She would return to Winterfell within the fortnight. Catelyn had at first refused to believe that the letter she held within her hands bore the truth, had at first trembled with unspoken rage at what she perceived to be a cruel game, her senses screaming for her to see, to realise and not to give in to her despairing wish. She had at first refused to believe, yet she had been mistaken; the words were to be trusted. She would return to Winterfell within the fortnight.
It had all happened too fast. The raven from King's Landing, the message upon which she recognised Ned's handwriting that scarcely looked like his, as though he had been too weak even to hold a quill yet forced himself to write, the Spider and her return… It had all happened too fast.
The Spider. Lord Varys. His name was nowhere mentioned in the message but Catelyn was no fool; who else could have been capable of saving her Lord Husband from the dungeons beneath the Red Keep, who else could have freed him so quickly, so easily? She would not inquire further, not now, not in this moment, dared not speak as each word overheard by those who should not hear could sentence them all to death, dared not send note as ravens would be shot… But he was free. Ned was free.
Ned was free. She would return to Winterfell within the fortnight, and he... He would await her, would await his wife and once more enfold her into his arms. What a sweet thought it was. It seemed so far away and yet so close, seemed so unreal… She would return to Winterfell, would soon be reunited with her husband, so soon… But there was a price to pay. There was a price, as why else should the Spider assist them, why else should he save him, Eddard Stark, who was despised, branded as a traitor…? There was a price to pay, a terrible price… Surely Robb was aware, surely her son knew… Surely he had consented. And she trusted him. She had no other choice than to trust him.
It was safest to ride, to ride far off the Kingsroad, and to ride alone. Perhaps they would refuse, perhaps they would not allow her to ride alone, would advise her to accept accompaniment on her journey, but Catelyn cared not for their advice. The war was far from over, had only begun, and only the Gods knew how much destruction, how much sorrow, lay still ahead of them. Robb needed his men, required each of them in battle, and she would not allow herself to take any of them away from him. Besides, if they were discovered… No. It was safest to ride alone; she knew the path, she would not be harmed.
How desperately she longed for home. Catelyn had dreamed, night by night she had dreamed and nearly surrendered to her dreams, had seen Winterfell, Ned, the girls… The girls. There had been no mention of the girls in her husband's letter, and it concerned her, concerned her deeply. Her daughters, Sansa, Arya, taken hostage by the Lannisters, still captured in King's Landing… What had been done to them, had they been harmed, were they still alive? The questions, the uncertainty, weighed heavy upon her heart, deprived her of sleep, of her senses and at times she believed even of her sanity. Night by night, she would kneel before her bed and pray to the Seven until dawn broke, until weariness took her, would silently beg the Mother to one day return her girls to her, to watch over them and to protect them, to protect her eldest son in battle, to protect her younger boys in Winterfell. If only she were to listen… Catelyn would gladly give her life in exchange for her children, would gladly throw herself into the Trident to become one with the water if only it meant to know them safe from any harm. But what would it do to allow such thoughts to linger within her mind, to allow herself to long for the unspeakable in the moments the sorrow grew beyond her endurance? What would it do to succumb to weakness?
He was free. Ned was a free man and soon her daughters, too, would be free to return to Winterfell. Soon Robb would emerge from the war victorious. They all would emerge victorious.
Winterfell appeared to have fallen into an eternal sleep in the moment Catelyn had turned her back to the castle's walls. Now, she closed her eyes as she stepped through the stone corridors, breathing in the familiar scent of her home of so many years. To believe that once she had been frightened of what she adored now, what she had missed so dearly… It seemed sheer impossible, felt foolish even, to remember those times long past when at this moment the present meant everything.
Ned had not yet returned. Catelyn had received word of her husband's injuries, of his weakened condition, yet was not informed about anything else, hoped so despairingly that he was close, that soon he would arrive in Winterfell. She would wait for him. She would wait for him as she had waited for him once before, as she had waited for her father, the Lord of Riverrun… She would wait for him, would wait for her Ned, would enfold Bran and Rickon into her arms and tell them tales of their brother's bravery, would speak to Maester Luwin and visit the Godswood as though a visit alone were capable of giving her husband the strength he required for the remnants of his journey, would kneel down in her Sept and pray for her family's safety… Pray for home. How could Winterfell be Winterfell without Ned? She would wait.
Catelyn would wait, swore a silent oath that she would wait… But her own wayfare had made her weary, caused her to retreat to her bedchambers early, to cover her shivering body with the fur, as though until this moment she had forgotten about the cold. No… No, she had not forgotten… There had merely been greater agonies than the cold.
Sleep had nearly taken her when, from the corner of her eye, she saw the heavy wooden door open, saw a man step into the chamber, slowly and with heavy steps, head lowered from the burden he'd had to carry in these past days, so clearly fatigued, dragging his injured leg as though it were no longer a part of his body.
"Cat," he spoke, his voice gentle, no louder than a faint whisper in the dark, and Catelyn was home at last.
But when she awoke, Ned was gone. When she awoke, the familiar walls of Winterfell were no more than memories, images conjured by her weary mind, perhaps to soothe her, to give her solace, perhaps to torture her even further, to deprive her of her senses, her sanity… When Catelyn awoke, she found herself in her tent once more, looked down at her fingers, trembling still where the Valyrian steel had cut through her once-so-delicate skin, and saw them stained with ink and traces of her tears shed for no one but herself to see, the crumpled parchment bearing the news still within her hands. When she awoke, she began to realise, had thoughts about surrendering to the darkness and falling into sleep once more, an eternal sleep, as she found all her hopes to be shattered, as she found her dreams to be nothing but dreams, sweet and yet made of smoke.
When she awoke, nothing but dust remained.