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Mother
Larys stroked Bran's hair, trying so hard not to cry. The boy sat still as stone, and she was reminded of the statues of kings of old, deep beneath Winterfell. How could this have happened?
The whole time the men had been on a hunt, Larys had been with Cat, laughing, smiling, trying and failing to think of baby names. Cat had even found it in her to truly laugh when Larys mentioned some of the terrible names Jon had suggested. And now the woman sat silent in her seat, despairing. Larys could only imagine what she felt. All she could do was be beside her as she suffered.
The only warning from the Gods was in the whispered cacophony in the back of her mind. But it had been there so long it was like background noise, a constant, almost comforting, buzz. Fall or fly, she thought she'd heard one say. But that meant nothing to her, as meaningless as the rest of them.
Even now, she wondered whether it had anything to do with Bran. He had fallen, so how could he fly? Luwin had said he'd never walk again, poor child. How could a boy with no legs, fly? She was no witch; she did not know what it meant, what she was supposed to do. The Gods clearly wanted her to do something, but what?
Catelyn weaved the prayer-net silently, staring at the woman on the other side of the bed, stroking Bran's hair like he was her own. Listened silently as she told him Dornish folk-tales, stories of wildlings, stories of the Children, even a story from Lys her Uncle would tell her. Fumed silently, as she glowed like the sun, good times evident in the thick, shining rope of her braid, the clear gold of her skin, the roses in each cheek and sparkle in each eye. And Catelyn looked at her crippled child, pale and wan in a bed so big he looked like a ship lost at sea, too far to see, too far to touch.
Outwardly, her face was like ice, hands moving mindlessly, over and under; inside she was wroth as a storm, screaming, ripping out her hair, and cursing the Gods. How dare this Dornish bitch touch her son, her Bran, as if she wasn't the reason for the downfall for of House Stark?
Without her, Ned wouldn't have dared give the Bastard his name, give him land and a holdfast, men to follow him and smallfolk to praise him. Without her, it would have been Robb betrothed to a charming young maiden, the envy of every boy, Lord, and King. Without her, Bran never would have travelled north, grown wild, ignored her commands and climbed that thrice-damned tower. It was her, she screeched, her!
A tiny part of her, hidden deep beneath layers and layers of hate and fury and toil, shook its head. It's your fault, it whispered. You were the one that laughed with her, like a stupid little girl freshly wed, instead of watching your own son. You let this snake work its way into this family, this heart. You trusted her and she betrayed you.
No matter, Catelyn thought heavily to herself. It was almost done now. There was no knot in the world that could not be undone, no problem that could not be solved, no man, woman, or child that could not be killed.
Larys warmed her hands with the cup of tea Cat had brought her. Even at her lowest times, the woman was gracious to a fault. How could she find it in her to ensure a guest was comfortable when her son was lost in his own mind? I hope I am half the woman she is when I am her age, Larys thought, and sipped the tea.
Her immediate reaction was completely hidden, only in her mind. On the outside, her face became slightly wooden, soft smile fixed, stitched on. But she knew this taste, this bitter, tart, acrid taste. Even when masked by honey, wine, or a hundred spoons of sugar, Larys knew this taste.
Moon tea.
Gods, how could she have been such a fool? She'd been poisoned, by the very woman she'd dare call mother. Her son, her baby, her boy. Dead dead dead. Purple, bloated, dead before he was alive.
Rotting, rotting in those dark crypts, locked in stone. Flesh and blood, trapped, turning from sweet child to bones and dust. Perhaps he was dying now, perhaps he was already dead and she was carrying his corpse. Weighed down, like an anchor, like a ball and chain. Was he rotting inside her? Maggots eating his flesh, eating hers?
Larys blinked- the bitch had killed her child.
She looked down at the murky, boiling liquid, gripped it until her hands shook in her lap, white-knuckled and taut. It was a hard cup, carved from whale-bone, heavy and cool despite the scalding poison within. Larys rose calmly, trying not to wobble. It was like the weight of her own child had suddenly thrown her off.
Slowly, calmly, as if nothing was wrong, she walked to the window besides Catelyn Tully, staring down at the empty courtyard below. She felt the woman's eyes follow her. In one, smooth motion, she emptied the cup out of the window, watching it splash onto the floor far, far below.
With a shriek, she whirled around and swung the cup into Catelyn's face. It smashed into her nose with a shower of blood and a pained scream, and the woman fell to her knees in agony, prayer net forgotten on the floor. Bran's direwolf, sat atop the sleeping boy's bed, sat up, ears perked, but did not move.
"You bitch!" Larys screeched, pummelling the older woman's face again and again with the blood-stained cup. "You fucking bitch!"
Her hands were slick with hot, wet blood, and she felt a feral pleasure at seeing the woman weakly raise her hands, at the crack of her breaking nose and teeth. Somehow, Catelyn swung her legs out and Larys fell to the floor with a groan, bruising herself on the unforgiving stone floor.
The red-haired and red-faced woman scrambled away on her stomach, blinded with blood in her eyes, dishevelled and screaming. Larys snarled and latched onto her ankle, knocking her flat and dragging her away from the door. With a grunt, she heaved herself off the floor and buried her fist in Catelyn's long red hair, twisting and pulling. She opened her mouth to speak but released only a wordless howl of fury.
Face stained with blood and fiercely set, eyes wild and hungry, she dragged the Lady Catelyn by her hair. The older woman scratched at her hand, kicked her legs furiously, called out to her still and sleeping son. His direwolf sat watching.
Larys reached the top of the steep stairs, and put her face beside Catelyn Tully's.
"I carry the son of wolves, of dragons, of the red sands of Dorne. I will set the world ablaze before I let him die at the hands of Catelyn the Cunt," she hissed, tears pouring down her crazed face. "I called you Mother. Now I call you foe."
"It does not matter," Catelyn gasped, blood trickling from her smiling mouth. "That bastard is dead. The Mother has blessed me."
"The only mother here," Larys whispered, almost caressing the woman's face. "Is me."
At that moment, Larys was more Targaryen than Catelyn had ever been Stark; the words fire and blood never rang more true than when Lady Larys exacted her revenge. And as she leaned forward and whispered the truth in Catelyn Tully's ear, the dead woman's world was set asunder. Her face turned pale, her smile died, her eyes wide and blank. If Lady Tully had been mad before she knew, she was madder after she did.
Catelyn Stark was found dead at the bottom of the stairs, body twisted grotesquely like a sick puppet, face contorted into one of terror. Fallen, they said, stricken with grief. And while Winterfell wept for the loss of their Lady, Larys wept for the loss of her Mother, her trust, her innocence.