A Shadow of the Seven

Eclipsed minds

Ned

Hope kindled as Arya’s small shape grasped the stone robes of Baelor the Blessed.

“Baelor, Baelor…, Baelor!” Ned rasped from a parched mouth, pleading to his own tongue for more. The tongue dried by waterless days in the gloom cells beneath the Red Keep. Please gods, please gods of my forefathers, lend my voice strength for one last word.

And they did. “Baelor,” the rasp came strongly one final time, defeating the murmur of the crowd and the face of Yoren, the black brother of the Night’s Watch, turned, eying the statue of the King Saint, whose shadow loomed across the field of men present to witness, to enjoy, Ned’s humiliation.

The rest came in a blur, he lied, marking disgrace to his honor, the Boy King uttered the sentence, Sansa shrieked and Ned did what he always does. He called to the old gods, imagining the weeping weirwood face judging him.
I acted as honor demands it…

"No, you followed the heart," the rustle of leaves replied, when the long blade of Ice, his sword, flashed to his neck. Many faces came to him then, thieves, traitors, oathbreakers, the last one Gared, a deserter, not begging for mercy, but warning, "They are coming."

The world, then, was bound by a deep silence, strong enough to hear. The cawing of ravens roused him up. Leaning on the weirwood, he held Ice in his arms, whose smoky edge he had just cleaned of blood stains. My blood, the first thought came, no, Gared's blood. Fresh scent of moss lingered in the air, snow sparrows twittered among the ancient crowns, hot springs gurgled sending plumes of vapor in the cold air.

"Ned," Catelyn's soft voice called him. He was home, the world became clear. He was not dreaming, but truly home, in the Godswood, amid whispers of his gods. How, Ned could not say. Was the journey to King's Landing a dream, was he truly a hand to the king?

"Where are Arya and Sansa?", Ned asked, too weary, as if he had aged a decade in a day. Are my daughters well?

"In the kitchen, both of them, arguing about names for the wolf pups", confusion gleamed on Catelyns face.  You have sons, three sons, she might say. No, four, never to say before her, it is four sons.

Then, Ned's eyes caught the parchment Catelyn held.  A dream, it was suppose to be a dream, the rational part of his mind chided. A nightmare that would fade with the dawn.

"Jon Arryn is dead," Ned whispered, his head bowed, as if in prayer. A strange fear crept deep within him, stemming from the unknown, a happening that shouldn't be. Jon is dead, Robert is dead, I am... dead. All of madness came to him at once, Bran's fall, Lady's death, Robert's bastards and the great lie of Cersei Lannister.

Pale, Catelyn looked at him, her eyes wide with shock. "How did you... I am sorry my love, the man was like a father to you". She bit her lip, ashamed cause of her Tully upbringing, always putting him first. Catelyn approached him, putting the parchment in his hand, with broken seal. Ned kissed her hand, wanting to hug her and never let go.

"My love, much and more there is to tell, but time is slipping,” he kissed Catelyn on the cheek, surprising her. Showing tokens of love, beyond the privacy of their bedchamber is not his way. Shedding usual distance Ned gave her a second kiss, feeling the warmth of her lips. Chestnut hair fell over his strong shoulders, as his long Stark face looked at her fair Tully one. Trust me, his dark grey eyes told her, without words.

“The king is coming, my love,” she said unsure of what is going on with him, “he rides towards Winterfell, with a whole retinue of knights and followers, the queen, the children and the queen’s dwarf brother even”.

None of them shall pass through the gates of Winterfell, Ned vowed. “No, my dear Cat, I’ll go to meet him,” and end this, before the Lion devours more than its due.