Chapter Text
I Could Not Stop for Death
writing_as_tracey / kneazle
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
– “Because I could not stop for Death”
Emily Dickinson
PART ONE:
For Natasha, this story ends and begins with a fall.
Vormir is a desolate planet with the colour of burnt red dust, sharp mountain peaks, and the sky a warm orange -- or it was when they arrived. When the sun moves away and the planet rotates into the evening, the sky is only tinged with the tiniest of deep orange surrounded by an ocean of black.
All she feels is cold when she and Clint realize what needs to be done when it begins to snow. The wraith-guardian is silent, watchful as they discuss.
Whatever it takes, they say, voices echoing with the remnants of the others who are on their own missions.
Clint wants to sacrifice himself for the soul stone, because of what he had done as Ronin - but he is a father, with the chance to bring his wife and children back. Natasha’s had red on her ledger for far longer and while the Avengers were her family, she wouldn’t rob Clint of his.
They fight; they fall.
She saves him with her widow’s bite, but he saves her, hand tight on her wrist. It always went that way: Barton and Romanov, Agents of SHIELD. He had her back, and she had his.
“Let me go,” she pleads.
“No!” his reply is instant, furious, turning quickly to choked. “Please, no.”
She tries to smile, but it’s weak. “It’s okay.”
“Natasha, no--”
But she pushes off from the cliff, tearing her wrist from his hand.
“NO!”
She falls into darkness.
Whatever it takes.
A soul for a soul.
I’ve red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it clean.
...We can do that.
Natayla Tully is the second of Hoster and Minisa Tully’s children, but the first to survive past infancy, and the first of three girls: Catelyn, a year younger than her and Lysa, three years her junior; Edmure is a babe at their mother’s breast.
She prefers being called “Nat,” but only Uncle Brynden calls her that.
She’s just thankful she kept her red hair and pouty lips that she remembers from her childhood - distant and fuzzy as it is from her time in the Red Room. She has her memories, all of them from her training to her time at SHIELD and then the Avengers and it makes growing up in a restricted, medieval world challenging at times.
But she was always good at fitting in, in strange new places.
Being a big sister comes easily to Natasha - Natayla, she needs to get used to that. She was one before, with Yelena, back in Ohio. She became one, or at least, the cool aunt, to Clint’s children and later, to Wanda.
Catelyn is a dreamer, sighing over the bards when they visit Riverrun, dreaming of being a lord’s wife and having a great romance. She’s kind, and so very loving toward Lysa and baby Edmure. But she’s also a bit uptight, maybe even posh could be a word for it - she likes being called “little lady” by the guards and worships the ground their mother, Minisa, walks upon, always begging their mother and her maids to do her hair like hers, to have her dresses made in miniature. She bosses Lysa and tries to boss Nat around and holds a grudge over perceived slights like no one’s business and she’s only six.
Lysa, two years younger than Catelyn, is four and bubbly and always laughing and never takes anything seriously. She wants to be like Cat, wants to be like Nat, and constantly toddles after both her big sisters, nodding along to whatever they say. She tries to be a lady when with Cat, turning her nose up at rolling in the mud, or running through the gardens; she tries to be brave and strong like Nat, speaking to the guards in a shy, but clear voice.
Nat likes them both: they’re sweet. They’re innocent in ways she never really was (or can’t remember being). She likes Minisa, who smothers her daughters in love and affection, never upset that she has three girls and only one son - a son who is the heir to Riverrun and carefully watched day and night to ensure he survives where his other brothers did not - and is more than happy to teach the girls what they need to know to survive Westeros.
She doesn’t need to know what they need to know to survive Westeros; it’s straightforward: a medieval, feudal society that spans a continent approximately the length of Eurasia but running from north to south. The king rules over the “kingdoms,” although none but Dorne are really considered kingdoms anymore, having all bent the knee to the Targaryens of old and only because they had dragons. Dorne got to keep their royal titles but nothing higher than a prince or princess because they fought back and killed the dragons, instead. Their king is Aerys, married to his sister (Nat thought that was rather disgusting, but clearly, genetics wasn’t a thing in this world - but surely, horse and dog breeding were?), and they have one surviving son, Rhaegar.
Hoster is a hard man but softens for his wife. He rules the Riverlands well, from what Natasha can figure out - she has a head for numbers, but truthfully, she has a head for a lot of things - except he can be harsh and biting with the lords under his banner, particularly the Freys. He enjoys mocking them, outright to their faces, and the security his position gives him. Nat thinks that is unsafe, but he grew up in this world, so maybe he knows better?
She gives a mental shrug, returns to reading more about the Riverlands and Westeros, and gets caught; their Maester is a young, kind, learned man by the name of Luwin. He takes her to her father who listens to Luwin and then tests her. And tests her some more, with letters and scrolls and arithmetic and problem-solving skills. She passes all of them easily (it’s a bit insulting and sad, but she’s a thirty-something-year-old woman in a six-year-old’s body and if she couldn’t do the math required for lords to manage their coin, she has other problems).
Hoster starts giving her control over the castle when Minisa takes to the birthing room for her confinement and Natasha flourishes. Then, Hoster has time for her. Some time for Catelyn, and little to no time for Lysa. That’s okay - Nat makes up for the neglect.
So does her uncle, Brynden - and he’s more of a father to the girls than Hoster is, most of the time. He brings them dolls and gifts from his travels, tells them scary stories, tells them fantastic stories and legends. He is the one who takes them swimming when Minisa is too tired to do so; the one who keeps them busy and comforted when Hoster is worried for his wife and Minisa grows paler.
“I’ll be your protector when your father isn’t there,” he tells the girls one day. “And then, later, when you’re married and safe with your new husbands and their men, you’ll be protected and safe and comfortable there, and I’ll visit.”
Catelyn and Lysa are settled by such promises. Catelyn dreams of her future Lord Husband, of attending court in King’s Landing and Lysa, of course, does the same.
Natasha plans on keeping her head down, staying in the Riverlands, and making the best of her situation until such a time comes for her life to change.
It works for a while, at least.
Minisa dies in 272 A.C. when Natasha’s nine. She gave birth to a stillborn boy - her third - two days after, from birthing complications.
Hoster doesn’t speak to the girls for three weeks.
Natasha takes care of Catelyn, Lysa, and two-year-old Edmure, now the only heir to Riverrun. Brynden helps, but he’s a bit useless with emotions.
That’s okay - Natasha is good at taking charge. Between her and Luwin, they whip Riverrun into shape, hear petitions from lords and smallfolk alike. They manage the harvests and throw banquets for visitors paying their respects.
When Hoster finally comes back to himself, he visits Natasha in her room one evening and gives her a long, tight hug. It’s warm, and comforting, and appreciative, and makes Natasha feel loved and safe. It’s a thank you, an I’m sorry you went through that alone, an I’m here now, and Well done, Natayla.
