Catelyn III

The journey to Winterfell had felt like an endless stretch of hardship, each mile marked by mud that clung stubbornly to their boots and a wind that bit fiercely at their faces. Catelyn Stark wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, reminding herself that winter was closing in, as Ned had pointed out more than once. "Winter is close," he would say, his voice steady and reassuring, yet the chill in the air seemed to seep into her very bones.

But it wasn't the cold or the mud that troubled Catelyn the most; it was the weight of worry that settled in her heart as she watched Arya. Her daughter had always been spirited, fiercely independent and more at home with a sword than with the fine dresses her mother wished she would wear. Yet on this journey, Arya had grown more restless than ever, alone in her silence, as if a shadow had taken root within her.

Catelyn had taken to sleeping in Arya's tent, the need to keep her daughter safe outweighing any need for personal comfort. She could feel the anxiety radiating off Arya, the way her young face would twist in distress even in sleep. Night after night, Arya would awaken, thrashing in her blankets, her eyes wide with terror. The nightmares had begun to plague her, and Catelyn couldn't help but worry—what horrors were haunting her daughter's dreams?

During the days, she often watched Arya wandering the camp, her daughter's footsteps heavy with the burden of loneliness. There was no one for her to play with, no other children to share laughter or games. Catelyn noticed how Arya's spirit dimmed, her eyes clouded with thoughts she didn't share. How could she reach her daughter when the very act of trying seemed to draw Arya further away?

The thought of returning to Winterfell stirred a tempest of emotions within Catelyn. While the idea of stepping back into her beloved home filled her with a yearning for familiarity, the weight of dread quickly followed. They had dispatched scouts ahead, hoping for news that would bring them comfort, but the reports that returned were anything but reassuring. The North was in turmoil, overrun by Iron Islanders who had swept through towns and keeps while the men were off fighting King Joffrey's war.

Catelyn's heart sank as she imagined the chaos unfolding in her homeland. She pictured the strong stone walls of Winterfell, usually standing resolute against the elements, now perhaps trembling under the weight of invaders. The familiar paths she had walked so many times now felt like a distant memory tainted by uncertainty and fear. Would the people of Winterfell, her people, still be safe within its walls? Would they have managed to repel the Ironborn, those ruthless marauders who thrived on chaos and pillage?

Her thoughts turned to Bran, her second son, so young and yet thrust into the mantle of leadership. He had been acting as Lord of Winterfell for nearly five months now, a role far too heavy for his small shoulders. She had never been as happy as when she received the letter that he had woken up but now she feared that she would never see him again.

Catelyn's mind raced as she envisioned the castle—she could almost see Bran at the top of the stairs, looking out over the courtyard with a brave face, though she knew he must feel the weight of their family's absence pressing down on him. What if the Iron Islanders had breached the gates? What if they had captured her sons or worse? The very thought twisted in her gut, igniting a fierce need to return home and shield her children from the horrors that awaited them.

She hoped desperately that the men she trusted would not fail in their duty to protect her boys. The thought of loyal servants like Maester Luwin and the guards of Winterfell, men who had served her family for years, brought a flicker of reassurance. They would do everything in their power to keep Bran and Rickon safe. Yet, as a mother, Catelyn couldn't help but feel the gnawing ache of fear and uncertainty.

The icy wind swept through the camp, biting at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the cold dread that gripped her heart. She thought of her children, separated by miles but united in her heart. Catelyn could almost hear Rickon's laughter echoing through the halls, could almost see Bran smiling in that way that seemed to brighten the whole world. Would they still be there when she returned? Would Winterfell still be a place of warmth and laughter, or would it be tainted by the encroaching shadows of war?

Dawn had just begun to paint the sky in hues of pale gold and lavender when the distant peaks of Winterfell's towers finally came into view. Catelyn felt her heart quicken at the sight, a mix of relief and anxiety washing over her. They were almost home, but the home they approached was not the same one they had left behind. The cold wind whipped around her, biting at her cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the tension tightening her chest. The night before, they had been forced to halt just shy of their destination. The winds had howled through the trees, and the snow had fallen so thickly that it became impossible to push forward. Even Ned, who rarely allowed anything to slow him down, had agreed to set up camp. But the rest had been brief. As soon as the faintest glow of dawn had touched the horizon, Ned had insisted they set out again. He was a man who had grown weary of the endless games and politics of the southern courts. All he wanted now was to reclaim his home, to put an end to the chaos that had engulfed Winterfell.

