Disclaimer: The characters of A Song of Ice and Fire do not belong to me however this story is of my own creation and should only be used when permission has been asked and given. No copyright infringement intended and no profit is being made.
Summary: AU RW. "Do not underestimate what blind loyalty can inspire." The King in the North may be dead but Westeros still bleeds. Tywin Lannister knows that some burnt bridges need mending and Catelyn Stark is the key. Catelyn/Tywin.
Notes: So, here we go. I always find it pretty daunting cracking into a new fandom which is probably why I don't do it much (plus I'm a creature of habit) however I was hit by the writing bug for the first in a long time and this just kind of erupted from that. I am holding ohmytheon entirely responsible. I've only ever written fiction based on TV shows/the occasional movie so writing from a book is equally new, exciting and terrifying. That being said, I am no where near as amazing as the great George R. R. Martin but I hope you'll enjoy regardless. In terms of books vs. television show, I'm kind of erring between them and blending the two together. I'm mainly following the book representation however it would be impossible to not be influenced by Game of Thrones too.
The title is a play on 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'.
The Lion and the Lady Fair
Chapter One
A man in dark armour and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood stepped up to Robb. "Jaime Lannister sends his regards." He thrust his longsword through her son's heart, and twisted.
Robb had broken his word, but Catelyn kept hers. She tugged hard on Aegon's hair and sawed at his neck until the blade grated on bone. Blood ran hot over her fingers. His little bells were ringing, ringing, ringing as the drum went boom doom boom.
Finally, someone took the knife away from her. The tears burned like vinegar as they ran down her cheeks. Ten fierce ravens were raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh, leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood. She could taste it on her lips.
- Catelyn III, p.133. A Storm of Swords: Blood and Gold
The drum finally ceased as Catelyn Stark took slow, stumbling steps towards her son's body. She sank to her knees and pulled Robb towards her, cradling his head in her lap. His eyes, so blue like her own, were glassy and unseeing. She stroked a palm against his cheek, leaving bloody marks, and wept. "Robb… my Robb…"
At six and ten years he was a man grown but she could still see him as a boy, sparring with a wooden sword, his face full of carefree laughter as Jon Snow met each of his blows. Shortly after his third name day, he had tentatively stepped into their bedchamber and wandered over to where Catelyn lay, a new bundle within her arms. Robb had climbed up beside her on the bed, peered into the sleeping babe's face and placed a solemn kiss upon Sansa's brow. At eleven months old he had taken his first shaky steps and she'd gathered him in her arms, hoisting him into the air whilst exclaiming at his cleverness.
And now he was gone. Like his father, brothers and, most likely, one of his sisters before him. How did it come to this, Ned? She inclined her head towards Robb's and placed her own solemn kiss upon his brow. There were Frey's surrounding her, each one more treacherous than the last, but she paid them no heed. They could kill her and it would matter not.
Heavy boots stamped across the tiled floor, echoing against the stone walls, and rough hands tried to prise her from Robb's body. Catelyn clung to him, her hands and dress turning sticky with his blood and making it difficult for them to gain a hold on her. Someone wrapped thick arms around her waist and heaved but she turned visceral: screaming, kicking and snarling.
"Make an end," she heard someone urge but Lord Walder Frey held up a hand for silence. "No, not this one."
The quarrel that had pierced her through the back was wrenched out and she cried in agony. The fight left her body, replaced with pain, and she sagged against Black Walder whose brute strength kept her standing. His right arm remained around her waist whilst his left hand clasped her wrists together, lest she should attempt clawing at his face like she had her own.
She looked up at Lord Walder through a curtain of auburn hair. Contempt shone raw as she lifted her gaze to meet his which was lit up in greedy pleasure. "It appears that we will now have to refer to your family as The Late Lords of Winterfell, heh. Take the Lady Catelyn to her cell."
Black Walder carried her bodily from the Great Hall, her feet stumbling as he marched her passed the numerous bodies. Robb, Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont. The pitiful feast that Lord Walder had provided and the little wine that she had drunk was roiling in her stomach. Catelyn tried taking deep breaths through her mouth but the stench of blood and death hung heavy in the air.
