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Chapter Text

Ned inhales a long, bracing breath, horror spreading through his body. Gods’ grace, there’s another one.  Maester Luwin and Old Nan are bickering over the treatment options, giving him some time to deal with this complication. Nan claims he needs spirits and some rest, that the man is obviously of the Far North, and needs none of the Southerner nonsense. Luwin is countering with very reasonable arguments about frostbite and the blue tint to the man’s unnaturally pale skin.

“A wildling couldn’t have made it to Winterfell, much less the Godswood,” says Cat. “Even if he scaled the wall or sailed across the Bay of Seals, he wouldn’t have made it south of the Gift before being seen. Moreover, he has the look—”

He does. Ned doesn’t know everything there is to know about wildlings, but he doubts they had such obviously Valyrian features.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d call him a Child of the Forest,” he says, disoriented far past the point of minding his tongue. “Are we certain he is not a boy? He’s practically Robb’s size.”

“A boy,” scoffs Nan. “Speak sense, child. Look at those muscles, look at those scars and callouses. I’ll be happy to show you his coc—”

“Mercy.” He backs away, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “I believe you. He is just—Even the Myroshi are taller.” As the stories say, Northmen are the tallest, growing shorter the further South one goes. Willings, or folk of the Far North, as Nan insist they be called, dwarf even Karstarks.

Cat nods, running the same calculations. Silver-haired, pale-skinned. Slender, disturbingly beautiful—

“He could be—”

“Bite your tongue,” snaps Nan. “Some things can’t be unsaid. He is a wildling. A runt, looking for a better fate, guided by the Old Gods to our lands.”

Sheltering a Targaryen would be more than their lives are worth, but the boy need not be from that specific—workably extinct—bloodline to be a problem. That said, Ned found him in the lake next to the heart tree. He might not be the sharpest, nor the most pious man around but he can recognise Gods’ hand when it leads him by the nose.

“A wildling,” he says, meeting Cat’s eyes. Making unilateral decisions that affect Cat or, Gods forbid, the children, is treacherous business. She is a devoted mother, and a dutiful wife, and she has a very clear understanding of where her responsibilities begin and end. She will shelter this man because that is what Ned, her Lord has decided. The second she judges that the weight of her duty to her children outweighs her duty to her husband, she will bind the wildling hand and foot and throw him to the pigs.

“A wildling,” she nods, sending him an arch look. “Gods’ willing, he wakes.”

Ned inclines his head, taking the rebuke as his due. The best thing the boy can do for his peace of mind is to die quietly in the night. Ned will have obeyed the request of the Old Gods, he wouldn’t need to worry about another Targaryen Robert would kill him over, and Cat won’t need to take drastic measures to protect her family.

Gods, and he thought his life was complicated already. Starks and Targaryens aren’t meant to mix, for all that Starks can’t seem to stop obsessing over their chosen dragon. Brandon and Ashara, Lya and Rhaegar, Benjen and Arthur—And, more recently, Robb and Jon. Ned—Well. Baratheons have a better claim to Valyrian ancestry than most Volantine noble houses. Targaryen ancestry, more specifically. Ned’s dragon might be a particularly self-hating one, but he wouldn’t have him any other way.

***

In a wonderful show of their heritage, the children are beside themselves with curiosity for this mysterious stranger. Between Robb, Arya and Sansa, the man is never alone. Where Robb goes, Jon goes too, which does nothing to help Ned’s old heart. Thank the Old Gods and the New, he chants at a worrying frequency, that Jon took after Lya and not his father. It’s hard enough to calm in the face of his two illicit Targaryens within touching distance of each other.

Cat hates it. She despises it. The fact Ned declared the stranger to be welcome in her home was bad enough, but his having access to her children was a giant step too far. It’s—not ideal. With one thing and another, Cat’s reputation in the North started bad and got worse. She arrived at Winterfell when the anti-South sentiment was at its highest, only to find Ned had brought a son back from the war. The battles fought about Jon didn’t much improve her standing—for all that Lady Umbar would have thrown her husband’s bastard in the deepest well she knew, and did her best to send her husband along for good measure—nor did her insistence to keep the Faith of the Seven. Cat responded to it all with a grim determination to prove her worth with her actions and adopted Northern austerity and moral implacability that could shame a Greenseer. It was working, he’s pretty sure, until the stranger was dropped into their lives and made a mess of things. Now, the whispers say that Lady Stark is scorning omens from the Old Gods and is rejecting a Northerner who claimed sanctuary in the Godswood. It’s not true, of course, but they don’t need to be, to put her back up even further than it had been.

If Ned were smarter, or even just passingly intelligent, he’d have figured out a way to bring up this matter in a delicate way. Since he never understood the first thing about his wife, he keeps his mouth shut and tries his hand at damage control. He tells his bannermen in private that Cat let a stranger into her home against her better judgment because it was the Northern way. That she knows the laws of the land backwards and forwards, and doesn’t have a single concrete mark against her in the matter of respecting their culture. It helps a little, quite possibly. Not enough to offset the damage already done, much less the mess Septa Mordane is making. Lady Bolton, always ready to point out the failures of House Stark, summons her son Domeric to escort her back to Dreadfort. Where Lady Bolton nee Ryswell goes, ten would follow, and so things spin further out of control.

“A month, Rodrik,” he says, having escaped to the barracks for some peace. “Even less—three weeks, and North is already in chaos!”

“Oh, come now,” says Rodrik. “It is not as bad as all that. Things will calm down soon enough. These things always work themselves out.”

“Yes, thank you for that wise insight,” he says. “How could one man—He hasn’t even spoken a word, and already he has engineered a political knot I have no clue how to address, much less solve. I can’t even keep my sons away from his bed, and they’re seven!”

“Children are curious little buggers,” Rodrik replies with an air of a man who took his position and will not budge easily, no matter how little he likes it. “As for the rest—Well, you can’t fault them, can you, m’lord? The Septa has been open about how little she thinks of the Old Gods. Lady Stark is—”

Lady Stark hasn’t stopped treating Winterfell like a battleground since she stepped foot in it. This outbreak of hostility is not the first time she faced backlash—the time Sansa was born comes to mind—and she responds like she always has. She retreats into the role of Lady Stark, mother, lady, wife, and grows colder by the day. By the hour.

“Gods willing, the stranger wakes soon,” he says after a long, morose pause. “And we can set this to rest.”

Rodrik sends him a look tinged with pity. “The Septa is a problem, m’lord. The stranger is not at fault, and I don’t believe you think him to be one.”

Yes, well, he can do something about the dratted man. He can’t do much about the rest of it. Cat is spoiling for a fight, half the ladies of the North fled to Dreadfort where they’re spinning poisonous tales even now. House Stark has too many skeletons in her closet to afford any attention-grabbing scandals, and yet Cat is going to extract her pound of flesh come what may. And then there’s Hoster Tully, who thinks Ned is a bit of grime stuck to the back of his shoe and can’t wait for an opportunity to upbraid him as publicly as possible.

“I suggest you send a raven to Castle Black, m’lord. Your brother can always cheer you up.”

Ned doesn’t laugh, but it takes some doing. Benjen? Benjen hates Cat for how miserable she is making Jon. Despises her with a fervour only reserved for their Father and Robert. Benjen loved Lya like he loved no-one else. Maybe Arthur Dayne, which certainly doesn’t uncomplicated his feelings any—

Never mind. Never mind all that.

“I think I need to spend some time with my children. Maybe that will clear my head some.”

“M’lord! Lord Stark! Maester Luwin sent me—”

Gods’ grace. It’s happening.

He takes in a long, bracing breath. “Wish me luck, old friend.”

“You need no luck, m’lord. Just follow your heart.”

Ah, yes; Stark following their hearts never once led to ash and ruin.

***

Many things about the stranger suddenly become urgent once he has stirred from sleep. Beauty is the first, most shocking thing because it’s not beauty as they know it. Rhaegar was beautiful. Seeing Queen Rhaella for the first time was a memorable experience for all. The first thing that Ned feels when he sees the stranger awake, alert and focused on him is fear.

The source of the fear is difficult to nail down. It’s not the eerie symmetry or the fantastical colouring; his red eyes, in isolation, aren’t any more beautiful than Ashara’s purple or Rhaella’s violet. Each trait and feature, in truth, can be understood and internalised individually: the dramatic cheekbones, clean brows, and wild shock of silver hair. Even the angry red tattoos slashed down his cheeks aren’t threatening in themselves, and neither is the androgynous way they click together to form a face that could make a beautiful woman or a handsome man, depending on one’s point of view.

He also speaks only the Old Tongue.

It’s spite, he thinks, a little hysterically. It’s a challenge or a lesson. The Gods are piling things up to see what the silly mortals will do.

“He says his name is Tobirama,” supplies Old Nan, the corner of her lips kicking up into a sharp smile. She is enjoying this. “He doesn’t remember what happened, to have left him in the godswood.”

Convenient, thinks Ned, battling for calm. Also, a lie. He meets the red eyes and acknowledges the indecipherable look with his resigned one. Can he call him out? Likely not, not with the rumours being at their peak. Ned is bound to treat this man with utmost courtesy until he either leaves or they discover he is a raider from the Far North, and even that might not be enough. Not after Cat and her wretched Septa went and made him a martyr, a victim of all the lies and prejudices Northerners face from the South.

“I greet you,” he says, Old Tongue clumsy in his mouth, “to my fire. I am Eddard, of House Stark—” What’s the word for warden? “Protector of the North.” Good enough. “My wife, Catelyn.”

“—met,” says the man. Tobirama, of all names. “—long—here?”

He needs to brush up on his Old Tongue and fast. There aren’t many who speak it, but Lord Stark should be among their number.

“What language does he speak,” asks Cat. Ned doesn’t cringe, nor does he acknowledge the grim looks guards exchange behind them. Gods. She could at least try? She is tense, he scolds himself. Moreover, she is at home, talking with her husband. If she can’t ask questions of him, who is she supposed to ask? 

“Old Tongue, the language of the First Men.”  The language spoken in the North, which you should know because you’re Lady Stark—Stop. Stop it.

“I see.”

“He needs to rest,” jumps in Maester Luwin. Ned can’t quite resist sending the man a grateful look. “Men who wake from long sleep need to rest as much as possible and replenish their strength.”

“Of course,” he says, nodding at their silent audience. Goodness, but he is beautiful. “If you could—Some of us speak a little, but—”

“I’ll teach him,” cackles Old Nan. “If he’s half as clever as he is pretty, he will be speaking Common in a week.”

“Very well,” he says before anyone else says something he will have to respond to. “Maester Lewin, report your findings when it is convenient. We will leave you to take care of your patient.”

***

Chapter Text

The rumours escalate, as they always do; Look at Jon Snow, they say. The spitting image of his father and grandfather before him. Cat loses what little composure she has and draws the children close, not letting them out of her sight even for lessons. This means that Jon is temporarily banished from his siblings’ presence. Ironically, Jon would then take refuge in the Godswood, which only solidifies the wide-held belief that he is the most northern out of all Ned’s children. And if that isn’t a recipe for disaster, he doesn’t know what is.

All of which is to say, he should have anticipated a rebellion. Sansa is a sweetheart, but Arya and Robb would only allow themselves to be deprived of Jon’s presence for so long.

The scene he bursts into is—Not at all what he had expected. When Jory came to him, grim and exhausted, to tell him where his children were, his heart dropped into the vicinity of his feet. Rationally, he knows they must be safe, or his guards would have already dealt with it. Emotionally, all he knows is a sequence of terrifying concepts of blood and horror.

Whatever it was he had feared, it wasn’t this. Five of his six children are piled up on the stranger’s—Tobirama’s—bed, chittering like a pack of squirrels. Even Jon—whose solemnity he will forever blame on his wretched father’s side—watches the man with giant, guileless eyes, settled and happy. Seven Hells, but Ned envies their courage. He is certainly intimidated by the stranger, as are Cat, Jory, Maester Lewin and every other person that came in contact with him. Ned’s children? Not a lick of well-deserved fear in sight.

To their credit, the man who sits with a lapful of children has little in common with the icy, imperious man Ned had met. Nothing about his face is that markedly different, he is still composed and controlled, not letting much show on his face at all. What’s different, he realizes, is that the ever-present tension around his shoulders and neck is diminished. He sits there, combing soft fingers through Arya’s hair, listening to Robb chatter about this and that, not understanding a single word, Ned is pretty sure.

“Father,” cheers Robb. “Have you met Tobi?”

“I have, yes,” he says, swallowing down most of his instinctive reactions about having been scared out of his wits. Red eyes fix him to the ground, implying that yes, swallowing your temper is really for the best, here. “You have escaped your mother, led her and your minders on a merry chase and hid in the last place anyone would think to look. This is inexcusable. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“We had to say hello,” says Robb, faux-offended. A fair bluff, for a boy of six, but his ears growing red is an obvious tell. Jon shuffles behind him, giving Robb even more cause to puff out his chest and try to brazen this out. Sansa is oddly tense, lips pressed together and Bran is honestly confused. That only leaves—

“I made them,” shrieks his youngest daughter, as wild as a wolf and twice as fierce. Lya comes to mind, yes, but Brandon even more. Ai, but he misses them, both of his wild, lovely siblings who were never as happy as they were in the deep forest snow. “I hate them, I hate her. Hate-hate-hate them. Septa is mean and stupid and loud and—and—”

Sansa, precious little Sansa bites her lip and sends him a look much too tentative for his liking. What had transpired to make his daughter look at him like that? He never even raised his voice to his children. Never once.

“Septa was mean,” says Sansa, the care with which she measures every word stabbing waves of needles into his heart. “I had heard—I heard Ser Tobi speaks the Old Tongue. Our language, the language of the Starks. I asked the Septa to teach us and she—” She pauses, deliberating.

“You can tell me anything, sweetling,” Ned says, despairing that he needs to make that clear at all, much less in front of the too-discerning eyes of the stranger. “Anything at all. I am always on your side.”

“She said no. We argued. I—I got confused and Arya—She wanted to protect me. She hit Ari, papa.” Now it’s not shyness, but anger that narrows her eyes and makes her nostrils flair. “So I bit her, took Ari and ran.”

“What—” Robb’s shriek is echoed by two more indignant shouts from the boys, even if Jon’s is more of a quiet grasp than anything. “You didn’t say—How could she—”

“I tol’ her she had no place in the North,” says Arya. “That she is an out-si-der and that I will get Lor’ Sta’k to return her to the ice.” The way she speaks makes it clear the child is repeating what she heard. That doesn’t make the words any less chilling. In his lifetime, he sentenced seven people frost burials, and only to make a point. Whatever her crimes, Septa Mordane hadn’t lain with children or tortured them in other ways. “She said I say sorry. I am not sorry, she is mean and I hate her.”

Arya bursts into tears, burrowing into the stranger’s side. The stranger—Tobirama; remember it, Others take you—lets her cling and sweeps a slow, bracing palm down her shoulder. The interaction has no business looking so normal. Ned swallows down the initial burst of temper. In the sea of horror and conflicting impulses, he truly doesn’t need an outsider butting into his personal life. The man doesn’t even speak the language and he dares insert himself into such delicate matters—

Only, he didn’t insert himself into anything, he thinks, frozen to the spot by helpless, paralysing rage. He hadn’t even left his rooms. Ned’s children came to him, sought him out and implicitly asked for shelter. In their own home, surrounded by people who would tear the stars down from the skies in their name, they ran to a stranger. Why? What did he do, to drive his children away from him, the North, their mother—

“Septa will be sent away.” So far so good. “Has she been—Any of you—”

“She hates Jon,” says Robb, scowling and shifting so his body is almost entirely in front of the smaller boy. “Always talks about how he is a punishment from the Gods, sent to bring shame to your House.”

Ned swallows the first ten things that come to mind, as guilt builds up in his throat. She has said that, Ned is well aware. She said that and more, and Ned let it happen because someone needs to say it; because the truth of Jon’s parentage would be obvious to any man or woman who can do basic arithmetic.

“You are not a shame on House Stark, and nobody with sense believes that.” Jon’s eyes are—much too weary to be comforting. Cynical six-year-olds are a sign that something, somewhere has gone terribly wrong. “Anything else?”

“She says Old Nan is a—is something bad,” Sansa says. Ned can’t quite believe how fully his little songbird has removed herself from the Septa. Sansa was her favourite, always dutifully following what they told her was the right way. “And that you are preparing me to go South and—I don’t want to leave, Papa, please don’t send me away!”

Deep breaths. How did Cat—She must know Sansa will wed in the North? There could be an argument made about Arya and Rickon, but Robb, Sansa and Bran have to stay in the North. Even if they set politics aside, how could she—After what happened to Lya, his Lords would lose all respect for him if he sent his children South. What is she thinking?

“Anybody who thinks of taking you from me will face the armies of the North,” he tells her, shuffling closer and kneeling next to the bed so they’re closer to eye level. “Your mother thought—You like the songs, do you not? Of knights and tourneys and balls. She thought that is what you would want.”

“I can have all that here,” she says, voice wobbling, clinging even tighter to Arya, who clings right back. Will the wonders never cease? His two daughters were never close. “I don’t need—I heard them talk. They all say how I am not a real Stark, but I am! I am just as much a Stark as, as—” She stumbles a little, tiny face flushed red. “—As Arya or you or Jon. I am! Just because my hair is red and my eyes are blue doesn’t mean I’m not one!”

“Oh, sweetling.” When did the rumours reach the children? How did they reach them? He never once considered they might. He knew the whispers for what they were, pointless, directionless drivel, so he dismissed them; more fool him. “Come here, darlings.”

Just like that, he’s buried under a pile of sniffling children. Even Jon joins, for once secure enough in his welcome.

“I wish you had told me, before. I am sorry I made you doubt I will always be there for you. You are my entire life, all six of you. Nothing and no one can come between us, not Septas or rumours or anything. Lone wolf dies—”

“But the pack survives,” chorus the children, Sansa barely audible with how hard she’s sobbing.

“Exactly. Now, as soon as we have calmed down some, why don’t we leave our guest to his rest and go to my Solar? I will ask Rodrik to—”

“Tea and honey cakes, m’lord,” calls Rodrik from the door. Ned stiffens. How long was he there? He shifts slightly, and cranes his head—Indeed, Rodrik, Jory and a small crowd of household staff and guards lurk in the open door. Right. The entire Keep will know that Eddard Stark can’t keep his family in order before the day is out. That his Southern wife has been letting her Septa spread poison in his children’s minds. And that’s if he’s lucky. There is no love lost between Winterfell and the South. He will be damn surprised if he avoids rumours of brainwashing and indoctrination. Gods.

“My apologies,” he tells Tobirama in halting Old Tongue. “We harm your rest.”

“It is right,” the man replies in Common. Wobbly and uncertain, syllables harder and harsh where they should be flowing, but understandable, still. “I am—” He pauses, irritation flickering over the impassive features. “All is well.”

He settles for a nod. He’s spoken all the words in him, at least for the next while. He is due a very long, very unpleasant conversation with his wife. He best send word to arrange sleeping chambers in his Solar. Sharing a bed with Cat seems very unpleasant, right about now.

***

“This cannot be borne or swept away.” He ignores Cat’s flinch and wide eyes. “I always strived to give you access to the children and their education. Their mother should be in charge, I thought.” He holds up an arm, pre-empting her protest. “Even when my bannermen were telling me it wasn’t proper, it wasn’t wise to let them grow up Southern, I rebuffed them. When you shamed Jon, even though that is not the Northern way, I said nothing. When the children learned the Faith of the Seven, I let it go, thereby losing Lady Mormont's respect. Now your Septa has hit Arya and the entire Castle knows.”

“Septa Mordane would never—”

Deep breaths.

“A unit of armed men will be escorting Septa Mordane to White Harbour and into the first ship sailing south.” His voice is cold, colder than he’s heard it in years. “You have been crossing so many lines, I am forced to consider if you are even aware they exist. You are of the North, now, Catelyn. We are not a colony of the South. We are not barbarians who must be shown the light. You will adapt or I will send you back, and face your Father’s displeasure. Am I understood?”

Catelyn’s spine straightens, expression flattening with fury. “How dare you,” she throws back. “How dare you, of all people, lecture me about duty. I have done everything I could, and more and you think to throw my faith in my face? By your own laws, Lord Stark, I have a right to observe the Faith.”

“I wrote those laws, if you recall,” he says, heart cold—cold—cold. “And perhaps that was wrong of me. My Lords certainly think so. I had not expected that you would be so quick to step over our traditions and ways. Starks don’t fill their daughters’ heads with stories of noble knights and pretty princesses. We do not have knights for a reason, Catelyn. We are not so backwards as to not deserve them, or too savage to not strive for justice and nobility. We do not want them.”

Even when she’s furious, Catelyn keeps her dignity. Red-cheeked and tall, jaw tilted in a proud angle, it would be difficult for anyone to stand in her way, much less Ned who never met a person he wouldn’t rather follow than lead. “The children—my children have Southern heritage as well, my lord. I will not be told I may not teach my children of my people and my customs. My ways are not inferior to yours, my lord, no matter how much you would like that to be the case.”

Ned’s ears fill with static, hands clenching. The fury is thick enough to choke on. “Your children are Starks, not Tullys. They will grow up to be Starks, one way or another. I don’t know if it’s possible to salvage your standing in the North, but Gods’ willing it’s not too late for Robb and the children.”

“Now you bring up my standing in the North?” The corner of Catelyn’s lips presses up, forming a tight, bloodless smile. “But only to put every shred of blame on my feet, regardless of logic, never mind truth. What have you done, precisely, to improve Robb’s standing in the North? What concrete action did you take when they were whispering Little Lord at your bastard, when we had first arrived? Who was fighting for Robb, then? It hadn’t been you, my lord.”

Ned opens his mouth and closes it, shaking his head. Enough. Anything you say now will be—Walk away, Stark, before you do something that you will have to fall on your sword for.

“Believe what you will. Septa Mordane will leave the North with her life, and she should be grateful for it. I suggest you choose a side and keep to it, because the North will not be ruled by a Southerner puppet, even if their name was Stark.”

***

The bells ring, calling the keep to dinner, and he jolts in surprise. It’s—It’s only been a few hours? How is that even possible? It feels like months have gone by, between the stranger, the children and all the rest of it.

His entire household is in the Hall when he marches inside. Cat, obviously, with the children. So far so good. Jon is—Where is Jon? He casts about, jaw clenching. Has she banished him from the table again—

His eyes catch on a flash of white—His stomach drops. The stranger—Tobirama—has opted to join them. He sits on the end of one of the long tables meant for the common folk with Jon. Someone dragged in an armchair, wide enough to sit the man and the boy next to him. The sight of them makes Ned’s head spin. Sitting next to Tobirama, Jon’s Valyrian features are amplified. The angle of his cheekbones, for one, and the high slope of his forehead. The colouring is all Stark, as are the eyes and lips, but anyone who ever saw Rhaegar could see him in the little solemn boy, trying to vanish, and understandably so. Every eye in the hall is trained at him and Tobirama, some flickering between them and Cat. They think she banished Tobirama from their table, Ned thinks with numb resignation. She hadn’t, almost certainly, but that’s what they think. Gods.

Tobirama sits in his chair, wrapped in thick furs that match his hair eerily well. The cold glint in his eyes and the arrogant tilt of his jaw all speak of a man who does not suffer fools easily. He doesn’t quite tuck Jon into his side, but he does loom above the boy, for all that he’s a head shorter than an average Northman. What he lacks in volume, he makes up in attitude, he thinks, and realizes he’s been standing in the doorway for several seconds too long and that everybody is looking at him, now. Waiting to see what he will do.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” he says into the quiet. “I was busy arranging Septa Mordane’s escort from Winterfell and the North. She is no longer welcome in the halls of my ancestors.”

A cheer rises, Lord Karstark standing up and roaring his approval in his trademark fashion. Ned forces a small smile on his lips. It sits oddly on his face, hurts with how little he is inclined to smile. Gods.

“In other news, our guest has awakened. His name is Tobirama, and he only speaks the Old Tongue. As you can see, I trust him enough to let my son sit close. Make of that what you will.” His throat screams in protest. He spoke more today than he has in the past several years combined. Just a little more. Your silence contributed to this mess just as much as Catelyn did. Be grateful it is not too late, that you have a chance to right some of your wrongs.

“There will be no more talk behind my back. Should anyone have a legitimate complaint about my leadership and policy, you will bring it openly and fairly.” He passes his eyes over the household, letting some of his fury shine from his eyes. “My children have been harmed, and I do not take that lightly. They have been made afraid, made to feel shame for their colouring and mannerisms. This is an insult, a slight and a threat, to me as the Warden of the North and, more importantly, to me as a father. All of which is to say that the first person who makes my little girl feel less than will be escorted north of the Wall sky-clad. Am I understood?”

“Good,” he says, after several long moments of dead quiet have passed. “I have no patience left for any of this. The Quiet Wolf will bite if pressed. Do not press me.”

***

Chapter Text

The Septa’s departure marks a shift, in his household, in his marriage and, depressingly in the North. After several unproductive but increasingly violent rows, he and Cat settle into frigid, non-interference protocols. They split their duties more firmly, each taking their work into separate offices and taking care not to overstep. For the sake of peace, they have a series of meetings with Torrin Forrester to put down the paperwork to delineate their work. Cat, whose primary role is to oversee and manage Winterfell, needs a steady and uninterrupted flow of gold. Ned, of course, is responsible for projects that are decades in the making and span across the North and further. The last thing either of them needs is to have their personal life spill out into their outstanding obligations.

It is all this chaos and uncertainty that Tobirama steps into, with his catty attitude and head full of miracles. His presence is in no way a restful one.

***

It’s possible his people love Tobirama more than they do Ned and his family, he thinks, observing how besotted his rugged, gruff bannermen become whenever the man sweeps into the room, dressed in the most severe Northern fashion that looks exotic on the bizarre man. He picked up Common at a frightening rate, constantly talking to this person or that, always, always giving them his whole attention. The richest lord of the lowliest serving maid, Tobirama takes everyone deathly seriously.

So far so good; Ned hardly minds. They might as well like someone if Ned and his family are still on the outs. He would have let him parade about, given him a modest holdfast and sent him on his merry way; no harm done. Would that he could, would that he could. As it is, Ned’s children adore him with an adorable and yet frightening intensity. Jon is practically glued to the man’s side and where Jon goes, Robb and Arya follow. Arya and Sansa have been inseparable as of late, and Bran would not let himself be left behind. This means Tobirama has all Stark children old enough to be let from behind their mothers’ skirts following him about. To make matters worse, he doesn’t just allow it, he indulges them. Arya has free reign of his body, which means she spends hours sitting on his shoulders, steering him around by the hair. Bran prefers to cling on his back like a monkey, and swans on his side, hand tucked into his elbow, performing propriety even with two of her siblings hanging off the man’s body. Jon would take the other side, typically, which would free Robb off to take up his preferred role of a guard, stomping a couple of steps in front of the procession with his chest puffed up.

As adorable a picture as they make, Ned is not sure how he feels about this development. Tobirama can’t be dangerous in any real sense, and his regard for the children looks sincere, but he can’t be completely at ease with the idea that his children are so impressed and trusting with a stranger. He likely would have forbidden it, come what may, if he couldn’t see the tangible improvement in them. He didn’t even know how much weight Robb and Sansa were carrying until it disappeared. Sansa relaxed from the rigid posture of a demure Southern Lady and Robb stopped weaponizing his charm. Jon, of course, has finally found in Tobirama an adult demonstrably on his side who is not swayed by faith, duty or jealousy. It is clear to everyone that Jon is Tobirama’s favourite.

That proves almost too much for Cat to take. What she sees as blatant disrespect towards her children from a no-name wildling at best and an illicit Valyrian at worst is bad enough. When he starts favouring Jon over Robb he turns from distasteful to despicable; a wound to be endured with poise and grace.

“Calm down, for pity’s sake,” he tries yet again. “You’re snubbing a man who the entire North considers something of a prophet of the Old Gods. You would be wise to court his favour—”

“Yes?” Catelyn shifts his way, expression wholly beyond deciphering. “You would have me debase myself to curry favour with an ill-mannered, ill-bred, possibly illiterate vagabond? Fascinating.”

Gods’ grant him strength. “He is more beloved than I am, my Lady. You are not even in the running. What do you think to gain with this?”

“It doesn’t surprise me that my actions are so incomprehensible to you,” she says, voice even and pleasant. “You know so very little about protecting your family.”

Right. He turns on his heels and leaves, hands shaking. She won’t see sense. She might not be capable of it. The concept of a looser hierarchy, of earning worth instead of inheriting it wouldn’t occur to an overbred Southern mind.

***

The second part of the complete and total destruction of Ned’s peace of mind is that Tobirama is, by nature and choosing, a very industrious man. His in-depth knowledge about a wide variety of topics, combined with an unwillingness to sit still for so much as a second meant that a month after having washed up to their shores, Tobirama shut his jaws over all their necks and dragged them into industrial progress.

“No offence meant, Maester Luwin,” he says, the dramatic slash of his lips implying any volume of offence he could convey would be, if anything, far too conservative. “Healing is a precise field that should be studied with care and logic. Every patient is different, yes, but the causes and effects must be the same. You do not need good healers, what you need is a reformation.”

It’s not that Ned and his people are sceptical, they’re not. It would take a hard person indeed to see Tobirama, determination personified, and doubt him. Still—What he is talking about sounds fantastical in the extreme. Lenses? Tiny, unseen creatures that exist in their bodies, poisoning them and causing infection? Medicines that could clear out infection from the lungs? Methods of taking blood from one person and pouring it into another? Madness.

***

The start is modest, in hindsight. The first industry Tobirama digs his claws into is glassmaking/ The North has been trying and failing to create their own glass manufacturing industry for generations. It never took off enough to make it viable, especially since many of the materials have to be imported from Dorne or Myr. When all is said and done, for the price of producing one sheet of glass, they could have bought three already made, at a better quality than they can manage. 

Tobirama isn’t much interested in this very reasonable arithmetic. “For healing, I need materials,” he tells Ned, having swanned into his solar, just as Ned had finished with a gruelling meeting with Gwen Locke and Garrick Snowsocks and was, therefore, unprepared to do further battle. The combination of Gwen and Snowsocks always leaves him exhausted, anxious and vaguely weepy. He planned on a quiet walk to clear his head, then a sneaky bank towards the kitchens to liberate something to nibble on. How nice would that have been? “Instruments. I know how to make them, and will teach your craftspeople. That is fair.”

Ned blinks at him, hand frozen in mid-air. He sets his quill to the side and shakes his head as subtly as he can to clear it.  “Which craftspeople did you have in mind?”

“All of them.”

***

Ned, of course, capitulates without wasting anybody’s time on demurrals and foolhardy attempts at dignity. Instead, he gets dressed for spending the day outside—but not to match Tobirama who layers furs until he’s halfway to a spherical shape—and marches out. Fine. If the man wants craftspeople, he’ll get the craftswoman, and if he embarrasses himself, that’s no skin off Ned’s nose.

“What do you know about how the North operates,” he says, banking left towards the kitchens. He might be perfectly willing to throw the wildling into the thick of it with little to no warning, but he isn’t going to send him in unarmed. So—a jar of honey wine, a packet of honey sponge and a jar of ice berry preserve. Just in case, he wraps up half a dozen buns into a handkerchief and tucks his ill-gotten bounty into a basket. “In a logistical sense.”

“Kingdom,” Tobirama says, hand flicking to cut at some arbitrary space near eye level. He flicks his hand again, a little lower. “Lord Stark, Lord Paramount of the North.” Another flick, lower still. “Lords.” Flick. “Vassals.” Flick. “Tradespeople.” Flick. “Peasants.”

Well. Not a bad idea, all told. “You’re missing a level or two,” he says, handing over the basket. “Lord and Lady of Winterfell are at the top, yes, but we stand on top of what we call Three Pillars. Civil Branch, meaning the Council of Guildmasters, Martial Branch, meaning the Council of Lords and the Financial Branch, meaning the Northern Reserve, North’s official financial institution.”

Tobirama inclines his head, eyes sparkling. This might be the first time Ned’s seen the cursed man appear sincerely curious. “A neat division of responsibility.”

“It has to be. We live together or die alone; that’s how it’s always been in the North. An overactive sense of ambition means you and everybody you know starve to death come winter, and that’s if the rest of us contain the damage in time.” He banks a sharp right, into a lesser-known shortcut. If he remembers things correctly, they should be going to the newly built warehouses on the east side of Wintertown. “You asked for crafts. All craftspeople in the North fall under the purview of Guildmaster Gwen Locke, Master of the Wrights Guild.” Well. “I could override, possibly, and enjoy the power rush for the scant seconds I have left to live.” Success. He sees a flash of the green embroidered coat that Snowsocks is so fond of. “If you want craftspeople, you need her approval. Good luck. I’ve armed you as best I could.”

***

Gwen Locke doesn’t much like Tobirama, a fact that burrows into his soul, comforting, warm and just. His lords being awestruck and ridiculous are one thing, but Gwen Locke sustains herself on being disagreeable, unpleasant and competent. She is the youngest Guildmaster in two hundred years, and an unmarried woman to boot; she didn’t get to where she was by being nice.

He drifts to Snowsocks’ side, who wisely put a bit of a distance between himself and the two maniacs barking craftspeople shorthand at each other. “This is going well.”

Snowsocks sends him a dry look. “I had things to do, today. The next shipment of timber is coming in two weeks and I need to empty those warehouses before then.”

And he can’t send it all to the Trade Guild before Gwen claims her share for the craftspeople. Fair enough. “If Tobirama causes too much of a delay, you can use the empty glasshouse. It’s hardly in use.”

Snowsocks sighs, eyes rolling heavenward. “I suppose it’s for the best. You think he’s any good? Worth the delay?”

Ned shrugs. “Either he is, or Gwen claws his heart out of his ribcage; either way, things get done.”

“Ruthless,” Snowsocks says, sending him an impressed look. “I thought you liked ‘im?”

“I like him just fine. I also don’t appreciate getting accosted in my office by strange men who want, and I quote, all my craftsmen.”

Snowsock’s wince is deeply emotionally rewarding. “Bold. Fair enough, then, m’Lord. We might as well let the two of them fight it out.”

Ned nods a couple of times in quick succession. “By all means, let’s go see Pod about that glasshouse.”

***

Tobirama emerges from his trials alive, so Ned concludes he proved himself adequately competent.

“A warning would have been appreciated.”

Ned sends him a bland smile. “Likewise. I am something of a Lord in these parts. My time is not my own.”

Tobirama inclines his head in a short nod. “I apologise for barging in unannounced. It won’t happen again.”

And now Ned feels wretched. “I also should not have thrown you at Gwen Locke without warning,” he allows. “With that covered, how was it? I assume you were successful, considering you are in possession of all your limbs and sensory organs.”

“I got permission to commandeer the glassmakers for a month,” Tobirama says, in equal part grim and satisfied. “And a hundred per cent increase on the funds they typically receive.”

Ned blinks. “Congratulations.” That’s as good a place to start as any, considering he has no idea what to say next. “Glassmaking is an interesting choice.”

“She thinks she set me up to fail,” Tobirama says, the corner of his lips kicking up into a sideways smile. “She is wrong. Glassmaking is not where I would have chosen to begin, but it is as good a place as any. Glass is easy to clean, cheap to make, sells well and, most importantly, is the first step to making close-seeing machines.”

***

Chapter Text

The sum total of artisans who specialise in glasswork is nineteen. Four of them are unavailable, which leaves fifteen masters and apprentices to witness Tobirama marching into their workshop to turn their lives upside down. When he asks about their methods, they grow even more sceptical, but play along, if for no other reason than Ned is there, watching. This is the base we use, sand carted in from the beaches off of Deepwood and White Harbor. The rest, we import from Myr or Dorne. The furnaces are adapted from the design used by the blacksmiths—

“I understand,” he says, just as Ned is about to fall over from boredom. Boredom and heat, Gods’ grace, but it’s impossibly hot in this cursed place. “You have a solid base of understanding; I can work with this.” He shrugs off one layer of his furs—leaving the others as they were, the maniac—and takes a long look around. “With that said, your foundational principles are suspect. Importing is the death of industry. If you need to import a significant part of your materials from across the world, you might as well not bother. Luckily enough, you don’t have to import anything; you can get everything you need from the North or, more broadly, any forest-based environment.”  He swans forward and straightens, presence somehow growing heavier, chasing away the lethargy in the room. “Let us talk about wood ash, and why that is the only thing you need to make glass. Wood ash, gentlefolk, and limestone.”

***

Ned escapes after two hours, head spinning with new information. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem unlikely that Tobirama will emerge victorious from this test. Hell, if he isn’t bluffing, and he can’t see why he would be, then he might very well make something of the craft. It probably won’t ever be a significant income source, but it doesn’t need to be. Ned desperately needs thriving workshops and craftspeople who can do something with the materials at their disposal. As a rule, the North sells raw materials; their greatest exports are timber, ore and furs. Gwen is doing Gods’ own work, but there’s only so much she can do; if Tobirama shows it can be done, that he can revive even a dead craft like glassmaking—Who knows what could happen?

***

Ned has things to do other than watch Tobirama shred the glassmaking workshop to component parts and reassemble it. He does stop by as often as he can afford, however. It’s oddly restful. Tobirama doesn’t rush but doesn’t slow down either. The pace feels as inevitable as the flow of information is.

It all matters, apparently. What wood you choose, how you burn it, how you process the ash, afterwards. The sand—imported from White Harbour, not Dorne—needs to be washed, ground and purified. The workshop must have better isolation, better lighting and, most importantly, better ventilation.

By the time he starts redesigning the furnaces—and sketching his instructions on a slab of black stone, with a piece of tailor’s chalk—he’s started gathering a crowd of people. They might not be glassmakers but they, like Ned, enjoy observing eccentric genius at work and, moreover, there is something for anyone in Tobirama’s rants. Ned never was apprenticed, but the experience would have been anything like this methodical, patient recitation of theory, followed by a swift and precise demonstration in practice.

“Your furnaces are very good,” he is saying, walking back and forth. Behind him is the black slab of stone, with a neat diagram of a standard casting furnace. “But working with metal and working with glass is very different. We start with multiple chambers, each calibrated for a different temperature—”

Ed Eagleeyes meets him near the front door, expression troubled. “There will be a war for that man,” he says, in his typical halting manner. “Gwen won’t let him go if she has to stake her opposition on the roof, but even she won’t hold of Cedric for long. Not when Tobirama seems to have first-hand knowledge in Essossi crafts.”

It had occurred to him, yes.

“I’m afraid we’ll just have to live with that my friend,” he says instead. “One thing that I have learned as the captain of this wretched ship is that craftspeople are to be left alone. Right now, Tobirama is free with his time and his knowledge. Push him too hard and he will not be, because I’ve not yet met one of his lot who wouldn’t cut off their nose to spite their face.”

Eagleeyes gives his shoulder a comforting pat; Ned appreciates it.

***

Three weeks into his project, Tobirama has Master craftspeople dropping into his workshop when time allows, to sniff out his progress. Carpenters and blacksmiths for the most part, but the potters are stirring. Metalwork, pottery and leather-working are the North’s most beloved crafts, with pottery coming out on top without much of a competition. There are more smiths, of course, by a factor of a thousand, but pottery is more traditional, not to mention more exclusive. Any fool can become a blacksmith good enough to punch out horseshoes and arrowheads. Becoming an apprentice for a master potter is another matter altogether.

“They want to pick his brain about their kilns,” Gwen says, low and pleased. “Took them long enough, the doddering old bats. If they dithered any longer I’d have locked myself into their warehouses with a great, big hammer and a lifetime of displeasure.” 

“He doesn’t much like pottery, did you notice,” he says, erasing those words from his mind with meticulous care. “He knows about it, but it doesn’t interest him like glasswork—or metalwork for that matter.”

Gwen, who came up with the leatherworkers, rolls her eyes. “He has a good head on his shoulders, yes. Snooty and condescending but at least he doesn’t faff about with pretty porcelain or intricate weaving patterns.”

Ned’s lips twitch. He can’t even imagine it. “Either way, I doubt the potters will be able to nab him before the metalworkers do.”

***

Not being a fool, Ned schedules the next meeting with the Guildmasters the day after Tobirama’s month-long project ends. He should have made some pieces by then, he figures, which will be enough to take to the Guild Council.

He does, as it happens, produce a set of decorative glassware, cups blown from the smooth, silvery-greenish glass he doesn’t want to breathe on, lest it shatter.

“—they are strong enough,” Tobirama is saying, thirty minutes into the meeting and going strong, “but I’m not thrilled about the colour. I look forward to experimenting with different compositions of ash and sand, and there is something about iron and glass I forgot about, that I hope to explore in the future.”

It sounds like a sales pitch. Tobirama sounds like he’s laying out his results, the conclusions he’s gotten from them, and the improvements he has planned for the future, should they approve his funding. Granted, at this point, the Master of Treasury would easily approve a generous artisan’s budget just to see what he comes up with, no questions asked, but the approach is interesting. If Tobirama agreed to join a guild—which he still refuses to do, unfathomably—he’d be justifying his projects to a panel of his peers and his Guildmaster. As it is, he does it to Ned.

“Could you—Would they survive a trip to the South?” Ned blinks, a bit shocked to have Tobirama’s full attention. “The glass wares I mean. They’re very pretty, but I don’t know if it’s possible to transport something this fragile safely.”

“They’re not as delicate as they look,” Tobirama says, flicking an absent hand. “And I plan to make them even more shock-resistant. The primary use I have for glass is to make dishes I can easily clean and a line of instruments I plan to use for my future experiments. I need bendy, clear glass for both of those things, which means experiments.”

***

It is with a clear heart that Ned releases Tobirama into the soft underbelly of Winterfell’s artisan district. Like calls to like, clearly; it’s difficult to see who is more at ease by the arrangement, him or the craftspeople. Moreover, his relative value in the North skyrockets. It’s one thing to be a mystical emissary of the Old Gods. It’s quite another to be on friendly terms with five of the six Guildmasters, and most of the upper hierarchy.

“Alright, I give up,” Tobirama says, suddenly, as they are walking back from a Guild Council meeting. “What is the purpose of the ridiculous nicknames?”

Ned blinks. “Pardon?” Has someone given Tobirama a silly nickname? Who would dare? Why would they dare? Who knows what the maniac could do to them, if given enough time and motivation—

“The Guildmaster of the Harvest Guild is called Eightfingers,” Tobirama says, eyes tight with outrage. “The Head of the Works Guild is called Eagleeyes. Rations and Reserves Master is Garrick Snowsocks. They can’t be deed-names, they’re too ridiculous for that, but I can’t see what else they could be.”

Ah. Ned’s lips twitch, belly tingling with humour. “Well, there is no one universal reason. Most common folk don’t have a family name to claim, yes? Sometimes, those people would get awarded the right to start their family line, as a reward for an outstanding achievement on their part.”

Tobirama’s eyebrows arch. “The Guildmaster of the Harvest Guild chose Eightfingers as his family name?”

Ned grins. This will be amusing. “No, his case is somewhat different. Do you know his first name, perchance?”

Tobirama’s eyes narrow. “Ed. Master Ed Eightfingers.”

Mmm. “Eddard,” he says. “He is, in fact, called Eddard. Coincidentally, did you happen to catch the name of Head of the Works Guild is called?”

Tobirama exhales a short, restorative breath. “I will make an educated guess and say it is also Eddard.”

It’s been a while since Ned could enjoy outsider confusion about their peculiar ways. It’s as enjoyable as he remembers. “There are at least twenty Eddard’s, Brandon’s and Lyanna’s in every village. Like there will be any number of Robb’s, Jon’s, Sansa’s and so forth. So, you get nicknames. Markers. Lya Longbraid. Ed Eagleeyes. Ed Eightfingers—”

“Who is only missing one finger!”

Ned shrugs. “There’s time still; he’s not yet twenty-five.”

“Very droll—” Tobirama inhales another, somewhat less restorative breath. “So why Snowsocks, then? The ruling line hasn’t had any Garricks in hundreds of years.”

Ned’s smile grows. “He likes walking on snow without boots, only wearing thick, wooden socks—”

***

Having Tobirama in Winterfell is exciting and strange and dangerous. He feels illicit, this odd, brilliant man. Ned knows all his advisors agree with him. He knows too much and teaches it too well. When he encounters a working or a technique he isn’t familiar with he learns and integrates it at a terrifying pace. There has to be a price, for all this bounty, they agree. Hell, if he knows his people, they are already thinking up ways to pay the price, when it does eventually come.

