The Grind (And Helping Heather Potter) [Book 2]

Luck and time had been good to the Starks of Winterfell over the past year. No, Ned should place the majority of that merit on Castle Hogwarts' shoulders, in truth… That much was clear as he and his family stood there, awaiting their royal guests. It was clear as he watched his beloved children with the young man and woman from that magical castle.

Lord Cedric and Lady Cho had been adopted in all but name. They were the older siblings that Ned never knew were needed. He'd never imagined that even Robb and Jon needed slightly older peers to look up to. Cedric was very good to them in that regard. Every boy should have an older brother figure. Watching them together over the past year, Ned had never missed Brandon so much.

Not that they were alike at all. Brandon had been wild and swept everything in his path along with him. He could've won over a rock's loyalties. He had his faults, but he would've been a great man. A great Warden of the North. Ned's heart always ached to remember that his older brother never did and never would get the chance.

By comparison, Cedric was calm, collected, and charismatic beyond belief. But where Brandon would've been an all-consuming blizzard — a force of sheer personality — Cedric was the calming summer snows of the North, blanketing everything he touched in pristine beauty. Just as rolling snow-covered hills and snow-capped forests bolstered the chilled beauty of the North, he enhanced and supported those he met with that genuine and handsome smile and good heart of his.

Ned had scarcely met a better man than Cedric Diggory. He was kind and personable. He was loyal and steadfast, hardworking to the core. He could inspire and support just as easily as he could take the lead if called upon. Yet he never tried to overshadow the Stark scions. They grew and blossomed beside him, and Cedric only took heart in their every success. He was simply… a genuinely good man. In a world where such qualities were more rare than Ned would've liked to admit.

Lady Cho was a similarly good influence on Ned's children. As if Lyanna's energy and love for life were merged with Catelyn's propriety. She also had an almost scary sense and way with people. Man, woman, and child — wherever Cho went, she won hearts and minds. She complimented her Lord perfectly. Her mind was sharp and keenly curious. The things she put it to quickly fell to some semblance of skill — be they lessons in administration or the histories and legends of the North. She was as smart as Ned's maester, as diplomatic as Ned's Lady Wife, and as good with the children as Old Nan was. Ned couldn't imagine a better older sister figure for his family. Even if Lady Cho did have her… quirks…

"Atlas and Heather say the princess is even more beautiful than her mother~," Cho whispered conspiratorially into Robb's ear. "And with a lovely voice to match~…"

"The Queen is certain to be the most beautiful woman in the realm, so that compliment cannot be overstated," Sansa nodded along.

Robb's ears were red as he pointedly didn't meet their eyes, "I don't know why you're telling me this."

"Don't you~?" Cho teased.

Cedric chuckled, coming to Robb's rescue, "Oh, at least let him meet the girl first before you start playing matchmaker, Cho."

"But Ceddy~," Cho pretended to whine and pout. "Siren Princess! Siren Princess and dashing Young Wolf!"

"It's like a song~," Sansa swooned. "How romantic~!"

"This is entirely inappropriate," Robb tried to deflect. "She's a princess. THE princess."

"And you're the Heir to the North," Jon pointed out, breaking his usual silence to poke at his brother.

Cho nodded in enthusiastic agreement, "Practically a prince in your own right! It's a perfect match!"

"I hardly think the King came all this way for a mere match. He intends to ask Father to be his Hand, does he not? Surely, the current running of the realm takes precedence?" Robb argued.

Catelyn leaned around Ned to tut at their firstborn, "There is nothing 'mere' about your match, my son. But in all likelihood, yes. The King has come to appoint your father as his Hand."

"Of course, if I know your namesake," Ned added. "Robert will wish to tie our Houses together good and true. All that remains is what match is to be made. He has two sons as well as his daughter."

"A proper prince…" Sansa said softly, biting at her lip.

Where once Ned's oldest daughter would have been ecstatic at the idea, there was hesitation now. Sansa had always been taken by songs and dreams of the South, Ned knew. Yet she was no longer the isolated noble girl who knew only her family and the occasional visit from their bannermen. Truly, two older, worldly friends could make all the difference.

Ned noted how Sansa's eyes instantly darted to Cedric as she muttered to herself. He'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to miss the fanciful, youthful feelings his daughter held for the young Lord who now stayed in Winterfell most of the time. Cedric was good enough not to encourage them. He was kind and friendly with her but never presumptuous or overreaching. Unfortunately, that was all it took at Sansa's age.

Cedric and Cho were promised and committed to each other. But strangely, Cho was one of Sansa's biggest supporters. Not in truth, Ned suspected. Cho may encourage Sansa's 'youthful fancy', but she didn't truly mean for her to join them in the customs of their culture. The pair were happily monogamous and devoted solely to each other. There was no 'coven' in their future.

Such was a blessing and a relief in Ned's mind. He recognized that the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts kept their own culture even after settling in the North. Truly, he took no issue with that. But Ned imagined he wouldn't be so ambivalent if his own daughter was joining such a culture. Nor, he imagined, would Catelyn. Perhaps it was hypocritical, but there were some things he simply couldn't stomach the thought of…

Thankfully, Cho was canny enough to notice his and Catelyn's worries. She even went so far as to sit them down and clarify her intentions. She teased and encouraged Sansa, yes, but it was out of love and for their daughter's own good.

"Every girl has a first crush," She said. "I was lucky enough to end up with mine, but Sansa will not be. She should be allowed to enjoy her youth while she can but also accept that some things aren't meant to be. It'll help her grow into a woman, and I can be there to guide her without taking offense as some women might."

Of course, the next place Sansa's eyes flitted as she worried at her lip and they waited, didn't fill Ned with the same confidence… Dammit all, the Old Gods must love to laugh at Ned and his family. While he was undeniably glad that the gap Catelyn had forced between Jon and the rest of their family had all but vanished, that vanishing had had… consequences.

