#nedcatweek

 “Father, why are you doing that to Mother?”

 At the sound of his son’s voice, Ned Stark jumped backward, and let go of his wife as if she’d burned his hands and lips.

 “Robb! What are you doing here?” he demanded.

 The little boy trembled, and Ned realized he had shouted. In spite of his quivering lip, Robb managed to reply in a small voice. “I was looking for you.”

 “And you have found him,” Catelyn said in a remarkably calm, even voice. “I generally come here to his solar when I am searching for him as well, Robb.”

 Ned heard the mild reproach in her voice and knew it was directed toward him rather than his son. “Forgive me for shouting, Robb,” he said, endeavoring to make his voice as serene as his wife’s. “You simply startled me. What do you need of me, son?”

 “Oh, I just wanted to show you something,” Robb said rather distractedly, looking back and forth between Catelyn and himself. “Did Mother let you do that?” he asked after a moment. “Because Anna hit the cook’s boy when he did it to her.”

 “Robb Stark . . .” Ned began to admonish him sternly, but Catelyn laughed. Their son had discovered them kissing ardently and the woman was actually laughing about it.

“Yes, Robb. I allowed your father to kiss me,” she said. “But Anna cannot be over two and twelve. If the cook’s boy you refer to is Ronyl, that boy is far too old to be bothering her and deserved to be hit. I do hope she told her father about it.”

 “I don’t know,” Robb shrugged. “Jon and I ran off after she hit him. We didn’t see what happened next.” He then looked up at Ned with a rather panicked look. “We didn’t mean to spy, Father! We only went to the kitchen to look for food and they were there!”

 “So you confess to pilfering food rather than spying?” Ned said, much more comfortable interrogating Robb than being interrogated by him.

 “No! We never pilfered anything because we ran off when Anna hit Ronyl!”

 Ned sighed and decided to let it go, hoping that relief over escaping censure for sneaking into the kitchen would distract him from his discovery of Catelyn and he embracing in his solar. “Very well. What did you wish to show me?”

 “Oh.” Then he looked up at Catelyn. “I can’t tell you now.”

 Thoroughly irritated with his firstborn, Ned shook his head and said, “Very well. When you decide you can tell me . . . or show me . . . or whatever it is you came here for, you are welcome to return.

 “Robb,” Catelyn said as the boy looked down and then turned to go. “Are you all right, sweetling?”

 Robb nodded, but his mother wasn’t buying it. She got down on her knees in order to be more level with their six-year old son. “You aren’t upset at your father for kissing me, are you? He’s my husband, Robb. He is allowed to kiss me.”

 “But . . . he never did before,” Robb stammered, looking at his mother with confusion on his face.

 Ned began coughing and Catelyn looked up at him rather severely before turning back to Robb. “Yes, he has, Robb. You’ve simply never seen. It isn’t very courteous for people to kiss in front of others.”

 “Well if it isn’t courteous and people hit you for it, why kiss at all?”

 At that, Catelyn stood up and gave Ned a meaningful look, and he realized she expected him to answer Robb’s question. In truth, kisses such as the one Robb had interrupted were a fairly new experience between the two of them. Oh, he’d certainly kissed and done far more with his wife on numerous occasions. Robb, Sansa, and little Arya bore evidence to that. But now there was something more between them than there had been. It seemed to have developed very slowly and yet somehow all at once, and now the touches between them meant far more than his past dutiful visits to her bedchamber or even the admittedly pleasurable visits which had developed over time. Kissing her now meant so many things he didn’t even know how to say.

 Still, he knelt down in front of their son as his wife had done a moment ago. “Some men kiss ladies because it feels very pleasant to do so.”

 Robb made a face which nearly caused Ned to laughed in spite of his discomfort with the situation, but he continued. “That is not a good reason to do so, however. You should only kiss a lady who has your respect and admiration. It is an expression of devotion, son.” And desire, he thought, and so much more, although he chose not to explain that to Robb just yet.

 “So . . . you kissed Mother because you like her?” Robb asked.

 Ned smiled. “I suppose you could say that. But I like many people, Robb. Your mother, however, is the only one I kiss.”

 “So she’s special!” Robb exclaimed with a grin.

 “Yes, son. She is very, very special.”

 “You should give her some of the flowers, too!” Robb nearly shouted with excitement. Then he clapped both hands over his mouth and looked dismayed. “Now I ruined the surprise,” he mumbled into his hand.

 “Oh, Robb, sweetling, you haven’t ruined anything!” Catelyn exclaimed. Ned noticed that she wiped at her eyes as she knelt down beside him. “Don’t be upset.”

 Their little boy took his hands down and looked at his mother with the big blue eyes that mirrored her own. “But I wanted to surprise you, Mother. I found a big patch of little yellow flowers. I think they’re the kind you said remind you of where you used to live. I wanted to pick a big bunch of them for you.”

 “That’s what you wanted to show me, Robb?” Ned asked.

 Robb nodded. “I wanted to make sure they’re the right kind and I knew you would know, Father.”

 “He will know, Robb,” Catelyn said softly. “And I would love any flower given to me by you, my darling boy. Nothing is ruined at all.”

 Robb smiled, and Ned reached out a hand to help his wife back to her feet. Her eyes were shining as she looked at him, and he found himself unable to look away from her.

 After a moment, Robb’s voice broke the silence. “Are you going to kiss her again? Because I’m still here.”

 Ned and Catelyn both laughed, and then he turned to his son. “Oh, I’ll kiss her again, son, but not right now. You and I have some flowers to gather.”

 Robb grinned and grabbed his hand to pull him toward the door of the solar. Ned took Catelyn’s hand in his other hand and pressed it to his lips, gratified to see the soft blush on her cheeks when he released it.

