The ravens arrived before dawn.
They came from the west, black shapes against a sky still bruised with night. One circled the rookery tower before settling; the others followed, wings beating unevenly against the cold. A chill hung low over Greyhaven, rising from the river in thin, curling mist.
Lord Edric Halwain watched from the narrow window of his solar.
The candle on his table had burned down to a stub. Wax pooled thick at its base, hardened into uneven ridges. The air smelled faintly of smoke and damp stone.
Below, the town stirred. Smoke spiraled from hearths along the riverbank, curling toward the grey morning. The bells in the lower town tolled, slow and measured. Frost clung stubbornly to the furrows, silvering the soil where men had already begun work. The streets were quiet otherwise, the clatter of wooden carts muted by the early hour.
Nothing appeared amiss.
A knock at the door: measured, deliberate.
Maester Corvin entered without waiting. The scroll in his hand bore a broken seal.
Edric did not turn. "From the capital."
Corvin paused in the doorway. "Yes, my lord."
Edric crossed the room, took the parchment, and held it for a moment. His thumb rested along the edge where the wax had been. He set it beside the candle, then sat, breaking the cord only when he had settled.
He read without moving. The parchment bent slightly beneath his grip, and a draft from the window made the candle flame quiver.
When he finished, he folded the letter twice, aligning the corners, and tucked it out of the light.
"They've named a successor," Corvin said.
"Yes."
"Not of the king's blood."
"No."
"And not from the western houses."
Edric tapped the folded parchment once. "Stability," he said.
Corvin lowered his gaze.
Steel rang faintly from the yard below. Blades clashed against shields in a steady rhythm. Somewhere in the keep, laughter rose and fell, young and careless. Frost sparkled on the ramparts where the men trained, catching the pale light.
"Send for my children," Edric said. "All of them."
Corvin hesitated. "Lord Rowan as well?"
Edric's hand pressed flat on the table. "Especially Rowan."
By midday, they had gathered.
Rowan Halwain arrived last. Dust streaked his cloak; he made no move to brush it away. His bow was brief, incomplete, more gesture than courtesy.
Alina sat near the hearth, hands folded, her posture relaxed but alert. Her eyes swept the room constantly, missing nothing.
Tomas stood beside the table, feet set wide as if bracing for a blow. One hand flexed, fingers curling slightly, then stilled.
Edric closed the door himself.
"The king is dying," he said.
Rowan shifted his weight. Tomas drew a sharp breath. Alina did not move.
"When he dies," Edric continued, "the Crown will pass to a council."
Rowan's mouth curved faintly. "Councils bend."
"Yes," Edric said. "After enough pressure."
Alina lifted her gaze. "Who sits on it?"
"Men who have never crossed our river," Edric said. "Men who measure this land by ink and paper."
Tomas cleared his throat. "What do they ask of us?"
Edric pushed his chair back, leaning briefly on the table before straightening.
"We are to kneel."
Silence fell.
Rowan let out a short, sharp breath. "We won't."
Edric turned to him. "Refusal invites notice."
"To what?" Rowan asked.
Edric looked past him, to the fields beyond. Frosted furrows lay pale beneath the morning light, unguarded and quiet. "Movement," he said. "Sealed gates. Empty roads."
"And obedience?" Rowan pressed.
Edric met his son's gaze, then let it drop. His mouth opened, closed again, and he turned away.
That night, the wind pressed against Greyhaven's walls.
A ship entered the harbor, silent, without banners or lights. Dockhands noticed it only when ropes fell from its arms. No name was spoken. No audience requested.
A message moved from hand to hand and vanished.
Elsewhere, letters failed to reach their intended recipients.
In Greyhaven, Lord Edric Halwain stood at his window, palm pressed against the cold stone, listening as the yard emptied and the last echoes of training faded. The frost clung to every surface, indifferent to the choices yet to be made.