The golden banners of the crowned stag fluttered alongside the grey-and-white direwolf as the royal procession poured through the gates of Winterfell.
Eddard Stark knelt in the courtyard snow, watching his King dismount. Time changes all things, Ned thought, suppressing a heavy sigh.
Fifteen years ago, when the stag and the wolf had ridden together to tear down the dragon's dynasty, the Lord of Storm's End had been a terrifyingly handsome giant. He stood six-and-a-half feet tall, a muscled, clean-shaven warrior that maidens dreamed of and men feared.
Now, Robert had gained at least eight stone since the Greyjoy Rebellion. The King was a man of vast appetites, and he denied himself nothing. A thick, wiry black beard attempted to hide his double chins, but it could do nothing to mask the massive paunch that strained against his leathers, nor the dark, bruised bags beneath his blue eyes.
Ned kissed the Queen's ring, and then Robert hauled him up, wrapping him in a crushing, bear-like embrace as if they were long-lost brothers.
The formal introductions followed. Catelyn beamed with pride as the Stark children were presented to the royal family. Born in the sunlit Riverlands, she nurtured a quiet hope that her daughters might find suitable matches in the South. The royal children—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—were indeed beautiful, possessing the golden hair and emerald eyes of their mother.
Ned's view of the South was far colder. The old gods held sway in the North; in the sunlit lands below the Neck, the old gods had no eyes, and Ned had found only grief and death there.
Sansa felt she might faint; Prince Joffrey was taller and more handsome than the songs had promised. She was entirely blind to the arrogant sneer pulling at the corners of the Prince's mouth as he looked upon the austerity of the North.
The moment the formalities concluded, Robert's booming voice cut through the courtyard. "Ned. Take me down to your crypts. I would pay my respects."
Ned felt a pang of profound respect. After all these years, after the crowns and the feasts, Robert still remembered Lyanna.
"We have been riding since dawn, Robert," Queen Cersei protested, her voice smooth and cold as ice. "Everyone is frozen and exhausted. The dead can wait."
Robert shot his wife a look of pure, withering venom. Ser Jaime Lannister subtly placed a hand on his twin sister's arm, and Cersei said no more.
Ned took up an iron lantern and led his King down the narrow, spiraling steps into the dark. Robert complained the entire way down, his heavy boots echoing off the stone.
"I thought we would never reach this place," Robert grumbled, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "You live so far south, Ned, you forget how vast your kingdom is. It is nearly as large as the other six combined."
"I hope the journey was pleasant, Your Grace?"
Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and more bogs. Once we crossed the Neck, I couldn't find a decent inn to save my life. I have never seen such a desolate wasteland. Where do your people hide?"
"They are likely too shy to come out," Ned said dryly, feeling the deep, earthen chill of the crypts seep into his bones. "They do not see a King every day."
By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, Robert was leaning heavily against the wall, wheezing for breath, his face flushed and glistening with sweat in the lantern light. The indulgences of the Red Keep had stolen the warrior from him.
Ned led the way down the long, shadowed vault. The Lords of Winterfell sat upon their stone thrones between the pillars, their backs against the tombs that held their dust. By ancient tradition, an iron longsword rested across the lap of each seated lord, to keep the vengeful spirits bound within the stone. Huge stone direwolves curled at their feet.
"Here," Ned said softly, coming to a halt near the end of the vault.
Robert stopped. He stood before three tombs. In the center was Lord Rickard Stark, his stone face long and stern. To his right was his eldest son, Brandon. To his left was Lyanna.
It should have been Brandon's by right, Ned thought. His brother had been the firstborn, the wild wolf meant to rule. He had died just days before he was to marry Catelyn. And Lyanna... she had been only sixteen. She and Robert were to be wed.
Robert sank heavily to his knees in the dust, bowing his head.
"She was more beautiful than that," the King whispered after a long silence, his eyes fixed on the stone face. "The sculptor did not know her."
You did not know her either, Ned thought, though he kept the words behind his teeth. Lyanna had loved the idea of Robert, but she had known his true nature. Robert will never keep to one bed, she had told Ned once.
"I swore to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her," Robert said, his massive fingers tracing the rough stone of the statue's cheek. His voice was suddenly incredibly gentle.
"You did kill him, Robert," Ned reminded him.
"Only once." Robert's voice twisted with bitter, impotent fury. "I kill him every night in my dreams, and it is never enough."
Robert pushed himself to his feet, his knees cracking loudly in the silence. "Damn it, Ned. Must she be buried in this dark place? She belongs on a hill, with fruit trees and the sun upon her."
"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "She belongs here."
Robert sighed, the anger leaving him, replaced by a hollow exhaustion. "Tell me of the boy, Ned. Even up here, you must have heard the tales."
"The Hammer King," Ned acknowledged. "The war across the water."
"A boy older than Joffrey..." Robert muttered, rubbing his temples. "Do you know, I couldn't tell you how many women I've bedded. I remember even fewer of the children. A tavern wench, a whore... who knows where the seed was planted."
Ned remained silent.
"Don't look at me with that rigid face, Ned. Any man can make a bastard. You have one sitting in your own hall," Robert snapped defensively. "I just never thought the gods would punish me with mine so spectacularly."
Robert shook his head. "Cersei would never allow the baseborn children at court. After Joffrey... after what he did to that cat... I thought to bring my girl, Mya, to the city. Cersei threatened to have her killed. So I let them be."
"And now?" Ned asked softly.
"Now, the realm bleeds," Robert sighed. "We must gather the swords, Ned. Just as we did nine years ago."
"Kinslaying is a heavy sin, Robert. Is there no other way?"
"What way?" Robert demanded, his lips twisting in pain. "Would you have me look away? Leave him to consolidate? You and Jon Arryn urged me to spare the Targaryen children years ago. Look what mercy has brought us."
Robert turned to face Ned, his blue eyes pleading. "He flies the stag, Ned. But he shelters the dragons. Every ambitious lord, every sellsword, and every exiled traitor will flock to his banner. I cannot leave this nightmare for Joffrey to inherit. It is a cleaner thing for a father to fight a son than for a brother to fight a brother."
"Is the threat that imminent?" Ned asked.
"The Triarchy is wealthy beyond measure, and they possess a fleet that rivals the Redwynes. They only lacked a warlord to lead them. Now, they have one," Robert said, placing a heavy hand on Ned's shoulder.
"Lord Arryn is gone. Your nephew in the Eyrie is but a sickly boy of six," Robert said, his voice thick with emotion. "I need you, Ned. I need my brother to help me tear down my son."