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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Renly came to Ned bearing grim news: Robert Baratheon, the once-mighty King, had been gravely injured during a hunt. A boar had bested him, and the wounds were fatal. Ned Stark, heavy-hearted, made his way to the King’s Chambers.

The King’s chambers smelled of death, a blend of sweat, blood, and smoke from the dying embers in the hearth. Dust clung to the velvet curtains, the once opulent room now shadowed in sorrow. Robert lay in his massive bed, his body a gaunt echo of his former strength. The fur blankets draped over him seemed too heavy for the fading king to bear. Once robust, now his face was pallid, drenched in sweat, eyes glassy, barely clinging to consciousness.

Ser Barristan Selmy, standing sentinel outside the door, wore an expression that spoke of battles won but men lost. He looked a man, who knew that he had failed in his duty. He nodded to Ned, though his face was tight with worry. Ned swallowed his own dread and stepped into the room. The sight that met him sent a jolt through his chest—Robert, his old friend, reduced to this pitiful state. Cersei Lannister stood near, her deep green dress stained with wine, wrinkled and torn at the seams. She had clearly not bothered to change, wearing the weight of the realm’s uncertainty.

Cersei’s lips pressed together, her expression unreadable—what might have been concern could just as easily have been the tightening coils of calculation. Her green eyes, usually sharp with contempt, held an intensity that made it impossible to tell whether fear for her husband's life, or her ambition, governed her thoughts. Every movement, from her clenched fingers to the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, suggested that beneath her queenly facade, her mind was already racing ahead, plotting her next move in the game of thrones.

Robert groaned from the bed, his once booming voice now a rasp. “Ned...”

Cersei cleared her throat. "Lord Stark," she said, but her voice held none of the usual haughty sharpness; it was hollow, almost concerned.

Ned turned toward his old friend, his heart heavy as he knelt by the bedside. The man before him bore no resemblance to the Robert of old—no Storm King who had felled foes like the wind fells leaves. What remained was a shadow, a dying, broken shadow.

The Maester, Pycelle- murmured softly, “Milk of the poppy. It’s all we can do for him now.”

Ned nodded, but his face showed a flash of panic, an emotion he rarely let surface. His mind raced. What would become of the realm?

“I want Ser Barristan and Renly inside as witnesses,” Robert wheezed, barely able to lift his head.

Ned fetched them both, returning with Renly in tow. Renly was usually the image of a finely groomed lord, but now his usually polished dark green velvet doublet was askew, and his hair was wild. He looked rattled, and his hands fidgeted as he stood by the bed.

Robert tried to sit up, a surge of stubborn strength within him, but the pain bent him back down. His face contorted, and the room grew tense as his breath labored. Yet still, Robert’s will was iron. He spoke, his voice heavy with the weight of kingship. “Ned,” he gasped, “you will serve as regent until my heir... ascends.”

Ned nodded towards his friend. He penned the decree swiftly, his hands moving with purpose even as his mind wrestled with what this meant. Every scratch of the quill felt like sealing his own fate. Renly hovered nearby, his shock still evident on his young face. His usual smile and charm were nowhere to be found.

When the writing was done, Robert’s shaking hand grasped the quill. He scribbled his name with what strength he had left. Ned sealed it with his ring. The deed was done.

Cersei’s eyes flickered to Ser Barristan and Renly, her expression tight as she took in the witnesses. The Queen, usually resplendent, looked worn and dishevelled, but beneath the frayed fabric of her dress, the iron will remained.

After the others left, Ned lingered a moment longer with his friend. He felt the weight of the crown in that room, a crown he had never wanted and now feared might fall into the wrong hands.

As Ned moved to leave, the chamber felt even colder. He said his goodbyes to his dear friend, his brother in all but blood and left swiftly, lest he begin crying right there. He turned next to Cersei’s chambers, where the Queen awaited, her impatience barely hidden beneath a mask of concern. She stood straight-backed in a gown that no longer fit the occasion—its intricate gold threads now felt like a mockery of the death so near.

“What news, Lord Stark?” she asked, her voice tight, but Ned heard the faint tremor beneath it.

Ned spoke quietly, “Robert’s time is short. We must prepare for the coronation.”

