AN; Gods I'm unhappy with this - maybe it's because I've read, and re-read this chapter too many times.

By the way, I've chosen to write on Book!Cat. I'm a bit disappointed how HBO has turned her best qualities against her. You may notice the difference of persuasion here then: in the books it is Catelyn who urges her husband to take the position of Robert's Hand, rather than the TV series where she begs him not to leave

Eddard

His wife stood by the open window, the Northern air sending auburn waves rippling across the naked expanse of her back. The urgency of their lovemaking was tainted with the foul feel of finality and Catelyn looked as cold as ice itself, refusing even to shiver in her nakedness. It shamed him to be the cause of her sourness, but he had thought she would be in a sweeter mood when they had finished, and that perhaps she could be persuaded.

"Catelyn," he started, rising from the bed and encircling his wife. Yet she remained as the Wall, an immoveable force despite his effort.

"You must go, my lord." Lady Catelyn said, her voice carrying across the stone walls so that he heard her whisper back to him from every which way.Go go go go. Her arms folded over her chest, hiding the pointed nipples he longed to suckle.

"So you have told me. But I have no business being in the South. My place is here." Ned spoke softly. Where it is ice and snow and the men are honest men. He knew her answer before the words fell from her mouth. Family. Duty. Honor. And now all three of the Tully words were bringing him South.

"Your place is where the King requests. And now with Lysa's letter you must certainly go. There is no other option. You have said that Robert is your friend, and as a brother to you. You must protect him."

"Aye. Winter is coming."

She turned in his arms pushing at his chest. He let her go, though his hands itched to rest upon her hips. "As it always must. There is none but you. Elsewise the King would not be here."

"And Sansa?"

"Sansa has stars in her eyes. Perhaps this boy has none of his mother's faults. Her betrothal cannot be broken - not to the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

"She does not know this boy." He had seen the Prince, and misliked him. Catelyn had warned him to guard his tongue, to appease this Lannister woman and her children. He had seen them, all three. The youngest was round where Bran, being of the same age as slim as an arrow. Bran had taken the boy well the other day. He would be a fearsome knight one day. The girl was a pretty young thing with watchful eyes. The type of girl Sansa should like for company. The type of girl who lusted after a new dress, not her brother's swords (as Arya was want to do). But the boy Joffrey had a smile that sat uneasy, though most often he wore a scowl. His guard was well-matched - Clegane and the boy oft looked in misery together. And yet to match his Sansa with the crowned Prince... Another Stark had once worn a crown, and three had died for it.

"She will. Sansa is not of marrying age, but neither was I when I was first betrothed. She will have time to know Joffrey as I did Brandon."

Brandon. The husband she should have had. His lady wife was twelve when she was betrothed to Brandon. The eldest and true heir of Winterfell. It was Brandon who was meant to have his seat, and Brandon who was meant to wield the greatsword Ice. It was Brandon who was meant to wed his lady wife. It was an old wound, one much festered since the King's arrival. He clenched his jaw, the familiar feeling of their shadows creeping over him. They had two great shadows, Catelyn and he, cast long over their fifteen years. One for Brandon, whom his wife was meant to wed, and one for the bed of blood and roses with whispered promises and long-kept secrets.

He felt warm hands grasp his face.

"To deny Robert would be most unwise. And you would dishonor us all. You must do this, but it should not be forever. Find someone in whom you trust, a capable man who is made for the games of court." Catelyn said, her voice betraying her sadness. And he said nothing, for what comfort could he give? His lady wife had the right of it, as was no surprise. She was of the South, where games were so often played. And though his wife was familiar with their rules, Ned Stark cared none for games. Yet it seemed to him that he was to be made a player.

"I would not leave you, nor the children."

"Who are you to say no to a King?" She asked him. Robert would not listen, she had told him. Not now that he was a King. King's do not listen as friends might have. King's do not except declination. He had hoped it was not so, that Catelyn had been mistaken in this. But he could see now the King in Robert.

He gazed upon Catelyn. His eyes wandered slowly to her stomach and to the thatch of auburn curls at the apex of her sex. He loved those silky curls, and how they trailed up to her navel in a light dusting of blond hair. He loved each white mark upon her stomach, and the gentle swell of it. He prayed silently that a son would grow within her womb whom she could greet him with at his return. Promise me Ned.

And when he met her gaze he thought of Sansa, his Tully daughter. She was too young for talk of marriage. To eager to leave childhood. She already looked as Cat once did. He remembered what Brandon had told him when he'd returned from Riverrun.

"'Your hair is as their leaves' I told her. She blushed so prettily, Ned. It's a pity she's so young. Barbrey's older. She's filled out as a woman should be too." Brandon had said, as they walked the outer wall. In his hand he held a branch from the great heart tree, it's leaves a supple red.

"You should honor your agreement with Lord Hoster, Brandon. It would be unwise to do else."

"Oh yes Lord Stark. How very prudent. When you're old enough to use your prick you'll understand." He smirked then, and had clapped Ned on his back. "You can't fuck a girl, but when her blood has come I do so solemnly swear to honor the little Lady Catelyn by my cock."

But he never did. Instead she was given to the second son. To Eddard Stark. And though their love did not come for years, it grew to be consuming.

He longed to kiss her then, but knew better than to try. His wife was as fierce as the rivers she was birthed upon, and as determined as a Summer snow. Instead he moved his hand to find one of hers, and brought it to his lips stiffly.

"You are mine, Cat. A thousand leagues will change nothing." Her smile was broken but a beautiful thing. She would not shed a tear, not in this moment. She was strong, his lady wife.

"She is as you raised her. She is beautiful, a proper lady. Her courtesies and grace will be praised and her beauty unmatched."

"And she is of the North. If that means anything than she'll be twice as stubborn in love. Do not forget me, my husband."

"I could never." he said, as his hands swept up her sides and to her breasts.