Catelyn Stark POV
Winterfell, Early Summer 292
"Of course you and your brood would arrive last," Catelyn thought wryly to herself, despite knowing that of all the major lords of the North he had the furthest to travel. She watched Lord Rickard, not quite two score name days old, rein up dramatically in Winterfell's courtyard and vigorously dismount in all his grizzled barbarian magnificence from the sturdy piebald he rode.
Every window in any tower, every crenel atop any wall, that offered a view was chock full of curious faces now that the compliment of major houses would be complete. This rival had the Stark "look," much more so than her Robb's Tully dominated features; and she had little doubt the would play up his status as "concerned cousin" in the coming days. But what was this lord's exact hopes in coming was the only question that had interested her with each new visitor to her son's birthright.
The Lord of the Karhold waited until all his Cyvasse pieces were also dismounted and arrayed in attack formation before advancing in mass to the thin defensive line Catelyn had set out to greet them. The same as she had done for the arrival of the thirty or so senior houses and clans already gathered in Winterfell and Wintertown. The two hundred lordlings not directly pledged to Winterfell had in the main only initially seen Vayon's face. For solidarity's sake, she and Robb had solicitously welcomed all the minor direct banners.
"Lord Robb," Rickard Karstark announced with a semi-respectful bow. No "Lord Stark" from him to a boy of eight regardless that her son was the man's liege lord.
"Lord Karstark, I welcome you and your family to Winterfell for this Summer Harvest Feast," The young lord paramount responded nobly; now very well practiced at the art of addressing noble visitors.
By solemn tradition dating back to the days of the King in the North, Winterfell held a Harvest Feast for the banner lords to come confirm their fealty to House Stark when the White Ravens had flown from the Citadel to announce the arrival of Autumn. However, as the current Summer was already overlong than usual, a lesser known custom of the North had been pushed forward by those lords unhappy with the current Regency Council; that of having a Harvest Feast at least seven years from the last, if Summer was in its fifth or greater year.
Benjen had joined with Lords Cerwyn and Hornwood to outvote her and Ser Wylis to allow all the crows to gather about the carcass of her dear Ned's legacy. Though to be fair to them, Medger and Halys had not agreed to the proposal out of any malice or greed, as they were as likely as her to lose their positions; but out of a Northman's sense of honor. Benjen on the other hand …
"I look forward to renewing my oath to your House, cousin. You remember my sons, don't you?"
Sixteen year old Harrion, twelve year old Eddard, and ten year old Torrhen all bobbed their heads dutifully whilest echoing, "My Lord."
"And fair Alys," Lord Rickard announced, manhandling to the front his six year old daughter like she was a cut of meat. "Curtsey, for Lord Robb," he ordered her
Robb smiled easily at the spindly little thing adorned in her house's traditional black and white colors, emphasizing her pale, long features. "Cousin Alys," he greeted her cheerfully.
This brought heat to the girl's cheeks and she looked shyly down at her riding boots until Catelyn suspected a strong hand prodded her back. "Lord Stark, thank you," she mumbled, earning her an unseen, predatory grin by Rickard through his thick, just salting, pepper beard.
Then the man commanded his troops forward, "Harrion, come speak with Brother Benjen about the latest news from Easwatch. See what he knows of this new commander, Cotter Pyke."
Robb looked surprise at the departure from the norm of the greeting line, but stayed quiet, watching for his mother's lead. Amused, more than shocked by Karstark's effrontery, Catelyn held her tongue to see how blatant the maneuvering would be.
"Eddard. Torrhen. Say hello to Lady Sansa."
Was that the main assault or merely a feint? "What would you do, my lord, if little Arya were here?" she wondered. Would he have the audacity to make an opening play for a betrothal to a babe of two and a half name days? Others already were, sending their children to play in the eerie Godswood; her younger daughter's favorite haunt with old Nan.
"Lady Stark, you look as lovely as ever," her husband's cousin announced bluntly.
"And you as strong as ever, Lord Rickard," she answered with a hint of coyness in her voice; seeing if he would respond in a manner that might reveal that she was his particular prize. Ser Wendel had made no bones about his intent towards her. Robett Glover had strongly suggested that his betrothal to Sybelle Locke was not so firm as most other's believed. And young Robin Flint tongue positively tripped over itself every time he spoke with her.
"The North breeds strength. It must. Are not House Stark's words, 'Winter is Coming,' my lady?" he patronized her.
Smiling politlely, Catelyn answered, "Indeed, those are my house's words, Lord Karstark;" counter-thrusting from behind her shield of courtesy. "And my son well remembers them; as well as many other lessons my lord husband imparted to him."
