Chapitre 118: Chapter 119: The Southbound Wolf
"'Ned, I have always thought of you as a true brother!'"
In the cold, dark crypts of Winterfell, King Robert's voice echoed through the silent passageway, rough and hearty.
"Your Grace…"
"To hell with 'Your Grace'—call me Robert!" Robert bellowed, cutting off Eddard Stark's formal tone.
Eddard's heart warmed. Whatever distance had grown between them over the years, it was gone in that moment. Here, he was once more standing with the same Robert Baratheon he had fought beside so long ago.
"Back then, we drank together, fought together, and together… learned from Jon," Ned said, his voice softening at the mention of Jon Arryn's name. Pain flickered across his face. "I've never forgotten the bond we shared. So whatever it is you need, ask it. I'll do it."
"Good. Then come with me to King's Landing and serve as my Hand—help me run this damned kingdom!" Robert declared.
Ned hesitated only a moment before he gave a solemn nod. "Very well."
Robert roared with laughter, the booming sound rebounding through the crypt. "Excellent! Believe me, you won't regret it. The South is far more welcoming than these bleak lands. The fields stretch as far as the eye can see, covered in flowers and green meadows, with fruits sweet enough to burst on your tongue. There's wine, oh, and there's a new drink spreading around the Reach—brandy! It's got a real kick; you'll love it."
Ned chuckled faintly but said nothing, leaving Robert to his reverie. In truth, he had already noticed the toll Robert's indulgent lifestyle had taken. His once-mighty friend was now sweating and out of breath as they descended to the crypt's depths.
"Here we are," Eddard halted before three stone coffins, each adorned with an iron longsword to keep the spirits of the dead from disturbing the living. The first tomb held his father, Rickard Stark, the previous Warden of the North. To his right lay Brandon Stark, Ned's older brother, and to his left, a third figure carved in stone.
Robert's gaze was fixed on that third tomb, his face shadowed with pain. "She was more beautiful than this stone could ever show," he murmured, staring at the image of Lyanna Stark.
The bitter memory flooded back. It was Lyanna's disappearance that had driven Robert to revolt. Though he now sat upon the Iron Throne, he would have traded all for her to be by his side.
"She shouldn't be down here, Ned. She should be on a hill, surrounded by sunlight and sky!"
"She was a Stark. She belongs here," Ned replied.
"She was to be my wife—she was to belong to the Baratheons!"
"I was there in her last moments," Ned said softly. "Her final wish was to come home—to Winterfell."
The men fell silent, Robert's eyes still filled with longing and sorrow. Ned himself was haunted by memories of that day, the blood-streaked room, and his sister's dying words. Even now, the promise he had made weighed heavily upon him as he recalled her plea, her final request for him to keep her son—her and Rhaegar's son—safe. Thus, Jon Snow had come to Winterfell under the guise of Ned's own illegitimate child.
Finally, Ned broke the silence. "Robert, what… what truly happened to Jon? How did he die?"
"I don't know, Ned. Damn it all, I don't know!" Robert snarled, his frustration suddenly breaking forth. "You know what it's like in King's Landing—full of schemers and liars! Only Jon Arryn could be trusted, and now he's gone. If there was any other way, I wouldn't have come all this way to ask for your help. You're the only one I can rely on."
"You have my word, Robert," Ned replied solemnly. "I'll get to the truth."
Robert exhaled in relief. "Thank you. I've already summoned that 'Red Viper' to the capital. He should arrive by the time we get back. We'll get answers from him."
"Good," Ned said. "And what of Lysa? And Jon's child?"
Robert's face twisted in distaste. "It's not easy, Ned. Lysa was half-mad with grief; she fled to the Eyrie, barricading herself and her boy in the castle. Jon's child is his only heir—I can't leave them isolated there. She's also convinced that the Red Viper is responsible for Jon's death and has written to me demanding revenge."
"I heard… that Jon claimed the Red Viper was not to blame on his deathbed?"
"Yes, there were reports he said that," Robert muttered. "But you know how he was about his 'honor.' I can't help but wonder if he simply said it to avoid inciting more violence."
"I understand. I'll get to the truth," Ned promised.
They left the crypt in silence, emerging into the cold light above. "Your wife is waiting, Ned."
"Let her wait!" Robert growled. "She's given me a sour look every mile since we left. That woman thinks I should have made Tywin Lannister the Hand! As if I don't already see enough golden heads around me every day. Now she wants one of them ruling the realm, too? Damn it all, I'd sooner give the whole throne to the Lannisters!"
"Your Gr—"
"I told you not to call me that," Robert sighed, catching himself in his friend's serious gaze. "Ah, you Starks—you're as humorless as winter. All right, old friend, let's be off."
…
Above, Bran Stark was deep in his own adventure. Perched high among Winterfell's walls, he crept along the battlements with his direwolf pup below.
"Quiet," he whispered to the wolf, who huddled down, eyes fixed upward.
The pups had been a gift from their father, found just after the latest hunt. There were six pups in all, one for each Stark child, including Jon Snow. Each had named their wolf; Robb's was Grey Wind, Sansa's Lady, Arya's Nymeria, Rickon's Shaggydog, Jon's Ghost. But Bran hadn't yet decided on a name for his own.
Climbing higher, he finally reached the top of the crumbling tower. He was about to feed the cawing ravens he had brought corn for when strange sounds drifted to his ears. Muffled gasps and cries seemed to come from somewhere below. Driven by curiosity, he edged downward, peering over the ledge.
Inside the window, he saw a man and a woman in a tangle of bare limbs.
It was the queen—Cersei Lannister—and her brother Jaime!
Bran's hand slipped, and his heart raced. But before he could retreat, he felt his grip give way. A panicked yell escaped him as he plummeted down, only to catch the edge of the window ledge.
The two figures froze, turning to see the small face at the window. "Someone's there!" Cersei hissed.
Jaime stepped forward, reaching a hand toward Bran. "Here, grab my hand, boy."
Terrified, Bran gripped Jaime's outstretched hand, only for Jaime's face to twist with grim resolve.
"He saw us," Cersei whispered, her voice sharp with fear.
Jaime looked at her, then back at Bran with a calm intensity. "The things I do for love."
With a sudden push, he shoved Bran into open air.
As Bran's scream tore through the cold, a direwolf howled in the distance.
…
"Has he still not woken?"
Ned stood by his son's bed, looking down at the pale, motionless Bran.
At his side, Catelyn Stark sat, eyes rimmed red from weeping, clothes worn and rumpled from days of vigil.
"I must go, Cat," Ned said softly, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.
The pain in her face was answer enough, and he withdrew to join the waiting procession beyond Winterfell's gates.
In their last moments together, he turned to his son, Jon Snow, already cloaked in the black of the Night's Watch.
"You wear the black well," Ned said, pride and sorrow mingling in his voice. "I am proud of you."
Jon's eyes searched his father's face. "Father… can you tell me, at last… who my mother was?"
For a moment, Ned was silent, his mind flooded by the memory of Lyanna's dying words: "Promise me, Ned… promise me."
"When we meet again," he said finally, "I'll tell you everything."
The father and son clasped hands in farewell, one bound North, the other South, each on his own path.
(End of Chapter)
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone