Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Lord Eddard Stark nursed the cup of strongwine in his hand, staring at the fire by the hearth. It crackled almost silently, tiny sparks flying off every time the thick logs lost strength and resettled amongst themselves. He was strangely aware of his heartbeat, abnormally loud thumps ringing within his chest.

Catelyn paced around the front of the hearth, fidgeting with the cresses of her dress. "It's just a passing fancy, Ned. She's clearly distressed by the coming of the King," she said.

Ned sighed, looking at the fine Myrish cup again. He was barely halfway through… drink had never been his solace, but after today he'd felt the need to hold something in hand to ward off the cold. The logs seemed insufficient for the task. "Distressed?" he asked mildly.

"Yes," she said, "Leaving her favorite dresses for riding leathers and northern designs, acting 'mysterious' instead of her usual self… she's probably worried she's not good enough for the southern court."

"And you think this is a way of compensating? Becoming what the south sees as a northerner woman?"

"What else then Ned? Our daughter seeing visions in the clouds? All the tales Old Nan's put in her head now come alive?"

He grunted, taking a drink from the cup. Brandon had loved strong vintages, but for Ned every drink was like a punch to the gut one needed time to recover from. He had to admit though that the heady scent of the burning pinewood made for a pleasant complement to the wine. He could see why his brother had loved the mixture so much.

Brandon… It had been a while since he'd last thought of his brother. For all the color and furor of his nightly escapades, there had been a little corner to him that most people never really knew. He'd loved to sit by the hearth occasionally, basking in the warmth of a good fireplace when it snowed outside, a heavy brandy by his hand. Rare moments like those were the fondest memories Ned had of his him; Lyanna asleep by his lap, her hair a mush. Little Benjen still playing with wooden horses over the mat. And the fire, throwing a gentle light over the book in Ned's hands.

Before the war. Before books turned to reports and wooden horses to war destriers.

He frowned, sitting up and leaving the drink on the small table as he heart thumped against his chest. He felt rattled, his mind tied into knots by some slippery, unseen vine of some sort. Would Bran remember archery practice with fondness? Would Rickon reminiscence of the olden, carefree days when he'd fall asleep on the floor and Catelyn would carry him to bed?

Before the war?

He sighed again, massaging his face with both hands. They hadn't trembled like this since the day he'd killed Arthur Dayne.

Someone knocked on the door to the solar, startling Ned. Jory peeked in after Catelyn called out.

"Ser Rodrik is here," he said.

"Let him in," said Ned.

The Master-At-Arms trundled in with a bit of snow still atop his right shoulder. It fell over the woolen carpet as he turned back to thank Jory.

"Sorry about that, my Lord. My Lady," he said, bowing his head to Catelyn.

"It's quite alright, Ser Rodrik. We've got other things in mind besides the carpet," she said with a rueful smile.

"Quite a lot of things, I'm afraid," said Ned, trying to mirror his wife's smile. It came out more like a grimace. "The guards?"

"Out and about," said Ser Rodrick. "Seems like we'll be having a storm tonight, but the boys are doing alright. They've got their winter furs out, and the wall braziers are all lit up. Winterfell is secure, my Lord."

Eddard nodded deeply, even thankfully. Ser Rodrick was an island of dependability in suddenly uncertain times. Whispers of conspiracies and murders inside hollow far-eyes. Courtly intrigue climbing its way North. Strange omens and mythical truths…

The man walked up to the hearth and laid his hands over it, silently warming up. He was wrapped up in furs and steel, though he'd left his winter coat outside. The leather hold on his scabbard was undone, though. It was a habit of old veterans when they got nervious.

He shuffled, acutely aware Ice's weight against the big chair's armrest. Only a painfully loud heartbeat away from his hand.

Its leather hold lay undone as well.

"… What do you honestly think about this, Rodrik. About all of this?" Ned asked after a while.

Rodrik peeked at him, then at Catelyn. He wrapped his hands over themselves, twirling them over the fire, sighing softly. "In the south they'd call us all mad to even think of it…"

"As well they should," said Catelyn.

Ser Rodrik shot him a meaningful look, and Eddard nodded silently, cupping the lower half of his face.

"… And they would be right to do so, my lady… in the South."

