Chapter Text
Rickard Stark, 297 AL.
Rickard Stark watched as his grandsons fought with blunted steel in the yard below. Robb reminded him of Brandon more than anyone else–strong, bold and quick to laugh. The boys were more or less evenly matched. Rodrick spoke of their wins and losses, some days Robb won, and Jon others. He had a bit of Lya in him, but he had learnt to hide his temper well. He would watch the boy closely, as he had for years. Any sign of madness, and Greywater Watch would find itself with a new ward. Howland could keep the boy, some favour the crannogman had promised to Lya.
"It cannot be, my lord. Prince Rhaegar was the best of them. I speak in his defense even as I know you may very well strike me down. My Prince is dead, I might as well join him." Barristan Selmy had believed in Rhaegar's innocence, but Rickard knew no one was as blind as a Kingsguard. It was not Barristan's words that had sown the seed of doubt in Rickard's mind, that had come from another of Aerys's Seven. Jaime Lannister, believing his life forfeit for kingslaying, had spoken more honestly than Rickard had since their Rebellion had begun.
"No, Brandon was an idiot to believe the rumors. You say Brandon found the corpses with cloaks of gold?"
Rickard nodded.
"Gold is not white, Lord Stark, and Prince Rhaegar set off from Dragonstone, not King's Landing. Why would he have Goldcloaks with him? It was Aerys, I say. And his vile eunuch bent on turning the realm against the King. Not that Aerys needed any aid to accomplish that. Have you not found the Lady Lyanna?" Seeing Rickard snarl at the mention of his daughter, the Lannister brat gave him a mocking smile. "Why, Lord Stark, did she not miraculously appear the moment King Robert killed Pince Rhaegar? Gods Rhaegar was stupid in the end, crossing a ford when matched against near equal numbers! But he was still a good man, a man I failed, I hear. Is it true? Did Clegane and Lorch slaughter Rhaegar's family?" The boy's face had shown true concern then, Rickard remembered.
"You did, Ser."
He still cursed himself everytime he remembered the days he had spent in King's Landing, expecting Lyanna to walk back into his arms, to be crowned Queen. But the gods played cruel games, and Lya had perished birthing Jon Snow. He had even wanted to declare Jon for the Throne, in the depths of his anger. Ned had convinced him out of it, but not out of sense, but of loyalty to the Baratheon they had sat on the infernal throne.
No. It has to be Sansa, the girl was perfect for the role of Queen–far more than Lyanna had ever been. Despite Catelyn's southern birth, all of Ned's children had grown praying in the Godswood, and honored Northern practices and beliefs over the Seven and the nonsense the septons preached to make sheep out of people.
He heard the man's chains before he spoke. "My Lord, Jory Cassel has requested to meet you. He says White Harbour proved a dull effort." Rickard was sure Maester Luwin knew little of the true meaning behind Jory's words, but it was not hard to guess the purpose behind the words after years of serving him. Patterns were the greatest enemy of spies.
"In a moment, Maester. While you are here, what do you say of Jon's progress?"
Luwin spoke after taking a moment to put his assessment into words. "The boy is sharp, quick, and cunning enough to know that his knowledge need not be displayed to be useful. I do not see much difference between him and the young Robb, but Jon makes sure everyone else does." Rickard knew as much. "Thank you, Maester."
Jory's message was concerning, but not as much as the manner in which Wyman sent it. The Lord of White Harbour was a cautious man–and hence suited to be his spy in the capital even while handling the crown's coffers. But Rickard could do little with Manderly himself unwilling to trust his fears to a letter.
"No, Jon, you do not have to write every word that is spoken here, that would be wasteful. The issue and the name of the petitioner written against the decision will suffice. So that in a hundred years or a thousand, the justice of the North will remain as it was a thousand years ago." Luwin corrected Jon. The boy had taken over the more tedious of Luwin's duty while Rickard held court. Little Bran stood beside the Maester, learning the ways of court.
"..... killed my daughters! They were only girls, not even flowered. I beg for justice, my lord, I ask for nothing more until my last day, if it means I get to see the bastard hung from a hundred trees in a hundred pieces." The woman cried, and her husband, a merchant of furs and pelts from the Hornwood, tried to console her. It was the third such incident he had heard of, it would not be the last until the men were caught and hanged. The first two had been from a farmhand and a merchant, and the latter had more coin than other commoners, and more coin meant more ears to listen to their words.
"Have you seen the faces of the murderers? Did any others?" Robb asked, barely hiding his anger.
"No....I could not, my lord. It was too fast, they separated us. But I will never forget the face of the man who–" the woman let out a sob, "who raped me. He.... Yellow Toad....or Yellow dick they called him." There could be a hundred men named that.
