Queen of Swords
by mardia

Queen of Swords

mardia

Summary

Catelyn Stark died at the Twins with a Frey cutting open her throat, and she woke up in Winterfell, beneath the branches of the weirwood tree, red leaves drifting down over her body.

Notes

Under The Weirwood Tree

Summary

Catelyn comes back from the dead. 

Catelyn Stark died at the Twins with a Frey cutting open her throat, and she woke up in Winterfell, beneath the branches of the weirwood tree, red leaves drifting down over her body. 

Staring wildly up into the white branches, she felt frantically for her throat, expecting a gaping wound, the slickness of her lifeblood spilling free---but there was nothing but smooth, unbroken skin. 

"What," she began to say aloud, but there was no answer. 

Hardly daring to breathe, Catelyn lifted her head, and gasped with shock. 

She was half-buried in red weirwood leaves, and beyond that was a hot spring of water—a familiar spring, just like the one in the godswood in Winterfell—because this was the godswood in Winterfell. 

This was not possible. This could not be possible. She was miles and miles away from Winterfell, trapped at the Twins, watching Robb die...

Stifling a sob, Catelyn struggled to sit up, and then in the distance she heard someone calling her name. 

No. It was Ned calling her name, panicked. 

Oh, gods be praised. Wherever she was, if this was one of the heavens or some other unearthly realm disguised as her home, it couldn’t be that awful if Ned was here. "Ned? Ned!"

"Catelyn!" She heard footsteps approaching, and as Catelyn finally struggled to her feet, bracing herself with a hand on the tree trunk for balance, Ned burst into view, looking panicked—but more than that, alive. Alive and young—there was no gray in his beard, no lines carved into his forehead. 

He stopped in his tracks, gawking at her. "My...my lady?"

An awful sob ripped free from her throat. "Ned," she quavered, and stumbled into her husband's arms, weeping.

For a moment there was nothing in the world but the familiar strength of her husband’s body, the smell of soap and leather she always associated with him. Catelyn didn’t realize, not at first, that his arms were looser around her than they should be, that his touch was tentative as he patted her back in a gesture of comfort. 

“My lady, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Blinking away tears, Catelyn finally pulled away from Ned’s chest to look at him. “Ned, why are you so…” She trailed off, studying his face. It wasn’t just the lack of lines on his face, the lack of gray in his beard. He was looking at her warily, eyes shadowed, and he held her too loosely, his body stiff with discomfort. 

In all their years of marriage, Ned had never been this uncomfortable with her. Not since the early days of…

Oh. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. 

“Ned,” Catelyn said very slowly, “Ned, what year is it?”

Ned’s forehead creased with confusion and alarm. “My lady, the year is 282AC.”

Catelyn’s knees collapsed beneath her, and it was only Ned’s quick grasp that kept her upright. 

*

“What’s wrong with her?” Catelyn heard Benjen ask with worry, over the sound of her own quiet sobs.

She held Robb close in her arms. He fussed at first when he was brought to her, unhappy from how tightly she was clutching at him, but she couldn’t let her babe go, she just couldn’t. So she made herself loosen her too-tight grip, but continued to rock her son in her arms and weep, all while her not-dead lord husband and goodbrother watched her in alarm and confusion. 

“—in the godswood—”

“—was anyone else—”

Robb was swaddled in the blanket she’d made for him during her pregnancy, soft gray wool and tiny black wolves embroidered all about the hem. He was so small now, so perfect, it seemed impossible that such a tiny being would grow into the young man who would fight in a war, would be crowned King in the North, would—

Would be murdered at a wedding.

Catelyn’s breaths, already unsteady, cracked entirely as she let out a moan of despair from deep within her soul. 

They killed her last son. First Bran and Rickon, then Robb, with Arya lost and Sansa trapped among their enemies…

“Catelyn,” Ned said, quickly coming to her side and going down on one knee before her, his face full of worry. “My lady, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

She could feel the tears dripping down her chin—gods, she must look a fright. Catelyn’s mind raced as she tried to gain control over herself, smothering her sobs as best she could. 

How to explain this? How could she even begin to explain? Especially to this Ned, who looked at her with worry and compassion, but not with love in his eyes, not yet. 

This was not her Ned. This was the Ned Stark who has just come back from a war, who brought his bastard child to live with them, who still saw her as a stranger he had to marry for her father’s armies. 

She couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet. 

Taking a deep breath, ignoring how it pained her, Catelyn held Robb out for Ned to carry. He took their son quickly, obviously relieved, but still waiting for her to speak. 

“I…I went to the godswood to think,” she began, wiping at her face with her sleeve. “I think…I must have fainted. And I had such dreams…they frightened me. I apologize, my lord.”

Ned awkwardly shifted Robb into the crook of his elbow, freeing his hand to carefully pat her arm. “You need not apologize, my lady. I am just grateful you didn’t suffer anything worse.”

Worse, he said. Catelyn didn’t let her expression slip at hearing this.

“A dream before the heart tree…what did you see?” Benjen asked, eagerly. “Perhaps it wasn’t just a dream, but a vision from the gods—”

“Ben, that’s enough,” Ned snapped back over his shoulder, rebuking his younger brother. Benjen looked abashed, and desisted.

“It was horrible, I can’t speak of it,” Catelyn said quickly. The idea of passing off her future knowledge as a vision of the gods had merit, but she could hardly start blurting everything out now—she would sound hysterical at best, delusional at worst. 

“You don’t have to,” Ned reassured her. “It was just a dream, my lady. You are safe. We’re all safe here.”

But we won’t be safe forever, Catelyn thought sadly, looking at her husband and son. Disaster was looming, and it could come for them all again if she wasn’t careful…

Catelyn looked up and caught Benjen’s eye—and the Father give her strength, if Ned looked young, Benjen was young, he was only fourteen when Catelyn and Robb arrived at Winterfell for the first time. There was a scattering of pimples across his cheeks, and his voice had just settled, Catelyn remembered now. 

He watched her with a furrowed brow, and if Ned was willing to dismiss Catelyn’s dream at the weirwood tree, Benjen didn’t seem so ready to brush it off. 

She would have to do something about Benjen, Catelyn realized. Benjen, and Moat Cailin, the Boltons and the Freys, gods be good, the Greyjoys too, never mind the damned Lannisters…

Her breathing started to quicken again, and Catelyn forced herself to take a deep breath, and then another. All of that would come with time. She had been given a second chance, it wouldn’t do to rush in without thinking and squander this miracle. 

*

Ned had urged her to rest for the rest of the afternoon, and Catelyn was too dazed still to argue. 

Her quarters were both familiar and foreign—she knew the room, of course, but after Sansa was born she’d used this room as a sort of solar, sleeping in what had been Ned’s quarters every night, until it became their quarters. But here were the tapestry she’d brought with her from Riverrun, along with the small shrine to the Seven that her father had commissioned for her, so she could worship as she pleased, even though the closest sept in the North (the only sept in the North currently) was in White Harbor. There were none of the trinkets she’d accumulated through a lifetime of nameday gifts from her children, and the silver and amber jewelry box Ned had given her upon Bran’s birth wasn’t there either…

Ned watched as she turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “Do you wish for someone to keep you company?”

“No, thank you,” Catelyn said, trying for a smile. “I think I shall just rest.”

Ned gave a little nod, saying, “I’ll leave you to your rest, then.” He lingered for a moment longer, as if he wished to say more—but then left silently. Catelyn’s eyes started to sting as she watched him go. 

Now that she was alone, the full weight of her situation crashed down upon her. The gods had given her a second chance, true, but she was still alone and a woman, no soldiers or armies she could call upon. As much as the thought of sailing down to King’s Landing so she can drive a dagger right through Jaime Lannister’s black heart appealed—the odds of actually accomplishing it were quite small, and the odds of her surviving for long were smaller still. 

Catelyn pressed a hand against her stomach. The disaster in King’s Landing was already beginning, thanks to the hellspawn of Tywin Lannister, and Catelyn couldn’t see any way to prevent it. 

She would have to limit her efforts to saving her family. To keeping House Stark strong and safe from anyone who would do them all harm. 

After feverishly trying to think through all that went wrong (and knowing she couldn’t simply sum it up as everything) Catelyn sat down at her desk and took out a long scroll of parchment, dipped her quill in ink and started to write. 

House Bolton.

House Frey. 

House Greyjoy. 

House Lannister. 

Four. Four houses she would need to protect her family, the North, and the Riverlands from. 

Four houses she meant to see destroyed. 

The hot, driving need for vengeance flared up, but is followed quickly by bewilderment verging on despair. Gods be good, how was it to be done? Where would she even begin?

It didn’t matter. She couldn’t let herself fall into despair and paralysis, not now, not ever. The gods had given her a miracle, she wouldn’t show her ingratitude at the first challenge. So Catelyn thought, and she wrote on, until the beginnings of a plan started to form. 

*

The hour was late by the time Catelyn made her way to the nursery. 

The wet nurse had just finished nursing Robb, her laces still loose as she gently patted his back until he gave a hearty belch, almost too loud for his tiny frame. 

The nurse, Elsa, turned and saw Catelyn. “Oh! Milady, I didn’t see you there, forgive me.”

Catelyn waved this off. “How is he?”

“Just about ready for sleep, the lamb,” Elsa said warmly. “Would you like to hold him a while?”