People call him the White Witch, when they’re not calling him White Wolf. He protests the former and takes the latter as his due with, frankly, incredibly painful ease. Considering his ongoing refusal to join a guild—or start one, as was suggested by an increasingly frazzled Edrin Mormont—Ned hadn’t thought the man would want to be counted among the Starks. He does, apparently, at least by inference. “The terminology needs some work, however. I am an inventor, if anything. With that said, let us move on to more productive topics, such as my lemon fruits. Pay attention, this part is important. I am going to explain what the mould is and why we need it—”

***

“A hollowed-out needle, yes. Steel, if you could manage it. Nothing that rusts. As sharp and narrow as you can make it. It will—Tamara, would you be so kind as to gather some people? Anyone who wants to learn about healing. We will be talking about blood and diseases. More precisely, we will be talking about how to combat them. Hurry, now, there’s a lass. Now, Master Gori, back to our discussion. A needle is used to deliver medicines straight into our bodies—”

***

“Far-eyes are just glass shaped in a specific manner. The same principle can be applied to other instruments. For now, we make lenses to help your jewellers, carvers, embroiders and so on; people who specialise in fiddly work, who would benefit from seeing the small details better—”

***

“Willows, yes. The older the better—Oh, you don’t say? How interesting. Take me there, please.”

***

“Poppy plants? You grow them? And how do you—Don’t tell me you don’t distil them? Goodness. Alright,  be thankful Mistress Eddra has finished with my order of glassware—”

***

“How many do you remember my lectures on the nature of diseases? Good. This will be the beginning of conversations—and there will be many, I assure you— on fighting bacterial infections with what I named antibacterial medicines. On this dish, we have a decent concentration of mould, that naturally kills infections. Our job, now, is to take from the mould only the medicine, and leave behind all the other things that are only going to make the disease worse—” 

***

Chapter Text

With how cut off the North is from the rest of the kingdom, the news of Tobirama’s miracles doesn’t have time to spread to the South. Likewise, the North, dazzled by a prophet of its own, doesn’t pay attention to the ever-shifting political climate. That is why, when word comes that Balon Greyjoy crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and started a spirited looting campaign along the coast, the North is collectively baffled.

This is not to say that there is any question about what needs to be done. “The King calls for the North, and the North will answer,” he tells the Keep after the evening meal is finished.

The Keep is as transformed by Tobirama’s chaos as her people are. The walls are scrubbed clean and new, fancy window panes are installed in place of the old, imported ones. The shape and the make of the tableware has also gone through reform. The North hadn’t abandoned their utilitarian, practical style, but Tobirama’s creations started something of a movement. The cups grew shorter and wider. The painted designs have been abstracted to the point of shapelessness. Ned can tell what they mean to represent, because they call on traditional Northern motifs, but an outsider would not have. He suspects, all told, that this is the point.

As predicted, Tobirama hasn’t taken much of a personal interest in clay, but he had made a couple of sets from iron and stone. That said, he had been taking the children to the potters’ workshops, having judged that they would be more or less safe, mucking about with clay. Their bumbling attempts are charming—and Arya appears to have a proper talent for it, as young as she is—but Ned and Cat won’t have a meal without at least one of their pieces present.

Ned jerks to the present at Tobirama’s hum, from his customary spot next to Jon, on the near-end of one of the lower tables. Nothing and no one could convince the man to join them at the high table, from day one onwards. “The King calls for war? Against whom?”

“Lord Greyjoy has declared independence.” Gods wept, the words sound even more ludicrous when spoken out loud. “By which I mean he sent his men off to pillage as they please. Lannister fleet burns, and Lannisport and Seagard are sacked. The King’s brothers, Lord Stannis and Lord are marshalling the Stormlands and the fleet. Robert is taking the Crownlands’ forces and marching to the Trident. We will meet him there.”

“Interesting.” Tobirama taps an idle finger on the edge of his bowl. “We will have to pause our lessons, Jon,” he tells the boy cuddled up to his side, all but made invisible by pressing into  Tobirama’s furs. “I will bring you back a souvenir from the South.”

What?

“You plan to—join us?” Quiet, scholarly, tiny Tobirama? Setting aside the fact his Guildmasters would skin him alive if he let anything happen to him, he has no business being near battle. Surely he is busy enough as it is, harassing artisans and mocking everything the Citadel has to say about any given topic? “We have plenty of healers, Tobirama, and we all remember the proper use of your medicines, you need not—”

Tobirama laughs, the sound rare enough to halt Ned’s words in their tracks. Wow. “I am trained, Lord Stark,” he says, red eyes glittering orange in the candlelight. “Worry not, I can hold my own in battle.” He pauses and tilts his head to the side in a very feline manner. “More importantly, I don’t trust you or your Lords not to take every opportunity for noble sacrifice you happen upon. I am as fond as a man can be of your Robb, my Lord, but I have no wish to see him lead Winterfell just yet.”

Gods.

“Your work will suffer,” blurts Greatjon, apparently just as uneasy with the idea of tiny, slender Tobirama facing off against an Ironborn in battle. “You haven’t even had your summit with the Reserve treasurer about funding your long-term projects—”

“Nice try,” Tobirama says, drawing the boy whispering under his breath closer to his body. “I will not be convinced, my Lords. But—” He pauses, casting a long look at the assembled folk staring at him with varying levels of dismay. Ned has never seen him so visibly amused. “I will consent to a demonstration. I wanted to have a chat with Adric Ashbeard about making a specific type of blade for me. Give me three days, my Lords, and if you can find a man in the North that can best me in bladed combat, I promise I will remain in Winterfell.” He huffs a laugh and presses a casual kiss into Jon’s curls. “Three men, even.”

***

The North is good at mobilising quickly. A solid chunk of their funds goes into keeping the army operational, and the Council of Lords’ main purpose is to make sure their standards don’t slip. It’s easy to let such things slide, in times of peace, when you would much rather spend gold on grain and wine. Since his Lords would rather slit their throats than suggest that they and their contributions are anything but vital, this means the Northern army is the best trained and the third biggest, after Dorne and the Reach. It also means that the Council of Lords and the Council of Guildmasters have bloodthirsty rows about budgeting every half year or so, but that probably can’t be helped.

All of which is to say that they don’t need long to mobilise. With how scattered their larger cities are, there is no point in trying to organise into a coherent force before they had passed the Neck. Each unit will start making their way down during the following week, and wait for the rest to arrive at the first available clearing past Greywater Watch, before following the King’s Road to the Trident.

The bulk of the infantry has already left, by the time the fourth day dawns, and it’s time for Tobirama’s demonstration. The cavalry hasn’t, however, which means the middle- and upper class are all present and breathlessly waiting to see what Tobirama has planned for them. Doubting their mad genius is a fool’s errand, everybody knows that. Even so—

Greatjon is his first opponent. Ned would be more uneasy if the tall man wasn’t Tobirama’s greatest advocate. The man adores Tobirama like he is part of his brood; he would never harm him intentionally. Even so, the sight of them facing off makes his stomach clench. Greatjon is dressed in standard battle-leathers, armed with his signature longsword. In contrast, Tobirama wears a lightly padded outfit, with a couple of discrete leather pieces protecting his neck and chest. He could just as easily have dressed for a casual walkabout. His weapon is just as subtle, a double-edged blade, similar to Dornish curved swords except thinner and straight.

“Until first blood,” asks Tobirama, bobbing a polite nod. 

“Aye, lad.”

The bout, if it can be called that, is over in less than a couple of heartbeats. Tobirama sweeps forward with speed and grace he should not possess, spins around Greatjon and executes a confusing flurry of movements which leaves him unarmed, on his knees, with a sword to his throat.

“Shall we try it again,” Tobirama asks, voice calm and composed. “This time, I will give you some time to prepare, yes?”

***

“He must be Gods-sent,” Greatjon raves later that evening, rubbing one of Tobirama’s creams over the many, many bruises he got during Tobirama’s go at making a point. “He must be. Nobody is that perfect. Beautiful, wilful, bursting with knowledge—and now he fights like a demon, too. That is no mortal man that you’re hosting, Ned.”

“To quote Wyman’s words, my friend, I dare not look at it too closely. Man or blessed spirit or any mixture of the two, it is none of our business. He is on our side.” They can all be grateful a man this powerful hadn’t taken a liking to, say, the Lannisters.

“I shudder to think what he will do on the battlefield,” Greatjon says. “I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards,”

Almost being the key distinction there. Nobody feels sorry for Ironborn. They make themselves so easy to despise.

“If we’re very lucky, most of the fighting will be over by the time we reach the Crag. I would rather Tobirama stay in the back with our supporting force than see him in peak battle.”

“I can’t wait to see what the King will say. Our Tobirama could go toe to toe with Barristan the Bold and make no mistake. He will try to get him for the Kingsguard, mark my words.”

Ned breathes through a very familiar wave of anxiety he’s been dealing with ever since it became clear Tobirama will follow them to war, and, more importantly, to Robert’s sphere of awareness. “I wish him good luck with that,” he says with a forced smile. Tobirama’s unknown origins haven’t been a problem in the North, because everyone and their cat considers him a boon sent by the Old Gods. How Robert will handle an obviously Valyrian man is anyone’s guess.

What a mess.

***

“Must you go,” Sansa asks, blinking watery blue eyes up at Tobirama. “Couldn’t you stay with us?”

“I’m afraid not, kit,” says Tobirama, not pausing the complicated braid he’s been winding her hair into. “Who will keep your father safe, if I’m here with you?”

“Jory,” says Robb, pouting. “Jory and Greatjon and Lord Karstark and—”

Tobirama makes a quiet, amused sound. “All of them are blessed with a heroic lack of common sense, I’m afraid. Moreover, your Lord Father thinks of the King as his closest friend. Any man important to your father is to be kept safe, especially when they’re fighting wars. ”

Bran pauses his play with a fascinating mechanical toy Tobirama had the smith make for him. “The King has everyone to keep him safe, though,” he says “It will be so boring here without you.”

“You have your lessons to keep you company, petal,” says Tobirama, fondness softening the deep notes of his voice. “The Guildmasters know you, as do most of the artisans. I will be very happy with you if you do not pause your learning just because I am not here.”

“I will miss you,” says Jon, barely audible, wedged between the back of the armchair and Robb. “I won’t—Nobody will—”

Tobirama hums, clipping the finished braid-crown on top of Sansa’s head. Good timing, because Ned is just about to stop pretending to be absorbed in work and try to comfort his solemn little boy. “I assure you, I have made clear the sheer wealth of displeasure I will unleash upon Winterfell if I return and learn you have been treated with less respect than you are due. The list of men and women who will take over your lessons and safekeeping while I am gone is long and detailed. I will discuss it with you in-depth tomorrow.”

“Still,” says Jon, only a little comforted by the show of care. “I don’t want them. I want you.”

“You have me, cub. But your father is going to war, and wars are messy and cruel and wicked. I have the training to keep him safe, so that is what I will do.” He passes a long, serious look over the children watching him. Arya is the only one who never said a word about him leaving, but that’s because Arya doesn’t want him to stay, she wants to join him. “I do not want to leave you, believe me. I do not enjoy battle; I think it’s barbaric and unnecessary. However, sometimes we must do things we do not want to do. As you well know, considering how much you whine about your history lessons.”

“We won’t whine if you stay,” offers Sansa. “Promise. We will be polite and well-mannered and we won’t say anything when you come to dinner smelling of ash and boiled bones.”

“A tempting offer,” says Tobirama, lips tilted in a small smile. “Alas, duty calls. Your father and I will be back before you have time to miss us.”

Ned’s traitorous heart skips at the casual familial address. Your father and I— Almost as if Tobirama is—

Gods’ mercy, Stark, pull yourself together. You’re a married man, as strained as your marriage has been of late. Moreover,  you’ve spent most of your life pining over unavailable men. The depths of your mind are apparently beyond saving, but you can at last try not to acknowledge it. 

“I will miss you before you’ve left the keep,” says Jon. “I already miss you.”

Gods.

***

A harried raven comes hurdling their way, on the eve of the sixth day, as they’re putting together final preparations for their march. It’s from Robert, unsurprisingly. Dread pools in his stomach. What now—

“Fuck.”

“Pardon?” Tobirama’s eyebrows arch and he stops writing his infernal lists of what needs to be done in their absence.

“My apologies.” He takes in a deep breath, forcing his mind to focus. “It appears that Dorne has entered the fray. They will join the campaign.”

“Oh?” Tobirama straightens in his seat, setting aside his quill carefully. “I would not expect Dorne to take interest in the uprising. Did something happen?”

Did it ever. “Princess Arianne, Prince Doran’s eldest daughter, has been killed by Euron Greyjoy two days ago.” And what in the name of the Old Gods and the New was the girl even doing in the Reach? “He sank her ship after—After following the ways of the Ironborn.” What a fate. She can’t have been more than sixteen if he remembers his genealogies. Ironborn aren’t kind to young women who cross their paths, doubly so if they are out raiding in full force.

Something shifts behind Tobirama’s eyes, muscles subtly moving so his face becomes a cold mask. “By that, I assume you mean gruesome excesses of violence and depravity.”

“Aye. Prince Doran would not have taken it lightly even if it were a regular Dornish ship. Since this is his daughter they—” Gods. “Prince Oberyn will be disembarking in Westerlands before the month is out.”

“Good. More reinforcement is always good. I heard interesting things about the Dornish, I look forward to confirming my conclusions.”

Ned tries for a long series of moments to imagine what Tobirama meeting Oberyn Martell will look like and gets absolutely nothing for his efforts. If the meeting with Robert was a mystery, then meeting Oberyn is ten times as unknowable. He doesn’t know what he dreads more, that Tobirama will despise them and their lighthearted approach to societal norms, or that he will love it. The same holds true, he thinks despairingly, of Robert.

Which brings him to a topic he desperately does not want to bring up. Even though Ned’s been orbiting around Tobirama since day one, fully enchanted by every single thing he does, he hasn’t spoken that much with the man. His crippling shyness prevented him from approaching him directly, and Tobirama is both self-contained and perpetually busy. That combination doesn’t lead to many free exchanges.

“The King—” Alright, back up. “How familiar are you with the political situation in the Kingdom? More specifically, around King Robert’s rule.” Seven years it’s been, and it feels like lifetimes.

“I would not say I am an expert, but I tried to familiarise myself with the common knowledge. Why?”

“In your readings, did you come across—” Heavens wept, but this is a hard topic to navigate. “Late Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was married to Elia Targaryen, nee Martell, Prince Doran’s and Prince Oberyn’s sister. After—” After Rhaegar fell in love with Lya and lost his fucking mind— “After the Prince fell in battle and King’s Landing was sacked by the Lannister force, it was found out that Princess Elia and her children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, were murdered by unknown assailants.”

Ned will likely never stop being ashamed of being forced into that vow. Robert had not ordered the children slain personally, but he was glad for it. Glad enough to have protected Tywin and his beastly orders. Glad enough to have extracted a vow from Ned that he will protect the secret, and now—

Tobirama’s eyes catch on his flickers of shame like he feared they would. “Unknown assailants, my Lord?”

“Since nobody spoke out to claim ownership of the deed, it was unofficially decided that the Mad King had ordered them slain as retribution to the Dornish who were slow to send armies to defend the capital.”

“I see.”

Ned accepts the wave of shame comes. You should be ashamed. You’re protecting murderers and rapists, letting Robert drag you into his madness—

Tobirama mercifully continues the conversation before shame can bind Ned’s throat into muteness that will last for days. “The King has little love for Dorne, I assume?”

“Aye, and the sentiment is very much returned.” Dorne is a part of the Seven Kingdoms by the loosest approximation of the term. In the past years— “I bring this up to—caution you. The Dornish have no love for the King, and House Stark is known to be the King’s closest ally. Their dislike spills over to the North.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Tobirama sends him another long, blank look, and turns away, going back to his lists. “Thank you for telling me, my Lord. I find myself even more curious, now.”

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay away from them altogether?”

Tobirama doesn’t even spare him a look. “Children die in war, my lord; this is hardly shocking. With that said, I am interested in learning who ordered it done and why it hadn’t been claimed. Wiping out the line of a man who wronged you is one thing, but not claiming the deed is quite another.”

That’s what he was afraid of. Ned doesn’t hunch his shoulders in shame, but he really wants to. He should know, he tells himself sternly. He would have learned it one way or another, and he should get accustomed to the idea that Ned is as corrupt as the rest of them when all is said and done. The fact that it hurts is, in this case, a sure sign that he’s doing the right thing.

***

The march down the Kingsroad is, if anything, tragically familiar. Every one of his Lords shares his view. The last time the North marched south of Mount Calin—

Never mind that. He’s comforted, they are all comforted by the spectacle that is Tobirama on a horse.

***

“You mean to tell me I am to ride a horse,” he says, as they’re setting out. “I am to sit on the back of an animal who has done me no wrong and expect to be carried? Like luggage?”

Ned blinks, fully confused out of his dread. “Is that a problem?”

“Is that—” With an aggrieved sigh he usually reserves for incompetent apprentices and much too forward young ladies, Tobirama shakes his head, staring at the lovely young stallion Ned had bought for him. “I could not possibly—Surely, the North has an infantry unit  I can join? Barring that, I can run. I will keep up easily.”

“That is a good idea,” says Ned, struck by a moment of inspiration. If he’s walking, he will be weeks behind Ned, thereby severely cutting down on the time he will spend around Robert. “You could join any of our infantry units. I will send for Bran Bristlebeard presently—”

Tobirama cuts his eyes to him, fully unamused. “You and your Lords will be riding, I presume?”

Damn. “Yes”

“Of course, what was I thinking,” Tobirama grumbles. “Because it’s completely reasonable to sit on an animal’s back and demand to be carried like a sack of rice—” If he was a cat, his fur would be standing on end. Ned’s heart twists further, somehow. He’s used to the easy way Tobirama claims all of Ned’s attention as his due, but typically he has a whole host of duties to be distracted by. “Fine. If that is the way of the land, who am I to argue?” He inches forward, patting the young stallion’s neck with an apologetic air. “I apologise for my unforgivable rudeness, sweetling. I promise I will try to work with you as best I can and, of course, repay you when we are back in Winterfell.”

Ned watches the man go on a long stream of apologies to the horse, chest expanding and collapsing miserably. Lord Karstark passes by and pats him on the back with a sympathetic look on his face. They’re all helpless against Tobirama’s charm, but Ned is the most obvious about it. Thank the Gods that Southerners have such a firm taboo against such things that the thought hasn’t even crossed Cat’s mind. Who knows what chaos would ensue, then?

***

Chapter Text

Robert’s army sits at the Trident, having flooded out of Harroway’s Town and over to the surrounding lands. So far so good; they might overwhelm the local infrastructure but that is unavoidable. The harrowing part, the part that Ned knows will cause him no end of grief, is how the army is situated.

In a cruel twist of fate, the sharp incline in the King’s road provides a perfect visual metaphor for the divisions and political quagmires he knows to be there. House Baratheon flags are dotted in the centre of the encampment, flanked by the Lannister reds on one side and Arryn blues on the other. An unexpectedly high number of Tyrell greens are spread behind the Baratheons opposite an ominously tightly packed camp of Martell orange suns.

“Interesting,” hums Tobirama, riding behind him. For all that he had complained every step of the way, Tobirama rides like he was born in the saddle. It doesn’t look even slightly possible, that he sits so comfortably on his horse, not for a moment inching from his seat. To add insult to injury, his horse—whom he had swiftly renamed Nara—is easily the most pampered animal Ned has ever seen. Watching Tobirama spoil his horse rotten has become something of a pastime for Ned and his bannermen. Every morning and evening, they would watch Tobirama’s tiny form wipe down and pamper his bewildered horse, who would in all likelihood never allow another rider after this. “I had not expected this large an army.”

“It’s a show of force,” calls the Greatjon, towering above all of them on his massive warhorse. “Civil uprisings must be stamped out, and nobody likes the Ironborn enough to make gestures towards restraint. The Crown is looking to make an example.”

“Not a bad strategy,” says Tobirama, voice dripping with cynical derision. “I imagine that the lions are pleased by it. The first strike was against Lannisport, yes?”

Ned figures he might as well attempt some fairness. “Ironborn raiders are a plague on all of us. Lord Manderly’s ships do little else but repel them.”

“Aye, that much is true,” says Greatjon. “Raiders are a blight. So a force strong enough to wipe out every man woman and child in the Isles is reasonable. Honourable, even.”

Gods. He hadn’t—He prayed his bannermen would have let some of the old grudges die. In hindsight, it was a doomed hope. His core allies—Umbers, Karstarks and Manderlys—knew Lya and how unlikely it was she’d let herself be wedded out, much less kidnapped. It is an open secret among his inner circle that Lya chased her love to the ends of the world. They don’t even blame her, for the most part. Drive a wolf into a corner and you only have yourself to blame when you get an outcome you don’t like. She tried to tell them,  tried to plead and beg and reason. When nobody would listen, she ran, leaving fire and ruin in her wake.

“Come,” he says, well used to breathing through familiar pangs of self-loathing. “We must pay our respects.”

***

“Ned!”

Robert changed a little over the years. He’s put on some weight, and let his hair grow out. The fierce, blue eyes are clouded with wine and the lines around his eyes and mouth do not speak of a happy life. With all that said, he’s still as glorious as Ned remembers him. Tall and built, shoulders wide enough for three men. With that honest smile, it is easy to recall a boy of five and ten, daring him to scale the nightmarish webs of ladders around the Eyre.

“My King,” he says, easily slipping into the familiar, teasing tone. His heart shines from his eyes, he is pretty sure, but he had lost that fight years ago. Since nobody had called him out on it, he figures he is allowed the impropriety.

“Oh come off it, you giant pillock. Come here and give us a hug!”

“I wouldn’t dare, your Majesty.” Gods, but he’s missed Robert. The nightmarish web of lies and plots sits heavy on his shoulders, but being in Robert’s orbit has never been anything but soothing.

“Bah!” He bounds up from his chair, steady on his feet even with all the wine he’s likely drunk. “Northerners, not a lick of sense to be found. If you won’t come to me, I will come to you.” And so he does, swallowing up the distance in four long strides before picking Ned up and swinging him around. His heart expands, at odds with how his chest constricts. “I’ve been waiting for you in this miserable field for weeks, not a single skirmish to settle the itch.”

“A cruel and unusual fate,” huffs Ned, hopelessly endeared. “Put me down Robert, for pity’s sake. My bannermen wait to pay their respects, and I have a new ally to introduce.” He doesn’t let the easy smile shake. “A healer from the far north. Fights like you wouldn’t believe—wiped the floor with my best men, and did it to prove a point.”

“Only you, Ned, would find a wildling maester” laughs Robert. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. There’s only so long I can handle the prissy Lannisters. Some Northern gruff sounds just about right.”

Ned forces his body to remain loose and relaxed, as he turns around and signals his Lords to approach. Lord Manderly is first, both sons flanking him, wearing joviality like impenetrable armour. Lord Umber is next, followed by the Karstarks, then the Boltons. Domeric blushes something fierce after Robert claps him on the shoulder companionably, which puts Robert in an even better mood. So far, so good.

Tobirama swans forward, movements fluid. He is still mostly unreadable, but if Ned isn’t very, mistaken, his frosty wildling is as charmed by Robert as Ned is. “Your Majesty,” says Tobirama, flowing into an elegant bow. His hair is tied back, has been since the beginning, and the fur hood covers most of his head. “It is an honour. My name is Tobirama.”

“Oh?” This close to Robert, Ned can see how tense he became, eyes roving over the narrow features, jutting cheekbones and sculpted lips. “You don’t have the look of a wildling. North of the Wall, you said?”

“Indeed, your Majesty. I don’t remember much about my previous life. Lord Stark found me unconscious in Winterfell’s Godswood. I pieced together that I must have crossed to the Seven Kingdoms over the water, and made my way to Winterfell.”

“And you fight?” Ned exhales subtly. He will take the thick scepticism over anything else Robert could take issue with. “You look like you belong in a brothel.”

Ouch. Ned ignores the way each and every one of his Lords stiffened, faces blanking. Tobirama doesn’t mind, wonder of wonders. Indeed, he laughs, a low, raspy sound that raises the hairs down his neck. “I belong anywhere and anywhere I would want to belong, your Majesty. I haven’t to date found anything interesting in a brothel, but I will take your words under advisement. With that said, I am a competent warrior. Would you care for a demonstration?”

A bark of laughter escapes Robert, possibly against his better judgment. “You’ve got the balls of a Northerner, I’ll give you that much. What brought you down?”

“I am an albino,” shrugs Tobirama. “A man born with colour leeched from my eyes and hair. My people thought me cursed; I disagreed. Revisiting that disagreement became tiring, after a while.”

“Well,” says Robert, derision shifting into curiosity, as grudging as it may be. “I’ve never heard a challenge I didn’t meet. To the sparring ground!”

Gods.

“I would issue a warning, in the interest of transparency. I am not familiar with your Southern ways, but your crown will not drive me to take it easy on you.”

“Hah! You’re on, pretty boy. Let’s see if you’re all talk!”

***

To his credit, Tobirama doesn’t take it easy on Robert but doesn’t humiliate him either. Unlike Greatjon, he doesn’t disarm Robert in a handful of moments. Instead, he meets his strikes, one for one. From an observer’s perspective, the spar looks terrifying. With how wrapped in furs Tobirama is, it’s difficult to tell his age or gender from a casual glance. To make matters worse, the King taking to the practice field draws everybody who is anybody. Ned spots Lord Tyrell, the Blackfish, Lord Crakehall, Lord Just and, last but not least, Tywin Lannister. The Kingsguard are here too, headed by Barristan Selmy, and watch the spar with blank expressions Ned wouldn’t even try to decipher.

“He’s good,” says Ser Barristan. “Very good. Better than anyone I’ve seen in a long time.”

“He is,” says Greatjon, voice pitched to carry. Judging by how the buzz of conversation around them picks up, they got the message too. “Threw me around the grounds for a full day to make a point. I learned not to underestimate him, no matter how tiny he is.”

Jamie Lannister watches the fighting, pain barely hidden behind a blank expression. It makes Ned think—what could the Kingslayer be pained by? Lannisters have little love for Targaryens, he’s pretty sure—

Never mind that, focus on the catastrophe unfolding in front of you. The pace is picking up slowly but surely. Robert is, paradoxically, losing hostility while falling further into battle-frenzy. Tobirama is meeting him, head-on. He is doing it deliberately—Tobirama is always deliberate, more’s the pity—which means he’s making a different point than before. In the North, he demonstrated his skill in battle. Here, he’s defending his—What? Masculinity? Ned never figured Tobirama to be concerned with such things, but he can’t think of another reason why he would match Robert in strength, not skill.

After a couple of minutes where nothing is heard but the dull roar of metal, Tobirama decides he’s made his point. He lets go of his sword, and steps into the incoming swing, only moving aside at the last moment, tiny palms pressing the flat of the blade between them. He exhales a breath in time for his full body twist that tears the sword from Robert’s hand. He continues the spin, launching the long sword away, the movement leaving him slightly behind Robert. With another exhale, he grabs the shoulder closest to him before Robert has had time to even exclaim in surprise. One breath, two, and Robert is on the ground, fixed in place by the grip Tobirama has on his shoulder and elbow. It’s quite a scene. Even kneeling, he’s just about Tobirama’s height, barrel chest expanding with the effort of the bout. Tobirama lets him go immediately, leaping backwards, and immediately banishes all aggression from his body. Just like that.

“Gods!” Robert howls in laughter, head tipping back to inhale a massive breath. All trace of wine or stress is wiped from his face. With cheeks red from exertion and labouring for breath, laughing between exhales, he’s dangerously, improbably lovely. “What a fight! I see how a tiny little pipsqueak managed to survive the Far North!”

“Size isn’t everything, your Majesty,” says Tobirama, deep voice rising in a teasing lilt. “As much as some men would wish it to be otherwise.”

“Hah! What’s this, a Northerner with a sense of humour? Will the wonders never cease?” With some effort, Robert gets his feet under him, a wide grin splitting his face, shiny teeth glinting in the sun. “You’re wasted as a healer. Where do you even keep all that strength? Gods, I thought you were going to launch me halfway to the moon! Ripped the sword straight from my hands, you suicidal little maniac!” He grins even harder, somehow, pink gums visible, as the flush is fading a little, sweat running down his face in little rivulets. “You have to teach it to me! Your King commands you?”

“Does he?” Tobirama’s voice smooths out into a croon, and Ned’s heart skips again. Who is this suave man, and what did he do with Ned’s grouchy healer? “I am a wildling, your Majesty. We kneel only when and for whom we please.” He fluffs out his furs, re-settling them around his neck, face a picture of unconcern. “With that in mind, it should be obvious that I would only do so for Lord Stark.”

Ned couldn’t stop his blush even if all the Gods came down and demanded it of him. What is he doing? Ned is not—He can’t just—What?!—

“Mercy, wildcat.” Robert laughs, stumbling towards Tobirama on unsteady legs and wraps a heavy arm around his shoulder. With their difference in size, it looks truly comical, like a kitten cuddling up to a war dog. “I see when I am beaten. Ned is welcome to your sharp tongue and sharper blade. He is the best of us, after all. I doubt anyone else could handle you.”

“Just so,” nods Tobirama, eyes crinkling into a fond grimace, liberally tinged with—Nostalgia? “I doubt there is anyone alive who could handle me, as you say, but Lord Stark would come closer than most.” He pats the hand around his shoulders, easily four times bigger than his own. “He is too darling to harm.”

Robert bellows another laugh. “Well said. Come, I need to wash, and then we feast.” He ambles Ned’s way, wrapping his other arm around his shoulders. “You must regale me with stories, Ned. A healer, you said. Hah! I can’t even be surprised. You always did have a knack for befriending madmen. How you found a man twice as mad as I am is beyond me, but Gods are good to those who deserve it!”

***

Ned checks out from the subsequent storm of activity. Nobody knew what to expect from Robert meeting Tobirama, Ned least of all, but whatever he had hoped for, it wasn’t this. Tobirama isn’t friendly with Robert, he’s almost paternal. Paternal with a thick air of nostalgia, eyes losing focus now and again, the more outrageously jovial Robert becomes.

The rest of the nobility are a hundred times more confused by this tiny foreigner who moves and acts with impeccable dignity, while also saying things almost too inappropriate to be believed. He outright stated he is not Robert’s to command, and that is a dangerous thing to say to any King, much less a man as territorial as Robert.

Robert bellows another laugh, entertained by one of many outrageous quips Tobirama delivered with a straight face, ale sloshing over from his tankard. Ned watches the scene unfold from his seat next to Mace Tyrell and doesn’t have it in him to internalise any of it.

“You have found a fine warrior, Lord Stark,” says Lord Tywin, cat eyes glinting with calculation. “A healer to boot, you said? Are there many maesters north of the Wall?”

Ned takes a moment to put on his best ‘Northern brute’ expression. Tywin never really bought that Ned is a complete lackwit, but he doesn’t know how much of it is an act. Ned is not fool enough not to keep that advantage however long he can. “Industriousness and creativity have little to do with geography. Moreover, where resources are scarce, ingenuity must make up the difference. If things were different, I would think we would all benefit greatly from Far North creativity.”

“I see,” says Lord Tywin, not buying it for so much as a second. Shame; Ned isn’t lying. For all that he is certain Tobirama is, at the very least, of Valyrian stock, he doesn’t know it, nor has he discussed it with anyone. The truth, as currently established, is that Tobirama is a wildling. “He appears a most capable man.”

“Tricks and jumps,” huffs Mace Tyrell, “do not mean that he gets to be so familiar with the King. His behaviour is unseemly and his audacity is unacceptable, Lord Stark. You would do well to instruct him in the ways of civilised behaviour.”

Ned blinks, jolted out of his performative stupidity by the much more sincere stupidity on display. He’s not even young; how did he survive this long? In his shock, he turns his eyes to Lord Tywin, whose lips are tight, corners tugging into a discrete sneer.

“One does not simply instruct Tobirama,” Nd says, voice a little faint to match the bewildered spirit. “I admit I would not even know how.”

“Tosh.” Tyrell tosses back the wine cup with, it has to be said, some expertise. “He is not at fault for his circumstance, but any man, no matter how simple, can be shown the right way. A firm hand, my Lord, might be necessary, but it will be for the best in the long run.” 

And what should he do with a firm hand, even if he were to discover he has one? Ned inhales a long, self-soothing breath. How firm would a hand need to be, for Tobirama to even acknowledge it? In short, is there such a thing as a hand firm enough to intimidate Tobirama of House Hatake? Ned can’t see how there could be.

“A most intriguing proposition, Lord Tyrell,” says Tywin, perfectly even-toned, eyebrows arched in a sardonic line. “I am certain Lord Stark appreciates your wisdom.”

“Aye.” Best stick to monosyllabic answers.

Robert wheezes another loud laugh, as Tobirama leans back in his chair, swirling a barely touched glass of wine in his fingers. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Ned says, jumping at the first chance to escape this conversation. “I have a few things to discuss with the King.” He pauses, mind caught on an irregularity. His bannermen are with the troops, overseeing the men. Jon is in King’s Landing, serving his role of the Hand. Most other Lords are here, however. Everybody except, notably, Oberyn Martell. “Lord Tywin,” he asks, hating every second of it. “Would you have some free time today or tomorrow to clarify some things about the war effort?”

“Of course, Lord Stark,” says the man, head twitching to the side, likely not having expected Ned would seek him out. Fair, absolutely fair. He needs to get the lay of the land, and Lord Tywin can be counted upon to speak the truth, if that truth doesn’t harm him or his. In this case, the Lannisters can only benefit by a distraction between the Martells and the King, and by proxy, them.

“Excellent. My thanks.”

“Ned,” calls Robert, having caught him standing up. “Come, join us! I was just telling your wildcat of our time in the Eyre.”

“Must we,” he says, faux-pained. Childhood stories are absolutely the safest thing the two of them could talk about. Tobirama, for better or for worse, hasn’t heard about the nightmare that was Lya and Robert’s relationship, much less how Rhaegar and Jon fit into that story. “I’m sure Tobirama would rather hear about the war.”

“Not at all,” hums Tobirama, tilting his head so his eyes reflect the light, more feline than a man should be. “Wars don’t interest me. Combat, however—” He twists, leaning back, eyes tracing Robert’s body without a hint of subtlety. “Why your friend is so sorely lacking in training partners?” He sends Robert a look that comfortably strays into indulgent. “You are a fine warrior, your Majesty, but your footwork can do with some work. The sword is not your favoured weapon, I don’t think?”

Robert straightens up with pride, eyes dancing and more than a little drunk. “I am best with a hammer. Not that I get to use it much. The trainers in the Keep dare not come at me with intent to harm; the best fight I had recently was with a boar.”

“Unacceptable,” Tobirama says. “I have only met you today, and I can tell you are a warrior before you are anything else. Perhaps your guards can be persuaded to train you? Master Selmy?”

“I would not mind a spar,” says Barristan the Bold, who Ned is admittedly still a bit awe-struck by. “With the King, naturally, but also with you, Master Tobirama.”

“It would be my pleasure,” says Tobirama, eying the Knight. “I know far next to nothing about how Southerners fight. That’s an oversight I am eager to correct.”

“Wonderful.” Robert grins, wide and beautiful. “I might have something more interesting to do than drink, gamble and fuck my days away.”

“Indeed.” The note of sorrow catches Ned’s attention. Tobirama is outwardly composed, but something around his mouth and brows shifts the expression into something more regretful. “Some people flourish in peace times. You, your Majesty, belong to the thrill-seekers. I will talk to your Knights and see what can be done to fill your days with some more excitement.”

***

Chapter Text

Oberyn Martell, Tywin informs him the following day, is at his most dangerous. The Red Viper’s niece was gruesomely savaged by one Euron Greyjoy, assaulted, tortured and staked out on the hull of the ship she was travelling on. Doran Martell might be a patient, peace-loving man, but having his sister and daughter murdered in less than a decade proved to be too much. Oberyn was swiftly granted the full authority to act in Doran’s name up to and including starting wars, the command of their army and the funds to hire more from Essos. The four thousand currently present are the handpicked best, but twenty thousand men are ready and waiting—without counting the sellswords.

“Princess Arianne has been returning from her habitual visit to Willas Tyrell, thereby implicating the Tyrells,” says Tywin, fingers steepled together, leaning over the desk in his tent. “It would be best if Euron Greyjoy is found as quickly as possible. The Dornish are silent, and disciplined and haven’t stepped a foot outside of their camp; the sooner we appease them, the sooner they will leave. Otherwise, with tempers fraying, a diplomatic incident seems unavoidable.”

“Of course.” Ned hesitates, trying to decipher the subtext. Tywin never talks straight, if he could instead take the roundabout way, never stating outright what can be obliquely alluded to. This go at transparency is worrying. “Perhaps the North can coordinate? There is little love lost between us and the Dornish, but we are better positioned than most.”

“I had hoped you would come to that conclusion.” Tywin nods. Success! Ned’s fumblings in the dark struck gold: Tywin didn’t want to deal with an Oberyn Martell at his most unhinged. He should have thought of that already. “We are mired in strife, and our men think the war is already won. It is not.” He takes a gulp of water, presumably to let the words settle. If he meant to unsettle him, he succeeded; Ned’s composure is cracking. “Ironborn fleet has better ships, more experienced men manning them and exhaustive knowledge of the sea. Should they destroy our fleet, such as it is, our advantage on land will be very difficult to press.”

Lovely. “Have they stopped pillaging your coastline?”

“Hardly.” Tywin’s lips press together briefly, visibly pushing down his irritation. “Most local and international trade has stopped on the eastern shores of the Kingdom. Since the Kingdom is still recovering from the recent wars, additional burdens on the Crown’s finances are unacceptable.” Tywin re-settles his shoulders, leaning forward to send a heavy look Ned’s way.

“All of which is to say that we must finish this swiftly and without quarter. The King must not appear weak, less than a decade into his rule. Any complication that can be avoided, must be.”

One such complication being a grief-mad Dornish prince. “Understood.” He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “The North does not have more than a dozen ships, all of them trade vessels, ill-suited for war. We can do little there. I will see what can be done about bringing the Dornish into the fold, without—” Without having them near Robert. “Without disturbing the status quo overmuch.”

“An excellent suggestion, Lord Stark,” nods Tywin, a bit of tension lifting off his shoulders. “With that covered, I would like to move on to Lord Tyrell and the values of restraint in the face of idiocy.”

Mace Tyrell, Gods wept. “I can ignore him just fine,” Ned says with an unadvisable amount of honesty, considering who he is talking with. “That said, I will not be held responsible for what Tobirama does to him if he continues making disciplinary suggestions.”

“Ah, yes, your intriguing companion.” For once, Ned thinks that he’s reached something of an understanding with Lord Tywin, in that both of them are morbidly amused by the horrors Tobirama will unleash upon the Tyrell imbecile if he crosses the line. “I would urge you to avoid that scenario as best you can.”

Mitigate, he says. “My bannermen adore Tobirama far more than they do myself, my Lord,” he says, completely honestly. “Never mind me, if Lord Tyrell says the wrong thing to the wrong person, every man in the North will line up to demand satisfaction until they are all dead or Tobirama’s honour is avenged.”

“I see.” Lord Tywin inhales a measured breath, calculations almost audibly adjusting behind the cold, green eyes. “That is unfortunate. Try to impress upon the value of having Highgarden and their wheat fields in a good relationship with the Crown.”

For a moment, Ned is struck by an odd realization—Jon Arrynl; that’s who Tywin reminds him of. This type of reasonable, transparent negotiations are precisely what his foster father would have attempted. Tywin has been serving as Master of Coin, working closely with Jon, Hand of the King; it is no wonder he picked up enough of the mannerisms over the years. That he is deliberately using these tactics to get Ned to cooperate only speaks to how much Tywin wants to make all this go away.

“I can only promise to try.” What a wonderful array of tasks. Pacify Oberyn Martell, convince Tobirama to not retaliate and keep his bannermen happy. Why not also get the Iron Bank to forgive the Crown’s debt while he’s at it?

“That will have to suffice.”

***

Tobirama, much to Ned’s complete lack of surprise, continues to court chaos. He’s with Robert more often than not, needling and nagging, steering him away from wine and whores with a clever jape and a dry remark about his battle prowess. Between the Lannisters, the Tullys and the Tyrells, they are not short on food, but the logistics are a nightmare, considering how unexpected and badly planned this campaign is. Instead of to the main force, the supplies are being sent directly to Banefort Keep, escorted by a nominal guard of their men—Lannisters, Tullys or Tyrells.

When he’s not with Robert, Tobirama hides away in Ned’s tent, meditating in silence, as if recovering from intense socialisation. As odd as is, Ned’s quite relieved to see that Tobirama’s transformation into a teasing, sly young sprite is at least in part an act—or an exaggeration. He can still see bits and pieces of the man he’d come to know if he looks hard enough. The air of dignity and entitlement remains the same, as do the dry sense of humour and a complete unwillingness to cater to what he deems trivial social norms.

Robert flourishes, transforming in a handful of days. Little wonder; he never had to work for anything he wanted—Well. That is not true. He had worked for what he wanted once, and did so with his whole heart, only to receive seas of blood and sorrow for his effort. Now, there is Tobirama, a man he can’t impress with his crown or his ancestry, and Robert has to step up or give up. A brutal arrangement.

The first disagreement, if it can be called such, comes about on the fourth day. Robert very much doesn’t want to anger his new friend, with an almost child-like earnestness. Tobirama, to Ned’s eye at least, has grown fond enough in return, that he doesn’t let himself get upset if he can avoid it. The trouble, then, comes from a misunderstanding and a well-meant blunder.

***

Calm down, Stark, he thinks, discomfort building up behind his eyes, bringing with it the first tingles of a stress headache. You’re a grown man. You’re not that awkward, clueless teenager. You have a gaggle of children, even, and a wife. You can extract yourself from this with dignity and self-respect.

The workably sky-clad beauty sashaying his way meets his eyes. Seven hells, he thinks, forcing himself not to throw his cloak at her and run away. She could be Robert’s twin, which he hopes to any God that may be listening is a coincidence or an unintended side-effect of Robert’s vanity. That hair, those lips and the pale blue eyes—Ned’s heart squeezes as tight as it can go while still beating. The girl is a professional, however; she notices the animal fear writ stark on his face, and pivots away from him and into Robert’s lap, joining her brown-haired friend.

“Robert,” he says, not even caring at how strangled his voice is. “This is not—We agreed, years ago. We agreed you would not—This is not—”

Robert jerks his way, eyes widening. “Oh, fuck me, Ned, I’m sorry.” Ned doesn’t doubt he is genuinely contrite, even as upset as he is. Ned had resorted to extreme methods when they turned nineteen and Robert started hiring every woman he could to spend the night in Ned’s bed. Several weeks of lost sleep and nightmares later, Ned broke and begged Robert for mercy, or he would have to ask Jon Arryn to send him back. “I had wanted—Maybe to fluster Tobi a little, jar him out of his prudish, Northern ways—I had not meant to—Fuck—”

“Me? Prudish?” Tobirama sits squeezed in next to the blonde, slender slip of a girl that Robert had hired for him. The air between them is oddly comfortable, free from lust, greed or any other such emotions men and women feel when presented with an opportunity to enjoy another's body without restraint. If anything they seem to share an understanding of some sort, the girl leaning her head sideways on Tobirama’s shoulder, hair spilling over both of them like a curtain of gold. “I assure you I am neither uncomfortable nor ignorant of the many ways people can find and take pleasure?” He tilts his head too, his silver hair mixing in with the gold, heavy and arresting. Ned’s head spins and his palms grow damp. “All three of these young ladies appear to be consummate professionals; I wouldn’t dare insult their trade or their skill. If they want to give me a spin, I will accept and thank them for their time.”

He turns sideways, murmuring something in the ear of the girl who shifted slightly so she’s slightly in his lap. She giggles, high and theatrical and obviously fake. Tobirama’s raspy chuckle is more honest, but only just. With a last flirty giggle, the girl slides off Tobirama’s lap and the chair, curtseys in an obscenely fetching way to the King and scurries out. “She will wait for me in my tent,” explains Tobirama, leaning back in his chair. “I am afraid I don’t do spectator events. Anyone who wants to watch will have to participate. Alas.”

Robert laughs a little, but his eyes are still trained on Ned, lips tight in a contrite scowl.

“No harm was done.” So much harm was done. Not only is he going to feel the aftereffects of this much shock and anxiety for weeks, he has to think about Tobirama rolling about with a gorgeous young thing that can’t be a day over seventeen, whispering and giggling with each other and— “I am sincere.”

“I always fuck up, with you,” says Robert, apparently disinclined to be comforted by Ned’s platitudes, as weak as they are. The remaining two brunettes are retreating slowly to the back of the tent. Tobirama sends them a signal, they bob quick curtseys to Robert and hurry out of there as quickly as they can without running.  “I don’t mean to, Gods grace, I never do, but that means little. You’ve asked so little of me over the years, nothing but the bare minimum and still I—”

This maudlin, introspective Robert is new. Or is it just self-loathing?

“Lord Stark knows you had not meant to cause him stress,” says Tobirama, voice flowing along more serious lines than those of before. “Intent is important. Not everything, of course, but it helps. He tosses his hair a little, standing up and arching his back in a discrete stretch. “More importantly, there is no shame in exchanging money for sex, if it is done consensually and responsibly. I am certain Lord Stark doesn’t object to such things on principle. He is just uninterested.”

Bless. There is shame, no matter how common the practice is. The women aren’t shunned, but that doesn’t mean all that much. Buying sex is vulgar; selling it makes you merchandise, a commodity you buy for cheap and forget quicker, to say nothing of the issue of bastards.

