Winterfell, 298 AC
Since the departure of their father and sisters for Kings' Landing with the royal retinue, the days had blurred into a seemingly interminable chain for Torrhen. The castle's daily operations, now falling onto his and Robb's young shoulders, offered a welcome distraction from the gnawing guilt and worry about Bran.
Despite the grave circumstances, Torrhen clung to the belief that his younger brother would recover, like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a piece of driftwood.
In the meantime, Rickon, his youngest brother, seemed to have attached himself to Torrhen. The toddler's innocent questions, devoid of understanding the gravity of their situation, served as a poignant reminder of the world they used to know, a world now seemingly turned upside down.
Their mother's absence only seemed to heighten the sense of disarray, mirrored in the unruly behaviour of Rickon's direwolf, Shaggydog, after a series of unfortunate incidents involving the castle's cook, Gage, and the blacksmith, Mikken, the once playful direwolf was now relegated to the kennels.
His mother had transformed into a spectre of her former self, her world now confined to the four walls of Bran's bedchambers. The vibrant matriarch, once the lifeblood of their household, had neglected even the simplest of comforts, like a warm bath.
Her once lustrous auburn hair had become dull and tangled, mirroring the inner turmoil that she was undoubtedly experiencing. Feeling the weight of responsibility, Torrhen took it upon himself to make sure her well-being was looked after, often requesting Gage to cook up some of her beloved foods, hoping that the familiar flavours might coax her back into the world of the living, even if just for a meal.
The pale northern light seeped across the grounds of Winterfell, casting long shadows that swayed with the whispering wind. The training yard, usually alive with the clamour of steel, was quiet in the early morning, save for Torrhen himself.
He stood amidst the cobblestones and straw dummies, the polished curve of his bow in hand. A solitary straw target stood imposing, its presence a challenge waiting to be met.
Drawing an arrow from the quiver on his back, Torrhen nocked it onto the bowstring. The touch of the fletching against his cheek was familiar, comforting even, as he drew the string back, his focus narrowing to the target.
With a slow exhale, he released the arrow, watching as it cut through the still morning air, finding its mark in the heart of the straw target. A sense of accomplishment bloomed over him, his lips curving into a small, self-satisfied smile.
Just as he was about to reach for another arrow, the gravelly voice of Ser Rodrik echoed throughout the yard "A bow's all well and good, lad." the seasoned master-at-arms said, appearing from the shadows, a wooden training sword in hand "But you can't always keep your enemy at a distance."
In response, Torrhen dropped his bow to the ground, his hand finding the hilt of his own training sword. He shot Ser Rodrik a nod, a silent agreement to the unspoken challenge. The master-at-arms was a formidable opponent, his many scars a testament to the battles he had faced and survived.
The clatter of their wooden swords filled the yard. With each parry, each strike, Torrhen matched Ser Rodrik blow for blow, his breaths quick and measured, his movements agile.
In a swift moment of distraction, he managed to land a blow on Ser Rodrik, though he was soon to find himself disarmed, his training sword flying from his grasp. But Torrhen was quick to recover, swiftly rolling away from Ser Rodrik, and landing near to his bow, picking it up, and nocking his arrow, aiming it towards the still straw target once more, and hitting dead centre.
With a triumphant breath, Torrhen stood, bow in hand, as Ser Rodrik's stern expression morphed into a grin of approval, pride warmed his heart as he sheathed the sword.
His lesson of the day was not just about mastering the bow and the sword, but also about agility and adaptability on the battlefield.
Ser Rodrik planted his wooden sword onto the front-dusted ground of the training yard. His gaze met Torrhen's "Aye, you've got quick wit about you, lad, and that's half the battle."
Torrhen returned the smile, panting slightly from exertion. He leaned on his bow for support, the cool yew wood grounding him "But only half, Rodrik?"
The seasoned master-at-arms gave a gruff chuckle, nodding his head "The other half, lad, is being steadfast. Never wavering, even when the odds are against you." his gaze grew distant, as if he was looking into the battles long past.
Torrhen tightened his grip on his bow, taking in the weight of Rodrik's words "I'll keep that in mind."
The older man clapped him on the shoulder, the hint of a grin still playing on his lips "I'm sure you will, lad. Just remember, in a real battle, it's not just about how well you can swing a sword or loose an arrow. It's about how well you can think under pressure, how quickly you can adapt."
"I understand." Torrhen said earnestly, nodding his head. He knew that these lessons were not just about becoming a better fighter, but a better leader as well, he did not need just strength and skill, but also the wisdom to protect his people.
