CATELYN
The messenger came at dawn, as they always did—gray wings cutting the sky, their cries echoing against the towers of Winterfell like omens no one wanted to name. This one came from the Eyrie, with black feathers glossy with mountain frost. It bore a seal Catelyn hadn't seen since girlhood.
She held the scroll in both hands, her eyes fixed on the wax pressed with the moon-and-falcon sigil. Not the formal imprint of House Arryn, but something smaller. Familiar. Personal.
A private seal.
She broke it with her thumb.
Inside, Lysa's hand slanted across the page in a cipher only the two of them knew, their childhood code stitched from flower names, weather terms, and nonsense rhymes. Catelyn read it twice. Then, a third time. Her knuckles whitened around the parchment.
Jon had not died of sickness. He had been murdered.
By the Lannisters.
She found Ned in the solar. The light was thin this early, and his face was still shadowed with sleep when he looked up from the hearth. But when she handed him the letter, all traces of rest vanished from his expression.
He read it in silence, lips tightening, jaw set.
"This is madness," he said finally.
"She wouldn't have written it unless she believed it. She took the risk sending that message."
"Belief is not proof."
"No," Catelyn agreed. "But it's warning. And we ignore it at our peril."
Outside, a direwolf howled—low and mournful from somewhere in the godswood. Neither of them moved.
Maester Luwin stood nearby in the shadows, summoned quickly when she brought the letter. He stepped forward now, folding his hands into his sleeves.
"If there is truth to it," the old man said gently, "then a Hand of the King has the power to protect Lady Arryn. Power enough to act, if necessary."
Ned looked again at the page, then set it down with careful precision. "Jon was my friend. If what she says is true…"
"Then Robert is in danger," Catelyn finished.
Ned's fingers drummed once on the arm of the chair. "He asked me yesterday. To be his Hand."
Catelyn closed her eyes briefly. "And you said?"
"That I needed time."
"Then hear me now, Ned. You must go. You always said he was your friend."
He looked at her sharply.
"You must go," she repeated. "South. To protect the king, and to learn the truth of what happened. If Jon was murdered, you are the only man Robert will trust to uncover it."
"I have a duty here. To the North. To Winterfell. To our children."
"Your duty is to the realm," Catelyn said quietly. "And the realm may be in danger."
Ned rose and moved to the window, staring out over the courtyard. "Lysa fled. Took her son and ran. If this is true, why didn't she speak openly?"
"She fears them," Catelyn said. "She names the queen. Her brother. What chance would she have at court?"
He said nothing, but the weight in his silence pressed against her chest.
"If you refuse," she continued, "Robert will name another. Someone who won't ask questions. Someone who won't see danger until it's too late."
Still, he said nothing.
She stepped closer, placing her hand on his arm. "You were there at the beginning of this reign. Be there at its turning, before it breaks. For Robert. For Jon's memory. For us."
When he finally looked at her, she saw it in his eyes—that grim acceptance she had learned to recognize, when he knew what had to be done and hated it anyway.
"I'll speak to him," he said. "But you stay. Robb will need you here. The integration is still fresh—Yi Tish customs, leadership patterns, healers. Too many eyes are watching, and he's not ready to shoulder it alone."
Catelyn let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"I'll speak to him today."
BRAN
The Great Hall was half-empty at breakfast, with most of the men already preparing for the king's hunt. Bran pushed his porridge around his wooden bowl, watching the thin trail of honey congeal as it cooled. Across the table, Rickon was making a mess of his food, more interested in telling Tommen Baratheon about his direwolf pup than in actually eating.
"Where's Arya?" Bran asked Sansa, who sat with perfect posture despite the early hour, her hair already neatly arranged.
His sister barely glanced up from her own meal. "With Princess Ruyan's party, I expect. They're visiting the glass gardens this morning."
Bran frowned. Arya had been impossible to find lately, always trailing after the Yi Tish princess and her strange companions. Before the royal visit, she'd at least included him in her adventures sometimes. Now she was too busy learning foreign words and strange fighting stances to remember her brother existed.
"Can't I join Father on the hunt?" he asked, turning to his mother, who was supervising Rickon's increasingly sticky attempts at breakfast.
Lady Stark shook her head. "Your father said you're to stay in the castle today. The king's hunt is no place for children."
"I'm nine," Bran protested. "I'm not a child."
His mother gave him the look that meant the discussion was over. "You'll stay with your brothers, Bran. And mind that you keep your feet on the ground today—we have guests."
Bran slumped in his seat, resigning himself to a morning of watching Rickon and Tommen play with wooden knights under the septas' watchful eyes. Even Myrcella, though closer to his age, was too proper and delicate to be any real fun. She'd spent yesterday's afternoon making daisy chains and practicing her stitches, activities Bran found painfully dull.
After breakfast, as predicted, he found himself in the courtyard with the younger children. The day was unusually warm for the North, the sky clear blue overhead. Rickon and Tommen were engaged in some game involving their direwolf and lion figurines, while Myrcella sat nearby on a bench, her golden curls shining in the sunlight as she methodically arranged flowers in her lap.