Yes. She wanted to hold her child and never let him go. She wanted all her children, the ones that she lost and might have again, if the gods continued to be kind…and if she did what needed to be done.

Catelyn made herself smile. “No, I should let him rest.” As Elsa carefully placed a drowsy, milk-drunk Robb in his cradle, Catelyn looked to the other cradle in the nursery. 

“And the other babe—Snow. Has he been fed?”

Elsa’s expression grew warier. “Aye, milady,” she said after a moment. “He’s been fed.”

She could hear the softest of noises coming from the cradle—he hadn’t fallen asleep then, not yet. 

Catelyn dismissed Elsa for the night, and once the door closed behind her, Catelyn went to her son’s cradle first. Her heart ached as she looked down at his sweet face, eyes tightly shut in slumber and his pink mouth half-open. 

She took a breath to steady herself, and then went to Jon Snow’s cradle. 

She was right; he hadn’t gone to sleep yet. His little legs kicked under the blanket, and his dark eyes caught on her face, watching the lock of hair that had escaped her braid. 

Catelyn looked into the child’s face, and she made herself face the truth. 

It was not Jon Snow that murdered her babies. Jon Snow had gone to the Watch and made his vows, he had not been the one to invade Winterfell, he’d never slaughtered the household or thrown her septon down a well, he’d never burned her children and hung their poor little bodies up for the world to see. That had been Theon Greyjoy, and oh, while Catelyn burned at the thought of Greyjoy’s treachery, when she looked now at the solemn babe before her…

(when she rememberd the solemn boy who rode away from Winterfell and never returned)

…the hot, shamed fury that used to boil up within her now cooled to grey ash. 

Catelyn breathed out. She’d hated Jon Snow. She could admit that now. Hated him for reasons that had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with his father, his nameless, faceless mother, with herself and the vows she’d made and then broken. But if this was all real and true, if the gods, old or new, had given Catelyn a chance to begin again, to save her family, to fix all of her mistakes…then perhaps this was where she truly needed to begin. 

Carefully, so carefully, Catelyn reached out and picked the boy up in her arms. He was a light weight in the crook of her elbow, and didn’t fuss, just blinked up at her curiously. 

He looked just like Ned. 

She would have to learn not to hate him for it. 

“You and I,” Catelyn said very softly, “we will need to have a new beginning.”

Jon cooed softly, as if he understood her. 

A Stone Drops Into Still Water

Summary

Catelyn begins to set her plans into motion.

“Does it scare you?” Benjen asked.

His goodsister didn’t look away from the weirwood tree, contemplating the old carved face. “I find it…unsettling,” she admitted at last. Before Benjen could ask her more, she turned to look at him with a crooked smile. “Thank you for coming with me today, I’m glad of your company.”

“Of course,” Benjen said, and meant it.  He’d been surprised when Catelyn approached him, after the morning meal, to ask if he’d accompany her to the godswood, but had promptly agreed. It was his duty as her goodbrother to help her adjust to the North, and after…whatever had happened with Catelyn in the godswood a week ago, the last thing that Winterfell needed was a Lady Stark who was frightened of the heart tree. 

Even if Ben still had to bite his tongue to not press her on whether the servants were right, and the old gods really had visited Catelyn that day…

But no. Ned had insisted that Catelyn be left alone on that, and Benjen knew that he was right. Things between Ned and Catelyn were strained enough because of Jon, the last thing Benjen wanted to do was make things worse. 

“Had you ever seen a godswood tree before coming north?” Benjen asked, curious. 

Catelyn shook her head. Your brother described it to me,” she told him, and Ben found himself wondering for a moment whether she meant Brandon or Ned, before checking himself. “But even his descriptions couldn’t match the reality.” She tilted her head and asked, “Have you ever been inside a sept?”

“Once,” Benjen told her. “My father took us with him on a trip to White Harbor, we visited the sept there.” He pushed away the memory of Lyanna leading him in, his hand clasped tightly in hers, his older sister leading the way as she always did. 

“And how did you find it?”

“Odd,” Ben said before he could think better of it; thankfully Catelyn didn’t seem offended, she just laughed softly. He hastily added, “Not in a bad way! Just…there was so much stuff. Statues and incense and mosaics, it was all very distracting.”

Catelyn looks thoughtful. “I always found it…helpful. A reminder that you are in a holy place.”

Benjen carefully did not say that if a place was truly holy, then what did you need a reminder for? As his father and old Maester Walys were always cautioning, just because something was new or different did not mean it was bad. 

“But now I am a lady of the North, and I must adjust to Northern ways,” Catelyn said, with determination. 

Benjen said honestly, “You’ve done marvelously so far. Everyone in the castle remarks on it.” 

It was the truth. Everyone had noticed how easily Catelyn found her way around the keep these days, how she never seemed to need directions on where to go or help finding her way about. She remembered the names of all the servants now, not just the ones she interacts with the most. Even her hairstyles had changed—there was no more of the dramatic southern curls and twists piled high on her head, she just kept her hair neat, either in a single braid or flowing loose down her back, with two tiny braids on either side to keep it away from her face. She’d already been wearing northern-style dresses, but now she looked like a northern lady, like she’d been born and raised above the Neck all this time. 

Catelyn’s smile deepened. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean to…I will do my best by House Stark. Always.” There was a fervency to her words, some other meaning that Benjen couldn't quite make out, but then Catelyn was looking back at the weirwood tree and saying, “Which is why I mean to understand the old gods better, if I can. Is there…is there a way to gain their favor? Some tradition that ought to be done?”

“Well, there are the sacrifices,” Benjen said, unthinkingly, and winced once the words were out. 

Sure enough, Catelyn went pale. “I thought blood sacrifice was banned!”

“Not that,” Benjen said hastily. “But…an animal, such as a hare, or a fox. Sometimes even a shadowcat. On festival days, on the equinox, we give thanks to the gods for their favor and sacrifice an animal to them at the roots of the weirwood tree. Well, we used to, at any rate.”

The color had returned to Catelyn’s cheeks, but she still frowned. To Benjen’s surprise, however, she didn’t yell about barbaric acts, just asked slowly, “Why did the sacrifices stop?”

“I don’t know,” Benjen admitted, biting his lip. “There used to be more sacrifices when my mother was alive,” he says slowly. “That’s what…what Brandon told me, at any rate. But after she died…the old traditions fell away, and my father started to look more to the south.”

“I see,” Catelyn said very quietly, and just as Benjen was starting to worry about whether he did right, she gave him another kind smile. “Thank you for explaining, Benjen.”

Relieved, Benjen waved this off. “Think nothing of it. If you wish to hear more about the old traditions, you can ask Old Nan. She knows more about all that than anyone else in Winterfell.”

“I will,” Catelyn said. She looked at him, and said, thoughtfully, “You’ve been very kind to me today, Benjen. Thank you.”

“You’re a Stark now,” Benjen said. “The pack has to stay together.”

“Yes,” Catelyn agreed, that odd note back in her voice. “Yes, it does.” And if she was looking at him closely when she said it, Benjen resolved to pay it no mind. They were still getting to know each other, of course she wanted to get the measure of him. 

*

Three days later, Benjen was summoned to the solar—Ned’s solar, now, and when he came in, he found Ned and Catelyn there, along with the new maester, Luwin. There was a map of the North spread out across the desk, and Catelyn was pacing back and forth, looking impatient.

“Ben,” Ned says, looking relieved to see him. 

“You sent for me?”

“Aye,” Ned said, with a glance at his wife—who wasn’t looking at Ned, but watching Benjen with her bright blue eyes. “Catelyn has had a suggestion, and we thought it right you be part of the discussion, since it involves you.”

“Uh,” Benjen said, intelligently. 

But then Catelyn spoke, a trace of impatience in her tone. “I’ve suggested that we rebuild Moat Cailin and install you there as its lord.”

Benjen felt his jaw actually drop. “You what?” His voice cracked, and his cheeks flamed red at the sound—gods, he thought his voice had finally settled with that nonsense.

“It merits consideration,” Maester Luwin said. “Having reviewed my predecessor’s notes, I know that the rebuilding of the Moat was on your father’s mind, and that he wished for one of his sons to rule there.”

“But I was going to join the Watch,” Benjen blurted out without thinking, and then flushed harder as everyone stared at him. “I mean…I’ve been thinking of joining the Night’s Watch.”

Catelyn’s arms were crossed over her chest, and her fingers were drumming an impatient rhythm. “That would be a foolish decision,” she snapped out. “Anyone can serve at the Wall—”

“Serving at the Wall is an honor, my lady,” Ned corrected her, mildly. 

“I know that,” Catelyn said. “I…I do not mean to denigrate the Watch. But we need Benjen here.”

“Why?” Benjen asked. “I’m not—Ned’s the lord, and he’s already got his heir in Robb, what could you need me for?”

“We need you because House Stark is weaker than it has ever been!” Catelyn burst out, her voice sharper than Benjen had ever heard it before. 

Both he and Ned stared at her, while Luwin looked down at his notes, and Catelyn flushed. “Forgive me,” she murmured, dropping her gaze. “But the fact remains that before the war, there were five grown, trueborn Starks. Now there are three, one a babe in his cradle and another barely old enough to grow a beard. We need to stabilize our position as a House, and badly.”

Ned was watching his wife carefully. “By sinking our treasury into rebuilding Moat Cailin.”

