Archive of Our Own ^beta

i. Wedding

Ned stood at the entrance to the sept, uncomfortable in his stiff new clothes, uncomfortable with the whole situation. This was never supposed to be him. Brandon was the warrior, the one who fought the other boys with stick-swords while Ned sat reading, the one who dragged his younger brothers into adventures. Brandon was the one who should be dressed in his finest to wed the daughter of Hoster Tully. Not Ned, the quiet one, the one who went unnoticed.

But Brandon had gone south and never returned, and now Ned must be warrior and husband both. Once the wedding festivities were dispensed with, he would ride south to battle, to join Robert's efforts to rescue Lyanna and depose the mad king. He had no interest in war, no love of fighting, but with so much at stake, he must make the effort. The cause was true and just; surely the gods, both old and new, would take their side. He could only hope that it would all be over soon, and that the ones he loved would live through it.

Jon Arryn stood next to him, also waiting for his bride. Ned wondered what he was thinking. They were both in a situation they had never asked for: Ned marrying in his brother’s place, Lord Arryn marrying to secure the support of Riverrun for Robert’s protection, and for his. Would Jon regret this later, this marriage of necessity and duty?

Ned hoped not. The man who had been like a father to him, raising him as well as his own father to love honour rather than glory, would now also be his brother. He was, like Father, like Brandon, all that one could want in a lord: noble, self-controlled, strict but merciful. How could his new wife not love him?

And how would Catelyn Tully, daughter of a land of warmth and light, feel about Ned? Brandon had been everything that he was not – outgoing, well-spoken, brave, handsome. How did she feel about having to settle for the poor substitute he must be?

He heard voices, and turned to see the women and their escort approaching. He was vaguely aware of Lysa Tully, stepping up to take Jon Arryn’s hand, but she was a poor copy next to the woman who stood before him. All he could see was Catelyn.

She wore a gown of Tully blue, the fabric somehow woven so that hints of red rippled through it when she moved. Her maiden cloak fell behind her; her auburn hair, unbound, flowed down it like a river. Her eyes, blue as her dress, shone as she looked at him. She was warmth, and fire, and movement. She was beautiful. And she was his.

In a brief moment, he saw her at Winterfell, her light warming the grey cold of the keep. He imagined their children, red-headed and laughing. He even hoped that one day, she might come to love him, despite the circumstances that had brought them together.

He straightened his shoulders, reached out, and took her hand in his. He would do his duty, for Father and Brandon, for Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn, and for Catelyn Tully, who looked so beautiful in blue.

*

Catelyn Tully lay awake, listening to the sounds of her husband’s slow, even breathing as he slept. Catelyn Tully no longer, she reminded herself; now she was Catelyn Stark, wedded and bedded.

Things had not been quite as she had imagined them when she was younger, whispering and giggling with Lysa as they made their future plans. In their youthful minds, their husbands had been tall and broad-shouldered, winners of tourneys and battles, brave and fierce and full of passion. Eddard was none of those things, not really; he was quiet, and reserved, and cold. And as for Jon Arryn... He was a good man, she knew, but there was no chance that Lysa, quick-tempered, mercurial, hot-blooded Lysa, would love him.

Still, their bedding had been exciting enough even for Lysa: a crowd of bawdy, shouting men had been only too willing to strip them and see what they had to offer. Lysa had blushed and tried to cover herself with her hands, but Catelyn had refused to give in to shame, standing tall and proud as befit a daughter of Riverrun. This had earned her cheers from the crowd, and shouts that she might be fiery enough to melt even Ned Stark’s frozen cock.

She was not so sure about that. Once they had been bundled into bed, he had done his duty by her, but at first it had only been duty. He had been gentle, considerate, even a little shy, but she had been unable to detect even a spark of passion until, at the end, he had cried her name.

Was this what life held for her now? A marriage of duty and politics, cold and devoid of passion or love? Would she have loved Brandon, and he her, had he lived to take her hand in marriage?

And would she even get the chance to love Eddard? Soon he would leave for war, and there was no way of knowing what his fate would be. Brandon had left and never returned to her; would Eddard be the same?

She could feel his seed inside her still, and hoped that she would quicken. A child would be something of him for her, if he were lost. A child would fulfil her purpose as his wife. And perhaps a child would bring them to love each other, even if time and circumstance could not.

Whatever the case, she would have to deal with things as best she could. She was a Tully; she must honour her family, and do her duty. But still she worried, and she hoped.

ii. Battles

Ned had to get away. There were men everywhere, drunken shouts mingling with screams of pain, the sound grating on his raw nerves. He knew he should be doing something – checking his wounded men, planning the morrow’s troop movements, hells, maybe even getting blind drunk – but he couldn’t stand it any more. He needed to be alone.

