Chapter Text
A Game of Ice and Fire
Mark I
Winterfell 298 AC
28th of Second Moon
I stood beside my brother, my closest companion, and stared at the approaching caravan. Banners of every color, every symbol, and every shape, marched on Winterfell. The King had come to The North… and he had brought near every Lord and Lady between the Green Fork and Kings Landing. Jon huffed an exasperated sigh beside me and hooked his thumbs through the belt ‘round his waist. His shoulder length black hair kicked gently in the breeze while his pale eyes glinted with deep emotion.
“Mother would not wish us provoked by his presence, Jon,” I mumbled. Disdain coursed through my veins but a level of self-control kept me from boiling over.
“I know…,” He seethed through gritted teeth.
“Be’calm the beast in your breasts, brother, we are not fools,” I chidded him with a bit of mirth coloring my tone. He shot me a look and cooled some when he saw that I too was having trouble with my temper.
“Scales and Fur, what a nightmare for the mood,” Jon sniped. He stepped out of my reach when I tried to slap his arm for the jape.
“Let us go see Aunt Cat, see that she has us prepared than if we stumbled upon the royal greeting and made a spectacle of ourselves,” I urged my brother. He acquiesced with a sigh and trudged off in search of our Aunt.
It was seven years to the day that Father had told us of our true heritage. Seven years and only in the last few months had Catlyn Stark begun to treat us as Son instead of Stains. Jon, or Aegon, had held onto his rage the longest. He huffed and puffed and brooded his days away while I poked and prodded at him with witticisms about how much our Nuncle had done for us, how much he had put himself in danger for us, just to keep us safe.
After long Jon had finally relented, though we ended up telling Robb, Sansa, and Arya about the truth when they had stumbled upon Father and us talking about our mother in the Crypts.
“When the King finally dies and his children inherit the throne, what do you think will happen to the Seven Kingdoms?” whispered one of the minor vassals from House Karstark. He and several minor lords spoke egregiously about the ever failing health of King Robert Baratheon. The man was a Whore Monger Supreme and imbiber of frequent wines of the rarest qualities. His Cardinal Sins mastered him in a way that made even most Agnostic individuals seek the advice of a Septon or Septa.
We stood shoulder to shoulder and looked ever the dutiful children of Eddard Stark and Catlyn Stark Nee Tully. Aunt had us arranged from eldest to youngest with Jon and I standing behind Bran and Rickon. Robb, Sansa, and Arya stood shoulder to shoulder, faces set in welcoming smiles while dressed in traditional clothes for the First three Born of House Stark.
Brigandine Leather Armor dyed with the colors of House Stark and an embroidery of the Direwolf Sigil on the right breast made them all the more handsome in the eyes of their fellow lords and ladies of the North. Sansa and Robb had daggers with direwolf motifs capped on the hilts, rubies were inlaid where the eyes would be to give them a fierce look upon their person. Arya was bereft of a similar dagger because of her age, though not for lack of skill or conviction in using it, and using it well.
Jon and I were of similar dress to Robb, Sansa, and Arya. Instead of the Greys of House stark, we were dressed in the whites of Snow and black for the Shadows. Officially, we were to become the next iteration of the Greystarks, the long dead house that had once rebelled against their cousins for the right to rule. As we were to be the defenders of the Stark Heirs we were armed differently, an arming sword and dirk were attached to our waists. Both sets of weapons had Grey direwolves with purple eyes in their sockets affixed to the hilts.
A subtle if also blatant nod to our ancestry if you knew where, and what, to look for that is.
The King stepped from his litter and we all beheld him for the first time.
He was of a large stature, he was taller than our father, nearly seven feet tall, and almost as wide. His beard was long and neatly combed but stained with the wine he so loved drinking. His eyes were beady, like small stones made of blue that you would use to affix your clothes together. His face was red with the exertion of climbing out of the litter, beaded with sweat and wine. His lips were parted in heavy gulps of air and stained the color of blood.
If there was ever a picture to depict sin, the man standing before us would be it.
The King staggered the first few steps away from the litter, took a big gulp of air and seemed to right himself. He looked at our family, starting with myself and Jon before eyeing our siblings and lastly our aunt and father. King Robert marched up to our father and gave him a once over with narrowed eyes. He gave a great huff and put his hands on his sides.
“You got fat,” The King barked with twitching lips. The entire courtyard went deathly quiet and hands went to their sword hilts in outrage.