It’s the first hug and praise she can remember him giving her since she arrived in Westeros.
(It’ll also be the last.)
The girls have their own secret language. It’s stupid, and gibberish, and there’s no real rhyme or reason to it since there’s no grammar, but specific words and phrases are decided upon and they build it slowly as they grow until they can figure out verb tenses and grammatical sentence structure and a whole number of other things.
Natasha doesn’t really care for it – it’s just another language for her to learn and remember fluently on top of the other dozen she still remembers. Catelyn and Lysa think it’s the height of secrecy and wonder, a secret language. Natasha doesn’t have the heart to tell them that anyone with half a brain and good ears could figure it out after listening to them speak it straight for a week, even during lessons, frustrating Luwin.
When they are punished for it, writing lines mulishly and sending sullen glares at the Maester, Natasha is allowed out of lessons. When Catelyn and Lysa whine about it later that evening, Natasha has no time for them, and consequently, receives the cold shoulder.
She shrugs; it’s not a big deal.
But in her free time, she decides to instead spend time with her little brother, Edmure. He’s the only boy in the castle, and lonely when the girls group together and leave him out of their play. He’s only three and doesn’t understand.
A spiteful part of Natasha, sitting with Edmure one evening in his nursery, says, “Vy by khoteli uslyshat’ istoriyu, lapochka?”
The Russian slips out of her without conscious thought, including the term of endearment for the young redheaded toddler.
Edmure stares up at her, takes his slobby fingers from his mouth and asks, “What’s that, Nattie?”
“It’s a language,” she replies, heart pounding. It’s been so long since she thought of home…
“The one you, an’ Cat, an’ Lysa speak?” he asks, a pout to his lips.
“No,” Natasha says gently. “From somewhere else, far, far away.”
“What did you say?” he asks, eyes wide.
Natasha smiles. “I asked if you wanted a story.” She pauses, looking at Edmure. “Did you want to learn it? Something special for just me and you?”
He nods quickly, eagerly.
He takes to Russian quickly and eagerly, too, and something between Natasha and Edmure just clicks into place, and he’s suddenly hers like Nathaniel Barton was hers, her godson, part of her family just like Clint, and Laura, and Cooper and Lila.
And one day when they’re breaking their fast years later, before everything fell apart, when Lysa spitefully tells Edmure he can’t play with them in the girls’ made-up language, he just tilts his chin up and tells them to go fuck themselves in Russian.
Catelyn and Lysa have no idea what Edmure just said, but Natasha does, and she spits her drink all over the breakfast table in shock.
Edmure spends the rest of the day looking pleased with himself, and Natasha can’t find the heart to tell him off for it, either.
They get a ward. His name is Petyr Baelish, from the Vale, the Fingers. His father saved Hoster’s life during the Ninepenny War and out of gratitude, Hoster takes him in, raises him with a lord’s education to improve his station in life.
He’s small, for a six-year-old. He has brown hair and brown eyes, but they’re beady and there’s something intelligent in them, something that makes Natasha wary because they remind her of Alexander Pierce, of Loki, of Dreykov.
She doesn’t like him much, but Catelyn and Lysa do.
Still, it’s easy to avoid him and she spends most of her time with Edmure anyway when Hoster doesn’t have her being the Lady of Riverrun (much to Catelyn’s displeasure, because she wants that title, badly). She’s the one who calls Petyr “Littlefinger” first, an amusing pun on his birthplace in the Vale and his size.
It’s not so amusing when Edmure repeats it to his face, and she sees something hard flicker in his eyes before he smiles a snake’s smile.
It’ll take her an even longer time to regret coming up with it.
It doesn’t take long for her to learn that the armoury with the wooden practice swords meant for training new men-at-arms has a rusted lock. It takes even less time than that for her to pick it - those skills never disappear - and for her to begin swinging it in the privacy of her bedroom.
It’s not a gun - this world, this Westeros, does not have that kind of weaponry - but it is something she knows how to use. The Red Room was thorough, after all. But she doesn’t stop at swordplay; she uses discarded branches, whittled to the shape and size of daggers for practice; even tiny, heavy wooden discs are meant to mimic some of the toys that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave her, but they are not nearly as effective, without the electrical currents or sophisticated gadgetry their eggheads came up with. There’s no face-changing replicant technology here, after all.
But she practices diligently, secretly. She hates the idea of not being able to defend herself, of being a perfect little lady like Catelyn. She knows what goes on in men’s minds (and some women’s, too).
She is working through forms with her sword, sweat building along her hairline when her bedroom door opens.
“What are you doing?” shrieks Catelyn, eyes wide and hands at her mouth. Petyr smirks at her side, hovering at Catelyn’s shoulder.
Natasha sinks into a lunge, then spins to face her sister and father’s ward. “Practicing.”
“Practicing what?” Catelyn demands.
“Swordplay.”
“You can’t! It’s unladylike!”
Nat turns and raises her eyebrows at Catelyn, entirely unimpressed. That doesn’t deter her sister, though, and Catelyn spins on her heels, shouting for their father as she goes.
“You’re in trouble now,” says Petyr, staring at her, and then leaving to follow Catelyn. He’s always following her.
Natasha sighs, tucking the sword away. Catelyn could be such a tattletale, honestly.
Hoster calls Natasha into his solar and shouts at her for an hour about how unladylike her swordplay was, how dangerous it was, how she’s the daughter of a great lord and it’s unbecoming. Brynden stands at his brother’s shoulder, never saying anything but watching her carefully.
Natasha makes the right noises and apologies that fall from her mouth, and eventually, Hoster cools down. She’s grounded - although they don’t use that word - and sent to her bedroom without dinner.
The turn and click of the lock should frighten her, but the Red Room was worse. Nat isn’t afraid or upset at being locked in her bedroom without a meal; she’s starved before and one night won’t kill her.
“Nat?” a whisper and scratch at her door, hours later, sends her from her bed to the keyhole. On the other side, Lysa’s bright blue eyes blink back at her.
“Lysa?”
“Oh, Nat, I was so worried!” cries Lysa, albeit hushed. “When Father said you were sent to your room - oh, Catelyn was insufferable--!”
“It’s fine,” she tries to soothe, but Lysa was always excitable as a child.
“What did you do?” she breathes, hushed and expectant for gossip. “You’re Father’s favourite.”
Nat pauses; that’s true. Her being disciplined must have sent waves through Riverrun. “I was caught playing with a practice sword. Cat told on me.”
Lysa grumbles something unkind about their sister, but Natasha’s feeling uncharitable, so she doesn’t stop her.
“I tried to get you something to eat, me and Edmure,” says Lysa eventually. She doesn’t cast any judgment on Natasha’s sword playing, or if she does, she keeps it to herself. “But Davyn is on duty and wouldn’t let me. He’s looking the other way with me being here.”
