10 A Tear for A Prince

The Vale of Arryn unfolded before Ned Stark like a patchwork cloak of rolling hills and rocky outcrops. Behind him the lay the Mountains of the Moon, and the peaks rose to his left as well, stretching off into the distance. Atop one, the Giant's Lance, sat the bone-white stone of the Eyrie, the seat of the falcon lords of Arryn. Castles and keeps dotted the landscape in front of him, and behind stood the Bloody Gate, so named for the thousands that had died assaulting it from the west. To the east, he could see Ironoaks Castle, stood proud on the banks of Snowmelt Lake, and to the south of them was the Redfort, a fierce and stocky fort from before the Andals came here.

It was to none of these that he and his companions rode now, but to the Gates of the Moon, which sat at the bottom of the Giant's Lance, protecting the sole path up to the Arryn fortress above. Even from here, the walls seemed strong and stable, with a stoic keep sat behind them. The road wound up to it, meaning any attackers that did manage to escape the Bloody Gate would struggle to make their approach unseen. Not for the first time, ned marvelled at the defence of the Vale. This place was near as impenetrable as Moat Cailin, along the kingsroad.

He had stayed at Harrenhal some days after the tourney's end, so whilst Robert Baratheon, his friend and brother, had ridden back here with their mentor, Jon Arryn. Ned had wanted those extra days with his family, away from the hubbub of the tourney, to talk of the North, and Winterfell. He and Brandon reminisced over galloping across the barrow downs, racing from Barrowton to Torrhen's Square, their steed straining to beat the other, though Brandon would always win. He was the better rider.

Benjen told him more of all that had gone on at Winterfell. He told him how the smith's boy, Mikken, had crafted him his own steel sword, Benjen's first, and of baby Harwin, born to the master of horse, who had now grown old enough to toddle around the courtyard, under the watchful eye of his mother, and Ser Rodrik also. Ned asked him about some, and Ben responded. Old Nan was well, which did not surprise him. She had been called Old Nan even when he had been at the teat, and would tell the same stories to Brandon's children, he had no doubt. Irma, the castle cook, had stepped down, and been rewarded for her service by a house of her own in the winter village, and her son, Gage, had taken over the kitchen, whilst young Jory Cassel, Ser Rodrik's nephew, was the latest of the guard at Winterfell, bringing great pride to his family.

Yohn Royce had taken him into his company kindly enough. The knight of Ninestars had ridden with them at first, but he had left them before they reached the Bloody Gate, for Templeton lands lay on the other side of the vale's mountainous walls.

The Lord of Runestone was good company, and reminded Ned of Robert somewhat. He was loud and forthright, quick to share his views, and unyielding in those he shared. He had the blood of the First Men, however, which Robert did not, and the Old Gods still held their sway at Runestone, even if it was behind closed doors. Yohn left him before reaching the Gates, however, heading further east, on the road to Gulltown. He would have been welcome for the night in the Arryn halls, but he was anxious to get back to his sons and daughter, and would ride through the night if need be. That news had not seemed to please those that rode with him.

Instead, it was a different Royce that met Ned at the Gates.

Nestor Royce was the size of his cousin, a few heads taller than Ned, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His chin was covered in salt and pepper stubble, and a dark mole sat on the right-hand-side of his prominent nose. He wore boiled leather armour over his chainmail, and a cloak and breeches the colour of tarnished bronze. At his waist hung a sword and a dirk, more ceremonial than anything else.

"Greetings Lord Nestor. Last I saw, you were stood in this same spot. I pray that you have moved some in my absence."

He spoke the words in jest, some joviality to his thick Northern tones. He felt comfortable around these people, as he had never felt at Harrenhal. He had ridden and hunted with Nestor Royce, and knew him to be a good man. As he spoke, he swung himself down from the saddle and walked the horse towards the lord, who stood before the barred gate.

"My duty is to protect the gates from unwanted guests, Stark. I stand my ground, in the name of my lord."

Authority pervaded Nestor's words, and they were met with a grim sternness upon his face. Ned was familiar with that. Nestor was the lord steward of the Vale, and had been captain of the guard when he and Robert had first arrived. Many times, it had been Nestor that had chased them away from the Eyrie's kitchens or scolded them for playing along the scrabbly path that led up the side of the Giant's Lance.

The lord held his ground for a few seconds, but his face broke soon enough, a broad grin passing onto his features. The two of them embraced, and Ned received a great clap on the back. When they broke, the hand remained there, and Nestor inspected him.

"You're taller, I think, and leaner, too. Soon you will be taller than I, and I do not relish facing you in the training yard when that is true."

Ned laughed.

