Catelyn II

[Winterfell, 3rd moon, 291AC]

The morning air in Winterfell bit like a clean knife, sharp, bracing, but not cruel. Catelyn Stark stood atop the steps overlooking the courtyard, her fingers wrapped tightly in the folds of her cloak. Her breath misted before her, and she took quiet satisfaction in the bustling activity below.

Men labored to prepare the guest quarters, servants rushed across the yard, and maester Luwin, ever flustered, hurried past with a list clutched in one gloved hand. The High Hill Starks and the White Harbor kin were expected before midday. Due to Alaric still technically being a child and unmarried at that, Catelyn was currently assuming the role of Lady of Winterfell, for the time being, that is, until Alaric marries, he allowed her to guide and organize the household, something she was grateful for.

Catelyn had insisted that the guest quarters be properly arranged, separate wings for each household, with enough warmth and dignity to reflect their status and the bond they shared as kin, however distant.

They were family. Of a sort.

Her handmaid, Mella, stood at her elbow, ready with names and details. "Lady Alarra prefers lemonwater over tea. She's written thrice about her children's sensitivities to the cold—"

"They'll find no shortage of furs here," Catelyn said dryly, "but bring in more braziers for their rooms all the same. Especially for the younger ones."

Mella dipped her head and retreated, leaving Catelyn to watch the castle awaken fully. She turned her attention toward the small group of children learning their letters in the godswood with Septa Mordane. Sansa was among them, her bright auburn hair unmistakable. Arya, of course, was nowhere in sight.

Although she held no true authority in Winterfell, Alaric allowed her to call for a septa to educate her daughters, however, he shot down her request for a small sept with no hesitation.

'If it wasn't for the boys… curiosity about the Seven, there's no doubt a septa would've never stepped foot in these halls.' Catelyn mentally sighed.

Another day of snow-covered boots in the great hall, no doubt.

She descended the steps, walking briskly through the yard. Winterfell had always struck her as a stern place, not unkind, but watchful. As though the stones themselves remembered things she could not begin to guess at. When she first came here as a young bride, she'd felt swallowed by it. Now, close to a decade and four children later, she could navigate its halls blindfolded and still find the heart of it.

Yet some corners still pricked her with discomfort.

She passed beneath the covered walkway beside the armory, heading toward the kitchens to ensure the bread ovens were being well-tended. She had ordered honeyed cakes for the children and salted fish pies for the adults, dishes warm and familiar, with a few southern touches to offer a hospitable hand from her own heritage.

Midway to the kitchens, she caught sight of a figure in the corner of her vision. A boy leaned against the wall of the smithy, sleeves rolled to the elbow, smoke curling around his shoulders as he watched the forge's fire blaze.

Jon Snow.

He was taller than Robb now, leaner too, though not yet full-grown. A shadow of dark curls framed his solemn face, and he was speaking in low tones to Mikken, who seemed to nod with some approval.

Catelyn halted. Her body tensed before her mind had caught up.

He should not look so at ease here. So comfortable in this place that is not his by any right.

The old anger welled, unbidden and unwanted. It always came when she saw him, those Stark features twisted with the memory of her husband's only betrayal. The boy was a walking insult, a quiet reminder that honor was a cloak even Ned Stark had not always worn cleanly.

But then... her gaze lingered.

Jon laughed at something Mikken said, a real laugh, brief, self-conscious, like he was embarrassed to have found joy in a joke. It was the laugh of a boy his age, nothing more.

He did not ask to be born.

The thought came unbidden and caught her off guard. She swallowed and pressed her hand to her chest beneath her cloak. The weight of her pendant, seven-pointed star and all, seemed heavy today.

He did not seduce my husband. He did not make vows. He is only a boy. My children's brother, by blood or no.

It was not a moment of forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something. She turned away, her footsteps slower now as she resumed her path toward the kitchens.

