Chapter Text
Winterfell loomed ahead, a fortress of gray stone and rising towers, its walls kissed by the frost that lingered in the air. The cold bit into Catelyn’s skin the moment she crossed the threshold of the North, and she was reminded that she was far from home. Very far. The Riverlands had been gentle, a land of flowing waters and warm summers. Here, the wind howled through the trees, whispering secrets of a life she had not chosen but one she was bound to now.
She clutched Robb closer to her chest, tucking him beneath the thick layers of fur that swaddled him. He was but a babe, born in the warmth of Riverrun, not of this harsh and frozen land. The air was too sharp, the cold too biting—her son was a Stark by both blood and name, but in birth, he was still a Tully. And yet, this was to be his home, the land he would someday rule, the halls where his children would run and play. Catelyn had prayed to the Seven to grant her the strength to love it as she should, for her son’s sake, for the children she would bear, for the husband she hardly knew. She had prayed, and yet the weight of her fears clung to her like the chill in the wind.
When she dismounted, her boots sank into the snow-dusted ground. The wind carried the scent of damp stone and smoke, the scents of Winterfell. Before her stood her husband, Eddard Stark, as solemn as she had remembered him. His face, a study in restraint, betrayed nothing—not joy, nor warmth, nor even the faintest trace of familiarity. Beside him stood his younger brother, Benjen, a man with sharper edges but kinder eyes. They were all she knew in this land of ice and wolves.
Ned stepped forward, his gaze falling to the bundle in her arms. It was so brief, that shift in his expression, but she caught it—the hard lines of his face softened, the ghost of something tender flickered in those storm-gray eyes. It was not for her, she knew, but for the babe she held.
“This is your son, my lord,” she said, her voice steady despite the cold gripping her bones. "I named him Robb, as I said in my letters." Carefully, she shifted Robb in her arms, offering him to his father.
Ned reached for him hesitantly, as though he feared his own touch might shatter the fragile moment. But when his hands cradled their son, his entire countenance changed. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips, a rare sight she had not been graced with before. He was enthralled, lost in the wonder of the child in his grasp. Catelyn watched, her heart a careful balance of emotions. She had feared that Ned would resent their son for his Tully coloring—his auburn hair, his blue eyes—but it seemed that none of it mattered to him. He had a son, an heir, and in that moment, she almost believed he could be happy.
Robb let out a small sound, his tiny fingers reaching upward until they tangled in Ned’s hair, gripping tight with the strength only babes possess. Ned chuckled, deep and unrestrained, and beside him, Benjen laughed as well. “He likes pulling on people’s hair,” Catelyn said, watching the way her husband’s expression lit with amusement.
She thought, just for a moment, that maybe it would be alright. Maybe she could grow to love this man, maybe he would love her in time. Maybe this land, though cold and unfamiliar, could become home.
Then Ned spoke, and the fragile hope in her chest shattered.
“He will not be alone in the nursery,” he said, still looking at their son. “He has a brother there already.”
A brother.
The words did not settle at first. Catelyn blinked, searching his face, her mind stumbling over what he meant. Then realization struck, swift and cruel.
“Your bastard,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, but sharp as a blade. She did not miss the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders stiffened. “You mean to say… he is here? In Winterfell?”
“Yes.” The word was firm, final. “His name is Jon Snow. He is my blood, and he will be raised here, as Robb’s brother.”
As Robb’s brother.
A wave of nausea rolled through her. She wanted to take Robb from this man's arms, the weight of the shame grounding her when she felt as though she might be sick. She had never heard of any whisper, any rumor—of a boy born of another woman, of the dishonor her husband carried with him from the South. She had not known of his betrayal before she came here.
But she knew men had needs. She knew of men who strayed away from the marriage bed when they got lonely. She was mistaken to have not thoguht that Ned was the same. Bearing a bastard is not uncommon, really. But this—this was different. He had not just brought his shame home with him; he had settled it within these walls, made a place for it beside her son.
She wanted to slap him, to scream, to turn on her heel and flee back to Riverrun. To take Robb far away from this place, from this boy who stood as a living reminder of her husband’s faithlessness. But she did none of those things. It stung to remember House Tully's words. All her life, ever since her mother so cruelly died, she was bound to duty. She knew her duty, this is nto the first time she was hesitant to do right by it, but she so achingly wanted to run away.