Catelyn watched as her husband led the remainder of their men toward the keep, his posture tense with determination. His dark cloak billowed behind him as he rode ahead, leaving her behind with Arya and a small group of guards. They had decided it was safest for Catelyn to stay back, to keep Arya far from the immediate danger. Theon Greyjoy had betrayed them—betrayed everything they had done for him—and now he sat in the great hall of Winterfell, calling himself its prince. The idea sickened Catelyn. She had trusted him, trusted his bond with Robb, but the boy had turned against them at the worst possible moment. Still, the reports from their scouts had offered a sliver of hope. Theon had taken Winterfell, yes, but he had done so with a small force, far too few men to defend the ancient keep against even the modest number of loyal soldiers that had been sent to escort her and Ned back north.

But nothing was certain. Ned had ridden off with a plan to recapture their home, but plans could change. The ironborn were notorious for their brutality, and Theon, desperate to hold on to his ill-gotten power, might resort to anything. And so, Catelyn had insisted they remain on their horses, saddled and ready to flee if the need arose. She couldn't bear to lose any more of her children to this war. Robb was already out in the field, a commander in a war she hadn't wanted for him. Sansa was a prisoner in King's Landing, and they had yet to hear any word of Bran and Rickon since the Ironborn had taken Winterfell.

As the hours dragged on, the cold seeping deeper into her bones, Catelyn couldn't shake the growing unease that gnawed at her insides. Every passing moment felt like an eternity, her gaze fixed on the distant towers of Winterfell, hoping for any sign of movement, for anything to tell her that Ned had succeeded. Her fingers tightened around the reins, the leather biting into her palms as she tried to keep herself composed. Arya, restless as always, fidgeted beside her, her small frame brimming with nervous energy.

"What do you think is happening?" Arya asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she glanced up at her mother, her grey eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Despite all her bravado, Arya was still a child, still vulnerable, and Catelyn could see how much the uncertainty of the situation weighed on her.

Catelyn forced herself to give a reassuring smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Your father knows what he's doing," she said softly. "He will bring us home."

The cold wind cut across the camp, a bitter reminder of the harsh realities they faced. She shifted uneasily in her saddle, glancing toward the treeline, half expecting to see ironborn raiders come charging from the shadows at any moment. The North was a vast and unforgiving land, and though it was their home, Catelyn knew all too well that it could just as easily become their grave if things went wrong.

Hours passed, and the tension grew heavier with every breath. Catelyn couldn't bear the waiting much longer. Her thoughts spun in dark circles, conjuring every possible outcome—victory, defeat, capture, escape. She thought of Theon, once a boy under her roof, now an enemy. What could have driven him to such betrayal? Was it pride? Desperation to prove himself to his father, Balon Greyjoy? It didn't matter now. Whatever his reasons, Theon had made his choice, and they would have to deal with the consequences.

Finally, in the distance, she saw movement—a rider approaching at speed. Catelyn straightened in her saddle, her heart leaping into her throat as the figure grew closer. She could see the Stark banners fluttering in the breeze, and for the first time in hours, she allowed herself to hope.

Catelyn walked through the courtyard of Winterfell, her steps slow and heavy as she took in the grim sight before her. Only half a year ago, this place had been alive with the sounds of laughter and the clashing of wooden swords. She could still picture it clearly, the courtyard bustling with life. Robb, still a boy, laughing as Bran struggled to lift a training sword that was too heavy for him. Arya darting past, holding a stolen piece of stitching high above her head, with Sansa hot on her heels, her cheeks flushed as she tried desperately to get it back. The memories played out before her eyes, so vivid and close that she almost believed she could reach out and touch them.

Back then, she and Ned would watch from the balcony, side by side, while she held Rickon in her arms. His tiny hands would grasp at her fingers, unaware of the world around him, secure in the safety of their home. Even Jon Snow had been there, a silent shadow at the edge of their family's joy, but part of it nonetheless. She remembered how she had hated him, how she had resented his very presence in her household. But now, looking out at the desolation that had claimed her home, Catelyn would have given anything to see Jon once more—laughing with Robb, as they had once done in better days. How foolish that hatred seemed now in the face of everything they had lost.

But Winterfell was no longer that place of warmth and family. Now it was a graveyard. The courtyard where her children had played was littered with bodies, both Northern men and Ironborn raiders alike, their blood staining the snow a sickly red. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional groan of a dying man or the sharp cry of a crow circling overhead.

