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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1

A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024

1,201Chapter 22: Sidestory: Mundane Impossibility

Sidestory:

When Melisandre first set foot within the Red Temple of Volantis, seven kings still ruled Westeros while dragons plagued the eastern skies. In the centuries since that fateful day, the kings had lost their crowns as the dragons had their wings, yet Melisandre remained in R'hllor's service.

Through her faith, she had found purpose. Through that purpose, she had known freedom, gifted to a young slave who had not owned the blood in her veins or flesh on her bones.

Perhaps that was why Melisandre felt so angered as she held a great flame aloft within the wolflord's halls.

She had not intended to return to this savage land while the Soul of Ice slumbered and Azor Ahai remained unfound. Yet the red priestess sought answers that had evaded fire and shadow.

When winter ended a moon ago, Melisandre had stared into the Great Brazier of the Volanti temple and saw naught but flame. Gone were the visions of the terrible battle destined to eclipse every man-waged war; gone was the specter of the Great Darkness that loathed all things warm and living. What scenes remained had danced in utter disarray, leaving the future impossible to discern.

Never before had Melisandre felt her faith so tested as she feared the loss of her Lord's favor, that the Enemy had returned and she had failed as an instrument of R'hllor's will. Even now, that fear lingered.

She had not been alone: priests and priestesses throughout Essos had lost hold of the Lord's gift.

The High Priest had called a grand assembly, the tenth such gathering in the history of the Faith. The proclamation had been unprecedented, for the last took place not a decade ago, in the wake of a foreign power that had washed over the world.

Melisandre could still recall the strange sensation that had overwhelmed her, altogether familiar yet impossible, like the touch of waves at one's feet while traversing the Red Wastes. But the fleeting magic had faded too quickly, the phenomenon dismissed as the by-product of a passing star.

Now, the world paid for their folly.

The Faith could no longer afford the luxury of self-deception. For two weeks, a thousand voices had cried out, but for all that was said, naught had been done.

With the Faith desperate for answers, the Red Temple of Volantis decreed the great exodus of its priesthood, tasked with pilgrimage to places of power, where the vestiges of magic might bolster the flames and illuminate R'hllor's will.

Where others had ventured eastward, Melisandre had crossed the Narrow Sea. Her command of the Common Tongue and knowledge of the winterlands left no one better suited to journey past the Wall of the fabled Builder.

That had been her duty, a sacred mission now hindered by the man seated upon a weirwood throne.

Rickard Stark.

Even in Essos, Melisandre had heard whispers of the so-called savage who had absconded with Myr's secrets. However hard the glass guilds tried to refute the rumors, their words rang hollow in the face of the three great gardens outside the wolflord's keep.

They called him the Last Direwolf, a legendary figure born too late into a world now mundane. Without ever crossing the Narrow Sea, he had made a mockery of the Free Cities, claiming a prize that Myr had guarded and others had coveted since the Doom, all to forge a kingdom mightier than the one surrendered to dragons centuries ago.

Mesliandre's mouth drew thin.

The high seat of House Stark was a throne by a different name, just as the man who sat upon it was a king without a crown. He had studied her with a face carved from stone and eyes chipped from ice. His impassive bearing echoed a slumbering power, strong with the blood of kings unabated by time.

The direwolf was a man worthy of legend, but he had hindered her path, and that was not to be borne.

Mesliandre had arranged an audience with the barbarian lord, knowing news of her travels would reach his ear. She had sought his aid, for as faithful as her followers were, they were ill-equipped for the coming cold.

When he instead denied her passage, Melisandre chose to remind him of her task, punctuating her words with a great plume of flame. The display of magic, illusion, and alchemy had expended the powders within her robes and set R'hllor's ruby aglow against her breast.

Yet, despite her efforts, the face of the wolflord remained unchanged, untempted by her glamor and unmoved by her flames. He had raised a hand, halting his men from drawing steel while regarding her with barely-held interest, as though she was not Melisandre of Asshai but Melony of Lot Seven, back still wet from fresh lashes, frail wrists bitten black by wrought iron chains.

Without a word, he had stirred her anger more than any man she could recall.

"That was needless, my lady." Though his voice carried no warning, Rickard Stark sat with a naked Valyrian blade resting upon his lap, an apt reminder that he had withheld guest rights. "None here doubt your identity or purpose. But I must advise against this venture, for the dangers beyond the Wall are great, and even the Night's Watch cannot guarantee safe harbor."

The lord's grey eyes grew somber and pensive.

"I can no longer wholeheartedly endorse the honor of the Black Brothers: the death of Danny Flint haunts the order to this day, and I will not add to the mistral's store of tragic tales."

Melisandre felt her anger settle. For all that his words rankled, the lord had spoken without condescension or ridicule, his voice belying good intentions the priestess knew better than to spurn.

"We thank you for your warning, Lord Stark." The red priestess's voice grew rich and warm as she touched the ruby upon her neck and met the direwolf's eyes, "But we who serve the Lord of Light have our own oaths. We are bound to them as you are yours, and we would not abandon our sacred duty for fear of death."

Once more, Melisandre willed the ruby to life, refining her glamor to accentuate her features beyond a mere trick of the light.

"I trust you understand."

Detecting a shift in the wolflord's bearing as he sheathed his blade, the red priestess thought the battle won.

"You have made your intentions clear, and I will not insult your resolve by bandying words." The lord waved a servant forward with bread and salt. "A raven will be sent to Castle Black so that Lord Commander Qorgyle knows to expect your arrival. It will take a week for word to reach the Wall. I ask that you and your followers take that time to rest and prepare for the road ahead. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Lady Melisandre."

The words surprised her, and Merlisandre would have laughed had she not been outplayed: Rickard Stark had promised to send a letter of introduction, but introductions did not guarantee a warm reception. No doubt the raven's missive would ensure she found no welcome at Castle Black. The Night's Watch might claim no master, but they would never risk the ire of the lord whose roads saw their men clothed and fed.

"We thank you for your hospitality." Meslisandre dipped her head, recognizing that she had lost this exchange. No matter. The hearts of men were easily swayed, and the machinations of a single lord would not deter her from her task. "I request a place my followers and I may convene for our morning sermons."

The wolflord nodded.

"The First Keep will be at your disposal, but I ask that you not involve my people in your worship." His eyes took on a harsh light that advised caution, "The North has forever kept faith with the Old Gods."

The warning was clear: guest rights had been given. The direwolf would not harm his guests, but the same was expected in turn. Melisandre had little doubt about how the lord would perceive the conversion of his people.

There would come a day when the savages saw the Lord's Light, but it would not be this day, not when her mission took precedence. But that day would come. A great man Rickard Stark may be, but a man he remained, widowed and aging–though Melisandre confessed he wore his age well. She would be his guest for a week's time, and should she return from the Wall alive, his guest again in a moon's turn. There would be time then to see if the direwolf indeed held a heart of stone.

The thought soothed her mind as Melisandre bowed and made to leave, her followers trailing some steps behind. She was halfway to the door when the wolflord called to her. The red priestess turned and found him standing, his sword and throne several steps away.

"Is there something else you require, my lord?"

The lord affirmed the question and drew closer.

"You are a lady well-traveled and well-learned," he said, and Melisandre found it strange to hear familiar words offered without a trace of flattery. "I would ask regarding your knowledge of the higher mysteries."

Had the lord's eyes not been bereft of greed, the priestess would have been disappointed by the question. She withheld judgment, waiting for the lord to proceed.

"Employing magic to grow wheat from a fallow field, maturing crops to harvest within a day…what would be the price for such a task?"

The question caught Melisandre by surprise.

How curious.