“Tobirama is correct.” No, he’s not. “I’m not—angry, Robert. Just surprised. You know how I can get.”

“Yeah,” says Robert, lips tilted in a sad little smile, much too self-aware for Ned’s peace of mind. “Yeah, I do.” He stands up suddenly, quick enough that he almost turns over the table. “Fuck this place. Let’s go—Go fight. You and me, Ned, like old times.”

What old times? Ned has refused to raise a hand to Robert ever since Robert was knighted at seven and ten. “You should better ask Tobirama—”

“Ah-ah,” says Tobirama, arching his eyebrows. “I have a very pleasant afternoon to spend with three very lovely masters of their trade. Or mistresses, as the case may be.” He pauses and taps his lips with an elegant, slender finger. “Maybe the dark-haired beauty would like to be addressed as such? It would suit her, certainly.” He stands up and sends both of them a crooked, irreverent smile that still looks sharp enough to draw blood. “You two enjoy your afternoon and try to remember that I am a very hard man to shock. This can serve as a harmless enough lesson, hm?”

***

The anxiousness that grips him after Tobirama leaves has little to do with Robert and everything to do with jealousy. He is jealous and a little breathless as he always is when Tobirama but looks at him. When he was still puttering about as a healer wrapped in endless rolls of furs, it was easy to consider him as a spectre, a dream that was impossibly, laughably out of reach. Now that he’s drinking and laughing—Well, alright, nothing much had changed. Not only are they both men, and even in the North less than half lean towards such things, but Ned is married and old and bitter and—

“I won’t fight you,” he tells Robert out of the blue, “but I will fight next to you. Let’s find a band of willing warriors and see if we work as well together as we used to.”

Robert carefully puts his wine on the table, eyes wide and round. “A fine idea if ever I heard one. I never thought to see the day—Ned Stark stepping foot in a training ground without being cajoled for months.”

Yes, well, Ned Stark has just watched the target of his—The man of his—Ned Stark has just watched Tobirama swan away to fuck three pretty girls senseless, and is about to expire from jealousy. Or is it envy? Who, precisely, is he envious of, here? Any of them? All of them? What?

“I’m filled with energy that needs to go somewhere,” he says, only baring his teeth a little. “I won’t take it out on you, because you’re my King and my best friend and I love you.” Have your wits gone begging, Stark? What are you doing?  “Forget that,” he says, ignoring how wide and watery Robert’s eyes have grown. “I’m all twisted up, I don’t know what I am saying. Come on, let’s see if I can act dull enough that the simpleton calling himself a White Cloak will take me on.” He stands up, feeding all his anxiety and jealousy and panic and grief to the fire of impending violence. Quiet Wolf, they call him. Right. “What’s his name, even? Trout? Trunk?”

“Trant,” says Robert. Judging by the laugher in his voice, he’s let Ned’s unforgivable lack of decorum by. “Meryn Trant. Dumb fucker if ever there was one. Vassal of our House, with all that said. Not sure who knighted him but he is a joke in every sense of the word. Better ask Selmy.”

“Barristan the Bold?” With how many twists and turns he’s gone down in the last hour, he forgives himself the shrill tone. “I will not ask Barristan the Bold to fight me, Robert. I am not in a hurry to get murdered gruesomely without seeing a single grandchild—”

***

Chapter Text

After ten days of surviving the fact that Tobirama has become infamous among the camp followers—to the point where his tent is never free from at least three women coming and going—the news comes that they can finally start moving.

***

It’s this place, Ned thinks, having taken the time to sit in a patch of sunlight to manifest some amount of emotional stability. Nothing good happens at the Trident. The sooner they leave here, the better—A quiet but sincerely delighted laugh catches his attention, and he moves to follow it. That was an amateur mistake. As is so often the case, the source of the laughter is a lovely young woman, hand-in-hand with a friend, both of them leaving Tobirama’s tent with a near-tangible glow of satisfaction. You wretched idiot—

“What is he even doing to them,” he hears Greatjon tell Wendel Manderly, Lord Manderly’s youngest. “‘And how can he do it so much? I swear, this is the third group today—”

“Best not ask,” says young Wendel, resonant voice carrying. “Our Tobirama is a fine lad, you won’t find finer, but he is not what you may call forthcoming. The ladies are happier coming out than they are coming in, which is more than enough for me.”

“Aye,” replies Greatjon. Ned can taste the admiration in his tone, which only curdles his temper further. “This why I want to ask.”

“Do it if you dare. I will stand by and laugh as he tosses you around the training grounds for your impertinence.”

Ned’s patience snaps like a frayed rope. He storms off to Robert’s war tent, fuming. Tobirama is his own man; if he is determined to go speed-work through every camp follower on offer, that’s their business. He’s being as discrete as he is able, when in the thick of an army camp, and he has no wife or children to mind. He only has Ned and while he certainly thinks that should forbid this type of—

Ugh.

“Alright, Robert,” he says, perhaps a little sharper than politic. “I have had it with this cursed swamp. Please tell me we march soon, or I swear to the Old Gods and the New I will march off to Iron Islands alone—”

“Aye.” Robert leans over the long, wide desk covered with maps. Tywin, Mace and several other Lords strewn about the tent. “We do. Stannis met the Ironborn at Fair Isle and won.”

Stannis? Stannis Baratheon? Win? Against the Iron Fleet? At sea?

“Pardon?”

Robert laughs, sound bouncing off the flimsy walls of the tent, honest delight yanking Ned from the worst of his jealous strop. “Aye. He joined ranks with ships from Redwyne and Oldtown and baited the Iron Fleet into the Straits of Fair Isle. The mad bastard used himself as bait, boarded the flagship and led the Ironborn straight into a trap. Paxtor Redwyne hit them from the back and kept them there for long enough that the men firing flaming arrows from the island did their bit. It was a bloodbath.” 

Stannis? Lanky, surly Stannis who always moments away from flinging himself off the nearest cliff in despair?

“That is a magnificent success,” he says and means it. “I must find a way to congratulate Stannis.”

“Aye,” says Robert, almost visibly shaking in excitement. “More importantly, this means we move, Ned. The Iron Fleet is fucked, we make our way to Banefort on the morrow, and from there, off to Pyke!”

And not a moment too soon.

***

“Have you, perchance, opened a dialogue with Prince Oberyn, Lord Stark,” asks Tywin as the war council, such as it was, has disbanded and the Lords stormed off to inform their men of the upcoming march.

Ned doesn’t wring his hand like a prepubescent child, but the urge is strong. He forgot. Robert came at him with his eyes and his smiles and then Tobirama decided to soar into carnal magnificence and—And Ned spent the time at the Trident moping with his bannermen and fighting the Kingsguard when everything became too much.

“I—have not.” Good work. A fine politician you make, Lord Stark. “The King had rather occupied my time.”

“I gathered as much.” Tywin’s eyes are hard as emerald chips, perfectly matching the forbidding set of his jaw. “I would suggest you do so. The Prince must be notified of the events, and I find myself reluctant to inform him myself.”

Right.

“I’ll do that presently.” Which, now that he thinks about it, opens up a possibility. Ned couldn’t think of a reason to interrupt Tobirama’s carousing without coming across like the jealous twat he was, but now— “I’ll bring Tobirama with. He is a better diplomat than I am. More importantly, he is a fully natural, uninterested party.” Oberyn Martell despises Ned only a little less than Tywin or Robert. His sister had caused Princess Elia’s murder, even as inadvertent as it was. Moreover, he had killed Sword of the Morning, something Benjen will likely never forgive him for, and keeps secret the identities of Princess Elia’s murderers. A buffer sounds just about right, with all that in mind.

“If you think that’s wise.”

“I do.” He doesn’t, but he doesn’t know what else he could do. “I will inform you of the outcome of our meeting.” If nothing else, having Tobirama around will lessen the chances of the Red Viper snapping and cutting Ned down where he stands.

***

Tobirama emerges from his tent with a slightly exhausted but serene air about him. Ned manages not to clench his teeth or make an even bigger idiot of himself than he already has. It’s a work in progress. “The King’s brother has won a great victory,” he says, looking at a spot above Tobiama’s right shoulder. If he isn’t careful, he might see a love bite or a scratch or any such mark of lovemaking, and then he will have to go and fight Ser Barristan again and that won’t end well for anybody. “We march in the morning.”

“Fine news,” says Tobirama. Something in his voice is off. He’s not hostile, by his estimation, but a note of annoyance is not difficult to spot. “Thank you for informing me. I will make sure to congratulate Robert for his brothers’ success.”

“Yes.” Alright, now get to the point. “It falls to me to inform the Dornish of this development.” Ugh. “I had thought you would perhaps—”

“Oh?” The odd note in Tobirama’s voice sharpens further. “You had hoped to—what, Lord Stark? “

That’s fair. If you want to ask a man to act as a buffer between you and your shame, you had better have the presence of mind to look him in the eye. With some effort, he wins the battle with himself and meets the blank red eyes. “The matter is delicate, as you can expect. I had hoped you would accompany me. You are the closest we have to a neutral party.”

“I see.” The half-smile that curves Tobirama’s lips is a pale shadow of its species. “An intriguing suggestion. I had hoped for an opportunity to meet with the Dornish Prince and his men. Thank you for providing it. We can go presently.”

And now Ned is awash with a slow-moving dread, spreading from just below his sternum. “Thank you.”

***

“Lord Stark and companion,” says Oberyn Martell. Ned and Tobirama were escorted to the Prince’s tent by two stone-faced Dornishmen, one of which, Ned is pretty sure, is Damien Sand, the Prince’s on-and-off lover. “What brings you here?”

Ned is quiet for a beat too long, attention caught by the discrepancy between expectations and reality. Between experience and reality. Ashara had—With one thing and another, he’s seen a few Dornish tents, especially those favoured by the nobility. They are opulent, lavish things, almost impolite with how comfortable they were. Traces of that can be seen here, if in a grotesque way. Judging by the smell and, ah, items strewn about, Prince Oberyn has been doing his utmost to drink and drug his pain away. Tywin’s words make more sense now. If anything, the Lannister Lord was talking around the issue. Oberyn Martell lost all the weight he had available to lose, his already lean frame transformed into nothing but skin and muscle. His eyes—Ned feels familiar pangs of guilt and grief skittering up his stomach, clamping his throat near-shut. Second Dornish princess in less than a decade—

“The companion has a name, Prince Oberyn,” says Tobirama, taking a half-step forward, inclining his head slightly. It’s not mocking, he doesn’t think, but it is a deliberate gesture, as is his expression and posture. “I am called Tobirama.”

“Well met, Tobirama.” Oberyn’s eyes scan him head to foot, a measure of violence making way for something like curiosity. “My question remains unchanged.”

“We march on the morrow.” There, that’s out. “The Iron Fleet has been crushed by Stannis Baratheon, together with the Redwayne and Oldtown fleets. We can move on to Pyke as soon as they sail to Banefort to meet us.”

“The Iron Fleet has been crushed, you say?” The further along the sentence he goes, the more pronounced the sibilant hiss becomes. The r’s roll, the s’s elongate and the last word sounds like it would bite if it could.

“Euron Greyjoy was not present,” Ned says, getting that out of the way. “Victarion and Aeron Greyjoy have been captured, and will be kept in Lannisport dungeons until the end of the campaign.”

“Bah!” Violence bubbles up again, black eyes glazing over. “Useless. Very well, Stark, you informed us. We will be ready to march beside your King. Leave, now.”

“Mm. I don’t think I will,” says Tobirama, eying the Prince. “I had heard stories, your Highness. Your fighting style agrees with mine. Why don’t you leave this wretched heap of a tent and meet me on the training grounds? I assume you have such in your camp?”

“I have no patience for coddling catamites,” says Oberyn, soft sparks of madness glinting in every syllable.  “Another time, I would welcome you, believe me.”

“You will welcome me now,” replies Tobirama. “Alternatively, I will just attack you now and solve the matter of the tent that way. I am satisfied with either option.”

Right, Stark, it’s time to intervene. You brought Tobirama here to act as a voice of reason. This was a mistake. Do something, and do it quick before Oberyn says something wrong, Tobirama vanquishes him for his gall, and they have to tell Doran another member of the Dornish royal family has been killed—

“Tobirama—”

“No,” interrupts Tobirama, not sparing him a look. “I know what losing a family member does to a man. I will not let the Prince march off to war with his heart full of poison. Granted, there are healthier ways of channelling one’s accumulated darkness, but a clean bout of violence is by far the quickest.”

“Better men than you have tried, sweet.” Oberyn ambles a couple of steps towards them. He really could do with a wash, thinks Ned, caught at the intersection of angry and frightened. This is spinning out of his control so quickly—

“There are no better men than me,” replies Tobirama. “Come, your Highness, let us see if the Red Viper can live up to his name?”

***

Watching Oberyn and Tobirama fight feels painfully like being trapped in a strange and unwelcome dream. You don’t know how you got here, you don’t know the consequences and you can’t seem to affect the course of the damn thing no matter how you try. At least he’s not alone, he thinks, bitter. He’s got a lot of company in the form of the Dornish soldiers who came out in droves, dark-eyed, still and silent as the grave.

Like cats, he thinks. Wildcats spinning through space with boundless energy, moving almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Oberyn fights with a spear, and Tobirama forwent his sword and went with two long knives. If he were any less skilled, the handicap would have been insurmountable. As it is, Oberyn had to abandon the spear within the first minute and go for knives.

Seven Hells, even the knives are in theme. It wasn’t enough that Oberyn’s pitch-dark hair, black eyes and sun-loved skin provided an impossible contrast to Tobirama’s silver and white, even their knives are the mirror image of the other. Tobirama’s are clear, light steel, double-bladed and about the length of Ned’s hand. Oberyn’s weapons are black, curved, and sport the distinctive pattern for which Valyrian steel is famous for.

“Come, Highness,” coos Tobirama, flipping over the blow in a staggeringly showy move. “No need to hold back. You can give it your all, I promise I don’t mind.” Oberyn’s growl rings with pure animal rage, the sound caught between a hiss and a gasp. He attacks with renewed force, sacrificing elegance and skill for raw power and speed. The fight turns—messy. Oberyn’s movements grow frantic, losing all calculation. He fights like a madman, with no regard for his physical safety, driving his body harder than is sustainable. A mistake is deadly, might very well be deadly, and Doran Martell certainly won’t believe that his younger brother killed himself, during a friendly spar with a warrior of the North—

At the ten-minute mark, tears cut sideways streaks into the dust on Oberyn’s face. Twenty minutes in, his exhales grow pained, angry. At thirty minutes, Oberyn collapses, knives falling from his hands. Tobirama lets his weapons fly into the ground and sweeps the Prince up before he meets the ground. 

“I will meet you in the morning, Lord Stark,” Tobirama calls to him, barely sparing him a glance, arms full of the man gasping for breath. “I am sure you have more pressing things to do than stay here.”

Right.

***

Everyone, even Lord Tywin—especially Lord Tywin—is alarmed by the black mood Ned brings back to the camp. That’s probably for the best; he’s hardly fit for company. To facilitate that further, he puts up his most brutish expression and limits his words to bitten-off grunts. Yes, the Dornish have been made aware. Yes, they will march on the morrow. No, he has nothing more to add. Robert finds him when he’s finally made it to his tent in an attempt to claw together some sanity.

“What’s got you tied up in knots, hey?” Robert sits down on the cursed cot, giant body looking awkward in the setting; his cot is three times as wide, from what he recalls.

“Do you still kick in your sleep,” he asks randomly, fully willing to avoid the topic as much as possible.

“Probably. Wouldn’t know.” Robert’s smile matches the hollow pit in Ned’s stomach. “There’s not a single honest soul in King’s Landing. Even Jon lies to me, these days and I don’t blame him for it. That fucking place—” He sighs, re-settling on Ned’s cot, shoulders easily twice the width of his hips. He’s undeniably stunning; an ideal man. “It brings out the worst in me. I never claimed to be good, but—” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Bah. We’re not here to talk about the tragedy of errors that is my life. The people are telling stories about the Quiet Wolf stalking around the camp, frothing at the mouth. Did something happen?”

Did something happen? This cursed place has driven them all into such depths of paranoia and spite that it wouldn’t have occurred to him to look at Oberyn Martell at his lowest and see a man who needs help. They all looked at him and saw a threat, instead. Tobirama didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He stepped up, lanced the infected wound and stayed close to support him when he staggered from it all. They will spin stories about this, in the future. Romances, quite possibly, and Ned—

“I’m just—” How to phrase any of this? How to untangle a single threat from his furious, writhing knot of avarice, worry and shame? “You meet someone new, right? And they’re good, Robert. They’re so good, you feel a bit better, a little lighter by proximity alone.” Ugh. “Moreover, they don’t know you either. Their eyes are clear when they look at you, because they don’t know the horrible things you’ve done, all the things you’re ashamed of. And that’s good, right, you feel young again, free from the burdens. Only—” Only you did do those things, you know it, everybody knows it, and Tobirama will learn it too. “So, you get to watch, day by day, as they learn, as they find out new things to be disappointed by. All that old pain gets dragged out and reexamined and for what? He will judge me anyway, and he will be right to do so.”

“Well, fuck.” Robert’s eyes are much too sympathetic when they meet his. “Story of my life, hey? Sooner or later, the rot in my soul will spread too far and you will have had enough. I know it now and I’ve known it when we were kids. Sooner or later, I will lose myself to my weakness and you’ll wash your hands of me. It is not pleasant knowledge; I never would wish it on you.”

Ned closes his eyes, swallowing around the lump in his throat. It’s becoming increasingly likely that Robert has always been more self-aware than he liked to make obvious. Ned thought, they all thought he was—glorious and unthinking and mercurial. That he lives in the present, discards the past and doesn’t concern himself with the future. Only—Only, it seems there is radical self-acceptance in there, too, liberally doused with pessimism, and Ned has no idea what to do about it.

“You will be my dearest friend, no matter what you do. I do not approve of many things you do, Robert, but that doesn’t make me love you any less.” Damn it, Stark, can you stop complicating your life for a damn hour? Men don’t talk like that, you know this. Father made sure you know this. Move on, before Robert is forced to acknowledge your insanity and puts both of you in an awkward position. “Tobirama—There is no matching his competence. Hell, there is no understanding it. He’s so good, all the time, and he keeps finding out about my mistakes and giving me this look—”

“Being around the virtuous or the principled is horrific,” Robert nods, voice rough with emotion. “Even when they don’t judge you openly, which they often don’t, they can’t help what they are.”

“Bah!” He throws himself backwards, closes his eyes and bites down on his tongue before he says something really stupid. Like I’m afraid he will leave me. I’m afraid he should. I’m afraid I will have to tell him as much. “I’m sorry,” he says, after a long beat filled by Robert’s idle hum. He never met a silence he didn’t have to fill, flies through his mind, small twinge of fondness much appreciated in the increasingly chaotic hurricane of his thoughts. “I’m sorry that I made you feel this way. I never once, in my whole life, wanted to cause you pain.”

Robert’s sigh is a lot more complicated than Ned would like. “Pain is not the worst thing in the world. You know me, I only ever appreciate things that hurt, at least a little; these miserable years in King’s Landing have made that very clear. Everybody wants to keep me comfortable, like they know the first thing about me—” He sighs again, cynical and world-weary. Ned can’t believe his ears. “Never mind that. Your White Wolf won’t run to Dorne, Ned, don’t be ridiculous. He’ll stay, if not for you, than for those children of yours. I’ve known him for a handful of days, and I can swear to that much.” 

He should, though. Oberyn is open about his—lifestyle. In another world, Brandon would be Lord Stark and Ned would have a longer leash, where propriety is concerned. He could stay a bachelor, adopt some children—Brandon’s bastards would be appropriate—and live in unacknowledged sin. With things as they are Ned is Lord Stark, and has a considerable amount of responsibilities holding him in place. He kept the North together because nobody doubted Robert’s eagerness to spill blood in Ned’s name. He kept Robert’s backing because he didn’t know about the Targaryen heir he was sheltering. He kept the Targaryen heir because he was such a predictable, unremarkable man nobody cared to look into it. Lord Stark would never lie, he’s too honourable for that. So, because Ned isn’t too honourable to lie when his lies are blatant and obvious, he has to lie about having lied, because he must appear to look honourable, and honourable men don’t lie—

On and on and on it goes, tying him tighter and tighter until he can barely breathe, much less have anything to offer Tobirama. He should leave with Oberyn. He should let himself fall in love with the fierce, fiery man who wears his heart on his sleeve and follows his heart, no matter what the world has to say about it.

“I hate this fucking war,” he says instead of anything else because his responsibilities won’t disappear just because he is unravelling at the seams. “I hate how everything turned out.” If Ned were a second son—If Robert was allowed to remain a cheerful knight—If Lya saw in Robert what Ned saw, saw how vibrant and irrepressible he was, how much he sees and how much life radiates from his skin—

“Fuck you, Stark,” says Robert. “This war is the best thing that happened to me in years, you will not spoil it with your Northern histrionics. I get to stay away from that cursed cesspool of lies and stench for months. I’m free from Cersei, and she’s free from me, and I’m probably going to declare any such time a national holiday.”

A holiday. Thousands are dead already, and the siege on Pyke will be gruesome—sieges always are, even when they’re not headed by a troupe of Dornish veterans determined to kill every moving thing in sight. Robert couldn’t stop them if he tried, and he wouldn’t dream of doing so. There will be no mercy shown, by the King, by Dorne or by Ned’s bannermen who have had to endure their share of the Ironborn raiders. And in the middle of all of it, Ned who is experiencing something of a second adolescence, constantly jumping between infatuated and heart-sore.

“Just the type of holiday we deserve.”

***

Chapter Text

While Ned doesn’t know if Tobirama had any love marks before, he certainly has them now. He’s just about insane enough to look, too. Like a child worrying at a loose tooth, he can’t stop looking at the neat, round bite bared to the world with Tobirama’s signature unselfconscious ease.

Robert heckled him, the cheerful, awful idiot. Said something crude and, evidently, funny about gifts given by the camp followers they had left behind at the Trident. Tobirama didn’t flick a lash, eyebrows raised and lips quirked, expression clear and body relaxed as is expected from a man who stumbled out of Oberyn’s bed well after breakfast.

To add insult to injury, while the Dornish don’t mix with the main force, they fold Tobirama in like a long-lost brother. Daemon Sand, most prominently, but also Ser Ulwyck Uller. Ullers! All Dornish are half-mad to Ned’s eye, but Ullers celebrate it. Tobirama’s no-nonsense attitude should irritate them, never mind all the other tensions.

Apparently not, thinks Ned, watching as Tobirama disengages with the pack of Dornish Lords, each one more highly born than the last, Oberyn watching it all from the sidelines with smugness visible even through the thick haze of insanity he wears these days. Daemon tries to ruffle his hair and gets bit for the offence. Bit! Tobirama nipped a man’s fingers in front of the Old Gods and the New, and there’s nothing Ned or anybody can do about it.

Gods.

***

Stannis’ ships meet them, practically on the day of their arrival at Banefort. If he were a better man, Ned wouldn’t be so cheered by the young man. He lets himself have the reprieve. In a sea of change and worry, Stannis Baratheon remains an unchanging rock of desolate, self-inflicted misery. Even now, when he somehow magicked an unwinnable victory, he is embarrassed, uncomfortable and just wholly miserable to be perceived.

“I had done my duty to my King,” he says for the umpteenth time.

“I applaud your humble disposition, my lord,” Tywin Lannister says, eyes lit with malice. “Don’t you agree, Lord Tyrell?”

“Without a doubt! Humility is the bedrock of all virtue, I have always thought so—”

Poor bastard, Ned thinks, delighted, as Mace Tyrell’s blathering banks sharply into how Stannis’ stratagem was almost as clever as the one Mace would have designed.

Renly, who joined up with the remaining Baratheon force two days ago, makes a small sound in his throat, like a pained sigh. Ned still can’t reconcile this gallant young man with the little boy he’d met years ago. No, well, that’s not true. Renly is a skilled swordsman, knighted at six and ten, and carries himself with grace. He is also erudite, charismatic and looks to be an empathetic man. All that, and he’s still a bland, watered-down version of Robert in Ned’s mind. What does that say about him? Nothing good, he’s sure. 

Renly’s erstwhile squire, ser Loras Tyrell stands beside him, which doesn’t much help Ned’s composure, if for different reasons. Nobody could ever accuse Loras of being bland or uninteresting. No, in this case, Ned simply can’t stand the sight of a man who gets to be so visibly, unabashedly in love with another man. They hadn’t hidden it, not for years, and it made Ned downright violent with envy.

“Enough,” says Robert, nursing something of a headache from last night’s carousing, always a bit rougher with his brothers than Ned would like. Liar, says the poisonous little voice in his mind. He never treats you like that, and you love him for it. He respects you, holds you dearer than his kin—That’s enough of that. Nobody can afford him giving into gibbering insanity, least of all Ned. “When are the transport vessels arriving?”

“The the first of the galleys and the cogs have arrived this morning,” Tywin says, voice even. The rest will come in the following days. Combined with Stannis’We sent word to start construction of transport vessels, but I doubt the first will be finished in weeks. Gods’ willing, we will have them for the return journey.”

He can just imagine.

“Great. We split, then. Renly, you will take the Vale and the Stormlanders, and go to Great Wyk. Lord Lannister and Lord Tyrell can go to Old Wyk. Barristan, Kingslayer, join them. Stannis will keep the ships and jump in where necessary. The rest of us are heading to Pyke”

Wait. “You plan to disembark at Castle Pyke?” Ned cranes his head to send Robert an incredulous look. “Are you mad? We need to attack by land. I’ve seen Castle Pyke, it is impenetrable by ship. A proper siege or nothing.”

“Which is why we dock at Pyke Bay. While we’re waiting for the fucking siege weapons to get there, we deal with Lorstport and Botley Castle. The Ironborn might be outnumbered, but I don’t love the idea of being caught between the walls of the castle and the reinforcements.”

Ned is quiet for a long moment. That sounds just about right doesn’t it? He had hoped they would leave the other keeps alone, that they could satiate themselves with Castle Pyke. Apparently not. What makes it worse is that it’s a sound military decision.

“North follows where you will lead,” he says, instead. If nothing else, at least he will not let Robert shunt him off to whatever miserable keep, like he will do with Stannis and Renly. The one saving grace in all this is that he can at least keep Robert safe.

“Oh, fuck off.”

***

The only reason, Ned is pretty sure, that Ser Barristan agreed to accompany the Lannisters and Tyrells is that Tobirama is going to stay close to the King. Ned and his bannermen had little to do with his decision, which doesn’t do wonders for his pride, but that’s probably for the best.

The army camps built around Banefort Keep are a piteous, miserable thing, but not even Mace Tyrell has the presence of mind to bring it up. Not when there is suddenly so much to do. They’ve done little but loiter around the Trident for weeks, spending the Crown’s gold, and now there is no time to blink. They have around a hundred ships at their disposal, half of them fighting vessels ill-suited to transport men, much less horses or supplies an army needs. Moreover, since Robert split the army three ways, scheduling and logistics were a hellish thing. Robert technically has a quartermeister, an honourable, mousy sort with a good head for numbers and no spine to speak of. After ten minutes in the company of Lord Tywin, Tobirama and Oberyn Martell, the man loses all will to live and starts telling them whatever they want to hear, so they would suffer him to live. The manoeuvre doesn’t, sadly, improve his chances much.

Still, they manage somehow. Splitting the supplies appropriately is easy enough, once they hammered out an intinerary, and a shaky chain of command sprouts to life on the spot, as it were, by simple means of Robert and Tobirama walking around the camp and picking out competent people to fill the leadership positions.

The most trouble comes when the time comes to nail down the pattern of embarkation. Robert will take around fifteen thousand men with him, between Dorne, Northmen and his Crownlanders. Naturally, the troops will go over to Pyke in waves; so far so good. Ned doesn’t even mind that Robert demanded to be part of the first wave. He once heard about the concept of shock troops and ran with it a hundred miles in the wrong direction—it can’t be helped. What he does mind, however, is that he wanted to take five thousand soldiers.

“Absolutely not,” he is forced to say, headache reaching a fiery crescendo. “You need logisticians, carpenters, wagoners, scouts, and medics at the very least. And the building materials they will need to establish a beachhead. You know perfectly well that Pyke is a bare, dreary rock. If there will be fortifications, we need to bring timber to build it with.” How is this his job? Why is this his job? “So—a thousand Crowlanders, a thousand Northmen, a thousand Dornish, five hundred non-combatants, and the little leftover space will get taken up by food, water and timber.”

The suspicious, muffled laughter from his bannermen is easily shrugged off, but Ned barely resists putting his hands on his hips like a fussy matron when Robert grins, wide and delighted.

“What about the cavalry,” Robert says, eyes clear and innocent. “I thought we could squeeze in a couple hundred horse—”

“Not a single, wretched horse—”

***

Unsurprisingly, he becomes the unofficial field commander, in charge of coordinating the first wave. Tobirama, mercifully, takes up the role of the snake charmer, making sure the Dornish are filled in and given appropriate vessels, supplies and suchlike. This leaves Ned free to wrangle his and Robert’s men.

They manage to load a bit under four thousand men and requisite supplies in under twelve hours, Ned bellows at fifty-three men and Wyman drags him away to sit in a quiet place for a minute no less than eight times. He spends the day it takes to sail to Pyke dead asleep, and then has to do all of it again, once it’s time to establish the damn beachhead

Even with the builders, wagoners and engineers, he insisted to bring, building a proper camp at the barren strip of land they call a beach is a nightmare. Unlike the camp at Banefort, this camp needs to last. Nobody knows how long this campaign will take, least of all Robert, so they need to do this now and do it right before the rest of the men arrive. Tobirama helps some, but his comings and goings are difficult to predict. It’s a miracle, frankly; Tobirama is still as omnipresent as he has been from day one. He knows everything about everybody, including seemingly pointless gossip that helps him make near-prophetic staffing choices. He has authority dripping out of his ear, and enough charisma to match it. All that, and he still manages to make his displeasure with Ned and his dramatics known. He still spins his logistical and technological miracles, but they’re not as spectacular as they could be, always falling pointedly two degrees south of magnificence.

How presumptuous of him, Ned thinks, choking down his cold rations, having found a spare moment to breathe between tasks. How dare he be less than supernaturally perfect? How dare he only do the work of a hundred men, instead of a thousand?

He sighs, head tilting back, eyes closed. There is only so long you can lie to yourself before it starts losing effectiveness. Ned doesn’t care about Tobirama’s duties, his devotion to the cause or anything else. The simple fact is, Tobirama found a lover who treats him with the respect and consideration he deserves, and the shock of watching it makes Ned want to jump in a well.

It’s the way he’s doing it, too, that makes it that much more painful. A man in his position should be ashamed, at the very least. He should be wary of his leanings, and what it would cost him and his beloved. He should be—Afraid. Instead, he gets to watch Tobirama grind tradition and custom under his boots as he flaunts the marks his male lover presses into his neck and chest. His dignity is so iron-clad, that he can step outside of the beaten path and make the onlookers question the validity of the path rather than his actions. And—and he’s doing all of it for another man.

And why wouldn’t he, whispers the mean part of his heart. What could you offer him? Even if you weren’t a coward, even if you had been a carefree second son, what would you have to honour him with? A lifetime of polite fiction and vulgar euphemisms. You would live a bachelor, sharing a Keep with a close friend, and ask him to live a lie, for your sake.

There is no argument against it, for all that Ned doesn’t like agreeing with the worst part of himself. Ned doesn’t have enough to balance the scales, personally, emotionally or politically. He’s a bad investment, a drain on Tobirama’s time; time that would be better spent searching for a partner who can treat him with the consideration he is due. Someone brave and reckless. Beautiful, wilful and blessed with an unshakable inner truth. Someone like Oberyn Martell, Loras Tyrell—or Lya, for that matter. Even Brandon would do in a pinch. Ned? If he were a better man, he’d settle himself and have a reasonably adult conversation about it.

***

Ned’s disquiet and Tobirama’s lack of patience for it are something close to an open secret in camp. Everybody knows but nobody brings it up. Robert, who understands possessiveness better than most, settles for sympathetic elbow jabs and distractions during the little free time they have. Ned’s bannermen, however, have no such tact.

“Remember, my Lord,” Wyman says, bushy eyebrows curved with sympathy, “communication is key in this matter. I know talking doesn’t come easy to us Northerners, but sometimes we must step outside of our comfort zone.”

Communication. Communication is key. Ned swallows, head buzzing a little. What is he to communicate? Hail, Tobirama, North’s premier warrior, healer and inventor. Would you mind never so much as looking at another person? No, I can’t offer you anything but stilted conversation, lest I dishonour my wife and children, to say nothing of all the treasonous secrets. So, if you wouldn’t mind putting your life on hold indefinitely, it would make me really happy.

“There is nothing to be concerned about,” he says, muscles in his thighs twitching in desperation to run  away from this conversation. “There is no conflict.”

“Just as well, just as well,” says Wyman, hands raised as if to calm a flighty horse. “Still, sometimes a man says something to, to his dear friend, and that friend might. Misunderstand.”

“Wounds of the heart are prone to festering,” adds his older son. “Just the other year, my wife—who is my closest friend, naturally—had misunderstood an, admittedly, ill-timed jape. She had still not forgiven me completely and I had grovelled for many a moon.”

“More clarity never hurts,” finishes the youngest son, eyes sparkling with earnest wish to help. “We are all but men, easy to confuse especially when our, ah. Our dear friends are involved.”

All three burly, rotund men look at Ned with identical, hopeful looks in their eyes. Like baby seals, he thinks dazed. Or walruses, as the case may be.

“Robert needs me,” he hears himself say. “I had promised to—Fix—It. His life, yes. I need to go fix everything—Everything over there. It was nice talking to you, my Lords—”

***

Ned doesn’t know what to do with himself when they reach Lordsport and find it abandoned by all soldiers. There are small folk, fishermen and craftspeople, the few that weren’t allowed behind fortified walls, presumably. Which makes them old, sick and miserable.

“The first man who harms an unarmed civilian,” says Tobirama in a voice that carries far better than Ned thought was possible for a man with such a narrow, tapered ribcage, “I will personally stake out on the rocks for the vultures to feast on.”

Alright. That happened. Ned blinks. Is it a problem? It absolutely is. Tobirama is a wildling, he’s not even a citizen of the Seven Kingdoms. He’s not a citizen of any Kingdoms. Is it his problem? Probably—

Tobirama refuses to acknowledge the shocked silence, much less address it. “Robert, I know you will agree with me on this. There is no worth in killing the old and the infirm. They had no more choice in this than the rain could decide when to fall.”

Robert recovers first, unsurprisingly. “Mercy, wildcat,” he says, raising his palms in the air. “I have no interest in fighting those who can’t fight back. We aren’t like them, to raid and murder the small folk.”

They’re not? That’s the first Ned’s heard about it. Good to know, he’ll be sure to mention it to Gregor Clegane who rapes and murders every woman that crosses his path.

“Excellent.”

***

The day goes by without further spectacle, and they return to the camp in moderately high spirits, if somewhat confused about the validity of their chain of command. “Robert,” says Tobirama as he swans in their war-meeting in the evening. Ned’s eyebrows twitch in surprise. He’s not unhappy that Tobirama isn’t in Oberyn’s bed, but the break in routine is not to be trusted. “I have a boon for you.”

“Oh?”

The angle and texture of Tobirama’s smile, combined with his fluid body language and dead eyes make alarm bells ring in Ned’s mind. They are the signs of a carnivore that decided it could do with some light exercise and a favoured delicacy. “I will open the gates of Botley Castle for you. You won’t need to build and lug around those horrid siege weapons at all.”

Ned freezes in his spot, mouth glued shut from shock. What in Seven Hells—

“That is either impossible or impossibly reckless, wildcat,” says Robert, brows furrowing a little. “Gods know that it’s a sad day when I am the one warning against recklessness.”

“I am confident I will succeed. Nevertheless, I will take a handful of men with, out of an abundance of caution.”

“Who?”

Tobirama’s crocodile smile softens into something approaching human. “Not you. You’re many things, but meant for espionage you are not. Not any of the Northerners.” He pauses, tilts his head. “Lord Bolton would be suitable, but he is too tall for the route I plan to take. No, I’ll take Oberyn and a couple of his more agile men.”

What?

“Why?” For once, Robert’s expression shows something other than humour, lust or rage. “Don’t bullshit me. Why that castle? Why the Dornish? Why not raze their walls and pick them off at a safe distance?”

“Several reasons,” says Tobirama, tilting his head so that the light reflects off his eyes. “One, I can do it. Two, it will cut down on the slaughter and on our time on this damp, miserable rock. Three, your siege weapons only have so much ammunition and I’ve seen the drawings of Castle Pyke.” He leans forward, expression sharpening with intent. “Four, multiple sources confirmed that Euron Greyjoy is hiding there and I don’t doubt he will escape in the chaos of a siege.”

Right. He will infiltrate a castle ready for a siege for the sake of Oberyn Martell’s injured heart—

“They are owed this. Euron Greyjoy tortured a sixteen year old girl to death, just because he could.” He leans back, clasps his hands in front of him like a doting uncle, posture very much at odds with how deep the shadows in his face have grown. “I don’t particularly enjoy killing, but I do like teaching. In this case, I aim to teach the world, and to use the instrument of Euron Greyjoy’s  death to do so.”

***

Ned waits for them in front of the exit of the encampment. Tobirama is flanked by Oberyn, two women and two men, expressions dark and unyielding. Unbent, unbowed, unbroken.

“Tobirama—” He inhales a long, careful breath. “You six cannot—You will all get killed.”

“I respectfully disagree, Lord Stark,” says Tobirama. Considering how wound up Ned is, ignoring the warning in his voice is easier to do than it otherwise would be. “There is nothing that I cannot do, once I decide to do it.”

“It is folly.” His voice doesn’t rise often; he tends to implode rather than explode. Now, however— “There is no sense in risking your and Prince Oberyn’s  lives for an unsanctioned, unplanned, impossible operation.”

“I am, in fact, doing this of my own free will,” says Oberyn, slithering forward. “We have learned not to rely on Northerners to avenge our sisters and daughters.”

The final string of calm holding him together snaps. “And when you die? What will I tell your brother? How will I prevent that war? My apologies, your Highness, but your brother was very keen on scaling a fortified castle with a handful of men. You understand how it is.”

Tobirama tilts his head, lips pulled in a downward curve. “You raise an interesting point. Prince Oberyn is a little too valuable to risk.” He pre-empts the Prince’s hiss of denial, as he sends Ned a glance heavy with—Something. “Very well. Dear—” He turns to Oberyn, the fond appellation doubling the lump of disquiet in Ned’s throat. “—I will deliver your murderer to the Camp in less than a day.”

Oberyn lets a little of his tense posture crumble away, but his eyes are still narrowed and furious. “Alive?”

“Of course.” Tobirama tosses his hair, sending Ned a complicated smile. Whatever lies behind the polite expression, respect and amiability are nowhere in evidence. “There, a compromise. Stay safe, Lord Stark.”

Ned stands frozen, thoughts fizzing out before they have a chance to complete, as he watches Tobirama melt away in the shadows. What just happened? Did he just intervene, only to succeed in making Tobirama go alone?

“Very well done, Stark,” Oberyn says, voice thick with fury. “It took me hours to convince him to take us with him. You had to get involved.” He makes a low, disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “I will never understand what he sees in you, .”

Ned is still filled with the odd fog when his legs carry him back to the war-tent. “He went alone.” He looks at Robert and the assorted Lords, uncaring of whomever he had interrupted. “I told him it was folly to take the Prince, he agreed and went alone.”

Robert huffs, but his eyes are soft with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“So the wildling dies,” huffs one of the few Southern Lords who hadn’t gone with Tywin. Who was it—Buckwell? “Or he has sense enough to return with his tail between his legs—”

The man halts his nonsense when he meets Ned’s eyes. He’s not sure what, precisely shows on his face, but it is enough to make the fool hesitate. Not for long, sadly.

“We have better things to discuss than your homeless heathen, Stark,” says the man, puffing up in offence. “Nobody forced his hand. If he wants to die trying to impress his Dornish patrons—”

“Finish that sentence only if you accept my follow-through,” Ned hears himself say. “I am Lord Paramount of the North. My people ruled as Kings millennia before yours were given scraps of land by a Targaryen conqueror. Which is to say that I will be well within my rights to drag you outside and tear out your throat in satisfaction.” He steps forward, eyes trained on the man. He is shorter than Ned, thinks the stupid part of his mind. Shorter reach approves the bloodthirsty part. “You think the King will refuse me an honour duel? He will not. A dear friend has just set off to avenge the honour of a girl murdered in a most gruesome fashion. Think about who I am and why that might hold some significance to me.”

“No?” He tilts his head, the odd buzzing in his head increasing in volume and density. “Well, then, I suggest you keep your forked tongue behind your teeth and let the men speak.” He drags his eyes away and tries for a bow in Robert’s direction. “My King, I appear to be out of sorts. I beg leave.”

“Bah,” sighs Robert. “We’re done here, anyways. Come, Ned, let’s hit the training ground.”

“I will not fight you,” he has sense enough to say. “But maybe Greatjon will scrounge up some men to spar.”

***

Chapter Text

Tobirama does return. Ned feels him coming from the prickling of his skin, by the taste of tension in the air. He has long since learned how to sleep through stress and heartache, but he is up earlier than necessary, pacing around the camp and keeping his snarls behind his teeth.

Tobirama does return. Ned hears him coming, and tracks the buzz of noise shift, as he makes his way through the camp. He doesn’t move to meet him but doesn’t run away. He stands with ice in his heart and ice on his tongue and ice on his skin.

Tobirama does return. Ned sees him coming as he stalks across the now silent camp, an unconscious—or dead—body slung across his shoulder. It is another deceptive show of strength, one that Tobirama has become ever more free with. A regular man would never have had the strength to drag a man larger than him by half for however many miles it took.

Tobirama does return and Ned doesn’t know whether to be glad he had survived or furious that he dared be so blind to the terrible consequences his death would bring on Robert, on the Dornish, on Ned and the children. He had already shown too much, pushed too hard, let himself get lost in the charm and whimsy. That was short-sighted of him. No, that was irresponsible of him. If Tobirama is going to play games with his life, then the North needs to learn to value it less. Simple as that.

***

Euron Greyjoy is a handsome young man of eighteen, with deep-set eyes and a narrow, noble nose. You could never tell, he thinks, ice in his heart providing some measure of dispassion. He is a true monster, every bit as twisted as the Mountain, and yet he looks like someone a girl would bring back home to meet her sisters. Monsters hiding in plain sight is the theme of the day, then. Fitting.

As his eyes trail down the boy’s body, even the ice isn’t quite enough to keep the dread and fear away. Every limb is broken, not sprained. His shoulders and hips are beyond help, even if he were to survive past the day, which he won’t. Every man and woman in the camp will celebrate the death of this competently mutilated boy. Ned can’t bring himself to partake in the bloodthirst. Euron Greyjoy needs to die, but—

Oberyn Martell and his men are building a carriage for the prisoner. How Tobirama is keeping him unconscious is, frankly, none of Ned’s business. He’s having a hard enough of a time keeping himself together. There are tear tracks on the boy’s face. Did he beg? Had he cried, pleading for the pain to stop? Did his mind give out when there was no mercy to be found?

“The Ironborn believe in burial in the sea, do they not,” asks Oberyn Martell, unhinged with hatred. “I will burn him at the gates of Pyke Keep.”

Gods. They will—

He swallows. Swallows again. It’s none of Ned’s business. The Dornish claimed his life. The boy was adult enough to rape, mutilate and drive a stake through a sixteen-year-old girl, to say nothing of all other salt wives he had murdered over the years. He had given up his dignity. He has—

“I only wish the trash wasn’t at death’s door, already,” continues Oberyn. “A sand funeral would have been most fitting.”

“Sand funeral,” asks Greatjon, the only one of his bannermen who looked at the grisly scene with some disquiet. He would have thought Lord Manderly—But no, that was dull of him. Lord Manderly appears a jovial, kindly man, but he has fought both Ironborn raiders and wildling bands ruthlessly. Lord Bolton, to Ned’s utter lack of surprise, looks like he would offer Tobirama his son’s hand in marriage, damn the faith and the rest of it.

“You do not want to know,” Ned answers, voice about as raspy as he expected it to be, considering how ruined his throat feels. “I do not want to know.” But he does. Oh, but he does. It is the chief reason why he claimed to have killed Arthur Dayne. If it became known Howland stabbed the Sword of the Morning in the back, Doran Martell would have personally and lovingly strung him up in the desert, partially disembowelled, and left for the vultures and the sun.

He can’t quite tear his eyes away from the boy. Burned alive. Burned—burned—burned. Rickon burned. Brandon burned. So much fire and death and misery, inflicting pain in return for pain—

Bile rises in his throat, head spinning. “Excuse me.”

He makes it to his tent just in time to empty his stomach in a half-full pot of soup. There is little but bile, honestly. He needs to remember to eat more.

