Chapter Text
Ned Stark stares up at the towers of Winterfell looming close overhead and tries very hard to feel relieved.
He should feel joyful and triumphant. Both he and Robert had lived through the worst of it, when many great men had fallen. He had seen damn near all of the Seven Kingdoms, met many fine people, and fought valiantly on behalf of his sister; his poor, darling, dead sister. As he stares at Winterfell, all he can see is a younger Lyanna, trotting out of the gates on her white horse to meet with him. No, he does not feel joyful. This is not a triumph. This is a funeral march, her newborn’s blanket her shroud. Not literally, of course; he had insisted on carrying her torn body down the steps of that damned tower, carting it all the way back to Winterfell to lie peacefully with their ancestors. He had spent a great deal more than he should have to ensure that her actual shroud was gold, as befitting a queen.
Her son; he rides in a carriage with the new Septa of Winterfell, Morgana, chosen specifically for her ability to be discreet. Ned knows that even though he’s told himself for the duration of the trip that lying to Catelyn and telling her the child is a bastard is the best course of action, his choice of Septa Morgana over Septa Mordane cements the opposite.
Deep down, Ned Stark knows the war is not over. It has only been paused until the babe is full grown.
Jaehaerys Targaryen, his sister had whispered. Please, Ned. Please. Robert will kill him.
Jon, Ned has decided. He damns himself for telling his sister the grand stories of Jaehaerys the First and the Good Queen Alysanne, of their trip to Winterfell and the Wall that became the foundations of their current society. Honestly, a name like Jaehaerys will see the boy murdered in a fortnight. Jon will do.
The babe cries all through the welcome of the good folk of Wintertown, and then as they cross the gates into Winterfell. All the servants and small folk surround the courtyard, clapping and cheering wildly. There’s the smell of fresh food cooking for the feast to be held this evening, and Ned must admit he’s looking forward to a warm bath.
Catelyn, so young and fresh in the face of war, cradles their small son in her hands and beams down at him. He grins back at her, waving, but watches as her face falls when Septa Morgana exits the carriage carefully with Jae- with Jon Snow.
For a brief, terrifying moment he thinks perhaps she’ll ignore him, and he won’t have a chance to tell her everything until after the feast. He can see it, stretched out before him, their entire future together, trying to love and build in between his “bastard.” Her eyes are already full of fury and tears; no, he’d made the correct decision, hiring Septa Morgana and choosing to tell Catelyn everything.
He runs to the top of the bannister to greet her, the people below going wild, screaming and shouting with glee when he swoops her into his arms. She doesn’t resist his greeting kiss, but she doesn’t lean into it either the way he’s been imagining for months. Lyanna’s voice echoes in his head; promise me, Ned.
“Come with me, Cat, please,” he breathes against her mouth. Her brows furrow in confusion, but then she’s turning toward the crowd and grinning again, passing their Robb to him.
Robb, named after Robert, the man who slayed thousands for the love of a woman that did not want him. His heart thuds painfully in his chest.
He doesn’t remember, later, what he says below to the crowd, only that they seem to eat out of the palm of his hand. Eyes are bright and thrilled, filled with the hope of a fresh summer without bloodshed. Oh, it’s terrible, truly; so far, only he knows what is to come.
Catelyn follows him dutifully to their chambers, where a steaming bath has already been drawn. Ned disrobes without preamble, watching with pleasure as her cheeks flame and she glances away, though together they have made a son.
He chuckles, lowly, half hard already though he knows any touches must wait until after he has told her all of it, the whole bloody ordeal. “Cat. Come here, my love. I’m a bit sore from the road. Could you wash my hair for me?”
It’s a weak excuse, he knows it, she knows it. Still, he considers it a good sign when she purses her lips and stiffly reaches out for a jug to gather the water from around him.
“My dear Cat. I know you must have so many questions. So many concerns.”
“That’s one word for it,” she snips. He barely refrains from smiling. Such fire, such will. His wife was chosen well.
“Catelyn Stark, I am yours. You are mine. Let’s not squabble. I have much to tell you. Pray tell, how long until we are expected for the feast?”
She eyes him carefully, pausing in her vicious lathering of the soap. “Several hours.”
“Aye. That’s good. This discussion will take a long while. Tell me, Catelyn; do you enjoy being Lady Stark?”
“I would. If it were true that you were mine, as I am yours,” she sniffs. Her mouth is set in a hard line, but Ned watches it tremble. His heart aches for her, his strong woman.