She had served R'hllor for nary six centuries. In that time, she had treated with many men with power real and perceived. Those who had not desired her body had sought her sorcery. Many had wanted both. They would ask the red priestess to divine their futures and beseech the shadowbinder to silence their foes, but this was a request wholly new. For a lord to witness magic and inquire how it might aid his people was, without doubt, a form of greed but one that Melisandre found palatable.

Truly, Rickard Stark was a rare man indeed.

"You refer to the deeds of your ancestor, the fabled Greenhand?" The priestess almost smiled as she answered the question with more.

Rickard Stark worded his reply with care. "I speak of magic of a similar vein."

"Then you already have your answer." Melisandre's smile grew as she pressed her point. "You speak of magic lost to legend and myth, of seeding life where naught had been and disrupting time itself to suit your needs."

The red priestess turned from the Last Direwolf, leaving her words to haunt his thoughts.

"If you wish to feed your people, my lord, I would advise the construction of more glass gardens. That at least would be achievable by mortal means."

Rickard sighed into the silence.

The Warden of the North sat at his solar. In one hand, he nursed a tumbler of whiskey. In the other, he held an elegant envelope, one his men had found fastened to the gate of the Workshop shortly after his children left for Harrenhal. Tossing the letter aside, he reached for the small plate of candied pineapples on his desk.

"Sure you should still be eating those, milord?"

Rickard did not attempt to greet his sworn sword as he entered the once-silent room.

"Lady Evetta has gifted me a box every moon for the last five years." The warden slid the plate and its contents toward his old friend. "Were they intended to do harm, I would imagine the damage long done."

Rodrik scoffed, helping himself to a spare glass and fistful of fruit.

"Suppose Fairchild knows better ways to kill a man."

Rickard offered no reply as he poured Rodrik's share of amber liquor. He wasted no words on what they both understood. His old friend seemed to share the sentiment, and the two men sat in silence, ruminating into their cups.

"You didn't warn her away from the Workshop," the knight said at length, voice more curious than critical.

"Lady Melisandre would doubtlessly investigate any place I forbid her to go."

Rodrik chuckled.

"She doesn't seem the sort to leave well enough alone." The humor left his voice as quickly as it came. "The things she said…you believe half of it, my lord?"

"She believed every word she spoke," Rickard answered with as much insult as flattery. "I offered my warnings and said my piece. Her decisions will be her own."

The arrival of Melisandre of Asshai had the whole of Winterfell on guard. The shadowed city was not a place that inspired neighborly sentiments, nor were the red priests–so fond of slaves and sacrifice–a people who evoked trust. Yet, turning the woman away had not been feasible, not while she represented one of the world's great faiths.

Luwin had warned his liege of the dangers that might accompany her, of the shadowbinders and maegi seemingly native to the cursed land. Upon meeting the woman, however, Rickard found his initial assumptions affirmed: the greatest threat Melisandre posed was that of a red priestess visiting the home of the Old Gods. The warden would have to send many letters to as many lords or risk rumors running rampant by week's end.

Strangely enough, Lady Melisandre's attempt to cow him had left Rickard wholly underwhelmed. Most would not have noticed, too occupied with the flames, but the warden saw how the spell had taxed her, how her posture had stiffened and breath quickened after the display. Even now, he remembered how poorly her efforts compared to the small, unintended wonders that Cyril had made routine. The Red Woman was rumored to be a prominent practitioner, so what did that make the Hunter, whom Rickard thought a friend?

'You speak of magic lost to legend and myth.'

Rodrik eyed his liege, seemingly of a similar mind.

"About what she said of Fairchild," the knight's voice drifted off with a shared unease.

"It is nothing we have not already considered," Rickard offered, both men aware his words carried no confidence. "She may well be mistaken."

"Aye, but–"

"I was unaware you held her opinion in such high regard."

Rodrik grumbled at that, waving his empty cup in his liege lord's face for good measure. The Warden of the North allowed himself a smile, eyes drifting again to the well-read letter upon his desk.

Dear Rickard,

Away on business. Will return soon.

Kindest Regards,

Cyril

TBC

Chapter Summary:

Cyril accidentally damaged one of R'hllor's 5G towers when he arrived in Westeros. Now, five years later, the magical wifi went out and everyone's losing their minds.

Also Rickard saw an opportunity to try and quantify Cyril's abilities and well…

Rickard: *Mentions one of Cyril's least impressive displays of (possible) magic.*

Melisandre: Yeah, that's some 'Age of Heroes' shit, my dude.

Rickard: I hate everything.

Authors Note:

Happy New Year, everyone! Hope you're all doing good!

The contents of this chapter roughly coincide with the last one, i.e., right before the melee.

This chapter started life as an apocrypha, but then I put too much work into it and figured I could shoehorn it into the main story. Plus, we haven'y seen Rodrik in a while. It sheds light on how the Essosi are dealing with Cyril's disruption of their daily lives, a parallel to the previous interlude: Those Who Sing the Song of Earth.

That said, the purpose of this chapter was to address how Cyril has RUINED the Starks' perception of magic: Like an old-moneyed family spending cash, Cyril treats magic as no object.

In the same way you'd never see Tywin counting coins before making a purchase, the Starks have never seen Cyril performing rituals, chanting incantations, or offering human sacrifices (As mentioned in Book/Part 1, Rickard keeps tabs on the Workshop, and would have known if smallfolk were going missing). Weird things just happen when Cyril's involved: the Workshop appears in the middle of winter, multiple tons of glass appear in the market square, treacherous lords die of natural causes, etc.

Because of this, Cyril gives off the impression that magic is just another part of noble life beyond the Sunset Sea. Rickard is 99.9% sure if he asked, Cyril would be like, "Magic? Yeah, I dabble a bit," before proceeding to brew more tea. Of course, Richard's not gonna discount the 0.1% possibility that his question might cause offense.

With everything in mind, it's not hard to see why Rickard and the kids would view other magical users (who perform intricate rituals with little to show for it) as charlatans.

Our eldritch cuttlefish is making it really hard for your average salt-of-the-earth red priestess to make a living out in Westeros.

Final Notes:

We don't know too much about Melisandre's past. But seeing how her real name is Melony (sounds pretty Andal/Westerosi to me), Jon Snow compared her hair to Ygritte's (a wildling), and a wildling settled called Hardhome that was mysteriously destroyed ~600 years ago (book, not show canon), we can infer some things.

This interpretation is also 'helped' by the fact that Jorah Mormont sold poachers into slavery in canon, proof that Essos slave traders are willing to travel VERY far to do terrible things (and that Jorah was an ass).

Melisandre isn't terribly suspicious of Rickard's caginess here because she interprets it as par-for-the-course xenophobia. Relations between Westeros and Essos have always been frosty, relations between foreign faiths even moreso. She views Rickard's lack of cooperation as a courteous request for her to take a hike…just not beyond the Wall.

Likewise, she has no intention of having a 'shadow baby' pay Rickard a visit because:

1. She knows she would not survive the attempt. (The North loves the man).

2. Cyril's presence has made it impossible for her to foresee the future. The last thing she wants is to kill the man, get the magic wifi running again, and have R'hllor go, "Hey, good job. Now can you go do this very important thing with Rickard Stark in order to save the world?"

Note: As mentioned above, the purpose of this chapter was to shed light on the magical elements of the crossover. Melisadre visiting the Wall will not be the 'rising action' of Book 2. There will also be NO Rickard x Melisadre in this story. That is all.

Lastly: Short interlude, 'Plans for the Dead' added to Chapter 13!

Many thanks to KnightStar for his help with the edits. Here's to a new year!

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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1

1,201Chapter 23: Book 2: Of Songs, Silver, and Storms

Rhaegar plucked a chord, another woman swooned, and Robert Baratheon resigned himself to a slow death.

'Seven help me if another woman weeps.'

With his head propped on a bandaged hand, the heir of Storm's End fought to keep his eyes open, sharing commiserating looks with several young lords whose wives were eying the prince with impure intent.

