Chapter Eleven

Blood will withstand
the rocks.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Game of Thrones series written by George R.R. Martin. Eleonora, Nyx, and Moon are my own inserts, but I own no other characters.

Robb had instructed the northern lords to rest their heads early, preferring to spend his evening alone. He poured himself too much ale for a boy or man, and attempted quite adamantly to focus on anything but his mother's accord with the Frey's.

Eleonora snaked into his tent with a plate of sweet bread and honey, a favorite of the pair. She knew her brother must be struggling with his pact with the Frey's though he would not show his disdain outside his quarters. She knew him far too well.

"I brought us a celebratory sweet to commemorate this momentous occasion," said Eleonora, playfully swooping the plate to the table in a jovial manner.

"You truly are wicked," said Robb, the left corner of his lips fighting the urge to curl.

"Ah, yes, your wicked big sister," she said, sitting across from her brother and pulling off a piece of sweet bread. "I'll be more wicked if I eat all of the sweet bread before you manage to steal a morsel."

Robb half smiled and pulled off a large portion of the warm loaf they shared, "have you come to wallow in my misery then?"

"No," said Eleonora, no jest in her voice. "I take no pleasure in your position. Marrying someone I do not love is quite the steep mountain to overcome, but Smalljon is good and he is kind. Betrothal to a Frey is... unthinkable."

"Mother says there is one decent..." said Robb drifting off.

"There is no such creature as a decent Frey," said Eleonora, looking down at her hands. "She may bear some beauty, but her blood is as black and bemired as the Green Fork. They should never be trusted, Robb, not ever. No matter how close you may become — never trust a Frey."

Robb looked his sister intently up and down. He knew there was more behind her words, but he knew her well enough to know she would always speak her mind to him if she wanted.

"Arya may choose to remain in the south as a prisoner once she hears the news of her betrothal," said Robb, his voice softening a bit. "I could not blame her."

The woods were full of whispers. Moonlight winked on the tumbling waters of the stream below as it wound its rocky way along the floor of the valley. Beneath the trees, warhorses whickered softly and pawed at the moist, leafy ground, while men made nervous jests in hushed voices. Now and again, the chink of spears, the faint metallic slither of chain mail would echo quietly, but even those sounds were muffled.

"It should not be long now, my lady," Hallis Mollen said to Catelyn Stark. He had asked for the honor of protecting the Stark Matriarch in the battle to come; it was his right, as Winterfell's captain of guards, and Robb had not refused it to him. She had twenty men around her, charged to keep her unharmed and see her safely home to Winterfell if the fighting went against them. Robb had wanted fifty; Catelyn had insisted that ten would be enough, that he would need every sword for the fight. They made their peace at twenty, neither happy with it.

Brandon Stark had bid her wait as well. "I shall not be long, my lady," he had vowed. "We will be a family upon my return." Yet when the day came at last, it was his brother Eddard who made her new family whole.

Catelyn's eyes fell onto her daughter, tightening the saddle on her borrowed black mare nearest to the trickling brook. She watched as Smalljon Umber, the giant of a man, sheepishly approached her from behind. He gently placed his large hand on her lower back to garner her attention. She yanked her saddle belt hard once more as she turned to face him. She batted her heavy eyelashes and sent him a soft, beautiful smile that would give any man the strength to fight one thousand men. Only her mother could see her smile did not reach her eyes, even in the moonlight and even a distance away.

The emptiness she could see in her daughter made Catelyn's chest ache ever so slightly. Eleonora knew how to play her part, she had 'figured out' men as simple creatures far too young. When Smalljon knelt down so Eleonora could say the words of the Warrior upon him, she gently brushed her fingers on either side of his head.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
Do not fear nor cry aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
Be your head bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find thee unafraid.

When she finished her words, Smalljon stood and kissed her forehead, and began to quietly speak to one another. Catelyn turned away as she could not watch the charade any longer.

If Robb was frightened, he gave no sign of it. Catelyn watched her son as he moved among the men, touching one on the shoulder, sharing a jest with another, helping a third to gentle an anxious horse. His armor clinked softly when he moved. Only his head was bare. Catelyn watched a breeze stir his auburn hair, so like her own, and wondered when her son had grown so big. Seventeen, and as tall as his father.

Let him grow taller, she asked the gods. Let him know eighteen, and twenty, and fifty. Let him grow as tall as his father, and hold his own son in his arms. Please, please, please. As she watched him, this tall young man with the new beard and the direwolf prowling at his heels, all she could see was the babe they had laid at her breast at Riverrun, so long ago.

She had been so consumed with her son, that she didn't immediately notice her eldest daughter had mounted her black mare now with Smalljon moving down the line, dressed in her light leather covered armor to fit her small frame. The visor of her helmet was raised to reveal her entire face. She did not look afraid though her heart raced so vigorously in her bosom that she was surprised the sound could not be heart rattling against her chest plate. Her quiver held dozens of arrows and a second quiver hung on her mare's saddle. Archers preferred the longbow in battle, but Eleonora preferred her short bow on horseback. The short bow was fast and silent. If her aim remained precise then she could wound and kill twice the men a longbow could in the same length of time. This was her first experience in battle, Robb's first as well. She would not see him fight alone.

Eleonora led her horse beside her mother, "Smalljon would prefer I stay behind with you, protected by Hal Mollen."

"He is not yet your husband," said Catelyn, surprising her daughter with her support.

"He is not," she nodded. "I fear his father, Greatjon, may voice his opposition to you and to Robb once we have returned."

"I will speak with Greatjon if he should raise any concern," said Catelyn. "If he prefers his son wed a more agreeable and demure northern lady, I will suggest a more suitable match like Jonelle Cerwyn."

"He will not welcome that suggestion," said Eleonora.

"And I will consider the subject moot," said Catelyn, staring on without another word.

The night was warm, but the thought of Riverrun was enough to make anyone shiver. Robb had given the Blackfish three hundred picked men, and sent them ahead to screen his march.

"Jaime does not know," Ser Brynden said when he rode back. "I'll stake my life on that. No bird has reached him, my archers have seen to that. We've seen a few of his outriders, but those that saw us did not live to tell of it. He ought to have sent out more. He does not know."

"How large is his host?" Robb asked.

"Twelve thousand foot, scattered around the castle in three separate camps, with the rivers between," their uncle said, with the craggy smile. "There is no other way to besiege Riverrun, yet still, that will be their undoing. Two or three thousand on horse. We will need our archers at their best."

"I'll inform Eleonora," said Robb.