Relief flashed across her face, though she masked it quickly. “Yes,” she said. “Summon the lords. Joffrey must be crowned within the month, in front of all to see. Any lord who fails to attend will be branded a traitor.”

Ned gave a short nod, knowing her ambition would soon drive her to action. As he left, the heavy silence of the realm’s fate bore down on him, and in the Queen’s chambers, a small, cold smile curved on Cersei’s lips.

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Chapter 2

The people mourned for their beloved king for a moon’s turn now. Lowborn and highborn alike looked back at Robert’s reign as an era of peace. King Robert was a beloved monarch, known for his extravagant tournaments, where the victor could win enough gold to purchase even a small holdfast. His joyful spirit brought life to the realm, showering titles and riches upon those with even the slightest promise. While he did not govern directly, his Hand, Jon Arryn, and later Ned Stark, ensured the realm remained balanced. After the wars, Robert brought peace to lands that had suffered too much turmoil for a lifetime. For a month, the realm mourned. But today was the day of crowning, a new monarch would rise. Only the Seven knew what the new reign would bring, yet the people remained hopeful.

In the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister was finalizing the last-minute preparations. She scrutinized the seating arrangement for the coronation and the evening feast with the diligence of a master tactician. Today was the day her darling boy would fulfil his destiny—Joffrey would be king, and she, his Queen. Well, Queen Regent, to be precise, but she was determined that today would mark the start of her rule. It was always her fate to govern; she had the cunning for it. Jaime—her beloved brother—was charming but ill-suited for the throne. Even Joffrey was not fit to rule in her estimation, yet that mattered little; she would guide him with an iron grip. Soon, she would make the world see that she was the true queen. Her father, her brothers—they would bow before her. Joffrey had little interest in the realm's day-to-day affairs, and that suited her just fine. She would assume those responsibilities and show everyone that she was born to lead. Tywin had always underestimated her, dismissing her intellect. But today was her day. She had instructed Joffrey to name her Queen Regent after his coronation; he had agreed without hesitation. Soon after, she would dispose of Ned Stark, and then she would emerge as the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms. Today was the day a Lannister would ascend the Iron Throne—a pure-blooded Lannister, she snickered, the only one clever enough to remove the Baratheon line and seize the throne for her family.

Cersei sat before the looking glass, asking her handmaiden to summon someone to check on her son as she began preparing for the momentous occasion. Two maids, of some lowly house in the West, set to work on her hair, styled in the Western fashion—she felt nostalgic. Today was a day to showcase the might of the West and the Lannisters. Everything was adorned in gold; the Baratheon red had been minimized as much as possible. She couldn’t remove it completely, lest she draw attention to her intentions. But the time would come when it would be eradicated entirely. She had plans to dispose of Stannis and Renly too; she could not allow any trueborn challengers to linger. Those schemes would unfurl after the coronation, of course. She would eliminate her enemies one by one and claim her rightful place as the one true queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Joffrey would need to marry soon, but she had already contemplated a meek bride—someone who would follow her commands and remain submissive, never challenging her authority. Everything was falling into place at last.

After donning a stunning gold dress crafted specifically for the occasion, she checked her reflection one last time in the looking glass. She looked radiant and poised for her destiny. With a satisfied smirk, she left her chambers, finding her brother standing guard just outside. She had plans to remove Barristan Selmy as well; Jaime could take over as the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. They would no longer have to hide their relationship. Jaime flashed her a knowing smirk, conveying a thousand words with that one look. She would get back to him on that later. As they made their way toward the throne room, her father and her loathsome brother joined them en-route.

“I trust all arrangements have been made. There can be no mistakes today,” Tywin Lannister addressed his children, his voice carrying authority. They all nodded, understanding the significance of the momentous occasion. Yet Cersei stiffened at his words; trust her father to have such little faith in her abilities, as if she were no better than her siblings. She shook off the disquieting thought. Today was not the day for doubts—today, she would demonstrate to her father that she was the best Lannister. She would gloat later, when they were alone.

They awaited Joffrey outside the throne room, ready to make their grand entrance and display their might for the realm to behold. Joffrey emerged from his chamber in the Maegor Holdfast, strolling leisurely down the corridor.