Robert supposed he was fortunate in that regard.

Lyanna sat at his side, assessing the prince's performance with a critical eye. Unlike the vapid fools fawning over Rhaegar, his betrothed reminded Robert of a veteran knight spectating a spar. All the while, her hand drummed gently against the tabletop.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice hushed for a Baratheon but far from a whisper.

"Memorizing the song," she hissed back, concentration lost. "It's a pretty tune, and I intend to make it mine."

She shot him a half-hearted glare. Were Robert more a fool, he would have thought Lyanna truly cross with him.

"Not that you seem to care much for music."

Her voice carried a hint of cheek that had Robert grinning despite himself.

"Perhaps I'd pay it more mind if you were the one playing."

The heir of Storm's End placed his hand over his betrothed's, a bold gesture and—if the sharp look from Brandon Stark were any indication—one he would pay for in the morrow. But Lyanna smiled and made no attempt to shake off his hand.

Robert considered that a resounding victory.

As the tourney of singers wore on, Robert's thoughts turned inwards. The young lord had never been one for contemplation, but the recent demands of his station had left him little recourse.

By and large, he was happy: Storm's End had prevailed against the long winter, House Baratheon stood healthy and whole, and Robert himself was betrothed to a spirited beauty with kind eyes and a lively wit. Better yet, her brothers were already his in all but blood, his future goodfather a man as impressive as the Old Lion and much better liked.

But all was not well.

Not blind to his faults, the young Baratheon freely admitted he had not been the best of wards. For years, he had made poor Ned an unwilling accomplice in innumerable acts of mischief while ignoring Jon's every lesson and reprimand. Only after returning to the stormlands did Robert realize how much the Old Falcon had coddled him.

In the months following his fosterage, the heir of Storm's End found himself saddled with its upkeep, a task Mother usually shared with Ser Harbert. It had been a test, and Robert had failed spectacularly: were it not for Stannis, the Baratheon heir doubted their home would still be standing. His performance had earned himself a permanent posting at Father's side, where he was tasked with relearning the finer points of lordship.

There were days when Robert seriously considered swimming across the Narrow Sea to start life anew as a sellsword, and though the plan still held considerable appeal, the young stag had upheld his duties, however poorly. To do any less was to risk Mother hounding him to the world's end, and the Baratheon heir would sooner court the King's Justice than test her anger. Moreover–loath though he was to admit it–Robert yearned to be a better man, well aware of how his failings shamed the lord who had raised him like a son.

There was another reason why he had taken his tasks to heart.

Cheers erupted throughout the hall as Rhaegar was announced the winner of the tournament, several ladies squealing as though the decision were ever in doubt.

Robert released Lyanna's hand and offered the victor a guarded applause, glaring all the while.

Rhaegar Targaryen. The Crown Prince. Cousin. Kin.

Though Robert had few memories of his silver-haired grandmother, he had grown up on Father's stories of the brave princess who had married for duty, saving the kingdoms from war after great-grandfather Lyonel's rebellion and Duncan Targaryen's folly. Time and again, the Lord of Storm's End had reminded his sons that the Targaryens were family and that it was House Baratheon's eternal duty to support the king and crown.

Then came the letter from King's Landing, not a week after his parents had returned without Rhaegar's promised bride. Robert had no chance to read the message, for Father had torn it asunder and flown into rage that even Mother struggled to appease. Never before had the young Baratheon seen his father so wroth, ready to repeat the deeds of the Laughing Storm.

Now, the Lord of Storm's End no longer spoke of the Targaryens as kin.

Robert watched as the spectators applauded Rhaegar as though he were the Conqueror reborn, but all Robert saw was a conflated minstrel and tourney knight, one who spent his days holed up at Dragonstone while the king mocked his Dornish wife and made a mess of the realm.

The surrounding lords and ladies continued to cheer as though Aerys Targaryen had not anointed Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard mere days ago, depriving Tywin of his heir–the last in a long string of insults.

The Targaryens had forgotten themselves. Even with the last dragons long dead, they acted like dragonlords, too proud to accept that they had to walk the earth like everyone else.

There would be a reckoning. Robert could feel it in his bones. He only hoped he would be ready to lead when the kingdoms faced the coming storm.

Lyanna stood in her personal apartment, one of four reserved for her family. Tonight, Lord Arryn had invited his former wards to supper, Ned had dragged Brandon along, and Benjen had ventured out accompanied by Lord Reed. Lyanna relished the rare moment of privacy.

With her violin and bowstring tucked safely underarm, she hovered over a ream of paper with a feathered quill. Again and again, the young girl replayed the prince's song in her mind, dotting the manuscript with scratches and blotches of ink.

She added her own flourishes, altering the meter and ornaments to suit her tastes. Every so often, the young Stark would clean her hands, take up her violin, and allow the melody she envisioned to fill the room.

During the long winter, Lyanna had spent many nights seated beside Lady Evetta, learning musical theory by candlelight. Music was now a beautiful language that the young girl understood. The once impenetrable books in her teacher's study had become collections of wondrous tales Lyanna could recite and share.

Yet, despite learning so many beautiful stories, the young Stark struggled to craft her own. Realizing that music from the Lord Hunter's homeland had history–styles, intricacies, and trends that made the offerings of the Seven Kingdoms seem sparse by comparison–had left Lyanna with a hunger and yearning she found impossible to describe.

Though not a composer herself, Lady Evetta had been happy to nurture her student's pursuits, and Lyanna had treasured her encouragements as though they were gems. The tournament of singers had provided inspiration, and the young Stark was confident her work tonight would bring her closer to composing a song of her own.

The sky grew dark as Lyanna continued her task, leaving three sheets of manuscripts wet with ink. Every new measure felt like a triumph, and the young girl grew giddy at the thought of sharing her work with her brothers. She might even convince Robert to stay awake for the entire piece.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It creaked ajar, revealing Lyanna's handmaiden, features tense with worry.

"It's the prince," she uttered, voice unsteady. "He's asked to see you, milady."

The young Stark almost stumbled in surprise.

"Thank you, Erena. Please see him in." The words did not feel entirely her own, even as she gave the command. The handmaiden left to do as instructed, leaving Lyanna alone with a hammering heart.

This was not a proper meeting, else Prince Rhaegar would have approached Brandon, Father's heir. Moreover, Ned would never have forgotten such an important appointment.

Lyanna laid her violin on the bed and fought the urge to wring her hands. Minding her nerves, the young Stark waited as the clink of armor and footsteps approached.

The door creaked open. The now-familiar figure of Arthur Dayne stepped through the entranceway, followed by his charge.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was beautiful. Lyanna could not think of anyone more beautiful save Lady Evetta. The prince stood taller than the Sword of the Morning with lithe yet powerful limbs. His face was handsome without flaw, crowned with a diadem of silver hair and set with eyes like amethysts.

The young girl beheld the prince and bowed low.

"My prince."

Lyanna grew silent as a stutter caught in her throat. Perhaps there was more she should have said, but the young girl was unprepared to host a prince, never mind one that had arrived unannounced. She found herself thankful for the Stark servants and guards who had accompanied the prince into her room, though they could not speak in her stead.

"Please raise your head, Lady Lyanna." Rhaegar's voice flowed like a song. "It is Arthur and I who should apologize for the intrusion."

To the young girl's alarm, the prince dipped his head ever so slightly. Ser Arthur, who had made himself scarce in one of the far corners of the room, offered the same.

"I often pass these halls on my way to the royal apartments. More than once, I've heard the enchanting music that flowed from your door. Tonight, I had hoped to hear a performance in full."

Rhaegar offered his explanations, proving his words as well-practiced as his harp, and Lyanna knew the prince's request was, in fact, a demand.

