[Winterfell, The Last Day of the Sixth Moon, 298 AC]
The hearths burned low but steady in the long room of stone, their embers casting soft flickers of orange upon the walls, turning the old tapestries into stories half-remembered. Smoke rose gently from the hearth, curling with the ease of something long accustomed to the draft of Winterfell's old bones.
Catelyn sat in a high-backed chair near the corner, where she could keep an eye on all the girls gathered around the wide sewing circle. Alys, wrapped in a heavy shawl of deep grey wool, sat at its center like a hearth-mistress, her voice calm and low as she guided thread through cloth. Sansa sat closest to her, the tip of her tongue tucked into her cheek as she focused on neat little rosebuds along the hem of a linen shift. Lyarra sat beside her, trying, albeit poorly, to copy the pattern. Across from them, Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole whispered and giggled, their needles forgotten more often than not.
Alysanne Stark, always proper, worked diligently in silence, her long lashes lowered and her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the fire. Lysa Dustin, a girl of quiet pride, kept her stitches straight but said little.
Alys herself was not quite the picture of composure today. Her needlework was slower than usual, and she'd dropped her thread twice in the past hour. Her eyes, already pale, had lost some of their light. From time to time, Catelyn caught her subtly pressing a hand to her middle, as if trying to still some internal flutter.
It was not illness, of course. Or at least not the dangerous kind. Catelyn had known the signs, she'd seen them five times in the mirror and once in her sister Lysa. The gentle nausea, the hunger at odd hours, the sudden stillness when conversation turned to the future. No, it was life stirring in Alys Karstark's belly, though no one had yet spoken of it aloud.
They were waiting. Waiting to be sure.
'Gods be good, hopefully the pregnancy takes and the north gets to welcome yet another Stark.' Catelyn mused with a smile
Catelyn's gaze drifted to the door, where a mountain of a man stood on guard. Walder, Old Nan's great-grandson, son of some forgettable man and a woman who had not lived long past his birth. He stood seven feet tall, if an inch, broad as a barn beam, his thick arms folded across his chest in a way that should have seemed menacing, but didn't.
Walder smiled down gently at the girls as they worked, and his eyes, soft and blue as summer skies, crinkled at the corners when Beth offered him one of her crooked stitches to admire. Catelyn had once watched him lift a barrel with one arm, hurling it at a straw target in the yard during drills. She had seen him shatter shields in sparring bouts with Alaric's Winter Guard. A walking tempest, Torrhen Stark had called him.
But here he was, big and slow-breathing, carving a little pony from pinewood with a knife too small for his hand. He handed it, smiling bashfully, to Alysanne, who beamed at him.
A gentle giant with children, and a menacing beast against his foes.
Catelyn sipped at her tea and breathed in the peace of the room.
Ysilla was absent, of course. Likely off somewhere with Robb. That girl was all wild curls and laughter, a Royce to her marrow. Catelyn had not approved of the match at first, too quick, too eager, but seeing the love they shared softened her. The girl loved Robb fiercely, and more importantly, Robb seemed gentled by it. And if they were already trying for a child, well... better love than a cold match. She'd seen too many of those.
Her mind wandered.
She looked at Sansa, so eager for songs and romance. At Lyarra, all fire and challenge. At Jeyne and Alysanne, who whispered of dances and ribbons and young knights with sun-colored hair. She wished all of them love. Not just good marriages. Not just duty. Love.
If she had learned anything, it was how rare a gift that truly was.
[Later that day]
Later that afternoon, Catelyn found herself in the solar she often visited when Alaric and Ned were away. Alys had excused herself after sewing, claiming fatigue, and Catelyn had gone to check on her with a tray of fresh bread, soft goat cheese, and honeyed tea.
The younger woman sat in a window alcove, curled in a fur-lined blanket. Her face was pale, but she smiled when Catelyn entered.
"You should be resting properly," Catelyn said gently, placing the tray on the table.
"I am," Alys said with a tired smile. "Just… upright resting."
