Chapter Text
When her betrothal to Brandon Stark was announced, Catelyn Tully was so happy she half-convinced herself she was dreaming.
Father threw a magnificent feast to celebrate, and she spent half the evening in what felt like a daze, imagining what was to come; her life as lady of Winterfell, wife to one of the most handsome men in the realm, mother of their children. She imagined children with Brandon’s wild dark hair and her bright blue eyes, children who would fall asleep to the sound of her singing, the way her late mother had once sang to her, and children who would adore their father as much as she did, climbing into his lap and laying their heads on his strong chest in front of the fire.
She sat at a place of honor at the table and spun in the arms of many men and boys, including her father and Uncle Brynden and young Petyr, who was silent and sullen until she took his hands in her own as they danced. He brightened then, and even laughed at something she said, for Catelyn was far giddier than usual. He was disappointed when the dance had ended, but Catelyn just smiled and pecked him on the cheek; he was only eight, after all, and had been like another younger brother to her since his arrival at Riverrun.
Then she danced with Edmure, who, being only six, really didn’t understand all that much of what was going on, but was happy to giggle as his older sister skipped around with him anyways. He half-regarded Catelyn as his mother, due to the six years in between them, and the fact that he’d been only three when Mother had died. “You’re really happy, Cat,” he said when the song finally ended, leaving them both out of breath.
Catelyn ruffled his red curls with a fond smile. “Of course I am, little brother. I’m going to marry a great man some day.”
Brandon wasn’t quite a man yet, of course, but he would be soon. He was fourteen now, and when they wed he would be twenty and she eighteen, a man and a woman in the eyes of the gods. And his gods as well, she supposed, for he was of the North, and the North worshipped the old gods, not the Faith of the Seven. She doubted there was a sept at Winterfell, but surely she didn’t need one to keep the faith in her heart. Her children would grow up with both religions, but she would never stray from her own. She offered up prayers to the Mother that night, praying for a warm, loving marriage, like that of her parents, when mother had still lived. And how could it not be so? She’d loved Brandon Stark since the first time she’d laid eyes upon him. It all felt like something out a song, and while Catelyn had always been the most sensible of her siblings, she felt that she was deserving of this one beautiful thing.
Six years later, she found Brandon and some Paege girl in the godswood, and her beautiful world came crashing down. Catelyn was not blind. She knew Brandon was tall, and handsome, and charming, and that wherever he went, women flocked to him. And she had felt hurt, at times, by the attention he occasionally paid to them, errant compliments and winks and bawdy japes with serving girls. But he was no Robert Baratheon, and had never shamed her by going any further. At least not in public. She’d just wanted to see if he would have the last dance of the night with her; their wedding date had just been announced that day; and so had slipped outside to look for him. It was a cool evening, and she had no cloak, but she’d always felt at ease roaming alone at Riverrun, and the beautiful garden of the godswood held no hidden threats. Until now.
“Brandon?” It came out like a strangled gasp, and although the giggling girl on her knees in front of him did not hear it, he did, and swore, backing away from the girl abruptly and scrambling to lace up his breeches.
All Catelyn could do was stare, transfixed in horror, one hand over her mouth.
The Paege girl saw her now and had the whereabouts to attempt to look ashamed, scrambling to her feet and fixing her bodice and skirts, face flushed and head lowered.
“Cat,” Brandon said quickly, “I- I had thought you were dancing with your uncle.”
“I came to look for you,” she said blankly, although she could feel the tears forming already. No, she couldn’t cry, not now-
“This didn’t mean anything, Cat,” Brandon said more evenly; he looked chastised without her even saying anything, like a little boy, but there was no regret or sorrow at upsetting her so in his tone. She took note of it. “I was… you weren’t meant to see that at all, and I apologize for-,”
The Paege girl fled in tears at his words, brushing past her.
Catelyn remained, frozen, unable to will her feet to walk away, to storm off, to never speak to him again. How could he do this to her? They were to be married soon! Wasn’t that enough? She would have freely given to him anything he desired! Why couldn’t he have just… Because he’s a man, a poisonous whisper in her head informed her. And this is what men do. Brandon took another step towards her, his hand coming up to cup her face, and then Catelyn jolted into motion, side-stepping it and shaking her head as she backed away. “You-,”
“Cat, come now-,”
“Just leave me be, Brandon!”, she snapped then, and hurried off, back towards the lights of the hall. She’d indulged in a bit of wine; Lysa was already tipsy, she knew, but Catelyn had never liked to drink all that much, for too much wine made her weepy, but now she just wanted to forget.
She was well into her cups, huddled in a corner away from the festivities, when Petyr approached her somewhat warily, looking even younger than his fourteen years in the wavering torchlight. “Cat, what’s wrong?” His voice was so soft, so gentle and concerned, that she did burst into tears right then and there, and let him lead her out into the darkened corridor while she cried.
