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GOT Chapter 65: Clouds of War
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 04:16:58 +0000 UTCAs Robert kept railing, Eddard Stark finally lifted his gaze from Jaime’s body and looked the king in the eye. Then his eyes shifted toward his wife.
In Catelyn’s arms, Bran clung to her tightly, trembling from head to toe, his face pale with terror.
Seeing this, Lord Stark broke the silence without hesitation.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I have more to tell you. And I fear it will only make you angrier—”
“But I beg you to believe me—I share your pain.”
His voice carried no emotional flare, but the weight in his words was unmistakable.
Robert—still slouched in the throne with one hand pressed to his forehead, looking both furious and helpless—froze when he heard Ned’s words.
He looked up again, red-eyed and seething.
“I swear, if you speak one more word that makes me want to kill someone—!”
Eddard Stark said nothing.
Seeing his silence, Robert leapt to his feet again, spittle flying as he shouted, showering Ned with rage.
“Seven bloody hells!”
“How many damned secrets are you all keeping from your king?!”
“If I’d known it’d come to this, I’d have taken a little boat, rowed myself across the Narrow Sea, and lived the rest of my days in one of those Free Cities that don’t constantly make me want to bash someone’s head in!”
“Dying in the deep sea would be better than sitting here staring at two corpses, while you heap more news on me that makes me want to kill everyone in the room!!”
Robert didn’t want to hear anything more. He was already angry enough.
And yet now, his own Hand—who hadn’t even been formally appointed—was trying to make him even angrier.
But deep down, Robert’s last shred of reason still clung to one simple truth: if Eddard Stark had something to say in this moment, it must be something that mattered.
So after raging and ranting, he finally gave in—gritting his teeth, glaring at Ned like he’d just bitten into something rotten.
“Fine. Go on. Open your godsdamned mouth and let this cold wind cut me even deeper!”
“I’ll send all of you bastards to the Wall when I’m done—let the cold up there knock some sense into your frozen skulls!”
A king could rage, he could curse, he could banish men to a life beyond the Wall where they’d never touch a woman again.
But sometimes… even a king had no choice but to yield.
So he could only sit back down on the Stark family’s throne, his face cold, forcing himself to listen to news he had no wish to hear.
Robert’s curses didn’t trouble Eddard Stark. He knew his friend’s temper—it was the same as it had ever been.
Looking at the two bodies laid out in the hall, Lord Stark could almost smell again the long-faded scent of iron and blood.
“Two weeks ago—on the very night you arrived in Winterfell—Catelyn and I received a secret letter from the Vale. It was from her sister—”
“That foolish, hysterical woman?!” Robert cut in, brows furrowing as he fought to keep his temper in check. “What did she say in the letter?!”
There was something in Eddard’s grave tone that made Robert sense trouble.
Lord Stark’s voice grew heavier, more hesitant.
But after glancing down at the bodies on the floor, he chose to speak the truth.
“It was a warning,” he said quietly. “Lysa wrote to tell us that Jon Arryn was murdered.”
At that, Robert’s brows knit even tighter, and the anger he had vented only moments before began to flare back to life.
His face hardened, his voice turning to ice.
“Don’t tell me it was the Lannisters?!”
He spoke through clenched teeth, his fists curling so tightly the knuckles stood out stark and white.
But Lord Stark had no patience for mercy. His eyes went to the bodies again, his tone low and steady.
“It was the Lannisters’ doing.”
“The queen lying there on the ground.”
Here Eddard paused, then turned to meet the king’s gaze.
“I had intended to refuse you—intended to keep you here, no matter how long you stayed, rather than ride south with you. You know well what befell the last Stark who went south and became entangled in the affairs of the court—”
“So you meant to investigate Jon Arryn’s death, as Hand of the King?!” Robert broke in with a cold laugh.
Lord Stark was silent, but his silence was admission enough.
Robert’s laughter turned colder still.
Slowly, he rose from the throne, his eyes fixed on the two corpses—one with a look of peaceful repose, the other staring sightless, eyes wide open.
“Ned, I want you to call your banners and show your king your loyalty.”
...
Everyone in Winterfell knew—the company that had been set to depart tomorrow had been cancelled.
It began when all those connected to the Lannisters were seized by the Stark guards, and the king—who was supposed to be out hunting—came riding back to the castle in haste.
A storm was brewing.
And once the first wave of fear and unease passed, another piece of news spread.
“There’s going to be war again—soon!”
By the horses, a stablehand glanced toward Mikken, the blacksmith, who was urgently leading his apprentices to light the forge. Speaking to the boy at his side, his tone carried a trace of worry.
