A Golden Path: Foundation 2.14 (ch. 23) (Patreon)

‘It feels wrong to be happy,’ Ned thought to himself. His joy tasted of ash, his actions weighed heavily upon him to the point it was suffocating. Crushing. It was a betrayal of the highest order, but he didn't know what else he should have done. Yet, when he gazed into the violet eyes of Ashara, he found that he couldn't regret his decision. Even if his happiness felt like it came at the expense of his brother's. 

“It's done then?” Ashara questioned, her eyes glittering with warmth and joy, a mesmerizing smile tugging at her lips. 

“It's done,” he repeated once more, scarcely believing the words himself. “Our fathers have met and they agreed to the betrothal.” The words hardly felt real, even as he gently took his betrothed's hands in his, using them as an anchor to keep himself from flying off. He hadn't expected it. Not really. Even when he spoke to his father about the possibility of marriage, Ned had braced himself for denial. He expected his father to find him a bride instead with the expectation that he would do his duty to the family. And he would, even if it cleaved his heart to do so. 

Ashara laughed, and it was a rich tune that he would never grow tired of. She stepped forward, embracing him and he returned it -- all of it feeling so very real at that moment. Both good and ill. 

Yet, even as he held Ashara in his arms, his mind thought of the meeting he had with his father on the balcony while the North celebrated its victory. He thought of his father's stony silence, and unflinching expression as a confession spilled from his lips. Of a secret that he had no right to know and no right to tell another, but he had all the same, even if it was by accident. An overheard servant gossiping, carrying word that the Lady Ryswell refused to take moon tea and he overheard ‘speculation’ that Brandon was the father. 

He had fretted on what to do with the information -- Brandon was betrothed to another, even if he wished otherwise. It hadn't been a surprise that Brandon continued to see Lady Barbrey, as it was no secret that his heart was set upon her, despite their father's efforts to keep the two apart. Ned disapproved, but… it also had not felt like it was something he should mettle in. Shamefully, he averted his eyes and feigned ignorance until he overheard that conversation when another factor entered the play. 

A baby. A bastard. One born of two noble houses -- the Ryswells would want Brandon to marry Lady Barbrey, which would force his father to break his engagement with the Riverlands. Something that Brandon would want as well, which made Ned… consider that siring a child on Lady Barbrey was something… less than an accident. However, annulling the betrothal with the Riverlands risked the ire of a kingdom. 

Ned hadn't been sure what to do, so he turned to others for advice -- Robert and Paul, two friends he felt like he could trust with the secret. Robert had cautioned that he keep it to himself and continue to pretend ignorance. That it was Brandon's choice and actions, and whatever happened next… they were his consequences to deal with. ‘Keep your nose out of it, lest it be bitten off’ as he put it. 

Paul, on the other hand, had cautioned action. ‘Better to walk into a trap informed of it than ambushed when it's too late,’ as Paul said. No matter what, his father faced a scandal because of Brandon's actions. Either he would refuse a vassal or a Lord Paramount, but that was his father's decision to make, as much as Bandon might rage at it. It was his duty to his father to warn him of a… catastrophe heading towards their family. So, he made a decision. A choice. He would betray the trust of his brother in secret. 

When his father heard everything that Ned had to say, he hadn't said a word. He simply walked past him, only pausing to place a hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze, before leaving him alone on the balcony. 

In the days since… 

“Are you not happy, Ned?” Ashara's voice broke him from his thoughts and he realized she had pulled back, wearing an expression of concern. 

She thought he was upset with her. Madness. It was a mistake that he quickly corrected, “More than I feel I deserve, my lady. I… are you sure you wish to wed me?” He asked, and the apprehension melted away on her face. “I have so little to offer you, my lady. No lands or position. Only my last name.” 

Ashara tilted her head as if he said something strange, but then her smile grew. “I don't want your last name, Ned. What I want is you,” she said, a hand raising up to his cheek. She barely felt real at times. He hadn't thought it was possible to be so happy. He owed a grievous apology for every scornful thought he had about lovestruck fools, because what he felt now… He was perfectly happy being the greatest fool of all. 

