. “Aly stays under my protection.”

Lyarra’s gaze softened, almost pitying, and it stung worse than her anger. “The Gods aren’t listening. At least not to you, Ned.”

He frowned, confused by her words. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty flashing across her face. Then her expression hardened again. “Aly came to me moons ago, in tears. She’d received a soulmark.”

Ned felt the world tilt beneath him. He grasped the armrests of his chair as if they could anchor him. “A soulmark? Are you sure?”

Lyarra’s icy glare returned full force. “Do you think she’d lie about something so holy? Yes, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Only Benjen and I know. She hides it, but it’s there.”

The implications were staggering. Marks were rare, sacred, and fraught with both promise and peril. He could already imagine Catelyn’s fury when she found out, and the whispers that would follow. The Old Gods care nothing for bastards but the Faith believed such marks cleanse the stain of bastardy.

“Speak with her,” Lyarra ordered. “And with the King, if you must. But tread carefully.”

“I’ll take Aly and Robb South with me,” Ned decided, thinking aloud. “Robert has all but commanded me to attend Lord Lannister’s tourney. Perhaps it’s best if we sort this there.”

“Sort it,” Lyarra repeated with an edge of disdain. “You’re not going to like the sorting. But if you do, tell Robert you’re as shocked as anyone that Aly, of all your children, was chosen. Let him draw his own conclusions.” Her lips thinned. “And you’ll tell your wife yourself. That’s your mess to handle, not mine.”

Ned nodded, though his heart was heavy. He would speak with Aly. And then he would face whatever the Gods had planned for them all.

.

.

Ned found Aly in the library, as he had expected. The large room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of a nearby hearth and the occasional rustle of parchment. Aly was sitting at a table, a  book open in front of her. At eight years old, she was already so serious, so solemn, that it sometimes pained Ned to look at her.

When she noticed him, she closed her book and rose, dipping into a small curtsey. Ned felt a small pang in his chest at the sight.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” he said gently.

“But Septa Mordane says it’s the proper way,” Aly replied, her brow furrowed slightly. Her confusion was clear, and it made her seem even smaller than she was. Ned shook his head and stepped closer.

“Not for me,” he said softly.

Aly nodded and sat back down, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Ned took the chair beside her, the warmth of the hearth reaching them both. He studied her for a moment, her small, solemn face, her gray eyes so dark they looked closer to black.

“You’ve been very quiet of late,” he said. “How have you been?”

Aly hesitated, then spoke. “I’ve been studying. Especially mathematics. Maester Luwin has been giving me extra lessons.” She bit her lip, as though worried she had said too much.

Ned smiled faintly. “You’re a very bright girl,” he said. He had known about the lessons, of course. Maester Luwin had come to him weeks ago, explaining how bored Aly seemed during the lessons she shared with Robb. Ned had agreed then that she could have extra time with the maester. While Robb trained in the yard, Aly studied here, in the quiet of the library.

Aly seemed to relax a little at his words, but she watched him closely, as if sensing he had more to say. Ned leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Aly,” he began carefully, “I know about your mark.”

Her eyes widened in alarm, and she sat up straighter. “I only told Grandmother Lyarra,” she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ned reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder. “I know,” he assured her. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But something like that isn’t meant to be kept hidden.”

Aly’s hands fidgeted in her lap, and she bit her lip again. “What happens now?” she asked quietly.

Ned studied her solemn face, his heart aching at how much she tried to carry alone. “Do you know what is supposed to happen?” he asked.

She nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands. “You’ll tell His Grace, the King. Then… then I’ll marry the man who claims me.”

Ned frowned, troubled by her choice of words. “You’re still very young,” he said. “You won’t marry right away.”

Aly looked up at him, her gray eyes wide. “Will I go to live with his family?”

“That depends,” Ned said carefully. “We don’t know who your soulmark partner is yet.”

Aly frowned, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What if it’s someone important? Like a knight or a lord’s son? Lady Stark wouldn’t like it.”

Ned sighed, his heart heavy at the fear in her voice. “It won’t matter,” he said firmly. “The Gods know what they’re doing. And no matter what happens, we will face it together.”

Aly’s frown didn’t entirely disappear, but she nodded. To lighten the mood, Ned decided to tell her his plans.

“We’ll be attending the Lannisport Tourney soon,” he said. “You, Robb, and I.”

Aly’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “Are we going by ship or by horse?” she asked.

Ned smiled, remembering how much she had loved the sea when they visited White Harbor. “We’ll take a ship from Barrowtown.”

Aly’s face lit up, and for a moment, her solemn demeanor fell away. She nearly bounced in her seat before catching herself. Straightening, she said more carefully, “I will like to see the sea again.”

Ned chuckled softly, his heart lightened by her excitement. “I thought you might,” he said.

.

.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was alight with revelry, the golden glow of the hearths casting dancing shadows on the walls. Tables stretched across the room, laden with food and drink, and the air was alive with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. At the table reserved for the Northern lords, congratulations were in order.

“To the Greatjon!” boomed Lord Hornwood, his laughter echoing as he lifted his tankard high. “Winner of today’s melee and a reminder to all southern softlings what true northern steel looks like!”

Cheers followed, as the Greatjon said, “And for Ser Jorah who shows them what true horseman look like!”

Lord Hornwood nodded, hearty slapping the man on the bac, whose gruff smile betrayed his pride. Jorah Mormont had unhorsed Ser Hosteen Frey earlier that day, assuring his place in the finals of the joust.

Ned sat among them, his cup half-full, his attention only partially on the celebration. Next to him, Ser Wendel Manderly was recounting recent trade negotiations in White Harbor.

“Benjen went himself to Braavos,” Ned said, his tone measured. “He wanted to see the terms firsthand. We should have news soon.”

Wendel nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully, but Ned’s focus drifted to his children. Robb sat beside Greatjon Umber, his eyes wide with admiration as the lord recounted the melee’s more colorful words than Ned would like. Beside him, Aly sat much more composed, listening intently as Wynafryd Manderly pointed out the various coat of arms and figures around the hall.

It was then that the King’s voice boomed over the noise. “Ned! Stark! Where are you hiding, old friend?”

Ned sighed as he rose from his seat. Robert’s jovial bellow cut through the hall as he waved Ned over to his side. The King was already deep in his cups, his face flushed and his grin wide.

Reluctantly, Ned made his way to the dais. Robert was seated at the head of the table, his golden crown slightly askew. His queen, Cersei Lannister danced with her brother Jaime, the pair gliding across the floor with practiced grace.

“This,” Robert declared as Ned sat beside him, “this is the life, eh? Nothing like a feast after a hard-fought victory.”

Ned forced a small smile, his gaze drifting once again to Aly. She looked serene in her plum and lilac gown, the simple embroidery of weirwood leaves a subtle nod to her northern roots. The dress, no doubt, was his mother’s doing.

“I agree,” Ned said softly, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.

Robert leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You said you needed to talk. What is it?”

Ned hesitated, his hands tightening around the goblet. He had tried for days to speak with Robert in private, but to no success. Now, with the feast in full swing, the opportunity seemed both ill-timed and inevitable.

“When I returned to Winterfell, I discovered my daughter had been blessed by the Gods.”

Robert’s face lit up, his voice rising again. “Seven hells, that’s cause for celebration! More wine!”

“Robert,” Ned interjected quickly, “I wanted to discuss this in private for a reason.”

The King frowned but waved off the servants. His voice dropped, though it still carried the weight of his curiosity. “What’s the trouble, then?”

Ned glanced toward Aly. She was watching him, her dark eyes solemn, as though she could sense the weight of the conversation. Turning back to Robert, he said, “It’s Aly. She’s the one who was blessed.”

For a moment, Robert was silent. His gaze shifted to the girl, then back to Ned. “Aly?” he repeated, his tone quieter now. “Well… I suppose it makes sense… your face.”

