The sun was high in the clear sky by the time the walls of Winterfell came into view. Gendry pulled hard on the reins to slow his horse. Beside him, Lommy and Hot Pie slumped over their horses as they came to a stop.
Gendry tilted his head back, breathing in the cold, crisp air. The wind whipped against his red cheeks. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that it was a stiff breeze carried off the sea. He remembered being very small, the mud from the banks of the Blackwater Rush slick under his bare feet. His mother was there, her yellow hair clouding a face he could not picture. He could only recall how it felt to press his face into the warm place under her chin, the ends of her loose hair tickling his nose.
He opened his eyes. But this place did not smell like the sea. It smelled like cold, if such a thing had a scent. Gendry had never known such quiet, such emptiness. He hadn't known the world was this wide.
"That's it then?" Lommy's bluster vanished at the sight of Winterfell.
"It's like the edge of the world," huffed Hot Pie. He shook his head, and buried his nose in the matter fur around his collar.
They stood there for so long, wry and watchful, that Gendry feared they might freeze that way. Three sorry, scrawny statues on a hill.
"Come," Gendry said, urging his horse forward. "We've made it this far. We might as well see it through."
There was smoke rising from the houses in the little town before the gates of the castle. Gendry felt the eyes that followed them as they rose through. The children that stopped playing to gaze at them were sturdy, warmly dressed little things. There had been no such rosy cheeks in Fleabottom. Lommy drew himself up stiffly as they passed like a puffed up tomcat. Gendry grinned when he saw two of the children giggling behind their hands.
The gates of the castle were open when they approached. Gendry's eyes traced the crest of House Stark carved into the stone, lingering on the teeth of the wolf. He dismounted, and took the horse's reins in hand as they crossed under the stone arch.
It was almost disarming to see such a flurry of activity after the endless expanse of the moors. The courtyard was full of chatter and activity, humming with a pleasant sense of purpose beneath the fluttering Stark banners. Gendry's palms itched as he caught the smell of smoke on the wind and he longed to feel the heat of the forge and the weight of steel in his hand.
Lommy and Hot Pie crowded behind him, hovering close. Gendry tried to make himself a bit bigger in response.
"What business do you have here?"
Gendry almost came out of his skin when he was addressed by a tall, lean man with an armful of scrolls. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat.
The man frowned. "You. boy." he said painfully, slowly. "What business do you have here?"
"I…" stuttered Gendry. "We… we're here to see Lord Stark. Lord Robb Stark, I mean, m'lord."
Gendry felt himself being appraised, and was affronted when the man's lips turned down in distaste. Lommy and Hot Pie stood so they were partly hidden behind him.
"I am his lord's steward," said the man. "Lord Stark has many matters to attend to. What business do you have with him?"
Gendry fumbled with Master Mott's letter, extracting it from his breast pocket, and handing it to the steward. "We've been sent to see Lord Robb, it's all here, in the letter from my master."
The steward took the letter, and smoothed it out to read. A frown creased his brow.
Gendry felt Lommy kick him, and he swatted at the boy. "I was told to tell you, m'lord," said Gendry. "We've been sent by Lady… Lady Arya Stark."
The steward looked up sharply. "Arya?"
Gendry's heart thumped. The man appeared baffled.
"Yes," Gendry said, shifting on his feet. Perhaps he'd gotten the name wrong. "Arya Stark sent us."
The steward folded the letter briskly, and tucked it into his pocket. "You will wait until someone attends to you," he instructed. He then left without another word.
Gendry sank back awkwardly onto the edge of a wagon loaded with stone. His horse whickered softly, and he patted her nose, and traced the diamond shape on her forehead.
"Starks feed their prisoners to the wolves," Lommy muttered to Hot Pie. "Nothing left of the in the end but bones and teeth. They sell those bits to the cannibals that live up in the Northlands. They'll wear bits of us as crowns."
Hot Pie's mouth drew down in disgust, and faint puzzlement. "Wouldn't the cannibals want us with all our meat attached to our bones?"
"No." Lommy scowled. "They've got plenty eating from Southern raids. But they like to have bones." He poked Hot Pie in the side. "But maybe they'll save you for a treat."
Hot Pie whimpered, and Gendry cuffed Lommy hard on the back of the head. Lommy shouted in response, and tried to swing back.
"I'll smack you again if you don't behave," said Gendry angrily.
Lommy glared at him, and pinched Hot Pie so hard he yelped.
"Where are they?"