Not long after completing his training exercises with Rodrik, Torrhen slipped seamlessly into the duties as a Stark of Winterfell. Alongside his elder brother and Lord, Robb, he took his place in the imposing Great Hall, ready to lend an ear and pass judgement on the array of disputes presented to them by a myriad of petitioners - from high-born lords to the humblest of peasants.
In front of him, two minor lords, representatives of their houses, were locked in a heated argument. Eldric Warrick, an older man with stern, weathered features, presented House Warrick. His gruff voice reverberated off the stone walls as he declared.
"House Warrick has, for decades, shouldered the burden of maintaining the bridge that connects our lands to those of House Glenmore. It is a common lifeline, and yet the Glenmores shirk their responsibilities of the maintenance costs."
Across from him stood Lord Elmar Glenmore, a man of younger years but formidable in his own right. His hair and beard were the colour of freshly churned soil, and his deep-set eyes glowed with indignant fervour "We've paid more than our fair share, Eldric." he retorted "For every plank and nail. It's your men who damage the bridge with their heavy carts and careless ways."
Torrhen listened attentively, his gaze shifting between the two lords as they continued their verbal spar. He had anticipated that the day's discussions would be challenging, yet he knew it was essential for their collective prosperity to resolve issues swiftly and fairly.
The hall fell silent as Robb lifted his hand, signalling for quiet. The echoes of their complaints still hung in the air, a testament to the raw emotion behind their words "Lord Warrick, Lord Glenmore." he began, his voice steady and measured "I understand your concerns and frustrations. This bridge, a vital artery between your lands, cannot be neglected."
He looked at each lord in turn, making sure he had their attention. "My brother, Torrhen, will review these records of your contributions and the bridge's condition. If House Glenmore has indeed been meeting their obligations, then House Warrick must reassess their use of the bridge. If there's been neglect, then House Glenmore should shoulder their due share of the maintenance costs."
The two minor lords were dismissed, and the next petitioner was called forward, this one was a woman with sun-weathered skin and a stern set to her mouth. She was clad in the simple dress of a fisherwoman, her hands gnarled from years of handling coarse nets and rough seas. She curtseyed to Robb before standing upright, her posture surprisingly stong for her apparent age.
"Milords." she began, her voice a coarse echo that rolled over the listeners like a wave, silencing the hall once more "I come speakin' for my son, a good lad, a hard worker, who's been thrown in some lord's hole for no right reason."
Torrhen tilted forward slightly, his curiosity kindled by the troubling story unfolding before him.
"Bout a moon's turn ago, me boy Joren went out to sea, same as he's done since he could walk." the woman persisted. Her fists balled up at her sides, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle "A storm came out of nowhere, and sent me boy and his boat off course, an' he ended up near the keep of Lord Ryger."
She paused, her words then steeped in a bitter brew "Without a word of trial or charge, Lord Ryger's men took him, claimin' he was spying for some house or other. Me Joren ain't no spy, milords. He's just a simple fisherman who landed where he shouldn't."
The woman lifted her head, her gaze unwavering as it met the brothers "I'm beggin' ya, milord, please, do somethin'. Me boy don't deserve to rot in some lord's pit for a simple mistake. He's done nothin'."
Torrhen met the woman's gaze, her desperation clear as she pleaded for her son's freedom. For a moment, the clamour of the court seemed to fade away, replaced by the heavy silence that followed the woman's desperate plea.
"Your pain is felt, good woman." Torrhen began, taking over Robb's role for a moment, his voice resolute yet kind, a stark contrast to the raw emotion she displayed "It's not right for a man to be imprisoned without proper cause, let alone trial."
He paused, considering his next words carefully "House Stark holds no jurisdiction in the Riverlands, and Lord Ryger is not a vassal who answers to us. We do not have the authority to order the release of your son."
The hall filled with hushed whispers, but Torrhen held up a hand to silence them "However," he continued "I can promise that we will make inquiries on your son's behalf. We will write to Lord Ryger, request an explanation for his actions and if your son is indeed innocent, we will press for his release."
The woman nodded, tears glistening in her eyes, but a spark of hope seeming to ignite within them "Thank you, milords." she whispered.
As the fisherwoman retreated, her hopes rekindled, the next petitioner stepped forward, he was a stocky man of middle years, his face weathered and ruddy from seasons spent working under the open sky. At his side stood another man, lean and tall with eyes as cold as a midwinter's night. The tension between them was palpable.