This drew a simple grunt in response from the Karhold; then, "Were Ned still here. Seems unnatural to be saying the oath …"
"To my son?" Catelyn thought hotly.
"… with Summer showing no hint of endings. Long time since this custom were invoked. Odd times."
"Yes, t'was last done by Cregan Stark," Catelyn said to show her knowledge of the North.
"Oh, aye," Lord Rickard agreed absentmindedly, attention now more on his children's maneuvering against her family than on her.
"After he had returned from serving as Hand of the King; at the end of the Dance of Dragons. He must have felt the need to receive his banners' oaths," she continued in an easy tone she did not feel.
"With a Riverlands' wife," her rival pointed out with more than a hint of derision; not acknowledging that that long ago Harvest Feast had happened ten years later and that Cregan's wife died soon thereafter.
"Aly Blackwood," she acknowledged.
"Aye, a Blackwood. At least she worshipped in front of the heart tree, she did," he said dourly.
"Let me repeat my son's welcome, Lord Rickard," Catelyn said with a polite smile to conclude the Karstarks formal arrival and signal the end of the conversation. She had discovered what she needed to know from this one. "Your journey here was long. Allow Lord Stark's steward, Lord Vayon, to show you to your quarters in the Great Keep."
Surprise and some pleasure glinted in those guarded, steely eyes. "The Great Keep? Considerate of you to keep rooms open so late for us, Lady Catelyn."
"Your house and mine are cousins," she emphasized. "Lord Vayon," she then called out in a louder voice; though she knew he was not far. "Please show Lord Rickard and his children to their apartment."
"Of course, my lady," the slender, just entering middle years lordling agreed pleasantly; by word and motion not betraying that the Karstarks' exalted destination had not been assured from the beginning, but upon what his lady might discover of their intent from the greeting. That and the diligent intelligence already gathered by her steward's loyal staff as to the alliances and understandings the host of lords present in the castle were in the process of keeping, forming, breaking, and remaking.
After the Lord of the Karhold collected his pieces from the board and departed at the side of dear Vayon, Catelyn called out, "Come, Lord Robb. Sansa. We must prepare for tonight's feast," she declared more for those observing from their perches up high than for her children. And on the morrow she would bravely face a majority of these same Northmen who wished her gone from Winterfell and her son's side.
Normally, when she must unburden her soul, Catelyn would visit the Sept Ned had generously built for her within Winterfell's vast confines to appease her anger over the bastard. Now, for reasons beyond the simple fact she could not allow her enemies the chance to see "That Southron Woman" visiting her gods and add it to their campaign of whispers and lies, she did not go there; for Robb's sake. That left her with only one choice; unfortunately for her trembling heart, the necessary one, regardless. She knew whose forgiveness she must beg.
Catelyn hated this deep, dark place. Hated the icy chill in the vaulted depth carved out beneath permanently half frozen earth; pierced this far down by only the narrow stairs, the castle's hot springs, and the twisted white roots of the alien heart tree that broke through in places between the roughly cut stones. She had always hated that this, by Stark tradition, was where her beloved's bones must rest for all eternity.
Not up where the sun, which he had brought to her life in the wintry North, could shine upon him. Warm him as he had warmed her. He deserved sky and wind and flowers and rain, and yes even snow; more than just the tears she wept for him as she clung to the cold stone sarcophagus – shaped in his image, but an insufficient expression to project the love he had held for her and their children with his every breath.
She had not wanted to come alone to this quintessentially Stark place. Typically, she would have asked Vayon to accompany her, but he was still busy seeing to the noble laggards and prominent drunkards partaking excessively of her house's largesse – apparently not caring whether they were sober or not for the morning's Great Council. Besides, how could she bring the man to share her doubts at the betrayal she more than contemplated making.
Instead, the quiet little crannogman had escorted her through the night to the entrance to the crypt. The only other of the company, than her Ned, to have survived the attempt to rescue poor, doomed Lyanna, had seemed an apt choice to accompany her on this voyage of guilt. But he had not descended into the crypts with her after all. At the heavy doors they had discovered little, Crone-touched Arya, waiting expectantly; no sign of a guard, let alone her nurse or her ever present shadow, dim Hodor.
"I want to see Father and Grandpapa and my Aunt and Uncle," her youngest had lisped with that calm certitude of her queer, almost adult like, nature.
The wiry Lord of mysterious Greywater Watch showed no strain in lifting up the door angled from the tower foot into the black earth, and then opened his arms to her as she held Arya. "I will see her to her bed, Lady Catelyn," Howland had said kindly.