“That’s fine,” says Natasha instead. “Go to sleep, Lysa. I’m fine. I promise.”
“I shall muddy Cat’s dresses for you, Nat!” declares Lysa, followed by a swift goodnight.
Natasha is amused and she falls asleep, still amused.
She’s less amused when she’s still locked into her bedroom the next day; the door only opened for her maids to deliver her breakfast, and one - the one she was closest to, Beatrys, tells her in a hushed whisper that Hoster is still furious and disappointed and won’t let her out for a week at least.
Natasha could pick the lock, easily. She could also scale the outside walls from her window. Nothing is really keeping her in the room except her own stubbornness and an odd sense of love and duty that comes from being nine years a Tully.
She’s surprised when the door opens later that afternoon, her uncle the Blackfish framed in the doorway, staring at her.
“Come with me,” he says, but Nat knows it’s a command.
For a moment, she hesitates.
For all that she has learned of this world – men aren’t afraid to get rid of their mistakes, or their embarrassments. In that frozen moment between continuing to sit on her bed and following her uncle, she’s not Natayla Tully – she’s Natasha Romanov, Black Widow, and she’s ready to fight for her life.
But then Uncle Brynden looks at her, concern twisting his mouth beneath his busy beard, and she sees worry and love and something strangely like curiosity – there’s no reason that a nine-year-old girl should be so afraid of her uncle, especially when no one has laid a hand on her previously. So, she follows.
He takes her to the large garden on the grounds, weaving between thick trees and off the gravel path toward a darker corner, tucked away and hidden with only the furthest edge of Riverrun’s outermost walls and if they looked down and saw them through the leaves, a lone guard patrolling the battlement.
Natasha stops a few meters from Brynden, eyeing him warily.
He looks back at her, something guarded in his gaze. But then he withdraws a wooden practice sword from where he stashed it, underneath some shrubs, and tosses it at her.
She catches it easily, and his guarded eyes are even warier now.
“Show me,” he says.
Childish pride and determination war with Natasha’s natural and cool response of wanting to just stand there – no one makes demands of a Widow. Living in Natayla Tully’s body can be strange; even with her memories and muscle memory, more often she feels new, able to experience being a child in ways Natasha Romanov could never have been. There are times Natayla Tully takes over.
Natasha gets into her first position, Red Room memories taking over. She moves through the series, eyes slipping shut as she progresses through familiar positions and flows from one block to the next, from a block to an aggressive downward attack, from an attack to a block again.
She keeps flowing from one move to the next that the impact of her wooden stick hitting another and jolting her arm has her eyes flying open, staring up at Brynden and his own practice sword, held in one hand and looking comically small.
“Show me,” he demands again, and Natasha obliges.
Four minutes later, she’s without her sword but Brynden is widely grinning, a sparkle in his blue eyes. He hands her back her sword, ignoring her fuming and red face. She stands still, clenching her jaw tightly, swearing in her head because she knows she’s better than that.
“You did well,” he praises, correctly reading her displeasure. “What else can you do?”
Show me show me show me is all she hears, and well, Natasha never backed down from a challenge, did she? She demonstrates with his dagger, she demonstrates with stones from the garden instead of the wooden discs she made, she spars with him in hand-to-hand combat (and lasts significantly longer there, enough that she had his arm locked at one point and he swore, “bloody hell, Nat!”).
Uncle Brynden is beyond impressed when they’re done, over two hours later, panting for breath and sweaty. He’s also eyeing her strangely. “Where did you learn all this, Natayla? Was someone training you?”
She shakes her head. “I just watched the men. That’s all.”
She won’t tell anyone the truth. Ever.
Brynden looks at her contemplatively, like he knows she’s lying, but he loves her too much to call her out on it. Instead, he hums and then takes her back to her room.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he tells her, and she snorts. Of course, she won’t.
A week later, she’s allowed out of her room, but she still gives Catelyn the stink-eye and spends her time with Edmure in the nursery instead, much to Cat’s chagrin and Petyr’s pleasure.
And a week later, Uncle Brynden takes her to the garden when she’s supposed to be doing her penance of cleaning the stables (“if you want to be a boy so much, Natayla, then you can clean the shit with the rest of them,” her father declared, thinking she would break at some stinky manual labour. He’s wrong, of course.), and presents her with a wrapped leather package.
“What’s this?” she asks, taking it from him.
“Open it.”
She does, carefully. As she unrolls it, two shining steel blades are revealed, fish scales as the hilt and deadly sharp and thin. She stares at them and then at Brynden in confusion.
“I have a sword for you, too—”
She slams hard into her uncle, arms not even reaching all the way around his belly and chest as she squeezes tightly, crying into his doublet while he’s laughing and shushing her and patting her on her back.
Brynden Tully is her favourite person in all of Westeros, and that won’t ever change.
In 274, Hoster Tully receives a raven from Winterfell, from Rickard Stark. He asks if Hoster would consider betrothing one of his infamously beautiful and dutiful daughters to his eldest son and heir, Brandon.
Hoster snorts as he rereads the line dutiful daughters. Only Catelyn is dutiful, taking to the Tully words of “family, duty, honour,” well; Natayla and Lysa are both wild, spirited things in different ways: Lysa is still a flighty, lovesick girl of eight while Natayla, at eleven, likes to think that he doesn’t know what she and Brynden get up to for two hours a day since she was nine. It’s his castle, damn it, he knows what his children get up to and Natayla was always wilful and independent and scarily intelligent.
For a long moment, Hoster thinks of the proposal and considers it – considers one of his girls for Brandon Stark. If Rickard wants dutiful, Catelyn would be best, but she’s near five years Brandon’s junior, and from all that he’s heard of the Stark boy (what little trickles down to the Riverlands), he’s a wild wolf, even at three-and-ten.
But –
Rhaegar isn’t married yet. Aerys is looking for a wife for his son. And Natayla is beautiful, perhaps everything that a Princess and later, a Queen, of the realm, should be. She certainly would rule it well.
So would Catelyn, he thinks, eyes drilling unseeingly into the parchment.
But could he afford to wait? To place his hopes and dreams, like Tywin Lannister, on Rhaegar or Aerys picking Natayla or Catelyn over Cersei, or a Hightower girl, or a Redwyne, or a Royce, or even a godsdamn Martell?
He dips his quill in his inkwell and writes back:
I do believe my eldest, Natayla, would make your Brandon a fine wife. Let’s write up terms for Natayla’s dower.
The years in between are good to Natasha and her new Tully family.
Catelyn grows into a stunningly beautiful teenager and grows into her maturity as the lady of the keep for all that Natasha runs the everyday parts with Luwin – and even those she gladly passes on to Cat because she can recognize when her sister does it better. Catelyn still has moments of excessive pride, and she’s a devout follower of the Seven, which sometimes causes some rigid thinking, but she’s kind, and generous with her affection with those she loves and is fiercely loyal.