It didn't help matters that Cho encouraged Sansa there even more than with Cedric. That, she'd admitted with chagrin, was for more self-indulgent reasons. Ned almost couldn't blame her… Almost. Jon had grown into an attractive young man in the prime of his youth. Not simply handsome but beautiful. His features were still entirely Stark, yet he was likely the most fetching Stark to ever live, his true sire's legendary beauty only serving to enhance every aspect of him.

By the time Ned put his foot down as both Lord and Lord Father, the damage was already done. Jon was as honorable as ever, but what use was honor when Sansa was more likely to court him than the reverse? They'd been raised as siblings, but they were cousins in truth. Stranger matches had been made. Hells, Ned's father married his cousin. The only issue was that such a fact about Jon and Sansa's familial relationships couldn't be revealed.

Yet… if they truly fell in love, could Ned deny them? Would he wish to? Jon was all he had left of his sister. And if he forced the issue, Sansa's situation would begin to mimic Lyanna's elopement too much for Ned's liking. Despite their differing appearances, Sansa shared Lyanna's Wolfsblood. She was his dutiful little girl — not nearly so little anymore… — but he suspected she could very well defy expectations for the man she loved. As much as some Lords might wish otherwise, Ned knew that feelings and emotions answered to no authority but their own.

So, while Ned didn't do anything to encourage them and their 'youthful fancy', he feared that his hands were largely tied. His children's feelings would develop and play out as they would. Perhaps Sansa would outgrow her 'crush' on her cousin. Perhaps she wouldn't. Preferably, Ned would allow his children to make their own matches. But he knew such happiness was often the cost of being born to their positions in life. Marriages could easily make or break a House for generations to come. Yet he was blessed with six beautiful children (or five and a treasured nephew). Surely, if anyone could afford to rely on love matches to secure their future, it would be this current generation of House Stark, wouldn't it?

A series of 'yips' pulled him from such optimistic thoughts. Well, they were only 'yips' coming from the direwolf pups. From any other creature, they would be the intimidating barks of fully-grown hounds. They'd been so well-behaved, but it seemed that they'd collectively reached their limit. Seeing a rider come forth to herald the King's arrival, Ned could see why their excitement was getting the best of them now.

Thankfully, a low rumbling growl put the pups back in their places without their masters having to wrangle them at all. The direwolf mother stepped up beside him, her head as big as his torso and her shoulder coming up to his. Ned wasn't the tallest of men, but he was by no means small, either. A fully-grown mother direwolf was simply that massive. He knew now better than ever why his ancestors took them as their House sigil.

Like all mothers, she had a way with her children. The direwolf pups fell back into line beside their masters. Here, Ned couldn't help but marvel at how each one seemed to mirror his children. Jon's pup Ghost was as somber and quiet as him. Robb's Greywind was boisterous and confident. Sansa's Lady was demure and calm. Arya's Nymeria was wild and free. And little Rickon's Shaggydog was an utter menace, just like Ned's youngest son, causing both Catelyn and the direwolf mother no end of conniptions.

Ned claimed the mother for himself. Winter, he named her. A reflection of Bran's Summer — the only one among them who was missing. Yet Ned didn't worry about them. They would be safe in the South, at Highgarden. Lady Olenna promised that much. And Bran had a certain way with his pup before they left to accompany Willas Tyrell's return. Summer and Bran took to each other better than all of them.

Yet all the direwolves and their Starks shared a certain bond. One that went much deeper than skin — much deeper than 'owner and pet', Ned knew. He'd had dreams. Wolf dreams. Warg dreams. He thought he'd escaped the magical awakenings of his children, but it seemed the Wolfsblood ran true. Even when he was awake, Ned had begun to sense Winter in the back of his mind. She was quickly becoming his most constant and truest companion. And so, the pack grew…

They would be tested in the coming weeks. Hosting the King and Queen — Princes and Princess — was no simple matter. Yet, as the King and his party rode through the gates of Winterfell, Ned found himself… hopeful. Truly, it had been too long, and even if Robert wasn't the boy he remembered, they still bore the bond of brotherhood chosen. Ned would forgive his drinking and whoring, for the man who raised them both as a father always had. For Jon, he was willing to turn a blind eye to the King his foster brother had become.

Only… it didn't seem that he would have to. Robert rode into his domain with a straight back and a smile that couldn't be denied. There wasn't an ounce of drunkenness in his person. No bleary eyes or swaying posture. No sign of the sad, sad sight Ned remembered from the Greyjoy Rebellion. In fact, Ned barely recognized Robert at all.

Not since the early, early days at the Eyrie had Ned seen a sober Robert. He could barely process the sight. The Robert who came to him now was a man changed and not in the ways Ned had been expecting. Power practically rolled off his King as Robert dismounted on strong, steady legs. He wasn't even as fat as he'd been when Ned last saw him.

No, instead, Robert looked as if his prime had returned to him with a vengeance. He was fit and solid, packing three men's worth of muscle into a colossal Baratheon frame. There wasn't a hint of slouch to his spine nor a single stutter or stumble in his movements. Even in their youth, Robert had never looked better.

The rest of the royal procession followed after Robert, along with a contingent that'd seemingly joined along the way from Castle Hogwarts. The Crown Prince rode at the procession's head with a regal mask that couldn't quite hide petulance. The Queen, princess, and youngest prince dismounted from the royal wheelhouse, accompanied by the Ladies Olenna and Margaery. The Queen didn't seem particularly happy for the company or their destination either, it seemed. The Kingslayer was with the Kingsguard as expected, but the youngest of the Lannister siblings also accompanied the royal procession. And strangely, he stuck closer to the Hogwarts contingent than his kin.

