The port of King's Landing reeked of mud and salted fish carried by the sea breeze.
Lord Eddard Stark, weary and drawn, was bidding his final farewell to the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn. The long voyage to Tyrosh had been a draining nightmare. He had spent nearly half a year there—departing in 294 AC and returning with half of 295 already gone.
On his first day back in King's Landing, Eddard received a letter from Maester Luwin, sent half a month earlier. Luwin wrote that Catelyn was in good health but nearing her time, and urged him to return to the North before the birth. The message made Eddard's heart soar across mountains and rivers, all the way to the gray stone halls of his home in the North.
Eager to conclude his duties, he went to report to King Robert about the truce and the disposition of the noble prisoners. Yet Robert seemed distracted—until Eddard mentioned the fate of the Targaryen siblings.
When he learned that Eddard had spared them, Robert's fury exploded. He slammed his fist on the table, cursing with words Eddard had never heard from him before, accusing him of betrayal and weakness.
Eddard endured the outburst in silence, his heart heavy with sorrow. He knew that his bond with Robert ran deep, forged in war and friendship stronger than steel. But even so, this wasn't the first time they had clashed. Years ago, when Tywin Lannister allowed the Mountain to butcher Princess Elia Martell and her children, Eddard had called it monstrous. Robert, however, insisted that their deaths were justice.
That disagreement had driven Eddard to leave King's Landing in anger, marching alone to Storm's End to support Stannis.
And now, once again, they stood divided—honor and hatred tearing them apart. Eddard held to honor, believing that even the descendants of those who murdered his father and brother deserved mercy. Robert only sneered, mocking his honor as "the soft-heartedness of a woman who drank too much wolf's milk."
Eddard could no longer bear the argument. He had no wish to stay another moment. The northern lords had already spent too long in Tyrosh's damp, dark dungeons, and their hearts ached for home.
By dawn the next day, he boarded the ships bound for the North, bringing with him all the freed northern lords.
On the eve of departure, he asked Grand Maester Pycelle to send ravens to Winterfell—to reassure Catelyn and the children of his safety, and to inform the northern houses that their captured lords were returning home.
When he reached the part of the letter concerning Domeric's death in foreign lands, Eddard hesitated. He didn't know how Roose Bolton would take the news. But what was done could not be undone. In the end, he could only record the grim truth plainly, without comfort or embellishment.
At the docks, the northern lords stood silently behind him. Eddard turned to Jon Arryn, hesitated, and asked, "Lord Hand... Lord Stannis... did he not come?"
He had expected Stannis to see him off—perhaps to say a few parting words.
Jon Arryn's sharp, wise eyes studied him. "Ned, is there something you wish to say?"
He had noticed the hesitation in Eddard's tone.
Eddard opened his mouth, and for a moment, Stannis's warning about Renly's reckless plan almost slipped out. But he forced himself to swallow the words.
Stannis was still in King's Landing. Surely, he was already acting. Perhaps his absence meant he was trying to talk Renly out of that foolish idea.
If Renly abandoned his ambitions, the two great powers—the Tyrells and the Lannisters—would not clash head-on, and the realm might yet hold together.
If Eddard brought the matter to the Hand now, it could disrupt Stannis's efforts—or even place him in danger.
Stannis was stern, unyielding, a man bound by law and duty. He would know what must be done.
Eddard comforted himself with the thought, forcing a small smile.
"No, nothing, Lord Hand. Just saying farewell. I must return to Winterfell."
Jon Arryn nodded, a gentle smile softening his features. "Ned, after Catelyn delivers, remember to send a raven with the good news as soon as you can."
"I will, Lord Hand."
Eddard gave his solemn promise, then turned and stepped onto the swaying deck. The sails unfurled, ropes were released, and the ship drifted slowly away from the foul-smelling harbor of King's Landing, heavy with intrigue and decay.
The voyage north was calm—eerily so, almost suffocating in its stillness. Following the coastline, the ship sailed for half a month before finally anchoring beneath the gray walls of White Harbor.
Eddard politely declined Lord Manderly's lavish feast and urged his men to continue the journey without delay. When at last the familiar, ancient silhouette of Winterfell appeared on the horizon, more than a month had passed since he'd left King's Landing.
The biting northern wind rushed to greet him like an old friend, carrying the sharp scent of pine, frost, and home. He drew in a deep breath; the cold air stung his nostrils but brought with it a piercing, almost painful clarity.
He rode through the town of Winterfell and passed beneath the great southern gate. But as his horse's hooves struck the training yard beside the main keep, he was not met by the warm sight of his wife and children. Instead, he found Steward Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin, and Ser Rodrik Cassel waiting, their faces grave and heavy as iron.
