“Did Father tell you this?!” Lady Stark could no longer contain her shock.
“No,” Edmure replied.
“Father said that as long as Jon carries the bastard name of Snow, we have no reason to question Lord Eddard.” He saw his sister let out a quiet sigh of relief before he added, “As for who the boy’s parents really are, I have my own theory: he might not be Lord Eddard’s son at all.” Before Catelyn or Ser Brynden could ask anything else, Edmure dropped his carefully planned lie: “I think he is Brandon Stark’s son.” “Sister, between Lord Eddard and his late older brother, you know their personalities better than anyone.” The current Warden of the North had only inherited his title because his older brother, Brandon, was killed by the Mad King.
That terrible event, along with the murder of their father, Rickard Stark, helped spark Robert’s Rebellion.
Before the war, Catelyn had been promised to Brandon Stark to form an alliance between the Riverlands and the North.
After Brandon died, Catelyn married his younger brother, Ned, to honor that same family commitment.
From what little Catelyn remembered, Brandon was the exact opposite of Ned.
Brandon was tall, handsome, passionate, and wild.
While Ned was quiet and reserved, Brandon had been a reckless romantic who broke hearts wherever he went.
The moment Edmure mentioned his theory, Catelyn immediately believed it.
It made complete sense to her, and she desperately wanted it to be true.
“If that’s true, why wouldn’t Lord Stark just tell everyone?” Ser Brynden asked, still feeling confused.
“Ned probably wanted to protect his dead brother’s honor,” Edmure explained smoothly.
“Losing his father and brother was a massive blow to him.
Or maybe he wanted to raise the boy himself so he wouldn’t feel abandoned.
Plus, there is the matter of inheritance.” In Westeros, a bastard has no right to inherit anything unless the King legitimizes them.
Under the law, a firstborn son’s child has a stronger claim to an estate than the child’s uncles.
“No wonder your father told us not to confront Lord Stark,” Ser Brynden said, nodding in understanding.
“It really is best to leave the past alone.” Edmure looked at his sister.
Catelyn had been visibly upset ever since seeing Jon, but her heavy mood was finally lifting.
Even so, her voice carried a bitter memory: “Last year, Jon became terribly sick.
He had a burning fever, and he was breathing so fast I thought he was going to die right in front of me.” “I stayed by his side day and night,” she continued.
“I prayed to the Seven to save him, and I even promised that if he survived, I would love him like my own child.” “He lived, but I couldn’t keep my promise.
Every time I looked at his face and saw Ned in him, I felt a rush of anger.
I hated Ned for bringing him home, and I hated seeing the boy every day.” Catelyn let out a long, relieved sigh.
“Dear brother, if you are right, I don’t have to carry this burden anymore.” “I am telling you this so you can stop hurting,” Edmure said gently.
“Don’t hold a grudge against Lord Eddard for keeping secrets.
Men like him and Father carry the weight of entire realms on their shoulders.
There are some secrets they cannot share with anyone, even their wives.” He added, “You don’t need to hate the child, but you don’t need to act like his mother either.
Doing that would look strange and make House Tully look weak.
Just treat him like a guest.” “Lord Eddard has his reasons, so we will keep his secret.
For the sake of the Old Gods and the New, let’s leave this matter alone, just as Father wished.” Edmure’s words brought both comfort and practical advice.
Catelyn and Brynden nodded quietly, and they walked together toward the guest quarters.
When Catelyn had first become Lady of Winterfell, she asked Ned about the boy.
Ned shut her down so coldly that it terrified her, and she had never dared to bring up Jon Snow again.
Edmure hoped his lie had worked.
The Guest HouseWinterfell’s guest house was a long stone building sitting between the training grounds and the Godswood, containing dozens of comfortable rooms.
Catelyn walked Edmure to the entrance and said a quick goodbye.
She was overwhelmed with emotion and needed to be alone.
Outside, the castle steward, Vayon Poole, gave Lady Stark a concerned look before turning to Edmure and Brynden.
“Lord Edmure, I apologize,” Poole said politely.
“We did not know you were coming, so these rooms might not be as nice as they should be.
The Maester suggests you stay in the Great Keep instead.” “Thank you, Master Poole, but the guest house is fine,” Edmure replied.
“If you have a room with a view of the Godswood, that would be perfect.” “Of course, my lord.
I will set that up right away.” Poole gave Edmure a room on the northeast side of the building near the armory.
It was quiet, facing the Godswood pond rather than the noisy training grounds.
Inside, a bright fire roared in the hearth.
The soft feather bed was covered in warm wool blankets and thick furs.
On a small table sat a pitcher of water, a bottle of wine, and a plate of food: oat biscuits, smoked fish, and blood sausage.
Edmure closed the door and walked to the window.