Later, as the sun climbed its way toward the meridian, the courtyard was cleared and the gates thrown wide. The banners of the Stark cadet branches could be seen from atop the battlements, a gold Direwolf running on a field of turquoise, and the dark gray Direwolf running on a field of gray of High Hill, the color of High Hill's sigil being derived from House Cerwyn, the house of Lord Artos' mother, Alys Cerwyn. 

Horns blew a low, rolling welcome.

Catelyn stood with the household arrayed beside her. Robb held his head high beside Rickard and Jon Snow, already the image of a young lord. Sansa, Lyarra, and Arya stood to one side, Arya fidgeting with a thread on her glove, Sansa and Lyarra the picture of proper grace. Bran waited with Septa Mordane behind them, though the septa's nose was already red with cold.

Lord Alaric stood to Catelyn's other side, tall, silent, and still save for the occasional glance across the gate as he awaited his cousins. He said little, but she had come to understand that he rarely did. His presence was enough. People stilled when he entered a room, and Catelyn could not decide if that was because of his reputation, his height, or the calm violence he carried like a sheathed sword.

The procession crossed beneath the archway.

At their head rode Lord Artos Stark of High Hill, broad-shouldered, grim of mouth and gray of eye. His beard was streaked with iron, and his heavy black cloak billowed behind him like a thundercloud. Beside him rode Lady Alarra Stark, whose warmth was unmistakable even from a distance. Her smile reached her eyes, and she dismounted before the horses had fully stopped.

Behind them rode their children on ponies despite bringing a wheelhouse, Osric, tall and solemn; Branda and Berena, the spirited twin girls who looked identical save for a scar along Branda's temple; and young Edwyn, the boy of 3, sat on the strider with his father.

Ser Harald, Lord Artos' younger brother, rode to the side, his two bastard sons Edric and Elric Snow riding ponies of their own, the twin boys of 8 laughing and prodding one another.

Following them came the White Harbor kin, Ser Benjicot Stark, courtly and trim despite the ride; his wife Sarra, still graceful in middle age; and their three children: Cregard, with the sea's salt in his veins; Harlon, all smiles and charm; and Alysanne, who clung shyly to her mother's skirts.

"Lady Catelyn," Lady Alarra greeted warmly, taking her hands as though they were old friends, not distant kin. "You have Winterfell looking so fine, I might weep."

"You are most welcome," Catelyn said with honest warmth. "All of you. Come, the great hall is readied, and your rooms are warm."

Alaric caught Lord Artos's eye. He bowed stiffly and offered a single, respectful nod.

"A long road," he said. "But necessary."

He said nothing else, but Catelyn inclined her head. We are all here for Alaric, in the end. And the boy has not disappointed them yet.

The courtyard bloomed with motion. Stableboys hurried to take horses. Squires from White Harbor unloaded chests. Robb stepped forward to greet Osric, clasping arms like young men already trained in the ways of command. Arya immediately made for Branda and Berena, and within moments, the three girls were laughing over something to do with snowballs and targets.

Catelyn smiled. There was something gratifying about seeing the children bond.

A servant approached to whisper in her ear: the fires were lit, the mulled wine was flowing, and the feast would be ready within the hour. She nodded her approval and turned to see young Edwyn Stark being scolded by his older brother for trying to climb the outer stair. Catelyn moved swiftly, intercepting him with a gentle hand.

"Would you like to see the weirwood tree?" she asked softly, bending to his level. "It's very old, and there are ravens in the branches."

The boy blinked. "Will it bite?"

"No," she said with a quiet chuckle. "But you must be very quiet. It's always watching."

He took her hand, and they began to walk.

Behind her, Catelyn heard Harlon Stark charming Sansa with a southern turn of phrase and saw Lord Benjicot inspecting the stonework of the keep with a merchant's eye. She watched her family, these Starks of different branches, born of snow, sea, and stone, fill Winterfell with new voices.

She did not know if the future would hold peace or conflict, but in that moment, with the sun shining on new snow and the courtyard full of kin, she allowed herself to hope.