"The Kingslayer has us three to one," said Galbart Glover, riding up beside them.

'True enough," Ser Brynden said, "yet there is one thing Ser Jaime lacks."

"Yes?" Robb asked.

"Patience."

Their host was greater than it had been when they left the Twins. Lord Jason Mallister had brought his power out from Seagard to join them as they swept around the headwaters of the Blue Fork and galloped south, and others had crept forth as well, hedge knights and small lords and masterless men-at-arms who had fled north when her brother Edmure's army was shattered beneath the walls of Riverrun. They had driven their horses as hard as they dared to reach this place before Jaime Lannister had word of their coming, and now the hour was at hand.

Catelyn watched her son mount up. Olyvar Frey held his horse for him, Lord Walder's son, two years older than Robb, and ten years younger and more anxious. He strapped Robb's shield in place and handed up his helm. When he lowered it over the face she loved so well, a tall young knight sat on his grey stallion where her son had been.

It was dark among the trees, where the moon did not reach. When Robb turned his head to look at her, she could see only black inside his visor. "I must ride down the line, Mother," he told her. "Father says you should let the men see you before a battle."

'Go, then," Catelyn said. "Let them see you."

"It will give them courage," Robb said. "Sister, gather the archers. Let them know that winter has come for the Kingslayer."

Catelyn met her daughter's eyes just as she shut her visor and kicked heels into her mare's side. Their relationship was volatile more often than not, but there was a strong maternal love between the two that was undeniable. She did not want her daughter fighting a man's war as much as Smalljon Umber, but she would not stop her. It was what her father would have been proud to see, and she brought her brother strength.

Robb turned his shaggy grey stallion and walked him slowly away from his mother, Grey Wind shadowing his steps. Behind him his battle guard formed up. When he'd forced Catelyn to accept her protectors, she had insisted that he be guarded as well, and the lords bannermen had agreed. Many of their sons had clamored for the honor of riding with the Young Wolf, as they had taken to calling him.

Torrhen Karstark and his brother Eddard were among his thirty, and Patrek Mallister, Smalljon Umber, Daryn Hornwood, Theon Greyjoy, no less than five of Walder Frey's vast brood, along with older men like Ser Wendel Manderly and Robin Flint. One of his companions was even another woman: Dacey Mormont, Lady Maege's eldest daughter and heir to Bear Island, a lanky six-footer who had been given a morningstar at an age when most girls were given dolls. Some of the other lords muttered about that as much as Eleonora, but Catelyn would not listen to their complaints.

Eleonora did not require a guard as Robb did, or had at least convinced her mother as such. Archers do not see hand-to-hand combat like the footmen and horsemen do. Archers succeed with precision, speed, and stealth. She led her black mare along the line of her fellow archers.

"Some of you may prefer I not fight alongside you today, much less lead because I am a woman," she told them in the strongest voice she could muster. "I do not fight as woman or man. I fight as a northerner, I bleed as a northerner, and I die as a northerner — the same as you. You are my chosen brothers, my blood."

A loud, muffled hurrah was shared between the group as Eleonora jerked her horse's reins and led her down the line of archers again.

"We remember what they've done! The North remembers!"

"They're coming, my lady," Hal Mollen whispered. He was always a man for stating the obvious. "Gods be with us."

She nodded as the woods grew still around them. In the quiet she could hear them, far off yet moving closer; the tread of many horses, the rattle of swords and spears and armor, the murmur of human voices, with here a laugh, and there a curse.

Eons seemed to come and go. The sounds grew louder. She heard more laughter, a shouted command, splashing as they crossed and recrossed the little stream. A horse snorted. A man swore. And then at last she saw him . . . only for an instant, framed between the branches of the trees as she looked down at the valley floor, yet she knew it was him. Even at a distance, Ser Jaime Lannister was unmistakable. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black. He was not wearing a helm.

He was there and he was gone again, his silvery armor obscured by the trees once more. Others came behind him, long columns of them, knights and sworn swords and freeriders, three quarters of the Lannister horse.

Here was a hush in the night, moonlight and shadows, a thick carpet of dead leaves underfoot, densely wooded ridges sloping gently down to the streambed, the underbrush thinning as the ground fell away.

Here was her son on his stallion, glancing back at her one last time and lifting his sword in salute.

Here was the call of Maege Mormont's warhorn, a long low blast that rolled down the valley from the east, to tell them that the last of Jaime's riders had entered the trap.

And Grey Wind threw back his head and howled.

The sound seemed to go right through Catelyn Stark, and she found herself shivering. It was a terrible sound, a frightening sound, yet there was music in it too. For a second she felt something like pity for the Lannisters below. So this is what death sounds like, she thought.

HAAroooooooooooooooooooooooo came the answer from the far ridge as the Greatjon winded his own horn. To east and west, the trumpets of the Mallisters and Freys blew vengeance. North, where the valley narrowed and bent like a cocked elbow, Lord Karstark's warhorns added their own deep, mournful voices to the dark chorus. Men were shouting and horses rearing in the stream below.

The whispering wood let out its breath all at once, as the bowmen Eleonora had hidden in the branches of the trees let fly their arrows and the night erupted with the screams of men and horses. All around her, the riders raised their lances, and the dirt and leaves that had buried the cruel bright points fell away to reveal the gleam of sharpened steel. "Winterfell!" she heard Robb shout as the arrows sighed again. He moved away from her at a trot, leading his men downhill.

Catelyn sat on her horse, unmoving, with Hal Mollen and her guard around her, and she waited as she had waited before, for Brandon and Ned and her father. She was high on the ridge, and the trees hid most of what was going on beneath her. A heartbeat, two, four, and suddenly it was as if she and her protectors were alone in the wood. The rest were melted away into the green.

Yet when she looked across the valley to the far ridge, she saw the Greatjon's riders emerge from the darkness beneath the trees. They were in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst from the wood there was an instant, the smallest part of a heartbeat, when all Catelyn saw was the moonlight on the points of their lances, as if a thousand willowisps were coming down the ridge, wreathed in silver flame.

Then she blinked, and they were only men, rushing down to kill or die.

The moon had settled behind the clouds, turning all the banners black. In amongst the men and the horses and the trees, it was easy to get lost. Away in the distance, Eleonora heard voices raised in some bawdy song.

A warhorn sounded in the far distance, a deep mournful note that chilled the soul. What grass the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth when the moonlight snuck through and touched the earth. The archers fell in behind her.

In the moonlight, the army of Ser Jaime Lannister unfolded like an iron rose, thorns gleaming.

