Notes: set prior to the show about seven years, before Rickon's birth and when Bran is two or so.
He hasn't taken Catelyn on progress since Bran was born, but their youngest son is weaned now and independent enough to stay with Old Nan and his siblings. Catelyn checks their supplies while the grooms saddle their horses. Ned pulls the fur cloak tight over his leather armour. He wears the more battleworn set, fancy armour won't impress his people but they respect battle scars.
Cat wears no armour and he keeps his gaze on her long enough that Ser Rodrik appears at Ned's side.
"Should I speak to her, my Lord? There is leather armour in the stores that would fit her."
Cat could wear Lyanna's armour or perhaps his mother's. The Northlands are inhospitable, but wildlings are not as much a concern as they are in the Mountains of the Moon.
"I will speak to her."
He lays a hand on her shoulder, drawing her up from her count. "I trust we're well provisioned."
"A storm could sweep down from the wall and we'd want for nothing, my love."
"I trusted you'd have it so."
"We cannot be too careful in the North."
He can hear the echo of the Stark words in her voice. "I have a request."
"You want me in boiled leathers, like a wildling woman."
"I would have you safe."
"From what? Wildlings in the trees?
"Leathers are scant protection from swords, but they will slow an arrow of a wildling who thinks we are her conquerors instead of her great house."
"What will the gossips say down in the South? That in the North even great ladies go out clad in leather like a squire." Cat has mirth in the lines around her eyes.
"My love, I would rather have you alive to be the subject of gossip than the subject of morning."
She rubs his beard, teasing a smile out of him with a hand on his cheek. "I will wear leathers, if only so the ghost of your mother does not call me fool from the trees."
He kisses her, her mouth soft against his. Catelyn tastes of the morning's beer, warm and hearty. He needs not fear for her. Cat is of the north now. Her strength, like the waters of the Trident, is undaunted by cold and stones.
She pats his cheek once more and disappears inside to pull leathers on over her dress. She wears the short northern style usually worn hunting. Her dress barely skims the tops of her boots and is more practical than anything worn in the south. When she first arrived, she wore Northern fashions as if they were a costume, something to help her blend in to her strange new surroundings; now she wears them comfortably, leading her people by practical example.
Catelyn returns, dark leather covering her torso over her blue travelling dress. She did not take the time to wrap the bandages underneath, but he will see she takes the time tomorrow. Her red hair stands out in sharp relief, brighter than all the colours around them. She takes her mount, climbing into the saddle. He touches her thigh as he passes. She returns the nudge with a smile from her palfrey.
Ned mounts his own, waves to the personal guard to move out and starts the little party off. Stark banners flick in the warm summer breeze. Catelyn's own standard could be carried by her servants if she requested it, but the only sign of her origin is the silver trout that buckles her cloak. She is a Stark for him today.
Robb holds Bran high; Arya and Sansa wave from next to them, bidding their parents farewell. Jon hangs back, watching. Cat turns to grin and wave and Ned joins her, waving until they pass the gate, then he turns his eyes forward.
Cat pulls her palfrey up next to his, riding abreast down the Northern road. What is well kept by Winterfell will fade to a dirt track soon, but for now they talk of the children, of old gossip and war stories. Cat is full of life, laughing at jokes they can never tell in front of the children. He laughs with her, letting the country seep into his bones and fill him with green.
The Northerners make the most of their rare summers and crops are everywhere: blooming fields of the little flowers to be turned into oil, then the blue stems that become cloth. He waves alongside his wife, speaking to the children who run from the fields to see the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.
They spend the few days trekking from inn to inn, but as the inns grow smaller, the villages start to disappear and soon they make their beds in fallen down holdfasts, even ruins of the First Men.
In one such ruin, surrounded by high stone but without roof, they set up a tent of cloth and leather. Catelyn rests her head on his chest, looking up at the stars.
"Old Nan's tales have a thousand stories for each point of light. I try to bring one to mind, but they blend together."
He runs his hand across her stomach through sleeping clothes beneath the thick furs. The air is chill above it but beneath is warm from their bodies. The rounceys of their entourage shift and snort outside the walls, their entourage speak and laugh around crackling fires, and Catelyn whispers of men who live in trees. Ned knows the older stories best and he fills in some of the gaps for her. Nan tells the same stories to his children that she told him and his father, perhaps even before that.
He finds rest with her in his arms, telling tales with sleepy lips.
The day dawns cold, with frost on the fur of the tent. Ned rises unbothered, and dresses before handing Catelyn her things. She dresses half under the furs but she bears the cold better then when she came.
She kisses his cheek when he lets his gaze linger. "The ride will warm me, so will the sun."
He returns the kiss on her lips, lifting her up to her saddle as if they were newlyweds. They ride through deep woods, passing rocky outcroppings and signs of broken bushes. His scouts keep their eyes on the trees, with himself, Catelyn and her ladies in the middle of the guards, watching for raiders and wildings. These are his lands, but the woods grow wild when they spend too long without his presence.
