Things were steady in Winterfell. Markets were stocked, coins exchanged hands without complaint,
and taxes weren’t too heavy. The kingdom was holding firm, and it showed.
In the bustling common market, Lord Baldwin and Prince Albert shared a drink.
Prince Albert was a very careless kind of heir. Seated in the common market beside Lord Baldwin, he laughed too loudly and raised his cup higher than sense allowed.
“If this is ruling,” Albert scoffed, gesturing to the stalls, “then I say the people should thank me for letting them keep their coin. I could double the taxes and still sleep soundly.”
Lord Baldwin did not laugh. He studied the prince in silence, his expression tightening, not in amusement, but in quiet concern. Albert spoke of rule as if it were a jest, a game he had not yet realized would have serious stakes if he lost.
Then the gates of Winterfell opened.
The market’s noise dulled as attention turned toward the road beyond the walls. A lone figure passed beneath the archway, composed and deliberate, her presence carrying the weight of unfinished business.
Lady Belina had returned from Henford.
Belina immediately made her way through the hall, determined to find King Lancelot. The doors of the throne room creaked open, her footsteps steady but measured. King Lancelot sat upon his dais, his eyes narrowed the instant they landed on her.
“WHAT TOOK SO LONG?” Lancelot’s voice cut through the quiet chamber like steel. “Were Henford’s taverns too warm to leave? Or do you simply enjoy wandering the roads of my kingdom?”
Belina continued entering, holding herself with composure. “Your Grace, I have a letter,” she said calmly, lifting the parchment.
Lancelot’s jaw tightened. “A letter? I asked for grain, not another letter.”
“This is more urgent than grain,” Belina replied evenly. “Henford is in desperate need of allies. Their king refuses to die, and many kingdoms have abandoned them. Trade routes are slow, and their economy falters. This correspondence contains a proposed route that leads directly into the north, one that could secure both our interests.”
Lancelot rose from his dais, his presence filling the room as he approached Belina. “You have no place telling me what is, or is not, in the best interest of Granite Falls.” he said, voice sharp.
Belina met his gaze evenly. “I only recommend, Your Grace, that the correspondence be read. Its contents concern the kingdom’s future.”
For a long moment he stared, the tension coiling between them. Then, he exhaled, a fraction calmer, and nodded. “Very well. Council will see it at the next meeting.”
He reached for the parchment, taking it from her hands.
Council of Winterfell, The Letter from Henford
The council gathered in the stone chamber, the northern wind rattling the windows. King Lancelot placed the letter on the table, the parchment heavy with the weight of another kingdom’s plea.
Henford-on-Bagley, a realm teetering on the edge of decline, sought aid and alliance. Trade routes had stalled, allies had abandoned them, and their king, frail and elderly, could not ensure the survival of his people alone.
The council would now decide how Granite Falls would respond.
After listening to the council debate, Lancelot considered their words carefully, weighing the risks and the reasons. Though Henford had faltered, they had remained loyal when Winterfell stood alone. That loyalty could not be ignored. A Lannister always paid his debts, and Winterfell would honor its obligations no matter the inconvenience.
Lancelot rose from his seat, the weight of authority pressing down on him. His gaze fell on Belina. “You will ride back at first light,” he commanded, “and inform Henford that Granite Falls intends to assist.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing. “If you are to take as long as you did last time, make certain to walk their roads. Know the land we are swearing to aid.”
Belina leaned up, smiling,
The first light of dawn crept across Winterfell, spilling onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. Belina adjusted her saddle, readying her horse for the ride to Henford.
The morning air was crisp, still, and quiet, until a sudden flurry of wings broke the calm.
A lone raven swooped toward the castle, wings beating with purpose.
Belina spotted it heading straight for the messenger room and hurried to intercept it.
The bird landed with precision, a scroll clutched in its talons. The seal bore the unmistakable mark of King’s Landing.
Her chest tightened, this was no ordinary correspondence.
Hands steady, she broke the seal, and the words struck her like a hammer, King Lancelot’s sister, Queen Magdalane, had died.
Belina’s eyes widened, the message heavy in her hands. Everything changed in that moment.
