Chapter 40: Acceptance
Lord Howland Reed sat with his hands folded, his narrow frame weighted down by exhaustion and the burden of tidings that would break what remained of the Stark family. The Lord of Greywater Watch was not a man of many words. But now he forced himself to speak, knowing that silence would be crueler than any truth.
" I bring The official confirmation of Lady Lyanna Stark's death ."
The words hung in the chamber like a sword suspended above water. For a long moment, neither Benjen nor Artos moved. They had known—truly known—in their hearts for months now. When no word came, when the months stretched into nearly a year without any sign of their sister, they had both understood what that silence meant. Hope, however, is a stubborn thing. It clings to the human heart like ivy to stone, refusing to release its grip even when reason screams that it should.
Now, with those words spoken aloud, hope died.Artos's hands clenched into fists. He rose from his chair with such violence that it skidded backward and toppled. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as the grief morphed into rage. He drew back his fist and drove it into the oaken table with all the fury of a man watching his world crumble. The wood cracked with a sound like breaking bone, a jagged line splitting the surface.
He was on the verge of complete breakdown, teetering at the edge of the abyss. His sister who had teased him without mercy, who had been more a mother to him than he known was truly gone. And he had not been there. He had not even been there when she was dying.
Then little Jon Snow, startled by the violence and rage radiating from Artos , made a small whimpering sound. The child's fear—innocent and fragile—cut through Artos's anguish like cold water on a burning wound.
He forced himself to breathe. Forced his shaking hands to still. Artos picked up the babe, cradling little Jon against his chest, and offered the boy a smile that cost him more than any sword fight ever could."Easy now, boy," he whispered, his voice rough with barely suppressed emotion. "You've got Stark blood in your veins. Snow or Stark, doesn't matter—you're a wolf. Don't even let the winter scare you."
Benjen sat motionless, his hands clenched so tightly that his fingernails drew blood from his palms. His jaw worked silently, grinding against itself as he struggled to process the confirmation of what he had feared for so long.
"Tell us more, Lord Reed," Benjen said finally, his voice hollow as a winter wind through an empty keep.
Howland Reed took a breath, gathering himself for the rest of his dark tale. "We found her in a tower at the edge of Dorne." His grey eyes held ancient sorrow. "She was guarded by three of the Kingsguard. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself. Ser Oswell Whent. And Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull."
"Three of the finest swordsmen in the realm," Benjen whispered, understanding what that meant.
"Aye," Reed nodded grimly. "We fought them. Lord Eddard, myself, and Lords of North who followed us. When the blood settled, only Lord Eddard and I remained standing." He paused, choosing his words with care. "But we were too late, my lords. She was already gone—not in body, not yet, but the life had fled. She was burning with fever, wracked with sickness. When Lord Eddard reached her, when she saw her brother's face, she..." Reed's voice wavered slightly. "She found peace. She let go."
Artos closed his eyes, holding little Jon carefully, imagining Lyanna's final moments. The strong, laughing girl he remembered, reduced to fevered weakness. His sister, dying in the arms of their brother, with only strangers and swords for company. The image threatened to break him all over again."Was she in pain?" Artos asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were hollow, blank—the look of a man staring into an abyss.
"No," Reed said gently. "No, she was peaceful once she saw Lord Eddard. She had accepted her fate long before we arrived—I think she had been waiting to see him one last time before she let herself go." The Lord of Greywater Watch took a moment, his expression growing softer. "Her last words were for you, Lord Artos. She said to tell you: 'Tell Artos I am sorry that I couldn't meet him any more. I hope I had more time, but it seems the Old Gods don't give more than one blessing a day.' "
Artos opened his eyes and listened quietly, letting Reed's words carry him back through the years. He could almost hear Lyanna's voice in his memory—warm and teasing and full of love. He thought of all moments and memories.
The Old Gods don't give more than one blessing a day.It was such a simple philosophy, but it held a terrible truth. The blessing had been that Eddard reached her. The blessing had been that she was not alone at the end. Artos thoughts.
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The road to King's Landing stretched long beneath Eddard Stark's horse, and with each league traveled, the weight on his shoulders grew heavier. He was broken in spirit.
Everything was a question now. Had the war been right? Had it been worth the cost? His father burned alive, his brother strangled, his sister lost.
He did not know whom to blame anymore. Himself? ,His father?,Lyanna ? Rhaegar?. Everyone bore fault. Everyone carried blame. And yet none of it mattered now, because the choices had already been made. The actions were already done.
He rode through the gates of the Red Keep as the sun was setting, turning the sky blood red and gold. Guards recognized him and moved aside. Servants bowed. But Eddard barely noticed any of it. He was a man moving through a dream, hollow and haunted.The royal chambers were warm despite the autumn chill outside. A fire burned in the great hearth, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.
King Robert sat in a high-backed chair, a cup of wine in his massive hand. Jon Arryn stood nearby, his weathered face etched with concern.Robert looked up as Eddard entered, and for a moment, the king's blue eyes held something almost like hope. That hope died when he saw his foster brother's face.
Jon Arryn "Ned ? You have returned?"
Eddard Stark said in a cracked voice " I have found my sister."
All in the present are shocked .
"Ned," Robert said quietly, setting down his wine. "You've found her. Tell me."
Eddard moved to the fire, warming his hands though he felt no cold. "Lyanna is dead, Your Grace. We found her in Dorne, at a tower in the borders. She was... she was ill. Fever took her before we could bring her home."
The silence that followed was absolute. Robert's hand trembled slightly, and he reached for his wine again, draining the cup in one long swallow.
"Dead," Robert repeated, as if the word itself was foreign to his mouth. "My betrothed is dead. The woman I was going to marry, the woman I fought this whole damned war for..." His voice cracked, and for a moment Eddard saw the grief .
Jon Arryn moved forward, placing a gentle hand on Robert's shoulder. "I am deeply sorry, Your Grace. Lady Lyanna was beloved by many. Her loss is a tragedy that the realm will mourn."
But even as he spoke the formal words, Jon Arryn was relieved. Of course he was. A living Lyanna would have been a political nightmare—a girl who had disappeared during wartime, whose reputation had been questioned, who might have complications that no one could predict. Her death was, in a terrible way a tragedy but , cleaner. Simpler. Better for the stability of the realm.
The old Hand caught Eddard's eye for just a moment, The old man was sad that his foster sons were grieving. But he was also, on some level that he probably didn't even admit to himself, relieved that the problem had solved itself."You must be exhausted," Jon Arryn said, turning his attention fully to Eddard. "You should rest. We will discuss the formalities of mourning in the morning. For now, accept my condolences, Ned. And know that your burden is shared by all who knew her, and by the realm itself."
Robert sat staring into the fire, silent, nursing his wine. Eddard remained standing, unable to find any comfort in warmth or company. The weight of Lyanna's last words pressed upon him, and he understood now what Artos would come to understand as well—that sometimes the Old Gods gave with one hand only to take with the other, and a man could only accept what came and move forward, carrying the grief like a sword that never dulled.
The war was over. But the cost of victory would haunt the Starks for the rest of their lives.
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