The Icefyre Conquest 28

“Is that your daughter, Lord Stark?” Mace’s shocked voice floated through the party as the Tyrell looked at something behind his back, and Ned sighed at the theatrical gasps and mutterings that started amongst the soldiers and the courtiers Robert had brought with him. The High Septon looked particularly unwell, he noted, watching the red spreading across the gaudy man’s face even as he drew the fur cloak tighter around himself. However, his attention was brought back to the Lord of Flowers as the aged man continued, “Pardon me Lord Stark, but haven’t you already said your farewells to your family? We can’t delay the march any longer if we are to make it in time!”

“You…are worried about delays in a march?” Tywin drawled, and Ned had to stop himself from snorting at the look on Tyrell’s face at the obvious jab. Robert and the Kinglsyer however, had no such compunctions and chuckled audibly at the Lannister’s words. Behind him, even the Northmen laughed amongst themselves, remembering the time when the Reach had sat on its laurels, moving at a snail’s pace towards the Stormlands where Stannis had been besieged…only for the fucking Northern army to come to the Baratheon’s rescue.

“Lyanna and Jon are coming with my army,” he declared firmly, cutting through the slowly building laughter before things got out of hand, looking at Catelyn’s strained eyes out of the corner of his eyes. It had pained him somewhat, when she had not even offered a token of wariness or fear for Jon and Lyanna, her only concern being his and Robb’s well-being—and Bran losing his childhood in the name of being the acting Lord of the North. He couldn’t fault her for it, Ned knew that….but still, he had hoped for some kind of emotion to develop inside her towards his niece and nephew. Shaking his head to dispel the thought best left behind for now, he looked at Robert, “Does the Queen’s Wheelhouse and routine require any additional supplies, Sire?”

“They do not, Lord Stark,” Jon shook his head, nodding at the gaudy, gold laden carriage just visible outside the walls, the Lannister emblem displayed proudly upon its flags, “Lord Lannister has seen to it that his daughter and grandchildren are comfortable, and we are also ready to move to the Riverlands.”

“Then we march,” he declared, and a roar of eagerness echoed through Winterfell as the Northmen raised their weapons, hungering for revenge against the Ironborn, and the promise of destroying them utterly. As they all got up on their horses and trotted out through the WIntertown, Ned watched the people shouting and cheering from his steed, his eyes closing for a moment as he heard the chants echoing in the streets. A little ways behind him, the rest of the Lords of the North rode, and behind them, he could hear how stones were being thrown against the carriage Theon was being dragged in, stuffed in a small cell and covered with a sheet.

His mother had pleaded for his life in front of them yesterday night. Tears streaming down her face, eyes red and swollen, with none of the haughtiness that had plagued her behavior in the start of her stay, Alannys Greyjoy had begged for her son’s life. Kneeling before Robert, she had tried to disrobe herself, promising Robert to be his concubine if only he let her only remaining son live. Seeing her white hair matted with dirt as she prostrated herself before them, Ned had realized something. For Alannys, Theon was still the same nine years old boy that had been taken as hostage, and even though he was now a man-grown, for her to see him after so many years, only for it to be his death in a few days…the closest he could relate to that was Lyanna’s death itself. But even then, he doubted his love for his sister was even half as strong as a mother’s for her estranged son.

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“Father should have taken me too with him,” Arya muttered as they stood upon the Keep’s walls, her arms crossed as they all stared at the back of the host, the last flags of the Northern Houses disappearing from their sight slowly as the sun reached the apex of its ascent. It had been a day since her family had gone South with the King,   In her arms, Nymeria whined softly, reaching up to lick at her neck softly, and the she-wolf of Winterfell ran her fingers over her direwolf with a smile. However, the next moment, her mood soured again as she looked South, “it's not fair.”

“A battlefield is no place for a girl,” Sansa snorted, and Arya grit her teeth, barely keeping her words in check. “Can you even wear forty pounds of armor and move, let alone fight?”

Arya scowled, but did not deny it. To her envy, Sansa was too pretty, too well-bred to resort to insults. Worse, her sister’s tongue had grown sharper since that time Arya had thrown mud on her hair in front of the guests. It had earned her a fierce scolding not only from Father but even from Jon too…

It wasn’t fair, but Arya knew the world wasn’t fair. It didn’t mean she had to like it.

