Her cup was full again.

Lady Catelyn Stark arched an elegant eyebrow towards her companion as she lifted the beautifully crafted cup to her lips, stained red by the wine she had previously drunk, but her husband feigned surprise even as he lifted his own cup to drink. He had drunk far more than she had, but they both knew he could hold his drink much better than she did, after all; his sheer size granted as much.

With a knowing smirk, she took a sip of her sweet red and savored the wine on her tongue as she glanced around her. The great hall of Deepwood Motte was awash in music and chatter, barks of laughter and drunken japes echoing through the room as the guests shouted at each other good-naturedly. Robett Glover and his new lady wife were sitting on the dais alongside Lord Robett's brother, apparently lost into one another, in a world of their own.

Catelyn smiled at that, and her eyes found Ned again, watching him as he spoke with Lord Bolton. There had not been tenderness between the two of them on their wedding day, perhaps, for war and mourning had been heavy on their minds as they took their vows in the sept, but a great deal of that had come later, as they began to know one another later, in Winterfell.

She laid her hand on Ned's thigh, boldly, hiding a smirk into her cup as she heard him falter and felt him tense at her touch, but she did nothing more, conversing amiably with Lady Maege Mormont, sitting on the other side of her, as the servants brought out yet more food.

The feast for the wedding of the heir of Deepwood Motte had been a success, and an even more pleasurable time than Catelyn had previously anticipated. Though the Glovers were lovely hosts, she had dreaded the mere idea of leaving her children in Winterfell for even just a few days; she worried about the mischief they might get into, she worried about how they would drive Old Nan and Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin nearly mad, in their parents' absence, but most of all she worried about Bran and his newfound ability to climb anything tall enough to be climbed.

Traveling with four children, however, even the relatively small distance between Winterfell and Deepwood Motte, had not been an option, and Ned had made it clear he had no desire to attend the feast unless she was with him. "Very well, I'll go," she had sighed in the end, defeated; her motherly desires were clearly not a reason good enough to risk offending one of their most loyal and faithful bannermen.

She had talked to the children, instructed them on how to behave during her absence, and she knew very well how those instructions had likely fled their minds the moment her horse stepped through the gates of Winterfell, just as she knew that Ned had filled her cup with wine over and over again, all through the feast, in hopes to distract her from that very same thought.

Nonetheless – or perhaps because of that – the night had been quite enjoyable, as her lord husband's bannermen invited her to dance too many times to count and the Greatjon Umber made her laugh and laugh, until there were tears leaking from her eyes. Her husband had been amused, too, though perhaps more by her own reaction than by what the Greatjon had been saying, and Lady Maege had joined the conversation only to add something else that had made Catelyn laugh even more, her pale cheeks flushed and blue eyes bright with amusement.

"You are bold tonight, my lady." Ned's voice, quiet and laced with barely surprised amusement, shook her out of her reverie and startled her just slightly, causing her to grip his thigh just a bit tighter. His raised eyebrow was all the reaction she got to that, and she chuckled breathily, moistening her full lips as she turned to face him.

"I fear it is the wine," she started, stroking her thumb across his thigh in slow circles. "Perhaps my lord should stop filling my cup anew whenever it is empty. Elsewise, I'm afraid I'll be in my cups before long."

"And how is that a bad thing?" Ned retorted with something of a wolfish grin playing around his lips.

But whatever reply Catelyn might have had to that died in her throat as the hall around them exploded in a cacophony of boisterous voices and booming laughter, and the guests seemed to close in on the bride and bridegroom as a raucous "To bed with them!" betrayed their intentions.

And so it begins, Catelyn thought.

She had no wish to witness that specific part of the celebration, but it was said that there would be no wedding without a bedding, and one could not just forsake tradition. She counted herself lucky that she had never had to witness a true northern bedding, before a weirwood tree, as the First Men and the Children of the Forest used to do.

A traditional bedding was awful enough as it was.

There was a time when she had looked forward to it whenever she had attended wedding feasts with her lord father, she mused, now somber and morose where she had been playful and coy just moments before. She had been a maid, then, innocent and eager to feel the thrill that came from doing something so illicit and forbidden; no young, unmarried lady should have been allowed to touch and undress a man – any man, but particularly one that belonged to another.

