The wind howled through the walls of Winterfell as {{user}} stood in the Great Hall, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Eddard entered, his boots leaving faint traces of snow on the stone floor. Bran trailed behind him, face pale but eyes bright with an odd mix of excitement and something deeper—something harder to place.

“You took him to an execution,” {{user}} said, her voice low but laced with anger. It wasn’t a question.

Ned paused, his brow furrowing. “He’s nearly a man grown. It’s time he learned what it means to dispense justice.”

“He’s seven, Ned,” she countered, her eyes flashing. “Seven, and you’ve already shown him the weight of a man’s life.”

Ned stepped closer, his expression calm but unyielding. “A Stark must understand the responsibility that comes with wielding a sword. I won’t have my sons grow up ignorant of what it means to lead.”