“His Grace had no problems dragging your prince to the same battlefield,” she said back, glaring up at Sansa as she pointed southwards, “The same prince who can’t even unsheathe a sword properly, and I bet he would fold in two under a hauberk, let alone full plate! Maybe Father should have married you to him, at least I wouldn’t have to deal with your stupid ‘Lady’ face every day!”

“Arya!” her mother chided, pulling on her ear as Sansa’s eyes widened, “Apologise and go to your room right now! You are not going to bring Sansa’s betrothal up again, understood? Your sister was right in telling you the truth. You are ten years old, a child! I have had enough of your petulance and lack of basic courtesy. If you don’t want to attend your lessons, fine! You two are sisters, not some fishwives on the market to fight and hurl insults at each other!”

“You just like to take her side because she listens to you!” Arya retorted bitterly, twisting out of her grip and running down the stairs, dropping Nymeria halfway through to run faster as she disappeared beyond the courtyard, her tearful, angry voice still audible to them “You just hate me because I’d rather ride a horse than listen to your Septa and sew some clothes to be someone’s wife!”

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Some days, Catelyn Stark felt she had failed as a mother. She had tried everything, anything, To get her daughter to listen to reason. Nobody wanted Arya to be a the best seamstress in Westeros, but the basics of the feminine arts were simply something any noble maiden had to learn, be it in the deserts of Dorne or the ever-snowing Northern Mountains. Even the Mormont daughters, someone Arya had long cited as an example of why she should be allowed to train with arms, knew how to be a responsible, capable wife and lady.

But the gods had cursed her with an over-stubborn daughter. The wolfsblood, her husband called it. The same temper that had driven Brandon and Lyanna into an early grave, and it was not something Catelyn wished for her daughter. Especially when Ned said that Arya was twice as wild as his siblings and ever been.

But Arya would simply not listen and sooner or later do her own thing regardless.

“I will talk to her,” Alys offered quietly, and Catelyn nodded at her daughter-in-law, thankful that she had someone else being an adult in this family now that Ned and Robb were gone. The woman waved at Sansa as she turned around, walking down the stairs towards Arya, her voice ringing in the courtyard, “Arya! Stop where you are, or else I will take away your arrows!”

“Mother help me,” Catelyn sighed, feeling the onset of a new headache as she saw the way the people were looking from her to where Arya had disappeared off to. 

Thankfully, a look from Alys was enough to end it, and the builders resumed their work. Drawing her cloak tighter around herself, she ran a hand over Sansa’s head as she thought what she was going to do with Arya. Especially now that Ned was gone for moons. Ned was the only one who could rein her in for a longer period of time. Mostly. . He could quell down Arya with just a word, and the girl was also loathe to disappoint her father, quieting down the worst of her antics in his presence. When Arya had thrown mud upon Sansa, Ned had spared no words for their daughter, telling her in the most straightforward way that should Arya attempt something similar once again, he would hesitate to punish her aptly.

Truthfully, they had been too soft with Arya….and in hindsight, continuing to push her toward Mordane had been problematic too. Maybe she cou-

“Mother?” Sansa asked with a shudder, and Catelyn looked down at her eldest daughter, running a hand through those crimson auburn locks that mirrored her own, “Why won’t Father let me marry the Prince?”

“I don’t know my dear,” she lied, closing her eyes as she looked South, remembering the dream she had had a few weeks back, of Sansa standing besides Joffrey Baratheon, radiant and clad in the finest of silks the Prince draped the Baratheon cloak around her shoulders.

It was not meant to be. Ned had said his due, and no was a no. Whatever they said of her husband, Catelyn knew him the best. Once his mind was made up, truly made up, he stood as firm as the Wall itself. So she had learned to accept that part of him, and even come to love it.

Yes, Sansa would have probably enjoyed being a Queen, but history had proven the position was not without its dangers. As usual, Ned might be stubborn but he was right on it.

King’s Landing might just eat her daughter alive…

Looking down at her Sansa’s distraught face, she smiled and cupped her cheeks, consoling her with words she didn’t really know she believed, “The crown prince is not the only worthy man in the realm. It doesn’t matter. Your Father shall find you a match with a highlord, someone brave, gentle, and strong. Your sons shall be great lords, knights, Hands, or even High Septons.”

