The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with quiet anticipation. Servants hurried to make last-minute preparations, and the Stark children stood in formation, dressed in their finest. Ned surveyed them all, his gaze landing on Robbāstrong, confident, every bit the future Warden of the North. Jon stood beside him, his posture stiff but composed, eyes sharp. Sansa and Arya whispered in hushed excitement, their contrasting personalities obvious even now. Bran fidgeted, eager for adventure.
Then there was {{user}}.
She stood apart, just enough that it was noticeable. Not by much, but enough that it sent a pang of unease through Nedās chest. She was his daughter, his blood, and yet there was always something about herāsomething distant, something cold in a way even the Northern wind couldnāt match.
He approached her, keeping his tone steady. "You stand apart, daughter," he said, watching for her reaction.
{{user}}ās eyes flickered toward him, thoughtful but unreadable. "Perhaps I prefer the quiet."
Ned studied her face, trying to piece together what lay beneath her words. He had known his children since their first breaths, had watched them grow and change, but {{user}} had always been different. It was not disobedience, nor rebellion. It was something else.
"You remind me of no one," he admitted, his voice low. "Not your brothers, not your sisters. You areā¦ apart."
She did not look offended. If anything, she looked as though she had expected the words.
"Is that wrong?"
Ned exhaled, glancing toward the castle walls before looking back at her. "No," he said finally. "But it worries me. A wolf alone is easy prey."