Chapter 2

Sean felt Cat's fingers run lightly down his hairy chest.

"You've changed, Ned," she exhaled softly in his ear. Her sweaty, naked body pressed tight against him.

He captured her hand, nibbling at the delicate finger tips before plastering a wet kiss on her palm, right over her horrible, still livid scar; delaying the moment when he had to respond. 'Why do birds always want to talk afterward?' he wondered. The actor talked for a living, so he clearly didn't have a problem with emoting or communicating. He sighed softly to himself, admitting the lie of it; four failed marriages maybe, slightly, indicated he did have a little problem 'communicating'. 'But I'm the top cock of this arse over tit world,' he complained to himself. 'Can't she just be happy I'm paying attention to her and shut up about it?' He stopped whining and searched for the best response. Option A, to keep leveraging 'the miracle of the Old Gods,' as he called it? Option B, to jolly her out of whatever mood she was in? Option C, to actually tell her the truth? Certainly not! When in doubt, stay in character he decided. "Yes," he answered; starting off with the minimalist Ned approach, which also happened to be closer to Sean's true self than he cared to admit. Then the actor implemented Option B and bent his head to nuzzle the soft skin on the nape of her exceedingly lovely neck.

In response, she rolled on top of him, resting her delightfully full breasts on his bare skin. In the dark, illuminated by only what glow of the Red Comet slipped in through the cracks of the tent walls, he caught the barest flicker from the whites of her eyes. She was staring at him, intently. He said nothing in response to her wordless search of his face, just slid an appropriately tender look on to his mug while enjoying the contact with her nubile body.

"You're … somehow … not so hard a man to the world; more solicitous of me in some unlikely ways, yet strangely … more distant, Ned," Catelyn stated, her tone a perplexed, but not unpleasant one. "Won't you let me in?" she whispered plaintively.

'She's right clever alright,' he thought ruefully. 'Can't easily fool a wife.' Noting the thickness returning to his already well-used member, now trapped against her mons, Sean flashed his best boyish grin. "I beg to differ my sweet lady. I appear to be quite hard, and drawing closer and closer to you."

She giggled at his quip. Taking that as his cue, he swept his arms around her, drawing her in for a conversation ending kiss … and most likely something even more intimate.

"Ned!" the woman on the gang plank burst out with total disregard for propriety upon spying him by the edge of the bank.

The gorgeous red head throwing decorum to the wind to barrel straight down at him could be none other than Catelyn, Cat, his not wife, the not Michelle. She appeared a bit younger than Michelle's mid-forties, probably late thirties he guessed. Michelle was a fine looking bird, but this. This! 'Wow!' he thought. In the split second left him, he wondered for the umpteenth time how exactly he truly appeared to these people, to her. Himself, the 'Show Ned'? George's 'Book Ned'? Some amalgam of the two? What? It made no sense that everyone mistook him for the Lord of Winterfell. But luckily for him they did. All he knew for sure about his appearance was that his two tattoos, '100% Blades' for Sheffield United and the elven '9' for the Fellowship, now just looked like oddly shaped scars on his arm and shoulder.

And then the amazing creature leapt straight into his arms; wrapping her legs around his waist, crying, laughing, and smothering him in kisses seemingly all at once.

'Yes, decorum is definitely out the window!' He eagerly returned her embrace, tasting lips of honey and the promise of sin.

Almost immediately a mighty cheer went up from the hundreds of Northerners sharing the shore of the Red Fork with them. The cacophony of raucous whoops, wolf whistles, and ribald jokes finally seemed to penetrate Catelyn's wildly spinning brain and she stopped mid kiss; letting go of not Ned's lower lip and turning a shade of red from embarrassment. She unclenched her legs and started to slide off him.

"Not so fast," Sean chortled, sweeping an arm under her saucy bum; holding her fast to him so he could plant one last deep, wet, passionate kiss on this amazing auburn tressed goddess, before finally releasing her.

"My lord, I … I …" she stuttered softly from confusion and pleasure.

"You are my wife, my lady love," he answered huskily, reaching up a hand to gently caress her cheek, neck, and flowing curls. "And have suffered a lifetime's worth of tragedies on my behalf. No one begrudges you a little joy, Cat." He smiled. "Me least of all."

She tilted her neck to look up at him with utter adoration. Her eyes glistened with tears of happiness. Then she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

He returned the hug. When he felt her breath return to something like normal, he bent down and whispered in her ear, "How's Robb?"

Cat's head snapped back, her forehead almost clipping his chin. "Oh Ned, he's fine, fine. You'll be so proud. He's become a man grown now; just like his father," she said with fierce pride. Then just as suddenly doubt and fear shattered her happiness, smashing the armor of her composure. "Sansa? Arya?" she squeaked.

He dropped a duly concerned look on his face. "Sansa's in King's Landing. She's been mostly well treated. But when … the Lannisters," and he'd had to bite back what he, not Ned, really wanted to call those sick bastards, "… when they hear of the twin defeats of the Kingslayer and the Old Lion, they'll have her beaten and whipped, or worse."

Catelyn unleashed a single heartrending sob. She understood what 'worse' could encompass. "And Arya?"

"She escaped the city in a caravan of recruits for the Wall."

Not Michelle looked confused. "With you?"

Not Ned shook his head no.

"Is she here with you?" she asked hopefully.

He shook his head no again.

"Then how? How do you know?"