 “I will return to you soon, my lady,” he said, smiling at her.

 “I shall eagerly await your return, my lord,” she replied with a smile that nearly made him regret telling Robb he’d come with him.

 But his son was tugging on his hand again so Ned reluctantly parted from his wife. As he and Robb stepped out into the corridor, Robb said rather loudly. “Mother must be very, very special because you were kissing her for an awfully long time. I was just standing there forever and you didn’t even see me!”

Catelyn didn’t expect this to happen. She really didn’t, it had never happened before... not that she had dated much before, and she knew she had never had a relationship like the one she had with Ned... but still she wasn't expecting to miss him this much, how many times had she told Elia that Rhaegar wasn't worth Elia's every thought. Of course, her Ned was not Rhaegar, but she should be able to think about something else.

But Catelyn was still looking at her phone every few moments. Ned had gone to the Summer Islands with Robert, of course, his friend’s idea, Ned barely traveled to below the Neck, the Riverlands were already too hot for him, so she wasn’t quite sure what Robert had told him to convince him to go to an Island, but whatever it was, he was there.

Her phone pinged as she had finally been able to distract herself with a book, finding a good seat on the balcony of her apartment, under the warm sun April had brought, and looking over the river she had known since she was a child.

Ned had sent her a shot of a temple to the Red God, in Jhala - it was very different from the ones she knew from home, and definitely not like the Heart Trees Ned had shown her in the North.

How did you convince Robert to go? she texted back. She knew Robert was with him, she could see Robert moving on the background of the photo.

Women.

Ofc. Anyone caught your eye?

Sure. Red hair, blue eyes, beautiful smile

Smooth, she got the message moments after from Robert, and then he continued. U hav him wel trained. won’t even 👀

Sorry. Robert was looking over my shoulder

Stop being an ass, Robert!! Catelyn sent to Ned, knowing Robert was still looking.

Not an ass, Robert replied.

Jackass, Catelyn replied to him now, and they continued throwing insults back and forward.

Robert has now missed three girls trying to flirt with him

😂😂 Do you want me to continue keeping him distracted?

Yes, I’m actually visiting the inside of the temple without his whining

On it

Catelyn continued texting Robert, while keeping Ned on the chat as well.

Photos??

Soon

Thanks

What were you doing? 

Before, he sent right after.

Reading, she texted back, sending him a photo of the open book on her legs and the river on the background, so he could tell she was enjoying the sun.

Sunny.

You’re dying in the heat, aren’t you? she texted with a laugh.

Yes

Come here to the river, she offered.

I will soon.

stop text ned, she got a new message from Robert. 

Why?

i dont want u 2.

Such a baby...

Robert is trying to take my phone now, Ned complained. And that was the last message she got from him, realizing he was probably busy with Robert once again, Catelyn put her phone aside again.

Having now heard from him, Catelyn felt less tempted to check on her phone constantly, and still leaving the sound on her phone on, she went back to her book.

She read a few chapters, under the sun, sometimes distracting herself with the river, but always going back to the words. When she finally picked up her phone, it was lunch time and Elia would be home soon, and Ned was sending her the photos she asked for.

Ignore the last one. Robert made me take it, and send it. Sorry.

Catelyn let the curiosity get to her, and she scrolled down the photos to the last one, and she couldn’t help but laugh, roll her eyes and question her boyfriend’s taste in friends at the same time.

There it was, Robert behind some statue - not a Goddess, she hoped - and his hand was cupping the statue’s boob.

teaching ned some tricks, Robert texted her moments after, and she really hated that man, but she still texted back.

The grey of the castle walls encircled her as if to assure her there was no escaping, this was now her home. She must learn to adjust to the cold, not long for the sun. She used to swim in the swift rivers, run in green grass, sit in patches of warmth. Now she stood on the battlements looking out on a white landscape that offered none of the brilliance she had known as a girl.

 The grey of the Northern skies, always bearing the tint of snow, promising soon, if not now, fell down around her, sinking into her as effectively as any downpour. She did not know air could be heavy before she came North, now, she learned not every breath was easy, sometimes it hurt to breathe.

 The grey of Lord Stark’s eyes, how she wished they would say the words his lips never uttered. She wanted anything, any sign of what he felt, but there was none, and she could not ask. They were only a reminder of everything she would never know or have.

 Her husband might as well be a large stone from the quarry, not immediately pleasing to the eye, cumbersome, unmovable by her hand, or any man's, yet while it caused her suffering, she admired it. She had similarities to him, in some ways, she was very like him, in more ways than she had expected at first. In that moment, when she had questioned him, he was steel, and she was flint. If he wanted to strike, she would spark, they could burn together.

 She had asked a question once, she never would again. Not because they did not see each other, but because they did not speak, not truly. Because Lord Stark was impassive, and she was afraid of the truth and afraid of a lie. What was now between them she was forbidden to touch, and so, whatever he harbored she could not discern. Her own feelings raged within her, silent fury hidden by a placid face.

 He was quiet, so quiet his presence could be known by the silence which followed him, a calmness which made his outburst when she questioned him about the bastard babe all the more shocking. He had frightened her then, she would never ask again. When he presided at table, when they spoke of impersonal matters of housekeeping, finance, maintenance, little Robb, that they could do well enough. She did not fear him, only the cuts in her feet as the jagged edges of betrayal tore at them, like rocks settled in the wasteland in the before and after of her marriage.

 She thought of the Tully words, family, duty, honor. She had her son, a man she called husband, a man she knew of, without knowing at all, they were now her family. Lord Stark wasn't a weapon, not really. He wasn't cruel, simply lost within himself in memories of happier times which now hurt him because of the darkness that followed. Uncomfortable in a role he was suited to, but never intended for. This Northman did not need to speak of his feelings, she knew he dwelled in his own agony as much as she; he lived in his murdered brother’s house, was married to a dead man’s betrothed. Each time he looked at her, when he had touched her, it was a reminder of what he had lost.