The voice that cut through the din made every head in the courtyard rise. The hush held for a moment, before the crowd bent back to their work.
The man striding towards them couldn't have been much older than Gendry himself, but he exuded a lord's air. This man might not shit in a sapphire pot, but Gendry knew with one look that this man had been born and raised to rule.
Beside him was a finely dressed noblewoman with the same red curls and blue eyes as the lord. He ducked his head when her eyes met his.
Gendry dropped into the mud on one knee as they approached, and felt Lommy and Hot Pie hasten to do the same.
"On your feet," the lord said. "I am Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, and Warden to the North. I command you to speak truthfully. What are your names?"
"Gendry, m'lord," Gendry said quickly. He gestured behind him. "These here are my companions, Lommy and Hot Pie. We've come a long way to see you, m'lord."
Robb Stark cast his eyes over them. "I can see you have. Tell me, who sent you?"
"Arya Stark sent us."
The noblewoman stepped forward, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. "Did you see my daughter? Was she well?"
Gendry's cheeks darkened slightly at addressing her. "No, m'lady. I did not see her. Only the kingsguard that carried her message and coin for our travels." He wished he had more to offer her.
"The Kingsguard," repeated Lord Stark. He and his mother glanced at each other.
Gendry felt a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach. Perhaps he had not been meant to say who brought the message.
Lord Stark exhaled. "My sister wrote to tell us you were coming. We've been awaiting your arrival with some impatience. Have you any news of King's Landing?"
Gendry tried to imagine what a lord's daughter might have written her brother about them. He could not begin to say.
"Robb," said his mother with a touch of weariness. "They'll not know anything of what's happened. They'll have been on the road for some time."
The lord's mouth turned down with grief.
"We've been traveling for weeks, m'lord," said Gendry. "I've nothing to offer you except the word of your father and sister. We've come seeking refuge… from… from the queen."
He regretted the words as he spoke them. Lord Stark and his mother seemed to freeze where they stood.
"House Stark is loyal to the crown," said the Lord stiffly. "We serve the realm in the name of House Baratheon and King Robert, may the gods grant him peace."
"M'lord?" Something in the lord's words nagged at Gendry.
"King Robert was killed while on the hunt for a boar," said the lady. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and Gendry thought he saw a touch of fear in her eyes. "May the seven be with us all. His son now sits upon the throne."
His son.
The Queen wants you dead.
You have the Baratheon look.
"Aye," said Lord Stark striking Gendry from his thoughts. "King Joffrey first of his name." He looked back at them. "But you have nothing to fear. Winterfell is a place a refuge for you. And you must be in need of food and rest."
"Thank you, m'lord," said Gendry the words thick on his tongue.
Lord Stark smiled slightly. "A blacksmith, a baker, and a dyer. We're in sore need of your skills, once you've rested we'll see about finding you work. Winter is coming."
Winter is coming.
The wind picked up and buffeted them all about for a moment. Lord Stark called for a steward to show them to beds. His mother had one hand on his arm, and the other pressing the edges of her cloak down in the wind. She stared at Gendry, and Gendry wondered wildly for a moment if she had known King Robert, and if the Kingsguard had spoken truly when he said there was no mistaking his bastards.
His son now sits upon the throne. Gendry wished fervently that she would see nothing at all of the dead king's face in his own.
"Watch closely," Maester Luwin had told Bran. "This little doll shall bear your fate so that you do not have to."
And Catelyn had watched, heart in her throat as Maester Luwin threw the little clay doll over the ramparts. For a breath it had arched through the air so gracefully it might have taken wing. Until it hit the ground and shattered.
Bran had peered down at the mess of it, his little face pinched.
"This is what will happen to you should you slip and fall," Maester Luwin had told him severely.
"But I will not fall!" Bran had argued. "I never fall!"
"Even great men may fall," Maester Luwin told him. "That is not weakness, that is life."
Catelyn's breath quickened as she crossed to the window. Her palms were slick with sweat, but she forced herself to grip the stone sill and lean out into the empty air.
The sky was still painted with the faintest touch of pink from the dawn. The Rising sun cast a golden glow over the landscape, and although she faced South, the moors of the North rolled out before here seemingly unending in their breadth.
She looked down, and the distance to the stone below made her recoil in terror. Hot tears gathered in her eyes, and she pulled back from the window, terrified that if she looked any longer she'd see a small crumpled body laying prone at the bottom.