He left his tent, brushing past the guards at the entrance with a muttered explanation that not even he understood, and made for the nearby woods. The sentry at the edge of the treeline seemed concerned, but Ned quelled his words with a gesture and a glare. He was fairly confident that they had wiped out any possible enemies in the area, and if it turned out he was wrong, right now he didn’t give a damn.

He made his way deeper into the woods, the sounds of his men receding behind him. Finally, his breath caught in his chest, and he could go no further.

There were no godswoods in this southern land, no heart trees – they had all been destroyed long ago. No place for his gods, and no place for him. He sank to his knees before the largest tree he had seen thus far, and pressed his forehead to its rough bark. He breathed deeply, trying to force the warm, clean air past the constriction in his throat, smelling the familiar scents of wood and loam.

He had not thought it would be like this.

The songs spoke of the glory of battle, of the courage of the warrior. In their words, the flow of blood cleansed the land, and death was noble and pure. He had known that the truth would be different; he had done his training, felt the pain of strokes that had gotten past his guard. He had seen men die, of age, of disease, had even seen the bright blood of execution. And nothing had prepared him for today.

He could still hear the sounds of the melee, the clash of steel and war cries giving way to agonised screams and pleas for mercy. The first man he had killed had seemed shocked as blood blossomed on his chest where Ned’s sword had pierced him, and began to pour from his mouth. The second had begged for mercy, his breeches turning from grey to brown as he soiled himself in his terror. The third... Ned couldn’t remember. The faces, the deaths of the men he had killed had begun to blur together in his head, an endless parade of ghouls as he fought, not for some lofty ideal of freedom or justice, not to protect those he loved, but just to live to see another day.

He swallowed harshly, tasting bile mixed with the scent of blood and shit and steel. There was no going back now. Tomorrow would bring another dawn, another battle, another day for which he was woefully ill-equipped. Brandon would have–

He cut off the thought with a harsh, mirthless laugh. Brandon was why he was here, after all, him and Father and Lyanna and Robert. Brandon was dead, and, at least for the moment, Ned still lived.

His eyes blurred then, and he let the tears fall. He had been dry-eyed when the news came from King’s Landing and in the long days since, but now, finally, he wept, for Father and Brandon, for Lyanna, and for himself.

*

Catelyn gritted her teeth as another contraction enveloped her, a sharp knife stabbing at her abdomen. They were closer together now, and the maester nodded approvingly. “All is well, child. It will soon be time.”

The room was hot and stuffy, redolent of wood smoke and incense and too many bodies, and Catelyn could feel the sweat pouring down her face. There were maids at the ready with soft cloths and pans of boiling water, the maester, and of course the septa, who kept an eye on the progress of the delivery in between mouthing empty platitudes and asking the Mother’s blessing. Catelyn was sick to death of hearing that birthing pains were the Mother’s gift, and was sorely tempted to bid her leave and take her pungent incense with her.

Another contraction. Catelyn clenched her fists in the bedclothes and waited for the pain to subside. She would not cry out. Eddard was in the south fighting a war, but her war was here, and she would face it with courage. She may be a woman, but she could be as brave as any man.

Another contraction, then another, a continuous wave of pain that wrung from her a strangled gasp. Her eyes sought out the maester’s, seeking reassurance.

“It’s time,” crowed the septa. “Now push, girl, push for all you’re worth!”

Catelyn didn’t bother to see if the maester was annoyed at this usurpation of his prerogative. She pushed, feeling herself stretching in ways she’d never imagined. Something broke, and the pain seemed almost unbearable. Then a cry went up: “The head!” The maester moved to assist, and Catelyn gave herself up to the effort of finally bringing her baby into the world.

Some time later – minutes, hours, she wasn’t sure; all her thoughts had long since faded in the face of that weary, interminable push - she heard the mewling cry of a newborn babe, rudely thrust into the bright coldness of the world. “A boy, child. A beautiful boy.” The maester sounded as proud as if he had produced the babe himself.

A boy! Catelyn wanted to demand to see him, but exhaustion had settled over her like a great and terrible cloud. She lay still as she was cleaned up, all evidence of the birth removed. Only when a maid was mopping her sweaty face with a cool, damp cloth did the maester bring the baby forward and place him in her arms.

He was tiny and red and wrinkled, wrapped in the cloth that Catelyn had spent hours embroidering with the Stark direwolf and the leaping trout of Tully. He had no hair, but his eyes as they gazed up at her, unfocused, were as blue as her own.