It all had changed with her own bedding, when being on the receiving end of the male guests' attention had taken all the merriment out of the deed; she had not laughed as the men groped her breasts, and she had not smiled as her wedding gown was torn and thrown away in haste, nor had she squealed in delight along with the women that had undressed her young lord husband with such zeal.

Now that she saw past the laughter and the japes, Catelyn only felt sorry for the young bride submitting to the fate her role imposed.

She remained seated and quiet, nursing her cup of wine thoughtfully, but her eyes darted to the side in shock and disbelief as she watched her lord husband drain the contents of his cup and accept Lord Galbart Glover's invitation to take part in the divestment of his good sister.

Ned had certainly drunk his fair share of Dornish red, for he hardly ever took part to the bedding ceremony, whenever they attended a wedding; he seemed to dislike the tradition nearly as much as she did.

Or mayhaps he just wants a taste of the bride himself, whispered a nagging voice inside her head, and though she knew it was folly, Catelyn let that vicious part of her mind take over, as she observed the eagerness and uncharacteristic haste that ruled her husband's every movement while he helped young Harrion Karstark remove the garments from the bride's supple body; feeling the fury rise within her when Ned's hands brushed – accidentally, perhaps, or maybe less so than one might think – against her full breasts as they became more and more visible through the woman's thin shift.

Sybelle Glover was beautiful, dark haired and tall, with hazel eyes so deep and filled with an innocence that was all at odds with the generous curves on her well proportioned, young body. She was a northern beauty, the likes of which Catelyn just could not compete with, and suddenly she felt old beyond her years, ruined by the signs on her skin of the four babes she had borne her lord husband; the same lord husband that had now left her side to undress another woman.

She downed her wine in one gulp as her fury only grew, the fire of jealousy and anger burning hotter and hotter within her, and no one even noticed when she slipped quietly from the great hall and hurried up the stairs to the guest chambers she had been assigned, her jaw clenched tightly and hands balled into fists.

"You left in quite a hurry, my lady."

As two strong arms wrapped around her waist, Catelyn did not startle, hardly even acknowledging her lord husband's presence. Still, there was no way she could prevent the gooseflesh from breaking all over her skin as his hot breath washed over her ear. Her heart told her she was still angry with him, but her body did not seem inclined to cooperate.

"I thought to take my leave while you and our hosts were otherwise occupied, my lord," she informed him, her voice cool and even, and if he had met her eyes just then, he might have found in them the very look she so often cast upon his bastard boy. But neither of them moved for a long moment after she spoke, and Ned's arms remained resolutely wrapped around her middle, his nose buried in her hair, while Catelyn stood straight and tall, as if rooted to the ground, staring out the tall window at the dark forest below, stubbornly refusing to turn around and face him.

It had not been long since she left the feast, and the image of her husband undressing the young bride so eagerly, laughing at his bannermen's jests and japes about her worth in the furs, burned vividly in her mind, so much so that she thought her teeth were likely to shatter as she clenched her jaw so tight.

"Did you enjoy yourself, my lord?" She spat between clenched teeth, his title rolling off her tongue like an insult this time. And she knew he had heard it just fine when his arms dropped from her waist and he stepped back, putting some distance between himself and her.

"Not particularly, my lady, I shouldn't think so," he answered coolly, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching her carefully as she moved about the room. Confusion and irritation battled each other on his face as he tried to understand what exactly he had done to displease her.

Ever the clueless one, her sweet husband; Catelyn nearly scoffed at that look on his face, all but ignoring him while she began to remove her gown.

The silence hung heavy between them for long moments, a terse, tense quiet that made her even angrier, so she was the one to break it, unable to bear it any longer; her husband was the one who relished the silence, but she… she had a Tully temper and a penchant for arguments.

"And yet they say much merriment is to be found in the bedding of a young bride, especially one as lovely as the Lady Sybelle," she commented, but there was fury in that statement, contempt even, enough so to reveal that it certainly was no casual remark. "But perhaps the lady was not to your liking, my lord?" She saw him bristle at that, and she smiled inwardly, triumphant, but she offered no more than a passing glance as she folded her gown and laid it inside one of the chests with the rest of her clothes.

