Winterfell, Second Moon, 297 AC
The morning sun cast pale light through the windows of Catelyn's chambers, but she found no warmth in it. She sat at her writing desk, a cup of cooling tea before her, untouched. Her hands lay folded in her lap, but they trembled slightly—a tremor she could not quite control, no matter how she willed herself to stillness.
A month had passed since Jon Snow had left Winterfell. A month since that terrible confrontation in Ned's solar, since those awful words had been spoken, since her husband had sent the boy away to the Wall in chains. A month that should have brought relief, should have brought peace to her household.
Instead, it had brought only chaos.
Catelyn closed her eyes, but the memory rose unbidden. Three days after Jon's departure, Jory Cassel and his men had returned to Winterfell. They had come back bloodied and ashamed, without their prisoner, bearing news that had sent shockwaves through the castle and beyond.
Jon Snow had escaped.
No—escaped was too mild a word for what had happened. According to Jory's account, delivered to Ned in halting, humiliated tones, they had made camp on the second night of their journey north. The men had been careful, knowing Jon's skill at arms, keeping him bound and watched at all times. But in the darkest hour before dawn, Jon had simply... acted.
Jory said it had happened so fast that none of them had been able to properly react. One moment Jon had been sitting by the fire, his hands bound behind his back. The next, he had been free, the ropes cut or loosened somehow, and moving like a shadow given form.
Ten men. Ten trained soldiers of House Stark, armed and armored. And Jon had defeated them all in less than five minutes.
Jory himself had been the first to fall, struck down by a blow that had knocked him senseless before he could even draw his sword. The others had fared little better. Jon had moved through them like a dancer through a performance, disarming some, striking others unconscious, breaking bones where necessary but never—and this was the most unnerving part—never delivering a killing blow.
When it was over, when all ten men lay groaning in the dirt or sleeping in forced slumber, Jon had stood over Jory and waited for him to wake. Then he had spoken words that had chilled Catelyn to her core when Jory repeated them.
"Tell Lord Stark this: I remember. And I will come for them. All of them. When the time is right, I will return, and he will wish he had listened."
Then Jon Snow had disappeared into the darkness, taking nothing but the clothes on his back and a sword from one of the fallen guards. He had vanished as if he had never been, leaving only injured pride and mounting dread in his wake.
The news had spread like wildfire through the North.
Within days, every lord and landed knight in the region knew that Eddard Stark's bastard had gone mad, had threatened his own family, and had escaped justice. Ravens had flown to every holdfast, every castle, every tower. Ned had put out a call for Jon's capture, offering a reward for information on his whereabouts.
But there had been nothing. No sightings. No word. Jon Snow had simply vanished into the vastness of the North as if the land itself had swallowed him whole.
And then the letters had started arriving.
The first had come from Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, written in the flowing script of a man who chose his words carefully:
Lord Stark,
Word has reached White Harbor of the unfortunate incident with your natural son. I am grieved to hear of this trouble within your house. A bastard who forgets his place is a danger to all around him, and I commend you for acting swiftly to remedy the situation.
I have instructed my men to watch the harbors and roads. If Jon Snow attempts to take ship from White Harbor, he will be apprehended and returned to your custody. However, I must counsel you, my lord, that perhaps it would have been wiser to address this matter earlier. A bastard raised in too much comfort can develop ambitions beyond his station.
I mean no criticism, only concern for the stability of the North. House Manderly stands ready to assist in whatever way we may.
Your servant,Lord Wyman Manderly
The letter had been polite, even deferential, but Catelyn had seen the judgment beneath the courteous words. Lord Manderly, for all his protestations of support, was questioning Ned's judgment in how he had raised Jon.
And he was not alone.
From Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort had come a letter that was far less diplomatic:
Lord Stark,
I have been informed of your bastard's rebellion and subsequent escape. This is a grave matter. A baseborn boy who threatens his lord father and his trueborn siblings is guilty of treason, no matter his bloodline.
The Dreadfort's hunters are at your disposal should you wish to organize a proper pursuit. I have men experienced in tracking fleeing criminals through even the deepest wilderness. A clean kill would resolve this matter permanently and remove any future threat to your legitimate heirs.
I trust you will deal with this situation in whatever manner you deem appropriate, though I would counsel severity. Mercy to the treasonous sets a poor precedent.
