A/N: I didn't think it needed to be said but if you don't like a fic... simply don't read it? Pretty easy to do tbh. No need for comments that make no sense. I'm proud to say I've never used ChatGPT cause my depressed mind is already so chaotically hyperactive lucid-dreaming crack activated that I come up with insane shit on my own. I write for myself first and foremost 'cause there's no way I could normally burst out these sorts of fics and expect everyone to like them– I'm glad when they are liked and indifferent when they are not. So again, don't read if you don't like it. Not sure why people think that's going to stop me from continuing a fic that I want to write.
-
He was quiet.
Or maybe, he was simply listening. Hearing as she told him about her past, how she'd grown up, how she practically raised her youngest brothers, especially Rickon. She told him in vague detail the circumstances of her pregnancy, and he merely nodded, prying no further and letting her share only what she was comfortable with.
He then told her about himself, how he married at seventeen, had his son before he turned eighteen. His late wife, Astrid, had bled out on the birthing bed, leaving him a single father when he was still practically a child himself. Ned was his whole world, and he loved him. His sisters had helped him where they could, but he'd cared for the boy mostly on his own while also preparing to become Lord of Last Hearth after his father, Greatjon Umber.
"He adores you, that much is clear," she said as they toured the courtyard. "He seems like a very sweet little thing."
"He is," promised Smalljon. "He's no trouble at all. A good lad. Sometimes too good. I've a brother, Hother, and he isn't the friendliest, but Ned always tries to chat with him, teases that Hother is his favorite uncle."
"I'm sure he and Rickon will get along swimmingly," she assured him.
They stopped in front of the entrance to the dining hall, and he reached out, asking silently if he could place his hand on her stomach. She allowed it, and he pressed gently. "My intuition tells me it'll be a boy."
"My brother says I ought to name it Brynden if it is one," she said. "What do you think of that?"
"Brynden Umber is a fine name for a little lad. Ned is already excited. I told him he'd have a new mother and perhaps a brother or sister. He wished for a sister, but claimed he'd be happy with a brother, too. He requested quite specifically that he have three sisters."
Lyarra blushed. "Three sisters, well, I suppose he ought to ask one of my brothers what it is like to have three sisters."
Smalljon watched her closely. "Lyarra, I do not wish you to ever feel as though you need to have another child after this. If you do not wish to share a bed intimately with me, we will not. I would never force you into anything. All I want is a mother for my son. And I know you need a father for yours. That is fine with me. I pledge to honor you as a husband should. I ask only that you honor my son."
"I will do so," she promised. "Thank you, Jon. It means a great deal to me. Truth be told these past months have not been easy. I didn't know what to expect from a husband."
He smirked. "Well, I haven't much practice being one but I do have practice, which is more than what can be said for the other contestants, eh?"
"Indeed," she agreed. "I have only one question, Jon. Are we to share a bed... even if there is to be no intimacy?"
"We do not have to if you do not wish to. But if you would like to share living quarters, you ought to know Ned is used to sleeping beside me. He is still frightened to be on his own."
She relaxed visibly. "Well, we must live as husband and wife. If it would comfort him... perhaps Nana and I could join you both."
"A direwolf to guard at night sounds like a wonderful idea. They are intelligent animals, wolves. Your ancestors chose well for their sigil. Do not ask me why the old Umber fuckers chose chains."
She grinned. "Never Chained. I always liked it. My father taught me that it meant you were not held by anyone but yourselves. You chose where to go and who to be loyal to. The Umbers have been long-time friends to the Starks because you're held back by no one. You drive forward, past the chains that bind others to greed and cowardice, and forge your own path."
"Aye, I suppose. You will enjoy Last Hearth, I hope, when we move there. It is close to the wall. Your half-brother will be able to visit you whenever you'd like, to see you and the babe. Your family will always be welcome."
"Thank you, Jon. You and your family will always be welcome here, too. How many sisters do you have?"