Through the glass, steam rose from the pond, which was fed by underground hot springs and remained unfrozen despite the freezing weather.
Beyond the dark water, snow covered the ancient woods.
Frost coated the dark pine needles and pale fir branches.
The leaves of the ancient weirwood tree had all fallen, leaving ghostly white branches stretching toward the sky.
In the center of the woods stood the Heart Tree, an ancient sentinel that had been there since Winterfell was first built.
Edmure hoped he could use these woods to make contact with the Three-Eyed Crow.
Warm and safe inside, a wave of exhaustion hit Edmure.
He fought off the sleepiness, stripped behind a wooden screen, and took a quick bath in a tub of hot water.
Then he crawled into the soft bed and instantly fell fast asleep.
He slept straight through the afternoon, missing the sounds of the howling wind outside, until a servant knocked on his door.
When Edmure opened his eyes, night had already fallen.
“Did I miss the feast?” he called through the door.
“No, my lord.
It starts in half an hour,” the servant answered.
Edmure considered wearing his armor shirt, but decided against it and hung it back up.
He dressed in clean white linen, comfortable wool pants, soft deer-hide boots, and a rich blue silk coat embroidered with a silver trout.
Over everything, he threw on a brilliant red coat made from heavy fox furs.
When he stepped out into the cold night air, the fluffy fox fur moved softly in the wind.
When he walked into the bright, warm hall, the coat looked magnificent.
The outfit was extremely expensive, saved only for important events like tonight.
While Edmure spared no expense for public appearances, he was usually very practical with his money.
His entry caught everyone’s attention.
He had trimmed his messy hair and beard, making him look older and far more mature than his fourteen years.
Following tradition, Edmure hung his sword and dagger on the wall before taking his seat at the head table to represent House Tully with dignity.
Brynden Tully and the other riverland nobles had also dressed in their finest clothes, proudly wearing their family crests.
Tapestries of the Stark direwolf and the Tully trout hung side by side along the stone walls.
Below them, the riverland nobles displayed a colorful mix of family crests rarely seen in the North: black fish, silver eagles, pink maidens, and green dragons.
Musicians played merrily as servants brought out dish after dish.
The main course was presented to Ned Stark first, but Ned politely offered the first taste to Brynden Tully as a sign of respect.
Ned and Brynden had a deep friendship forged during Robert’s Rebellion, where they had fought together in major battles to help place Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne.
Edmure sat next to Catelyn, who lovingly picked out the best pieces of meat for her brother.
The feast featured roasted bison leg, wild boar, venison pie, and honey-glazed goat ribs.
Catelyn explained that the severe cold preserved the fresh meat perfectly, making every dish taste incredible once cooked over the open flames.
The castle served dark beer, warm spiced wine, and sweet mead.
Edmure took only small sips.
He didn’t care much for alcohol, but since clean drinking water was hard to guarantee, he usually stuck to weak wine or water mixed with a little alcohol to stay safe.
Fortunately, Catelyn had already ordered the kitchen to prepare sweet almond milk just for him.
When the main courses were finished, Ned Stark and Brynden Tully stood to raise their cups, proposing toasts to the friendship between the North and the Riverlands, to peace in the kingdom, and to the coming spring.
After the cheers faded, Edmure excused himself from the head table to sit with his friends below.
“Winterfell really knows how to host,” his friend Patrick said, enjoying a bowl of fresh beets and cream.
“They even have fresh vegetables!” Winter had lasted for over a year, meaning most kingdoms were living on dried food stored in cellars.
Tonight, the fresh salads were the first dishes to disappear.
“There are hot springs running beneath the castle,” Edmure explained.
“The Starks built a glass greenhouse heated by the water so they can grow food even in the dead of winter.” “No wonder it feels so warm here,” another friend added.
“It’s not just the greenhouse,” Edmure said softly.
“They run hot spring water right through the castle walls to heat the rooms.” He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself: this incredible heating system was the real reason House Stark had successfully ruled the harsh North for thousands of years.
After checking on his friends, Edmure walked over to the tables near the back of the room where the guards and servants were eating.
He found Bronn drinking heavily and laughing with some Stark guards.
“How are the food and rooms?” Edmure asked.
“The rooms are warm, and the food is great,” Bronn chuckled, his face flushed from the drink.
“The only thing missing is a few pretty girls!” A big, yellow-bearded Stark guard laughed loudly.
“If you want girls, head down to the town outside the gates!
The Smoking Log Tavern is full of ’em!” Edmure smiled, letting Bronn joke around with the local guards while he checked in on the rest of his men.
Satisfied that his team was well taken care of, he turned toward the table where Winterfell’s high-ranking household officers were sitting.
He knew he would be dealing with the North a lot in the future, and it was time to make some useful allies—starting with the big, gray-bearded knight sitting at the head of the table.