Chapter Text
When Ned first opened his eyes, he thought he was in Hell.
He didn’t believe in the Seven Hells as Catelyn did, but when he saw his men around him, dressed in their sturdy, worn armour, looking nearly twenties years younger and Ned just knew.
Memories of the Rebellion are ingrained into Ned’s mind like the embellishments a bladesmith puts onto swords.
There’s no way that Ned could ever forget any memories of the Rebellion. Seeing his fellow lord’s faces, Ned remembers all too well the skeptical looks of the Northern Lords seeing their green boy become their new liege lord. Over time, after the rebellion, the looks had faded, but here? Ned can see it in every glance, every brush, and every muted conversation.
He is truly in the Seven Hells.
That can be the only explanation. This is his punishment for failing his family, for failing his King is to relive the worst moments of his life. His gods do not care to protect him.
He wonders, bitterly, how long it will take him to see Lyanna.
Will he see his father again? Surely the Lord of the Seven Hells will drag the corpse of Rickon Stark to Ned, and he will have to listen to his father moan that Ned could not even save Lyanna, the sister the rebellion started.
He failed his duty as the Patriarch of the Starks.
On the horizon, Ned can see the faint smudge of grey, denoting a Sept on the hill.
Ice fills his veins as dawns on Ned.
Stoney Sept. The Battle of the Bells.
Ned is frozen, unable to tear his eyes away. Robert.
Ned’s mind whirls through everything that happened during his time as Hand to the King: Robert’s apathy, his spending, his whoremongering, Cersei Lannister. He became everything Lyanna had predicted. Is Ned truly nothing but a fool who allowed Robert to drag him to his death?
He’d been a fool of his own to trust Verys and Littlefinger. He’d been promised the Black only to be scorned.
And his girls—Sansa was trapped in the clutches of Cersei Lannister, blinded by her love of songs and princes. Ned can only hope that Arya made it to Winterfell safe. Yoren is a good man. He’ll see Arya safely.
Oh, Cat. Ned misses his wife dearly. He wishes that he could return to their home, locked away from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
But he is here, trapped in his memories of a battle of the days of yesteryear.
“Lord Stark.”
Painfully, Ned peels his eyes away from the looming Sept to the man in front of him.
Roose Bolton was a man that Ned never liked. He tolerated Roose but never liked him. Ned could not place his finger on why, but there was something that sent dread down Ned’s spine when looking into those flat, grey eyes.
“Yes, Lord Bolton?” His voice sounds scratchy and detached from him, nothing more than an echo in a ruin. What will his punishment be?
There is that faint glimmer in Roose’s eyes, watching Ned, waiting for his failures. “We shall be joining forces with Lord Tully by midday.”
Ned waits, wondering what else Roose will say, but the man just stands there in silence, watching Ned.
What?
Ned grits his teeth. Does the Lord of the Seven Hells mean to have him act a mummer during his punishment? His gods never saw the need to mock their practitioners.
“Tell the others that we’ll be convening with Lord Tully and his men. They know the geography better, and I have a feeling that this coming battle will be difficult.” Ned looks towards the grey smudge in the distance.
Had he said that before the Battle of the Bells the first time? Ned cannot remember. He’d begun to forget the small moments, as the days and years blended; only the bleak destruction remained etched in his mind.
He does not remember his wedding, but he remembers the dead. How could he not? They kept piling up, more and more of his friends died, until it was finally Ned’s turn.
“I shall pass on the word.”
There’s a tense silence, as if Roose Bolton is waiting for something.
Ah. Ned remembers, a little belatedly, that manners are still appropriate even on the battlefield. What would Jon think of him? “Thank you, Lord Bolton.”
Roose hums and turns his horse around without another word.
Ned watches him go with a frown. Had Roose come to him last time? He cannot remember.
****
The Battle of the Bells starts just as Ned remembers. It’s loud and chaotic; the cacophony of bells echoing across the hills, and the dim noise of panicked citizens fills any gaps of silence left from the bells.
