#ned start

Before you even finish the words, Robert enters and throws himself down in the settee beside your fireplace.

“Welcome to my home, dear sister.”

He plucks grapes from the tray brought to you so you might break fast, though you hadn’t had the stomach to touch anything, not when the women swept into your room and had you corseted before the sun rose.

“Isn’t it strange a boy of the Stormlands finding home in such mountains as these?”

“What am I but a storm all on my own? Lands or no, I carry the storm with me.”

Only then do you turn your head to take in your brother. He is clad in his training clothes — loose-fitting garments with more dirt and sweat than seems feasible for something freshly laundered — and his boats are strapped high up his shins. Across his lap sits a wooden training hammer with metal rings lining the handle, adding more weight than Robert might ever need to wield. 

“You look like a storm. More debris and wreckage than person.”

Robert spits out a laugh and pulls at the collar of his shirt, ripping it a little at the seam and giving his broad shoulders just a little more room. 

“Care to come see my wreckage? I’m heading to the training yard this morning with Lord Arryn.”

At the mention of your host, bile rises in your throat, and you try to swallow it down. It does not go unnoticed. 

“Hey,” Robert says, moving into your space with no regard to the young woman still twirling your hair just so, “Nothing is set in stone, but he’s a good man. Better than most, I promise. And if the rumors are to be believed, he was quite the handsome youth. Would give you beautiful babies.”

You laugh, at first a little and then a lot, at your brother.

“You really think my chief concern is how attractive my children will be? Are you forgetting the act that it takes to make the children? How’d you feel if father expected you to bed a woman old enough to have nursed you?” 

“Aye, that’s the difference between you and me, dear sister. Close your eyes and you could be rutting into anyone. A bar wench can be the most beautiful Lyseni whore if you have enough imagination.”

“Gross.” 

“Only gross if you want it to be, Jewel.” 

Your handmaiden finishes securing the final braid of your hair, leaving you and your brother alone.

“Come watch me, please?” Robert smirks at you, clearly something else on his mind, but you don’t indulge him. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Robert huffs but he kisses your head anyway. He rubs your shoulders and heads out the door, his heavy swayed steps echoing through the stone castle. 

After a moment of thinking, and with a bit of bread in your belly, you wander out in the same direction your brother went, past the beautiful marble pillars and tapestries that line this mountain fortress. 

Outside in the courtyard, you find the gardens overlooking the terraces of training yards and stables that lead down the cliffside. You find a seat beside the mountain lilies and watch your brother take up hammer against your father, each clashing together with the strength and virility they bring to everything. Your father’s laugh as your brother knocks him on his back makes you laugh, too. 

“And what has you so happy, dear lady?” calls a voice behind you. Lord Arryn is dressed in fine leather armor with his hair pushed back from his face. He’s surprisingly muscular for his age. You see how Robert has grown so strong with him as tutor. 

“My family seems happy,” you tell him as he takes a seat beside you. 

“Your family is a source of great happiness for many. This place is brighter for having you all here.” 

Lord Arryn runs his hand through his hair. He looks out on the forest and area beyond. You try to follow his eye line, but your attention is caught by the clanking of swords below and the sway of long dark hair as a knight pushes forth with great force. 

Ned Stark — though perhaps its best to think of him as Lord Eddard — looking all the knight you imagined he might be, surges forward in a clash of swords, sweat coating his brow. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and his arm muscles ripple in exertion. The sight of it alone makes you sweat, eager and hot like you rarely felt before.

“I’ve always wanted a family of my own,” Lord Arryn says, drawing your attention again, “But the gods have not graced me with such a blessing yet. Your father gave me a gift by asking me to take your brother as ward. He’s been like a son to me, but it will never be the same as my own flesh and blood.”

Your body curls at his words, a little bit of fire lighting in you at the thought of just where his conversation is going.

“And does that make me a daughter to you, Lord Arryn?”

He turns to you with a bit of a scowl, his blond-grey locks falling in front of his eyes. He doesn’t answer you and you feel a bit of victory at that.

Below, your brother laughs as Ned spins behind him, blocking a fearsome swing. Ned bulks under the weight of his shield and pushes up against Robert’s weighted ax, straining to defend himself. Your brother leans forward and whispers something to Ned and his eyes shoot up the hillside towards you. You smile and offer him a tiny wave of your fingers and before he can even respond, Robert knocks him full force into the dirt.

As Ned spits and rubs the dust off his body, his cheeks a deep crimson, flush covers your body. Maybe Ned is that kind of boy that can succumb to your womanly wiles. And in that moment you feel powerful— so powerful and beautiful and capable that Lord Arryn grabbing your hand doesn’t even faze you.