Lysa does not grow out of her silliness, but it’s just her enjoying life as the youngest daughter. She can be flighty and have fun – sometimes, when she thinks of her life back on Earth, Natasha calls Lysa “Miss Lydia Bennet” in her head, and wonders if one of their father’s men will finally turn her head and encourage her to run away with him, her own Mr. George Wickham. When she has those thoughts, Natasha wonders if she’ll be the one to force Lysa into marriage, or if she could participate in an honour duel for her sister. She wouldn’t mind; she loves Lysa, just like she loves Catelyn and Edmure (and grudgingly accepts Petyr). She’d do anything for them.
Edmure is the sweetest, if not the most bookish, young boy Natasha’s ever met. They keep up their Russian lessons, and it is Edmure who follows her to the garden when Brynden teaches her swordplay and daggers; he keeps her secrets. Natasha is the one who encourages him to think, to lead, to get to know the people of Riverrun and it cultivates a bearing of responsibility and loyalty that goes both ways between Edmure and Riverrun, and the people of Riverrun toward Edmure. As he grows, he makes friends with their father’s bannermen’s son, Marq Piper the most prominent, and the Piper boy is often at Riverrun so much so, spending time with Edmure that he has his own room in the family wing, now.
Petyr is… well, he’s Petyr. He’s devilishly smart, still thin and short; he is the one who comes up with the games the girls play, the one who encourages their rule-breaking and never gets caught. But he’s also the young teen who will do anything Catelyn asks of him – if he wasn’t such a dick, Natasha might almost like how much he worships the ground Cat walks on, even if he stupidly ate the mud pie Catelyn and Lysa “baked” for him.
Hoster has little time for his girls, but Edmure is receiving lessons from him a few hours a week. Natayla is Hoster’s favourite, swordplay notwithstanding because she doesn’t cause him any concerns. Catelyn is sweet and dutiful, Minisa in miniature, which has his heart softening toward her, but he has no idea what to do with Lysa, so she suffers his neglect the most.
Brynden makes up for what he can, but between him and Hoster, they’re travelling around the Riverlands, putting down minor disputes or visiting their bannermen, or conducting trade deals and talks and the bad blood between them – whatever reason it was, Natasha still doesn’t know – leaves little time for uncle Brynden to devote to his nieces and nephew. But when he’s around, he tries hard.
Despite that, Natasha is… happy.
It’s a strange feeling, one she only remembers from when she was still living in New York, in the Avengers Tower. Before… before the team split up. She was content, elsewhere, and even briefly happy when with Yelena, Alexie, and Melina in Siberia, until they were forced to split up again.
She promises to always be there for her new siblings and family. The Avengers were torn apart with lies and secrets, torn between Steve’s desire to help Bucky and protect people who can’t protect themselves, and Tony’s desire for accountability and responsibility for their actions, spurred on by the fear Wanda put in him, and the guilt he felt like he couldn’t escape as the Merchant of Death.
Natasha promises herself to never take her family for granted, to cherish each moment with Cat, Lysa, and Edmure like she didn’t appreciate Melina and Alexei or Yelena. She was so bitter about returning to the Red Room, losing the freedom she gained in America that she forgot when it meant to love someone and be loved back, unconditionally. She forgot she had a true sense of family – at least until Clint took her in.
She swears it will never happen again, not while she is a Tully and the Tully words followed her:
Family.
Duty.
Honour.
(Whatever it takes.)
Natasha is told of the betrothal when she’s fifteen. It’s 278 A.C., and Hoster is nervous, although Natasha thinks he hides it well from the family. But she’s heard about the Defiance of Duskendale, too, and while Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure aren’t entirely sure what it means, Natasha knows. To her annoyance, Petyr knows, too.
She knew it was coming, and she isn’t too bothered by it. From what she knows of the North, it’s cold and snowy and vast, just like Russia. It’s a bit of home in an alien world. Also, there are women warriors in the Mormonts, so there’s a chance Brandon Stark won’t blink when she picks up her sword or daggers. He might even like it.
But her betrothal to Brandon Stark is political, too.
Hoster was sending ravens to Casterly Rock, trying to tie Catelyn and Jaime Lannister together but Tywin wasn’t having it; last Natasha heard, Tywin was still angling for Cersei to be Rhaegar’s wife despite the public snubbing at Viserys’ birth announcement tournament at the Rock.
Natasha’s future father-in-law announced a betrothal between his only daughter and the heir to the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon, and his second son Eddard was a ward of Jon Arryn in the Vale.
Something was brewing. Something spooked Hoster, spooked Jon Arryn, and Rickard Stark, and maybe even Steffon Baratheon before he died. Having their families tied together would be a strong alliance with only the Westerlands, Reach, Crownlands, and Dorne out of the equation (and no one counted the Iron Islands), the alliance would hold most of the northern part of Westeros and the most land.
They were worried about war – but Natasha still wasn’t sure what was going to be the spark that turned everything into a mess. Not yet – but it’s coming.
Hoster announces it to those visiting Riverrun later that week, during a feast. The Mallisters from Seagard are here, along with the Pipers, Vances, Rygers, Blackwoods and Brackens, their mother’s Whent cousin and his family, and others. It’s a full castle for the occasion.
With his goblet in hand, Hoster stands at the head table and booms, “My friends, my Lords and Ladies! Be welcome in my hall and rejoice! For I have betrothed my daughter to the ancient and noble great house of Stark. I know this daughter will honour the Tully words: family, duty, honour.”
At the head table, Brynden grimaces at Hoster’s right, while Edmure, on his direct left, looks around in confusion. Catelyn and Lysa are hanging on their father’s every word, leaning forward expectantly.
Natasha knows Lysa thinks she can marry Petyr – which is laughably sad. He’s the son of a no-name hedge knight from Braavos who had the luck to endear himself to Hoster Tully and be granted land in the Vale by Jon Arryn. A Tully would never marry a Baelish.
Catelyn is their father’s most dutiful daughter, and she would make an excellent Lady to a great house, especially one like the Starks. It’s not the South, which she would prefer, but it’s a wonderful family to marry into.
Neither of them realizes that Hoster would have spoken to them first instead of springing it on them in front of an entire audience.
Hoster turns to Natasha, seated beside Edmure, and beams at her. “Natayla, my eldest, my headstrong little fish… I will be loathed to have you leave Riverrun, for all you have done here, but I know that you will do us proud in Winterfell.”
“Here, here!” shout the people of the hall, but all Natasha can see is Catelyn’s stricken face and Lysa’s torn desire between comforting Catelyn and congratulating Natasha.