Catelyn gazed at him like he'd grown a second head. "Ser Rodrik, surely you don't…" she trailed off, looking at Ned. She shook her head, going to the cupboard and serving herself a cup of wine. "This is too much," she muttered, twirling the cup before taking a little sip. She hesitated, leaning on the cupboard and facing away from them. "Maester Luwin assured us that Sansa has wielded no… no sorcery," she said slowly.

Ser Rodrik looked at Ned, "When-" he cut himself off, mulling on the word. He shouldn't have bothered, Catelyn had been called a southron a thousand times since she'd ridden North with him for the first time. "People from the South, they imagine sorcery as an affair of blood rituals and fell words spoken in the midst of the full moon."

"And here?" she asked sharply.

"The North is an old land," said Ser Rodrik by way of explanation.

Ned could count the times he'd seen him fidget like that.

"Greenseers were not the sorcerers of Old Valyria, powering storms of scalding ash through the sacrifice of hundreds," he said as Catelyn looked unconvinced, folding his hands behind his back, "The Old Magic… I think that whatever Maester Luwin learnt to get his Valyrian Steel link, it won't be of much use to us…"

"Less than one in a hundred Maesters hold that link, Ser Rodrik."

"This is not something that can be measured with old scrolls and darkened rooms," said Ned. How could he explain this, when it hardly made any more sense to him? To describe the omens of ravens and dead direwolfs, whispering trees and chill winds?

The whispers of Greenseers?

Winter is Coming, he thought, feeling the cold wind even from here inside the Keep.

"It's best we don't jump into conclusions," he said, "And listen to the answers of our own daughter," he added.

Catelyn nodded at that, and they all tried to make time as they waited. You could cut the anxiety with a dull knife.

Maester Luwin arrived after a few minutes, having a quick word with Catelyn before sitting down on a chair near Ned. Sansa had showed no signs of confusion or disorientation. In fact, the slight cut on her forehead had already healed up completely.

It would have made things simpler, thought a treacherous part of his mind. Ned leaned forward on his seat, rubbing his collarbone as he tried to take a big breath. He felt short of air, a lesser cousin to what he'd felt when he heard Brandon and Father had been killed in King's Landing. Could his daughter whisper omens of that which was to come? Dare he know the truth behind the crying Heart trees.

Behind the cold winds?

The thought seemed so absurd, but then why was the cup on his hand trembling so hard?

"Lady Sansa's here," said Jory, leaning in by the door.

"Let her in. And give us a bit of privacy, please," said Ned, his voice low.

"I'll walk to the other end of the hallway. Holler if you need anything," said Jory, his head disappearing back behind the door. Moments later Sansa walked through the doorway, carrying Lady. She briefly reminded him of Queen Rhaella the one time he'd seen her in King's Landing, before the Rebellion. Her daughter carried herself with that same easy grace, though without the edge of anxiety that had hidden beneath the old Queen's eyes. No, his daughter's blue eyes bore confidently on the room, tense but ready for the trials ahead.

The way she made to bite her own lip before camouflaging the movement with her hand left Ned strangely relieved. It was still her daughter in there, just different.

"Take a sit, Sansa," he said. She walked quietly by the side of the fireplace, still holding the little ball of curious fur as it gazed around the room. She sat down in one of the room's big, padded chairs to Ned's right, beside Catelyn.

Maester Luwin sat opposite to her, leaning on his arm and absentmindedly scratching his chin. Ser Rodrik preferred to keep standing, leaning by the window and occasionally looking through it and to the courtyard.

The smoke from the cut pinewood left a burnished, sweet scent hanging around the room, and Ned eyed his cup of strongwine before taking another drink. The fiery waterfall making its way down his chest made him sit up, and he looked at his daughter attentively.

Perhaps Brandon had been unto something. He dispelled the errant thought with a sigh, nodding at her.

"First of all, I want to make it clear that we're not angry at all Sansa, just confused. This is not a punishment, just an opportunity for you to explain to us what… has been going on these past few days."

Sansa nodded, "I'm sorry if I've been confusing or… " She eyed Catelyn by her side. "Frightening…" she added somewhat hesitantly.

Catelyn looked as if she'd been slapped. She grabbed Sansa's hand with both her own, holding it tightly. "I'll never be frightened of my own daughter, whatever happens. Whatever's on your mind, I shall never turn you away. Do you understand that, Sansa Stark?" she said with unusual intensity.

Sansa blinked once, putting her other hand over Catelyn's. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick.

Ned cleared his throat softly, trying to steady the glass cup as it shook lightly. He ran his other hand down his thigh, taking another breath of air. I need to know.

