The Crippled Wolf: Stark SI (GOT)

Chapter 10

EDDARD STARK

Eddard had not felt such unease since the day he had carried her sister's babe in her arms. Not until that day, had he ever felt so troubled and conflicted, and yet he had hardly slept at ease ever since his little conversation with Cregan.

The words. The insinuation still rang in his ears as he stood over the yard and watched his children spar. And they were his children, both Robb and even Jon, and nothing would change that.

But were Robert's children his own? Not if Jon Arryn's words were true, but then what? How? He thought as his eyes found his son outside with Sansa cheering on, and a part of him wished to call him up and ask him the question.

Ask it from him straight? He could, and yet he did not. Why?

Because he knew if he heard it out of his mouth, heard what the boy believed to be the truth, and could not get it out of his head, he would be duty-bound to speak of it to his King and to his friend.

And Eddard was not blind to the implications of that. War. Death. Devastation.

And so, he waited. Hesitated, for he knew that once those words were uttered, he had a duty. A duty he did not know he could carry out.

And as she was lost in thought, his lady wife rushed out onto the balcony, muttering and whispering as she scanned the yard before her eyes landed at the same person he was looking at.

"Bring me, Cregan," she ordered the guard, making him frown.

"What happened?" he asked, as she replied with a stiff lip.

"The boy had an altercation with the Septa, she says that he insulted her," she raged, and that was troubling. He had no love for the Septa but knew that her wife cared for the woman and her faith.

It was rare for Cregan to argue or lash out. He was the mild-tempered of his children, and so he was a bit surprised that the boy had argued with the Septa.

A few minutes later, the boy walked onto the balcony, using his cane to help him walk as his mother gave him a stiff glance.

"You argued with the Speta Mordane and insulted her," she asked him, and much to his surprise, the boy did not deny it at all.

"I did. I argued with her, the insult she felt on herself," and that seemed to surprise Catelyn.

"Why? She was doing just as I had instructed her to, she is to train your sisters in the ways of the Southern ladies. She was right to disciplin..."

"That was not disciplining," the boy cut in sharply, and Catelyn seemed taken aback by the chill in his tone, as was he.

"The woman insulted and berated Arya in a room full of girls. She stands by and lets them gang up on her and insult her, and all for what? Because she cannot embroider," the boy scoffed, and Eddard was taken aback by those words and perked up.

He knew that Arya was having difficulties with the more lady life tasks, but insulting and berating her daughter. That was not the Septa's duty, she was there to teach them, not berate them.

"She will have to learn. Otherwise, she will not be accepted as a wife by any lord..."

"And how many times have you had to stitch something? We are not commoners. We are lords and have a dozen seamstresses for doing this," he added.

"Arya is bad at embroidery, and I doubt it matters much here in the North, given the lack of tourneys. She wishes to learn how to wield a sword..." and he chuckled at that, for he did know of his daughter's dream.

"Preposterous! No woman..." and yet knew that his lady wife would never let a daughter of hers debase hers...but he was struck by Cregan's next words.

"Lyanna Stark knew that..." Eddard stilled at those words, and so did his lady wife, and he felt a shiver run down his spine as he saw Cregan looking into his eyes.

"She knew how to wield a blade? How to ride a horse? She was even a fine hunter? And she was called the Blue Rose of the North and was loved no less by the Lords of the South for it," and that was true, but not something he should know.

And Catelyn seemed taken aback by that as well, as Cregan continued.

"And we are not Southerners mother, we are Starks and ours are old Gods. And if a lord from the South cannot respect that, then why should we hanker after them," he was surprised, for this was the first time any of his children had claimed that, claimed the Old Gods, his Gods, as their own.

He had never pushed for them to choose between his or their mother's gods, but perhaps he was wrong. Even more so, if Cregan's words were true, for they were true, brutal but true.

"The Septa has filled their heads with useless fairytales of knights, princes, and lords. Stories that are just that, stories, for the truth is that by title, The Mountain is as Great a knight as Ser Barristan the Bold," and Catelyn twitched at the mention of the Mountain.

And who would not? His actions at the end of the rebellion haunted him to this day.

Babes, wrapped in red cloak. Smashed. Killed, and he was forced to close his eyes as he thought of that day. While those words were true, Eddard was surprised that they were coming out of the mouth of a young boy, who usually dreams of being a knight and lord.

But that was not Cregan. Never Cregan.

"Ned," Cat called him out, made helpless by the argument as Cregan stared into his eyes. And his words from his solar rang in his ear. His promise.

That promise.

"He is right," Catelyn said, taken aback by his words. She tried to intervene as he raised his hand, stopping her.

"We are Starks, and no Septa is allowed to insult and belittle my daughter. No matter what, you will talk to the Septa and reign her in. Otherwise, I can find someone else to teach Sansa and Arya," and he knew that they would be fighting about this for quite some time.

But at that moment, she gave in.

"And what of Arya's wish to wield a sword," and Catelyn's eyes widened at that.

"She is too young for it at this time," he answered, having brought enough of a headache on himself.

"Perhaps we can revisit the topic when she has grown by a few years," and Catelyn shook her head and walked out as she shook her head.

"My daughter wielding a sword...." and thus left him alone with Cregan on the balcony, as Eddard found himself staring into his son's eyes.

"That day..." he began, and yet found his words failing him, as he refused to hear it out, the abhorrent suspicion until he had seen it for himself. Seen the truth for himself.

"I wrote to the lords," he changed the subject, his interest peek with his words.

"I spoke to them of the coming winter, and by now, all of the lords have begun shoring up their granaries and silos as per my command. The North will be ready to face the winter," he added, and it was as if his shoulders eased up at his words, and that was troubling.

Much too troubling.

