Cersei clenched the handkerchief in her hand, her knuckles turning white from the tension. She cursed this wretched journey in her heart—and cursed Robert for forcing her to come.
Jaime rode alongside the wheelhouse on a white horse, clad in gleaming golden armor. Catching a glimpse of Cersei's scowl through the window, he tugged on the reins, guiding his horse closer.
He leaned in, speaking in a low voice so the others wouldn't hear."Cersei," he murmured, "try not to look so sour. When we set up camp, I'll come find you."
She turned sharply, glaring at him."Easy for you to say. This gods-forsaken road is shaking the life out of me."
Jaime gave her a crooked smile."Patience, dear sister. This journey is a small price to pay for ridding us of Jon Arryn. Now Robert's free to stuff himself with boar and bed whores—just as long as he names a new Hand."
Cersei scoffed."A price? You should be grateful. If I hadn't acted, our heads would be decorating the city walls. I just didn't expect Robert to hand the position to the North. I thought Father would be the obvious choice."
Jaime sighed, shaking his head."It's not over. I don't think Eddard Stark wants to be Hand. He ignored all those ravens. Northerners—they never want to leave their frozen strongholds."
Just then, Tyrion trotted up on a small, sturdy pony.
The sight of him made Cersei's face darken."Ugh. That vile little monster."She yanked the curtain shut without another word.
Jaime leaned toward the window."Cersei?"
No reply.
Tyrion looked at the drawn curtain, then shrugged."Seems our queen's not in the mood for conversation."
Jaime smiled, helpless."It's been a grim journey."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, voice tinged with mockery."I'm used to being unwelcome. If nothing else, the North promises to be… diverting."
Jaime glanced at him."I heard you're planning to visit the Wall?"
Tyrion grinned."Perhaps. And there's talk of a village near there—Mole's Town, was it? I hear the brothel is quite warm, despite the climate."
With that, Tyrion turned his pony and rode off, leaving Jaime watching his brother's back, a soft sigh escaping him.
After three days of hard riding, the royal procession finally glimpsed the silhouette of Winterfell as dusk fell.
The golden light of the setting sun rimmed the ancient fortress in a gentle glow, though it did little to soften its stoic grandeur. Winterfell loomed ahead like a slumbering giant—its stone walls rising high, towers etched against the sky, and the direwolf banner of House Stark billowing in the northern wind.
As they neared, the rumble of hooves and wheels broke the still air.
Robert stood in his saddle, eyes fixed on the keep. Cersei, beside him, still wore her brooding scowl, unmoved by the sight.
The royal caravan entered in solemn order, wagon wheels clattering over the stone road.
Waiting at the gate was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, clad in a heavy fur cloak, his face as cold and steady as the land he ruled.
At his side stood Catelyn, graceful in a deep green gown, composed and regal.
Their children stood proudly behind them:
Robb, armored and resolute, already bearing the strength of a lord.
Sansa, dressed in pink with hands folded demurely, her eyes sparkling with dreams of courtly life.
Arya, clad in loose-fitting clothes, fidgeting with excitement, eyes darting with curiosity.
Bran, bundled in warm layers, his gaze wide and wondering.
And Rickon, cradled in his nurse's arms, waving his tiny hands without understanding the moment's weight.
The Stark guards flanked their lords in orderly ranks, their expressions solemn as they awaited the king's arrival.
Robert dismounted as soon as he saw his old friend. The Starks knelt. Robert strode forward, clasped Ned's shoulders, and smiled.
"You've grown fat," he said, tapping his own chest with a hearty laugh.
Ned bowed."Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."
They exchanged a brief, warm embrace.
Robert went on to greet the rest of the family. Cersei descended from her carriage, smiling with politeness but little warmth.
When formalities were over, Robert turned to Ned, urgency replacing pleasantries."Take me to your crypts, old friend. There's something I must do."
Cersei's expression soured at that. She looked as though she wanted to object—but said nothing.
The crypt was cold and silent, thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient dust. Robert and Ned walked side by side down the corridor, candlelight casting long shadows behind them.
"Ned," Robert said, his voice low, "I need you. I want you to be the Hand. I trust no one else. The court is full of liars and flatterers—I need someone I can count on."
His voice echoed off the stone, heavy with desperation.
Ned frowned."Robert… the North needs its Stark. I've no taste for southern politics. I belong here."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded letter."This came by raven, from the Stepstones. It claims you ordered an attempt on Daenerys Targaryen's life. Is it true?"
Robert's face darkened as he read. His jaw clenched, veins rising on his brow.
"Damn right I did. I had to. That girl—she has a dragon. But worse, her betrothed—Gavin Bellerys—commands a full-grown golden beast and a fleet to match. If we don't act, the Iron Throne is in danger."
He brandished the letter in the dim light."And now this Gavin has the gall to challenge me to a duel? The man's a fool. He thinks I'm weak."Robert's voice rose with fury."I'll crush him myself—break his arrogant skull and feed him to his precious dragon!"