“Do yo-”

“BRAN!”

Catelyn’s heart skipped a bit at Arya’s scream, and she turned her head towards her daughter’s voice, only for her eyes to widen as she caught the sight of something crashing into a wooden shed by the broken tower. 

The world went silent for her, and Catelyn could dimly hear a scream as she felt herself move, flying down the stairs and across the courtyard towards the Old Keep. She didn’t even realize that the smallfolk moved out of her way, or that Sansa and Alys were right beside her, her eyes able to see nothing but the group of people standing around where the crash had happened. Through the gap between the forming crowd, she could see Maester Luwin’s back, kneeling down by the pieces of wood and scattered hay. The buzzing around her died down as she pushed past the maids and workers, her vision blurring as her chest tightened, and Catelyn came to a stop by Luwin, almost colliding with Arya.

The next moment, she just fell to the ground besides the Maester, her eyes unblinking as she saw a sight she had feared many a time. Bran, her sweet, young Bran was lying before her, his eyes wide and unseeing as he looked up at the sky. Slowly, her eyes moved across his body, the hay lying across him not hiding the way his arm was bent at the elbow, or the blood that had pooled around his head and hips, flowing down towards her like a cruel joke from the gods

“Bran,” she cried out, shaking her boy. “Wake up, please…”

Catelyn trembled, looking at Luwin, her eyes begging the Maester to help her son, “Do something. Anything.”

The old maester just shook his head sorrowfully, and at that moment, the world shattered. 

Her Bran was dead.

Arya cried as she reached out towards his shoulders, and Catelyn stopped her hand, a part of her realizing that she was gripping her daughter’s wrist too tightly, yet for Catelyn, nothing existed at that moment except her son’s lifeless blue eyes staring up at the sky. Someone pulled Arya away from her, and heard Alys’ voice speaking to her, the woman’s hands gripping her by the shoulders and slowly pulling her up. 

Bit by bit, the world resumed its meaning to her as sounds and voices of the people around her entered her ears again, and Catelyn felt the tears flowing down her face. 

“Mother, “ Alys spoke softly, “Shall I send a raven to Lord Stark?”

“Ye-Yes,” she gasped out, her breath coming in shudders as Catelyn barely controlled her sobs from turning into outright cries. She had thanked the gods every day for giving her six beautiful, healthy children, especially when she knew just how many women experienced stillbirths or difficulties in even birthing a single child. Even yesterday morning, when she had been seeing Robb off to war, she had prayed to the Warrior and the Mother to protect her son, and she had even wished her husband’s bastards to be safe at that moment. But now, as she saw her son’s dead body be lifted into a black shroud and carried over towards the Godswood by the veiled women that performed burials in the North…Catelyn felt as if she should have prayed for Bran instead.

Unseen by her, a black crow looked at the crowd below, its crimson eyes following the body of Brandon Stark before it flapped its wings and disappeared Northwards.

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“Lord Stark,” Jon’s voice came from outside his tent, and his eyes opened with a snap. Groaning quietly as he moved off his cot, he stared at the sheets sullenly for a moment, before looking at the darkness outside. Jon better have a good reason for waking him up before the sun had even begun its ascent, he thought, wearing his shirt groggily. 

“Come in,” he called out, stretching his arms slightly as he felt his shoulders pop, sighing at the lightness he now felt. Getting back into the yard regularly had been beneficial in more ways than one, he reflected. His blade was as fast as it had been in the Rebellion—maybe even faster, his strikes were truer, and the plumpness in his body that came with his age and desk had disappeared completely, once again leaving him toned and lithe. His nephew entered right at the moment he secured his doublet, the chill of the snowy air passing through the gaps in the fabric, “What is th-”

“Alys sent a runner,” he muttered, and Ned paused at that. Jon rarely, if ever was as hesitant and quiet as he was right now. Turning around, he stared at him, the dimly glowing torch barely allowing him to see his face, the darkness throwing his northern features into sharp relief. A sense of foreboding invaded his mind as Ned walked forwards, his eyes moving towards the parchment in Jon’s hand. There should have been no reason for Alys to send a runner after the army, and that too through the night…not if it wasn’t an emergency or something that couldn’t be delayed by even an hour.