"You can take it from here, brother." Robb leaned towards him, whispering in his ear "there are other duties that demand my attention." with a single nod, Robb removed himself from the hall and Torrhen was left to deal with the petitions.
Both men were landowners, neighbouring plots in a small corner of the North, their holdings modest, their lives entwined in a dispute that had outlived their fathers and now threatened to pass onto their sons.
"Lord Torrhen.'' The stockier of the two began, his voice hoarse from years of shouting over wind and weather "I am Fergus, and this here is Eldwood. Our fathers were neighbours and rivals both, they fought over a strip of land between our holdings, each claiming it was theirs by right. This dispute has passed onto us and has soured our lives and those of our kin."
Elwood nodded in acknowledgement, his gaze never straying from Fergus..
Torrhen watched the men, his expression calm and attentive. This was a common enough problem among minor landowners. Trivial to some, but to those involved, it was their whole lives.
Elwood was the next to speak "My father maintained till his death that a marker stone, ancient and withered, marked the boundary of our lands. It stands as a mute witness, half-buried in the disputed land."
"His father was a blind fool." Fergus growled, his face flushing with anger "That stone is naught but a remnant to an old shepherd's path. My father's maps, drawn from his own father's memory, mark the boundary well into the contested area."
Torrhen took a moment, pressing his fingertips together as he deliberated on the issue. His gaze drifted between the two men before him, their faces etched with lines of deep-seated resentment. The entire hall seemed to hold their breath, the tension nearly tangible in the air.
"From what you've told me." Torrhen began "It seems this dispute is built on the shaky foundations of oral tradition and interpretation. The stone marker, if it once held any significance, has now lost its original context. The maps, drawn from the memory of another, are equally fallible. Neither holds an indisputable claim to truth."
He looked to the two men before him. "Our ancestors made their decisions based on the information they had. But we are not bound to their interpretations. Nor their decisions. We have the power to create a new understanding, a new agreement that serves the present, not the past."
Fergus frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge the direction Torrhen was taking. Elwood, on the other hand, seemed to consider the words, his cold eyes warming a fraction.
"I propose a survey of the disputed land." Torrhen continued "We will examine both the land and historical records, and will determine the fairest division based on the current understanding of the land's features and uses."
There was a pause as the two landowners took in Torrhen's proposal. He waited patiently, knowing that this was a matter they had to willingly embrace for it to succeed.
It was a lot for the two men to take in. They exchanged glances, their faces hard and unreadable. After a moment of silence, Elwood gave a curt nod. "We'll consider it, Lord Torrhen."
"Fair enough," Torrhen replied, "Take your time. The goal is a lasting peace, not a hurried agreement."
With that, he signalled the end of the petitions for the day, leaving the two men to ponder his words. The hall slowly began to empty, the hum of conversations replacing the hushed silence. As Torrhen rose from his seat, he couldn't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment.
Later in the night, Torrhen made his way through the castle's cold stone corridors, a tray of food was balanced in his hands for his mother, he came across Maester Luwin. The small man, with his grey eyes and thinning grey hair, was absorbed in his ledger, a small reading lamp shedding a pale glow on the countless figures.
"Ah, Torrhen." Luwin began, looking up from his tome of accounts "I was on my way to your mother, it's time we assess the costs implications of this royal visit." His voice was as grey as his attire, his pragmatic nature persisting even in these tumultuous times.
"I am not sure how receptive she'll be, Maester." Torrhen responded cautiously, his gaze drifting towards the formidable ledger "Her mind is still clouded by grief over Bran's condition. She's hardly in a state to concern herself with financial matters, however, If you believe it will redirect her attention, that would be beneficial indeed, she needs to shift her focus to Rickon."
Luwin nodded appreciatively "You've been commendably vigilant over the young one. He is fortunate to have you. Your mother should regain her strength and her senses soon. The worst is behind us, and we must now all hold onto hope that Bran will awaken, although I fear his legs may have sustained permanent damage." At this, Torrhen stopped in his tracks, a shadow of sadness darkening his eyes.
"Do you mean to say he might never walk again?" Torrhen's voice barely rose above a whisper. Such a prognosis would shatter Bran, who dreamt of nothing more than becoming a knight, aspiring to the likes of Barristan the Bold or Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning.
"Perhaps I spoke too soon." Luwin admitted, regret tinging in his voice "There is still hope his legs may heal."