She knew this, knew he had pains as well as she. She wanted to deny it, dwell in her barren ground, wallow in her own suffering, but she could not tear away her own flesh, and they had become one. He may not value the vows of her faith, but she could. She tried to put out the spark that so desperately wanted to light it all ablaze, destruction teased her, called to her. For her sake, for her son’s, she must resist. She could soften, she could absorb the blow, as much as she did not want to, she could.

 Standing on the battlement, drowning in grey, she fancied herself a flower seed cast upon rocks, expected to spring to life without soil for her roots, with nothing to nourish her or cling to. She needed--she did not quite know. Something to hold onto, a sign or just the possibility of life. She needed more than a fortress to place herself within and safely be. She needed anything that was not cold, bitter, that would be enough. But in such harsh land, where everything was hard and soundless, she did not know if there would ever be more than this, if it could be different.

 She longed for a smile, a sign of pleasure, a chance to warm herself in her icy marriage. And she wanted it, a real marriage, for no matter how she tried to indulge her feelings, justify them because they were justifiable, when she looked at her husband, she could not see a cruel man. He was a true Northman, mingling the good and the bad of it. She almost wished he were demanding or overbearing so she might despise him, but he was not, she couldn’t.

 She had never known a man like him before, he was wise like her father, but unlike him as much as alike. She had loved and been loved by her father in turn, treasured, and while her husband treated her courteously, there was so little between them besides the grey. She feared surrendering to this, accepting him. She thought it would leave her as grey as everything else in this place.

 He was straightforward, speaking what he meant and as little as possible which was why his behavior was--she shook herself. She could stay on these rocks and wither or dig under them to find a way to live. She knew there was no escaping her marriage, yet she could determine what it would become; as much as she fought against it, she knew it was a choice that was hers alone.

 Earlier she had heard girls in the kitchen giggling over the workmen and masons who labored over some new project. Coming down from the wall, shaking snow from her cape, she saw Lord Eddard directing the workers She wanted to ask, but she was determined to stop asking, to stop wondering about him or his, because none of that was permissible to him. He saw her though, nodded, but did not come to her, instead he continued to instruct his man. She quelled any feeling she might have had. He owed nothing to her, so she continued on her way.

 "My Lady." 

 She could not ignore his call, she stopped, using all her willpower, she turned to him. He was nearer now, speaking to her so the others could not hear. 

 "Would you look over the plans?"

 "What insight could I offer on masonry, My Lord?"

 "I--" her husband hesitated, the first sign he was not entirely self-confident at all times. He might even be uncertain, she could not be sure, she had never seen him so before. "It is a sept. Your opinion on the matter is more important than mine."

 This was--she would never have expected, could not comprehend. "I--what for?"

 "For you, My Lady."

 "I—we—you do not worship the seven?” She knew he did not, yet it came out a question regardless.

 “No, but you do.”

 “It is a great expense after the cost of the war—I do not need—it would seem frivolous to your people.”

 “They will say the foolishness is my own. What of the plans?” He was so unperturbed, deciding such a thing, acting on it as if it would not upend her understanding of him and what they were to each other. She could not gather her wits to say more, too moved, too angry, too thankful, to stricken. Such a gift, that he should think to do such a thing, she would never have expected it, she could not allow it, but she could not stop it now either. “I—” she was staring into those eyes, the vast Northern skies collapsed and deep, determined never to reveal anything to her. She looked away, at the paper he held outstretched, taking them into her shaking hands, she stammered out approval before daring to once again look at him.  

 “You do not need to do this for me.”

 He rubbed a hand across his jaw, words from him never quick or easy. “I have dishonored you, My Lady. Let me honor you.”

 She wanted to strike him across his weathered face.

 She wanted to kiss him.

 Each image came so forcefully to her mind she almost believed she had dared to, one after another, realizing she hadn’t, she thought she could do both at the same time. In truth she did nothing, too lost in her confusion. She wanted to land a blow of her own, she wanted to see him hurt as he had hurt her, but could she live in such a life? This man infuriated her as no other. She wanted to tell him she had no input, he clearly did not value her, he did not require her goodwill or permission, but where she had withdrawn, determined to keep within her boundaries, he had stepped toward her, attempting to close the distance.

 He was moving the boulders between them, the ones she could not cross over, wordlessly asking to use them for the foundation of her sept. He had no right to ask such a thing of her, no right to strive for her forgiveness without her consent, no right to make her reach beyond her capacity to feel. She had tamed herself, preparing to take a small step, and he had reached out, pulling her three. She wanted to weep dramatically as Lysa would have, perhaps screech, call him the names she knew for men such as he, but what sort of man was he? For this, this was confounding.

 She could do none of that. Her husband's stoicism was reflected in her own determination to not let him have any part of her, but he was prying her resentment from her fingers, asking to give her something good in its stead, and it made parts of her crumble. She quieted her trembling as she talked over his plans with him. Her anger could not be eradicated so easily, yet her flash of rage subsided as she spoke with him. For the moment, she felt like herself again, offering her opinion and finding a willing listener.

 As they stood together, she told herself to ignore the warmth filling her from simply being near him. He looked down at her, raised his large hand, brushing snowflakes from her hair. “You’ve a snowdrift on your head, My Lady.”

 There was such a gruffness to his voice, a roughness in his accent, even when attempting to speak kind words. She blushed, he dropped his hand, returned to calling out directions to his men. She remained where she was, watching them work, silently fuming that even when angry, even with her list of his wrongs, she had flushed when he touched her hair. She had almost thought there was something in his eyes, almost believed that perhaps he had been touched too.

