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The news of Robb Stark's crushing defeat, no matter how reluctant people were to believe it, no matter how many times it was denied or delayed, still found its way to Winterfell, the capital of the North.
The very moment Lady Catelyn Tully laid eyes on the message, she nearly fainted on the spot. If not for Maester Luwin standing right beside her and reaching out to steady her, she might have collapsed to the floor on the spot.
Catelyn's reaction was so extreme not only because of her worry for her son, but, more importantly — or rather, what made the situation far more dire in her eyes — was the fact that she understood all too clearly what this disastrous defeat meant for the North.
This was not the fertile, sun-drenched lands of the Reach, where crops flourished like weeds after spring rain. If one were to speak of average grain production per head, the North might not even compare favorably to Dorne, that barren, sun-scorched land of stone and sand.
That was why, the population had always been the stubborn bottleneck strangling the North's development. Even if they boasted a million people, spread thin across such vast, rugged territory, it was simply impossible to nurture any grand, resplendent civilization from such sparse roots.
And now, this battle… at least in Lady Catelyn Tully's eyes, if Clay Manderly had not lied in his letter, then the North had been dealt a wound so deep it cut to the bone. For the foreseeable future, there was simply no way they could muster an army of that scale ever again.
Clay had tried to downplay the severity of the situation in his letter, but Catelyn saw through it. She knew the truth. She trusted that Clay would never lie to her about something like this.
And when she thought of her eldest son — the heir of her late husband, Eddard Stark, now the King in the North — currently surrounded by twenty thousand Lannister soldiers at Harrenhal, his life hanging by a thread every passing moment…
Catelyn Tully felt the world spin around her. Regret gnawed at her heart. Why hadn't she tried harder to persuade Robb not to fight this war?
But there was no medicine for regret in this world. Whatever she said now, it was already far too late.
"Milady, I fear… we have no choice but to do as Lord Clay advises. After all… he has no men of his own. Only if we place all our strength in his hands does His Grace, Robb, stand even the faintest chance of coming back alive."
Maester Luwin's voice was soft within the Grand Keep of Winterfell, where he stood beside Catelyn Tully. She sat frozen by the hearth, clutching that letter in her trembling hands, staring into the flames without uttering a single word.
It was painfully clear to him that Lady Catelyn had completely run out of ideas. The terrible news had struck without warning, and though she had once been a noblewoman of high birth, though she now carried the title of Dowager Lady of the North, it made no difference.
For in the end, she was still just a woman. Once, her husband had shielded her from the storms of the world, bearing the heavy burdens of duty upon his shoulders. Now her son had grown and marched to war alone. And now… all the pillars that had once held her upright had crumbled, leaving this woman lost, unable to see the way forward.
At the sound of Maester Luwin's voice, it was as though Catelyn had suddenly grasped at a lifeline, some final thread of hope. She whipped her head around, eyes wide, her voice quivering with fear. The faint sound of stifled sobs tangled within her words as she asked in a trembling whisper,
"Maester Luwin… tell me… if I summon every last ounce of strength left in the North… if I hand it all over to Clay Manderly… will it be enough? Will he… will he be able to do it?"
Staring at the panic etched across Catelyn Tully's face, Maester Luwin could only shake his head softly. His voice carried a tired sigh, honest and heavy.
"I… I don't know, my lady… truly, I do not. No one can promise victory on the battlefield, not completely. But right now… Lord Clay is the best choice we have. In fact… he's the only choice."
"Besides him, I cannot think of another soul in the North who commands the trust and respect needed… the courage to ride south… to try and bring His Grace back alive."
Having spoken his piece, Maester Luwin stood there quietly, waiting patiently for Lady Catelyn's decision. As for the young lord who ruled Winterfell in name now, Bran Stark… the poor boy had recently fallen ill with some strange affliction. He spoke in riddles and muttered of odd, mystical things day and night. In his condition, he was in no state to fulfill the duties of a lord.
The firewood crackled softly in the hearth, the orange glow of the flames casting flickering shadows across the room. The faint, sharp snaps and pops of burning timber filled the silence.
A long time passed. Finally, Catelyn Tully straightened her back, the hesitation in her eyes giving way to a determined glint. She rose to her feet, meeting Maester Luwin's gaze, her voice low but steady.
"Do as he said, Maester Luwin," she ordered quietly. "Send ravens to every noble house of the North immediately. Tell them all to come to Winterfell… this time… it's a matter of life and death for the North."
Maester Luwin nodded, lowering his head slightly in acknowledgment. His voice, too, dropped to a quiet, solemn tone.
"I believe… the lords of the North who are still alive and breathing… will understand your meaning, my lady. I do not think they will let you down."
While they spoke, neither of them noticed the dark shape perched silently upon the windowsill — a raven, its feathers black as midnight, its sharp, yellowed eyes fixed intently upon everything unfolding within the chamber.
There was no emotion in those dark eyes, no judgment in its gaze. Its only duty was to observe… to record everything with its eyes.
