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For the throneland challenge, a ASOIAF prequel - Robert's Rebellion era.
Title: a second son
Rating: PG - nothing to see here, people
Spoilers: None past A Game of Thrones
Word Count: 760
Summary: Jon Arryn makes plans, Ned makes promises, Robert makes threats.
Ned has no time to mourn, he finds; things happen too quickly and he prepares to throw his anger and grief into battle, where they will best suit him. Something should come of this, after all.
“I am sure that Hoster Tully will be more amendable to join us in arms if I write of your intent to marry his daughter in your brother’s place.” Jon’s eyes are serious, not kindly as they so often are but nor stern as they would be when he and Robert would pull a jape on the cook and be brought in front of the Lord of the Eyrie. An equal, Ned realizes dully, with a twist in the gut. He is looking at me as an equal. Another lord.
He thinks of his brother as he saw him last, laughing, tall and strong on horseback, born for gallantry, born for lordship and leadership, for the life that Ned now slips into like a pair of boots that do not quite fit. The banners I will raise, will they even feel like mine? He pushes the thoughts and doubts resolutely away, the north would follow a Stark as they had always done and his lord father’s bannermen howled for revenge already. Men can smell fear on the battlefield, smell doubt, his master-at-arms had always instructed and Ned is determined that the only scent he shall bring to war will be the air of winter.
Dimly he tries to recall something - anything - Brandon had said about his betrothed, words that had washed over him like water will do ice at the time. Mostly he can only recall raging over a ward of Hoster Tully's, a brazen scrap of a lad who had challenged Brandon to a duel. Very pretty, Ned vaguely remembers him boasting, and red hair. Ned laughs, suddenly, sharply, at the boyish ignorance of him; it would not matter if Catelyn Tully were as withered as Old Nan or had a beard to match his own, for swords and service, for Lyanna and for Robert, for Jon who rose his banners and defied his king rather than sentence his wards to certain death, for his own life he would wed her.
“Yes. Write to him that I vow to wed Lady Catelyn after the war,” he says solemnly, as though there truly were a choice to be made, as though he believes that it matters, the promised hand of a second son (he will always be a second son, he thinks) but Jon shakes his head and Ned raises his eyebrows, waiting.
“Words are wind, and after Brandon, Lord Tully will not be pleased with simply another betrothal,” he predicts shrewdly. “He is an honorable man, but the Tullys have been loyal to the Targaryen crown since the Landing and he will want more than just a vow. I shall write that we depart for Riverrun in a fortnight, and the wedding will be in a month’s time.”
Robert laughs, always a deep booming sound and now there is an edge to it, bloodlust, Ned thinks. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations. You plan on winning this war with a wedding, but I will win it with my hammer.” Once the words would have been a playful, jesting boast but there is a dark promise to them now; Robert flexes his thick, long fingers as though he feels the weight of his favorite weapon in them now.
“And shall you strike them all down alone, Robert?” Jon’s voice is almost ice, the time for boyhood pride is past. “Don’t be a fool. If we have any hope of overthrowing the Targaryens, of finding Rhaegar and your betrothed, we will need allies about us.”
The mention of Lyanna sets Robert’s jaw to stone, as it always does, and Ned feels a pang in his heart at the thought of his little sister, frightened and alone and lost in the world, does she know of Brandon and Father and what befell them, does she know that we are searching and planning or does she think we have forsaken her?
Jon pinches his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as Robert storms from the room, always as moody and unpredictable as the land he hails from. Though he always seemed a man far younger than his years, at that moment Ned sees his age and weariness, flitting briefly over his face like a summer snow before disappearing in the firm set of his mouth. “Gods help us, he shall be our king.”
Title: a second son
Rating: PG - nothing to see here, people
Spoilers: None past A Game of Thrones
Word Count: 760
Summary: Jon Arryn makes plans, Ned makes promises, Robert makes threats.
Ned has no time to mourn, he finds; things happen too quickly and he prepares to throw his anger and grief into battle, where they will best suit him. Something should come of this, after all.
“I am sure that Hoster Tully will be more amendable to join us in arms if I write of your intent to marry his daughter in your brother’s place.” Jon’s eyes are serious, not kindly as they so often are but nor stern as they would be when he and Robert would pull a jape on the cook and be brought in front of the Lord of the Eyrie. An equal, Ned realizes dully, with a twist in the gut. He is looking at me as an equal. Another lord.
He thinks of his brother as he saw him last, laughing, tall and strong on horseback, born for gallantry, born for lordship and leadership, for the life that Ned now slips into like a pair of boots that do not quite fit. The banners I will raise, will they even feel like mine? He pushes the thoughts and doubts resolutely away, the north would follow a Stark as they had always done and his lord father’s bannermen howled for revenge already. Men can smell fear on the battlefield, smell doubt, his master-at-arms had always instructed and Ned is determined that the only scent he shall bring to war will be the air of winter.
Dimly he tries to recall something - anything - Brandon had said about his betrothed, words that had washed over him like water will do ice at the time. Mostly he can only recall raging over a ward of Hoster Tully's, a brazen scrap of a lad who had challenged Brandon to a duel. Very pretty, Ned vaguely remembers him boasting, and red hair. Ned laughs, suddenly, sharply, at the boyish ignorance of him; it would not matter if Catelyn Tully were as withered as Old Nan or had a beard to match his own, for swords and service, for Lyanna and for Robert, for Jon who rose his banners and defied his king rather than sentence his wards to certain death, for his own life he would wed her.
“Yes. Write to him that I vow to wed Lady Catelyn after the war,” he says solemnly, as though there truly were a choice to be made, as though he believes that it matters, the promised hand of a second son (he will always be a second son, he thinks) but Jon shakes his head and Ned raises his eyebrows, waiting.
“Words are wind, and after Brandon, Lord Tully will not be pleased with simply another betrothal,” he predicts shrewdly. “He is an honorable man, but the Tullys have been loyal to the Targaryen crown since the Landing and he will want more than just a vow. I shall write that we depart for Riverrun in a fortnight, and the wedding will be in a month’s time.”
Robert laughs, always a deep booming sound and now there is an edge to it, bloodlust, Ned thinks. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations. You plan on winning this war with a wedding, but I will win it with my hammer.” Once the words would have been a playful, jesting boast but there is a dark promise to them now; Robert flexes his thick, long fingers as though he feels the weight of his favorite weapon in them now.
“And shall you strike them all down alone, Robert?” Jon’s voice is almost ice, the time for boyhood pride is past. “Don’t be a fool. If we have any hope of overthrowing the Targaryens, of finding Rhaegar and your betrothed, we will need allies about us.”
The mention of Lyanna sets Robert’s jaw to stone, as it always does, and Ned feels a pang in his heart at the thought of his little sister, frightened and alone and lost in the world, does she know of Brandon and Father and what befell them, does she know that we are searching and planning or does she think we have forsaken her?
Jon pinches his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as Robert storms from the room, always as moody and unpredictable as the land he hails from. Though he always seemed a man far younger than his years, at that moment Ned sees his age and weariness, flitting briefly over his face like a summer snow before disappearing in the firm set of his mouth. “Gods help us, he shall be our king.”