He had removed his jerkin and his boots, but when he stood, in his loose tunic and fitted breeches that Catelyn had eyed appraisingly earlier that evening, he was still much taller and bigger than her, surrounded by an ever growing aura of anger; one that she kept fueling and that matched her own just perfectly.

"There is only one lady I find to my liking, and her name is most certainly not Sybelle," he growled, and Catelyn felt him behind her even before his hands came to rest on her hips.

She froze for a moment, tempted to give in to the warmth spreading in her belly at his touch, but she stubbornly refused to back down, letting her temper flare, and her voice was vicious when she spoke, "I seem to recall a time when it was not so." Her thoughts went to his bastard son in Winterfell, growing up alongside her own sons and daughters, and she turned around to face Ned, glaring at him with Tully blue eyes darkened by anger. "Then again, that one was probably no lady at all. Tell me, my lord, do you long for a whore's touch when you lie with me?"

The wine loosened her tongue, turned her words cruel and made her anger burn hot, but it was still not a fire hot enough to match the one that spread within her as Ned's hands grabbed her waist and he slammed her against the wall.

His lady wife was furious. He could see that as clear as day, though he was at a loss for any reason why she might be so fiercely displeased. He had thought them as happy as ever just shortly before, at the feast, but when the bedding had begun and Galbart Glover had invited him to join the other guests, his lady had disappeared.

Perhaps that was the cause of her anger: he knew his Catelyn disliked the ceremony.

Her anger, however – so unfairly directed to him, in his opinion – sparked his own, but though the wine he had imbibed plentifully throughout the feast made his blood run wild and hot, and his fury burn hotter still, he held back, never quite rising to her baits.

Until she insinuated he might prefer a whore's touch to her own.

Ned Stark was not many things, but he was a man of honor, and he had never strayed from his marriage bed. Not even that once, no matter what his lady wife – what everyone – had to be forced to believe.

His vision swam as he pushed Catelyn against the nearest wall, feeling her entire body – smaller than his, so frail in appearance, but he knew how strong she truly was, he knew she would not break, as she so often reminded him with that smile on her face that he so loved; and he would never hurt her – rattle from impact with the stone, and all he saw was red; red as her hair, as the wine that stained her lips, red as the blood that pumped loudly through his veins, and through hers. He could hear it, her heart pounding in her chest, as loud as his own, and her pulse thrummed under his callused fingers as his hand came to rest on her throat, his thumb pressing down on her pulse point, just beneath her jaw.

"I have yet to find a whore I enjoy half so much as you," he growled, his face so close to hers their noses nearly touched as his hand around her throat tightened imperceptibly, and if she thought his words insulting, he would never know, for she never spoke as she closed the distance and pressed her lips to his, forcing her tongue into his mouth as her hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer.

She tasted sweet, of cherry tarts and wine, and he groaned into her mouth as her teeth caught on his lower lip and bit and tugged at it – a belated punishment for his words, perhaps – while his hands moved to the top of her shift, rough fingers brushing against the soft skin of her breasts, and the fabric yielded easily when he pulled at it with his strong hands, ripping it loudly, all the way down to her belly.

The gasp that escaped her lips was music to his ears, and he pulled back only long enough to discard the tunic that had begun to cling to his back as his skin became slick with perspiration. His attack on her chest was savage and unrelenting, once he had rid himself of the offending garment, teeth sinking into her soft flesh, marking her milky white skin with red bruises that would turn purple in hours, but Catelyn only pulled him closer, nails digging into his scalp, leaving angry red trails down his back and across his shoulders; her own marks to remind the world that she owned him.

He reveled in the sounds she made, relished those moans and gasps and small screams that he coaxed from her lips with his mouth, and her shift lay on the ground at their feet, torn beyond repair, by the time Ned lifted her up in his arms, holding her between the stone wall and the equally solid bulk of his body, his breeches shoved past his arse and his hand between her legs.

"I am no whore," his Catelyn growled, belatedly, almost as an after-thought, and he barked a laugh, a choked sound as he held her thigh at his waist and pushed into her.