And when Maester Luwin finally departed the chamber, the raven stirred its wings and lifted into the air, gliding soundlessly from the keep. It circled above Winterfell, its dark shape cutting across the grey skies, before soaring toward the heart tree — the largest and oldest weirwood in all the North. Without a sound, it vanished into the tangled white branches.
It settled quietly upon the highest bough, its yellowed eyelids drooping ever so slightly, as though at rest, yet its awareness never drifted.
Through the talons gripping the ancient branch, an unseen power pulsed faintly. It was not something the ordinary eye could perceive, yet it tethered the raven to the heart tree itself — linking flesh and wood in a communion that reached beyond the boundaries of this world.
A long silence followed.
Then, high above Winterfell, faint and distant, as though carried from beyond the veil of this world, a whisper stirred across the frozen air — a voice so soft, so ephemeral, it scarcely seemed to belong to this time or place.
"How interesting… It seems… the Chosen of the Foreign God isn't having much luck with his arrangements in the south… Do I… need to help him again?"
The voice sounded like idle musing, a quiet, mocking self-dialogue, for no living creature was present to respond.
"Forget it… better deal with this little one right in front of me first. As for you… Chosen of the Foreign God… do not go dying down south now… if that happens, R'hllor's power… might just become impossible to suppress…"
The voice faded into the night, vanishing as suddenly as it had come, as though it had never existed within this world at all.
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In this world, misfortunes rarely arrive one at a time. They always seem to come in waves, piling atop each other relentlessly.
When the raven sent by the maester of Dragonstone finally reached King's Landing, carrying its desperate message… Stannis Baratheon was extremely furious.
The ice-hard wall that had guarded his face for years cracked.
That stern, emotionless expression — as frozen and unyielding as Dragonstone's cliffs — finally shattered, replaced by a blazing, unrestrained fury that burned bright in his eyes.
The message from Dragonstone's maester spoke of pirates… pirates attacking Dragonstone.
But Stannis, cold and calculating as ever, knew exactly how ridiculous that claim was.
It wasn't the old maester's fault. The man had held on to life long enough to send his final raven, doing all he could. After all, the attackers hadn't worn the sigils of House Tarth, and the castle's defenders had passed along their reports in fragments and rumors, muddling the facts. By the time the message reached the maester's hands, all he'd heard was that pirates had come.
But Stannis Baratheon… former Lord Admiral of the Realm… former commander of King's Landing's royal fleet… knew better than anyone what pirates could and could not do.
Pirates of the Narrow Sea… they didn't have the guts to strike at Dragonstone.
And even if they did, pirates attacked for plunder, for coin, for treasure. But Dragonstone… barren, cold, unforgiving… produced nothing of value save for guano stones, prized only by farmers seeking to enrich their soil.
No pirate in his right mind would throw away his life battering himself against Dragonstone's walls for that.
Which was precisely why, the moment Stannis read the letter, he understood with cold certainty that this was no mere pirate raid. It was a calculated, carefully orchestrated attack — a strike carried out by nobles, planned well in advance.
And in the current state of things… only a handful of forces in Westeros had both the ships and the audacity to attempt such a thing.
Stannis knew of House Manderly of White Harbor commanded a fleet. But the Manderlys had never quarreled with him. On the contrary, the North was, at least for now, considered a half-ally… bound together by necessity, if not by trust. They had no reason to turn against him. No benefit to be gained from striking at Dragonstone.
With the Manderlys ruled out, that left only one possibility.
Across the entire eastern stretch of the Narrow Sea, only House Tarth commanded a small fleet of ships. A force so insignificant in Stannis's eyes, he had barely spared them a thought before.
But now… with this attack… the truth behind it all was as clear as day.
And it was that truth, more than anything, that fueled the rage boiling beneath Stannis Baratheon's stony expression.
Renly raising his banners against him, declaring war — that, at the end of the day, was a family quarrel. The Baratheon brothers turning on each other was a grim affair, but one Stannis had prepared for. He had pictured countless times what he would do if Renly ever knelt before him in surrender. Would he spare him? Would he punish him?
Time and again, Stannis had ground his teeth and cursed his treacherous brother aloud… but deep in his heart, he knew the truth.
He would never truly harm Renly.
That was his brother. Their eldest brother, Robert, was gone. It was his duty now to rein in this rebellious boy, even if the methods were harsh… even if the hand that did the disciplining was rough.
But today… Renly had dared to strike at his family. Selyse Florent… that woman… Stannis had little love for her. He felt no grief on her account.
But Shireen…
Shireen!
She was Renly's own niece. How… how could he bring himself to do it?
Stannis couldn't fathom it. What was Renly thinking? Was this supposed to force him into surrender?
Did Renly not understand his nature? The more he was cornered, the more impossible it became for him to yield. He would fight to the bitter end, even if it killed them both.
Yet while Stannis burned with fury, standing there locked in his silent rage, the Onion Knight — Davos Seaworth — after a long, careful silence, finally spoke in a quiet, heavy voice.
"Your Grace… if the princess… if something were to happen to her… who… would be your heir?"
Those few simple words… fell like icewater over Stannis's head.
It was as though he had been plunged into a frozen abyss, his body stiffening as the chilling weight of the truth settled over him.
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[Chapter End's]
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