Lay Down Your Armour

With some trepidation, Alys followed her father and Robb through the winding passages of Winterfell, Robb leading the way, Alys knowing they made a strange procession, a young boy, a king and the king's bastard. She hadn't been included in the excursion to the crypt but with nowhere to go and nobody caring where she went, she had found herself trailing after Robb and her father, neither surprisingly objecting to her presence.

As they walked, any servants they passed would hurriedly stop in their tracks, sweeping hasty bows or dropping a flurried curtsey, even if they were in the middle of their work. But Robert barely acknowledged their acts of deference, not even bothering to take a second glance at the occasional pretty face, too intent on reaching the crypt to pay his respects.

Instead, Robb returned their greetings with a smile or a nod, sometimes exchanging a few words, asking after a family member or complimenting them on their work. As he did, Alys studied him, her curiosity becoming increasingly caught. His relaxed manners were at odds with the formalities she was so familiar with. He was... humble, in all ways, in his dress as well as demeanour, reflecting their stark surroundings.

But the austere atmosphere held a harsh beauty, one that wasn't to be found at first glance; she could see in the intricate clasp fastening Robb's cloak, the metal wonderfully rendered, forged in the shape of a wolf's head; in the dark gleaming stones of the walls. Impulsively, Alys trailed her hand along the curving wall, surprised to find the stone warm, the heat almost coursing through her blood. Startled, she drew her hand back, before glancing up as Robb slowed to a halt before a pair of ornately wrought gates guarding a set of heavy wooden doors that lay just beyond.

Robert lumbered to a step beside Robb, his dark brows knotting together, double chins trembling. "Go on, lad," he said gruffly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Robb looked at him for a long moment before nodding, drawing back the bolt with some difficulty, the screeching of the metal making Alys flinch. He then parted the gates, Robert all but barging past him, forcing his way through the heavy doors, their hinges creaking in protest.

"My lady," Robb said, turning to Alys as Robert disappeared down the stone steps, "may I?" He awkwardly offered her his arm, Alys hesitating before accepting, still not used to being treated with such civility, having no high expectations for her place in the hierarchy at Winterfell.

Robb carefully led her down the steep staircase that led into the crypt in a winding narrow curve, the way lit by the flaming torches in their iron brackets, always ever alight. He slowed his pace to match hers, knowing he was needlessly burdening himself, but he found himself reluctantly moved to regardless, pity warring with impatience within him at her plight. But he believed if he didn't bother, nobody else would, Alys having been left behind by the rest of the royal entourage. His mother was openly hostile, and Sansa would only emulate her example; Arya thankfully too self-absorbed to care about such things, only concerned about evading Septa Mordane's attempts to turn her into a lady.

All he could do was await his father's return, and then escort Alys to the queen's quarters, wherever they were, Robb wishing he had paid attention to his mother's admonishments of where he and his siblings were no longer allowed to wander. Then he would deal with Theon, Robb not wanting Alys to be exposed to anymore insults. Bastard or not, she was still a guest of Winterfell, and not some serving wench Theon could seduce with his inept gallantries.

"You're probably supposing I should have gone with Cersei and my siblings," Alys said, ruining his reverie, "and if I had more courage, I would have. Then I wouldn't be here, imposing on you."

"I suppose you thought it the lesser of two evils," Robb said abruptly, "that it was better to impose upon me than offend my mother by acting as if you were an equal, putting yourself forwards like some princess of the realm."

His bluntness struck Alys like a blow, even as he was accurate in his assumption. "You make a habit of studying human nature?" she said, letting him steer her down a particularly steep step. "Or am I as transparent as glass?"

"What, you fancy yourself as a creature of mystery?"

"Hardly."

"Truth be told, I've had years of observing Jon trying to blend into the background," Robb said tiredly. "He should have achieved invisibility by now. It's quite the art."

"One I wish I had mastered better."

Robb frowned at the shadow that had fallen across her features, one he wanted to inexplicably chase away. "Wait a moment," he said suddenly, letting go of Alys, startling her, "just stay there." He leapt the last few steps, landing heavily on his feet, almost losing his balance. "Seven hells," he grinned, turning around as he spoke, "almost landed on my arse there."

Alys raised her eyebrows at this, amused against her will. "You seem eager to be introduced to the ground," she said coolly, echoing his earlier remark to her father.

"It just can't resist my animal magnetism."

"Your wolfish charms?"

"Well, I don't like to boast."

