The Northern army wound its way along the King's Road like a great steel serpent, thousands of men and horses and supply wagons stretching for miles in the disciplined formation that had won Robert's Rebellion. The morning sun painted the countryside in shades of gold and green, and the sound of marching feet created a rhythmic drumbeat that spoke of soldiers eager to see their homes after months of war and politics.
Ned Stark rode at the head of the column with that particular Northern stillness that made him seem carved from the same stone as Winterfell's walls—all weathered granite and quiet strength. His grey eyes held the weight of approaching winter, studying the road ahead without really seeing the familiar countryside that rolled past like pages in a book he'd memorized long ago.
*Home,* he thought, the word sitting heavy as chain mail across his shoulders. *Winterfell, with its ancient stones and familiar halls. And Catelyn, waiting with questions I'm not prepared to answer truthfully.*
The prospect of that conversation had been growing heavier with each mile, settling into his bones like the deep cold that came before the snows. How did one explain that everything she'd understood about their future had been built on incomplete information? That the children she'd hoped to bear would inherit nothing more than what younger sons typically received—honor, a name, and the need to make their own way in the world?
*She married Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,* he reflected with the kind of grim acceptance that had carried him through his father's death and his brother's. *She'll wake up married to Eddard Stark, uncle to the rightful lord, whose inheritance amounts to whatever his nephew chooses to grant him out of family affection.*
Behind the main column, a well-appointed carriage rolled along the smoother sections of road with the kind of careful precision that spoke of precious cargo and experienced guards. The vehicle had been commissioned specifically for this journey—large enough to accommodate multiple passengers comfortably, well-sprung to minimize the jarring over rough ground, and fitted with all the amenities necessary for traveling with small children across hundreds of miles of potentially hostile territory.
Ashara Dayne sat with the fluid grace of water over stone, her violet eyes bright with intelligence that could cut through courtly lies like Dawn through silk. Even in traveling clothes, she possessed that particular combination of beauty and danger that had once made princes forget their own names—dark hair catching the light like spilled wine, pale skin that seemed to glow from within, and the kind of smile that suggested she knew secrets that could topple kingdoms.
"You know," she said to Princess Elia with that musical voice that carried just enough steel to remind anyone listening that House Dayne hadn't ruled Starfall for centuries by being merely decorative, "I'm beginning to think traveling with two such remarkably intelligent children might be more exhausting than managing a small war. At least in wars, the opposition occasionally sleeps."
Princess Elia adjusted baby Aegon against her chest with practiced maternal efficiency, her dark eyes sparkling with the kind of warm humor that had once charmed half the court before they'd learned to fear the steel beneath her silk. Even after everything she'd endured—war, uncertainty, the loss of her husband, the constant threat of assassination—she moved with that unconscious elegance that marked true nobility, as if grace were something she carried in her bones rather than learned from dancing masters.
"At least in wars," she replied with that distinctive accent that made even practical observations sound like poetry, "the opposition doesn't insist on rearranging your carefully packed supplies every time you stop for water. Though I have to admit, watching Rhaenys explain to Cregan why books are essential travel equipment has been remarkably entertaining."
The children in question had commandeered the floor of the carriage with the kind of casual authority that suggested they'd never met a space they couldn't transform into their personal domain. Wooden blocks, cloth dolls, and carved animals were scattered across the carpeted surface in what appeared to be an elaborate construction project that made perfect sense to them and absolutely none to the adults observing it.
*They're building something,* Ashara realized as she studied the careful arrangement of toys and blocks that Rhaenys and Cregan had constructed between them. *Not just playing randomly, but actually constructing some sort of complex structure with specific purposes for each component.*
"This one goes here," Rhaenys announced with the serious authority of a master architect, her small fingers placing a wooden block with surprising precision. Her silver-gold hair caught the morning light streaming through the carriage windows, and her violet eyes held the kind of focused concentration that would have been impressive from a court scholar, let alone a three-year-old. "For the library. You can't have a proper castle without a library."
"Big library," Cregan agreed with the sage nodding that looked absurd on someone barely capable of walking without assistance. His dark curls fell across his forehead as he leaned forward to add carved animals around the base of their construction, his own violet eyes bright with understanding that seemed far too mature for his age. "Need lots of books. Books know important things about... about everything."
