When The Throne Bleeds

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"Promise me, Ned. Promise me you'll keep him safe. Promise me."

Lyanna Stark's desperate whispers once again echoed in Eddard Stark's mind as he looked on at the young Jon Snow standing in the corner of the courtyard, watching Robb aim his arrow. The servant girls of Winterfell cheered as Robb's arrow hit it's target.
Robb ran a hand through his auburn curls, his face lighting up ever so slightly.
Jon who was black of hair, remained passive in his expression, crossing his arms around his thick leather vest.
Robb was everyone's favourite, and Jon had been always shadowed by his perfection. Ned knew it, and yet he could help but be partial to his firstborn son. Robb Stark was brave, honourable and intelligent. Robb Stark was ready to be Ned's heir.

Ned's thoughts wandered from Robb to Jon once again. In all these years, he had never seen Jon blissfully happy -- but then again, being a scorned bastard never really allowed much happiness.
He hadn't told him about his mother yet, and it had always cast a shadow of unseeing vagueness on the young boy's life.
When was he going to tell him the truth? To hide Jon's true identity from him forever would be a burden his conscience could not carry. He must tell Jon.

And Irida, how could he forget her? Irida Snow, older to Jon by almost a year, who had run away from Winterfell eight years ago, never to be heard from again. Irida had always been rebellious and fiery, but she was a beautiful girl with a sharp mind, as if she was made out of magic itself. Yet, she was disliked even more than Jon at the castle. While Jon had taken to sulking to swallow the shame of being a bastard, Irida used to explode in rage, clawing at everyone who insulted her.

"My lord?" A fragile voice came from behind him.

"Ah, Maester Luwin." Ned forced a smile, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind.

"A raven from King's Landing, my lord."

Ned held the tiny scroll in his hand, slowly unravelling it. The scroll that started at all. His forced smile vanished in an instant.

Moments later, Ned was rushing through the castle halls, veiled agitation on his face. He burst through a door and found his wife exactly the way he had thought.

Catelyn Stark was sitting on an old chair, stitching up a violet dress for one of her daughters. By the size, it looked like it was for Arya. Her slender fingers paused on their artwork as she sensed someone nearing her chamber.

She looked up as soon as Ned entered. Her eyes assumed a tender authoritative stance as she noticed his anxious expression. Pushing her half made dress off her lap, she stood up from her chair, stroking the front of her beige coloured gown by habit.

"What's the matter, Ned?" She asked, stepping closer to him.

"It's Robert. He's coming here." Ned panted gruffly.

"A visit from the King? Why?"

"Jon Arryn is dead." Ned announced with a melancholic voice.

Catelyn's eyebrows shot up before her expression melted into a sympathetic one and she reached out to caress his arm comfortingly.

"I'm so sorry, I know he was like a father to you."

"He was a father to the both of us, me and Robert. All that we learnt, we learned it from him. To think a quick fever took his life...."

"Robert...there can be only one reason why he's coming." Ned shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "He wants me to be his Hand in that rat-hole they call a capital."

Catelyn finally understood Ned's panic. Being the Hand was the greatest honor and most power to any man except the King, but honor and power were in an everlasting balance with sacrifice and danger. Too much of one side, and the other comes rolling down on you, weighing you down.