Chapter Text
Ned Stark falls in love with Melara Hetherspoon like this-
On the cusp of betrayal of the women who had protected her once, the fair Songbird of the West, The Lady of the Waters as she is known, flees Casterly Rock in the middle of the night.
She arrives on Eastern shores, her Household at her heels. Prince Oberyn Martell, her castillon of the Hethers, his little babes, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene. The strong, fierce knight of Ser Tygett Lannister. The incredibly proper and proud Lady Zhao Hua of House Plumm. The kind, thoughtful seamstress Casta Lannister. The fun, frightfully intelligent Johana and Josslyn.
And of course, Melara Hetherspoon, herself.
He doesn’t know it then, but a plot has been foiled, and Melara does what she likes to do when she can- she runs . On her beloved ship the ‘ Black Pearl ’, she reaches the Gulstown, traveling nearly insanely quickly through the new Hetherspoon Cannel that bisects the continent of Westeros in half. What travel had been moons has turned to a little over a week, and she reaches them just a few days after her pleading raven. The Household of Arryn descends upon the port town with trepidation and confusion. But readily, for a friend is in distress. The raven from Melara had been chased by the letter sent by Jaime Lannister, and then Lord Lannister himself.
All either raven said was that a plot was conspired, Melara Hetherspoon, again, had surprised all around her by uncovering it, circumventing it, and fleeing through the feat of engineering that had made the Hetherspoon name one of power and wealth. A name that would go straight into history for it. She had been cornered, Jaime’s letter had said, by his Mother. Nearly tied, forcibly into something. Jaime had done his best to get Melara free of it, and by order of Tywin Lannister, the Lady of the Waters was to be ‘Foster’ for a few years in the Eyrie as she explored new sea routes brought by her the Hetherspoon Chanel. The seal of the Lannister Lord confirms it, if with the stipulation that Melara had exclusive permission to flit off wherever she wanted in the course of managing her existing trade routes, and the plans of the construction of the Northern canels on word of his father.
She is three and ten, he is six and ten and unknowing of what will follow.
She speaks not of what betrayal has occurred, not exactly. All Ned Stark sees is a worried girl who is hurt. Sees the tears and the anger, the trembling hands as Jon Aryn greets her softly. Robert lifts her into his arms and spins her until she is in Ned’s reach. She presses her small face, so much taller now then she had been in their first meeting, against his chest, and he pulls her close. Ned is not a tall man, not by Robert’s standards, anyway, but he is still surprised to see her so grown. Despite what she has accomplished, he has somehow not thought of the years that have passed since they’ve seen each other in person.
He falls in love-
He is not sure. He has loved Melara since he has met her, he thinks. It takes very little to love her. She is curious and kind, intelligent and well-spoken to a point. Mad , he has heard whispered, and no, he does not believe her mad, but genius and hilarious once her tongue is loosened and she forgets Southern manners.
But it is he who loves her first, and as slow as he is in that regard, Melara is much slower.
There is a quiet, furious grief to Melara Hetherspoon.
It’s the first thing that Ned realizes of the girl who returns on the whims of sea and wind. Who never seems to sit still, always working, always running . She is grieving her bond with the Lannister family, that much Ned can see.
Especially Jaime and Lady Joanna, he thinks, as she throws another missive of the Casterly Rock furiously into the fire. The only she accepts is from Lady Genna and the Lord. Any other letter is tossed to the fire. Even Jaime’s letters are not accepted, thought those she does not burn. No, those she puts away, sealed, into a box that Ned is coming to hate when he sees it.
Her lips tremble as she watches the parchment curl and burn. The tanned leather smell of it follows the smoke.
She breathes, once, twice, deeply, quickly, through her nose.
She lets the breath out of her mouth.
“Kindly stop giving me any missive from Castely Rock I do not approve of,” her voice is ice, as she looks up at Maester Colemon, eyes a frothing sea, “I will only take letters from Lord Tywin, Lady Genna Lannister and Lord Jaime. Any other letter is not to be mine.”
“Child-”
“Maester,” her voice snaps, firms in fury, “I will answer nothing from that Keep.”
“I see, my lady.”
He sees her sobbing, later, against Ser Tygett’s neck, her hand's fists- bleeding from her nails digging into her palms.
Ned watches it with furious, sad eyes.