"I want to see them," her daughter repeated as she passed between the two.
"One day child. Patience. Like your lady mother now, your journey shall come," he calmed her.
All the statues she knew, and a thousand more Starks beside, were here; running on and on through the flickering light and warped, human shaped shadows cast by her sole torch into the impenetrable mists of Winterfell's beginning. As far back as Bran the Builder so far as she knew.
Catelyn only cared for the one. Not even dashing Brandon's presence garnered her tear filled interest. She half sat and half sprawled at the base of Ned's cold, impenetrable tomb of human shaped granite. Holding it forcefully with the pitiful strength of her weak flesh; careful only to not cut herself on the sword Mikken had forged for Ned to hold forever, or until the iron decayed and fell away into red dust as many of the oldest already had.
"You never would had lied … Ned ... Always did right … by your Northern honor … even if it … shamed you," she sobbed, though the odd twists to his strict morals had more humiliated her than him it had oft seemed. Starting with the bastard. At least the Manderlys' had not brought him; using only mentions of him to push their influence.
Unyielding, unforgiving stone eyes peered down through the gloom at her crumpled pitifully before him.
"I do it for the children Ned ... the children … our children."
Quiet met her words.
"You'd be so proud of Robb. He's grown so in the last year. He watches everything fron the high table. Asks so smart questions. And he'll wield Ice smartly and wisely when the time comes, my love. Ser Rodrik gave him a true sword to start practicing with just last month. You'd be so proud."
His spirit did not reply to her pleas to his paternal pride.
"Sansa is so beautiful. Much prettier than I ever was. She'll be a great lady, one day, once she blooms. I know it. I know it," she hoped aloud.
The silence in the cold, stuffy air lingered.
"And precious Arya, she … she looks just like you Ned. Oh to see her …" it broke her heart in so many ways to think o'er much about Arya; her odd little one, born too soon and never held in Ned's arms.
Silence and silence and silence.
"I must do, what I must do, my love. For the family. For our children. Forgive me, please," she begged. "Trust me. As I trusted you and you trusted him."
And drained of tears and her burden, Catelyn wrapped hands around the sword pointed into the cold ground in order to pull herself a right. After two years, the blade was still quite enough, cutting her hands; though not badly, leaving an offering of blood to appease the Stark in Winterfell who mattered most to her.
The Council in the North had entered its seventh turning of the hourglass by Maester Luwin. The first few of them given over to either those lordlings showing support to her and House Stark or those lordlings who were secretly directed by their lieges to criticize all and everything done in Robb's name over the past two and a half years. Benjen, as head of the Regency Council, should by duty have directed the assignment of who spoke when, but he made no real effort at it; allowing his truculent fellow Northmen to wander this way and that, with plenty of interruptions and contradictions, in their litanies of praise and complaints.
Her goodbrother, in his mind, was already back at the Wall as far as she was concerned; appallingly wishing to wash his hands of his family and honor. Catelyn knew he liked her not; her fostering of the bastard to White Harbor the cause of the unrepairable breach between them – "Jon is our blood. Stark blood. You wronged Ned by sending him away." She did not doubt he wanted her off the Regency Council, but despite their differences he was not so petty as to desire her thrown out of Winterfell and away from Robb.
However, the fool refused to understand, no matter how much she begged, that others did wish so and would use his indifference against her. At least he was not using his hosting of the Council to make war against her. Thankfully, she could use his unskilled handling of the proceedings to her own benefit.
While a majority of lords wanted her gone, as well as Lord Medger, Lord Halys, and Ser Wylis; there was far from a consensus among these same arrogant Northmen as to who should sit on Robb's Regency Council instead of them. The longer they argued about who deserved what, the more remote became the chances they would agree. And the greater the chance that she might peel a few of the less recalcitrant barbarians to join with her loyalists so that an acceptable accommodation might be reached.
"And I say bugger the Watch. You all know the Last Hearth don'y say those words lightly; sufferin' worst from them wildling scum's raiding. But it has to be said, bugger 'em. Bugger Jeor Mormont, though he be a good man." And he tipped his head a tad sheepishly towards Maege Mormont in saying it. "But mostly bugger you, Benjen Stark," the Greatjon raged. He then turned and pointed a tree trunk sized arm to focus his considerable ire on the only target close enough for. "Shame on you Benjen Stark, for running from yer family and hearth. Ned would be ashamed of you, leaving his son to the likes … to the no good likes of .. of, well, of all you greedy shites."
This last caused half an uproar of anger and half an out crying of mirth in the Great Hall.