Eleonora would lead the center. Quivers hanging from their belts, the foot archers arrayed themselves into three long lines, to east and west of the road, and stood calmly stringing their bows. Eleonora raised her open palm to signal their readiness. Between them, pikemen formed squares; behind were rank on rank of men-at-arms with spear and sword and axe.

Eleonora spotted Jaime through the darkness, through the many red cloaks. She saw his golden hair and felt her throat burn with fire. His greatcloak was sewn from countless layers of cloth-of-gold, so heavy that it barely stirred even when he charged, so large that its almost draped covered most of his stallion's hindquarters when he took the saddle. No ordinary clasp would suffice for such a weight, so the greatcloak was held in place by a matched pair of miniature lionesses crouching on his shoulders, as if poised to spring. Their mate, a male with a magnificent mane, reclined atop his greathelm, one paw raking the air as he roared. All three lions were wrought in gold, with ruby eyes. His armor was heavy steel plate, enameled in a dark crimson, greaves and gauntlets inlaid with ornate gold scrollwork. His rondels were golden sunbursts, all his fastenings were gilded, and the red steel was burnished to such a high sheen that it shone like fire in the moonlight. Eleonora would have told him he looked ridiculous if she was beside him and he would have sent her one of his insufferably charming smiles, she thought.

As the horns died away, and Eleonora heard Robb call out, "NORA."

Eleonora melted her palm into a fist and rotated her elbow forward so her hand dropped flat. Jaime turned at the sound, perhaps at the mention of her name only, and looked for her in the sea of enemies or perhaps not at all. Suddenly there was a hissing in the air; a vast flight of arrows arched up from behind hert, where the archers stood flanking the road. The southerners broke into a run, shouting as they came, but the arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air from the riding archers, and the ground archers were fitting a second arrow to their bowstrings.

The trumpet blared, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA. Robb put his spurs to his horse and added one more voice to the cacophony, and the van surged forward.

A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the sunburst of Lannister men. Eleonora saw a dozen men go down. Jaime's stallion reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves as a barbed spearhead raked across his neck. Maddened, the beast lunged into the ranks. Spears thrust at him from every side, but the shield wall broke beneath his weight. The northerners stumbled away from the animal's death throes. As his horse fell, snorting blood and biting with his last red breath, the lion rose untouched, laying about him with his sword.

Jaime began calling for Robb, slicing through men like glass to get nearer to the boy wolf. Eleonora saw Smalljon in the distance, he used his battle axe to slay red cloaks like a giant amongst sheep. He was a bear of a man, strong in body and soul.

A Burned Man rode past, slumped against his horse. It was a Bolton Bannerman, the spear had entered his belly and come out through his back. He was past any help. Red cloaks clawed through northerners, fighting to reach Robb. Eleonora emptied her shoulder quiver onto them like rain on fire. She reached for the quiver on her saddle, discarding the empty.

Lord Galbart Glover was far to the right of Robb and Jaime. Eleonora watched as he was knocked from his gelding by a Lannister soldier. Lord Glover held his shield up over his head while the red cloak chopped at the crest like firewood. Eleonora pulled an arrow from her shoulder and aimed it at the distant aggressor, releasing the arrow as she released her breath. The arrow shot through the man's skull like a knife through warm butter. He fell over with the a thud. Lord Glover followed the arrow's path with his eyes and landed on Eleonora with her fingers still positioned beside her bow. He sent her a slight nod which she returned before he took to his feet and regained his balance.

Eleonora had just motioned back towards her archers' line when she heard the cheers. The wolf had caught the lion.

Catelyn could not claim she had seen the battle. Yet she could hear, and the valley rang with echoes. The crack of a broken lance, the clash of swords, the cries of "Lannister" and "Winterfell" and "Tully! Riverrun and Tully!" When she realized there was no more to see, she closed her eyes and listened. The battle came alive around her. She heard hoofbeats, iron boots splashing in shallow water, the woody sound of swords on oaken shields and the scrape of steel against steel, the hiss of arrows, the thunder of drums, the terrified screaming of a thousand horses. Men shouted curses and begged for mercy, and got it (or not), and lived (or died). The ridges seemed to play queer tricks with sound.

Once she heard Robb's voice, as clear as if he'd been standing at her side, calling, "To me! To me!" And she heard his direwolf, snarling and growling, heard the snap of those long teeth, the tearing of flesh, shrieks of fear and pain from man and horse alike. Was there only one wolf? It was hard to be certain.

Little by little, the sounds dwindled and died, until at last there was only the wolf. As a red dawn broke in the east, Grey Wind began to howl again.

Robb came back to her on a different horse, riding a piebald gelding in the place of the grey stallion he had taken down into the valley. The wolf's head on his shield was slashed half to pieces, raw wood showing where deep gouges had been hacked in the oak, but Robb himself seemed unhurt. Yet when he came closer, Catelyn saw that his mailed glove and the sleeve of his surcoat were black with blood. "You're hurt," she said. "Where is your sister? Is she safe?"

Robb lifted his hand, opened and closed his fingers. "No," he said. "This is . . . Torrhen's blood, perhaps, or . . . " He shook his head. "Yes, Eleonora, did well. She is stitching Greatjon's shoulder. He took an arrow, but he'll survive."

A mob of men followed him up the slope, dirty and dented and grinning, with Theon and the Smalljon at their head. Between them they dragged Ser Jaime Lannister. They threw him down in front of Catelyn's horse.

"The Kingslayer," Hal announced, unnecessarily.

Jaime Lannister raised his head. "Lady Stark," he said from his knees. Blood ran down one cheek from a gash across his scalp, but the pale light of dawn had put the glint of gold back in his hair. "I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have mislaid it."

"It is not your sword I want, ser," she told him. "Give me my daughters. Give me my lord husband."

"I have mislaid them as well, I fear."

"A pity," Catelyn said coldly.

Eleonora pushed through the crowd of men to see what the shouting was about, her fingers stained red with Umber blood. Once she had squeezed herself to the front, she saw him. She saw Jaime Lannister. He was covered in blood and dirt like the others, injuries littered throughout his body, his blonde hair nearly brown. His wicked grin fell as soon as he saw her. Her pretty black hair was tied in a loose braid, ragged from battle. She wore armor on her chest and arms, made tiny for her petite frame. Of course she fought in the battle, he told himself. Of course she did.

"Kill him, Robb," Theon Greyjoy urged. "Take his head off."

"No," said Eleonora before she could stop her own lips from moving.