They return his glance with a nod, but they travel wary through the shadows. Catelyn shares his tension, keeping close to him. He wrapped her armour that morning, winding the thick bandages around her chest so should an arrow get through, it will be easily removed.
She teased him for dressing her like Arya would dress one of her toys, even her princesses wear armour. Catelyn is familiar with war, but she does not belong to it. She rides through it as if it were darkness, soon to pass and return her smile to the sun. He keeps that part of her safe, close to heart. She is his midsummer sun.
They ride through lunch, eating astride because this part of the woods is more treacherous. On good mounts, they can outpace raiders. Amused at the notion, Catelyn again rides abreast, their palfreys heads near each other, ears flicking like slow leaves in the wind.
She's still brushing crumbs of bread from her hands when the first arrow sings out from the trees, thudding into wood behind them. Ned draws his sword, searching the trees as their guards ring outward. Another arrow follows, louder than the first, then another. He rears up his palfrey, wishing for a destrier and trying to turn the animal so Catelyn is behind him. More arrows scream through the air, sinking into wood and searing into flesh. Catelyn's palfrey shrieks in pain and fear, rearing up and starting to bolt. He chases her mount, following the white feather buried in the unfortunate animal's flank. She sends her ladies ahead of her with a shout, and they all ride for safety.
Fire lances through his arm, a glancing arrow finding its way through his cloak. The fabric and his armour will dull the blow. It is nothing. Catelyn stops her mount in a clearing, pulling up near a circle of stones. She holds the saddle, but her hand trembles as she reaches for him. Blood coats her fingers. Pinned to her side by a white feathered arrow, her cloak has the darkness of blood.
"Armour, Ned, was a good idea." Her breath is short but she meets his gaze, eyes clear.
"The men will take care of the wildlings. Jory will scare them off." He searches the trees around them, looking for shelter. There are rocky hills ahead; those are more defensible. "Cat-"
"Quickly," she says, understanding as he reaches for her. He drags her across from her mount to his, trying to jostle her as little as possible. He holds her tight to his chest, the arrow shaft against his side. Her mount knows to follow, these were trained together. Ned digs in his knees, urging the horse on.
"Your arm," she says, finding the tear in his sleeve.
"It's nothing."
"Perhaps mine will be the same." She grits her teeth to say it and holds his arm tight, fingers white around his.
"You must remain alert. We are many days from Maester Luwin."
"I know, Ned." She manages her pain in hisses, keeping quiet. Ned has not doubted her bravery, nor that the birth of their four children was a great feat of strength. He will not lose her to this wildling's stray shot. Catelyn deserves an warm death, safe in her bed with grandchildren at her feet.
When he lowers her from the horse, her legs waver. Placing her arm behind his head, he walks her to the base of the stones. "I must build a fire."
"The wildlings-"
"They'd have to shoot us from the top of the cliff not to be seen. Be still. Drink." He hands her wine skin, wrapping her fingers around it. "It will help." He had no words for her when their children came. Childbirth is a battle he can only observe. This pain he knows and he can help.
Cat swallows the wine, wiping the dark off her lips.
"Can you fill your chest?"
"I can breathe, Ned. Nothing's pierced."
He starts a fire against the rock, protecting the blaze until he can trust it to grow alone in a circle of sticks. The woods are dry this summer and the sun has left them fuel.
"We need boiled wine," he says, pulling the his sharp dagger from his belt.
"I am familiar." She knows what is to come and there's only stubborn resignation in the set of her jaw. "I trust you'll keep me from much of a scar."
"It may be deep."
"Were it deep, I would not have borne the ride."
"You underestimate yourself."
"Pray to your Old Gods that I do not."
He leans low, taking the moment to kiss her forehead. Cold sweat meets his lips from her skin, salty and bitter.
Catelyn dredges up a smile for him. "What would you do if I were one of your men?"
"Tell you to grit your teeth while I pull off your armour."
"Then tell me the same."
"I need not remind you to bear your pain, Catelyn. None of my men could bear a child."
"I can promise you childbirth is not the horror show it is purported to be by some. That was far less agony than I expect this to be."
"When you are fortunate."
"As we are." He finishes the laces on both sides of her armour. Lifting the loose leather from her body would be simple without the arrow shaft, but the wood of arrows is terribly hard to break. Ned glances at Ice. The greatsword is Valyrian steel, sharper than anything else he has.
"I must trim the arrow. The pain will be brief."
"Be careful Ned, I may still be able to save some of the dress." Catelyn shuts her eyes and wraps her fingers around the base of the arrow.
Lifting Ice, he steps back, levelling the blade with the arrow shaft. He'll only use the tip but he'll need momentum to cut it cleanly. He splits the arrow at the end of an arc, sending the feathered shaft flying past Catelyn's feet. She's white for a moment, then some colour starts to return to her face. Spending a breath in prayer over the sword, Ned sheaths it again.
"Is it done?" she asks with a near-smiling twist of her mouth. She pretends not to feel what must have sent pain through her. "Ice is beautiful."