The King’s expression grew pensive, his eyes narrowing as he studied the girl again. Ned unease growing with each heartbeat.

Robert eventually said, “You were always so tight lipped about it. There were rumors of some Dornish peasant but I always said it had to be a rare wench if she could make you forget your honor. She’s not Wylla’s, is she?”

Ned stiffened. He had expected Robert’s sharpness but had hoped to avoid this. “She’s my daughter,” he said firmly.

Robert snorted. “If not for the war… well, I’d wager that girl would be your trueborn with Ashara. She has the look of the Daynes.”

Ned’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Robert’s eyes lingered on Aly and Ned notices the colors for the first time. His daughter tended to hear more earthly unassuming tones, but she did shone in purples – in lilac and white. Truly his mother’s working.

He drained his goblet and set it down with a thud.

“The past is the past,” he said evenly. “Aly is my daughter. That’s all that matters.”

Robert nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. “The girl has to be older than your boy. Half a year at least. You never let me see the babe, I know why now. You should’ve told me,” he said. “If I’d known, I’d have stopped you from marrying Catelyn.”

Ned shook his head. “I’m happy with my wife.”

Robert chuckled darkly, his gaze drifting toward Cersei, who was now laughing with Jaime. “Not all of us are so lucky,” he muttered.

Changing the subject, Robert leaned closer. “So, what now? Wait for her match to show up?”

“That would be the best plan,” Ned said. “We’ll know what to do if anyone comes forward with their own mark. Hopefully it will some young boy, a knight’s son.”

“Could be a prince?” Robert teased. “or Renly.”

Ned prayed to all the Gods it wasn’t, to Robert, he simple said, “My wife would love it,”

Robert nodded, then suddenly smirked. “Not all trouts are against the girl, you know.”

Ned frowned, confused, until he followed Robert’s gaze. At the northern table, young Edmure Tully was bowing before Aly, extending a hand. Robb had taken Wynafryd Manderly to the floor, leaving Aly seated alone.

To Ned’s surprise, Aly rose and accepted with a graceful curtsey. The pair moved to the dance floor, Edmure fumbling to adjust his steps to match her shorter stature.

Robert chuckled. “Rumor says Hoster’s boy’s doesn’t get the same desires for marriages as his father. Lord Tully has tried to marry the boy to three woman and he refused them all.”

Ned watched the pair closely, surprised that Cat’s brother would be so kind to safe Aly from her loneliness . “He’s young,” he said finally.

“Younger than he acts, maybe,” Robert replied. “But he’s not so young as to keep from warming his bed with company. They say his father caught him with three women in one weekend. What a weekend it must have been!”

Ned shot Robert a disapproving look, but the King only laughed.

“You’re too serious, Stark,” he said. “Let the boy have his fun. I have half a mind to call him to court to show him the pleasures of King’s Landing.”

Ned shook his head.

.

.

The cheers of the crowd filled the air as Lord Jorah Mormont unhorsed Ser Boros Blount in a resounding victory. Robb cheered loudly, his fists pumping the air, while Wynafryd Manderly clapped with an air of youth satisfaction.

“I told you he was going to win,” Wynafryd said, grinning at Robb, who scowled dramatically.

“He got lucky,” Robb retorted, as if he had not loudly celebrating.

Aly sat nearby, her expression calm but her gaze flickering between her siblings and the tourney grounds. The trio whispered excitedly about the next match—Ser Jaime Lannister against Ser Barristan Selmy.

Ned’s attention, however, wandered to his goodbrother, Edmure Tully. The heir of Riverrun had left his seat near the children and was now chatting with a striking blonde woman, her neckline so daringly low it bordered on scandalous. She giggled, leaning closer to Edmure as he spoke, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

Despite Edmure’s lively demeanor, Ned could not help but notice the hollowness in the young man’s blue eyes. There was a subtle grief there, lurking beneath his smile, despite his penchant for chasing laughter and women. And Cat had said her brother was a robust, confident man, but this version of Edmure seemed thinner, wearier, though he hid it well in his animated conversations.

Lady Lynesse Hightower, sitting not far from Edmure, watched the scene with a slight frown. The young maiden, slim and beautiful, had looked disheartened the day before upon learning that Edmure did not compete in tournaments. Instead, she had offered her favor to Lord Jorah, whose stoic demeanor contrasted too sharply with Edmure’s charm. It was clear to Ned that the Hightower maid had set her sights on the heir of the Riverlands, though Edmure seemed intent on charming women far older and of lesser houses—perhaps a way to avoid the expectations of marriage.

A roar from the crowd brought Ned’s attention back to the jousting grounds. Ser Jaime Lannister had just unhorsed Ser Barristan Selmy in a clash of splintered lances. Wynafryd and Robb bickered back and forth over the outcome, their youthful excitement infectious.

“You’re just saying that because you like Jaime’s horse,” Robb teased.

“It’s a fine steed, and very pretty to look at,” Wynafryd replied, making Robb frown.

Ned couldn’t help but smile at their banter. For a moment, they were just children, their laughter rising above the noise of the crowd. But then his gaze shifted to Aly, whose focus was elsewhere.

She wasn’t watching the joust. Instead, her eyes were fixed on Edmure and the blonde woman, her expression difficult to read. It wasn’t jealousy, Ned thought, but something more like confusion or perhaps disapproval.

Before he could consider it further, Robert’s voice rang out over the stands. “Ned!”

The King was seated nearby, his face flushed from wine and exhilaration. He pointed at the tourney grounds, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Can you believe it? The Kingslayer might win the bloody tourney!” Robert bellowed, his voice full of disdain.

Ned moved to Robert’s side, his face impassive. “There’s still one joust to go,” he said, Ned doubted Lord Mormont would manage to unseat the Kingslayer.

Robert clapped him on the back, laughing. “We’ll see, old friend! We’ll see!”

Ned’s eyes returned to his children. Robb and Wynafryd were still bickering, their words fast and fiery, while Aly remained quiet, her attention now focused on the tourney grounds.

.

.

Ned sat in his solar, the hearth’s flames casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. He leaned back in his chair, taking a rare moment of quiet after the day’s commotion. But the peace was soon broken by the soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” he called.

Maester Luwin stepped inside, two scrolls clutched in his hand. The seals on them were unmistakable—the stag of King Robert and the imprint of the Hand of the King. Luwin placed them on the desk in front of Ned.

“Letters from King’s Landing, my lord,” Luwin said. “Both arrived by raven this morning.”

Ned nodded. “Thank you, Maester.”

Luwin inclined his head and left the room. Ned stared at the two letters, his jaw tightening. He broke the seal on Robert’s first. The message was brief, written in the bold, hasty scrawl he recognized as Robert’s hand.

Ned,

The boy is a Velaryon bastard. Damn it, I thought your girl would be matched with someone better than that. Told Jon twe shouldn’t legitimize the lad—only your girl. Piss off half those Valyrian bastards.

Still, the law’s the law. Jon says we can’t ignore it. Fine. I’ll find some keep for the boy and your girl. They can start a new house, something that doesn’t sound like bloody dragon names.

Drink for me, old friend. Gods, I need it.

Robert

Ned set the letter down, his lips pressed into a thin line. He sighed and reached for the second scroll, breaking the wax seal of Jon Arryn, seeing the familiar handwriting, neat and deliberate.

Lord Eddard Stark,

Allow me first to offer my congratulations on the blessing bestowed upon your family and, belatedly, on the birth of your son, Brandon. I trust your wife and children are well and thriving.

While you were in the West, Lord Monford Velaryon came to me to inform me of the soulmark that has appeared on his bastard brother, Aurane Waters. As the law requires, I have verified the claim. The boy was born in 278 AC and, from what I have gathered, has the sea in his blood. He is likely to pursue a life as a captain in service of his house, and while the Velaryons are no longer the family they once been, they are still rich ones with connections in Essos.

