Author's Note:
Hey guys, you might have forgotten about this plotline like I did, lol, but im using this chapter to try and close one thread of this story, with the Vale angle, and the next chapter will bring us back to the west. Hope y'all enjoy!
[The Eyrie, 6th Moon, 299 AC]
Ruling, Eddard Stark had learned long ago, consisted of far fewer battles than singers preferred to admit and far more arguments over things no song would ever remember.
King Harrold III Arryn sat beneath the moon-and-falcon banners of the Eyrie while two landed knights disputed ownership of a bridge that crossed a narrow river scarcely wide enough to deserve the name. One claimed his grandfather had paid for the bridge and therefore possessed the right to collect tolls. The other insisted the road leading to it crossed his land and that no man could profit from traffic passing through his fields without his leave. They had spent nearly half an hour arguing over six copper stars from every wagon and one from every mounted traveler.
Harrold listened longer than Ned expected him to.
The young king had changed since the crown had first been placed upon his head. Not greatly, and certainly not enough to make Ned forget that only months earlier Harrold Hardyng had been a young knight whose greatest political concern was who he would bed next, but there was a new caution in the way he listened before speaking. The silver circlet upon his brow no longer appeared quite as foreign as it once had, though Harrold still touched it unconsciously whenever proceedings grew tiresome.
Lord Yohn Royce stood to one side of the hall with his arms folded, while Ser Waymar Royce remained near him. Lord Artos Stark watched from near one of the pillars, his expression giving nothing away, and the Greatjon occupied a place beside Ned with all the patience of a chained bear.
When the first knight began repeating an argument he had already made twice, Greatjon bent closer to Ned and muttered, low enough that only the men nearest could hear him, "If the lad makes me listen to another hour of this, I am going to buy the damned bridge myself and throw them both from it."
Ned turned his eyes toward him. "You would have to pay the toll first."
The Greatjon's mouth opened slightly before a reluctant grin appeared beneath his beard, though Ned was already looking back toward Harrold.
The king had heard enough.
"You both agree that Ser Morton's grandfather paid for the bridge, and neither of you disputes that the road approaches through Ser Belmore's land," Harrold said, leaning forward with his forearms against the arms of the high seat rather than sitting rigidly beneath the crown. "Then neither claim is as complete as either of you would like it to be. Ser Morton will retain the toll because his house maintains the bridge, but half the proceeds will go toward upkeep of the road and the surrounding crossings. Ser Belmore will appoint a man to inspect the accounts twice yearly, and if either of you decides to raise the toll without leave from the crown, I will remove it entirely and make the crossing free."
Neither man looked pleased.
Harrold noticed and gave a small shrug. "It seems neither of you are completely satisfied. That usually means the judgment is close enough to fair. You may go now, sers."
The knights bowed and departed with the strained courtesy of men who intended to continue disliking one another for the remainder of their lives.
Harrold waited until the doors closed before leaning back and letting out a long breath. "When men told me I might someday inherit the Vale, they mentioned armies, castles, falcons, tourneys, and beautiful daughters offered by ambitious fathers. Nobody mentioned bridges."
Lord Yohn Royce allowed himself the smallest smile. "Men seeking your favor rarely begin by telling you which parts of power are tedious."
"They should. It would make them more useful." Harrold rubbed his brow beneath the circlet before looking toward Ned. "Was that judgment reasonable, or are you merely going to stand there looking solemn until I begin doubting myself?"
Ned had been asked some version of the question almost every day since Harrold's coronation.
"You heard both men, found where each had a legitimate claim, and made certain neither could abuse the other. It was reasonable."
Harrold studied his face. "That sounded dangerously close to approval, Lord Eddard."
"It was."
That pleased him more than Harrold tried to show. He straightened slightly in the chair and looked toward Yohn Royce, who nodded as well.