"You will still kick my arse, like as not. You have experience that neither I nor Robert possess."

"Do you call me old, little wolf? I shall show you what experience buys you next time we cross swords."

More laughter passed between them, and a second embrace followed. If Jon Arryn was like a second father to Ned, then his trusted right hand was like an uncle.

"Speaking of such, Robert has awaited your return. He wants to meet you on the training yard. He has barely spent a moment away from it since he returned."

The smile left Ned's face, and was replaced with a weariness he could not quite explain. The news about Robert did not surprise him, yet that could not be it. His very bones felt tired, just at the thought of crossing swords in that moment.

"He was beaten by the dragon prince, and his white knights, too. He will not want that to happen again. I will join him soon enough, but I am weary from my journey. You can tell him that from me. Has he visited the babe?"

If Nestor was caught off-guard by the question, then he did not show it. He leaned in, however, and his words were spoken in a tone that was closer to a whisper than his usual boisterousness.

"One of my guardsmen spotted him visit on his third day after returning, but for a matter of minutes, and he has not gone back since.

Again, Ned found himself unsurprised. He shouldered past Nestor, towards the now-open gate. The guardsman kept pace with him easily enough, matching his long strides. Silence lasted between them, until they were in the courtyard. Ned handed his horse over to a groom, lightly stroking her coat as she was led away, before turning back to Royce.

"I shall visit the girl and her mother first, then I shall see Robert. You may tell him that, Royce. And beat his arse for me if he challenges you to the sword."

They clapped their hands together in a firm grip before parting, Royce heading to the training yard, whilst Ned instead turned away from the keep. He made his way to the small village of hovels and shacks that housed the servantfolk of the Gates of the Moon, and also those who had journeyed down from the Eyrie. The houses were rundown and ramshackle in most, formed around communal areas. The castle smithy leaked smoke from the roof, whilst Qarlan, the baker, boomed about his prices and product in his usual loud and deafening tone. It was not to either of these that Ned headed.

Instead, he took a side-passage, away from the hubbub of the main buildings. His stride was strong and purposeful, his brow furrowed and stern. None would bother him, for they knew him to be the ward of Lord Arryn, but the hearts of men were dark, and many here lusted for coin, so his hand rested upon the pommel of his blade. It was Northern steel, and would best whatever daggers or dirks they held in these shacks.

He stopped at one door in particular, roughly crafted from wood, chipped and splintered, worn from age. He knocked against it, a hard wrap, authoritative and bold. It was not long unanswered.

The man who came was gruff and wordless. His beard was white stubble, poorly shaved upon his cheeks, whilst his skin was lined and wrinkled. A scar ran across the right of his face, and his eye was glazed and pale. His right arm was a stump at the elbow, so he held the door with his left. His lips were pursed thin, but he granted Ned a begrudging nod, and stepped aside. The warden, Robert called him, but Ned knew his name to be Hubert, named for some past Arryn lord. He had been the smithy before, until he had lost his arm in an accident. After that, it had been his eye in a bar brawl. Now, he lived here, but he did not live alone.

Ned took the narrow staircase up two floors, until he was stood in the small, low-ceilinged attic room. Rays of light shone through the musty window, as dust hung in the air. A wall of fabric was pulled aside, and a woman stood before him. She wore a modest gown, a faded blue, rough and worn, no doubt scratchy against her skin. Her hair was black as jet, and she wore it tied into a braid, lain carefully over her shoulder. Ned could spy the budding breasts underneath the gown, but he quickly blushed and looked away.

"Lord Stark! It is an honour!"

She performed a clumsy curtsy, her hands lifting the hem of her gown so her ankle was bare. She looked tired, he thought, but better than she had on previous visits.

"You need not, Becca. You should sit. You look tired."

Her smile reflected that, gentle and soft, but lax and restless. Her eyes, soft and brown, wore small bags underneath them. She gestured that they pass beyond the barricade, and Ned acquiesced, following behind her.

The other side of the room was as small and cramped as the first. A narrow bed lay underneath one of the windows, a crib beside it. A simple table sat opposite, crammed against the wall, with a single wooden stool tucked underneath, and a roughly crafted bowl bearing crumbs of bread, a steel knife discarded beside it. Becca sat herself upon the edge of the bed, and offered him the chair with her eyes. He did not take it, preferring to stand.

"I came to see the babe, Becca. Is she well?"

Becca's eyes turned to the crib then, her smile broadening and her face relaxing. She seemed at peace when her eyes turned to that crib.

"She is. She is, Lord Stark- Ned. She was ill, whilst the two of you were away. We could not take her to the maester, but Old Silda knew some herbs. They kept her alive."

He hesitated before asking what came next, but it needed to be asked.