The Tyrell Ladies were harder to read at first glance, as Ned had come to expect from them. Lady Olenna was a fearsome woman, and Lady Margaery was no slouch in her own right. She took after her grandmother. Ned was aware that these would be their last weeks in the North. Their business with Castle Hogwarts had come to its inevitable end, for now, and they'd soon be returning to Highgarden. Ned planned to ask them to take letters to Bran. He'd likely speak that request to Lady Margaery, for Lady Olenna would undoubtedly extract a price from him for such a favor.

The Hogwarts contingent was a sight for sore eyes. They all rode horses that shimmered into brooms to Ned's sight. It was a strange phenomenon but one he could only push to the back of his mind for the moment. Lord Atlas was good to see again. He was a good man, and he got along with Ned's children quite well. Cedric spoke well of him, and anyone who could quite literally transform into a direwolf was worth House Stark's respect. Absently, Ned wondered how Winter would react to Atlas' wolven form.

Of Atlas' Ladies, only Narcissa, Luna, and Fleur had come. Lady Narcissa carried a serious-looking toddler boy on her hip, and Ned had to remind himself that though she and Atlas weren't married, the child was trueborn by Hogwarts' customs. Lady Luna's appearance brought mixed feelings. She was undeniably strange as snow in Dorne, yet Ned couldn't help but like the girl and every interaction he'd had with her. If his feelings for Luna were mixed, Lady Fleur brought outright dread. Ned hadn't forgotten just how well she and Sansa seemed to get on…

Three others from Hogwarts came with Atlas and his companions. Sirius Black, Ned's mind provided, the patriarch of Atlas' House and his father. The resemblance between them was striking… except for the seemingly constant mischievous smirk on Sirius' face. The two Ladies with him stuck close, each carrying children of their own. Two for the stern-faced and monocled Lady Amelia with hair kissed by fire — one in the throes of infancy and the other practically newborn. The other woman, a composed and striking Lady who wouldn't have looked out of place in any Southern court, secured a young girl — about the same age as Atlas' son to Ned's eye — in front of her. Lady Phoebe, Ned remembered. Both Ladies were committed to Lord Sirius.

Ned's attention was pulled away from those he would be hosting. Robert stood before him now with an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face. He didn't say anything. Merely stared at Ned. Ned blinked. After so long, after seeing a man he almost didn't recognize, he found his words failing him. Most strangely of all, he found Robert, of all people, in the same situation.

'Crack a joke,' Ned urged within his mind. 'Jape and jest as you should. Say something. Anything. Don't leave the first words to me when you know me to be so terrible with them. If you can't find the words, then the world is truly coming to an end, my friend…'

"Welcome… to Winterfell, My King," Ned began stiffly. "My castle is yours-…"

Robert surged forward, cutting him off before he could finish. Ned was swept into his embrace as if caught in a sudden storm. Robert's hug was firm and heartfelt, yet also sad and full of regret. It was not the reunion Ned had expected. Where was the laughter and the smiles and the requests for 'making up lost time'…?

"Gods, I missed you," Robert's words came as a mournful whisper in his ears, a moment just for the two of them. "He's gone, Ned. He's truly gone. I-I-… I already feel like I'm lost without him. You and I, I feel like we're all that's left of those blissful Eyrie days…"

Ned stood shock-still for a moment. Robert was mourning. Vulnerable. He'd never seen his foster brother like this. In that moment, he wasn't a King. He wasn't a larger-than-life warrior. Robert was just a man who'd lost the closest thing he had to a father. A man who wanted to commiserate and seek comfort with the brother of his youth. He was barely the man Ned knew and certainly not the one he'd been expecting to see in his place. The relief Ned felt at that realization was almost physically painful.

Ned embraced his brother-returned just as firmly, "You've changed, Robert."

Robert laughed, a harsh sound with no ill intent behind it, "More than you could ever know."

"… Welcome back, brother."

Finally pulling back, Robert smiled, the expression bringing a nostalgic familiarity to him that Ned had long missed, "Better than ever, Ned. Better than ever. And I've no intention to lose myself again."

Then Winter unceremoniously (and surprisingly stealthy for a horse-sized wolf) stuck her cold nose between them with a huff, and Robert jumped as if struck by lightning. Ned could have sworn he saw a few impossible bolts of it even dance in his hair…

"Mother's magnificent teats, man, that's a big fucking dog!"

Ned couldn't help his smirk, "Don't you know, Robert? Winter is coming…"

Winter herself followed his jape with a chuff that left Robert wild-haired and wild-eyed. Ned continued, "Allow me to introduce you, Your Grace. This is Winter, the living sigil of my House. She has bonded herself to me and her pups to mine. Truly, you aren't the only one who's changed with the years."

It took a few more bemused and baffled moments, but Robert finally began to laugh loudly and earnestly, "Gods Above, I missed you, Ned! Both of our Houses have been revived and returned to the Age of Heroes then! Perhaps the world is not so cruel after all!"

"No, my friend," Ned shook his head. "Just stranger than we could have ever believed as boys in the Eyrie. Come, partake of my bread and salt, and let us rekindle our bonds of brotherhood after so long."

IIIII

Winterfell held a feast that night. The King's arrival couldn't be dismissed. Yet, for the first time in their friendship, Ned found that Robert wasn't so enthusiastic about his usual revelry. He was sober. Blindingly, terrifyingly sober. Robert Baratheon. Sober. And even keeping his cock in his pants. It was official. After 35 years of life, Ned Stark had no clue what the world had come to.

Of course, Robert did explain his sobriety, as well as some of the core reasons for his drastically changed character. They spoke within the Winterfell Crypts so they had a semblance of privacy. The location also allowed Robert to pay his respects to Lyanna. Ned found he couldn't refuse the new Robert that much. And he ended up being much more respectful about the affair than Ned had been expecting. He only said a few quiet words for himself and Lyanna before turning his attention back to Ned and their conversation.

"I can't get drunk, Ned. Not anymore. Not a drop of drink survives the storm in my veins. And honestly? I barely miss it. I miss it even less when I look at 'Cella and Tommy and see their proud smiles that I'm actually around these days."

