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Ned had known that this day would come. He had six children, each as beautiful and wonderful as the last, of course it would come eventually. It had come for his own father; had crashed into him with all the strength and terribleness of a winter gale, and into his father’s father before him, and his father’s father’s father before that. And on and on. A father’s curse, as terrible as the blessing of children was a delight.

He had known it would come, had prepared for it in the same way he had steeled himself for every other milestone his children had reached. Had prepared as best he could, to weather this day; had prepared to haul down the hatches and wait out the battering storm. He had known to prepare for the very worst whilst hoping for the very best. He had been blooded by what he had thought could be the very worst, having witnessed first-hand the horror this day could bring to a father when it had come for his own. He had prepared.

And yet, staring down at a shy-faced chestnut-haired girl who looked barely old enough to be let out of the house without a parent standing next to his own barely old enough to be let out of the house alone red-haired boy, he realized he was woefully unprepared for this day.

“This is Jeyne, Westerling, Dad, my girlfriend.”  Robb – Robb, his sweet-faced baby boy who smiled his mother’s smile as he brushed slightly overgrown baby-fine red curls off cheeks still slightly plump with the remnants of unshed baby fat with his free hand while the other curled around the slender fingers of the girl, Robb, his baby boy – said, brightly, if a little shyly, as he proudly presented this girl – this Jeyne – as though she was something wondrous and not a hallmark of doom.

Ned was not ready. Not at all ready. Fourteen was hardly old enough for a girlfriend. He had prepared, but he thought he had more time. He had been certain, at the very least, that it would be sweet-faced Sansa, with all her girlish hopes about Prince Charmings and knights in shining armor, that would bring the storm down first, when her baby crushes bloomed into something far more poisonous. He had thought, for certain, that it would have been her. He had thought maybe, just maybe, he would have to worry about it from Jon – the boy hardly took notice of anything that wasn’t written in a massive tome or dealt with anyone outside the family and his tiny circle of friends but he had a maturity about him beyond his fourteen years and that could certainly attract the exact wrong sort of attention. He had been absolutely, devastatingly certain that he didn’t yet have to worry about Robb.

Perhaps he should have known – puberty had hit Jon like a freight train, turning his serious, quiet boy into someone prone to inexplicable bouts of sullenness with a wardrobe that consisted only of the darkest blacks and a record collection that had Cat praying for patience every other hour of the day, it must have been the gods’ trade off that he wouldn’t bring something as disastrous as an unknown girl into Ned’s life. Robb, however, had so far escaped the worst of the early teenage rebellion he had been dreading; it was only fair, then, that the trade off was this horror.

Probably, it was Theon Greyjoy’s fault. Robb worshipped the ground his friend walked on, and Ned knew better than the boy’s own actual parents how wild he could run. If any person in the world could have kick started Ned’s personal hell, it was the youngest Greyjoy. It was just like the time he’d convinced Robb that letting off some contraband fireworks near the back of the house wouldn’t do any harm because the deep snow would keep any fires from spreading too far, but significantly worse.

Ned would rather deal with an actual fire again than this proverbial one that had come to scorch his fields.

He had to be nice, he knew he had to be nice. Jeyne looked like a sweet girl, or as sweet as any harbinger of tragedy could be, and she was shifting nervously now; Ned had been silent too long. Even Robb’s smile – bright like his burgundy curls – was starting to stiffen some.

Ned was not prepared, but that did not mean he didn’t know how to act like it.

He put on his politest smile, the one that had gotten him through countless dinners at the Tully’s when he had been dating Cat, and tried to stamp down the panic as he’d dutifully greeted the girl. It wasn’t her fault, really. She represented something inevitable; if it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else.

He could be nice to her. He would be nice to her. So, even though his heart screamed danger, he pretended to sound excited when Robb announced he and Jeyne were going to go on a proper date, and he agreed when that proud proclamation had been ruefully followed by a request that Ned drive them to the movies because Winterfell was too far away for them to catch a bus and his children – all babies –were too young for him to allow them to call an Uber on their own and far too young to drive.

He could be nice, he could handle this.

He did handle it. For that date, and the flurry of others that had followed. He had held back grimaces when Robb asked him which flowers girls liked, and he’d been perfectly discreet when he slipped Robb an advance on his allowance so that his gentleman of a son could treat Jeyne to ice cream for their third date. He’d been diligent in his duty at keeping the younger children and Jon from teasing Robb too hard when Jeyne joined them for dinner two weeks into their relationship.

And he’d never been happier then when, three weeks after the storm had first hit, Robb had come home without gentle Jeyne Westerling and announced that he had broken up with her because she didn’t get along with Theon.

Ned had survived his child’s first true foray into romance with nothing close to resembling a broken heart, not even a hint of sullenness. It was as perfect an end to the storm as he could have imagined.

He, of course, was tactful enough to not be too happy at Robb’s announcement, although judging from the well-aimed elbow into his spleen from Cat as she leaned over to fuss over Robb, he hadn’t done that good of a job.

She could hardly blame him. She’d been present when his father had dealt with his siblings’ and his forays into romance. The bloodshed, the heartbreak, the cheating, the teenage pregnancy, the married man. They’d had the calmest relationship of the whole lot, and she’d been his brother’s girlfriend first. She knew how bad it could get.

It was fortunate really, truly fortunate, that Theon Greyjoy got along with anyone whose last name wasn’t Stark and whose first name didn’t begin with ‘R’ like a rabid dog. Ned probably couldn’t rely on him to keep the storm away forever, but perhaps he would have a few good more years before Robb prioritized romantic relationships over his platonic ones.

Jeyne had been a good girl, really, certainly not the worst any of his children could have brought home, but Ned could safely say he doubted he would ever miss her.

Ned missed Jeyne.

More specifically, he missed Jeyne Westerling. Sweet, blushing Jeyne who never did anything more than hold Robb’s hand with her body half a foot away from him. Shy little Jeyne who didn’t know any of his other children and would certainly never be friends with them once she and Robb had ended.

Jeyne Poole was an entirely different beast.

It hadn’t even been Robb who had brought the girl home. Jeyne Poole had been friends with Sansa for several years already; she was a little older than his girl, closer to Robb and Jon’s age than Sansa’s, but they had met at an after-school drama program Sansa had begged for and got on thick as thieves. Ned had become just as used to her giggles as Sansa’s.

He had never thought them particularly terrifying until he’d come home early and saw that they were directed, not at some comment Sansa had made or over a particularly cheesy looking coming of age romance book, but at Robb.

He wasn’t naïve. He had seen and summarily ignored the lingering glances Jeyne had been sending his eldest son. She’d sent the same to Jon before after he’d supposedly ‘rescued’ her and Sansa from some older boys that had been teasing them, and to Theon once too, when the boy had been in a good mood and deigned to play the role of dashing prince in what Sansa and Jeyne swore was a very serious practice for their drama class but had looked very much like fantasy play to Ned.

It was, he had thought, as harmless as the longing glances Sansa would throw at a knight in a movie or on the cover of one of her books. Nothing real, just puppy attraction.