With another deep bow, she rounded the room to retrieve her violin. Returning to her manuscripts, Lyanna found the prince seated on a chest beside her bed, mere steps away.

Silence reigned as the silver prince regarded the young girl with voiceless expectation.

When her bowstring trembled, Lyanna imagined herself back in Winterfell, performing for her family after a midwinter meal. Father would sit with Benjen on his lap while Brandon and Ned settled on the heated floor of her messy room, awaiting whatever piece Lyanna had learned the day before, divulged by Lady Evetta like a much-cherished secret.

Drawing courage from the memory, Lyanna pressed her bow against the strings.

Harsh, coarse, and all-consuming, the first note held the audience captive without warning. All else fell into place as Lyanna's left hand danced along the fingerboard at a pace few could follow while her right drew out a lively melody with every tug of her bow. She punctuated the last chord of the chorus with a resounding vibrato as a glimmer of shock overtook the prince's eyes.

Lyanna closed her own as the air within the room became a living thing, beckoned to life at her hands. Time slipped away as Lyanna lost herself abating the evening silence. The memory of the prince's performance played out within her mind all the while, and when she at last pictured Rhaegar withdrawing his hands from his harp, Lyanna realized she had done the same: the violin no longer rested against her chin, and the bow hung at her side.

The young girl opened her eyes to the sound of a lonely applause.

"Remarkable." Rhaegar's voice carried a breathless quality, conveying wonderment. "Were it not for the chorus, I would not have recognized the work as my own."

"I found your song beautiful," Lyanna returned, somewhat abashed. "I thought to play it myself."

"It is all the more beautiful for your performance."

Rhaegar's voice matched the warmth of his words, yet Lyanna struggled to form an apt reply.

"I am glad it was to your liking, my prince," she said at last.

Seemingly satisfied, the silver prince turned to the room's sole window, overlooking a dusky sky.

"You have my sincere thanks, Lady Lyanna. I confess this has been a welcome distraction from my thoughts, which have been dark of late."

A somberness reclaimed the prince's features as he discerned the confusion and concern that played across the young girl's face.

"Rhaenys' birth had left Elia ill. The Grand Maester has warned that Aegon's birth will likely be no less difficult, if not worse."

His words struck Lyanna like a blow, and she sensed this was a secret the prince should not have shared.

Princess Elia's pregnancy had been announced on the eve of the tourney. The joyous news was met with resounding applause, for the princess was again with child, and the swell beneath her dress proved she was many months along.

Recalling her beloved teacher, who had only ever known Lady Maria through paintings, and her own mother, who survived only through Father's stories, the young girl fought the urge to reach out and touch the prince.

"I will pray for Princess Elia's continued health and your son's safe birth."

She spoke with as much sincerity as she could muster, but Rhaegar did not quite acknowledge her words as he made to stand. Perhaps the prince realized he had shared overmuch with a stranger who was not yet a friend.

"In all my years, I've not met a musician of your talents, Lady Lyanna," he offered instead, voice reflecting the somber calm of a man seeking refuge within his thoughts. "Your tutor is most fortunate to have so gifted a student."

"I am nowhere near her equal," Lyanna replied, once more flustered by the prince's praise but grateful to leave discussions of Princess Elia and her children behind.

"She must be a singular woman for you to hold her in such regard," Rhaegar supplied in turn, and for a moment, Lyanna feared both she and the prince had shared overmuch. "Should she and I ever cross paths, I will speak well of you, my lady."

Unable to trust her voice, Lyanna sought refuge in a wordless nod, leaving the prince to interpret the gesture however he wished. Thankfully, Rhaegar made no note of her misstep.

With little else to say, the prince again expressed his gratitude before bidding Lyanna farewell. Arthur Dayne followed him, offering the young girl a look resembling an apology as he closed the door.

The moment they left, Lyanna stumbled to her bed and collapsed, feeling more tired than she could ever recall. As Erena and the others tended to her, the girl found herself lost in a myriad of thoughts, pleased that the prince had enjoyed her performance, yet sad that her family had not been the first to hear it.

It was only hours later that Lyanna remembered that the royal apartments were in the Kingspyre Tower, far away on the opposite side of Harrenhal.

TBC

Chapter Summary:

Two days before the melee, Rhaegar Targaryen wins the tourney of singers, only to immediately commit a major faux pas.

Another Tuesday in Westeros.

Author's Notes:

Sorry for the delay. Life's been busy, nothing new there. This chapter marks the official introduction of Robert and Rhaegar. Interested to hear your guy's thoughts on their characterization.

Young Robert presented an interesting challenge. Canon Robert always struck me as a man who went off-roading, saw a cliff edge coming two miles off, and floored the gas: He had plenty of chances to change, but a combination of tragedy, untreated depression, and unchecked personal vice left him in a sorry state. Here, he's much better off, being guided through his responsibilities by people (i.e., dear old mom and dad) who are in a position to reprimand him when he fails.

That said, I didn't want to 'fix' him: Robert is a very flawed man, and I wanted to show that the seeds of those failures were always present. The defining difference here is that Robert feels compelled to change, something he'd long given up on by the first book.

Robert's POV also gives us a better window into Westeros' political climate prior to the rebellion. Needless to say, it's scuffed. Make no mistake, Robert's biased, but there's no denying that the Targaryens are a shadow of their former selves and really have no one to blame but themselves:

In order to marry Jenny of Oldstone, Duncan Targaryen, aka the Prince of Dragonflies (cool name, btw), broke off his betrothal to the daughter of Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon, leading to a short-lived rebellion. After that, Aegon the Unlikely threw water at a grease fire and flambéed 90% of the family at Summerhall, leaving a paranoid schizophrenic on the throne to burn figurative bridges…and literal people.

Make no mistake, Westeros was a powder keg ready to blow. Were it not for Tywin ending the rebellion in such an ugly fashion and the kingdoms collapsing the moment Robert croaked, I doubt the Targaryen's would have been remembered with any measure of fondness.

That said, while Rhaegar is a man wrapped in mystery, most described him as a man of spectacular talent, and I hoped that reflected in the prose: his skill at singing and the harp impressed even Lyanna, who felt inspired enough to translate his song to the violin. Trying to give every character their due. (Note: Lyanna did not join the tournament because 1. It's a tourney of singers and 2. It's never a good idea to upstage royalty.)

Lastly, I wanted to revisit some of the themes from Chapter 10 (Of Music and Mothers), and showcase Lyanna's prodigious progress. Five years is barely any time at all to learn a musical instrument, and learning to not only perform but also compose (she's a cover artist right now, but she's getting there) in that timeframe is nothing short of remarkable. That said, Mozart composed his first piece at the age of 5 and was performing in imperial courts before he was 10, so the accomplishments of 14-year-old Lyanna are somewhat believable. Of course, that we're using Mozart as a metric should say everything.

On the topic of Mozart, this chapter also serves as a reminder that Lyanna as benefitted from a formal musical education unmatched in Westeros, covering everything from Baroque (c. 1600-c. 1750) to Late Romantic (c.1860-c.1920). Case in point, the vibrato and other musical ornaments Lyanna showed off weren't really popularized until the 18th century. For the Westerosi perspective, Lyanna's performance would have been nothing short of avant garde.)

Lastly, I wanted to point out the gravity of the last scene. Royals, on principle, don't make house calls. Their actions are bound by tradition and ceremony. Be it requesting a private audience or receiving a summons to court, any meeting with the king/crown prince is a matter of great importance usually scheduled well in advance. Moreover, in all these cases, it is the noble/courtier that approaches royalty, not the other way around. With all these things in mind, Lyanna really caught off guard, but managed the situation as best she could. There are certainly lords who would have fared far worse.

As always, many thanks to KnightStar for all his edits. Was a real big help for this chapter.

Anyways, that's all for now. Next time, part 1 of 2 of the melee. Stay tuned!