Ned could barely believe his ears. Just like Ned's children, Robert had awakened the legendary blood of his line. Renly had as well, according to Robert, but not Stannis. He was the Storm God descended again. Lightning raced through his veins, and roiling storms clouded his mind. The blood of Durran Godsgrief and his divinely stolen wife were as legendary as any feat of the Stark line. And part of Robert's awakening seemed perfectly tailored to him.

"Renly certainly doesn't suffer the same," Robert grumbled. "That cocky little shit can still drink all he wants. But what can you do, eh? I'm certainly not about to go arguing with magic!"

As they exited the Crypts, Robert was all smiles. It seemed not everything had changed. Even sober, Robert's mood and energy had a buoying effect on Ned's soul. He found himself smiling softly as Robert told him how his awakening wasn't entirely unkind to him. He regaled him with the tale of his trip North and the adventure that had waylaid him in the Riverlands.

"Look at me! I'm better than ever! I feel like I'm fucking 20 again! I had a fat fucking gut when I started this trip, but no more, you hear?! No more! And gods, I missed having a good fight, missed having an enemy that I could point myself at. No puling politics or simpering snakes. Just a bunch of rowdy fuckers for me to set my sights on and smash! You should have fucking been there, Ned! I even got two new Kingsguards out of it! The Bracken and Blackwood boys working together! Can you believe it?!"

Robert's good mood continued into the feast. Yet Ned couldn't forget the reason they were finally reunited as brothers again. Jon was dead, and the knowledge wore on Robert as well. Ned imagined he was the only one to notice it. No others who currently lived knew Robert well enough to see the signs of strain. It was a subtle thing, just moments of hesitation here and there, as if Robert was caught up in his memories. To everyone else, he'd be the same changed King they were coming to know all over again.

Still, Robert dominated Ned's attention that night. Thankfully, his Lady Wife took care of entertaining the rest of their guests. Ned would have to do something nice for his Cat, especially after putting up with the Queen… And their children… And the Tyrells… And, Old Gods forgive him, the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts…

He and Robert eventually settled into simply watching the show as if it was the finest of mummery. Entertainment that would amuse even the gods. Throughout Winterfell's main hall, personalities clashed, quips and snipes were exchanged, and propriety frayed at the seams. The Queen of Lions and the Queen of Thorns. The Imp of Lannister and the Black Grimm of Hogwarts. The Young Wolf and the 'Perfect' Prince. And, of course, Ned's daughter and the worrying role model she'd taken on…

Lady Fleur started them off, turning to Atlas with lidded eyes and a purred, sultry request, "Feed me by hand, dear Atlas~…"

Sansa was all too eager to copy the vision of nigh divine beauty. Ned barely muffled a groan as she turned to Jon in the same way, "A-Ahem, then you must feed me as well, Jon. I-I find my arms failing me, yet my noble tongue yearns for more."

Sansa glanced at Fleur, seeking approval. Fleur nodded proudly. A smirk settled on her face as if challenging Atlas to deny them both. Atlas was more than happy to oblige.

"Why should I~?" He drawled with lazy amusement.

Jon did much the same, though much less calmly. An awkward chuckle escaped his throat as he replied to Sansa, "I don't think that's the best of ideas, my lady…"

Fleur practically squawked with theatric outrage, "Why should you~? Why~?! My beloved, you must~! Would you have me wither away without you~? Tell me it isn't so~! Tell me my beauty shan't be squandered because of your cruel inattentions~! Oh, oh, the humanity~…!"

Atlas nodded matter-of-factly, "Yes, it's a great tragedy, isn't it? Why, you might even starve without me. If only you had two working hands of your own."

Fleur huffed haughtily, "I don't see how that's relevant at all. I asked for you to feed me. If I wished to feed myself, I would simply do so."

"Hmm," Atlas hummed, pretending to consider her request. "… No. How about you feed me instead?"

Instead of taking offense at his refusal, Fleur jumped on the reversed offer, "Gladly, my beloved~! Oh, truly, you spoil me~…!"

Sansa sniffed, acting as if she wasn't paying close attention to Atlas and Fleur's exchange so she might emulate it. But when it came to pleading her own case, she took a slightly different approach, "Would you call me wise, Jon Snow? Would you say my advice is worth listening to?"

Jon blinked, "I… would. Perhaps not 'wise' in the traditional sense, but I do put stock and weight in your words, sister. Your guidance is always most welcome."

"Very good," Sansa nodded, suddenly fighting a blush as brilliant as her kissed-by-fire hair. "Then trust when I say that feeding me by hand is, in fact, the best of ideas."

Jon coughed, politely muffling his amused laughter, "Is that so? The Princess of the North truly can't feed herself?"

"I can," Sansa confirmed, raising her nose with obviously put-on 'arrogance'. "I simply choose not to. As is my right as the Princess of the North. Truly, you should be grateful that I'm entrusting the task to you."

"Oh, I certainly am," Jon smiled. "A compromise then? If you feed yourself through dinner, I'll feed you dessert, my lady."

Sansa hesitated at that offer, "… Lemon squares?"

"As many as you can stomach," Jon promised.

Sansa put on a blank, ladylike expression that did almost nothing to hide her vibrating excitement, "I suppose that is acceptable."

Beside Ned, Robert chuckled at the display, "You've certainly been blessed by at least one vibrant daughter, Ned."

Ned nodded and sighed, "Aye, Sansa's hair is kissed by fire, but her personality barely lags behind. She's an enigma. As ladylike as her mother at times and as free as Lyanna at others. I'm mostly glad she forewent her magic for the feast and that Lady Fleur did the same. Together, the pair of them would have the whole hall on our knees and drooling."