“You need to eat more, Lord Stark.”

Lightheadedness and fear loosen the anxious clamp on his tongue. “Don’t you have children to torture?”

“Oh?” Tobirama pads over, silent as a wildcat Robert named him after. “You do not approve?”

He does not— “No, no I do not.” Burning children—He inhales sharply and gags on the acrid taste. Look at that, there is more bile left in you. Was. Was left.

“Your bannermen do. Your King does. The pompous southern lordlings do.”

“They think they do. They will learn.” Aerys the Mad is what happens when people in power get comfortable with settling their disputes with fire.

“Interesting.”

Ned gags. Interesting. 

“I don’t approve either,” continues Tobirama, puttering around the tent. “Not because the sadistic rapist deserves better, but because torture harms those who torture in many and varied ways.”

“You will forgive me if I don’t believe you.” Deep breaths, through the mouth. A drink of water appears next to his arm. Resentment and gratitude war in his heart. He doesn’t want anything from Tobirama. He desperately wants to curl up in a quiet, dark place and not think for a year.

“Interesting.”

“Would you just—” Deep breaths. Drink the water. Breathe. “Nothing about this is interesting.”

“I disagree. I am learning a lot. People are the ultimate field of study, each one more unknowable than the last.” Tiny palms turn his head up and he doesn’t even try to stop the snarl from twisting his lips. “Look at me, please. I need to check for poison.”

Poison? What kind of life has Tobirama led, that he thinks very basic symptoms of battle fatigue are a result of outside sabotage?

“I am fine. As I said, you have more interesting things to do away from me. Your prince will surely have started cutting off pieces of that boy to slobber over. You could be missing an opportunity to bond.”

Who is this venomous man? Where are these cutting remarks coming from? Ned? He never had the wit, never mind the inclination or the courage. 

“Oberyn is not my prince, Lord Stark,” Tobirama says, voice clear and unconcerned. No, that’s not the right word. Dispassionate. Clinical. “I’ve claimed my Lord and he is, for better or worse, an incurable romantic. Show me your fingernails.”

“The love bites on your neck would beg to differ.” What?

“Now is not the time for this discussion.” Ned feels a perverse, masochistic joy at the first spark of temper his outrageously inappropriate attitude had caused. Not so perfect, godling. Not so above it all. “But if you do feel up to having that conversation at a more appropriate setting, Lord Stark, I will be at your service.” He exhales a measured breath. “Your fingernails, please.”

You’ve pushed your luck as far as it can go. Push more and face the consequences. “I am not poisoned.” What are you doing, Stark? “What kind of a healer doesn’t recognize battle fatigue?”

“A very good healer, who won’t risk his Lord by not guarding against every option. Give me your hands or I will induce a temporary paralysis and examine you in peace.”

Right. Best agree. That way he will go away and let Ned wallow in peace. He rocks back on his heels and presents his hands like a child would to prove they have been washed carefully.

“Thank you.” Tiny palms touch his. The touch is clinical, professional, but Ned can’t stop the shiver. Fuck, but he’s freezing. Is he this cold, all the time? “Do you have any hardened patches of skin? Any unusually placed dark spots on your body?”

How would he even know? How often does he think Ned strips down fully while on campaign? Unlike Tobirama, Ned doesn’t have a horde of people inspecting his body day in and day out—

Gods wept, Stark.

“No.”

“Any difficulty swallowing? Laboured breath? Strange painful jolts out of nowhere?”

“No.”

“Sudden onset of fevers and chills? Fainting spells? Heart-ache?”

Hah. “No.”

“Very well. If you feel bouts of nausea again, you will come to me.”

“Since you will be burning children, I suspect I will feel many such a bout.” Wonderful. 

Tobirama is quiet for a long series of damning moments. Ned contemplates cutting his tongue out of his mouth. Seems like the best way forward.

“I will be doing nothing of the sort,” Tobirama says. “I could, however. I am more than capable of torturing a child to death, Lord Stark, if it is necessary. As luck would have it, it is never necessary.”

Gods.

“The boy won’t feel a thing.”

Ned blinks and risks a glance in Tobirama’s direction. Was it a mistake? He can’t quite decide. On one hand, he’d never in his life seen a man so terrifyingly blank. On the other hand—it’s Tobirama. Gazing on the Wall, an unabashedly supernatural structure feels similar, induces a similar flavour of mortal awe. Not for the first time, he wonders at what secrets Tobirama keeps hidden underneath the scarred, white skin.

“Excuse me?”

“Euron Greyjoy. The serial-murdering rapist we have been discussing. I will have him effectively brain-dead before his sentence. He won’t feel a thing.”

“Why?” No, you witless buffoon, that is not—You should have thanked him! Not—You need not know why. Please, Gods, please don’t let him answer.

“Because listening to him scream in agony as his flesh slowly burns will upset you.”

Ned gags again.

***

With Tobirama sabotaging the gate somehow, the Castle surrenders immediately. They had next to no soldiers as it was, possibly hoping they would be too preoccupied with Castle Pyke to bother with the comparatively small keep. Robert takes it in two hours, with next to no casualties. This means they move on to march on Castle Pyke, still dragging about one Euron Greyjoy.

***

Oberyn Martell builds a pyre eight meters high, suspends the boy’s body on a pair of crossed poles and sets it on fire at the gates of Pyke. As promised, the boy doesn’t scream or wake. If the smell of burning flesh wasn’t as unmistakable as it was, and if the boy’s face wasn’t left so perfectly undisturbed, the denizens of Castle Pyke might not have believed it was happening. As it is, the silence means little in the face of the visuals.

“Take a message to your lord,” he tells the pale-faced man sent out for negotiations. “If I had it my way, I’d burn you all, one by one. Alas, Euron Greyjoy was the only one I had a claim on. Take a message. Three brothers he had, three are dead, or will be very soon.” He pauses, the faux off-hand voice rolling in a parody of a purr. “He has children, I hear. Sons. I hope he manages to stash them away so we do not get confused in the chaos.”

Gods.

Tobirama stands behind Oberyn. Before yesterday, Ned would have thought it was out of solidarity. Now, he’s not so sure. Oberyn Martell looks and sounds insane, driven past the brink by bloodlust and hatred. With that in mind, Tobirama may well have positioned himself close as a precaution.

“You gotta hand it to the Dornish,” says Robert. The setting is grotesque enough that even his berserker friend is subdued. “They have a flair for the dramatic.”

“The girl’s body was identified by Oberyn,” says Wyman of all people. “He cut her down from the stake himself. As I hear it, the only clear way of identifying her was her jewellery and teeth.”

Gods.

“Fucking Ironborn.”

Ironborn? Targaryens? Northmen? Stromlanders? They all watched a boy burn on a pyre, just now. They watched as children far below a fighting age were threatened. They all know who raped and murdered a mother in front of the corpses of her infant children.

“I hope your siege weapons are ready, Robert, because I do not want to spend a single unnecessary day on this ruin of an island. Not a single day. Let’s finish this.”

“Aye.”

***

Tobirama doesn’t fight like Ned expected. He thought he would fight defensively. Tobirama is a scholar and a healer, after all. A man of creation and progress. In his more egoistical dreams, he thought Tobirama would fight to protect Ned.

In reality, Tobirama walks in front of everybody, killing men with speed and accuracy he hadn’t thought possible. Robert and Ned barely get a chance to draw their blades. The tiny white shadow of a man moves like a wild animal, not a single movement wasted. A duck turns into a swing, a parry is used to launch a knife he picked up during the previous duck. With every gesture he deals death, men falling around him without so much as a scratch to show for it.

He doesn’t protect Oberyn Martell, either. The Red Viper and his inner clutch of warriors move in a separate cluster from Ned, Robert and several of his Lords. They need no help moving through the battlefield, not with their cursed spears. Not with Daemon Sand launching knife after knife, and Lord Ulwyck and Oberyn Martell shielding them from the front.

Ned can’t say he was ever afraid of battle, but he doesn’t remember ever being so tired of it. Usually, the battle is the worst of it, the culmination of all the fear, helplessness and adrenaline-fuelled madness. Now he has stepped onto the battlefield drained beyond sense, and every death becomes but one more brick in the wall between the world and himself. He doesn’t even feel anything about this pointless massacre. Death here, death there. Death everywhere.

***

Tobirama speeds up, and Robert huffs next to him, but with Tobirama’s disappearance, some Ironborn are left for the King. Fair’s fair—guardians of Castle Pyke fight bravely. Desperately. Ned wishes he were the type of man who could convince them they would be shown mercy if they surrendered. There is life ahead, he wants to say; they won’t be sacrificed to heal Oberyn Martell’s pain. Unfortunately, Ned was never that man, much less now when he feels a doll pulled by a spectacularly morbid mummer.

Oberyn Martell disappears too, suspiciously. Ned kills another young man, not more than nineteen, and doesn’t feel anything at all.

***

Fighting stops somewhat suddenly, when Tobirama throws the corpse of Balon Greyjoy down the steps of the Keep, just where the fighting was thickest. A spear—Dornish—pierces the man vertically, entering his throat and exiting a little below his navel. Oberyn Martell does not have the strength or the skill to make that kill.

Tobirama, on the other hand, does. He is also, tellingly, soaked in blood. The white furs around his neck are dark red and dripping and his hair isn’t much better. The only part of his body left somewhat clean is his face.

“My apologies, your Majesty,” he says into the sudden silence, the Ironborn fighters disengaging and falling back, staring at their leader with baffled confusion. “I had planned to capture Lord Greyjoy. He resisted.”

A bubble of laughter forms somewhere between Ned and the ice wall, far enough that he doesn’t have to show it, but close enough that he is warmed by it, a little.

“Seven Hells Tobirama!” Robert’s exhalation is almost an even split of irritated and amazed. “Did you have to stab him through like a pig on a spit?”

“I do not understand your Majesty’s idiom,” hums Tobirama, carefully moving his wet hair away from his skin, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Lord Greyjoy met me in combat. I asked that he surrender three times. He refused.” He pauses to twist his hair, squeezing out the excess liquid. “Implicitly.”

“Gods’ mercy,” breathes Greatjon behind him. Ned can only concur. The Greyjoy uprising ends with the sound of Oberyn Martell’s quiet, heartbroken laughter.

***

Chapter Text

Tobirama’s theatrics might have ended the battle sooner than it otherwise would have, but that doesn’t make the aftermath any less gruesome. Pyke is a nightmare to storm, and even Tobirama couldn’t have saved their men from being picked off by archers from above, never mind the fighters on the ground.

The other side came out worse, naturally. Between the men they cut down and those they buried in the rubble by the siege weapons, Greyjoy army is halved at best. Typically, the survivors would be rounded up and captured until the new leadership is sorted out, but this is hardly a typical war and Robert is not a typical King.

Therefore, it shouldn’t be surprising that Tobirama insists on healing everybody and that Robert lets him.

***

Healing camps are not a new thing. Ned knows how it works, usually. The highborn have their own healers, but most of the soldiers do not. They usually get carried over to a specific area of the encampment, where a handful of half-trained healers would do what they can to keep them comfortable and help the few they know how. And, of course, the wounded on the other side wouldn’t even get that much.

Tobirama carefully takes all that in, asks a few neutral questions, takes a look at the field of injured men—and the miserable, huddled mass of Ironborn soldiers under a nominal guard—and his expression shifts. It’s not quite rage, Ned muses, observing the disaster idly from the sidelines. Disbelief and derision are closer to the truth, but not all of it. Is it the waste? The lack of loyalty the common soldiers are afforded by their lords? To say nothing of the defeated army, of course.

“Right,” Tobirama snaps. “Oberyn, give your men. All of them that can walk.”

Ned blinks, throat squeezing. It’s Oberyn, is it? Meanwhile, Ned has never been anything but Lord Stark.

“Deziel, Quentyn, Trebor, Ulwyck, you and yours go with Tobirama,” says Oberyn without a pause. “What do you need them for?”

“I am a healer, Oberyn. Naturally, I mean to fuck them individually, then in groups.” He turns to the Lords of four of the five most powerful Houses in Dorne with an imperious look. “I need stretches. I need tents. I need supplies. Get your men and follow me.”

“Hold on,” says Greatjon, barely standing from the wound in his thigh. “Why do the Dornish get to help? You’re our healer!”

Tobirama whirls around. “That’s a good idea—Hold on.” He rushes towards him, expression stormy. “You are wounded yourself, you fool. Why was I not informed of this? What were you thinking?  This came much too close to your femoral artery as it is—”

“Peace,” says Greatjon. “I will report to the healing tents as soon as you build them.”

“I am not wounded,” says young Domeric Bolton, barely summoning up the courage to look up from the ground. “I could help.”

“Hm.” Tobirama looks the boy over, scanning him for injuries. “At least one of you had the sense to not hide their injuries.” He sends a suspicious look Ned’s way. He looks back, mute. Tobirama knows full well Ned’s path was short on enemies; plenty of corpses, though. “Very well. Every uninjured man from the North that wants to help, come with me. I will show you how to move a wounded man safely.”

He whirls around and barks at Oberyn. “No, not you, you horrible pest. Don’t think I don’t know about that dislocated shoulder and broken toes. You will wait until I can make sure you aren’t hiding more.”

***

The soldiers guarding what is left of the Ironborn soldiers probably don’t deserve the full brunt of Tobirama’s rage. On the other hand, Ned is pretty sure their captain, at least, had volunteered for the job. If that doesn’t mark him as untrustworthy, Ned doesn’t know what would. So, on balance, he trails behind, not feeling all that inclined to step in.

They do make for a pitiful sight, he has to say. Without any healers to help, the soldiers did what they could for their fallen comrades. Some had carried milk of the poppy on them—a common precaution among the infantry—and they had shared it around by the look of it. The more seriously injured are, by his estimation, hours if not minutes away from a mercy killing.

Well, they had been. Not anymore.

“Captain. No, I don’t particularly care for your name. Do you know who I am?”

He does.

“Excellent. Do you know who the gentlemen behind me are?”

He does, even more so.

“Lovely. Typically, I would enter into this dialogue with more of a mind towards pedagogy. I would have engaged you in an inductive dialogue, and led you, step by step, towards the obvious and inescapable truth of this situation in general and your situation in particular.” He leans forward, expression intent. “I am short on time, however, and your spiritual well-being rates lower than the lives of all those men behind you, whose lives you are holding in your grubby, ill-mannered hands. Are you following?”

He is not.

“You will get out of my way. You will be quick about it. You will report to whoever it was that instructed you to menace a defeated enemy, and they will come to me with any complaints they might have. By then I will have, Gods’ willing, found some patience and goodwill and will not immediately paralyse them and throw them into the ocean. Do you understand that?”

He does.

“Fantastic. Off you go.”

The harried captain, in a stunning display of fearless lunacy, immediately comes to Ned.

“Lord Stark, this is an outrage,” he says. Ned takes a moment to look him up and down, memory straining. He’s a little familiar, but he could just be rationalising it based on the man’s expectant expression. “I have fought with King Robert at the Trident and I followed him to liberate King’s Landing. The wildling has no right to disrespect or menace me away from my duties.”

Bless. “Your duties being—”

“I am to guard the enemy until a more permanent arrangement is created.” He looks proud, the odious little man. He looks thrilled to have been trusted with such a vital task.

“They surrendered, captain,” he says, suddenly too exhausted even for spite. “They volunteered their weapons when their Lord fell and hadn’t made any trouble for anyone, even when provoked.” Granted, he can’t be sure this is the case, but it’s hardly an outrageous guess. They fought bravely, but losing their lord is uniquely demoralising.

“They’re Ironborn.” The captain looks at him like he’s insane. “They’re savage murderers, each one. More importantly, none of that matters. My orders don’t hang on the whims of the Wildling from Winterfell.”

“Good for you,” he says. “I do. Hang on his whims, that is. If he wants to heal the Ironborn, then that’s what he will do; I don’t quite understand what you hope to do about it.”

They’ve gathered a bit of a crowd, by now, and the smarter men in the still unnamed captain’s unit have backed up, eying convenient escape routes.

“My orders came straight from Lord Chelsted!”

Now that is a name he knows. As decent a Southerner as they come, if a bit pompous. “And I am Lord Paramount of the North,” he reminds him gently. “And Prince Martell will jump as far and as high as Tobirama indicates would be his preference. Meaning that no, it would be difficult for your Lord to pull rank, unless he involves the King.”

The man opens his mouth, possibly to dig himself further into the miserable pit of irrelevant posturing. Ned spares him the embarrassment.

“My advice would be to stop arguing with me and go away. You’re free to ignore this advice and find your Lord to complain. Perhaps he, like me, will be so charmed by your inability to grasp the political reality of this situation that he will not mind you wasting his time.”

***

Unfortunately, petty Crownlander captains are but a small part of the people who don’t think much of Ironborn. The Dornish, for one, wouldn’t flick a lash if they all succumbed to the pox, and Westerlanders and Riverlanders are right there with them, as are most of Ned’s people, and a good chunk of Crownladers who hail from the coast.

Tobirama doesn’t bother acknowledging it. The men helping him are more grateful to him than they hate the Ironborn and that’s good enough for him. Under his gimlet eye, men are picked up, placed on makeshift stretchers and hurried out, only hesitating to bind the worst of their injuries to stabilise them for the time being. Ned knows it’s a power thing; he is signalling that he will treat all his patients the same and that the people who complain too hard won’t get treated at all. Ned knows this, the Dornish know this, most everyone knows this.

Only nobody has bothered to inform the Ironborn. All they know is that the demon that slaughtered their comrades and stabbed their Lord clean through is suddenly ordering them about and is moving their wounded. Naturally, nobody else bothered to correct their assumption that they were going to be tortured, dissected or experimented on.

Well, someone has to do it.

He’s not personally familiar with many Ironborn; they, like Northmen, keep to themselves and don’t attend tourneys, celebrations and so on. That said, it’s not difficult to locate a couple of men who look to be in charge. They’re typically the ones for whom the others’ panicked eyes are aimed at when Tobirama’s helpers come to drag them away.

“He’s a healer,” he tells one such person, a wild-looking man in his forties who would have been handsome if not for the wild eyes and ashen cast to his skin. “Hail, warrior, I am Eddard Stark of the North. The man, Tobirama, is a healer and a scholar. He will not harm you and yours past what is unavoidable.”

“I know who you are,” the man says, then visibly bites down on anything past that. “Apologies, my lord. I am Erich of House Sparr. Well met.”

Ned manages a wan smile. “Likewise, Master Erich. With the pleasantries out of the way, is there a way to convince you that Tobirama isn’t spiriting your people away to feed to the sharks?”

Erich’s nostrils flare, and he takes a choppy breath. “I would like to see them,” he throws out, tone combative, like he knows he will be refused so he’s not bothering with keeping his requests reasonable. “Visit them, wherever they’re being held.”

Held, he says. Ned shrugs. “Fair enough. Granted, if you hang around too long, you will either be bullied into helping or be shooed away, but I can escort you there now. We’re not going far, just outside the castle, on the little clearing to the west of the main gate—”

***

Ned, Erich and a young man who persistently called himself Gad walk out of Castle Pyke without any difficulty only to walk into a madhouse. Ned can’t even pretend to be surprised.

Most of the scene fits right into his expectations: rows of tents, cots improvised out of everything from broken furniture, one presumes liberated from the castle, to clothes and armour on whose origins Ned would rather not speculate. For once, the fact the island has little to no vegetation is to their benefit: they don’t have to worry about placing the cots into mud. So far, so good.

Only Tobirama, instead of attending to his patients, is shouting at a group of maesters. He’s shouting. Tobirama is shouting. The end might very well be nigh.

“—if you dare so much as breathe at one of my patients ever again, you incompetent, pompous sack of bones, I will throw you on a pyre Oberyn could only dream of—”

Yikes. Ned sighs and gestures at the scene. “That’s our healer,” he says, head pulsing. “As you can see, he takes the well-being of those under his care very seriously.”

The sheer incredulity of the scene is helping. Erich looks from Tobirama to Ned, clearly judging him to be a point of sanity. “You find it amusing that the Demon doesn’t want the maesters treating your wounded? ”

Ah. “Tobirama’s view is that the maesters are, by and large, a bunch of sexually dysregulated charlatans who don’t have much of value to offer to the world,” he says. “But I’m sure he will explain it better, and at some length. By the feel of it, he’s just getting started.”

“—powder costs more than your feeble, mongrel mind is capable of understanding,” the brave maester is saying, red-faced and righteous. You have to hand it to the zealots, their faith in their institutions will instigate some truly breathless acts of bravery. “Distilling it and purifying it takes over a year, countless instruments of complexity you cannot comprehend—”

Uh-oh. “Now he’s done it,” Ned sighs. “He shouldn’t have mentioned his instruments.”

“You are injecting people with arsenic and quicksilver you worthless imbecile—”

“Come on,” Ned sighs and tugs his two ill-gotten Ironborn away. “Let’s go find your people before this escalates and I’m too busy to shepherd you around.”

“Busy with what,” Gad says, eyes wide. “Surely someone else will be tasked with scraping the remains of the maester off the rock.” He looks between Ned and the screaming scholars. “He knows about the battle, yes? He knows the Demon had stabbed old Lord Greyjoy through like a pig, and he was no pushover.”

“Scholars are a strange breed,” Ned says, but only half-heartedly. The fact of the matter is, Tobirama rates charlatans only a little higher than child cannibals. The good maester is overestimating his relative safety. “Either way, no, I don’t think Tobirama will snap and start stabbing just yet. Chances are, he’ll find Robert and twist his ear until he sends the maesters away. Then he will stab him if he steps a foot wrong.”

“The King,” Erich says. “The Demon will twist the Baratheon King’s ear.”

“We all exist more or less only to do Tobirama’s bidding, I’m afraid,” he says, feeling rather fatalistic about the whole thing. “Either way, come on. I think your people are being sent in the cluster of tents over there.”

***

He doesn’t make Erich and Gad leave, after they do a quick round and witness that their people are being treated ten times better than they ever would have been under the previous regime.

“I don’t know what sort of witchery the Demon has wrought,” Erich had said, “and I don’t want to find out. The fact is, our best bet is to keep quiet and do what he tells us. Bring us back, and I’ll tell as much to the rest.”

Ned inclines his head. Not looking too hard into impossible witchery is a popular strategy when it comes to dealing with Tobirama. “By all means—Oh, look, there’s the King. I guess you’ll get to witness this part too. How wonderful for you.”

Erich sends him a deeply persecuted look but doesn’t protest. Good call. Staying close to Ned gives him something of a shroud of invisibility. If he is with Ned, then he’s precisely where he needs to be, so there’s no point in wasting the time to look into things further.

***

Robert looks to be about as grumpy as Ned feels, eyes bloodshot and dramatic when set against his pale skin. He can’t be hungover yet, it hadn’t been three hours since they took Pyke, but, honestly, what else could it be? “—can’t ban the maesters from the Kingdom, for pity’s sake, have you gone mad? Is it the heat? Sunstroke? With skin that pale—”

So this is going well. Ned sighs and walks, faux-casually, towards the nearest knot of Northerners. As long as they look so well entertained, things probably hadn’t gone to the pits.

“What did I miss,” he says under his breath, then endures the shocked looks bouncing between him and his unwilling entourage. “They’re with me,” he offers, tone suggesting that Ned’s business is his own but that he’s more than willing to share his fortunes with an unlucky victim if he is pressed too hard. “So?”

Wyman is the first to recover. The smile he puts on is fantastic. “A young man from the Crownlands died while under the care of Maester Ryam. As it happens, the lad had made fast friends with one of ours, a cousin of the Mountain Flints.”

Ned’s lips twist. “That wouldn’t be young Bran Brighteyes?”

“The very same.”

The migraine pulsing away behind his eyes gives a couple of spirited stabs. “The one that put a viper in Lya Silvertongue’s—”

“That one, yes.”

Wonderful. “So he went and sicced Tobirama on them, I would assume.”

Wyman indulges him with a sympathetic look. Good. Ned deserves so much sympathy. It’s all insanity now, but situations like these fester into diplomatic incidents and it’s Ned that’s going to be untangling them for months to come. “Indeed. Now Tobirama is petitioning the King to, if I’m not mistaken, give him leave to eat every Maester on the Continent whole, or at least murder them gruesomely.”

So, just about what he expected.

“—putting poison in their patient’s blood and charging them gold for it, Robert! Gold they earned with blood and sweat, toiling the fields—”

“They’re going in circles,” Ned sighs and looks around. Far too many people are staring at the production instead of helping the wounded. “If I go and stick my head in the lion’s jaws,  will you look after my Ironborn?” He sends Wyman a look. “They followed where their Lord would lead them, as they should have. We’re not the sort who will punish the soldiers for the crimes of a dead man, are we?”

Wyman’s lips press together, but it’s mostly for show. The day after a battle is, in his experience, when men are at their most gracious. Experiencing the aftermath of a battle is enough to force a sense of perspective on everybody except the dregs. “I am, of course, your obedient servant—”

“Oh come off it, you big lump.” He shifts, catches Erich’s eyes. The man looks—blank in the ways of men too confused and frightened to even attempt to make sense of their circumstance. “This is Wyman Manderly. He’s stern but fair, and he’ll treat you with honour. Stay with him while I go foolishly risk my skin for the sake of the common good.”

The sun hasn’t even fallen. How long can one wretched day last?

***

“—you are a dull, fundamentally uncurious cult bored by the idea of progress, who harm others without reason or logic—

“My King, Tobirama,” Ned says, keeping his face as evenly polite as he knows how. “Gentlemen. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t interrupt, but—”

“Ned, thank the fucking Seven!” Robert whirls his way, eyes wide and shocked. “I can’t for the life of me understand a thing. He can’t actually want to kill every maester in the Seven Kingdoms?”

Ned pats his shoulder. “He would likely settle for a compromise,” he says.

“Well, negotiate in my place, then, because we’ve been at this for what feels like hours, my head is killing me and my feet feel like they’re on fire—”

“It’s what happens when you mix my medicines with wine after I had warned you not to,” says Tobirama, fully unwilling to be moved by Robert’s pain. “And when you don’t report your injuries until an ingrown nail gets infected and I almost have to amputate your toe.”

Robert’s eyes turn more soulful and pleading. “Make him leave me alone,” he says. “He’s unbearable.”

Even through miles of exhaustion, anxiety, grief and the rest, Ned feels a pang of fondness. What a ridiculous man. No wonder they get along so well. Tobirama and Robert might very well be the most ridiculous men he’s ever laid eyes on.

“A compromise,” he says and shifts to Tobirama. “An experiment,” he says. “Robert will give you five days to treat the wounded soldiers according to your methods. If, at the end of the five days, you save more people than could be reasonably expected, then you will remain their sole healer, and the maesters will let you be. If they don’t, you will offer an apology, in person and writing, and you will assist the maesters in their work, as they take over the care of the wounded.”

Tobirama’s lips hook up, up, up, into a smirk, then a smile, then a toothy grin. “Deal.” He sends the maesters a poisonous look. “I’ll even agree to a neutral judge,” he says. In five days, the Southerner lords arrive, yes? They have no particular love or respect for me, a nameless wildling. One of them will decide if my methods save more lives than the idiots—“

“Wonderful,” Robert says. Shouts, in truth. “That’s what we’ll do. I’m leaving now, don’t bother me for twelve hours unless you mean to bring me food, water, wine or whores—”

***

Chapter Text

A campaign like this would always be messy and miserable. There is no way for an army to be comfortable on a desolate, horrid lump of rock like Pyke, much less after battle. And, as much as he would like it to be otherwise, they can’t leave and let the Ironborn settle the matter of rule between them. Not least of which because Lord Greyjoy had two children, if he’s not mistaken, both of them under-age and vulnerable. They might as well slit those kids’ throats themselves before they leave, and save them all some time and effort.

He shakes his head, firmly steering his mind away from the topic of children with slit throats. It would have been miserable, without Tobirama and his hysterics. With him, it’s just weird.

***

Only a handful of people get to stay in the castle, by the time it’s time to rest. They could, of course; who could stop them? The Ironborn?

Pyke is a large castle; it could fit them easily. Ned and every man he knows would much rather stay on land, such as it is, than step foot in that place. Everything about it is disquieting; they might as well put up a sign black magic, do not approach and be done with it.

In any case, Tobirama is approaching his task seriously, which means he conscripted everyone and anyone. Even Robert is known to do an occasional chore before he remembers he is the King and he needs to do no such thing. The rest of them—mostly Northerners, the Dornish and the few unwounded Ironborn—are ruthlessly organised. The clearing turns into one giant, open-concept hospice, practically overnight. Tobirama has them taking apart catapults and trebuchets to make cots and tents. Every bandage, salve and healer-grade bottle of spirits is confiscated and given over, and young men with the right temperament are claimed to serve as Tobirama’s assistants. Others become cooks, some wash laundry and others collect fresh water in barrels and lug those barrels to the camp.

It’s a giant madhouse, honestly, and Ned would have enjoyed it a lot more if Tobirama also wasn’t furious like a dragon with its tail caught in a bear trap.

“Tobirama is in fine form,” says Greatjon conversationally, limping at Ned’s side, right leg wrapped up in bandages made out of somebody’s tunic.

“Not since the eyeglasses debacle,” replies Rickard.

“I disagree,” jumps in Wyman. “Remember the drowned boy, from a couple of months ago?”

Ned can’t help his snort. Those were the calm days. He slows down and falls into step with his bannermen. “Remember the ferret paws kept in the smallclothes  for virility?”

Wyman’s lips press together, eyes unseeing as he remembers the fury with which Tobirama tore through Winterfell and Wintertown. “Point for you, my Lord. That was the worst of it.” It was. The boy drowned in the well was a nasty case, but next to nobody believes in black witches up North. The boy’s stepfather wanted him dead, so he drowned him and pleaded for his life afterwards. He didn’t succeed, not with Tobirama and his Views about sending convicts to the Wall, but the superstition was mostly for show.

The hundreds of exotic animal parts kept in and around smallclothes to improve virility were not, and neither were the hundreds of ways desperate girls tried to handle unwanted pregnancies. Tobirama hated the first, but he would have killed every person who spread false rumours to the women. Keep a rotting piece of flesh inside your clothes, he would seethe, go ahead. What could possibly go wrong? Oh it hurts, does it? The flesh is turning black? Does that sound like a good thing, you brain-dead maniac?

***

As per Robert’s orders, the handful of maesters and their stable of assistants and helpers stop caring for the sick and injured. The morning of the first day of Tobirama’s experiment sees them standing on the sidelines of the ever-expanding healing camp and observing with high-handed humour. A silly wildling, being enabled by their generous, kind-hearted King.

The Ironborn know better. Imagine that. Imagine being a group of people with less common sense than the Ironborn. How peculiar must it be, living in their heads? It has to be fascinating, living so high up in dreamland, where there is only certainty and faith. It must be so relaxing.

“Stark,” calls Erich, waving him over impatiently, “we have incoming. Handle it, will you? The Demon’s got us on rotations until sundown, and I don’t know what he will do if we get chased away by another pack of Westerlanders.”

Ugh.

“I’ll head them off,” he says. “Gods’ willing, that will be the last of them, so we won’t have to go through the song and dance again.”

“Song and dance—Is that some Northman saying? You people, I swear—”

***

For once, it’s neither Ned nor Robert that puts their foot in it. This time, it’s Oberyn, and Ned, yeah. Ned is thrilled.

“You need not be so upset, sweet,” says Oberyn, who, to his credit, has been putting his maester links to good use to assist Tobirama in his hurricane of work. “Superstitions and tall tales are inevitable. What harm does it do, if a lad wears a hawk’s claw around his neck to stave off the pox?”

“What harm does it do?” Tobirama pauses, grabs one of many Manderly men he has commandeered to help him with the wounded, hisses out instructions about missing supplies he needs and turns to Oberyn. “They are lies, Oberyn. Self-serving, simplistic lies told by the unwise to the uneducated. Miners die from breathing mercury fumes, it is a well-known fact. And yet those grey-robed rats dab it on the skin of people who trust them with their lives.”

“They are not all lies,” counters Oberyn—unwisely, in Ned’s opinion, considering how narrow Tobirama’s eyes grow. “And without the Citadel, the smallfolk would be left with nothing but wishful stories and uneducated guesses.”

“Better nothing at all, than a lie told with authority. Better a hundred wise women telling to keep root vegetables in themselves so that their children will be born healthy, than a single maester sitting in the King’s court telling healers they should coat their wounds in mercury.”

Wise women telling women what? Gods wept, is that a—Is that a commonly held belief?

“The Citadel has many inventions to its name. The maesters do more than heal, they provide insight into crops and the spreading of diseases. They instruct the Lords on how to plan for the year, and how to allocate the resources. Most importantly, they do it for free.”

Ned hates that he agrees but he does. Maester Luwin was an invaluable part of the household, and he had taught their craftspeople a lot over the years. He has taught Ned a lot, not just about accounting but about the crazy ways the Southerners think.

“Irrelevant. Health is a right that should be afforded to all people, regardless of class.” Tobirama inhales sharply, pitching his voice a bit louder. This is important to him. “The commoners in the Seven Kingdoms live brutal lives. The food they grow gets taken away from them, and the most they can hope for is that they will be left with enough to survive. There is very little hope; if they’re born on the field, they will die on the field. The one thing you owe them is a healthy life, and that’s precisely what the Citadel is taking away.”

***

The maesters laugh the first day when Tobirama appears to be bogged down in the logistics of it. They laugh on the second day, when all those who were set to die, die. They stop laughing on the third day, when the camp transforms from a chaotic, filthy mess, into an orderly, exotic place of healing, with wide, beaten paths and spacious tents, patients sorted by type of injury, age and severity of the case. Each tent soon sports a list of patients, by name, and a description of what must be done for them. The food quality skyrockets, as does morale. Nobody in their right mind doubted him, but they didn’t know what to expect, either. They didn’t know if soldiers could do the work of healers if given half a chance and clear instructions. They didn’t know Ironborn could be regular, decent people with clever solutions and a wicked sense of humour. They didn’t know how quickly they would all come together in the face of a common threat, meaning spoiled, pompous nobility, no matter where they’re from.

***

“No, Lord Tarbeck, I care not at all about your Keep or your gold or your relationship with Lord Lannister. You will wait your turn. Yes, I will pay more attention to young Harris because he is younger and thus takes priority. Also, and this is not the most important factor, but important nonetheless, you have a dislocated shoulder that is already set and a well-loved addiction to pain relievers. You, Lord Tarbeck, can go and nurse your addition somewhere else. Ulwyck, escort this bleating nuisance out of my healing tents and point him towards Oberyn if he thinks to return.”

***

“My good man, if you think I care at all about your masculine pride, you are wrong. You will strip, you will be respectful and you will describe the symptoms. I don’t much care, if I’m honest, I’m sure you simply caught it by accident, slipped and fell into a puddle of gonorrhoea, but it will not go away on its own. When, precisely, did you start noticing the pus, and where?”

***

“Amputation? Whyever would I need to amputate anything? It’s an infection, you silly goose, you’ll be fine. Jon—Where is that dratted—Gad, good lad, go to Jon and tell him I need another package of my antibacterial powders. Yes, Jon Umber, who else, Jon Arryn? Go! Alright, I will need to clean and lance it, which will be painful. You can try to be a stoic soldier, but let me tell you, Oberyn squealed like a child when I had to fix his back. Yes, the Red Viper. So, are you going to be a big, strong man or are you going to be clever and bite down on this here piece of leather? Good boy.”

***

Nobody is laughing at the end of the fourth day. Robert grows more morose, as more Southern lords arrive, which Ned would be more concerned by if he wasn’t preoccupied by fretting over the attention being paid to Tobirama’s experiment. It’s clear enough that it was a success, that hasn’t been in dispute since day two. Just the absence of screaming and the smell of rotting flesh would be enough to make it clear the maesters are outclassed. It’s the scale of his success that’s making Ned toss and turn in his sleep.

His bannermen laugh it off, think it’s flattering or, at worst, amusing. Ned is nowhere near as sanguine. Tywin Lannister is a brilliant man, fully capable of seeing talent. Tobirama’s legend has grown during the battle. People are drawn to him like moths to the flame, and he, tellingly, isn’t bothered by that at all. Noble lords wait on him hand and foot and he takes it as his due, not for a moment bothered by ordering Oberyn Martell to boil him some water, or Lord Manderly to fetch a new roll of bandages.

Tywin sees it all, and Ned recognizes the gleam of avarice in his eyes. He recognises it, he is ashamed to say, because like calls to like. Oh, his possessiveness is less based on greed and more on helpless infatuation, but the root of it is the same. Both of them want the dangerously omnipotent healer and both of them will offer little in return for his service.

Ugh.

***

By the fifth day, Tobirama stops losing patients altogether and Ned is hit with a fresh wave of worry, from an unexpected direction. Tobirama—Ned knows how Tobirama works, typically. He explains everything, outlines and details and proves each step of his method. He doesn’t do that now. He barks orders and spins chaos and somehow his patients recover by the dozen. He has to be cheating somehow, he has to be, and Ned is terrified. The North is well and truly bought by this point. Every Dornish Lord will gift three-fourths of their estates to Tobirama if that’s what will take for him to return with them. But Westerlands—The faith is strong here, as is the Citadel. Any mention of magic will immediately collapse the fragile status quo of Tobirama not being a Targaryen, and things will only go downhill from there. This, what Tobirama is doing, is beyond reckless, and the fool man is doing it for a wager—

“Tobirama, I—”

“Save it, Lord Stark. I have a point to prove. I will listen to your accusations about Oberyn tomorrow.”

What— “No, that is not—”

“Oh? Is it somebody new?” Tobirama pauses grinding his herbs and faces him, face blank and terrifyingly intent. “How have I betrayed your trust now, Lord Stark?”

“You haven’t—” Deep breaths. “To hell with the Dornish." How this blasted man can so easily drive him to distraction, he will never know. “You can bed whomever you please.”

“Yes. Yes, I can.” He tilts his jaw, lips pursed in a tight line. “I am glad we cleared that up.”

Breathe, Stark. Focus. “I am not here to talk about bedsport. I am worried you—” He steps closer, lowers his voice as far as he can, and still be heard. “You are too efficient. I am worried there could be accusations of, well. Witchcraft.”

Tobirama narrows his eyes and inhales a long, measured breath. “You interrupt me in my work, this close to the end of my deadline, to tell me I am too good?”

Careful. Careful now. One wrong word and the man will launch you bodily from the tent. “I don’t care personally, you know I don’t. We don’t care about such things in the North. But the South is dangerous. Proof isn’t necessary, a single accusation of magic will immediately mark you as a Valyrian, which is a death sentence. The Mad King hasn’t been dead for a decade, Tobirama.”

Tobirama doesn’t explode immediately, but something shifts behind his eyes. “If you think—” He breaks off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “A powerful institution has been killing people who entrust them with their lives. I cannot do much about the superstitions and the false healers around the continent, but I can do something about this. If you think that a vague threat to my safety is enough to stop me from showing that they’re charlatans, you don’t know me very well.” He stands and grabs his supplies, movements somehow threateningly controlled. “I suppose you don’t, at that. Go away, Lord Stark. I have lives to save.”

***

The wager is clear to everyone who cares to think about it. Tywin Lannister, chosen to be their impersonal judge, doesn’t hesitate to proclaim as much.  The one saving grace in all this is that Tobirama can rationalize every one of his successes. There is no question about trade secrets or patents.

“The whole point of this little demonstration was to show that healing is a science,” he tells the Lords. “I will write a text about it. I will write a hundred texts. I will drone on and on to everybody who will listen, but mark my words, the barbaric practices that the Citadel and their ilk stand behind will be eradicated within my lifetime.”

Ned is fiercely proud. Heart sore and anxious and half a step away from manic, but proud before everything else. Granted, Tobirama hadn’t glanced his way since their disastrous discussion, but that’s well-earned and probably for the best. Maybe if he repeats it enough times, he will even begin to believe it.

***

Chapter Text

Robert schedules a meeting to discuss the fate of the Iron Islands on the day after Tobirama’s experiment is finished. On the one hand, Ned rejoices that the date of their departure is on the horizon. On the other hand—

Balon Greyjoy had four children. Two sons, Rodrik and Maron died when the siege weapons tore the outer walls of the keep into pieces. That left one daughter and one son. Yara Greyjoy is fourteen, traumatised and made out of coltish limbs and frothing rage. The boy, Theon, is ten.

In other circumstances, Ned would have made like the turtles, tucked his vulnerable neck behind the shell of a lack-witted Northerner and lived with the outcome. As things are currently, they have a resource that is, for some reason, going untapped, and he would at least like to go into the meeting armed with the best intel available.

***

“What are you asking, Stark? Precisely?”

Ned takes in their bleak, closed-off expressions. It’s a jarring change. It would be difficult to say he and Erich are friends, or even friendly, but he has gotten accustomed to a no-nonsense relationship of mutual respect. He can barely recognise the seasoned, competent soldier he has come to know with this block of steel.

When in doubt, retreat and re-assess. “I don’t know I can get you in the room,” he says. “If it were me, Robert and Tobirama, it would be one thing, but now all the Southerners will be present. If I stick you in the room with Lord Lannister, Lord Tarly and Lord Tyrell, not all of you will leave there alive.”

“That wasn’t my question. You came to ask me about Lady Yara and Lord Theon, my late Lord’s two living children. Presumably, you need this information for the meeting tomorrow, during which you will decide their fate.”

Right. So there might be some conflict of interest there. “I apologise,” he says as firmly as he is able. “I should have prefaced with the fact that my goal is to maximise their safety as best I can. That said, some sort of arrangement will be made, with or without my input. If you think Lord Lannister will better look out for their interests, you are out of your mind.”

Erich is quiet for a couple of heartbeats, but his expression and body language thaws, finally. “You should have led with that, yes. Gods’ sake, Stark, you’re at the very top of the hierarchy, at least pretend you’re properly socialised.” His shoulder jerk in a complicated, emotive shrug. “That said, I don’t know if I can be of much use to you. As much as I hate to say it, there’s not much anyone can do for those children. Old Balon made a wild gamble and lost; the islands will claim their lives as tribute.”

Yes, well. “That’s not going to happen.” Here’s hoping, at least. “House Greyjoy has ruled the Isles since Aegon slew Harren the Black. Moreover, the children are blameless, in all this.”

“Uh-huh,” Erich says. “House Stark ruled the North for however many centuries, yeah? If you were whittled down to two underaged children, and had pissed off the whole of the Seven on top, how long would it take for assassins to clear the way for an enterprising Lord or Lady?”

Ned carefully doesn’t say the first five things that spring to mind. The concepts assassins and underaged children should in no way be in proximity to one another, especially not when you’re a parent of six. “Well argued,” he grits out. “I’m not hearing any suggestions, however.”

“Victarion and Aeron—”

Hah. “They’re in the cells in Lannisport,” he says. “Alive, supposedly. The absolute best they can hope for is that they are allowed to live out their days in captivity.”

“Damn.” Erich hunches inwards, then takes care to re-settle his shoulders, straightening his spine. Seems like Tobirama has been at him about proper posture, too. “I don’t know what to tell you. If they were my children, I’d put them on a ship and sail to Braavos. There’s nothing for them here other than silent blades in the night. The Isles don’t forget and they don’t forgive.”

Wonderful. “Are they—” He hesitates. “No child can be bad, by definition, but do they—Do they seem like leadership material? Do you even want more Greyjoys in power?”

Erich makes another one of those eloquent shrugs. “I certainly don’t want anybody else. You don’t survive long as a Lord in the Isles if you aren’t some sort of bastard. Old Balon was ruthless enough and shrewd enough to keep them all in line, but he was training Rodrik to take his place, with Maron as the spare. Theon was never in the running, much less Yara.”

Ned takes a moment to think about this. “What would you do if you were in my place?”

Erich makes a sound utterly devoid of humour. “I’d have let nature take its course and washed my hands of this rotten place a long time ago, as would anybody else with any sense. The fact you’ve lived this long with such a soft heart is a miracle I lay at the feet of your Gods and your white terror.”

Right. Iron born. He sighs and attempts a smile. His head is killing him. “That was a dull question, I suppose.”

***

Not being an utter fool, he doesn’t try to find his way through the castle himself and flags a nearby maid to escort him. It’s not the most pleasant trip—the girl is terrified, and he doesn’t blame her—but Pyke Keep is a damn maze, and a creepy one at that. He hadn’t poked around before, and he didn’t plan to start.

“Right through here, m’lord. You can’t miss it.”

Ned eyes the high archway. He certainly can’t miss it, no. He wants to miss it, but it would take some doing.

“Thank you—” She’s long gone, Stark, pull yourself together.

***

You have to give the architects their due, the room Robert chose for the meeting is a spectacular show of artistry. Terrifying, yes, unnecessarily so, but it’s a show of skill that Ned has only seen in the Great Works. You always feel it, when magic is used to build. Something in the back of your mind is telling you this is not right and, moreover, that you should be focused on getting out not in.