The lad, barely past eight years old, didn’t understand what war meant—didn’t even grasp what the word implied.
So, at his father’s words, he only cast him a puzzled look before turning away and stuffing into the mouth of his favorite pony, Little Spot, the green fodder he had just stolen from the storeroom, mixed with a bit of grain.
Hearing Little Spot whinny in delight, the boy giggled as well.
The children remained carefree—but there was no shortage of adults who shared the same grim concern.
Yet with the orders given by both the king and the lord, everyone had to prepare for the coming war.
Fed by the hot springs beneath its foundations, Winterfell often looked as though it were veiled in a constant mist.
Beneath the sullen sky, flocks of ravens burst from the maester’s tower, fanning out in all directions toward unknown destinations.
The clouds above seemed especially heavy, and an invisible pressure—like the thin mist itself—settled over the city.
No one knew how long it would linger.
Winterfell’s dungeons were not large, for there was rarely need to imprison anyone here—crime seldom reached that point.
But today was different. With so many of the Lannister party taken into custody, the king’s entourage of more than three hundred had been reduced by over half in an instant.
And with no real preparation for such a situation, a fair number had been forced into the kennels, their hands and feet bound with nothing more than rope.
The hunting hounds, suddenly robbed of their warm dens, vented their displeasure on the bewildered prisoners, barking at them in loud protest.
The chorus of barking only made the already frozen atmosphere more solemn still.
Kal emerged from the Great Keep and crossed the training yard on foot, carrying in his hand a long object wrapped in coarse burlap.
Sensing the change in the castle’s mood, he paused instinctively, scanning the scene, his brow set in deep lines.
Since King Robert had decided to wage war against the Lannisters of the Westerlands—and needed to rally other lords besides—Kal had just come from a meeting.
It had been presided over by Eddard Stark, and though the discussion was brief, it dealt with several immediate matters. Compared to the overall war effort, they were minor details.
Now, aside from Winterfell’s own preparations, the greater task was simply to wait—for the Stark bannermen to answer their liege lord’s call and march here with their men and arms.
And that would take time.
After all, war was not some children’s game where you could say, I want to fight you, and then be outside your enemy’s gate the very next day, shouting for battle.
The Starks also had to make the proper preparations for war—supplies, for example.
Though the maesters of the Citadel had yet to send out the white ravens to announce the end of the Long Summer and the arrival of autumn, Eddard Stark, as Warden of the North, could not ignore the matter.
This summer had been far too long—so much so that even for him, it was the longest he could remember.
And in Westeros, there was a simple truth: a long summer meant a long winter to follow.
As for autumn, in Westeros it was a season of frequent rains, swelling rivers, and even the risk of floods.
Thinking of this, Kal let out a sigh. Knowing how events would unfold, he was well aware that summer truly was about to end.
Lord Stark had briefly mentioned his concerns to the king during the earlier meeting, though without going into detail.
He could hardly speak plainly.
For the North, this was the time when the lords would set aside part of their harvest—usually no less than one-fifth to one-quarter—for storage.
It was a decision both important and necessary.
But with war looming, Eddard Stark had also issued a new hunting order for wild game in the open lands, so that hunters could bring in more food.
By the laws of the realm, certain wild creatures—such as aurochs and red deer—were considered the property of the local lord, and common folk were forbidden to hunt them.
If a lord did not grant permission, it was poaching—a crime serious enough to cost a person their head.
Such meat also had to be preserved by smoking, salting, or similar methods; otherwise, it could never last through the winter.
These processes consumed considerable labor and inevitably came with losses along the way.
Along the coasts, rivers, and the Long Lake, people relied mainly on fishing—something that could still be seen even in winter.
Without preparations in advance, a poor harvest before winter in the North meant famine.
Here, snow in winter could reach depths of 12 m, accompanied by heavy rains that brought even greater cold, and at times ice storms that destroyed crops outright.
Thus, with war about to begin—at this particular point in the year—Eddard Stark, as Warden of the North, had far more to consider than just the war itself.
Shaking his head, Kal pushed aside thoughts he should not be dwelling on for now. Adjusting the long object in his hands, he crossed the training yard toward the guest quarters.
By custom, nobles were to be given proper accommodations whenever possible.
So even though Tyrion Lannister had become a prisoner thanks to the folly of his brother and sister, it was not excessive for him to be housed in a chamber normally reserved for guests—serving as a temporary cell.
Reaching a certain first-floor room, Kal nodded to the Winterfell guards posted there before lifting his hand to knock on the door.
“Who is it? I don’t recall having any friends in Winterfell.” The voice inside was low, edged with weariness.
“It’s me.”
