Chapter 127: Ravens and Roads
The royal procession left King's Landing at dawn, but the morning had already soured.
Robert Baratheon sat tall on his great black destrier, warhammer strapped to the saddle, yet his face was dark with fury. Word had reached him just before the gates opened — Lysa Arryn and her son Robin had fled the city in secret during the night, slipping away without royal permission.
"That foolish woman," Robert growled loud enough for those nearby to hear. "She steals away like a thief in the night after her husband's death? I should have her dragged back in chains."
Jaime Lannister rode beside him, smirking faintly. "The Vale is loyal, Your Grace. She's probably just terrified after losing Jon Arryn."
"Terrified or not, she disobeyed her king," Robert snapped. "When we return from Winterfell, she'll answer for it."
The column stretched long behind them — thousands of soldiers, servants, wagons, and knights in Baratheon gold and black. Banners snapped proudly in the wind, but the king's mood had cast a shadow over the departure.
Earlier that same morning, long before the sun had fully risen, Lysa Arryn had indeed fled.
Wrapped in a plain travelling cloak, she clutched young Robin tightly as their small, unmarked party slipped through one of the lesser gates. Heavy bribes had silenced the guards. No royal escort. No announcement. Just a desperate mother and her son vanishing into the pre-dawn mist, riding hard toward the Mountains of the Moon and the safety of the Eyrie.
Lysa kept whispering to Robin, voice trembling. "We're going home, sweetling. Back to the Eyrie where it's safe. No one will take you from me. No one ever again."
The boy, still half-asleep, only nodded drowsily.
By the time Robert's grand procession began moving through the main gates, Lysa Arryn was already several miles away, fleeing south-east toward home.
On the Kingsroad, the royal party settled into the long journey north.
Robert's anger over Lysa gradually cooled into grim determination. He rode at the head of the column, cursing the saddle as always but pushing forward with purpose. Jaime Lannister stayed near him, offering dry commentary. Ser Barristan Selmy rode with quiet dignity, ever watchful.
Joffrey sulked in his saddle, complaining about leaving the comforts of the capital. Myrcella asked thoughtful questions about the North. Tommen was genuinely excited, chattering about snow and direwolves.
Robert looked north often, a faint smile eventually returning to his face.
"Wait for me, Ned," he muttered once, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "It's been too long."
Littlefinger and Varys had remained behind in King's Landing. Both men had made their excuses — pressing matters of coin and whispers required their presence in the capital. Robert had waved them off impatiently. The game continued in his absence, as it always did.
Far to the north, in Winterfell, the raven arrived on a cold, grey afternoon.
Maester Luwin brought the sealed letter to Ned's solar with unusual haste. The seal was royal — a crowned stag in black wax.
Ned broke it and read in silence. His face remained calm, but Catelyn, who knew him better than anyone, saw the tension settle into his shoulders.
"What is it?" she asked softly, setting down her sewing.
Ned looked up, grey eyes steady. "Robert is coming. He has named me Hand of the King."
The words hung heavy in the air.
That evening, the Stark family gathered for supper. The news spread quickly through the castle like wildfire.
Robb sat straighter than usual, pride and nervousness warring on his face. "Hand of the King… Father, that's an enormous honor. The realm itself calling for you."
Arya grinned wildly, practically bouncing in her seat. "We're going south? Finally! I want to see King's Landing and the Red Keep and everything!"
Bran looked excited. "Will we see real knights jousting? And the Iron Throne?"
Rickon bounced in his chair. "Can I bring Shaggydog? He'll scare everyone!"
Theon smirked from his place at the table. "The King himself coming to fetch you. Must be desperate indeed."
Ned raised a hand for silence. "We will discuss this properly. It is not a simple decision. The South is… complicated."
Sansa sat quietly, heart beating faster. South. The royal court. Beautiful dresses and songs and perhaps… stories of Jon. The White Wolf King. Her brother who had left Winterfell at six years old, already called a genius blessed by the gods. The thought made her cheeks warm.
Catelyn watched her husband carefully, worry clear in her eyes. "Ned… the South is dangerous. Especially now, with Jon Arryn gone. You know how these games are played."
"I know," Ned said quietly. "But Robert is my friend. If he calls, I must answer."
Later that night, long after the castle had grown quiet, Ned stood alone in the Godswood.
Snow fell gently around the ancient heart tree, its red leaves stark against the white. He placed one hand against its pale bark and stared north — not toward King's Landing, but toward the Wall and the vast, frozen lands beyond.
"Jon…" he whispered into the cold wind. "What have you built up there, my boy?"
The wind answered with silence.
Ned closed his eyes. Duty called him south to serve as Hand. But part of him wondered what storms his bastard son — the quiet, brilliant boy he had let leave Winterfell at six years old — was quietly raising in the kingdom of light and steel beyond the Wall.
One old man's death had set everything in motion.
And the North prepared to answer the King's call.
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Author's Note
Thank you everyone for reading and supporting my stories! ❤️
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🔥 Naruto: The God List Exposed My City
Some older readers may recognize this story. This is an old fanfiction of mine that I had stopped writing, but I have finally restarted it and will be taking it seriously again.
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