"They wore mail, m'lord, all of them. Some even had plate and steel swords. They were no bandits I think. They slaughtered my hired swords with ease, m'lord." The merchant said.
Rickard had no justice to hand out thay day, not to the poor woman or her daughters. When the Great Hall emptied, Robb lost his composure. "We have to do act, grandfather! This is the third one yet, and it has been a year since the first one."
Rickard wanted to correct him, but noted Jon looking at them from his seat at the scribe's desk. "What do you think, Jon?"
True to his nature, the boy did not answer immediately. When he did, Rickard almost smiled. "Three that we know of. There could be many more."
"And why should that matter? We give justice where it is needed, not imagined." Robb countered.
"One incident alone, I would agree, brother. Three that have come to us, and gods know how many more did not reach our ears. Especially when it was Dustin lands they were attacked on. The Lady would not inform Lord Stark, even if she needed help."
Rickard allowed himself a smile then. The boy saw beyond what was right in front of him. "You think Lady Dustin is too proud to admit to having a bandit menace on her lands, Jon?"
"That seems likely, my lord. But it may not be limited to that. These merchants who were attacked had not traveled the route along the Saltspear towards White Harbour until five years past. Moat Cailin connects to both the Flint's port and the Twins. It is a new trade route, and the Lady might feel House Dustin deserving of a toll to pass through her lands. She does not ask for it, her pride would not allow that. Were you to offer her a share of the taxes, say, in exchange for Dustin men to bring the bandits to justice, and any others in the future."
Robb was silent, considering Jon's words. Rickard nodded at Jon in approval. "Come with me."
Inside his solar, Robb took a seat at the side of the large desk, Jon stood until Rickard waved for him to join Robb. "You saw the problem as it was, Robb. A noble thing it is, to hunt the bandits down, our duty too. But Jon saw another layer to it, hidden beneath the first. You know Lady Dustin resents us, it is no secret. I should have never let the woman be in her position." I saw Lyanna in her. Only, Brandon had been the one to take her virtue, Rickard thought. "There is another layer to it, one that is far more sinister. Who else benefits from the new trade route failing?"
Robb was quick to answer. "Lord Bolton. He sees House Stark rise with every move you make, grandfather."
"Aye. Bolton is kin to Lady Dustin. He gains nothing, but every dragon less in our coffers is to his benefit. A year ago, Bolton's son, Domeric paid a visit to his aunt at Barrowtown. We cannot say if the boy is responsible, but six moons before that, Lord Bolton sent his other son to Barrowtown. He might claim to have exiled his son if we accuse Lord Bolton of breaking the King's peace, but it was on his orders that Ramsay Snow left his village–this, I have from a good source. The New Gift and the Moat already make House Stark more powerful than we have been in two centuries. Any more, and he must fear that I might finally end House Bolton for all eternity."
"But we cannot do that, not without knowing his guilt. Even then, he will have kept his heir out of his schemes, it is the way of Boltons for centuries. Half of them rebel and the other half stays out of it, claiming innocence. We do not punish innocents, those were your words, my lord." Even with a better head for politics than the rest of his cousins, Jon Snow clung to Ned's idea of honor above all. Domeric Bolton was dead, Rickard had heard. Will I be the Stark who ends House Bolton?
"No, we do not. Not until it gives House Stark unchallenged control of the North." Jon only looked surprised, but Robb seemed repulsed by that. That would have to change. Winter did not care for honor, neither did the game.
"Jon Arryn is dead. A fever, it says." Rickard regretted ever fostering Ned with Arryn everytime his son spoke of the old falcon. He was yet to see the same reverence for himself in his son's eyes.
"Then Robert is coming north. The realm needs a Hand." Ned understood. For all his honor, Ned was not stupid. Not like Robb was seeming to be.
"He needs his shit wiped, more like." Rickard had no love for the king, but his friendship with Ned had been an useful one. The New Gift returned to the North, and funds for the Moat to be restored. A poor consolation for losing the chance to make his daughter the queen, and Lannister had stolen all the alliances he had arranged. Not that he had planned to oust the dragons from their own throne, but it was what the war had ended on.
"He's the king, father. I cannot refuse him."
"You can, and you will. He is the king, yes. But not for long if Lord Manderly is right. You will find no allies in the capital. Lannisters control everything, from the docks to the Council. Men in crimson cloaks outnumber Baratheon men, and Lady Arryn has fled to the Eyrie. Smart decision, knows the capital is no safe place for her son. No Stark will ride south, not even if Robert offers the throne itself."
