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Before dragon-riders even graced the mainland, Ned had not expected the Sorrowful Man.
Mayhaps the warlocks of Qarth should have registered a complaint with Tobirama instead; it would have been more effective than the apologetic planting of a dirk into Ned’s flesh. After all, Ned had had no cause to be at the restricted corner of the glass gardens before all of this – Tobi had not been within Moat Cailin’s grounds for moons.
“I am really, really sorry,” Gawen Gardener was sputtering between what felt like half the healers listed in the Moat Cailin Free Hospital. As he continued to pour the apologies on Ned saw flames flicker over Gawen’s cheeks and hair to catch onto crowns of wilted vines and flowers. “Lord Manfred had informed me, that the seeds were obtained via Braavos; I had not considered-”
A green glow hovered over Ned’s belly as he groaned: “I’m seeing flames in the walls.”
“That would be the hallucinogen, Eddard.” With both hands glowing, Tobi was patching up Ned’s wound. As Ned gave a slow blink, more pairs of glowing palms seemed to branch by Tobi’s shoulders, as its skins split open to form eyes – multiple jewel-bright eyes that stared back.
“The cross-breeding of Northern weirwoods and Qartheen black-barked trees seems semi-viable, though I would confess some puzzlement on how the Qartheens found out,” came the cool assessment. “Lord Hightower has been chatting – quite often, Prince Gawen. He should hold his tongue.”
“Oh gods, Tobi,” came the answering sputter, “I promise that you can have his head- wait, could you hold off until Addam is of age, please? My royal father is rather keen on Oldtown…”
Ned groaned as he rested his head back. “Water,” he croaked.
Bits of cold rested on his lips and melted into cool water down his tongue and throat, and when his eyes fluttered, red eyes framed in white beheld him in what Ned hoped was concern.
“I will deal with the Hightower, as will Prince Gawen,” the red eyes said. “Rest, Eddard.”
The words echoed as the cold set in.
Weak and drowsy he was, even as flashes danced before his eyes and the chinks of metal on metal echoed – a fight, a hard one. Nothing burned like the cold, as it snaked past bedclothes and hand-warmers and man-flesh to gnaw on his bones while he lay prostrate, lacking in strength to fight the heavy sleep of falling in battle. Something tugged at his flesh; his own arm pulled his weight in boiled leather and furs, his back against something hard before his gaze opened.
Tall, it was, gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armour seemed composed of colours that ran with each step it paced, loomed, or strode –the lights of the North that Tobi had said danced across the skies in times of storm, light and shadow and everywhere dappled with the grey-green of many a fallen tree, flecked with bright spots of dancing ghost-light.
A blink, and with a blow the Other went down; what looked like a bit of snow fluttered down, then there was an audible blast of thunder and Ned’s breath caught.
More paper fluttered in the winter winds, hanging from a stirrup repurposed to punch men and monsters alike in the face. The hand holding it retreated into what loosened fold of wool hung off of its owner’s frame.
That was to say nothing of the monster-slayer’s other hand, where his blade shone like the dawn to end another monster of Winter, and just as well illuminate its wielder that was the last man standing. The shining blade – no, the blade of light itself met a longsword where no human metal had gone into its forging, a shard of crystal so thin and sharp and deceptively fragile as it gave in to vanish against the wild swing of heat and blaze, and the enemy with it.
Another boom, and a blue-eyed man-form had its head separate from shoulders; a gesture, and winds sliced through flesh and bone to scatter digits that glowed under catching fire that wriggled in dying throes. Those shoulders, thinner than any man north of the Neck should have, framed an exotic farmer’s hat like a cone woven of reeds; the hat remained, even as it gamely bore the weight of the realms of Man.
Ned gave a wet cough as the first and last hero of the Dawn had sheathed his sword.
“…’m sorry.”
“Oh, Eddard.”
Compressions started along, and Ned felt his flesh tug even as deceptively corded arms embraced his head.
“We win?”
“…”
As though the world itself shared in the silence, the winds died down to leave the empty cold, white blending into the bright gleam of gold… gold light. A generation had passed before the dawn had risen.
“…oh.” Ned felt the words catch. “You… were promised… prince. I know.”
“You were supposed to be at the Moat,” a sigh that steamed out in billows, the breath of a sleeping dragon. Cold and warmth clashed, the start of his magics.
“It’s too late for me,” Ned whispered. “To be honest… I never thought that dawn would come. It is not a bad sight to see.”
The grip tightened, as though by sheer will the flow of life out of Ned’s body could be stoppered. Mayhaps in times of peace and plenty, Tobi would make it possible; as things were, Ned was certain of the inevitable. “I would have found my way.”
“But what about you?” Ned whispered. “You have helped us, but who will help you, dear?”
“I had you.” There was a wet hiccough, a rare sound that Ned would turn his head should he muster the strength. “I don’t… what would I do now, Eddard? What were you thinking?!”
He was an emotional man, truly. After all, for a heart to freeze, there needed to be a heart.
Ned gave a wet cough. “…just wanted to hold your hand once more, sooth.”
There was a sound; what it was Ned could not make out. “If you do not value your life…!”
“I do… the enemy is not dead yet… cannot die,” Ned entreated, or babbled, he knew not. “Cannot leave… your life… belongs to me, my soul… be with you, this life… all the next.”
Tobirama shifted then, with Ned’s head pillowed on his thighs. A graceful neck arched, to let eyes bright as coals stare down into darkening Stark grey. Between them there held a buzz and a crackle, akin to the whisper of velvet snow or the crystals of frost spiralled across the lakes, or the after-thrum of thunder echoing.
Ned had made a promise.
Winter kept its promises.
“I will be your beacon, to guide your way past the storms and surges into the house of Stark where Winter fell,” he promised as dawn broke across the world in the wake of a long night. “So long as I may clasp thy hand once more… though the world be dark and distant, I shall brave the journey. As your soul is with me… my life is yours. Rest, Eddard.”
Ned awoke within soaked bedclothes, the bedding damp with cold sweat despite so many bed-warmers leaving trails of warmth within the wools. Already he had made a noise and been discovered; white fluff at the foot of the bed heralded the awakening of his silent sentinel, his greatest boon and bane since the title of Moat Cailin had been conferred on him out of so many siblings and cousins.
“I see you have slept off most of the effects,” a perfunctory trace of his forehead and the nape of his neck followed, as did a sigh and then the sound of water poured from a flagon. “It is very good that the cross-breed is reduced to kindling, if it would cause you nightmares.”
Ned blinked at him even as the cup of water was pressed to his lips, and he took a sip just to save himself. “Just give me the cup, I am hardly so weak- reduced to kindling? Wait, Tobi? Am I going to hear about Qartheen warlocks dying in a few sennights?!”
“I had the House of Black and White settle their Essosi fellows, your polite assaulter has been handed over to them,” Tobirama dismissed, as though the ability to order Faceless Men about was hardly concerning. Mayhaps it was not, when one lived as long as Tobirama. “You are the priority, my Magnar. King Torrhen shall have to host his negotiations elsewhere, Moat Cailin cannot entertain with its lord in convalescence.”
Ned held up his hands in surrender. “Slowly, please. What is my royal brother negotiating for?”
“Lord Aegon Targaryen at Dragonstone has decided to step up his efforts at unification of the continent and invaded with dragons. The Targaryen would seek your brother’s crown.”
“…and we have yet to amass our reserves? The banners?”
“The dragons will not cross the Neck, hence the start of negotiations,” a shrug. “I am here with you.”
Spoken like that, the words sounded like a promise.