The candles along the corridor burned low, their light stretching thin across the stone walls as Lady Belina climbed the final steps toward the king’s chambers.
The castle was awake, but hushed, too still for the hour. Three guards stood at the chamber door, unmoving, their armor catching the candlelight. Among them was Sir Raythos, steadfast as ever.
“Sir Raythos,” she said quietly, “I carry word from Kings Landing. It must reach His Grace.”
Raythos studied her face only a moment.
Raythos needed no explanation. The weight of the message was clear, and without hesitation, he stepped into the king’s chamber.
Knowing the king’s short temper, Raythos attempted to wake him with measured care, but to no avail.
At last, he shouted, tearing the king from sleep. King Lancelot sprang awake, anger flaring before sense returned.
Shaken from waking the king, Raythos immediately delivered the news.
And in that moment, it felt as though Winterfell, against all reason, had paused for grief.
Snow began to fall in the days that followed. Each dawn, the great bell of Winterfell was rung, its slow toll marking the realm’s mourning.
Snow dusted the roofs of Winterfell and softened the edges of the streets below. In the markets, cups were raised in quiet tribute, wine poured not in celebration, but remembrance. Queen Magdalane had been Lannister blood, and though she ruled far from the North, her passing was felt here all the same.
From above, Queen Lucienne watched the square, her expression reserved in deep thought. She knew well enough to understand this loss would not pass easily.
Candles burned low.
The halls grew darker.
And within the castle walls, King Lancelot drank,
and drank,
and drank.
Winterfell endured.
But something heavy settled into the stone.
The study reeked of wine.
Empty cups cluttered the table, while grief and discarded bottles lay scattered across the floor. King Lancelot sat slouched in his chair, one hand wrapped around a goblet, the other resting uselessly at his side. The fire burned low, offering warmth but no comfort.
Queen Lucienne stepped inside.
She had always known the right words to say at the right times, but this time felt different. She had seen firsthand how he fought for his sister in King’s Landing. Now, there was nothing left to fight but grief.
Calmly, she sat beside him.
Lucienne spoke gently, reminding him that grief did not have to be carried alone, that Magdalane had been loved, and that Winterfell still needed its king.
Lancelot listened in silence, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the room.
In the midst of their conversation, Belina entered the room, the unfinished correspondence for Henford in her hands. It was a sharp reminder that Winterfell did not pause for grief.
King Lancelot dragged himself from his seat and staggered toward his desk.
