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GOT Chapter 43: The Hammer Gathers Rust
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 03:30:12 +0000 UTCAs he stepped out of the main keep, Kal adjusted the collar of his uniform and took in the slightly damp warmth of the city—a climate he wasn’t quite used to. Looking up, he stared at the gray sky overhead.
“Wonder if it’ll snow…” he muttered.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a small black figure climbing up and down the city tower not far away.
...
Before the king’s procession actually arrived at Winterfell, the Stark family had already gathered together.
Arya Stark—who had slipped out of the castle at some point—was found by the guards and escorted back.
After enduring a scolding from Septa Mordane, she also had to suffer a round of ridicule from her sister, Sansa Stark.
As for Bran Stark—who was even harder to locate—Catelyn Tully eventually found him by following the sound of barking up one of the taller towers.
Once the two mischievous children had been rounded up and properly dealt with, they reluctantly joined the welcome party for the king.
And so, led by Lord Eddard Stark himself—
All five of the Stark children—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and the youngest, Rickon—were finally assembled in one place.
And besides those standing in the front row—members of House Stark—
Among the people gathered behind them were others of the Stark household, including the boy Eddard Stark had brought back to Winterfell and publicly acknowledged as his bastard: Jon Snow.
There was also his ward: Theon Greyjoy.
Following them stood the retainers and household staff of Winterfell—Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Septa Mordane, Captain of the Guard Jory Cassel, and many others—all assembled among the crowd, waiting in anticipation.
At this moment, everyone from House Stark was gathered at the eastern gate of Winterfell, since Kal had already informed them that the queen’s carriage was too large to pass through the city gates.
So now, all eyes were fixed forward—restraining their excitement and curiosity—as they waited.
And then, in Eddard’s line of sight, a dazzling river of gold, silver, and steel surged through the castle gates like a tide.
The cold northern wind battered the dozens of golden banners held high overhead—
Each one emblazoned with the crowned stag, sigil of House Baratheon.
Among the royal procession, Eddard quickly spotted many familiar faces.
There was Ser Jaime Lannister, his bright golden hair impossible to miss. Sandor Clegane, face marred by burns.
And beside them, the tall boy must be the Crown Prince.
As for the deformed dwarf on horseback, there was no mistaking him: it was “the Imp,” Tyrion Lannister.
But one figure among the leading riders—a fat man flanked by Kal Stone—struck Eddard Stark as unfamiliar.
That is, until the man dismounted, shouted out in a voice like a great bell, and charged forward to embrace him.
In that moment, Eddard Stark genuinely wondered if his bones were about to be crushed.
And yet, it was that same overwhelming embrace that made him realize who it was.
“Ned!”
“Ah—it’s good to see you again! Especially that frostbitten purple face of yours!”
Upon seeing the dearest friend he had long yearned to reunite with, Robert could no longer contain his excitement.
He stepped forward and pulled the wide-eyed and stunned Lord Stark into a firm embrace, looking him over from head to toe with great care.
Then he let out a booming laugh.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Ned.”
Hearing that familiar tone, Eddard Stark, who had by now fully recognized the overexcited fat man clinging to him, responded with a look of quiet resignation.
Looking at Robert, Lord Stark thought to himself how he wished he could say the same to the king.
After all, fifteen years ago, when they had fought side by side in the war for the throne—
The man from Storm’s End had been a clean-shaven, clear-eyed warrior—broad-shouldered and tall, the dream of many a young maiden.
Back then, Robert Baratheon stood at a towering 1.96 metres, imposing as a mountain.
He stood out in any crowd like a crane among chickens—his presence stealing all attention.
And when clad in armor, wearing the massive antlered helm of House Baratheon, he truly looked the part of a giant.
Even his strength matched: the spiked iron warhammer he favored was something Eddard himself could barely lift—much less swing.
In those days, the scent of leather and blood clung to Robert like perfume does to a noblewoman.
But now, upon seeing him again—no longer the Lord of Storm’s End, but the King himself—Eddard noted that perfume indeed followed him still.
And so did a waistline to match his height.
Looking at the overjoyed fat man beaming before him, Lord Stark suddenly recalled that the last time he had seen the king had been nine years ago.
It was during Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, when the Ironborn had launched a surprise attack on the western shores and burned Lannisport.
On that day, the banners of the stag and the direwolf had flown side by side once more.
The armies of the Seven Kingdoms had joined forces to crush the would-be King of the Iron Islands.
That night, after the victory, they had stood together in the great hall of the fallen stronghold of House Greyjoy.
Robert Baratheon, then still the vibrant king, had accepted Balon Greyjoy’s surrender.
And Eddard had taken Balon’s youngest son, Theon Greyjoy, back to Winterfell as his ward.
But now, after all those years, this was what Robert had become.
Lord Stark looked at his old friend. Though Robert’s coarse, iron-wire beard concealed the fullness of his double chin—
Nothing could hide the bulging gut or the dark, sunken eyes.
Eddard reckoned—even across the vast realm, far from King’s Landing—he could tell Robert had drunk and whored his way to at least eight stone heavier.
The Lord of Winterfell could only shake his head with a bitter smile.
No matter how things had changed, Robert Baratheon was still his king, and not merely an old companion.
So, in response to the king’s teasing, Eddard Stark could only lower his head and kneel—one knee in the snow—offering a respectful salute to his sovereign.
“Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”
And at the sight of their father, lord, and liege kneeling before the king—
The others followed suit.
The wide-eyed and uncomprehending Arya, Bran, and the others followed their mother and elder siblings’ lead, kneeling one after another to show their respects.
In an instant, aside from those accompanying the king, all the people of Winterfell followed suit, bowing and offering their greetings.
While the king and the lord exchanged pleasantries, the rest of the royal procession—now entering the gates—began to dismount. At once, Winterfell’s stablehands hurried forward to take the reins from their hands.
It was at that moment that Queen Cersei Lannister, accompanied by her young children, walked into the courtyard and approached the Stark family.
As custom dictated, Lord Stark kissed the ruby ring on the queen’s hand, then rose at Robert’s command.
And then, as if embracing a long-lost sister, King Robert wrapped Catelyn Stark in a heartfelt hug.
Of course, he was careful not to use too much force—lest Ned find himself on the receiving end of complaints that night about broken bones from his wife.
Next came the formal introduction of both families’ children.
Each was brought forward, properly introduced, and met with praise from the other side’s parents.
But just as the official greetings were drawing to a close, Robert could no longer restrain himself. He reached out and grabbed Eddard Stark by the arm.
“Ned, take me to your family’s crypt. I need to pay my respects…”
Hearing this, Lord Stark paused slightly, then gave a helpless smile.
All these years had passed, and still—he couldn’t let her go.
Without a word, he called for someone to fetch a lantern.
No further explanation was needed.
But upon hearing this exchange, Cersei turned toward Robert, her face expressionless, and said coolly: “We’ve been traveling for nearly a month, setting out before dawn again today. Everyone is cold and exhausted…”
“Darling, I believe we should rest first.”
“After all, the dead aren’t going anywhere, are they?”
The displeasure on Queen Cersei’s face was clear to all. She made no attempt to hide it and opposed Robert’s request without hesitation.
Upon hearing Cersei’s words, King Robert merely turned a cold gaze toward her—saying nothing at all.
Sensing the tension in the air, Jaime Lannister quietly stepped forward and gently took Cersei’s hand, preventing the queen from saying anything more.
Seeing this, Robert let out a cold snort of laughter.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the Stark family crypt.