"What's happened to you, Sansa? Why did you say those things today?"

Sansa looked around the room, her hands returning to Lady's grey fur. She scratched the young direwolf repeatedly, holding back a sigh. "I did bring this on myself…" she whispered.

"That you did, young lady. Scaring off my men like that," said Ser Rodrik.

Sansa smiled, but she banished it after a moment, looking down at Lady. Ned braced himself as if against a tempest over the horizon, running down on him with no shelter in sight.

She took a deep breath, blue eyes boring into his own.

"I've seen the future, Father."

The cup snapped in Ned's fingers. He looked down reluctantly, a trickle of blood fleeing from his thumb and index fingers. What little strongwine had been left was now scurrying down his hand, leaving a softly burning sensation in its path before dripping down on the carpet.

Maester Luwin stood up immediately, "I'll get that-"

"No," said Ned.

He sat back down reluctantly, eyes on him. Ned took the cloth handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping the small wound tightly. The last time he'd done a field dressing had been during the Greyjoy Rebellion; an archer had grazed his forehead when they'd stormed the walls, following that fool Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword. He could still hear him as if it had been yesterday, shouting benedictions like a madman as he climbed over the rubble and waved that thing at terrified raiders. Arrows had pelted Ned's plate like hail, but he'd barely felt the one that'd grazed his cheek. For a moment he'd though it'd caught him in the eye, the blood blinding him.

Ned lifted his eyes from the covered wound; the entire room was looking at him.

"Go on, Sansa," he said, his voice steady.

She looked at his hand before leaning back slowly on her padded seat. "I suppose lived the future is a better term for it. I've done it several times, waking up in Winterfell after every death, seeking to prepare the Kingdoms for what's to come."

"That is simply not possible," said Maester Luwin, grey eyebrows creased in a deep frown as he leaned forward.

"And yet it happened," said Sansa. "Some lives I ruled Westeros as Queen, others we devoted to search the world for answers and to learn the necessary skills to survive."

Queen? What is to come? There were so many questions Ned didn't know which one to ask first.

"We?" He latched on to the one which made the most noise inside his head.

Sansa nodded, "My husband, Prince Joffrey Baratheon."

It was like a punch to the gut. My daughter? Married? He saw Catelyn make a gesture towards Maester Luwin, as if to say 'let me handle this'.

"Sweetie," she said, caressing her hand, "I know how much you dream of court and the south, I did so too when I-"

"I don't dream about it anymore, Mother," she said, her eyes latching on to hers with a kind of slow weight. "I lived it, lived it all. The joy and the pain," she said, almost whispering by the end. "I quickly discovered the truth of the south. How feasts and tourneys hid fake smiles and daggers in the back, how the game of thrones warped those around it…" She shook her head, "But that's not important. What's important is that you know what is to come."

"The White Walkers," Ned said out loud.

Catelyn's head snapped back to him, "Mother above! Eddard, surely you don't- you can't believe this!"

Sansa simply turned to look at him, idly scratching Lady's back as the tiny direwolf regarded him like the old sphinxes outside the small council chambers. He could see snow by the window behind her; the storm had arrived. Ser Rodrik seemed a statue, his face inscrutable as he watched the falling white rattling against the window.

Wind's getting worse, thought Ned, returning his eyes to Catelyn.

"Robert always wanted us to be family," he said after a moment.

She huffed, almost falling back on her seat and looking at him as if he'd gone insane.

Eddard couldn't point to a single, specific reason why he believed her daughter… and yet he did.

"I can show you," she said.

"Did you… bring something, from your previous lives?" said Maester Luwin, the skepticisms writ clear in his voice.

She shook her head, "No, only our souls travel back each time. Well, Joffrey carries Brightroar with him but that's…" she came to a stop, sighing. "It's complicated. For now, I think it would be better if you saw for yourself."

Ned was about to ask her what she meant when the corners of her eyes glimmered. Strange, twisting lines seemed to seep out of her eyes by a hand span or two, purple patterns twisting and changing too quickly for him to make out as a sudden drone began to thrum within the room.

"Sansa?!" Catelyn shouted.

"It's okay Mother," she said, "I learnt the art of far seeing beyond the Mountains of the Morn. It's a way of peering beyond the limits of our eyes… Don't be scared," she added the last almost absentmindedly, frowning as the drone turned deeper, echoing inside the chambers. A slow ripple began to form by the center of the room right in front of the hearth. It was as if a tear had been cut into the fabric of reality, a slowly widening gash that thrummed again like a war drum within Ned's chest.