Somewhere, in a brothel, a sentiment that Ned isn’t touching yet, Robert is hiding, and Jon Connington is frothing at the mouth like a crazed hunting dog, trying to be the one that kills him.
Bells ring overhead, loud and brash, warning citizens to stay inside, as soldiers rush the streets, the clash of steel braying, and the smell of blood clogging Ned’s senses.
Welcome back, old friend, Ned thinks bitterly.
He shadows Hoster as they make their entrance into the town, the rest of his men pouring in from all sides, tumbling down from the low walls with such ferocity that they resemble the last group of Northern soldiers in the Riverlands, the Winter Wolves.
The fighting is disorganized and chaotic, resembling more of a street brawl than a formal battle. The streets swell with combatants, man could turn to find a brother at his back or a foe, but Ned pushes towards the town centre.
If memory serves him correctly, that is where Jon will be, howling for Robert to face him like a man, slaughtering anyone who comes into his path.
As Ned fights, he catches a glimpse of Hoster nearby, and he is struck with a memory of Cat’s tear-stained face after she received the letter of her father’s illness. She’d wanted to make the journey, but with Bran’s fall, they’d decided that it would be best if she stayed in Winterfell. He remembers her tears and anguish, and Ned cannot bring himself to allow this version of Cat to feel those hollowing emotions. Ned doesn’t know how long this torture will endure, but he wants to ensure Cat and Robb are taken care of after he’s gone. He cannot bring himself to part ways with Hoster and delve deeper into the frey, looking for Robert as he’d done before.
If Hoster notices Ned’s hesitance, he doesn’t say anything.
They do not speak.
They do nothing more than grapple with their opponents and desperately try to survive.
“Robert Baratheon!” Jon Connington’s voice is patchy and raw as he screams for his opponent. At his feet lies a groaning figure in blue, trying to crawl away from Jon Connington.
Denys.
Ned grits his teeth and surges forward, preventing Hoster from engaging with the madman.
Denys died , and Hoster nearly did too. Hoster lived with the consequences of those wounds for the rest of his life.
Ned will handle Jon.
The sword in Ned’s hand isn’t Ice, as it’s trapped in the bowels of the Red Keep with his father’s bones, but the great sword in his hand is good enough.
“Connington!” He yells.
Jon’s pale blue eyes are wild when he sees Ned. “Come to face me, traitor? ” He spits the last word, his once comely face split into a hideous sneer.
Is Ned truly a traitor? He was just trying to stay alive and find his sister. He didn’t want anything else. He did not seek acclaim or glory, but to ensure that House Stark continued to live.
Ned grips the pommel of his sword, staring Jon down. “Let’s end this, Connington.”
“With pleasure! I’ll send your head to the Prince!”
Ned is automatically on the defensive, raising his greatsword across his body as Jon lunges toward him.
Their swords meet with a storming ring.
It’s a struggle; Jon is, on average, an alright fighter, but his anger causes him to be unpredictable. Ned is forced to remain on the defensive as the man chips away at Ned’s protection.
Due to the nature of the greatsword, the way the practitioner swings the blade is inherently different than the average longsword. The practitioner uses both hands and often employs underhand cuts to keep their adversaries off balance.
Ned manages to cause Jon to stumble back, the tip of his sword skittering against the cobblestones.
Jon snarls and lunges; Ned side steps, his sword raised. The resulting clash is deafening.
They circle each other for a tense moment before Jon comes back, again. Ned will not be the one who strikes first. He will let Jon Connington end himself.
They clash and circle each other for a few moments, almost teasing Jon.
The sword in Ned’s hand moves like a dancer, twisting and leaping as he cuts from above, cleaving through the air in wide arcs, thrusting when Jon gets too close.
Jon snarls, sword lashing out again, but Ned easily deflects it. Years of practice with Ice surging through his body as Jon's anger continues to unfurl his rationality.
The moments drag on as Ned and Jon trade blows.
Shattered screams break Ned out of his concentration. Across the square, Ned can make out the hulking figure in the faint torchlight swinging their warhammer without thought or care.
