Chapter Text
Ned approached his children, a stern look on his face. Princes and princesses, perhaps, but still as irresponsible and disrespectful as most other children it seemed. Each of them knew better and Ned had no qualms about letting them all carry the blame for such a display of disrespect. They represented the North, Jon included, despite his new Southern residency, and to disappear as their kingdom gained its independence could only be seen as an affront. Ned normally kept a level head when it came to his children, but his patience grew thinner as the years wore on.
His steps were heavy against the polished floor, chest rising with annoyance. Andra, having been engaged in an awfully droning conversation with a few ladies who once avoided her completely, felt Ned’s anger chilling her veins moments before it settled over the room. She politely excused herself, head turning to where she felt her other half pulling her in, the need to ease his troubles too great. She tried to make small talk as she passed by notable figures within the hall. Socializing at these events never was in her skillset, hence her friendships with The Imp and The Hound, but she did her very best to appear as at ease as Oberyn advised she be.
Her shoulders dropped back as she held her head high, trying to hide all the doubts screaming inside her head. Her eyes remained on Ned as he approached his children. He definitely looked angry and she didn’t want him dampening the jubilant atmosphere as he was prone to do. If luck was on her side and no one stopped her, she would be able to intercept him by the mead barrels.
A perfectly acceptable reason for two rulers to bump into one another.
Andra’s hand grabbed a stray mug from one of the crowded tables, bringing it up to her lips and draining the contents. Oberyn would have scolded her if he saw; tell her something about having someone taste her food first at such large events, but Cassandra couldn’t bring herself to care. If she needed an empty mug as an excuse to talk to the man that held up her entire world, then she did not care what illness came from acquiring the item.
Grabbing another mug, this one empty enough to tip the small splash onto the polished floor, she stepped into the trajectory of Ned’s determined stride. Surprised, his pace faltered, but she did not give him the time to correct it. Ned had to stop entirely simply to keep from crashing into her, right at the barrels. She shoved a mug into his empty grip, using the newly freed hand to reach for the cork.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” Ned murmured as he recovered, glancing at the crowd around them.
Too many unknowns to risk any familiarities.
“You have my thanks, King Eddard,” she said in that gentle tone of hers. “Though, I do believe I could have managed.”
“Your cupbearer should be filling your cup, not the queen herself.”
“Today’s a day for independence,” Andra shrugged, looking around as to not appear transfixed on the man.
Even if she was.
Ned replaced the stopper before holding her drink out to her. Andra’s fingers curled around the mug as she leaned forward a tiny amount.
“You’re angry,” she said lower than her other words.
Ned’s face scrunched in frustration as he filled his own mead. He eyed her warily and Andra knew at once that something distracted him. Something simmered under the irritation, something Andra should have caught immediately.
While Lord Rickard occasionally japed about wolfsblood in Starks, Andra bore witness to it nearly every day of her childhood. Brandon’s temper, Lyanna’s mighty bark, Benjen’s sharp senses. Each time they pulled from their base instincts, one of Ned’s siblings would have a dark, foreboding glint in their eyes. One she used to be able to spot a mile away.
One she did not recognize growing in Ned’s grey eyes, because she’s only ever seen it a handful of times. In those rare moments, she normally found herself happy, excited even, to see it darken in his eyes. It usually signaled the possessive side of him, the one so rarely shown. The side that claimed her as his from the very beginning. The side of Ned that sent pleasant shivers dancing over her sensitive skin. She was far too distracted by tempering his anger to see that glint growing in his dark irises.
“I am realizing that somewhere along my harrowing journey through parenthood, I’ve erred.”
“You’ve erred?”
Andra’s eyebrows quirked upwards, pieces falling into place. She noticed the absence of his children, primarily when she looked to Jon as Maester Gormon read out the excerpt regarding the exchange of ownership over the four Winterfell dragons. At the time, her thoughts did not linger. She remembered always sneaking away with the Stark children when Lord Rickard held an audience. In fact, she had even wondered if Jon showed his siblings to the kitchens to steal sweets, as Ned himself so often did.
“They’ve dishonored you—”
He was a silly man.
“They’ve done no such thing,” she reassured, drinking from her cup, eyes darting around the room.
They briefly caught on Oberyn, who spoke with Catelyn at the head table. His gaze locked with hers and gave a clear warning. Tread carefully, sweet girl.