"Aye, you are no whore," he conceded, an arrogant smirk on his face as she cried out and dug her fingers into his shoulders, scrambling for purchase. Perhaps she was not yet quite ready to accommodate his size, and though he recognized her cries as being more from pleasure than pain, he kept still for a moment. "You are just the only one that I want," he whispered heatedly against her neck, finishing his thought, before he started to move, keeping his thrusts rough and deep and driving her hips back into the wall with each one of them.

He had no use for a whore in his bed. He had no use for anyone else when she was all he wanted.

The pain lasted mere seconds, a familiar sting that told her she was not quite ready yet, and Catelyn felt a peculiar irritation at the thought that he knew just as well, but embedding her nails into his skin was the only punishment she could imagine for him, for soon the pain was blooming into an equally familiar feeling of fullness, and her cries were filled with pleasure as she clutched Ned closer, tightening her legs around his waist.

She had wanted to punish him, to refuse him, for he came to her with thoughts of another on his mind, but her anger had fueled his, and his fury had sparked her lust, turning her into a moaning mess in his arms. She should have claimed possession of him, and yet he was the one marking her body and taking her with a passion that was almost violent, feral. With every bite, with every kiss, with every thrust, Ned reminded her that he was entirely hers, and showed her that he knew that she was entirely his.

Whatever bitter remark she might have had for him vanished from her mind as his name fell from her lips like a prayer, moans and small screams mixing with his groans, and her fingers ran through his dark hair, damp with perspiration, while his mouth attacked her neck again with renewed fierceness. But it was all over too soon, as his rhythm became faster, his thrusts harder still, and Catelyn felt him tense against her body, his fingers digging almost painfully into her thighs as he spent within her with a loud grunt.

She felt his seed inside her, dripping slowly down her thigh, but she gave it no thought, chasing her own climax, her head tipped back against the wall as she dug her heels into his arse. "Ned, please," she begged, hugging his head to her chest, unwilling to let him go though she felt him begin to lose his strength. "Please, don't stop now."

Her words seemed to breach the mist that had begun to cloud his grey eyes, and he pushed her harder into the wall with a growl, taking her mouth in a desperate, passionate kiss as he mustered his strength and drove into her again. And again, and again, and again, sneaking his hand between their bodies to touch her until she began to thrash, clawing at his back and at the wall as she broke the kiss to scream, her mouth still open even as the sound faded and her toes curled. She came hard, with an astounding lack of grace or finesse, and she welcomed his mouth when he kissed her again to swallow her sounds, feeling boneless in his arms as her body throbbed with pleasure.

Not for the first time she marveled at her husband's stamina, as he carried her to the large featherbed on which they should have been lying right from the start, and she could not quell the giggle that bubbled in her chest and slipped through her lips, bright blue eyes shining with laughter as she looked up at him. "I surely hope we were not louder than our hosts," she murmured, blushing at her own words even while she grinned coyly, her anger forgotten as she helped him kick away his breeches. "I never meant to steal any of the attention they most certainly deserve." She smiled against his lips, pulling him on top of her, and she giggled again as he trailed feather light kisses down the column of her neck, stretching out on the bed and bending her knees to cradle him between her legs.

"Do try to keep quiet now," was his only reply, arrogant words uttered against the hollow of her throat, and he kissed her lips fleetingly before he trailed his kisses lower, moving along her body, tickling her with his beard as he kissed her belly and settled between her thighs. "I'd rather them hear the Lady Sybelle than my own lady." A whisper against her wet core, just before he swiped at it with his tongue, feeling her whole body tremble as she sighed in delight.

"Mmhm, we certainly do not want that," Catelyn moaned breathily, and she closed her eyes, biting her lower lip, when his answering murmur vibrated through her. But she keened softly, unable to stifle the sound, as he settled into a familiar rhythm and she arched off the bed, tugging at his hair.

And when she came again, when Ned finally decided he had tortured her enough with that wicked mouth of his, she rose to meet him as he kissed his way up her body, tasting herself on his tongue. "I love you," she murmured against his lips, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck, and it was an apology of sorts, one that he acknowledged with a smile.

"And I you, my love."

Only you, was what he did not say, but she heard it all the same.

THE END