Catelyn sat beside her and offered the cup of tea.
Alys took it with both hands, her fingers trembling just slightly.
"Have you told anyone else?"
"No," Alys whispered. "Not until we're sure. Alaric doesn't wish to announce it prematurely, god's willing, nothing goes wrong."
"You're sure already."
"I want to be."
They sat in silence, listening to the quiet beyond the stone walls. The wind was rising.
Catelyn remembered being in that same alcove after Bran's birth. Remembered the ache in her body, the heat of joy and fear mingled in her blood. Alys was younger than she had been. Too young, perhaps. And yet, stronger than most women twice her age.
"Do you love him?" she asked suddenly.
Alys blinked. "Alaric?"
Catelyn nodded.
"I do," Alys said softly. "More than I thought I could. Even when he frightens me."
"Why does he frighten you?"
"Because he never shows how much he carries. Not to anyone. And I know one day it will break him, if we're not careful."
Catelyn reached for her hand.
"Then you must be careful for him. Just as I was, once."
[Courtyard of Winterfell]
In the late hours of the afternoon, she descended to the courtyard, walking slowly among the stone paths and frosted grass. Servants were folding the last of the banners from the royal pavilions, and she heard the echo of hammers as the stables were refitted for the smaller household once more.
She came upon Jon Snow near the crypts, his sleeves rolled up, hauling firewood into baskets.
Not for the first time, she paused at the sight of him.
He was not the boy she had once resented. Not the shadow that had hung at Ned's side. He had grown in the years that passed, taller, broader in the shoulder, his hair longer and streaked with sweat. His face still held the cold reserve she had always found difficult to read, but something in his eyes had changed.
"Jon," she called.
He turned quickly, setting down the basket and brushing off his hands.
"Lady Catelyn," he said, a bit too stiff.
"You don't need to call me that," she said, approaching. "Not anymore."
He looked at her, confused.
She hesitated. "I haven't always been kind to you. And for that, I am sorry."
Jon blinked, uncertain whether this was a trick.
She continued before he could speak. "You've done right by your brothers and cousin. By Robb, and especially by Alaric. And by Winterfell. I see it now. I should have seen it long ago."
Jon swallowed hard.
"You don't have to say anything," Catelyn said, lifting a hand. "Just know… I'm proud of the man you're becoming."
He nodded slowly. "Thank you… Lady… thank you, Catelyn."
She smiled faintly, and they stood there in quiet understanding. He picked up the basket again and carried it inside.
[Later that night]
That night, the hearths burned higher in anticipation of the parting. The royal party had left days ago, but it was tomorrow that would take away more, the second wave consisting of Alaric's men, more Greycloaks and Winter Guards, young lords and squires, guards, and kin alike. The household would be quieter.
At supper, Sansa whispered of wanting to ride south soon, of her dream of King's Landing, of the court and songs and gallant lords. Catelyn simply listened, nodding at the right times, aching with a mother's quiet fear, thanking Alaric and the gods all the same that he saw fit for her girls to stay in Winterfell.
Lord Artos Stark sat tall beside his wife Alarra, already fitted in his escort armor. Domeric Bolton shared a jest with Sansa, who blushed and elbowed him playfully. Even little Edwyn kept leaning across the table to speak to Bran.
The children of Winterfell were growing up. Too quickly, perhaps. But well.
Catelyn excused herself before the music began, the strains of harp and flute echoing down the hall as she walked once more to the room of the hearths.
The sewing had been cleared away. The seats were empty. But Walder remained, standing watch, the carving knife still in his hands. He looked at her and nodded.
"She's sleeping," he said softly. "Wouldn't eat much."
Catelyn nodded.
She stepped into the room, quiet as a whisper, and pulled a blanket over Alys' sleeping form.
"Sleep well, sweet girl," she murmured.
And may the gods be kinder to you than they were to many before you.