"They say… this… I- it's like a glass candle…" whispered Maester Luwin, mouth agape. Distorted colors reflected on his face, the hearth's glow turning bright red and the snow outside shining like starmetal, like Ser Arthur's Dawn swinging from above. Sansa's hair was whipping back and forth as if under a furious gale, though Ned couldn't feel even single gust of it. The room felt still, as if frozen under the warped colors.

"I have been looking for the Walker's scouting parties for a while now, to no effect. With what I saw within Will's mind however, I managed to track down the group that ambushed him," she said, the gash rippling brightly as it expanded and showed a raven's view of what had to be the Haunted Forest.

"Sansa, sweetie," whispered Catelyn, somehow still holding on to his daughter despite everything. She seemed terrified, and Ned had to squash the impulse to stand up and hold her. He had to see this. He needed to see this.

The point of view descended amongst the tall pine trees of the Haunted Forest, greens and whites flooding the room. It seemed eerily still, not a deer or hare in sight as the vision narrowed upon a slow moving stream, most of it frozen solid despite the clear weather.

Ser Rodrik stepped up to Sansa's chair, gripping it tightly as he placed a hand on the pommel of his arming sword. He looked upon the frozen vista, transfixed by it as the point of view gradually slowed down. Even Lady seemed entranced, her fur slowly standing in edge as Ned shivered.

"We have years still, maybe six or seven until they press the Wall in force. We'll have to be ready by then," said his daughter.

He saw them walking between the trees, a patina of frost climbing up the trees and cracking them as the Walkers strode with an eerie mechanical grace. There were five of them, walking in unison with their backs facing the ripple. They carried long blades of crystalline ice, and Ned realized there were other figures around them. Children and old men, hunters with the look of wildlings dragging bone spears that left lines on the snow.

They were all dead, blue eyes staring listlessly ahead as they shambled; souls of the damned shackled to the will of Winter.

It's true. It's all true. "Winter is Coming," he whispered.

"And the dead with it," said Sansa, smiling sadly. The purple fractals by the corners of her eyes seemed to have stabilized, thrumming gently as they seared themselves into Ned's vision, looking more solid than the chair her daughter sat upon. "They… damaged me, the last time we fought. This will be my last life, our last chance to defeat them before they scour the continent clean of life."

"What will happen then?" said Ser Rodrik. His voice sounded raspy, dry like sandpaper on limestone. Ned couldn't swallow, his throat just as parched as he stared at the Walkers. Beings of legend and myth now walking among the living and the dead.

"They'll begin constructing great ships of ice; floating icebergs to carry wights and Walkers across the Narrow Sea. Pentos, Braavos and Lorath will likely fall next, and the Three Daughters soon after," said Sansa. She sighed as she looked down at Lady, cradling the tiny pup, her eyes still surrounded by ribbons of fractured purple. They'll attack the Empire of Yi-Ti through a land bridge to the north-west, scouring the northern hemisphere of life. By then most crops north of the Summer Islands will have already failed, and the world entire will freeze."

Catelyn was no longer staring at the Walkers. She'd turned her gaze to Sansa, terror giving way to a soul-wounding sadness as she hugged her daughter. "It's true. It's all true… My Sansa. Oh my sweet Sansa, what did they do to you?" She cried, long tears falling down her cheeks.

"Can…" Ned licked his lips, raising one trembling hand to his mouth and rubbing it as he coughed. "Sansa… can you get any closer?" he asked her.

She hesitated for a second, leaning into Catelyn's touch. "They're quite unnerving. Are you sure?"

"It's my duty," he said.

She nodded slowly, "We'll make it quick anyway, just in case." She held Catelyn with one arm as she leaned forward, slowly tilting her head sideways as the ripple droned lightly and the point of view neared the White Walkers.

They followed them at about twenty paces, and Ned examined his enemy. They were armored in swirling patterns of crystalline ice, pauldrons of purest snow on their shoulders. They walked in a sort of arrow head formation, their steps locked in unison unlike the shambling hordes of the dead that walked by their sides with empty stares.

Winter is Coming. His forefathers had known, and the time had come for the Starks of Winterfell to face their ancient enemy once more. The Others marched again, an army of the dead bearing down on Westeros and only the heavily depleted Night's Watch standing between them.

