Eddard VII
"Many speak the same, Milord." The Maester placed the letters by his side. "The words might be twisted with formality but they share the message."
Ned looked at the parchments spread across the table like fallen leaves in autumn.
"While I see a few in favor of this match," Maester Luwin said, pointing toward the parchments from Arryn, Manderly, Ryswell, Dustin, and Bolton, "Many are disapproving."
He took a long sip of rum, the harsh liquid burned down his throat, spreading warmth through his chest.
He was never one for dulling his senses with drink, but the endless stream of ledgers, petitions, and now these letters had worn him thin. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to ease the growing ache.
It didn't help him in any way that Tepes would leave him with a bottle every time he visited.
His lady wife didn't mind unless he reeked of it, which he never did.
"None of them are disapproving, Luwin," he corrected quietly, pushing one parchment aside with a sigh. "They cannot disapprove, this is a matter for House Stark, they have no say."
He lifted the mug again and drank. The bitterness matched his mood.
"They do not disapprove," he continued, "but they are dissatisfied."
"They have reason to be, my lord," Luwin agreed. "Young Robb is beloved across the North, to see a Dornish princess chosen as his wife… many take it as a slight."
It was true, Northern lords were loyal, but they were proud and quick to feel disrespected, even when none was intended. He rubbed his eyes. The weight of the decision pressed heavier on him with every letter.
"The Karstarks, for one, have sent strong words against it." Ned's gaze lingered on the black sun seal. "I skipped his daughter for this match."
"You have, my lord," Luwin said softly. "I'm surprised he hasn't raised his banners yet."
"By the gods, Maester!" He grumbled. "Do not even speak such thoughts, the Karstarks are kin, he may see this as a slight, but I do not believe it warrants such severity."
Luwin did not look convinced.
"My lord!" Ser Jory's voice came from the door. "It is Lord Glover."
Ned blinked as he heard the name, before his eyes glazed over his table, yes, the Glovers had yet to write their letters and the Umbers too.
"Has he sent a Raven?" The lord of winterfell asked his ward.
"My lord, he is here by the gate, with Lord Umber with him and Lady Mormont."
"Prepare the solar," He said, rising immediately. "And send for refreshment, they have ridden far."
—---
He met them in the courtyard. Galbart Glover looked as stern as ever, his mailed fist sigil prominent on his cloak, while Greatjon towered beside him, red beard bristling in the wind and Maege stood slightly apart, her bear-fur cloak wrapped tight.
"Lord Stark," Galbart greeted, clasping his forearm firmly.
"Galbart. Greatjon. Maege." Ned nodded, returning the grip and embraced each in turn. "Come, warm yourselves in the solar, the road from Deepwood and Hearth is long this time of year."
As they walked through the halls, Ned noticed someone crossing them, someone he wished didn't appear just as now.
Oberyn appeared from a side passage, his Dornish silks bright against the grey stone.
He smiled lazily, falling into step beside them without invitation.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn said smoothly. "And the noble lords of the North, what a fortunate meeting."
"It is, Prince Oberyn." He nodded courteously. "This lords Glover, Umber and Lady Mormont."
"Ah! The She-Bear!" Oberyn smirked with interest.
Maege rolled her eyes and replied begrudgingly.
"It is no longer a title I hold, it is now my daughter's."
The Greatjon raised his brows higher than he could and asked her with a dry chuckle. "Has she finally slaughtered a bear?"
"I do not want to talk about it." She grumbled.
"It was bigger than hers." Galbart whispered to the giant.
"I said I do not want to talk about it!"
"Now, that seems like a story I wish to hear," The Dornish prince clapped his hands. "May I join you?"
Galbart's jaw tightened visibly, but he said nothing while Greatjon grunted and Maege merely raised an eyebrow.
"Sure, my prince." He agreed. "I believe what we are about to talk, may concern you too."
—----
A fire roared in the hearth and the servants had brought mulled wine, rum, bread, and salt.
The lords settled into chairs, but the air grew thick with tension before anyone spoke.
And Glover was the first to break it.
