Since her return to Winterfell, Catelyn found herself forever occupied. Barely a day passed before a missive arrived from Queenscrown, penned by Sansa, urging the convening of the Northern council. Following this directive, days blurred into nights as she helped Ned painstakingly compose letters to every Lord, summoning their presence without disclosing the council's purpose.
The news of Sansa's harrowing encounter with the Bolton bastard only solidified Catelyn's burgeoning belief in the prophetic visions of those blessed with greensight. It also heightened her concern for her daughter's safety.
As Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryens wife, she knew Sansa would forever be a target. Whether it be adversaries vying for the Iron Throne or women seeking to allure her husband once he ascended to kingship, the threat loomed large. Yet, amidst this uncertainty, Catelyn found solace in one certainty: Jon's loyalty. He understood the repercussions of infidelity and empathised with the trials of being a bastard. The likelihood of him being unfaithful to Sansa was low.
Despite her apprehensions, she resigned herself to backing his bid for the Iron Throne after her heart-to-heart with Jon. Success promised prosperity; failure, demise. To abstain from the endeavour was to embrace certain death. Thus, survival offered only one path forward.
Since Sansa dispatched her missive, Ned's days had been consumed by drafting letters for the Northern council. At first, he corresponded with the most distant Lords, prioritising missives to Lord Karstark and Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch.
Lord Reed, a witness to Ned's fateful encounter at the Tower of Joy, stood as the sole living testament to Aegon Targaryen's birth. Given the remoteness of his house, his letter was the first dispatched from Winterfell.
Anticipation swelled as the council's assembly loomed, slated to convene within the coming moon. This window allowed for the expected return of both Sansa and Jon. Catelyn hoped for Arya's arrival alongside Jon, yet missives from her youngest daughter suggested an extended stay in the capital before she could journey home.
As these concerns circled in her thoughts, Catelyn sat at her desk in her solar, immersed in the logistical planning for the council's refreshments. Her contemplations were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.
"Enter," she called out.
In shuffled Maester Luwin, clad in his customary grey robes and the ornate chain of his office. "My Lady," he greeted with a deferential nod.
Catelyn regarded him with curiosity. "Maester Luwin, how may I assist you?"
"A raven from the capital, bearing the Hand of the King's seal," Maester Luwin announced, extending a small sealed scroll. "Addressed to Lord Stark, though he's presently in the Godswood, deep in prayer."
"Thank you. I'll ensure he receives it," Catelyn acknowledged, accepting the scroll and breaking the red wax seal, stamped with a hand insignia. Given the timing, she surmised it must contain news of King Joffrey's demise.
With a heart pounding from the weight of expectation, she perused the contents:
It is with a heavy heart, that I write to inform you of the untimely demise of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of his name.
He is succeeded by his younger brother, King Tommen Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of Storm's End. Long may he reign. It is expected you should swear fealty to the new King within the coming three moons, as we are aware of your issues with the Wildlings.
Tywin Lannister,
Hand of the King.
Though lacking certainty, Catelyn sighed, suspecting Arya's involvement in Joffrey's death. Her daughter seemed transformed, no longer the wild, carefree child but a calculated, chilling assassin. It sent a shiver down her spine.
"What news, my Lady?" Maester Luwin inquired.
"The King is dead," she relayed, her tone heavy. "Tommen ascends as the new King." Rising from her seat, she resolved, "I must inform Ned."
"Aye, my Lady. He should know," Maester Luwin concurred.
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Catelyn discovered her husband beneath the weirwood, perched upon a moss-draped stone. The imposing figure of Ice lay across his lap, its blade being meticulously honed with a whetstone—a ritual often undertaken when Ned sought solitude for contemplation.
"Ned," she called softly, drawing his attention.
"Catelyn," he acknowledged, lifting his gaze to meet hers.
"Where's Rickon?" he inquired.
"Engaged in his archery lesson," she replied.
"And has he managed to strike the target?" Ned queried further.
"Once," she replied with a fond smile. "But he's only eight."
Ned mirrored her smile. "He'll improve with time."
"Yes," Catelyn concurred, her fingers absently toying with the letter clutched in her hand.
"What troubles you, Cat?" Ned inquired, sensing her unease.
Seating herself beside him, she shared the news. "Joffrey Baratheon is dead."
"Is this news confirmed?" Ned sought clarification.
"It bears the Hand's seal, and the letter is scribed in Tywin Lannister's hand," she informed him, passing over the letter, which he read.