That was, until, he’d realized with no small manner of horror that, unlike Jon who had never noticed a single one of the looks or Theon who had dismissed them with a laugh, Robb had begun looking back.

It had only been a month since Robb had come home without Jeyne Westerling, Ned had thought he’d have more time. Sure, Robb hadn’t seemed too beaten up about his break up but his boy had always had a brave face. Certainly first love, even as innocent and short-lasting as Robb and Jeyne Westerling’s romance had been, took longer than a month to get over.

Ned had nursed his first – and only - heartbreak for nearly a year before he’d met Cat. He had been older than Robb by several years and the relationship had been more serious, but still. There had to be some sort of grace period for these things.

Apparently, though, not for his Robb who was proving to be a fair bit more free with his heart than Ned had ever expected.

The looks had quickly – far, far too quickly – morphed into something more. Quick, longing glances turned into mesmerized stares, stares turned to fleeting touches and lingering greetings, until one day Ned had come from his study to the sounds of Jeyne’s giggles not accompanied by Sansa’s.

Ned had found them at the kitchen table, Robb grinning at the way Jeyne giggled, their fingers intertwined on the table, and he knew, somehow in that moment, that Jeyne Poole represented a much darker storm than sweet, blushing Jeyne Westerling.

Two months the winds had blasted at Ned’s walls. Two months in which Jeyne-and-Sansa had suddenly become Jeyne and Robb. Two months of Jeyne becoming an even more fixed addition to his house than Theon.  Two months of realizing exactly what kind of girl his sweet Sansa had befriended. Two months of realizing Ned didn’t like it one bit.

Ned had known, in a small way, that Jeyne Poole could have a mean streak. He had seen it some when she butted heads with Arya – his wild Arya who never backed down from a fight – but he had chalked that all up to the girls simply being children. Children could be unintentionally cruel, and so, in what he had thought were rare times that Jeyne had gone a bit too far with the younger girl, he had simply brought Arya with him to whatever task he was about or had bid her to play with the boys. She got on better with the boys.

The more Jeyne was around, however, he realized how intentional her cruelty could be.

Oh, she was sweet with Robb, all giggles and hair twirls and stolen, chaste kisses when the two thought no one was paying attention. And she and Sansa got along better than Ned could have hoped – he had worried Sansa, who could be a tad territorial with what she considered hers, would have taken Jeyne’s divided attention as a personal affront but she had turned giddy with the idea that Jeyne could be her sister someday. A thought Ned thought was far, far too soon in the making.

No, it wasn’t to Robb or Sansa that Jeyne’s mean streak became clear. Her bouts with Arya – rare they had been when all her time was with Sansa – had become more frequent as Jeyne worked to covet Robb’s sole attention. Ned had tried to keep the peace, and he knew Cat had done her best as well, but it became all too familiar to find Arya hiding in some forbidden corner of Winterfell whenever Jeyne was about, cheeks rubbed a raw red and eyes suspiciously wet.

Little Bran, who ran after the older boys whenever they allowed him to, also seemed to suddenly shy away from his bigger brother, whenever Jeyne was close at his side. She’s mean, his little boy had said once in a quiet voice, when Ned had coaxed him down from an oak tree in time for dinner, but didn’t elaborate any further, despite Ned’s soft prodding and Cat’s less than subtle attempts at bribing him with sweets.

Even baby Rickon, barely out of his toddling years and apt to follow whichever older sibling proved willing to give him the most attention – normally Sansa, who still adored babies or Robb who simply adored his siblings – like a curly-headed duckling, kept clear from Jeyne. He had crashed into Ned once, barreling blind down the stairs and sobbing the heartbreaking shrieks of small children, his arms outstretched for him. Ned had caught him, of course, but it had taken thirty minutes of soft bouncing and more cookies than strictly appropriate for a three-year-old, to coach him into saying anything sensible.

 Ned rarely felt rage at his children – or any child his own brought about the house – but he had barely been in control of himself when he had passed a concerned Cat their baby and marched up the stairs to Robb’s room. Jeyne had been apologetic, of course, and had said she certainly hadn’t meant for Rickon to be so upset, when she had ousted him, grumpy and sleepy, from his own brother’s bedroom so that she and Robb could spend time together. It had been a surprise for Robb, who hadn’t known Jeyne was visiting yet, she really hadn’t expected Rickon to be so upset. Ned hadn’t believed her but he had thought he had handled the situation with perfect grace.

Later, Cat had told him, quietly when they were alone in their bedroom, that he may have overreacted by banning Robb and Jeyne from being anywhere together upstairs alone, especially when Robb hadn’t even been in the room yet at the time. But Ned was no fool; there was no good reason for his fourteen-year-old to be left alone in a bedroom with a girlfriend and he was certainly not going to allow it at the expense of his own children’s comfort in their own house.

Absolutely not.

In truth, he hadn’t put his foot down hard enough. If he had, they could have avoided the worst of Jeyne Poole. If Arya’s hiding or Bran’s avoidance hadn’t been enough to key Robb into the fact that something unhappy was brewing within his relationship to Jeyne, Rickon’s tears should have been the final straw for all of them. But it hadn’t. Robb continued to be smitten with the girl for two months – sixty excruciating days – who was nothing but sweet smiles and gentle giggles with him, and Ned hadn’t been able to bring himself to share his concerns with his son. Especially since Jeyne was still also Sansa’s closest friend.

And so he had endured it; had tried to smile while chaperoning dates and helping Robb pick out flowers. Had tried to be enthusiastic when Robb came to him with questions about what kind of dates girls like, encouraging while trailing Sansa and Robb for two hours alongside a bemused Cat while they sought the perfect gifts for Jeyne’s birthday.

He had endured it, until quite suddenly, gleefully and blessedly suddenly, the skies had cleared and Jeyne Poole was no longer.

It was Theon, at the end of the day, who had pulled the final straw.

Theon was a temperamental boy and he had made a fair share of the younger Starks cry himself, when he got ugly, which could be often especially – loathe though Ned was to admit it when he was powerless to help without the stubborn boy coming to him about it – when his father was home from his deep-sea fishing. He could be cruel even in his good moods, when his mischievous streak delved a shade too deeply into maliciousness. Ned was often unsure of him as a best friend for his sweet Robb; Theon could be kind, but he hoarded that kindness like a dragon whose hoard had been thrice robbed, whereas Robb gave kindness out freely and openly, as easily as he breathed.

But, Ned had learned the day Jeyne Poole became no more, whereas Theon could make the younger Starks angry or cry and just laugh it off or make some half-hearted apology before running off with Robb, he would evidently not tolerate others doing the same thing.

It had been Bran or perhaps Arya – maybe both, Ned was still unsure – who had come to him first. Why the older boy had listened, Ned didn’t know; Theon hardly paid attention to any Stark child that wasn’t Robb and it wasn’t like his attention when he did was hardly pleasant. Why any of his children besides Robb had gone to Theon in the first place and not Robb or even Jon – quiet but forthright Jon who had made his distaste for Jeyne abundantly clear a week into the two-month hell – Ned was even more uncertain about, but they had gone to the boy and the boy had listened.

