Chapter 43 Ravens

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Chapter Forty-Three: Ravens and Betrayals

The shhhing of steel against cloth was a familiar sound to Ned Stark.

He sat in the quiet of Winterfell's godswood, methodically cleaning Ice, his greatsword resting across his lap. The weight of the Valyrian steel was solid and grounding, yet his mind was anything but calm.

The execution had been swift.

A deserter from the Night's Watch—his body now resting beneath the cold earth. The man had claimed he had seen something beyond the Wall, something terrible, but fear was no excuse for desertion.

The law was clear.

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

And so he had.

Yet, even as he wiped the last traces of blood from the blade, Ned's thoughts were not on the execution.

They were on the Dreadfort.

On Roose Bolton.

The summons he had sent had been ignored.

Instead, a raven had arrived, bearing Roose's apologies.

"I cannot leave the Dreadfort, my lord, for I am in mourning. My son Domeric has died of a sudden sickness, and my grief is too great."

Ned frowned.

Something about it felt wrong.

Domeric Bolton had been a healthy boy. He had been fostered in the Vale under Lord Redfort and had returned home only recently.

And now, conveniently, he was dead.

Ramsay Snow had also disappeared.

Ned exhaled through his nose, setting Ice aside for a moment.

There was something about this that did not sit right with him.He did not trust Roose Bolton. Never had. The man was too quiet, too measured.

And yet, with Domeric dead, there was no clear heir to the Dreadfort.

That alone was concerning.

Perhaps I should have pressed the matter…

Ned exhaled sharply. He knew there was more to this. His gut told him that Roose was playing some deeper game. But without proof, there was little he could do.

Still—

The Boltons would bear watching.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Ned looked up and saw Catelyn coming toward him, wrapped in a thick cloak against the cool air. Her face was carefully composed, but he had known her long enough to see the tension in her posture.

"A raven came from King's Landing," she said quietly.

Ned's grip on Ice tightened.

"What news?"

Catelyn hesitated for only a moment. "Jon Arryn is dead."

The words struck him.

For a heartbeat, he did not move.

"How?" he asked at last, though he already feared the answer.

"Sickness," Catelyn said. "That is what the letter claims."

Ned exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Jon Arryn—his mentor, his second father—dead of sickness?

Jon had always been strong. Stubborn. A warrior, a statesman, a survivor.

To die like this?

It did not sit right.

Catelyn stepped closer. "There is more."

Ned looked at her sharply.

"Robert is coming to Winterfell."

For a moment, the godswood was silent.

The words settled in his chest, heavy.

Robert. Here.

It had been years since he had last seen his old friend.

He should have felt something—relief, perhaps, or even joy.

Instead, all he felt was a cold unease.

Robert never left the capital.

Not unless there was a reason.

Ned's gaze flickered to the heart tree, its red leaves rustling in the wind.

"Then we must prepare," he said at last.

Catelyn nodded, but Ned could see the unease in her eyes as well.

And so, Winterfell made its preparations.

But only a few days later, another raven arrived.

Then another.

And then a third.

The first came from King's Landing.

Robert Baratheon was dead.

A boar had gored him during a hunt.

And now, the boy Joffrey Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne.

The letter commanded Ned to come south immediately—to bend the knee and acknowledge Joffrey Baratheon as his king.

Ned read the words, but all he saw was Robert's face.

Robert.

Dead.

The man who had once laughed beside him on the battlefield. The man who had fought with fire in his heart, who had bled for his throne.

Gone.

Killed by a boar?

Ned's hands clenched into fists.

He did not believe it.

Not for a moment.

The second letter came from Dragonstone.

From Stannis Baratheon.

Unlike the first, this one was short, direct.

"Robert had no trueborn children."

"Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are bastards—born of incest between Cersei and her brother Jaime."

"Robert was murdered by the Lannisters."

"I am his rightful heir."

Ned stared at the words, his blood running cold.

Jon Arryn knew.

That was why Jon Arryn had died.

That was why Robert had died.

It all made sense.

A slow, simmering rage settled in his chest.

He had seen the way the Lannisters had tightened their grip over the capital. The way Cersei whispered in Robert's ear, the way Jaime Lannister watched everything with a smirk that never faded.

They had killed Jon Arryn.

They had killed Robert.

But there was still a third letter.

This one bore a different sigil.

Not Stannis's flaming heart-stag.

But the golden stag of Renly Baratheon.

"The people will never follow Stannis."

"They love me."

"Support me, and together we will rule."

Ned crushed the letter in his hand.

Three claims.

Three Baratheons.

And the realm teetering on the edge of war.

Catelyn's voice was quiet. "What will you do?"

Ned inhaled slowly.

Ice lay beside him, its dark steel gleaming in the morning light.

He closed his eyes, listening to the wind.

And then, at last, he spoke.

"I will do what is right."