"Do you suspect Jon and Arya were involved?" he queried. "Given your recent encounters with them... greensight and all."
"Most likely," Cat affirmed with a solemn nod. "Arya possesses considerable knowledge of poisons."
"Any correspondence from Jon or Arya themselves?" Ned inquired further.
"None yet," Cat replied, a hopeful smile gracing her lips. "Though I wish for Arya's swift return before the Northern council, I fear she'll be preoccupied."
"She's visiting your sister before returning. Don't expect her presence in Winterfell for another two moons," Ned reminded her, setting aside his whetstone and enveloping her in his comforting embrace. As she nestled her head against his shoulder, tears welled in her eyes.
"I miss them, Ned. Dreadfully," she confessed, her voice quivering with emotion.
"Sansa and Robb will return soon. Rickon's here. Bran's with Benjen and Ser Barristan," he offered reassurance, though his words couldn't assuage her grief.
"With the wildlings, you mean," she added, her voice thick with sorrow.
"If Jon's assessment holds, the wildlings will look after him well. And in that, I trust Jon implicitly. Their combat prowess rivals any I've seen. There's much he could learn from them," Ned remarked. "So long as he continues his military training with Maester Fell, he'll fare well."
Catelyn retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbing at her eyes. "It's Arya I fret over. How can I secure a suitable match for her when she's off gallivanting about?"
"Arya's come of age, and she possesses the wit to navigate her path," Ned reassured with a smile. "Besides, I suspect she harbours affections for a certain blacksmith."
Catelyn wrinkled her nose in disdain. "A blacksmith hardly befits a noble lady," she lamented.
Ned chuckled. "He won't remain a blacksmith for long. As Robert Baratheon's acknowledged son, Jon will legitimise him and grant him a lordship befitting Arya's stature, should she desire it," he concluded, planting a tender kiss atop her head before rising to his feet and gently pulling her up alongside him. "Come, let us return. There is much to do," he added.
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The following morning, Ned summoned Cat to his solar; the first responses to their invitations had arrived. Cat brought along her bookwork for the stores, enabling them to estimate the provisions needed for the feasting and gauge the number of guests they would accommodate.
Ned's solar boasted simple furnishings: a sizeable, unadorned desk flanked by chairs, cupboards stocked with documents, parchment, and quills. A tapestry depicting a legendary battle adorned one wall, while the Stark house sigil graced another. A crackling fire in the hearth warmed the room, complemented by the natural light streaming in through a large window.
"Who's replied thus far?" Cat inquired as Ned handed her a cup of diluted mead.
"Ser Helman Tallhart and Lord Halys Hornwood," Ned informed her. "Both parties will arrive within the fortnight."
"How many guests are they bringing?" Cat queried, swiftly opening her book to jot down notes.
"Helman reports his party comprises himself, his squire Leobald, and ten soldiers," Ned relayed as Cat swiftly recorded the numbers. "Lord Halys is travelling with Lady Donella, their son Daryn, and twenty retainers in tow. He expects to arrive within a fortnight, weather permitting."
"Don't forget the gods," Cat interjected, earning a nod and an easy smile from Ned.
"Considering the size of the Hornwood retinue, we can use it as a benchmark for our preparations," Ned suggested.
"It's wiser to over-prepare than to be caught short," Cat concurred.
"We've extended invitations to three score and eight northern houses," Ned began calculating. "So we'll need a minimum of a hundred and thirty-six guest rooms."
The mere thought of so many rooms was enough to induce a headache, but Cat refused to be deterred. "Let's prepare a hundred and fifty rooms, just in case some guests bring additional family members," she proposed.
"I trust your judgment, my dear," Ned replied with a smile.
"How long should we expect to accommodate them?" Cat inquired.
"I propose we prepare for two hundred guests for a moon's turn. While many won't arrive until later and may stay for a shorter duration, preparing for the maximum ensures we're ready for any scenario," Cat suggested.
"I'll draft a letter to Queenscrown, requesting a dozen barrels of cider—it's always a hit," she added with a smile.
"Winter town can accommodate the retinue. I estimate around one thousand five hundred men accompanying the Lords and ladies," Ned proposed.
"Any personal servants and handmaidens can be lodged in the servants' quarters here at Winterfell," Cat supplemented.
"On the topic of Queenscrown," Ned interjected with a smile, "we not only have the Northern council to organise but also a wedding."