The independence of the Vale had been proclaimed with banners, swords and shouted oaths, but governing it had proved quieter. The lords who had cheered when Harrold took the Arryn name now wanted offices settled, old disputes judged, taxes clarified, and royal charters confirmed. Some had spent so many years railing against the Iron Throne that they had apparently forgotten someone would have to perform the work once they no longer answered to it.
Ned had spent much of the last several weeks ensuring Harrold did not mistake independence for freedom from responsibility.
Harrold, to his credit, had listened.
The doors opened again before the next petitioners could enter, and Maester Colemon hurried across the hall carrying a leather case beneath one arm and several folded parchments in the other hand. The expression upon his face told Ned that whatever waited inside those letters had already displaced the matter of bridges.
"Your Grace," the maester said after bowing, his breath somewhat short from the climb, "ravens from Gulltown, the Riverlands and the west. One bears King Alaric's seal and is addressed personally to Lord Eddard."
Ned's attention sharpened immediately.
Harrold gestured toward the table below the high seat. "Then I think the bridge disputes can wait until tomorrow. Anyone who complains may purchase his own bridge and argue with Lord Umber about it."
Greatjon gave an approving grunt as the lesser petitioners were dismissed.
Ned took Alaric's letter first.
The wax carried the direwolf of House Stark, pressed deeply enough that part of the edge had cracked during the journey. Ned broke it and recognized his nephew's hand immediately.
He read silently at first.
The opening lines were simple enough. Alaric wrote that he, Robb, Jon, Dorren and the others remained well, though the campaign had carried them farther west than he initially intended. The rest became heavier.
Tywin Lannister had been taken alive.
Kevan Lannister and Leo Lefford were dead.
Stafford Lannister had hastily raised another western host near Oxcross and lost it just as quickly.
Ned stopped there.
Harrold noticed. "Is it bad news, my lord?"
"Not for us," he chuckled for a moment.
Ned continued reading, his eyes moving more slowly as the shape of events became clear. Stafford was dead. Roland Crakehall had surrendered. Lannisport had opened its gates without a battle, and the western houses east of the city were submitting faster than Alaric could send men to receive them.
Near the bottom, Alaric had written more personally.
The West is beaten. I do not mean to say every castle has surrendered, because the Rock has not and likely will not while Ser Damion remains within it, but there is no field army left that can challenge us. Lucion has been useful beyond what I expected, and the westermen have begun looking toward him before they look toward me, which is exactly where I need their eyes.
Ned paused there and read the line again.
Harrold leaned forward. "You have made that face twice now. Either King Alaric has done something very clever or something very foolish."
"With him, those are not always different things," he sighed, his tone reflecting more so that of an uncle than a retainer.
Artos looked toward Ned at that, though his expression remained controlled.
Ned continued reading.
I have summoned the principal western houses to Lannisport. I have no intention of annexing their lands or leaving northern garrisons here any longer than necessary. A conquered Westerlands would cost more men than it is worth and would give us another rebellion within a generation. They need a government that belongs to them and one strong enough to keep whatever peace follows.
That answered one concern Ned had carried since hearing Alaric crossed the Golden Tooth.
He finished the letter.
The final portion concerned the North.
Ironborn ships had begun probing the western coast. Benjicot Stark and the northern fleet had already moved to meet them, with Mallister ships joining from Seagard. Alaric did not yet know the scale of Balon's commitment, but he expected the reports to worsen before they improved.
If the western lords have sense, this will be finished shortly. If they do not, I may simply leave them in Lannisport arguing until winter while I sail north. I have spent enough time solving other men's kingdoms.
The last sentence made Ned breathe through his nose, not quite laughing.
Harrold lifted an eyebrow. "That part sounded personal."
"It was."
Ned handed the letter across.
Harrold read it without speaking. The others waited, and by the time he finished, the younger king's expression had become considerably more serious.
"So Tywin Lannister is actually captured," Harrold said, placing the parchment carefully upon the table. "Not defeated and retreating or even wounded. But truly captured."
"Aye."