Her gaze snapped away, those dark, viper eyes of his too much to bear at times.
“They are princes and princesses of the North and they were not present as their own kingdom gained independence,” he growled, that undertone of wolfsblood carried on his words. “It’s disgraceful. I have raised them to have more respect than this.”
Ned continued to grumble, and Andra listened, taking sips from her mug every so often. She wished she could ease his frustrations, but she recognized that the conversation surrounded his role as a parent. While Andra could help guide his choices as a friend, as a lover, even as a fellow ruler, she knew that when it came to parenthood, her authority over Ned ended and Catelyn’s began.
So, all she offered was a listening ear as Ned griped about expectations and propriety. Her eyes remained on his children who were taking the opportunity of their father’s distraction to disperse around the room. Arya and Rickon hurried to where the younger Sand Snakes sat, Shaggydog bounding after them. Upon Jon’s arrival in King’s Landing, Cassandra determined that the Stark direwolves would not be kept in the kennels and could accompany their masters every step. She was glad when Catelyn eventually agreed to let Rickon off on his own with Shaggydog. From what Ned’s shared with Andra in the late hours of the night, she understood why Catelyn was hesitant letting the young boy loose with his wolf in the castle. She loved to see the boys bond with their direwolves.
Ned always loved the beasts of legend.
Her eyes eventually left Shaggydog and turned towards Ghost, surprised to find him at the heels of Margaery Tyrell instead of his owner’s. Her brows scrunched as she tried to find Lyanna’s boy in the crowd, but her eyes didn’t need to drift far. Jon was already making his way back to his wolf, handing a goblet of wine to Lady Margaery.
Andra opened her mouth to call Ned’s attention towards the pair, suspicions already growing, but stopped as she tuned back into his rambling.
“They should not have offended you the way that they have, Your Grace. If Robb was here, this would not have happened.”
Andra snorted at that, looking up at Ned with an exasperated glance. All conspiracies of Jon and Margaery fell away as Ned resembled his father near identically. His brows pinched in annoyance at her reaction. First, she could not give him her full attention and now she was scoffing over his words? How was he supposed to correct these slights his family made against her if she would not take him seriously? And what was that unfamiliar smell clinging to her?
Ned’s nostrils flared as he listened to Andra’s scolding.
“And how many times did your father say those exact words to us, Eddard Stark? If Brandon was here, if Brandon had seen, if Brandon knew what you were planning— Let it go, my friend. I have taken no offense other than at the knowledge that you believed I might have! We acted just the same at their age.”
Her grin managed to light up the very atmosphere around her and Ned wasn’t sure he would ever learn how she did it. He once thought it might have been just his perception of the woman, but these past few years have determined that could not be further from the truth. That smile really could captivate men and women alike. Even now, he could feel eyes turning their way. He added some more space between them, though that was the last thing his body wanted to do.
In truth, he desired to pull her close and inhale that lavender and berry scent he constantly craved— especially since he could not shake the smell of salt and sea from his nose. Knowing he could not reach for her only added to his frustration, no matter how necessary their secrecy was.
A storm began brewing inside of him as lavender and berries became almost imperceptible.
“Let them be children for as long as they can,” she told him, forcing his attention back to his pack of pups.
She looked over her shoulder. She saw all of Ned’s children around the room, but her eyes couldn’t help but focus on Jon. His features were Stark, close enough to Ned’s to pass as his, but the boy resembled Lyanna so closely. Sometimes seeing him in certain lights sharply squeezed Andra’s heart. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, that melancholic song of Rhaegar’s plucking at her heartstrings as memories of her sister flooded her mind. Lyanna really did love that mournful melody.
“Winter is coming, old friend, and I’m afraid that once it arrives, they’ll be in the same position we found ourselves in.”
She sighed, the weight of Westeros pressing down on her shoulders. Looking out into the grand audience of prominent figures and her serving staff, the responsibility to do right by each of them settled over her. She straightened on impulse, jaw twitching as she tried to hold onto the merry and jubilant atmosphere surrounding her. She desperately needed to learn to fight her inner voices, the ones that are too busy plaguing her by day to do so by night anymore.