Robert has expressed his intent to grant the boy and your daughter a holding, allowing them to form a new house. I have advised the King that such a decision would require careful consideration, not only for the boy’s sake but also for your daughter’s future and that we should first, hear you own desires.

Ned, my own advice is that you settle the girl closer to home, something I have no doubt is also in your heart’s desire. A quiet life far from the chaos of court would likely suit her temperament. I await your word on this matter and to act according.

The Gods watch over you and your kin.

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie, the Defender of the Vale, the Warden of the East.

Ned finished reading and placed the letter on the desk beside Robert’s. He leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling.

The boy—a Velaryon bastard, a child of the sea. Aurane Waters. Ned’s mind turned the name over, recalling what little he knew of the Velaryons. Proud, ancient, and steeped in the blood of Old Valyria. It was not what he had expected for Aly, though he could not say what he had expected. A Velaryon. With his look the boy got the Valyrian traits.

His gaze drifted to the window, where the sky was painted in shades of dusk. A new house, Robert had said. A quiet life, Jon had written. Ned’s hand brushed against the letters, his mind weighing the options.

.

.

Ned entered Catelyn’s chambers to find her seated by the fire, embroidering a piece of cloth with practiced precision. The flames cast a warm glow on her auburn hair, but her expression was tight, her movements brisk. She looked up when he closed the door behind him, and her lips curved into a small, cautious smile.

“You wanted to speak with me?” she asked, her voice steady but lacking its usual warmth.

Ned could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight rigidity in her posture. She was bracing herself. Likely, she thought he would chide her for going to Riverrun without his leave. But Ned knew that what he had to say would unsettle her more than that transgression.

He crossed the room and stood near her chair, hesitating for a moment before sitting on the bench opposite her. “I did,” he said finally, his voice calm but firm. “It’s about Aly.”

Catelyn stilled, her embroidery forgotten. She set the cloth and needle aside, folding her hands in her lap. Her blue eyes were sharp as she studied him. “What about her?”

Ned considered his words, all the ways he had rehearsed this conversation. Each version felt wrong. In the end, he chose bluntness. “Aly has a soulmark,” he said.

For a moment, Catelyn blinked. Then she took a deep breath, her hands tightening on her lap. When she finally spoke, her tone was cool and measured. “Your bastard,” she said.

Ned nodded slowly. “Yes. I’ve spoken to Robert about it. I received word from Jon Arryn as well.”

Catelyn’s face paled, and she sank back into her chair. Her composure slipped for an instant, and Ned thought to offer her some comfort, but something stopped him. She would not welcome it, not now.

“Lord Velaryon’s brother,” he added after a moment.

Her brows furrowed, confusion flashing across her face. “His brother?” she repeated, as if she couldn’t believe it.

“A bastard brother,” Ned clarified, knowing Cat would be looking at the family tree in her mind and finding no brother. “Jon Arryn has confirmed that the mark is the same as Aly’s.”

Catelyn’s expression shifted, her features softening in contemplation. Finally, she said, “That… is a good thing.”

Ned stared at her, surprised. “You think so?”

She nodded, her voice gaining a measure of confidence. “Two bastards being wed is not unheard of. It’s fitting, in its way. They could found a new branch of House Velaryon.” She paused, tilting her head. “When will the marriage happen?”

Ned frowned “Aly is only turning nine this year. The boy, Aurane, is two-and-ten. There is no rush.”

Catelyn pursed her lips. “It wouldn’t be so strange. They could wed now and live apart until Aly is old enough to fulfill her duties as a wife. She should move to Driftmark. If the Velaryons accept her, of course.”

Her words struck a nerve. Ned forced himself to keep his tone even. “Nothing has been decided yet,” he said.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow, the hint of a challenge in her gaze. “Nine is the perfect age for fostering,” she said. “Many girls are fostered with the families they are meant to marry.”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “Nine is a good age for fostering, yes,” he admitted. “It’s why I’ve been considering fostering Robb with the Karstarks or the Umbers.”

Her posture stiffened, though she kept her expression composed. “The Karstarks or the Umbers? What about the Manderlys? Or the Ryswells, at least?”

“The Manderlys are out of the question because of their faith,” Ned said firmly. “And the Ryswells, too, since Roger Ryswell wed Jeyne Vypern.”

Catelyn pressed her lips together, her irritation evident despite her restraint. She nodded curtly. “Very well. But Aly should still be sent to Driftmark. And if the Velaryons won’t have her, then she should go to some small house in the North. Far from Winterfell.”

Ned had expected this. He had anticipated her desire to remove Aly from their household. He met her gaze evenly. “Aly will foster with my mother.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward as if to protest. “Ned—”

“I will not go back on this decision,” he said, his tone cool and final.

Catelyn froze, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, they sat in tense silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Finally, she nodded once, though her expression betrayed her displeasure.

Ned stood, his face betraying none of the turmoil within. “Good night, Cat,” he said, his voice softer now.

Without waiting for a reply, he left the chamber, his steps steady even as the weight of the conversation lingered heavily on his shoulders.

 

(Lady Lyarra | Aly; Lynesse Hightower, Wynafryd Manderly)

Chapter 5: Prudence I

Summary:

Prudence arrives in the North

Chapter 4 – Prudence I

                Moon 10, 290 AC

Prudence found herself enjoying White Harbor—and Lord Wyman Manderly—far more than she had anticipated. She had long ago mastered the art of concealing her true thoughts, first behind the veil of a maiden’s beauty and then behind carefully cultivated femininity. Lord Wyman, in turn, hid his own shrewdness behind an amiable demeanor, masking the sharpness of his blue eyes with a booming, jovial laugh. She appreciated the commitment to appearances, especially when she saw how he educated and treated his grandnieces with care and intelligence.

The lord’s solar in New Castle overlooked the city, and from the tall windows, Prudence could see the vast harbor bustling with ships. She was surprised to spot even vessels from the Free Cities docked along the piers.

"You seem taken with the view, my lady," Lord Wyman noted, following her gaze.

"It is a beautiful city," Prudence replied, turning back to him with a measured smile. "You were saying something about the Defender of the Dispossessed title?"

Lord Wyman chuckled, clearly pleased by her genuine interest. "A relic from when we left the Reach, my lady. The Starks of old welcomed us with open arms, and we Manderlys have never forgotten it. We swore to offer that same kindness to those in need." He settled himself into his chair, gesturing for her to do the same. "I imagine House Velaryon understands what it means to be displaced. I recall tales of your House’s origins—driven from Old Valyria, were you not?"

"House Velaryon had been punished long ago with exile to the Driftmark Isle. Back then it didn’t even have a name." Prudence inclined her head. "We were fortunate to find a new home and thrive"

“House Manderly understands such feelings, and the displacement that lingers in the blood. It is why we have always valued good works."

Prudence nodded, folding her hands in her lap. "I was particularly interested to learn of the Motherhouse of the Dispossessed and its efforts. You mentioned Lady Jessamyn Manderly founded it?"

"Aye, she did," Lord Wyman confirmed, his expression one of pride. "Around four hundred and twenty years ago. And ever since, at least one daughter of our House takes the veil per generation. My cousin, Lady Jeyne, is the Mother now."

“I would like to visit it, if possible. See their good works firsthand."

The lord almost puffed with pride. “The Motherhouse oversees five orphanages in the city—three for girls, two for boys."

"That is no small endeavor," Prudence said approvingly. "I imagine such work requires constant support."

Lord Wyman nodded. "Fortunately, they have farmlands outside the city that sustain much of it, so they are less dependent on donations."

Prudence’s lips curved. "That is wise."

Lord Wyman let out a hearty laugh. "And does House Velaryon have such traditions?"

"We do," Prudence said with a smile. "In Hull, we have established three orphanages and four schools for the poor. Queen Daenaera, in her time, took great interest in such efforts, and Lady Rhaena always worked to better the lives of the people of Hull."

