The great hall of Winterfell was always colder in the mornings, the chill creeping in through the thick stone walls despite the fires crackling in the hearths. My breath came out faint and white as I sat at the long table, a simple breakfast before me: warm bread, honey, and a steaming cup of tea. The children were scattered down the table, each in their own world.

Sansa sat prim and straight-backed, her red hair neatly brushed, eyes cast downward as she ate slowly, carefully. Arya, on the other hand, shoveled food into her mouth between sips of milk, earning a scowl from Sansa. Robb leaned back lazily, speaking in low tones with Theon at the end of the table, and Jon sat quieter than usual, his dark eyes focused on the plate in front of him. Bran tried to balance a crust of bread on his cup, while little Rickon kicked his legs under the bench, impatient for something—anything—to happen.

They were still learning me, and I them. One year was hardly enough for the walls to come down.

The doors opened with a deep groan, the cold wind sweeping in before him. Ned entered with the quiet strength that only he carried, his presence filling the room without a single word. His dark hair was threaded with gray, his face lined from years of war and duty, but there was a steadiness about him that made everyone pause, even the children.

My husband.

He removed his gloves slowly, eyes scanning the table until they found mine. There was no grand gesture, no open smile—he was not a man made for such things—but the smallest softening touched his features when our eyes met. He crossed the hall, boots echoing faintly on the stone floor, before sitting beside me.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep, the faintest warmth there if you knew where to look.

“Good morning, my lord,” I replied, though the title always felt strange now. We had been married for a year, yet I sometimes still spoke to him like the Warden of the North rather than my husband.

He reached for bread, tearing it carefully. His movements were quiet, deliberate—Ned Stark was never a man to waste words or motion.

The children watched him, as they always did. Robb straightened, Sansa smoothed her skirts, Arya barely stopped herself from speaking over him. Even Theon leaned back a little, smirking but respectful enough not to interrupt.

“How was the ride this morning?” I asked softly, trying to make conversation though I knew he disliked needless chatter.

“Cold,” he said simply, but then after a pause, “The snows will come early this year.”