Though the North was bitter and cold, Winterfell always stood as a warm refuge against the freezing winds. The ancient castle was built atop natural hot springs, and channels beneath the stone walls carried heat through the keep. Steam drifted through the battlements and warmed the bedchambers, easing the harsh chill and filling the glass gardens with gentle humidity. Even in deep winter, green leaves thrived in those gardens.
Lord Eddard Stark's chambers were the warmest place in all of Winterfell, and Catelyn Stark cherished this warmth dearly. It reminded her of her childhood at Riverrun—the bright sun, the sound of rushing rivers, the laughter she once shared with Lysa and Edmure as they ran through the castle courtyards. Even after years in the North, Catelyn found her thoughts wandering back to the green lands of the South where she had been raised.
When she and Eddard finished their quiet moment together, Ned rose from the bed and drew back the heavy tapestry curtains. With a practiced motion, he pushed open the narrow windows high above, letting a sharp gust of cold air glide into the room. The warmth withdrew only slightly, swallowed by the winter breeze.
Catelyn watched him from the bed, studying the familiar lines of his back. Eddard is not as handsome nor as dashing as Brandon was, she thought, but he is a good husband—steady, loyal, and true. Fifteen years ago, she had married him not out of choice but necessity. She had been promised to Brandon Stark, yet fate had swept Brandon away, and Lord Rickard, too. Her father had hurried the marriage between her and the quiet second son, and though there had been awkwardness at first, Ned had honored every duty—to her, to the Riverlands, and to the North. Together, they had raised Children and built a life.
But now, that life teetered on the edge of change.
"I will simply refuse him," Eddard said suddenly, turning to face her. His voice was weighed down by a heavy gloom that he could not hide. "I will tell Robert plainly that I cannot serve as his hand."
Catelyn pushed herself upright, clutching the furs around her shoulders. "No," she said firmly. "You cannot refuse."
"My duty is here," Eddard replied in a low voice. "My place is in the North. Winterfell needs its Lord." He paused, troubled. "I have no wish to be the King's hand. Whatever Robert desires, I do not belong in the South."
Ordinary men might have longed for the warmth of King's Landing, but the Starks were a Northern house to their bones. Rickard Stark had sought alliances and opportunities in the South—yet his southern venture had ended with fire and tragedy. The memory of that loss still clung to Ned's heart.
Catelyn shook her head. "Robert does not understand such distinctions. He is the King. The King cannot be refused like an ordinary man. To refuse him is dangerous—not only for you but for all of us."
Their disagreement hung heavily between them. Catelyn had spent her youth in the South; to her, King's Landing was not a viper's den but a place of warmth, beauty, and grandeur. She could not understand why Ned recoiled so strongly from the idea of returning there.
"For the King to visit his friend—yourself—this is a great honor," she said, frustration growing within her. "He offers a match between Sansa and his heir. Could any family hope for a finer future? Our daughter could be Queen. Her Children might rule from the Wall in the far North to the peaks of Dorne. Do you not see what a gift this is?"
"In the past," Eddard murmured, "it would indeed have been a great honor." His brow furrowed deeply. "But these are troubled times, Catelyn. If I go South, I may be drawn into matters of war—perhaps even forced to command armies or face threats from across the Narrow Sea. Robert may say he does not fear traitors, but a King cannot become a kinslayer."
He hoped she would understand. The South no longer felt safe. The Red Keep was filled with whispers, and the Lannisters held the King's ear day and night. Nine years had passed since he and Robert had fought side by side, but in those nine years the King had grown close to lions, not wolves.
Catelyn tilted her head. "Are you truly afraid of war, my Lord? Your enemies are but Children—one barely grown, the other younger still."
"There are no Children on a battlefield," Eddard replied gravely. "Only victors and corpses. That boy across the sea may be young, but he is already skilled in warfare. Myr and Tyrosh are not petty islands like the Iron Islands—they are wealthy port cities with vast fleets, deep coffers, and armies of sellswords and slaves who will die for gold. Do not dismiss such foes lightly."
"And that is all the more reason to join Robert," Catelyn insisted. "The King needs loyal friends. If you stand with him now, he will be grateful."
But Eddard's expression only darkened. There were truths he dared not speak aloud—not even to her. His unease had grown the moment he received that secret letter from Dragonstone.
"Stannis simply wrote that Jon Arryn likely died at the hands of the Lannisters," Eddard said quietly. "He said that Jon Arryn was investigating… an unusual connection between the Queen and her brother."