“Mother!” he exclaimed loudly, resplendent in gold from head to toe, looking every bit the true Lannister he was on this day. Her golden boy positively shimmered as he approached. Cersei examined him closely, ensuring nothing was amiss before taking his head in her hands. “Today, you will become king, my darling. All the realm will bow at your feet. You must remain strong; we must project a formidable front against these simpering fools.”

“But Mother, how long will it take? I want to see my new royal chambers!” he whined. Myrcella and Tommen had joined them, standing nervously near Tyrion, both adorned in gold—symbols of their true house, as decreed by Cersei.

Tywin cast a disapproving glance at the boy. “Cease your whining, child! You will stand and sit and do as you are told for as long as necessary. You will NOT be an embarrassment today!” he declared; his voice filled with ire. Cersei seethed inwardly; this would not be tolerated once Joffrey became king. No one would speak to him like that, not even Tywin Lannister.

Joffrey looked chastened for a moment, the Imp appearing amused that it was not him facing their father’s wrath this time. Jaime watched passively; he could care less, in truth. Joffrey could benefit from a bit more scolding—he was a brat.

With everyone in position, Tywin nodded at the herald, who announced their arrival. The great doors opened, revealing a thousand eyes fixed upon them.

“All hail Prince Joffrey Baratheon—the Crown Prince! Queen Cersei, Prince Tommen, and Princess Myrcella Baratheon!” the herald proclaimed. The rest of the family was introduced in a single breath, making their way toward the Iron Throne. Cersei had orchestrated the seating arrangement with precision; Stannis had not dared to show his face despite the threat of treason, yet Renly was present. She glanced at her handiwork in action. Renly stood below the steps of the Iron Throne, positioned just after the Lannisters.

Cersei’s eyes narrowed as she noted Loras Tyrell standing close beside Renly, a clear sign of insolence. She had given explicit instructions to keep the Tyrells behind the other lords. The Tyrells were nothing but grasping fools—she had no tolerance for their antics. Her gaze shifted to the left, where the Starks and Tullys stood, and a sly smirk crept onto her lips. Following tradition—Robert’s wishes—placed the Hand’s house on the right side, a deliberate insult she relished. Let them know they would no longer be welcome in the affairs of the realm. Cersei was pleased that when she presented the seating chart to Ned Stark, he had not protested. He knew his time in the capital was limited; after all, a wolf could never outmatch a lion.

Ned Stark stood stoically among his daughters, Sansa and Arya, who exuded strength despite their circumstances. He had opted not to summon the rest of his family from Winterfell, claiming the journey would be too taxing. Cersei agreed unbothered; the Starks were fools, and she was getting Ned Stark's fealty- She would have his heirs in perpetuity. Among the Northern Lords behind him, she recognized the sigils of the Manderlys, Umbers, Karstarks, Boltons, and Reeds. She even spotted Ned Stark’s bastard, Jon Snow, standing a few paces behind his father. Cersei scowled again; the throne room was no place for a bastard. They ought to know their place, and she would have a word with Stark after the ceremony to express her displeasure.

The Tullys—Edmure Tully and the Riverlords—stood after the Starks. Hoster Tully was too ill to attend, a detail she stored away for later consideration. Following them were the Martells, another family she needed to handle. Oberyn Martell represented Doran, who was also too unwell to make the journey. Cersei was displeased, but she calmed herself upon realizing that at least Arianne, his heir, had come to swear fealty. Among the Martells stood a few of Oberyn's bastard daughters and his Paramour. What was it with these people, she wondered, bringing bastards to a coronation when she had specifically ordered against it? They would pay for this insolence—she would see to it.

Lysa Tully, that madwoman, had also failed to appear for the ceremony. Cersei mentally noted that the other Vale lords were however present, including the Royces, the Graftons, and the Waynwoods to note a few. She needed to deal with Lysa Tully and the foolish boy Robin Arryn - who was now the Lord Paramount of the Vale. A power shift is inevitable, she vowed silently, envisioning a loyal puppet to place in control.

Glancing toward the Small Council, she noted their positions beneath the Iron Throne. Varys and Littlefinger stood to the left, while Barristan Selmy and Pycelle occupied the right. The council would require a thorough reshuffling; a daunting task lay ahead for her after this ceremony.