Arya had been crying angrily, Ned knew, which was a rare sight, and openly, which was rarer still. And Bran had been somber, with little red fingernail marks bracketing his wrist as though someone had held him far too tightly. Whether it had been the tear-stained cheeks of Arya or the sight of violence on Bran that had done the trick, something inside Theon had snapped.

Ned’s attention had been grabbed from his study when Theon had dragged both the younger children through the halls of Winterfell to deposit them in front of Robb and Jeyne in the garden and he heard every word as Theon told Robb in no uncertain terms that the girl – technically he had not used the word ‘girl’ but Ned didn’t much like to think of what had actually been said in front his young children - needed to go and she needed to go right then.

Robb had been perturbed at the interruption – he had spent the better part of two days’ planning the picnic date in the garden and had been quite proud of it – but his eyes had been drawn to the marks on Bran’s wrist, which Theon had displayed with a flourish of raising the boy’s tiny hand up to Robb’s face. He had only asked Jeyne one question, in a soft, serious voice, his wide blue eyes steadily fixed on the slowly bruising marks.

Jeyne had been too afraid to answer untruthfully; Robb had led her out of the house without another word. Not even Sansa had invited her back.

Ned was glad to be rid of her – unpleasant Jeyne who hid her cruelty behind clever smiles – but he didn’t enjoy the aftermath. Sansa was near inconsolable at the loss of her friend; her family ties ran deeper, thankfully, but that didn’t mean the loss of her friendship hadn’t been a deep blow. Robb handled the break-up with surprising calmness – in truth he seemed to feel more guilty at the idea that he had been neglecting his younger sibling’s feelings more than any actual sadness at the loss of Jeyne – and Ned had watched him with sheer relief as he devoted himself to spending more time with them again than seeking out any other disastrous girl.

And if every one of the Starks, even Jon who had gotten into physical fights with the other boy and Cat who had tried to outright ban him from the house on more than one occasion, suddenly tolerated Theon a fair bit more, no one spoke about it.

It was probably for the best though; Theon was proving more and more to be the boon protecting the Stark household from certain teenage doom.

Theon had betrayed Ned. Thoroughly, utterly, completely, the boy had betrayed him. He had brought her into the house.

Ros.

Ned hated her. More importantly, Cat hated her.

Older, more experienced, with clothing a shade too tight and several inches too revealing for a child, Ros was the bane of Ned’s existence, and her very presence was Theon’s fault.

It had been a blissful three months since Jeyne. Sansa had found solace in a new friend at her acting school, and while Ned had his doubts about the sharpness of Margaery Tyrell’s smile she came vouched for by Renly Baratheon, the youngest brother of Ned’s own best friend, and had the added benefit of not showing the slightest interest in any of his boys. Robb, his troublesome, loveable boy, had kept away from girls dutifully, spending most of his time playing with his siblings and sneaking Theon in for secret sleepovers whenever he thought Ned and Cat weren’t watching.

Ned had let Robb keep that particular secret for two reasons – it was Theon, who he would forever owe for protecting his babies, and it was Theon, who bore the marks of his father’s summer sabbatical from the boats under unseasonably long sleeves.

For a blissful few months, Ned had thought his biggest concern was how to convince the boys to use the front door instead of stealing the ladder out of the garage to guide up into Robb’s bedroom without spooking Theon out of staying.

Ninety days in which the closest he came to another romance was Rickon developing an infatuation with another chubby faced toddler in his preschool class because she also had the tendency to run around on all fours as though she was a puppy. Ninety days of pure, stress-free bliss, summer skies clear all the way to the distant horizon.

Until Ros.

Ned should have known there would be trouble when he had been woken up to a distant thud downstairs. It hadn’t been too loud, hadn’t even woken Cat and certainly wouldn’t have stirred any of the children – each and every one of them slept like the dead except for Jon, who had been given the bedroom furthest from the stairs in deference to his light sleeping and occasional bouts of insomnia – but it had been enough to tumble Ned out of his sleep and he had hauled himself up to investigate.

He had thought he would simply have to herd one of the half-asleep children – maybe Arya who always tried for midnight snacks or Bran who had developed an unfortunate and mildly terrifying sleep-walking habit – back to their beds, pop a light kiss on their foreheads and pull up their covers before returning back to the warm spot next to Cat. A simple routine.

Easy.

Summer skies.

Except, it hadn’t been Arya or Bran. It hadn’t even been one of his own children, at least not one he could yet dare claim aloud. Oh certainly, one of his children had been down there – curls and pajamas tousled with sleep but blue eyes wide with fear and guilt – but he hadn’t been the one making that noise.

That honor belonged to Theon, who had not climbed up into Robb’s room at his usual quarter before ten but had apparently made his way into the house at half-past one. A very red-faced, stumbling Theon who smelled like a tavern floor as he clutched onto Robb’s guiding arm with one hand. The sight of Theon – barely fifteen-years-old Theon who had just lost the last of his baby-fat and had newly entered the strange newborn fawn awkwardness of not quite knowing what to do with limbs slightly too long for his frame – drunk to the heavens was concerning enough. But the boys weren’t alone.

A strange girl, fair-headed and taller than either of the boys, was also there, watching the stumbling boy with an amused smirk and no intention of helping.

Ros. Ned would learn after he had helped Robb herd Theon onto Robb’s bed and done up a spare for the girl – he was beyond furious but he wasn’t about to let the girl out alone with nowhere to go in the middle of the night after Theon had evidently promised her a place to stay. Just Ros, no last name, no family, no future. As she would cheerfully say.

She was eighteen, three years older, and leagues more world-weary than the boys. The first person Theon had ever brought around. From the tips of her smirk to the red-soled bottoms of her stiletto heels – knock-offs Cat would scathingly mutter whenever they were alone – she was trouble. Not the harmless flutter of a summer gall, like sweet Jeyne Westerling, nor the frigid gust of an early autumn storm like cruel Jeyne Poole; Ros No-Last-Name was a blizzard in the dead of winter, sheets of black ice on a Northern backroad, the blinding white of thick snowfall biting through the thickest of coats, seven-inch icicles dangling over the heads of innocent, hurting boys.

It was one thing, watching her and Theon make eyes at each other. Ned didn’t like it – Theon, despite his rough edges and dangerous smile, was barely fifteen, just a boy, he shouldn’t have been getting blind drunk with a legal adult and doing things in the dark Ned wouldn’t dare contemplate – but Theon was not his child, and Ned had become wary of what lines he could cross that wouldn’t send the boy fleeing from the relative safety of Winterfell and back to his own house.

Lectures and stern looks awaited Theon at Winterfell; Ned didn’t dare contemplate what punishments would await Theon in the sea-worn walls of the Greyjoy mansion.

It was one thing to endure, when Theon brought Ros over and Ned had to fight the urge to yell at the girl – young woman, really – to keep her hands from wandering across Theon’s waist. Had to quell withering questions on why the young woman couldn’t find young men her own age to play with that threatened to spill from his tongue whenever he had to pretend not to see marks on Theon that had not come from his father. It was quite another thing entirely to catch Ros with her lips fully pressed against Robb’s in a shaded corner of the garden, shoddily hidden behind a rose bush.