Even Jon Snow had found a corner of the hall where he laughed with Edric and Elric over sword techniques. Alaric stood with Lord Artos now, two heads bent close in private counsel. Catelyn did not interrupt.

There would be time, she thought. Time to heal old wounds. Time to build something stronger.

Time, even, to look at a boy not of her blood and not feel bitterness first.

As the bells rang out across the godswood and the feast began to stir in the kitchens, Catelyn Stark turned toward the hall and let herself believe that Winterfell, for all its storms, might just be a place for healing after all.

[Later that Night, the Great Hall]

The gathered kin of House Stark filed into Winterfell's Great Hall, a warm roar of laughter and clinking goblets greeting them as they crossed beneath the iron chandeliers. The braziers glowed bright with flame, and the scent of roast venison, honeyed root vegetables, and freshly baked bread filled the high-ceilinged chamber. Shadows danced along the ancient stone walls, but there was no menace in them tonight, only the reflection of fire and merriment.

Catelyn Stark walked at the head of the procession with Lady Alarra on her arm, guiding the Lady of High Hill through the hall, discussing matters from her time in White Harbor.

"I must say," Alarra murmured, eyes bright as she took in the long wooden tables dressed in furs and pine boughs, "this is far warmer than I remember from our last visit. Not just the hall, the people. The laughter, the smiles. It reminds me of the Sept of the Snows during the Maiden's Festival."

Catelyn blinked, surprised. "The Snowy Sept? In White Harbor?"

Alarra nodded, her golden-brown hair catching the firelight. "Aye. I visited often as a girl. The septons were strict but kind. I know my house keeps to the old gods, but my mother was from House Royce, and she believed the Seven offered light where the woods did not. I learned much sitting beneath the Maiden's statue."

Catelyn regarded her with new appreciation. "You speak as one raised in faith. Yet you kept your family's gods."

"I chose to honor both," Alarra said simply. "My husband prefers the stillness of the godswood, and I do not deny him that peace. But when my children were sick with the spring fevers three years past, I prayed to the Mother with every breath. I believe she heard me."

Catelyn felt something thaw within her chest. She found herself smiling, not politely, but truly. "I have often struggled with the silence of the godswood. It comforts my husband, but I miss the songs and litanies. Still, I find there is strength in quiet worship too."

They reached the high table, and Catelyn gestured for Alarra to sit beside her. The men were already gathering on the lord's bench: Ned, Benjen, Alaric, Lord Artos, Ser Benjicot, and Ser Torrhen sat elbow-to-elbow, drinking and speaking low over tankards. Their laughter, particularly Benjen's, carried across the hall.

Down the central rows of tables, the children and younger kin had already begun to chatter amongst themselves.

Near the hearth, Dacey Mormont had found an unlikely companion in Sarra Stark of White Harbor, the wife of Ser Benjicot, and the sister of Lord Artos, and the two women sat side by side with their plates in hand.

(For any confusion, I posted a pic of the Stark Family tree in the Auxiliary chapter. If you are on the phone, just read the description of Lord Artos or Ser Benjicot, and it will make more sense)

"You rode down a buck with a spear?" Sarra asked, wide-eyed.

Dacey grinned wolfishly. "Speared it straight through the ribs. He kicked so hard I nearly lost the shaft, but he dropped like a stone."

Sarra laughed, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. "I envy you Mormont girls. I used to sneak out to practice archery with Harald and Edric, but my mother caught us and set me to penance for a week. My Brother Edric used to say I should've been born a man."

'Edric Stark… ah, one of Brandon's companions, gods rest their souls.' Catelyn thought as she overheard their conversation.

"Then you'd have a beard and a sour mood," Dacey quipped. "Stick with your bow, Lady Sarra. If we have sport tomorrow, you and I ought to see who shoots better."

"It's a wager," Sarra said, holding out her hand.