Catelyn lifted her eyes up at that. “Moat Cailin is the gateway to the North. Yes, the ruins can still be used as a stronghold in times of war, but it would be so much better if it were a true keep once more, with a lord to rule there. And who better than your brother?”

Her eyes were bright with excitement, and despite his own lack of ambition, Benjen was swept up in Catelyn’s vision of the future. 

Then it was all ruined when Catelyn added, “And we can have Benjen marry a daughter of one of your bannermen, to smooth over any ill-feeling over your wedding a southern lady.”

Benjen knew he wasn’t a good enough liar to hide what he thought of that, but thankfully neither Ned nor Catelyn were looking at him. Instead Ned was stroking his beard thoughtfully and saying, “I see the sense in what you suggest, my lady, but the expense would be too great.”

“Not if you applied to the king for the funds,” Catelyn replied swiftly. 

Ned’s eyebrows flew up. “You would have me ask Robert?”

“You helped put him on the throne,” Catelyn pointed out. “And unlike the Lannisters or Jon Arryn, I do not see you being showered with royal favor.”

“Because I refused when Robert would have named me to the Small Council,” Ned protested. 

Benjen felt it was time for him to interject. “He thinks of you as a brother, Ned,” he said. “If anything, he’d likely be offended if you didn’t ask him for the funds.”

Catelyn looked at him with approval, and Benjen flushed with pleasure. As little as he’d thought of being a lord, there was something to being at the table like this, being treated as a grown man and not a green boy. 

“There would be ways to cut down on the cost as well,” Maester Luwin said. “The maester at White Harbor has written of some builders from Braavos that recently aided in repairing the local roads, we could write and invite them here, to help with surveying the ruin.”

“There’s no reason we need the new Moat to have twenty towers, either,” Catelyn pointed out, and Luwin chuckled. 

“An excellent point, my lady.”

Ned was smiling a little too, but then he caught Benjen’s eye and said, “Let me talk to my brother a while. We can see about sending the letter to White Harbor—if nothing else, having an updated survey of the lands will come in handy.”

“Of course,” Maester Luwin said with a nod, gathered up his papers and exited. Catelyn followed him, but she paused to whisper into Benjen’s ear, softly, “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Startled, Benjen jerked away to stare at her, and Catelyn just looked at him, blue eyes almost—pleading? And then in a swirl of her skirts, she was gone. 

“What did she say?” Ned asked, and Benjen told him. As surprised as Benjen felt, Ned murmured after a moment, “I hadn’t realized how much Catelyn already knew about us.” 

Benjen waited for his brother to say more, and was disappointed, of course. “Are things getting easier between you two?” he finally dared to ask. 

Ned gave him a look. “They’re as well as I can expect them to be,” he said, quelling. “But we’re not here to discuss my marriage, we’re here to talk about your future.” He gestured at the chair, and Benjen obediently sat down opposite the desk—their father’s desk, now Ned’s. Though Ned could never be as intimidating as their father had been. 

“Are you still determined on joining the Watch?” Ned asked him. 

Benjen struggled for words. He’d wanted nothing more for months, and yet… “I want to be useful,” he muttered. 

Ned’s forehead creased. “You are useful, Ben. Always. You’ve been a help and a comfort to me, to Catelyn…” 

Benjen waved that off. “I want…I want work. Real work, something of use. It’s hard, being here and always thinking—” He stopped, not able to go on, not with his throat so tight. 

But Ned went on for him. “I know,” he said, eyes dropped down low. “Sometimes I turn the corner, and I expect to see Lya right there ahead of me. Even when I come into this room…” he glanced about the solar, “I keep thinking Father will come in and scold me for disturbing his things.”

Benjen laughed, wetly. “He always hated that. Remember when Lya and I came in and drew all over his maps?”

“Of course I do, he nearly shouted the keep down,” Ned retorted. He smiled at Benjen, warm and fond, but then his smile faded a little, grew more hesitant. “Ben…Ben, I think Catelyn is right. It would be a boon to the North having you there at Moat Cailin, guarding the Neck. Gods willing, we won’t see another war in our lifetimes, and yet…” He swallowed. “It would be a relief to have my brother there.”

Speechless, it took Ben a long moment before he could find the words to speak. “You really think I could do it?”

“Of course you could,” Ned said, as though it were obvious. “You’re a Stark. And we wouldn’t fling you down there right away; you’d be prepared for the role, we’d send able men down there with you. And Howland Reed is there as well, you could rely on him, I assure you.”

“Would I have to get married?” Benjen blurted out. 

Ned watched him and said, “Eventually, but I’m not suggesting we marry you off right this second either.”

“But I would need to marry,” Benjen said, lowly. “I’d need…heirs and all.” He didn’t let himself go on further, didn’t dare share out loud why that would be a problem for him. 

But Ned wasn’t a fool, he knew full well that Benjen had never cast eyes at one of the pretty maids, had never let Brandon drag him off to the local brothel to “get his prick wet”, as their brother’d put it. And after a moment, Ned said slowly, “You could…if the gods are kind, Catelyn and I will have more children. More sons. A nephew inheriting after his uncle…no one would question that.”

Astounded, Benjen gawked at his brother, who just nodded, and after a moment, raised an eyebrow at Benjen’s expression. “Did you honestly think I’d force you into the marriage bed at swordpoint?” he asked Benjen, amused. 

“I…I hadn’t thought that far,” Benjen admitted, half-laughing from sheer relief. The solution seemed so easy now it was said aloud. It wouldn’t be perfect, and some of the lords might grumble, but it was possible. 

And—Benjen’s breath caught as he realized—he could even make Jon his heir. The lords would do more than grumble at that, and the gods only knew what Hoster Tully would say, but Catelyn had been more decent about Jon than anyone had expected, the servants said she asked after Jon’s welfare every time she visited the nursery, and she didn’t have to do that. Maybe with time, she would soften even more, or Ben could take Jon and raise him up at the Moat when he was a little older…

“Ben?” Ned asked, cutting into his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Benjen agreed, the possibilities spooling out before him like golden thread. “I’m all right.”

***

“How can I help you, my lady?” Old Nan asked, comfortably balancing Jon Snow on her hip.

Catelyn had asked Old Nan to meet her in the godswood, and to bring Jon Snow with her. She’d come there early with Robb, holding her bundled-up son in her arms and trying to meet the carved face of the weirwood tree without fear or alarm. And then Old Nan had arrived, with Jon, and Catelyn was having to face both of her greatest fears at the same time. 

But they weren’t her greatest fears, not anymore. She couldn’t afford for them to be. 

She had been quiet for too long, and now the old woman was looking at her with concern. “Lady Stark?”

Catelyn put a smile on her face. “I’ve been…meaning to learn more about the old gods, Nan. Everyone in Winterfell agrees you’re the one I should speak to.”

Old Nan’s wrinkled face broke out into a wide grin. She had more teeth now than the last time Catelyn had seen her, in her previous life. “Oh, I’m happy to tell you everything I can.”

Catelyn kept smiling back, and gestured at the blankets and meal she’d had the servants lay out. “Shall we?”

At first, it was nothing that Catelyn didn’t already know. The old gods were in the trees, the earth, the water and the sky. The North didn’t hold with grand temples, with dedicated priests or septons to preach the good word, each man and woman was solely responsible for their relationship to the gods and the care of their soul. 

Finally, Catelyn asked, trying to hide her impatience, “But is there a way to gain their favor? To please them?” Or at least to keep from angering them…

Old Nan was watching her, eyes keen. “How do you mean, my lady?”

Somewhere in the Riverlands, her old septa was cringing with horror. Catelyn took a breath, and dug deep. “I understand…Benjen told me there used to be more rituals at Winterfell, when his mother lived. Sacrifices to the gods.”

The old woman’s eyebrows flew up. “Aye, that’s true enough. Old Lord Stark, peace to his memory, never held too much to the old ways…had his head turned by that fool of a maester.” She looked at Catelyn before saying, “Begging your pardon, Lady Stark, but I understood you followed the Seven still…”

Catelyn’s gaze traveled away from Nan’s face, and back up to look at the heart tree. Chewing at her lip, she admitted without thinking, “I want my family to be safe. I want them…us…protected by the gods. However that can be managed.”

When she looked at old Nan again, the woman looked as though she understood everything that Catelyn didn’t dare utter out loud. “Well then,” Nan said briskly, as though they were discussing the meals for the keep, “We should start sacrificing to the tree again. Once a month, on the nights of the full moon…”

And so old Nan continued to talk, and Catelyn held her son in her arms, and she listened to every word. 

The godswood no longer felt unwelcoming to her. It felt…attentive. As though something was out there, watching her, taking the measure of her. 

Catelyn couldn’t be convinced that it was an improvement. But as she glanced over to Nan and saw tiny Jon Snow meditatively chewing on his own fingers, and felt the weight of her own child in her arms, she decided she would make it be an improvement. Anything would be an improvement on the fate she’d lived through before. 

*

It was the loneliness that wore at her, in truth. 

It was a tight path that Catelyn had to walk, one where she accomplished what she needed to do without giving herself away to anyone, whether it was the servants or Benjen or Ned. 

Ned was the hardest part, in truth. Catelyn remembered having five children with him, loving him, building a marriage with him—but they weren’t there yet in this time. She knew, she remembered how strained it had been between them that first year, and even though she remembered the agony of losing him, even if she desperately loved Ned now—

He didn’t love her back, not yet. He didn’t trust her, not yet. And until he did, she was alone in this. 