"And Stafford is dead, Lannisport has submitted, and Alaric thinks the West is effectively finished."
"That is what he believes."
Greatjon gave a deep approving sound. "Then the boy has done what half the realm said could not be done. Jaime Lannister lies dead, struck down by our king himself, Tywin is now in chains, and the lions are hiding inside their own rock. Brandon would have emptied Winterfell's cellars celebrating."
Ned looked at him.
Greatjon's expression softened somewhat. "He would have."
That much was true.
Harrold rose from the high seat and moved toward the table, leaving the crown on his head as he bent over the scattered letters. "This gives both of us room. If the West is no longer capable of sending armies east, the North can turn its attention home and the Vale no longer has to watch every western road expecting ten thousand Lannisters to appear."
Lord Yohn Royce stepped closer. "Provided Stannis does not decide the moment he takes King's Landing that every independent kingdom is a rebellion requiring correction."
Harrold looked toward him. "He would have to take King's Landing first."
"That may now be easier than it was a moon ago," Ned said. "Tywin cannot relieve the city. Neither can Stafford. If Highgarden remains apart, Joffrey has fewer friends every day."
Maester Colemon cleared his throat from the other side of the table, his fingers resting over another folded parchment. "There is more concerning the south, Your Grace, though I would caution that much of it comes by way of merchants and Gulltown captains rather than ravens bearing a lord's seal."
Harrold glanced toward Ned before motioning for the maester to continue. "After what we have just heard, Maester, I suspect rumor is the only part of the realm still traveling faster than King Alaric."
Colemon allowed himself a restrained smile before opening the parchment. "Several ships out of the Stepstones and the southern Free Cities have brought the same general account, though they disagree on nearly every useful detail. The Golden Company has been gathering in unusual strength. Ships are being purchased or hired, provisions are being accumulated, and captains who would ordinarily scatter their companies across the Disputed Lands have instead been ordered to remain together."
Greatjon frowned and shifted his weight beside Ned. "The Golden Company has spent half its existence gathering for one war or another. What makes this different?"
"The man they are said to have gathered around," Colemon answered, and the hesitation before his next words drew the attention of everyone around the table. "A young man has appeared among them claiming the name Aegon Targaryen. He says he is Prince Rhaegar's son by Elia Martell and that the infant killed during the sack of King's Landing was another child placed in his stead."
Silence settled over the chamber.
Ned felt his jaw tighten before he could stop it.
He remembered the throne room after the sack, Robert still swollen with victory and rage, the Lannister banners hanging where dragons had flown, and afterward the stories of what had been done to Elia and her children. He had never seen the boy himself. Only enough of the aftermath to know that there had seemed very little room for uncertainty at the time.
"Aegon was killed," Ned said at last, his voice lower than it had been moments before. "Gregor Clegane smashed his head against a wall. There was no question afterward that Elia's children were dead."
"Apparently someone now intends to create one," Yohn Royce replied, though there was no humor in his tone. "The Golden Company does not normally place its weight behind children's tales unless there is coin or purpose beneath them."
Harrold stepped away from the table and folded his arms, his earlier satisfaction over the western news gone. "Has he crossed into Westeros?"
"No reliable account says so," Colemon replied. "That is where the stories begin contradicting one another. One captain swore the company was preparing to sail for Cape Wrath. Another claimed they were still gathering around the Stepstones. A third said the young prince had not yet left the eastern shore at all. What is consistent is that the name has been spoken openly enough that men are carrying it west."
Ned nodded slowly. That was troublesome, but not yet a war.
"What of Dorne?" he asked.
Colemon selected another scrap of parchment. "That is less certain still. Gulltown merchants report that Dornish agents have been seen among ships traveling east and that at least one party believed to serve Prince Doran passed through the Stepstones recently. There has been no declaration from Sunspear, no banners raised, and no armies called that anyone can confirm. But if this man truly claims to be Elia Martell's son, I would be surprised if Doran did not at least send men to look at him."