The next day, you enjoy quiet time in the gardens. Your father has taken your brother on a hunting trip, a Baratheon family tradition— one that oddly doesn’t seem to include you. 

You stroll around the manicured pathway when a snapped twig pulls your attention. 

“I’m sorry.”

You turn to see the handsome chin and warm, sweet eyes of Lord Eddard. You stare at each other for a long moment before he bows his head.

“May I walk with you, Lady Y/N?” 

His smile is sincere. A warmth spreads through your chest. 

You reach out your hand and Ned offers you the crook of his arm. You slip effortlessly against his muscular forearm. Your shoulders brush as you roam deeper into the curated gardens. 

“You had quite the form yesterday,” you tell him. 

Ned chuckles and then adds under his breath, “Doubt falling on my rear is good form.”

“No, no—“ you squeeze Ned’s arm as you round the azaleas, “I don’t mean to joke. You truly were a sight to behold before my brother frazzled you." 

And now Ned is the one squeezing your hand, the two of you locked together in some enjoyable union of spirits.

“Well, if we’re attempting honesty here, then let me assure you that your brother was not the Baratheon that has me frazzled.”

It’s hard not to let his words ease your soul. You walk together in silence as you let the smile spread across your lips.

“So, my lady, why do you find yourself alone today?”

You explain to Ned the strange sexism of your family and the bonding they have over the hunt and the fight. And the sadness in your voice — not just at the exclusivity but at the fact that your family was slipping away from you — just comes pouring out.

“Well, I could teach you how to fight, if you’d be interested in it.” 

You find yourself at the end of the gardens, now in a stone courtyard, though given the steep cliffs around you, any gardens feel like a blessing. But just outside the gates, in your vision, sits a few trees, shady and inviting, just out of eye line of the castle’s walkways.

Ned holds your hand against his elbow as you look out on the small sanctuary the trees create.

“Yes,” you say with a smile. “I’d really like that.”

Ned meets you at the same time in that same clearing the following morning. You expect him to come with practice swords and loose clothes but he doesn’t. Instead he comes in some of his most courtly attire, carrying nothing but a picnic basket. You feel quite out of place in your riding skirts and loose braids.

“Are we not—“

Ned cuts you off with a wave of his hands. 

“We’re still training, don’t worry, my lady”

He sets down the basket and opens it, revealing not just the typical lunchtime foods but a shiny set of daggers with tiny gems encrusting the golden handles.

“But the kind of fighting you see in the training yard isn’t the kind of fighting that will ever be asked of you. Your fight, my dove,” Ned pauses for a moment to pick up the longer of the two daggers with a shining gold handle and places it in your hand, “Your fight won’t be the kind with knightly courtesy.”

The tiny knife is heavy in your palm.  You take in its beauty with patient eyes, never having seen anything so delicate and yet so deadly. You slide your finger across the edge of the blade, marveling at how the sun shines off the slick edge.

“My lord, where did you get these?”

Ned’s fumbling through the basket, but at your question, he turns to you with a nervous smile.

“My sister, Lyanna, enjoys playing with the boys, herself. She’s quite the talented equestrian and can use a bow better than Winterfell’s master-in-arms. She could hit a target with her eyes closed if father would ever let her try.”

Ned stands, his forearms now covered in guards, and walks towards you, taking the second dagger out of its sheath. 

“I had these made for her next namesday, though the more I think about it, the more uncertain I am that I could ever get them to her,” Ned says, following his long sentence with a deep sigh. “It’s not just that I suspect my mother and father might confiscate them, but I just doubt I’ll be headed north anytime soon. And sending home something like this… can’t exactly attach these to a raven.” 

Ned takes a step toward you, his eyes on the daggers, one in each of your palms. His body is close, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

“Those grey gemstones are quite dark, almost black. And with the gold accents, well—“ he looks down into your eyes, his thick lashes making his grey eyes almost the same color as the stones, “well, these feel much more befitting a Baratheon lady.”

You offer him a smile. You take his unoccupied wrist between your fingers. His pulse presses swiftly against your fingers.

“And the direwolves engraved in the blades?”

“A reminder of the man who gifted them to you, my dove.” 

It’s a long moment where your sole focus is on where your fingers touch. Ned rotates his hand, interlinking your fingers. Your breath catches as he squeezes, the pressure sending a tingle up your arm. Time feels to slow as you learn every callous covering those strong fingers. 

It’s only the sound of the sheath falling out of Ned’s other hand and hitting the ground that breaks you from your daze. Ned jumps away from you as though you are made of fire. 

He coughs hard before picking up the discarded artifact. You take the moment he is looking away to take your own deep breaths, needing to regain yourself from the intensity of your closeness.

