ASOIAF / Game of Thrones - Young Eddard (Ned) Stark x fem!Reader
Wordcount:2.5k
Warnings: mentioned of death and war, angst, but enough fluff to make it worth it. AU where Cate dies in childbirth with Robb and Ned has a second (first?) chance at love
A/N: It’s been so long since I just got to write for fun, so thanks for indulging me. And also thanks to the ever lovely @fallatyourfeet for giving me something to read to feed my creative juices.
It had only been two days since Ned had returned home from the war, but he was already exhausted from having to play the grieving widow.
Ned wasn’t heartless. He did grieve Catelyn in some ways, but given the sad smiles and pitiful gazes the staff and his bannermen have been sending his way, you’d think he’d lost some great love, not a woman he met and married the same day, and knew for only a fortnight after.
She was but a stranger, though he did mourn. He mourned for his son, who would not know his mother. He mourned for the life he envisioned upon returning from the war, getting to know the woman destined for his brother, and he mourned for his future self who would be forced into a politically advantageous match to have more heirs and keep the peace that was still so tenuous.
This wasn’t supposed to be his life. As second son, he had hoped to marry the daughter of one of his father’s bannermen, strengthening ties through his love and devotion to a proper Northern bride. And when his father had asked him, a month before Lyanna’s capture and the whole mess that followed, he without hesitation had said Y/N Umber. And the betrothal was all but final when Lord Stark had headed South. But it was useless to think about that now. He knew Robert had southern matches in mind for him, if the missives he sent with letters from fathers of beautiful noble maidens of the stormlands and the reach were any indication. He was in no place to protest the demands of the king.
Escaping the watchful eyes of the castle staff, Ned slipped into the nursery, hoping time with his son might ease his mind. But when he entered, light shone brightly through the window, casting the entire room in shadow. In front of the bassinet, there was a silhouette, haloed in the morning light. Full skirts, cinched waist, hair fitted in the Northern style, the silhouette gently swayed and soft sounds, like beautiful morning bird songs, hit his ears. If he hadn’t seen her resting place himself, Ned would have thought Catelyn still alive, overlooking her son. Perhaps it was her specter, determined to haunt the keep she called home for such a short time, alone and without a husband’s protection and love.
But at the sound of his entry, the figure turned, and as his eyes adjusted to the room, air left his lungs. It was not Catelyn. The hair was all wrong, the skin too different, and the expression was one he knew all too well, for he saw it in his dreams while he was at war far more than he saw that of his own wife, adding much guilt to his own conscience.
“Lady Y/N,” he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
