Chapter 3: The Investigation Begins
POV: Ned Stark
Three days after Robert's departure, Winterfell buzzed with preparation and investigation. Ned spread documents and letters across his desk like battle maps—Lysa's warning, reports from his household guard, fragments of intelligence that painted an increasingly dark picture. Jon and Robb stood on either side of his chair, learning their first lesson in the real game of thrones.
Information is as deadly as any sword.
"Read this again," Ned said, sliding Lysa's letter toward Jon. "Tell me what you see that I might have missed."
Jon's grey eyes—so much like Lyanna's—scanned the parchment with the careful attention he brought to everything. "She's terrified. The writing is shaky, words crossed out and rewritten. She mentions Jon Arryn's last words: 'The seed is strong.'"
"What could that mean?" Robb asked.
Ned exchanged a glance with Jon. His newly legitimized son's strategic mind was already working, drawing connections that others might miss.
"Seeds grow into what they were meant to be," Jon said slowly. "Strong seeds produce strong offspring. Weak seeds..."
"Produce weaklings," Robb finished. "But what does that have to do with Lord Arryn's death?"
A soft knock interrupted them. Maester Luwin entered, his grey robes rustling, a heavy tome clutched against his chest.
"My lord, you asked me to investigate Lord Arryn's recent reading habits. I sent ravens to contacts in King's Landing. This arrived an hour ago."
He set the book on the desk—The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. The leather binding was worn, pages marked with numerous slips of parchment.
"According to Maester Coleman at the Red Keep, Lord Arryn spent his final weeks absorbed in this particular volume. Especially the sections dealing with House Baratheon."
Ned felt ice form in his stomach. He opened the book to where a bookmark protruded, revealing page after page of Baratheon genealogy. Every entry noted the same detail: black hair, black eyes, the strength of their bloodline running true for three hundred years.
"Gods," Robb breathed, understanding dawning on his face. "The royal children..."
"Have golden hair and green eyes," Jon finished quietly. "Like their mother."
Like their true father.
"This proves nothing," Ned said carefully, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "Suspicion isn't evidence."
"But it explains why someone might want Lord Arryn dead," Jon observed. "If he suspected the truth about Prince Joffrey's parentage..."
"Then half the kingdom would rise in rebellion," Robb said. "A bastard on the Iron Throne? The succession crisis alone would destroy the realm."
Ned closed the book with deliberate calm. "Which is why we must be absolutely certain before we act on any of this. Jory!"
His captain of guards entered immediately, as if he'd been waiting just outside.
"My lord?"
"I need you to lead a small team south. Pose as merchants trading Northern goods. Your real mission is to investigate Lord Arryn's final days. Speak to servants, guards, anyone who might have seen or heard something useful. But be discrete—your lives depend on it."
Jory nodded grimly. "How long should we plan to be gone?"
"As long as it takes to find the truth. But Jory..." Ned's voice carried a weight that made the captain straighten. "If this investigation leads where I think it might, you'll be walking into a nest of vipers who've already killed once to protect their secrets."
"Then we'll be very careful vipers ourselves, my lord."
Jon leaned forward. "Father, shouldn't we also investigate who benefits from Lord Arryn's death? Who becomes Hand in his place?"
Sharp. Always thinking three moves ahead.
"Robert appointed his brother Renly. Charming boy, well-liked at court, but young and inexperienced. Hardly the choice of a king thinking clearly."
"Which suggests Robert's judgment is compromised," Jon said. "By grief, drink, or manipulation."
"All three, most likely." Ned began drafting a letter, his quill scratching across parchment. "I'm writing to Stannis Baratheon. If anyone can see through court intrigue and act on hard evidence, it's Robert's elder brother."
"Is that wise?" Robb asked. "If our suspicions are wrong—"
"Then we apologize for wasting his time. If they're right..." Ned sealed the letter with his personal signet. "Then we may have found the only ally capable of stopping a war."
Maester Luwin gathered the book and letter. "I'll send this by raven immediately. Though my lord, may I suggest we also begin preparing more... practical measures?"
"Such as?"
"Messages to our bannermen. Subtle inquiries about their winter preparations. Nothing that would seem unusual, but enough to gauge their readiness should we need to call upon them quickly."
Ned nodded approvingly. "Do it. But frame everything as winter preparations and border security. No mention of southern politics."
