Catelyn Stark sat alone in her father's solar, though it had not felt like her father's solar in some time. The stone walls, so familiar in her youth, seemed cold now. Foreign. The air smelled faintly of damp wool and old ash. Outside, the Red Fork gurgled over stone and root, but its music brought her no peace.
A fire crackled in the hearth. She sat close to it, her son nestled in her arms, wrapped in swaddling furs embroidered with trout and direwolf. Robb. Her son. Her sweet, blue-eyed boy.
She looked down at him. He had his father's mouth, she thought. The shape of it, not the sternness. There was softness in Robb still. He was so small. So helpless.
And he would inherit ruins.
Catelyn's jaw tightened. She pressed a kiss to her son's head and closed her eyes as if she might lock out the words that still rang in her ears.
"Alaric is Brandon's son."
Ned had said it with that quiet finality that brooked no argument, no comfort. A truth clad in iron.
She had wanted to rage. To scream. But she had stood there like a maid too long in a winter wind, frozen to her bones. Alaric. The boy she had seen only in passing, who stood in silence behind the northern lords, eyes always watching. She remembered his face now. Stark, yes. But not like Ned. There was something older in his features. Something colder.
And worse, there had been the bastard. Jon Snow. A child Ned had never even tried to deny.
Two boys. One, the secret heir to Winterfell and the entire north. The other a bastard, born from a woman whom Ned refuses to name. And her Robb, the trueborn son of Eddard Stark, was to grow in their shadows.
She rose, careful not to wake the babe, and walked to the window. Moonlight silvered the waters below. From here, she could see the outer walls of Riverrun and the glow of torches bobbing along the battlements. Soldiers. Watchmen. Lords from the North, the Riverlands, and their retinue's
They whispered, all of them. She could feel their eyes on her as she passed through the halls. Lady Stark, they called her. But their eyes asked questions. She had heard them, half-muttered.
"The boy has auburn hair. Tully hair."
"Not a Stark's look to him."
"Not like the bastard. Or the little Lord of the North."
"The little Lord of the North," she scoffed
She had heard them laugh, too. Behind doors, in the shadowed corners of the hall. That great oaf Umber had all but spat on her pride in the courtyard.
"Heir to nothing now," he'd bellowed.
Catelyn pressed her lips into a hard line. Her hand tightened around Robb. How dare they?
How dare Ned?
It had been a marriage of duty, yes. She had accepted that. She had been prepared to give herself to a stranger, prepared to be a northern lady, to learn the ways of the cold and dark and maybe even the gods of snow, trees, and whatever else they claimed. But she had not been prepared to be lied to so thoroughly.
Alaric had not been mentioned in her wedding vows. Nor had the bastard. Yet both were here now, walking through her life like wolves let loose in a garden.
She turned from the window.
There was a knock at the door. Her maid, Merra, entered without waiting.
"My lady," she said, eyes low. "Lord Hoster requests your presence. In his chambers. He is... unwell tonight."
Catelyn nodded, her thoughts breaking like ice on a river. She turned to the crib and laid Robb down gently, pulling the blankets high.
"Stay with him," she told Merra. "Don't let him wake alone."
The halls of Riverrun were lit with flickering torchlight, but still felt too dim. Cold wind crept through the stone. She passed guards who bowed low, and handmaids who curtsied and hurried on, eyes averted. The lords were in the Great Hall still, drinking and boasting over old glories. She could hear them as she passed, voices raised in song or slurred challenges.
Her father's chambers were quiet. Too quiet.
She stepped inside to find him sitting by the fire, wrapped in furs, a blanket across his knees. His face was pale, that proud frame of his cloaked by illness. The man who seemed larger than even the ramparts of their home, now reduced down due to the advent of a sudden illness, something she hoped was just a one-off occurrence.
It hadn't been long since he had arrived back to their home, and yet, her father, Lord Hoster Tully, had contracted some illness of sorts while on the road
"Come closer, child," Hoster Tully rasped. "Let me look at you."
She knelt beside him.
"You look tired," he said, his cold yet comforting hand resting on her cheek.
"I am," she admitted.
He studied her as if trying to see past the wear of war and marriage.
"You carry a heavy weight, daughter."
"Aye," she said. "A husband who lies, a boy who sits the seat of Winterfell instead of my own husband, and a son who must live with the consequences."
Hoster coughed, a dry sound like wind through dead leaves. "My grandson, Robb. He is well?" Hoster asked, genuinely curious about his first grandchild's wellbeing
"He is strong," she replied in a small voice
"Good. He will need to be," replied Hoster with a serious look on his face
Catelyn looked into the fire. It snapped and spat embers, a mirror of her own mind.
"Why didn't he tell me?" she asked, voice low. "Why hide Brandon's son from me? Why claim a bastard and not his own kin?"
Her father did not answer at once. When he did, it was not with reassurance.
"Because Ned is not Brandon."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he carries more than one sword on his back. Your lord husband is an honorable man, but honor can be a blade that cuts both ways."
Catelyn rose, pacing the room. "I would have accepted the boy had he told me. Brandon's blood is not so far removed from mine. By the Seven, Brandon and I were meant to be wed before Eddard and I even met! But to have it sprung on me like this? To have my son cast aside for a boy I do not know?"
Hoster regarded her with wise yet comforting eyes. "And yet, Robb is still his son. You are his lady. Your son will have lands, titles. Perhaps not Winterfell, but enough."
"Ruins," she spat. "Moat Cailin is nothing but moss and stone."
"Even moss can bloom, given time."