If any here were a champion for Robb and Catelyn, it was, for better or worse, the Greatjon. Her goodbrother's face flushed, but he remained silent against the attack; as she knew he would. He had answered the question hours earlier. "I gave an oath." And that was all he would say on the matter.
Months earlier she had cajoled Jeor Mormont to write him, giving him leave to remain in Winterfell until Robb came of age. If his Lord Commander's word and his family's need would not sway the stubborn, traitorous crow, what hope did these simple lords have?
"Benjen Stark is not the only Stark run from his family," Ondrew Locke shouted as he rose to his feet. Catelyn suspected his antagonism grew mostly from concern over his granddaughter's nuptial status. "Where be Ned Stark's natural son, I ask you lords? Where is Jon Snow, the only other son of Stark blood? Cast out by the Southron women to be raised in the Faith of the Seven and not to believe in the Old Gods as his father did."
This accusation could not go unanswered and Wyman Manderly wobbled to his feet in anger; quickly joined by Wylis and Wendel. "Do not disparage the Seven nor those of us in the North who hold to them, Locke. Our oaths to House Stark are as strong as any of your own. And our swords and sword arms equally so if you would care to try them."
"Of course the old Walrus says so; he has the boy and will marry him to one of his daughters as soon as she flowers," proclaimed Lord Rodrik with disgust.
"I've plenty enough sword for the likes of a pissant like you too, Ryswell," Manderly snarled, setting his red jowls to quiver further.
"You sit on the Regency Council too. Why is House Manderly doubly blessed? Did I not lose a husband by Lord Eddard's side," Lady Barbrey complained. "When does Barrowton's word get taken into account in the works of Winterfell?"
"You are not even a proper Dustin, Lady Ryswell," Galbart Glover sniped sarcastically. "My cousin Ethan fell in Dorne too, but you have not heard me bitch about the Deepwood's needs. You only still sit in Barrow Hall thanks to Lord Eddard's sufferance; and from his love for Lord Willam. Ronald Dustin should hold title by all true accounts."
A general, pleasing, outburst of bickering of a whole slew of grievances broke out. The more discord the better Catelyn thought; her eyes could not fly fast enough around the Great Hall to keep track of who said what to whom in support of or against her or even if it was at all relevant to …
"ENOUGH!"
For a room engulfed in a cacophony, that an outburst could cut through the noise was startling. Triply so that the inexplicably loud voice came out of the mouth of Roose Bolton. The crescendo of noise lower to a dull roar.
The pale faced, quiet man smiled sardonically at all the faces agape at his unexpected blaring utterance. "I despise you all," he announced in his usual soft voice, causing the lords and ladies in the Great Hall to lean forward to hear him. "And if I must hear more of your childish bickering, I fear I must slit my own throat with my flaying knife; regardless of how much it would pain me to know what pleasure you all would take in it."
Silence met this unusual pronouncement.
Catelyn sat confused, trying to calculate what the Dreadfort was trying to accomplish. The only allies he might have here were the Ryswells and Lady Barbrey, parent and siblings to his young son Domeric's mother. And they had come across as hostile to Winterfell.
Then the Greatjon started laughing. A few joined in until the hairy giant roared gleefully, "I'll slit your throat for you if you wish, Bolton. Or break it with my hands if you'd rather," which caused significantly more in the room to join in.
"To no longer be forced to listen to you bray like the giant arse you are Umber, a third of the lords here might join me," the Lord of the Dreadfort replied without a seeming ounce of humor.
"Aye, they might just," agreed the Greatjon with a huge snicker. "So who's with Bolton?"
"By the Old Gods, don't forget the ladies either," announced Maege Mormont, rising up from among her parcel of daughters; where they sat not far from Umber. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Could you not have bathed, Jon?" the doughty looking woman accused scathingly.
That last quip set the whole of the Great Hall off on a burst of raucous laughter, even Catelyn joined in despite most of her brain still trying to work out why and to what purpose this outburst was occurring.
"Give me your vote, Maege, and I'll let you bathe me yourself," the Greatjon clamored through the hurly burly.
"I've already seen enough of you naked to know not all of you be giant, Littlejon. But aye, you have my vote whatever it be for," the Lady of Bear Island declared. "No one doubts you loved Ned best of us lords and would see the best for his bairn; and Winterfell too."
Perhaps Howland Reed might have disputed that proclamation, but he remained silent as a vast cheer went up from those lordlings and sons and daughters sitting around both Umber and Mormont.
"What does the Dreadfort receive for giving you my vote?" Bolton's voice somehow cut through the tumult.