As Luwin departed, Ned turned back to his sons. The weight of what they were discussing—potential civil war, the legitimacy of the crown, treason trials that could reshape the Seven Kingdoms—pressed down on him like a physical burden.
"This conversation never leaves this room," he said quietly. "Not until we have proof absolute."
Both young men nodded solemnly. Then Catelyn's scream echoed through the castle like a blade through flesh.
They ran through corridors suddenly filled with shouting voices and running feet. The scream had come from the direction of the broken tower—that ancient, unused structure that had stood empty since before Ned's father was born.
A crowd had gathered in the courtyard below, faces upturned toward the tower's highest window. And there, impossibly far below on the hard-packed earth, lay Bran Stark.
Catelyn knelt beside their son's broken body, her hands fluttering helplessly above injuries too severe to comprehend. Blood pooled beneath Bran's head, and his left leg twisted at an angle that made Ned's stomach lurch.
Too far. The fall is too far. No one survives that.
But Bran's chest rose and fell with shallow, labored breaths.
"Get him to his chambers!" Maester Luwin commanded, arriving with his leather bag of medical instruments. "Carefully! Support his head and spine!"
As guards gently lifted the broken boy, Ned found himself staring up at the tower window. Something pale caught the morning light—blonde hairs clinging to the rough stone where someone had gripped the edge.
Jon appeared at his elbow, Ghost padding silently behind him. The direwolf's red eyes fixed on the tower with predatory intensity.
"We need to examine that room," Jon said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before anyone else thinks to look."
Ned nodded grimly. "Robb, go with your mother and Bran. Jon, with me."
The broken tower's stairs were treacherous—worn smooth by age, some steps cracked or missing entirely. They climbed in tense silence, Ghost's claws clicking on stone. The sound echoed strangely in the enclosed space, as if the tower itself were holding its breath.
The room at the top showed clear signs of recent use. Dust had been disturbed, revealing the outline of two figures standing close together. A wine cup sat on the windowsill, still containing dregs of Dornish red. And there, glinting in a crack between stones, was a golden hair pin bearing the roaring lion of House Lannister.
"Cersei," Ned breathed.
Jon crouched beside the window, examining the stone ledge. "The scratches here are fresh. Someone gripped this edge hard enough to leave marks." He looked up at his father. "Bran saw something he shouldn't have."
And they tried to kill him for it.
Rage filled Ned's chest like molten iron. Not just anger at the attempt on his son's life, but fury at his own blindness. He'd allowed the Lannisters into his home, trusted in guest right and ancient customs, and they'd repaid his hospitality with attempted murder.
"We should confront them," Jon said, his young voice tight with controlled anger. "Present this evidence—"
"No." The word came out harsher than Ned intended. "We have suspicions, not proof. A hair pin could belong to any Lannister. The wine could have been left by servants. Without witnesses, without absolute certainty, accusations will only put our entire family at risk."
Jon's jaw worked as he fought down his own desire for immediate justice. "Then what do we do?"
"We gather proof. We build a case so airtight that not even the queen herself could deny it. And we prepare for war, because when we finally move against them, they'll have no choice but to strike back with everything they have."
Ghost's low growl echoed off the stone walls. Through the window, they could see the Lannister party preparing for departure—crimson banners and golden lions, Cersei herself mounted on a white mare, her children beside her, all of them preparing to ride south as if nothing had happened.
As if they hadn't just tried to murder a ten-year-old boy.
"Help me search the room thoroughly," Ned commanded. "Every corner, every stone. If there's more evidence to be found, we'll find it."
They spent another hour examining every inch of the chamber, but found nothing else conclusive. When they finally descended the tower, Ned's mind was already working through implications and possibilities.
If they tried to kill Bran to silence him, what else are they capable of? How far does this conspiracy reach?
Bran's chamber had become a place of whispered prayers and muffled weeping. Maester Luwin worked with grim efficiency, splinting the boy's shattered legs, cleaning his wounds, monitoring his shallow breathing. Catelyn sat beside the bed like a statue carved from grief, her hand resting gently on Bran's forehead.
"Will he live?" Ned asked quietly.
Luwin straightened, his face grave. "The fall should have killed him instantly. That he survived the impact at all is... miraculous. His legs are destroyed—he'll never walk again if he lives. His spine is damaged. There may be injury to his brain as well."