A sudden chill seized his heart at the absence of his family.
He nearly fell from his horse, his voice trembling before he even realized it. "Catelyn?! Did she... deliver? The child—are they both well?"
Vayon Poole and Maester Luwin exchanged a somber glance.
At last, the old maester stepped forward, his voice low and full of sorrow. "My lord... the lady... suffered a miscarriage yesterday. She's resting now, with the children by her side."
Eddard felt as though the ground beneath him had given way, an icy void swallowing him whole.
He stumbled into the keep, rushing down the familiar corridors toward Catelyn's chambers.
When he pushed open the door, the sight that met him tore through his heart.
Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Bran stood gathered around the bed, their faces pale with grief and confusion. Catelyn lay among thick furs, her skin as white as snow, her lips drained of all color.
At the sight of her husband, tears welled in her dry eyes, spilling down her thin cheeks in great, trembling drops.
"Ned... you're finally... back..."
Her voice was weak, barely more than a whisper.
Eddard's tears broke free, hot drops falling onto her cold, fragile hand. He knelt beside her bed, took her hand in both of his, and pressed it to his weathered face.
"Catelyn... I'm sorry... I came back too late... far too late..."
His voice cracked, thick with anguish.
Catelyn shook her head weakly, tears soaking into the pillow beneath her.
"No, Ned... it's enough that you're back... I thought I'd never see you again... You were in the south... for so long... I was so afraid...."
She drew a shallow, trembling breath, her eyes filled with unbearable pain and loss.
"Do you know... I had already chosen a name for this child... If it were a boy... he would be called Rickon...."
Unable to bear it any longer, Catelyn broke down completely, her body shaking with sobs as grief overwhelmed her.
At that moment, Maester Luwin entered quietly, his face heavy with concern.
"My lord, the lady is extremely weak and requires absolute rest..."
Eddard jolted upright, forcing down the turmoil twisting inside him. He leaned down and pressed a kiss filled with remorse and tenderness onto Catelyn's hand.
"My lady, rest well. I'll be right outside."
He rose to his feet, gave Robb's tense shoulder a firm pat, then kissed Sansa, Arya, and Bran each on the forehead before gently leading the children out of the room.
When the door closed softly behind them, muffling the sound of Catelyn's restrained sobs, Maester Luwin led Eddard across the covered walkway toward the armory. A bitter wind howled through the stone windows, cutting straight to the bone.
The maester's voice was low, barely above a whisper. "My lord, I examined the food remnants the lady consumed. She was poisoned."
Eddard froze, every muscle in his body tightening. A surge of furious heat shot up through him, and his eyes burned red.
"Who?! Have you found who did this?!"
Maester Luwin shook his head heavily, his face etched with frustration and guilt. "The poisoner was exceptionally cunning—nearly all traces have been erased. The lady consumed food laced with venom and suffered a sudden hemorrhage yesterday. If not for her strong constitution and unyielding will, she might not have..."
He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.
Eddard's fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.
Whatever it took, he would find the one responsible.
Just then, from the corner of his eye, Eddard noticed a solitary figure at the edge of the training yard.
Jon Snow sat alone on the cold stone steps, his back turned to the keep, his thin shoulders trembling slightly—as though the weight of the entire world pressed down upon him.
"Jon..."
Eddard's heart sank.
Maester Luwin sighed deeply, his face filled with quiet sorrow. "The lady has been shattered by the loss, my lord. Her grief has made her cruel. When Jon went to see her, she... she drove him out."
He hesitated, reluctant to say more.
Eddard's voice turned cold. "Speak, Maester Luwin."
The maester lowered his gaze. "The lady lost control of herself... She... she screamed at Jon, accusing him of poisoning her, of killing her unborn child."
Eddard felt his throat tighten, a bitter ache rising within him until it was hard to breathe.
Because of his promise to Lyanna, Jon had been brought to Winterfell as his "bastard son," a wound that had never healed in Catelyn's heart. She had never hidden her coldness or resentment toward the boy, seeing him as a shadow over her children's inheritance.
Now, stricken with grief, all that long-suppressed bitterness had erupted at once.
Eddard looked toward the corner where the boy sat—young, alone, and condemned by those who should have loved him most. Then he turned his gaze to the closed door behind him, and finally out toward the leaden northern sky beyond the window, stretching endlessly into the cold.
He had finally returned to Winterfell, the home that haunted his dreams.
But what awaited him here was a chill deeper than any southern intrigue and a pain harsher than any storm at sea.
The winter wind had never cut so deep.