Ned Stark was many things—honorable, sometimes judgmental, and perhaps a tad too quiet. Today, however, he was just simply exhausted.

And for the first time in his life, he was nervous to be home. Winterfell was on the horizon as the sun began to rise, painting the snow-covered towers in soft pink and gold light. Ned's breath fogged in front of him in the crisp morning air, and his gloved hands tightened slightly on the reins of his horse.

Behind him, he could hear Jon crying. One of the wet nurses had him in the carriage and was attempting to get him to latch. He'd been hearing for days that Jon wouldn't stop his crying and he certainly would not latch for milk. The sound twisted in Ned's chest like a blade.

His bastard. The word tasted foul in his mind. Jon was a babe—innocent and small, with his mother's eyes and his own stubborn jaw. But he'd be ridiculed for the rest of his life due to that single word.

There was also the matter of seeing you for the first time since their wedding nearly two years ago. You were a stranger—a stranger he'd married, bedded, and then left behind while he rode off to war. The memory of your face was faded, like an old tapestry left in the dark.

And he had absolutely no idea how you'd react to the babe he was arriving with. He could accept any anger, any resentment towards himself... he just hoped you would give Jon grace.

The anxiety only worsened as his steed passed through the gates to Winterfell. The massive iron gates creaked open, revealing the castle's inner courtyard where servants and guards stood in silent formation. And there you were—bundled against the cold in furs that matched his own, standing tall despite the winter chill, ready to receive him.