"Hmm," Robert hummed in consideration but didn't say anything about Ned's mention of magic. "I'd say she would have caught the Queen's attention, but my black-hearted wife seems to be otherwise occupied at the moment…"

That she was. Ned nodded as his eyes found the Queen of the realm. She seemed to have found her attention stolen by the Tyrells and some of the Hogwarts contingent. A near-permanent sneer marred her royal beauty. Cersei was finding the Queen of Thorns as prickly as her title implied.

"-And what are two Reachwomen doing in the North?" Cersei 'asked' (read: demanded). "I would have thought pretty little flowers wilted in the cold."

Margaery smiled indulgently at the Queen as if talking to a child, "Not all flowers are so flimsy. I think you'll find that the roses of Tyrell are particularly hearty and hale."

Cersei scowled at Margaery's displayed spine, and Olenna snorted, "Would you have us wait until winter to visit the North?"

"I might," Cersei sniffed imperiously.

"Our apologies for disappointing you then, Your Grace," Olenna drawled, just the tone of her voice sounding like rolled eyes. "Our business here was too pressing to wait."

"And that business is?" Cersei pressed, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

There, Lady Narcissa answered, "Why, Queen Cersei, surely you heard about the revitalization of House Tyrell's heir?"

"You expect me to believe you came to the North for healers?" Cersei very nearly scoffed at the idea.

"But they did~!" Luna chimed, the sheer cheer in her voice making the Queen's eye twitch. "We're very, very good at what we do~! Positively magical~! Madam Pomfrey had Willas up and running about in no time at all~!"

Cersei nodded stiffly to Olenna and Margaery, "Then you have my best wishes that such returned health continues. It must be a balm to your souls for House Tyrell to have a strong heir once more."

"Willas always was the strongest of us," Margaery continued to smile, masterfully hiding any strain that might have come with the Queen's words. "Now, others will be free to see it as well."

"Yes," Olenna smirked slightly. "I believe my dear son has already fielded several new betrothal offers since Willas returned to Highgarden."

"How… fortuitous…" Cersei 'smiled', if the toothy expression could even be called such.

"Most fortumptity~!" Luna beamed. From anyone else, the nonsense word would have sounded mocking. From Luna, it was charming and adorable… and still managed to make the Queen physically twitch.

"Hogwarts has grown rather close to the Tyrells as a result," Narcissa continued, nodding. The toddling Aries Black nodded along seriously with his mother from her lap. "The Ladies Olenna and Margaery most of all, but young Willas also declared Hogwarts to be his eternal friend for healing him."

"It seems you and your people are on the rise," Cersei noted facetiously.

"As is to be expected," Narcissa agreed matter-of-factly. "My oldest son is currently fostering at Casterly Rock, you know."

That information did give Cersei pause for the first time in the feast, "I… did not."

"Yes," Narcissa nodded, and Aries parroted her with a childishly serious voice. "My Draco and his newly-wed wife are under the care of your Lord Father, Your Grace. They write that Casterly Rock is a beautiful and stimulating place. They haven't been bored for a day since they arrived."

Cersei's gaze softened, and a genuine smile spread across her beautiful face for once, "Yes, I'd imagine they haven't. They're in good hands with my father. I've found no place in the world that surpasses the Rock."

"Not even the Red Keep?" Catelyn asked politely.

Cersei chuckled and sipped her wine, "Especially the Red Keep. I would take sunset over sunrise any day. And we never forget the halls of our youth, do we?"

Even Olenna was forced to begrudgingly nod at that, "True enough. The Arbor will always hold a special place in my old, shriveled heart."

Cersei laughed, the sound somewhere between harsh and genuine, "If that is true, then even the Arbor's legendary beauty has been understated!"

"Or perhaps its stories simply haven't reached the heights of the Red Keep as so much of its wine has," Olenna's verbal riposte came with a jabbing grin.

Cersei matched her grin with a touch more teeth, "We do so love the finer things in the royal court. So perhaps the lack of stories about the Arbor's beauty is telling after all. Say, Lady Narcissa, has Hogwarts given any thought to sending a delegation to King's Landing? If my father is hosting you and you are hosting the Ladies Olenna and Margaery, I would be remiss as Queen if I didn't offer to do the same."

The abrupt change in direction left Olenna unable to respond and continue their back-and-forth. Cersei very clearly took it for a victory. Olenna simply rolled her eyes.

Narcissa nodded to the Queen's inquiry, admitting, "It's been considered."

"Conbiddered…" Aries babbled after his mother, nodding so seriously that Ned thought he was looking at one of his bannermen in miniature for a moment.

"Wonderful," Cersei said with a smile as if the matter were already settled. "I shall prepare the royal court to receive you when we return. It'll be good to have such novel and foreign representation amongst us. Would your delegation consider bringing some of your infamous Hogwarts… 'entertainment'… with them at a Queen's request?"

Ned consciously forced himself to tune out the rest of that conversation. The blush that soon erupted on his Cat's face told him he made the correct decision. As did the sheer passion Lady Margaery began speaking with, waving her hands and beaming as she spoke of something Ned was better off not knowing about. Hogwarts, A History was bad enough already…

Robert, of course, just guffawed, "I swear, my Queen seems human in the strangest of times. Mostly, she's just like gold. Pretty, but cold. If only she brought this queer enthusiasm to our marriage bed…"

"I don't want to know," Ned grumbled. "The talks I had to have after that first book arrived haunt my nightmares, and likely my children's as well. Gods, I never even knew about half those positions until I heard them from my own daughter's questions!"

"Oh. Oh, shit," Robert visibly pale as a thought struck him. "I never had any of those talks with Myrcella. And I know she read that book…"

"That means you should consider yourself lucky then," Ned snorted.