Robert.
Always one for a dramatic entrance.
Across from him, Jon’s eyes fall upon his friend’s form, and a look of pure rage fills in face. He steps back from Ned, his body signalling that he’s moving towards the perceived bigger threat.
No.
Ned is ending this.
Ned angles his sword and waits.
Just as Jon signals that he’s going to move, Ned strikes, plunging his blade downwards.
Jon collaspes, sword embedded in his thigh, and withers in plain. Ned pulls his sword free, staring at the man below him with apathy. How could someone be loyal to a man like Rhaegar, who abducted Ned’s sister, who is complicit in Ned’s Father and brother’s deaths? Pathetic.
Ned turns away from the withering figure, kicking his sword away from his outstretched hand.
Denys is lying not far from Ned. Ned can see the slow rise and fall of his chest and is soothed. He’s alive, that’s what matters.
“Jon!” He yells, beckoning for the massive giant of a man.
“Stark.” Jon Umber jogs over, face set in a scowl. This is about as polite as Ned expects him to be.
“Get Denys out of here. Have someone assigned to watch over him.” Denys is the Heir to the Vale; without him, Jon Arryn’s family grows increasingly smaller. Ned thinks of Jon’s frantic attempts to father a child before his death. He can set things right for Jon, a token of thanks for protecting him.
Jon nods, bends over and picks up Denys, and runs off into the night.
Ned turns and runs to join Robert.
Just because Ned felled Jon Connington, doesn’t mean that they’re out of the wheelhouse just yet. Ned can’t let Robert loose this time.
He doesn’t know what sort of punishment the Seven Hells has created for him, if his actions have any consequences in the grains of history or if what Ned is doing this for naught, but he cannot let his friend loose, just in case. He will not be the one who loses the Battle of the Bells.
Ned can feel Robert’s beam of a smile when he reaches his orbit. “Ned!” He yells, the sound muffling with the swarm of men around him.
He gives Robert a nod before sliding into place behind him.
****
Death is everywhere. Ned cannot seem to escape it. The battle was over, and the dead lingered. The citizens of the Stoney Sept left the relative safety of their houses and are tentatively stepping onto their streets, looking upon the littered bodies of the dead with abject fascination and horror.
Ned is dismayed at the stench of death coating the town, at the wasted lives.
They were just men, likely pulled from their farms and told to fight, not knowing why. If he blinks, he can see the dead of his household in King’s Landing, littered on the ground like trash at the hands of Jaime Lannister. Dead for the games that the men like Ned played.
What difference, he wonders, is there between Ned and Jaime?
He sent the farmers from his lands to their deaths as well. He doomed their lives the very moment he sent the message to raise his banners.
Was this what the Gods wanted him to see? Is this still the Seven Hells, or something worse? The battle felt so real. His muscles ache from hefting his greatsword, he can smell the iron-rich blood soaking into the cobblestones, and he can feel the stinging of the cuts he gained through the battle.
He notes his lords assembling amongst themselves a little way away. The North never truly associates with the South, even in the South. Ned should go and join them.
Were the gods showing him that he was no better than the rest of the great lords vying for power? That he, too, must accept his fate?
Ned thought he had. After the Rebellion, he’d return to the North and govern the best he could. He kept order in the North. What more could the gods have wanted from him? The North doesn’t partake in Southern politics; it never has. He learnt, painfully, that a Stark in the south is a death sentence.
“Ned!” Ned blinks and looks up at the looming shadow in front of him.
Robert is what Ned remembers, not the broken husk of a king that Ned had been faced to contend with at Winterfell after so many years apart. He was tall with bright, clear eyes, still wild with the lust of battle. He wasn’t the fat, broken man, but still muscled like the great warrior he’s supposed to be.
Ned’s heart lightens at the sight of his friend in his full glory.
“You—Robert.”
Robert booms with laughter, clapping Ned on the shoulder, an action which would’ve felled a lesser man. “Why so formal, my brother?”