Food and wine flow; musicians play and eventually, Natasha is cajoled to the floor to dance with Joffrey Seagard. She dances with Robin Ryger and Karyl Vance, and it is when Clement Piper spins her around on the floor that she sees Catelyn disappear down the hallway.
“Pardon me, my Lord,” says Natasha, and Clement kindly bows her out of the dance and escorts her to the side where she pretends to fan herself, requesting a drink from him. When he disappears, so does Natasha, tracking down Catelyn.
She’s quiet, so good at still being a spy, that it doesn’t take her long to find Catelyn on a stone bench in one of the gardens outside the main hall. It’s a small one, more a path between buildings, but with everyone inside celebrating her betrothal, it’s empty.
“Are you well, Cat?” asks Natasha, stepping into the torchlight from a flickering lantern.
Catelyn gasps, hurriedly scrubbing her face with her hands when she looks up at her sister. “Natayla.” She sniffs. “Leave me be, sister.”
“I can’t do that, Cat. You’re crying. Who hurt you?”
Catelyn’s face twists bitterly at the words, anger flowing through her. She always did have a temper. “You! You did! How could you – why would you—”
Natasha is confused. “What? What did I do?”
“You don’t even realize,” begins Catelyn, rolling her eyes, scrubbing at her cheeks again absently, “Father makes you a splendid match, with a Great House, and it’s wasted on you, Natayla! Oh, sure, you can run a keep. You are a lady born to a Great House. But you don’t want it the way I do! The way I want to be the lady of a castle and have babies and gain the prestige of being Lady Stark!”
Natasha is silent. It’s true, what Catelyn says. Even with her personality tempered by the new world she’s in, Natasha doesn’t exactly have the material to just run a household, not when she wants to go out and make a difference, continue being the Black Widow. She does tiny things now, with her Uncle Brynden’s help, finding places for young, unmarried women, or ruined women, or those who need help but don’t have anyone in their corner.
But this is also a chance for her to do things that Natasha Romanov never got to do – get married, start her own family, settle down instead of travelling the world and fighting HYDRA goons, one base at a time.
Catelyn is made to rule a Great House. But there aren’t many with eligible sons: Tywin said “no” to marrying Catelyn and Jaime Lannister; Steffon Baratheon, before he died, agreed with Rickard Stark to marry his son Robert to Stark’s daughter, Lyanna; Jon Arryn has Elbert Arryn – an option for her, perhaps – and there’s Prince Oberyn in Dorne, but Hoster will never allow that. The other Great Houses have no sons to marry Catelyn, one of the beauties of the realm.
“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, because there’s nothing else, she can say. Hoster made the announcement; it’s done.
Catelyn looks at her, a cool look in her eyes. “Me too.”
There are rumours coming from the Westerlands: Tywin Lannister returned to Casterly Rock with his daughter in tow – but not his son.
Natasha probes a bit more with a merchant who came into Riverrun, when she sits in the kitchen and works bread with the kitchen maids.
“—heard it was terrible,” the merchant confesses, voice hushed and looking over his shoulder as though Tywin himself – or Aerys – would appear. He scoops a large portion of apple crumble into his mouth and speaks through the crumbs. “The King was threatenin’ his life, he was, but the old lion wasn’t havin’ it.”
The lead cook, Mama Roslyn, shakes her head, slapping the dough down on the table. “That poor boy, his father abandoning him like that.”
“He’s gonna be a kingsguard,” says the merchant, slightly affronted. “It’s a callin’. He were hardly abandoned.”
Well, well, thinks Natasha, eyes down. Jaime Lannister is to join the Kingsguard, and Tywin Lannister no longer has his golden heir – he’s stuck with the son he hates, instead.
“Is he still the Hand, then?” continues Mama Roslyn.
The merchant snorts. “Hand?” he guffaws, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Gods, no! Aerys stripped him of that, sent the lion back to his home with his tail between his legs! Nah. I think he named Merryweather or sumwhat.”
Sparks, realizes Natasha. It’s all just another spark, little individual fires here and there. On their own, they mean nothing, but…
She bites her lip. One day, it’s going to be an inferno.
Their mother’s cousin, Walter Whent, announces a great tournament in honour of his maiden daughter, Sierra Whent, just as the ground thaws and spring comes to Westeros.
Catelyn begs to go, desperate to see their Whent cousins, Harrenhal, the pageantry and slew of knights and lords who will be at the great tournament. Lysa also begs, but her wilfulness and giggling make Hoster declare a firm no for her and Edmure, still too young to safely leave Riverrun as heir at eleven (Edmure complains bitterly about that to Natasha later, feeling smothered by their father).
Hoster hems and haws over Catelyn going. Finally, he says she can go with him to see her mother’s people – if Natayla goes with her as a companion, over a dozen Tully guards, and their uncle Brynden (who immediately declares he’ll enter the lists).
The two girls warily eye each other.
Catelyn’s words at Natasha’s betrothal announcement, now several years past, have soured their relationship. They’re still sisters, and they still do things together, but it’s not nearly as warm as it once was. Catelyn can hold a grudge well, Natasha’s learned, and her behaviour is encouraged by Petyr, who reaps the benefits of Catelyn’s attention.
Still –
Natasha agrees and that spring, at eighteen with her wedding barely a year away, she travels with her sister and uncle and father’s men to Harrenhal.
She had seen the giant structure once before, a long time ago. Somehow, she had convinced her father to allow her to travel with him for a dispute at Raven tree Hall, with Lord Blackwood, about something the Brackens had done (when had they not done something, in Blackwood’s mind?), and Hoster was needed to mediate (frustratingly, of course; he didn’t care one whit about their stupid feud).
In the distance, Natasha spied Harrenhal: it was a black smudge on the horizon, blotting out the rising sun from the sunrise she had snuck out to watch with Blackwood’s eldest son, Tytos, who is Lysa’s age. Despite the three-year gap between them, Natasha found Tytos chivalrous and funny – in a dark humour way – and he seemed much more awed by her and happy to go along with some of her whims… like watching the sunrise, even if Harrenhal blocked some of the gorgeous orange land pink light.
But up close? Steve once said that Tony’s New York tower was an ugly thing; Natasha didn’t mind the clean, modern design Tony preferred, but seeing Harrenhal up close, she was inclined to think of his words and apply them here. Harrenhal was beyond ugly; towers were melted and partially collapsed, everything twisted metal and rock the colour of black sludge, and a scent of burnt wood lingered, hundreds of years later.
As the Tullys rode into the third of the gatehouses, into Harrenhal proper (as they were family and thus, were staying in the family wing with the Whents), Natasha noticed the strange, tense air that hovered. However, it wasn’t until later that evening, people watching from a table close to the Whents, that she realized things might be worse than she initially thought.
Many of the older men and women around them are nervous, their smiles forced and trembling, their laughs long and fake, petering out into whispery trills. Eyes darted around the cavernous Harrenhal halls or finding friends and foes across the muddy grounds erected for the tournament. People cluster together – many of them, veterans from the Ninepenny Kings war – or lords and ladies who are a bit more astute than the regular gentry.