Alys tilted her head to the side, repressing a smile. "I thought you had an objection to the word 'arse'?" she then queried, deliberately keeping her face demure, letting her guard down for just a little longer.

"What's a little word like 'arse' between friends?"

"Or strangers in this case."

"Strangers are just friends who haven't met yet."

"Well, we may have just met but it doesn't make us friends."

"Well, we have to start somewhere, don't we?"

"Perhaps," Alys said stiffly, realising too late their repartee was going too far, making Robb tense in turn.

"My apologies, my lady," Robb said, sobering up, "forgive my informality. The Northerners aren't known for standing on ceremony."

"There's nothing to forgive," Alys snapped, "if anything, it's I who should be begging your pardon for forgetting my place."

Robb resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows at her tone. "All the girls like me, or so Jon says," he said deadpan, "so don't blame yourself for falling into the same trap."

Alys smiled despite herself. "Am I waiting on this step for a reason?" she then asked, glancing around her. "Is it a Northern tradition to initiate the unsuspecting?"

"It's a test of courage, my lady," Robb said with mock solemnity, "and of trust."

"Why?"

"I'm of the North, you are of the South but when we join hands on the steps, we are of the same home and hearth."

"I don't understand."

"You take my hands and then I swing you down to the bottom of the steps."

"Why?"

"It means you have the courage to trust me despite our differences."

"What, you don't drop me on my head?"

"It means I don't let go."

Alys glanced down at the six or seven steps that separated them. "I think chicanery is afoot," she said, folding her arms across her chest, "am I correct?"

Robb leaned his head to the side. "Maybe," he admitted, "but are you going to play chicken?"

"Chicken?" Alys spluttered in disbelief.

"Yes."

"I have no desire to break my neck."

"I refuse to accept your paltry excuses."

"Paltry or poultry?"

"Am I ruffling your fine feathers?"

"I am not going to jump down these steps like some child."

Robb began to flap his arms whilst strutting around in a circle, clucking like a chicken as he did, making Alys laugh against her will, the sound almost sacrilegious in the silent crypt. She stood on the step, shaking her head, wondering at how childish he was one moment, then a stern old man the next, falling into unconscious imitation of his father.

"How old are you?" Alys scoffed. "All of six name-days?"

Robb stopped flapping his arms, stung. "I've swung my sisters down these steps more times than I care to remember," he scoffed, "even Sansa and she's a perfect pattern of prim and properness. But if you're going to be even more stuck up than she is" –

-"I'm not stuck up!"

Robb just clucked, flapping his arms again for extra emphasis.

"Fine, I'll do it," Alys snapped, suddenly sick of this charade, "if you would please just cease that terrible sound!"

Robb straightened up, instantly and obligingly falling silent, his ruddy face wearing a mocking grin. Sweeping a sarcastic bow, he then held out his hands to her, Alys rolling her eyes at his immaturity and at herself for being provoked into participating in this pantomime. She held her own hands out, hesitating before placing her palms upon his, his fingers closing around her wrists like a trap. His grip was strong and sure; his skin surprisingly warm against hers, reminding her of the walls of Winterfell, making the heat course through her veins afresh in response.

Exhaling sharply, Alys closed her eyes, wondering at herself for indulging in such idiocy, unable to remember a time if she ever even did, and then she jumped, Robb swinging her through the air, taking her weight. For one soaring moment, it felt like she was flying, and then she was falling, falling, falling, just as she had in her dream, her foot catching in the hem of her cloak, but then she hit something solid, the side of her face colliding with Robb's broad chest, his arms closing like a cage around her.

"Seven hells!" Alys spluttered, looking up at him through her tumbled hair, feeling like a complete fool.

"Looks like you fell into the trap after all," Robb teased.

"Don't flatter yourself," Alys spat, pulling herself out of his arms, knowing she couldn't upbraid him for impropriety, Robb being more irritating than amorous.

Robb just stood there; eyes alight with amusement, almost looming over her, suddenly close, too close. He posed no threat, she knew this without knowing, but still he strangely unsettled her. "At least you're not a chicken."

Jaw tightening, Alys smoothed down her hair, trying and failing to recover her usual poise. "We should go and find my father," she said stiffly, even as she inwardly doubted this was a good idea.

"Robb?"

They both whirled around, only to see Ned standing on the steps above them, brow furrowed at the sight of them alone together.

"Father," Robb said hurriedly, "I was just escorting... Lady... Alys... somewhere."