The betrayal of the act was something he had never thought his son would be capable of. He had raised his children to be honest, loyal, and respectful people – he had certainly not raised them to steal their best friend’s girlfriend. Or partner, or friend with benefits, or whatever Theon and Ros were to each other, it was too hard for Ned to keep track of all the modern ways teenagers referred to the person they were intimate with. Disappointment and horror warred in his mind and he had the beginning of a stern yell on the tip of his tongue when he made eye contact with his horrified looking eldest child over the shoulder of the very pushy Ros.

Except, before he could even begin to give Robb the lecture of his young life, movement caught his eye and Ned was absolutely flummoxed at the sight of Theon, a mischievous sparkle to his eye and his crooked smirk ticked up in amusement, sliding away from his position against the wall that would have given him a full look at the situation at hand.

Just a game. A lesson really, to teach Robb how to properly kiss a woman, Theon had said in the teasing lilt that had always meant trouble. He was in a rare good mood, pleased and unconcerned about getting caught even as Robb turned the same shade as his hair. Ros had laughed too, a delighted tinkling of bells, a girl’s laugh that certainly hadn’t suited the horror masquerading as a young woman.

Robb didn’t need to learn how to kiss a woman in any capacity, Ned had thought, and then said aloud in a commanding voice that brook no arguments, not even from Theon. It was a rare voice he used on the boy – Theon was trouble, but most of the trouble came from stories heard outside the house and Ned remembered all too well the ugly look of fear that had crossed Theon’s face the first time Ned had ever raised his voice to him and he took pains to not have to repeat it often. It was reserved for the worst of the boy’s offenses – for setting fires in the back garden or destroying the kitchen in a science fair project, for encouraging Bran to climb higher in the trees. For convincing his Robb to join in a kissing game.

But something had changed in Theon that summer, something had shifted that had turned a mischievous young boy into a troubled teenager, and whatever it was, Theon no longer feared Ned’s raised voice. He had simply given Ned a toothy grin and promised Ned would never catch them playing again before deciding it was time for him and Ros to leave because they had other, more interesting lessons to attend.

Robb hadn’t been able to look his father in the eye for the rest of the evening, and the flush in his cheeks had taken twice as long to fade completely, but Theon had been true to the letter of his words. Ned had never again stumbled on Ros and Robb. But he was no fool.

Robb was spending more time out of the house again; not enough to give reason for Ned to put his foot down, but certainly enough to send red flags fluttering everywhere. And whenever he returned, there was an air about him, a frenetic kind of energy that Ned refused to think about too often. More than once, he thought he caught glimpses of pink marks on his son’s pale skin, but never more than a flash, never enough to be certain.

Theon still visited, both in the light of day, waltzing through the front door as though he owned the place, and in the quiet evening air, sneaking through a window that would never be locked against him as though he was nothing more than a thief in the night. Ros came with him, more often than not, still, all hands roaming Theon’s skin and smirks thrown every which way, but only in the day. Never once had Ned heard two people scrambling up the ladder to his son’s room; it brought a relief to him to know that there was a line Theon still wouldn’t flounce.

Ned didn’t like it; Ros by day was bad enough. Ned never saw her hands purposely move from Theon’s skin to wander against his son’s, but he could see the way Robb stuttered whenever she stood or sat a tad too close while espousing ignorance over whatever game or activity Theon had goaded all three into playing, her lips close enough to his skin that Ned knew his boy must have felt her breath dancing across his flesh, could see the way he flushed when her fingers oh-so-accidentally brushed against his body when she passed him, see the way he turned red from the tips of his ears down passed his throat. Could see the way his eyes darted to Theon’s, seeking guidance or assurance whenever Ros played her games.

And he could see the way Theon was endlessly amused by it all. A game, he was playing, although whether it was against Robb or for his benefit, Ned could never be certain. A game, a game.

A horrendous, wicked game, Ned was certain, but he had no proof. Not enough to put his foot down and risk losing Theon for Robb.

Theon had betrayed Ned so thoroughly, but Ned still hesitated to put his foot down. Cat, too, although her icy demeanor never thawed around Ros and although their evenings after the children were more often spent plotting ways to get rid of the storm disguised as a young woman without risking Robb’s friendship, hesitated to actually pull the trigger. And so they endured the horrible, icy blasts for a month, until, blissfully, blessedly, Ros was gone just as quickly as she had come.

Ned didn’t know the story, wasn’t even sure had wanted to know the story. One day, Jon had decided to accompany Robb and Theon and Ros into town – that summer, Ned and Cat had decided, Robb and Jon were finally old enough to take Ubers in groups, a fanciful, reckless decision made when the summer skies were clear and Ros hadn’t existed - a rare decision on the part of his dark-haired boy, who generally preferred people in small doses and specifically Theon even more sparingly. He had returned hours later alongside a worried Robb, storming through the house without a word, his face red with mortification and anger.

The next day, when Theon came to the house, he was alone. Alone and quiet.

Ned had been expecting Jon to throw a blow – he had seen the wrath written in his son’s face, had heard it in the strain of his cracking voice when he had shouted through his door that he was fine, just fine, he didn’t need anyone or anything, especially not some stupid, disgusting tea, just go away. He was fine. What he hadn’t expected was for Robb to stand beside the two quietly, making no move to step between his brother and best friend like he usually tried, nor for Theon, in a rare bout of reticence, to not swing back.

The lack of fight had shocked everyone – Theon was a lot of things, but he was not one to back down from a fight. He fought dirty, enthusiastically, whenever it came to blows; he wasn’t one to lie back and take a beating. Unless, Ned had thought with a dim sort of horror, Theon thought he deserved it. Then the boy was quiet, making no moves to stop the blow or from preventing himself from falling to the ground. Nor from getting up or looking up or much of anything except brace himself for another blow.

Ned had always been one to let the boys fight it out – he had fought with his own siblings, knew all too well how that kind of anger was best let out in some fashion, before it boiled into something unforgivably ugly, had stopped Cat from intervening too early whenever she caught wind of a simmering altercation – but he had been moving before he had even thought it through, going to stop Jon. He couldn’t shake the thought that Theon on the ground like that, small and quiet, was the way he must have looked when his father bore down on him and he couldn’t bear the boy feeling the same way in Winterfell, not even for a moment, not even at the hands of another boy.

He hadn’t needed worry; Jon’s temper was legendary, but it was second to his quiet observational skills. The moment Theon had gone down, silently, without question, without fight, the anger had drained from him. He didn’t strike the boy again and had stepped back fully to watch with stormy eyes as Robb bent down to speak to Theon.

What was said that day in the hall, Ned would never know – he had stopped himself from fully entering once he saw the physical fighting had ended – but an accord had been met, of some sort, once Robb had looked up from Theon and gestured for Jon. Jon had bent, listened to whatever Theon had said in a near nonexistent whisper, and a bridge had been built with an outstretched hand, hauling Theon a tad roughly back to his feet.

Ros never stepped foot in Winterfell again, nor was she ever mentioned. A woman turned into a ghost. The icy gales relented, summer skies returned.