*A three-year-old who insists on including libraries in her architectural projects,* Ashara thought with maternal pride and growing amusement. *And an eighteen-month-old who apparently grasps the concept of comprehensive education. I'm beginning to suspect we're not dealing with entirely typical children here.*
"And what sorts of important things do books know, little lord?" Elia asked gently, leaning forward with that particular maternal attention that suggested she was genuinely curious about the answer rather than simply making conversation with small children.
Cregan looked up at her with those unsettling violet eyes, his expression suddenly serious in the way that made adults remember he was barely past infancy and wonder why he seemed to understand so much.
"Books know about... about how to help people," he said with careful consideration, as if he were translating concepts from some internal language that adults couldn't access. "And how to make things better when they're broken. And stories about brave people who took care of each other."
"Stories are important," Rhaenys added with absolute conviction, her small hands now arranging carved knights around their block construction with tactical precision that would have impressed seasoned military commanders. "They tell you what happened before, so you can make sure the good things happen again and the bad things don't."
*Children who understand the value of historical precedent,* Elia observed with wonder that bordered on maternal concern. *That's not normal developmental behavior. Most children their age are focused on immediate gratification and simple cause-and-effect relationships. These two are discussing long-term planning and systemic problem-solving.*
The easy intimacy between them was remarkable—the kind of unconscious physical comfort that usually took months or years to develop between children, especially children of different social classes and regional backgrounds. Yet Rhaenys and Cregan moved around each other with the fluid grace of people who'd shared space for most of their lives, anticipating each other's movements, sharing toys without negotiation, communicating in the kind of half-words and meaningful glances that spoke of deep understanding.
"You know," Ashara said thoughtfully, watching her son carefully position a wooden wolf beside Rhaenys's wooden dragon as if the symbolic implications were perfectly clear to both of them, "I'm starting to think their betrothal might be the most politically astute arrangement any of us have ever been involved in. Not because of the infrastructure investments or the strategic alliances, but because they actually seem to understand each other on some fundamental level that transcends normal social development."
"They're perfect for each other," Elia agreed with the satisfaction of a mother watching her daughter form what was clearly going to be a life-defining relationship. "Not just politically—though the alliance serves everyone's interests beautifully—but personally. Emotionally. They complement each other's strengths and compensate for each other's blind spots with the kind of natural partnership that most married couples spend years trying to develop."
*And they're three and eighteen months old respectively,* she added mentally. *Which suggests either remarkable intuition or something considerably more complex than normal childhood friendship.*
"Guard duty," Rhaenys announced solemnly, moving several carved knights into position around their construction with the kind of strategic thinking that suggested she'd been observing adult military planning with considerable attention. "The castle needs good guards to protect the people inside. And the books. Can't let anything happen to the books."
"Strong guards," Cregan confirmed with equal gravity, his small hands helping to position the wooden figures with careful attention to coverage and fields of fire. "Guards who understand about protecting important things. Not just fighting, but... but knowing what's worth fighting for."
*Even their play involves sophisticated concepts of duty and proportional response,* Ashara realized with growing appreciation for whatever forces had shaped these children's understanding of the world. *They're not just arranging toys—they're demonstrating principles of defensive strategy and moral philosophy.*
The carriage hit a particularly rough section of road, causing everyone to grab for handholds as their carefully constructed world swayed and bounced with the wheels. But instead of crying or complaining as most children their age would have done, Rhaenys and Cregan immediately moved to protect their block construction, their small bodies forming a defensive barrier around their castle while they rode out the turbulence with the kind of coordinated response that spoke of instinctive teamwork.
"Remarkable," Elia murmured as the road smoothed out again and the children calmly resumed their construction project as if nothing had happened. "Most children would have been crying or demanding to know why we'd hit that bump. These two just... adapted. Protected what was important and continued with their work."
"Teamwork," Ashara agreed, noting how naturally Cregan had moved to shield the section with their carefully arranged books while Rhaenys had protected the area with their wooden knights. "Instinctive cooperation in the face of external threats. They're going to make formidable partners when they're old enough to actually rule something."
*Assuming they survive long enough to rule anything,* both mothers thought simultaneously, though neither voiced the concern that shadowed every parent's thoughts in these uncertain times.
Outside the carriage, Arthur Dayne rode with the kind of effortless grace that made him legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms, his violet eyes constantly scanning their surroundings for potential threats while Dawn hung at his side like captured starlight. At six and a half feet of lean muscle and deadly competence, he dominated any battlefield he entered, but there was something almost peaceful about the way he sat his destrier now—as if protecting children on a peaceful road was exactly where he belonged.