Lord Roose Bolton
Catelyn had shuddered when Ned showed her that letter. There was something cold in Bolton's words, something that suggested he would take pleasure in hunting Jon down like an animal. Ned had declined the offer curtly, stating that he would handle his own household matters.
From the mountain clans had come word through Maester Luwin that they had seen no sign of the "young wolf," as some were already calling Jon. The Liddles, the Norreys, the Wulls—all reported that their lands were quiet, their hunters vigilant. But Catelyn detected a note of something else in their messages, something that troubled her. It was not quite approval, but nor was it condemnation. Some of the clans seemed almost... impressed by Jon's defiance and his escape.
Lord Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth had sent a blunt message typical of his nature:
Stark,
Heard about your boy. Shame, that. Always thought there was wolf's blood in the lad. Turns out maybe there was too much. My men will watch the Gift and the lands near the Wall. If he shows his face, we'll grab him.
But I'll tell you true—the lad's got stones, standing up to you like that and then breaking free of ten armed men. Stupid, aye, but brave. Might've made a good ranger if he hadn't gone mad.
Greatjon Umber
Even the smaller houses had sent their responses. Lord Cerwyn expressed concern for the stability of Winterfell's succession. Lady Dustin of Barrowton wrote with thinly veiled satisfaction—she had never forgiven Ned for events surrounding her late husband during the rebellion, and this seemed like justice to her. Lord Karstark offered sympathy and soldiers to aid in the search.
But it was not just the North that had heard the news.
Ravens had come from the South as well, and those letters had been far less sympathetic.
King Robert Baratheon's letter had arrived within a fortnight, and Ned had gone white-faced when he read it:
Ned,
What in seven hells is happening up there? I receive word that your bastard threatened you and your family, claimed rights to Winterfell, and then escaped when you tried to send him to the Wall? Gods, man, have you gone soft in your old age?
In my day, a bastard who spoke such words would have lost his tongue before sunset. And threatening the Lord of Winterfell's children? That's treason, Ned. Treason! You should have had his head on a spike as an example.
I know you've always been soft-hearted when it comes to the boy—too soft, I always said—but this is beyond the pale. You've let this fester for too long, and now it's blown up in your face.
Find the whelp and deal with him properly this time. And for the love of the gods, don't let him anywhere near King's Landing if he's caught. The last thing I need is some mad bastard causing trouble in the capital.
Your brother (who's apparently tougher than you),Robert
The letter had stung, Catelyn knew. Robert was Ned's oldest friend, closer than a brother, and his words had cut deep. Ned had said nothing after reading it, had simply folded the parchment and locked it away in his desk. But she had seen the pain in his eyes, the shame.
The political damage was done. Throughout the Seven Kingdoms, people were talking about how Eddard Stark, the stoic Lord of Winterfell, the honorable Ned Stark who had helped win Robert's throne, couldn't even control his own bastard. Some saw it as a sign of weakness. Others viewed it as poetic justice—the man who was so proud of his honor brought low by the evidence of his own dishonor.
But for Catelyn, the worst letters had been the personal ones.
Her father, Lord Hoster Tully, had written from Riverrun:
Dearest Cat,
I have heard the news from Winterfell, and my heart aches for you. To have that boy under your roof all these years, a constant reminder of your husband's betrayal, and then to have him threaten your children—my grandchildren—is an outrage beyond bearing.
I warned Ned years ago that keeping the bastard so close was a mistake. Bastards should know their place, should be sent away where they cannot corrupt or threaten legitimate heirs. But your husband, for all his virtues, has always been too soft in this matter.
Are you well? Are the children safe? If you feel unsafe at Winterfell, you and the little ones are always welcome at Riverrun. Your brother Edmure sends his love and says he would be happy to ride north with men to help hunt the boy down.
You have suffered enough, daughter. This should have been resolved long ago.
Your loving father,Hoster Tully
Catelyn had wept when she read that letter. Her father's words, meant to comfort, had only highlighted the years of pain she had endured. And his offer to take her and the children to Riverrun—as if she were a weak woman who needed to flee from her own home—had stung with unintended insult.
The nights were the worst. In the darkness, Catelyn would lie awake and remember Jon's final words to Jory. I will come for them. What did that mean? Was it a threat? A promise of vengeance? Would he return in the night to murder them all in their beds?
She had insisted on guards outside the children's chambers. Robb had protested—he was nearly fourteen, almost a man grown, and didn't need protection—but she had been adamant. Until Jon was found, until this threat was neutralized, she would take no chances.
