CATELYN
A week or so after the afterglow of holding Robb had begun to fade, Catelyn began to feel an unease settle within her. An unease brought upon by fitful dreams—dreams that she had not known since childhood.
The old dream began much the same way it always did. She and Lysa were children playing on the riverbanks, their dresses laid neatly on the grassy green banks, while they in their smallclothes splashed about in the river. Petyr was never far off, but preferring to watch rather than get his clothes wet as he'd often say before Cat would splash him and force him to join them in the lazy current of the Red Fork. It was a simple scene like many others from her childhood.
Then a servant would call for them, tell them to get dressed and that their father wished to speak with them both in his solar. Catelyn would shimmy into her dress and ask for Petyr with help buttoning up the back, and then Lysa would insist the same help from Petyr while Catelyn rushed off to her father's solar.
She'd arrive in her father's solar to find him crying.
"What is it father?" she would always ask.
He would always begin, "Cat… my sweet Cat… your mother…"
"Has my new brother or sister come into the world?" asked Cat eagerly.
He shook his head and took a deep breath, suppressing what tears he had, "No, my child… your mother is dead, and the babe as well…"
"Dead?" she would ask, fear gripping her heart.
"Aye, sweet Cat… you are now the lady of the castle," her father tearfully admitted.
And each time, like the time it had been, she ran out the doors of her father's solar, her father's voice calling her name behind her, but beyond as she ran through the halls his voice would be joined by others, her Septa, servants, her sister. She'd even hear her baby brother wail and whispers and shouts that she could hardly comprehend. The hallways would lengthen beneath her feet, the voices would become disjointed, but always the end goal of what she was running towards would remain the same—the birthing chambers. She would burst into them to find, as she had that day that had been, her mother abed—cold, lifeless, and as still as a statue.
She'd try to shake her mother awake, but nothing would stir her from her eternal slumber. In tears she would turn to run out of the birthing chamber only to find she'd stepped into a Great Hall of sorts, where dead bodies lay with arrows and swords sticking out from their mangled corpses, a feast upon the table, and blood everywhere. Usually at this point she would awake screaming as a child, but with this resurgence a new part was added, she would turn back into the birthing chamber in which her mother lay and see instead of her mother an old woman sitting upon the bed with skin as pale as milk cream, a bloody red necklace of a scar across her throat, and hair as white as a sheet, and a crown of iron upon her head. She stared at her—Tully blue eyes meeting Tully blue eyes and to Catelyn's horror she knew it was her... and she saw that the woman's milky white hand was pressed down upon an unseen babe's back, smothering it into the sheets of the bed, a wicked smile appearing on her face.
That was when she would now awake, screaming in the night, fitful and unable to be calmed by any of the servants. That is why she now loathed to sleep—for when she did she would return to that horrific dream. And Catelyn knew why the dreams had returned… they were a judgment from the Seven for the thoughts she had held. And now a new question dogged her mind, plaguing her waking hours.
What kind of mother considers killing an innocent babe?
The answer of course made her tremble with fear. She was no fit woman to be a mother—that's what the gods were telling her, of that she was certain. That she had become one was an abomination in their sight and she was being punished for it. For the sake of her own son she refused to have him on her breast—lest she curse him with her own Seven damned curse. It would be better for him this way, she convinced herself. And still the dreams grew more vivid and bloody each night.
She lost track of the days, confining herself to her chambers where all babes would be safe from her. She prayed to the Seven but found little comfort. She ate little—only what she needed to survive—and she did much to keep herself from dreaming. Visitors came and went, but she paid them little heed, and they all eventually left. Until one night when she, in her shift, was in deep prayer in the dark. Kneeling before a small gathering of personal wooden statuettes of the Seven she had been given as a child along with her copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. The darkness of the room was disturbed by the light of two candles that came into the room—but she continued in her prayers—her knees numb from her devotions.
"She's been like this for nearly a moon, Septon," said a voice which sounded like her goodsister.
