Dear Ned Stark,
When I think of the great fantasy names that have come before, I think of Aragorn, and Boromir and Han (by the way, doesn't Hope Solo have to name her first born son Han? She would be stupid not to. Imagine the day when he's in school, and the teacher is taking attendance, and she gets to Han Solo. How great would that be!?
But not you. Your name is Ned. I have a hard time picturing you without a green sweater and a bushy mustache, and yet I try. Now I picture you without a head, which is unfortunate. But at least you don't have that green sweater on.
As far as I could tell, Ned, you are guilty of nothing but being a good father and a great leader. The Hand of the King they called you, but in the end, you trusted the wrong person. Thomas Carcetti. And he turned you over to the Lannisters. You should not have died, but you never should have been handed over to the little Lannister either. He's a turd.
But the saddest thing about your death, dear Ned Stark, is that you never got to see dragons. You never got to see the destruction they will bring, or possibly the salvation. For we do not yet know whose side they are in. Just that dragons are pretty fantastic, and there will be hell to pay.
This is the fate we are destined to. One in which Boromir dies in the first film. In which Ned Stark lasts 9 episodes. Where we never get to see The Odyssey.
It's tragic. But at least you're not wearing a green sweater.