"He took me to *his* home," Peter corrected, the distinction vital. "It went from there. He fed me. He gave me a room—*my* room. He didn't adopt me on paper. The world doesn't have a form for what he did. He just… claimed me. I was his. End of story. I tested him, Ned. God, I tested him that first year. I was angry, I was vicious, I stole, I broke things. I screamed that he wasn't my father, trying to make him prove what I already knew—that he would throw me away like everyone else."
Peter leaned forward now, closing the space between them, his gaze intent.
"He never flinched. Not once. He’d just stand there in his ridiculous tie and glasses, looking like a confused professor, and he’d wait for me to finish. Then he’d say, ‘Are you quite done? Good. Your turn to take out the garbage. Just like that, it was my turn.’"
A tear traced a clean path through the dust on Peter’s cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
"You think the King of the North is some mythical warlord on a poster? That’s the armor, Ned. The suit he wears so the winter doesn’t kill the people he loves. The man underneath is a dork who forgets to charge his phone and does crossword puzzles when he’s nervous. He is stubborn, and he worries too much, and he loves with a ferocity that is literally terrifying."