Beside him, Ser Jaime Lannister cut a rather different figure—all golden hair and green eyes and the kind of casual arrogance that came from being the most naturally gifted swordsman of his generation. Even in exile, even stripped of his white cloak and royal protection, he carried himself with that particular Lannister confidence that suggested he'd found something worth protecting and was rather looking forward to the opportunity to prove his worth through simple violence rather than complex politics.
"You know, Arthur," Jaime said with that characteristic blend of humor and philosophical observation that had served him well through years of court intrigue, his voice carrying easily over the sound of hoofbeats and creaking leather, "I never expected my life after the Kingsguard to involve quite so much emphasis on child care and educational development. Though I have to say, it's considerably more rewarding than standing silent while kings made increasingly poor decisions about the welfare of their subjects."
Arthur's laugh was warm as summer sunlight, though his eyes never stopped their professional assessment of the landscape ahead. "Children have a way of clarifying priorities," he replied with the wisdom of someone who'd discovered that protecting the innocent was considerably more satisfying than protecting the powerful. "Strip away all the political complications and court intrigue, and you're left with the simple question: are the children safe and happy? Everything else becomes secondary to that fundamental responsibility."
"Simple questions with complex answers," Jaime observed dryly, his green eyes bright with appreciation for the moral complexity of their situation. "Because keeping those particular children safe and happy requires maintaining elaborate deceptions that could get us all executed if discovered by the wrong people at the wrong time. Not exactly the straightforward knightly service that most of us dreamed about during our training."
"No," Arthur agreed with that slight Swedish accent that added an exotic edge to his perfectly articulated Common Tongue, "but perhaps more honest than what we were doing before. At least now we know exactly why we're lying and who we're protecting with our deceptions. There's something to be said for moral clarity, even when that clarity requires tactical dishonesty."
*Moral clarity through tactical dishonesty,* Jaime repeated mentally, savoring the philosophical contradiction with the kind of intellectual appreciation that had once made him dangerous at court. *Arthur always did have a talent for making the impossible sound perfectly reasonable. It's quite unsettling, really, how easily he can make 'elaborate conspiracy to falsify royal succession' sound like 'sensible childcare arrangements.'*
"Besides," Arthur continued with growing conviction, his voice taking on that note of absolute certainty that had once made kings listen to his counsel, "the songs always focus on the wrong things anyway. Grand gestures, dramatic last stands, heroic deaths that accomplish nothing except making the singers feel tragic and noble. They never sing about the quiet choices that actually protect people, the unglamorous work of keeping children safe and fed and happy."
"The unglamorous work," Jaime agreed with sudden understanding that transformed his entire expression. "Yes, that's exactly what this is, isn't it? Not glorious redemption through dramatic sacrifice, but simple daily commitment to protecting people who need protection. Much harder than dying gloriously, actually, and considerably more useful to everyone involved."
But their philosophical discussion was interrupted by the sound of childish laughter from within the carriage—genuine, unguarded joy that spoke of children who felt completely secure in their little world despite the political complexities swirling around them.
*That sound,* Arthur thought with fierce satisfaction, *is proof we made the right choices. Whatever lies we have to maintain, whatever risks we have to accept, that laughter justifies everything.*
"Listen to that," Jaime said with something approaching wonder in his voice. "Actual happiness. Honest, uncomplicated joy from children who trust the adults around them to keep them safe. When was the last time you heard anything like that at court?"
"Never," Arthur replied without hesitation. "Court children learn early to guard their reactions, to calculate the political implications of their emotions. These two are free to be genuinely happy because they trust us to handle the complications for them."
Inside the carriage, the children had moved on from architectural projects to what appeared to be an elaborate storytelling session, with Rhaenys providing narrative while Cregan contributed sound effects and dramatic gestures that seemed far too sophisticated for his age.
"Once upon a time," Rhaenys began with the kind of serious authority that suggested this was important historical documentation rather than casual entertainment, "there was a princess who lived in a very tall tower, and she was very smart, so she learned all about books and magic and how to help people who needed helping."
*Magic,* both mothers noted mentally with varying degrees of concern and curiosity. *She keeps mentioning magic. Most children her age are focused on fairy tales and simple moral stories. Why is she consistently incorporating magical elements into her narratives?*
"Then the brave knight came," Cregan added with enthusiasm that transformed his entire small face, making swooshing sounds while moving one of the wooden figures through elaborate aerial maneuvers that suggested he'd been observing adult sword practice with considerable attention. "And he was very, very good at protecting people, and he had a special sword that was made from starlight, and they worked together to make everything safe for everyone."