 That night she retrieved a dress she had sewn during the war after her wedding when she wondered if her husband would return or if she would be a young widow. There had been such hope in her fingers then, and while it was only months ago, she had been a girl with childish dreams. Now she was a woman with a life’s worth of disappointments to mourn. Instead of the colors she preferred to wear, her blues and greens, this gown was grey. Her fingers trailed over it, rather than finding it the reflection of the blank sky, she remembered her husband’s eyes when he said, “Let me honor you.” She held the dress to her chest, she could not wear it now, but she knew she was still a silly girl, even after it all.

 Robb was walking now, she spent her days trailing behind him down the long halls, snatching him up before he stumbled down stairs. Then one morning, instead of her husband being lost for hours in his solar, or patiently hearing concerns and complaints from his people, or riding out to attend to a dispute, he was there, asking for the boy’s furs.

 “It is too cold to take the boy out, My Lord.”

 “He is a Northman” was his only answer, his hand asking for the wraps, and so, she allowed him to take the child. Her husband followed the boy wherever he wandered, a warrior happily playing at being a nursemaid.

 She did not join him the first or second or third time he appeared to claim his son, but she watched him, a strange man with a sword she could not lift, a scar on his face from battle which declared his victory, a great man who now bent low so that their son might catch and hold one of his fingers as they walked the grounds of Winterfell together.

 It was an uncomfortable thing to hold so many fragments of a man in her hands and not know how they coexisted. She did not see the whole of him, could only grasp small parts, but then, she had not sought to. She would not take more than her share of the blame, he had taken from her a hope too sacred to be uttered, but she was not the only one who suffered. He had lost his family, one after the other, brutally, and he had taken life, but no matter how many lives you take, you can never retrieve those that have been lost. You have only added to the dead.

 She covered her face with her hands, she could not expect him to give up another member of his family, no matter that it cost her a piece of herself. He would never relinquish his son. He chose family over her honor, a decision she could understand no matter how it grieved her. He would not, or could not speak of it, whatever had happened while he was away, but he was here now, coming to her, reaching out to her, in the ways that such a man could. Those hands that had taken a kingdom were caressing his son’s hair, chipping away another part of her, cautiously, slowly flaking away her pain, causing it to fall at her feet.

 She had told herself she was doing her duty as long as she never denied him, so she had not barred her door; he had not come knocking. Watching him now, she counted it consideration for her, rather than further rejection, and she knew, in spite of her anger, she would be happy to give her husband a family again. She may be denied honor, but she could have a family, if she chose it. Whatever he felt for her, he loved their boy. Worse sins have been forgiven for less.

 The next time he came to claim Robb she walked with them, a foot or two behind her husband, into the dark godswood which always struck her with foreboding rather than the beauty of the weirwoods of Riverrun. But today, as they silently walked to the heart tree, grey was not the only color she noticed. She saw the beauty in the white bark of the tree, the leaves hanging from the branches above them transformed the sky from ash grey into a furious red.

 Robb toddled over to the tree, his small hands grabbing onto its face, “Robb!” she exclaimed, thinking it a desecration.

 “It does not signify, My Lady. He may do as he chooses.”

 She relinquished her son’s hands to let his fingers explore the eyes and mouth cut into the tree. She would never fathom this religion without rules her husband practiced, or her husband himself.

 “My Lord—”

 “I would prefer if you used my name, My Lady.”

 She nodded. “Then you must remember to call me by mine, Eddard.”

 A pause, “Catelyn” said as if he found it a relief to say the word at last. “It’s a pretty name.”

 She blushed, embarrassed at what a simple compliment did to her, coming from her husband. His lips did not smile, yet he was smiling all the same. The deep crinkles around his eyes, or the lightening of their grey storm, something gave him away, and she pressed her lips together, refusing to give him a smile that easily, but she thanked him.

 They sat together in this sacred place, their son gathering fallen leaves and offering them one by one to his father. That silence which followed Eddard was even louder in the godswood, the stillness he was imbued with a fleeting sensation compared to what she experienced sitting here, a world in which she didn’t belong.

 Robb sat down to dig at the moss growing along the roots of the tree, and Eddard held out one of his gifted leaves to her. Surprise, confusion must have registered on her face, for he said with his Northern gruffness, “It’s the same color as your hair.” It was a statement of fact, but it felt like more. Her hands took the leaf without her eyes leaving his, and she wondered how she found his gaze cold before. When they left the godswood, she walked by his side with Robb wandering before them, the red leaf resting in her hand.

 Exploring the godswood was not an activity Catelyn had ever imagined she would enjoy. Day after day she accompanied her husband and son into the thickness of branches and leaves, and soon, the heavy air was welcome to her. Eddard took them to the kennels where she knelt down to prevent the dogs from licking the entirety of Robb’s face. She knew without hearing a laugh that her husband enjoyed the sight. The stables joined their rotation, Eddard surprised her by offering an apple to Robb as well as to her so they might summon his stallion to be admired. He seemed more at ease when they visited the animals, and she saw how his quiet way soothed them.

 The glass gardens were startling in their vibrance, food and flowers in varying hues demanded their due, so each was praised in turn. Eddard stood silently, allowing his wife and child to wander, to point and exclaim as they would, his tendency to simply be something Catelyn had begun to accept, grown accustomed to, almost appreciate.

 When she walked the walls with her husband and son, the great fortress seemed less determined to cage her. She very nearly felt security rather than frustration. They were imposing, mighty, striking in their own way, offered safety for her son. He would rule this great castle one day, and she felt the stirrings of pride. Their explorations left Robb’s little legs tired, and while he looked like Catelyn, he had enough of his father’s fortitude to stubbornly continue to march along even when his steps faltered.

