Kapitel 109: Chapter 110: Black Tidings
(Volume II: Blood and Fire)
Unlike the blistering heat of the South, summer in the North still carries the bite of winter's wind. Here, bright flowers rarely flourish; only the heartiest plants, such as sturdy oaks, ancient ironwoods, and hardy wolfsbane, can survive in this frozen land.
The Southern faith also finds little foothold here. In place of the named, kindly Seven, Northerners revere nameless, faceless ancient deities. These are gods tied to the rocks, the earth, and the forests—spirits believed to be as old as the First Men and passed down through the Children of the Forest.
Thus, these old gods are honored not by septons or holy verses but by the quiet, watchful weirwoods.
Northerners believe the faces carved into weirwoods are the eyes of the gods, granting them the power to observe the world, hear prayers, and shield the faithful.
The oldest of these trees is said to stand in Winterfell's godswood, having endured for thousands of years.
Now, Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, knelt before this weirwood, praying in silence—a daily ritual of his.
The tree's massive branches cast shadows over the courtyard. Deep red leaves, like countless bloodstained hands, surround a face etched into the trunk. It is a face of sorrow and solemnity, its deep-set eyes seeming to weep red tears—the tree's own sap, as if mourning the world's suffering and the cruelty of fate.
A light tread approached, drawing Eddard from his reverie. Turning, he found his wife, Catelyn Tully, standing there, her face pale.
"What is it, Catelyn?" he asked.
Walking across the godswood's thick blanket of ancient fallen leaves, Catelyn handed him a letter. "Eddard, a raven has brought dark news."
"Black wings, black words," he murmured, taking the letter from her hands and reading its contents.
Sensing his grief, she clasped his hand.
She knew how deeply Jon Arryn's death would strike him. Jon, Warden of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie, had raised both Eddard and Robert Baratheon as his wards, treating them as sons.
When the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, had demanded that Jon surrender his wards, Jon—whose honor was beyond reproach—chose to raise arms rather than betray those he had sworn to protect.
To Eddard, Jon had been a father in every way that mattered.
"How could this happen?" Eddard clutched the letter tightly. "Jon… how could he pass so suddenly?"
Catelyn hesitated, then produced another letter. "This one is from my sister, Lysa. She says… she claims that Prince Oberyn poisoned her husband."
Eddard seized the letter and read it swiftly, his hands shaking even more as he read Lysa's words.
Catelyn gently reminded him, "Eddard, Lysa is deeply distressed. Her mind has suffered from this tragedy; what she says may not reflect the truth."
Yet Eddard rose, seizing the greatsword Ice, at his side.
The massive Valyrian steel blade had passed through the Stark line for more than four hundred years, as sharp as the day it was forged. Ice was named after a legendary weapon from the Age of Heroes, a time when the Starks ruled as Kings in the North.
"I will uncover the truth," he vowed, gripping the sword, his voice cold as steel.
Catelyn opened her mouth, as if to caution him, but thought better of it.
Eddard turned to face the weirwood's sorrowful eyes, his own gaze unwavering. He stood there for a long time, until he finally broke the silence with a voice filled with sorrow and righteous anger:
"The gods have been unjust."
---
In the South, in King's Landing's Red Keep, the Small Council chamber echoed with wrath.
"The gods are damned!" The booming roar came from none other than Robert Baratheon, the king himself, who, for the first time in years, had joined his council's gathering.
His fury was palpable.
"And the lot of you, too—all of you, damned!"
Though his once-muscular frame had grown softer, Robert's voice still carried the power that had felled armies. His thick beard covered a chin that had since doubled, while his ruddy, black-rimmed eyes and sagging skin betrayed his excesses in wine and revelry.
Years ago, Robert had been a fierce warrior, known for his skill in battle, wearing a stag-horned helm and wielding a mighty iron warhammer. Now he was a king burdened by his throne, but the fire in his gaze had not faded.
Beneath his fury, his councilors fell silent.
"Varys!" Robert bellowed.
"Yes, Your Grace?" The Master of Whisperers, Varys, flinched under the king's wrath.
"Tell me—did the Red Viper murder Jon?"
"Your Grace…" Varys's voice was apologetic. "I'm afraid I do not know…"
"Worthless! Aren't you supposed to know everything?" Robert's anger flared again, spittle flying. Varys, though covered, dared not wipe it away.
Robert took a long, steadying breath before ordering, "Send word for the Red Viper to come to King's Landing. I'll judge him myself!"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And I want every noble witness who was present there. I want their testimonies, too!"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Silence fell again, broken only by the king's labored breathing.
Finally, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, spoke up. "Your Grace, there remains the matter of appointing a new Hand of the King."
Robert's gaze swept over his councilors. "Do you have any suggestions?"
Grand Maester Pycelle broke the silence, his tone cautious. "Your Grace, Lord Tywin Lannister has the experience… he served as Hand for nearly twenty years…"
"Experience?" Robert interrupted icily. "Experience at raising a 'Mad King'?"
"Your Grace, it would be unjust to lay Aerys's faults on Lord Tywin…" Pycelle's voice dwindled under Robert's glare. He fell silent, lowering his head.
Once again, the council room grew tense, until a clear voice broke the quiet from the doorway.
"Your Grace, why not let my father serve as Hand?"
All eyes turned to see Queen Cersei standing in the entrance.
Golden hair, emerald eyes—she bore the unmistakable beauty of House Lannister. Her crimson gown highlighted her pale skin, and her figure remained striking, undiminished despite bearing three royal children. At thirty, she was at the height of her beauty, the "Light of the West." Yet even so, she could not secure her husband's love.
"Woman." Robert's tone was scornful. "What business have you here?"
"Your Grace, I happened to be passing by when I heard—"
"Then keep walking."
"Your Grace…"
"Gods damn it, Cersei! How many times must I say it? Leave!" His voice thundered, filling the chamber.
Visibly trembling, Cersei's gaze lingered on her husband for a moment before she lifted her skirts—and her pride—and departed.
"Continue," Robert commanded.
Exchanging uncertain glances, the councilors waited. Finally, Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, spoke with a thoughtful smile.
"Your Grace, the Hand of the King is, above all, someone you trust."
Simple as the words were, they struck Robert deeply.
After a moment of thought, Robert rose, declaring, "Make preparations. I am going to Winterfell."
(End of Chapter)
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein