Late at night, Winterfell — the main bedchamber.
The heavy oak door closed behind him, shutting out the lingering noise and scent of ale that drifted from the castle's halls. Lord Eddard felt as though every bone in his body might come apart.
Entertaining Robert and his vast entourage had taken as much out of him as leading a campaign. He all but dragged himself to the bedside.
The room was oppressively warm, a gift from the hot springs deep beneath Winterfell. Steam condensed into tiny droplets across the stone walls and the tapestries. The dying embers in the hearth glowed a deep red, their light casting restless shadows that danced across the room.
Eddard shrugged off his heavy cloak and leather armor, still carrying the scent of the feast, until only his thin linen shirt remained. Pulling back the thick fur blankets, he slipped beneath them and was immediately surrounded by a familiar fragrance and the warmth of another body.
Catelyn silently wound her arms around him, pressing herself close against his broad chest. The heat of their skin chased away the last traces of chill, awakening a different kind of longing buried deep within his weariness.
After a long while, the tide of passion ebbed. Eddard lay on his back, his chest rising and falling steadily, beads of sweat glimmering faintly on his brow in the dim light.
Under Maester Luwin's care, Catelyn's recovery had been swift, helped by her natural strength and resilience. She was still young—barely past thirty. Had someone not poisoned her in secret, she would never have lost their child.
Resting against him, her cheek pressed to his damp chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart slowing. Her slender fingers traced idle circles across the firm muscles of his abdomen, her breath soft and languid.
Her voice came gently. "Ned, tell me you'll accept the King's request. You'll go south to King's Landing and serve as Hand of the King, won't you?"
She lifted her head. The blue eyes that had once been dulled by grief now gleamed with light under the warm glow of the chamber.
Eddard's gaze drifted. His throat worked as he spoke in a low, rough tone. "No, Catelyn. I will refuse him. I'll stay here in the North, at Winterfell, with you and the children... That's where I belong."
The color drained from Catelyn's cheeks, surprise flickering across her face. She rose slightly, her auburn hair spilling down like a curtain, the tips brushing Eddard's cheek in a soft, teasing touch.
"I thought you would agree..."
Her tone wavered with confusion and a trace of frustration.
"You led his armies south to conquer the Stepstones, spent months across the Narrow Sea, and now—when the King himself entrusts you with the weight of the Hand's office—you hesitate?"
As she spoke, she moved fluidly, turning to straddle his abdomen. Her body gleamed softly in the humid warmth, the curves of her form outlined in the dim light.
Her hands rose to cup Eddard's face, fingertips warm against his skin, urging him to look at her.
Since Eddard had told her of his plan to send Jon to the Wall during the King's visit, Catelyn seemed to have shed a heavy burden. Her face had brightened, her spirit renewed. Now, her eyes shone with eager hope for the future—and relief that the "bastard" would soon be gone.
Her legs tightened slightly around him as she leaned closer, her gaze burning into the depths of his gray-blue eyes.
"Ned, you cannot—must not—refuse the King's gracious offer. This is an honor... and a duty."
A weary, bitter smile tugged at Eddard's lips, steeped in guilt and exhaustion.
"I only want to stay by your side, to fulfill the duties of a husband, Catelyn... I can't—won't—fail you again."
The child that never drew breath was a wound that would never close.
Catelyn's eyes searched his face, sorrow flickering deep within them, but she shook her head firmly, driving the emotion away.
"You needn't blame yourself. That wasn't your fault—it never was."
Her fingertips brushed gently across his furrowed brow. "As a vassal, answering your liege lord's summons is your duty. And your liege lord is no ordinary man—he is the King of the Seven Kingdoms. He is your brother."
She paused, a faint smile brightening her features as her tone grew lighter. "And Ned, did you see Sansa at the feast? The Queen was quite taken with her. And... if what the King said wasn't just drunken talk, our Sansa may one day become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You should have seen her face when she heard it—our sweet girl looked ready to fly with joy."
Eddard forced a smile, though his heart felt cold as stone. He knew his wife too well.
Her eagerness for him to go south had little to do with loyalty to Robert—it was Sansa's potential betrothal to Joffrey that fueled her insistence.
In that cold crypt, Robert had indeed said those very words to him: that his little Joff and Sansa would bind their houses together, as he and Lyanna once were.
"But Sansa is only nine," Eddard said quietly, his throat dry. "She's still a child—innocent and unknowing."
Catelyn leaned closer, cupping his face once more. Their breaths mingled, warm and close, carrying her familiar, gentle scent.
"Sansa will grow, Ned. The betrothal can be arranged now. Do you have any idea how many noble girls across Westeros dream of marrying the heir to the Iron Throne? If Sansa weds Joffrey, their children will one day rule from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne. Stark blood will flow in the veins of the future master of the Iron Throne."
Like a cat seeking warmth, she nestled back into his arms, her upper body pressed close against his. Her smooth skin glowed faintly in the humid warmth, radiating the allure of a woman in her prime.
At just over thirty, she had long since shed the awkwardness of youth, her body now soft, full, and intoxicatingly mature—a blend of comfort and temptation to the weary, burdened Eddard.
He drew a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. He could feel the heat of her body against him, could sense the urgency and longing burning within her.
Yet, no matter how he tried to focus on her touch, the image of that golden-haired prince from the feast refused to leave his mind.
Joffrey Baratheon.
That boy had inherited all his mother's arrogance—the curl of disdain that never left his lips, the cold cruelty that gleamed in his eyes. He was nothing like the gentle, noble prince Sansa imagined him to be.
Eddard's expression darkened as he struggled to find the right words—a refusal that could soothe Catelyn without betraying his conscience.
But Catelyn gave him no chance. Her voice came again, low and unwavering.
"For me, Ned... you must go."
His throat tightened, the words he'd prepared dying before they could leave his lips.
He saw the determination in her eyes—the fierce resolve of a mother who would give anything for her daughter. Her love for Sansa knew no limits. How desperately she longed to see her child wear a crown, to see her husband rise to power beside the throne.
At last, Eddard let out a long, heavy sigh, his face carved with fatigue and reluctant surrender.
"I..."
Triumph flared instantly in Catelyn's eyes. Her slender arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her long legs entwining his waist, enveloping him in a soft, suffocating embrace.
Her voice was a breath against his ear, warm and pleading. "Promise me, Ned... let our Sansa marry the future king."
Just then, the muffled voice of the guard, Desmond, came from outside the door.
"My lord, forgive the intrusion. Maester Luwin is outside, requesting an audience. He says it is urgent—he must speak with you at once."
Eddard's brow tightened instantly. Exhausted in body and soul, all he wanted now was to sink into the silence of dreamless sleep. Any interruption grated against his already frayed patience.
He was about to refuse when Desmond's voice sounded again, more insistent.
"My lord, the maester... he insists. He says the matter is of great urgency."
A chill of unease rippled through Eddard.
With a weary sigh, he gently disentangled himself from Catelyn's embrace and swung his legs over the bed. The cold stone floor bit sharply at his bare feet, driving away what remained of his drowsiness.
He dressed quickly, pulling on his shirt and trousers, then wrapped a thick robe around himself and fastened the belt tight.
Maester Luwin was ushered in. His lined face, usually calm and composed, was pale and drawn with rare anxiety.
In one hand, he clutched a small, unremarkable wooden box; in the other, a crumpled, frayed letter.
"My lord, my lady," the maester began, his voice urgent yet apologetic. "Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, but this matter is no small one. Two letters have been delivered—one was placed silently upon my desk while I dozed in my study."
He lifted the plain wooden box.
"The other," he said, raising the worn letter, "arrived just now—by raven."