He shakes off the distraction and focuses on the present. Judging by the fact that there is only one chair left empty, he is, somehow, the last one to arrive. Even Robert is there, expression drawn, talking quietly to Tobirama. There endeth the list of people Ned wants to talk to. He makes his way over nodding at the Southerners as he goes. Lord Tywin, as expected, is representing the Westerlands. Next to him is Lord Jason Mallister, standing in for Hoster Tully. Then come Mace Tyrell and Lord Oakheart, representing the Reach, and Lord Horton Redfort, representing the Vale. Finally, Oberyn Martell and Myrion Gargalen represent Dorne. Iron Islands, naturally, aren’t there, and that—

He frowns. Neither Stannis nor Renly are present. That’s—Robert is standing in for House Baratheon, yes, but surely at least one of his brothers should represent Stormlands if not Dragonstone? Did he argue with them already? When did he have the time, Renly only arrived last night.

None of your business, Stark. Keep your head down and pay attention because this meeting will be a mighty trail no matter what you do; the least you can do is keep the peripheral worries at bay throughout.

“Apologies, my lords, my King,” he says, as he takes a seat on Robert’s right, which really should be Renly’s. Or Stannis. That Tobirama sits on his left is an outrage no matter how you slice it. “I hope you haven’t waited for long.”

“Oh, ages,” Robert says, waving an impatient hand. “You’re early and you know it, Ned. If Tobi hadn’t dragged me here by the ear, I’d have—”

Off to a wonderful start, are we, Ned thinks, as the temperature of the room falls to eternal ice. Go ahead and suggest that the wildling without a name, much less a noble house, can drag you by the ear. That will send a wonderful message to the assembled aristocracy.

***

It doesn’t get better from there.

“You can’t be serious.” The sheer audacity of the idea is enough to crack what composure he had. “No, Robert, I have six children already. I cannot have a seventh.” Never mind that he had watched the boy’s uncle burn at the gates. Never mind that Tobirama personally ran a spear down his father’s throat.

“I also fail to see why this is necessary,” comments Tobirama. Now that his point is made, and most of the hands-on healing is finished, he is firmly back to his fastidious, somewhat debauched persona. No love bites are in sight, at least, but that’s what the high neck of his tunic is for, chances are. “Surely we have demonstrated why rebelling is a dangerous endeavour. We killed enough, your Majesty; let the boy have a shot at a decent life.”

“A hostage is a wise precaution,” counters Tywin. Ned doesn’t think his heart is in it. If anything, Tywin watches Tobirama like he regrets not having a daughter of a marrying age. “The Iron Isles resent their position in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“The Iron Isles won’t rebel again for at least twenty years, Lord Lannister. They won’t have the men to. In the meantime, I would suggest the crown might try diplomacy instead of keeping their future Lord hostage.”

“Some punishment is necessary,” says Mace Tyrell. Ned bites down a sigh that threatens to escape and takes in a bracing breath instead. One can always count on Mace Tyrell to say the worst possible thing to the worst possible person. He’s drunk, too; drunk and woozy from the milk of the poppy he is still taking for the wound along his forearm. “Moreover, raising the child in civilisation would be to his benefit. The North is not ideal, but it is a step up, surely.”

“Lord Tyrell,” says Tobirama, turning bodily towards the fat flower. “I would suggest you apply yourself to never speaking a word out loud, much less to another human, for the rest of your days. That would be, without a shadow of a doubt, the best thing you could do for Westeros short of permanent solutions.”

Predictably, this causes some commotion. “You—” Mace puffs out. The frog-like effect is unfortunate, all things considered. Posturing makes most men appear ridiculous, but Mace Tyrell truly shouldn’t try to compete in the arena of physical intimidation. Lord Oakheart keeps an admirably blank face, as furious as he probably is. “You are speaking to the Lord Paramount of the Reach, the Warden of the South, you fatherless wretch!”

“Tobirama is not without his champions, Lord,” says Prince Oberyn, for once happy to sit in the meeting. Now that he has satisfied some of the insane blood-lust, Oberyn is a man transformed. Gone are the stench of wine and eyes clouded with narcotics. Instead, the man wears bold Dornish silks, has cut his hair and trimmed the ridiculous beard. Other than losing some weight, the man is almost back to his typical, debonair self. “I speak with full authority of Prince Doran when I say that I would adopt Tobirama as my brother if he were to let me.”

“And, of course, the North would defend the honour of our premier scholar,” Ned says. Keeping his head down is one thing, but that was an outright claim. “As would I, as your fellow Lord Paramount, Warden of the North, in case it needed to be said.”

Mace is about to reply when Robert claps a hand on the table.

“If we are finished bickering, perhaps we could return to the matter at hand. We have two Greyjoys rotting in Lannisport and two children of the previous Lord. The girl can’t inherit—”

“She can’t?” Tobirama turns his head Robert’s way, to Ned’s eye honestly surprised. A moment later, he turns back. “Apologies, this is not the time for that conversation. Young Theon is the Heir, is he not?”

“He is ten years old.”

Tobirama shrugs. “Assign him a Regent. He has two uncles, either one of them could serve, and neither has the reputation of the deceased Greyjoy brothers.”

“The girl, then,” nods Tywin with some reluctance. “Marry the girl to a suitable lord and let us be done with it.”

Robert sighs, moody and petulant. Ned’s heart squeezes. Seven hells, but he doesn’t know what to do about the ever-increasing melancholy. One way or another, Ned is running back home as quickly as he is able, and he doesn’t plan on stepping a foot past the Neck for a decade. What does Robert have to come back to, if he is happier fighting a war? 

“That is an excellent idea,” says Tobirama. Ned blinks. This is surprising. He had hair-raising nightmares about how Tobirama would react when the time came to arrange Sansa’s betrothal. Everything he knows about his character suggests he should be outraged by the institution of arranged marriage. “Lord Renly, I think, would be suitable.” Ned takes care to keep his mouth shut. Renly? Did he do something to insult Tobirama? Is that why he’s not here?

Robert’s eyes lighten with humour, and he barks a laugh. It’s not as kind as Ned would like. “An excellent solution, wildcat. That works.”

“The matter of a Regent is still open, Robert,” Ned says, eyes crinkling.

“Bah! Either one of the boy’s Uncles can do it! We will release them from Lannisport once we land.”

Ned takes a moment to consider the likelihood of either of the Greyjoy brothers being allowed to live if they are indeed still alive. “Or we assign him a local regent, someone who the islanders know and respect and who hasn’t lost any important wars in the last little while.” He ignores all the pitying looks coming at him from the Southerners. Ned might be awful at politics, but none of them have spoken to a man, woman or child from the Iron Islands in the past decade, Greyjoy children included. They most certainly don’t have a leg to stand on. “The boy, meanwhile, can stay with Lord and Lady Baratheon, as a honoured guest for a couple of years.”

“Great, yes, fantastic,” Robert says, waving a hand. “The boy won’t get his throat slit in the night and they won’t dare usurp him the proper way. Not after Tobirama demonstrated how he handles such offences.”

“Perfect,” nods Tobirama. “I will inform Lord Renly if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead. The boy should be in his tent, getting waited on.”

Tobirama arches his brows. “Smart boy. No offence to you, my Lords, but I can think of more pleasurable ways to pass the afternoon than bickering over the fate of children. Oberyn, I assume you’re taking notes for future reference?”

Oberyn’s laugh is, objectively, charming. Ned grits his teeth and lets none of his displeasure show. They talked about this. Tobirama is free to sleep with as many vipers as he pleases. “I am, indeed. A month spent chained to my bed sounds like just the thing. Too bad my current paramour is too principled to indulge me.”

“There, there,” says Tobirama, fondness swirling together with mockery. “I’m sure you will survive, somehow. With your leave, Your Majesty?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

As the spark of joy dulls in Robert’s eyes, Ned makes a quick decision. He could brood about Tobirama, Oberyn, Renly or any other of his problems, or he could not. “Let’s go for a spar, Robert,” he says, like an idiot. “You’re in a foul mood and Tobirama judged you are free from the risk of an infection, did he not?”

Robert immediately agrees, mood soaring, and Ned weathers the displeased look Tywin levels at him. There is work to be done, he’s aware, but his friend is miserable and Tobirama is ignoring him with the heat of a thousand suns. Ned needs this.

***

Whatever he had suspected, Ned can’t say he would have thought to see Renly as at peace with his circumstances. Him or his child-bride. At the very least, he expected young Loras to be seething. This is not the case. All three young people appear to be fast friends. Loras, closer to Yara’s age than Ned cares to acknowledge, seems to enjoy her company. The girl, still pale and traumatized from her ordeal likewise appears to find some joy in bantering with the young flower.

Physically, the three of them make up quite the picture. Yara is a wide-shouldered young woman,  as thin and leggy as she is right now. Her face is long and angular, with a sharp nose and deep-set eyes. Paired with her black hair cut shorter than most men keep it and the awkward cut of her dress, she looks very little like the daughter of a noble house. Loras, on the other hand, flaunts his fine silks cinched in the waist, flowers tucked into his hair and spilling down his cloak. Renly, standing between them has a slightly dazed look on his face, but he doesn’t look eager to throw himself from a cliff, which is certainly how Robert would have looked when he was that age if his father betrothed him to a woman as young and plain as the young Ironborn Princess.

Most notably, all three of them orbit around Tobirama, which he allows and facilitates. Ned—doesn’t know what to think.

“Lady Yara will bring her dear companion, Mia, to serve as her lady-in-waiting,” Renly says in a firm tone that struggles to stretch over the anxious tension. “I ask that the wedding take place in Storm’s End.”

“Yes, yes,” says Robert, in a better mood after having tired himself out on the training ground. “This is a political marriage, as Tobirama keeps repeating. There is no need to put the girl through the spectacle of a formal wedding.”

And that’s the final proof. Tobirama did something, convinced or threatened or bribed the girl or Robert or someone. The whole affair feels scripted, like the four of them are putting on a play. Even Stannis thinks so. He’s looking at Renly like he’s never seen him before. A little more and Ned would almost call him approving. Stannis! That miserable puddle of despair has never been happy a single day in his damn life.

“Thank you, Robert,” says Tobirama. “As a reward for being an excellent human being, I will brew you a type of brandy you’ve never tried before.”

Robert rolls his eyes, but he grins, wide and delighted. Ned’s heart squeezes again. It takes so little to keep Robert happy and spectacular. All he needs is a kind word, honest friendship and adventure. Who is going to give him that once he returns to his deathtrap of a city?

“Right, that’s done, then. We’ll split our ships into three. Renly, you take the Stormlanders and the Tyrells, Stannis, you can take the Lannisters, the Riverlanders and the Vale, and the rest of us sail back together.”

The stragglers disperse, after that, even if Tobirama has to shoo Loras, Yara and Renly away personally. When the three of them are alone, Tobirama walks up to him and reaches up to pat his shoulder. Ned should stop being surprised by their respective sizes; he’s had weeks to get used to how delicate Tobirama looks when juxtaposed with Robert’s bulk, and he is as surprised now as he was the first time he saw them next to one another. “I am sincere in my admiration. Robert. I know these things bore you. Gods know I’d rather roll around on a bed with a pretty thing, but sometimes our duty must come first. Moreover, it was honourable of you to spare young Yara the horrors of the bedding ceremony.”

Gods. Even Ned, who is somewhat familiar with Tobirama’s sudden onslaught of sincerity, is scandalised by the monologue. Robert, who isn’t one for self-doubt, is wide-eyed with shock.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, you big lump,” continues Tobirama, lips twitching. “There is nothing wrong with telling a friend that you’re proud of them. I’m not emotionally stunted like you and your lot.”

“Seven Hells, wildcat,” says Robert, “that’s not—You can’t just say that.”

“Why not? Because that’s not how men behave? How men speak?” Tobirama’s tone doesn’t sharpen and his demeanour remains calm but something in the back of Ned’s mind sits up and pays attention. “Don’t be silly, dear. I’m not one to use physical strength as a metric for these things, but I understand you and yours are. Well, I’m the strongest warrior you have ever met; ten of your best men couldn’t hope to bring me down. With that in mind, I can make a good argument that anything I do is manly and appropriate because I am the one doing it.”

“Mercy!” Robert puts his hands up, some of the shock fading into amusement. He’s not taking this very seriously, but if there is anyone Robert will take seriously at all, it’s Tobirama. “I’m just saying, men don’t talk like that.”

“I’m a man and I talk like that.” Tobirama’s shrug is eloquent. “Think about it. As a personal favour to me, yes? I’m not above bribery.” His eyes sparkle, and he leans forward. “I’m doing some mental calculations for a new type of steel. When I perfect it, I will have a solid incentive, yes? So, for me, think about all the things you don’t do because it’s not the done thing, and come to your conclusions.”

“Deal,” says Robert, something shy and pleased flashing over his face, before it’s hidden away behind his boisterous facade.

Tobirama extends his hand, and Robert envelops it with his own. “Deal. ”

***

Chapter Text

They disperse quickly after that, and Ned decides to take a walk to clear his head. There’s rather a lot to digest, frankly. Now that he finally has a free moment, he takes the long way round. First, he visits his bannermen in their camp and stays for a quick dinner. The lucky bastards get to stay outside in their camp, without the horrible, pitch-black keep looming above them. Alas, while Ned could get away with kipping in an empty tent before, that is out of the question now that the rest of the nobility are here.

After that, he swings ‘round to the Greyjoy camp.

“Easy,” he says, having learned his lesson. “I bring good news and a bottle of Northern brandy.”

“Do tell,” Erich says, voice flat and expression hard.

“Well,” he says, sitting next to the fire and handing over the bottle, “Theon is not going to be anybody’s hostage, for one, nor will Robert demote House Greyjoy and elevate another in their place.”

“Right.” Erich exhales a long breath, hesitates for a moment, and then sits down a little ways away from Ned. The rest of the soldiers remain as mute and still as they were since Ned wandered into their camp. “What’s the deal, then? Are they letting out Victorion and Aeron?”

Ned huffs. “Not a chance. No, they’re hostages, more or less. Young Theon is getting a regent, and—” He hesitates, heart heavy. It worked out, this time, but he still has no idea how or why. “Lady Yara is getting married to Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End. Theon will be their honoured guest for a couple of years.”

“Ah.” Erich frowns, relaxes, frowns again, then exhales, shoulders slumping. “Well, isn’t that something? That’s certainly better than anything I could have come up with. Getting those children off of Pyke as quickly as possible is the way to go. How long, do you know—”

“No. That’s their business, and I don’t think Renly will appreciate me sticking my nose into his business any more than I already have.” They truly had asked a lot of him. Ned knows first-hand what it’s like to be blindsided by marriage, much less to a—He shuts down that train of thought quick-like. He was in a decent mood when he left his bannermen, and he was already halfway to melancholy.

“And did you—” Erich hesitates, and Ned waves a tired hand. You might as well. “Did you discuss reparations and such?”

Oh. He hadn’t even thought about that. The feeling of scarcity on Pyke is so entrenched, he hadn’t even thought that the Crown would demand reparations on top of whatever tax they pay. “No,” he says, numb. “No, we—Robert typically delegates such matters to Jon and Lord Lannister.”

“Shocking.” Erich leans back, propped up by his arms. “Well, we’re no more screwed than we had been yesterday. Less, even. That’s something. And, well, it’s not like it matters much. The tax is already more than we can pay; the precise amount is irrelevant. We’ll mount up a debt for a decade or so, then fight a war when things come to a head.”

Ned swallows and tells himself: no. This is not your business. You will not involve yourself in Ironborn messes. Your house is hardly in order, anyhow. Worry about all the treasonous people you’re hiding in plain view.

“Renly is rich,” he says, like an idiot. “Stormlands are the third richest, right after Dorne and the Reach. He’ll step in. And if he doesn’t, you will write me a damn letter.”

“What, because you will cover for Iron Islands—”

“Yes,” Ned cuts in. “I would rather come to some agreement with the Crown and the regent than have to spend more on marching an army down South to fight you. Obviously. You have no idea how much this fool thing had cost—” No. Stop it. Not your business, remember? Not your wretched business. “In any case, yes. You or somebody you know will write me a letter. We will reach a solution. No wars.”

“I’ll drink to that, Stark,” Erich says, then sighs. “I’ll drink to that.”

***

Since, on balance, the walk thus far hadn’t done much to improve his mood, he figures he might as well take the scenic road back. If there is one thing Pyke Castle has to recommend it, it is that it has a fascinating web of balconies and miniature courtyards, connected with staircases and hallways. A man on a mission to clear his head could spend a long time traipsing, and still technically get to his rooms without having to retrace his steps.

Naturally, since the Gods are nowhere near finished with their tests, he is scaling up one thus far unremarkable set of stairs when a burst of laughter catches his attention. He climbs up, cranes his head, and freezes in place. The scene is—beautiful. Heartbreaking, certainly unexpected, but beautiful before anything else. In the centre of a closed-off terrace a level below the one Ned is on, Tobirama is playing with a boy, tossing him in the air like he had seen him do to Ned’s children so many times. On one side of the terrace, Renly sits, tangled up with Loras, the two of them watching the play with soft eyes and relaxed smiles. Next to them, young Yara has a pretty girl of sixteen lying over her legs, her head pillowed on Yara’s lap. Is that—Mia? Mia of House Harlaw?

His heart squeezes, mind stalling. When Tobirama’s eyes inevitably find him, he doesn’t do anything except roll his eyes and continue playing with the boy. Theon, by all accounts. The boy they had all been discussing like he were a sickly cow nobody wanted to deal with. Funny, how differently those conversations feel now, now that he’s seen the boy shriek with laughter, grin as wide as it could go.

If that were all, Ned would have left by now. All things considered, his conscience is clear in regard to the Greyjoy boy. No, the reason his heart is rabbiting in his chest and his throat is clenched shut is the two couples, relaxed and merry.

Several moving parts click together in his mind; this makes sense. Renly would be sympathetic to young Yara’s situation. On some level, Ned knows there is nothing wrong with being that way. Benjen is the kindest, most generous man he’s ever known, and he is fully repulsed by the idea of lying with a woman. Still, he never hoped he would see—Comfort and ease. Love. Renly says something that makes Yara laugh, and the Tyrell boy tilts his head back in a clear invitation for a kiss. No sinful passion, no stolen moments, no shame or violence. The only thing that Ned can see is unforced affection between lovers, just as he would see between his parents. Between, Gods save him, Elia and Rhaegar. Renly smiles a little and presses a kiss into his blonde curls in an off-hand way, eyes still watching Tobirama toss the child higher and higher. Without anything to prove and anyone to impress, the two couples are thrilling. Inspiring.

A lump forms in his throat. What are you doing, Stark? This is not meant for you. You are intruding on private joy, spying on happy young people like a vulture. Go. Go, now, before your presence is discovered and the peace is broken. Five more seconds. Three. One. Go.

***

He is in no state to deal with anything more upsetting than a well-made bed and eight hours of silence, so, of course, Oberyn Martell is waiting for him outside of his rooms. For a long moment, he thinks about spinning on his heel and going right back out of this accursed castle and spending the night with his bannermen. Unfortunately, if you see a viper in the open, you can be certain it has the advantage. If Oberyn is here, that means at least four of his people are in eyesight, somehow.

“Lord Stark,” says Oberyn, unsticking from the wall. He takes a few steps towards Ned and hesitates. The pass of his eyes is uncomfortable on a physical level.

“Lord Martell,” he says, using up the last drops of calm. “I have had a long and challenging day. I am not fit for company.”

“Yes, well, we leave at first light.” For once, the Red Viper is not the combative one between them. If anything, his voice is deliberately sanded down into something calm. Pleasant, even. “I have no time.”

Tough. Ned feels the lump in his throat pulse and shudder, eyes burning. What has you in this state? You won, not one person you value is dead. You don’t have a scratch on you and you get to return home to your children and your wife—

He swallows with some difficulty. “Today is not a good day,” he repeats. “I am—experiencing battle fatigue.” If only. He never hoped he would prefer battle fatigue, but here he is, a married man with six children, going through a slow, unstoppable internalization of all the mistakes he’s made and the things he doesn’t get to have as a result of them. He can’t be a good father to Jon, who doesn’t even know his mother’s name. His best friend is a direct threat to his son’s life. Until he dies, Ned can’t—That scene, that he just saw? The casual, unforced intimacy born out of honest love and nothing else? He will never have that. Not now, not later, not while he’s alive.

“Seven hells,” says Oberyn under his breath, but the deep, black eyes are kinder than he’s ever seen them. “I spent most of my years in and out of battle, and have forged a maester’s link besides. I know what battle shock looks like. You, Lord Stark, are just sad.”

Ned swallows again. “I can’t do this today with you. Gods know you hate me and Gods know I am right there with you, but I am—I can’t do this with you today.”

“Believe it or not, I am not here to talk about that. I came here to talk about Tobirama.”

Ned blinks, pauses, and inhales a measured breath. “Ah. Well, that simplifies matters. I will never be strong enough to talk about Tobirama with you. You and he—I—” Deep breaths. “I can’t. Do you understand? Do you want me to beg? I will.”

Oberyn sighs, and something shifts behind his eyes. “I think that about covers everything. You—” He sighs again, tipping his head back. “Do you want to get drunk?”

Him? Ned? With the Red Viper?

“Please.”

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth bottle of wine, Ned realises he is not only drunk but that he’s stripped to his leggings and tunic, as had Oberyn. Both of them have abandoned their chairs and sit sprawled on the floor in Oberyn’s case, or propped up by the wall and several pillows in Ned’s.

“His hands,” he hears himself say. It’s a peculiar experience. He hears the words and agrees with them, but can’t quite figure out who is saying them, because it can’t possibly be him. “So tiny and pretty and soft—”

Oberyn huffs a sound that sounds a little like a sniffle. “The way he tilts his jaw when he thinks he’s better than everybody—which is always.”

“It makes my heart squeeze, every time. The moment—I can see it building behind his eyes when he thinks somebody is being an idiot—usually me, if I’m honest. I can’t for the life of me ever say the right thing—”

Oberyn nods at him, sympathy written in every line of his face. “I know the feeling well. Every time I think I know how he will react, he goes the opposite way, possibly to spite me. The first time it happened, I had asked to join him in his revelry with the camp followers—I hadn’t known he was healing them—”

Ned groans, then tips the bottle back-back-back until there’s nothing left. “Gods wept! He wasn’t even—He was—”

“I know,” says Oberyn, struggling to open another bottle. “He’s so woefully perfect, all the time, and he doesn’t even—He never says anything! Never asks for anything! How am I supposed to—How is anyone supposed to, to keep him, if he doesn’t have a single thing he wants, that he can’t get for himself?”

“Keep him? What would that even—Did you know, about Renly and the girl? Did you know he was going to—”

“He doesn’t tell me anything, Stark. He bullies me into becoming a better man and bribes me with—with being in my presence, that’s enough honestly, and just—leaves whenever he pleases. When he’s had enough of me. Which is fine, I accept that bargain, I just want to know what it is he wanted from me in the first place—”

The lump in his throat has long since been dissolved by wine, but that only means the pained exhale is that much more difficult to soften into something that doesn’t sound so much like a sob. “He only claimed me because of my children. He only stays because of the children, who he loves better than I do. You know the thing he does, when he’s effortlessly flawless in a thing you thought you were, honestly, pretty good at? Imagine that happening to your parenting skills—”

Oberyn fumbles with the wine, distracted by trying to pat Ned on the shoulder and missing him by at least a meter. “You poor thing. Gods, I can’t even—Your children—”

Ned hangs his head a little. “And I can’t—It’s not his fault he’s perfect. The little ones deserve perfection, especially when it is within reach. I just need to—sit and—”

Oberyn huffs and shakes his head a little, swaying. “Right, come here and help me with the wine, I’m much too sober for this.”

Sober he says. Both of them will be puking before the hour is out.

“Here, I will hold and you pull—”

“You can come a little closer, I don’t want to kiss you—”

“Excuse you, Stark, I am very kissable—”

“Just hold the damn wine, Oberyn, Seven Hells—”

“I am holding, you big lump—”

“Well, this is terrifying.”

Some little part of Ned’s brain not seeped in wine and misery starts shouting. The bigger part of his brain is more concerned about trying to wrestle Oberyn without moving too much and agitating his stomach further.

“You two aren’t, perchance, in the process of murdering one other?”

“I wish,” he mumbles. “It would solve so many problems. Hey, Oberyn, if I called you out on a duel and accidentally tripped and fell—”

“Not in a million years.” Ned’s whole body lurches, head spinning. For a long, confused moment he’s certain he’s experiencing some strange and unwelcome health complication, but no. Oberyn has somehow flipped their positions in the middle of the sentence. On balance, he’s no worse off than before; debilitating nausea was inevitable, and this position is easier on his back. “You’re the only one that suffers as I do. Misery loves company.”

“I thought so.” He lets his head fall to the ground. “I bet Tobirama wouldn’t let me either. He would box my ears like Old Nan, I bet.”

Oberyn is quiet for a second, before he collapses onto Ned’s chest, snickering. “And you would like it.”

“Gods know I would like anything that man would deign to do to me.” He heaves to the side, trying and failing to tumble the shorter man off himself. “Like you wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t say that. The things that man can do with his hands—”

Ned throws an arm over his face, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow. “No, stop, I don’t need to hear it. It’s bad enough my thoughts fizzle out every time he looks my way, I don’t need the additional torment. I was so jealous of you, you nightmare! I couldn’t sleep!”

“I’m jealous of you right now! I got him for a few nights out of pity! You get to have him home! Every day!”

“You got to kiss him.” Even to his wine-soaked mind, this is a little much. “Even the once.”

“You got to hear him declare himself yours. Even the once.”

Ned blinks. His vision has been swimming for a while now, but it’s really blurry now. Oh, he’s crying. Gods wept. “If my father could see me now, he’d—” What would he do? “Probably kill me on the spot. Send me to the Wall if I’m lucky.”

“Of course, you have daddy issues,” he hears Oberyn slur. His eyes close, blessed sleep rushing in to fill the spinning, painful reality. “Of course you do—”

Sleep.

Chapter Text

The morning comes and brings with it unity born of necessity: Oberyn and Ned need to puke, neither can coordinate their limbs without the help of the other, and the chamber pot is on the other side of the room. Overcoming those challenges provides plenty of time to get over some of the malice built up between them over the years. Not all of it—even a horrible hangover can’t withstand the weight of dead sisters, murderous kings and treacherous lords—but there’s something to their relationship past the pain, today.

“You hate me,” Ned reasons as he finishes puking, “and I hate myself. Logic suggests we should be on the same side.”

“Shut up.” Oberyn wheezes and doubles over, abdomen clenching and unclenching. He’s never looked so much like a wiggling, struggling fish. “I don’t hate you. Your value system is incomprehensible and the paths it leads you down make me blind with fury, but you’re impossible to hate, as a person.”

Ned’s chest attempts a laugh; it doesn’t work out, having gotten strangled halfway out by a vicious cramp. “Wait here. I’ll find us a washcloth.”

“Just—Just shout for Daemon. He should be around.”

“Sand? Your—”

“Yes, my. Why? You jealous?”

Ned is too hungover, drunk and miserable to remember his script. “I won’t lie and deny it. I’m not blind and his dimples are ridiculous.”

It’s Oberyn’s turn to choke on a chuckle, body clenching and heaving helplessly. “Just get him, would you? He’s a mean little thing but he won’t let us pass out and drown in our own sick.”

“Thank you for that imagery, Oberyn.” He attempts to lurch to his feet, abandons the movement before he’s more than a couple of feet up, curses and spills back to the ground, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. “Should I call from the window or the door?” It could go either way, with the Dornish.

“Window. Carries sound better.”

“Seven Hells, Oberyn.”

“Yes, yes, now hurry up. I have things I want to do still, which means I’m not going to die on fucking Pyke.”

Ned carefully doesn’t roll his eyes; even a half-dead dog can learn. Instead, he drags himself to the window on his elbows like a worm, taking care to keep his head as level as he can. “Daemon Sand,” he says. Shouting would be ideal; he can manage a croak. “Your Oberyn calls. We are in my chambers.” Energy spent, he oozes back down, breathing deeply to calm his rebelling stomach. Here’s hoping the Dornish don’t kill him dead for poisoning their Prince.

“What in the Seven Hells did we drink?”

“I stopped paying attention halfway through.” Oberyn tries to take in a deep breath, gets a lungful of the odour, and chokes. “It would be wine, surely?”

Ned digs his knuckles into his temples as far as they would go. “I think—I could be wrong, but I think bottles four and five were some sort of grape brandy. I remember thinking that the burn was off.”

“Shoulda guessed. Nothing good comes from this place.”

“Ugh.” Ned finally crawls to the stop and flops to the floor, every drop of energy spent. “What was I thinking? I never did have a stomach for drink—”

“I do. Or I thought I do. Did. I started drinking and smoking after I survived puberty, and I can’t remember if I ever felt this badly.”

Yes, well, Ned hadn’t eaten much these days, and Oberyn is about as skinny as he could become and remain functional. “Let’s chalk it up to our age, then.”

Oberyn groans. “Don’t talk to me about age, child. How old are you, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven, actually.”

“Oh, my mistake. Considering I am on the other end of thirty-five, I think you should focus on your strengths, like being pretty and befuddled and never more than half a step away from stumbling off a cliff because you were chasing a butterfly.”

“What?”

***

Daemon Sand is, appropriately, a demon. The cackling witch bursts through the door and Ned thinks: This is is. This is how I die. The Dornish will take one look at their Prince, compound his misery by the fact he was found in Ned’s room, and start stabbing. Fortunately—or unfortunately, the matter is not yet clear—Daemon seems to be aware of what is going on, and the dramatic entry is motivated by pure chaotic malevolence.

“My prince, my lord,” sing-songs the be-dimpled monster. “I see you are enjoying this fine morning. Taking life by the horns. Seizing the day. Riding the wave—”

“Dae’, as the sun as my witness—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the stench of sick and shame. What was that? You’re inquiring about my morning? Well, let me tell you—”

“Now, now,” says Tobirama. Ned closes his eyes, lays his head back on the ground and focuses on his breathing. “You’ve had your fun. I am sure the lesson is well and truly learned.”

What lesson is that, precisely? Ned isn’t sure. Ned isn’t sure about a lot of things.

Oberyn nudges his foot in compassionate apology. “Sorry. I may have been overly optimistic about Dae’s goodwill. It had slipped my mind that—”

“We were waiting for you, yes.” The note of poison is clearer now that Ned knows to look for it. It’s hard to tease out such things when he’s distracted by spotty vision, an ever louder ringing in his ears and the strange and unwelcome sensation of his brain rattling around in his skull like dice in a cup. “Ulwyck postponed the trip until tomorrow because you got drunk.”

“It’s not his fault,” Ned pauses, baffled at his life. Is he covering for the Red Viper? Covering for the Red Viper to his own paramour? “I had a bad night. My mind was loud. Oberyn saw and didn’t want to leave me alone to wallow.”

If nothing else, Ned’s attempt at snake charming has shut the wretched creature up. He can feel Daemon’s incredulous, furious eyes on his body, but that is easier to bear than the noise.

“Oberyn stayed with you because you were struggling with battle shock. That is what you’re telling me, Lord Stark.”

He might as well continue on this path; he’s onto something here. Confuse the witch with friendliness and he might just decide to leave them alone. “Call me Ned.”

“I will not—”

Escalate.

“You have very pretty dimples.”

Silence. Blessed silence. Oberyn is shaking next to him, he can hear the vibration of the chamber pot, but there is silence for glorious five heartbeats.

“Obi, did you drug him?” Well, it’s a step in the right direction. He’s talking much more quietly now, voice sanded down with real worry. “Did you have to drug yourself too so that he would take the bait?”

“I wish,” says Oberyn. Ned can’t quite believe it, but he can tell that his voice is shaking from suppressed laughter. When did that happen? “He’s playing you, Dae’.”

“What?”

“Wrists too,” says Ned, desperately. “Always thought so. Not many men have such a pronounced curve to the pisiform bone. Very lovely.”

“Obi, make him stop,” says Daemon but he’s speaking quietly again and Ned doesn’t even try to stop his sigh of relief. Balm.

“It’s not his fault you barged in here, screaming as a maniac. The poor man is just defending his life.”

“Defending his—”

“The leather harnesses wrapped around your thighs and waist carrying all the knife sheaths?  Phenomenal. I would congratulate the craftsperson for having created such an effective distraction, while critiquing them for the lack of care for the innocent bystanders.”

“Alright,” sighs Tobirama and drags the sputtering young man outside. “Come down when you’re ready, you two.”

Finally. Mission successful. If Ned had any dignity at all left to lose, he might be feeling some embarrassment about this. As it is, he spent the evening crying about another man in Oberyn Martell’s arms. There is nowhere to go from here but up.

***

“Alright,” says Oberyn, some hours later, as they’re both getting somewhat close to consciousness. “Alright, before I leave and this bizarre spell breaks,  I will ask a question. You don’t have to answer, or you can answer partially. Fair?”

Ned sighs. “Fair.”

“Do you know who killed my sister?”

“Yes.”

A flash of hurt flashes over Oberyn’s face, chased by anger then quickly doused by something a lot like confusion. “Why not tell me?”

“It’s not honour that prevents me from doing it.” If only it were. How wonderful life would be if Ned’s mistakes would only harm himself.

“What, then? Debts? Blackmail?”

Hm.

“Only a few people know the truth,” he says, carefully measuring each word. “The only person you could have learned it is me.”

Oberyn’s expression sharpens, solidifying with focus. “You are afraid?”

“Terrified.”

“I see.” He is quiet for a long moment. “A man like you—You aren’t afraid for your own’s sake.”

Not a question; Ned remains silent.

“I think I have your measure by now. Elia wasn’t the only victim. The children were murdered, too. You would not be protecting an adult. That wouldn’t be equal.”

Hm? He hadn’t analysed the wretched tangle of horrors from that angle. The description might very well be true. If, say, giving the names to Oberyn would endanger Howland Reed, he would give them over. If the children weren’t in the picture, Ned wouldn’t have made a mockery of every principle he had. 

“A child, then. Does Tobirama know?”

Please. “No. If he did, he would have told you. Tobirama doesn’t know fear.”

“It comes from reliably being the strongest person around.” Oberyn pauses, lips pursed. “I still can’t quite imagine how somebody could blackmail you of all people.”

Alright, he needs to steer this line of reasoning away, because Oberyn, as much as Tobirama likes him, is one of the people Ned needs to protect Jon from. “It is not blackmail, I just cannot draw attention. My dull, predictable attitude keeps me and mine safe. There are some people who I cannot afford to make my enemy.” Tywin Lannister was about as vengeful as a man could get. If Ned crossed him in this, he would leave no stone unturned, and Jon’s cover is flimsy at best. He is safe because nobody cared to look, but once the Lannisters are going over everything with a fine-tooth comb, that’s all gone.

“I am sorry, Oberyn, but my priorities are clear.”

“I imagine they are. You understand I won’t stop looking?”

He grimaces a smile. “I will throw a festival once you learn them.” Fuck.

“Them?” Oberyn’s eyes glitter. “Interesting.”

Alright, think.

“I cannot tell you,” he says, slowly. “But I can say that, while most of the staff working in the keep that day are dead, a couple escaped to the Stormlands and the Vale. One or two are in White Harbour.”

“Stormlands, the Vale and the North? Interesting.’

“A long string of bad luck followed them, I’m afraid; there were more in the beginning.”

“I see. Thank you for your help. I will be sure to leave ample evidence about my investigations so that my steps appear logical.”

“Thank you.” That is the most he could ever hope for. Should Oberyn puzzle out the names himself, Ned should be safe enough. While he has been letting a little more of his inner world show, he hardly deviated much. Eddard Stark, slavishly devoted to Robert and bound by his word on pain of death, would never compromise himself for a Dornishman. “Lord Stark cannot be civil with Prince Martell,” he adds swallowing a knot of bitterness and resignation. “Lord Stark is a predictable, transparent man who could never and would never step away from what he knows.”

Oberyn snorts. “Gods love you, you little lost lamb, I’m not a complete lackwit. I will be as prissy and unpleasant as anything as soon as I walk out of that door. That is why I asked the questions now.”

Little lost lamb. Alright.

“One more thing.” Oberyn hesitates slightly, weighing something in his mind. Ned—tenses. Fuck, he won’t enjoy this. “In the interest of transparency, I plan to use whatever method I can think of to convince Tobirama to travel to Dorne and treat Doran.”

Ned blinks. His first instinct is to wave it off. Prince Doran is bedridden, brought low by a terrible case of gout. Every healer in the Seven Kingdoms has tried their hand at a cure, no expense has been spared, and still, the prince is in agony. It is reasonable, it is good that Tobirama spares him the senseless pain. On the other hand—

“Seven hells.” He swallows the selfish protests that threaten to bubble up. Oberyn’s lips quirk, but he’s kind enough not to offer platitudes. “Thank you for telling me. I wouldn’t have enjoyed the surprise.” It’s fine. Tobirama is allowed to travel—No. Tobirama is his own man. Ned has not a single claim on him that he can justify, never mind defend. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t worry too much. He will come if you ask.”

“I expect he will. For all his unknowable motives, he will heal those who need it.” Ned can’t bring himself to look Oberyn’s way, wary of the sympathy he will see. “I will not ask him to stay if it makes it any easier. I haven’t much self-preservation, but I have enough to spare myself the experience of being refused.”

“He would be—He would be wise to stay.” Ned leans back, dredges up what little courage he has left and opens his eyes. “We can offer him very little. I—I can offer him very little. He would be happier in the South.”

“Spare me.” Oberyn’s lips tilt downwards, something grieved in the uneven angle of them. “He has made his wishes very clear. I might not understand his motives, but I can respect them. The most I can hope to is that he will magic up a miracle for Doran. Meet Ellaria, if I’m lucky. The two of them will become fast friends upon first sight.”

Ned snorts, against himself. “I do not doubt it.” If her father is any indication—“Bring her up, if an opportunity presents itself. You will send an escort for him, I assume? Come with her and a couple of your daughters.” It would do Jon a lot of good to see how bastards should be treated. “The world will think it’s an insult, and—” And Ned will get the perverse pleasure of observing what maybe—In another life— “And Tobirama will be happy.”

“I just might.” Oberyn sighs again, expression still set somewhere between grief and amusement. “What a pair we make. He will not be pleased if he knew we are, in effect, discussing shared custody.”

Ned barks a laugh. “I’d offer a toast to unlikely friendships, but I will puke if I catch a whiff of alcohol.”

***

Robert hunts him down after he has managed to track down the world’s most uncomfortable bathing chamber and wash off the smell of sick off his body.

“What’s this,” he booms, grinning hard at his wince. “You went and drank yourself silly without me? For shame, Ned. For shame.”

“I am very ashamed.” When he’s right, he’s right. “That said, I seem to recall you retreating with several young women.”

“Bah.” Robert ambles closer to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Ned manages not to slump sideways into the embrace, but it’s not as easy as it should be. You’re slipping, Stark, pull yourself together. “You’re more important, of course. How was it?”

“I can’t remember much,” he says, knuckles digging into his temples. “But I do remember getting into a scuffle with Oberyn Martell, which means it can’t have been that bad.” What a lovely bit of misdirection, hey? You always did have a talent for lying.

“Hah!”

“Robert, please, mind your volume. I don’t do this often, you know? I’m miserable beyond belief.”

Robert huffs again but obliges and stops his booming, infernal laughter. “Good times had by all, then. Excellent. Where is your wildcat?”

Where is Tobirama? “I have no idea. He only came by for a few minutes to gloat.”

“Well, let’s go find him. He’s given me no end of grief about drinking, I’m looking forward to seeing what he does to you.”

***

Tobirama is—angry? At him? At them both? Ned is far too hungover and heart-sore to investigate the situation more deeply. He sneaks a look Oberyn’s way—nothing. He’s as confused about the snubbing as Ned is. Never mind Oberyn, even Robert is sending confused looks his way, like he can’t quite figure out what if anything, he should do about it.

Since there is nothing to be done about it, Ned sits tight, keeps his head down and eats his wretched food. Just get through the meal, eat as much as you possibly can and go take a long, restorative nap. Nothing can be accomplished before these conditions are met. Most importantly, keep your eyes on the plate and don’t look at anything that will upset you or, more realistically, set off any of the simmering interpersonal conflicts. Just keep your head down—

Of course, if one is hoping for a quiet meal, one would do well not to share it with Mace Tyrell. The fat flower had, apparently, drank enough to remember he was offended by Tobirama yesterday while forgetting the altercation had not gone his way. “So, Tobirama was it—Tell me, what is the plan now, that your benefactor will be sailing South?”

Damn it. Ned watches his bowl and considers for a long moment if he should hurry up and finish this before his food gets fouled with blood.

“Are you speaking about Oberyn?” Tobirama’s spoon clicks down on the stone surface of the table. “How delightful. Oberyn is not my benefactor, Lord Tyrell. If anything, I’m his.” He tilts his head, lips pulling into a sideways smirk. “I am very good in bed, after all. Aren’t you grateful, Oberyn?”

The transgressive weight of Tobirama’s words sucks all the air out of the room. What Ned should be doing is thinking up distractions and diversions. The meal can’t be salvaged; the best they can hope for is to contain the causalities. What Ned does instead is fail to stifle a sigh that rings loud in the silence. Naturally, it catches the attention of Lord Tywin who is as close to openly shocked as he’s ever seen him.

“Ah—” Oberyn clears his throat, eyes huge in his head. He cuts his eyes briefly to Ned, almost too quick to be caught. “I am humbled that you chose to spend your time with me, however long that may be.”

“There you go.” Tobirama doesn’t let up his dead stare into Tyrell’s eye. The drunk Lord is starting to sweat, but he has finally pushed too hard, it seems. “Are you curious, Lord Tyrell? I do sympathise, you show every sign of a frustrated, impotent man. Unfortunately, you will have to contend yourself with fantasies; the very idea of having you in my bed makes bile rise in my throat.”

“How dare you—”

He shouldn’t have said that. Ned hunches down further, spooning food into his mouth as quickly as basic table manners will allow. He should not have brought courage into it.

“I dare, Lord Tyrell, because I am, by every metric, so much more than you could ever be, comparing us is nonsensical.” He leans forward, letting hair spill over his shoulder to his front, light catching at the flow of silver. “I dare because I am cleverer than you, more educated than you, stronger than you, more beloved than you and, frankly, prettier than you. I dare, in summary, because there is nothing that you could say or do that would impact me in any way.”

In a casual move, he plants an elbow on the table and props his chin sideways, eyes trained on the steadily purpling man. “Is this not going as you expected?” When he wants to be, Tobirama can be mocking as the most vicious Lannister—or Martell, for that matter. “Poor Lord Tyrell thought he could throw my choice of lovers in my face. Be grateful, you foolish little man, that I count your king as a personal friend. Fall to your knees and sing praises to your gods that your son is a wonderful young man who I would rather not orphan if I can at all avoid it.”

“You admit—You threaten me here, in front of the King? You admit to lying with men, to being an unnatural, twisted heathen?” Mace stands up, the image made all the more comical by the intense blush and uncertain, wine-soaked movements.

“That’s a very good effort,” Tobirama says, crooning tone doing little to hide how serious he is. “I am threatening you and I do enjoy taking male and female lovers, provided they are worthy of my time and energy. Are you going to cry about it?” He makes a faux-shocked little gasp, eyes widening. “Pray, do you mean to tell the Citadel?”

“No, I am not, I am going to demand satisfaction, demand my King he punishes this obscene and unnatural behaviour!”

Tobirama inclines his head a little, the corner of his lips kicking up into a smile. It’s a sweet expression. Gentle. “By all means, do so. I will, of course, demand a trial by combat. Admittedly, I don’t know the precise number of men I would have to kill to work my way up to you, but I am happy to run that experiment.” He makes a quick, flighty gesture with his hand, head tilting just enough for the light to catch in the divot of his dimples. “Let me destroy your military; I’ll be happy to. Maybe once I’m done, your liege lords will realise how wholly unnecessary you are and will replace you with someone more reasonable.” He pillows his chin on his palm again, eyes lidding even further. “A headless chicken, perhaps.”

“Seven Hells, Tobi,” says Robert, into the silence. The choice of appellation only increases the heavy air of weaponised amusement Tobirama wrapped around himself like a cloak. “It was just a bad joke.”

“Oh, was it?” Movements languid as always, Tobirama leans back into his chair, chin tilted, still. “My mistake.”

“My King—” Mace stumbles to the side, finally free from the hypnotic weight of Tobirama’s gaze. “You cannot let this go unpunished! This—wildling, without a House or a name has admitted to—”

“Buggery is not a crime,” barks Robert, still taken aback by the unexpected onslaught. “Or do you want me to arrest Prince Martell, while I’m at it? As for the rest—” He sends a sideways glance Tobirama’s way. “I had meant to give you something. You took down a Castle, never mind the rest.”

“Lord Stark will reward me, I’m sure. That said, I would not mind a title. I would claim the name Hatake if you’re offering.”

“Sure. Let it be Lord Tobirama of House Hatake.” The word twists and turns in Robert’s mouth, the sounds losing the crisp, sharp bent. It earns him a fully indulgent smile, and Robert preens on reflex. They’ve all been trained to react the same way to Tobirama’s praise, it seems. “Well, then, Lord Tyrell. If you insist on starting a feud with House Hatake, he is in his rights to demand a trial by combat.”