She tells him, finally, what had her fled her Guardians. It was a year later. Her nameday has come and gone… Why Tywin Lannister had given her leave, and why Jaime’s letter to them had sounded so fucking conflicted about aiding her escape.
Robert nearly breaks his War Hammer against the stone of the rock. It was a ride, a joyful escape for them amongst the steep rolling mounts of the Eyrie. Melara has told them of the trap of Lady Joanna Lannister had set for her, and her son, and Ned feels his stomach drop. She was to be engaged to the future Lord of the Rock. She was to be the Lady of the West by trick- by dishonor that Jaime would be tied to correct.
She spits this all furiously, tears stream down her face.
Ned watches in horror as she snarls, and rubs desperately at her face.
“She wasn’t giving me and Jaime a choice,” she sobs, “And she would have made me give up my Hethers. Made me breed a boy and another for the seat. She had promised! So ran. I talked to Lord Tywin, and he agreed to let me go in the wake of his wife’s schemes.”
“Fuck that Cunt !” Robert snarls.
He strikes the stone of the mountain, again and again. Sparks. Rocks. All fly. Melara soothes her horse with sweet words and gentle hands. Joanna Lannister’s name, Ned had realized early on that Melara’s escape, had become an open wound. Now he knows why.
She meant to trap her. She would never see her Hethers as her’s, truly, as she wanted. Jaime would have her hand, and…
Melara whips desperately at the tears in her eyes. Ser Tygett Lannister’s face is stone, his jaw grinding. Prince Obreyn is staring at the far distance with furiously burning pitch eyes. Ned pities Jaime, in that moment. He had helped Melara leave, even if he was in love with her. His choice, Ned knows, would not have done anything to change that outcome. But Melara’s? Jaime had given her the choice, even if he hated himself for it.
He did it for her. He sacrificed the chance of his happiness for her-
He is furious at Lady Joanna, however, for refusing Melara’s one wish. For the consent of her marriage, whoever that may be. He’s not very bright, really, because Ned does not think as too why he is so furious. Why he is relieved that Jaime let her go.
He would not realize it for years to come.
It happens slowly.
Unknowingly.
She takes root in his heart, quietly. It, he thinks, later in his life, happens because of the little things that seed his love in his heart. At the time he sees nothing of it.
Not truly.
Melara listens to him.
Ned realizes it, when he finds himself mid-ramble.
He isn’t a great speaker. He takes long, awkward times to find the right words. He gets emotional, sometimes, feels words stick together and crumble to ash in his throat.
But Melara listens to him.
She holds herself next to him. Waits, patiently, until he finds the words.
Ned-
Ned realizes because of it, he finds himself eager for any time they speak.
Melara knows and remembers all the names of everyone she meets.
Always takes the time to stop, linger, and know them.
Be they a scullery maid or Lord Aryn himself, she takes the time to know them. Not long into her stay in the keep, Ned realizes she has memorized every servant, every minor noble that lingers in the Eastern court, names.
Within moons, she knows of their family’s, of their wishes and dreams.
Ned notices.
Notices that no matter who, what status, who they are, she knows them. Speaks kindly to them all.
Ned admires the trait, as he is so aware of himself that he finds his own manners not to be as kind.
Melara sings unbidden, unknowing, sometimes.
Softly, as she works on a task.
Her moniker of Songbird of the West is apt, for songs slip from her lips sweetly as her focus drifts. His favorites are the bits of songs she brings from sources unlike that of Westeros. The sweet nothing she twists endlessly from the bits and pieces of her seemingly unexhausted knowledge.
Melara laughs when she is uncomfortable.
Where Ned freezes and feels every word taken from him, Melara laughs.
Spins and twists things so her strained laughter dies.
Beauty did mean somthing to Ned.
It was not all that consumed him, he was not Robert who chased girls with abandon and only just stopped himself from nonsense because of Oberyn and Tygett’s grip on the back of his neck, but beauty did move him.
What makes him notice Melara’s beauty, beyond it being a simple fact, is how her eyes looked in the sunlight on her fourteenth nameday.
The softness of her eyes as she kisses sweetly at Casta’s cheek for her gift of her gown for the evening, makes Ned freeze and stare.
Her eyes, he knows, are beautiful. It’s a fact.