"A wedding?" Cat frowned in confusion.
"Aye, it seems Theon has taken a bride," Ned revealed, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Taken a bride?" Cat echoed, puzzled. Why have another wedding if he was already married?
"Theon opted for a wildling-style wedding with one of the women from Beyond the Wall. Now he wants to formalise it in the sight of the old gods and witnesses," Ned explained.
"I doubt Balon Greyjoy will be pleased with such news, Ned," Cat remarked with concern.
Ned let out a sigh. "I know, but what can we do? The lad's smitten and has chosen his bride. I reckon she'll keep him on his toes."
"Who?" Cat racked her brain, recalling any of the wildling women Theon had taken a liking to. One name sprang to mind.
"Her name's Ygritte," Ned confirmed. "Is she the one Jon saw in his greensight?" Catelyn nodded. "What's she like?" he inquired.
"Wild, outspoken, and she'll put him in his place," Cat chuckled, and Ned joined in.
"I suppose we should toast to their happiness and hope for a brood of children," Ned suggested with a smile.
"It'd be quite the sight—a northern wedding between an Ironborn and a wildling," Cat mused.
"Aye, unless the Lords fear the Ironborn might use the wildlings to their advantage should Theon turn against us," Ned sighed.
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Ned sighed again. "Come in," he called out.
Maester Luwin entered the room, bowing to Ned and Cat as he presented them with more scrolls. "It appears the replies are arriving sooner than expected," he remarked. "Although I don't recall sending a letter to House Greyjoy."
Ned accepted the scrolls and singled out the one from House Greyjoy, breaking the seal and scanning its contents. "What does it say, Ned?" Cat inquired. "Has Sansa reached out to Lord Greyjoy for the Northern council?"
Ned's expression hardened as he perused the letter. "Balon Greyjoy is dead. He was murdered," he sighed. "And there's more. The Iron Islands have called for a Kingsmoot."
"A Kingsmoot, my Lord? Surely not," Maester Luwin interjected, his confusion clear.
"But Balon Greyjoy wasn't a king," Cat frowned.
"The Iron Islands have yearned for independence since Aegon's conquest, my Lady," Maester Luwin clarified. "With the Targaryens no longer ruling the Iron Throne, rumours of Cersei's children being illegitimate could fuel their desire for sovereignty."
"Theon is the rightful heir, isn't he?" Cat turned to Ned for confirmation.
"I'd typically concur with that assessment," Ned responded. "However, it appears the mastermind behind the Kingsmoot is none other than Balon's younger brother, Euron."
"I thought he was dead," Cat interjected.
"Missing," Maester Luwin corrected. "And exceedingly dangerous."
"What might this mean for Theon?" Cat's concern was palpable. "Will he seek to challenge his uncle's claim?"
"I doubt he'll have the chance," Ned informed her. "He and Ygritte departed Queenscrown with Sansa and Robb. We have no means of informing him about the Kingsmoot."
"At least it solidifies his allegiance to the North," Cat laughed.
Maester Luwin's expression turned serious. "My Lady?"
"Theon has taken a wildling bride in the wildling tradition," Ned explained. "He's requested a wedding in the Godswood."
"That seems favourable to me, my Lord," Maester Luwin said. "The wildlings are loyal to Jon. If Euron Greyjoy were to threaten the North, the wildlings would likely aid in its defence. Euron is no ally to Theon."
"What about Theon's sister, Asha?" Cat inquired.
"If I may, my Lord, I believe I have a solution," Maester Luwin offered with a smile.
Ned nodded. "Please, any insight would be appreciated."
"It might be prudent to draft a response to Queenscrown. Perhaps young Brandon could despatch one of his ravens to locate Theon. From there, we could facilitate direct communication between Theon and Asha. It might also be wise to include her and her followers in the Northern council," Maester Luwin proposed.
"We can't make any assumptions until Jon returns from the south. But Asha wouldn't be inclined to raid while a Kingsmoot is underway," Ned pondered, stroking his chin. "That will assist in the safety of the northern council and reassure the guests."
"She's more likely to seek refuge, my Lord. Euron Greyjoy is notorious for his brutality and intolerance of dissent. Once he secures the Kingsmoot, Asha and her supporters will be pursued," Maester Luwin explained.
"Are you suggesting she seeks sanctuary here?" Cat's eyes widened in alarm.