“It’s- it’s Brandon,” she finally admitted. “I saw him… in the godswood… with…,” she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
Petyr’s gray green eyes darkened, but he said nothing, only pulling her to him. Catelyn was a tall young woman, and Petyr a short young man, but she didn’t think of it then, only embraced him in a manner she had not in years, not since they were both children. But she was a woman now, and Petyr nearly a man himself. Still, how could she feel ashamed, after what Brandon had done? Been doing, most likely, for all these years? How could she have denied it so, believed that he would never go further than an innocent kiss or two with another woman? Her first kiss had been Petyr, of course, but that had been a child’s game, and she had not done so after her betrothal had been announced. She felt nothing but sisterly affection for him, nothing like how she’d felt about Brandon…
Petyr was kissing her then, and she was so shocked she did nothing, simply standing there until he pulled away. His mouth was too hot on her own, and she jerked her head back when she felt his tongue probing at her lips. He pulled back then, looking at her with a strangely earnest expression. “Cat,” he breathed hopefully. “I would never betray you like he has. You know that, don’t you?” His eyes were glinting, even in the dark.
Her head felt as though it were stuffed with wool, and her skin was hot and flushed with the wine. She let go of him and took a wobbling step back, but the walls were lurching a little. He caught her arms and let her lean on him. “Petyr, I… I want to go to my chambers,” she murmured faintly. “I need to sleep.”
“Of course,” he assured her, leading her down the hall, and Catelyn let her eyes close a little. He smelled like mint, as always, and although his kiss had disturbed her, the scent was reassuring. He was still Petyr, her friend, her childhood playmate… he had to be well into his cups as well, although she had not smelled much wine on him. The kiss had meant nothing.... Brandon’s earlier words echoed in her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to get to her chambers and sleep. Perhaps it would all be a dream when she woke up in the morning. Petyr escorted her into her darkened rooms, the ones she shared with Lysa, and had shared since they were little more than babes, but as she sat down heavily on the bed he did not move to leave, only closed the door and barred it behind him.
“What are you doing, Petyr?” she asked dully, and tried to stand up, but her legs were weak, from the wine or the grief, she couldn’t be sure, so she remained on the bed.
“I love you, Catelyn,” he said clearly, coming around to the side of the bed. Catelyn simply looked at him and slowly scrambled backwards, but it felt like she was dragging herself through river mud. “You love me as well, don’t you?” he sounded almost desperate. “I know you must. I’ve always loved you. He doesn’t deserve you. He never has.” He climbed onto the bed in front of her, and Catelyn leaned back into her pillows, bringing up her hands in a feeble defense as he pushed them away, groping at the front of her gown. She loved this gown. It was the same deep, pure blue as the river and the sleeves billowed out gracefully. Petyr reached around her back to unlace it, and she weakly pushed at him.
“Stop it, Petyr," she said hoarsely, but he didn't stop, and she let her hands fall to her sides. She was so angry with Brandon-
He ignored her, and when her breasts were exposed his eyes went to them hungrily. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered almost reverently, but the way he fondled them like she was some whore at an inn was anything but. Catelyn was vaguely alarmed, but couldn’t bring herself to be truly afraid. How could she fear Petyr? She knew him. She tried to cover herself, but he moved her hands away, pushing her down onto the bed. “Petyr-,”
“I know you want this, Cat. You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said soothingly, now going to her skirt. Then his mouth was on hers once more, and all she tasted was mint… She laid very still, because if she didn’t think so much, just allowed herself to lay there and let it go on, she could pretend she was drifting in the river on her back, letting the current take her way it may. He barely stopped kissing her, the entire time, and when he did, she was too out of breath to do much but gasp like she was drowning and dig her nails into his arms. It hurt, when he did finally enter her, but he kept talking as though they were lovers who’d done this many times before.
When he finally stopped, kissed her forehead gently, as if she were a child, and silently left, all she could do was lie there, with no energy left to do anything much else, naked, tangled in her own sheets. She eventually fell asleep for a little bit, but was awakened by the door opening as an amused Uncle Brynden helped a drowsy Lysa into bed. She just moved the sheets around her so as to cover herself more, and didn’t respond to his soft “Good night, Cat”. In the morning, she thought, everything would make more sense. Everything would be alright, come morning.
In the morning what had really happened washed over Catelyn like rain, and she wept bitterly, scrubbed at the inside of her thighs, ignored Lysa’s questions and odd looks, and laid in bed for much of the day, claiming illness. Several days later, after Brandon and his men had left, and fearful that she might be with child, although there was no way to tell as of yet, she went to Uncle Brynden. She did not give him many details, only that she’d been upset and drinking, and that she’d lain with Petyr. He did not yell at or scold her, but looked regretful when he brought her before Father, who had to be told what had happened several times before it sank in for him. Then she saw a fury from her father that she’d never witnessed, directed in equal parts at her and Petyr, and she fell to her knees and begged his mercy.
He softened, in time, and embraced her like he always had, but there was a hardness to his eyes where before there had been none, and she knew she might as well have shoved a knife into his chest. Catelyn drank the moon tea willingly; she had no want of a bastard, and to think of a child with her coppery hair and Petyr’s smiling eyes made her feel a strange mixture of dread and longing, for she did so very much want to be a mother, but not like that, and not with Petyr… never with him.
Father was worried how Lord Stark would take the news that the betrothal would have to be broken, and that he would not accept Lysa as a replacement to marry Brandon. Part of Catelyn wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, for Brandon had done what she had done a thousand times, and he had never had to drink moon tea or feel such shame and disgust and regret… And then there was word of Lyanna Stark’s abduction by the prince, and Brandon was riding to King's Landing, bent on getting his beloved little sister back, and once again, Catelyn’s world was toppled.