Work Text:
"Lord Reed? The men you spoke of are here."
He had asked the captain of the guard to have his men watch for a small group of soldiers in the livery of Winterfell, and bring them to Greywater Watch if they were found. The captain, long since accustomed to his lord's strangely prescient requests, had not questioned him.
"They're waiting in the solar," the guard who'd come to deliver the message continued. "Captain figured you'd want to speak with them--said they've brought something important."
Important, that much was true. To the lord of Greywater Watch, for his oath to House Stark; but far more dear, whispered a voice in his mind, to the man than to the lord, for--
He pushed the thought away. Later, alone, he could think such things, but it was his duty first to welcome the men who had made the journey from King's Landing. He thanked the guard for the news, and went to meet his newest guests.
The Winterfell men were talking among themselves in low voices when he entered. One of them bowed, with a murmur of "Lord Reed", and the others soon followed suit.
"The hospitality of Greywater Watch is yours for as long as you have need of it," Howland said.
"Thank you, milord," one of the men replied, "but I fear our errand is important. We will depart again tomorrow."
"I know where you are bound, and what it is that you bear with you." Bones, only bones, proof beyond doubt of that terrible dream. A flicker of surprise crossed the man's face. "Rest here a day, and the journey ahead will be easier."
The man turned to his companions, who nodded their assent. "Very well, then," he said. His companions left then, saying something about finding a better meal than they could have on the road and leaving Howland alone with the man who seemed to be their leader.
"You knew him, did you not?" the other man asked softly. He spoke no name, but none was needed.
"I did." Knew him, and loved him, and gave him my loyalty--but he is gone.
"If you wished to see..." The other man trailed off, then paused and began again. "House Reed is always spoken of as a friend to Winterfell. If you wished to say your farewells, I could show you. Where he is, I mean."
"I would like that."
The man led him to a nearby room, pausing outside the closed door. He opened it slightly, then moved back.
Slowly, Howland stepped inside. A bundle wrapped in gray cloth lay on the table at the center of the room. He carefully unfolded the fabric, and though he knew what lay beneath, he could not stop the stab of grief he felt at the sight of the direwolf emblazoned on the doublet that covered some of the bones.
He had dreamed of Ned in darkness and Ice dripping with blood. When word had come from King's Landing that Eddard Stark was accused of treason, imprisoned in the Black Cells, he had remembered that dream, and feared what his friend might have done. The king was dead, Ned accused of betraying him, and Howland knew of only one reason that he would do such a thing. The next raven from the south carried the news that he had been executed. Ilyn Payne had used House Stark's own blade, it said, a final mockery of the man who had wielded it.
He had not dreamed again since that terrible foreboding when he woke with the knowledge of northern men traveling through the swamps, bearing a precious burden.
"Farewell, old friend," he whispered, but only silence answered. "May the gods look kindly on you." Later, when the men had departed to carry these bones to rest where they belonged, he would pray before the weirwoods for Ned to know the peace in death that the weight of duty had taken from him in life. The gods were often harsh, it was true, but that at least they would surely grant. It was a small, cold comfort against his grief, but he clung tightly to the thought that Ned would rest, reunited with those he had lost. Stern Lord Rickard, reckless Brandon--and Lyanna.
Lyanna, for whose sake they had kept a secret through the long years she never saw. Lyanna, whose son was at the Wall, ignorant of the truth that only Howland now knew. If by some luck we meet, I will tell him. It should have been Ned, who had raised the boy as his own, but the chance for that was gone, past returning.
Gently, he reached out with one finger, brushing the side of the skull. If he had hoped to find some enduring remnant of Ned in the touch, he did not; the bone was cold and lifeless beneath his hand, with no sign that this was all that remained of his dearest friend. Still, he bent and pressed a kiss to the thin, pale hands that lay crossed atop the chest. That last pledge of love and loyalty given, Howland Reed finally allowed himself to weep.