Hey everyone, just a few quick words before the chapter. First off, I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story. I honestly thought it was gonna be complete garbage (and it probably still is) but getting all of the notifications from y'all has been really heartening. I wanna give a special shoutout to the few people who left reviews. It means a lot to me that y'all actually took out time to leave a message, even if it was a sentence or two. Y'all are the best!

These next few weeks are gonna be hectic because I'll be going back to campus and moving into my new apartment and starting a new semester. What my plan will be then is to get a bunch of story-boarded chapters actually written and then release them on a regular schedule. I haven't completely decided, but I'm thinking maybe bi-weekly updates. I'll keep y'all posted; I might post an update chapter informing y'all of this, so keep your eyes peeled.

Lastly, I usually try to do at least three points of perspective per chapter, but this one felt complete with just two. The next one will be back to normal format.

That's it! I hope you all enjoy. And please, if you're reading this, be a good person. After all of the gun violence surrounding my country, the US, recently, I want all of you to please be safe and to be the best person you can be.

All my love,

KSB

"Open the gates!"

The fastenings were undone and a quartet of men-at-arms pulled open the large, studded ironwood gates at the main gate of Winterfell. The castle garrison and servants ran around making last minute adjustments as King Robert's riding party approached.

Ned looked over his family, his careful eyes looking for any flaw that might offend the royal family. The queen, Ned should say. Robert was not a man prone to frivolous affairs. In reality, he was more of a brute than any other man born to a great house that Ned had ever met. He was as brash and gaudy as a Tyroshi sellsword. He was a man of great appetite, of food and drink and women. After all, he had fathered his first bastard at the age of 14. The queen was another story.

Cersei Lannister was a cold and callous woman. Beautiful, but frigid. Ned had implored Robert not to marry her, to take for a wife any woman from any noble house that had fought for him in Robert's Rebellion, since he could not marry off his own sister, the lovely Lyanna. Ned had not, and still did not, trust House Lannister. Everything they did, they did for power. They cared not for honor or tradition or chivalry. So long as they were powerful and rich and respected, they cared not for what means they used.

Ned remembered the moment he burst into the Red Keep's Great Hall and saw Jaime Lannister, the queen's twin brother and a sworn member of the King's Guard. Jaime sat on the Iron throne with his bloodied sword of gold on his lap and the dead King Aerys II Targaryen prone at his feet. He remembered seeing the broken corpses of the Princess Elia and her children Rhaenys and Aegon being wheeled in and given to Robert as a "gift of fealty." He remembered the smell of houses burning and hearing the screams of common folk as Lannister soldiers razed and sacked King's Landing. Broken sacred oaths, innocent women and children slaughtered, common folk used as fodder, this is how the Lannisters gain their power. Ned was determined that House Stark should not succumb to the same fate.

Still, there he stood, doing his duty to his beloved King, no matter now much he detested it. Ned was a man of honor. He had sworn his banners to Robert, to serve him faithfully and keep the North in his name. When Robert called, Ned was bound by honor to receive him and open his home. And so now he looked over his household. They all wore a face mixed with both excitement and boredom. Mostly boredom at the moment. His children stood straight and tall; even the little ones mustered as much dignity as they could for the occasion. He knew they would rather be playing or training or fighting with each other, exploring the Wolf's Wood or racing horses or telling jokes and making dares. Yet they stood there in their detested finery, having to act out of usual character for a group of strangers. Cat caught his eye and offered him a small smile, her blue eyes crinkling in the corners, her crimson hair braided carefully falling down her slender frame. By the gods, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.

The sound of hoof beats approaching caught the attention of the people in the castle yard, and everyone snapped to attention. A minute later, in rode Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name. Robert looked different since the last time Ned had saw him. The man before him was fat and red faced, and a coarse beard covered his jaw. Yet it was no denying it was him. Robert vaulted off of his horse just as an ornate wooden transport carriage rolled into the yard, followed by numerous kingsguards, knights, and freeriders. Everyone in the castle yard knelt.

Robert stood in front of him. "Ned," he spoke gruffly and bluntly, "it has been years. It seems you have gotten fat."

Ned gave the king a once over. "Your grace, with all due respect, have you seen your appearance in a mirror as of late?"