"Good," Cregan answered, and he could feel it; the boy's shoulder sagged in relief, and he was surprised, and just as the boy turned, he asked him once more.

"Who told you of my sister?' he asked, for very few people knew all he did about Lyanna Stark, about how she knew how to wield a blade, how to hunt, and so forth. It was not something he ever talked about.

"About her riding and hunting?" he added and saw his eyes narrowed.

"Uncle Benjen, I think, I was quite young, but I somehow remember his words," and that made sense. Of the two of them Benjen knew more of his sister than him, loved her enough to lie for her. To suffer the Wall for her.

"Who else have you spok..." but before he could voice out the question in full, a guard came upto him.

"My lord, some guests have arrived for you..." and he looked at the guard.

"... it's Lord Reed's children, Jojen and Meera Reed...."

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JAMIE LANNISTER

The journey to the North was slow and uneventful, with the caravan forced to lower its pace to match the pace of the Queen's carriage, which in and of itself was causing quite a lot of problems. It had broken down quite a few times, leading to delays, much to the frustration of the King, who was getting rather impatient to meet his old friend.

And as the King grew impatient, so did Cersei. She had decided in her mind that the Stark boy knew of Jon Arryn's suspicions, and if the boy knew, then Stark knew of them as well. Stark, who had called him by that wretched name, one that everyone repeated behind his back.

Kingslayer.

Despite his sister's fears, Jamie was not convinced, even after Tyrion's tirade about the boy's supposed intelligence. He had been there when the boy had met the late hand, and the man was far too long gone by then. His words and thoughts made no sense.

And before that, meetings between the boy and the old man had been rare, so he did not believe it a possibility that the boy knew.

But what if he did?

What if Cersei was right? And as he thought of that, he found his gaze lingering towards the King; the once mighty Robert Baratheon was no longer the man who had felled Rhaegar with a single swing of his hammer.

He was older, with shades of grey in his hair, and many a stone heavier. He was still powerful, but Jamie believed he could take him down. He would. For her. For them. For their children.

After all, he was already the Kingslayer. What mattered if he slew one more?

Yet a part of him hoped that they would not have to.

And soon they would know.

"You have been rather tense for some time, brother," and he was broken out of his musings by the voice of his younger brother. Tyrion rode behind him on a horse, using a special saddle he had designed himself.

His brother was cunning like that, but for once, he hoped his little brother's cunning had failed in judging that boy. For the alternative would be far too damning.

"Much like our dear sister," he added, and there it was the cunning. Even with little words, he had seen their worry.

"It is nothing, just that I find this journey rather troublesome," he replied. The way Tyrion raised a brow made it evident that he did not believe them.

"Why are you not excited by the wonders of these lands," Tyrion asked as Jamie shook his hand.

"And what are these wonders, except all this wasteland," he scoffed, and Tyrion shook his head.

"You are as tasteless as our dear sister. Where is the joy, the wonder? Winterfell, the Wall, and the lands beyond. There is simply so much to see, and yet none of it fascinates you at all," and this was like him. Tyrion had always had such a great fascination with such things.

"Well, let's just say we have greater things on our mind," and then the King's booming voice came from the side.

"Finally!" Robert's voice boomed out, and Jamie saw it as well. as the King rejoiced, his own heart perked up as he saw the massive castle in the distance. The tall walls surround a slew of towers, with a town around it.

They were here.

Winterfell was here.

"Beautiful," Tyrion gasped from his side as Jamie found his eyes moving towards the windows of the carriage, towards his sister whose eyes met his own as she sat there pale and somewhat afraid.

She gave him a silent nod as Robert rode forth with vigor.

"Come, they are waiting..." and they all followed suit, and so his heart hammered in his chest as he pushed forward his horse to follow in their King's lead.

.

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0000

Across the seas, a tall, fat man clad in red robes climbed up the stairs as he approached perhaps the most ominous and dangerous place in Braavos. To the common man, this place with its mismatched doors, one black ebony and the other white wierwood, was a place of worship. It was a temple of the Many-Faced God.

As he neared the temple, he knocked on the doors as he carried the giant sack on his shoulders, one entrusted to him by a boy he was becoming rather fond of. He knew of the truth of the place he was walking into.

And so did that boy for some reason, despite never having taken a step out of the continent. And he knew a lot of things.

He walked through the halls, the walls decorated with statues and symbols of many Gods, each one acting as the symbol of Death in different religions. That was what really worshipped here, in this place.

Death.

As he walked past the few blubbering priests, he reached the small pond at the center of the hall, he unhooked the sack from his shoulder and emptied it into the pond.

DRIP.DRIP!

And it pained him to see all that Gold fall into the pond, though he had been paid a hefty commission for this little task, so he was loaded at the moment.

And as the sack emptied, he heard a voice from behind.

"You come here seeking the gift of death," the man asked as Thoros turned around and faced the priest. He had a gentle face with mismatched hair—half red and half white.

"No, you have come here for someone else. A boy," the priest continued, much to his surprise, as suddenly the man's eyes widened, and a zealous smile appeared on his face.

"So, he has decided to act now. The Gods truly are mysterious," the man whispered as Thoros reached into his pocket and took out the folded piece of paper that had been entrusted to him by the boy.

"He said it would be enough. " The priest took the paper and unfolded it, and Thoros knew that a name was written there—one name.

One death.

"It is," the priest said as he walked forward and dropped it in the black pool, much like the gold.

"Valar Morghulis," the man said as Thoros found himself whispering back.

"Valar Dohaeris..." as his eyes followed the drowning piece of paper, and despite the darkness, he was able to make out a single part of the name.

"... Snow"

A bastard, he thought.

All that gold for a bastard.

If only he knew.

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