"People?"
Garon wore a faintly amused expression. He had already guessed what Jaime was going to say next.
Sure enough.
Seeing Garon respond with a puzzled question, Jaime slowly approached him, taunting him in a threatening tone.
"Do you know? The first time you kill a man is the hardest to forget!"
"You suddenly realize that a person is nothing but a sack of flesh and blood supported by bones."
"All it takes is a slight slash with a sword..."
Jaime made a throat-slitting gesture at Garon, taking malicious pleasure in trying to provoke him. "And you'll discover that people are no different from the animals you hunt all the time!"
"But..."
Jaime paused briefly. When Garon didn't respond, he assumed he'd been scared and immediately lost interest.
He patted Garon on the shoulder and sneered. "Still, you Glovers should stick to guarding the Wolfswood and hunting animals."
"Maybe one day, I'll spend a few Gold Dragons on some of the pelts you've hunted!"
With that, he turned away proudly and left without looking at Garon again.
Garon's eyes were dark and unreadable. He didn't let his temper get the better of him and snap back at Jaime.
In his eyes, whether Jaime lived or died depended on what happened tomorrow.
"Tywin was a hero in his day, yet every one of his children turned out to be a debauched fool. What a laughingstock!"
Especially Jaime and Cersei.
Consumed by lust, they couldn't wait to sleep together on their second day in Winterfell.
They treated everyone around them as if they didn't exist, and their brazen behavior was simply unbelievable.
Garon watched Jaime walk away and had already sentenced the Lannisters to death in his mind.
"Once Tywin dies, the Westerlands will be mine for the taking!"
He gave a cold laugh, then paid it no further attention and turned to go back.
Meanwhile, in the crypt beneath Winterfell.
Ned raised his oil lamp and pointed toward the three stone coffins ahead. "Here, Your Grace!"
Robert nodded silently, knelt down, and bowed his head in respect.
Three stone coffins stood side by side before them, each carved with an image of its occupant in life.
Ned's father, Rickard Stark, had a stern, long face. The sculptor had captured his likeness well. He sat solemnly, stone fingers gripping the sword laid across his knees.
Yet not even the finest sword in the realm had saved him. Rickard had been burned alive with Wildfire by the Mad King.
In the smaller stone coffins on either side of him lay his children: his eldest son, Brandon Stark, and his eldest daughter, Lyanna Stark.
And Lyanna had been the woman Robert loved most in all his life.
After paying his respects, Robert rose and gazed at Lyanna's likeness, falling silent for a moment.
"She was much prettier than the statue. She was only sixteen..."
Robert's gaze lingered on Lyanna's face, reluctant to leave it, until at last he couldn't hold back a curse.
"Damn it, Ned. Did you really have to bury her in this sunless place?"
"She was of House Stark of Winterfell," Ned said evenly. "This is where she belongs."
The king clearly didn't agree. "She should be buried on a beautiful hill, under fruit trees, with the sun and clouds above to keep her company."
"I was by her side when she died," Ned said, afraid Robert would insist on having his way. "All she wanted was to come home and rest beside Brandon and her father."
Ned looked at the stone coffin too. Memories of Lyanna's final moments flashed through his mind, and his gaze grew distant.
Fourteen years had passed in the blink of an eye.
Now even her child had grown into an adult.
Thinking of Jon, Ned told Lyanna in his heart about how he was doing. "Lyanna, Jon's recently made a very good friend, Garon Glover of Deepwood Motte."
"I doubt the Glovers are strangers to you. Ethan, Brandon's squire, is his uncle."
"With Garon's influence, the boy's gradually become more positive and optimistic..."
There was so much he wanted to tell someone, but he knew he could only keep those words buried deep inside.
Ned had spent fourteen years planning and concealing Jon's true parentage, all to protect Lyanna's child. He would never reveal Jon's identity.
Robert stroked the carved cheek of Lyanna's statue with the tenderness one might show a living person. "I swore I'd kill Rhaegar to avenge her," he murmured.
Ned, returned to the present, reminded him, "Your Grace, you already killed him."
"How could killing him once be enough?" Robert's eyes blazed with hatred and anger. "Do you know, Ned?"
"Those two Targaryen remnants are nearly grown now. I've heard someone's secretly supporting them."
"How can Lyanna rest in peace if we don't kill them?"
Ned frowned. "They're only children."
"Children?" Robert turned his head and fixed his gaze on Ned. "It's been fourteen years. Fourteen whole years!"
"Once that girl has her first moonblood, Targaryen tradition says they'll sleep together, and then dragonspawn will keep coming, one after another."
"And you still say they're children, Ned?"
Ned shook his head. He didn't want to argue with Robert either. "You should discuss these matters with your Hand, Your Grace."
"Come on, Ned," Robert said seriously. "I know you understand why I came to the North."
"Ned, come to King's Landing and be my Hand."
"You're the only person I trust now!"
Ned looked at him, warmth welling in his heart.
If he had no family and no North, he might have agreed at once.
But now...
"Your Grace," Ned said, refusing as tactfully as he could, "I'm afraid I'm not capable enough to take on such an important position."
Robert acted as if he hadn't heard Ned's refusal and said impatiently, "If I really had your best interests at heart, I'd have let you retire long ago."
"I intend for you to govern the realm while I enjoy myself, eating and drinking to my heart's content."
"You know that saying about kings and Hands, don't you?"
Ned certainly did.
"The king dreams," he said. "The Hand builds the dream."
"A fisher girl I slept with gave me an even better saying from the lower classes: the king eats at the feast, and the Hand takes a shit."
At that, Robert threw his head back and roared with laughter, his voice echoing through the darkness.
When the laughter died away, Robert looked at Ned and smiled. "Lord Ned Stark, I appoint you Hand of the King—the King's chief minister!"
Ned immediately dropped to one knee, still hoping to refuse.
But Robert didn't give him the chance. He pleaded, "Since Jon died, the situation in King's Landing has grown complicated. I need your help."
"Ned, you and Jon won that chair for me. You should help me hold on to it."
"My most trusted friend, you can't abandon me when I need you most!"
Ned's lips moved. His heart was stirred, but in the end he could only sigh. "As you command, Your Grace!"
Robert laughed as he helped Ned to his feet. "That's more like it, Ned. You and I are close, aren't we?"
"If Lyanna were still alive, you and I would be brothers through marriage."
"But it's not too late..."
Just as Robert was about to suggest a marriage between his son Joffrey and Ned's daughter Sansa, footsteps echoed through the crypt.
They abruptly cut off what Robert was about to say.
Ned furrowed his brows. He had clearly told everyone not to disturb them.
"Who is it?"
He called out sharply.
"Ned, it's me, Benjen!"
An unexpected voice rang out.
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