"Do we know which keep His Grace intends to grant to young Theon?" Maester Luwin inquired.
"I was considering the Dreadfort," Ned confirmed. "I'm sure Jon shares the same sentiment. It's close to the coast and would serve well for shipbuilding."
"They could lodge at the Dreadfort for the time being. They might even fight alongside Theon, as they'll bring ships. Offering them refuge could prove beneficial. And once the Iron Throne is secured, Jon could assist Asha in reclaiming the Iron Islands," Maester Luwin suggested.
Cat appeared unsettled. "Surely there must be another solution," she remarked. "The other Lords won't be pleased."
"They'll likely be at sea or staying in the Dreadfort. They won't be here in Winterfell, although Lady Asha might choose to visit, especially once news of her new sister-in-law spreads," Ned sighed. "The last thing we need is another conflict with the Ironborn."
"What can we do?" Cat inquired.
"At present, my Lady, there's little within our power," Maester Luwin shrugged. "Calling a Northern council is our only recourse, and that's already underway."
"The Houses on the West Coast may be reluctant to attend the council," Ned noted, shaking his head as he reclined in his chair.
"The Kingsmoot is scheduled after the Northern council, my Lord. You could offer Stark men to guard their houses while they're away," Maester Luwin suggested.
"We could enlist the aid of the wildlings," Cat proposed. "Euron is an enemy of Theon's, and Theon is married to a wildling. Shouldn't it be their duty to protect their own?" she reasoned.
"I am uncertain, Cat," Ned replied, shaking his head. "We'll correspond with Queenscrown, asking Ben and Bran to relay the message to Sansa and Theon. They know Asha better than I. Let them determine the next course of action for now."
"And what of Jon?" Cat inquired.
"His Grace merely needs to give the order. He's competent and will know how to handle the situation. I lack the authority to engage or request help from the wildlings, but Jon does," Ned remarked, stretching in his chair and stifling a yawn.
"I believe our work is finished for the day, Maester Luwin," Ned declared.
"Very well, my Lord," Maester Luwin acknowledged with a nod. "Shall I instruct the cook to send your meal to the solar? I'll be passing by."
Ned nodded. "That would be preferable," he replied, picking up the unopened scrolls Maester Luwin had delivered. "These should provide us with enough information to estimate the numbers for the Northern Council. The sooner we have rough figures, the sooner we can begin preparations."
"If we conclude our work tonight, we can review the requirements together," Cat suggested.
"I'll leave you to it. Goodnight, my Lord, my Lady," Maester Luwin bid them farewell before departing, leaving Ned and Cat alone once more.
"Do you think Euron will attack the North?" Cat inquired.
Ned nodded. "It's probable unless he's pursuing grander ambitions. We'll have to wait for Jon and Sansa's return to know for sure. It's best not to dwell on it longer than necessary."
Cat frowned. "You seem unperturbed."
"I can't act until the time is right, my love. I can only focus on what's within my control," Ned reassured her.
"And if the western houses don't attend the Northern council?" Cat pressed.
"I'm sure Jon will appreciate it," Ned said with a smile as he reached into a drawer. "I'd like your opinion on something."
He handed Cat a piece of paper, and she braced herself for more troubling news. Instead, she found two drawings of crowns: silver bands adorned with square-cut dragonglass. They resembled the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, albeit with dragonglass instead of rubies.
Cat furrowed her brow. "Did you sketch these?" she inquired. Ned nodded. "They're well done," she complimented, pondering how to address the clear flaw. "They would suit the silver hair of a Targaryen. However, Jon's hair is nearly black. The crown should stand out, so it would need to be closer to the original design."
Ned acknowledged her input. "I considered that," he confessed. "The gemstones can be altered, but I used dragonglass as an example. Although, I envisioned plain silver bands until we claim the Iron Throne and Jon ascends as King Aegon the Sixth."
Despite hearing Jon's name linked with Aegon many times, it was the first instance Cat visualised him on the Iron Throne, wearing a crown. The notion of the Winterfell bastard being addressed as King Aegon the Sixth didn't sit well with her. He would always be Jon Snow in her eyes, a sentiment she believed Jon shared.
"The simpler silver one," Cat decided. "Jon wouldn't want anything too ostentatious, and neither would Sansa."
"The plain one it is," Ned agreed just as a knock sounded at the door, accompanied by the aroma of chicken pie wafting in, Ned put away his drawings and they began to eat.