*They worked together,* Elia observed with growing understanding of the essential dynamic between her daughter and her future son-in-law. *Not the knight rescuing the helpless princess, but partners collaborating to solve problems. They're already rewriting the traditional narratives to emphasize cooperation rather than dependence.*
"And what happened next?" Ashara asked gently, genuinely curious about how their collaborative storytelling would develop.
"They built a big castle," Rhaenys continued with satisfaction, her small hands gesturing expansively to indicate the scope of their fictional construction project. "With lots and lots of books and good food and warm fires, and people who loved them, and nobody was ever scared anymore because they knew how to take care of each other properly."
*Nobody was ever scared because they knew how to take care of each other properly,* Ashara repeated mentally, her heart tightening with emotion at the simple wisdom embedded in her son's chosen life philosophy. *If only the adult world could operate on such straightforward principles.*
"That's a beautiful story, sweetheart," Elia said gently, leaning forward to smooth her daughter's silver-gold hair with maternal tenderness. "Did you and Cregan write it together just now?"
"We remembered it together," Rhaenys replied with absolute certainty, her violet eyes bright with the kind of conviction that suggested she was reporting established historical fact rather than sharing creative fiction. "It's an old story. From before we were here. From when we lived in the other place with the different names."
*From before we were here,* both women thought simultaneously, their intellectual minds struggling to process the implications of that particular phrasing while their maternal instincts simply accepted that children sometimes knew things that couldn't be rationally explained through normal developmental psychology.
*The other place with different names,* Elia repeated mentally, studying her daughter's serious little face with growing wonder and concern. *What other place? What different names? How does a three-year-old have clear memories of experiences that predate her birth?*
But baby Cregan was already moving on to the next phase of their elaborate play, his small hands gathering the scattered wooden animals with the kind of purposeful efficiency that suggested he had specific plans for their deployment in whatever scenario they were constructing.
"Animals need safe homes too," he announced with the gravity of someone addressing a critical infrastructure crisis that required immediate attention. "Safe homes where they can be happy and learn important things and not be scared of people who might want to hurt them."
*Even the toy animals get comprehensive welfare considerations in their worldview,* Elia thought with fond amusement that didn't quite mask her growing concern about the sophisticated concepts these children seemed to grasp intuitively. *They're not just playing—they're demonstrating principles of social responsibility and systematic care for the vulnerable.*
"What kind of important things should animals learn?" Ashara asked, curious about how her son's remarkably advanced cognitive development would manifest in his approach to educational philosophy.
Cregan looked up at her with those unsettling violet eyes, his expression becoming thoughtful in the way that always made adults remember he was barely past infancy and wonder why he seemed to understand so much about complex social dynamics.
"How to be brave when things are scary," he said with careful consideration, as if he were translating abstract concepts from some internal framework that adults couldn't access directly. "And how to help their friends when friends need helping. And how to know the difference between people who want to protect them and people who want to use them for bad things."
*How to distinguish between protectors and predators,* Ashara thought with a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. *That's not typical childhood wisdom. That's hard-earned knowledge about human nature and the realities of power dynamics. How does an eighteen-month-old understand such concepts?*
"Those are very important lessons," Elia agreed gently, though her voice carried a note of maternal concern that suggested she was processing implications that went far beyond normal child development. "Where did you learn about such things, little prince?"
"Books," Rhaenys interjected with absolute confidence, as if this explained everything. "And from watching people. And from remembering things from the before-time, when we had the different names and lived in the place with the moving staircases and the talking pictures."
*Moving staircases and talking pictures,* both mothers thought with growing bewilderment. *That's not any place in the Seven Kingdoms. That's not anywhere in the known world. What kind of memories is she carrying that include such impossible architectural features?*
The carriage rolled on through the countryside, carrying its precious cargo toward a future that none of the adults could entirely predict or control. But surrounded by laughter and elaborate construction projects and stories about princesses who chose partnership over rescue, the uncertainty felt less like threat and more like possibility.
*Whatever challenges lie ahead,* Ashara thought as she watched her son and his betrothed transform the carriage floor into an elaborate kingdom populated by wooden figures who apparently all had access to extensive educational opportunities and comprehensive social services, *they'll face them together. And that partnership—that instinctive understanding and mutual support—may be more valuable than all the political alliances and infrastructure investments in the Seven Kingdoms.*
Outside, the road stretched endlessly northward, carrying them all toward conversations and revelations that would test every carefully constructed lie and diplomatic arrangement they'd built around the children's safety.
