The walk back to his guest chambers felt longer than the climb up the Giant's Lance. The adrenaline of the meeting with Jon Arryn was fading, replaced by the cold, hard reality of logistics.
Ned pushed open the door to his room and stood there for a moment, staring at the trappings of a high lord. Silk tunics, velvet doublets, and a cloak embroidered with silver thread. Beautiful things. Useless things.
He kicked the door shut. "Right. Time to strip the Stark."
Before he called for aid, he paused. The room was silent, save for the whistling of the wind. If I have the potential, he thought, I should be able to feel life.
He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He reached out, not with his hands, but with his mind, trying to push past the throbbing of his headache. At first, there was nothing. Just the cold stone and the dark.
Then, a faint ripple. A small, nervous heartbeat standing just down the corridor. A shuffle of feet.
Someone is there.
He opened his eyes, a small smile touching his lips. It wasn't much—barely a whisper of a sensation—but it was there. The radar was working, even if the battery was low.
He grabbed a bell pull, yanking it three times. Moments later, the young steward—Mical, if Ned's memory served—poked his head in.
"My Lord?"
"Mical," Ned said, already stripping off the fine grey doublet. "I need supplies. Not the pretty stuff. I need the gear the mule-handlers use. Thick wool. Boiled leather. And I need dried beef, hard cheese, and a waterskin that doesn't leak."
Mical blinked, confused. "My Lord, the kitchens can prepare a roast fowl for your journey—"
"No fowl," Ned interrupted, tossing the doublet onto the bed. "I'm not going on a picnic, Mical. I'm going into the mountains. I need food that won't spoil and clothes that won't tear when I'm sliding down a scree slope. And rope. Fifty feet of hemp rope. Go."
The boy scrambled away. Ned turned to his boots. They were good riding boots, calfskin and supple.
He drew his dagger. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he began to carve harsh, jagged grooves into the soles of the expensive boots. He needed grip. He needed friction. He slashed the leather with grim determination, ruining the craftsmanship to save his neck.
When Mical returned with the bundle of roughspun clothes, Ned was waiting with a candle and a small pot of tallow he'd found near the hearth.
"My Lord?" Mical hesitated, watching Ned smear the thick, greasy fat over the seams of the waterskin and the stitching of his boots. "What are you doing?"
"Waterproofing," Ned muttered, his eyes focused on the task.
"If water gets into the seams, it freezes," Ned explained, rubbing the grease in until the leather turned dark and ugly. "If it freezes, it expands. If it expands, the boot bursts, and I lose a toe to frostbite. I like my toes, Mical."
Mical watched him with a mix of horror and awe. "Is that... a Northern trick, my Lord?"
"Something like that," Ned said, grabbing the rough cloak Mical had brought. It smelled of the stables. "Perfect. This will mask my scent." He tossed a silver stag to the boy. "Forget you saw me packing like a commoner."
Mical caught the coin, eyes widening. "I saw nothing, my Lord. Just... a wolf preparing for winter."
Ned smirked. "Smart lad."
Fully packed and looking thoroughly disreputable in his rough wools and greased boots, Ned made his way to the guest solar. He could hear Robert before he saw him. The sound of something shattering against a stone wall echoed down the corridor.
Ned stepped inside. Robert Baratheon was pacing like a caged tiger, a new goblet of wine in his hand, while the shards of a pitcher lay in a puddle near the hearth.
"That pitcher isn't Rhaegar, you know," Ned noted dryly, leaning against the doorframe.
Robert spun around, his face flushed with wine and fury. "Ned! Jon says you're leaving. Actually leaving! By the Mountains!"
"Jon is right," Ned said, walking into the room. "I ride within the hour."
"You're mad," Robert growled, slamming his goblet down on the table. Wine sloshed over the map of Westeros. "Stay here. We fight at Gulltown. We smash Grafton, take the port, and sail North like civilized men."
"Gulltown could take a month to fall, Robert," Ned countered, ignoring the mess. "A month we don't have. Aerys isn't waiting. He's calling his banners. If I don't get the North, we have no army. Just two angry wards in a mountain castle."
"I have an army!" Robert roared, thumping his chest. "I am the Lord of Storm's End!"
"Yes, we have, "Ned pointed out calmly. "But you need to get to them. I need to get to mine. We can't do that, holding hands in the Vale."
He leaned forward, placing both hands on the wine-stained table. "And Robert, listen to me closely. The Tyrells are opportunists. Mace Tyrell won't risk his flower knights in open battle against you if he can help it. He'll march on Storm's End. He'll try to starve your brother out while you're in the field."