“I will refuse to trade with the North and so will all my allies,” volleys Lord Tyrell. Ned sighs again. Escalation, escalation—

“Dorne will make up the difference,” says Oberyn, still a bit too wide-eyed to be fully back in his typical debonair attitude. “The amount of grain we grow could feed the North ten times over. We haven’t had much inclination thusfar, but Tobirama makes a very convincing case.”

“Thank you, dear,” hums Tobirama, blinking lazily, giving off every sign of lazy curiosity.

“I will—” Mace is getting desperate, Ned notes, dizzyingly uncaring of his plight. Oh, he will, going forward, but right now—Well. It’s a wonder it took this long.

“Is this the first time you encountered a man who doesn’t pander to your unearned wealth? How sad.” With a last, dismissive sneer, Tobirama shifts Robert’s way. “As I was saying, Robert, I do think you should re-consider expanding the sewers into the city of Kings Landing—”

Robert nods, too frazzled to keep his wits about him. Ned blinks. Is this—It? Tobirama just announced to all and sundry that he regularly takes male lovers—that one of the said lovers sits at this very table—and nothing happened? A supposed wildling threatened the Lord Paramount of the Reach, laid into him with a viciousness that would make any wolf proud, and—won?

Did the North lose something? The Reach as a training partner, yes, but they got Dorne in return. Tobirama’s glasswork will see dozens of hothouses and glasshouses built before the year is out, so they won’t even need the Southern grain as much. The Lannisters would be a bigger problem if Tywin showed any concrete sign that Tobirama’s—eccentricities pain him any. All in all, he won. Tobirama made himself indispensable, leveraged his personal value against hundreds of years of tradition and won.

***

Chapter Text

“We need to talk,” says Tobirama, a bit under an hour after the Dornish sailed. Young Renly, nobody’s idiot, packed up his lover, his wife, her lover and the Stormlanders and ran for the metaphorical hills. Considering Loras’ father is perilously close to getting skinned and eaten by his idol, Ned rather suspects it’s for the best.

“Do we?” The liminal space he’s been occupying wobbles. Shame. It was pleasant, there, workably a mildly interested observer of his own life. Calm. Comfortable.

“Yes. What is your schedule like?”

Alas. “I am free now.”

“Excellent. Follow me, if you would. I would rather we aren’t overheard.”

What is this about? What did Ned do now? What if it’s something he did before, that Tobirama just learned of? What if it’s something new? What—

“First thing’s first,” says Tobirama, some ten minutes later. Ned, by then bodily trembling from acute dread, takes a long, bracing breath. “You are a wonderful parent.”

Ned blinks. Opens his mouth, and closes it. Blinks a couple more times. It’s not just the content of that sentence that’s unexpected, it’s also the delivery. How did he manage to make such an inoffensive statement sound like a threat? “Pardon?”

“You treat your children with patience, love and compassion. I cannot imagine anyone who could be a better parent to them, or increase their odds at becoming accomplished, self-actualised adults.”

Ah. Ned inhales a long, self-soothing breath to offset the dread that spreads from the back of his mind, trickles down his spine and settles in his chest, deep and terrible. Did Tobirama—Did he hear—

“Thank you,” he says, while he still can. He can recognise the vice of anxiety tightening around his throat. Soon enough, speaking will be next to impossible.

Tobirama nods forcefully, face set in a grim, determined expression. “Good. It is very important that you know that. If I ever made you doubt that, I apologise. Your emotional intelligence and devotion to your family is the thing I admire most about you.”

Seven Hells. “I—” Words stick in his throat, so he has to settle for a helpless shrug. He hasn’t felt this out of place since Jon introduced him to his wife-to-be on the day they were to be married. He hasn’t felt this ashamed since Catelyn had to try her very best to hide the depth of disappointment that she was to marry him and not his freshly murdered brother. He—

“Moving on,” continues Tobirama. “I am not a good man. I don’t know when you built this idealised version of me, but it has to stop. I am dismissive. I feel very little empathy. I am vengeful, impulsive and stubborn. I can, and do, lie without blinking. Most of all, I am cruel, both unthinkingly and deliberately, to everyone I don’t consider my own.”

Right. Well, that helped a little, in that incredulity chased away some of the more crippling aspects of anxiety. “You are—none of those things.” What is he talking about?

Red eyes pin him down and Ned is stuck with a string of conclusions. One, Tobirama is inexplicably afraid. Two, fear concocted in a mind like his, manifests like grim acceptance. Three, a man like Tobirama is powerful enough to shape the world according to his understanding of it. Meaning that, if he thinks he is a monster and nobody convinces him otherwise, he might very well manifest his belief as truth.

“I am all of them and more. I have manipulated your view of me with secrets and lies, and this has begun to harm you. This is unacceptable. I am not a good man, but I am loyal. If my secrets are harming you, I will do away with them.”

Ned closes his eyes, heart clenching. Is there a way to refuse that wouldn’t backfire? Ned has plenty of secrets; he doesn’t need any more. What’s more, whatever it is that’s driven Tobirama here, pale-faced and resolute like he’s a short drop and a sudden stop away from the final judgement, Ned doesn’t want to know it.

“I am not a Targaryen,” Tobirama says, cutting his hand through the air in a gesture of impatience. “Or a Valyrian. I will not burden you with secrets you can’t repeat. You’re free to tell anyone you wish, if you think they will believe you.”

Ned inclines his head, mute. Alright. That’s—something? Maybe?

“My name is Tobirama of Clan Senju. I am not from this world. Something—I suspect your Old Gods—transported me to your Westeros after I died.”

Ned blinks.

Tobirama’s lips press in a grim, unamused line. “And it will only get worse from there.”

***

Anxiety flies right out of the window. Ned is drawn into the fairy-story, breath chased right out of his lungs as Tobirama talks and talks about an impossibly terrible world full of death and misery and war. Of magic and demons and nightmares made flesh. Of children—

“You cannot—You sent children—”

“I did.” Tobirama’s voice doesn’t waver from the tight, controlled cadence. “I was at the frontlines at six. As Hokage, I built a school where children of a similar age were sent to learn the craft.”

“Craft—” Gods wept. “War is not a craft, Tobirama—”

“War?” Tobirama tilts his head, bitterness flickering over his face. “Our Shinobi were not soldiers. Our Shinobi were tools used by their leaders—my brother and myself—to steal from, manipulate and kill our enemies in the night, for pay. Assassins, one might say, only better trained and more capable. That is the world I thrived in. That is the world where I was Hokage. What you would consider a king.”

“But—” That—can’t be true, can it? Ned’s head spins.

“It’s true.” Did he say that out loud? “A demonstration, then.” Face set in stone, Tobirama’s hands fly through several gestures, far too quick to be observed. Just like that, his body shifts, and he becomes—A different man.

Ned couldn’t stop his flinch if his life depended on it. Magic, right here, before his eyes. He forces his heart to calm and his eyes to focus.

Upon closer inspection, the man whose likeness Tobirama borrowed is shockingly similar to him. He’s a little taller and broader in the shoulders but they share their sharp cheekbones and straight, narrow noses. Their lips match, the slant of their eyes—It’s only the colouring that tricks the eye into thinking there are shocking differences, warm browns and ambers of a southern forest in spring contrasted to Northern ice.

“An illusion,” says Tobirama. Ned jerks again, shocked by the familiar voice. The illusion doesn’t affect sound, apparently. “One of the first things we taught our children.”

Right. Ned closes his eyes briefly. “I knew you were magic for a long time, Tobirama. You need not convince me. Can you please—”

“Of course.”

Ned waits for a few moments more, catching his breath and locking away the more hysterical parts of his mind. Alright. Alright. So Tobirama believes he was placed here by a higher power. That’s a terrifying thought, and absolutely impossible but—But he accepted Tobirama’s magic a long time ago. All manner of shadowy terrors slink out from Asshai now and again, Targaryens rode dragons forty meters tall at the shoulder, and anyone with enough gold can hire a shapeshifting assassin in Braavos. So, Tobirama remembers a life before this one; that’s not the worst thing he’s ever heard, even if it’s true.

“So you see, Lord Stark, I am not good. By the standards you have here, I am a monster. I accept that you cannot consent to unsupervised access to the children, but I would still ask that you allow me could—”

“What?” Ned’s eyes fly open. “What are you talking about? What children? My children?”

Tobirama blinks, slow and feline. “Yes.”

“The children adore you. Why would you being magic—” Ned blinks and inhales. “If you—If you are looking for an excuse, you need not contrive one. I will make something up. But I wouldn’t—”

Tobirama frowns. “Maybe I didn’t explain correctly. I am an assassin, Lord Stark. I trained assassins. I killed—a lot of people. I killed children.”

“You explained just fine.” More than. You have to hand it to Tobirama he’s nothing but meticulous even when he’s performing a character assassination of himself. “I don’t see why that would change my decision. I knew you were magic. I knew you were impossibly strong in battle. You stormed a castle by your lonesome, Tobirama. Those are not actions of a mundane warrior.” Wait. Wait. “Is this—Is this it?” A bubble of relief forms between his ribs. “You do not have magical enemies that are coming after you, who will lay waste to the continent in the process? No vengeful kings braying for your blood? No secret schemes to start a civil war by means of any of my children?”

Tobirama’s expression is as inaccessible as he’s ever seen it. “This isn’t going how I expected it would,” he says after a long series of heartbeats. “No, Lord Stark, I have no connections to this world other than those you’ve witnessed me make. You are, without hyperbole, the first person in Westeros that I’ve ever met.”

Ned laughs. Like an idiot. “You blessed maniac,” he wheezes through the strangled laughter. “I was terrified.”

Tobirama frowns harder. “I still feel like you didn’t understand me. I was—”

“I don’t care what you did before you died Tobirama.” Fuck. “I was bracing myself for you to admit that you were—I don’t know, an agent of the Old Gods sent to this world to purge it from sin and heresy, and that you will start presently. Regicide, pacts made with the underworld, debts to demons that are about to come due. A rebellion at the very least.”

“As creative as your imagination is, Lord Stark—”

“I swear to the heavens, Tobirama, if you don’t start calling me Ned, I will lose what composure I still, miraculously, retain.”

Tobirama nods slowly. “Ned, then. You only had to ask, you know? Regardless, my point stands—”

“Your point.” Ned leans back into his chair, head tilting back, eyes slipping shut. “Your point is invalid, informed by incorrect thinking. I have enough worries of my own, thank you; I do not plan to expand them to include a world I have never seen and never will. ”

Tobirama’s silence is telling.

“Magic and a past life—I had been bracing myself to learn about your dragons, Tobirama.”

“Arguably, I am infinitely more dangerous than a dragon,” Tobirama replies, a note of cautious relief softening the harsh tone. “I can, without exaggeration, conquer the Seven Kingdoms by myself.”

“You don’t say?” Ned laughs again; it comes out significantly less insane than it sounds in his head. “How shocking. I had no idea. I assure you, neither one of us had drawn any conclusions from that one time you took down a fortified castle by yourself.”

Tobirama narrows his eyes. “I can kill anyone. Steal anything. Nothing is safe from me.”

“As I said—shocking. I am shocked.” Gods. “Are you going to reveal your healing magic next?”

Tobirama grows quiet again and Ned takes the time to catch his breath and calm his racing heart rate.

“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously, Lord—Ned.”

Ned sighs, trying and failing to think through the chaos of relief and confusion and all the shame still waiting patiently for its turn. “I had months to accept and learn to live with my mortal fear of you. I don’t understand how you thought any of this would be news?”

Tobirama’s face is blank, but the terrible anticipation is gone. “I thought you would—Be afraid.  I kept almost everything I can do hidden. You haven’t seen a fraction of my abilities.”

“Magic is magic to me, I’m afraid.” Deep breaths; calm down. Yes, you feel like you inched back from the edge of a precipice, but you’re upsetting the volatile healer. “I understand that you, as a magic user, have a sense of perspective in these matters, but you can’t expect such from me.”

A pause. “Just so we’re clear, you understand I could detonate this castle? It wouldn’t be a hardship. I could cast illusions around you that could drive you mad with fear. I could bend any man and woman to do my bidding, if only so they could escape the physical, spiritual and psychological agony I could put them through.”

He nods, straightening his face as best he can. “Understood. Are you going to?”

Tobirama shifts from blank to baffled. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. I’m not—afraid of you, Tobirama.” Well. “That’s not true. I am terrified of you in the same way I know to fear the sea or the shifting of the ground and the changing of the seasons, but no more than that. I don’t expect you will suddenly go mad with power and start murdering indiscriminately.”

Tobirama’s lips press together, forming an unhappy line. “I could.”

Good grief. “I can learn to live with that risk.”

Tobirama shakes his head, the final measure of tension bleeding out of his body. “I don’t trust how painlessly this conversation went. I expected—Well, I expected you would banish me from the North, at the very least.”

Ned swallows a bark of laughter. It’s becoming increasingly evident that the choking dread, followed by overwhelming relief has compromised his thinking. He feels dizzy. Loopy. His ears are ringing. “I can’t believe you thought anything of the sort.”

“It is a very reasonable concern. Your people have an ingrained fear of the supernatural. I would be afraid if I were in your place.”

On one hand, it’s past time he sobers up some. On the other hand, sobering up means they will have to address things that do terrify him. Like Tobirama overhearing his drunken rant. Like Tobirama—if Ned is very fortunate—letting him know that his feelings are wildly inappropriate and vaguely revolting and he shouldn’t have had them, but he definitely not have told people about them. “We have different survival strategies. You survive by being strong. I survive by you being strong.” 

“That is not how anything works,” hisses Tobirama. “You do not—a society functions because humans all have more or less the same amount of baseline power. You need a lot of conditioning and centuries of tradition for people to accept that one human is more powerful than another. You don’t just accept it.”

Ned considers this. “Centuries we’ve had, in fact. There is a lot of magic in Westeros and Essos, and most all of it is deadly and incomprehensible. King’s Landing got its name because that’s where Aegon the Conquerer landed his dragons and used them to, well, conquer. Starks bent the knee.” In fact. “Now that I think about it, Oberyn could have more trouble with it? They’re the only ones who didn’t bow down to the magic users.” Unbent, unbowed, unbroken. “Ulwyck? His House shot down a dragon, famously.”

“Maniacs, all of you.” Tobirama shakes his head violently, working himself into something of a state. “This is not a quaint worry. You should be furious. Terrified. You had a system of checks and balances, as primitive as it was. You have no checks for me. No man should be beyond scrutiny, and here I am, telling you I am precisely that.”

Ned shuts up for a moment. Against all odds, Tobirama seems incapable of letting this go. He tries to imagine, tries to displace himself from being Eddard of House Stark. What is it about this that is so impossible to understand? What does Tobirama expect, here? “I—Tobirama, you use your magic to heal the sick. You insist on spreading truth and wisdom through the Kingdom. You are a man of progress, not of cruelty. That is who you are. I am glad you are beyond scrutiny, not as your friend but as a man who wants to live in the world you would create. I am glad the world has a man that can look a Lord Paramount in the eye and make him flinch.”

Tobirama looks at him for several long heartbeats. “It is still reckless and naive. But—I can accept you feel that way, against all odds.”

Ned sighs. His head hurts and his hands are shaking, have been for a while. All this manic jumping from topic to topic isn’t good for his old heart.

“Who knew that all I needed to do to get you to talk to me was to shock you stupid?”

Gods. His eyes widen. He—he has been talking incredibly candidly, hasn’t he? To—To Tobirama, who—Who he—

“No, no, you don’t get to do that. I have a method that works, now. For example, let me tell you about an institution called the Academy that I created back at home, and why you need one in Winterfell.”

Against his better judgment, he relaxes into his chair. It seems like Tobirama has found it in himself to let Ned off the hook about the personal dimensions of their relationship. It’s easy as breathing to fall into the flow of Tobirama’s words; Ned is old hand at it, after all. He’s been watching and listening to their own visionary since day one, he just typically wasn’t the intended recipient. It is, admittedly, a bit uncomfortable to be one now, but he can get used to that when the alternatives are so much worse.

***

Chapter Text

Putting the matter of Tobirama’s inexplicable origins to the back of his mind is—not even an issue. He is fully aware that he is being criminally uncurious. He’s a Lord! He should be obsessed with finding out everything there is to know about Tobirama’s world and how their knowledge and achievements could improve his own. That’s what he should be doing.

He absolutely, most definitely, without a shred of guilt or hesitation, won’t step one toe in that direction. Tobirama has it well in hand. He has shown himself not only willing but terrifyingly capable of driving forward social progress at an improbable pace. He has the perspective of having lived in, now, two worlds and can perfectly perceive and understand what is superfluous in both. Ned, on the other hand, has a vague, rusty strain of idealism, cut down by grief-pragmatism and mountain loads of fear and self-loathing that make him doubt even the things that should be self-evident. So, no, Tobirama is welcome to his insight and wisdom and borderline-divine status he already holds in some and is quickly inspiring in others. Ned is happy to be the support.

What he does care about, however, is the fact that Tobirama’s strength doesn’t make him eager to consider that he could, if he wanted to, make the whole process a little less explosive. For the life of him, Ned can’t see where Tobriama falls on the pragmatism-idealism scale, or if he would even see any practical value in that framework. Perhaps it simply doesn’t apply when you know, without a doubt, that nothing and no one could kill you or jail you if they tried. It is difficult to say. Whatever the case may be, Tobirama doesn’t seem to see any problem in calling out a very politically powerful player and then remaining on the same speck of land with him and a handful of other equally powerful players.

Robert, bless his one-track mind, is more concerned by the revelation that a man he respects is not only bedding men but fully flaunting it. Not only is he not trying to placate a very important asset of the Crown, but he is also ignoring him, instead focusing on Tobirama.

“But—why,” he asks over the midday meal. Ned sighs. He’s doing a lot of that, recently. If he’s not having his mind and life yanked this way and that, he’s despairing of his few remaining vestiges of peace invaded by external drama. After all these years of personal stagnation, he’s very tempted to resent the world for not giving him the time to be self-absorbed. At least they’re alone, the three of them, sequestered in Ned’s chambers. “Why would you—Surely it is—It feels wrong?”

Tobirama purses his lips into an indulgent smile. “It doesn’t, no. I assure you, having a pretty man in my bed feels every bit as right as having a pretty lady. I see no reason to eliminate half of the pool of worthy people, just because of stale tradition. Plus—” He leans forward slightly, smirk growing sharp with condescension. “I guarantee you that every institution that preaches so hard about evils of men finding pleasure and love in each other is precisely where I expect to find men fucking each other most.”

Robert laughs and Ned manages to find enough energy to be baffled at how, between one day and the next, a thing that has been taboo for all of his life is discussed so freely. “I don’t—You haven’t—I mean, I can’t even imagine—”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” coos Tobirama, softening his smirk into a playful curve. “You are a beautiful man, but I look at you like a brother.”

“Fuck off,” laughs Robert, a small blush working its way on his cheekbones. Ned has to resist the urge t pinch himself. What? “Seven Hells, Tobi. You can’t say shit like that!”

“Why?” He tilts his head. “You know perfectly well that you are handsome. Even if I wasn’t attracted to men, I’d be able to see that. Why not speak the truth?”

“It’s not done,” replies Robert, smile a bit helpless. “It is a sign of weakness, of being less of a man.”

“We already had this conversation, dear.” Tobirama leans back, stretches his arms behind him in a spectacular gesture of unconcern. “I’m a man. By your standards, a strong man. I can do, quite frankly, whatever the fuck I want.” Ned jerks a little at the rare profanity. It really adds additional weight to his words.

“And so can you,” he continues, propping his chin by a languid hand, elbows planted on the table. His eyes, though, sharpen from the wispy, wicked shade and into something intent. “I had been meaning to talk to you about this for a while now. You are a powerful man, Robert, not because of the silly crown on your head. You are blessed with a truly admirable lust for life and new experiences. The only limits on you are those of your own making.”

Ned re-settles his shoulders. Does Robert need additional affirmation to chase his pleasures to the detriment of the Kingdom? Then again, the way he folds into himself, shoulders slumped in defeat—maybe Robert-the-man does need to hear it, even if Robert-the-King would be harmed by it. “You are alone in thinking that. I know what I am, Tobi. A King nobody wanted, only marginally better than the madman burning people left and right. Every one of my advisors would throw you in the dungeons if they head you suggest that I need to indulge myself any more than I already do.”

“They could try,” says Tobirama, baring his teeth briefly. “I care for your Crown not at all, Robert. I am your friend, not your subject. Kings come and go, but you only have one life.”

“Hah,” barks Robert, eyes growing far away. “Not even your Lord Stark would agree.” He turns his way, eyes still worryingly empty. “Would you, Ned?”

He swallows. Think before you speak, Stark. Saying the wrong thing here will lose you—a lot. There aren’t a lot of men who would be cut by your words, but Robert is one of them. “I loved you before you were King,” he says slowly. “You are my very best friend, the person I’ve admired for most of my life. I—” He raises a hand to signal that he needs a moment to think. “One of the things that Tobirama taught me is that we are blinded, sometimes, by our titles. By our sense of self-importance. I lived much of my life wedded to the idea of being the second son, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Then—everything happened and I became Lord Stark, practically overnight. It took until now to realise I am also a person, underneath all that.”

He blinks, coming back to himself after that frankly mortifying bit of emotional vomit. “What I mean to say is that you are yourself and a friend and a father and a King. Only one of those things can be done by other people.”

Robert is quiet, staring at him like he’s never seen him before. He feels a mortified blush coming on, but he steels himself. As Tobirama said, there is no shame in speaking the truth. “I’m not saying you being King is unimportant or that you shouldn’t care about all that entails, but it is not the most important thing about you. Not even close.”

“I would even go a step further,” says Tobirama, “and say that being a King is—a trade. There are smiths and bakers and Kings. If it’s making you miserable—and it is, Robert, don’t even try to lie to me—then you either make the work suit you or you find somebody else to do it, that actually wants to.”

Ned stiffens, a lump growing in his throat. Is he—he isn’t possibly suggesting—

“I can’t—stop being King, Tobi,” says Robert. Croaks, really, just as unbalanced by this turn of events. “That’s not—I established my line. Robert Baratheon, first of his name. My son will be King after me and trust me, nobody wants that. The boy is skinning kittens and he’s only eight.”

Ned blanches. He never—He hadn’t even heard a whisper—How could any son of—

“Don’t stop being King if you don’t want to,” says Tobirama, shrugging, but even more of the performative unconcern peels off. “I—am admittedly a bit concerned to hear about your son, but he is young. Such things can be cured with enough care and love. But nobody in the world can make you miserable if you don’t let them. You are a grown man. You are in charge of your happiness.”

“What would you suggest?” For once, Ned can see a thread of honest curiosity, even hope in Robert, devoid of the boisterous facade that, he is learning, is just cloaked cynicism.

“What do you want? What makes you happy? And don’t say fucking and drinking, because I know you. They’re fine past-times but a man can’t spend his whole life drunk, running away from his problems.”

“I like—fighting,” he says, a little uncertainly. “I like—laughing and feeling like my life is my hands. I like—”

“You like freedom,” nods Tobirama. “Oberyn is the same. Try to get that man to spend more than a moon in one place and he will kill his way to freedom, even if he has to point the blade towards himself to do it. Alright. Is there a way that you can get that, in your current position? I don’t know a lot about how your system works. Is there a way for the King to travel without having to declare war?”

“I—don’t know?” Robert turns to Ned. “Is there?”

“I suppose you could go on matters of diplomacy but—” Ned shakes his head a little, to clear it. “Honestly, usually envoys come to the King, not the other way around. I—I don’t know.”

“I don’t care what is usually done,” says Tobirama, a note of impatience winding through his tone. “I care about how Robert can be made to lead a meaningful life, without feeling like he needs to drink himself into oblivion every day. Nobody is served by this. If you don’t know, who would?”

Ned thinks about this, hating the way hope is slowly disappearing from Robert’s eyes. “Lord Tywin would know,” he says, completely disbelieving at the words coming out of his mouth. “Jon would know also.” Who else?

“Excellent,” says Tobirama. “Bring Lord Tywin in, then. His daughter is the Queen, he is very invested in your rule going smoothly. Let’s talk this out. Honestly, you two, none of this is complicated.”

“Pardon?” Lord Tywin sits stiffly, eyes widened enough to be truly baffled by the situation he is thrust in. “I do not follow, your Majesty.”

“We can dispense with titles, surely,” says Tobirama, and Ned heroically doesn’t laugh at the wildling bossing about the most powerful men in the Kingdoms. “We are here to talk like reasonable people.”

Robert nods, mirroring the helplessness that Ned feels. “Right. Tywin, we are all, amazingly, on the same side in this matter. We can talk as—”

“Allies,” Ned says before Tobirama can say something hopelessly incendiary. “Men who all want the same outcome.”

“And that outcome is—” says Tywin, looking between the three of them like he is trying hard to spot the trap before he steps inside it.

“A way for Robert not to be a miserable wreck, without the Kingdom suffering,” says Tobirama. “Should be fairly simple. He is not, and I say this with all the love in my heart, anybody’s idea of a politician. All the day-to-day activities of running a Kingdom have been done by you already, I assume. You and Lord Arryn and all the other Council-members.”

Robert passes a hand over his eyes, laughing a little, heavy with self-deprecation. “Mercy, Tobi.”

“I am only speaking the truth. There is no shame in doing a job badly if you never wanted that job to begin with.” Tobirama shakes his head, lips tilted in a displeased angle. “I would have words with Lord Arryn if he were here for pushing you into it, so young, without any training or even inborn predisposition. Someone like—” He passes a probing eye over Tywin, driven mute with caution and shock. “Lord Lannister, yes, would be a better choice. You are a phenomenal conqueror King, dear, but you are terribly suited to lead in times of peace.”

“It was a matter of survival,” says Ned, pretending like he hadn’t thought those same thoughts so many times, in the early hours of the night when sleep was hard to reach. “Our victory was in no way guaranteed. Robert’s claim was best, and he was a beloved, feared Lord.”

“Put a warrior on the Throne and you can expect war,” replies Tobirama, eyes flashing. Tywin leans back like he’s expecting Robert to take exception. Foolish. At this point, Ned doubts there is anything Tobirama could say that Robert wouldn’t take as divine directive. “It is ridiculous that you expect Robert to change his character overnight because it would be convenient for you.”

Ned flinches a little. Is that what they did? They were so young, back then, just—following Jon’s orders, honestly. Fear and desperation and all the long years of following Jon—

“They made me King, not sentenced me to a life in the slums,” jokes Robert, weakly.

“You would prefer a life in the slums and don’t even pretend otherwise,” scoffs Tobirama. “It was a shortsighted move and I don’t appreciate that everybody, you very much included, counts it as a personal failing that you couldn’t become what they wanted. You could have followed your nature and declared war on—Essos. You didn’t. You let your Lords rule in your place and sat on your silly chair and grew more and more miserable until you got so miserable that going to war was the first time you felt properly alive.”

Ned flinches again. All that is true, but—just saying it outright—

Tobirama rolls his eyes, leaning forward. “It is not a failing, you silly man. I will repeat it over and over again until you can hear it. Not everybody is born to be a politician. Not everybody is born to be a warrior. I would, quite frankly, be a terrible King. That is not a bad thing.”

“You?” Robert straightens a little, outraged. “You would be a phenomenal King—”

Ned catches Tywin’s alarmed look. He is alarmed too. Knowing Robert, he’s three heartbeats away from offering Tobirama the crown.

“I wouldn’t,” says Tobirama, cutting his hand through the air for extra emphasis. “I wouldn’t even entertain the idea. I am impulsive, short-tempered and impatient. I am arrogant and fundamentally unkind. That is who I am and it took me a long time to accept it, but I have and I am happier for it.”

Robert sends a look Ned’s way like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He offers a shrug in return. Tobirama is beyond harsh with himself, he knows, but doesn’t know what can be done about it.

“I am also not the topic of conversation,” continues Tobirama. “The role of the mad, crabby advisor is perfectly appropriate for me. We are here for you.”

“I admit I am confused as to what we are discussing, precisely,” says Tywin, having judged that he is safe from sabotage.

“How Robert can be made happy,” says Tobirama, dragging his eyes away from Robert and to Tywin. “You can’t possibly be satisfied with the status quo. You have a resentful King and a court full of people willing to exploit his misery for their short-term benefit. You married your daughter to the Crown. Your grandchildren are his heirs. You want the rule to be successful. Well, it certainly won’t be successful if it continues like this.”

“Yes, that is a fine goal,” Tywin says, visibly choosing his words, “but I can’t see how one would tackle it practically.”

Tobirama purses his lips. “Robert, how do you feel about delegating? You’re already doing it now, why not make it official?”

“I—what?”

“You have a council, yes? Split it. Make a—three-person council, say, that would handle most of the official duties of the King you can’t be bothered with. Keep the Council as is, with an advisory role, with your Masters of laws, ships, coin and so on. The triumvirate would do what you do now, decide on the proposals given by the Council, but only if a unanimous decision is reached between the three. Place three politically antagonistic Lords on the triumvirate and that will make sure that nobody grows too powerful, and you’re golden. Say—Lord Lannister, Lord Manderly, because you’ll pry Lord Stark from my cold, dead hands, and your precious Lord Arryn.”

Ned catches Tywin’s frozen expression from the corner of his eyes, but he’s too busy gaping himself to even acknowledge it. Robert is equally as flabbergasted.

“Wouldn’t that significantly reduce the power of the King,” Ned hears himself saying. Look at that perfectly reasonable objection. Where did that come from? Certainly not from your spiralling mind.

“Robert can keep the power to halt any decision,” says Tobirama dismissively. “Plus, Robert, look me in the eye and tell me you can recall the last ten proposals you agreed to, that your council brought to you.”

“I—can not?” Robert is still frozen in disbelief, not indignant as such, just damn confused by what Ned can see.

“Of course, you can’t, because you don’t care.” Tobirama pauses again, rubbing his temples in a long-suffering way. “Which is not your fault, as we’ve established. So—delegate. Honestly, it’s not like having three people deliberating each decision carefully would be worse than having a single, uncaring person do it. Just make sure your triumvirate doesn’t have three people from, say, Westerlands and you can be sure that whatever decision is reached won’t benefit one part of the Kingdom disproportionally.”

“A move that drastic would cause a lot of commotion among the Lords,” says Tywin. “Such a thing has never been done in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“You only had mentally ill Targaryens, as far as I can tell,” says Tobirama, eyebrows arched. “I can’t see how power being shared across more people is a bad thing.” He turns back to Robert, looking expectant. “That will give you some time to spend with your son and see what can be done about channelling his energy into something more worthwhile than torturing small animals. You’re a damn fine warrior, I doubt any son of yours wouldn’t be.”

“I beg your pardon?” A real note of alarm enters Tywin’s voice. Ned sympathies. Tywin invested a lot of his life into getting his blood on the throne, and signs of madness aren’t encouraging, this early on. Nobody will have another mad King on the throne so soon after Aerys.

“Cersei hasn’t told you,” scoffs Robert. “Of course she hasn’t. She could see that boy strangling infants and she would only mind that he would grow too tired doing it.”

“She hasn’t, no,” says Tywin carefully. “Still, my grandson is very young. Children grow out of these things.”

“Precisely what I said,” nods Tobirama, earning another surprised look from Tywin. “I wouldn’t stand anybody faulting Robert’s children for anything, especially not acting out when they’re so young.”

Gods. Ned inhales a careful breath. “Would it be possible, Lord Tywin? Tobirama makes a compelling case. Is it politically viable?”

“The King’s word is the law,” says Tywin carefully. “But with recent mishaps with Lord Tyrell and the financial costs of the campaign, I wouldn’t advise causing more unrest.”

“Then do it unofficially,” says Tobirama, eyes sharpening on the Lannister Lord. “At the risk of being blunt—” Ned can’t quite catch his snort in time, earning himself a stern glance from Tobirama and a commiserating one from Robert. “—you don’t have much choice. I won’t stop pestering Robert to sort his life out, and you’ll find I am quite difficult to get rid of. I’m certain the Kingdom will more or less continue, but he won’t be any less miserable unless he makes himself so. So—I will make him so. Simple.”

Robert finally gets his wits about him enough to laugh. “Fucking Hells, Tobi. I knew you were fearless, but still. You don’t care at all at how outrageous all this is?”

Tobirama tilts his jaw into an imperious angle. “You’re one of mine, now. I won’t let you stew in misery. If there are some reasonable objections as to why this, or another similar solution is impossible, or even unwise, by all means, explain it to me. I promise I am not too dull to understand.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll be—angry? Offended that you’re proposing I give away my power? I am a King, you know. We’re all power-hungry.”

Tobirama’s eyes flatten, lips pulling into a disbelieving angle. “I am not concerned, no. You were given all the power a man could imagine, and all you did with it was buy sex and drink all day. Plus, if you were the type to take offence for me trying to help you, then you would prove yourself to be unworthy of my help. Problem solved either way.”

“Brutal,” laughs Robert. “Uncompromising and utterly brutal, wildcat. I can’t even say I’m surprised.”

“And you shouldn’t be. As I said, so many times, I don’t care about your crown, but I do care about you. You already have everything you need to be happy, you just need to stop letting other people tell you who you should be and figure out who you are.”

Chapter Text

As exhausted as he is by the world shifting beneath his feet on the hour, there is no arguing that their first stop must be Kings Landing. There are official ceremonies to be had, rewards bestowed, and, quite possibly, a shift in the paradigm of the Kingdom itself. Ned wouldn’t dump it all on Robert even if he could. 

Thankfully, nobody suggests Ned send for his children. He’s been bleating about Starks faring poorly in the south for so long that people, by and large, accept it as a given. The superstitious Northerners, scoffs the nobility. You can’t really reason with savages. 

Since this means Jon will be far away from anyone who would see Rhaegar in his face—or anyone that could do basic arithmetic and realise it would take some improbable manoeuvring for his son to be born right when Lyanna was dying—he will absolutely arrange his face in the dullest expression and grunt away. 

Tobirama doesn’t offer any suggestions on this matter. Their final week in Pyke was spent furiously wrestling with the logistics of moving the army to the mainland in a somewhat orderly fashion. Theon is left with a regent, and Ned did all he could to leave the island with enough resources that the boy won’t trip and fall out of the tallest tower three days after they go. His efforts were appropriately futile, but Tobirama’s weren’t. The boy  will  undoubtedly be usurped, but Tobirama’s public and pointed doting ensured he would survive it. Ned will be shocked if young Theon isn’t quietly escorted to the Stormlands in a year or two, lest the White Wolf fly down south and murder every living thing in a fit of rage. 

The Dornish leave first, a whole week before they do. Ned would breathe a lot easier if that didn’t mean he would wait for them in King’s Landing. There is no arguing h needs to be there; that is not the issue. No matter how you slice it, Dorne has to be represented, their deeds have to be publicly acknowledged, irrespective of Robert’s willingness to flip the paradigm of a monarchy on its head. Ideally, Prince Doran would sail to King’s Landing personally. Since he can’t—and they already murdered the middle sibling years ago—it falls to Oberyn to represent the Martells. 

What an impossibly fraught event that will be. Oberyn, Tobirama and Cersei Lannister in one spot sounds like a logic puzzle meant to teach young Heirs that sometimes there is no victory to be had. Add Jon Arryn and Olenna Tyrell, and Ned’s weak, old heart is starting to whimper in dread already. 

Finally, countless weeks after he set out on this cursed campaign, he sets his feet on Banefort Keep and begins the final stretch of the journey. King’s Landing and then another restful decade up North where he doesn’t have to deal with anything more complicated than Tobirama’s maniacal economic expansion. 

Tobirama’s unlikely camaraderie with Lord Lannister grows during their travels to King’s Landing. In a, frankly, ridiculous turn of events, Tobirama’s clinical appreciation for the stately Lion brings legitimacy to the Lannister instead of it being the other way around. Those who were impressed by Lannister gold were already Tywin’s, but many others—such as the Northern Lords—suddenly feel the need to look closer and figure out what Tobirama sees in the man. Even his most staunch critics agree that Tobirama doesn’t play by any rules but his own. If he respects a man like Lord Lannister, there is something there to respect, and nobody is quite sure what that could be. 

Robert thinks it’s ridiculous but wholeheartedly appreciates the knock-on effects. If Lord Lannister circumvents him entirely and goes straight to Tobirama for more tedious aspects of governing, that leaves Robert with free time and a clean conscience, more or less. He’s not shirking his duties; he’s delegating—a word that he has become ridiculously fond of. 

Ned has his role to play, so he’s happy to throw Lord Manderly at Tobirama whenever he starts getting ideas about involving the North in his discussions with the Old Lion. Not only is the faux-jovial Lord as good a politician as they make in the North, but it also frees Ned up to spend time with Robert without a single complicating factor. Sure, it’s irresponsible and, sure, he would be wise to start planning ahead, but he doesn’t even feel a twinge of guilt as he spends every single day of the three and a half weeks it takes them to ride to the Capital, messing around with Robert from sunup to sundown. 

Ned can’t even be angry about the celebrating small folk that greet them upon their arrival in King’s Landing. He would dearly like to be. They are about to unleash Tobirama on Ned’s pseudo-father, all manner of court snakes including, but not limited to, Cersei Lannister and a gaggle of Citadel-sent maesters. How could he, in the face of what was achieved? Barely more than a handful of men died in the campaign, a feat directly attributed to Tobirama’s—everything. 

There are many reasons why the foot soldiers tend to take the brunt of any campaign. They’re most numerous, poorly trained, terribly equipped and too poor to afford a Maester if one isn’t provided for them by their Lords. They’re typically smallfolk, conscripted more or less willingly, which would explain the frenzied cheering of the crowds as they marched back. Their families got their sons and husbands and fathers back, and they’re expressing their appreciation in the only way they know-how. 

If Ned wasn’t a gloomy bastard, he might have let himself be swept up in the heady atmosphere. Well. If Ned wasn’t a gloomy bastard  and  if they didn’t fight a civil war. What did they achieve precisely? They spent gold Ned doubts they have slaughtering their own people, destroying the infrastructure they will now have to rebuild. The Crown could demand reparations if the Greyjoys were Tyrells or Lannisters or Martells. They could recoup at least some of the losses. The Greyjoys only really have debts. 

Even if the Crown wanted to give the title of Lord Paramount—for a price—to a wealthier House—nobody with sense would take it. The Ironborn are mad to the last one. Their inclusion in the Seven Kingdoms is little more than polite fiction, unfortunately. The House in charge would have to spend thirty years putting out fires and culling and repopulating the islands with their own people, which would be an even  bigger  drain on the Crown’s resources. 

There was no victory to be had. The only options were loss and catastrophic loss. The Crown would have put the rebellion down one way or another. The North alone would have won, eventually. They would have spent untold gold and resources and lives, but they would have won. Just to die when winter comes and they have been too busy playing at war to prepare. 

Ugh. He’s giving himself a headache. 

The sight of the Red Keep makes a solid third of Ned’s soul curl up and cry. He was lucky enough to avoid visiting the cursed palace since Robert was crowned. Since he had baby Jon in his arms, trying to bluff the world to keep his nephew safe. Last time, he had killed Sword of the Morning, only to watch his sister die. Last time—

At least they’re not inside yet. The Queen waits for them at the archway, as is proper, flanked by her brothers and children. Anybody who is anybody from Quality, as the windbags like to call themselves, will be waiting inside the castle. Loitering around the throne room like—

Never mind the throne room. Never mind that the floor is likely still singed from—

His heart skips, stomach clenching around nothing. Time has slowed down to a trickle, sounds losing shape as his mind struggles to work through the shadow-pain. Calm down. You know you’re safe. You have—

The sight of Robert mixes with the young-Robert of his nightmares. He’s following young-Robert inside, only to find Kingslayer sitting on—Wait, no, Jaime Lannister is right there, tall and beautiful, draped in white—Where is all the blood—

Tobirama materialises next to him, tiny form radiating heat. Ned’s attention snaps to his supernatural benefactor. That’s right. Tobirama sure as fuck wasn’t there, then, or things would have turned out differently. Rhaegar would probably be alive, as would Elia and Lya—Arthur—Ashara— Brandon—

A tiny palm touches his elbow, and a rush of foreign energy flows into his body. The novelty—impossibility—of it is so vast, he doesn’t even have the presence of mind to flinch. 

“My apologies,” Tobirama says under his breath. “You were lost in thought.” 

Is that what he was doing? They’re almost halfway over the ostentatious staircase. It seems Ned managed to keep the first signs of his mental breakdown somewhat circumspect. That’s not nothing.

“This place is—” His voice is ruined, thin and croaky. “Do you have something to—sedate? Keep it all away.” 

Tobirama sends him a complicated look. “No. If anybody else thinks to offer you something to that effect, refuse and tell me immediately.” 

Gods. 

Robert cranes his head, sending them a friendly, dull-eyed look. He didn’t think they were talking loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowds behind them. Maybe Robert was taking care to listen? “If there was something, trust I would have found it by now.” 

Gods . 

“Fuck this place,” he says, like an idiot. It makes him feel a whole lot better, though. 

Robert’s genial expression doesn’t falter, but reluctant humour chases away some of the dullness in his eyes. “I’ve tried that too. Maybe Tobi will have a solution.” 

“I am a very results-oriented man,” Tobirama agrees. “Eyes forward for now. The Kingdom is watching. We’ll talk about this later.” 

Time speeds up again. The cursed staircase is good for some things, at least. By the time they reach the Queen and her cohort, Ned feels stable enough to walk, talk and breathe without assistance. 

It’s been a few years since Ned saw Cersei and Jaime Lannister. They have only grown more beautiful, somehow. Motherhood suits Cersei; it rounded her figure, made her look like an unreachable dream of voluptuous beauty. The Kingslayer flourished too, has reached his adult height and weight, confidence making him seem all the more princely. Ned wouldn’t dare pretend that he is oblivious to their charisma. That they have children with them only completes the picture. Robert’s children are lovely, he thinks, sparks of fondness colouring the drab grey of his mind. They take after their mother more with how young they are, but he can see Robert’s smile in the younger boy. Tommen, Myrcella and Joffrey, three children his dearest friend had, and he hasn’t met a single one. He’s a pitiful friend. 

He hadn’t expected to see young Tyrion. The dwarf doesn’t leave Casterly Rock much, as far as he knows. It is—almost cruel to see him stand next to his siblings. Maybe if they weren’t overwhelmingly beautiful, people would look past the physical and see a reportedly intelligent, well-read young Lord. Maybe—

Well, young Tyrion is in luck because he ended up in Court at the same time as the one person who could be relied upon to spit upon social conventions. Varys will have spread whispers of the impossibly powerful not-Targaryen who charmed the King, the North  and  Dorne. Oberyn might not be present just yet, but that is absolutely for the best. 

His worries swirl, and he falls back, letting Robert exchange his greetings with his family and good-brothers. Tobirama is a welcome—and necessary—grounding presence by his side. He’s cool as a cucumber, the nightmare. Why wouldn’t he be? He may have lost them the Reach but won  Dorne . 

One squabble between a witless man and a proud, fearless one and the balance of power in the continent shifts. Tyrells and Martells are about evenly matched. Dorne’s economy and military power far outstrip the Reach, of course, but Reach had the ear of the King. They trade freely and favourably with the largest economy on the continent. Now that Tobirama has singlehandedly brought North—the second-largest military power—together with Dorne, the Reach has no chance of maintaining their position. 

If they were smart, Tyrells would form a bloc with the Lannisters and Stormlanders. Not that is a real option in this case. Tobirama is one head-pat away from getting Robert to swear an oath of loyalty to him, not to mention his close relationship with Renly. Then there is all the political power Lord Lannister is set to receive on Tobirama’s word alone. For that alone, the old Lion will wage wars to keep him safe. 

One man. If he wasn’t a de-facto God, Ned would be terrified that he would be assassinated by at least thirty different factions within the week. As it is—

Robert’s voice snaps him from his unhinged spiralling. “Come on, Ned, wildcat, meet my family. 

Focusing on the here is helped by the lovely picture Robert makes, a child in each arm, beaming and happy. Sober, even. 

“Of course.” 

The procedural greetings are speedy, quickened by Robert’s impatient grumbling. Ned bows to the Queen, ignores the Kingslayer, greets young Tyrion politely and turns a dull but warm smile on the children. He would be more pleased by his perfectly forgettable performance if his heart wasn’t screeching at the dreaded stare-off between Tobirama and Cersei. 

Oh boy. 

“Queen Baratheon,” Tobirama says, after a brief but workably polite bow. “Ser Lannister. Heir Lannister.” He unthaws a little—less than expected—when he nods at each of the children. “Princes and Princess. I am called Tobirama of House Hatake. My honour.” 

Robert barks a laugh. “Say hello, darlings,” he says, bouncing the children in his arms. Young Joffrey—

“I never heard of you,” says Prince Joffrey. “You look like a girl.” 

Goodness. 

