Chapter Text
“Ser Ilyn. Bring me his head.”
Oh gods, was all Ned could think. What could he do? Joffrey would be deaf to all pleas now. Protect my daughters, was all Ned could ask. And Joffrey could not be trusted on that quarter. So Ned bowed his head. He prayed. He waited for the darkness.
It was colder and wetter than he expected. Ned sighed, and water filled his mouth. Blinking his eyes open, he realized he was under water. It was cold, damned cold, and dark. The dark beyond dark. Black as pitch didn't cover it. But he was free, untied, so he flapped his arms to try to rise. Dressed in a coat of mail it was near impossible. There was a light, like fire underwater. But Ned was the one underwater. The hand brushed his face and shoulder and Ned reached for it. A strong hand gripped his arm and suddenly Ned was drawn out. The water was warmer than the breeze that brushed his face. Ned spat and spat and finally gasped the freezing air.
“Gods, thank you,” was all he could mutter. “Gods, thank you, bless you.” The hand helped him to a stony edge of land and Ned pulled himself out. His leg, still aching and burning, made it far from easy to climb out. In the confusion, Ned had missed the hand disappearing from his arm. Then he felt cold steel against his throat.
“Don't move,” a Northern voice said. The torch growled as the stranger held it close to your face. As the stranger looked carefully at Ned, Ned looked carefully at the stranger. Ned's mouth was open as soon as he saw it. Ned was looking at his father's face, like his father had been when Ned had been sent to the Vale.
“Father?” Ned's father asked, looking just as surprised as Ned felt. Ned felt his brow furrow. The sword moved away from his throat, and Ned saw that the blade wasn't his father's sword. No, this sword had a hilt of silver, and wrapped in black leather with a white wolf's head for the pommel. The blade was unmistakably the smoky dark of Valyrian Steel. Ned looked at his father's face again. Ned looked closely. The grey eyes, the mouth, the face were all the same. But there were deep recessed scars about one of his eyes, like he was attacked by the world's nastiest cat.
“I'm Eddard Stark,” Ned said. “Name my rescuer?”
The sword was sheathed, the man's mouth was still open, gray eyes looking away, confusion writ plain across a Stark face. Meeting his eyes again, the man spoke. “I'm Lord Stark. It's unwise to stay out here long in Winter. Come, I'll see you housed and warm.” The free hand was offered to Ned and Ned took it. His leg screamed in agony and Ned nearly fell again. “Soren!” Lord Stark shouted, and a “Sten!”
Two tall men, one with an axe strung across his back, both tall lads. “Sten, give him your spear. Get him to the hall, quickly.” Ned was handed a thick hafted spear. It was not nearly the same as a crutch, but Ned could walk, slowly. The Lord gritted his teeth and made a noise. “This will ill work. Sten, help me with him. Soren, take the torch.” At that Sten and the Lord put Ned's arms across their shoulders and practically carried them.
It irked Ned greatly.
His clothes were stiff and frosty when he was brought inside. “Blankets, warm ale!” the Lord commanded in a voice much like Ned's own, but it was harsher. The Lord said some other words in a harsher altogether tongue that Ned did not understand. Ned was set at a quickly settled bench near the fire. The Lord sighed and took a sip from a tankard before handing it to Ned. Ned looked at the tankard for a moment, pausing.
“If I were going to kill you, poisoning is the last way I would do it,” the Lord growled. “Take your damn ale. It was thirsty work carrying your crippled arse.”
“Lord Stark speaks true,” the younger tall lad said, causing a ripple of laughter among the hall. Ned took the tankard with no small hint of embarrassment. Ned was thinking of all the unworthy things he'd like to do to Jaime Lannister as he began to warm instantly with warm ale going down to his belly.
“Father!” A little girl that looked so much like Arya ran to the Lord Stark's waist and hugged him fiercely.
“Lyanna, you're meant to be in bed.” Ned winced and thought of promises and bloody beds and winter roses. “To bed. You'll be under foot, just like your aunt. Off with you.” The father gave the daughter a pat on the back as she was turned and showed off. “I'll have a bath run for you. And some clothes. The Maester can find you a crutch.
Ned was stripped, a young man in gray robes and a chain saw to his wound, and he was put in a hot bath. It was easy duty to scrub himself pink, after the filth and the frost and the sweat. The Others take King's Landing, Ned thought. He could only pray that Sansa and Arya were safe. What had become of Robb, in open rebellion, and Cat? What of Bran, and Rickon? Barely a boy, and his father already gone. Benjen had never been so young.
The clothes that were brought were not Ned's own. But still, they were of fine make, gray wool, A Stark surcoat, but it was dark greys with a white wolf on the breast, over a lighter colored tunic. The breeches were fine and the underclothes linen, properly worn to be soft, and the boots were just slightly too big but well made. The belt he was given had a dirk but little else, and a heavy walking stick that Ned could just barely walk with.
There were voices beyond the rooms that Ned couldn't make out, but he knew they talked. When the Lord returned, still looking shockingly like Ned's own father, he walked with a smaller, slightly younger woman. She was pretty for her age, with brown eyes. There was a bit of her nose that looked as thought it had suffered frostbite. Ned saw the stitched shield on her breast, white with a blue sun upon it. Ned blinked. House Poole.
“Lady Poole?” the young woman looked at her Lord, surprised, then back to Ned.
“Jeyne, of House Poole,” the Lady answered. “The Last of House Poole. My son is Robin Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.” Ned blinked. “Jeyne?” He shook his head. “The Jeyne Poole I knew was a child.” Was there another Jeyne? Ned didn't know the histories of the North's minor houses quite so well as he should have, perhaps. He struggled to think. He focused on the other thing she'd said. “But I know there was never a Robin Bolton.”
“Perhaps I'll send for him,” the Lord said. “He might like you. He's heard enough about you.” The Lord looked at the Lady Jeyne. “It's him, though?” Jeyne winced. “It was a long time ago,” was all she could say. “Try,” the Lord insisted. “He has his bearing, I think. And the face is close. It could be him.”
“Thank you, Jeyne,” The Lord said. “Go and rest.” When Jeyne left, the Lord looked back at Ned. Ned noticed then that his sword was still on his belt. Valyrian Steel. But it was so much smaller than Ice. A bastard sword. Long, but not so long as a great sword. The Lord unbuckled the sword belt from around his waist, and wrapped the belt about the scabbard. Then he offered it to Ned. Ashamed at being caught, Ned took the sword in a hand. Ned took a seat and drew the blade free. It was Valyrian steel, just as he'd seen in the firelight. A good weight, especially with the pommel. Stone, Ned judged, with garnet chips for the wolf's eyes. White, with red eyes. Ned felt like gasping.
“Not quite the face you remember,” the Lord said, taking his own seat beside Ned, not facing him, but facing the fire, looking into the flames with a strange sadness about him. “And not the sword you remember. But you remember the wolf. When you died it was nearly three hundred years after the Conquest. Now, if I remember, it's three hundred and eighteen, after the Conquest.”
A direwolf pup. Jon. The Lord Stark was Jon.
“I'll have my sword back, Father.”