The sealed stone bridge connecting Winterfell's main keep to the armory had always been a quiet, windswept place. Its narrow windows overlooked the entirety of the training grounds below, granting anyone who stood there a perfect view of the sweat, struggle, and steel that defined life in the North.
Today, two middle-aged men stood shoulder to shoulder beside one of those narrow windows. Both wore expressions of pride—though neither would ever admit it aloud. One had a long, solemn face carved by years of duty and restraint. The other was large enough to fill the entire window frame by himself, broad as a bear and twice as loud.
"Ned, your bastard son is making excellent progress," King Robert Baratheon declared with a snort of laughter, folding his thick arms across his chest.
Eddard Stark responded dryly, "It is only because Your Majesty's own bastard son set the bar rather high."
For a moment, the two men exchanged their old, familiar smirks—the kind born from decades of shared battles, shared loss, and a friendship forged in war. Their barbs were sharp, but their smiles were fond.
Below them, the clang of steel rang through the cold Northern air. Jon Snow and Karl Stone moved across the packed earth of the yard, their forms swift, clean, and surprisingly lethal for boys so young.
"Damn it all," Robert muttered, leaning forward. "That little brat killed two of my Imperial Guards without even breaking a sweat. Then the rascal dusted himself off like he'd merely swatted a pair of flies."
He grinned proudly, beard shaking. "Perhaps I should simply command him to fill the vacant spot immediately. A king's order would settle the matter neatly."
Then, with the sudden enthusiasm of a man struck by inspiration, he slapped Ned's shoulder heavily. "And the other empty position? Why not give it to your bastard boy? Jon, is it? Seems you're rather fond of the lad."
Eddard Stark blinked, momentarily stunned. He had not expected this—least of all from Robert.
Hot pride threatened to rise in his chest as he watched Jon below. The boy had grown astonishingly in the past half-month—stronger, faster, more confident. Yet Eddard could already foresee the weight that Robert's impulsive decision would place on Jon's young shoulders.
He hesitated. And Robert caught it instantly.
"I thank you for Your Majesty's trust," Ned began carefully. "If Jon wishes it, I would not oppose him. But… he is still young, not yet a knight. He has no official honors—"
Robert rolled his eyes heavenward.
"There you go again, Ned," he growled. "Always the spoilsport. Seven hells, I should have known."
He glared, disgruntled, as if Ned's caution personally offended him.
"Is it so shameful for a boy to serve in my Kingsguard? Other knights would grovel for the chance!"
Ned lowered his head slightly, offering the tight, apologetic smile he reserved only for Robert these days. How could he explain that Jon—whether king's guard or not—was meant for a different path entirely? That politics, secrets, and burdens far greater than oaths awaited the boy?
He couldn't. And Robert would never understand.
The king studied Ned's downcast face, then sighed loudly. His irritation softened, retreating as quickly as it had come.
"Fine, fine," Robert conceded, waving a hand. "I won't have a child shadowing my every drunken step. I'll wait until he's come of age—and knighted by Karl, of course."
He jabbed a finger at Ned. "But I will reserve a place for him. That's final."
Ned could only bow his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Catelyn's voice echoed in his thoughts: The king must not be made to lose face.
He repeated that silently, consoling himself.
Robert, satisfied now that Ned was not openly refusing, burst into laughter and strode across the bridge toward the keep.
"Lighten up, Ned! Sometimes I wonder how your icy woman can stand you. Does she always turn her back on you when you're doing that?"
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Robert."
"What?" Robert barked, then threw his arm around Ned's shoulders. "Never mind. Listen! I'm tired of being trapped in this frozen wasteland. Before we leave, we should at least enjoy one decent hunt."
He grinned wickedly. "I'm thinking wild boar for tomorrow's feast. What say you?"
Though Robert's tone suggested a question, the decision was already made.
Ned inclined his head. "I'll have everything prepared."
"Good man! And bring your children—except the little ones. I'm not planning to babysit."
"Bran and Rickon are still very young—"
"Yes, I know they're young, Ned!" Robert barked, exasperated. "Do you think I'm a complete idiot?"
Then, with a mischievous smirk, he added, "Perhaps I should punish you."
"The harshest punishment would be preventing me from becoming your Hand," Ned muttered under his breath.
Robert paused. Then burst out laughing.
"You're not much to look at, but you certainly have an imagination!"
"…."
Despite everything—time, duty, distance—their banter felt just like it had more than a decade ago. Two old friends, bickering their way through life as always.
Only now, one walked half a step behind the other.
Only now, one lowered his head every time he spoke.
Only now, the past felt like a place they could never truly return to.
The Hunt
Winterfell was alive at dawn. The crisp Northern air bit at every exposed surface, turning breath into mist. Horses snorted. Dogs barked. Men tightened saddle straps while others loaded spears, bows, and quivers.
King Robert Baratheon, flushed with excitement, was the loudest of them all.
Today, he would chase wild boar across Northern forests—his favorite prey, his favorite sport.
And he intended to add the beast to tonight's feast.
Joffrey, who had been sulking indoors since arriving at Winterfell, was forcibly dragged along. His complaints were ignored with royal efficiency.
Robb Stark had prepared since the previous night, polishing his bow, checking his arrows, and adjusting his leather armor. He stood proudly among the hunters now, eager and hopeful. His archery had always been strong—today he might prove himself.
Benjen Stark, Theon Greyjoy, Jory Cassel, Ser Rodrik, and even Tyrion Lannister accompanied the group. The queen's sharp-tongued brother rode on his custom saddle, eyes bright with mischief.
Though Tyrion intended to travel north after the king left—chasing after half-remembered myths—he would not miss the chance to witness Robert hunt. At the very least, the spectacle promised entertainment.
Only two notable people were absent: Karl Stone and Jon Snow.
Karl had claimed exhaustion and insisted he needed to rest before the next stage of his mysterious "plans." Jon accompanied him because Karl insisted Jon show him the sacred Heart Tree in the godswood.
Robert didn't care, brushing it off with his usual indifference. Tyrion, however, eyed Karl suspiciously, muttering that the boy probably wanted to avoid actual responsibility.
In the Godswood
The heart of Winterfell's godswood was silent, ancient, and cold. Snow clung stubbornly to the roots of the massive weirwood tree whose carved face stared eternally into the pool below.
Karl knelt beside the cold spring, splashing his face with icy water. Jon paced nearby, hands tucked into his cloak, watching leaves drift across the pond's surface.
Karl suddenly froze.
He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing as he turned toward the distant rooftops of Winterfell.
"What is it?" Jon asked.
Karl raised his arm, pointing toward the high walls.
"That's your brother—Bran, isn't it?"
Jon squinted. A tiny figure moved swiftly, leaping from one rooftop to the next with the nimble confidence of a cat.
Bran Stark.
Karl frowned deeply.
Something felt wrong.
Terribly wrong.
And Winterfell, wrapped in its cold silence, seemed to hold its breath.
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