[Winterfell, Dawn of the First Day of the Seventh Moon, 298 AC]
The corridors of Winterfell were always quieter at first light, the ancient stones holding the chill even through summer. Catelyn's steps echoed softly as she walked beside Alys, their arms linked as they made their way through the inner keep. Walder followed behind, silent but watchful, his axe strapped to his side, the very picture of quiet menace.
The halls still smelled of smoke and damp wool, and of something older, stone, snow, and blood. Catelyn did not mind the smell. It reminded her of her children, of Ned, of Alaric pacing these same halls as a boy, his shadow being chased by all of his kin.
Alys looked pale beneath her shawl, but her voice was light. They spoke of Sansa's new embroidery project, of how Lyarra had nearly spilled hot cider on the tapestries, of how Robb had been caught sneaking back into the guest wing barefoot and grinning.
"I'm glad Ysilla brings out the mischief in him," Alys murmured.
"I only hope it doesn't bring a child before he's ready," Catelyn said with a sigh. "Though I suppose we can no longer say that with a straight face, can we?"
Alys turned slightly pink and squeezed her hand. "He'll be a good father, if it comes to that."
"As will Alaric," Catelyn said quietly. "Though I fear he may never let himself rest long enough to be one."
They rounded the corner into the northern passageway, still dim in the early light, its high windows catching just the first glint of gold from the sun. Walder's boots thudded behind them like the tread of a bear, steady and calming.
Catelyn heard the sound a half-moment before she saw the man.
A scraping of leather. A clink of metal. And then a flash of silver.
The attacker lunged from a side arch, a lean, ragged figure in filthy grey rags, his face sunken and hollow-eyed. His knife caught the light like a serpent's fang, long, thin, wickedly curved, and far too sharp.
Alys turned just in time for the blade to slice across her thigh, shallow but clean. She cried out and stumbled backward, into Catelyn, who barely kept them both upright.
"Alys!" Catelyn gasped, catching her arm.
And then the man turned toward them again, his grin wide and savage, only to be eclipsed by the hulking shadow of Walder as he stepped between them like a wall.
The assassin didn't hesitate. He brought the knife down in a quick arc, only to be stopped by the great crescent axe swinging to meet him.
There was a terrible screech of metal on metal. The knife did not shatter. It stopped the axe, just stopped it, and even chipped its edge.
Catelyn's breath caught.
Walder blinked, stunned by the resistance. His huge arms shifted. The axe spun around again.
This time, the man danced low beneath the strike, impossibly quick for his malnourished frame, and aimed a stabbing blow to Walder's chest.
But Walder caught him.
One massive hand closed around the man's forearm like a smith clamping down iron.
There was a crunch.
A wet, cracking noise.
The attacker howled until Walder twisted again and slammed his skull into the stone wall.
Once. Twice.
The third blow was unnecessary.
The man dropped like a sack of grain, his knife clattering to the stone.
Catelyn was still clutching Alys, whose leg now bled freely down her stocking, staining the floor beneath them. Walder turned to them, face unreadable, but eyes wide with something like fury.
"I failed," he muttered. "I should've—"
"No," Catelyn said sharply. "You did your duty. You saved her life."
Walder looked down at the assassin's body. "That blade… That wasn't normal steel."
"No," Catelyn whispered, already reaching for Alys's shawl to press against the wound. "And that man wasn't here by chance."
[Alaric's Solar, Late Morning]
The familiar walls of Alaric's solar felt colder without him. But his maps were still pinned to the wall. His parchments still lay scattered. His seat behind the oak desk sat empty.
Ser Rodrik Cassel stood with arms crossed and jaw clenched, grey streaks in his beard catching the morning light. Hallis Mollen, still wearing a padded gambeson and sword belt from drill, paced near the fire.
Alys sat in the high-backed chair by the hearth, her wounded thigh wrapped, her face paler than before. Catelyn stood beside her, one hand on the girl's shoulder. Walder loomed just behind them, head bowed, fingers twitching restlessly.
"I want the body burned," Rodrik was saying. "Quietly. Word doesn't leave the castle. No banners, no ravens, nothing."