"He would be a fool not to," Artos said from near the pillar, finally leaving his silence. "If the boy is false, Doran loses a few weeks and several trusted men. If he is genuine, then Elia's son has returned from the dead with the Golden Company behind him, and Dorne would never forgive itself for ignoring him."
Ned looked toward his older kinsman and gave a slight nod. "That does not mean Dorne believes him yet."
"No," Artos agreed. "But it means someone has given them a reason to think his words aren't complete horse shit."
Harrold looked thoughtful rather than frightened, which pleased Ned. "And the Reach? You mentioned Gulltown captains before. Highgarden has been silent throughout most of this."
Colemon's expression tightened. "There are whispers of Reachmen traveling east as well, though I have nothing I would call proof. Two merchants independently claimed that men connected to Highgarden have been asking after the Golden Company and this supposed prince. Another spoke of renewed discussion surrounding Lady Margaery Tyrell's marriage, though he could not say to whom and may simply have repeated tavern gossip."
Greatjon gave a dismissive grunt. "A pretty maid of Highgarden being discussed for marriage is hardly news."
"No," Ned said, keeping his attention on Colemon, "but Highgarden asking after a claimant while refusing to lift a sword for Joffrey is worth thinking on."
Harrold slowly nodded. "So Dorne may be investigating him, the Reach may be speaking to him, and nobody has committed enough to have declared a side."
"That would be the safest reading," Ned replied. "The dangerous one is that both have already decided more than they wish anyone else to know."
Yohn Royce folded his hands behind his back and paced several steps. "Either way, it complicates Stannis. If he takes King's Landing, he may inherit a city and discover that the realm beyond it has already begun choosing other kings."
"He will not care," Ned said. "Stannis believes the throne is his by right. He will call Harrold a rebel, Alaric a rebel, this Aegon an impostor or usurper, and likely everyone else who refuses him some variation of the same."
Harrold's mouth tightened at that, though he did not rise to the insult of a man who was not present. "Then he may learn that having a right and enforcing it are different matters. I have no desire to fight him, but I did not take this crown merely to remove it when the first Baratheon asks."
Ned studied him for a moment. Months ago Harrold might have said the same thing with a grin and a hand on his sword. Now he sounded like a man considering what the words would cost.
"That is why the Vale needs agreements before the next war begins," Ned said. "Not boasts. Trade with the North, clear roads through the mountains, mutual recognition, and an understanding of what either kingdom will do if another power tries to force one of us back beneath the Iron Throne. Independence proclaimed in a hall is easy. Independence that survives ten years requires more than a crown."
Harrold met his gaze and nodded. "Then we settle those matters before you leave."
The words caught Ned slightly off guard.
Before he could respond, one of Colemon's assistants entered through the side door carrying another letter, this one sealed in plain grey wax. The maester took it, glanced at the writing, and then extended it toward Ned.
"From Lady Catelyn, my lord."
The tightness that had settled in Ned's shoulders eased somewhat as he accepted it.
Catelyn's letters had been frequent at first and then less so as ravens grew harder to route through armies, sieges and shifting loyalties. Most carried reports from Winterfell, news of Bran and Rickon, Sansa and Arya, and the endless practical matters that continued regardless of how many kings crowned themselves farther south.
Some letters spoke of Lord Hoster's worsening condition, with the Maester not exactly optimistic about the aging lord's health.
He broke the seal expecting more of the same.
The first line stopped him.
Ned, Ysilla has delivered safely. The child is a boy.
He read it again before the words fully settled.
Harrold watched his face with concern. "Has something happened?"
Ned did not answer immediately.
Catelyn continued in her familiar hand, explaining that Ysilla's labor had lasted longer than anyone would have liked but that both mother and child were healthy. The maester had found no cause for concern, and Ysilla herself had apparently recovered enough by the following morning to complain that every woman who had ever described childbirth as merely difficult ought to be horsewhipped.
Ned's mouth twitched.