A boy. Her son. She had done her duty by Eddard Stark, done it as well as he could possibly ask. A son to hold his lands and title. A son they would raise together to be strong and brave, and noble and wise.

Tears blurred her vision: tears of joy for her son, tears of loss for her husband. He could die away at war; he barely knew her, and he may never know his son. For a moment, she let them fall. Then, she raised her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She had to hope that Eddard would return to her; she would just have to be brave a while longer.

iii. Homecoming

Winterfell. Nothing had ever looked as good to Ned as the walls of his own keep, his home. And right now, in his heartsick state, nothing seemed better to him than to have the rest of the world outside those walls, as far away from him as possible.

In some ways, nothing had changed, despite the fact that he had been away a year or more. Everything was familiar, the feel of the chipped flagstones under his boots, the cold halls of grey stone, the smell of the trees in the godswood.

That had been the first place he had gone on their return, before even entering the castle. He had spent hours there, seeking his gods, whether for forgiveness or condemnation he still knew not. Even so, he was still disquieted. He started at shadows, and often woke from sleep with a cry on his lips. On returning home, he had brought his ghosts with him.

And things had changed, though they remained the same. Winterfell seemed smaller, darker. It was strange to him to hear the men call him ‘lord’, to take his place in the centre at the high table, to sleep in the lord’s chambers. In every stone, in every beam, in every book and tapestry and table and chair was a memory of someone who was now lost to him. Father, Brandon, Lyanna...

He must speak to the stone mason, he thought. She must be remembered. She would stand alongside the others in the darkness of the crypt, and he would continue alone.

Not entirely alone: there was still Benjen, after all, but his brother’s light spirits and easy laughter were no consolation to him. Ned envied Benjen, who had lost a father, a brother, a sister, but had not lost himself.

He had handed the child and his wet-nurse over to Poole on their arrival, and had no doubt that they were being well cared for. He could not, however, bring himself to lay eyes on the boy, the symbol of things he would rather forget. Not yet, while the pain was still so fresh.

And what would Catelyn think, on her arrival in a place that was strange to her to take up a life with a husband who was still a stranger to her, on finding that he had brought a child back with him? All of this – him standing in Brandon’s place, their yearlong separation after a fortnight of marriage, the usurping child – this could not be what she had wanted for her life.

He shook his head. He could not deal with this now, with any of it. He needed to rest, away from battles and death and men who bayed for his blood, then shrieked for his mercy. He would let the healing cold of Winterfell freeze his sorrow, his anger, his guilt, until he could face the world again.

*

Robb grew quiet in Catelyn’s arms as the carriage approached the walls of Winterfell, as if he knew the significance of this place. Here, they would both begin their lives anew; he would meet his father for the first time, and be raised as the heir to the North, she would take up her life as the lady of Winterfell.

She shivered. Was it really colder here, she wondered, or was it her imagination? After the airy forests and rushing waters of Riverrun, Winterfell seemed cold, grey, frozen. Like Eddard, she realised suddenly. He was a Stark through and through.

She wondered if war had changed him, if he would still be the same gentle, quiet man she had known all those months earlier. Would he find her different, too? The sleepless nights of motherhood and worry had taken their toll, and she was no longer the girl she had been. Had they even known each other well enough to see the differences?

They had had a fortnight together, before the war had called him away: long enough to see them wedded and bedded, long enough to conceive a child. But they had already been looking to the future: he knew that he must leave, she knew that he may not return. Would things be different, now that their future lay together?

She held Robb closer to her. She had named him for Eddard’s greatest friend and foster brother, who had now been crowned king of Westeros. Eddard would be pleased, she thought, not just with the name, but with his son. Robb was growing rapidly right now, a beautiful, healthy child who was filled with laughter and curiosity. Robb was a son that any man would be proud of.

And she would be a wife to be proud of. She would find her place here, and show these grim, frozen northerners how a Tully did her duty.

The carriage rattled through the gates and drew to a stop in the courtyard, where Eddard and a retinue of men were waiting. Eddard opened the door and held out his hand to her. “My lady.”

She took it, and let him help her down. He seemed smaller somehow, older, tired. When she reached the ground, she held out her son, his son, to him and saw his eyes widen in wonder. Robb reached up towards his father’s face, smiling contentedly. Ned took their son in one arm, and moved to encircle her in the other. She heard him take a deep, ragged breath, then he murmured, “Welcome home.”

Yes, she would find her place here. She would do her duty. And she would bring the warmth of Tully, of family, to this frozen man of the North.