She had shivered when he had showed her Robert’s letter and seal, one hand to the curve of her stomach, and he had wanted so much in that moment to tell her that all would be well, that he would not leave, that their family would stay together, that she should not worry and that he would never give her cause to worry (he does not say it, and she does not ask him, he would not be Eddard Stark if he did and she would not be his formidable lady, and all he can offer is I am sorry, Cat.)
Her fingers brush his wrist, tracing an old scar there, and he glances at her, her eyes are hooded and thick with sleep but she is awake, and she looks back at him, the dim throw of the candlelight making her eyes seem almost black and bottomless.
“I am sorry,” he says (he echoes, the words feel empty now, somehow). “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He keeps his arm around her, her body fitting comfortably and familiarly to his (he wonders if Robert, king and the desire of every maid in Westeros, has ever known this, the simple contentment of holding someone you know, someone who fits, someone whose lines and curves your own body has memorized).
“I know,” she answers quietly and she frowns at the scars on his wrist, on his arm; she turns in his grip, studying him, a healed wound on his chest, one against his shoulder, and he sees the worry in her eyes (there will be more, they both know, before the battle is done, more scars and more worry, more of everything except peace).
“Come home safe, Ned,” she says, “to all of us.” There is a desperation in her voice that had not been there six years ago, when he had left her in a summer castle, his stranger bride; come home safe, my lord, she had said, and she had meant the words, he knows, but there is a catch there now, an undercurrent, come home, I need you, I need you to come home.
He kisses her suddenly, fiercely, the fingers on the hand not resting on the swell of their newest child catching in her bright hair (he had thought, even then, even when he did not know her, that her hair was beautiful, that she was beautiful) before tracing along the curve of her cheek.
“I will,” he says, and he thinks of promises kept and broken, and that last time he promised her nothing at all, and he presses his lips to the inside of her wrist now, her long fingers brushing against a rough bearded cheek. “I promise.”
Robert lives for the glory of the battle, writing the hymns the singers will play with his sword and hammer in the air, they will write ballads of him, but Ned thinks of promises and has no desire to ever become a song.
FILL: Ned/Catelyn, goodbyes, 'songs written with swords' (pt 2/2)
Her fingers brush his wrist, tracing an old scar there, and he glances at her, her eyes are hooded and thick with sleep but she is awake, and she looks back at him, the dim throw of the candlelight making her eyes seem almost black and bottomless.
“I am sorry,” he says (he echoes, the words feel empty now, somehow). “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He keeps his arm around her, her body fitting comfortably and familiarly to his (he wonders if Robert, king and the desire of every maid in Westeros, has ever known this, the simple contentment of holding someone you know, someone who fits, someone whose lines and curves your own body has memorized).
“I know,” she answers quietly and she frowns at the scars on his wrist, on his arm; she turns in his grip, studying him, a healed wound on his chest, one against his shoulder, and he sees the worry in her eyes (there will be more, they both know, before the battle is done, more scars and more worry, more of everything except peace).
“Come home safe, Ned,” she says, “to all of us.” There is a desperation in her voice that had not been there six years ago, when he had left her in a summer castle, his stranger bride; come home safe, my lord, she had said, and she had meant the words, he knows, but there is a catch there now, an undercurrent, come home, I need you, I need you to come home.
He kisses her suddenly, fiercely, the fingers on the hand not resting on the swell of their newest child catching in her bright hair (he had thought, even then, even when he did not know her, that her hair was beautiful, that she was beautiful) before tracing along the curve of her cheek.
“I will,” he says, and he thinks of promises kept and broken, and that last time he promised her nothing at all, and he presses his lips to the inside of her wrist now, her long fingers brushing against a rough bearded cheek. “I promise.”
Robert lives for the glory of the battle, writing the hymns the singers will play with his sword and hammer in the air, they will write ballads of him, but Ned thinks of promises and has no desire to ever become a song.