Work Text:
She found him in the Godswood. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment at the reminder of how much he had grown to resemble Ned – the same as it had the first time she’d seen him upon her return to Winterfell. Countless times in her life, she had entered the Godswood to find her husband here and she could almost fool herself into thinking that the past few years had just been a bad dream, that Ned was here and her family was safe. But when she stepped closer, she noticed how his shoulders were not as wide, his posture not quite right. It was Jon Snow, the bastard son of her husband who looked more like Ned than any of her own sons ever did.
He turned upon the sound of her footsteps and made to rise.
“No need to stop praying on my account,” she said.
He nodded but didn’t look her in the eye. Catelyn could tell she made him uncomfortable – she always had – and her presence seemed to distract him.
She stood there, staring into the carved face of the weirwood and wondering about all the times Ned had prayed to this heart tree. Had the Old Gods listened? Did they care? Did they even exist?
Catelyn could not answer those questions, but she had found herself asking similar ones about the Seven ever since the murder of her sons. She had not stepped foot in the ruined sept Ned had built for her since returning to Winterfell. The Seven had been no help to her, so perhaps she could consult her husband’s gods. They had helped Ned when he needed them, hadn’t they? Ned had prayed to defeat the Targaryens and the Greyjoys, for the health of his wife and each of his children, for the wisdom to rule Winterfell. And he had been granted all of those things. Perhaps he had prayed to find Jon Arryn’s murderer and the gods had granted him that, too. Except that it had cost him his life.
Catelyn knelt down a few feet away from Jon Snow, closer to him than she had perhaps ever been. She took note of how he stiffened, no doubt confused as to why she would pray to the Old Gods, especially whilst he was there.
She looked back at the heart tree’s face, her mind too weary to know what to do now.
“What do you pray for?” she finally asked.
Catelyn could see his mouth part out of the corner of her eye, surprised at her question – at the fact that she was directly addressing him, for the second time.
“Many things, my lady.”
She can’t help a sigh, exasperated with his wariness around her. “Like what?”
He took a breath, seemingly finding his tongue. “That the Wall protects us. That the winter is mild. That the North will not suffer too much without a Lord Stark in Winterfell to rule and serve them,” he began carefully. “That there will be justice for all those who have harmed the Starks. That Arya and Sansa are alive and will find their way home again.”
Catelyn felt her body tremor at the names of her daughters. He thinks of them, too. That should not surprise her. Especially with Arya. Jon Snow and her younger daughter had always had a bond that she neither liked nor fully understood. But now Catelyn was oddly grateful for Jon Snow. She’d gotten used to feeling like the only person alive who still cared what happened to her two girls. To the rest of the world, they were lost and forgotten. But not to her. And not to Jon Snow.
“I freed Jaime Lannister to have my girls home again,” she found herself saying, her throat suddenly dry. “Our most prized hostage. The man who pushed my little boy out of a window. And I freed him for the small hope of getting back my daughters. I had already lost Bran and Rickon and I couldn’t stand the idea of losing two more of my children.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I might have done the same.”
Might he have? Robb might have thought so, too, until he had been put in that position. But even if Jon Snow were lying, she knew it was kindly meant.
She looked at him then. She used to hate the sight of his face, it being so similar to Ned’s, to Arya’s. A Stark face that he had no business having. But now she was glad for the familiarity of it. The two of them were the closest things to Starks that Winterfell had left. He was a bastard, and her? – she had been married into it, but that didn’t make her a Stark either, not truly. And without a Stark husband or a Stark son, she was nothing.
Catelyn had been reminded of that fact upon her arriving in Winterfell. Stannis Baratheon had barely paid her any of his attention, ready to brush her to aside like some bothersome fly; his men had only seemed annoyed by her presence. But Jon Snow had not been willing to stand for that.
She was the wife to Lord Eddard Stark and remains the Lady of Winterfell, so far as I see. You will show her your respect, he had said sternly.
It had surprised her to hear him speak so forcefully, for a boy who would barely speak in front of her let alone raise his voice to much of anyone. But for his words to be in her defense, and then for Stannis and his men to have heeded what Jon Snow had to say – those things had been shocking, too
She knew it was out of the love he bore for his father, and the love he knew Ned bore for her. Jon Snow had disliked her as much as she had disliked him. Yet Catelyn did not think that she would have done the same for him.