But inside the carriage, two small voices continued planning their shared future with the kind of absolute confidence that suggested they knew something the adults hadn't figured out yet—that some bonds transcended politics, that some partnerships were strong enough to survive whatever the world threw at them.
*Let the game of thrones continue,* Elia thought as baby Aegon slept peacefully in her arms while his sister planned kingdoms with her future husband. *These children are writing their own rules.*
And those rules, it seemed, prioritized happiness over power, partnership over dominance, and comprehensive education for all over armies and conquest.
The future could do worse than rulers who understood such priorities.
---
*Several days later, approaching the Riverlands*
The landscape had begun to change as they moved further from King's Landing, the gently rolling hills of the Crownlands giving way to the richer, more fertile territory of the Riverlands. The road was better maintained here—wider, smoother, with proper way stations and reliable bridges across the numerous streams that gave this region its name and its prosperity. The very air seemed different, heavier with the scent of rich earth and growing things, speaking of lands that had known peace and careful cultivation for centuries.
Ned rode with that particular stillness that had always marked him as his father's son, grey eyes studying the familiar landmarks with the kind of careful attention that missed nothing but revealed less. Every mile brought them closer to Riverrun, to conversations he'd been dreading since the moment he'd acknowledged Cregan's legitimacy. The weight of approaching revelation sat heavy across his shoulders like mail he couldn't remove.
*Tully territory,* he realized with growing dread as familiar landmarks came into view—the stone markers that indicated borders, the well-maintained bridges that spoke of prosperity and careful governance, the orderly fields that suggested generations of competent management. *Less than a week to Riverrun now. Less than a week before I have to look Catelyn in the eye and explain why everything she believed about our future was wrong.*
The prospect of that conversation had been growing heavier with each mile, settling into his bones like the deep cold that came before winter storms. How did one apologize for an unintentional deception that had lasted for months? How did one explain that love and honor had required choices that made their entire marriage politically meaningless?
*She deserves better than this,* he thought with the kind of guilt that went bone-deep, the sort of regret that couldn't be reasoned away or justified through political necessity. *She married me in good faith, believing she was becoming the future Lady of Winterfell. She deserves a husband who can actually provide the life she was promised, not one who's discovered that all his inheritance belongs to his brother's son.*
But even as the personal implications consumed his thoughts, the practical part of his mind—the part that had learned strategy from his father and diplomacy from Jon Arryn—continued to work through the broader political ramifications of his revelations. Lord Hoster Tully had invested considerable political capital in the alliance with House Stark, arranging his daughter's marriage based on the understanding that her children would someday rule the North.
*He's not going to take this well,* Ned realized with the kind of certainty that came from years of observing his goodfather's reactions to political disappointment. *Hoster Tully doesn't accept being outmaneuvered gracefully under the best of circumstances. Learning that his carefully planned alliance has yielded him absolutely nothing... that's going to create problems that go far beyond hurt feelings and wounded pride.*
Behind him, the Northern army continued its steady march homeward with the disciplined precision that had won Robert's Rebellion—thousands of men who'd followed him through war and victory and now trusted him to lead them safely back to their families and familiar hearths. The sound of their passage was like distant thunder, a reminder of the responsibilities that came with command and the trust that could be shattered by political miscalculation.
*They deserve leaders who can navigate these complexities without creating new crises,* he reflected with the weight of command settling heavier across his shoulders. *They've earned the right to go home to peace and prosperity, not to watch their lords fumble political arrangements that should have been settled months ago.*
In the carriage, the morning's entertainment had apparently evolved into an impromptu music lesson, though the results suggested that neither three-year-olds nor eighteen-month-olds were particularly reliable instructors in matters of melody and rhythm.
"Winter is coming, coming, coming," Rhaenys sang with the kind of enthusiastic approximation of melody that made adults want to smile despite themselves, her clear voice transforming the ancient Stark words into something that sounded almost cheerful. "But the wolf keeps everyone warm and safe and happy in the big castle with lots and lots of books!"