"My lady sister is right," her brother answered, peeling off his bloody glove. "He's worth more alive than dead. And my lord father never condoned the murder of prisoners after a battle."

"A wise man," said Jaime, "and honorable."

Jaime watched as Smalljon Umber inched his way through the crowd of men to place his palm on Eleonora's cheek, gently forcing her to look at him. She placed her hands on either side of his face, looking for injuries to his person. He had a cut under his right eye. Jaime watched as she spoke softly to him, gently tending to his scratch with her thumb. Jaime could see a small smile grow across Smalljon's mouth. He had love for her. Jaime could see it in his eyes, and he could not see it in Eleonora's. The concern and care was there, but the love was not.

"Take him away and put him in irons," Catelyn said.

"Do as my lady mother says," Robb commanded, "and make certain there's a strong guard around him. Lord Karstark will want his head on a pike."

"That he will," the Greatjon agreed, gesturing with his arm freshly in a sling. Jaime Lannister was led away to be bandaged and chained.

"Why should Lord Karstark want him dead?" Catelyn asked.

Robb looked away into the woods, with the same brooding look that Ned often got. "He . . . he killed Eddard. . . "

"One of Lord Karstark's sons," Galbart Glover explained. "The Kingslayer slaughtered Daryn Hornwood as well."

"No one can fault Lannister on his courage," said Lord Glover. "When he saw that he was lost, he rallied his retainers and fought his way up the valley, hoping to reach Lord Robb and cut him down. And almost did."

"He mislaid his sword in Eddard Karstark's neck, after he took part of Torrhen's hand off, a blessing not his hand that wields his sword, and split Daryn Hornwood's skull open," Robb said. "All the time he was shouting for me. If they hadn't tried to stop him—"

"—I should then be mourning in place of Lord Karstark," Catelyn said. "Your men did what they were sworn to do, Robb. They died protecting their liege lord. Grieve for them. Honor them for their valor. But not now. You have no time for grief. You may have lopped the head off the snake, but three quarters of the body is still coiled around my father's castle. We have won a battle, not a war."

"I've come to mend the kingslayer's wounds," said Eleonora, Grey Wind by her side.

"Careful, my lady," said one of the two Umber bannermen guarding the wooden cage that housed Jaime Lannister.

He no longer wore his armor. His hands were tied to a wooden pole behind his back. He was still cold even that far south of the northern snow. Blood stained his face and neck, the result of the gash in his forehead. The hole in his bicep was her doing. One of her archers had struck him. He did not lift his head when he heard her voice, but he did lift his eyes to look upon her.

She had changed from her trousers and armor, dawning a deep green wool dress. Her hair hung down her small frame, braided behind her skull in a loose northern style. He admired how easily she was able to transform from a fierce archer on the battlefield to a proper lady. He hadn't decided which was her true form, or perhaps all she ever wore were costumes.

"I would hope I could protect myself from a man with his hands tied behind his back," she smiled slightly, "besides I, thankfully, am no king."

The two men exchanged a chuckle and nodded. She carried a bucket, a deep wooden bowl, and a folded rag over her forearm, "Cook has made a delicious chicken stew. I recommend stealing a bowl before Greatjon's belly starts to rumble."

"We're on orders to guard the prisoner," said the second guard, smelling the savory aroma drifting from the wooden bowl she carried.

"Grey Wind can watch over your post until you've had your fill," she said, pressing her index finger flirtatiously to her lips. "I won't tell."

The two men looked at each other from the corner of their eyes and exchanged a quick nod of agreement before hurrying off to eat their supper. Eleonora slowly stepped into the cage that kept him. Grey Wind sat down in the open doorway, staring out into the night.

Eleonora gently set her tin bucket and wooden bowl onto the ground beside Jaime. He still did not lift his head. She dipped her metal ladle into the cool, clean water within one of the buckets and cupped her hand underneath to prevent a spill. She turned her head to the side and quietly said, "drink."

He parted his lips and allowed her to pour the water down his throat. The water tasted as sweet as honey after going so long without any drink. He couldn't stop himself from straining his neck to savor every last drop. After a couple more ladles of water, she switched to bringing spoonfuls of stew to his lips. It was warm and tasted salty and thick as it swam down his throat. The bowl steamed like a dragon's breath until it was empty.

Eleonora took her clean white cloth and sprawled out the contents on the earth. She had a small needle and thread for stitching and a clean linen for washing. Neither of them spoke until Jaime flinched as she pressed the wet linen against his cheek. The water was freezing, and he damned himself for not anticipating the cold. She released a faint smile, and he returned the expression in spite of himself.

"Pleasant to the tongue but not to the skin, I'm afraid," he said dryly.

Eleonora nodded once. She dipped the linen in the bucket and drained the blood from the cloth. She dabbed the area around his split forehead before bringing the needle and thread to sew his skin closed. He did not flinch at the pain like he had for the cold and perhaps that meant something. She bit off the excess and tied the thread closed to seal the wound. She cleaned his upper arm, the damage she had done, and sewed his wounds closed. Still, he refused to flinch.

"You did not tell your brother how you escaped the kingsroad alive," said Jaime quietly, lifting his head for the first time to look upon her face.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "I did not. You did not tell your sister you found me."

"No," he said. "I did not. What of your House Guard lover?"

She paused for a moment and chewed on his question, "no." Eleonora rinsed the linen again and brought the cloth to his chest. She pushed open his shirt around his chest and gently washed away the dried blood from his skin, "and my betrothed is my one and only love now."

Jaime jerked his head up to look at her though she did not react, "betrothed? Some fool finally conquered the indomitable cunt of Lady Eleonora Stark."

He knew it must be Smalljon Umber, but he played the part of a fool well.

"I am soon to be Lady Umber," said Eleonora without emotion. "Your wedding invitation has most certainly been forgotten."

"The Lady of Last Hearth," said Jaime, unimpressed. "What an honor to be in your presence, Lady Umber. I imagine your Cassel lover is quite devastated."

"I think it unlikely the news has reached him yet," said Eleonora. "It has barely reached me."

"You may soon have a husband, Stark, but you'll never be a wife to any man," he said genuinely. "It's not in your nature — the same way you may become an Umber by name but you'll only ever be a Stark."

"I'll be whatever my love asks of me," she replied in a dulcet voice.

"You do not love Smalljon Umber," said Jaime, scoffing. "You love your freedom more than you could love any man. The only way you'll marry is if you have a knife at your throat or a babe in your belly, and I see neither."