Robert frowned, the bluster fading for a moment. "Stannis? He's made of iron. He won't break."
"Iron breaks," Ned warned sharply. "It doesn't bend, but it breaks. When you leave Storm's End to join the war, tell Stannis to prepare for a long siege. Tell him to stock the granaries, salt every fish, and count every grain. If Tyrell parks his army on your lawn, Stannis needs to hold the line for a year, maybe more. If Storm's End falls, the rebellion loses the south."
Robert stared at him, the fog of wine clearing from his eyes as the strategic merit sank in. He nodded slowly. "You're right. Stannis is a sour prick, but he's stubborn as a mule. If I tell him to hold, he'll eat the rats before he surrenders. I'll make sure he knows."
Robert slumped into a chair, the anger draining out of him, leaving only a raw, bruised sadness. "It's not right, Ned. Leaving me here. Alone with Jon and his... prudence."
Ned pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. "You won't be alone. You'll have the Knights of the Vale. And you'll have a war to plan. Jon needs you, Robert. He needs your fire. He's cautious. You're..."
"A drunk?" Robert offered bitterly.
"A hammer," Ned corrected. "You're the Warhammer of the Rebellion, Bobby. You just need to find something to hit."
Robert snorted, a reluctant smile tugging at his beard. "Don't call me Bobby. Makes me sound like a stable boy."
"I'll call you Your Grace when you sit on the Iron Throne," Ned said, the words slipping out before he could check them.
Robert laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Me? On that chair of swords? Gods forbid. I'm fighting for Lyanna, Ned. And for your father. And Brandon. Not for a crown."
Ned felt a twinge in his gut at the mention of Lyanna. The secret lay heavy in his mind, locked behind the dam of his memory. Promise me, Ned.
"We're fighting to survive, Bobby," Ned said softly. "Just... try to stay sober enough to swing that hammer, alright?"
Robert reached across the table, his massive hand gripping Ned's forearm. "I will. I swear it. But you... you watch your back in those mountains. If some painted savage kills you, I'll never forgive you."
"If I die," Ned said, standing up and gripping Robert's arm back, "you have my permission to drink a toast at my funeral. Just make sure it's good wine."
"The best," Robert promised, his eyes wet. "Arbor Gold. Or Dornish Red. Something that tastes like summer."
The wind in the courtyard was biting, whipping Ned's new, stable-smelling cloak around his legs. The sky was a bruised purple, threatening snow.
Jon Arryn stood by the gate, looking frail in his heavy furs. Next to him, Robert looked like a giant, his Warhammer resting casually on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.
A groom brought forward the horse Ned had requested—a shaggy, ill-tempered garron with hooves like dinner plates. Not a charger. A mountain goat in horse form.
"He bites," the groom warned, handing over the reins.
"We have that in common," Ned muttered, swinging into the saddle. He patted the beast's neck, reaching out with his mind—not with the Force, just with intent. Calm. Work. The horse huffed, settling slightly.
Jon Arryn stepped forward, placing a hand on Ned's knee. "There are waycastles along the High Road, but once you pass the Bloody Gate, you must avoid the paths. The clans watch them."
"I know, Jon," Ned said, looking down at the mentor who had saved his life by defying a king. "I'll stick to the ridges. They won't look for a lone rider where the air is too thin to breathe."
"May the Seven watch over you, my son," Jon whispered, his voice cracking.
"Oi!" Robert shouted, stepping up and slapping the horse's flank, making it dance sideways. "Don't get lost, Stark! And if you see Rhaegar... save him for me."
Ned looked at Robert. He saw the fire in his eyes, the grief, the loyalty. He saw the King he would become and the friend he was now.
"I'll see you on the Trident, Bobby," Ned called out, ignoring Robert's scowl at the nickname.
"Go on then!" Robert yelled, raising his hammer in a salute. "Run, Wolf! Run back to your snow!"
Ned turned the garron's head toward the gate. He didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. The warmth of the Eyrie, the safety of friendship—it was all behind him now.
Ahead lay the Mountains of the Moon. Cold. Jagged. Teeming with enemies.
Ned smiled, a cold, sharp smile that felt entirely new on his face. He checked his mental map, felt the 10x potential coiled in his muscles, and dug his heels in.
"Let's go," he whispered to the wind. "Tutorial's over."
The horse broke into a gallop, thundering out of the gates and into the shadow of the mountains.