"Ah, yes," Lord Wyman murmured. "Queen Daenaera’s charities... Have there been any new developments with them?"

Prudence tilted her head slightly, reading the true question behind his words. He was asking whether Queen Cersei had continued the charity work. Either he was unaware of the Lannister queen’s disposition, or he knew and was testing her reply.

She sighed softly. "Considering the devastation of the Sack, one would think there would be more attention given to the needs of the people. But Queen Cersei has not concerned herself with the projects of former queens." She hesitated, then added delicately, "And there are no other Baratheon women to take up such responsibilities."

Lord Wyman frowned, displeasure flickering across his face. "And Lady Selyse? She is Reach-born, is she not? Surely such works are familiar to her."

Prudence smiled politely. "Lady Selyse keeps mostly to Dragonstone. I do not know her well enough to say if she has attempted to bring such matters to the King’s attention."

Lord Wyman made a low, dissatisfied noise. "It is troubling," he admitted. "In the time of Aerys, even when Queen Rhaella was forced into confinement, her ladies took up the burden."

Prudence nodded. "I remember it well. Lady Celia and I worked to maintain those projects." She took a sip of the wine he had offered her earlier before adding, "Celia took the veil some years later. She is now the Mother of Maegelle’s House."

"A noble path," Lord Wyman said, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. "And the Motherhouse of Rhaena, I recall, is still a beacon for many young girls hoping for better lives."

"It is," Prudence agreed. In truth, most of the building complex had been attacked by Tywin’s soldiers, and Prudence feared even asking what happened to it. "You care deeply for these matters, my lord."

Lord Wyman met her gaze, his blue eyes sharp despite his outwardly affable nature. "I care for my city, my lady. And I hope those who rule us care for their own as well."

That love, so often found in Robert’s old allies towards the Usurper was absent here. Instead, it seemed Lord Wyman’s loyalty lay elsewhere. To the Starks, she would guess. Yet, he spoke nothing of Lord Robb, which meant he likely was not planning a marriage between their houses.

Interesting. Very interesting.

She set down her cup and gave him a measured smile. "Perhaps, my lord, would it be possible for me to visit the Motherhouse? Stay there for a few days on my return?"

“But of course," he said genially.

Prudence smiled in appreciation. House Manderly’s loyalty to the Starks was clear, but there were other ways to ensure connections. Lord Manderly’s granddaughters were the key. And House Velaryon did not lack young men and boys.

.

.

The sixteen days aboard Seahorse passed in near perfection for Prudence. She used the time wisely, reading and writing letters, preparing for the journey ahead and back. This trip was not just about the Starks—she intended to visit old friends on her return, ensuring her letters reached Gulltown and Maidenpool in advance. She could only hope her connections in Maidenpool had not been entirely severed.

The twenty-day journey through the North, however, was a different matter. The road from White Harbor to Winterfell was paved with stone but clearly in need of repair. Potholes jostled their carriage enough to make writing nearly impossible, much to her frustration. Still, it was in better condition than she had been led to believe.

Upon their arrival, Lord and Lady Stark received them personally, offering every courtesy expected of their station. The rooms assigned to them were comfortable, even warm despite the ever-present chill of the North.

Now, freshly bathed and changed from the road, Prudence entered the solar that connected her room to Monford’s. Her son was already seated at the table, reclining in one of the armchairs, a glass of sweet wine in hand.

Monford glanced up as she entered, his expression thoughtful. “What do you think of Winterfell, Mother?”

Prudence took a moment, her gaze drifting across the stone walls, the heavy tapestries of northern fantastical creatures. “It is impressive,” she admitted. “Larger than I expected. But I wonder where Lord Stark keeps his secret passages and spies.”

Monford let out a short chuckle. “A man like Eddard Stark has no need for spies, surely?”

Prudence arched a delicate brow. “Every man in power has need of them, whether he admits it or not.”

Monford hummed in thought, swirling his wine in the cup before taking a sip. “I was surprised to see Lady Stark here,” he said after a moment. “It’s clear this is not an easy time for her.”

Prudence took the chair opposite him. “Indeed. I would have expected her to be at Riverrun, mourning with her family.” She tilted her head. “She seemed particularly unsettled when she realized it was the two of us who would be discussing the contract.”

Monford nodded. “Almost as if she expected someone else entirely.”

Prudence smiled knowingly. “She was raised at Riverrun. To her, a trueborn son and the wife of a legitimized bastard discussing a marriage must be… unusual. A lady of her upbringing is taught that bastards can be acknowledged but kept out of sight and mind.”

Monford’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had always been protective of his brother, and she knew it displeased him to hear others dismiss Aurane so easily.

“He is my little brother,” Monford said at last, his voice firm. “Of course I would come to ensure the best possible for him.”

“I know,” Prudence said gently. “But the world does not see him as you do.”

Monford exhaled slowly, leaning back. “I’m curious about his soulmark,” he admitted. “Strange that she wasn’t there to greet us.”

Prudence tapped a manicured finger against the armrest of her chair. “Perhaps they are keeping her away on purpose,” she mused. “Training her to present herself properly when the time comes.”

Monford frowned. “Do you fear she doesn’t know the letters? The Manderly girls are well-educated.”

“But they are not bastards. I don’t know how they educate girls in the North.”

Her son looked troubled. Driftmark took pride in their cultured mindset, no matter what side of the family their family was born. Aurane would probably be bored to tears with a wife who couldn’t have a conversation with him, especially if he went on adventures of his own.

“Though Lord Manderly did say she was a curious child. Pretty, too,” Prudence conceded

Monford studied her. “There are rumors about her birth.”

Prudence met his gaze evenly. “There are always rumors.”

Monford hesitated. “Some say she’s Lady Ashara Dayne’s daughter.”

Prudence watched as something flickered in his expression—curiosity, perhaps even admiration. Of course, he would be interested. He had been one of those pages and squires who had once dreamt of becoming Arthur Dayne.

“You’re thinking of speaking to the Daynes,” she observed.

Monford shrugged. “Dorne has different views on bastards. Different laws, even. If there’s any truth to it, they might have something to say.”

Prudence considered this. “It may be better to wait,” she said at last. “Let us see what comes of our meetings with the Starks first.”

Monford nodded, though she could see the wheels still turning in his mind.

Prudence picked up her own wine, taking a slow sip as she looked toward the window, where Winterfell’s towers stood stark against the pale sky. She couldn’t help but wonder what the gods were thinking.

.

.

Prudence had expected to see Lord Stark in the room. She had even anticipated Lady Stark’s presence, though she was not surprised the woman was elsewhere. But she had not expected to find the Dowager Lady of Winterfell seated comfortably beside a small girl.

Prudence schooled her expression carefully as her sharp eyes took in the child before her.

“This is Aly,” Lady Lyarra Stark said with a warm smile. “Aly, my dear, greet our guests. Lord Monford of Driftmark and his mother, Dowager Lady Prudence.”

The little girl stepped forward and gave a near-perfect curtsy—low, graceful, measured. It was impressive for a child of only nine. Prudence found herself tilting her head slightly.

Prudence crouched slightly to be closer to the child’s eye level, not missing the way the girl’s small hands clenched at the fabric of her skirts.. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Aly.”

Monford, ever the gallant one, gave a sweeping bow, his smile easy and warm. “An honor, my lady.”

Aly’s eyes widened slightly at the gesture, her lips parting just a little, as if uncertain of how to respond. Then she bit her lip.

Prudence froze.

The child’s hair was a thick, dark brown, braided neatly, though a few curls had escaped at her high forehead. Her eyes—large and dark—were not Stark grey, but a deep, near-black hue.

Ashara had deep-set eyes.

For a moment, Prudence was no longer in Winterfell. She was young again, standing beside a radiant Princess Rhaella, watching the girl of twelve turn to her with bright excitement after giving her favor to a handsome knight.

