New Winterfell wasn’t as grand as Robert remembered the old one being. The walls were newer, less weathered, still smelling faintly of sawdust and fresh stone. There was no weirwood tree in the godswood anymore—a fact Robert welcomed with a relieved sigh. The thing had always unsettled him, with its bloody eyes and carved smile. Without it, the air felt cleaner. Less like the dead were watching.

  Still, though smaller and newer, New Winterfell felt… warmer. Like a hearth freshly lit. Robert couldn’t deny the comfort.

  He dismounted with a grunt and was greeted by a familiar procession of Starks. Ned first, of course, always somber, always dependable. Then Catelyn with her tight smile. Robb, now nearly a man grown. Sansa, Arya, little Bran, and Rickon—Ned’s litter of pups all lined up like the old days.

  Robert greeted them all as if nothing had changed, laughing loud, hugging rough. “You’ve all gotten uglier,” he said with a grin, earning a chuckle even from Catelyn.

  Then he leaned over to Ned and muttered, “Where is he? The bastard. And the wife and child of his.”

  Ned gave a rare smile. “They’re in the hearth.”

  “The hearth?” Robert raised a brow.

  “You’ll understand when you see it.”

  Inside the rebuilt castle, Robert was led to a chamber unlike any he’d seen before. The hearth was vast, stone-lined, and burning with a gentle blue flame. Strange symbols marked the walls, and the air felt heavy—not ominous, just… dense. Thick with something unseen.

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  There, seated beside the fire, was Jon Snow.

  At first glance, Robert thought the Jon snow had changed little—still brooding, still pale. But then he caught the color of his eyes: violet, deep and luminous. His hair was black, but his features...

  Gods, Robert thought. He looks like Rhaegar.

  The resemblance was uncanny enough to make Robert’s fists clench, but he said nothing, his mind was just playing tricks on him. He turned his gaze to the others in the room.

  Two women sat beside Jon.

  No, not women.

  Snowylocks and Ash.

  The Children of the Forest.

  They were beautiful in a way that unsettled him. Smaller than humans, their limbs sinewy and lithe, their skin tinted faintly green. Their eyes were enormous and luminous, and their hands—three fingers and a thumb, ending in black claws instead of nails—were delicate but dangerous.

  Their ears, long and pointed like bat wings, twitched with every noise.

  Robert stared. “They’re… exotic,” he said slowly. “Strange. But I’ll be damned. The world really is full of surprises.”

  One of them—Snowylocks, Robert presumed—smiled at him with sharp teeth. Not threatening, just… honest.

  Jon stood and turned, holding a small bundle wrapped in grey wool.

  “This is Megumi,” he said simply, stepping toward them.

  He handed the child first to Ned, whose arms cradled the babe with practiced care. The infant’s hair was pale, white-blonde. His eyes were shut, but his small hands clutched with strength.

  “He’s strong,” Ned murmured, something soft in his voice. “Lyanna would have adored him.” Ned thinks

  Jon nodded, saying nothing.

  Robert, arms crossed, looked between the strange women, the half-wild child, and the boy he believed a bastard of Ned’s.

  “You’ve done well for yourself,” Robert finally said. “Strange, but well.”

  He turned to Ned and clapped him on the back. “You were always the quiet one, but you know how to keep order and won another war. And now I see you were right, again.”

  He paused, watching Megumi squirm in Ned’s arms.

  “You’ll be my Hand,” Robert said. “I need someone with sense. And gods know there’s none in King’s Landing.”

  Ned looked up at him, his expression unreadable. But he nodded.

  Robert left the hearth chamber with a full belly, a spinning mind, and a curious sense of peace.