"The steel serves its purpose." Ned returns to her side, kneeling on the cool ground. Leaves crunch beneath his knees and he reaches for her armour. Lifting it straight, he sets it aside without more than a gasp from his wife. Beneath the leather, thick bandages of silk wrap Catelyn's torso. It's an old style, something less used when steel plate is usually worn.
Ned finds the end tucked beneath and places her hands on his shoulders. "Can you sit up?"
Catelyn nods, moving with him so he can unwind the bandages. They fall away in loops, pale against the leaves on the ground and the dark wool of her cloak. When he's down to the arrow, he stops.
"I must pull the arrow out with the bandages."
Bracing her head against his shoulder, she takes a breath. "Do it."
He tugs, pulling the arrow free, bound in bloody fabric. She cries out, animistic and raw, against his armour. Blood pours from the hole in her side, seeping into her dress. He grabs one of the bandages, the cleanest one, and holds it against her side as he holds her to him. Catelyn's breath slows, and she quivers against him, trembling. Sweat soaks through her dress, beading on her forehead and bitter and slick on his lips. He wraps his cloak closer, letting his body heat hers.
The arrowhead is whole, caught in the fabric that stopped the barbs. The wound will heal, gods willing.
The fire crackles, reaching higher and throwing more heat. Soon he'll be able to boil the wine and cleanse the wound, but for this moment, he holds her close. The woods watch, commenting only with birds and the rustling of stray leaves.
He holds her, tight, close and warm. Catelyn strokes the back of his neck, her fingers slack against his skin.
"The wine, Ned."
He nods, leaving his cloak over her legs. He'll build the camp if Jory and the men don't find them soon. "This-"
"Will hurt," she says, squeezing his arm. "I know, my love."
Wine steams in the little iron pot, then roils. Holding the bandage over the wound, Catelyn winces when he returns to her.
"Hold me when you're done," she asks.
Handing her his dagger to bite down, Ned nods. He'll hold her tight until she's warm again. He slips his own armour free, down to the identical bandages that wrap his chest. Exposing the wound, he puts his knee on her shoulder and the other on her hip. She will writhe and he needs her still. Looking into her eyes, he trusts her to the gods and pours.
Wine sizzles into her flesh, sending the scent of boiled flesh, scorched blood and wine, too sweet for the air, into his nostrils. She rolls beneath him like a dying horse, screaming around the dagger's hilt. Slowly, she stills, eyes white before they disappear into her head. He packs the wound, taking the bandages from his chest and using them to bind her wounds. Lifting her into his arms, he holds her tight, leaning against the rock with the cloak over her.
The sun starts to sink over the trees before Jory and the men arrive. A few of them are injured, but like Ned, their wounds are light. Jory insists on binding Ned's arm, fussing like an old hound over a pup.
With the sun nearly spent, Catelyn comes round in his arms, her head against his neck. "Will you be leaving to become a Maester now?" Relief goes unsaid.
"I believe my talents are too limited to be much use."
"You are of use to me," she says, patting his cheek. "Will we continue?"
"We'll return to Winterfell."
Catelyn disagrees. "Bear Island is less than a day from here and what Lady of Winterfell would I be if wildlings were enough to turn us back."
He chuckles. "Riding with an arrow wound is unpleasant."
"Were it you, we would continue."
"I see my wife yet hear my mother." Ned kisses her again, her skin finally dry. "We will continue, but slowly. I would not lose you to rot and disease."
"Nor anyone." Catelyn counts the men around them, relief on her face when none are missing. "These wildlings, are they after us because they saw the banners or robbing simple travellers?"
"The banners, m'lady," Etrynna, one of Catelyn's ladies from the far North, explains. "Killing the lord would make them respected."
"Someone ought to tell them that the lady was whom they hit."
Etrynna's dark smile was Catelyn's goal. "Jory tells me they lack ears to hear now, m'lady. Do not worry."
"I do not, Etrynna, I trust I am quite safe."
"M'lord is a better maester than he admits." Etrynna takes a last look at Catelyn's wound and moves to check the other injured men. Hers was the deepest.
The stars come out of hiding while camp goes up around them. Catelyn eats, a good sign, and stands on her own, hand tight to her side. After dismissing her ladies, to eat, he lays out of the furs in their tent, watching their breath in puffs of white even in the summer. The men set up a watch and their voices carry in the night.
Far from them, wolves cry their defiance into the darkness. Catelyn curls against him, her body warming against his skin.
"Our scars will match," she says, running fingers across an old wound on his shoulder.
"I would not have had the wildlings mark you so."
"Better a scar than a pyre, my love. My skin is already marked from our children, why should I worry if I share scars with my husband?"
Without words, he kisses her lips, forgetting concern in the taste of her. When they reach Bear Island, the Mormont's maester praises his battlefield triage and Catelyn's courage. Cat's wound heals and he brings her home, now touched with battle. When she joins him in bed, naked with the firelight of their bedroom making shadows of her scar, he loves her all the more for bearing it.