"Men?"
Galon's expression held a hint of a smile. He already knew what Jaime would say next.
Sure enough—
Jaime stepped closer, voice dripping with condescension.
"You know… your first time cutting down a man is unforgettable. You suddenly realize people are just meat wrapped around brittle bones."
He lifted two fingers and dragged them across his own throat in a mocking gesture.
"One little slice… and you'll find men are no different from the animals you hunt in your precious wolf-woods."
He paused, expecting fear or outrage. Galon gave him neither.
Jaime's interest faded. He clapped Galon lightly on the shoulder. "But I suppose the Glovers should stick to killing beasts.
Perhaps someday I'll buy a fine rug made from one of your pelts."
With that insult tossed carelessly over his shoulder, Jaime strutted away.
Galon watched him go, eyes dark and unreadable. He would not waste anger on a man who might be dead by tomorrow.
'Tywin Lannister—hero of a lifetime,' Galon thought coldly. 'And yet he sired nothing but slaves to lust.'
Especially those two.
Barely a day in Winterfell, and Jaime and Cersei were already planning their forbidden trysts—as if the entire world were blind.
'They will die,' Galon vowed silently. 'And when Tywin follows… the Westerlands will be ripe for the taking.'
He turned and walked away.
....
Far beneath Winterfell, in the ancient crypts… Ned raised his torch, illuminating three stone sarcophagi.
"Here, Your Grace."
Robert stepped forward and knelt before them.
Three figures carved in stone stared eternally upward: Lord Rickard Stark, and beside him his eldest children—Brandon and Lyanna.
Robert's face twisted with grief and longing.
"She was lovelier than this," he whispered. "Only sixteen…"
He touched the marble cheek as if expecting it to warm beneath his hand.
"Did you truly have to bury her down here in the dark?" he demanded.
"She was of Winterfell," Ned answered softly. "She belongs with her kin."
Robert shook his head vehemently. "She should be laid on a sunny hill, with fruit trees and blue sky above her."
Ned's eyes clouded. "I was with her when she died. She wanted to come home."
He remembered the blood-stained sheets… the last plea she made… the promise he had nearly given his life to uphold.
Jon.
Her son.
"I, uh…" He swallowed a tremor in his voice. "Jon has made a friend here. Galon Glover—Deepwood Motte. Your old squire's nephew."
"He's helping the boy find his spirit again."
Ned had so much more he wished he could confess, but those truths would remain buried—like her.
Robert's voice hardened. "I swore I'd kill Rhaegar for what he did."
"You did kill him," Ned reminded.
"Once isn't enough!" Robert growled. "Two Targaryen whelps still live, growing stronger by the year. Someone is helping them."
"So long as they breathe, Lyanna's ghost cannot rest."
"They're just children…"
"Children?" Robert snapped. "Fourteen years, Ned! The girl will soon have her first blood. Then they'll breed like snakes and spawn dragons!"
Ned refused to argue further.
"Speak to your Hand about it."
Robert stopped pacing. "I came here because I need you, Ned."
He turned fully toward his friend.
"Be my Hand. Rule with me. Keep me alive when the vipers strike. The realm is falling apart since Jon Arryn died. I need someone I trust."
Ned's heart clenched.
Had he no family… no North… he might have agreed instantly. "Your Grace, I… I am not suited—"
Robert cut him off with a booming laugh. "If I wanted to do you harm, I'd let you retire.
But I want you to build the future while I eat, drink, and bed women. There's a saying: the king dreams… and the Hand builds."
Ned snorted. "In the taverns, they say the king shits… and the Hand wipes."
Robert roared with laughter, the sound echoing between cold stone walls.
When his laughter faded, he looked at Ned with raw sincerity. "Ned Stark of Winterfell. I name you Hand of the King."
Ned sank to one knee.
He wanted to refuse… he needed to refuse.
But Robert's voice lowered to a plea only a friend could give, "You and Jon helped me win this throne. Don't abandon me now."
Emotion broke through the armor Ned had built for years.
He bowed his head.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Robert hauled him up into a bear hug.
"That's better! Had Lyanna lived, we'd be brothers."
His grin widened.
"And perhaps—"
Footsteps echoed suddenly from the entrance of the crypt.
Ned's face hardened with irritation. He had ordered them not to be disturbed.
"Who goes there?" he barked.
The reply came breathless and unexpected:
"Ned—it's me. Benjen!"
And the darkness swallowed the rest of the crypt around them.
__________
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