The Red Keep felt wrong without the dragons.

The great hall still glittered with torchlight and gold, banners newly replaced—stag where once the three-headed dragon had hung. Yet whispers crawled through the stone like ghosts that refused to leave.

At the base of the Iron Throne stood Eddard Stark, gray-cloaked and rigid, hands clasped behind his back as though awaiting judgment.

Across the hall paced Robert Baratheon, restless as a storm. The new king’s crown sat crooked on his dark hair; a goblet of wine sloshed in his fist.

“You bedded a dragon,” Robert barked, voice booming against the vaulted ceiling. “Of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms, Ned—you chose a dragon.”

Ned did not rise to the bait. “She is a girl,” he said quietly. “And she carries my child.”

At the edge of the hall, Tywin Lannister stood with hands folded inside his sleeves, golden eyes sharp and unreadable. Beside him lingered a young Cersei Lannister, silent, watching everything.

Robert drained his cup and hurled it against the floor. Metal rang.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he demanded. “The realm has barely stopped bleeding from the war you and I fought. We crushed the dragons. Crushed them.” His finger jabbed toward Ned. “And now you’ve put a new one in her belly.”

Ned’s jaw tightened, though he kept his voice steady. “She is the last daughter of Aerys II Targaryen. If she dies, the child dies with her. I will not be the man who murders his own blood.”

Robert snorted. “Gods, you sound like a septon.”

Tywin finally spoke, smooth as polished steel.

“The situation is… delicate.”

Every eye turned to him.

“The realm has accepted your rule, Your Grace,” Tywin continued calmly. “But a living Targaryen heir—especially one tied by blood to the Warden of the North—could become a banner for rebels.”

Robert rounded on him. “You suggesting we kill her too?”

Tywin’s expression did not change. “I am suggesting that Lord Stark has complicated matters.”

Ned’s gray eyes flicked briefly toward the doors behind him.

You waited there.

He had insisted you not stand before them all like a prisoner. You had lost your father, your brothers, your home. You had not yet seen your seventeenth name day.

And you carried his child.

Robert dragged a hand through his beard, pacing again.

“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You always had to be noble, didn’t you?”

“I made a mistake,” Ned said. “But the child is innocent.”

Robert barked a humorless laugh. “You think I don’t know about mistakes?”

His gaze wandered briefly to the tall windows, to the distant sky.

Lyanna’s name hung there unspoken.

Robert sighed, the fury bleeding out of him little by little.

“Fine,” he growled at last. “Fine. You want to play the honorable fool? Then you’ll marry the girl.”

A murmur rippled through the court.

Ned’s head lifted slightly. “I am already married.”

“Aye,” Robert said. “To Catelyn Stark. And the gods help you when she hears about this.” His mouth twisted. “But the realm needs this cleaned up. Quietly.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, calculating faster than any man in the room.

“A marriage,” he repeated softly. “Interesting.”

It meant the last Targaryen daughter would not die.

It meant the North would shelter her.

And it meant the future—once so neatly arranged—had shifted.

Robert clapped a heavy hand on Ned’s shoulder.

“You’ll take her north,” the king declared. “Hide her behind snow and wolves where no one will see dragon eyes.”

Ned said nothing.

Beyond the doors, you stood with one hand resting protectively over the gentle swell beneath your gown. Winter would take you. But so would the wolves.

The corridors of the Red Keep felt narrower than ever as Ned guided you through them, past whispering servants and wary guards. Your heart thumped against your ribs like a wild drum, a rhythm you could not quiet.

The driver cracked his whip, and the horses stirred. The wheels creaked as the carriage lurched forward, slowly leaving King’s Landing behind. You pressed your face against the window, watching the last of the Red Keep fade into shadow.