At this moment, she was forcing herself to stand despite her illness, insisting on presiding over the king's welcoming ceremony as the mistress of Winterfell. Her intent was unmistakable.
She sought to declare her unshakable position to everyone—especially Jon—cutting off any "unwarranted thoughts" he might harbor.
Eddard's voice was heavy with anguish and helplessness.
"What should I do? Master Luwin, please... give me some advice."
Maester Luwin lowered his wrinkled eyelids. After a moment of silence, he spoke slowly.
"Perhaps... sending Jon away from Winterfell is the only way to ease the Lady's heart and put an end to her unrest."
No.
A surge of fierce resistance rose instantly within Eddard. Send Jon beyond the North, exposing him to the hungry eyes that watched from every corner? If anything were to happen to him, Eddard would never forgive himself.
As if sensing his hesitation, Maester Luwin lifted his head, his calm gaze carrying quiet persuasion.
"What of the Wall? Let him join the Night's Watch. Your brother, Lord Benjen, is now the First Ranger. With him there, Jon's safety... would at least be somewhat assured."
"The Wall... the Night's Watch..."
Eddard murmured those cold words, his brow tightening.
The Night's Watch—a neutral order beyond the petty struggles of the Seven Kingdoms, men bound by oath to devote their lives to the frozen wilderness. There, Jon's identity would be forever buried beneath the black cloak.
And with Benjen watching over him...
It seemed the only choice that could protect Jon, soothe Catelyn's anger, and keep him far from the dangerous whirlpool of southern politics.
The pros and cons battled fiercely in Eddard's mind. In the end, his concern for Jon's safety outweighed all reluctance.
He exhaled a long, heavy breath of frost, as though casting off a burden that had pressed upon him for far too long.
"Agreed."
Eddard's voice was weary.
"Master Luwin, please write immediately to Castle Black. Ask my brother, Benjen Stark, to return to Winterfell at once. He shall... escort Jon to the Wall."
Even with this heavy decision made, Eddard felt no relief. Instead, an even greater weight settled upon his heart.
The king's journey north made his intentions plain—an invitation for Eddard to travel south to King's Landing, to fill the vacancy Jon Arryn had left and serve as Hand of the King.
After enduring Catelyn's miscarriage and Jon Arryn's sudden death, Eddard felt an instinctive aversion to the south, that bloodstained nest of intrigue. He wanted only to remain in Winterfell, to protect his family—who had only just begun to heal—and stay far from the deceit and power games of the capital.
Yet how could he refuse Robert? How could he turn away this king who had once called him brother?
He could think of no reason that was both honorable and would not wound their bond.
Another matter also weighed heavily upon him.
On the night before leaving Tyrosh, Stannis had sworn that once he returned to King's Landing, he would inform Lord Jon Arryn of what they knew—of Renly and House Tyrell's secret plot to change the succession.
Now Jon Arryn was dead—so suddenly.
A chill ran down Eddard's spine as a terrible thought took root. Could the death of the Hand be connected to the shocking secret Stannis had revealed? Had Jon Arryn been killed for uncovering the truth?
In an instant, a storm of dark suspicions and tangled conspiracies flooded his mind, threatening to drown him.
He forced himself to push the suffocating thoughts aside. He resolved that when Robert arrived, he would test the waters carefully, drawing out what truth he could about the capital from the king himself.
Eddard waited, burdened with endless thoughts as the days slipped by—until at last, the king's massive procession, like a moving castle, appeared across the bleak, frozen fields outside Winterfell.
King Robert Baratheon's face, plump with age and indulgence, still bore his booming, infectious laughter. He swung down from his horse, covered in dust and reeking of wine, and crushed Eddard in a suffocating bear hug—as if their fierce argument in the Red Keep over the Targaryen orphans had never happened.
Eddard managed a faint smile. That was Robert's nature—his anger flared quickly and faded just as fast.
Robert eagerly "inspected" the Stark children, slapping Robb on the shoulder, teasing the shy Sansa, and laughing heartily at Arya's wildness. When he came to Catelyn, his tone softened, and he offered sincere condolences for her loss.
But the moment the lively welcome ended, Robert impatiently dismissed the attendants and pulled Eddard toward the deepest, coldest place in Winterfell—the crypts.
The heavy stone door shut behind them, sealing away the noise of the world above. Only the flickering torches cast restless light over the cold, solid steps and the black stone coffins of the Stark forebears.
Robert's heavy footsteps echoed across the frost-hardened floor, each breath he exhaled turning to mist that vanished swiftly in the freezing air.
"Ned!"
Robert's voice thundered through the silent crypt, echoing off the cold stone walls with commanding authority.
"You know why I've come. Come south with me to King's Landing. Be my Hand of the King. I'll put the whole realm in your hands."
He stopped and turned. His heavy frame loomed large in the wavering torchlight, casting a massive shadow as his sharp gaze locked onto Eddard.
A bitter sigh welled up inside Eddard's chest. Meeting Robert's eyes, he steadied his voice—sincere, but firm.
"Your Grace... I cannot accept. You know Catelyn... she has suffered such misfortune, she's utterly exhausted in both body and spirit. I... cannot leave her now, not at a time like this."
Robert dismissed the protest with a sweep of his hand.
"Then bring Catelyn south with you. King's Landing is warm, full of sun—it's a far better place to heal than this damned North. Stay here, and the biting wind will only wear her down."
His tone shifted abruptly, growing somber and urgent as he drove straight to the point.
"Jon Arryn... he's gone, Ned. I've never seen anyone's health fail so quickly! Those damned maesters were useless. Now Lysa's run back to the Eyrie with her little whelp, and no amount of reasoning could stop her. Hmph! Let that woman be, but my kingdom cannot rule itself. The Seven Kingdoms need a strong hand to guide them."
He stepped forward, his broad figure radiating pressure, and spoke with the unshakable force of command.
"Great Lord Eddard Stark! In the name of House Baratheon, and in the name of Robert the First—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—I name you Hand of the King."