She stared at him for a long while. Their conversation felt familiar and easy. He had grown to know her more than she anticipated. She didn't like it. Jaime Lannister had fought to kill her brother in battle just hours ago. He killed one of the Karstarks boys, and would have killed a dozen more men from the great northern houses if he had the chance. This wasn't why she wanted to see him. She needed him but not for this.

"Did you push my little brother from that broken tower?" asked Eleonora finally, the words burning her throat. "He saw you with the queen, didn't he?"

She had asked him once before when he and his men warred in the streets with her father and his guard. He had lied to her then. Jaime turned his neck to the side and nodded once. Eleonora did not react. She already knew the truth, but she needed to see his confession.

"Why did you let him live?"

"I did not let him do anything," he said with no emotion. "He survived because he wanted to."

"Do not lie to me now, Jaime," said Eleonora. "What is the purpose? You could have easily left him there to bleed to death. Your secret would have died with him."

"I was indebted to you for saving my life," he said swiftly. "A Lannister always pays his debts. I've told you this before."

"Tell me something true," she begged.

"I took your little sister and her Splinter sword out of King's Landing," said Jaime and Eleonora's eyes grew large. "That, Stark, is something true."

"How?"

"I found your Yoren from the Wall and waited at the Temple of the Maiden for three bloody days," he said. "Where we once danced—" Jaime paused for a moment in thought, "Starks are nothing if not predictable. I cut her hair short like a boy and brought her to Yoren. He took her north on the kingsroad towards the Night's Watch. What happens to her now lies in the hands of your gods."

"You kept your word," said Eleonora, breathless.

"Do not sound so surprised, Stark," he smirked. "I may indeed be a kingslayer, but I am more than just that. Your septa lost her head, but your handmaiden lives."

"Thank you," she said sadly, her heart aching for Septa Mordane.

"Don't thank the man who crippled your child brother and cut down dozens of your bannermen," he replied, turning his chin away from her. "I may have helped take you and your kin out of King's Landing alive — against my better judgment, but I am sure you'll want me dead again soon enough."

"You'll live as long as Sansa and my father survive in the south," said Eleonora.

"I should count my days then," said Jaime.

"What do you mean?"

"Ned Stark will never return to northern soil alive," said Jaime. "Surely you must have realized that by now, little wolf. Your lord father is as dead as he is alive."

"You don't know that for certain," she seethed. "You are only being cruel."

"It may surprise you, Stark, that I do not exist merely to presume your sensibilities," said Jaime, leaning his head back to rest on the wooden pole and close his eyes.

"It must be exhausting," she whispered after a long pause.

"Listening to you?" he scoffed. "Extremely."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It must be exhausting to fight every instinct in your body screaming for you to be decent." Jaime locked his jaw, opened his eyes, and stared wordlessly at the Stark girl as she gathered her things. "I'll send for a steward to deliver you blankets to help you fight the cold," she said, refusing to meet his gaze.

"I was once told 'the only way to fight the cold is to be colder,'" said Jaime, quoting his northern companion.

Eleonora paused and looked curiously onto his handsome, southern face for a long moment before the two Umber guards returned and without another syllable, she disappeared into the darkness leaving behind only the familiar lingering scent of rose water, blood, and evergreen in the crisp, night air.

Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Hand of King Robert Baratheon was dead. Joffrey Baratheon, the inbred Lannister bastard had taken his head.

Eleonora and Robb prayed beneath a green canopy of leaves, surrounded by tall redwoods and great old elms, kneeling before the heart tree, a slender weirwood with a face more sad than fierce. Robb's longsword was before him, the point thrust in the earth, his gloved hands clasped around the hilt.

Around the pair others knelt: Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and more. Even Tytos Blackwood was among them, the great raven cloak fanned out behind him. They were the ones who keep the old gods.

Catelyn Stark approached silently, no intention of interrupting their service. The river wind moved through the high branches, and she could see the Wheel Tower to her right, ivy crawling up its side. As she stood there, memories of Ned came flooding back to her.

Robb got to his feet slowly and sheathed his sword. Eleonora did not stand, her bent knee fell beside the other resting on the wet earth. She brought her right hand to her mouth, almost as if an effort to prevent her from screaming. There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away angrily. Then lords of the great houses left the eldest Starks alone with the old gods, quietly disappearing back through the woods.

The haunting thuds of metal to wood felt raw inside Catelyn's chest, vibrating against her ribs. Robb hammered away at an old, dead evergreen tree trunk with his sword until the blade dulled. His forehead shined with sweat, his hair askew. Tears soaked his cheeks and continued to fall, far out of sight of his men.

Finally, Eleonora seemed to return from within herself and slowly took to her feet. She said his name softly, "Robb."

He ignored her at first but at the third call to him he slammed the point of his sword sharply into the ground. He turned around and met his sister's wet and bloodshot eyes and only managed a few steps towards her before he collapsed onto onto his knees, wrapping his arms around his sister's waist. He buried his face into her stomach and she cradled his head against her, gently combing her fingers through his hair. His sobs radiated against her abdomen, his tears soaking her green gown. Eleonora's lower lip trembled as she turned her gaze towards the sky. She had to be strong for him, for her mother, for the north.

"We will kill them all," Robb cried.

Eleonora held him close against her and leaned over to kiss the top of his head and closed her eyes. Catelyn stepped backwards and turned about. She would not disturb their mourning, not interrupt their bond. She would do anything to protect it, to protect them. She would not lose them too.

The war council convened in the Great Hall, at four long trestle tables had been arranged in a broken square. Lord Hoster was too weak to attend, asleep on his balcony, dreaming of the sun on the rivers of his youth. Their mother's younger brother, their Uncle Edmure, sat in the high seat of the Tullys, with Blackfish at his side, and his father's bannermen arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the victory at Riverrun had spread to the fugitive lords of the Trident, drawing them back.

Karyl Vance came in, a lord now, his father dead beneath the Golden Tooth. Ser Marq Piper was with him, and they brought a Darry, Ser Raymun's son, a lad no older than Bran. Lord Jonos Bracken arrived from the ruins of Stone Hedge, glowering and blustering, and took a seat as far from Tytos Blackwood as the tables would permit.

The northern lords sat opposite, with Catelyn beside her daughter and Robb facing Edmure across the tables. They were fewer. Eleonora sat to her brother's right, Greatjon to Robb's left hand, and then Theon Greyjoy; Galbart Glover and Lady Mormont were to the right of Catelyn. Lord Rickard Karstark, gaunt and hollow-eyed in his grief, took his seat like a man in a nightmare, his long beard uncombed and unwashed. He had left a son dead in the Whispering Wood, and there was no word of the second, his eldest, who had led the Karstark spears against Tywin Lannister on the Green Fork.