"I can bear the truth, Maester Luwin." Torrhen responded, a newfound firmness in his voice "If you believe my brother may not walk anymore, then I will accept your judgement and bear the burdens of my mistakes.." with a solemn nod, he averted his gaze and continued his journey to Bran's room, ensconced in a silence that reflected his turbulent thoughts, until they finally reached his destination.
As Torrhen entered the room, he saw his mother seated by Bran's side. An uncomfortable silence lingered between them, a legacy of their last interaction before Jon's departure. Torrhen felt the weight of his guilt in her presence, turning each visit to Bran into a silent vigil.
Luwin broke the silence, addressing his mother "My lady, it is time to review the figures. The cost of the royal visit requires our attention."
His mother was gently smoothing back Bran's hair from his forehead. It had grown noticeably long during his unconscious state "I have no need to look at the figures, Maester Luwin." she responded quietly, her eyes remaining locked to Bran "I know what this visit has cost us, Please, take the book away."
"But my lady." Luwin pressed on "the King's Party had hearty appetites. We must replenish our stores."
"I said, remove the book." she snapped, her patience fraying "Our steward will handle our needs."
"Mother, we are without a steward." Torrhen interjected gently "Vayon accompanied father down south, to assist him."
"Then you do it." she retorted sharply "Haven't you been under Vayon's tutelage for this very reason? Leave me in peace, both of you."
Ignoring her dismissal, Luwin moved closer, placing his lamp in a niche by the door and adjusting the wick "My lady, there are several other responsibilities requiring your attention. Beside the steward, we are also in need of a captain of the guard to replace Jory, and a new master of horse.."
Her focus shifted swiftly from Bran to the two of them "A master of horse?" she echoed incredulously, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. It was clear she was baffled by Luwin's insistence on discussing such matters after her command for solitude.
"Hullen has also journeyed south with father." Torrhen began tentatively "I could speak with some of the stablehands and decide if one could perhaps be up to the challenge.." he made the suggestion, knowing full well of his mother's displeasure. He could feel the bitterness radiating from her, as thorough her gaze could bore holes in his very soul.
"Your brother lies here, broken and near death, and you two wish to discuss these trivial matters?" Her voice seethed with anger and pain "I don't care about stables or your damned accounts. Do you think any of that matters to me now? I would sacrifice every horse in Winterfell if it meant Bran would open his eyes. LEAVE NOW!"
"We will handle the appointments, mother." Robb interjected, appearing at the door, drawing Torrhen's attention to him. Luwin offered Torrhen a slip of paper from his sleeve. "Here, Torrhen. A list of potential candidates for the vacant positions."
"Thank you, Maester." Torrhen nodded, accepting the slip "We shall discuss this further tomorrow." He glanced at the list of names before folding it neatly.
"Leave us now." Robb answered, and the Maester bowed his head and departed, he shut the door and now only family remained in the bedchambers "Mother, what are you doing?" Torrhen noticed the sword that dangled from his belt.
"How can you even ask that? What do you imagine I am doing? I am taking care of your brother, I am taking care of Bran!" she said.
"But what of Rickon, mother?" Torrhen interjected, his voice knotted with concern. "He is only three! He needs you to be there for him. He follows me around all day like my damned shadow, clutching at my leg and crying. I don't know what to do with him, I am not his father, nor am I his mother."
His mother's rebuttal was immediate, her voice a clear ringing bell in the tense atmosphere of the room. The thrust of her argument, however, was blunted by Robb's soft plea. A tremor ran through his otherwise firm voice as he expressed his dire need for their mother's presence, it was a plea for her to see beyond Bran, and towards her other sons who needed her differently.
Her retort was venomous, a whip-crack that Torrhen flinched, it was a desperate plea from a wounded heart, a primal growl from a cornered creature. But it was not meant to wound them, it was a reflection of her own pain, of her struggle to keep afloat in a turbulent sea of despair.
The cruel echo of her words lingered in the air, charged with unspoken hurt. The atmosphere felt stifling, the emotional debris a heavy blanket around them. A barely audible 'sorry' was the only redress offered, a word that did little to ease the sting.
Suddenly, a loud clamour echoed from outside, followed by shouts that jumbled into a cacophony. Torrhen's ears pricked up at the sound, instantly on alert. The noise grew louder, the commotion seeping into the once quiet room, immediately disrupting the sombre atmosphere.
Without a word, Robb moved towards the window, peering out to investigate the source of the sudden uproar. His face drained of all colour, making the freckles that dusted his cheeks stand out "Fire." he gasped "In the library."