Family. Duty. Honor. Those were the words, weren't they? She wanted to hurt him so. But Catelyn Tully knew her duty as Eddard's wife. She was to follow his commands, whether she likes it or not. He was also her family now. So instead, she forced her back straight, lifted her chin, and swallowed the rage burning in her throat.
“Very well, my lord,” she said, the words stiff, hollow. She would not let him see her break. “If that is what you wish.”
There was nothing left to say. She turned to the nearest servant and said, “Take me to my chambers. I fear I've gone tired from the travels.”
Then, with careful deliberation, she reached for Robb, taking him from Ned’s arms. He relinquished their son without protest, though his gaze lingered, as though he wished to say something. But she would not grant him the opportunity. She met his eyes once more and said, with quiet finality, “I shall attend to my son, my lord.”
My son.
She placed the weight of her pain into those words, hoping—praying—that they would cut him, that they would make him feel even an ounce of the shame and dishonor he had placed upon her. But she knew it would never be enough. No pain she inflicted could ever match the deep, festering wound he had left within her.
Not even a day in her new home, and already, she was breaking.
As she followed the servant into the depths of the castle, she cursed Eddard Stark in her mind. Cursed him for his betrayal, for his honor, for the wound he had given her that would never, ever heal.
"Lord Stark has given you the warmest chamber, My Lady." The servant girl whispered when they reached her chambers. Though Catelyn couldn't care less. What good would the warmest room in this castle do to her after what he had done?
She had to bite back the bitter laugh at the girl, "Thank you. You may now leave."
"If you say so, my lady." She hesitantly stepped back, as though unsure if she should really leave. "If you wish for anything else, do not hesitate to call on it." She finally said before fleeing.
Catelyn stepped inside her chambers, and already took note that it was, in fact, the warmest place she has ever set her feet on in this castle. And had that damned revelation not happened, she would be grateful for Eddard, for having thought about her getting comfortable in Winterfell.
She closed the door as softly as she could, the silence hear was so deafening that she did not want to ruin it.
Only then did Catelyn let out the shaky breath she did not know she was holding. Only then did she let her legs and arms tremble. Only then did she allowed her tears to escape.
She hated to see that there was no craddle in her room for Robb. Did he care so little for his trueborn son and heir that he set aside his own needs? All the while making his bastard at home, most probably tucked away by his a wet nurse in a room.
Gods, how she wanted to run away, to never come back to this godforsaken place.
Carefully, she placed Robb on the matress. She was glad that he chose to properly behave at this moment. She did not know if she could tend to his wails when she herself was a mess.
Catelyn sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded tightly on her lap, nails digging into her palms. She could still feel the bite of the cold air against her skin, the weight of her damp cloak pressing down on her shoulders. But none of it compared to the chill that had seeped into her bones the moment Eddard Stark spoke of his bastard. Your bastard.
She clenched her jaw.
She should have known, of course. It was war. He was away for almost a year, and she wasn't there to relieve him of his needs. But... The Lord Stark who had requested her to call him Ned, the man who had been so careful not to hurt her as he bedded her for the first time, the man who was warm to her the first few days of their marriage, that man was not like that. He would never dishonour her so.
But men have needs.
Men have needs.
And Eddard Stark was nothing but a man.
He had fucked another woman, merely months or weeks after bedding her. He had arrived in Winterfell with his bastard, while he sent for her and Robb like a Lord would his servant, prioritising his bastard's safety above hers or Robb's. He had made a place for him in his castle. He intends for him to grow up with Robb. As his brother.
He had done and intend to do all those, as if that was something she was expected to simply accept.
Catelyn turned her gaze to Robb, starting to fall asleep on the mattress, his small body wrapped in furs. His auburn hair caught the dim candlelight, the soft curls an unmistakable mark of House Tully. My son, she had told Ned. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Robb was hers, hers, the only one who mattered now.
And yet, she thought bitterly, the very bed he was to sleep in had been an afterthought. There was no cradle here, no space made for him in the very chambers meant for his mother. But the bastard? Oh, he had a place. He had a wet nurse, a room, a place in Ned’s household and name.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she pressed a hand against her chest, as if to steady herself.