Near the throne, she stood with her children—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—while her father, Tywin Lannister, stood on the right- exuding an aura of stoic confidence, his sharp gaze piercing through the gathered assembly. Jaime and Tyrion flanked the younger Lannisters, casting a long shadow over the proceedings.

Pycelle’s voice broke the tension as he began, “Greetings, Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. We gather here for the coronation of our prince. Before his death, King Robert made a will, declaring Lord Eddard Stark as the Lord Protector of the realm.” His words rolled like thunder, and all eyes turned expectantly to Ned Stark, who approached the dais from the crowd—purposeful yet deliberately distanced from the council.

“I hold in my hand the last will and testament of King Robert Baratheon,” Ned proclaimed, opening the scroll for all to see. The hushed assembly hung on his every word.

“I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, the Andal, and the First Men, who claimed the Iron Throne through my noble Targaryen blood, bestow the governance of this realm to Eddard Stark, my trusted friend and honorable Lord of Winterfell.

Until the rightful heir rises to take their place upon the throne, I place my faith in your wisdom and strength to lead with justice, preparing the way for a prosperous future for our people and the legacy of our house. Let peace reign in the lands, guided by your steady hand.”

As Ned’s voice echoed in the great hall, the meaning of Robert’s words became painfully clear. The failure to mention Joffrey directly as king sparked murmurs among the crowd. Cersei's heart raced in her chest; how could this be? Today was meant to solidify her son’s claim, and yet the will had set the stage for treachery!

The throne room fell silent, as if the air itself had been sucked away. For the first time in her life, Cersei felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her.

Then, like the cracking of ice, Renly Baratheon burst into laughter, stepping forward to stand boldly beneath the dais. Cersei's temper flared—this mockery of her late husband stung deeply. Yet, a more profound realization pierced her heart. Robert had never dictated the will; Ned had crafted it. And with that craftiness came the horrible truth: Stark knew! Stark knew her secret.

“Not long ago,” Renly called out, “I received a scandalous letter from my brother Stannis. It detailed his doubts regarding the Queen’s fidelity. He and Jon Arryn were gathering proof to show Robert that his supposed heirs were not of his blood but of an incestuous union—born of lust and sin between the Queen and her own twin brother!” His words echoed like a death knell, the gravity of his claims causing ripples of shock to surge through the hall.

“And the proof of this treachery lies in the Book of Lineages!” he continued, his voice ringing with conviction. “Look upon these children—not a shred of Baratheon blood in them—golden-haired and green eyed- Lannisters to their very core; while the Baratheons, even the once who married into the Lannisters- were all black haired and blue eyed!”

As the throne room erupted into chaos, Cersei and the Lannisters stood paralyzed, watching their carefully constructed legacy unravel before their eyes. Desperation and rage coursed through Cersei's veins. The game was afoot, and she would not let it end here.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Cersei Lannister, seated upon the regal platform that held the Iron Throne, watched with barely contained fury as Renly Baratheon, the so-called Master of Laws, dared to declare her beloved son a bastard before the entire court. The hall, usually alive with the whispers and laughter of nobles, now held a tense silence, punctuated only by the rustle of fine silks and the faint echo of distant footsteps. How dare he? The very audacity of that sword swallower, to utter such treasonous words ignited a fire within her that threatened to consume her.

“LIES! LIES!” she bellowed, her voice echoing like thunder through the high-vaulted chamber. “Arrest this man!” Her golden boy, Joffrey, stood defiantly in front of the Iron Throne, rage illuminating his features as though he were a lion about to pounce. His angelic face, now frothing at the mouth- such was his fury.

“Guards! Arrest him, and his tongue shall be removed for spreading such treasonous words against your Prince!” Cersei's commands rang out, fierce and unyielding. Yet, the guards remained motionless, their eyes darting to one another, reluctant to heed her call.

Cersei's gaze swept through the court, confusion and fury swelling within her chest. How could this happen? Renly, her brother-in-law, had never possessed such cunning. How could he have the loyalty of the guards?