But- the way they shine- it takes Ned’s breath for a moment. He then finds himself staring, and quietly wondering how he had never really looked at her eyes very long. How her eyelashes are long and spider web thin, or how her freckles are sprinkled about her cheeks like scattered stars, and he finds himself wondering if he can count them all.
Ned stares.
And stares.
And wonders why he cannot look away.
It is her kindness that takes his heart, he thinks.
Her beauty he thought little of, even if her beauty does capture a fraction of his attention. And though in the years she had seen him in person she has blossomed into a young beauty, he does not consider a girl of five and ten to be of interest to him. Even if she is one of the most beautiful women in the world, as he heard it be said. He does not think that much of a consequence.
She’s Mellie.
Not just this Lady of the Waters, or the Songbird of the West, he does not care much for those titles bestowed on her. He does not put much credence into it. He only sees a young girl he knows, has befriended, and wants to keep safe when she comes to him angry, betrayed, and grieving. He is a fool. Ned had always been slow when it comes to these things. Robert can attest to that. As can Melara, for that matter.
He realizes he is in love with her when she speaks of mending bridges. King Rheagar has sent her a raven to appear at the royal Tourney at Harrenhal, and Melara speaks of Jaime Lannister with regret. She is lovely and young and hopeful- Long, Ned has known that the Young lion is in love with the girl. His letters always ask for her, always beg for a piece of her, love-lorn and eager. Ned realizes he cares little to fulfill that aspect of Jaime’s friendship and does little on his part to answer him. Robert seems eager enough for it, anyway.
Then this.
This makes him think that Jaime may get his wish to woo Melara after all, and perhaps the King is acting on behalf of Lady Joanna, trying to sway Melara to meet with the Lannisters she has avoided so well. Lady Joanna had had a large part in dethroning his ill father, after all… He pictures it. Jaime, older now, grown, proclaiming his real love for the girl. Preapproved by his conniving family- The thought- the thought of Melara in his arms. It unsettles Ned.
Is that not what we have jokingly said would come to pass? Since she arrived in the Vale, flitted between the Vale, Dorne, her Hethers, and the North-
Is that not what we have predicted?
Ned knows that Melara fled marriage from the future Lord of the Rock, plotted by his mother.
And he wonders, as she stares down at the missive from the King, if she would flee it still, if she knew that it had not been a trap for both of them, but meant as a gift for two who by all means, naturally, would have fallen in love in time. He feels it in his bones. Had Joanna Lannister not sought to isolate Melara, covet her for her abilities, and use her for it, bind her like a wolf in a cage, Ned realized that Melara would have fallen in love with Jaime. For his devotion, for his handsome face, and for the friendship they had built then. And that opportunity could very well come again.
He is… Disquieted, he realizes that his fists are clenched and that his nails are biting into his palms. He forces his hands to relax.
They do not.
“Do you think that wise?” his words are spoken, and it almost feels like it is someone else who has said them. For it is harsh, biting.
Melara looks up, startled, lips parting slightly. His eyes flicker to the gentle pout of them.
“Ned?”
He swallows. He can’t seem to find his air. He looks into her eyes. Green, but blue, like the sea. Shifting and shimmering-
“I don’t want them to hurt you. They want something. It is not your duty to give it to them. Your debt has been paid, Melara.”
She blinks at the address. Very often, he only calls her Mellie, as she calls him Ned. But the full name comes from him seriously.
“I- I am unsure. I don’t… I don’t know what they want. But. It is just as you say. They will want something .”
Ned realizes that Robert is looking at him, a startled look, with lots of blinking eyes and a slightly gaped mouth. Ned feels himself flush. He swallows again. He ignores Robert. Robert does not ignore him. Not that Ned knows it. For it is later, cornered in his bedroom, that Robert all but slams him into the wall. Ned wheezes.
“Bobbie B what the fuc-”
“Ned, you are my brother. Do not lie to me. Are you in love with Mellie?”
Ned feels as if the world has dropped from beneath his feet.
“Bobbie-”
“ Eddard .”
The question is sudden.
The answer comes from him just as suddenly.
“Yes,” he blurts, and he feels his entire face, and even his neck, grow hot.
He stares. Robert looks at him and lets out a mighty swear. Ned feels himself swallow, clumsily, eyes wide and confused.
“What the fuck will you do about it?”
“What can I do? Jaime has been in love with her since-”
“Bugger Jaime and his conniving bitch of a mother! This isn’t about him. It’s about what you want.”