"A betrothal of my daughter Bearena for your Domeric!"
The moon faced lord paused a moment to consider and then nodded his head "yes" once.
"And what of Deepwood Motte?" bellowed Galbart Glover.
Confusion reigned for a second upon Greatjon's huge, open visage. He took a deep breath. "Have Robett marry sweet Sybelle Locke and your brother has a seat on the Regency Council!" the great oaf cried, causing an uproar of slightly more parts excitement than consternation as the dimmest speaking lord of the North began auctioning off seats to that which did not belong to him.
"By the Seven," Catelyn cursed under her breath in amazement.
As she walked in her Stark colored cloak down the twisting path opened for her and Benjen, Catelyn judged she had never seen the Godswood so full before. For once the sounds of people murmuring and shifting where they stood packed together drowned out the preternatural quiet that filled this Old Gods' haunted wood. And the ravens that frequently habited the eerie grove, who should have been disturbed by so massive an intrusion, respectfully refrained from adding their CAW! CAW! CAW! to the ceremony.
Greatjon Umber had served Robb, herself, Ned, House Stark, and Winterfell well, exceptionally well, a week earlier. She nodded gratefully towards him as she passed his hulking form on the last curve, earning a wink back from him.
The newly chosen Regency Council awaited her in front of the heart tree: Robett Glover – brother of Lord Galbart, Roger Ryswell – heir of the Rills and brother of Lady Dustin, Leobald Tallhart – brother of Lord Helman and married to the younger sister of Lord Halys, Donnel Flint – heir of Clan Flint, and lastly her trusted steward, dear Vayon.
All notable enough in their own way, but none too notable that the Great Lords of the North had cause to do anything more than grumble into the dregs of their wine cups from the toast that had sealed the grand bargain made at the Council in the North. "I didn't gain power over the boy lord and Winterfell, but at least none of those others did either."
When she and Benjen stopped in front of the weirwood, carved face staring down into her Southron, Seven faithful soul, four of the lords stepped aside to stand beside her children: Arya, holding Robb's hand, and on the other side of him, Sansa, beside whom stood her betrothed – ten year old Torrhen Karstark, the price of Lord Rickard's vote. This left Catelyn only her betrothed to face in front of the crowd.
"Who gives this bride away?"
"I, Benjen, formerly of House Stark and now a Brother of the Night's Watch, give my goodsister way as bride."
"I, Catelyn, of House Stark, am the bride."
Her dear friend looked at her kindly. She recognized that he too was making a sacrifice of sorts on her behalf. She had upon a time considered Ser Rodrik, also a widower, as a possible groom; but despite his and his house's evident loyalty to Robb, his worship of the Seven would only add fuel to the backbiting in the North against her.
"I, Vayon, Lord of House Poole, come to marry this woman."
"Catelyn, do you accept Vayon as your new lord and husband?" Benjen asked.
"I take this man," she answered.
Vayon smiled and stepped forward and to her side so that they were next to each other. Then they joined hands and knelt towards the heart tree, heads bowed. "Forgive me Ned," she prayed over and over at her betrayal of his memory. "Keep Robb and Sansa and Arya safe."
Too soon she felt Vayon tugging her back to her feet.
He stepped behind her, arms reaching over her shoulders to unclasp the thick ice white wool emblazoned with a grey wolf. Vayon slipped it off her shoulders and passed it over to Benjen.
Young Jeyne, her Sansa's best friend in Winterfell and Vayon's only child, then stepped forward holding a different cloak – one with a large blue dot on a grey-white field; it overflowed her wee arms.
The new mantle fit, if not perfectly, about her. She was now wed; no longer officially neither a Tully nor a Stark, though in her heart she would remain both forever.
Her lord and husband picked her up. By tradition he would carry her in his arms to the wedding feast. But first they would make a stop; the payment of her dowry for this marriage and Vayon's place on Robb's Regency Council.
Stoically, Catelyn forbade herself to cry.
The flames soared high in the air as the blaze which crept up the walls finally reached the roof.
She would not use the smoke as an excuse for why tears might be seen in her eyes.
Vayon understandingly held her hand and periodically gave it a comforting squeeze.
The first of the seven walls of the building at last yielded enough to cave in with a crash.
The gathered Northmen gave a cheer.
Several who had attended the wedding, led by the Manderlys, had not stopped to witness the destruction of the Sept that Ned had built for her.
For Robb's sake, she was only a Northron woman now.
"Forgive me Mother, Father," Catelyn Tully whispered deep in her tortured, withered heart.