Chapter 7: Eddard
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted landscape of Winterfell, Eddard Stark stood at the gates of his ancestral home, a sense of anticipation mingling with unease. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and the distant sound of hooves thundering against the frozen ground. Today marked a significant occasion; King Robert Baratheon was arriving for a visit, accompanied by a retinue that boasted three hundred strong.
Eddard's heart raced as he scanned the approaching party. He recognized several figures among them: Ser Jaime Lannister, known for his golden hair and infamous reputation; Tyrion Lannister, the shrewd and witty dwarf whose sharp tongue often masked his keen intellect; Prince Joffrey Baratheon, whose youthful arrogance was already evident even from afar; and Sandor Clegane, more commonly known as The Hound, whose brutish demeanor sent shivers down many spines.
Yet amidst these familiar faces, Eddard felt an unsettling sense of disconnection. It had been nearly a decade since he last saw Robert during Greyjoy's Rebellion—a time when they fought side by side against common foes. As the king's entourage drew closer, Eddard strained to catch sight of his old friend but found himself unable to recognize him at first glance.
It wasn't until Robert bellowed out Eddard's name with that unmistakable boisterousness that echoed through Winterfell's walls that realization struck like lightning. "Ned! Is that you?" The voice was deep and hearty but carried an unexpected weight—one that spoke not only of friendship but also of years gone by.
Eddard stepped forward into view, his eyes widening in shock as he took in Robert's appearance. The king had changed dramatically; he had gained eight stone since their last meeting—a staggering 112 pounds. His once athletic frame now seemed burdened by excess weight, his face rounder and more flushed than Eddard remembered. The years had not been kind to Robert Baratheon; they had left their mark in visible and invisible ways.
As Robert dismounted from his horse with a grunt that betrayed his newfound girth, Eddard rushed forward to embrace him. The warmth of their friendship enveloped them both momentarily before reality set back in.
"Your Grace," he greeted King Robert warmly as he emerged next. The king was a mountain of a man with a boisterous laugh that could fill any room. He clapped Eddard on the shoulder with a familiarity that spoke of their long-standing friendship.
"Eddard! It's good to see you again!" Robert exclaimed heartily. "And look at this place! Still as grim as ever!" His jovial tone lightened the atmosphere momentarily.
The heelhouse came to a halt, Eddard stepped forward to pay his respects. The door swung open, revealing Queen Cersei, her golden hair gleaming like spun sunlight. She descended gracefully from the carriage, followed closely by her younger children—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—each one bearing an expression that mirrored their mother's regal demeanor. Eddard bowed deeply before them, his respect for royalty evident despite their complicated history.
After formalities were exchanged and introductions made between both parties' children—who eyed each other with curiosity and caution—Robert's gaze turned serious. "I would like to pay my respects to your sister," he said suddenly, breaking through the pleasantries that surrounded them.
Eddard felt a pang in his chest at the mention of Lyanna Stark; her memory was still raw for him. "Of course," he replied solemnly. "The crypts are just below."
However, Queen Cersei interjected sharply, her voice laced with irritation. "Must we really descend into those dark tombs? I find it rather morbid." Her disdain for such traditions was palpable; she preferred the warmth of life over reminders of death.
But Robert brushed aside her objections with a wave of his hand as if she wasn't there. He turned to Eddard with an earnest look in his eyes. "Lead on."
With a resigned sigh but understanding Robert's need for closure regarding Lyanna's memory—a woman who had once captured his heart—Eddard nodded and began leading them toward the crypts beneath Winterfell.
Cersei exchanged glances with her twin brother Jaime Lannister, who stood silently beside her. With an almost imperceptible nod from Jaime, she relented but not without casting one last disapproving glance at Robert's back as they walked away.
"So how was your trip to the North?" Eddard asked Robert.
Robert sighed deeply, a hint of weariness in his voice. "Adventure is one way to put it," he replied. "But let me tell you, the distance is daunting. The vast emptiness of the north stretches endlessly; it feels like you're traversing an unending sea of nothingness." He paused for a moment, gazing into the distance as if recalling the long miles behind him. "The landscape is beautiful in its own right—majestic mountains and sprawling forests—but after hours of driving through desolate terrain, it can become rather monotonous."
They descended into the cool darkness of Winterfell's crypts, torches flickered along stone walls adorned with effigies of past Starks—each figure carved meticulously in likeness and honor. The air grew colder still as they approached Lyanna's resting place; it was marked by a simple stone slab engraved with her name—a stark contrast to Cersei's opulent lifestyle above ground.
The two of them finally arrived at their destination: the tomb of Lyanna Stark. The air was thick with a sense of history and sorrow as they approached the cold stone sarcophagus that held the remains of Ned's beloved sister. Beside her lay the tombs of their father, Rickard Stark, and their elder brother, Brandon Stark, both lost to the brutal machinations of fate and war.
Robert stood before Lyanna's resting place, his broad shoulders hunched in a mix of grief and anger. "She should have been buried on a sunny hillside," he declared vehemently, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Somewhere bright and beautiful, not here in this dark crypt."
Ned turned to Robert, his expression solemn yet resolute. "She was a Stark of Winterfell," he replied quietly. "This is where she belongs. It was her wish." Memories flooded back to him—Lyanna's laughter ringing through Winterfell's halls, her fierce spirit that had captivated so many hearts. But it was also tinged with pain; he remembered her dying moments as she lay in a bed of blood and sorrow, only he and Howland Reed by her side.