“I’m very proud of you, Cat. You’ve done a wonderful job with Winterfell in my absence. The people adore you. You’ve won their respect, and mine. Listen to me, sweet. I was never dishonorable toward you.”
She pours the jug of water over his head without warning. Ned splutters for a moment, then grins at her.
“It’s true!”
“Oh? Then what of the babe? I suppose you thought nine months was too long a wait for our Robb to have a playmate? Found him conveniently on the side of the King’s Road?”
“Catelyn, be serious for a moment. You are my lady wife, and I wish there to be no secrets between us. But I must admit, I’ve had many long months on the road to think of the best course of action, and I have a plan. It’s a course that will take many years to run, but I believe it is best. Can I trust you, Cat? With everything, as a man ought trust his wife?”
She blinks her big blue eyes at him, bluer still in the light of the day that pours through the windows. They’re open, letting air in that ruffles the shades. The stone of Winterfell only makes her eyes brighter in contrast; he feels as though he could swim in them.
Truly, if Catelyn trusts in him not, all may be lost.
Finally, she takes a deep breath, reaching for the soap again and rubbing it carefully into his scalp. He moans quietly, watches as she bites her lip at the sound.
“I am yours. You are mine,” she nods, scraping her nails more harshly against his head. “Tell me what you must, husband. I will do my very best to please you, as is my duty.”
Family, duty, honor. He had been unsure, but he finds now he is quite blessed to have a Tully wife.
“The boy is not my son,” he shakes his head. Her hands fall from his hair to land on his face, allowing him to turn his head only for her eyes to fall to the long stubble on his chin. She rolls her eyes and reaches for a blade.
He can’t make himself say it. He can’t make himself say, my sister. Instead, he chokes out, “But he is my blood.”
Cat sucks in a sharp breath, and for a moment he thinks he’s been cut, but there is no sting on his face. She blinks at him, eyes wild, mouth agape in a most unusual, unladylike fashion.
“Your blood,” she repeats numbly.
“His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen,” Ned whispers. The curtains flap in the breeze, he smells the clean scent of their bed, the water in his tub ripples, the world continues to turn. Still, it feels as though time has frozen. He watches Cat put the pieces together bit by bit.
“Oh, gods,” she whispers. “Oh, Ned. Targaryen. Oh, poor, sweet Lyanna-“
“She made me promise. You don’t understand, Cat,” he chokes, the damnable tears trickling down, down, even though he’d promised himself they were dry. “The marriage to Elia… Rhaegar had it annulled. He married my sister. They loved one another; she went with him willingly. Which means-“
“Which means that babe in the nursery across the hall is the true heir to the Iron Throne. The Iron Throne Robert Baratheon just usurped.”
There are so many things he wishes to say; he doesn’t know how Cat will react. She could demand Jon be killed, be fostered out, be ostracized from his own son. She could wail or weep or cast blame. He’s half-risen out of the tub, ready to handle her shock, when she breaks out in a wide grin.
“Oh, Ned. This is wonderful. I’m so happy you found him. I hate that Lyanna had to pass, I’m sure you saw it, how terrible, but-“
“You’re not angry? I’m telling you, Cat, I won’t have the boy mistreated-“
“No, of course not. We’ll be very careful. I’ll just have to convince everyone that I’m so in love with you, it doesn’t matter to me who his mother is. That will be… easy.”
She smiles shyly at him, hands trembling. He falls back to his knees in the tub, lays his head against her knees.
“Thank you, my love. Truly.”
“But, Ned.”
He looks up at her, her eyes suddenly serious. This is what he had fought so hard to come home for. This woman is his future, he just knows it.
“Yes?”
“You mentioned a plan. This is going to be very dangerous. We’re raising the next king, and not just any king, but a Targaryen. I know you loved your sister, but, well. You know what they say about Targaryens. Honestly, we’re lucky he doesn’t have purple eyes and white hair. Maiden, he doesn’t have purple eyes, does he? I didn’t get a good look.”
Ned shakes his head, distracted, his head already spinning through the details of his loosely crafted plot. “No, no, his coloring is true to the Starks.”
She nods, momentarily assuaged, her fingers carefully picking through the knots in his hair.
“Tell me truly, Cat; do you wish to have more children?”
“As many as you’ll be pleased to give to me,” she nods firmly. A fierce joy lights up her face. He can see she well and truly loves their son and heir.