She turned her attention to the Kingsguard, her last hope resting upon their stalwart shoulders. “Ser Barristan, Ser Trant! What are you both waiting for? Arrest this man on the charges of treason! Your Queen commands it!”

Yet Ser Barristan remained resolute, a stoic figure amidst the chaos. “Your Grace,” he replied, voice steady and unwavering, “he has sown doubt amongst the people. Until a legitimate heir sits upon the throne, I cannot comply. I can only protect the King, and until a King is chosen- I will not be able to take action. This is beyond my understanding at the moment,”

Cersei’s gaze shifted to her twin brother Jaime, who, thankfully, stepped forward, a determined look in his eyes. He would uphold her command; he had to.

But Renly was far from finished. Standing tall, a defiant smirk gracing his lips, he proclaimed, “In front of all this court, I declare that the Queen’s children are bastards. I charge her with treason and urge you all to take the right side! She cuckolded our king. Her son does not deserve the throne!”

His words rang through the hall, sharp and accusatory. “I declare myself as the legitimate heir to the throne, for the Queen’s children are undeserving! The realm will not stand for this treachery, and under my rule, we will punish the ones responsible! We will take the realm to new heights. The Maesters tell me that this long summer is almost over. We need a king on the throne who is of sound mind and body—who can help us navigate through these treacherous waters. It certainly is not this boy king!”

Joffrey’s face twisted in rage as Renly continued, his voice rising with fervor. “Look at him! The way he is spouting curses and shouting—he will certainly be the Mad King reborn! Join me, my Lords and Ladies—for together we can remove the thorns from the crown. Let us be rid of these sinners in the eyes of the Seven once and for all!”

Cersei seethed, every word a blade slicing through her composure. Renly’s passionate oration filled the hall, and she could see the tide beginning to shift in his favor. He was emboldened, too pleased with himself, believing he could sway the court without spilling blood.

Amidst the swirling sea of nobles, she caught sight of Loras Tyrell whispering urgently to his family, a fleeting glance of understanding passing between them. Renly's alliance with the Tyrells could spell disaster.

Renly raised his voice again, declaring, “Robert’s Will said the true heir! The true heir to the Iron Throne is not Joffrey Waters! Stannis can compete with me for the throne, but he kept this truth hidden from all of you. Why? In not bringing the truth to my brother when he was alive and waiting until his death—Stannis has also committed treason! He has betrayed the legacy of my dear brother. The Baratheons can and have claimed the Iron Throne because of our Targaryen heritage. No one here can call themselves the rightful heir except for me!”

He paused, eyes flashing with ambition. “The remaining Targaryens are in Essos, living the rest of their lives in exile. It is only I who can bear this heavy burden! My brother entrusted me with this responsibility. But fear not, my Lords! I shall take this duty just as deftly as I took the mantle of the Lord of Storm’s End and Master of Laws!”

Just as he finished, Jaime and Meryn Trant moved forward, intent on silencing Renly, to beat him into submission or perhaps remove him from the court entirely.

“HALT!” came the booming voice of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

Jaime cast a swift glance toward the Lord Regent, sensing the change in the room’s atmosphere.

Suddenly, guards poured into the throne room from every direction. The tension escalated as even the balcony filled with soldiers, bows nocked, arrows glinting in the torchlight. Gasps and terrified whispers rippled through the court like wildfire.

Stark raised his hands, calming the escalating chaos. “The guards here are just a precaution. They are not here to hurt you, but to solve these proceedings in a calm manner. I am still the Lord Regent, and with that authority, I ask everyone to remove all weapons from your person. I give you my word that you will receive them back later. For now, to maintain the peace and get to the bottom of this situation, I urge you to comply. Failure to comply shall result in swift removal from the throne room and a visit to the Black Cells. I repeat—drop your weapons!” he growled.

Shock rippled through the gathered lords and ladies. Jaime glanced at his family, realization dawning—Stark had orchestrated this ambush from the beginning.

One by one, the guards approached to collect the weapons. Jaime hesitated, looking for guidance from his father or sister, but found none. Tyrion, his little brother, gave a subtle nod of understanding. Sighing, Jaime dropped his sword, recognizing the futility of resistance. They were outnumbered and outmatched.