Robert clenched his fists at his sides, his mind racing back to the day he had confronted Rhaegar Targaryen on the banks of the Trident River. The memory ignited a fire within him—a burning desire for vengeance that had driven him through years of rebellion against the Targaryens. "I took my vengeance on Rhaegar for what he did to her," Robert said bitterly. "But I regret that I only got to kill him once."
Ned felt a pang in his heart at Robert's words; he understood all too well the weight of loss that hung over them both like a shroud. Yet there was little comfort in revenge—it could never bring back those they had lost or heal the wounds left behind by war.
"Perhaps it is time we return to the surface," Ned suggested gently, trying to steer Robert away from darker thoughts. "Your wife will be waiting for you." He knew Cersei Lannister would be anxious about Robert's prolonged absence; she had always been wary of his friendship with Ned.
Robert scoffed at the mention of Cersei. "The Others can take my wife," he grumbled dismissively, but even as he spoke those words, he began to turn away from Lyanna's tomb reluctantly.
The two made their way back to Winterfell. The journey had been long, but the weight of Jon Arryn's death hung heavily between them. As they traveled, Ned turned to Robert, his brow furrowed in concern.
"Tell me, Robert," Ned began cautiously, "how did Jon fare in his final days? I cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss."3
Robert sighed deeply, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I have never seen a man die so quickly," he replied, shaking his head. "One moment he was healthy and full of life; within a fortnight, he was gone. It's as if his very essence was snuffed out."
Ned nodded solemnly, recalling the last time he had seen Jon—a robust man full of wisdom and laughter. "And Lysa?" he asked gently. "How does she bear her grief?"
Robert's expression darkened at the mention of Jon's widow. "Catelyn fears for her sister," he admitted. "Lysa has not taken this well at all. I fear that Jon's death has driven her mad." He paused for a moment before continuing, "She took Robert Arryn and fled back to the Eyrie in the dead of night."
Ned felt a pang of sympathy for Lysa but also concern for her son. "But why would she do such a thing?" he pressed.
"Because," Robert explained with frustration evident in his tone, "I had hoped to foster young Robert with Tywin Lannister—give him some strength and stability—but Lysa refused to hear any of it." His voice grew louder as he recalled Cersei's fury over Lysa's actions. "Cersei was furious when she found out! She wanted that boy close to us."
Ned frowned at the mention of Tywin Lannister; trust was not something easily given when it came to House Lannister. "I do not trust Tywin," he said firmly. "He plays games that could endanger us all."
Robert waved a hand dismissively but then looked thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps you are right," he conceded reluctantly. "But what can we do? If only we could bring young Robert here… perhaps I could ask you to foster him yourself?"
Ned shook his head slowly, understanding the implications behind such an offer. "Tywin has already agreed to take him as ward," he explained carefully. "To take him under my roof would be an insult to Tywin—and you know how dangerous it is to insult a man like him."
"You should consider coming to the Wall," Ned said thoughtfully. "The Night's Watch is an important institution, especially now with whispers of unrest beyond our borders."
Robert scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "The Wall? I have more pressing matters to attend to than wandering off to some frozen wasteland." His voice carried a hint of irritation as he continued, "I need to replace Lord Arryn."
Ned nodded solemnly; he understood the weight of such decisions. "Lord Arryn held several important positions—Warden of the East among them." He paused for effect, knowing full well that this title traditionally accompanied House Arryn's domain.
"I will not appoint a young lad like Robert Arryn as Warden of the East," Robert declared firmly, his brow furrowing in frustration. The king's tone suggested that he found such notions absurd.
"But during times of peace," Ned reminded him gently, "the title is largely an honorific. It carries little weight unless there is conflict." He knew that Robert was struggling with his responsibilities as king and felt compelled to guide him toward wisdom.
Robert sighed heavily. "The son is not the father," he muttered under his breath before raising his voice again. "Perhaps when that boy grows up, we can revisit this discussion."
Ned could see that Robert was grappling with more than just titles; there was an underlying tension in his demeanor. It was then that Robert shifted gears entirely. "I also need a new Hand of the King," he said abruptly.
"Ned," Robert begins, his voice booming with mirth, "I want you to be my Hand of the King!" He leans forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "You know what they say: 'The king eats and the Hand takes the shit.' It's not an honor; it's a job!"
Ned shifts uncomfortably, his brow furrowing deeper. "Your Grace," he replies earnestly, "I am unworthy of such a position. I have no desire for power or politics." His voice is steady but laced with an undercurrent of desperation. He knows all too well the weight that comes with being Hand—the treachery, the deceit, and ultimately, the danger.
Robert chuckles heartily at Ned's protestations. "Come now! You're not trying to get out of this on me, are you? I need someone I can trust to help me run this kingdom while I enjoy my… more leisurely pursuits." He gestures broadly as if to encompass all of Westeros in his carefree attitude.
Ned shakes his head slowly. "You do not understand," he insists. "The North has its own ways—honor and duty mean something there." His voice drops slightly as he recalls the harsh winters and stark realities of life beyond the Wall. "It is said that it is so cold in the North that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death."
"Also," Robert added. "It's not too late for both of us to join as one family. I had a son and you have a daughter. We joined the Houses of Stark and Baratheon as I and Lyanna were supposed to."
Ned hesitates to make this decision and says "I wish to speak to my wife about this.
"Take your time," Robert laughed. "But not that long!"
Ned is filled with a sense of foreboding, knowing that Winterfell is where he belongs, and that winter is coming.
"Oh," Robert suddenly asked. "There is one more important question I like to ask."
"What is it?" Ned replied.
"Is it true that you have some Wild Boy, serving as your ward?"