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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1

1,201Chapter 24: Book 2: Second Sons

Ned and Brandon rode through the gates of Harrenhal, fifty of the North's finest warriors at their backs. Both wore their best suits of armor, forged from iron annealed with Skagosi ash, lending the resulting steel a dark, burnished hue. Etched from acid and lye, the visage of direwolves adorned each cuirass while carved weirwood branches weaved through every gorget, gauntlet, and greave.

They had been gifts from Father, commissioned specifically for the melee. Exceptional by even the exacting standards of the Reach, the armors had seemed an obscene expense. But Ned reminded himself that Harrenhal was to be the greatest tourney for centuries to come and thus no place for Northern austerity.

Tightening the violet favor around his arm, the younger Stark surveyed the field. He recognized Lord Royce and Ser Denys at the head of House Arryn's finest knights. A stone's throw away, Brynden Tully commanded the river lords while the familiar figure of Ser Tygett stood alongside Roland Crakehall. Further back, Ned spotted Robert sporting an antlered great helm, face no doubt split with a rakish grin.

Turning his gaze from his foster brother, Ned passed a critical eye over Jon Connington, who had sided with the Crownlands over his liege lord. Lord Tytos Blackwood stood amongst them, his presence at Connington's side explained by the scathing looks he shot at Jonos Bracken.

Stone-grey eyes settled on the Dornish contingent, led by Oberyn Martell, his uncle, and another member of the Kingsguard who had Ned's lips drawing thin.

"That's Arthur Dayne."

Brandon acknowledged the warning without concern.

"I'll take you at your word," he replied, hands resting against the horn of his saddle, eyes focusing more on the clouds overhead than the riders afield. "You've met the man more often than I."

Though he gestured to Ashara's favor and spoke the words in jest, Brandon's voice lacked its usual levity, laced with a bitterness that had set in days ago. The elder Stark had since ceased his good-natured japes and taunts, and Ned was saddened at the change.

"I suspect I've seen more of him than Ashara these last two days," he supplied as the remark garnered a faint laugh.

"What a sad state of affairs," the elder Stark sighed, and Ned found himself unable to argue.

Since his first dance with Ashara, the young northern knight had met the Daynes on several occasions, seeking their permission for a proper courtship. Lord Symon Dayne had pressed Ned regarding his incomes, duties, and prospective holdings, demanding to know what sort of future Ashara could expect as a member of his household. Ned had not begrudged Lord Dayne his queries; irrespective of his family name or personal deeds, the young Stark remained a second son and landless knight. Had Ned sat in the man's stead with Symon's kinsmen seeking Lyanna's hand, he and Brandon would have seen they suffer much worse.

Ashara had aided him at every turn, guiding Ned through each meeting, needling and teasing her brother whenever he grew too forceful with his questioning, all while assuring Ned that the man was far warmer than he appeared. Time and again, the Lord of Starfall would grumble while yielding to Ashara's chidings, and she would smile, ever gracious in victory.

When even Ser Arthur Dayne endorsed Ned's character, Lord Dayne had finally acquiesced, granting him permission to accompany Ashara for the remainder of the tourney and continue correspondence thereafter.

That had been just days ago, back when Ned had believed he would leave Harrenhal with nothing but fond memories.

Then came the night he and Brandon had returned to their apartments after supping with Jon and Robert, finding Lyanna in clear distress. She had refused to share her thoughts until the following day. Only then did Ned learn of Rhaegar's intrusion, how the prince had all but forced himself into her room, demanding a song as though she were a common minstrel.

The mere memory of his sister struggling to recount her ordeal had spurred something dark and hateful within Ned's breast.

He had hugged her, assuring Lyanna that she had done well and was not to blame for Rhaegar's folly. He repeated the words until she believed him.

Brandon had not joined their embrace. Instead, he stood silent and still, not trusting himself to move. Ned, struggling with his own anger, had understood.

The following days would pass like a blur. All thoughts of the melee lay abandoned as the brothers worked to safeguard their sister's honor, imperiled through no fault of her own. They had acted quickly, for any number of witnesses might have seen Rhaegar entering or departing Lyanna's chambers, and rumors could not be allowed to spread.

Brandon had returned to the sparring ring and issued challenges to every house within the Crownlands, House Targaryen's staunchest supporters. Nine men would enter the ring that day, and none would leave by their own power. Their broken bodies served as a warning that Rhaegar's actions would not be overlooked, that any fool tempted to besmirch Lyanna's honor best back his words with steel.

Ned had waged his own battles within the Widow's Tower, which housed the Kingsguards' temporary quarters. He had confronted Arthur, and though Ned had initially thought well of his future good-brother, the Dornishman's involvement in Rhaegar's transgressions had tarnished Ned's good opinion of the legendary knight.

His opinion had plummeted further when Arthur–knowing full well that Rhaegar had breached propriety the moment he arrived unannounced–insisted that nothing untoward had passed between Lyanna and the prince. It had taken all of Ned's control not to ask Arthur if he would have thought the same had Ashara or Allyria been the ones to suffer Rhaegar's attention.

"She's to be your sister as well," he had said instead, and the knight had wavered, his eyes betraying shame.

When pressed, Arthur had sworn he would offer truthful testimony if asked what occurred that evening. Such a simple thing, yet it had taken hours to extract the promise. Ned had returned to his chambers accomplished yet embittered; if the need arose, Arthur's word would shield Lyanna from the worst of the rumors, for the Realm still held the Sword of the Morning in high regard, even if Ned did not.

The Wolf Knight drew himself from his thoughts in time to hear the low bellow of a warhorn, the first of three signaling the start of the melee. There would be time before the second and more before the third, enough for the gathered warriors to muster their courage for a grand display. But even as his fellow northmen inspected their armor and readied their arms, Ned kept his gaze fixed on the Sword of the Morning.

"I hadn't expected him to participate," he remarked, recalling Arthur's preference for the joust despite his title. "Though I can guess his reasons."

Ned turned to the Martell prince and was met with dark eyes alight with venom. He looked on, unbothered.

"Perhaps it's the same reason the Red Viper's been taking our measure and why he's staring daggers at us now," Brandon scoffed as he brought his horse into the path of Oberyn's gaze.

Ned nodded his assent. Neither he nor Brandon had much mind for intrigue–the events of the last two days had left them both stretched thin–but the Red Viper had hardly been subtle.

House Martell had won the war for Prince Rhaegar's hand, only for Aerys to deny the Dornish a meaningful presence at court, all but declaring them tools in his feud against Tywin Lannister. Princess Elia's position had been precarious after she birthed Rhaegar a daughter instead of a son. Aerys limiting her household to a handful of ladies-in-waiting and ineffectual stewards had only worsened her plight.

Like many others, Ned had assumed Lewyn Martell and Arthur Dayne to be the princess' strongest defenders within the Red Keep. No doubt the latter's reputation as the greatest blade in all the realm had shielded Elia better than even Arthur himself.

Ned and Brandon's growing renown had challenged Arthur's preeminence, and Dorne would never allow such a challenge to go unanswered. That was why the Red Viper had spent the better part of a week observing them, why fifty of House Martell's finest warriors had enlisted in the melee over the joust. If they had their way, the Wolf Knight and Northern Blade would never again be uttered in the same breath as the Sword of the Morning. Days ago, Ned would have thought that Arthur shared their cause.

But recent events had cast everything into doubt.

That the Sword of the Morning would defend the prince after what had befallen Lyanna and Elia, that he had not even deigned to warn their families of what might occur…

No, it was clear that Arthur was neither the stalwart defender Ned had envisioned nor the loyal guard the Martells had desired.

The young knight sighed.

A kinder part of him thought Dayne's participation was an apology to the Martells, just as his promise had been one to the Starks. A crueler part wondered how many hours the Red Viper wasted convincing Arthur of the task.