“I should thank you,” she said, her voice heavy with reluctance at having to say those words, “for making sure I was welcome here.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “You will always be welcome in Winterfell, my lady. It is your own home.”
“Is it? The last I remember my home, it was filled with a loving husband, five laughing children, and the many friends I’d come to know over the years. Now the castle is a ruin. An empty shell filled with people I don’t know. The only face I remember ever being here before is yours.”
“I wish it were a face you could take comfort in, my lady.”
“Oddly enough, Jon, I do.”
He finally looked at her then, with his grey eyes. Stark eyes.
“You are all that there is left of what I once knew,” she continued. “And strange as it is for me to say this, I trust you. I have not always trusted you – as history has taught us not to trust bastards. But I know that you have Ned’s honor. So I trust you.”
He is not Ned’s son, Howland Reed had told Jon Snow, but Ned’s nephew.
A year had passed before the forces from Greywater Watch could make their way north to Winterfell. Lord Howland had requested to see Jon Snow in private. That was when he told him of what happened at the Tower of Joy, of his mother and his real father, and Ned’s promise to raise and protect his nephew.
Jon had called for her immediately and requested Howland Reed repeat what he had said.
She felt the pain in her chest and the tears sting her eyes, as she thanked Howland Reed and asked if he might leave her alone with Jon. Then the door shut and she began to weep.
She felt relief that Ned had never betrayed her. Anger that Ned never told her. And regret, regret that she had spent so much time at the beginning of their marriage upset with him – that she had spent so much energy hating Jon Snow.
Jon was quiet the entire time while she wept. She could tell he was still thinking it over and she could only imagine the thoughts racing in his own head. But finally he reached out for her shoulder, his touch hesitant, in an attempt to comfort her.
“Now you know,” he said gently, “that my father – my uncle,” he corrected, the word sounding strange from his mouth, “was always faithful to you.”
“He is still your father, Jon.” Her fingers found his face, cupping his cheek the way she had many times with her own children. But never Jon. “He may be your uncle by blood, but he raised you as a son and he loved you as a father. I will not fault you for continuing to think of him that way.”
Jon gave a sad smile in gratitude. It reminded her of Ned. And perhaps a little of Arya or maybe Robb, too. She smiled back and then took away her hand, feeling awkward from the affection of her gesture.
It was too late for her to be any kind of mother to Jon. She wondered what it would have been like if she had known from the beginning. She might have still resented having to live such a lie, of having everyone think that Ned had brought his bastard home to live with her even if she knew it wasn’t true. But she would like to think that she would have eventually pitied the boy, and would have shown him some manner of affection. She supposed that was why Ned hadn’t told her. He knew she would have been kinder to the boy, had she known. And although it might have made for a happier childhood for Jon and happier marriage for her and Ned, it could have put Jon in danger if there had been any suspicion that he was a Targaryen. Ladies did not act motherly toward their husband’s bastards.
But a lady could, given the right circumstances, come to respect her husband’s bastard. Catelyn had found that out over the past year, even without knowing his true parentage until now. It might have taken everything else that the two knew and loved being stripped away from them. But they were all each other had now, and both found it was better than nothing. At least together they had a shared purpose: for Winterfell. As the two of them were all that Winterfell had left.
Jon offered his handkerchief and she accepted. Catelyn lowered her gaze as she dried her tears, pretending not to notice the growing wetness of his own eyes ever since Lord Howland had left. He was still not prepared to cry in front of her and she didn’t expect he ever would be. It was also too late for Jon to think of himself as any kind of son to her.
“Thank you, Jon, for letting me know this,” she said. “I know that you didn’t have to.”
He shook his head slightly, unwilling to accept her gratitude. “I thought you deserved to know.”
“Nevertheless, it’s dangerous to be a Targaryen in these times. The more people who know –”
“I understand, my lady. I know the danger.” Jon looked her in the eye, his expression every bit as solemn as Ned’s even if he wasn’t his son. “But I trust you.”