Ned glanced at Alys, who kept her gaze resolutely fixed on the ground. Even she wasn't sure how she should be addressed. Usually she was just referred to as the 'bastard', whilst others used the term 'my lady' ironically, or her own name was bandied about as an insult, as if she didn't even deserve that simple right. "Where is the king?" he asked, returning his attention to Robb.

"He's... somewhere."

Ned raised his eyebrows at his, not missing the sight of Alys's flushed face and Robb's rumpled curls, making him suspect mischief had been afoot, the knowledge strangely discomfiting him. "What was all the laughing about?" he asked abruptly. "I could you hear you all the way from the main passage."

"I fell, my lord," Alys half lied, finally speaking, making Ned glance at her again. "Your son found it most amusing."

Ned looked at her for a long moment, his heart twisting in his chest. Up close, Alys's resemblance to Lyanna was more apparent, Alys possessing Lyanna's direct gaze and inflection of voice. But her grave manner reminded him more of Jon, both siblings inheriting the Stark sternness. "Aye, I bet he did," he said, giving Robb a reproving glance, "but don't feel the need to shield his childish follies, girl. I am all too familiar with them."

Alys coloured slightly at this mild rebuke, but she dropped her gaze to the ground, withdrawing into herself again.

"We better find the king," Ned said, exhaling sharply, "come on." He swept past Alys, who reluctantly followed him, Robb bringing up the rear. As they moved, Alys instinctively drew her furs closer around her, the air becoming colder the deeper they traversed. She didn't quite understand why she and Robb hadn't been dismissed by Lord Stark now that he was here, but she knew better than to openly question his judgment.

"Father," Robb said hesitantly, "should I not escort Lady Alys to her quarters?"

Alys glanced back at him, relieved; Robb thankfully putting her thoughts into words, looking as equally as confused as her.

"I asked you to escort the king to the crypt," Ned snapped over his shoulder, "only to find you chose to dally on the steps like some silly little boy instead of attending to the king like I requested."

"But Father" –

-"Enough!"

Robb reddened, hanging his head, looking like the little boy Ned spoke of instead of the young lord that he was. Alys stared at Ned's broad back, his conduct only serving to confuse her further. Ned strode on, gripping the pommel of his sword, knowing he had been overly harsh. But he had been seized by the sudden impulse to take Alys to her mother's final resting place, knowing he may never have this opportunity again. Yet if he dismissed Robb as he should have by now, he would need to dismiss Alys also, having no excuse for either of them to linger here any longer.

Shoulders hunching, he led the way past a long procession of granite pillars framing where the dead sat on their stone thrones, their backs against the sepulchres that contained their mortal remains. Alys glanced apprehensively around her, studying the dead of House Stark, the former Lords of Winterfell watching her with empty eyes, reminding her of the dragon skulls' back at King's Landing. In long rows they sat, with great stone direwolves curled around their feet, the shifting shadows making them look ominously alive.

Ned stole a glance at her, heart twisting afresh. He wanted to tell her the truth of her heritage, to take her by the hand and show her where she came from; how her father's ancestors had conquered those of her mother's, and yet here she was, the daughter of two warring houses. He wanted to boast of how their forebears had been Kings of the North before being forced to bend the knee to the Dragonlord; how Lyanna had conquered their old enemy with love not war. He wanted to point out the ancient custom of the iron longswords that were laid across the lap of each Lord of Winterfell, a tradition meant to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts; how the oldest of these longswords had long rusted away to nothing, leaving only red marks on the stone like bloodstains, and how it always made him wonder if those spirits were now free to roam the castle.

But he was doomed to stay silent, to watch his flesh and blood fade from him. That was his punishment, the gods sitting in judgement upon him, but he had lied out of love, and Alys was now safe, Robert unknowingly raising Rhaegar's daughter, loving what he had sworn to destroy. At this, Ned bowed his head, the deception cutting deep, but he had promised Lyanna he would protect her children, and he had honoured that vow, despite what it had cost him to do so.

Exhaling sharply, he rounded the corner of the crypt, where up ahead lay the empty tombs that awaited him and his family, Ned never liking to think of that. Just beyond, he could see Robert standing before Lyanna's final resting place, making Ned pick up the pace, suddenly anxious to reach his old friend, knowing he should been here long before now. As he did, Robb quickened his step, following close behind, Alys picking up her skirts, trying to match his stride, not wanting to be left behind. But as she moved, something filmy caught across her face, making Alys cry out in shock, her hands flying up to her face in panic.

"What's all the caterwauling about!?" Robert bellowed, whirling around. "Do you have no respect for the dead!?"

