Catelyn's Hair
He wasn't quite sure what color to call her hair. It was more than red. Copper wasn't quite right. There was too much fire in it to be called auburn. Ginger didn't do it justice. No matter what he called it, it couldn't have been more out of place in the North. The years had worn away the last vestiges of her Southron beginnings—he hadn't seen her shiver since her first true Northern winter, and she looked as if she was born to wear the furs that draped her shoulders as she walked the grounds of Winterfell. But her hair was a beacon of shimmering warmth on even the coldest, darkest days of Winter. He wasn't quite sure what color to call her hair, but he was very happy to call it his.
No other man had ever, or would ever, lay with Cat in his arms and count the different shades of fiery red that adorned the head of his lady wife.
Ned wasn't certain of when he became so transfixed with the sight of her hair. Was it the night of the wedding, when it nearly matched her cheeks as she looked upon his naked body for the first time? Was it the morning he left for war when it shone in the warm summer sun of Riverrun as she kissed his cheek in farewell? Or was it when he noticed that it could look nearly black when drenched in sweat as she brought their wailing Sansa into the world? He wasn't sure of when it became his favorite thing, but he long ago began to curse any hat or scarf that hid the beautiful tresses from his gaze.
When Cat was in the room it was impossible for Ned to watch anything else. His eyes found their way to his wife and her hair every few minutes as if guided by a magnetic force. When he wasn't watching her, he was conscious of the crimson flashes as she moved about the room like a flame flickering in the wind. His heart hurt when he thought of how many months it had been since he had seen her beautiful hair. The memory of it was a warm balm in his frigid cell.
His fingers itched to feel the silky lengths of her hair once more. The memory of the texture of it didn't come back as easily as the image of its vivid hues. Whenever it was within reach, his hands were drawn to her hair as if by an invisible force. When some of the wild tresses escaped her long braid, he made every excuse to reach out and straighten the stray locks. There was always an opportunity to replace an errant strand. Sometimes it was after she had been riding in the godswood. Other times, Bran had been wearing her patience thin and she had wrung her hair instead of his neck. Each time he would reach for the wayward flyaways and gently, reverently place them back where they belonged, enjoying the fleeting feel of the silken strands between his fingers. He cherished the nights when he could indulge his senses by combing his fingers through her hair without the prying eyes of others demanding that his touch be brief. In the night when everything was shades of gray, after they were both spent from making love, he would gently roll her hair through his fingers as she sighed contentedly against his chest.
As he lay on the cold, damp floor of his jail cell, Ned tried to remember everything he could about his wife's hair. As the days went by, he become more and more confident that he would never see those radiant shades of crimson again. He would never feel the silken strands between his fingers. He tried to remember the exact way the sun made its way through the branches and dappled Cat's head in light as she walked toward him on a clear afternoon in the godswood of Winterfell.
Thinking of Catelyn and her copper hair was easier than falling asleep, easier than remembering that he hadn't eaten for days. It was much easier than thinking of what would become of him in the next minutes, or hours, or days. So, he closed his eyes and could almost imagine her there with him; as if he could reach out and feel the familiar length and warmth of her beautiful hair.
Ned had been dreaming of his redheaded woman in the snow when they woke him to bring him to the sentencing. He limped along as they led him from the dungeons and into the bright light to confess his treason. Always a man of honor, he never lied willingly. Catelyn once accused him of honor being more important to him than love and family. She had been wrong. When he truly could only have one or the other he did not give it a second thought.
Sweat and dirt dripped into Eddard Stark's eyes as he kneeled with his hands bound behind him. The sun blinded him after so many days in the darkness of his prison. His ears rang with all the jeering from the crowd. He looked out into the sea of unfamiliar faces and suddenly caught sight of one too familiar face—his Arya. His fierce girl who looked nothing like Tully but whose determination and loyalty had come from her mother. A tear mixed with the sweat in his eyes as he turned to look at his other daughter. She looked so much like Catelyn that he couldn't regret what he had done. Not for a second. Her red hair caught the sunlight as she pleaded for his life. Her words and screams were drowned out by the crowd and the pounding of blood through his ears. His vision blurred as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. His last image was the only one that would give him peace in the end—the bright light of the square hand transformed Sansa's crimson tresses and he caught one last glimpse of his Catelyn's hair.
A/N: Cat and Ned's story breaks my heart and I thought it was quite moving that when she was certain of death all she could think of was how her husband had loved her hair. This was the result of my (probably) irrational level of grief. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!