He put on his kindest, most sincere face. "It's a very long story, Cat. You'll scarcely believe a word of it when I tell you the whole tale. But please, have faith in this as you do in the love I hold for our daughters; the Old Gods, in saving me, sent visions of the past, the present, and even the future. The caravan of black brothers is heading north on the kingsroad, but is being pursued by gold cloaks. I've sent what riders I could spare in search of them. God … Gods willing, she will be returned to us."

Catelyn nodded her understanding. "And what hope is there for Sansa?"

"Some. The Lannisters are a broken force. While shattered bands of them still roam the Riverlands, acting no better than brigands as they try to slink back home, there is no organized force of them between here and King's Landing. You must send word to Robb and your brother to bring as many of their banners here as fast they can. If the message comes from you, they'll believe, truly believe, the news that I've returned and triumphed over the Old Lion. Once our armies are combined, we march and take back Sansa."

She clutched at him, hope growing as she digested her husband's words.

He smiled knowingly, appreciating the irony of his next GRRM plot wrecking statement. "And you'll tell Robb and Edmure that I wish them to bring the Kingslayer. You captured him at the Whispering Wood, didn't you?"

Not Michelle gasped, hope now soaring. "You'll trade him for Sansa?" she asked, husky with emotion.

Ice filled his eyes and voice. "Her and a few other rats too. Cersei won't be able to resist the bait."

"Then can we all go home, Ned?" Cat begged.

Not Ned shook his head no. "Stannis must first be set upon the Iron Throne and Lord Renly dealt with. The foolish boy has married Mace Tyrell's daughter and proclaimed himself king."

His not wife began to look sheepish and started muttering something under her breath.

Sean laughed, guessing the reason for her sudden consternation. "I know already, my lady wife; it's the Old Gods' gift you see. That damned ugly Greatjon went and proclaimed Robb the King of the North, didn't he?"

Catelyn's eyes widened in amazement.

Not Ned reveled in playing the Game of Thrones with house money. "Don't worry luv. How could Robb become King when his dear old da still breaths? Stannis won't like it when he hears what happened. But since we'll be handing him his crown, he can't complain too much, can he?"

Catelyn shook her head no, agreeing with her husband.

"Besides, Robb will prove his worth to Stannis. Once that stubborn man's King, the bigger problem will be keeping him on the Iron Throne against the combined might of Highgarden and Storm's End." 'And that's still just the start of the madness. Thanks a whole fucking lot, George,' Sean thought.

Not Michelle steadied herself at the avalanche of news, she was the daughter of a Lord Paramount and the wife of another Lord Paramount. With hope for her family renewed, she could face the two other dictates of the Tully motto: Duty and Honor. "My lord husband, I have a letter to write. Do you have any ravens that I might send a message back to Riverrun?"

"We still have a few left in one cage, I got them from the Twins. Oh that reminds me, you better let Robb know to be prepared for a wedding when he gets here," not Ned announced.

"What?!" Catelyn gasped.

"Yes, I rewrote the terms of your bargain with the late Lord Frey," the actor proclaimed.

"Yes, yes. Oh, Ned. Oh, Ned. Oooooooooooooooooh," Catelyn moaned, thrashing about in the throes of another orgasm.

He sped up his pace, the urgency to match her explosion almost too much for him to bear. The fact she called him another's name didn't bother him in the least, amused him even; this was taking dedication to a role places he'd never before dreamed. Very quickly not Ned's eyelids fluttered. His toes curled. "oooooophhhhhh," he rumbled, spending inside her until his seed leaked out onto the downy, natural red hair surrounding her entrance.

Despite more than a score of intimate encounters with her, the next part was always a difficult judgment call on how exactly to handle it, all the more so since Cat had memories of what the real Ned would have done. It was the age old question of how long to remain inside before withdrawing. He waited a bit, she never minded his weight on her; of course most women never had. When he felt himself start to shrink, flesh tugging lightly against flesh as his cock naturally started to retract itself, he made his move and started to shift off her.

"No," his not wife called out sleepily, happily. "Stay in me Ned."

He stifled a sigh and stayed in place. He wasn't at all tired and with nothing to do but wait, he focused on his success at distracting her. 'If the only way to dodge pesky questions from this'un is to keep shagging her brains out, I'll die a happy man,' Sean thought.

As she drifted off to sleep beneath him, not Ned worked in his head on the script for the next day in his head; it promised to be a momentous one, as they were likely to at last reach King's Landing. However, there one was one character, who through Sean's own poor plotting, the actor felt unhappily compelled to include in the scene. During the almost four weeks his army had been marching from Darry, the day's scripting for act one had become routine. Meet with his new model army staff for any interesting tidbits that had arisen over the night. Pass along any last minute instructions before the scouts headed out. Deliver the order of that day's march. And lastly, choose which lord he would grace with his and Cat's presence, remembering to alternate each day between Northerner and Riverlander; both sides being obsessively touchy about their warlord showing any sign of preference for one over the other. Doing such, he'd ridden with almost every significant lord once; even accompanied Robb and his Alexander the Great like Band of Companions at the front of the Winterfell contingent, daring to do so twice. But there was no way around who he must accompany next. Not Ned had snubbed the leech loving, traitorous bastard long enough. Sean on the morrow would ride beneath the banner of the Red Flayed Man; gritting his teeth to be courteous to Roose Bolton. His flesh crawled at the idea. The pale man, and his psychopath bastard too, couldn't die soon enough to suit the actor.