*She's adapting the traditional Stark motto into something considerably more optimistic,* Ashara observed with maternal amusement as her son clapped his hands in enthusiastic rhythm with Rhaenys's creative interpretation of Northern philosophy. Her violet eyes sparkled with affection as she watched the children's elaborate musical collaboration. "Though I suppose 'Winter is coming but everything will work out fine' is a more appropriate philosophy for children than the original's emphasis on perpetual vigilance against existential threats."
"Fire and blood, fire and blood," Cregan contributed with equal enthusiasm, apparently attempting to sing the traditional Targaryen words while making elaborate swooshing sounds that probably represented dragons in flight. His small hands moved through the air with surprising coordination as he provided what appeared to be interpretive dance to accompany his vocal performance. "But nice fire that warms people up when they're cold, and good blood that helps families love each other!"
*Even the Targaryen house words get reinterpreted through the lens of optimistic childhood logic,* Elia thought with wonder at her daughter's ability to transform anything into something wholesome and hopeful. Her own musical laugh joined the children's cacophony as she adjusted baby Aegon's position for more comfortable nursing. "Fire becomes warmth rather than destruction, blood becomes family bonds rather than conquest. They're going to rule their territories very differently than previous generations, assuming they survive to rule anything at all."
"You know what I find most remarkable?" Ashara said thoughtfully, her voice carrying that particular note of maternal pride mixed with genuine intellectual curiosity. "They're not just playing with these concepts—they're actively reconstructing them according to their own moral framework. Most children their age simply repeat what they're taught. These two are analyzing traditional power structures and redesigning them to prioritize different values entirely."
"Different values," Elia agreed with growing appreciation for the sophisticated thinking their children demonstrated even in play. "Community over conquest, education over intimidation, partnership over domination. If they can maintain those principles while developing the practical skills necessary to actually implement them..." She paused, studying her daughter's serious expression as Rhaenys carefully arranged wooden figures in what appeared to be some sort of democratic council formation. "Well, the Seven Kingdoms could do considerably worse than rulers who default to hope rather than fear."
*The Seven Kingdoms could also do considerably worse than surviving long enough to be ruled by anyone,* she added mentally, though her maternal optimism refused to let such dark thoughts dominate her appreciation of the present moment.
Outside the carriage, Arthur and Jaime had fallen into one of their increasingly frequent philosophical discussions about the nature of honor, duty, and the price of making choices that served higher purposes than personal advancement. Both men rode with the kind of casual competence that marked professional warriors, but there was something almost relaxed about their postures now—as if protecting children on a peaceful road was exactly the kind of service they'd been meant for all along.
"You realize," Jaime said with that characteristic directness that had once made him dangerous at court, his golden hair catching the morning sunlight as he gestured expansively, "that we're probably going to spend the rest of our lives lying about everything that matters most to us. Our real loyalties, our actual principles, the choices we've made and why we made them. That's not exactly the glorious redemption arc that most fallen knights dream about during their darkest moments."
Arthur's laugh was warm as summer wine, though his eyes never stopped their professional assessment of the landscape ahead for potential threats or ambush sites. "Isn't it, though?" he asked with genuine curiosity, his voice carrying that slight accent that added an exotic edge to his perfectly articulated Common Tongue. "We're protecting innocent children, supporting legitimate claims to ancient titles, serving the greater good even when that service requires considerable personal sacrifice and the complete abandonment of conventional recognition. That sounds rather like the actual definition of knightly honor to me, regardless of what the songs might say about dramatic gestures and public acclaim."
*Knightly honor that requires constant deception,* Jaime thought with wry appreciation for the moral complexity of their situation, his green eyes bright with intellectual engagement. *Honor that can't be acknowledged or celebrated because acknowledging it would destroy the people we're trying to protect. There's a certain poetic justice in that—the most honorable thing either of us has ever done is something we can never talk about without risking everything we've worked to build.*
"You have a point," he conceded with that particular Lannister smile that had once charmed half the ladies at court and terrified the other half. "Though I have to say, there's something liberating about serving a cause that doesn't require constant political calculation or concern for public opinion. When the goal is simply 'keep the children safe and happy,' most other considerations become remarkably straightforward."
But their philosophical discussion was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats approaching at considerable speed—a single rider coming from the direction of Riverrun, moving with the kind of controlled urgency that suggested important news that couldn't wait for the army's leisurely progress northward.