As of then, she couldn’t. Even as she looked at the cheerful children and the merry Northmen, her mind would not drift away from Winter. She didn’t know how close the Others were to the wall now, no idea how prepared the Night King might be, nor did she know where her greenseer was to help her deepen her gods’ mark on this world.
All Cassandra knew was that her kingdom, spanning from Sunspear to Castle Black, was severely underprepared for the threat baring down on them.
Ned took note of her sudden silence and the way her throat bobbed with the effort to dismiss whatever ill thoughts were currently worming their way into her mind. He could feel the same dour mood begin to settle in his own veins. Unlike the fire he relished, her worries brought about a chill that made him shudder.
He didn’t need to ask her what was on her mind; he could see the look of contemplation in her eyes. He knew her thoughts revolved around what was to come, specifically the Winter his words warned of. He frowned, wondering how she always managed to find the worst times to send herself into a spiral. Not because it dampened the atmosphere— quite the opposite, actually. Only those who knew how to read Andra could see the way her eyes dimmed during these bouts.
No, these inopportune moments always seemed to come when Ned couldn’t offer comfort. Whether leagues apart or near each other but under watchful eyes, an opportunity to reach for her never seemed to exist. He supposed he could be considered dramatic, but Ned truly believed he’s never been able to give her immediate comfort when her mind became a dark and foreboding place.
“What are you thinking?” he prodded, having nothing else to offer.
His nose twitched as he inhaled again. Why was that smell so reminiscent of his time in Dorne?
Cassandra’s gaze snapped to him, both appreciating and ruing the way he read her so well. She didn’t want to admit where her thoughts led, the conclusion she felt pressing down on her, the very sapling of an awful realization rooting itself in her mind.
“I’m… calculating.”
He did not appear impressed.
“Calculating?”
“Calculating,” she confirmed.
“You sound as juvenile as our irresponsible son,” he said, crossing his arms. “Say it plainly, Your Grace.”
His words ‘our son’ hit Cassandra squarely in the chest. She stepped backwards at the force of his implication, the way his steadfastness fell away as he gave in to the desperate desire to remind Westeros— or possibly himself— that once, even once, she was his. Her reputation could be criticized, but Andra proved that she’s earned her place as her brother’s heir. She did not care what they might whisper, and that was a dangerous thing indeed.
Because she offered no correction to Ned’s words.
She straightened her shoulders as she recovered from her stumble. This needed to appear natural to pass as everyday behavior for them, no reason to hide the truth that Jon was their son. No reaction other than answering his question.
“I’m thinking of every wildling that has lived beyond the Wall since the time of the First Men. I’m wondering how many Brothers of the Night’s Watch are buried under meters of snow, ready to dig through it all at one command from their Night King? How many giants? Ice dragons? Beasts of legends that we have no way to prepare for? We could be talking in the millions, Eddard, with an unstoppable amount of strength.”
She shifted closer, sorrowful face looking up at him. Ned loved the subtle contrast of her crown against her dark head of hair. He’d known it from the moment they saw Rhaegar fall; the crown always should have been hers. He supposed he found himself thankful for Cersei’s bastards, discrediting any of Robert’s acclaimed heirs. Andra would get it right.
But, gods, she would stumble along the way. She could be reckless at times and this moment proved as much. He didn’t need her to speak in order to follow her trail of consciousness, the bond between them was voice enough. In her exploration of possible alliances, her mind landed on the most powerful.
It astonished Ned that she would ever entertain such an idea.
“How many times must you be called mad? You cannot possibly think that the Targaryen girl might come to our aid. We’ve long suspected that she would eventually come for your Throne; it is only a matter of time until she sets her eyes on your kingdom.”
“She has three dragons,” Cassandra. “We can cover so much more territory with four. We should at least consider the option.”
“You have been wary of her since news of those same dragons came to us, and now you wish to— what? Befriend her?”
“I clearly do not seek a friendship in the woman, Eddard,” she hissed lowly, a contrast to his rising volume. “However, an alliance might be worth exploring. We would just need the dragons, she wouldn’t even need to risk any men. There might be an arrangement that keeps everyone satisfied.”
Ned closed the distance between them, growling his displeasure. The closer he came, the more he could smell her. It was… potent. That lavender scent was dampened with salt and sea. It burned his nostrils, stoking his anger with every breath.
