The family had been presented.
The introductions had been made, the courtesies observed, the children paraded past him in a line that ranged from the heir — tall, auburn-haired, with Ned’s jaw and something of Cat’s good looks — to the smallest one, who had looked at Robert from behind his brother’s back.
He had been given bread and salt, a feast had been promised, the rooms had been offered.
Winterfell was much warmer than the entire north around it, something about hot springs underneath the walls that Wylis had mentioned that Robert had already forgotten.
What mattered more was one thing.
“Take me to your crypts, Ned.” Robert said, “I would pay my respects.” “We’ve been riding since dawn, my love.
The children are tired and could use some rest and refreshments.
Surely the dead can wait?” Cersei asked neutrally, but Robert could tell she was feeling annoyed.
He gave her an even stare before turning to her golden brother.
“See to the children, Kingslayer.
Make sure they’re settled.” Jaime received this with a resigned nod before steering his sister away towards Catelyn to show them their quarters.
With that done, Robert turned back to Ned, who gave a nod before calling for a lantern.
Two men stepped into his line of sight — both tall, dark-haired, and had the Starks long face.
One wore a modified direwolf on his tunic, the sea worked into the colors.
The other wore the black of the Night’s Watch, the silver pin of the First Ranger at his shoulder.
“We’ll find you in the Great Hall, Ned,” the one with the direwolf said, and turned to Robert.
“Your Grace.” He gave him a respectful nod, which Robert liked.
Completely unlike those lickspittles who’d kiss Robert’s boot if they wanted to.
“Karlon Stark,” Robert said, recognizing him.
He studied the black-cloaked brother.
“And you’re Benjen.” “Indeed, Your Grace.” Karlon’s expression was composed but there was something in the eyes that reminded Robert of Ned at the Eyrie.
“If it’d please you, I’d like to share a drink with the man Ned considers a brother.” Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Not your King?” “Nay, Your Grace.” Robert let out a bark of laughter.
He genuinely did not know another lord in the Seven Kingdoms who would say such a thing to his face.
What a magnificent reason.
The man Ned considers a brother.
As though the crown were a matter of secondary relevance.
Gods he loved northerners.
Why wasn’t he born here instead of the south?
“I’ll see you at the feast, then,” Robert grinned wide as both of them turned and walked off without further ceremony, and Robert watched them go before turning back to Ned, who was shaking his head at his brother’s antics.
“Is he always like that?” “Since he was nine namedays,” Ned said.
“Karlon’s always been the most unpredictable of us.
He’s just like Lyanna in that way.” The mention of Lyanna had them both walking in silence for the rest of the way.
… The crypts of Winterfell were older than almost everything else Robert had ever stood inside.
Not the great sept in King’s Landing, not the Eyrie, not even Storm’s End.
The crypts of Winterfell not only looked old but also felt like it.
There was no manner of grandiose when you were here, but merely the sheer presence and staleness in the air.
The stone steps wound down and down, the temperature dropping with each turn, and Robert steadied himself against the granite wall and cursed the winding steps.
Ned descended ahead of him, his steps steady as if he could walk them even without a lantern.
He probably could, now that Robert thought about it.
The years seemed to have struck his friend well.
His stride was powerful, his gait straight, and he effortlessly pushed open the thick ironwood door that barred the entrance to the crypt.
Even then, there was a rare smile that struck his usual blank stare.
Looks like having his brothers here calmed him down somewhat, Robert had heard that Ned summoned his brothers here for reasons still unknown to him.
Bah, if only Stannis and Renly weren’t so bloody useless, the bards would be singing their tale of the Three Brothers instead of the Starks.
Barristan had wanted to come with, but Robert merely signalled him to stay at the door.
The old knight had given a disapproving frown, but chose to adhere to the orders.
What a worry wart, the Bold was.
Who would dare harm him inside Winterfell?
His friend ran a tight household.
“I was beginning to think I’d never get here,” Robert said, mostly to the darkness.
“Had to take a ship in the end.
You know how I feel about ships.” “The journey from King’s Landing to Winterfell is seventeen hundred miles by road,” Ned said, from ahead of him.
“You’d be here at four months at the latest.” “The usual pace of the court was as fast as a fucking turtle thanks to that wheelhouse,” Robert said.
“We barely made halfway of the Crownlands in a fortnight, Ned.
A fortnight!
And the gods-damned snow didn’t help after we landed!” “Aye, summer snows are common enough at this time of year.
I hope they didn’t trouble you much.
They melt by midday, most of them.” “Tell that to my children.
Tommen had to be covered in so many cloaks he looked like a swaddled babe.” He heard Ned’s quiet chuckle, and the sound of it undid something that had been tight in his chest since before King’s Landing.
“Others take the cold.
I shudder to think what this place is like in winter.” “The winters are oft hard,” Ned admitted softly.
“But the Starks endure, we always have.” “You should come south, then.
Taste the summer while it lasts.
Take off those damned furs and live a little.” Robert laughed heartily, letting the sound echo through space.