She'd wanted the broken tower leveled at first, torn down stone by stone until it was left to the dust of the ages. But Winter was coming, and she was nothing if not a pragmatic woman. She had overseen the stonemasons as they repaired the structure, and ordered everything cleaned and made ready for storage.
"M'lady wanted to see me."
Catelyn turned. The wildling woman Osha stood in the doorway, regarding her with open curiosity. Catelyn was pleased to see that some of the haggardness had left her. She had come upon Bran and Rickon the other day sitting rapt as Osha told them of ice giants that crawled through the Frostfang mountains. And although the woman had snorted when the boys jumped back in fear, there was a softness in her teasing that Catelyn recognized.
"I thought you might offer some suggestion on our preparations for Winter," said Catelyn. She beckoned the woman forward, and bent to open one of the chests on the floor. From within, she withdrew several garments. She had requested that the seamstresses begin working on clothing that might withstand a Winter's war.
They had sewn linen underthings to be covered with thick wool shirts, and quilted gambesons to sit under chainmail lined with boiled leather. Catelyn watched as Osha reached out and rubbed the deerskin cloak between her fingertips.
"These will dress your people for Winter?"
"Yes," said Catelyn, creasing her brow. "I've spoken to men of the Night's Watch. These are modeled after the dress of the men."
Osha laughed then, a harsh noise of derision. "Crows are no more fit for Winter than newborn babes. There's a reason they don't last long."
Catelyn swallowed her ire at the woman's callous tone. "We will be prepared when Winter comes. Tell me, what would you suggest?"
Osha regarded her for a moment, her dark eyes critical. She squatted down, and pulled the gambeson towards her. "These will be too heavy on a man," she said. "It will cause him to sweat, and that will make him freeze." She tapped the chain mail. "It is not wise to wear metal armor in the North, it will burn the flesh in the cold."
"Shall we make shirts of wool and leather?" asked Catelyn.
Osha shook her head. "These will not let the skin breath. My people wear the dress of animals that are meant for the cold. If you dress your people in sheep's clothing, they will only fall to the wolves."
"We cannot slaughter enough wolves to dress the entire North," insisted Catelyn.
"No," said Osha. "You will use the skins of wolves to line the hoods of your cloaks. You will make shirts of caribou. One to point inward and one outward. This will keep your people warm and dry for the caribou are meant to live in the cold."
Catelyn absorbed this. "The Northern lords will not well like their men dressed as wildlings."
Osha met her eyes. "It will not matter," she said calmly. "For they will be frozen stiff in their fine southern clothes. Then they will be burned and no one will know their manner of dress when it has all been left to ash."
Catelyn nodded then, stiff but sure. "We will need boots too," she said. "Men only goes so far as their feet will carry them."
"You will make them of seal skin," said Osha. "And stuff the toes with moss…"
Father grant them protection.
Mother grant them mercy.
Warrior grant them strength.
Smith grant them peace.
Maiden grant them courage.
Crone grant them wisdom.
Catelyn hesitated before lighting the last candle. Her eyes darted to the door of the sept.
Stranger grant them justice.
Seven flames danced in the sept, the crystal glimmering as they caught the light. They lit the solemn, carved faces of the Seven.
Catelyn realized her hands were shaking as she brought them together, and bowed her head. You must be strong.
"Mother."
Robb laid his hand on her shoulder, and she placed her own on top of his. He was trembling too, so very slightly.
"I've called counsel to Father's solar," Robb said. "We must decide how to move forward."
"Have you her letter?"
Robb pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to her. Catelyn pressed it against her breast, as if she could feel her daughter's heartbeat through her curling script.
Robb,
I write to you with a heavy heart. Our good King Robert is dead, killed from wounds he took in a boar hunt...
She took her son's arm, and pressed both hands against his. Had it been so long ago that he had been small enough to tuck under her chin? Now he stood a head taller than she, almost a man grown.
Robb's council was waiting when they stepped through the doors to Ned's solar. Catelyn's hackles rose when she spotted Theon leaning back carelessly next to Jory. They stood when she entered, but she waved them down. Ser Rodrik sat down heavily, and Maester Luwin adjusted the collar around his neck.
Robb closed the door and bolted it as Catelyn took the seat beside the head of the table.
"You are all here as valued members of my household and trusted advisors," said Robb heavily, taking a seat beside Catelyn. "There are things that must be brought to light, the safety of the North depends upon our actions."
The men were silent. Even Theon's smirk had faded to a look of intrigue.
"We received a raven from King's Landing last night," said Robb.