“I get that a lot,” Tobirama replies, barely audible over Robert’s booming laughter. Whatever issue he had seems to be behind him. This is Tobirama when faced with a child, the more rebellious, the better. “You are very fierce. Unsurprising, considering who your father is.” 

The Prince puffs out in pride, brightening. He is truly a beautiful child, even though Ned freely admits his bias. He was always going to think Robert’s children lovely. That toss of his hair was pure Robert. 

“I’ll be a knight just like father, kill my enemies, and win all battles! Just like he does!” 

“I am sure you will.” Tobirama nods in a serious, approving manner. “Your father is a fine knight. You would do well to follow in his footsteps.” 

Cersei laughs a throaty, icy laugh, slender arm reaching out to tuck the beaming Prince closer to her body. “Boys idealise their fathers without a thought spared to their poor mothers. House Hatake, was it? I am unfamiliar with it. Is it from the North?” 

Tobirama focuses on the Queen as they continue sizing each other up. “I am a wildling—or was. The name Hatake was my mother’s. The King thought my conflict with House Tyrell would be easier to manage between two Houses.” He makes a dismissive, airy flick of his wrist. “I’m sure such things will be discussed to the point we’ll all grow sick of it in the coming weeks.” 

Robert huffs. “Try  years . Never mind that—” 

Tobirama sends him an amused smile. “Now, now. I haven’t spoken to the two cubs in your arms. Tommen and Myrcella, was it?” He wiggles his fingers in the direction of the children, bending so his hair slips forward, shining with the glow of torches lighting up the gates. “Aren’t you lovely?” 

The Princess, no older than three, hides in her father’s arm, but Prince Tommen beams, guileless and warm. “Thank you!” 

Ned’s heart melts. The only one of his children that is naturally this sweet is Robb. The young Stag will grow to be a wonderful father; he can already tell. 

“Jon,” calls Robert. Ned strangles the wince. Hearing that name come from Robert’s lips will never not cause alarm. “Where are you? Not a word for your poor, bedraggled ward’s return?” 

Jon has aged, Ned things stupidly. He looks—frail. Tired. Almost defeated. The flat look he receives from Tobirama doesn’t make Ned feel any easier about this. “I have been on tenterhooks. The news coming from the Isles were—almost too fantastical to be believed.” 

“Hah!” Robert’s grin gains a dimension of second-hand pride. “You have the wildcat to thank for that. In the future, we need only bribe him with whatever nonsensical thing his lunatic mind happens to want, and he will handle our wars for us.” 

“If you’re good, I’ll even agree to take you with,” Tobirama purrs, eyes hooded. Ned breathes carefully. He has not a single clue as to how this will go. “You do so like your pastimes.” His amused tone is contrasted by the unknowable look he sends Jon. “My honour, Jon Arryn. You’ve raised fine sons.” 

“They are my greatest joy,” Jon says. That was the right thing to say because Tobirama loses some of the evaluating stillness. “You’ve made quite a splash, my Lord. The Kingdom has been buzzing about your achievements. Grand Maester Pycelle has been especially vocal.”

“I imagine he would be.” Tobirama’s eye-roll is theatrical and aimed at the children, who giggle. Even young Joffrey, who is at the age to think himself beyond such childish things. “I can’t make any promises yet, as I haven’t yet met the man. Still. I would be willing to bet your Grand Master will wish to roast my lungs on a spit before the week is out.” 

Robert bounces the children in his arms, chuckling. “I imagine all of us will be sick of your grudge before long.” 

“You haven’t seen anything yet, dear.” Tobirama’s eyes gleam as he drags his eyes over Robert’s family, unthawing only when they rest on the children. “Yes, I imagine we will all have a rather eventful couple of weeks ahead of us.” 

Chapter Text

Something is bothering Tobirama.

Something is wrong, and it’s not just the expected political drama, nor the immediate and lethal hatred that sprung up between him and the High Maester Pycelle, never mind the Queen and the rest. Even Oberyn's arrival wasn’t enough to shake him from the black, hideous tension evident in every word and gesture.

Even Robert’s children aren’t enough.

Ned is numb with fear. Tobirama is an emotional man, once you get used to how he expresses such things, but he is not—He doesn’t fret. He doesn’t stew. He doesn’t brood. That’s Ned’s territory. Tobirama gallops on ahead, shaping the world in his image, trampling anyone and anything that stands in his way. What, then—

Robert is worried. Ned’s people are worried. Even Tywin fucking Lannister is worried if the stiff inquiries into Tobirama’s health the other day were any indication. Ned tried to talk to him about it to no avail. Tobirama clammed up, in that frozen way of his that gave credence to his Far North origin story. He looked a living White Walker most days, as if he needed to be any more intimidating than he usually was. The one small silver lining Ned could see, is that it played into the courtlings’ idea of what a preternaturally powerful Northern warrior should be. Pitiful consolation, but there it is. The Tyrells are plotting, the Riverlands’ nobility are quickly brought into their fold, informed, possibly by Cat and—

He can’t even consult with his bannermen, because Varys has spies everywhere. On top of Varys’ overwhelming sliminess, a grubby little grass-snake calling himself Littlefinger is spreading his tentacles all over King’s Landing. Ned does not have the skill to keep the professional spies, thieves, and murderers away, but he knows who does.

“Ser Daemon,” he says, making sure to round his eyes and make his smile as ingratiating as possible. It earns him a shudder, which lifts his spirits ever so slightly. “I need a private word with you?”

Ned Stark asking to see Oberyn Martel is damning in itself. Daemon Sand is a better choice, as close as he was to the Daynes and, thus, Ned’s rumored dead lover.

Daemon gapes for a long moment, green eyes going as big as they can go, blank with shock and disbelief. Does he think—

He does, bless him. Maybe, yes, maybe Ned should have made his initial approach more serious, but he never would have assumed Daemon might think Ned would proposition him.

“I—A private word, Lord Stark?”

“Yes,” he says, keeping a tight hold on his pleasant tone. “I would like to discuss a mutual friend of ours and would rather not be overheard speaking of such private matters.”

Finally, a spark of intelligence sparks in his eyes, and he almost bodily sags with relief. If Ned was a smidge less hysterical about every single aspect of his life going to shit, he would be a little hurt. He doesn’t need to be that horrified, surely?

“Yes, I understand. Yes. Let us go to the rooms set aside for the Dornish. We can talk freely there.”

“Do you know anything?”

Oberyn thrusts his arms to the side in a universal gesture of helplessness. “Not a thing. He barely spares me a look. I thought that you had a spat. He was mighty worried about something before I left.”

“Oh, that.” Ned flicks a dismissive hand. “That was nothing. He was being dramatic. Thought I would—” Should he? Probably not. Who, then? If Tobirama trusted Oberyn enough to let him into his bed, then he trusted him enough with his secrets. Plus, everybody in the Seven Kingdoms knows Tobirama is magic of some sort. The word Valaryen isn’t thrown around only because Robert is so very free with his fawning. “—I would mind that he’s—” Everybody knows, yes, but talking about it is still—“Powerful.” There.

Both of Oberyn’s eyebrows fly up, up, up.

“Come again?”

Ned shrugs. “My thoughts exactly. He thought he was being subtle, apparently. Moreover, he had made some assumptions along the way about who we all are, and what standards we require of him.”

“Standards?”

“Morality, mostly. He is—Well, you know what he is like in battle. He thought we would judge him for it.” Not just that, but Ned’s willingness to let death wash away all sins is as strong as the earth itself. “There’s a little more to it, but that’s the gist. We had a long, humiliating misunderstanding, followed by a confusing heart-to-heart. What brought this latest fit of despair on, I don’t know.”

Oberyn exhales, appearing to become more and less worried at the same time. “That complicates things. I freely admit that I hoped it was you. At least then I knew it was nothing to be concerned about. You couldn’t hold a grudge against Tobirama if your life depended on it.”

Sad but true.

“Any ideas?”

Oberyn shakes his head and slumps into the chair. “Not a one. As I said, he doesn’t talk to us. Doesn’t even spar. All he does is stalk the corridors, exchange frozen death glares with the Queen, and spit half-hearted insults at Pycelle. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he was moping.”

Ned sighs and reaches for the glass.

“Whatever it is, it’s making Robert nervous, which is making everybody else frantic. The Court already doesn’t know what to do with this new, sober Robert who isn’t drowning in vice. New, sober Robert fretting about a no-name wildling who can barely spare him a glance is causing mayhem.”

“Thing is, I don’t know if there is anything to be done about it.” Oberyn clinks their glasses together, the sound impossibly morose for such a cheerful action. “Nobody can force Tobirama to do anything he doesn’t expressly want to do. Least of all us. As far as I can tell, all we can do is hope that he snaps out of it before the ceremonies take place because the King doesn’t strike me as the type to let his favorite person off with an empty title and nothing else.”

Gods.

“Here’s hoping,” he says, as he drains the glass. The wine is a delicious Dornish red, damn it all.

Tobirama corners him in the most frighting way possible, by appearing in his rooms two evenings later out of nowhere. Ned wasn’t doing anything, there was no need to corner him at all, so this sudden show of magic makes his breath grow short and his head spin.

“No harm was done,” he says, half-blindly, as he falls into the nearest soft surface and wills his heart to slow. “Just a small fright. What brings you here?”

Tobirama re-settles his shoulders, something uncomfortable playing about his lips and brows. “I apologize. I was lost in thought, and then—I would speak with you if you are available?”

Ned nods forcefully. “Of course. We all noticed you were uncharacteristically worried as of late.”

Tobirama huffs a small, sharp sound and sits down. Ned immediately regrets meeting his eyes. They are—burning. The fact they are red, combined with how the light of the torches reflects off them, means they look like actual flames. A shudder works through Ned’s body, from his toes, barely stopping short of rattling his teeth. “I need advice. As you may have noticed by now, interpersonal skills are not my forte. People confuse me, at the best of times. Your people—All of you, in this world—make even less sense. I can never predict what your hangups are. With that said—I thought I would start by sharing a relevant bit of my background. To provide context.”

Ned feels an anticipatory calm envelop him, almost like battle-readiness. It’s likely just a lot of adrenaline. “Please.”

“Thank you.” The ensuing pause is long enough to change from thoughtful to concerning. “As I may have mentioned by now, I was born into what passes for a Noble House, in my last life.” At Ned’s panicked look around the room and all the various spy-holes he found already, never mind all he hasn’t, Tobirama flicks a hand. “I dealt with all that. Nobody is listening. As I was saying, I was—Well, I was about as highly born and placed as a man could become, by the time I died. My people didn’t have a King, we divided ourselves into countries, each led by a civilian leader and a military leader. The civilian leader was, in all truth, a purely decorative bit of fiction. All the power was in the hands of the military leaders. There five with real power, and a handful of smaller, orbiting provinces, under the command of one of the five.”

Ned can see where this is going, and it’s making him feel a whole lot of very inconvenient things. Admiration. Fear. A lot of very ill-placed lust, among others.

“I was, after my brother died, the Lord of one of our Noble Clans and the military leader of the Land of Fire. Strongest and biggest of all the lands.”

Of course he was. Of course Ned’s grouchy healer-maester-Patron was a King.

“I bring this up to explain something about the culture in which I grew up. I promise this is relevant.”

“I am thrilled to learn about your background,” Ned says, with a worrying sheen of fanatical earnestness in his voice.

“That is very kind.” Tobirama doesn’t look like he’s very present, for all the intensity in his eyes. “As I was saying, I had been raised in a Noble Clan. We —Our Clans were--”

Tobirama comes to a full stop, frown accompanying uncharacteristically choppy speech. “Lineage was everything,” he says, after a few moments. “Not just for tradition’s sake—although tradition was a momentous cultural force—but also because our abilities made it necessary. Our bloodlines had to be carefully managed. The wrong mix at the wrong time would have produced unimaginable horrors.”

Gods, Ned hadn’t even thought about what inherited magic would do to a hierarchical system. Such things were complicated enough in the Seven Kingdoms, and they were a mundane species for the most part.

“What I mean to say is that blood, for us, was the most important thing. My family, and all other Clans who had inheritable abilities, could track every birth and death, spanning back millennia. We knew who had children with whom, when, and how. If a Clan daughter or son fell in love with a person deemed unsuitable for reasons of blood or security or politics, they would be sterilized or killed, but they would not be allowed to reproduce.”

Gods. Ned raises a trembling hand. “A moment, please. I need a moment.” His eyes fall on a suitable distraction and he jumps to it. “Would you care for a cup of water? I would appreciate one, to clear my head.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before he’s shuffling off in the direction of the jug, pouring two tall cups for the two of them. It’s just—It’s hitting a little close to home, as it were. He never thought he would have to worry about Tobirama finding out about Jon, but—No, Tobirama loves Jon like he was his own son. He would never expose him, no matter how much he cares for Robert. If anything, Tobirama would wring Robert’s ears for daring to call for the death of babies—

Except. Except Tobirama’s moral code is nowhere near as simple as he would prefer. He killed children, by his admission. He doesn’t even feel guilty about it, as far as Ned can tell. That ruthlessness was a great asset when it was pointed at Ned’s enemies, but—For the first time, he feels a twinge of fear that the Tyrells and Lannisters and Maesters must feel on the regular. Feels what it is like, to know you might be the enemy of someone you couldn’t stop, no matter what you do. All the armies in the West couldn’t stop Tobirama and—

Stop. Stop this.

“There.” Somehow, the water does help. He was ready for bed, before, and the cool liquid douses some of the chaos in his mind. “I apologize for the interruption. Please, you were telling me about your people’s views on blood.”

“Yes.” Tobirama knocks back the cup, gulping the water down as if it were a strong spirit. “As you can imagine, cultural views formed around this necessity. The Clans understood that keeping track of our bloodlines was a matter of survival, but the wider population did not. After all those hundreds of thousands of years, everything concerning reproduction and children became sacred. The most sacred law in all the lands.”

Easy, Stark. It’s not what you think it is. Tobirama wouldn’t harm Jon. He might harm you, but that would be, if anything, a Godsdamn reprieve. “I can see value in such a system.”

“With good reason,” Tobirama says, eyes still uncomfortably sharp. “Sexual violence was fully eradicated. If a man forces himself on a woman— or vice-versa—they wouldn’t have anywhere to hide. Their own mother wouldn’t give them sanctuary. Their children would report them and subdue them if they could. There is no higher sin than that of line-theft. Which is what we understood to be any action by which a person would be deceived, forced, or tricked, in any matter concerning their children. Force a woman to carry your child, steal someone’s child, replace it with someone else’s—any trickery at all. Am I explaining this adequately?”

“Yes,” Ned hears himself say with numb lips. “Very vivid.”

“So. With that in mind. If you, Ned Stark, saw such a sin happen. The most grievous sin, the highest form of treachery, something for which you and all your people would rise up until there was no trace of the betrayers left, and damn the consequences. If you saw it happen to a dear friend. What would you do?”

Ned swallows. Well, it seems time is up. At least he got an explanation and a send-off. Tobirama isn’t cruel. Ned’s death isn’t going to be complicated or drawn out, he doesn’t think.

“I—I have known you to be direct, Tobirama of House Hatake. Must you talk in circles? Lay your charge at my feet properly. I will submit myself to your judgment without issue.”

Tobirama rears back, actually, fully jumping up and away, vaulting over the back of the chair and sticking to the wall behind. Ned is much too numb to be properly amazed by the show of magic, but he manages a slow blink.

“What the fuck are you talking about, you fool of a man?”

Ned swallows. Alright. So—another misunderstanding then? Alright. This is—typical? By now? For them? “Jon.” Might as well go through with it. If such things are so taboo, Tobirama would have found out sooner or later. It’s best he gets his vengeance over and done with here, where there’s a lot of land between him and the children. Magic or not, it will take some time for Tobirama to cross it; time in which he will likely cool down some. “He is not my son, by blood.”

“He isn’t?” Tobirama runs through some internal thought process, eyes round and shocked in his face. “Bullshit. He is—Very close relation at least. I haven’t thought to check, but—His Chakra is—He is more your son than Rickon is, soul-wise.”

Soul-wise? Soul-wise?!

“I—” Get a grip, Stark. Don’t’ stutter like a child. Face your fate like a man. “He is my sister’s. My late sister. Lya. Lady Lyanna Stark.” Say it. You don’t have a lot of opportunities to tell the truth. “Lady Lyanna Targaryen, nee Stark.” There. The words you never had the chance to say are out. The words that would—He exhales a long breath.

Tobirama’s mouth falls open. “I—” He swallows and inches down to the ground, looking at Ned like he’s never seen him before. “I did not expect that. She—Wasn’t that why—”

An ugly smile pulls on Ned’s lips, as his eyes close involuntarily. “Many would call her—Many would classify the events around her relationship with then Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen as the catalyst for war, yes. Robert is one of them.”

Tobirama shakes his head a little, as shocked as he’s ever seen him. Ned never expected there was anything that could surprise, much less shock a man like Tobirama, but there they were. “So Jon is—”

“He is a Stark.” That came out a little savage. Settle down. “But he would if things were different.” Very fucking different. “In a different world.” Better world, most likely. “He would have a claim to the Throne, yes. He would be called. That.”

“And you hid him?” Try as he might, Ned still can’t spot a thread of scorn in Tobirama’s voice. Why? Didn’t he just say line-theft was unforgivable? “At her urging, I would assume? The stories do say you two met when—Ah. Childbirth?”

Ned manages a stiff nod. “We spoke. I promised. He is my son, now.”

Tobirama shakes his head, expression melting into something excruciatingly soft. It’s Ned’s turn to rear back. Tobirama is—guarded, always, even when he’s with friends. Even with the children and Robert and Oberyn; he keeps a careful, stiff distance between him and the world, no matter where and with whom he is. After the last big set of revelations, Ned came to the conclusion it was to keep the world safe. Ned could, distantly, appreciate the sentiment. There is no denying the most dangerous threat Tobirama knew about was Tobriama himself. Sad, but honourable. Now, there is very little, if anything, left of that distance, and Ned’s abused, shredded heart can’t take it. He closes his eyes.

“That doesn’t count, you lovely, foolish man. We have adoption. We have —We have protection. The House Targaryen is effectively dead. Jon’s birth parents are dead. His life is in danger. You—” Tobirama’s voice wavers a little. “I will have to think up appropriately powerful words to explain why what you’re doing is honourable and kind and wonderful, and why what I discovered is not, but I—I am too wound up right now. Let this be enough until I have had rest and plenty of time to meditate and clear my mind.”

He—Lovely??—What—

“I see.” It seems he won’t be dying immediately, then. Alright. “So you haven’t been—” Wait. “You discovered someone else’s line theft?” Merciful Mother, how many switched-baby plots could there be in one Kingdom?

“I have, yes.” Tobirama falls, beat by beat, back to that strange, wild-eyed zeal. Now that it’s not directed at him—No, that’s a filthy lie; it’s still as terrifying as ever. Tobirama was difficult to comprehend when he got fixed on something, worst of which being his hatred of the Citadel. This, now? This is worse. The maesters offend Tobirama on a rational level. Line-theft is emotional. It carries with it all the cultural weight of a cardinal sin from an entire civilisation. It is faith. Zealotry might not be a bad way of phrasing it. What a strange and terrible thing. “Now, the question becomes this. In my world—” A vague, cruel smile tilts his lips. “We couldn’t afford to care about anything but our own family. After we divided into countries and the soldiers in a country banded together, the village became your family. This means that if we discovered an enemy had tricked one of ours, the children would die, even though they are the only truly innocent party in the whole affair.”

Ned’s heart makes another confused wail. Wait, what? Children would die?

“Yes, I am afraid my world was, in most ways, vastly more savage than you can imagine. There were no mercies guaranteed. Individuals could and have been merciful.” His smile softens from cruel into wistful. “My brother was one such man. But they had been the exceptions, not the rule. If it was discovered, for example, that a husband was replacing his and his wife’s children with imposters for whatever reason, he and them would have been summarily executed. Nobody would bat an eye. It hadn’t happened for a long time, because such deceptions became easy to spot and demonstrate, but that would have been the outcome, had it happened.”

Alright. That’s—“That would not be acceptable here,” Ned says, and is proud that his voice only shakes a little. Honestly, he’s proud he can speak at all, after the evening he’s had. “The children are innocent.”

“That is one of the many things I have come to love about this world,” Tobirama says with a shiny, near reverent look in his eyes. “You are, morally speaking, so much better than we ever were. Oh, you have your bad apples and your cultural trappings are a dead weight that’s holding you back, but in matters of justice and mercy, you’re so much better than I ever could imagine.”

Ned decides he can’t unpack even the smallest part of that, so he wisely lets it go. “We agree, then. No dead, innocent children.”

Tobirama’s expression shutters. “In principle, I agree with you. In practise —I can’t see how we could prevent it.”

Ned’s hands shake so much, he clasps them together, then sits on them when that doesn’t help. “I don’t follow.”

Tobirama sends him a long, searching look. Why now, Ned doesn’t know. After all the treason they have just shared, after all the vulnerabilities and— What could be so concerning, by this point?

“Fine. Let’s do it that way, then. Robert doesn’t have any children with the Queen. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are fathered by the Queen’s brother, Jaime Lannister.”

Ned’s mind—blanks.

Chapter Text

Ned Stark lived, for most of his adult life, under the shadow of war. He was raising a boy that would see him possibly executed by the man he loved most in the world. As things stand, odds are that he will, at some point in his life, call his banners to defend Jon, which would plunge the Kingdom into an inevitable war. These were the certainties in his life.

With that said—Being a hypocrite is another established cornerstone. He disdains liars, and he lies more than most. His whole outward presentation is a lie. Ned Stark had to be a certain way, had to embody the stereotype or risk attracting the attention of the wrong people.

A quiet, selfish urge niggles in the part of his mind that has been bucking for supremacy ever since Tobirama came into his life. The part that wants to break out of the suffocating mold. For the first time in recent memory—there is a chance.

Tobirama’s discovery spells a disaster for the Lannisters, Ned’s biggest opponents. Robert has proven himself to be less maniacally uncompromising about Valaryans and magic than Ned, or anyone else thought he would be. He likes Tobirama, loves him, even. If that’s all it takes—

A wondrous image unfurls in his mind, of what an unburdened life might look like. The first thing, of course, would be to adopt Jon. To see him named Stark, as is his right. Lya—maybe Tobirama would indulge him and set up his privacy-magic so that he could finally tell the boy about his mother. How lovely and fierce and irrepressible she was, and how she loved him more than life itself.

Oberyn is next. He would shout about the Mountain from the rooftops. He would sail to fucking Dorne himself, bring them Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch and beg for forgiveness. Oberyn is another man who has a surprisingly deep well of mercy in him, he would—He wouldn’t absolve Ned, but maybe—Maybe they could—Be friends? Maybe?

Ashara, dear Ashara—he could clear her name. Tell everybody that the Lady of Starfall was much too fierce and much too merciless to fall to her death for the sake of a man as fundamentally weak as Ned Stark. Although— Well. Maybe he would keep that one for himself, if only because that might endanger her cover. Ned can’t say for sure, of course, but anyone who spent more than ten minutes in Lady Ashara’s company would know that she was not the type. If Ned broke her heart, she’d track him down, plunge her tiny palms into his chest, and crush his, right back. Or, even more likely, stabbing it through with one of her impractically sharp heels. No, it’s best Ned not butt in there.

His children—He could foster some of them, maybe, if the ever-present threat of assassins wasn’t hanging over their heads. If they protest, maybe he could bring some fosterlings to Winterfell? That he hasn’t done so already is a scandal he would dearly love to straighten out. How could he, when they could oversee something when that might open the door to Lannister spies?

It’s a glorious, leisurely life, and all it would take—

Tobirama’s words swim up, through his fanciful fantasies, and stab into his psyche. All it would take is three dead children. Or as good as.

Ned focuses back on his breathing. Easy. The crackling noise in his mind increases, as the anxiety seeps back in, colouring his hysteria in familiar, grey tones. How could he—He can’t. Even for—

What to do? It’s not even indecision that’s paralysing him. He’s familiar with that particular weakness, it’s one of his dearest companions. No, it’s—

“What the fuck are we going to do?”

He can’t quite make out Tobirama’s image, as cloudy as his vision has gone, but he can picture the grim smile perfectly.

“When faced with situations like these, I’ve found it a useful method to peel back all the steps you are uncertain about until you reach a point you won’t be moved from. A certainty, if you will.”

Ned is almost too afraid to ask, but the allure of leadership, of the decision being taken out of his hands, is much too strong.

“And what is your certainty?”

“I cannot keep this a secret. One way or another, Robert will learn about his circumstances.”

Alright. Alright, so. So that’s. That is. He.

“And which steps, if you don’t mind me asking, did you peel off?” Gods wept, this man.

“All the different ways I would go about doing that.” Tobirama’s cadence shifts into something more uncertain. “Or do you disagree?”

“No, I—” He what? “I agree that Robert deserves the truth.” That feels true, thank the Old Gods and the New. That feels true. “I am merely grappling with the costs of that. Could we—The children are blameless, and Tywin will start a war. He wanted his blood on the throne his entire life. He will not sit idly by as his children are revealed to be—As his grandchildren are revealed to be incestuous.”

Tobirama makes a small, considering noise. “Interesting, that you find incest more objectionable than the deception. Is that a wide-held belief?”

Ned jumps at the distraction with everything he’s got. “Of course. Deception is—Well, it’s common, isn’t it?” Oh, no. It’s not, because a somewhat mundane practise of smuggling illegitimate children as legitimate was seen as a cardinal sin, where Tobirama came from. “It’s common here. We don’t have the risks associated with the practise. It’s not honourable, and it being done in the royal family will be a scandal to end all scandals, but the practise itself happens every day.”

“I see,” says Tobirama, with a wealth of baffled disgust in his typically cool, urbane tones. “That will take some getting used to. That said, didn’t the Targaryens wed brother to sister?”

“They did, yes.” Ned shudders. “And they were madder than a box of frogs.”

“That does tend to happen. Still—it’s surprising that one generation was enough to build up so much instinctive disgust.”

One—“Incest was seen as unnatural in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years,” Ned says, a little outraged himself. “The Targaryens didn’t change that. They merely had dragons. If you have several hundred-ton, fire-breathing monsters, equipped with wings and steel-resistant scales at your beck and call, the people learn to keep their objections about your ways behind their teeth.”

“Ah. That makes more sense. Well, then. Where were we—Ah, yes. The Lannisters.”

“Yes, that.” Ned closes his eyes and counts backward from twenty. “We just finished one civil war, Tobirama. A civil war that likely plunged the Kingdom further into debt that we can’t repay. The Lannisters have the biggest gold mines on the continent. Without them—”

“Lord Lannister is a reasonable man,” Tobirama says, reasonably. “He knows his mines aren’t worth much if he can’t defend them. And he can’t. Because you have me.”

So the second part of that is true. “Tywin Lannister is—” Words stick in his throat, old hatred bubbling up from the pits of his stomach, hooked by hysteria and dragged up by impotent rage. “He’s a faithless, ruthless—” Easy. Don’t—

“Oh?”

The mild question, combined with the pounding headache and the background hatred of this place make the tenuous hold he has on his good sense snap. “Elia Targaryen, nee Martel, was raped and murdered over the corpse of her mutilated son, not a hundred paces from where we’re standing. As was, quite possibly, her six-year-old daughter. On the orders of your reasonable Lord Lannister.”

“Oh?”

Well done. What are you even saying, you witless, brainless oaf? How are you going to—

“I think,” Tobirama says after a long pause, “that we need to have a talk with Oberyn. Also Lord Arryn and that amateurish but charming spymaster. They seem to be the deal-makers around these parts.”

Who—Varys?

“Why the fuck would we include Varys?!”

“He obviously has a lot of information and an agenda. I could kill him, of course, but the problem with men like him is that he’s made himself indispensable. Information networks are a joke, around these parts. I could, for example, kill every single Tyrell in the main line, and it won’t cause more than a ripple. If I killed Lord Varys—Now that would cause some damage. Damage that the government would need decades to fix.”

Good Gods.

“His motives are suspect and I am almost certain he is not on Robert’s side,” he says because surely he must say something.

Tobirama makes a fond noise. “No, I daresay he’s not. But he’s not on Lannister's side, either, and, most importantly, he’s on whatever side I am, or will be once he gets properly informed. Don’t worry, Eddard. I will handle that part. You should try and get some rest. I will organise everything, and we will reconvene tomorrow evening.”

Ned does get some rest, miraculously. The side of him that usually keeps him up and manic is as exhausted as the part that wants to dig a hole in the snow and sleep the winter away. He wakes up dazed, thoughts fizzling out before they have a chance to take root, which is a blessing he is not too proud to take advantage of. Armed with all that undeserved peace, he immediately finds Robert and drags him to the sparring ground.

“What has gotten into you,” Robert says, grinning wide and thrilled.

Ned lets his eyes take in the sparkling eyes and lovely flush of his skin; the powerful heave of his lungs as they work to get enough air to power that giant fucking body. It’s old news that Robert is at his most beautiful when he’s fighting, but rediscovering it is always a pleasure.

“I hate this place, and I hate that you hate it. I can’t do much about almost any of it, but I can drag you out into the sun, where those slimy snakes won’t dare follow. At least for a few hours.”

Robert’s laugh rings over the training ground, drawing even more interest from their captive audience. It’s not often, that Robert is seen out here, and Ned isn’t an incompetent fighter either.

“Come on,” Robert says. “Let’s nag Barristan. He’s been picking up bits and pieces from Tobirama, you know? Just when you think the old bastard can’t get any stronger, he goes and gets better—”

They fight through the morning, eat the midday meal with the soldiers and get right back into it. If they were using real blades and armour, they’d have fallen dead from exhaustion. Since the practice blades are light wood, and they just spent a year trudging along under full mail and swinging around great big lumps of steel, they have enough energy in them to power through another stretch, until the sun is setting and both of them can barely stand.

“Well,” Ned says, a traitorous arm wrapped around Robert’s shoulders to keep upright. “That was fun. I’m going to limp to my rooms now to wash the grime away if you don’t mind. Same time tomorrow?”

Robert manages a breathless laugh. Ned wonders, distantly, if his face hurts from laughing that much. He’s done little else for the better part of the day. “Both of us will be too sore to do anything more than whimper and drink Tobi’s disgusting tonics tomorrow. But I’m sure we can find something to do outside, and this time we won’t even have to dodge Jon or have to try to sneak through the insane fucking paths in the Eyre.”

Ned huffs. “I just took the King outside to play for a whole day, Robert. If you think we won’t have to dodge Jon, you’re crazier than you look.”

Tobirama grants him the mercy of at least bathing in peace before he descends. “I can’t decide if that was clever or idiotic. Either way, sit down and let me see what I can do about your state of near unconsciousness.”

Ned, still up to his eyeballs in a desperate haze, sits down and shuts up and doesn’t let himself think about the visible glow of magic that envelops Tobirama’s hands as he heals his cuts and bruises. It seems that he was wrong; Tobirama was being subtle before, if this is how bold his magic is when he doesn’t try to camouflage it with tonics and potions and whatnot.

“Drink this. It will give you enough energy for a little while, and then you will crash, but I gave Robert a restorative that will knock him out for sixteen hours straight, so you have a fair cover.”

Ned does what he is told. The tonic is predictably hideous. He manages not to gag on the bitter sludge, but it’s a near thing. He suspects Tobirama makes it hideous on purpose, as a way to train the bodies and the minds of his patients to avoid having to fall back to such measures in the future. If the miracle-energy-potion was delicious, he could see how a man could get hopelessly addicted to it.

“Alright. Robert is asleep in a room I’ve secured to the best of my abilities. We’ve an important meeting we’re already late for, so hurry up and get dressed.”

Ned blinks. Hurry up and what?

He isn’t—

He is. A bold of numb dread crashes into his chest and makes its home there. He just spent a full hour in Tobirama’s presence dressed in his undershirt and sleep-pants. He—

The haze is a bit more difficult to reach, with magical energy coursing through his veins, but he is nothing if not determined. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it Don’t—

Oberyn is restless, Ned notes. Jon is braced for disaster. Varys—who knows what Varys is. Well, he thinks, eying the portly, reptile-faced man, Tobirama probably knows.

The way they are positioned speaks volumes. Oberyn stands with his back against the wall, one leg faux-carelessly propped up, arms crossed across his chest. Jon sits in a picture-perfect show of dignity, both by virtue of age and breeding. Varys sits also, not on a chair but on a settee that sits two, voluminous robes pooling around him, distinctly—deliberately—performing femininity. Which leaves Tobirama, standing behind a chair clearly meant for Ned, somehow taking up far more space than his body should be able to.

“Eddard,” he calls, “sit, please, so we can start this meeting.”

The obedience in his nod catches Jon’s attention, which means it catches Varys’ too. Oberyn, of course, knows what’s what and huffs a laugh that directs their attention his way. Yes, the dynamics are improbable. No, they’re not likely to change this late in the game. You’ll get there.

He sits. The weight of Tobirama’s presence at his back is grounding where it’s not terrifying. That, combined with the magic in his blood and the ever-present hysteria in his heart means his body falls into a tense, ready posture. Alright, that’s as appropriate as anything else.

“I won’t waste your time, gentlemen,” Tobirama says, not a moment later. “I realise you might be surprised by the attendees of this meeting. I suspect the reasons will become clear soon enough. With that said, to the first point of the meeting. King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, has no legitimate children with the Queen. Queen Baratheon nee Lannister has three illegitimate children with her brother, that she has been passing off as Robert’s. I cannot allow this state of affair to continue.”

Oberyn’s breath leaves his body audibly, and he almost stumbles from shock. Jon is not far behind, even if he is more sedate in his shock. Varys however—

“I see at least one of you is already aware of this.” Tobirama inclines his head Varys’ way. “I will not question your motives in facilitating the deception. The work of a spymaster is thankless, especially one that is known to have served the previous regime faithfully. I will only point out that your calculations need recalibrating now that I am, as it were, in the know.”

Varys doesn’t have time to respond, because Jon leans forward, hands clenched tight in his lap. “My Lord—you realise this accusation is preposterous? You will bring ruin to the Kingdom, I beg you to reconsider—”

Like a besotted idiot, Ned watches the spill of Tobirama’s hair as it dislodges from its messy bun. The incline of his head looks eerily like a giant snow leopard, considering the buffalo that wandered into its sights. “I have several ways of proving my claim, Lord Arryn. Some more outlandish than others. If it came to that, I can design and set up a statistically reliable experiment with mundane methods. There is not a drop of Baratheon blood in Joffrey, Tommen, or Myrcella. That is the simple and inescapable truth.”

Jon is quiet for a long, damning moment, eyes worryingly far away. “This will destroy him.”

Tobirama makes a furious sound in the back of his throat. “It will not. I will not let it. It will hurt him, deeply, but no more than that. Your foster-son is made of hardy stuff.”

Oberyn finally breaks out of his shocked daze and makes a step forward. “With her brother? No wonder the child is skinning kittens. It’s a wonder the other two aren’t as well, by the Seven!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “I do not know what possessed her and I don’t particularly care. I knew they were not Robert’s from the moment I laid eyes on them. Because the matter is so fraught, I made sure to check more thoroughly. Jaime Lannister is the father, beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

“You intend to tell Robert,” Jon says into the brief silence.

“I do.” Tobirama’s words fall like a declaration sent by the Heavens themselves. “That is not all I have come here to share, however. My erstwhile plan was to work out a deal with Lord Lannister directly, as I have found him to be a reasonable man during the months of our acquaintance. Eddard disabused me of that notion last night. Which is where you come in, Oberyn.”

Ned swallows. Alright. This is—This is not the worst secret, but it’s definitely a snowball likely to start an avalanche.

“Yes?”

“I have learned the man behind your sister’s, niece’s, and nephew’s murder, and I can get the executioners’ names as well.”

Ned keeps his breath nice and even and carefully doesn’t meet Oberyn’s eyes.

“Lord Lannister? How—That is not his style, surely? He’d—”

“He’d do whatever was necessary to keep his grandchildrens’ claim to the throne unchallenged,” Ned hears himself say. “Including, well. Including what happened.” He pauses, working his throat to dislodge the lump of dread that formed. “I doubt he knew how brutal the murders would be, but they were done at his behest.”

“And—You are—” Oberyn starts pacing, swallowing up space in his chamber that suddenly seems much too small for the occasion. “Why are you so terrified by the Old Lion? Westerlands trade with you some, but not so much that their ill-will would cripple you. A tenth of your army could defend your lands from any invasion they could hope to muster, and that’s if your dearest friend doesn’t crush them for daring to cross you.”

Ah.

“I can’t tell you that. In truth, I do not know if I am brave enough to tell you as much as I am telling you. I can’t bring myself to regret it, but there it is. Lord Lannister, Gregor Clegane, and Amory Lorch There are your names.”

Jon makes a pained sound, looking at Ned with focused despair. Ah, Jon knew as well?

“Whatever the odds might be of us emerging from this cursed mess without war, they don’t rest on the Lannisters,” he tells him, wondering at the hollow cadence of his voice. “Not after Tobirama got involved. He is including us out of goodwill, but the alternative would be that he handles it personally. Which, I assure you, would be far bloodier than any war we would wage.”

“My lord,” Varys says finally, “wars do not turn on a single man’s battle prowess. Lord Lannister has vast armies and enough gold to hire more. I’m sure you are very impressed with—Lord Hatake’s strength, but his sway in the Great Game rests solely on his political alliances.”

Ned settles for a tired huff. “For all that I don’t trust you, like you, or respect you, I do not wish to harm you. Tobirama’s political alliances are quite coincidental. When I say that he could cut his way through Westerlands, killing everyone in his path, I mean it quite literally.”

Tobirama chooses this time to slink up closer to the side of the chair, make a gesture and conjure ten copies of himself. “I am an army, Lord Varys. I don’t need anyone else.”

Ned closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the terror in Jon’s eyes. It was enough to catch a glimpse of it in Oberyn, in the way he scrambled back, hands hovering over the hilts of his blades.

“I—see.” Varys, incredibly, hides whatever he’s feeling quite spectacularly. “Magic, then. Blood magic?”

“Not at all. I harness and wield my spiritual and physical energy. And, no, before you jump to conclusions, I am not Targaryen, Valaryien, or anything of the sort. I was born in the North. Winterfell, to be precise.”

Ned swallows the hysterical bark of laughter. True, actually, if one counts re-birth as birth. Which one should, because what else would it fucking be? Summoning?

“Fascinating. You keep your abilities hidden, however. I’ve not heard a word of a magic-wielding warrior in the North and believe me, I would have.”

The, by now horribly familiar, soft sounds of the copies pop-pop-popping away means that Ned can risk opening his eyes. Jon is pale as a sheet, and Oberyn is not far behind. Whatever power he assumed Tobirama had, he had not even guessed at the scope. Fair.

“I like my anonymity and have no wish to rule Lord Varys,” Tobirama says. “My motivations are simple. All I aspire to is to make sure all my people are indulged in all the ways. This includes my chosen Lord, Lord Stark and his children, my dear friend Oberyn and his family, and the giant lummox that I’m considering adopting into my House, Robert, with his family.” Ned tracks the curve of his lips as they turn from somewhat mocking to dissatisfied. “If you paid close attention, you would find none of those people want the throne in the least, so you might as well stop the scheming. I won’t have it, my people won’t have it and whomever you would prefer is not even in the running. Robert might let himself be guilted to remain King because of the love he has for his foster-father, but he would run and never look back if he saw a hint of an opening.”

“We are veering off-topic,” Ned croaks. “Robert’s rule is not the most pressing concern. What is pressing is how we will handle this with minimal bloodshed. And no, Tobirama, that doesn’t mean that we should quietly kill the Queen, her brother, and their children. In fact, I will go so far to say the death of children should be the thing we should try to avoid at all costs.”

Tobirama makes a small displeased huff. “More children will die if a war breaks out. How many families who live and die by their farmlands will starve, once the armies sweep through and loot and rape and pillage? I’m not saying killing the Queen is my preferred option, but you need to keep an objective view of things.”

Yes well.

“No murdering Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. No. I am not doing pragmatic calculations with you. Do what you will with the Queen, do what you will with her Lord father and her bugfuck crazy brother, but leave the children alone.” Fuck. “Give them to me, if you really can’t think of a better way.” What are you talking about, Stark? “I won’t have it. I won’t.” 

“You already have six, what will you do with three more,” Jon says, but finally, a shade of his former self is back in place. “I’m proud of you, Ned. I know it’s hard for you to stand your ground.”

Tobirama’s sneer is not appreciated, and neither is the way Oberyn rolls his eyes. “Ned is as fierce as you could hope when children come into play,” Oberyn says, and it’s almost fond if edged with an age-old rage. “I’m glad he finally saw fit to include Rhaenys and Aegon to that protected group.”

***

Chapter Text

“What is the plan, then?”

Ned looks around the room. For how straightforward his question was, he’d really expected an answer. An answer more direct than—

“We tell Robert, talk him down from the immediate storm of violence and keep him safe through the inevitable troubles, ” Tobirama says, eyebrows arched. “As much as I adore him, Robert is an unpredictable man.” He pauses, losing between Ned and Oberyn. “All of you are, frankly.”

Oberyn leans forward, eyes intent and feverish. “And Lannister? Clegane? Lorch?”

“Oh, well, that’s simple enough. You demand a trial by combat, name me your champion and I cut through Lannisters until I reach the Lord.” He blinks, possibly because of the looks coming his way from the somewhat uninitiated part of the room, meaning Jon and Varys. “Sexual violence, to me, is akin to eating an infant alive, I am afraid. It’s not the only taboo I can name, but it’s up there.”

Oberyn’s lips press together in a tight line. “And if I want the chance to avenge my sister and her children?”

Tobirama hums. “I’m sure I can impress on you the value of having a workably unbeatable warrior to fight your battles, dear.”

“It’s the matter of principle,” Oberyn mutters, but Ned can see it’s all a matter of protocol. He’d call it sibling-like quibbling if not for, well. That. “I need to write to Doran—if I dared put any of this on paper.”

“By all means,” Ned hears himself say. “As I understand it, we will be telling everything to everyone soon enough. If half of what I know of your brother is true, he will hear of it before your letter reaches him.”

Jon huffs a tired laugh. Varys—Ned doesn’t like that considering look aimed his way. His reputation, such as it was, is crumbling to pieces along with everything he came to know and expect.

“Secrecy has its place,” Tobirama says approvingly. “But not too much of a one in this case. Eddard is correct in that you might as well write.”

“The matter of proof presents itself,” Varys says. “The charges you would put before the Court are beyond outrageous. I am likewise unenthused about the fallout. You might be too powerful to remove easily, but not all your people are.”

Ned is confused for a long moment, his attention eaten up by the sudden frost that spreads on Tobirama’s face.

“Is that a threat?”

Varys’s smile is on the other end of oily. “I wouldn’t dare. I offer advice if anything. If you manage to prove your claims against the Queen to her magic-phobic husband, then you will plunge the realm into war. Even if we set the matter of the Queen’s reaction, it won’t have escaped Lord Lannister that the best path forward will be to secure some hostages.”

Ah. Ned hadn’t missed the lump that once again forms in his throat. The children.

“Only death will keep me from my people,” Tobirama says. His voice doesn’t change, but the air shifts in the room, filling with—dread? Condensed fear? “But your point is—acknowledged. Do you think Lannisters have agents in Winterfell ready to go?”

Ned swallows. “He has spies,” he says slowly. “I am reasonably certain we made sure to restrict their access to the Keep.”

Varys’ eyebrows arch, eyes sharpening. Ned blames the stress and mania for the way his lips curl from his teeth in a fuck-off smile. North knows their own. Every one of his Lords can sniff out sourtherling agents at a mile.

“Not good enough,” Tobirama murmurs. “I can travel quite a bit faster than any of you, but it will still take me at least a few days to cross the distance.” A couple of days?! “I could—No, they will still—” He starts pacing. “I had not thought to develop more efficient travel techniques. That will have to change.”

Ned ignores this effortlessly which speaks volumes of his mental state. “What is the plan, then?”

“Give me a moment.”

Gods. He takes the time to look about the room, and try to gauge the effect. A good thing about Tobirama, he thinks grimly, is that he is so terrifying that even the most practised players are startled from out of their performances. Varys, for example, is more expressive than he ever was. Ned can read his apprehension, confusion and a fair bit of surprised pleasure. He hadn’t thought he would be listened to.

Unsurprising. From what he had come to realise about the man, his advice was rarely appreciated, if it was even acknowledged. He had made an interesting situation for himself. Too important to alienate but too unknowable to trust. He was only ever present in the discussion out of necessity. A Varys that isn’t in the room is a Varys that is in another room with another Lord, quite possibly talking about you.

Jon is—exhausted. His foster father has the dull look in his eye of a man watching his life’s work crumble, without even having the outrage that would cushion him against it. He must know that the Kingdom they created—they were forced to create—is a rickety, traitorous mess. It was built on lies and tricks and trauma, what else could it be? If Rhaegar—

But Rhaegar is dead, his last living heirs were most emphatically unavailable and the realm had had enough of Targaryens. What they are left with is—

He shakes his head a little to clear it. He is going around in circles.

