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.