“I wish her happy. That is all-”
“By taking away her choice? That makes you the same as the Cunt!”
Ned nearly stops breathing. The thought is agonizing to think. To see the same hurt that had filled Melara when Lady Joanna had shattered her trust.
“What will you have me do?” he begs his friend.
And for once in his life, Robert is the intelligent one in their friendship.
His blue eyes blaze.
“Give her a fucking choice, fucking fuck, Eddard . Let her know you are a choice she can make. Woo our friend, and see if she will choose you. Give her the damn choice.”
Ned realizes a flaw in Robert’s frankly, startling good advice.
He has no idea, really, what it means to woo a girl. Yes, he’s had his fair share of… Adventures. He is a man grown. His best friend is fucking Robert Baratheon. He is not a green boy who has not bedded a woman. But bedding a girl and trying to marry her is very fucking different.
Ned stares. Melara, beauty and grace, laughs at something that little Tybalt says. She bounces Lady Casta’s son.
“You will make a good Mother,” he blurts.
Like a fool. Melara blinks at him, gently confused. Robert the twat, dramatically slams his hand onto his forehead.
I hope it hurts, Ned thinks, morosely.
“Ah… Thank you Ned?”
He thinks she says it much more kindly than he deserves.
Faintly, he wonders if he throws himself off the side of the ship, if the seas would drown him quickly.
He slips his cloak around her when she shivers, beating Ser Tygett to it quickly.
He nearly swallows his tongue as he realized that his gesture, meant kindly, also could be seen as-
Well.
As a very pointed possessive claim. She wears Stark Grey, Stark colors, and is cloaked by his own garment. A wedding gesture.
He blinks.
You idiot, his voice sounds like Robert, in his head. And he nearly swallows his tongue. Nearly slips on the slick deck by the look that Ser Tygett sends him.
Melara does not think anything of it. But, then, sometimes gestures like this don’t register to her. Another trait he finds endearing, the way she seems to forget little things that bind them all into strange limitations. Melara sees limitations and shrugs them off. It is something he admires, and will admire all his life.
“Oh, Thank you, Ned,” she says unknowingly making his heart race, “I’ll get my own, I shouldn’t have left it in the cabin.”
“Ah-”
She slips his colors off, and passes back to him with a smile.
He clutches at the cloak, and feels like a fool.
He expects Ser Tygett to corner him. Even Prince Obreyn. The Cloak Inccident was noticed, and he braves himself to whatever they will say to him.
He, instead, nearly chokes on his tongue when it is Casta Lanister corners him in his cabin, knitting needles in hands. Sharp and reading to hurt.
“If you’re thinking of fucking her for fun and because she’s there, pretty and uncaring of society’s rules,” she hisses, “I will remove your fucking balls.”
“I- I don’t want to just fuck her ,” he blurts.
Casta lifts a brow.
“Ah. Are you in love, little lordling?”
He blushes. Feels the heat of it travel to his ears.
“Yes?”
Her lips twist into a smile. She pins the needles into her cloak. She sits, crosses her legs. Carefully touches at the bangles on her arm, a gift from her lord husband. She always keeps it with her. It is a sign of love, these bangles. He never tries to look too hard at the matching cuffs on the upper arm of Prince Oberyn, or the fact that Ser Tygett’s amor now reflects the same etchings.
It is, frankly, none of his business.
“You have a road ahead of you. Her heart, it is like a fortress. She already loves you as a friend. Anything else? You will have to be drastic for it. And perhaps,” she tilts her head, “And perhaps you should brace yourself. I am one of many that will confront you for the fight for her heart. ”
“I- I don’t want to fight to enter her heart,” he replies, and he feels himself swallow thickly, “I want to be invited to enter it. I want to give her the choice to be with her in such a manner.”
Casta Lannister blinks, and throws back her head and laughs. When she finishes, her smile is softer. Warmer.
“Well little lordling, perhaps it need not be a fight after all, if that is what you think like. I know you better now, and I will say one thing. Good luck.”
Ser Tygett remembers a conversation when Melara was a child, and speaking of potential betrothals.
She had favored Eddard Stark, and now that he knows the boy properly, he wonders if she still does. He can’t say he hadn’t thought of it. When Joanna’s bid to trap Melara in marriage with Jaime, Ned had been a drastic, possible alternative. Even Oberyn, self-sacrificing that he was, had thrown his hat in, as it were, but had pointed that the younger lad was as good as they would get for their not-quite-daughter.