The arguing raged on late into the night. Each lord had a right to speak, and speak they did . . . and shout, and curse, and reason, and cajole, and jest, and bargain, and slam tankards on the table, and threaten, and walk out, and return sullen or smiling.

Roose Bolton had re-formed the battered remnants of their other host at the mouth of the causeway. Ser Helman Tallhart and Walder Frey still held the Twins. Lord Tywin's army had crossed the Trident, and was making for Harrenhal. And there were two kings in the realm. Two kings, and no agreement.

Many of the lords bannermen wanted to march on Harrenhal at once, to meet Lord Tywin and end Lannister power for all time. Young, hot-tempered Marq Piper urged a strike west at Casterly Rock instead. Still others counseled patience. Riverrun sat athwart the Lannister supply lines, Jason Mallister pointed out; let them bide their time, denying Lord Tywin fresh levies and provisions while they strengthened their defenses and rested their weary troops. Lord Blackwood would have none of it. They should finish the work they began in the Whispering Wood. March to Harrenhal and bring Roose Bolton's army down as well. What Blackwood urged, Bracken opposed, as ever; Lord Jonos Bracken rose to insist they ought pledge their fealty to King Renly, and move south to join their might to his.

"Renly is not the king," Robb said. It was the first time he had spoken. Like his father, he knew how to listen.

"You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, my lord," Galbart Glover said. "He put your father to death."

"That makes him evil," Robb replied. "I do not know that it makes Renly king. Joffrey is still Robert's eldest trueborn son, so the throne is rightfully his by all the laws of the realm. Were he to die, and I mean to see that he does, he has a younger brother. Tommen is next in line after Joffrey."

"Tommen is no less a Lannister," Ser Marq Piper snapped.

"As you say," said Robb, troubled. "Yet if neither one is king, still, how could it be Lord Renly? He's Robert's younger brother. Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, and Renly can't be king before Lord Stannis."

Lady Mormont agreed. "Lord Stannis has the better claim."

"Renly is crowned," said Marq Piper. "Highgarden and Storm's End support his claim, and the Dornishmen will not be laggardly. If Winterfell and Riverrun add their strength to his, he will have five of the seven great houses behind him. Six, if the Arryns bestir themselves! Six against the Rock! My lords, within the year, we will have all their heads on pikes, the queen and the boy king, Lord Tywin, the Imp, the Kingslayer, Ser Kevan, all of them! That is what we shall win if we join with King Renly. What does Lord Stannis have against that, that we should cast it all aside?"

"The right," said Robb stubbornly. He sounded eerily like his father as he said it.

"So you mean us to declare for Stannis?" asked Edmure.

"I don't know," said Robb. "I prayed to know what to do, but the gods did not answer. The Lannisters killed my father for a traitor, and we know that was a lie, but if Joffrey is the lawful king and we fight against him, we will be traitors."

"His birthright is at question," said Eleonora. "Father raised his concern of his true paternity and he lost his head for it. When have any of you known my father to lie? We do not know if Joffrey is a true Baratheon."

"We cannot commit treason on an incestuous rumor," Robb argued.

"You doubt father now?"

"Of course not," said Robb, "but we can do nothing without proof of this."

"My lord father would urge caution," aged Ser Stevron said, with the weaselly smile of a Frey. "Wait, let these two kings play their game of thrones. When they are done fighting, we can bend our knees to the victor, or oppose him, as we choose. With Renly arming, likely Lord Tywin would welcome a truce . . . and the safe return of his son. Noble lords, allow me to go to him at Harrenhal and arrange good terms and ransoms . . . "

A roar of outrage drowned out his voice. "Craven!" the Greatjon thundered. "Begging for a truce will make us seem weak," declared Lady Mormont.

"Your lord father is a coward," said Eleonora with venom on her tongue.

"Ransoms be damned, we must not give up the Kingslayer," shouted Rickard Karstark.

"Why not a peace?" Catelyn asked.

The lords looked at her, but it was Robb's eyes she felt, his and his alone. "Lady Mother, they murdered my lord father, your husband," he said grimly. He unsheathed his longsword and laid it on the table before him, the bright steel on the rough wood. "This is the only peace I have for Lannisters."

The Greatjon bellowed his approval, and other men added their voices, shouting and drawing swords and pounding their fists on the table. Catelyn waited until they had quieted. "My lords," she said then, "Lord Eddard was your liege, but I shared his bed and bore his children. Do you think I love him any less than you?" Her voice almost broke with her grief, but Catelyn took a long breath and steadied herself. "Robb, if that sword could bring him back, I should never let you sheathe it until Ned stood at my side once more . . . but he is gone, and hundred Whispering Woods will not change that. Ned is gone, and Daryn Hornwood, and Lord Karstark's valiant son, and many other good men besides, and none of them will return to us. Must we have more deaths still?"

"You are a woman, my lady," the Greatjon rumbled in his deep voice. "Women do not understand these things."

Smalljon looked at Eleonora from the corner of his eye. He smirked at her, knowing his father sounded like a true fool.

"You are the gentle sex," said Lord Glover, with the lines of grief fresh on his face. "A man has a need for vengeance."

"You so easily forget it was I, a woman, who saved your life in Whispering Woods, Lord Glover," said Eleonora. "It was a woman who brought you to life and a woman that kept it. Lady Mormont fights with a sword as well as any man. Do not diminish our worth."

Lord Glover closed his mouth sharply and sat back in his chair.

"Give me Cersei Lannister, Lord Karstark, and you would see how gentle a woman can be," Catelyn continued. "Perhaps I do not understand tactics and strategy . . . but I understand futility. We went to war when Lannister armies were ravaging the riverlands, and Ned was a prisoner, falsely accused of treason. We fought to defend ourselves, and to win my lord's freedom.

"Well, the one is done, and the other forever beyond our reach. I will mourn for Ned until the end of my days, but I must think of the living. I want my daughters back, and the queen holds them still. If I must trade our Lannisters for their two Starks, I will call that a bargain and thank the gods. I want you safe, Robb, ruling at Winterfell from your father's seat. I want you to live your life, to wed a woman and father a son. I want to write an end to this. I want to go home, my lords, and weep for my husband."

The hall was very quiet when Catelyn finished speaking. Eleonora swallowed hard. Her mother was so impossibly difficult to understand at times. They all wanted to be warm in their beds, close to their families, but that was not possible now. It was her that chose to kidnap Tyrion Lannister. She started this war whether she realized it or not. Now they would all face the consequences.