"Dear me, this long? Has she eaten much of anything?" asked a strange, but young voice.
"Only bread and water. To be honest Septon, we're at our wits end on what to do with her. My nephew needs his mother! Why does she do this?" answered Lyanna.
He needs to be protected from me…
The young Septon's voice then spoke saying with a strained sense of confidence, "I have seen something like this before in White Harbor… sometimes young mothers shortly after giving birth reject their babes and fall into a deep grief for little reason. Does she say anything?"
Her goodsister spoke, "She speaks little sense to me…to the Father for mercy, the Mother for compassion, and the Crone for wisdom…"
"You are a believer in the old gods, are you not, Lady Lyanna?" asked the Septon's voice with an obvious amusement.
Lyanna scoffed and said, "Aye, and if this is what your gods ask from a mother for the birth of a child, excuse me if I keep from converting."
The Septon assured her goodsister, "This is demanded by none of my gods. I believe it to be a sickness, but it is not an impossible one to cure… leave me alone with her, my Lady. I cannot promise she will be healed by the time I leave this room, but she will at least be beginning that road."
"Lady Stark?" asked the young Septon after they had been left alone for some time.
She remained silent.
The young Septon tried again, "Lady Stark, I hear you seek the mercy, compassion, and wisdom from the Seven-who-are-One. What do you think you have done wrong, my child?"
"Plenty," she croaked in response.
The Septon smiled, and said boldly, "Well that's a start, Lady Stark. What have you done wrong, that you feel you've lost the benediction of the Seven?"
She remained silent.
The Septon took her hands and met her eyes, pulling her away from her devotions, "Go on… tell me, Lady Stark, I swear that I shall not tell a soul. I am not here to judge, but to help you through this darkness and into the light."
"I cannot speak it… it is a vile vile thing!"
He looked at her with obvious pity, saying, "Try my child. Holding onto such thoughts has only led to this darkness."
But she could not say it… to say it aloud would be acknowledging it had nearly happened. And so she kept her mouth closed despite what the Septon urged her. She remained silent for the rest of the Septon's visit and was thankful when he was gone.
The next morning she was interrupted in her devotions by her goodsister who entered her chambers in an angered fury.
"I have had it with this!" shouted Lyanna, pulling a dress from her chest and throwing it at Catelyn.
When Catelyn did not disturb her prayers, Lyanna wrestled her to her feet and shook her until Catelyn could meet Lyanna's gray eyes.
"You are coming with me, do you understand?" asked Lyanna with a definite growl to her voice.
Lazily Catelyn nodded and was helped into her dress by a shocked Lyra. After a cloak had been brought about her shoulders, Lyanna then firmly grabbed her wrist and drug her out of the Great Keep and into the melting spring snows. They trudged across the courtyard to a simple gate that led into the ancient godswood of Winterfell.
As they walked about the snow covered godswood, the trees thick, but with the buds of new growth upon them, Catelyn could not help but notice how quiet it was in this godswood. The godswood at Riverrun was more of a garden compared to the ancient solemnity in this place. Eventually they came to the only tree in the wood to still have its leaves intact, the weirwood heart tree of Winterfell. Its carved face streaming with red sap tears an imposing and near terrifying effigy. The hot spring pool near the foot of the tree eerily steamed, providing a mist which gave their corner of the godswood a ethereal setting.
"I feel like a stranger in this place," admitted Catelyn, as she stared into the carved face of the weirwood.
Her goodsister replied, "Hmph. You shouldn't. You are the mother to the heir of Winterfell. Your descendants will kneel before this tree and pray as previous Starks have. You belong here as much as I do."
"Why come here?" asked Catelyn.
Her goodsister sighed before saying, "I too was recently troubled as you were… it's why I thought to bring you that Septon. The old gods gave me my answer and relief, so I thought that yours might do as much. But since he and your gods seem to have given you little absolution, why not turn to your son's gods and the gods of many Starks yet to come?"