Prudence forced herself to breathe.

She returned Aly’s small smile, though her heart was beating too fast.

Lord Stark cleared his throat, drawing the room’s attention. “If you have any questions for Aly, you are welcome to ask.”

Aly’s spine straightened at that. She had been raised well—Prudence could see it in her poise, in the way she kept her hands folded neatly before her. But there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Worry, perhaps. Or something deeper.

Prudence reached into the hidden sleeve of her gown and withdrew a small, rolled parchment. “Aurane wrote you a letter,” she said, holding it out to the girl.

Aly’s lips parted in surprise. Her hands, which had been so still, twitched slightly before she took the letter with careful fingers. Her mouth curled, the barest hint of a smile appearing as she clutched it to her chest.

She looks so much like—

Prudence swallowed hard. She turned to Monford before her thoughts could run further.

Her son, thankfully, took the lead, speaking in the gentle, easy tone he always used when coaxing someone into comfort.

“How do you spend your days, Aly?” Monford asked, leaning forward slightly. “What do you enjoy doing most?”

The girl glanced at Lord Stark, then at the Dowager Lady, as if seeking some unspoken permission. Finally, she answered, her voice soft but clear.

“I like to read.”

Monford smiled. “A fine pastime. Do you have a favorite story?”

Aly hesitated, then said, “Wonders. I think, but I like most books.” Prudence wondered if she was being truthful. It could be a reply they could tell her to say to gain favor with a family known for their ship travels.

“A good choice,” Monford said approvingly. He paused before adding, “Do you like the sea?”

Aly blinked. The question had surprised her.

“You will,” Monford promised. “Driftmark is surrounded by it.”

Aly’s fingers tightened around Aurane’s letter, but it was her eyes that spoke of her excitement. They shone brightly at the mere idea of what Monford was telling her. Prudence thanked the Gods for giving Aurane a partner who loved the sea as well.

Monford continued with his gentle questioning. “Have you been taught any needlework?”

“Yes,” Aly answered, her voice quieter now, her eyes going to her grandmother, who gave a nod of encouragement. “I am not very good at it.”

Prudence felt a surge of pity for the girl. She had probably just begun learning embroidery when her mark appeared. It was not usual for bastard-born girls to learn the finer stitching arts unless in hopes of finding employment later.

“That can be learned,” Prudence said, hoping to reassure her.

“Do you ride?” Monford asked.

Aly’s expression brightened just a little. That expression hurt to see. It was so familiar. So painfully familiar. “Yes. I have a pony. I take care of him myself.”

Monford chuckled. Her son truly had a gift with smaller children. Prudence had no idea where he got it from—she had never been patient with motherhood in her youth, and Lucerys barely paid attention to his son. “You are a brave lady, then.”

Aly’s cheeks colored slightly. “He’s a small pony.”

“And I am sure you take care of him well,” Monford said kindly. “Do you have a favorite place in Winterfell?”

Aly hesitated again. Then, almost reluctantly, she said, “The godswood.”

Monford nodded as if this answer pleased him. “A peaceful place, I imagine. Would you take me there? I would like to see it.”

Aly only nodded.

Prudence barely heard the rest of their exchange. She was still watching the girl’s face, still staring into those deep, near-black eyes, her mind turning over memories she had long thought put to rest.

Am I truly seeing Rhaella? Or is my mind playing tricks on me?

A quiet cough made her glance at Monford. He was watching her now, concern clear in his gaze.

She wanted to hit him for it.

Instead, she schooled her face into an expression of calm.

The meeting had only just begun. They had to discuss the fostering and the dowry and so many other things, but all she could think was: Is that you, Rhaella?

.

.

Prudence sat by the window seat of their shared solar, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she gazed out at the courtyard below. The young heir of Winterfell was training with his master-at-arms, his movements determined but still unpolished with youth.

Close by, seated on the edge of a stone bench, Aly Snow watched attentively, her small hands folded in her lap, her expression serious, but her legs swinging about.

Prudence’s lips pressed together as she observed the girl.

The resemblance had been gnawing at her since their first meeting, but seeing Aly now, in the open daylight, it was impossible to ignore. She had stared into those deep, near-black eyes before—not just in the mirror of her own memories, but in the hopeful, gentle gaze of a woman she had loved like a sister.

She had been little more than a child herself when she became Princess Rhaella lady-in-waiting. Prudence had adored her for the moment they first talk. They had whispered secrets in the quiet of the Red Keep, shared dreams of the future, hopes of what they would become. And then, as they grew, she had watched helplessly as those dreams crumbled, crushed under the weight of duty and cruelty.

She had been powerless then. Powerless to stop the marriage that broke Rhaella’s spirit.

And powerless, too, to help Rhaella’s children when she was gone.

She did not hear Monford approach until he spoke.

“What is wrong, Mother?” His voice was calm as he spoke, “I know something troubles you. Did you find anything lacking in Lady Aly?”

Prudence inhaled slowly before responding. “She seems a good child.”

Monford didn’t look convinced. “Then why are you troubled?”

Prudence hesitated. He would press her—he always did when he sensed something unsettled in her.

“There is something about her that… concerns me,” she admitted at last. “Something about her appearance.”

Monford’s brow furrowed. “Lady Aly is a pretty child. And she will grow into a beautiful woman in time. A bit slimmer than other girls her age, perhaps, but that means nothing. She will grow into her body.”

Prudence let out a quiet sigh. “I am not concerned about her ability to bear children, if that is what you think.” The words left her lips before she had even fully thought them, and yet—now that she had said it—it did cross her mind. But no, that was not what truly troubled her. “It is her features,” she clarified.

Monford looked at her with slight confusion before glancing back out the window at the girl.

“She has the long face and sharp features of the Starks,” he said after a moment.

“You are not looking closely enough,” Prudence replied, her voice sharper than she intended.

Monford’s lips pressed together. His expression grew thoughtful as he studied Aly again. Then, after a moment, he spoke.

“Her more elegant features,” he said slowly, “could have come from Ashara Dayne.”

Prudence nodded absentmindedly, though her thoughts were elsewhere.

Who should she contact? Who would be able to confirm—or deny—what she suspected?

If the girl was truly Rhaegar’s child, then what did that mean?

Her grip tightened slightly on her skirts as she considered it.

It meant nothing.

The country would not rise for her. Not for a child of controversial birth. Not when Viserys Targaryen still lived, no matter how unfit he was.

And Robert’s throne was secure. He had crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion swiftly, reminding the realm of his strength. There was no weakness to exploit, no cause to rally behind.

For years, she had dreamed of a silver-haired child taking back the Iron Throne, of setting things right—of seeing Rhaella’s blood restored to its rightful place. And when she awakes, that dream ends and reality comes.

Perhaps, she thought, the gods had sent this girl to her for protection.

Perhaps they had spared her—not for the Game of Thrones, but for a simple life, away from politics and war.

A life where she could be safe.

Prudence exhaled softly and glanced at her son. He was still watching her, his brows slightly drawn in concern.

“Do you think we should contact the Daynes?” he asked carefully. “No one has spoken of them yet.”

Prudence did not answer immediately.

“…Perhaps,” she admitted at last. “But not yet.”

For now, she would wait. And she would watch.

 

(Young Rhaella; Aly| Prudence's clothes, Lyarra Stark, Aly's clothes | Prudence, Monford, Lord Manderly)

Chapter 6: Edmure I

Summary:

We finally get inside Edmure’s mind... it is not a happy place.

Meanwhile, Lysa continues to take steps to have a much happier life, and Edmure questions some of the oldest men in Westeros, while pondering future careers.

Chapter 6 – Edmure I

             Moon 2, 291 AC

Edmure woke with the now-familiar ache pounding behind his eyes, dull and insistent, like a drumbeat echoing in a distant hall. The taste of wine, sour and clinging, still coated his tongue. You’d think the body would learn, adjust after so many nights. But no. The pain always came. As punishment. As a reminder.