She turned to him, anger sparking in her chest. "Would you be so calm if it were Edmure? If some hidden son of yours came crawling from the woodwork to take his place?"
"Perhaps not," Hoster said. "But I would still remember the boy I raised. Not the one the gods cast in my path."
Catelyn's fists clenched. She wanted to scream. To cry. To curse the gods for the path they had carved.
But she did none of those things. Instead, she turned and left her father's chambers, her steps sharp and swift.
Passing by her younger brother, who was coming to their father's quarters, she heard him call out to her, and yet, she couldn't bring herself to pay him any heed at the moment.
The corridors blurred. She passed by tapestries, suits of armor, the painted shield bearing the silver trout of House Tully. She ignored it all.
She ended up in the godswood.
It was smaller than the one in Winterfell, but still sacred. A heart tree grew in the center, pale and weeping, its face carved in ancient sorrow.
Catelyn knelt beneath it.
"Old gods," she whispered. "You are not my gods. But you are his. My husband's. My son's."
She folded her hands and lowered her head.
"If there is justice in this world, let it find me. Let it find my son."
A breeze stirred the leaves, a soft rustling like whispered promises.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
She turned.
Alaric stood there. The boy. The heir.
He did not speak. His eyes met hers, a piercing light gray, the kind that bore into one's soul, searching for anything it may find.
"You should not be here," she said.
"Neither should you," he replied. "Yet here we are."
She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her gown.
"What do you want, Alaric?"
He hesitated, not out of some childlike fear, but the kind she saw from men who didn't know what to say next. "To understand."
"Understand what?"
"Why do you hate me?" he asked, a chilling sense of understanding behind his eyes.
The words struck her like cold water, the severity in the boy's tone, almost as if he was testing her, wishing to hear what she truly thought of him.
"I do not hate you," she said.
"You do," he said. "You think I stole something."
She stared at him. "You were born with a claim that was not yours to take."
"I did not take it," he said. "I never asked for it. But it is mine all the same."
His voice held no anger, only truth, and a slight hint of… intrigue?
"And Jon?" she asked. "Will he have a place too?"
Alaric nodded. "He is my cousin. He deserves better than whispers and shame."
Catelyn sighed. The world was changing. And she, it seemed, was the only one who wished it would not.
"Go to bed, Alaric. Tomorrow will come too soon."
He lingered only a moment. "You may keep different gods from me and mine, but while you are here, I hope you find whatever it is you are searching for," the boy said cryptically before nodding toward Catelyn and walking back toward the keep
Catelyn turned back to the heart tree. The wind had stilled. The gods, her gods, it seemed, held no answers.
Only questions.
She stayed there until the stars began to fade, and the sky turned from black to grey. Then she rose, and walked back through the halls of Riverrun with a heart heavy with the knowledge that the world she knew was gone.
And a new one was already taking shape.
[The Next Day]
The next morning came with a pale sky and a hard frost upon the fields. The chill bit deep as she stood atop the battlements, looking out over the courtyard below. Soldiers moved about like ants, packing gear, checking saddles, trading rumors. The northern banners stirred gently in the breeze, the direwolf of House Stark, gray against a field of white.
They would ride soon.
Catelyn did not yet know where, but she knew the Northmen would not linger long. There was a restlessness among them as if every man feared what being down south for too long might bring.
Behind her, footsteps approached.
It was Edmure.
Her brother looked much the same as ever, his small, childish form showing the beginnings of filling out into the man he would become. But there was unease behind his easy smile.
"Sister, you're up early today!" he exclaimed as he came in to hug Catelyn, who reciprocated before pulling away and pinching his cheek.
"Sleep does not come easily." she remarked with a soft smile, hoping to end this conversation as to not worry her sweet little brother any more.
He nodded and joined her at the wall. Together, they watched a group of riders trot through the gates, their cloaks trailing behind them.
"Tytos Blackwood leaves today," he said. "Took his men at dawn."
"He said no goodbyes, although, I suppose that was because he was unable to receive an audience with Father due to his illness."
"He left a raven. He gave his thanks for Riverrun's hospitality, a prayer for father's health, and a note about 'ravens returning to their roots.' whatever that means." Edmure said confused about the last bit
Catelyn arched a brow.
"Cryptic old buzzard," Edmure muttered. "You'd think he was some hedge wizard."
She gave a ghost of a smile at her younger brother's words.
"The lords talk," he went on. "About Alaric Stark, About Robb." he sailed, trailing off
"Let them talk."
"They whisper about succession. Inheritance. Allegiances. There's a game being played, Cat, and we are not holding the pieces," he replied, a sense of wisdom that betrayed his youthful form
Catelyn turned to him. "Then we must learn how to play."
He blinked, surprised.
"Robb must be protected."
"Aye. But from what?" he asked
She looked back toward the horizon. "I don't know yet, but mark my words, little brother, my son shall be given a station that suits him, as the son of the 'Quiet wolf, ' but especially due to his blood holding the legacy of both House Stark and House Tully.
For the first time in days, she felt something stir in her, a fire that had nothing to do with grief or fear.
She was not only a mother, not only a wife. She was the daughter of Hoster Tully, Lady of Riverrun. And she would not see her son cast aside. If it's the last thing she does, Catelyn would ensure that her sweet little wolf was set up for a good and fulfilling life.
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Author's Note
Due to the long time between chapters, I decided to drop two today!
Next chapter, we will have a time skip to just before the Greyjoy Rebellion, so I hope you guys enjoy as we finally get full swing into the story!