The banners of the crowned stag of Baratheon and the grey Direwolf of Stark fluttered side by side over Winterfell's ancient walls. Snow drifted lazily around them, glistening in the pale northern sunlight. Eddard Stark stood in the courtyard, watching as the royal procession finally halted. Even before Robert dismounted, Ned felt a sigh escape his lips.
Time changes everything.
Fifteen years ago, when the stag and the wolf fought side by side in rebellion, Robert Baratheon had been a sight to behold: clean-shaven, bright-eyed, towering at six feet five—the sort of man every maiden whispered about in their dreams. Strong as a bull, fearless in battle, generous to his companions. A hero.
Now the King of the Seven Kingdoms waddled forward with eight stone more than his youthful self, his once-crisp jawline buried under a thick, wire-like black beard that did more to draw attention to his double chin than conceal it. His belly strained against his embroidered tunic, and dark circles clung stubbornly beneath his eyes. Even compared to the time they crushed Balon Greyjoy's rebellion nine years ago, Robert had changed drastically.
Robert had always indulged in every pleasure available and never denied himself anything. The crown had only made his appetites greater.
Duke Eddard knelt in the snow and kissed Queen Cersei's ring with dutiful respect. Robert, by contrast, wrapped Catelyn Stark in a broad, crushing embrace, laughing as if she were a long-lost sister. Catelyn returned it gracefully, her Riverlands warmth showing in her smile.
Soon after, the children of the stag and the wolf were ushered forward. One by one, greetings were exchanged, courtesy lines recited, and formal introductions made. The parents of both houses expressed polite approval.
Catelyn's heart swelled with a quiet hope. Born in warm Riverrun, the cold northern air still never felt fully comfortable to her. She imagined her daughters' futures in the South—beautiful gardens, elegant courts, noble marriages. A splendid fantasy, one she clung to happily.
Sansa, in turn, felt as if she were floating. The prince—Prince Joffrey—stood tall and fair, golden hair shining like sunlight. Just as she had imagined. She barely noticed the faint curl of disdain tugging at the corner of Joffrey's lips whenever he glanced at the Northerners.
Eddard, however, was not lost in fantasy. His thoughts were colder. Marriage alliances were tools, not dreams. People said the old gods protected House Stark, but those gods had little sway in the warm South. And the South had never brought anything to Eddard except pain.
When the ceremony ended, Robert clapped Ned on the shoulder. "Ned, take me to your family crypt. I want to pay my respects."
Ned nodded. He had always respected Robert for this—after all the years that had passed, Robert still remembered Lyanna.
Cersei's voice cut through the cold air. "Everyone has traveled since dawn. They are weary and chilled. Surely the dead can wait."
Robert turned a hard, cold look on his wife. Jaime Lannister stepped silently to her side and squeezed her hand in warning. Cersei said nothing more.
The crypt's spiral staircase was narrow, its stones slick with frost. Ned led the way, holding a lamp high to guide Robert—who now struggled with small spaces, steep steps, and his own weight.
Robert grunted as they descended. "Gods, I thought we'd never reach Winterfell. Down South, hearing people chatter about my Seven Kingdoms, it's easy to forget your lands are nearly as large as the other six combined."
"I hope your journey was pleasant, Your Majesty," Ned said.
Robert snorted. "Pleasant? Swamps, forests, endless fields. After the Neck, not a single decent inn. Your North is a wasteland, Ned. Where have your people hidden themselves?"
"Most are too shy to come out," Ned replied dryly. A cold draft swept from the depths of the crypt, carrying with it the chill of centuries. "In the North, kings are not seen every day."
As they reached the bottom, the darkness closed around them, broken only by the flickering lamplight. Robert was panting now, face flushed, breathing heavy and labored. Ned silently marveled at the price his friend had paid for years of indulgence.
They walked deeper between the pillars and statues. Robert shivered visibly, the underground cold penetrating through furs and velvet.
