Upon hearing what the Duke of Stark said, Karl once again displayed a perfectly timed expression of confusion.
He lowered his head slightly, his tone restrained and apologetic.
"It's my pleasure, my lord.
However… I truly have no memory of what happened back then. I'm sorry."
Realizing the awkwardness of the situation, Eddard Stark's face flashed with embarrassment.
He waved a hand gently, indicating that Karl need not apologize.
"It's quite all right," Ned said, voice softening. "You were only two years old at the time, and we haven't seen one another since. It is natural that you remember nothing."
Even as he spoke, Eddard Stark seemed acutely aware of how absurd it was—expecting a grown man to recall events from his infancy.
But the familiarity in Karl's face, the resemblance to old memories and the echoes of the Vale, had struck him so suddenly that he had momentarily lost his composure.
Karl could not respond meaningfully to such sentiments. He could only force a polite laugh, hoping to smooth over the awkward moment. Standing before Eddard Stark felt strangely similar to the way, in his previous life, adults on holidays would drag him to visit relatives he did not know and had no memory of.
His expression showed the same faint discomfort.
He was only truly familiar with Jon Arryn—and even that familiarity was limited.
Still, Jon Arryn had extended a genuine paternal kindness toward him, something Karl could unmistakably feel. Compared to that bond, the other noble families were essentially strangers.
After the two exchanged several stiff pleasantries, Eddard's mood inevitably dimmed.
Looking at the young man before him—a man who resembled Robert Baratheon in his youth by seven or eight parts, yet carried a sharper, more striking handsomeness—Ned was forcibly reminded of a past he had tried to bury.
The last time he had seen Robert…
It had been a farewell.
Not a reunion.
And now, the first time seeing him again, after Robert had ascended the Iron Throne… the circumstances were nothing like Ned had imagined.
As Ned studied Karl, he could not help but recall the contents of the letter Robert had sent before the royal visit.
The sudden death of Jon Arryn—his own foster father.
Robert's message pleading for help.
The delicate state of the realm, teetering on the edge of tension.
And then this series of troublesome incidents that had unfolded along the king's journey.
Eddard exhaled quietly and looked at Karl with a tinge of melancholy.
The desire to speak further faded from him.
"You must be tired from your long travels," Ned said. "I hope the cold of the North hasn't been too harsh. If you'd like, Maester Luwin can take you to your chambers to rest."
His tone remained warm, genuinely concerned.
But Karl noted the slight shift in Ned's expression.
He sensed that the Lord of Winterfell's thoughts had wandered elsewhere.
So Karl straightened himself and shook his head politely.
"Thank you for your concern, Your Grace," he replied. "But I still have duties to attend to. I must know whether everything is in readiness. I also need to return and report to His Majesty."
Seeing Karl's serious, businesslike expression, Ned let out a light, resigned laugh.
"Of course. We would never greet our king with anything less than proper hospitality."
"That is good to hear," Karl replied. "Thank you for your preparations, my lord.
Oh—one more thing. When we entered the city, I noticed the width of the gate. The Queen's wheelhouse won't be able to pass through. You may wish to make arrangements accordingly."
"And also…"
Karl continued by listing several details he had observed before arriving—details that required immediate attention.
Although scholars and stewards were the ones who prepared most of the logistics, it fell to Karl, as the king's vanguard, to notice such practical matters.
By the time they finished discussing every necessary point, enough time had passed to eat a full meal.
When the king traveled, the highest standards were expected.
And as Robert's sworn man, Karl's responsibilities were many—large and small.
Fortunately, after today's tasks were completed, he might finally enjoy a brief period of rest.
Stepping out of the main keep, Karl straightened his collar.
The damp warmth radiating from Winterfell's hot springs brushed against his skin—still unfamiliar, still strange.
He lifted his eyes toward the gray sky.
"I wonder if it will snow…"
He muttered softly.
A small movement caught his attention—a tiny black figure climbing up and down the distant city wall with the agility of a squirrel.
…
…
Before the king's caravan arrived, the Stark family had already gathered in full force.
Arya Stark—spirited, stubborn, and impossible to keep still—had slipped out of the city earlier.
Fortunately for her (and unfortunately for the guards), she was eventually found and dragged back, only to receive a thorough scolding from Septa Mordane.
Sansa, ever the proper young lady, took the opportunity to tease her younger sister.
Bran Stark, who had been missing as well, was finally located by Catelyn Tully atop one of Winterfell's towers—drawn there by the sound of barking dogs.
After receiving mild scolding of his own, Bran obediently joined the others.
Once the mischievous children were disciplined and accounted for, the Stark household assembled for the royal welcome.
Duke Eddard Stark took his place at the forefront.
Beside him stood all five Stark children—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and little Rickon, who clung tightly to Catelyn's hand.
Standing behind the immediate family were others close to House Stark.
Jon Snow, Ned's acknowledged bastard, stood quietly in their ranks, his dark eyes watchful but reserved.
Then there was Theon Greyjoy—the hostage, the ward, the strange half-brother figure to the Stark boys.
Around them gathered the loyal household: Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Septa Mordane, Captain Jory Cassel, and many more.
All had taken their positions near the east gate.
Because Karl Stone had warned that the Queen's enormous wheelhouse could not fit through the city gate, the entire procession prepared to greet the king outside the walls.
Excitement—tempered by northern restraint—hung in the air.
And then, like a river of gold and silver, the royal procession emerged.
Banners of gold fluttered in the whipping wind—each embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Ned immediately recognized several faces.
Ser Jaime Lannister, tall and flawless, with his unmistakable golden hair.
Sandor Clegane, The Hound, with the terrible burns marring half his face.
A young boy riding near the front—the crown prince.
And there, perched awkwardly on a horse much too tall for him, was Tyrion Lannister—the infamous "Imp".
At the head of the host, Karl Stone rode beside a large, round-bellied man Ned did not immediately recognize.
Only when that man swung down from his warhorse, bellowing in a voice that shook the courtyard, did the truth strike him.
"Ned!"
The booming shout echoed, and the man marched forward with the force of a charging bull.
Before Ned could react, the enormous figure wrapped him in a crushing embrace.
For a heartbeat, Ned felt every bone in his body threaten to snap.
But that very pain confirmed what his eyes had not.
There was only one man in the Seven Kingdoms who greeted friends like this.
"Robert…" Ned breathed.
The king laughed thunderously.
"Seven hells, it's good to see you! Even if your face looks like it's been frozen purple!"
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