"Four. My father taught them all how to hunt. Perhaps I could teach you, once you've given birth. Even a lady should know how to defend herself."
"My sister Arya would love to meet your sisters. She is very skilled with a bow and arrow."
"In that case, my sisters would love to meet her. As would my two brothers, they'll have much to teach her as well."
They shared a meal together, continuing to chat before they went to Rickon's room and found Old Nan supervising as he and Ned played with their toys, simulating what appeared to be a fight between the toy knights with red tops and the toy knights with the green tops.
"Rickon," said Lyarra, sitting by her brother, "this is Lord Jon Umber. Ned's Papa."
He waved dismissively, keeping his attention on Ned. "No," he whined, "you can't do that."
"Yes I can," argued Ned, giggling. "See?" He knocked one of the toys down. "He defeated him."
"Play nicely," urged Smalljon, kneeling by his son. "It is good to meet you, Rickon."
He glanced at him a second time. "You have a long beard. You should tie it like Rodrik."
Smalljon seemed to know who he was talking about, letting out a laugh. "Do you wish to make me look older than I am, boy?"
Rickon shrugged. "It would look funny."
"Papa, what does he mean?" asked Ned.
Smalljon split his beard in two, splitting the strands and coiling them the way Rickon suggested. Ned started to giggle. "You look silly, Papa."
"That I do," agreed Smalljon.
Ned observed Lyarra for a moment. "Her hair is pretty. My aunts don't do their hair like that."
"She'll teach your aunts a thing or two. Perhaps better hairstyles for hunting. My sisters simply tie it back and say it suffices. I've told them a few more braids might keep them from fighting with their own hair when it blocks their view."
"I like braiding others' hair," said Lyarra, with a smile toward Ned. "If your aunts let me, I can teach them."
They shared a second meal with the two boys and Bran, who was carried down by Robb. He sat with them for a short while, mostly to observe his sister and Smalljon's interactions. It seemed they were getting along just fine. He excused himself to begin a letter to his father, which he'd add to for the next several weeks while he waited for him to arrive in King's Landing. With any luck, his mother wasn't many days behind and would soon deliver her message.
Nana was upset when Smalljon and Ned joined them that evening in Lyarra's room. So used to being the only one with Lyanna, she sat in the corner pouting, refusing to approach the bed while everyone got settled. She perked up when Ned squealed and invited her to lay with him, the two between Smalljon and Lyarra, who looked at each other over their heads.
"One day wed," said Smalljon quietly when Ned was asleep, cuddled into Nana's fur, "and I have enjoyed it. I hope you feel the same way, Lyarra."
"I do," she admitted. "If our days can be like this, then I may come to enjoy married life very much."
The days continued to be that way. As were the weeks. Lyarra had stopped wearing the dresses that concealed her growing belly, allowing her to see more clearly at all times how her body changed with each full moon. It was quickly approaching the point where her back ached constantly, her feet swelling and nearly disappearing from view.
It was decided that she wouldn't go to Last Hearth until after she'd given birth. She was in no condition to be traveling, and it was best to keep the nature of her condition confined to Winterfell; only Smalljon's father knew the truth, his siblings still unaware.
Surely they'd make many comments if she returned within a month of marriage already about to pop. Smalljon assured her they'd accept her situation without protest once she had a sweet little babe to show them. His siblings adored babies. Ned was the second eldest of Lord Greatjon Umber's ten-and-counting grandchildren– six of them boys and four of them girls. Her little one would make eleven.
"How do you feel?" asked Palla, coming to braid her hair as Smalljon fastened two steps to her side of the bed now that she was having trouble climbing onto it.
"Horrid," she admitted. "I cannot understand how my mother did this six times."
"Perhaps because your pregnancy pains you, the labor will be easy," offered Palla optimistically.
"Perhaps," said Smalljon weakly.
"Leave us, please, Palla," said Lyarra, noticing the way he failed to meet her gaze. The girl nodded obediently and left. "Are you alright, Jon?"