Robert stared at Ned for a beat, then broke out into a hearty laugh. The big man embraced Ned with a fierce strength. "Ah Ned, it has been too long, old friend. Too long. Now, everyone stand up!" He then went along the line, hugging his lady wife and complementing each of his children. Vayon Poole, Ned's steward, then came forward and offered the guest-rite gifts of bread and salt, which Robert ate, officially making him Winterfell's guest. Next, Cersei herself came forward.

Cersei had been standing back with her children and her brother as Robert made his introductions. But no longer could she avoid them. She came forward and presented her hand to Ned. He bowed and took it into his hand and pressed an obligatory kiss to her knuckles. "My queen." Cersei said not a word, and looked at him with utter apathy. Ned suppressed a sigh. This stay would be a torturous one.

After all the formal introductions between the Starks and Baratheons, Robert made a request. "Take me to your crypts, Ned. I wish to pay my respects."

Cersei protested, "We have traveled quite a long way, my dear husband, and the dead do not roam. Please, let us settle before-"

"Ned," Robert cut her off, his voice going hard at Cersei's gripes. Her emerald eyes went equally hard. Ned's loyalties belonged to Robert though, and he loved the man for not forgetting about his dear sister all these years later. Ned nodded. The pair of men walked through the yard and towards the older part of the castle, near the Godswood, leaving the clamor and bustle behind them. Ned took a flint-and-steel out of his trouser pockets and ignited a torch being held in a sconce outside of the crypt door. Opening the door, he ushered in his king and led the way down the winding stairs and towards the newest graves. The old Kings of Winter stared at them with stone eyes, their direwolves snarling at their feet. Darkness pressed at them on all sides, and yet, Ned felt no more at peace than in any other place.

Finally, the reached the newest graves. Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon, Ned's father and brother, were seated there. But it was the smaller tomb of Lyanna Stark that they had approached. Ned watched Robert's face, saw the longing and sadness that still permeated his demeanor. In that moment, both their hearts broke again. "Ah hell, did you have to lay her to rest here? She should be on a hill somewhere, surrounded by beautiful flowers and sitting under the bright sun. Not locked below in a damp cave," Robert choked out.

"She was of the North, and my sister besides. This was her place, and it was here that she found her rest," Ned responded.

Robert nodded, not fully accepting his answer but not arguing. To him, Lyanna would always be the love that was taken from him before he could claim her. Lyanna would always be his. They stood there in silence for some time, lost in their memories.

Finally, Robert turned to him. This was it, Ned thought, he shall ask me of the boon he carried here with him. "Ned, I have not come just out of my grief. I have come to bestow upon you a great honor. Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I would name you Hand of the King."

Not knowing what to do, Ned dropped to a knee. Hand of the King was the second most powerful title in the realm, and a curse that he did not want. Being named Hand meant we would have to leave Winterfell and move to the shit saturated capital city and be surrounded by southron lords who lie and scam as easily as a serpent sheds its skin. "Your grace, I am not worthy of such an honor."

"Ah, save it! You are just as worthy a man as Jon was. I need you by my side. Someone has to rule the kingdoms while I drink and fuck my way to an early grave, and I could find not a better man than you."

"Your grace-"

"And no more of this 'your grace' nonsense. Come now, we have more affection for each other than that."

"Robert," Ned began again, "I fear I cannot serve you well in that post. We of the North live very different lives. I have no interest in the politics of court. I am but a simple servant of yours. By the gods, I serve you much better here than I ever could there."

"See now, this is why I must have you. Not a single member of my small council seeks to disagree with me. They kiss my ass and give me what I want. Now I usually complain not, but I need a man of honesty who I trust to be beside me. And there is not a single soul in this realm who I trust more than you, a man I consider more a brother than my own trueborn brothers."

Ned sighed. "Robert, I am sorry you wasted a month's time in coming here, but I do not see myself going south with you. A Stark's place is in the land of winter, not the land of beggars. The love I bear you is not lessened, understand, but it is what is best for myself and for my family."

"Aye, your family! Think of the opportunity presented to us. I have a son and heir, Joffrey, who is of an age with your Sansa. They could be wedded. Think of it, Ned! Our families finally united as they should have been 17 years before. And one day, your grandchildren shall sit the iron throne."