 One such morning, Eddard picked up the child to carry him from the heart tree to his bed, Robb’s head lolled on his father’s shoulder as he quickly fell asleep. She told herself to not be carried away by the sight of auburn hair strewn across Eddard’s wide shoulders, but her husband cradling the boy in his arms moved her nonetheless.

 Eddard deposited Robb on his bed, and Catelyn did not watch him leave as the boy began to murmur, partially awakening with the loss of comforting arms. She slipped off his shoes and furs, placing her head on the pillow next to his, his small hands grabbing onto her braid as he loved to do. She hummed to soothe him back into slumber, then evened out her breathing, his own became regular, then he dipped back into sleep.

 She sat back on her heels, attempting to pull her hair into order as she rose and turned to leave. Eddard had not closed the door behind him, he had not left at all. Instead, her husband stood there, resting his head against the stone doorway. The comfort she had found walking the grounds with him seemed to have been mutual. His face was peaceful, his eyes on her as she walked slowly toward him, where he stood the only exit from the room. He stepped toward her, into the room and out of her way, allowing her to pass as she self-consciously re-braided her hair, noting with no small amount of pleasure that Eddard could not seem to look away.

 She hesitated while dressing that night, not wanting to give in anymore, also wanting to give in completely. The grey dress fit well, and she did not miss the look in her husband’s eyes as she entered the hall dressed as a Stark with her hair unbound, flowing around her shoulders.

 He was not fond of music, nor did Eddard enjoy dancing, she knew it was because of the memories, more of those things he did not speak of. Even so, when the Lords gathered, he summoned a man to sing for them. She was never so entranced by music as a girl to have it affect her, being married, carrying on her constant tug and pull between love and hate, wanting to resist and relent, each in succession, both simultaneously, her heart was vulnerable as it had never been before. The songs made her sigh, then they broke her heart. As the night wore on more ale than food was consumed, the songs began to make her blush and the men roared with laughter.

 She had neglected to watch Eddard’s cup, so she did not know if it was drink or awkwardness making him flush, perhaps both, but he stood with his hand outstretched to her, and she felt him call her name although he did not speak a word. Whether it was how much wine she had imbibed, the frailty of her emotions, or simply that she wanted to dance with this man, she did not hesitate to place her hand in his, although she had not touched him since that day, and he had never made a move unsolicited by her since. Her hand in his palm was entirely disconcerting, she would not survive the dance if he held her, yet, he must.

 His hands were on her, she tried not to gasp or flinch, because she had never fully hardened herself against him. Perhaps those things that lay between them were neither so impossible to clamber over or remove. Walks in the godswoods as a family, a sept purely for her, music and a dance, maybe they were enough for her to begin to grow. His fingers held her waist tightly, as stoic as his face was, somehow his eyes neglected to conceal his every thought as he admired her. Seeing his eyes thus, she wondered that she ever thought the North was without its warmth. His face was turned down to her, and as she moved her head, his nose ever so slightly brushed her hair, then he dipped his head, kissing the red strands so lightly it might have been snowflakes landing on her again.

 “Eddard?” She spoke on instinct, questions she could never ask coming out in the word, without realizing it, she had ceased her dancing, she was motionless, not knowing what she could do, so torn between wanting everything from him and nothing at all.

 “Catelyn? Catelyn, are you well?”

 She left the hall, confused, tears she had refused to permit before were threatening her now, and she did not know if they were because of her existing pain or the pain of relinquishing it. She fled outside with hurried footsteps, she was not a child, she would not run. She stopped when she stood in the unfinished sept, the beginnings of the walls no higher than her knee, the sky awake above her, looking into the foreign structure, into her broken marriage, into her, knowing things she wanted no one to know.

 She did not want to see his face, have his hands on her, if only he did not look at her so, if only his hands did not say so much. She did want to feel them, she wanted them to mean he cared for her, not his lady wife, but her. Yet, that could not be unless she risked it all again, and she was so afraid. She could survive in this cold, remain frozen, or she could live, but living had its cost, and she could not bear it.

 “Catelyn” her husband had come, placing warm furs on her, because of course he would, and she wanted to send him away, she wanted to ignore him, to silently shame him into feeling all the pain she had felt. She knew he had felt it though, it had always been in his eyes, always in his touch. He was just as incapable of expressing these things to her, as she was unable to tell him of hers.

 She could send him from her, or she could bring him closer.

 This was her life, she had no choices, but she still had her choice.

 She turned into him, her arms going around his strong chest, seeking and giving comfort rather than inflicting more damage upon them both. He was startled, he tensed, then, a deep breath, and his arms come around her, so gentle, firm, warm, and she was so relieved that he held her she could do nothing but weep.

 Her anger had made her strong, brittle, and breaking it was more agony, a greater sacrifice than she had known. It was at her husband's hand she received this pain, and it was his arms that would ease it. His nose was once again buried in her hair, and then he kissed the top of her head. While he did not cry, he was no less moved than she. Love is a terrible thing. It ached to refuse it, it ached to receive it. "Catelyn" he said, trembling, hoping to suddenly find the words he needed that had always escaped him before. "I have been--I want you to know--I--"  Her hand reached out to him, landing on his chest first, moving up to his face, cupping his bearded cheek. "You are a good man," saying it, not because she wanted to, not because he wanted to hear it, because it was true, and she believed it.  She calmed, her sobs died away and left her as she always was, seemingly unmoved by suffering. “Cat,” a shuddering breath, “my family calls me Cat.” Poor Eddard must not know what to think, holding a weeping woman who now insisted on a new form of address. She was surprised when she shifted away from him that his arms tightened around her.

