Catelyn (II)
May 8
The eastern sky was pink and golden as the sun broke over Blackwater Bay. Catelyn Stark watched the Seven gifted light spread out to announce the birth of another day. Below her the world turned slowly from black to grey to a rainbow of hues as the dawn crept across coal dark water, the tenements of Southwark, fields left unplowed in practical acknowledgement of the oncoming Reachers, and the distant Kingswood. She placed restless hands on the redstone of the battlement atop the keep to steady them; allowing her to spy with level blue eyes what could be seen, but no longer aided.
The sounds of his grace's fleet, working to ferry the "pointless gesture" as the father of the unborn child in her womb bitterly described it, had long filled her ears before the piercing rays had granted vision to the unfolding spectacle. The familiar clip clop of hooves, the neighing of nervous horses, the jingle of mail, and the clanking of plate also caught her ear, but not as distinctly. Two thousand knights, squires, and mounted men-at-arms of the Riverlands were gathering in the fields that lay either side of the Kingsroad across the river from the city. Their banners hung limply in the heavy, dew laden air. Catelyn knew them all intimately; a smudge of color or some beast's limb being all she needed to discern whose house it belonged to: Mallister, Vance of Atranta, Bracken, Frey, Ryger, Piper, and more. Largest of all dangled the silver Tully Trout on a field of azure and red mud also emblazoned with the house motto of "Family, Duty, Honor;" the whole pennant so folded over upon itself only the tail and a hodgepodge of random letters shown.
Beneath the banner of her birth house, bestride a mighty charger with his helm still off, sat her brother; listening to leal lordlings, vigorously gesturing commands, and sending off martial messengers for this or that new arriving company. Catelyn feared for Edmure and prayed that the Warrior and the Crone both would watch over him; he had been captured before. She turned her head to look over Roslin's brown locks at her son. Pride filled her heart. Robb and the banners of the North had captured the mighty Kingslayer, set a Lannister army to flight, freed Edmure, and relieved Riverrun. Robb still kept the red beard she'd first seen on his cheeks at Moat Caillin; making him appear a younger version of her brother. The Stark elements of her son were as prominent as his Tully features, just hidden within from simple observation. Much as he might have wanted to, if disaster struck Edmure again, Robb would not be riding to his rescue.
The fact that Robb did not ride this morning with his uncle chaffed at her son, but filled Catelyn with happiness. All the way down the Neck and across the Riverlands she had worried about her son; her eldest, her baby only a few short years earlier, trying his best to hide his fears, to play a man's role, and to act a great lord. A mummer's performance he no longer needed to portray, for war had beaten the last of childhood from him. Gods be praised, with victory came the honor to live and prosper in his new found maturity. And now between mother and son stood the last rite of his passage into manhood: a pregnant, adoring wife. Ned had taught him well; so though Robb chaffed at the waiting, he understood the need for patience and cool judgment.
Over the years, Catelyn had become very good at waiting. Men had always been leaving her to wait; first father, "Watch for me little cat." Then Uncle Brynden too, more frequently after mother's death and invariably following an argument with father, "I'll be back before the white raven announces the change of season." "We will be wed upon my return," Brandon had vowed under the branches of Riverrun's godswood. Only his bones had returned and them to Winterfell, where they might mold for all eternity within a sepulcher deep beneath the earth. So a different Stark had said a different vow to her, this one spoken inside a sept. And a fortnight later she began waiting for this stranger called Ned, as well. Her husband had at least left her with the seed of a gift to while away the time waiting; a present that took nine months of waiting and seventeen excruciating hours of labor to flower. Her husband did finally return, still a stranger, bringing a bastard with him. A bastard whom Catelyn couldn't wait to leave, but wouldn't. A bastard who held a secret which it took fifteen years to reveal; a secret she wasn't even sure was true.