"Worried," he admitted. "Ned is growing accustomed to you, and to Rickon. He will miss him when we leave."
"That does not sound like the entire truth."
"I lost my first wife to the childbed. The gods would be cruel to take a second one from me in the same manner but it may not stop them from enacting their plan."
"I will not allow a birthing bed to be the death of me. If the gods have allowed this child to be conceived, if they allowed for me to be wed to a kin and just man, then they mean for me to bear it and raise it alongside him."
He tried to smile. "Perhaps." He placed his hand on her belly. "Oh."
"Did you feel that?" she said, sensing movement within her.
"I did," he said. "The babe kicked. I think they're quite excited to meet you."
"One would think the babe would know me well enough. They are, after all, depleting my body of all it has to offer."
He chuckled. "There, there," he sensed the kicks continuing. "Enough of that, now." As if it could hear him, the kicks stopped.
"What relief," she sighed, massaging her tummy. "I remember Rickon kicking in my mother's womb. She never told me how much it could hurt."
"Ned kicked like a deer within my late wife's womb," said Smalljon quietly. "It brought her such pain. I sometimes wondered if I... was to blame. All in my family are giants. My wife was small, like you. I wonder if she suffered more because of it."
"You still love her," observed Lyarra. When he looked away, she placed her hand over his. "That's alright, Jon. One doesn't forget so easily, especially not someone they cared for so much. There is nothing wrong with you loving her. You should always love her. She remains Ned's mother– that will never change. I imagine she loved you dearly. Do not blame yourself for her death."
"Thank you, my lady." His second smile was more genuine. "You have a kind heart. I promise you that I will love you as much, given time. That reminds me, I've a present for you."
She tilted her head. "A present? You did not need to gift me anything."
"I know," he said, lifting the mattress to reveal a concealed sheet of paper. He handed it to her, and her eyes widened. A scene of Winterfell had been sketched, beautifully accurate, the sky colored in to show a beautiful sunrise.
"I'll be making more of them," he said. "Different views of the castle, the Godswood, the courtyard. I intend for a small book of them, something you'll be able to keep when we're at the Last Hearth and you find yourself wishing for a glimpse of home."
"You are a wonderful artist," she whispered. "Thank you, Jon. You are too kind to me."
"You deserve it, my lady. You are kind to me, to my son. Your little one will have a wonderful mother."
The following morning, they learned that Lord Tyrion Lannister had returned from the Wall, making a brief stop before he continued back to King's Landing. Robb hadn't been pleased to hear of it, and had instructed Lyarra to remain in her chambers, lest he catch sight of her extremely swollen belly and run right to his siblings at the Red Keep to gossip. The lie was established that she'd already left for the Last Hearth to live with her husband.
Whether Tyrion ended up learning the truth or not, she wasn't aware. She hadn't conversed with him when he previously visited, but she imagined that even if he did know the truth, he would say nothing. With any luck, he was an honest man. He'd been kind enough to give a design of a saddle for Bran, one that would help him ride despite his paralysis.
Despite his nobility, he'd elected to spend the night at the nearest brothel. Theon had pointed him there and ran back immediately to tell Robb and Lyarra that Tyrion was very suspicious about the fact both Catelyn and Lyarra had been notably absent in greeting him. He had a feeling Catelyn wasn't in Winterfell (which he was right about), though he thankfully had no bizarre theories for Lyarra when told she was at the Last Hearth.
"He was not convinced," warned Theon. "He knows, as does everyone, how much you love Bran and Rickon. He knows you'd not have left them."
Smalljon snorted. "If he's got a problem with her not greeting a Lannister, he can take it up with anyone nearby. We'll show the Imp how we Northerners feel about their lot. Those Lannister fuckers can rot for all I care."
Robb smirked in agreement. "We could. However," he became serious, "the rest of the household knows it all now. They are not idiots, they know a woman does not grow so much after a month of being married. Our people will keep their mouths shut but I cannot say the same for those who came with Lord Tyrion or any who might come with other visitors. Lyarra, perhaps doing what we claim you are doing would be the best course of action."
