It took nearly a week for the rest of the realm's forces to finally anchor at Fair Isle. By the sixth dawn, the horizon was swallowed by a forest of masts. The heavy war galleys of the Arbor ferried the massive hosts of the South across the straits.
Banners bearing the golden lion, the soaring falcon, and the golden rose snapped proudly in the sea breeze, projecting a delayed but overwhelming display of royal might.
Ned Stark had no interest in standing on the beaches to welcome latecomers. The fighting was done, and the inevitable jostling for prestige held no appeal for him.
Instead, he spent his morning at the docks alongside Jorah, Benjen, and his ship captains. They inspected the minor splintering the Northern Carracks had sustained from ramming and organized the provisioning required for the eventual voyage back to the Sunset Sea.
By the time Ned trudged back up to the sprawling canvas city, the sun was hot and unforgiving. Approaching his stark, grey command tent, he noticed an anomaly. A guard clad in a crimson cloak and gold-chased breastplate stood rigidly by the entrance flap.
Ned knew immediately who was inside.
He paused before the sentry. "Ser Jaime is within?"
The Lannister man gave a crisp nod. "He is, Lord Stark."
Ned acknowledged him and pushed past the heavy canvas, stepping into the shaded interior of his pavilion.
---
Sprawled comfortably in Ned's own heavy wooden chair, with his booted feet resting carelessly on the edge of the map table, was the heir to Casterly Rock.
Jaime Lannister had shed his heavy plate in favor of a rich crimson tunic. In one hand, he swirled a silver cup; in the other, he loosely gripped Ned's personal, half-empty bottle of Northern whiskey.
"Put that down. It belongs to me," Ned stated evenly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jaime dropped his feet to the rug and offered a lazy, unapologetic smirk. "You failed to attend my wedding, Stark. Consider this your toll."
"I sent a rather generous gift in my stead," Ned pointed out, moving to take the seat opposite the young lion.
"That you did," Jaime admitted, taking a slow, appreciative sip of the amber spirit. "A shield of rippled steel. My father's armorers spent days arguing over how you managed to fold the metal without breaking it. It drew quite a few envious glares from others. Yet my new bride..." Jaime chuckled. "Lynesse was far more taken with the snow bear pelt. She had no idea bears grew so large, or so white. She refuses to sleep without it."
"I am pleased the Lady Lynesse finds it comfortable," Ned replied. He reached across the table and plucked the whiskey bottle from Jaime's loose grip. "That still does not grant you leave to plunder my private stores."
Jaime offered a careless shrug. "I just endured a week at sea with my father, completely sober. I required something potent the moment I touched solid ground. And who better to supply the drink than the brewer himself?"
Ned allowed a faint smile, imagining the relentlessly grim Tywin Lannister trapped on a rocking ship beside his arrogant son.
"It is good to see you, Ser Jaime," Ned said truly.
Jaime raised his cup in a mock toast. "And you, Stark. How fares the frozen wasteland? Have you grown accustomed to the cold, or just numb to it?"
Ned set the bottle down, fixing Jaime with a flat stare. "You have grown a much sharper tongue since you discarded the white cloak."
Jaime leaned forward, flashing his famously arrogant grin. "I am a Lannister. Hear me roar."
Ned stared. Jaime stared back.
Then, almost in unison, they both broke into genuine laughter. It was an unlikely kinship, forged in the ashes of the Mad King's throne room, built on a shared disdain for the hypocrisies of the Southern court.
Ned retrieved a spare cup and poured himself a small measure of the spirit. The peaty, smoky burn grounded him.
"Speak plainly," Ned said, setting the cup aside. "Why are you sitting in my tent? You ought to be with Lord Tywin, feigning interest in the siege plans for Pyke."
"Am I forbidden from visiting a friend?" Jaime feigned offense, but seeing Ned's raised eyebrow, he sighed. "Very well. I am here to discuss betrothals. By my father's strict command."
Jaime took another sip. "There. I have officially raised the topic of marriage pacts as ordered. We can consider that unpleasantness concluded."
Ned frowned, genuinely confused. "Marriage pacts? You have been wed for less than a year. Who exactly are you offering to betroth?"
"Lynesse is with child as we speak," Jaime explained, a brief, surprising flash of pride crossing his face before he masked it. "She rests safely behind the walls of Casterly Rock. The news of Lannisport burning frightened her terribly, but she is well-guarded. I will likely miss the birth because of this Greyjoy nuisance, but I imagine she will forgive me."
"You are content in your match, then?" Ned asked.
Jaime pulled a face, swirling his drink. "My father is content. She is fair to look upon, and the Hightowers have taught her how to manage a keep as vast as the Rock. Her bloodline is flawless. Yet... she reminds me a fraction too much of my sister."
"In what way?"
"She is spoiled," Jaime said bluntly. "And vain. Both women possess impossibly expensive tastes. It is a blessing I am a wealthy man. A lesser lord would beggar himself keeping her adorned."
"A marriage of duty," Ned observed quietly, tapping the table. "Even so, you cannot betroth an unborn child. You do not even know if you will have a son or a daughter."
"My father rarely concerns himself with such minor details," Jaime waved the objection away. "If you wish to suffer a headache, you may discuss it with him. Your new fleets and sudden wealth have made him... attentive. He wishes to intertwine House Lannister and House Stark so both may reap the rewards without stepping on each other's cloaks."
Before Ned could respond to Tywin's heavy-handed maneuvering, the tent flap parted. Two of Ned's squires entered, carrying a heavy wooden tray laden with hot food.
Ned noticed the single trencher placed before him. "Bring another portion," he commanded. "And a fresh plate."