Catelyn is oblivious, oohing and ahhing over fabric at a merchant’s stall, fingering the pretty ribbon in Tully blue, and beginning a bargaining session while Natasha stands at her side, watching those around them without watching them – a Black Widow trait she never allows to dull.
Uncle Brynden indulges Catelyn, helping her haggle the merchant down in price when a jovial, carefree laugh catches Natasha’s attention. She turns her head, eyes falling on a tall, broad-shouldered young man with flyaway brown hair and a strong jaw, although it is covered with a well-trimmed beard. He’s dressed well, in grey with leather and what appears to be a wolf insignia clasp, and has an arm slung around a similar-looking young man, sans beard and a bit lankier in body, and with a slightly pinched, put-upon look on his face.
Mouth still open mid-laugh, the older of the two catches Natasha’s eyes. His mouth curls into a slow smirk, his eyes raking her from the top of her red hair to the tips of her boots poking out underneath her dress.
Natasha’s sure that a look from a young man like that would cause most Westerosi girls to madly blush. Instead, she raises a single eyebrow, eyeing the young man in a similar manner, and then deliberately turns to look back at Catelyn just as she exclaims, “Oh, Natayla! Look at this, isn’t it divine?”
She can feel the weight, the shock, of the man’s gaze on her back, hot and steady. She allows her own lips to curl into a smirk: as far as she’s aware, she is the only ‘Natayla’ in all of Westeros – and that wolf clasp? The elder of the two men, the one laughing? That is her betrothed, Brandon Stark, reputably a bit of a rake, if she uses Victorian terms. Except now, this time, she is the one leading the game, having caught Brandon’s attention.
All the better, she thinks, as she and Catelyn and Uncle Brynden move to the next stall, with Catelyn’s successful barter of the ribbon, because Natasha Romanov only ever plays to win.
Brandon corners her the following evening, just before the tournament is about to begin but after Prince Rhaegar made a rather loud and triumphant entrance that Natasha considers distasteful. His father arrived shortly after, to Rhaegar’s shock (and everyone else’s, given how the king looks with long, scraggly hair, curled nails, a gaunt, emaciated form, and beady eyes with a twitch, all due to paranoia).
“So, you are Natayla Tully?” is the first thing Brandon says to her, eyeing her up and down again, although this time it is far less aroused.
He’s much taller than Natasha thought he would be, standing over a head and a half taller than her, and she is tall as a Tully (much taller than she was as Natasha Romanov, anyway). He also has a woodsy smell, covering sweat and ale, and with his arms crossed, he shows off impressive, muscled arms – which is saying something, because Natasha was friends and exercised often with Thor, Steve, and Clint, all of whom were large, muscled men.
“I am,” she replies with confidence, loose-limbed. He’s leaning against the wall, and she stands still in the corridor.
The sound of the feast is loud, occurring just around the corner; Natasha had gone looking for a garderobe to relieve herself, and Brandon had been watching to slip away and corner her. She doesn’t feel cornered, though. Spiders use corners to lure and catch their prey.
“You’re not what I expected,” says Brandon, a tiny furrow between his eyebrows.
“Most find that,” she answers with a tiny shrug.
He smirks, sidles closer to her. “Will you be giving me your favour, Natayla?”
Natasha eyes him, and finally says: “You’ll have to earn it.”
The challenge lights a fire in Brandon, and heat fills his eyes. The smirk stretches into a confident grin. “That so?” He stretches his arms wide. “How may I impress you, my Lady?”
Natasha eyes those arms for a moment. Then, she turns on her heels, walking down the corridor. She’s not returning to the feast though.
“Where are you going?” calls Brandon, confused.
“There’s a Godswood,” she calls back. “It’s private. If you want my favour, you’ll come with me.”
Brandon scrambles after her, no doubt thinking that she’s thinking about a very intimate and sexual encounter, but that is not what Natasha has in mind. Northmen rarely participate in tournaments, keeping their martial skills secret and for warfare only – a decision Natasha truly likes, since it calls to her training.
“Why are we going to the Godswood?” asks Brandon, easily catching up to her with longer strides. He wriggles his eyebrows, comically. “Did you want to get me alone, Natayla? How scandalous! I’m shocked! My poor sensibilities!”
Natasha scoffs.
Twists and turns down darkened hallways eventually lead to a side door that opens to a weedy and overgrown garden, a hidden path toward the Godswood. It’s just as gloomy as the rest of Harrenhal, a thick carpet of moss and leaves and trees of twisted, blackened bark. But there is a heart tree, with deep red leaves and a cleared space before it, where Natasha stops.
Brandon eyes her.
Natasha and Brynden had been using the space – as there were barely any Northmen at the tournament and therefore, leaving the Godswood free from prying eyes – to continue her training when Catelyn was having tea parties and knitting circles with the other Whent ladies. Natasha kneels and withdraws not the daggers or swords she demonstrated once for Brynden, but the staffs she adored using on Earth, instead.
When she stands, she tosses one of the two weighted sticks at Brandon, who fumbles his catch of it, barely keeping the long wooden piece from hitting the floor.
“What’s this?” he asks, staring down at it in his grip.
“If you want my favour, Stark,” begins Natasha, “You need to earn it. I told you that, didn’t I?”
“Well, I didn’t think…” he trails off, blinking, as he looks between the staff and her. Natasha is standing with the staff resting on the ground, leaning against it. She’s comfortable with the weapon, and Brandon realizes this. His hands close around the leather edges of the batons, feeling their weight. Unconsciously, he has already shifted into a stance, although it’s more meant for swords than a staff. That’s fine – she’ll teach him.
Natasha watches. “Do you not want to do this?”
“No! It’s just—” Brandon’s head pops up and then he shakes it, carefully eyeing her. “You’re a Lady – and I shouldn’t—”
“I asked first,” says Natasha, her lips curling into a small smile that has Brandon freezing. “But don’t tell me you’re afraid?”
The pointed word is a challenge, and Brandon stands straight. “I’m no craven.”
“Then let us fight.”
“I shouldn’t hit a lady.”
“Shouldn’t,” teases Natasha, hefting the weight of her staff as she slides a foot back and turns sideways, “Or won’t? Two very different things.”
She doesn’t give him much warning, twisting and twirling the staff up to whack him in the side.
“Ow!” he cries, nearly dropping his. He backs away, staring at her incredulously. “You hit me!”
“That’s the point,” she grins.
Something settles over his face, and he shifts his foot back further while Natasha sinks into a mild lunge, her staff parallel to the ground. Brandon’s not holding the staff right, utilizing it more like a sword – which isn’t wrong but it’s not conducive to this fighting style, either – and Natasha has to make clear their rules.
