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When his wife tells him that he shall be a father again, when their first daughter is but a babe herself, Ned Stark has to chase away the unease that he feels at the news. Catelyn is happy, elated, hopeful for another son that will resemble him more, and it is not hard to begin to share her joy when she shows him how her belly is rounding with their third child, the gentle curve that he feels beneath his fingertips, under her shift, when she lies in his arms at night, safely curled in the cocoon of his embrace. It feels real then, and Ned feels like they have been granted by the gods a chance to rejoice and celebrate the new life in Winterfell, as though the coming of spring that melts the snows on the ground is making his wife flourish and bloom like the most beautiful flower in the North.
But the spring is a false one, and their babe is lost before he can ever feel it move in Catelyn’s womb, gone with a bloodstain on her smallclothes as the snow falls and covers Winterfell in a new blanket of icy cold.
Ned is not there when it happens, but he sees the evidence of their loss upon his return, the clothes that her maids have been given order to wash thoroughly, the cold water running pink in the bucket as they mutter between themselves of how miscarrying is to be expected of a Tully, how they were blessed with two healthy children and they were greedy to want more. Perhaps they are right in thinking so, in thinking them greedy for wanting more than the two perfect children they are raising together; Ned knows it, but it is not enough to soothe the ache in his chest, and it is not enough to smooth the scowl on his face as he passes by and the two serving girls cower in fear. It is dark and cold outside the castle, and though the warmth inside makes his riding clothes steam as he walks inside the keep, it’s altogether too quiet for that warmth to become the familiar comfort of being home at last.
As he climbs the stairs, Ned can’t help remembering the way they parted early that morning, the sweetness of her kiss, the way she clung to him and how her scent lingered on his cloak, a small comfort on that cold and dreary day. In hindsight, he wonders whether there had been finality in their gestures, whether they felt the gloom of impending loss hang over their heads. He wonders whether passing his sentence and swinging his sword has angered the gods, whether praying in the godswood would simply not be enough to wash his conscience of the choice he’d made. But that is a slippery slope for his thoughts, a dangerous path that can only lead to the kind of pain that might estrange him from his wife when estrangement is what the both of them need the least.
Or at least that is what he believes, but suddenly he is no longer so certain, when he stops before her bedchamber and is met with Maester Luwin’s grave look. The older man looks weary, and it is enough to send Ned’s thoughts spiraling again, the ache in his chest intensifying.
“Old Nan is with her, my lord,” he says gravelly, hanging his head in defeat. “Mayhaps you should let Lady Catelyn rest for the night.”
Yet Luwin knows that they haven’t kept separate chambers in years now, that neither of them seems to sleep peacefully without the other, and that he would suggest that he leave smarts worse than the loss itself, if only for a moment. It’s all too easy to think that the suggestion comes from Catelyn herself, to imagine that, somehow, she blames him for the miscarriage, and that leaves him teetering on the edge of a pit of despair, the likes of which he hasn’t known since his return from Dorne with his sister’s bones in a box and her infant son on his arm.
It is only when the Maester relents and lets him pass, undoubtedly noting the unspoken hurt on his face, that Ned realizes that it is not him that Catelyn is blaming, but herself.
“My lady,” he murmurs as he approaches the bed, but words fail him the moment she lifts her watery blue eyes to him and he notices the hard set of her jaw, the way she sits up as if her spine was made of steel rather than bone and marrow.
“Forgive me, my lord. I have failed you.”
It is all she says to him and the words echo in the stuffy warmth of the room. Were he a lesser man, Ned feels that he would be left gasping for breath at the mere sound of them. Were he a better man, he would know exactly what to say to assuage her guilt. But he is just a man and words of comfort have never come easily to him, so he says nothing at all, standing there at her bedside and watching her with burning grey eyes as the knot in his throat threatens to choke him.
“You’re but children yourselves,” Old Nan interjects, tutting in her good-natured way. “You’ll have more.” Her knobby hand reaches out to stroke Catelyn’s hair, and Ned doesn’t know if it’s that tender gesture, or the tears that well in his wife’s eyes at it, that spur him into action, feet moving of their own accord to take him closer to the bed.
“Would you rather I leave?” His voice comes out as little more than a whisper as he perches on the bed beside Catelyn, and she hesitates before shaking her head. Still, she stiffens when he wraps his arm around her, and she shivers as he pulls her close, as though the cold has seeped right into her bones – as though the warmth has poured out of her body along with the blood that carried their babe. It’s easy to unclasp his cloak, then, to gather her in his arms and cover her with it, pulling her into the warmth of his body, and it feels as if the dam has finally broken, her tears spilling hot on his skin where her face is turned into his neck.
“I’m sorry, my love.” His words are so soft, the bristles of his beard catching in her hair, left unbound in her mourning. For a moment he wonders whether she has heard him at all, and he’s startled to realize that neither of them has seen the elderly nursemaid leave, so focused as they are on their shared grief. “I’m so sorry.” It is a rare thing indeed for Ned Stark to apologize, and perhaps Catelyn will never know the guilt he feels weighing on his shoulders for not being there for her, for not praying hard enough for an easy pregnancy and a healthy babe – for that old unease that he fully believes has brought this tragedy upon them.
The silence stretches between them, Catelyn’s sobs fading to whimpers that eventually turn into shallow, damp breaths. Her belly is still slightly rounded under her dressing gown, though Ned tries hard not to look at the curve that has once brought them such joy. It will come again, they will be blessed with more children, and even if they don’t, they will still have Robb and Sansa to dote upon. A hundred thoughts whirl in his mind, like leaves scattered in the wind, but he cannot put any one of them into words; there are no words he can find to comfort that woman who has conquered his frozen heart, who has embedded herself into the beating flesh so seamlessly, soothing the pain of losing his family.
Now they are bonded in their loss, and though he would that it had never come to pass, Ned knows that this has the power of breaking them or putting the broken pieces back together. And when he looks down to her after a while, finding her peeking at his face – perfectly aware that she is now capable of seeing past the stoic look that no longer fools her – he doesn’t think it’s too far-fetched to think that they will be fine, after all.
When his wife tells him that he shall be a father again, summer has finally come to Winterfell and Ned Stark is resting in the shade of the godswood, under the canopy of trees, a giggling Sansa sprawled on his damp chest. He has chased after her on the mossy ground for a while, leaving his lordly duties aside for a time in exchange for the fatherly duties he finds so much more enjoyable. And though the memory of their loss is still fresh in his mind, though it has taken Catelyn a long time to recover from the grief that seemed to swallow her whole, this time he feels a rush of joy, a surge of emotion that leaves him light-headed and grinning somewhat foolishly.
“I am glad,” he answers simply, knowing his wife is probably expecting nothing more.
“So am I.”
Catelyn smiles, and her smile is brighter than the sun filtering through the lush green branches above them. It’s the smile on Sansa’s face, that glint of mischief in Robb’s eyes when he’s about to get in trouble; it’s the smile he has grown to love, the one that told him they would heal and grow stronger together in spite of the loss that threatened to break them.
They lapse into silence as he lets the news settle pleasantly in his mind and in his heart. He can hear Robb and Jon sparring nearby with the wooden swords they carry everywhere, and he has his most precious little girl in his arms – and when he kisses the back of Catelyn’s hand in a way that makes their three-year-old daughter coo and giggle again, he feels that nothing could ruin their happiness.
Not now. Perhaps never again.
THE END