The knock on the door was hesitant, but Catelyn knew who it was, and called out, “Come in.”

Ned came inside, looking at her warily. Catelyn looked up from her lap, her fingers stilling as she cradled the half-made prayer wheel. “My lord,” she murmured. 

The open worry on Ned’s face was hard to take, and Catelyn quickly looked away, wrapping the twine around another spoke of the wheel. 

“My lady, I…understand there was an incident at the stables.”

Her stomach churned once more, remembering. “I was startled by the head groom, that’s all.”

She’d been wanting to go for a ride, get the chance to clear her head, but when she’d gone to the stables, it was not Martyn, who she was used to, but Hodor—but not the Hodor she knew, this was a Hodor who had his wits about them, who spoke clear sentences and met her gaze easily, and who everyone referred to as Willis. 

He’d addressed her politely as Lady Stark, and she’d…she’d screamed from the shock. Poor Hodor—poor Willis—had stumbled back in alarm, and with everyone in the vicinity staring at her, Catelyn had made a poor excuse about seeing something at the corner of her eye, and promptly fled. 

And here she was now, making a prayer wheel. 

“Willis was concerned that he’d offended you,” Ned said, and Catelyn shook her head in denial. 

“No, no, of course not. It was a silly moment, nothing else to it at all.”

Nothing else, except perhaps the ruination of her hopes. Catelyn had spent the past few months blithely preparing as though everything that had happened in her previous life was guaranteed to happen in this one, but if Hodor mysteriously had his wits returned to him, then what else had she already changed without meaning to? 

Did this mean that Edmure would get married earlier than he had before? Or that Cersei and Jaime Lannister would be caught in their incestuous lies before the realm burned? 

Or, most terrifying thought of all, would Catelyn give birth to all five of her children? And would they be her children? Would it be Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, or would they be other children, ones with different looks and different names, children that would be part of her, true, but not the children she’d known and loved?

“Catelyn,” Ned was saying now, and he had sat next to her on the bed. It wasn’t until Catelyn looked at him that she realized her eyes were filling with tears. “Catelyn, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s…” But the lie wouldn’t slip through again, and she just wordlessly shook her head. 

Ned nodded towards the prayer wheel. “I saw a lady making a prayer wheel in the Vale once,” he said quietly. “I know that in your faith, a mother weaves this for her child, so that the gods will intercede on the child’s behalf. Are you worried about Robb?”

Catelyn could have almost laughed at how closely that cut to the truth. “I worry about Robb every day.”

Ned sighed. “You must believe me, Catelyn,” he said. “Robb is my son and my heir, I will do everything that is in my power to see him grow up well so he can take my place as Lord of Winterfell.” He paused before adding, pained, “Even though…certain actions of mine may have caused you to doubt it.”

Catelyn kept her hands lowered, biting at the inside of her cheek so as not to speak too quickly. The great irony of this was not escaping her. Ned thought she was upset about Jon Snow, and was trying to reassure her. In her other life, she would gladly have taken this as an opportunity to push Ned into sending the boy away, to open his eyes to the risk and the insult the boy brought to his home through his very existence…

But in this life, Catelyn knew there were much worse things to fear than Jon Snow. In this life, she meant to see her promise to the gods kept. 

So Catelyn let out a slow breath and said, still not looking at her husband, “I will adjust to Jon Snow’s presence here, my lord.”

If there was still a touch of ire in her voice, who could blame her? Catelyn was set on her course, but she still had her pride, by the Seven. 

Ned didn’t comment on her tone, simply saying, “I am glad to hear it.”

She could feel him continuing to watch her work on the wheel, binding the twigs together, and at last Ned hesitantly asked, “Is there something I can do for you? To make you feel more at home here, I mean.”

And a wild thought came to Catelyn, in a sudden flash of brilliance, fueled by her loneliness and desperation. 

Her voice trembling a little, Catelyn said, “Would you invite my uncle to Winterfell? I would be…very glad to have him here for a time.”

And this was the Ned she loved, as he said without hesitation, “Of course, we’ll send the invitation out by tomorrow.”

Catelyn felt her shoulders drop from the relief, the tension she always seemed to carry with her dissolving (at least for now). Unlike everyone else now in Winterfell, Uncle Brynden knew her. She would have to be careful, but if she were to confide in him, surely, surely her uncle would not think that Catelyn had gone mad. 

Weak with relief, she let her tongue slip, and asked a question she’d wondered about, in one way or another, for over twenty years. “Is his mother dead?” As she met Ned’s wide-eyed gaze, Catelyn said quietly, “I don’t need to know who she is.” Liar. “But if there is a woman out there with a claim upon you, upon the boy, then—”

“There’s no one,” Ned said hoarsely. He wasn’t showing the terrifying fury that had come over him when Catelyn had asked about Ashara Dayne, but Catelyn was hard-pressed to think the grief in her husband’s face was an improvement. “She died. Jon only has me now.”

Amidst the shameful relief, an unwilling flare of pity made Catelyn ask, “How did she die?”

“In childbirth,” Ned said lowly, before shutting his mouth as if he regretted saying that much. 

He abruptly got to his feet. “I will leave you to your work, my lady.”

“I’ll have the letter ready for my uncle by morning,” Catelyn said, accepting she would get no more answers tonight. “Thank you, Ned.”

The momentary startled look on Ned’s face reminded Catelyn that she hadn’t actually been calling him that, but then the faintest of smiles appeared—Catelyn could have wept for how familiar it was—and he said, “You’re welcome, Catelyn.”

*

Catelyn had been filled with such relief to know that her uncle was coming that she hadn’t considered what it would be like once he was actually at Winterfell. 

The first sign of her miscalculation came quickly, on the day her uncle arrived in Winterfell. 

It was a joy to see Uncle Brynden looking so young, his red hair only just touched with gray at the temples, a smile breaking out onto his face as he dismounted his horse and held his arms out wide to embrace her. 

Heedless of her position as Lady Stark, Catelyn rushed into his arms, burying her face in his hands. 

At last, someone who knew her. Someone who she could tell the truth. 

“Little Cat,” her uncle said gruffly “What in the hells have these northmen been up to?”

Thank the gods, he’d said it quietly enough that no one else would be able to overhear, but Catelyn stiffened. “What? Uncle, please, that’s not—”

“Don’t worry,” Uncle Brynden continued, pulling back far enough to look her in the eye. “I’m here for you, all right?”

“All right,” Catelyn said, because that was what she wanted, and she couldn’t complain that her uncle was offering it to her now. 

She held on tightly to her uncle’s arm as she introduced him to Ned and to Benjen, but it was of limited use—her uncle’s voice was calm as he greeted her husband, but the ferocious glare he was aiming at Ned told the truth. Ned was more composed than one would expect, facing the glare of the Blackfish, but Benjen glanced worriedly between his brother and Catelyn’s uncle, and stuttered through his own greeting, eyes wide. 

It was clear already what Catelyn’s uncle thought he was here for, and he proved her assumption right when they reached the nursery and Brynden hissed out in disbelief, “The bastard shares the same nursery with your son?”

“Uncle, please,” Catelyn said wearily. “Jon Snow is not a threat. Ned has given me his word that Jon will never threaten Robb’s standing as heir, and I believe him.”

To a man who fought in the last Blackfyre rebellion, this was clearly not enough reassurance for him. “Cat,” Brynden said, looking warily at Jon Snow’s sleeping form in his cradle. “The boy is a babe now, but one day he will grow to be a man—”

“Not every bastard is a Blackfyre in waiting,” Catelyn said, and the assurance in her voice had her uncle looking at her more closely. 

She picked up her son and said, coaxingly, “Here. Come look at your great-nephew.”

Brynden came willingly, his face breaking out into a smile as he stared down into Robb’s sleeping face. “Well now, isn’t he a sight.” Catelyn carefully transferred her son into her uncle’s arms, and Brynden looked down at his nephew with awe. 

“I held you like this when you were a babe,” he reminisced. “Aye, and your sister and brother too.”

Robb was sleeping soundly—in this life, as in the last, he was a sound sleeper, but there was a faint whimpering from the other cradle, the precursor to crying, and Catelyn only hesitated a moment before going to him. 

Jon stared up at her, red-faced and upset, and Catelyn murmured, “Shh, shh, it’s all right,” before lifting him up and settling him at her breast, his hot little face buried in the crook of her neck. 

Under different circumstances, Catelyn would have laughed at the stupefaction of her uncle. “Catelyn, what on earth…”

Catelyn continued to rock Jon Snow in her arms. “I did not bring you here because of Jon Snow, Uncle Brynden,” she said. 

“Apparently not,” he said, eyeing her for a moment before saying, with more determination. “The niece I know would never lower herself to tolerate her husband’s bastard. Cat, if Ned Stark has…browbeaten you into tolerating this, then…”

“He is my husband and my lord,” Catelyn pointed out. “Far more wives have tolerated far worse than one baseborn child.”

“One for now,” Brynden muttered darkly. Robb started to stir, and Brynden was distracted, rocking him gently as Robb fussed. “Would you look at that,” he murmured, his earlier anger forgotten. “Tully-blue eyes.” He tapped his great-nephew’s nose, then looked up at Catelyn again, determination on his face. “All right, you say you didn’t call for me because of the bastard. Then what is wrong?”