This was to be her home now. This cold, unwelcoming place of stone and secrets. She had prayed to her gods to help her love it in time, to help her endure. But how could she love it now, knowing what it had taken from her? The moment she had stepped through its gates, Winterfell had stripped her of everything—her pride, her dignity, the fragile hope she had carried that her marriage might not be as empty as she feared.
How was she to face the people of this castle after the shame Eddard Stark had so cruelly placed upon her shoulders?
She imagined their looks, their whispers, the way their eyes would flicker between her and the boy, the one who surely bore no trace of her, yet carried the Stark blood more openly than she ever could.
Would they pity her? Mock her? Would they see her as weak for allowing it, for saying very well, my lord when all she had wanted was to scream?
She curled her hands into fists, her throat burning.
She did not know if she would ever come to love this place.
She did not know if she would ever come to love her husband.
She did not know if she would ever feel warmth again.
Catelyn inhaled sharply, forcing herself to stand. The room swayed for a moment, but she steadied herself, blinking away the remaining tears.
How had it come to this?
Had it been fate? Had it been the will of the gods, cruel and unyielding? Or had it simply been her own misfortune to be born a woman, to be wedded to a man who could stain her honor without consequence while she was expected to smile and bear it?
She did not know. And that, more than anything, enraged her.
Catelyn did not leave her chambers that day.
She sat in silence, staring at the dying embers of the hearth as the afternoon bled into evening, as the shadows stretched long and thin across the walls. The only sound was Robb’s steady breathing, the occasional rustle of his tiny movements beneath the furs. She should have been exploring the halls of her new home, acquainting herself with the keep and its people. But what was the point? What good would it do when every corner of this place only reminded her of what had been done to her?
Yet there were still matters that needed attending.
Summoning one of the servants, she ordered a cradle for Robb. He could not sleep on the bed forever, not when he was still so small. And if her lord husband had not thought to provide one for him, then she would.
It did not take long before the cradle was delivered, two men carefully carrying the polished wood frame into the chamber. Catelyn watched as they placed it beside her bed, its presence a small relief amid the storm inside her. But something about it gnawed at her still.
"Where was this kept?" she asked, keeping her voice even.
The servant who had brought it hesitated before answering. "Lord Stark had it placed in the nursery, my lady."
Catelyn's stomach turned. The nursery. That meant he was there, too. The bastard.
Her grip on her skirts tightened, nails pressing into her palms. The audacity of it. To pla
place her son in the same room as the evidence of his betrayal, as if they were equals. As if they were truly brothers.
No. She would not have it.
"This cradle stays here," she said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "From this day forward, my son will sleep nowhere else but in this room, under my watch."
The servant nodded quickly, bowing her head before she and the others hurriedly left the room.
By the time they were gone and the cradle was settled, Robb stirred. His tiny face scrunched up before his wails filled the room.
Catelyn exhaled, reaching for him. Her body ached, heavy with exhaustion, but this—this was something she could bear. This pain, the soreness of her breasts, the weight of him in her arms—these were burdens she chose to carry.
She held him close, adjusting the layers of cloth as she began to feed him. As much as she loved seeing him sleep, it was always a relief when he woke, when she could do something to ease the discomforts of motherhood. At least this pain had purpose.
She barely noticed the knock on her door.
The same servant from earlier entered, now holding a tray of food.
Catelyn lifted her gaze expectantly, waiting for her husband to follow. But he never did.
Instead, the girl simply set the tray on a nearby table, murmuring a soft, “Lord Stark sends his regards, my lady.”
So he had understood, then. Understood that she wanted nothing to do with him, that she would not entertain his presence tonight. Good. Let him stay away.
Catelyn turned her attention back to Robb, brushing a gentle hand over his soft curls.
She stayed locked in her chambers for the rest of the evening, eating in silence, tending to Robb, staring at the flickering candlelight long after he had fallen asleep again.
But she knew she could not hide forever.
Tomorrow, she would have to step out of this room. Tomorrow, she would have to face them all—the servants, the maesters, the men and women of Winterfell who would look to her now as their lady.