Ned had aged in the past month. She saw it in the lines around his eyes, the grey threading more heavily through his dark hair. He barely slept, she knew. He spent long hours in his solar, staring at maps and reports, waiting for some word of Jon's whereabouts that never came.
And worst of all, Catelyn was fighting her own internal battle—one she could not share with anyone.
Because she remembered her conversation with Jon in the godswood. She remembered his claims that he could see the future, that he knew of dangers threatening her family. She remembered the bargain they had struck: she would help him create his false falling-out with Ned, and in return he would warn her of what was to come.
But had the falling-out been false? Jon's words in Ned's solar had been so cruel, so cutting. He had mocked Robb, insulted her children, spoken with such contempt. Had that been an act, or had Jon truly meant those words?
And if it had been an act, why? What purpose did it serve to make himself an enemy of House Stark, to become a hunted fugitive? What could possibly be gained by such a drastic course?
She had played her part, she knew. She had complained to Ned about Jon, had insisted he confront the boy, had pushed for the meeting that led to the explosion. She had done exactly what Jon asked her to do. But she hadn't expected... this. She hadn't expected such venom, such finality. She hadn't expected Jon to actually escape, to leave ten trained men bloodied in his wake, to disappear like morning mist.
Was Jon going to uphold his end of their bargain? Or had she been played for a fool by a mad boy with delusions of prophecy?
These questions circled in her mind like crows around carrion, picking at her peace, devouring her certainty. She had told no one of her arrangement with Jon—how could she? To admit she had conspired with the bastard against her own husband would be unforgivable. And if Jon was truly mad, if this had all been some elaborate scheme to hurt her family, then her silence made her complicit.
The guilt was eating her alive.
She rose from her desk, her tea now cold and forgotten, and moved to the window. The morning sun was climbing higher, warming the stones of Winterfell. In the courtyard below, she could see Robb practicing with his sword, Theon Greyjoy offering advice from the sidelines. Her son moved well, but there was a tentativeness to his strikes that hadn't been there before. Jon's mocking words about him being weak, about following Theon like a hound, had clearly struck deep.
Sansa was in her chambers, no doubt practicing her needlework or reading songs. She had been quieter since Jon left, more withdrawn. She had heard the shouting from Ned's solar that day, had heard enough to know that Jon had said terrible things. It had frightened her.
Arya was somewhere in the castle, probably getting into mischief. She, at least, seemed less affected. If anything, she seemed angry—at Jon for leaving, at Ned for sending him away, at the whole situation. Arya had always been close to Jon, and his departure had hurt her.
Bran and Rickon were too young to fully understand what had happened. They knew only that Jon was gone, that he had done something bad, and that everyone was upset.
Catelyn turned from the window, her heart heavy. She should feel relief. Jon was gone. The shadow that had darkened her home for fourteen years had finally been lifted. She should feel—
A flash of white on her bed caught her eye.
She froze.
There, placed carefully on her pillow, was a folded piece of parchment. It hadn't been there when she left the room earlier. She was certain of it.
Catelyn's breath caught in her throat. Her chambers were supposed to be private, locked when she was not present. The guards stood at the end of the corridor, but they would have seen anyone entering her room.
Unless someone had wanted to be unseen.
With trembling hands, she crossed to the bed and picked up the letter. It was sealed with plain wax, no sigil or mark. But somehow she knew—she knew—who it was from.
She broke the seal with shaking fingers and unfolded the parchment.
The handwriting was neat, precise, oddly elegant for someone who had supposedly never cared much for book learning before this past year:
Lady Stark,
I trust you are well. By now you know what has transpired—my departure from Winterfell, my escape, the manhunt that has proven so fruitless. I imagine you have questions. I imagine you wonder if I meant to uphold my end of our bargain, or if I played you false.
I am writing to assure you that I meant every word I spoke in the godswood. Our agreement stands. You helped me leave Winterfell in the manner I required, and now I will give you the knowledge I promised.
But first, understand this: everything that happened in Lord Stark's solar was necessary. Every word I spoke, every insult I delivered, was carefully chosen. I needed to make myself an enemy of House Stark—publicly, dramatically, completely. I needed every lord in Westeros to know that Jon Snow has broken with the Starks, that he is no longer welcome in Winterfell, that he is a threat to your family.
Why? Because of what is to come.