Oberyn presses a kiss to his shoulder, and Tygett shudders. Runs a careful hand through Casca’s silky locks.
“She could do worse,” whispers his lady love, lips twitching.
Oberyn snorts. His Prince rolls over him, pins Casta with hard glare.
“You like the lad for saying words. Words are wind.”
“Even wind has substance, as we feel it,” he replies, immediately repeating the phrase that Melara had thrown in Tywin’s face, “And… Eddard isn’t a bad man.”
Casca smiles.
“We can still gut him if he was lying,” she says sweetly, even as she reaches to run her own hand through Tygett’s hair.
Tygett kisses her shoulder.
“She’s too young,” he whispers against her skin. Arguing against it.
This is how they spoke of problems. Laid the positives and the negatives. He wished- he wished there was more time yet before they spoke of this particular problem. He loved Melara so much. And change for the girl that was his daughter in all but their name- came so seldomly in a positive way.
Casta hummed.
“I lost my maidenhead at four and ten. Five and ten is not so odd,” she tells them, simply.
He snorts. He was younger yet. He was three and ten when he braved the whorehouse in Lannisport, Kevin grinning ear to ear in tease when he had all but strutted out of it. He supposes he has no room to speak of it. Oberyn squirms in between them both, his favorite place to be, and gathers both Casta and Tygett together in the strength of his wirey arms.
“She wants commitment. Devotion. Can the boy give it to her?” Tygett argues.
“He’s stayed friends with the Dolt this long. Devotion is in Eddard’s nature,” counters Oberyn, voice begrudging. His runs his hands at their necks.
Tygett snorts at the moniker for Robert.
“He’s a second son,” Tygett argues.
Oberyn snorts.
“Melara needs no wealth, no lands. She is good enough for the pair of them.”
“... He is too old.”
Oberyn rolls his eyes.
“You are reaching.”
“I just do not want to see her hurt,” Tygett confesses, voice cracking, “It has happened to often in her life.”
Casta presses her face against his cheek. Sighs softly.
“She can make her choices. We, my loves, are only there to make sure her options are of quality,” Casta says softly.
At that Tygett, can do little but sigh in quiet agreement.
Melara would like to say she is very socially aware.
So when both Ned and Bobbie B start acting like complete idiots, she realizes quickly that they’re up to something.
She is, however, completely an idiot in one sense.
Her pre-knowledge bites her completely in the ass in this case. Because, she, so smart, so socially aware- Forgets one vital detail. Eddard Stark is fucking unattached, and she is the only lady of his acquaintance that he has known with any steady sort of frequency. And, despite everything, people never completely become the people they should become when it comes to this damn dimension.
“Lay it to me straight, Bobbie-B. What are you and Ned up too?”
Robert is a piss poor liar. It’s probably why he would be a shitty King. And she has made sure to corner him.
“Uh-” he splutters, “Nothing?”
She stares at him unimpressed.
And then, he escapes answering her, because fucking Greyjoy not-Vikings decided to ruin her day.
She sighs.
The ship is too small.
She raises a brow.
“Why are you and Robert being so weird?” she asks Ned, hands on hip.
He looks at her and he wants to blurt it all out. Confess. Because he- he hates to keep lying to her. First and foremost, Melara is his friend.
One of his truest friends.
So it is difficult for him to well, not to tell her everything. But- Casta was right. Her heart is a fortress and… He does not think her ready. He looks into her eyes.
“I… I just- We are worried. The Lannisters,” he isn’t lying, “I am worried they will hurt you.”
Her eyes soften. Go sweet and Ned could burst from the emotion of it.
“I am not worried,” she tells him, and carefully places a hand on his arm, “I am not alone. Not like before.”
Seeing Jaime is like a dose of cold water.
Why is he so fucking handsome?
Ned is not so shallow or insecure of himself.
But…
Why would Melara want him? When Jaime is there, with his golden looks at his knighttage, the future lord of a keep, in love with her since they were children? The fierce slayer of the fucking Smiling Knight, knighted at five and ten by the Sword of the Morning himself. Who was he? Second son. Barely any wealth to his name, because of Melara meddling in his fiances. He has no keep, no lands. His nose is too big, his expression and mode a dark thing more often than not. He was not the most handsome of men by most standards. His words too clumsily. He is not a martial man by most means.