King Robert rode into Winterfell a moonturn later, his belly bigger than that of his destrier, and his Queen colder than winter. When Manderly spoke to Rickard in a corner in the smithy, he noticed the three royal children– more golden than they had a right to be.
Robert did not offer the throne, but everything else. It was an offer no man could refuse. Even Rickard almost said yes, only to be held back by Prince Joffery. There was something wrong with the boy. Rickard saw him smile at Sansa, and the saw girl fawn over the prince. But when his granddaughter looked away, the boy always sneered as if holding back a fart, just like his mother.
Ned woke him up early in the morning. "Father, what have you decided? Robert demands I serve as Hand, and Sansa's hand for the prince."
"No. Robert will not have anything from House Stark. Not when his rule made more of a mess than even thrice damned Aerys had. Not when all he does is eat, drink and whore whenever faced with a slightly difficult decision. He won the throne, but the throne defeated him, Ned. Look at him! Fat and drunk. His son–", Rickard spat, "is a cruel boy no less mad than Aerys. I will not give my granddaughter for the boy to skin her open to see if she has a babe inside!"
Ned banged his hand on the desk, a rare show of temper. "Father! I will hear no more of this! Madness is what you speak of. To slander a princ–"
Rickard interrupted him. "It is not slander if it is true, boy! Why do you think Wyman spoke to me before even eating his pies? He caught the boy skinning a cat to see if there were kittens inside."
"No, father. He must be mistaken. It cannot be true. Robert would never....his son would never....."
Rickard could understand his son's feelings for his brother by choice. "Robert is not the boy you grew up with, Ned. The capital is a snake pit now, you will refuse the Handship. But I will accept the prince's betrothal to Sansa–"
Ned stood up, his anger clear, now that it was a question of his daughter's safety. "What is wrong with you? First you say the boy is a monster worse than Aerys, then you talk of handing over Sansa to their care? I will not allow this, Robert's rage be damned."
"Betrothals can be broken, Ned. I care for your children, son. Sansa and Arya more than the boys, I am guilty of that. Besides, if what I know of Robert's children is true, then a broken betrothal will be the last of their worries. Tywin Lannister stole the kingdoms for his daughter, let him clean her mess."
When Robert Baratheon rode south with only those he had ridden north with, Rickard narrated the story of the worst treason in the memory of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned wailed for his friend for days, begging his leave to leave for the capital and save his friend. "You will die, Ned. Lannisters will kill you, and a million others if it means Tywin's grandson sits the throne. You cannot save Robert, no one can. I had to force Manderly to return to the capital. I have never seen the man scared, Ned, and he was terrified of the shame it would be to die at the hands of a Lannister bastard parading as the King. I will not lose another son to that infernal place. I will not."
"Then why don't we reveal the Queen's treason to the realm? It is our responsibility, father, one of the few a craven can do." Rickard had the urge to slap the stupidity out of his son, but stayed his hand. Cravens rule the realm after the brave ones win the wars. Rickard would be the craven this time, if it meant Sansa could be Queen.
299 AL.
"My lord, there is another party outside the gates. He begs leave to deliver the crown's command to your lordship. He has fifty men with him, Frey men and men in gold cloaks." Jon seemed amused. It was hard not to be, when Rickard had sent five such messengers away without a word of reply.
"Who is it this time? Some lesser Lannister too worthless to be of concern? Or is it a chinless weasel again?" Jory Cassel laughed, and with him, the rest of their guards.
"He calls himself Petyr Baelish, a Valeman. Claims to be a friend to Lady Catelyn, my Lord."
"Let him in, Jory, only him and two of his men, no more. He was the Lord treasurer to Wyman Manderly." As Jory went to make the arrangements, Rickard held his grandson behind. "Jon, keep your wolf close, and keep yourself to the shadows." The old gods' blessings, Umber had cheered when shown the direwolf pups.
In the main hall of the keep, Rickard waited for the throne' envoy. He had known a little of Baelish, Wyman had mentioned the boy in passing. From being the lord of nothing near nowhere to the Lord Treasurer was a sharp climb up the ladder. The man was capable, if more devious than anything.
Jory escorted the well dressed man before him. Peter Baelish was a small man, in standing and stature, but dressed in silks of three colors and enough rings and chains to shame most women's jewelry, none could deny his skills at counting coin. Miscounting, more like.
"Petyr Baelish, envoy of King Joffery, welcome to the great castle of Moat Cailin. You may now speak." In truth, there was no herald, just an old man Rickard had ordered to speak like one. The Moat was bare of such luxuries, it was more a fortress.