"How did you pay Old Silda? Her services, they do not-"

"I did not do what you think. I swore I would not. Robert found me like that. I do not pretend that he loved me, nor even that he wants me still, now he has had me, but I swore for Mya. I would be honest for her. Silda said I could owe her the coin."

Ned bowed his head, his brow furrowing slightly, nostrils flared as he thought. Bastards were different here. In the North they were a shame, born by dishonour, but offered a home. They would go to the Wall, when they were of an age, or serve at the keep of a trueborn brother. Most importantly, they were rare. Here they were common. Many lords of the Vale had at least one. Robert had told Ned of three; one at Storm's End, another begot in the brothels of King's Landing, and then one here. They each bore different names, one a Storm, another a Waters, and the last a Stone. Mya Stone.

"Robert should pay for the babe. Did he?"

Becca hesitated before responding.

"He said he would've, but he had spent his coin at the tourney. On women and drink. I thought."

That was like Robert. He rarely thought to the future of his coin, and instead focused on what he could gain in the moment. The pleasures he could gain from a woman were more of more import to him than the aftermath for the girl, like Becca.

"Then you may have my coin. Robert is as a brother to me, and so she is like my niece. The coin should see her fed and clothed, too. A lord's blood runs through her. She should not be found wanting. You do her well, Becca, but allow this, not out of charity, but out of love and kinship."

Becca took his hand first, and then his coin, after some weak platitudes. She had been a whore before Robert, little more than six and ten. There was still some of that girl about her now, young and naïve, but she was wise enough to see through Robert. Ned loved his friend dearly, but he saw the effect of him.

He stroked the babe's hair when all was done. It was a down of black, and even now, her eyes were a startling blue, like lightning in a stormy sky. He knew those eyes well enough. They were Robert's eyes, well and true.

Hubert showed him out then, back to the alleyways of the Gates. He thanked the old man for his hospitality. He cared for Becca and Mya, offering them room and board, and charging no coin. Ned knew not why, but something about the girl inspired kindness in his old heart.

He sighed, and reluctantly made his way to the training yard. The sound of steel-on-steel rung in his ears, echoing through his thoughts. He was pulled from them at the sound of the bellows of triumph. The bellows were nothing new to him. They were Robert's.

The storm lord stood over his defeated opponent, sword in hand, clad in his Baratheon armour. His squire, a serving boy of ten, held his stag's head helm, blessed with antlers and vizor. Robert's beard was thick and black, his hair long. Even from here, his eyes sparkled a shocking blue, the same as the bastard girl's. It did not take him long to spot Ned's approach either.

"Ned! You come at last, my old friend! I had thought you had run off to Jon rather than face me at the sword!"

The training yard was abuzz with men, mostly guards and men-at-arms, with a few knights also. Ser Oscar Waynwood, the castle's master-at-arms, stood watching Robert with some pride and awe. He clasped a dented shield, the black wheel of his clan painted upon the front, the wood chipped.

"More like you hoped I would not come, Robert. Nestor already told me that he heard you whimper when you were told I was coming. Perhaps you tire of beating boys, or perhaps they are all you can beat."

Laughter echoed from the onlookers. Ned spied Nestor Royce stood at the back, a glint in his eyes. Robert joined the laughter, boisterous and bold. He gestured for his squire, who swiftly pulled the armour away. Robert wore chainmail underneath.

"You want to fight without armour, Stark? It will not spare you my strength. All it will do is provide you more bruises to lick on the morrow."

They started to circle each other then, like wolves watching their prey. Only one of them was a wolf, though, and the stag was prey, of course. What stag could slay a wolf?

"You may give me some bruises, Baratheon, but I should bet that you will have more. You will need let me know though, my friend, if I provide you more than the dragon prince."

That brought forth a mighty roar from his old friend, and Ned felt perhaps he had touched a nerve. Robert charged first, and Ned responded, swinging his sword around in a mighty arc, meeting with a mighty clash of steel.

Now

Ned stabbed the man in front of him, he never liked wars, but he knew sometimes there was no other choice, as The Stark lord marched forward followed closely by his men, the castle of House Greyjoy stood in front of them.

They had landed on Iron islands, killing every man in front of them. Ned knew they would win, he still didn't understand what Bealon Greyjoy was thinking when he started the Rebellion.

Soon, they marched inside the castle, Baelon was on his knees in front of Rhaegar Targaryen, who's face was filled with anger.

Walking inside, Ned felt as if he was back in time, in a way he felt like he was back in King's Landing, there were two children guarded by soldiers, Ned figured they must be the heir of House Greyjoy, Theon and his sister Asha Greyjoy.