"No." Ned had not meant for his voice to grow so stony or for his posture to stiffen, but he would not allow that to happen. His father and brother had ridden off south and had died. His sister was promised to a southerner and was taken by another, and died. Southerners had come to the North and had nearly taken from Ned things that he held dear. He would not let that happen again. "I mean no offense, but my children are of the North, and here they shall stay. They will marry into the noble houses of the North and will rule Northern holdfasts. The only child I may consider betrothing out of the North would be Robb. I am sorry Robert, but you will have to find a different bride for your heir."

Robert glowered at Ned. "You must still be in grieving and your senses have taken leave of you. Remember, the North is just one of the kingdoms that I hold. It is as much mine as it is yours. No matter. I shall give you a few days to think on this offer, truly think, before I require your final answer. Ponder carefully."

Robert was angry. Angry at being denied so bluntly and angry at a refusal of a Baratheon and Stark union. He turned without another word and strode out of the crypt, taking the torch with him. Ned had no choice but to follow the receding light, hoping that he did not destroy his relationship with his dearest friend.

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The Great Hall of Winterfell had never been more boisterous. King Robert was as bawdy as Father had recounted. He began the meal at the head seat of the great table, but as the courses came and went and the ale and wine flowed, he moved to the common tables, grabbing well-endowed serving wenches and laughing in his cups with the Winterfell and King's Landing men. Laughter erupted and cheers and cajoles rang from every table, drowning out the minstrels playing their delicate instruments and singing sweet tunes.

From her seat, Sansa took it all in. To a degree she enjoyed the commotion, and she had no complaints of the several cups of wine she was permitted to have. No doubt this is the most entertaining meal I have seen, she thought as she nibbled on a lemon cake. But she imagined this behavior tired quickly. The king had no dignity and openly groped other women in front of his wife and children. She wished for the company of her direwolf, Lady. Father had not permitted them at the welcoming or at the feast.

Speaking of, Sansa glanced at Queen Cersei. She was perhaps the most conventionally beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. She was of above average height, had a slim but graceful frame, and perfect posture. Her face was flawless, as was her complexion, and her facial features were striking. Her golden hair was intricately braided and put in an updo, showcasing her long and slender neck.

But the queen was dreadful company. When she talked to Sansa, she got the sense that every question was a test and every remark carried a double meaning. She tried her best to be polite, but she found it to be hard work. When Cersei was not talking to Sansa or to another woman or her children, she sat still, looking disgusted. She had looked disgusted the minute she stepped out of her carriage. Sansa could not help but feel a bit offended. This was her home. She could not see how the queen could not see the beauty of the haunting sentinel and oak trees standing tall, of the sleet that gave everything it touched an ethereal glow, of the shadows created in the hearth of a roaring fire. The queen's appearance might be beautiful, but not another thing about her was.

Her other prominent company were the two princes and the princess. Prince Tommen was Bran's age and easily excited, and the two talked intently all night about knights and wars and horses and weapons. It warmed Sansa's heart to see the two innocent young boys so excited by each other's company. The Princess Myrcella was a nice enough girl, only two years younger than Sansa herself. But Sansa got the sense the girl did not, or was not allowed to, have close friends. She was initially reserved and spoke in a quiet voice that Sansa had to strain to hear over the racket. It took time and a gentle approach before the princess actually began to make meaningful conversation. Maybe with a little more time, she and the princess could be better friends, but it would be slow going. Sansa felt an ache on her left shoulder. A reminder. She knew what it was like to be friendless. She felt more sympathy for the princess than she ever expected.

It was the Crowned Prince Joffrey who bothered Sansa. He was ten-and-four, the same age as Sansa, and a beauty from afar. Yet up close she found his appearance slightly off-putting. His lips were too plump and red and looked like worms. His nose was just a tad too sharp, his hair too flat, and his eyes were cruel. He was not skilled in conversing either. Surely, there was many a maiden who had been swooned, but Sansa could not see his appeal. When he talked, he always brought the conversation to himself and to his achievements. He disregarded the servants and treated them as if they were not worth his gaze. And he made awful jests at the expense at any and everyone he found around. There was not a doubt in Sansa's head that he found himself clever. She found him near unbearable.

There was a time when this would have been Sansa's greatest dream. She would have been charmed by the queen and would have adored Joffrey the moment her eyes laid upon him. She would have wanted to live in this world of revelry for as long as she could, for this night to never end. She would have gone to the small sept and prayed to her mother's gods insisting that she be allowed to marry Joffrey and have his children and one day be named queen. Now, she could think of nothing more heinous.