And Ned and Cat and every other Stark of Winterfell, breathed a sigh of relief.

Certainly, that would be the worst of it, at least with Robb. There could only be so many storms a single child’s love life could bring into the home. And that had been a storm of three, Robb and Jon and Theon, nothing else could be so devastating.

The gods were laughing at Ned’s hubris. They were watching from deep within the forests and laughing, hard cruel laughs.

Just over a year. Ned had been given a little more than a year since Ros before another storm had truly hit.

It hadn’t been a year completely free of worries, but everything had, for an entire year, turned out for the best. Jon had started spending more time out of the house since school had begun again and although the boy was reticent about who he was speaking to until late in the night, Ned had been certain it wasn’t Sam or Satin or Ed who brought a pink flush to his boy’s cheeks.

When Ygritte Giantsbane had coming roaring into his home, all fiery curls and a personality to match, Ned had been concerned. But while the girl was loud where Jon was quiet, impulsive where Jon was calculating, bold where he was thoughtful, wild where he was reserved, she was good for him. She made him smile the kind of smiles that Jon had reserved for his family and made him laugh the kind of laughs Ned had never heard.

She got along well with the others: she teased Robb as well as any of the boys, offered boy advice to Sansa and Margaery – advice Ned actually appreciated as it mainly consisted of ‘enjoy your middle school years, boys that age are trash,’ and ‘don’t go near that one, he looks like a wimp,’ – and sports advice to Arya. She chased Rickon around until the boy had tired himself out, and lopped up trees to rescue Bran when he climbed too high with easy grace. Even Theon got along with her, a rare find, although their expressions around each other were always slightly too sharp, like two predators about to pounce, for Ned to ever feel truly comfortable.

Cat, in her own fashion, adored her, once she got used to the girl’s sometimes crass nature and extreme bluntness.

Perhaps it was because, after Ros and Jeyne II and Jeyne I, any girl would have seemed better, but Ned even liked the girl. She was a good match for his quiet Jon, someone who brought him out of his sullen moods without pushing him too far. And her hands never wandered anywhere less than strictly appropriate, at least in Ned’s presence.

No, Ned liked her and she had yet to disturb the relative peace of his world.

A cloud and soft wind that had turned into a lovely Spring Day. The complete opposite of a problem.

Sansa, too, had brought a cloud or two, in the form of a brief infatuation with a boy named Joffrey Lannister. Ned hadn’t known the boy, it had never gotten far enough for his sweet girl to try to bring him over to meet the family, but he knew the last name enough to be wary. Cersei Lannister, who Ned knew best as Robert’s ill-tempered first ex-wife, was a bane to every parent’s existence – her father was an unscrupulous businessman but a very wealthy one and his only daughter was well-known to throw that wealth and name around to get whatever she wanted, and while her brothers both had turned out mostly okay, Ned had highly doubted any child who had grown up in the Lannister home with Cersei as their mother would have been well-adjusted enough to date one of his children.

Not without years of therapy first.

He had been right; from what he had heard in angry whispers from the boys and Arya, Joffrey was a spoiled, self-centered beast of a boy. He was ill-tempered and violent and absolutely no good for his Sansa. But Sansa had been smitten – he was kind to her, she would gush at the dinner table, and misunderstood. He only got angry when it was deserved, he just liked things a certain way.

It was the type of language that he sometimes heard Theon spouting, when Theon and Robb thought themselves alone and Robb was carefully applying salve to whatever bruises the boy had snuck in with; Theon’s father wasn’t that bad, Theon pushed him far, Theon disappointed him, he only hit Theon when he deserved it, did Robb really think Theon wasn’t running his mouth at home? The type of language that always sent Ned’s finger’s itching for his father’s old hunting rifle and a few moments with the other man and no witnesses.

 He felt the same sort of itching awfulness when it came gushing out of Sansa’s mouth, the sense that something was fundamentally wrong, that something awful was going to happen.

But just when the storm looked ready to barrel down – Joffrey had asked Sansa to the dance and of course she had said yes – it was gone.

A perfectly timed bout of food poisoning, the day of the dance, and Sansa’s thunderous expression when she had returned home, her container of hearty, homemade chicken noodle soup untouched, from the Lannister household - he had been awful to her, just awful, and said horrible accusations about Margaery when all Margaery had done was offer him one of her grandmother’s favorite Lyssian cookies which were all perfectly lovely, Sansa had eaten two herself – had been enough to break up the clouds.

Ned had been beyond relieved when that storm had ended before it had truly begun and he was happy to ignore the appreciative and smug looks Theon and Margaery were throwing at each other at the news. Some stones were best left unturned. Ned didn’t need to think too closely about any unholy unions that may have been developing in his own home, as long as they served to keep his family safe and his daughter’s smile intact.

No, everything had been going well; sunny skies and cheerful children. Perhaps if Ygritte had been a little less perfect for Jon or Sansa had been with Joffrey just a hair longer, Ned might not have let down his defenses so carelessly. He wouldn’t have let Talisa in.

Talisa. Talisa Maegyr.

The name alone was enough to set Ned’s blood alight.

She hadn’t started out bad; confident, collected, challenging Talisa. She hadn’t been anything like the other girls Robb had brought home; both the Jeynes, even Jeyne Poole, had always seemed to defer to Robb in some way or another. Talisa, on the other hand, challenged him, like Ygritte did Jon. She had a fire to her, a spark that shone brightly, that drew Robb in the way so many girls had been drawn to him.

Ned might have realized that spark would burn his son, had he not been lured into the eye of the storm by fiery Ygritte. He would have been wary, had he not seen the way Robb grinned whenever Talisa snarked at him, the way he laughed as she teased him about beating him at his favorite games – the other girls, Robb had doted on, cherished in the way boys cherish things, but with Talisa, he treated her like a friend before a romantic partner.

He treated her like he treated Theon, with significantly less play fighting. Ned hadn’t even realized they were romantically involved until he had caught them kissing in the living room, some medical documentary Talisa had picked lost in the background of their teenage fancies.

He should have been worried then, but he had forgotten the way the winds whispered before they screamed, had forgotten how gentle the beginning of a storm could look before it fell in full force.

Talisa was forthright, confident, bright. She had managed to impress Cat with her conversations, charmed her with her aspirations and hopes; Cat had spent hours whispering to Ned how good Talisa was for Robb, how she could see what a pair they could be, in several years’ time, Talisa on her way to a surgeon’s residency, Robb preparing to take over Winterfell with his own business degree. How hoodwinked, his wife had been, how hoodwinked he had been, when as the months passed and Talisa continued to seem the perfect girl for Robb, he had begun to think, too, that Robb may have actually found his life partner so early in life.

It wasn’t so completely farfetched – Ned and Cat were, technically, high school sweethearts, by virtue of having met in Cat’s senior year; Ned’s parents had been together younger still, and Lyanna even was still with her high school sweetheart although Ned didn’t like to think too much of that. Starks married young, they always had. And as Talisa and Robb’s puppy love simmered down into something more real, more tangible, as the months they spent together drew closer to a year, as Ned watched the last of Robb’s baby fat give way to a young man’s stubble with Talisa by his side, the idea had grown less and less ridiculous.