In only seconds, Ned’s consciousness became overwhelmed with a war between his mind and his instincts.
“And what would you offer her in return, Cassandra? Robert’s damned throne?”
She reared, surprised at his outburst. Was the thought of recruiting help from across the sea really worth inciting such a public display of discourse? Her eyes couldn’t be bothered to look and see how many people were paying attention to their exchange; her gaze wholly fixated on those grey irises she sees every time her eyelids close.
She remained silent, the effort to hold her tongue taking most of her focus.
“We do not need three more dragons. We have all the strength we need on our own soil,” he grit, voice carried through the chamber as the crowd quieted. “You’ve never doubted us before, not even when we marched against Aerys’ men.”
Attention turned their way and Cassandra hated it. She wanted to be behind closed doors, where she could talk to him freely, where she could explain just how great of a disadvantage they had without needing to hide her fear. With the audience surrounding them, however, she wouldn’t let herself slip.
Her shoulders squared at the impact of Ned’s anger. Unlike others, who often found themselves petrified in the face of the quiet wolf’s roaring fury, it only fueled her own fire. Brown eyes flitted around the room, taking in every shocked expression, Oberyn’s intrigued face, and Catelyn’s disappointed features. Cassandra could feel one of her nostrils tugging upwards as she tried her best to remain impassive.
Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms, furious eyes snapping back to Ned’s.
“We do not have Robert,” she stated in an even tone, asking the old gods for the patience to keep from striking their king. “He did more than we give him credit for, as you are well aware of. Is it so wrong of me to question our success rates without him?”
For a reason he could not name, her words only angered him further. Ned closed in, towering over her with an icy expression. Well aware of the watchful eyes on him, he took care to keep his hands firmly balled at his sides instead of tugging her into him as he desperately wanted to.
And still, salt filled the air around them.
“Yes,” he growled, ducking slightly so that she could see the threat in his eye.
The one that drew a very clear line in the space between them.
The one that he would cross in an instant if she pushed him too far.
The one that told Cassandra that if she continued to push, he would begin to take— damn any who bore witness.
He gestured to the crowd with a firm finger.
“Any of these lords that either met us on the battlefield or fought alongside us can attest to our odds of victory. Our strength is a constant in this life that leaves me without a single doubt. You are your own ruler, Your Grace, and I cannot stop you, but I urge you to reconsider this alliance.”
Without anything else to say, Ned turned on his heel and made for the exit. He needed to get away from all these watchful eyes and pull himself back together. He didn’t need to look back to know that the same woman who wound him up so tightly followed him into the hallway.
He could feel her anger rising with every step, and while the rational side of his brain reminded him that he needed to regain some semblance of control, his thundering heart drowned out that voice. All Ned heard was the rushing of wolfsblood in his ears, instinct overpowering logic. He couldn’t stand the smell she brought with her, a harsh reminder that some Dornishman left his mark on her.
“Would you stop it?” Andra barked after the heavy doors shut them off from the crowd.
Ned turned, a sneer gracing his features. His eyes found Ser Jory first, who moved down the hall with ease, checking for hidden strays. He knew his king and queen did not need an audience for this conversation.
Hells, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be present for the storm brewing around King Eddard.
Inside the feasting hall, Oberyn flicked his hand upwards, prompting the band to continue their jovial songs. He lazily dragged his eyes across the room, forcing himself to appear as undisturbed as possible following the display his wife just took part in. He looked to Catelyn, eyes widening slightly when he caught sight of her disapproving frown.
He signaled for the Grand Maester’s apprentice. Alleras scurried towards him, leaving Oberyn’s seven daughters behind at the table they’ve occupied all evening. He sat forward in his chair, tapping Catelyn’s wrist to grab her attention.
Blue eyes snapped to him and Oberyn saw all the evidence of a wife fed up with her husband’s antics. He smiled gently, eyes glinting with pride as his child approached him and his Northern counterpart.
“Queen Catelyn,” Oberyn said, gesturing towards Alleras. “This is Alleras, apprentice to the newly selected Grand Maester.”
Catelyn greeted Alleras kindly, but not necessarily warmly. Even as Alleras paid their respects, the tension never left Cat’s shoulders. Oberyn smiled to himself, chuckling after his child walked away. He leaned closer, purposefully pushing past the standard space a woman expects from a man not her spouse. Blue irises turned suspicious as they eyed him warily.