The Stark crypts were uniform and solemn. Generations of Starks sat upon stone thrones, backs to the wall, with iron swords across their laps—meant to keep vengeful spirits sealed within their tombs. Stone Direwolves lay curled protectively at their feet.
"Here," Ned said quietly.
Robert stepped forward. Before him lay three stone coffins: Rickard Stark in the center, stern-faced even in stone, flanked by his children—Brandon and Lyanna.
Ned's heart tightened. All of this should have belonged to Brandon. His elder brother had been heir, leader, the firstborn—the one meant to rule Winterfell. But Brandon had died before his wedding to Catelyn, killed brutally by the Mad King.
And Lyanna… the grief there was deeper, sharper. She had been only sixteen when she died. Robert's love for her had been overwhelming—far greater than hers for him.
"She was more beautiful than this," Robert murmured, voice rough as he stared at the stone carving of Lyanna's face.
The gaze lingered, hungry and sorrowful, as if he could will her back to life.
Finally, Robert rose, slow and unsteady. "Damn it, Ned… must she lie here? Among shadows and cold stone?"
"She is of House Stark," Ned said softly but firmly. "She belongs here."
Robert shook his head. "She should have been buried on a warm hillside… with fruit trees. Her grave should've smelled of blossoms."
Ned did not reply. You never understood her, he thought. Lyanna had told him once that Robert's love, while fierce, would never keep him faithful. And she had not wanted that life.
Robert brushed his fingers along the rough stone. "I swore I'd kill Rhaegar. To avenge her."
"You did kill him," Ned reminded gently.
"Only once," Robert whispered, bitterness crackling in every syllable. "Every night, I kill him again."
This was the Robert Baratheon Ned knew: willful, emotional, self-centered, ruled by impulses more than wisdom. Even Eddard's quiet counsel could not sway him from his stubborn choices.
When their silence stretched on, Ned finally shifted to another matter. "Tell me about the child," he said. "Even here in the North, we heard about the fighting across the Narrow Sea."
Robert scratched his beard. "The child… the child older than Joffrey…" He exhaled deeply. "Ned, I've slept with more women than I can remember. I don't know how many bastards I've sired. A prostitute, a tavern girl, a hostess—any of them could've borne a child."
Ned stayed silent.
"Don't look at me like that," Robert snapped. "A bastard is a mistake any man can make. You have one too, my friend. My only mistake was not tossing a few gold dragons their way sooner."
Ned's expression remained unreadable.
Robert continued, "Cersei never wanted any of my bastards near the court. After that little… incident with Joffrey killing a cat, I thought about bringing Mia and her boy into the Red Keep. Cersei stopped it."
"And now?" Ned asked.
Robert sighed heavily. "Now? Now I think we must fight. Take up arms as we did nine years ago."
"Kinslaying leaves an ugly stain," Ned warned.
"What choice do I have? You and Jon Arryn persuaded me to spare those Targaryen children back then. Spare innocent children, you said. Now look where that mercy has led." Robert's lips twisted. "When traitors raise armies under dragon banners, they don't care whose blood runs in the child's veins."
His voice dropped. "I can't leave this for Joffrey to deal with. Easier to fight a brother than a father."
"Is the situation truly so dire?" Ned asked.
Robert nodded grimly. "The Myrish and Tyroshi have coin. They have ships. All they lacked was a decent army, but now… it seems they've found one."
Ned drew in a slow breath. "Then perhaps the fires of war must be rekindled."
Robert grasped Ned's shoulder, the grip surprisingly firm. "I need you, Ned. My nephew—the Lord of the Eyrie—is a sickly boy of six. A child. And my council is full of vipers. I need someone loyal. I need my old friend."
The words were genuine. Heavy with fear. Heavy with hope.
The shadows of the crypt stretched around them, still and solemn, as the king of the realm asked the Warden of the North to stand by his side once more.
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