Ned freezes at the sight of the golden man grown, beaming at Melara.
And then Robert punches his arm.
“Don’t be a bitch,” he hisses, underneath his breathe.
He squawks.
“That’s not fair to use Melara’s words against me,” he snaps.
“Well, but will you be a bitch?”
Melara’s smile is soft, but it is small. Hesitant and wary.
It is all the resolve he needs. That hesitance. That wariness.
“No. For her, I won’t be.”
“Will you please dance with me?” his voice cracks.
As if his balls are still dropping. Gods, does Ned wish he could prevent his palms from sweating.
Melara blinks.
Blinks once, twice, and then goes a sweet rosey color.
She is still wearing a belt of vivid blue inlaid roses. Winter roses. Robert had told him it was a sign here in the opening feast of the King’s Tourney. Ned didn’t believe in signs. Winter roses meant nothing. But- the sweet rose of her cheeks?
Ned took it as hope.
They dance once.
Twice.
Ned dares asks for a third.
It is at the third asked dance that Melara realizes why Ned was acting so weird.
She admits it. Her mind short-circuits.
Because.
That’s not cannon, she thinks, eyes wide.
Then she immediately thinks that she is merely taking the place of the maybe-relationship of Ashara. Then she thinks she has destroyed the future.
Then-
She sees how Ned’s face falls at her staring. At her lack of response when he asks her a third time. Above all, Ned is her friend.
And she knows he is a good man.
Her heart pounds.
“Of course, Eddard,” she whispers, softly.
He beams.
They dance. It is a happy one. Joyful. Even if Melara wonders what the fuck to do. When their dance is done, she does as she always does.
She runs .
He is midway through his third flagoon of wine when he nearly pisses his pants.
“A song is a song,” says Howland Reed, voice quiet, “And stories are rewritten as the needs are changed within it.”
Ned jumps. Away from the wine in front of him.
“What?”
The Cragoman smiles.
“You should… Say that. When you finally confess your love to your Lady.”
Ned has spoken to the Cragoman perhaps a handful of sentences.
“Am I so obvious?”
“Not at all, My lord.”
Ned frowns.
“I do not understand what you have told me.”
The small man keeps smiling. His green eyes shine.
“No. I do not think you would. But she will, Ned.”
The strange little man walks away. Ned shakes his head.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“You- Ned, I’m not-”
She is rejecting him.
She is saying no.
Ned accepts that.
He does.
But- but he wished her answer was different. He swallows. He feels foolish, but he realizes he is swallowing back tears. He loves her so much he feels as if he could die from it. Everything of her makes him smile, everything of her makes him stop and wonder.
But she is not… She does not want him.
He accepts it.
He must.
“I’m sorry, Eddard,” she whispers, she swallows thickly and he feels a small smile in response.
“Do not be. I am not begging for you to be-”
“It’s not that I don’t care for you-”
“Stop,” he says, simply, “You need not explain anything. I have told you what I felt, what you are to me. I wish to wed you. I wish to be everything for you. But, if I am not that, I need not an explanation of why I am not. It is an offer, Melara. Not a demand .”
She stares at him and he wished despite himself. Wished it was different.
“Yet, I- I am sorry,” she whispers, “I have no idea what to think. I never expected this.”
The words of Howland Reed come to him. He blinks.
“A song is a song,” says Eddard, voice breaking, “And stories are rewritten as the needs changed within it?”
Melara freezes.
Eyes wide.
“Who told you that?” she demands, voice trembling.
“...Howland Reed?”
Melara makes a face.
She reaches for his face, cups his ears, and yanks.
The kiss is bliss.
The sweetness of her eyes as he pulls back is more so.
“I know I could love you. I have prevented myself from thinking of you in such a way,” she whispers, “I do love you as a friend at the moment. More? Give me time.”
“Why did you not think of me that way? Am-”
She laughs softly. Not in discomfort. In helpless distraction.
“Because I thought it was the right thing to not think of anyone that way. I think you are very handsome. I wanted to yank on your ears since we first met.”
He does as he thinks is the right thing.
He kisses her again.
She returns it, soft and warm in a way that makes him sigh.
“This need not a final answer,” he tells her, serious, as he pulls back, “We need not be betrothed, or wed. For I am not the only man that will want your hand. Look at them all, think of your choices before you settle on me.”