She had waited patiently and thankfully love had grown between her and Ned. She looked at her hands flat against the redstone. They still faintly trembled. She turned them over to stare at the deep scars running through the palms. She had waited for Bran to awake, nearly losing her life in doing so. That she did not begrudge her crippled son. He waiting until she left him, left Winterfell for other parts of her splintered family were in danger too, to awaken; that bitterness she hid beneath her joy at his rejoining the family. Then once at King's Landing she waited again for Ned; and as quickly as she saw her husband, she left, and then the madness began.
She waited for word of Ned, imprisoned in a Black Cell; and of her daughters held hostage. She waited for Robb to live at the Whispering Wood and again outside Riverrun. Then harsh, heart rendering words did come and she prepared to wait again; this time for Sansa, Arya, and Ned's bones, until a miracle of the Old Gods intervened. Ned's arms held her again. Ned's lips kissed her again. Ned's seed put life in her again. The waiting for Arya ended first and then poor Sansa later, but more war and more horrible waiting remained. She waited for husband, son, uncle, and brother when they first stormed the city; and again, when they stormed the Red Keep. Now they all waited for Lord Renly. Catelyn felt shame at feeling so pleased for having now to wait for only Edmure's return.
Catelyn loved her family. "Family" being the first word of her house's motto, the one most cherished. She would give all for them. Openly she had wept loud tears of joy at her beloved gooddaughter's announcement of a coming grandchild. Her love wept secret tears of pain each day for the absent Bran and Rickon. Alone she wept silent tears for the beloved father soon to walk with the Stranger. Her love wept secret tears of joy each day that she held Sansa and Arya again; though they were not the same daughters who had left her in Winterfell, childhood had been remorselessly beaten out of them too. Alone she wept silent tears for the sweet girl her beloved sister had once been and was no more. Openly her love placed a calm mask over her face for Edmure's honor, while within Catelyn wept secret tears of worry for her brother. Alone she had wept tears of joy discovering a child grew within, while openly she had wielded the announcement of it like a weapon against her husband.
Alone she wept silent tears for the agony that Ned had suffered while he waited either death or dishonor in that Black Cell. Alone she wept for the secret too long tearing at her heart. Most of all, she wept secret tears of love for the strong, gentle, brooding, clever, infuriating, watchful, maimed man standing quietly on the other side of her right now. He had made today's happiness possible. He was making tomorrow's joy and the next day's and the day after that's possible too for the whole family. She took a trembling, scarred hand off the battlement and sought his only one out. She clasped it, feeling the warmth, the reassurance; cherishing it as she balanced precariously on a precipice with no safe place to step. He looked at her and gave that peculiar loving smile of his. Fear engulfed her love, surrounding her on that precipice with a darkness too terrifying to contemplate. The hand she clutched so desperately was not, and had never been, her Ned's.
Catelyn and Roslin bade their husbands good day and safe rides in the Outer Yard, where their horses, a direwolf, and three score mounted northmen waited them. If Edmure and the pride of the Riverlands were riding to prove for prickly honors sake that Renly could not approach King's Landing uncontested; then Winterfell, no matter they viewed the demonstration as foolish, would not, could not, remain safely ensconced behind walls. So out of the city 'Not' Ned and Robb must trot to personally inspect the whole line of catapult and wildfire laden redoubts built every half mile out a dozen leagues along the Blackwater Rush. Beyond that point equally prepared river galleys patrolled vigilantly. No doubt one or more of them would be haled to come to shore for examination.
Robb's youth allowed him the display, promptly followed by good natured ribaldry from the sworn men, of a parting kiss to sweet Roslin. Catelyn limited herself to enclosing Not Ned's leather sheathed stump between her soft hands once he was mounted and steadied. He did not ride as well as Ned had, even before the loss of his hand, but she had barely noted that during the glow that suffused her throughout the trek down from the Trident. "Stay safe," she whispered.
His lip curled ever so slightly too much as he smiled secretly back at her. "We'll return in three days," he announced confidently. She released his arm and off they rode.