The guards continued their thorough search, gathering blades from even the Martells, each member displaying a range of emotions—amusement, anger, and confusion. Oberyn Martell watched with keen interest, delighting in the unfolding drama.

One by one, weapons were relinquished. When the guards reached Ser Barristan, the seasoned Kingsguard stood firm. “I am a Kingsguard, my Lord. I cannot let go of my weapon.”

Ned Stark nodded, an understanding glimmering in his eyes. “Keep it then, but I need your word that until the proceedings are completed, you will not draw your sword—that you will let the court proceed in figuring out the rightful heir to the throne.”

Barristan met his gaze, a hint of respect reflected in his eyes. “You have my word, Lord Stark.”

Satisfied, Ned turned his focus back to the court. “As per Robert’s decree, I am the Lord Regent. It is my duty to place the rightful heir on the Iron Throne. We are all gathered here, and we will come to an agreement regarding this matter.” He stepped forward, authoritative, commanding the attention of every noble present.

“Lord Stark!” Cersei interjected, her tone sharp and desperate. “Thank the gods you had the good sense to stop this madman from spouting more lies. Remove him so we can begin again with the celebrations!”

Ignoring her, Ned continued, “As Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, I ask the rightful heir to the Iron Throne to step forward and claim his birthright. But be warned: you will all be asked to prove your claims.” He gestured to the foot of the steps leading to the Iron Throne. “Stand right here.”

Joffrey, simmering with anger, surged forward, his royal entitlement apparent. He planted himself defiantly at the base of the steps, fists clenched. Yet, before he could open his mouth, Renly stepped beside him, unwavering.

And then, after the two claimants began walking another- all eyes turned as a figure made his way toward the front—slowly, deliberately, drawing the attention of every noble in the hall. It was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. His presence shifted the atmosphere, the air thick with anticipation.

With his arrival, the game of thrones unraveled even further into chaos.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Ned Stark was a man bound by honor, his very essence shaped by the ancient words of his House: Winter is Coming. It was this honor that had guided him through life like an unbending sword, his reputation as stark and cold as the lands he ruled. To many in the South, he was a man too noble for his own good, a relic of a dying age where men believed in honor, justice, and loyalty. But those who whispered behind his back, those who called him a fool for adhering to such rigid principles, had overlooked a deeper truth. Ned Stark's honor was not as simple as they thought. Underneath the iron-clad façade, he was driven by a fierce love for his family—a love that would eclipse all ideals he held dear. For his children, for his people, he would do anything, sacrifice anything, even his precious honor.

There was a time when his world had been clear, untainted by the blood and betrayals of the war. Before the rebellion, before the deaths of his father and brother, Ned had seen the world in stark contrasts of right and wrong. He had followed Jon Arryn’s teachings, believing the realm could be divided into honor and dishonor, loyalty and treachery. The world was black and white then. But war had shattered that illusion. When he saw the bodies of Rhaegar’s innocent children, his queen, their small, broken forms laid out at the feet of his once-beloved friend Robert Baratheon, Ned’s soul had been forever scarred. The righteous rebellion he had fought in became nothing more than a tale of cruelty and power, a sickening game where children’s lives were mere pieces on a board. Robert had laughed as he looked at the corpses, and called them dragonspawn, justifying their deaths. Ned’s rage had been a firestorm, one that he could barely control. Yet, no one cared. Not the court. Not even Jon Arryn, the man who had taught him to believe in the virtues of justice.

Robert had been quick to reward the Lannisters for their treachery. Tywin Lannister’s banner men had sacked King’s Landing and offered up the slaughtered Targaryen heirs like trophies. And Robert had given them titles, wealth, power—the spoils of war. Even Jon Arryn had been complicit, his voice soft but firm when he spoke to Ned in private, his gaze as hard as ever. “It is what it is, Ned,” he had said. “In war, it becomes difficult to control the rage. Robert would not have a throne without it. The Targaryens are gone now, and our focus must be on building the realm anew. The Lannisters are powerful allies, soon to be Robert’s kin. We must look to the future.” With those words, Ned had understood something far darker than any sword stroke: even the best of men could be corrupted by power. The ideals of honor, justice, and loyalty meant little when weighed against the ambition to rule. Ned, however, had no such ambitions. And that was why, despite his anger and frustration, he had no power. He was not a king; he could rage all he wanted, but it would change nothing. Now that the war was won, the North was no longer needed. They expected him to return to his frozen wasteland, to his ancient, half-forgotten kingdom where his people would freeze in peace. The Lannisters had gained everything—wealth, power, and glory. And what had Ned gained? Dead family and an endless winter ahead.