She blinks.
And blinks again.
“What?”
“You are one of the most beautiful women in the world, let’s not lie and ignore that you are wealthy, and that your work in trade and construction has already cemented your place in history. I will not shackle you to me. If I am your choice, make it with knowing of every choice that awaits you. I will wait for you, Melara. Make the choice you want the most.”
He sneaks another kiss, soft, wanting and patient.
“I love you.”
“Thank you,” she whispers softly against his lips, and that is enough of an answer.
He is a possibility for her.
And Eddard is determined that he is the choice she will make. He is still perhaps helpless in the wake of courtship, but now that she knows, he determines he can say all that has been on the tip of his tongue since he realized he loved her.
“I love your freckles.”
She jumps in place. Robert is looking at the flagon of wine next to him as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. Ned blushes.
“My freckles?” she crinkles her nose, “Is it not a mar on my complexion?”
“I want to count them all. Their beautiful.”
Her lips twitch.
“They change. Exposure to the sun affects how much I have.”
He smiles.
“Perhaps that means I will never stop counting. I love you for that.”
She turns a lovely rose color.
He smiles.
“What?” she laughs, adjusting the papers beneath her.
“You write like a demon monkey. For someone so intelligent, you cannot write a straight line to save your life. I love you for it,” he tells her, seriously.
Melara laughs, her face rosey again.
It has become his favorite color.
“To our Lady of the Waters! My queen of love and beauty.”
His smile is brilliant, and he looks cheery. She is unattached, she reminds herself. He is of the Kingsguard. And while that did not stop Selmy from loving the once tragic lady of Starfall, Arthur Dayne does not… Look at her like that. His naming is an honor, not insidious.
Yet, she cannot help but think- The Tourney of Harrenhall is cursed. Because Harrenhall feels cursed to her.
She winces, the flowers in her lap. Still winter roses. But babies breath and wreathed with little aster flowers. She looks up at the earnest expression of the man who crowned her. She sees no malice, no intent.
“Oh,” she whispers, “Thank you, Ser.”
Next to her, Ned’s hand finds hers. He clasps her hand delicately. She- She jolts. It’s one thing, for Robert Baratheon to hold her hand. He is love language, she had realized, was touch. It takes a lot more for Eddard to hold her hand. He is more formal than Robert. Selective of his touch. Adverse to it from strangers, perhaps. She can count the many of times that Eddard held her hand, out of desire, not etiquette. His hand is warm. Calloused. Gentle.
She is at the highest point of the period of puberty.
He is in love with her, she remembers again, stunned by it. So she is only alarmed, not surprised, by the way her heart starts to pound. She blinks. Once, twice, startled by the very visceral reaction.
Jerks her gaze forward.
Looks back down at the knight.
“Thank you, Ser Dayne.”
She places the blue roses on her head. He smiles kindly at her, bows.
“To our Lady of the Waters!” he calls again, grinning, “I name her my Queen of Love and Beauty.”
The Tourney grounds explode with noise.
Ned keeps holding her hand.
Melara threads her fingertips through his.
It feels right.
Oh, some part of her heart says.
Somewhere, she knows, She is laughing in joy at her own joy.
She makes her choice crowned in Winter Roses before she is to dance before the realm as the Queen of Love and Beauty of the Tourney. She wishes to dance as an engaged woman. She wishes a single dance with Arthur Dayne a dance a peace with her family, and then all the rest with Ned.
She is in love.
She is in her own happy story.
“You must ask Lord Lannister for my hand,” she tells Eddard, and she feels her face flush brightly at the admittance, “For you are my choice, because I love you, and because the mere sight of you makes my Heart smile.”
Ned stares at her, grey eyes wide.
All she had ever wanted was for a girl who died on a page to live beyond it.
She understands, suddenly, that maybe her story must instead take all the pages it can.
Fuck canon, she thinks, besotted, as Ned smiles. It is such a smile she remembers until the Stranger finally takes her, a brilliant and warm of smile. He reaches for her, kisses her, soft and happy, and dips her with a woop on their still-touching lips.
He spins her.
Round and round in joy.
Melara laughs.
They are betrothed.
Lord Lannister announces it before the King, who receives the words with joy.
She only have eyes for Ned. She can give a fuck about everyone else but him in the moment.
