"Robert would never do anything to harm me or my family."
Eddard Stark's reply came instantly, almost instinctively, the certainty in his tone forged through years of brotherhood on battlefields and in mead halls. Yet the moment his words fell, he saw the worry in Catelyn's eyes—and that tempered his confidence. He exhaled, the edge in his voice softening.
"He loves me more than his own brother," Ned continued quietly, trying to reassure her. "If I refuse him, he'll rage, he'll curse at me, and he'll accuse me of being a stubborn northern mule… but in a week, we'll laugh about it. I know Robert."
Catelyn folded her arms beneath the furs, her expression tightening.
"All you know," she said, "is the Robert of the past—an impulsive, wild duke of Storm's End. But he isn't that man anymore, Ned. He is the King now. And it has been many years… enough time to turn even the dearest friends into strangers."
Her voice trembled slightly—not out of anger, but out of fear she refused to show. The king's arrival had shaken Winterfell to its bones, stirring up cold winds Catelyn had not felt even during the harshest northern winter. Ever since she had seen the dead direwolf with the stag's antler embedded deep in its throat, she could not shake the image from her mind. It felt like a sign, an omen sent by some unseen hand.
"Robert's pride is everything to him," she said firmly. "If you refuse him publicly, after he has journeyed thousands of miles to see you—after he has offered you such honor—it will be seen as a slap to his face. All of Westeros knows why the king rode north."
"Honor?" Ned gave a bitter smile. "Does he think this is an honor?"
"In the eyes of the King, is there any greater honor than placing the realm's burden on the shoulders of a friend?" Catelyn countered.
"And in your eyes?" he asked quietly.
"The same," she snapped, her composure slipping. "Robert has come not only to ask for your service—he has offered his eldest son to marry Sansa. What greater honor could there be for our house?"
Ned turned away, rubbing his brow. Her words struck deeper than she intended.
"Sansa is eleven," he muttered. "A sweet, innocent child. And Joffrey…" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Joffrey is—"
"He is the Crown Prince," Catelyn cut in sharply, "heir to the Iron Throne. And when my father promised me to your brother Brandon, I was twelve. This is how noble houses forge bonds."
The mention of Brandon's name made Ned's throat tighten. His elder brother's shadow had lingered over his life for years—over his marriage, over his responsibilities, over the expectations others placed upon him.
"Brandon would have accepted," Ned whispered. "He always knew what to do. He was born to lead, born to rule Winterfell. I… I should have been on the Wall with Benjen."
"And yet here you are," Catelyn replied softly, "because the gods dealt you this cup to drink, whether you wished it or not."
Her voice gentled then. She loved her husband, even when he withdrew into that private part of himself that no one—not even she—could reach. She knew he carried ghosts, burdens he never spoke aloud. One of those ghosts lived between them even now: the unnamed woman who had borne Jon Snow. But between Catelyn and Ned stood another shadow too—Brandon Stark. And neither dared speak of it.
She reached for his hand under the blanket, hoping her touch would anchor him. For a moment, it did.
Ned turned toward the window, staring out at the darkness. The fire crackled in the hearth, but an uneasy chill settled over the room.
Just as Catelyn swung her legs from the bed, a sudden, sharp knocking struck the door.
Ned and Catelyn exchanged frowns.
"Who is it?" Ned called.
"Milord, it is Maester Luwin," came Desmond's muffled reply from beyond the door. "He says he has urgent business."
Desmond was one of Ned's sworn guards, a dependable man. But his presence at this late hour—and Luwin's persistence—was troubling.
"I told him not to disturb us," Ned muttered, pulling on a robe.
"I relayed your command, sir," Desmond called back, "but the Maester insists."
Catelyn tightened the furs around herself. Ned hesitated only a moment before sighing.
"Let him in."
While Ned dressed, Catelyn shivered. A draft had crept into the room, slipping past the thick stone walls and heavy tapestries.
"Should we close the windows?" she asked.
"Pull the blanket up to your chin," Ned said absently. He sounded distracted, distant.
The door opened, and Maester Luwin stepped inside. His gray hair and gray robe seemed carved from Winterfell's stone itself. The chain of his office glinted faintly in the candlelight.
Desmond, tactful as always, closed the door behind him and departed.
"My lord, my lady," Luwin said, bowing. "Forgive me for disturbing your rest… but I received something tonight. Something I believe you must see."
Ned's patience was already stretched thin.
"A letter? Carried by whom? We've had no riders today."
"That is the strange part," Luwin replied. "It wasn't brought by any messenger."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"Someone placed an exquisitely carved wooden box on my desk in the observatory. I must have dozed off while reading. My servant swears he saw no one enter or leave, and the guards reported nothing unusual."
Catelyn stiffened beneath the furs.
"A box?" she echoed. "You said box—not a letter?"
Luwin nodded. "A wooden box with a beautiful lens inside, finely crafted… a lens from Myr, I believe. Their craftsmanship is unmatched. But that is merely the disguise."
He reached into his sleeve and produced a small, tightly rolled parchment sealed with blue wax.
"When I examined the box more closely, I found that the bottom compartment was false. The true message was hidden beneath it. And—" he hesitated, glancing at Ned "—the letter is not addressed to me."
Ned reached out instinctively. "Then give it here."
Luwin pulled his hand back.
"My lord… forgive me, but the seal makes it clear. This letter is meant only for Lady Catelyn."
Silence filled the room like slowly rising frost.
Ned lowered his hand.
Catelyn hesitated, then nodded once. Luwin stepped forward and placed the letter on the low table beside her bed.
The candle beside it flickered, casting long shadows across the room. The air felt heavier, charged with something unseen.
Her eyes fell upon the wax seal.
A crescent moon. A soaring falcon.
House Arryn.
Her breath caught.
Her sister.
Only Lysa would send her a secret message, smuggled through shadows and hidden in a Myrish lens.
Catelyn's fingers trembled as she reached toward the letter, dread curling in her stomach like a tightening knot.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
She felt it in her bones.
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