"Peace," said her uncle Brynden. "Peace is sweet, my lady . . . but on what terms? It is no good hammering your sword into a plowshare if you must forge it again on the morrow."

"What did my Eddard die for, if I am to return to Karhold with nothing but his bones?" asked Rickard Karstark.

"Aye," said Lord Bracken. "Gregor Clegane laid waste to my fields, slaughtered my smallfolk, and left Stone Hedge a smoking ruin. Am I now to bend the knee to the ones who sent him? What have we fought for, if we are to put all back as it was before?"

Lord Blackwood agreed, to Catelyn's surprise and dismay. "And if we do make peace with King Joffrey, are we not then traitors to King Renly? What if the stag should prevail against the lion, where would that leave us?"

"Whatever you may decide for yourselves, I shall never call a Lannister my king," declared Marq Piper.

"Nor I!" yelled the little Darry boy. "I never will!"

Again the shouting began. Catelyn sat despairing. She had come so close, she thought. They had almost listened, almost . . . but the moment was gone. There would be no peace, no chance to heal, no safety. She looked at her daughter, watched as she listened to the lords debate, frowning, worried for her brother. Robb had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey and Eleonora to the son of Greatjon Umber, but she saw their true spouses plain before her now: the sword Robb had laid on the table. Catelyn was thinking of Sansa and Arya, wondering if she would ever see them again, when the Greatjon lurched to his feet.

"MY LORDS!" he shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. "Here is what I say to these two kings!" He spat. " Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, I've had a bellyful of them." He reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword. "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!" He pointed at Robb with the blade. "There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m'lords," he thundered. "The King in the North!"

And he knelt and laid his sword at Robb's feet.

"I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Karstark said. "They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well." He eased his longsword from its scabbard. "The King in the North!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.

Maege Mormont stood. "The King of Winter!" she declared, and laid her spiked mace beside the swords. And the river lords were rising too, Blackwood and Bracken and Mallister, houses who had never been ruled from Winterfell, yet Eleonora watched them rise and draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in the realm for more than three hundred years, since Aegon the Dragon had come to make the Seven Kingdoms one . . . yet now were heard again, ringing from the timbers of her grandfather's hall:

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"They have my son," Tywin Lannister said.

"They do, my lord." The messenger's voice was dulled by exhaustion. On the breast of his torn surcoat, the brindled boar of Crakehall was half-obscured by dried blood.

One of your sons, Tyrion thought. He took a sip of wine and said not a word, thinking of Jaime. When he lifted his arm, pain shot through his elbow, reminding him of his own brief taste of battle. He loved his brother, but he would not have wanted to be with him in the Whispering Wood for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

His lord father's assembled captains and bannermen had fallen very quiet as the courier told his tale. The only sound was the crackle and hiss of the log burning in the hearth at the end of the long, drafty common room.

After the hardships of the long relentless drive south, the prospect of even a single night in an inn had cheered Tyrion mightily . . . though he rather wished it had not been this inn again, with all its memories. His father had set a grueling pace, and it had taken its toll. Men wounded in the battle kept up as best they could or were abandoned to fend for themselves. Every morning they left a few more by the roadside, men who went to sleep never to wake. Every afternoon a few more collapsed along the way. And every evening a few more deserted, stealing off into the dusk. Tyrion had been half-tempted to go with them.

He had been upstairs, enjoying the comfort of a featherbed and the warmth of his recent lover, Shae's, body beside him, when his squire had woken him to say that a rider had arrived with dire news of Riverrun. So it had all been for nothing. The rush south, the endless forced marches, the bodies left beside the road . . . all for naught. Robb Stark had reached Riverrun days and days ago.

"How could this happen?"said Kevan Lannister. "How? Even after the Whispering Wood, he had Riverrun ringed in iron, surrounded by a great host . . . what madness made Ser Jaime decide to split his men into three separate camps? Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?"

Lord Tywin Lannister turned his face to study his brother. Tyrion saw a glimmer of gold as the light shone off his father's pupils, but he could not have said whether the look was one of agreement or disgust. Lord Tywin was oft quiet in council, preferring to listen before he spoke, a habit Tyrion himself tried to emulate. Yet this silence was uncharacteristic even for him, and his wine was untouched.

"I am certain he would explain his decision if he were present to defend his course of actions," said Tywin, his tone cutting.

"Two battles do not make a war," Ser Addam insisted. "We are far from lost. I should welcome the chance to try my own steel against this Stark boy."

"Perhaps they would consent to a truce, and allow us to trade our prisoners for theirs," offered Lord Lefford.

"Unless they trade three-for-one, we still come out light on those scales," Tyrion said acidly. "And what are we to offer for my brother? Lord Eddard's rotting head?"

"I had heard that Queen Cersei has the Hand's daughters," Lefford said hopefully. "If we give the lad his sisters back..."

Ser Addam snorted disdainfully. "He would have to be an utter fool to trade Jaime Lannister's life for two girls."

"Then we must ransom Ser Jaime, whatever it costs," Lord Lefford said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "If the Starks feel the need for gold, they can melt down Jaime's armor."

"If we ask for a truce, they will think us weak," Ser Addarn argued. "We should march on them at once."

"Surely our friends at court could be prevailed upon to join us with fresh troops," said Ser Harys. "And someone might return to Casterly Rock to raise a new host."

Lord Tywin Lannister rose to his feet. "They have my son," he said once more, in a voice that cut through the babble like a sword through suet. "Leave me. All of you." Ever the soul of obedience, Tyrion rose to depart with the rest, but his father gave him a look. "Not you, Tyrion. Remain. And you as well, Kevan. The rest of you, out."

Tyrion eased himself back onto the bench, startled into speechlessness. Ser Kevan crossed the room to the wine casks. "Uncle," Tyrion called, "if you would be so kind—"

"Here." His father offered him his cup, the wine untouched. Now Tyrion truly was nonplussed. He drank.

"If that fool hadn't cut off Ned Stark's head as easily as ordering suppering then we would have a solid footing to bargain for Jaime's life," said Tywin. "I pray the Stark boy has more sense—"

"Even if he does not, the eldest daughter will not allow any harm to come to Jaime," said Tyrion astutely. "I met her when we journeyed north after Jon Arryn's death. The bond she has with Robb Stark is evident. He idolizes her, and I imagine she acts as his closest counsel now."