Our father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of The North, stared King Robert in the eye before looking down at the King's own great gut and raising a brow back at him.
“Not as much as you, your grace,” father cracked a rare jovial smile and stared the King down. The King's face went near puce red with what could only be rage. That is before his lips broke apart in a great smile and a rumbling laugh thundered from the large man’s belly.
“HA HA! Knew you still had that snark in you somewhere, you great lump!” The King’s arms shot out and gripped our father tightly around the arms before pulling him into a tight embrace. Father laughed along with him in a calmer and more subdued, but no less heartfelt, fashion. “Gods Ned! It's been nearly twenty years, and you couldn’t even come out of this frozen wasteland to tell your friend how much of an ass he was being?” The King jested with a great big smile.
“If the King knew he was being an ass,” our father quipped, “Then what need did I have to come down there and tell him so?” The smile on our lord fathers face almost broke the stoic lock Jon had on his own features, but not quite.
“HA! True! Very true, Ned! Now, introduce me to your lovely family… I have heard names, but know not the faces to put them to!”
“As you say your grace, I see descriptions are still not your strong suit?” Father snarked while leading the King to Robb and Sansa first. The King sputtered at the insinuation before laughing.
Jon and I shared a brief look of incredulity and smiled. It was rare that we saw our father so jovial with anyone, even his own lords; to see him so at ease and happy with this lump of a man was both endearing and gut wrenching. Endearing, because it lent to how deep their friendship had to be to cross the line of King and Lord. Gut wrenching because it showed just how much our father missed the man the King used to be, and how far our father was willing to go to have him back.
“This is my Son and Heir, Robb. Named after you, your grace,” Father introduced our brother to the King. Robert sized him up and stroked his beard before offering a hand to him with a smile.
“Pleasure to meet you! As my namesake I see that you have already become quite large of arm and chest,” The King glanced at Robb’s rather large muscles and broad chest. For a sixteen year old he was rather built, like an oxen given human form; or as I would say, a strongman. Father gave an approving nod and motioned towards our sister Sansa.
“This is Sansa, nam-”
“Is she named after that Sansa?” The king stopped and looked at our father with raised brow.
“The one from-”
“The Dance, Aye, the one that-”
“Protected Cregan and his Paramountcy?” Father grinned widely and proudly.
“Aye, that’s the one,” The King grinned and regarded our sister with different eyes. “You will be the sharpest of them, I'm sure. Not a Southron lickspittle like so many I know. I can see it in your eyes, lass,” THe King chuckled at the blush that bloomed on our sister's face.
“She is advanced in her studies for her age, at five and ten she is knowledgeable of all the houses of the North and all the houses south of The Neck above Masterly rank. She knows her histories and is advanced in her numbers and letters so that she gives lessons to her younger siblings and some of the Smallfolk in her free time.” The King looked mightily impressed with our sister and offered his hand, palm up. She hesitated a moment before putting her hand atop his where he gently raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
“You will make a fine wife one day, hopefully to a man that will treat you just as well and fair as your Lord father has,” The King’s parting words nearly made Sansa faint much to mine and Jon’s amusement.
“This here is Arya, my youngest daughter.” The King looked down to Arya and we could all see his breath catch in his chest. He froze and stared at her with wide eyes, an emotion flickered across his face that we hadn’t seen yet, one that vanished just as quickly.
“You are the spitting image of your Aunt Lyanna… I would imagine you are just as fierce?” The King asked her. A feral grin spread across Arya’s face and a booming laugh left the King. “HA! Ned, the lass is your sister reborn! Ha! Please tell me she gives you just as much headache as Lyanna used to?” The King asked with much mirth on his face.
“Aye, just as hotblooded and precocious as Lyanna was, if not more so. Lyanna never wanted to wield a sword as much as my Arya does! Our Master-at-arms has much of his hands full just keeping her to task when she joins the boys for lessons,” Father barked a laugh and eyed Arya with open pride and characteristic melancholy.
“She is a credit to your house, Ned. I can tell she is a feisty one, I bet she doesn’t want a lordling to come snooping about, does she?” The King teased our father openly.
“I’m no lady, I’m a Stark!” Arya retorted mulishly. The King blinked down at her before more booming laughter escaped him.
“Yes… More than Lyanna,” Father sighed and pinched his nose. The King got his laughter under control and grinned at our Father.
“Serves you right, all those years helping Lyanna get away with whatever her heart desired and now you have one all your own. Rickard must be rolling in his grave!”