Across the table, Arya was whispering something mischievous to Branda and Berena, who burst out laughing. Edric and Elric Snow had joined Bran, Edwyn, Robb, and Rickard, busy making a fort out of bread rolls and pickled vegetables. Even Jon Snow was smiling as he shared practice tales with Osric and Harlon, their mutual love of swordplay bridging their age gap.

At the high table, Catelyn watched the men converse between bites of roast boar and tankards of mead.

"…and the timber we're shipping down the White Knife should arrive before the second frost," Ser Benjicot was saying. "My kin Lord Manderly writes that the canal works are ahead of schedule, though the peat bogs keep swallowing the carts."

"Tell him to send better carts," Artos Stark grumbled. "You'd think the Manderlys never saw a swamp before."

"We're reinforcing the riverbanks near Torrhen's Square, too," Ned added. "A few hard rains and they'll flood right over the levee."

"Winterfell's quarry has supplied enough stone to rebuild three bridges already," Alaric said in his calm, deliberate tone. "I want them done before the cold sets in. The iron from Sea Dragon Point will be needed for nails, hinges, bindings…"

"I'll send what men I can spare from High Hill," Lord Artos offered.

It was a long time before the food slowed and the wine began to wear down even the most boisterous of children. Sansa had fallen asleep beside Lyarra Stark, her head nestled on the girl's shoulder. Arya, Branda, and Berena were still wide-eyed, whispering to Alysanne about a prank they had planned for the next morning. Bran was attempting to stack pickled onions on Edwyn's head, who giggled and didn't seem to mind.

Lady Alarra rose first and went to collect young Edwyn from beneath a fur cloak. Sarra followed soon after, ushering Alysanne with a gentle pat on the back.

As the great hall began to thin, Catelyn lingered by the fire with her goblet. She watched Alaric as he stood with Lord Artos, their conversation quiet and close. The boy, no, the young lord, carried himself like a man twice his years. Even Tywin Lannister had acknowledged him at Pyke, according to the men who returned with them. There was something ancient in him, not just a Stark's demeanor but something deeper, older, like the roots of the Heart Tree.

Ned approached her quietly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"They look like they've always belonged here," he said.

"They have," Catelyn replied, resting her hand over his. "It just took some time."

Ned studied the scene a moment longer. "I'm glad you're here, Cat. That they can see you like this. As a Stark."

She smiled. "I never thought I'd feel that title truly. But tonight… yes. I do."

Later that night, as the castle settled into silence and the cold crept back beneath the stones, Catelyn walked alone through the godswood. Snow muffled her steps, and the weirwood tree loomed white and solemn beneath the moonlight.

She stood beneath its red leaves, listening to the hush. Somewhere behind her, an owl hooted once, and then all was still.

"My lady?"

The voice startled her. She turned to see Alaric standing nearby, arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said. "I come here sometimes. When it's quiet."

"So do I," Catelyn said softly. "Though I rarely speak of it."

Alaric stepped beside her, both of them facing the carved face of the old gods.

"My mother, despite being an Umber, was curious about the Seven, I'm told," he said. "But she married my father beneath this tree. I sometimes wonder which gods heard her vows."

Catelyn looked up at the weirwood. "Perhaps all of them. Or perhaps none. What matters is whether we honor them."

Alaric's gaze flicked to her. "You honored them today. You made our kin feel welcome. Even those who might not have known if they'd be received."

Catelyn inclined her head, touched. "We are stronger when we remember we are not alone."

He nodded once, and the silence between them became companionable.

After a long pause, Alaric spoke again. "Although a sept shall never be erected in Wintertown as long as I live, I shan't forbid their worship if my cousins so choose; however, if I ever hear of any coercion by that septa, she will know what it means when we say, Winter is coming."

Although she cringed for but a moment at the boys tone, she knew that this was his way of saying he is willing to accept her and her gods, so long as they dont bring any detriment to the north.

While not quite what she would like, Catelyn knew that she had finally been welcomed into the family by Alaric.

And for the first time since her wedding day, Catelyn Tully Stark felt not just accepted in the North… but at home.