The heavy two-handed greatsword "Ice" fell for the final time, ending the life of the direwolf known as "Lady."
Eddard sheathed his sword numbly, the harsh scrape of metal echoing through the deathly still courtyard. The air was thick with the scent of blood and silent grief. His legs felt as heavy as lead as he dragged himself step by step toward the temporary chambers prepared for him within the castle.
The queen's beautiful face flashed in his mind, radiant with triumph, followed by Robert's silent retreat—his back turned, his eyes avoiding Eddard's. Exhaustion, fury, helplessness, and deep sorrow pressed down on him until he could scarcely breathe.
What had he left his beloved North for, coming to this southern land of lies and deceit?
He had agreed to take Catelyn, Sansa, and Arya south, thinking he was fulfilling his wife's wish and giving his daughters a chance at honor and glory. Yet fate seemed determined to mock him at every turn.
First, Bran fell from the tower, left in a deep and uncertain sleep between life and death. Then, here in the lands of House Darry, Arya had clashed fiercely with Joffrey.
Arya swore that it was Joffrey who attacked the poor butcher's boy, Mycah, first with his sword. When she stepped in to stop the prince's cruel behavior, she was met with retaliation. Her direwolf, Nymeria, had only bitten the prince's hand to protect her.
But the arrogant Joffrey twisted the story, accusing the butcher's boy and the "wildling girl" Arya of attacking him together. Faced with conflicting accounts, Queen Cersei revealed her madness and cold cruelty as a mother. She demanded that Lady, Sansa's direwolf, be executed as punishment.
And Robert… beneath Cersei's tears and pressure, had shamefully consented to that cruel, absurd judgment.
When Eddard returned to his cold, unfamiliar guest chamber, all he wanted was to collapse onto the bed and forget, if only for a moment, this torment that drained both heart and spirit.
But then came a knock at the door.
The guard, Jory Cassel, entered respectfully, ushering in a visitor.
The man was strikingly handsome, his chin clean-shaven, his lips curved in a pleasant smile that seemed warm as spring sunlight. He wore a finely tailored dark green velvet coat embroidered with intricate golden vines, and a delicate brooch fastened at the collar.
It was the king's younger brother, a member of the Small Council, and the Lord of Storm's End—Renly Baratheon.
Eddard's already furrowed brow deepened, his gray-blue eyes showing clear wariness and detachment. Just days earlier, Lord Renly had been among the party from King's Landing that greeted the king by the Trident.
Instinctively, Eddard kept his distance. Stannis's secret letter had named Renly the prime suspect in Jon Arryn's murder, and Eddard had no wish to engage with him. He only wanted to reach King's Landing and search for the truth.
Suppressing his distaste, he spoke with calm, cold restraint.
"Lord Renly? At this hour? What brings you here?"
Renly's smile brightened as he reached into his cloak and drew out a small, elegant golden pendant box, its lid engraved with a blooming rose.
"At this hour, my lord, I have a 'precious thing' that I thought our new Hand of the King might wish to see."
Eddard's suspicion deepened.
A thing?
He eyed the pendant warily, the golden rose glimmering temptingly in the candlelight.
Renly pressed a small mechanism with his thumb, and with a soft click, the lid sprang open. Inside was no jewel, but a miniature portrait painted on a thin ivory panel, crafted with Myr's finest artistry.
Eddard's gaze fell upon the maiden's face, and his pupils constricted sharply.
The girl in the portrait had gentle, doe-like eyes, soft brown hair that flowed down her shoulders, and a face both fair and graceful.
That face...
Renly's sharp eyes fixed on Eddard's, searching for even the slightest reaction.
He spoke lightly, his tone laced with deliberate suggestion.
"Lord Eddard, does this lady look at all familiar to you? Does she not resemble someone… you once knew?"
He lingered slightly on the last words.
Eddard frowned, his gaze resting briefly on the portrait before he shook his head with quiet finality. His voice was flat and unreadable.
"I'm afraid not, Lord Renly. I see no resemblance to any acquaintance of mine."
The perfect smile on Renly's face faltered for an instant, and a fleeting trace of disappointment flickered in his eyes.