His laughter died a little at Ned’s silence, before the Lord of Winterfell broke it with his next words.
“Winter is coming, Your Grace.
My place is here in Winterfell.” Robert pursed his lips slightly at that but let it slide.
The deeper hallways were lit only by the lantern Ned carried, the flame throwing a small and insufficient circle of warmth against the dark.
The shadows moved on the stone pillars and the stone faces.
A lesser man would be quaking in his boots.
Robert was not lesser.
But by the time Ned led him into one of the deeper floors, Robert felt himself gasping for breath.
Seven hells, why did the Starks have to bury themselves so deep in the dark?
The Starks of old sat on their granite thrones in the long corridor, each one with its rusted iron sword and its stone direwolf, each one with the same stern face that Ned often wore in his famous icy stare.
A thousand years of lords and kings, sitting in the dark, waiting out whatever the world was doing above them here in the cold and the dark.
Robert couldn’t help but shiver at the chill, even through his thick cloak, but Ned seemed unbothered by it.
It was said that the blood of Starks had ice going through their veins, and at this moment, Robert believed it fully.
They stopped at three statues — the last three in the most recent section of the hallway that still continued for a hundred feet.
The stone was still sharp-edged, the iron of the swords still holding most of its color.
“We’re here,” Ned said as he hooked the oil lantern to the hanger next to the pillar.
At the front was the ever dignified Lord Rickard Stark on his granite throne, a longsword clasped in his grip.
Brandon was to his right, too young to look as old as his statue had been carved, frozen in the age he would never have grown past.
And to his left was Lyanna…sweet Lyanna, gone before her time.
All three taken by the damned dragon’s madness and greed.
Robert knelt in front of the statue of his beloved and once again cursed that silver-haired rapist in his heart for the thousandth time.
By the base of a statue was a clay vase, with winter roses within.
He stayed there for a minute, maybe two, until his knees began to protest from the cold floor.
He stood up with a struggle, and looked at the statue’s face.
It looked nothing like her.
The stone face had her likeness, sure, but it failed entirely in matching her fire.
“She was more beautiful than that,” he gazed upon the stone face.
If only, if only things didn’t turn out this way.
“Damn it Ned, did you have to bury her here in the darkness?” “She is a Stark of Winterfell,” Ned said, quietly.
“This is where she belongs.” “She should be somewhere the sun can reach her.
Somewhere with flowers.
Somewhere pretty.” “I was with her when she died, she wanted to come home.
To rest with Brandon and Father.” Ned recalled, lost deep in thought.
“The winter roses at her feet are from Karlon, her favorite.
He brought them the day he arrived in Winterfell.
Benjen poured a cup for Father and Brandon.” Robert looked at the roses, beautiful with their deep blue-grey color in the lantern light.
Karlon Stark had done that.
He did not know why the detail struck him as it did, perhaps because he realized he didn’t know that they were her favorite.
The king gently cupped the stone face and brushed his fingers over it.
Alas, it was not meant to be.
If the gods were kind, it would have been.
All because of the damned dragons.
“I kill Rhaegar every night in my dreams.
Again and again, I hear the crunch of his bones as my warhammer struck his ribs.” It was sweeter than any song, sweeter than any fruit in the summer.
“I hear the rubies every time and it’s still not enough.
Rhaegar deserves more than a thousand deaths for what he’s done.” Another minute of silence swallowed the crypts before Ned broke it.
“We should return, Your Grace.
Your wife will be waiting.” “Others take my damn wife!” Robert said sourly, his mood worsening.
“And if I hear another ‘Your Grace’ from you, I’ll have your head on a spike.
We are brothers, Ned.
Hells, even your actual brothers acknowledged it!
The least you could do is catch up.” Turning back to the direction from whence they came, Robert eyed the darkness that swallowed the rest of the endless hallway.
Gods, the thought of all the stairs on the way up did not sit well with him.
“Let’s go,” the king finally decided.
Ned unlatched the lantern and he began back along the dark corridor, and heard Ned’s quiet footsteps fall in beside him.
“You must be wondering why I came all this way,” Robert said, into the dark.
“For the pleasure of my company, surely.” Ned said lightly, and Robert snorted.
“Or perhaps to see the Wall.
Ill tidings come from the lands beyond the wall.
It’s why I had Benjen come to report his findings to me.” “The Wall has stood for what?
Eight thousand years?
It can stand for a few more without me propping it up.” He waved away, he had more than enough of the cold without visiting that giant block of ice.
“I have more pressing concerns, Ned.
You know what I want to ask, don’t you?” “I have a notion,” Ned said carefully.
“Aye, I expect you do.
Jon Arryn was the best man I knew, outside of present company.” He let that settle for a step or two.
“I need someone I can trust, Ned.
Not someone who does what I say because I sit on the damned throne.
Someone who tells me true and does the work because the work matters, not because the telling and the doing makes them rich.” He stopped and turned.
The lantern threw long shadows up Ned’s face, but the eyes were clear.
“I need you in King’s Landing.
Not up here at the edge of the world where you’re useless to nobody.” “I am yours to command, Your Grace,” Ned swore.