Catelyn swallowed. Now that the moment was here, the words wouldn’t come. “I called you here,” she began, her voice tight with strain, “--because all of us are in danger. Because the entire realm is on a precipice.” Sensing the tension in her body, Jon began to whimper, and Robb started to fuss as well. 

Brynden’s face had gone pale beneath his beard. “Cat, what in the hells do you mean? Are you worried about Targaryen loyalists or—”

“No,” Catelyn began, but it wasn’t the right moment, not with both babies fussing now, and so they had to settle them back in their cradles before continuing. Once the babes were quiet once more, Catelyn sat in a chair, and she looked her uncle in the face and told him everything. 

She spoke of the life she’d already lived, the children she’d had, Ned being named Hand of the King by Robert Baratheon, the treason he’d uncovered, and the War of the Five Kings that had followed his murder at the hands of Cersei Lannister’s bastard son. She spoke of the devastation of the Riverlands, the invasion of the North by the ironborn, and then finally about the deaths of herself and Robb, at the wedding of Edmure and Roslin Frey.

Catelyn’s voice went hoarse long before she had finished, but it didn’t matter, because what was more tangible than her rasping throat was the cold lump of disappointment in her belly. It was all too obvious what her uncle thought of her tale.

“You don’t believe me.”

Brynden shook his head, but said, “I don’t know what to believe, Cat. If it were anyone but you…”

Catelyn swallowed as much bitterness as she could. Perhaps it was too much to ask for, but she’d so hoped… “I’m sorry to have summoned you all this way,” she began, choking on the words, but was met with her uncle’s affronted bafflement. 

“What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.”At her clear astonishment, her uncle only grew more indignant, snapping, “I’m not leaving—if you’re right, the entire realm will be going off a cliff within twenty years! Gods be good, the Lannisters alone…you’d think after we’d toppled the Targaryens we’d have been freed from incestuous monarchs, Seven help us all.”

“And if I’m wrong?” Catleyn had to ask. “If I really have gone mad—”

Brynden snorted. “You aren’t mad,” he said with total confidence. “No, at worst you’ve had an awful dream underneath a strange tree and it’s scared you, but it hasn’t made you mad or turned you into a fool. What have you done since this dream? You’ve convinced your goodbrother not to waste his life at the Wall and set him and your husband to rebuilding a holdfast that’s critical to the security of the North. Perfectly shrewd, if you ask me.”

It was his matter-of-fact compliment that pushed Catelyn over the edge, as she gasped and burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. 

“Here now, Cat…oh, my girl…” Her uncle had never been the best when confronted with tears, but he did his best now, kneeling before her and patting her shoulder in comfort. 

Finally Catelyn regained control of herself, wiping at her eyes with her sleeves and murmuring, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to come apart like that…”

“Nonsense, you’ve been under a great strain,” Brynden said stoutly, then muttered to himself, “Gods know your husband hasn’t been any help, with having his bastard about…” He relented at Catelyn’s watery glare. “Fine, fine. If you’re right, the boy is the least of our troubles.”

“He isn’t,” Catelyn said, sniffing. “I need to…I must do better this time. For all of us.”

Her uncle crouched over to look her in the eyes. “We both will,” he said. “Remember our words.”

“Family, Duty, Honor,” Catelyn recited. 

“Yes, and family comes first,” Brynden said. “Always. I’m with you until the end in this, you understand me? Dream or no, I’m with you.”

Catelyn grabbed onto his hand, more grateful for his promise, for the lifeline, than she could put into words. But from the kind look on her uncle’s face, he understood anyway. 

*

Dinner in the Great Hall went better than it had any right to, in truth. As always, having the eyes of the household on them helped, as no one, her uncle included, would have dreamed of exposing any rifts before servants and guests. And they did have guests tonight, Lord Wendel Manderley was here from White Harbor with the builders than House Manderly had promised for Moat Cailin, a Braavosi man named Melheret Amani, and his apprentice Khalid had already made fast friends with Benjen, as they were of the same age. They made a charming contrast, Ben’s tousled brown hair compared to Khalid’s tightly coiled black curls springing from his head, and while Catelyn had already had to quietly rebuke two serving girls for gawking at their guests’ deep brown skin, Benjen’s eager questions had hopefully papered over any awkwardness. It was a relief, to see Ben acting like the young lad he was…it was in moments like this that Catelyn was aware of how much the poor boy had lost in such a short amount of time, how grief and loss had weighed him down. 

Catelyn and Ned spent their time between Melheret the builder, Lord Wendel, and her uncle, and it went well—Lord Wendel was a man to be easily pleased, and if he made more than a few hints about his niece Wynafryd, of an age to Robb, what of it? Catelyn could parry that sort of thing in her sleep, and did so, gaining an approving look from Ned as she did. 

Robb was brought out from the nursery towards the end of dinner and made a great fuss of, and the only moment when Catelyn nearly wavered was when she saw Robb sitting in his father’s lap, Ned’s head bent low over his son, his large hands cradling their little boy so tenderly…

She made a jape about looking too closely into the fire and having her eyes dazzled by the flames, but the sympathetic look from her uncle showed she hadn’t been as convincing as she could have wished. 

Yet how could she be? At every turn something would remind her of how fragile this all was, how she could still lose everything. Perhaps it had been a mistake, to tell her uncle everything—Catelyn was more than a little convinced he thought her hysterical, no matter his soothing words. But he was loyal to her, and would stay and help, and that was enough for now. 

But even some things were beyond his control. 

Catelyn glanced again at her husband and son, aching—not just for them, but for the children she’d had and lost, the ones she had no guarantee she would see again in this life. She’d woven her prayer wheel, and kneeled before the altar until her knees bruised, and yet…there was still a hollowness inside of her. A fear that had not abated. 

And Catelyn remembered the feeling of red weirwood leaves on her skin, and she wondered. 

*

The Winterfell household had known, and approved of, Catelyn restarting the practice of sacrifices to the godswood tree, but it came as a shock to everyone when, on the night of the full moon, she’d gone and joined Old Nan and the other servants in the work, going so far as to sacrifice the first hare, taking the knife and slitting the animal’s throat in one smooth stroke. 

It disturbed Catelyn, how easy it was. The animal didn’t struggle, seeming to meet its fate with a calm acceptance. And for a moment, as the blood spilled out over the white, gnarled roots, Catelyn could have sworn she watched the ground greedily drink up the blood, as if…as if the tree was thirsty. 

If her father heard of this, he would be appalled. Catelyn’s right to practice her own religion had been written into the marriage contract, and while her father had not gone so far as to assume she’d be able to convert her husband to the Faith, he certainly would have never dreamed his daughter would go so far as to participate in animal sacrifice to the old gods.

But Catelyn was set on her course. Anything she could do to save her family, her children, she would do. And if it was the old gods of the North who had brought her back, then it was the old gods she would entreat for help, just as much as she would entreat the Seven. 

And for whatever it was worth, after Catelyn had gotten to her feet, and washed away the blood from her hands with a waterskin Old Nan held for her, she went to her quarters, and fell into the deepest sleep she’d had since coming back to life underneath the weirwood tree, all those months ago. 

End Notes

I wanted to make it clear that Catelyn's attitude towards Jon/bastards is not an abberation, hence Brynden being so harsh re: Jon. He's going to come around, but it will take a while. 

Answered Prayers

Catelyn Stark woke up from a familiar nightmare to Ned stroking her hair, and to her child kicking within her swollen belly. 

For a moment, she was in both places at once, both women at once—the hopeful, expectant young mother and the shattered widow watching her son be murdered before her, and a scream began to build in the base of her throat. 

“Catelyn,” Ned’s soft burr said in her ear. “Catelyn, it’s all right—”

His hand was curving over the swell of her stomach, and Catelyn clutched at his hand, not caring if her nails dug into his skin. Let her see the blood underneath her fingers, afterwards, as proof this life was real. “Don’t,” she choked out, voice trembling, “Don’t go, please—”

“Where would I go,” Ned murmured, in that soft voice he’d taken to using with her after one of her nightmares, deep and steady. “I’m not leaving.”

But you did, Catelyn thought, old despair rising up within her. He had chosen his duty to the King, he left and he never came back again. 

The constant refrain came back to her once more; I can fix it, I can fix everything, but when she remembered all the things that could go wrong…

As Catelyn anxiously stroked her stomach, Ned said softly, “Could you tell me what you dreamed of?”

“It was nothing,” Catelyn said quickly. “Just nonsense.”

Ned said nothing, but in his silence Catelyn could hear disappointment. But then the babe inside her (Sansa, please let it be Sansa) soundly kicked within her belly, right where Ned’s hand was resting.

He chuckled, sitting up to look down at her as he said, “I see our child is up with the sun.”

“I wish she would learn how to sleep in,” Catelyn grumbled. 

“You think it’s a girl, then?” 

Catelyn’s breath caught, but she managed to say, her mouth dry, “I have a feeling.” She looked over her shoulder up at him. “Would that please you?”

Ned’s smile was slow and sweet. “Aye, it would. A daughter would be a gift, and I’m sure she’ll be as lovely as you.”

“Lovelier,” Catelyn said, smiling through the ache in her heart. “She’ll be even lovelier than me. Just watch.”

Ned’s smile deepened, and he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “If she has your hair, I’ll be delighted. Kissed by fire, it’ll be good luck for House Stark.”

Her eyes were stinging, but Catelyn blinked them away so he wouldn’t see. “Let us hope so.”