He exhaled softly, as if steadying his emotions, before speaking again in a tone that was still light but no longer as eager as before.
"Lord Eddard, this is the jewel of Highgarden—Miss Margaery Tyrell."
He paused, his eyes sharpening as they locked on Eddard's face, delivering the real thrust.
"I've been told she bears a striking resemblance to your sister, Miss Lyanna Stark."
His gaze never wavered, watching Eddard intently for the slightest flicker of reaction.
At those words, Eddard's body stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Like Lyanna?
He studied the portrait again—the young woman's soft brown hair, her gentle, doe-like eyes, her refined, delicate beauty—and found the thought absurd.
Lyanna's beauty had been wild and untamed, like a winter rose blooming defiantly in the cold. She had carried the fierce spirit of the North, the freedom of a galloping horse, the fire of a storm barely contained beneath her calm surface.
The girl in the portrait, Margaery Tyrell, was indeed beautiful—but she was a carefully cultivated summer rose, docile and exquisite, carrying the warm sweetness of The Reach's sun and honey.
The two could not have been more different.
He shrugged slightly and shook his head.
"I'm afraid whoever told you that must have been mistaken. Lyanna doesn't look like that."
The last trace of forced cheer drained from Renly's face.
He was silent for a moment, then smiled again, smooth and unruffled, as though his brief disappointment had never existed.
"I see. Then I was misinformed. My apologies for disturbing you, Lord Hand. Sleep well."
He bowed with polished grace, turned, and left the room.
Eddard stood by the door, his brow furrowed, watching Renly's figure fade into the dim light of the corridor. Unease filled his heart—a deep wariness toward this calculating brother of the king.
He shut the door and leaned his back against the cold wooden panel, trying to make sense of Renly's sudden visit.
Then, all at once, a realization struck him.
At Tyrosh, Stannis had personally told him that Renly intended to ally with House Tyrell, depose Cersei, and have Robert wed Margaery Tyrell as the new queen.
And Robert—the man who had loved and mourned Lyanna all his life—was still haunted by her memory.
That was why Renly had shown him Margaery's portrait and asked if she resembled Lyanna.
Renly was testing him—trying to gauge whether Robert might be swayed by that faint resemblance, whether the ghost of Lyanna could be used to move his heart once more.
He planned to exploit Robert's obsession with Lyanna as leverage for his scheme to replace the queen.
All the clues fit together in an instant, forming a single, seamless chain of logic.
Stannis had not deceived him. Renly's plan to replace Cersei was real.
A chill crept up Eddard's spine.
When he had first read Stannis's secret letter accusing Renly of Jon Arryn's murder, he had doubted, keeping cautious reserve.
But now, after this encounter, he could almost be certain—Renly Baratheon was the true culprit.
A powerful impulse surged within him. He nearly wanted to storm into Robert's chambers that very moment and expose the whole vile conspiracy—the betrayal, the brother's ambition, the murder of a loyal Hand—to that man who drowned himself daily in wine and pleasure.
But reason caught him by the throat.
Evidence.
Everything depended on evidence.
To accuse the king's own brother—a powerful lord and member of the Small Council—based only on Stannis's secret letter and his own deductions?
That would be madness. It would only alert the enemy and invite ruin upon himself.
No, the clues... the proof... they could only be found in King's Landing.
Eddard's expression hardened with resolve.
This journey south was not only for Sansa's betrothal or for Catelyn's hopes—it was for Jon Arryn's justice.
He exhaled deeply, as though forcing the weight of anger and grief from his chest.
If only Stannis had not already left King's Landing for Dragonstone... He would have sought him out for a private talk, to share what they knew and plan their next move together.
But Stannis's choice to reach out in secret only confirmed how dangerous this truly was—how deep the conspiracy ran. Any open contact would mean certain death.
Eddard could not know that far to the north, while he struggled with weariness in the South, the winds over Winterfell had turned ominous once more.
Lady Catelyn, the steadfast mistress of Winterfell, driven by grief and fury over Bran's attack, had already made a bold decision.
She would sail from White Harbor in secret, accompanied by her loyal master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, to travel to King's Landing and tell Eddard herself of the attempt on their son's life.
...
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