Catelyn instinctively reached out to Arya, trying to shield her from the horror around them. Arya had seen enough violence already, more than any girl her age should ever witness. But it was too late. Arya's wide, grey eyes had already taken in the sight, her face pale but expressionless. The girl had changed, hardened by the realities of war and loss. She no longer flinched at the sight of blood or death, and it broke Catelyn's heart to see the innocence stripped from her daughter so completely.

"I'm sorry," Catelyn whispered, though whether she was speaking to Arya, to the dead, or to the memory of her family that had once filled this place with life, she couldn't say.

They moved through the courtyard, the crunch of their footsteps muffled by the thick snow that covered the ground, now trampled and stained by the battle that had taken place here. The cold wind bit at Catelyn's face, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were on Bran, on Rickon—her boys who should have been safe within these walls. She had trusted Winterfell to protect them, to be the stronghold it had always been. But even the great halls of the Starks had not been enough to keep the Ironborn out, to keep her children safe.

Had Bran been here, overseeing the defense, as he had taken on the role of Lord of Winterfell in Robb's absence? Had he been brave, as she knew he was? Or had Theon taken him by surprise, betrayed him as he had betrayed their family? And Rickon—her youngest, still so small, still a child in every way. The thought of him cowering in some corner, terrified and alone, made her stomach twist with anguish. Where were they now? Were they still within the walls of Winterfell, hiding in the crypts perhaps, or had they been taken by Theon, hostages in his mad quest for glory?

A shout from across the courtyard jolted Catelyn out of her dark thoughts. Her heart skipped a beat as she turned toward the sound, hoping it wasn't another messenger bearing grim news. One of the men who had ridden with them, his face flushed from the cold, was making his way toward her with urgency in his steps.

"Lady Stark," he called, breathless by the time he reached her. "Lord Eddard requests your presence in the Great Hall."

For a moment, Catelyn simply stood there, her mind trying to catch up with the words. Ned. Her heart surged with sudden, overwhelming relief. He was alive. She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly. "Thank you," she said to the man, her voice softer than she intended. Her hand instinctively reached out to Arya, as if to anchor herself in the present. Arya glanced up at her mother, her face still pale but with a spark of curiosity lighting her eyes at the mention of her father.

Catelyn nodded, a small, tight smile forming on her lips, though it did little to erase the strain in her features. "Come," she said to Arya, her voice a bit steadier now. "Your father is waiting."

As they walked across the courtyard, Catelyn's mind raced. The uncertainty had gnawed at her every second, her stomach twisting with dread as she imagined what could have gone wrong. But now—Ned was alive. That was all that mattered for the moment.

The cold wind whipped at her face, but she barely felt it as she approached the Great Hall. Her steps quickened, her pulse hammering in her ears. The heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall loomed before them, the guards stationed outside pushed them open with a groan, revealing the dimly lit interior of the hall. Catelyn hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, Arya close at her side.

The warmth of the fire greeted her, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, but it did little to thaw the ice in her chest. As her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, she saw Ned standing near the hearth, his figure casting a long shadow across the stone floor. He was alive—but worn. His face was etched with exhaustion, and the weight of leadership, of battle, hung heavy on his shoulders. His eyes, though tired, softened when they found hers.

"Ned," she whispered, the word escaping her lips like a prayer.

He turned to her, his expression unreadable for a moment, and then, as if sensing her relief, he smiled faintly. "Catelyn," he said, his voice steady, though laced with the same weariness she felt in her bones. His gaze flicked to Arya, and his smile widened ever so slightly, though the tension never fully left his face.

Catelyn moved toward him, her steps quickening. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand, needing to feel the warmth of him, to confirm that he was truly there. He clasped her hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and for a moment, they stood in silence, the world outside their connection fading into the background.

But the reality of their situation soon settled back in, and Catelyn's relief was tinged with urgency. "What news?" she asked, her voice low, almost afraid of the answer. "Bran, Rickon—are they safe?"

Ned's face grew grim, and the warmth of the moment seemed to evaporate. "We haven't found them yet," he admitted quietly, his eyes darkening. "But there's hope. They weren't among the dead."

Catelyn's heart clenched, a turbulent mix of fear and relief warring within her. Bran and Rickon weren't dead, but they weren't here either. The dread she had been trying so desperately to keep at bay surged forward, threatening to drown her. The thought of her boys out there, alone, vulnerable, gnawed at her, twisting her insides. Where were they? Were they hiding, terrified of the invaders who had laid claim to their home? Every possibility was a new nightmare, clawing at her already frayed nerves.

Ned, standing tall but weary before her, must have sensed the turmoil roiling inside her. His hand, warm and solid, squeezed hers, grounding her in the moment, pulling her back from the edge. "We'll find them, Cat. I swear it," he said, his voice as steady as ever, but even he couldn't conceal the weight of uncertainty hanging between them.

She nodded, though her throat tightened painfully, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. She had to believe him, had to cling to the hope that somehow, despite everything, their boys were safe. Even if that hope felt fragile, like thin ice beneath her feet, it was all she had. If she let herself fall into despair now, she might never rise again.

"What of Luwin? Rodrik?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, though her heart already feared the answer. Maester Luwin had been a constant in her children's lives, a steady, guiding presence through all the chaos. And Ser Rodrik—she had trusted him to keep them safe.

She motioned to one of the guards, her hand trembling as she gestured for him to escort Arya out of the room. Reluctantly, Arya left, casting one last, confused glance at her parents. Catelyn's heart ached as she watched her daughter go, knowing that Arya's innocence had already been shattered by the horrors of war. She didn't need to hear this, not yet.

Once Arya was safely out of earshot, Ned's expression grew grimmer, and the lines of weariness deepened on his face. "Both dead," he said quietly, the words falling heavy between them. "Long before we arrived it would seem. Theon's been executing people daily. There's at least a dozen bodies in the Godswood."

The news hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. Luwin. Rodrik. Dead. Theon had turned their home into a place of slaughter, desecrating the Godswood, where her family had once found peace and solace. Now it was a graveyard, filled with the bodies of loyal men who had died defending her children, her home.

Her hands, still clasped in Ned's, trembled as she spoke. "Theon did this?" Her voice wavered, barely concealing the fury and grief rising within her.

Ned's face darkened with a rare flash of anger. "He's a coward. He thought to seize power by taking Winterfell, and he murdered anyone who stood in his way. But he couldn't hold it for long. His men were weak, and they were no match for the force we brought." He paused, glancing toward the distant halls of their once-proud home. "He'll answer for what he's done, Cat."

Catelyn's breath came in shallow bursts, her chest tightening as she fought to keep control of the rage threatening to consume her. The fury boiled beneath the surface, a volatile mix of anger and heartbreak. Theon Greyjoy, the boy who had been raised under her roof, who had grown up beside her children—her sons—had betrayed them all. He had laughed and fought alongside Robb, watched over Bran, even shared meals at their table. She had trusted him, as had Ned. They had given him the care and shelter of Winterfell, a second home, and this was how he repaid that kindness.

With betrayal. With bloodshed.

She could still see it in her mind—the dead, scattered across the courtyard like broken toys. Their lives snuffed out because of his ambition, his cowardice.

"Where is he?" she asked, her voice low, trembling with barely restrained fury. The question came out more as a growl than she intended.

"In the cells," Ned replied, his tone flat, his face hard with the weight of all that had happened. "He fought, but he wasn't hard to detain. And he will face justice. True justice. I won't grant him a warrior's death. He'll not die with any honour."

Catelyn's jaw clenched at the words. She felt no satisfaction at the thought of Theon in chains. The weight of his betrayal was too heavy, too deep to be soothed by the mere fact that he had been captured. He had torn apart her family, violated their home, and for what? A fleeting claim to power? A pathetic grab at something that would never be his?

But what justice could there be for this? What could ever make right the horror he had inflicted? Her heart ached, the pain of it almost unbearable, and her anger turned inward, swirling into a storm of grief and fear. Bran. Rickon. Where were they? The thought of her youngest boys—so young, so innocent—haunted her. She could not allow herself to crumble, not now. She had to keep herself steady, had to hold on with everything she had left. Her family needed her. Ned needed her. Her children—wherever they were—needed her strength, her resolve. And she could not afford to fall apart, not with so much still at stake.

But gods, how it hurt. How the grief pressed down on her, a weight so heavy she feared she might break beneath it.

Her mind raced through all the possibilities. Bran had been acting as Lord of Winterfell; had he tried to negotiate? Rickon, too young to understand the gravity of their situation, would have looked to his brother for guidance. And Theon, once their companion, would have known their habits, their hiding places. He had been so close to them, too close.