“Ahem,” Ned heard and the faux clearing of a throat made him go still as if a bolt of lightning struck him. Instantly, his gaze darted up from Ashara's tender gaze, landing on another pair of violet eyes of a very similar hue. Which made a great deal of sense considering who stood on the rampart that overlooked the gardens. 

“Arthur,” Ashara said with entirely too much annoyance towards her brother, when the man himself… the Sword of the Morning seemed like he agreed wholeheartedly that he was unworthy of his sister. “Have you something to say, or are you going to glower at my betrothed?” 

“Only that father requested your presence. The royal wedding is about to begin,” Ser Arthur replied, his tone mild. 

Ashara, however, narrowed her eyes. “Really?” She questioned sharply -- not at the royal wedding, the long-awaited event, was finally due to begin but, rather, his… tone. 

A small sigh escaped Ser Arthur before he inclined his head to Ned, “Stark.” He acknowledged his existence, but not much else. 

“Ser Dayne,” Ned returned, accepting the curtness. It was not as if he didn't understand. He too had a sister, and it was uniquely infuriating to see boys hover around her like carrion birds, hoping to claim her maidenhead. Whether he might like them under different circumstances rarely crossed his mind. However, Ser Arthur seemed to realize he was being unfair and his expression slackened and he inclined his head to him. 

“Hm. Well, I suppose we should get moving. Princess Elia still has need of a handmaiden,” Ashara said, standing on her tip toes to press her lips to his cheek. Ser Arthur made a noise of exasperation, while Ned felt his face flush crimson. “I would speak to your father about our betrothal, when you get a chance. After the wedding ceremony, of course. You might learn something interesting.” 

He wasn't sure what she could mean by that, but she didn't seem inclined to answer any questions as she was escorted away by her brother. He watched her go, feeling a tightness in his chest -- a heart attack war with itself. 

The truth of it was… he had been avoiding his family. All save for Lyanna. It was hard to look any of them in the eyes, the shame of his actions burning in the back of his throat. When he received the news that the betrothal was arranged and formalized… well… he hadn't exactly heard anything else, and rushed off to inform Lady Ashara.

A small sigh escaped him and his feet began to carry him back to his family's quarters in the Red Keep. It felt a bit like he was walking to his own execution when he arrived at the door, opening it to find the heavy and oppressive silence that he expected. Brandon and Father were both in the room, and the tension between them could be cut with a knife. His brother barely looked up from scowling at the table, as if it had personally offended him. Father, however, cast a heavy glance in his direction. 

“You're here. Good. Was your betrothed happy to hear the news?” He asked, and before Ned could say so much as a word, Brandon took the question as an offense. He erupted from his seat at the table with enough force to topple it, his expression a cold storm of anger. As it clattered to the stone floor, Brandon stalked forward. At first, Ned was certain that his brother intended to strike him -- that somehow, he learned what he had done. Ned braced himself to accept the blow, and was puzzled when he was instead roughly shoved out of the way of the door and Brandon stalked past him. 

Ned glanced at his father to see there was a similar anger in his gray eyes, but it seemed directed only at Brandon. “Ignore him,” Father commanded in a clipped tone. “Get dressed for the wedding, Ned,” he added, but now there was a deep sigh in his voice. 

He did as bade, quickly dressing himself in the clothes that had been tailored for the occasion. When he emerged from his quarters, he saw his father was setting heavily at the table Brandon was while they waited for the servants to finish dressing Lyanna. There was a deep furrow maring his father's brow, a heavy burden on his shoulders. Ned wasn't sure if his father was aware of him, at least until he began to speak. “You're being named the Lord of Moat Cillian after the wedding, Ned.” 

“... what?” All of a sudden his mouth went dry and he felt unsteady. 