*

It was the differences that kept Catelyn on edge, always. 

Her relationship with Ned was stronger this time. Because of her tolerance and kindness towards Jon Snow, because of her advice to install Benjen as Lord of Moat Cailin, Ned had come to rely and depend on her even more quickly than he had in her past life. But also he seemed…careful of her, in a way he had not been before, solicitous of her moods, alert to her nightmares that she would never describe.

He believed her to be the woman she presented herself to be. The far-sighted woman who thought of ways to rebuild an ancient Northern stronghold, the generous wife who showed kindness to his bastard son. 

If she pretended to be that woman for long enough, would it make it true?

Even with all the time Catelyn spent on her knees before her altar of the Seven, praying and hoping for an answer, she didn’t have one. 

It helped, having her uncle there. Brynden had settled easily into the North, just as Catelyn had hoped, and even if he eyed Ned with some wariness still, he’d also taken Benjen under his wing and doted on Robb. He had also, thankfully, followed Catelyn’s example of treating Jon Snow kindly—it was easier for him, Catelyn thought, he’d always been fond of children.

“What was the boy like before?” her uncle asked one afternoon. “In your old life,” he added, with a little nod towards her. 

“Quiet,” Catelyn said. She pursed her lips and admitted, “He avoided me as much as possible, but…he was sweet towards the…the younger children, and was Robb’s constant shadow.” A memory of Arya at age three, tottering around on her tiny legs after her bastard brother, had Catelyn biting her lip, and she said quickly, attempting to push back the memories, “There was no…no viciousness in him. And he chose to go to the Watch.” She let out a breath. “I was so relieved to see him go, but if he’d stayed in Winterfell…perhaps Bran and Rickon would have lived.”

Her uncle was watching her with sympathy, but Catelyn could tell this wasn’t real for him, not yet. Bran and Rickon were names to him, that was all. He was choosing to believe her, yes, but if her information turned out to be incorrect…if the babe in her belly was a son and not the daughter she’d said she would have…

Tellingly, Brynden’s gaze drifted down to her swollen belly, only somewhat hidden by her full skirts. “And the babe,” he said, awkwardly. “Everything is, ah, on schedule there?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, letting her hands rest on the curve of her stomach. “So far, this is all as I remember it.”

Brynden looked at her for a moment, then smiled crookedly. “I look forward to meeting your Sansa then,” he told her, somehow saying exactly the right thing, just when Catelyn needed to hear it. 

Catelyn couldn’t speak, but she reached out and squeezed her uncle’s hand in thanks. 

*

Thankfully, Catelyn could not spend all of her time contemplating the unbelievable position she was in. Her actual position, as Ned’s wife, Robb’s mother, and as Lady of Winterfell…that had to be the priority. So she ran the household, counseled her husband…and quietly made sure that the sacrifices to the old gods continued, regular as clockwork. 

She couldn’t know if it meant anything, but the servants took it well, and the approval went beyond the castle walls; suddenly Catelyn was receiving letters from other Northern ladies that she’d only been on cordial terms with in her first life, warm, gossipy letters filled with obvious respect. And it went beyond letters, Ned talking of how his bannermen were all indicating their openness to having their sons and daughters be fostered at Winterfell, or fostering Stark children in turn. “Not that any of them would be so bold as to actually ask for the honor,” Ned told her one evening in his solar, the fire crackling merrily away in the hearth as Catelyn sewed on a sleeve to one of Ned’s shirts. “Not even the Greatjon. Though he’ll certainly hint at it; he’s got a son about Robb’s age.”

“A bridegroom for one of our daughters, perhaps,” Catelyn said, and Ned tilted his head, obviously surprised. “You disagree?”

“No,” Ned said. “The Greatjon is an honorable man, and House Umber has always been a staunch ally of the Starks. But I thought…I suppose I expected you to want to see a southern match for our children.”

“No,” Catelyn said quickly. Too quickly, if the twitching of Ned’s eyebrow was any indication. She put on a smile, and said gently, “You can’t tell me some feathers weren’t ruffled in the North when we wed, I don’t know how well it would suit your bannermen to have another generation of Starks marrying South.”

“Not well,” Ned conceded, with a little grimace. 

“And the South is so far away,” Catelyn said, refusing to shudder at the brutal memory of just how far away King’s Landing was from Winterfell, what it had been like to have her precious girl trapped in that foul pit. “I’d want to keep our children closer than that, Ned.”

“Aye,” Ned agreed. “So no fostering our children with one of our bannermen?”

Catelyn shook her head, but added quickly, “But I am more than happy to foster children here, of course.”

“Of course you are,” Ned said, and added with twinkling eyes, “As if I ever need to tell a Tully their duty.” Catelyn beamed at him, and Ned’s smile grew in response. 

Still smiling, Catelyn set herself to fitting the second sleeve onto the shirt, and for a moment, there was no sound but the quiet scratching of Ned’s quill onto the parchment. 

It would be a boon to have proper foster children at Winterfell. Not the hostage Theon Greyjoy—Catelyn’s stomach cramps a little at the memory—but proper Northern highborn children, ones who would grow to look upon Ned as a second father, her as a second mother, and have their loyalty to Winterfell be even stronger for it…that was an opportunity indeed. 

An opportunity, Catelyn realized with a frown, that she did not have in her first life. 

Something had changed. She had changed something, without quite meaning to.

Distantly, Catelyn heard herself ask, “Have you written to your bannermen about me?”

Ned looked surprised by the question. “What do you mean, Cat?”

Catelyn smiled at her husband, sweet as honey. “I mean nothing by it, Ned, I assume your bannermen must have questions about your Southern wife, and that you’d have to answer them.”

It was a shot in the dark, but with the way that Ned winced, she’d clearly hit home. “I have had to clarify that you have not actually converted to worshiping the old gods,” Ned said slowly, and with reluctance. 

“They think I have?” Catelyn asked. For a moment she was shocked, and then she remembered everything she’d done since she’d woken into this new life—asking Nan about Northern legends, starting the tradition of regular sacrifices, making a sacrifice herself…

Of course they thought she’d converted. At this rate, Catelyn would be lucky if the news of her supposed conversion didn’t reach her father at Riverrun. 

Ned was clearly choosing his words with care. “They were…surprised to hear that you’d brought back the old ways of worship before the heart tree,” he explained. As Catelyn reeled before this new information, Ned added, quietly, “I have been thinking on it, and…it does not seem fair, to me, to have you honor my gods and for me to leave you with no way to honor your own.”

“I have my altar,” Catelyn said, but she already knew what Ned was getting at.

And she was proven right when Ned said to her, “Yes, and if you want, we can have a sept erected here at Winterfell. It would not be anything as grand or as large as what you’re used to, but we do have the space, and I can write to White Harbor and have a septon arrive…”

For a moment, as Ned spoke, there was a warmth inside of Catelyn’s heart, because here was the generous husband who in a previous life had built her a sept without asking after Sansa’s birth, who had seen what she’d needed and offered it without hesitation. 

But that warmth was quickly chased out, as she realized what the difference was in this life, compared to her prior one. Before, Catelyn had been a blank slate to the North—Ned Stark’s southern wife from the Riverlands, who he’d married to gain an army and win the war. They’d known little else about her, except that she’d birthed an heir for the North…and that her husband had built her a sept, in the heart of Winterfell, in the heart of the North. 

Here, in this life, she’d already established and enhanced her reputation by encouraging the old ways, the northern ways, and while Catelyn had never dreamed that it would go further than Winterfell, clearly it had, and the favor she’d gained from it was no small thing…

And it was not something she could risk losing. 

It felt like a betrayal, as though she was rejecting her faith, her heritage…and yet. 

“No,” Catelyn said finally. “No, Ned…it’s so kind of you to offer, but it’s not needed. My altar will do for my needs, and it’s important that the North not see me as…some invading Andal.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth, they were bitter in her mouth, but still…she knew them to be true.

“Cat—” Ned protested, looking shocked, but Catelyn set her sewing to one side, and rose to her feet, not without effort. She stood before Ned at his desk, and reached out to take his hand. 

“We cannot be blind to the truth,” she cautioned her husband. “Your lords, their wives…right now, they’re inclined to think well of me because I am seen to be respecting the North and the old gods. If we were to build a sept here, now, what would they think of it? Of me?”

Ned’s mouth thinned. “I am the Lord of Winterfell,” he said, stubbornly. “No one can dictate to me how and where my wife should worship.”

In that moment, Catelyn loved him more than breathing—and that only strengthened her resolve, because this was what she was trying to save. This wonderful man, and the family they’d made together. She’d vowed that nothing would stand in her way…and if this was one way her resolve would be tested, then so be it. 

“Of course not,” she soothed. “But it’s important we not alienate them, especially not now with Ben establishing himself at Moat Cailin.” Ned was clearly struck by that, and Catelyn pressed her advantage, saying, “Your brother will be tested enough, especially when it comes to integrating all those foreign newcomers into the North, he’ll need every bit of goodwill from his neighbors possible.”

It took some more pressing, but eventually Ned conceded she was right. And as he kissed her, and praised her wisdom, Catelyn consoled herself, and tried not to think of that tiny sept where she had worshiped, and had felt both the love of the Seven and the love of her husband every time she stepped inside its holy walls. 

I know my duty, she reminded herself. In serving my family, in serving the North, I am doing my duty. The gods will understand. The Seven know my heart. 