"A fine solar, Lord Stark," he said, voice deceptively mild. "Warm enough even for southern blood, I suppose. Though I wonder if the same can be said for Winterfell's future lady. A Dornish flower may wilt quickly in our snows."
The words hung like a challenge.
Ned leaned forward, keeping his tone even. "This match will combine the strengths of Dorne and the North, trade will flow, timber, iron, and furs from us; spices, gold, and horses from them, our people will grow stronger together."
Oberyn chuckled softly, swirling his wine. "Well said, Lord Stark. Though I must say, some seem more concerned with the purity of northern snow than with the warmth it might gain."
Galbart's face darkened while Greatjon Umber put his cup down, wine sloshing.
"I understood when you married Lady Catelyn," the Greatjon rumbled, voice like distant thunder. "We needed the Tullys. It was war. But now? Marrying the Young Wolf to a Dornish princess? That brings nothing but complications. The North has noble daughters of age, strong girls who know snow and steel. Why saddle the boy with southern sand and strange gods?"
Oberyn's smile sharpened. "Ah, Strange, how the cold seems to freeze more than just the rivers, stuck in your old ways, clutching traditions like dying men clutch their blankets. How… quaint."
The words struck like a whip.
Galbart shot to his feet. "You dare—!"
Greatjon's fist crashed onto the table. "Watch your tongue, Dornish snake, before I rip it out and feed it to my hounds!"
The solar filled with raised voices.
Maege watched silently while Oberyn merely leaned back, amused.
"Enough!" His voice cracked through the room like a whip and silence fell instantly as he stood, eyes hard. "Both of you have traveled far, my lords, you are guests in my home, please rest, this argument serves no one."
He turned to Oberyn, voice low but firm. "Prince Oberyn, you will apologize to my lords. I am a northern lord myself. If you meant that as jest, say so, otherwise, it sounds as though you include me among those frozen in old ways."
Oberyn held Ned's gaze for a long moment, then chuckled and bowed his head slightly. "My apologies, Lord Glover, Lord Umber. The heat of Dorne sometimes makes me forget the chill of northern pride. No offense was intended… truly."
With that Oberyn left the room quietly.
Galbart and Greatjon grumbled, clearly unsatisfied.
They exchanged dark looks before turning to him.
"Think deeply before you make this decision, Lord Stark," Galbart said coldly.
With stiff nods, the two lords left and only Maege remained seated, quiet until the door closed.
Only then did she speak.
"It has been a long while since I last saw you, Ned."
Eddard poured her a cup of strong rum and slid it across the table. "I thank you for riding with them, Maege."
She took the cup, drank deeply, and grimaced.
"Harsh stuff, burns like fire down the throat." She set it down. "But I did not come to keep the others in check. I was the one who called for them and I came to make sure you do not make a mistake."
Ned leaned back, studying her. "Why do you think this is a mistake?"
Maege took another sip, then stared into the fire. "Robb is well-loved, the Winter Sons have earned him respect. But deep in their hearts, many lords still see him as a boy with southern blood. You will pass one day, Ned. He will inherit the North. We all pray war never finds our children, but if it does, he will need men who follow him without question."
She met his eyes. "The Targaryen children are still alive across the sea. If they return with an army one day, Robb will have to raise the North for the king. Will the lords follow a boy married to a Dornish princess? Or will they remember old blood and old grudges?"
His voice was steady. "To take arms against one's liege lord means death. Every man in the North knows that."
Maege gulped down the rest of the rum and set the cup down hard. "Daeron Targaryen thought the same. Black of hair, married a Dornish wife. His bastard brother still raised his banners and called himself the Black Dragon. Allegiance sworn to the death doesn't mean much to the living, Ned. Be careful what legacy you leave the boy with."
She stood, her cloak swirling as she walked towards the door, but before leaving she paused.
"He is a good lad, do not be hasty with his life."
Then she was gone.
But he remained seated long after the door closed and the fire crackled.
The weight of the letters, the lords' anger, Maege's warning, and the ghosts of past rebellions pressed down on him.
He poured himself another measure of rum and drank slowly, staring into the flames.
He is gonna reek of it today.