"No," Robert said in quiet horror. "It means she likely got answers about them from her fucking mother. And that I'm going to have to set her straight for the sake of everything good and holy…"

Ned chuckled and left Robert to his sudden existential crisis. He turned his attention back to the hall at large and ended up focusing on the Lannister Imp as he interacted with Lord Black and his lovers. Lady Amelia seemed stressed enough as she dealt with her two babes, and her Lord's antics didn't help matters. But as pressed as she was, she didn't seem unhappy. Lady Phoebe tasked herself with handling Lord Sirius, and Amelia was mostly satisfied with the occasional lovingly acidic quip.

Sirius himself regaled Tyrion with a tale of youthful mischief from the Castle Hogwarts of his younger days, "-And then! Merlin, I can still barely believe it! Boom! Whipped cream, granny panties, and dinner ended up being so derailed that not even the whole staff could stop the food—and-panty-fighting!"

"I seem to remember Heather's mother giving back as good as she got," Amelia snarked. "Didn't James spend the rest of that year walking around with his underpants on his head?"

Sirius only grinned at the reminder, "I think that's when Prongs really started to fall for her. I'm still pretty sure Professor Flitwick helped with her revenge as well. Even when I laughed in his face, and the breeze tickled his bollocks, Prongs didn't notice a thing out of place!"

"I look forward to meeting Ser Flitwick," Tyrion chuckled. "I believe we might just have more in common than our physical stature."

"Hmm, 'Ser Flitwick'," Phoebe hummed, an amused smirk settling on her face. "Oh, he'll like that."

From tales of youth, Ned turned his attention to actual youth. His eldest son. And… Robert's… He'd barely met the boy, and already, Ned had very mixed feelings about the Crown Prince Joffrey. He wasn't nearly as slick as he thought. So much of his arrogance shined through his perfect princely mask. And while such wasn't entirely damning in a boy of six-and-ten, it did give Ned pause. Robert had to see it as well, didn't he? That his heir barely seemed fit to rule a keep, much less the Seven Kingdoms?

The boy spoke of nothing but his status as Crown Prince and the frivolities of a life without a single unmet want or need. No interests, no specialties, and no goals other than wearing the crown for the crown's sake. Yet he seemed to think the crown was already on his head and he was already ruling as a King that the realm would love and respect and that he would have no issues ever.

"My rule shall see Dorne brought to heel and the Iron Islands razed to dust and ash as my father should have after their petty rebellion," Joffrey claimed, the wine of the feast loosening his lips. Or so Ned could only hope…

Beside Robb, Theon fumed in his own skin, "I'd like to see a fuckin' greenlander try-…"

"Well, if all else fails, you can always do as your mother and grandfather do and throw gold at the problem until it goes away," Robb joked, laying a hand on Theon's shoulder to stay his tongue.

"I should see you hanged for that!" Joffrey hissed.

"Joffrey…" Myrcella urged caution with a single word, worrying at her lip with her teeth.

She seemed like a good child, taking after her mother's beauty but none of her cruelty. She did what she could to counterbalance her eldest brother. Robert's youngest stayed tellingly silent, so wary of his older brother that he wouldn't even meet the Crown Prince's eyes.

Robb's face scrunched up in confusion, "Hanged? You'd see the Heir of the North hanged for a jape?"

"Do you think me incapable?" Joffrey scowled.

"Honestly?" Robb 'asked'. "Yes. Yes, I do."

The Boy Prince scoffed, "Of course, a Northern barbarian like you would have no respect for the Crown. I've no idea why Father even had us come all the way here. What use are Northerners in the South?"

Then, it was Robb's turn to scowl, "Aye, what use, indeed…"

"Why, you even have a bastard sitting at the high table with you!" Joffrey exclaimed derisively. "You would invite such subordination to the place you sup and break your fast? Fools, morons, and idiots, all of you!"

Even from his place beside Robert, Ned could practically hear Robb's teeth gritting together at the insult to his 'half-brother', "I suppose we just do things differently in the North."

"Do them wrongly, you mean?" Joffrey smirked, and Ned had never wanted to punch a child more.

"Say anything more, and I'll have to seek blood in retribution, Prince Joffrey," Robb warned.

Joffrey laughed, smug and arrogant, "You wouldn't dare! If you did, I'd simply set my Hound upon you. The mutt will carve you down for size! I merely need to say the word!"

"Can't even fight your own battles, Prince?" Robb challenged with a cold scowl.

"Why should I have to? I'm the Crown Prince. I have others who will put down upstart barbarians in my place," Joffrey waved lazily and dismissively. "The only reason you still sit next to me is because of our fathers' legendary friendship. You're most grateful for the consideration I'm lavishing upon your uncivilized Northern person, I'm sure."

Slowly, Robb rose from his seat with clenched fists, "I believe I've lost my appetite. Goodbye, Prince Joffrey. My apologies, Princess Myrcella, Prince Tommen. Know that the Crown Prince's behavior does not reflect poorly upon you in my mind."

Myrcella smiled sadly at Robb, "There's nothing to apologize for on your part, my lord. Will we-… Will we see you again on the morrow…?"

Her parting question was soft, yearning, and hopeful. It smoothed the rough scowl on Robb's features, and he favored the princess with a smile that had her blushing and smiling in return, "I believe you will, Princess."

"Over a pretty bastard?!" Joffrey drew himself up in outrage but couldn't even make himself stand to match Robb. "You should be insulting him with me!"

"Jon is my brother," Robb said firmly as his scowl reappeared, making Ned swell with pride from where he watched. "Nothing will change that. Not the circumstances of his birth or the cruel words of a Southron Prince. I have nothing more to say to you. Nothing that won't evolve into violence, at least…"

Robb began to stalk away from the high table, anger practically radiating off of him. Quickly grabbing a refill, Theon scrambled after him. Before Robb left the main hall, he stopped at one of the lower tables and spoke to a giant man with a half-burned face.

"Ser Sandor. Would you care to join me in the training yard? I find myself needing to work off some… frustration. I suspect you'll help with that and give me a good challenge as well."