"Merely a cobweb, Your Grace," Robb said coolly, gently brushing it aside, making Alys give him a strained smile.

Robert looked at the two of them together for a long moment, the expression in his eyes unreadable, making Ned glance sharply at him. "Hmmph," he snorted, abruptly turning back to Lyanna's tomb.

Steeling himself, Ned hesitated before going over to Robert and standing by his side, bowing his head again as he remembered a room in a tower filled with death and the decay of winter roses. As Alys and Robb tentatively came forwards, both feeling like intruders, Robert fumbled in the pocket of his cloak before pulling out the long trailing feather of a bird, awkwardly laying it upon Lyanna's palm, Alys half expecting the stone fingers to close around it.

At this, Ned raised his head, studying the bright feather, the sight strangely lifting his heart. Alys's gaze lingered upon it, recognising the feather as belonging to one of the birds that haunted the shore of King's Landing. But her father's sentimentality startled her slightly, sitting at odds with his usual bellicose behaviour; Alys finding it hard to imagine him walking by the water, secretly seeking out a treasure to lay in his love's hand.

With some curiosity, she then turned her attention to the tomb, studying the stone visage of Lyanna Stark, finally seeing the face that haunted her father so. This was the woman whom a war had been fought over, tearing a kingdom apart. The sepulchre's features were sober in expression, framed by a head-dress long out of mode, the slim figure shrouded by its symmetry of flowing robes. There was nothing of Lyanna to suggest the vivacity Robert mourned, or the wild beauty he had wanted to possess.

Alys had been raised on stories of Robert's Rebellion; like the rest of her generation, she was a child conceived of the conflict, but they were tales that had lost their influence upon her as she grew older, even as she'd formed her own opinions on the subject, hiding them even from herself, not having the courage to openly contradict popular opinion. But she had seen firsthand the impact of the aftermath of the war upon her father, watching him grow old and grotesque as the years passed, giving up on life since Lyanna wasn't there to share it with him.

There were three tombs in total, belonging to Ned's father and siblings, the family together in death as in life. Lord Rickard Stark's tomb stood sentinel in the centre, Brandon and Lyanna Stark's sepulchres on either side of him. Lord Stark and Brandon had been murdered by the Mad King Aerys Targaryen, Brandon only twenty when he'd died trying to defend his father. Lyanna had been around the same age as Alys was now when she'd passed into the darkness, the knowledge making Ned's throat constrict; that Lyanna lay there, unknowing of the daughter that stood before her, Alys equally as ignorant of the mother who had died giving life to her.

"She was more beautiful than that," Robert said bitterly, seeing Alys's scrutiny, making her glance at him. "She... she was more alive than anyone I knew. Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this? She deserved more than darkness."

"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place."

"She should be on a hill somewhere, with the sun and the clouds above her, and the rain to wash her clean."

"She was my sister. This is where she belongs."

"She belonged with me," Robert said from between gritted teeth. He reached out and cupped Lyanna's chin, the gesture almost aggressive, as if meant to oppress. "In my dreams I kill him every night," he said in a low voice. "A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves, than any Targaryen does."

As he spoke, Ned tensed, Robert still living in the past as ever, reopening old wounds that for Robert had never healed. On Robert's other side, Robb shifted nervously, picking up on his father's tension.

"Did the slaughter of two innocent children not assuage your much vaunted fury, Father?" Alys said quietly before she could stop herself, stunning Ned. "Or the rape and murder of an honoured woman?"

Robert rounded on her, blue eyes bulging with disbelief. "Do you dare question not only your king but your lord father?" he roared, spit flecking the air. "Do you, girl, do you!?"

Even as she was terrified, Alys stood her ground, looking down at her hands, at the scar where the Iron Throne had pierced her palm when she was a child. "I do," she choked out, involuntarily remembering the Iron Throne standing in the midst of a rushing ford, the memory of her dream suddenly vivid before her.

"Get out of my sight," Robert yelled, shaking from head to foot with rage, struggling with his first impulse to strangle her for her sheer impunity, "before I do something I will regret!" As Alys turned and fled, Ned discreetly indicating for Robb to follow, the son hastily obeying the father, Robert rounded on Ned this time. "You should have left that little bastard in the gutter where she belongs," he spat, "instead of inflicting her presence on me. Greater men have been executed for less - anyone else would have their head on a pike for even daring to think what she just had the gall to say to me!"

"Then my head should have been on a pike a long time ago," Ned said gently, before turning and leaving Robert alone with the dead.

After the war is won
There's always the next one...