Torrhen turned to his mother, who was still at Bran's side, the news seemingly not registering "Mother." he called out, trying to get her attention. But she was like a statue, immobile and unresponsive.
Taking a deep breath, Torrhen approached Robb. he clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder, a silent promise of support, before voicing his own decision "I'll go, you will stay with mother and Bran."
Before Robb could voice his disagreements, Torrhen turned and hurriedly exited the room. The distant shouts of alarm become more distinct as he navigates the labyrinthine corridors of Winterfell, making his way towards the yard.
Reaching the library tower, he found a scene of controlled chaos, both servants and soldiers alike, formed a desperate line from the well to the heart of the fire, passing buckets brimming with water. Their faces were illuminated by the hungry flames, a mixture of determination and feat etched in their features.
Without a moment's hesitation, Torrhen threw himself into the fray. He grabbed an empty bucket and joined the line, his position near to the well ensuring he was constantly dousing and passing. His muscles screamed with each heave and toss of water, but he ignored the burn. He shouted out commands and encouragement to the men around him, his voice cutting through the chaos.
His hands began to blister from the rough handles of the wooden buckets, his clothing soon soaked from the splashes of water. A chilling wind swept through the courtyard, carrying it with an acrid scent of smoke and burnt parchment.
Their once grand library, home to countless tomes and ancient scripts, was being consumed by the merciless flames.
The fire was soon dealt with, and he made his way back to Bran's room, the warmth of the fire was a welcomed feeling, though his immediate concern as he walked through the door was the scene that unfolded before him. His heart hammered to his chest as his eyes took in the sight, his mother was clutching at her hands in obvious pain, her fingers bleeding, and she was in shock.
But what truly gripped his heart with icy terror was the sight of a stranger, a man he did not recognize, sprawled on the floor, a pool of dark blood creeping around him. The man's vacant eyes stared at the ceiling, a dagger lying next to his lifeless hand, his gaze shifted to his mother, then Robb, who had an iron grip on his own sword.
"Mother." Torrhen began, ending the silence, his voice husky, barely above a whisper "What happened?"
For a moment, she did not respond, her gaze locked on the dead man. Then, she looked at him, her eyes brimming with a mix of relief and fear "He must have been an assassin.." she uttered, her voice trembling "He came for Bran."
Torrhen's breath hitched. He moved his gaze to Bran, who, even amidst the chaos, remained in a peaceful slumber, oblivious to the threat that had been posed on his life, he found himself walking towards the bed, his fingers brushing over his brother's forehead. Bran's skin was as cold as ice against his warm fingers, he let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"No harm will ever come to him." he said, swallowing hard, and turning his gaze back towards his mother and Robb "Not while I live." Torrhen vowed, his voice steady and strong, echoing throughout the room.
Robb knelt beside the body, the eerie glow of a nearby torch casting a disquieting light on the scene, his expression remained unreadable as the face of Bran's would-be assassin was revealed.
The man was a sorry spectacle, clad in soot-stained black, the stench of horses clinging to him, he had limp blonde hair that hung like a veil over his eyes, pale and deeply recessed under a thinning brow. Yet, it was the dagger that demanded their true attention, its hilt was carved into the semblance of a dragon, and the blade itself bore a resemblance to the formidable steel of their father's greatsword, Ice.
Torrhen knelt down next to Robb, his eyes tracing the shape of the weapon before he cautiously picked it up.
The dagger was unusually light, its balance exquisite. It felt almost unnatural in its poise, a contrast to the more substantial blades that he was accustomed to. Out of curiosity, he ran his finger against the edge, only to wince as the keen sharpness sliced effortlessly through his skin, drawing a bead of blood.
Grimacing slightly, Torrhen examined the fresh cut, a clean that swiftly welled with blood. A testament to the blade's lethal intent, it was as sharp as the winter wind that swept down from the Wall. he held the dagger up, angling it to catch the wavering light of the gleaming torch that hung upon the wall, the blade shimmering with a metallic sheen.
"Valyrian Steel." he murmured, the name of the rare and coveted metal slipping past his lips. He recognized the tell-tale signs, the intricate pattern like rippling water, and the edge that held its sharpness. This was no weapon for a common assassin, but one that belonged to a man of power and prestige.
His gaze flicked to the dead man, a puzzle piece that did not fit, there was little reason for such a lowly killer to have a blade worth a small fortune.
Robb remained silent at his side, his face pale as they surveyed the dead man and the lethal weapon that had nearly found its way to Bran. Torrhen knew his brother was grappling with the grim reality of their situation, and the mortal danger they may have found themselves in, a cold prickle of unease creeped up his spine.