“Alright,” Tobirama says suddenly. “So I won’t start a war, then.”

Ned breathes in and out slowly. “Do you mind elaborating?”

Tobirama turns his way. “I don’t mind, no. I got a bit—emotional, but thankfully Lord Varys was willing to put things in perspective. My objectives remain clear. My people are to be safe, indulged and on the path toward self-actualisation. The Monarchy can go hang.”

Oberyn barks a laugh. “Oh, is that so?”

“It is.” With a languid shrug, Tobirama passes fire-bright eyes around the room. “There is no version of this story that leaves Robert ignorant of the line-theft. That is out of the question. But I can afford to invest a little time and energy into the fallout.”

“I greatly admire your confidence,” Varys says, crinkling his eyes in a parody of a smile. “That said, I cannot see a path forward that ends well for anyone.”

“Mm,” Tobirama says, arching his eyebrows. “That is because you lack perspective. I am aware that you are all improbably invested in this story you are spinning, but I am not. My palette of acceptable outcomes comes equipped with all sorts of options that you deny because of your overwrought sense of self-importance.” He turns to Ned and blinks a deliberately slow blink. “No offence meant, of course.”

Well, as long as he doesn’t mean to offend.

The first thing Ned does, once they disperse from the impromptu meeting, is find his Lords. Tobirama is with Obreyn, introducing himself via letter to Doran Martell, and Jon and Varys went off to do whatever it is they do to keep the Kingdom going.

Greatjon, Wyman and his sons are together, helpfully.

“I know that look,” the Greatjon says wearily. “What did he do now?”

Ned can’t even joke, that’s how buzzy he feels. “It’s not what he did, it’s what he will do.” He collapses into a chair. “The answer for which I don’t know. But it will be—Big.”

Wyman sighs. “Well, he doesn’t waste any time. Never put off for later what can be done now, and all that.”

Hah. “I hope it will all blow over quickly,” he says, fully aware he’s absolutely and shamefully lying. Things blowing off quickly mean a lot of dead Starks and not a few Baratheons, too.

“I’m sure,” Wyman says with a look of such studied unconcern that Ned is pretty sure his message is more or less conveyed. “Should we pack?”

Ned thinks about this. “Probably,” he says. “At least in part. Be ready to move quickly, because I don’t know what’s coming, but I doubt it’s going to feature King’s Landing much.”

“Fun times,” Greatjon sighs. “May we live in interesting times, ey? We will go tell the men.”

There is no preparing for Tobirama, not really. Ned thought he was doing all he could to brace for impact; to steel his mind against the razor-edged whimsy with which he slices through what is possible to get to what he wants.

“Won’t you do this for me,” he is saying to Robert, in full view of the Queen, the Court and the Gods Themselves “What use are you here, miserable and lonely? Come North with us. I promise it will be worth it.”

“How dare you—” Cersei half stands from her seat, ignoring the urgent whispering of her younger brother.

“I am not speaking to you,” Tobirama says over the Queen, somehow pitching his voice to drown out her high, piercing one. “Lord Tywin, would you be so kind as to keep your daughter from embarrassing you out of the chance to keep the Throne warm until Robert’s return.”

And that’s that. Most of the Queen’s political power is, in fact, her father and his gold. He is essentially bankrolling the Kingdom if Ned understood things even a little. Now that Tobirama found an appropriate carrot for her father, he can use the stick on the daughter as much as he wants, and nobody except maybe her siblings will think to object.

Well, that’s what you get for not forging alliances, thinks the small, bitter part of Ned that Tobirama’s been feeding up recently. You would have more cards in your deck if you didn’t actively alienate everyone except your precious lions.

Focus!

“What is this about,” Robert says, arching his eyebrows. “We’ve just gotten back. We haven’t even had an official council meeting to finish up the civil war business.”

“Your nobles can do that without you,” Tobirama counters, flicking an impatient hand. “They might even do it better if they didn’t waste any time trying to impress, flatter or curry favour with you, without knowing the first thing about what you value or respect. ”

“I’m still not hearing any reasons, wildcat.”

Tobirama tilts his jaw, eyes flashing. “I have them. I am not a man prone to whim, and I haven’t yet asked you to do something that didn’t prove to be beneficial. Do you trust me that I have your best interests in mind?”

Robert blinks and tilts his head. “Depends, frankly. In what weight class am I competing? Against Ned, no, I wouldn’t believe it for a second.”

Ned hears a bark of hysterical laughter and wonders, who—Ah. It’s him. Of course, it’s him. Wonderful. That’s precisely what he needs; a semi-public nervous breakdown.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, dear,” Tobirama says, sparing Ned an exasperated glance. “Before, absolutely. But you’re one of mine now, and that is not a position I will walk away from easily, if at all. I wouldn’t let you harm Eddard and his children, but I wouldn’t let him harm you, either.” He lets that sink in for a long moment. “More importantly, I have my reasons. This place is not healthy for you. You aren’t needed here. You are needed up North, if for no other reason than we are sincere in our care and we want you to come visit us. Come, meet the children. I will forge you a hammer to use, and we’ll finally do something about that cursed mess you call footwork. Everybody wins.”

“Lord Hatake,” Jon starts to say and is silenced by a single flat look from Tobirama.

“Trust that this is me playing nice. For better or worse, you’ve raised sons that will harm themselves to please you. No longer. I will take him North. When he wants to return, he will, and not a moment sooner.”

Robert sends Ned a long, evaluating look. It’s far more penetrating than Ned knows what to do with, so he doesn’t try to. Go ahead, look. You don’t have to look deep to see his helpless resignation. It’s shamefully close to the surface.

“I don’t appreciate being led around the nose,” Robert says flatly. “I don’t doubt your motivation, but I am not a pet to be yanked around.”

If Tobirama wasn’t who he was, this is where Ned would expect to see frustration on his face. As things are, he is simply unmoved. “Alright. If you need a reason, I will give you one. I would start negotiations between House Stark and House Hatake for the official adoption of one Jon Snow into my House. I will have him become my son and Heir. You, as King, are the ultimate authority.”

Instinctive panic makes blood cool in his veins and a sick whine rise in his ears. What?! How—Ned had told him—Is this a betrayal? Is he going to—After everything Ned did, after everything he had sacrificed, betrayed and lost—

Calm. Even. Cool. You aren’t among friends here, Stark. Focus on your allies. Tobirma loves the children. Setting everything else aside, he’d never harm them, even if he has to kill every adult that would dare wish them harm.

When white spots stop dancing in front of his eyes, he finally has enough composure to take in and process the long, calm look that Tobirama is aiming his way.  Trust me, it’s written in the pointed lack of a frown and the unconcerned slope of his shoulders. I know what I’m doing. Which, alright, Ned does, of course. With his life. But not Jon’s—

Except Tobirama magic. He can cast illusions, Ned witnessed that much. He can change Jon’s shape, maybe, or alter Robert’s perception. And an official adoption—It would help. It’s no life, being the downtrodden bastard child of a Lord. Ned’s protection was always hamstrung by the need to keep the boy out of sight and out of mind. Now—Maybe—

Robert’s eyebrows arch up in disbelief. “You want the King to officiate an adoption? You want to drag the King across a continent to okay a bastard’s adoption?”

That was a mistake. The first flicker of emotion shows, and it’s not amusement or pleasure. “The King can go jump in a lake,” he says, hoarse voice almost smoothing into a croon. “I want you to be there when I officially adopt and bring my son home. Tobirama pauses just long enough to let his words sink in slightly and continues. “I would have my friend, a man I have come to respect and care for, be there for a glorious and joyous occasion. I’ve never had a child and I’ve never adopted one. Yes, Robert, I would drag you across the continent to witness and bless me starting a family.”

And that’s that. Robert’s jaw closes with a click, as his lips thin with discomfort and shame. “I only meant—”

“You thought I was disrespecting you and your time,” Tobirama finished for him. “Which I am not. You staying here would be disrespecting your time. You don’t want to be here. Your advisors don’t want you to be here. The only people who do want you here are vultures and worms that profit off of your loneliness and misery. Forgive me if I am not particularly inspired to sympathy for trash, Robert.”

Robert closes his eyes, throws his head back and exhales a long, complicated sigh. “Alright. Alright. I surrender. It will be as you say, of course. I will visit you in Winterfell. Maybe even take you around your new Keep on our way back. In the meantime—What was it you said, again? Tywin and Jon and—”

“Any political opponent of Lord Lannister and Lord Arryn would do.” Tobirama’s even expression allows a measure of derision to show. “Lord Tyrell would be a good pick, except the current iteration is a worthless imbecile who is not going to hold onto his seat for long. Choosing Lord Hightower would speed up his removal, which would be a fun process to watch from the sidelines. That said, Stannis would also be an excellent choice. He is responsible, cunning and loyal. I cannot recommend him enough.”

Gods wept, what a fate, Ned thinks faintly. He threw poor Stannis to the wolves without a hint of provocation. It’s possible he doesn’t know—Except of course he does. Of course he does. He’s met Stannis. Met him and, possibly, didn’t think much of him? Maybe?

Robert laughs, having apparently decided to allow himself to be amused. “Ruthless as ever, Tobi. Fine. Tywin, Jon and Stannis will be the triad who will temporarily serve as a replacement for the King. Happy?”

And there it is. Tobirama’s eyes flash with satisfaction, every single lordling and courtier gasps and the fate of the Seven Kingdoms veers even further into chaos and unpredictability. “I’m sure Lord Lannister will have a scribe write up an appropriate document by sundown,” Tobirama says with the heavy ring of conclusion. “In the meantime, I will oversee the packing and resupply. Robert, I would be happy to bully your assistants and staff into some measure of efficiency as well, if you wish.”

Chapter Text

Like it or not, the King can’t just leave. Hells, Ned can’t just leave. They need to resupply, gather reports from appropriate Lords and do some crucial trading that can only be done in person. Such as meeting with the representatives of the Iron Bank; a task which is neither quick to do nor painless to organise.

Which makes things—complicated. Tobirama never hid the ruthless bent of his nature. It’s why he is as efficient as he is, why he can accomplish all the frankly insane things he had in such a short span of time. Ned knows this. He’s grateful for it. Tobirama made his life infinitely better. It often feels like he would simply look at a problem Ned thought of as inevitable and it would shrivel and die in minutes. That’s all true.

It doesn’t do much to soften the merciless way he is extracting Robert’s not-children from both his and Robert’s heart. He really could have killed them, Ned thinks, dazed. He would have been saddened by it, would have raged about being put in the situation and done who knows what to the people who made it necessary, but he would not have hesitated if Ned hadn’t demanded otherwise.

There is a line there, he thinks. Some barrier or chasm that prevents the two of them from truly understanding the other. He wants to think it’s that Tobirama’s people had to be very careful who reproduces with whom, lest the whole line becomes sick. The alternative is—

The alternative is superstition and cruelty, and he can’t square either of those two things with the curt but generous healer mage. Not Tobirama who hmphs and snaps and growls, but heals everyone he sees with strong, gentle hands. Not Tobirama who made himself indispensable in the minds and hearts of the people, high and low, only to invest every single drop of that goodwill into pushing through progressive ideas.

It’s too late for his generation, he’s pretty sure, but the next one—One of his sons could, conceivably, fall in love with a boy and not have to hide or run to the wall to escape the fairer sex that way. They could openly criticise the system of government itself and demand that their loyalty be earned by something other than an accident of birth. Women could become sell swords, while men could raise families in peace. He’s already built a new world; it’s impossible to go back. What would they go back to? It’s out there now; the strongest warrior in Westeros lays with men and isn’t ashamed of it. Isn’t lesser for it.

How, then, could this selfless, forward-thinking man so callously erect a barrier between himself and the children? He won’t kill them for Ned’s sake, but he will cut them out of his heart from one moment to the next. Gone is the warmth with which he treated them in the beginning. Now, they might as well be invisible for all the care he shows them. They did nothing wrong, he wants to scream. They are practically infants, and Ned still watches as Tobirama spins chaos around Robert’s head, dazzling him with his no-nonsense approach to life, all the while taking him, step by step, away from people he still thinks of as his family. Robert hasn’t been in King’s Landing for three weeks, they are leaving in two more, and already he is spending less than thirty minutes with his family per day.

And the worst part—there are so many worst parts—is that Ned can’t even nail down what, precisely, his objection is. They aren’t his children. They are cuckoos and Robert is going to be devastated either way. The emotional severance Tobirama is preparing him for will be easier, the earlier it starts. Ned knows all this. He does.

But he is also a father and knows that every time Robert ignores the Prince or skips the family meal because of this or that errand Tobirama invented for him, a lance of pain stabs into his chest and stays there.

Perhaps it would be easier if he hadn’t already been spoiled with the idea that things can be better. Two years ago, he’d have shut his eyes and plugged his ears and trudged along, hypnotised by the idea that change is only possible if it’s for the worse. Now, he knows better. Now Tobirama taught him better. If you see a problem, fix it. If you can’t, get someone who will. Repeat that process until the problem is gone, or you are.

So where does that leave him? He can’t help. He tried to talk to the children, with no success. Not only does he easily become tongue-tied, but the Queen is also all too happy to see the back of Robert and keep the children to herself. She is as blind as anyone, he rages. If she thinks—

Where is her confidence coming from, he would dearly like to know. How isn’t she trembling in fear every moment of every day? She has three illegitimate children with her twin brother, she is a widely despised figure, and her husband openly despises her. The hangman’s noose is already knotted, they’re just waiting for the final push of the lever and still, she sneers, spits and claws, without any regard for her or the children’s safety. She rejoices every time Robert leaves, fully blind to the way Tommen and Myrcella’s faces fall, and Joffrey’s expression twists with ill-concealed pain. Everybody is losing, everybody is digging in deeper and Ned—

Something needs to be done, he knows. Some—

The youngest lion triggers what he hopes to the Gods is a solution.

It’s possible that Tobirama’s magic lets him sense Ned’s emotions, because the healer is cautious around him, these days. Ned’s feelings, whatever they are, are too confusing to bring up, even if he had a safe space in which to tell them. When it all becomes too much—which happens at least once every day—he escapes to his bannermen, to Robert or Oberyn. All too soon, Oberyn sails for Dorne, so he takes to haunting small libraries and sitting rooms where he hopes he will not be disturbed.

“Lord Stark,” comes the surprised voice out of a comfortable little nook. “I—Will leave?”

Ned doesn’t have the energy to jump in fright, that’s how ground down he is. There is only so much a man can take before he starts letting go of the smaller stuff like fear for his safety. “No need,” he says, and tucks himself behind a bookshelf, into an armchair he dragged in there precisely because nobody can spot it from the door. “By all means, stay. We are united in a purpose, which is hiding from this rotting fucking city. Might as well do it together.”

“Ah.” A pause. Ned closes his eyes and counts his breaths. He will never get used to the smell of this cursed place. Never. “Are you well, Lord Stark?”

Hah. He opens his eyes a crack. “No, not really. Are you?” 

That prompts a startled little laugh from the boy. How old can he even be? He’s not seen many dwarves, so it’s hard to judge his age, but he’d say he was somewhere around twenty. Gods. “I take your point. I suppose I should ask if I could help.”

Hah. “You seem like a decent one,” Ned says, closing his eyes again. “The best thing you can do for me is to stay that way and don’t get—” Careful, now. “Never mind me. This place gives me waking nightmares to match the regular kind.”

“My—condolences,” Tyrion offers cautiously.

The Lannister boy is offering Ned condolences for shit that happened when he was a child. “They are well received,” he snaps and regrets it. “Sorry. Again, this place is—”

“It is, rather. But you will be gone soon, so take heart. You can return to your family and fresh, northern air.”

Ned doesn’t know what to do with the wistful note in Tyron’s voice so he chooses to think of it as a Southerling’s romanticisation of the North. Better that than romanticisation of family. “Had you ever been up North,” he asks, desperate not to think of what, if anything, Tobirama is planning and how this trip will end.

“Me?” Tyrion blinks. “No.”

A sudden spark of inspiration soaked with defiance lights up in his mind. No, not his mind. This is the type of madness that can only be driven by the heart. “Would you like to? We’re taking Robert with us. In fact—” Why not, frankly? If they are all insisting on being ruthless and decisive, then so can Ned. “I’ll speak to Robert about bringing his children, too.”

“You want to bring the Queen up North to meet your children?” Tyrion’s voice hangs in the intersection of dubious and incredulous. “Because Cersei won’t let Robert take her children anywhere without her supervision.

Cersei can’t do shit to stop it, frankly, especially now that Tywin has gotten as close to the throne as he’s ever going to get. That said, maybe that’s exactly what he wants. The inkling of an idea begins to take shape.

“I will speak to him,” he says. “But you haven’t told me if you would like to come.”

Tyrion looks at him like he’s lost his entire mind, and, moreover, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s walking into something he won’t easily walk out of. “I have always wanted to see the Wall,” he says slowly. “It is the last great working in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Hah. If it’s magic you want, you don’t have to go further than two floors down. “Wonderful. Now, if you don’t mind, I have at least another hour before my presence is missed and I dearly need the time to claw together some presence of mind.”

“Why the fuck would I want to see more of Cersei,” Robert says, looking at him like he’s baffled to even have to say the words. “The whole point of this is to see less of her.”

Right.

“I care for your wife not at all,” he says, ignoring Tobirama’s blank, intent look. “But I care for Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. Tommen is too young to be separated from his mother that long, and so we get to Cersei coming with.” He pauses, considering. “Plus, her youngest brother is a charming young man and I want to show him around Winterfell. Between you and me, I hope to poach him. He is unreasonably intelligent and woefully underused in this cesspit.”

“Oh.” A moment of clarity enters Robert’s expression. “You wouldn’t know, but I don’t—My children and I don’t really—”

Yes, you don’t. But you should. Someone should, other than their treasonous mother who is not likely going to survive past the turning of the century. “I’m not telling you what to do,” he says because he isn’t. “But I like children. I’m good with children. So, I’m asking you to take the three cubs along, so I can get to know them properly. Maybe knock some sense into your boy before the Southerling pomp sets in for good.”

“But Cersei,” he says, sending him a half-heartedly beseeching look. “She’s such a—” His mouth twists. “She’s poison. And she makes me even worse.”

“You are a grown man,” he says, not feeling all that sympathetic. “And the King, besides. Sleep in separate tents. Lead separate lives. She can bring along whoever she pleases to keep her company.”

“This is important to you?”

Ah. “They are good children,” he says with complete honesty. “But they are lonely and terribly spoiled. This place is Hell on earth. I am afraid that, if I don’t seize the chance to meet them now, I won’t get another one later.” So very, very true. It’s almost a wonder how he managed to weave through the conversation without saying a single outright lie.

“Fine,” he sighs. “But you’ll have to speak to Tywin.”

Hah. “I’ll go do that now,” he says, completely ignoring the fact he’s barely even looked at Tobirama since he interrupted their sparring match. “Enjoy the rest of your training session.”

Robert’s eyes flick between them for a moment, but the only indication of his thoughts is the small, sad smile that appears on his face. “I will. You too.”

Lord Tywin’s reaction is about what he had expected. Shock, suspicion and reluctant elation. “You are worried about the children?”

He shrugs. He is very worried, but not for reasons he is willing to bring up. Least of all to Tywin who, also, isn’t long for this world, now that the Martells have a name to focus their attention on. “Tommen and Myrcella are delightful children but Joffrey is—” He hesitates. The boy is—off. An instinctive element of empathy is missing, and he’s hoping it’s because his mother is madder than a bag of cats. “—troubled in some ways. He idolises Robert, however, so I am hoping to leverage that to make him learn. He is more than bright enough to manage if he is taught properly.”

“And Tyrion?” Now, his tone shifts. “He is still my heir.”

“That’s just sentiment,” he says, shrugging. “He studies in the same library I hide in. I had gotten to know him and am very impressed by his breadth of knowledge. Now, admittedly, he is a bit too old for fostering, but a friendly invitation for an extended stay would be appropriate. With your leave, of course.”

Tywin is quiet for a long sequence of heartbeats. Ned isn’t worried. Tywin wouldn’t dream of denying him much of anything, and this is something he wants too. He has a limited amount of time to spread his tentacles, and the last thing he needs is a wild card like Cersei to rampage about and ruin alliances simply because she’s angry.

“You spoke to the King about this?”

And done.

“He sent me to you,” he says. Emphasising Tywin’s authority in this matter can only smooth ruffled feathers. “And he likes to indulge me in these things. I won’t say he is thrilled to have the Queen along, but he will put up with it.” Hmm. “It might be wise to point that out,” he adds because Tywin is just about the only one Cersei listens to. “Robert agreed, with the stipulation that he will be leading, effectively, separate lives. She would be wise to bring with her an entourage she enjoys spending time with. Or, if she would prefer, she could always stay here, and Robert will take the children North without her.”

“That will not be happening,” Tywin all but snaps. “I will explain matters to her.”

Ned makes sure his expression reads as relieved with a dash of pleased. Look at us, it says, we have a shared interest here. I am a hopelessly predictable Northerner that is—improbably—invested in keeping your grandchildren on the throne. You know the oldest cub is on a path that would see him remembered as Aerys’ second coming. We all want the same thing here, so why don’t you step in, before the dimwitted Northerner messes it up for everybody?

“Thank you,” he says. “That would be very generous of you.”

“I cannot for the life of me figure out what you are doing, Eddard.”

Ned, again, doesn’t jump up. He does drop his cup, which then spills over his dinner and further out onto his trousers, but that is a different matter. “Tobirama,” he replies with all the patience he has in him. “I don’t suppose you would elaborate?” He flicks his eyes meaningfully around the chamber.

“It is secure,” Tobirama says, flicking an impatient hand. “You can speak freely.”

Oh, can he? He exhales a deep breath and uses the time it takes to mop up the wine to centre himself. “I haven’t heard a question.”

“Why are you inviting enemies into your home,” Tobirama says as patiently as he can. “To meet your children.”

Well, that’s sped things right up, hasn’t it?

“Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella aren’t my enemies,” he says, keeping his voice nice and even. That’s it, cool and calm and unaffected. “Tyrion I’m less certain about, but only just.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No.” He can feel the tension seep into his muscles, knotting up down his shoulders. “And, frankly, they don’t deserve what you and Robert have been doing.”

“We aren’t doing anything to them. That is the point. That said, they aren’t his,” Tobirama says, eyes narrowing a hair. “I had planned to let him know gently. I don’t see why you would think it’s wise to have them anywhere near Robert at this time.”

Oh, you don’t, do you?  “Robert is my best friend,” he says, “but he is an adult. I have an adopted child, as it happens, and I don’t love him a hair less than I do the rest.”

“I don’t see the parallel.”

“What I mean,” he says, “is that Robert can fucking deal. And so can you and I. The children are blameless in this. You do whatever you want but I will not be giving more consideration to the feelings of an adult than I would a child whose only crime was that they were born to a wrong father.”

Tobirama looks—taken aback. Maybe hurt, a little, behind that stoic expression. “I am not obfuscating when I say I do not understand,” he says. “What will bringing them accomplish? As things are, they have a distant, warm relationship. When Robert finally learns the truth, it will be simpler to persuade him to let things go. Now, you will only give him things which you know aren’t real.”

Ned is aware that he is becoming unreasonably angry. This is Tobirama, he tries to remind himself. He is not from around here. You can’t expect him to have the same reasoning. He is asking for clarification on a point he doesn’t understand. If you blow up at him now, you risk him not asking in the future.

“Why wouldn’t they be real,” he says instead. “Blood isn’t everything. Him letting them go is not the only option, nor is it the best one.”

“Oh. You would ask him to keep them?” Tobirama frowns. “Wouldn’t that be cruel?”

They are fully talking cross purposes. “Cruel to whom,” he says, because honestly. “Because you are being cruel to the children right now, by prioritising Robert’s feelings over their wellbeing.”

“I am being cruel?” Tobirama’s blink is dangerously close to defensive. “I am being fair, Eddard. You are pretending they are a happy family when the very foundation is built on lies.”

Hah. Foundation? “What foundation,” he snaps. “Robert barely knows them and they barely know him. And, fine, if he decides he can’t bare it, they can stay up North. I’ll rather they stay here than deal with the stigma of—”

“Of being a result of treason and incest,” Tobirama fills in, voice smooth and hard as silk. “Which, I’m sure, won’t follow them North.”

“Oh, my mistake,” Ned replies, matching him beat for beat. “It would be simpler to kill them. Tommen isn’t even two years old, but by all means, go and slit his throat because his existence will hurt Robert’s feelings.”

Tobirama rears back like Ned had slapped him, but, frankly, it’s well deserved.

“You decided, on your own, that Robert should be separated from the children he called his own their entire lives.” His voice is shaking. It would be so much better if he were angry, but he’s just sad. Maybe frightened in the abstract. “You made that decision and proceeded to separate him from them as thoroughly as you could. If it were just his wife, I wouldn’t have said a word. But the children are innocent. This is cruelty out of pragmatism, and I can’t live with it.”

He isn’t getting it. Ned can’t believe he’s still not getting it.

“He won’t handle this well,” Tobirama says after a long beat. “He will feel betrayed and trapped and he will do something impulsive. He will run.”

Ned hums. “I love him dearly, but he is a grown man,” he says. “And the situation is such that there is no alternative guardian for them. The Queen is insane and a traitor. So is her brother. Her father will get poisoned by Martells any day now. So who do they have left, hm? What is going to happen to Myrcella? Are you going to return them to Casterly Rock, care of her dwarf uncle? He will be deposed by his lords in a fortnight and the three of them will soon suffer terrible accidents.”

Nothing.

“Just because they aren’t your children, doesn’t mean they aren’t worth protecting,” he says in the end. “Thinking otherwise is what got us to where we are. I’m so very tired of leaving children in terrible situations, Tobirama. I can’t do it unless there is no other option. Certainly not to spare Robert’s feelings.”

Chapter Text

Okay, let’s tackle Cersei And Her Wheelhouse

1. Travel times

I have no idea where this idea came from that Cersei traveled from King’s Landing to Winterfell in a wheelhouse in a month. That’s straight up not possible. 

Even if we say they only stop to resupply in Harrenhall, Twins and Moat Cailin, that still, by my calculations, sets them up to around six months.

According to Wikipedia “The travel speed of the German itinerant court was normally between 20 and 30 kilometres a day.” So let’s average it out to 15 miles per day. Even if we say Tobi’s wheelhouse was better and whatnot, we can only shave a little off the top and it would still mean they’d travel from Dec 16^th till June 19^th. And I hadn’t included any pauses in the stops at all, which I might do when I actually go ahead and write, and not obsess about logistics xD

2. Forty horses dragging a house on wheels

Now, here, we get into weird territory. On first blush, I’d have said it’s silly to have a forty horse carriage.

1. Because the road is shitty

"Just north of King's Landing, the grand road is initially little more than two narrow dirt tracks, winding back and forth on itself. To pass through the Neck it becomes a causeway. North of the Neck and south of King's Landing the road winds down. Inns exist, but they are farther apart and much less able to accommodate large parties.”

2. What happens when you reach a hill? To quote a Redditor:

“For momentum, imagine pulling (not pushing) a laden shopping trolley uphill. Then imagine trying to get it down the other side, still in front of it. When horse-drawn freight transport was the norm, busy areas often had people making a living hiring out their teams of horses to hitch on to the back of the wagons at the top of the hill and help it get down safely: and that's loads pulled by far fewer horses than forty. One problem was that the horse's instinct is to run away from what's chasing it, so if the load picks up speed, the horse's instinct is to pick up speed as well.”

But then, I researched it a bit more and found that yes, people drove forty-horse carriages, and they even raced.

So, what I’m going to say is that the carriages have breaks. Yeah. I have no idea if they had, because I spent far too many days trying to figure this out in my copious and abundant spare time and, frankly, I’m getting a little sick of it. They had primitive breaks before Tobi came around, Idk, by throwing an anchor type thing behind, I dont know and I dont car. They’ll have even better ones now, considering Tobi is a genius and a Shinobi and he will cheat with Fuuinjutsu if it will release me from the anguish of having to think about specialised horse harnesses and construction of non-Roman roads and geography of Westeros.

With that said, there’s no way in Hell this:

Is coming through

Aka the Neck.

Or the Twins or anythign of the like. The Northeners didn't bring their siege equipment down, they lugged lumber and built it down south. Maybe. I really don't know. 

So. In conclusion:

Cersei’s wheelhouse is by no means a giant-ass house. It’s a carriage. A nice carriage, but a carriage, built to hold up to ten people.

It’s this:

Christ.

I wouldn't even bother probably if GRRM hadn't made so much of a stink about the whole medieval accuracy thing. 

you will still have a rant about dragons to look forward to because GRRM also had this dumb fucking rant about why he dosn't want his dragons to have four legs and wings bcause no other animal has four legs and wings

and just

I'm doing my phd in evolutionary biology and this kind of shit just makes me mad. Really? That's how you want to engage with the idea of a magical dragon? You want to talk grade 1 biology? Really?? They're multi-ton fire-breathing flying lizards. And you want to talk to me about biology??? Oh, okay, where do you want to start, exactly? What aspect of their biology do you want to discuss first? Their internal organs? Cell function? Mitochondria? Egg composition? Life span? Climate requirements? Hibernation? By all means, build me a biologically viable fire-breahing flying dragon, and I'll tell you how it evolved, okay? 

Arrogant jackass. 

Chapter Text

“You know, I hadn’t thought you’d be able to pull it off,” Tyrion says, having found him in what has since become their library. “Father is one thing, but I still can’t believe the King has agreed to spend months travelling with my sister.”

“As I explained to your father,” Ned says, not bothering to open his eyes. Tyrion witnessed plenty of his stress-headaches already and hasn’t said a thing, “the King likes to indulge me where he can, and it is important to me that I meet his children properly.”

“Ah. I see. You uprooted the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms because you want to spend time with the children. Makes perfect sense.”

Yes, well. Considering Ned is the only thing standing between Tommen and a sharp blade, he isn’t all that sympathetic about the Queen and her hysterics. “I like children. Even if I didn’t, I would rather they not spend all their time in this pit.”

Tyrion’s hum comes across as supremely sceptical, but he doesn’t inquire further. “How are the preparations going? I understand you are to find a wheelhouse to travel in style.”

A bolt of pain stabs straight between Ned’s eyes. It was a petty demand on the Queen’s part. A petty demand made by a woman who, between her husband and her father, has no control over her life. Whether she meant to delay or frustrate, it’s unclear, but—

“You met Tobirama,” he says. “Do you think he is a man who will let himself be delayed by logistics? If anything, he’s enjoying the engineering challenge. He’s already rented out a workshop, bought twelve wagons to chop up for parts, and is designing it from scratch.”

“Oh?”

Ned cracks his eyes open to see the naked wonder in the boy’s eyes. Right. A scholar. A scholar with a head for mechanisms and calculations. “Tobirama and I are quarrelling,” he says, injecting honest regret in his tone. “Approaching him now could be—” Well. “He’s a temperamental man. I’m afraid his dissatisfaction with me would spill over to you.”

“I am in no way eager to put myself in the crosshairs of the White Wolf,” Tyrion is quick to say. “But it does sound like a fascinating project.”

And one done, probably, with liberal applications of magic. Ned likes Tyrion, and because he likes him, he will try not to put him in a position where he needs to choose between his family and the truth.

“If I know him,” and he does, “he will have made detailed and copious notes. I will try to source them for you. You are about the only one around who can keep up with him in matters of industry and innovation.”

Tyrion’s expression shifts from eager to world-weary far too quickly for a boy his age. How old is he again? Seventeen? Eighteen? Far too old to be this wise. The fact is, Tobirama will probably not welcome him right now.

“In the meantime, I can explain about his glasswork,” he offers, because children wanting to learn is, surely, sacrosanct. “Or the medicine. I don’t understand the minutiae, but I like to think I grasped the basics.”

Tyrion cocks his head. “Why? You have the ear of the King and the only Lannister worth knowing. And Lord Hatake, famously, doesn’t listen to anybody but you.”

“Trust that Tywin and I wish, if at all possible, to never see or hear from each other again.” Considering Tywin’s life expectancy, this might not be as tall an order as it appears. “You are good company and by far the most agreeable among the adult lions.” If he can be counted as an adult. “And, I’m practising now, so that I can have a smoother go at it with the children.”

His little speech did nothing at all to convince Tyrion, but that’s alright. The boy is obviously starved for company, and, he could also use the practice. Once things start unravelling, it’s very uncertain if Southlands will be hospitable to the youngest Lannister.

“You might as well go ahead,” he tells his bannermen, who are by now more than ready to leave this place. “We have Tobirama, which accounts for safety, and the Queen insists on a wheelhouse. We’re stuck here for at least another two weeks.” 

“Aye,” Wyman says, jovial expression only a little undermined by the sharp look in his eyes. “We’ll be heading to Winterfell, yes?”

Ned considers, not for the first time, the mess that is his life. “You might want to witness Robert officiating Jon’s adoption into House Hatake, so yes. That said, there is plenty of time. By most generous estimation, we will be there by the end of the sixth moon. ”

“Aye,” he nods. “We have a few ships docked here, I was thinking we can send a part of our force up North ahead of time. Are we selling the siege equipment?”

Hah. “I’m shocked you haven’t already.”

“I might have been negotiating,” Wyman grins. “Excellent. The base supplies are already sorted out and the Umbar boy sent messages ahead, so I don’t expect we’ll have trouble resupplying along the way. I will handle the final sales today and we can head out tomorrow. If you are certain you don’t need us.”

Ned tries his best not to feel like he’s settling his affairs. It’s not as successful as he’d like. “I always need my friends,” he sighs. “But I need you home, more. This whole thing took far longer than I expected.”

“Wars are unpredictable, aye, but I would not call this one particularly lengthy, considering,” Wyman says, placid expression somehow implying a wealth of scepticism. “Not with Tobirama cutting down the fighting to a laughable minimum.”

Well, that’s true. If anything, Ned is responsible for adding months to their already bloated travelling time. Dragging the King and Queen of Westeros halfway across the continent is a lengthy affair. Costly, too.

“It had to be done,” he says and knows it to be true. “Divide yourselves up as you would and leave as soon as you can manage. I will try to send word along the way.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ned gives Robert a long look. He likes what he sees. In the months they spent together, Robert gained muscle, lost fat and stopped drinking himself stupid day after day. He laughs now. Hells, he has friends now, and not just in Ned and Tobirama. Several of Ned’s Lords look at him with real respect. Bolton boy is following him around like a lovesick puppy. Most importantly, however, the ever-present air of desperation has lessened somewhat. Robert will probably always be self-centred and a bit simplistic in his desires, but being away from the throne has given him cause to live in the present, and not endlessly yearn for the past.

“Not particularly,” he says, letting a little of his inner turmoil show. “Tobirama is—” How does he put this? “Clever people are often right,” he says after a beat. “Most often. Tobirama is both clever and industrious. It makes him blind to the fact he might be wrong.”

Robert tips his head back and exhales. They don’t even draw that much attention, any more. Ned has been dragging him out of the cursed palace and into the training grounds so often, the sight of the King sweaty and dusty, sitting in the dirt like a commoner is old news. “Aye. He is decisive and ruthless. He finally do something you won’t stand for?”

Huh. This is as good an opportunity as any. “He did,” he says, keeping his voice light. “And we fought about it. When our heads cool a little, we will talk about it some more and find a compromise.”

Robert cuts a wry look his way. “Very subtle.”

Ned grins. “I am but a brutish Northerner,” he says. “What use do I have for subtlety? Especially when talking to you.”

“This isn’t about me,” Robert huffs. “Not everything always has to be about me.”

Hah. If only that was the case. How reckless does he want to be, right now? There is a fair chance they could be overheard, but—Well. How much does he care?

“On your feet,” he says, deciding that yes, he is going to say a lot of unwise things, but he’s also not going to do it outside, sitting in the dirt. “We are going to wash the blood and sweat and mud off ourselves, we are going to dress in something ugly and go find a tavern.”

“What?”

His grin widens. Is this what it’s like for all those lucky bastards who knowingly and deliberately go to make bad choices for their well-being? He was missing out. “You heard me. I spent my whole youth scaling down those cursed cliffs in the Eyre. Now, I get my retribution. Let’s go talk to Ser Barristan.”

“You know my terms.”

A muscle jumps in Ned’s jaw. He is a grown adult. A Lord. Robert is a King. The King, even. They can—

“He is busy,” he grits out, fully aware that he sounds like a fifteen-year-old boy making excuses to his father. His attempt at dignity is not helped by Robert’s increasingly loud sniggering. “He is working on the wheelhouse.”

“He is not too busy for you,” Barristan says, not so much as flicking a lash. “Alternatively, you can stay in the Keep where it’s safe. Or, I suppose, I can take a hundred men and empty whatever tavern you choose to visit. Would that make you more comfortable?”

Ned exhales what he hopes is a calming breath. What is the lesser of two evils, here?

“The King and I have important matters to discuss,” he says. “Matters that require wine, music and, most passingly, nobody whose name I know in sight.”

“That is a conundrum,” Barristan says, inclining his head. “Unfortunately, I take my King’s life seriously.”

A poisonous remark is stuck at the tip of his tongue, but he controls himself in time.

“Fine,” he says and spins on his heel. “New plan. We will go to the kitchens, liberate a cart of meat and wine and find an abandoned corner in the Keep. Seven Hells, I will set fire to this place yet, mark my words.”

Even that turns into a ridiculous procession, but Ned weathers it, bolstered by Robert’s uncomplicated delight in the ridiculousness of the situation. The pitch of whispers rises behind them like a tide, and he forces his mind away from acknowledging any of it. Why would he care? What are those people to him?

Finally, they’ve set up in a cosy chamber on the North-East side of the Keep, at the end of a corridor long enough that he can trust Barristan and his people to stay out of earshot or, at least, out of sight and out of mind.

“Well,” Robert says, sprawled into a sofa for two, for all that it doesn’t look it. “This was a shitshow.”

Ned rolls his eyes and takes a pointed sip of wine. “I hear a lot of complaining. If we leave now we can still make the evening meal with the court vipers. No? I didn’t think so.”

Robert laughs, free and merry, eyes glittering like jewels. The squeeze of his heart is, by this point, comforting. Some things can’t change, come what may. “Mercy. Your wildling has rubbed off on you more than you’d think.”

Ned finds himself mortifyingly close to making a dirty joke.

“Speaking of Tobirama,” Robert says, explosive elation dimming into something more shrewd, if sympathetic.

Ned snorts. “People seem to be doing little else, and that’s not likely going to change when I get back home and try to live in the same keep with both him and my prim and proper Southern wife.” He can’t even imagine it. He has no idea how it could work without Ned either stepping into full evil, to say nothing of the diplomatic ties with Riverlands.

Whatever that will be worth once Ned kicks open the second biggest hornet’s nest in the Seven Kingdoms.

Robert’s shocked laugh rings out through the courtyard. “What a thing to just come out and say, Ned, for fuck’s sake.”

“Everybody else is saying it,” he says, going for amused and ending up closer to cynical. “I am not a complete dullard. My Bannermen have been giving me relationship advice since we started riding south.”

Robert shifts in place and takes a considering—bracing—gulp of wine. He looks—curious. Scandalised, most certainly, but accepting enough. “I mean. Is there anything to talk about?”

Ned’s lips twitch. “I haven’t fucked him if that’s what you’re asking me,” he says, wondering at his daring. In the grand scheme of things, Ned’s disaster of a love life pales in comparison to everything else. There was a time when he had excuses to be an unmitigated coward. A lot was riding on Ned Stark being the epitome of a bland, forgettable brute. Now—Now he doesn’t know what the future will bring, but he is decently sure soon enough nobody will be talking about Ned Stark’s choice of bed partners.

“Ned,” Robert hisses, eyes wide like a boy of twelve. “Seven Hells.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. The North already lost Reach as a trading partner because Tobirama was flaunting his dalliance with Oberyn, and we’ve done more scandalous things since then. I’m dragging you up North on a whim, aren’t I? And, as I said, I haven’t touched him.”

Robert shakes his head, expression somewhere between wistful and admiring. “I like this you,” he says. “Always knew it was in there, of course.”

“You are the only one who did,” he says, smile tightening. “But we did what we could with, in hindsight, deplorable cards we were dealt.”

“You aren’t—Ashamed? Worried?” Robert’s eyes bore into him. “Tobi is one thing, but you are Lord Paramount of the North. You aren’t worried your Lords will look down at you?”

Hah. Ned’s name might very well be cursed by every soul north of the Neck if any of his countless gambles blows up in his face and he plunges them into war. Robert might very well be one of them.

“I think I can’t take those comments seriously, anymore,” he says, trying to articulate at least some of the confused, tangled mess inside his mind. “After all the pain and suffering we went through. After all the sacrifices we’ve made for the sake of our duty and honour, how I feel is mine and mine alone.”

“And you feel.” Robert blinks a few times. “You feel for him?”

Ned’s lips twist. If someone told him he would be having this conversation with Robert of all people. “He is everything I admire in a man,” he says. “Bold. Strong. Unrestrained.” How obvious can he be with this, without forcing Robert to acknowledge something he will find uncomfortable? “Not leashed by endless worries and second-guessing. Someone I could follow with an easy mind and know that, surface-level disagreements aside, I am in safe hands.”

“Ah.”

Ned can feel his smile turning self-deprecating, and he lightens it as best he can. “A love story for the ages,” he jokes. “I am married to a woman who I respect. Who bore me five beautiful children. I will never do anything to dishonour her.”

Robert blinks, eyes sharpening. “You haven’t taken me to task about my whoring for a good bit,” he says. “About my dishonouring Cersei. Who bore me children.”

“That’s different,” he says and wants to laugh and laugh and laugh. It couldn’t be more different. On the off chance Robert lets Cersei live, he could have the marriage annulled in a heartbeat. There is nothing legitimate there.

Robert’s lips curve in an unamused smile. “Is it.”

“You don’t respect her,” he shrugs. “And she doesn’t respect you. You did what you had to do. Both of you. If you were stepping out on a loving, caring wife, I wouldn’t have stopped badgering you until you threw me in the Cells, and even then I’d shout.”

Some of the cynicism vanishes from Robert’s expression, leaving him uncertain. “Oh?”

Ned has spoken more in the past year than in his entire life combined and he still hasn’t said a hundredth of the things he has to say. That he owes to various people in his life.

“Believe it or not, I have learned a little about practical applications of duty in relationships,” he says, trying his best not to sound as bitter as he feels. “More importantly, I learned not to berate you for whatever coping methods you found to survive this hellish place. I’ve been here for a handful of days and I want to stab every person I see and then myself.”

Robert opens his mouth and shuts it with a click. “No,” he says. “This is not about me, as bewilderingly wonderful it is to hear it. I can have at least one conversation with my best friend that doesn’t in three sentences, refocus on me. So—What’s the plan?”

Ned swallows a violent laugh. “Right now, the plan is to spend the next six months travelling North with you and charming my way into your children’s good graces. Anything past that—” He shrugs. “Be as kind as I can. I’m trying out a new strategy. Whenever I don’t understand a single thing happening around me—which is most of the time—I will remember to be as kind as I can. To myself and others.”

A quiet falls between them. Robert’s expression grows solemn. He doesn’t know what to do with that, the big lump, Ned thinks, suddenly feeling lighter. Robert feels a lot, but he hasn’t looked inwards once if he could help it. What does a man like Robert know of kindness? Who could he have learned it from? His father, who he barely saw? Jon, who was so entrenched in politics, he couldn’t spare a thought to his charges past instilling what sense of honour and duty he could? His wife? Hah.

“I know,” he sighs. “It’s a tall order, but I figure I might as well stumble in the direction of something worthy, since I am obviously doomed to stumble.”

“And this? Now? With me? It’s part of that?”

Bless him, he’s stumbling over his words. “You deserve kindness as much as anyone, and more than most,” Ned says. If only his young self could see him now. “I am doing what I can.”

“Fuck,” Robert says, after a long beat. “I don’t know—What do I know of such things?”

Ned blinks, swallowing at the lance of pain, caused by Robert’s mirroring of his thoughts.

“We aren’t dead,” he says. Snarls, really. Pitching into anger is preferable to sinking into despair. “We live therefore we can learn. We tried being what our fathers wanted us to be and what Jon wanted us to be, and what do we have to show for it?” He sweeps an arm, hoping the sudden tremble in it isn’t too obvious. “What great deeds did we achieve by holding true to their wisdom? You are miserable in your own home; a home you fought and bled for and I—” He swallows. “I have one friend, a man who I dream about and cannot touch and a wife who—Who I respect. Who I must not resent because she is a victim of my choices more than anyone.”

Robert is quiet, staring at him with a complicated expression he is too out of sorts to decipher. “Can we, though,” he says quietly. “Can we learn now? Surely, after a certain point—”

“You’ve learned already, and so have I,” he snaps. “A year ago, you’d have spat at me if I told you I wished to bed a man.” He flicks an impatient hand at Robert’s look. “You would and you know it. I’d have done the same. It took Tobirama to shine a light on just how pointless and self-inflicted that wound was. Why stop there?”