Talisa, Talisa, Talisa.

How perfect she had seemed, for Robb. How perfect she had seemed, for the family. Jon found a kindred spirit in her quiet calmness – two serious realists in a sea of bright-eyed dreamers. Sansa had thought she was beautiful and had been enamored by the Volantis silks Talisa had shown and then gifted her for her birthday, claiming the delicate silks would be better left in Sansa’s capable hands rather than tortured by Talisa’s own devices. Arya had admired her spirit, taken in by the way she refused to back down to anyone, and had cherished the way Talisa would tell her all the softest, weakest parts of the human body. For Bran and Rickon, it was the stories she regaled them with – both her real memories of traversing around the banks of the famed Rhoyne and the old legends she passed down to them – that won them over.

Even Theon tolerated her – he didn’t get along with her the way he caught on with Ygritte, nor did they share the terrifying sense of camaraderie that had snuck in around him and Margaery, but he at least respected her and behaved, if not amicably, not like a total jerk either. A true stamp of approval, from Theon at least.

She had been perfectly lovely and that loveliness turned into something far more beautiful when, a few months into her coming around, Bran had fallen.

A tree, higher and older than any Bran had attempted before. A thick-looking branch, weakened by an unseen rot in the center. A crack. A scream. A fall.

An ambulance, a hospital, a doctor, several doctors.

Paralyzation.

Robb had nearly not forgiven himself – he had been watching over the littlest of the Starks, while Cat and Ned had been out for dinner. Jon had been off with Ygritte and Sam, Sansa had been off with Margaery. It had been in the between hours for Theon, too late in the day to risk not being home with his father in town, too early to slip away and into Robb’s bedroom. It had just been Robb and the three littlest Starks. Arya had been clearing dinner dishes, Robb had been bathing Rickon.

Bran had been supposed to be letting out the dogs. A simple task, even though all five of the pups Ned had been too soft-hearted to refuse had grown into massive beastly looking dogs. One he had done countless times alone.

There had been a cat; Shaggy Dog had gotten too excited. Bran had only wanted to help it back down.

A cat. Shaggy Dog. A tree, taller and thicker than anything Bran had tried before.

A rotted limb.

A scream.

A fall.

Robb had run out, shoving a confused, still-wet Rickon into Arya’s arms. He had done everything right, Ned’s brave boy. There had been nothing anyone could have done that would have given them a more favorable outcome. It had only been Robb’s fast response in the first place, that had kept Bran from bleeding out from the head wound he’d received. Robb’s response and a miracle, that had kept Bran alive.

But Robb hadn’t thought of it that way. He had blamed himself, for days that turned into weeks. Cat had been too busy, sitting vigil in the hospital with Bran, to see how far down their son had spiraled. Ned had tried to drag him out, Jon had tried. Arya, Sansa, Rickon, Grey Wind, Theon. They had all tried.

 And tried.

And tried.

But it had been Talisa, with her sensible, no-nonsense approach to life and already vast medical knowledge, who had brought Robb back to them.

 Nothing anyone could do means nothing anyone could do, do not think yourself better than the best doctors your father’s money can provide and definitely do not think yourself above the gods, Robb Stark. Those had been the words, sharp and cruel sounding, that had roused Robb from his bedroom and into the shower. That had gotten him, finally, to gather the strength to visit the hospital and see Bran.

Bran had already been awake by then, awake and putting on a brave face although they had all been terrified out of their minds in those early days after the fall, and that had roused Robb even more.

The day Bran came home, Robb had been whooping with laughter, one arm wrapped around Talisa’s waist, as they had all watched Bran shriek with glee, his dark curls whipping about as Theon zipped him about the garden in his brand-new wheelchair. It had been a lovely day, sunny and cheerful, with every one of Ned’s children back in their home as they belonged.

None of them had known they were merely in the eye of the storm, buoyed by a stillness in the air, made complacent by the whispering breezes, unaware how quickly they would turn into screeching gales.

Nearly a year to the day Talisa had first entered their home, Robb, his baby boy, barely sixteen-years-old, stood pale-faced but determined in Ned’s office and unleashed the storm.

A baby.

A baby.

Cat had nearly fainted at the news, her hand braced against Ned’s desk as her knees buckled with the shock. Ned himself had been frozen, rooted to his chair in horror.

A baby.

His baby was having a baby.

She was keeping it, Robb had announced, they were keeping it. Robb was going to be there, he was going to do the right thing; he would marry her, make her a Stark and provide for their baby. He would run away, if he had to, take Talisa back to Volantis. Whatever it took, he would be there for her, for the baby. No matter what they said.

Of course, of course he would. Ned had no doubt that Robb would do that; he had raised his boy to be responsible, to do the right thing. But he was just a baby; they were both just babies.

Babies raising babies. Ned had been down this path before, had seen the horror that lay on the other side.

For a moment, in that office, ghosts of the past pressed into him. His father’s thunderous expression, Lyanna’s defiant screams, Brandon’s storming and shouting. His father forbidding Lyanna from seeing that man, the threats that their father would see that bastard buried six feet under before he ever blessed him to be by Lyanna’s side.

Lyanna, gone in the middle of the night, Brandon and their father stormy-faced hot on their heels the next morning.

A literal storm, a car veering and twisting off the road, its wheels caught on black ice.

Two caskets.

A baby, brand-new and livid at the whole world.

Lyanna telling Ned through her tears that Rhaegar wouldn’t suffer to live with another child, and she couldn’t suffer to live without Rhaegar.

Ned bringing home a dark-haired brother for his newborn son.

It had felt like Ned couldn’t breathe, suddenly, with the press of memories threatening to crush him.

But Robb wasn’t Rhaegar or Lyanna and Ned wouldn’t let him suffer the way Lyanna had suffered, the way his father and brother had suffered. He wouldn’t be like the Targaryen family who had spurned Jon, who had looked at a tiny baby and felt nothing but hate.

He would not lose his son because of this. Nor his grandchild, nor his daughter-in-law.

He had told Robb as much, once he had gathered enough wits to rise from his chair and finally say something, and he had crushed Robb into a hug, trying to ignore the way his son shook with terror and relief as his boy hugged him back.

Talisa had been summoned to their home and a flurry of questions had followed. How far along could she be? Was she certain it was a baby? Had she taken a test? How many tests had she taken? When would the wedding be? Would her parents attend? Did her parents even know? Were they supportive? Did she need a place to stay?

Talisa had been overwhelmed, Robb had been overwhelmed. The whole family had been overwhelmed. They had all lost their minds, just a little. Just a lot, really.

For all that Ned liked to think he was the calm-headed one, it had been Cat who had asked the most important question, the one that would ultimately, completely, utterly determine their eldest son’s fate.

Had Talisa had the pregnancy confirmed by a doctor?

The answer had been no. She had been too terrified, the poor, sensible girl. She was only seventeen, any doctor’s visit would be reported back to her parents, she hadn’t known what she would tell them.