"Shall we break our fast, Roslin?" Catelyn asked wearily.
"Yes, my lady. I wonder if Sansa and Arya are awake yet to join us?" her gooddaughter asked lightly.
"Arya's probably foxing the chicken coops for eggs," she replied with equal amusement.
".. or weaseling a hot pie from the oven." The two pregnant women shared a grin. Arya had become a more of a handful than ever she was at Winterfell, thick as thieves with Jon Snow and underfoot the household staff. One of the many ways Roslin was proving a blessing was with Arya, though it pained Catelyn somewhat that her youngest was now as prone to confide to her goodsister as often as she was to her mother. Had Arya done the same in Winterfell with Brandon's bastard, but she never knew?
Sansa was little better. She divulged nothing of consequence to Catelyn. When asked any personal question her elder daughter invariably dodged the conversation by claiming the need to practice one of Not Ned's haunting songs or to attend the queen. At least she did not unburden herself to Roslin instead, only to poor, fragile Jeyne. Catelyn frowned as they and a quartet of guards walked back to the Maidenvault, 'and the Queen.'
She had not been present on the battlement nor with the king atop the Dragon's Tooth Tower. Not Ned despised her grace for her religion and as a rival for Sansa's affection. From her womanly perspective, Catelyn found Selyse Baratheon far from sympathetic for similar reasons, but certainly a far more complicated than her husband gave credit. Unattractive, yes. Blunt spoke as any lord, definitely. Wrapped and warped in the love of her fiery god, hellishly so. Yet … yet there was admirable strength, tenacity, and intelligence to the queen. Though she herself got along well with his Grace, marriage to an iron soul as his could only be difficult. And the poor greyscale stricken daughter? A sweet thing, surely; a credit somehow to the pair, but vinegar to a marriage's wine. What if a crippled Bran had been her and Ned's only child? Catelyn shivered. Whatever strength the Queen had endowed to Sansa, Catelyn hoped it would continue to grow once they left here and returned to Winterfell.
The steward and various servants waited just inside the main door to the Maidenvault for her return. "Duty" was the second of House Tully's words. She had risen early to see off Edmure and the guilt ridden Not Ned. One day she wished to allow herself to remain in bed and let duty pass her by. She was tired and hungry. It would grow worse as the baby grew larger within her. Not today. It could not be today. As she kept walking she passed the simple decisions off to Colen; a reasonably competent steward, but no Vayon Poole. She listened as she walked up the stairs to the cloaked chamber maid who served the Horse Tower, where Lancel Lannister and the new-come Westerlanders were kept on a short leash. She wished the ash girl from Maegor's had come this morning, but this would one would do.
"Ser Serret still refuses Lord Lancel's command to marry Lord Celtigar's daughter, milady. Even if it means he won't be made Lord of Silverhill. Says his secret betrothal to the lady cousin Myra of Lord Yarwyck is a love match," the thin, freckle-face girl half whispered, half giggled.
Common sense wasn't so common. Was love worth a great lordship? What was love worth? "Thank you, Elsbet," Catelyn answered and passed the chit a trio of stags. Not all the Westerlands were willing to be divvied up as willingly as the greedy lords in the alliance wished. Tobias Serrett had an already married younger brother and an unmarried youngest brother. Lord Willem Serrett's body had never been found after the Green Fork, though his men-at-arms claimed to have seen him go down. It was possible he still lived. Now Lord Yarwyck was prisoner in the Twins. Perhaps a raven to the Late Lord Walder could find Lord Luceon enticed into making his cousin Myra undeclared this 'love' match. She quickly ran through the list of valuable, but not too valuable, tokens Not Ned left for her to play with that might induce old irascible Walder to play.
"Goodmother, who watches our servants?" Roslin asked softly once it was just the pair of them again.