“I meant to tell you earlier, but you half ran out the room,” Father noted with some amusement, a dry chuckle escaping him. “It has been in the works for some time now. Moat Cillian will be restored, and you shall rule over the lands as it's lord. But not as a cadet branch. You'll remain a Stark.” That was… unusual. There was precedence for granting a Stark lands within the North -- the Karstarks were an example of that, but they were made a cadet branch of the main family.

But, before he could ask, his father continued, “The announcement will be made in Riverrun. When your… fool of a brother marries the Tully girl.” There was a low growl in his throat, and Ned knew that was earlier than planned. 

“Is Brandon…?” Ned wasn't even sure what he was asking. It was clear that his brother was unhappy, but the melancholic sadness he carried had given way to a black anger. He had an idea what had happened, but he wasn't sure. And that idea twisted his guts into knots. 

“He remains my heir. For now,” Father added, and that made Ned's blood freeze in his veins. He hadn't even thought it was a possibility that Brandon could be removed as the heir to the North. And it made the decision for him to keep the last name of Stark very clear -- it was so that if he ever became the heir, it would still be a Stark who ruled the North. That was… that was bad. His Father was never one to do something lightly, and he considered all things. If he was committing to this then… “The only reason why he still is my heir is because I will not rob you of your happiness to punish his foolishness. The Tullys want their blood on the Throne of Winter.” 

Guilt buried a blade in him and twisted it. Things were that bad? Because he told his father the truth? 

His father breathed in deeply and let out a long sigh, “In any case, this is good for you, Ned. A deal has been struck with the Daynes. Dorne will feel the loss of trade most keenly as we sever ourselves from Essos, but Lord Atreides has assured me that there are ways to turn Moat Cillian into a functional port by draining the marsh. Your lands will be the gate into the North, and the natural port of our exports to the Westerlands, the Reach, and Dorne with House Dayne being a natural dock. And once we claim the Stepstones…” 

What? 

His father seemed to realize he was getting ahead of himself so he shook his head, as if to dismiss the thoughts. “You have a bright future ahead of you, Ned. You've been a good and dutiful son. Dismiss whatever guilt you feel for Brandon -- that boy made his bed, and he made every choice with his eyes widened open. Just… never tell him your part in this.” He instructed with a long drawn out sigh. 

What went unsaid didn't go unheard. That Brandon would never forgive him if he found out. 

Ned managed a shaken nod before the door to Lyanna's room opened, revealing his little sister. She wore a childish smile, her dark hair done in an elaborate braid while she wore a winter blue dress. Their father stood up, content to end the conversation and leaving Ned to swallow whatever questions he still had. He couldn't ask them, not with Lyanna present. Though, she did seem to be keenly aware of Brandon's absence. 

He followed along with his family as they departed for the Sept Baelor, leaving Ned reeling from the brief and pointed conversation. He wasn't even sure what he was more distracted by. 

A lordship. Ned never expected to become a Lord, much less over the territory of Moat Cillian. It was the bottleneck of the North, the wall that every invading army had broken itself upon and why there were those that still worshiped the Old Gods in Westeros. One side was the sea, and the other was the swamp of the Neck, which was impassable, even without crannogmen that dwelled there. They had passed through the ancient fortress on their way down, and calling it in a state of disrepair was… generous. 

It was more a ruin, having been abandoned by the North hundreds of years before Aegon the Conqueror's conquest. It had been a bit sad to see such a fortress having fallen in such a state but Ned had put little thought beyond it. Now he would be responsible for ruling the land. 

He almost felt dizzy with the very idea of it, barely taking note of the Great Sept. It was an opulent building, crafted masterfully to invoke a sense of awe with light streaming through the stained glass windows. But to Ned's eyes, it served more as a warning. Something he could compare the Moat against, and a lump formed in his throat. He was meant to restore the Moat? The ancient fortress? 