But the old gods…they knew her heart too. 

And more and more, Catelyn knew that it was those same old gods that were listening. 

*

Of all the things that filled Catelyn with trepidation during those moons, Moat Cailin was quite high on the list. 

She’d been so sure of herself when she’d advised Ned and Benjen to reclaim it. All she could see then was the wretched Ironborn seizing it, and knowing that could not be allowed to happen again, not by the Ironborn or the Lannisters or the Boltons or the Freys. Moat Cailin had to be made secure, and she would do whatever it took to make it so. 

And now here they were, with the Braavosi builders transforming the magnificent ruin into a functioning keep, but that was not the only change they’d brought with them. Far from it. 

It had all begun with the apprentice Khalid, who had quickly became a favored companion of Benjen’s—Catelyn had lost count of the times she’d seen the boys practicing archery together, and had listened with amusement to Benjen earnestly lecturing his new friend on the importance of wearing layers in the North to keep out the cold. It turned out that Khalid had been a former slave from Pentos, who had been freed by the builder Melheret as a child, but his sister and her husband were still held in bondage while Khalid and Melheret worked to raise the funds to purchase them. 

Outraged, Benjen immediately arranged for the funds and passage for Khalid’s family to join him in Westeros out of his own allowance (and with assistance from Ned). But that gesture had gotten the attention of Wendel Manderly, as well as several Bravossi ship captains who sailed to White Harbor regularly. As it turned out, there was a burgeoning anti-slavery movement in Braavos, led by a charismatic priest who thunderously preached that Braavos had not done enough to help those in Essos that were still chained, and with one thing and another, a small community of escaped slaves were finding refuge in Westeros, in the shadow of Moat Cailin’s rebuilt towers.

All of this was a good thing, without question. And yet it was also something entirely new, something that Catelyn had no reference for from her past life. She couldn’t predict this, couldn't anticipate where it would all end up. 

So far, it seemed to be going well. They had a trusted steward and soldiers keeping the peace in Benjen’s name, and Benjen often traveled south to the Moat, sometimes in the company of Ned, more often in the company of her uncle Brynden. Their reports all agreed, the newcomers were integrating well with the northern smallfolk, better than anyone could have hoped for, and had brought many varied possessions with them, including a new grain that apparently grew well in Moat Cailin’s swamps, and now she was here in the kitchen with Benjen and Khalid, both of them watching her anxiously as she looked at the bowl before her, filled with fluffy white grains that reminded her of snow. 

“What is this?”

“It’s called rice,” Benjen said proudly. 

“It’s as common in Essos as wheat,” Khalid added eagerly. “It’s originally from Yi-Ti, but it’s just about everywhere now, I can’t think why no one’s brought it to Westeros…”

Catelyn tentatively nibbled at her spoonful. There was not much flavor to it, but flavor could be added, and it was nicely tender and soft. 

“...they write that several smallfolk have started adding it to their stews and meals, and find it very filling…”

“Could you make a dessert with it?” Catelyn asked abruptly. 

The boys (even though Benjen was approaching seventeen now, he still seemed a boy to Catelyn) paused mid-sentence. “Of course you can,” Khalid said. “There is rice pudding, sticky rice—that’s rice with mangoes and coconut milk, I had it once, it is magical—”

“Why are you asking about dessert, Catelyn?” Benjen asked curiously. 

Catelyn smiled. “You’re showing this to me because you want this food to be spread across the North, yes? Then we’ll need to convince the other Northern lords as well. And since we’re hosting Lord Cerwyn and his daughter in two sennights—”

“You want to show off Moat Cailin’s new crop to them,” Benjen realized, starting to grin. 

“We can’t have it in every course, but dessert and one of the side dishes…yes, it’s possible,” Catelyn said. 

“Cat, you’re a gem,” Benjen said, grinning broadly, even as he nudged Khalid. “I told you she’d know what to do.”

Khalid smiled at her, the charming smile that had all the maids aflutter, even as he never looked at them twice. “Lady Stark’s wisdom is well-known indeed,” he agreed. 

She’d made a point of hiring some of the Essosi newcomers at Winterfell, to better indicate that Winterfell was in full acceptance of this change, and it was easy indeed to find a servant working in the kitchens who hailed from Lys originally, and was well-familiar with this dish.

Lord Cerwyn ate three helpings of the rice pudding at the feast, and pressed Catelyn for the recipe. Being no fool, he also pressed Ned on the crop yields, and whether it could be grown outside of Moat Cailin. Catelyn, meanwhile, was getting the measure of Lord Cerwyn’s pleasant daughter Jonelle, and whether she would suit as one of Catelyn’s ladies-in-waiting. Jonelle seemed sweet-tempered and eager to please, much as Catelyn had remembered her to be from her first life, but there was a warmth to their interactions that perhaps had not been there before. 

By the sennight’s end, Lord Cerwyn had pledged he would work to introduce this rice crop to his smallfolk and household, and Jonelle Cerwyn had been accepted as Catelyn’s new lady-in-waiting. 

A moon later, Benjen was finally on his way to take his seat at Moat Cailin for good. Catelyn had convinced her Uncle Brynden to accompany Benjen for a time, long enough to see Benjen settled in his role. 

“Watch for the Boltons,” she murmured to her uncle, the day of their departure. “Roose Bolton may play the loyal lord, but I swear to you—”

“I remember,” Brynden said, briskly but not without compassion. “Little Cat, you cannot fuss like this. It’s not good for the babe.”

Catelyn cradled her belly, and looked to where Benjen was saying his farewells to Ned as he saddled his horse. “It’s just that I’ve changed so much,” she murmured. “I don’t know how it will turn out.”

“It’ll turn out fine,” Brynden said stoutly, and if Catelyn couldn’t make herself feel as sure as her uncle sounded, she still managed to put a smile on her face as she bid her goodbrother farewell. 

*

One thing Catelyn appreciated greatly about the North was that here, women were not expected to enter confinement for the last stage of their pregnancy. While Catelyn was meant to take her ease, as Maester Luwin and Ned were forever reminding her, she was not expected to spend two or three moons trapped in an airless, dark room. She could move about the keep (or waddle, if she were honest) or even go for a walk among the grounds to get some fresh air. 

One afternoon, Catelyn was reviewing the accounts when Jonelle Cerwyn came into her room, arms full of flowers. “For you, my lady,” she said with a wide smile. 

“How lovely,” Catelyn said, smiling as she sniffed one of the wild roses. “I must admit, I envy you the ability to go for a ride in the woods,” she said, patting her ever-growing stomach. As eager as she was to meet Sansa, Catelyn had almost forgotten just how aggravating this sage of pregnancy was. Her back ached constantly, she was forever having to get up to relieve herself, trying to find a comfortable position was nearly impossible…

And yet, there was nowhere else she would be. 

“...and I found the most miraculous discovery in the woods, three weirwood saplings in a clearing, all clustered together…”

“Is that rare?” Catelyn wondered out loud, and Jonelle nodded fervently. 

“Oh yes, the weirwoods are very rare. Not every holdfast can have one, some resort to oak trees or even birches…”

“Could we uproot one?”

Jonelle stopped mid-chatter. “You…wish to uproot the saplings,” she said slowly, as though she hadn’t heard Catelyn correctly. 

“Well, yes, I wanted to see if the sapling could be safely transported to the Riverlands,” Catelyn said, wondering why Jonelle was staring so. “House Blackwood—” Then she realized in a rush why Jonelle was staring at her as though she’d said something profane, and said, with a snap of impatience, “For heavens’ sake, Jonelle, do I really seem the sort of woman to destroy holy trees?”

Jonelle went scarlet. Ducking her head, she muttered in obvious mortification, “No, my lady, I never dreamed to insult you so.”

Catelyn breathed out through her nose. Truthfully, it wasn’t just Jonelle she was frustrated with—not this version, with her affable ways and eagerness to please, but the Jonelle Cerwyn that Catelyn remembered from before, who had given Catelyn respect but not warmth, who had seen Catelyn as a stranger to the North and its ways, no matter how many Stark children Catelyn bore. 

And that Jonelle’s opinion had no doubt been shared among many Northern lords and ladies, who had looked at her tiny sept and seen it not as an act of love, but as…as an invasion, as a potential threat. 

She’d taken too long to respond, Jonelle was watching her anxiously now, and Catelyn said gently, quelling her temper, “I’m asking about the saplings because I wish to send one to House Blackwood, in the Riverlands. Their weirwood tree was destroyed a long time ago, during that stupid feud with the Brackens, and it might be a nice gesture.”

“Oh!” Jonelle exclaimed. “The—oh!” She thought it over and said, “I think it could be done, but carefully…” She went on to explain further, how the saplings would have to be carefully looked after for the whole journey, by gardeners who knew what they were doing. But it was possible, and Catelyn decided to send the letter to House Blackwood that very day, asking if it would be something they’d welcome. That dead weirwood tree was not just a symbol of the Bracken-Blackwood feud, it was part of their House sigil, and Catelyn had to assume that if they’d wanted it to be replaced, they would have done so by now. 

Still…the gesture felt right to make. 

*

Catelyn’s labor pains started in the middle of the night. She’d been prepared for them all day, knowing that tonight would be the night, that if she was correct and the gods were kind, she would meet her daughter with the dawn. 

