GOT ➨ Game of Thrones One Shots

EDDARD STARK: A Game of Wolves and Whispers [July 2022 Fanfic Contest Entry]

Those stupid enough not to realise that subtlety was key would get carried away with their new role, howling and smirking with childish glee as they shoved another boy so rough into the floor of the cellar that on several occasions Eddard would call out for the game to stop as a boy was left crying and bleeding, his head spinning and arms scuffed. A chorus of groans would echo through the cramped room from all spare the poor soul who'd been picked on that day, who would silently look back up at the stern little Stark boy with wide eyes of gratitude.

Even as a boy he'd shown the matured, brooding nature of his predecessors, "Stop it! We're not really wolves, we're just boys- and Lord Arryn would say to be men we must know better than to attack each other for no reason." Little Ned had of course never encountered a mad king or queen, pithy to delusions and paranoia; never met a lion before, who'd sooner tear apart a man than have him whisper rumours degrading it's respect.

Robert would smirk at his scolding tone, and roughly dig him in the shoulder before serving him a reminder, "Aye, but you're a wolf! Think some of these boys should be a lot more afraid of you thank they are of having a little fall." Ned had flushed, and gone to protest- but he was right. If anyone had mastered this Game of Wolves it was the Stark boy himself- who would swiftly, silently, pull a boy from the circle at random, creating whiffs of air around the heads of those quick to turn on their neighbours- seating himself again so slowly as to not create the slightest indication that he had gone- aye, when Ned played Wolf, he always won. At least, back then he did.

Eventually, the fun and games were ceased when Jon Arryn caught his two young wards sneaking back to their rooms as the moon began to drop from the sky and demanded an explanation. Robert was ever defensive, but Ned sheepishly came out with the truth of the game, head hung as he expected a scolding from a man who had become his second father- instead, Lord Arryn had chuckled and let out a sad sigh as he ruffled the boys hair and left them to return to their rooms after a grave warning,

"You're too young for this- enjoy your youth in other ways whilst you can; this Game of Wolves is a game too familiar to us who've lived long enough to see it, dressed up in fantasy- but the monsters remain the same."

It had been a cryptic phrase to the young lord, and his friend had laughed it off as another boring set of 'wise words' from an adult who'd forgotten what it was like to have fun; but Ned had remembered.

He remembered even as he rode south for the first time in nine years at the behest of his dear King, and thrice did the Game of Wolves bitterly present itself to him again.

As Ned had entered King's Landing by Robert's side for the first time, he had first bitterly reminded himself of that game and it's reality; Jon Arryn dead, a victim of the poisonous bite of a beast- but it was no wolf, Ned was certain of that much. Robert Baratheon and he the poor woodsmen, watching for a knife in the dark to send them to the Seven Hells- Robb had always been the one to spur them on to start this damned game, and unwittingly he was doing it again without even realising he was part of the game himself- that left it to Eddard Stark alone to uncover the monster among the men he was surrounded with.

I never chose to play this game again.

He had then thought sourly of the game as the lions faltered and the bastards began to speak- the night was fading, and he was ready to cry wolf- but that crafty man Lord Baelish had reminded him with his silk tongue, such accusations oft would turn upon the accuser themselves- as per the many times he had called Robb a wolf-man, noting the excitable buzz in the boy's demeanour, and had failed to convince the other boys playing of his guilt due to the charisma of the Baratheon compared to his own reserved nature, a valuable lesson was learnt: failing to lynch the man with blood on his hands often ended with your own death in the night- if not that, then by the accusations of the herd of unsuspecting villagers calling for your head instead.

Did I have a choice? I never had a choice with Rob. He always got his way-

The final time the game hit him was as he hit the executioner's block. Tired, defeated face against cold stone, he thought long and hard about his childhood game. He ached, as he stared out at his own little wolf in the crowd. He had called the Joffrey boy out for being a lion in the pelt of a deer, and it had cost him his life. Maybe it would cost the life of his little ones too.

Not this time Rob. This time we lost, old friend.

 The monsters here were not wolf-men, or witches, grumpkins or snarks- they were Lions- Lions that had torn apart the last two men that stood in their way to victory.

As the sword fell down on that icy block and his fate was sealed, Ned prayed for his children. 

Prayed, that they would never have to play this cursed game.