Ned suddenly felt a shiver on his spine, afraid what would Rhaegar do with the children, the Lord knew he was the king, what he says goes.

He could simply order for the children to be executed, to end House Greyjoy.

That day, Rhaegar spared the children, Euron Greyjoy was banished.

Balon Greyjoy now sits on a shattered throne, with two of his sons dead and the other held captive for his good conduct.

Theon Greyjoy was taken to stay in Winterfell to make sure that Bealon Greyjoy would not try anything.

As they sailed back, Rhaegar stood on the ship's deck. Connington and Arryn stood behind him, his frown firmly fixed on his face, dissatisfied with the recent happenings.

Rhaegar then turned to face Theon Greyjoy, who had remained silent in his presence. He trusted Eddard Stark to take the kid back to the North and raise him, but he didn't trust the Lords or their bannermen not to act rashly and take out their displeasure on the young man.

"The youngster seems gloomy," Rhaegar said to Jon.

As he stared at the youngster, Connington scowled.

Connington said, "He should be fortunate that he still has his head."

"Are you against me sparing Balon?" Rhaegar was the one who asked.

"You should have cut off all thier heads and be done with them," he said.

"Cutting off heads doesn't fix everything," Arryn observed.

"Jon, you treat people as you want to be treated. Taking people's heads isn't always the best answer, even if it is pleasant to wimpy men" Rhaegar spoke out immediately away.

"They wouldn't spare your family's lives. Even Eddard Stark was entrusted with the youngster. If the positions were reversed and the majority of your family would be wiped out, tell me your grace. Do you believe the Warden of the North would be willing to put his honor on the line and raise your son?" Connington was the one who inquired.

"I'm not sure, but I'd like to think so. Evil acts must be dealt with with justice rather than with evil itself. My father was one of history's most terrible men; by your reasoning, I should have gotten the hangman's axe?" Rhaegar made a statement.

Connigton walked away from him, soon Ned walked towards the king. Ned recognized him and greeted him with an inclination of his head.

"I appreciate you taking my suggestion and sparing Balon and allowing me to take the kid," Ned said.

Rhaegar observed, "It was solid advise, one that men should follow."

Ned now understood something, the way Rhaegar acted, he now understood it, for the past six years, Ned had been sure that Rhaegar would become a Second Mad King sooner or later.

But now, he knew a man like him was a good man, and I stole away his son, Ned thought-feeling bitter now.

Ned said nothing, it was too late now, if he were to tell him the truth, he knew it would be too dangerous, what should I DO?

Later

Right now, Ned was just waiting until his ship lands on the mainland, he wanted to go back to Winterfell, Benjen had agreed to visit Winterfell after two years or three since he wanted his child to come as well when he or she was born.

As Ned closed his eyes to sleep, he saw Jon.

Ned saw a pool of blood, Jon's face underneath the water as his body wasn't moving, "Jon" Ned yelled in worry, wanting to pull out his nephew, but his feet were frozen, he couldn't save him, he was just too late...

Rhaenys Targaryen

The princess opened her eyes, breathing heavily, catching her breath, she felt she was sinking, not breathing, swallowing a huge breath, she looked to her right to see Ari sleeping beside her, since Uncle Doran had sent Ari to foster in King's Landing, Rhaenys would often sleep with Ari in same bed. Stay until late night, telling stories and sometimes Ari would talk about boys since she was 13 name days, the right age to have "sex" according to her.

As she looked from her to the side of her bedchamber, Suddenly she felt cold, her skin crawling as her throat felt dry and cold, her breathing suddenly visible, her purple eyes saw a figure standing in the middle of her bedroom.

He was dark as night, except his piercing grey, almost dark eyes. Rhaenys felt like she knew, that she should know him.

When she walked towards the figure, fearless. She could see his eyes looking at her with love, she knew who he was, he was her little brother.

"Brother," Rhaenys spoke dreamily, suddenly feeling safe and happy, he has returned, she told herself when she saw his eyes bleeding, a huge gash on his chest, the same wound a sword does.

"Ȳdragon naejot nyke(Talk to Me)" Rhaenys pleaded, feeling his cold skin underneath her hand.

"Mandia(Sister)" he spoke as his body fell, Rhaenys felt as she couldn't breath, feeling as she was suddenly sinking again, not being able to breath.

She felt weightless, she felt...Nothing.

Opening her eyes, she stood up immediately breathing heavily, Ari opened her from the sudden shift of the bed, her eyes widened at the sight of pale Rhaenys.

"Rhae, What's Wrong?" Ari asked worried but Rhae couldn't hear anything, feeling that something terrible had happened, her eyes welling, she cried... my brother, where are you? Please don't leave me.