"We should take this to Maester Luwin." Torrhen finally suggested, carefully wrapping the blade in a piece of clean cloth that could be found in his pocket. They would need the man's wisdom to make sense of this unexpected and dire turn of events.
In the shadowed confines of Maester Luwin's study, perched high within the ancient bones of Winterfell, Torrhen, Robb, and his mother gathered, the air was heavy with an undercurrent of anxiety, the room lit only the flickering candlelight, casting long dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls.
It was a sanctuary of knowledge, the shelves lined with countless scrolls and tomes, whispering the wisdom of ages. The scent of ink, parchment, and a hint of medicinal herbs created a unique blend that was Luwin's domain.
A sense of calm usually prevailed in this room, a quiet sanctuary amidst the bustling life within the castle. However, tonight, the atmosphere was different, tense and fraught with concern. At the centre of it all was the Valyrian steel dagger, its lethal edge glinting ominously in the firelight, an intruder bringing a chilling reality into their midst.
Robb, his elder brother and Lord of Winterfell, sat across from him, his usually bright eyes shadowed with worry. Torrhen observed him subtly, noting the stiff set to his shoulders, the unconscious clenching and unclenching of his fists.
Their mother sat to Robb's left. Her face was a mask of stoicism, but Torrhen could see the worry etched in the fine lines around her eyes, the tightness of her lips. Her hands, usually so sure and steady, twisted a piece of parchment in her lap, betraying her unease.
The dagger was laid out on a table between them, its dragonbone hilt and the sharp edge of Valyrian steel gleaming under the light of the flickering flames. It was an oddity, a dangerous relic that had brought death into their home, its existence there a mystery they were yet to unravel.
The silence stretched like a taut cord through Maester Luwin's chamber, finally severed by the elderly man's solemn verdict. "Your assumptions are correct, Torrhen," he confirmed, gently setting the ominous weapon aside, his gaze steady and analytical. "This is indeed Valyrian steel. And the hilt – dragonbone. A blade of this stature isn't wielded by any ordinary footpad."
Robb, his face pale and drawn tight with worry, put voice to the daunting questions they'd all been wrestling with. "But why? Why this weapon? And why Bran?" The innocence and concern in his voice, echoed by the hint of anger, painted a stark contrast to the cold, lifeless steel they were scrutinising.
Torrhen shared a lingering look with his older brother, their deep-seated worry forming an unspoken pact between them. "It suggests that the person who wanted Bran dead is not just powerful but affluent," he surmised, his voice steady and assured. "Someone who can afford to lose a weapon made of Valyrian steel without a second thought."
"But who?" The question from Robb was barely audible, his whisper hanging in the air, an unfinished melody. The flickering firelight in his eyes mirrored their collective need for answers.
The chamber descended into silence once more, the restless dance of shadows cast by the fire playing along the ancient stone walls. A current of fear surged through them all, the lingering question a bitter taste on their tongues.
Torrhen knew they needed action, a directive. "We must find out," he declared, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. His eyes were resolute, a silent promise etched within their depths. "And we will." His vow echoed in the chamber, offering a beacon of hope in the face of the sea of uncertainty they were navigating.
The silence that followed Torrhen's declaration was deafening. The flickering firelight cast a glow on their faces, accentuating the tension etched on each one.
His mother was the first to break the silence, her voice barely more than a whisper. "How? How do we even begin to uncover such a conspiracy?"
Torrhen turned his gaze to his mother.
"We start at the beginning. The assassin. We need to learn more about him, find out who he was, where he came from. And then..." he took a deep breath, his voice steady and resolute, "...we follow the trail."
Luwin nodded his approval at Torrhen's words. "The lad is right. We have been given a direction to follow. We must investigate."
Robb, ever the dutiful older brother, gave Torrhen a nod of agreement, his expression hardening into one of resolute determination. "We'll work together, Torrhen. We'll unravel this mystery and protect our family."
In that moment, Torrhen felt a surge of kinship for his brother. Despite their occasional differences, they shared a bond that ran deeper than blood. Their mutual duty to their family united them.
They spent the remaining hours of the night discussing their course of action, outlining the various tasks that needed to be undertaken.
They would need to question the guards, the servants, anyone who might have had contact with the assassin. They would have to examine the assassin's body for any clue, any hint of his origins or affiliations. Each tiny detail could be a piece of the puzzle they were attempting to solve.