“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.