“When you met my four youngest, you asked about my eighth daughter’s whereabouts,” he whispered so only she could hear. “While my oldest wished to pursue lives in Dornish command, Sarella felt called to… more scholarly pursuits.”
Cat’s eyes widened as she leaned away from him, gaze darting back towards the retreating Alleras. She took in his gait, of all things, and caught the way his steps fell lighter than an average young man’s might. The slant of their shoulders, the shape of her lips as she settled into a seat next to her sister.
One of her brows formed a perfect arch over her eye as she settled her curious gaze back on Oberyn. He gave a shrug, grin widening. He leaned in towards her, surprising Catelyn with his close proximity once again.
“It’s not just their secrets we’re protecting,” he whispered, barely glancing towards the doors their spouses disappeared through. “They are protecting ours as well.”
Catelyn’s breath hitched, Oberyn’s viper eyes boring into her very soul. He couldn’t know the truth, the secret Ned kept for her since she brought Robb home, but he knew she hid something. With his charismatic attitude, Cat often forgot the predator that Oberyn Martell’s reputation described.
“They are not exactly subtle,” she muttered, trying to shake away the foreboding chill that danced along her flesh.
“No,” Oberyn laughed, shaking his head lightly. “No, my wife could be described as anything but.”
Catelyn’s fingers drummed along the table, her chin resting in the palm of the other hand. She knew that her posture lacked any form of refinement, but she could not be bothered. If her husband could make such a scene, surely she could be forgiven for a bent spine.
“Do their actions not upset you?” Catelyn questioned.
If anyone could help her navigate the position she found herself in, it would be the man who willingly signed himself on for a similar fate.
Oberyn simply quirked an eyebrow in response.
Catelyn sighed and shifted so that her body leaned in to fill some of the space between them.
“You’ve always appeared unbothered by this arrangement,” she whispered, tilting her chin. “Are you not upset by the truth that the vows they gave us before the gods were simply words with empty meanings?”
The corners of Oberyn’s mouth tugged downwards in contemplation.
“Our gods,” he corrected, just as softly. “Vows they said within walls that mean nothing to them. Cassandra wished to wed before a heart tree, but I would not allow her to make herself a hypocrite in the eyes of her gods.”
He shrugged, rising to his feet. He bowed at the waist, sliding his fingers under her forearm. He brought his lips to her ear, whispering a truth so secret, he was sure Catelyn was one of the four people Cassandra told him knew she and Ned were wed before their gods.
“Besides, they swore their marriage vows long before we entered their lives.”
Catelyn, having heard no such thing before, reared backwards, looking up at him with wide eyes. Oberyn payed her no mind, instead pulling gently on her arm. His chin gestured to the open floor for dancing.
“Honor me with a dance, Your Grace. Let them see we’re not swayed by this little upset. I’m sure it won’t be long until those two calm themselves.”
Contrary to Oberyn’s belief, Cassandra was no closer to a level-head state than when she left the feast. Jory returned to the main doors, keeping guard over the arguing pair. Her eyes barely caught the movement as her attention remained locked on Ned, who stood several paces away from her.
“What has gotten into you?”
Ned’s features flashed with shame much too quickly for her to believe he felt remorseful. She continued to press, still thinking this was something well in his control, something Ned could rein in if he wished.
She couldn’t be further from the truth.
“You could simply say that you don’t want me to speak with her.”
“Simply? As if anything is simple when it comes to you, Cassandra?”
Andra heaved a sigh, feeling a residual sting from the bruise on her side with all of the movement she’d done throughout the day. Her tongue wet her lips as she took in Ned’s appearance. He hid his emotions behind stern grey eyes, not even allowing them to reach her through their bond. She hated the way he always tried to bear his burdens alone, even after all they’ve been through.
“Winter is coming, Ned.”
“Twice now,” he snapped, holding his fingers up to represent the number. “You’ve said my own words to me twice now tonight, Andra. I am well aware of the threat that is heading in our direction!”
“Then that should be reason enough to understand my need to explore other options! Every time we kill a wight, their numbers dwindle, yet every time one of our men die, they join the army of the dead and our enemy grows. Fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel— as of right now, those are our only effective attacks. Valyrian steel is rare enough as it is, we need to hope mining the obsidian from Dragonstone is enough to supply an army, but the addition of even one more dragon? Three more would give us a winning chance, Ned.”
