The crypts of Winterfell lay deep beneath the castle, colder than the surface winter and twice as silent. Torchlight flickered off the rough-hewn stone, casting long shadows across the rows of granite statues. Each Stark lord and lady sat carved in eternal vigil: solemn faces, stone eyes staring into the dark, hands folded over the hilts of stone swords. The air smelled of damp earth, old iron, and the faint metallic tang of blood long dried.
Eddard Stark descended the spiral stair alone, boots echoing softly. He carried no torch; the wall sconces had been lit ahead of time. Robert had insisted on this meeting—private, away from wives and children and scheming courtiers. "Just us, Ned," the king had growled over mulled wine at the welcome feast. "Like old times. Before the bloody throne."
Ned reached the bottom step and paused. Robert already stood before the newest statue—Brandon Stark, Ned's brother, burned alive in King's Landing by the Mad King. The stone face was young, fierce, eyes fierce even in granite. Robert stared at it as though it might speak.
"Gods, he looks like you did at sixteen," Robert said without turning. His voice bounced off the walls, too loud in the quiet. "Before the Rebellion chewed us up and spat us out."
Ned stepped forward, joining him. "Brandon was always the bold one. I was the spare."
Robert snorted. "Spare no more. You're Warden of the North, and your boy Cregan's turning the Neck into a second Wall. Black wolves and black armor. Paying debts to the crown like some bloody merchant prince." He glanced sideways at Ned. "You never told me he was building an army down there. Hoplites. Legionaries. Cretan archers with little shields. What in seven hells is a hoplite, Ned?"
Ned allowed himself a small, dry smile. "Old ways from across the Narrow Sea, or so Cregan claims. He reads books the maesters don't keep on open shelves. Draws plans at night. The men follow him. They call him the Black Wolf."
Robert turned fully now, broad shoulders filling the torchlight. His face was flushed from drink and cold, beard streaked with grey, but his eyes were sharp—sharper than they had been in years.
"He's betrothed to Myrcella," Robert said. "My golden girl. Sweet as summer, gentle as a lamb. And you've promised her to a boy who dresses his soldiers in midnight and breeds direwolves with red eyes."
Ned met his gaze steadily. "The match was your offer, Robert. Lannister gold for Moat Cailin's stones. Cregan accepted the duty. He'll honor it."
Robert laughed, but it was hollow, echoing off the crypt walls like a dying thing. "Duty. Always duty with you Starks. You and your bloody honor." He paced a few steps, boots scraping stone. "I sent the gold because the North bled twice for me—Rebellion, Greyjoy—and got nothing but thanks and scars. I figured a royal match would bind us tighter. Keep the lions from getting ideas."
He stopped before Lyanna's statue. Her face was softer than Brandon's—beautiful, even in stone. Robert reached out, touched the carved cheek with thick fingers.
"I still dream of her," he said quietly. "Every night I drink enough to forget, I wake up seeing her smile. Then I remember Rhaegar stole her. And I killed him for it. But the dreams don't stop."
Ned said nothing. He had his own ghosts in these crypts. Promises made at the Tower of Joy. A boy raised as bastard to hide the truth. Jon stood above them now, unknowing, while the king mourned a sister who had never truly been his.
Robert turned back to Ned, voice rough. "Your boy—Cregan—he's different. Not like Robb. Robb's a Stark through and through: honorable, steady, a leader men will follow because he's fair. Cregan… he's got something else. Cold. Sharp. Like he sees the board before the rest of us even know the game's started. He paid half my debt back without being asked. Built a port that Braavosi captains fight to dock at. Trains men in formations no one's used since before the Andals came. And that direwolf of his—Shadow—looks at me like it knows my sins."
Ned folded his arms. "He believes in the Old Gods. He kneels beneath the heart tree. But he thinks like a man who's seen more winters than his years allow."
Robert studied him. "You trust him?"
"With my life," Ned said simply. "And the North's."
The king exhaled, breath fogging in the chill. "Good. Because the South is rotting, Ned. The small council argues over coin while the realm starves. Varys whispers. Pycelle drones. Littlefinger smiles like a cat with cream. And Cersei…" He trailed off, jaw tight. "My wife hates the North. Hates the cold. Hates anything that isn't gold and green. She'll look at your black wolves and see a threat."
Ned nodded slowly. "Then we keep them pointed south. Moat Cailin stands. Lupus Port prospers. If the lions bare their claws, the wolves will answer."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder—hard, familiar. "That's the Ned I rode with. No flowery words, just steel." He glanced around the crypt once more, at the silent statues. "I came north to name you Hand of the King. Jon Arryn's dead—poison, most like. The realm needs a man who can say no to me when I'm being a fool. That's you."
Ned's face went still. "Robert—"
"Don't," Robert cut him off. "Not yet. Think on it. Drink on it. But know this: if you say yes, you'll bring your family south. Robb as your heir here. Sansa to court, maybe wed to Joffrey one day. And Cregan…" He grinned, fierce and sad. "Cregan will have to decide whether his black wolves follow him to the Red Keep or stay guarding the North."
Ned looked at Lyanna's statue. Then at Brandon's. Then back to Robert.
"I'll think on it," he said at last.
Robert nodded. "That's all I ask."
They stood in silence a moment longer, two old friends among the dead. Above them, the living waited: children with direwolves, a golden betrothal, a king who still dreamed of a girl long gone, and a black wolf who had already begun to change the shape of things.
The torches guttered. Shadows lengthened.
Robert clapped Ned's shoulder once more. "Come. Let's get drunk before Cersei sends the Kingsguard to drag us back."
Ned followed him up the stairs, the weight of the crypt—and the crown's offer—settling heavier on his shoulders with every step.