The villa had become a sanctuary of peace, a place where the wounds of the past could finally heal. Eddard had grown accustomed to the quiet mornings, the gentle afternoons, the evenings spent watching the sunset with Arya and Lily. The garden was in full bloom, the roses his mother had planted decades ago now climbing the trellises with wild abandon.But peace, as always, was temporary.The first sign of trouble came in the form of a letter, delivered by hand to the villa's front door. The envelope was thick and cream-colored, the kind used by old families who still believed in the power of tradition. There was no return address, just Eddard's name written in elegant script.He opened it in the study, Arya beside him, their daughter Lily now a young