The words felt heavy on his tongue. Stannis Baratheon was not a man given to speculation. If Stannis hinted at corruption or treason, it meant he believed it firmly.
"Unusual?" Catelyn repeated softly, sensing danger in the vague word.
Eddard did not respond. Stannis's smuggler had hidden the letter inside a wine barrel brought to White Harbor. There had been no elaboration—only the grim hint that Jon Arryn had uncovered a dangerous truth, and that truth had cost him his life. Ned had not dared to guess aloud what that truth might be, but fear coiled tightly in his chest.
"Gods, Catelyn," he whispered. "Sansa is only eleven. And Joffrey… Joffrey…"
Catelyn cut in sharply, "He is the Crown Prince, Ned. The heir to the Iron Throne. I was only twelve when I was betrothed to Brandon."
The mention of Brandon sent a flicker of pain across Ned's face. Brandon's name always forged a shadow between them—Brandon the bold, Brandon the heir, Brandon who should have been Lord of Winterfell and father to a queen.
"Yes," Ned said bitterly. "Brandon would have known what to do. Brandon always had a plan. He was meant to inherit Winterfell, to stand beside you, to guide the North." He lowered his voice. "I was never meant to bear these burdens."
"The dead are dead," Catelyn replied, her voice firm but not unkind. "Brandon is gone. And whether you like it or not, the responsibility has passed to you."
Ned turned away, hiding his grief and uncertainty in the shadows. A silence settled between them, heavy and lingering. Catelyn longed to comfort him, but she also sensed how fragile he felt beneath his stoic exterior—how much the past still wounded him.
A sudden knock at the door shattered the tension.
Maester Luwin entered, bowing respectfully. He carried an intricately carved wooden box, and in his other hand, a sealed letter. The sight alone chilled the room more than the open windows ever could.
"My Lord," Luwin said, "I apologize for disturbing your rest. But someone has left me a message."
Eddard eyed the box. "A lens?" he asked, seeing the Myrish glass within. "What meaning is there in this?"
"At first, I wondered the same," Luwin said. "But clearly, the sender wished to convey something more."
Catelyn shivered. "A lens helps one see clearly. It reveals truth."
"Precisely," Luwin said, offering the letter. "And this was left alongside it."
Catelyn's heart clenched at the sight of the blue wax seal—House Arryn's moon-and-falcon sigil. Lysa's seal.
Ned's frown deepened further. "Open it," he ordered.
Catelyn broke the delicate seal. The moment she read the first lines, the blood drained from her face.
"This is a warning," she whispered, handing Ned the parchment.
Ned read quickly. His jaw clenched. "Lysa says Jon Arryn was murdered."
"Murdered by whom?" he asked, though dread already clouded his voice.
"House Lannister," Catelyn answered. "The Queen."
Ned's grip tightened around her arm, leaving red marks on her skin. "Your sister is wracked with grief," he said hoarsely. "She doesn't know what she's saying."
But even as he spoke, he knew the truth. Stannis's secret letter and Lysa's hidden warning pointed in the same direction. Two messages, from two different places, proclaiming the same danger. House Lannister's ambitions were far greater than mere political maneuvering.
Catelyn spoke gently. "Lysa is impulsive, yes, but this letter was carefully concealed. She would never risk sending such a dangerous message unless she believed the threat was real. If the wrong hands found it, she would be dead."
Maester Luwin nodded gravely. "My Lord, the office of the King's hand grants great authority. With it, you could investigate Jon Arryn's death. You could reveal the truth and protect Lady Lysa and young Lord Robert if need be."
Ned felt a loneliness deeper than anything he had known before. Two letters had sounded the same ominous horn, pushing him toward a battlefield more treacherous than any he had fought on. His wife watched him with expectation and fear, hoping he would find the courage to shield their family.
Catelyn stepped closer and spoke softly. "You have said you love Robert as a brother. Will you stand by while he is surrounded by Lannisters?"
Her words struck him harder than any blade.
The path ahead was dangerous—filled with vipers and shadows—but it was a path he could no longer refuse.
"It seems," Ned said at last, his voice tired and heavy, "that I have no choice but to leave Winterfell… to leave my home."
His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"My father went South only once in his life—when the King summoned him," Ned murmured, echoing the memories that haunted him. "He never returned."
And with those words, the bitter weight of fate settled upon him.
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