 "Let me hold you a little while longer. Stay with me, Cat.” There was more emotion in his voice than she had ever seen in his face. She reminded herself that as much as her heart had been scarred, his had as well, and suffering together was a better fate than suffering alone. “And I will call you Ned” she said, lifting her arms, draping them on his shoulders, studying the reflection of the lights above in his eyes, moving her hands to the back of his head to run her fingers through his hair.

 Every stroke of her fingers was a stone being removed from between them, making way for them to build something new. They stood in the beginnings of her sept, and she knew, even though they had been married for some time now, that at last they had reached the beginning of their marriage, their true marriage.

 She made her choice.

 She lifted her face to his, waiting, momentarily forgetting how cautious her husband was. She pressed her fingers into his hair, the mildest of suggestions, encouraging him to bend his lips to hers. She exchanged her bitter mistrust for sweet kisses.

 She allowed Ned to move the boulders and she clambered over the ravine of sharp rocks between them until the only thing separating them was feather pillows and soft furs. She was no longer trapped in an arranged marriage, in a frozen keep, in a foreign land, she and her husband were building a much-desired life, together. Never again would he be an unknowable Lord to her, or she a distant Lady to him. They were Ned and Cat, finally.

 She entrusted Ned with her pain, and the reward for trust given is trust received. Her husband earned hers, year after year, and she had always had as much of his as was his to give. Pain would linger, life was less forgiving than love, but there was softness between them now too. She saw his smile in the lines around his mouth even if his lips did not curve, could recognize his laughter in the wrinkles around his eyes. The dark light in them the sign of his joy in her, a sacred pleasure he found nowhere else.

Ned Stark stood silently in the doorway and looked at the woman holding his son.

 My son, he thought. It still seemed inconceivable to him that he had a son at all in spite of the fact that everyone he knew believed him to have two. That thought caused him to frown as the second babe who slept in this room was the reason he hesitated to enter it now. The second babe was the reason the woman holding his son had barely spoken to him except to answer direct questions since her arrival here more than a moon’s turn ago.

 His lady wife had been appalled to discover a bastard babe already in residence upon her arrival to Winterfell. The fierce pride and tentative hope he’d seen in her blue eyes as she watched him take their son in his arms and gaze upon him for the first time and been short-lived. Jon’s presence in the nursery had replaced those things with hurt, shame, and anger, and Ned had no idea what he could do about that.

 My wife. His having a wife felt just as impossible as his having a son, and the woman still felt a stranger to him for all that they had lain together in Riverrun and made the small miracle she now held in his arms. The horrors of war and all that he had seen, done, and lost since that time had all but erased the memory of that fortnight in Riverrun from his mind. He did recall she’d been frightened but determined not to show it. He’d marveled at both her beauty and her courage when they’d stood together in the sept pledging their lives to each other before ever speaking more than a dozen words between them. He’d marveled at both her beauty and her courage even more when they’d been left alone together naked in a bedchamber to consummate this union of strangers.

 He’d hurt her that night. He’d tried very hard not to, but it had been plain enough that the act had caused her pain regardless of the brave face she had kept up. Afterward, they had been awkward and shy with each other, but he had reached out to stroke her hair and she’d allowed it. He almost thought she had even taken some comfort from it. And he’d been enchanted by its softness. He’d marveled at its color from the moment he saw her, but the feel of it on his skin was even more remarkable. So soft. He’d sworn to himself he’d not hurt her again.

 And he’d forsworn himself as soon as she arrived in Winterfell because the hurt he has done her now went far deeper than the pain of losing her maidenhead.

 “My lord?”

 Her voice startled him as he’d been lost in his thoughts, and he realized she’d noticed him standing there. She looked directly at him now, her blue eyes cool but curious as she waited for him to speak.

 “I am sorry, my lady. I had no wish to disturb you. I . . . I only thought to see my son.”

 “Here he is,” she said. There was a hard edge to her voice that hadn’t been there in Riverrun. “Unless you mean the other boy. His wetnurse took him out when I came in.”

 “I came to see Robb, my lady,” Ned said, finding it hard to form the words around guilt that threatened to choke him. “I have not seen him yet today and I . . . missed him.”

 She regarded him a moment without speaking before replying, “He is your son. You may see him whenever you wish, my lord.”

 “Yes, I know. But I would not intrude upon you, my lady. Robb is your son as well.”

 She went silent again, but after a moment rose from her seat and walked toward him. “Here, my lord. Hold your son, if you wish. I have finished feeding him.”

 “Thank you, my lady,” he said, reaching eagerly for the babe she held out to him. He felt that same intense love and pride and protectiveness that assailed him every time he held the child wash over him. He had never felt anything exactly like it and wondered if it would remain this overpowering forever. “My gods,” he said softly. “I swear he grows every day. He has already changed so much from the first day I saw him. I cannot imagine how much he has changed since his birth.”

 He’d spoken half to himself and was almost surprised to her voice in response. “It is impossible to imagine, my lord. I have seen him every day since his birth and I am amazed by how he has grown and changed.” He looked up to see her gazing at the infant in his arms with an expression on her face that spoke of all those overwhelming feelings he had for this babe. “I am amazed by everything about him every day,” she whispered.

 It occurred to Ned that the two of them may be strangers and that his wife may still harbor deep anger toward him, but the child in his arms bound the two of them in a way that neither of them could ever be bound to anyone else. His wife . . . Catelyn . . . was the only other person in the world who not only understood but shared everything he felt for Robb.

 “My lady,” he said softly, “I deeply regret every day of his life that I missed. I would very much like to hear everything of his time . . . of your time with him . . . at Riverrun.” She looked rather stunned at his words, and he feared he’d asked too much. “But only if you wish to speak of him with me,” he added hurriedly.