“Always.” Robert let out a breath.
It felt good to hear the words coming from a true and honest man.
“I swear to you, sitting on a throne is a thousand times harder than winning it.
You or Jon should have taken it, not me.” “You had the claim, Robert.” Ned softly objected.
“Nobody would have kneeled to an untested northerner who follows the Old Gods.” “Untested?
What man in the Seven Kingdoms would dare call you untested?
Without your plans and your strategies, all of us; you, me, and Jon would have met our end in the Ruby Ford.
What do the bards call you and your brothers?!
The Quiet Wolf, the Sea Wolf, the Black Wolf!
Bah, the paupers loved their damn nicknames.” Robert thundered.
“And piss on claims!
We had the swords, and we had the victory!
If the claims were true, then we’d still be ruled by that silver-haired dragonspawn who could be just as mad as his father.” Robert shook his head.
“Nay, the dragonspawns are dead and you and Jon Arryn have saddled me with the ruling, and you need to help me keep it!
The damn people, Ned…there’s no one else I could trust.
Always complaining, scheming, and petitioning…I sit on that damned iron chair till my mind is numb and ass raw!
They all want something from me..
And I can’t follow anything with the lies they tell!
The lords and ladies are no better.
I’m surrounded by flatterers and fools.
It can drive the best men to madness, Ned.
Half of them don’t care to tell me the truth, the other can’t find it.
There are nights I wish we lost at the trident.
Ah, well no, not truly, but…” “I understand.” his friend said softly.
Yes, that’s right.
Ned was the only one who always understood him.
His brother in all but blood… Robert took a few deep breaths to calm himself down, and nodded with a smile.
“You’re the only one, my friend.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, I name you Hand of the King!” Ned dropped to one knee, “You honor me, Your Grace.” “There’s more than one way of honoring you.
You put me on this damnable throne, now help me hold it.
If Lyanna had lived, we would have been brothers, bound by blood.
It’s not too late.
You have a daughter, and I have a son.
These things can be arranged.” He paused, reading the flicker in Ned’s expression.
“Your girl Arya, she has the look of Lyanna about her.
She and Joffrey could join our houses like it was always meant to be.” “She’s too young, only one-and-ten.” Ned’s face twisted to a grimace.
“Old enough for a betrothal.
The marriage can wait a few years.
Now stand up and say yes, damn you!” Hesitation crossed in Ned’s grey eyes, and he sighed heavily.
“I will tell you plainly, Robert, Arya is not the make of queens.
She is more like Lyanna and Brandon together than you know.
She’d more than likely slit the prince’s throat on the wedding night then suffer him touching her.” Robert roared with laughter, and the sound of it filled the ancient hallway.
So little Arya not only looks like her aunt, but was also just as fierce!
It was understandable, and truthfully, he wouldn’t have wanted to marry any daughter to Joffrey if he wasn’t Robert’s own git.
Ah, where did he go wrong with that boy?
Myrcella and Tommen were so much better.
He shook his head, still laughing.
“Fine.
Fine.
I’ll give that one to you.” The king huffed.
The older sister, Sansa, wouldn’t do either, but that was not a problem.
“Then Myrcella for your Robb.
She’s a good girl — better than I deserve for a daughter, truth be told, and better than her brother deserves for a sister.
She’s well mannered, more beautiful than her mother, and much kinder as well.
You’ll find no better woman for your boy in the Seven Kingdoms.
She’s already flowered and can even wed soon if need be!
Hells, we can do it together with your nephew and Wyman’s granddaughter!” He had watched Robb Stark in the courtyard.
Practically a man already at seven-and-ten and already looking like what a lord of Winterfell ought to look like — the Stark jaw, the Tully coloring in the hair and eyes, broad across the shoulders with an easy smile and good courtesies.
Robert was never a good father, but he wanted to do right by at least one of his children.
He would be a worthy husband for Myrcella.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Ned said, and there was something that might have been genuine relief in the words.
“These honors are all unexpected.” “Hah, of course they are!
Nothing less for my oldest friend.” Robert said before reaching down and effortlessly pulling Ned up to his feet from the kneeling position.
“Now get up, and tell me this feast you’ve been promising is going to live up to what I’ve been imagining since White Harbor.” Ned chuckled, a rare and therefore valuable thing.
“I cannot speak for your imagination, Robert.
But the cooks have been at it since yesterday.” “Good enough,” Robert said, and turned toward the stairs.
“Lead the way.” … AN: Karlon wargs for the first time to the still unnamed owl and sees the north in its entire splendor.
The King is here and changes are already made.
Instead of wedding Joffrey to one of the daughters, it’s instead Myrcella that’s wedded to Robb.
I hope you guys like this change.
Myrcella and Robb is one of my favorite what-if pairings.
Also, I have to keep reiterating that Bobby B being a POV is so fun to do.
He’s so unserious as a character, but surprisingly a very layered character with plenty of flaws.
Hope you guys enjoy this one, cheers.
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 17 (long form, which is around chp 32 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.