"She ought not be traveling up to Last Hearth in this condition," argued Smalljon.
"I really should not," agreed Lyarra. "Besides, until Mother returns, I won't consider going anywhere. Someone has to watch Bran and Rickon. You're very busy now, Robb. And poor little Ned has grown used to having friends. He likes it here."
"That he does," agreed Smalljon. "If it were his choice, he'd remain here forever."
Robb considered it, though the idea of her remaining there didn't appear to please him one bit. "Very well. We'll do as we agreed, no travel until you've given birth. But you'll do yourself a favor and rest while you can. Once the babe comes, you won't have a moment to yourself."
She rested in the only way she knew how– reading. While Bran continued his lessons with Maester Luwin, she read aloud to Rickon and Ned. The boys insisted on hearing tales of the White Walkers (she blamed Old Nan for their curiosity), and she often had to search hard for a suitable volume that she could convey to them. Sometimes, she noticed Bran trying to listen in.
What the boys' fascination with that truly was, she didn't understand. Bran had admitted to a strange dream with a three-eyed raven, but she wasn't sure what that meant. She'd never read a book that mentioned a three-eyed raven, but she wondered if it had something to do with Bran wanting to walk again. In his dreams, he always moved on foot.
Most days, if she could, she laid his little legs over her lap, massaging them firmly and hoping that perhaps, with enough care, he'd regain some function. Maester Luwin claimed it may do nothing, but, then again, strange things were known to happen in their world.
Before the next month had fully passed, Robb received word from King's Landing. The Stark men had been attacked by Lannister men. Among the dead was Jory Cassel, Rodrik's son. Their father had received a spear through his leg.
Theon insisted Robb needed to call the banners, that he had to step up to represent the House now that a war had been started. Robb didn't wish to make any move just yet, and insisted on taking Bran out to ride without telling him what'd transpired. Lyarra wished that her father's voice could ring in their minds and tell them clearly what to do. What could she possibly counsel? They couldn't very well march on Casterly Rock, they couldn't march to King's Landing.
"My father would lead a vanguard if it meant defending Lord Stark's honor," said Smalljon as Lyarra sat in the courtyard, watching Nana learn tricks from Rickon and Ned. "But without knowing more... it's unwise."
"I wish I'd studied more under my father," said Lyarra. "I wish I knew how to counsel Robb, I wish I knew what would happen if we did call the banners or... if we didn't."
"You still know your father," said Smalljon. "What do you believe he'd do, in the wake of this?"
"He'd dissolve the engagement... he wouldn't let Sansa and Arya remain there. They won't be safe and he knows it. But he won't abandon King Robert. I wish I knew why our men were stationed outside a brothel. Why the Lannisters attacked... it makes no sense."
"I reckon Robb will write to your father soon," said Smalljon. "Or will hear from him... whichever occurs first."
Lyarra wrung her hands together. Her Aunt Lysa claimed the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn. Her mother believed Bran was thrown from the tower the same time the Lannisters were in their home. The Lannisters had tried to finish the job when they realized Bran hadn't died.
But what did the Lannisters stand to gain from any of that? What about Jon Arryn had driven them to murder? What about Bran had made death the only solution to a problem a little boy was somehow involved in? She had always heard the Lannisters were careful and cunning. Was this really their plan or was it meant to hide something else? Were they even aware of it?
Robb and Theon returned from riding with a wildling lady as a captive. Apparently, she and her wildling friends had tried to hurt Bran. Something had been said about White Walkers– Bran heard it. Those wretched things, Lyarra didn't understand any of it. The lady seemed interesting enough. Her name was Osha, and though she was rough around the edges, Lyarra recognized her fear. She was running from something, she was fighting for a different life.