The squires bowed and hurried away. Ned pushed the hot clay dish across the table toward his guest.
"Taste this," Ned offered. "It is a new recipe we have adopted in the North. You may find it to your liking."
Jaime eyed the food with mild suspicion. It was not a standard roasted joint or a watery stew. The deep dish was filled with rich, savory minced mutton cooked down in a thick, dark gravy with carrots and onions. Covering the entire top was a thick, baked crust of mashed earth-apples, browned and crisp at the peaks.
Jaime picked up a spoon, scooped a generous bite, blew on it to cool the steam, and tasted it.
His eyebrows shot upward. The hearty, savory meat paired flawlessly with the buttery, dense root mash.
"Gods, that is exceptional," Jaime admitted, taking a second, larger bite. "It is heavy. Perfect for surviving a winter draft. What do you call it?"
"Barrowman's Pie," Ned answered, pouring himself some water. "It puts the earth-apples grown by our mountain clans to excellent use. I can have my cooks write out the recipe for your men before you return to the Westerlands."
"See that you do," Jaime said, pointing his spoon at Ned. He swallowed, and his demeanor shifted, the easy banter vanishing. "I only mentioned my father's demands because he wishes to sink his claws into the North. It does not mean I support his schemes. However, there is another betrothal I genuinely came here to discuss."
Ned's eyes narrowed slightly. "Which one?"
"Princess Rhaenys," Jaime said, lowering his voice. "And her betrothal to your heir, Cregan."
Ned leaned back, lacing his fingers together. "That was the understanding we reached in the capital. There was talk of her marrying Robert's heir, or mine. We agreed she would remain safely in the North."
"That was the agreement then," Jaime countered. "Times change. Jon Arryn is currently pressuring the King to formalize a betrothal between Rhaenys and Prince Joffrey."
A cold spike of irritation hit Ned. "There is a vast difference in their ages. Rhaenys is nearly ten. Joffrey is a toddler."
"I do not dispute that," Jaime said, setting his spoon down. "But there is a far darker reason."
Ned remained silent, allowing the Kingslayer to continue.
Jaime stared at his hands. For a fleeting moment, the arrogant heir of Casterly Rock faded, revealing a man deeply troubled by his own kin.
"The prince is my nephew," Jaime said softly. "He shares my blood. He is also a vicious little monster."
Ned blinked, taken aback by the absolute lack of familial affection.
"Not in the way I was," Jaime clarified swiftly. "All young boys can be terrors—breaking things, ignoring their tutors, causing grief. That is merely youth. Joff is... cruel. He delights in pain. I place the blame squarely on my sister."
Jaime picked up his cup again, staring into the dark amber liquid.
"She coddles him beyond reason. She whispers in his ear that he is a god walking among mortals. And our King ignores the boy completely. He pays him no mind. Perhaps the boy might outgrow it, but right now, there is a darkness taking root in him. I even approached my father, suggesting Joffrey be fostered at the Rock so Tywin could take him in hand. My father is a ruthless man, but he understands discipline and order better than anyone."
"And the Queen's reaction?" Ned prompted.
"My sweet sister vehemently refused," Jaime said, his tone turning bitter. "She is... furious with me. She refuses to hear a single word of criticism against her golden child, least of all from me."
"Why?" Ned asked, intrigued by the fracture in the Lannister twins' famously close bond. "Why the enmity?"
"Because I agreed to cast aside the white cloak and take my place as our father's heir," Jaime replied, shrugging, though the motion was stiff.
"Years ago, Father promised Cersei she would be Queen. She truly believed she would wed Rhaegar. She spun a grand, romantic fantasy where I would join the Kingsguard, and we would remain together in the Red Keep, inseparable as we had always been. Well, she got her crown, albeit with a different King. But when I refused to play my assigned role in her mummer's farce—when I chose to go West—she felt abandoned."
Ned nodded slowly. He understood the twisted, toxic nature of their relationship far better than Jaime likely realized.
"So," Jaime concluded, meeting Ned's gaze directly. "You agree the age gap makes the match absurd, but you must also consider that my nephew is... deeply troubled."
Ned maintained a face carved of Northern granite, though his internal thoughts were far harsher.
It is a pity one cannot strike a prince, Ned thought grimly. A firm hand now might save the realm from a tyrant later.
But Ned knew the truth of Joffrey's nature. It wasn't just poor parenting; it was a madness, magnified by Cersei's blinding vanity. He would never allow Rhaenys to be dragged into the Viper's nest of King's Landing while Joffrey drew breath.
"I hear your warning, Jaime," Ned said evenly. "And I am grateful for it."
"I was hoping," Jaime added quietly, "that you would ensure Rhaenys is formally betrothed to Cregan. Quickly. Before Lord Arryn can convince Robert that tying the dragon to the stag is best for the realm."
Jaime was attempting to shield the girl he had failed to protect from the terror of the Sack. It was a quiet, desperate attempt at redemption.
Ned studied the Lannister lord.
"They are still children," Ned stated firmly. "I will not force a marriage upon either of them before their time. However..." Ned offered a slow, reassuring nod. "If, in the future, they find favor with one another, I will not stand in their way. In truth, I would welcome the union and I will make sure they are married to each other if they want to. Rhaenys belongs to the North now."
Jaime exhaled a long, slow breath, the rigid tension finally leaving his shoulders. He picked up his spoon and eagerly returned to his meal.
"Excellent," Jaime said around a mouthful of pie. "Now, write down that recipe. My pregnant wife demands hearty meals, and if the cooks serve me one more roasted swan, I may throw myself from the highest tower of the Rock."