"Heroes from the Reach?" Ned replies with amusement in his voice. "A rather creative system you've found." But her admission of naming animals after his children elicited a bark of laughter he was quick to cover with a stretch of his fingers along his chin. "I can only hope your animals are better behaved than my children when they are hungry and tired." There could be no person - in this world or the next - who could doubt Ned's love for his children; of course, in addition to speaking of them with fondness and love, it also meant making quips about them when the opportunity presented itself.
Ned knows the lingering effects Westeros has on the minds who'd inhabited it. He finds himself regarding almost all he meets with a degree of suspicion, often too high and too abundant for a place as removed as the village. Each word, each display could be nothing more than a rouse, a disguise, a ploy to force his hand, render him vulnerable and exposed. And yet, with Margaery, he found he did not fear those things - perhaps because of their removal from King's Landing and the Lannisters' reach, perhaps because of their commonality in having grown in a world as harsh as the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps because of the girl - frightened and alone - he could see in her eyes, whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
"And I, of course, want them as close as they will allow me. There is nothing that can undo the bonds of blood and flesh as I share with my children, not even the edge of a sword or the tip of an arrow. But they are grown, and will continue to grow. It's the natural way of things, for children to outgrow their parents when the time comes." He falls quiet for a moment. "I will not force you to join us when the silence looms, but I hope that you will remember the invitation."
With a nod, he takes the pot and discards of the cut-off limbs, head, fur, and innards that were of no use to the stew. He carries the cutting board and knife towards the sink, where he washes them both, as well as his hands, of whatever was left of the rabbit.
no subject
Ned knows the lingering effects Westeros has on the minds who'd inhabited it. He finds himself regarding almost all he meets with a degree of suspicion, often too high and too abundant for a place as removed as the village. Each word, each display could be nothing more than a rouse, a disguise, a ploy to force his hand, render him vulnerable and exposed. And yet, with Margaery, he found he did not fear those things - perhaps because of their removal from King's Landing and the Lannisters' reach, perhaps because of their commonality in having grown in a world as harsh as the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps because of the girl - frightened and alone - he could see in her eyes, whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
"And I, of course, want them as close as they will allow me. There is nothing that can undo the bonds of blood and flesh as I share with my children, not even the edge of a sword or the tip of an arrow. But they are grown, and will continue to grow. It's the natural way of things, for children to outgrow their parents when the time comes." He falls quiet for a moment. "I will not force you to join us when the silence looms, but I hope that you will remember the invitation."
With a nod, he takes the pot and discards of the cut-off limbs, head, fur, and innards that were of no use to the stew. He carries the cutting board and knife towards the sink, where he washes them both, as well as his hands, of whatever was left of the rabbit.