Robert didn’t even give him leave to find his sister—his beloved Lyanna. The sister for whom he had gone to war, for whom he had risked everything. She meant nothing to Robert now, not when there were kingdoms to secure and thrones to claim. “When the war is over and all have bent the knee,” Robert had said dismissively. But Ned had waited long enough. When he finally reached the Tower of Joy, after the siege of Storm’s End, it was with a heart weighed down by dread. The Tower stood as a haunting monument to the war’s true cost, and within its walls, he found no victory—only sorrow. Lyanna, pale and fading like a winter flower, lay dying in a bed soaked with blood and sweat. Her fevered eyes had lit up when she saw him, and for a moment, he was no longer the Warden of the North, but just a brother desperate to save the last vestige of his family. The Kingsguard, those noble knights who had sworn to protect the Targaryens, had stood aside reluctantly, letting him pass. Even Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had yielded when he saw the grief and desperation in the eyes of a brother for his sister.

In that room, amidst the scent of death and desperation, Lyanna placed a bundle in his arms. A baby, small and fragile, with the dark hair and grey eyes of a Stark but the blood of a Targaryen. "Aemon," she whispered through her dying breath, naming him after their ancestor. She begged Ned to keep him safe, to protect him from the wrath of Robert, from the hate of the world. And there, as he held her hand in her final moments, Ned swore a vow that would change the course of history. Lyanna’s son, Rhaegar’s heir, would not die like the other children of House Targaryen. He would live, but not as a prince. No, Ned would hide him in the only place where no one would look—Winterfell.

Howland Reed, Ned’s loyal companion and one of the few who knew the truth, had proposed hiding the boy in Greywater Watch, away from the South’s prying eyes. But Ned could not bear to part with him. He had already lost too much—his father, his brother, his sister. This child was his last connection to Lyanna, his last chance to protect something precious. No, Jon would come with him to Winterfell. The Kingsguard objected, of course. They argued that Aemon was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, that he should be raised to reclaim his birthright. But their words fell on deaf ears. The war was over, and they had lost. The Iron Throne had taken enough lives, and Ned would not sacrifice another child to its cruel, unyielding grasp. The boy would live, not as a pawn in some deadly game of crowns, but as a Stark, protected and hidden in the North.

Ser Arthur Dayne had protested furiously, his honor as a Kingsguard driving him to the brink of rebellion. “He is the rightful king!” Dayne had cried, his voice rising in the echoing stone walls. “He cannot be a bastard!” But one cold look from Ned had silenced him. Dayne and the others had no authority here. They were relics of a lost cause, bound by oaths that no longer mattered. The war had been won, and with it, their power was gone. They could either follow Ned’s lead, or they could die with their secrets.

Howland Reed had proposed a solution—take Aemon to Greywater Watch, where no southern eyes would ever find him. The marshes of the Neck were as impenetrable as they were mysterious. If safety was what Ned desired, there was no better place. Ned gave it thought. The idea had merit, but as he looked down at the infant, cradled in his arms, the last living connection to his sister, he knew he could never let him go. No. Damn Robert. Damn the realm. If the kings of the South wanted Aemon, they would have to take him from his cold, dead hands. The boy was Stark blood, his blood. He would keep him close. Trust no one. Not even Howland, loyal as he was, could be trusted with something so precious.

Even the Kingsguard, men sworn to protect the royal line, men who stood vigil at Lyanna’s side were not to be trusted. Oaths, after all, were just words. Jaime Lannister had taught the realm that much when he plunged a sword into the Mad King’s back. No, not even the vows of the most honorable men in Westeros would be enough to ensure Aemon's safety for Ned.

