The throne room of Snowland held its usual rhythm. Voices rose, collided, then softened under judgment. Petitioners knelt. Lords whispered. Steel boots shifted against polished stone. It was the kind of order that came from repetition. From habit. From a king who had learned to carry weight without letting it show.
Edmond Woodland sat on the Ice Throne. Still, but listening.
A farmer stood before him, voice trembling as he spoke of stolen cattle. A merchant argued the claim. Words went back and forth, sharp, insistent. Edmond's gaze moved between them, steady, unreadable. He lifted a hand slightly.
Silence fell. He was about to speak. Then the doors burst open. The sound cracked through the hall like something breaking.
A man stumbled in. Breathless, and unsteady. He didn't wait for permission. He dropped to his knees at once, head bowed so low it nearly touched the ground.
"My lord…" The words came out wrong. Too fast, and too heavy.
Edmond felt it before he understood it. Something shifted. A quiet tension slipped into the room, subtle at first. Conversations died. Heads turned. Even the guards at the walls straightened, their hands tightening around their spears.
Edmond leaned forward slightly. "What is it?" His voice cut through the silence.
The man lifted his head. Fear sat plainly in his eyes. "Your sister…" he said, and then his voice broke.
The room held its breath.
"…Maria is dead." The words did not echo, they landed hard.
Edmond's hand slipped from the armrest of his throne. He did not catch it. "What?" The sound came out low, almost hollow.
No one moved, not the guards, not the lords, not the servants standing along the walls. It was as if the room itself refused to react before he did.
Edmond stared at the man, waiting. Expecting the words to take themselves back, but they didn't.
"How?" The question came out sharper now.
Demanding.
The man bowed again, his forehead nearly striking the floor. "There was a wedding… in Ashford…" His voice struggled to stay steady. "Between Theon Kendrick and Frida Kenwool."
A few murmurs stirred at the edges of the hall, but they died quickly. Edmond did not blink.
The man inhaled deeply, and forced the rest out. "It was a trap." The words tightened the air. "Theon Kendrick… alongside the Kenwools… conspired with His Grace, Robert Rendell."
Gasps broke loose now: soft, and uncontrolled.
But the man did not stop. "They slaughtered them… at the heart of the wedding." His voice cracked completely now. "All of them." He swallowed hard. "Including Drexo, and Maria."
Edmond moved. Not slowly, not carefully either. He was on his feet before the silence could settle again. "No." The word came out instantly without thought, and without doubt.
His head shook once. Then harder. "I know Robert." His voice rose: firm, and certain. "He would never murder a man," he stepped forward, his boots striking against the stone, "talk more of doing it in a wedding."
The room shifted with him, heads nodded. Agreement came quickly, too quickly. "Wedding is sacred," Lord Simeon Bernett said, stepping forward, his voice carrying weight. "Blessed by the gods themselves. No king would dare dishonor such a covenant."
More nods followed. "It must be the Kenwools," another lord added. "They acted on their own."
Murmurs spread again.
This time louder, and faster. Explanations forming. Comfort taking shape in denial.
"The North must mourn her." The words came from somewhere behind the gathered lords.
Soft at first, then stronger. "The greatest shield maiden the kingdom has ever known." For a moment, it almost felt real.
Edmond's hand lifted. The room stilled at once. He stood there, breathing. Trying to steady something inside him that refused to settle.
Then he shook his head slowly. "No." The word cut deeper this time. "My sister…" He paused. The words resisted him. "…was declared an enemy of the Ice Throne."
Silence followed.
Heavy, and uncomfortable. He swallowed, and forced control back into his voice. "By our custom, she cannot be mourned by the kingdom."
No one spoke, no one dared. "I will grieve alone."
He turned, and just like that, he stepped down the throne and walked out. No dismissal, no closing words. The sound of his boots echoed behind him.
No one followed, no one called out. They all understood that the meeting was over.
The doors closed behind him, and the Warden disappeared.
His chambers were empty, and quiet. Edmond did not stop at the center of the room. He moved past the table. Past the window. Past everything that usually grounded him.
Then he collapsed. The bed took his weight without resistance. For a moment, he stayed upright. Still holding himself together, still wearing the shape of a king.
Then it broke, the first breath came uneven. The second followed with a tremor..By the third, the tears came.
Not quietly, not controlled. They fell freely, heavily, dragging everything with them. His shoulders shook. His hands pressed against his face, but it did nothing to stop it. He had held it on the throne. In front of them all.
But here, there was no throne, no court, no kingdom watching. Only a brother.
The door opened soft, unannounced. Bianca stepped in. She didn't speak at first..She didn't need to. Her eyes were already wet. She crossed the room slowly.
Each step was careful, and measured. As if anything sudden might break what little remained. "I heard…" Her voice barely carried.
Then she reached him. Wrapped her arms around him, and he did not resist.
They stayed like that, holding each other. Breathing unevenly, crying without restraint.
No words, none that could fix it. None that could make sense of it. After a while, Bianca pulled back slightly, not far, just enough to look at him. "You must give her a proper burial." The words came gently, but they carried weight.
Edmond shook his head almost immediately. A quiet, defeated motion. "Even if I want to…" His voice was rough now. "…it is too late." His gaze dropped. "They must have disposed of her body."
The words lingered. Cold, and final.
Silence settled again. Not empty, but heavy.
Outside the chambers, Snowland continued. Guards stood at their posts. Servants moved through halls. Life went on. But something had shifted.
Quietly, and deeply.
No announcement was made, no banners were lowered. No horns sounded. There was no official mourning decree. No ritual. Nothing the world could point to and say, this is grief.
But it was there. In the slowed steps of soldiers. In the hushed voices of servants. In the way people looked at one another and then looked away.
They knew, they all knew. Maria Woodland was gone. And even without a command, Snowland mourned the greatest shield maiden the North has ever known.