No flies between the ears of this one. How had one grown up in the backstabbing environment of the Twins proven so kind and sweet? It was a wonder or … no, Catelyn refused to go there. That way lay the madness of Aerys. But was she not mad, living with the lie? "The lowest of the low, daughter," she answered enigmatically.
The girl smiled knowingly, revealing the small, adorable gap between her front teeth. The girl would be calculating and observing and guessing for hours. Catelyn would be very curious how quickly and how accurate a list this unspoiled fruit of Walder Frey's wretched loins would produce.
Both Arya and Sansa were surprisingly in the dining room together, though naturally at opposite ends of the table. The Lady of Wintefell sighed. She dreamed of the day when they all returned home: of the coming babe nuzzling at her breast, of Rickon playing with a wooden sword, of waking to find her Ned in bed beside her, and of Arya and Sansa holding hands as they ran beneath the heart tree playing like she once did with Lysa. Bitter, deluded, mad Lysa. Dreams, just dreams.
"Good morning, children," she called out with false cheer.
"Mother. Roslin."
"Mother. Roslin."
"Lady Stark. Lady Roslin."
Oh, there was Jeyne. She hadn't seen her. What would her place be in Winterfell when they returned? Would she even want one? What were her now bitter dreams? Love? Marriage? Who would take a soiled bride? Catelyn filled her plate and sat to eat. Roslin joined her. To Arya's annoyance, she began quizzing her daughter about the Oakhearts.
"Must I, Mother?" Arya asked petulantly.
"When I was betrothed to Brandon, I immediately set myself to learning not just about House Stark, but the whole North. A single house should not prove difficult, young lady," she chastised.
Arya rolled her eyes. "You were twelve, I'm only ten," she wheedled.
"And already half a year Lady of Riverrun after my mother's death," she replied sternly. "Be glad no one in your family is … dead," she choked, "for you to take up such a burden. No begin with young Garth's grandparents, I know you've been given a book on the lineages of the Reach. Begin." Her youngest suddenly grimaced. Without looking, Catelyn knew Sansa had begun to smirk at her sister. "Behave, Sansa," she snapped.
"I'll be good, mother," Sansa snickered.
Lady Arwyn Oakheart, Lady of Oakheart. Lord Nevylle Oakheart, second cousin of Lady Oakheart. Died in … 284. Their eldest son is Ser Aron Oakheart, Garth's father. Ser Aron is married to the Lady Melantha Dunn. Lady Melantha's parents are Ser Tomas Dunn, younger brother of Lord Elwood Dunn of Windhaven and the Lady Deana Dunn nee Meadows. She died six years ago. Now Garth has a younger," Arya continued on in a bored drone.
The recitation came to an end when Arya spoke that name, "The youngest son is … was Arrys Oakheart. He died two months ago." Jeyne gasped, but Sansa did not let out a sound. Catelyn quickly turned to look at her daughter, instantly chastising herself for forgetting the obvious. Sansa's face looked particularly wan, emphasizing the redness of the scars. "I'm sorry, sweetling. I didn't think to stop her. Would you care to go to the sept with me? We haven't gone together in a while," she pleaded.
The red from the scars bled out to replace the whiteness in her face. "No, thank you, my prayers were answered in the godswood" Sansa answered bitterly. "If you'll forgive me mother, Ser Justin will be here soon to take me to Maegor's Holdfast." The still hurting child stood, curtseyed, and departed.
Catelyn wept silent tears. Of all her children, she had believed Sansa would surely follow her in worshipping the Seven. No, that no longer seemed possible; clearly the Mother, the Maid, and the Warrior had shown her daughter no respite from the Lannisters. The godswood was at least better than the flame, or wherever the queen worshipped her dread Red God. Not yet at least at the Dragonpit according to Sansa. She found herself praying that Sansa would not turn her back on the Old Gods too. Finally, her love slipped a calm mask over her pain and she turned back to Arya. "Where were we child?"
