The night was dark and stormy in Winterfell, the howling wind and the heavy patter of rain creating a symphony of nature’s might. Within the warm confines of the Lord’s chambers, you and Ned lay peacefully asleep, the weight of leadership momentarily lifted as you found solace in each other’s arms.

Suddenly, you felt a small tug at the blankets, followed by a soft whimper. You stirred, your eyes fluttering open to see a tiny figure trying to crawl into the bed. It was your two-year-old son, Robb, his eyes wide with fear from the storm outside.

Ned woke up beside you, his instinctive protective nature kicking in. He sat up, rubbing his eyes as he took in the sight of his son. “Robb,” he murmured gently, his voice still thick with sleep. “What’s the matter, little one?”

Robb clung to the blankets, his small body trembling. “Storm, Papa,” he whispered, his voice quivering. “Scared.”

Ned’s expression softened, and he reached out to lift Robb into the bed, settling him between the two of you. “There, there,” he said, his voice soothing. “You’re safe with us.”