Then he reached the final paragraph.
Robb and Ysilla settled the name between themselves over their ravens some moons ago. She told me they had agreed that if the child were a son, he would be called Edderion. Robb wished him named for you, and Ysilla agreed before he left. You should know that your son spoke of you often enough in his letters that she finally threatened to name the boy something else if he did not stop explaining why Edderion was a good name.
Ned lowered the parchment slowly.
The room had gone quiet again, though for an entirely different reason.
Harrold stepped closer. "Ned?"
"Ysilla has given birth," he said, and the words felt strange in his mouth. "Robb has a son."
Greatjon's face broke almost instantly into a broad grin, and he crossed the distance between them with two heavy steps before clapping Ned across the shoulder. "Then stop looking as if someone died, you miserable old wolf. That is news worth emptying a cellar over."
Ned steadied himself against the table after the blow and gave him a look that held little real annoyance. "You have already proposed emptying Winterfell's cellars once today."
"Aye, and now we have a better reason."
Bronze Yohn laughed before his expression softened. "Ysilla is well, no issues with the delivery, I hope?"
"Aye, both of them are in great health, the boy has a pair of strong lungs on him, no doubt a good mix of Stark and Royce blood, Yohn." Ned glanced back at the letter, his thumb resting against the edge of the parchment. "They named him Edderion."
Lord Artos finally moved from his place near the wall. There was something gentler in the older Stark's face as he approached, though his voice remained as restrained as ever. "For you."
Ned nodded.
"A strong name," Artos said simply, placing a hand against Ned's shoulder for a brief moment before letting it fall.
The reaction embarrassed Ned more than he expected. He had faced armies with less discomfort than he felt standing beneath the eyes of half the room while his grandson's name sat written in Catelyn's hand.
"I did not ask them to."
"That would rather defeat the purpose of naming a boy in someone's honor," Yohn Royce said, the faint warmth in his voice making the observation gentler than the words alone would have been.
For a moment, Ned and Bronze Yohn shared a look, and they clasped forearms, for they now shared a grandson between their children, after that, he looked over the letter one more time.
Ned finished it again, then folded the letter carefully, taking more time than necessary to make certain the creases remained clean. "Robb and Ysilla must have agreed before he went west. He never mentioned it."
"Perhaps he wanted his mother to tell you," Harrold said. The young king had moved around the table and now stood close enough that Ned could see genuine pleasure in his expression. "Or perhaps he knew you would spend three letters insisting he choose another name because you would consider accepting the honor somehow immodest."
Greatjon laughed loudly. "The boy knows his father well."
Ned ignored him.
Harrold's smile lingered only a moment longer before his expression became more serious. "You should go home."
The directness of it made Ned look up.
Harrold rested both palms against the table. "Not today, and not because I want you gone. When I took this crown, I needed men around me who knew what they were doing because I did not, and I am not ashamed to admit that now. Lord Royce knows the Vale, you know rule and war, and between the two of you I have been spared several mistakes I would otherwise have made in public."
Yohn Royce gave the young king a measured look but did not interrupt.
Harrold continued, his voice steadier as he worked through the thought. "But the Vale cannot become independent only to depend upon Eddard Stark whenever its king faces a difficult question. If I need you standing at my shoulder every morning to tell me whether a judgment is fair, then I should never have accepted the crown in the first place. I will still ask your counsel when you are here, and probably send ravens north afterward whenever I am uncertain, but your family has been scattered for months. Your grandson has just been born, the Ironborn are testing your coast, and King Alaric is trying to finish one war before another reaches his home. I would be a poor friend if I pretended none of that mattered because your presence makes my own duties easier."
Ned looked at him for a long time.
There had been vanity in Harrold when he first came into his inheritance, and plenty remained. There was also pride, impatience and an awareness of his own appearance that Ned suspected no amount of kingship would ever fully cure. Yet something else had begun growing alongside those things, something steadier than the young knight Ned had first known.