“Aye, the thought has crossed my mind,” Father gave the King a flat look before shaking his head. Arya grinned up at the King, she received a head pat for her troubles and an amused look from the Kingsguard.
The Queen stepped out of the litter then, wrapped in thick furs and looking all the part of a southron bitch. Beautiful and graceful, but the air about her seemed to reek of excess of a different kind. She was sharp, more a blade than a golden rose. Almost ethereal in look, but the quirk of her nose, as if someone had laced her upper lip in shit, made her look the part of a goblin.
“Husband, are you done fraternizing with the lord's family yet, I would like to get out of this cold,” She sneered.
“Not yet wife, go warm your ass in the litter and I will call you when I am done,” The King rebuffed her firmly. The Queen sent him a scathing look and went back inside. The sound of young voices could be heard from within the litter, and it was obvious that the King's youngest children resided within. Just the
n a horse came trotting in with a young man upon its back. Hair of gold, eyes of green and scrawny as they come. The Crown Prince Joffrey was here. I did all I could not to sneer at the cunt when I saw him. He wore a thick fur coat over his fine purple surcoat and dirt brown pair of pants. The look of utter contempt on his face sent my hairs alight with resentment. 'How dare this boy look down on the hardest working people known to dwell in the Seven kingdoms, how dare he think lesser of his greatest bannermen.'
The King moved to Bran and looked down at our brother with a brow raised and a smirk pulling at his lips.
"You must be Bran, or Brandon... Seems your father calls you both in our Ravens to each other. You look bright and strong for as young as you have to be." Bran smiled greatly up at the King and flexed his arms. "Aye! You will be a great knight one day, I'm certain!" The King placed his hands on Bran's biceps and gently grasped them. He gave a sharp look to our father that was barely noticed by only father and I. This look went unnoticed by all others, even Jon. He let go and patted Bran atop his head with a smile they both shared.
"And you... You must be Rickon! My you area fisty looking one," The King chuckled and grinned down at our youngest brother.
"YA!" RIckon yipped like a wolf, much to father's embarrassment and the King's great pleasure.
"Ned! Are you raising wolves or children?!" The King jested with a great big smile on his face.
"Some days I wonder that myself," Father sighed and pinched his nose. We could see aunt Catlyn look up to the sky and silently pray to the gods for strength, whether they would grant it or not was anybody's guess. The King ruffled Rickon's hair and offered a few words of wisdom about listening to our father and aunt. He nearly lost himself to a laughing fit when Rickon shook his head no and scampered off to try and climb into aunt Cat's arms.
"Willful bunch you have here, Ned, I certainly say that the gods are getting back at you for all the strife you and yours put ole Rickard and Lyarra through as children! Old Jon would be beside himself as well, mostly in an effort to spoil the whole lot rotten with attention," Robert Baratheon guffawed and slapped his vast belly with a firm hand. he then looked over at us, Jon and I, and froze. My veins turned to ice and my stomach dropped as the King stumbled towards us. His face was devoid of Emotion and his hands shook at his sides. His eyes were glassy, as if looking back on something. All I could hope was that it was something kind... and not that moment on the Trident when he slew our sire.
The Good King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, gently placed his hands upon Jon's shoulders and looked at him.
Robert Baratheon I
Tourney at Harrenhall?
I looked upon the visage of beauty and feral grace that was Lyanna Stark with wide eyes and a belly full of self-hatred. This woman of only four and ten, almost five and ten, had just knocked me on my ass. Her wroth was raised and her wolfsblood burned cold in her veins. The lass I had been about to handle ran off and gathered her skirts about her in a bid to cover her modesty. None in the tavern would have cared a wit as this vision of beauty stood over me, capturing all eyes in the room as she had my own.
"You... WOULD DARE!?" She kicked my shin hard enough to knock the haze of alcohol out from my eyes. She held in her hands a pair of tourney swords, for what reason i know not, but now she threw one at me, narrowly missing my cock and balls. the look of fury in her eyes made me hesitant to take up the blade, lest I provoke her ire.
"My la-"
"Pick up the sword, Robert, and show me just how much of a man you truly are," She sneered at me. I jumped to my feet, sword in hand, and glared at the impudent woman. My cheek jumped with how hard I was gritting my teeth to keep my words in check.