 “I would tell you anything you wish to hear of your son, my lord.” She looked directly at him as she said that, but then looked down very slightly as she added, “I confess he is my favorite topic of conversation.” He noted a slight blush coloring her cheeks as she added, “I’ve likely bored the servants to death with tales of Robb.”

 Ned laughed at that and then immediately feared she’d think he mocked her. He could not recall laughing in her presence a single time since she’d been in Winterfell although he recalled the two of them eventually sharing several moments of laughter in Riverrun before he’d ridden away to war.

 She looked up at the sound of his laughter, and he did see worry on her face so he quickly smiled and said, “You will never bore me with any tale of our son, my lady. And if the servants ever seem tired of hearing about him from you it is likely because they’ve already heard about him from me.”

 She very nearly smiled at him then. Not quite, but almost.

 “I have nowhere to be at the moment, my lady. If you are free as well, we could sit here a moment and you could tell me something I don’t yet know about our son.”

 She nodded and then two of them sat down. Ned continued to hold Robb as she told him of the first time she’d heard him laugh out loud. It seemed her younger brother had been pulling silly faces at him and had been so stunned when Robb began laughing, he’d shouted for Catelyn to make certain he hadn’t done something wrong.

 It was the first actual conversation between the two of them in Winterfell, and Ned found himself enjoying it very much even if the soft smiles that graced Catelyn’s face as she spoke were entirely for Robb’s sake rather than his own. When a man came to inform him Vayon Poole had been looking for him, he scowled and told the man to send Vayon to his solar and he’d be there momentarily.

 Robb had awakened as Catelyn had told her tale, and Ned had been bouncing him upon his lap to keep him to content. He let out a brief cry of protest now as Ned had stopped the motion while speaking with the man. Ned laughed and raised the babe up above him and made a face at him. “Do you think you get to order me about, little lord?” he asked in a very deep voice. Robb laughed immediately. Ned had learned that the child was always amused by that voice and grinned at the expected response.

 What he did not expect was the expression on Catelyn’s face when he turned to look at her. She was staring in amazement, first at Robb and then at him, and it occurred to him that he’d always done this with Robb when she wasn’t present. He’d gone to great lengths to spare his wife his presence when they weren’t required to be together for he knew well enough that his presence brought her no joy. Yet the expression on her face now revealed no displeasure.

 “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh quite that loudly,” she said.

 “Truly?” Ned asked.

 “Truly, my lord.”

 Ned felt a ridiculous amount of pride at that. Young Edmure Tully might have provoked Robb’s first laugh, but the child’s biggest laugh had was for his father.

 He sighed heavily and stood up, knowing he couldn’t tarry in the nursery any longer. Before handing Robb back to his mother, he ran his hand over the child’s head. His hair was coming in much more thickly now, and the feel of it made him smile.

 “He will have your hair, my lady,” he said softly.

 Catelyn had stood as well in order to take Robb from him, but now she hesitated, biting at her lower lip. “It is my color now. Mayhap it will darken as he gets older,” she said.

 “I certainly hope not,” Ned replied. “He is destined to be a far better looking man than I, thanks to you. But I was not speaking of the color.”

 Catelyn appeared puzzled, and before he thought better of it, he reached for her hand and moved it gently across the top of Robb’s head.

 “It’s soft,” he said, looking at his wife. “So very soft.”

 At first she looked at him uncomprehendingly, but then he saw the light of memory in her blue eyes. And she smiled at him. The smile was gone almost as soon as it appeared as she reached for Robb and said, “Vayon will be waiting in your solar, my lord.”

 He handed her their child and bowed to take his leave of her. “Thank you, my lady, for sharing this time with me.”

Catelyn Stark slowly awakened in her bed, gradually becoming aware of the furs that covered her and the warm presence of her husband beside her—or more accurately wrapped partially around her. She could feel the weight of one of his legs crossing over hers above her ankles and his arm lay over her with the palm of his large hand against the skin of her back. Directly against the skin. She smiled to recall precisely why she was waking up without her nightshift.

 As she climbed further into consciousness she realized that she had one of her arms thrown over him as well, and her hand rested comfortably on the bare skin of his arse. She sighed contentedly at the sensation of safety and comfort the physical contact brought her even as she contemplated how she could move her other arm which was trapped somewhat uncomfortably beneath her without waking him. She turned her body just a bit so that she lay more on her back than her side so that she could free her trapped arm but could still easily reach across her belly with her other arm to keep that hand on its comfortable perch.

 Ned murmured in his sleep, and the hand that had been on her back slid up to rest on her chest, just grazing the bottom of her left breast, but he did not wake, and she smiled at his face so close to hers. She couldn’t see him well in the pale grey predawn light, but she could just make out the lines around his eyes, much less pronounced in sleep than when he was awake. She’d first noticed those lines when she’d come to Winterfell after the Rebellion was won. They hadn’t been there when he’d wed her at Riverrun although the grief and worry etched on his face then had given him an appearance older than his years even without the lines. Whatever he’d been through during the Rebellion had first put those lines there. When she first laid eyes upon him in Winterfell’s courtyard she’d been struck by the change in his appearance. They’d been apart more than a year but her lord husband had appeared a good five years older than the sad, solemn young stranger she’d wed in her father’s sept.

 She moved her unoccupied hand up to gently touch the face she now loved so dearly. Ned didn’t stir, and she smiled. He’d ridden a long way to reach home last night after too long away and had then been kept in the Great Hall far too late by a castle full of people happy to have their lord back. He needed to sleep. The light in the chamber was increasing ever so slowly and she continued to study her husband’s face. The lines had grown deeper over the years. Ned was a serious man who took his responsibilities to heart and shouldered burdens belonging to himself and to his bannermen. Yet, never had he aged in all the years they’d been together here in Winterfell as quickly as he had during that one terrible year he tried never to speak about. And many of the newer lines on his face were from laughter rather than frowns. She knew well enough she had lines on her own face now as well although he always swore she never aged at all. She liked to believe that at least the majority of the lines both of them have earned at Winterfell are the fruits of a well lived life that has been blessed with more joy than sorrow.

