"Then I bet you don't know the story behind that sword."
Seeing Jon's blank expression, Hall chuckled and tugged him back down into his seat.
He didn't like looking up at people—except for his boss, of course.
Intrigued by Hall's words, Benjen too turned to listen, curiosity piqued.
Hall noticed their attention and, after a dramatic little cough, thumped his chest and began to boast with obvious relish.
"I don't know exactly how long the boss has used that sword—or how many lives it's taken..."
"But I do know this: two Kingsguard knights once fell before it, both run clean through the throat—and the heart!"
Hall paused to mime the stabbing motions with vivid flair before continuing.
"Unarmored against full plate. Neither of those white-cloaked bastards even managed to touch the boss's blade. Hell, I doubt they even got a good look at him before they hit the ground..."
"And the boss wiped the blood off his blade using two white cloaks."
Whatever his reason, Hall had chosen this exact moment to tell Jon a story that instantly drained the color from the boy's cheeks.
Jon hadn't imagined the sword Ser Kal had given him could carry such a bloody history.
"Kings… Kingsguard…?" Jon murmured in disbelief.
Hall only shrugged, clearly unwilling to say more on the matter.
Instead, he tapped his finger on the table before them, eyes narrowing meaningfully at Jon.
"So now—do you still dare to say you're not a child?"
"Whether it's a woman or an enemy, you've got to conquer one before you can prove yourself, kid."
Jon was left stunned, overwhelmed by the weight of those words.
Benjen, meanwhile, had grasped Hall's meaning well enough.
He didn't seem particularly interested in the advice being given to his nephew, but the story about Kal killing two Kingsguard knights had clearly shaken him.
The smile faded from his face, and without realizing it, he turned toward Kal Stone, gazing silently at the man, his thoughts unreadable.
"Sounds like you're having quite the unexpected conversation, hmm?"
A voice interrupted them.
It belonged to a figure just tall enough to reach the edge of the long table—half the size of a grown man—who had wandered over out of curiosity.
He peered up at the suddenly quiet group and asked the question instinctively.
⋯
The feast continued late into the night, finally ending only after most of the guests—king included—had drunk themselves into a stupor.
The queen, who had been cold and distant the entire evening ever since Lord Stark took the king down into the crypts that afternoon, remained an unmoving, icy figure throughout.
Even when her husband collapsed from drink, she made no move to help him.
She merely offered a curt, polite farewell to Lord and Lady Stark, then turned and left the hall with her children, her face like stone.
Left with little choice, Lord Stark stood and announced the end of the feast.
He ordered attendants to carry the king to the guest chamber in Winterfell, where a room had long been prepared for him.
And so, the feast came to a close.
As for Lord and Lady Stark, they had returned to their own chambers.
Of all the rooms in the main keep of Winterfell, Lady Catelyn's bedchamber was by far the warmest—so much so that there was rarely any need to light a fire for heat.
Built atop natural hot springs, the rising steam flowed through hidden channels like the blood in a body, circulating through the stone walls and driving the chill out of the halls.
Afterward, Eddard rolled over and climbed out of Catelyn's bed.
As he had done a thousand times before, he crossed the chamber, drew back the heavy embroidered curtains, and unlatched the narrow high windows one by one, letting the night air pour into the room.
Ned stood silently by the window—bare, unadorned, and empty-handed—facing the dark sky in silence.
The cold wind hissed around him, brushing past with a refreshing bite.
But for Catelyn, it meant pulling the warm furs all the way up to her chin.
She still hoped to give the man before her another son.
She was still young, and it had already been three years since she bore Rickon.
"I'll refuse him," Ned said suddenly, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the window. As he spoke, he turned toward his wife.
But despite his words, the gloom in his gaze remained, and doubt still colored his tone.
Hearing this, Catelyn instinctively panicked. She sat up in bed, alarmed.
"No—you can't refuse him!"
"My duty is here, in the North. I have no desire to become Robert's Hand…" Ned looked at her, his brow furrowed.
Catelyn's expression was no less troubled.