Ned gives him a hesitant smile. A swirl of emotions takes over Ned by storm. He’s pleased, a deep, loose-limbed rush of content going through him, to see Robert back where he was happiest. The lines around his eyes are gone. Lyanna’s death and his marriage to Cersei haven’t broken him yet.
Ned can save him.
Ned can save him, just as he did Denys.
He can fix his wrongs.
“Great job! I heard you slayed the Connington bastard.”
Jon’s body was gone when Ned came back. Ned would like to believe that he’s dead, but something sits low in his gut, telling him that Jon isn’t dead.
Ned hums, not having the energy to match Robert’s energy. “He was rather unhinged.”
“Bah!” Robert waves Ned’s criticisms away. “You’re downplaying your abilities. I’ve seen you train! Rejoice!”
Ned’s traitorous heart stumbles at the compliment. He scolds himself for falling so easily. Robert has always been loose with his affection, especially towards Ned, his ‘goodbrother.’
It doesn’t mean anything.
“Come now, let’s celebrate! I know several ladies who’d love to get with the hero of the battle!”
“I’m betrothed, Robert.” Worse of all, his future goodfather is right there. He cannot disrespect Catelyn like this, so openly. She’d been so angry about Jon, and no one knew of the woman who caused Ned to waver. What would she do if Ned did it again, this time, but this time in such a brazen manner? He’s certain that Cat would kill him… If her uncle didn’t get to Ned first.
“So? She’ll understand! We’re on campaign, you’ve earnt some measure of comfort! It’s not like you haven’t before.” Yes, because Robert dragged him to the brothel not too long ago after he learnt that Ned still hadn’t lain with a woman. Gods, Ned had forgotten about that; the memory had resurfaced, unbidden.
Hoster is watching him, and Ned is sure that the Blackfish is in the crowd somewhere, both of them waiting to judge Ned’s measure.
Ned shrugged off Robert’s arm, scowling at Robert’s lack of manners. “I said no, Robert.”
Has he always been like this? Ned frowns at his friend.
Ned tried to forget the Rebellion as much as he could, but it seems he’s forgotten Robert’s more flagrant flaws. Had it always been this bad?
Hadn’t Robert promised that he better? Or had Ned just said that to placate Lyanna?
Ned thinks of Cersei. Some part of him hates her. She and Joffrey killed him. She killed him, and his girls are trapped in King’s Landing thanks to her endless schemes. But however much he hates her, he pities her. He saw how her marriage with Robert ended, he remembers the humiliation Robert shoved onto her with his flagrant womanizing and actual blows it came to.
Would he treat Lyanna the same? Would their marriage deteriorate to that point?
Ned desperately hopes not. He hopes that Robert’s love for Lyanna would abate the worst of his impulsiveness.
Who is he kidding? This, this, is what the Gods wanted Ned to see. They wanted Ned to see where he went wrong. He had not been a good lord. If Lyanna had survived, there was no doubt that Ned, after the Rebellion, would’ve wanted her to marry Robert, as planned. How could he not? Robert won a throne for her. But it was a mistake, all of it was a mistake. Robert was no better than those he’d deposed.
But who was Ned supposed to turn to?
He’d rather slit his throat than turn to Aerys. He liked Rhaegar even less. Rhaegar was complicit in the deaths of thousands. For what? Simple pleasure?
Why Brandon? Why must you charge so recklessly and leave Ned to clean up the messes?
The Gods were cruel. Couldn’t they have shown Ned what Lyanna’s path would be before the Rebellion started? Ned would’ve helped her. All he wanted to do was help his family.
Gods. All he did was fuck it up. He pushed Lyanna away with half-empty promises.
No wonder Lyanna didn’t turn to him for help.
“Ned?” Robert looks confused. “What’s wrong? We won! You can relax.”
Relax?
How can Ned relax when Father and Brandon are dead, and Lyanna is suffering through her pregnancy in Dorne without any of her family around? How can Robert expect Ned to relax?