(Maester Luwin had confided in her that Osha mentioned that she and her companions had been intending to get as far as South went. The White Walkers had been asleep, but they weren't anymore. How could they blame Osha for fleeing from that?)
She wished that no one in her family had left Winterfell. She wished Jon would come back, and her father, her mother, her sisters.
She even wished that she'd made a different choice. That she'd been firmer when expressing her own interests. That she'd been careful. It didn't seem right to her that she be here, pregnant and useless, while the rest of them braved the world and dealt with a cruel unknown.
(However, she knew the alternative would not have pleased her. Had she not been in this condition, she probably would never have met Smalljon and little Ned. She was growing fond of their company.)
The next raven they received had worse news. She'd been dining with Robb and Theon when Maester Luwin came with a scroll, apparently sent from Sansa.
'Robb,
I write to you with a heavy heart. Our good King Robert is dead, killed from the wounds he took in a boar hunt. Father has been charged with treason. He conspired with Robert's brothers against my beloved Joffrey and tried to steal his throne. The Lannisters are treating me very well and providing me with every comfort. I beg of you: come to King's Landing and swear fealty to King Joffrey.
Your faithful sister,
Sansa'
"Treason?" said Robb incredulously. "Sansa wrote this?"
"It is your sister's hand," said Maester Luwin, "but the Queen's words. You are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king."
Robb scoffed, "Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his arse kissed?"
"You can't go," insisted Lyarra. "Arya was not mentioned at all in the letter. The Lannisters won't treat Sansa kindly for long. No, if this has to do with all the other things they've already done... not even our father will receive an ounce of mercy even if you were to march all the way there. The last time Stark men went to King's Landing on the order of a King..." She shut her eyes. "It's begun anew. Joffrey has the Lannisters looming over him, it will be their hands turning him like a puppet if he doesn't already believe what they do."
Maester Luwin tilted his head. "This is a royal command, my lord. If you should refuse to obey–"
Robb interrupted, "I won't refuse. His Grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone." He handed the parchment back to Maester Luwin. "Call the banners."
"All of them?" he asked.
"They've all sworn to defend my father, have they not?"
He nodded. "They have."
"Now let's see what their words are worth."
Maester Luwin took his leave. Theon questioned, "Are you afraid?"
Robb looked down at his trembling hand. "I must be."
Lyarra reached over to hold it, offering a firm squeeze and an encouraging smile. "Good," said Theon. "It means you're not stupid."
She was not present when the banners arrived, having confined herself to the upper floor where she could watch Ned and Rickon chase the direwolves. She hadn't even had a moment to meet Lord Greatjon Umber, the men so occupied gathering their forces. Smalljon would not accompany them South– he was to return to Last Hearth as soon as Lyarra was able to travel. In his stead, his brother Hother would hold the seat.
"It's time, then?" she asked, sadly staring up at Robb as he came to say goodbye.
"We must go now, in the night," he insisted. "The Lannisters have spies everywhere. I don't want them to know we're coming. Look after our brothers, sweet sister. And yourself. If I find our mother, I'll have her return to Winterfell before you've given birth."
She motioned for him to close his eyes, placing a hand on his forehead and whispering two prayers, one to the Old Gods and one to the Seven. "Be careful out there, Robb. Don't leave me in the dark. I want to know what's going on every step of the way."
He half-smiled, as if not to make a full promise. "I'll bring everyone them, Lyarra."
"As long as you are with them," she whispered.
She watched him go, lowering herself onto the windowsill, unable to sleep knowing he was on his way to say goodbye to Bran and Rickon. The younger of the two came to find her before she'd even gotten into bed, lifting his arms and wishing to join her.
"The bed will be crowded tonight," she said, helping him onto it. "Are you afraid, little one?"
He nodded. "They're all going away. Bran says Robb will come back with mother and father but it won't happen."
She smoothed a hand through his hair. "We don't know if that's true, Rickon. Until we do, we believe and hope for it to be so."
"No," insisted Rickon, staring at the wall. "They won't come back. I know it."