"He knows," Ned noted, not turning his eyes from the Dornish prince, whose coiled limbs and blazing eyes conveyed the anger of a man suffering a great injustice.

"Of course he does," Brandon said, tone uncaring. "His uncle was in the tower when you confronted Dayne."

"Do you think he holds us responsible?" Ned asked, already knowing the answer.

"Does it matter?" the elder Stark challenged. "The man's thoughts are his own. He's free to think what he wants, so long as he minds his tongue."

Ned grimaced, already foreseeing disaster.

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then remind him that Prince Doran doesn't have another son to surrender for his mistakes," Brandon bit back, sounding too much like their teacher during his rare moments of displeasure.

"This is a tourney," Ned stressed, recalling the grueling events of the last two days. "I'd rather not start a war."

For a time, the elder Stark gave no reply. The silence stretched long enough that Ned no longer expected an answer, only for Brandon to inhale a low, strained breath and release it with a nod.

"I'll endeavor to do the same."

Ned found himself smiling as he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, knowing how easily Brandon took to anger and how hard he had worked to keep it at bay.

Nothing more was said as the second horn blared, and the brothers sat in silence, awaiting the third.

"Wendel!"

Ned had no time to say more as he raised his sword against the mace descending upon the merman's helm. He drew his shield back in the same breath, warding off a spearpoint aimed at his flank.

The sound of thunderous hooves, screams, and clashing steel fell like a fog over Ned's mind, obscuring his thoughts as he pressed his destrier onward. The Wolf Knight lost himself in the simplicity of his single-minded task: again and again, he raised his sword and shield to drive back the survivors of Brandon's initial charge.

Only after riding past the men of the Reach did Ned's senses return and the world refocus. Granted a brief respite, Wendel Manderly raised his visor and dipped his head.

"My thanks, Ser Eddard."

Ned gave a curt nod and sheathed his blade.

"Rest and gather your strength," he ordered. "The day is still young."

The merman did as instructed, falling back into formation. The northmen returned to their place on the field. The Wolf Knight brought his destrier beside the vanguard, where his brother greeted him with a half-finished wineskin.

"Those flowers had thorns," Brandon drawled.

"Our pelts were thick," he replied, taking the wineskin as his brother laughed.

They watched as seven maesters rode forth to assist the wounded. As the casualties were tallied and carried off, the Dornish and river lords moved into position, awaiting the warhorn that would signal the next charge.

'A seven-sided melee in the ancient style.'

There was a good reason why mounted knights preferred to charge against footmen over their mounted peers. A hundred stones worth of man, beast, and steel was a frightful thing, and two knights facing one another in the joust was perilous enough. For companies of fifty to do the same without fencing or boundaries bordered on madness.

The format and participants of the melee had been decided well before the Starks traveled south, and Lord Whent had met with the lords of every kingdom to coordinate the grand affair.

Each kingdom was to muster fifty men. One kingdom would charge against another, passing first on the right and then left while the rest bore witness, thereby ensuring ample spectacle for the onlookers and time for the maesters to oversee the wounded. The charges would continue until forty men remained ahorse, the fourth blast of a horn prompting the remaining warriors to dismount and fight afoot.

Other rules had been set forth: swords and axes were to be blunted, spears were to be no longer than the length of a man, and war hammers no heavier than half a stone's weight. Blows to a man's back or horse were expressly forbidden.

Ned had stood at Brandon's side while the lords discussed the order of the charge. A handful of seasoned knights, veterans of the last Blackfyre Rebellion, had claimed the format a mockery of true combat. Ned was inclined to agree, but pageantry did not preclude the melee from danger, for a single blunder and the resulting collision would improve the fortunes of a dozen second sons.

Thus far, the North had done well, losing only ten men to the Westerlands, Crownlands, and Reach. None were so injured that the maesters feared for their lives or limbs. Brandon had commanded two of the last three charges, while Greatjon Umber had led the other. Ned would not soon forget the sight of his brother releasing his reins to deliver a two-handed swing that lifted Jon Connington from his horse.

Ned had volunteered for a role less dangerous by only the barest of degrees: at the start of each charge, he would fall back to the middle of the company on the side facing the enemy. From there, he would repel any foe who withstood Brandon's initial offensive.

He watched grimly as the Dornishmen, led by Arthur Dayne, carved a bloody path through the rivernmen and readied himself for the next charge.

They faced the stormlords afterward. Commanding their respective companies, the scions of two great houses met at full tilt. Forced to evade the arc of Robert's warhammer, Brandon swung his own blade wide, allowing the laughing Baratheon to exact a heavy toll on the northmen until Ned intervened. Brandon claimed his own bloody price, but more than twenty men lay wounded when the dust settled.

Despite Lord Blacktyde's able command and the fearsome reputations of Houses Harlaw and Drumm's warriors, the men of the Iron Islands did not perform nearly as well. The lords of the Riverlands, largely exhausted by their battles with Arthur and Robert, fared no better.

At last, the warriors of the North faced those of Dorne. Their numbers stood near equal, Brandon commanding twenty-eight men while Ser Arthur led twenty-three. The two warriors clashed and proved each other's equal on horseback. The Kingsguard parried Brandon's initial strike in a masterful display of skill that opened his opponent's guard. He delivered a cross-cut to his opponent's head, only for Brandon to catch Arthur's blade on the hilt of his own, denying the death blow.

As the Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade engaged in single combat, Ned saw to the defense of the northmen's flank. Twice, he warded off Oberyn's spear, diverting the tip skywards away from his comrades. He crossed blades with Ser Lewyn, catching the latter's sword on the lip of his shield when the Dornishman brought his blade down in a powerful arc. A well-placed underarm thrust saw Ned unseat his foe.

Passing the notable Dornish commanders, Ned readied himself to face the rearguard when his destrier seized. The young Stark barely freed himself from his stirrups before the beast faltered and fell.

He escaped being crushed under his mount. Even then, Ned landed poorly, armor betraying him as his limbs crashed against the unyielding steel. Despite retaining consciousness, his vision blurred, and sounds bled into echos as he struggled against the bile that welled in his throat.

For a time, he lay there, mind clouded by pain, bleary eyes staring in disbelief at the spear buried in his stead.

He felt several hands help him sit as more shadows ran to his defense. Distantly, he heard Brandon shouting, his voice almost unrecognizable with rage, quickly joined by Lord Royce's and Robert's sounding equally wroth.

New voices drowned out the ones he knew, and Ned abandoned his efforts to decipher some semblance of conversation. He instead allowed two maesters to inspect him while William Dustin stood guard. He accepted a cup of water but refused milk of the poppy, needing what remained of his focus and strength.

In the distance, Brandon and Oberyn exchanged insults and threats, nearly coming to blows as their bannermen threatened the same. Ned noted several valemen and stormlanders among the ranks of the northmen while a contingent of crownlanders backed the Dornish. Lord Whent's eldest son stood between them, preventing the melee from devolving into a true battle.

The wounded knight watched and waited for tempers to cool. He inspected his armor and found it dented but sound. Eventually, the battle lines dissolved. Robert and Lord Royce returned to their men, and the Crownlanders followed suit. A much smaller party made their way towards him, Brandon at their head.

"Ned–"

"I'm alright," he assured, willing himself to stand. He turned from his brother, acknowledged Alton Whent, and settled his eyes on the Dornishman. "You have words for me, Prince Oberyn?"

Peering down from his stallion, Red Viper wore the expression of a man forced to sup on spoiled milk.

"My apologies, Lord Eddard." Gone was the prince's usual condescension and conceit. In its place was the terseness of a man whose every word invoked physical pain. "Ebbin Wyl thought himself above the rules of the tourney. He desired your death and dishonored all of Dorne in his wake."

Oberyn tilted his head behind him, where a young man lay restrained by his fellow Dornishmen.