"Don't you dare, mutt! Heel!" Joffrey screamed from the high table — It sounded more like a shriek, Ned thought with a wince.

The animosity of the boy he was sworn to protect didn't seem to mean much to the Hound. The infamous Sandor Clegane simply scoffed, rolled his eyes, and stood to follow Robb out. The exit — and shriek — didn't go unnoticed at all. The other conversations at the high table paused to watch as Ned and Robert were. Cersei steamed in her seat at the disrespect from her son's sworn shield. Ned could only be thankful that she missed everything that led up to it. Catelyn shot Ned a worried glance, to which he subtly shook his head. Shortly after, the festivities resumed, though not without a certain tension overlaying it all.

"Fuckin' shitheel," Robert growled beside Ned. "I swear, I don't know how that little fuck came from my loins. I'm sorry about my eldest, Ned."

"Robert…" Ned said, his voice strained. "He refused a fight. Your son. Refused a fight."

"Aye," Robert nodded, fuming and knowing. "Even his damned Kingslayer uncle wouldn't refuse a fight. He takes much too much after his mother and only his mother. He must've been fucking switched at birth. Other than his coloring, I wouldn't even think he's a Lannister. They at least have some sense of honor, twisted though it is. The little shitheel's got nothing. He's a demon from the Seven Hells."

"The Princess and youngest Prince don't seem to take after him at all," Ned noted.

Robert laughed, his mood lightening at the mention of his other children, "No, and thank all of the gods for that! They've got their mother's beauty, but they're better than I ever was as a boy! Myrcella is the sweetest girl you'll ever meet. I'm glad she's taking a shine to your Robb. And Tommen actually tries. Gods, the boy tries so hard. He's young yet, but he's got the spirit. I'll make a proper Baratheon warrior out of him."

"That's… good," Ned exhaled slowly, his own blood roused by the Crown Prince's display. "Perhaps you just got unlucky on the first attempt then."

Robert shot him a piercing stare. Then, the King sighed, "… Gods, this is a conversation that calls for a few flagons of drink and a locked room."

Ned couldn't stop a hint of trepidation sneaking into his veins, "Should we relocate, Your Grace? I'm sure Winterfell can provide us with privacy if required. And likewise, I'm sure Hogwarts would have something for you to get drunk on."

Robert looked tempted for a moment before glancing at his children and shaking his head, "No. As much as I wish to drink with you again, I know I'll never stop if I start again. But privacy wouldn't be remiss."

Ned nodded. They both stood and made their excuses, urging the festivities to continue without them. Ser Barristan the Bold trailed them as Ned led the way to his solar. He stayed outside as Robert and Ned took their seats inside. Throughout the short trip, anxiety mounted within Ned. He couldn't quite place the reason for it. But faced with a new Robert, a sober Robert, there was no telling what issue might be raised.

Robert hunched over in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He let out a huff from the bottom of his lungs. Brooding, Ned realized. Robert Baratheon was brooding. It took all Ned had not to gape at his friend outright.

"Do you really think I wouldn't have noticed?" Robert eventually asked.

Horror bloomed in Ned's gut, but Robert pressed right on ahead, "Granted, I might not have. If I was still the fat fucking drunk I'd become, I might've missed it. But now, Ned? Now…"

He trailed off for a few long moments before laughing to himself. The sound was hollow, "… I still see her face, Ned. Even now, I see her every damn day. I met her all of once and only for a single week at that damned tourney. I didn't take a whore to my bed even once over that week. I was struck in an instant. A fool boy in love at first sight, I couldn't help myself. I know she didn't love me the same. But… But she might have come to."

"I remember her every feature. I've traced them in my mind a hundred hundred times. She looked so much like you that I couldn't sleep that first night at Harrenhal, worrying myself sick that I might actually be a sword-swallower despite my experience!" Robert's last line came with a more honest laugh.

"She wasn't a traditional beauty," Robert said honestly. "Not like the Ladies of the Eyrie who pined over us or like my bitch-Queen now. But that only made her more special in my mind. I was taken. She was wild and fiery. Part of me wished to tame her, yes, but mostly, I just wished to ride freely beside her. And what she represented was just as tantalizing as a wife who could finally bring me to heel. We would have been family, Ned. Goodbrothers, in truth. And so, I was. A boy in dumb love, and only the gods know what might've come after. Yet I can't help but imagine what could've been…"

"Ned," Robert looked up, and his eyes pinned Ned to his seat. "Who's Jon's mother?"

With four words, Ned's nightmares were realized. All he'd done was for naught. He felt his family and future hanging by a thread in the balance. Yet… he couldn't lie to Robert. Not this Robert. He knew his eyes gave him away. They must've. But Robert wanted to hear it from him. Wanted to judge his treachery from his lips directly.

Gods, his skin felt so cold and clammy against his pounding blood, and his damning lips were dry. Still, Ned spoke true, "… Lyanna. He's Lyanna's boy. But he's my blood. My son, Robert."

Robert stared into his soul for a moment that seemed to stretch into forever. For once, Ned found he couldn't read his brother in all but blood. His blue eyes were deep and clear, and Ned felt that they were all-seeing in that forever moment. Finally, Robert broke their locked stare, looking down and still hunched over in his chair.

When his words came, they were barely a whisper, yet they resonated grief into Ned's very bones, "… He should have been mine."

Ned sat frozen and rooted in his chair. He expected rage. He expected betrayal. Honestly, he expected to lose his head then and there. All he saw was a man on the verge of breaking. His brother, haunted by the past and what could have — should have — been. Then… Then came the rage.

"FUCK!"

Robert stood with his barking, bellowed belligerence. A meaty fist smashed against Ned's desk, and solid oak cracked beneath it. Robert's breathing came rough and ragged, and still, he didn't meet Ned's eyes again.

