Eddard Stark sighed as he listened to his wife, Catelyn, excitedly talk about the future—how their daughter Sansa would become a queen, how her children would be kings. He couldn't help but interrupt her, shaking his head. "Catelyn, it's too soon to be thinking about kings, queens, and children. Sansa is still just a girl!"
Catelyn shot him a slightly irritated glance, displeased that he was dismissing what she saw as a bright and inevitable future.
Maester Luwin, ever the voice of reason, nodded in agreement with Catelyn. "My lord, the lady's thoughts are not far-fetched. His Majesty, King Robert, seeks to strengthen ties with the great houses of Westeros, and your family holds great power in the North. It is highly likely that the king will propose a match between Prince Joffrey and Lady Sansa. A marriage between them would be a significant bond, ensuring peace and stability. It would be a great honor for both houses."
Ed's expression turned troubled. "Sansa... she's only thirteen this year..." He trailed off, lost in thought. To him, Sansa was still the small, gentle child who once curled up in his arms, full of innocence.
"Thirteen is old enough to be betrothed," Catelyn said firmly. "Don't forget, I was engaged at that age."
Ed stiffened slightly. His wife's words brought back memories he had long buried. Catelyn had originally been promised to his older brother, Brandon. If not for King Aerys murdering both his father and brother, Ed would never have married her. Though she had remained a maiden when they wed, the thought of her once being intended for another—a man she might have loved—left him with a discomfort he couldn't quite explain.
Pushing aside those unsettling feelings, Ed tried to offer another excuse. "I've spent my entire life in the North, Catelyn. The cold of Winterfell is my home. If I leave for the South, I doubt I will ever feel comfortable there."
Catelyn and Maester Luwin exchanged looks before turning their gazes back to him. He could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. Still, he tried one last time. "My father and brother both left the North and died in the South. The Starks belong in Winterfell. I am no different."
Catelyn scoffed lightly. "You're being superstitious, Ed. The circumstances are entirely different now!"
She looked at him intently, eyes bright with conviction. "Robert sits on the throne, Ed. He is your old friend and your king. And in time, our son-in-law Joffrey will rule. Perhaps even our grandson one day. This is Sansa's future. You must accept the king's offer!"
Ed met his wife's unwavering gaze and sighed. He turned to Maester Luwin, hoping for support, but the old maester merely nodded in agreement with Catelyn.
A long silence followed before Ed finally exhaled in resignation. "Fine. We will speak of this later. For now, we must focus on preparations. The king and his retinue will arrive soon, and we must be ready to receive them. Hundreds of people will be traveling with him—housing them, feeding them..." He shook his head. "This will be no small task."
He muttered under his breath, "Damn it, Robert, did you have to bring so many people?"
Catelyn and Maester Luwin couldn't help but smile at his frustration. The visit of a king, queen, and their royal entourage was considered an immense honor—one that most lords would have given anything to receive. And yet, here was Lord Eddard Stark, more worried about the logistics of entertaining the royal party than the prestige that came with their visit.
Catelyn and Maester Luwin had already been busy making arrangements. Grain, vegetables, fresh meat—everything had to be stocked in great quantities to ensure the guests were well-fed. The kitchens were working day and night to prepare for the grand feasts that would take place in Winterfell's halls.
Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, in the Free City of Pentos, another meeting was taking place.
Illyrio Mopati, the wealthy and influential magister of Pentos, stood at the city's gates, waiting for his esteemed guest. He was dressed in fine silks, his massive belly barely contained by the fabric. His expression was one of anticipation and careful politeness.
Before him, in the distance, the vast khalasar of Khal Drogo stretched across the open plains. The Dothraki horde had set up camp miles away, their thousands of horses stirring the dust into the air. The sheer number of tents seemed endless, and the sight of tens of thousands of warriors was enough to unnerve even the bravest men.
Illyrio Mopatis swallowed and wiped the sweat from his brow as a group of riders approached. He forced a broad smile onto his face, suppressing any lingering fear.
At the front of the Dothraki riders was Khal Drogo himself, seated atop a massive black stallion. His skin gleamed bronze in the sunlight, his long black braid adorned with small golden bells that jingled softly as he rode. His expression was fierce and unreadable, his dark eyes scanning everything with the cold assessment of a warrior.
Among the Dothraki, a warrior's braid was only cut when he suffered defeat. The fact that Drogo's braid reached his thighs was proof of his undefeated record.
Illyrio Mopatis knew that Drogo was more than just a warrior—he was a conqueror. His mere presence was enough to strike fear into the hearts of those who opposed him.
As the riders came to a halt, Illyrio stepped forward, bowing deeply in respect. "Great Khal Drogo, son of the mighty warrior Bharbo, I welcome you to Pentos! It is an honor to have you accept my invitation. May your khalasar ride strong and your enemies fall before you!"
Drogo remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the magister. Then, with a slow exhale, he gave a single, gruff nod. "Hmh."
That was all. No elaborate greeting, no grand words. Just a sound of acknowledgment.
Illyrio Mopatis straightened, smiling despite the brevity of the response. He had dealt with many powerful men in his life, and he knew that Khal Drogo was not one for unnecessary pleasantries. What mattered was that he had come.
The stage was set, and soon, the fates of empires would be decided.
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