Signs of the Frey's treachery were everywhere: puddles of blood seeping between the cracked tiles, dead and dying men slumped in the corridors, bloodied weapons that lay abandoned when a fight had been lost. A hand reached out and desperately grasped the skirts of Catelyn's dress but Black Walder kicked it away impatiently. The sounds of the fighting in the camps outside of the Twins holdfast grew louder and Catelyn knew that Robb's army, drunk and caught unaware, was being slaughtered.
Black Walder dragged her across the entrance hall and towards the sweeping staircase. She was vaguely aware that they were moving in the wrong direction for the dungeons as they ascended the steps. A commotion broke out behind them and Black Walder whirled around, keeping her firmly locked within his embrace. A door that led further into the castle was flung open and a huge, fierce man stumbled backwards into the entrance hall.
The Greatjon spat a great, bloody wad of something out at his pursuers. "Come on, then!" he bellowed. "Who's next, you bloody bastards?"
Several men spilled into the entrance hall, each bearing an arrangement of arms whilst the Greatjon clasped a sword half the size of his normal greatsword. One of the men who Catelyn believed to be Ser Haigh was cradling the side of his head that was bloodied and missing half an ear. One pursuer thrust his blade at the Greatjon who retaliated by driving his stolen sword between the man's ribs. He turned and climbed three steps, gaining higher ground to his foes, but faltered upon seeing her in Black Walder's clutches.
His face crumpled in anguish. The Greatjon thumped his sword hand against his chest and bowed his head respectfully. "My lady."
He knows, she thought despondently. If I am here and not with Robb then he knows that his King is dead. And his son with him.
The Greatjon swung around with a furious roar and embedded his sword in the skull of the man creeping up behind him. He attempted to pull the sword free but it wouldn't move. A second enemy ducked beneath his falling comrade and plunged a dagger into the hamstring of the Greatjon. The mighty warrior dropped to one knee and the rest of the fighters wrestled him to the ground.
With the Greatjon defeated, Black Walder continued to drag Catelyn up the stairs and threw a door open before pushing her inside. Her 'cell' was a modest bedchamber with a single cot, an unlit fire and a large window overlooking the swollen Green Fork. Blazing light streamed through the window into the bedchamber.
"See for yourself." Black Walder gestured towards the window.
Slowly, Catelyn crossed the chamber and peered out of the window at the field below. The tents that the Frey's had so generously erected for Robb's army had collapsed, becoming a raging inferno that cast its light upon the massacre. Men were cut down in their cups whilst Stark and Tully banners alike were set afire and trampled on.
She felt Black Walder's presence again as he stepped up behind her and fisted a hand in her auburn hair. Catelyn began to tremble as he inhaled slowly, pressing his face into her tresses. She'd heard the rumours that circled this man like crows at a corpse. Black Walder was known to take what he wanted, by force if necessary, and that included many of his brothers wives.
Gathering her hair in one hand, he threw it over her shoulder before running his fingers along her collarbone. Below, another commotion broke as shouts of 'Here comes the King in the North!' was taken up. Black Walder lifted Catelyn's heavy skirts, finding creamy skin beneath. Hope blossomed in her chest: it may have been too late for Robb and herself but perhaps the Northmen had rallied together. Black Walder took an earlobe between his teeth, suckling the soft flesh. The chanting group made their way beneath the portcullis and onto the field of fire and death.
The sob tore from Catelyn as the light fell upon the group. Robb's body had been propped up on his horse, his head hacked off and replaced with the head of his direwolf, Grey Wind. Catelyn ducked her gaze but Black Walder gripped her chin tightly, fingers biting into her flesh, and forced her to watch as they paraded her son's mutilated body around the camp. His crown of bronze and iron had been crudely set upon Grey Wind's head.
Black Walder leaned in close and whispered, "All hail the Young Wolf."