When he spoke, his voice was as cold and firm as the ice of Winterfell. He declared his intent to all who stood in the tower, despite their objections. Aemon would come with him, back to the North. The boy’s place was at Winterfell, where the wolves ruled, where cold winds would protect him from the viper’s nest that was the South. He belonged in the North, a Stark in all but name.

Ned laid out his plan, as solid and unyielding as a siege tower. He would claim the boy as his own, call him Jon Snow, a bastard born of war and dishonor, but safe. The Kingsguard were welcome to join him, provided they followed his commands and understood the new reality of their situation. The war was over. They had lost. There was no Targaryen king to protect, no throne to fight for. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had leapt to his feet at that, his voice a thunderclap as he shouted that the rightful king could not be made a bastard. But Ned’s cold, grey eyes silenced him.

“The war is over, Ser,” he had said. “The boy’s safety is all that matters now.”

The Kingsguard were no longer in charge. The war had taken that from them. If they truly wished to protect Aemon, they would have to trust Ned’s judgment, though it twisted their vows in a way that left a bitter taste in their mouths.

Howland Reed had raised another concern. “How will you pass him as your bastard? The people know you, Ned. The honorable Warden of the North siring a child out of wedlock? Tongues will wag. And what of Lady Stark? Catelyn is a pious woman, a believer in the Seven. She will not take kindly to a bastard in her home.”

Ned dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. “I’ll deal with that when the time comes. My wife, the people, they will all understand in time. What matters now is getting back to Winterfell safely. Nothing else.”

He had already sent a raven to Robert, informing him of Lyanna’s death and his decision to return to the North. His words had been brief, but final. He would not bend the knee at King’s Landing, not now. The South held nothing for him but pain and loss. In that letter, he had mentioned the boy, now named Jon Snow, in honor of Jon Arryn, the man who had raised him. He told Robert only what was necessary: the babe was his bastard, born during the war, and he would raise him in the North.

Robert’s reply had been swift and full of grief. His words about Lyanna were stained with sorrow, but he had accepted Ned’s account without question. In his grief, Robert hadn’t even noticed that his closest friend had forgone swearing an oath of fealty. Neither had Jon Arryn, who was a cautious man, and others in the court had been too consumed by the aftermath of war to care. The moment had passed, and Ned would not offer it again.

On the long journey back to Winterfell, Ned thought of the future. This would never happen again. The North would never be caught unaware. War was inevitable, whether Robert discovered the truth of Aemon’s birth or some new conflict arose from the ambitions of southern lords. Ned would prepare the North for whatever came next. They would be ready, or they would die.

The North needed men. It needed gold. For too long, the largest kingdom had suffered from a lack of both. As he cradled the babe in his arms, his mind was already working, planning. He had his own son waiting for him in Winterfell—Robb, named after his “friend” Robert Baratheon. Ned was eager to meet him, to introduce him to his new brother. War had taken so much, but it had also given him two new sons. Jon and Robb. His mind hardened with purpose. He would see them both grow strong.

Jon Snow, the boy with his sister’s grey eyes, was quietest in Ned’s arms. He felt the bond between them already, as if fate had placed the boy in his care. And so, Jon sat through all of Ned’s meetings with Howland Reed, where they discussed how to strengthen the North. The boy kept him grounded, reminding him of why he must succeed. Why he could not fail.

Ned’s plans grew bolder with each passing day. When they returned to Winterfell, he would write to Robert, asking for compensation for the North’s losses. If he had to deceive Robert to win the North the favor it needed, then so be it.

The Kingsguard protested throughout, their voices growing thin with desperation. “He is the rightful heir! He is the true king!” they cried.

Ned silenced them with a final, cold stare. “He is a babe. Helpless. He cannot rule, he cannot defend himself. And if you place him on that throne, he will die. I will not leave my blood in that viper’s nest, not so young.”

That put an end to thoughts of kings and crowns. For now, the boy was Jon Snow. Ned’s son. His beloved son. And that, more than thrones, was all that mattered.

Winter would come to the North, and with it, a new kind of war. The South could play its games, but in the North, the wolves were preparing. And if anyone dared come for Jon, if anyone sought to harm his family again, they would face the full fury of Eddard Stark. The honorable man of Winterfell was dead. In his place stood a wolf, ready to protect his pack, no matter the cost.