"Seeking his closest counsel from a woman?" said Tywin in a mix of disgust and disbelief.

"Yes, I imagine you find that quite shocking," Tyrion continued. "She is as kind as she is clever, and she fights like a man with a bow from what I hear. Perhaps Joffrey could do with emulating the Starks."

"You sound as if you admire her," said Tywin, raising a disgusted brow.

"Perhaps I do," said Tyrion, "and perhaps she is the key to returning Jaime home."

"Mother," said Eleonora, sitting across from her mother at the small supper table they shared. "I have something to ask you, something father asked, really."

"What is it?" asked Catelyn, scribbling over her papers.

"It's a story," she went on, lacing her fingers on the tabletop. "He told me before I left King's Landing, he told me if anything were to happen to him that I was to ask you to tell me a story."

"A story?" she said, furrowing her brows.

"Yes," she continued. "He said you would tell it best — the Tale of the Ice Moon."

Catelyn immediately ceased her writings, a crooked black line shadowed her sentence. Her eyes darted onto her eldest daughter. Her eyes immediately filled with tears and her throat grew tight.

"Mother, I'm sorry," she said suddenly, unsure of why she was apologizing. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"Your father told you this?"

"Yes," she replied. "It was his last request of me, though I supposed it was really his last request of you."

Catelyn stood up quickly and walked to the tent opening and closed it. She collected herself for a moment, wiping her tears and covering her mouth. She moved her chair beside her daughter and took her daughter's hands in her own. She pushed a long black strand of hair from Eleonora's face and sent her a small smile.

"I knew this day would come," said Catelyn. "I had only hoped it would not be so soon, and I would not tell it alone."

Catelyn took a long sip of wine.

"You know the stories before you and your brothers and sisters came into this world, the tales of Robert's Rebellion. You were told of winter roses, Targaryen songs, and kingslayers. You know of the horrible fates of the Starks who rode south."

"Everyone knows the stories," she said. "Everyone has heard the songs."

"You have not heard this song," said Catelyn gently. "I was promised to Brandon Stark first, you knew this of course. He was the eldest of your grandfather's children. He was loud, and crude, and wild — and I loved him for it. He was the first man I ever loved."

"I was so happy when I was promised to him," she said, a sad smile on her lips. "I was the luckiest girl in the Seven Kingdoms. I was to be the wife of the handsome, charmingly brutish heir to Winterfell. Every woman north of the Riverlands envied me."

"When the raven came from the Mad King, I begged my father, and I begged Brandon for us to be wed before he left," she said. "I must have known, though I was certain I didn't then, that if he left for the south — he would never return. I was right."

"You knew this story, many do," she went on. "However, only Ned, Brandon, your grandparents, and Maester Kym knew I got what I wanted."

"You were married to Brandon Stark?" said Eleonora, touching her fingertips to her lips.

"We were married at night, in secret, beside the Red Forks River and under a pale blue moon — the "Ice Moon," the maesters would call it. Days later, after we had wedded and bedded, my husband Brandon rode south and never returned to me. He gave me a gift before he left, the greatest gift I had ever received — my first daughter. He gave me you."

"I don't believe you," said Eleonora as soft and as cutting a blade over fire. She stood up and her forearm fell onto her abdomen. She felt ill. "If I am the true legitimate daughter of Brandon Stark then that would make me the heir to Winterfell. I wouldn't be a bastard. Why would you lie then — all this time?"

"Your grandfather Hoster," said Catelyn slowly. "He thought it best for you to be the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark than the only child of Brandon."

"Why?" asked Eleonora. "Why would a lie be better?"

"Because you were just a baby and you were a girl," said Catelyn, and she knew that's all Eleonora wanted her to admit.

"What if I had been born a boy?" she said. "What then?"

"But you were not," said Catelyn.

"You removed me from my own story," said Eleonora, gasping for air as it felt like a heavy stone was pressing on her chest now. "You had no right. How did you convince Father to agree to this?"

"Ned and I grieved together at the news of Brandon's death," said Catelyn, tears falling freely now. "I had just learned I was with child, Brandon's heir. It was easy to dream away the man I loved who died a thousand leagues away. I barely knew him, really. The only thing I knew for certain was I had loved him."

"Yet you allowed his lineage to die along with him," Eleonora snarled.

"Ned wanted to keep you safe and it was dangerous to have this tiny little bundle be the Stark in Winterfell," said Catelyn. "Brandon had more enemies than he should. My father, Ned, Lord Arryn, and I agreed it was best for you to be raised as his daughter."

"Father never treated me like anything less than his own blood," said Eleonora, her childhood unraveling before her eyes. "That is why he allowed me to learn to use a bow and ride a horse like Robb and Jon, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Catelyn slowly. "He knew Brandon would want his daughter to know how to fight and how to defend her home."

"He loved me as his daughter even though I wasn't," said Eleonora, clutching her abdomen.

"He loved you more than anything in the world," she said. "He loved you the moment he held you in his arms. You were his daughter."

"Yet you allowed Jon to be treated like a scorned burden for the entirety of his life because he was the son of a woman you never knew," said Eleonora, nostrils flaring. "All along you raised me as Ned Stark's eldest daughter when you had conceived me with another man — his own brother. Father raised me as if I was his true born daughter even though I must have reminded him every day of the life you wanted with his brother. You didn't have to be Jon's mother, I did a fine job of that myself, but you couldn't even be bothered to let him break bread at your table. You could not find it within yourself to be decent—"

"Jon is a bastard—"

"Oh, you never let him forget it," said Eleonora. "Did you destroy the proof of your wedding? I imagine you did, you burned the pages like the Mad King burned his body. Nothing left but ash and dust."

"Maester Kym's private diary still tells the story true," said Catelyn. "My father wanted it all gone, but I begged the maester to save it."

"How good of you to allow the pages to rot away in the Citadel for the ghosts to read," Eleonora seethed. "Father wanted to tell me long ago, but you begged him not to, didn't you?"

"I did not want you to resent your father," she replied.

"You did not want me to resent you," said Eleonora. "What am I to do now? The father I never knew and the father that I loved both rot in the south. My brother fights a war you alone started by senselessly abducting Tyrion Lannister. And now I must live with the revelation that I am the true heir to Winterfell while Robb spills blood like he was born with no other choice."

"I'll speak with Robb," said Catelyn desperately. "We will—"

"You will do no such thing," said Eleonora fiercely. "No one else will know. The Ice Moon is my story now as it always should have been. It was the last thing father gave me before Joffrey took his head. The tale now belongs to me."

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