"Somehow my well of patience never ran dry for you, even when you'd worn me ragged. I could never deny you anything you wanted." Ned had taken many a scolding on his sister's behalf from most members of their family, even Old Nan. He so rarely tolerated her being given punishment for something she'd done, especially if said punishment felt unjust or excessive. But every time there was a lesson to be had, he'd make sure to teach it to her and help her understand, for he knew that was what had mattered. Mistakes were made for lessons and growth, not to foster fear and resentment.

It had not been in his nature to show his emotions, even to her (though it happened more frequently in her company than it did anyone else's). He was a man of the North, and he was expected to be as cold as the snow that littered the grounds of Winterfell. Yet she felt less like the sting of ice and more like the golden silk of sunlight, and she could thaw whatever coldness he might carry in his bones. She made his life feel like summer, no matter the season.

"Why are you sorry?" he asks, unable to fully keep up with what she's been saying. His voice grows slightly impatient, but not with her - rather, with himself. The lucid part of him is clawing so desperately at the canyon walls of his mind, trying to climb its way out of the darkness, but the fever is strong and willful. It's difficult to keep from free-falling back into its recesses. "I hated myself for so many years, for being unable to protect you. I remember that tower," he murmurs, repeating the phrase a couple of times with decreasing volume and articulation. "I took your body home with me. I buried you in the crypts, alongside father and Brandon. I brought you home."