He shifted. Muscles stiff. Every part of him ached lately, as if even his shoulders bore the weight of grief. His arm brushed warm skin, and he turned his head, sluggish, to see the woman lying beside him. Dark hair spilled across the pillow, catching the morning light. She looked peaceful. Edmure envied her for that.

He closed his eyes again, wishing he hadn’t woken at all. Sleep was the only time the ghosts stayed quiet.

His fingers twitched, reaching for a cup. Wine. Anything to blur the edges. But the goblet lay out of reach, across the room.

He looked at the sleeping woman and tried to remember her name. Nothing came.
He wondered if all men felt this same emptiness after losing someone they loved.

Could he even call it love—what he’d lost? Could one love someone they’d never truly met?

He couldn’t.
But his soul felt hollow anyway.

He sat up despite his body’s protest. He needed a bath before he faced his father.

.

.

Hoster Tully had seen better days, Edmure thought, watching the old man stiffly seated behind the desk. His father’s hair, once chestnut-red, had long since turned white, thinning across his scalp. And still, he sat there like a lord carved from old stone, proud as ever, the fire in his eyes refusing to dim, even as the rest of him withered.

Edmure hated it.

Hated the room. The silence. The stifling familiarity of it all.
Hated how it smelled of dust and old ink and slowly rotting authority.
Hated that he already knew the reason he was there—to be reminded, yet again, of what a disappointment he was.
As if he didn’t already feel it.
As if he didn’t look in the mirror and fail to recognize the man staring back.

His father barely nodded before launching into it.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Hoster’s voice cracked like a whip. “Another proposal ruined. Ruined! You sleep your way through half the Riverlands and ignore every proper match I set before you. Lord Mallister’s daughter was beautiful and with good hips! And a dowry that would’ve brought the coffers of Seagard to our door.”

“She was beautiful,” Edmure said flatly. “I’d have fucked her, if she weren’t Mallister’s daughter.”

Hoster slammed his cane against the floor. “Then why not marry her?!”

Because bedding and binding are two very different things, Edmure thought.
But he didn’t say it. He shrugged instead. That would irritate his father more.

Hoster’s face darkened like a summer sky before a storm. “And Lord Bracken’s wedding?! You went there to choose a daughter to wed, not end up with the lord’s whore!”

“I didn’t know she was Jonos’ mistress,” Edmure said, biting down the urge to grin. “Perhaps he shouldn’t have had her serving wine at his wedding feast. Could be considered bad form.”

“That is not the point!” Hoster roared. “You didn’t even try with Ryella Royce. Now Yohn’s wed her to a Frey—a Frey!—and the best match we’ve had in a year is gone. You waste everything. Every chance.”

“Then send me to the Crossing,” Edmure said, voice tight. It was always the final threat. “Go on. Force me into some Frey girl’s bed. Maybe I’ll get lucky and catch the pox before the bedding’s done.”

Hoster stared at him like he didn’t know him anymore.
Maybe he didn’t.
Maybe Edmure didn’t know himself, either.

I wanted to be a true knight, he thought bitterly, to court a beautiful lady and have a handful of children to spoil.

“You think this is a game,” Hoster said, quieter now, but sharper than ever. “Lady Sarya was your last chance to do something noble. Something honorable. And you threw it away.”

Edmure stepped forward. His voice dropped. “Try it. Try to force a wedding out of me. Put a sword to my throat and drag the vows from my mouth if you must. But I swear, Father, I'll annul it within days. And I’ll make sure the whole realm knows exactly how it happened. See if you get any more proposals after.”

Hoster’s hands trembled on the arms of his chair. His lips pressed together, pale and tight.

“You are a disgrace,” he said for the hundred time. “To your name. To our house.”

Edmure’s mouth twisted. “And you’re a hypocrite.”

The old man blinked.

“You never remarried after Mother died,” Edmure said, his voice cracking despite himself. A woman he little to no memory of—only a fading idea of her that haunted him more than he’d ever admit. “You lost someone you loved, and you locked the world out. I lost my chance at it before I could even comtemplate it. I already lost the one the gods said was meant to understand me before I even knew her name, and all you care about is grandchildren and dowries.”

Hoster exhaled, slow and brittle. “If you won’t wed… then I will have to make other arrangements.”

Edmure snorted. “Go ahead. Be a man of your word, for once. Find a lady of your own and marry her. Isn’t that what noble lords do?”

He stepped closer, eyes burning.

“I’ve seen enough women sneak in and out of your chambers to know you’re still capable.”

He turned before his father could answer. Before Hoster could deliver some final, crushing line of disappointment.

Edmure walked to the door and slammed it shut behind him, letting the echo carry the last word.

.

.

In the end, Edmure did what he always did: he rode off in search of warm arms and softer lies, chasing the kind of forgetting that only lasted a few hours.

.

.

             291 AC, Moon 4, Day 14

Lysa welcomed him with open arms, and from the way she clutched at him, tight, desperate, Edmure knew.

She’d lost another child.

His sister hadn’t even sent word this time. No raven. No note. Just silence.

He wrapped his arms around her, gently at first, then tighter. Lysa pressed her face into his shoulder, her breath shaky against his neck. She still felt small to him, even now, but there was more weight to her frame, her cheeks fuller, the sharp lines of grief softened. That gave him a flicker of comfort, at least. After her last stillborn child, he’d truly feared he might lose her too. At least this one didn’t take his sister from him.

She took his hand and pulled him inside, chattering too quickly, too brightly. The table in the Tower of the Hand had been set just for them. Silverware glinted in the candlelight. Lysa filled his cup herself, and the wine was sweet and strong.

“Father’s at it again,” Edmure muttered after the first sip.

Lysa’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, another lady with a great dowry and wide hips?”

“Anya Waynwood’s youngest,” Edmure said. “He says I’m to make nice and marry her.”

Lysa made a sour face and waved a hand. “Our father could do us all a favor and stop ruining what’s left of our lives.”

Edmure’s brows drew together. “Did he send you another letter?”

She looked away. “Only to remind me of my duty to Lord Arryn. To give the man a son.” Her voice dropped as she said it, brittle and tight.

Edmure huffed. He wanted to tell her Lord Arryn had been married twice before, and had no children from either match. The problem wasn’t Lysa.

Her hand slid across the table and gently squeezed his. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes met his, and he knew she already understood.

“I understand you,” she said quietly. “I truly do. I wish I could’ve married the man I loved too.”

Edmure blinked. “You can’t mean… Petyr?”

She flushed, her fingers tensing on his. “He was my love. He’s doing well in Gulltown, everyone says so. My husband is even considering giving him a position in the treasury.”

Edmure’s jaw tightened. “He always shadowed Catelyn. You know that. Even when we were children. You deserve better than someone who only ever looked at our sister. We’ve had enough of that from our father.”

The blow landed. He saw it in the way her gaze dropped, in the way her smile turned brittle again. He winced. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, only to make her see the truth.

“I never want to hurt you,” he said softly. “Only to help you see what’s real.”

Lysa nodded slowly, a sad smile touching her lips. “I know.”

They spoke of lighter things after that, court gossip, the lords and ladies, who was feuding with whom and over what nonsense. For a little while, it worked. Lysa laughed, a sound he hadn’t heard in a long time, and something in Edmure’s chest loosened. The wine helped, too.

After the meal, he offered her his arm. She took it, leaning into him as they walked through the halls like they had when they were children.

“You’ll go riding with me tomorrow,” he said, glancing down at her. “Along the banks of the Blackwater.”

Lysa smiled again, this time genuinely. “Only if you promise not to race me like a fool.”

Edmure chuckled. “I make no such promise. You’ll just have to try and beat me.”