A storm struck Winterfell. Outside the windows of his solar, dark clouds were suddenly blocking out the stars. Rolling, roiling, raging, they reflected Robert's mood. Yet the damning rains didn't come. Only thunder and lightning within those clouds. For what seemed to be miles around, the night was illuminated by Robert's rage.

Ned resigned himself to his fate. It didn't come either. Though he couldn't look at him, Robert's rage was never directed Ned's way. Instead, it seemed to be taken by the sky itself. A fury against the heavens. It played out in blinding flashes and deafening booms outside the window, but within Ned's solar, Robert 'seemed to' calm. He didn't hit or smash anything else. He didn't scream or shout anything more either. He only spoke again when he reached the door, and his tone was deceptively calm like the eye of a storm.

"Tell the others I'm going to retire for the night. I don't wish to worry Myrcella or Tommen."

And just like that, Ned's oldest friend — the brother he'd betrayed — was gone.

IIIII

Ned dreamed fitfully that night. He dreamed of a wolf and a storm. Even in that malleable, dreamy state of mind, he knew. The imagery was clear and unmistakable. He saw Robert's face in the clouds. And the wolf in front of him was unmistakably Winter.

Instead of looking through Winter's eyes as Ned always did during his wolf dreams, he watched from behind her. She stood loyal and steadfast guard before him. She snarled at the raging storm above, utterly undaunted. Even as winds whipped and ripped away at her, even as rain drops stung like thorns, even as lightning crashed around her — Winter didn't flinch or retreat an inch.

Yet the storm was equally unyielding. It tore through the terrain, obliterating Northern snow and soil. The land itself seemed to crumble beneath the storm's might… Until it didn't. Until the North rose up behind Ned and Winter. Until the Northern snow solidified into a splitting sword that shined like crystal Ice with its hilt clenched between Winter's teeth. Not a Valyrian Steel mockery, but the original that'd long been lost.

Storm and wolf met in a stalemate. The North would not be outshined. It would not be worn down and weathered, not even by the blood of the Storm God. Regal and worthy that blood may have been, the North had its own kings. Since the first Long Night, only a Stark could rule Winter and Ice and the kingdom they touched most deeply.

In that stormy stalemate, Ned argued against the wind that bore Robert's voice, "He should have been my firstborn! Stolen! Hidden! What right did you have, Ned?!"

"He's my blood!" Ned bellowed right back. "You would have killed him! You would have damned him as you were! Could you truly have looked past the blood of his sire then, Robert?!"

"That cuckolding, flourish-fucking, prophecy-headed, ruby-cunted, MAD FUCKING DRAGON! I should have killed him a thousand times more!"

"You would have transferred that anger onto Jon! I know you, Robert! You would have killed the only thing left of Lyanna! I see now that you would've come to regret it! But then?! After 'Dragonspawn'?! I did the only thing I could!"

"Tywin fucking Lannister forced my fucking hand! He had us backed into a corner yet claimed to be our ally! He bloodied my hands with an atrocity I'd never have sanctioned! I had no other options either! I-I wouldn't have killed Lyanna's boy…"

The storm began to die as Robert trailed off, its lightning and thunder suddenly stolen into nothingness. The rain came fast and heavy then, in fat droplets of grief and regret. Ned could feel the truth in the wind.

"The gods are fucking cruel, Ned," Robert said, barely a whispering drizzle compared to his former booming thunder.

"Aye, we know that better than any, Robert," Ned replied. "As does Jon."

"At least he has you as a father," Robert laughed, harsh but not cruel. "That's a better life than I could've ever given him. In King's Landing, he would've been dead the moment my shitling eldest was born. And I was a useless, fat fucking drunk until only a year ago. You-… You did the right thing, Ned."

With that, Robert's storm faded from the dream, and Ned was finally taken by true slumber. He remembered everything when he woke. Yet he couldn't help feeling unsure. How would the dream translate to the waking world? Would it translate at all?

Upon entering the main hall that morning, Ned found his family and their guests breaking fast together, blissfully unaware of his and Robert's strife. Robert was there as well, grumpy and gruff as he viciously stabbed a sausage with his fork and brought it to his mouth. Fortifying himself, Ned approached.

Robert didn't look at him but still acknowledged his presence with a grunt, "I had a strange and intense dream last night."

Relief. Ned could only feel relief as he sat and nodded, "As did I."

"Good. Then there's no need for us to speak on it any further. Men-… Friends-…" Robert stumbled, trying to find the right word.

"Brothers?" Ned offered.

Finally, Robert looked at him again, nodding firmly, "Brothers. Brothers should be able to fight, resolve their issues, and go about their days as if nothing happened."

"It's for the best," Ned agreed. "I can do that."

"Then say no more on the subject, and neither will I," Robert grunted with a sense of finality. "Still wanna kill the cuckolding bastard a thousand more times, though."

Ned chuckled, sounding surprisingly vicious to his own ears, "Aye. I'd help, and likely Jon as well."

They broke the rest of their fast in silence after that. It was a comfortable silence. A relieving silence. A silence of brotherhood made only stronger by secrets revealed and confronted. For a few moments, Ned could imagine they were just boys back in the Eyrie on hungover mornings after one of Robert's drunken nights.

So, of course, that was when Winter trotted happily up to the high table with the same sword from their dream carried in her mouth. She dropped it right in front of Ned before he could truly react and sat back on her haunches with her tongue lolling out like a happy hound fetching a mere stick for its master. Ned felt a stupefied headache mounting as he stared down at a legendary sword to rival Dawn of House Dayne. The crystalline steel blade of the original Ice gleamed up at him as if the sword itself was amused by its recovery.

Robert saw Ned's stunned expression and just laughed, "Hahahah! Good wolf! Good fucking wolf, Winter! Oi! Someone get me a Knight so I can see this noble beast knighted! Ser Winter the Direwolf, Fetcher of Ice!"

Ned's lips twitched despite himself. He smiled even as he groaned, "Godsdammit, Robert…"