How? With what? With who? A small keep had been unthinkable a mere hour ago, something beyond his wildest expectations. He expected to serve as his brother's castellain. To serve him and be his voice when Brandon was elsewhere. But now he was being granted… Moat Cillian was the gate to the North. It was more than just land, it was faith. Trust. Trust that he and his descendants would forever guard the North, and that was a trust that Ned would rather die than betray. 

But how did he answer that trust? How did he rebuild such a fortress so it was worthy of the history that the Moat carried? How did he build it so it was worthy of Ashara? Of his children? 

He almost wished he hadn't been so eager to tell Ashara the news, as he desperately hoped that his father had answers to his many questions. Paul… Paul would be able to help him, Ned reasoned. He knew a thing or two about building up a fief from the ground up…

His thoughts were interrupted when the marriage actually began, announcing itself with a swell of music so loud he nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise. Ned glanced around, realizing just how deeply in his thoughts he has been when he saw the bride begin to walk down the isle, accompanied by her brother. Though… he would never say the thought out loud, but if it wasn't for the dress, Ned would be unsure who the bride was meant to be. 

Anessa arrived before the High Septon, and before Prince Rhaegar. The man looked to be on the mend of whatever malady that had befallen him. He still seemed tired from it, with dark bags underneath his eyes, but he offered an honest smile to his bride when she stood before him. Ned was happy to see it -- he hoped that they would find happiness and love in their marriage. 

And it was exactly that thought which made the smile slide right off of his face. 

Would Brandon find love and happiness in his marriage? 

The question was like a pox in his mind that refused to leave him. Even as the ceremony commenced, the cloak was exchanged and the vows were made. A great cheer went up and the feast began back at the Red Keep. He barely paid attention as he was swept away in things. The realm was rejoicing. At long last, they're wedding was done, and all that was left was to celebrate. 

Yet, through it all, Ned found that question wouldn't leave him alone. His brother loved another. He fought and argued and resisted their father every step of the way of the marriage. He asked himself that as he tried to take his mind off it and enjoy the festivities -- Robert dancing with Princess Elia. And it came to him when he was dancing with his own betrothed, Ashara. 

“I fear your thoughts are elsewhere, Ned,” Ashara remarked to him as they followed the steps for a dance, their second. He barely recalled the first, or what they had spoken of during that time. “I hope… not because of doubts?” She prompted, and that yanked him out of his own head. 

“No, my lady,” he replied quickly, but softly. “Never that. It’s… my brother,” he admitted to her quietly, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “He and my father have… had a difference of opinion in regards to Brandon’s marriage. And I… fear that it has approached a breaking point. Or, rather, it’s passed one.” He amended, seeing Ashara’s lips press together and her gaze softening. 

“I see. In that case… You may like to know that your brother has returned to your quarters already,” Ashara informed him, and he lingered for just a moment before she gave him a small smile as permission. 

“Thank you, my lady,” Ned muttered to her, uncertain what he would do, only that he had to do something. However, Ashara waved him off with a hand. 

“We’re to be married, Ned. Your family shall become my family… and for that matter, call me Ashara,” She replied, and that got a tired but honest smile from him. He took a step back from her, turning away from the dancefloor and hoped that his absence wouldn’t be noticed. 

Ned found himself walking through the dimly lite halls of the keep, the sounds of the festivities fading away with distance before he arrived at their quarters. He lingered for a moment before the door, tempted to knock, just to warn his brother that he was coming in. However, he decided against it and pushed the door inward, “Brandon?”

He found his brother sitting at the table he had been at earlier in the day, a tankard in one hand as he sat alone in the darkness. He didn’t react and the truth bubbled up from his chest as he took a step inside, a confession about to spill from his lips but he struggled to get the words out. “I cam-”

“Shut up,” Brandon said, his tone flat and utterly devoid of any warmth. However, the bench across the table was kicked out, a gesture for him to sit down. “Just shut up and drink with me, Ned.”

Ned had his answer, he thought, taking a seat and accepting a cup of wine from his brother. The truth burned in his throat like fire… 

But he swallowed it down forevermore.