"Bring me to him," she said finally, her voice hoarse. The words left her lips before she fully realized what she was asking. She needed to see Theon, to look into the eyes of the boy who had betrayed them so completely. She needed to understand why.

Ned hesitated, his brows furrowing in concern. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she whispered, though her heart thundered in her chest at the thought of facing him. "I need to know. I need to hear it from him."

Ned gave a curt nod, understanding in his eyes, though he didn't like the idea. He motioned to one of the guards, who stepped forward to lead her to the cells. Catelyn straightened her back, forcing herself to walk with purpose, though her legs felt weak beneath her. She would confront him. She would face Theon Greyjoy, the boy she had once thought of almost as a son.

And she would demand answers for the devastation he had wrought upon her family. For Bran, for Rickon, for all the lives he had destroyed.

And when she found her boys—when, not if—she would make sure that no one, not even Theon Greyjoy, would ever harm them again.

Catelyn followed the guard, each step feeling heavier than the last as they made their way through the dark, cold halls of Winterfell. Her mind raced with thoughts of Theon, her boys, and the devastation that had been wrought upon their home. The stone walls felt different now—what had once been a sanctuary now seemed like a hollow shell of what Winterfell had once been. Every echo of her boots on the stone floor seemed to carry the weight of her grief and anger.

The guard led her down a narrow staircase into the depths of the keep, the air growing colder, more oppressive with each step. The smell of damp stone and decay filled the air. She could hear the faint sound of chains rattling, the occasional murmur from the prisoners locked away in the cells below. But it was Theon she sought. The boy who had been like a brother to her sons, now rotting in the dungeon, shackled like a common criminal. She had thought him family once. That illusion was gone now, shattered like glass.

When they reached the door to the cell, the guard stopped, looking to her for confirmation. Catelyn nodded, the tightness in her chest constricting even further. She steeled herself, her face hardening into a mask of control. She could not afford to show any weakness now.

The guard unlocked the heavy iron door and pulled it open with a creak. Inside, the dim light of a single torch cast flickering shadows against the walls. There, slumped against the far wall in tattered clothes, was Theon Greyjoy. His once-proud demeanor was gone. His face was gaunt, dirt smeared across his skin, and his wrists and ankles were bound with iron chains. His head hung low, and for a moment, he didn't even seem to register that someone had entered the room.

Catelyn took a deep breath and stepped inside. The guard remained by the door, but she felt Ned's presence behind her, close enough to intervene if things escalated. The sight of Theon like this—broken and filthy—did little to soften her rage. He had brought this on himself.

"Theon," she said, her voice cutting through the silence of the cell like a knife.

At the sound of her voice, Theon looked up slowly, his eyes bleary and unfocused. It took him a moment to recognise her, but when he did, a flicker of something—fear, shame, perhaps regret—crossed his face.

"Lady Stark…" he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse. He shifted, trying to sit up straighter, but the chains around his wrists clinked and held him back.

Catelyn stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides. She stared down at him, her eyes cold. "Do you even realise what you've done?" she asked, her voice low but filled with venom. "Do you understand the lives you've ruined, the trust you shattered?"

Theon swallowed, his throat bobbing with the effort. "I never meant for it to be like this… I thought—"

"You thought you could take Winterfell?" Catelyn cut him off, her voice rising, sharp with disbelief. "You thought you could betray the family that raised you, the family that treated you as one of their own? My sons—Bran, Rickon—what have you done with them?"

At the mention of her boys, Theon's gaze fell to the ground, shame washing over his features. He didn't answer right away, and the silence hung heavy in the air between them. Catelyn felt her pulse quicken, fear gripping her once more. What had he done?

"Theon," she pressed, stepping closer, her voice shaking now. "Where are my sons?"

Theon's lips parted, but no words came out at first. He blinked, his eyes glassy, as though struggling to form a coherent thought. "I… I never wanted to hurt them," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was never supposed to happen like this…"

Catelyn's patience snapped. "Then what was supposed to happen? Did you think you would seize Winterfell and be hailed a hero? Did you think the North would bend the knee to you?" She leaned in, her eyes boring into his. "You know nothing of loyalty. You know nothing of family."

Tears welled in Theon's eyes as he lifted his head to meet her gaze, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "I thought… I thought it would make my father proud. I thought it would prove something."