"Fool thought the heat of battle would conceal his crimes from the eyes of five kingdoms."

Sparing the man a glance, Ned looked to his horse, which had long received mercy at his behest. He breathed a sigh.

"What were his motives?"

A bitter smile tugged at Oberyn's lips.

"You made an enemy of every unwedded man in Dorne when you courted Ashara. I suspect many of the wedded ones hate you just the same," the prince explained, and none of the lords doubted his words. "Ebbin was among the most vocal of your detractors, but even I had not expected such treachery."

The Red Viper gripped his reins tighter with every word.

"House Martell will see you compensated for your horse, and a message will be sent to Sunspear. House Wyl will forfeit its lands and title, either in part or totality."

Several Dornish lords stirred in their saddles, clearly unsettled by the fate that had befallen one of their own, however deserved. Oberyn paid them no mind.

"As for Ebbin," he continued, as though discussing the fate of a man long dead, "Your brother has requested he face northern justice. Neither House Targaryen nor House Martell saw reason to deny him."

The words said much and implied more. One glance at Brandon told Ned that his brother had not been courteous nor compromising with his demands. Ned had no time to dwell on the matter, feeling the Dornishman's eye upon him once more.

"I had not intended to see you injured in this manner, Lord Eddard."

Red Viper offered the apology with great reluctance, yet his words were sincere, implying sentiments said and unspoken.

Ned gave no reply. The Martell no doubt expected him to respond in resignation or anger. Instead, the young knight walked past the northern destriers and Dornish steeds, denying him either. Stopping beside his fallen mount, he reached for his saddle and lifted his longsword.

"Thank you for all you've done under these trying circumstances, Prince Oberyn." Ned offered the words with simple courtesy, and all fell silent as he unsheathed the blade. "Would you do me the final kindness of dismounting? I'm afraid I no longer have the means to fight ahorse."

With the exception of his brother, the gathered lords stared in shock. Even Oberyn failed to conceal his surprise and growing intrigue.

"I have not forfeited the melee," Ned explained when the prince remained silent. "Or was I unhorsed by legitimate means?"

He allowed the question to linger, giving the Red Viper time to accept his challenge or endorse the actions of his brother's bannerman.

The Red Viper laughed.

"Are you sure of this, Stark?" the prince warned as his previous frustrations gave way to a mire of amusement and offense. "You've unseated many men today, my uncle amongst them. Most would consider that honor enough."

Ned regarded the prince with unyielding eyes.

"I wish to settle all matters between us, Martell."

Once more, words conveyed more than what was said. The Red Viper's only response was to jump from his stallion, spear in hand.

He had not enjoyed his time in Oldtown, exiled from Sunspear in all but name. In truth, the Red Viper could scarcely recall his years amongst the maesters; for a man able to match wits with Doran Martell, forging six links of a chain had proved a trifle. His time had been better spent inviting courtesans to his private quarters.

Perhaps he should have given the study of theology a passing glance. As little as he cared for the northern savages and their sanctified trees, the old gods clearly still held power in the frozen North. How else could Rickard Stark have sired such sons?

The thought hounded the Dornish prince like the stench of King's Landing.

Hate came easily to him these days. He found his temper short, and Ebbin's idiocy had made it shorter. But even as Oberyn directed his anger at the man before him, there was no denying Eddard Stark's mettle.

The heir of Winterfell may have unhorsed more men than any other, but it had been his younger brother who had ensured nearly half the northmen remained afield, with only Dorne close to matching their numbers.

Even now, more battered and bruised than not, the second son of House Stark repelled Oberyn's every attempt to lay him low. Even as the Red Viper's spear came alive in his hands, sailing forth in a twisted dance of pointed steel, the young northman fended off Oberyn's assault with fast footwork and precise swordplay.

The prince's anger worsened the longer the Stark stood his ground.

He recalled the morning his uncle relayed news of Rhaegar's transgressions. Several men had been needed to dissuade him from murdering all those involved. But even in his rage, Oberyn knew House Martell had greater access to the crown prince than any other. Between his uncle and Ellia's ladies-in-waiting, a paramour would not have gone unnoticed, and Lyanna Stark had never so much as parsed words with his faithless goodbrother. Perhaps Ashara could have relayed a message through Arthur with no one the wiser, but the very idea beggared belief.

Loath though he was to admit it, the Starks had not shown themselves to be such men, and despite Arthur's recent failings, the Red Viper did not think the Daynes capable of such treachery.

No, the dragon's crimes were his own, and nothing could call it to task. Not even the Dornish sun.

The knowledge did nothing for Oberyn's fury. He raged at Rhaegar for his faithlessness, Arthur for his betrayal, and Doran for agreeing to the damned match years ago. He hated Lyanna Stark for catching the prince's eye, himself for being powerless in the wake of this insult, and Eddard Stark for being the same.

As the Red Viper simmered in his anger, a blunted blade caught the edge of his helm.

He watched as Oberyn staggered back. The prince's helm had spared his face from ruin, but Ned's blade had driven his cheek guard inward and upwards. Now, the warped sheet of bronze only served to block the prince's vision.

As he waited for his opponent to regain his bearings, Ned sensed a change in the air, as though a revelation had rippled through the surrounding lords.

They had thought him quiet.

He recalled his earliest years in Winterfell, how the walls would echo with warm laughter and gentle teasing whenever the servants spied him trailing behind his elder brother.

As the years passed, the words grew less kind as men mistook his reserve for weakness. His foster father's court would whisper of how peculiar and ill-matched the Quiet Wolf appeared beside the heir of Storm's End.

The whispers had lessened after his first duel and disappeared altogether once he earned his spurs. But in another life where he had not rescued Lady Lorra, Ned doubted he would have outgrown the name.

Even now, having witnessed him best countless warriors with a patient and implacable defense, the lords of the realm compared him to Brandon and thought him incapable of anger.

Ned was sure Oberyn Martell had thought the same, forgetting that he faced a trueborn son of Winterfell, one whose family had suffered a great insult.

Ned was not his brother, but the wolf blood was every bit his birthright as it was Brandon's, and the cold could burn as brutally as any flame.

Permitting Oberyn the barest moment to divest his helm or fight half-blind, the northern knight readied his blade in a wrathful stance and resumed his attack. With his back acting as a fulcrum, the Wolf Knight leveraged his footwork and lent his full weight to the strength of each blow. That his sword lacked an edge no longer mattered as he delivered a cut meant to part the prince's jaw.

Bringing his own weapon to bear, Oberyn braced against the heft as castle-forged steel clashed against hardened cornel wood. A crack sounded from the spear as he diverted the blow and slid his arm down its length, turning the spearpoint into a dagger which he drove into Ned's side.

But the Wolf Knight had already raised his sword and brought it down on the prince's head. Forced to abandon his attack, Oberyn intercepted the blade with the heel of his spear, only for the ill-timed defense to falter. The Red Viper screamed as Ned's sword bit into his shoulder, and the bronze discs of his armor bent under the blow.

Ned allowed the prince to retreat.

This was not how he preferred to fight, fueled by fury and bereft of restraint. Even now, his efforts paled when compared to Brandon's natural ferocity, never mind the primal fear Lord Fairchild could instill within the hearts of men.

Yet, even a poor imitation of the Hunter's teachings had left the Dornish prince grasping his arm, weapon trembling in his hand as he gasped for breath through gritted teeth.

Not for the first time, Ned marveled at what he had achieved as the lesser student of a great teacher. But this would be his only duel of the melee, something he had known from the moment he fell. Maintaining the power and pace of his offensive required heroic effort, and already he was beyond exhaustion. Even if he prevailed against his opponent, Ned knew he lacked the strength to face another. Once the match was done, he would retire to the spectator stands and drag the Red Viper along with him, easing Brandon's path to victory.