“First to three hits?” asks Brandon, eyeing her form. He shifts to mimic it.
“Why not to first blood?” taunts Natasha.
“I’d rather not damage that pretty face of yours,” comments Brandon with a hint of his usual arrogance and smirk.
Natasha bares her teeth and swings the staff around, beginning their fight. Brandon manages to bring his up and the two sticks smack together with a loud clack. “Oh, you think I’m pretty?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says in response, flirting coming as easily as breathing to him. She rolls her eyes.
Natasha goes a bit slower than normal when she’d fight with staffs, but Brandon catches on quickly and soon they’re pounding at each other, Natasha using more elaborate twirls and jabs, both ends of her staff as she counters against Brandon’s more heavy-handed whacks and swings. Despite catching on, he still fights like it is a sword rather than an extension of his body, and Natasha uses that to aim low, sweeping his legs out from under him.
“That’s one,” says Natasha, looking down at his startled face.
He swears as he gets slowly to his feet, appraising her. “Where did you learn to do this?”
He moves slowly around her now, and she copies, in the opposite direction for they’re rounding a circle; it’s a different kind of dance happening in the hall.
“Staffs? I asked my uncle about it,” she replies. “But I copied the knights to learn swordplay.” She pauses. “And daggers. I really like my daggers.”
Brandon huffs a laugh and then launches forward. He jabs, and Natasha blocks; Natasha went low again, and Brandon jumps. He brings his staff down from above, and Natasha uses her weight and the momentum to knock it aside, pinning it down with her staff. She elbows him in the face.
Blood comes from his nose and Brandon swears, louder and longer this time. He glares. “Others take you, woman!”
“I thought we agreed on first blood?” asks Natasha innocently.
“With the sticks, not the elbow!” he whines, a hand coming up to wipe away the blood. “I think you broke it!”
“Don’t be such a baby,” replies Natasha, rolling her eyes. She puts the staff on the ground and comes forward. Brandon skitters back.
“Oh, no you don’t—”
But Natasha is quicker, gets into his space, and swiftly resets his nose with a loud crunch.
“Woman!”
“I’m sure you had worse,” she says, backing away. “Relax. It’s over now.”
Brandon glowers mulishly, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that indicates his interest, his curiosity toward her. She’s not what he expected.
He idly rubs at his bearded chin, ignoring the drying blood. His eyes trail to the discarded staff and then back at her, assessing her differently now. He’s seeing the muscle, the leanness to her body, the still way she stands.
“Mayhaps,” he begins cautiously, “After we’ve married, and you’re in Winterfell… mayhaps you’ll teach me more of the staff?”
Natasha smiles. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
“What happened?” asks Ned Stark, staring at his brother’s black eye, the bruising from his broken nose. “Who did you cuckold this time, Brandon?”
“Absolutely no one, little brother,” responds Brandon with cheer the next day when the Starks break the fast. Lyanna and Benjen stare in mortified awe as Brandon grins, looking psychotic. He’s far too cheerful for first thing in the morning, especially without being hungover.
Ned glares.
“Say, Lya,” says Brandon, “Have you met my betrothed, yet?”
“No,” replies Lyanna cautiously, dangerously.
Brandon continues to grin. “I think you’d love her.”
Brandon meets Natasha every spare moment he can, utterly fascinated by her. It bewilders his siblings, unused to seeing him this way, and Lyanna seems to resent her a bit. Despite that, Brandon and Natasha get along very well. Brynden, while keeping an eye out, also gives them quite a bit of leniency, which probably has to do with the wounded look Catelyn adopts whenever Brandon comes by the Tully rooms in Harrenhal.
Natasha uses that time wisely, getting to know her betrothed. Brandon also uses that time wisely, badgering her for a spar, eager to learn more of the staff or batons, and once, very late at night, Natasha wrestled Brandon hand-to-hand to the mud by the heart tree in the blackened and burned Godswood. Enthralled, Brandon had graciously taken his win, wrapped large, warm hands around her hips and up her back, and drew her down for a very thorough and wet kiss.
Brandon receives her favour – a hand-embroidered scarf in Tully colours – as he is participating in the joust, to her surprise. There are many participating, hoping either for the amazing prizes and large purses the Whents are sponsoring (which Natasha thinks is crap – the Whents don’t have that kind of money) or for the prestige of competing against the crown prince.
Natasha watches the events calmly; she cares little for the tournament in general (she misses Friday Night Football dearly), but she uses the time to evaluate the warriors around her. But she, like everyone else, is surprised by the Knight of the Laughing Tree when they unhorse three others. Their mismatched armour charms the crowd; their cry for justice and true honour makes them beloved.
Aerys doesn’t, though.
“FIND HIM!” the king howls, spit flying everywhere once the Laughing Tree knight has wheeled their horse away and run off. “Find that knight! I want him found and brought to me!”
The joust is interrupted, and tension and fear cause the crowd at Harrenhal to murmur quietly as they all depart for their rooms and tents. Prince Rhaegar oversees the hunt, his loyal companion Arthur Dayne at his side, and his squire, Richard Lonmouth heads with Robert Baratheon in a different direction.
Brandon and the Starks do not participate in the hunt; instead, Brandon grouses about the tournament being cut short for the day and his joust being pushed back until tomorrow. It’s not a bad thing, thinks Natasha, but she does eye Brandon carefully for his reasons to complain – a day means nothing in the long run.
He’s just nineteen, she reminds herself. Brandon thinks he’s worldly, but he’s not. Oh, he’s gregarious and charming, and always ready for a laugh. He reminds her of Thor, before everything that happened in Puente Antiguo between him and Loki and S.H.I.E.L.D.. A bit too bold, too loud, too unaware of things.
When it is time for Brandon’s joust, he does well. His seat is excellent, his form stiff but fluid where it needs to be, and he unhorses his opponents quickly and precisely. He moves up the ranks of the lists, passes by where Natasha sits and calls, “I’ll win this tourney for you, Natayla, my love!”
A nearby maiden – a Rosby maybe – swoons.
Natasha smiles primly and quirks an eyebrow in response, teasing her betrothed.
Brandon jousts again, and again, on the second day and the third, until he’s passed many others and it’s just veterans and the kingsguard and the prince. There’s a strange live wire of tension, of excitement in the air, even though no one found the Knight of the Laughing Tree – and they certainly didn’t return to the joust after soundly defeating Houses Haigh, Blount, and Frey.
The prince is Brandon’s competition when he wins against Yohn Royce of the Vale. If Brandon wins, then he is up against Arthur Dayne; if he loses, the prince proceeds to the joust against his friend.
The ground shakes with the pounding of the horse’s hooves, colours blur together as the two men race toward each other, and Natasha holds her breath. The lances strike true on both men; they break, and Brandon rolls his shoulder back with the hit, keeping his seat.