"Prove what?" Catelyn spat, her voice sharp as steel. "That you're capable of treachery? Of murder? Is that what you wanted?"

But something broke in Theon then, a flash of anger, of long-buried pain. His voice rose, trembling with years of pent-up resentment. "Prove that for once I was good enough," he shot back, his words laced with bitterness. "I was taken from my family, ripped from my home, and no one came for me. Not my father, not my uncles. You can stand there and say I was part of your family, but we both know that's a lie. I wasn't a son to you—I was a prisoner. And every day, I was reminded how grateful I should be. Grateful to my captors."

The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter, and for a moment, Catelyn saw something in Theon she had never seen before. The years of insecurity, the deep well of pain he had carried with him, hidden beneath his bravado and arrogance. She had never thought of him like this—always the cocky, foolish boy trying to prove himself. But now, in the dim light of the cell, that mask had slipped. What was left was someone haunted by his choices and the scars of a past he had never fully escaped.

But Catelyn didn't waver. She couldn't afford to. Her heart burned with anger, not just for what he had done, but for how he tried to excuse it. Her sons—her boys—were out there, maybe alive, maybe not, because of him. "You think that justifies what you've done?" she asked, her voice cold and unforgiving. "That gives you the right to betray us? To take my children from me? To spill the blood of the men who served this house?"

Theon's anger ebbed as quickly as it had flared. His face crumpled, the weight of his choices crushing him from within. For a fleeting moment, he was no longer the usurper who had turned on them, but the boy who had once been part of her household. The boy who had laughed with Robb, who had teased Bran, who had, for a time, been someone they trusted.

But that boy was gone, drowned beneath the weight of his betrayal, and Catelyn couldn't let herself see him that way. Not anymore. She forced herself to harden her heart against the flicker of pity rising in her chest. Pity would not bring back what had been lost.

"I don't want your regret," she said quietly, her voice tightening. "I want my sons. Where are they, Theon?"

Theon's shoulders sagged, the chains clinking softly as he slumped forward, the weight of his guilt nearly suffocating him. "I don't know," he whispered, his voice cracked and hollow. "They escaped, I swear it. I sent men after them, but they… they got away. I didn't—"

Catelyn's heart leapt at the possibility, but she forced herself to remain cautious, wary of letting hope blossom too quickly. "They escaped?" she repeated, her voice steady but filled with an urgency she could barely contain.

Theon nodded, his face a shade paler than before, fear etched in every line. "I took some boys from a farmer, about Bran and Rickon's age. My men killed them." His voice trembled as he continued, "I burned the boys and hung their bodies on the walls. I told everyone they were Bran and Rickon, but it was a lie."

Each word cut deeper than the last, leaving Catelyn reeling as she processed the horrific confession. The image of those innocent lives snuffed out in a cruel masquerade flooded her mind, making bile rise in her throat. "You butchered them," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, heavy with disbelief and disgust. "In cold blood, you slaughtered children to serve your lies?"

Theon's gaze dropped to the ground, shame flooding his cheeks with a hot flush. "I had to do something," he murmured, desperation lacing his voice. "I thought if I could convince everyone they were dead, I could… I could secure my place here. I thought it would help. But they were just boys! I didn't want it to be like this!"

Catelyn's heart pounded in her chest, her breath hitching as she struggled to contain her rising anger. "So my boys could be anywhere?" she pressed, her voice trembling with fury. "They could be alive or dead, and you're telling me you just don't know?"

Theon shook his head, the weight of his failure evident in his every gesture.

"I'm done with him," Catelyn declared to Ned, her voice steady and unwavering, though a tempest of emotions churned inside her. "He can rot down here." The weight of her grief for Bran and Rickon pressed heavily on her heart, while Theon's betrayal coursed through her like a bitter poison, twisting her insides. She turned away, unwilling to let her sorrow fester in the presence of the man who had shattered her family.

"I'm afraid not," Ned replied, his tone firm yet gentle. "Bring him to the courtyard," he commanded the guards, his resolve unyielding. They stepped into the dim cell, their heavy boots echoing against the stone, and grasped Theon under his arms, dragging him from his prison. Catelyn watched as he stumbled past her, a shadow of the boy who had once shared laughter and mischief with her children.

"Please, no," Theon whimpered, desperation lacing his voice as he glanced back at her, his eyes wide and pleading.