Cat had made quick work of the appointment, they paid for it out of pocket, and both Ned and Cat had been there to watch as Robb held onto Talisa’s hand as they awaited the news.

An empty ultrasound, a false positive, no baby.

The relief had been tangible; for all that Ned was ready to fight tooth and nail to ensure Robb and Talisa’s baby would be given the world, he had not been ready to be a grandfather. Robb and Talisa had been relieved, not ready to be parents, Cat had been relieved, not ready to be a grandmother when her youngest was barely in primary school. The sun had been peeking out behind the tumultuous clouds, and for a moment, it appeared that the worst thing Ned would have to do is prepare a more thorough conversation about safe sexual practices.

He should have never avoided it in the first place, even though he had thought Robb and Jon still far too young. Perhaps, to be safe, he should rope Theon into it as well; who knew what that boy’s father taught him and the last thing the entire world needed was another Greyjoy being raised by a too-young father.

The relief hadn’t lasted. Robb had been so earnest, so ready to provide for Talisa, be there for her and the baby, give them a life they could be proud of; it was how he should have been, how he had been raised to be. Neither Cat nor Ned would have tolerated him being anything less and they certainly hadn’t thought him too earnest; none of the Starks had.

But Talisa had.

The wedding talk, now that there was not a Stark to be, had scared her; thoroughly and utterly, it had terrified her. She wasn’t ready for that type of commitment, of course she wasn’t she was just a girl, that alone would have been alright.

But then, in a letter, a paltry two paragraphs long and written on the back of an old copy of her school notes, she had explained she wasn’t ready for any type of commitment, that Robb was just too much; too earnest, too passionate, too heartfelt, just too everything. And then she had left the letter tacked on their front door and disappeared.

Disappeared back to some aunt and uncle who still lived in Volantis, attending a prestigious high school that would feed her directly into a prominent pre-med program. Gone. Just gone.

All she had left were the shattered remnants of Robb’s heart and howling gales thundering down against the Stark household.

Robb was despondent, the first few days. Cat had begged to let him stay home from school and, rather reluctantly, Ned had agreed. And so, for the first three days after Talisa had left, Robb had done little more than sit in his bedroom, staring at the note through unseeing eyes, as though Talisa had speared Robb with her words rather than the Starks’ front door.

He hadn’t cried, Ned’s brave boy. He hadn’t eaten; plates and bowls sent up were returned with the food untouched or – at best – picked over and strewn about nearly whole.

Ned had sat by his side whenever he could, and tried to get his son to open up, to tell him something, anything. Cat had sat with him, begging their silent son to say something, anything, to tell her how she could fix this, to tell her what he needed.

But Robb said nothing to them, not a single word. Nor did he speak to Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, or even Rickon, though they had all tried in their own way to get him to say something, anything.

Ned had silently begged the gods to give them something of their son back, to force Robb to give some sort of reaction, something Ned could respond to – if he cried, Ned could wipe away his tears, if he screamed and shouted, Ned could listen, if he threw things about, Ned could clean it up, if he punched something, Ned could bandage his knuckles, if he wanted a hug, Ned could give it. But Robb gave nothing, and Ned knew nothing about how to handle the shell of a boy his son had become once his heart had been ripped out.

Ygritte had tried dragging him from his room on the fourth day, which had sparked the biggest reaction yet. What the reaction was, Ygritte wouldn’t say, but she had left his room pale-faced and uncharacteristically quiet. Robb had gotten up and locked the door behind her. Margaery hadn’t even been allowed into the room when she tried.

It was Theon who had finally pulled Robb from his deathly stillness.

Of course it was Theon, it was always going to be Theon, for Robb. Ned had thought Talisa had finally been the one to usurp Theon’s place as Robb’s number one person, it was only fitting that he would be the one to piece Robb back together, shard by fractured shard.

Whether it had been Ygritte’s pale face or the click of the lock behind her that did it, Ned couldn’t say. One moment they were all planning the next step, wondering if they should give in and finally call a doctor; if Robb wouldn’t eat, they would have to do something, he couldn’t go on like this, the next Theon was on his feet, practically spitting in anger, and running up the stairs to pound down Robb’s door.

Ned didn’t know it, then, but he would find out in the weeks that came after, that Theon’s mother was no longer in their home. She had always been a sad woman, prone to bouts of melancholy that no one could hide no matter how much Theon had done his best to brush off anyone’s concern, but she had stayed in bed one too many days for even a man like Theon’s father to ignore, and she had been sent to a hospital. Theon had been unwilling or unable to accept a similar fate for his friend, even if Ned and Cat hadn’t been about to make such drastic of a move.

Theon’s pounding on the door hadn’t yielded any results but the expert pick locking of Robb’s bedroom door – Theon wouldn’t say where he’d learned that particular skill, no matter how much Ned had prodded – certainly had. The door had swung open, revealing Robb in the same position he had been the last time Ned had seen him, sat up on his bed, back against the wall and dressed in the same pajamas he had been wearing the day they had found the note.

He had reeked, loathe though Ned had been to admit it, but Theon hadn’t let that stop him. He had marched right up to the bed, face scrunched in fury, and unceremoniously shoved Robb off the bed.

He’d had enough of the despondency, Theon had declared. Whether Robb wanted to rage and cry or move on, didn’t matter, but he was going to do something.

Robb hadn’t responded at first. Hadn’t even tried to break his fall, really, but Theon hadn’t been done. He had plenty to say, in lieu of Robb’s silence, about the almost baby and Talisa, about Talisa’s leaving, none of it repeatable and some so offensive that Cat had tried to usher away all of the children who had crowded in to listen before giving up and slapping her hands over Rickon’s ears to at least spare him. It was his words, an equal mixture of curses and slander, that had done what nothing else had managed.

Ned had rarely, if ever, seen Robb and Theon fight. It was nearly unthinkable that Robb would raise his voice to the other boy in anything other than excitement or humor, let alone his fists. But he had raised them in that moment, rising to his feet in one fluid movement and punching Theon square in the face.

Ned had rushed into the room as Theon had stumbled back, fully intent on stopping the altercation before it got truly ugly; Robb was shouting, ranting and raving, and Ned had worried Robb would hit Theon again. Theon had caught himself from falling, and for a moment, Ned had worried that the boy would fight back – or worse, leave - and that he would be witness to Robb’s heart breaking even further.  But Theon had merely stood up straight, expression guarded, and waited until Robb’s shouting had dissolved. That had been enough to surprise Ned into inaction, halting just a few feet into the room.

Did Robb feel better, Theon had asked once Robb had gone silent and Ned had watched as, all at once, the anger in Robb’s expression gave way to a terrible sort of shocked sadness.

Robb had never, not once, raised a hand against Theon save for play fights, and it seemed the realization – coupled with the quickly reddening mark on Theon’s face – that he had done so was enough to thoroughly undo him. Apologies gave way to sobs and suddenly Robb was crying, the first tears Ned had seen the boy shed since the note, and Ned hadn’t even been certain if they were for Talisa or Theon or the almost baby Robb had already fallen in love with, or a combination of all of it.