The night was growing long by now, and the last of the deserts had been served near an hour ago. King Robert declared the feast over but that anyone who wished to stay and drink and jest may stay. Sansa took this opportunity to excuse herself. It was not very polite of her to leave the feast without the company of an escort or without giving a proper goodbye to the queen and her children, but she could not spend another moment there. She needed a respite.

Walking out of a side door, she exited the Great Hall and walked out of a sparsely decorated foyer. She then walked across a small, deserted courtyard and was about to walk up a staircase leading to a branch of scaffolding connected to the upper floor walkways of Winterfell when she heard a noise. A whistle through the air followed by a thunk, as if something was being swung into another object. Swordplay, Sansa realized. Someone was practicing their swordsmanship on a padded dummy. Rounding the corner of the courtyard and into a practice yard, she found the source of the commotion. Her half-brother, Jon. Sweat beaded on his brow as he swung his sword again and again, slashing and stabbing. His movements were jerky and not controlled, not how jon usually fought. He was taking his frustrations out.

She cleared her throat. Jon whirled around to see who interrupted him, a slight on his lips. When he saw it was only Sansa, he let his comment die. She gazed ponderously at him. They stood only a few feet away from each other, but Jon seemed a world away. "I looked for you at the feast, but you seemed to lose interest fast. How long have you been here?" she asked him.

He sighed. "I am afraid I lost track of time. I have had much to think on. I needed something to occupy my mind."

"And what troubles you so?"

Jon looked at her, his eyes growing sad. He had the gray eyes of Father. Eyes that she used to be glad she did not have, but now she envied him for them. He could not hold his gaze. He is guilty. "I talked to Uncle Benjen at the feast."

Benjen Stark was First Ranger of the Night's Watch. He was permitted a break from his duties to attend the king's welcoming. And though he was a Stark by blood and held a high office in the Watch, he chose to sit at the common tables with men like Jon and other members of the castle garrison. Benjen was a great man; it was always a treat to be with him.

"And what words did our beloved uncle bestow on you that have agitated you this much?"

"It is not what he said to me, actually, but rather what I asked him."

Sansa watched him intently, not liking where this was going. "And what did you ask him." Jon would not ask her. "Jon," she tried again, "tell me."

"Sansa, I-" he gulped. "I…I asked Uncle Benjen if I could go to the Wall with him."

Sansa felt dread build up in the pit of her stomach. She could not imagine a life at Winterfell without Jon there. He was a foil for Robb and kept Theon in check. He defended Arya and teased Bran and cared for little Rickon. And he had saved her life. Once upon a time, his departure would not have meant much to her. But now, she owed him a debt that she could probably never repay. And since then, she had grown to love and appreciate him in a way she never had before.

She felt tears spring up in the corners of her eyes, but she forced herself to suck them back in. "Jon, you must not go," she said, trying her hardest to keep her voice from wavering.

Gently, he said, "Sansa, understand there is no true place for he here."

"What nonsense is this? Mayhap you know not, but you are needed. We require you more than the Wall does."

"What shall I do with the rest of my life? I shall neither rule a holdfast nor marry into a family. Father cannot look at me without shame, and Lady Stark cannot bear to look at me at all. I love you and my siblings dearly, but I am not a Stark."

"How dare you! How dare you neglect yourself. Mind your words, Jon, you might be a Snow in name but you are a Stark at heart. So you shall not inherit a castle or be betrothed to a woman of not your choice. The blood of the First Men runs through your veins just as it does mine, and my father is yours despite his shame. You can marry who you choose, and you can stay here and serve Winterfell. Do not exile yourself for fear of rejection Jon. Please!"

At this point, a tear escaped her eyes, and her throat closed up. She knew at some point she and her siblings would have to go their separate ways as they each fulfilled their own fates. But she was not ready for that now. And she could not bear the thought of Jon punishing himself for the simple fact of his birth. After everything he had done for her, she could not bear it.

Jon came to her and wrapped her in an embrace. Holding her tight, he whispered apologies. Sansa felt him shake with sadness, but she feared it was not enough. She tore out of his embrace and walked as briskly as she could to her chambers with him calling out to her.