It was finally quiet. During the course of the night, the sounds of the massacre had slowly faded into nothingness. The clashing of steel and the whinnying of horses had been the first to die, followed by the crackle of the raging fires and lastly, the screams of the dying men. Catelyn lay beneath the window, curled in on herself as the cold from the tiles seeped into her bones. She doubted whether she would ever feel warmth again.
My husband is dead. My sons are all dead. Arya is most likely dead and Sansa is married to the Imp. My husband is dead. My sons are all dead. Arya is most likely dead and Sansa is married to the Imp. My husband is dead. My sons—
The bolt was drawn noisily and the heavy oaken door of her cell pulled open. Catelyn hoped it wasn't Black Walder returning; he'd kept their vigil by the window the previous night until he'd grown bored and dropped her to the floor. She was yet to move.
Ever since Ned's death she'd been tamping her grief down to remain strong for her eldest son as he carried the heavy burden of being King in the North. Who was she remaining strong for now? In little less than a year she had lost most of her family and the grief was finally consuming her.
Gentler hands than Black Walder's pulled Catelyn to her feet. Three of Lord Walder's daughters stripped her of her clothing that was black and stiff with blood. They avoided her gaze as they dipped cloths into a pail of freezing water and scrubbed her clean. One of the daughter's poured wine over her shoulder and wiped the blood away from where the quarrel had hit, burning away any infection. The wine stung but Catelyn made no sound. Whilst her shoulder was bandaged, another daughter brushed her hair through and deftly plaited it down her back. They dressed her in a simple gown that was too short at the ankles and wrists but too large everywhere else.
Once finished, the three daughters left the bedchamber with averted eyes whether through shame, disinterest or anger she would never know. Ser Edwyn Frey stood in the doorway, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other clenched in a tight fist. His mouth was set in a grim line, his split lip a vivid red scab. Catelyn's fingers itched to hit him again.
"This way, my lady."
Catelyn mustered all of her strength and walked from the bedchamber with her back ramrod straight and her head held high. Inside she was lost, broken and grief-stricken but outwardly she was cold, calm and dignified. Ser Edwyn walked behind her but she didn't need his guidance to know where their destination would be.
The Great Hall had already been scrubbed clean, leaving no evidence of the butchery that had occurred a few short hours ago. Lord Walder was sat in his high, intricately carved seat, a gleeful, self-satisfied expression adorning his face, whilst the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton, stood impassively by his side. He still wore his pink cloak, stained with blood, and the longsword that had stolen her son's life hung at his hip. Catelyn walked slowly down the centre of the hall towards them. She willed her body to betray none of her inner turmoil, even as voices whispered in her mind and the ghosts descended upon her.
You are Catelyn Stark (My husband is dead.), the Lady of Winterfell (My sons are all dead.), and mother to the King in the North (Arya is most likely dead and Sansa is married to the Imp).
"Lady Stark, I trust you enjoyed last nights festivities, heh." Lord Walder took a long, slurping gulp from his goblet and studied her over the rim. She didn't flinch but met his cruel gaze. His eyes cut to Lord Bolton who pulled a piece of parchment from an inner pocket of his doublet and passed it to the aged Lord of the Crossing. Lord Walder gave an ostentatious clearing of the throat and read, "Roslin caught a fine fat trout. Her brothers gave her a wolf pelt for her wedding. Not bad, I'd say: rather poetic, heh. This will be sent straight to King's Landing where the news will spread that House Frey and House Bolton dutifully destroyed the rebellion."
Catelyn wanted to ask whether it was duty that inclined them to behead her son's corpse and sew his direwolf's head on its shoulders. She held her tongue though and stared at him unwaveringly. She would not forget this. The North would not forget this.
Lord Walder gave a grand, single clap of his hands and Ser Edwyn gripped her upper arm before marching her closer towards his great-grandfather. The Frey patriarch allowed his watery eyes to roam over her hungrily as he licked his lips and gave her a lecherous grin.
"Fear not, Lady Stark, for you still have quite the part to play yet."