Theon was not an affectionate person – any tendency to softness had long been squashed from him – but he hadn’t hesitated to wrap his arms around Robb and let him latch onto him. Ned had been certain Theon would receive more bruises from the tight death grip Robb had on him, but the boy didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Ned had gotten his wits about him at that point and ushered everyone from the sight. It was a moment not for prying eyes.

The storm hadn’t cleared right away, but Robb punching Theon seemed to finally be the break everyone had been so desperate for. After he had exhausted himself from crying, Theon had bullied him into his first shower in days and a fresh change of clothes. That followed an actual meal where Cat and Theon both watched Robb like hawks until he had finished most of it.

After that, they slept, and for the first time since they had been little boys, Theon had slept on Robb’s bed rather than on the thin mattress they had all pretended Robb didn’t hide under his bed, his arms curled protectively over his friend as though desperate not to lose him.

Jon had an odd expression on his face, when he had seen it, that Ned hadn’t quite been able to place, but he had said nothing. Ned for his part, hadn’t cared about it. Robb had needed comforting, it would only make sense that Theon was there for him.

It took a few more days before Robb had finally left the house, a week before his smile returned. Two weeks before Ned heard his laugh again, but bit by bit, piece by piece, Robb glued his heart back together. The clouds dispersed, the storm ended.

And once again, Ned owed the salvation to Theon Greyjoy.

Ned had to admit, he probably should have seen this one coming.

The signs had all been there, looming fluorescent signs in all the colors of the world.

Glaring, looming, eye-blindingly bright signs.

In his defense –

Well, there really wasn’t a defense, this time.

Nothing but blindness had caused Ned to fail to see this one coming.

Perhaps he could argue that he had been lured into a false sense of security; it had been two years since Talisa and Robb hadn’t so much as looked at another girl. He had gotten better, but he had never quite been the same Robb as he had been before she had shattered him. Part of it, Ned knew, was simply growing up – his eldest was a young man grown, with just a month of summer away from college – but part of it was that, once shattered, a heart never healed quite the same. Robb had weathered a storm Ned could only imagine the pain of, of course it had left scars. One of those scars had been a seemingly determined noninterest in girls. Instead, he was absorbed with the family, with his school and his sports, with his friends.

With Theon.

Ned should have known, probably, that there was something happening when Theon dropped the façade of sneaking in and began going through the front door every day after school like one of Ned’s blood children. He definitely should have picked up the hint when, after everyone had dropped all pretenses that Theon would ever go back to his father’s house and Theon’s things began overflowing from Robb’s room, Cat had not so subtly suggested it was high time to clean out one of the guest rooms and give it to Theon with a pointed look at the two boys.

He definitely should have known when Robb’s response was a faint blush and Theon’s was a smirk. But he had become so used to Robb and Theon being Robb-and-Theon that it had never crossed his mind that they could be Robb and Theon. Jon, his quiet, observant boy who had become a man grown, already out of the house and living in an apartment with Ygritte and some of her boisterous cousins, would have just stared at him with knowing, judging eyes. Sansa, his sweet girl who had become a woman nearly grown in the blink of an eye, would have called it heteronormative of him, a word he barely knew the meaning of, before running off to get ready for her date with Margaery – that had been a surprise of its own, realizing Sansa’s prince charming was a doe-eyed girl with a smile sharp enough for lesser people to cut themselves on. Arya, his half-grown fierce girl, would have simply called him dull, before running off to drag Robert’s oldest boy Gendry into some scheme or another.

Bran, who was losing his own baby fat far too quickly as he reached the worst of his puberty, would have just laughed at his poor father before wheeling away to meet with Howland Reed’s two children for their fantast book club – Ned had no idea if it was Meera or Jojen that made him so enamored with the club and he wasn’t quite brave enough to yet find out. Rickon, bless his youngest, was probably the only other one who hadn’t realized, but Ned was rather ashamed to compare his observation skills with a boy who still ran around with Shaggy Dog, pretending they were both direwolves howling at full moons. It was Ned alone, of all the people oldest enough to realize, who had just thought of the boys as the boys. Of course they were close, of course Robb would be the only one able to throw a casual hand over Theon’s shoulders, of course Theon would be the one to illicit the most raucous of laughs from Robb.

It was just Robb-and-Theon.

Except, Ned should have known it wasn’t just Robb and Theon, two best friends. Of course he should have known that the storm Robb had released on his home had come far earlier than Ned had ever realized.

It hadn’t been sweet, shy Jeyne Westerling who had been too gentle to handle the hurricane that was Theon Greyjoy. It hadn’t been conniving Jeyne Poole, who had been blown away by Theon’s gales, nor Ros who had been blown in by them. It hadn’t even been independent, frightened Talisa, although she had been a storm in and of herself.

The first storm hadn’t been any of the girls Robb had brought home - it had been a scowling faced, slender-framed, half feral, frightened child that Robb had dragged into his home in the early days of elementary school and brow-beaten everyone into accepting. It had been sarcastic words hiding childish terror, it had been two small hands, shaking with fear, as they desperately tried to clean up broken glass, it had been mischievous schemes turning into dangerous fires. It had been fighting and making up, secret slumber parties, bruised faces, and drunken stupors. It had been sleepless midnights, when Ned had stood silently next to a stony-faced boy and tried to find answers as to why his mother was gone, why his father couldn’t love him, just why. It had been a boy terrified of touch but preening at a simple, proud smile.

 It had been an old rifle and a threat, in the dead of night, the only time Balon Greyjoy had ever dared to step on Ned’s property, drunken and furious, looking for his favorite punching bag. It had been three graduation gowns, and a trio of proud smiles holding up triplet diplomas.

Theon Greyjoy was, by all accounts, the exact sort of storm Ned had feared. He had brought dangers into the family, had rocked their solid foundation, had introduced Robb to some of the worse parts of growing up. He was a hurricane pounding in, a sea storm battering at their windows. But he was also Theon, the boy who, when he smiled a real smile, lit up an entire room like the summer sky, the boy who Ned bailed out of jail because he punched some older boy who kept following Sansa around, the boy who made Robb smile like no one else in the world, the boy who always had.

Ned should have realized, far far earlier that Robb-and-Theon, somewhere along the rocky path towards adulthood, had become Robb and Theon, but by the time he did, the storms had passed, the threat was gone.

Theon had already been a part of the family for years, his pictures hung just as proudly around the house as any of the other children, Ned had considered him one of his sons long before he realized Robb could be the one to make it official. Any threat Theon might have been had long blown over.

So, on a fateful day in the middle of summer, when Ned had accidentally walked out to see Theon pushed against the wall of the house, half hidden behind an overgrown rose bush,  mirroring Robb’s exact position with Ros so many years before, with Robb closer to him than Ned had ever wanted to see, he was quick to get over the shock and fast on his way to happiness over the match.

Theon may not have been a summer sun, shining as brightly as Robb, but he made Robb happy, and that was enough.

The fact that there was no more concern over another unplanned pregnancy with his eldest certainly helped, but it was mostly because it was Theon.

A shooting star across a clear night sky, a saving grace and a wish come true, that was his bonus son, Theon Greyjoy.

And it had only take four disasters to realize it.