It did not matter if she did not want to. It did not matter if she was not ready.
It was her duty.
And Catelyn Stark had never forsaken her duty.
Catelyn sat before her mirror, running a brush through the long strands of her auburn hair. It was a habit that had once been soothing to her, a moment of quiet reflection before the day began. But here, in Winterfell, it did little to still the storm inside her. She barely recognized herself in the dim light, her blue eyes duller than they once were, her face harder.
It had been two weeks since her arrival, and in that time, she had learned how to compose herself. At least, she thought she had. But she wondered if her face still betrayed her resentment, if the cold edge in her gaze gave her away. Perhaps it did—Eddard was always hesitant with her, always careful. His words were slow, uncertain, as if every conversation with her required deep thought. That served him right. Let him feel the weight of it. Let him wonder how long she would be this way.
With a sigh, she set down the brush and stood. She had spent enough time dwelling. She had duties to tend to and a meal to share with her husband and his brother.
The Great Hall was warm, filled with the scents of roasted meats and fresh bread. The sounds of men speaking in hushed tones echoed in the vast space, but at the head table, there was little conversation. As always, it was Benjen who kept her company. He had quickly become her friend, a welcome presence in this unfamiliar place. He and Old Nan were the only people whose company she truly enjoyed.
Benjen spoke with ease, making her laugh even as she picked at her food. But Eddard, as always, remained silent. He sat across from her, eating in quiet contemplation, only speaking when directly addressed. He had never been a man of many words, but now, he seemed even more guarded, more unsure. And though she did not often meet his gaze, she could feel it—his restraint, his guilt. Good.
Still, even as she spoke with Benjen, a quiet anger burned in her chest. She had gotten used to composing herself, but the mere sight of her husband made her want to leave, to flee this place and never return. She hated him. Gods, she hated him for what he had done to her. And yet, she endured.
Every day, Robb spent his time in the nursery—with the bastard. She despised it, despised the very idea of it. But whenever she had time, whenever her duties allowed, she would take Robb away from that room, from him, and spend time with him alone.
Still, despite everything, she had taken note of something.
Eddard was a good father to Robb.
She had expected him to be distant, to favor the boy who bore his blood but not her own. But he did not. He held Robb close, played with him, murmured to him in the soft voice of a father who adored his child. At least that was something. He might have dishonored her, might have taken from her something she could never get back, but at least he did right by her son.
Winterfell did not yet accept her as its lady. Her husband did not yet want her. She could endure that.
But it would have killed her if her son had been cast aside. If Robb had suffered because of Eddard’s betrayal.
Her son deserved all the honor, all the love, all the good things in this castle. And at the very least, her lord husband seemed to agree.
The afternoon air was crisp, though the sun shone weakly through the clouds. Catelyn walked through the courtyard with Robb, wrapped warmly in his furs, taking the time to familiarize herself with the castle grounds. It was something she had avoided before, but now, she found some comfort in keeping herself busy. If she were to be Lady of Winterfell, she could not remain shut away forever.
She had not expected to see Eddard approach.
He hesitated before speaking, his voice measured. "May I take him for a while?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Robb. "I want to spend time with my son."
His son.
Something in her chest softened, just slightly.
She knew now that he loved Robb, but hearing it aloud, seeing the way he reached for him—it did something to her.
She nodded, carefully placing Robb into his arms. The boy let out a delighted sound, tiny hands grabbing at his father’s cloak, small fists curling into the fabric. Eddard smiled, truly smiled, and the sight of it surprised her.
And to her greater surprise, her own smile did not falter as she watched them.
But then she saw the wet nurse.
She came forward with the bastard in her arms, and Catelyn felt her breath hitch.
The wet nurse placed the boy into Eddard’s free arm, and without hesitation, he held the child with the same ease, the same care.
As if they were equals.
As if they were the same.
Her smile faltered.
Her stomach twisted as she watched him hold the bastard as if he were his trueborn son.
She hated it. She hated how easily he treated them as equals, how freely he gave the boy the same love he gave Robb. They were not the same. They would never be the same.
Catelyn turned away, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
It did not matter that Eddard was a good father. It did not matter that he loved Robb.
The wound was still there.
And it still bled.