This war isn’t about Robert’s claim; this is about justice. Justice for Father, for Brandon, for Elbert, and all of the other men that Aerys slaughtered without thought.
How can Ned relax when their deaths demand justice?
“My Lord Baratheon,” Ned’s eyes snap to the owner of the breathless, sultry voice. Picking her way through the emptying courtyard is a young woman wearing a simple dress cut in the style Robert favours, extremely low-cut, with long, shiny brown hair. “You said you’d come back,” she whines, curling her lips into a low pout.
Ned rolled his eyes at the woman’s terrible acting.
“Celia…well…uh.” Robert, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “Later,” he makes a pathetic attempt to dislodge the whore from his arm.
Anger flares deep in Ned. A deep-seated rage that he never thought he’d have towards his old friend. The leather of his gloves creaks as his hands curl into fists.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Northern lords scowling at Robert for the blatant disrespect. Lyanna is a Stark, and her betrothed ought to be acting out respect for her station. Robert’s family isn’t the only one with a long and storied legacy. Gods, the Starks are even older than the Baratheons!
And Ned…Ned is the Lord Stark. He has to set this straight.
“Ned, it’s not what it loo— urk. ” Ned’s fist connects before he realizes that he’s done.
He nearly screams from the pain radiating from his fist, but the bloody look of shock on Robert’s face makes it worth it.
“Not what it looks like?” Ned snarls. Brandon used to joke that he stole all the Wolf’s blood from the womb, and there was none left for Ned, but right now, Ned feels a lot like his elder brother. “Not what it looks like? Because from where I’m standing, Robert, it looks like you are dishonouring my sister, your betrothed! Or have you forgotten what this war was started over? My sister, your future wife, is, gods knows where, and you are still FUCKING YOUR WAY THROUGH THE REALM!”
“DON’T YOU THINK THAT I DON’T KNOW THAT?” Robert belows, his look of shock morphs into one of anger, his hand itches towards his warhammer. “I love Lyanna! And that bastard took her from me!”
“You have a funny way of showing your love,” Ned sneers, eyes flickering over to the whore next to Robert. “I told her, once, that you were a good man, that you loved her, and that you wouldn’t dishonour her, and gods above, you have made me a fool, Robert! You have done everything that I promised Lyanna you wouldn’t!”
Ned had been such a fool. He loved Lyanna and Robert, but he didn’t realize what he understands now. He can love them separately and understand that they fundamentally don’t belong together.
Lyanna, for her wild and bold personality, was a romantic at heart. She wanted her husband to have only eyes for her. The memories of all of Robert’s bastards confirmed that Lyanna’s worst fears were true. Robert would never be that man, and their marriage would become cold mere moons after their wedding.
Ned expected the blow. He stumbles back, stars dancing in his eyes, pain blooming along his cheek.
Ha. He deserved it. He deserved it for putting Lyanna through this.
“I’M DOING ALL OF THIS FOR HER! Rhaegar, the bastard who took her, is going to pay! I will see him dead for this!”
“My father is dead! So is Brandon! Your beloved,” Ned sneers, the word anger thrumming in his veins. “Is missing, and yet all you seem to care about is getting your dick wet and getting one over Rhaegar than actually rescuing Lyanna!”
“Take that back,” Robert snarls, looming over Ned. Over the years, Ned had seen Robert become the Demon of the Trident a few times, but it’s never been directed towards Ned. It’s a little unnerving.
“No.” Ned has died; Robert no longer scares Ned. Ned knows what Robert is truly likely underneath his bluster: a coward. “You’re not my king, nor my commander. I shall say what I want. I do not fight for you. I fight for the injustice wrought upon my family. You ought to remember this.”
Robert looks like he wants to strike Ned down where he is, but he can’t. He's a Lord Paramount, and Ned is the Warden of the North; they're equal leaders in the rebellion.
“If you need me, I shall be in my camp.” Ned turns, striding from the town centre towards his lords. He notes many hands snaked towards the hilts of their weapons.
Bless them, he thinks fondly. Ready to fight for their liege family, even against their temporary allies.