“That pleases me more than you know, my lady,” he smiles. He brings her knuckles to his lips, delighting in the way she grins back at him. He wiggles his eyebrows at her salaciously and she shrieks in false indignation, reaching down to splash bathwater into his face.
“You’ll have to tolerate me as I lose my figure,” she shrugs, biting her lip.
“You, lose your figure? Never. It will only become more figure-full.”
“Ned, focus,” she whispers, even as he leans forward to tug at the collar of her gown. “The babe.”
“Indeed.” He sits back, somber once more. The bath water is cool by now, but he doesn’t mind the soak. After so long heavy on a horse, feeling weightless like this is relaxing.
“Catelyn, it may not be what you imagined, but I plan on raising our children to be true to the words of House Stark; winter is coming. That winter will be both literal, and in time, another war. There’s no way Robert is going to give up the throne without one, after all of this. He despises the Targaryens. He’d rather kill ten thousand more men, personally, than see one live.”
“But the boy has living relatives-“
“Yes, an uncle so young he’s never known winter, and an aunt two moon turns younger than himself,” Ned nods. “I’ve been attempting to keep track of them, but it’s gotten more difficult since they fled Dragonstone.”
Catelyn worries her lip. “Ned, I love the babe because he is of your blood. I am a Stark, and so is the child. But the others… the Targaryens nearly destroyed House Stark. I’m not so sure we should aid them.”
“They’re babes as well, Cat. Motherless children, driven across the sea. And blood of our blood, no less. If Jon is to succeed, he’ll need them.”
Catelyn frowns, her mind clearly going several places at once. He gives her a moment to digest, accepting the robe she hands to him. She quickly finds some spare linen to rub across his shoulders, and he closes his eyes at the comfort.
“You called him Jon?”
“Jon Snow. It’s as common of a name as I could think of, but… I wanted to stick with a J. Maybe later, Jaehaerys won’t be so big a shock.”
“I like it. Both Jon, and Jaehaerys. Lyanna chose well.”
“Aye.”
“You mean to marry Jon to his aunt, don’t you?” Catelyn finally sighs. Dry, he shifts into the robe, crossing to the bed where his feast clothing is already set out.
“You picked the blue. I hope you’ll match; your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” he says.
“Don’t try to distract me.”
Ned sighs. “Yes. Yes, I think Daenerys would be his most advantageous match, in the future. It would secure their rule. Bridge the divide between the Kingdoms.”
Catelyn nods. “If the girl is to be family, we must do something, Ned.”
“I’ve already thought of it. Lord Mormont told me that he’s decided to take the Black, but he’s concerned.”
“Oh?”
“His son was less than interested in participating in the war. He’s been participating in the slave trade instead, trying to stuff Bear Island’s coiffers while the rest of us died in trenches. He’s young, but he’s skilled. Rather than sentence him to death, I’m going to offer him the choice of exile. He’ll take a small, discreet team across the Narrow Sea. He’ll find the children and make sure they’re looked after.”
“Brilliant,” Catelyn breathes. She seems rather breathless, staring at him on their marriage bed. He smiles at her, reaching for her. She comes much more willingly this time, curling under his arm.
“As for us, we’ll raise all our children the same. I mean it, Cat. Jon included, but also any daughters we have. I saw what happens to ladies in war. It’s horrific. What happened to Ly- to my sis- to, er, to Jon’s mother, won’t be happening to any other Stark girls. They’ll know what the boys know, but they’ll hide it under pretty silks.”
Catelyn is quiet for a long time.
Finally, she says, “You mean to raise them as weapons.”
“Not as weapons, Cat,” he shakes his head. “As wolves.”
By the time they are finished talking, they are nearly late to the feast. The hours had slipped away with their voices, their hands stroking delicately across each other’s skin in between sentences. They are new to one another still; Ned delights in discovering all the places that make his wife smile or laugh or moan. Still, there is an intimacy there that he feels cannot be broken. He is deeply grateful that he chose to share the truth with Cat.
Ned grabs the arm of one of the servants, dashing between the great hall and the kitchen, to remind him to ensure Septa Morgana receives as much as she wishes in the nursery. After all, her careful education of the boys begins as soon as tomorrow.
He steers Catelyn through many dances, drinks his way through at least three bottles of Dorne’s finest wines. Tomorrow morning, he’ll quietly lay his sister to rest in the crypts. He’ll cut her as many blue roses as he can find, and carry her son back into the light.
And then the real war will begin.