Masochistic Hero

As Gandalf stepped onto the mainland at Seagard, he found himself in a world of mud and misery. He was a wanderer once more, but here, the name "Mithrandir" nor “Gandalf” carried no weight, and the staff in his hand was seen as the tool of a beggar rather than the badge of a wise wizard.

His first hard lesson came at a crossroads inn nestled in the shadow of a burnt-out holdfast. The sign, a leaping frog, hung crooked from its hinges.

"I seek a room for the night," Gandalf had told the innkeeper, a man whose face was a map of old scars and new resentments. "And perhaps a seat by your fire to dry my cloak.”

"Rooms cost silver. A seat by the fire costs a copper," the man grunted. "You have the look of a septon who’s lost his way, or a mummer who’s lost his troupe. Which is it?"

Gandalf reached into his pouches, his fingers finding only the smooth wood of his pipe and the silken emptiness of his tobacco pouch. He had no gold. He had no silver. In the Shire, he was a bringer of fireworks and joy; in Minas Tirith, he was a counselor of kings. Here, he was a vagabond.

"I have no coin of your realm," Gandalf said, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "But I have stories of far lands, and I can offer a blessing on your hearth.

"Blessings don't buy ale, and stories don't patch the roof," the innkeeper spat. "Move on, old man. There’s a war on. Charity died with the last harvest."

Gandalf moved on. He trudged along the rutted tracks of the Riverlands, his boots caked in a grey, clinging clay. He stopped every traveler he met-haggard farmers fleeing with their lives on a cart, or groups of "broken men" who watched him with hungry eyes. From them, he gleaned a primer of chaos. He heard of a King in the North, a Boy-King on a throne of swords, two brothers fighting over a crown in the south, and of the man who called himself a king among the islands he had just left.

But it was the lack of "leaf" that truly soured his spirit.

At a small hamlet, he had inquired about pipe-weed. The village elder had stared at him as if he were speaking in tongues. "We grow wheat when the soldiers don't burn it, and barley for the beer. I’ve never heard of a weed for smoking, unless you mean to kill yourself with nightshade. If you want to put smoke in your lungs, go stand downwind of a burning barn. There’s plenty of those."

"A world without pipe-weed," Gandalf grumbled to himself as he walked, "is a world that has lost its sense of proportion. How can a man contemplate the fate of the world when his mouth is as dry as a desert and his pipe is a hollow mockery?"

…Chapter 4…

When silence finally reclaimed the gorge, Ned stood amidst the corpses. He was breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but from the adrenaline dumping from his system. He wiped his blade, the red steel turning silver again.

He turned slowly.

Catelyn stood frozen. She stared past the blazing figure of Thoros, past the shell-shocked giant in gold armor- who had removed a helm to reveal a woman’s face, broad and fierce- and straight at the blood-soaked warrior.

The light caught his face- the familiar, beloved lines of her husband, the rugged brow, the honest grey eyes- but the strength and the inhuman, calculated violence were new. The cold, duty-bound Lord Stark who sat in judgment was not here. In his place was a warrior who had just slaughtered forty men with the precision of a butcher.

Ned and Catelyn locked eyes.

In that instant, the machinations of his mind vanished. The tactical map in his mind dissolved into white noise. The warrior took leave, and the husband returned.

She did not whisper his name. She did not weep. She simply ran.

She ran the last few yards over the muddy earth, past the steaming, smoking sword of Thoros, and past the open-mouthed, astonished knight. She threw herself against him, her arms wrapping around his neck with desperate, shocking force, afraid that if she let go, he would leave her again.

Ned dropped his broadsword- allowing the weapon to clatter uselessly to the ground- as his arms closed around her, lifting her clear off the ground. He buried his face in her hair, how he missed her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of river and lavender, a scent he had thought lost to the grave.

"Cat," he whispered, the name a ragged sound pulled from the deepest part of his soul. He held her tight, his hand cradling the back of her head, shielding her from the sight of the dead.

He pulled back just enough to look into her tear-streaked face, his eyes shining with a fierce, absolute love. He lowered his head and kissed her: kissing the tears from her cheeks, kissing her lips with all the long-lost passion and relief that he could muster.

"I found you, Cat," he murmured, breath hot against her mouth. "I finally found you."

…Chapter 4 end, Chapter 5 start…

The noise was an intolerable. The sounds of men dying- gurgling, screaming, praying- were culled by the rhythmic, cold shing and thud of the sword. Catelyn stood paralyzed, pressed into the earth, desperate to disappear.