Rhaegar, at the other end, brings his horse around and they canter back to their original starting points for another pass.
This happens three more times until Brandon’s luck runs out and he is unhorsed, but pops up against quickly, a smile on his face, although it is tight. He is unhappy at losing, but puts on a face for the crowd, bowing to the prince first, and then the king, as he is dismissed from the joust in fourth place, winner of nothing.
The events that happen next are strange for Natasha, someone who is used to time moving oddly from battle fatigue or adrenaline. Brandon finishes his joust, and she blinks; she has missed Arthur Dayne’s and Rhaegar defeats Barristan Selmy as the crowd roars, cheering for their prince and his horsemanship.
Seated next to the Whents as kin, Natasha watches Rhaegar take the crown of love and beauty – a beautiful wreath of blue winter roses and green vines – from Sierra with gentle hands, saying something too low for her to hear and making Sierra blush.
Then, he turns, reins in one hand as he easily moves away from the Whents and moves down one side of the tournament stands. He is moving slowly but purposefully, nearing the head where his father, wife Elia, and Elia’s brother Oberyn sit. Elia has a beautiful smile on her face, hands resting in her lap.
As Rhaegar approaches, Natasha sees her shift to move forward to claim her crown –
Rhaegar continues past her.
The crowd goes silent.
She’s frozen, and Natasha watches with mounting horror as he passes the Dornish on Elia and Oberyn’s left side, passes the Reachmen and ends up passing the Stormlords to the Northern contingent at the foot of the stands, tucked between the Stormlands and Vale.
Rhaegar passes Lyanna Stark the crown.
Natasha’s eyes flit away from the storm brewing on Robert Baratheon’s face; away from Brandon’s icy glare and clenched jaw, and looks instead in the other direction, at the king.
He’s been weeping, screaming, hissing and spitting on and off since his arrival, making people equally fearful and horrified in turns whenever he’s around, but for the first time since, he’s quiet. There’s something in his eyes that Natasha doesn’t like as he surveys Rhaegar’s stupidity, the soft smile on his son’s face when he canters his horseback and through the gap in the tournament stand between the Westerlands and Riverlands, nestled against the Crownlanders on the king’s right.
To Natasha, it’s glee. His son has made a mistake.
Her eyes jump back to the Northern contingent, seeing just the tail of Lyanna’s blue dress as she flies from the stands with her two younger brothers on her heels.
Another spark.
Another flame.
Natasha shudders.
281 was a false spring, bringing cold, wet weather to the Riverlands three months following the tournament at Harrenhal, and according to Brandon in his ravens to her, snowdrifts ten feet tall in a blizzard that raged for two weeks straight. The Starks are snowbound, and the rest of Westeros south of the Neck is stuck wallowing in misery, cold, pellet-like rain and boggy fields that ruin a crop or two.
Natasha uses what is left of the year and the start of 282 to make her trousseau with Catelyn and Lysa, quietly preparing for her wedding once the weather eases off in the North. Between her father and Brandon’s, the two men and their Maesters think it’ll be in five months’ time, around the Maiden’s Day. It’s just enough time to prepare, according to Catelyn, and enough time for Natasha to write at least three more letters to Brandon.
It’s one of the better things to happen: after Harrenhal, Brandon seems to be enamoured, and writes her lengthy, if not sometimes illegible, letters of his favourite horse, his favourite spots in Winterfell and the North, and even asks questions about her martial arts. They have common ground and she’s not some flighty Southron girl he originally imagined.
Sometimes, he’ll write about Benjen and Lyanna, too; Eddard, “Ned,” is back in the Vale where he has been fostered. Benjen dreams of being a knight – not a kingsguard anymore – and Lyanna does not believe Brandon that Natasha bested him in swordplay. He suggests a private exhibition between them for her when they all travel south for the wedding at Riverrun in a few months’ time.
Natasha agrees, but privately knows she will have to warn Brandon and Lyanna to keep it quiet, given what Catelyn and Petyr did last time, ratting her out. She wasn’t going to spend her own wedding stuck under lock and key!
Luckily, Natasha was able to keep Catelyn – and by extension, Petyr – busy with Brandon’s early arrival, along with Lyanna, ahead of the Northern party. Benjen was staying in Winterfell with Rickard and Ned was coming later with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn from the Vale, in two weeks’ time. But Brandon and Lyanna had sent along a raven, indicating that they had passed through the Twins and were on their way.
Natasha was not nervous. Black Widows don’t get nervous.
But the day of Brandon’s arrival came and went without him, or Lyanna, or their escort.
And then another day.
And another.
That’s when the nerves hit Natasha, leaving her pacing her father’s study, bothering Maester Luwin to know if a raven has come for her, for her father, for anyone.
A raven does eventually come, from King’s Landing.
Hoster reads it first after Luwin passes it to him. He pales, sways where he stands. Luwin races to his lord’s side and guides him to a chair, and Natasha snatches the letter while Catelyn fusses over their father and Lysa hovers awkwardly alongside Uncle Brynden.
None of them get Hoster to speak, so it’s Brynden who turns to her and asks, “Nat? What is it, girl? What’s happened?”
Natasha doesn’t know if she believes the contents of the letter, but it is written and signed by Maester Pycelle and signed by Lord Merryweather, the Hand of the King. Her blue eyes track to Luwin, who dips his chin shallowly.
“Oh.” She doesn’t realize she spoke aloud.
“Oh? Oh, what?” demands Catelyn. “Natayla! What is it?”
Natasha looks at their father, the grim look on his face as all the plans he made come crashing down around him, his very world torn out from under his feet. Catelyn, torn between fussing and belligerent, keeps turning between her father and eldest sister. Lysa, utterly confused, wanting reassurances. Edmure, quiet at the back of the room with Petyr, who is keeping him in place from running to her side.
And Uncle Brynden, who realizes it first, without her saying anything else.
“It’s war then, is it?”
Catelyn cries in alarm, and Natasha is forced to answer them all: “Brandon’s been taken prisoner in King’s Landing for treasonous words against Prince Rhaegar and threatening the crown prince. Lord Rickard is to present himself in the capital to answer for his son’s crimes.”
“That’s – that’s not war!” says Catelyn shrilly, eyes wide. “The King just wants to ensure things are sorted out between all of them—”
Brynden shakes his head. “Oh, Little Cat. No. The King is demanding a Lord Paramount and his heir. This… this won’t go well.”
Natasha looks down at the letter, her hands trembling, and thinks another spark. How many more, until this all blows up?
The answer? None.
Aerys executes Brandon and Rickard Stark – Brandon, strangled to death trying to save his father, who was burned alive – three months later, and the North and the Vale immediately secede from the crown’s rule, declaring war on the Targaryens and the other loyalists.
Boom.
END OF PART ONE.
TO BE CONTINUED in PART TWO.