He did feel better.

The morning light spilled over the ancient walls of Winterfell, painting the stone in pale gold and frosty white.

The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of pine and smoke, the wind howling down from the north like a warning.

The royal retinue rode through the gates, their breath misty, their horses’ hooves crunching on the frozen earth.

The sight of the Stark stronghold rose before them—towers of grey stone, banners snapping in the wind, the great heart tree standing sentinel in the godswood.

The atmosphere was heavy, charged with the weight of history and the unspoken tension between king and the warden.

At the head of the procession, Robert sat astride his destrier, his face flushed from wine and the cold, his gaze fixed on the man waiting for them in the courtyard.

Eddard "Ned" Stark stood tall, his long face stern, his brown hair streaked with silver, his beard trimmed close to his jaw. He was not a large man, but there was a quiet strength in his stance, a stillness that spoke of deep waters running cold. His dark grey eyes—soft as fog one moment, hard as stone the next—scanned the retinue, lingering on Robert before flicking to the rest.

Beside him, Lady Catelyn Stark stood with regal poise, her thick auburn hair braided back, her high cheekbones and deep blue eyes marking her as Tully-born. Though swathed in furs, the curves of her body were unmistakable—generous breasts, a full posterior, the kind of figure that spoke of warmth and fertility. Her expression was reserved, her hands clasped before her, but her gaze was sharp, assessing.

Behind them, their children waited.

Robb, the young lord of Winterfell, was tall and broad-shouldered, his red-brown hair thick, his beard fuller and redder than the rest, his blue eyes keen and watchful. He wore leathers and furs, a sword at his hip, his stance that of a man used to command.

Beside him, Sansa stood like a queen already crowned, her long auburn hair cascading down her back, her blue eyes wide and hopeful, her face exquisitely beautiful—high cheekbones, full lips, a grace that seemed out of place in the harsh north.

She was tall, nearly six feet, her figure womanly and elegant, her bosom generous, her curves soft beneath her gown.

Arya, wild and defiant, wore riding leathers that hugged her lithe frame, her short black hair tousled, her grey eyes burning with restless energy. The leathers clung to her humongous toned ass, hinting at the strength beneath her slender form.

Bran, the youngest, leaned against a crutch, his black hair and blue eyes sharp with intelligence, his scrawny frame belied by the keen mind behind his gaze.

Robert dismounted with a grunt, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. "Ned!" he boomed, spreading his arms. "You old wolf! You have gotten fat. "

Ned’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. "Robert," he said, stepping forward to clasp the king’s forearm. "You look well."

Robert barked a laugh. "Liar." He turned, gesturing to his children. "Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—meet Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North."

Joffrey dismounted with **** grace, his expression sullen. "Lord Stark," he said, nodding curtly.

Myrcella curtsied, her yellow gown rustling. "An honor, my lord."

Tommen, wide-eyed, bowed awkwardly. "M-my lord."

Ned inclined his head. "Your Grace," he said to Joffrey, then smiled at Myrcella and Tommen. "You’ve grown, princess. Prince."

Ned then turned to the Starks for introducing them. "Robert, this is Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Bran."

Catelyn curtsied, her voice cool but polite. "Your Grace."

Robb bowed, his gaze flicking to Sansa, who offered a small, nervous smile. "Your Grace," Robb said, his voice steady.

Sansa curtsied deeply, her movements fluid. "Your Grace," she murmured, her eyes darting to Joffrey before lowering.

Arya didn’t curtsy. She crossed her arms, her gaze bold. "Your Grace," she said, her tone flat.

Bran grinned. "Your Grace!" he called, waving with his free hand.

Robert chuckled, then sobered as he turned to Ned.

"Walk with me, old friend," he said, clapping Ned on the shoulder. "We’ve much to discuss."

“We’ve just arrived, love. The dead can wait.” Cersei pointed out, more like snapping.

Robert ignored her, signaling Ned to follow him as he made his way down to the crypts.

Ned nodded, casting a glance at his family before falling into step beside Robert. The two men walked toward the great crypts, their voices low, their heads bent close.

The rest of the retinue began to disperse.

Cersei, her face a mask of cold elegance, followed Catelyn into the hall, her gown swirling around her.

The Stark household moved with them, leaving the courtyard slowly emptying.

Lyonel remained at the back, astride Ashford, his presence unnoticed—unintroduced.

The Stark children lingered, watching as the last of the royal guards filed in. Robb’s gaze snagged on him, curious, but he said nothing.

Sansa glanced at him, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of his massive frame, before looking away.

Arya, however, stared openly, her grey eyes sharp, assessing.

Bran whispered something to her, and she shrugged, but her gaze didn’t waver.

Sandor rode up beside Lyonel, snorting. "Looks like we’re the last to the party," he grunted.

Lyonel didn’t answer.

He watched the Starks, watched the way Winterfell loomed around them, ancient and unyielding.

Lyonel dismounted, intent on leading Ashford to the Stark's stable.