Black ravens brought black tidings.
The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, had returned to the embrace of the Seven.
Eddard Stark sat leaning against a tree. His hand stopped wiping the greatsword Ice. Behind him, the face carved into the weirwood's bark seemed caught between weeping and smiling in the twilight.
Silence.
A long silence.
Only the wind murmured through the treetops.
Catelyn watched his broad back. She could see the tension in his shoulders.
After fifteen years, she knew every kind of silence her husband had.
His angry silence, his thoughtful silence, his grieving silence.
But this one... was hollow, as though someone had suddenly pulled out a bone that held his body upright.
"My love, I am so sorry."
She spoke softly and took a step forward, her skirts brushing the damp moss.
"Lord Jon Arryn has passed away. I know... he was like a father to you."
At last, Eddard moved.
He slowly set down the soft cloth and pressed his palm flat against Ice's broad blade, as though seeking some strength-or cold-from the ancestral Valyrian steel sword.
Then he spoke slowly, his voice low and steady, though Catelyn heard the faint fractures beneath that steadiness:
"Has the news... been confirmed?"
"The raven came from Gulltown. Maester Luwin checked the seal." Catelyn drew the small roll of parchment from her sleeve.
"The letter says it was a fever. From its onset to... less than a day. Grand Maester Pycelle diagnosed him himself."
Another silence followed.
Eddard tightened his grip on Ice's hilt until his fingernails turned white.
"Your sister," he asked, his voice lower still, "and the boy... how are they?"
Catelyn knew whom he meant.
"The letter only says they are both well and have already returned to the Eyrie."
Catelyn