“What is it Jon?” he asked, the lingering drowsiness gone in a moment as he strode forwards, looking down at the parchment—it was still sealed, but Jon’s face and voice showed that whatever it was, he already knew...which meant it was known to everyone in Winterfell if the runner had been able to tell it to him, “Has Arya ran off from the Keep after us?”

“No…its…Bran,” his nephew answered, his lwoering to the ground as he raised hte sealed letter, and Ned felt his heart pound as he took it, tearing it open roughly as he grabbed the torch besides him, throwing light upon the words written by his daughter-in-law. ‘Father. Bran has left us. He fell from one of the towers while climbing. He didn’t suffer.’

His breath stopped in his lungs as he crushed the parchment in his hands, closing his eyes for a moment. His chest tightened and his eyes stung, but he controlled his emotions and pain as his knuckles popped. This…this was what he had been afraid off ever since he had seen Bran climb for the first time. But a single sentence had assuaged hsi worries over the years.

Bran doesn’t fall.

And yet, barely two days had passed since he had let his boy out of sight…and this had happened. “Bring Robb and Lyanna,” he said after a few moments of silence, torching the parchment to ashes as he turned around. The war had not even started, and he had already lost one of his children, something Ned hadn’t wished he would ever have to see. The fact that it was over something so…stupid and trivial was not lost on him either. He would be dammed if something similar happened to Robb or Jon or Lyanna just because he had been lax. The grief within him rose like a winter hailstorm, but he crushed it beneath the weight of his duties and mantle, just like he had done it a decade and a half ago as he let out the breath he had been holding in, feeling heat rise throughout his body even as a numbness settled on his thoughts, “we ride out to the nearest Weirwood.”

“Yes, Lord Stark.”

The sound of his tent’s flap rustling echoed in the silence that had settled around him, and as the sound of snow crunching faded away…he finally let the tear fall down his eye, a choked breath escaping his throat as Ned saw Bran’s smiling face, his blue eyes alight with laughter as he played with Rickon and their direwolves.

He would never see it again.

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They knelt before the Weirwood, and as his head lowered, Robb finally let the tears fall down his face. Bran was gone. Two days ago, he had pried the boy off their ancestral greatsword, when he had demanded to swing around Ice because he would be the Stark in Winterfell for the moons to come.

Now, he was being entombed in the crypts, being laid to rest amongst their ancestors at the age of nine. The sun had not even begun to rise yet, and his feet were being soaked by the melting snow, but all he could see was Bran’s broken body and his dead eyes, so like his own that it hurt to imagine them now. Out of all of his siblings, it had been Bran he had been the closest too. Sansa seldom had time to spare out of the Septa’s and Mother's teachings, and even then, they had far too different interests.

Arya on the other hand, was too rambunctious and wild and while she certainly tried to involve with him over swordplay and archery…she simply couldn’t provide him with the same level of enjoyment Bran could. His brother had been like a mirror of him. Auburn hair, blue eyes, and a passion to wield a blade like their father, while still being calm yet infectious with his excitement. In the last few weeks, ever since Father had increased Bran’s studies, they had spent even more time together, with him finally coming to understand several of his father’s lessons on how to handle unruly bannermen, or particularly tough decisions he might face as Lord as he had been made to teach Bran all he knew. He had even assisted him with hsi practice in the yard, with Jon also coming to show a few tricks he had picked over the years, his brother’s experience against real threats teaching him quite a lot over the moons he had been back.

Now, he would never even hear Bran’s hopeful voice asking his help in solving Luwin’s questions, or asking him for an extra tart at the dinner.

Ahead of him, his father stood up slowly, the white direwolf emblazoned upon his cloak barely visible in the dark. “We must return,” his voice echoed in the forest, steely and unflinching, none of the grief and sadness Robb had expected present in his words, “The men would be waking up by now. It would be remiss to be absent for long.”

“Yes Father,” all three of them answered, and Robb felt a sad smile break out on his face as his fa-nay, the Lord of the North walked past him. This…this was what it meant to be a Great Lord of the realm, especially the Stark of Winterfell. The North, the men under their command, the duty—all of it came before their woes and desires.