*Messages,* both knights thought simultaneously, their tactical minds immediately shifting into alert readiness as years of experience kicked in automatically. *Either exceptionally good news that requires immediate celebration and coordination, or exceptionally bad news that requires immediate response and damage control. Given our current circumstances and the byzantine complexity of the political situation we're all attempting to navigate, I strongly suspect it's not good news.*
The messenger proved to be a young man in the blue and silver of House Tully, his destrier lathered with sweat and his face showing the kind of controlled urgency that came from carrying dispatches that could affect the fate of great houses and possibly kingdoms. He rode directly to Ned's position at the head of the column, dismounting with practiced efficiency and offering the precise degree of courtesy appropriate for addressing a great lord who might someday be family.
"Lord Stark," he said formally, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet front ranks of the army as thousands of marching men recognized the significance of official messengers during politically delicate periods. "I bear greetings from Lord Hoster Tully and a formal invitation for you and your honored party to join him at Riverrun for a celebration of your victory and safe return from the trials of war."
*A celebration,* Ned thought with growing unease at the implications, his strategic mind immediately cataloguing all the ways this could complicate their already precarious situation. *Hoster wants to make this a formal occasion, complete with witnesses and ceremony and political theater. That's going to make the subsequent revelations considerably more awkward and politically damaging than a private family conversation would have been.*
"What manner of celebration does Lord Tully propose?" he asked carefully, though something in the messenger's expression and the way he held himself suggested there was considerably more to this invitation than simple hospitality or family reunion.
"A wedding feast, my lord," the young man replied with obvious pleasure at being the bearer of what he clearly considered excellent news that would be received with enthusiasm and gratitude. "Lord Hoster has decided that your marriage to Lady Catelyn should be properly celebrated now that the war is concluded successfully and you've returned safely to claim your rightful inheritance and assume your proper place among the great lords of the realm. The entire Riverlands nobility has been invited to witness the formal recognition of your union and the political alliance it represents between our great houses."
*Oh, seven bloody hells,* Ned thought as the full scope of the potential disaster became crystal clear, his face maintaining its usual stoic expression while his mind raced through increasingly unpalatable scenarios. *A public ceremony celebrating my inheritance and my marriage, with every major Riverlands house in attendance as formal witnesses. And then I'll have to stand up in front of all of them—Lord Blackwood, Lord Bracken, Lord Mallister, every bannerman who matters in the Riverlands—and explain that neither the inheritance nor the political alliance actually exists as they understand them.*
The silence that followed the messenger's announcement was profound and uncomfortable, heavy with implications that everyone present could sense but no one was quite prepared to address directly in front of a Tully messenger who clearly expected expressions of joy and gratitude rather than the growing dread that was settling over the Northern leadership like morning fog.
From the carriage behind them came the sound of continued childish laughter—Rhaenys and Cregan apparently having moved on to some new collaborative project that involved considerable giggling and what sounded like the construction of elaborate fortifications using traveling supplies and probably several books.
*At least someone's having a pleasant morning,* Jaime observed silently as he watched Ned's face cycle through various expressions of resignation, strategic calculation, and what appeared to be the kind of existential dread usually reserved for men facing execution at dawn.
Arthur caught Jaime's eye and raised an eyebrow in a gesture that clearly communicated *This is about to become significantly more complicated than any of us anticipated, and we should probably start thinking about contingency plans that don't involve complete political catastrophe.*
Jaime responded with a slight nod that conveyed *Absolutely, though I have to admit there's something almost entertaining about watching even Ned Stark struggle with the complexities of maintaining elaborate deceptions while navigating family politics. It's rather reassuring to know that moral paragons can get themselves into just as much trouble as the rest of us mere mortals.*
The road stretched ahead toward Riverrun and revelations that would test every diplomatic skill Ned possessed, every alliance he'd built, every assumption about honor and family that had governed his choices throughout the war.
But behind him rode an army that trusted his leadership, and beside him traveled children whose safety depended on his ability to navigate impossible political situations without creating new crises.
*One conversation at a time,* he decided with the kind of grim determination that had seen him through Robert's Rebellion. *First Catelyn, then Hoster, then whoever else needs to understand that sometimes doing the right thing means disappointing everyone who had other expectations.*
The game of thrones continued, and the stakes kept getting higher.
But the laughter from the carriage reminded him that some things were worth whatever price the game demanded.
Even if that price included public humiliation and the collapse of carefully planned political alliances.
*Honor,* he thought as he composed his response to Lord Tully's invitation, *is rarely convenient. But it's always necessary.*
Now he just had to hope that honor would prove sufficient to protect the people who depended on his choices.
---
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