 She knew Ned would laugh at her if he could hear her thoughts as he always proclaimed it ridiculous to contemplate the visible consequences of getting older. “Everyone fortunate enough not to die young gets old, Cat. I care little what the years do to my face as long as I am still here to see the years pass and our children grow.” She smiled now recalling his words, spoken so gruffly and matter-of-factly to her one evening when she’d expressed dismay about her own appearance as they dressed for a formal dinner with guests. He’d then smiled and come over to press his lips to the top of her head as she sat before her dressing table mirror and said softly, “And as years do not touch you, my love, you have no reason to be concerned either.” She’d laughed at him but had been grateful all the same.

 Ned moved in his sleep and pulled her more tightly against him. Feeling rather squashed she turned onto her other side, reluctantly removing her hand from his arse and snuggling her backside up against his front. She could feel the expansion of his chest against her back with his every breath and the soft mass of his cock and balls pressed against her arse. Like her hand on him or his hand on her, the feel of him pressed against her so intimately brought her comfort. Yawning, she thought how lovely it would be to fall back to sleep in her husband’s arms for the first time in nearly a moon’s turn and wondered how long she might have before someone would be at her door to tell her Rickon needed to be nursed.

 Once again, she considered how the passage of time had touched them. A dozen years ago, she would never have dared lay a hand on his arse even in the act of bedding, much less sleep comfortably with it cupped in her palm. As for lying in bed with his cock pressed against her own naked flesh—that simply would not have occurred unless he was bedding her, and while he’d never been thoughtless or careless of her in their coupling, comfort was hardly the emotion such contact evoked then.

 She wasn’t entirely certain when it had changed, but at some point, she’d found herself wanting to touch him in every intimate way imaginable although comfort was hardly the feeling that motivated her in those breathless days. In those days and moons sometime after she knew she carried Sansa but well before she carried Arya, the respect and slowly growing affection between her husband and herself had blazed into something far more intense. They’d scarcely been able to keep their hands off each other and lost any hesitation about their bodies touching in any way at all.  Of course, lying against each other as they did now in those days would not have induced thoughts of sleep in either of them, and she wondered if they truly were getting old.

 “Mmm. Good morning, my beautiful lady,” Ned murmured against her hair.

 “Ned! You should still be asleep. You must be exhausted!”

 His lips pressed against the back of her neck and then moved along her shoulder as he punctuated his next words with light kisses. “If you are referring to our exertions last night, my love, I assure you that every moment was worth it.”

 “Ned!” She turned in his arms to face him. “I meant that you’ve been away from home for a long time, I know perfectly well you rode too hard and long to reach Winterfell yesterday, and you were kept from bed far too late.”

 He smiled at her. “The last is certainly true.” When she made a face at him, he kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ve missed you, Cat. And before you concern yourself too greatly about my tired old bones, let me assure you I am better rested than I’ve been since I rode out for Last Hearth. I always sleep best with you in my arms, my lady.”

 She returned his smile. “I’ve missed you as well. I slept better last night than I have since you left.” She pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. The fact that she could now see the grey in it clearly spoke to the fact that dawn had broken. “As long as the children don’t come demanding your attention, I can stay abed until Rickon’s nursemaid comes to fetch me, and you can sleep in my arms longer if you like, my love.”

 “You really do think me an old man, don’t you?” There was a teasing note to his voice.

 “What do you mean?”

 “My beautiful wife, whom I haven’t seen in far too long, has just told me she can stay abed with me a bit longer. And you want me to sleep?”

 She sighed. “I didn’t mean to call you old, my lord, for you are not. But neither of us is truly young anymore and I simply thought you might . . .”

 “Catelyn,” he interrupted her, raising up on his elbow to look down at her where she lay beside him. “All those long leagues between here and Last Hearth, I felt every one of my thirty-three years and then some. My back hurt. My legs were sore. The cold ground caused every muscle in my body to protest when I lay down on it to sleep nights. You’re correct when you say I rode too hard and too long to get here, my love. Because I knew the only help for what ailed me lay within Winterfell’s walls. I may not be an old man, but I felt like one when I rode in here last night. I didn’t think I’d make it through one more damn conversation in the Great Hall without falling asleep on my plate. I could barely muster enough energy to laugh with our children!”

 “That’s why I want you to . . .”

 “Catelyn,” he interrupted her again. “When I finally lay down with you last night and tossed that shift of yours across the room, I no longer felt old or tired. For you make me new, my lady. You make me new.”

 Catelyn felt the tears pooling in her eyes. Tears for how much she’d missed him and how happy she was to have him within Winterfell’s walls again. Tears for how far the two of them had come together. Tears for love she saw in his eyes and the love she felt nearly overflowing from her own heart. She found herself unable to speak so she rose up to kiss him.

 When their lips parted, he looked at her with smoky grey eyes. “I’m not sleepy, Cat.”

 “Nor am I, my love.” She grinned at him. “Let’s make each other new again.”

 A grin slowly spread across her husband face and he laid her gently back down before dipping his head to put his mouth to first one breast and then the other before he began repeating in a voice that sounded like a low, deep, growl, “And again and again and again” as he kissed his way down her belly.

 As she gave herself entirely to the enjoyment of her husband’s ministrations it occurred to Catelyn that she still felt safer and more comfortable than she’d felt since Ned had been gone even as a fire built inside her that promised to consume her in the most delicious way.