"We'll make it look like he was a poacher who froze outside the walls," Hallis said grimly. "Or drowned. Something quiet."
Benjen burst into the room then, boots thudding hard. His cloak was still dusted from travel.
"Alys!" he barked, rushing to her side. "Gods, are you hurt? Catelyn?"
"We're fine," Catelyn said. "The wound's shallow. Walder ended it before it became worse."
Benjen nodded to the man-mountain. "I owe you more than thanks."
"I should've killed him sooner," Walder muttered, jaw tight.
"We all should have seen this coming," Catelyn said. "And I'm afraid this might not be the last of it."
She reached into her sleeve and withdrew a folded letter. The parchment was worn now, edges smoothed by her fingers. She passed it to Benjen.
"From my sister," she said. "Arrived two days before Alaric left. I didn't know whether to believe it."
Benjen read it quickly, eyes narrowing. "Lysa… She says Jon Arryn was murdered?"
"She names the Lannisters," Catelyn said. "No proof. Only suspicion. But she was his wife. She knew the man better than most. And now this…" She gestured toward Alys. "I suspect someone meant for this blow to land. And it wasn't just meant for her. It was meant for Alaric. To wound his heart."
Rodrik frowned. "You believe the two events are connected?"
"I do," Catelyn said. "And if not, I would rather err on the side of caution than wait for the next blade to fall."
There was silence.
Then Catelyn said, firmly, "I must go to King's Landing."
Benjen looked up, startled. "What?"
"I will take a fast ship from White Harbor. I'll warn Ned and Alaric in person. I'll bring this letter. They need to know what's been done. What might still be coming."
"You can't go alone," Rodrik said at once. "I'll ride with you."
"And I," Hallis added. "If there are more assassins, we'll guard you well."
Catelyn nodded, already moving toward the desk. "Then we leave at first light. I'll speak with Maester Luwin to send word ahead to Lord Wyman. We'll need a fast sloop, and supplies ready by our arrival."
Benjen turned to Walder. "You'll stay. You're Alys's sworn shield, and she'll need protection more than ever now."
Walder gave a deep, solemn nod.
Benjen looked to Catelyn. "Are you sure?"
"I am," she said. "This is my duty now. I failed to see the danger once. I won't again."
[That Night, Catelyn's Chambers]
It was past the tenth hour when the fire burned low in her chamber. The children had been kissed. Sansa was asleep, her hand curled beneath her cheek. Arya, of course, was still amiss, no doubt causing trouble with Branda and Berena, but after today, she would have several guards keeping eyes on her.
Catelyn sat before the hearth, combing out her hair with long, slow strokes. The flames licked at the stones, casting long shadows along the walls.
There was a soft knock.
"Come," she said.
Alys entered, leaning slightly on her cane. Her leg ached, but she smiled.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
"Neither could I."
Alys crossed to her and sat on the footstool. "You're really going."
"I have to. I won't risk Ned or Alaric walking into a trap blind."
"I'll miss you," Alys said. Her voice broke slightly.
Catelyn reached out and took her hand.
"You'll do well. Be strong for the babe. Be strong for Winterfell."
"I'm afraid."
"We all are. But strength is what we give each other. We don't have to carry it alone."
Alys nodded, her lip trembling. Catelyn leaned forward and kissed her brow.
"Rest now. You'll need it."
[Dawn, Winterfell's Gates]
Mist clung to the base of the walls like smoke as Catelyn mounted her horse. Rodrik rode beside her, already scanning the woods. Hallis checked the saddlebags once more.
Walder stood behind Alys, who wore a thick cloak and clutched a fur wrap to her belly. She looked small, but she stood tall.
"I'll bring them news swiftly," Catelyn promised.
"And I'll hold Winterfell," Alys said. "For all of us."
Catelyn gave her one last smile, then turned her horse.
As the gates creaked open, she rode out toward the road, toward the South, toward secrets that could set kingdoms ablaze.
Behind her, Winterfell watched.
And the North waited.