Ned was sleeping soundly next to her, and Catelyn shook his shoulder, saying in his ear, “Ned, the babe’s coming.”

Ned jumped out of the bed as though he were a scalded cat, bellowing for the guards, for Luwin and the midwives, before he’d even gotten his braies back on. Catelyn would have laughed, except she was doing her best to breathe through the pain of her contractions. 

Ned refused to leave once Luwin and the midwives arrived, offering his arm for support when Alys, one of the midwives, insisted on Catelyn walking about the room to encourage the labor to move faster. Catelyn leaned against her husband’s arm and doggedly put one foot in front of the other, reminding herself with every wave of pain that this would be worth it when Sansa was here, when her daughter was in her arms. 

Even as the cries started to escape between her gritted teeth, Catelyn held on to her faith, to the image of her daughter’s blue eyes. She prayed to the Mother, a line from a hymn repeating in her mind over and over again, gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray…

Gentle Mother. Gentle Mother, please. 

But during the worst of the pain, when Catelyn was on her back, feeling as though she was being split in two and there was nothing else in the world but this pain, not Ned or the midwives or Luwin, she opened her eyes and dizzily stared up at the ceiling—

—and for one moment, she swore she could see the face of the weirwood tree staring back at her from the ceiling, with its weeping face. 

Gasping, Catelyn turned her head away, towards the window, and she saw the first rays of the rising sun, just as Luwin consoled her, “I see the head, my lady, just one more push!”

And with a shriek of pain, and one last great push, Catelyn’s child was born. 

Catelyn stared wildly at Luwin, holding her bloody child, and held her breath until Luwin said, “A healthy girl, my lord, my lady,” and then she immediately burst into sobs, reaching out for her daughter, her Sansa. 

And it was Sansa, it was, she recognized her daughter’s red hair, her tiny wrinkled face and snub nose, her soft little cries. And there, there were the blue eyes that were a perfect match for Catelyn’s, as she looked around at her surroundings, her parents, as if she were not sure yet what to make of this strange new world. 

Ned’s arms had come around her, and he was murmuring in her ear, “Cat, Cat, she’s a beauty, why are you upset?”

It was only then that Catelyn realized how hard she was sobbing, tears and snot making her face a disgusting mess. “I’m not,” she said, wobbly, “I’m not, I just…she’s a miracle, Ned. A gift from the gods.”

Obviously relieved, Ned kissed her temple and agreed, his own voice hoarse. “Aye, she is at that. What will we name our miracle daughter, then?”

“Sansa,” Catelyn breathed out, the first time she’d uttered their daughter’s name to him aloud. “Her name is Sansa.”

*

This time, Ned brought both Robb and Jon to meet their sister for the first time. 

Catelyn had just finished feeding Sansa from her breast, and was rocking her daughter to sleep in her arms, when there was a careful knock at the door, and Ned stepped in, saying, “I have two curious boys looking to meet their sister, my lady.”

Catelyn smiled. “Can they be very quiet and very gentle?”

Ned pretended to consider. “Well, I don’t know,” he began thoughtfully, but was interrupted by Robb crying out, “We can, we can!” As Ned turned to look at his sons, Robb repeated in a more abashed whisper (that still carried perfectly well to Catelyn, of course) “We can, promise.”

Chuckling, Catelyn called out, “All right, come in, boys.”

The boys came in with Ned, Robb rushing forward while Jon hung back, holding onto his father’s hand. Without hesitation, Robb crawled up onto her bed, peering at Sansa. 

“She looks like you!” Robb said, excited. He turned back for his brother, hissing in what Robb likely thought of as a whisper, “Jon, come here!”

Ned looked to her before lifting Jon up onto the bed, which wasn’t a surprise—he always checked, when it came to her interacting with Jon still. Jon carefully moved closer to look at the baby over Catelyn’s arm, curious.

“She looks very small,” Jon said, glancing up at Catelyn. He didn’t have the same fear of her he did before, but Catelyn knew that despite her and Ned’s best efforts, Jon was getting a sense of his position in the household, an understanding that he was different from Robb. 

Gods help and forgive her, her old self would have been satisfied to see her husband’s bastard son learn his place. 

In this time and place, where Catelyn had become wiser and better, Catelyn said gently, “All babies are this small when they’re born. You were this small too, when you were a babe.”

It was remarkable how outraged and astonished Jon could look, even at this small age. “Was not.”

Catelyn chuckled. “Oh, yes you were. You and Robb. But you grew up, just like Sansa will grow up.” She took a breath, and said, “And as her brothers, it’s your responsibility to look out for her and help her, you know!”

“We will!” Robb and Jon said in unison, Robb jumping a little on the bed. 

Both of the boys were fascinated with their little sister, touching her small nails, carefully patting her soft cheek. Robb wanted to know how long it would be before she could walk and talk, and was promptly disgusted at hearing it would likely be a year or more, loftily insisting that he certainly hadn’t taken so long to speak and walk. 

There was a moment where Catelyn realized she’d been stroking their heads, Robb’s soft dark waves beneath her left hand, and Jon’s spiraling black curls beneath her right. 

She couldn’t remember ever having touched Jon, in her old life. And here she was now, touching him without thinking. Gently and with affection, the way that a mother should. 

Catelyn closed her eyes. Thank you, she thought. 

And when she closed her eyes, it was the weirwood tree she saw. 

*

Sansa’s birth was all the proof Catelyn needed that the gods were listening, that as long as she kept to her bargain, the gods would keep to theirs. 

But if she had needed more proof, the letter that Ned received from Benjen, not quite three moons after Sansa’s birth, that was all the proof that anyone could ask for. 

“My lord, what is it?” Catelyn asked as she came into the solar. Maester Luwin was already there, along with Vayon Poole and Ser Rodrick. Ned was white to the lips, and his eyes were glittering with the kind of fury Catelyn rarely, if ever, saw from him. 

“It’s Benjen,” Ned began grimly, and as Catelyn took a step back in alarm, he reassured her, “No, Cat, Ben’s fine, but he’s written a grim tale indeed. It appears,” he continued, nostrils flaring, “that Roose Bolton has decided to discard the King’s Justice, and the laws of the North.”

“He’s rebelling?” Catelyn asked, aghast and bewildered—surely, surely Roose Bolton wouldn’t be such a fool as to reveal his disloyalty now, when there was so little benefit for it—

“Not yet,” Ned continued, grimly. “That…that beast has apparently been carrying out First Night on his lands, for years.”

“Along with all other sorts of depravities, I’m sure,” Ser Rodrick said with a snort, disgusted. 

Catelyn’s mouth had fallen open. Gods, she’d never dreamed… “How do we know this?” she asked. “It’s Benjen who’s written this to you?”

“Aye,” Ned confirmed. “A great many of the smallfolk that have settled around the Moat came originally from the Dreadfort lands, and Benjen didn’t think much of it at first, but there was a wedding recently, and it came out that many of them were expecting Ben to…” His mouth twisted, and Ned spat out, “They were expecting him to exert his rights over the bride.”

“And when he didn’t…”

“When he didn’t, he was approached by many of the local elders, so they could understand the laws of the land. And once that happened, Lord Bolton’s crimes were exposed.”

“Gods be good,” Catelyn murmured. Her knees suddenly weak, she sank into the nearest chair. 

“I’ll have to head out with the men to the Dreadfort right away,” Ned was saying now. “Benjen’s already gone to confront Bolton himself, the reckless fool, but he’s sent copies of the sworn statements regarding Bolton’s crimes to myself, Lord Manderly, the Citadel, and the Red Keep.”

“That’s clever of him,” Luwin said, thoughtful. “One raven might go astray, but not all of them.”

“But surely he could have waited, at least until you arrived—”

Ned was shaking his head. “He writes that he’s concerned that Bolton may have spies in the area, for exactly this reason. He doesn’t want to give Bolton a chance to flee abroad, or to kill  any witnesses that still live within reach of the Dreadfort.” 

“But what if he’s killed?” Catelyn protested. 

Ned looked to her, and something in her expression had him coming forward and kneeling before her chair, taking her hands in hers as he reassured her, “Cat, it’ll be all right. Bolton would have to be mad to try and strike against my brother.”

“He sounds more than half-mad to begin with,” Catelyn said, gripping Ned’s hands tightly. “Ned, when I suggested Benjen take lordship at Moat Cailin, I never dreamed…”

“Why would you?” Ned said, soothing. “No one could have known what Roose Bolton was capable of.”

The bitter laughter stayed trapped behind Catelyn’s clenched teeth. She had known, and had warned her uncle, and still somehow she had not seen this coming. 

She looked into her husband’s face. “Roose Bolton cannot be allowed to live,” she said, uncaring of how bloodthirsty this might make her sound. “Ned, this is a betrayal of you and everything you stand for as Warden. Not to mention the risk of rebellion from the smallfolk—”

“Lady Stark speaks the truth, my lord,” Poole interjected. “It’s a miracle we haven’t seen an uprising before now, truth be told.”

Ned did not bother to look back at Poole; instead he was watching Catelyn’s face, meeting her eyes as he swore, “He will meet justice at the edge of my greatsword, Catelyn. I promise you that.”

“I believe you,” Catelyn said, and lifted their joined hands to press a kiss to his knuckles. “And I will pray to the gods for your victory, and your safe return.”

And she did. Just as she also made a blood sacrifice to the old gods before the heart tree, to the gods she knew were there and watching. 