Ned stood straighter, jaw ticking as his cold eyes looked down at her. Whatever was brewing behind those eyes, he wouldn’t show her. He’d crossed the threshold from annoyed to enraged too easily for her to pinpoint the true moment where the wolfsblood took over the man.
Andra’s fingers twitched in a similar manner to Ned’s stern jaw, but she otherwise remained unmoved. Her mind explored different theories as to why her normally sensible Ned was so mad about a mere suggestion, but she could only think about how she hadn’t seen him this angry with her since she told him would fight in Robert’s Rebellion.
Or rather… when Robert told Ned that she would fight.
She is no longer your concern, you right bastard!
With Robert’s voice thundering in his ears, her eyes widened as she finally placed the look in Ned’s eye. This was the thread of his being that the gods themselves weaved through all the rest of his being— all of Jon Arryn’s lessons, all the love for his family, all of his honor that he truly did hold dear and all the responsibility that constantly weighed him down.
This was the wolfsblood that sat so dormant, so quiet in Eddard Stark. His siblings never could hide it as well as he did— the truth that there was a beast lurking within all Starks. They simply needed to be prodded enough to show it.
For Cassandra, that look risked intoxication. Under normal circumstances, she would happily lap up what could easily be mistaken for a gleam of possession. She knew better though; she could feel how deeply these roots dug themselves in. This was more than envy or irritation. His very claim over her felt threatened for one reason or another and Andra doubted that Ned even knew what pushed him to grow so irate as he did his best to bottle it all up.
The look was thrilling, yes, but the cold truth that he abandoned his claim over her remained. Cassandra grew weary of having to remind him of it. He married Catelyn, he decided to follow Jon’s advice, he separated them for seventeen years. Ned chose this life for them and as she made clear in Riverrun, she could no longer let herself be prisoner to a life that could never be, not now. Not after all that’s happened.
Yet, to Ned, he never made that choice. Jon spoke to him, yes, and he told his mentor that he would consider marrying Catelyn Tully. He only wanted to speak to his clever Andra first, to see if she believed they could win without the support of the Riverlands. All he needed was her faith that without Hoster Tully, they could still save Lyanna and bring her home.
Instead, Cassandra slipped away without so much as a goodbye. It was only by some miracle that young guard, one named Jory Cassel, managed to ride ahead of her towards the Neck to make sure Howland Reed accompanied her to the Stormlands, where Robert himself rode towards.
To Ned, Andra’s rejection came weeks before his vows to Catelyn. Even then, his heart remained loyal to his love. It is true that he gave Catelyn what should have been her place in his life, yes, he even gave her five children. Jon, however, was the child that Ned raised without Catelyn’s support. Every step of the way, he did it for Cassandra. Wondering if she would approve of his choices, if he reprimanded the boy in a way she would support, if she would have been the better parent to Jon.
To Ned, not a day went by where he wasn’t with Andra. She plagued his every thought and he wouldn’t choose any other fate. As much as she belonged to him, he was hers. He watched his wife grow more and more miserable with each passing day and yet the only thing he could offer her was another child. The thought of anything more than physical felt akin to betrayal and he couldn’t do that to Andra.
Her hold over him was too strong. Throughout the years of her absence, his heart eventually turned cold, his spirit dampened, and his grief sat heavy on him. Now, after two and a half years of having her back in his life, another man’s scent clung to the woman who built him. It burned inside Ned’s nostrils, his face scrunching in his discomfort as he looked down at Cassandra.
He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t go back to a life without her. She made him a better man. Catelyn enjoyed his company more and more, his children were making memories with the father they deserved, and Cassandra found safety in his arms. He could not ask for a more perfect arrangement, even if he often felt undeserving. However, if Andra was finding comfort in the arms of Oberyn Martell, then what need would she have for him?
There was nothing more for him to offer.
His hand trembled as he ran one down his chin and over his beard. Andra’s features remained as fierce and intimidating as ever, looking up at Ned as though he were the opposition. She still didn’t see how desperately he needed her.
“We have all we need,” he tried in an even tone, though it was anything but, “Going to the Targaryen girl is an unnecessary risk and you are an empty-headed fool for even considering it!”