She was not alone. She was pressed into the space behind the two people fighting for her safety. To her right, the massive, reliable frame of Brienne of Tarth, newly pledged, shielded her. And to her left, and closer than she cared for, was Thoros of Myr, the infamous drunken Red Priest.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Thoros said, miraculously sober and alert, as he watched the carnage unfold before them. “I’d say this was nigh impossible, but I’ve revived Beric enough times to know that it is actually possible. Miracles are walking in Westeros.”

Catelyn dared to peer past the priest's shoulder. Only a handful of the Lannister soldiers remain, but what she saw filled her with a horror that replaced the initial dread of being captured.

Catelyn was by no means ignorant to the truth of the violence of warfare. She was the Tully’s firstborn young lady, the matriarch of the Stark House, and the mother of the King in the North. Yet it was those lofty titles that had shielded her from experiencing it first hand.

The last man, a scarred brute, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, begging.

“Mercy,” the man choked.

Catelyn clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling a sick sound that wanted to escape. This was beyond the pale. This was not the necessary defense of war. This ‘man’, this engine of pure, unfeeling destruction, was a marvel, yes- but it was a monster.

And she was terrified of ‘him’.

She watched as the final death was dealt. ‘He’ did not hesitate. The sword arced down in a clean, swift movement that was more like chopping wood than killing a man.

More than three dozens of men.

This was a flawless slaughter no doubt, and her and the two with her were the next lambs for slaughter. The silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the cries of distant birds.

Then ‘he’ looked at her. Their eyes met.

And to Catelyn, the monster was suddenly no more.

It was Ned. Her Ned. Her husband. Who was beheaded and dead. Who had no business walking about and around to save his damsel lady wife.

Not slowly, not hesitantly, she moved. She ran. She ran through the mud, past the dead men, past the slick red puddles, until she crashed into him. His body was real and warm, the muscle beneath solid and living. He smelled of leather, wood, and pine- a scent she had thought lost to the grave.

She could feel his hit breath hot against her ear, and the soft tingle of his finger, which delicately caressed her hair. “Cat,” he whispered, his voice sounding to her like how it did in her dreams. She basked in the essence of him, etching every feeling into memory- that she did not realize that she was crying.

She felt him pull back, a mere fraction, and the sudden, aching loss made her heart seize in her chest. Though every instinct screamed to anchor herself to his warmth, she slowly, reluctantly, released the fierce grip her fingers had on his shirt. Her own heartbeat hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, growing deafeningly loud as she met his gaze. His eyes- those familiar, storm-cloud grey eyes she had slowly adored through every passing year- were molten now, devouring her as if she were the single, priceless treasure in his entire world.

She didn't wait, couldn't wait; she simply closed her eyes and tilted her head back, offering herself to his touch. He didn't speak, just lowered his head, his warm, deliberate lips first tracing the wet, salty paths of her tears, brushing them away with exquisite care.

Then, with a low, ragged sound that vibrated deep in his chest, he claimed her mouth. This was no gentle sweep, but a deep, consuming kiss- a desperate reunion. His jaw angled to deepen the connection, his tongue immediately engaging hers in a hungry, urgent rhythm. His arms crushed her against his hard body, a possessive, breathtaking embrace that stole the air from her lungs and replaced it with a blinding, electric need. It was a kiss that spoke of years of devotion and the fierce, unyielding passion that had never once dimmed.

The world dissolved into the confines of that kiss. The sharp, sweet taste of him overwhelmed Catelyn’s senses, and all logic, all rational thought, simply evaporated. So what if he was supposed to be dead? All that mattered to her was that he was here. She wasn't thinking; there was no processing, no calculation- only pure, unadulterated sensation. Her mind went blissfully blank, a silent space filled only by the fierce, demanding pressure of his mouth and the solid heat of his body against hers.

"I found you, Cat," he murmured, breath hot against her mouth. "I finally found you."

Anyway it started as a meme in my head, cuz see, GRRM’s fave LOTR character is Boromir, and Boromir is played by Sean Bean, who plays Ned Stark—-

the crackfic potential was there, but it seems I am simply unable to write crack.

currently 2 prologues + 5 chapters. Started art GOT s2, and still there 30k words in 😩

Stark centric, plus Theon. I’ll be damned if I write an irredeemable Theon! Ned gets beheaded > gets born as Boromir > dies with three arrows > body of Ned Stark rises from the grave.

2/5 istari as if now 🤐