He retook the wrathful stance, and the prince, despite his pain, answered by raising the butt of his spear with the tip angled low.

For the briefest moment, the two second sons stood motionless under a noonday sun. All thoughts of the melee, its rules, and the blunted weapons in their hands fell away as they resolved themselves to a proper duel.

With a sudden kick, the Red Viper raised his spear and lunged, intent on driving the point through Ned's visor and out the other end. Veering his head, the Wolf Knight turned the lethal strike into a glancing blow. He answered with a cut meant to open Oberyn's throat. The prince leapt back and lashed out with his spear's daggered hilt, only for Ned to step into the arc of his swing, sword raised high.

The prince blocked the descending blade with the vambrace of his wounded arm, the pain and frustration on his face clear for all to see.

The Red Viper was a spearman without peer. With nary a glance, he could pierce the gaps in a man's armor, forcing his enemies to wager their lives on the strength of their mail. But a spear needed space to strike, and Ned stubbornly denied his opponent that advantage, forcing him to lose ground without gaining distance.

The Wolf Knight had long proven himself a match for the Dornishman's speed and footwork, but the Red Viper was unable to mimic Ned's impregnable defense as the northman drove him back. With his face unprotected and the Wolf Knight striking with lethal intent, the Red Viper could no longer turn the tide of battle, unable to risk certain death for a wounding blow.

The end was inevitable and came without a preamble. Again, Ned brought his sword down on Oberyn's head, and the Red Viper answered by raising his spear. The prince was fast enough to see the Wolf Knight redirect the blow, scraping his blade along the spear's length, and withdrew his hand to spare it from injury. But he could do nothing when Stark pivoted and drove the sword into his side. A dull crack sounded as Ned's blade collided with the copper scales of Oberyn's armor.

The Red Viper fell slowly, stubborn even in defeat, and the field remained silent even as Ned made out the faraway sound of shouts and applause. As the anger and strength fled his body, the young knight directed his blade at the Dornishman's chest.

'Yield,' he thought but did not say, knowing Oberyn would understand.

From the ground, the prince seemed almost grateful for his silence and answered in kind, discarding his spear in disgust. The young Stark was not blind to his anger, but where that anger was directed now, he could no longer say.

Ned offered a hand he knew Oberyn would refuse and was not surprised when the prince found his voice.

"I will stand by my own strength or not at all, Stark," he hissed, voice bitter and weary, and Ned found no desire to argue.

He turned to leave, taking several paces before the prince spoke again.

"Ser Eddard," Oberyn called, and Ned was surprised to hear his voice carry the barest hint of formality and respect. He turned to find the prince having righted himself, hand still clutched against his wounded side. "I will send you my personal taster for tonight's feast. Feel free to make use of his services for the remainder of the tourney."

The Dornish prince held his gaze without explanation or apology, and Ned acknowledged the offer with a silent nod, returning to his northern companions with slow, unsteady steps.

His eyes met Brandon's, and a wordless understanding passed between them as Ned walked by. He made for the battlements unaided, the very picture of a battle-worn yet victorious knight, Ashara's favor still tied to his arm.

TBC

Chapter Summary:

Ned and Brandon scramble to clean up the mess Rhaegar left on their doorstep. Ned made sure all involved parties have their stories straight in case anyone starts asking questions. Brandon went and beat nine innocent men within an inch of their lives to dissuade said questions from ever being asked.

As they say, 'Teamwork makes the dream work.'

Oh, and there's also something about a melee in there.

Arthur notes:

This chapter sees quite the tonal shift as the Starks suffer the consequences of Rhaegar's visit. As mentioned before, this is a big deal. I would go so far as to place Rhaegar's intrusion somewhere between crowning Lyanna the Queen of love and beauty and the infamous abduction (much closer to the former, but still).

Rhaegar's actions have endangered Lyanna's honor and reputation. If word of what happened gets out, just the implications alone would bring Lyanna and Robert's engagement to a screeching halt. At a time when marriage and politics were so intertwined, this would be seen as a political attack on the whole North, Stormlands…and even Dorne, never mind a major overstep by House Targaryen.

Of course, what Ned and Brandon care about protecting their sister.

So the first half of the chapter sees the melee take a back seat while Ned and Brandon do damage control. One thing to point out is that the brothers know what they're doing: they're not plotters or schemers, but they were born and raised in the highest echelon of Westerosi society. They understand the implications of this whole debacle, and know how their response would be interpreted. Politics might not be their strength, but they are socially apt (a small difference, but a difference all the same).

The result is that the situation is as good as it can be: maybe someone saw a silver-haired man enter Lyanna's room; maybe they didn't. But it's not anything a man would hang his hat on (especially when Brandon seem liable to hang the man next to his hat).

Now that we've caught up on some (historical) canon events, I also wanted to point out some points of divergence:

Ned and Brandon's armor:

Had a bit of fun with the description here. A full suit of etched plate would likely be cresting the upper limits of Westeros' technological capabilities (~late medieval, think the Reach). In canon, I don't recall Ned ever wearing anything this nice, but here he and Brandon were considered favorites in the melee and Rickard made sure they were geared for the event. Plus, the quarterly earnings for the North were probably looking pretty good, so he splurged a bit.

Ned and Arthur:

Canonically, Ned speaks well of Arthur even AFTER things went down at the Tower of Joy. Here, not so much.

The reason is that Ned's now publicly courting Ashara. Their first meeting was a very public affair. So Ned has to make sure everything is up to code by approaching her family (again, the alternative is damaging a lady's reputation).

Then, his future brother-in-law accompanies his boss to visit Lyanna while she's unsupervised.

To be sure, Ned's furious at Rhaegar, but Arthur's actions are borderline betrayal as they're about to be family. Ned felt he was at least owed a "Hey, my creepy boss is eying your sister. I'll do what I can, but stay sharp."

This will be further explored in an Arthur POV (...maybe).

The Melee:

Hope you guys enjoyed the format. I took some liberties to make the scene more unique and the action digestible.

The Horse Incident:

I'm sure some of you might have mixed feelings about this scene, but from a plot perspective, I didn't need Ned to progress any further, and from a character perspective, Ned didn't need to win more battles in order to grow.

Furthermore, this scene illustrates that striking another combatant's horse during a joust/melee was often a "forfeit lands and titles" level of offense. This is made all the worse with all the great houses and the KING in attendance. Of course, if someone were crazy enough to do it, it would be the Wyls, best known for wartime atrocities (selling Alys Oakheart into slavery and worse) during the First Dornish War.

Furthermore, this development explores the consequences of Ned and Ashara's more overt courtship, similar to how the Stark brother's growing reputation have the Martells concern for Arthur's title as the world's preeminent swordsman.

Lastly, under normal circumstances, there was no way Oberyn would have handed a fellow Dornishman to Brandon, regardless of his crimes. However, given the magnitude of the crime and the fact it was committed in broad daylight with seven kingdoms bearing witness, he didn't have much choice. If he hadn't agreed, he would have risked being accused of culpability…but I'm pretty sure he would have swung at Brandon if other's (i.e. his uncle) weren't around.

Ned vs Oberyn:

Not much to say here. The "wrathful guard" or Zornhut is a visually striking and aggressive stance that I thought aptly described how Ned went on the offensive in a way that would make Cyril proud. (I took inspiration for light saber stances, think transitioning from Soresu to Djem So).

Big fan of this picture of Oberyn by Magali Villeneuve. Matched the description of his armor pretty faithfully (just added a helmet). The bronze scaled/disced armor he favor's is likely great against slashes but would still transfer a lot of force onto the wearer. Oberyn was likely left the duel with a fractured clavicle and rib when all was said and done.

Anyway, that's all for now. Hope everyone's doing well. Thank you all for your patience and support.

Chapter 891 - 22-24