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He hadn’t noticed the way they gravitated towards one another in their anger. Ned’s nose brushed hers, yet the touch was cold, his fear restraining his affection for her. The sound of swords clanging against swords drowned out his voice of reason, the weight of all to come bearing down on him more than ever.
As Andra’s jaw squared and she clasped her hands in front of herself, Ned could feel her retreat. They were no strangers to criticizing one another’s choices, but Ned growled the words with too much bitterness— even if had nothing to do with her idea and everything to do with the way his nose burned as he inhaled in desperate attempts to find the lavender he craved from her.
Yet, he only found the smell of waves crashing into sand. His chest shuddered as he scowled down at the floor between them. Well aware he said the wrong thing, Ned’s voice couldn’t form the apology.
Not when a small part of him meant it.
If there was anything that could make Cassandra Baratheon loathe an individual, it would be from them insulting her very intellect. She hated any, but one from Ned hit a new nerve within her entirely. It didn’t stroke her pride, but rather it dampened her spirit in an instant. Her back straightened as she fought the urge to cower at his clear displeasure.
She forced her fists to uncurl and she folded her fingers in front of her. She masked her own emotions behind a steady expression and tilted her face to look up at her very foundation, only to find him crumbling.
As much as she wanted to be angry for such an insult, all she cared about was her broken love and how much she never wanted to leave him, especially when he was struggling to hold himself steady.
As proud and as brazen as she could be, Ned Stark remained her greatest weakness.
“I know I can never be the person, the man, my brother was,” she said with downturned lips. “I thought we were past this, darling, but clearly something has rattled you. It seems you need to hear the words as plainly as possible: You’ll never be the leader Brandon would have been, Ned.”
She cocked her head to the side, eyes sliding all the way down to his boots before snapping back up.
“So stop trying to be.”
She continued past him, stopping to circle her fingers around his wrist. She felt Ned’s pulse racing, jumping every so often as whatever this was wrecked him. He still scowled, but those grey eyes practically begged her to save him, to catch him as he fell.
And, gods, she wanted to. She wanted to fall right into him and soothe any doubt. She didn’t know why he was so distraught, especially since this conversation began with their usual jests over a cup of ale, but the sight of him broke her heart.
She couldn’t catch him, as much as she wanted to.
Andra needed to think of the realm as a whole, not just her and Ned. She owed it to those who relied on her to put them first— and to Cassandra, every individual on Westeros’ soil relied on her. It wasn’t Oberyn she thought of, nor was it Jon. Nine hells, it wasn’t even Shireen that crossed Andra’s mind as she made the decision to withdraw from him. Catelyn Stark’s face clouded her thoughts as she realized Ned needed to be able to mend himself in the North. He would have to find a way to let his family put him back together— it could no longer be Cassandra’s job alone.
He chose his Queen in the North. He needed to trust her enough to let her in.
Cassandra knew that eventually Oberyn would have to be her support; the odds of Ned being near were growing slimmer as her volume of tasks thickened. The South would demand more and more of her attention and she wouldn’t be able to take the trips North she originally planned. Ned wouldn’t need to worry about such nonsense as distance; once Andra received word that he needed her, she would be on the back of her dragon and to him in what felt like no time at all in comparison. Her first instinct was to always go to him when he called.
She needed to break the pattern.
More than the distance, Andra always was the more realistic of the two. She knew how possible the outcome was that they did not survive the upcoming storm, just as she knew she would need to let Oberyn support her if she lost Ned— for the sake of their kingdom and all those that would rely on her, she could not allow herself to fall to ruin because of a broken heart.
And if the roles were reversed?
Cassandra needed to know that Ned would be okay if she fell first. That he would find comfort in his family rather than mourn her in the same manner he did his father and siblings— entirely and leaving little room for warmth and happiness. Cassandra needed to know he’d find peace in the face of her death, and she couldn’t say that the creature of panicked desperation standing before her could.
Her fingers tightened around his wrist as she pressed her cheek to the outside of his arm. She could feel his body shudder with uneven breaths as he tried not to look down at her. As he tried to convince himself she didn’t have that much of a hold on him.
They both knew it was pointless.
