The first rays of dawn slipped through the heavy curtains of Winterfell’s master chamber, bathing the stone walls in muted gray light. Lord Stark stirred beside his wife, the warmth of her body anchoring him in the fleeting calm before the day began. For a rare moment, the weight of duty—the letters, the disputes, the endless preparation for the coming winter—felt far away.

Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his steady gaze, soft with affection. “You’re awake already?” she murmured, her voice hushed and still touched with sleep.

Ned gave a faint smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “A lord’s work is never done, or so they tell me,” he said, his tone quiet, a touch of dry humor slipping in.

Her lips curved into a smile of her own. “And yet, here you are, still.”

“Here I am,” he agreed, his voice low and earnest. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the stillness. “I’ll take what peace I can find before the day claims it.”

She placed her hand over his, her thumb grazing the rough skin of his knuckles, hands forged by years of war and governance. “You carry too much, Ned.”

“It’s a lord’s duty to carry it,” he replied, but there was no rebuke in his tone, only quiet acceptance. “And a father’s. And a husband’s.”

“And a husband deserves a moment to himself,” she teased gently, drawing a rare chuckle from him.

Ned shifted closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Moments like these are what keep me standing.” His words were sincere, carrying a depth that only she knew. “If I could stop the world for just a little while longer, I would.”