Catelyn felt a twinge of pity for the broken man he had become, but it quickly turned to frustration. "Ned, can't you take a few days to think about this?" she implored, her heart aching for the boy who had once been part of their family. "He may have become a monster, but rushing into a decision like this—"

"Cat," he said, tentatively stroking her face with a calloused hand, his touch grounding her in the storm of her emotions. "If I sit on this decision, I won't follow through with it. Unfortunately, I still care for the boy. If I allow myself to remember the child I took from Pyke all those years ago—the boy who was so eager to please—I'll hesitate."

Ned's eyes bore the weight of memories long buried, the fond recollections clashing with the stark reality of Theon's actions. Catelyn could see the turmoil in his expression, the conflict between his heart and his duty. She understood his dilemma but found it hard to reconcile her feelings with the notion of mercy for someone who had betrayed everything they held dear.

Catelyn followed closely as they stepped into the waning light, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting a golden hue that soon faded into the encroaching darkness. A light flurry of snow began to fall, delicate flakes drifting silently to the ground, contrasting sharply with the grim atmosphere that surrounded them. The guards dragged Theon along, his feet trailing behind him, a pathetic image of a once-proud boy reduced to a trembling man. He strained against their grip, desperation spilling from his lips as he begged for release. "Please, let me go!" he cried, his voice a raw whisper, cracking under the weight of his panic. "I'll do anything! Just forgive me!"

But his pleas were met with cold indifference, the guards' faces stony as they marched him toward the courtyard. Catelyn felt a mix of anger and sorrow swell within her. How could this be the same boy who had played in their halls, who had shared their laughter and been welcomed as family? The thought twisted her heart, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the sight before her.

As they reached the courtyard, Catelyn's breath caught in her throat. The bodies had been gathered on a cart like discarded refuse, the aftermath of a brutal fight. She could see the remnants of the struggle etched into the stone, blood staining the snow in vivid splashes—a stark reminder of the violence that had erupted in their home. The scent of iron hung in the air, mixing with the fresh snowfall, a grotesque perfume of death that clung to her senses.

One of the guards moved to retrieve a wooden block from the stables, dragging it across the ground with a rough scrape. He set it down in the center of the courtyard, a grim altar for justice. Catelyn's heart raced, her pulse quickening as she realised the gravity of what was about to unfold.

Ahead of her, Ned walked with a determined stride, his demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding them. His hand hovered over the hilt of Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark, as if seeking the strength to carry out the inevitable. She could see the conflict etched on his face, the burden of leadership weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"Do it quickly," she whispered under her breath, though part of her screamed for him to reconsider. Each step he took toward Theon felt like a dagger to her heart, a reminder of the choices that had led them to this moment.

Theon trembled, his bravado crumbling as he realized the finality of his fate. He glanced at Catelyn, desperation glimmering in his eyes, as if hoping to rekindle the bonds of trust that had once existed between them. "Catelyn, please! You know me! I never meant for any of this to happen!"

But Catelyn stood firm, her heart a tumult of emotions—grief for the boy he had been, anger at the man he had become, and sorrow for the family he had torn apart. "You made your choice, Theon," she said, her voice steady but cold. "And now you must face the consequences."

The guard roughly shoved Theon down onto the steps, forcing him to his knees on the cold stone. The sound of chains rattling echoed in the quiet courtyard as Theon's hands trembled, his eyes wide with fear. Ned drew Ice from its sheath, the blade gleaming ominously in the fading light, and paused for a moment, taking a long, steadying breath as he looked down at the boy he had once considered family.

"Ned, please," Theon implored, desperation lacing his voice. "Think of Robb! How much this will hurt him. This was all a mistake—I swear it!"

"I am thinking of Robb," Ned replied, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of his duty. He couldn't let sentiment cloud his judgment; the time for mercy had passed. "I, Eddard of House Stark, find you, Theon Greyjoy, guilty of murder, treason, and countless other crimes against my family and my house. On behalf of my lord and son, Robb of House Stark, I condemn you to die."

With each word, Ned felt the finality of the moment sinking in. He could see the flicker of hope die in Theon's eyes, replaced by a dawning comprehension of the repercussions of his actions. Theon's fate was sealed, and the responsibility weighed heavily on Ned's shoulders. As he raised Ice, the chill of the blade matched the dread coiling in his gut, but he knew that in this moment, there was no turning back. Catelyn watched as the blade swung down and with a final cry, Theon Greyjoy saw his end.