Cassandra pressed her lips to the silk covering Ned’s bicep. The next confession would hurt him, but Ned always had a curious mind, especially in regard to the old gods. This anger, this insecurity, would soon simmer down to where his rationality returned. She needed to prod him just a tad so that he would calm himself enough to seek her out.
He would have too many questions about how she could have ever spoken to Brandon to remain angry for very long.
“Your brother asked me recently if I was ruining you,” she said, eyes locking onto the door she intended to slip through. “After months of stewing on his words, I’m beginning to understand his implication.”
She continued forward, pads of her fingers hesitant to leave him. Andra caught the way he tightened, how the atmosphere itself around him coiled with tension. His shoulders set in a line, he cast his face downwards.
“Benjen would never say such a thing,” Ned said with certainty as he looked over his shoulder at her.
Cassandra paused, smiling to herself. There. The man rather than the beast. A sliver of confidence, enough to tell her that Ned would be just fine if she continued forward— if just this once, she let him fall.
Her lips lifted enough to show her teeth. She turned her head to find his eyes, tipping her chin downwards in the smallest gesture of agreement.
“No,” she agreed, “Ben would never.”
And she continued, leaving the man supposed to conquer Winter feeling colder than he ever had before.
The image of Ned standing frozen in an empty hallway vanished from Brandon’s mind the second he felt a sharp jerk on his shoulder. Meera stood over him, an urgent look on her face. She continued to shake him, pulling him closer to consciousness with every movement.
“Bran!”
He lurched upwards, grabbing her forearms for balance. Meera helped steady him, holding his weight until he was secure in his stance. After two years without feeling in his legs, he needed to retrain his muscles to carry his weight. Meera, Hodor, and the cane Leaf carved from weirwood were his best aides.
Once steady, Meera pointed to the northwest, towards the Land of Always Winter. Bran held tightly to the cane that never fell too far from him. With Meera’s cautious arms hovering near him, Bran turned himself enough to find where she previously indicated.
“Something’s happening,” she cautioned.
Bran nodded as he tried to slow his breathing. He shook off the feelings that clung to him. Feelings that were his father’s, not his. Unfortunately, experiencing the emotions of those whose eyes he looks through was side effect from tapping into a root from the present. And his father’s?
Bran only ever felt such a primal desperation like this when he warged into Summer during her hunts. It surprised him that his father, cold and sturdy Ned Stark, felt so threatened by the notion that Cassandra may no longer have need for him.
After months in the harsh winds of the Wild North, Bran’s eyes adjusted enough to see through the flurry of snowfall. In the far distance, he could barely make out the thicker winds gathering around a massive area.
Bran didn’t need to be a greenseer to know what was happening. Anyone who’d ever read a Northern book of history would be able to name the sight for what it was. The Night King and his army of Others would begin marching after sensing the divide between the king and queen. Bran was sure their enemy saw the same moment he did; the moment Cassandra left Ned believing he wasn’t enough for her anymore.
“When Father returns, Winterfell will be covered by similar winds,” he told his friend, reaching a hand to scratch the fur behind Summer’s ear. “This marks the beginning.”
Meera shifted, crossing her arms as her eyes darkened. Bran smiled to himself as he watched her; she really did take after her father. Bran knew it would only be a few more days before she caved and opened herself up to the old gods, until she swore the same oath her father did in front of the Laughing Tree.
Until then, she still believed her only role in this was helping Jojen to get Bran to the Three-Eyed Raven. With Jojen gone, Meera poured herself into doing all she could for the Stark prince, but remained hesitant to trust the greenseer below.
“Beginning?”
“The Winds of Winter are brewing,” he explained. “And once they meet, the coldest, harshest Winter to ever touch Westeros shall begin.”
He turned his back to the sight, relying on the cane through his three-point turn.
“We must prepare for the journey home.”
“Home!” Meera exclaimed. “You’ve only spent a few months here, Bran. Surely there is more time for you to learn.”
“My father needs to be ready for when those winds meet his own.”
He sighed as he slowly lowered himself down the first step into the underbelly of the heart tree. Summer watched him intently, making sure her master took care as he did so. He smiled down at his wolf, though the distance between them was becoming smaller each day. She stood up to his bicep now, the young pup-like gleam never leaving her eyes.
“And unfortunately, I don’t think either wife is planning to pull his head out of his arse this time around.”