"Old Gods green and wise, guide my dreams…" The words came unbidden to Ned's lips, Old Nan's lullabies still in his mind after all these years. He stared at a group of children marching northwards, greyish-blue eyes illuminating the snow with a soft glow. Their jaws hanged wide, and many dragged torn legs or mauled arms behind them. He imagined Benjen out there, surrounded by the dead and shouting defiance with only steel and a few half-starved rangers at his back. He imagined him marching south, Stark-grey turned dead blue, his black cloak torn and ragged. Winter is coming, and the dead with it.

He had to call the banners right now. The Umbers could reinforce the Wall in less than a week; if they could hold until the Manderly Fleet docked on Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the Night's Watch could be augmented by some fifteen hundred men and over a hundred heavy horse. They should be able to mount shipborne artillery on the Wall itself; ballistas and onagers. Would it be enough until Robert called the realm to war? Could all the banners of the South be enough?

One of the Walkers stopped.

It turned slowly, the fire by the hearth cowering as the Walker stared right back at Ned, endless blue eyes whispering an end to all things.

"Sansa?" Ned called out as the Other started walking towards them with long strides. The gash in reality shimmered, diminishing slowly. Too slowly.

"Sansa?!"

"It's interfering somehow!" said his daughter, purple fractals crawling out of her eyes like lightning as she stood up.

"Stand back!" roared Ser Rodrik as he unsheathed his arming sword with one hand and shoved Catelyn back with the other. The Walker seemed to almost glide towards them, its long strides deceptively fast as the blue glow in its eyes grew and the storm outside suddenly screamed, slamming against the keep and rattling the window like a dying breath, the cobblestones tingling.

"Jory! Jory!!!" Ned roared as he stood up, tossing Ice's scabbard aside and fumbling with the blade's grip as the chair fell behind him.

Jory smashed the door aside with his shoulder, sword in hand. He stumbled to a stop when he saw the Walker almost running towards the gash, its brethren turning as well as the wights around them quivered like a chorus in ecstasy, screeching. He choked on air as he placed a hand on the doorframe. "Sound the bell! To arms! To arms Winterfell!!!" he screamed.

"Rodrik! Rodrik get her out of there!" Catelyn screamed from the floor as Sansa walked in front of the gash, her arms held wide as Lady growled by her side, puffing up into a ball of snarling fur.

"It's trying to make a connection, hold on!" roared Sansa. She looked like in the midst of a hurricane, her dress fluttering wildly as she closed her fists and she squirmed, the gash rippling with an ear tearing thrum, groaning like a ship torn in half. The Walker was less than five paces away, its sword held high and glowing a deep red as Ned placed himself in front of Sansa, Ice held up in a parry as the fire by the hearth rattled and died.

The Walker swung its red blade down just as Sansa gasped and the window closed. The thrum echoed away, distorted colors growing right again. Ned breathed heavily, still gripping Ice like a talisman of the Old Gods as he stared at the dead fire by the hearth. It was surrounded by snow.

Heward and Tommard arrived at a dead sprint as Jory bellowed down the hallway, hollering for spears and axes to the inner keep. Ser Rodrik picked up Catelyn from the floor, his wife on shaky legs as she clung to the knight's arm. Eddard fought to control his breath, his hands no longer shaking as he slowly lowered Ice.

Sansa whimpered. Ned turned and caught her by reflex before she fell, holding her by the arms as he looked at the frozen gash that ran from shoulder to belly. "I'm okay," she whispered, "It didn't touch my soul, I'm okay," she whispered again, her legs buckling.

"Maester Luwin!" Ned roared as he lowered her on the ground, her legs unable to hold her weight.

"I can… I can heal it," Sansa rattled, her lips blue. Catelyn wailed as she reached her side and kneeled, holding her back and cupping her head with both hands, combing back red hair so she could see her daughter's face.

Ser Rodrik was pushing the guards aside before they reached the hearth, "Give us some space, damn you! Jory! Get the men in order! Give us some privacy!" he bellowed.

"A-a-aye Ser!" said Jory, shaking his head wildly before shouting at the guards, "Hold that door no matter the cost! Let no one enter!"

Maester Luwin was already by Sansa's side. He opened his satchel with steady hands, though his voice was less so, "I-I've never s-seen a wound like this b-before," he said, grabbing and dropping instruments one after the other.