"I want to play, mother," her younger daughter complained.
She suddenly felt exhausted. 'I want to cry and be comforted. Where is my Ned?!' she wanted to scream. "Change into a dress, and you can roll around in the pig yard today, Arya."
Grey eyes got huge. A giant smile split that long Stark face. "Really?"
"Go, before I change my mind." Catelyn felt the breeze on her face as Arya ran past.
"Should I remember this lesson, goodmother?" Roslin asked gently.
She sighed. "I usually saved that trick until I was in my eighth month." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm tired." 'Winter is coming and I thought I didn't have to be strong anymore.'
Roslin smiled sweetly at her. "You should nap, Lady Catelyn. We were up early today."
'And I am not as young as you.' "Perhaps. But I will go to the sept first. Do you wish to come with me?"
Her gooddaughter's smile faltered. "With so many of my brothers and nephews and cousins off with gooduncle Edmure, Robb wished me to visit my old houses quarters and get a sense of the banners when they are without so much … supervision. I could wait and do that tomorrow, if you wish?"
"No, we wait enough, Roslin. I'll be fine."
"I would go with you, Lady Stark, if you'll have me," Jeyne Poole announced in a loud whisper.
Jeyne went to kneel before the Maid in the royal sept. There were two septons, three septas, and a dozen smallfolks already praying when they had arrived. Minutes later Catelyn still stood by the door, gazing at each of the representations of Seven, one after the other and then back again. For the life of her, she could not choose which aspect of god to petition. By natural inclination she prayed most often to the Mother. But today and for the last week, she was torn; each spoke in equal strength to a different part of the pain and confusion wracking her soul. She chose the Stranger.
An elderly man took notice of her and scurried away so the Lady of Winterfell could have death for herself. The alcove holding the statue was the dimmest of the seven, closest to the east, thus nowhere for the rising sun to illuminate it; only the setting sun would. 'I thought the Lannisters killed me when I heard you died, Ned. The light went out of me, though I stayed strong for Robb's sake and the girls. Did you think of me? Did you think of them? Did you pray to your Old Gods, Ned? Tell me.' She waited, listening as she so often found Ned listening silently within the godswood of Winterfell.
'There are no heart trees here, did the Old Gods still hear your prayers? Is that why they sent him?' She strained to hear an answer. None came, the darkness around the Stranger remaining silent to her supplications. Tears rolled down her cheeks. 'What did the Old Gods do with your bones? Are they in Winterfell with Brandon's? Are you satisfied? Am I to be satisfied? Will I see you again in death?' Through the darkness, the barely discernable shape of eyes stared out from the statue of the Stranger at her mutely, neither male nor female, neither yes nor no; only stark grey, nothingness personified, winter. Slowly she got up off her knees.
The brightest shaft of light beaming down through the high placed windows shown on the Crone. Catelyn needed wisdom, hoping the crooked old woman would not only listen, but respond to her pleas. Again, the Lady of Winterfell was shown respect by the emptying of space for her and her silent fears alone around the statue. "Show me the safe path off this precipice, I fear I shall stumble and destroy my family, my lady," she begged from bent knees. "I know. I know. I know. And yet I love him, but he is not …" 'Ned,' she wept silently. 'Is he right? Are his visions true? He returned me my family. Can I trust him?' Catelyn waited.
Finally she came to kneel before the Mother. Here she stayed the shortest. "Watch over Bran and Rickon. Would that I were with them. Give Arya and Sansa back the love they once shared for each other. Guard Edmure as he enters danger. Grant Robb the chance to know his baby. Let my baby know his father, he is a good man though he has done wrongful things. In the name of the Seven who are One."
Having given herself over to her gods, Catelyn Stark walked wearily back to the Maidenvault with Jeyne. Had both their prayers been heard? Would they be answered? She did not know if she would have the strength if they weren't. The Faith would take her as a silent sister if she had no place left to turn, of that she felt certain.