You asked me what threatens your family, Lady Stark. Now I will tell you:
Next year—in the 298th year after Aegon's Conquest—your family will be given an opportunity to go south. The King will come to Winterfell, or a summons will arrive, or circumstances will conspire to draw House Stark into southern politics. When this happens, every fiber of your being will want to accept. Your husband will see it as his duty. You will see it as an opportunity for your children, especially your daughters.
Do not go.
If any member of your family travels south next year, House Stark will be destroyed. Not by me—I swear this on any gods you wish to name. But by forces and plots already in motion, by the games that southern lords play, by the machinations of those who see the Starks as obstacles or pawns.
Your husband will be offered a position of honor. It will seem like a gift. It will be a trap.
Your daughters will be promised marriages, alliances, glory. These promises will lead to chains.
Your sons will be put in danger they cannot imagine.
If you go south, King's Landing will become a cage. And by the time you realize it, it will be too late.
I cannot tell you more without revealing things that must remain hidden. I cannot explain how I know this, or what I have seen, or why events must unfold as they must. You will have to trust that I am telling you the truth, just as I trusted you to keep your word in the godswood.
Keep your family in the North. Whatever offer comes, decline it. Whatever duty calls, ignore it. Whatever consequences you fear, they are nothing compared to what will happen if you go south.
Stay in Winterfell. Keep your children close. Protect them from the snares that will be laid for them.
And know this: though I am now an enemy to House Stark in the eyes of the world, I am not your enemy. I am trying to save you, all of you, from a fate you cannot yet see.
When the time is right, when I have done what I must do, you will understand everything. But for now, you must simply trust.
Protect your family, Lady Stark. Keep them in the North. This is the knowledge I promised you. This is the warning that may save you all.
Burn this letter as soon as you have read it. Speak of it to no one. And remember: stay away from the south.
Jon Snow
Catelyn read the letter three times, her hands shaking so badly that the parchment rattled in her grip.
King's Landing. A trap. Destruction for House Stark.
It was absurd. It was impossible. King Robert was Ned's dearest friend. They had fought side by side in the rebellion, had been closer than brothers. Robert would never harm Ned or his family.
And yet...
And yet Catelyn remembered how Jon had known about Brandon, about her prayer, about private things no one should have known. She remembered the certainty in his voice, the ancient weariness in his eyes.
What if he was telling the truth?
What if there truly was danger waiting in the south, and Jon—mad, traitorous, escaped Jon Snow—was trying to warn her?
But how could she possibly convince Ned not to answer a summons from the King? How could she refuse an offer of honor without explanation? She couldn't tell him about her deal with Jon. He would never forgive her.
And what if she was wrong? What if Jon was simply insane, and she was letting herself be manipulated by a boy's delusions? What if she kept her family from opportunities they deserved because she believed the ravings of a bastard who had threatened them all?
Catelyn sank onto the bed, the letter clutched in her hands, and felt tears streaming down her face.
She was trapped—caught between fear and duty, between doubt and desperate hope. She had bargained with Jon Snow for her family's safety, and now she had the answer she sought.
But gods help her, she didn't know if she could believe it. Didn't know if she should believe it.
And the worst part was that she was alone with this knowledge. She couldn't share it. Couldn't ask for counsel. She had made her choice in the godswood, and now she had to live with the consequences.
Outside, she could hear the normal sounds of Winterfell—guards calling out, servants going about their duties, children playing. Life continued, oblivious to the letter in her hands, to the warning it contained, to the impossible choice now laid before her.
Catelyn looked down at the parchment, at Jon's neat handwriting, at the words that promised salvation or damnation depending on whether they were truth or lies.
Burn this letter as soon as you have read it.
She should. She should burn it and forget it and dismiss Jon as the mad boy everyone believed him to be. She should trust in Ned's honor, in Robert's friendship, in the order of things as she understood them.
But instead, she found herself folding the letter carefully, tucking it into the pocket of her dress, hiding it against her heart where no one would think to look.
Because deep down, beneath all her doubt and fear and confusion, there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty:
She would do anything—anything—to protect her children.
Even if it meant trusting the bastard she had hated for fourteen years.
Even if it meant defying her husband and her king.
Even if it meant believing in the impossible.
The letter felt like it was burning against her skin, a brand of secret knowledge and terrible responsibility. And Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell, sat alone in her chamber and wondered what in seven hells she was going to do.
Outside, spring was coming to the North. But in her heart, she felt the chill of winter beginning to blow.