Ned grabbed him by the shoulder, "Call the banners as soon as Sansa is stable. The Starks of Winterfell call for aid. Tell Jon Umber-"

"Father, no," said Sansa, gripping his arm strongly. She scrounged her face as she snarled, purple lines crisscrossing her skin where the gash had taken her. "No one else must know of this. Not the banners, not the south, not even Robert!"

"Sansa- why?" said Ned, stunned as the purple lines mended her skin, leaving only unblemished skin in their wake.

"It's not yet time. If you sound the alarm now no one will believe us, you'll poison the idea."

"They'll believe us if you show them what you showed me!"

Sansa grimaced, "The South would label me a sorceress and promptly ignore whatever I said. Showing them that way would only make the rumors stronger. Perhaps they'd even try to pressure Robert out of the betrothal… as funny as the attempt would be," she added wanly.

What betrothal? Oh, right, the one she'd had- would have with Joffrey Baratheon. Royalty. Her daughter behind the Iron Throne.

Catelyn was caressing Sansa's hair gently, sniffling now and then as she cradled Sansa's head, afraid she would banish in an instant if she let go.

Ned shook his head. "I can't just ignore what you showed me Sansa. We must prepare!" he said, Winterfell's bells tolling outside. He could hear Alyn's voice in the distance, hollering for the day shift to wake up and run to the armory.

"And you will. Summer's reign will last a few more years; time for good harvests and plentiful industry. We've planned for this, Father, we've planned our last stand for decades," she said, and Ned could see his daughter's real age for the first time. Mature eyes that hid scarred sorrows, mended with time and all the stronger for it. He kept seeing a scared little girl when he thought of Sansa, but the truth was his daughter had become Queen of Westeros, a ruler, a Greenseer, a sorceress. She'd been fighting this war for years before he even knew it had began.

Ser Rodrik still had his sword out, listening with one ear as he gazed at the doused hearth with suspicious eyes. Maester Luwin had ceased his ministrations, as they were now unnecessary. He just sat back, listening mutely as Jory and the rest of the guards held the door against Robb's angry shouting.

"I wasn't even supposed to tell you, according to what we'd planned," said Sansa, "But Joffrey… as much as he's grown away from it, he still comes from a family full of secrets. It's the way he was raised. I realized keeping the truth from you and Mother was not a course I should have followed... it was not a course I could follow. It would have torn this family apart."

Ned sighed deeply, leaning back. Lady crawled into his lap, staring up at him and tilting her head. The pup raised her ears inquisitively, whimpering softly as if pleading on behalf of her mistress. "And now we know the truth…" he whispered.

"The alarm has been heeded. The future King of Westeros knows of this, Father. He's preparing now, training the core of a standing, professional army on the march. Even now the orders he left in King's Landing are being carried out, setting the seeds for manufactories and lumbermills, smithies and grain reserves and a hundred other preparations to face the onslaught of the Walkers."

Ned sighed again, patting Lady on the head. This little ball of angered fur had faced down a White Walker while he'd almost lost the grip on Ice. There was a lesson somewhere in there.

"You trusted us with this, Sansa. I'll trust you in return," he finally said.

Her smile returned warmth to his heart as he stood up, nodding at Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. "No one is to know of this without mine or Sansa's word," he commanded.

They both nodded. "Jory, tell the guard to stand down. The 'drill' was a success," said Ser Rodrik. His nephew nodded in understanding, white as a sheet.

Ned looked down at Catelyn, but she'd been nodding already. "If you think its best," she said, caressing Sansa's cheek, "You were very brave there. Braver than I could ever be."

Sansa's face turned slightly red, her smile tender. "Thank you, mother," she said as her eyes drifting back to Ned, "And you too."

Eddard nodded, "I'll want to speak with Prince Joffrey..."

"That's all I ask," said Sansa, leaning back with a deep sigh. "I missed this, mom," she said as she leaned on Catelyn's gentle touch, closing her eyes. Her face relaxed just a tiny bit, and her whole frame seemed to lose the edge of tension which had plagued her since the fall and her abrupt change.

Ned took that burden gladly, even if it seemed but a fraction of what she carried within her soul. His children would not grow to see Winterfell an empty hall of memories, fallen family leaning on the edges of vision, dull aches behind every corner and hallway. He would not fail his daughter. He would not fail his family. He would not fail his people.

This Eddard Stark promised by the Gods of Stone and Tree.

-: PD :-