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Ned stares at the bleeding face of the tree, attempting to find what little peace he can. It is much too warm for him, even after nearly two decades of living in this wretched city. The fresh air, which would have calmed him as a child, does nothing to soothe him. The air smells of rot and stink here. It is not clean and crisp like he wishes it was. And the noise… the noise is terrible. It never ends. Even in this small garden, the only place he can seek comfort in solitude, he cannot escape the noise.
He does not find peace, not truly. The Weirwood before him is much too young, its bleeding face does not fit in with its surroundings, but it is all he has, and he attempts to make peace with that.
He remains lost in his thoughts until he is joined by another. He glances at the golden head, sees the crimson dress, and silently removes the crown from the spot beside him on the bench. He notices the small frown of disapproval as he sets the crown on the floor, but he ignores it. He does not let his confusion show at the intrusion. Instead, he speaks calmly, taking care to show no emotion, “I have not seen you in the Godswood in years.”
The reply comes with a smooth nonchalance, “perhaps I wish to recall what it means to be a Stark.”
Ned returns his gaze to the Weirwood. It is all wrong. He sighs, “you do not need to recall what it means to be a Stark. You are a Stark.”
“Sometimes I think I might be more Lannister than Stark.”
It is a soft confession, said quietly. Ned does not like it. He shakes his head, “you are my daughter, Annora. You are my blood. That makes you a Stark. You will always be a Stark.”
Annora shrugs. It is not a dignified movement. No high born lady should be shrugging, but it is only her and her father and she knows he does not judge her, does not scrutinise her the way his court does.
“Perchance. Grandfather says I am the most similar to him, a lioness in wolf’s clothing.”
Ned’s reaction is almost immediate. He frowns deeply, and a heavy unease fills him. He’s always hated Tywin Lannister’s relationship with Annora, but he had not wanted to deny his daughter a connection with her grandfather. He turns to look her in the eyes, disapproval clear in his. His voice is firm, he will take no argument on this, “your grandfather is wrong. You may be similar to him in some ways, but you are a wolf, and you will always remain a wolf, just as all of your siblings.”
Annora shifts uncomfortably then, softly pointing out the obvious, “Tommen is meant to be the Lord of Casterly Rock after Grandfather passes…”
Ned remains steady in his stance, “and he will still be a wolf then, even when his name becomes Tommen Lannister.”
Silence falls between them for some time, and they both return to staring at the Weirwood. Ned tries his best to ignore the noise, and the heat, and his daughter’s crimson dress with the Lannister lion that she most certainly was gifted by Tywin. And then her voice breaks the silence again, “does it bother you, Father? How Southron we are.”
Ned sighs and turns to look at her again. He studies her for a moment, trying to understand where her question was coming from. When he fails to find a reason, he answers anyhow, sincere as ever, “no. I knew the moment I took your mother for my wife that my children would have Southron tendencies. And when I was thrust on the throne, I knew your fate was sealed. I do not begrudge it, it’ll help you belong easier than I did.”
She studies him for a long moment, and his gaze softens. Ned reaches for her, gently tilting her chin up with his thumb, then reaching for one of her golden curls. He twists it around his finger, “you are your mother’s daughter. Your grandfather thinks you similar to him, but he is wrong. Every day I watch as you become more and more like your mother was at your age.”
She giggles, a sweet, innocent sound, and it is one of those rare moments where she looks her age. She speaks, and the haughtiness that is so typical of her mother shines through, “perhaps this is simply the nature of eldest daughters born with twin brothers at the Rock.”
Ned can’t help a small smile. He loves his children, and he longs to make sure they’re always happy. This. Now. The girl before him. He has not seen his daughter this free, like the little girl who would run to his embrace, in many years. At some point, she had become a lady, and she had put up a facade, much like her mother, to fit into the courts of King’s Landing. His daughter, only seven and ten, and she handles the snakes of the capitol better than he ever could.
He cocks an amused eyebrow at her, “Robb is no Jaime Lannister, I’ll tell you that.”
She shrugs again and speaks nonchalantly, a lopsided grin on her face, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.”
Ned sighs and returns his gaze to the Weirwood, his smile turning into a grim line once more, “you have not been denied any pleasure in that regard.”
Silence falls between them, heavy. His children are all well aware of their father’s disdain for the Kingslayer. He stares at the much too young weirwood and lets his thoughts drift, thinks of his children, thinks of his wife, thinks of his goodfather who has come to make his life more difficult once again. Eventually, he speaks again, killing the tense silence with a rough voice, “you were born in the Rock, and raised in the South… but the blood of Winter runs through your veins as much as it does mine, just as it does all your siblings…”
He pauses, a sigh on his lips, “I know it is difficult for you to reconcile both sides of your blood, Annora, much more than any of your siblings, but it does not make you any less Stark.”
Silence stretches between them once more, so long Ned starts to doubt she even heard him. He knows his daughter, and he knows his not so little lady is far more like her mother than himself. And then she leans her head against his shoulder, and he can’t help but turn his head to look at her, and he doesn’t even realise the way his eyes have gone wide; and, suddenly, he’s snapped back to a memory of years ago, when she was truly a little lady and she would embrace him often; and Ned realises he cannot remember when she had stopped showing her affection openly.
He hesitates, afraid to break the spell, afraid to cause her to hide again, afraid to lose his daughter.
Then she speaks, her voice quiet, an edge to it he can’t quite identify, “Robb worships the Old Gods with you, so do Bran and Arya… Mother says Robb reminds her of Jaime when he laughs and when he’s training with his sword, but he inherited your sense of duty and honor… Myrcella looks the most like Mother, but she is only your daughter when she speaks… and Arya is Arya, even when Mother says she reminds her of herself at her age. Arya’s wolfsblood is clear… and Tommen is much like yourself, despite Grandfather’s efforts to change him. He remains earnest and good natured… and Bran is much the same… and Rickon looks more and more like you every day…”
He frowns deeply, studying her closely. He knows his children, knows of their temperaments, but he does not understand where his eldest is headed. He loathes his wife’s comparison of Robb to Jaime, but he finds he cannot deny the way he softens at the thought of Arya being just like her mother, remembers the way she had defended their daughter’s wish to train with the sword.
But Annora is not done, steel meets steel, and her words seem more and more like a solemn confession, “it is only I that is so separated from being a Stark.”
And it dawns on Ned that she does not know what it means to be a Stark. Not truly. And perhaps none of his children do. His children are of the South, have only known summer. And it dawns on him he may have neglected to teach them of winter in his efforts to ensure their survival in the pit of snakes and in his acceptance of his Queen’s pride.
He sighs audibly and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. Silence drags between them, terribly familiar between them. He stares at the too young Weirwood again. And then he comes to a decision.
Ned Stark finds his wife in their youngest child’s rooms. Her eyes find him the moment he leans against the door frame, and the disapproval is immediately clear on her face. He gives her a small smile, eyes shining with affection. When she is certain Rickon sleeps soundly, she joins him.
“Eddard.”
He grins, an impish look that reminds her of a time they were much younger.
“Cersei.”
She huffs half-heartedly and takes his crown from his hand, reaching up to place it on his head as it belongs. His grin disappears, erased by the weight of the crown. He offers her his arm anyhow, and softens when she loops hers through.
He guides her to their bed chambers and lets her strip him in privacy. He unlaces her dress and helps her out of it. Their routine is comforting, intimate, and he can’t help appreciating every mark on her body left by every babe she bore him as he kisses her shoulders. They slip into their bed, and he holds her as she throws the thin covers over them.
“We’re going to Winterfell. It’s time the children saw their home.”