"My Lord of Stark, I bring great tidings from His Grace, King Joffery, the first of his name, King of the–"
"We know what he calls himself, Baelish. The last five men in your place were adept at reciting the boy King's titles, if nothing else. What does His Grace ask of House Stark?" Rickard knew his crude words were to the expectation of the man, thinking all Northmen mannerless savages.
"My Lord is too kind. Perhaps we could discuss the matter in a more private setting. The King's business is sensitive, I'm afraid." Of course the man feared the rest of Northern Lords gathered in the hall, and he smiled to hide it.
"I keep no secrets from my lords. We are all the King's men here. You may speak here, now."
Nearly every face in the hall sported a smile so false that a child could tell. Baelish, used to courtly games, understood faster than most. His smile dropped for a moment, before he regained composure. "Certainly, my lord." Baelish bowed to him and pulled out a letter from a leather pouch. "By the order of King Joffery.....Lord Rickard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell is hereby ordered to swear fealty to His Grace in person, and be named His Grace's Warden of the North. Lord Stark is ordered to honor the betrothal blessed by the late King Robert. Lady Sansa of House Stark is to be escorted by Lord Baelish to wed His Grace King Joffery of House Baratheon....."
"Orders? He bloody–"
"Umber! Sit down." The raging half-giant knew better than to defy his command.
"The King orders me to ride south, and we shall!" Rickard announced, and only the Northmen knew he wouldn't in truth.
Baelish too, knew his intentions. "Like the last five times you have vowed to march, my lord?"
The entire hall erupted into laughs.
"Lord Baelish, you insult me. I would offer you meat and mead, but it seems you are fond of our weasel neighbors to the south, too fond, it seems. I will not deny you their company. Jory! Escort Lord Baelish to the causeway."
For the first time, it seemed Rickard had shocked Baelish. "Lord Stark, this is most unusual. You know I am a friend to Lady Catelyn, and a friend to House Stark. As many here know, I was a ward to Lord Hoster Tully, raised beside Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa–" But Rickard walked out of the hall before that man finished.
Catelyn was a foolish woman, unable to shed her southern ways even after a decade and a half of life in Winterfell. She made Ned happy, and she had been an attentive mother to Robb and his siblings. Rickard respected her for that. Lysa, on the other hand, by all accounts, was mad, utterly and completely. Manderly had also said that Baelish had been tasting the fruit of Jon Arryn's tree for too long, enough to put doubt on young Robert Arryn's parentage. Perhaps it could come in handy one day, Rickard chuckled to himself.
Once back in the solar, he summoned Jon. "Lord Baelish seemed calm, but Ghost smelled his fear when you denied him private audience. I am not sure, but he was enraged when you did not agree to send Sansa with him." Rickard knew the boy could feel his wolf's emotions. Reed had been training Jon to handle his gift better. What Rickard would not give to have the power over beasts!
Jon spoke again. "Lord Stark, may I ask a question?" Rickard nodded. "What is the purpose of waiting? We gain nothing but more enemies the longer we stay out of the war. Someone will win, grandfather, and whoever it is, will not see a friend in you. To make an enemy of you would be foolish when their armies are spent and their coffers empty, I can see that, but Lords Stannis and Renly are wed, and Joffery you say is a bastard of incest. Sansa–for all I love my little sister, has little chance of being crowned a queen."
"The purpose, Jon, is that we gain much by doing nothing. I cannot make Sansa a Queen, yet I would drain them of what coin still remains to them. They will be spent and I will declare terms this time. I had hoped Viserys Targaryen would take advantage of the chaos, but it seems the fool has vanished into the Dothraki Sea after wedding his sister to a savage horselord. No matter. Baratheons are worse than the dragons were. Stannis and Renly, what fools! Stannis has only a sickly daughter, but Renly can still father sons. A smart man would have named Renly his Heir and united their claims. Robert was foolish to not see the truth of his children. No. Whatever side we choose now will only drag us into one war or another."
"That's it then, the North bows to the throne, no matter who sits on it? Whoever wins this war will be a kinslayer, twice over in the eyes of the realm!" Jon seemed to suddenly remember Ned's lessons.
"History will not see it that way. The victors–"
"–always write the history." Jon completed.
"We will not sit idle, however." Rickard showed the boy the missives he had recieved from Winterfell and Seagard. "Ironborn to the west, wildlings to the north. We have two wars to fight. Benjen will chase whatever mad reavers land on our shores. You will ride to Winterfell to join Ned to the Wall." The boy's face fell. The Watch needs good men, Rickard reminded himself. But it does not need this boy. Not Lya's boy.