Bran played with them for a while, dutifully pushing wooden ships across imaginary seas and pretending to be interested when Tommen showed him a carved deer his uncle Tyrion had given him. But his eyes kept drifting to the walls of Winterfell, to the old towers and broken ramparts he knew so well.
His mother was busy with the queen, his sisters were occupied elsewhere, and his brothers were gone with the hunting party. No one would miss him for an hour or two.
With practiced casualness, Bran edged away from the others, waiting until the septa was distracted by Rickon's attempt to feed his direwolf a honeycomb. Then he was off, slipping behind the armory and making his way to the First Keep, the oldest part of the castle.
The ancient tower stood unused now, its stones weathered by thousands of years of northern winters. Bran knew every crack in its façade, every handhold, every window ledge. He'd climbed it dozens of times.
His boots came off first, tucked safely behind a rain barrel where he could retrieve them later. Then, with the easy confidence of long practice, he began to climb. His fingers found familiar crevices, his toes curling against the rough stone as he pulled himself upward. The first twenty feet were the easiest, with plenty of handholds in the crumbling mortar. After that, he had to be more careful, more deliberate in his movements.
But Bran never felt fear when he climbed. The stone spoke to him, guided his hands and feet. Winterfell was in his blood, and the towers knew him.
Halfway up, he paused on a window ledge to catch his breath, surveying the castle spread out below him. From here, he could see the hunters assembling near the east gate, their horses stamping impatiently as the king's massive destrier was led forward. Banners fluttered in the morning breeze—the Stark direwolf, the Baratheon stag, the Lannister lion. Men moved like ants below, their shouts carried away by the wind before they reached Bran's ears.
To the north, he could see the Wolfswood stretching toward the horizon, a dark green sea beneath the blue sky. In the opposite direction, beyond Winterfell's walls, Winter Town's chimneys released lazy spirals of smoke into the air. The world looked different from above—more ordered, more comprehensible. This was why he climbed, this feeling of seeing everything in its proper place.
Bran continued upward, scaling the tower until he reached the rookery window near the top. The maester's ravens were elsewhere, probably carrying messages about the royal visit to distant castles. The window was empty and silent.
From this vantage, he could see the hunting party's final preparations. His father sat tall on his horse, speaking with the king, while Robb and Jon waited nearby with the other young men. Theon Greyjoy was showing off as usual, making his mount prance sideways as he laughed with one of the southern knights.
Soon they would ride out, disappearing into the Wolfswood for the rest of the day. Bran sighed, wishing again that he was old enough to join them.
The climb down was always easier than going up. Bran descended with practiced ease, retrieved his boots, and made his way back to the castle proper. If he hurried, he could wash the dust from his hands before anyone noticed his absence.
Lunch was a quiet affair, with most of the castle's inhabitants occupied elsewhere. Bran ate quickly, answering his mother's distracted questions about his morning with careful half-truths. Yes, he'd played with Rickon and the royal children. No, he hadn't bothered the princess or her attendants. Yes, he would stay out of trouble for the rest of the day.
The afternoon stretched before him, empty of obligations or entertainment. Rickon had been put down for a nap, the royal children were with their mother, and once again, Bran found himself alone with his thoughts.
The broken tower called to him again.
This time, he approached from the north side, taking a different route up its weathered face. This section was more challenging, with fewer natural handholds, but Bran enjoyed the extra effort required. He moved like a squirrel, fingers and toes finding purchase where others would see only smooth stone.
He was nearing an unused window on the tower's western face when he heard it—low voices, close and urgent. Then another sound: a gasp, followed by something softer. A moan.
Bran edged closer, fingers curling over the sill as he peeked through the gap in the crumbling stone.
What he saw made no sense at first.
The queen was bent forward, braced against a windowsill inside. Her gown was hiked up around her waist, and Ser Jaime stood behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other flat on the wall beside her head. His breeches were down around his thighs, and his tunic bunched. His armor had been set aside in pieces nearby, not discarded but pushed out of the way.
They moved together in short, rough motions. Jaime's hips slammed forward, his body flush against hers. The queen made a noise again—muffled against her own arm.
Bran blinked, too stunned to look away.
He'd seen animals in the yard do something like that. Dogs. Horses. But never people. Never someone he knew. And never like this.
It was wrong. Not just the act, but who it was. Brother and sister. He knew that much.
A breath caught in his throat—and Jaime's head turned.
"Seven hells," the Kingslayer said, voice flat with recognition.
Cersei whirled around, dragging her skirts down, eyes wild. Jaime was already crossing the room in three strides.
Bran scrambled to retreat, but a hand closed around his jerkin and yanked him hard against the ledge.
"He saw us," the woman said shrilly.
Jaime Lannister turned. He was as white as bone.
"The things I do for love," Jaime said.
Bran felt himself being pulled forward, then pushed outward. His hands scrabbled desperately for purchase, fingernails scraping against Ser Jaime's tunic. Something caught under his nail—a loose thread, a small fragment of golden cloth—as his body tipped backward into empty air.
Then there was nothing but the rush of wind, the distant ground spinning upward to meet him, and finally, merciful blackness.