Her laugh echoed down the corridor, and Edmure held onto the sound like a memory he didn’t want to lose.

.

.

             291 AC, Moon 4, Day 17

The garden behind the Tower of the Hand was alive with midsummer bloom, curled in on themselves like secrets, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and warm stone. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain burbled quietly, the sound of water steady and calming.

Edmure walked beside his sister along the flagstone path, her arm hooked through his. Lysa filled the silence with talk of court life, who had been caught in whose bed, which minor lordling had offended which crown official, which seamstress had become the newest fashion oracle. Edmure listened, or pretended to, nodding when expected, humming in acknowledgment. But it was clear, crystal clear, that all the chattering was cover. Lysa was dancing around something she wanted to say.

She laughed too easily, her gestures exaggerated, her tone just a touch too bright. She kept her eyes on the path, on the roses, anywhere but him for too long.

He let her wind through her stories for a while, giving her space. But as they passed beneath a trellis heavy with wisteria, he slowed.

“What is it, Lysa?”

She blinked at him, startled. “What?”

“You’ve been walking in circles with your tongue. There’s something else on your mind. Out with it.”

Lysa hesitated, lips pursing as if she were arguing with herself. Then she asked, carefully, “When were you supposed to meet Lord Royce’s daughter?”

Edmure raised an eyebrow. Then he grinned. “Three weeks ago.”

Lysa gaped at him and gave his arm a light smack. “Edmure!”

“I sent word,” he said with mock innocence. “Told father I already had plans to visit you, and couldn’t possibly make the journey back in time.”

“You’re incorrigible.” She tried to glare at him, but her mouth tugged upward despite herself.

Edmure smirked. “Perhaps Lord Tully will stop trying to rearrange my life.”

“Mm,” Lysa replied, noncommittal. They walked a little farther, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

“So,” Edmure said, voice gentler, “why do you ask?”

Lysa slowed, letting go of his arm to trace her fingers along a hedge. “Because Queen Cersei made a comment.”

Edmure groaned. “Do I want to know?”

He knew enough of Cersei Lannister to be certain that her life's mission was to make every other woman’s life miserable, his sister’s especially. And Jon Arryn, that feeble old man, wouldn’t raise a finger to defend his wife against Robert’s queen.

“She said,” Lysa began slowly, “that even a second cousin of hers was too much for you.”

Edmure stopped. “She said that?”

Lysa nodded. “When I asked what she meant… she smiled. That smile. The cruel one—you know the one. And said, ‘Oh, of course Lysa wouldn’t know.’ Then she laughed with her ladies.”

Edmure took her hand. What made his anger burn hotter was that Cersei knew exactly where to strike.

“Then she said, ‘That’s sweet. But some daughters earn their father’s trust.’” Lysa mimicked Cersei’s voice with a bitter edge, then sighed. “She said she had Lord Tywin’s trust because she’d proven herself. And that—”

“She’s a cunt,” Edmure interrupted flatly. “A cold, bitter, joyless cunt.”

Lysa blinked, then let out a sudden laugh, half shock, half relief.

“I mean it,” he said, still frowning. “Don’t listen to that unhappy harpy. She’s half-mad with ambition, and she’ll die choking on it, if the gods are just.”

“I know,” Lysa murmured. “I know. But… she also said something else.”

Edmure gave her a sideways glance. “Go on.”

“She said Lord Tywin had written to her. That one of Ser Stafford’s daughters would be sent to Riverrun. For…” She hesitated. “...possibilities.”

Edmure stopped walking entirely. “What?”

“She said it like it was settled. A quiet arrangement. That Lady Cerenna or Myrielle, whichever one was most ‘pliable’, would be brought to Riverrun before year’s end.”

Edmure stared out over the low stone wall at the Blackwater, brow furrowed. “He wouldn’t. Our father wouldn’t dare try to marry me to a Lannister girl. Not when he knows I’d never allow it to stand. He wouldn’t risk angering the Old Lion.”

Lysa nodded. “I thought the same, but seems he does.”

Edmure was quiet for a long moment. Then he chuckled, brittle and humorless.

Lysa turned to him. “What?”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “He wouldn’t risk me shaming a Lannister girl, no. Not unless…”

He trailed off, then met her eyes.

“We’re getting a new mother.”

Lysa’s lips parted slightly. “What?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Edmure said with a bitter smile. “The letters. The sudden push for me to marry. The Lannisters sniffing around. He must be making a move himself.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean Lord Hoster Tully is about to take a Lannister bride.” He spat the name like it burned. “Seven hells, maybe that’s what Tywin meant. Stafford’s daughter wasn’t for me. She was for him.”

Lysa went pale. Her hand flew to her mouth. “No. He wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Edmure said quietly. “After all that talk of duty. Of legacy. Of family. He’ll parade his Lannister bride through the Riverlands just to remind us how powerful he is.”

Lysa took a step back and sank onto a nearby bench. “But… why now?”

“To make me bend,” Edmure said, bitter. “To wrap us tighter into his games. We’re pawns to him, Lysa. Breeding stock and political coin. We always have been.”

Silence fell between them. Birds chirped overhead, oblivious to the storm stirring beneath their branches.

Then Lysa whispered, “Does he think a new wife will fix it all?”

“No,” Edmure said. “It’s just another arrow to throw at me for refusing to wed. Another way to boast how he makes sacrifices for the family while I’m a wastrel.”

Lysa flinched. “That’s cruel.”

“It’s true,” Edmure muttered. He sighed, taking her hand again. “He was always like this. I think we’re just old enough now to see it clearly.”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “I’ve been reading about childbed and such. He killed our mother to have his precious spare.”

“What?” Lysa whispered, horrified.

“I read Maester Vyman’s writings. I don’t think Father knows I found them, or that they even exist. He knew she wouldn’t survive another pregnancy. And he pushed her anyway.”

And then he cut her open, Edmure thought. But he’d never tell Lysa that. Her hatred for their father ran deep enough already.

He was beginning to understand why their uncle Brynden refused to speak to Hoster at all.

Lysa gave a low, cruel laugh. “He killed our mother to have a spare, but once she died, he never tried again. Why?”

“Guilt,” Edmure guessed. “Either that, or he just doesn’t care. Either way… it seems he no longer feels it.”

“Aren’t you scared of what could happen?” Lysa asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. Edmure saw the fear in her eyes. “You know what kind of people the Lannisters are.”

He squeezed her hand. “Let them try,” he said.

And for a moment, he wondered if he’d even care if they did. A wastrel, wasn’t that what everyone believed him to be? And what was Edmure if not an empty, numb man wearing a lord’s name like a borrowed cloak?

“Don’t say that!” Lysa said, alarmed. “You’re my family. Most days… my only one.”

Edmure nodded, his grip steadying hers. That was what he had: a sister who still needed him.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said gently. “Whatever else happens, Lysa, you still have me.”

She squeezed his hand tightly, her eyes glassy. “And you have me.”

.

.

             291 AC, Moon 4, Day 22

Dinner with Lord Jon Arryn was always a strange affair.

Edmure sat at the long table beside Lysa, across from the Hand of the King himself, an honor on paper, but in truth, it felt more like dining with a specter. Lysa was radiant tonight, dressed in deep blue that brought out her eyes and the soft roundness of her face. At five-and-twenty, she had the glow of full womanhood, fuller now than he’d seen in years. For a moment, Edmure allowed himself to believe she might actually be happy.

Then his gaze drifted to her husband, and reality came crashing down.

Lord Arryn, seventy and fading, picked at his food with deliberate slowness that made Edmure want to scream. The old man’s remaining hair clung in wispy white wisps above a liver-spotted scalp. Most of his teeth were gone; even chewing seemed a chore. His spine curled slightly inward, as though his body had grown too weary to keep itself upright.

