"Your Grace, I trust your journey was a pleasant one."
After the feast, Robert came to Lord Eddard's study. It was quiet and out of the way—clearly the king had something important to discuss with an old friend.
Robert snorted. "Pleasant? It was swamps, woods, and fields the whole way. Once we passed the Neck there wasn't a proper inn for leagues… though I'll grant you, that feast was generous."
"The North is harsh," Eddard said.
"You should come south—before summer ends. Gods, Ned, the Reach… fields of golden roses as far as the eye can see. Fruit so ripe it bursts in your mouth—melons, peaches, fireplums. Wine rich enough to drown in…"
Robert's eyes gleamed. "And the women."
He grinned, suddenly looking less like a crowned stag and more like a rutting boar. "I swear to you—once the heat comes, they strip naked and swim in the rivers near their castles."
"Heh… heh…" Robert laughed, delighted with himself.
"Your Grace," Eddard said carefully, awkward but trying not to be rude, "about my daughter Arya's betrothal… perhaps we should discuss it again?"
"What—why? It binds our houses together. Just like Lyanna and me, back then."
"But she's only eleven."
"Old enough to be promised," Robert said with a grin. "The wedding can wait a few years. You stubborn bastard—say yes already."
"It is… the highest honor," Eddard said, helpless. He knew Robert's temperament; this had been decided long ago, and refusal would not be tolerated.
"Your Grace," Eddard went on, "you didn't come all this way only for a marriage, did you?"
"You've heard about old Arryn," Robert said, the weight dropping into his voice.
Eddard nodded.
"King's Landing is a nest of vipers now. I need a man I can trust—like Jon was."
Robert seized Eddard's hand. "Ned. I'll speak plain. I need you."
"Your Grace, I—"
Robert barreled on anyway. "Think of the years at the Eyrie… gods, what a time.
I want you to come south to King's Landing and help me run the realm. Stop hiding at the end of the world, wasting yourself."
He stared out the window into the dimness beyond, suddenly melancholy. "I swear to you—sitting the Iron Throne and ruling is a thousand times harder than taking it.
Judging disputes is mind-numbing. Counting coppers is worse.
And the smallfolk—endless, whining, pleading—I sit on that damned iron chair all day listening to them complain about this and that until my skull goes numb and my arse goes sore.
Every one of them wants coin, or land, or justice.
Lying bastards, the lot of them—and my councillors are no better.
I'm surrounded by fools and cheats, Ned. It'll drive a man mad.
They're either too stupid to know what they're saying, or they're lying on purpose.
Sometimes I wake up in the night and truly wish we'd lost on the Trident…"
"I understand your burdens," Eddard said softly.
Robert looked at him. "Old friend… I think you're the only one who does."
Then he smiled.
"Eddard Stark—I name you the new Hand of the King."
Eddard dropped to one knee.
He wasn't surprised. Why else would Robert ride a thousand miles north?
The Hand of the King—chief minister of the realm—one man below the king and above all others.
He spoke with the king's authority, commanded armies, dispensed justice.
If the king was absent, ill, or struck by misfortune, the Hand could even sit the Iron Throne and rule in his stead.
Robert was placing the realm in Eddard's hands.
And it was the last thing Eddard wanted.
"Your Grace," Eddard said helplessly, "I fear I'm not suited to such a post."
Robert grunted, pretending impatience. "I'm not doing this for your sake. I'm doing it so you can rule and fight wars—while I…"
He slapped his belly.
"…eat, drink, hunt, and whore myself happy."
"But it's too sudden," Eddard said. "Give me time to consider. I must speak with my family…"
"Fine. Fine." Robert waved it off. "Think it through. Properly."
He clapped Eddard on the shoulder, pulled him back to his feet.
"Just don't keep me waiting too long, Ned. You know I've no patience."
Eddard felt something cold settle in his chest, like a storm on the horizon. The North was his home.
Wolves who left the North rarely met good ends.
His father and brother—
One burned alive by wildfire.
The other strangled by a rope.
…
Winterfell. The sept.
This small sept had been built for Catelyn's sake, so she could keep to the Faith of the Seven.
Eddard, Catelyn, Domeric, and Robb stood before the seven statues—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, the Stranger.
"Should I accept Robert's offer?" Eddard turned to them. His eyes were shadowed, his voice full of doubt.
Catelyn answered at once. "He is the king. You cannot refuse."
"My duty is here—in the North. I do not want the office of Hand."
"The king rode a thousand miles to see you," Catelyn argued. "If you refuse him, you might as well slap him in the face before all the realm. He will doubt your loyalty. He will wonder what you're hiding."
"Robert would never," Eddard insisted. "He loves me like a brother."
…
They argued for a long time, neither yielding. At last their eyes shifted to Domeric and Robb.
"Isn't it good?" Robb burst out, excited. "Father as Hand, Arya betrothed to the Crown Prince—House Stark will have power and glory in King's Landing!"
Robb had trained with the sword for years—not only to surpass Domeric, but to make a name for himself in the south. To become one of the great legends—Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan the Bold…
It had been his dream for as long as he could remember.
"Domeric," Eddard said, looking to his goodson as if for rescue. "What do you think?"
"Lord Eddard—whatever you decide, I will support you without hesitation."
In Domeric's view, going to King's Landing before the War of the Five Kings erupted—taking the measure of the board, grasping the initiative—was an excellent choice.
But staying in the North, watching the south tear itself apart, was also viable. At worst, they could keep out of it; the North was hard to conquer.
Still, Domeric leaned toward going south—pushing outward.
If the Starks and Boltons moved together as one rope, then even if Eddard and Robb met disaster, Domeric could still control the North through Sansa.
If they stayed in the North, the newly strengthened Boltons and the Starks would eventually show their teeth at each other. A struggle for the title of Warden of the North would be inevitable. The marriage to Sansa might delay it—but only delay it.
One path: unity against the outside.
The other: rot from within.
Either way, strength decided everything.
That was why Domeric had poured most of his effort into developing his lands.
Only by being strong enough could he remain steady while the world changed.
He had confidence he could crush the lions.
And if it came to it—he could crush the direwolves too.
As Eddard hesitated, Catelyn delivered her final blow.
"This arrived just now," she said, producing a letter. "From my sister, Lysa. Read it before you decide."
She handed it over. The seal was a single drop of blue wax stamped with House Arryn's crescent moon and falcon.
But it had already been opened—Catelyn had read it.
Eddard read. His brows drew tight. His face darkened.
"What does it say?" Robb asked, impatient.
"It says Jon Arryn was murdered," Eddard said, grief and disbelief twisting together. "Murdered by the Lannisters."
"Then we have no choice!" Robb snapped. "You must go, Father. You must be Hand—find the truth, avenge Lord Arryn, bring justice!"
Domeric let out a quiet breath. Of course.
The river was flowing back into its old bed.
"Yes, Lord Eddard," Domeric said. "As Hand, you'll have the authority to uncover the truth and bring the killer to justice. And if the situation turns bad, we can prepare early—and withdraw cleanly."
Domeric's words became the last weight on the scales.
Eddard finally made his decision.
"Very well," he said. "But King's Landing is a nest of snares. I cannot do it alone. I will need a capable aide."
"I'll go!" Robb blurted. "Father—I can help!"
"No." Eddard shook his head. "By custom, when I leave the North, you will rule in my stead. You will hold Winterfell, command in my name. You and your mother stay here."
Then Eddard turned to Domeric.
"Domeric—will you go with me?"
"Gladly, my lord."
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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