Chapter 33
Chapter 33
Ned Stark made a mistake.
Somewhere.
Sometime.
And he understands that the entire thing was brought about by his own foolishness and greed. But the position of Hand held so much potential. So much promise. That he didn’t stop to think…
Or he did.
But about all the wrong things.
Why did it even matter to him who had fathered the ‘heirs’? Was it even his business? Didn’t he learn from his father’s and brother’s experience about happens to those that interfere with Royal affairs?
Not at all.
Unfortunately.
And how foolish was he to think that the entire investigation is completely secret? When he had never had the need to be discreet in his life? (If one doesn’t count Jon Snow that is).
Why did he even think that no one knew?
If he arrived from the far North and immediately suspected the big ‘secret’?
It was more likely that it was a fact held closely to someone’s chest, to be released at the most opportune moment. Which was likely now. And he was just a pawn in another’s game…
And how was a child’s hair color even a sign of their paternity? If that was the case, then Arya would be the only ‘real’ Stark in Winterfell besides him. What was he even thinking?!
He can admit to himself now when the future looks bleak and his prospects are few, that he was a fool. And a self-righteous one at that. One that had absolutely no skill for the Game and probably stepped on too many toes while trying to play.
His only saving grace was Robert.
His best friend.
The one he had knowingly betrayed by raising a child of his enemy under his nose.
The one whose mere presence protected him from the vultures.
At least while he was alive, that is.
Now he is dead.
And he, Lord Stark is to take the fall.
Old Gods curse those fucking Lannisters!
As difficult it is to admit, he knows he made a terrible Lord. Fostered in the South. The spare, not the heir. The Lord who was never meant to be…
For all of his father’s southern ambitions, the man couldn’t have imagined Ned becoming Lord upon his death even in his worst nightmare. He didn’t have the mindset of the Northern. At least not entirely. He could barely understand his own bannermen.
To him, what happened to the Greystarks was monstrous.
Unacceptable.
Kinslaying.
But to the Starks of old? Or even to true Starks raised in the North?
It was a perfectly normal punishment for treason.
And while he would have strangled the dragonspawn his sister whelped himself had he not vowed otherwise, a true-born Cadet branch and a lowly bastard are two very different things.
And maybe, just maybe, his second-born, Bran was right after all.
The time of the Wolves is coming to an end.
But he doubts it.
How could he not?
When he first heard of Bran’s ‘dreams’ he was both curious and apprehensive. His son, a greenseer? The Septons would surely have a fit!
But for all that he was fostered in the South, he still had a healthy respect for the Old Gods and their miracles. His son seemed to be one of them.
At least that’s what he thought.
But he was wrong.
Because what kind of seer foretells complete nonsense?!
Dead Wolves?
His pack is stronger than ever! If he is gratefully for anything it’s for the fertility of the Tully bitch.
Mating Lions?
Preposterous! (Not).
And while he could believe in the fish being rotten to their core, he was certain that nothing could bring down the Baratheons.
But it was the dreams of Dragons that worried him the most. But in the end, they were also the ones that convinced him that the so-called ‘dreams’ were just Bran’s way to seek his attention. Nothing more, nothing less.
And while he could believe the Bloodraven to still be alive and a Targaryen having a recent dalliance with a Florent, hence the old Raven and young Fox Dragons, but the lack of a half Wolf? Especially when that wretched boy had run away, driving him to the point where he was ready to drag him back with sorcery?
Thus, even if Bran really did have a gift, it was insignificant. Meaningless. Worthless. At least to him.
But perhaps he shouldn’t have thought that in the first place…
And maybe, had he actually cared enough to stay with his crippled son back in Winterfell, this entire situation could have been avoided.
But he didn’t.
And it wasn’t.
***
Lord Stark didn’t stop to think for even a moment that he was brainwashed into the Southern way of thinking. That such a distinction between true-born and bastards was not a Northern trait and neither was his prejudice towards sorcery.
And so even in his last moments, he didn’t think of the runaway ‘bastard’. One of the few with the right to avenge him by taking back what many would view as rightfully his, had they known all the facts.
But Eddard Stark was a fool.
One with a talent to make a bad situation worse.
And a hidden loathing for bastards.
So regardless of the very real threats to his daughters, on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Eddard Stark for once in his life uttered the truth.
The truth that started a war.
And in that aspect, Eddard Stark was truly no better than his foolish sister.
But unlike her, this was a Stark very few would believe a to be martyr.