"Fine," I snapped. She scoffed and marched out of the tavern and out into the cool air of the moonlit night. Her blue dress looked beautiful in the moonlight, but paled in comparison to her own face when the moonlight fell upon it. Cream skin with a deep rosy hue from her rage. Black hair that fell flat against her skin in long cascades that framed an angular face that housed a pair of the most beautiful grey eyes I had ever seen. No one, not even my aunt Rhaella, could compare to her beauty in that moment.
"Take up arms, Robert, or be disarmed!" She barked. As soon as I had my sword up, she was already charging me. A snarl ripped from her lips while her sword darted towards my throat. I brought my sword up in a desperate defense, but i was both too drunk and too in awe of this little woman to put up a proper fight. She knocked my sword about and gave me a few bruises on my arms and thighs. What did me in was a nasty hit across my chest that knocked the wind out of me and sent me to my knees. Lyanna came at me with an overhead swing towards my own head, one that I tried to block. She slammed her blade against mine only twice before she knocked it from my hands and kicked me onto my back.
She jumped on me, straddling me in the most unlady like of manners, and wrapped her dainty hand around my throat before jabbing the blunted tip of the tourney sword into the side of my throat. The fury in her eyes made the pit of lust in my belly boil, never had a woman done this to me before. There had been flings and one nighters, but this girl, this WOMAN, had brought the storm and waked the beast in my heart. No one would ever do again... Though I knew in my heart as she glared balefully down at me, that i would never have her after this.
"You are a pig and a lout; I would skin you alive like the Red Kings of old once did to my own Kin... If only you were not to be the Warden of the Stormalnds... You would be dead by my hands for the dishonour you have brought me this night. Do you understand me, Robert Baratheon?" She asked with deathly seriousness. I gulped and nodded my head, fearful that if I so much as said a word, this she-wolf would indeed skin me alive like she said she would.
"Then we are at an accord. You will be on your way, and you shall never darken my hall nor home for so long as I live, yes?" She pushed the tourney blade deeper into my neck, making it hard to breath.
"As the lady says!" I chirped out using what little air I had left.
"Good night, my lord, and good riddance," She jumped off me and took up the other tourney sword she had bereft me of. With a flick of her wrists I saw her fling the mud and shit from the blades. She then did a bit of a twirl with the blades, showing off her skill with them in both hands, and i knew then that she had gone easy on me in my drunken state.
I knew from that moment that I would love no other woman like I had grown to love her during that fight. She would be all my heart desired for the rest of my natural life, and I would be thankful for this singular experience.
Robert Baratheon II
Winterfell
Looking at the two boys that stood before me, both dressed in black and looking more a Stark than most of their 'siblings' I saw something I had thought lost in my Rebellion. I could see Lyanna's eyes and the shape of her face in both of the boys. The one names Jon looked the most like her, his wavy hair the only real difference between the woman I had loved endlessly and the boy before me. His chin and nose were different, but I would never forget the shape of her lips, the contour of her eyes, and the set of her brow. He looked so much like her that I knew, in my heart as in my head, that these were the sons of Lyanna and that mad bastard Rhaegar.
I had their lives in my hands, literally. I had but say a word... Jaime would kill them both with ease, surely, and every Stark in the world would die with them. I went to the other twin, who's only differing feature was the set of his chin and the way his hair fell down straight instead of waving about. He looked almost a copy of Lyanna, but his eyes.... They were just a dark enough color that you could easily mistake them for the Stark grey. But I... I woke every night after dreaming of killing that man and I remember the color of his eyes like nothing else in the world. This boy had the eyes of Rhaegar, not the shape for that was all Lyanna, but the color was his and his alone.
In that moment, I knew... I knew what I would be committing the entire Seven Kingdoms to. I looked behind me, to my Golden-Haired and Green-Eyed son, and I made my choice.
"Ned! Your boys, they are strapping young lads... I'm sure their mother, whoever she is, would be honoured to have such young men as her sons." I stared Ned in the eyes, my brother by choice, and I knew that he knew what I was saying and what it really meant. I watched the color fade from his face in a way I had never seen before, almost alarmingly fast at that. he gave me a nod of acknowledgement and a grim smile. I turned back to the boys and smiled sadly at them.
"You are fine young men... I'm sure the future will be bright...," I pondered on my next words for a moment before coming to a decision, "Your hands may get bloody, but fire is quite the tool to clean them off," I winked at both of them. I waddled, WADDLED fuck I'm fat, back to Ned and patted his shoulder.