She has a point…
"What do I do?" asked Catelyn
Her goodsister smiled as though she were asking but the easiest thing in the world, saying "Pray."
Catelyn was still confused. "What prayers are there for me to say?" asked Catelyn
Her goodsister looked confused in response to this but then shook her head and said, "Think on what troubles you, and ask for a way forward."
A moment of silence passed between them before Catelyn asked, "Did you do that?"
Her goodsister nodded in response.
Catelyn, at Lyanna's urging, knelt before the heart tree. She felt unaccustomed to the uneven ground beneath her knees instead of the cold stone of her chambers or even a sept. Her goodsister joined her in silent prayer. For the longest time she tried to pray, she thought on the terrible incident itself, the dreams, every wrong she had ever committed in her life, but though she thought through these things and asked for some answer, some kind of light to show her the way through, Catelyn could not help but feel as though she were but praying simply to a tree. And realizing that, she felt she could no longer continue in this manner.
Meaning to get up she laid her hand upon the trunk of the tree and suddenly the snows of spring seemed to fade away, the leaves on the trees grew and shaded the godswood in a mystic darkness in which her goodsister and her prayers vanished. The ethereal darkness was penetrated by a glowing white-gold sunlight in odd spots throughout the moss covered floor of the godswood. One of these spots caught her attention—it was that of a tree not too far from the heart tree where Catelyn could see several children were climbing and playing.
Two had hair of light brown, another had a darker brown hair that seemed glossy in the sunlight, yet another had her own auburn hair and the last a pale white-blond head of hair. Of the children only one of the brown haired children was a girl, the others all were young boys. And as she looked upon the scene she could recognize who three of the children were—one was her Robb… oh did he look so much like Edmure! And judging from how much he looked like Edmure, she could see that he was likely eight namedays old, as were all the other children except for the one brown of hair boy who stood taller than the rest, the beginnings of being a man beginning to show through a growing lankiness in the one boy's features. The white-blond boy was obviously a grown Den. The two light-brown haired children she had no idea as to their identity. The last boy with the dark brown glossy hair could only be… Jon Snow. He looked even more like his father than he did as a babe. Catelyn knelt there continuing to be transfixed by the scene before her. Seeing the ease in which the children had about one another—a sight which soothed her soul oddly enough. This ease of feeling though was not to last as soon Jon Snow's eyes met hers—as though he could see here there.
"Over there, by the heart tree!" called out Jon Snow the boy, and in fear Catelyn drew back, her hand lifting from the weirwood tree and suddenly the vision faded into nothing. The spring snows were about her, as well as her goodsister once again. Eager to see once again the children grown, to see what kind of boy her son would be… but as she pressed her hand once again against the weirwood's trunk nothing came—no other sight.
Was it a vision from the old gods, or just the fancies of my mind?
"Catelyn?" asked her goodsister.
"I… I need to see the babes…" said Catelyn as calmly as she could, though she felt her heart racing in her chest.
Her goodsister smiled at her and they rose and exited the godswood. Upon their exit the horn from the South Gate was blasted.
"That can't be Ethan Glover, can it?" asked Catelyn.
"No, he's already married Jonelle and went on to Seaguard with his forces," admitted Lyanna, and the two of them trudged their way across the courtyard to the South Gate just as it lowered the drawbridge.
Both of them stood to receive the visitors who came flying the banner of House Stark along with a banner of three buckets on a field of blue—the Wulls if she recalled the banner rightly. Catelyn was startled to see that along with the clan man who bore both banners, and who had a long graying beard and gray eyes to match, was a woman who had two small boys upon her horse—one in front of her, and one behind her, and a babe in her arms. Along with these two a small company of men rode in with them.
The children were shivering in this cold, that Catelyn could plainly see, but what Catelyn could not believe was the one boy—who looked no older than four namedays was brown of hair and eye, and looked exactly like the younger brother of the eldest boy from her vision in the godswood. Upon realizing this, Catelyn felt her legs give out beneath her and she soon lost all consciousness.