Because this is her choice, wholly.
“I love that you take the time with your words,” Melara tells him.
Ned skids to a near stop. Now, it is his turn to turn pink in embarrassment.
Melara’s sea-green eyes twinkle. Her hand hold’s his.
“I will reap what I sow, will I not?”
“A thousandfold, if I must.”
He groans into his hands as she laughs.
“When I see you gaze in the middle distance, I want to yank on your ears and make you look at me. I love how ditzy you are.”
“I think you mean thoughtful.”
“I said what I said.”
Ned laughs. She kisses him to taste the laughter from his lips.
She is happy.
She is in love.
And she is content with it.
Upon reaching Hether Castle, Lord Jaime of Casterly Rock… He can admit it.
He loses his breath when he sees Melara Hetherspoon for the first time in nearly fifteen years.
The years have been kind to her, and it makes something in him so fucking happy to see her. She wears orange and grey, Hetherspoon and Stark. Her face has grown fairer with the years, her sea-green eyes are as beautiful as ever.
She is round with child.
The sixth, if the missives from Ned had told him anything. And his friend is nothing but a steady raven writer.
I still love her, the knowledge of such makes Jaime nearly laugh. He has loved Melara before he ever understood what love was. Has adored her since she was but a tragic girl underneath his mother’s arm, and now a man near thirty and six, he is still in love with her. With his best friend’s wife. Loved her enough to let her go. Yet, I have not. Or perhaps she has not let me go. I still feel her, when I am alone, I think of her when I bed my wife, pretend Cat’s red hair is not copper but wine-dark instead, I think of her in the mornings I wake and find my bed full of a trout. I think of her when I walk the halls of the Rock without her, or when I look to the sunset sea and see only her eyes. But he feels his love keenly as she kneels to King Rheagar and Queen Lyanna. Rheagar laughs and lifts Ned and Melara alike from their kneeling after a mere second, and he embraces them like they are family. And they are. Rheagar calls her sister of his heart, and Lyanna loves her goodsister dearly.
Jaime remembers dancing at the King’s Tourney when she was just barely a woman and he was just a man. The favor he had stolen from Ser Arthur, ridding it with it tucked against his heart, and remembers the smell of the perfume he had gifted her. He remembers his father’s voice, announcing their betrothal.
He remembers the rage against Ned so, so fucking clearly.
Still feels it, simmering in his skin.
And he remembers- He remembers the smile that had made him let her go. Remembers how her sea-green eyes had followed after Ned in quiet, brilliant adoration, and gods does Jaime resent his mother for all of this.
Next to him, his frail mother breathes. Anger, as always, stirs towards Joanna Lannister as easily as he breathes air. She has never recovered since Tyrion’s birth, since Melara had stitched her together piece by piece and his mother had- Had thrust her away. Shattered her trust over him.
Jaime, in his worst moments, remembers that if his mother had been slyer, ahead of Melara just a step, she would have been his. She would have been his wife and he would have held Melara in his arms as he still wished for.
“Lady Hetherspoon,” her voice is somber.
Melara’s expression shutters. Loses warmth and some color.
“Lady Lannister,” her voice is not cold- but there is no love between the former Ward of the Rock and its former Lady.
There never would be again.
He misses Cersei, he knows. He thinks of his beautiful sister, wrathful, screaming, calling him a coward for letting her run.
He has missed her, ever since she had left. Even now, he wonders where Cersei had gone. Where had she chosen to live out her life.
He will wonder the rest of his life.
“But your story, is it a happy one, Melara?” he asks of her.
Melara stares at Jaime. At the strength of his emerald eyes. Once, once, all she had ever wanted was for those eyes to look at her. That was another girl. Who lived before a Crone awoke within her. She turns away. Looks to her husband. Smiles softly, at both the fate she has thoroughly told to fuck off, and at the warmth in his grey eyes as he looks at her.
She smiles. Soft, and sure.
“With all that I am. My story has been happy since Ned told me he loved me.”
Jaime Lannister laughs. A half-aborted sound. When she turns back to him, he is smiling at her.
“I am glad of it, Mellie, my friend,” he says, simply.
He squeezes her hand, and Melara returns the gesture. Then they separate, and she goes for her husband, both hands reaching.
He meets her halfway.
Kisses her gently on the mouth.
And Melara knows her story
was
a happy one.