I’m the Jewel of the Stormlands, you think, the words said in your head more in anger than encouragement, like a reminder that men are supposed to stumble over you, become putty in your hands, not the other way around. Lord Eddard making you forget how to speak is a new feeling entirely. No, you are an enchantress. The same power that Robert has over women is the same spell you cast over lords all over the Stormlands and throughout King’s Landing. And that power is yours to yield as you see fit. But Ned, this second son, green behind the ears when it comes to wooing women — and pretty much everything else for that matter — is doing things to you that the most roguish and charming Dornish princes could not. He is making you soft.

But storms are not soft. Storms are furious, fierce, powerful. Storms do not yield to a kind smile and sweet touch. They never yield. 

With Ned’s back turned, you hold the dagger in your hand, hike up your skirt, and take an offensive stance.

“You know, its bad form to turn your back on the enemy, my lord.”

You swing your arm, and, with speed you didn’t know he had, Ned turns and catches your wrist with his hand. And with strength you didn’t know he had either, he pulls you by the wrist until the blade falls from your fingers are you are hard against him. Your free hand comes to rest on his chest as his other arm snakes around your back, holding you close. Again, he interlocks your fingers. 

Breathing hard, you look up into his eyes. There’s a passion there that wasn’t there before. And this is the dichotomy of Ned Stark. The man you saw on the dance floor two nights before, the one who flirted with you with confidence, is somehow the same man who turned beet red at a few words in his ear from your brother. And suddenly, it all makes sense. Ned is a reserved man, a man of honor and measure. But he’s a man of passion and emotion, too. He is not shy or quiet the way your brother always seemed to imply in your letters. No, Ned is precise. He shows what needs to be shown, when it is appropriate to do so. 

And right now, he needs to show you just how much he desires you.

“My dove,” he purrs into your ear, “I believe you saw my bad form on the training ground yesterday. What you just saw was perfect form.”

You laugh, “Perfect form to be taken by surprise.”

He tugs you even closer, his lips brushing against your cheek.

“But having you take me, by surprise or otherwise, is as perfect a situation as I can imagine,” Ned says, the heat of his breath heating your cheeks beyond their already flaming temperature.

And when Ned’s eyes find yours, the question they ask is so clear in how they penetrate you. All you can do is move forward, seeking his lips with the kind of wantonness you scoffed at in others. It is the kind of wantonness you saw in your suitors, but never had you felt that tug yourself. 

And when your lips meet, Ned’s move with a hesitance that makes your knees weak. The confidence combined with this tenderness— it is a deadly combination, one that would leave your heart completely broken if you let it. Ned moves with a certainty of his own desires, but with a reservation about yours. Certain he should ask, but unsure the answer. And your lips give the answer— yes to anything, yes to everything, yes as long as he keeps touching you with those soft hands, those sweet words, and those welcomed lips.

“Lady Y/N!” Lord Arryn’s voice calls from the castle gates. 

Quickly you pull away from Ned, though a quick look around makes it clear that Lord Arryn has not seen you yet, but is merely searching. 

Ned seems to jump out of his own skin before catching his footing. With a deep breath and a straightening of his own doublet, Ned slips the daggers back into the picket basket and takes your arm.

“Just follow my lead.”

You take the crook of his arm and let him walk you toward the castle.

“My lord, I believe I have the beauty whom you seek right here,” Ned says to his ward, though the reference to Lord Arryn’s interest in you makes you squeeze tighter to Ned’s side. He brushes his fingers against yours in understanding. “I was just showing her some of the trees that manage to grow this high up the mountain.”

Lord Arryn seems to take in the picnic basket, his eyes traveling between it and your hand in the crook of Ned’s arm. He gives a pained smile.

“I had been hoping I might join you for a midday meal, but that seems to be covered. Then let me take this opportunity to formally ask you to join me for our feast tonight.”

“Of course, Lord Arryn. That sounds lovely.”

Lord Arryn gives a stiff nod. “I’ll come by your room to escort you around sundown.”

He turns on his heels, his body forming a hard straight line. As if remembering himself, he turns back to you and Ned.

“My lord, my lady,” he huffs before heading inside the castle. Ned walks you back to your room without a word, maintaining the same practices reservation that clearly made Ned a mystery to so many… except you.

That night, just as your maid left your room after helping with your hair before supper, there is a strong knock at the door. With a sigh, you open the door. But Lord Arryn is not there.

Instead, on the floor sits the same picnic basket from the afternoon. Pulling it inside, you close the door, knowing what must be within the wicker. 

When you have the daggers in your hand again, you let out a hum of satisfaction at their beauty. But below the daggers is a note, in a beautiful script so different from your brother’s chicken scratch.

Tomorrow after you break your fast, meet me at the stables, my dove. 

There is no signature. There doesn’t need to be. 

And with a rub of your fingers over the fine script, you read the words again before tossing the note into the fire.

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