Disputed Lands, Central Highlands.
From the rough tower atop the rammed-earth fortress, Lo Quen's gaze cut through the thin mist and fixed upon the walls of the Myr stronghold. Now, along with the Myr garrison's banners, the emblems of various mercenary Companies fluttered there—burning red flags, heavy black iron shields, a raven pierced by four arrows, and a broken sword.
Scouts had reported that the mercenary Companies hired by Myr had arrived at the highland fortress. Tens of thousands of sellswords crowded the stronghold, casting a grim and suffocating tension over the entire Central Highlands.
Lo Quen brushed his fingers across the rough, sandy edge of the wall. His eyes swept over the opposite fortress—the newly reinforced wooden towers, the layered earthen walls, and the deep trenches. The enemy's defenses were formidable.
How could he break through Myr's ironclad line?
Lo Quen's mind raced, weighing every possible stratagem to shatter the stalemate.
Just then, a faint creak echoed from below—the sound of wood straining under light footsteps. Chai Yiq's lithe figure ascended the crude wooden ladder fixed to the outer planks, emerging onto the platform atop the tower. She handed Lo Quen a scroll sealed with dark wax.
"Your Grace, from Tyrosh—an urgent dispatch from Lord Meizo."
Lo Quen's eyes flickered in surprise. A letter from Meizo? At this moment? Could it be news from King's Landing?
He quickly took the scroll, broke the seal, and scanned the familiar ciphered lines. A faint smile surfaced on his otherwise calm face.
Jon Arryn was dead.
It had been barely a month or two since Eddard Stark and Stannis Baratheon had departed from Tyrosh. The Great Lord of the Eyrie—the Hand of the King who held sway over the Seven Kingdoms—had, as Lo Quen foresaw, finally met the end woven for him by fate.
That night, when Lo Quen had assumed Eddard's form, he had entrusted Stannis with the shocking secret of Robert's children's true bloodline. Upon his return to King's Landing, Stannis would surely, as in the tale he remembered, begin investigating alongside the Hand, Jon Arryn.
Jon Arryn, ever the dutiful Hand, would likely reopen that long-forgotten tome, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, and uncover the truth that would drive the realm's lords to madness.
Robert's three children bore no Baratheon blood—they were Lannister bastards.
In his letter, Meizo mentioned Jon Arryn's dying cry: "The seed is strong."
Everything matched Lo Quen's memories.
He drew a deep breath. With Jon Arryn dead, Eddard's journey south was already set in motion. It was time for him to act again—to weave his hand into the game of thrones.
"Bring me paper and ink. I must reply to Meizo at once."
Lo Quen turned to Chai Yiq, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
...
The North, Winterfell.
The bitter north wind whistled and moaned through the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. Eddard Stark stood alone on the covered bridge connecting the main keep to the armory.
From the training grounds below came the clear, ringing laughter of children at play. Robb patiently coached Bran in wooden sword practice while Arya darted about like a nimble fawn, and Bran stumbled clumsily in pursuit. Watching the long-missed, bright smiles return to the children's faces, a heavy, lingering shadow weighed upon the depths of Eddard's grey-blue eyes.
Under Maester Luwin's careful care, Catelyn's body had gradually regained some strength, and life seemed to return to a semblance of calm. Yet this fragile peace had not yet fully soothed the wounds when a messenger raven from King's Landing delivered another crushing blow.
News of Jon Arryn's death.
Eddard had forced himself to accept the brutal reality of his wife's miscarriage and the loss of their unborn child, locking his grief deep within a fortress of stoic silence. His heart was painfully settling into a numb calm. But this dreadful news struck once more at the raw wound in his heart.
Jon Arryn was not merely the Hand of the King. In Eddard's youth, Jon had sheltered him and Robert as their foster father. After Eddard's father, Lord Rickard, and his elder brother, Brandon, were brutally murdered by the Mad King, Aerys II, the king demanded Jon Arryn hand over Eddard and Robert. Jon refused and raised the banner of rebellion.
That debt of gratitude and filial devotion remained unforgettable to Eddard, who regarded Jon as his own father. Now, this mountain of reliability had suddenly collapsed. Eddard felt as though a great pillar supporting his world had shattered.
A dull ache of grief and helplessness seized him. Bad news followed relentlessly, threatening to crush him.
Maester Luwin appeared at the end of the bridge, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak. His voice was gentle.
"My lord, His Grace's vast army is expected to reach Winterfell within days. Regarding the arrangements for their reception..."
Eddard turned wearily, his weathered face etched with exhaustion.
Yes, Robert. His bold and unrestrained kinsman, the king whose every journey resembled a mobile court. Retainers, knights, servants, minstrels—half the realm followed him in a vast procession...
As the king's northern resting place, Winterfell must prepare a reception and provisions befitting his stature. Yet, utterly drained, he was unwilling to burden Catelyn—whose health had only just begun to improve—with these tedious arrangements.
"Let Vayon Poole handle it. He knows the castle's affairs. He should... manage."
Eddard's voice was low and hoarse.
A look of unmistakable awkwardness flashed across Maester Luwin's face. He stepped forward, his voice hushed even lower.
"My lord... the lady... she... this morning gave orders that she herself would oversee all welcoming arrangements."
Eddard's eyes snapped up, his gray gaze filled with shock and worry.
"Catelyn? Her health simply cannot endure such exertion..."
Maester Luwin nodded gravely.
"Yes, my lord. Since... that incident, the lady has become... exceedingly restless. She has lost patience with many matters, yet stubbornly insists on overseeing this grand welcoming ceremony. Her purpose... can only be one."
He paused, his meaning clear.
Eddard's heart sank. He understood.
Jon Snow. His nominal bastard son.
Even in her weakest, most delirious moments, Catelyn had never ceased pouring out her suspicions and resentment toward Jon. She was convinced Jon had murdered their child through unspeakable means.
Eddard knew this was nothing but Catelyn's unfounded delusion, born from immense trauma. Yet he dared not reproach her, offering only hollow words of comfort time and again.
He was consumed by crushing guilt over Catelyn's miscarriage, convinced his absence had failed her as a husband and Warden, leading to the tragedy. Yet his remorse did nothing to soothe her pain. Instead, it poured fuel on the fire, fanning the flames of her paranoia and resentment into an even fiercer inferno.
...
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