Edmure wondered how much longer the Lord of the Eyrie could even cross a room without a cane. Another year? A season? He imagined Hoster Tully seated across from him, graying, proud, and unbending, and thought bitterly that some men were simply too stubborn to rest, no matter how their bones begged them to.

Letting younger men carry the burdens of rule was clearly not a belief either shared.

But what struck Edmure most was the contrast between husband and wife, and the fact that no one spoke of it. Not like they did about Walder Frey, leering over girls young enough to be his great-granddaughters. Poor Lady Annara Farring was even younger than Bethany Rosby had been. And Bethany had died after years of back-to-back pregnancies. Of Frey’s many wives, only Sarya Whent had escaped—after five barren years, she entered a motherhouse, cloaked in shame but finally free.

It wasn’t just scandal. It was a pattern.

Perra Royce, the oldest woman Walder Frey ever took to wife, died of a fever a year after bearing him his first daughter. Cyrenna Swann succumbed to consumption at four-and-twenty. Lady Amarei Crakehall, a widow just a few years older than Lysa, had spent her entire marriage either pregnant or birthing and died on childbed a decade in. Alyssa Blackwood, another childless widow, met the same end. And Sarya—Aunt Sarya—had only been six-and-ten. Thank the gods her childlessness had been her escape.

Bethany Rosby had been even younger. And Annara? She was barely more than a girl. Edmure found himself hoping—praying—that she would outlive her husband. The only crime the girl had committed was being born to a father who’d backed Aerys, and being sent to marry Walder Frey for it.

It wasn’t fair.

His thoughts drifted further, darker. He knew the Bethany’s children better than most—not least because last year, he’d slept with Benfrey’s betrothed. Jyanna Frey hadn’t yet married her cousin and had simply wanted a final thrill before being trapped at the Twins forever. Edmure hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He wasn’t sure he even did now.

But the memories were leaving him sour.

Edmure shook himself free of the spiral and returned to the present, forcing his eyes back to Lysa. She chatted beside him, bright and animated, doing as she always did: fill the silence. She told some tale about a Septa scandal at court and how it had everyone whispering in the halls. Edmure laughed when he should, sipped his watered wine, and tried not to imagine what it was like for her—lying beneath that man, a man who had likely never given her a heartbeat of pleasure, playing the doting wife, smiling at him when he must bore her to tears.

He tried to imagine himself at seventy. First came the weight of imagining decades more of this numbness. Then came the vision of an old, brittle body marrying a girl full of life and lacking all the wisdom age was supposed to bring.

No, Edmure couldn’t understand the appeal.

What he could understand was growing old with someone—wrinkled hands holding wrinkled hands, bound by the love of decades.

He emptied his goblet in one long swallow.

He might be a depressing man for the rest of his life, but he would see to it that once Jon Arryn drew his last breath, Lysa would have the life she deserved. And he’d tell her that before he left.

The Hand rarely spoke during their meals, content to eat in silence, lips wet with wine and broth, while Lysa and Edmure carried the conversation. But tonight, as they reached the stewed pears and cheese, Lord Arryn cleared his throat. Slowly.

“Lord Edmure,” he said, voice dry and papery. “What are your plans now?”

Edmure paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Lysa, her smile didn’t quite falter, but her hand tightened slightly on her goblet.

So that’s what this was. Not small talk. Not polite interest.

Politics.

He had no doubt Hoster Tully had found a likeminded ally in Jon Arryn.

He could almost hear his father behind the question: What are you doing with yourself, boy? What shame will you bring us next?

Edmure forced a smile and leaned back slightly in his chair, feigning ease.

“I’m considering the Citadel,” he said.

That earned a blink from Jon Arryn. Just one. But in a man who moved like glaciers, it might as well have been a gasp.

“The… Citadel?” the Lord of the Eyrie echoed, slowly.

Edmure shrugged, as if the thought had only occurred to him that morning—and not something he’d been turning over for more than half a year. “Not to take the vows, of course. I love women far too much for that. But to study, take a few links. Like Prince Oberyn did. Or Lord Lyonel Strong.”

Arryn made a small sound—almost a scoff. Edmure could feel the judgment behind those pale, tired eyes. To him, Edmure was still the wastrel goodbrother. The lordling who chased whores and ruined matches. An embarrassment to House Tully. He likely didn’t believe Edmure even knew who Lyonel Strong was. Or cared about the Citadel.

That made the moment all the sweeter.

He wondered who believed in his failure more: the Hand or his father.

Edmure turned to Lysa with a lopsided grin. “Once I get myself a proper manse in Oldtown, you must visit me, Lysa. We’ll read bad poetry by the sea.”

That did it.

Lord Arryn’s spoon froze midair. For a heartbeat too long, he didn’t move. Edmure could practically see the man forcing what muscles he had left to suppress his displeasure.

But Lysa—Lysa lit up like a lantern in the dark.

“I would love that,” she said, bright and unguarded. “It’s so warm down south. And I’ve always wanted to see the Reach. Oldtown. The Mander. The Arbor vineyards... I’ll be able to see the mountains of Dorne! It will probably be the closest I’ll  ever get to the Water Gardens.”

Edmure smiled at her, soft and genuine. And for a moment, it wasn’t petty rebellion. It was something else—an offering. A glimpse of freedom. A lifeline, cast from across the table, to somewhere far from gray stone halls and cold marital beds.

They returned to their meal after that, but the air had shifted. Lord Arryn said little more, his lips drawn tight. Lysa hummed softly to herself as she bit into a pear, cheeks faintly flushed.

Edmure sipped his wine and looked out the tall arched window at the sun dipping low over the mountains.

No wife. No chain. No plan sealed with Hoster’s wax.

But he had a direction.

And sometimes, that was enough.

 

 

Notes:

I had a lot of fun writing Lysa and Edmure. And since we’ll probably never get that chapter, Lysa does go to Oldtown much to Lord Arryn's annoyance after she gets invited by House Hightower, and Arryn can’t deal with the political nightmare of refusing it.

As for Lysa, I do want her to have a happier life (but still kill Jon Arryn because she deserves that!). But considering that Sweetrobin is supposed to be born next year, I have some options to be voted for by my lovely readers.
a) Sweetrobin is born like in canon, and nothing about that changes
b) Lysa is invited to the Citadel at the moment where Sweetrobin was supposed to be conceived, and instead she has a daughter one or two years after (probably looking much more like her and with little Jon Arryn in her, wink wink)
c) Lysa (through Edmure) discovers that moon tea actually can be used for more than causing her permanent childbirth problems and decides fuck it! Jon Arryn is losing his libido with age, so he likely won’t come to her bed in a couple of years, and Lysa refuses to give him an heir, even if from a lover.

Of course, option C changes a lot of Lysa’s future in post Jon Arryn’s death since she won’t be Regent of the Vale, and the political ramifications of it.
But I cannot wait to see what you all have to say.

Still on Lysa. Much of personality is canon, which we see from people who showed no compassion for her.
Firstly, her weight. Catelyn is surprised about the weight Lysa put on in AGOT (in five years give or take), from the descriptions of young Lysa, she was more curvy than Catelyn. We support that! But it is also clear that childbirth took a toll on her body (no surprise), but also her trauma.
So, to Edmure, seeing Lysa put on weight is good because last time he visited, she had her first stillborn and was probably in a very bad mental state.
Second, Lysa is very much the picture of a “hysterical woman” who is probably a gossip, and we all know how she was with Petyr. This Lysa is still vain and proud, but her so-called “fits of giggles” are actually ways to fill the silence, her mask. I can imagine the silent dinners she has with Jon Arryn, and she probably despises prolonged silence because of it. So she goes what she can to fill those (which to many is probably annoying).

And remember, Edmure's depression is linked to not meeting his soulmate (the consequences). He'll get worse before he gets better (meets his lovely soulmates)... Also, let's all remember who is to blame for it, and recall that EDMURE TULLY IS THE BEST TULLY. But he probably got his goodness from Minisa .