Catelyn withdrew the letter and handed it to Maester Luwin who sat beside her. He opened it with trembling fingers.
"As you know we've received no word from Father since the news of the King's death reached us," continued Robb. "It seems he was injured in the hunt as well, and has been under the care of maesters."
Catelyn's heartbeat faster as the dreadful thought of Ned injured rolled through her like a wave.
… Father was injured on the hunt as well. My beloved Joffrey and the Queen have ensured that he has only the finest maesters attending to his wounds….
"Father has been granted leave to return to Winterfell as his injuries have made it difficult for him to serve. They will leave as soon as Father is fit for traveling." Robb looked up. "He returns with Arya and the lady Brienne. Sansa… will stay."
"Joffrey said that a king should never strike his lady," Sansa had whispered to her. Her daughter did not flinch as she spoke the words. "So he bade his kingsguard to bloody me in his stead."
Catelyn's lips parted as if to cry in grief but the sound was strangled in her throat.
"Father has sworn loyalty to the new king, and Sansa begs me to do the same. To ensure peace between the great houses of Stark and Lannister." Robb's lips curled up in bitterness at the last.
… Your faithful sister, Sansa.
Ser Rodrik stroked his whiskers. "Lord Stark should have never left without a guard," he said gruffly. "Jory and I would have seen him and Lady Arya home rather than a Crown's retinue."
Robb glanced at Catelyn. She nodded, her lips pursed tightly.
"Father did not take a guard nor a household because he wished to travel lightly in the event that he would need to flee King's Landing," said Robb finally.
"Flee?" asked Maester Luwin in bewilderment. "He is the King's Hand."
"That King is dead," said Catelyn. "Killed by the Lannisters to further their own ambitions."
Ser Rodrik sputtered. "Killed by the Lannisters?"
"Aye," said Robb harshly. "Father went South to investigate the death of Jon Arryn, and to forestall the Queen's intent to kill the King."
"How did he know this?" asked Jory.
"I received a letter written in code from my sister," said Catelyn the words slipping smoothly through her teeth. "She claimed the Lannisters had poisoned Jon Arryn after he discovered the Queen's secret. Ned knew that Cersei had no love for Robert, and would do anything to protect her children."
"The Queen's children are not trueborn," said Robb. "They are her brother's bastards, and she intends to sit the eldest on the throne in place of a true king."
"This is madness," said Maester Luwin. His trembling hands twined in the fabric of his sleeves.
"What of Sansa?" Jory urged. "She's set the marry the Lannister bastard. Surely Lord Stark would not leave her behind in their hands if he knew them to be false!"
Robb looked down. "If Father is returning home," he said slowly. "Then I must assume that my sister has been left to ensure the loyalty of the North. So long as the Lannisters hold my sister, they assume us complacent."
"And will we be complacent?" asked Theon, with a mocking smile.
Robb's hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white from the pressure. "Winter is coming. I will not start a war I am not sure we can win. The Lannisters hold vast wealth and power in addition to the throne. I must think of the North."
Catelyn's throat constricted, and she looked past Robb. For a moment, she thought she caught a glimpse the Kingslayer winking at her, standing just behind her son. She did not have to search for what would have compelled her to disobey her son and king and set the Kingslayer free from his shackles. If the man sat before her, the key to her daughters' safety, she would do it in a heartbeat.
"You're going to wait for them to dishonor your sister?" demanded Theon. "Married to a bastard usurper born of incest? She'll be ruined."
"You will not speak of my sister in such a way," Robb chided swiftly. He took a deep breath, his cheeks red with anger. "We will wait until Father arrives safety. Only when he and Arya are safe within Winterfell's walls may we choose to take action. Until then we shall give no indication to the Crown that we are anything less than loyal servants."
"If I may offer you counsel, my lord," said Ser Rodrik. "The Northern lords will not be pleased if we show our bellies to a false boy king."
"I intend to seek their counsel as well," said Robb, his brown creasing. "They will gather soon enough for the harvest festival clamoring to know what has happened." He shifted. "And I know there have been whispers about our preparations. They'll want explanation for our increase in training and supplies. And I must give them some answer. If the South begins to fracture, we will need to pose a united front." He met the eyes of the men at the table. "As united as we must be."
Ser Rodrik thumped his fist on the table. "For the North."
"For the North," echoed Jory and Theon. Maester Luwin nodded solemnly.
"For the North," murmured Catelyn. It was bittersweet on her tongue.