"He doesn't understand these things. He's king now, and a king can't be treated like an ordinary man… If you refuse him…"
"He'll start to wonder why. And in time, he'll suspect you of treason."
"Robert would never do anything to harm me or my family!"
Hearing his wife say that, Eddard Stark responded instinctively, his tone firm and resolute.
But looking into her eyes, seeing the worry that lingered between her brows, Eddard couldn't help but understand Catelyn's concern.
He shook his head, then softened his voice slightly as he explained, "He loves me more than his own brothers..."
"If I simply refuse, he'll just fly into a rage, curse up a storm."
"But a week later, we'll both be laughing about it. Catelyn, I know Robert..."
"But the Robert you know is from the past—he was just the young Lord of Storm's End back then!" Catelyn clearly wasn't so easily swayed. "He's a king now. And it's been so many years since you last saw him—you're strangers to each other now!"
She had no faith in Ned's optimism.
Time erodes everything—even a friendship once thought unbreakable.
And as she spoke, Catelyn suddenly recalled the direwolf lying dead in the snow... and the stag antler buried deep in its throat.
She took it as an omen.
And the king's arrival had only added to her unease.
She had to make her husband see reason.
"My lord, a king's pride is everything to him!"
"If Robert traveled thousands of kilometers just to visit you, and even offered you such an exalted honor... and then you turn him down outright—what else could that be but a slap to his face in front of the whole realm?"
"All of Westeros knows why Robert rode north with such a grand retinue!"
"Honor?!" Ned let out a bitter laugh at his wife's warning.
Of course he knew what refusing would mean.
"In the king's eyes, is there any honor greater than this?" Catelyn countered.
Ned looked into his wife's eyes. "And what about in your eyes?"
"The same!" Catelyn snapped, anger rising now that her husband still clung to his family at such a time.
"Robert humbled himself to come all this way and ask for your help—and now he's willing to let his own son marry Sansa! What could be more honorable than that?!"
How could Ned not see it?
She quickly changed tack.
"Sansa will one day be queen. Her children will rule lands stretching from the Wall in the north to the mountains of Dorne in the south!"
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"For gods' sake, Catelyn, Sansa is only eleven!" Ned groaned, rubbing his temples. "And Joffrey... Joffrey, he—"
"He is the crown prince! Heir to the Iron Throne!"
"And when my father betrothed me to your brother Brandon, I was only twelve!"
Of course Catelyn knew what her husband was trying to say—so she cut in without hesitation.
But hearing the name of his brother Brandon only deepened the bitterness in Ned's expression.
"Brandon... yes. Brandon always knew what to do. He did everything with confidence, always certain of himself."
"You and Winterfell were meant to be his. He was made to be a Hand of the King, the father of a future queen. I... I was supposed to ride with Benjen to the Wall..."
"I never said I'd drink this bitter draught."
His wife's words wounded him.
For by custom, he had married her in place of his brother, Brandon Stark.
And yet, the shadow of that deceased brother still lingered between them—just like the shadow of another woman stood between him and Catelyn.
A woman he refused to name. A woman who had borne him a bastard son.
There was a woman between him and Catelyn, just as surely as there was Brandon between Catelyn and him.
"Maybe you didn't..."
"But Brandon is gone. The cup has already passed into your hands. Whether you like it or not, you have no choice but to drink it."
Catelyn looked at her husband, and her tone softened. She was no longer pressing.
She had never wanted to see him leave.
Though she had never quite grown used to the bitter cold of the North, she was already a part of House Stark.
Her children, her family—everything she loved was here.
Riverrun, her childhood home in the Riverlands, had ceased to be hers the day she was betrothed to a Stark at the age of twelve.
So she had to fight for this home now.
Looking at her husband still sulking and gazing out at the darkness beyond the window, Catelyn prepared to rise and go to him.
But just then, a knock came at the door.
Both the Lord and Lady of House Stark frowned at the sound.
At a moment like this, the knock seemed particularly jarring—and entirely unwelcome.
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