The commotion in the courtyard faded into an eerie silence as Ned and Robert departed. Lynn leaned against the shadow of a colonnade, watching their figures disappear at the crypt entrance—one his nominal monarch, the other his temporary protector. Bound by brotherhood and camaraderie, both were stepping into the abyss.
Queen Cersei Lannister's smile had long vanished, her eyes blazing with anger. She stared toward the crypts, her gaze sharp enough to scorch the dark entrance to ashes. Jaime Lannister stood beside her, a casual smile playing on his lips. He patted her tense shoulder gently with his gloved hand, his gesture intimate and ambiguous.
"My dear sister, why anger yourself over a dead woman?" he murmured, his voice laced with mockery. "A king is entitled to harmless indulgences."
Cersei said nothing. She merely tore her gaze away, her cold stare sweeping across the courtyard before settling on the Stark children—especially Sansa.
...
The crypt steps were slick with melted snow. Unlike the frigid exterior, the crypts remained warm, for Winterfell rested atop hot springs. Ned and Robert walked among the generations of deceased Starks, their footsteps echoing through the chambers. Torchlight danced along the narrow passageways, stretching their shadows into long, distorted forms. The air hung heavy with a mix of dust and cold.
Robert Baratheon said not a word, only panting heavily. His obese frame moved clumsily on the narrow stone steps. Ned followed silently, sensing the suppressed emotion radiating from the king—not the majesty of a ruler, but a crushing sorrow that threatened to overwhelm.
They passed rows of statues of Stark ancestors, cold stone figures clutching swords, their eyes gazing silently at the visitors. Soon, they halted before three side-by-side stone coffins. The central effigy was of Ned's father, Rickard Stark, seated solemnly with stone fingers wrapped tightly around the sword across his knees. The two adjacent coffins held his children: Ned's elder brother, Brandon, and his younger sister, Lyanna, who had died at sixteen. Only Ned's brother Benjen remained alive.
Robert knelt before Rickard's statue, bowed respectfully, then rose to his feet. "Jon Arryn is dead," he said suddenly, shattering the suffocating silence.
Ned paused. "I know, Your Grace."
Robert turned, firelight illuminating half his face, his eyes bloodshot. "I respected him. Even if I don't know how he died. But I know this, Ned—my court is full of vipers. Liars, cowards, and sycophants. I cannot trust a soul." His gaze bore into Ned's. "I want you to be my Hand of the King."
It was not a request. It was a command.
Ned's heart sank. He thought of Catelyn's worries, the peaceful years at Winterfell, and his children. He wanted to refuse. Dropping to one knee, he spoke cautiously: "Your Grace, I am a man of the North. I do not belong in the South."
"Listen to me, Ned," Robert said, stepping forward, his massive frame towering over Ned. "I am not here to negotiate. I need someone I can trust with my life. In all the Seven Kingdoms, only you have my faith. As for me—I'll drown myself in wine, women, and revelry. Gods, Ned, stand up when you speak." He hauled Ned to his feet. "You helped me win this damn Iron Throne; you owe it to me to help keep it. We were always meant to rule this realm together. We should have forged a marriage alliance long ago, if your sister Lyanna had lived. But it's not too late. I have a son, and you have daughters. They will carry this on."
Ned averted his gaze. "Jon Arryn's son…"
Robert waved a hand dismissively. "He's only six! Let him inherit the Eyrie as Lord Arryn—that's enough."
Ned was stunned. House Arryn had held the title of Warden of the East for generations—a hereditary honor by right. Robert explained, "A six-year-old cannot be a Warden. He's far too young to lead armies. If need be, we'll give it back to him when he's older."
Ned knew from Robert's tone that the Arryns' fate was sealed—and so was his. A king's will could not be defied. "I shall obey your command, Your Grace," he said softly.
Robert scowled. "Gods, Ned, stop calling me 'Your Grace.' One more time, and I'll knock your teeth out!"
Ned managed a helpless smile. The tension broke Robert's sorrow, replacing it with a trace of weariness.
Robert turned to face the other effigy—Lyanna Stark. The sculptor had captured her maiden beauty perfectly, freezing it in stone forever. Even the cold marble could not conceal the wild, Northern allure she possessed. Robert reached out, his large hand—once so steady wielding a warhammer—trembling slightly. He brushed his rough fingertips gently against Lyanna's cold stone cheek.
"Why must she be trapped in this godsforsaken place?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "She should be beneath the sun and sky… Ned, I have the same dream every night. I kill him, over and over again. Rhaegar. I smash his fancy armor with my hammer, shatter every bone in his body. Again, and again."
Only the crackle of torches filled the crypt. "You already killed him, Your Grace," Ned reminded him softly.
"Did I?" Robert pulled his hand back, sorrow giving way to bitter hatred in an instant. "It's not enough! As long as one Targaryen breathes, I will never rest easy!" His voice rose sharply, echoing through the crypts. "Viserys. And his sister, Daenerys. They're alive, Ned! Hiding across the Narrow Sea, breeding like roaches, waiting to come back and take everything from me!" His eyes blazed with madness. "I want them dead. I want the name Targaryen erased from this world forever."
A bone-chilling cold swept over Ned, spreading from the soles of his feet to his very bones—colder than the harshest Northern gale. Kill innocent children? It violated every honor and principle he held dear. He opened his mouth to protest, but Robert glared at him fiercely.
"Have you forgotten?" Robert roared. "The Mad King burned your father alive! He put Brandon in a noose, right across from the pyre. Your father's screams drove your brother mad with despair—he strained to reach a sword just out of his grasp, until the noose choked the life out of him, dying before your father did! The lords were forced to watch; the cowards dared not speak out, and the loyal ones were all put to the sword or exiled! Ned! Have you forgotten any of this?"
Staring at Robert's face, twisted with rage, Ned's words of protest died in his throat.