"But he will live?"
"I don't know, my lord. The next few days will tell us everything."
Ned moved to stand beside his wife, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him with eyes red from weeping.
"He was climbing again, wasn't he?" she whispered. "I told him so many times to stop climbing. He promised me he'd be careful."
He was careful. That's not why he fell.
But Ned couldn't tell her that. Not yet. Not without proof that would stand up to royal scrutiny.
"Children climb, Cat. It's what they do. This was an accident."
The lie tasted like ash in his mouth.
As evening fell, strange things began to happen. Summer, Bran's direwolf pup, padded into the chamber and settled across the boy's chest, whimpering softly. Bran's eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids, and his lips began to move, muttering words too soft to understand.
Jon stood watch with Ghost, the white direwolf's red eyes fixed on Bran with uncanny intelligence, as if the animal could see something humans could not. When Ned approached, Ghost turned those crimson eyes on him and whined—a sound of distress that raised the hair on his arms.
"What is it, boy?" he asked softly.
Ghost's response was to pad closer to Bran's bed and settle beside Summer, both direwolves now flanking the broken boy like guardians.
Maester Luwin noticed their behavior, making careful notes in his journal. "Animals often sense things we cannot," he observed. "In the Citadel, we studied cases where loyal hounds refused to leave their masters' sides before death. But this..." He gestured at the direwolves' protective stance. "This feels different. Almost like they're keeping vigil, waiting for something."
Or protecting him from something.
As if summoned by the thought, Ser Rodrik appeared in the doorway.
"My lord, the Lannister party is preparing for departure. The queen has requested a formal farewell."
Ned felt his jaw clench. The woman who'd likely tried to murder his son wanted to exchange pleasantries before leaving his home.
"Tell Her Grace I'll join her shortly."
When Rodrik departed, Jon moved closer to his father.
"Are you certain you want to face her? Knowing what we suspect?"
"I need to see her eyes when I bid her farewell. Sometimes the guilty reveal themselves without realizing it."
"And if she doesn't?"
Ned looked down at his broken son, surrounded by protective direwolves, muttering prophecies in his fevered sleep.
"Then we continue gathering evidence until we can destroy her completely."
The farewell took place in Winterfell's courtyard, formal and cold as the northern air. Cersei sat her white mare with regal bearing, her golden hair catching torchlight, her green eyes scanning the assembled household with practiced royal disdain.
"Lord Stark," she said with a smile that never reached those cold eyes. "Thank you for your hospitality. I do hope the boy recovers quickly from his... accident."
The word dripped with false sympathy. Ned studied her face, searching for any crack in that perfect royal mask, any sign of guilt or fear.
He found nothing. Either Cersei Lannister was entirely innocent, or she was the most accomplished actress in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Bran is strong," Ned replied carefully. "He'll recover."
"Of course. Children are so resilient, aren't they? They bounce back from the most terrible falls."
The words could be interpreted as innocent concern. But something in her tone, some subtle emphasis on 'terrible falls,' made Ned's blood run cold.
She's mocking us. Mocking the fact that she knows we suspect but cannot prove anything.
Prince Joffrey sat his horse beside his mother, golden-haired and green-eyed, already showing signs of the cruelty that would mark his reign. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen flanked them, both beautiful children who bore no resemblance whatsoever to their supposed father.
The seed is strong. Jon Arryn's final words echoed in Ned's mind as he looked at the royal children. But not Baratheon seed.
"Give my regards to His Grace," Ned managed. "Tell him the North remembers his visit fondly."
"I shall." Cersei's smile sharpened. "And Lord Stark? Do give my sympathies to your lady wife. Accidents in the home can be so... traumatic for mothers."
With that parting shot, she spurred her horse forward, leading her party through Winterfell's gates and out into the gathering dusk. Ned watched them go with Jon and Robb beside him, and the unspoken truth hung between them like a blade.
"This is how the game is played," he told his sons quietly, once the Lannister party had disappeared into the distance. "Not with swords, but with truth carefully gathered until it becomes undeniable. They know we suspect. We know they're guilty. Now we have to prove it before they can act again."
Above them, ravens circled in the darkening sky like harbingers of the storm to come.
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