"You still have much to learn," Ned said.
Harrold gave a tired smile. "I was afraid you would say that."
"You will still make mistakes."
"I assumed as much."
"Some of them will be serious."
Harrold nodded, and for once did not try to joke his way around the warning. "Then I will have to survive them and avoid making the same ones twice."
Yohn Royce finally spoke. "That is about as much wisdom as can reasonably be expected from any king."
Harrold looked toward him. "Was that praise as well?"
"Do not become accustomed to it, Your Grace," Royce replied, the last part with a wry smile.
The warmth that passed through the room lasted only a few moments, but Ned welcomed it.
He looked again at the parchments spread over the table.
Tywin was captured, and the western armies were broken. Lannisport surrendered without a sack. Alaric was preparing to elevate a new ruler in the Westerlands rather than occupy it. Ironborn ships were probing northern shores while Benjicot gathered the fleet against them. Stannis is waiting at Dragonstone for his chance at King's Landing. And somewhere beyond Westeros, the Golden Company was gathering around a young man who claimed to be the murdered son of Rhaegar and Elia, while Dorne sent quiet eyes east and Highgarden perhaps did the same.
And farther north, removed from every crown and council chamber, Ysilla Royce had given birth to Robb's son.
Edderion Stark.
Ned touched the folded letter inside his hand before slipping it carefully into his coat.
"I will not leave immediately," he said. "There are matters between the Vale and the North that should be settled before I go, especially if the realm is beginning to divide into kingdoms that may need one another before long. Recognition of Harrold's crown should be formalized between the Vale and the North, trade through White Harbor and Gulltown can be expanded, and we should determine what each kingdom expects from the other if Stannis or anyone else decides our independence is temporary."
Harrold nodded slowly. "How long?"
"A fortnight at most, if the work goes cleanly."
Greatjon let out a low sound of satisfaction. "Good. I have had enough mountains for one lifetime. Every time I look over a wall here, I find myself wondering why the Arryns built their castle somewhere a drunk man can fall halfway to the gods before striking ground."
Waymar Royce glanced toward him. "Men of the Vale generally avoid climbing onto walls while drunk, Lord Umber."
"That explains your reputation for caution."
The exchange drew a few restrained laughs before Ned gave Greatjon a look that reminded him the council had not yet ended.
Harrold stepped back toward the high seat but did not sit. His gaze lingered on Alaric's letter before moving toward Ned. "When you return, tell your nephew that the Vale recognizes what he has done in the West and that I expect to hear from him before he starts rearranging another kingdom. I would like some warning next time."
Ned gave him a level look.
Harrold sighed. "You know I was only half serious."
"That is usually when you are most troublesome."
The king accepted that with a small smile, and Ned turned toward the windows at the far end of the hall.
Evening had begun to settle across the mountains. The highest peaks still caught the last light while the valleys beneath them had already faded into shadow, and somewhere far below the Eyrie, roads wound north toward a kingdom Ned had not seen in too many months.
He thought of Catelyn, and of their children in Winterfell. He thought of Robb fighting beside Alaric in the West while a son he had yet to see slept, awaiting his father's return.
For months Ned's thoughts had moved only toward whatever crisis demanded him next. From King's Landing to White Harbor, and from White Harbor to the Vale, and every victory seemed merely to reveal another war waiting beyond it. There would be more trouble still. The letters on the table had made that plain enough. Balon Greyjoy was moving again, Stannis had not abandoned his claim, and now a dead prince had apparently returned to life somewhere across the Narrow Sea with ten thousand exiles gathering around his name.
None of it was finished.
Yet Harrold no longer needed another man to hold the crown steady upon his head, and Alaric's letter suggested that this war may finally be in the tail end of things.
Ned rested one hand against the cold stone beside the window and allowed himself, for once, to think beyond the next battle.
In a fortnight, if the gods were kind, he would begin the road back west, back to Alaric, and hopefully from there, back to the North.